Only in My Arms (8 page)

Anna Leigh warmed to the look, thrilled by his concern. At the same time, she wasn't used to being told no. "Papa said I could."

"And I say you can't."

Her light brows rose a fraction. "I don't think this is your decision."

"We'll see." He wasn't going to barge into the ball now. His argument with the senator could wait until they could talk privately. "Shouldn't you go back to the dancing?" he asked.

She shrugged. The movement raised the half moons of her breasts a little higher. Anna Leigh noticed the motion drew Ryder's attention but did not hold it. "Is it because you're an Indian?" she asked.

His entire body was rigid. It was an effort to be polite. "I'm not certain I follow."

"Is that why you aren't joining the party, because the other scouts aren't invited and you're an Apache just like them?"

"That's an interesting conjecture."

Anna Leigh continued to stare at him expectantly. She only came to his shoulder, but she knew the angle at which she had to look up showed her throat to its long, slender advantage.

"Who told you I was Apache?"

Anna Leigh shook her head slightly as if she were protecting her source. "It's true, isn't it?"

Ryder doubted that anyone had told her. More likely, it was her own assumption. She had seen him in comfortable conversation with the scouts, sharing a table with them in the mess hall, and had drawn her own conclusions. She was encouraged in her thinking by his physical appearance: the sun-beaten color of his skin, the thick mane of glossy black hair, his strongly carved features. She had ignored, as others had before her, that he stood six to eight inches taller than the other scouts and that his eyes were the color of early morning frost, or she had explained the anomalies away by further assuming his heritage was mixed.

Ryder's smile was cold, his eyes penetrating. Anna Leigh didn't know enough to look away. She was mesmerized. Abruptly Ryder came to a decision. Taking her by the wrist he led the senator's daughter away from the row of wagons, away from the music and lights of the officers' hall, and toward the soldiers' barracks. He didn't take her inside, but skirted the adobe building until he had her at the rear. She made no move to resist him, not when he pulled her into the shadows behind the barracks and not when he pressed her against the rough mud wall. Her breathing was light, a little unsteady, but she was excited, not fearful.

"Is this why you came out here?" he asked, the line of his jaw tense. "Were you hoping to have the
savage's
hands on you this evening?" He pulled at the puffed sleeves of her satin gown so her bodice slipped lower.

Anna Leigh looked down at herself. Even in the shadows her skin was still paler than the hands that were on it. The contrast was startling, and Anna Leigh was aroused by it. "I've been watching you," she whispered huskily. From the beginning, she could have added. He was standing on the porch of the officers' quarters when the entourage from Washington had arrived. One of his shoulders had been braced against a timber that supported the overhang, and it was his indifferent, casual posture that she had noticed first. He didn't leap to attention or stiffen self-consciously as one about to come under inspection. Instead, he tugged on the brim of his hat to shade his eyes and disappeared just as the wagons were being unloaded. His insolence did not go unnoticed by other members of their party, but rather than being insulted by it, Anna Leigh was intrigued. "You're not like anyone else here," she told him.

Ryder was not particularly flattered by her observation. Not only did it have the easy comfort of a prepared speech, but there were men at Fort Union he admired. Not being like anyone else wasn't always a compliment. A hoarse sound came from the back of his throat, part growl, part purr. His hands slid across her bare shoulders to her neck. The rough pad of his thumb brushed the hollow of her throat. He saw her mouth part and felt the catch of her breath. He lowered his head. "How sure are you of that?" he asked softly. "I want the same thing from you that they do." His mouth clamped over hers as his entire body drove her flush to the wall.

Anna Leigh welcomed the pressure of his mouth. One of her legs rose against his flanks. Her body rubbed his. The bodice of her gown was pushed lower and her breasts would have been exposed to the cool air if it weren't for the protection of Ryder's coarse woolen jacket. Friction radiated through her tender skin, hardening her nipples and sending charged currents of heat from her breasts to her thighs. She felt her gown being raised and realized he was going to take her out in the open, standing up, her back pressed to a wall of dried mud. If she hadn't been clutching his neck for support, her fingers threaded deeply in his thick, inky hair, she would have lifted the gown herself.

