Just Once

by Jill Marie Landis

  Jemma had taken a seat very close to Hunter. She leaned into him and whispered, “What’s he saying?” Her breath was warm against his ear.

  “He wants to buy you.”

  She mumbled something that sounded like, “Not that again.”

  Hunter looked down into her eyes. She was watching the old man warily. “What do you mean, ‘not that again’?” he asked.

  “It’s nothing.” She shook her head. “Tell him no and make him leave,” she said with a shiver.

  “I think I should at least see what kind of a deal he’s willing to make.” Hunter fought to keep his face expressionless.

  “He doesn’t even have any teeth, for God’s sake.”

  “His name is Many Feathers. At least that’s what they called him before you managed to blow apart his fancy headdress. He says he can give you all the corn and sugar you can eat. His farm is very big and his orchard has apples and peaches, too. Would you like to take him up on it?”

  “You can’t be serious.” She was almost in his lap, so close that Hunter felt her shiver.

  “I’m very tempted.”

  “No!”

  “I’m only joshing.”

  “This is certainly no time to make jokes. How do you know there aren’t twenty or thirty of them hiding among the trees? How do you know they aren’t going to scalp us in our beds when he leaves?”

  Many Feathers finished his coffee and extended the cup for another. Hunter couldn’t hide his smile. They would just have to humor the old man after Jemma’s near-fatal assault.

  “He doesn’t appear to be headed any place. I think with a little hospitality we can make amends.” Then, taking pity on the girl, he assured her there was no danger. “Why don’t you bed down and get some sleep? Many Feathers here is liable to try to talk me into selling you all night long. One of us should be rested tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep out here again. When I think of the heart-stopping dread I experienced when I looked up and there was that … that man standing there leering at me, brandishing that … that tomahawk. Why, I … was absolutely terrified.”

  “Then why are you smiling as if you’d like nothing better than to experience that absolute terror all over again?”

  “It was as thrilling as it was terrifying,” she admitted with a sigh.

  “Why don’t you just roll up in your blanket and dream about it while I entertain your suitor here.”

  Many Feathers chuckled to himself, smacking his puckered lips over the coffee while Hunter waited for Jemma to decide to move. Finally, she sat back on her heels and then stood up.

  “Don’t forget I’ve paid you good money to get me up-river. I don’t want to wake up and discover you’ve traded me away to this savage.”

  “He’s as cultured as we are, in his own way.”

  She kept a sharp eye on Many Feathers as she backed over to her bedroll. “You’d have a hard time convincing me of that. Promise, Hunter Boone, that you won’t sell me.”

  “You really think I’d do that?”

  “It’s been tried.”

  Wondering what she meant, Hunter leaned back against the end of the log opposite Many Feathers, prepared to sit out a long night.

  “Look at it this way, Jemma. If you went off to live with Many Feathers here, I doubt the emir’s men would ever find you again.”

  The next morning, she was in no mood for Hunter Boone’s dry wit. The pain in her shoulder was agonizing; the skin beneath her billowing, filthy shirt had already turned an angry purple. She had scratched the side of her face on the log when the force of the long rifle had sent her sprawling. The only saving grace was the satisfaction she got whenever she looked into Hunter’s bloodshot eyes. He had spent the night listening to Many Feathers until finally, as the sun began to rise at dawn, the old man got up and disappeared into the piney woods.

  The path they followed was tangled and overgrown in places, crisscrossed by divergent foot trails, and often so narrow that they had to dismount and lead their spotted Texas ponies through the maze. Following some innate sense of direction, Hunter never hesitated or even paused to ponder their route.

  By the time they had been on the move for a good half day, they heard the now-familiar sound of a river not far away. She prayed Hunter would call an early halt to the day’s travel so that he might get some much-needed sleep and she could rest her aching shoulder, but she did not mention the idea aloud. All morning long, whenever he looked her way, he simply shook his head and rode on.

  The trees thinned out along the riverbank, affording them a grand view of the largest river they had come to yet. Always before, the waterways had been shallow enough to ford by swimming the horses through or by wading and leading them over, but this was no limpid stream. Muddy water propelled by a driving current cut away at the steep banks and carried heavy debris swirling downstream.

  “Where are we?” Not that it would make any difference at all since she had no idea where they were, but Jemma asked anyway in her unending attempt to make conversation. They had reined in at the edge of the riverbank, where he could gauge the current and try to judge the depth of the water.

  His only response was to mumble something that sounded like, “I must have been crazy to agree to this,” so Jemma thought it wise to make no further comment. She dismounted and leaned against the sturdy horse’s side, rubbing her shoulder and staring at the onrush of murky brown water.

  “Can you swim?” Hunter asked.

  Jemma swallowed hard, about to borrow one of Grandpa’s tales about being washed overboard in the Bay of Bengal, until she took another look at the swiftly flowing current and decided the truth would be her best option.

  “Not very well,” she admitted with a dry swallow.

  “Does that mean you can’t?”

  “That means I might be able to paddle around a bit but …” She stared at the rushing water. “I can’t swim in that.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We have to cross.”

  “Can’t we go upstream until we find a safer crossing … or a bridge?”

