Tender Touch (3 page)

“The beast is already grazing, and there’s water nearby. What else does it need?” Her tone was defensive, as well as weary.

Nigh moved to fetch supplies from the pack lying near his saddle. “What would you want after haulin’ some idiot greenhorn around all day?”

Drawing herself up, she retorted, “I may be what you derisively refer to as a greenhorn, Mr. Nigh, but I am not an idiot.”

“Reckon you can figure
things out for yourself then.”

Taken aback, she stood there, probably glaring at him as he busied himself with a fire. Then she turned and walked to her horse. He noticed her careful effort to keep a safe distance and didn’t bother t hide his smirk.

“Well, Beast,” she said softly to the horse, “what is it you’d like? Your saddle off? That would feel better, wouldn’t it?”

With her chin in her hand, she studied the saddle. Trying to remember how Sean O’Casey had put the thing on, no doubt. She glanced at Nigh as he filled a pot with water from the stream. He pretended not to see. Saddling and unsaddling her horse was something she needed to learn, and he had no intention of interfering.

“All right,” she whispered, inching closer to the horse. “I’m only trying to make you more comfortable so don’t do anything nasty like biting me.”

After removing the basket, satchel, and bedroll she looked about, then carried them to a flat, clear spot near the fire. Next, she attempted to loosen the saddle girth, all the while keeping a wary eye on the animal’s head in case it decided to become hostile. When she finally had the girth undone and tried to lift off the saddle, she found its weight more than she could handle. She struggled hopelessly to hang onto it, then, giving up, she let go and hopped out of the way, allowing it to fall to the ground.

“Reckon that’s one way of doing it,” Nigh said, not bothering to hide his disgust. “That bit of leather ain’t worth much, but it won’t be easy to replace where you’re going, so you’d best take care of it.”

Taking the gnawed toothpick out of his mouth, he tossed it into the fire. “You bring any riding clothes?”

“I fail to see what possible business it could be of yo
urs what my wardrobe contains.”

He shrugged and turned back to his cooking. The woman had spunk, and courage, he’d give her that. Where she was going, she’d need a whole lot more than that.

The meal was simple: boiled coffee so thick it almost needed to be eaten with a spoon, fried bacon and pan bread generously dipped in bacon fat. Nigh had expected the widow to claim she was too weary to eat. Instead, she dug into the grub with gusto, tossing tidbits to the cat.

From across the fire, Nigh watched her try to eat and keep the veil over her face at the same time, and his curiosity grew. The fool woman hadn’t even taken off her gloves. When she finished, she played with the cat, throwing a piece of knotted rawhide for him to catch. He stalked the toy and pounced on it as though it were a mouse, and proudly carried it back to her. She cooed over the animal and petted it until it purred loudly enough to be heard several feet away.

Nigh shook his head. The woman was the perfect image of an old spinster, with nothing and nobody to care about except a sneaky cat. It arched its sleek back to reach her stroking hand, and butted her leg with its head. What did she look like under the bulky padded cloak and ridiculous veil? Thin, he knew that much. The fabric of her clothing was good quality, and she sounded educated. In spite of the youthfulness of her voice, she moved with the stiffness of an old woman. The longer he watched her, the more he wanted to see her, and learn her story.

What was she running from? A cruel husband? The law? Or a past that might not have been as refined as she wanted to make out? The only fact he was sure of was that she had lived in or near St. Louis. One fact out of thousands, and therefore of little help.

The evening grew cold. The widow hugged her cloak closer about her, raised a delicate, gloved hand to her mouth, as though to hide a yawn, and asked if he would set up the tent soon.

“What tent?” he replied.

“You don’t expect me t
o sleep on the ground, do you?”

“Expected a lady like you to insist on sleepin’ in a bed. Myself, I’m used to the open air. Ain’t done me no harm.” Again she drew herself up to face him. “1 am a woman, sir, not some trail-hardened man unused to the comforts of a home. Why, it’s barely spring. Look at the sky, it could easily rain tonight.”

Nigh glanced up at the pink-tinged clouds. “All right, I’ll build you a shelter when we camp for the night. Meanwhile, there’s dishes need washed. We’ll trade off. I cook, you wash. You cook, I wash.”

With barely contained fury, she said, “I take it, Mr. Nigh, that you do not feel your wages sufficient to cover all your services?”

“Oh, they’re plenty—for the services I intend to provide.” He crossed his ankles and grinned crookedly. “Tell you what, take a five minute nap while I wash up. In the morning, you can cook and wash.”

