Authors: Countess In Buckskin
Merline Lovelace (8 page)
She swung to face Josh, her eyes huge. “The water is hot?”
“Boiling, when it spouts out of the ground like that. It cools off when it drains into a pool or stream. It loses most of its stink then, too.”
“I will bathe in this pool or stream,” she announced breathlessly, “if you will make the camp here.”
“Bathe?”
The idea of the countess stripping down for a bath caused a sharp kick of interest just below Josh’s belt. A sudden vision of long legs, curved hips and lush breasts darted into his mind.
Sternly he repressed it. He’d already gone down this road once with her. He wasn’t going to let lust get mixed into their volatile relationship again.
He threw a quick glance at the sun. They could travel a few more miles yet today. Maybe make the crest of the next pass. Or they could stop here, with the protection of the high-walled ravine at their backs. The expression in Tatiana’s eyes stopped just short of pleading, but it was close enough to decide the matter.
“We’ll make camp at the mouth of the gorge.”
She was in a fever of impatience by the time they’d selected a site beside the stream that twisted out of the ravine. After unpacking the pony and scavenged enough deadwood for the fire, Tatiana tucked her fur cloak under her arm and headed for the shallow, steaming pool formed by the geyser.
Josh called her back. “Hold on a minute.”
He dug into one of his packs. Somewhere under the half-empty sack of coffee, his spare shirt and the wooden case that held his writing pens and several folded sheets of parchment was a bit of lye soap. He fished out the coarse bar and handed it to Tatiana. She clutched it in both hands, her face alive with eager anticipation.
“Stay within shouting distance,” Josh advised. “Yell if you need me.”
“I will.”
“And don’t get too close to the source of the geyser.”
“No.”
“If it shoots out again, the water could scald you.”
“Yes, yes, I understand.”
Josh watched her hurry upstream, the precious soap clasped to her chest. From past experience, he could have warned her that the bottom of the mineral-encrusted pool would be as smooth and slick as the inside of a shell. That the hot water would feel like heaven, but icicles would form on her hair the moment she stuck her head out of the pool. She’d find out for herself soon enough.
He’d never met a more impatient, impulsive, intrepid female. Josh tried to imagine another woman of his acquaintance traveling across Russia in the dead of winter, taking ship for an unfamiliar land, and putting herself in the hands of a complete stranger for a trek through the mountains, all for the sake of a few bundles of sticks. She had grit, this contrary, stubborn Russian. If nothing else, she had grit.
He busied himself with the mundane tasks of readying for the night. Sure enough, a small shriek carried on the cold air some moments later. Josh tensed at the sound of a splash, then relaxed when more splashes led to sputtered laughter. He added more wood to the small fire, knowing she’d need to dry her wet hair when she finished.
If she ever finished.
The minutes slid by. Josh kept one ear tuned to the faint sounds from inside the ravine while he readied a meal of salmon and mush cakes flavored with dollops of hardened bear grease. From the sounds of it, she was cavorting around in the pool like a playful seal pup.
The idea of Tatiana’s lithe body gliding through bubbling waters curled the muscles in Josh’s belly. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t seem to keep at bay a mental picture of her pale, white thighs. Her narrow waist. Her full, rounded breasts. Sweating a little, Josh tried to replace these too vivid images of Tatiana with older, more familiar memories of Catherine.
His betrothed’s face hovered just beyond his mental range of vision. He didn’t force it. She’d come to him. She always did when he needed her. She’d never left him, really, even in those moments when he’d taken his pleasure with another woman.
Josh hadn’t remained celibate all these years. Far from it. Like most other men, he was firmly convinced it went against man’s nature to go too long without release. Nor had he felt any guilt about pleasuring a willing partner. But none of the women he’d shared his bed with had ever taken a hold on his heart. That belonged to Catherine.
Still, the thought of bedding down next to Tatiana tonight stirred all kinds of contradictory feelings within him. He experienced a vague sense of disloyalty, and more than a touch of wariness. Sharing a blanket with the Russian was like sleeping with a curly homed mountain goat. There was no predicting which way she’d leap if riled.
