Badlands Bride Page 5

  Disoriented, she sat up. Her predicament came back to her, and fear trembled in her aching limbs. She was alone and unprotected in the untamed badlands of the Dakotas. Her very existence was at the mercy of Indians, wild ani­mals and uncouth frontier men. What in the blazing Sam Hill had she been thinking of?

  Hallie reached up for her hat and realized she'd left it at DeWitt's. She opened her valise. Once her eyes adjusted to the night, the moon provided enough light to see the con­tents and the nearby area. No wild animals lurked within eyesight. She withdrew her brush, unpinned her hair and brushed it out, securing the new braid with one of the ties from her reticule.

  Gingerly, she picked her way down the bank and knelt near the water, scooping several handfuls and drinking deeply. A cool breeze blew across the water and she shiv­ered. Her warmer jacket was in her trunk—in DeWitt's barn.

  Nearer the water, mosquitoes feasted on her tender skin. Tall weeds nearby provided a place to relieve herself, though she worried more about having her backside chewed alive than someone seeing her. Quickly she finished and hurried up the bank to her spot beneath the trees, where she sat scratching her neck and wrist.

  What should she do? Wait the night out here? Walk up near the buildings where it might be safer from animals? Perhaps she could find a spot in DeWitt's barn to hide for the rest of the night. Or did that Jack fellow sleep there?

  Wings flapped overhead, and Hallie stifled a startled cry. She glanced around, searching the unfamiliar darkness. Just an owl. Or a bat.

  An eerie hoot came from somewhere nearby.

  Or Indians? Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. She'd devoured too many dime novels not to know that Indians signaled one another with animal sounds, and that an un­suspecting white wouldn't know the difference. They moved with stealth and silence and often took white women as slaves.

  Maybe she would be safer nearer DeWitt's place. She stood again, picked up her case and hurried up the slope to the road. Men's voices came from the tent structure she'd seen earlier. Light glowed from inside. A revival tent?

  Hallie hurried closer and listened to the voices through the canvas wall.

  "Stood there pretty as you please with her skirts hiked up and her prissy white drawers bared to all nature—whoo-ee!" A gleeful cackle followed. "And when that fella reached for her, she all-fired brung that skinny knee up and busted his nose! He couldn't absquatulate fast enough!"

  Men's chuckles followed.

  Hallie burned with embarrassment and aggravation. Why, that dirty, low-down coot! Mr. Tubbs had treated her with the utmost respect and dignity, only to turn around and make jest of her nearly disastrous episode with the bandits! She ought to go in there and give him a piece of her mind.

  Glass sounded against glass and a belch erupted.

  "Don't get too corned, Ferlie. You gotta head that stage out in the mornin'."

  "Never was a mornin' I couldn't sit atop a horse or a stage, no matter how many jugs or women I polished off the night afore."

  Laughter erupted once again.

  The saloon. She backed away. She'd been around enough men in her life to know not to draw attention to herself when they were drinking.

  Hallie stole away from the tent and found her way in the moonlight. The livery was dark. Imagining the huge black-haired man watching her from a crack in the wall, she switched her valise from one hand to the other and contin­ued on. A beckoning yellow glow burned from the window of DeWitt's home, and she followed it easily.

  She had no idea what time it was, her timepiece having been stolen, and wondered if he was asleep—she paused several feet away—or back at the saloon.

  The barn wasn't lighted, but she found it easily enough. A sliding barrier now covered the wide opening he'd pulled the wagon through. A regular door stood to the side. She rested her fingers on the latch.

  Did they tie their horses up in here or would she be tram­pled? Was Jack in here somewhere? This no longer seemed like such a good idea.

  "We hang horse thieves out here."

  Hallie gasped and dropped her valise, whirling to face the man who'd spoken at her ear. Beneath the palm she flattened against her breast, her heart beat wildly. A broad-shouldered, unmistakably masculine form was silhouetted against the moon. "Mr. DeWitt!" She dropped her hand and caught her breath. "You nearly frightened me to death!"

  "Better than hanging."

