Chapter 8
Rafe put the trout on the spit and placed them over the fire in the cabin and went back out. He had given Shea Randall five minutes. How many had gone by? Four minutes. Perhaps five. He didn’t see her.
He wondered whether he had been a fool. Prison must have affected him more than he’d imagined. Otherwise, why in the hell was he attracted to the daughter of Jack Randall?
But he was. He couldn’t deny the way he had responded to her.
He could have controlled it, had it been only physical, but when he was kissing her, other feelings had almost swallowed him.
He’d wanted to calm her fears, wanted to run his fingers along her face.
He had needed gentleness. He had needed to give it, and receive it.
He hadn’t known how much he hungered for that rare commodity until that moment.
He’d meant what he said about feeling a certain responsibility to keep her safe. He’d been here nearly three months, and he respected these mountains; he knew they were treacherous.
Six minutes now? Seven?
Cursing under his breath, he headed toward the woods.
Shea hesitated. She’d finished what needed to be done. Now she had a decision to make.
Go back or hide in the woods. The decision should have been easy. Pure terror of captivity—or was it of her reactions to a man she should hate—dictated that she try to escape.
She had given her word, though. But then hadn’t he violated his when he’d kissed her? A kiss she’d liked too much. He’d said he wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t harm her. And he had … in the most humiliating way, in provoking a response.
She didn’t have any time to consider such things. She had to make a decision now, if she were to have any hope at all. Hope of what? Getting lost in these mountains?
Shea remembered what he’d said about traps. About animals. Snakes. A lie? She had no weapons, no food, and she was already hungry. She thought of the trout cooking over the fire.
But then she thought of him, of the magnetism that attracted her in ways that were so confusing, so destructive to her. Could anything be more dangerous to her than Rafferty Tyler?
She looked back in the direction she had come from. She could see the cabin through the aspens and pines. Should she wait for another chance? A better one if she could somehow get the horse?
Shea still felt the heat radiating from him, the way she had melted for those few moments in his arms, the tenderness he’d showed the mouse with the absurd name of Abner.
He was using her. He was using her to get to the only family she had left. And he was doing it in the most insidious way.
She darted into the underbrush, just as a squirrel started chattering, and she heard the sound of something moving. The wind? A pursuer? Had it been five minutes?
Shea knew it would be a mistake to run. He would hear her and rapidly overtake her. Or she could step out quite innocently.
She did neither. She saw a log and lay next to it, trying to make herself as small as possible. Berry bushes and brambles provided some cover. If he went on, perhaps then she could circle him, go back to the clearing and get the horse. Perhaps he hadn’t locked the stable.
Apprehension ate at her. She tried to stay still as she listened for every little sound. But now the forest was quiet. Very quiet.
She waited for what seemed hours and then lifted her head slightly and carefully gazed from tree to tree. Nothing. He was gone.
Shea rose as silently as possible. The squirrel was chattering again. A bird flew from a tree to the ground, apparently in search of something edible. Everything seemed so peaceful. She looked at the mountain peaks and wondered whether they were as unforgiving as he’d said.
She wasn’t a fool. She knew she could get easily lost in this land of gulches and canyons and mountain ledges. She knew there were wild animals. But that kiss, the violent, tender kiss, and the way she responded to it, seemed the greater danger at the moment.
Shea waited a few more minutes. No noise other than that expected of a forest. The distinctive sound of woodpeckers, the sweeter one of humming birds. Ordinarily, she would have been enchanted, but now …
She started moving, trying to slip quietly through the clump of trees and brambles. Rocks scattered under her feet, each sound louder than the last, and she thought she heard the pounding of her heart. Could he hear it too?
Which way? Right or left? She stopped, trying to orient herself. Everything looked alike—the trees, the jutting red rocks.
Think, she told herself. Don’t panic. But she felt like panicking.
She couldn’t be far from the cabin. She could venture a certain number of steps in each direction, watching for an opening in the pines.
