Rachel Donnelly (6 page)

He shrugged off her arm to stumble to the door by himself. Fortunately, he made it to the horses without incident, other than a low grunt of pain that slipped passed his lips when Holt boosted him up into the saddle.

Christie was past offering any words of sympathy. She was too busy worrying about her own predicament. The thought of riding in the same saddle with Nat Randall made her legs go weak.

To avoid any unnecessary contact, she put her foot in the stirrup to mount before he could offer his help. But the gelding failed to co-operate. He snorted and stomped, moving sideways so that she was forced to hop on one foot to keep from falling.

“Steady, Diablo, she’s with me.” Before she knew what was happening, Nat grabbed her around the waist to plunk her in the saddle. He swung up behind her, then, with a click of his tongue set the horse in motion.

Trapped between the reins and his hard body, she forgot to breath. Something quickened inside of her. She sat stiff and straight, her eyes focused directly ahead. But with nothing to see in the darkness, her awareness of him only increased. The smell of gunpowder and leather stirred her senses, making it difficult to relax.

Eventually, the rhythmic gait of the gelding soon mended her frayed nerves. Bone tired and wracked with cold, she longed to slump against Randall’s warm chest and sleep. But pride and years of breeding kept her upright in the saddle.

Despite her good intentions, eventually her lids grew heavy and her head began to nod. She lost track of time and place. If not for the sound of splashing water, she’d have drifted off completely. She blinked into the darkness, attempting to clear her foggy brain.

Nat had stopped by the river to let his horse drink.

She looked around for Holt and Leigh, but they were nowhere in sight.

They were alone.

That should have alarmed her — she should have offered some form of protest, but just then, she was too tired and hungry to care. The memory of a little chimney of steam rising from the overstuffed potpie Mrs. Tilley had delivered before she’d left sprang to mind. Christie’s stomach growled.

“Hungry?”

“No!” She lied.

“Here.” He reached into his saddlebag then thrust a piece of beef jerky into her hand. “Eat this.”

His impatient tone grated. If she wasn’t so hungry, she’d have handed it right back. But that would be foolish. Giving into her pride might douse the flames in her cheeks, but it wouldn’t fill the hole in her belly. She bit down on the hard strip, imagining it was him she was sinking her teeth into. It had the texture of an old shoe, but tasted surprisingly flavorful. She wondered how closely Nat Randall fit the same description.

She swallowed the last of it then smiled into the darkness. This was the first time she’d likened a man to beef jerky. Well, if the shoe fit … Laughter bubbled up in her throat. She closed her mouth tight to stifle it, but it turned into a loud hiccup.

“Try holding your breath. That usually works for me,” he whispered close to her ear.

Rather than calming her, it had the opposite effect. Another spasm wracked her. She hiccupped even louder. “It must have been the beef jerky.” She took a long breath of air then held it.

He gave a grunt. “I’ve never heard tell of that.”

She let out the air she’d been holding in a loud whoosh, then hiccupped all the louder.

“Here.” He handed her his canteen. “Take a drink.”

She did.

She handed back the canteen, then hiccupped again.

He took her by the shoulders, turning her in the saddle. Before she could protest, he’d drawn her tight against him. A second later, his mouth was covering hers.

The gentle pressure of his smooth lips held her spellbound. She was too startled to think. A sweet sensation of pleasure shot through her like a bullet. A slow heat uncurled deep inside her belly. Sparks like tiny fireflies licked over her skin. The longer the kiss lasted the more befuddled she became.

Then he lifted his head.

It was over.

She felt bereft without the exquisite feel of his lips — strangely shattered.

It took a moment to restore her equilibrium, and another full moment to realize her hiccups were gone.

“Mr. Randall!”

“No need to thank me, ma’am.” He chuckled. “My pleasure.”

“Thank you!” she said with a sputter. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself!”

“Just trying to help.” Humor edged his words, as though he’d taken special pleasure in shocking her.

Christie raised her hand to end his cocky mood.

He grabbed it before it reached his face. “Now you don’t want to go and do that.”

“Oh yes I do!”

“Are you sure?” He said in a gentle but firm tone. “How do you know I won’t slap you right back?”

