Tender Touch (6 page)

***

The iron bars were cold and clammy beneath Barret Wight’s moist hands. The stench of urine and dried vomit brought up his gorge. He swallowed it down and hollered once more for the deputy sheriff. “Hey you, Pratt, come here, will you?”

Pratt stuck his ruddy face around the corner and peered through the gloom at his prisoner. Four cells, two on each side, lined the aisle leading to the marshal’s office where Pratt drank coffee and studied wanted posters with his boots propped on a scarred old desk. Wight was the only prisoner, but tomorrow being Saturday, Pratt expected there’d be a few drunks to give the man company along about midnight. Maybe then the sniveling bastard would leave a man in peace. “Waddya want?”

“Get me out of here so I can use the privy.”

“Use the damned bucket. Waddya think it’s in there for, bathing?”

“It’s full, hasn’t been dumped for days. When’s that brat get here? This stinking hole isn’t fit for hogs, let alone men.”

“He gets here when he gets here. Soon’s we got a man needing one of them cells, we’ll worry ’bout cleaning ’em.”

Wight growled and rattled the bars with his thick fists. “Blast your vermin-ridden hide, Pratt, when I get out of here, I’ll
. . .
”

“Hold onto yer balls. Boy just got here.”

For several seconds Wight listened to the murmur of voices from the office as the cleaning boy received his instructions. Annoyed, Wight rattled the bars again. “Hey! Do I have to piss my pants?”

A squatty fourteen-year-old with pimples and lank blond hair falling over his face, sidled around the open door into the large room. He set his mop bucket on the floor before entering the unused cells to haul out the pee buckets that needed emptying. Not once did he lift his eyes to the prisoner in the far corner. With barely contained patience, Wight waited until the boy came close enough to hear his whisper, “Come here, kid.”

The boy looked at him insolently. “I ain’t talking to no woman killer.”

“I didn’t kill anyone and I’m not going to hurt you either. Just want you to do something for me.” Wight growled with frustration as the boy hung back, eyes full of distrust. “You’ll be paid.”

The boy jerked his head, clearing the hair from his eyes. “How much?”

“Two bits. You know
the tavern at Wight’s Brewery?”

“Yeah.”

“Find Stinky Harris, and tell him to get over here or I’m calling in his marker. You got that?”

The boy scratched under an armpit and his crotch, peering warily at Wight while his hair drifted back over his eyes. “That all?”

“That’s all, now get.”

“Soon’s I finish my job.”

When the boy was gone, Barret threw himself down on the filthy bunk. He folded his arms behind his head, crossed his feet, and smiled. Brianna must have thought herself clever, sneaking off on him that way and making it look like he’d done her in. But he wasn’t as stupid as she thought. His smile spread to a wide grin. The silver had clued him in. No thief would leave something valuable like that behind, especially buried where it was. Yeah, that was what really told on her—and what troubled him most—the silver being buried in that particular horse stall.

Wight’s smile faded. How had she known? Had she randomly chosen that spot to bury the silver, or had she figured it out ahead of time? And what had she done with the original contents of the hole?

The slut, the great big Amazon of a slut. She’d left him a message, burying the silver there; that’s what she’d done. But she’d find out it took more than a veiled threat to keep him off her trail. She belonged to him, and what Barret Wight owned, Barret Wight kept. He’d deal with her when he got her back, by Christ! She’d rue the day she ever thought of trying to pull one over on him. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her—killing was too good for the likes of her—but she’d damn well wish he had.

***

Stinky Harris sauntered into the jail about supper time. He wrinkled his nose at the acrid odor of urine that clung to the place like maggots on putrid flesh, as he headed for the rear cell where Barret Wight waited.

“Good thing you know what’s good for you,” Wight greeted with a sneer. He sat on the edge of his cot using the rip of a thumbnail to scrape the other nails clean. The boredom of sitting idle in a jail cell had him desperate for something to do. He’d even come to look forward to the lousy meals they fed him. At least then he could exchange insults with the deputy sheriff while the tray was slid under the bars.

“Don’t threaten me, Wight,” said Stinky.

“Then listen up. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“I’m listening.”

Barret moved over near the cell door. His stubby fingers curled around the thick bars. “You heard why I’m in here?”

“Yeah, you finally done in your wife. Glory thinks you did it so you could marry her.”

