Wildfire in His Arms (16 page)

But one more sting on her back had her yell at Degan, “Get it out!” She quickly unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it off her shoulders. “Hurry!”

He pulled the shirt away from her back and looked down it. After a moment he said, “One just flew off.”

“Are there more? It feels like I've been stung all over my back.”

“The bees are gone, but I see a few red spots and one on the back of your left arm.”

“I
hate
bees.”

“You'll be fine.”

“I'm not so sure. Gran said I had a bad reaction to a bee sting when I was a tyke. I don't remember it, but she always cautioned me to stay away from bees.”

“Maybe she should have warned you not to trip over your feet instead.”

Was that supposed to be a joke? Or was he just trying to distract her from the burning bee stings? Either way, the remark earned him a glare instead of her thanks.

But she gasped when he added, “The one thing I do know about bee stings is that you have to remove the stinger fast or else more venom will get into those wounds. Drop your shirt.”

T
HIS HAD TO BE
the most uncomfortable ride of her life, Max thought for the tenth time, and not because of the welts on her back and her arm that had developed from the bee stings. Those were still burning, but not as badly as before. As long as her shirt didn't rub against them, she could almost ignore them. Almost. And she hadn't been embarrassed when Degan had removed the stingers for her because she hadn't taken off her shirt. She had merely lowered it and then lifted it so he could get at the spots where she'd been stung. But being this close to him . . .

Seated in front of Degan, she couldn't relax or she'd be leaning against Degan's chest. She couldn't keep her legs from touching his because there was nowhere else to put hers. Although she was supposedly leading them, he didn't even give her the reins to do so! And his arms kept touching hers as he guided the animal where she told him to.

This was
so
unnecessary. The way to go was mostly obvious. Then she started feeling things she shouldn't be feeling. It caught her by surprise. The flip of her heart when his leg moved slightly under hers—like a caress. The tingles when his breath touched the back of her neck as he adjusted the reins. The brush of his shoulder when he turned to look behind them made her flush with heat for no reason. The man needed to sit still!

“Put me back on my horse,” she finally demanded. “I can yell at you when you need to turn.”

“Luella didn't have your letter?”

Where the hell did that come from? Or was he just trying to distract her from her bee stings? But she did need ­distracting—from him, so she answered, “She did.”

“Good or bad news?”

“Mostly bad, but confusing, too. And I haven't had a chance to finish reading it.”

“Then finish it. That might clear up your confusion.”

He was right. Even though the letter was disappointing, Gran might have tacked on something hopeful toward the end. Max had taken her coat off when they'd stopped to eat back at the knoll, which was why she'd gotten stung so bad, but she was wearing it now and dug the letter out of her pocket again. A few minutes later she was close to tears. Some of the letter still didn't make sense, but when her grandmother referred again to the tragedy Bingham Hills had had to deal with, the fact that Carl was dead really sank in. She'd clung for so long to the hope that he was alive, that someday she'd be able to go home without having a noose waiting for her. That hope was gone now, and Degan was going to make sure she couldn't avoid that fate any longer.

She stuffed the letter back in her pocket, too despondent to say a word. The rest of letter was about Gran and Johnny and how they were getting on. Johnny had assumed her role as the hunter in the family and Gran's right hand on the farm, but then he didn't have much choice about it. Max and her brother were nothing alike. She took her licks and didn't complain—much. He was a good shot, but he didn't like to hunt or do farm chores. And Max knew Johnny was too sensitive not to be riddled with guilt for letting her take the blame for shooting Carl. She had known her younger brother wouldn't be able to survive alone in the wilderness as she could. So she'd made Gran promise to keep him from making any foolish confessions about his part in the shooting.

Of course, she'd never thought she'd be gone this long. She was the one who should be taking care of Gran. She'd assumed that role as soon as she learned how to shoot, which was right after their pa took off. Johnny had big dreams of seeing more of the world, of becoming a sailor like their father. If none of this had happened, he would probably have left Texas by now. Maybe his wish would come true this year. . . .

“Still confused, or is the bad news even worse?”

The wide path through a gulch had allowed them to ride at a good speed. But deep in thought, she almost missed the easy way out of it, which slowed them briefly to a walk. And why was Degan suddenly showing some curiosity about her situation? Boredom, probably. But maybe she should share the bad news with him. If he had any sort of conscience under his dispassionate exterior, she might at least make him feel a little guilty for being the death of her even if he wouldn't admit it.

“Well, Gran was happy to hear from me since she didn't know if I was still alive. But she wants me to come home because she misses me and she's in bad health.”

“I'm sorry about her health, but is that what confused you? That she would encourage you to go home?”

“That's just it, she said that despite Carl's death, she's sure I'll be dealt with fairly if I just come home and explain my actions. That's what doesn't make sense, since she knows I didn't shoot Carl and I made her promise to keep Johnny from making any fool confessions, so she also knows I'll never say Johnny did it. But it also bothers me that she'd even mention her health. She's always been in good health, and even if she did get sick, she wouldn't complain about it.”

“So you think she didn't actually write the letter?”

Her eyes flared. “That didn't occur to me. I've been too upset that the news wasn't what I'd hoped it would be.”

“Is it your grandmother's handwriting?”

“It looks like it.”

“Did she get mail regularly or would the arrival of a letter for her be a special occasion?”