Christie gasped. “Then you are no gentleman, sir!”

He chuckled. “No, ma’am, I’m not. You best remember that.”

She jerked herself free, though her hand still itched to connect with his cheek. But she didn’t relish a long trek home in the dark, nor did she trust him not to carry out his threat. He seemed to delight in galling her.

Her back remained stiff with indignation as he steered Diablo from the water’s edge.

The rest of their journey passed in silence, giving her time to fret and brood.

No man had ever kissed her like that. Not even Robby. His kisses were sweet and gentle, not demanding or inflaming. They seemed chaste when compared to Nat Randall’s. His kiss had been more like an assault — like riding a bolt of lightning or flying down a wild river in a boat with no paddle.

Everything about him seemed wild. He wasn’t like any other man she’d met. Perhaps that was why he intrigued her — excited her, even.

Which had to be very wrong.

Heavens!

She shouldn’t have allowed him to kiss her. She’d betrayed Robby’s trust. Not purposely, but betrayed it just the same.

There was no promise between her and Robby. But she felt certain there would be, if she wished it. In fact, she was counting on it. If worse came to worst, he’d surely save her. They’d always been fast friends.

And she didn’t want anything on her conscience if that important moment finally came. Robby was the only thing standing between her and her father’s plans. Not that he need ever know about Randall kissing her. After all, it had been done for medicinal reasons, to end her hiccupping. It didn’t mean a thing.

It was only a kiss.

Of no consequence.

None at all.

“Something piss in your coffee?”

Nat slashed Holt a dark look from where he stood by the fire. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. They should have been saddled up by now! The dim light of dawn was edging over the horizon. But Nat answered just the same. “The way you make coffee, it’s hard to tell.”

Holt didn’t spare him a glance; he just kept tying his bedroll. “Fine thanks I get for making your breakfast.”

“You’ll make somebody a good wife some day.”

“Ungrateful bastard,” Holt muttered as he rose to his feet.

Nat chuckled at his sulky tone. “No, you’re the bastard, remember. I’m the prodigal son who’s been disowned.”

“Well, if you weren’t such a bastard,” Holt threw over his shoulder on the way to his horse. “Maybe you wouldn’t have been disowned.”

“Can’t argue with you there.” That’s what his father called him — a stubborn bastard. Nat took another swig from his tin mug, then tossed the rest of the coffee on the fire. Yup, no doubt about it, it was going to be a long day. He hefted Diablo’s saddle over his shoulder, resisting the urge to groan. He hadn’t felt this stiff since they were pinned down all night behind that outhouse in Virginia City. He strode to the stand of pines where the horses stood munching grass, dreading the long day ahead.

After a night spent sleeping on the hard floor of the abandoned shack, every muscle ached. Holt slept outside under a cottonwood. If he’d had any sense he would have joined him, instead of giving in to a sudden uncharacteristic urge to have a roof over his head. For once, Holt’s snoring would have been a welcome distraction. Nat usually did his thinking in the saddle, but last night his mind just wouldn’t rest.

He had Christie Wallace to thank for that. If she’d stayed in Murdock and minded her own business, he’d have gotten a damn sight more sleep. Easterners! They were more trouble than they were worth.

But he had to admire her pluck. She was a feisty bit of fluff, all cream and honey one minute and sharp claws the next. And she tasted as good as she looked.

Damned if she didn’t.

Just thinking about her made him go hard. He swung up into the saddle then shifted his position to accommodate the bulge in his trousers. He should have thrown her down in the grass and taught her what happened to unprotected virgins in the west. It would have made for a more comfortable ride this morning.

A pretty thing like her wouldn’t last long around here — so slender and elegant, like a new stalk of wheat. But she had a way of looking down her perfectly straight nose at you, lips half parted, as though she was waiting for something — as though daring you to touch her. Then, when he did, she wanted to slap his face.

The way she’d lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye had stuck in his mind, robbing him of sleep — that, and the prospect of answering his father’s letter. He hated to put it off again. He’d like nothing better than to go home and have it out with the old man — put the past behind them once and for all. But that wasn’t possible right now.

