Lynna Banning (10 page)

His low chuckle set her teeth on edge. Did he enjoy watching her suffer hour after hour in the merciless sun?

“Can you mount?”

Jessamyn quailed at the thought. “Certainly,” she snapped.

“Suit yourself,” Ben said amiably. He stalked off, whistling a tune she couldn’t help recognize—”Bonnie Blue Flag.”

That’s it!
Jessamyn said to herself.
It’s because of that damned war. He’s a Rebel, and I’m a Northerner. He hates me!

Anger flooded her with new resolve. Well, then. This Northerner would just show him why the Yankees won the war: backbone! Clenching her fists at her sides, she stomped toward the horse with deliberate, pain-ravaged steps.

Ben positioned himself at the mare’s head, the bridle held casually in his hand. He waited for her, singing a new tune under his breath in a soft baritone.

“I’ll sell my horse, and I’ll sell my cattle, You can go to hell in your boots and saddle.”

Jessamyn moved toward him with murder in her heart.

I
f it was the last thing she ever did, Jessamyn swore under her breath, she would mount that mare with no help from Ben Kearney. The sheriff surveyed her calmly, a grin creasing his bronzed skin. Snatching the reins out of his hand, she reached up and gripped the saddle horn. Now all she had to do was get her foot into the stirrup.

On her third attempt, Ben caught her boot heel in his palm and lifted her foot into the iron crescent. Jessamyn sucked in her breath as her muscles rebelled. Without a word, the sheriff dipped at the knees and put one hand and his shoulder under her backside. His palm scorched the skin under her denims like a red-hot brand. Miss Bennett would have fainted dead away!

The instant he touched her he stopped whistling, but he did not remove his hand. Heat surged through the lower half of her body, searing her backside into reluctant awareness.

He pushed, and she flew upward. Stunned, she swung her leg over the horse’s rump and settled into the saddle.

Ben mounted his gelding and with a click of his tongue moved off ahead of her. Jessamyn sat motionless for a full minute before she urged the mare forward, pulling her hat brim low against the blinding sunlight bathing the trail.

She didn’t belong out here in the middle of nowhere on
a horse she could barely ride. No matter how much she wanted to gather material for her newspaper, she wasn’t equipped for this kind of life. If it weren’t for Ben Kearney, she would be cold, hungry and lost.

At the thought, she tossed her head in defiance. If it weren’t for Ben Kearney, she’d be home in her own blissfully soft bed with Cora downstairs banging the breakfast frying pan onto the iron cookstove and the scent of roses floating on the still morning air.

She resented her dependence on the sheriff. She’d been self-sufficient all her adult years, and dependence frightened her. The minute you relied on a person, they deserted you. Papa had left to come out West; Mama had died and left her alone.

What if something happened to Ben out here in the wilderness? Without him, she would be completely helpless.

Besides that, she had this odd fluttering in her belly when he so much as helped her onto her horse. Damn the man!

Jessamyn ground her teeth in frustration and kicked the mare into a faster pace. All the discomfort and unease would be worth it in the end, she supposed, when she published her first edition. She’d think about that, not her chafed inner thighs. And not Ben Kearney.

Jolting over the narrow, twisting trail, choking on the dust kicked up by Ben’s horse ahead of her, she began to compose in her head the first paragraph of her lead story.

Late in the afternoon the trail disappeared. The horses clattered over rocks for a quarter of an hour, and then halted at the entrance to a deep, narrow canyon. Jessamyn craned her neck to see the sun.

Three hours until dark, she judged. As far as she could tell, they weren’t anywhere near Black Eagle’s camp.

She peered beyond Ben. A steep rock face rose on both sides of them, cutting out sunlight and dissipating the hot wind that had blown all morning. The mare’s hooves rang against the stones as they descended into the cool shade,
fragrant with pine and spruce. Sheer rock walls faced her on all sides, and at the far end a waterfall tumbled. There was no way out.

Ben twisted in the saddle, motioning toward the spill of water. Was he going to give her another drenching in an icy bath? He moved forward, and she hesitated. Then, with a shudder, she kicked the mare. She had no choice but to follow him.

They walked their mounts beside a narrow, gurgling stream that flowed to the end of the canyon and disappeared into a gaping rock cave. As they drew near the falls, Ben shouted something and pointed. The roar of the water drowned out his words. Mist swirled around her, and the mare whinnied nervously.

Ben stopped the gelding close to the water’s edge, then turned in the saddle. Satisfied that she was still following him, he plunged into the blue-green pool and ducked under the falls. Jessamyn gasped. The sheriff simply vanished, horse and all.

