The kiss was still going on, with a moan or two of delight, and two bodies melded together under the threatening skies, when Ezra returned.
He halted dead, astonished. Yet inordinately pleased. Things might work out just fine, after all.
After soundly binding the bounty hunter’s hands together, in front of the belly he had claimed to need stuffing, Ezra checked the head wound. A lump, not surprisingly, and a small amount of blood to mat the hair. Otherwise, apparently his hat had protected him from serious mental damage.
While he toiled, he tried not to eavesdrop upon the murmured conversation not far away.
“You little idiot,” said Paul affectionately, hands cupped on both sides of her upraised face. “You mighta gotten hurt so bad. A damned dangerous game, Teddy.”
“I couldn’t see any other way out. And it worked, didn’t it?”
“Reckon it’s true that God looks after fools and drunks. Yeah, it worked. After near givin’ me and your pa a case of screamin’ crazies. You okay?”
A nod, while the great gray eyes drank in the expression he was wearing. She had already explained the reason for her behavior with Raintree and her wild claim about future plans to Paul; much as she longed to, she didn’t dare ask about the reason for his.
“He didn’t get a chance to hurt you? When he—uh—grabbed hold and…”
“Not—much. But—please…touch me here, Paul,” she whispered, deliberately using her hand to slide his down over her throat, to her upper chest wall, to the ample expanse of her breasts and the pebbly cusp of her nipples. “And here. Make me feel clean again.”
Ezra, approaching, loudly cleared his throat. “I can hear all that, y’know. I’m right nearby.”
“Ahuh.” Teddy, still snuggled securely in Paul’s arms, seemed remarkably unconcerned.
She was too overcome by sensation: feeling the powerful thud of his heart beneath her cheek, the awesome hardness of his chest and ribs, the determined prod of his erection hot and heavy along her lower belly. Languor stole over her every muscle, leaving her so weak and vulnerable that she could have toppled over on the spot. At this very instant, all she craved was to lie somewhere with Paul, in peace and privacy, letting him do what he would and take her with him to utter bliss.
“Teddy. Are you listenin’ t’ me?”
“Ahuh.” Lazily she opened her eyes to gaze at her slightly annoyed parent. She felt mired in molasses, unable to move or speak, for all these physical phenomena overriding her keen common sense to play such merry hell with her senses.
Smiling, Paul straightened and turned, with one arm still protectively curled around her shoulder. “Sorry, Ezra. Got a mite distracted, there. You were sayin’—?”
“Hmmph. I was sayin’ that you and me, we’d oughta head down the hill a bit t’ Raintree’s camp, and pack up his gear and however many hawses he’s got. Teddy, you think you can keep guard over a man what’s unconscious and unmovin’?”
No task would be too great, given her sublime mood. “Sure, Pa. No problem.”
“Looks like we got us a storm comin’ in, so we’d better get stuff done and head out. C’mon, Paul. You can load his mule.”
“Oh, joy.” With the quirk of a smile, Paul bent to give her one final kiss, swift but sweet, before swinging along in tandem with his guide.
While they were gone, Teddy busied herself with putting together whatever still had to be done of their own chores. Emptied coffeepot and cups, the remains of their noon dinner, the iron skillet, bits of this and pieces of that—all rolled up in the canvas tarp, ready for bundling and loading.
By the time they returned, Raintree was groaning and beginning to regain his senses.
And, given his language when he woke enough to realize he’d been trussed like a Christmas goose, he was not happy.
He had rolled forward enough to sit with his back against a log and glare at her. “So. Uhhh. Neat trick, turnin’ the tables like that. Uhh.” With shoulders hunched, head tilted one way, then the other.
“You hurtin’ a lot?” Teddy wanted to know with concern in her voice.
“Dunno why you’d care, but—yeah, girl, you did some right hard damage t’ my skull, and I’m feelin’ it.”
“Good.” Leaning down, she grabbed his collar with one hand to hold him still. Then, with the other hand, she slapped him. Hard. “That’s for the way you treated me, you miserable low-life scum. And as for anything else—”
“Teddy,” her father, leading a big bay horse loaded down with equipment, reproached her.
