River Song (9 page)

"Nice," he grunted thickly.
"Real nice.
Now the drawers."

His lust-glazed eyes and complete attention focused on her dusky nipples as she'd hoped, Sunny made her move. She tossed the shirt over the man's head,
then
scrambled over to the bedroll—and Cole's .44.

Her back to the outlaw, Sunny could hear him screaming curses as he struggled with the shirt. Frantically searching for the gun, she finally found it and pulled it from its hiding spot.

Still fighting his bonds, Cole saw the outlaw get up and charge through the sand and rocks like an enraged bull. Unable to do anything else, he called out a warning.

"Behind you.
Quick, turn and shoot him."

Wheeling around as she stood up, Sunny raised the pistol and aimed it at the man's chest.

"You no-good bastard daughter of a diseased whore," he bellowed, a murderous gleam eclipsing the lust in his eye. "I'll teach you a thing or two. You don't know who you're
messin
' with, squaw."

Then he saw the gun and froze.

Advancing a few feet, Sunny cocked the hammer. "Sit down or I will blow a hole in your black heart."

"Stupid
injun
squaw.
Gimme
that gun," he growled as he lunged towards her.

Sunny's moment of indecision gave the outlaw enough time to grab the barrel of the Colt. The pair grappled, the outlaw's curses jumbled with Cole's frantic words of encouragement.

Then the thunderous crack of gunfire splintered the night air.

Patrick Callahan's daughter dropped to the ground with a sickening thud.

 
CHAPTER
FOUR

She was swimming.

She swirled down, spiraling into the deep dark waters.

Sunny was cutting through the strong current of her beloved Colorado River as if she swam in melted butter. She felt the cool water washing over her, through her hair, soothing her. Then she felt a sharp sting on her cheek.

"Sunflower.
Wake up, it's all right."

The waters called her name over and over. It had never sounded more beautiful. Then she realized the voice did not belong to the river but to a man. And she wasn't
swimming,
she was lying amongst rocks and sand.

Alarmed, Sunny bolted upright, her eyes wide and fearful.

"Easy, Sunflower," Cole reassured. "It's over. He's dead."

Wild-eyed, she looked around the campsite and spotted the evil stranger sprawled in the sand a few feet beyond the fire. "What happened?"

"You caught the recoil of my Colt right between your eyes. You knocked yourself out, Sunflower." Cole brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek,
then
continued in a soft comforting tone. "The minute the gun went off, you both dropped to the ground like a couple of sacks of feed. I wasn't sure who shot who at first."

She
had
shot the stranger. Sunny buried her face in her hands and tried to stifle a heavy sob. Salty tears streaked across her palms as she realized the enormity of her deed.

"I killed him," she cried. "I have murdered another human being."

"No, no.
Not exactly."
Cole gathered her in his arms and pressed her head against his shoulder. Stroking her satiny hair, he began to rock her. "He tried to pull the gun out of your hand. It was an accident. If anything, he killed himself."

"But—"

"No buts about it. You're not to blame. I just wish I could have gotten free sooner."

He continued to stroke her ebony hair, allowed her the silence and chance to weep away the terrors of the night until he could no longer ignore the heat of her bare breasts pressed against his chest. She'd endured the humiliation of one madman's lust this night. She wouldn't have to deal with yet another. Cole released her and got to his feet.

"Wait here for a minute, Sunflower. I'll be right back."

"Sunny," she said in a small voice. "My family and friends call me Sunny."

"Sunny?" He repeated the name several times thinking how well it fit her, how like a ray of sunshine she seemed to illuminate a corner of his life.
In what capacity?
he
suddenly wondered. She was lovely, exciting, and spirited. But she was also Indian. How could he be so attracted to her?

A toddler when the Fremont family made the dusty, danger-filled trek from Texas to Arizona, Cole's only memories of Indian attacks during the journey were supplied by his father, Nathan. But Cole needed no reminders of his eleventh year, of the vicious
Chiricahua
ambush on the Triple F ranch and the painful losses that nearly tore the Fremont family apart.

As if it
were
yesterday, Cole could see his mother, Olive, writhing on the floor of her burning home, delivering Nathan's third son too early, stillborn. No stories from the past were necessary to prompt the image of his fifteen-year- old brother after the
Chiricahua
were finished with him, either. The day after the attack, when they were certain Olive was out of danger, Nathan and Cole had set out to search for the youth.

The
Chiricahua
had released the boy, using his body as a warning, a message to all ranchers in the area. The youth's flesh was a pincushion of arrows, each carefully placed so they wouldn't pierce a vital organ. The eldest Fremont brother's death had been agonizingly
slow
and painful, its message forever stamped on Cole's heart.

Shaking off his ugly thoughts, Cole spun on his heel, catching his bare foot on the comer of a jagged rock, and hobbled off to his saddle. After slipping into his jeans and boots, he fastened his holster around his waist and sheathed the Colt. Then he picked up Sunflower's shirt and took it to her.

