Tender Touch (23 page)

He chuckled but it was a grim sound. “No, he’s the one who’s likely to die if we meet up again. Forget about it. All that matters is what’s between you and me.”

“The sun and the moon?”

“Yeah, the sun and the moon. I haven’t even begun to show you the pl
easure my hands can bring you.”

“To-tonight?”

“No, it’s late now. You need rest. We have lots of nights ahead of us, and more joy than you can imagine.” He settled onto his back and brought her close against his side, her head on his shoulder.

“But, Barret—”

“Forget him, Bri. I won’t let him ruin what’s between us. Just leave him to me, I’ll t
ake care of Barret. Now sleep.”

She lay there for a long time before he felt her relax. Damn that rotten husband of hers. What had he done to her to create such fear of what should be all beauty and pleasure? In that instant Nigh knew with every fiber of his being that one of them would die, Barret Wight or Columbus Nigh. It was inevitable.

He felt the slight tremors of her body before he became aware of the dampness against his skin. “Bri? What’s wrong now? Are you still afraid?”

“No,” she sobbed. “I-I feel so .
.
. so empty.”

He couldn’t help chuckling. “So do I, sweet woman. Your body wants loving now, not sleep. I can give you the release you need, if you’ll trust me.”

“I trust you. It-it’s not that.” Her voice broke as she cried harder, her hands over her face. “It’s Lilith. It’s everyone, everything I e
ver loved. Julia, Shakespeare.”

He murmured something soothing in a foreign tongue and pulled her closer. What had happened was obvious to him now. The unsatisfied passion on top of all the emotions she had kept bottled inside her for so long had finally snapped her control. Her grief over Lilith’s death and the horror of the cholera epidemic had freed itself. The tightness in his own throat as he listened to her sobs was thankfulness and relief.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered between hiccups and sobs. “I can’t seem to stop.”

“Don’t need to. Let it all out. Everything will be fine now, I promise.”

Brianna wanted to believe him. With all her heart. But he didn’t know Barret as she did. And Barret had help, Punch Moulton and the other man Barret was travelling with. She had botched things tonight, letting herself fall under the spell of Col’s kisses, his caresses. Did she dare do as he wanted and leave everything to him? How could he deal with it all, when he didn’t even know who his enemies were? Should she tell him about Punch?

No, she had to find a way to solve this herself. A way that wouldn’t endanger Columbus.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Brianna yawned and thought longingly of the wagon seat in the shade of the canvas cover as she walked along. But she knew she would fall asleep the moment she sat down. Besides, without her whip cracking over their heads to keep them going, the oxen would halt in their tracks and slumber on their feet.

The day before, Arthur Hickum decided to sit on the wagon tongue while he drove. No one knew whether he fell asleep or merely lost his balance. Two wheels rolled over his legs, crushing them before help reached him. Both legs were cut off and still the man died. Brianna had no intention of making the same mistake, so she kept walking. Her feet sank in the deep sandy soil of the churned-up road and she stumbled.

“Bri, you all right?”

She looked up to see Col riding up beside her on the dappled gray. She smiled. “I’m fine. How much farther is it to the crossing?”

“Couple of miles.”

He dismounted to walk beside her, his gaze beneath the wide brim of his hat warm and soft as he studied her. Sweat dripped down his temples, leaving tracks on his dusty face. His hat, hair, buckskins, and every inch of visible skin were white with dust. She grimaced at the thought that she must be every bit as dirty as him.

The wind had been unrelenting the past few days, kicking the fine white dust of the trammeled road into clouds that made it difficult to see more than a few hundred yards. The only good the wind brought was sweeping away the hoards of mosquitoes and buffalo gnats hovering over animals and people alike. When it was calm, the insects invaded mouths, nostrils, eyes, and ears. They clustered in stinging masses on the tender skin below the oxen’s’ dewclaws and in the horses’ nostrils until the animals became unmanageable. Smudge fires of green sage helped at night, though even the smoke did little to deter the grasshoppers that invaded cook pots, water buckets, and skillets.

“Saw Punch Moulton talking to you,” Col said. “Just passing the time? Or was he being his usual mouthy self?”

“Passing the time.”

Brianna wanted to tell him the truth. She wanted him to make Punch leave her alone. She wanted to be able to sleep at night and to stop looking over her shoulder during the day. Her nerves were stretched as tight as a rawhide knot dunked in water and heat-dried. But getting Punch off her back would necessitate admitting that it was him who had attacked her the evening before they left to catch up with the train. She’d also have to repeat Punch’s warning to stay away from Columbus if she wanted Col to stay alive.

A warning Col himself made impossible for her to heed.

Ever since Brianna and her small party of recovering cholera victims had rejoined the wagon train, Punch made a point of wandering past with a threatening glance that made her skin crawl.

