Lynna Banning (12 page)

“Oh, merciful heavens,” she cried. “It’s a woman! And a—And a—Oh!” She broke off as awareness dawned. Her mouth dropped open in shock..

That did it. He pushed her back down onto the soft fur. “Don’t listen,” he growled. He rolled her away from him, stretched out beside her close enough to reach her if he extended his arms but not close enough to touch her with any part of his body.

“I can’t help but hear them,” she whispered. “They’re…that’s…incredible,” she finished on a ragged breath. “Do people really…”

“Yes, people
really,”
Ben said through gritted teeth. “Now shut up and lie still.” He snaked one arm out and slid his hand under the side of her head. With his other hand he covered her exposed ear.

“Don’t listen, understand?” he breathed near her temple. Under his fingers he felt her head move up and down in a nod. He pressed both palms tight against her ears.

And don’t talk,
he added to himself.
For God’s sake, don’t say anything even remotely suggestive.
Even if an emotional tie was the last thing on earth he wished for, he was only a man, and he sure as hell had a man’s needs. Right now he wasn’t so sure that his scruples about taking virgins hadn’t been left back in Wildwood Valley.

Then Jessamyn did the one thing he’d never expected. She inched backward until her spine pressed against his chest. Her jean-clad buttocks teased his aching groin.

His body flamed into desire. If she so much as moved, he’d—

She didn’t. She lay still against him, letting his hands cover her ears against the guttural, panting sounds of lovemaking just a few feet away. Ben tried not to think about
what was going on in the adjacent tipi, tried instead to keep his trembling body from exploding with pent-up need.

It seemed like hours before the noises finally trailed off. When he could hear the usual night sounds again—an owl’s soft call from a nearby thicket, the sigh of the wind through the sugar pines—he lifted his palms from her ears.

Without a word, Jessamyn turned toward him. Tears sheened her cheeks. She swiped at them with fingers that shook, then buried her face in her hands.

“Jessamyn?” Ben found it difficult to speak her name. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she sobbed. “Those sounds. Hearing them made me feel funny inside.”

Ben winced. “I’m sorry, Jess. That’s something no lady should ever have to hear.”

Jessamyn raised her head. “Oh, no, Ben,” she breathed. “You’re wrong. I thought it was…” She hesitated, searching for a word. “Beautiful.”

Ben jerked upright. What in the hell? This prim, overstarched Yankee lady with refined manners and too many petticoats thought the act of love between a man and a woman was…beautiful? He wondered if her empty belly was causing her to hallucinate.

He scrabbled in his pocket for the bit of dried venison and his pocketknife. “Here,” he managed. “Have some jerky.”

Jessamyn shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry now. Save it for breakfast.”

She stifled a yawn, turned away from him and curled up on the thick fur. “Go to sleep, Ben,” she said over her shoulder. “Tomorrow I’ll make some notes about what I learned today.”

After a moment she gave a soft laugh. “And what I learned tonight,” she added in a drowsy voice. “It ought to sell newspapers like sarsaparilla on the Fourth of July!”

A soft scratching on the outside of the tipi roused Jessamyn from a fitful sleep. She opened her eyes to daylight
and the sight of Ben’s bare forearm draped across her midriff. His hand, palm down, the fingers loosely curled, lay on the fur pallet near her breast. She was trapped inside the curve of his arm.

Afraid to waken him, she lay perfectly still. Oh, if Miss Bennett saw her now, lying next to a sleeping man, whatever would she think? She was fully clothed, but even so, her entire being, right down to her toes, felt the heat of Ben’s body. She pondered the delicious new sensation.

The scratching resumed. She raised her head a fraction of an inch. “Who’s there?” she whispered.

The flap lifted, and Walks Dancing poked her head inside. The Indian girl beckoned, then her small, solemn face broke into a smile as she perceived Jessamyn’s dilemma. She couldn’t move a muscle without waking Ben.

Her smile broadening, Walks Dancing pantomimed a solution. Jessamyn shook her head, but at the girl’s repeated unspoken urging, she decided she had to try it. It was either that or lie imprisoned and hungry until Ben awoke.

Very slowly, she slid her own small hand under the sheriffs larger one, lifted it and gently resettled it on his thigh. Her fingers brushed his jeans as she slipped her hand free. Ben mumbled something in his sleep but did not stir.

