Lynna Banning Read online

  He slipped one hand under the supple skin covering of the tipi flap and unknotted the leather thong. Quietly lifting the barrier, he stepped over the threshold.

  He waited a few moments to adjust to the darkness inside, then muffled the jinglebobs on his spurs with his fingers and removed his boots. In silence, he set them by the entrance.

  He turned toward the sound of soft breathing. Jessamyn . lay curled up on the fur pallet, a blanket half-covering her still-clothed body. One booted foot stuck out from under the edge of the blanket. The other boot he discovered by stumbling over it.

  Ben stared down at the still form at his feet. She was exhausted, so tired she’d managed to get only one boot off before she’d dragged the tan wool blanket over herself and fallen asleep.

  The problem was, she’d used his bedroll for her pillow. Well, let her have it. The balmy night air caressed his skin like warm silk. Besides, he’d slept blanketless plenty of times on nights colder than this.

  He made a half turn away from her. The second problem was that her motionless form was jackknifed in the exact center of the single pallet, leaving no room for him. Ben sighed. Just as well, he thought. He didn’t dare get too close to her.

  He stretched his long legs out on the pine boughs carpeting the tipi floor, stuffed the jerky strip he’d brought for her into his shirt pocket and folded one arm under his head. Staring up at the smoke hole at the top of the tipi, he let his thoughts drift.

  Huge, brilliant stars sparkled against the tiny patch of blue-black sky visible through the opening. He gazed at them so long his eyes began to sting.

  A man was a small thing compared to the vastness of the universe. As the sky wheeled and the seasons turned throughout the eons, what would it matter that he had been a friend to the Indian, had kept the peace in an unruly Oregon county peopled with orating politicians, anxious railroad investors, weary, single-minded ranchers, and desperate Indians no one cared about now that the territory had gained statehood? Could what one man accomplished in his short lifetime be of much significance?

  In another hundred years maybe it wouldn’t make any difference, he reasoned. But it made a difference now. At least, it did to him. A man had to hold on to something in life—something of enduring value. As a frontier lawman, he figured he was doing what any honorable person would do when faced with chaos—try to keep order. But God almighty, he was sick to death of the never-ending strife. Sometimes he longed to go back to Carolina, pretend everything was the same as it was before the war—peaceful and orderly.

  But he knew he couldn’t. There was nothing left for him in Carolina—not land or family or the girl he had once loved.

  In the end, maybe it was better that Lorena hadn’t wanted him. At least this way she’d gotten what she did want— more land than any one plantation owner would know what to do with. But it had hurt. It still hurt. He’d wanted her, and she’d wanted something else—money, social position in the crumbling world of the South. But not him. Not after the war had torn up his body, disfigured him and spit out his soul.

  Black Eagle had once told him suffering revealed a man’s strength. It also defined a man’s weakness with a merciless truth. Lorena had ceased to love him because the war had changed him. She no longer knew who he was.

  God knew, he didn’t, either.

  Ben let his eyelids drift shut. He didn’t want to think about it any longer. He just wanted to—

  A sound brought him to attention. A muffled groan, somewhere outside the tipi. Then another, and a man’s low laugh.

  Ben swore under his breath. Black Eagle and his wife, making a son inside their tipi. He shook his head, then had to smile. That fox of a chief was as randy as any young brave half his age.

  A long moan rose, throaty and soft in the stillness. He cast a quick look at Jessamyn. Still asleep, thank God. The moaning increased, rose in pitch, and now a man’s pleasure-filled grunting accompanied it. Ben swore again. Come on, old man, get it done so we can both get some sleep.

  No luck. Black Eagle evidently relished physical play as much as jousting with words. The noises continued, along with suggestive thumps that mounted in volume until Ben was certain the whole camp lay awake, listening.

  His own imagination flickered to life. Instead of Black Eagle, he saw himself, rousing a woman to slow, heated passion with his lips and hands, a woman with skin like thistledown under his fingers, a mouth hot and wet, opening to his. A woman with a sweetly rounded bottom, slim arms that reached up for him…a sunburned nose…

  He groaned aloud. Jessamyn. Goddammit. Jessamyn.