“Sure,” Barret snorted. “When hell becomes heaven and they make me king. The whole thing was a set-up. She’s run off and you’re going to help me find her.” Stinky tugged thoughtfully on his scroungy tuft of a beard and decided he believed Wight. “What do you want me to do?”

“She probably beat it out of here by the most expedient means available, any direction she could go. Check passenger rosters for steamships and stage coaches starting with yesterday morning. Check hotels and boarding houses, too. But first, go to my house and find the daguerreotype I had done of her. It’s in my study. Show it around.”

Venom filled Barret’s voice. He gripped the bars so tightly his knuckles whitened. “I’ll find that bitch if it’s the last thing I do. She’ll learn she can’t dump on me and get away with it.”

“Yeah?” The sun filtering through a tiny barred window cast shadow-stripes across Stinky’s sallow face as he studied Wight. “What’s in it for me?”

“You do as I ask and I’ll tear up your marker. That ought to make it worth your while. Is it a deal?”

Stinky thought it over. It would be good to get out of debt and out from under this man’s thumb. Barret Wight was known for his ugly temper. Stinky could refuse and hope they hung the bastard, but that would be risky since he understood they hadn’t even found Mrs. Wight’s body yet. Besides, life had been dull lately and the challenge of finding a runaway wife appealed to him.

“Yeah, all right,” he said. “It’s a deal.”

“One more thing. She has a sister in Louisville, Kentucky. Julia Somerville, I think. She might have gone there.”

“This ain’t gonna do y
ou much good if they hang you.”

Barret snorted at that. “Rainey hasn’t got shit for evidence. He’ll have to let me go eventually. And when he does, I’m gonna teach that bitch wife of mine a lesson she won’t forget.”

Chapter Six

The day passed so slowly Brianna thought it would never end. At first the stiffness in her body had been eased by her bath and a few miles of riding, but as the day wore on, she began to ache worse than ever. Her only comfort was that riding astride rubbed new spots raw instead of the same old ones. Her cloak helped to disguise her outlandish outfit, but the veil was missing from her hat—thanks to Mr. Nigh. She ducked her head whenever they passed other travelers and tried to take comfort in the thought that anyone noticing her bruises would probably blame him.

To make up for their late start, they ate dry jerked beef and leftover breakfast biscuits while they rode and stopped barely long enough to water and feed the horses. They avoided inns and villages. Her guide spoke only to give orders and never so much as glanced at her. She gladly kept her distance from his ill-temper and reserved her conversation for the cat. It was long after dark before he led the way from the road to seek a place to camp.

Brianna was too exhausted to eat. She fell into her bed the moment her shelter was built, and was instantly asleep. Once she awoke during the night to see him huddled under his buffalo robe, leaning against a tree as usual. His eyes were open and watching her, as cool and unfeeling as when she had first met him. She wondered what his life had been like up till now, but she was too sleepy to give much thought to the matter and was soon fast asleep again. The sky was still dark and dawn far away yet when they got back on the road the next day.

Though Brianna still cringed and had to school herself not to dash off into the woods every time she heard a rider approaching from behind, her fear of Barret catching her had lessened. Surely he would have caught up with her by now if he were going to. But, as they rode into Jefferson City, she noticed a steamboat letting off passengers. She was wondering if Barret could have beat her there coming by steamboat when Mr. Nigh informed her they needed to stop for supplies.

“Please, that isn’t truly necessary, is it?”

He drew up in front of a store and dismounted. “It is if you want coffee and anything but fresh meat the next couple of days.”

He wrapped the reins around the hitching rail, and moved to her side to help her down. Motioning to the dry goods store, he said, “Get us coffee and whatever else you think we need. I won’t be long.”

“Where are you going? You’re not leaving me alone, are you?” Her eyes were wide with alarm.

Mr. Nigh frowned. “It’ll save time if you get the dry goods while I hunt up grain for the horses.”

After he had walked away, Brianna glanced about at the people crowding the street and the plank walk in front of the buildings. Silently she cursed her guide for tearing the veil off her hat. She pulled the bonnet forward as much as she could and kept her head bowed, her eyes beneath the brim darting everywhere as she made her way into the store.

A long counter lined the back of the building where purchases were tallied and paid for. Several people milled about, looking over the merchandise or waiting to be served. Brianna edged her way into an unoccupied corner while she scanned the faces. A bell jangled as someone opened the door and she bent over a pickle barrel, as if sniffing the briny contents, until she could see who had entered. Slowly she worked her way toward the counter where a short man with a long, scruffy beard was measuring out beans for a plump, garrulous woman in a black mantle trimmed with mink. The bell jangled again as a tall gentleman left.

