Just Once (8 page)

As he hurried toward the stable, he felt a persistent drag on the back of his coat. Behind him, he could hear the girl’s panting and the squish and thud of her heavy shoes as they plowed through the mud. She had not let go since taking hold of his jacket in the bar.

Finally, when they reached the relative safety of the livery stable, he drew her into the shadow of the big open building, put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her up against the wall. All he could see was the pitted crown of her hat. Her shoulders were heaving as she caught her breath, her eyes trained on the ground.

“You can look up now,” he said when he realized she was still following his order. He expected to see her white-faced, frightened half out of her wits. He expected her blue eyes to be brimming with tears of relief. He thought he would hear a shaky admission that she had been terrified. Maybe she would finally call off this farce.

Her breath was coming fast but even. She clutched the rolled cape containing her soiled clothing to her breasts. When she tipped her head up and met his gaze, he was awestruck by the radiant glow of sheer delight mingled with gratitude that shone in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed; her dimples accented her bright smile.

“Mr. Boone,” she said with an unmistakably ecstatic sigh, “
that was wonderful!
”

Natchez Trace, One Week Later

The sable mantle of night cloaked the wild landscape along the nearly invisible Indian track that sojourners heading north called the Trace. With nothing more than a blanket between her body and the hard ground, Jemma lay on her side, staring through the flickering flames of the low camp-fire, listening to the sounds of unseen night creatures that rustled the underbrush and pine needles.

She was truly on her way, miles from New Orleans, civilization, and her quiet, ordered life. No matter what doubts might plague her, she had gone too far to turn back now. Her only regret was that she would never be able to tell Grandpa Hall about her adventure.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture the old man as she liked to remember him, strolling beside her along the wharf at Boston Harbor, telling her tales of the tall ships and the exotic ports of call he had visited. Jemma tucked her hand beneath her cheek and closed her eyes, but within seconds they were open again.

Hunter Boone was somewhere beyond the fire’s glow. She couldn’t see him, but she sensed his presence and knew that he was walking the perimeter of the campsite, checking the leather hobbles that kept the ponies from running off, making certain everything was secure before he finally sat down by the fire to take the first watch.

As soon as they had left New Orleans with two Texas ponies loaded with staples of bacon, biscuits, flour, dried beef, rice, coffee, sugar, a bolt of fabric, and some trade items, she knew she had chosen the perfect guide. Hunter was thorough, no-nonsense, and, even if he seemed a bit reluctant, a man of his word. All she had to do was settle back and enjoy the adventure.

But so far, the adventure had proved to be nothing but a strenuous, monotonous trek through dense piney woods and open grassy plains with a taciturn grouch who still refused to string more than ten words together.

He had been grouchy and standoffish since the morning they left New Orleans, and a week on the Trace had done little to improve his personality. No matter what she did, she tended to irritate him, so she tried to keep out of his way as much as possible. Since the only communications between them were his curtly issued orders, she tried to tackle the chores he gave her with as much aplomb as she could muster.

Gathering firewood in the pine forest proved to be the only thing at which she was somewhat adept. Frying bacon without burning it to a charred and blackened crisp, or cooking anything for that matter, had proved too much. Hunter finally insisted on preparing all the meals himself.

Afraid that he would lose patience and leave her there to wait for the next party traveling along, she didn’t issue one complaint, even though her derriere continually ached from hours of riding. When the trail proved too narrow and illusive, they had to walk the horses. Her tender feet, insulted by the stiff brown leather shoes, were just as sore as her rear end. Once when she stopped to bathe her feet with a damp rag, Hunter caught her wincing, but he offered no sympathy.

He didn’t offer much in the way of conversation at all. She didn’t know how a man could hold his tongue for so long. Each and every minute was so full of incredible sights and sounds and new experiences that she longed to talk about them, to ask questions. But since the first day, Hunter Boone had made it more than clear that he wanted no part of her “constant palavering,” as he so colorfully put it.

She sighed, a long, weary sound, once again wishing Grandpa Hall were there to talk to, wishing above all things that he could see her now.

Suddenly Hunter’s voice cut through the darkness. “You’d better get to sleep before your watch.” His soft-soled moccasins made it impossible to hear his steps as he crossed the forest floor.

Jemma bolted to a sitting position. As she watched him clear the shadows, she realized she never got tired of looking at him. He was like no one she had ever met before. The firelight played over his strong features. Shadows stroked the creases that bracketed his mouth and his hard jawline. When he caught her watching, he looked away, took the long rifle, and set it beside his blanket as he gingerly lowered himself to the ground.