  "I wasn't going to steal a horse!"

  "No? What are you doing sneaking into my barn, then?"

  Hallie's confidence had taken a beating. She struggled for poise. "I—" she didn't want to admit this "—I was just going to spend the night."

  "And abandon your cozy spot by the river?"

  She gaped at him in the darkness. "You were spying on me?"

  "Spying?" he asked, and his head tilted uncertainly.

  "Snooping? Watching without permission?"

  "I was spying," he agreed.

  "Well!" She adjusted her jacket and stood straighter. Good heavens, had he even known when she'd hung her backside in the weeds? Hallie's posture went slack. She scratched absently at the place she'd just thought of.

  "Come." He picked up the valise and reached for her arm.

  Hallie pulled away. "What are you doing?"

  He wrapped his fingers around her arm and hauled her forward. "You can't stay outside all night, and you can't stay in the barn."

  Through her jacket his touch was just firm and unyielding enough to not hurt. "Is Jack in there?"

  "Yes."

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "To my house. You'll stay there, and then I'll get some sleep."

  "I can't stay with you! You've already said it's highly improper."

  He stopped before his door and released his hold. "Proper doesn't hold much water out here."

  She realized that. But she wasn't from here. She was from the East, where propriety meant everything. She glanced back out at the unending expanse of darkness. But then, Bostonians didn't have to deal with wild animals and In­dians, did they? "Are there any bears near?"

  He reached for the latch and opened the door. Welcoming light spilled across the threshold and revealed his muscled body in the buckskin clothing. "Grizzly."

  More afraid of bears than of him, Hallie hastily stepped past him into the room. "You're right. Proper doesn't even seem wise at this point."

  He carried her valise to the room where she'd washed earlier and returned with an enormous roll of furs.

  "Go ahead," he said, gesturing to the room. "I'll sleep here." He pointed to the floor by the fireplace.

  Hallie glanced from the room to the furs. She hadn't meant to put the man out of his bed.

  "I'll sleep in the barn if you want," he said, as though he misunderstood her hesitation.

  "No." She scratched at her jaw. "I don't want to impose on you. I could sleep here."

  "You'll have the room to yourself. I've slept on the ground most of my life."

  She looked at him curiously. What kind of family and upbringing had he come from? "You have?"

  He frowned and stepped closer.

  Hallie felt herself shrink from his immense form.

  Gently, he took her hand and inspected the bites, dropping it to tip her chin up and study her neck and jaw with a warm blue gaze. He released her, and her skin tingled where he'd touched her. He brought water from the stove. For such a large man, he moved gracefully, without a sound. She glanced down at his knee-high moccasins. "This is still warm," he said. "Go wash. I have something for the itch."

  Hallie accepted the pan and closed the door behind her. She stared in surprise. Her trunk stood against the wall. Why had he brought it in? Grateful he had, she removed the bro­ken lock and opened the lid, sorting through the jumbled contents. Her clothing was dusty and wrinkled, but cleaner than what she was wearing. She slipped out of her traveling suit, washed and dressed in a nightgown and modest robe.

  She opened the door and peered out.

  DeWitt
waited near the table. "Sit."

  Approaching him made her feel small and at his mercy, a feeling she didn't like. Hallie studied his well-carved, sun-burnished face. Tonight she was at his mercy. She sat. Her heart fluttered nervously in her chest.

  He dipped a broad finger into a small earthenware pot and retracted it smeared with a shiny yellow substance. Dot­ting it on her wrists first, he then rubbed it into her skin with his second finger. His touch was surprisingly gentle. Instantly the sting disappeared. The backs of her hands re­ceived his attention next. The intimacy of the situation struck Hallie, and she grew uncomfortably warm. She was alone with a man—a strange man.

  She couldn't help studying his down-tilted face with its angled jaw and strong chin. Her attention wavered across his uncommonly long hair, still drawn back.

  There was a perfectly good reason for the nearness they shared and the way she was dressed—or undressed. He couldn't have reached her wrists in the long-sleeved jacket. And the caressing touch he administered to the backs of her hands was merely an act of human kindness.