Take that incident with the knife, for example. How far would she have gone if he hadn’t knocked her feet out from under her? Smiling wryly, Josh fingered the tiny crusted cut on the side of his neck. For both their sakes, he hoped he didn’t have to find out.
His smile twisted into a grimace as he encountered the blood caked in his beard. The knifepoint had stuck deeper than he realized. His fingers combed through the thick bush, dislodging the dried blood and a few pine needles. The countess wasn’t the only one who needed to scrape off a few layers of trail dirt, he acknowledged.
He glanced over his shoulder at the mouth of the ravine, then decided against stripping down. That wasn’t a good idea, given the way his body reacted to Tatiana without a whole lot of direction or guidance from his head. He could get rid of some of his dirt, though. And maybe...he raked his fingers through his whiskers again. The thick, bushy beard and drooping mustaches had served him well this winter, but his own mother wouldn’t recognize him under this hair. Besides, the blasted thing itched.
He shot a glance at the flaming red sun that hung just above the jagged peaks. Its clarity and color promised a night free of storms, maybe even a couple of nights. In two days, three at most, they’d be out of the mountains and starting their descent to the more moderate climates along the coast. He wouldn’t need the protection and warmth of a beard anymore this winter.
Josh headed for the stream that trickled from the ravine. Pulling off his shirt to keep it from getting a dousing, he slapped water on his face and went to work. He was kneeling beside the narrow ribbon of water, dabbing at the nicks left by the scrape of his hunting knife across his jaw, when Tatiana returned from her bath. He heard her pause, then cross through the camp to stand a little way behind him. He splashed water over his bare, stinging cheeks and grabbed his buckskin shirt.
He turned, expecting surprise, or maybe just a hint of feminine approval at his clean-shaven countenance.
Hair slicked back with wet, she stared at him with wide eyes. Then her mouth thinned to a tight straight line.
So much for feminine approval.
She nodded to his chin. “Is that because of me?”
“No.” Swooping, Josh retrieved the leather belt. “It itched.”
“It itches?”
He rubbed a hand over his fresh-scraped jaw. “It did itch. Past tense.”
“No, no!” she exclaimed. “I do not speak of the beard.”
“Then what...?”
“Here.” She stepped forward, bringing with her the faint scent of lye soap and minerals. Her fingertip lightly brushed his neck. “This mark. Is this because of me and the knife?”
Josh jerked at the contact.
“It pains you?” she asked, her eyes darkening.
No, it didn’t pain him. But the touch of her hand, as light as it was, caused his muscles to jump. To cover his reaction, Josh gave her a small, nasty smile.
“Feeling guilty, are you?”
“I have not the least guilt,” she returned tartly. “Neither do I have the desire to see the wound fester before you bring me to Fort Ross.”
She dusted the snow off a boulder with an edge of her cloak. “Here, sit on this rock and let me tend to it.”
“It’s just a scratch. It doesn’t need tending.”
“I have no patience with foolishness. Sit, I say, and let me see to it.”
For a moment, Josh was tempted. It had been a long time since a woman had fussed over him. He might have given in to her curt order if she hadn’t issued it from whitish lips, with vapor curling all around her wet head.
“You’re far more likely to need seeing to than me if you don’t dry your hair. Come on, let’s get back to the fire.”
She didn’t argue, probably because her teeth were starting to rattle like the shell necklaces of the Hupa during the leaping, stomping White Deerskin Dance.
“I shall dry my hair,” she announced. “Then I shall see to your neck.”
That sounded safe enough. By the time she finished with her heavy, waist-length mane, Josh would have himself in hand. By then, the mere touch of her fingers wouldn’t knot his stomach. Or so he reasoned.
He soon discovered that he’d forgotten...or maybe he’d never known...how the simple act of watching a woman comb her hair could set a man’s blood to pounding and push his breath clear down his throat.
She sat cross-legged before the fire, her head bent as she performed the timeless feminine ritual. Her fingers speared and separated the thick dark strands. The comb followed, jerking and tugging through tangles at first, then descending in a smooth sweep.
Mesmerized, Josh cradled a chipped blue enamel mug in both hands. The sludgelike coffee went untasted. Melted bear grease congealed in the pan he’d set out to fry the mush cakes. The sun disappeared behind the peaks, and night dropped like a blanket.
