Susan Johnson

  “It isn’t just us, though,” Blaze explained, gripping the back of a simple handmade chair. “It never has been. There’s been all the obligations of his duties as chief to his clan, and then, the mining company. And Yancy, who’s really the most dangerous. The combination has made everything impossible.”

  “Well, you can forget about those people and problems at my place. At least for one night,” Lydia said with a wink.

  Blaze smiled at her allusion and softly repeated, “At least for one night. That would be nice.”

  “Hard for a man and wife to hold a grudge when they’re sleeping in the same bed.”

  “But he won’t.”

  “He will tonight,” Lydia forcefully declared, scooped up the beans in her large, capable hands, and tossed them into a pot. “Now, the biscuits. Do you want to do them? Most men get used to their wives’ biscuits.”

  Blaze blushed. “I can’t cook.”

  “Land sakes, girl,” Lydia exclaimed, “how do you ever expect to keep him if you can’t cook? Men can say all they want about lust and love, but good food brings them to their knees faster than a silk nightie any day. Pay attention now, child, and I’ll show you how to make the best biscuits west of the Mississippi.”

  Blaze watched and listened and talked of her life some and then tried her hand at rolling and cutting until eventually Lydia was satisfied. “Good, you’ll do just fine in no time. Just need a little practice. Now go wash up and get yourself looking pretty. Throw away that black dress. My Abby’s about your size. She’s small … takes after her pa. There’s a dress or two of hers left in the cupboard in your room. Nothin’ fancy, mind, but prettier than black. And your pa won’t mind. He’d want you to be happy most of all, from what you said.”

  Soon after Blaze left to change, Hazard returned. He had talked himself back into physical control by the time he walked into the kitchen, his hair slicked back and still damp. “Nice creek for swimming,” he said. “As always.”

  “The rope swing’s still up there where you put it, Hazard. Grandkids love it.”

  “Nothing like a rope swing on a hot day.”

  “Amen to that. Sit down and have some lemonade. I’m almost ready.”

  Hazard’s eyes widened momentarily when Blaze walked into the kitchen a few minutes later. Then he smiled and remembered, “The little flowers I was looking for in Diamond City. It’s pretty on you.”

  “Thank you,” Blaze replied, dropping him a small curtsy and smiling back. The compliment cheered and heartened her as much as Hazard’s earlier remark. He seemed more relaxed, smiled more, spoke to her easily, as he used to.

  “We should get some dresses like that for you. What’s that called again?”

  “Calico.” Blaze swayed the skirt across her bare feet.

  “Right. Calico. Could we get some, Lydia?”

  “Take Abby’s dresses.”

  “Blaze?” Hazard asked. While it was tempting to read a future and caring and a hundred other implications into Hazard’s concern, Blaze warned herself to respond as casually as she’d been queried.

  “If you’re sure you don’t mine,” Blaze said to Lydia.

  “Don’t mind a scrap. Suits you, child.”

  And it did, Hazard thought, as sunshine suited summer. Barefoot, her hair falling in silky tendrils on her shoulders, dressed in yellow-sprigged calico, Blaze looked the very opposite of the woman he’d seen at Madame Restell’s four days ago.

  “Why doesn’t Lydia keep my black pearls, Jon, for her hospitality. I can’t possibly use them anymore.”

  “Heavens no, child,” Lydia protested. She’d seen the two-strand necklace of perfectly matched pearls on Blaze when she’d walked in with Hazard. Even her unpracticed eye knew they were worth a small fortune. “Just take the dresses with my blessing. Now sit down and eat. Hazard looks as though he could stand a meal.”

  Hazard ate like a man who had lived on snatched meals for two weeks. And after supper, the three of them sat on the porch and watched the twilight turn to dusk. Lydia talked; Hazard, on his best behavior with his old friend, answered an occasional question, contributed an anecdote or two on his friendship over the years with the Baileys, and exercised his practiced ability to charm. Blaze listened, and learned more about Hazard’s past in those two twilight hours than she had the entire time she’d lived with him. She saw him here on Lydia’s porch devoid of the mantle of chief so prominent in Montana. It was almost as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was only a man, relaxing in the Missouri countryside, enjoying the dwindling twilight.

