Dangerous to Hold

by Merline Lovelace

  The metallic click of a rifle bolt being drawn back sounded just before Alex’s voice drifted out of the night.

  “I hope that’s you, Sloan. If it is, you’d better let me know in the next two seconds.”

  “It’s me,” he replied, in a low, dangerous snarl, “and the name’s Nate.”

  She didn’t respond for a moment. When she did, her tone was a good ten degrees cooler than it had been.

  “Before you take another step, I suggest you tell me just why you separated from the rest of us…and why you suddenly seem to have a problem with what I call you.”

  Nate wasn’t in the mood for threats. He took Red’s reins, shoved a boot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Pulling the stallion’s head around, he kneed him toward the waiting woman. Her face was a pale blur when he answered.

  “It’s like this, Alexandra. If you Karistani women insist on sneakin’ up on a man while he’s tryin’ to commune with nature, I figure you ought to at least call him by his given name.”

  Her chin lifted at his drawling sarcasm. “All right, Nate. I’ll use your given name. And you won’t disappear again. For any reason.”

  She might’ve thought she was calling his bluff, but he smiled in savage satisfaction at her response.

  “You know, Alex, Wily Willie always warned me to chew on my thoughts a bit before I spit them out. You don’t want me to disappear on you again? For any reason? Fine by me. From here on out, sweetheart, you’re going to think you’ve sprouted a second shadow. You’d better look over your shoulder before you…commune with nature, or with anyone else.”

  Nate smiled grimly when he heard a familiar sound. The short whip cracked twice more against her boot top before she replied in a low, curt voice.

  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, you may not have meant it, Alexandra, but I sure did.”

  It didn’t take Alex long to discover Sloan did mean it.

  Without a word being spoken between them, he and Dimitri somehow exchanged places. The tired, stoop-shouldered lieutenant fell back, and Nate took his position at Alex’s side as though he belonged there.

  The small band rode into camp an hour later. The temperature had dropped, and the wind knifed through their still-damp garments with a bone-chilling ease. Her hands numb, Alex could barely grip the reins when she at last slid out of the saddle.

  A small crowd gathered to meet them and hear what news, if any, they brought. While the men took charge of the horses and the women pressed mugs of hot tea into their hands, Katerina drifted to Nate’s side to welcome him back personally.

  “You…you wear the wet!” she exclaimed, plucking at his jacket sleeve. She glanced around at the rest of the small party. “All of you.”

  Anya, her pale hair dangling down her back in a fat braid, clucked and murmured something in her soft voice.

  “Come,” Katerina urged, tugging on Nate’s arm. “Anya says the water is yet hot in the steaming tent. She left the fires…how is it? Stroked?”

  “Stoked,” Alex supplied between sips of hot, steaming tea.

  The thought of Nate being hustled to the small tent that served as the camp’s communal steam bath almost made her forget the shivers racking her body. Like most of their European counterparts, the Karistanis had few inhibitions about shedding their clothes for a good, invigorating soak. Alex herself had long ago learned to balance her more conservative upbringing in the States with the earthier and far more practical Karistani traditions. But she knew that few Americans took to communal bathing. Folding her hands around the mug, she waited to watch Sloan—Nate—squirm.

  If the thought of stripping down in front of strangers disconcerted him, he didn’t show it.

  “Thanks, Katerina,” he responded with his lazy grin. “We could use some thawing-out. But the steaming tent won’t hold us all. Let Dimitri and the others go first. I’ll take the next shift…with Alexandra.”

  Katerina sent Alex a quick, frowning glance over the heads of the others.

  “It is not…not meet for you to bathe with an unmarried woman,” she said primly to Nate.

  Ha! Alex thought. If he’d suggested Katerina go into the steam tent, she would’ve joined him quickly enough.

  The cattiness of her reaction surprised Alex, and flooded her with guilt. Deciding she’d had enough for one day, Alex passed Anya her mug.

  “I’ll leave the second shift to you,” she conceded to Nate, not very graciously.

