Defiant (32 page)

God, how he wanted to take it, to strip off his trousers and join her, sliding his body next to hers, feeling her bare skin touching his. He could almost hear the water sizzle with the electricity sparking between them. He wanted his arm to be whole again, he wanted no past, he wanted to be young again without dark, haunting shadows. He ached to slip into the water and play with her as if they were two kids, and then love her, slowly and sensuously, and lie next to her to dry lazily in the sun.

He wanted all that. He wanted it with an intensity that fought with whatever small piece of honor and decency he had left. With a strangled groan, he shook his head, trying to croak out a refusal, taking several seconds to do it. “Someone needs to keep watch,” he said, knowing it was a lie. There was no danger of invasion here, none except his own. He looked enviously at the icy water falling from the rocks. Never had he needed it more.

Disappointment appeared momentarily on her face, but then that smile came back into her eyes. It had always enchanted him, right from the beginning, that imp of a smile, that suggestion of humor that tugged at her lips. Even when she was being practical and efficient, as she was when she first cared for him, he'd sensed an inherent joy in her. It had been tempered by grief and tragedy, but still it lurked in her, and that, more than anything, fascinated him, gave him hope, stirred life in him, and made her so irresistible. He wanted to share it, to grab something so long gone from his own existence.

Now that smile promised that she hadn't given up. But she moved to the edge and took the soap. She leaned back, dunking her hair completely in the water, and then vigorously started washing it. He watched her every move, memorizing the sight of her long hair as it floated in the water. When wet, it was a dark, lustrous auburn …

He forced his gaze away, staring off into the trees on the far side of the clearing, but he was unable to stop from darting quick glances back. To make sure she was safe, he told himself. Every splash tested his will. Every glance, every movement, shook his conviction.

Then at last she was finished and she held out her hand for him to help her up. She climbed up on the bank next to him, limber and lovely. Drops of water on her skin caught the sun and reflected like diamonds. She didn't relinquish his hand, but held on to it, braiding her fingers with his. “It was wonderful,” she said, her voice breathless with a kind of awe. “Now it's your turn. I'll keep watch.” Her eyes glittered with mischief, and he knew she understood his dilemma and was ready to tempt him every inch of the way.

He handed Mary Jo her clothes. “Lookouts have to be dressed,” he said. It sounded ridiculous and he knew it.

The very pomposity of the statement made her grin. “It's in the instruction book?”

“Of course,” he said wryly. “I read it myself.”

“You didn't write it?” she retorted suspiciously.

He didn't answer, just eyed her clothes with suggestion. After a moment, she reluctantly took them and pulled on her chemise. “The sun feels too good,” she protested.

And it did. It was a perfect day in the mountains, the sun's rays sparkling off the snow of nearby peaks, and burnishing her auburn curls with fire. He turned his head away, and considered briefly whether he should rid himself of his trousers. They would be uncomfortable wet, but he knew he would feel a great deal more uncomfortable if he shed them. Every time he looked at her, his loins began to pulse and swell. Hellfire.

He slipped into the water, into the cold part, welcoming its freezing impact. After a moment, he moved into the warmer area, swimming, using his good arm and legs. After several moments he moved to the bank, taking the soap Mary Jo had used, and started scrubbing himself. He didn't linger after that. It was too dangerous. He saw the gleam in her eye, and knew it was a matter of time before she slipped back into the water. He pulled himself out and stretched out on the pine needles, letting the sun dry him.

For several moments, he watched her comb her hair dry in the sun, then plait it into one long single braid. It was so intimate an act in this quiet place, so tender, he wanted to reach over and touch her. Instead, he steeled himself and closed his eyes, but still that warm intimacy seemed to stretch between them. There was a lazy sensuousness in the air. The water, the soap, and now the sun conspired to wash contentment over him. Yet every one of his senses was only too aware of Mary Jo's presence, her nearness. He didn't know whether the clean smell of her soap came from him or her, but it was intoxicating mixed with the sweetly pungent aroma of pines.

