Authors: Barbara Ankrum
Just get her to Seth, you bastard. Just get her there and go see Desiree. You'll get straight again.
Like a warning, the prickle at the back of his neck came again.
Merde!
Someone
was
following him. He heard the faint, unmistakable crack of a horseshoe against a rock somewhere behind him. He'd survived long enough to recognize that sound. But whoever it was, he wasn't being overly cautious. Any fool who wanted to sneak up on a man in rock country knew enough to wrap cloth around his horse's hooves.
Creed nudged Buck over behind the outcrop of granite and dismounted. He yanked the rifle from the boot of his saddle, poised it against the monolith and waited. Whoever it was, he'd be ready.
* * *
Mariah tightened her grip on the reins and stared at the ground where any semblance of a trail had just vanished. Where had Devereaux gone? Blast these trees, she thought. It had been so easy to follow him across the sweeping prairie. He'd been easy to spot, and it had been even easier to avoid being spotted by him in the hills and vales that rolled like ocean swells between the stage station and the foothills.
But the mountains were something else altogether, she decided, glancing at the towering pines and rocky outcropping nearby.
Without a doubt, she'd made a critical error in judgment in not showing herself sooner. What if he was so far ahead she lost him entirely? She glanced at the ground, hoping to find some sign. But the ground was littered with rocks and pine needles. If Devereaux left hoofprints, they were beyond her ability to read them.
She was no tracker. That was
his
job. She'd depended solely on her good eyesight to follow him. Now there was no sign of him—anywhere.
Overhead, a huge black-crested bluejay scolded her, diving between the branches of the trees and the huge formation of rock just ahead. Oh, for a few moments with that silly bird's wings, so she could spot him—
"Hold it right there!"
Mariah's heart staggered in her chest as the booming command echoed off the rock wall ahead. The dark shape of a man whirled from behind the rock with a gun pointed directly at her.
Devereaux!
Her horse reared and whinnied in fright. A choked cry escaped her as she clawed at the mare's neck, searching in vain for the reins that Petunia had yanked from her hands.
It was no use. She somersaulted backward over the mare's sweaty rump and plunged in a tangle of skirts to the pinestraw-covered forest floor.
The ground met her with a breath-stealing thud. For a moment, all she could do was lie, gasping for air on the ground, while her whalebone stays dug into the sides of her ribs. Dimly, she heard the bounty hunter cursing as he caught and calmed her horse. But she was too stunned and angry to be grateful.
Braced on her throbbing, grass-stained elbows and knees, Mariah fought for oxygen with her head hung down between her splayed arms. Beneath her palms, she felt the low thud of footsteps on the ground as Devereaux stalked toward her. She coughed and regained the ability to breathe.
"Maudit,
woman!" he shouted. "Have you completely lost your mind?"
Devereaux's furious question held neither sympathy nor solicitation. Not that she should have expected any, she thought dazedly, staring at the tips of his brown leather boots planted only inches from her face. Reluctantly, her gaze traveled up the impossible length of his legs, past the muscular thighs and narrow hips, to see his fists balled angrily against his waist. His expression, when she had the nerve to look, was dangerously clouded.
Typical, she brooded, that he'd questioned the soundness of her mind and cared not one whit about the fact she'd just been thrown painfully from a horse. Cautiously, she pushed up off the ground, sat back on her heels, and shoved her hair from her eyes with the back of one wrist.
"Are you hurt, Miss Parsons?" she asked herself with mock sarcasm, swiping at the green stains on her white lace gloves. "Why, no, not very. Thank you for asking. Only my pride was bruised when some
lunatic
decided to point a
gun
at me."
"Lunatic?
Le bon Dieu—
you're lucky I didn't shoot you!" Devereaux shouted, towering over her.
"And I suppose I should thank you for your restraint."
"You ought to,
oui!"
She let out a snort of laughter. "And
you
could offer me a hand up."
He folded his arms across his chest and scowled. "You've come this far without my help."
Setting her jaw, she replied, "So I have." She gathered her legs under her and stood, only to hear the tearing sound of one of her petticoats. Ignoring that, she slapped at the rumpled hem and beat it into submission.
"Well?"
he fairly exploded.
Mariah flinched. Like some forbidding statue sculpted of granite, he stood waiting for her answer. It was an answer she'd rehearsed the whole morning. Perhaps it was the fall, but at the moment, her clever retorts eluded her completely. She gulped silently. "Well... what?"
His eyes were blazing with anger. "Don't be coy, Miss Parsons. What the hell are you doing following me?"
She clamped a hand over her aching elbow and met his glare head on. "I think you know."
"I thought I made myself perfectly clear last night—"
"And I told you we weren't finished discussing it."
"And you decided to follow me all this way just to have the last word?"
She moistened her suddenly-dry lips with the tip of her tongue. His flashing eyes pinned her to the spot. They were beautiful eyes, she thought irrelevantly. Eyes that held the potential for great kindness and great violence. Heaven help her, the fall must have knocked her senseless to be noticing such things at a time like this! She jerked her gaze away. "I told you I wouldn't stay behind."
When he spoke again, it was with slow, deliberate fury. "Have you any idea the danger you put yourself in, trailing behind me that way?"
"I was in no danger, except, apparently, from you."
"No danger?" Shaking his head, he turned to sweep a disbelieving stare at the endless prairie foothills behind them. "Is
that
what you think? Have you heard of the Blackfeet or the Crow, Miss Parsons?"
"I—"
"—or the Gros Ventres, a particularly gruesome bunch when they're in their form. Do you have any idea what they would do to a beautiful young
femme
if they got their hands on you?"
