Captive Heart (3 page)

Chapter 4

Thayne’s brow drew together with concern as he watched the woman misstep once again and nearly tumble to the ground.

“Careful,” he admonished, closing the gap between them to grasp her elbow. When she didn’t protest, he knew her condition was getting serious. He’d been wrong about finding water in the first hour or two. Both creeks he’d counted on had come up as dry beds, and according to the sun, it was nearing midday. They were going to be in real trouble if something didn’t go their way soon.

The thought of Joshua kept him going, but Miss Madsen had no similar motivation. Whereas earlier he’d been irritated by her sharp tongue, he was now alarmed by her lack of fight. He knew misery when he saw it, and she was there—from the tips of her pointed-toe boots to the top of her head and the disheveled hair hanging limply down her back. He didn’t dare pull his pistol on her again for fear she’d invite him to use it.

He let go of her arm a minute, pulling out his bandana so he could mop the sweat from his face. As he raised the cloth to his forehead, he saw her go down, crumpling in a small heap at his feet. Cursing himself for his carelessness, he crouched beside her, unfolding her limbs to lay her out straight.

Her face was beet red—how much from sunburn and how much from her current temperature he couldn’t tell. Placing two fingers on her neck, he was relieved to feel a thready pulse.

He hadn’t killed her, then. Good. It’d be a pain to start this whole process over, finding another teacher for Joshua—though Thayne knew if he wasn’t careful, that’s exactly what he’d be doing. He took the battered hat from his head and began fanning it in front of Miss Madsen’s face. It wasn’t much in the way of a breeze, and he knew what she really needed was water, but for now, it was the best he could do.

“Miss Madsen.” With his free hand, he patted her face lightly. “I’m sure we’re just a little ways off now.” He looked around at the open prairie, hoping he was right. “And you
really
don’t want to die out here. Think of what the coyotes would do to your body . . .” He stopped fanning and looked at that body, clad from neck to toe in brown wool.

“Fool,” he muttered, meaning himself as much as the woman. She must be suffocating in that getup; he should have thought of that hours ago. Placing the hat back on his head, his calloused fingers began unbuttoning the thick, scratchy fabric. He reasoned that even a few buttons opened at the neck ought to give her some relief from the heat surely trapped inside. But when he had the top few buttons undone, a white cotton shirtwaist revealed itself beneath. Thayne couldn’t believe it when he saw it. Why on earth had she not removed the jacket hours ago—a day ago?

“Women.”
His care gone, he yanked the last three buttons free from their holes. None too gently, he lifted her and pulled the sleeves from her arms, tossing the jacket aside. As he went to lay her down again, his hands felt the unmistakable strings of a corset beneath her blouse.

Oh no.
He nearly dropped her.
I won’t,
he argued with himself.
I won’t touch it. I won’t touch her. I—need her to make it to Joshua.
He hung his head in defeat.

He needed her—alive.

That she’d survived the heat this far, wearing a wool suit, a cotton shirtwaist,
and
a corset was nothing short of a miracle. Thayne frowned, knowing that for her own good, the restrictive corset should come off.

Reluctantly, he rolled Miss Madsen to her side. Tugging her blouse from the waist of her skirt, he forced his hand to touch the offensive corset, his eyes consciously averted to the prairie.

He tried, to no avail, to avoid thinking of the last time he’d untied a corset. Christina’s image was burned in his mind.

Thayne squeezed his eyes shut against the vision of her beauty.
Why must everything relate to a memory of her—even a plain schoolteacher in an ugly brown dress?

He forced himself to look down at Miss Madsen as he struggled to untie the bow. “Ridiculous contraption.” His frown deepened when, after a couple of seconds, the knot remained firm. Pulling out his knife, he bunched the blouse up higher and sliced through the strings. A sudden popping sounded, and the whalebone stays shifted beneath his fingers. Working quickly, he pulled the remaining strings loose and then gave one side of the corset a good tug. It budged a little.