Suddenly Ryder stopped his assault on her mouth, raised his head, and let her see the glimmer of a smile on his face. It had the warmth of a sliver of light on cold, hard steel. "I'm as white as you are, Miss Hamilton," he whispered roughly. "If you're looking for a scalp to hang in your bedroom, you'll have to look—"

Anna Leigh reared back and slapped him. "Bastard."

"Wrong again," Ryder said pleasantly. He ignored the heat in his left cheek and made a gesture near his head, tipping an invisible hat to her. It was an absurdly mannerly touch given his behavior, and she did not miss the mockery in it or in his expression.

"They said you're a half-breed," she called after him as he turned to go. Her tone was accusing, as if she'd been betrayed—not by the ones who told her but by him.

Ryder paused long enough to speak to her over his shoulder. Anna Leigh had managed to right her bodice and was smoothing what had been a carefully coifed hairstyle. "If
they
told you that," he said, conveying something of his disbelief, "then it was because
they
were warning you away from me. Around here white women don't throw themselves at Indians or half-breeds."

Anna Leigh's eyes widened. "What are you saying? Those bitches were trying to protect you? Save you for themselves?"

Ryder almost laughed. He hadn't thought of it like that, but he supposed it could be true. The mothers didn't seem to know whether to be hopeful or fearful that he would turn his attention to one of their daughters. "I figure they're hedgin' their bets until I make up my mind. Truth is, though, I'm spoken for."

"Spoken for?" she demanded crossly.

Ryder didn't miss a beat. "Florence Gardner."

The following morning Ryder reflected on the exchange between himself and Anna Leigh Hamilton as the company was preparing to depart. She hadn't been able to respond to his parting shot for almost a full minute, but made up for it later with a foul harangue that would have made the coarsest whore sit up and take notice. She was looking very demure this morning, he observed as Corporal Harding gave her a leg up on her mount. She handled the unfamiliar mare expertly, calming her quickly and demonstrating at the outset who was in charge. Ryder had never had any doubt that she could handle a horse. His objection to her joining the expedition had nothing to do with her riding ability and everything to do with the element of danger.

Anna Leigh had a sweet, saucy smile for each of the sixty men accompanying the wagons, from the lowliest driver to the troop leader, First Lieutenant Spencer Matheson. It was calculated to brighten their day, make them forget the miserable heat, and encourage them to remember how she had looked the night before in her jade satin ball gown. Ryder McKay was not a recipient of that smile. For the troop scout, Anna Leigh reserved a look that was haughty and superior, a pointed reminder that in spite of his attempt to humiliate her, she had still won an important battle. He could not have his way in all things.

Ryder dismissed the look she cast in his direction by simply ignoring it. He had more important things on his mind than Anna Leigh's petty retributions. He didn't understand or agree with her father's decision to allow her to accompany the wagons. Senator Warren Hamilton had explained it to him, of course, but to Ryder's way of thinking it didn't make sense. It didn't matter to Ryder that the senator had already made a promise to his daughter, or that he thought Ryder was exaggerating the danger; as far as Ryder was concerned, any danger at all presented too great a risk.

As soon as he realized the argument was lost, Ryder lodged a personal protest with the fort's commander. General Gardner listened, made his own attempt to dissuade the senator, and was met with the same stiff resistance. Finally the general had no choice but to order Ryder to take her along. "It's his business," he said. "And you're not the one in command."

"I haven't forgotten my place," Ryder said. "But I'm the one charged with the safety of this expedition and I don't like it. She doesn't belong."

General Gardner had held up his hand in a weary but firm gesture. The subject was closed and Ryder McKay was dismissed.

When First Lieutenant Matheson moved his company out, Ryder stopped thinking about Anna Leigh and her powerful, but ill-advised father, and concentrated on his assignment. As an Army scout Ryder held no formal rank. His pay amounted to a little more than a captain's salary because his skills were in great demand. He carried a map of most of the great Southwest in his head. On long expeditions through rocky canyons or scrub desert, Ryder proved he could find water, forage for food in the brush, or hunt game if called upon to do so. He did not expect to be asked to fill any of those roles this time.

