Tender Touch (2 page)

Chapter Two

Columbus Nigh squatted with his back against the outer wall of the livery and began to whittle a small piece of wood. His hands flashed as he deftly turned the stick into a tiny, lifelike cougar. From under his hat brim, he studied the widow he had agreed to escort to Independence. She picked her way across the livery yard, careful as sin to avoid each aromatic puddle and suspicious looking pile of muck.

If he could have guessed her age, his blood might have raced a bit at the sight of the white lacy petticoats and trim, black-stockinged ankles peeking out from under her cautiously raised skirts. Truth was, she could be eighty and ugly as a pock-faced whore for all he knew.

So far he hadn’t glimpsed a square inch of bare skin on the woman. Even her hands were covered with gloves—white ones, of all the fool things. His only certainty was the slenderness of her body which the black dress and cloak failed to hide. Her voice sounded youngish, but that didn’t prove much.

Seventeen years in the wilderness—which had honed his senses to a fine edge, particularly his sense of judgment—told him she was hiding more than her age under those black garments and the thickly veiled hat she wore.

A man didn’t live long in the wild unless he learned to make instantaneous decisions based on nothing more than the sudden flight of a robin or a glint of light where it oughtn’t to be. The right decisions. Then, of course, he had to be able to move fast enough to escape whatever form of death was about to descend on him, be it grizzly or a Blackfoot warrior in full war paint.

Columbus Nigh had learned his lessons so well that the Indians called him Man Without Fear.

They were wrong about that; there were plenty of things scared him plumb silly. Such as dealing with “ladies” that likely didn’t even speak the same sort of English he did.

Right now, as he watched the O’Casey boy introduce the widow to the horse she was to ride, Nigh’s instincts told him she was the one who was scared. And of more than being alone on the trail with a filthy old squawman like him.

Normally Nigh wasn’t a curious man, but he found himself wondering who the woman was, and what, or who, she was running from. More than likely, that was why he’d decided to take the job of getting her to Independence so she could join her sister on a wagon train to Oregon. Not a purely sensible reason, he’d admit, but then, a purely sensible man never would have left the comfort and safety of the States to roam a savage wilderness in the first place.

Not having known much comfort and safety as a young’un on the docks and crib streets of St. Louis, Nigh hadn’t had much difficulty learning to survive out here in the West. He felt a lot less confident about the woman introduced to him as Mrs. Brianna Villard.

There was another odd thing, because Nigh was positive he’d heard Sean O’Casey call her Mrs. Wight when the boy informed her who was to be her guide.

The woman likely came from money. She was greener than the spring grass poking up through last year’s leaves. Simply getting on that horse would be a triumph for her; she’d obviously never been on one before. Her face under the veil was likely as pale as the tatted white collar on her prissy black dress, and he’d be willing to bet that her knees were knocking something fierce under her skirts.

When the boy fetched a sidesaddle and plopped it on her mare’s back, Nigh almost ran over to snatch it off. But he’d discovered long ago that experience was the best teacher, and the harder the lessen, the better it was learned. Chances were that she’d get tossed off that worthless scrap of leather before they even got out of the livery yard. No self-respecting horse would be caught dead wearing a sidesaddle.

“She’s ready, ma’am,” Nigh heard Sean say as the boy finished tying a basket and satchel on behind the bedroll his mother had brought from their buggy.

Mrs. Villard, or whoever she was, peered at Nigh over her shoulder, looking nervous as a sparrow in a tree full of cats.

The boy placed a wooden crate on the ground next to the horse. “Climb up here, take hold of the pommel, and put your left foot in the stirrup.” The words were soft, meant only for the widow to hear, but like a hawk high in the sky, Nigh could detect the whisper of a mouse creeping t
hrough damp grass.

“Which is the stirrup? No, don’t point,” the widow whispered back. Sensing her rider’s nervousness, the mare shied, nearly dumping the woman before she could hook her knee over the pommel. Only Sean’s steadying hand kept her in the saddle.