Frustrated, Thayne studied her face for any sign of awakening. It’d be just his luck she’d choose that moment to return to consciousness, and she’d think him—what was it she’d said—
a despoiler of women.

Better despoiled than dead,
his common sense told him. He reached for the corset again, this time successfully wresting it from her body. He flung the intimate article away, but not before he’d noted it was as fancy as Christina’s had been. Surprising for someone who dressed in brown wool.

Thayne pulled the hat from his head and began fanning Miss Madsen once more.

A minute or so later, he was rewarded for his efforts when she began to stir.

“No, Papa. I can’t. I won’t . . .” Her protests trailed off, as her head moved side to side.

Obstinate—even when she’s half asleep.
“Good to know I’m not the first man who’s had to suffer your tongue.” Thayne stood, picked up her brown jacket, and then lifted her into his arms. Tired as he felt, she seemed light, and he realized just how petite she was. His worry intensified. Someone so little would die a lot faster out here. Dehydration was no idle threat. With determined steps, he continued walking, carrying her in his arms as he headed north.

* * *

Thayne cranked the windlass, his parched lips anticipating fresh, sweet water as the bucket drew nearer to the top of the well. He could hardly believe their good fortune, and not for the first time, he wondered if the abandoned homestead were some kind of mirage. Having gone three quarters of the day without water and having gone two days now without food, hallucinating seemed a very real possibility. But the wood handle was smooth beneath his palm, and the rope taut as he drew up the bucket. Strange, he thought, that whoever had left this place hadn’t taken the bucket with them. Thayne decided he’d be sure to take it when they left. He’d be only too willing to carry it and the extra water along.

At last the bucket reached the top, and Thayne pulled it from the well. Brackish water floated on the top of mud. Disappointment surged through him as he angrily tossed the mixture to the ground. Thayne leaned forward on the platform, peering down into the depths of the well. He glanced over at Miss Madsen, lying on the grass. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow. They
had
to have water. He would have to go down.

Thayne removed his hat and checked the knot on the windlass as well as the entire length of rope. It seemed to be in satisfactory condition. Satisfactory enough—with a little luck—that it would hold him. Glancing into the well again, Thayne’s wish, next to water, was for a candle. Who knew how long it was since the well had been used—or what noxious gas might be lurking below the surface? Shoring up his courage, Thayne lowered the rope and bucket and swung his legs into the hole. He perched on the edge, looking down. Hopefully a dozen or so bucketfuls and the water would flow clear again. It wouldn’t be easy without a spade, but he had no choice.

Grasping the rope, Thayne took a deep breath and began lowering himself hand over hand down into the black hole. He told himself it was no different than working his mine. If he’d been able to find gold in the Black Hills, surely he could reach a little water now.

Gradually, the light above him grew dim until it was just a far-off sliver. Thayne felt his feet hit the bucket, and he stepped down into several inches of muddy water. Working fast, he tipped the bucket on its side, both hands reaching beneath the surface to scoop as much of the mixture in as possible. As soon as the pail was full, Thayne righted it, grasped the rope, and began pulling himself up once more.

By the time he reached the surface, he was spent and nauseous. There was definitely something bad down there. He’d have to hold his breath longer next time. Collapsing on the grass beside Miss Madsen, he decided he had to rest a few minutes before going down again. He closed his eyes, giving in to the drowsiness, sleep claiming him in an instant.

Chapter 5

A crack of thunder shook Emmalyne to full consciousness. Her eyes flew open as lightning flashed once again, silhouetting the outlaw standing in a doorway.

“It’s difficult—to believe I could feel worse.” Though she hadn’t meant them to, the words came out sounding angry. Her voice was hoarse and her lips parched.

He gave her a wry smile. “It would seem your tongue is no worse for the wear.”

