Cherish

  Granted, he no longer hired out his gun. But in reality, he was only a half-rung up the ladder from that—a struggling cattle rancher who’d won a worn-out parcel of land from a hapless drunk in a poker game. This girl wouldn’t give him a second look, and if he was entertaining notions to the contrary, he needed to thump his fool head against a rock.

  In his younger years, he’d hoped he might marry himself a sweet-natured woman someday—one of those highfalutin types with lace on her drawers, who’d set a fancy supper table, trim all the pillowcases with eyelet, and teach his children how to talk educated and have good manners. In short, he’d wanted his young’uns to be everything he wasn’t and had never had a chance to be.

  Oh, yeah, he’d hoped. But hoping was just a fancy handle for wishing. Any fool knew that. And Race had learned a long time ago that wishes rarely came true. That one sure hadn’t, leastwise. He’d never met a proper lady yet who’d let him get close enough to say howdy-do, let alone ask her to marry him. And until two years ago, he wouldn’t have been able to offer her much, even if he had.

  A cramp in his bent knee jerked Race from his musings, and he realized he’d been crouched by the girl’s pallet for God only knew how long, letting his mind wander off every which way. The truth of it was, he dreaded shucking those underclothes off her, and any excuse to put it off was good enough. Meanwhile, she wore nothing but a threadbare gray chemise and ankle-length drawers to shield her from the cool night air.

  The lantern, suspended from one of the hickory bows that supported the wagon canvas, emitted a flickering brightness that played over her slender form like liquid gold, highlighting the thrust of her small breasts under the chemise and defining the curve of her waist and hips in shadow. Damn, but she was nice to look at. And wasn’t that just the problem? A homely girl wouldn’t have had his tail tied in such a knot.

  Through the insubstantial walls of canvas, Race could hear the rise and fall of male voices and an occasional burst of laughter. The crackling of the fire drifted to him through the night, as did the smell of boiling coffee. Out on the trail like this, the men worked the hours of darkness in short shifts so everyone could get some sleep. From dusk to dawn, weary cowboys gathered at the campfire, their aching hands wound around tin cups of steaming coffee. Right then, Race would have given his last dollar to be out there with them.

  Hauling in a deep, bracing breath and exhaling through loosely pursed lips, he settled his gaze on the chemise again. Aside from being an ugly gray, far more modest in cut, and snugger in fit than what he was accustomed to, the coarse muslin undergarment was pretty much like any other he’d come across, stretching to mid-thigh and laced up the front. He rubbed his palms on his pant legs, then leaned over her and began tugging on the cording.

  As the muslin parted to expose the beginning swells of her cleavage, his heart started to pound against his ribs like a water-powered triphammer on an anvil. Sweat popped out on his brow. Son of a bitch. What in the world was the matter with him? Nothing in Race’s past gave him a basis of comparison to help him answer that question. He only knew he felt as if he were invading sacred territory. Kind of like when he accidentally wandered into an Indian burial ground, only then he never had to worry about any of the dead people coming suddenly awake.

  What was he going to say if she suddenly opened her eyes? Howdy? How did he get himself into fixes like this?

  The chemise parted, and her breasts spilled out, plumper and more well-rounded than he expected. She wore the chemise way too tight, undoubtedly to flatten her chest and conceal the curves God had given her. Damned fool girl. As if she could hide the fact that she was female? He wasn’t used to a bosom jumping out at him. It was enough to make a man’s heart stop.

  He averted his gaze and groped for a quilt, dragging it up to cover her chest before he proceeded with undressing her.

  So far, so good. He’d just pretend she was a man, keep all of her covered that he possibly could, and think on what he had to do next. He’d get through this. And later, after she woke up, he’d be able to look her in the eye without a trace of guilt, knowing he’d barely even noticed anything he shouldn’t have. Well—almost barely, anyhow.

  As he tugged to remove her bloomers, one slender leg slipped out from under the quilt, exposing an expanse of milk-white thigh. Race noticed some scrapes on her skin that needed to be tended as he tucked the cover back around her.

  No problem. He’d just bare one part of her at a time to clean her cuts with whiskey, leaving the upper portion of her chest and her nether regions covered. If she had any hurts in those places, they’d just have to heal on their own.

