She tried to touch his cheek, where she’d scratched him, but her arm felt like a noodle. “I didn’t like the way you did it, mister, but all things considered, you’re a pretty good rescuer. Sorta like Pathfinder, I think. You know Pathfinder?” Her mouth felt all rubbery, so the words sounded odd. She laughed, a sound that strongly resembled a giggle. But that was ridiculous. She’d never giggled a day in her life.
He nodded. “In The Last of the Mohicans. But didn’t he have another name?”
Her head was swimming, but she was enjoying their conversation so much, she fought sleep. They had rarely ever talked without arguing. She wasn’t sure, but she had a feeling that was her fault. “Y’mean Natty Bumppo?”
Chuckling as he stood, he answered, “Now I see why he changed his name.”
She loved his laugh. She thought she was laughing, too, but she didn’t hear any sound. Sighing deeply, she felt her eyelids grow heavy. As she drifted into sleep, she wondered what he’d said to Che to get him to let her go.
She’d dreamed of water, drinking glass after glass of cool water, but somehow, her thirst was never satisfied. When she awakened, she had a mild headache, her wrist throbbed anew, and she was very, very thirsty. She sat up slowly and groped for the canteen.
“Here,” Buck said, handing it to her.
She drank deeply, ignoring the bitter taste. When she’d finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and carefully handed the canteen back to him. He stopped what he was doing and took it from her.
“What are you working on?”
“I killed a couple of rabbits. I’m just tanning their little hides.”
“Why?”
He gave her a brief glance. “You’ll see.”
She sniffed, suddenly smelling the cooked meat. “Are we having rabbit for breakfast, then?”
“That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
She ignored his sarcasm, noting only how dusty and tired he looked. His face and hair were almost the same color, as was his shirt and his pants. Everything was coated in reddish brown powder. “Do I look as bad as you do?”
He gave her a long, slow perusal, one that made her feel as though he were marking his territory. Obviously she was reading something into it that wasn’t there. Even so, it was exciting. And frightening. Suddenly he grinned, breaking the spell. “Worse.”
She touched her hair. It was a mass of snarls. “The sad thing is,” she answered remorsefully, “I don’t even care.”
He delved into his saddlebags. “So, it sounds like you’ve forgiven me for my crude rescue methods,” he said as he pulled out a tin plate.
“I’m grateful you rescued me, I just thought the way you did it was … was dumb.” She looked at his face, noting the long, reddened scratch marks on his cheek. “I am sorry I scratched you. Do you have something to put on it so it doesn’t get infected?”
“I’ve taken care of it.” He took the tin plate to the fire. “Hungry?”
Her stomach growled. “I could eat a bear.”
He put a strip of meat and a biscuit on the plate. “This will have to do.”
She grabbed it from him and devoured it like a coyote on a carcass.
“I brought you a few things I thought you might need, but if you don’t care how you look, I don’t suppose you’ll want them.”
“What? What did you bring me?” she asked eagerly, setting down her empty plate.
He produced her hairbrush, a leather thong to tie back her hair, her toothbrush and tooth powder, and a tin of camphor for her cracked lips.
She fell upon her toothbrush and powder first, cleansing her mouth. “You are a saint,” she said around the small mouthful of water which she used for a rinse.
“I’d sure like to get that in writing,” he answered dryly.
She tossed him a dry look as she tried to comb out her snarls. It was too much effort. She slumped against a rock.
Buck was watching her. “Want me to do it?”
She gave him a weary nod. “I’d appreciate it. I don’t know why I’m so tired.”
He moved in back of her, took the brush and began carefully pulling out the snarls. He was so gentle, Molly nearly fell asleep again. She tried not to. “Do you think they’ll follow us, even though they said they wouldn’t?”
He paused, then he pulled the brush through her hair again. “Maybe, for a while.”
She wanted to tell him her captors had mistaken her for Nicolette, and ask him if he knew why anyone would want to kidnap her. But she was so relaxed, she didn’t really want to talk anymore. After all, there would be plenty of time for that.
Buck worked the tangles from her lavish hair. Earlier, he’d watched her sleep, finding her beauty almost painful to him. She’d been given such natural bounty, yet even at the ranch, she hadn’t seemed to know what to do with it. Against her flimsy camisole, her breasts were lush and full, rounding up over the tops as she slept. Her hair, her curves, her mouth …
Everything about her was ripe and ready to be plucked. She was the kind of woman who deserved a slow, careful seduction. A teasing, coaxing, kissing, stroking kind of thing. Her breasts were made to be adored, deluged with tender flicks and deep, sucking kisses. A loving, anxious tongue should lap the insides of her velvet thighs, tease the sweet, swollen nether lips until they were wet and hot, and she was shaking with violent need.
A frenzied bite of jealousy nipped him. Campion didn’t deserve her. Buck couldn’t imagine Campion having her. The bastard would never appreciate all of the complicated layers that went into knowing Molly. And it hurt him to think that once Campion discovered what she was, he’d have her, and use her like a common whore. He’d destroy her. Buck couldn’t let that happen.
