Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance (11 page)

“Well, certain—damn—ly, General. Why didn’t I know?”

He pretended not to hear her soft laugh as he headed away from the cabin up the trail to the waterfall. He’d sleep under the stars. At the rate they were going, he wasn’t likely to get much rest until Luce either recovered or went on to his Maker. Until his spirit woman took away the spell she’d woven around him.

Ever since he’d touched her on that ledge, his senses had been simmering, desire just beneath the surface, threatening to erupt. Then, at the falls, though they were three feet apart, she’d touched him with her heat and set free the demon of need.

Tucker might be confused about many things, but his body wasn’t. Raven was a woman who simmered, too, and sooner or later they were going to have to put that fire out.

All his life Tucker had operated on instinct. Instinct had saved his life during the war with the Yanks more times than he could count. Necessity made him sign up for duty in the West after that war, but instinct made him ride away from massacring Indians.

But this time he was paddling in deep water. His instincts were hazy, uncertain. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. He needed to slow down. Tucker didn’t hanker to leave this life yet, even if it didn’t have much to offer.

Raven settled back down on the bedroll she’d spread near the fire. The night was cool and finally quiet. She didn’t know where her protector had gone, but she was glad it was far enough away that she didn’t feel his physical presence.

Too much had occurred that she didn’t understand.
Her head ached from the strain of trying to make sense of what they’d experienced. She’d made a promise to come, but how could she fulfill her grandfather’s wishes? And did she have the right to involve Tucker in her mission?

Tucker believed the Indians were after her. Were they? She couldn’t believe that Flying Cloud had sent others without telling her. She wasn’t even certain they had come from the north. Part of the tribe had remained in the south. Luce, as keeper of the mountain, was part Arapaho. Perhaps they were members of his band. Now there were Mexican bandits out there after the treasure as well.

She didn’t like being so uncertain. That feeling was as foreign to her as her reaction to Tucker’s touch. She’d never known such a connection to a man before.

Back at the falls, she’d felt something powerful, that was both passionate and compelling. A sweeping sense of urgency inside her sprang to life at the thought of Tucker. The picture of his body flashed in her mind, sleek and lean in the water, his face shorn of whiskers, his hair trimmed. A wet heat expanded in her stomach, stealing her breath and setting off spasms that ran down her body toward the apex of her legs. Was this what it meant to feel desire for a man?

Was this meant to be, a joining of the cougar and the raven? Were the spirits preparing her for some kind of sacrifice?

She sighed and turned her face toward the blanket, forcing her mind to become clear. She waited for the spirits to speak. Slowly she felt sleep creep over her, sleep and the beginning of the dream. She stood once more on the precipice, the wind at her back, poised to fall forward into the beckoning air.

But this time something held her. This time a golden cord was attached to her wrist, holding her on the ledge.
The jeweled chains of the restraint burned hot against her skin. She tried, but she couldn’t remove it. And then she knew that the cord was attached to the man—to Tucker Farrell.

Her breathing slowed as a sense of well-being stole over her. The golden cord bound them together and, for now, she was safe.

The next day Tucker decided that the waiting was getting to him. He never minded not having anything to do, but he wanted to be the one who decided that.

Luce was barely conscious now. Any hope they might have had that he would describe the hiding place was rapidly fading. “Follow the water” was too vague for Tucker. And the reference to the light of the sun and the moon was like trying to unscramble a riddle. Unless Raven was holding out on him, he saw nothing ahead but failure.

Tucker had promised to bury the man beneath the rock with the mark of the sun from the leather carrying bag. Tucker was an experienced tracker and scout, but drawings didn’t leave a trail. If he were going to live up to his word, he’d better find the place, and soon.

During his search, Tucker managed to trap two more rabbits, and in spite of the danger, he gathered some wild cabbages and onions along the river. Young cattails would have finished out the meal, but his harvesting was cut short by the sound of a horse, and he’d only just managed to hide Yank when one lone bandit rode leisurely downstream.

