Lynna Banning Page 15

  Jessamyn watched the grass shrivel and curl as the fire licked at the tinder. She flicked a glance up at the ridge above them. Nothing moved.

  Instinctively she moved toward the comforting warmth of the fire, but Ben laid his hand on her shoulder.

  “Stay here. Out of sight.” He gestured to her bedroll. “When it gets good and dark, unroll it next to mine and lay your head on my saddle.”

  Without waiting for her assent, he gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. Then he picked up her saddle and a single blanket and moved toward the fire pit. Dropping the leather saddle near the flames, he artfully arranged a blanket over three rounded rocks to resemble a sleeping person.

  He disappeared into the shadows, then returned leading both horses. He picketed the animals between Jessamyn and the snapping flames, then turned to her. “Roll up in the blanket. There’s food in my saddlebag.”

  “But—”

  He tossed the blanket over her shoulder and turned away. “Don’t argue, Jess. Eat. Then get some sleep.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll keep watch. Save me the last of that jerky.” He settled himself on the ground beside her, putting his back against a flat rock. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her down next to him.

  Trembling, she rolled herself up in the woolen blanket and stared hard at the rocks above them, trying to penetrate the thick darkness by squinting her eyes and not blinking. She watched so long her eyes stung.

  Ben touched her blanket-swathed shoulder. “Cold?”

  “N-no. Just scared, I guess.”

  He extricated his pocketknife from his pants and laid it and a strip of jerky within reach.

  “Eat something,” he ordered. He crawled to the fire, added more wood and returned with something chunky in his hand.

  “Here.” He shoved a large fire-heated rock under the blanket next to her body.

  Jessamyn curled her shaking form around the warm object and slipped a round of venison into her mouth. Little by little her shaking lessened. Wary, her senses overactive, she lay still.

  Below them, a coyote howled. An owl hooted once into the quiet. Jessamyn thought of Black Eagle and his wife, the sounds they made inside their tipi. Mating sounds. Natural sounds.

  She nibbled another piece of jerky and turned her gaze on Ben, watched him slip his pistol out of the holster he wore strapped low on his hip. He laid the gun in his lap, his palm resting against the butt.

  A cricket scraped a series of off-key notes, lapsed into ominous silence, then began again. Ben’s breathing slowed to a steady rhythm. Jessamyn chewed the lump of dried meat and considered the man at her side.

  It was odd how she and Ben Kearney had become…well, almost friends on this journey. They certainly hadn’t started out that way. She doubted that Ben had many friends outside of Jeremiah and perhaps her father. Women she could imagine the sheriff having—women in large numbers, in fact, given his handsome, even arresting face and those smoky blue eyes. But a woman friend?

  Now he was protecting her, taking precautions to keep her safe from an unseen enemy. She laid the open pocketknife and the jerky strip next to Ben’s empty holster.

  “Thanks,” he said. The quietly spoken word calmed her jittery nerves. She forced herself to plan a newspaper layout, compose headlines in her mind, make up lead paragraphs—anything to keep her thoughts off the danger she sensed. And off her growing respect for the taciturn, enigmatic man beside her.

  She wondered if her father had ever been afraid. What would Papa have done if he’d been in danger?

  Jessamyn drew in a shuddery breath. She already knew the answer. He’d have gone right on with the business of publishing his paper. That’s probably what got him killed.

  Tension knotted her stomach. She closed her eyes, then snapped them open again. Ben sat motionless in the shadows, his head resting against the rock, his Stetson tipped down over his forehead. Underneath the brim, his eyes were alert and hard.

  “Go to sleep,” he said, his voice quiet.

  Her lids drifted shut. After a long moment she let them flutter open. It comforted her to watch him.

  A movement caught Ben’s eye. A glimmer of firelight glinted off something—a knife? A rifle? A cold calm settled over him. He slipped his forefinger into the trigger guard.

  A twig snapped and an Indian brave stepped into the circle of firelight.

  “Running Elk,” Ben said, his voice even. He spoke in Yurok. “I have been waiting.”

  The brave grunted. “Iron Hand will sell me the woman?”

  “Iron Hand will not.” He switched to English. “This woman is not for sale.”

