Caress of Fire (5 page)

A painted, vicious face came toward her. She swung the knife as he leaned down from his pony, but the bullet from Gil's repeater rifle slammed into the Comanche's chest. He fell not three feet from her.

The Indian's pony cut to the side, galloped away.

Gil yelled, “Get under the wagon, and I mean
now.”

This time she got beneath the wagon.

The attack lasted another five, maybe ten minutes before she heard retreating horses. Pain grabbed her ribs when she forced air from her lungs. It was then she realized she had been holding her breath for quite some time. Worried about the trail boss and Matthias and the others, Lisette called out, “Are you all right?”

“Some of us are.”

Recognizing her friend's voice, she scrambled from her place of safety. “What about Mister McLoughlin?”

“I'm okay.”

There was an uncharacteristic gruffness in his voice, and when she studied him, she knew why. Shoulders drooping, he stood over the still body of Willie Gaines. Willie, poor Willie. He'd said she reminded him of his sister . . . and he'd wanted to eat her cooking all the way to Kansas.

Lisette had to force back tears. To cry would be a show of weakness in character with her gender.

And there were more tears to stifle. Two more men were dead. Ernst Dietert and the guitar player, José; both had been on night patrol. Ernst had been a good, honest, hardworking man, José a fine musician.
Those
poor
,
poor men.

But no one said a word.

Lisette, also silent, stoked the embers of last night's fire and made a pot of good, strong coffee. Johns Clark and Oscar Yates carried off the seven dead Comanches. She didn't know where they were taken. And didn't care.

It did matter about the men of the Four Aces. She watched as the trail boss carried Willie to the crest of a hill. The wrangler, Fritz Fischer, toted Ernst; Matthias carried José.

With shovels from the chuck wagon, Fritz and Matthias began to dig the hard-packed earth. The other men rode out to round up the cattle that had scattered during the attack. Stone-faced, Gil McLoughlin set to work fashioning three wooden crosses from oak limbs.

At daybreak, ten mourners and a seemingly unruffled Blade Sharp laid the three cowhands to rest.

Preacher Wilson said the proper words over their creekside graves, concluding with “. . . in the name of God Almighty, Amen.”

They backed away from their fallen colleagues, all but the trail boss; hat in hand, he lingered. Lisette knew his grief was deep. Not knowing what else to do, she patted his arm. Turning troubled eyes to her, he settled his palm over her hand.

“I–I'd better get breakfast,” she said, embarrassed by the intimacy.

Lisette returned to the wagon and set about making breakfast. She had no desire to eat, and doubted the men did, but all would need sustenance for whatever lay ahead.

The salt pork fried, she set the pieces on a platter. There were no eggs, of course. She made flour-and-water gravy; milk would have given it better flavor, but even she was aware that longhorns were notoriously poor milk-givers. Lifting biscuits from the Dutch oven, she looked up and saw Gil McLoughlin speaking with the preacher. The clergyman nodded every once in a while. Hopefully Eli Wilson wouldn't leave, as he'd threatened during last evening's tirade.

When Lisette rang the triangle-bell, Sadie Lou wagged her tail and sat up on her haunches. “You'll be fed,
Liebling.”
Within a half minute, the Four Aces crew assembled. Gil McLoughlin stood close by As the men filled their plates, she couldn't help but notice the trail boss staring at her. Each time he caught her watching him, he flushed beneath his tan.

Unnerved, she hastened to set a food dish on the ground for Sadie Lou.

When she stood, she met the trail boss's gaze.

“Lisette, if you're not too hungry, I'd like a word with you.” He gestured to a score of cattle. “Let's . . . let's walk over there.”

By the time they reached the appointed place, Lisette was a bundle of nerves. Her eyes shifted to the left . . . and she screamed. A tonsil-vibrating, high-pitched scream.

A bull, his nostrils dilated, was charging her. His massive thews, his twitching tail, his horns–wide as the beast's body was long, and capable of great destruction –all of this was coming at her, from no more than fifty feet away. She whirled to flee, but Gil stepped in front of her and put a restricting hand on her forearm.

“Settle down, it's okay,” he said softly. “He won't hurt you. It's a handout he's after. Yates'll take care of him.”

For some reason, she trusted his word.

The bowlegged cowboy appeared, whistled to draw the bull's attention, and led the enormous animal away. Lisette heard the tinkling of a cowbell; when she ventured a look at the bull, she noted a bell attached to an end of one horn.

She could have died of embarrassment.

“He's one of your lead bulls, isn't he?” she uttered in a tone very like a child's.

“My best. He's Tecumseh Billy. We call him T-Bill for short. Couldn't do without the lad. He guides the other leaders, and they keep the herd headed up the cowpath. This drive would be lost without him. He's been with me for all three trips to Abilene.” The trail boss shuffled his boots. “He's almost a pet.”