  When it was time for bed, Lydia bluntly said, “While you’re under my roof, Hazard, you can forget whatever troubles you and Blaze have. You’ll be sleeping in that guest room with your wife tonight, and if you give me any guff, I’ll lock you in, damned if I won’t.”

  Hazard had risen and was about to make some excuse about checking the horses; he was planning on sleeping in the carriage or in the hayloft, but at Lydia’s peremptory words, he quickly brought his glance around and searchingly scrutinized her face. She was dead serious, and suddenly he felt like a teenager again. She had power over him—always had. While he silently contemplated his options in face of what sounded like an order, Lydia added, rising to her full height, only three inches shy of Hazard’s, “And don’t think I can’t make you do it, Hazard. I’ve got thirty pounds on you, and years of experience.”

  At such determination, Hazard’s considerations abruptly terminated and he smiled. “And you’ve still got a left hook I envy.”

  “Damn right. And I’m not afraid to use it on you.”

  “You’ve managed to scare the hell out of me, Lydia.” His smile was genial when he turned toward Blaze and bowed in a parody of courtly politeness. “Would you care to retire for the night, dear wife?”

  “I’d love to,” Blaze replied, her own smile tentative and she put out her hand toward Hazard’s proffered one. His fingers closed around hers as they’d done a hundred times before, and she felt a small measure of comfort.

  “Any further instructions, Lydia?” Hazard jestingly queried. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

  “Humpf,” Lydia snorted, plunking down in her chair and setting the rockers into a vigorous rhythm. “You ain’t needed no instructions about that since long before I ever set eyes on you, Hazard. Now get yourself off.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Hazard softly murmured and gave her a casual salute with his free hand. Then he pulled Blaze behind him through the door and down the hall.

  After they entered the bedroom, he dropped her hand, turned to shut the door, and then leaned back against it, his fingers still lightly curled around the porcelain knob. “My apologies if Lydia’s bluntness embarrassed you,” he said cautiously, as one might explain away an idiosyncratic relative to a new acquaintance.

  “Not in the least,” Blaze replied, resting her hands on the carved footboard of the bed and facing Hazard across the hand-braided carpet. “In fact, I think she’s very sweet.”

  Suddenly Hazard’s glance was suspicious and his voice held a daunting mildness. “Was this your idea?”

  Blaze’s tone was one of vicious respectability. “I’d never presume to bludgeon you into sleeping with me. There’re subtler ways of dealing with men.”

  “And you should know.” It came out before he could stop it.

  “Jealous?” Her glance of tolerant appraisal was calm.

  “No.”

  “Hardly a remark, then, for a man who knows all the intricate subtleties of dealing with women. Something like the pot calling the kettle black. And if you recall, all my dealings with men were quite innocent. I was a virgin, after all … until I met you,” Blaze coolly replied.

  His answer was sharp and immediate. “You asked for it—a dozen different ways, if I recall,” said Hazard rudely.

  Blaze stared at Hazard, scowling. “I’m not quibbling over that. But you didn’t refuse either.”

  “I tried to,” said H
azard drily.

  “But you didn’t.”

  There was a brief silence. “Are we assigning blame?”

  “Not in the least,” Blaze crisply answered, well aware of her own initiative. “Just don’t assume an unnatural posture of piety, that’s all.”

  His dark eyes fixed on her for his own moment of recollection; then, fighting for equanimity, he quietly said, “Fair enough. I’m sorry if I offended you.” And he turned on her the fluid smile and excessive charm that recalled a splendid man in evening dress in Virginia City. He obviously was determined to maintain a polite charade, and she rose to the occasion.