She made a great show of huffing and shifting around, but as usual, he ignored her. Minutes ticked by. The glowing coals throbbed white-hot in the fire ring. Now and again, the wood popped and crackled, shooting sparks skyward to dissolve against the stars.

Unable to sleep, dying for an exchange of any sort, she wriggled around, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard ground. He was directly across the fire, staring at nothing, leaning casually against a decaying log with one knee drawn up and an arm looped over it. Silence stretched like a wide bog between them. She couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Mr. Boone?”

No answer.

“Hunter?”

The only sound was the crackle of burning wood.

“
Hunter
.”

“What?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Then take the first watch so I can.”

She shrugged out of the blanket and sat up, scooping her hair back off her face as she reached for her hat. Every muscle in her body protested as she got to her feet and stretched her arms high.

Making her way around the fire, she stood before him, waiting for him to hand her the rifle. The first day on the trail, he had taken the time to teach her to aim and fire. During the night watch, it was always primed and ready.

“Don’t shoot yourself in the foot,” he warned. “And wake me at the first sign of trouble.”

“Don’t you worry.”

“I’ve never had any problems heading back overland, but I’ve heard plenty of tales.”

“What kind of tales?” Her interest was suddenly piqued.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

He moved around the fire to the bedroll. “Pirates, Indian attacks, thieves, cutthroats. The Trace is famous for its perils, but as I’ve said, I’ve never had a lick of trouble.”

Jemma took his place against the fallen log and stared into the darkness.
Pirates, Indian attacks, thieves, cutthroats
. How could he sound so casual about it? She shivered, squinted, and tried to see through the trees all around them, imagining knife-wielding pirates and untamed savages behind each and every one.

“Hunter?” she whispered.

No answer.

“
Hunter
.” Louder this time.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Tell you what?”

“About the pirates, thieves, and cutthroats. All you mentioned were the bears, panthers, snakes—”

“Did you think this was going to be a stroll through the woods?”

“No, but—”

“Don’t let it upset you. Like I said, I’ve always had an easy time of it, probably because I veer off from the Trace and head toward the Mississippi. Makes the trip to Sandy Shoals shorter and safer, but there’s virtually nobody around to help if we do hit a patch of trouble.”

A patch of trouble?
Jemma frowned. Determined to stay awake during her watch for a change, she tried humming softly to herself.

“I’m trying to sleep over here.” Hunter’s voice cut through the dark.

“Sorry.”

A twig snapped somewhere in the forest in front of her. The sound was so loud and out of place in the chorus of tree frogs and the chirps and ticks of the small inhabitants of the underbrush that she was on her feet in an instant, the rifle trained on the inky black shadows.

Across the fire, Hunter was either already sound asleep or blatantly trying to ignore her. She was afraid to take her eyes off the forest long enough to see if she could gauge the steady rise and fall of his shoulders.

Anything could be out there. Men or bears. Panthers, pirates, or cutthroats. “If you panic,” he had warned the morning he taught her how to aim and shoot the rifle, “you’re liable to blow a hole through yourself or me. If you see anything, just keep the gun aimed and wake me up.”

The instructions were simple enough. She was determined not to wake him without real cause, unless the sound of her knees banging together woke him first.

Jemma held her breath and offered up a silent prayer to St. Francis of Assisi, who had tamed the forest animals. As she stood there poised, gun at the ready, the minutes seemed like hours. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. When she dared to breathe at all, her breath came quick and shallow. She didn’t hear another sound. Finally, she shook herself, cradled the rifle carefully in the crook of her arm the way Hunter had shown her, and sat back down with a sigh. It was just like her, she decided, to make something monumental of a little crunch in the leaves.

Within minutes, the raw excitement had faded and sheer boredom set in again. With the rifle across her lap, Jemma wriggled her toes, flexed her arms, took off her hat, and shook out her curls. She started to hum, remembered Hunter’s admonition, and stopped. Her eyelids grew heavy. She rolled her head on her neck.

She didn’t recall closing her eyes, but something startled her and she opened them. Much to her chagrin, an Indian stood just within the fire’s glow, not six feet away.

He was nothing more than a wavering figure garbed in a hodgepodge of colorful cloth and embroidery, decorated with strings of shells and beads and whistles. A shock of long feathers adorned a turban wrapped around his head. Her gaze froze on the tomahawk hanging from a rope at his waist.