She’d truly become a fine woman. If she’d been a beauty to behold at fourteen, she was magnificent and breathtaking now. She’d haunted his thoughts since the day she’d leaped so gracefully into womanhood. Hell, even if June had never pleaded with him to save Molly from herself, he would have anyway. He hadn’t been able to stay away from her.
But he didn’t dare get too comfortable with his feelings. His attraction to her meant little. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t marry her. First of all, she wouldn’t have him, which was a blessing for both of them. And his first marriage had been such a miserable failure, he’d vowed never to try again. He wasn’t suited for it. Hell, he couldn’t even care for his own responsibilities. If he wasn’t careful, though, Molly would become an addiction harder to overcome than alcohol.
He swore. Even the thought of the word sent a craving to his brain. Che had shoved a bottle into his saddlebag before he left, but once they’d ridden away, he’d tossed it, anxious, yet grateful when he heard the bottle break against a rock. He’d become comfortable with his little flask of emergency whiskey, using it wisely and sparingly when he had to. But a whole bottle, that was a temptation.
Molly leaned back and gave him a lazy, contented smile. For a long, foolish moment, his heart swelled, reveling, wallowing in the glory of that smile. As far back as he could remember, he’d thought about that look. The look she’d given so freely to others. The look that held no anger, no defiance, no suspicion. The look that said, “I’m comfortable. I like being with you, spending time with you…. I could love you.”
But she couldn’t be feeling that way about him. Even so, every once in a while he desperately wanted to imagine what a future with Molly would be like. But hell, the possibility was too terrific and delicious to think about in any depth, for he knew it would never happen. There was no sense in purposely causing himself more pain. There had never been any hope for them. A future for the two of them wasn’t like a puzzle, but more like that glass back there, smashed upon a rock. One could be pieced together; the other could not.
In spite of his earlier resolve, he had the urge to bury his face in her hair. God, it would be so much easier if he learned that she really hated him.
T
en
They moved on down the twisting arroyo, Buck leading his mount, which Molly had learned he’d named Thunder. She sat astride. It was nearly sundown when they stopped again.
Buck picketed Thunder near a patch of buffalo grass and mesquite and made a small fire, using cow chips he’d brought with him. He’d already explained to her that there probably wasn’t enough dry wood on the entire expanse of the plains to make a decent fire. After drinking some perfectly vile coffee, which she thoroughly enjoyed, they ate biscuits, jam and rabbit, again.
Molly had little to say. Every time she looked at Buck, there were twinges of emotion fluttering around in the pit of her stomach. She’d gone and fallen in love with him, really in love. Heart-pounding, soul-wrenching love. Oh, damn, but that would never do. Never. She didn’t want this.
So, he’d become a fine man. A good man. So what? He still couldn’t accept responsibility. And he lived a life she’d vowed never to return to. A life she’d worked so very hard to forget. They no longer had anything in common. And why was she thinking about him, anyway? She had Charles, and that was what she’d wanted from the beginning. Wasn’t it?
She felt his gaze on her, and all of the secret places he’d awakened weeks ago came to life again. Even though her discomfort was pleasant, she knew she had to stop it.
“Buck, about the kidnappers. They thought … they thought they’d taken Nicolette.” She looked at him, puzzled. “Why had they wanted to take her in the first place?”
He fed the fire, seeming to struggle with his answer. “Molly, I think it’s time you learned exactly who Charles Campion is.”
She strained to laugh. “I know perfectly well who he is, Buck.”
“No,” he argued. “No, you don’t.”
She felt that germ of doubt take root, its tendrils coiling around her heart. “Then you’d better tell me who you think he is. I’m not saying I’ll believe you, though.”
He leaned against his saddle, but he appeared tense. “I think he’s involved in stealing cattle, rebranding them and moving them across the boarder into New Mexico where he sells them as his own.”
She was stunned. A wide gaping blackness opened inside her. “I don’t believe it. No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “It’s nonsense. Do you have any proof? Do you?”
He poked at the fire. “Sage Reno is with the army. He’s working undercover, trying to find the proof we need to stop Campion’s operation. Molly, it’s only a matter of time.”
“So … so you don’t have any proof, yet. How long have you two been looking? Weeks? Months? Don’t you think if there had been something to find, you’d have found it by now?” She was desperate to find holes in Buck’s story. Desperate. This was so unexpected. She’d never dreamed … But it was still possible it wasn’t true. She clung to that hope with fierce urgency.
“Why had those men decided to kidnap Nicolette?”
“They’re working for Campion in some capacity. Two of them do, anyway.”
Yes, she distinctly remembered the one. She gnawed at her lower lip. “I can’t imagine Charles hiring any of those men. Maybe they’re working against him. Have you given that any thought?”
He snorted softly. “Not really.”
Anger swelled within her. “You’re so quick to paint Charles black. I doubt that he had anything to do with any of this.”
“Dammit, Molly, when Nicolette’s horse came back without you, there was a note attached to the saddle. They’d planned to use Nicolette as leverage to get something from Campion. Something he was withholding from them. I don’t think discovering they had the wrong woman made any difference.”
“Well, if that’s true, then why did they let me go?”