  He tipped her chin up, and Hallie became aware of his hard, callused finger. Although the position brought their faces close, he focused his attention on her neck. His finger seemed to caress beneath her ear, along her jaw, the corner of her eye. His warm breath stirred the hair at her temple and an unexpected tingle ran through Hallie's body.

  He dotted the end of her chin and their eyes met. He rubbed the spot absently, holding her gaze. "Anywhere else?"

  Her gaze dropped to his lips.

  "Miss?"

  Hallie looked away. She shifted uncomfortably on the chair, the bites on her bottom driving her to distraction. In polite society one didn't even refer to a leg. She couldn't tell him where her worst bites were. "Uh…"

  He handed her the pot, his callused palm grazing her skin. The corner of his mouth jerked, but immediately he flattened his lips. "Take it with you."

  She nodded.

  He stepped away.

  The earthenware container was warm from his hand. She stood, wanting to say more, wanting to ask why he'd de­cided to be kind to her. She debated the wisdom, and finally turned back. "Mr. DeWitt?"

  He said nothing, but his eyes revealed his interest.

  "Thank you for everything."

  "You're welcome."

  Whatever his reason for seeing to her care, she appreci­ated it. "You really have no reason to believe who I say I am. I admit what I did was rash. I fully expected that when I explained the situation to you and gave you the money Tess left, you would understand and could send for another wife." She studied his unchanging expression. "I knew it would be an inconvenience, but I guess I wasn't thinking of what a disappointment you'd be in for."

  She walked to the bedroom door. A thought occurred to her and she turned back. "You never asked me anything about her."

  His deep voice came softly from across the room. "What does it matter now?"

  Her hand stilled on the latch. "You deserve better."

  With that, she hurried into the room.

  Cooper stared at the closed door. What had she meant by that? He deserved better than Tess Cordell? Or he deserved better than being left at the altar, so to speak?

  The lady was a fascinating blend of contradictions. On one hand, her poise and delicate beauty lent her an other­worldly air of sophistication and charm. Just the type of woman he'd expected—and dreaded. On the other hand, her headstrong actions and bold speech rattled him even more because of their unfamiliarity. She was educated. She was sharp and informed. She was born and bred to a life he had no capability of understanding.

  The vivacious flare in her eyes and the stubborn tilt of her chin characterized an impetuous child. Her softly curved body belied that. And the more he saw of her nature, the more he didn't believe she would lie to get out of a situation she'd changed her mind about. Her determination included a healthy dose of integrity.

  She was the reporter she said she was.

  What, then, was he going to do with her? It had been plain to him from the first that he was stuck with her for at least two weeks, unless he took her back to the Missouri River crossing himself. That was out of the question. He had a business to run. He had lumber coming tomorrow and supply wagons the following day.

  Well, she would have to earn her keep. That's why he'd sent for a woman in the first place. Wasn't it?

  Cooper glanced at the wooden bar across the cabin door, unrolled his fur pallet and blew out the lantern. No sliver of light beneath the bedroom door showed him she'd doused hers, too. He slid off his moccasins and placed his rifle beside him before he lay down.

  He smiled, thinking of her reluctance at putting him out of his bed. He'd made the foreign piece of furniture only two weeks ago and had yet to sleep on it. The idea for it had come to him one night before he'd finished the log house. He'd lived in the soddy behind, his dead brother's wife, Chumani, and son, Yellow Eagle, living in the soddy beside. Once he'd sent for a bride, he'd planned the cabin, but he hadn't really considered all the added things that went with it—and her.

  A little at a time, he'd filled the place with the trappings of civilization. A wife from the city would need a stove; he couldn't expect her to cook over a fire. And a bed, he'd thought, much, much later. A lady would need a proper place to sleep. And so he'd built it, thinking, as he planed and fitted each piece of wood, of what Tess Cordell would be like.

  Simple curiosity. It hadn't mattered that she be young or attractive. A pleasant nature, capable hands and a quick mind would have been enough. Someone to help him with his work. Someone to teach Yellow Eagle to read so he'd have a running start on the future.