Columbus Nigh put away his knife and rose to his feet in one fluid motion. He swung into his saddle with as little effort as most men used stepping onto a sidewalk. Warily he eyed the satchel and basket on the rump of the widow’s mount. “That all you’re taking?”

Her abrupt nod was a disappointment. He’d wanted to hear her voice again. Earlier, it had been soft as the downy breath feathers of an eagle’s breast, and tremulous, like an aspen leaf on a summer morn.

“Write to me,” the old woman said, placing a hand on the widow’s knee.

She looked back at the boy and his mother. Nigh sensed her sudden panic at the thought of leaving her friends, and respect budded inside him as she tucked the fear away and told the couple, “Watch out for yourselves, I worry .
.
.” The way she cut her words off and glanced at Nigh told him she didn’t want him to hear the rest.

Turning back to the old woman, she said instead, “Goodbye, dear Mrs. O’Casey. I’ll never forget you. You’ve been far more than a housekeeper to me. Someday I’ll repay the enormous
kindness you’ve done me today.”

“’Twas nothing, child. Just you be happy now, that’ll be our reward.”

Nigh gave a silent nod to the couple and nudged his dappled gray gelding toward the street. The widow woman clucked her tongue at her mare, and followed. She sat ramrod stiff, hanging on to her dignity and her courage as though they were all she had left. He slowed so she could ride beside him, hoping to lend her some measure of security with his presence.

Eventually the traffic on the road leading out of St. Louis diminished. Businesses gave way to houses. Then those too became scarce. The smells of kitchen garbage, backyard privies and horse manure faded and Nigh gratefully breathed in the fresh scents of budding green growth and fresh-turned earth. As always, his spirits soared as he left civilization behind and entered a stretch of forest.

The time would never come, he supposed, when he could be content for long within the confines of a town. The noise, the stink, and the sight of so many structures blocking the sun and fouling the sky with their fumes, bowed him down. Only the taste of the whiskey seemed to improve matters, until he found himself three-quarters of the way to a good drunk most of the day and night.

Even the whores repelled him, their sore-riddled bodies making him yearn for the sweet, cleanliness of his Snake wife. The thought of lying again with a soft, giving woman created an ache in his groin. It had been so long.

His mind began to speculate once more as to the age and looks of the woman he would be spending the next five or six days—and nights—with. Suddenly, he realized there was no sound of hooves plodding the road behind him. He cursed as he reined in, pivoting the gelding about at the same time. No black-garbed widow on a buckskin mare filled his sight.

She was gone.

Cursing again, Nigh kicked his horse and galloped back toward St. Louis.

He spotted her around the next bend, ranting at her mare as it nibbled contentedly at the new grass alongside the road. His scowl changed to a smile and he slowed to a silent approach.

“You awful beast,” she ranted, “don’t you know that man will leave us here? He won’t care if we get lost. Come on, go. Go!”

“Thinking ’bout farming that spot?” Nigh asked.

She nearly jumped out of her saddle. Her hand flew to her heart. “Must you be so quiet? You frightened me half to death.”

He eyed her coolly for a long time. “Smart man don’t make no more noise than he has to, ’less’n he knows what’s about. You ready to go
on now?”

“No, I can’t. . . She won’t—” She cut her whining short, drew herself up and faced him square on. “Yes, now that you mention it, this does seem a likely spot to settle. It’s close to town, there’s plenty of wood and a stream nearby.”

His mouth quirked in a lopsided smile and she stiffened even more.

“The truth, sir, is that the horse and I are having a difference of opinion as to the rate of speed we should travel. Perhaps you’d care to add your view?”

The tremor in her voice was plain, though she’d tried to sound calm, even imperious. She reminded him of a lizard, rearing on hind legs to enhance its size and hopefully scare its enemy away. He was tempted to call her bluff. Instead, he took a wooden sliver from a pouch tucked inside his shirt and stuck it in his mouth. It bobbed up and down as he talked.

