Sundancer (Cheyenne Series) (11 page)

      
‘‘We'll camp here for tonight,” Cain said, breaking into her preoccupation. He swung down from his horse, then walked over to the dun mare he'd secured for Alexa. She was struggling to dismount without letting the narrow skirt of her tunic ride up and reveal even more of her long legs. With a sardonic smile he extended his arms and encircled her waist, lifting her from the saddle as if she weighed nothing.

      
Roxanna was slender but tall for a woman, unused to feeling dwarfed by men, but the Cheyenne were an unusually tall race and Cain a big man even among them. His fingers seemed to burn into her skin through the buckskins as he lifted her from the saddle, then placed her gently on the ground. She clasped his shoulders, feeling the fluid power of his muscles, and swallowed hard.
Big mistake, Roxy,
she thought as soon as those black eyes met hers. Before she could gather her wits to thank him for his assistance, he broke eye contact and released her abruptly, turning away.

      
“I'll rub the horses down. You start a fire. Don't make it a big one. We should be in the clear, but I don't want to attract any visitors,” he said as he began to uncinch his chestnut's saddle, tossing the fancy silver-trimmed rig onto the grass, then proceeded to work on the dun.

      
His physical recovery amazed Roxanna as she watched him perform such strenuous tasks with little regard for what had been a life-threatening injury a scant week ago. Outside of an occasional wince or grunt of discomfort, he betrayed no weakness from the goring.

      
When he noticed her standing still, he turned, raising one black eyebrow sardonically. “I assume you were taught how to build a fire after spending over a month with the Cheyenne?”

      
Roxanna could feel her skin heat with embarrassment. “I can build a fire,” she murmured, turning to survey the campsite. A small water hole a dozen yards away was thicketed with pine and red cedar. She walked over and began to gather some dry wood.

      
Cain looked at the western sky, which was streaked with fiery red and gold as the sun dropped quickly behind the distant lavender ridges on the horizon. The beauty of the scene always moved him, but the dark purplish and steel gray clouds billowing down from the north were cause for concern as they rapidly obscured the sunset. The wind began to gust ever so slightly, carrying a chilling bite in it. Any time of year on the High Plains was chancy, but late spring was the least reliable. There had been unseasonable warmth for several weeks, but after growing up out here, he knew a foot of snow by morning would not be unusual. It would be dangerous for two people alone with little for miles around to offer shelter.

      
Nearby there was a shallow arroyo carved out of the soft sandstone by centuries of spring floodwater. On the north side of it, a stone embankment overhung the ravine, offering some meager protection if the elements turned ugly. He had passed by it while tracking Leather Shirt's band. That was why he'd stopped here before dusk. Once he finished rubbing the horses down, he quickly resaddled them before feeding them.

      
Roxanna observed his actions, puzzled. Why did he resaddle the horses and watch the northern horizon? He had not spoken a word to her since issuing those preemptory orders about the fire. This was going to be a horribly long trip if after only one day the two of them were reduced to this uncomfortable silence. Finally, when she could stand the tension no longer, she asked, ‘‘Are you afraid the Pawnees are out there?”

      
Cain sat by the small fire, carefully checking the action of his Spencer. “I've seen no sign of Pawnee,” he replied, never looking up as he lay down the carbine and picked up the Smith and Wesson revolver.

      
Roxanna was stung by the cool dismissal and turned back to basting the pair of jackrabbits roasting on the fire.
I'll marry Lawrence Powell—I don t care if he has two heads and both faces are uglier than the back end of bad luck!
She stabbed a knife into the meat viciously to test for doneness, making believe it was Cain's thick hide. A spray of fragrant juice trickled onto the fire, causing it to flare. “Dinner is served,” she said in a level voice, damned if she'd let him goad her into a childish tantrum.

