Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance (15 page)

“Why did we flee?” Little Eagle asked.

“The spirits were not happy. They moved the mountain to show their displeasure. We will wait until the medicine woman finds the treasure. Then we will take it from her.”

“Our bellies are empty now. What shall we do?”

“There is a ranch near Santa Fe. It covers all the land that once belonged to our people.” Swift Hand thought for a moment, then whirled and rode away. “We ride down from the mountain and take what we want from those who took from our forefathers. Aieee!”

When Tucker returned, he carried a shovel with a broken handle. Somewhere along the way, he’d removed his bandanna from around his neck, tying it around his forehead like the wild Apache he’d accused Raven of being.

The tear in the knee of his pants had widened, allowing almost his entire kneecap to poke through. Perspiration stained the denim of his shirt. A cowboy he might be, but becoming a mountain man in hiding wore uneasily on the big, tawny man.

“Raven,” he said, relieved to see that she was watching him as he came to her side. “How is the leg?”

“Swollen and painful. We’re both in pretty sad shape, I’d say. Did you see any sign of Swift Hand?”

“No. I think they must have kept riding.” He didn’t tell her that the Indian was probably smart enough to figure out that the best way to find the treasure was to let Raven lead them to it. Why risk losing the location by confrontation?

There was no sign of her captor now, but with his skills, Swift Hand would be able to track a wounded
woman and a man on foot. Somebody would be watching, sooner or later.

He tried to erase the frown of concern from his face. He knew that her endurance was being tested as much as his own.

“It’s all right, Tucker. I understand how bad the situation is. But our horses will be here soon, and we can ride over the ridge to Benito’s village.”

Tucker hadn’t seen any sign of the horses either, but he was too whipped to argue. He’d been moving all night and he was tired and thirsty. “First things first.” He started to dig at the base of the mesquite tree.

“What are you doing?”

“Surely you know about the mesquite tree’s roots seeking water. An old rancher told me once, the only way they can survive out here is if there’s water. We just have to go deep enough to find it.”

“I know about mesquite trees, Tucker, but you can’t dig deep enough up here to find water. This ground is almost solid rock. We’d do better to get moving. Onawa will soon be here and we’ll make better time.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I just know that she and Yank are near.”

Tucker’s argument was cut off by the sound of movement behind them. Seconds later Onawa picked her way across the loose boulders and came into sight, followed by Yank and a complaining burro.

“Christ, how do you do that?” His voice was cross. He’d had as much mysticism as he could stand. “Do you and the horse share some kind of mental connection?”

“I do not know. It has always been so.”

It might have been, but the idea unnerved Tucker. At least he didn’t have to dig halfway to China. “Now we have the horses, who also need water,” Tucker said, hoping
their canteens were still in the burro’s pack. They were. They could drink from the tin cup in the saddlebag, but his hat was gone, and damned if he intended to fill his boot with water so that the animals could drink.

Searching further, he pulled out the tin pan. “Too bad I put holes in this. They never made any sense and now it’s worthless. I ought to throw it away.”

“No. I’m certain we’ll find a use for your map. Look again. The cup should be there.”

It was. Tucker uncapped one of the canteens and poured a small amount of the liquid into it. He first offered it to Raven, who refused to take more than a sip. Next he drank, sparingly, but more deeply than Raven. He allowed each horse a small amount of the precious liquid, then recapped the container and packed it in the saddlebags once more.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to dream us up a nice stream and a fat rabbit, would you?”

“I wish I could, Tucker. But I don’t always have control over my visions. They come from the spirit world.”

“Well, maybe we’ll get lucky. Let’s keep moving.”

By now the sun had slipped over the rim of the ridge behind them. They needed to move quickly since they could more easily be tracked in the daytime. Delaying the treatment of Raven’s injury, Tucker set her on Onawa’s bare back. Then he mounted Yank, who for once didn’t protest, and rode the big horse toward the summit.

“Just let the horses choose,” he instructed Raven. “They’ll find the way better than you or I.”

They reached the top of the ridge by late afternoon and started down. The horses were tentative at first, then moved more eagerly. Suddenly Onawa came to a stop, forcing Yank to do the same.

In the twilight’s dead quiet, Tucker heard the sound of the wind sweeping down the draw. The leaves of the
cottonwood trees rustled below, faintly at first, then louder. Someone was moving there.

Tucker slowly drew his pistol from its holster. He narrowed his eyes, studying the shadows. If Swift Hand lay in wait, there was little Tucker could do. They were all exhausted. The ridge was behind them and the intruder was waiting below.

Then Tucker let out a chuckle and a deep breath. “It’s okay, Raven. It’s just a wild animal. Maybe a deer. If I dared fire this pistol, we’d have supper.”

“How can you be sure?”

He didn’t have to show her. The burro, untethered, bounded down the trail. His screams of pleasure frightened a small mountain goat, who ran from the trees, scrambled up the rocks, and disappeared into the shadows.

“I think we can be sure that we’re alone.” Tucker relaxed for the first time since they’d crested the ridge. “Otherwise that goat wouldn’t have been grazing down there. From the burro’s behavior, I’d say there is water beyond those trees. That’s where the horses have been heading all along.”

Yank and Onawa moved quickly down the draw, into the stand of cottonwood and piñon. Tucker climbed down. He heard the soft ripple of a stream rolling over stones and hitting a pool below. Soon the animals were drinking noisily.

He could tell from the slump of Raven’s shoulders that she’d gone as far as she could go. “I’ll help you down.”

“Yes. Can we have a fire? I’m suddenly getting very cold.”

“ ‘Can we have a fire?’ Is the general abdicating her post?” he asked with a smile.

“The general is too weary to worry.”

