Tender Touch (12 page)

Easing back off the crest of the hill, Nigh grinned. He leaped on his horse and headed for the wagons, humming while he gnawed on a sliver of wood. Nature had its own way of cooling off hotheads like Barret Wight, he reckoned, and that suited him fine.

The storm struck an hour later, forcing the Magrudge Company into an early camp. The wind whipped viciously at the canvas wagon covers and lashed the men’s faces with icy rain. Nigh was grateful; the storm gave him a chance to talk with Brianna privately.

As soon as the animals had been taken care of, he climbed into the wagon. She was sitting on the bed, her legs drawn up under her skirt, one arm around her knees. The cat was dancing on all four paws, back arched, a contented rumble deep in his chest, as she scratched him just above his tail. Nigh sat down on the supply box that extended from the head of the wagon to the foot, along the side opposite the bed.

At the head, the box was four feet wide, divided into two foot sections with hinged lids for holding supplies. The rest of the way to the foot of the wagon, the box was only two feet wide. In some wagons the storage unit was also used as a bed, but since Nigh slept under the wagon, Brianna’s was used only for storage space.

When he entered, she glanced up, then away, an expression of dread on her face. His voice was calm. “Want to tell me about it?”

Her shoulders lifted and fell. “What is there to tell? I lied to you.”

“Reckoned you were lying a long time ago. Question is, why?”

She peeked over at him. He sat hunched forward, his forearms resting on his spread knees. His shoulders and head were wet and she felt an urge to get out a towel and dry his hair. “If I had told you in St. Louis that I was running away from my husband, would you have agreed to escort me to Independence?”

“No.”

“And when I asked you to take me to Oregon, would you have said yes if you’d known the truth?”

“Dammit, woman! That don’t excuse you from lying.”

“I’m sorry.” She unfolded her legs from under her, put her stockinged feet on the floor and leaned toward him. “Please try to see this from my point of view. I lived with that man for three years. I left because I was afraid he would kill me if he knew. . . .” She straightened and looked away. “I hated lying to you, Col. It’s not my way ordinarily. But I was more terrified of him catching me than of what you’d do if you found out.”

“Simple as that, huh?”

“Yes, as simple as that.”

Nigh leaned back against the side of the wagon and stared into space while he gnawed on a toothpick, along with her words. Had he been in her place, he’d likely have done the same. And when it came right down to it, what hurt most was knowing she belonged to someone else.

Slowly he turned to gaze at her. She had her knees up again, hugging them and looking so forlorn he wanted to pull her into his arms and show her not all men were like Barret Wight. He wanted to kiss those startling blue eyes of hers, her straight nose and proud chin. To cover her with kisses instead of bruises. To show her how love could be with a man who would worship her body too much to abuse it, cherish her too much to hurt her.

The image of her struggling beneath that madman, his hands around her throat, her face a mottled purple, brought a rush of anger that made him clench his fists and nearly bite the toothpick in two. Then he remembered the shy way she had called his attention to her half-naked state as they rode back to the wagons, and his anger melted in a flood of desire. Her breasts had been barely hidden by her torn dress, and so close he could have kissed them merely by bending his head.

God, how he’d wanted to touch them, to stroke them until the nipples grew taut with desire. To run his hands over her gently rounded hips and her flat stomach, down her thighs, her calves, her ankles, and back up between her legs. He wanted to taste her, smell her, explore every inch of her body with his hands, his lips, his tongue. He wanted to feel himself inside her and give her the pleasure he was sure that bastard she’d been married to never had.

The bastard she was married to.

Nigh squirmed against the hard wooden box and leaned forward again to hide the evidence of his desire. He could not have her, would never have her, and he may as well clear his head of fantasies for good. He’d have to become in his mind the “brother” he pretended to be around others, and content himself with making certain Barret Wight never touched her again.

After a time, his pulse slowed to normal again. When he spoke, only the huskiness of his voice hinted of the passion he held under tight rein. “What now?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you going to do? Go back to that sonuv .
.
. to your husband? Or go on to Oregon?”

How could he even ask? “I’m going on. Barret will have to kill me to get me back.”

Nigh nodded, scolding himself silently for the joy he felt. The rain stopped. Outside, kettles clanked and hatchets ka-thunked into wood as folks built fires and started supper.