“What do you mean, a five minute nap?”

“Smart man never camps where he cooks. Attracts company you ain’t liable to like.”

“Company?” She peered nervously into the deepening shadows that danced
beneath the sheltering boughs.

“Wolves.” He hid the twinkle in his eye.

The widow leaped to her feet, tucked the cat into its basket, and then hurried to the stream with the cookware and tin plates. Following Nigh’s instructions, she scoured them with sand, shook off the water, and carried them back for him to pack away. Minutes later they were saddled and heading up the road.

At least she knew how to get the work done, once she took a notion to do it, he admitted grudgingly, as he watched her ride ahead of him, her body swaying gracefully in her awkward sidesaddle. That was more than he’d give most “ladies.”

Columbus Nigh’s experience with white women of quality had not endeared them to him. Oh, they were beautiful enough, and generous, if a young man was willing to be enslaved to them. But he wanted more than to be a rich woman’s toy. He wanted respect, and had found it too much to ask.

On the streets near the wharves, among prostitutes and thieves and poor folks simply trying to survive, a man was respected for how much money he flashed about, or for the fear he was able to engender. Nigh wasn’t sure which was worse, the pimps, the footpads, or the rich women in their guarded coaches who toured the streets in search of a man who could made them feel brave, adventurous and wicked.

At seventeen, he had felt flattered by the enthusiasm such women felt for him, and proud. Until the night he realized he’d left his knife in the bedroom of a shipping magnet’s wife and returned to get it, in time to hear her explaining to her maid the pleasure she found bedding a dangerous man of the streets, “in spite of his crassness and stupidity,” while she scrubbed vigorously to rid herself of his smell.

Lost in his bitter memories, Nigh’s first hint of the widow Villard’s danger was her piercing scream of terror.

Chapter Three

Brianna’s scream ended and she woke abruptly as she landed with a splat on the dark muddy road. She had no breath to moan. How something as soft and squishy as mud could feel so hard, she didn’t know. Surely she had broken every bone.

“What in thunder you doin’ now?”

The sarcastic voice of her guide jolted her further. Still, she could do nothing but lay there and wheeze, her bonnet half-covering her face, while pain stabbed through her whole body.

“You dead, woman?”

His voice was closer now. With extreme effort she struggled to sit up before he buried her so he could get on his way.

“No, I’m not dead,” she said. “I merely fell asleep and slid out of my saddle.”

“If you’d been riding astride the way any sensible person would, you’d a-had
a better chance of staying on.”

“I am a lady. Not some backwoods drab, and I’ll thank you to remember that!”

Nigh laughed and watched her try to right her hat. “Why don’t you take that fool thing off?”

“It keeps away the insects.” She strove to hang onto her hauteur, while yearning for the courage to ignore her fine training in manners and swear at the man.

Mud oozed between her fingers as she attempted to push to her feet. Her hands slid out from under her and she found herself on her back again, expecting to hear the man’s laughter once more. There was only the whisper of leaves in the wind and the plop of muddy water as it dripped off of her.

The second time she tried to stand neither her hands nor her feet stayed put. The man snickered, leaning against a tree as though he’d nothing better to do than watch her make a fool of herself. Fury tempered her limbs and she came instantly to her feet.

“Reckon, since you got outta that puddle by yourself, you won’t need help gettin’ back on your horse,” he said.

Brianna glanced nervously at the mare, certain the animal had enjoyed dumping her on the road and would do so again the first chance it got. “Please, can’t we camp here for tonight?”

“Can, but you still have to get back on that horse. Tomorrow’ll be worse. If you can’t get on that horse, you’ll find yourself
walking to Independence alone.”

“Alone! But . . .
you took my money. You agreed—”

He pushed away from the tree and shoved his face in hers so fast she didn’t have time to step back. “I didn’t agree to walk you there. You want to go with me, gonna have to show you’ve got at least as much brains as a half-growed Indian. Even a four-year-old Shoshone knows to get right back on or the fear’ll defeat him and he’ll never ride again.”

He stepped back, his gaze raking the length of her as he wrinkled his nose at her smell. “Ought to throw you in the river. You’re a mess.”

Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again as she glowered at him.

“In fact, you stink of horse piss,” he added, the darkness hiding the glint in his eye.

