by Carol Finch
Once Skeet circled the clearing, he came to heel, as if to assure Cale the coast was clear. Only then did Cale approach the downed men. He shoved his boot against the older man’s shoulder, sending him rolling over in the grass.
Hanna sank to her knees when she saw the bloody wound on the man’s chest. Her stomach rolled and she had to force herself not to look away.
“Dead.”
Cale’s voice was so matter-of-fact, so completely devoid of emotion, that she winced. It dawned on her that this was the world where Cale resided, and that emotional detachment was what kept him from losing his composure. Unfortunately, she didn’t have his experience, and the emotional shock of stumbling over a dead body made her light-headed. Those dizzying sensations intensified when Cale walked over to determine the condition of the younger man.
“Hanna, go back to the wagon. Now,” he ordered abruptly.
Her gaze shot to the blond-haired man and she gasped at his disfigured face. She clambered to her feet when her stomach flip-flopped. She was going to be sick.
No, she wasn’t! she commanded herself. Maybe she had lived in an ivory tower most of her life, but she had to learn to cope with bleak reality—the reality of Cale’s existence. This was part of her learning process, thoroughly distasteful though it was.
“Damn it, I said—”
“No.” Hanna met his dark, glittering gaze with staunch determination. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave you standing here alone with the scent of death all around you. I’ll help you bury them.”
“Who said anything about burying them? They haven’t been dead very long, which means we need to get the hell out of here before we find ourselves in the same condition. Whoever did this can’t be far away. I’d just as soon not happen onto them while I have you in tow. I promised to keep you alive.”
“Nevertheless, it’s our Christian duty to see these men properly buried,” she maintained.
“Hell, woman, if trouble doesn’t find you then you seem determined to go out and flag it down.” He gestured toward the unfortunate victims. “These men look to be as bad as the bastards who shot them. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are warrants out for their arrest,” Cale snorted. “If we hang around here we might be digging our own graves.”
“I’m still not leaving them for the buzzards,” Hanna insisted. “It seems to me that it makes little difference who we are or how fortunate we might be in life. It’s what we can do to relieve the plight of others that counts.”
“Look, you can be Florence Nightingale or the first female pope for all I care, but we aren’t taking time to dig graves,” he snapped. “Don’t forget there’s a detective looking for you, and I suspect he isn’t too far behind us. Let him do the digging…. Damn it, Hanna!”
Exasperated, Cale watched Hanna march determinedly to the wagon to retrieve the shovel he’d purchased to toss dirt on campfires. With her shoulders squared, her head held at a stubborn angle, she walked toward the nearby creek to find a place where digging wasn’t so difficult.
She glanced at him, her violet eyes glittering. “Don’t try to change who I am and what I stand for, Cale. My father already tried and failed.”
“And don’t try to change who I am and what I stand for,” he countered. “Ordinarily, it’s my duty to transport renegades such as these to Judge Parker for identification. But not while I have you in tow. You’re costing us valuable time we don’t have.”
Despite his comments, she started digging. Damn it, the woman wouldn’t back down from the devil himself. Which was obvious, because Cale felt like the very devil at the moment and she wasn’t backing down.
Cale scowled in frustration. “Well, fine, if you want to wear yourself out behind a spade, then so be it. You’ll run out of steam before long, and then we can hit the trail again.”
To his amazement, Hanna refused to buckle to exhaustion. She just kept right on digging until Cale’s conscience started beating him black-and-blue.
“Here, gimme that.” He scowled at her as he jerked the shovel from her blistered hands. “And keep your distance from the bodies. Go fill the canteens or something.”
“No, I said I’d—”
Her voice fizzled out when he glared murderously at her. She might as well get acquainted with his bad side, he decided. He gave her that don’t-cross-me-or-you’ll-be-damn-sorry glower that had made many a man back down.
Surprise, surprise. Little Miz Magnolia Blossom just hitched her chin a notch higher and matched him stare for stare. It dawned on him that his care and concern for her had backfired in his face. She trusted him not to hurt her—therefore she wasn’t the least bit afraid of him. Well, damn.
