Dangerous to Hold (31 page)

Without a word being spoken between them, he and Dimitri somehow exchanged places. The tired, stoop-shouldered lieutenant fell back, and Nate took his position at Alex's side as though he belonged there.

The small band rode into camp an hour later. The temperature had dropped, and the wind knifed through their still-damp garments with a bone-chilling ease. Her hands numb, Alex could barely grip the reins when she at last slid out of the saddle.

A small crowd gathered to meet them and hear what news, if any, they brought. While the men took charge of the horses and the women pressed mugs of hot tea into their hands, Katerina drifted to Nate's side to welcome him back personally.

“You…you wear the wet!” she exclaimed, plucking at his jacket sleeve. She glanced around at the rest of the small party. “All of you.”

Anya, her pale hair dangling down her back in a fat braid, clucked and murmured something in her soft voice.

“Come,” Katerina urged, tugging on Nate's arm. “Anya says the water is yet hot in the steaming tent. She left the fires…how is it? Stroked?”

“Stoked,” Alex supplied between sips of hot, steaming tea.

The thought of Nate being hustled to the small tent that served as the camp's communal steam bath almost made her forget the shivers racking her body. Like most of their European counterparts, the Karistanis had few inhibitions about shedding their clothes for a good, invigorating soak. Alex herself had long ago learned to balance her more conservative upbringing in the States with the earthier and far more practical Karistani traditions. But she knew that few Americans took to communal bathing. Folding her hands around the mug, she waited to watch Sloan—Nate—squirm.

If the thought of stripping down in front of strangers disconcerted him, he didn't show it.

“Thanks, Katerina,” he responded with his lazy grin. “We could use some thawing-out. But the steaming tent won't hold us all. Let Dimitri and the others go first. I'll take the next shift…with Alexandra.”

Katerina sent Alex a quick, frowning glance over the heads of the others.

“It is not…not meet for you to bathe with an unmarried woman,” she said primly to Nate.

Ha! Alex thought. If he'd suggested Katerina go into the steam tent, she would've joined him quickly enough.

The cattiness of her reaction surprised Alex, and flooded her with guilt. Deciding she'd had enough for one day, Alex passed Anya her mug.

“I'll leave the second shift to you,” she conceded to Nate, not very graciously.

“God keep you until the dawn, Alexandra Danilova.”

“And you…Nate Sloan.”

 

Alex rose with the sun the next morning and walked out into the brisk air. The wind had taken on a keenness that brought a sting to her cheeks and made her grateful for the warmth of her high-collared, long-sleeved shirt in soft cream wool, which she wore belted at the waist. Its thick cashmerelike fabric defied the wind, as did the folds of her loose, baggy trousers. Fumbling in her pocket for a box of matches to light the charcoal in the samovar, she saw with some surprise that the brass urn was already steaming.

“Will you take tea,
ataman?
”

Turning, she found Dimitri waiting in a patch of sunlight beside the tent. Gratefully Alex reached for the tin mug he offered.

“Thank you. And thank you, as well, for lighting the samovar.”

“It was not I,” he replied. “The
Amerikanski,
he did so.”

Alex folded her hands around the steaming mug, her spine tingling in awareness. Nate had been up before dawn? To light the samovar? Involuntarily she glanced over her shoulder, half expecting, half wanting, to see him behind her.

Dimitri picked up his own mug, then gave a mutter of disgust as tea sloshed over the sides. Seeing how his stiff hands shook, Alex felt a wave of compassion for this loyal and well-worn lieutenant.

“Why are you awake so early?” she asked. “Why don't you wait until the sun takes the chill from the winds to leave your tent?”

“Until the sun takes the stiffness from my bones, you mean?” His pale, rheumy eyes reflected a wry resignation. “I fear even the summer sun can no longer ease the ache in these bones.”

Alex felt a crushing weight on her heart. “Dimitri,” she said slowly, painfully, “perhaps you should go to the lowlands for the winter. You and the others who wish it. This…this could be a harsh time for Karistan.”

“No, my
ataman.
I was born on the steppes. I will die on the steppes.” His leathered face creased in a smile. “But not today. Nor, perhaps, tomorrow. Drink your tea, and I will tell you what Gregor learned from listening to his wireless in the small hours of the night.”