Silent as a cat, Jessamyn rolled free. When Walks Dancing motioned her outside, she rose to a standing position. Making as little noise as possible, she pulled off her remaining boot. Before she took a step, she gazed down at the figure sleeping at her feet. It was the first time she had allowed herself to really look at this remote, mysterious man.

Tousled black hair, laced with silver and long enough to touch the top of his ear, framed a lean, angular face bronzed by years of exposure to the sun. She bent closer, studying him. Awake, he reminded her of a tiger—quiet and purposeful. Asleep, he looked quite human.

Long dark lashes fanned the high cheekbones. She studied
his mouth, the lips firm and nicely curved, watched his nostrils flare as he drew air in, breathed it out in a slow, even rhythm. She fought an inexplicable urge to smooth her fingertip across his lips, coax them apart. She blushed at her audacity.

A softly spoken phrase in the mellifluous Indian language jerked her to attention. She tore her gaze away from Ben and crept in silence through the tipi entrance and out into the hot morning sunshine.

Walks Dancing pivoted and headed for the wind-stunted pine grove at the edge of camp. Barefooted, Jessamyn followed, grateful that this morning she could move with relatively little pain. She caught up with the Indian girl within three strides. The hard-packed earth radiated warmth into the soles of her feet.

Just beyond the trees a lazy stream widened into a clear turquoise-green pool, obscured by drooping cottonwoods around the perimeter. Walks Dancing pointed, then unwound her braid, stripped off her buckskin dress and leggings and plunged into the water.

Jessamyn gaped. On land the Indian girl moved in halting, labored steps. In the water she cavorted like a water sprite.

Quickly she shrugged free of the rumpled plaid shirt she’d slept in for two nights and unbuttoned her jeans. She dipped her bare toes into cool, inviting water. Pulling off her thin chemise and cotton drawers, she unpinned her hair, letting the heavy tresses swing loose. She took a deep breath and splashed into the water, wading out until it reached her waist.

Walks Dancing swam in circles around her, chattering in her strange tongue, while Jessamyn scooped handfuls of the chilly water over her neck and chest. Finally she spread her arms and submerged her entire body in the pool.

Cold stabbed her, then faded as she breaststroked in a lazy arc. Following Walks Dancing’s example, she ducked her head below the surface, finger-combing her hair underwater
to wash away the trail dust. Swimming to the edge, she plucked her shirt and smallclothes from the bank and dunked them in the pool, as well.

Walks Dancing broke off a leafy cottonwood branch. Using a series of gestures, the Indian girl showed Jessamyn how to scrub the garments against a rock.

When she finished the task, she tossed the sodden shirt and underclothes onto the grassy bank and scrambled out of the pool after them. She spread the garments over a bush to dry, then stretched out full-length in the warm sun. Walks Dancing joined her, and the two lazed away the better part of an hour in companionable silence.

She must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing she knew, a horse crashed through the tangled underbrush, blundering into the sheltered copse on the other side of the pool. Jessamyn glimpsed a dun-colored pony, a half-naked Indian brave on its back.

The horse stood, its sides heaving, and the brave slipped off. Unaware that he was being watched, he draped the animal’s reins over an overhanging pine branch and loped off toward the camp.

Walks Dancing snorted a word into the quiet. Without a sound, she rose, dressed herself and went to rub the horse down with a handful of dry grass.

Jessamyn lifted her still-damp drawers from the bush. Ignoring the chill from the wet material, she pulled the garment on anyway, then donned her chemise and buttoned her shirt over it. She had just stepped into her jeans when Walks Dancing whistled to her. The girl pantomimed spooning food into her mouth. Was she hungry?

Jessamyn nodded. She was starving!

Her olive-skinned companion grinned, patted the pony’s neck and slipped past her. Just as Jessamyn turned to follow, something caught her eye.

A metallic glint riveted her attention on the blanket roll tied on the pony. She moved forward. With careful fingers she lifted the cover.

A polished blued-steel gun muzzle poked from the woolen material. Jessamyn sucked in her breath. She’d been told the Indians had no weapons save for their lances and bows. What would a Klamath brave be doing with a rifle?

Walks Dancing called out, her voice carrying through the trees. Hurriedly Jessamyn shoved the gun back under the blanket. Had she been misinformed? Were the Indians now allowed to have firearms? If they were, why was the weapon carried as it was, concealed under the blankets?