She aimed a sunny smile in his direction. “Didn’t much give him any more pain, Pa. Just wanted to show him where I stand.”
He eyed her upraised foot. “Ain’t right t’ go kickin’ a man when he’s already down, though, is it? Haven’t I taught you better’n that?”
“I would’ve done that,” she admitted, without compunction. “Except you got back too soon.”
VIII
The rest of the afternoon was spent traveling upward and onward, winding in and through stands of pine, around bare weather-bleached blocks of granite, single-file along a path overgrown with weeds and coarse scrubby grass. Five horses and two mules; three travelers able to function well and independently, one tied to the pommel.
Meanwhile, overhead, the sky grew steadily darker, and the wind began rising incrementally.
At one point, Teddy shivered. Wherever they made camp, it should be soon. It should be sheltered. It should be warm.
The first few spatters of rain had just appeared when Ezra, in the lead, held up his hand for attention. “Smoke ahead,” he warned his daughter, directly behind him.
The cabin stood harbored in a dense thicket of bristlecone, tall ponderosa, and silver fir, where dead needles and green ground cover set up a minor barrier. Not quite as formidable, at least, as the briarwood sprung up around Sleeping Beauty’s castle.
“Wait here,” ordered Ezra, halting his mount and swinging down. Farther back, out of rifle range, would have been safer; but it was to be expected that the outlaw Clemens would already be aware of their presence.
Revolver drawn, the guide hiked on forward, taking cover behind this tree trunk or that as he advanced. Shortly, still tucked away, he called out, “H’lo the house!”
Ping! A warning bullet came zinging from one of the windows to smack into a fallen log just ahead, beside the path.
“Catamount!” Ezra tried again. “We’re the Ferguson party, brought Paul Yancey up all this way t’ talk t’ you. At your invitation, I do b’lieve.”
Silence, other than the soughing of a chill mountain wind through the swaying branches high overhead, and the sudden clatter of a horseshoe on rock, from one of the shod mules.
“How many’s there?” A rough burry voice eventually followed the gunshot.
“Ezra Ferguson, Teddy Ferguson, and our client, Paul Yancey,” explained the guide patiently. Then, with a wry twist, “And someone you may be familiar with—Vincent Raintree.”
“Raintree? The hell you say!”
“The hell I do. He won’t be no trouble, though. Got him tied up like a pig t’ slaughter.” Ezra allowed a small laugh, despite the fact that he was bearding a lion in its den.
A deliberation from the cabin that felt almost palpable. Then, with a great rusty squeaking of hinges, the door swung slowly inward, and a man appeared on the threshold. “I’m Clemens. You feel like comin’ in, then c’mon in.”
Fingers crossed that no more bullets would fly, Ezra took a few steps into the open. “I’ll get the rest of my bunch. Weather’s startin’ t’ change, Clemens. You got any place we can put up our hawses for a while?”
Clemens emerged, toting a rifle under one arm as he came toward the visitor. A large man, nearly six and a half feet tall, he carried his height and his weight with the care of someone always one step ahead of the law. Bushy gray-streaked hair fell to his shoulders, matched by the bushy gray-streaked beard. Under all that, he wore what could be cons
idered the western uniform: a flannel shirt, long underwear, and wool trousers.
“You have any trouble makin’ it up here?” he wanted to know now, approaching.
A cautious but semi-friendly meeting, as both men reached out to shake hands.
“Jist our run-in with Mr. Raintree, earlier t’day. Heard he’s lookin’ for you, too.”
“Yeah. He’s been on my tail a good number of years, wantin’ to cash in on a hefty reward.” Clemens shook his leonine head. “That’s why I wanted to give my life story to that journalist I wrote to. Ain’t got any other legacy t’ leave b’hind, and I don’t know how much longer I got t’ roam free.”
Both Teddy and Paul had dismounted, carrying on a conversation in low tones, stealing quick touches, sharing heated glances. When introductions were made, Clemens merely looked up and over at the trussed-up bounty hunter glowering in his saddle.