Well, there’d be plenty of time to think about it in the hours to come. At least he’d had a good breakfast — thick slices of bacon, eggs, and biscuits. He’d made a point of relishing every mouthful. It was the last hot meal he’d eat for days. Once they closed in on the Everetts, there’d be no more fires. With any luck, they’d have the Everetts in their sights come nightfall.

Then, maybe the nightmares would finally end.

“They’re headed north,” Holt said, bringing his mustang, Caliber, up beside him. “Tracks stop a mile up river.”

“Their Aunt Bess runs a boarding house in Virginia City. My bet is they’re taking Hank there.”

Holt lifted a brow. “If he makes it that far.”

“I only winged him,” Nat said, attempting, but not quite succeeding, in keeping the irritation from his voice. “He’ll live.”

Holt continued in the same bland tone. “What happened to bringing them in alive?”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

“Makes no difference to me how we collect the reward.” Holt shrugged. “But if you kill them, you won’t have the satisfaction of watching them hang.”

Nat’s mouth flattened. “We tried that once before, remember? They killed the only witness we had left.”

“Well, now we’ve got us another,” Holt drawled.

Nat’s blood went hot. “I told you, she’s not testifying.”

“She tell you that?”

“No, I told her.”

Holt grinned knowingly. “She doesn’t strike me as the type of lady you’d tell anything to. Besides, her snot-nosed cousin was yammering on about it all the way back to Murdock last night. Said he was looking forward to watching them hang after they tried to kill him. Said her testimony was going to be what tightened the noose.”

“She’s not going to Carson for the trial,” Nat gritted out. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

“Whatever you say.”

The laughter behind Holt’s words firmed Nat’s jaw. A click of his tongue set Diablo in motion. Christie Wallace might be determined, but she was no match for his stubborn hide. If she wouldn’t listen to reason, he’d have to try another tactic. What that might be, he didn’t know, but he’d have plenty of time to think about it during the long ride to Virginia City.

He’d be damned if he’d have the death of another innocent woman on his conscience.

• • •

“There’s a letter for you.” Mr. Brooker, gave Christie a wink, quite recovered it seemed from the robbery a few days before. “Third one from the top, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh! Thank you.” Christie snatched up the bundle of correspondence from under the wicket before he could slide it half way through the slot. Then, remembering herself, she offered an apologetic smile. She glanced around the post office to see if anyone had witnessed her lapse in manners, but the place was deserted. It was late afternoon and most of the residents of Murdock had conducted their business early, so that they could help with the barn raising.

Letters in hand, she hastened for the door. No sooner had she stepped outside and popped open her parasol did she hear a familiar voice hailing her from down the street.

“Christie!” It was Leigh, striding straight for her with a bright feathery female in tow. “Wait!”

Christie’s cheeks flamed. The sultry sway of the woman’s hips and the sensual curve of her lips brought to mind her own recent behavior. Despite the days that had passed, she could still remember the feel of Nat Randall’s lips against hers. The fire in her cheeks spread lower. The shame of it made her want to run and hide. But there was no way to escape without seeming rude.

“I’d like you to meet someone.” Leigh beamed a wide smile. “Miss Candy, may I present Miss Christie Wallace, my cousin from Boston.”

After a slight hesitation, Christie extended her hand to the young woman encased in pink frills. “It’s a pleasure to meet you … Miss Candy.”

“Just call me Flossie.” She grasped Christie’s hand firmly to give it three vigorous pumps. Her black curls bounced up and down like the springs on a buggy under her bright, plumed hat. “Candy is my professional name. But all my friends call me Flossie. That’s my real name — Flossie Mae.”

“Flossie’s just off the stage from Carson City.” Leigh beamed from ear to ear. “I’m showing her around town.”

Christie smiled tightly. It took some effort to keep her voice calm. “I thought you’d be down at the livery helping Mr. Pike with the barn raising.”

“We’re working in shifts. I told him I’d be there tomorrow. Besides, the whole town can’t come to a standstill just to build Ed’s barn.”

“Yes, you’re right. So if you will excuse me.” She gave a nod. “I must get back to the mercantile. Uncle Will needs my help.”