Chapter 22

They were camped in a steep, V-shaped draw, where Clay had collected enough dead mesquite limbs to provide them an arbor cover from the main trail. He’d washed up and was gutting a rabbit while she took the soap and pan to the other side of his little brush arbor for her daily ablution. Left alone with his thoughts, he finished cleaning the animal, then spitted it and hung it over the fire. To make matters simple, he tossed several yeps into the coals.

Time was running out, and he knew it. The war drums were beating, summoning any who would join Quanah, and all that held the Comanche, Kiowa, and Cheyenne alliance back was the lack of enough guns and ammunition. Yet.

He hadn’t mentioned it to Amanda, but there’d been something else about the Cheyennes they followed that disturbed him. He’d thought he saw a couple of Kiowa-Apaches and some Arapahos with them. If that was the case, Quanah was forming an alliance so big that the whole southern plain was going to erupt like a powder keg. Texas, the leased Oklahoma Territory Indian lands, and Kansas were all going to bleed before Mackenzie could stop them. But the army would get even—after hundreds, maybe a thousand whites died, the army would get even.

“Ayeeeeeeh!”

Amanda’s shrill scream broke through his reverie like a war lance. His neck prickled, and drawing his gun, he crashed through the brush. He already had the Colt cocked when he saw her. She was backed up against the dirt wall, her eyes on one of the biggest rattlers he’d ever seen. It was coiled, its tail buzzing, ready to strike.

“Don’t move!” he shouted as he pulled the trigger.

The snake came apart, its head flying, while its body turned like a rope, writhing in a loop, then sinking to lie less than a foot from her. She slumped, and for a moment, he thought the head had struck her.

“Are you all right?” he demanded, kneeling over her.

Her arms came up to clasp his shoulders, and she shook all over as she buried her head in his chest. He dropped the gun and drew her onto his lap. Wrapping one arm around her, he looked her over.

“Did it hit you?”

“No,” came the muffled reply.

“Well, it was a big one,” he said, feeling enormous relief. “I’d say he had at least six or seven buttons on him.”

She shuddered against him. “Just hold me, Clay,” she choked out. “Just hold me.”

“Hey, it’s all right,” he said softly. “It’s dead.” She was warm and soft in his arms, and she smelled of soap. He looked down and, lifting her chin with his free hand, he could see the fright in her eyes. “God, Amanda, what else can happen to you?” he muttered more to himself than to her.

“I’m afraid to find out,” she whispered, swallowing.

Her clothes were where she’d dropped them, and all that was between his hand and her flesh was her chemise. It wasn’t enough. He sucked in his breath, holding it, trying to master the desire that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Amanda … I …” His voice was hoarse, raspy.

It was as though there was nothing in the world but the man who held her. Her own pulse quickened, and her breath caught almost painfully in her chest. She knew if she pushed him away, that would be all there was to it, and yet she couldn’t deny herself any more than she could deny him. Her arms tightened, pulling him closer, as her mouth eagerly sought his.

At the first caress of her breath, the first touch of her lips against his, he was lost. As the heat rose between his body and hers, he forgot everything beyond the woman in his arms, everything beyond the hunger he felt for her.

Her lips parted, giving him access, and his tongue plunged into the hot recesses of her mouth, tasting, taking her breath away. There was no gentleness in his kiss, only an intense, overpowering need, and she responded with eager abandon, forgetting everything but her own desire.

His pulse raced, pounding hot blood through his veins, and the roar of it drowned out all conscience, all resolve. He wanted all of her again, and he wanted her now. But there were too many rocks there to lay her down. He tore his lips away to whisper thickly, “Come on—it’s cooler in the arbor.”

Grasping her hand, he pulled her up with him, embracing her again, pressing his body into hers. His free hand slid eagerly down her back, cupping her hip, holding it against his. She twined her arms around his neck, pulling his head down for another kiss. And everything that had gone before, even that night by the spring, was child’s play compared to the urgency he felt now.

“Come on.”

His hot breath against her ear sent shivers down her spine. He released her to take her hand again, pulling her after him, and they stumbled eagerly beneath the mesquite shade, dropping to their knees into the softness of blanket-covered grass. Kneeling in front of her, he fumbled with his clothes, loosening them. With one last look into dark eyes made almost black by passion, he tipped her backward and followed her down.

