Cherish (20 page)

For what seemed to him an interminably long while, she gazed up at him. Then, taking him totally by surprise, she slipped her arms around his neck and gave him a fierce hug. Race was so startled that for a moment he couldn’t think how to react. Then instinct took over. He encircled her in his embrace and drew her close, pressing his face to her hair. He had received some heartfelt thank-yous in his day, but this one was by far the sweetest. It also occurred to him as he registered the softness of her body against his that it was undoubtedly the most dangerous. He needed to get her back to camp before one of those powerful male yearnings her ma had warned her about got the best of both of them.

The last thing Rebecca wanted to do was go to bed, but
Race insisted she looked tired and that she needed to get a good night’s rest. She attempted to use caring for Blue as an excuse to stay up, but he would have none of that.

“I’ll watch over Blue,” he assured her as he led her to the back of the wagon.

The next instant, her feet parted company with the ground, startling her half out of her wits. She clutched his shirt sleeves, her heart skittering as he swung her up into the wagon. Once she’d gotten her footing, he placed a hand on the wagon gate and vaulted inside after her.

With the canvas filtering out the moon and the fire burning low, the wagon’s interior was as black as smut. Rebecca groped blindly for a handhold when the conveyance rocked with Race’s weight. Judging by the sound of his boots on the floor planks, he was moving away from her. She strained to pick him out from the shadows, her eyes feeling like grapes being popped from their skins. Glass and metal went
ka-chink
. Something rasped.

She blinked at a sudden flare of orange. A lucifer. The scent of sulphur drifted to her. She watched him cup the match with his palm, then touch it to the lamp wick. As he waved out the flame, he carefully adjusted the feed knob until a golden wash of light fell over them. Then he replaced the glass globe. Sticking the match between his teeth, he turned to regard the pallet.

Rebecca’s stomach lurched as she followed his gaze
and recalled the blood-soaked quilts. As if he guessed her thoughts, he said, “Corey cleaned up in here a mite. He threw the soiled quilts on the fire. I hope they wasn’t special to you.”

As it happened, two of the remaining quilts, a wedding ring and a drunkard’s path pattern, had been made by her mother. “The ones he took had no sentimental meaning to me,” she assured him. “And I greatly appreciate the thoughtfulness.”

He bent to straighten the rumpled covers. “You gonna be all right in here?”

Judging by his tone, he realized how nervous she was about sleeping alone. Heat crept up her neck, and for a long moment, she stood there, caught between stung pride and mounting anxiety, not entirely certain which emotion would win out. It was so childish to feel afraid to sleep alone, and practically speaking, she knew that asking him to stay with her was highly inappropriate, not to mention perilous. Though he had promised her that she was safe with him, he was still a man, and Ma had warned her countless times to beware.

She threw a frightened glance at the wagon canvas, thinking it would provide scant barrier against a ruffian with a knife. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll sleep under the wagon hitch,” he informed her, his dark gaze fixed on her as he straightened. “If you so much as wiggle, I oughta hear you. You’ll be safe enough. I just wanna make sure you can get some rest. If you want, I can bunk in here with you.”

Rebecca stared up at him, battling against her yearning to say yes. Had she moved past irrational to completely insane? A woman didn’t invite a man to share her sleeping quarters. The wagon was narrow, the space so confined they wouldn’t be able to roll over without bumping into each other. Yet it was all she could do not to plead with him to stay with her.

“N-no—I-I’ll be fine,” she said, not sounding very convincing, even to herself.

He searched her gaze, which was unsettling. Each time he directed those dark eyes her way, she invariably got
the feeling this man could see far more than she wished to reveal. “You sure? If you’re feelin’ froggy, don’t feel embarrassed. God knows you got plenty of call.”

Froggy? Yes, that described it, all right. The moment he left, she’d be jumping out of her skin at every little sound. “No, truly, Mr. Spencer. I, um…” She waved a limp hand. “After all, what on earth is there to feel nervous about?”

“Nothin’.” He glanced around the wagon, stepping to the front to make sure the flap was tied down before he turned back to her. “It’s been my experience, though, that a rash of bad can get a person all dithered up to the point that there’s a damned thin line atwixt threat and fancy.”

She hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms and thinking how absolutely true that was. Race Spencer might be the most ill-spoken individual she’d ever met, but he had a way with words, nonetheless.

“You cold, sweetheart?”

