Montana Wildfire (7 page)

There was one other consideration: telling Jake who the brat was. Amanda couldn't do that. If she told him Roger was Edward Bannister's son, what would prevent Jake from recovering Roger, then holding the boy for ransom? God, she'd never get
any
of her hard-earned salary that way!

Amanda made the conscious decision to lie. She also decided she'd best make her lies believable, and she'd best tell them right the
first
time. She doubted Jake would give her two chances to answer his questions. He'd already made it clear he'd just as soon turn his back and walk away from all this. And she couldn't, under any circumstances, let that happen.

"Too many questions too fast, princess?" Jake drawled, the cocky grin still in place. He could see her mind working and knew she was about to concoct some hairbrained story. For the sheer pleasure of watching her squirm, he decided to let her do exactly that. It wouldn't matter; whatever she said, he wouldn't help her. But at least his curiosity would be satisfied. "Tell you what. I'll make it easy for you. How about if I ask them one at a time? Will that help?"

"Why, yes, I think it would," Amanda answered sweetly, through only slightly clenched teeth.

"Who's the brat?"

"Roger Lennox, my cousin."

Jake nodded. "Where are you going and why?"

"To Pony, Montana. Roger's father lives there, and we're paying him a visit." Ah, now
that
was the truth. It soothed her conscience to be honest with him at least once. She commended herself on doing better than she'd thought she would. And then Amanda saw his eyes widen at her answer, and she wondered if perhaps she wasn't doing poorly alter all.

"Pony?" he nearly choked on the word.
"Pony?
Jesus, lady, do you know you're in
Idaho?"

Her shoulders squared, her back drew up in a rigid line that would have made Miss Henry beam. "Of course I know. Roger wanted to see the scenery."
Idaho!
Amanda thought.
Good God, how did we get there?
"As I recall, Mr. Chandler, that wasn't one of your original questions."

"I said 'for starters' Last question. Where are you from that you talk so prissy? And why the hell aren't you on a stage right now, the way any woman with a lick of sense would be?"

"That's two questions." The glare he shot her told her not to argue, just to answer. "I'm from... Boston" It wasn't really a lie, she told herself. She'd come from Boston, just not originally. Originally, she was from Washington. She saw no need to elaborate about that. It was none of his business.

"Boston?"
He shook his head. "That figures."

The way he said the word made it sound more like the vilest of curses instead of the prospering city it was, but she ignored the outburst. "Roger and I
did
take the stage to Virginia City, Mr. Chandler. Before that we were on a cramped, smelly, dusty, dirty railroad car. And before
that
—
"

"The stage runs right through Pony. You know that, right?"

"I was informed of such."

"Yeah? So why aren't you on it, Miss Lennox?"

Amanda shrugged, as though the reason wasn't important. But it was. Even now, she fumed over the incident that had happened almost two weeks before.

"Well?" Jake pressed impatiently.

"Roger hid the tickets."

Jake grumbled something under his breath. Since his tone was gruff, she presumed it was one of the graphic swears he seemed so fond of muttering. "Now, lady. Why aren't you on a stage
now?"

She scowled. "I just told you. Roger hid the tickets. We missed the stage. Since I knew Pony wasn't too far away, and since the next stage wouldn't come through until the next morning, I rented two horses and... well, you know the rest."

She didn't add that she'd made the decision impulsively, and only because the thought of being shackled to Roger Thornton Bannister III for
even twenty-four hours
longer than was necessary was more repellent to her than eating live worms. She'd wanted to unload the little monster on his father as soon as possible and be rid of him. She hadn't counted on getting lost in the thick, mountainous woods of Montana. No, she corrected herself with a mental shiver...
Idaho.

"You rented horses?" Jake asked, and he rubbed a palm down his jaw as though he couldn't quite comprehend her reasoning.

"Oh, yes." She grinned brightly. "It seemed fitting, since Roger hates to ride. Do you have any more questions before we leave?" He
had
decided to help her, hadn't he? She eyed him closely. His chiseled copper face was as readable as a stone, his steely gaze narrow and guarded. There was no deciphering him. He could be thinking almost anything.

"You rented horses," he muttered again, telling Amanda he hadn't gotten past that point in her story. "Jesus! I've never heard of anyone doing anything so pompous—not to mention hairbrained
stupid!—
in my life. Not knowing where you were going, or how to get there, you and the brat just put your noses in the air and rode right out of town. Then promptly got lost."

"We did
not
'promptly get lost!' " Amanda wished her ankle didn't hurt so badly. She would have loved to show this man in deed, not words, how much his statement grated... because what he accused her of was exactly what had happened. Except for the 'promptly' part. It had taken two good hours after they'd left Virginia City for her to figure out they were hopelessly lost.

"How long have you been wandering around out here?"

"Three days," she lied. It was closer to two weeks. A technicality he didn't need to know about, she decided.

"Three days?" Jake gave a derisive snort and shook his head. There was no way she could have come so far in so short a time; which meant he'd just caught her in her first lie. "Yeah, I'd say you're lost all right. In good weather it's less than a day's ride between The Virgin and Pony."

"All right, so we got sidetracked," she admitted grudgingly, then promptly changed the subject. "I've answered your questions. Now, are you going to help me find Roger or aren't you? And if whoever took him left tracks, shouldn't we be out there following them before they get cold, or blow over, or do whatever it is hoof-prints do?"

We. Amanda thought it was the "we" that brought that sudden tension to his chiseled face and steely eyes. Her poor choice of words implied she assumed he would help. His tight expression said that Jacob Blackhawk Chandler didn't appreciate
anyone
assuming
anything
about him.

