if he really saw it or if he felt it, but all his senses were on edge.
He hadn't worked in Indian country and spent all this time with Jon Red
Feather not to have learned something of his senses. There was someone
near. He could feel it in his gut, and he could feel it at the nape of
his neck, and he could feel it all the way down his spine. Someone was
very near.
"Come on out of there," he said softly.
"Come on, now. We don't want to hurt anyone here, we just want you to
come on ont."
The movement had ceased.
Jon was moving up toward the front of the wagon. The horses, still
smelling smoke, whinnied and nickered nervously.
Jamie leaped to the floor of the wagon.
His eyes flickered to the left bunk. There was a long, soft white gown
lain out by the side. It was sleeveless, lowbodiced and lacy, a woman's
nightgown, he thought. And a pretty piece for the dustiness of the road.
It did belong with the perfectly made and inviting beds, but it didn't
really belong on a wagon train. Was she alive? Had she been some young
man's bride? He hadn't seen a woman's corpse, not yet, but then his men
were still moving among the bodies.
"Is anyone in here?" he said, moving past the bunks. There were boxes
and trunks everywhere. There was a coffeepot, cast down as if someone
had been about to use it. There was a frying pan in the middle of the
floor, too. He paused, crouching on the balls of his feet, looking at
the floor.
Coffee was spilled everywhere.
"Come on out now," he said softly.
"It's all right, come on out."
He kept moving inward. The shadows in the wagon made it difficult to
see.
There seemed to be a swirl of soft mauve taffeta, fringed in black lace,
set in a heap before him. He reached down carefully, hoping he hadn't
come upon another corpse.
He touched a body. He touched warmth. He moved his hand, and it was
filled with fullness and living warmth.
Instinctively his fingers curled over the full, firm ripeness of a
woman's breast. He could feel the shape and weight and the tautness of
the nipple with his palm right through the taffeta.
She was warm, but very still. Sweet Jesus, let her be alive, he thought,
still stunned by the contact his fingers had made.
She was alive. Beyond a doubt, she was alive. She burst from her hiding
place with a wicked scream of terror and fury. Startled, he moved back.
He had been prepared for danger, for a wounded Comanche, but when he had
touched the softness and striking femininity of her form, he had relaxed
his guard.
Foolish move.
He backed away, but she screamed again, high and shrill and desperate, a
sound like that of a wounded animal. He started to reach for his Colt,
but his hand fell quickly as he reminded himself that it was just a
woman. A small, delicate woman.
"Ma'am" -- She cast herself upon him with a vengeance, pitting her body
against his with a startling ferocity and strength.
"Hey" -- he began, but she didn't heed him. She slammed her foot against
his leg and brought a fist flailing down upon his shoulder, trying to
throw him off balance. He braced himself as she slammed against him, but
still she brought them both down~ upon the floor.
"Hey! Damn, stop!" he yelled, aware of her fragile size, her wild mane
of honey-colored hair. Nor could he forget the full feel of her breast
within his hand. She was exquisite. He had to be gentle.
Her foot slammed against his shin again. She thrashed with the fury of
ten Comanche. Her flailing fist caught his jaw so hard that his teeth
rattled.
Gentle. hell!
She was a monster. There was no way in hell a man could possibly be
gentle and survive. Gritting his teeth harshly he caught her wrists,
trying not to hold them in a painful vise. She screamed again
incoherently, freeing her hands to grope on the bunk. He should have
held her in a vise! There was just no being nice here. She was like
wildfire atop him, raging out of control. He saw a smile of triumph
light her features as her fingers curved around something, and she
lifted it high.
"Whoa, wait a minute, ma'am" -- he began, seeing that she held a
long-bladed and lethally sharp bowie knife.
Damn! She was going from fists to steel.
"Lady, I'm warning you, stop?"
She didn't pay the least bit of attention to him. Rather, she fought on
with desperation, drawing up her arm again, preparing to slash the blade
across his throat. Jamie swung out, catching her by the middle, his
hands resting beneath the swell of her breasts. He cast her far away
from him and struggled to his feet.
"I'm the cavalry!" he snapped out.
"Damn it, I'm the good guy."
She didn't seem to hear him, or really even see him. Her huge,
violet-blue eyes were glazed, he saw, and she barely blinked at his
words. She certainly didn't seem to understand them.
She screamed again and flew at him. The blade slashed the air
uncomfortably close to his windpipe. He clamped down grimly on his jaw
and caught her arm with a stunning blow, sending the blade flying out of
the wagon. She gasped, but when he lunged for her, she was ready to
fight again, her nails gouging for his eyes. He swore again, capturing
her wrists and falling down hard with her upon the floor of the wagon.
Struggling to hold her still, he looked up to see that Jon Red Feather
was looking in from the driver's seat of the wagon.
"I could have used some help here, you know!" he thundered.
Red Feather grinned.
"You--against one little honey- haired girl?
Honestly, Lieutenant."
She was no little girl. Lying atop her, Jamie was very aware of that.
