“I saw the way you handled yourself in there.” Cayenne caught his arm, realizing how big and powerful he really was. He could have killed her with one hard blow when she foolishly attacked him in the Red Garter. “You’re just the man I need for this job.”
“No. N—ooo.” He shook her hand off his arm. “No comprende, Senorita? What is this job you’re tryin’ to fill anyhow?”
He wouldn’t ask if he weren’t curious, if he weren’t weakening. She was desperate enough to use her charm as a weapon. Cayenne looked up at him, lips slightly parted. “My papa’s sick,” she lied, “so I got to get back to our ranch right away.”
He took a deep breath and smiled slightly. “So?”
The words came in a rush so that he couldn’t stop her. “I need someone to escort me down across western Indian Territory to the Texas Panhandle and south from there.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Are you loco? Do I look like a complete fool? Everyone knows there’s an Indian war just startin’! Ma’am, you’re talking about a trip of hundreds of miles across dry, hostile country and dodgin’ Indians all the way!”
“I’d heard there was a little trouble with the Southern Plains tribes. . . .”
“A little trouble!” He laughed again, reaching into his shirt for a small sack of tobacco and a paper. “Lady, there’s thousands of Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Comanche on the warpath right where you’re wantin’ to ride through. It’s touch and go whether the Kiowa will join up with them.”
“But you just came from Texas. . . .”
“I came up the Chisholm Trail to the east of all the trouble. Even then, I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” He rolled a cigarette expertly with one hand.
“But I need to get home.” She felt the crumpled letter in her pocket again for courage.
He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, striking a match with his thumbnail. “The army’s launching the biggest campaign in history startin’ soon. Besides, the country itself is dangerous, hostile, even if it weren’t crawling with war parties.”
“But you seemed so gallant. . . .”
“Gallant, but not loco.” He took a deep puff, staring off into the little heat waves rising in the Kansas dust. “You know what Comanches would do with a pretty white girl like you?”
“How would you know? You’re just trying to scare me!” she snapped.
He frowned and his gray eyes turned tragic, haunted. When he finally answered, it was a whisper of regret. “I know, that’s all. They might not even kill you before they took that red hair to decorate a scalp shirt. And that’s the least of it. . . . ”
She leaned forward, listening. But he said no more. The only sound was the piano tinkling again inside the saloon, the stallion stamping its hooves.
Maverick took a deep drag, exhaling smoke as he looked down the line of weathered buildings. “I’ve got to go to the bank, then I’m headed back out to my trail herd just outside town.”
He strode down the wooden sidewalk toward the bridge, spurs jingling. If nothing else, she was stubborn. She almost ran to keep up with him. “Look, I’m willing to chance it if you are. If you won’t do it for money, would you do it just because you’re a Texas gentleman?”
He stopped and took a deep drag, looking amused. “You just beat this gallant Texan on the chest for helping you before. I’m going back to the Triple D, miss, and stay there until this is over. I reckon you ought to stay right here in Wichita where it’s safe ’til the cavalry gets the tribes back on the reservations.”
Could she appeal to his patriotism?
“Would you do it for a fellow Confederate?” she asked desperately, “In memory of old Jeff Davis?”
“Why, you little Rebel!” he snorted with laughter as he inhaled smoke. “The Triple D supported Sam Houston when he tried to keep Texas in the Union!”
Her mouth dropped open, unbelieving. “A Yankee! A damned Yankee! You’re an admirer of that rum-soaked old despot?”
“So much so, I intend to name my first son for that grand old gentleman!” He tossed away the cigarette and tipped his hat to her. “I think I’d better move on, miss, before this discussion goes any further. Buenos dias.”
“No, wait!” Cayenne was desperate enough for his help to even beg from a damned Yankee sympathizer. She had one last card to play, and if it didn’t work, she didn’t know what she would do. Very hesitantly, she put her hand on his arm, felt it tense, knew she affected him deeply. “If you won’t do it for money, or because you’re a Texan, or even for old Jeff Davis, just what could I offer to get you to escort me through the Uprising country?”