In the light of the fire, Josh studied the angle of her arm as it rose and fell. The curve of her neck. The dark, silky sheen of her hair. By the time she gathered the gleaming mass at the back of her neck and tied it with a strip of rawhide, he didn’t figure he could get any more uncomfortable.
He was wrong.
A few moments later Tatiana knelt beside him and put her hands to his jaw to tilt it upward. At the feel of her warm hand on his skin, Josh got stiff and hard and so damned uncomfortable that it was all he could do not to jerk away from her.
Two more days, he told himself. Three at the most. If the weather held, they’d clear the last of the rugged peaks within four days and start the descent to the coast Another week of easy trekking after that, and he’d be rid of his charge and the unsettling urges she roused in him.
He should have remembered that nothing ever came easy in the mountains.
Chapter Eight
T
he attack came just after noon on the fourth day.
he attack came just after noon on the fourth day.
The travelers had been climbing all morning through gray, chilling clouds. Josh stopped at the summit of a granite bluff. Despite the poor visibility, he recognized enough landmarks to know they’d come through the last of the high peaks. Relief jolted through him, followed by a spike of fierce primal satisfaction. Once again, he’d bested the mountains. Once more, he’d come through snows that kept less intrepid men huddled by their warm, safe hearths throughout the long winter months.
“Why do you stop?” Slushy snow squished under Tatiana’s boots as she trudged up to stand beside him.
“I’m just getting my bearings.”
She pushed the flat-crowned beaver hat back and swept the gray, hazy panorama with a critical eye. “They are not so high, these hills ahead.”
“How can you tell?”
“The snow lies thinner, even on the eastern slopes. And there.” She pointed to a long slash of muddy brown. “There, the white is gone entirely beneath the trees.”
She had a good eye, Josh thought, and a keener sense of her surroundings than most whites he’d trekked beside. More than once in the past few days she’d surprised him with her stamina and her quick understanding of the rugged terrain they traveled. What was more, she seemed to share his respect for the soaring, silent peaks. She didn’t disturb the serenity or jar Josh’s nerves with constant chatter as they walked, nor did she complain about the pace. At night, she pulled her share of chores about the camp. Each morning, she got up ready and eager to push on. If the intimate press of their bodies had caused her even half the number of sleepless hours it had caused Josh, she sure as thunder didn’t show it.
She would have made a good wife for a mountain man, he admitted with a wry, inner smile. Although he’d paid the bride-price Cho-gam demanded for her with great reluctance, the idea of keeping her slipped into his head at the damnedest moments.
Like when he remembered the slow, sensual movement of her arm as she combed her hair.
Or when she curled her body into his at night.
Or now, when her violet eyes trained on the distant horizon as though it held the same mystery, the same allure for her as it did for Josh.
“Are we through them at last?” she asked softly. “The high mountains?”
“Almost. It’s a downhill trek from here to the coast.”
“How long then to Fort Ross?”
“A week, give or take a day.”
She tipped him a sideways look. “And so this journey shall be finished, Josiah Jones.”
“And so it shall.”
They were halfway to the bare patch of ground Tatiana had pointed to when Josh’s senses picked up the first danger signals. Birds that should have resumed their twittering after the travelers’ passage remained silent. A gray squirrel nattering at them from the safety of a tree limb broke off in midscold and darted away. Moments later, the pony lifted its head. Nostrils flaring, it tugged nervously at the end of the lead.
Josh slipped his rifle out of its deerskin case and motioned Tatiana to a safer position between himself and the skittish packhorse.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice low.
“Wolves. They’ve been with us for a couple miles.”
She swept the surrounding trees with a quick, nervous glance. “In Russia, the wolf is the most feared of all wild creatures. It can bring down the sheep and the horse and even the brown bear.”
“They’ve been known to do the same here,” Josh replied, then kicked himself when her face went pale. “Near as I can tell, this isn’t a large pack. Probably a male and its mate and a few of their offspring. We’ll just keep moving.”