He’d learned the Mexicans were down the Rio Grande, and the Arapaho were upriver, leaving him with a dying prospector and a mystical medicine woman boxed rather neatly in between. He understood the old saying,
damned if you do and damned if you don’t. This time he was double damned and he knew it.

Back at the cabin, Raven couldn’t leave Luce and she couldn’t be still. Until now she had been content to wait for answers, but her uneasiness grew by the hour. She felt as if she were going to explode. She had to move, to find a way to release the tension building inside of her.

She walked back to the old man and touched his forehead. Even with the fever, it was cold now, and clammy. Nothing she had done had helped. He was within hours of dying, maybe less. Where was Tucker?

Had something happened to him? Had he ridden away, leaving Luce and her alone? In desperation Raven unfolded her bedroll and sat down. She rested her hands loosely on her knees and closed her eyes.

“I speak to the spirits,” she whispered. “I ask your help.”

A long moment of silence followed. Then the drums began. A distant murmur of voices floated through the stillness. As if a veil had been parted, she was the raven once more, flying high over the canyon. Along the Rio Grande below were swarthy-skinned men dressed in black trousers and short jackets. They wore flat-crowned hats trimmed with red, and they were firing their guns.

Where was Tucker? Falling with the air currents, she searched, flying inside the body that had come to be the spirit part of her own.

There, on the opposite ridge, she saw him, crouching so that he could see the battle. One Indian was not watching the battle. One Indian who sat tall in his saddle. He was watching the raven fly just above the ledge where Tucker lay.

Swift Hand.

She knew this man, knew and feared him. He’d tried
to come between Raven and Flying Cloud. His jealousy was well known to the elders in the tribe, and Raven knew that he hated her and would take her life if he could.

After she’d led him to the treasure.

Then the vision was gone and Raven’s breath caught in her throat as if Swift Hand had sent an evil spirit to take her breath away.

“Tucker!”

She left the cabin and ran up the path, fear following her like fog. Swift Hand would kill Tucker. Swift Hand had sworn never to go to the reservation. He would kill every white man who spoke of forcing them off their land. He was crazed with anger and desperation. Somehow he’d found her and she’d led him to Tucker and Luce.

Like the bird that had become her totem, Raven dipped and swayed, moving over rocks and around boulders until at last she reached the crest and saw Tucker moving toward her.

“Tucker, you’re safe.”

She hurled herself into his arms, laying her trembling body against his, sliding her arms around his massive chest.

“Whoa!” He rubbed her arms and back, tasting her fear like bile in his mouth. “What’s happened?”

“The Arapaho. Their leader is Swift Hand. He will kill you if he finds us.”

“Swift Hand? Who is Swift Hand?”

“He believed that my grandfather was wrong about making peace, about our people’s future. He goaded those who would join with him into fighting the authorities.”

“Why does he follow you?” That question disturbed Tucker almost more than his fears for his own life. He’d faced death a hundred times and laughed in its face. But Raven was still fresh and pure. Everything she did was for someone else. She didn’t deserve to die.

“I don’t know. How did he learn of the treasure? We must not be found. Please help me.”

Tucker remained silent, comforting her with his touch, with his arms. He knew she’d draw back if she realized what she was doing.

Tucker had long ago lost any belief in innocence. Women used men for their own purposes, lying as easily as they smiled. Indians were better than most at guile, smiling, agreeing to whatever a man said at the same time they were deciding how to kill him. They’d learned this from the whites. They’d had to in order to survive. But not Raven. She was truly innocent.

Now two sets of intruders were stalking them. And Raven would be the focus of their attention once they learned that she held the key to the discovery of the treasure.

“You’re safe. For now, Swift Hand doesn’t know where we are,” he finally said, trying to focus on her fear and not the ever growing awareness of his own body. Damn it to hell, she fit into his arms as if the space had been made for her form. He understood that she didn’t know what she was doing when she rubbed her breasts against his chest, when she leaned her head back to look up at him and by that movement thrust her pelvis against him.

