B000XUBEHA EBOK (13 page)

Her gaze narrowed. “I meant what I said earlier. If I see something I can do, I’m going to do it. Gradually we’ll work out a new routine.”

At times like this, she irritated him. A stubborn expression tightened her mouth and made her eyes squinty. A sure signal that arguing would only make the situation worse.

He wasn’t accustomed to dealing with women, that was the problem. The women he’d encountered were whores who were generally straightforward and uninterested in changing a man’s routine, or respectable ladies of brief acquaintance who either feared him and said little or who gushed over him and sent him looking for an escape.

Even before the war, he’d been shy around women. The fair sex inhabited a world that impressed him as trivial. Therefore, it was difficult to talk to them. What did he know about embroidery, menus, china painting, piano pieces? And what did they know about law books, racing four-in-hands, stocks and bonds, or good whisky?

Granted, women in the West could surprise him. He’d met women out here who knew horseflesh as well as he did. Many respectable women had no time for trivial pursuits, but worked as hard as their husbands. He’d even met one or two females who could discuss politics as astutely as any man.

But he’d never spent as much day-to-day time with a woman as he had with Della Ward. She was proving to be as mysterious, puzzling, and irritating as he’d always thought women were. But he also saw her charm and beauty, as well as qualities he hadn’t expected. Courage, determination, and a quiet sense of honor and duty.

And opinions. She had opinions about things and expected him to accommodate those opinions, even if it meant changing routines that had worked well for ten years. He wondered if a more experienced man would know how to get around a woman’s opinions and her need to change things.

“Cameron?”

“Sorry. I was thinking about something.”

She waited a minute as if she expected him to explain what he was thinking. When he didn’t, she made an impatient gesture, then smothered a yawn.

A man shouldn’t feel guilty because he didn’t care to explain himself.

“Do we have plenty of water?”

Leaning forward, he poked the fire, thinking about the horses, coffee, the canteens. “I’d say so.”

“Good. I want to wash out some things.”

He glanced up at her. “You mean like laundry?”

“Yes.” She averted her gaze and images of stockings and undergarments flashed through his mind. First thighs, now undergarments. He, too, looked aside, cursing under his breath.

“We don’t have enough water to do laundry.”

“I was afraid of that,” she said unhappily. “Well. When will we come to a town? And will we stay there overnight?”

“The next town is about a week’s distance. We could stay overnight. If you insist.” And if the town had a hotel. He couldn’t recall.

But he did recognize another change in his routine. On his own, he didn’t travel from hotel room to hotel room. He camped on the plains until he smelled ripe and every item in his saddlebags needed a wash. Obviously that wasn’t how it would be on this trip.

Resentment began in the center of his chest, but receded when he glanced at her. Della stared into the fire with a morose expression that suggested she wasn’t happy about how the journey was shaping up, either. Plus she was aching in every muscle and bone, and her face was taut and shiny with egg white and oil. Clearly she was utterly miserable.

Just when he thought he’d figured out one small thing about her, she proved him wrong, this time by suddenly lifting her head with a radiant smile.

“We’re really doing this,” she said softly. “We’re going to find Claire. I’ll get to see my baby. Oh, Cameron, I’m so happy.”

Happy? She was so stiff and sore she could hardly move, and her sunburned skin had to be hurting. But he gazed into her eyes and believed her. The sadness seemed lessened tonight.

When she could no longer restrain her yawns, she excused herself as politely as if they were sitting in a drawing room, and she left the fire to examine the bedroll.

Cameron had no idea what the protocol might be for traveling with a woman. Did he walk into the darkness and stay there while she did whatever women did to prepare for sleeping? Did he just avert his eyes? Pretend there was nothing out of the ordinary about sleeping a few feet from a woman he’d fantasized about for ten years?

Uncharacteristically indecisive, he waited to see what she would do, still considering a walk out on the range.

Keeping her back to him, she tugged off her boots, hesitated a moment, then crawled into the bedroll wearing her clothing. Thank God for that, he told himself, trying not to feel disappointed. Then she took down her hair and produced a brush out of thin air. Fascinated, he watched her brush a cascade of waist-length brown hair before she turned her face to the darkness and nimble fingers plaited a braid quicker than he would have believed possible.

While he was thinking about the brief glimpse of a silken waterfall tumbling to her waist, she wiggled down between the blankets. “Good night,” she called over her shoulder.

“Good night,” he said in a scratchy sounding voice.

Yes sir, this was going to be a very different kind of journey.

He poured another cup of coffee and did some flame gazing himself. There was no hope that he’d be going to sleep anytime soon.

Chapter 8

There wasn’t much to look at on the open range. With no shade and no rain, the sparse wildflowers browned in the heat, tucked amidst grass turned dry and tough. Occasional dust eddies spun funnels of whirling red sand across the horizon.

Cameron had explained that the ground rose to the west, and Della tried to see the lift but couldn’t. The plain looked flat as toast to her untrained eye.

By the third day she realized there was more definition than she’d first imagined. Gullies appeared, too wide and deep to cross, which necessitated going around and that often meant traveling an extra mile or two. Gradually she began to notice small hills and clumps of oak or wild pecan, began to realize that the lay of the land changed from hour to hour. Once she saw a small herd of prong-horns kicking up a plume of dust. She spotted enough rabbits that she stopped worrying about fresh meat.

But there wasn’t much to occupy her thoughts once she’d observed what little there was to see and had mentally checked how hot and uncomfortable she was. On that count, yesterday had been the worst.

For a full minute, Della had believed she could not get out of the bedroll. Muscles she’d forgotten she possessed ached and protested every small movement. Climbing back on Bob for a day’s ride had required every ounce of will power, and the first hours in the saddle had been agony.