The fact that they were being trailed by wolves didn’t unduly alarm him. The timber wolves that prowled these parts preyed mostly on deer, moose and mountain sheep. They rarely attacked humans unless driven to it by near starvation. Experience had taught Josh that they’d devour the fresh-killed carcass of one of their own as readily as the wild game they hunted. If this pack turned menacing, he’d bring down the first predator he spotted and get Tatiana away while its companions tore the kill apart.
Only gradually did Josh realize that they weren’t being stalked by a band, but by a solitary hunter. That alone was enough to make his skin begin to prickle. The fleeting glimpse of a gray shadow racing through the trees did more than prickle his skin. It raised the hair on the back of his neck.
Wolves were highly social animals. Even a male the size of this monster wouldn’t hunt alone unless driven to it. It must have somehow lost its mate, or been chased from its pack by a more aggressive, dominant male. In either case, it had to be crazed with hunger to come after them. Grim faced, Josh passed Tatiana the pony’s leading rein.
She glanced over her shoulder nervously. “Do you see them?”
“It. I see it. Hold tight to that rein.”
Nodding, she wrapped the lead twice around her wrist and grasped it in a folded fist. Josh shifted the Hawken in the crook of his arm and moved slowly down the slope toward a stand of white pine. Eyes straining, he searched the surrounding trees for another glimpse of the gray shadow.
A low, deep-throated rattle set the pony’s head to jerking crazily. Josh spun toward the sound.
Beyond their immediate circle, nothing moved. Not a bird, or a branch, or even the drift of a cloud across the snow. Pulling the rifle hammer to full cock, Josh searched the thick stand of pines.
The rattle sounded again, closer this time. Moments later, a snarling, yellow-eyed creature came crashing out of the trees. Foam trailed in long ropes from lips pulled back over bared fangs.
In the half second it took to bring the rifle up, Josh’s blood turned to ice in his veins. He’d heard enough tales of mad dogs and wild creatures gone crazed to recognize the signs.
The Hawken roared.
Tatiana screamed.
The wolf spun in midair and crashed to the ground. Then, incredibly, it rose. Trailing blood and spittle, it went down on its haunches.
Cursing, Josh pulled the percussion pistol from his belt. The shot exploded in a blast of gunpowder and smoke at the same instant the wolf sank its jaws into the pony’s throat. Terrified, the packhorse rose up on its hind legs. Tatiana shrieked and clawed at the reins wrapped around her wrist.
Snatching out his knife, Josh lunged under her arm. He dodged one flailing hoof and had a fist buried in the wolf thick, mottled ruff when the pony gave an agonized squeal and threw itself sideways. Yanked into the fray by the pony’s frenzied efforts to dislodge its tormentor, Tatiana slammed into Josh.
He lost his balance. Went down. Saw the pony rear above him. Twisting violently, he tried to avoid its razor-edged hooves.
The last thing he heard was Tatiana’s shrill scream.
Ever after, Tatiana would break into a sweat every time she relived the seconds that followed.
As frantic as the pony, she smashed a shoulder into its heaving side and shoved it away from Josiah’s sprawled body. The packhorse dragged her through the snow for several yards. She freed herself just as the little horse pitched forward onto its knees then toppled to the ground. It stared sightlessly at the sky while blood spurted from its severed jugular and crimsoned the snow. The wolf carcass draped obscenely across its withers like a shaggy fur mantle.
Sobbing with horror and shock, Tatiana turned her back on the carnage. Fear pounded at her with great, hammering blows as she ran back to the man sprawled in the snow and sank to her knees beside him. Her hands shook so badly she could barely get a grip on his arm to turn him onto his back. When she saw the huge, ugly swelling on his temple, she tasted terror.
“Josiah!”
His name was a shrill plea that echoed in an eerie stillness. After such a torrent of shrieks and screams, the quiet terrified Tatiana almost as much as the violence just ended.
“Josiah! Josiah! Do you hear me?”
He didn’t respond.
Another sob rose in Tatiana’s throat. Choking it back, she pulled off her furred mittens. With one hand, she eased the awkward angle of his neck. With the other, she slid the mittens under his head so that it rested on warmth instead of snow. Then she sat back on her heels and fought to control her spiraling panic.
