Come Spring (8 page)

“You can’t do that!” she yelled. “Don’t touch my things.”

“Watch me.” He started to rifle through her most intimate belongings. When he found the gold embossed tin that was the cause of his annoyance, he shook it and then shook his head.

Annika knew she had to talk fast to dissuade him from pitching the thing away and moving on. “Please, Mr. Scott, I beg of you, don’t throw that away. Stuff something into it, if you will, and it won’t rattle. That’s my button collection. I’ve had it for years.”

“If you’ve had it for years then it’s high time to get rid of it,” he said coolly.

“Wait!” She hated the frantic sound in her voice, but he had already raised his arm as if to hurl it away. Annika tried again. “You can’t possibly be this cruel. What will it hurt for you to stuff my nightgown in the can so that buttons won’t rattle?”

“You won’t need them where we’re going.”

That’s exactly what she was afraid of, but she tried not to show her fear. “I might. Besides, they aren’t really meant to be used anymore. Most of them are antiques.” She ignored the ache in her hands, as she tried to shout over the wind.“Some of them are very, very old, Mr. Scott. Some of them are from the Revolutionary War.”

He dropped his arm and stared at the tin and then back at Annika.

She tried to bargain with him. “If you don’t throw them out, I promise not to complain any more until we get to wherever it is we’re going.”

He cocked a brow and stared up at her for a long moment as if weighing the worth of her promise. Then he reached into the valise and pulled out her delicate white batiste nightgown.

She watched as he wadded the fine material between his huge, rough hands, opened the tin, and stuffed the fabric atop the buttons. A shiver ran down Annika’s spine. She was still too scared to feel triumphant over her small success.

After making the silent decision, he shoved the tin back into the valise and then retied it to the mule. Buck walked back toward Annika. She stiffened when he stopped beside the mare and reached up to check the rope that bound her wrists. The skin under the rough hemp was raw and angry looking, her fingers numb. She watched him frown as he stared at her hands. When he glanced up at her, she almost thought she saw concern reflected in the deep blue of his eyes, but she immediately convinced herself she was wrong. A man who would treat a woman so callously would never show concern.

She bit her lower lip and suppressed a shiver of fear when he began to untie the rope. He rewrapped it about the pommel and then took her hands between his own gloved ones. Without a word, without another glance at her face, he began to rub life back into her fingers.

The surprising gesture so unnerved her that she looked away from the sight of his hands on hers. She looked instead at the odd hooded buckskin jacket that had obviously been hand sewn and wondered who had taken the time to carefully fashion the garment for him. It appeared to be lined with fur of some kind, a soft, rich gray pelt that kept him as warm as she wished she were. With the hood up, the fur framed his tanned face. His cheeks were reddened by the wind and cold, his eyes a far brighter blue than she had noticed before. At such close range she could see the fine, curling gold lashes that rimmed his eyes and was astonished to note that such a rugged, uncivilized man possessed eyelashes any woman would envy.

He startled her by glancing up just then to meet her gaze. She found herself staring into his clear blue eyes and then, suddenly aware that he had let go of her, she clasped her hands together.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about your wrists.” He began to strip off his gloves.

The apology surprised her, but didn’t soften her feelings toward him. She wanted to snap at him, wanted to say that if he hadn’t wanted to hurt her he would have never taken her off the train, but, afraid of pushing him too far, she bit her tongue and merely nodded. He reached up and took her right hand and slipped his own glove over it, gently fitting her fingers into the proper places. He did the same with her left.

“Why didn’t you bring any heavy clothes, Alice? Don’t you own a proper coat?”

Without bothering to again protest the use of the name Alice, Annika shook her head in frustration. “Own a coat? Ha! I own
four
coats, all of them perfectly good, and all of them in my trunks in the baggage car. If you had
listened
back there, if you had only ridden on to Cheyenne and found out who I
really
am, you’d realize I have
four
trunks and
three
crates of clothes I was taking with me to my brother’s. But no, you had to act like a barbarian and drag me off the train...”