As the lieutenant related an overheard conversation between two shortwave-radio operators in Balminsk, a band seemed to tighten around Alex's chest.

“And when is this raid to take place?” she asked, her eyes on the distant horizon.

“Gregor could not hear,” Dimitri replied with a shrug. “Or the speakers did not say. All that came through was that Karistani beef must provide filling for
peroshki,
or many in Balminsk will die this winter.”

“I suppose they care not how many Karistani will die if they take the cattle!”

“It has always been so.”

Alex swallowed her bitterness. “Yes, it has. Although it will leave the camp thin, we must double the scouts along the eastern border. Make sure they have plenty of flares to give us warning. Send Mikhail and one other to move the cattle in from the north grazing range. I'll bring in those from the south.”

Dimitri nodded. “It is done.”

He threw the rest of his tea on the ground, then half turned to leave. Swinging back, he faced her, an unreadable expression on his lined countenance.

“What?” Alex asked. “What troubles you?”

“If the raiders come and I'm not with you,” he said slowly, “keep the
Amerikanski
close by you. To guard your back.”

Alex stared at him in surprise. “Why should you think he cares about my back?”

The somber light in his eyes gave way to a watery smile. “Ah, 'Zandra. This one cares about most parts of you, would you but open your eyes and see it. You should take him to your bed and be done with it.”

Her face warming, Alex lifted her chin. “Don't confuse me
with Katerina or Ivana. I'm not in competition for this man's…services.”

“Nevertheless, sooner or later he will offer them to you. Or force them on you, if he's half the stallion I think he is.”

His pale eyes fastened on something just over Alex's left shoulder, and he gave a rumble of low laughter.

“From the looks of him this morning, I would say it may be sooner rather than later.”

He strolled away, leaving Alex to face Sloan.

Gripping her tin mug in both hands, she swung around. As she watched him stride toward her, she realized with a sinking sensation that she wasn't quite sure how to handle this man. The balance between them had shifted subtly in the past twenty-four hours. Alex felt less sure about him, less in control.

She didn't understand why. Unless it was the determined glint in his eyes. Or the set of his broad shoulders beneath the turned-up collar of his jacket. Or the way his gaze made a slow, deliberate journey from the tip of her upthrust chin, down over each of the buttons on her shirt, to the toes of her boots, then back up again. By the time his eyes met hers once more, she felt as though she'd been undressed in public…and put together again with everything inside out.

“Mornin', Alexandra.”

“Good morning, Sl—Nate.”

“I like your hair like that.” A smile webbed the weathered skin at the corners of his eyes. “Especially with that thingamabob in it.”

Alex fingered the French braid that hung over one shoulder, its end tied with a tasseled bit of yarn and horsehair. The compliment disconcerted her, threw her even more off stride.

“Thank you,” she replied hesitantly.

“You ready to ride?”

She tipped him a cool look. “Ride where?”

“I talked to Dimitri earlier. You need to bring your cattle in.”

“That so?”

His smile deepening, he reached for a mug and twisted the spigot on the samovar.

“That's so.”

It was only after his soft response that Alex realized she'd picked up one of his favorite colloquialisms. Good Lord, as if her jumble of Karistani, North Philly establishment and Manhattan garment-district phrasing weren't confusing enough.

Disdaining sugar, he sipped at the bitter green tea. “How many head do we have to bring in?”

Alex hesitated. She didn't particularly care for this air of authority he'd assumed, but it would be foolish to spurn his help. Any help. With the feeling that she was crossing some invisible line, she shrugged.

“A hundred or so from the north grazing. Mikhail will bring those to the ravine. There are another thirty, perhaps forty, south of here.”

“We're going after them?”

She forced a reluctant response. “I guess we are.”

He set aside his mug and stepped closer to curl a finger under her chin. Tilting her face to his, he smiled down at her.

“That wasn't so bad, was it?”

When she didn't answer, he brushed his thumb along the line of her jaw. “Listen to me, Alex. It's not a sign of weakness to ask for help. You don't have to ride this trail all alone.”

“No, it appears she does not.”

