Deborah Camp (5 page)

“Captured them, tortured them, killed them. Why’d they leave you out there?”

“I guess they were coming back for me, but you got to me first.” His gut cinched as visions flitted through his mind of the painted braves gaining on his frightened mount. The skin around his wound tightened when he recalled the burning agony of the arrow slicing through him and the triumphant shouts of the savages. “I broke my leg falling from my horse,” he whispered. “I think one of the horses stepped on me. I don’t know … I was stunned, numb mostly … it’s all pretty much a blur.”

“My medicine pulled you through.” She smiled ever so slightly. “Are you a good, honorable man, Tucker Jones?”

He didn’t know how to answer, his upbringing dictating modesty, humility; his past deeds shaming him.

“You don’t know?” she asked, slanting him a sidelong glance. “Are you shedding a skin and you don’t know your new self yet?”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s a good way to put it. I’ve been shedding a skin.” Actually, the war had rubbed the skin off him, leaving him raw and bloody, weary and defeated. “I’m not rotten to the core, but I’m no saint. I’ve killed men in battle.”

“There’s no dishonor in that.”

“No honor in it either.” He pulled his thoughts from death and dying. “I’m not the kind of man to do a woman violence,” he said, realizing that that concern must be uppermost in her mind. “You have no worries there with me, ma’am.”

“I hope that’s true. If you’re lying, you’ll find yourself wishing I’d left you out there on the valley floor.” She shifted and rested her clasped hands on the rise of her belly. “I’ll allow you to
stay here safe with me and then I’ll take you to civilization come spring.”

“That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am.”

“You’ll help me when my time comes and lend your strength until mine is renewed. It’s a handsome trade, isn’t it? A man in your situation would be addlebrained to refuse.”

He felt like that coyote again, studying a baited trap and knowing he would be caught in it, sure as shootin’.

“You have nothing to say?” she asked. Her lustrous hair spilled over the shoulders of her doeskin dress. Her eyes reminded him of brown, highly polished agate.

“I don’t know a damn thing about babies and how they come into this world, lady. You’d be better off with one of your dogs helping you through it. Maybe you could still ride to the fort and—”

“My trade is on the table. What say you?”

He started to inch higher in the bunk, but the movement sent a sharp pain through his leg and shoulder. He held his breath until the aching subsided. “I’m not ungrateful, mind you, but I’m trying to tell you that I’d be of no use to you.”

“Some of your strength will have returned by the time this one is among us.” She smoothed her hands over her protruding stomach. “Enough strength to keep the fire going, bring in the wood, see to the animals, heat up food. I’ll be able to do some things soon after the birth, but I’ll be weak for a few days. I’m not asking that you tend to me forever and a day, Tucker Jones.”

He nodded. “I’m not worried about that part. I don’t mind seeing to your needs, but it’s the birthing that’s got me worried. You need to have someone here with you—”

“The birthing won’t be a problem. I’ll do most of the work. You need only fetch and carry things for me.” She shook her head when he started to speak again. “I won’t waste breath arguing. It’s
your choice. You don’t want the trade? Then you’ll mount a horse when you’re able to stand and be on your way. Of course, you’ll have to locate yourself a horse first. You won’t be taking one of mine. Guess you can start out walking.”

He grinned, realizing she had him by the short hairs and that he had grossly underestimated her. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the bottom of the bunk above him. “You’re a tough lady.”

“You’re not the first to say that about me.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He poked four fingers into the hay-stuffed mattress inches from his face. “Is this your regular bed, or did you give me yours?”

“The one you’re in is mine.”

“We’ll switch. You don’t need to be climbing up there in your condition. Since I’m weak as a kitten, I won’t be getting out of mine except when it’s absolutely necessary … speaking of which …” He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes and felt his bladder burn. “I could use that can again, if you don’t mind.”

“First, the trade. Then the can.”

He frowned, but was partly amused. “I’m not an idiot, ma’am. I’m sure as hell not fixing to walk through ass-high snow in search of a horse. I’ll do what I can for you when it’s your time, but I’m warning you that I’ll be about as useful as tits on a boar. Pardon my language.”

“The snow is only halfway to the knees, greenhorn. It’s too early for ass-high snow.”

“You going to let me relieve myself now, or must I soil these linens?”

“So, we have a trade.”