“Got to show ’er who her master is, ma’am. Right now she reckons it’s her. Pull her head up and poke ’er in the ribs with your heels. Be firm, she’ll get the idea.” After a moment’s pause, the widow attempted to follow his advice. Nigh winced at the sharp jerk she gave the reins, but she didn’t knuckle under to the mare’s whinnied protest. She kept the animal’s head high, prodded with her knees and clucked her tongue. When the horse returned obediently to the road, Nigh hid a smile at Mrs. Villard’s gasp of surprise that was edged with pleasure and pride.

Sheltered by the dense shade of oaks, cottonwoods, maples, and hickory trees, bursting with bright new growth, Nigh and the widow forded creek after creek, until the warmth of sunny, flower-scented meadows and plowed fields became a welcome change.

The widow kept a close watch on their back trail. At the sound of approaching hoof beats she urged her horse closer to Nigh. Before long, he could see that the strain and unaccustomed exercise of horseback riding was taking its toll on her. He stifled a smile, knowing how her bottom must be rubbed raw and every muscle probably ached like the dickens. She could barely keep her seat in the awkward sidesaddle, yet
she refused to ask for a rest.

Taking pity on her at last, he spoke. “We’ll eat here, unless you want to stop at the inn up the road.”

The woman’s head snapped up, telling him she had indeed dozed off as he’d suspected. Her sudden movement nearly caused her to fall out of the saddle. To save herself, she jerked backwards, inadvertently yanking the reins. With a loud whinny the buckskin reared, almost trampling Nigh, who had dropped back to ride beside her.

He cursed as something flew at him out of the basket on the mare’s back. The critter leaped onto his chest, clawed its way up his shoulders, and launched itself into a tree. “What the hell?”

There wasn’t time to see what had attacked him. The woman was screaming and clinging desperately to the rearing horse. He grabbed the bridle and brought the mare under control, then pulled the widow from her saddle. In spite of his anger, he was instantly aware of the thinness of her waist and the soft, feminine feel of her.

Her knees buckled the instant her feet touched ground. With a whimper, she clutched at his thighs to keep from falling. Bracing her with his hands on her arms, Nigh slid from his saddle and felt a strong, sudden burst of pleasure inflame his body as her breasts and thighs brushed the entire length of him.

Her scent filled his nostrils. Not the sweat and sex and cheap ale the whores generally stank of, but fright, damp wool and roses. His body hardened. She tensed. Before she could jerk away, he set her from him with gentle hands, wanting her to know she had nothing to fear. She quickly turned her back to him, while he silently cursed the veil that hid her face from him.

“What in hell was it jumped outta that basket at me?” he said, resisting the urge to snatch off her hat with its offensive, concealing veil.

“Out of the basket? Oh—” She glanced about frantically. “Shakespeare, my poor cat. He must be terrified. Where did he go?”

“A cat? What in tarnation are you doing bringing a cat on a trip like this? Have you no sense ‘tall?”

She flinched, threw a protective arm over her face, and backed away.

“Gawdamighty!” For her to believe he would strike her angered him. Then he saw her terror. He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly. “Your fool cat’s somewhere up that tree. Reckon he’ll come down when he gets hungry. Now, you want to stop at the inn or eat here?”

Her reply was slow in coming. Finally, she lowered her arm and looked at him. “Here, p-please. I’d as soon avoid crowded inns, and strangers.”

“Suits me.”

He led the horses into the trees, leaving the widow Villard behind to search for her pet. Her voice vibrated with timid emotion as she called the cat to her.

Nigh was hobbling her horse with a length of hemp when she found him in the small clearing. Out of the side of his eye, he saw her wince as she sat on a log beside the stream, a grey tabby held securely in her arms. He shook his head ruefully as he wondered how a helpless female like the widow expected to survive a grueling trek such as it took to get to Oregon. She’d be doing good to live long enough to see Fort Kearny on the Platte River.

“You want somethin’ in your belly, you’re gonna have to pitch in,” Nigh said, uncertain why he was so irritated with her. It meant nothing to him if she died on the trail. “I hired on as your guide, not your servant. For starters, you can tend to your own horse.”