Impossible, she reasoned. He had merely ridden smackdab under the waterfall. Lord in heaven, he expected her to do the same! Following this man was an adventure in itself.

With care she stepped her mare into the water. Drawing a deep breath, she clapped her hat on tight, closed her eyes and nudged the animal under the falls.

The water hit her like an avalanche of rocks pounding down onto her head and shoulders. For an agonizing moment she couldn’t breathe, and then suddenly the roaring ceased. The horse plodded into an echoey cavern hidden behind the falls. Jessamyn opened her eyes.

The trail slanted almost straight up, winding between shoulder-high graygreen lichen-covered rocks. After another twenty yards she emerged into warm afternoon sunshine. Beyond, a high, green valley opened before her. Surely she must be dreaming—the vista seemed to rise from nowhere!

Wisps of smoke curled from numerous tiny campfires, drifting into the blazing blue sky like ghostly wraiths. Cone-shaped tents dotted the valley floor, surrounded by thick stands of sugar pines and cedars. From the top pole of the largest structure hung a flowing horse’s tail. Jessamyn caught her breath.

Black Eagle’s camp.

Ben headed his gelding down the steep incline. Steam rose from his clothing as the sun hit his sodden garments. Shrouded in mist, he looked like some otherworldly creature from a myth or a fairy tale. Lancelot, perhaps. Or— God help her—the devil himself. Without a backward glance, she snapped the reins and followed the unearthly figure down the mountainside.

Nearing the encampment, Ben slackened his pace and reined the gelding to fall in step beside her. “Stay close,” he cautioned. “These Indians don’t see many white women.”

Jessamyn started. She was riding into the camp of fearsome savages with a moody, enigmatic man she barely knew. She shuddered. Under the damp plaid shirt, her heart pounded at twice its normal rate.

Ben wanted her to stay close to him? He’d laugh if he guessed how desperate she suddenly felt not to let him out of her sight!

Buckskin-clad children tumbled out of the tipis, pointing and chattering as she and the sheriff rode into camp. A young woman, her back bent under a load of firewood, watched them with hard black eyes. An older woman, dressed in baggy buckskin pants and a tattered canvas shirt, spoke brusquely and the girl resumed her work, dumping the wood near a central fire pit. Jessamyn saw the girl sneak a surreptitious peek at her, and she tried to smile. Her lips seemed frozen. She realized her jaws were clamped tightly shut.

Ben raised his hand and said something to the old woman in a strange-sounding language. The woman’s rheumy eyes
widened. She dropped her load of sticks and brush and disappeared into the largest tipi.

The sheriff brought the gelding to a halt. Indians poured out of the tents, half-clothed braves with yellow and black designs painted on their bare chests, young girls with curious dark eyes and shy smiles, another old woman, her face creased with wrinkles like a dried prune. All gathered in a circle around them, whispering and pointing.

One of the old women edged forward. With a quick, furtive gesture, she fingered Jessamyn’s denim pant leg.

“Don’t be frightened,” Ben intoned.

“Won’t be,” she lied over the thumping of her heart.
Frightened?
She was terrified! She almost screamed at the slight tug on her trouser hem.

“Don’t let your horse drift.”

“Wouldn’t,” she managed. She’d stick to the sheriff’s side like ink on a dry roller.

“And,” Ben breathed, giving her a quick sidelong look, his gray-blue eyes serious, “no matter what, don’t open your mouth!”

Jessamyn sucked in a lungful of woodsmoke-scented air. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

This time it wasn’t a lie. She’d never felt so frightened in all her life. Fifty pairs of dark, wary eyes stared at her so intently the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

Then a small spotted dog wriggled out of the arms of a solemn-faced, black-haired boy and danced around the mare’s forelegs, yapping in high, exuberant tones. The mare sidled, and Ben reached down and grabbed her bridle.

The dog—an overgrown puppy, Jessamyn realized— leaped and barked. Finally an old woman—the same one Ben had spoken to—scooped it up and plopped it onto Jessamyn’s lap. Shivering with joy, the pup slathered its tongue over her chin, and everyone laughed.

Ben shot her the briefest of smiles. Jessamyn held tight to the dog, her first friend in this alien place. It was fat and
warm and squirmy, and she laughed out loud. The sound was echoed by the growing circle of sun-bronzed faces.

She scratched its muzzle, and the animal settled into her lap, laid its head on two floppy front paws and closed its eyes.

Again the crowd murmured. Jessamyn began to breathe normally again. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The flap of the largest tipi suddenly snapped open and a tall, imposing man appeared. A headdress of feathers cascaded down the back of his fringed buckskin overshirt, and around his neck hung a necklace of shells and bits of fur. Or hair, Jessamyn thought with a start. Lord in heaven, maybe they were scalps!