His skin was as bronzed as leathery fall leaves, his eyes deep-set and dark, staring out at her from beneath a heavy brow. He was whipcord-thin and of indeterminate age, although even in the darkness she could tell that his skin was as creased as a well-read newspaper.

Slowly, cautiously, carefully, Jemma let her hands slide toward the gun on her lap, hoping to get a good hold on the stock and trigger before she hefted it and aimed. From where she sat, she figured that if she even came close to hitting him, she was bound to do some damage.

To her chagrin, her guide and protector was still sound asleep.

The Indian continued to stand there in silence watching her, but his arm was moving in some sort of crazed fashion. He kept raising his right hand, pointing two fingers to the night sky. Up and down he pointed, again and again.

Then he took a step in her direction.

Jemma’s hands closed around the gun. By the time she had lifted it to firing position, the Indian was waving frantically and the tomahawk had somehow slipped into his other hand.

“
Hunter!
” She slowly squeezed one eye closed and sighted down the rifle barrel. “Hunter, it’s
really
important this time.”

Her paid protector muttered in his sleep and rolled over, presenting his back to her. And to the tomahawk.

“I’m sorry, mister,” Jemma whispered as the Indian crept closer and closer.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 5

Shocked out of a deep sleep by the sound of a gun-shot reverberating in the clearing, Hunter clutched his heart and bolted to his feet.

Beside the fallen log, Jemma lay flat on her back, the rifle on the ground between her legs. Instinct drove him. In one move he skirted the fire and dove for her, sweeping the area with his gaze. Eight feet away, seated in pine needles and rubbing his head, was an old Choctaw, his eyes wide with bewilderment. The feathers that had once adorned his turban had been reduced to bedraggled stubs. The red turban itself drooped over one eye.

“Hunter?” Jemma moaned beside him.

The Indian didn’t appear to be a threat, so Hunter gingerly lifted the rifle from between Jemma’s legs and felt the pulse point in her neck.

“What in the
hell
happened?”

“I’m just fine, thank you.” With a hand on the log, she struggled to a sitting position.

Hunter kept one eye on the Choctaw, who had yet to budge. The firelight glinted on the blade of a tomahawk in the dirt beside the Indian. It was the only sign that the old man might have meant any harm.

“What happened?” he demanded of her again.

“You failed to tell me that rifle would almost tear my shoulder off when it fired,” she grumbled.

“I thought you were an expert marksman. You said you had killed off countless desert hordes in the Sahara.”

“This is no time to argue, Mr. Boone. That … that savage came at me waving his hands, and when he grabbed the tomahawk, I couldn’t get you to wake up. I did what you told me to do. I protected the campsite. Is he dead?”

“No. Just minus a few feathers.”

She looked over, saw the Indian seated in the dust. “Oh, no. He’s quite old, isn’t he?”

“Very.”

“I thought he was going to scalp us both.”

“You nearly scalped him.”

“You told me to fire in self-defense. It was dark.” She shot another worried glance at the old man. She got to her knees and beat the dust off of the back of her pants with much huffing and puffing.

The old man was on his feet as well, babbling in Choctaw, frantically making a sign of friendship.

Hunter signed back, offering an apology, then put his closed fist against his forehead and turned his hand round and round, making small circles above his brow.

“What are you telling him?” Jemma whispered, her gaze whipping between Hunter and the Indian.

“I said I’m sorry and told him that you’re crazy.”

“Well, of all the—”

“Get him some coffee,” Hunter ordered as he continued to sign to the old man, who shuffled slowly and cautiously forward, keeping an eye on Jemma as he came into the light of the campfire.

Jemma stood beside the fire, near the coffeepot sitting on the stone ring. She looked as if she were about to cry.

“What now?” Hunter helped the old man sit on the log. He couldn’t discern any visible signs of injury, aside from the ruined feathers. He glanced over at Jemma and found her watching the old man lower himself to the log.

“He really didn’t look that old in the dark. Is he alone?”

Hunter signed to the Choctaw. “He says he is.”

Obviously relieved, Jemma closed her eyes and shook her head. “That’s good. I’d hate to have to answer to his entire family.”

“The coffee?”

“I’m getting it, but I think
I’m
the one that needs to be served coffee, not him.” She thrust her chin toward their exotic visitor. “He nearly scared a year off my life.”

“You nearly ended his.”

Once they were all holding steaming cups of brew as dark as pine pitch, Hunter asked Jemma to sit quietly while he carried on a conversation in sign language with the old man. At one point, when the man pointed both forefingers and then crossed his hands at the wrists, Hunter laughed out loud and shook his head.