Emmalyne glared at him then turned her head, taking in her surroundings. The only light came from a misshapen mound of wax encircling a piece of twine. Its feeble flame sputtered on the floor near a fireplace. They were inside a rather crude cabin, with walls, floor, and ceiling of rough wood and earth. A steady dripping trickled from the roof in several places, making miniature pools of mud on the floor. There was no furniture save one stool and the bed she lay on—a lumpy, scratchy tick to be sure—nevertheless far better accommodations than the previous evening. And it
was
evening. Behind the outlaw, she saw the black of night. Where had the day gone? She remembered walking, feeling ill, and . . .

Lightning lit the sky again, making her flinch. A few seconds later, thunder sounded directly overhead. Instinctively, she cringed, wishing away the storm. But outside it raged on, and through the open door, she saw a steady rain falling.

She raised a hand to her forehead—an exhaustive effort—and touched a moist, cool cloth. Pulling it away, she saw it was the outlaw’s bandana.

He came to her side. “Best leave that a while longer. Between sunburn and that fever, you’ve been plenty hot.” He took the cloth from her and placed it across her brow.

A shiver ran through Emmalyne as his calloused fingers brushed her skin.

“Here.” He removed his canteen and unscrewed the lid. “Remember, drink slowly.”

She nodded and didn’t argue when he helped her sit up and bring the canteen to her lips. The water was pure heaven. She drank slow and long, not caring the least when a bit dribbled down her chin onto the front of her shirtwaist—
her shirtwaist?

Emmalyne’s head snapped up, and she looked at Mr. Kendrich accusingly. “Where are the rest of my clothes?” She crossed her arms in front of her, realizing as she did that her jacket was not the only thing missing.

He had the audacity to look sheepish. “It was you or that corset. But both weren’t gonna make it in this heat.” He shrugged. “I figured you’d see things my way—choose practicality over fashion.”

“Fashion has nothing to do with it, whereas modesty—”

“And that wool,” he continued, nodding toward the foot of the bed where her jacket lay in a crumpled heap. “Winter don’t come for a few more months. There’s no need for a heat trap like that in August.” He held the canteen out to her once more.

She snatched it away, nearly losing her balance and falling backward as she did. “So much for your noble promise.” Fortified by the water and her anger, she spoke boldly.

His eyes narrowed. “Believe me, Miss Madsen, there was no pleasure taken in the task. Did I not require your assistance, I’d have been most happy to leave you to bake out on the prairie. As it is, you owe me your life. I carried you over five miles today, and I risked my own neck getting water.”

“Did you conjure the rainstorm then, you and your Indian friends?” She didn’t wait for him to reply but looked away as she took another drink, replaced the lid, and then rolled onto her side, away from him.

Her body protested the move, and Emmalyne bit her lip to keep from groaning. Another shiver ran through her as gooseflesh sprang up along her arms. He wasn’t joking; she did have a fever. Though her head felt on fire, the rest of her was freezing. She tucked her feet—her
bare
feet she realized, further mortified—up under her skirt. At least she was still wearing
that
.

She heard the outlaw rise and walk toward the doorway again. The rain continued steadily, though the thunder seemed to be passing them by. Emmalyne was grateful. She hated storms and didn’t feel up to dealing with the usual terrors they evoked.

The cabin grew silent, and she looked over her shoulder to see if he had left. He stood in the doorway, his back to her. Perhaps she’d made him angry, referring to the Indians like that. She’d just wanted to provoke him into telling her something—
anything
about his plans. She rolled onto her back and, gathering her courage, dared to start their conversation again.

“Will you tell me about them?”

“Who?” His voice was wary.

“The Indians, of course.”
Who did he think I meant?
Emmalyne wished she could see his face, but he continued staring out into the darkness.

“The Lakota are friendly enough. They’ll not harm you.”

“Friendly?”
she asked, disbelieving. “Surely you know what they did to General Custer and his entire army last year.”