In the time it took Jake to make up his mind, Amanda, born with a gift for worrying, had thought of countless thousands of hideous fates that might have befallen poor Roger. Each was more gruesome than the last. She didn't dare mention any of them to her stone-faced companion, since most involved bloodthirsty savages, razorsharp knives, and unattached scalps...

Her gaze dropped to the sheathed knife cradled against his taut hip. She remembered the long blade, the metal as cold and as sharp as Jake Chandler's eyes. She thought of the way he'd expertly wielded the weapon, as though it was an extension of himself; something deadly, but precious all the same.

Didn't
real
Indian's carry knives like that one—and use them with the same degree of lethal accuracy? Yes, they did. And why hadn't she thought about that
before?
But Amanda knew why. Everything about him—his clothes, his speech, his attitude—had blinded her to his heritage. Until now. But facts were facts. This man was part Indian, part savage. He'd already proven his disposition to be more wild and dangerous than most, his temper easily leashed, but just as easily aroused.

Amanda called herself all sorts of a fool for offering the man money to help her. Obviously, the situation had clouded her judgment. But she was thinking clearly now... and what she was thinking was that spending time alone in this man's company might not be wise. Or healthy.

"I'm leaving," she said suddenly, and pushed awkwardly away from the tree. She hadn't thought it possible for her ankle to throb more than it already did. The second she put weight on it, she knew she was wrong.
God, that hurt!
Pain edged her voice, making her tone sharp. "With or without your help, Mr. Chandler, I am going to find my cousin."

All of her training at Miss Henry's Academy for Young Ladies was called upon to walk with dignity out of that clearing. Her ankle throbbed mightily, her temples ached from gritting her teeth. She was wet and chilly, and her damp skirt kept twisting around her legs, trying to trip her. A lady did not let such obstacles overcome her. A lady was proud and dignified. A lady did not, even when provoked, say the words Amanda wanted so badly to say as soon as she was out of Jake's range of hearing.

What a lady thought, however, was her own business. Inwardly Amanda cursed him with a vengeance.

She hadn't convinced Jake to help her. She couldn't say she was surprised. From the first, he hadn't struck her as the type whose services could be bought—at any price, for any reason unless it was his own. Now that she thought about it, she'd probably offended him by offering the money in the first place.

Amanda was now left in the unpleasant position of having to find Roger herself. She would have laughed, had she seen anything to laugh about. There was nothing.

After taking a dry skirt and blouse from her saddle bag, she quickly changed, then scrambled atop the chestnut mare. Climbing into the saddle proved even easier than she'd hoped it would be. Following the tracks of whoever had taken Roger was going to be infinitely more difficult.

It was as she was studying the ground from her perch in the saddle, trying to decide what looked like hoof-prints and what did not, that Amanda had the unsettling feeling of being watched. Closely. A tingle of...
something
raced up her spine and pricked the golden wisps at the nape of her neck. She stiffened, and her gaze snapped over her shoulder.

Jake Chandler was sitting astride a striking white palomino horse that, on closer inspection, had a handwoven blanket thrown over its back, but not the befitting saddle. Despite the lack, his seat was straight and perfect.

Their gazes met and held. Green silently asked a question of granite-hard silver. Silver answered, reluctantly.

Amanda sat back in shock. Her head still reeling with surprise, she saw Jake reach up and—could it be?—politely tip his hat to her. So, she'd convinced him to help after all. Now why didn't she feel relieved?

"I'll warn you now, I'm no great tracker," he said as he leaned back and studied her. "You should know that up front."

"That's all right," she replied cautiously, "neither am I."

"And
I'll
want my money as soon as the brat's been found."

She nodded, still unable to believe she'd convinced him to help her; still not sure whether she should be glad she had. "Yes, of course."

"Once my job's over, once you have your cousin back, I ride out. No questions asked."

"All right."

He sighed, and crossed his hands over the white's sleek neck. "You'll do as I tell you,
when
I tell you to do it?"

"I..." Oh, why not? It was too late to stop lying now. "Yes."

"You won't argue or complain?"

"Rarely." Well, she thought it only fair to warn him about that. While she might be a coward, she wasn't meek and mild. When her hackles were raised, people knew it. Now that she thought about it, that was one of the reasons Miss Henry had politely asked her to leave the Academy—before the last term was over.

Jake nodded. "Good enough. Well, don't just sit there, princess. Come on. The tracks lead this way."

"But I thought you said you didn't...?" Her mouth snapped shut. It was too late. Jake was already guiding his horse through the woods. If he'd heard her, he gave no sign.

Amanda reined in the mare, and, with a gentle flick of her wrist, began threading her way past the trees, following in Jake Chandler's wake.

Try as she might, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just made the biggest mistake of her life.

It was an hour past dusk when Jake gave the signal to stop.

Amanda glanced at his upraised arm. Her cynical gaze snagged on the way he inclined his head and nodded to the small, moonswept, oval-shaped clearing bordered by pine trees, which their horses had just stepped into.

Apparently this was where he'd decided they would make camp for the night. Of course, she was just guessing about that. The only way to know for sure would be if he'd stopped to consult her about where
she
thought they should stop, and when. He hadn't. Jake had decided the matter for himself. And that annoyed her.

Her gaze narrowed as she glared at the back of that large copper hand. In one sweeping glance she assessed the arrogant set of his shoulders and the casual way his body swayed atop the glistening white horse he was reining in.

He pulled his mount to a stop, then slid lithely to the ground. Not once did he look and see if she was doing the same. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely as he led the white over to a low-hanging branch, looped the reins around it, then swaggered—not walked,
swaggered—
into the thick, rustling coat of underbrush.