She wiggled and jerked one slender arm. “It would seem that I am ensnared. I do believe my dress shrank.” In her attempt to extract her arm from the sleeve, she lost her balance and toppled sideways. “Oops!”
Race grabbed her at the waist. She giggled and swayed forward, colliding with his chest. She pressed her face against him. “Oh, my! I feel a bit dizzy-headed.”
A bit? Race set her slightly away from him. The problem was that she had only unbuttoned the dress partway, leaving an inadequate opening to draw it down her arms. He reached for the buttons. The instant he no longer steadied her, she reeled to one side again. He caught her from falling. She giggled again, letting her head fall back. His gaze became riveted to her creamy throat. Christ. He was going to strangle Cookie for this piece of work.
“How about if you lay down on your back, honey?” he suggested.
She brought her head up to gaze at him with big, laughing blue eyes. “You may lay me, Mr. Spencer. Or I may lie. But I shan’t lay. Unless, of course, you give me something to lay.” She attempted to shake a finger under his nose. Able to reach only so high with her arms trapped, she shook it at his belly button instead. “Improper usage!”
“There ain’t gonna be no usage, improper or otherwise. I just want you to lay down before you fall down.”
She leaned toward him and whispered, “Lie! Lay is incorrect.”
Race caught her behind the knees and flipped her over onto her back. On the way down, she squeaked in startlement. As he settled her on the pallet, he found himself almost nose to nose with her, and damn him to hell for a bastard, he almost stayed there. Her sweet mouth was a few scant inches from his lips. All her inhibitions had gone the way of Cookie’s elixir. He looked into her trusting, luminous eyes and knew he could make love to her if he wanted to—and God help him, he’d never wanted anything so much.
She gazed up at him. The sound of their breathing seemed loud against his eardrums. Her breasts nudged his chest, and the tips, abraded by their movements, were thrusting against the thin cloth of her undergarment, the hardened peaks burning holes in his shirt.
“Oh, my,” she said softly, pressing a hand to her waist.
“You feelin’ sick?”
Race wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d said yes. But she shook her head. “No, I just—” Her breath caught. “Oh, my,” she whispered again.
“What?”
She blinked and refocused on his face. “I have the funniest feeling in my tummy.”
Damn. She was getting sick. He envisioned himself holding her head while she heaved until her toes curled.
“Funny little flutters.”
Race’s gaze sharpened on her face. “Little what?”
“Flutters. You make me feel funny.”
He shot a glance at the pulse point at the base of her throat. Her heartbeat was racing. He dragged his gaze back to her face, took in her dreamy expression, and decided strangling Cookie would be too merciful a death. “Rebecca,” he said, his voice grating, “you shouldn’t tell a man things like that. It’s liable to get you into trouble.”
“Things like what?”
He found himself grinning in spite of himself. Gazing down at her, it occurred to him that he’d been wrong to voice the warning. One of the things he found most special about Rebecca was her sweetness. Did he really want her to change? The answer was no. Angels were mighty rare. When a man came across one, he should cherish her just as she was. As for her getting into trouble, it was up to him to see that she didn’t.
“Nothin’,” he said huskily. “Forget I said anything.”
He drew back and attacked the buttons on her dress. Once he’d slipped them all free from their holes, he sat her up, peeled the dress sleeves down her arms, and then reached for her nightgown, which he drew over her head without removing any of her other clothing. He would take off her shoes. That was as far as this unveiling was going to progress. She could sleep in her chemise, petticoat and drawers.
The tug of the nightgown finished loosening her raveling braid from its mooring. Her golden hair fell forward like a heavy rope over her slender shoulder, the silken strands brushing his knuckles as he buttoned the front of her gown. He sat back and noticed his hat lying at the head of the pallet near Blue. He guessed the Stetson had been knocked from his head when he had laid her down. That he hadn’t noticed the loss gave testimony to the fact that his thoughts had been centered on other things.
She gnawed on her lip. “Are you going to go outside now?”