Her hands slid beneath his shirt, her fingers digging into the hot, damp skin of his back as he lay over her, tracing Kisses from her lips to her ear to the soft hollow of her throat. She moaned low, arching her body beneath his, thrusting her breasts against his chest. His head moved lower, nuzzling the crevice, then his mouth found a nipple through the soft lawn. It hardened under his tongue. She gasped as he began to suck, then her hands twined in his hair, pressing him to her breast.

His hand slid lower, smoothing the soft cotton, then grasped the chemise, working it upward over her hip, baring her smooth, fevered thighs. He left her breast to return to her mouth, possessing it again. She twisted beneath him as his hand found the softness between her legs, then gave a whimpering moan as his finger stroked the wetness there. Her thighs closed around his hand, and her breath quickened.

He parted her legs with his knee and guided himself inside. This time, there was no resistance, no hesitation. A low, guttural moan began in her throat, then rose to a cry as he began to move within her. As she twisted and rocked beneath him, he rode her, straining in the hot, wet depths. Her fingernails dug into his back, urging him on, while she arched and gasped.

It was as though every sensation was tuned to the feel of his body within hers. She writhed and twisted, trying to reach some distant nirvana, until she felt it. Her animal cries rose as wave after undulating wave of ecstasy flooded through her. He couldn’t wait—he was drowning in her. His hands caught her bucking hips as he thrust deeper, then exploded. Somewhere in the distance, he heard himself cry out, and it was over. Her belly quivered under his as he floated back to earth. It was as though he’d died, and this was the peace afterward. He lay there, catching his breath, loath to leave her.

When he looked down, her eyes were still closed, her forehead damp with her sweat. “You must be the next thing to heaven,” he whispered.

Still feeling the incredible power of physical union, she managed to nod. ‘That was something, wasn’t it?” she murmured.

“The best.” Afraid she was going to be sorry again, he reluctantly separated from her and rolled to sit up, his back to her. “That’s the way I always thought it ought to be, you know.” When she didn’t say anything more, he felt a momentary loss. “Amanda …?”

“What?”

He sucked in his breath, then exhaled completely. “Just don’t expect me to forget it, because I can’t. I haven’t thought of much else since we were in Ketanah’s camp.”

She thought he was trying to apologize, that he regretted what had happened, but she knew it had been as much her fault as his. “I guess I just threw myself at you, didn’t I?” she managed painfully.

“No.” He half turned to look at her. “You’re sorry, aren’t you?”

She knew she ought to be—she was probably going to rot in hell for it, but she didn’t want to lie to him. “No,” she said simply. “No.” Her nose wrinkled. “Something’s burning—Clay, I smell something burning.”

“Oh, hell,” he muttered, stumbling up. “It’s supper.” Stuffing his shirttail back into his pants, he quickly fastened them, then started for his campfire. “You’d better wash up again, and I’ll see what I can do to save the food. If worst comes to worst, there’s always that rattler.”

“For you. Me—I’ve grown downright fond of jerky.”

“Liar.”

His spit had burned through, dumping the rabbit into the fire. Taking his knife and what was left of the spit, he pulled it out and surveyed the damage, deciding that he could salvage most of it. He’d just wash off the ashes and cut off the charred part, that was all.

“You’re in luck—we can still eat it,” he told her.

She sat in the shade of the arbor, watching him, thinking how different he was from any other man she’d known. He was handsome, strong, tough, resourceful, and utterly fearless, and she’d come to believe he could do anything if he put his mind to it. She found herself actually wondering what Big John would have thought of him, if he would have raised hell at the notion of his daughter in Clay McAlester’s arms.

As he knelt over the fire, she stood up and walked slowly back to where she’d left the wash pan, passing the dead rattlesnake. With the brush shelter shielding her, she leaned down and wrung out the rag, then began wiping the sweat and dust from her body. She rinsed it out and lifted her chemise to wash where he’d been.

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the feel of him, and she was weak all over again. She knew she was a fool and a shameless sinner, no better than those cantina harlots he talked about, she berated herself, but the feeling was still there. Only now it was stronger than ever. Now she knew what she wanted.

