Desert Angel (25 page)

March found a fairly level bit of ground and slowly sank to the sand. She studied Jamie, relieved to find that he had suffered no ill effects from their eventful day. His face was red, but more from his display of temper than from the sun. Blue eyes gazed trustingly up at her as a small hand reached for her face. March nibbled lovingly on his tiny fingers and smoothed his ruffled hair.

“You are a loving mother,” the Indian said quietly, coming to sit across from her. “That is good. A child should know that his mother loves him.”

March’s sunburned face heated with embarrassment as he watched her nurse the baby. He seemed unaffected by her display, as if it was something he had witnessed many times.

“I don’t know your name,” she muttered, hoping to distract him.

His dark eyes traveled up to hers. “Until I went to the reservation, I was called One Who Runs With the Light. But your people decided that all Indians should have a white man name and so I was called Charles Smith.”

“Charles Smith?” March didn’t attempt to hide her grin at the thought of this man being called Charles. It just didn’t fit.

“It is a funny name?” he asked seriously. “I was told by many that it was a good name.”

“Oh, Charles Smith is a perfectly fine name, a strong, proud name. But it just doesn’t suit you.”

“It was not my choice.” His head rose proudly, and March knew she had offended him.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t making fun, but you have such a wonderful name, One Who Runs With the Light, even if it is a mouthful.”

“Mouthful? Your mouth is full when you say my name?” Perplexity crossed the dark face as he tried to understand her.

“What I mean is, most white people have two names like Charles Smith. Or like mine, March Evans, or the baby, who is Jamie Travis. One Who Runs With the Light isn’t very easy to say quickly.”

“What would you have me called, March Evans?”

March knew the question was one of seriousness for him, one that would perhaps stay with him as he learned to live in a white man’s world. “I think I would call you Light,” she finally replied quietly. “Light Smith.”

He nodded, the name seeming to settle comfortably on his shoulders. “You have given me a white man’s name, as I have given you an Indian name — Giving Woman.”

“Giving Woman… that’s lovely, thank you.” Again he nodded and then looked back at Jamie. “We will eat, and then we will ride more.”

“More?” March bit back a moan. No way would she get back on that horse!

“Until the sun is gone from the sky. I have ridden slowly because of care for you and your son, so we still have many miles to go before we reach the safety of the mountains.”

“Ah … Light, I think it’s time for us to discuss our destination. I don’t want to go to the mountains.” She watched as a shutter dropped over his face, until his friendly expression might never have been.

“You will go.”

“Even if I don’t want to?”

He rose to his feet and went to the horse. Digging through the saddlebags, he pulled out a once-clean white cloth that was now browned with dust. March recognized one of the napkins from her kitchen, and was amazed when he opened it and saw that it held several of her biscuits.

Of course, she thought as she took one of the biscuits he offered, Jim had given him some provisions, as well as the horse and saddle.

“I have given it much thought,” Light stated as he chewed. “You will be my woman, and your son will grow to be a fine warrior.”

Now that her fear was put into words, March found that she felt honored by his choice, rather than terrified. However, that didn’t change her desire to return to the ranch.

“Thank you, I’m sure it is an honor to be your woman, but I’d really rather go home.”

“You can not become my wife until you are no longer feeding your son,” he continued, completely ignoring her protest. “It will give you time to learn our ways.”

This wasn’t going to be easy, changing his mind. He appeared to be on the rather stubborn side. “Ah … you mustn’t think I’m not appreciative of your generous offer, but I really must insist that you take me home.”

“Finish your task so that we can leave.” He chewed his biscuit washing it down with water from the creek.

“You speak English very well so I know you haven’t misunderstood me.” March switched Jamie to her other breast and took another biscuit. They were dry and crumbly, and more than one grain of sand crunched between her teeth, but she was so hungry that even a feast couldn’t have tasted better.

“I learned the white man’s tongue when I was still a boy.”

“You speak it very well. Who taught you?”

“We had several white captives. One, a boy about my age, taught me to understand his words, and I taught him to be a warrior.”

“Well, you can be very proud of yourself, you speak better than some white men I’ve heard.”

“Your son is done.” He nodded toward the baby. “We can leave. I will get the horse.” March looked down and saw that Jamie had fallen asleep and her nipple had slid from his mouth. Cheeks flaming with embarrassment, she looked furtively at Light, only to discover to her amazement that he had gotten up and was heading toward the horse.

Fred had watched her nurse the baby, his eyes nearly glazed with lust. Light accepted it as a natural part of life and ignored it. Light, who was considered a savage, was much more of a gentleman than Fred, who had been raised as one.

“Come, Giving Woman.” Startled from her thoughts, March looked up and found Light on his horse, his hand reaching down to her, the expression on his face tolerating no argument.

She wasn’t going to argue, she decided as she shifted and her legs protested her slightest movement. She wasn’t getting on that horse again tonight.

“No,” she stated quietly.

“Hand me your son, and I will help you to mount.”

“No. I’m not getting on that horse. I’m staying right here until morning, and then you can take me home.”

His hand recoiled, and he slowly squared his shoulders. Slipping his right leg over the horse’s head, he slid to the ground. Every vestige of friendliness was gone. Left in its place was the hardened warrior.

Panic nibbled at her as he approached. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so resolute in her refusal, March decided as Light stopped at her knees. She should have found another way to convince him that this was a good place to stop for the night.

“You will come.”