“Well then—” He stood and moved to the tailgate. “Reckon I’d best make sure the man don’t find you again.”

He balanced himself on the edge of the raised tailgate, and hopped to the ground. Brianna poked out her head and he reached up to put his hands around her waist and lift her down. Her hands were on his shoulders, but she didn’t let go once her feet touched ground. She gazed up at him with an expression so soft and charged with emotion that it gave him gooseflesh.

“Thank you, Col,” she whispered. Raising up on her toes she kissed him. A quick kiss, a mere brushing of her lips over his, but it was enough to ignite the coals of passion inside him and test his willpower as he resisted the urge to haul her back inside the wagon. She stepped back and he let her go.

Chapter Twelve

With a canvas tarp and green poles cut from trees growing along the Wakarusa, Nigh erected an awning for Brianna to cook under. They were still uneasy with each other. He figured that was why she had invited the Beaudouins to share their fire, as well as their meal. That and the hunch that Lilith wouldn’t have thought to gather wood from the creeks they’d crossed that day.

Lilith brought French wine and crystal stemware and Marc contributed two plump chickens. While the women cooked, the Beaudouin boys, Francois and Jean Louis, perched on each side of Nigh to watch him transform a block of wood into a screaming mountain lion.

“Golly, Mr. Nigh, that’s really something,” Francois said. “I wish I could learn to do that.”

“Got a knife?”

“No.”

“How old are you?” Nigh asked.

“I’ll be ten come August.”

“Boy your age oughta have his own knife.” At Marc’s nod, Nigh fished a small one from one of his pouches.

“Here, boy. It’s sharp so don’t cut yourself. Later I’ll help you make a sheath for it to wear on your belt.”

Francois’s small chest puffed out in pride as he took the knife. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of it.”

Nigh smiled and tousled the boy’s hair. No one had ever called him “sir” before.

“Hey, what about me?” Jean Louis’s cherubic face scrunched up as though about to cry.

“You’re too young, son,” said Marc.

“Here.” Nigh handed the boy the fist-sized panther. “Francois can make his own carvings now, so you can have this one.”

With a grin Jean Louis ran off to show his treasure to the other boys.

Nigh was halfway inside the wagon, fetching a piece of rawhide from his pack for Francois’s sheath, when the wagon master walked up.

Edward Magrudge sidled up to Brianna like a snake looking for a warm spot to snooze. He ignored the cat on the stool beside her and dropped his gaze to her breasts, licking his thin lips. Her bosom had been tempting as hell when she was skinny, but she’d put on weight in the last week or so, and all in the right places. Widows made prime pickings, he thought, as he gave her a wink. “Nice to see some color in those cheeks of yours, Missus Villard. Saw you out walking today.”

Brianna recognized the look in his eye; it reminded her of Barret. She backed away, two tin plates held in front of her like twin shields. Her cheeks matched the vermillion clouds fading from the evening sky and her eyes were wide with alarm. Shakespeare growled.

“Good evening, Edward.” Marc Beaudouin rose from his chair and stepped over to put his arm around Lilith’s waist where she stood behind Brianna. Setting the plates quickly inside the tableware box, Brianna scurried away.

“Hope I didn’t scare her off.” Magrudge watched her go. He resisted the urge to swat the spitting cat.

Nigh climbed from the wagon and faced the man. “Want something, Magrudge?”

A leering smile settled on the wagon captain’s lips as he wondered what Nigh would say if he told him he wanted to tumble his sister. Then he caught the murderous glint in ex-fur trapper’s keen eyes. Clearing his throat, he motioned to a young couple waiting off to the side. “Brung some folks to meet Beaudouin here.”

He turned to Marc. “Said you was from Bowling Green, Kentucky, didn’t you?”

“My family owns the mercantile there.”

“Oh, Beaudouin’s Dry Goods,” the young woman said. “You had the best selection in town. I hope you’ll be opening a new store in Oregon.”

“Actually, I plan to raise horses and Herefords.”

The woman pursed her bow-shaped mouth as though disappointed. “Herefords. You mean those pretty whitefaced cows I saw you herding today?”

Marc nodded and smiled.