She found her discarded dress and pulled it over her head, then tossed the water and carried the pan back. When he looked up, she was almost afraid to meet his gaze. But he was smiling—not smugly—-just smiling, and that encouraged her.

“It’s pretty good—I’ve already had a taste of it,” he announced, dumping pieces of rabbit onto the tin plate. Taking the pan, he rinsed it out, then wiped it with a cloth. Pouring more water from a canteen into it, he added some coffee, then set the pan in the fire. “I’m trying not to make it too strong for you,” he explained.

“That’s all right—I don’t want any.”

“You ought to try things—there’s no telling what you might learn to like.” Poking around the outer coals, he speared the Indian potatoes and blew the ashes off them before dropping them onto the plate also.

“More yeps?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Afraid so. You don’t like them either?”

“They’re all right, but I’m beginning to yearn for fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and some real cream gravy—not to mention one of Sally’s cherry pies.”

“Someday I’ll buy you the best dinner in San Antone,” he promised. “There’s a hotel there that has buffalo steaks two inches thick, and outstanding frijoles—” He caught himself almost sheepishly. “Guess that’s not as good as fried chicken, is it?”

“No.”

At least she returned his smile. “You’re a hard woman to please, Amanda—you know that, don’t you?” he teased her.

“Not always.” As the words came out, she reddened visibly. “I mean—”

“Hey, you don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, then she reached for the plate. “Which yep is mine?” she asked.

‘Take your pick.” He squinted up at the sky for a moment. “Well, would you look at that?” he murmured, whistling low.

She looked up nervously, expecting to see Indians. “At what?”

“Clouds.”

There were a few cottony fluffs along the horizon. “That doesn’t look like enough to make it rain,” she observed between bites.

“Maybe—maybe not—but they ought to make it cooler to sleep.” He speared a yep and bit a piece off it. “I figure we’ll have to hit the trail a little earlier tonight, probably about four or five. Otherwise, we’re never going to intercept Sanchez-Torres.”

“How far ahead do you think the Cheyenne are now?”

“Not far—a few miles at most. We ought to be tailing pretty close by morning.”

“How comforting,” she murmured dryly.

“As long as we stay behind them, we’ll be all right. How’s the rabbit?”

“Pretty good actually—maybe a little dry in places, but better than anything else I’ve eaten out here.”

He pulled off a piece and chewed on it. Leaning back, he studied her, thinking she was truly the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. And less than half an hour ago, she’d lain beneath him willingly. The mere thought of it set his pulse pounding, renewing his desire.

She looked up nervously, then pushed her hair back from her face. “I know—I’m quite a fright.”

“No,” he said softly, “fright is about the last word I’d use to describe you. I was thinking you’re beautiful.”

She could feel the telltale blood rush into her cheeks, burning them, and she had to drop her gaze. “I can’t be,” she mumbled. “Not now.”

“No, you are.” He continued to regard her lazily, a faint smile on his face. “I was wondering what you could see in a savage like me.”

“Well, I don’t …” She drew a deep breath, stalling, then exhaled. “I was going to say it was because you saved my life,” she said finally, “but that’s only part of it.” When he didn’t say anything, she groped for words. “I admire you—truly I do. There aren’t ten men in this country who can do what you do, and—”

“Or would want to,” he cut in.

“You’re so very strong, Clay—so very unafraid.”

“Not always.”

“But you are. You go out alone, fighting not only these Comancheros, but even the weather, the lack of water, the isolation … and … and you are so very self-sufficient. You aren’t afraid to do what you want to do.” The warmth in his blue eyes was unnerving her, making it difficult for her to explain what she wasn’t sure she understood herself. “You’ve overcome so much,” she finished lamely.

“No,” he said abruptly. “I’m mean, brutal, and un couth, Amanda. A killer. Untamed, I think you said. And as long as I live, there’s always going to be part of me that doesn’t want to be civilized, that doesn’t want to live like anybody else.”

He was telling her that he wasn’t for her, and it wasn’t as though she didn’t already know that, yet there was something within her that wanted to deny it. Maybe it was that she’d given him her body, that because she had, she had to make herself believe there’d been a reason.

Her chin came up. “All right, then—you are a savage with positively no redeeming qualities at all. There—is that what you want to hear?”

“I want to hear the truth.”