  “How if I take her, then?” The Indian took a step toward the lumpy blanket before the fire.

  “You will not take her. I will kill you if you take one more step.”

  Running Elk hesitated. “She is worth much, then?”

  Ben slid the gun barrel on top of his thigh and aimed it. “She is worth much. Many horses.”

  At his side, Jessamyn’s blanket twitched.

  The brave spat out. “Iron Hand knows I can get many horses.”

  “Iron Hand does not need horses.”

  “Guns, then.” The Indian’s eyes gleamed suddenly. “Rifles.”

  “Nor guns. The woman belongs to me.”

  The blanket jerked again. Deliberately, Ben rolled one booted foot sideways until it touched the reclining lump at his side. When he felt his foot rest against something solid, he pressed, slow and hard.’

  The blanket stilled.

  “You are an old man, Iron Hand. She is young and strong. I will give her many sons.”

  “I am thirty seasons and six. I will give her my own sons,” Ben heard himself reply. “You will give her nothing. Take your companions and ride back to Black Eagle. Tell him Iron Hand does not bargain for what is already his. Tell him also that I make a gift of the life of his brave, Running Elk. Go now, before I change my mind.”

  The Indian peered into the darkness toward the sound of Ben’s voice. Slowly he turned away, then grabbed for the blanket covering the stones.

  Ben’s gun blazed a streak of red-orange fire, and Running Elk cried out and clutched his wrist.

  Ben raised the pistol and sighted over the man’s heart. “Running Elk’s life ebbs like sand emptying from a seashell.”

  The brave pivoted. “Iron Hand does not fire at a man’s back.”

  Ben chuckled. “Iron Hand values this woman.’ He will shoot if you remain until he counts to three fingers.”

  Running Elk muttered an obscenity in Yurok.

  “One,” Ben called.

  “Two.”

  “Thr—”

  The Indian vanished into the dark.

  Ben breathed out a long, slow breath and lowered the pistol. “Jess?”

  A muffled word from under the blanket.

  “Let’s go.”

  Jessamyn’s head emerged from under the folds of tan wool, her eyes wide. “Go?”

  Ben nodded. He grabbed his saddle from under her head. “Mount up. He’ll be back. We’ve got to beat them to the river crossing.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “But that’s miles from here!”

  “Exactly.” He tossed his saddle on the gelding, then went to retrieve hers. “Now, mount up.”

  They rode all night. After the first few hours Jessamyn gave up trying to see in the dark and let the mare have her head. Gus at the livery stable was right. On rocky ground, horses were smarter than humans. The mare stepped daintily after Ben’s gelding, her footing solid and sure. Jessamyn gripped the saddle horn so tightly her hands ached. Every mile of the way she expected something or someone to jump out at her. She’d never felt so defenseless in her life.

  Just as the sky began to lighten, Ben pulled the gelding up short. Quickly he slid out of the saddle and studied the ground. When he climbed on his horse again, he turned hard to the right.

  Even at night, Jessamyn knew this wasn’t the way they’d come. The trail
narrowed, twisted along the hilltops instead of zigzagging down to the river she could faintly hear rushing far below them. They were moving away from it. The mare’s hooves rang against the rock-strewn trail cut into the hillside. Ben raised one arm and pointed downward.

  Jessamyn drew up her horse and peered over the mare’s neck into the canyon below. For a moment she saw nothing, and then her throat closed. The river looked like a rumpled black ribbon in the faint light of dawn. The white spume on the water told her it was swift and treacherous.

  And Ben was headed straight for it.

  Chapter Twelve

  The sheriff stepped the gelding along the rock-strewn riverbank. “We’ll take the shortcut. Cross the river north of the ford.” He pointed upriver where the river boiled around a bend.

  Jessamyn blanched. The water shone like burnished metal in the first rays of early-morning sun. It surged over boulders the size of a small house, swirled with-terrifying force along the uneven bank.

  “There,” Ben shouted over the roar of the water. “It’s not as shallow as the ford where we crossed before, but here there’s no Indian reception committee waiting for us.”