She stopped chafing her arms. “Oh!” Nervous little laugh. “Heavens, no. Just nerve—well, maybe a bit chilled. I’m sure I’ll be fine once I get under the quilts.” She glanced at the pallet. “Have you and your men plenty of covers? I surely won’t need more than one.”

“Nah. We all got our bedrolls.” He stepped around her to the wagon gate. Before vaulting to the ground, he glanced back. “If you have trouble sleepin’, just sing out. The floor in here ain’t no harder than the ground, and I can get the fellas to watch after Blue till mornin’.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spencer. But I’m sure I shall sleep like the dea—” She broke off and rubbed her arms again, her gaze sweeping the floor for bloodstains. “Like a baby. Thank you for your concern, however. It’s greatly appreciated.”

“Speakin’ of Blue, that reminds me. I meant to ask if there’s somethin’ special I oughta do for him durin’ the night.”

“Make sure he stays warm, and if he wakes up, offer him water.” She shrugged. “And you shouldn’t let him walk.”

Swinging a leg over the gate, he sat astraddle the par
tition and eyed her with undisguised concern. “Honey, are you sure you feel all right about sleepin’ in here alone?”

Rebecca wanted to break eye contact with him but couldn’t. She tried to moisten her lips only to find that her tongue was a dry lump in her mouth.

“If I have a problem sleeping, I’ll call you,” she finally managed to say.

“I’m used to gettin’ woke up at night. I can go straight back to sleep, no problem. So don’t hesitate if you need me. All right?”

“I won’t.”

He nodded as if that satisfied him. “Well, g’night then.” He jumped over the gate to the ground and disappeared into the shadows.

Rebecca wasted no time in securing the canvas flap. Then she turned to regard the enclosure, feeling as though it had become her torture chamber for the night. Her gaze kept cutting back to the floor, where only the faintest hint of bloodstain remained. Nonetheless, her skin crawled.

At the right front corner of the wagon, she was relieved to see the empty Arbuckle can, which she could use as her chamber pot for the night. Beside it was the stack of clothing. Atop the assortment of gray and black garments were two white cotton nightgowns. She had no inkling which of the women in her party had owned them, and at this point, she couldn’t allow herself to care.

After traveling so far in a wagon very like this one, Rebecca knew better than to undress before she turned down the lamp. The light threw one’s silhouette against the canvas. The first few days on the trail, Papa had scolded her and Ma numerous times for forgetting and putting on a scandalous display. She quickly grabbed a nightgown and moved the can over next to the pallet where she might easily reach it. Then she doused the light.

Blackness
. It swooped over her like a blanket. Her skin crawled. Pictures of the ruffian spiraled through her head. She could almost hear his oily voice in her ear, feel his stinking breath against her cheek.

Dead. He’s dead. Put him out of your mind
. With shak
ing hands, she quickly divested herself of her clothing and drew on the nightgown. Then she all but dove under the covers, jerking them over her head and huddling. She hadn’t done anything so ridiculous since early childhood.
Hiding from monsters, Rebecca
? She wanted to give herself a good shake, but even as she chided herself for being absurd, she shivered and burrowed deeper under the quilts.

Oh, lands! What was that
? She went still and held her breath to listen. A creak. She’d definitely heard a creak.
The wind, Rebecca Ann. Nothing but the wind. Don’t be any sillier than you must
! But the lecture to herself did little to soothe her frazzled nerves.

Race’s deep voice drifted to her through the darkness, the smoky warmth of it curling around her. He was standing only a few feet away by the fire, close enough to hear if her stomach growled, for pity’s sake. And he’d assured her he meant to sleep under the wagon. The chances were slim that anyone might sneak past him during the night. What had she to be afraid of?

What if he leaves camp
?

The thought made her feel as if a steel band were tightening around her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She lay there, stiff with fear that had no basis in reason, and even worse, knowing it didn’t. But the fear didn’t abate. It was like a living thing with a vitality apart from her, its icy tentacles wrapping around her, the relentless grip impossible to break.

Rebecca had no idea how long she lay there. Minutes? Hours? Exhaustion made her thoughts fuzzy, and there was terror even in that, for she was afraid to sleep. She struggled to keep her eyes open, her mind forming horrible pictures of jerking awake to find a knife at her throat. She had to stay alert. Be ready. They were out there, even now.

