Apaches could make seventy miles a day on foot if they chose, and Jack was no exception. Of course, that was at a ground-eating dogtrot, not at the pace they were now traveling. For some reason he was not in a rush, although he refused to examine his motivation. He kept one hand on the black’s thick neck to keep him calm—the horse wasn’t used to other riders. He was very much aware of the woman’s gaze on his back all morning.
She had changed. She was no longer in abject terror of him, which was fortunate, because it more than irritated him. Still, the few times he had looked at her (and she had quickly averted her wide eyes) he had seen wariness, mingled with tempered fear. She was ready at the least sign of aggression on his part to take flight. His disgust grew.
They had had one exchange earlier in the morning. Jack had said, “What happened after your husband’s murder?”
There was no immediate response, and he had felt her tension, turned to look, saw her pale face under his battered rawhide cowboy hat, which he had given her to wear. There was no mistaking the look on her face. Guilt. And then, abruptly, it was gone. What is she hiding? he wondered.
“I—I was in shock with grief,” she answered. “I wasn’t thinking right. I hired a horse—and left. I wanted to get home to my family.”
He was studying her because she wasn’t being honest. “That wasn’t the smartest thing to do.”
“No.”
“What happened to the horse?”
“A rattlesnake.”
End of conversation, and that had been four hours ago. Still, he was very much aware—too aware—of the woman in man’s clothes on his horse.
The clothes hadn’t seemed indecent when she was dying. This morning he had looked at her legs, completely revealed—long and beautiful and strong from riding, the kind of legs to wrap around a man’s waist, he thought, while he plunges into her. And it wasn’t his fault for thinking that, he reassured himself—not with the way the trousers were divided, molding the plumpness of her buttocks.
He had never seen a woman with a figure like this in pants before. It was the most blatant and suggestive sight he had ever seen—and that included when she had been naked under the buckskin hide.
He almost wanted to ask her if she was tired or needed to stop. He didn’t. He had only to think of how she saw him—as a dangerous half-breed—and he grew angry. She wanted to get home? Well, they would just push on. The sooner he got her there the better, anyway, because from the High C he was heading north, into the mountains. Anticipating that part of the trip filled him with a fierce joy.
“Mr.… uh,hmmch.”She coughed, as if she couldn’t speak his name.
He stiffened his back and didn’t stop or look at her.
“Mr. uh, Mister …” She coughed again. “Savage. Please.”
He stopped, taking the reins and looking at her unhelpfully. She was red. I, ah, could we stop for a few minutes?”
He lifted one brow.
When she saw that he was waiting, she slid off the stallion, and he tried not to look too long and hard and hungrily at her. She kept her shoulders back and straight and her head high, and walked into the shade of some mesquite trees, then beyond. He thought: Be careful. But didn’t say anything. He took a sip of water.
She reappeared a few minutes later, long-legged and slim-hipped, the shirt tight over full breasts, and he handed her the canteen. She took a few modest sips and handed it back. “Excuse me,” she said, blushing again. “But at this rate it will take us a week to reach Tucson.”
“So eager to get home? Or just to leave my company?” he mocked.
“Maybe we could, uh, share the horse?” Her voice tipped precariously upward on the question mark.
He was stunned. There were several reasons why he wasn’t riding with her. But—he had to face it, the prime one was his untrustworthy male member, which was stirring too easily and too frequently these days. He could easily imagine what would happen with them riding together—his uncontrollable reaction would probably horrify her. He would rather avoid it at all costs. Still, she had actually suggested it.
“Is this a change of heart?” he asked, eyes smoking. When she didn’t answer, his mouth tightened. He lifted her into the saddle, picked up the reins, and trudged on.
A few hours later he saw light glinting a short distance away. They had company. The flashing light was caused by the sun’s reflection—either on field glasses or gunmetal. He worried that it might be soldiers from Fort Buchanan. After decoying them the other day and leading them away from the Apache raiding party, he imagined they would be only too glad to nab him, assuming it was the same patrol and they would recognize him. It was an assumption he would go by, because his horse was unforgettable. Not to mention that he was a half-breed. In one lightning movement, he catapulted onto the stallion behind her, catching her when she started in surprise.
“Someone’s up ahead past those saguaro,” he said quietly. She stiffened in his arms. He knew she was worried about any number of things—more Apache, Pima, Papago, outlaws, banditos from south of the border. He almost reassured her. Instead he urged the stallion into a lope and angled discreetly around toward the spot where he was sure they were.
“What are we doing?” she whispered.
“Checking to see who it is.”
“Why don’t we just circle around them?”
“Because they may have seen us too.”
