Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone Sheriff\The Gentleman Rogue\Never Trust a Rebel (7 page)

Chapter Eight

J
ericho reined up and sat listening to the morning sounds that were beginning to turn night into day—the squawk of a jay, doves burbling under mesquite bushes. The light was turning from gray to peach and the hills ahead were tinged with pink.

But it was another sound that stopped him. Someone was following him. Had been for the last ten miles or so. Whoever it was wasn't subtle about it, so he knew he wasn't being stalked; if he were, the rider would stop when he stopped and move on only when he did.

Maybe an Indian? No. He'd never hear an Indian until too late, and anyway most of the tribes knew him on sight and wouldn't care what he was up to. He lifted the reins and moved on.

When he reached a copse of alders, he dismounted, made sure his horse was hidden, unsheathed his rifle and waited.

Within half an hour a mare he recognized drew into his sights and he swore under his breath. A young cowboy plodded toward him on Sandy's horse. It wasn't Sandy, so who the hell...?

Jericho stepped into his path and raised the rifle. “Hold it right there, mister. Hands in the air.”

The rider—a boy, he gathered from the size of his small frame—froze and looked up.

Maddie. Damn it to hell. He took one look at her, her body drooping over the neck of the horse and swore again. “Hot damn in a haystack!”

What had happened to Mrs. Mint-Ice-Cream Detective? She looked like a lost orphan, and he winced at the needle of pain in his chest. He must have looked just like that once.

The shirt hung off her shoulders, though it sure buttoned up nice over the swell of her breasts. She'd rolled up her jeans at the bottom, but they fit just right everywhere else. The boots—oh, hell, he recognized Sandy's boots. They were four sizes too big. Her toes were probably wriggling around in nothing but air. How had she talked Sandy out of them?

She looked like a half-grown boy dressed up like his pa.

She needed a neckerchief. And her hat, damnation! Somewhere she'd found a small-size black Stetson that looked stylish over her pinned-up hair. Too stylish.

“What the devil are you doing out here?”

“Following you. Or trying to. I am not experienced at tracking.”

“Go home, Maddie. Turn your horse around and skedaddle back to town.”

She just looked at him.

“You hear me?”

She nodded but didn't move an inch.

“I don't want you, Mrs. Detective. Get it through your thick head, will ya?
I don't want you
.”

“I know,” she said, her voice quiet. “But you need me, just the same. And I am here now, so why do you not just be quiet and get on with whatever it is
we
are going to do?”

“I ought to—oh, the hell with it.” Maddie O'Donnell was like a dollop of pitch; once it stuck to your fingers, no matter what you did, it was still there, being sticky. Too late to talk her out of anything, he figured. Besides, they were too far out to send her back now; within an hour she'd be lost.

“I never give up, Sheriff.”

“Yeah. I guess I knew that.” Dammit, anyway.

He unbuckled his leather belt, yanked the blue bandanna from his neck and handed them over. “Hand over your hat.”

“My hat? What for? It fits perfectly.”

“It's too fancy.” He snatched it off her head, dropped it onto the ground and stomped on it a half dozen times. She watched him, her face flushed and growing stiffer every minute. He handed the Stetson back to her, noting with satisfaction that the feather in the band was bedraggled and bent in two places.

“Thank. You. Very. Much.” Her voice was glacial.

“Had to get the ‘new' out. Same with your duds.” He looked meaningfully at her shirt and jeans. She clapped both arms across her body. “Oh, no, you don't.”

Jericho stepped in close, dragged her out of the saddle and dropped her in the dirt. Then he knelt over her and with his left hand pushed her down flat and rolled her over and over until her garments looked dusty and wrinkled. It made his right wrist hurt like hell, but it couldn't be helped. She had to look scruffier.

When he was finished she looked mad enough to spit bullets. He snaked his belt through the loops at her waist and tightened the leather with a jerk while she glared at him.

He looked her over. “Nope, too tight,” he observed. “Gives you too much of a waistline.”
And a hipline. And a bustline.