And if they reached her, they would kill her…

Race had no idea how long he’d been crouched beside the fire alone. Two hours, possibly three? A number of the men were bedded down for the night, Corey, Johnny,
and Tag among them, their reclining bodies forming dark lumps on the ground near the bedroll wagon. Race almost wished Johnny were still hunkered by the fire with him, chattering ceaselessly.

Instead Race was alone with his thoughts. He stared at the base of the dancing flames where blue heat shimmered, the brilliant hue reminding him of Rebecca’s eyes. The delicate rose had her share of thorns, after all, he thought with self-derision. Not that he blamed her for it. It wasn’t her fault that he felt so drawn to her. Prim and proper, buttoned clear to her chin. She wasn’t exactly a temptress. And yet she tempted him in a way no other woman ever had.

If that wasn’t a hell of a note, he didn’t know what was. The one time in his life that he was responsible for the welfare of a young woman, every time he looked into her big blue eyes, he wanted to kiss her senseless and loosen her braid so he could run his hands into her hair.
Christ
. He kept trying to douse his feelings, but it was impossible. He kept remembering how he’d felt while holding her earlier that day—the tenderness, the ache in his chest. In his recollection, no female he’d ever run across had had this kind of effect on him. In short, he wanted her, not only in a sexual way, but simply in his arms as well, so he could hold her and protect her.

Craziness…He barely knew the girl, and if ever a female had been too fine for him, she was. Earlier when she’d hugged him, he had damned near gotten tears in his eyes. What in the hell was happening to him? No woman had ever tugged on his heart as she did. He couldn’t understand it, let alone find an explanation for it. The feelings were just there, and he seemed unable to set them aside.

In an attempt to stop thinking about her, Race turned his thoughts to his cattle herd. Time after time tonight, his men had walked into camp, their shoulders slumped with defeat, to deliver more bad news. Bad news that spelled Race’s ruin, not to mention that of all his hired hands.
That
was what he needed to be thinking about—the ruination of his life and the fact that he would be taking a lot of other men down with him.

A shuffle of footsteps coming toward camp brought Race’s head up. Shifting his weight slightly so he could easily reach for his gun, he squinted to see into the shadows. A moment later, he saw Pete Standish entering camp, the butt of his rifle grasped in one hand, the barrel resting against his shoulder. A leather-faced, bow-legged little man, the ranch foreman had always reminded Race of a strip of beef jerky; small, dried up, and not much to look at, but more than a mouthful and too tough to chew if a man decided to take a bite.

As he moved toward the fire, Race took in the foreman’s haggard face and filthy clothing, stark evidence of grueling hours spent in the saddle.

“Howdy.” Pete drew to a stop next to the circle of stone, his wiry body taut to combat the weight of exhaustion. “That coffin varnish fresh?”

Race ran his gaze over Pete’s bloodstained shirt and chaps, then brought it to rest on the man’s arms. From the tips of Pete’s leathery fingers to the rolled-up shirt sleeves at his elbows, his skin was caked with dry blood. Race knew the man had been slitting steers’ throats—putting the animals down to end their suffering. Broken legs, usually. The bovines panicked in a stampede and ran blind, into gullies, pitching off banks into arroyos, stepping into gopher holes.

“You won’t get coffee much fresher than this. I just made it,” Race replied in a gravelly voice. Tugging a glove from his belt, he bent forward on one knee to lift the Arbuckle can. Pete met Race’s reach midway over the flames, a tin cup clutched in his bloody fingers. “It’ll burn the hair off your tongue, so watch it,” Race warned.

“So long as it’s hot. Mite nippy out there at this hour.” Pete straightened, the battered tin cup cradled between his callused palms, his sun-baked, wrinkled face hovering scant inches away to catch the steam. “Boy, howdy, it do smell good.”

Race didn’t need Pete to tell him that he was so exhausted he could barely stand. He could see it in every line of the foreman’s compact body. He returned the cof
fee can to the bed of coals. “What’s the tally, Pete? How bad did we get hit?”

Pete pursed his mouth, deep lines fanning over his brown cheeks. His bleached-out blue eyes glittered like chips of ice as he met Race’s gaze. “Over half.”

Race’s guts knotted, and a sinking sensation came into his chest. He had tried to prepare himself for the worst. But over half of his herd? Pete and all the men stood to lose money as well. Race had promised each of them a percentage of the profit if they were able to get the animals back to his ranch in time for the fall cattle auction on the first of October. Race knew Pete had to be feeling frustrated and deeply disappointed, but not a trace of that was evident in his voice or expression.