B000XUBEHA EBOK (12 page)

Remember this, she admonished herself: There is no future with a damaged man who’s a target for every criminal drifting around the West. There’s nothing but pain for a woman who loses her heart to a man who doesn’t care if he lives or dies. She needed to keep these thoughts at the front of her mind.

“Cameron?” He didn’t say anything, but he tilted his head the way he did when he was listening. “It’s not easy for me to accept what this trip will cost and . . . I guess I’ve never met anyone like you, so I just . . .” She shook her head and twisted her hands together. “I don’t know how to tell you what this means to me, or how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“This is strange, and I never thought I’d say such a thing, but it’s a little frightening to leave here. I know every square inch of this old place. I have my routine and it doesn’t vary much. There are no surprises. While out there,”—she waved toward the door—“everything will be new and different.”

Now he turned from the window. “Maybe you’ll like those new and different things.”

“That’s what frightens me the most,” she whispered. After a minute she cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “Now, about the animals. We can’t leave tomorrow. I’ll need the entire day to call on these people and make arrangements.” She tapped a finger against her list.

“I’ll take care of provisions.”

“Provisions. Aren’t we taking the stage?”

“I thought I explained,” he said with a frown. “We’ll ride to Santa Fe, then take the train from there.”

“Ride? Like, horses?”

“You do ride, don’t you?”

Oh Lord. “I haven’t been on a horse in years.” And she would have preferred to keep it that way.

“I took your bay out this morning. I don’t think he’ll give you any trouble.”

“That would be Bob.” The last time he’d been ridden was . . . when?

“We’ll also take the mule, and board them in Santa Fe.”

Of course they had to ride. Otherwise, he’d have to come back here to fetch his horse. “How far is it to Santa Fe?”

He shrugged. “Three hundred miles. Maybe a little more.”

Shock darkened her eyes. Over three hundred miles on a horse? “Are there towns along the way?”

“We’ll camp out mostly.”

Camp out.

What on earth had she gotten herself into?

Upset without knowing why, Della changed her mind a dozen times regarding which items to pack. Cameron had explained, several times, that she could take only what would fit into the saddlebags. Rebecca the mule, he insisted, would carry camping supplies, no personal items.

In the end she packed her Sunday suit for the train ride, along with proper undergarments and shoes and gloves. She took as many shirtwaists as she could cram into the bags, and an extra riding skirt and stockings. Into the crannies she tucked a comb and brush and various toiletries. She took her wedding photo and Clarence’s last letter, plus a small pouch containing the few dollars she had saved, and her jet earrings.

Cameron eyed the bulging saddlebags before he swung them across Bob’s haunches and tied them down, but he didn’t say anything until he’d finished. “Ready?”

Della turned her face into the hot August wind and gazed at the small farm that had been her home for ten years. Without the noise of the animals, she heard the windmill creaking, a lonely sound that she didn’t usually notice. And she didn’t ordinarily let herself see how weathered and shabby the house and barn had become. The harsh Texas sun and the winter cold were hard on buildings. And women.

Pushing back her hair, she pulled her old work hat down to her ears and nodded. “I’m ready.”

If she never returned, there wasn’t a thing here that she would miss, a sad admission because she would return. This was her life and her future.

Cameron boosted her into Bob’s saddle, waited until she was settled, then he mounted and caught the mule’s lead rope. After running an eye over Della’s stirrups and reins, he rode down the driveway.

Della followed without a backward look.

He kept the pace slow and easy, stopping to rest whenever they came to a water hole. Even so, by midday he could see that Della’s early enthusiasm had slid toward grim-lipped endurance and determination.

When he helped her off Bob near the thin shade beneath a patch of low oak, she groaned and hobbled toward a tree stump.

“Lordy. You said three hundred miles?”

“Maybe a little farther.” He handed her a canteen.

She wet her handkerchief and pressed it to her face. Long ago she’d removed her jacket. Her shirtwaist was sweat-plastered to her back, and long damp ovals extended beneath her arms. In an hour the ragged brim of her hat would no longer protect her face, they’d be riding directly into the sun.

“Are you hungry?”

If he’d been traveling alone, he would have eaten some jerky or cold biscuits atop his horse. In a week or so, when Della was trail-seasoned, he’d suggest not stopping at midday, unless the temperature continued to soar.

“I honestly don’t know,” she said, her voice muffled behind the handkerchief. Already the handkerchief was drying in the heat. “The thought of walking over to Bob and fetching the sack and bringing it over here seems overwhelming. Give me a minute.”

She’d fried chicken at dawn and boiled a dozen eggs. Had packed raw carrots and onions, and wrapped thick slices of raisin cake to see them through the first day.

“I’ll get the food.”

The handkerchief dropped and her eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you serving me. I’ve made up my mind that food is my chore. I don’t want to be a bother on this trip.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll get some coffee going.”

“How can you drink coffee in this heat?”

Instead of watching her struggle to stand and then hobble toward the horses, Cameron went in search of firewood. But he heard her muttering “lordy, lordy” every few steps.

He’d seen enough greenhorns to know that she was stiff and sore, and her back and shoulders ached. If her inner thighs weren’t red and chapped, they would be by tonight. On the positive side, sleeping on the ground wouldn’t bother her as much as she probably thought it would. She’d fall into an exhausted sleep the instant she closed her eyes.

“How far do you think we’ve traveled?” she asked after they’d eaten. In the end, she’d accepted a cup of coffee but claimed she didn’t want sugar. Cameron suspected she couldn’t force herself to walk back to the mule and search for the sugar sack.

