Montana Wildfire (51 page)

Jake leaned forward, sitting up to pillow one elbow atop his rock-hard thigh. The muscle jerking his cheek, combined with his tight expression, said she'd hit a nerve.

"I'm not ashamed of the color of my skin," he growled, and leaned forward still more.

"Aren't you?"

"No," he hissed, his eyes narrowing to angry grey slits. "I'm proud of it. Damn proud."

"Ah, yes, I can see that," she countered with a sarcasm that surprised even herself. She raked his flannel shirt and tight denim pants
—white man's
clothes—with a telling glance. The furious color in Jake's cheeks said her meaning was not missed. "You know, from the start you've told me all white people, even without knowing you, automatically label you a savage." She sighed and shook her head. "This may sound like a stupid question, but... hasn't it ever occurred to you that
you go out of your way
to give them that impression? You—"

"Shut up," Jake snapped, and pushed to his feet. He looked edgy, as though he was fighting the urge to stalk the distance between them and wrap his fingers around her throat—anything to get her to stop talking. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about, lady, so just shut the hell up!"

If her nerves hadn't already been raw, Amanda might have taken his grittily uttered advice and kept her peace. But her nerves
were
raw, and the things she was saying now were things she'd thought—but lacked the courage to actually
say—at
least a hundred times since she'd met this man.

Their time together was running short. It wouldn't be long before they reached Pony. The clerk had said a day, maybe two. Now that Roger was with them, they wouldn't have the freedom to talk that they'd once had—and had rarely used.

Did she want to look back on these last few days with Jake with regret? Did she want to constantly be reminded of all the things she should have said, but hadn't?

Amanda glanced up his sinewy length, their combative gazes locked. "It bothers you to hear the truth doesn't it, Jake?"

"Not half as much as it's going to bother
you
when I plant my fist down your throat, Amanda."

A sliver of cowardice curled down her spine, but she was surprised by how little effort it took to shove the emotion away. Perhaps it was having killed two men earlier that made the threat of being roughed up a bit lack its sting? Shrugging, she rested her chin atop her knees and averted her gaze to the fire. "You won't hurt me."

"You sound awful sure of that."

Though his tone was antagonistic, as though he
wanted
for her to fight with him, Amanda refused to oblige. She kept her voice dignified, controlled. "I am."

Prissy.
That
was the tone of voice Jake heard, the one that scratched down his spine like fingernails on slate. But, unfortunately, that was secondary—because what
really
grated, on him was knowing that she was right. He wouldn't hurt her, couldn't even if he'd wanted to. And he didn't really want to.

"I'm going for a walk," he snapped, and spun on his heel. He'd no more stepped into the shadows where the warmth of the fire didn't reach when Amanda's voice rang out behind him, stopping him cold.

"Run all you want, but sooner or later you re going to have to stop and face the truth."

"And what, exactly, is the truth, Amanda?"

"That you're never going to be all white, no matter how much you may want to be."

"Dammit, woman, I don't
want
to be white!"

Amanda's voice lowered. "And you call
me
a liar!"

Well, that comment had Jake retracing his steps in record time. He didn't stop near the boulder, but instead stalked past it, his cat-silent steps angrily rounding the campfire. He stopped only when the toe of his moccasin threatened to make contact with her outer thigh. Hands planted solidly on hips, he stood glowering down at the top of her golden head. "I don't lie, Miss Lennox. Ever."

"You just did."

"Yeah? Then that's something I must have picked up along the way. I had a damn good teacher.
You."
He reached down and banded his fingers around her upper arms, dragging her to her feet. He barely noticed the pain that shot through his arm as he hauled her up roughly against his chest. The feel of her breath whooshing from her lungs wasn't as satisfying as it should have been, but Jake was too confused to notice.

A question had been circling around them for the last four hours. He hadn't asked it. And, whether or not she saw it glinting in his eyes every time he looked at her, she hadn't answered it. Now, feeling her body crushed against him, Jake surrendered to an overpowering need to know.

