"I know."
"But you didn't believe me."
Jassy shrugged. "I guess not."
"Come on, let's go get my horse and get the hell out of here."
Later that night, Jassy was still fretting over what she'd heard in town. Sitting beside the campfire, her hands wrapped around a cup of hot black coffee, she stared into the dancing flames, wondering why those women had felt the need to judge her. She'd heard the disdain in their voices, the righteous indignation, but she couldn't understand it. They didn't know anything about her except that she was with Creed, and they had labeled her as white trash. It was so unfair!
"Jassy?"
She glanced up to find Creed standing beside her.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
"You're not still brooding about what those women said, are you?"
Her gaze slid away from his. "Sort of. I just want to be respectable, Creed. Is that asking too much?"
"No, honey. But if you're after respectability, you're keeping the wrong kind of company."
She wanted to argue with him, but deep down she knew he was right, at least in part. No one would ever call Creed Maddigan respectable. Right or wrong, she knew now that there were those who would never forgive him for being a half-breed, even though he had nothing to do with the circumstances of his birth. She knew, too, that his reputation as a hired gun would never be socially acceptable.
Nevertheless, he was the kindest, most wonderful man she had ever known. Even though she had known him only a short while, he'd always been there when she needed him, whether it was saving her from Harry Coulter's rough handling in an alley or comforting her after her mother died, Creed had been there, giving her a strong arm to lean on and a shoulder to cry on.
Creed added some wood to the fire, then glanced down at Jassy, his stomach clenching when he saw her pensive expression.
"You wouldn't be having second thoughts about running off with me, would you?" he asked.
Jassy shook her head vigorously. "No. I just don't understand why people think the way they do. Everybody in town thought Harry Coulter was such a decent, upstanding young man because he went to church with his mother on Sunday. And all the ladies thought Billy Padden was a nice boy just because his father's the preacher."
She gazed at him intently, her eyes luminous. "Neither of them was half as honorable as you are."
Creed snorted with disdain. "Honorable? Me?"
"Yes, you. I've thrown myself at you several times, and yet you've never taken advantage of me." Her cheeks were on fire, but she couldn't seem to stop the flow of words even as she wondered whatever had possessed her to broach the subject in the first place. "I even asked you to make love to me, and you refused."
"Don't ask me again."
"What."
"You heard me. I'm not an honorable man, Jassy, and I'm not a saint. I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."
"Really?" His words pleased her, filling her with delight, and confusion. "Then why didn't you . . . ?"
"You said it yourself. You want to be respectable, and that's something I'll never be. Something I've never wanted."
Jassy stared into the depths of Creed's turbulent black eyes and all thought of being respectable fled her mind. He was so tall, so breathtakingly handsome. The firelight played over the hard planes and angles of his face, so that his profile was half in shadow. She remembered the feel of that hard muscular body pressed against her own, the taste of his kisses. Would he really make love to her if she dared ask him again? He might claim that he had no honor, he might very well ravish her, but she knew deep in her heart that, once he had made love to her, he would never abandon her.
Slowly, her heart pounding wildly, she stood up. "Creed." Rising on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Jassy, don't."
"I'm asking, Creed. Make love to me."
"Jassy . . ."
"I don't care what people will think. I don't want to be respectable if it means I can't have you."
Slowly, deliberately, he removed her arms from around his neck.
"Jassy, think about what you're doing. When we get to Frisco, no one will know who you are or where you came from. You can start a whole new life for yourself, a decent life."
"What good's a decent life if you won't share it with me?" she cried, unable to keep the hurt from her voice. "I thought you cared for me, at least a little."
"I do, and you know it."
"Why did you bring me with you if you're just going to dump me in San Francisco?"
"You ask the damnedest questions," Creed muttered.
"Why, Creed?" she whispered.
He looked deep into her eyes, beautiful brown eyes filled with love and hope.
"Creed?"
He swore softly, viciously, and then he yanked her up against his body and covered her mouth with his. It was a rough kiss, harsh and demanding, filled with passion and anger and an overriding sense of helplessness. He'd fought rustlers, he'd faced armed men, but he had no defense against the sweet innocence of Jassy McCloud.
Jassy clung to his shoulders as the world spun out of focus. He'd kissed her before, sometimes gently, sometimes passionately, but never like this. His arm was rock-hard around her waist, imprisoning her body against his, while his other hand moved restlessly up and down her back, then cupped her buttocks, drawing her up against him so that she could feel the evidence of his desire.
She returned his kiss, glorying in his touch in his nearness. He wanted her. And she wanted him.
His kiss deepened, his tongue teasing hers, until she felt as though her whole body was on fire. With a soft moan, she stood on tiptoe and pressed herself against him, her breasts crushed against his chest, her whole body quivering with need.
He groaned, as if he was in pain, and then, abruptly, he pushed her away.
"What is it?" she cried. "What's wrong?"
"Not here, Jassy. Not like this."
"Damn you, Creed Maddigan, if you don't finish what you started, I'll never forgive you! Not the longest day I live!"
He threw her a maddening grin. "Yes, you will."
"I won't!" She glared up at him, her whole body tingling with need and unfulfilled desire.