  He pointed out a section where the riverbed curved, the water eddying into a frothy lacework of silvery foam. “The current slacks about where that fallen tree lies.”

  Jessamyn stared at the gnarled black roots of a massive upended fir. Oh, no. She wasn’t about to willingly risk drowning Cora’s mare, much less herself, in that swiftsliding dark water.

  “Isn’t there some other place we could cross?” She had to yell to make herself heard.

  Ben shook his head. “Got no choice,” he shouted. “Have to cross before daylight. Otherwise, Running Elk will spot us. He’s downriver now, waiting.”

  Jessamyn struggled to grasp their dilemma. “But he’ll follow us, no matter where we cross, won’t he?”

  “He can’t cross to the west side of the river for fear of being captured and sent to the reservation. He expects us where we forded before, not here.” He glanced at the flaming sun, now crawling over the mountain peaks behind them. “Come on! We can’t waste time.”

  Ben pulled the gelding about and edged down to the riverbank. Turning his face toward her, he shouted something Jessamyn couldn’t hear over the rushing water. He nudged his horse forward, motioning her to follow.

  She balked. She couldn’t walk her horse into that raging water—she’d be swept away in an instant, along with the mare. She couldn’t make herself kick the animal into motion.

  “Ben!” she screamed. “I can’t do it! I can’t!”

  He didn’t hear. Only when he reached the water’s edge did he glance back at her, frozen on the mare’s broad back.

  He wheeled and rode toward her. Grabbing the mare’s bridle, he yanked the animal forward. He caught the reins out of her hands, looped them around his wrist and started forward.

  Water spilled over her boot tops, soaked her trouser legs. Numb with fright, Jessamyn clung to the saddle horn and felt the animal bump into the river, then abruptly strike out with its legs and begin to swim.

  Icy blue-green water sloshed at her waist, rose to her midriff. She kicked her feet free of the stirrups and fought to keep her balance.

  No use. The mare plunged sideways, and Jessamyn toppled out of the saddle. With one hand she grabbed at the horse’s mane, tried to knot her fingers into the long hair, but the flowing strands were wet and slick. She couldn’t hold on.

  She went under, thrashed to the surface, then sank again. God help me, I damn well won’t die before I put my first newspaper to bed!

  She kicked violently against a submerged rock and came up spluttering. Her hat floated away. She reached out and snagged it. Cora would never forgive her if she lost Frank Boult’s favorite Stetson.

  Clutching the sodden mass of felt in one fist, she struck out for the opposite bank, breaststroking slowly, oh, so slowly toward a stretch of calm water. Ahead of her, Ben’s gelding and the gray mare swam in tandem.

  Jessamyn caught the mare’s tail and hung on.

  At last her feet scrabbled on the rocky bottom. She stumbled. Coughing up water, she released the horse’s tail and tried to stand up.

  The mare scrambled up the bank and stood facing her, trembling violently. She couldn’t reach it! Her chest ached with a cold, tight feeling, as if an iron band squeezed the air out of her lungs. She tried again, slipped to one knee as she lost her balance.

  “Jess!” Ben rode toward her, pulled her upright and pressed her clawed hands around the edge of his saddle. “Hold on!”

  He leaned down over her, his body pressing her face into his thigh, and grabbed her waistband. Hooking his thumb inside her belt, he pulled her up and began walking the gelding out of the riverbed. Jessamyn’s weakened legs scraped over the tops of the shore rocks.

  When he released her, she crumpled on the spot. Ben slid off the horse and was beside her in an instant.

  “Jess! Stand up!”

  Stand up? Was the man crazy? She couldn’t draw breath, much less stand up!

  She gasped for enough air to tell him what a stupid, inconsiderate, loutish order he’d just given. A gulp of air whooshed in. Oh, thank God. She could breathe. She was safe! Despite her resolve, she began to cry. Great heaving sobs racked her frame.

  “Jess! It’s all right. We made it! Running Elk has turned back—I can see him on the ridge behind us.”

  “G-good,” Jessamyn sobbed. She struggled to her feet and Ben pulled her into his chest, pressed her head into the hollow of his shoulder. Long tendrils of dark, wet hair straggled down her neck.