Staring at his beaded moccasins, greatly impressed by the intricacy of the pattern and wishing she had more time to thoroughly examine them, March slowly shook her head. She had stated her position; she couldn’t back down now.

“No, I’m tired. I’m scared and I want to go home.”

Light reached down and grabbed a handful of her silky golden hair. He pulled just hard enough to force her to rise to her feet, but not enough to cause real pain.

“Your home is now with me.” His black eyes burned with intensity. “We will ride many more miles before we find sleep this night.”

Tears burned the back of her eyes, but March refused to give in. She didn’t think he’d really hurt her … at least she hoped not.

“No,” she repeated.

With a snarl in a language she couldn’t understand, Light released her hair and stalked away. His disgust was as much with himself as with her. He knew that he could force her to mount the horse and ride with him. He could take the child from her arms, and she would come. Or he could bind her hands and feet and throw her across the horse’s rump as a captive.

But he found that he could not hurt her. Her strange eyes, the color of clouds before a storm, swimming with tears she wouldn’t shed, spoke more loudly than words her determination to have her way.

Light wasn’t sure what to do. An Indian woman would never disobey her man in such a way. If she did, then he would beat her until she followed wherever he led, whenever he said. But this white woman just raised her chin a little higher each time she refused.

March realized that he was fighting with himself about what to do next, and knew that it was a struggle with his male pride in jeopardy.

“Please, Light?” she asked softly. “I’m so tired. I don’t think I can even get on your horse.”

“A woman does what her man tells her to do. It is the way,” he stated firmly.

“A man knows when she is too tired to go on, and allows for her weakness.” Pushing her hair back from her face, March sighed tiredly. “I didn’t mean to anger you. I really didn’t, but I can’t go on. Not tonight.”

His gaze seemed to pierce through her. “We will stay — this time. But never again will you refuse me.”

“I probably will,” she warned. “I’m not good at quietly taking orders.”

“Then I will beat you.”

“My daddy beat me once until I nearly died, but I still refused to do what he demanded.” Light turned away, obviously disgusted with her and with himself for complying. As she watched him stalk away, March refrained from sighing in relief. He wasn’t more than two or three inches taller than she, but his heavily muscled shoulders and arms divulged a far greater strength. And he was from a society that allowed, and applauded, male superiority and dominance. She wasn’t sure why he had given in to her pleas for rest, but was grateful that he had.

March stared toward the lowering sun and wondered which way home was. Sinking back to the sand, she spread out Jamie’s blanket and lay him in the center, using her own body to provide protective shade.

All day she had forced her thoughts away from Jim. Now, with the angry man behind her quietly tending his horse, she let her mind drift.

She knew the agony of fear he would feel when he found that his son was gone, and wished she could reassure him that nothing would happen to the child, as long as there was breath in her body to protect him.

Jim would be frantic when he found the buckboard with an injured Hank, but no sign of her or his son. She knew he would immediately begin a search, and doubted that it would take long for him to discover Fred’s body.

From there the trail wouldn’t be as easy to follow. Now she realized why Light had taken his twisting, turning path. It would confuse followers, taking them longer to pick up the actual trail and giving Light more time to disappear.

But Jim would come. He would follow to the ends of the earth, for his son.

March sighed and rested her head against her bent knees. She wondered what it would be like to be loved that intensely, to be the most important person in someone’s life.

Jim’s face in all its moods — laughing, sober, teasing, fierce — whirled through her thoughts. An uncharacteristic feeling of self-pity forced her to blink back tears.

Once, just once, she wanted to know a love that was stronger than the majestic mountains that surrounded her, a love without beginning or end.

SIXTEEN

Every tightly stretched nerve in his body urged Jim into action. Each superbly honed muscle and sinew demanded that he respond to the overwhelming need for physical activity. Staying seated on the horse was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. The animal, unconcerned with the problems of his rider, munched contentedly on the silky grass at the side of the road, his tail flipping occasionally at an annoying insect.

Breed moved cautiously around the area, reading the signs as easily as another man might read a book, taking great care not to accidentally obliterate a clue because of carelessness, or overlook one because of haste. Several of the signs had been wiped away by the men who had rescued Hank, and it was taking Breed longer to separate one from another than it would have done had he been the first on the scene.

Which was the very reason Jim had to remain on his horse. Simply by stepping in the wrong spot he could accidentally wipe out a clue that could be valuable in locating March and his son.

Jim had always considered himself to be an even-tempered man, not one to head out on wild tangents fueled by excessive anger. But now he knew that he had simply never been given the necessary incentive. He had discovered that he was capable of experiencing towering rage that he could not harness.

And he relished it, savored each and every shred of anger striving for control. He stayed on his horse only because common sense told him that the sooner Breed could pick up the trail, the sooner he could release his fury. He sat with a steel-boned stillness, alertly watching each move his foreman made.

Later, when he had March and Jamie back, he could analyze the fear that had been his first emotion when one of his ranch hands had ridden out to find him and tell him the news of their abduction.

Later, he could remember the pain he had felt when the doctor had told him that Hank might not survive the bullet wound. The old man hadn’t been found until several hours after the shooting, and had lost a considerable amount of blood.

Later, he would think of his overpowering need to hold March in his arms and know that she was safe.

She had been through so much, had suffered one humiliation after another, and had come through it all with her head held high. She had fought an inner battle as well, thinking that she was even less respectable because of her illiteracy. Her need to learn, to know, was awesome, and once begun, he knew that it would become a lifelong commitment.