      
He set aside his weapons and eyed the northern sky uneasily, then stood up. A sharp wind raced along his buckskin shirtsleeves with a wicked snap, biting icy cold on his skin. “Hurry up and eat. This may be the last hot food we get for a while,” he said, breaking off a hunk of the rabbit and devouring it.

      
“Why?” she asked, puzzled by yet another unexplained shift in his mood. Nonetheless, she took a generous bite of rabbit.

      
Raising his arm. he pointed to the iron-gray clouds billowing down on them. “Storm's coming.”

      
“A little rain never hurt anyone. May in St. Louis—”

      
“This isn't St. Louis. We're nearly a mile high on these plains with nothing between here and the Arctic to stop the wind roaring straight down on us. Out here they call it a blue norther and it squats down on its hind legs and howls like a thousand timber wolves once it gets going. This warm spell we just had only makes it worse—rain can turn to hail.”

      
“Hail.” Roxanna nervously scanned the open trackless plains to the far distant shelter of the mountains. The scrubby pines and cedars by the pool looked pitiful indeed in the face of a possible hailstorm.

      
As if to punctuate her thoughts, the wind, already brisk, gusted up a stinging cloud of dust, nearly dousing the campfire.

      
“I think we'd better head for shelter,” Cain yelled above the keening wind.

      
“Where?”

      
He kicked out the last of the fire and grabbed the horses' reins. “Take the food packs, leave the cooking gear,” he said as she began gathering the tin plates and cups.

      
By now the clouds were scudding low, the wind flattening the high grass to the ground. As the strength of the gale made her stumble backward, he took the food pack from her and tossed it over the chestnut's saddle. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he started to run toward the ravine, pulling the skittish horses behind them.

      
Like the living thing he had named it, the wind grew stronger, snarling and enraged, driving into them as they struggled against it. Roxanna clung to Cain as he bent into the wind, his long legs eating up the ground. Abruptly a narrow crevice opened up in front of them and they scrambled downward.

      
Just as they reached the flat rocky bottom of the gully, the wind died down as quickly as it had blown up. “Is it over?” Roxanna asked.

      
Cain looked up at the clouds hovering malevolently above them, smothering the sky. “It's only begun,” he replied grimly. All at once an earsplitting clatter began. Balls of hail the size of small crabapples pounded down on them like angry white fists.

      
Not even attempting to speak over the din, Cain sheltered Roxanna in the lee of his shoulder as he dragged the terrified horses behind him until he reached a small overhang of rock. At once he pushed her as far back under it as he could, then pulled the horses in front of them, giving them what meager protection the niche could provide. He tied the reins securely around the tough roots of a chokecherry growing out the side of the overhang. The terrified animals huddled together, nickering and stamping their hooves as the hailstorm whitened the earth around them.

      
Roxanna felt the sting of the wind driving along the floor of the narrow ravine. God, they could be buried alive down here! She held her hands over her ears and huddled against cold hard stone. Then Cain knelt beside her and took her in his arms, covering her with his body to protect her from the wind and absorb the shock of stinging hailstones which blew past the horses' legs into their inadequate shelter.

      
Cain had pulled a bedroll from the saddle and now unfurled the heavy wool, cocooning them inside it. He felt her shivering uncontrollably and stroked her silky hair with his hand, cradling her head so it did not touch the rock beneath her. Gradually her trembling stopped, but she clutched his arm tightly, pressing her body to his until he could feel the soft mounds of her breasts and the long contours of her legs entwined against him. The scent of her was in his nostrils, subtle yet heady, not the perfume she'd employ in civilization but far more compelling. He could feel the small hot puffs of her breath against his throat and groaned aloud. The sound was absorbed in the cacophony of the storm.

      
Roxanna pressed her face against the crisp dark hair of his chest and felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat in spite of the deafening downpour. His body sheltered hers, absorbing the punishment doled out by the elements. Wind and hail pummeled his back, which was already badly bruised, yet he held her securely beneath him. She inched her arms around him and spread her hands over the painful injury to his side and shoulder blade, trying to protect him in some small way. His fingers tangled in her hair, gently cupping her head just as he had last night in the lodge when he kissed her. Roxanna felt safe, cherished, utterly at peace in the midst of violence. In Cain's arms it was as if she had come home after a long, long absence.