“Ma’am,” he politely acknowledged Teddy instead. “Let’s get these animals settled in the stable b’hind my house. Got some rain a’comin’, and you’d oughta take shelter. Even that one, there, such as he is. I’d be honored if you’d all join me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clemens.” Were Teddy dressed in skirts, she would have offered a curtsy. Instead, she could only smile and nod. “We appreciate your askin’ us.”
Within a short time the tired horses and mules were unloaded, unsaddled, and bedded down inside a snug long low building that offered shelter and warmth. From there it was a short walk back to the cabin. Already the rain was falling lightly, but steadily, and thunder was rolling and reverberating across the mountain peaks and down into the valley below.
“I love smellin’ the air after rain has come in,” murmured Teddy.
At the homeowner’s invitation, she had gratefully seated herself before the blazing fire. The way Clemens looked to her comfort—offering hot coffee, fetching an afghan, lighting a couple extra kerosene lamps, adding more wood to the flames—indicated that he was sadly deprived of human contact, up in this alpine fastness. By his own doing, he was forced into isolation, probably able to venture to the world at the bottom only on the rarest of occasions—to stock up on supplies, or send mail through the post office.
It was a large enough cabin, rustic but comfortable, with one big main room serving as kitchen and parlor, and a couple of bedrooms tacked on behind. Clearly the man had lived here a long time, given the air of simple comfort and the shelves loaded with books.
Paul had taken a chair beside Teddy, and Ezra one opposite, where he could keep an eye on whatever might be going on. Vincent Raintree they had stashed in a corner, on the floor, without much care; and there he would stay for the time being. He was a nuisance, but he was still a securely hamstrung nuisance.
With a glance toward the darkened windows, and the rain slashing against the glass, Clemens suggested supper.
“I can always eat,” said Ezra brightly. “We got our packs there, Catamount; plenty of stock t’ draw from.”
“No need, unless there’s somethin’ special you want. Got me a big pot of soup I’ve been cookin’ all afternoon. Think that’ll work?”
“Pa, you could add those leftover breakfast biscuits we had,” Teddy, too comfortable to move, offered with a smile. “And break into that jar of chokecherry jelly Mrs. Owen sent along.”
Paul’s contribution consisted of a couple cans of tomatoes, one of Eagle Brand milk, and the bottle of dark rich whiskey from Slydell’s Dry Goods Store. After he had hauled everything out, he made himself at home in what passed for a kitchen and returned, after a few minutes, with a cup of steaming hot tea for Teddy.
She was delighted. “First you dry my dishes for me, then you help fix my supper; now you get me somethin’ to drink. You are truly an amazin’ man, Paul Yancey.”
The admiration in her eyes and in her voice went straight to Paul’s chest, bounced around inside a few times, and ended up zinging into his heart, where it remained as an ardent little center of light. He grinned, sheepishly yet a bit pridefully.
“Hey, tenderfoot, maybe she’ll tie the apron strings on for you,” called out Raintree from his corner. Anything to attract notice, and stir up trouble.
Paul fired off a look at him. “Best keep your mouth shut,” he advised, “if you’d like t’ use it later on when we serve up our supper.”
“Storm’s eased off some, ain’t it? How about you go outside with me, greenhorn, let me take a piss?”
“I’ll go,” Ezra, wanting to redeem himself, offered as he rose somewhat slowly and stiffly.
“No.” Paul’s features had set like granite. “No. He asked me. He’ll do with me.”
There was a lot of redeeming to be done, all the way around. Not that Paul’s ego needed strengthening, when it came to anything the hunter might say or do; he had enough self-confidence to ignore any attempted pinpricks. Still, a man did like to show that he was a man, after all, and not some weak-chinned mollycoddle.
“Privy’s out back,” rumbled Catamount, from the stove where he was pouring coffee. “Just grab yourself a lantern, there.”
On the front porch, where wind was buffeting and drops of rain still spattering, Vincent paused. “You gonna undo these ropes for me?”
“Whatever business you need t’ do can be done with your hands tied together in front, like they are,” Paul informed him without a speck of sympathy. “Get a move on. I don’t like gettin’ wet.”
Once returned, and plopped back down in the corner, Raintree meekly accepted a damp rag to wash off with, and then a tin plate filled with thick hot soup and a couple of half-risen biscuits. A trifle lumpy and doughy, not up to Teddy’s usual standards at all, but still palatable. Especially soaked in the puddling juices.