A shiver crawled up her spine. Every instinct told her something was wrong. She didn’t know what, just… something. She had to tell Ben.

She forgot all about breakfast. Wheeling in her tracks, Jessamyn headed toward camp and the man she’d left sleeping in the tipi.

B
en studied the carefully expressionless face of the old Indian chief who sat across from him sharing a meager breakfast of baked acorn dough and sweetened tea. For the past hour he and Black Eagle had fenced in two languages trying to discover each other’s secrets. Again and again the canny old man evaded Ben’s careful, probing questions. The Indian knew something, but damned if Ben could wrestle it out of him.

In turn, Black Eagle queried him about one apparently unrelated thing after another. About Jessamyn—was she willing? How many times? How was it when he was with her? About his family, his brother, Carleton, and Ella, his wife. About plans for the railroad to the coast, about the Modoc people herded onto the reservation along with their enemies, the various Klamath tribes—how many warriors? How many women and children? About alfalfa and wheat yields from the valley ranches, then more questions about Jessamyn.

None of Black Eagle’s circular conversation seemed connected. As the sly chief skipped from topic to topic with consummate skill, Ben wondered if he had inadvertently fed the Indian leader a crucial bit of intelligence without realizing it. But if he had, what in the hell was it? What was Black Eagle after?

Or was he mainly interested in Ben’s relationship with “his woman"? Over and over, Black Eagle asked about her. Was she intelligent? Were her hips wide for childbearing? Did she cry out during the act? Ben clenched his jaw at the sparkle of delight in the old man’s eyes. His neck muscles tightening, he worked to erase the frown of annoyance he knew creased his brow. If Black Eagle suspected his guest’s patience had worn thin, sure as beans and bacon the old chief would use the knowledge to his advantage.

But goddammit, no more about Jessamyn! He’d lain awake most of the night throbbing with need for the Yankee lady who’d kept him off balance since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. The last thing he wanted to think about was her soft, pliant body curled in his arms all night, her backbone pressing into his chest, her bottom snugged against his thighs until he ached with desire.

“Pain,” Black Eagle had told him years ago, “makes a man think. Thought makes him wise, and wisdom makes life endurable.” Now the old man’s words haunted him.

Ben’s pulse pounded. He’d bet the old chief hadn’t meant that particular type of pain. This discomfort had nothing to do with a man’s rational thought process. Quite the opposite. His brain would explode if he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts soon.

He shot a surreptitious glance at Black Eagle. How much did the old man guess about Ben’s real reasons for visiting the Indian camp? Did he suspect Jessamyn was not really his woman? That she accompanied him to discover something about her father’s murder?

A smile quirked the chief’s otherwise impassive countenance, and Ben sucked in his breath. Fathomless black eyes surveyed him from under motionless shaggy brows. The Indian was a master at deception.

“You dance well, my friend,” Ben said, keeping his voice even. “The music of your mouth is as subtle as your
footsteps. In these many hours I have learned little of importance.”

Black Eagle nodded. “Tell me then what you wish to discover.”

Ben laughed softly. “I grow weary of this game, Black Eagle. I speak plainly, yet you reply in riddles.”

“Ho!” The old man chuckled. “A man has a tongue with which to speak, and words to hide his thoughts. Your tongue, my friend, is as nimble as a young deer.”

Ben shrugged. “My tongue grows numb with wagging.”

“It is necessary.” Black Eagle made a show of sipping from the soapstone tea bowl, but a shadow fell across his face. “The Indian way of life is dying.” His voice dropped to a throaty whisper, and he sipped again. “As a nation, we grow old. Soon we will pass away forever.”

Ben’s gut twisted. He knew what Black Eagle felt. He himself had experienced the same grinding sense of loss in Carolina after the war. An entire era, a civilization he had known and loved, had been wiped from the face of the earth. The old Indian was fighting for survival against an inexorable force with the only weapon he had left—his wits.

Ben laid his hand on Black Eagle’s bony, buckskinsheathed arm. “Old friend, I would aid you if I knew how.”

“Tell me, then,” Black Eagle replied quietly, “how are we to save ourselves? We have little food. Our women grow too weak to bear healthy sons. Our enemy, the people of the Modoc, ride from the south to count coup against us and steal our children. How are we to protect ourselves?”

Ben’s heart faltered. That was it! Black Eagle needed weapons. Guns. But the chief knew guns were forbidden to the Indians. Did Black Eagle think Ben would supply him with illegal rifles?

