Cherish (31 page)

She smiled and rested her cheek against his chest again. “You know…having seen the things I’ve seen—those ruffians and the terrible things they did—and knowing heartless men like that have free will, I don’t know how I could have expected God to protect us from them. He can’t give free will to only the good people.”

“Do you feel some better, knowin’ He didn’t break a promise to you?”

“I feel bad for blaming Him,” she said softly. “And afraid, knowing He can’t protect me.”

“I ain’t sayin’ that. He can and He does. He can give you the strength you need to get through the windstorms, sweetheart. And sometimes, if you listen close, He can steer you clear of danger. I remember one time, gettin’ a crawly feelin’ on my neck and stoppin’ my horse. Two seconds later, a rock slide broke loose and hit right where I would’ve been if I hadn’t stopped. I reckon He protects us in all kinds of other ways, too. I’m just sayin’ I don’t believe he can stay a cruel man’s hand, that’s all.”

She lifted her gaze to the moonlit sky once more and didn’t speak for a while. When she finally did, she sighed. “This makes twice.”

“Twice for what?”

“The two worst weeping spells of my life, and both
times you’ve somehow made me want to laugh instead of cry. You’re a good man, Mr. Spencer. For a fornicator.”

He grinned. “You make it sound like I done it every day and twice on Sunday. In truth, it wasn’t all that often that I went to town, and it’s a damned good thing, or I’d be broke.”

“Broke?”

He kept forgetting he needed to watch his tongue. He sighed and resumed gazing at the stars.

“What have you been studying up there?”

Race stared up through the pine boughs for a long while before replying.

“God,” he finally whispered.

Race
.

His name became a gentle whisper in Rebecca’s mind over the next three days.

Since he spent most of each day driving the oxen with her on the wagon seat beside him, he decided to put the time to good use, and Rebecca found herself attending school, Race Spencer style. He spent hours patiently sharing with her his wealth of knowledge—teaching her how to tell her directions, showing her how to find water, telling her what to do if she became lost. He frequently stopped the wagon with no warning, tied off the leads, set the brake, and lifted her down from her perch for an impromptu walk.

“That there’s a wild onion,” he would point out one time.

When next he stopped the wagon, he would stand beside the trail, booted feet spread, hands at his hips, his black Stetson cocked to shade his eyes, and say, “Find me a wild onion, darlin’.” As Rebecca set off to do that, Race and Blue heeled behind her like a pair of faithful hounds. Unless, of course, she happened to point out the incorrect species of plant, whereupon the very tall hound nudged back his hat, jutted his squared chin, and said, “Rebecca Ann,
that
ain’t no wild onion!”

He didn’t seem to realize she was teasing him if she popped back and said, “It ain’t?” Instead of hearing the
echo, he would get an exasperated expression on his burnished face, roll his eyes, and say, “No, it
ain’t
!” So much for her progress in cleaning up Race Spencer’s English.

He was quite successful in teaching her, however. Throughout most of the first day, he showed her edible plants that grew wild in that country and how to find them. On the second day, he made her collect those plants without his assistance, and that evening, he set himself to the task of teaching her how to make “starvin’ man’s stew,” a watery and not very tasty concoction that he claimed would keep her alive for days in the wilderness until she found better food or ran across people.

It didn’t take Rebecca long to determine that her “handshake” husband was trying, in the only way he knew, to shore up her self-confidence, which he had so eloquently likened to the roots of his injured fir tree. Though not entirely certain that knowing how to make “starvin’ man’s stew” was going to result in her feeling any less fearful, Rebecca appreciated the thought nonetheless. And since she enjoyed being with him so much, she decided the lessons couldn’t hurt.

Race
. With each moment that passed, it became clearer to her that it wasn’t so much all the things that he tried to give her, but the man himself, that was the sweetest gift. His strong hand clasping hers. The ring of his laughter in the crisp fall air. The shine of sunlight on his hair. The comfort of his arms around her at night. The knowledge that, even though he desired her, he held back from taking her. A man could stand fast against his primitive urges if he had Race Spencer’s sense of honor and strength of character. Her mother had been very wrong to believe otherwise.