“What do you mean?” He half turned, looking down into her eyes. His smoldering expression betrayed how she affected him, even though she was innocent of men and their passions.
Cayenne hesitated, afraid of the way he looked down at her as if he wanted her, wanted her bad. You’ve got to say whatever it will take, she thought. You’ve got to get home as fast as you can. Papa Joe and the kids need you.
She cleared her throat, looking up at him. “Maverick, can I interest you in something else?”
She opened her lips and pressed herself against his arm so that he could feel the heat of her ripe body.
“Stop it!” he said softly. “You don’t know how to play this kind of game.”
His voice had an edge to it as if he’d been a long time without a woman, as if he were warning her. But his arm tensed in her grip.
“You think I don’t know why you were upstairs with that girl?” she challenged. “You think I couldn’t do that, too?”
“I think you’re as innocent as a Sunday school.” He tried to pull away from her but she held onto his arm.
Her desperation made her more bold than she could ever have imagined. “I need to get home, Maverick. Suppose I offered you something else to escort me across the Indian Territory? Suppose I offered to pay you with my . . . body?”
Chapter Two
She looked up at him expectantly, waiting for his reaction as his gray eyes widened.
The big cowboy threw back his head and laughed. “If you don’t beat all! Rebel, you might ride safely through hostile country after all! Indians won’t harm crazy people; they think the Great Spirit protects them!”
“You mean you’re turning me down? After the way you looked at me?” She had never felt so crestfallen, so humiliated.
Maverick reached with his free hand to break her grip on his arm. “I’m sorry about your daddy, Rebel. . . .”
“Stop calling me that!” she almost screamed at him. “My name’s Cayenne! Cayenne Carol! My little sisters call me Cee Cee!”
He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “All right, Cee Cee. I said I was sorry your old man’s ailin’, but you getting killed gettin’ to his bedside won’t help him none. When the cavalry corrals the tribes, you can get home then.”
“You don’t think I’m woman enough, is that it?” she flared. “You don’t think I’ve got anything to offer! Or maybe you thought I was funnin’ you!” Before the startled cowboy could move, she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him awkwardly.
For a moment he stiffened, then his arms went around her. “No, Cee Cee,” he said softly. “Here’s the way it’s done.”
Then he lifted her off her feet, kissing her expertly and thoroughly in a way that both excited and scared her. Her toes were off the ground so she could only cling to him, breathless at the way his mouth dominated hers, the hot, whiskey taste of his lips. His wide chest was hard against her flesh and she could feel the heat of his lean body all the way down her legs through the thin dress. She gasped and closed her eyes, dizzy with the sensation. He smelled like salt and trail dust and sun-kissed prairies.
Then he plopped her back down on her feet, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “That’ll teach you not to make a fool of yourself, miss.”
Even though she tried to hold them back, tears started and made crooked trails down her fa
ce. “I guess I do look like a fool,” she gulped, “but I needed your help bad enough to try.”
He reached out with one calloused hand and caught the tear on her freckled cheek. “Reb, you’re askin’ for mucho trouble. Don’t do that again. The next hombre might do more than kiss you.”
She felt her face flame and shrugged his hand off. “Probably not. Obviously I don’t make a tempting offer.”
He gave her a long look and ran his finger along his mouth as if remembering. “It was tempting,” he admitted very softly “Very tempting.” Maverick paused and sighed regretfully as if he were thinking it over, then shook his head. “Sorry, Cee Cee, I can’t help you.”
“You mean won’t.”
He gave her an easy smile, the smile of a man used to charming the ladies. “Okay, have it your way. Now I got a few minutes business at the bank and then I’ll be leavin’. Good luck to you and maybe we’ll meet again some time. Adios.”
With that, he strode off down the sidewalk, spurs jangling.
