Tender Touch (14 page)

“Noticed you made a friend,” Nigh said.

His voice was like the moan of the wind in the trees, soft, shivery, sensuous.

“Dulcie and I have a lot in common.”

“She could use a f
riend. Moulton hassle you any?”

“No, he doesn’t lik
e me, but he was civil enough.”

Nigh spit out the spent toothpick. She wondered if his lips would taste like the applewood he’d made the toothpick from. Making friends with Dulcie felt good, but watching couples dancing and having fun had left her feeling a different kind of loneliness.

A pack of dogs darted out from under a wagon. She stumbled, trying to get out of the way. Nigh reached to steady her and shockwaves zinged though his body from fingertips to groin. His hands clamped onto her arms and he pulled her close. She looked up at him, her lips parted in surprise. Her eyes were as big as the tin plates they used for supper. Her breath wafted over his face, sweet and seductive.

His heart felt like a slough full of frogs jumping every which way. He bit his tongue to keep from licking his lips at the thought of kissing her. Christ. He was no better than Magrudge. He let her go.

“Dogs seem to’ve caught the festive mood,” he said to cover the awkward moment.

“Yes, silly things.”

Not as silly as you
, she scolded herself.
The man has a wife, and even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be interested in a big, old ugly thing like you
. The thought of Little Beaver was like a rose thorn in her finger. Impulsively, she said, “Col, why is it you’ve never mentioned your wife to me?”

He stopped and turned toward her. “My having an Indian wife make a difference to you?”

She heard the pain in his voice and wished she could honestly say “No,” but the truth was that it did bother her to think of him with one of the pathetic, filthy squaws she’d seen in St. Louis and on the trail, so she hedged. “Only. ..well, because I consider you a man of principle, yet . . . you kissed me.”

And I want to kiss you again, he thought. Now, tomorrow and next year. “What’s my kissin’ you got to do with my wife?”

“A married man shouldn’t kiss other women. Not the way you kissed me.”

His hand lifted to her face and his fingers lightly traced the contour of her cheekbone, then swept over her hair before dropping back to his side. At the time, the story of Little Beaver’s death had spread through the mountains like dandelion seed on the wind. But Nigh had never told the tale himself. He couldn’t tell it now. Not all of it, anyway.

“She was a Snake, what some call Shoshone. Her people found me with a Blackfoot arrow in my side and winter breathing down my neck. She nursed me. When spring came, I took her with me.”

“Just like that?”

“Indian marriages are pretty simple. If a man and woman agree to live together, they’re married. If she grows unhappy, she puts his things outside the tipi and he goes away. If he decides he don’t want her, he sends her back to her family.”

“Are you happy with her?”

“She died.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged.

They reached the wagon and stood in silence, locked in their own thoughts. Brianna was ashamed of the joy she felt at knowing he was no longer married. Yet she couldn’t help crying out to him silently.
Hold me
.

Nor could she hear his wordless plea.
Touch me. I need you
.

I want you
.

They never had a chance. Lilith and Marc burst out of the darkness. “We thought we heard you two out here. Where did you disappear to, Brianna? Did you know this lovely sister of yours doesn’t remember how to dance, Mr. Nigh?”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Well, you must do something about it. Why, I’d simply die if I had to sit in the background and miss out on all that fun.” Lilith held out her hand, palm up and gazed up at the dark sky. “I thought I felt something wet.” Without warning, the sky opened up, pelting them with raindrops the size of rabbit droppings.

“Run for cover,” Marc yelled.

Brianna scrambled into her wagon while Lilith raced off to her own next door. Nigh was rolling out his blankets on the India rubber mat underneath the wagon when Marc crouched down to peer at him. “Have you slept under here every night? Why don’t you sleep
in the wagon?”

“Brianna needs her privacy.”

“But surely, once she’s in bed . . .” Marc let the words trail off. He stood up and called through the canvas cover, “Brianna! Col’s getting soaked under this wagon. Isn’t there some way he could sleep in there?”

Her voice came to them, hesitant and uncertain. “I-I thought it would be considered improper. Is he truly getting wet?”

“Drenched,” Marc said. “The wind whips the rain right under there. I see nothing wrong with a brother and sister sharing the same wagon, not under the circumstances, and I’m sure
everyone would agree with me.”