On the night of their “handshake” marriage, Race had asked her if she had no deeper feelings for him than friendship, and Rebecca had floundered in the tangle of her own emotions, uncertain how to reply. She had considered him her best friend, she’d told him, as if that bond somehow precluded a deeper, more meaningful one from developing. Not so, she was beginning to suspect now. It
wasn’t impossible for a woman to fall in love with her best friend. It was simply rare that two such strong bonds might develop in tandem.

Their last evening on the trail before reaching his ranch, Race approached Rebecca where she sat by the fire and dropped some clothing on her lap. “Go put them on,” he told her.

Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears when she held up the jeans and small shirt, for she knew they had belonged to Tag. She threw Race an incredulous look. “I can’t wear these.”

“That’s pure silly, darlin’. He’d want you to get some use out of ’em.” He hooked a thumb over his broad shoulder toward her wagon. “Go on. Get ’em on. If the pants is too big, come back out and I’ll cinch the waist with rope.”

“May I ask why?” Rebecca had never worn britches in her life, nor any clothing that wasn’t solid black. She glanced at Pete, Johnny, Preach, and Trevor McNaught, who sat with her at the fire, sipping coffee. “It’s not a very appropriate ensemble for a lady.”

Race leaned down, the edge of his hat brim nearly touching her forehead, his twinkling brown eyes holding her gaze. In a whisper for her ears only, he said, “Rebecca Ann, mind your husband and do as you’re told before I warm your backside.”

She drew back to regard him with a narrowed eye. “Are you lookin’ to get your nose broken again, mister?”

“Only if you’ll let me have some fun first,” he whispered back.

Rebecca was still blushing when she returned to the fire a few minutes later, holding up the jeans around her waist so they wouldn’t fall in a puddle around her ankles. She was relieved to note that the other men around the fire were gone.

“Where is everyone?” she asked.

“Mindin’ their business.”

From that reply, Rebecca deduced that her husband had ordered the men to make themselves scarce. True to his word, Race cut a length of rope and fashioned her a belt.
Then he bent down to roll up the pant legs so she wouldn’t trip.

“There just ain’t a helluva lot to you, is there, darlin’?” he said, nudging his hat back to lazily peruse her body. By the time his gaze locked with hers, a smoldering shimmer had begun to warm his. “Mm-mm,” he declared with a wolfish grin. “You’re sure put together nice, though.”

Rebecca’s face went hot. She glanced up to make sure no one had heard him. Mr. Grigsley was the only person in sight, and he was quite some distance away, doing something by the chuck wagon. “If you think I’m going to simply stand here and display myself, you’re wrong.”

“That ain’t my plan.” He pushed to his feet to tower over her, his mouth kicked up at one corner in the crooked grin she’d come to love so much. “You ready?”

“For what?” she asked suspiciously.

“Well, now, there’s a question.” He grasped her elbow to tug her along beside him and led her to the edge of camp where he released her arm to face her in a half-crouch, his hands splayed on his thighs. He thrust his jaw at her. “Take your best shot, darlin’. Try to break my nose.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Nope. It’s part of the lesson. Take a swing at me. Then I’ll teach you how to do it right.”

Rebecca gaped at him, completely incredulous. “What is the purpose of this lesson?”

“I’m gonna learn you how to kick my ass, that’s the purpose.” He pointed to the bridge of his nose, which still sported a faint trace of blue. “Come on. Don’t be bashful. Swing at me.”

“No! I might hurt you. I’m going back and change into my own clothes. This is silly.”

A determined glint came into his eyes. “It ain’t silly. Bein’ in so close to the herd, we can’t start practicin’ with guns yet. We gotta save that for when we reach the ranch. But I can start teachin’ you how to defend yourself in other ways. If you can learn to kick my ass, honey, you’ll be able to kick just about anybody’s.”

Rebecca leaned toward him and whispered, “I am not
going to practice with guns when we reach your ranch. And I am not going to learn how to beat you up, end of subject. If you will recall, sir, I believe in only passive forms of resistance.”

“In
what
?”

“A cheek turner, I believe you call it.”

“No, you ain’t. Not no more.”

“I beg your pardon? Says who?”

“Says me. Them cheeks of yours is mine now, darlin’. Every sweet inch. And you’re gonna learn how to keep other men’s hands off of ’em.” He pointed to his nose. “Come on. Swing.”

“No. I want no part of this.”