Magrudge drew the man forward. “This here’s Punch Moulton. And his wife, Dulcie.”

Punch Moulton was a swarthy, heavy-jawed man in his late twenties with small eyes and a jutting chin that looked as though it had been gnawed by an angry polecat. It was obvious the man remembered his run-in with Nigh at Longmire’s Livery. The hostility between them stuck thicker than buffalo hoof glue.

Moulton’s wife was a tiny thing with tiny hands, tiny feet, and a button of a nose that wiggled when she became excited. Columbus Nigh tagged her as a clever, fluttery little moth that oozed sexuality without even knowing she had any.

“My wife and I were about to return to our wagon,” Marc said into the jarring silence. “Why don’t you join us, Mr. Moulton? We may find we have mutual friends back in Bowling Green.”

Moulton glanced at the crystal wine goblets Lilith was gathering up and the collapsible table covered by a white linen cloth. “Ain’t too likely,” he said in a surly tone.

When Brianna still hadn’t returned an hour after the Beaudouins had left, Columbus went searching for her. The grass was wet from the afternoon’s storm and felt cool to his moccasined feet. Already the night breeze had a bite to it. Though the days were warm, the nights were always cold. Out on the prairie where the horse herd grazed, a night guard was singing a lonely dirge, accompanied by the melancholy howl of a distant wolf.

Nigh saw Brianna the same moment he heard the cracking sound of Punch Moulton’s open palm striking his wife’s fine-boned face. Brianna covered her mouth with her hands and froze in terror, cringing behind one of the wagons.

“Please, Punch,” Dulcie cried. “I didn’t mean to be forward with Mr. Beaudouin.”

“Don’t tell me that.” Punch shook his finger close enough to his wife’s face she could have bitten it, if she’d been foolish enough. “I saw ya smiling at him the way you do at other men when you think I ain’t looking. Damnation! Why’d I think it’ud be any different away from Bowlin’ Green? Men are men no matter where they are. And sluts is sluts. Even pregnant ones.”

“Don’t you call me that. I’m no slut.”

“Quit yer sniveling.” Punch began to walk away as though he couldn’t bear the sight of her. Then he swung back and, without warning, his fist landed square on her jaw. The blow sent Dulcie flying three feet. She hit the wagon with a resounding thump and slid to the ground where she stayed, hugging her belly protectively.

“Don’t you c-care what these people are gonna think, seeing me all b-bruised up?” she sobbed.

“Ya worried what they think?” He knelt down in front of her. “Hey, sugar, I know how to solve that.” With the backs of his fingertips he slapped her across the face. “See? Hurts, don’t it? Leaves no marks, though. I learned that
from old Swampy. Remember him?”

“Swampy never hit Mar
y. She’d of told me if he had.”

“He never had to hit her once we knowed ’em, ’cause by then she’d learned to keep her eyes in her head and her mouth shut. She learned how to please her man, in every way. And this is how he taught her.” He pulled her hands from her face and slapped her again.

“Oww, please, Punch. I won’t go near Mr. Beaudouin, I promise. Please don’t hit me anymore.”

“All right then, get my supper ready. And you be thinking ’bout all the ways ya can make me feel good when I come to bed tonight.”

“But, Punch, the . . . the baby.”

“You ain’t due for three months yet. Expect me to go wanting all that time, ya selfish little slut? Ain’t gonna hurt the baby nohow. Now get my meat cooking.”

Dulcie pulled herself up, hanging onto the side of the wagon, one hand still cupped around her belly, as he walked away. Her mouth had already started to swell. With her tongue she probed her teeth to see if any were loose. She wiped away the blood with the back of her hand and went to stoke up the fire.

Brianna, her hand over her mouth, raced onto the plain. She dropped to her knees, braced her palms on the ground and vomited. When her stomach was empty, she moved away, slumped to the damp earth and gave way to the tears streaming down her face.

Never had she seen anyone beaten like that before. For a moment, watching, it had seemed to be her receiving those blows. Punch took on the features of Barret Wight, and Brianna felt her flesh give beneath his knuckles the way she had before, oh, so many times. It was ghastly.

She thought about the melancholy she’d felt earlier that day because she would never have a chance to know love, and the way her knees had turned to water at the sight of Barret bearing down on her. Standing up to him had taken everything she had, and look at what it got her. What was it about women like her and Dulcie that allowed them to love men like Barret and Punch? Was there something wrong with them?