  He laughed as if she had just said the funniest thing he had ever heard. “Bridge? And just who do you think might have built a bridge out here?”

  “You don’t have to be rude about it. It seems perfectly logical to me that some traveler may have come along and built some sort of a bridge out of fallen logs or something.”

  “Well, no one did, so we’re going to have to figure out a way to get you across.”

  “Could we swim the horses over like we’ve done before?” They had already made a few river crossings, but nothing like this one. She had dreaded clinging to the stout pony for dear life, and hated spending the rest of the day in wet pants, but like now, there had been no alternatives.

  “This river is much deeper than the others. If we swim, our supplies will get all wet. The horses will do better without us. I’ll have to build a raft, swim the horses over, and then come back for you and the provisions.”

  She stared at what seemed to be an impossible crossing, trying to imagine Hunter swimming back across without the aid of the horses, and even worse, picturing herself adrift with biscuits and bacon and sacks of supplies on a flimsy log raft.

  “What if you drown?” she mumbled, thinking aloud. “What’ll happen to me?”

  Hunter cleared his throat. “Well, I imagine a resourceful girl like yourself would manage somehow. Maybe you should have taken Many Feathers up on his offer.”

  “That’s very insensitive of you, Hunter,” she said, her temper rising.

  “I don’t intend to drown.”

  “No one intends to die, but accidents happen.”

  “I’ve done this before. Don’t worry about me.” He dismounted and led his pony over to a clearing, where he pulled out the hobbles and let the animal graze.

  “I’m not worried about you,” she lied. “I�
�m worried about me.”

  Jemma followed him and began taking supplies off her. sturdy little mount. She had grown fond of the spotted pony, often coddling it when they stopped for the day and offering wild apples when she found them.

  Hunter paused with a pack on his shoulder. “Don’t fret, Jemma. Everything will be fine. You set up camp and gather some wood while I start cutting timber for the raft. I’d like to have it built before midday tomorrow.”

  Jemma watched him go, encouraged by his lack of concern as well as his confidence in her ability to organize the camp. While he combed the banks and began to chop down a tree, she walked along the river’s edge until she found an abandoned campsite. She tried to imagine who might have been there before them: rivermen going north, settlers moving into Mississippi and Tennessee from the southeast, Indians who had used these trails for generations. Jemma gathered firewood and started a fire in the stone fire ring beside the river, the way Hunter had taught her.

  He was out of sight, but she could hear the dull, hollow throb of his axe against stubborn wood somewhere nearby. She didn’t know how he could keep up the pace with such vigor. She was near exhaustion. Rather than wait for him to come back to camp and cook, she decided to start the evening meal. She had seen him cook enough bacon to give it another try.

  The sun had slipped behind the trees and the long green shadows of the forest had merged and blended to become darkness when she heard Hunter trudging tiredly back into camp.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” she said without glancing up, proud enough to burst as she began laying strips of crisp, unburned bacon on a dented pie tin. She rummaged around in the bundle of dry goods, came up with the biscuit tin, and piled some soda crackers on his plate.

  Jemma held up the offering, finally looking at Hunter. He was half-naked, stripped to the waist. His leather shirt was hooked in two fingers, slung over his back. His shoulder-length blond hair, still tied in a queue, was wet. It curled riotously, with tendrils any woman would envy teasing his brow and temples. His lashes were spiked with water droplets, as was his broad, suntanned chest.

  The minute she laid eyes on Hunter Boone’s muscular chest, Jemma realized in a blinding flash of insight that everything Sister Augusta Aleria had ever warned about temptations of the flesh and the curse of nakedness was absolutely true.

  Speechless for one of the few times in her life, she could do nothing but stare. Forgotten, the plate in her hand began to droop. The bacon slid perilously close to the edge before Hunter lunged and retrieved it.

  “What’s this?” he said, half-smiling, as he looked at the bacon.

  With her senses still in a stupor, Jemma tried to put a coherent thought together. All that came out was, “Bacon.”

  “Ah. I thought the only bacon you made was black.”

  “I’m … getting better at it. How … did you get all wet? Did you fall in?”

  “I jumped in. I worked up a sweat chopping logs. We’re in luck, though. A little farther upstream, I found an area that must have been hit by a powerful storm. The trees have been felled by the wind and scattered like twigs. Tomorrow morning it won’t take long to tie the horses to some of them, drag them to the river, and lash them together.”

  The man had no idea of how greatly his half-naked state aroused her. He tossed his shirt over a nearby bush and sat down cross-legged in the sandy soil near the fire. His leather pants were soaked; water oozed out of them as he bent his knees to accommodate his plate on his lap. Without looking up, Hunter began wolfing down bacon, scraping up the drippings with his biscuits and licking his fingers.

  Jemma’s mind raced. Until this very minute, she had thought of him as her guide and protector. He had to be a good ten years older than she, at least twenty-eight—old by her standards—but he was definitely a virile man. There was something awesome and frightening in that thought, something that set her nerves on edge. That same something made her tingle all over as she stared at his naked chest and the fire’s glow snaked over his bronze skin, gilding the tightly matted blond hair.

