Authors: Sarah McCarty
The salve stung as Caine worked it into her cuts, giving her something else to focus on. She winced, and Caine paused.
“I’m being as gentle as I can.” The apology in the flatly worded statement brought her gaze down. Caine’s attention was on her foot. Despite the fact that her bare leg was inches from his face and she could see the bulge of his manhood where his chaps hugged his hips, there was nothing lecherous in his touch. Only caretaking with a hint of…tenderness? The sheer absurdity of the notion brought her up short. That soft part of her was once again chasing rainbows. Men like this weren’t tender, and even if they were, it wasn’t the kind of emotion they wasted on women like her.
Sam turned to Caine. “Beyond the horses and a couple decent guns, there wasn’t much worth saving off that bunch.”
Caine didn’t look up from his treatment of her foot. “Not a shock there.”
“One of the horses is wind broke.”
Even Desi knew what that meant. Her brother had once, in ignorance, bought a horse with that condition, ridden so hard and cared for so poorly that he couldn’t exert himself without fighting for breath. Her father had had one of the guides put it out of its misery. There was no mercy for the weak in this territory.
“Damn. Which one?”
“The sorrel. It’s a shame, too. He’s got a nice gait on him and a real pleasant how-de-do.”
Caine patted her thigh almost absentmindedly and ducked under the paint’s neck before taking her other foot into that inexorable grip and dousing it with more of the icy water. “You like him.”
It wasn’t a question so much as a statement of fact. Sam shrugged. “Just hate to see good horseflesh abused.”
Caine ran his finger down the center of her right foot in an ethereal caress, sending strange tingles upward and outward. She couldn’t help her shiver. She didn’t know if the quirk of his lips was for her reaction or Sam’s.
“I don’t suppose it would hurt to bring him along. As long as we don’t run into trouble, he should be fine.”
Sam nodded. “That was my thought.” He jerked his head in the direction of the other women. “Suppose I’d better go help Tracker get that lot saddled up.”
He sounded like he’d rather be nibbled to death by ducks. Not the reaction Mavis and her friends were used to getting from men.
“Better you than me.”
Desi looked down as Caine probed the edges of the deep cut near her arch. “You’re not going to put the horse down?”
She couldn’t see his face for the brim of his hat, but his attention was clearly more on her foot than her words. “Not without need.”
She would have thought the fact the horse couldn’t pull his weight constituted need. Fleeting pressure on her ankle was her only warning before he worked the ointment into the wound. It hurt nearly as much as getting the injury in the first place. Her exclamation was involuntary. His response disconcerting.
“Easy, baby.” The stroke of his hand on her calf was both soothing and absurdly comforting. She yanked back, but she couldn’t break his hold. Caine’s palm curved around her calf. He massaged her leg while standing so close the heat from his body warmed her cold skin. The pain eased.
At her terse “Thank you,” he touched her tightly curled toes in a way she could only describe as tender. Except this was not a tender man. She relaxed her foot, watching him carefully. Her reward was another squeeze of her calf and the resettling of her leg against the horse’s side. He was defintely a confusing one, though.
Caine tugged the reins over the horse’s head and dropped them to the ground, his mouth creasing at the corners with the hint of amusement as he ordered, “Stay put.”
And also an irritating one, she decided. Even if she leaned forward the reins were out of her reach, which meant she had no choice but to stay where he’d put her. Caine headed toward the area where the rest of the group waited, mounted. Each step was infused with that combination of strength, grace and confidence that once would have filled her with interest. He stopped at the side of an all-black horse, with white hindquarters covered with black spots, and opened the saddlebags. The horse snaked its head around, teeth showing. With an ease that spoke of long practice, he smacked it across the nose while pulling something free of the bag. Not brutally, but more in the way of a warning. As he tied the bag shut, the horse gathered its haunches as if to kick. Another light slap, this time on its hindquarters and the horse settled down. With a comment to the women who were waiting in various degrees of comfort on their horses, and a pat to the black horse’s shoulder as if what had passed between them were some sort of game, Caine headed back, tucking something into his back pocket before taking whatever he’d grabbed from under his arm.
When he got close enough, he held up a brown wad of material lying on top of a pile of leather. “Thought you might like these.”
The first “these” were woolen socks, the second, high-topped moccasins.
“They’ll be too big.”
He shrugged and tucked the moccasins under his arm. “They’ll do the job until you get your own clothes.”
“I don’t have any.” The confession slipped out before she could catch it, snapping his gaze to hers. She quickly waved to the items in his hands. “Moccasins, I mean.”
“Uh-huh.” He cupped her foot in his hands, warming it between his palms a second before bending to blow. His breath was hot and moist, scalding in comparison to the chill she felt to her bone. Before she could come up with a suitable protest, he worked the sock over her foot. As soon as he came around to the other side, she tucked her foot back against the horse’s withers.
“I can do it myself.”
“Not without risking falling off that horse, and I’d say at this point you have enough bruises.”
As if that settled that, he hooked his fingers around her ankle and drew her foot forward. She suffered through another warming before he slid the sock on. He tipped his hat back when he was done. “Admit it, that feels better.”
Even though she didn’t like the proprietary way he handled her body, she couldn’t deny how good it felt to have her flesh covered. She hated to be cold. “Yes, it does.”
He slid the moccasin on, tying the fringed top above her knee, his touch impersonal again. “Good.”
He went back around the other side, moccasin at the ready. She experimented with bending her right leg. She couldn’t straighten it all the way. She tried to flex it again as he slipped the other moccasin on. “I can’t walk in these.”
He tied the second moccasin with the same impersonal efficiency as he had the first. “But you can ride, which is more important.”
“What if we need to run?”