Max was beginning to feel a tiny spark of hope. “That's why I had Luella send my letter, because Gran never gets mail and the whole town would probably know about the letter before it got into her hands.”

“Who runs the post office in your town?”

“One of Carl's tenants, of course.”

“The discrepancies suggest your letter was intercepted and someone replied with a fake one to encourage you to turn yourself in.”

Max turned and looked at Degan incredulously. “Are
you
suggesting Carl might be alive?”

“No, he's dead. Bingham Hills has gone to too much trouble to get you back, offering such a large reward for your capture and tampering with the mail, for it to be otherwise. But my guess is that your grandmother is probably still in good health.”

She was relieved to hear that, but annoyed that he'd dashed the tiny spark of hope that had barely formed that a noose wasn't waiting for her at home. But she reminded herself that he was the most skeptical man she'd ever met. She wondered if that skepticism came naturally to him or if he'd honed it for his profession.

Then she realized something alarming. “If you're right, then they know where they can find me now.”

“You've already been found—by me.”

And how could she forget that!? She snapped her mouth shut and didn't say another word, deciding to concentrate on a different hope she still had—of getting away from
him
.

A while later, Degan said, “You forgot to mention there would be a river in the way.”

He sounded annoyed, which got a chuckle out of her. “This is one of two that run through here, both forks of Little Boulder River, but I know where to cross 'em.”

Before they came to the crossing they saw a man fishing for his dinner with a pole in one hand and a rifle in the other. Degan rode toward him to show him Cade's poster. The man shook his head but stared at Max, saying, “But you look familiar.” Degan rode on and paused again by a miner panning for gold, to show him the poster. Another shake of the head and they kept on going. They passed two Indian women washing clothes on the riverbank, but Degan didn't pause this time.

After they forded the river they were making good time because many beaten trails were on that side. But eventually they had to slow down because they encountered other people on the trails, mostly new miners. With so much ore found around Helena and Butte, the newcomers were persistent in trying to find a claim of their own. Most of them prospected for a few months, and if they weren't successful, they settled into working on someone else's claim or went home.

When they reached the second river, they were able to ride even faster because of the long stretch of trail near it. Nonetheless, Max was beginning to think she'd underestimated the time it was going to take to reach Butte. It was early evening already and they hadn't even reached the first lake. She wasn't going to say it, but she suspected they were going to have to sleep under the stars tonight. Actually, she was dreading having to mention it. Fancy man obviously wasn't a camping-out sort of gunfighter.

When they reached the wide stretch of flat land north of the first lake, Degan let her get back on her horse. She was too grateful to put some distance between them again to point out they still had a few more trails to follow to get back to the road to Butte. But they rode hard enough now that the big body of water came into view within minutes.

Quite a few camps were around the lake, mostly of miners, some still panning while the daylight lasted, some already cooking their dinner. They passed a family of eight, half of them children, who looked like farmers. Some loners, too, were scattered along the lakeshore. Max smiled as she took in the scene. A regular community was forming here. A lot more folks were here than she'd seen the one other time she had come down this way. The smell of food drifted on the breeze, as well as the sound of someone playing a harmonica.

Max wouldn't mind spending the night there. She just had to tell Degan they couldn't reach Butte before nightfall. They probably could if they started toward it right now, but she could lie and say it wasn't possible. It would give her a chance to wash her other set of clothes. And it would give her one more chance to escape—if Degan couldn't swim. If he couldn't, and she got far enough out into the lake where he couldn't see her anymore, she could slip out of the lake a safe distance away from where he was standing. She didn't favor taking off without her horse or her supplies, but she wasn't in a position to be picky.

But when they dismounted by the biggest group of miners, who were sitting around their campfire, she wasn't so sure she could swim herself. She'd forgotten about those damn bee stings while she was riding, but was painfully reminded of them when her shirt scraped across the welt on her arm as she dismounted. Maybe the water would soothe the stings. And maybe she was desperate enough to ignore the pain.

She was debating whether to take the chance when a man said to her, “Ain't you Max Dawson?”

He said it loud enough that more than one of the miners started toward her. She instinctively reached for the gun on her hip, but it wasn't there! But Degan's was. Suddenly he was standing between her and the miners with his gun in hand. He didn't need to say anything. Most of the men sat back down and tried to avoid his eyes. One miner handed him back the poster that had been passed among them, but he did so hesitantly.

And then one of the men volunteered, “Check further down the lake, mister. There was a suspicious fellow that showed up the other day and hasn't left yet, but I can't say I got a good look at him.”

“Obliged,” Degan replied, and nodded to Max to mount up again.

She did so gladly, only wincing a little as her shirt scraped against the welts again. But so much for staying in
this
area without her gun—or Degan's protection.

He led them to one of the loners sitting at a campfire. She didn't recognize the man from any of the posters, so she was surprised to hear Degan ask, “Kid Cade?”

“No,” the man said warily. “And I ain't never heard—”

Degan drew his gun. The man surrendered instantly, arms raised high. “All right, all right, that's the name I go by! Just don't shoot!”

Max rolled her eyes. Did Degan have that effect on most men, or just the cowardly ones such as Cade? She dismounted when Degan did and turned to look at the lake while he tied up Kid Cade. Her plan might have worked, despite the bee stings, but not with the miners aware of who she was. They'd no doubt help Degan fish her out. She sighed.