Impossible. But for the moment, he wouldn’t tell that to the chief. First he would use it as leverage to pry loose the
information
he
needed—who was rustling cows from Wildwood Valley ranches?

It was not Black Eagle, that much Ben knew. But he’d bet a dollar the old chief’s scouts knew who it was. The sharp-eyed Klamath tribes knew everything that went on in these mountains. A sixth sense told Ben the chief knew more than he was telling; that piece of information had to link in some way with Thad Whittaker’s killer.

He raked his fingers through his hair. Time was running out. He didn’t like the way the chief’s interest returned again and again to Jessamyn. For all he knew, one of Black Eagle’s braves would offer to buy her, or—worse—would kidnap her. He had to get her out of camp.

And that meant he’d have to push Black Eagle a bit. Scratching the stubble on his chin, he purposefully uncrossed his legs and made as if to rise.

“Wait!” The chief’s dark eyes expressed what the proud old man could not utter. His people were desperate. Black Eagle was ready to trade information—it was the only thing of value he had left.

Ben hesitated. “I will wait but one hour, old friend. And I will listen. What is it you would say?”

Black Eagle gestured, palms up. “There is one—”

The chief broke off. Jessamyn burst from the trees, striding toward them with determined steps. Her bare feet made no noise, but her hard breathing was audible. She’d been running.

Ben raised his head and stared at her, then sucked air into lungs that seemed suddenly paralyzed. Good God, her hair…

A riot of dark chestnut curls tumbled almost to her waist. In the hot morning sunlight, red-gold highlights gleamed like a nimbus about her head and shoulders. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“Ben,” she panted. “I—I must speak with you!”

He looked away. “Later.” He growled the word over his shoulder.

“No. Now.”

Now?
What the hell was the matter with her? Couldn’t she see that he was busy?

“Ben, it’s important.”

Across from him, Black Eagle folded his gnarled hands into his lap and grinned. “Not beat her enough,” he said in Yurok. The old man’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Or maybe she is again willing?”

“Ben?” Jessamyn tugged on his shirtsleeve. “Please. Come with me—I have something to show you.”

Black Eagle snorted. “Long legs and a smooth belly,” he said in his native language.

Under his breath Ben cursed them both, Black Eagle for his suggestive words—words that called up a vision of Jessamyn naked beneath him, her skin hot and silky—and Jessamyn for her artless blundering into his intelligence negotiations with the Indian chief.

Exasperated, he sent Black Eagle a look of resignation. At the amused look on the old man’s face, Ben narrowed his eyes. Why, the old fox relished his discomfort! The chief couldn’t have engineered a delaying tactic any better if he’d planned it himself.

Furious, Ben slapped his palms on his knees and rose to face Jessamyn. “Say it and be quick about it.”

“Not here.” She plucked at his shirt. “Come with me,” she breathed. “Hurry.”

Black Eagle laughed out loud.

Ben groaned. He gripped Jessamyn’s upper arm and pulled her toward the tipi. Her shirtsleeve was damp. Dark tendrils of her hair brushed against his hand as she moved. It, too, was wet. He inhaled the faint scent of sweet woodruff and clenched his jaw in sudden fury.

“What the hell have you been doing?” The fragrance of her hair made his insides feel weightless.

“Swimming,” she said, catching her breath. “With Walks Dancing. You were asleep, so I—”

With his free hand, Ben reached for the deerskin flap.

“No!” she blurted. “Not in there. In those trees over there,” she whispered.

Ben stilled. Behind him, Black Eagle’s throaty chuckle rose as he slurped from his tea bowl.

“What a woman!” the Indian muttered in Yurok, just loud enough for Ben to hear. “She cannot wait more than one hour. No wonder you look so tired, my friend. You will have many sons!”

Ben gritted his teeth. He walked Jessamyn none too gently into the stand of sugar pines at the edge of camp. Once beyond Black Eagle’s sharp eyes, he pulled her about to face him. “Talk!” he ordered.

She turned out of his grasp and led him to a tired-looking pony, its tail braided in the Indian fashion. Jessamyn flipped back one corner of the blanket tied behind the saddle. “Look.”

Ben stared. “Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

“This Indian man rode in while we were swimming,” Jessamyn whispered. “He didn’t see us. After I got my clothes, I saw something shiny, like metal. So I looked.”

