Clay (9 page)

Braying loudly, the mule kicked out. Rebecca dodged the kick, but lost her balance when the ferry swerved. Arms flailing, she tottered like an acrobat on a high wire for several terrifying seconds. Then, with a terrified scream, she tumbled backward over the side.

Cold, watery blackness swirled around her, choking her with panic. When she surfaced, coughing, several of the crewmembers threw her ropes—but she couldn’t swim, and made desperate grabs at them before the current seized her and carried her away.

Clay had already shucked his gunbelt and boots, and dived into the water. The cold shock took his breath away. When he broke the surface, he began to swim. Rebecca was already about fifteen yards ahead of him, floundering helplessly as the current carried her downstream.

The current aided his progress, and he rapidly gained on her and overtook her. She was still conscious, and as soon as he grabbed her, she clutched at him frantically. They both went under. When they resurfaced, she began choking and coughing, clinging to him with a stranglehold around his neck.

Now he was fighting not only the current, but also her, and his own waning strength. He had to pry her fingers away so he could breathe.

“Let go, Rebecca! I have you!”

His words must have cut through her panic, because she relaxed enough for him to grasp her under her arms and keep their heads above water.

“Hold on to my belt!” he shouted above the roar of the water.

Her hands groped at his waist. Then, still grasping her under the arms, he started to work his way toward the bank with a one-arm sidestroke.

It was a slow process. He was literally towing her and trying to keep her head above water at the same time—a process debilitating to both his breath and strength. At times he had to stop and tread water, allowing the current to carry them further downstream.

After what seemed like hours, they finally reached the riverbank.

Rebecca had swallowed a lot of water while being towed, and she was coughing and gasping for breath. Clay flipped her over on her stomach and began pumping the water out of her.

As soon as both had regained their breath, Clay stripped down to his drawers, then lay back, exhausted, and let the sun dry his shivering body. Rebecca’s teeth were chattering, and she had her arms wrapped across her chest to try and stay warm. There was no dry wood to build a fire, and even if there were, he had no way to light it; his flint was in his pack on the wagon.

“Rebecca, you’ve got to get out of those wet clothes,” he said. “You’ll warm up a lot faster with them off, rather then waiting for them to dry on you.”

“Are-aren’t we head-heading ba-back?” she asked, unable to control her chattering teeth.

“Let them come find us.” He pulled her dress off over her head. “Let’s get some friction going to help dry off your skin.”

“Bu-but wh-what if they don’t try? They-they mi-might th-think we-we’ve dro-drowned,” she said as he began to vigorously dry her shoulders and arms with his shirt.

“I know my brother—he’ll show up. Now sit.”

When she did as he said, Clay knelt down and pulled off her shoes and stockings, then pushed up the skirt of her chemise and rubbed her legs and feet.

He could tell when her body began to respond to his efforts. The shivering ceased, her flesh felt warmer, and her color gradually began to return.

Until then his actions had been reflexive; now he began to think about what had happened. She might easily have drowned—and regardless of how their marriage began, she was his wife. Clay felt an overwhelming relief that the life of this courageous, beautiful woman had not been swept away.

She still looked frightened—and so vulnerable. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her; he knew the crippling fear she had just experienced. He’d been in enough battles to know how terrifying the thought of dying was.

Rebecca looked down at the dark head bent over her. She had never known such fear before, and Clay had delivered her from it. Despite what she’d thought of him before, he had to have a great deal of character to have jumped into that river to save her.

He stood up and reached out a hand to pull her to her feet.

When the warm security of his hand closed around hers, the last vestiges of her fear and panic disappeared.

“Thank you, Clayton.”

Clay lay with his hands tucked under his head and watched Rebecca spreading out their clothes to dry. He hadn’t realized how petite she actually was. Less formidable, too, barefoot and stripped down to the bare necessities, her honey hair hanging down in sodden strands. By the time she had laid out all their clothing in the sun, her hair was almost dry. She pulled loose a couple of vines, then divided her hair into two long braids and tied the ends with them. She looked downright cute to him. Cute? Hell, with only those damp underclothes on, she looked downright bodacious! The way the clothing clung to her curves made his blood heat up.

But before long, Garth came galloping up.

“Thank God,” he said when he saw both of them.

Dismounting, he grabbed a blanket from his saddle and wrapped it around Rebecca, then hunkered down next to Clay.