Muttering sourly, Cale relinquished the spade. “Okay, have it your way, but don’t come crying to me when those blisters break open.”
He was halfway across the clearing before he realized he’d given in to her. Hell’s jingling bells, he couldn’t make a habit of that. Plus he knew what it took to stay alive in this area, because this was his stomping ground. Dillydallying over tenderhearted tendencies wasn’t it!
While he again sent Skeet to scout the perimeter of the clearing for trouble, Cale reminded himself that Hanna was going to have to learn to ignore a few of those Good Samaritan virtues if she wanted to endure in the West. She’d never make it farther than the Indian Territory if she planned to say grace over every hapless victim she left resting in peace.
It took two hours of valuable daylight to tend to the chore. Cale knew they’d have to make up for lost time by taking the rugged shortcut over the mountain pass. It would enable him to compensate for the delay, but it was ten miles of the roughest trail this side of the Rockies.
Cale glanced toward the towering peak to the south and resigned himself to a long uphill walk, with the horses and wagon trailing behind them.
“She did what? Has she lost her mind?” Walter Malloy bellowed at the Pinkerton agent seated in front of his desk.
The somber-faced detective nodded, then looked down at the telegram he’d received from his associate. “According to Agent Richard Sykes, your daughter married a half-breed bounty hunter who rides for Judge Isaac Parker. The man is the law’s last defense against the worst criminal elements in Indian Territory.” Agent Dixon looked up. “I’ve heard of Cale Elliot. Not the kind of man I’d envision as your daughter’s husband. But he is definitely a legend in his own time when it comes to law enforcement.”
Walter swore under his breath, then paced the length of his office. He couldn’t believe that willful child of his had gone to such drastic extremes to defy his dictates. When Louis Beauchamp heard about this…Walter stopped pacing abruptly. No, Louis was not going to hear about this. The Pinkertons would track down his infuriatingly rebellious daughter and he’d have the marriage annulled so she could wed Louis and get that ranting Frenchman off his back.
Blast and be damned! How could one woman cause so much trouble? Clarissa would never have behaved so outlandishly. She had been all that was dignified, refined and soft-spoken. For years Walter had tried to mold Hanna to fit the memory of his beloved Clarissa. Tried and failed, again and again.
“I want that gun-toting heathen found and I want my daughter back, no matter what the cost,” Walter snapped. “I’m paying the agency a fortune and I’ve offered astronomical rewards for information. I expect results!”
Agent Dixon surged from the chair. “We’ll have three agents on their trail within the week,” he promised.
“Three?” Walter hooted. “In a week? No, I think not. I want six detectives out there in three days!”
“Sir, we’re only human and our horses do not come equipped with wings,” Dixon pointed out.
“They would if your daughter was traipsing across that godforsaken territory with some half-breed of a bounty hunter as her husband. I expect telegrams delivered daily, reporting your progress.”
“Sir, telegraph offices are few and far between in the territory,” the agent explained. “We will, however
, keep you abreast of our search and recovery mission.”
When Dixon tipped his hat politely and exited, Walter sneered after him. He hated situations he couldn’t control, hated the fact that Hanna was purposely tormenting him. Why couldn’t it have been his son who’d survived instead—
Walter smothered the thought before he even completed it. Angry though he was with Hanna, as much as she’d frustrated him the past few years, she was still the living—if tormenting—memory of Clarissa.
Muttering, Walter slopped brandy into his glass and gulped it down in two swallows. Hanna had married a savage? A hired gunslinger? My God! It was simply too incredible to fathom.
Walter plunked himself down at his desk and stared at the portrait of his wife and son that hung above the mantel. They were together in heaven, he mused. He was stuck here in hell, trying to track down his belligerent daughter, who had proved beyond question that she would do anything—even wed an undesirable—to rebel against his wishes.