Her hand touched his and finally he turned slightly and opened his eyes. She was on her side, her hair falling along the line of her right cheek, her mouth gentled in a slight, wistful smile. Her other hand went to his cheek, still heavy with beard, and her fingers ran down it. “If I had a razor, I'd shave you,” she said. “You look like a brigand.”

“I
am
a brigand.”

“No you're not.”

He started nibbling on her fingers. “You have too much faith, Mrs. Williams.”

“No, I don't,” she denied. “I've learned to be suspicious. But you're different.”

“Why?” He was truly curious.

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I would have taken in anyone hurt as you were, but … I might have gone to the sheriff. You were just so … gentle with Jeff, I suppose. You were hurting so much because of your own son. I know how that feels, to lose someone you love.”

He was silent, but he kept nibbling on her fingers. They tasted very nice, irresistible in fact. He sighed, then said what was worrying him. “What if there's a child?”

“I think that would be lovely.”

Her answer astounded him. He stopped nibbling.

“Don't worry. I know you plan to leave, and I won't try to dissuade you. I don't understand your reasons entirely, but … I won't try to hold you. But I would love to have your child.” Her hand traced the indentation in his chin. “I want him with your face, with this dimple.” She swallowed hard. “And I want him to be happy, ever so happy.”

“What if it's a girl?” He heard himself ask the question, as if a stranger were saying it.

“Then I don't think I want her to look like you,” she said teasingly as she studied him again. “Except maybe for your eyes. I would take those.”

He shook his head. “Your neighbors …?”

“My neighbors would just have to mind their own business,” she said. “I always wanted more children, but I really didn't want to marry again.”

“Why?” It was a question he'd asked himself over and over again. Jeff had told him the sheriff was sweet on her, that she could have had the pick of the Rangers.

“I didn't think I could ever love again,” she said slowly. “I didn't want to. It hurt too much.”

He was suddenly very still. Her words about a child had quietly, ridiculously, foolishly pleased him; but these last words were like a jagged knife in his gut. Of all the things he'd done in his life, hurting her would be the one to haunt him most. And he would hurt her, especially if there was ever a child. No matter how she dismissed the issue, he knew the condemnation that came to women with children out of wedlock. How could he ever have risked it?

He must have frowned because she continued slowly. “Don't worry, I'm very used to taking care of myself. If it didn't work out here, we would go someplace else.”

That thought didn't help a damn thing. He suddenly thought of her, of his child, moving beyond his reach, beyond his knowledge. It couldn't happen. No matter how difficult it would be, he couldn't make love to her again. And he could only pray that a child hadn't already started to grow because of his stupidity. He sat up. “I think it's time to leave.”

She nodded. “I want to see Jeff.” She hadn't wanted to be away from him for several hours, but she knew now he was in good hands, and that rest was the best thing for him.

“He's a strong kid,” Wade said, glad that the subject was changed, even as thoughts unsaid hung in the air. “Damned resourceful.”

“He was excited about the race tonight.”

“He'll never see riding like this again,” Wade said.

She hesitated. “Can we leave in the morning?”

“I think so, if we take it slow and easy.” His eyes questioned her.

“I know that you said Tom Berry would tell Tuck that Jeff was found, but … still there might be a search.”

Wade stood, hoping his face didn't reflect his reaction, didn't give away how much he was affected by her decision. But he felt pleasure, pure and simple. And a certain amount of pride in her. Mary Jo, who days ago had been so mistrustful of Indians, any Indians, now wanted to protect them as he did. It wasn't easy to conquer prejudice and fears. He knew that better than most. It had taken him long, hard years to learn that.

He awkwardly pulled on his shirt over his wounded arm and walked over to the horses, untying her mare from a branch and stooping to unhobble his gray.

“Wade?” He hesitated at the sound of her voice but didn't turn around. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He tried to steady his hand as he laid it on the gray's mane. He nodded. It had been such a small thing, especially after all she'd been through in the past weeks.