“You gave me a scare, Big Brother. I didn’t think you cared for early-morning swims.” The concern in his eyes belied the lightness of his tone. “What in hell happened?”

“It was an accident,” Rebecca said. “One of the mules got frisky. I don’t understand it; Brutus is always so docile.”

As Clay rose to his feet, his exasperated look said more than his words. “Must be that you forget to bring your apple slices.”

Their clothing was still damp when they dressed. Since Clay didn’t have any boots, Garth gave him the horse. Rather than ride double with Clay, Rebecca chose to walk the five miles back to camp with Garth, so Clay rode ahead to get dry clothing for her. They had covered half the distance by the time he got back to them.

It was noon when they finally arrived at the camp. Rebecca was relieved to see both the Garson and VonDieman families had made it safely across, although Henrietta was mourning the loss of the horse.

Nearly half of the wagons still needed to cross, and since Scott had announced they would make camp there for the night, Rebecca decided it was a good opportunity to do the washing. Clay and Garth turned their dirty clothing over to her, then left to help with the crossing. When Rebecca and Henrietta went back to the riverbank, they found it was lined with women doing laundry.

Since the men were occupied with the wagons, several of the women decided it would be safe to take a bath. Rebecca had had enough of the river, so after warning them to stay near the bank because of the strong current, she remained as a lookout in the event any male strayed near.

The women and young children frolicked in the cold water, in a welcome respite from the heat, the mud, and the strain of the journey. Then they dressed and carried their wet laundry back to their wagons, to spread out to dry.

Rebecca and Henrietta remained. The young girl was still desolate, grieving the loss of the mare.

“Becky, do you think we’ll all make it to California?”

“I don’t know, Etta. Mr. Scott said it’s very unlikely.”

Henrietta’s deep sigh bordered on a sob. “We’ve lost Callie. Both you and Daddy almost drowned. I hope it will all be worth it.”

Rebecca slipped a comforting arm around the young girl. “It has to be, Etta. Anything is better than what we left behind, isn’t it? We all have hopes of starting over, putting the past behind us. It would be too cruel to have it all be in vain.”

“But I didn’t think life was so bad back in Ohio. I don’t think Momma or Grandma thought so, either. This was Daddy’s idea when he came home from the war. He said he wanted to get as far away as he could, so he could forget it.”

“I understand what he means, dear.”

“Is that your reason, too?”

“My husband was killed in the war. I have a brother who lives in California. Since I had nothing to keep me in Vermont, I decided to take his advice and come West.”

“I didn’t know you were married before. I’m sorry to hear about your loss,” Henrietta said. “But you were very fortunate to find another husband as nice as Mr. Fraser. He’s so handsome. You should have seen him, Becky, when you fell overboard. He didn’t hesitate to jump in the river to save you. Oh, it was so heroic!”

With the amazing recovery of youth, Henrietta sighed deeply again, this time with wistfulness. “I hope one day a man will love me so much that he’s willing to risk his life to save me.”

Rebecca
was
grateful to Clay; he had saved her life. Not that she’d ever romanticize over him the way Etta was doing, but being fair-minded, she was willing to give credit where credit was due. He did have some redeeming qualities, besides handsomeness and cleanliness. He was a man of honor—and he gave a great massage.

“Etta dear, let’s hope nobody will ever have to save your life. But speaking of one who would, look who’s coming.” Rebecca nodded toward a redheaded young man approaching them. “I think Mr. Thomas Jefferson Davis is quite smitten with you.”

Henrietta giggled. “You really think so? Momma thinks so, too. Daddy says he don’t want him coming around.”

“How old is he?”

“He just turned seventeen. His family’s from Tennessee. Tommy was about to join the Confederate army when the war ended.”

“Oh, so it’s Tommy, is it?” Rebecca teased. “Well, since your dad fought for the North, I can understand his objection.”

“Oh, not because Tommy’s from the South,” Henrietta said. “Daddy said he respects any man who’d stand up and defend his home, no matter what side they fought for. But Daddy also says that by the time a fella reaches seventeen, they don’t have anything but fornicating on their minds, so he doesn’t want any of them sniffing around our wagon.”