He loosened the belt until her jeans hung loose around her hips and knotted the bandanna around her neck. Patting her dark mare he noted the saddlebag she carried. Probably full of undergarments.

“Remount,” he ordered.

She hesitated. “I do not think—”

“Either mount up or shut up.”

Her head jerked up. “You are despicable.”

“You are damned difficult. Makes us even.”

In cold silence he made a step out of his laced fingers and shoved her up into the saddle. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he climbed onto Dancer and reined away.

“Follow me.”

“Damn right,” she muttered under her breath.

Those were the last words she said for the next ten miles. He didn't expect her to last more than a couple more hours, but she surprised him.

He tried to ignore the tense silence between them. When the sun arced overhead and the green-and-gold countryside stretched before them he tried to focus on the scenery instead of the set look on her face. Her eyes were so turbulent they made him think of green stones heated in a campfire. Pines and fir trees so green they looked black, blue chicory blossoms, and scarlet paintbrush helped keep his mind off her.

* * *

There was no trail. Jericho headed cross-country without slowing his pace or changing direction.

Or stopping to rest, Maddie noted. He was like a well-oiled machine that never faltered. And she was most certainly not well oiled. Her joints were beginning to ache like an old woman's and her throat was so dry and dusty she could not even spit.

At last, Jericho raised one hand and halted near a copse of cottonwoods by a spring. He slipped off his mount, led her horse to water and waited for her to dismount.

She tried it. “I cannot lift my leg that high.”

“Lift your leg frontways, up over the saddle horn.”

She gritted her teeth. “I—I cannot.”

His voice hardened. “Then bump your butt off backwards over the saddle lip and slide off the mare's rump.”

“I can't let go of the reins,” she muttered. “My fingers are cramped in place.”

Jericho stomped toward her, pulled off one leather riding glove and laid his warm hand over hers. Then he kneaded the joints until she could loosen her grip.

“Oh,” she moaned. “Ouch. Oh, this is simply awful.”

He shot her a look but said nothing.

She managed to let go of the reins and shift her body toward him. Keeping his injured arm at his side, he extended his left hand up to her. “Okay, now slide off.”

He reached to steady her, but when her feet hit the ground, her knees buckled and her body slammed against his.

He felt hard, hot and damp with sweat, but thank goodness he was there. He smelled of leather and horse and sweat and something pepperminty. His breath? She swallowed and wondered what she smelled like to him—certainly not lavender after miles of choking dust and perspiration.

He stuck a canvas-covered metal canteen in her hand and led her mare off to the spring. She gulped a mouthful of the metallic-tasting water. “How much farther?” she gasped.

“About fourteen miles.”

She groaned and gulped down more water. “I cannot ride fourteen more miles.”

“Yeah, you damn well can. You wanted this. Besides, I'm betting you're stronger than you look.”

“You would lose, Sheriff. I am what you see before you.”

Jericho studied her with weary eyes. “I see a tired, stubborn city girl who wishes she'd never left Chicago.”

She didn't answer. She hadn't breath enough to argue.

“You'll feel better when we make camp and you can soak your muscles in a cold stream.”

“When will that be?”

“Four, maybe five hours. Maybe a little more.”

“Would it be less if we rode faster?”

“Might, but that wouldn't be smart. Don't want to raise a lot of dust that could be seen.”

“By the Tucker gang? Where do you think they are?”

“Dunno for sure. Could be anywhere. Come on, time to mount up.”

Maddie gritted her teeth. Maybe Jericho was right. The West was rough and unforgiving for a woman. If she lived through this, she would never, never leave the city again.

After another grueling three hours, she lost track of time. The pine trees merged into larch and cottonwood groves, the vegetation grew more and more sparse. Patches of buttercups spotted the ground, along with an occasional knee-high bush with prickly stems and pale pink flowers.

The dry air parched her throat; it smelled of sage and something else—wood smoke, maybe. The scent reminded her of food and her stomach began to growl so continuously she was sure Jericho could hear it.

