“Here.” He handed her the clothing. “Hang on to this and stay close behind me. I’m going to open the door and then we’re going to cross the room without attracting any more attention than we have to. If we’re lucky, we can sneak out while everyone is concentrating on the brawl.” The sound of glass shattering against the wall in the barroom emphasized his point.
Hunter checked his knife and then picked up his long rifle, certain he would rather be crossing the raging Mississippi during a flood than wading through the Rotgut bar with St. Theresa in tow.
“If you’ve got any particular person you’d like to pray to just now, you’d best do it,” he said over his shoulder. She immediately started mumbling a hushed prayer. He threw the latch and swung the door open, just enough to catch a glimpse of the free-for-all that was going on in the bar.
Three pairs of rivermen were engaged in a favorite pastime—hand-to-hand knife fighting. A whore clung to the back of the nearest combatant like an opossum baby riding its mother. The woman was shrieking at the top of her lungs, using curses Hunter had never even heard before as she alternately hit the man with a bottle and pulled out handfuls of hair.
It was definitely no place for a would-be nun.
He felt Jemma’s hand tug the hem of his coat and glanced back at her.
“Just thought I’d hold on,” she whispered. He saw that she was clutching a fistful of the fringe that dangled from his jacket. “Not that I’m scared, mind you. It was far more perilous trying to escape the twenty mounted Berbers who had trailed me to the oasis, but—”
“Eyes down,” he snapped, effectively shutting her up before he started across the bar. He zigzagged through the crowd, thankful that the boatmen were too occupied to notice them as they skirted tables, darted past the bar, and burst into the morning sunlight.
Hunter kept moving, his gaze cutting right and left, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head. Two blocks of muddy streets were behind them before he slowed down. The sun was busy baking the night’s rain out of the rooftops. Smokelike wisps of steam snaked skyward, making the entire Tchoupitoulas district appear as if it were on fire.
As he hurried toward the stable, he felt a persistent drag on the back of his coat. Behind him, he could hear the girl’s panting and the squish and thud of her heavy shoes as they plowed through the mud. She had not let go since taking hold of his jacket in the bar.
Finally, when they reached the relative safety of the livery stable, he drew her into the shadow of the big open building, put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her up against the wall. All he could see was the pitted crown of her hat. Her shoulders were heaving as she caught her breath, her eyes trained on the ground.
“You can look up now,” he said when he realized she was still following his order. He expected to see her white-faced, frightened half out of her wits. He expected her blue eyes to be brimming with tears of relief. He thought he would hear a shaky admission that she had been terrified. Maybe she would finally call off this farce.
Her breath was coming fast but even. She clutched the rolled cape containing her soiled clothing to her breasts. When she tipped her head up and met his gaze, he was awestruck by the radiant glow of sheer delight mingled with gratitude that shone in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed; her dimples accented her bright smile.
“Mr. Boone,” she said with an unmistakably ecstatic sigh, “that was wonderful!”
Natchez Trace, One Week Later
The sable mantle of night cloaked the wild landscape along the nearly invisible Indian track that sojourners heading north called the Trace. With nothing more than a blanket between her body and the hard ground, Jemma lay on her side, staring through the flickering flames of the low camp-fire, listening to the sounds of unseen night creatures that rustled the underbrush and pine needles.
She was truly on her way, miles from New Orleans, civilization, and her quiet, ordered life. No matter what doubts might plague her, she had gone too far to turn back now. Her only regret was that she would never be able to tell Grandpa Hall about her adventure.
She closed her eyes and tried to picture the old man as she liked to remember him, strolling beside her along the wharf at Boston Harbor, telling her tales of the tall ships and the exotic ports of call he had visited. Jemma tucked her hand beneath her cheek and closed her eyes, but within seconds they were open again.
Hunter Boone was somewhere beyond the fire’s glow. She couldn’t see him, but she sensed his presence and knew that he was walking the perimeter of the campsite, checking the leather hobbles that kept the ponies from running off, making certain everything was secure before he finally sat down by the fire to take the first watch.
As soon as they had left New Orleans with two Texas ponies loaded with staples of bacon, biscuits, flour, dried beef, rice, coffee, sugar, a bolt of fabric, and some trade items, she knew she had chosen the perfect guide. Hunter was thorough, no-nonsense, and, even if he seemed a bit reluctant, a man of his word. All she had to do was settle back and enjoy the adventure.
But so far, the adventure had proved to be nothing but a strenuous, monotonous trek through dense piney woods and open grassy plains with a taciturn grouch who still refused to string more than ten words together.
He had been grouchy and standoffish since the morning they left New Orleans, and a week on the Trace had done little to improve his personality. No matter what she did, she tended to irritate him, so she tried to keep out of his way as much as possible. Since the only communications between them were his curtly issued orders, she tried to tackle the chores he gave her with as much aplomb as she could muster.
Gathering firewood in the pine forest proved to be the only thing at which she was somewhat adept. Frying bacon without burning it to a charred and blackened crisp, or cooking anything for that matter, had proved too much. Hunter finally insisted on preparing all the meals himself.
