Orchids in Moonlight (20 page)

"Dear God, no," she breathed in horror. Just then a snake slithered upward from its den to disappear into the brush.

Hobbling backward away from the hole, panic squeezing to choke and strangle, Jaime prayed for strength to make it back to the campsite. If she passed out here, Cord might not find her till it was too late. It might already be too late, she realized, dread washing over her.

The pain was excruciating. Daggers of agony were shooting up and down her leg. She ran a little farther before slowing as she remembered one of Wilma Turnage's warnings—anyone bitten by a poisonous snake should try to remain calm, lest the poison spread quicker.

Several times, she paused to call out to Cord, as loudly as she could, but the sound merely bounced back at her within nature's shielding shroud.

She was getting dizzy, and it was becoming more difficult to move due to the numbness spreading from the wound. She fell, scraped her head on something, and saw it was a long curved stick. Hoisting herself back up, she pressed her weight against it and continued limping onward.

She did not know when she reached the site, for her mind had taken her away from the horror of the moment. The ground smashed into her face, and she was taken to merciful oblivion.

* * *

Cord lay on his stomach, stretched across the rocks. Below him, in the crystal-clear water, a large, lazy trout swam in the shallows. He waited for what he felt was the right moment, then plunged his hand downward—and missed. With a triumphant flip of its tail, the fish darted away.

Cord didn't really care. Already he had landed a dozen, which would slice up into a generous supply of jerky. Now he was just passing time, wanting to be alone to try and sort out his thoughts.

Something was happening deep inside him, something he did not want and fought against, using the painful lessons of the past as ammunition. It didn't help any to feel that Jaime was starting to care deeply for him, as well. But—he gave a bitter laugh—he knew all too well how that would change if she knew the truth about his background. Besides, he had made a vow to neither give nor receive love, and that's the way it had to be. Maybe some men could, but not him. It just wasn't in his blood, due to his father's weakness.

Where he had chosen to fish, the stream was narrow and jutted off from the river. With the spiky mountains as a frame, gazing up was like looking from out of a deep tunnel. Ringed by mighty firs and pines and a few oaks lower down was the bluish gray sky, and Cord knew he should be heading back to camp.

Yet he tarried. Thinking of how Jaime would react if she knew of his Indian background, he allowed painful memories to surface.

The summer he was seventeen seemed a lifetime ago. He was hanging around a military post in Texas by then, earning his keep as a scout. He was a good one too, thanks to all the Apaches had taught him. But back then, he was too naive to fully understand what a stigma it was to have lived with them.

He learned quickly, however, and painfully, thanks to the daughter of the post commander.

Her name was Nora Lansing, and the day she and her mother arrived at the post, Cord had taken one look and stupidly forgot his vow never to love. He was smitten, hard and hopelessly.

With so beautiful and vivacious a young woman on the post, every unmarried officer, and even some of the single enlisted men, beat a path to her door. Cord watched from afar, figuring he didn't stand a chance, but when she began to smile and flirt with him he decided to pay her a call too.

He had put on clean buckskins, washed and brushed his shoulder-length hair. He even splashed on some rose water after scraping his face with the shaving stone. He'd picked a bouquet of daisies for her from outside the gate. She had been delighted and boldly kissed his cheek in gratitude.

Then his bubble of happiness burst with a loud bang.

Major Lansing loomed up behind her in the doorway of their quarters, took one look at Cord, and angrily bellowed, "What's that half-breed doing at my door?"

Nora had dropped the flowers as if they were covered in spiders. Pressing back against her father she had glared at Cord in revulsion.

The major was pulling her back, and Cord had tried to explain. "No, Miss Nora. That's not true. I don't have a drop of Indian blood...."

Major Lansing's lips had curved in a contemptuous sneer. "It doesn't matter. You were raised by the murdering Apaches. That makes you one of them, no better than a savage."

Cord had defended himself. "Sir, that's just not so. Please. I mean your daughter no harm—"

"Shut up," Major Lansing had yelled, temper boiling over. "How dare you argue with me? I agreed you could work as a scout, because you know the area, but you're still an Indian, as far as I'm concerned, and I won't have you coming near my daughter. Now get out of here. And get off the post. I won't stand for any half-breeds that don't know their place."

Cord knew if he lived to be a thousand years old, he would never forget the look on Nora Lansing's face as the door slammed on him.

if Nora had not joined her father in rejecting him, if she had said just one word in his behalf, he knew it would not have hurt so bad.

He had left the post that night and moved on.

Renewing his vow not to feel anything beyond passion for any woman, he made sure he sought out only the soiled doves, the ladies of pleasure, the ones he could pay for their services.

That was how he regarded Jaime. Her payment was his getting her safely to California. After that, he would put her out of his mind forever.

There could be no other way.

He headed back to the camp, confident he again had a hold on his emotions.

As he approached the camp, he frowned to see there was no campfire burning. Jaime knew to get one going before dusk, and he had never known her not to do what was expected of her.

With a stab of apprehension, he quickened his step, calling out to her, alarm thick in his voice.

Then, in the twilight, he saw her.