Tucker put his arms around her waist and swung her down, being careful not to touch her swollen leg to the
ground. He held her, for just a moment, then chastised himself for his thoughtlessness. She was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, and here he was acting like some randy cowboy with nothing but lust on his mind. Looking around, he settled her on a tree stump by the water.

“I’ll lay out your bedroll. I guess we’re fortunate that Swift Hand decided to make you sleep sitting up. Otherwise we’d have left it behind.”

She didn’t answer, but seemed content to watch him make camp.

As quickly as he could, Tucker cleared the ground and unrolled the mat. Once more he moved Raven, placing her on the blanket. He removed his vest and folded it, sliding it beneath her head as a pillow. For just a second, he allowed himself to look at her, then reluctantly moved away to gather dry wood for a fire. Using one of his precious matches, he lit the moss and watched it blaze up. Soon the fire licked red tongues around the dry branches.

“Isn’t it dangerous to build a fire?” Raven asked wearily.

“I don’t think it matters. We’re over the ridge in a low place, in the trees. If Swift Hand is following us, he already knows where we are. We’ll have to make do with cold tortillas I took from one of the Indians’ ponies.”

Raven licked her dry lips. “We wouldn’t have that, except his braves were more interested in the whiskey they found than the food.”

Whiskey. His whiskey. He fumbled through his saddlebag. “Damn!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I guess it was too much to hope that they wouldn’t find it. At least our escape makes more sense.”

“Sorry about your whiskey. Guess you’ll just have to drink water,” she said.

The cornmeal fritters were hard and dry, but after being dipped into the cup of spring water, they were eatable. After they’d finished the meal, Tucker filled the tin cup once again and set it in the fire to boil.

“Do you have any more of that root and berry medicine?”

Raven pulled her medicine bag out from beneath her buckskin dress and pulled it open. “Yes, a small amount.”

“The berry concoction takes away the pain?”

“Yes, but I don’t think I’ll need it.” She handed him the last piece of the healing root. “Place this in the water and boil it.”

He followed her directions, then muttered, “I wish I still had the whiskey.”

“Well, I could probably find some bark and make you a nice tea,” Raven said.

“I didn’t intend to drink it. I was going to treat your wound with it.” Wetting his bandanna in the stream, he sat down beside Raven.

Her sun-kissed legs were long and supple, used to walking, but not to a man’s touch. At first she started, then let out a deep breath and visibly forced herself to relax as he lifted her foot with one hand and her knee with the other. Carefully he washed the cut, pleased that so far as he could see in the lengthening shadows, it didn’t look angry.

He continued to wash and touch her long after his need to treat the wound was done. She was a beautiful woman, openly showing her trust in him. He couldn’t justify or restrain his growing reaction to her body.

Forget it, Tucker. This woman is hurt. Put your mind out of its misery and get to the job of treating her wound.

After he’d poured the root liquid into the cut, he put the cup back on the fire and heated more water. Then, dipping his bandanna into the water, he applied the hot
cloth to the wound. Over and over, he repeated this until he was satisfied that the leg was totally warmed. Finally he stood.

“I hope Swift Hand’s braves didn’t get a hankering to take a lady’s petticoat back to the village.” He removed their packs from the horses, opened hers, and drew out the soft white cotton garment. “Nope, it’s still here.”

Ripping the rest of the ruffle away, he bandaged the wound, then bound the ankle, splitting the end of the strand of material and tying it to hold the fabric tight. By the time he’d finished, Raven was half asleep.

He covered her with her blanket, then piled more wood on the fire and lay down on the ground beside her, but far enough away to keep from touching. “I’m sorry you had to use your bedroll to bury Luce,” she whispered drowsily.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve slept on the ground plenty of nights.”

She pulled back her blanket. “Don’t be silly, Tucker. Come here.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Raven.”

“My protector,” she teased. “We’ve come too far to worry about good and evil. Besides, I’m cold.”

Tucker unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it at the top of the blanket, then slid into the bedroll. As naturally as if they’d always slept together, she snuggled against him, pulling his arms around her, one beneath her head and the other around her waist.

“Tucker?”

“Yes, what’s wrong? Does your leg hurt?”

“No, it isn’t my leg. It’s my stomach. It feels very strange. Does your stomach ache?”

Not my stomach, darling
. “No. Maybe it was the tortillas.”

“I don’t think so. I had the same kind of pain that
night in Luce’s cabin. It seems to come at the strangest times.”

She moaned slightly and wiggled her bottom over and over as if she were tightening and letting go of her muscles.

“Don’t do that, Raven.”

“All right, it doesn’t seem to help anyway.”

“Go to sleep, woman. You’re just tired.”

“I suppose—Tucker?”

“Now what?”

“Will you kiss me?”

He had no business even touching her, certainly not responding when she rolled over in his arms, threw her leg over his thigh, and lifted her face up to his. But there was just so much any man could take, and Tucker had passed that point long minutes ago.

He kissed her, not because she asked, but because he needed to. “Just a minute, Spirit Woman,” he whispered and tugged the thong from her braid, loosing her hair across her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I just have a great urge to feel your hair,” he whispered. “Besides,” he lied, “that rope was cutting into my shoulder. That and those beads on that dress you’re wearing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” She pushed herself up, and before he realized what she was doing, she’d pulled the dress over her shoulders and pitched it across the tree stump. “I never liked sleeping on them either,” she said and leaned over him, ready for his kiss.

“What are you doing, Raven? We can’t sleep like this.”

“Why not? Would you like to remove your shirt and boots?”

He groaned. “Your leg,” he mumbled, threading his
fingertips into her hair and pulling it over her bare breasts in a halfhearted attempt to cover the beauty of her body.