  He truthfully hadn't expected Tess Cordell—or Hallie Wainwright—to jump off that stage into his arms, eager to marry him. But after meeting the head-strong young woman who had arrived, the thought was appealing. What would he be doing tonight if the saucy beauty in the other room had been his intended bride? The thought unleashed the long-denied physical cravings of his body. Cooper couldn't help wondering…wishing….

  He turned over and adjusted his body in his nest of furs, banishing those dangerous thoughts. He'd see to her safety until the stage came to return her home. Until then, he'd be best off to keep his mind on business. If he didn't, he'd be in for a whole pack of trouble.

  But as he fell asleep, the last images in his mind were those of gold-flecked eyes and hair as dark and shiny as a prime pelt.

  Hallie awoke with a start. She sat up and blinked, ori­enting herself. Reassured at her surroundings, she relaxed against the warm, cozy mattress and pulled the soft blanket up to her chin. She'd slept the best she had in weeks. Her host had a comfortable bed and walls that blocked outside sounds. Anyone would be quite content here, no doubt.

  Why had she thought that? Reluctantly she tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She washed her face and cleaned her teeth with the tepid water in the pan and dressed quickly, wondering if DeWitt was up.

  Hesitantly she opened the door and peeked out. The man, along with his pile of furs, was gone. She wandered the scarcely furnished room and finally ventured out to use the necessary—the privy, he'd called it.

  Finished, she opened the door and headed back. A whoop sounded beside her and she collided with a four-and-a-half-foot bundle of energy. Hallie caught her balance, but the boy sprawled in the grass. Immediately he jumped to his feet and stared at her.

  Hallie stared back, heart pounding. An Indian boy!

  She cast a wild glance about. Where had he come from? Were there more hiding nearby? Surely he wasn't alone. Was he lost?

  Seeing no one else, she inspected him from head to foot. He wore trousers, a fringed tunic shirt like DeWitt's and moccasins. Jet black hair hung to his shoulders.

  Perhaps it was a trick. Maybe the rest of his tribe was waiting to swoop down on them. Should she run for DeWitt? Or scream?

  The boy, who appeared to be about ten, glared at her.

 
; She raised her hand in what she hoped was a peaceful greeting. "Hello," she said, and thought herself foolish. How was he supposed to understand?

  "Who are you?" he asked in an annoyed tone, his black eyes scouring her face and hair.

  "I'm Hallie Wainwright. Who are you?"

  "Are you here to marry Cooper?" he asked without re­plying.

  Startled at his speech, she overlooked his rudeness. "No. He's letting me stay with him. Who are you?"

  "I am Yellow Eagle of the Wajaje tiyospay," he said proudly.

  "Where are you from?"

  "What does it matter to you where I come from? It isn't my home anymore because of your people."

  His hostility took her aback.

  "Go back where you came from," he said, and turned away.

  Just then an Indian woman appeared in the doorway of one of the sod houses. She wore a slim, ankle-length dress made out of the same soft-looking leather as Mr. DeWitt's clothing. Hallie stared in fascination. How many of them were there? They lived here? She'd thought the buildings and property all belonged to DeWitt.

  The raven-haired woman walked toward them on silent moccasined feet. She said something to Yellow Eagle that Hallie couldn't understand.

  Annoyance laced Yellow Eagle's tone and expression as he replied in their language.

  The woman spoke sharply. He turned back reluctantly. "My mother says to tell you she is Chumani," he translated. "She is honored to meet you and you must come eat."

  "Oh, no, I—I couldn't possibly. Thank you, but—"

  "Good, don't eat." He started to walk away.

  The woman stopped him with a sharp command.

  "She says Coop has already eaten and she has saved food for you."

  "This morning, you mean? Mr. DeWitt ate with you this morning?"

  "He always eats with us."

  Confused, Hallie met the dark-skinned woman's gaze. She had prominent cheekbones and wide-set, uncertain eyes. It seemed to Hallie as though she were waiting for either approval or rejection. She said something to Yellow Eagle.