He flashed her a devilish grin. “Let me put it to you this way then. Either you try to kick my ass, or I’m gonna carry you back to the fire, jerk them jeans off, and have myself a fine time playin’ ticktacktoe on them cute little cheeks of yours in broad daylight.”

Put to her like that, Rebecca decided to take her best shot. Luckily for him, he ducked.

Late that same night, Rebecca was nearly asleep when Race, who lay on the pallet beside her, suddenly jackknifed upright and threw himself on her. Before she could even cry out, she was pinned, her arms anchored above her head, a heavy, muscular thigh angled across hers to keep her from kicking. For a horrible moment, she thought he meant to rape her.

“Guess what?” he said huskily.

“You’ve been overcome by your ungodly urges?” she said thinly.

His face cast into shadow, he grinned, his straight, white teeth gleaming eerily in the dim firelight. “I was gonna say, ‘I gotcha,’ but I reckon that’s close enough.”

Her heart started to pound. Until this moment, she hadn’t believed she could feel truly afraid of him ever again.

“I got at least a hundred pounds on you. You ain’t gonna get your hands loose. I got a firm grip. And you can’t kick. What’re you gonna do to keep me from goin’
after you like you’re a plump little pigeon and I’m a starvin’ man?”

Rebecca strained to get her wrists free from his grip, remembering once before how she’d twisted free. This time, however, his hands were like iron manacles. “Race, you’re frightening me.”

“That’s plumb silly. You know I ain’t gonna hurt you. But if it was another man, you’d flat be in trouble. Right?”

She conceded the point with a mute nod. It felt to her as if she were flat in trouble now.

“Reactin’ fast is everything,” he said softly. “Give me an edge at all, and the first thing I’ll do is”—he caught both her wrists in the grip of one hand—“that, which leaves you helpless and me with a hand free to play or slap you senseless. You don’t wanna let that happen.” He took one of her wrists in each hand again. “So…pretendin’ I just now jumped you and knowin’ you gotta strike at me while you got a chance, what’ve you got left to get at me with?”

When she only lay there, gazing up at him, nonplussed, he sighed and said, “Your teeth, honey.” He showed her the different positions a man might assume as he wrestled her into a body pin. “In this position, go for the arm,” he said. “Bite to take a hunk, and he’ll let go of at least one hand to knock you loose.”

“Lovely. Bite him, and then he gets to beat on me?”

He chuckled. “The second he turns loose of one of your hands, go for his eyes.” He showed her how. “No scratchin’. Jab with your finger at the inside corner with all your strength.”

“What will that do? Put his eye out?”

“Onto his cheek.”

“Oh, mercy.”

“You can’t be fainthearted, darlin’. Not if you’re fightin’ for your life. You go for the bastard’s eyes.”

He glared down at her so fiercely that Rebecca smiled. “Yessir.”

He went on to show her other places to bite, one being the shoulder, after which he said, “He’ll rear back. Only
for a second, so you gotta be ready. As soon as he does, he’ll let go of a hand, like before, so go for his eyes. And if he lifts his hips, knife up with your knee and get him in the balls.”

She closed her eyes. “Race, must you be vulgar?”

“What d’you call ’em?”

She slitted one eye open. “His manly parts?”

He rolled off of her onto his back and angled an arm over his eyes, his chest jerking with silent laughter.

“What is so funny about that, may I ask?”

He finally caught his breath and said, “Sweetheart, if you wanna call ’em my ‘manly parts’ when you’re talkin’ with me, that’s fine. But if you’re ever facin’ down a man, say with a gun? It just loses somethin’ if you say, ‘Not one step closer, mister, or I’ll blow off your manly parts!’” He began to laugh again, this time until tears ran from the corners of his eyes. When at last his mirth subsided, he sighed and said, “You gotta say balls. Ain’t no two ways about it. Otherwise he’ll take the gun away from you, sure as shit.”

Rebecca rolled onto her side facing him with her arm tucked under her head. “I think the whole point is silly, anyway. If I were going to shoot a man, I’d never shoot him there. I’d aim for something vital.”

Race laughed until he was weak. Then, after explaining that “manly parts” were “pretty damned vital,” he took Rebecca into his arms.

“Do you know,” she whispered, tracing light patterns on his bare chest with a fingertip, “that almost from the first, I’ve always loved to have your arms around me?”