“I’m fine under here,” Nigh called out loud enough for her to hear. “Old mountain man like me is used to sleeping wet.”

“Nonsense. Brianna, do
invite him inside, won’t you?”

“Of course he must come in if he’s getting wet. Help him with his things, will you, Marc?”

Nigh cursed under his breath as Marc snatched a heavy buffalo robe from him and dashed for the end of the wagon.

“Come on, man, I’m getting wet too, you know,” Marc yelled.

Grumbling, Nigh took up his blanket and the bundle of clothes he used as a pillow and heaved himself inside the wagon. Marc said goodnight and made for his tent. Nigh stood there, hunched over, his wet hair brushing the coarse canvas ceiling. Holding his bedding in his arms, he stared at Brianna in the lantern light. She was fully dressed.

“I didn’t have time to get into my . . . night things,” she said, as his gaze roamed from her flushed face down over her body to her stockinged feet. Her shoes were all she’d had time to remove. Her arms were loaded with goods she had taken off the storage box so he could make his bed there. She was close enough
to touch. Close enough to kiss.

“Soon as camp quiets
down, I’ll slip back outside.”

“Don’t be silly.” Brianna blushed at her hasty words. The thought of him sleeping right there in the wagon with her sent her head reeling, yet she knew it was exactly where she wanted him to be. “Marc’s right, you can’t sleep in the rain. You should have told me the wagon wasn’t protecting you enough.”

A drop of water ran from his hair onto his forehead. She caught it with her finger before it could reach his eye. Heat flooded Nigh’s veins at her touch. Without thinking, he captured her hand in his and slowly raised it to his mouth. Their eyes met as his lips closed over the finger and gently sucked it dry. Then he dropped her hand and looked away.

“This won’t work,”
he said in a low, husky voice.

Brianna shook off the tingling tremor that started in her breast and worked its way to her lower abdomen. “We’ll simply have to make it work. I can’t let you go back out there. I’m ashamed to have been so thoughtless and selfish. You could have caught pneumonia.”

She took the buffalo robe from him, folded it in half, and laid it on the narrow bench opposite her bed. He yearned to wrap his arms around her and draw her tight against him so she could feel what it did to him, simply to be in those cramped quarters with her, her bed so close, convenient and suggestive. How could he possibly spend an entire night here? He would never sleep. She finished making up his bed and glanced at him timidly before moving to the other end of the wagon where the lantern hung.

“If you’re ready, I’ll put out the light and you can turn around while I get . . .into bed.”

Frozen with indecision, wanting to stay, needing to go, Nigh said nothing. He heard the whoosh of her breath as she blew out the flame. After a moment his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could see her black-clad form against the white wagon cover. There was a whisper of fabric as she unbuttoned her dress, then a rustling as she whisked it off over her head. Now she was white on white and more difficult to make out, but his imagination filled in the gaps as he envisioned her removing her chemise and drawers. Blood rushed to his loins and he thought he would explode. It was more than he could bear.

He turned around and reached for the ties that held the wagon cover tightly closed above the tailgate.

“Get into bed, Columbus. What would Marc think if he saw you forsake a dry bed in here to crawl back under the wagon?”

Her breathy voice seemed to caress him. He was shaking inside, his head pounding in rhythm with his thundering heartbeat. But he could not move.

“Please, Col.”

Releasing the breath he had not realized he had been holding, Nigh swallowed. His mouth was as dry as summer sand. He forced his body to relax, telling himself this was no worse than hiding, stone still, while Piegan or Bannock warriors hunted him in the bushes.

Except that facing an Indian fight didn’t cause his loins to ache or his blood to heat with desire. Bit by bit, through sheer force of will, he gained control. It was the most difficult thing he had ever done. Finally he lay down on top of the bed, fully dressed; he didn’t dare do anything even remotely sensual such as removing his clothes. It would be some time yet before he would need the warmth of a covering.

Outside, several yards away, Edward Magrudge wiped the rain from his thin, ferret like face and cursed. He thought about the interesting little scene he had witnessed before the Beaudouins barged in. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn the pair was lovers rather than brother and sister. Thinking about it, he realized part of Brianna Villard’s appeal lay in the fact that she was Columbus Nigh’s sister. It added a delicious bit of irony to the situation and made him all the more eager to get his hands on her.