And where was he? She froze again, listening for something that would give a clue as to his whereabouts. There was nothing, and she felt infinitely alone.
She selected a direction and started moving again.
She didn’t recognize the outcropping of rocks, the slender aspens and pines.
She retreated, wishing she had a knife to mark them, but then she would be marking them for Rafferty Tyler too.
She turned in the opposite direction, and remembering her captor’s warning about snakes and traps, kept her eyes to the ground.
She retreated to her starting point, then turned in another direction. She wondered whether she was hopelessly lost. Part of her wanted Tyler to find her. She fought down rising fear, and then she saw the cabin through the trees, and she moved cautiously toward it.
Rafe had seen her soon enough, just a couple of minutes after he’d gone after her. He smothered his sense of relief, buried that glimmer of apprehension for her.
The blue ribbon had given her away. Her light brown hair had blended in with the fallen log, but the spot of bright color hadn’t.
He’d almost gone over there, and then he’d hesitated.
He wanted to know what she was going to do, what kind of skills she had, what reasoning she would use, what he could expect. Know thy enemy, he’d told himself.
He was surprised that he felt a sense of betrayal. She had given her word, even if he had coerced it from her. But then what did he expect of a Randall?
She owes you nothing.
Part of him knew that. Yet another part was undeniably disappointed. What did you expect? He damn well didn’t know as he watched her go deeper into the woods.
Before the war he had served on the frontier. He’d also been raised in one of the most dangerous parts of Texas, the northwest where Comanches roamed almost at will. He knew tracking, and he knew how to move silently.
Old skills had returned during these quiet months in the mountain. It wasn’t difficult to keep her in sight without her knowledge, and he felt a surge of admiration as she moved forward, then retreated without panicking as most women would. Most men too.
He realized she was trying to find the clearing. Why, when she had hidden from him?
The answer came quickly enough as he put himself into her shoes. She probably thought he had gone in search of her. She was going back after the horse.
He’d made sure the stable was locked before he left, and his right hand now fingered the key in his pocket. He debated about catching up with her now, or letting her run her tether. He decided on the latter; he wanted to know exactly how much ingenuity she had.
She reached the clearing, looked cautiously around, and then made for the stable, her hands trying the door. She then searched the ground, found a rock, and turned back to the padlock on the door.
He stepped out and moved soundlessly to where she stood and took the key from his pocket. “Looking for this?”
She whirled around, eyes wide and startled, like a trapped doe.
“I thought …”
“Yes?” His voice was dry and cool. “You thought …?”
She hung on to the rock, her hand tightening around it. She didn’t answer.
“You thought you would break your word?” he nudged gently.
She stiffened, and her jaw set rebelliously. “I got lost.”
“Not too lost,” he said.
“How do you know?” Then she realized she had never lost him at all. “You were there all the time?”
He shrugged. “I warned you.”
“You let me think …” Anger shaded the words.
“I wanted to see what you would do.”
“And now that you’ve seen?”
“I know you’re your father’s daughter.”
Her chin went up. “I take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t, Miss Randall. Treachery is not admirable.”
“Neither is kidnapping.”
He ignored the words and held out his hand. “The rock.”
She clung to it.
“I’m not going to ask again.”
“You weren’t asking,” she said stubbornly. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but she didn’t want to give up without a fight, no matter how feeble. “You were ordering.”
He had to hold back a smile. “Don’t try my patience, Miss Randall.”
“And if I do?”
He held out his left hand and moved it down her arm in a sensuous, suggestive way that had nothing of the momentary gentleness of his earlier touch.
It was meant as a threat, plain and simple, but he hadn’t expected the shudder that ran through his own body, a need so strong he was almost consumed by it.
His voice was hoarse as he spoke. “I’ve been in prison ten years, Miss Randall.
I don’t know whether you realize what that means to a man.
” She blinked, and her face drained of color. “I see that you do.”
Her face suddenly flamed with color, and she tried to turn away from him, but his hand stopped her. “Look at me.”