Katerina's voice cut through the stillness between them like a knife.

Alex jerked her chin out of Nate's hold as her cousin let the tent flap fall behind her and sauntered out. Tossing her cloud of dark hair over one shoulder, she glared at them both.

Apparently the peace between her and her cousin was as fragile as the one between Karistan and Balminsk, Alex thought with an inner sigh. Anxious to avoid open hostilities with the younger woman, she suggested to Nate that they saddle up.

W
ithin two hours, Alex and Nate had driven the cattle into the ravine where their small band merged with the herd Mikhail and his men had brought down from the north. Leaving the beefy, red-faced Karistani with the black Denver Broncos ball cap on his head in charge, Alex insisted on returning to camp immediately.

They were met by Katerina and Petr Borodín, who was practically hopping up and down in excitement.

“You will not believe it,
ataman!
” he exclaimed in Karistani as they dismounted. “Such news Gregor has just heard over his wireless!”

Alex's heart jumped into her throat. She thrust her reins into Katerina's hands and rushed over to the thin, balding warrior.

“What news, Petr? Tell me! What has happened? We saw no flares. We heard no shots.”

“There's been some sort of accident in Balminsk. No one knows exactly what. The radio reports all differ. The head of the team says it is cause for concern.”

“What team?” she asked sharply.

Petr waved his one arm, causing the medals on his chest to clink in a chorus of excitement. “The team that checks the missiles. From the United Nations.”

“They're there, then,” Alex murmured, half under her breath.

Petr cackled gleefully. “Yes, they are there, and there they will stay. This team leader has said that Balminsk's borders must be closed, and has called in UN helicopters to patrol them.”

“What!”

“No one may travel in or out of Balminsk, until some person who checks the soils…some geo…geo…”

“Geologist?”

“Yes, until this geologist says there is no contamination.”

“Oh, my God.”

Her mind whirling, Alex tried to grasp the ramifications to Karistan of this bizarre situation. If what Gregor had heard was true, no raiders would ride across the borders from Balminsk, at least not for some days. But neither would anyone else!

The one person she'd been waiting for, the one whose advice she'd been counting on, was stranded on the other side of the border.

“You want to let me know what's going on here?”

The steel underlying Nate's drawl swung Alex around. “There are reports of an accident in Balminsk.”

His eyes lanced into her, hard and laser-sharp. “What kind of an accident?”

“No one quite knows for sure. The reports are confused. Something about soil contamination.”

“Anyone hurt?”

Alex relayed the question to Petr, who shook his head.

“Not according to reports so far. But supposedly they've closed the borders until a geologist with the UN team verifies conditions. No one may go into or out of Balminsk for several days, at least.”

“Holy hell!” Nate raked a hand through his short, sun-streaked hair. “I hope she's got her boots on,” he muttered under his breath.

Katerina sauntered forward, her dark eyes gleaming. “So, cousin, this is good, no? We have the…the reprieve.”

“Perhaps.”

“Pah! Those to the east have worries of their own for a while. I? I say we should take our ease for what hours we may.”

“Well…”

“As the women say, my cousin, life is short, and only a fool would scrub dirty linens when she may sip the vodka and dance the dance.”

Strolling forward, Katerina hooked a hand through Nate's arm and tilted her head to smile provocatively up at him. “Come, I will show you the work of my aunt, Feodora. She paints the…the…
pysanky.
”

“The Easter eggs,” Alex translated, fighting a sudden and violent surge of jealousy at the thought of Katerina sipping and dancing with Nate.

“Yes, the Easter eggs,” her cousin cooed. “They are most beautiful.”

Lifting her chin, Alex gave Nate a cool look. “You should go with Katerina. My aunt is very talented. One of her pieces is on permanent display at the Saint Petersburg Academy of Arts.”

Nate patted the younger woman's hand. “Well, I'd like to see those eggs, you understand. But later. Right now, I'd better stick with Alexandra and Petr. We need to find out a little more about what's happened in Balminsk.”

Katerina pursed her lips, clearly not pleased with his excuse. With a petulant shrug, she flipped her dark hair over one shoulder.

“Stay with them, then. Perhaps later we will play a bit, no?”