The way she asked told him she didn’t want him to leave. He nearly groaned. Staying in here with her tonight, with Cookie’s elixir numbing her inhibitions, was not a good idea. He counted himself to be a decent man, but he was sure as hell no saint.
“I’ll sleep under the wagon. You’ll be fine, honey.”
She looked slightly panicked. He averted his gaze, not trusting himself to stand fast if she fixed those big blue eyes on him and pleaded for him to stay. Clenching his teeth, he seized her by one ankle and attacked the laces on her shoe. When both shoes were removed, he tucked her stocking feet under the quilts.
“Lay down, darlin’. Let’s get you tucked in for the night.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Lie,” she said as she slumped over onto her back.
“Lie,” he echoed, drawing the quilts up to her chin.
She turned her cheek against the back of his hand, her lashes drooping as her eyes drifted closed. “Oh, Mr. Spencer…” she said on a dreamy sigh.
Race nearly said, “What?” But on second thought, he decided he might not want to know. If she said anything more about having a fluttery feeling in her tummy, she could end up with uninvited company in her bed. He would hate himself come morning if he took advantage of her that way. Besides, he’d given her his word that she could trust him, and a promise was a promise.
“G’night, sweetheart,” he whispered.
“Good night, Mr. Spencer.”
Race leaned over her to retrieve his hat. As he straightened and returned the hat to his head, she murmured something more, her lashes fluttering as if she were attempting to open her eyes. “What?” he asked softly.
“Please don’t leave camp while I’m asleep.” Her voice was breathy, her pronunciation slightly slurred. “Promise? I get scared when you’re not with me.”
Race felt as if a fist were squeezing something inside his chest. For as long as he could remember, most females had found him fearsome. It was quite a switch to have this girl trust him so completely, a compliment of the highest order. It made him feel unaccountably good about himself, as if he were a gentleman instead of a no-account. He just hoped he could live up to her expectations.
“I won’t leave you, honey. I promise.”
Race turned out the lamp before he left the wagon. When the darkness swooped down over him, he stood there for a long moment, listening to the soft huff of her breathing. A wry smile touched his mouth. Staying with the girl would be the easiest chore he had ever tackled.
Leaving her…or letting her leave him…might prove to be the problem.
Chapter 14
A long journey home. Those words became a litany in Race’s mind during the endless days of northward travel that followed. A fair number of the cattle had sustained injuries during the stampede, which slowed their pace, forcing Race to stop more frequently to let them rest, which doubled the length of time it should have taken to make the trip. The trail for the wagons was usually little more than a cow path, every bump, rut, and chuck hole jarring the unsprung frame of Rebecca’s wagon, and her as well. No matter how Race tried, he couldn’t avoid all the rough spots. To make the trip less jarring for Blue, Race and Pete fashioned a canvas hammock for the dog, which they suspended from the underside of the wagon. There Blue received fewer jostles, was shaded from the sun, and seemed to travel in relative comfort until he began to heal.
Unfortunately, the same sort of comfort couldn’t be provided for Rebecca. Race told
himself that she was undoubtedly accustomed to the hardships of the trail, that she’d come through it all right. But with each passing day, she grew thinner and looked more exhausted, her fragile body strung so taut with tension, he could have plucked notes. He got to a point where he worried about her ceaselessly.
Two days into the journey, the endless flatland gave way to piñon juniper woodlands, a welcome change from the desertlike terrain they left behind. After that, Race lost track of the days, the journey becoming a blur, the juniper woodlands reverting back to flatland again, which in turn gave way to thick stands of salt cedar as they passed through the drainage lands of the Arkansas River and the Rio Grande. More grassland, more juniper woodlands. It seemed to him that they traveled in an endless circle and never made much headway.
He needed to get Rebecca to his ranch, fast. Someplace quiet and restful, where every minute of the day wasn’t spent on that bone-jarring torture rack called a wagon seat. He didn’t dare allow her to walk to give her a rest from the jiggling, nor could he let her ride a horse. By his count, there were seven ruffians still alive, and he knew they were riding drag on his back trail. Nearly every day, Race or one of the men spotted the tracks of their horses.