“If it comes to a footrace, we’re both dead.”
He pulled worn leather gloves from his back pocket. With a curl of his fingers, he ordered her to hold out her hands. She did cautiously, not liking the emotion flirting with the perimeter of his stern features. He slipped the gloves on her hands and then, before she could pull back, looped a long piece of rawhide around both her wrists, flipping the string between before she could protest. When he put her bound hands on the saddle horn, there was no mistaking the emotion tugging at his mouth. Amusement.
He tipped his battered brown hat and grabbed up the reins, leading the paint toward the black-spotted horse. “Just in case you were thinking of running from me.”
W
ell, at least she was consistent. Caine shifted Desi as she sat sideways on his lap, pulling the thick collar of his coat up over her cheeks, protecting her from chill as they rode into the wind. Adjusting his own poncho, he glanced over at Sam, and damn, he wanted to laugh all over again. Sam was as wet as Desi and mad enough to chew lead and spit bullets. Served Sam right, though, for thinking Desi had even a passing acquaintance with the word quit.
Untying her hands at the river crossing had been Sam’s first mistake. Thinking a fear of drowning would be a deterrent to trying to escape had been his second. Hell, for that much foolishness he deserved a cold ride back. Water seeped from Desi’s clothes through Caine’s denims as he scanned the countryside. They’d saved half a day by cutting through Hell’s Eight land and slipping through the cave at the back of that box canyon, but he didn’t like how quiet things were. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up straight, which always meant trouble brewing.
He didn’t have to look far for the cause. The women’s kidnapping had been too haphazard to have been carried out by experienced men, which meant they must have been hired by experienced men, meaning there were likely real Comancheros sitting out there without their income. Not good. Chaser, sensing his tension, snorted and did a quick sidestep. Desi’s fingers dug into his shirt.
“Easy.”
Both woman and horse ignored the order. A tightening of the reins brought Chaser in line, but Desi was going to take a bit more effort. She shifted on his lap, looking over his shoulder.
“When we get back to Los Santos, you’re going to be owing me a new pair of moccasins.”
Her wiggling stopped and that peculiar stillness that came over her when she was riled and hiding it froze her up. “I’m sure you can soften them up with a bit of saddle soap.”
“Now why would I be doing that since it was your harebrained idea that got them wet?”
“It wasn’t harebrained, it was…” The sentence trailed off. She tucked her head and that wealth of hair fell over her face, obscuring her expression. He tipped her chin up. She didn’t duck his gaze, just glared at him, blue eyes dark with fury and frustration. And under it all, something he was sure she didn’t want him to see.
“Desperate might be the word you were looking for.” Only desperation could drive a woman to turn her horse into deep water, clinging to the animal’s back with the same reckless courage that had the horse following the command.
Her lips set in a flat line. She jerked her chin, but he didn’t let her hide, just held her there, studying the subtle nuance of her expression as she wrestled with her demons. “The closer we get to Los Santos, the more desperate you get. Care to tell me why?”
Cold resentment pushed out every other emotion in that face that made him think of warm smiles and sultry invitations.
“I already told you.”
Yes, she had, but he’d like a bit more detail. He reached back into the saddlebag and pulled out a stale biscuit and some jerky. “Seeing as that’s the case, I expect you’d like a last meal.”
Her stomach rumbled. She held out her bound wrists, arching her hands back to facilitate being untied.
“Uh-uh.” He dropped the food onto the plateau formed by the oversized gloves. “I learned my lesson watching you teach Sam to swim. Those hands stay tied.”
She rested her hands on her lap, making no attempt to eat the food, presenting him with a clear view of her profile; small nose, pointed chin, smooth forehead and full lips that practically begged for a man to plant a kiss on them. He tapped the biscuit, knowing damn well she understood the order. Not by a twitch of those thick lashes did she acknowledge his presence. Another smile tugged at his lips.
“You keep this up and in about four miles, I’m going to start noticing you’re snubbing me and my feelings are bound to get hurt.”
Nothing. He hitched her back a bit and, keeping one hand on the reins, picked up the biscuit with the other. He held it to her mouth. Her stomach rumbled louder, but those kissable lips stayed tightly closed. She swallowed once. Twice. A person had to be damn hungry to salivate at the thought of a day-old biscuit. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Her lips barely moved as she imparted the information, no doubt worried he was going to shove the biscuit in. “A few days ago.”
Damn. “We were told you women were taken sometime last night.”
Outlaws often did their dirty work by the big Comanche moon that lit the plains like daylight.
She shrugged and turned her face into his chest, stomach rumbling, throat rippling, defying common sense.
He lowered the biscuit and shook his head. “You are one stubborn woman.”
“If you put me on my own horse, you won’t have to endure my company anymore.”
He had to smile at her persistence. “Now why would I do that? It’s not so often I get to hold a pretty woman in my arms that I’m eager to give up the pleasure.”
She rolled those big eyes and snorted indelicately. “I’m dripping wet, smell of horse, blood and other unpleasant things.”
“No arguing, you
are
a bit ripe.” Her outraged gasp caught on his sense of humor and gave it a tug. “But compared to that dead deer I hauled last week, you’re a clear step up.”
That fast, the steel left her spine. She shrugged down into the coat like a cake gone flat. He wondered if she’d actually been fishing for a compliment.
He returned the biscuit to her mouth. “I’m adding prickly to your list of attributes.”
She shot him a glare.
He shook his head. “Not eating won’t prove anything, and will just leave you too weak to fight.”
She snapped a bite, narrowly missing his fingertips. He waited until she got four good chews in, just enough to have the hard tack spread through her mouth before adding, “Truth be told, though, I don’t think I’ve ever had a prettier woman keep me company in the saddle.”