Angel shook her head, to hint they weren’t alone, but he cut off her anxious whisper with a kiss that left her mind whirling and her lips slightly swollen. She moved to shelter her torso, but Holt captured her wrists with a single hand, holding her still as he briskly dispensed with the tiny ribbons securing her chemise.
Night air swept across her flesh like cold silk, and Angel shivered. Holt pressed himself upon her until she was wrapped in a cocoon of warmth. He cupped her breast in one hand, rubbing a callused finger over the tip until she shuddered in surrender.
She sensed his wolf-like smile in the dark, and animalistic triumph in the way he lowered his head to swiftly capture the aching bud. He worried it gently between his teeth, and Angel closed her eyes and felt the piercing, sweet sensation tumbling over her like a waterfall.
Nothing mattered but their mutual need and the means to satisfy it. Holt released her wrists, sensing she would not deny him. When Angel arched against him he drove deeply into her moist warmth.
The silence of the night wrapped around them both as she locked her ankles around his, moving with him to the ancient rhythm of her woman’s blood. She felt his lips claim her again, leaving a fiery brand of kisses down her throat and bare shoulders, pausing to nip at a tender earlobe until she gasped with delight.
He drove a hand into her tumbled golden hair, holding her still as he teasingly raked his teeth and tongue over the fullness of her lower lip. Her whimper was silenced when his mouth slid over hers, coaxing her tongue to fence with his as their bodies ebbed and surged together like a mighty ocean.
Angel’s cry was drowned by the force of his need, as Holt buried his seed deep within her. Higher and higher she spiraled, until Holt’s ragged whisper of her name was enough to bring her plunging back to earth, to find herself clutched securely in his arms.
For several minutes the mingled sound of their harsh breathing echoed through the room, and Angel resisted the urge to succumb to the languorous relaxation stealing over her limbs. Weakly, she pried herself free from Holt’s grasp, but further resolve fled when he threw a leg possessively over her, keeping her at his side.
Very softly, he kissed her shoulder, and though he didn’t speak, she could sense a quiet apology within the act. Then a shudder rippled through his frame, and she glanced over to see his dark head bowed beside her.
Without hesitation, Angel reached over, offering the comfort words could not. Then, quietly, she lay back down beside him, holding him close against her pounding heart until the peace of the night lulled them both to sleep again.
Chapter Twelve
ANGEL FELT SOMETHING TUGGING at her hair. She moaned sleepily and rolled over, opening her eyes in time to receive the full impact of Nahqui’s raspberry in her face. She couldn’t help but smile at the baby as he wriggled by on his belly, waving his arms in his attempt at a crawl.
Angel glanced over and saw Okoka stirring a kettle over the fire. It smelled like meat broth, and it was a heavenly odor. Then her smile faded as she remembered Holt. He was nowhere to be seen. Had it been only a dream?
She sat up in the pile of cold blankets and furs and found her underclothing slightly askew. She felt every ache and pain from sleeping on the hard floor, and there was a sticky dampness between her thighs that couldn’t be imagined away.
Carefully shielding herself with a blanket, she rose a little unsteadily and approached Okoka. The Indian woman smiled a little knowingly, or maybe Angel’s guilt made her suspect Okoka knew more than her bland gaze betrayed.
“Hungry?” the other woman motioned, indicating the steaming black pot. Angel nodded and offered a sheepish smile. Now was one time she wished she could communicate better with her new friend. She felt her cheeks burning. How much had Okoka heard and seen last night?
Angel looked across the room to the trapper still buried snugly in the furs. She indicated her question to Okoka with her eyes and hands.
“Hurt,” Okoka confirmed, but there was no indication of how badly by her expression.
“I’m sorry,” Angel said, knowing the Indian girl would understand her concern by her tone, if not her words.
Okoka nodded and returned to her cooking. Angel looked around the cabin for Holt, but other than the strips of rawhide that had bound his hands, there was no indication he had ever been there.
Angel wanted to ask Okoka where he was, but she wasn’t sure the Indian girl would understand. There was something embarrassing about having to ask where your own husband was, especially after last night.
