Nora Roberts: Lawless

When she’d finished the beans, she hiccuped, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned back against the hearth only to lose her balance when a stone gave way. Nursing a bruised elbow, she shifted. She would have replaced the stone, but something caught her eye. Crouching again, she reached into the small opening that was now exposed and slowly pulled out a bag.

With her lips caught tight between her teeth, she poured gold coins into her lap. Two hundred and thirty dollars. Sarah pressed both hands to her mouth, swallowed, then counted again. There was no mistake. She hadn’t known until that moment how much money could mean. She could buy decent food, fuel, whatever she needed to make her way.

She poured the coins back into the bag and dug into the hole again. This time she found the deed to Sarah’s Pride.

What an odd man he must have been, she thought. To hide his possessions beneath a stone.

The last and most precious item she discovered in the hiding place was her father’s journal. It delighted her. The small brown book filled with her father’s cramped handwriting meant more to Sarah than all the gold coins in Arizona. She hugged it to her as she’d wanted to hug her father. Before she rose with it, she replaced the gold and the deed under the stone. She would read about one of his days each evening. It would be like a gift, something that each day would bring her a little closer to this man she’d never really known. For now she would go back to the stream, wash as best she could and gather water for the morning. Jake watched her come out of the cabin with a pail in one hand and a lantern in the other. He’d made himself as comfortable as he needed to be among the rocks. There had been enough jerky and hardtack in his saddlebag to make a passable supper. Not what he’d planned on, exactly, but passable.

He’d be damned if he could figure out why he’d decided to keep an eye on her. The lady wasn’t his problem. But even as he’d been cursing her and steering his horse toward town, he’d known he couldn’t just ride off and leave her there alone.

Maybe it was because he knew what it was to lose everything. Or because he’d been alone himself for more years then he cared to remember. Or maybe, damn her, it had something to do with the way she’d looked coming down that bluff with her bonnet trailing by the ribbons and tears still drying on her face. He hadn’t thought he had a weak spot. Certainly not where women were concerned. He shoved himself to his feet. He just didn’t have anything better to do.

He stayed well behind her. He knew how to move silently, over rock, through brush, in sunlight or in the dark of the moon. That was both a matter of survival and a matter of blood. In his youth he’d spent some years with his grandmother’s people and he’d learned more than any white man could have learned in a lifetime about tracking without leaving a mark, about hunting without making a sound.

As for the woman, she was still wearing that fancy skirt with the bustle and shoes that were made for city sidewalks rather than rough ground. Twice Jake had to stop and wait, or even at a crawl he’d have caught up with her.

Probably break an ankle before she was through, he thought. That might be the best thing that could happen to her. Then he’d just cart her on back to town. Couldn’t say he’d mind too much picking her up again. She felt good-maybe too good. He had to grin when she shrieked and landed on her fancy bustle because a rabbit darted across her path.

Nope, the pretty little duchess from Philadelphia wasn’t going to last a day.

With a hand to her heart, Sarah straggled to her feet. She’d never seen a rabbit that large in her life. With a little sound of distress, she noted that she’d torn the hem of her skirt. How did the women out here manage? she wondered as she began to walk again. In this heat, a corset felt like iron and a fashionable skirt prevented anything but the most delicate walking.

When she reached the stream, she dropped down on a rock and went to work with her buttonhook. It was heaven, absolute heaven, to remove her shoes. There was a blister starting on her heel, but she’d worry about that later. Right now all she could think about was splashing some cool water on her skin.

She glanced around cautiously. There couldn’t be anyone there. The sensation of being watched was a natural one, she supposed, when a woman was alone in the wilderness and the sun was going down. She unpinned the cameo at her throat and placed it carefully in her skirt pocket. It was the one thing she had that had belonged to her mother.

Humming to keep herself company, she unbuttoned her blouse and folded it over a rock. With the greatest relief, she unfastened her corset and dropped it on top of the blouse. She could breathe, really breathe, for the first time all day. Hurrying now, she stripped down to her chemise, then unhooked her stockings.

Glorious. She closed her eyes and let out a low sound of pleasure when she stepped into the narrow, ankle-deep stream. The water, trickling down from the mountains, was cold and clear as ice.

What the hell did she think she was doing? Jake let out a low oath and averted his eyes. He didn’t need this aggravation. Who would have thought the woman would strip down and play in the water with the night coming on? He glanced back to see her bend down to splash her face. There was nothing between the two of them but shadows and sunlight.

Water dampened the cotton she wore so that it clung here and there. When she bent to scoop up more water, the ruffles at the bodice sagged to tease him. Crouching behind the rock, he began to curse himself instead of her.

His own fault. Didn’t he know minding your own business, and only your own, was the best way to get by? He’d just had to be riding along when the Apaches had hit the stage. He’d just had to be the one to tell her about her father. He’d just had to feel obliged to drive her out here. And then to stay.

What he should be doing was getting good and drunk at Carlotta’s and spending the night in a feather bed wrestling with a woman. The kind of woman who knew what a man needed and didn’t ask a bunch of fool questions. The kind of woman, Jake thought viciously, who didn’t expect you to come to tea on Sunday. He glanced back to see that one of the straps of Sarah’s chemise had fallen down her arm and that her legs were gleaming and wet. Her shoulders were pale and smooth and bare.

Too long on the trail, Jake told himself. Too damn long, when a man started to hanker after skinny city women who didn’t know east from west.

Sarah filled the pail as best she could, then stepped out of the stream. It was getting dark much more quickly than she’d expected. But she felt almost human again. Even the thought of the corset made her ribs ache, so she ignored it. After slipping on her blouse, she debated donning her shoes and stockings again. There was no one to see or disapprove. Instead, she hitched on her skirt and made a bundle of the rest. With the water sloshing in the pail, she made her way gingerly along the path.

She had to fight the urge to hurry. With sunset, the air was cooling rapidly. And there were sounds.

Sounds she didn’t recognize or appreciate. Hoots and howls and rustles. Stones dug into her bare feet, and the lantern spread more shadow than light. The half mile back seemed much, much longer than it had before. Again she had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was watching her. Apaches? Mountain lions? Damn Jake Redman. The little adobe dwelling looked like a haven to her now. Half running, she went through the door and bolted it behind her.

The first coyote sent up a howl to the rising moon. Sarah shut her eyes. If she lived through the night, she’d swallow her pride and go back to town.