Jake didn’t feel the heat, only an ice-cold rage. The fire seared the skin on his arm before he yanked free. The hilt of his knife was slick with his own sweat but the blade dripped red with his opponent’s blood. The horses whinnied and shied when the men rolled too close. Then they were in the shadows. Sarah could see only a dark blur and the sporadic gleam of a knife.
But she could hear desperate grunts and the scrape of metal. Then she heard nothing but the sound of a man breathing hard. One man. With her heart in her throat, she waited to see who would come back into the light. Bruised, bloodied, Jake walked to her. Saying nothing, he cut through her bonds with the blade of the stained knife. Still silent, he pushed it into his boot and took his guns back from Little Bear.
“He was a brave warrior,” Little Bear said.
With pain and triumph singing through him, Jake strapped on his gunbelt. “He died a warrior’s death.” He offered his hand again. “May the spirits ride with you, brother.”
“And with you, Gray Eyes.”
Jake held out a hand for Sarah. When he saw that she was swaying on her feet, he picked her up and carried her to his horse. “Hold on,” he told her, swinging up into the saddle behind her. He rode out of camp without looking back, knowing he would never see Little Bear again.
She didn’t want to cry, but she couldn’t stop. Her only comfort was that her tears were silent and he couldn’t hear them. Or so she thought. They’d ridden no more than ten minutes at a slow walk when he turned her around in the saddle to cradle her against him.
“You’ve had a bad time, Duchess. Go on and cry for a while.”
So she wept shamelessly, her cheeks pressed against his chest, the movement of the horse lulling her. “I was so afraid.” Her voice hitching, she clung to him.
“He was going to-”
“I know. You don’t want to think about it.” He didn’t. If he did, he’d lose the already-slippery grip he had on his control. “It’s all over now.”
“Will they come after us?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?” As the tears passed, the fear doubled back.
“It wouldn’t be honorable.”
“Honorable?” She lifted her head to look at him. In the moonlight his face looked hard as rock. “But they’re Indians.”
“That’s right. They’ll stand by their honor a lot longer than any white man.”
“But-” She had forgotten for a moment the Apache in him. “You seemed to know them.”
“I lived with them five years. Little Bear, the one with the eagle feather, is my cousin.” He stopped and dismounted. “You’re cold. I’ll build a fire and you can rest a while.” He pulled a blanket out of his saddlebag and tossed it over her shoulders. Too tired to argue, Sarah wrapped it tight around herself and sat on the ground.
He had a fire burning quickly and started making coffee. Without hesitation, Sarah bit into the jerky he gave her and warmed her hands over the flames.
“The one you…fought with. Did you know him?”
“Yeah.”
He’d killed for her, she thought, and had to struggle not to weep again. Perhaps it had been a member of his own family, an old friend. “I’m sorry,” she managed.
“For what?” He poured coffee into a cup, then pushed it into her trembling hands.
“For all of it They were just there, all at once. There was nothing I could do.” She drank, needing the warmth badly. “When I was in school, we would read the papers, hear stories. I never really believed it. I was certain that the army had everything under control.” “You read about massacres,” he said with a dull fury in his voice that had her looking up again. “About settlers slaughtered and wagon trains attacked. You read about savages scalping children. It’s true enough. But did you read any about soldiers riding into camps and butchering, raping women, putting bullets in babies long after treaties were signed and promises made? Did you hear stories about poisoned food and contaminated blankets sent to the reservations?” “But that can’t be.”
“The white man wants the land, and the land isn’t his-or wasn’t.” He took out his knife and cleaned it in the dirt. “He’ll take it, one way or the other.” She didn’t want to believe it, but she could see the truth in his eyes. “I never knew.”
“It won’t go on much longer. Little Bear and men like him are nearly done.”
“How did you choose? Between one life and the other?”
He moved his shoulders. “There wasn’t much choice. There’s not enough Apache in me to have been accepted as a warrior. And I was raised white, mostly. Red man. That’s what they called my father when he was coming up outside an army post down around Tucson. He kept it. Maybe it was pride, maybe it wasn’t.”
He stopped, annoyed with himself. He’d never told anyone so much.
“You up to riding?”
She wanted him to go on, to tell her everything there was to tell about himself. Instinct held her back. If she pushed, she might never learn. “I can try.” Smiling, she reached out to touch his arm. “I want to-Oh, you’re bleeding.”
He glanced down. “Here and there.”
“Let me see. I should have tended these already.” She was up on her knees, pulling away the rent material of his sleeve.
“Nothing a man likes better than to have his clothes ripped off by a pretty woman.”
“I’ll thank you to behave yourself,” she told him, but she couldn’t muffle a chuckle.
It was good to hear her laugh, even if only a little. Most of the horror had faded from her eyes. But he wanted it gone, all of it. “Heard you made Lucius strip down to the skin. He claimed you threatened him.” This time her laughter was warmer. “The man needed to be threatened. I wish you’d seen his face when I told him to take off his pants.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like me to do the same.” “Just the shirt should do. This arm certainly needs to be bandaged.” She rose and, modesty prevailing, turned her back before she lifted the hem of her skirt to rip her petticoat.
“I’m obliged.” He eased painfully out of his shirt. “I’ve been wondering, Duchess, just how many of those petticoats do you wear?”
“That’s certainly not a subject for discussion. But it’s fortunate that I…” She turned back to him, and the words slipped quietly down her throat. She’d never seen a man’s chest before, had certainly never thought a man could be so beautiful. But he was firm and lean, with the dark skin taut over his rib cage and gleaming in the firelight. She felt the heat flash inside her, pressing and throbbing in her center and then spreading through her like a drug.
An owl hooted behind her and made her jolt. “I’ll need some water.” She was forced to clear her throat. “Those wounds should be cleaned.”
With his eyes still on hers, he lifted the canteen. Saying nothing, she knelt beside him again to tend the cut that ran from his shoulder to his elbow.
“This is deep. You’ll want a doctor to look at it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes flicked up to his, then quickly away. “It’s likely to scar.”
“I’ve got others.”
Yes, she could see that. His was the body of a hero, scarred, disciplined and magnificent. “I’ve caused you a great deal of trouble.”
“More than I figured on,” he murmured as her fingers glided gently over his skin.
She tied the first bandage, then gave her attention to the slice in his side. “This one doesn’t look as serious, but it must be painful.”
Her voice had thickened. He could feel the flutter of her breath on his skin. He winced as she cleaned the wound, but it was the firelight on her hair that was making him ache. He held his breath when she reached around him to secure the bandage.
“There are some nicks,” she murmured. Fascinated, she touched her palm to his chest. “You’ll need some salve.”