“Perhaps,” he answered with one of his slow grins, which
instantly restored Katerina's good humor and set Alex's back teeth on edge.

“Come, Petr,” she snapped. “Let us go see what additional news Gregor may have gleaned.”

Alex turned and headed for the camp. With the sun almost overhead, she didn't cast much of a shadow on the dusty earth. But Sloan's was longer, more solid. It merged with hers as they strode toward the tent that served as the Karistanis' administrative center.

 

For the rest of the day, Gregor stayed perched on his shaky camp stool in front of his ancient radio. Static crackled over the receiver as he picked up various reports. The residents of the camp drifted in and out of the tent to hear the news, shaking their heads at each confused report.

No Karistani would wish a disaster such as Chernobyl on even their most hated enemy—and it was soon obvious that the accident in Balminsk was not of that magnitude or seriousness. It kept the White Wolf trapped within his own lair, however, and that filled the Karistanis with a savage glee.

Long into the night, groups gathered to discuss events. The tensions that had racked the camp for so long eased perceptibly. Having lived on the knife edge of danger and war long, the host savored every moment of their reprieve. It was a short one, they acknowledged, but sufficient to justify bringing out the vodka bottles and indulging themselves a bit.

By the next morning, an almost festive air permeated the camp, one reminiscent of the old days. One Alex hadn't seen since her return.

The Karistani were a people who loved music, dance and drink, not necessarily in that order. In the summers of Alex's youth, they had needed little excuse to gather around the campfires at night and listen to the balalaika or sing the lusty ballads that told of their past—of great battles and warrior princes. Of mythical animals and sleighs flying across snow-blanketed steppes.

On holy days or in celebration of some triumph, the women
had cooked great platters of sugared beets and spicy pastries. Whole sides of beef had turned on spits, and astonishing quantities of vodka had disappeared in a single night. Karistani feasts rivaled those rumored to have been given by the Cossacks of old, although Alex had never seen among her mother's people quite the level of orgiastic activity that reputedly had taken place in previous centuries.

As she and Nate walked through the bright morning sunlight, blessed by a rare lack of wind, she saw signs of the feverish activity that preceded a night of revelry.

Alex herself wasn't immune to the general air of excitement. For reasons she didn't really want to consider, she'd donned her red wool tunic with the gold frogging, freshly cleaned after its dousing in the storm two nights ago. Her hair gleamed from an herbal shampoo and vigorous brushing, and she'd dug out the supply of cosmetics she usually didn't bother with here on the steppes. A touch of mascara, a little lipstick, and she felt like a different woman altogether.

One Sloan approved of, if the glint in his eyes when he met her outside the tent was any measure. Ignoring him and the flutter the sight of his tall, lean body in its usual jeans and soft cotton shirt caused, Alex strode through the camp.

Anya stood at a sturdy wood worktable, her sleeves rolled up and her arms floured to her elbows, slamming dough onto the surface with the cheerful enthusiasm of a kerchiefed sumo wrestler. Her pretty face lighted up as she caught sight of Nate, and she called a greeting that Alex refused to translate verbatim. It never failed to astound her that Anya—pale, delicate Anya—should have such an earthy appreciation of the male physique.

Ivana, honey pot in hand, came out of the women's tent as they approached. Alex translated the widow's laughing invitation for Nate and Ole Red to join her on an expedition in search of honeycombs, and Nate's good-natured declination.

Secretly pleased, but curious about his refusal, Alex tipped her head back to look up at him. “Why don't you go with
her? I have things I must do. I don't need you on my heels every minute.”

Sloan hooked his thumbs in his belt, smiling down at her. “You know, Alexandra, Wily Willie used to warn me to be careful what I wished for, because I just might get it. You wanted me to stick close? I'm stickin' close.”

Alex wasn't sure whether it was the smile or the soft promise that sent the ripple of sensation down her spine. To cover her sudden pleasure, she shrugged.

“I'm beginning to think your Willie has Karistani blood in his veins. He has as many sayings as the women of this host. One of which,” Alex warned, “has to do with skinning and tanning the hide of a bothersome male. At least if one makes a rug out of him, he can be put to some use.”