Tucker groaned and tightened his grip on her arms. His lips moved against her hair, drifting lower until he found her lips. They parted beneath the pressure of his touch, allowing their mouths to merge, to join, to bond.

He could hear her breathing change, feel her heart fluttering even as he told himself to pull back.

But he couldn’t help himself, and in her innocence, she didn’t stop him. Her lips parted, taking his tongue inside her mouth as she rocked against him.

Drawing on one last sliver of control, Tucker lightened his kiss, softly caressing her back and arms as he withdrew. Finally they were separated, standing only inches apart, staring at each other as if they were strangers.

“Tucker?”

“It’s all right, Spirit Woman. I never should have kissed you. I was wrong.”

“Why? It seemed right. I liked it, the way we feel together. Is this not a good thing?”

“This is
not
a good thing, my trusting one. We have a band of wild Indians looking for you and a gang of Mexican bandits looking for me. We have to get Luce and leave here.”

“Luce can’t be moved, Tucker. He’s very near death.”

She looked up at him, worry bringing moisture to her eyes. Her concern melted all the distance he’d managed to put between them.

She could only stare at him as his fingertips left her shoulders and lightly brushed her cheek. Her skin was so sensitive to his touch that he overwhelmed her. Even the soft buckskin of her dress seemed to grate against her flesh. His male scent heightened her awareness with every ragged breath she drew.

A steady thud began to pound in her temple, and Raven knew that she had to push him away. She gasped as she stepped back. But distance didn’t stop the writhing of her insides.

She didn’t know how she could draw strength from this man who seemed to take their journey reluctantly, or why, beneath the uncertainties, the promise of fire was there, igniting at their slightest touch.

The promise of fire. Raven trembled and pulled her gaze to the ground beneath his feet. She had to get her emotions under control. There was something more important
that she must do. “Luce,” she said in a low voice. “We’d better get back to him.”

“Yes. We’ll stay until the end. Then we’d better get out of here. All that business about finding a rock with a mark like the sun on your ceremonial bag sounded good, but if there’s a mark like that around here, I haven’t seen it.”

“It’s here,” Raven insisted. “We have to find it.”

“And if we don’t, then what? We can’t fool around here looking. The area is getting too crowded. We’ll have to go. Later, maybe, we can return and search.”

“But what if Swift Hand finds the treasure?”

“He won’t. Whether I believe in spirits or not, it’s pretty clear that you’re the key to the location. If it’s to be found, we’ll find it. But it won’t do your people much good if we die in the process.”

“We will not die, Tucker.”

Adroitly he turned her and, with his hand on her shoulder, pushed her ahead of him down the trail. “How can you be so sure? I’m not.”

“Because it was meant to be. Because we were chosen.”

Being chosen to die wasn’t Tucker’s idea of good fortune. If Raven’s spirit world intended to make sacrifices, he didn’t intend to become their lamb.

Swift Hand finished off the last of the Mexican cigarillo he’d taken off the dead man and smiled. He sat astride his horse, studying the mountains above the canyon wall.

It had taken two days, but his men had finally found the way up the ridge. Come morning they’d climb to the other side, where she’d be within his reach.

He’d force her to reveal the location of the treasure.
Or maybe he’d just let her find it and take it from her. Then he’d take his rightful place as leader of the Arapaho. Once he had gold, they could buy horses and land. No man would order them around again. Or woman.

With his fingertips he pinched off the fire and stored the remainder of the cigar in his pouch. The fat little bandit who’d provided the tobacco had been a simpering coward, but his full knapsacks redeemed his pitiful death.

A horse. A new rifle. Ammunition and a handful of the thin black cigars. A few bandits had escaped, but they knew the power of Swift Hand and his braves now. They wouldn’t return.

Swift Hand glanced around. There was something about these mountains, something uneasy. He’d always known certain places were sacred, forbidden to man, but he’d never experienced such apprehension before. Leaving this place would be good.