She washed her clothes and didn’t tell him what she thought about such primitive beliefs. Then, clad in her wet underthings, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, she hesitantly approached—pausing behind him and careful not to look at his nudity. He stepped to the left, she stepped forward. The smoke was awful. She coughed.
“Just relax,” he said. “Do as I do.”
He bent and picked up the canteen and began dousing the fire. Thick steam rose, blanketing them with its warmth. She could hear his breathing, deeper and louder than normal. He had told her to do as he did. In their precarious state of undress, she didn’t want to attract his attention by not obeying. She began imitating his deep, uneven breathing, matching the sound, careful not to look at him. It was a ragged duet. He said, “What in hell are you doing?”
She looked at him without thinking. His jaw was clenched. He was looking at her—specifically, he was looking at her breasts with their hard nipples. Candice instantly covered her chest with her arms—unsuccessfully. “You told me to do what you do.”
He exhaled loudly, his eyes moving to her guileless face. Candice reddened and looked down, then quickly away.
Too late—nothing would chase away the image of his thick, swollen shaft impaling the air. So thick, so big. She decided she didn’t care about contamination. She ran to her clothes and struggled into them. He didn’t say another word.
CHAPTER NINE
At dawn, he awoke.
The world was still gray, with the faintest pink blush in the east. Last night they had moved a half mile downstream and made a camp for the night. Jack got soundlessly to his feet, his gaze instantly searching her out. She lay curled on the other side of the dead fire beneath the buckskin hide. He looked at her for one long moment, then turned and left the camp.
Many images assailed him. How she had looked standing in the steam of the fire clad in her thin, wet undergarments; her expression when she had seen him. He almost smiled. Of course he hadn’t meant the erection to happen, as he didn’t mean it now, but he needed a woman—and he wanted her.
They were only about thirty hours from the High C, and he couldn’t get there too soon. It was the enforced intimacy, he was sure. If she had been just another beautiful white woman he had seen in passing, he would have forgotten her. His body wouldn’t be going crazy with impossible, hopeless need.
Of course, there were so few white women in these parts, and even fewer pretty ones, much less a woman like Candice Carter.Kincaid, he corrected. Candice Carter Kincaid. He resolved to take care of his needs as soon as possible, and knew he was only kidding himself if he thought some whore’s arms were going to erase her image.
He was angry again—a dark, frustrated anger of the heart.
The growl sounded above him.
The instant he heard it he had many thoughts in one split second. The mountain lion was belligerent. He hadn’t been aware of it because he was so preoccupied with her. The woman was going to be the death of him.
He pulled his Colt, but too late. From above on the rock, the tawny cat was flying through the air. The force of the contact sent him backward before he could even fire, twenty claws cinching through his skin, the gun falling from his grasp as his hands came up instinctively between them.
It was like the burning of hellfire. They rolled, a mass of human flesh and furred beast. The claws lifted, sank in, contracted—but he did not scream. He knew he could not get the cat off with brute force. His hand closed over his knife. He pulled it from his sheath and plunged it upward with desperation and sheer intent.
For an instant he thought he had failed, then the cat’s eyes went wider and its mouth formed a screaming growl of fury. The claws embedded in his flesh stretched and pulled. The big body went rigid, then limp. The animal relaxed and Jack pushed him off, freezing up at the agony of those claws scorching through his flesh as the cat rolled aside. His knife protruded from its heart.
Jack lay very still.
He was panting, sweat streaming down his face, down his body. He had been trained to withstand pain, but the agony was close to unbearable. He needed a few moments to find the strength to move. His heart slowed, his breathing became less rapid. His hands found the dirt beneath him and he levered himself up with difficulty. The pink and gray morning darkened, spinning, and he fought not to pass out. He succeeded.
He looked at the cat, which must have weighed over 150 pounds, and he looked at his knife. He got to his knees, every movement causing shots of searing pain, then pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, panting and fighting more waves of dizziness, then took two steps toward the cat, where he promptly fell to his knees again.
It took a few moments to get enough strength, but he finally reached out and pulled the blade from the tawny chest, automatically wiping it in the dirt and sheathing it. The world was still spinning, and he thought, It’s only a few scratches, get up.
He knew he could not take care of himself properly. The girl was only twenty yards away. There was more pain at that thought, a pain of the heart, of the soul. Now she could kill him and ride away. He couldn’t trust her. He needed his strength and his wits. He would have to force her to clean his back.
He rested for an eternity that went too fast, then pushed himself to his feet again. He walked carefully, so as not to stagger, one foot in front of the other. The camp wasn’t far; there was no question in his own mind of not making it. But he paused once, holding on to a branch of scrub oak, willing strength, not weakness. Then he pulled his Colt, the handle strangely clammy in his hand, the weight of it surprisingly heavy, forcing the nose down. He pushed himself away from the tree. The ground was still spinning, but slowly, manageably.
She was up, stoking the fire. She looked up as he neared, and her face went white. She leapt to her feet.
He stood with the Colt hanging in his hand and wondered if he was swaying or if the ground was moving.
“Oh, my God,” she said.
He sank to his knees on the ground. When he looked up she hadn’t moved. He could see it all in her mind—her horror, and the leap of knowledge, too. She glanced at the stallion and he knew, with more pain, that he had been right. Given the chance, she would leave him to live or die. He raised the gun. It seemed to waver in front of his eyes, but then, she did too. “Get water. There’s—there’s whiskey—in my bags.”
She didn’t move. Not at first, and then she turned and ran for the canteen, grabbing the saddlebags off the ground and hurrying back. She paused abruptly before him. He wanted to close his eyes. Never had they felt so heavy. He realized with a start that the gun was pointing at the ground, and he tried to lift it. She dropped the bags and the canteen, and before he could react, she had taken the gun away.
He looked up. Now. Now she was going to leave. Or kill him first. But wasn’t it better this way? She was torturing his soul. “Go,” he whispered. “Go. Run. Leave.”