"Jassy, listen." He reached for her, but she backed away, her eyes mutinous, her lips bruised from his kisses.
"Leave me alone."
"Jassy, I want your first time to be special. I . . ." he broke off, feeling suddenly embarrassed.
"Go on."
"I want it to be in a nice hotel, with a feather tick. I want to . . ." He swore softly. "I want to seduce you with flowers and champagne and carry you off to bed. I don't want to take you here, in the dirt, like some stag in rut."
"Oh, Creed," Jassy murmured, her eyes shining. "I hope there's a hotel nearby."
"Not near enough," he muttered.
This time, when he reached for her, she didn't back away, but went willingly into his arms.
I can't fight it any longer, Jassy," he murmured helplessly. "I can't fight you any longer." Resting his chin on the top of her head, he let out a sigh of resignation. "But if we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right.''
"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice muffled against his chest.
"I mean we're getting married in the next town."
"Married!"
"I haven't done many things right in my life, but this is one time we're doing it by the book, if you'll have me." He tipped her head up so he could see her face. "Will you marry me, Jasmine Alexandria McCloud?"
"Oh, yes."
"I think you're making a big mistake."
"Why, Creed Maddigan," she purred, batting her eyelashes at him, "you say the most romantic things."
"I can't help it, Jassy girl," he replied solemnly. "As your friend, I'd advise you to say no."
Jassy laughed softly. "I'm sure no girl in all the world has ever received a proposal quite like this one."
"I only want
what's best for you, honey, and I'm afraid I'm not it."
"I think you are."
He grinned ruefully. "I hope you're right." Lowering his head, he kissed her brow, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. "Go to bed, Jassy, before all my good intentions go up in smoke."
Happiness bubbled inside her as she rose on her tiptoes to kiss him good night.
"I love you, Creed. I'll make you a good wife, I promise." She looked up at him, hoping he'd say he loved her, too, but not expecting it. Some men found it hard to say the words, but she was certain he cared, certain that, in time, he'd say the words she longed to hear.
He stood by the fire, watching while she climbed under the covers. There was no doubt in his mind that Jassy would make him the best wife a man ever had.
He only wondered if he was capable of being the kind of husband she deserved.
Chapter Sixteen
He knew, even before he opened his eyes, that something was wrong. Then he heard it again, the sound of wary footsteps muffled by the soft dirt.
A whiff of rawhide and bear grease seeped into his nostrils.
Indians, he thought. But how many?
For a moment, Creed lay still, all his senses alert. A prickling along his spine warned him that any sudden move could cost him his life, and Jassy's as well.
Very slowly, he opened his eyes.
Warriors stood on either side of him, just out of reach, their faces streaked with war paint, their long black hair adorned with feathers. The man to Creed's left held a reasonably new Winchester rifle, the barrel aimed at Creed's chest. The warrior to his right held a war lance decorated with a single white eagle feather. And a pair of long blond scalps.
Without moving his head, Creed glanced at Jassy. She was still asleep, her cheek pillowed on her hand, her hair spread over the ground sheet like a burnished halo.
Two warriors stood at the foot of her bedroll, both armed with repeating rifles.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see two more warriors standing a few yards away. Both were well-armed.
In the distance, Creed spotted a novice warrior holding the Indians' horses.
Creed swallowed hard. The Indians were Crow, judging by their shields and moccasins. Had they been Lakota, he might have been able to convince them that he was one of them. Unfortunately, the Crow didn't care much for the Lakota. But then, the Lakota had no use for the Crow, either. In order to gain the support of the Federal Government in protecting their hunting lands, the Crow had served as scouts for the Army, a fact that did nothing to endear them to the Lakota.
"Creed." Jassy's voice called out to him, quivering with fear.
"Don't move," he warned, keeping his voice low, hoping he didn't sound half as worried as he felt.
The warrior with the lance prodded Creed in the side, gesturing for him to stand up.
Slowly, Creed did as he was told, noticing as he did so that the Indians had already ransacked their camp, helping themselves to their supplies, to his weapons, and Jassy's new clothes.
He heard Jassy shriek with alarm as one of the warriors grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet, then pushed her toward the small, stone-ringed pit that had housed last night's campfire.
"I think they want you to fix them something to eat," Creed said.
He looked at the Indian nearest him and made motions like he was eating. The warrior nodded.
While Jassy prepared breakfast, one of the warriors lashed Creed's hands behind his back, then forced him to his knees. Another warrior knelt beside Creed and began going through his pocketstaking his tobacco, slipping the knife from inside his boot, and tossing a handful of greenbacks into the fire.
Giving Creed a shove that clearly told him to stay put, the Indian went to join the others, who had gathered around Jassy, talking and gesturing while they watched her fry up bacon and potatoes.
Jassy's hands were trembling so hard that she could barely hold on to the frying pan. Never, never, had she been so frightened. Time and again she glanced over her shoulder at Creed and each time he smiled reassuringly, but even that didn't allay her fears.
These were Indians, wild Indians, capable of atrocities beyond her imagination. She hadn't missed the long blond scalps fluttering on the end of the lance. She had heard enough about Indians to know war paint when she saw it, to realize that her life andshe swallowed hardher virtue were in danger.