“It’s a long way to California. I doubt Tommy or any of the other young men will be able to stay away from that pretty face of yours for that long.” The young girl’s long dark curls and flashing blue eyes, combined with a vivacious personality, would be too much for any young man to resist.

“How do, ma’am,” Thomas Davis said, grinning widely. In all the times she had encountered the young man, Rebecca couldn’t remember him not wearing a smile. “Miz Etta,” he said, turning his blue-eyed gaze of worship on Henrietta.

Observing the love-struck glances between the two, Rebecca wondered if she’d ever been that young.

“Hello, Thomas,” Rebecca said. “Did your family get across without any mishap?”

“Yes, ma’am. Heard about your accident. Sure glad to see you’re okay, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca said.

“I feel real bad about Callie, Miz Etta. Sure liked that mare.” When Henrietta started to tear up, the young man blushed in distress. “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry, Etta. I didn’t mean to upset you more.” He looked helplessly at Rebecca.

Henrietta dabbed at her tears. “It’s not your fault, Tommy. I just have to get used to her being gone.”

Rebecca rose to her feet. “Well, I’d better get back to camp and stir up some food.” She left so the two of them could be alone.

After laying out the wet clothes to dry in the sunshine, Rebecca built a fire and then baked biscuits and an apple pandowdy. She had a pot of dried beef and beans stewing in a thick sauce of tomatoes when Clay returned that evening.

“Is everyone finally across?” she asked, handing him a cup of coffee.

“There are still about ten wagons to go. Scotty wants them to cross tonight in case it starts raining again. They should all be across by midnight.” He plopped down and leaned back against the wagon. “It’s been a long day.”

“Is Garth going to join us for dinner?”

Clay yawned and closed his eyes. “No. He said as soon as they get the last wagon across, he’s going to bed in one of Scott’s wagons.”

“Well, dinner’s ready anytime you are.”

But she was talking to herself; Clay had fallen asleep.

For a long moment Rebecca stared at his long, powerful body. Etta’s words had played on her mind since she had returned to camp. She
was
fortunate to have Clay around, and there was no doubt that he had saved her life that morning. But if he hadn’t been there, wouldn’t one of the other men have jumped in to help her?

“I guess I’ll never know, Clayton Fraser, because you were the one who did,” she murmured softly.

He woke with a start. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said that dinner’s ready.”

They ate in silence. Clay was so exhausted that he barely touched his food, and Rebecca shooed him off to sleep in the wagon again. She looked at the big pot of beef and beans she’d prepared, picked up the pot and the pandowdy, and carried it down the line to a couple named Ryan who had just finished crossing and hadn’t had time to start a fire.

Feeling better, she returned to her wagon and cleaned up the dishes. Clay never stirred when she climbed into the wagon, blew out the lantern, and then, exhausted, undressed and went to bed.

It had been a calamitous and long day. Despite the warm night, she snuggled deeper into the fur pelt, and then glanced at the sleeping figure on the floor. Thanks to him, she had survived it.

Several days later found them camped on the south side of the Platte River. Although a mile wide, the river was shallow and the crossing uneventful.

So far, the countryside had been pleasant but nothing spectacular; now they would begin the six-week trek across the plains. It was an unusual sight to those used to the forests or bustling cities of the East. High sandstone cliffs ran parallel to the river, and farther than the eye could see were the flat plains, totally treeless and covered with short grass.

As she prepared the meal that evening, Rebecca shifted her glance to Clay, who was tightening one of the wagon wheels. Something was bothering him. He’d barely spoken to her since the incident in the river, and when they did talk, it ended up in an argument, so they both avoided conversation whenever possible.

One good thing came out of it, though: they weren’t sniping at each other anymore, so at least they had developed a fairly tolerant working relationship.

“Dinner’s ready, Clay.”

They ate in silence. He thanked her, and then went back to working on the wheel. Rebecca finished up the dishes, then hurried to the sutler store to look it over.

There was an unusual collection of merchandise in the store, mostly items abandoned or traded by people who had lightened their wagonloads. She had hoped to purchase some fresh vegetables or fruit, but there wasn’t any. Instead, she bought a used game of backgammon. The game had always been a favorite of Charley’s, and she hoped she could get Garth or Etta to join her in the evening to break up the boredom.

On her way back from the sutler, Rebecca paused by the river. The sweet smell of wildflowers permeated the air, and moonlight painted the countryside in ribbons of white. A light breeze rippled the shallow waters of the mile-wide river, and in the distance she could see the glow of campfires on the opposite bank.