Race wasn’t surprised. He had what the bastards wanted, after all: the money. With that to lure them, there was little chance they would lose interest and give up. That suited Race just fine. No way in hell did he intend to let Tag’s death go unavenged, and having the ruffians on his tail just saved him the trouble of having to hunt them down later. With Rebecca and a herd to take care of, he couldn’t go after them right then, not without risking further financial losses or harm to the girl who had come to mean more to him than he cared to admit.
Pete and Race frequently powwowed, trying to determine when the ruffians might make their move. Race believed the outlaws meant to follow them to wherever they were going, let them get settled in, and wait to launch an attack when they thought Race and his men had their guard down. Pete agreed with that determination.
Race sincerely hoped the ruffians were that stupid. Their waiting to attack him and his men on their home ground would be their last mistake. Meanwhile, though, the constant threat of trouble made it necessary to exercise every precaution, and Rebecca, being defenseless, paid the dearest price. The poor girl couldn’t even seek privacy in the bushes without Race dogging her footsteps, a loaded rifle cocked and at the ready in the crook of his arm. As a consequence, Rebecca’s nerves seemed to become more frayed with each passing day.
She needed to put this hellish experience behind her and start over. Instead, fear had become her constant companion. Judging by her pallor and the circles under her eyes, she wasn’t sleeping well, even with him bedded down under her wagon. Race had also noticed that she seldom let him out of her sight, her need to be near him almost frantic. When he had absolutely no choice but to leave her so he might tend his herd, he brought Pete and Johnny in from riding flank to guard her. But even then, he couldn’t miss the desperate appeal in her eyes. Every second he was away from her, he felt guilty as hell.
From the start, Race had planned to take Rebecca to Denver at first opportunity, which would be soon if the weather held. But the few times he’d made mention of his plans, she had shown no enthusiasm for the idea, not even when he pointed out that her church friends in Santa Fe would probably come to fetch her if she telegraphed them from there. She clearly didn’t want to leave Race, the devil take going to Denver and contacting her people down south.
Race guessed he could understand that. She’d been in the company of cheek turners when this whole mess started, and they had reacted to the danger like lambs awaiting slaughter. Rebecca wasn’t stupid. She’d seen a lot of bloodshed, and she knew the trek to Santa Fe would be filled with peril. Her instinct for survival dictated that she remain with someone she knew would protect her. Oh, yes. Race understood. But her feelings also put him in a hell of a spot, a fact that became glaringly apparent to him toward the end of their journey.
As had become her habit each night, Rebecca was assisting Cookie in preparing the evening meal when she accidentally lost her grip on the container of salt and spilled the lot in the stew. Supper for over thirty hungry cattlemen was rendered inedible, which was no small catastrophe, and Cookie made matters even worse by ranting and raving.
“You just ruint hours of work!” he cried, stomping angrily over to the cooking fire. “If I’d knowed you was so clumsy, I woulda salted it myself! Now, just look what you went and done! Help me? Some help you are, ruinin’ the whole meal! I shoulda knowed better than to let a gol-durned female in my kitchen!”
Alerted by Cookie’s cursing and hollering, Race hurried over to the chuck wagon. He found Rebecca frantically trying to salvage the stew by dipping away the oversalted surface with a large spoon, a feat made almost impossible because the concoction was boiling so rapidly. Taking quick stock of the situation, Race was alarmed by her pallor. Never having been a target of one of Cookie’s tirades, she had never seen the little man lose his temper and was obviously taking every word he said to heart.
“Cookie, calm down,” Race interjected. “There ain’t no need to be nasty. She didn’t mean to spill the damned salt, after all. It ain’t that big a thing!”
“It ain’t a big thing? Over thirty hardworkin’ men to feed, and now they ain’t got no supper!” Cookie cried. “If this ain’t a fine mess, you takin’ up for her, and here I am with nothin’ to feed all them men! Well, it’s your worry, not mine!” He glared up at Race. “I don’t gotta take this off’n nobody. I quit!”