Shea did. She had no choice. His brilliant eyes were mesmerizing in their intensity, and she wanted to believe that anger sparked that intensity. She was too afraid to consider the cause might be something else. Her hand clenched the rock even tighter.
With his gloved hand, he gently pried the rock loose from her fist. The feel of leather against her skin was pleasant, and apprehension drained from her. Still, she didn’t know what to expect from him, what he might do next.
As always, he surprised her. “It would have taken you a very long time to break that lock.” He paused. “Are you a good rider, Miss Randall?”
She wasn’t, but she wasn’t going to admit that to him. She was grateful, however, to leave the previous conversation, the threat in the air between them.
“I wouldn’t like it if my horse broke a leg because of you.”
“And if I broke a leg?”
He sighed. “At least you would stay put then, but I stopped being lucky a long time ago.”
His indifference to her possible injury irritated her immensely. He cared about the horse being hurt, but not her. “I’ll try to escape again,” she said in one last spurt of defiance.
“And I’ll stop you again.”
Their gazes met and locked. Shea felt a sizzling heat start inside and spread. Her fingers still tingled with his touch. She balled them into fists. She didn’t want to respond to him this way.
He broke the contact first. “We did accomplish something,” he said in cool words that quenched the heat quicker than any water could. “I know exactly how far I can trust you. And your word.”
It was calculated cruelty. She should be getting used to it, and yet it still hurt her. Perhaps it wouldn’t have, if she had not fought her own conscience on the matter. She hated the aching regret the words created in her; even more she hated feeling like a chastened child.
She struck back. “You said you wouldn’t touch me.”
He smiled slightly, but it wasn’t pleasant.
“Ah … the kiss. I didn’t get the feeling that I hurt you, Miss Randall.
For a moment you seemed to even enjoy it.
But maybe your objection wasn’t over the kiss at all.
Maybe it was me. Am I … unworthy of your high standards? An ex-convict too base to touch you?”
“That’s exactly it,” Shea countered, furious at his mockery. “I don’t owe you anything. You’re a thief and a kidnapper and a …”
“Don’t stop there,” he said smoothly, but something in his eyes warned her.
They had darkened, and she felt she was about to plunge headlong into something far beyond her ability to control.
She swallowed. He was so still, so watchful.
She sensed from him that quiet, desperate pain again, that anguish stored up inside him.
His expression suddenly changed, as if he’d seen something in her eyes, something he wanted to banish. The faint smile disappeared, and his lips firmed in a grim line. “You must be hungry,” he said abruptly. “All that stalking around.”
“I didn’t stalk,” she said indignantly. But she was hungry. And the frightening thing was, she felt hunger for something other than food.
He took her chin between two fingers. “I wanted to see what you would do, Miss Randall. You kept your head, but you underestimated me, and you overestimated yourself. I wasn’t lying when I tried to explain how dangerous these mountains can be.
A mountain lion could have easily heard or smelled you. ”
She remembered that moment of loneliness, that almost overwhelming fear she had fought down.
She wondered whether she would ever completely feel safe again.
She didn’t want to go back in the woods alone, but neither would she feel safe here.
With him. With those eyes that were cold and hot at the same time, aloof and needy.
Threatening and understanding. She didn’t know what to expect of him.
Nor of herself. Everything that was happening was so foreign to what she knew.
His fingers lingered on her chin, but then, as if regretful to do so, he moved away. “The trout is in the cabin on the spit. Eat what you like.”
She hesitated. “What about you?”
“I thought you didn’t care for the company of a thief and kidnapper,” he said, sneering, “and … whatever else you think I am.”
“Don’t forget convict,” she said. She was angry with herself for that moment of consideration for him.
“Oh, I don’t forget that, Miss Randall. I never forget that.” He headed for the stable but turned back suddenly to see her still standing there, as if rooted to the ground. “And you’ll stay in the cabin until I say otherwise.”
She walked away without saying another word, her back stiff with resentment and defiance. He wished he didn’t feel a sense of loss as she disappeared inside the cabin.