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Authors: Catherine Anderson
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seemed to hang there, echoing like the blast of a shotgun. How come, he wondered, at times like this, the God’s honest truth always came out sounding like a lie?
“I had a real bad headache, is all,” he rushed to add, “and I just laid down to try and get shut of it. I reckon I fell asleep.”
Race wasn’t sure what he expected. Some kind of reaction, at least. For her to look at him, maybe? Instead, she just continued to huddle there, arms shielding her head. He had a bad feeling she was so scared that she wasn’t hearing a word he said.
And wasn’t that a fine kettle of fish. On his best day, he wasn’t exactly gifted at putting a shine on words.
“I must’ve got chilled during the night,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “In this country, it can get colder than a well digger’s ass along about dawn. In my sleep, I reckon I went burrowin’ for warmth under the quilts.”
Nothin ’. Just that terrible shaking. Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his hair, encountered tangles, and damned near jerked the strands out by the roots. The sting brought tears to his eyes. He blinked and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
In his mind’s eye, he pictured her waking up this morning and realizing a man was in bed with her. He doubted she had any recollection of what had happened yesterday after the attack on her traveling party, which meant she had no idea who he was or how she’d come to be in his company.
The thought brought his head up. No recollection? If she remembered nothing save for the killings, she probably thought he’d been involved.
Even when he was scrubbed up, clean-shaven, and wearing a fresh shirt, Race knew he had a look about him that made strangers leery. He had always laid it off on his coloring, the dark skin and eyes, the high cheekbones, and the blue-black hair that marked him as a breed. There was also the distinctive way he wore his guns so low on his hips, the stamp of a gunslinger. In this country, folks had a healthy fear of both Indians and gunmen, especially ladies, and this girl had more reason than most.
Of all the dumb things he’d ever done—and he’d pulled some good ones—falling asleep beside her took the prize.
Race pushed to his feet. At his movement, the wagon jounced slightly. The girl gave a startled squeak, pushed off on all fours like a frog in a hopping contest, and grabbed hold of the rough half-wall behind the driver’s seat. When she threw up a leg to crawl out, Race nearly leaped after her. But then he thought better of it. That would only frighten her more.
Even if she got outside, she wouldn’t go far. The surrounding area was crawling with his men, for one thing, and she wore no shoes to protect her feet. The grassland that stretched forever in all directions was chock-full of burrs and stickers. There was also the fact that he had longer legs, which made the outcome of any footraces between them a sure bet in his favor.
As he anticipated, she poked her golden head out the front opening of the canvas, saw all the men milling about, and froze with one knee hitched up over the seat, the hem of her nightgown riding high in back to reveal her calf and ankle. He’d never seen a leg so daintily made. Her ankle bone looked about a third the size of his.
For some reason, seeing that leg drove home to him what a hell of a fix she must think she was in, outnumbered and outflanked everywhere she turned, by men she thought were cold-blooded killers.
“Sweetheart, don’t be afraid. You got no call to be. You’re safe here. Me and my men won’t harm a hair on your head, I swear it. As for the killin’ of your people, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, and neither did they.”
Her breath coming in shaky rasps, she turned to look at him. Her expression caught at his heart. Fear. Hopelessness. Defeat. She slid off the wagon seat and sank to the floor, her back pressed to the wall, her slender body once again drawn into a protective
“I had a real bad headache, is all,” he rushed to add, “and I just laid down to try and get shut of it. I reckon I fell asleep.”
Race wasn’t sure what he expected. Some kind of reaction, at least. For her to look at him, maybe? Instead, she just continued to huddle there, arms shielding her head. He had a bad feeling she was so scared that she wasn’t hearing a word he said.
And wasn’t that a fine kettle of fish. On his best day, he wasn’t exactly gifted at putting a shine on words.
“I must’ve got chilled during the night,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “In this country, it can get colder than a well digger’s ass along about dawn. In my sleep, I reckon I went burrowin’ for warmth under the quilts.”
Nothin ’. Just that terrible shaking. Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his hair, encountered tangles, and damned near jerked the strands out by the roots. The sting brought tears to his eyes. He blinked and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
In his mind’s eye, he pictured her waking up this morning and realizing a man was in bed with her. He doubted she had any recollection of what had happened yesterday after the attack on her traveling party, which meant she had no idea who he was or how she’d come to be in his company.
The thought brought his head up. No recollection? If she remembered nothing save for the killings, she probably thought he’d been involved.
Even when he was scrubbed up, clean-shaven, and wearing a fresh shirt, Race knew he had a look about him that made strangers leery. He had always laid it off on his coloring, the dark skin and eyes, the high cheekbones, and the blue-black hair that marked him as a breed. There was also the distinctive way he wore his guns so low on his hips, the stamp of a gunslinger. In this country, folks had a healthy fear of both Indians and gunmen, especially ladies, and this girl had more reason than most.
Of all the dumb things he’d ever done—and he’d pulled some good ones—falling asleep beside her took the prize.
Race pushed to his feet. At his movement, the wagon jounced slightly. The girl gave a startled squeak, pushed off on all fours like a frog in a hopping contest, and grabbed hold of the rough half-wall behind the driver’s seat. When she threw up a leg to crawl out, Race nearly leaped after her. But then he thought better of it. That would only frighten her more.
Even if she got outside, she wouldn’t go far. The surrounding area was crawling with his men, for one thing, and she wore no shoes to protect her feet. The grassland that stretched forever in all directions was chock-full of burrs and stickers. There was also the fact that he had longer legs, which made the outcome of any footraces between them a sure bet in his favor.
As he anticipated, she poked her golden head out the front opening of the canvas, saw all the men milling about, and froze with one knee hitched up over the seat, the hem of her nightgown riding high in back to reveal her calf and ankle. He’d never seen a leg so daintily made. Her ankle bone looked about a third the size of his.
For some reason, seeing that leg drove home to him what a hell of a fix she must think she was in, outnumbered and outflanked everywhere she turned, by men she thought were cold-blooded killers.
“Sweetheart, don’t be afraid. You got no call to be. You’re safe here. Me and my men won’t harm a hair on your head, I swear it. As for the killin’ of your people, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, and neither did they.”
Her breath coming in shaky rasps, she turned to look at him. Her expression caught at his heart. Fear. Hopelessness. Defeat. She slid off the wagon seat and sank to the floor, her back pressed to the wall, her slender body once again drawn into a protective
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