A short time later Angel had her answer. Holt came into the cabin with a grim set to his features that didn’t bode well for anyone. He was outside assessing the snow situation, balancing the risks of travel against the real need to get the other man to a doctor.
He looked at Angel, and when their eyes met she felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with the fire Okoka was tending.
“We’ll have to chance it,” he said, with a gesture to the unconscious man. “Either we get Jean-Claude to Denver or he’ll probably die.”
“Jean-Claude?” Angel repeated, with a curious glance at the injured man. “He’s French?”
Holt nodded. “A fur trapper, Okoka says. They’ve lived here for several years, trapping beaver up and down the river. He met and married Okoka two years ago, after his first wife died.”
“How did you find him?”
“Luck, I think,” Holt said. “There weren’t many tracks left after the storm, but I took a chance he was smart enough to seek shelter. I found him in a cave about two miles from here. By then he was already delirious with fever.”
“What happened to him?”
Holt shrugged. “The most I could get out of him was he’d gotten kicked in the head by his mule, and by the time he came around the wound was festering. He’s got concussion and a bad case of frostbite.”
“He’s in no condition to travel,” Angel said with a shocked glance to the bed.
“No,” Holt agreed, “but the alternative is worse. Even Indians can’t treat head injuries this serious.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to hitch up the horse and wagon and set out for Denver this morning.”
Angel was alarmed. “Can’t you ride out for a doctor and bring him back here?”
Holt shook his head. “It’ll take too long. By the time I got back, assuming I could persuade a doctor to ride out with me, the man would probably be dead. We’ve got to take the chance.”
“I’m going with you,” Angel said .
“No. I want you to stay here with Okoka and the baby.”
“You’ll need someone to steady him on the journey,” Angel argued reasonably. “He’ll have to be kept warm and quiet, and fed somehow. All that bouncing around won’t be easy on his head.”
Their stubborn gazes met. Holt sighed. “All right. I don’t like it, but you’re right; I can’t drive and take care of him at the same time. But it’ll be a long, cold journey, Angel. Are you up to it?”
“Yes. Even if I wasn’t, I owe Okoka this much.”
Holt’s glance was surprised but approving. “Then I suggest you start rounding up all the blankets she can spare, and figure out a way to carry food and water.”
“Does Okoka know what you plan to do?”
Holt nodded soberly. “She understands it’s his only chance. She told me about an old buckboard stored out back. We’ll have to rig a shelter of some sort over the top.”
Angel bit her lip, thinking hard for a moment. “What about the covered wagon down at the old miner’s cabin? It looked like it still had life left in it.”
He looked at her in outright admiration. “You’re right. That would be much better. It’s sturdier and probably rolled through a snowstorm or two in its day. I’ll walk down with the horse and see if I can’t get it going again. You’d better have breakfast before we leave.”
“Not to mention clothes,” Angel said, inadvertently reminding them both o
f the passionate night they’d shared. She blushed. Holt cleared his throat and made a hasty departure, and Okoka glanced up from her cooking and smiled.
“IT’S THE BEST WE can do,” Holt said after they had carefully moved Jean-Claude to the rear of the covered wagon, bundled him snugly in furs, and cushioned his head with several blankets. The man still hadn’t stirred or spoken. Angel thought he looked worse by the hour, but she didn’t want to frighten Okoka any further.
Before they took their leave of the woman and her child Holt saw to it plenty of firewood was stacked close to the cabin. In turn, the young woman gave them packages of pemmican and dried strips of meat for the journey, and insisted Angel take her buffalo robe and snowshoes.
As Holt made final preparations outside, Angel returned to the doorway of the cabin to thank the Indian woman again. There were tears in her eyes, but Okoka shook her head and smiled.
“No,” she said, her fingers making the motion of tears rolling down her cheeks. “See — Hoah.” Her palms came together in a parody of a handshake. “Hoah — friend.” Then she pointed at Nahqui, still happily exploring the floor. She made a cradle with her arms this time, and then pointed at Angel’s abdomen. “Baby.”