“Yup.” The outlaw nodded. “Custer deserved it.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Feeling it too difficult to argue while lying down, Emmalyne struggled to sit up. The bandana fell to her lap. She watched as the outlaw grabbed the lone stool from the center of the room and placed it by the door. He sat down, tipping the stool and leaning against the wall.

“The U.S. Army promised the Sioux that land, said we’d leave ’em alone. Then Custer’s expedition goes in a few years back—finds a pittance of gold—rumors spread . . . Next thing, white folks are settling all over the place, repeating history.” His face was grim.

“What do you mean?” Emmalyne asked. The chill permeated the room. She pulled her skirt tighter around her legs and reached for her jacket.

“Indians have lived on this land for years. The land thrived, they thrived. Then we came along, destroying everything in our path. Trees are cut down, buffalo killed, mountains dug up in search of gold . . .”

Emmalyne was confused at the regret she heard in his voice. Across the room, he caught her eye as he continued. “Did you know that Custer boasted—said he and the Seventh Calvary could whip all the Indians in the Northwest?”

“Well—” She wasn’t certain what to say. He had presented a valid point of view she’d never before considered. But it did nothing to lessen her fear. “Regardless of your opinion, regardless of who was in the right or wrong of things, the Indians have proven themselves dangerous.
Friendly
hardly seems the word to describe their actions toward white men.”

“The chiefs who fought Custer have all gone north into Canada or been killed. There’s no one left to cause you any concern.”

“But why must you take me there? Am I to be traded? I’ve heard stories of tribes taking whites to replace their own lost. Is that—”

“No.”

His tone told her the discussion was over. Still, she could not let it go. Anxiety over what was to be her fate overcame even her fatigue and fever. She persisted. “Is it so terrible you cannot tell me what is to become of me?”

He ignored her question. “Why don’t you tell me first why you were headed out west?”

“I already have. I was contracted to teach school in Sterling, Colorado.”

“How ’bout the real reason?” Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he turned all his attention to her. “What’re you running from, Miss Madsen? What did you and your father argue about?”

“How do you—” Emmalyne could not mask the surprise on her face. “That is none of your business.”

He shrugged. “I suspect you’re right. And I’d say the Lakota are none of yours.”

Emmalyne pursed her lips together to keep from lashing out at him. How dare he ask her such things. How dare he suggest he knew anything about her father or the argument that had led to her present dilemma. Folding her arms across her chest, she scooted back on the bed, pouting like a child.

He paid her no heed but rose from the stool and stepped outside. “I suggest you get some sleep. I have a feeling we’ll be entertaining visitors before too long.”

* * *

Miss Madsen eagerly accepted the piece of charred meat Thayne held out to her.

“What is—no, never mind.” She held her hand up to stop him from speaking. “It’s probably best I don’t know. I’m hungry enough, I’ll just eat it.”

“Good idea.” Thayne dug into his own piece, watching from the corner of his eye as she did the same. He waited, expecting more complaints and was surprised when she said nothing. He watched as she took one bite, then another, her eyes closed in unmistakable bliss.

“Mmm,” she murmured, her lips turning up ever so slightly.

In that moment, she looked almost pretty, and Thayne shifted uncomfortably on the stool. If she was that appreciative of a little piece of burnt meat, what would she be like if . . .

He turned away, not allowing himself to finish the thought. Suddenly, too aware of the woman beside him, Thayne forced himself to concentrate on his own breakfast—none too tasty by any standard except starvation.

“That was good,” she said a few minutes later. “Is there any more?”

“Nope.” He shook his head and willed himself not to watch her licking her fingers. “It was a small critter.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “I don’t want to know—”

“Then don’t ask.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “I didn’t.”

Thayne breathed an inward sigh of relief. It was better when she was this way—spunky and indignant. He didn’t want to like her, and much to his surprise, he was having a hard time not doing just that.

“If you need to take care of any business outside, now would be the time. I want you well hidden before the Martin gang arrives.”