He heaved a sigh. “Yes, ma’am. My uselessness for your shelter. So be it.” He sent her another sharp glance. “The can?”

“Yes, yes.” She leaned behind her, grasped the rusty can, and handed it to him. “Fill it, greenhorn.”

“I like it better when you call me Tucker Jones.
I’d like it even more if you’d just call me Tucker or Tuck.” Gingerly, he rolled onto his side, his back to her, his splinted leg screaming with pain. He fumbled under the covers, aimed himself into the can, and shivered with relief.

“You have a lot of hair there. More than other men I’ve seen.”

Tucker felt himself blush. He sucked in his breath and held it.

“Of course, you’ve got hair all over you. Your beard is growing thick and there’s a mat on your chest. Even your legs have curling hair over them. Indian men are smooth, nearly hairless. Your root is thick. That’s supposed to be a mark of a man of spirit and—”

“Here. I’m finished.” He held out the can to her, eager to shut her up. “Thanks.”

She took the can and dumped its contents outside. When she came back, she stood near the bunks and stared at him. “Your face is red. My talking about your man’s root makes you uncomfortable?”

“It’s not a conversation a gentleman has with a lady.”

“Are you ashamed of the hair growing on you?”

“No.”

“I can shave you.”

“No!” He glanced nervously at her, then hunched his shoulders and presented his back again. “I’m going to sleep now.”

“We’re going to be bumping up against each other in this cabin. Might as well be natural with each other. After all, when the babe births, you’ll be glimpsing my hidden parts, too.”

Tucker shut his eyes. God, what was he going to do when she went into labor? She was young and ignorant of the agony of childbirth. But he knew that many a woman had died giving birth with no midwife or doctor to assist. Unfortunately, by the time she realized he was right and that she should
have traveled to the fort, it would be too late, and he’d have yet another soul weighing down his conscience.

Two days later she helped him walk outside to answer nature’s call. The simple bodily function exhausted him and he had to rely on her to get him back inside. After he was deposited in the lower bunk, she dropped like a stone into one of the chairs. She struggled for breath. Tucker struggled with guilt.

“I’m sorry to be such a burden,” he said, panting from exertion. He found enough strength in his anger to ball up one fist and pound the mattress. “Damn it to hell! I hate being like this. I can’t even defecate by myself!”

She rested one hand above her heart. “What’s that? Deaf-what?”

He searched for an appropriate word, but was too weary to find one. “Move my bowels.”

She smiled, then lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Be glad for what you can do.”

“Which is nothing,” he grumbled, his bearded chin planted on his chest.

“You can whine and complain. You do that very well indeed.” She laid the back of her wrist against her forehead for a moment. “And you give off right surly looks. Be gladdened that your health is returning, Tucker Jones. Be gladdened that you live and breathe.”

He hated her for making good sense. Hitching the furry buffalo robe higher around him, he yearned for clothes, but knew better than to complain. Contrite, he scratched at his beard. “I’d like to shave—or at least try it. I’m not used to having hair on my face. It itches like hell.” He inched himself up to a more dignified posture. “If you would be good enough to loan me your straight razor, a mirror, some water—”

“I have no razor. I have several sharp knives that will shave you clean.”

“Knives.” He chuckled sourly. “I’m no good with them. I’ll cut my own throat.”

“I’m very good with them. I’ll shave you.”

“No, that’s okay. If I could borrow your brush I’ll get the tangles out of this damned beard.” He noticed that she paid him no heed, but went about filling a shallow bowl with water and selecting a knife from the rack mounted above the hearth. “Ma’am, really, I’ll just wait until I can find me the proper utensils.”

“I’m not called ma’am, Tucker Jones, and I’m going to cut that hair off your face. Your being so squeamish about me touching you is right foolish. There’s nothing you’ve got that I haven’t touched already.”

He winced and wished she would quit reminding him of that. Why it embarrassed him that she talked so frankly about his body eluded him. He wasn’t an overly modest man, yet he could feel the heat rise in his cheeks under his itchy beard. A thread of panic wove through him at her approach, knife in hand.

“Uh … have you done this before?”

“Many times. I used to shave my husband. His beard was nothing compared to yours. Just a few chin hairs here and there.”

“Just give me the knife and I’ll—”

“No. You just sit yourself in this chair, close your eyes, and forget your troubles. When you open your eyes again, you’ll be plucked clean as a dressed chicken.” After she’d wrestled him into the chair, she examined him with a critical eye. “Think I’ll wash your hair while I’m at it. Maybe cut off some of the longer locks. I’d like to see how you used to look.”