With a furious oath, he dropped the fish he was carrying and broke into a run the rest of the way. He knew something was badly wrong by the way she lay in a crumpled heap.

Kneeling beside her, he saw no blood on her head, except for where she'd scraped her face when she hit the ground. He began to look for another wound and drew a sharp breath when he spotted the swelling above her left ankle.

Closer examination revealed venom oozing from the puncture wounds, and he knew, with bone-chilling horror, she'd been struck by a rattler.

"Just hang on, Sunshine," he murmured, yanking off his shirt. Ripping along the bottom, he wrapped the strip of material below her knee.

Drawing his knife, he sliced an X across each hole and began rhythmically to suck and spit both blood and venom. When he felt he could draw no more, he ran to his saddlebag where he had always kept remedies for snakebites and other emergencies.

Taking out a pouch of thick, black, foul-smelling salve, he rubbed it into the wound. He had learned from an Apache medicine man how to make a potion that would draw out the rest of the poison, as well as take down the swelling that might otherwise cause gangrene to set in. And Lord, he could not let himself even think of the possibility of having to amputate her leg.

He knew the chills would start soon, so he set about gathering wood to build a roaring fire. Settling within the ring of warmth, he covered her with blankets as well as the thick buffalo coat.

There, beneath the canopy of trees, darkness came quickly. He had no thoughts of eating, forgetting about his own needs as he continued to hold her tightly in his arms.

She began to tremble, teeth chattering, body convulsing with chills to the marrow of her bones. From time to time, she would cry out loud, arms thrashing about wildly, but he held her down.

Fever came, and she began to mumble crazily. He left her only long enough to bring cups of cold river water to drip upon her parched lips. Sometimes she would rally to drink, only to lapse back into delirium, head lolling.

Once in a while she would call his name, which evoked conflicting emotions. Part of him was moved, while remembered resolve warned not to care.

The night wore on, and finally her fever broke, and she was soaked in perspiration. He took away the buffalo coat, tucking only a blanket about her. It was still too soon to be confident she would make it. If she lasted till morning, with no more chills, and regained consciousness, he knew he could start to breathe easy.

Not about to fall asleep himself, he paced restlessly for a time. Then, noticing her satchel, he hesitated only a moment before looking inside. If she did die, God forbid, he would feel an obligation to find her father and let him know. He was curious to see whether she had brought any of her father's letters with her, though he had no intention of reading them unless it became necessary in order to figure out where to start looking.

At first, he thought there was only intimate items, underwear and such, her spare clean dress neatly rolled, a few hair ribbons.

When he saw the Bible, he took it out and began to leaf through. Inside the cover there were names scrawled. No doubt, her family. Her own name was penned:
Laura Jaimelle Chandler, December 10, 1848.
They'd never discussed age, but he had guessed she was about five years younger than he was; now he knew he was right.

He saw the envelopes and was satisfied to know there were letters.

As he was about to put the Bible away, it fell open to the pressed orchid.

Cord felt a tightening in his chest.

Somehow, he knew she had saved that flower because it had special meaning, which confirmed his suspicions that she did not look on their relationship merely as two people clinging together for strength and affection during a difficult time.

It meant much more to her than that.

But he could not, would not, allow it to mean the same to him.

He put the satchel back where he had found it and went to kneel beside her.

She would live.

He would get her to California.

But after that, it was over.

And now he felt like a damn fool for having ever let it begin.

Chapter 13

It was on the morning of the second day after the incident that Jaime said she felt strong enough to travel, but Cord was not as optimistic and said they would wait a few more days.

"I'm sorry," she said between sips of the coffee he'd made. "The last thing I wanted was to hold us back."

Cord did not look up from where he sat working on a broken harness strap. "Can't be helped now."

"I feel fine, really," she lied. "If you want to get started tomorrow, I'm sure I'll be up to it."

He shook his head. "No. That'd be asking for trouble. That foot needs to heal a few more days before you start riding and jouncing it around. And you sure as hell can't walk on it for a while. Besides, we've got a good campsite here. Lots of game come to get water, so we've got food without going into our supplies. We'll be fine for a few more days."

"But I can travel now," she said, braver than she felt. She looked down at her ankle, the flesh still bruised and swollen. He had removed the bandage that morning, and it was the first time she'd been able to see the wound. "It's ugly, isn't it?"

"It will heal. You were lucky. It could've been worse." She had told him how it happened, and he knew she'd stepped into a den of rattlesnakes. It was not uncommon for the deadly pit vipers to take over another animal's burrow for the winter.

She laughed softly, nervously. "Next time, I'll know the difference between bees buzzing and a snake rattling."

He did not respond to her humor, but said gruffly, "Next time, you'll remember not to stray off in the woods. You don't know enough about the wilderness to be alert to all the dangers. Do as you're told from now on, and don't be so bullheaded."

Jaime was bewildered by his scolding. His voice had an edge to it, as though he were trying to hold his temper.

"I said I was sorry," she repeated coolly.

A few moments passed in tense silence. Cord continued to focus his attention on the task at hand, while Jaime, her feelings hurt, wondered what to do to smooth things over.