“Why are you so certain they’re coming?” Emmalyne reached under the bed, retrieving her boots and stockings.

“I come from a long line of intuitive Scotsmen. When we sense something is going to happen, it does.”

“What a useful talent. Pity I don’t possess it, or I’d never have boarded that train.” Facing away from him, she wriggled her sore feet into the stockings, then picked up one of her boots, tugging at the laces to loosen them. She looked regretfully at her feet, covered with multiple blisters.

Thayne took the boot from her and pulled out his knife.

“What are you doing?” she cried, trying to reclaim the boot.

He held it out of her reach. “Making it easier for you to wear these.”

“No, thank you.” She rose from the bed, lunging forward until her fingers closed around the leather.

He looked at her sternly. “You need to trust me.”

“If you were the last man—”

“Might as well be, seeing how I’m all that stands between you and a dozen heinous deaths.” He tugged the boot away from her and proceeded to slice open the toe. “This still isn’t great, but it’ll let up on those blisters a bit.” He swiveled on the stool to face her, his hand held out expectantly. “Give me your foot.”

“Are you intending to cut that off as well?”

He rolled his eyes and grabbed her ankle. She opened her mouth to protest, but Thayne shot her a warning look.

“We don’t have time for theatrics, Miss Madsen. Not if you value your life.” He loosened his grip, carefully slid her foot into the boot, then used his knife to slice the sides a bit as well.
What kind of idiot designed women’s shoes?
he wondered. Her boots were about the most impractical things for walking he’d ever seen. She’d do better just going barefoot, but he knew Miss Prim and Proper—with her wool already rebuttoned to the neck—would balk at that idea, so he kept his mouth shut.

Thayne made adjustments to her other boot, and she held her foot out to him. He slipped it into the boot, tied up the laces as loose as he dared, and leaned back. “There. That’ll be . . .” His voice trailed off as he took in her face, a brighter shade of crimson than even the sunburn had produced. He watched as she tucked her feet beneath the bed, demurely crossing her slender ankles.

“In the future, I would prefer . . . to . . . put on my own shoes,” she said in a halting voice. She looked down at her hands, clasping and unclasping them in her lap.

He puzzled at her behavior for a second, half expecting her to deck him if she was that angry. When she didn’t and refused to look up, it became clear she wasn’t mad at all—or at least not as much as she was embarrassed. Belatedly, he realized she’d probably never had a man touch her ankles before.
She’s not Christina. Thanks be for that.

Thayne stood and walked toward the door, thinking it was a darn good thing Miss Madsen had been unconscious when he’d taken her corset off. If a simple thing like him putting her shoes on had thrown her off balance, she’d have probably died if she’d felt his hands on her back.

Instead, he was the one left bothered by the memory.

He tried but couldn’t entirely shake the image away—her parted lips, the sudden intake of breath as her lungs had filled, unrestricted.

He clenched his fists as he recalled balling her jacket beneath her head and brushing the wisps of hair from her delicate face.

Cursing silently, Thayne stepped outside into the sunshine. He picked up the bucket, cupped his hand, and splashed cool rain water onto his stubbly face. He didn’t like where his thoughts were heading and recognized the need to change their direction quickly. Best to keep things safe by getting her all riled up again. He didn’t suspect it would be too hard to do.

Apparently she had the same idea.

“I suppose it’d be too much to hope you’re civilized enough to have some sort of privy around here.” Her voice was firm again—and annoyed.

“How should I know what’s—” Understanding dawned. Thayne turned to her, irritation written plainly on his face. “You think I
live
here?”

“Don’t you?” She stepped outside, her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“No.” He looked around at the deserted yard and poorly built soddie, offended that she’d thought it was his home. Then again, he reasoned, what else should she think when he hadn’t been able to provide even the basic necessities of food and water for the past two days?

What did he care what she thought, anyway?

“This isn’t my place. My circumstances are somewhat—different.”