Brianna waited until the woman had paid for her purchase and headed for the door, before slipping into line behind a farmer in homespun pants and knee-length boots. The bell jangled as the woman went out. While the shopkeeper took care of the next customer, Brianna pretended to study the selection of fabrics stacked in bolts on the counter, one hand fidgeting with the button hanging inside her bodice. She was debating buying new veiling to sew onto her bonnet when a man took hold of her arm.

“What’s taking so long?”

She gasped as she spun about, her hand going to her thundering heart. “Mr. Nigh! You startled me.”

“Noticed. Thought I told you to call me Columbus, or Col.”

Fidgeting, she didn’t answer. Before he could ask her why she was so nervous, the shopkeeper stepped up. Nigh ordered the coffe
e and a pound of pilot bread.

By the time they had packed the food in the saddlebags and ridden out of the town, Brianna’s shoulders and head ached with tension. She welcomed the brief noon stop, bathing her face in the cool waters of a stream while Beast drank noisily beside her.

Crouched on the bank, Nigh watched her. If she didn’t watch out, she’d lose all her prim and proper ways. His mouth quirked up in one of his half-smiles at the thought. Then he frowned, remembering her fear in Jefferson City.

As they drew closer to Independence they met more and more traffic on the road, young men mostly, rushing to join the thousands of others eager to face the Elephant on the California Trail—the Elephant that was the end of their own endurance. Often the twang of a fiddle or mouth organ came from one of the wagons, along with men’s voices lifted in bawdy song. Many called out friendly greetings, taking the couple for man and wife. She left it to Mr. Nigh—Columbus—to correct them if he wished.

On the evening of the fifth day, she noticed he had set a more leisurely pace and knew they were getting close to Independence. Her excitement grew as the miles slowly passed. Soon she would see Julia and John and their sweet children. She prayed they would not be un-happy about her unannounced arrival, and that they would not refuse to take her with them to Oregon Territory.

After crossing a shallow creek, Columbus called over his shoulder that they would camp on its banks. She followed him to a small glade where flowers nodded in the patchy sunshine. A pretty spot.

Columbus cut green poles for her shelter while she gathered firewood. Shakespeare found a mouse hole under a tree root and waited patiently for his prey to emerge. When the chores were finished and the camp made ready for the night, the man sat down under a tree. He took out his knife and worked on one of the little animal figures he was always carving out of the apple wood that lent its scent to his clothes and person. Brianna gathered her cloak tighter about her neck, sat on a dry log and watched.

His hands were quick and agile. Yet she knew they could be tender as well. She remembered his gentleness in checking her ribs and the feel of his thumbs brushing her breasts. She also recalled the strange sensations that had shot through her body, pleasant sensations she’d never experienced before. Somewhere in the long days, the long miles, she had lost her fear of Columbus Nigh. He was so strong and self-assured; being with him gave her a feeling of peace and safety.

“What will you do after we get to Independence?” she asked.

He glanced up, then back at his work. “Got a job guiding pilgrims to Oregon.”

Pleased, she said, “Maybe it will be the same company my sister and I will be with.”

“Mebbe.”

Shakespeare chased a wind-blown leaf across the clearing, nearly ending up in the small campfire. Brianna smiled at the easy way he dodged the hot coals and captured the leaf. When she looked up, Columbus was gazing at her, his gray eyes as enigmatic as ever.

“What if you miss your sister?” he asked.

Brianna shook her head. Her eyes filled with fear and uncertainty as they often did. “I don’t know. I-I haven’t dared think that far ahead. Tell me what Oregon is like.”

His eyes lifted, staring off toward the northwest as though he could see the land in question. “There’s plains flat as a table top where nothing grows but grass, mountains so high and rugged you’ll wish you never heard of Oregon ’fore you’re over them, and valleys like the Willamette, lush as any I’ve seen.”

“The Willamette,” she repeated, her voice nearly as reverent as his. “I’ve heard of it. Isn’t the Whitmore mission there?”

“Was. At Waiilatpu. Cayuse massacred just about everybody there couple of years ago.”

Nigh saw the alarm that filled her eyes. She moved closer to the fire for warmth and he watched the light play over her face. They could have made Independence before midnight if they’d pushed it. He didn’t want to. They’d been pushing hard enough—sixteen hours in the saddle, forty miles a day. The pace showed in the dark circles under her eyes and in the slump of her shoulders.