  Black Eagle’s woman began to croon in jerky, breathinterrupted expressions of fevered arousal. Ben’s chest tightened. Blood pounded into his groin. He laid one hand on his pants fly and tried to press his member into quiescence.

  Jessamyn stirred. “Ben,” she whispered. She rose up on one elbow, facing him. “What’s that noise?”

  “Nothing,” he managed. “A coyote, maybe. Go back to sleep.” He rolled onto his stomach, hoping to ease the swelling of his manhood.

  “It can’t be a coyote,” she murmured. “Coyotes don’t cry that way. And anyway, it’s too close.”

  “Jess,” Ben ordered, his voice hoarse. “Go back to sleep.”

  From Black Eagle’s tipi now came a rhythmic thrashing sound, punctuated by high, strangled cries of pleasure.

  “Ben!” Jessamyn gasped. “It’s coming from—”

  “I know damn well where it’s coming from. Now shut up and go to—”

  “Oh, merciful heavens,” she cried. “It’s a woman! And a—And a—Oh!” She broke off as awareness dawned. Her mouth dropped open in shock..

  That did it. He pushed her back down onto the soft fur. “Don’t listen,” he growled. He rolled her away from him, stretched out beside her close enough to reach her if he extended his arms but not close enough to touch her with any part of his body.

  “I can’t help but hear them,” she whispered. “They’re…that’s…incredible,” she finished on a ragged breath. “Do people really…”

  “Yes, people really,” Ben said through gritted teeth. “Now shut up and lie still.” He snaked one arm out and slid his hand under the side of her head. With his other hand he covered her exposed ear.

  “Don’t listen, understand?” he breathed near her temple. Under his fingers he felt her head move up and down in a nod. He pressed both palms tight against her ears.

  And don’t talk, he added to himself. For God’s sake, don’t say anything even remotely suggestive. Even if an emotional tie was the last thing on earth he wished for, he was only a man, and he sure as hell had a man’s needs. Right now he wasn’t so sure that his scruples about taking virgins hadn’t been left back in Wildwood Valley.

  Then Jessamyn did the one thing he’d never expected. She inched backward until her spine pressed against his chest. Her jean-clad buttocks teased his aching groin.

  His body flamed into desire. If she so much as moved, he’d—

  She didn’t. She lay still against him, letting his hands cover her ears against the guttural, panting sounds of lovemaking just a few feet away. Ben tried not to think about what was going on in the adjacent tipi, tried instead to keep his trembling body from exploding with pent-up need.

  It seemed like hours before the noises finally trailed off. When he could hear the usual night sounds again—an owl’s soft call from a nearby thicket, the sigh of the wind through the sugar pines—he lifted his palms from her ears.

  Without a word, Jessamyn turned toward him. Tears sheened her cheeks. She swiped at them with fingers that shook, then buried her face in her hands.

  “Jessamyn?” Ben found it difficult to speak her name. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” she sobbed. “Those sounds. Hearing them made me feel funny inside.”

  Ben winced. “I’m sorry, Jess. That’s something no lady should ever have to hear.”

  Jessamyn raised her head. “Oh, no, Ben,” she bre
athed. “You’re wrong. I thought it was…” She hesitated, searching for a word. “Beautiful.”

  Ben jerked upright. What in the hell? This prim, overstarched Yankee lady with refined manners and too many petticoats thought the act of love between a man and a woman was…beautiful? He wondered if her empty belly was causing her to hallucinate.

  He scrabbled in his pocket for the bit of dried venison and his pocketknife. “Here,” he managed. “Have some jerky.”

  Jessamyn shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry now. Save it for breakfast.”

  She stifled a yawn, turned away from him and curled up on the thick fur. “Go to sleep, Ben,” she said over her shoulder. “Tomorrow I’ll make some notes about what I learned today.”

  After a moment she gave a soft laugh. “And what I learned tonight,” she added in a drowsy voice. “It ought to sell newspapers like sarsaparilla on the Fourth of July!”

