Frontier Woman (24 page)

“It wasn’t up to me. But my pa said she’d lain down under too many Comanche bucks, and that kind of dirt wasn’t ever going to wash off.”

Cricket’s eyes rounded incredulously. “Do you feel the same way?”

“Never had to think about it. Wouldn’t have done any good. Pa’s mind was made up.”

“That seems so unfair. You don’t treat Creed any different, and he was with the Comanches as long as your mother. You’re as close as any two brothers I’ve ever seen.”

Tom pursed his lips in irritation. He’d respected his father, and when Simon Creed had said an unpure woman was an unfit mother and an abomination as a wife, he hadn’t questioned him. “A brother’s one thing,” he said at last. “A man’s wife is something else entirely.”

“But she was your mother and—”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive anymore, so there’s no sense talking about it. What’s done is done.” Tom shoved himself away from the table. “Tell Creed I’ll be at the cotton gin again today.” Without waiting for Cricket’s acknowledgment, he left the room.

Cricket sat at the table only long enough to finish her coffee before she rose and left as well. She didn’t want to get caught by Amy and end up having to make biscuits or pie dough or bread. She headed for the stable, saddled Valor, called Rogue, and galloped off across the fields before the sun was even well up.

Cricket turned her face to the sky and bathed in the sunshine. Its warmth brought a cleansing perspiration to her skin. When the Texas wind had dried those dewdrops, she felt refreshed and renewed. She rode the boundaries of Lion’s Dare, watching the hoe hands at work in the cotton fields, the Negroes mending fences, planting new fruit trees, working on their own gardens.

Lion’s Dare presented an almost idyllic picture of what life could be on the Texas frontier. There was peace and prosperity. There was love in abundance: the love of a man for the land, the love of a man and woman for each other, and the love of parents for their child. Cricket wondered what it would be like to have a home and a husband and a child of her own.

The vision eluded her because she couldn’t imagine a home that wasn’t Three Oaks, or a husband who wasn’t Creed, and the child always turned into blue-eyed, blond-haired Seth.

Cricket finally ended up sitting under an oak at the farthest edge of Lion’s Dare, working on a chain of dandelions, while Valor grazed nearby, and Rogue slept next to her. She was daydreaming again when she was interrupted by a sarcastic voice.

“Seen any Indians?”

Cricket refused to let Creed’s fierce expression intimidate her. “Not a one,” she replied as she went back to work on her dandelion chain.

Creed dismounted and crossed to stand spread-legged in front of her, his shadow blocking the sunshine that threaded through the bare branches above them. “You know how dangerous it is to be out here alone. A Comanche would as soon hang a woman’s hair from his shield as a man’s. Or maybe you’d like to become Tall Bear’s squaw. Is that it?”

Cricket looked up lazily from the flowers in her lap. “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.” With that announcement, she pulled her Paterson from the belt at her waist and proceeded to shoot five prickly pears off a cactus that was an astounding distance away. When she’d finished, she calmly reloaded, stuck the gun into her belt, and turned her attention back to the dandelions. “That could just as easily have been five Comanches, sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds.”

Cricket’s fearlessness irked Creed. He didn’t know why he should care so much, but he did. The thought of some Comanche buck touching Cricket tied his gut up in knots. Yet he couldn’t say her self-confidence was entirely misplaced. She was an excellent rider, an excellent shot, and quick to react to danger. One on one she might even stand a chance against a Comanche warrior—if she rode like the very devil while she emptied her Paterson. Against even a small band of Comanches, however, Cricket was going to be in trouble. But how was he going to rid her of her false sense of security?

“Being a good shot isn’t going to help you much if you’re caught by surprise.”

“No one’s going to surprise me.”

“Oh, no?”

“Between Valor and Rogue I have two exceptional sentinels.” Cricket ignored the fact that neither animal had given the slightest hint of Creed’s approach. He’d spoiled them both for that purpose. “Of course, I’m not too bad at watching out for myself, either.”

