Velvet Thunder (16 page)

Heath awoke the next day shortly before noon.

The air vibrated to the light tune of winged choralers. The sky above was so blue, so vibrant that it hurt his eyes. Limned by the azure palette, Stevie held a wisp of golden hair in the corner of her mouth, chewing on it like a wayward child, just as she had the first time he saw her. Worry etched her brow. Lavender half moons rode beneath her fathomless eyes.

“You look terrible.”

She spat the braid out of her mouth, frowning, obviously insulted. “Why, Mr. Diamond, you do know how to turn a girl's head.”

He grabbed her wrist with more strength than she would have expected. “Did you stay awake all night?”

Embarrassed, she cleared her throat. “No, of course not.”

“Come on, hon, you can tell me. Bet you couldn't sleep a wink for worrying about me.”

She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Deliver me from conceited men! I was awake all night, but not worrying about your worthless hide.” The concern in her eyes softened her words. “I went back to the ranch for provisions.”

He paled visibly, not from pain. “Are you crazy? You could have been killed.” His world faded in and out of focus when he tried to rise.

She eased him back down, ignoring his rebuke. “Don't you dare get up. You're weak. What you need is some of my delicious jerky broth.” She grimaced comically. “Men come from miles around to sample my world-famous beef broth.”

Heath was distracted, as was her intention. He regarded the liquid she poured into a tin cup as if it were lethal.

She chuckled at his doubtful look. “At least it'll help you regain your strength.”

“If you say so.”

Hiding a smile, she spoon-fed him.

“Sweetheart, this sh—This broth tastes terrible, but I could get used to your tender loving care.”

“Take my advice. Don't.” Still, she continued feeding him.

“Steph . . .” he began, and halted at the narrowing of her eyes. Apparently, she really didn't want to be called by a girl's name. Strange. The expression in her eyes was a mixture of defiance, challenge, and pain. “Sugar”—he corrected himself—“ thank you for what you did.”

She waved his gratitude away. “I didn't do anything.”

“You saved my life.”

“Nah. It was just a little scratch.” Their eyes met and held. Finally, Stevie looked away. “You'll see. You'll be good as new in a few days.”

He enfolded her hand and lifted it to his mouth, kissing each fingertip. “As much as I'd love to lie here and let you pamper me for three or four days”—he said between kisses—“we can't spare the time. They'll guess that we found another way out of the cave and come looking for us.”

“That may be so, but we're not going anywhere until tomorrow. At least. Now, finish your soup.”

“Tomorrow, then. No later.” Obediently, he drank the remainder of the broth. “I feel better already.” He grinned up into her face. “Wanna feel?” He raised his eyebrows.

She tried for a derisive snort . . . and failed. It sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “I was right yesterday. You don't ever think of anything else!”

“Else than what?”

His words were a light caress sliding across her heated skin. Whether his voice was made soft and husky from pain, gratitude, or desire she wasn't sure. She probably shouldn't pursue that risky question.

“Lean down.” His eyes glowed with purpose, leaving no doubt what he was after. “And let me thank you properly.”

She shook her head warily.

“I just want to hold you a minute,” he said honestly.

She tried to hide her surprise . . . and her pleasure. “But you're hurt.”

“A little bullet wound can't slow me down. Not when I'm this close to a beautiful woman.” He tried to raise his hand to her cheek. The lazy appendage refused to obey his command. In fact, his whole body felt as if it were weighted down by the Rocky Mountains.

Stevie smiled and batted her lashes. “No, but all that laudanum I put in your broth can. It could fell a bull.”

As if to prove her words, Heath's lids fluttered briefly, then slid down over his sapphire eyes.

Stevie released the breath she had been holding.

 

 

Early the next morning Heath awakened with a start. When he stood and stretched, he was sore, a little light-headed from his medication, but greatly improved. Stevie lay wrapped in a blanket close to where he had slept. He shook her gently by the shoulder. “Hon, wake up.”