Not once did he twist in his saddle to check on her and he never slowed his pace, just kept moving steadily forward in front of her. Fatigue made her tilt to one side. She righted herself with a jerk, only to find herself gradually leaning to the other side.

Fighting to prevent her eyelids from drooping shut, she started to sing to keep up her spirits. “She was only a girl from the country, you see...”

“Hush up!” Jericho ordered. He rode back to her side. “A voice carries out here.”

“Are we close to anything important?”

“Might be. Can't be sure.” He pulled ahead of her and as he passed she heard him murmur, “Don't drop behind. Stay close.”

Her nerves froze. He knew something. Or sensed something. She tried to keep up, but little by little she lagged behind him. The blazing late-afternoon sun that had blinded her all day ebbed into a gloomy, gray dusk and then blackened into night.

She had never been outside in such total darkness. In Chicago, all the streets and storefronts were lighted. Here, trees became men with clutching arms; shrubs loomed like crouching animals. Maddie shivered, but not from cold. She would never admit it, but she was frightened.

“Jericho?” she called softly.

“Just ahead another mile or two,” he intoned. “Good camping place.”

Thank goodness. That meant supper and a chance to wash the dust and perspiration from her sticky skin. And sleep!

He drew rein beside a haphazard pile of river rocks bordering a shallow creek. While she struggled to get down off her horse, he dismounted and tramped off into the dark, apparently to make sure the place was safe. The mere thought sent a chill up the back of her neck.

By the time he stalked back to her mare, she had managed to slide off the horse's back, but again her legs gave way. This time she grabbed on to the horse's bushy tail and stood shaking with exhaustion until Jericho approached.

Without a word he reached out his good hand and pulled her upright. “Can you walk?”

She tried a step and tottered. “No. My legs do not do what I tell them.”

He frog-marched her to the stream and plopped her down on the sandy bank. “Roll up your jeans and get your legs in the water. It'll be cold, but try to stay there as long as you can.”

Jericho left her hunched over, her limbs submerged in the creek and her neck bent so far her chin almost touched her shirtfront. For damn sure she wasn't cut out for this. He'd wanted to teach her a lesson, but he didn't want her to die on the trail.

With a snort he turned his thoughts to supper, dug a small hole in the ground and built a fire. It burned hot and made no smoke.

Maddie stumbled back to camp, her jeans soaked up to her crotch and her cheeks dewy with water she'd splashed over her face and neck.

“Sit,” he ordered.

She sank down where she stood.

“Closer to the fire. If you want to dry out quicker, take off your trousers and hang them on a bush.”

“I most certainly will not.” Her voice sounded so forlorn he felt a little jab of regret. For a woman who hadn't ridden much, she had done surprisingly well.

On the other hand, he told himself, she'd asked for it. Begged for it, in fact. But when he saw how tough this was for her, something inside him began to soften.

The summer night was mild, with a thin silver crescent of a moon. He liked nights like this: not enough light to be seen and not cold enough to bundle up. Nights like this at the orphanage he'd sneak out to sleep in the corn patch.

He searched in his saddlebags for a can of beans, some of the dried jerky he always carried and a can of fancy apricots. The beans he pried open with his pocketknife and set in the fire.

When the tin was black and the beans steaming, he offered Maddie the spoon. “Careful, they're hot.”

She gobbled three heaping spoonfuls and stopped. “Why aren't you eating?”

“Only got one spoon,” he said.

Instantly she held the utensil out to him. “Then we will share.”

He was too hungry to argue. She'd probably think it unsanitary, but at least she was eating. He noticed that each time she handed the spoon back, her fingers shook. His breath hitched in.

They ate out of the single can until the spoon scraped bottom. To his surprise, Maddie said very little.

They ate the apricots the same way. Each time Jericho glanced at her he felt a twinge of concern and a healthy dose of apprehension.

By the time he untied the blankets rolled up behind his saddle and spread them out by the fire, his belly was doing flips.

The last thing he wanted to do was to like this woman, but he couldn't help admitting she was a courageous companion, capable of strength he'd never thought possible. Also, when she kept quiet, she wasn't bad company.