Ben released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding and slipped the rifle partway out of its covering.

A Spencer repeating carbine. Brand-new. Lord God, what a war-hungry Indian could do with such a weapon. He slid the gun back into its hiding place. A brave didn’t carry a rifle. No Indian he ever knew had owned a rifle. Here, right before his eyes, was the piece of information Black Eagle had withheld.

Ben stroked his chin. “Looks like someone is supplying guns to the Indians holed up in these mountains.”

“In exchange for what?” Her quick question startled him. Of course, it would have to be a trade. But the tribe had no money, nothing of value besides a few warm furs and some cooking pots. The only thing the Klamath had now was his eyes and ears and—if he was lucky—his scalp.

His fury evaporated. Weighing the implications of what she’d discovered, his brain made the connection. Black Eagle
needed weapons to protect his people from their traditional enemy, the Modocs. In exchange for rifles, Black Eagle was maintaining silence about something he knew, something about the cattle rustling going on in the valley. The chief must know who was behind it. He kept quiet to avoid jeopardizing his supply of weapons.

“Ben,” Jessamyn whispered. “You look so odd—what is it? Are you angry?”

He drew her away from the pony. “I’ll admit I was ready to strangle you not more than two minutes ago, but not now. Not after what you showed me.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “Because I’m dying of hunger and I know you’ve got some jerky hidden somewhere.”

Ben had to laugh. She was completely unaware of the service she’d done him by discovering that rifle. Now at least one piece of the puzzle fit. All he had to do was pick up the trail of Black Eagle’s scouts; eventually it would lead him to the cattle thief. Whoever it was probably sold the beeves on the hoof in Idaho and used the money to buy rifles from some corrupt army quartermaster at Fort Klamath. Or, more likely, Fort Umpqua.

Ben didn’t realize how swiftly he was moving back toward camp until Jessamyn’s ragged breathing told him she couldn’t keep pace with him. Not with bare feet, anyway. Without thinking, he turned and scooped her up into his arms. She gave a little yelp, but he silenced her with a single hissed word. “Hush!”

He strode into the camp clearing to find Black Eagle sitting exactly where he’d left him. The old chief regarded Ben and Jessamyn with twinkling black eyes. Nodding his head and grinning, he motioned them toward the tipi and made a covert obscene gesture.

Unaccountably, Ben found himself grinning back. No harm if the chief entertained lascivious thoughts at this moment. Acting as if Jessamyn really was “his” woman would mask his discovery of the rifle. He chuckled. He’d
managed to beat Black Eagle at his own game. With Jessamyn’s help, he acknowledged.

A weight lifted from his shoulders. Now he knew how to proceed. The first thing he had to do was get Jessamyn safely away from Black Eagle’s camp and back to town. Then he’d load up a week’s worth of supplies and search the mountains for a hidden cache of army rifles. One of Black Eagle’s scouts would unknowingly lead him right to it.

A heightened state of awareness washed over him, based on a combination of a sleepless night and euphoria over his success. He moved toward the tipi, Jessamyn clasped hard against his chest.

For just a moment he found himself actually looking forward to getting her alone, pretending she did belong to him. God, would he ever stop thinking about her?

The other thing you have to do,
an inner voice reminded as he reached the shelter,
is get Jessamyn out of your arms.
He set her down at the entrance. He’d stay inside the tent with her for about an hour—just long enough to satisfy the imaginings of Black Eagle. Then he’d saddle their horses and depart with the old chief’s blessing. His heart sang. Lord God, he could kiss her!

Jessamyn lifted the deerskin flap and stepped inside. Ben worked to keep his gaze off her gently rounded backside.

Inside, she turned to face him. “Ben, for heaven’s sake, are you going to feed me?” she murmured.

Feed her! His pulse leaped. She didn’t mean it the way he took it, but he had to crush the image that bloomed in his mind. Lord almighty, he was beginning to think like Black Eagle.

“Here. In my pocket.” He felt for the strip of jerky, handed it to her along with his jackknife.

Jessamyn sank onto the soft fur at his feet. The elusive fragrance of her hair wafted upward, and his groin tightened. God help him, he wanted to do more than just kiss her.

From the way she attacked that strip of venison, she could probably spend the entire hour eating. He watched her tongue slip out from between her teeth, her mouth open for the slice of dried meat.