“I’m a mess?” This time she poked her nose in his face. “Let me assure you, Mr. Nigh—if I may correctly call you that—you smell no better, nor look any cleaner than I. Not only are you the filthiest specimen of manhood it has ever been my misfortune to know, but you are also the most discourteous, impudent, ignorant, ill-bred, ill- mannered, uncivil—”

“Whoa there, ma’am.” He put up a hand, which he then placed on his chest. “I’m a simple man, unused to such fine, high-toned compliments. Why, I might get swell-headed listenin’ to all that.”

Too flabbergasted to speak, Brianna stood there, stiff with anger while mud dribbled from her hands and clothing. The dim light nearly hid the lopsided curve of his smile; she itched to knock it from his insolent face.

“Reckon Mr. Nigh would be proper, all right,” he said. “But since we’ll be laying our bedrolls next to each other for awhile, it’d be more friendly to use Columbus or Col.”

Brianna gritted her teeth so hard she could barely talk. “I have no intention of laying my bed next to yours—ever. I’ve never had lice in my life, and don’t intend to get any now.”

“Me either.” His voice was hard and as emotionless as a rock. “At least my clothes are a damned sight more sensible than yours.”

“I’ll thank you to mind your language in front of me. I happen to be a lady, not one of the tarts you undoubtedly associate with.”

He tucked his thumbs in the back of the wide beaded belt he wore low about his hips, his mouth slowly lifting in that one-sided smile she was becoming familiar with. His gaze roamed the length of her cloaked figure so suggestively she felt as though he had touched her naked body. She blushed, fists clenched at her sides.

“No, ma’am, reckon not,” he drawled, “though it’s a bit hard to tell from where I stand. Don’t know how you come up with that outfit; it’s about as attractive as a pig in slop.”

“
Came up with
. Oh—” She resisted the urge to stamp her feet. “—I don’t know why I bother to continue this conversation. You obviously haven’t the education for intelligent intercourse.”

His smile broadened to an open-mouthed grin. “Now there you’re wrong. When it comes to intercourse, I’m as educated as the next man. More’n some.”

Brianna’s jaw dropped. Her face flamed hot as an overheated oven. She whirled away from him, picked up her muddied skirts and slogged down the road after her horse.

If it hadn’t been for the clink of metal as Columbus Nigh unsaddled his horse, Brianna might never have found the camp. It had taken her some time to work up courage enough to climb back into her saddle. Now she wanted nothing more than to get back off the horse and lay her chafed and battered body down to rest. She stifled a groan as she dismounted on a rock, clinging to the saddle for a few seconds to gather strength before trying to walk.

The dappled gray blew softly and stamped his hooves, impatient to be free, but Mr. Nigh ignored him as he rubbed him down with a handful of grass. With a weary sigh, Brianna unloaded the saddlebags, her valise, and Shakespeare’s basket. The cat jumped out and stretched the moment he was free. Even the sight of her pet failed to take her mind from her aches and pains. Her entire being was one enormous misery. Every movement was an effort. She didn’t even attempt to lift the saddle, but let it drop to the ground, hoping the man would say something sarcastic so she could tell him how despicable she found him.

When Nigh finished with the gray he built a small fire. He gathered poles and leafy branches and soon had constructed a three-sided structure with a sloping roof that also served as the rear wall, placing it so it would block the wind. Branches were piled on top and against the sides. The fourth side was left open to the heat of the fire. Brianna inspected the structure with a skeptical eye, doubtful it would keep out the rain. But she laid her bed inside, knowing it was the best she could expect that night.

A wolf howled in the distance and she whirled toward her guide. At her feet, the cat emitted a low growl and the hair lifted along his back.

“Fire’ll keep away the wolves,” Mr. Nigh said.

She felt little convinced. She had hoped to wash up in the creek and put on her one clean change of clothing. Now she was afraid to leave the safety of the fire. She made do by brushing the mud from her clothes as it dried.

Amused as well as irritated, Columbus Nigh watched her turn her back to him while she took off her shoes. For him to see her black stockinged feet would be a grave breach of propriety, he supposed. She was so prim and proper he wondered how she would lower herself enough to sleep on the ground. But she did not hesitate. Calling the cat to her side, she crawled into bed, cloak, hat, and all. He spat into the fire. The only sensible thing about the woman was her sturdy leather boots.

He watched her curl up on her side, her fist tucked beneath her chin, as a child might sleep. Even with her face hidden by the veil on her hat, she looked defenseless and vulnerable. The cat nestled in the curve of her warm body and her hand came out from under the blanket to stroke the velvety gray head. She scratched behind his ears and under his chin, and the cat purred, licking now and then at her hand. With a sigh, the woman snuggled deeper into her blankets. Her breathing slowed and she slept.