She stepped to the side and mustered as much dignity as the situation allowed. “Adolf had only one milk cow, so I'm not accustomed to bulls.”

“Uh, Lisette, there aren't any bulls on this drive. T-Bill's a steer. Do you know the difference? A steer's harmless. But a bull can make it 'round the bend, and force his partner there . . . if need be.”

The trail boss spoke with a double meaning, and Lisette sucked in her breath.
He
was no steer, if looks were any indication. Gil McLoughlin was all virility and potent vitality.

She turned all red and flustered.

At last she found a voice. “I've a lot to learn. And I apologize for overreacting.”
Since you'll
never hire me now.

Blue-gray eyes assessed her face. “Don't be apologizing. You didn't know.”

“But I am a quick study.” She forced a confident stance as she met the doubt written in the trail boss's features. “And I've got something on my side that you'll find to your liking–the will to persevere.”

“You did recover quick-like.”

His doubt turned to something akin to admiration, yet he didn't utter another word for interminable seconds. Lisette became worried again.

“Lisette,” he said at last, “I've done a lot of thinking over the past few hours.”

This didn't sound good.

“I'm in a terrible fix. I really have no option.”

This sounded even worse.

“It's a long way into town, and your reputation would suffer. I've got to think about my men, one in particular. I understand Blade Sharp was talking with you last night.” A long-fingered hand rubbed the back of his neck. “He's an acceptable cowpuncher, but he's no gentleman.”

“Another thing,” he said. “I know you and Matt are friends, but a man's a man. You distract him. And you do yourself a disservice, inviting trouble with your forwardness.”

She did not admire his bent toward the judgmental, and defended herself with, “I am what I am.”

“Yeah, but you agitate the others, too, in that man-noticing-woman way. Well, maybe not the preacher.” He mopped his brow with his bandana. “Lisette, the men need to keep their minds on cattle and the elements and Comanche attacks. Each'll be doing the work of two now.”

“I know what you're trying to say, and–”

“No,” he broke in, “I don't think you have any idea.”

She looked at him. Doffing his Stetson, he exhaled and ran his fingers through that thick crop of curling, raven-black hair. Oh,
Gott in Himmel,
why did she have to think about his handsomeness? And why did she recall how refreshing it had been, his teasing? More than anything, she couldn't stop figuring that he would prove no steer . . .

“Lisette,” he murmured, “I'm not going to send you away.”

“Danke.”
Rushing forward, she threw her arms around his neck. He was warm, solid–all strength and power. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Despite the horrors of predawn and the scare of Tecumseh Billy, this was a fine, fine day. The sky had never looked so blue. The birds had never sung this sweetly. Gil McLoughlin had answered all her prayers.

He dislodged Lisette's arms from around his neck; her relief turned to apprehension, especially when the trail boss glanced across the stream, back at her, and scowled. She didn't breathe. Surely he wouldn't renege on the job offer still fresh in her ears. Would he?

Of course he wouldn't. He didn't strike her as a man who made empty promises.

“Excuse me.” He strode to the halfway point between the creek and camp. “Herd 'em up, boys,” he shouted. “Yates, leave the chuck wagon be. We'll catch up with you.”

The
“we”
confirmed her confidence in him.

His men began to make a ten-wide column of longhorns, with Tecumseh Billy leading the pack. The boss, striding along the cactus- and cottonwood-lined path, returned to Lisette's side. He kept a distance of three or four feet.

“I need to ask some questions,” he said gravely. “They're on the personal side, but a lot rides on this. You're not a woman to ... you don't . . . I couldn't have–it's like this.” He ran his hand down his mouth in a nervous gesture. “A loose woman could turn this drive into more trouble than any redskin could wreak on us. I can't have that.”

She could certainly assure him on this score. “No one shares my bed, Mister McLoughlin. No one.”

“I thought so.” He expelled a sigh. “You've got to understand, it was a question that had to be asked.”

“I understand.”

“Lisette, it won't be socials and teas, not here and not anywhere between here and Kansas.”

The calm assurance in his gaze wrapped around her like a warm cloak on a winter's day when he added, “Don't worry, I'll cushion you from the brunt of the hardships. And the work.”

“I neither ask for, nor will I accept, special treatment.” She glanced at the herd disappearing over a rise. “You won't find me screaming at the likes of Tecumseh Billy again, if that's what you're concerned about.”

“That's not what bothers me.” Turning his hat around in his hand, he said, “Lisette, your hiring on has a stipulation. The only way it'll work is for you to get yourself a husband.”

“You've been unfair, leading me on.” Frustration and the edge of defeat wilted her shoulders. “It takes two to make a marriage.”

“True. But what I'm suggesting has nothing to do with tradition. You're needing the kind of union that doesn't ask too much of you.”