  He grabbed the jug of Mon’gehela on the floor beside him, popped the cork, and was in the process of moistening a square of cloth when it occurred to him that he needed a dose worse than she did. He took a hearty gulp. As the warmth spread through him, lending him courage, he bent to lift the quilt and peek under the edge at her belly, which made his own clench like a tight fist. He spied a cut on her midriff and reached under the cover to dab at it with the whiskey-moistened cloth. Once finished, he took another long pull from the bottle. For purely medicinal purposes, mind. A man needed some fortification in a situation like this.

  Gulp, dab. Gulp, dab. Once he got a rhythm going, he relaxed a little.

  She’d definitely taken a nasty tumble and had a number of abrasions on her torso and legs. After doctoring them, he sat back on his heel and did a peel-and-peek body check to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots. Thus convinced that he’d dabbed them all, he blew like a badly winded buffalo. Taking care of a woman was a hell of a lot different from taking care of a man.

  Almost as if she sensed the liberties he’d just taken with her person, the girl began to toss her head, her fair brows pleating in a frown. Race almost jumped out of his skin, thinking she was about to wake up.

  He grabbed the fresh nightgown he’d laid out and started stuffing her into it. Getting her limp arms down the sleeves was like trying to thread wet leather laces through boot eyelets. When he tried to reach up the sleeve to get hold of her hand, his fist got stuck in the cuff. He shook his wrist and jerked. If she woke up right now, half in and half out of her nightgown, with a strange man’s arm shoved up the front and one hand stuck in her sleeve, she’d fly into raving hysterics, for sure.

  He finally got his hand out of the cuff by pulling with such force that he nearly toppled backward. She continued talking out as he finished wrestling her into the nightgown. Nothing she said made much sense. Nightmares. Race hurried to fasten the buttons that ran from her chin to her waist. Fifty of them, at least. It seemed like that many, anyhow; all of them so little, he had trouble getting hold of them.

  When he finally got her completely dressed and tucked back under the quilts, he was worn to a frazzle. She thrashed her legs, her lips moving as she whispered things he couldn’t make out, her small face twisted with what could only be anguish. Race’s heart caught at her expression. She was obviously reliving the events of the day.

  “Whoa, sweetheart” He lightly stroked her golden hair, fascinated by the flyaway tendrils that caught at his fingertips. The only time his own hair had ever gone that kinky was when he’d bent too close to the cooking fire and singed the ends. “You’re just havin’ a bad dream, that’s all. You’re safe. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you. I swear it.”

  She quietened and turned her cheek against the inside of his wrist. A defeated whimper came from her, shrill and broken.

  The sound cut through Race like a dull-edged knife. He’d walked through that encampment, and he’d seen enough to know that her papa hadn’t done much of anything—hadn’t gone for a rifle or lifted a hand. He’d just stood there and let the unthinkable happen.

  Now, in her mind’s eye, she was seeing it all unfold again, and as before, an able-bodied man was standing aside, doing nothing. Every instinct Race possessed bridled at the thought. He wanted to crash through the barriers between dream and reality—to take her
in his arms and press her face to his shoulder so she wouldn’t see, if nothing else. Anything to take the pain away. But she was trapped in a world he couldn’t reach.

  Race had no idea how long he sat there, stroking her hair and trying to call her back from her troubled dreams. Minutes? Hours? He only knew he sat in one position for so long that pain knifed through his legs and zigzagged up his spine. When she finally quieted and drifted into a deep sleep, he was so weary he could scarcely keep his eyes open, and his head felt as if someone were driving a spike through it. He stretched out beside her on top of the blankets, using the crook of his arm as a pillow. As he let his eyes drift closed, he promised himself he’d only lie there long enough to get rid of his headache. It wouldn’t do for her to wake up and find a strange man in her bed.

  That wouldn’t do at all.

  Chapter 3

  Eyes closed and feeling oddly disembodied, Rebecca came slowly awake. First she became aware of the familiar sounds of early morning that drifted to her from outside the wagon—the muted shuffle of footsteps on loose dirt, the clank of cooking pots and utensils, the sporadic snap and crackle of campfires, the indistinct clucking of chickens, and another noise coming from directly behind her that reminded her of someone snoring. Strange, that. Papa had never been one to snore. Then she heard a dog bark, which struck her as even stranger. No one in their caravan even owned a dog.