Nigh knew he had witnessed a nightly ritual between the woman and her cat, one so deeply ingrained in her that even exhaustion could not keep it from taking place. She loved the cat the way only a childless woman could. Loneliness, he thought. It touched him in a way he found disturbing.

Giving himself a mental shake, he took out his knife and began to whittle. Not since he was a young’un had he allowed himself to feel the empty ache of loneliness. As a man he had reveled in the freedom of a solitary existence, unshackled by the responsibilities of civilization. But something about the woman and her cat made him look at his life in a new light.

Aimlessness was the word that came to mind. He had gone where he wanted, done whatever he had a notion to do, ate when he hungry, slept when tired.

A good life for a young man. He grunted at the thought. Must be getting old to be pondering his purpose in life, the justification for his existence. Letting his mind delve deeper into his soul, he knew it wasn’t the widow that had brought about the change. It was Little Beaver.

The Snake girl had brought softness to his life, the kind only a woman can bring, with a word, a touch, a smile. For a moment, he felt guilty, realizing it was more the softness he missed. She had been a good wife and he had cared for her, but he doubted there had been any real love between them, not on his part, anyway.

Someday he might find another Little Beaver, to ease his physical needs and maybe give him children. An Indian woman who would ask nothing more from him than meat in the pot and a little foofuraw now and then. He didn’t try to fool himself about finding love. That was for romantics, women and children who hadn’t learned the harsh realities of life. Nigh knew, though. He knew the closest he would ever get to love was the respect of an Indian woman who appreciated the food, shelter, and protection he provided in return for her warm body in his bed. That was reality.

Across the fire the cat lifted his head at the loud crackling of a log. The luminescent feline gaze settled on the man, narrowing to golden slits that seemed to warn him to keep his distance. Holding the cat’s gaze with his own, Nigh smiled wistfully. Overhead, thunder rolled across the dark sky. The woman was right; they were in for a storm.

He had known it long before they stopped to eat though. He had smelled it on the wind, heard it in the wolf’s howl. The cat knew, too, and snuggled closer to his mistress beneath the brush shelter.

It was then he realized the hand peeking from under the woman’s blanket was gloveless, smooth, slender, and young.

***

The first thing Barret Wight noticed when he arrived home that evening was the absence of cooking smells emanating from the kitchen. Odd, he thought.

His voice, as he shouted for his wife, echoed ominously in the long empty vestibule. He raced up the stairs two at a time to find the master bedroom empty. The wardrobe and her dresser still held her clothes. Nothing seemed to be missing. She had probably fallen asleep in the garden again.

Splay-footed, he posed before the serpentine-fronted chiffonnier and surveyed his image in the beveled mirror. His face was as perfect as ever except for the lock of hair that drooped obstinately onto his forehead. He spit on his fingers, plastered the unruly lock back in place, and hollered again out the bedroom doorway.

“Brianna, where the hell are you?”

Built something like an upended boxcar, Wight shook the floor with his heavy-footed gait as he strode down the curved staircase. In his mother’s native German his given name meant “mighty as a bear” and he was proud to have a body that fit the bill. At the foot of the stairs he glanced into the empty parlor. Then he headed for the kitchen. “Damned woman,” he mumbled. “What does she mean, ignoring my call?”

The comers of his mouth curled toward his feet in a vicious snarl as he kicked open the kitchen door, ready to chew his young wife’s head off.

The scene that met his gaze not only brought him up short, but wiped the frown from his face.

“What the blue devil . . .
?”

Words failed him. For the first time in his life Barret Wight was at a loss to know what to say or do or think. But a distinct tightening of his innards warned of the terror that soon struck him full force in the belly.

Cupboard doors hung open, their contents strewn about. Chairs lay toppled across a rag rug littered with broken pottery, cooking utensils, embroidered tea towels, a single low-heeled slipper—Brianna’s—and blood.

Blood everywhere.

He sidestepped a chair as he made his way into the room, brushed against the wall and tore his shirt on a nail where a decorative plaque once hung. At the table he picked up a small crock Brianna used to hold her household money. Empty. He righted two chairs and bent to gather up the remains of Brianna’s favorite tea pot, its shiny surface marred with flecks of dried blood.

Dropping the shard, he stared at the smooth, plump flesh of his hands while an image formed in his mind, Brianna with her eyes swollen shut, her lip split. Brianna lying on the floor, so still, so very still.

“Ah Jesus,” he muttered.