The rest were seated around a table, consuming their supper in hungry spoonfuls and enjoying themselves. Lamplight provided a glow; firelight added necessary heat and a sense of contentment, despite the alien, ominous presence of the bounty hunter. The talk stayed general and convivial, helped along by the bottle of whiskey passed from one to the other for sampling.
Only Teddy, whose memory of her first experience with the stuff was still far too clear, refused. “Uh-uh,” she said, when Paul hospitably offered. “Demon rum and I are not such good friends.”
“I’ll take her share,” piped up their antagonist, from his niche.
Another narrow-edged look from Paul. “Toldja earlier t’ shut up. You got no place in this conversation.”
“Speakin’ of…” Most of the soup was gone and the plates scraped clean, a testament to the culinary skills of Mr. Clemens. Finished, Teddy rose. “I’ll red up, Catamount. Seems to me you and Paul have a lot of work to do.”
“Well, yeah,” admitted the outlaw. “That was kinda on my mind when I contacted you.”
“There you go, then. Paul, fetch your writin’ materials. Pa, you go sit over there by the fire and put your feet up. You’ve had a long day, and you’re tired. I’ll put on another pot of coffee to boil.”
Paul sent her a glinting glance, full of humor and affection. “Hey, lady, you turned yourself int’ a social director, overnight?”
“Hey, mister, you complainin’?” she shot back with a grin.
In front of her father and everyone, he grabbed her free hand and brought it to his lips for a tender caress. Much as he might have wanted to dispense elsewhere, in another time and place, given plenty of privacy.
“Oh, balderdash and bullshit,” groaned Raintree, watching. “Ain’t they a cute couple?”
Paul’s chair scraped as he shoved back from the table. His boots clumped hard across the floor till he stood, towering, over the captive. “Once more,” he warned, “and you’ll be spendin’ the night outside, tied up t’ a tree, with no shelter from whatever falls outa the sky. Got it?”
Much as he had enjoyed using crass, barnyard remarks to strike a nerve and elicit some sort of response, the bounty hunter finally realized he had met his match. And probably should go no further. At
least for now. Lifting his bound hands, he executed a semi-salute to the forehead and hunkered down to think over what other mischief he could make.
Meanwhile, Paul, after gathering up pencil and notebook, joined Catamount at the table, trailed by a fascinated Teddy. Coffee cups had been refilled, ready for the caffeine surge; a plate of bakery cookies had been provided, ready for nibbling; her father was sprawled happily out on his bedroll, ready to dip into slumberland. She had washed, dried, and put away the supper dishes. Now she wanted to hear what was going on.
“Okay, then.” Using the smaller blade of his pocket knife, Paul had sharpened the tip of his pencil, ready for work. “All set.”
Oddly enough, now that the time had actually come to put words on paper, the old desperado wore a look near to panic. “Where d’you want me t’ start?”
“Wherever you wanna start. Whatever feels comfortable t’ you.”
“Well, I jist ain’t sure—”
“Where were you born, Catamount?” Teddy, feeling sympathetic, asked quietly. “What town, what state?”
“Oh, that’s easy enough. You’d maybe never know it t’ see me now, but I come int’ this world on a plantation in Lowndes County, Mississippi. I was the youngest of four sons and two daughters.”
“No others after you?” Teddy was studying the size of the man, from height to weight to enormous biceps.
He chuckled. “My mama worked a full day t’ get me born. After realizin’ how big I was, and how much grief I’d caused her, she swore never t’ do it again.”
“Lived the good life, didja?” Paul was reminded of his own youth at Belle Clare. Similarities between them, journalist and outlaw, must abound.
“Damn good.” Feeling more at ease now, since the ordeal promised to be not overly painful, Catamount was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his burly chest, staring at the busy fire snapping away. “Had all you could want, right there. Plenty of food, plenty of stuff t’ do. Had our own tutor for schoolin’. Had our own sawmill and farm animals. And more friends than there’s fiddlers in hell. Best way t’ grow up.”
A Western Romance: Paul Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 8) (Taking The High Road Series) Page 9