Laughter glinted in his hazel eyes. “Ah, sweetheart, when this is all over, I'll have to show you just how many uses a bothersome male can be put to.”

The ripple of sensation became a rush of pleasure. He'd called her “sweetheart” several times before. At least once in anger. Several times in mockery. But this was the first time the term had rolled off his lips with a low, caressing intimacy that sent liquid heat spilling through Alex's veins. The sensation disconcerted her so much that it took a few moments for the rest of his words to penetrate.

“When what is all over?” she asked slowly.

The laughter faded from his eyes. “You tell me, Alex. What's going on here? What have you got planned?”

They stood toe-to-toe in the dusty square. The camp bustled with activity all around them, but neither of them paid any attention. The sun heated the air, but neither of them felt it.

“Tell me,” he urged.

Alex wanted to. She might have, if one of the women hadn't called to Petr at that moment, asking him if he thought it safe for her to go collect wild onions for the beefsteaks without escort. The question underscored the impermanence of these few hours of reprieve, and brought the realities of Alex's responsibilities crashing down on her.

“I…I can't.”

She turned to walk away, only to be spun back around.

“Why not?”

His insistence rubbed against the grain of Alex's own strong will.

“Look, this isn't any of your business. Karistan isn't any of your business.”

“Bull.”

She stiffened and shot him an angry look. “It's not bull. I'm the one responsible for seeing these people don't starve this winter. I'm the one who has to keep the White Wolf away from our herds.”

“There's help available. The president…”

“Right. The president. He's so caught up with the troubles in the Middle East and Central America and his own reelection difficulties that he doesn't have time for a tiny corner of the world like Karistan.”

“He sent me, didn't he?”

“Yes, and Three Bars Red.” Her lip curled. “As much as we appreciate the offer of your services, Karistan's problems need a more immediate fix.”

“Then why the hell didn't you take the aid package that was offered?”

“You know about that, do you? Then you ought to know what this so-called package included. No? Let me tell you.”

Alex shoved a hand through her hair, feeling the tensions and worries that had built up inside her bubble over.

“Some fourth-level State Department weenie came waltzing in here with promises of
future
aid…
if
I agreed to open, unannounced inspections of Karistan by any and every federal agency with nothing better to do.
If
I converted our economy and our currency to one that would ‘compete' on the European market.
If
I agree to an agricultural program that included planting rice.”

Sloan's sun-bleached brows rose in disbelief. “Rice?”

“Rice! On the steppes! Even if my ancestors hadn't turned over in their graves at the thought of our men riding tractors
instead of horses, these lands are too high, too arid, for rice, for God's sake.”

“Okay, so some bureaucrat didn't do his homework before he put together a package for Karistan…”

The blood of her mother's people rose in Alex, hot and fierce. “Let's get this straight. No one's going to
put together
anything for Karistan, except me. I didn't ask for this responsibility, but it's mine.”

He took her arm in a hard grip. “Listen to me, Alex. You don't have to do this alone.”

She flicked an icy glance at the hand folded around the red of her sleeve, then up at his face. “Aren't you forgetting the ground rules, Sloan? You won't touch me without my permission, remember? Unless you want to feel the bite of the
nagaika.
”

His fingers dug into her flesh for an instant, then uncurled, one by one. Eyes the color of agates raked her face.

“You better keep that little horsetail flyswatter close to hand, Alexandra. Because the time's coming when I'm going to touch a whole lot more of you than you've ever had touched before.”

He turned and stalked away, leaving Alex stunned by the savagery she'd seen in his eyes. And swamped with heat. And suddenly, inexplicably frightened. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to understand the feeling that gripped her.

She could remember feeling like this only once before. One long-ago summer, when the half-broken pony she was riding had thrown her. She'd been far out on the steppes, and had walked home through gathering dusk with the echo of distant, eerie howls behind her.

With a wrenching sensation in the pit of her stomach, Alex now realized that Nate Sloan loomed as a far more powerful threat to her than either the gray wolves of the steppes or the White Wolf of Balminsk. Not because she feared him or the look in his eyes. But because her blood pumped with a hot,
equally savage need to know what would happen if… when…he touched her as he'd promised.