The troop was escorting four wagons to the rail line at Colter Pass southwest of Fort Union. They would be met by the patrol that had been stationed there for the previous month. Matheson's troop would stay, spread out along the rails; and the relieved patrol would return to the fort for a well-deserved rest. To all appearances the journey was business as usual. The wagons carried supplies for the new patrol, enough to last at least two months in the event there was a problem relieving the men. The greased axle wheels still groaned under the heavy burden of the foodstuffs. If ever there was a soldier who thought the Army's biscuits could substitute for cannon fodder in a pinch, here was proof; for the wagons scored the ground with their weight. They carried kegs of fresh water, tins of coffee, canned peaches, corn, tomatoes, and milk. Jerky and rice and dried beans filled large burlap sacks. Sweets would be provided by molasses and raisins. Flour and salt were staples, but butter in the field was made from a combination of bacon grease, flour, and water and had the consistency of gravy. A clay crock held sourdough starter for fresh biscuits that would be a touch lighter than the ones they were traveling with. The men going to take their turn at patrolling the rail line looked wistful when they had their last glimpse of the fort. Few of them were thinking of wives or sweethearts. Almost to a man they were thinking of their stomachs.

Ryder had no difficulty outdistancing the first lieutenant's men. His job could never be done beside the men in his safekeeping. Sometimes he worked with a partner—one of the other scouts for whom there was mutual respect if not friendship—but most often he worked alone by his own choice.

The route to Colter Canyon was not unfamiliar to any but the greenest of the recruits. Ryder wasn't along to blaze a trail. He had one purpose—to find Apache.

Many of the Apache tribes that populated the Southwest Territory had been rounded up by the Army and forced to take up residence on government reservations. In spite of that there were still renegade bands that struck hard and fled fast, causing damage to themselves and the settlers alike. Ryder thought of them as resistance fighters, men who thought their way of life, their beliefs, and their families were all worth saving. It was not a popular view, and because of who Ryder McKay was, and because of how he was raised, to state his thoughts aloud would have brought suspicion on his head. He was well aware that no matter how he proved himself he was always going to be regarded with a certain lack of trust. Walker Caide was an exception to that rule. So was General Thorn at West Point. In the Southwest he counted two men who had shown themselves to be in the same vein. One was General Mitchell Halstead, recently retired from his thirty-year career with the Army, and living in Flagstaff. The other was Naiche, a Chiricahua warrior and blood brother to Geronimo, both of whom were still at large.

Ryder did not expect trouble on the journey, but he had to anticipate it. The foodstuffs they carried were especially appealing to Chiricahua raiders who would be looking to feed themselves and their families. Ryder watched the ground closely. Displaced rocks were clues of someone passing on the land in front of him. He knew how to determine how many were in a raiding party, if they walked or were on horseback, how fast they were traveling, and if there were women and children bringing up the rear. Nothing he saw indicated the Chiricahua were on the trail of the wagons or the company's horseflesh.

Ryder circled around and back, covering the company's left flank and rear. He waited on the high ground among the red rocks for Matheson's men to catch up to him. Along the length of a nearby wash was a low-growing, spreading mesquite tree. Saguaro cacti spotted the desert floor, bristling guards for the unwary traveler. A tiny elf owl, no bigger than a finch, had taken up residence in one of the thick arms of a cactus, his home compliments of a woodpecker who had deserted the hole.

Ryder felt the skin at the back of his neck prickle. He did not try to dismiss the feeling. It was more important to accept it and understand what it might mean. In the distance he could hear the approach of the company, the shuffled cadence of men and horses, the creaking rhythm of wagons on the hard, dry earth. Ryder could not see the column as they wended their way through the canyon, but he followed the fine cloud of dust that rose high in the air above them like a morning mist. By the time they reached him he had formulated a plan.