The train was now down to seventy-four wagons. The other twenty-four had decided to turn back and had not crossed the Platte, some due to a change of heart, others to sickness. Dishearteningly, Mike Scott had said that by the time they reached California, they would lose a lot more. Well, come hell or high water, there’d be no turning back for her. She had chartered this course, and she would see it through to the end, with the help of the Almighty—and Clay Fraser.

Clay stopped abruptly and sucked in a breath, forgetting his purpose for being there. His gaze devoured the vision of Rebecca standing alone on the riverbank, the breeze ruffling her long hair and wrapping her dress around her slender figure. Moonlight bathed her golden loveliness in a shimmer that bordered on ethereal. Lord, she was a beautiful woman.

Since Scotty had pulled him off outriding, he and Rebecca had been together constantly, and he’d had plenty of time to observe her. True to her word, she had an obsession for independence and never asked for help, no matter how physically difficult the task might be. And despite the hardships, she never complained.

He was the one struggling with the arrangement. Since her near drowning, he’d become more physically aware of her than ever. He wanted her—badly. She’d been married before, so she knew the needs and delights of sex. He could only hope that soon the same physical cravings would surface with her.

When she had disappeared tonight without a word, he had searched the campsite, but no one had seen her. He’d made a damn fool of himself rushing from one wagon to another. The woman did not belong out here in this wilderness, if she wasn’t going to obey the warnings of those who knew the dangers.

He silently walked up behind her. “Scotty said not to wander off alone.”

Rebecca swung around in surprise, and her hand fluttered to her breast. “My goodness, Clay! You startled me.”

“You’re lucky it was me, and not some Pawnee. We’re in Indian territory now, and the Pawnee have been hostile lately.”

Did he always have to put her on the defensive? “I hardly think they’re going to attack a party this size, Clay. Besides, I was at the sutler’s, and no one there appeared frightened of an Indian attack.”

“Probably because the sutler most likely keeps them supplied with whiskey and ammunition. Come on, Rebecca, let’s get back to camp.”

The man was hopeless. From the time she had met him, he’d been issuing orders to her, trying to intimidate her with his scowls, and patronizing her with his superior attitude. She’d been on her own for four years and didn’t need
any
man telling her what to do.

“I’ll come when I’m ready. I can take care of myself, Clay. I’ve been doing so most of my life.”

“And look where it’s gotten us!”

Angry, she tried to brush past him, but her foot slipped on the moist grass. Clay grabbed her to help her retain her balance. For a long moment they stared at each other, their lips mere inches apart.

Call it anger, proximity, the passion of the moment— whatever the reason, she knew he was about to kiss her. And she wanted him to.

It wasn’t a tender kiss; it wasn’t a kiss to arouse or tantalize. The kiss was hungry, and dominating.

She bore it without a complaint—or a response.

When he stepped back, she met his gaze with defiance.

“Is that how you mete out discipline,
Captain
Fraser?” She turned away, and Clay followed her back to their wagon.

Garth was there waiting. He arched a brow when he saw the frowns on both their faces. “Did our honeymooners have a lovers’ quarrel?”

The scowls turned to downright glares, and Rebecca stalked past him and climbed into the wagon.

“Look, Clay, you’re both intelligent adults,” Garth said. “This trip is going to start getting rougher, and we should all start working together. Can’t you two declare a truce until we reach California?”

“Keep out of this, Garth.” Clay lay down on his bedroll and turned his back to him.

“I’m already a part of it.” Shaking his head in exasperation, Garth plopped down on his bedroll.

Long after Garth had fallen asleep, Clay lay awake damning himself for his stupidity. He had intended only to make sure she was safe. How could he have lost his control? Why hadn’t he just walked away and ignored her taunt? The damn kiss had been instinctive. And her lack of response made it clear what she thought of it. What he should have done was kiss her until he broke through her resistance.

What I should have done was apologize.

Then he saw her. Clad in a white robe and nightgown, Rebecca stood with her head tipped heavenward as she gazed at the stars, her long hair a silky mantle across her shoulders—just as she’d been doing earlier at the riverbank. Moonlight bathed her figure in an aura more spectral than human, and once again he could only marvel at her beauty.