“Ma’am, I—”

In a flash she was behind him, clutching his chin in one hand and tipping his head back to expose
his throat. She rested the blade of the knife against his Adam’s apple. Tucker clicked his teeth together and looked up at her. She was smiling.

“Now, Tucker Jones, I’ve told you time and time again that I wasn’t christened
ma’am
. So, what’s my name?”

He swallowed and felt his Adam’s apple slide against the knife blade. “Copper Headed Woman.” He barely managed a whisper.

“But what did I tell you to call me?”

He had to think a few moments before it came to him. “Copper?”

The knife blade lifted away from him and she let go of his bearded chin to pat his whiskered cheek.

“Very good. Think you can remember to call me that from here on in?”

“Yes.” He stared stonily at her while she softened a ball of lye soap in a bowl of water. “Threatening a man with a knife isn’t a bit funny. You could get yourself hurt.”

She grinned at him. “You’re a serious pilgrim, aren’t you?” She shook her head and her thick braids fell over her shoulders. “Look at those green eyes of yours, all dark and gloomy! Guess they’ve spied many a terrible thing that robbed all the shining from them.”

Tucker glanced away from her, unwilling to respond, but her observation needled him. She’s right, he thought. All the joy’s gone. Never gonna get it back, either.

“Let me wash your hair first. Men like that. Makes them remember their mamas. Is your mama still among us?”

“No. She died last summer. She got word that my younger brother was killed in battle and she couldn’t take it. Died a day later.”

“It’s an awful thing when a child dies before its mother. Tip your head back. That’s it. Now close
your eyes, Tucker Jones, and let me wash those worries out of your poor, tired head.”

He smiled faintly. It would be nice, he thought, if troubles could be washed away so easily. He closed his eyes. Cool water trickled over his head, ran off the ends of his hair, and splashed into a wooden tub Copper had shoved into place behind his chair. Her nimble fingers worked soap suds into his wet hair and massaged his scalp. He couldn’t keep from sighing in utter contentment. She rinsed off the suds. Her palms squeaked over his clean, wet hair, gathered the ends, and squeezed out the excess water.

He felt the tug on his hair as she cut off the longest locks. He never opened his eyes, giving himself over to her, letting her fashion him into a new man. She combed his hair, cut off more curls, combed again.

When she shifted her sharp knife to his beard, he lifted his lids enough to see her through his lashes.

“Trust me.” She winked at him. “I won’t draw a drop of your blood, and that’s a promise.”

After a moment, he closed his eyes again. The knife sliced away the heaviest growth. Then she wet what was left and worked up some suds. He tensed involuntarily when the cold blade touched his jawline. The sharp edge skimmed up to his cheekbone, smooth as silk under the direction of Copper’s sure, steady hand. The rest of the shave was uneventful. Copper wielded the blade with expert precision, never nicking his skin or giving him a moment’s twinge of apprehension. He was aware that the crown of his head rested against her stomach. The baby kicked and he felt it. He chuckled. She laughed. She had a nice laugh; soft and high, feminine but not fluttery. Several times, as she was bending over him, her breasts brushed his face. He felt no sexual pull.
Her nearness, her touch didn’t arouse him; it gentled him. Like a mother’s.

Just as she’d predicted, his thoughts meandered to his mother, now laid to rest. Her sweet, round face appeared in his mind’s eye. He recalled her tender touch, the way she had said his name in her drawling, Virginia accent—
Tuk-kuh
. Hot tears sprang to the corners of his eyes. He hoped Copper wouldn’t notice; if she did, he hoped she wouldn’t make mention of it.

“You asleep?”

“No.” He kept his eyes closed, allowing the tears to dry. “Just relaxed.”

“Want to open those big green ones and take a gander at what I’ve done to you?” she asked at last.

Reluctantly, he obeyed and found himself staring into an oval, cracked mirror. He sat straighter to take the looking-glass from her. He tipped his head from side to side to view her work from every angle. She’d shaved him clean, exposing his rounded chin, the divot under his nose, the dimples in his lean cheeks. She’d cut away the hair from his ears and trimmed his sideburns. She’d left the back a little longer than he normally wore it; the ends curled at the base of his neck.