Today was marginally better, which encouraged her to believe that Cameron was correct. Surely every day would get a little easier.

As it didn’t improve her spirits to think about hard saddles and chaffing thighs, she focused on Cameron.

He rode tall and easy in the saddle, scanning the open country in front of him. Every now and then he looked back, but not often. It pleased her that he assumed she was keeping up, but it also peeved her because sometimes she wondered if he’d forgotten that she was behind him.

Such thoughts were irksome. It was fine, just fine, that Cameron did not spend as much time thinking about her as she wasted thinking about him. But how could she push him out of her mind when there was little else to look at but his straight spine and the tanned back of his neck?

She could think about Clarence. Since Cameron’s arrival she’d spent less time remembering Clarence than she had in years. So, yesterday, feeling guilty that she’d neglected her miseries, she’d read his letter again and again, and felt her spirits sink below ground level. Finally she told herself that if he’d had time to finish writing his letter, he would have forgiven her. But she didn’t believe it. She told herself that he would never have posted this letter. He would have reconsidered, then would have written an understanding and forgiving response. But she didn’t believe that, either.

Staring at Cameron’s back, watching the dampness between his shoulder blades soak through his shirt, she understood that his coming hadn’t changed the essentials no matter how it sometimes felt. She was still a woman whose last words to her husband had been “I hate you.” Clarence had not forgiven her. And she was a woman who had left her baby behind when she came west.

Head bowed with familiar pain, she didn’t hear Cameron call until he circled back and rode up beside her. Then she glanced up with surprise.

“Is it time to stop?” It looked to her as if sunset were still a couple of hours distant.

“We’ll make camp early. Do you see that elm about a quarter of a mile ahead?”

“I see it.” Elms weren’t common on the open range. Their leafy shade extended an invitation as welcome as a parasol.

“If I remember correctly, there’s a water hole a few yards from that tree.”

Della couldn’t see his eyes behind the blue lenses, but his expression suggested he was trying to gauge her mood. “How are you faring?”

“Well enough that we don’t have to stop early on my account.” That wasn’t true. Relief had eased the stiffness in her shoulders the instant he mentioned they could stop now. But she would have continued despite her aching back and bottom, rather than raise a bump in his all-important routine. He was, after all, making this journey for her.

By now she didn’t expect Cameron to offer an explanation without some prodding. “So . . . are we stopping on my account?”

He scanned the horizon. “I have a hunch that something is going to happen, and I want to set up camp before it does.”

“What’s going to . . . ?”

But he’d given Rebecca’s lead rope a tug and set off for the elm, Rebecca trotting along behind him.

Annoyed, Della sighed, then urged Bob forward. To her way of thinking, Cameron had been easier to get along with back at the farm. There he’d been less terse and more accommodating. Out here he seemed tense and distracted.

Maybe his edginess was a result of being responsible for a greenhorn like herself. Or perhaps it strained his nature to travel with another person. Maybe he regretted his offer to take her to Claire. The last possibility loomed large in her mind.

“Cameron, we need to talk,” she said after dismounting. Lord, the shade under the elm felt good. Three days of traveling into the sun had set her face on fire. The egg white and castor oil helped, she supposed, but she knew her skin must be turning the color of a tomato. She didn’t have the energy or the courage to find her small mirror and have a look.

“Later,” he said. Moving faster than he usually did, he dug a firepit and filled it with twigs and small dry branches. When the flames were jumping, he added thicker branches, then strode toward Rebecca to fetch utensils and the bedrolls.

Della picked up the coffeepot where he’d dropped it beside the fire. “I’ll find the water hole and fill the pot.” Apparently a serious discussion would have to wait.

“No. Stay right here.” When she lifted a puzzled eyebrow, he glanced over his shoulder away from the shade. “I’ll fill the pot. If you want to help, you can pick a spot for the bedrolls.”

“Heaven forbid I should actually roll them out, but I’m allowed to pick a spot.” She was tired, hot, and worried that he’d changed his mind about taking her to Atlanta.

He gave her a long look, then walked toward a small clump of willows, the coffeepot dangling from his fingers.

She moved away from the fire, wishing they had lemonade and ice instead of coffee. Every summer she longed for ice, and tried to remember the sensation of it melting on her tongue. Not once had she ever longed for a cup of hot coffee in August. Coffee wasn’t going to improve her mood or make her feel cooler.

When Cameron returned, he glanced at the bedrolls that she’d opened, and noticed the tree stumps she had rolled up to the fire for seats. The last thing Della wanted to do was sit beside a fire, but once the sun set, the flame’s warmth would be welcome.

Tight-lipped, she watched him prepare the coffee and set the pot over the fire. It appeared to her as if he made a pot of coffee exactly as she did, so why was he so possessive of the chore?

“Where are you going?”

She held up a bundle of items that she’d pulled out of her saddlebags. “I’m going to the water hole to wash out a few things. Do you mind?”

He took off his blue glasses for a moment and rubbed his eyes, a clear sign of exasperation. “I want you to stay here.”

“And I want a bucket of ice.” She stared at him, then pushed through the underbrush in the direction he’d gone earlier.

“You’re a stubborn woman, Della,” he said from directly behind her.

She shoved through the willows, letting the thin branches snap back on him. “There was a time when I was accustomed to sitting idle while people waited on me, but those days are long past.” Stepping into the clearing around the water hole, she examined the animal tracks at the edges, then turned to him, her eyes narrow behind the blue lenses. “It’s hard enough that you’re paying for everything. I need to contribute something along the way. I’m certainly capable of making a pot of coffee.”