He held the reins of her horse while she mounted, then mounted himself. Without any more words, they started with a fast pace back to the Ute camp.

20

Jeff's eyes widened as the two Utes moved from one side of their horses to the other, running alongside them and leaping on their backs as the horses ran at a full gallop. Then they were under the horses, on top, clinging to the sides.

Mary Jo watched Jeff's expression with pleasure. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, and he was grinning. Though occasionally he winced when he moved, he shrugged off the pain.

Then her gaze turned to the riders again. She too was full of astonishment. She'd thought there were no better riders than the Rangers who practically lived in saddles, but she'd never seen riding like this before. Her awe was as great as her son's as she watched man and beast become one. Mary Jo looked toward Wade, but his eyes in the late afternoon sun were impenetrable once more, his face carved in stone.

He had distanced himself almost immediately on their return, freeing their horses to graze with the others, then sitting with the men. A newcomer had appeared while they were gone, and she was told it was Chief Ouray, the greatest chief of the Utes and the man almost solely responsible for the peace still existing between the whites and Utes.

Wade had joined him and the other men, who had been sitting, smoking pipes, their tones serious and gloomy as they spoke in their own language.

Mary Jo had stayed with Jeff, who had been sitting up when she returned. He'd been talking to an Indian lad and admiring his dog. Love and admiration of animals, she surmised, was universal. Her son was now dressed in deerskin trousers, just like Wade's, and was shirtless, much like the young Indians; only his reddish-blond hair and freckles and the bulky bandage on his chest differentiated him from the others.

He still looked a little pale to her, but his eyes were full of that curiosity she'd learned to live with. He was asking questions, exchanging a few words he'd learned and letting sign language do the rest.

In late afternoon, preparations began for the race. The camp had grown in size, and Wade told Mary Jo and Jeff that Utes, including Chief Ouray, had come from several other camps in the mountains for this race. Mary Jo had watched during the afternoon as Wade was greeted with affection and respect by the newcomers, including Chief Ouray. Curious faces had turned toward her and studied her. But they had shown no resentment, no hostility, and she wondered why. Wade had been married to one of their own.

She had eaten with the women and children, and Wade with the men. It had been a lavish meal this time. Game had been plentiful and there was roasted venison and antelope, piñon nuts, and a strange type of vegetable Wade identified as camas bulbs. Jeff had eaten enthusiastically, as if, in fact, he hadn't eaten in a week—which was about true, from what he'd said.

“Great grasshoppers,” he now exclaimed as one Ute, holding on to his horse's mane with one hand, leaned down and picked up a knife on the ground without the horse slowing so much as a fraction of a second. He looked toward Wade who had moved over to sit with them. “I bet you can do that, too.”

A muscle flexed in Wade's cheek, and Mary Jo knew then that he could, at least he once had. He glanced down at his right arm, and Mary Jo saw bitterness flash across his face before he fought it down, and turned to Jeff. “No one can ride like the Utes,” he said in what was a precise nonanswer.

But it was enough of an answer to satisfy Jeff, though he looked unconvinced.

She was, too. She had seen what he'd done with Jeff's untrained horse. Wade was a master horseman, whether or not he could now hang on the side of a horse with one hand woven in its mane. She looked at his lean, hard body, his long legs folded in front of him, and she sensed his frustration, could almost feel it as if it were her own. Over the past several days, she'd watched as he tried to move his fingers and flex his hand, and though he was having some success, she knew it was not nearly enough to satisfy him.

He was watching the riders avidly now, and the wistful look on his face told her he'd probably have taken part in this race if it hadn't been for his arm. She wanted so badly to walk over to him, to tuck her hand in his, to balance his longing. But she had learned long ago that everyone had to deal with grief and loss in their own way.

She swallowed hard. She would have to deal with loss again herself. She knew that objectively, intellectually, but she also knew she wasn't prepared, would never be prepared, for Wade Foster actually leaving. She couldn't bear to think of it except in the abstract, and she hated being such a coward.