Wind Song (14 page)

Feeling greatly relieved, he let his foot drop and hooked his thumbs into his pants pockets. "Of course, you still have the scalping problem to worry a…" Her gun fired, exploding in a loud blast. Luke's hat blew off his head. Something ripped across his scalp.

Paling, he grabbed his head with both hands. For a long moment, he and the schoolteacher stared at each other, neither one able to speak.

When Luke finally managed to convince himself that his brains were still in their rightful place, he lowered his arms, slowly. Praise the Lord, he was still standing. He reached over and picked up his hat. A clump of shiny black hair fell to the ground at his feet.

"I do believe you have everything covered, Miss Percy. Scalp the Indians before they scalp you. It's so damned simple, it might just work."

Maddie dropped her arm to her side, the gun pointing at the ground. "I apologize, Mr. Tyler," she said in a tremulous voice. "I had no idea these weapons were so sensitive."

"They aren't half as sensitive as my head." He examined his straw hat. Normally, he gave his hat a good whack against his thigh whenever it flew off, either by design or accident. But thinking the hat had enough abuse for one day, he gingerly brushed it off. The bullet had left a hole at the base of the brim. A half inch lower and it wouldn't have mattered that his manhood remained intact.

"Do you suppose I would do better with a different type of gun?"

"I think you'd do better with no gun." He put on the hat, adjusting the brim to make certain no further damage had been done. He then seized the weapon from her. "Where did you get this relic?"

"From a gentleman in Hays."

"Would that happen to be the same
gentleman
who sold you the tipi?"

"The very same one," she admitted. "Would you like to try it?"

"What?"

"The gun. Would you like to see how it works?"

He'd never touched a gun in his life until he came to Kansas. He hadn't dared to. Not with his family background. He learned to use a gun that first winter. It was either that or let his family starve to death. His family pretty near starved to death, anyway, but he gave it his best effort. Since that first disastrous winter, he preferred trading corn and diary products for his meat, leaving the hunting to others. Now he aimed the gun at the woodpile and fired. A chip of wood flew upward, a good six inches from his intended target.

"Not bad." She looked impressed. Obviously, she had no idea what a bad shot he was, and he wasn't about to tell her. She hesitated a moment. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to give me some instruction?"

"I could try, I suppose."

Her gaze lingered momentarily upon his bare chest. As if aware he was watching her, she quickly averted her eyes.

Although he often worked shirtless in the fields, he felt oddly exposed. The outline of her naked body flashed into his mind's eye, but he quickly pushed it away. When that failed to work, he purposely inventoried her deficiencies. Tall and skinny. Almost tawdry in appearance. Definitely not his type.

However, tallying her negative traits made it perfectly clear that the parts did not add up to the whole. She was altogether pleasing to the eye. Too gosh-darn pleasing.

"I didn't have time to finish dressing," he explained apologetically. "If you like, I could…" He motioned toward the soddy.

Her eyes met his. "You needn't bother on my account. I was concerned that you might catch cold."

He wasn't feeling cold. Not a bit. "I'm used to it. You…you weren't cold, were you?"

"Cold?"

"Last night. In the tipi…" Dammit, why did he have to mention the tipi? He tried to think of a way to cover his error. "Did…did you have enough blankets?"

"Yes, thank you. I was most comfortable."

A moment of silence stretched between them. She was the one who broke it. "You were going--"

"Yes, yes, of course." He felt strangely awkward and self-conscious.

He stood behind her. Lord, he'd never stood by such a tall woman. As tall as he was, there was only five, maybe six inches difference between them. No wonder her legs had looked so damned long last night. You couldn't tell normally. Not with the ridiculous, though admittedly fetching, outfit she wore.

He was aware of the energy that seemed to flow from her. Her movements were brisk and confident as she took the gun from him. Considering her lack of skill, he had no idea what she had to be confident about. He was a fine one to talk. He had no business teaching anyone how to use a weapon.

He slipped his hand around her slender waist and lifted her arm upward until it was even with her shoulder. By George, she was as thin as a pole and just as firm. Hadn't anyone told her that men liked more substance to their women? More roundness?

"Now target something." Still, she had a lovely, fresh fragrance, and she didn't feel all that bad in his arms. "See that piece of wood? Aim for the knot." He tightened his hand against hers. Come to think of it, she felt mighty nice. "Fire!"

She did as she was told, and a chunk flew off the targeted spot. He narrowed his eyes to make certain he wasn't seeing things. The target was gone, all right.

"See?" he said, trying to sound as if shooting came easy to him. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?" She glanced back over her shoulder, and for an instant he couldn't breathe.

"You're hurting me, Mr. Tyler."

He blinked. "What?"

"My hand."

His mouth went dry, and he quickly loosened his hold on her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." He swallowed hard and fought the sudden urge to flee. "Do…do you want to try again?"

She nodded slightly and turned her head toward the woodpile. Chin resting on her shoulder, he tried to focus on the gun. "Pick out your target."

"I want to hit that L-shaped piece of wood," she said.

"Fire."

This time she missed the target by a mile.

"Try it again!" he insisted. "And this time keep your eyes open."