Was it a sort of sickness to need someone so badly she’d settle for a man like Barret? She’d hated being alone, knowing people had pitied her as the poor spinster who was too tall and too intelligent to catch a husband. Still hated it.

The breeze wafted the stink of her vomit beneath her nose, making her gag. She didn’t hear Columbus Nigh’s quiet approach. At the first touch of his warm hands on her shuddering shoulders, she instinctively jerked away. But the motion only made her retch again. There was nothing left in her stomach except clear liquid and then, finally, not even that. Even so, she continued to heave, humiliated for him to see her this way, but helpless to do anything about it. The convulsions racked her body so violently she thought surely the next heave would bring up her insides, stomach and all.

“Easy,” Nigh crooned, worried that his presence was making things worse instead of better. “Take a couple of deep breaths, try to relax.”

Her hair had come loose from its bun. He steadied her with one hand and stroked the hai
r from her face with the other.

“Don’t look at me,” she whispered.

Nigh watched the liquid drip from her lips and chin and saw her tremble. “Don’t worry about me, just relax and let your stomach get hold of itself.”

He put his hand on her back and ran it gently down her spine to her waist and back up. He massaged her shoulders and neck, then her back again. Never had anything felt so good, she thought. Gradually her stomach calmed and she knew she was done vomiting. She crumpled then, as though the convulsions that had racked her body were all that had kept her upright until now.

Nigh drew her aside to keep her out of the mess she’d made and laid her gently on the ground. Her hand lay on her stomach, the other flung over her eyes. Shivering violently, she struggled to reclaim her dignity. “Thank you, I’ll be fine now. You don’t need to stay.”

He ignored her uppity employer-to-employee dismissal. Taking hold of the neck of his shirt, he whipped it off over his head. Then he pulled her to a sitting position and wrapped the shirt around her shoulders. In the patchy moonlight she could see the light covering of hair on his chest, and the way his nipples puckered in the cool air.

The supple leather cut off the wind, warming her instantly. She drew a deep breath, inhaling the special odors that were his alone, and felt wild sensations dance down her spine. How would the wind feel on her naked skin? Would he feel the same seeing her naked as she did seeing him?

But he had already seen her naked, in the river the day after they left St. Louis, and there had been no indication then that the sight affected him at all. Of course, that was before he kissed her. The idea that he might try to kiss her again, there in the darkness with no one around to prevent things from getting out of hand, made her stomach flip-flop.

“It isn’t proper, our being alone out here like this and you only half dressed,” she said, holding out the shirt. “Please put it on.”

Nigh chuckled but there was no humor to it. “I’m your brother, remember?”

He wrapped the shirt around her again. Then he lifted her in his arms and rose to his feet. She had no strength to resist. Her arm automatically anchored itself around his neck. One hand was against his bare chest, the hair curling about her fingers. She snatched the hand away, praying he couldn’t see her blush in the darkness.

Still holding her, he sat down on the bank of a small creek that flowed into the Wakarusa River near the encampment. Feeling awkward, yet strangely at home in his arms, she watched him dip his kerchief in the water. His large callused hands were astonishingly gentle as he bathed her face. When he offered her a drink from his cupped hand, she was too eager to rinse her mouth to refuse. At the touch of her lips on his palm, she felt him tremble. “Better?” he asked in that brief way of his.

Brianna had never been babied this way before and never wanted it to end.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked.

Heat suffused her face as she wondered if he had read her mind. “Talk? About what?”

“The Moultons.”

She shuddered, remembering. “It was dreadful.”

Her voice was so low Nigh had to lean closer to hear. He sat with one leg stretched out, the other bent with his foot flat on the ground, Brianna nestled in between. His arm was around her, her shoulder and arm pressed against his bare chest. The intimacy of the pose struck him and it was all he could do not to kiss her. He knew he should move away, but he couldn’t.

“No one will ever hurt you again,” he said hoarsely. “Not as long as I’m around.”

She looked at him, doubting he could care so much what happened to her. “If there are men like you who don’t believe in hitting women, what causes men like Barret and Punch Moulton to do it?”