He swiped his hand over his balding head and swore colorfully. If he weren’t every bit as stubborn as Hanna, he would wash his hands of her and call off the search. But she was like him, he realized grimly. Pure, fierce determination flowed through her veins. This was a battle of wills, and he was not going to lose. He would have her back under his control and she could take her frustration out on her stuffy fiancé.
The thought of turning Hanna loose on Louis Beauchamp brought a smile to Walter’s lips. If nothing else, Louis deserved to be married to Hanna. Let him try to control that feisty female and see how far he got.
Chapter Seven
Hanna voiced no complaints when Cale announced they would have to walk over the steep mountain pass and carry as many supplies as possible to ensure the team of horses didn’t give out. Gasping for breath, she paused to readjust the load slung over her shoulder. Her blistered fingers burned as she clamped them around the gunnysack of supplies she’d bought to help her explore her talents.
Her legs wobbled slightly, but she told herself she was building the needed stamina to meet the rigorous challenges of her new life. Plus she’d seen to it that the unfortunate victims had a decent burial. Although Cale was aggravated with her for delaying their journey, she simply could not, in good conscience, turn her back on her fellow man, even if of the criminal element.
Despite screaming muscles, Hanna trudged ever upward, assuring herself that descending from the pass would be easier. In the meantime she envied Cale’s strength and endurance, for he made the feat of turning himself into a beast of burden look easy. She would have pointed out that he had a few tenderhearted tendencies himself for taking the horses into consideration and lightening their load, but she didn’t think he wanted to hear it. Wisely, Hanna kept the thought to herself.
“We’ll stop for a rest here before we descend the trail,” Cale announced as he topped the mountain.
A rest. Praise the Lord! Hanna mused as she huffed and puffed up the towering ridge. She swung her gaze across the panoramic landscape of tree-covered mountains, admiring the natural beauty of her surroundings. This was indeed a rugged, untamed land. It tested one’s endurance, but was gloriously spectacular.
Her attention shifted to the brawny man beside her and she studied his masculine profile while he panned the area, ever watchful and attuned to the prospect of trouble. Life hadn’t been particularly kind to Cale, but he had made the best of it, taking it in stride and finding his niche. She intended to do the same—with Cale as her example and inspiration.
Hanna tried to conjure up one man of her acquaintance who could compare to Cale’s rugged good looks, his amazing skills and his self-reliance. There simply wasn’t one. Cale was in a league of his own—tough, hardened and relentless.
He also had a broad and magnificently muscular chest. Now that she’d seen it, she found herself wanting to brush her hand over all that bronzed skin and feel the leashed power and strength beneath her fingertips.
The betraying thought, which came out of nowhere, made her blush. Ever since she’d laid eyes on Cale’s half-nude body the most incredible thoughts and wicked speculations had been darting around in her mind, distracting her. She definitely needed to keep her focus on the arduous task of staying alive in this unforgiving wilderness.
“What the hell’s in all those packages you’re carrying?” Cale asked as he glanced at the sack on her back.
“My future talents,” she declared as she stood beside him on top of the world.
He frowned, bemused. “Come again?”
“Artist supplies, writing tablets, thread, yarn and fabric,” she replied. “Once I have the opportunity to discover my hidden talent I plan to master it.”
“Damn, Magnolia, whatcha gonna do if it turns out you can’t paint, knit, write or sew?”
The question took the wind out of her sails, but not for long. She tilted her chin up and said, “Then I’ll find something else that I’m good at and I will excel at that.”
Cale dropped the pack from his shoulders, gave her a pointed stare and said, “Maybe you could be a preacher. You certainly said enough words over those two outlaws to talk them clear to heaven. When my time comes you can leave off with ‘It’s been nice knowin’ ya.”’
“Rest assured,” she called after him as he disappeared into the bushes, “that I’ll talk myself purple over you, but you won’t be around to tell me I’ve already said plenty.”
Which was exactly what he’d said that afternoon before he’d swung into the wagon and gestured impatiently for her to climb aboard.