She was small and slight, but the sweet, provocative fullness of her
breasts was now crushed lushly against his cavalry jacket, reminding him
that it had been some time since he'd last been to Maybelle's House of
Gentlemanly Leisure Pursuits. She fought him still, writhing like a
wildcat, and with every twist and turn of her body, he realized more
fully just how grown up the woman was, how evocatively mature. She
stared at him with death- defying hatred, and as he gazed at her, she
lunged against him again, trying to bite his shoulder.
"For the love of God!" he snapped, rolling with her to retain his hold
without bringing bodily injury to her or losing a hunk of flesh himself.
She freed one wrist from his grasp and began tearing at him again. Their
momentum was taking them closer and closer to the rear of the wagon, and
then suddenly they were outside it, plunging down to the dirt together.
She shrieked, and he realized then that she was fighting to free herself
from his hold rather than fighting to harm him. But he wasn't about to
let her go. She was too unpredictable.
Their limbs entangled, and her petticoats rode around them. He could
feel the slender length of her legs, warm and alive, scantily clad in
pantalets, against his own.
She reached up to strike him again, and he caught her hand with a
serious fury as his patience snapped.
"Enough!"
He drew her hands high over her head and straddled her hips, pinning her
down at last. Her hair lay spread out over the dirt in a majestic fan
while the Texas sand smudged her beautiful features. She gasped
desperately for breath, her breasts rising and falling with her effort.
She was down, subdued at last. He released her wrists, remaining
straddled upon her, careful to maintain his own weight. "It's all right"
-- he tried to tell her, but to no avail. She tried to twist, lashing
out, clawing for his face.
She caught his chin and drew blood.
"Woman, no morel" he shouted. His hand raised high and with
determination, and he caught himself fight before he could slap her in
return. He saw her eyes close tightly in expectation of the blow, but it
did not fall. He held her tight, trying to check his temper, staring at
her hard. Then he caught her arms and dragged them high above her head,
leaning close and hard against her. His anger faded at. last as he saw
her eyes go damp with tears she fought to control.
She was hysterical, he realized, and yet she had really come at him with
an attempt to kill.
She shuddered and gasped, and a trembling rippled through the entire
length of her body. Still, he could not trust her to release her.
"We're the damned cavalry!" he repeated.
"Listen to me! No one is going to hurt you. The Indians are gone. We're
the cavalry. We want to help you. You do speak English, don't you?"
"Yes!" she snapped furiously, and the trembling ceased. "Yes, yes, I
understand you!" Her eyes beheld him, then glazed over again.
"Bastard!" she hissed to him, "Murdering, despicable bastard."
"Murdering bastard? I'm trying to help you."
"I don't believe you!"
Startled by her words, Jamie fell silent. Her eyes remained locked with
his, the tears she would not shed highlighting the deep blue color. Her
hair fell in tangled streams around them both, like a pool of sunlight
just before twilight fell. Watching her, he nearly forgot why he
straddled her.
She didn't believe him. He had come to rescue her from the Comanche, and
she didn't believe him.
"Listen, now, lady, I am with the cavalry--these men, all of us, we're
with the United States Cavalry" -- "Your uniform doesn't mean anything!"
"Lady, you are crazy!" That was it, she had lost her mind. She had
watched the savage attack and she had retreated into some fantasy world
of fear.
"You're all right now, or you will be if you quit trying to hurt me."
"Hurt you! Oh!"
"The Indians are gone" -- "There never were any Indians!"
"No Indians?"
"They dressed like Indians, but they weren't Indians. And you were
probably in on it! The law is corrupt, why not the cavalry?"
"Lady, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm Lieutenant Slater out
of Fort Vickers, and we've just stumbled upon your present difficulty."
She blinked, and her gaze went guarded. He still held her locked beneath
him. His men were coming near, alerted by the commotion.
She gazed around her, past his head, and it seemed that she slowly
realized that they really were a cavalry company.
Everyone was staring at her with silence, with sympathy. She looked at
Jamie, and a slow flush spread into her features. They were now both
painfully aware of the way their bodies came together. Her legs and hips
burned against his, bare beneath the thin cotton shield of her
pantalets.
She wore no corset, he knew that very well, and her breasts seemed to
swell, as if with realization of their intimate contact against his
chest. She touched her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, and even
that seemed an intimate gesture. She squirmed beneath him, but he wasn't
about to give her any quarter. He had tried to be as gentle as possible
and he was bleeding as if he had been gouged by a mountain cat because
of it. A drop of blood from his chin fell upon her bodice even as he
thought that he should show her some mercy.
"Lieutenant, let me" -- "What's your name?"
"If you would just" -- "What's your name?"
Her eyes flashed with a silver-blue annoyance as she realized that he
was going to hold her until he chose to let her go.
"Tess," she snapped.
"It's Tess."
"Tess what?"
Her eyes narrowed.
"Tess Stuart."
"Where were you going and where were you headed f~om?"
"Wiltshire. We were bringing some cattle and a printing press. We were
heading home from a small town called Dunedin, nearly a ghost town now.
That's why we bought the printing press. They didn't need it anymore."
"You said we. Who were you riding with?"
"My" -- She hesitated just a moment, her lashes rising and falling
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