She glanced up now and saw the hunger in Col’s eyes and her insides quickened in response, making her blush.

His gentleness and the passion he was able to elicit from her with a single touch astounded her. Though it had been days since the last rain and he had gone back to sleeping under the wagon, he still managed to find moments to hold her, kiss and caress her. She knew he was growing impatient and couldn’t understand her reasons for keeping him at arm’s length. Whenever she saw him coming, she tried to make sure she wasn’t alone. Always he knew and reacted angrily. At times the tension between them was like quicksand, deep, incon-stant, and deadly.

If only Barret could disappear off the face of the earth, if she could forget she was married, if Col could—or would—offer her a future. If, if, if.

Every day her guilt and fear convinced her she should put Columbus Nigh from her heart. And each night, when she crawled into her bed, that fickle organ and her wanton body ached for him to sneak inside and show her more of the joy he had promised her.

Angling a glance his way, she saw he was studying the sky. He looked down at her and grinned. “Storm clouds in the west. Might rain tonight.”

Any reply she might have made was forestalled by a blast of gunfire. Brianna jumped, let out a frightened cry and instan
tly felt Col’s arms enfold her.

“It’s only the men shooting at a herd of buffalo up ahead,” he assured her, his lips tasting the salty sweat on her temple. “Want to go watch?”

Gently, she disentangled herself. Was he hoping to get her off to himself again? “I’d better not. The oxen won’t move a foot in this heat without the whip cracking constantly over their backs.”

“We won’t be far. Tobias will keep watch on them.” He lifted her into his saddle, and leaped up behind. A quarter of a mile from the caravan, he steered the gray into thick shrubs growing along a dry creek bed and reined in. When he jumped down and reached up for her, she said, “What about the buffalo, Col? Why are we stopping here?”

“To hell with the buffalo.” He lifted her down and pulled her close against him. “I’m starving.”

She wedged her arms between them. “Starving for what?”

“What do you think?” he said before his lips claimed hers. After a long time he lifted his head and grinned. “Lord, woman, if we don’t shake loose from this train, I’m gonna dry up and die for wanting you.”

“Oh, Col, you’re so silly.” But she couldn’t help smiling with pleasure at his words.

Very deliberately he took her hands from his chest and forced her arms to circle his waist. “You’re still fighting me. Why?”

She rested her head against his chest to hide her face. “You know why. I’m married.”

“Your husband threw away his right to claim you the first time he hit you. You don’t owe him anything, Bri. Especially loyalty. You think he never cheated on you, a man like him?”

“Oh, I know he cheated. He had a mistress in town he supported, even bought her a house. Glory was her name. She was a prostitute when he met her.”

“Knowing that, how could you feel guilty for loving me?”

“His sins can’t erase mine, Col.”

He sighed and moved away. “Does the man have to die for you to feel free of him?”

“No.” She grabbed his arm and turned him back to face her. “You can’t kill him. I could never live with myself, let alone you, if you had his blood on your hands.”

“Damnation, woman. You sure know how to make it difficult for a man.”

“I don’t mean to.”

He framed her face with his hands and gazed down at her. “I don’t know how this is all gonna end, but one thing I’m certain of; you belong to me. No one else. You hear?”

She put her hands on his and tried to smile, though she knew their relationship was hopeless. Barret would come for her and someone would die. They would all be better off if she simply turned around and went back where she belonged. At least then she could be sure Col would be safe. The thought of leaving him shredded her heart. Yet she knew no other answer existed. Tonight, after everyone slept she would find the courage to steal a horse from the communal herd and ride away. In the meantime, they had today and she had a sudden need to spend as much of it with him as she could. “Can we go see the buffalo now?”

When they caught up with the hunters, they saw a dozen men on horseback in a ragged circle around a single buffalo bull. Several men were firing at the bull. It retaliated by charging first one, then another, its massive head shaking, flinging mucus and blood everywhere. The horses dodged the bull’s pointed horns easily. It was exhausted and badly wounded. Runnels of blood poured down its sides from a dozen wounds, matting the thick winter hair that still clung in tattered patches. The bull’s tongue lolled from its mouth as it panted and snorted at its assailants. Ruddy foam flecked its sides.

“Oh, Col,” Brianna cried. “It’s awful. Why doesn’t the poor thing die?”

“Can’t throw a buffalo in his tracks with a shotgun. Even with a good rifle, man’s gotta know where to aim.”

She saw what he meant. Punch Moulton’s buckshot was having about as much effect as a tossed handful of pebbles. He gave up firing at the huge body and aimed instead at the animal’s shaggy face. The bull bellowed in anger and pain, but stood its ground.

“Oh, no! Why is Punch doing that?” she asked.

“He’s trying to blind it so they can move in close enough to slit its throat.”