Jemma had taken a seat very close to Hunter. She leaned into him and whispered, “What’s he saying?” Her breath was warm against his ear.

“He wants to buy you.”

She mumbled something that sounded like, “Not
that
again.”

Hunter looked down into her eyes. She was watching the old man warily. “What do you mean, ‘not that again’?” he asked.

“It’s nothing.” She shook her head. “Tell him no and make him leave,” she said with a shiver.

“I think I should at least see what kind of a deal he’s willing to make.” Hunter fought to keep his face expressionless.

“He doesn’t even have any
teeth
, for God’s sake.”

“His name is Many Feathers. At least that’s what they called him before you managed to blow apart his fancy headdress. He says he can give you all the corn and sugar you can eat. His farm is very big and his orchard has apples and peaches, too. Would you like to take him up on it?”

“You can’t be serious.” She was almost in his lap, so close that Hunter felt her shiver.

“I’m very tempted.”

“No!”

“I’m only joshing.”

“This is certainly no time to make jokes. How do you know there aren’t twenty or thirty of them hiding among the trees? How do you know they aren’t going to scalp us in our beds when he leaves?”

Many Feathers finished his coffee and extended the cup for another. Hunter couldn’t hide his smile. They would just have to humor the old man after Jemma’s near-fatal assault.

“He doesn’t appear to be headed any place. I think with a little hospitality we can make amends.” Then, taking pity on the girl, he assured her there was no danger. “Why don’t you bed down and get some sleep? Many Feathers here is liable to try to talk me into selling you all night long.
One
of us should be rested tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I can sleep. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep out here again. When I think of the heart-stopping dread I experienced when I looked up and there was that … that
man
standing there leering at me, brandishing that … that
tomahawk
. Why, I … was absolutely terrified.”

“Then why are you smiling as if you’d like nothing better than to experience that absolute terror all over again?”

“It
was
as thrilling as it was terrifying,” she admitted with a sigh.

“Why don’t you just roll up in your blanket and dream about it while I entertain your suitor here.”

Many Feathers chuckled to himself, smacking his puckered lips over the coffee while Hunter waited for Jemma to decide to move. Finally, she sat back on her heels and then stood up.

“Don’t forget I’ve paid you good money to get me up-river. I don’t want to wake up and discover you’ve traded me away to this savage.”

“He’s as cultured as we are, in his own way.”

She kept a sharp eye on Many Feathers as she backed over to her bedroll. “You’d have a hard time convincing me of that. Promise, Hunter Boone, that you won’t sell me.”

“You really think I’d do that?”

“It’s been tried.”

Wondering what she meant, Hunter leaned back against the end of the log opposite Many Feathers, prepared to sit out a long night.

“Look at it this way, Jemma. If you went off to live with Many Feathers here, I doubt the emir’s men would ever find you again.”

The next morning, she was in no mood for Hunter Boone’s dry wit. The pain in her shoulder was agonizing; the skin beneath her billowing, filthy shirt had already turned an angry purple. She had scratched the side of her face on the log when the force of the long rifle had sent her sprawling. The only saving grace was the satisfaction she got whenever she looked into Hunter’s bloodshot eyes. He had spent the night listening to Many Feathers until finally, as the sun began to rise at dawn, the old man got up and disappeared into the piney woods.

The path they followed was tangled and overgrown in places, crisscrossed by divergent foot trails, and often so narrow that they had to dismount and lead their spotted Texas ponies through the maze. Following some innate sense of direction, Hunter never hesitated or even paused to ponder their route.

By the time they had been on the move for a good half day, they heard the now-familiar sound of a river not far away. She prayed Hunter would call an early halt to the day’s travel so that he might get some much-needed sleep and she could rest her aching shoulder, but she did not mention the idea aloud. All morning long, whenever he looked her way, he simply shook his head and rode on.

The trees thinned out along the riverbank, affording them a grand view of the largest river they had come to yet. Always before, the waterways had been shallow enough to ford by swimming the horses through or by wading and leading them over, but this was no limpid stream. Muddy water propelled by a driving current cut away at the steep banks and carried heavy debris swirling downstream.

“Where are we?” Not that it would make any difference at all since she had no idea where they were, but Jemma asked anyway in her unending attempt to make conversation. They had reined in at the edge of the riverbank, where he could gauge the current and try to judge the depth of the water.

