“Nice? Angel?” Jocelyn choked. “That man—”
“Saved you, dear.”
“At the expense of my peace of mind!”
The countess clicked her tongue. “Don’t quibble means. It’s the end result that counts.”
“Colt was there,” Jocelyn reminded her sullenly. “He wouldn’t have let anyone touch me.”
“But his friend didn’t know that. His friend risked his life to get you out of there against great odds.”
“His friend took me there to begin with!” Jocelyn retorted, having heard quite enough. “And, I might add, his friend never said he was his friend. Now, not another word about that wretched man. Colt had the right idea. He should have beat the crap out of him.”
Vanessa’s brows shot up, not only at Jocelyn’s show of temper, but that word. “Crap?”
“I believe it means Angel wouldn’t have walked away from the fight. You know, guts spilled and all that.”
Vanessa’s frown came quickly with the assumption that Jocelyn was merely being sarcastic. “That isn’t funny, dear.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
“Oh…well…”
Jocelyn waited, but that last had definitely silenced Vanessa. She went back to working her sampler with short, jabbing stitches that would likely have to be redone later. Jocelyn relaxed into the little tub as well as she could and closed her eyes. It was the first chance she’d actually had to relax since Longnose had gotten lucky—well, almost lucky.
She didn’t like remembering how close it had been this time, nor did she like having an image to bring to mind of that horrid man. But she had to allow Angel had been right in one respect. No matter how much it disturbed her to remember the Englishman’s face, it was to her benefit that she could.
She had come upon her men that night shortly after the race to outdistance Colt had begun, but then she had almost expected that, since she realized with some surprise after she started that she was on the main road. Angel had been taking her back to her people all along. Colt had been right behind her, and although she had anticipated he would be furious enough to cause a scene, he had merely said to her, “Someone ought to do something about that temper of yours.”
It was later that she learned Colt had been the only one to hear the shot that killed Dryden, which was why he’d been able to find her so quickly. Her men had gone out to search for her when she didn’t return at the usual time, but they’d been forced to follow her trail into the hills first, and Angel was right again, there were no trackers among them.
Maura Dryden, or whatever her name really was, had disappeared by the time they got back to the wagons. Vanessa had assumed she had stolen a horse and left while it was still daylight, but she couldn’t be sure. She and the other women had been too upset to take note. But it was concluded that Maura had likely panicked when Miles didn’t return to report Jocelyn’s supposed “accident” as he had planned to do. She must have assumed either that he had run out on her or that something had gone wrong. In either case, she’d been wise not to stay to find out.
Jocelyn wouldn’t be surprised if she was hiding somewhere in Santa Fe, or perhaps back in that town they had avoided. She didn’t think the woman would leave the area until she had learned what had befallen her lover. She didn’t particularly care what became of Maura, as long as she never had to meet up with her again.
They had ridden straight for Santa Fe at Colt’s suggestion, with only short stops long enough to rest the horses. It had not been pleasant sleeping in the coaches, but they had cut the time in half to reach the old town, leaving the Englishman likely still looking for her and Angel in the mountains. The rush hadn’t really been necessary. He wouldn’t attack with his small number. But it gave them the opportunity to lose him again. They could leave the trail now, take the railroad, or even let him pass them by.
But no decisions had been made yet. Jocelyn was hoping to discuss the matter with Colt, but the latest run-in with Longnose hadn’t changed his habits. She hadn’t seen him since it happened.
“You know, I suppose I must admit our guide did acquit himself rather well during that unpleasantness.”
Jocelyn’s eyes popped open. Good Lord, had Vanessa been milling that over all this time? If she had, then she had probably come to some sort of conclusion that Jocelyn was certain not to like.
“I thought so,” Jocelyn agreed hesitantly—at least up until he got angry with her again for no apparent reason, she added to herself.
“I’m rather impressed with the way he went after you,” Vanessa continued, “without wasting valuable time in coming for help, without knowing what he would be facing when he found you.”
“He knew that Angel would be there.”
“Actually, he didn’t, if you’ll recall. When he went back to Benson that night we camped so near it, and encountered his friend there, he only requested he make himself available to the Englishman if the opportunity arose. He had no way of knowing if Angel had succeeded in joining the brigands, or how many other men Longnose might have acquired between then and now.”
Vanessa—defending Colt? Jocelyn really didn’t want to know what this was leading up to. And yet for some reason she was pleased to hear Colt being praised, especially by her friend.
“Yes, well, he has never struck me as a man who might worry over odds.” And then a twinkle appeared in Jocelyn’s eyes. “Do you suppose it might have something to do with his heritage? After all, a good many of those stories we heard about Indians were of small numbers attacking large groups of settlers.” Jocelyn had to force back the grin pulling at her lips on seeing Vanessa’s quick frown over her observation.
“I believe it is nothing more than courage,” Vanessa insisted.
Better and better. Colt was going to become marriage material if the countess kept this up. If he had a sixth sense, he ought to be on his way out of the territory by now.
“I wonder what’s keeping Babette with that extra water?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Vanessa admonished.