  “God keep you until the dawn, Alexandra Danilova.”

  “And you…Nate Sloan.”

  Alex rose with the sun the next morning and walked out into the brisk air. The wind had taken on a keenness that brought a sting to her cheeks and made her grateful for the warmth of her high-collared, long-sleeved shirt in soft cream wool, which she wore belted at the waist. Its thick cashmerelike fabric defied the wind, as did the folds of her loose, baggy trousers. Fumbling in her pocket for a box of matches to light the charcoal in the samovar, she saw with some surprise that the brass urn was already steaming.

  “Will you take tea, ataman?”

  Turning, she found Dimitri waiting in a patch of sunlight beside the tent. Gratefully Alex reached for the tin mug he offered.

  “Thank you. And thank you, as well, for lighting the samovar.”

  “It was not I,” he replied. “The Amerikanski, he did so.”

  Alex folded her hands around the steaming mug, her spine tingling in awareness. Nate had been up before dawn? To light the samovar? Involuntarily she glanced over her shoulder, half expecting, half wanting, to see him behind her.

  Dimitri picked up his own mug, then gave a mutter of disgust as tea sloshed over the sides. Seeing how his stiff hands shook, Alex felt a wave of compassion for this loyal and well-worn lieutenant.

  “Why are you awake so early?” she asked. “Why don’t you wait until the sun takes the chill from the winds to leave your tent?”

  “Until the sun takes the stiffness from my bones, you mean?” His pale, rheumy eyes reflected a wry resignation. “I fear even the summer sun can no longer ease the ache in these bones.”

  Alex felt a crushing weight on her heart. “Dimitri,” she said slowly, painfully, “perhaps you should go to the lowlands for the winter. You and the others who wish it. This…this could be a harsh time for Karistan.”

  “No, my ataman. I was born on the steppes. I will die on the steppes.” His leathered face creased in a smile. “But not today. Nor, perhaps, tomorrow. Drink your tea, and I will tell you what Gregor learned from listening to his wireless in the small hours of the night.”

  As the lieutenant related an overheard conversation between two shortwave-radio operators in Balminsk, a band seemed to tighten around Alex’s chest.

  “And when is this raid to take place?” she asked, her eyes on the distant horizon.

  “Gregor could not hear,” Dimitri replied with a shrug. “Or the speakers did not say. All that came through was that Karistani beef must provide filling for peroshki, or many in Balminsk will die this winter.”

  “I suppose they care not how many Karistani will die if they take the cattle!”

  “It has always been so.”

  Alex swallowed her bitterness. “Yes, it has. Although it will leave the camp thin, we must double the scouts along the eastern border. Make sure they have plenty of flares to give us warning. Send Mikhail and one other to move the cattle in from the north grazing range. I’ll bring in those from the south.”

  Dimitri nodded. “It is done.”

  He threw the rest of his tea on the ground, then half turned to leave. Swinging back, he faced her, an unreadable expression on his lined countenance.

  “What?” Alex asked. “What troubles you?”

  “If the raiders come and I’m not with you,” he said slowly, “keep the Amerikanski close by you. To guard your back.”

  Alex stared at him in surprise. “Why should you think he cares about my back?”

  T
he somber light in his eyes gave way to a watery smile. “Ah, ’Zandra. This one cares about most parts of you, would you but open your eyes and see it. You should take him to your bed and be done with it.”

  Her face warming, Alex lifted her chin. “Don’t confuse me with Katerina or Ivana. I’m not in competition for this man’s…services.”

  “Nevertheless, sooner or later he will offer them to you. Or force them on you, if he’s half the stallion I think he is.”

  His pale eyes fastened on something just over Alex’s left shoulder, and he gave a rumble of low laughter.

  “From the looks of him this morning, I would say it may be sooner rather than later.”

  He strolled away, leaving Alex to face Sloan.

  Gripping her tin mug in both hands, she swung around. As she watched him stride toward her, she realized with a sinking sensation that she wasn’t quite sure how to handle this man. The balance between them had shifted subtly in the past twenty-four hours. Alex felt less sure about him, less in control.