Nigh had fouled things up tonight moving into the wagon with her, but Magrudge knew there would be other opportunities. He had time to wait. It would heighten the anticipation and make the victory all the sweeter.

Chapter Fourteen

Columbus Nigh awoke to the blast of the sentinel’s rifle at four the next morning. Keeping his eyes closed, he rolled onto his back and stretched. The first thing he felt with his toes was cold air. He reached out with his foot to see if it was raining, and came into contact with something warm, firm, and soft, something that moved. He sat straight up the same moment Brianna did. Shakespeare rose from beside her, leaped from the bed and ducked outside.

Brianna’s hair hung in a long braid over her shoulder, dark against the virginal white of her nightdress. As he stared at her, gathering his wits and stifling the surge of desire that lanced through him, she pulled the quilt up to her chin. Silently he cursed at the fear in her eyes.

“I’ll get out of here so you can have some privacy.” He swung his legs out from under the blanket he must have pulled over himself during the night. Since he was still dressed, all he had to put on was his moccasins. Then he was gone.

Brianna yawned and wished she could burrow back under the covers. What sleep she had gotten had been light and restless, as though she had been waiting for something to happen. What for, she didn’t know. For Col to sneak into her bed?

A quiver raced down her back at the thought, leaving her tingling deep inside. She tried to shake off the sensation. Although she longed to be loved, the idea of sleeping with a man brought her only fear and disgust. The pleasure she experienced when Col kissed her didn’t count; kisses were one thing, sex another. She crawled from the bed and dressed, scolding herself for thinking of Columbus Nigh at the same time she was thinking of sex. For all that she was running away from her husband, she was still a married woman. And Col had made it clear the night Dulcie Moulton was beaten that he wanted nothing more from Brianna than friendship. If that fact hurt, she chose to ignore the pain.

Lavinia and Lucy Decker were talking with Col when Brianna emerged from the wagon. Francois and Jean Louis were tossing a rawhide thong for Shakespeare to fetch. Next door, smoke billowed out from under the rubber tarp the men had rigged up over Lilith’s stove as she tried, with her usual lack of success, to start a fire in the firebox.

“Good mornin’,” Lavinia’s voice could be heard clear to Independence. “Lucy was up early this morning baking her scones. Expected to find Mr. Nigh here half drowned under the wagon after that storm last night. Glad to see you let him get in out of it.”

Brianna ducked her head, pretending to pet Shakespeare in order to hide her blush. She glanced at Col from under the cover of her thick lashes, but he appeared engrossed in the scone he was eating.

“Have one, Missus Villard.” Steam rose from the plate of large, hot, triangular bits of
bread Lucy offered Brianna. “Ma always said I made the best scones in Indiana, didn’t you, Ma?”

As the girl darted a look at Col, Brianna was tempted to dump the whole plate into the fire. Why did being called “Missus Villard” make her feel so old all of a sudden? Saying he had to go catch up to the oxen, Col took another scone from the plate and hurried away. Lucy’s gaze followed
him until he was out of sight.

When the girl turned back and saw Brianna looking at her, she said, “Doesn’t he have the most masculine way of walking?” Lucy blushed. “ ’Course, I reckon you don’t look at him that way,
you being his sister and all.”

Lavinia bellowed out a deep laugh. “Come on, girl, got our own wagon to load.”

A few minutes later, when Col returned with the oxen, Brianna studied the way he walked and decided Lucy was right. He moved with an easy rolling gait that was both graceful and ruggedly masculine.

Col glanced up from the yoke he was fastening around the thick necks of the lead oxen and gave her a slow, crooked smile. Blushing, she looked up at the dark sky as a faint rumble sounded overhead. “Looks like more rain,” she mumbled, and hurried to help Lilith get breakfast going.

Ellis and Tobias Woody glanced uncertainly at each other as they listened to their father give them their orders for the day. The Big Blue had receded little during the night. The storm that had threatened earlier had passed on by, but another one was expected that night or the next day. The men had decided to start fording the swollen river at once.