“I wasn’t. I never doubted Colt’s courage, Vana. His sanity, maybe, but never his courage.”
“Then why don’t you ask Colt to go after Longnose?”
So there it was finally. Jocelyn had known she wouldn’t like it. After their fight that night she had behaved so wretchedly she could never ask Colt for another thing, certainly not to risk his life for her more than he already had.
“So it’s ‘Colt’ now that you’ve found some use for him?”
Vanessa had the grace to look embarrassed. “I never said he wasn’t useful, my dear, only that your particular use for him was ended.”
“I don’t like that word ‘use.’ He hates it.”
“What?”
“He’s been used quite enough, Vana.”
“But this is different.”
“I doubt he’d feel it is. Besides, the day I met him I asked if I could hire him to find Longnose and bring him in. He refused.”
“That was before he took an intimate interest in you,” Vanessa pointed out.
Heat stole into Jocelyn’s cheeks, chasing away the chill from the cooling water. “I would never use our intimacy as leverage against him!”
“I wasn’t suggesting—”
“Weren’t you?”
They were both silent a moment, Jocelyn furiously so, Vanessa contrite.
“I’m sorry,” Vanessa finally said. “It’s just that I worry a great deal about you. Longnose has never been quite as successful before. The man had bungled his attempts so often, I’m afraid I began to think of him as an incompetent blunderhead, that he didn’t present a really serious threat, just a nuisance. That has been proven false, however, since we came to this savage land, a place which seems to bring out the worse traits in its inhabitants.”
“Or the best.”
“Yes, well…if you don’t want to impose on Colt any further, I can certainly understand that. Some men get the absurd notion that if
you ask something of them, they can then demand anything they want of you in return, and I don’t have to tell you what they most often ask for.”
“Yes, I know.” Jocelyn nodded sagely. “Dinner.”
“No, dear,” Vanessa began, but caught the teasing light in those green eyes and knew she was forgiven. “Dinner indeed…actually, for some men that just might be first choice. Have you noticed how many eating establishments in the West carry the advertisement ‘Home-cooked meals’? That seems to be of particular importance in this country.”
They were both laughing before the countess had finished, and still laughing when Babette burst in without knocking. Vanessa sobered first, remembering the last time the maid had come in like that, and looking like that, her blue eyes wide, her hands aflutter. Not again, she groaned inwardly, but Babette’s first words proved this was indeed a repeat performance on her part.
“Monsieur Thunder, he has been shot!”
Vanessa closed her eyes with a sigh—until she heard the splash. Then she recalled what else had happened the last time and shot out of her chair to barricade the door. And indeed, she got there only a moment before the duchess did.
“You are not—”
“Vana!”
The countess refused to budge. “She said he was shot, not dead. He’s not dead, is he, Babette?”
“Non, madame.”
“There, you see? There is no need to rush out of here in a state of panic, without clothes…or hadn’t you noticed you’re stark naked, dear?”
Jocelyn had already turned about to find her robe. Babette was bringing it forward. Vanessa knew it was pointless to suggest she clothe herself a bit more appropriately. Jocelyn barely had the robe drawn together before she was out the door.
Vanessa sighed once more and gave the maid an exasperated look. “Babette, I really must speak to you about this penchant you have developed for melodramatics.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Jocelyn hadn’t known which room was Colt’s, but with a half dozen of her men standing in and about the open doorway, it wasn’t hard to find. Pushing through the crowd, she found even more inside, Angel, Billy, and Alonzo. Colt was sitting in a chair with his shirt off, blood dripping down his arm from beneath a wet padding of cloth.
Her heart lurched at the sight of the blood, but only for a moment, then quieted down from the frantic pounding it had been doing since she left her room. He was sitting up, he had been talking, he looked just fine, discounting the blood. It wasn’t a mortal wound.
Colt became aware that every man in the room was staring at her at about the same time she did. But for a moment, it was almost as if everyone else had vanished. He saw only her, and her state of dishabille, the white velvet robe molded to damp curves, the glorious red hair piled loosely on her head with long wet tendrils clinging to the velvet about her breasts, beads of water still on her neck and cheeks, the bare feet.
He almost got up to reach for her, so powerful and instantaneous was her effect on him. It was like a fist slamming into his gut when he heard someone clear his throat and realized they weren’t alone, that he couldn’t touch her, couldn’t lick that moisture from her neck as he was dying to do, couldn’t even get near her. He could only stare at her and watch her pale, pale skin blossom with color as she too became aware that they weren’t alone, that she had breached all manners of propriety, that she was damned near naked. And he had a sudden, fierce need to kill every man there just for seeing her like that.
Jocelyn recovered first, which was fortunate, since Colt was about to embarrass the hell out of her by tossing her over his shoulder and taking her back to her room, where she belonged. If she had known that, she wouldn’t have been able to bluff her way through the embarrassment she was already experiencing.
But brazenness had its uses, and pretending it was nothing out of the ordinary for her men to see her in such a state, when they never had before, was all she could do. Allowances would have to be made for the reason she was there. Of course, it would have helped if Colt had looked just a little more injured than he did.