She had heard countless stories about women who had been taken captive, who had been tortured and raped by savages. She had listened in horror to lurid tales of women who had killed themselves rather than submit to rape and degradation.
Of course, there were almost as many stones of women who had embraced the Indian way of life, who had married their captors, learned their language and customs, and borne their children. Outrageous stories of women who had refused to be rescued, who had gone running back to their Indian men when they were forcibly taken away.
She glanced at the faces of the Indians as she opened a can of beans, looking for some sign of mercy or compassion, but it was impossible to see any kind of expression, any kind of emotion, beneath the grotesque paint.
When the food was ready, the warriors gathered around, eating with their fingers and their knives. As casually as she could, Jassy started walking toward Creed, only to have one of the warriors grab her by the ankle.
"You. Stay."
She stared at the Indian mutely, then glanced at Creed.
"Do what he says, honey."
In minutes, the Indians were through eating. The warrior nearest Jassy grabbed her by the arm and quickly tied her hands behind her back.
The other warriors surrounded Creed, their dark eyes malevolent, their voices angry.
His stomach churning with dread, Creed scrambled to his feet. Head high, he glared at his captors, wondering if they were going to kill him outright or drag it out.
He glanced quickly at Jassy. Her face was beyond pale; her eyes were wide with fear. He'd failed her, he thought bleakly, and felt a gutwrenching ache. They would probably kill him; slow or quick, in the end it wouldn't matter, but Jassy . . . He groaned low in his throat as he thought of her being passed from one warrior to another.
And then there was no more time to worry about Jassy's fate.
The first blow was no more than a slap, meant to humiliate, not hurt. The second was a little harder, the sound of flesh striking flesh echoing loudly in the stillness of the morning.
Jassy cried out as one of the warriors struck Creed across the face with the end of his bow, raising a long red welt. She covered her eyes as the Indians circled Creed, closing in on him like wolves around a bloody carcass as they repeatedly struck him with their fists and their weapons.
With his hands bound behind his back, Creed was virtually helpless, although he managed to kick one of the warriors in the groin before the others overpowered him, driving him backward to the ground.
Creed drew his knees up to his chest and bowed his head in an effort to shield his face and groin from the blows that were coming harder and faster. Fists and feet pummeled his back, drove the breath from his lungs, until his whole body was throbbing with pain. A red mist clouded his vision; blood spurted from his nose and trickled down the side of his mouth. He heard the faint sound of weeping, and then blackness washed over him, mercifully sucking him down, down, into nothingness . . .
Jassy was crying openly now, the tears flowing down her cheeks. She flinched each time she heard a fist strike flesh. Blood dripped from multiple cuts on Creed's face and neck and arms. When would they stop? Why wouldn't they stop? They were killing him. She closed her eyes, unable to watch any longer. She wished she could block out the sound as well.
And then, abruptly, the Indians turned their backs on Creed and walked away.
Jassy stared at Creed. His clothes were torn splattered with blood. And he didn't seem to be breathing.
"No," she whispered. "No, please."
She started to go to him, but the Indi
an nearest her grabbed her around the waist and tossed her, none too gently, onto the back of a horse. With a grunt, he swung up behind her and rode away.
Twisting around, Jassy gazed over the warrior's shoulder. Creed lay as before, limp and unmoving, his face and body covered with dirt and blood.
Pain. Waves and waves of pain washed over him and receded, only to return. The pain grew in intensity as he swam through thick layers of darkness toward consciousness.
Creed groaned low in his throat as full awareness returned. There was the taste of blood and dirt in his mouth. His left eye was swollen almost shut. He lay still for a long while, learning to live with the pain, and then he began to work the rope that bound his hands. He grimaced as the narrow strip of rawhide cut deep into his wrists.
He was sweating and swearing profusely, the skin on his wrists slick with blood, before he managed to free his hands.
Feeling sick and exhausted, he closed his eyes, felt himself again spiraling down, down, into blessed oblivion.
It was dark and he was shivering with the cold when he awoke the second time. Moving carefully, he sat up, one arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. Every breath sent new waves of pain skittering through him. He figured he had a couple of badly bruised ribs, but he didn't think anything was broken, thank God.
Cautiously, he tried to stand up, but he just didn't have the strength. Fighting the urge to vomit, he sat with his back against a tree, taking slow, shallow breaths. After a while, he lifted a hand to his face. There was a deep cut across his left cheek, his upper lip was split, and his lower lip was about twice its normal size. His nose, though caked with blood, didn't seem to be broken.
He swore softly as he began to shiver uncontrollably. He was cold, so damn cold. And thirsty. It would be so easy, he thought wearily, so easy to just lie down and surrender to the cold and the pain.
But he couldn't stay where he was. He had to go after Jassy, had to get her away from the Indians before it was too late, before they reached the safety of their village.
Teeth clenched against the pain, he struggled to his hands and knees, feeling the nausea roiling in his gut. Eyes closed, head hanging, he panted softly for a few minutes and then, swearing softly, he admitted defeat.
Madeline Baker - Lakota Renegade Page 13