“Listen, Pa,” Tobias said, “Ellis is better with livestock than Lyle. Let the boy stay here and help get the wagon across.”

“It’s time Lyle learned how to handle the beasts,” Taswell Woody answered. “Ain’t so hard, you know.”

Of all his brothers, Lyle was Tobias’s favorite. Perhaps because as the eldest, he’d had the greatest share in raising this youngest boy. Perhaps because Lyle—with his carrot hair and impish ways—was a male duplicate of Mary, their one and only sister who had died before Lyle was born. For the first time Tobias regretted having spoiled the boy. He didn’t try to vindicate himself with a reminder that he wasn’t the only guilty party. He was the oldest and therefore the one most responsible for not forcing Lyle to learn to swim. But it was too late for recriminations now. Short of confessing Lyle’s inability to swim, there was nothing he could do.

Lyle was eighteen and capable of standing up for himself. No one would blame the boy for refusing to go in the water if he confessed he couldn’t swim. There were others who could swim the stock across. But it had to be Lyle’s decision.

Without a word, Lyle walked to his horse. Tobias fell in place beside him. He patted Lyle’s shoulder and gave him a confidant smile as though what they were about to do was as commonplace as scything ripe wheat in the warmth of an autumn sun.

“You take the upstream side, Lyle. I’ll take the downstream. Pretend you’re herding on the open plain. You know, croon a little, whistle a little, keep them calm. When you feel Old Charley start to swim, take your feet out of the stirrups and slide backwards off his rump. If you don’t, your weight will push him deeper underwater and cramp his movements. You could both drown, then. Just slide off and hang onto his tail and he’ll tow you across slick as a whistle. When he gets his feet on the ground again, haul yourself back into the saddle. Nothing to it, little brother.”

Lyle sat his horse as stiff as the planks they’d fastened to the dugouts for ferrying the wagons over. He knew what his brother was trying to do and fought a wild urge to steer Old Charley closer to Tobias’s chestnut so he could grab a last hug. Only a thin line of whiteness circling his lips revealed his fear.

“I’ll be the one doing the hard work.” Tobias’s tone was a bit too hearty. “All you gotta do is give the cows reassurance. I have to keep them from getting washed away. Guess that’s what I get for being born first, huh, Lyle?”

Lyle forced a smile, but he couldn’t meet Tobias’s gaze.
Be with me today, Lord
, he prayed silently.
Show me I’m wrong
,
for feeling like this is the last time Toby and I will work together
.

Columbus Nigh and a few others were waiting to herd the livestock across when Tobias urged his mount close to the mountain man. “Listen, Col, my folks don’t know it, but Lyle, well, he don’t know how to swim.”

Nigh turned to stare at the man as though he’d just confessed to wetting his trousers.

“It’s a matter of pride,” Tobias said. “The boy’s scared of the water, but I got to let him face this out on his own, if that’s what he chooses to do.”

Nigh pursed his lips thoughtfully as he watched Lyle Woody take up his position on the far side of the herd. Lyle’s sorrel was skittish, no doubt picking up on the boy’s fear. At eighteen a man’s pride was a fragile thing. Hell, it was fragile no matter the age. Nigh wasn’t sure it was worth risking a life over, but he reckoned that was up to Lyle. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks.” Tobias smiled.

Everyone was in place, each riding his most trusted mount. Nigh took up front position on the dangerous downstream side, Tobias behind him. When all was ready, he gave the signal and started the cattle, horses and spare oxen into the rushing river. Upstream, the raft loaded with the Ferguson wagon also started across, the long ropes attached to each end being guided hand over hand against the swift current by the men’s brute strength.

Tobias saw Nigh slip off his horse’s rump and latch onto his tail. Then Tobias felt his own mount begin to swim, and he too slid off. He tried to keep his eye on Lyle, but once in the water, it was impossible.
God, get him across safe and I’ll start going to church with Ma again, I promise
.

They were nearly across. The dappled gray regained his feet and Nigh dragged himself back into the saddle. He turned to count the heads bobbing at the ends of tightly held horses’ tails. On the far side of the herd, Amos Shorthill was pulling himself up onto his horse’s rump. Behind him came Jim Lyon. Closer to Nigh was Tobias, his horse barely gaining his feet. Nigh looked to the other side again, searching for Lyle Woody in the bright red shirt that was as good a match to his carrot red hair as a buffalo is to a jackrabbit. About the time Nigh caught sight of the Woody boy he heard shouting further upstream.