Afraid that he would lose patience and leave her there to wait for the next party traveling along, she didn’t issue one complaint, even though her derriere continually ached from hours of riding. When the trail proved too narrow and illusive, they had to walk the horses. Her tender feet, insulted by the stiff brown leather shoes, were just as sore as her rear end. Once when she stopped to bathe her feet with a damp rag, Hunter caught her wincing, but he offered no sympathy.
He didn’t offer much in the way of conversation at all. She didn’t know how a man could hold his tongue for so long. Each and every minute was so full of incredible sights and sounds and new experiences that she longed to talk about them, to ask questions. But since the first day, Hunter Boone had made it more than clear that he wanted no part of her “constant palavering,” as he so colorfully put it.
She sighed, a long, weary sound, once again wishing Grandpa Hall were there to talk to, wishing above all things that he could see her now.
Suddenly Hunter’s voice cut through the darkness. “You’d better get to sleep before your watch.” His soft-soled moccasins made it impossible to hear his steps as he crossed the forest floor.
Jemma bolted to a sitting position. As she watched him clear the shadows, she realized she never got tired of looking at him. He was like no one she had ever met before. The firelight played over his strong features. Shadows stroked the creases that bracketed his mouth and his hard jawline. When he caught her watching, he looked away, took the long rifle, and set it beside his blanket as he gingerly lowered himself to the ground.
She made a great show of huffing and shifting around, but as usual, he ignored her. Minutes ticked by. The glowing coals throbbed white-hot in the fire ring. Now and again, the wood popped and crackled, shooting sparks skyward to dissolve against the stars.
Unable to sleep, dying for an exchange of any sort, she wriggled around, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard ground. He was directly across the fire, staring at nothing, leaning casually against a decaying log with one knee drawn up and an arm looped over it. Silence stretched like a wide bo
g between them. She couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Mr. Boone?”
No answer.
“Hunter?”
The only sound was the crackle of burning wood.
“Hunter.”
“What?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Then take the first watch so I can.”
She shrugged out of the blanket and sat up, scooping her hair back off her face as she reached for her hat. Every muscle in her body protested as she got to her feet and stretched her arms high.
Making her way around the fire, she stood before him, waiting for him to hand her the rifle. The first day on the trail, he had taken the time to teach her to aim and fire. During the night watch, it was always primed and ready.
“Don’t shoot yourself in the foot,” he warned. “And wake me at the first sign of trouble.”
“Don’t you worry.”
“I’ve never had any problems heading back overland, but I’ve heard plenty of tales.”
“What kind of tales?” Her interest was suddenly piqued.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
He moved around the fire to the bedroll. “Pirates, Indian attacks, thieves, cutthroats. The Trace is famous for its perils, but as I’ve said, I’ve never had a lick of trouble.”
Jemma took his place against the fallen log and stared into the darkness. Pirates, Indian attacks, thieves, cutthroats. How could he sound so casual about it? She shivered, squinted, and tried to see through the trees all around them, imagining knife-wielding pirates and untamed savages behind each and every one.
“Hunter?” she whispered.
No answer.
“Hunter.” Louder this time.
“What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“Tell you what?”
“About the pirates, thieves, and cutthroats. All you mentioned were the bears, panthers, snakes—”
“Did you think this was going to be a stroll through the woods?”
“No, but—”
“Don’t let it upset you. Like I said, I’ve always had an easy time of it, probably because I veer off from the Trace and head toward the Mississippi. Makes the trip to Sandy Shoals shorter and safer, but there’s virtually nobody around to help if we do hit a patch of trouble.”
A patch of trouble? Jemma frowned. Determined to stay awake during her watch for a change, she tried humming softly to herself.
“I’m trying to sleep over here.” Hunter’s voice cut through the dark.
“Sorry.”
A twig snapped somewhere in the forest in front of her. The sound was so loud and out of place in the chorus of tree frogs and the chirps and ticks of the small inhabitants of the underbrush that she was on her feet in an instant, the rifle trained on the inky black shadows.
Across the fire, Hunter was either already sound asleep or blatantly trying to ignore her. She was afraid to take her eyes off the forest long enough to see if she could gauge the steady rise and fall of his shoulders.
Anything could be out there. Men or bears. Panthers, pirates, or cutthroats. “If you panic,” he had warned the morning he taught her how to aim and shoot the rifle, “you’re liable to blow a hole through yourself or me. If you see anything, just keep the gun aimed and wake me up.”
The instructions were simple enough. She was determined not to wake him without real cause, unless the sound of her knees banging together woke him first.
Jemma held her breath and offered up a silent prayer to St. Francis of Assisi, who had tamed the forest animals. As she stood there poised, gun at the ready, the minutes seemed like hours. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. When she dared to breathe at all, her breath came quick and shallow. She didn’t hear another sound. Finally, she shook herself, cradled the rifle carefully in the crook of her arm the way Hunter had shown her, and sat back down with a sigh. It was just like her, she decided, to make something monumental of a little crunch in the leaves.
Within minutes, the raw excitement had faded and sheer boredom set in again. With the rifle across her lap, Jemma wriggled her toes, flexed her arms, took off her hat, and shook out her curls. She started to hum, remembered Hunter’s admonition, and stopped. Her eyelids grew heavy. She rolled her head on her neck.