“Okoka.” Angel felt her cheeks burning and glanced after Holt to make sure he hadn’t overheard. “That can’t be true,” she whispered. “It can’t be.”
“Oto ke,” the Indian girl said, gesturing with both hands up at the sky. Puzzled, Angel watched closely as Okoka held up all five fingers and wiggled them in a star-like fashion. “Oto-ke before Nahqui come. See?”
“No,” Angel said a little forcefully. “I don’t understand, Okoka. You’re wrong.”
Stubbornly, the girl held up nine fingers. “Soto moons,” was all she said.
Angel blanched. Unconsciously, her hands dropped to cradle her stomach. Was there a remote possibility the girl was right? She shook her head to deny the ominous words. Okoka just smiled.
It was hard for Angel to leave the security of the little cabin, but harder still to meet the Indian girl’s knowing eyes. She took her place in the back of the wagon with Jean-Claude and steadied him as the wagon broke through fresh snow with a jarring start-and-stop motion.
Their progress would be agonizingly slow, Angel realized. She felt every rock and rut they encountered, and the old wagon shuddered with protest as they made their way across the snowy passes and deep ravines. Within an hour she was thoroughly chilled, but she realized Holt was in worse danger since he was directly exposed to the winds and snow.
The first short day of winter passed, and they were forced to stop when it was dark. Holt joined the others in the rear of the wagon, and when Angel lit their single lantern she was shocked by the haggard look of him.
He gazed at her across the unconscious form of Jean-Claude. “I’ll be honest with you; I don’t know if we can make it.”
“Can we turn back?”
He shook his head. “Morning will show us what we’re up against. It’s starting to snow again. Best turn down the lantern now. We need to conserve our kerosene.”
Angel turned down the wick until darkness and cold enveloped them like a thick, icy dome. She lay down beside Holt and tried not to think of what lay ahead. Later she was certain she only dreamed about the sound of horse’s hooves in the night, and the rich aroma of chicory coffee.
But she knew she wasn’t dreaming when she awoke with a start to a trio of unsmiling, unshaven faces looking in the back of the wagon.
“Holt,” she cried with alarm, but her husband didn’t respond. He didn’t dare. He sat there gazing with burning silver eyes at the man who held a rifle snugly pressed against his heart.
“Thought you could outsmart me, Murphy?” Sheriff Garrett asked with a nasty laugh as he poked the rifle into Holt’s chest several times. With a swift move, Holt grabbed the barrel and wrenched it upwards.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Holt said, softly yet dangerously.
Red Garrett’s beady eyes focused on Angel next. “I thought there was somethin’ a little cockeyed ‘bout Valentine’s new whore,” he snarled. “Sure ’nuff, ’cause she’s an Injun lover.”
“What do you want?” Angel demanded, refusing to let her fear show in the face of danger. She sensed cringing and whimpering would only stroke the lawman’s already huge ego, and she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction.
“What do I want?” Ugly laughter burst from the man’s chapped lips. “Why don’t you ask your Injun stud here, ’cause he surely knows.”
Angel looked at Holt, but his expression was blank. His gaze remained fixed on the sheriff’s face as Garrett ordered them out of the wagon, all except Jean-Claude, whom he had determined was no threat.
Garrett chewed on his wad of tobacco for a moment as he studied the couple, apparently plotting his next move. Angel glanced at the makeshift camp they had blundered into in the middle of the night. There were five rough-bitten men there besides Garrett. She had the sinking feeling they were trapped.
Holt said, “We’re taking this man to Denver, Garrett. It’s his only chance.”
“Pshaw, son, when did you ever care ’bout anyone’s behind ’cept your own?” The sheriff sniggered. “You Murphys think you’re a cut above everyone else in this world. Even a half-breed like yourself is puttin’ on airs nowadays.”
Holt’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t react to the sheriff’s goading. Angel stepped forward in the snow, her chin held high.
“I demand to know on what grounds you are detaining us,” she said. “A man’s life is at stake here. I’d hate to have to report your conduct to your superiors in Denver.”