“Maybe ten miles.” With all the rest stops, he figured it was closer to eight than ten. Alone, he could cover thirty miles a day. Today, he’d be pleased if they completed twenty miles.

“That doesn’t sound like much,” she said, letting a handful of sandy soil trickle through her fist. “You know, I was thinking. I suppose there’s lots of snakes out here.”

Her effort to sound unconcerned made him smile. “Snakes don’t like us any more than we like them. We could make this whole journey and never see one.”

“I had a rattler in my barn last August.” She made a face. “I shot him. Scared me half to death. I haven’t fired a gun all that often. Not at something living.” After glancing at the guns on his hips, she tossed out the coffee left in her cup.

“Had you fired at something before the snake?”

Everything she did fascinated him and fell into one of two categories. Something that seemed like his impression of the girl in the photograph, or something that seemed like a different person, the woman she had become.

“A couple of years back, two red wolves killed a few of my chickens. It took a while, but eventually I got them.”

“Wolves won’t be a problem much longer. Not many left.”

“And there was another time shortly after I moved to the farm.” She frowned, remembering. “I kept hearing noises in the yard after I’d gone to bed. So one night I sat beside my window with the shotgun in my lap. Along about midnight, I thought I saw a shadow coming toward the house. It might have been a man or it might have been something else, I don’t know. But I fired in his direction.” A note of pride crept into her voice. “I haven’t had that kind of trouble since.”

He could imagine the girl in the photograph shooting at shadows, but not at a shadow that might have been a man. While he packed up their utensils and kicked sand over the fire, and she pretended not to notice what he was doing, he asked where she’d learned to shoot.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Did the boy who taught you to whistle also teach you to shoot?”

“Actually, it was Clarence.” Unconsciously, she touched her skirt pocket and he realized she must be carrying something of Clarence’s. He’d hoped . . . well, that didn’t bear thinking about. “The hunt club Clarence belonged to had a target range.”

In a previous life, he too had belonged to a hunt club. Now the concept seemed so ludicrous that he could no longer recall why he had joined the society. Different times. A different James Cameron.

After he handed her back in the saddle, he gave her a pair of sunglasses. “You’ll need these.”

She turned them between her gloves. “Do you have a pair?”

He patted his vest. “The sun’s going to be in our eyes.”

“I read about blue lens. Very fashionable.”

Maybe she was teasing him, maybe not. He couldn’t always be sure. “I prefer dark lens, but blue was what they had at the general store.”

She put them on and peered around her. “Very strange. Oh my, look at the sky.”

Perhaps the novelty of a blue world would take her mind off her aches and pains during the next five hours. Or for the next twenty minutes. Smiling, Cameron checked his horse and mule then swung into the saddle.

It was a slow but good beginning, he thought. She was stronger and tougher than he’d imagined.

His decision to reunite Della and her daughter had been impulsive, but it had felt right three days ago and it felt right now. On some level, knowing she was on the horse behind him fulfilled a longtime fantasy. But he didn’t examine that thought too closely. He did let himself realize that he had extended his time with her, a gift that tightened his chest, and felt a sense of relief that he didn’t have to tell her about Clarence yet. Telling her now would only make an arduous journey harder. He could wait a few more weeks.

He chose to make camp early when he spotted an old campsite nestled in a circle of twisted mesquite. A nearby riverbed was dry but not a concern, as he carried enough water for necessities.

“Is this when you would usually stop for the day?” She looked down at him from atop Bob, speaking through her teeth.

“You’re willing to continue?”

“If that’s what you usually do.”

“I’m usually not trailing with a greenhorn about to fall off her horse.” He lifted his arms. “You’ve had enough for one day.”

When he set her on her feet, she fell down.

“Della?”

She slapped his hands away, embarrassed and blinking hard. “Damn it!” After a minute she sighed, then extended her hand and he pulled her up. Immediately she doubled over. “I haven’t been this sore in . . . I’ve never been this sore. Damn. I’m sorry, but . . . damn.” She wasn’t crying; however, he suspected she wanted to.

“Let me fetch some liniment.” He looked around then cleared his throat. “You could have some privacy over there behind that big clump of mesquite. To rub on the liniment.”

He promised himself that he would not think of her pulling up her skirts and stroking liniment on her thighs. Naturally he could think of nothing else.

By the time she returned, he’d set up camp, had the last of her fried chicken on plates, a pot of coffee over the fire, and he’d laid out their bedrolls, placing hers on one side of the fire and his on the other. Whoever had first selected the campsite had chosen well. There were rocks to sit on beside the fire. And yes, he had thought about pale thighs. He was still thinking about pale thighs.

She sat down with a small sound, which she immediately bit off. “And I thought the saddle was hard,” she said, arranging her skirt over the rock.

She’d brushed the dust off her clothing and tidied her hair. The odor of liniment reached him every time she moved.

“The liniment isn’t helping much.”

“Give it time,” he said, irritated that from now on every time he inhaled the odor of liniment, he would think about her rubbing her thighs. “Here. Smooth this on your face.” Her cheeks and forehead were sunburned, getting redder by the minute.

“What is it?” Lifting the bowl he gave her, she sniffed and frowned.

“It’s egg white and castor oil.” They were lucky to have the ingredients. He’d overlooked sunburn as a problem.

She hesitated, then removed the sunglasses he’d given her. White rings were appearing around her eyes as her skin turned redder. Silently she smeared the concoction on her face.

“This journey is going to get easier, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Nodding, she glanced at the sun sinking toward the horizon like a huge red ball. “I’m sorry I wasn’t any help setting things up. I swear I’ll get better at this.”

“It’s fine the way things are. I have my own routine.”