She must not succumb to the hysteria that welled in her throat. She must think. She must act. She must tend to Josiah.
Shaking violently, she examined the swelling on his temple. The distended, reddish purple bulge seemed to grow even as she watched. Should she lance it? Release the blood gathering under the skin? Or leave it to drain naturally?
She knew nothing of head injuries. Less than nothing. Her ignorance terrified her almost as much as Josiah’s utter immobility.
“You will not die,” she promised the injured man, praying it was true. “I shall not allow you to die.”
Since she had no idea what else to do, Tatiana decided to prick the massive swelling and release the pressure on his skull. Hands shaking violently, she tugged the fringed pouch where he kept his most precious possessions from under his hip. It was in this bag that he carried the picture of his Katerina and here, Tatiana had learned in the past few days, he stashed his tobacco, his extra shot, flint for starting a fire, and the whetstone he used to sharpen his knife. Surely, surely he would carry also that most useful and necessary tool, a bone needle.
She gave a cry of relief when her fumbling fingers uncovered not a bone needle, but one of steel. A good three inches in length, its eye was large enough to thread with a thin strip of rawhide. No doubt he used the implement to stitch his clothing. Cradling his head on her knees, she bent over the ugly purplish mass. It took all of her will to press the tip into the swelling flesh. Josiah’s whole body jerked at the cruel bite of steel.
“Be still,” Tatiana pleaded as hot blood poured over her hand. “Be still.”
Hours later, she cradled his bandaged head to her breast and alternately cursed and thanked God for this man’s great strength. It helped him battle the demons that held him in their grip, but it made the task of tending to him a monumental challenge. Her arms ached from trying to hold his restless body immobile. Her throat was raw from singing the same refrain, over and over.
“Be still,” she murmured hoarsely. “Please, Josiah, please. You must be still.”
Holy Mother, why didn’t he wake? How long would the blow to his temple keep him thus, not awake, not asleep, but tossing feverishly in between?
At the sound of her voice, he quieted for a few blessed moments. Wearily Tatiana sagged against the packs she had retrieved from the horse’s stiff carcass. The mounded bundles provided her and Josiah protection from the wind sweeping down off the crags above. The thick buffalo robe protected them from the damp ground.
As the afternoon had waned and drifted toward dusk, Tatiana hadn’t left her charge for more than the short time it took her to make a rudimentary camp. That done, she’d dragged the dead wolf as far away from their location as she dared. If other hunters came with the gathering darkness, she could only pray that they would satisfy their hunger on the predator’s remains and not follow the blood scent to the horse. She positioned the American’s rifle and pistol close at hand, just in case. Then she spread her fur cloak atop the snow, took Josiah into her arms and covered them both with his warm, fleecy blanket coat.
Thus they had stayed for more hours than she cared to count.
In all this time, Josiah had alternated between frightening stillness and a restless, almost frenzied thrashing. Just when Tatiana thought he had slipped into a natural sleep, his limbs would jerk and he’d almost come awake. As he did now!
“Lie still,” she crooned. “Lie still.”
She rocked him as a mother would a child, gently, soothingly, until her arms felt as though they would pull free of their sockets and her back ached with the strain of his weight.
His tensed muscles relaxed, and Tatiana eased back against the supporting packs once more. Wearily she studied the face nestled against her breast. Without his bushy beard to disguise him, Josiah Jones presented a most striking countenance. Square jawed and rough planed, his face carried the stamp of his mountains.
Like these thrusting granite peaks, he could be cruel. Tatiana hadn’t forgotten or quite forgiven him for the night he’d left her in such discomfort, her hands bound and her imagination whirling with plans for revenge. Like the mountains, he could also surprise her with his swift changes. He’d gone back for her basket and altered his route to deliver her to Fort Ross. She didn’t understand him, but after almost a week in his company, she trusted him with her life.
Strange, she thought, her gaze roaming his rugged face. She had not thought she could trust, ever again. Nor had she imagined she would again feel this slow pull, low in her womb, when she looked on a man. After Aleksei, she’d vowed never again to let desire rule her head or her heart. Yet this rough, brusque American stirred needs and longings she’d all but forgotten.
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