Only My Love (8 page)

"You're awake," he said.

His tone gave nothing away, she noted. He seemed neither pleased nor upset by the fact that she was conscious again. She turned her head slightly, leaning away from her captor to see the terrain and count her companions. There were three other men on horseback, two of whom she remembered from the train. The robber who had forced the doctor to help her, the one she assumed to be the leader, was nowhere in sight.

The ground they were covering was treacherous, steep and rocky. Patches of ice and crusty snow made the climbing slow and the sudden, sharp descents frightening. The man she rode with had positioned her securely in front of him, her hip wedged intimately between his thighs. The saddle horn bore uncomfortably into Michael's flesh as they rode but beside the pain in her jaw it didn't deserve, and didn't get, a second thought.

In addition to the horses and men there were pack mules. Their braying echoed in the narrow passes when they stubbornly refused to follow the lead. The sound of the flicking whips was chilling.

Michael worked her jaw slowly from side to side, realizing for the first time that it wasn't broken. "Where are we?" she asked.

Ethan didn't answer right away. He wanted to enjoy the silence a little longer. It was his opinion that the mules were more sweetly tempered than the woman in his arms. "Rockies," he said.

She sighed. "I
know
that. I want to know where."

"Colorado."

She knew that, too. "Is that the best answer I can expect from you?"

"From me or any of the others."

"We're going to your hideout then?"

"Something like that."

His terse, evasive answers were annoying. Michael's hold on the threads of her patience was tenuous at best. "Why am I with you?" she demanded. The effect of her snapping tone was lost as she winced with pain. She tried to raise her hand to nurse her aching jaw and found it trapped by her captor's arm. "May I?" she asked, gritting her teeth as tears gathered in her eyes.

Ethan loosened his grip and allowed her the use of one hand. It was easier to ride when she was unconscious, or at least unmoving. He needed all his concentration to negotiate the narrow passes and ledges and keep himself, his hostage, and his horse upright.

Michael cupped the side of her swollen face. She imagined she would be black and blue for days. "Why am I with you?" she asked again.

"Because I told Obie you were my wife."

"Your wife!" She had meant to scream the words but Ethan was too fast for her. His hand clamped over her mouth and nose and the words were caught in the heart of his palm. The pressure of his hand nearly caused her to faint from pain and lack of air.

"Shut up and listen for a change!" he said with low, rough menace. "You don't need to comment on everything I say. I'm trying to save your miserable life. Don't make me regret it." He felt her resignation in the relaxing of her posture. She shuddered once as she slumped against him. Ethan moved his hand away cautiously and heard her sip the air gratefully for breath.

When the trail widened, Ethan hung back and let the others go forward. There was some good-natured ribbing when the men became aware of what he was doing. It was the most anyone had talked since leaving No. 349.

Ethan didn't say a word until he was certain they could not be overheard. Even then he kept his voice low. "I told Obie you were my wife because it was safer than what you were going to say."

Michael tried to remember her last words before she was cold-cocked. Frowning, she asked, "How do you know what I was going to say?"

"Because, lady, you're about as easy to read sometimes as a headline. You were about to blurt out that that reporter was your colleague." His tone dared her to say otherwise. "Isn't that right?"

She offered a reluctant yes. "How did you know?"

"He told me," Ethan lied. "When you came running out of the train, hell bent on martyrdom, he told me. Begged me to save your life."

"And you couldn't refuse a dying man's last wish."

"Something like that."

His cold, neutral tone grated on Michael's nerves. "You're really an amoral bastard, aren't you?"

Ethan refused to be riled. "If you say so."

They rode in silence a little while. Ethan knew she was crying, but whether it was for herself or for Drew, he didn't know, and didn't care to know. Eventually he gave her the kerchief from around his neck. "Here. Blow."

Michael accepted it, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. When she tried to return it her gesture was acknowledged with a terse, "Keep it." She stuffed it in the pocket of her duster.

"Couldn't you have left me behind?"

"I don't see how. Telling Obie that you're my wife seems to guarantee that you know who I am. I couldn't leave you once he thought you recognized me. It would put all of us in danger."

Michael levered her head back a little and stared at the hard cast lines of her captor's profile. "It's odd," she said slowly, softly, "but it's as if... I'm not sure... as if I do know you."

Trust her to worry an idea to death, Ethan thought, disgusted. He could see now that she was not going to rest until she placed him. "I don't see how that's possible."

"Neither do I," she admitted. She rested her head against his shoulder again, too tired to think clearly or plot her escape. "What do I call you?"

"Ethan Stone." For the first time in hours he smiled. "It sits better on the tongue than Amoral Bastard."

"So you say."

"I think I better have a name for you," Ethan said when she didn't offer hers.

"Mary Michael Dennehy."

"Dennehy," he repeated softly. God, he had wracked his brain trying to remember her last name. "Irish?"

"On my mother's side. County Clare."

"Catholic?"

"Could Mary Michael be anything else?"

"Well, Mary Michael, I think we'd-"

"It's just Michael. No one calls me Mary."

Ethan's lip curled to one side. "It figures."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He didn't answer her. "I think we'd better put our story together before we get questioned separately and come up with sixes and sevens."

"You make it up. I haven't decided if I'm going along with anything you're doing."

Ethan reined in his mount sharply, nearly dislodging Michael from the saddle. One gloved hand slipped around her throat and drew her back where he could look at her face clearly. His lightly colored blue-gray eyes reflected the cool wash of star shine. "You can't possibly be more stupid than I already think, can you? There isn't any choice of going along or not, not if you want to see the sun rise. Tell me now that you're going to fight me every step of the way and I'll break your neck right here and leave you for carrion."