  “And I, if I offended you,” she neatly returned, her smile as blasé, contradicting the distress in her eyes. “Now, do you think we could sleep together in some polite amiability? Obviously, you’d rather not, but there’s no sense in hurting Lydia’s feelings. She’s been very good to both of us. I wish,” Blaze said with the smallest of pensive sighs, “I’d had a mother like her.” And then Blaze pushed away from the bed and walked to the window to hide the stupid wetness in her eyes. How different life might have been, she thought, tugging restlessly on the ruffled curtain tie. Instead she had a mother determined to have her father’s money at any price. Until now, she had never questioned her privileged life, had always accepted the numerous and lavish accoutrements of wealth as her personal right. She hadn’t realized all she’d been deprived of. Lydia’s warmth and genuine affection brought with it a poignant sense of loss.

  “Speaking of mothers,” Hazard noted with a sudden sharp irritability, “I’m going to check the road once more. We leave before sunrise.”

  When he returned, Blaze was in bed wearing Lydia’s oversized nightgown. The room was dusky with the new risen moon diffused through the drawn curtains. “Everything looks fine,” he said, unbuckling his gun belt, unaware of Blaze’s fretting sense of loss. “The carriage is in the barn. Lydia owns enough land so the neighbors aren’t close.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots.

  Blaze watched the muscles in his strong back flex under the light fabric, saw a pulse beating very fast above the dark collar of his shirt, and wished longingly that she could touch him and calm his hurried heartbeat. He stood to unbutton his shirt, then stripped it off in an agitated jerk and tossed it over a bedpost. With restless, abrupt movements he unbuttoned his trousers, stepped out of them, and added them to the drapery on the bedpost. Retrieving his gun belt from the chair near the door, he walked back to the bed and without a word looped it over the headboard with a quick twisting motion.

  Blaze studied him and wondered—had he changed? Her gaze took in the nakedness, the nervous, taut muscle and lean power, the pulsing strength, the unsmiling face. He was thinner, his hair a shade longer, his frame more spare and hard. And his strides had been almost pacing tonight. Fascinated by his restlessness, she was reminded of his predator namesake and experienced an unsettling sensation. She didn’t know him. Didn’t know this silent fierce man who was called her husband.

  Hazard looked over after he’d secured his gun above his pillow and saw her eyes on him, dark and luminous in the dim light. “Good night,” he said, his voice empty of emotion, and slid under the hand-quilted coverlet.

  They both lay silent, the furthest extent of the large feather bed separating them, but each intensely aware of the other. The silence was unquiet, as if invisible fingers were drumming nervously. Hazard’s hands were locked behind his head, his eyes surveying the papered ceiling, while the pulse in his neck signaled his consciousness of Blaze’s nearness. How the hell was he going to sleep tonight?

  A great despair came over Blaze like creeping fog smothering her last shred of hope, and she could no longer stop the tears swimming to her eyes. Silently, they slid down her cheeks and nose, dripping onto the pillow as she lay on her side, only inches from the only man she’d ever loved. She had never felt so miserably alone, and the tears were admission at last that all the wishing in the world was never going to bring Hazard back. He really didn’t care. “Good night,” he’d simply said; “Good night.” Nothing more. As if they were chance acquaintances somehow thrown together by fate.

  It was impossible to be strong any longer. It hurt too much. She’d been maintaining the fiction against tremendous stresses, and her resources were depleted. She’d been fighting Millicent and Yancy for weeks over the inheritance, the baby, her own life. And suddenly she was tired of fighting, tired of being torn apart emotionally, unable to face the world with her old determination. She had no one to turn to now. Even Hazard would never care.

  So the tears came, but she bit back the sobs. She might not have much strength left, but she had a fragment of pride.

  He lay there after he heard it and wondered how long she’d been crying. She was curled away from him on the far side of the bed and he hadn’t realized, hadn’t heard until the small sound escaped. The windows were open to the autumn night and a breeze stirred the plain muslin curtains. Maybe the night sounds had masked the quiet crying; more likely, knowing Blaze, she’d stifled it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who welcomed pity.

  He hesitated only a moment, then reached out and lifted her into his arms, sliding partway up the headboard so he was holding her, all muffled in yards of nightgown, like a young child. He felt the warm tears on his bare chest, the intimacy of her soft cheek smudging the wetness against his skin, and his heart went out to her. She was unhappy, and suddenly it mattered fiercely to him.