  Sister Augusta Aleria had definitely known what she was talking about.

  Her mouth had gone dry. She tried not to think about Hunter or his bare chest and busied herself with her own supper, filling the plate with thick, well-done bacon strips and biscuits, pouring them both cups of coffee from the metal pot by the fire. Although she tried to concentrate on the task at hand, she couldn’t keep herself from pondering what it would be like to deeply kiss a man, to touch him intimately, to lay her hand over his heart and feel his warm skin.

  She thought of the kiss he had given her in the Rotgut, remembered his soft lips and felt warm all over. It had been an experience she definitely wouldn’t mind having again.

  “What are you thinking about?” he said around a mouthful of food.

  “What? Oh.” She mumbled a soft, unladylike curse as coffee sloshed over the rim of her cup. “I was thinking about kissing,” Jemma said without thought.

  Hunter began choking, wheezing, and coughing so hard that she started to set down her tin and go over to pound him on the back, but he gasped in lungfuls of air and waved her back down.

  “I thought you said you were thinking about kissing.”

  “I did. I was.”

  He was rendered speechless. Then slowly, from the neck up, color began to creep toward his hairline. He glanced over at his sopping wet shirt where it hung on the bush.

  “Kissing,” he said softly, pondering the word as if he had never heard it before.

  In for a penny, she thought, and plunged ahead. She was on an adventure and intended to experience as much as she could before it was over. Just last night she had almost killed a man. Kissing was a far less dangerous endeavor.

  “The nuns at the convent—”

  “In Algiers?”

  Her gaze quickly dropped to her plate. “Yes, anyway, the nuns at the convent spent inordinate hours talking about the various sins of the flesh. I suppose so we girls would know what to expect. And what to avoid. One nun in particular harped on kissing and … well, all the rest, so much that at times, it was all we could think about. Mortal sins, venial sins. Kissing that led to mortal sin. Kissing that was more than kissing.”

  “More than kissing?”

  “Kissing that led to other things.”

  “Other things?”

  He was holding his empty plate on his lap, his green eyes intense. His hair had dried some; the curls were lustrous. His expression was blank, either intentionally or because he was so shocked by the subject that he didn’t quite know what to make of her. Jemma suddenly felt like squirming under such close scrutiny.

  “You know,” she shrugged, gripping her plate. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Other things.”

  “Things other than kissing?” He set the plate beside him in the sand warmed by the fire.

  “Yes. Intimate, unspeakable other things. Things a lady shouldn’t even think about, let alone discuss over supper.”

  “The nuns were versed at describing these other things?”

  She blinked. “Of course. Some were widows. Some had been fallen women who had repented, given up lives of sin to devote themselves to the church. They certainly knew what they were talking about.” She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly too warm.

  “So tonight, in the middle of biscuits and bacon, you just thought about kissing?”

  There was no way she could tell him the truth, that seeing his bare chest had led her thoughts astray, that it was his fault for walking around half-naked, leading her mind down such a dangerous path. He had her cornered. The only thing to do was brazen her way out.

  “How many women have you kissed?”

  “Taking a survey?”

  “Something like that,” she said.

  “To be honest, I don’t see how it’s any concern of yours.”

  “No. I don’t suppose it is. I was just curious.” She felt herself blushing, thankful for the darkness.

  “I’ve
kissed my share,” he offered.

  She bolted upright, nearly spilling the rest of the coffee on herself. A thought that had not occurred to her before suddenly shot to the forefront of her mind.

  “Are you married?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “No. I’m done with women altogether.”

  A shadow darkened his eyes. She could almost feel the hurt emanating from him, and her imaginative, romantic soul ached.

  “Someone broke your heart,” she said softly.

  “No. Someone taught me a hard lesson is all. But that just helped me realize who I am.”

  Thoughtful, her appetite satisfied after a few bites, Jemma began gathering up the plates and cups. In the morning before breakfast, she would take them to the riverbank to rinse in the still water that eddied in the rushes. She couldn’t get her mind off what Hunter had just said. A woman had taught him a hard lesson. She couldn’t help but wonder who, how, why.

  By the time she had finished clearing away the frying pan and moving the coffeepot farther from the flames, she was certain he was pining for a lost love. Hunter had slipped his shirt on once again. Jemma experienced a wave of relief, as if the door to a room full of unspoken dark secrets had been opened far too long for comfort. She was surprised to find how disappointed she was that it was closed again.

  Hunter sat back down and stretched, then crossed his legs at the ankles. He pulled his hat on, using the brim to shade his eyes from the firelight until all she could see were his lips—finely tapered, strong, masculine, but compelling. And unforgettably soft.

  “How many women have you kissed, do you think?” she asked, before the thought was fully formed.

  He shoved the hat back onto the crown of his head and stared at her hard.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “No. I just have a very fertile imagination. The nuns always thought so, at least.” She sighed, trying to picture the kind of woman who might have walked out on him. “You’ve obviously loved and lost. No matter what, you still have your memories. Just think, though. You have suffered, which means you are living life to the fullest. Why, some people never find anyone to love, never even have the experience, good or bad.”