by Shirl Henke
“Over my dead body!” she shrieked back.
“It damn nearly was your dead body,” he snapped with a furious oath. “Given your propensity for plunging into ponds and rivers, why the hell did you learn to race horses bareback yet neglect to learn something as elementary as swimming?”
“A lady would have to bare her arms and legs to swim, but not to ride astride—unless she was Lady Godiva,” she said with all the disdain of a duchess.
“Well, you goddamned might as well be Lady Godiva, swaggering around without undergarments, showing off your breasts and hips in boys shirts and britches!” She had straightened up defiantly, with her back arched provocatively. Her high upthrust breasts with pointy nipples were outlined clearly through the soaked shirt that was plastered to her body. Her hair fell in a shining wet curtain around her shoulders, framing her face. Those exotic green eyes were darkened with mutinous rage. He wanted to kiss her...or kill her. Right now one would serve as well as the other.
Before he did something exceedingly stupid, he stood up and stomped off to rejoin the men. “The squaws have started a fire up ahead a half mile where we’ll camp tonight. Walk up and dry yourself out before you take a chill. I’ll see you get some dry clothes from the boat.”
Olivia sat back on her haunches, too stunned and furious to reply until he was gone. “I guess I don’t have any more brains than a possum, thinking I was ever in love with you, Samuel Shelby,” she muttered, struggling to haul herself to her feet. Then she began to walk in squishy misery toward the promised warmth of that fire.
Some secret part of her hoped that Samuel would bring her dry clothes from the boat but he did not. Instead a gnarled old engagé brought them, then stared at her with lascivious little black eyes, as if he could imagine her stripping herself naked to put on the dry clothes. Damn Shelby anyway! Sure as she went into the bushes to change, one or more of the men would spy on her and her “protector” was nowhere around to stop them. She decided it would be best to wait until the boat was brought up and use the privacy of the cabin box to don the dry clothes.
Huddling in front of the fire, Olivia was grateful that the sun was warm and her upper body was almost dry. Only her boots remained soggy and cold. She took them off and toasted her feet in front of the flames, while the heat of the fire dried the soaked leather.
Samuel was one of the last of the men to come into camp that evening. He approached her, his mouth a grim slash across his taut face. She decided he was still angry about the river incident and decided to coolly ignore him.
“You’re still in those damn damp clothes,” he accused, throwing the heavy bundle he had been carrying onto the ground in front of her.
“I could scarcely change with Jacques looking on so avidly, now could I?” she replied without looking up. “Or would you rather I did and he charge admission so half the men could watch and then ravish me as you so graphically described the other day?” She stared sullenly at the heavy canvas bundle lying at her feet but asked nothing about it.
“Were you not so self-absorbed, you might have noticed that the men are far too exhausted either for a peep show or a ravishment. And two of them were badly injured on that embarras today. Lisa doesn’t want them sleeping on the cold ground in tents. So we’re evicted from the cabin box.”
Her head flew up in consternation at his dispassionate announcement. “You—you mean we’re to sleep out in the open—together?”
“Unless there’s someone else here whose company you’d prefer to share.” He gestured around the camp with a mock flourish, taking in the motley assortment of crude, evil-smelling engagés slumped around the fires. “That lover you boasted of, perhaps?” he taunted.
She suppressed a shudder of revulsion, hating the arrogant, knowing smirk on his face. The thought of sharing a bedroll with him frightened her—or at least that’s what she told herself the strange little shivers running up and down her spine and the flush staining her cheeks meant.
But he doesn’t want you. Olivia ignored the cruel reminder ringing in her ears. Lifting her chin proudly, she swallowed for courage and looked him squarely in the eye. “I suppose you leave me no choice.”
“No, I don’t, but at least your delicate sensibilities will be spared sleeping in the open. Can you put up this tent while I’m gone?” He kicked the heavy canvas mass with the toe of his boot.
“Me?” she asked in consternation. Then catching the beginnings on his face of what had become that all-too-familiar look of disgust, she shrugged.
“Of course.” But she could not resist asking, “And where will you be?”