      
Gradually the hail slowed, then stopped, but the wind continued to howl ferociously, stinging them with sand. Cain could feel her burrow deeper beneath him. Every tiny movement of her body rubbing against his was agony. He felt himself growing hard and knew the bulge in his trousers pressed into her belly. He wondered if she understood what that meant. Sometimes silly white virgins did not, or so he'd been told. The women he consorted with were never innocents.

      
Cain was not at all certain about Alexa Hunt. She certainly should have been untouched, from what he knew of the way she had been brought up, the only child of a wealthy St. Louis socialite. She was around twenty years old. Cheyenne women—and lots of frontier white women too—had their first baby at sixteen or younger. The way she had responded when he kissed her confused him. There was a wellspring of passion in her combined with an odd sort of reticence that seemed more wariness than inexperience.

      
If he acted on the overwhelmingly foolish desire to bed her, they would best be served if she were not a virgin. Whether she was or not, he would be jeopardizing everything he had worked for if he made love to her. Jubal had plans for her that would never include a half-breed gunman. No matter how much the old Scot had come to like him or rely on his judgment, Cain knew MacKenzie would see him dead for it. When Alexa raised her head and nestled her face against his throat, he tried to remind himself of that fact.

      
Roxanna could feel him shifting his weight uncomfortably, trying not to crush her. The wind continued to howl. Over his shoulder she could dimly see the dull grayish white of the mounded hailstones. They could die out here all alone on the trackless plains. No one would find their bodies until their bones were bleached by the elements.

      
Cain's heat and strength were life and she was drawn to that. She was drawn to him. When her lips accidentally brushed the pulse at the base of his throat, he jerked abruptly and tightened his hold on her. Her breasts ached with a strange new fullness she had only felt for the first time last night when he had uncovered them and touched them with his mouth. Just thinking of that caused her to arch involuntarily against his chest.

      
He cursed beneath his breath as the aching in his groin intensified. Did she know what she was doing to him? He nudged his leg over her hip, increasing the pressure of his erection against her belly to see if she would respond.

      
She had felt the subtle bulge in his trousers grow, unaware at first of what it meant. She had been attacked head-on with sex, never lain snugly and willingly in a man's arms while his ardor grew. When Cain shifted his position, he was making clear his need. After her unwilling and brutal initiation to sex, she should have been frightened, repelled, angry. But Roxanna was surprised to realize she was not. Rather she felt a low, warm current of excitement eddying in widening circles, deep in her belly, tingling in her aching breasts, speeding up her breathing until she was dizzy and clutching at his shoulders. Her hands climbed up to his neck of their own volition and bracketed his face. She dug her fingers into the shaggy black hair of his head while her thumbs rubbed slowly against the harshness of his bearded cheeks.

      
His eyes glowed in the dim light as he looked down at her, suddenly aware that the wind had stopped. The storm had passed, swift and deadly as a racing mountain cat pouncing on its prey. He could see the pale light in her eyes as she met his harsh gaze. “Are you sure you want this?” his voice rasped, raw from sand and wind, and he waited for her reply.

Chapter Six

      
“I thought we were going to die,” she whispered, pressing her lips to the strong brown column of his neck, willing him to say something more before she committed herself. When he too held back, she murmured, “We're crazy to do this. I'm supposed to marry Lawrence Powell...” Roxanna felt Cain stiffen the moment she spoke Powell's name.

      
“You know about the arrangement,” she said, unable to keep the accusation from her voice.

      
“Yeah, I know about it,” he said, rolling abruptly away from her. Angrily he stood up and stepped from beneath the shelter of the overhang, needing desperately to put distance between himself and the woman.
What the hell does she want from me?