Tatiana March - From Runaway To Pregnant Bride

“Climb aboard.” Clay moved the bridle reins to his right hand so he could use his left to swing the kid behind him. A tiny hand slotted into his. Clay noticed the smooth skin, unused to hard work. He boosted up the kid. He was so light Clay nearly flung him all the way over the horse’s back and down the other side.

“Ready?” he said when the kid had settled down.

“Ready,” the kid replied.

Clay could hear a hint of weeping in the muttered word. It gave him an odd, uneasy feeling when the kid wriggled to get comfortable against him, cramming into the saddle instead of sitting behind the cantle, so that their bodies pressed close together.

He kicked the buckskin into a gallop, taking his frustration out with speed. The kid wrapped his arms around his waist and clung tight. The tension inside Clay ratcheted up another notch.

A bad idea, he told himself. It was always a bad idea to give in to the soft streak inside him. A wiser man would have learned from experience to leave scrawny kids to their fate, instead of picking them up and trying to protect them.

* * *

He’d come back for her!

Annabel clung to the taciturn stranger, tears of relief running down her face. She’d been so afraid. She’d been sitting in the shade of the water tower, blaming herself for everything that had gone wrong.

When the money was stolen, she ought to have telegraphed Charlotte in Gold Crossing, but she’d been ashamed for her carelessness. And she knew nothing about the man to whom Charlotte was pretending to be married. Two hundred dollars might be a fortune to Thomas Greenwood, and she didn’t want to add to his burden by confessing she’d lost it.

And it hadn’t seemed to matter if she earned her passage as a shoeshine boy instead of buying a ticket. If anything, after two weeks of instruction from Colin and Liza, she was better equipped to take care of herself during the journey.

But it had been a mistake to run from Cousin Gareth. She should have brazened it out, pretended not to know what he was talking about. He’d appeared confused, unsure of himself. His wind-whipped cry echoed in her mind.

Who am I? I have no memory! Do you know me?

Now that she thought of it, there’d been a scar on his forehead. Cousin Gareth must have received a blow to his head and be suffering from amnesia. He’d not truly recognized her. He’d merely been fumbling in his mind for fragments of recollection. By fleeing, she had alerted him to the truth.

And now, he might come after her. He could get off in Las Cruces, less than forty miles away, and take a train coming the other way. He might even have a horse in the freight car and persuade the train to stop. He could be back before the day was out, and she’d been like a sitting duck beneath the water tower.

But the stranger had come back for her. Annabel pressed her face to the buckskin coat that covered the man’s back. She could smell leather and dust and wood smoke on him, could feel the rock-hard muscles on his belly beneath her clinging arms,

A tension sparked inside her. Never before had she felt a man’s body so close to hers. Before their parents died, she’d been too young to attend social engagements, and for the past four years Cousin Gareth had kept her imprisoned at Merlin’s Leap.

Despite his reticent manner, her rescuer was young and handsome, the kind of man a girl might dream about. Annabel let his features form in her mind. Curly brown hair, hollowed cheeks, straight nose, sharply angled jaw, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

His surliness reminded her of the sailors she’d met from Papa’s ships, but on many occasions she’d discovered a streak of kindness beneath their gruff exterior. She hoped the stranger might be the same, however why was it that men felt compelled to hide their compassion, as if it eroded their masculinity instead of emphasizing it?

The thudding of the horse’s hooves beneath them altered rhythm. They were slowing down. Annabel eased her hold around the stranger’s waist and peeked past his shoulder. Ahead, the pack mule was grazing on stunted vegetation.

They came to an abrupt halt. The man twisted around in the saddle, curled one powerful arm about her and swept her down to her feet. “You’ll ride the mule.”

For an instant, Annabel stood still, staring up at the rugged features of her rescuer. Regret filled her at the loss of his warmth and strength and the sense of safety she’d felt huddled up against him.

“We ain’t got all day,” he said. “Get on the mule.”

“The mule?” Jolted out of her thoughts, Annabel took a cautious step toward the animal. The mule lifted its head and bared its teeth. Parcels and bundles filled the pack saddle, leaving no room for a rider. She turned to the stranger. “Can’t we ride double on the horse? I don’t weigh much.”

If anything, his expression grew even starker. “You cling like a flea.”

“I...” Her mouth pursed at the cutting remark, but she fought back. “And you’re no softer than a rock.”

“Good,” he said. “Then we’ll both be more comfortable if you ride the mule.”

He vaulted down from the saddle, went to the mule and rearranged the load to create a space for her. Turning to face her again, he studied her in that disconcerting manner he had. His gaze lingered on her features a moment longer. He started to say something, then shrugged his shoulders as if deciding it didn’t matter.

“I’ll boost you up,” he told her. Annabel stood and waited. At Merlin’s Leap, if there was no mounting block for her to use, the grooms laced their hands together to create a step.

The stranger made no effort to link his hands to form a step. He merely stood in silence, then gave a huff of frustration. Bending at the waist, he placed one hand against her midriff, the other hand beneath her rump and shoved, tossing her up like a sack of grain. The mule bucked. Annabel flung up in the air, but somehow, as if by miracle, she landed astride between the packages.

“Let’s go,” the man said.

In a blur, he was up on the buckskin and on his way. Alarmed at the prospect of being left behind, Annabel kicked her heels into the flanks of the mule and started bouncing along.

They rode at a steady lope through the dusty desert plateau, stopping only to let the animals rest and drink every now and then. When they came to a river crossing, they refilled their canteens. At another rest stop, the stranger retreated a few paces. Turning his back, he unbuckled his belt and set to work with the buttons on his fly.

“I’ve got to go, too,” Annabel mumbled and darted off in the other direction.

The man glanced over his shoulder. “Mind the rattlers.”

Annabel’s heart was pounding while she took care of her needs behind a creosote bush. Pretending to be a boy would turn out to be a lot more complicated if she had to share close living quarters with a man, especially with a young, attractive one.

* * *

The kid had been crying. Probably had no idea the tear tracks on his dusty face gave him away. When Clay had first noticed the evidence of weeping, he’d tried to think of something reassuring to say, but words had failed him, just like they always did. He didn’t like lying, and in most cases reassurances were nothing but lies, or at best overoptimistic guesses.

The kid found a rock to stand on and mounted on the mule. It seemed to be a point of pride for the kid to climb into the saddle unassisted. Clay vaulted on the buckskin, but instead of setting off he idled closer to the mule.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Andrew Fairfield.”

“I’m Clay Collier. The man who owns the claim is Mr. Hicks. He can be a bad-tempered devil, but he is generally fair, and he doesn’t go in for beatings.”