Outlaw Carson (4 page)

“Is there a problem, Dr. Richards?” The
dean’s voice cut through her confusion like a knife.

“He’s strange,” she said weakly, knowing how
stupid it sounded. At least she had enough presence of mind not to
add that he was better looking and more of a barbarian than the
dean could imagine. She’d always thought that derogatory term
referred to Carson’s methods, not his personality. His kiss had
wiped that little theory right out of her mind.

“He’s apparently led a strange life,” Dr.
Chambers said. “If he’s having trouble adjusting to his new
environment, I suggest you act as his cultural liaison. Your
efforts won’t go unrewarded.”

The words “things of power” were on the tip
of her tongue, right on the very tip, begging to be released. She
fought the urge with everything she had inside her. Concentrating
on those elusive rewards, she tried to get the conversation back to
something that would highlight her intelligence.

“Have you made arrangements for his
accommodations?” she asked. “He seems at loose ends.” Not
brilliant, she thought, but not stupid.

“I’ll leave that up to you as his cultural
liaison. Frankly, from what we’ve been hearing these last couple of
months, we weren’t at all sure Mr. Carson would fulfill his
contract. You might contact faculty housing.” The dean paused, and
Kristine heard a disturbing hesitation in his voice when he
continued. “Remember, Dr. Richards. We are only interested in Mr.
Carson’s provisional inventory of the ancient remains of Tibet. I
recommend you concentrate your efforts on the research we paid for
and not on whatever else he may be involved in. He is a man of many
talents, not all of which we wish to be associated with.”

Perfect, she thought. Absolutely perfect.
“You’ve been very helpful, Dr. Chambers,” she said, refraining from
sarcasm. “Thank you.” She hung up the phone in disgust and plopped
her chin into her hands, knowing she’d just been royally dumped
on.

His cigarette finished, Kit walked over to a
window that looked out over rolling hills leading to a reservoir,
the escarpment beyond, and the city on the plains below. The
redwood deck swept around the north and east sides of the house.
The south side was a glassed-in area with a quarry-tile floor,
filled with plants and sunshine. Her house was so open, far
different from his own in the upper reaches of the Kai Gandaki
River in Nepal, near the Tibetan border. His house, which he had
lived in for several years, had been built to hold off the cold of
bitter winters and the winds funneling down through the gorge. Hers
welcomed the elements into every room. He would enjoy the comforts
it offered.

The comforts and the company, he thought,
discounting the small lack of an invitation. His partners had
obviously not seen fit either to send an explanation with the
trunks, or to make any arrangements for his arrival. In all
likelihood, they probably hadn’t thought he’d get out of Tibet
alive, not with the Turk battling for the prize he’d attained. But
the woman had a doctorate, and he’d sensed even greater
intelligence than the title implied. She would surely respond to
reason, and if not, he’d learned much of the art of persuasion from
his second father, Sang Phala.

Still in her office, Kristine waited for yet
one more telephone transfer, knowing her options were dwindling
faster than the snow in the high country. Faculty housing was
booked until Saturday, the married students housing had a waiting
list two pages long, and the dorms were full for the next two weeks
with the Christian Crusaders.

The secretary came back on the line. “Dr.
Richards?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve found a cancellation in Corbett Hall,
but—”

“We’ll take it,” Kristine blurted out.

“But it isn’t a private room,” the secretary
finished.

“That’s his problem,” Kristine muttered
under her breath, and thirty seconds later had given the secretary
all the information she had, his name and a billing address to the
history department.

With her first success of the day under her
belt, she went out to garner another one, getting rid of the most
intriguing man she’d met in many a moon. The irony wasn’t lost on
her.

“We’re in luck,” she said, gaining his
attention as she entered the living room.

“I have felt the same,” he replied, turning
with his rogue’s smile in place. His eyes darkened with the same
warmth she felt in his smile, chasing the lightness out of her
heart.

She girded herself against the intensity of
his gaze by tightening the sash on her robe. It was far too early
in the morning to be thinking the thoughts racing around in her
mind, and he was far too much of a stranger to have put them
there.