“I’ve tried to tell you—to the best of my ability, I’ve tried to tell you. Do you want people to recoil when they see you, when they hear your name?”

“I don’t care what people think—I’m asking you.”

“What do you want me to tell you? That I—?” She’d nearly said she liked his touch, but she couldn’t quite get it out. “Isn’t it enough that I’ve come to like you?”

“I guess it’ll have to be.” He pushed the nearly empty plate toward her and heaved himself to his feet. “I’ve got to take a walk, so you go ahead and finish up.”

As he left her, she had the uneasy feeling that she’d somehow angered him. He hadn’t even poured himself any of his awful coffee. Telling herself she’d been as honest as she dared, she finished the food, then took the pan of boiling coffee off the fire. Using a canteen, she poured water sparingly and wiped the plate clean. Scooping dirt with her hands, she did as he’d taught her, snuffing out the fire, covering it to cut down on the smoke. She dusted her hands on her skirt.

When she rose, there was no sign of him. She felt a momentary panic, but the horses and mule were still there. Besides, he was no Ramon. Whatever could be said of him, he was a hundred times the man Ramon Sandoval would ever be. Or Patrick Donnelly. Or anyone else she knew, for that matter.

He walked aimlessly above the draw, trying to collect his thoughts before he made a complete fool of himself. He was twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine years old, and he was caught in the throes of his first grand passion like some kid. He hadn’t meant it to happen—he’d never meant it to happen. He’d tried to keep it in his mind that she wasn’t meant for him, that she was too far above him, that she had too much money, too much breeding to look twice at him. And just because she was alone, at his mercy, he had no right to expect anything of her.

But she’d given herself to him. Not once, but twice. The first time it had been the drums and the mescal. The second she’d been afraid. And even if it happened again, he had no illusions that he could keep her, that once she got back among her own kind she would still want him around. He wasn’t the sort of man who could fit in, who could be at ease among her kind of people. It had always been them and him. Until now.

She was a woman who’d make any man proud. She could have a rich man, a powerful man, any man she chose. The likelihood that she’d pick him over any of them was ludicrous, impossible. And if he didn’t want to get burned badly, he was going to have to stay away from the fire. He was going to have to get her back to the Ybarra safe and sound, then go on living his life without her. He’d made it alone more than half of his twenty-eight years, and one woman oughtn’t to be able to change that.

Well, he felt a little better. Having decided she wasn’t for him, he felt a bittersweet relief. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it, and nothing, not even Amanda Ross, was going to stop him.

She was sitting cross-legged in front of the arbor, writing on his pad of paper. As he approached from the side, he was taken again by her fine profile, by the soft halo of auburn hair glinting in the sun. She was so pretty that he almost ached at the sight of her. No, he’d been lying to himself all along, and now he knew it. Above all others, she was the one he wanted.

He backed away, then went up the draw to where he’d tethered the horses and mule. He considered all three for a long moment, then loosened Sarah, the best little Indian pony of his memory, and led her to where Amanda sat. As she looked up curiously, he dropped the rope, then walked off, giving her the space to decide.

At first, she regarded the paint mare uncertainly, then she looked to where Clay stood, his back to her. And suddenly she thought she understood. There was an awful moment of decision, one where it seemed as though her entire life hung in the balance. He wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t encouraging her at all. He was just standing there, his body as still as if he’d been turned to stone.

She struggled to stand on legs that seemed almost numb, then reached to take the rope. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was supposed to do with it, but in that moment, she knew what she wanted. Turning the mare around, she led it behind the arbor.

Her heart pounding in her chest, her palms damp against the skirt of her dress, she called out, “I don’t have any cooking pots or buffalo robes—and I won’t skin anything!”

He turned around at that and walked slowly, deliberately back to her. It seemed as though he filled the whole draw, obscuring everything but him. It wasn’t until he enveloped her in his arms that she dared to breathe. His blue eyes blurred before hers, and just before his lips touched hers, he murmured softly, “I was beginning to think you were going to turn me down.”

She clung giddily to him, giving up her mouth to his, caught in the heady renewal of his passion. For now, there was nothing in the world beyond what he would do to her. Yet even as she felt the eager response of her body to his, she couldn’t help wishing a priest had said the proper words.