Confused, she whispered, “Pardon me, but I thought the only reason men and women married was for love, and with the hopes of raising a family.”

“In this instance all you need is the protection of a man's name. I'm referring to a marriage of convenience.”

Her mouth dropped. No wonder his own marriage hadn't worked out, what with his attitude. “You seem to hold a low opinion of the sanctity of matrimony.”

He studied the ground before elevating his jutted, clefted chin. “You know I've been divorced, so it goes without saying that I've had trouble in the past.”

She wanted to ask the source of the problem. She knew some things from gossip. He'd been married during the war but was divorced by the time he reached Texas. Anything more was none of her business, just as her past was none of his.

Yet the hurt issuing from his heart and soul compelled her to step forward to offer comfort. Instinctively she took his hand to give warmth.
He's as lonely as I've been
, she realized.

“I'm so sorry, Gil,” she murmured, half realizing she'd called him by his given name. “Please forgive me for calling attention to your heartache.”

Like butter on fresh toast, his frown melted into a smile. “You make me feel good,” he murmured. “I need that.”

He needed her, and she needed him to need her.

These realizations were a powerful aphrodisiac. Nothing remained but the need to assuage a corner of his pain.

She lifted a palm to his face, feeling the firm set of his jaw, the whisper of day-old whiskers. Beneath her thumb, he swallowed, and then his arms were around her, hers around him, his Stetson toppling behind him. The strong beat of his heart tapped against her breasts as his mouth descended to take hers. And she responded to him, responded as she never had with Thom Childress.

When Gil lifted his lips–his wonderfully warm and evocative lips–she smiled at the contentment and desire illuminating his features. Or was she smiling at her own passion, the emotion she'd long tried to quell?

“I've spent six months, dreaming about kissing you,” he admitted in a voice soaked in sensuality. “And I'm not disappointed in the reality of it.”

She blushed, lowering her eyes. He had been dreaming about her . . . when she'd been lonely, so lonely, and had yearned for attention. While she'd known rejection along with solitude of the heart, she hadn't realized the extent of it until this moment.

“Do you ever think of me–more as a man than an employer?”

She shouldn't admit it. If she did, she'd be placing her trust in him. “I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought of you. As a man.”

“You don't know how that pleases me, because I'd come to the conclusion you wanted only the job.” His hands at her waist, he squeezed gently. “And it makes it easier to say what I'm wanting to express. I want to marry you.”

“What?” She flinched as if stung by a bee. “Are you up to some sort of tomfoolery, like snipe-hunting?”

With a look of hurt, he answered, “No.”

It wasn't a joke; he was serious. Her inner defenses slammed down to surround her heart again. “M-marry me? Mister McLoughlin, you don't even know me.”

“I know enough–and I know my mind.” Solemnly, he gazed into her eyes. “We could be good together. Give us a chance.”

“I–I can't accept. Why, we don't love each other.”

“I'm not a great believer in that love nonsense. That could change in time, of course. For both of us.”

“But it might not. And I won't take the chance. Marriage is sacred.
Promises
are sacred to me. I wouldn't vow to love you if I didn't mean it.”

“Can't you find something to love about me? Then you wouldn't be lying.”

Was there anything to love about him? She searched his eyes. She loved the way he looked at her. She loved the way he looked to her. She loved the way he made her pulse race and her limbs quiver.

Deep trouble. She was in it.

“I'm not looking for anything that even resembles love,” she finally replied.

He turned toward the creek. The spring breeze ruffled his hair, and despite herself, she longed to pat those tousled black strands into place.
Stop it!
she warned herself.

Pitching a pebble into the water, he said, “You may not be looking for love, but you are wanting safe passage to the railhead. Therefore you need the protection of my name. It's a matter of practicality. If you're my wife, my men will keep their distance out of respect for both of us.”

His offer was tempting, so utterly tempting: a name to protect her against attentions such as Blade Sharp's, plus an avenue to her dreams. Strangely, all that freedom didn't hold its former appeal. And it all had to do with the tall, virile cattleman who was beseeching her with his words and kindness as well as with his mesmerizing eyes and all-too-handsome face.

If San Antonio hadn't happened. If only . . . Since she couldn't in good faith accept his offer, Lisette realized she had to make a decision–and now.

“I am flattered and honored you'd go to such lengths to make your proposal appealing,” she said earnestly. “My only choice is to be on my way. But I do thank you for not turning me out. I bid you a heartfelt
auf Wiedersehen.”

“Don't be hasty.” His hand took her forearm, forestalling her departure. His thumb made circles on her wrist, stoking the fires she kept trying to dampen. “Lisette, maybe I haven't made myself clear. If you aren't attached to me by the time we reach Kansas, we'll get an annulment. In the meantime, I'm not asking for husbandly rights.”

