to put her at ease about his intentions. But he’d done something to her emotions with that cold, angry kiss. It hadn’t been anything like the kiss he’d wanted to give her, either. Nothing like it.
He cooked his steak and ate it, feeling vaguely disturbed thathe couldn’t make her share it. He put out the fire, set his surveillance equipment, and went into the tent.
She was already in her sleeping bag, zipped up tight in her clothes, her eyes closed. But she wasn’t asleep. He could hear her ragged breathing and there were bright streaks on her cheeks in the faint light of the flashlight he used to get to his own sleeping bag.
He put out the light angrily and took off his boots, climbing in fully clothed. He lay back on the ground, his eyes on the top of the tent, his mind full of thoughts, mostly unpleasant.
Jenny was crying. He could hear her. But to go to her, to offer comfort, would be the biggest mistake of all. He might offer more than comfort. Not wanting her was a lie. He did. He always had. But she’d want something more than desire, he thought. And desire was all he had to give.
She wiped at her tears, trying not to sniff audibly. She never cried, but she’d set new records tonight. Why did he have the power to hurt her so badly? She pushed the damp hair out of her eyes and stared at the wall of the tent, thinking back to camping trips with her parents and her cousin Danetta when they were girls. How uncomplicated and sweet life had been then. No career, no worries, just long, lazy summer days and hope.
A coyote howled and she stiffened under the sleeping bag. Was it a coyote, or a wolf?
“It’s a coyote,” he said, giving it the Spanish pronunciation. “We call them songdogs. They loom large in our legends, in our history. We don’t consider them as lowly as whites do.”
“If you dislike white people so much, why do you work with us?” she asked angrily, her voice hoarse from the tears.
“It’s a white world.”
“Don’t blame me. None of my ancestors ever served in the U.S. Cavalry out west. They were much too busy shooting Union soldiers.”
“Was Missouri a southern state?”
“I’m not from Missouri originally. My parents moved there when I was seven. I was born in Alabama,” she continued. “And that is a southern state.”
“You don’t have an accent.”
“Neither do you.”
He felt his lips tug into a smile. “Should I?”
“I wouldn’t touch that with a pole, Mr. Hunter,” she replied. “I’ve had enough of that big chip on your shoulder. I’m not aiming any more punches at it.”
“Poles and chips and punches, at this hour of the night,” he murmured gently.
“You don’t have to talk to me, you know,” she said wearily. “We can manage this assignment in sign language.”
“Do you know any?” he asked in a dry tone as he crossed his arms over his head, stretching.
“A few phrases,” she admitted, reluctant to confess it. “Eugene sent me up to Montana once and I had to parley with two Dakota Sioux. They spoke no English and I spoke no Sioux, so I learned to talk with my hands. It was very educational.”
She was full of surprises. His head turned and he stared at her through the half darkness. “I could teach you to speak Apache.”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t want you to teach me anything, Mr. Hunter,” she said huskily.
“Too bad,” he replied, trying not to take offense. After all, he’d given her a hard time. “You could use a little tutoring. For an experienced women, you don’t know much about kissing.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She sat up on the sleeping bag. “This from a man who already admitted that Apaches don’t do it…!”
“That was back in the nineteenth century,” he mused. He propped himself on one elbow and stared at her, his blood beginning to burn at the sight of her, so beautiful with her long hair around her shoulders. “How can you be twenty-seven and not know something so
He cooked his steak and ate it, feeling vaguely disturbed thathe couldn’t make her share it. He put out the fire, set his surveillance equipment, and went into the tent.
She was already in her sleeping bag, zipped up tight in her clothes, her eyes closed. But she wasn’t asleep. He could hear her ragged breathing and there were bright streaks on her cheeks in the faint light of the flashlight he used to get to his own sleeping bag.
He put out the light angrily and took off his boots, climbing in fully clothed. He lay back on the ground, his eyes on the top of the tent, his mind full of thoughts, mostly unpleasant.
Jenny was crying. He could hear her. But to go to her, to offer comfort, would be the biggest mistake of all. He might offer more than comfort. Not wanting her was a lie. He did. He always had. But she’d want something more than desire, he thought. And desire was all he had to give.
She wiped at her tears, trying not to sniff audibly. She never cried, but she’d set new records tonight. Why did he have the power to hurt her so badly? She pushed the damp hair out of her eyes and stared at the wall of the tent, thinking back to camping trips with her parents and her cousin Danetta when they were girls. How uncomplicated and sweet life had been then. No career, no worries, just long, lazy summer days and hope.
A coyote howled and she stiffened under the sleeping bag. Was it a coyote, or a wolf?
“It’s a coyote,” he said, giving it the Spanish pronunciation. “We call them songdogs. They loom large in our legends, in our history. We don’t consider them as lowly as whites do.”
“If you dislike white people so much, why do you work with us?” she asked angrily, her voice hoarse from the tears.
“It’s a white world.”
“Don’t blame me. None of my ancestors ever served in the U.S. Cavalry out west. They were much too busy shooting Union soldiers.”
“Was Missouri a southern state?”
“I’m not from Missouri originally. My parents moved there when I was seven. I was born in Alabama,” she continued. “And that is a southern state.”
“You don’t have an accent.”
“Neither do you.”
He felt his lips tug into a smile. “Should I?”
“I wouldn’t touch that with a pole, Mr. Hunter,” she replied. “I’ve had enough of that big chip on your shoulder. I’m not aiming any more punches at it.”
“Poles and chips and punches, at this hour of the night,” he murmured gently.
“You don’t have to talk to me, you know,” she said wearily. “We can manage this assignment in sign language.”
“Do you know any?” he asked in a dry tone as he crossed his arms over his head, stretching.
“A few phrases,” she admitted, reluctant to confess it. “Eugene sent me up to Montana once and I had to parley with two Dakota Sioux. They spoke no English and I spoke no Sioux, so I learned to talk with my hands. It was very educational.”
She was full of surprises. His head turned and he stared at her through the half darkness. “I could teach you to speak Apache.”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t want you to teach me anything, Mr. Hunter,” she said huskily.
“Too bad,” he replied, trying not to take offense. After all, he’d given her a hard time. “You could use a little tutoring. For an experienced women, you don’t know much about kissing.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She sat up on the sleeping bag. “This from a man who already admitted that Apaches don’t do it…!”
“That was back in the nineteenth century,” he mused. He propped himself on one elbow and stared at her, his blood beginning to burn at the sight of her, so beautiful with her long hair around her shoulders. “How can you be twenty-seven and not know something so
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