“I’ll be helping Lisa and Santandar set a broken arm and stitch up a foot-long rip in a man’s thigh. Have you had experience as a nurse? Maybe you could employ your fine embroidery hand to sew up human flesh and skin.”
The mere thought of it made her stomach pitch sourly. She paled but gritted her teeth. “I said I would put up the damn tent.” At least they would have shelter from the prying eyes of lascivious men when she and Samuel slept in separate bedrolls side by side.
Samuel headed back to the boat without another word. Olivia set doggedly to work unpacking the cumbersome piece of canvas and a tangle of ropes and short sturdy oak poles. She had seen the men rig their small rude shelters in the evenings, but never really paid much attention to how they did it. By now most of the tents were up. A few of the men were still working on theirs. She surreptitiously watched one wiry little Canadian drive the two lead poles into the hard clay soil with effortless ease, then toss the canvas covering over them and secure the outer perimeter to shorter stakes already set in the ground using stout rope ties. It seemed straightforward enough.
First she had to select a site. After making a visual sweep of the area, she settled on the far southwestern edge of the campgrounds in a shallow open swale. That should provide a modicum of sound proofing from the noisy snoring she had put up with in the cabin box ever since this hellish journey began.
It took her until dusk to unsnarl the ropes and lay out the canvas, which was far more awkward and heavy than she had ever imagined, even after dragging it across the clearing. Mercifully, a gruff old French Canadian had taken pity on her struggles and carried it the rest of the way as several others heckled him about messing with the Long Knife’s woman, as they had dubbed her. She had dismissed him with thanks, afraid of the ugly scene with Samuel if he were to return and find her alone with one of the men.
Her next chore was to drive in the smaller stakes and lead poles, a feat far easier observed than emulated. Finally, after hitting her own fingers with the crude wooden mallet until she was certain several digits would rot off in the night, she had all the poles in place, although several were a bit wobbly. By now it was nearly full dark and she was working by the dim flicker of firelight. She decided the poles were secured well enough.
Standing up, she spread the big canvas tent and pulled one end across a lead pole, then threw the other end of the stiff cloth over the opposite pole. She began tying off the sides, working her way around the perimeter. The center of the tent sagged so much she could not stretch the canvas to reach the last of them. She released the edge of the cloth and crawled inside the low enclosure, emitting a fierce oath. If she remained in this heathen wilderness much longer, she would have the vocabulary and manners of a river rat!
Olivia blinked her eyes at the stygian darkness inside the tent, then groped her way to the center and began to raise the sagging middle of the canvas and pull it toward the left lead pole. Suddenly the right pole wrenched free from its shallow mooring and toppled forward, striking her across the back. She jumped away with a loud yelp of pain, pushing against the canvas, which in turn caused the rest of the short pegs anchoring its edge to pull out of the ground. The whole tent enveloped her in an oily, smelly cocoon. The more she thrashed, the more the stiff greasy canvas seemed intent on swallowing her. She was suffocating. Letting out a loud shriek, she tried to flatten herself to the ground and sl
ither out from under but could make no headway. Finally in desperation she rolled onto her back, kicking and screaming like a child having a tantrum.
That was how Samuel found her. Wrestling the canvas off the thrashing, cursing woman, he added a few succinct oaths of his own as he dragged her to her feet. “You are like a bear cub! Trouble follows you everywhere.”
“It’s not my fault I’m not strong enough to drive wooden stakes into this stone hard clay! I am a woman, not a woodsman!”
“Then you should’ve stayed in St. Louis,” he snapped all too acutely aware of her gender. He had to lie in a small tent and sleep beside her tonight without touching her. Damning the fates that had saddled him with Olivia St. Etienne’s nubile presence, he took a breath and counted silently to ten.
“If I’d stayed in St. Louis, you’d have despoiled me of my virtue, then sauntered off into this wilderness without a backward glance!”
He raised one black eyebrow sardonically. “Your only virtue, mademoiselle, as far as I can detect, is that you can survive the most incredible blunders and never stop whining.”