He picked up a twig and broke it into tiny bits. “I convinced them that if they wanted something from Campion, they were going about it the wrong way.”
“And they believed you,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Just like that.”
“Not entirely. First I had to introduce a little distrust among them. Then, I had to get into their confidence.”
“By doing what?” she grilled. “Taking a lying, cheating, renegade’s oath?”
“No,” he answered softly. “By raping you.”
The words, so softly spoken, might as well have been razor sharp. Suddenly she realized how petty and ungrateful she’d been. “Oh, I … I see. And … and all of this came about because of something they wanted from Charles?”
“It’s true, Molly.”
Suddenly, everything Buck had told her about Charles brought other fears to the surface. Even if he hadn’t warned her about Charles’s prejudices, she’d have discovered them on her own. That much she knew. She thought she could change him. Maybe it was foolish. Wishful thinking. But if that was the only fault Charles had, she still felt they could have a successful marriage.
But this other thing … She felt sick to her stomach. Buck could just as well have punched her. If Charles truly was a crook and a thief, there was nothing she could do. Nothing would change that. She couldn’t in all good conscience live with a man who cheated others. It wouldn’t matter if he were the richest man in the world and welcomed her half-breed mother with open arms. If he was a cheat and a thief, he was a poor excuse for a man. She could never live with that. Never.
Without speaking, she crawled into the bedroll and turned away from Buck. His wisdom came back to haunt her, preventing her from putting everything out of her mind. Maybe she had unconsciously thought she could hide her heritage in order to better herself in the white world. Perhaps her sensible reasoning had only been a tool to convince herself that she wasn’t ashamed of it. Not since she’d run from the line shack in tears had she felt such confusion.
“Molly—”
“No.” She felt his hand on her arm and tried to brush it off. “Don’t touch me, and don’t say anything.”
He swore. “I’m afraid there’s more.”
She buried her face in the blanket. Lord, what else could there be? “And I suppose you feel obligated to tell me,” she answered bitterly.
“Dammit, I’m not hurting you on purpose. If you still think you’re going to go through with this hellish marriage, you have to know everything.”
She turned and glared at him. “And why should I believe you?”
“Because …” He reached out and stroked her thigh. Shivers raced over her leg, into her pelvis. “Because, I’ve only wanted what’s best for you. You’ll just have to believe that.”
“I suppose you’ve somehow convinced yourself of that,” she said tightly. “Well, go ahead, but I can’t imagine there’s anything worse than what you’ve already told me.”
“Believe me,” he answered. “It’s worse. For you, anyway.”
She rolled to her back, stared at the black night sky, and waited.
Buck faced her, resting on his arm. “Not long after Nicolette was born, when Charles was eleven or twelve years old, Sylvie Campion, their mother, was abducted by a band of renegade Indians.”
Molly’s stomach dropped, and she turned toward him. She didn’t say anything; holding her breath, she waited for him to continue.
“Oh, they got her back. The Indians didn’t kill her, but she probably wished they had. Charles’s old man wasn’t a very supportive husband, from what I understand. Although he realized that by marrying her she was his responsibility, he apparently couldn’t bring himself to … to be intimate with her after that.”
She interrupted him, huffing impatiently. “Who told you all of this?”
“Someone who’s been at the ranch since Campion’s father started it. An eyewitness, if you will. And Angelita was there, too. All right?”
She nodded grudgingly.
“From the moment she was returned to her home, Sylvie was unable to take up any of her old duties. She sat in her room, ignoring her children, crying and rocking, day after week after month. Eventually, she pulled herself toget
her and tried to pick up the pieces of her life. She wasn’t a weak woman, but she needed strength and support from her family, which she didn’t get.
“About four months after she’d been rescued, she discovered she was going to have a baby. An Indian baby. A filthy little half-breed that she knew her husband would kill. In her state of mind, she wasn’t even sure he wouldn’t kill her, too. She’d wanted to secretly get rid of it before he found out.
“Unfortunately for her, she confided in the wrong person. Old man Campion did discover her condition and found a doctor who was only too happy to rid the world of another dirty little Indian baby.
“By the way,” he added, almost nonchalantly, “he took his wife and his son with him when he burned the aborted remains.”
Molly swallowed hard, fighting a rising panic. “He made Charles watch? Why? Why would he do such a thing to his own son?”
“To make sure the boy understood just how filthy Indians were. To make sure he knew just what should be done with them. The old man had hammered his own deeply rooted prejudices into his son. And little Charlie-boy was a quick study.”
She heard the derision, and finally understood why Buck hated Charles with such passion. “What happened next?”
“Sylvie went mad,” he said simply. “From that day until the day she died, she had to be cared for like a child.”
Molly curled into a ball, hugging her knees. “The picture in the salon. She was so beautiful. Surely Charles doesn’t blame his mother for what happened?”
Buck was quiet for a long time. Finally, he said, “I was told that he, like his father, felt his mother should have killed herself rather than submit to … to rape.”
Molly was shocked. “Submit to rape?”
“These are his words, Molly, not mine. He’s hated Indians ever since. Oh, he’ll hire them and sleep with their whores, but he doesn’t want one in his family tree.”
Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three Page 15