Before Creed could guess what she had in mind, Cricket hooked a toe behind his boot and lunged at him. Her shoulder hit him at the knees, throwing him totally off balance. He would’ve fallen had he not reached up and caught a dead limb of the pin oak above him. However, the rotten branch held him for only a moment before it broke with an ear-shattering crack and sent him tumbling.

Cricket had been so certain of the success of her surprise attack that she’d surged past the point where Creed should have landed. That left her directly under him when he fell.

“Uummph!”

“Oommph!”

Both Cricket and Creed had the wind knocked out of them, but since Creed landed on top of Cricket, she cushioned his fall. They lay in the tall grass catching their breaths, their bodies a tangle of arms and legs.

“Get off,” Cricket grunted at last.

“I don’t think I can.”

“What?”

“I think maybe something is broken,” Creed said.

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I landed on my elbow. Let me lie here a minute and see if any feeling comes back into my arm.”

“I’ll check it. Which arm?”

“The right one.”

Cricket reached around and found the fingers of Creed’s right hand. They closed around her own, and like lightning Creed bounded to his feet, jerking Cricket up behind him. He whirled and caught her as she flew into his embrace. As he cinched their bodies together, Creed caught the flare of fury in Cricket’s eyes.

Cricket opened her mouth to call Rogue to her aid and remembered he’d defected to Creed’s camp. Valor was nearby, but how could the stallion attack Creed without also harming her?

“Tell me again how you can take care of yourself,” Creed taunted in her ear.

Angry, frustrated, Cricket threw caution to the winds and whistled for Valor. Let the stallion figure out how to help her without harming her.

Valor’s trumpeting neigh sent shivers down Creed’s spine. He’d seen the stallion attack the Comanches but had never expected to see the animal’s sharp hooves aimed in his direction. Valor reared and then charged toward them, teeth bared. Creed had no idea whether the stallion would trample both of them or not, but he couldn’t take the chance.

“Damn it, Brava!”

He threw Cricket aside and stepped away so Valor would have a clear target that didn’t include her. He balanced on the balls of his feet, his muscles tensed, ready to jump out of the stallion’s path at the last instant. He’d played this game before, as a Comanche boy, only there’d been a rider, Tall Bear, on the back of the charging animal. He’d survived that incident with no more than the curving scar on his hip to show for it. But after that he’d never underestimated the danger of a frenzied beast.

Creed was ready to pit the quickness of his reflexes against those of the stallion, but if push came to shove, he might have to kill the beautiful animal, and he didn’t want to do that.

“Call him off, Brava. This has gone far enough.”

When the shrill whistle pierced the air, Valor changed course immediately. The stallion angled off away from Creed, who remained tense a few more moments until he ascertained that the animal no longer constituted a danger to him. He turned to thank Cricket for her wise decision, only to discover she was no longer behind him.

Then he saw her. The stallion never lost stride as he raced toward the girl waiting for him, Rogue by her side. He watched as Cricket caught a handful of Valor’s mane and vaulted onto the stallion’s back while he moved at a full gallop. She turned to grin and wave at Creed before she turned Valor back toward the plantation house.

How had she managed to move from behind him without his knowing it? She was good. He had to admire her for what she’d just accomplished. At the same time he feared for her. The danger from the Comanches was real. If Cricket ignored that danger—or treated it too lightly—it could spell disaster.

So what did he care? If she wanted to get herself killed was that any of his business? He’d be rid of Rip Stewart’s brat—and good riddance!

Creed stared at the cloud of dust in the air that was all that remained to remind him Cricket had been there. His stomach felt queasy. He rubbed his sweaty palms off on his trousers. Then he picked his hat up off the ground, smoothed the turkey feather, and put it on, pulling it down low on his forehead. He crossed to his chestnut, grabbed the reins, stuck his foot in the stirrup, and pulled himself into the saddle.

He kept his mind a blank as long as he could, because he didn’t like the thoughts that kept creeping in. Cricket being beaten and raped. Cricket lying dead, scalped, a lance through her heart. He experienced the most unusual sensation, a sort of tightening of his insides, around the region of his heart.