She stopped when his expression darkened. His brows drew close over hooded eyes and he crossed his arms over his massive chest. In a low, barely perceptible tone he said, “You said you’d quit complaining if I didn’t throw out the buttons.”

Annika clamped her mouth shut.

Buck stared hard at her for another few seconds, then turned away. She watched, wondering if he would really be cruel enough to throw out the tin after all. He walked to the second mule, quickly untied a rolled bundle, and shook out a thick wool blanket. He carried the blanket back to Annika and handed it up to her.

“Put this around you. We’ve got a long way to go before we camp for the night.” With that he stalked back to his own horse and mounted, took up the reins to Annika’s horse, and without even a backward glance to see if she had a grip on her mount, started off again at the same breakneck pace.

She struggled to pull the blanket tight around her without losing her seat, and managed to finally tuck it under her. Then she grabbed the pommel and held on for dear life. She had ridden since she was twelve, but never like this, never without control of her own mount. Annika realized it was this lack of control that made her so furious now. This man, this Buck Scott, was now in total command of her life.

She hated that fact as much as she hated him.

As he pushed the horses on, Annika realized that he knew the land well. He followed invisible guideposts as they moved higher, leaving the broad, open plain behind as they entered the foothills. Trees became abundant, changing shape as they climbed. Soon they were surrounded by lodge-pole pines and aspen. The air was colder, dryer. She was glad Buck Scott had seen fit to give her the blanket, and although she tried to convince herself it was the least he could have done, she wondered how he could stand the cold now that he had given her his own gloves.

The mare beneath her was so hot that its sweating hide steamed around her. The horse snorted and blew as it struggled ever upward. She thought to call out to Scott, to beg him to spare the animals, but since her teeth rattled, her bones jarred, and she ached all over, she knew she wouldn’t really care if the mare did collapse beneath her. At least then this insane journey would halt.

Annika did not know exactly when they slowed down, for she had dozed in the saddle, but she woke with a start when Buck Scott shouted, “Wake up, Alice, before you fall off.”

She had long since stopped protesting that she was not Alice, but at the mention of the other woman’s name she wished she could put her hands around Alice Soams’s throat and squeeze the life out of her. Or perhaps, she thought, Sioux torture would be more fitting. She had never paid particular attention to her father’s vast collection of Indian weapons, but she wished she had some of them right now.

It had grown increasingly dark and gloomy. While she’d dozed the sun had dropped behind the mountains and darkness had gathered in the hollows and ravines that creased the mountainside. She thought they were still traveling northwest, but could not be certain without the sun. She realized, too, that she had lost the urge to escape her captor, at least for now. There was no way she could survive alone in the darkness, no way she could find her way down the mountain. She was in the middle of nowhere, as far as she was concerned, and she did not intend to endanger herself further.

Ignoring the man riding beside her, she straightened, refusing to let him see her exhaustion. She tried to think of a story to take her mind off her mounting trepidation, but unfortunately, the novel in her satchel was Hugo’s
Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Since she was at the point in the story where Esmeralda had just been carried to the bell tower by Quasimodo, she couldn’t help but liken the poor Gypsy’s experience with her own. Between the haunting questions that plagued her, between asking herself where Buck Scott was taking her and what he was planning, she could only relate to the darkness and terror of the tale. Annika surreptitiously glanced over at Buck and then away. There was nothing comforting in thinking about the hunchback. Nothing whatsoever.

So she thought about her family. Had the train pulled into Cheyenne yet? If so, what must Kase be thinking? She hoped that her brother would have the presence of mind not to wire their parents until he attempted to find her himself. She hoped to spare her mother worry, for she knew how frantic Analisa would become. Although her mother had tried to hide her worry behind a brave facade, Annika knew Analisa had been very concerned about her traveling alone. When her mother learned of this abduction, there was no telling how upset she would get.