  The warm rays of the sun on her back eased the tight, aching knot in her rib cage. She felt warm and safe here in his arms. She wanted nothing more than to just stand here with him, feel his strong hands at her back, listen to the thrumming of his heart through the wet canvas shirt. She wanted to feel him tight and hard against her.

  Ben wrapped both arms around the trembling woman before him, steadied her against his body. They’d done it— outrun Running Elk, crossed the river just in time. A heady joy at being alive and in one piece coursed through him, kicked his pulse into a gallop. He felt giddy with happiness.

  He was alive. And Jessamyn was alive—very much alive, judging from the trembling warmth enfolded within his arms. He and Jessamyn together had outfoxed both Black Eagle and his scout, Running Elk. He and Jessamyn—that proper, petticoated, steel-spined Yankee who wouldn’t take No for an answer. Who now wept in his arms like a frightened child.

  But she was no child, he acknowledged. No child—or woman, either—had ever made him feel this way, simultaneously exasperated and protective, admiring and infuriated.

  And no woman before her—not even back in Carolina— had felt this good pressed hard against his body.

  A kernel of heat in his belly exploded into an inferno of need. He inhaled the scent of her thick hair coming loose from the prim bun, clinging to his shirt, teasing his chin, gazed at her wide, soft-looking mouth so near his. He licked his lips. My God, he had a three-day growth of beard. If he had any sense…

  Jessamyn stirred and tipped her head to look up at him with drowsy green eyes. Before he knew what he was doing, he tilted her chin up and covered her mouth with his. Behind his closed lids, scarlet and gold sunbursts faded to black velvet as his lips tasted hers. She jerked and then went still.

  Her heart fluttered like a bird’s wings against his chest. Warmth washed into his groin. He pulled her closer, moving his mouth on hers, his breathing growing ragged.

  He deepened the kiss, deepened it again as she began to respond, moving unconsciously into the rhythm that pulled at his body. She made a small sound in her throat, and a strangled groan escaped him.

  Goddamn. He wanted her so much he felt dizzy. He caught her buttocks, lifted her to meet him, to fit

  A shaft of hot sunlight on his closed eyelids reminded him where he was. And who he was. Who she was. Jessamyn Whittaker was not his woman.<
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  He released her. Bringing his hands to her temples, he loosened the wire hairpins, threaded his fingers into her thick hair. “Jessamyn. Jessamyn.” He barely recognized his own voice. He breathed in the sweet scent of her and worked to keep his hands still.

  Jessamyn thought her body would melt when Ben’s lips touched hers. His mouth was dark and silky, mysterious, his tongue wicked and wondrous as it teased her lips open. He moved—oh, how he moved!—as if he knew her intimately, sensed what she wanted before she knew it herself.

  A needle of white-hot pleasure pricked her belly, settled lower, lacing her senses into a flame-licked net of desire. His tongue flicked across the tip of hers and a jolt of sweet aching sensation tightened her loins. With drowsy abandon she let him lift her, position her hard against him. She ached, ached!

  Dear God, she wanted him inside her, hard and deep.

  She groaned, felt his body tremble. Her hands fluttered toward the top button of her shirt. She wanted to be naked against him. Now.

  She wanted—

  His hands found her hairpins, discarded them. She couldn’t move for the pleasure of it, his fingers deep in her hair, stroking, stroking. He spoke her name, his voice thick, and something within her twisted with longing.

  Hot and wet, she reached up for his hands.

  “Ben. Ben, stop.” Jessamyn’s voice shook. She had to put an end to this. As much as she wanted what was happening, she knew it had to stop. Ladies did not lose their heads after just one kiss.

  She settled his palms at her waist and bent her neck until her forehead pressed against his chest.

  “Jess,” he breathed. “I’m sorry. I had no right.”

  “Don’t talk, Ben. I wanted you to.” The confession surprised her. Accustomed to speaking her mind, she now blanched at her unladylike blurting of the truth.

  But she had wanted it. She still wanted it. She hadn’t wanted him to stop.

  “It won’t happen again,” he said in a careful, throaty voice.

  Disappointment niggled at the back of her mind. “I—I’m not offended. But I don’t mean to…to suggest…”