Michael shivered as much from the whiskey-whispered promise of his tone as the flinty hardness of his eyes.

"Is there anything you don't understand?" he demanded, searching her face.

She replied with a small negative shake of her head.

"Good." He released her throat. "You'd do well to keep in mind that your life doesn't mean half as much to me as my own."

"I'll remember," she said, her voice so small he had to strain to hear it.

"Then you just may come out of this alive." Ethan nudged his horse forward. He opened a few buttons on his leather and sheep's wool coat. "Slip your arms inside. Your hands must be like ice by now."

They were numb with cold but Michael wasn't certain she wanted to be that close to Ethan. Her hesitation was a clear signal.

Ethan shrugged and began to button up again. "Suit yourself."

"No... wait. I am cold. Nearly stiff with it actually."

She didn't feel stiff, Ethan thought as she slid her arms under his coat and around his back. Her movement wedged Michael tighter against him and he was miserably aware of the curve and pliancy of her flesh.

He comforted himself that any female this close to him, practically molded to him, would elicit the same response. It wasn't possible that his body was stirring in reaction to
her.
He needed to think about something else. Quickly.

"Any loose teeth?" he asked.

Michael had already run her tongue across her teeth several times to assure herself they were intact. She did so again. "Nothing loose."

He tried not to sound relieved. "I clipped you pretty hard."

"Mm-hmm."

"I'll have Detra tend to your face once we get where we're going."

"Detra?"

"She looks after us."

Michael wondered if she might find a sympathetic ally in the other woman. "Who are 'us'?" she asked.

"Try to keep your reporter's curiosity in check," he cautioned. "Everything in good time." Ahead of him he saw Happy McAllister approaching. He gave Michael a warning squeeze. "Happy's coming this way. What ever comes up, follow my lead." He felt her cheek brush his chest as she nodded her agreement.

"Something wrong, Happy?" he asked.

"Can't think of a thing," the older man said. He leaned his wiry body forward in the saddle. "'Cept for that bit of sass you got in your arms, I'd say we done ourselves as planned. Trust a female to muck up the works."

Ethan's sentiments exactly. "Michael has that way about her." He felt her stiffen in his arms. Did she think he was going to defend her?

"Michael," Happy said, scratching his stubbly cheek thoughtfully. "Odd moniker for a woman. Can't recollect you ever mentioning her or the fact that you was married."

"That's because I haven't mentioned her. Truth is, Happy, tonight's the first time I've seen my wife in four years."

That made an impression on Happy. He shook his head from side to side. "Well, of all the dag-burned luck. No wonder she didn't recognize you when she clamped eyes on you in first class. Four years. That's a damn long time."

Ethan nodded. "I offered to take the reporter out just to get out of her way. I thought I was safe when she fainted. When she saw me outside without the kerchief I knew I couldn't take any chances. Not after killing the reporter."

"Who was he to her?" Happy asked. "Obie said she tried to tell you both something about him before you punched her."

Ethan searched for something to say.

"Drew Beaumont was my fiancé," Michael interjected. In her ear she felt rather than heard Ethan's low hum of disapproval. "When one hasn't heard from one's husband in four years it's not unnatural to suppose he's dead."

"Or hope that he is," Ethan said, cutting her off before she created a story at odds with what he had already told the others. "I walked out on her, Happy. There's no love lost on her side."

"Hard to believe," Happy said. "You two cuddled there like nip and tuck."

"I haven't been given any choice," Michael said coldly.

"That so?" Happy grinned, showing a line of straight but tobacco-stained teeth. "You could ride with me for a while, Miz Stone."

Before Michael could form a proper protest or retract her statement, Ethan agreed to the plan. "She'll be more comfortable with you anyway, Happy. More room on the saddle."

The two men drew their horses close and Michael was summarily transferred from Ethan's mount to Happy's.

"Mind your manners," Ethan said. The words were not as significant as the look he shot her. Michael felt the blue-gray eyes bore right through her. Without another glance in her direction he urged his horse ahead and was out of earshot in a matter of seconds.

"Well," Happy drawled. "This is cozy."

Michael bit her lower lip. "Mm, yes. Cozy is the word." Ethan had done it to punish her. She felt certain he had known she didn't want to go with Happy. He had to have felt her reluctance to be passed around like so much baggage. "How long have you known my husband, Happy? I heard Ethan correctly, didn't I? Your name's Happy."

"It's not my disposition," he said. "Picked up the name when I was greenhorn cowhand. Cut myself in the face with a bullwhip. Can't see the scar much now, what with the stubble and all, so there's no point in lookin'. Doc said I severed a nerve. Cut it clean in two, he said. Folks were like to point out then that I always looked like I was smilin'. Called me Happy. Just seemed to stick. But like I said, Miz Stone, it's not my disposition."

"I'll try to remember that."

"See that you do." Happy took a pouch of tobacco out of his coat pocket, pinched some off with his thumb and forefinger and packed it between his lower lip and gum. "Known your husband nigh on five months now. That's how long he's been ridin' with us. Newest man. You'll understand if that makes me a tad skeptical of what he says or does."

Michael could only summon a murmur. She wondered how long she could stay in the saddle. Even propped against Happy she was finding it difficult to stay upright. Her fingers ached with cold again and Happy hadn't made the same offer to warm them that Ethan had.

"Now Ben up ahead," Happy went on. "Him and me go way back. He's my half-brother. Same mother, different gamblers. He's a Simpson. I'm a McAllister. Obie Long's been with the gang 'bout two years now. Good kid. Not much fer talkin', especially 'round the ladies, but it don't seem to bother them none. Still waters and all that."