Then he started to laugh. He laughed so loud he scared a jackrabbit out of hiding. He laughed so loud an eagle swooped down to check out the noise. He laughed so hard his stomach hurt and tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. And this was
so funny
he didn’t think he was going to be able to stop laughing.

He was in love with Creighton Stewart.

Chapter 16

CRICKET FELT THE FIRST CRAMP ABOUT AN HOUR after she arrived back at the plantation house. She shrugged off the feeling of disappointment that rippled through her. She wasn’t going to have Creed’s baby. Blue blazes! What was the matter with her? She wouldn’t have known what to do with a baby, anyway. Besides, a baby would have tied her to Creed as tight as a cinched saddle. No, she had reasons to be grateful the female miseries were upon her. Except, of course, there was this one little problem. . . .

Creed had forbidden her to drink and obtained Tom and Amy’s cooperation in assuring his order was obeyed. Little had he known his command would cause no hardship for her except at one time during the month. Unfortunately, that time had arrived. The only way she was going to survive the next day or so was with the help of a little whiskey. Make that a
lot
of whiskey, Cricket thought with a wry smile.

Well, she’d stolen whiskey from Rip often enough to know how it was done. The question was whether she could hide her discomfort until everyone went to bed tonight. A hard spasm doubled Cricket over where she stood. White-faced, she grasped a nearby doorjamb and slowly straightened up. She could do it. Unless she wanted to confess her dilemma to Jarrett Creed, she had no other choice.

Creed noticed how quiet Cricket was during supper, but attributed it to their morning confrontation. However, her eyes were unnaturally bright, almost feverish, and her face flushed and glowing. He’d have said she was planning some mischief, but the taut line of her lips wasn’t the least bit playful. Something was going on, though, and he intended to find out what it was.

At the first opportunity Creed said, “Cricket and I had a long day. I think we’ll go up to bed early tonight.” Was that relief he saw on Cricket’s face?

“Oh, but you promised we could play cards tonight. Did you forget?” Amy’s disappointment almost made Creed change his mind, except from the corner of his eye he noticed that Cricket’s face had blanched white.

“I’m sorry, Amy. Not tonight. I’m just too tired.” Yes, that was definitely relief on Cricket’s face. What was bothering her? Creed’s concern brought him around the table to pull back Cricket’s chair and take her elbow to help her to her feet. Surprisingly, she didn’t resist his assistance, but she stopped for a moment where she was, and he felt her whole body unaccountably stiffen. Seconds later she relaxed again.

“Brava?” he murmured.

“Creed, can we go upstairs, please? Now.”

Creed reached out and lifted Cricket into his arms. He knew something was terribly wrong when, instead of arguing with him over the presumptuous move, Cricket merely turned her face into his shirt and clung to his shoulders.

“Is something the matter with Cricket?” Amy asked as she rose from her chair. Tom rose also, his concern unvoiced but present nevertheless.

Cricket stiffened in Creed’s arms, and he recognized her unspoken plea not to disclose that anything was amiss. “Can’t a husband carry his wife up to bed?” he asked with a lascivious grin.

Amy blushed.

“That’s not a bad idea.” Tom whisked a laughing Amy into his arms. “Let’s go, Jarrett.”

Creed preceded his older brother up the stairs, sharing a wink as they each disappeared into their separate bedrooms. As soon as he was inside the door, Creed crossed quickly to the bed and laid Cricket upon it with anything but romantic intentions. She allowed him to help unbutton her dress and strip it off, another first between them that passed uncommented-upon, almost as though it were an everyday occurrence.

Creed had little time to be pleased by Cricket’s wifely behavior. She turned from him as soon as he was done, her lower lip clasped tight in her teeth, and closed her eyes, effectively shutting him out. He sat down next to her and anxiously examined her, his hands whisking over her, checking for some sign of injury. Again, she endured without complaint or, in fact, any acknowledgment that he was even in the same room with her.