The raft had safely reached the far shore and the Ferguson wagon was half unloaded. But the dugout on this side had swamped. The wagon lurched precariously. A bundle bound in Indian rubber fell from the back and was rapidly washed downstream. Nigh watched the men struggle to lever the wagon back up onto the plank, forgetting the floating bundle until he heard Tobias Woody scream his brother’s name.

“Lyle! Watch out!”

Nigh brought his gaze down the course of the surging water and saw what had Tobias in a panic.

“Oh God!” Tobias screamed. “Don’t let go, Lyle. No matter what, don’t let go!”

The rubber-wrapped bundle headed straight for Lyle’s sorrel. The animal had scarcely gained its footing on the river bottom. Shore and safety were still a few yards distant. Lyle had felt the horse gain ground the way Tobias said he would.
I’m going to make it
, he shouted in his head.
Can you see me, Toby? I’m going to make it.

Old Charley lurched as something slammed into his side. Lyle barely glimpsed the black object as it dodged around the horse’s rump and banged into Lyle’s head. The thick, coarse strands of the horse’s tail slid from his grasp. Water rushed into Lyle’s nostrils. He gasped for air and tasted the turbid water of the Big Blue.

Toby, oh Toby. This is what I was afraid of. T
his is what I knew would happen
. . .

Lyle flailed at the water, felt his toe touch ground, and fought his way back to the surface. He caught a watery glimpse of blue sky before the current dragged him back under and filled his lungs. Again and again he fought to reach the surface, only to be whirled farther downstream. His strength ebbed. There were no more thoughts, no prayers, nothing.

Nigh wheeled his horse and forced the tired gelding back into the river. Frantically he searched for the boy, vaguely aware that Tobias was behind him. The rubber-wrapped bundle washed past. There was no sign of the boy. Nigh slipped from the saddle and dove under, hands stroking smoothly through the water as he searched. And prayed.

A hand came into view. Nigh lunged for it and felt limp fingers caress his. Before he could get a grip on it, the hand vanished. Feeling as though his lungs were about to burst, Nigh fought his way to the surface. He sucked in air and went back under, while the river carried him farther and farther downstream, away from the herd that was clambering onto the high bank, away from the men and the wagons where Brianna waited, unaware of his fate.

***

Brianna stood with the Beaudouins as they awaited their turn to be rafted across the river when Francois raced up in a panic.

“Mama, Papa! Did you hear?” The boy skidded to a halt in front of them, panting. “Mr. Nigh got washed away down the river. He and Tobias were trying to save Lyle and they all got washed away.”

The color fled Brianna’s face.

“Oh, dear,” said Lilith. “That’s what comes from working on Sunday, I suppose.”

Marc grabbed Francois and knelt to look into the boy’s eyes. “Are you sure of this, son?”

“Yes, Papa. I heard Mr. Magrudge yelling for all the men to come double-quick, so they could search the shore for the—” He paused as though just realizing the import of his message. “—for the bodies.”

“Oh God.” Marc dropped his hands from the boy’s shoulders and bowed his head.

“Oh, Marc,” Lilith said, “this is a terrible tragedy, I know, but I doubt the Lord forgives profanity under any circumstances.”

Marc didn’t bother answering. He surged to his feet and made for the river, Francois at his heels. Without thinking, Brianna dashed after them. She heard Lilith call to her, but only ran faster.

Not Col
, she prayed.
Please, don’t take Col
.

Columbus Nigh thought he was a goner, sure. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t make it to shore. The wild, swirling current seemed bent on sucking him under. Never had he felt so helpless. It wasn’t the same frustrating sense of futility he’d felt when he’d returned to the tipi and found Little Beaver dead. There was no anger this time, no guilt.

He had little strength left, and knew he couldn’t fight the river much longer. Concentrating on keeping his head above water, he let the current take him, batting him this way and that like a stuffed buffalo testicle ball in a squaw’s game of shinny. He bobbed to the surface and caught a glimpse of something red stuck on a log stretched across the water. Then he was sucked under again.