near. He could feel it in his gut, and he could feel it at the nape of
his neck, and he could feel it all the way down his spine. Someone was
very near.
'Come on out of there,' he said softly.
'Come on, now. We don't want to hurt anyone here, we just want you to
come on ont.'
The movement had ceased.
Jon was moving up toward the front of the wagon. The horses, still
smelling smoke, whinnied and nickered nervously.
Jamie leaped to the floor of the wagon.
His eyes flickered to the left bunk. There was a long, soft white gown
lain out by the side. It was sleeveless, lowbodiced and lacy, a woman's
nightgown, he thought. And a pretty piece for the dustiness of the road.
It did belong with the perfectly made and inviting beds, but it didn't
really belong on a wagon train. Was she alive? Had she been some young
man's bride? He hadn't seen a woman's corpse, not yet, but then his men
were still moving among the bodies.
'Is anyone in here?' he said, moving past the bunks. There were boxes
and trunks everywhere. There was a coffeepot, cast down as if someone
had been about to use it. There was a frying pan in the middle of the
floor, too. He paused, crouching on the balls of his feet, looking at
the floor.
Coffee was spilled everywhere.
'Come on out now,' he said softly.
'It's all right, come on out.'
He kept moving inward. The shadows in the wagon made it difficult to
see.
There seemed to be a swirl of soft mauve taffeta, fringed in black lace,
set in a heap before him. He reached down carefully, hoping he hadn't
come upon another corpse.
He touched a body. He touched warmth. He moved his hand, and it was
filled with fullness and living warmth.
Instinctively his fingers curled over the full, firm ripeness of a
woman's breast. He could feel the shape and weight and the tautness of
the nipple with his palm right through the taffeta.
She was warm, but very still. Sweet Jesus, let her be alive, he thought,
still stunned by the contact his fingers had made.
She was alive. Beyond a doubt, she was alive. She burst from her hiding
place with a wicked scream of terror and fury. Startled, he moved back.
He had been prepared for danger, for a wounded Comanche, but when he had
touched the softness and striking femininity of her form, he had relaxed
his guard.
Foolish move.
He backed away, but she screamed again, high and shrill and desperate, a
sound like that of a wounded animal. He started to reach for his Colt,
but his hand fell quickly as he reminded himself that it was just a
woman. A small, delicate woman.
'Ma'am' -- She cast herself upon him with a vengeance, pitting her body
against his with a startling ferocity and strength.