Mariah felt heat rush to her cheeks and her gaze automatically fell to the beaded Indian choker at his throat. For the first time, real fear entered her consciousness. "I—I saw no one."
"Of course not," he snapped, ripping the hat off his head and slapping it against his thigh. "And you wouldn't have until they had their hands on you." He plunged his fingers through his windblown hair. "Not to mention the white men roaming around these hills like so many vultures."
Something cold traced a finger up her spine. "I—I had you in sight the whole time," she said a little weakly in her own defense.
"You little idiot. How could you have had me in sight when
I
couldn't see
you?"
Creed nearly shouted. The hell of it was, he realized, she truly
didn't
know the danger she'd been in. She was greener than sweetgrass and probably didn't have the sense God gave a pullet.
His imagination retraced the hundreds of dips and hills they'd crossed, knowing any one of them could have been a fatal trap. What in God's name would he have told Seth?
"Dammit," he cursed in desperation, turning away from her.
Mariah glanced down at her dirty gloved hands while the wind tore at the single braid that fell over her shoulder. He was swearing in English now and she presumed that was bad. He was, after all, correct. She
had
lost sight of him more than once and had been out of shouting distance most of the time.
Hattie had sternly warned her to catch up with Devereaux quickly, but she'd hung back, certain he'd just take her back if they were still close to the station. This was no time for self-recriminations. She'd come here with a purpose and she didn't plan to let what hadn't even happened get in her way.
"Mister Devereaux, regardless of what might or might not have happened to me, I'm here now and I'm coming with you."
A trace of a smile, an angry one, curled his lip. "No. You're not."
"You can't take me back. We've come too far."
"No distance, mademoiselle, would be too far," he replied through gritted teeth. His distaste for her was evident in his expression as he ordered, "Get your horse."
"No! I won't go back," she insisted, planting her feet. "I can't."
"Le Diable!"
His already tanned face darkened dangerously and he took a threatening step closer. "Seth told me once that you were... how shall I say.. willful? But I think
dangerous
would be a better word. He should have taken you across his knee years ago."
Mariah's mouth dropped open in an indignant gasp and she took an involuntary step backward. "Don't you dare—"
Taking another step closer, he taunted, "What? Scared of me now, Miss Parsons? You weren't too afraid to follow me alone out into this wilderness. Not too frightened to face men who would just as soon rape and quarter you as look at you."
Mariah went hot, then cold. She'd expected an argument from him, but never this. There was a furious, unreasonable look in his eyes and something else beyond simple anger; something that frightened her much more. "You... you lay a hand on me and you'll regret it—" she warned, backing up.
With a snort of mocking laughter he took another step closer. "Do you really think you could stop me,
ma petite?
A little sparrow like you?"
"I will try. As God is my witness—"
Just then, her heel caught on her ripped petticoat and she felt herself falling backward. She cried out as his steely hands clamped around her upper arms, stopping her fall. Her hands involuntarily gripped his shoulders, holding him at bay and clinging at once.
"God helps those who help themselves, Miss Parsons," he reminded, "not foolish young women who haven't a thought in their heads but what they want."
He was so close now she could feel the steamy heat from his body through the fabric of her gown, feel the angry heave of his chest brush against her breasts. A tremor raced through her, whether from anger, shock, or Creed Devereaux's touch she didn't know.
There was a subtle shift of light in those unfathomable eyes as his gaze traveled once, twice over her face, then dropped, inexorably, to her mouth. If he meant to teach her a lesson, she knew instinctively it would not be a gentle one, for there was no generosity in his expression. For the first time, she truly regretted her decision to follow him.
"Please..." she whispered, her dry throat constricted by fear.
"Please, what?" he demanded, drawing her dangerously closer to him. "Tell me,
ma petite,
what it is you want from me?"
"Please..." she pleaded hoarsely, her frightened eyes colliding with his. "I just... I just want to get to Seth."
Like a candle's flame snuffed out in the wind, the frightful look in Creed Devereaux's eyes vanished at her words. She might have had no less effect if she'd slapped him, Mariah thought disconcertedly.
Whirling away, Creed raked a trembling hand through his straight shock of dark hair.
Pardieu!
What had he been thinking? Not about Seth, that was certain. Damn his temper! And damn the tight, burning ache the woman incited in his loins. He drew a harsh breath and stood staring sightlessly up the tree-scattered slope.
It was useless to try to comprehend the madness that gripped him when he'd held her in his arms or what had possessed him to wonder what those full lips of hers would taste like on his. He was a fool to entertain such thoughts and, worse, a blackguard for even having them.
"Mr. Devereaux?"
Her quiet, shaken voice came from close behind him. Creed swallowed and looked at the ground, afraid to look at her, afraid his eyes would mirror his betrayal.
"You're right about... what you said," Mariah admitted in a voice choked with emotion. "My grandmother used to say I could be quite... impossible. I suppose she was right."
There was a long pause and the wind in the tall pines nearby sang through the lengthening stillness between them. Mariah watched the breeze lift his thick ebony hair away from his neck, stirring something unexpected inside her. "I didn't mean to make you angry. I only wanted... I just—"
"You shouldn't have come here."
Swallowing hard, she stared at him. "I shouldn't have come here—as in
after you
or to the Territory at all?"
"Take your pick."
She stared disbelievingly at his back, which was still to her. Anger swirled anew through her and she braced her hands on her hips. "What right do you have to say something like that to me? I thought you were Seth's friend."
Slowly, he turned and looked her in the eye. "I am."
"If Seth had reservations about my coming he'd have—"
"Seth has no idea what he's asking of you."