Knowing as he did that Cookie “quit” every time the wind blew wrong, Race wasn’t overly alarmed by the proclamation, but Rebecca looked frantic. “Oh, no! Please, Mr. Grigsley, don’t quit!”
As she whirled to plead with the cook, she held onto the spoon, flinging stew in a wide arc that splattered the front of Race’s shirt and pants. He leaped at the burn and swatted at the searing clumps of carrots and potatoes that clung to his clothing. “Jesus H. Christ!” he cried. “Be careful with that damned spoon, Rebecca!”
Her expression horrified, Rebecca dropped the spoon in the dirt and hurried over to help swipe at his clothing, using her hands, a fold of her skirt, and even her sleeve to dab at the mess, her movements so frenzied that only a blind man could have failed to see how upset she was. Race immediately regretted his outburst.
“See there? Clumsy!” Cookie cried. “Ain’t no place for a female, bein’ on a drive. Or on a ranch, for that matter!”
“Cookie!” Race said in a warning tone. “That’ll be enough. She didn’t mean to ruin your goddamned stew. We’ll just have to whip up somethin’ else, is all.”
Cookie stomped away. “You got a mouse in your pocket? You’ll have to whip up somethin’ else. Not me. I done cooked supper once, and I ain’t about to again!”
Race turned to find Rebecca with a hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes swimming with tears. He settled a hand on her shoulder. “Honey, don’t let him upset you so. Cookie just gets that way sometimes. He don’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Behind her cupped hand, she cried, “But he quit! What’ll you do without a cook?” She cast a glance at the stew pot. “He’s right. I am clumsy. Supper is ruined! What will everyone eat?”
“Biscuits and gravy will do everyone for tonight. Quit lookin’ so upset, darlin’. Some ruined stew ain’t the end of the world.”
But as Race stirred up some biscuits, he began to suspect that to Rebecca, it seemed like the end of the world. She darted around him, attempting to do all of the work herself and apologizing profusely with every breath. Then after the makeshift meal was finally prepared, she ate nothing herself. Instead she hurried around the camp, solicitously offering each man coffee and asking if she could get him anything else, clearly trying to atone for having ruined the evening meal. To make matters worse, she was shaking so badly that each time she refilled a coffee cup, the unlucky recipient of her services nearly
took a scalding bath.
Observing Rebecca’s behavior, Race’s concern mounted. This went beyond mere regret. The girl was frantic. It was almost as if she were afraid she might be banished from camp unless she regained everyone’s favor.
When her efforts to appease became concentrated on Race, his concern for her became full-fledged worry. There was a feverish brightness in her blue eyes as she flitted around him.
Developing a headache from the tension, Race reached back to rub his neck, only to have Rebecca take over the ministrations. A few minutes later when he started toward the fire to get himself more coffee, she prised the cup from his hand to refill it for him. When she noticed him yawning, she crawled under the wagon to spread out his bedroll.
When she emerged from under the wagon, Race was waiting for her. “Rebecca, darlin’, we gotta have a talk.”
Already so pale she looked sick, she lost even more color as he led her to the edge of camp where they might have some privacy. Wringing her hands, she turned to face him as they drew to a stop, her big eyes resembling drenched blue velvet in the twilight. “I-I didn’t mean to ruin the stew. It’ll never happen again. I promise! And whatever I can do to make up for it, I will. Just name it.”
That was Race’s worry—that she’d do just about anything to mend her fences. Since he wasn’t even angry with her and hadn’t behaved as if he were, that struck him as an abnormal reaction. “Rebecca, things like this just happen.”
Almost as if his words didn’t register, she rushed to say, “I’m clumsy. I know I am. But from now on, I’ll be extra careful. Truly!” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “Please, Mr. Spencer, don’t be angry. It’ll never happen again.”
Her agitation was so great that an awful suspicion crept into his mind. “Rebecca, you ain’t afraid I’ll leave you behind, are you?”
At the question, her expression went stricken, as if she knew he might grow furious if she admitted to her feelings. She averted her gaze, staring off into the trees.