She didn’t recall closing her eyes, but something startled her and she opened them. Much to her chagrin, an Indian stood just within the fire’s glow, not six feet away.
He was nothing more than a wavering figure garbed in a hodgepodge of colorful cloth and embroidery, decorated with strings of shells and beads and whistles. A shock of long feathers adorned a turban wrapped around his head. Her gaze froze on the tomahawk hanging from a rope at his waist.
His skin was as bronzed as leathery fall leaves, his eyes deep-set and dark, staring out at her from beneath a heavy brow. He was whipcord-thin and of indeterminate age, although even in the darkness she could tell that his skin was as creased as a well-read newspaper.
Slowly, cautiously, carefully, Jemma let her hands slide toward the gun on her lap, hoping to get a good hold on the stock and trigger before she hefted it and aimed. From where she sat, she figured that if she even came close to hitting him, she was bound to do some damage.
To her chagrin, her guide and protector was still sound asleep.
The Indian continued to stand there in silence watching her, but his arm was moving in some sort of crazed fashion. He kept raising his right hand, pointing two fingers to the night sky. Up and down he pointed, again and again.
Then he took a step in her direction.
Jemma’s hands closed around the gun. By the time she had lifted it to firing position, the Indian was waving frantically and the tomahawk had somehow slipped into his other hand.
“Hunter!” She slowly squeezed one eye closed and sighted down the rifle barrel. “Hunter, it’s really important this time.”
Her paid protector muttered in his sleep and rolled over, presenting his back to her. And to the tomahawk.
“I’m sorry, mister,” Jemma whispered as the Indian crept closer and closer.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 5
Shocked out of a deep sleep by the sound of a gun-shot reverberating in the clearing, Hunter clutched his heart and bolted to his feet.
Beside the fallen log, Jemma lay flat on her back, the rifle on the ground between her legs. Instinct drove him. In one move he skirted the fire and dove for her, sweeping the area with his gaze. Eight feet away, seated in pine needles and rubbing his head, was an old Choctaw, his eyes wide with bewilderment. The feathers that had once adorned his turban had been reduced to bedraggled stubs. The red turban itself drooped over one eye.
“Hunter?” Jemma moaned beside him.
The Indian didn’t appear to be a threat, so Hunter gingerly lifted the rifle from between Jemma’s legs and felt the pulse point in her neck.
“What in the hell happened?”
“I’m just fine, thank you.” With a hand on the log, she struggled to a sitting position.
Hunter kept one eye on the Choctaw, who had yet to budge. The firelight glinted on the blade of a tomahawk in the dirt beside the Indian. It was the only sign that the old man might have meant any harm.
“What happened?” he demanded of her again.
“You failed to tell me that rifle would almost tear my shoulder off when it fired,” she grumbled.
“I thought you were an expert marksman. You said you had killed off countless desert hordes in the Sahara.”
“This is no time to argue, Mr. Boone. That … that savage came at me waving his hands, and when he grabbed the tomahawk, I couldn’t get you to wake up. I did what you told me to do. I protected the campsite. Is he dead?”
“No. Just minus a few feathers.”
She looked over, saw the Indian seated in the dust. “Oh, no. He’s quite old, isn’t he?”
“Very.�
��
“I thought he was going to scalp us both.”
“You nearly scalped him.”
“You told me to fire in self-defense. It was dark.” She shot another worried glance at the old man. She got to her knees and beat the dust off of the back of her pants with much huffing and puffing.
The old man was on his feet as well, babbling in Choctaw, frantically making a sign of friendship.
Hunter signed back, offering an apology, then put his closed fist against his forehead and turned his hand round and round, making small circles above his brow.
“What are you telling him?” Jemma whispered, her gaze whipping between Hunter and the Indian.
“I said I’m sorry and told him that you’re crazy.”
“Well, of all the—”
“Get him some coffee,” Hunter ordered as he continued to sign to the old man, who shuffled slowly and cautiously forward, keeping an eye on Jemma as he came into the light of the campfire.
Jemma stood beside the fire, near the coffeepot sitting on the stone ring. She looked as if she were about to cry.
“What now?” Hunter helped the old man sit on the log. He couldn’t discern any visible signs of injury, aside from the ruined feathers. He glanced over at Jemma and found her watching the old man lower himself to the log.
“He really didn’t look that old in the dark. Is he alone?”
Hunter signed to the Choctaw. “He says he is.”
Obviously relieved, Jemma closed her eyes and shook her head. “That’s good. I’d hate to have to answer to his entire family.”
“The coffee?”
“I’m getting it, but I think I’m the one that needs to be served coffee, not him.” She thrust her chin toward their exotic visitor. “He nearly scared a year off my life.”
“You nearly ended his.”
Once they were all holding steaming cups of brew as dark as pine pitch, Hunter asked Jemma to sit quietly while he carried on a conversation in sign language with the old man. At one point, when the man pointed both forefingers and then crossed his hands at the wrists, Hunter laughed out loud and shook his head.
Just Once Page 7