"Why?" he asked roughly as he lowered his head so their noses almost touched. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in her eyes. He hated the face staring back at him—
his
face. It was unrecognizable; a ruthless, furious savage hell-bent on tormenting a poor, quivering little white lady. Jesus, he'd sunk pretty damn low these days!

"Why what?" Amanda countered breathlessly. She couldn't help the shaky quality of her voice, of her body. Being this close to Jake did that to her. It weakened what little resolve she'd ever had. The feel of his hands on her, of his breath scorching her upturned face, flooded her with memories... and initiated a fire in her blood that she'd learned weeks ago she was powerless to douse.

"Why'd you do it, princess? Dammit,
why?"

She could have asked, "Do what?" but it would only have stalled an answer, not avoided it. Amanda knew what the question was, just like she knew it had been only a matter of time before one of them came right out and asked it. Should she tell him the truth, even knowing she'd risk opening herself up to a world of pain that far outstripped anything she'd felt in the past? On the other hand, could she lie to him—again?

Yes, she realized suddenly, she could lie to him if forced. But she wouldn't. If she did, she wouldn't respect herself for it. And Jake would hate her. Because it would be yet another in a very long list of little "white" lies.

The fingers banding her arms tightened. He turned and maneuvered her backward, until the gritty trunk of a pine tree was biting into her back. And Jake's hardness was molding into her front.

They met thigh to thigh. Hip to hip. Soft, feminine curves to lean male hardness. She felt the breaths sawing in and out of his lungs. Their ragged rhythm matched her own.

"Tell me, Amanda. Why? I... dammit, I need to know."

Not half as much as she needed to say it, Amanda realized abruptly. Her hands came up, splaying his chest. Her fingers curled inward; she gripped his worn flannel shirt in tight, trembling fists.

Her gaze was trained on the inky hair that fell over his shoulder, on the braid and the small feather that rested against his chest. Slowly, her attention lifted, scanning his neck and noting the bruises Tom or Henry's hands had left behind.

She met Jake's gaze unflinchingly, she wasn't sure how, and was reminded of the first time she'd ever seen him. Those silver-grey eyes of his had had the power to shake her world even then. Now, they had the power to break her in two with just one glance.

"Why, Amanda?"

Her gaze lowered, locking onto the tight line of his mouth. She released the breath she only now realized she'd been holding. Her lungs burned when she dragged in another. So did the tips of her breasts. Every breath she drew put her into sizzling contact with the solid planes of Jake's chest. "I..."

"Say it," he growled. Was it by intent or accident that his hips moved, crushing her against the tree? And did it matter? No. Either way, her response was the same... breathless, hot, nerve-shattering sensation. "Tell me, damn you! Why the hell did you—?"

"Because he was going to kill you!" The high, panicky, and sharp voice, that echoed in Amanda's ears was barely recognizable as her own. The enormity of what she'd just said, what she'd almost admitted, hit her like a slap. Her reaction was three times more devastating. She'd been shaking before, mostly on the inside. Now, her entire body began quivering with a force that stunned her. Her knees felt weak, watery. If not for the tree—and Jake—she would have collapsed.

Amanda would always wonder where she found the courage to continue speaking. It didn't matter that her voice came out as a hoarse whisper; one she could barely hear herself. The bands of muscles she cushioned beneath her fingertips rippled when she spoke, telling her that while Jake might have to strain to hear her, he was absorbing every word. "He was going to kill you, Jake. I couldn't let that happen. It would have... "

"What?" he asked, his voice low and raspy, filled with an emotion that it took supreme effort to keep out of his eyes and his expression. He stared down at her, stared
into
her, as though willpower alone could drag the words from her creamy white throat. "What would it have done?"

"It would have killed me," she admitted softly, and her chin lowered, her voice weakened. "A part of me would have shriveled up and died right along with you."

Jake's pause was long and tense, filled with the crackling of the campfire and the give and take of two equally ragged breaths. "Because you love me?"

His gritty tone made the words more a raw statement of fact than a question.

Amanda answered him anyway. She
had
to. "Yes, because I love you."