“Did you hurt yourself somehow today?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“What makes you think something is—” Cricket gasped and bit into her lower lip until she tasted blood. Her whole body tensed, and she grabbed the quilt in her fists and held on tight.
Come on, Cricket, you can do it. Just a little bit
longer.
But the litany she’d repeated all afternoon and into the evening didn’t seem to be working anymore.

Cricket moaned.

Creed gently brushed a strand of auburn hair from Cricket’s agonized brow. “Let me help, Brava,” he pleaded. “What’s wrong?”

Cricket moaned again.

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

Cricket’s feverish gaze caught the look of desperation in Creed’s topaz eyes. She would have to tell him.

“I need some whiskey.”

She’d said it so softly that at first Creed didn’t think he’d heard her right. “What?”

“Whiskey. I need some whiskey,” she repeated, agitated that she had to admit her weakness. While Cricket watched, Creed’s eyes turned stone cold. She shivered as she saw the sympathetic concern disappear, the anger grow.

“Is that what this is all about? You want some goddamned
belly-wash
?”

“Keep your voice down,” she warned. “You said you’d help.
I need whiskey
.”

Creed scowled at her, eyes flashing dangerously. “I told you no more drinking and I meant it. That’s one bad habit you’ll get over if I have to sit on you to keep you away from the bottle.” Creed was appalled by the glittering brightness of Cricket’s eyes as she glared back at him. There was something else there. Pain? But she’d said she wasn’t hurt. How was that possible? A ruse, perhaps, to trick him? She was cunning. In fact, he’d constantly underestimated her cleverness.

Cricket moaned again.

Her act wouldn’t fool him this time. “Moan all you want,” he said. “You’ll get your rotgut firewater over my dead body.”

Cricket turned her back to Creed and curled into a fetal ball, tucking her chin down and hugging her knees to her chest. He thought she was a lush. Well, she had a problem with the belly-vengeance, all right, but not the kind he thought. She could never tell him the truth now. After all her talk about being able to take care of herself, how could she admit there was, of course, this small exception, when she endured her female miseries. It was too humiliating.

Creed’s chest ached. He’d known of men tied to that snake-poison, but how had it happened to his
brava
? His
brava
—a drunk. Dear God, he thought, where had she been getting the whiskey to feed this habit over the past weeks? He’d taken her flask away, but she must have had some whiskey stashed somewhere else that she’d guzzled. It mattered little now. The damage was done—and he’d never even suspected.

He’d heard that withdrawal from whiskey could be awful, and he determined that the least he could do was comfort her through it. But when he touched Cricket on the shoulder, she jerked away from him. It was as though he’d tried to free a wild animal caught in a trap. He saw only fear in her eyes.

“Don’t you come near me. I’ll take care of myself.”

“All right, Brava, have it your way. If you want to fight the effects of that hell-broth alone, be my guest. But you’re not going to be doing any more drinking, because I’ll be here, and I’ll be watching.”

Cricket never moved. Creed readied himself for bed, blew out the candle, and crawled onto the feather mattress next to her. It was warm, so he didn’t trouble her to turn down the covers. He knew there was no way he could sleep with Cricket moaning and groaning on the other side of the bed, anyway. Why wouldn’t she let him help?

He reached over again in the darkness, but she stiffened as soon as he touched her shoulder and snapped, “Leave me alone.” He removed his hand and turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He lay that way until Cricket’s moans stopped. He closed his eyes for an instant, and the hard labor he’d done with Tom sent him into a sound sleep.

Cricket had been praying for at least the past hour, and it seemed finally her prayers had been answered. Creed was breathing steadily, a sure sign he was asleep. She need only sneak down to Tom’s cache of liquor, steal a bottle, and disappear into the barn until morning. By the time Creed found her, she’d have made it through her crisis.