She yawned and stretched like a lazy feline. “What is it?”

“A noise at the foot of the ridge. We may have to ride quick.”

She jerked awake instantly, jumped up, and began packing their saddlebags as Heath moved silently down the ridge. When he reached the edge, he saw just what he expected, Judge Jack's men cutting for sign on the plateau below. There were seven of them, led by an Indian scout. “Damn! Two Paws.”

He returned to camp as quietly as he'd come. “It's Jack's men. They haven't picked up our trail yet, but it won't be long. Two Paws is leading them.”

Stevie had heard of the Mescalero Apache who was known for his uncanny ability to track anyone, anywhere. He was also known for his absolute ruthlessness. “That's all we need,” she muttered, helping Heath break camp.

They doused the smoldering embers from the fire and strewed leaves and branches around, hoping to obliterate the campsite. Undoubtedly, Two Paws would spot it anyway.

“Ready?”

Stevie jerked a nod. “Are you sure you can ride?”

He gave her one of his heart-stopping grins. “Thanks to you, I'm fit as a fiddle.”

“I'll bet.” When he mounted, she was glad to see that he showed little sign of pain.

With the soft jingle of harness and the muted thud of horses' hooves against the sun-baked earth, they headed up into the mountains. They burst through the underbrush, plunging into a fast-running stream. Some three hundred yards upstream they came to a rocky bench that led off into a hollow.

“Follow in my tracks as closely as you can,” he called softly over his shoulder.

They walked their horses slowly down the bench. Then in single file they backed their mounts to the stream where, reentering, they continued upward. As they climbed the mountain they repeated this procedure six times. Finally they left the stream and continued the ascent through thick underbrush.

“Do you think that'll shake Jack's men?”

“No. At least not for long. Two Paws'll figure it out.”

“You choose the darnedest times to be honest. A reassuring lie would be appreciated from time to time.”

He smiled and kicked his horse in a gallop. They rode hard and fast, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the men who were tracking them. They worked their way carefully from one slope to the next.

The majestic peaks of the Sangre de Cristoes were covered with snow above the timberline. The bright ball of fire overhead and the exertion of hard riding warmed Stevie. She didn't need her coat, but noticed that Heath donned his. She hoped he wasn't having chills. There was no time to question him as they pushed ahead.

If their circumstances had not been so dire, it would have been a beautiful trip. The scenery was breathtaking. Their only companions were the teeming wildlife that watched their passage with wary interest. Deer and elk, standing as proud sentinels, regarded them stoically. A host of smaller animals—squirrels, fox, raccoon, pika, and endless species of birds—scattered, squeaked, and chattered as they passed through their domain.

Periodically, Heath rested the horses. Stevie checked his wound each time. It was no longer bleeding, but there was an angry red ring surrounding it; as she feared, his skin was hot to the touch. She kept her concern to herself. The men chasing them posed a greater threat at the moment than Heath's physical condition. Still, they would have to make camp soon. Neither of them could go on much longer in this high altitude.

When the sun passed behind the mountain, they pulled up for the night in a naturally formed hideaway. Vegetation was sparse, but their mounts grazed contentedly on occasional bunches of crabgrass.

Heath was freezing. Shivering, he started a small fire for coffee, confident that the distance between them and their pursuers was too great for Two Paws to see the smoke.

Stevie watched him from across the camp. He hunched down in his coat as if he were chilled to the bone. Cross-legged, he sat as close to the dancing flames as possible. As she feared, his eyes were glazed over with fever. Panic was a growing thing in her heart. She couldn't let him die; she just couldn't.

She squatted at his side. “Are you bleeding again?”

“Don't think so.”

When he opened his coat, she ran her hand inside. He trembled, whether from chill or her touch neither knew.