"Cover
yourself
," he said more harshly than he'd intended.

Startled by the change in his attitude, Sunny grabbed the shirt and quickly dressed. Why had he changed so? He'd been so warm, so tender, before the man had come and again after he had died. What had she done to displease him?

Sunny's puzzled expression, the hurt in her eyes, told Cole more than anything she could have said at that moment. Although his memories and Nathan's bitterness towards all Indians were a part of his life he couldn't ignore, Cole was not without sympathy for these
native
Americans, especially for the gentler tribes like the Pima. He could hardly blame Sunflower for the tragedies in the Fremont family.

His voice cracking, he said, "I'm sorry for barking at you like that. I'm tired. Let's use what's left of the night for some rest."

Cole reached for Sunny's hands, pulling her to her feet,
then
impulsively scooped her into his arms. "You've had a rough night. I'll stay by your side." Inclining his head towards the fire, he added, "I'll take care of our
friend
in the morning. Then we'll talk."

Suddenly exhausted, Sunny nodded weakly and allowed her head to drop to his shoulder. When they reached the bed roll, Cole positioned himself with his back to the cliff,
then
fit Sunny's body against the curve of his.

"Goodnight,
Sunfl
—Sunny. Rest well, little
flower
."

"I will try. Goodnight."

Cole's arm rested on her hip, but it was more protection than embrace. She needed more. Gripped by an overwhelming sense of loss, of isolation, Sunny longed for Cole to gather her in his arms. Never had she felt so alone, so vulnerable, or in such need of another's strength and touch. What would he do should she turn to embrace him?

Did he, like the disgusting outlaw, look on her as a half-breed whore?
A nuisance?
What of the kisses they'd shared?
Mother would know.
Sunny mouthed the words silently, missing her so much she thought her breastbone would split from the ache inside. Rage slowly replaced self-pity, and even in her exhausted state, she resumed her plans for revenge. If Cole's offer to escort her to his ranch was still good, she would take him up on it. Continuing east, there was a chance she might encounter her mother's killers on the way—west toward home would mean defeat and allow the murdering scum their freedom.

It was a very long time before sleep came to Sunny that night, and the following morning she slept well past the dawn. When she finally did awaken, it was with a start. She was alone. Propping herself on one elbow, she glanced around the campsite and found Cole at the edge near a stand of Palo Verde trees. He was piling stones on the outlaw's grave.

After dragging her fingers through sleep-tangled hair, she approached him. "Why didn't you wake me? I should have helped you bury the viper."

Wiping the perspiration from his brow with his sleeve, Cole turned to face her. She was even more beautiful this morning than she'd been in the moonlight, her sleep-drugged eyes languid and seductively stunning. Wheeling around, Cole resumed piling rocks on the fresh mound of earth before he trusted himself to answer her.

"I thought you'd seen enough of his ugly face. You needed the rest."

Again she sensed
a coolness
in his attitude. Puzzled, Sunny circled the grave and began piling rocks across from him.

"You said we would talk this morning." She heaved a large stone onto the center of the grave,
then
brought her hands to her hips. "If you will spare me the blarney, I would like to know what I did to raise your ire so."

With a heavy sigh, Cole reached into his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch. As he loosened the drawstring, he wondered how he could explain his feelings without hurting hers, skip over the "blarney" as she'd put it and ...
blarney
? Cole's upper lip curled in amusement as he thought of the Irish phrases scattered throughout her speech, not to mention the string of curses she'd spat at him during their struggle the night before.

Striking a match to his cigarette, he cocked a suspicious blond brow. "I'll be happy to dispense with the blarney if you will."

Sunny lifted her chin. "I will not be handing you any."

"Good." He took a deep drag and blew a long stream of smoke down to the outlaw's grave. "How does a young woman of Pima extraction happen to be so full of Irish expressions?"

"Oh," she laughed lightly, "that."

Stalling, Sunny began to carve a series of circular figures in the sand with the toe of her boot. Should she tell him everything? Could he
really
be trusted with the truth? Before the outlaw had come upon them, her suspicions about Cole had nearly vanished, and now that their moments of terror were behind them, the last little nagging doubts seemed to be dissolving as well. Maybe if she told him everything, he might even be able to help her. Maybe if she—But an impatient Cole sliced into her thoughts.

"All right.
If you don't want to explain that, perhaps you'd like to shed some light on your midnight attack on me." He rubbed his aching shoulder where the knife had pierced his skin. "You know, when I woke up and saw you at the business end of my gun, I actually thought you were trying to kill me."

"I was," she admitted, remembering the struggle and how close she'd come to slitting his throat.

"You were?" Stunned, Cole lifted his brows. "Why? All I did was try to help you. Why would you want to kill me for that?"