As it turned out, her simple plan was easier said than done. In the first place, she couldn’t light a candle without awakening Creed, and it was as dark as the back end of a bear’s den. In the second place, she was decidedly unsteady on her feet. She’d eaten very little since morning, and fighting the cramps had taken a toll on her strength. Finally, the cramps attacked her at the most unpredictable times, and she had to stop and wait for them to pass.

When she reached her goal, the cabinet that held Tom’s liquor, she found out why Creed had felt so safe falling asleep. It was locked!

She hadn’t the vaguest idea where to look for the key, but she knew where she could find a knife to jimmy the lock. She headed for the silverware drawer in the dining room. There was a slight clatter of silver as she jerked the drawer open, and she waited motionless to see if anyone might have been disturbed. When it remained quiet, she stuck her hand in the drawer and ran her fingers from piece to piece until she located the pointed silver knives. She removed one and headed back to the parlor.

Cricket pried the lock open in minutes, then tried to determine in the dark which of the bottles was whiskey. She resorted to tasting them and ended up with a mouthful of sweet sherry, a disgusting sip of something bitter that she couldn’t identify, and a gulp of elderberry wine before she finally found what she was looking for. It was a good whiskey, very smooth and very welcome.

Cricket had tipped the bottle up and leaned her head back to drink again, when Creed lit a candle across from her. The shadows made his expression seem even more grim than it was.

“Hand it over, Brava.”

Instead, Cricket tried to swallow, only to have the bottle jerked away, spilling whisky on her underclothes and the carpeted floor.

“I need that!”

“No one
needs
whiskey. It’s a crutch you can do very well without.”

“You don’t understand. I have to have it! Otherwise I can’t stand the pain.”

Even through Creed’s fury, Cricket’s words registered. What pain couldn’t she stand? She’d said she wasn’t hurt. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. If this was a trick . . .

“All right, Brava, you can’t stand the pain without whiskey. What pain?”

Cricket’s hands came up to cover her face, and she mumbled through them. “The female miseries.”

Creed was stunned, and then furious that he’d worried himself half to death over a natural female bodily function. “You created all this ruckus over
that
? Of all the mooncalf, nickninny—”

Cricket’s groan cut him off. She really was in pain. He could see that. From what little he knew, she wouldn’t be the first woman who needed to retire to her bed for a few days each month. Naturally, Cricket hadn’t resorted to typical female behavior. She never did anything the normal way.

“Why don’t you take some laudanum and go to bed like everybody else?” he asked with frustrated helplessness.

Cricket peeked through her fingers at him. “Laudanum?”

Creed looked at her in astonishment. “You mean Rip never suggested you take laudanum for the pain?”

Cricket looked down at the balled fists in her lap and whispered, “I never told Rip about the pain.”

Creed shook his head. Surely the man had known. After all, he’d carried her up to her bedroom drunk often enough. Why hadn’t her father offered to help?
Because that would
have meant acknowledging Cricket wasn’t a son.
Instead, Rip had let her hurt all these years.

Creed’s lips flattened in determination. She didn’t belong to Rip Stewart anymore. She belonged to him. And he wasn’t going to let her hurt one more double-damn minute!

Creed kneeled down beside Cricket. “Would you try some laudanum, Brava, if I can find some? It’ll ease the pain.”

Cricket nodded her head glumly. What choice did she have if he wasn’t going to let her drink whiskey? She was surprised when Creed picked her up in his arms and held her close to his chest.

“Come on, Brava, let’s get you back in bed where you belong.”

Cricket could hear Creed’s steady heartbeat in her ear, could feel the smooth skin of his chest against her cheek. She turned her face to him and pressed her nose against his skin like a child at the window of a mercantile store. She inhaled the special, delicious scent that was his, which she’d recognize anywhere.

She’d found a lot to admire about Creed over the past couple of weeks. Now, as he had the night of the
fandango
, he was taking care of her again. It was so nice to relax and let someone else take control for a little while. He was an exceptional man, and if things had been different she might even have liked being married to him. And, she admitted in a moment of honesty, she was very sorry she wasn’t going to have his baby.