But he hadn’t felt like a stranger when he’d
kissed her, and there weren’t enough hours in the day for her to
explain that discrepancy.

“I meant, I’ve found you a place to stay.
The university will pick up the tab, but”—she unwittingly shook her
head to match the movement of his, and her words slowed—“I’m afraid
you’ll have a roommate—” She suddenly realized what she was doing
and stopped. “Is there a problem?”

“I must stay here, Kreestine,” he said, his
gesture taking in the whole house. Her house.

“Here? Right here?” Surely she’d
misunderstood. There seemed to be an awful lot of that going
around.

He nodded, and she found herself again
following along, her hair brushing against her shoulders. With
effort, she jerked her head in the opposite direction.

“No. No, I don’t think so.” She shook her
head vigorously. “You can’t possibly stay here. It’s totally out of
the question. Impossible.”

“Imperative,” he countered.

“Unreasonable,” she said more firmly.

“Ordained.”

“Ordained?”

“You have accepted responsibility for the
trunks. In return I must accept responsibility for your safety.
There is no other way.”

Kristine stared at him, dumbfounded. Her
first instinct was to call Dean Chambers back and reexplain the
situation a little more succinctly. Or better yet, demand he talk
to Kit Carson himself and get a good dose of what she’d been up
against all morning. The man needed more than a cultural liaison.
He needed a full-blown course in Western civilization. One in logic
wouldn’t hurt either.

“Good, we are agreed,” Kit said, taking her
silence for the necessary acquiescence, pleased he hadn’t had to
resort to more energy-consuming means. The journey had been very
long, tiring his mind as well as his body. “I will need food and
rest. Then we will begin sorting through photographs and my
accompanying notes. We lost a mule in a river crossing, and one of
the yaks disappeared into a crevasse, but these things happened
early in the journey, and I’m sure they were only carrying supplies
and not journals. Still, the inventory must be checked. Our camp
was raided under the shadow of Mount Tise, but once again the gods
were with us and the bandits did not get what they had come for,
though one of the muleteers was injured. Sometimes, this is the
way, is it not?”

His wild story caught at her imagination,
despite a strong warning that told her to cut short his litany of
disasters and insist that he leave—before her curiosity completely
overruled her common sense. But the longer he talked, the more
curious she became, especially about healthy Harry.

“When did Dr. Fratz jump ship?” she asked
baldly, playing a disturbing hunch. “After the mule, or did he make
it through the raid?”

Kit chuckled and shook his head. “Ah, Harry.
He has no heart for adventure, no heart at all. He abandoned the
caravan shortly after we crossed the border into Tibet, which was
just as well. It was his mule we lost.”

“He wasn’t sick?”

“Only with fear.”

Her hand tightened into an unconscious
victory fist. She’d suspected it the night before, and now she
knew. That milksop had run out on an expedition she would have
given her eyeteeth to be on, river crossings, disappearing yaks,
bandits, and all. Now, instead of sharing in the glory of
discovery, she’d been relegated to sorting and writing—neither of
which required a bodyguard, as Carson had implied.

She glanced back up at him, silently
admitting he would make an impressive one, if one was needed. Which
it was not, she firmly reminded herself. The very idea was
ludicrous. No woman needed a man for protection, or anything else
as far as Kristine could tell. She’d gotten along quite well
without one for four years. Actually, she’d gotten along better
without one. She had no intention of ruining the winning
combination of herself and her work by allowing some overly
charismatic outlaw to breathe down her neck while she resurrected
his project from the shambles a bunch of men had made of it.

Drawing in a deep breath, she prepared to
explain her position in formal tones befitting their professional
relationship. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with a dormitory
room for a couple of days, Mr. Carson.” There was that title again,
appropriate for the circumstances, but oh so inappropriate for the
man himself. On Saturday you can move into one of the faculty
apartments. It is completely outside the realm of my responsibility
or the confines of custom for me to allow you to stay in my home. I
hope you understand.” And she did, fervently. She didn’t know what
she’d do if he didn’t. Calling the police seemed rash, and unlikely
to forward her career.