Whining! How could she ever have thought this priggish self-righteous lout was charming? Her fingers curved into claws and she raised her right hand. Before she could wipe the arrogant expression off his handsome face, he seized her wrist and held it fast.
“Don’t even think it,” he purred, then flung the offending hand away from him as if it were an adder ready to bite. “I’m heartily sick of Walk Fast’s mushy strong stews, so I’ve brought a chunk of venison haunch to roast over a fire. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you can build a fire to cook it while I set up the tent.”
It was not a question. Olivia did not dignify it with an answer, just waited for him to issue more preemptory orders.
“Take the meat over to Liguest’s fire. He’s finished cooking. Break off some willow sticks to skewer the meat. You’ve seen it done.” He handed her a small knife from his pack with which to cut up the juicy chunk of venison.
Taking the weapon from him with a surly jerk, she asked sweetly, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll use it to slit your throat while you sleep?”
“You haven’t the humanity to be so compassionate,” he replied dryly, turning his attention to the crumpled mess of their tent.
Once she had stomped off with the venison and the knife, Samuel set to work. He realized immediately that pounding the heavy poles into the unyielding earth would be an impossible task for a pampered city woman, not that he held much hope she would prove a decent cook either. What the hell was he going to do with her?
Seth Walton had come in tonight saying he had talked with an Osage scout that afternoon. They would reach the first of the Osage winter encampments in a couple of days. He planned to leave Lisa’s party at the confluence of the Missouri and Osage rivers to search for the Englishman moving among the Indians. He had to find someone to protect Olivia and see that she was returned to St. Louis or perhaps even see her downriver if the story about an uncle in New Orleans was to be believed.
Somehow the thought of sending her all the way to New Orleans and never seeing her again did not sit well with him. “I really am crazy,” he muttered to himself as he worked. The idea of her waiting for him in the house he had rented in St. Louis held a strong appeal. His mind’s eye pictured her at the front door dressed in a soft muslin gown and smelling of jasmine, with all that bright hair falling down her back, smiling and welcoming him with open arms.
He decided eating Walks Fast’s greasy mush must have softened his brains. Olivia would never wait with a smile of welcome for him. She had made that abundantly clear. And he had learned enough about her to recant his bad bargain with her guardian, no matter how much he desired her. The only sensible thing to do was to provide her with a safe escort and money enough to reach her uncle in New Orleans—or whoever it was there to whom she had tried to run.
With that resolution made, he decided to talk to Manuel Lisa tonight about taking the girl under his protection. Once they reached the first of the trading outposts at Council Bluffs, Lisa could find someone trustworthy to accompany her downriver. Samuel finished setting up their tent, then went in search of the Spaniard.
Olivia sat huddled miserably in front of the fire. Her clothes had dried but were crisp with mud that abraded her skin in itchy misery. She looked at the sticks hung over the fire, roasting two fat chunks of venison. Juice dripped into the flames, making a sputtering noise and giving off a heavenly aroma. Her mouth watered when she inhaled.
Perhaps if she were quick she could slip away from the fire with her clean clothes and find one of those small streams feeding into the river where she could bathe and change. Samuel had been right when he said the men were too exhausted tonight to pay her any mind. She eyed the meat again. It was still quite rare. Plenty of time. She would only be gone a few minutes. Perhaps she could find Samuel and tell him to tend to the cooking while she changed. After all, he was the one who had accused her of smelling bad! A quick search around the fire revealed that he was missing. Damn the man, he was as reliable as an egg-sucking dog in a chicken coop!
Olivia took her clean clothes and set out, watching to be certain she was not followed. No one paid her the slightest attention. The moon had risen and cast clear silvery light across the river, which glowed like a living thing, now shimmering with metallic beauty, utterly different than the boiling brown torrent it was by harsh daylight. She found a small spring of icy cold water spilling from a limestone formation a few hundred feet from the edge of camp. Colonel Shelby would be furious at her for disobeying his high and mighty orders but she didn’t give a fig. After all, she still had the knife with which to protect herself.