Wearily, Hanna plunked down on the ground to grab the canteen to quench her thirst and give her weary legs a rest. She sighed and closed her eyes. Ah, what she wouldn’t give for a fifteen-minute nap.
Cale emerged from the underbrush and scowled when he saw Hanna sprawled in the grass, her arms outflung, her blistered palms lending testimony to the fact that she was too dainty and delicate to endure the hardships of the wilds. He should not have draggged her through this exhausting ordeal. She’d never make it on her own, and he would be saying prayers over her.
The unpleasant prospect made him grimace. Well, he wasn’t going to think about that. He’d just teach Hanna everything he could in the short time they had together. Then he’d hope like hell that she’d found a civilized place to set up camp in the West to paint and write and stitch—or whatever hidden talent she discovered in her quest to find herself and feed her soul.
Cale hunkered down beside Hanna and stared at her for a long moment. Damn but she was extraordinarily beautiful, even in those ill-fitting buckskins. Even with an unsightly bruise, a few scratches, smudges and blisters.
She had taken his breath away when he’d seen her in that form-fitting wedding gown, her hair glowing around her enchanting face like moonbeams. Her sense of wonder and enjoyment touched him because, through her eyes, he was seeing this ruggedly spectacular terrain as if for the first time. But till his dying day, he swore, the image of Hanna standing toe to toe with him in that clearing, determined to see to those two renegades’ last rites, would stick in his mind. Despite the traumatic and unpleasant incident, Hanna had done what she believed was right. He admired her for it—in a frustrated sort of way.
Hanna was velvet over a core of steel. She had grit and style and character…and he wanted to lean down to kiss her so badly he ached. Those lush lips practically begged for his kiss. It probably would have been better if he hadn’t discovered how sweet she tasted, how wildly she responded, how good she felt in his arms. But he’d hauled off and kissed her at the ceremony, and now he wanted a steady diet of her ripe, dewy mouth.
Come to think of it, why shouldn’t he kiss her again if he felt like it? True, he’d agreed to forgo the wedding night, but he hadn’t agreed to not kiss her. And so he leaned down to brush his mouth over hers in the slightest whisper of a kiss—and heard a snarl so close to his ear that he reflexively jerked away.
To his astonished disbelief Skeet bared his tee
th—at him! With his ears laid back and his hair bristling down his spine, the dog stood guard beside Hanna’s outflung hand, warning Cale to back off. Cale was totally dumbfounded by Skeet’s protective instincts toward Hanna. This was the thanks he got for saving the mutt from certain death a couple of times? For keeping him fed?
Damn dog had turned traitor. Which only went to prove that if you ever depended on anyone but yourself, you were doomed to disappointment.
When Hanna’s thick lashes swept up, glancing curiously at Skeet, then at him, Cale grabbed her wrist and hoisted her to her feet. “Time to move,” he declared. “I want to be camped by the river by sunset.”
Cale muttered under his breath when she frowned at his clipped tone. She didn’t have a clue that wanting her—constantly—was starting to eat away at him. She was oblivious to the fact that his turncoat dog had been suckered in by the sound of her soft voice and her demonstrations of affection. Well, when the going got tough—and it would, it always did—they’d see who Skeet came running to.
Cale scooped up the sack of supplies, grabbed the horses’ reins and hiked downhill, leaving Hanna to follow behind him.
“Did I do something else to annoy you?” she asked as she fell into step. “If this is about that catnap, I didn’t intend to fall asleep.”
“No, that’s not the problem,” he mumbled, without glancing in her direction.
It wasn’t about the nap. Ah, if only it were that simple. The problem was that she lived, she breathed and she made him want her—badly. He couldn’t afford this kind of tormenting distraction. Never in his miserable life had he had so much trouble paying attention to his surroundings.
Remaining on constant alert had been second nature until he traipsed across this territory with Hanna as his companion. He couldn’t keep his mind off of her, and the never-ending battle with forbidden longing was making him cranky. He wasn’t accustomed to dealing with his emotions. Until now. Until Hanna. Now he had to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes off her and scout for trouble.