“Then we are not agreed?” he asked, looking
surprised. It was a rare emotion for him, if she was reading his
underlying reaction correctly.

“No, we are not agreed.”

“I thought you understood about . . .”

“And I wish you would understand,” she said
over his uncompleted sentence.

Forbearing a sigh, Kit lowered his gaze and
dragged a hand through his hair. Sang Phala had taught him many
things, but the old lama had obviously never dealt with an American
woman. He wondered if they were all so self-determined, or if it
was a purely personal trait in Kristine. He was used to women who
obeyed without question and had little knowledge of women who
didn’t. It was an interesting experience, interesting and a shade
irritating.

Kristine crossed her arms over her chest and
watched him carefully, trying to gauge how he was taking her
ultimatum. He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look like he’d given
up either. For the life of her she couldn’t imagine why he was
insisting on staying. Sure, she’d responded to his kiss with
unprecedented enthusiasm, but her every action since had been
designed to discourage him. If her ex-fiancé had shown even half of
his tenacity, she might be married now instead of heading into
spinsterhood with only her degrees to keep her warm.

Maybe she should try another tack and
stretch her authority a bit. The man might be more infamous than
famous at the moment, but he was still a visiting scholar of
sorts.

“If you would prefer a hotel,” she said,
“I’m sure the university will pay for your room and board.” They
were already into his project to the tune of thousands and
thousands of dollars. What was a few hundred more? “We have a
number of fine establishments here in Fort Collins, including a bed
and breakfast place close to the school, The Charters House. The
Mountain Inn has a swimming pool and it’s just a couple of blocks
from my office, or there’s the . . .”

So be it, Kit thought, only half listening
as she extolled the virtues of all the places he would not be
staying. He’d never found any protection in innocence or ignorance,
though at one time he’d had both in abundance. He didn’t want to
frighten her, but she’d left him no choice.

“Kreestine,” he interrupted, and waited
until he had her undivided attention, until her mountain-violet
eyes focused on him, impatient but waiting. “Others will find the
trail harder to follow, but one will come, and before he finds me,
he will find you. I cannot leave until it is known that what I have
brought is no longer within his reach.”

A brick wall, Kristine thought. It was like
talking to an inscrutable brick wall. “Who will be coming for
what?” she asked in exasperation, pressing him to make a point, any
point at all, without beating around the bush.

Kit started to tell her the details were
unimportant, then hesitated, caught by the spark of warning in her
eyes. Not just the pertinent facts, he decided, but the truth with
all its unknowns, with all its possibilities.

“The Turk will come for the treasures of
Chatren-Ma,” he said. He spoke the last word softly, like the
invocation it was, and the immediate change in her eyes told him
she knew exactly what the name implied.

Kristine opened her mouth to speak, but no
words formed on her lips. The man had an unsurpassed ability to
stun her into gaping silence, but he’d definitely made his
point.

She finally found the wherewithal to choke
out a word. “Impossible.”

“Difficult and dangerous, but not
impossible,” he said. “Not for me, and not for the Turk. He led the
bandit raid on our camp. An ocean will not stop him.”

Absolutely impossible
, Kristine
insisted silently. The professor in her refused to believe in the
fabled monastery lost in the clouds and snows of the high
Himalayas. She’d sooner believe in Atlantis or Shangri-la. She knew
the famous legend of Chatren-Ma. It was supposedly the resting
place of the earthly remains of the lama of Saskya and the
Kāh-gyur
he’d translated into Mongolian for Kublai Khan, the
Mongol conqueror of China in the thirteenth century. As a historian
specializing in the Trans-Himalayan region of Asia, which stretched
with the Himalaya Mountains from Afghanistan through India,
encompassing countries such as Nepal and Tibet, she’d read a lot of
legends. Tibet, in particular, was awash in them. The forbidden
land grew legends and gods and demons with abandon, and few
scholars had ever penetrated its veil of mystery.