Garrett eyed her with surprise and then mounting anger. “Mouthy little thing, ain’t ya? All high and mighty now, jest as if you’d never wiggled your hindsight a’fore all the men in Valentine’s.”
Holt interrupted. “Garrett, shut up.”
“You gotta lotta nerve, boy.” The sheriff’s expression was ugly. He resumed jabbing the gun at them as if he relished the thought of pulling the trigger. “You know why I’m here, so you better talk fast and sweet, ’less you want the little lady to get hurt.”
“Holt, what’s he raving about?”
Holt didn’t answer. He kept an smile pasted to his features as he said, “Come on, Garrett, be reasonable. You know I didn’t have anything to do with those uprisings. I’m too busy with the mine to pay my respects at Valentine’s anymore.”
“There’s a re-ward on your head, son, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let it slip away,” Garrett said with a smirk. “You might of tore down all those wanted posters in Oro and Clear Creek, but you sure as shootin’ didn’t cover all the Territory.”
“Holt,” Angel repeated, “what on earth is he jawing about?”
Holt slanted her an amused glance. “Sheriff here seems to think I had something to do with those Indian troubles down south.”
“Did you?”
He hesitated a fraction too long before he turned back to the older man. “Like I said, Garrett, the mine and my new bride here have kept me too busy to go gallivanting around. Anyway, you haven’t got any proof.”
Garrett cackled. “Proof? When it comes to proof in a court ’round here, nobody’s gonna believe a ’breed like you. ’Sides, you know who the judge is.”
“Felton Garrett.” Holt uttered the name with contempt. “Your brother stinks of corruption as much as you do.”
“Now, just a damn minute,” Red snarled.
Angel stepped between them, gambling the sheriff wouldn’t shoot her. She’d seen lust rekindled in his bloodshot eyes whenever he looked at her, and she was right.
Trying a new tactic, Angel scolded them in her sweetest tone. “We aren’t getting anywhere with this, boys. Now, let’s be reasonable and work something out over a cup of coffee. That is coffee I smell, isn’t it?”
Dumbfounded, Garrett nodded. Angel rewarded him with a bright smile and, as all the men stared in open-mouthed
amazement, she sauntered over to the campfire and reached for the tin pot hanging over the flames.
The two men had no choice but to obey when Angel briskly handed out a tin cup to each. With a calm air she poured one for Holt, ignoring his murderous glare, and then turned to the sheriff. With one swift movement she deposited the remainder of the boiling-hot coffee in Garrett’s lap, and as he howled in agony Holt neatly plucked the rifle from his hands.
“I wouldn’t try it,” he advised the other five men, who all made moves to grab for their guns. He chuckled as he observed Angel primly picking up the dropped coffee tins. Casually, she finished cleaning up, and then at Holt’s quiet instruction removed the weapons from the other men and put them in the wagon.
Meanwhile the sheriff continued cursing and hopping around, grabbing up handfuls of snow to press to his injured area.
“Angel,” Holt asked, “can you drive a wagon?”
She nodded. “I can drive one faster with more horses.”
Holt grinned. “I think that can be arranged.” He motioned to the posse men to fetch their mounts. “Nice and easy now, boys. I’d hate for any of you to end up like old Red here, all burned up before his time.”
None of them doubted Holt’s finesse with a gun, for they’d seen and heard enough of it. They all moved, swiftly if sullenly, to do his bidding.
Holt kept the gun trained on Garrett and his men from the rear of the wagon after Angel hitched up the remaining horses. They set off again, Holt chuckling over the memory of Angel’s resourcefulness in a pinch. Well, he couldn’t deny she had gumption. He might reconsider his vow to send her home, after all.
“WE MADE IT, HOLT.”
Angel could have wept with relief when she gazed down into the snow-flocked valley where the frontier town of Denver lay slumbering peacefully.
She forgot the cold and hunger and impulsively reached out to hug the man beside her. Absent-mindedly, Holt hugged her back. “How’s Jean-Claude doing?” he asked.
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