Cayenne stared after him, her fingers reaching for the crumpled letter in her pocket. He walked with an easy, graceful stride for such a big, wide-shouldered man. If there were anyone in Kansas who might get her safely through hostile country, she was convinced Maverick was that man. And he’d just turned her down. But he’d admitted he’d been tempted by her offer. If he’d taken her up on it, she wasn’t sure what she would have done; tried to talk her way out of it once they were on the road, maybe.
Well, Papa Joe always said she was tenacious and stubborn. Once she got hold of an idea, Cayenne hung onto it like a bulldog pup sinking its teeth into a bone.
She’d follow the half-breed, that’s what she’d do, plead with him some more. Maybe she could wear him down. After all, she couldn’t see any other alternative. Cayenne fairly flew back to Aunt Ella’s small rented house. The new renters were moving in next week and Cayenne had sold the cranky old lady’s things to pay the funeral bill. All Cayenne had was a small satchel of personal belongings and her aunt’s very second-rate horse.
Quickly she gathered up her things, changing into a boy’s shirt and pants she usually wore riding at the Lazy M. Papa was a Kentuckian with old-fashioned Southern ideas about how ladies should dress. But ever since Mama had died, Cayenne had both taken her place and helped with the ranch chores, too. Very carefully she put her hair up on her head and pulled a western hat low over her green eyes.
Good. The gray stallion still stood tied to the hitching post in front of the saloon. She rode into the alley near the Red Garter and peeked around the corner to watch. She didn’t have long to wait. Within a few minutes, she heard spurs jingling and the dark half-breed strode down the sidewalk. As she watched in disbelief, he untied the gray and stepped into the stirrup from the right side, Indian style. Cayenne tensed, waiting for Dust Devil to buck as Maverick swung up into the saddle. Everyone knew that only Indian ponies were accustomed to being mounted from the “off” side. But the stallion merely snorted a welcome and trotted off down the dusty street.
Cayenne watched the rider loping south until he was only a tiny dot on the flat horizon. Certainly she didn’t want that bullheaded Yankee-lover to know he was being trailed until he was far enough out of town not to force her to return. With just a little more time to talk to him, surely she could wear him down.
Now she mounted up and followed at a brisk trot. The scorching sun sent little heat waves rising off the flat, sunbaked prairie. The afternoon was so hot that little trickles of perspiration ran down between her breasts. Cayenne saw a sudden image of Maverick’s mouth, moving slowly down the cleft, his hot tongue licking, tasting the silky sheen of her skin. . . .
My stars, Cayenne! she started in sudden embarrassment. Whatever made you think of that? She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips, wondering if his dark skin would taste salty?
She was thirsty, that’s all it was. Cayenne reached for the canteen hanging on the cantle. The water had a warm, stale taste to it.
Away ahead of her, the rider disappeared as he followed the slight dip of the landscape, reappearing as a tiny dot. Somewhere up there, he’d stop and then she’d catch up with him, plead her case again.
Cayenne looped the canteen back over the saddle horn and wiped her hand across her mouth, remembering the slight taste of whiskey, the heat of his mouth when he’d kissed her. Her first kiss.
On the far horizon, thunderheads built and piled atop each other like great gray piles of cotton. Cayenne sniffed the air, hoping for the promise of rain on the dry land. The breeze smelled of prairie grass, sunflowers. But the drought had shriveled the vegetation so that the grass rustled dryly. Then the wind shifted and she gasped at the stench. Dead buffalo. She smelled them even before she rode near the pile of rotting carcasses. Flies swarmed up from them as she passed and she tried not to look at the carnage. But she could only hold her breath so long.
The sweetish, decaying scent almost choked her when she had to take a breath. Dead buffalo, dozens of them. No, more likely hundreds. People coming in from the southwest areas the last few months had said there were so many that you could probably step from one of the dead beasts to the next, clear down into the Texas Panhandle without touching the ground once. As if anyone would want to.
Cayenne turned her face away from the carnage, the waste. All that the hunters were taking was the hides, leaving the meat to rot. And with the East in the throes of a depression, any man who’d learned to handle a rifle in the Civil War had bought himself a Sharps “Big Fifty” and headed for the Plains. There was good money in buffalo hides now that factories had found ways to process the tough leather.