She moved away from him and looked straight into his eyes. She was something, all right. Proud and high-spirited. The two qualities one would look for in a horse. Hell, if she were a horse, he'd think she was purebred Arabian. With this thought came the memory of her running in carefree abandon around his house, her hair streaming behind her, her face lifted toward the sky.

She shoved the gun in his hand and brushed her hands together as if relieved to be free of the worrisome weapon. "It isn't right," she declared.

"What isn't right?"

"The gun. I don't feel comfortable using it. Should I have occasion to meet any unfriendly Indians, I shall just have to use diplomatic tactics."

"I'm sure the Cheyenne will be greatly relieved to hear of your decision."

She let out a gasp. Thinking she'd seen another snake, he quickly checked the ground around his bare feet. "What's the matter?"

No sooner had he asked the question than he realized they were no longer alone. A short distance away, a group of Cheyenne sat watching them from atop their ponies.

"What do you suppose they want?" she stammered. She dug her fingers into his bare arm.

"I have no idea," he said. The Indians had previously kept their distance from him--although he had heard of occasions when some of them had visited other farms in the area.

"They're pointing at something," she said.

His eyes narrowed beneath the still dusty brim of his hat. "They're pointing at your tipi. I just hope that damned drummer who sold it to you didn't steal it."

The Indians rode closer. "What should we do?" she whispered.

"I'm not sure," he whispered back. "But whatever those diplomatic tactics are that you talked about earlier, I hope you're prepared to use them."

There were nine Cheyenne in all. They kept their distance, but it was clear that Maddie was the object of their interest. The Indians pointed at Maddie and the tipi, and their laughter rang out.

Resenting their derision, she balled her fists at her sides. "What is the matter with them? What's so funny?"

"I suspect they find it amusing that a white woman is living in a tipi."

"Humph," she sniffed. "If you ask me, it's most unmannerly to laugh at someone. Actually, it's downright rude."

"Laughing may be rude, as you call it, but it's a lot more preferable than some other behavior I can think of."

As quickly as they had appeared, the Indians rode off, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.

Maddie glared after them. "Of all the nerve."

"Now that our visitors are gone, I'd better see to Matthew. Would you like some coffee?"

"In a while. It's time for my morning exercise. Would you mind taking that gun? I don't think I'll be using it again."

"Yes, of course." Gun in hand, he headed toward the soddy, but he couldn't resist glancing back at her when he reached the door.

What he saw brought a smile to his face. There she was, walking with her usual urgent stride, her arms swinging back and forth, her back so straight she looked like she had swallowed a stick. Commanding was what she was. Most commanding.

Fortunately her back was toward him, so she couldn't see the laughter on his face.

One, two, three. She counted silently as she picked up her pace.

Handsome, two, three. Too conventional for her taste, though. One, two…his arms around her waist had felt good.

She slowed to almost a standstill before she realized she'd lost her stride. Muttering, she forced herself to concentrate. "One, two, three. Nice…chest… Three."

Great eyes. Her mind wandered for a moment as she tried to think of a way to describe their deep blue color. Where was she? Oh, yes, one, two, three… She circled the soddy the twenty-five times she had allotted herself, then glanced in the direction the Indians had gone. Satisfied that no prying eye remained, she began her morning calisthenics. Touching her toes, she tried to reconcile the contradictory opinions that kept popping into her head about one Luke Tyler.

Chapter 12

Luke filled the coffeepot with newly ground coffee beans water and eggshells and gave his sleeping son a gentle nudge. "Come on, Matthew. Time to get up. We have a full day of work ahead of us."

Matthew stretched and yawned, then rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.

Shaking his head fondly at the boy, Luke walked over to the stove to start breakfast. He couldn't resist taking a look out the window. He peeled away the oil paper at the edge of the glass pane and narrowed his eyes in the direction of the woodpile.

She was doing her exercises, just as she'd said she would, and he watched her bend graceful at the waist, then stretch her arms over her head. Her tall, lean body was as supple as a young sapling swaying in the wind. Again he was reminded of the vision of her naked body on the walls of her tipi. Suddenly he couldn't breathe.

He replaced the oil paper and turned. Matthew stood peering out the door toward Maddie, a smile on his face.

The smile warmed Luke's heart, but only for the instant it took for him to realize the worrisome implications. It wouldn't be good for the boy to form an attachment to the eccentric schoolteacher. Matthew had already suffered one loss. Luke didn't want to think what another loss could do to his son. To them both.

"Matthew!" His voice, coming from some deep-rooted fear, was far more harsh than the situation warranted. He felt immediate remorse when the boy turned to him, the smile gone from his face. He wanted so much to take the boy in his arms and explain.

Explain what? He thought bitterly. That we are two of a kind? That neither one of us can ever allow ourselves to get too close to anyone because of who we're related to.

Luke's voice grew hoarse with regret. "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."

It seemed so much lighter in the room than usual. It was the petticoats, he decided. It was something in the way the frilly white material reflected the otherwise inadequate sunlight that filtered through the window. He reached above his head to finger the soft fabric, yanking his hand away when the door flew open.