  She didn’t understand why. Unless it was the determined glint in his eyes. Or the set of his broad shoulders beneath the turned-up collar of his jacket. Or the way his gaze made a slow, deliberate journey from the tip of her upthrust chin, down over each of the buttons on her shirt, to the toes of her boots, then back up again. By the time his eyes met hers once more, she felt as though she’d been undressed in public…and put together again with everything inside out.

  “Mornin’, Alexandra.”

  “Good morning, Sl—Nate.”

  “I like your hair like that.” A smile webbed the weathered skin at the corners of his eyes. “Especially with that thingamabob in it.”

  Alex fingered the French braid that hung over one shoulder, its end tied with a tasseled bit of yarn and horsehair. The compliment disconcerted her, threw her even more off stride.

  “Thank you,” she replied hesitantly.

  “You ready to ride?”

  She tipped him a cool look. “Ride where?”

  “I talked to Dimitri earlier. You need to bring your cattle in.”

  “That so?”

  His smile deepening, he reached for a mug and twisted the spigot on the samovar.

  “That’s so.”

  It was only after his soft response that Alex realized she’d picked up one of his favorite colloquialisms. Good Lord, as if her jumble of Karistani, North Philly establishment and Manhattan garment-district phrasing weren’t confusing enough.

  Disdaining sugar, he sipped at the bitter green tea. “How many head do we have to bring in?”

  Alex hesitated. She didn’t particularly care for this air of authority he’d assumed, but it would be foolish to spurn his help. Any help. With the feeling that she was crossing some invisible line, she shrugged.

  “A hundred or so from the north grazing. Mikhail will bring those to the ravine. There are another thirty, perhaps forty, south of here.”

  “We’re going after them?”

  She forced a reluctant response. “I guess we are.”

  He set aside his mug and stepped closer to curl a finger under her chin. Tilting her face to his, he smiled down at her.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  When she didn’t answer, he brushed his thumb along the line of her jaw. “Listen to me, Alex. It’s not a sign of weakness to ask for help. You don’t have to ride this trail all alone.”

  “No, it appears she does not.”

  Katerina’s voice cut through the stillness between them like a knife.

  Alex jerked her chin out of Nate’s hold as her cousin let the tent flap fall behind her and sauntered out. Tossing her cloud of dark hair over one shoulder, she glared at them both.

  Apparently the peace between her and her cousin was as fragile as the one between Karistan and Balminsk, Alex thought with an inner sigh. Anxious to avoid open hostilities with the younger woman, she suggested to Nate that they saddle up.

  Chapter 11

  Within two hours, Alex and Nate had driven the cattle into the ravine where their small band merged with the herd Mikhail and his men had brought down from the north. Leaving the beefy, red-faced Karistani with the black Denver Broncos ball cap on his head in charge, Alex insisted on returning to camp immediately.

  They were met by Katerina and Petr Borodín, who was practically hopping up and down in excitement.

  “You will not believe it, ataman!” he exclaimed in Karistani as they dismounted. “Such news Gregor has just heard over his wireless!”

  Alex’s heart jumped into her throat. She thrust her reins into Katerina’s hands and rushed over to the thin, balding warrior.

  “What news, Petr? Tell me! What has happened? We saw no flares. We heard no shots.”

  “There’s been some sort of accident in Balminsk. No one knows exactly what. The radio reports all differ. The head of the team says it is cause for concern.”

  “What team?” she asked sharply.

  Petr waved his one arm, causing the medals on his chest to clink in a chorus of excitement. “The team that checks the missiles. From the United Nations.”

  “They’re there, then,” Alex murmured, half under her breath.

  Petr cackled gleefully. “Yes, they are there, and there they will stay. This team leader has said that Balminsk’s borders must be closed, and has called in UN helicopters to patrol them.”

  “What!”

  “No one may travel in or out of Balminsk, until some person who checks the soils…some geo…geo…”

  “Geologist?”