Grimacing, she reined her horse around yet another dead buffalo. Such a tragedy. If the hunters kept killing like they’d done the past several years, some folks said the big, stupid brutes would soon be wiped out. Cayenne shook her head skeptically, keeping her face turned away from the hapless bodies. Not likely. There was forty or fifty million of the buffalo roaming the prairie. The hunters surely couldn’t kill them all.
But the Indians must believes it. That’s why this plains war had broken out late in the spring. The hunters were even trespassing into Indian Territory while the government looked the other way. After all, buffalo hunters were citizens and taxpayers. Who cared about the Medicine Lodge Treaty of ’67 that promised the land below the Arkansas to the tribal hunters? Besides, the Indians would never go meekly to reservations and stop their raiding until the buffalo were wiped out. Even though she had good reason to hate the Comanche, Cayenne sympathized with the Indians in their plight.
A pair of eagles drifted in circles above her, riding the wind currents. Their black shadows shaded her suddenly, and she put her hand up to shield her eyes, looking up admiringly. Eagles. Wild and free and fierce. The big male cried out sharply and his mate answered, wheeling toward him. The pair glided on the hot air, casting giant dark shadows on the dried grass and across her as she watched them. For a long moment, she envied the eagle and his mate. No, they must have problems, too, and Cayenne would just have to stay tied to the ground by gravity and learn to cope with whatever happened.
But, oh, to fly! It was such an impossible dream for mankind in spite of the hot air balloons inventors now pinned their hopes on.
Maverick. What had happened to Maverick? Frantically Cayenne stood up in her stirrups, scanning the horizon. In her disgust over the dead buffalo, her interest in the eagles still circling and shrieking above her, Cayenne had lost track of the man she followed.
Cayenne’s muscles strained as she shaded her eyes with her hand, looking every direction. Nothing. She’d lost him. A few hundred yards up ahead was a creek; she could tell by the crooked line of willows and cottonwoods. That was the reason she couldn’t see him. He’d ridden on past that as he traveled south, and the straggly trees blocked her view. Yes, that was it.
Standing in her stirrups, she looked in a complete circle. Nothing. Nothing but dead buffalo, buzzing flies, an
d the pair of eagles riding the air current above her. Never had she felt so suddenly alone, so frightened.
My stars! What had she done? She’d ridden out in haste without telling anyone where she was headed. Even the cowboy she trailed was unaware of her presence. If Indians got her this far from town, no one would hear her, help her. Worse than that, she’d heard of people lost on the vast and trackless prairie, people who were never seen again. And sometimes the lost ones they did find were blinded from the sun and crazed.
Loco. That’s what the half-breed had said. Gallant but not loco. She could go back. . . . No, she wasn’t going to do that. The man she needed was somewhere up ahead and she’d simply lost track of him. If she’d keep riding, pretty soon she’d spot him on the horizon again. Or would she?
The blistering wind seemed to howl at her now like the lonely lobo wolves that would come out when the sun went down. She must not think of that. The big cowboy was somewhere up ahead. She just had to find him, that’s all. To bolster her own courage, she began to whistle Papa’s favorite song very softly as she urged the bay forward: . . . Maxwell’s braes are bonnie, where early falls the dew . . .
The sound of her own voice cheered her a little and she whistled more loudly as she rode. Everyone said she whistled as well as any man. Of course, like wearing pants, it wasn’t a ladylike thing to do.
. . . Gave me her promise true, that ne’er forgot will be . . .
The grove was just up ahead now, she thought, whistling desperately to keep up her spirits while she dug her nails into her sweating palms. Just past that creek she’d see the silhouette of that tall, broad-shouldered man again.
. . . And for bonnie Annie Laurie . . .
She rode under the trees, squinting to see on past the creek, looking vainly for the comforting outline of the man she sought. He wasn’t out there! She didn’t see him any place! Maybe he was just over the next rise. Maybe . . .
Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) Page 3