Annika had no inkling where Buck Scott was headed, nor did she even want to guess what he planned to do to her when they got there. If she had not insisted on experiencing life on her own, if she had not sought adventure, she would not be in this predicament. Silently she cursed a niggling, perverse sense inside her that secretly thrilled to the idea that she was, indeed, having an adventure the likes of which she had never dreamed. And as was her way, she would not let herself accept anything but a hopeful outcome: Kase would find her before anything happened.

He had to.

Except for the short time they paused for a hasty meal of shoe-leather-tough jerky and dry cornbread washed down with a swig of water from his canteen, they did not stop. Reneging on her promise, Annika complained loud and long that she had to relieve herself. Buck finally walked her into a thick stand of trees, intricately tied one end of a rope to her waist and one to his wrist. He told her she had fifteen seconds.

She was too cold and tired, too scared of the black forest around her to even think of escape. She hurried through her task and returned to his side. Determined to fight him every step of the way, she refused when he offered her water to wash her hands and face.

She could tell by his reaction that he didn’t take kindly to her stubbornness. When he turned his back on her and led her toward the horses, she tried to smooth her hair, but found it hopelessly tangled. Her hat, or what was left of it, was tilted rakishly to the side of her head. The once-jaunty feather was missing, the hatband loose and trailing over one ear. She ripped the band off and tossed it aside, hoping anyone who might be following their trail would find it. Farther along, she thought about unpinning her hat and dropping it too, but it had become a talisman, a symbol of the civilization she had left behind. No matter how badly battered it had become, she refused to throw her hat away.

It was late afternoon the next day when they reached a pass high in the mountains. The snow had begun hours earlier and continued to drift down in silent, silver dollar-sized flakes. Annika had long since drawn the blanket up over her head, her hat included, and huddled under it. Snow mounded in the hills and valleys of the folds of the blanket. She stared down at her lap, too tired to care where they were going, and watched the wet snow deepen on her lap.

As they started down the pass into a small valley divided by a twisted creek, she could no longer hold up her head.
Maybe I’ll fall off
Her thoughts drifted lazily as she dozed.
Maybe then he’ll be sorry.

B
UCK
glanced over his shoulder and tried to see through the thick curtain of falling snow. Alice was weaving dangerously in the saddle, her head bowed over her hands. He stopped his own horse and pulled her mare up beside him. They had made it over the pass in good time. He could afford to stop.

When Alice’s mount came alongside him, Buck dismounted. Without disturbing her, he climbed up behind. He wrapped his arms around her, gently pulled her back into his embrace, and kicked the horse on at an easy walking gait. The longer Alice slept the better she would feel when she woke up. At least that was what he hoped, anyway. Maybe a little sleep would improve her disposition.

As they rode down the trail into the valley, he thought about the consequences of his actions if she happened to be telling the truth. If the girl in his arms was not Alice Soams, then he most likely would be forced to pay for his actions when the truth came out. But deep down he still believed she was Alice, and deep down inside where it hurt, he knew why she was denying it. Who’d want to marry a no-account trapper anyway?

He was angry for having had such a stupid idea as marriage in the first place, but then, his hopes and dreams had never been very realistic. When he was a young boy he had dreamed of becoming a doctor. At twelve, he saw that hope disappear. Not too many years back he had used his untrained skill and prayed he’d be able to save Sissy’s life when she took sick. But he’d lost her. He thought he could take care of Patsy, too, thought he could keep her safe until she got so bad he couldn’t reason with her or break through the shell of insanity that held her in its grip. Finally, he’d been forced to take her away. It was one of the worst things he’d ever had to do, and he’d had to do some pretty horrible things in his life.

Alice swayed. He pulled her closer. She was a sight. Not quite the polished lady he had first laid eyes on. Covered with trail dust, her hair was soaked and dripping with melted snow. The little hat she’d been wearing so proudly was battered and useless, squashed flat beneath the blanket she’d pulled up over her head. Her many-buttoned, low-heeled dainty boots were scuffed beyond repair. The only decent piece of clothing she had on was his pair of gloves. He hoped that some of Sissy’s things would fit her, but he could tell just by looking that she was nearly a head taller than his little sister had been.