  “Yes, until this geologist says there is no contamination.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  Her mind whirling, Alex tried to grasp the ramifications to Karistan of this bizarre situation. If what Gregor had heard was true, no raiders would ride across the borders from Balminsk, at least not for some days. But neither would anyone else!

  The one person she’d been waiting for, the one whose advice she’d been counting on, was stranded on the other side of the border.

  “You want to let me know what’s going on here?”

  The steel underlying Nate’s drawl swung Alex around. “There are reports of an accident in Balminsk.”

  His eyes lanced into her, hard and laser-sharp. “What kind of an accident?”

  “No one quite knows for sure. The reports are confused. Something about soil contamination.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  Alex relayed the question to Petr, who shook his head.

  “Not according to reports so far. But supposedly they’ve closed the borders until a geologist with the UN team verifies conditions. No one may go into or out of Balminsk for several days, at least.”

  “Holy hell!” Nate raked a hand through his short, sun-streaked hair. “I hope she’s got her boots on,” he muttered under his breath.

  Katerina sauntered forward, her dark eyes gleaming. “So, cousin, this is good, no? We have the…the reprieve.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Pah! Those to the east have worries of their own for a while. I? I say we should take our ease for what hours we may.”

  “Well…”

  “As the women say, my cousin, life is short, and only a fool would scrub dirty linens when she may sip the vodka and dance the dance.”

  Strolling forward, Katerina hooked a hand through Nate’s arm and tilted her head to smile provocatively up at him. “Come, I will show you the work of my aunt, Feodora. She paints the…the…pysanky.”

  “The Easter eggs,” Alex translated, fighting a sudden and violent surge of jealousy at the thought of Katerina sipping and dancing with Nate.

  “Yes, the Easter eggs,” her cousin cooed. “They are most beautiful.”

  Lifting her chin, Alex gave Nate a cool look. “You should go with Katerina. My aunt is very talented. One of her pieces is on permanent display at the Saint Petersburg Academy of Arts.”

  Nate patted the younger woman’s hand. “Well, I’d like to see those eggs, y
ou understand. But later. Right now, I’d better stick with Alexandra and Petr. We need to find out a little more about what’s happened in Balminsk.”

  Katerina pursed her lips, clearly not pleased with his excuse. With a petulant shrug, she flipped her dark hair over one shoulder.

  “Stay with them, then. Perhaps later we will play a bit, no?”

  “Perhaps,” he answered with one of his slow grins, which instantly restored Katerina’s good humor and set Alex’s back teeth on edge.

  “Come, Petr,” she snapped. “Let us go see what additional news Gregor may have gleaned.”

  Alex turned and headed for the camp. With the sun almost overhead, she didn’t cast much of a shadow on the dusty earth. But Sloan’s was longer, more solid. It merged with hers as they strode toward the tent that served as the Karistanis’ administrative center.

  For the rest of the day, Gregor stayed perched on his shaky camp stool in front of his ancient radio. Static crackled over the receiver as he picked up various reports. The residents of the camp drifted in and out of the tent to hear the news, shaking their heads at each confused report.

  No Karistani would wish a disaster such as Chernobyl on even their most hated enemy—and it was soon obvious that the accident in Balminsk was not of that magnitude or seriousness. It kept the White Wolf trapped within his own lair, however, and that filled the Karistanis with a savage glee.

  Long into the night, groups gathered to discuss events. The tensions that had racked the camp for so long eased perceptibly. Having lived on the knife edge of danger and war long, the host savored every moment of their reprieve. It was a short one, they acknowledged, but sufficient to justify bringing out the vodka bottles and indulging themselves a bit.

  By the next morning, an almost festive air permeated the camp, one reminiscent of the old days. One Alex hadn’t seen since her return.

  The Karistani were a people who loved music, dance and drink, not necessarily in that order. In the summers of Alex’s youth, they had needed little excuse to gather around the campfires at night and listen to the balalaika or sing the lusty ballads that told of their past—of great battles and warrior princes. Of mythical animals and sleighs flying across snow-blanketed steppes.