Quickly she pulled the board-stiff shirt off and sponged cold water over her freezing upper body, then used a strip of toweling she’d hoarded to dry off. After repeating the process with her lower body, she was shivering as she slipped into the clean clothes. Sacred blood, she was heartily sick of wearing shapeless rough boy’s britches and homespun shirts. Once she had reveled in the freedom of movement and loved to flaunt convention when she was Ollie, the jockey who raced her guardian’s horses. But then she could return to being Olivia and wear silks and jewels and bask in male admiration.
Now she was forced to admit there was only one man whose admiration she wished. And he had made it plain he could no longer abide the sight of her—just because she was not Mrs. Daniel Boone! Of course, she was also forced to admit she had gone to great lengths to spurn his ardent overtures when she ran away from him in St. Louis. But what choice did he leave her? He had broken her heart, treating her like some dockside slattern who could be bought, then discarded.
What would become of them here in this awful wilderness? He seemed to thrive on its discomforts and dangers while she was a wretched misfit totally out of her element. She had prided herself on being a tough survivor after being left alone in the world when her parents died. “I will not give up. He desired me once. If I can make him want me that way again...perhaps I can wring an honest proposal of marriage out of him.” Then to salve her own pride she added, “Of course, that doesn’t mean I have to accept it!”
Feeling better she approached Liguest’s fire. He had retired and was passed out on his bedroll with a jug of “panther piss” clutched to his chest, snoring loudly. Just like a man, Olivia thought. Lisa had apparently rewarded his crew for their extraordinary labors that day by issuing them enough whiskey to get them all drunk.
She walked past him and knelt by the coals, searching in the dim flickering light for the two chunks of venison. The sticks on which she had spitted them were nowhere in sight. Had some greedy engagé stolen her meat? Then she caught a whiff of it—the blackened, smoldering lumps lying to one side of the coals.
Horrified, Olivia pulled the knife from her belt and poked at the suspicious substance which was giving off an acrid charred stench. Impaling one chunk on the blade, she raised it up to examine it. No doubt, it was th
e venison, now burned beyond recognition. “But how?” she wailed.
Samuel picked that very moment to walk up behind her. Smelling the burned meat he stepped past her and kicked at the coals. “I told you to cut willow sticks. You used the branches from one of those old sycamores, didn’t you?” he accused, taking the chunk of venison and the knife from her.
“Willows. Sycamores. They’re all trees to me. I didn’t know it made any difference,” she replied defensively.
“The sycamore’s low branches are mostly dead, dry. They burn up within half an hour. The willow twigs are green. They don’t,” he explained as if to a child. “Why didn’t you fish the meat out with the knife when it fell into the fire?”
“I only left for a few minutes to change my clothes. You’re the one who accused me of being smelly,” she huffed, then instantly hoped that didn’t sound as if she were trying to please the insufferable wretch.
“Like the child you are, you should be sent to bed without supper,” he gritted out.
“Why not starve me? You’ve done everything else.” Her stomach picked that inappropriate moment to growl loudly.
“Not everything else,” he replied evenly, then threw down the ruined venison in disgust. “If you hurry you can still get a couple of bowls of Walks Fast’s stew before she dumps it out. Bring them to the tent.” He turned around and started to walk away.
“I’m not your slave. Samuel,” she snapped. “Get your own bowl of stew.”
He turned on his heel and glared glacially at her. “If I do, then I will sleep alone in my own tent. Do I make myself perfectly clear, Olivia?”
She clenched her teeth and stomped off for the two bowls of stew.
They ate by the dying coals of a small fire Samuel had built outside their tent. He could feel her eyes on him when she thought he was not aware of it. Probably thinking of sleeping with me in that small tent. He chuckled to himself mirthlessly. Hell, he was just as unhappy about it as she was but for completely different reasons. No matter that she made him so furious he wanted to choke the life from her, he still desired her. Just thinking about lying beside her made him iron hard. He shifted uncomfortably on the cold earth while his senses ran wild, smelling her delicate female musk, knowing all he would have to do in the night was to reach out and bury his hands in that thick fiery hair—or bury his body inside her hot sweet sheath...