His only response was to mumble something that sounded like, “I must have been crazy to agree to this,” so Jemma thought it wise to make no further comment. She dismounted and leaned against the sturdy horse’s side, rubbing her shoulder and staring at the onrush of murky brown water.

“Can you swim?” Hunter asked.

Jemma swallowed hard, about to borrow one of Grandpa’s tales about being washed overboard in the Bay of Bengal, until she took another look at the swiftly flowing current and decided the truth would be her best option.

“Not very well,” she admitted with a dry swallow.

“Does that mean you can’t?”

“That means I might be able to paddle around a bit but …” She stared at the rushing water. “I can’t swim in that.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Meaning?”

“We have to cross.”

“Can’t we go upstream until we find a safer crossing … or a bridge?”

He laughed as if she had just said the funniest thing he had ever heard. “
Bridge?
And just
who
do you think might have built a bridge out here?”

“You don’t have to be rude about it. It seems perfectly logical to me that some traveler may have come along and built some sort of a bridge out of fallen logs or something.”

“Well, no one did, so we’re going to have to figure out a way to get you across.”

“Could we swim the horses over like we’ve done before?” They had already made a few river crossings, but nothing like this one. She had dreaded clinging to the stout pony for dear life, and hated spending the rest of the day in wet pants, but like now, there had been no alternatives.

“This river is much deeper than the others. If we swim, our supplies will get all wet. The horses will do better without us. I’ll have to build a raft, swim the horses over, and then come back for you and the provisions.”

She stared at what seemed to be an impossible crossing, trying to imagine Hunter swimming back across without the aid of the horses, and even worse, picturing herself adrift with biscuits and bacon and sacks of supplies on a flimsy log raft.

“What if you drown?” she mumbled, thinking aloud. “What’ll happen to me?”

Hunter cleared his throat. “Well, I imagine a resourceful girl like yourself would manage somehow. Maybe you should have taken Many Feathers up on his offer.”

“That’s very insensitive of you, Hunter,” she said, her temper rising.

“I don’t intend to drown.”

“No one
intends
to die, but accidents happen.”

“I’ve done this before. Don’t worry about me.” He dismounted and led his pony over to a clearing, where he pulled out the hobbles and let the animal graze.

“I’m not worried about you,” she lied. “I’m worried about me.”

Jemma followed him and began taking supplies off her. sturdy little mount. She had grown fond of the spotted pony, often coddling it when they stopped for the day and offering wild apples when she found them.

Hunter paused with a pack on his shoulder. “Don’t fret, Jemma. Everything will be fine. You set up camp and gather some wood while I start cutting timber for the raft. I’d like to have it built before midday tomorrow.”

Jemma watched him go, encouraged by his lack of concern as well as his confidence in her ability to organize the camp. While he combed the banks and began to chop down a tree, she walked along the river’s edge until she found an abandoned campsite. She tried to imagine who might have been there before them: rivermen going north, settlers moving into Mississippi and Tennessee from the southeast, Indians who had used these trails for generations. Jemma gathered firewood and started a fire in the stone fire ring beside the river, the way Hunter had taught her.

He was out of sight, but she could hear the dull, hollow throb of his axe against stubborn wood somewhere nearby. She didn’t know how he could keep up the pace with such vigor. She was near exhaustion. Rather than wait for him to come back to camp and cook, she decided to start the evening meal. She had seen him cook enough bacon to give it another try.

The sun had slipped behind the trees and the long green shadows of the forest had merged and blended to become darkness when she heard Hunter trudging tiredly back into camp.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said without glancing up, proud enough to burst as she began laying strips of crisp, unburned bacon on a dented pie tin. She rummaged around in the bundle of dry goods, came up with the biscuit tin, and piled some soda crackers on his plate.

Jemma held up the offering, finally looking at Hunter. He was half-naked, stripped to the waist. His leather shirt was hooked in two fingers, slung over his back. His shoulder-length blond hair, still tied in a queue, was wet. It curled riotously, with tendrils any woman would envy teasing his brow and temples. His lashes were spiked with water droplets, as was his broad, suntanned chest.

The minute she laid eyes on Hunter Boone’s muscular chest, Jemma realized in a blinding flash of insight that everything Sister Augusta Aleria had ever warned about temptations of the flesh and the curse of nakedness was absolutely true.

Speechless for one of the few times in her life, she could do nothing but stare. Forgotten, the plate in her hand began to droop. The bacon slid perilously close to the edge before Hunter lunged and retrieved it.