Her hand stilled on the puppy’s warm head as the olive-skinned figure stalked toward them, his stance erect Jessamyn noted his buckskin breeches were worn through at the knees, but that did not lessen the aura of command that emanated from him. It had to be Black Eagle.

Five braves formed a phalanx around him, and behind them appeared the exquisite Indian girl Jessamyn had seen in town—Ben had called her Walks Dancing.

Black Eagle raised one arm. “It has been a long time, Iron Hand. You are welcome at my camp.”

Iron Hand?
Ben was called Iron Hand? Jessamyn made a mental note to remember the name for her news story. She resisted the impulse to dig her pencil and notebook out of the saddlebag; she didn’t want to disturb the lump of fur snoozing on her lap.

Ben inclined his head. “My thanks, Black Eagle.”

Black Eagle’s eyes snapped with interest. “That is your woman?”

Ben hesitated a fraction of a second. “That is my woman,” he acknowledged. “She is called Jessamyn.”

“Jessamyn,” the chief repeated. His black eyes studied her at length. “Has she good teeth? And a strong back?”

Jessamyn gasped. She opened her mouth to speak, then
caught Ben’s warning look. She closed her lips and waited to hear what the sheriff would say.

“Her back is strong, my friend. Her teeth—” he shot her a devilish grin “—I have not yet tested.”

Jessamyn firmed her mouth into a thin line. She felt like a piece of horseflesh being assessed for its age.

Black Eagle grunted. “You have not been long together, I see. Take my advice, old friend. Give her something to chew—many deer hides.”

Ben’s chuckle sent a bolt of fury into Jessamyn’s brain. She didn’t dare look at him. If he laughed at her, she knew she’d never be able to keep her mouth shut. Teeth, indeed!

Black Eagle pointed to the tent just behind his. “You and your woman will sleep there, Iron Hand.”

Ben nodded.

Jessamyn blinked. In the same tent? Just the two of them?

“In the morning,” the chief continued, “we will talk. Tonight we will smoke together and tell stories.”

“I am honored, Black Eagle.”

The old man nodded. “Go now and rest. My daughter, Walks Dancing, will bring food.”

The chief turned away. The circle of braves closed around him as he moved with regal steps toward the large centrally positioned tipi and stepped through the entrance.

Walks Dancing crept forward, addressed some words to Ben in the strange, lilting language, and lifted the puppy from Jessamyn’s lap. Ben released the mare’s bridle and dismounted, then positioned himself beside Jessamyn’s horse and reached up for her. In a single motion, he lifted her out of the saddle and set her on her feet before him.

He kept his hands at her waist. “Jessamyn,” he said in a low voice, “can you stand up?”

“I—I think so.”

“When I release you, I’m going to walk to that tipi behind Black Eagle’s. If you can walk, follow me. If you think you can’t, let me know now.”

Jessamyn nodded her understanding. “I can, Ben,” she whispered. “Just…don’t walk too fast.”

Chuckling, Ben pivoted and moved off ahead of her. Jessamyn inhaled a slow breath and took a tentative step forward. Her legs shook, but they both moved. She gauged the number of steps to the tipi entrance. Twelve, maybe. Surely she could manage twelve steps?

To her left, Walks Dancing advanced in her odd, lurching gait, grasped the bridles of both mounts, one in each hand, and led them away to be picketed. Jessamyn took another unsteady step and gazed after the slim figure in complete and heartfelt understanding. How terrible to be crippled for life. For Walks Dancing, no bath in an icy mountain pool would return the use of her twisted limbs.

Five steps to go. Moving as deliberately as he could, Ben had already reached the tipi. He pulled aside the flap, hesitated, then disappeared inside. With a final glance at Walks Dancing’s laborious progress toward the edge of camp, Jessamyn followed him into the stretched skin enclosure.

Inside the tipi, the dusky light of early evening glowed against the smooth hide walls. Cool air met her, laced with the pungent scent of warm earth and sassafras. A single pallet, as wide as it was long and covered with dark furs, lay in the center; the rest of the floor area was carpeted with a thick layer of pine boughs.

Ben took her arm and lowered her to a sitting position on the soft pelts, then knelt before her on one knee. “Black Eagle honors us as his guests. After we’ve eaten, I’ll go parley with him and his warriors.”

“What about me?”

“You’ll stay here,” Ben responded. “White women are not allowed at Black Eagle’s council fire.”

“But—”

Ben looked into her face. “Please, Jessamyn. I need to dig some information out of Black Eagle. He’s a tough old man, canny as they come, and the matter is delicate. Ranchers
have been losing cattle. They’re convinced the Indians are stealing them.”