realizing with nosmall amount of alarm that it wasn’t exhaustion alone that made her arms and legs difficult to move. Something actually was holding her down—something heavy and warm.
Just below her hip, a weight rested over her legs. Her searching fingertips traced its shape, which felt very like a muscular thigh sheathed in worn denim. Following the tapered length, she curled her fingers over a bony knee. A very large bony knee, so square and sturdily made it could only belong to a man.
Her heart skittered. That couldn’t be. She pressed more firmly with her fingers to better explore the shape. If not a knee, what on earth was it? She reached to see what lay over her waist. Her fingertips met with a finer weave of cloth, lying in bunched folds at the bend of someone’s elbow. A shirt sleeve? Venturing farther down, she traced the shape of a corded forearm. A hysterical urge to giggle came over her. This wasn’t happening. She was still asleep and having a strange dream, after all. Lord save her, there couldn’t actually be a man’s arm and leg in her bed. Unless, of course, there was a man attached to them.
Her heart leaped when she came to a broad, thick wrist and the back of a leathery hand nearly as big as a supper plate. Her father had coarse, curly hair on his arms, while this man’s was short, straight, and lay close to his skin like a silken veil.
She circled the realization cautiously, for if this wasn’t Papa’s arm, it meant that some other man was lying on the pallet with her. A man with long, sturdy fingers that were loosely cupping her breast.
Her breast? With a jolt, Rebecca came fully awake, her breath trapped in her chest, her body frozen, horror mushrooming within her. Oh, dear God !
Memories flashed through her mind in a vivid rush. She had gone out to gather buffalo chips for the cooking fires, heard screams, and run back to the wagons. As she drew close, she’d seen strange men in the encampment. Sweat beaded on her face as she recalled the horrible things those men had been doing to the people she loved.
Oh, sweet Father in heaven . Those men had come back, and somehow she’d been taken captive.
She let loose with an ear-splitting shriek.
“ Jesus H.—Washington—Adams—Jefferson—Christ !”
Race shot up from the pallet as if a hot brand had been laid to his backside, his sleeping partner scrambling in the opposite direction. Landing on his knees at the edge of the quilt, he stared incredulously at her cotton-draped bottom as she crawled frantically on all fours toward the front of the wagon. The headache that had plagued him so mercilessly last night recommenced, exploding behind his eyes like gunpowder touched off by a lighted lucifer. The girl ? How in tarnation had he ended up in bed with her?
His last clear recollection was of stretching out beside her to shut his eyes for a minute. Damn it ! He had done exactly what he’d cautioned himself not to do—he’d fallen asleep.
Her flight aborted by the end of the wagon bed, she huddled on her knees in the left front corner, her well-rounded fanny uppermost, her pointy elbows resting on the plank floor in front of her, her forearms folded protectively over her head. She was scared half to death, and who could blame her? In his sleep, he’d been hugged up to her like a pair of rain-soaked buckskins.
The inside of the wagon had grown so quiet that the air seemed to crackle. He needed to explain everything to her—the faster, the better. Only where should he start?
“This ain’t how it looks, darlin’.” His voice still gruff with sleep, he sounded like a bullfrog croaking. He worked his mouth for spit he didn’t seem to have. “I—uh—” His brain went as blank as unlined paper. What could he say to her? That he was real sorry for cozying up? “I—uh— damn ! I know how this looks. Real bad, that’s how! But I never meant to get in bed with you, I swear. Not under the covers, leastwise.”
The words
Just below her hip, a weight rested over her legs. Her searching fingertips traced its shape, which felt very like a muscular thigh sheathed in worn denim. Following the tapered length, she curled her fingers over a bony knee. A very large bony knee, so square and sturdily made it could only belong to a man.
Her heart skittered. That couldn’t be. She pressed more firmly with her fingers to better explore the shape. If not a knee, what on earth was it? She reached to see what lay over her waist. Her fingertips met with a finer weave of cloth, lying in bunched folds at the bend of someone’s elbow. A shirt sleeve? Venturing farther down, she traced the shape of a corded forearm. A hysterical urge to giggle came over her. This wasn’t happening. She was still asleep and having a strange dream, after all. Lord save her, there couldn’t actually be a man’s arm and leg in her bed. Unless, of course, there was a man attached to them.
Her heart leaped when she came to a broad, thick wrist and the back of a leathery hand nearly as big as a supper plate. Her father had coarse, curly hair on his arms, while this man’s was short, straight, and lay close to his skin like a silken veil.
She circled the realization cautiously, for if this wasn’t Papa’s arm, it meant that some other man was lying on the pallet with her. A man with long, sturdy fingers that were loosely cupping her breast.
Her breast? With a jolt, Rebecca came fully awake, her breath trapped in her chest, her body frozen, horror mushrooming within her. Oh, dear God !
Memories flashed through her mind in a vivid rush. She had gone out to gather buffalo chips for the cooking fires, heard screams, and run back to the wagons. As she drew close, she’d seen strange men in the encampment. Sweat beaded on her face as she recalled the horrible things those men had been doing to the people she loved.
Oh, sweet Father in heaven . Those men had come back, and somehow she’d been taken captive.
She let loose with an ear-splitting shriek.
“ Jesus H.—Washington—Adams—Jefferson—Christ !”
Race shot up from the pallet as if a hot brand had been laid to his backside, his sleeping partner scrambling in the opposite direction. Landing on his knees at the edge of the quilt, he stared incredulously at her cotton-draped bottom as she crawled frantically on all fours toward the front of the wagon. The headache that had plagued him so mercilessly last night recommenced, exploding behind his eyes like gunpowder touched off by a lighted lucifer. The girl ? How in tarnation had he ended up in bed with her?
His last clear recollection was of stretching out beside her to shut his eyes for a minute. Damn it ! He had done exactly what he’d cautioned himself not to do—he’d fallen asleep.
Her flight aborted by the end of the wagon bed, she huddled on her knees in the left front corner, her well-rounded fanny uppermost, her pointy elbows resting on the plank floor in front of her, her forearms folded protectively over her head. She was scared half to death, and who could blame her? In his sleep, he’d been hugged up to her like a pair of rain-soaked buckskins.
The inside of the wagon had grown so quiet that the air seemed to crackle. He needed to explain everything to her—the faster, the better. Only where should he start?
“This ain’t how it looks, darlin’.” His voice still gruff with sleep, he sounded like a bullfrog croaking. He worked his mouth for spit he didn’t seem to have. “I—uh—” His brain went as blank as unlined paper. What could he say to her? That he was real sorry for cozying up? “I—uh— damn ! I know how this looks. Real bad, that’s how! But I never meant to get in bed with you, I swear. Not under the covers, leastwise.”
The words
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