  On the tail of that thought, Rebecca began to notice other noises that didn’t fit. In the distance, there was a monotonous droning sound, like the lowing of cattle. And somewhere close to the wagon, a gruff male voice muttered a profane expletive.

  She frowned in bewilderment. Was that tobacco smoke she smelled? And what on earth was making that persistent jingling noise? It reminded her of the sound riding spurs made as the rowels dragged in the dirt or stuttered across the planks of a boardwalk, a distinctive chuhchink—chuhchink—chuhchink.

  Something wasn’t right. None of the brethren used profanities or wore spurs on their boots, and worldly indulgences, such as the use of tobacco, were strictly forbidden. Vaguely alarmed, Rebecca struggled to open her eyes, a feat that proved to be beyond her. Tired. So awfully, horribly tired. Her arms and legs felt as if they were anchored to the bed with iron weights.

  No need to worry, she thought drowsily. Papa was out there, and so were Ma and all the others. Perhaps another caravan had left the main trail and camped near them last night, and this morning, the strangers had walked over to introduce themselves. The Brothers in Christ seldom mingled with outsiders, but when people did make friendly overtures, they felt it their Christian duty to reciprocate.

  Rebecca nuzzled her cheek against the coarse linen pillowcase, luxuriating in the wonderful softness of the down-filled ticking. The lure of sleep seemed irresistible, and she drifted in the hazy mists between dreams and awareness, too exhausted to force herself totally awake. She had no idea how long she lay there, blanketed in dimness. She was simply too weary to care. But then, from just outside the wagon, a loud clanking noise startled her back into renewed awareness.

  “Damn it, Blue!” a male voice barked. “Keep your nosy self outta my cookin’ fire, you no-account, addlepated hound!”

  That definitely was not a voice Rebecca knew. With supreme effort, she managed to crack open her eyes. Through the spikes of her lashes, she stared blearily at what appeared to be the interior wall of their wagon, which meant she must be lying on the floor. How she had come to be there, she had no inkling. With little or no surplus space inside the cram-packed wagon, she and her parents slept on top of the cargo, three to four feet above the floor.

  She ached all over, she realized, as if her whole body had been pummeled with a club. Even the strands of hair that hung free from her braid seemed to hurt. Had she been ill? She batted her lashes, struggling to keep her eyes open and clear away the fogginess inside her head. Yes, she must have been ill, possibly even delirious with a fever. That would explain why she felt so awful and had no recollection of making her pallet on the floor. Little wonder she ached and felt too weak to move.

  It was past sunup. A brisk morning breeze buffeted the wagon canvas, carrying with it the scent of a plains grassland, a not unpleasant mix of sage, saltbush, and dust. Straining under the bucking tarp, the hickory support beams creaked above her.

  As her awareness sharpened, the clucking noise she’d heard earlier resumed, and with a growing sense of alarm, she realized it wasn’t chickens, after all, but men talking softly and cackling with laughter. She tried to make out what they were saying, but the words were so indistinct they were nearly drowned out by the snoring sound, which seemed to be coming from somewhere near her ear. So near, in fact, that the sputtering huffs of breath were stirring a lock of hair at her temple.

  What man, besides her papa, would be sleeping in their wagon? The question wove in and out of her thoughts like a strand of yarn through the warp of a loom. In some distant part of her mind, she sensed that she should feel alarmed, but she was too befuddled and dizzy to grab hold of the feeling.

  Instead she studied the vertical wooden stud only inches from her nose, struggling to impose clarity of thought over the haze of vague and disturbing impressions. Was she having a dream? An especially vivid one?

  She felt as if she were drifting on a cloud. No. She was definitely inside the wagon. Only where had all their trunks gotten off to? Since their departure from Philadelphia, Papa had never once completely unloaded their cargo. The closest he’d come was to rearrange some of the trunks to distribute the weight more evenly. Yet now the wagon was empty.

  The gauzy pink of early morning shone through the canvas, lending a rosy glow to the shadowy interior of the wagon. Through the tatters in the heavy cloth, shafts of sunlight formed pearlescent motes that caressed her face with warmth. She smelled eggs and bacon frying, which made her stomach pang with hunger. Lands, she felt as if she hadn’t eaten in days or had a drink of water either, for that matter. Thick and cottony, her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  She tried to push up on an elbow, realizing with no small 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 doi
ng 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.”