  Having Hazard hold her, his strong arms cradling her close for the first time in weeks, only forced the welling tears into a gushing flood. The revelation pervaded her mind and body and senses with awesome simplicity as she lay protected within his embrace, the sudden truth so astonishing and undeniable and frightening that she felt a transient moment of fear. For she understood at last how much she needed him, how much his caring mattered to her, how little everything in the world meant without him. How alone she’d been without him.

  “What’s wrong, bia? Tell me,” said the soft, roughened voice. His long-boned fingers smoothed her fall-gold hair, brushed it back from her forehead with infinite care. Bending, he caressed the delicate curve of her temple. “Tell me.”

  She couldn’t answer, overwrought, gulping for air like a child who’s cried too long. He waited, holding her tightly, but carefully—infinitely less tightly than he’d like—for fear of hurting her. After so many weeks of being deprived of her warmth and softness and tangible presence, he wanted to crush her into his bones.

  Her weeping quieted at last, her head resting on his shoulder, her fragile frame encircled by Hazard’s strong body. “I’m tired,” she said at last, bleakly, in a very tiny voice.

  “I know, princess. The last days have been hell.” He tugged the sheet up and wiped away her tears. Their faces were very close and Blaze’s wet eyes were unbearably naked.

  “I don’t want to be strong,” she whispered. “I can’t anymore.” And fresh tears flowed.

  He comprehended: too many burdens too fast; more responsibility and uncertainty than a young woman should have to assume alone. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, princess. Everyone gives up or falls occasionally. You were doing fine, only it was all too much, taking care of yourself and the baby, plus warding off Yancy’s threats. I should have been there to fight him for you. But you’re not alone anymore. I’m here now, to do the fighting. So rest; lean on me. I’ll take care of you and the baby.” He said it without thinking … and meant it, everything swept away except his need for her.

  “Truly?” Blaze whispered, afraid to believe, afraid the words were only words. But hoping desperately that Jon Hazard Black was true to his character now—plain spoken, honest.

  “Truly,” he quietly replied. “There’ve been too many misunderstandings in the past. But it’s over.” He shook away the dark spirits. “I don’t even want to think about them anymore.” His hand came up and lightly brushed her cheek. “You say you don’t want to be s
trong all the time. I, bia-cara, don’t want to be dutiful all the time. I can’t help it, I love you,” he whispered. “And if I lose my protecting vision, my clan and my soul, I must have you.”

  “I’m yours … until the pines turn yellow,” she softly assured him in the old Absarokee formula for infinity. “Don’t ever leave me,” she breathed from the safety of his arms. “Don’t ever leave me.…”

  “Never … starting from this minute.” He lifted her face tenderly from the curve of his shoulder and touched her lips with his. “Our first night together” he murmured, and swallowed hard to keep back his own tears, “on our long and enchanted trail.” His dark eyes held a potent magic as they gazed into hers. “I can fight them all, princess … if you’re beside me.”

  “I am—I will—oh, Jon, I love you so.” Her voice was sweet with hope. “We can do it, you know,” she added, the old vivacious gleam in her eyes.

  Always charmed by her innocent and determined optimism, Hazard generously replied, his own gaze tender, “Of course we can, Boston. With you and me against the world, how can we lose?” His answer was like that of a war-worn, worldly veteran to a fresh young recruit, unblooded yet to the small viciousnesses in man. And while he dearly hoped she was right, privately, a cautious skepticism questioned both their sanities. “Tonight, though,” he quietly murmured, “we’ve no dragons to slay. Tonight there’s only us.”

  “That’s what Lydia said. How did she know?”

  Hazard adjusted her in his arms and squeezed her lightly. “We owe the bully a lot.”

  “Would you have stayed with me otherwise … tonight, I mean?” It was a woman’s question, measuring love. It was a Blaze question, straight to the mark.

  He was silent for a moment, then shook his head. But his grip tightened and she knew that while the chief answered no, the man said yes.