“Oh, Col, it
. . . it’s inhuman. Please, you know how to do it, put the poor thing out of its misery.”

With her dazzling blue topaz eyes, filled with pain and revulsion, pleading with him, Col couldn’t deny her. He had a hunch he’d never be able to deny her anything. Not when she looked at him like that. Pushing himself off the gray’s rump, he took his Hawken from its scabbard.

Punch was still firing at the bull’s head. The horses pranced nervously at the scent of blood and death. With his long-legged gait, Col strode past the mounted men where he had a clear shot, then raised the Hawken to his shoulder.

“Hey!” Punch shouted. “This is our kill. Whaddya think you’re doing, squawman?”

Col ignored the man. The bull faced him silently, head bowed as though it knew its time was over and the pain would soon end. Col took careful aim and fired.

The bull staggered. It tried to plant its feet farther apart to keep its balance but its knees buckled. It bellowed, swaying from side to side, the one eye still in its head rolling and glazed as death claimed the shaggy beast. For a moment the enormous body became rigid. A tremor convulsed its heaving sides, and it went down. Col lowered the rifle, turned and faced the ring of men.

“Sorry, boys. Don’t go along with torturing critters. You want to hunt buffalo, use a weapon that’ll do some good. And aim for his lights, just above the brisket behind the shoulder.”

Col glanced back at the buffalo. It was old, eight years by his guess, and weighed a ton. He shook his head at the waste. “Take the tongue and some humpribs, if you want,” he told the hunters. “Rest’ll be too tough to eat.”

“You sonuvabitch!” Punch raged at Col’s back.

Col mounted the dappled gray with a running leap, as graceful as the antelope that had danced in the distance throughout the morning as the train rumbled past. Col reached around Brianna for the reins, turned the horse, and headed for the wagon.

***

The South Platte was rising, due to distant storms. Likely it would take the rest of the afternoon to get the wagons across, but no one wanted to wait. If the water rose too high, they would be stuck there for days until it subsided again. The beds of the wagons were elevated and the teams doubled. As each wagon reached the other side, the extra oxen would be driven back across so they could be added on to other teams.

Col refused to let Brianna drive their wagon across, taking the whip himself while she sat beside him hanging on to the edges of the hard wooden seat. The river here was more than a thousand yards wide and, although the water was never more than three feet deep, the current was deceptively swift.

“We’re lucky to be near the head of the train,” Col told Brianna. “The more wagons that cross over, the more the sand’s likely to shift and create deep pockets for the cattle to flounder in or to bust the wheels.”

She glanced at him with surprise. “Why did you have them run the stock across first, then?”

“Gettin’ trampled makes the river bed more stable. Don’t guarantee the quicksand won’t shift, though.”

The wagon creaked and lurched as they started down the bank into the water. Col steered the team in a diagonal, downstream course for an easier crossing, giving most of his attention to keeping them moving. All went well until Marc’s team, ahead of them, balked and came to a halt. Brianna gasped as Marc’s wagon began to sink heavily on one side. The men stationed at strategic points across the river to watch out for such instances, shouted and rushed in to help. Col kept going.

“Stop, Col!” Brianna cried. “We’ve got to help Marc.”

“We’d only get stuck, too.” He whipped the team and moved them around the sinking wagon. Brianna scooted to the side of the seat and peered around the wagon cover to watch as they passed Marc. Tobias and Jeb Hanks had unhitched Marc’s team and were driving the oxen to a nearby sand bar. Marc stood in the wagon bed, handing out goods for others to carry over. When the wagon bed was empty, they took off the wheels, floated the box to the sand bar and began to put it all back together again. She breathed a sigh of relief when her own wagon lumbered up onto solid ground again.

The crossing took the remainder of the day. Camp was made on the north bank. Along about bedtime Brianna found Columbus Nigh standing between the wagons staring up at the moonless sky, his thumbs in his belt. Lucy Decker had left only moments before. Her girlish chatter had dominated the evening—and Col’s attention—until Brianna was ready to scream. Knowing that she must leave during the night to make her way back to her husband did nothing to ease the pain of wondering if the flighty young miss would end up snaring the man Brianna loved.

“What are you doing?” she asked, stepping up beside him.

He smiled down at her. “Praying for rain.”

If Brianna shared his prayer, she pretended otherwise. Yet it did rain. Grinning, Col climbed into the wagon. He didn’t bother making his bed, but stripped down to his breechclout and crawled in with her. She hadn’t the strength to make him leave.

Long into the night he held her close, kissing and caressing her until she thought she would die of the strange, frenzied sensations he aroused in her. He was suckling her breast, one hand lazily stroking her stomach below her navel when she took his head in her hands and cried out, “Col, I can’t bear any more. I ache so. Please, I think I’m going to explode.”