“It's dry.” However, the heat around the wound had intensified since the last time she checked. He shivered again, this time more violently. She closed his coat quickly, trying to preserve the warmth of his body. She buttoned his duster from top to bottom, then pulled the leather collar up around his chin. Without a word she retrieved the blankets from her saddle and made a pallet for him to lie on. “Roll over here.” She wrapped the remaining blanket around his shoulders. “Better?” she asked softly.

“Mmmm.”

Apparently, his temperature had not reached a dangerous level yet, for his shivering grew less. Stevie was greatly relieved. She was shocked at the depth of her concern for this man who was little more than a stranger. Was it the danger they faced together that drew them so close, so fast? she wondered.

Chancing a glance at his pale face, her heart lurched. He had lost a great deal of blood; he was sure to be thirsty. She retrieved her canteen, lifted his head gently, and placed the rim against his lips. After he drank his fill and murmured his appreciation, she moistened a handkerchief and mopped his face and brow, hoping to lower his temperature.

Finally, he fell into an unnatural slumber. Stevie tucked the blanket more tightly around him, then settled back to watch over him as he slept. Sometime after sunset he tossed the blanket aside. He awakened, his temperature down.

“Feeling better?” a soft voice came from his side.

“Much.” He started to rise. “I'm going to kill a deer for our supper.”

“At night? In your condition?”

“Be back soon.” He retrieved his weapon and planted a hard kiss on her lips, stunning her. Before she could pull free of the spell and physically restrain him, he left camp.

Shortly, the sound of his gun reverberated through the mountains and canyons. Two Paws probably heard it, Heath thought. But he desperately needed something substantial to eat if he hoped to regain his strength.

He and Stevie were on the run. He was all that stood between the woman who had saved his life and scum like Two Paws and Sims. Now was not the time for him to turn into an invalid.

Smiling, he retrieved the deer that lay unmoving on the rock floor and made his way back to camp. He dropped the deer at her feet, looking like a caveman providing meat for his mate.

Unmoved by his offering, she scolded him for his foolishness. “You get over there and lie down before you fall down.”

Chuckling softly, he obeyed. Frankly, he wasn't as strong as he had thought. He dropped down on the pallet. Lids half-closed, he watched her.

Not counting the noxious broth she had forced down his throat, apparently Stevie was an experienced cook. She cleaned a portion of the deer and prepared a roast as if she were accustomed to cleaning game and cooking over an open campfire every day of her life. She appeared domestic, in a rustic way.

He couldn't help but mentally compare her to the women he courted on his rare trips to New York. Remembering the O'Hara triplets in particular, he smiled wryly. They were sweet girls. Wealthy, well-bred, not so educated that they would make troublesome wives, well versed on the ins and outs of high society. And they were extremely easy on the eyes: willowy, fair, blond, and blue-eyed. Rad and Chap had dated them during the war. The Turner twins had taken all three of the beauties to Lincoln's second inauguration.

After his big brothers met Kinsey and Ginny—the women they eventually married—Heath had sort of inherited the triplets. He escorted them one at a time, however. Didn't matter which one, most of the time he wasn't even sure which sister was clinging helplessly to his arm. He just called the one he was with at the time “honey.” That was fairly safe. And they blushed and batted their lashes prettily when he said it.

Of course, he always acted the consummate gentleman with them. They were ladies, after all. He hadn't been particularly tempted to do otherwise. There were two kinds of women: those you bedded and enjoyed and those you respected and married. It was the code proper gentlemen were supposed to live by, the code Heath had cut his teeth on.

But Stevie called that code into question. Brow furrowed, he stared at her more closely. He had never respected a woman more than he respected her. Nor had he ever wanted a woman more.

Before he met her he'd never found it difficult to be a gentleman—and all that that implies—around ladies. He took his pleasure with whores. Ladies, he charmed and escorted to whatever fashionable function they desired. And he always . . . always brought them home as chaste as the day they were born.

The hell of it was that he didn't care. He was lusty, sure. But he had never met a virgin that he couldn't live without. He liked his bed partners experienced. And he didn't want entanglements once the passion cooled.