  A soft scratching on the outside of the tipi roused Jessamyn from a fitful sleep. She opened her eyes to daylight and the sight of Ben’s bare forearm draped across her midriff. His hand, palm down, the fingers loosely curled, lay on the fur pallet near her breast. She was trapped inside the curve of his arm.

  Afraid to waken him, she lay perfectly still. Oh, if Miss Bennett saw her now, lying next to a sleeping man, whatever would she think? She was fully clothed, but even so, her entire being, right down to her toes, felt the heat of Ben’s body. She pondered the delicious new sensation.

  The scratching resumed. She raised her head a fraction of an inch. “Who’s there?” she whispered.

  The flap lifted, and Walks Dancing poked her head inside. The Indian girl beckoned, then her small, solemn face broke into a smile as she perceived Jessamyn’s dilemma. She couldn’t move a muscle without waking Ben.

  Her smile broadening, Walks Dancing pantomimed a solution. Jessamyn shook her head, but at the girl’s repeated unspoken urging, she decided she had to try it. It was either that or lie imprisoned and hungry until Ben awoke.

  Very slowly, she slid her own small hand under the sheriffs larger one, lifted it and gently resettled it on his thigh. Her fingers brushed his jeans as she slipped her hand free. Ben mumbled something in his sleep but did not stir.

  Silent as a cat, Jessamyn rolled free. When Walks Dancing motioned her outside, she rose to a standing position. Making as little noise as possible, she pulled off her remaining boot. Before she took a step, she gazed down at the figure sleeping at her feet. It was the first time she had allowed herself to really look at this remote, mysterious man.

  Tousled black hair, laced with silver and long enough to touch the top of his ear, framed a lean, angular face bronzed by years of exposure to the sun. She bent closer, studying him. Awake, he reminded her of a tiger—quiet and purposeful. Asleep, he looked quite human.

  Long dark lashes fanned the high cheekbones. She studied his mouth, the lips firm and nicely curved, watched his nostrils flare as he drew air in, breathed it out in a slow, even rhythm. She fought an inexplicable urge to smooth her fingertip across his lips, coax them apart. She blushed at her audacity.

  A softly spoken phrase in the mellifluous Indian language jerked her to attention. She tore her gaze away from Ben and crept in silence through the tipi entrance and out into the hot morning sunshine.

  Walks Dancing pivoted and headed for the wind-stunted pine grove at the edge of camp. Barefooted, Jessamyn followed, grateful that this morning she could move with relatively little pain. She caught up with the Indian girl within three strides. The hard-packed earth radiated warmth into the soles of her feet.

  Just beyond the trees a lazy stream widened into a clear turquoise-green pool, obscured by drooping cottonwoods around the perimeter. Walks Dancing pointed, then unwound her braid, stripped off her buckskin dress and leggings and plunged into the water.

  Jessamyn gaped. On land the Indian girl moved in halting, labored steps. In the water she cavorted like a water sprite.

  Quickly she shrugged free of the rumpled plaid shirt she’d slept in for two nights and unbuttoned her jeans. She dipped her bare toes into cool, inviting water. Pulling off her thin chemise and cotton drawers, she unpinned her hair, letting the heavy tresses swing loose. She took a deep breath and splashed into the water, wading out until it reached her waist.

  Walks Dancing swam in circles around her, chattering in her strange tongue, while Jessamyn scooped handfuls of the chilly water over her neck and chest. Finally she spread her arms and submerged her entire body in the pool.

  Cold stabbed her, then faded as she breaststroked in a lazy arc. Following Walks Dancing’s example, she ducked her head below the surface, finger-combing her hair underwater to wash away the trail dust. Swimming to the edge, she plucked her shirt and smallclothes from the bank and dunked them in the pool, as well.

  Walks Dancing broke off a leafy cottonwood branch. Using a series of gestures, the Indian girl showed Jessamyn how to scrub the garments against a rock.

  When she finished the task, she tossed the sodden shirt and underclothes onto the grassy bank and scrambled out of the pool after them. She spread the garments over a bush to dry, then stretched out full-length in the warm sun. Walks Dancing joined her, and the two lazed away the better part of an hour in companionable silence.