Oddly disappointed that he wouldn't demand such license, she cautioned herself not to be weak.

“I am not going to marry you.”

The faint lines radiating from his eyes deepened; a frown bracketed his lips. “You showed a lack of judgment, tearing off after my cattle drive in the first place. Now you're ready to jump into hot water, when I'm willing to protect you.”

Wary, she studied him. “If there's one thing I've learned, it's that nothing is given freely. You would expect something in return.” Just as she'd expected Thom not to break their engagement by marrying another woman. “And, no matter what you say, I imagine that something is bedroom privileges.”

“My bedroom is back in Fredericksburg.”

“You know what I mean! I am
not
willing to trade my body for passage to Chicago.”

“I'm glad to hear that, cause I wouldn't want to give my name to a woman who would. Let's give this marriage scheme a try. And on my oath, I'll respect your chastity.” Winking boldly, seductively, he grinned. “Unless you don't want me to. Then we'll have a real marriage. Till death parts us.”

If only she could give him the one thing he expected. She couldn't; it wasn't there.

“You asked what I want in return,” he said. “I'd expect you to cook for the Four Aces outfit. My men have a right to the best I can give them, and honey, they're dreamy-eyed over your cooking skills.
I'm
dreamy-eyed over it. That supper you fixed was the best I've ever eaten. If you'll help me, I'll help you.”

Chewing her lip, she stared downward. Just as when he'd told her not to be frightened of Tecumseh Billy, she trusted his word. Matthias trusted his word, too. “He's a good man, Lise,” he'd said. He was a good man, this Gil McLoughlin. And she drew comfort from giving her trust . . . without fearing it was misplaced.

And he did
need
her.

Evidently he took her hesitation as an affront, because he asked, “Why are you stalling? Would you rather not sully your name with mine, since I've got the taint of a first marriage attached to it?”

“The stigma of divorce? I do not hold that against you, rest assured. I–”

“Thank God.”

She'd started to confess everything, but his interruption lowered her courage. In no way could his disgrace match hers, for Monika had been right. She would need chicken blood to fool a husband into thinking her pure. To deceive this wonderful man thus would be a sin she couldn't live with.

How long would that last? She wanted him–wanted the comfort of his companionship, needed his arms around her, yearned to explore the passions he roused. If she allowed her heart to rule her head, though, he would know her dreadful secret.

Maybe he'd accept her as she was. Maybe he wouldn't. She turned; she ran–toward Willensstark, and away from facing up to her lack of judgment in 1865.

 

 

Women. Gil McLoughlin had never understood them. Probably never would. He had offered Lisette all he thought she wanted, but she had turned him down flat. Scratching his jaw, he took a look at her. She was fitting that damned old mule for her sashay into the wilds.

All and all, Gil's mood was black. Beyond the Lisette debacle, three good men had lost their lives to the frigging Comanches. This was not a good day.

He gave himself a mental kick for trying to bend this willful German girl. He had had to try, nonetheless. His grandmother used to say, “The worst someone can say is ‘no.' ” Lisette had said no. Then another of Maisie McLoughlin's pearls came to her grandson's mind: If they don't answer the front door, knock on the back one.

As Lisette continued to load her pitiable traveling companion, Gil checked the harnesses on the draught horses. He called to her, “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” She didn't appear any too ready or eager, yet she yanked on the mule's lead-rope; Willensstark dug in his hooves.

Gil ambled over to them, gave the beast of burden a pat.
Thank you, old lad. I need all the help I can get
.

“My men near about cleaned out your food supply,” Gil said. “What are you planning to eat along the way? Dandelions?”

“You could compensate me for my stores.”

He tsked. “Lisette Keller, that would make you an Indian giver, taking back what you gave of your own free will. Now tell me, what are you planning to eat?”

“None of your business.”

“Funny, I never heard of such a dish. Is it a German specialty, like sauerkraut?”

She shoved an empty canning jar into the mule's packs. “Mister McLoughlin, if you keep talking like that, I'll leave here with a bad impression of you.”

She was not leaving here, not unless his ploy failed, and if that were to come to pass, she'd leave with money, food, and an escort even though he would regret having to lose another cowhand for days on end. Mostly he'd regret losing Lisette.

Leaning his elbow on Willensstark, he crossed his ankles. “Say, do you know how to shoot a rifle?”

“No.”

“Then I guess there's no use in giving you one. 'Course, you need some sort of protection against redskins and coyotes and predators like them, you being in the middle of nowhere. Excuse me. You're at a gravesite, if you wanna count that. Middle of Comanche country, too. I've tried to be hard-hearted about burying good men along the way, but it still hurts.” Gil grimaced. “This is my third trip up this cowpath, and Ernst and José and Willie make the eighth, ninth, and tenth casualties.”