There were things he wanted to know about this woman before she passed out of his life. Like why she turned as fidgety as a frog in a frying pan every time someone rode up behind them, and why she’d tensed up like a cat ready to spring in Jefferson City. He’d had a gut feeling ever since they left St. Louis that she was running from someone. He intended to find out whom.

Brianna walked to the edge of the stream, enjoying the changing colors of the western sky through the branches of the trees. “I never thought about the danger of traveling to a place as wild and isolated as Oregon. Surely it can’t be too bad, though, if John is takin
g Julia there.”

“It’s quiet enough there now.”

His mocassined feet had approached so quietly in the soft grass, she had not heard him coming and jumped at the sound of his voice so close behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. Her blood iced over at the coldness in Columbus’s eyes. Her stomach churned and she felt an urge to flee.

“Who or what are you running away from?” he asked.

The urge became a need.

“No one. I told you, I just want to reach my sister before she leaves on the wagon train.”

“Then why do you panic every time someone passes us?”

She lowered her eyes to hide her expression. “I don’t. Why are you asking all these questions? What would it matter to you if someone were after me?”

Because I feel responsible for you, damn my foolish hide
. Aloud Nigh said, “If you’re in danger, that puts me in danger too, so I have a right to know.”

Brianna’s gaze refused to meet his until he took her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him, a habit she was beginning to detest. “Tell me.”

Silence.

“Damn it, woman! How can I help you if you won’t talk to me?”

“Help me?” Her brow furrowed. “Why would you want to help me? You don’t even like me.”

Didn’t like her? Every day Nigh had come to admire her courage more. Under all her fear and uncertainty was the strength of a young oak. All she needed to make her flower was confidence.

She had grown more beautiful, too, as the bruises faded and the swelling subsided to expose the delicate lines of her face. Her generous mouth was balanced by enormous, startlingly blue topaz eyes and wide cheekbones. Her body was long and willowy, moving with a sensuous grace of which she seemed unaware. Something natural, almost innocent, about her, made him want to shield her from everything that might harm her. But he wanted more than to protect her; he wanted to possess her. And it did no good to tell himself it was only out of sympathy because she’d been abused. Or because he needed a woman to bed.

The ferocity in Columbus’s eyes seared Brianna. His gaze dipped to her lips. She tried to move away, but could not break his hold. Slowly he drew her against him. Her heart thun-dered in her ears and she grew light-headed as she watched his mouth draw closer and closer. Surely she would float away if he let go of her. But he didn’t. His lips whispered over hers and the churning sensation in her stomach became a tornado.

There had been no time to throw up her defenses, physically or emotionally. His tongue insinuated itself between her lips, and her body quivered. Her heart would surely blister and her bones melt until there was nothing left of her but a shapeless lump, like the river clay she had played with as a child. She stiffened herself against his attack.

Nigh raised his head to look at her, and nearly lost control. He’d expected the fear, but not the banked fire deep in her eyes. “Go.” His voice was shaky. “Go on, get to bed.”

She trembled, holding her body so rigid she could barely move. Nigh guided her to the brush shelter. It was all he could do not to lay her down and take her as his body demanded. Instead, he shoved the cat in her arms, knowing the feel of something familiar would calm her. Then he strode off into the woods.

Brianna buried her face in the cat’s silky fur and watched her guide hurry away. She filled her nostrils with the cat’s familiar odor and let the rumble of his purr lull her emotions into a semblance of calm. Then she hurried to get into bed.

Even with her eyes closed she could still see Columbus, still feel the smoothness of his lips, the faint prickle of his mustache, the textured moistness of the tongue that pushed its way into her mouth. His breath had been sweet, his scent smoky and rich with the flavors of earth and horse and apple wood. She tried to force him from her mind by wondering where Barret was and what he was doing. Instead, she found herself comparing Barret’s kisses with Nigh’s, Barret’s touch, Barret’s whiskey stink.

From the deeply shadowed woods Nigh watched her scramble into bed and cursed himself. He’d asked for trouble, kissing her like that. Insane. Every night he’d struggled to banish the memory of her naked body from his mind. His palms itched to touch her each time he looked at her until he thought he’d go crazy with wanting. But a woman like her would never want a man like him, even if she hadn’t been made to fear men and sex.