  She must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing she knew, a horse crashed through the tangled underbrush, blundering into the sheltered copse on the other side of the pool. Jessamyn glimpsed a dun-colored pony, a half-naked Indian brave on its back.

  The horse stood, its sides heaving, and the brave slipped off. Unaware that he was being watched, he draped the animal’s reins over an overhanging pine branch and loped off toward the camp.

  Walks Dancing snorted a word into the quiet. Without a sound, she rose, dressed herself and went to rub the horse down with a handful of dry grass.

  Jessamyn lifted her still-damp drawers from the bush. Ignoring the chill from the wet material, she pulled the garment on anyway, then donned her chemise and buttoned her shirt over it. She had just stepped into her jeans when Walks Dancing whistled to her. The girl pantomimed spooning food into her mouth. Was she hungry?

  Jessamyn nodded. She was starving!

  Her olive-skinned companion grinned, patted the pony’s neck and slipped past her. Just as Jessamyn turned to follow, something caught her eye.

  A metallic glint riveted her attention on the blanket roll tied on the pony. She moved forward. With careful fingers she lifted the cover.

  A polished blued-steel gun muzzle poked from the woolen material. Jessamyn sucked in her breath. She’d been told the Indians had no weapons save for their lances and bows. What would a Klamath brave be doing with a rifle?

  Walks Dancing called out, her voice carrying through the trees. Hurriedly Jessamyn shoved the gun back under the blanket. Had she been misinformed? Were the Indians now allowed to have firearms? If they were, why was the weapon carried as it was, concealed under the blankets?

  A shiver crawled up her spine. Every instinct told her something was wrong. She didn’t know what, just… something. She had to tell Ben.

  She forgot all about breakfast. Wheeling in her tracks, Jessamyn headed toward camp and the man she’d left sleeping in the tipi.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ben studied the carefully expressionless face of the old Indian chief who sat across from him sharing a meager breakfast of baked acorn dough and sweetened tea. For the past hour he and Black Eagle had fenced in two languages trying to discover each other’s secrets. Again and again the canny old man evaded Ben’s careful, probing questions. The Indian knew something, but damned if Ben could wrestle it out of him.

  In turn, Black Eagle queried him about one apparently unrelated thing after another. About Jessamyn—was she willing? How many times? How was it when he was with her? About his family, his brother, Carleton, and Ella, his wife. About plans for the railroad to the coast, about the Modoc people herded onto the reservation along w
ith their enemies, the various Klamath tribes—how many warriors? How many women and children? About alfalfa and wheat yields from the valley ranches, then more questions about Jessamyn.

  None of Black Eagle’s circular conversation seemed connected. As the sly chief skipped from topic to topic with consummate skill, Ben wondered if he had inadvertently fed the Indian leader a crucial bit of intelligence without realizing it. But if he had, what in the hell was it? What was Black Eagle after?

  Or was he mainly interested in Ben’s relationship with “his woman”? Over and over, Black Eagle asked about her. Was she intelligent? Were her hips wide for childbearing? Did she cry out during the act? Ben clenched his jaw at the sparkle of delight in the old man’s eyes. His neck muscles tightening, he worked to erase the frown of annoyance he knew creased his brow. If Black Eagle suspected his guest’s patience had worn thin, sure as beans and bacon the old chief would use the knowledge to his advantage.

  But goddammit, no more about Jessamyn! He’d lain awake most of the night throbbing with need for the Yankee lady who’d kept him off balance since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. The last thing he wanted to think about was her soft, pliant body curled in his arms all night, her backbone pressing into his chest, her bottom snugged against his thighs until he ached with desire.

  “Pain,” Black Eagle had told him years ago, “makes a man think. Thought makes him wise, and wisdom makes life endurable.” Now the old man’s words haunted him.

  Ben’s pulse pounded. He’d bet the old chief hadn’t meant that particular type of pain. This discomfort had nothing to do with a man’s rational thought process. Quite the opposite. His brain would explode if he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts soon.

  He shot a surreptitious glance at Black Eagle. How much did the old man guess about Ben’s real reasons for visiting the Indian camp? Did he suspect Jessamyn was not really his woman? That she accompanied him to discover something about her father’s murder?