"Son of a bitch."

The response, uttered through gritted teeth, surprised her. It wasn't what she'd expected, wasn't at all what she'd wanted to hear. But then, what
had
she expected? That Jake would say he loved her, too? That he couldn't live without her? That he'd do whatever it took to keep her by his side. There was no denying that was what she wanted to hear... just as there was no denying that Jacob Blackhawk Chandler wasn't the type of man to say such a thing. Not to a white woman. Not ever.

He leaned closer and rested his forehead against hers. Both were beaded with nervous perspiration. Jake's eyes were pinched tightly shut, as though there were emotions swimming in his gaze that he didn't want Amanda to see and that he was having the devil's own time controlling.

"What's between us..." he said finally, hoarsely, "it won't work, you know. It can't. They won't let it."

"They? Meaning other white people?" A drop of anger warmed Amanda's blood. She focused on it as though it was a chunk of driftwood and she was drowning. In a way, she was. Only not in water. She was drowning in the ache of rejection. Again. "What people—no, what
white
people—think of you is very important to you, isn't it, Jake?"

"Yes." The pained way he said it told her this was not only the first time he'd made such an admission to another person, it was also the first time he'd confessed this to himself. His body tightened beneath her hands, humming with furious confusion. Amanda had a feeling Jake had surprised even himself. He surprised them both when he added huskily, "You don't know what it's been like for me, lady. You have no idea, couldn't even begin to understand…"

"Then explain it to me, Jake." Her fingers uncurled from around his shirt. She wasn't aware of when her hands traveled up his chest, over his shoulders. She was, however, excruciatingly aware of when her fingertips grazed, then traced, the puckered scar on the back of his neck. "
Make
me understand."

"No."

"But—?"

"No." His hand came out of nowhere, his fingers manacling her wrist, yanking her hand away. He moved back far enough to settle her arm between them and then he pressed in on her again. His body molded into hers; the fit was perfect. The feel of his hard, muscled length pressing her back against the equally firm tree hit Amanda like a wave of white heat. "Leave it alone, princess. I put that part of my life behind me years ago."

She could feel him pulling away from her. Not physically, but mentally. She let him go, because she had no choice. He needed time to deal with everything that had happened, with what they'd both just confessed. She was smart enough to acknowledge that she needed time too. Oh, not to deal with having killed Tom and Henry Rafferty—she was shocked to realize how quickly she'd come to terms with that. She'd done what had to be done at the time. One of them had been about to kill her, the other had been about to kill Jake. She'd stopped them. It was that simple.

No, what she needed time for was to come to terms with the fact that her confession had been humiliatingly one-sided. She'd given Jake a chance to tell her how he felt. He hadn't taken it. He hadn't admitted feelings for her, and she was starting to believe the reason was because he didn't have any. The idea was devastating, yet the sooner she faced up to it the better off she'd be. Jake Chandler did not love her. And he never would.

"How much longer before we reach Pony?" she asked softly, breathlessly. It was either change the subject, or cry. The latter she refused to do. She didn't want Jake to see how badly he'd hurt her. Her pride couldn't take a blow like that; it had sustained one too many as it was.

Jake lifted his head and looked at her oddly. While his gaze registered surprise at the swift change of topic, he didn't argue it. If anything, he looked relieved. "Another day if it doesn't snow again," he answered cautiously. "Why?"

"I think you know."

You'll get your cousin back if it kills me. And I'll get...

What? What will you get. Jake?

My money. Every last cent of it... the sooner we get the brat back, the sooner I can be rid of you.

The remembered words hung in the air, thicker than the charred scent of wood surrounding them. The brat was back. In two days, Jake would be rid of her. Forever. Did the idea please him? There was no way to tell. His expression was as tight and as unreadable as ever.

With a growl, Jake pushed away from Amanda and spun on his heel. She tried not to notice the sudden chill that blasted over her in all the places his body had warmed her. Tried not to, but did. The question was, did Jake? If he made the observation, it didn't affect him enough to stop him from leaving.