“Has a doctor been summoned yet?” Since she didn’t address the question to anyone in particular, she didn’t note who replied in the negative. “Then would you be so good as to fetch one, Rob—”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Colt cut in.
“Perhaps not, but it wouldn’t hurt—”
“I don’t want a doctor—ma’am. What I want is to be left alone.”
He said it quietly, but there was so much suppressed anger in his tone, the exodus began immediately. Only Angel was left, sitting on the end of the bed leaning against the bedpost, and Billy, who went back to wringing out the cloth Colt had been cleaning the wound with—and Jocelyn, still standing in the middle of the room.
Colt chose to ignore her, hoping she would take the hint and go away. “Hurry up with that, kid, before I bleed to death.”
It was the worst thing he could have said. Jocelyn had been about to leave. She could find out later how he had gotten shot. She never should have come in the first place to see if he was all right.
“You do need a doctor!” she said now.
“No, dammit, I don’t,” Colt snarled, realizing his own mistake. “That was just a…what the hell are you doing?”
Jocelyn had already crossed over to him and was reaching for the wet cloth covering the wound. “I wish to ascertain for myself—”
He cut her off again. “Leave it alone, Duchess. It’s just a scratch.”
“Hell, Colt, when did you get to be such an ornery cuss?” Angel commented, coming up off the bed. “Why don’t you let her patch it up since she’s willing? It’s a plain fact women got a gentler touch.”
“I seem to recall you yelling your head off when Jessie took that bullet out of your side.”
“Your sister is the exception.” Angel grinned. “Come on, Billy, he’s in good hands.”
“Billy, get back here!” Colt demanded when he started to follow Angel out the door.
“But Angel’s right, Colt. Lady Jocelyn can bandage you up better than I could.”
Colt didn’t need him for bandaging, he needed him for a buffer. Couldn’t either of them see that? Obviously not, since the door closed behind them, leaving him alone with the duchess.
“I thought I gave you a warning a few weeks back,” he said quietly, careful not to look at her standing by his side. “Did you forget it?”
“No, but this is an emergency, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s a damned scratch, Duchess—”
“That still needs attention. And since your friends and family have abandoned you to my tender mercies, why don’t you let me attend to it and stop being an—an ornery cuss?”
His lips almost twitched. Her arrogance could stand being brought down a peg or two, but he had to admire her tenacity. And he found that as long as he kept his eyes fixed across the room, he could even bear her closeness—for a short while. He also found, to his chagrin, that he liked having her fuss over him. Of course, it was what women did when a man was hurt, but still, she didn’t have to do it. She had others she could have sent in her stead. So why hadn’t she? And why had she looked almost frantic when she had pushed her way into his room?
“What were you told to bring you straight from your bath, without even drying off first?”
Jocelyn blushed clear to her roots. “You weren’t supposed to notice that.”
“Shit, who didn’t?” he grumbled, then, “Ouch!” when she slapped a new wet cloth on his arm without warning. He would damned well tell Angel that here was another exception to his gentle theory.
“Who did you say taught you English?”
“My sister,” he replied testily.
“Then her English leaves much to be desired.”
“I picked up a few words on my own.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. But someone should have told you the proper place for them, which is not in the presence of a lady.”<
br />
“You didn’t answer my question—lady.”
“I was told you were shot.”
“Afraid you’d lost your guide?”
“Something like that,” she replied dryly.
He frowned then, and sank more deeply into his chair. “Can’t you hurry that up?”
“For a scratch, it’s rather nasty-looking.” The bullet had ripped a deep groove through the upper layer of flesh and muscle. How he wasn’t complaining about it, she didn’t know. “It could stand a few stitches so it won’t leave such a wide scar after it heals.”
Was she kidding? “A man doesn’t worry about a few scars.”
“So I noticed.”
He glanced at her sharply then, but she was looking at the scars on his chest. She couldn’t see his back the way he was slouched in the chair.
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
“I believe I already know,” she replied, directing her attention to his arm again. “It’s called the Sun Dance, isn’t it?”
He was surprised enough to show it. “Where’d you hear about it?”
“From Miles. He suggested you might bear such marks. I didn’t believe him, of course. It sounded so barbaric, the way he described how it was done…that wooden skewers were thrust through the flesh of a man’s chest, and he was then hung from a tree by ropes attached to the skewers until the flesh ripped open to release him. Is that really how it’s done?”
“Close enough.”
“But why would you do something like that to yourself, to deliberately torture yourself?”
“I’m just a dumb Injun, remember? We don’t know any better.”
Her eyes met his for the first time since she started cleaning his wound. “I thought I’d asked you not to do that,” she admonished softly. “I was asking a question out of genuine curiosity, hoping to understand something of a culture I’m unfamiliar with. But if you don’t care to explain, then please forget that I asked.”
How was it he suddenly felt about three feet tall? “It’s a religious ceremony,” he said after a short silence, staring across the room again. “A ceremony of renewal and prayer for blessing. Not every warrior participates, but those who do wear their scars with pride as an assurance of divine blessing.”
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