Turner's Woman Page 4

  He stared at the mountains, knowing he had other problems. It would be another day’s ride before they reached Union Pass. Men at the Rendezvous who trapped the Green River said several feet of snow covered the peaks already, but the trails were passable. An early storm could shut down his chance of making the crossing.

  The only bright spot in that prospect was the possibility that he could head back and rid himself of Miss Emma Lancing. He’d like to ride on, but the horses needed rest, so he chose a spot and drew them to a halt. His gut tightened as if mule-kicked. Now he’d have to face her.

  Best get it over with. He stopped by the stream and slid down, ignoring the stiffness in his legs and hips. Then he turned to the woman and froze, then took a step closer, doubting his eyes.

  Her head hung in what he first thought was a posture of hopelessness. He crept forward and studied her breathing. Her hands rested on the pommel, clutching the reins. Asleep in the saddle.

  Jake folded his arms across his chest and studied her. Her cheeks showed tearstains again. God, the woman spouted more water than a whale. This time she’d kept her tears quiet. That confused him. Never in his life had he seen a woman cry without an audience. He pushed aside the thought she might actually be suffering real distress and wondered instead if she feigned sleep. Now that was a trick a woman would pull. The possibility irked him.

  Her chest rose and fell beneath the brass buttons emblazoned down the center of her coat. He’d like to polish the brass with the front of his shirt. His fingers itched to touch her bare skin. What secrets lay beneath the army-issue wool?

  The thought brought him up short. He knew damn well what was underneath—a world of trouble, was what. He stormed to his packhorse and threw down the lion skin. Hadn’t Helen’s lessons been enough? White women used their bodies like currency, trading favors for wedding vows. A night of pleasure was not worth a lifetime of captivity.

  He glanced at Emma who now leaned dangerously in her saddle. “Well, hell.”

  In three quick strides he reached her, catching her as she dropped from the horse. Her eyes flew open and she pinned him with a startled gaze.

  “What happened?”

  “You fell off your damn horse.”

  She glanced about. “I did not.”

  He lowered her to the ground. His reluctance to release her convinced him to do so immediately. She clung a moment, wobbling. Her body fell flush against his, sending a lightning bolt of desire firing through him. He grasped her narrow waist and stepped away again, holding her until she righted herself and then moved off. He considered her as she stretched, sending the fabric of her coat tight against her full bosom. His mouth went dry.

  “Fetch some water.” He turned away to gather firewood.

  The task of cooking occupied him for some time. As the meat simmered in the skillet and the partridge sizzled on a spit above the coals, he proceeded to scrape the lion hide. This kept him from having to look at Emma, who seemed to have dunked her head in the stream and now combed her wet hair by firelight. A quick glance, now and again, showed that her hair turned wavy as it dried, the color going from dark to light. Her skirt clung to her legs and a possibility struck.

  Had she bathed in the stream? His mind reeled with the images the thought conjured.

  He turned the birds, rotating the crisp brown skin away from the coals. Emma’s stomach growled so loudly, he could hear it from across the fire. She clamped a hand over her belly and her gaze shot to his. He smiled at her look of embarrassment and frowned as color flooded her cheeks, sending bands of steel around his chest so he couldn’t draw a proper breath.

  Damn her, again.

  The tension crackled between them. He wondered how to make it stop.

  “You got a plate?” he asked.

  She nodded and rummaged in her bags, withdrawing a tin plate, cup and fork.

  “Hungry?”

  Her head bobbed again.

  “You can talk you know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Turner. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  The woman was nothing but disturbing, but he’d never tell her. Instead he sliced one partridge in two, laying the flayed bird beside a thick slice of meat from the shoulder of the lioness she’d killed. He returned her plate.

  “I’ve never eaten mountain lion.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched in a half smile. “Better than the other way around.”

  Her fine eyebrow lifted. A moment later, understanding dawned. “I should say so.”

  He directed his attention to his own portion and ate.

  “I have beans, flour, a slab of bacon and coffee in my pack,” she said.

  “Good to know.” He spoke, keeping his attention firmly fastened on his meal, determining not to be distracted by her again.

  He cut into his lion steak. Glancing up he found her hands folded as her lips silently offered a prayer. Reluctantly, he dragged his hat from his head. Her actions reminded him of church, home and civilization—all the things he had escaped. He scowled at her until she finished her muttering, the hunk of meat lodged in his cheek.

  She cleared her throat and said, “We made good progress today, I think.”

  “Fair enough,” he agreed and finished chewing.

  Emma said nothing further as she ate. He watched her across the fire wondering what she thought about the day. When he had sat before her half-naked, he’d been certain she’d shown him desire. Now she seemed all polite veneer and quiet dignity. Had he imagined the fire burning in her eyes?

  Maybe so. It damn sure burned in him strong enough to scorch his bones and cloud his thinking.

  She finished her portion and he offered her another, but she refused, so he added the remaining partridge to his plate. After the meal, she gathered her utensils and wandered off into the darkness toward the stream. He wondered if he should follow, then remembered the birds she had brought down, the cat she had killed and the pistol still strapped to her belt. He returned to the pelt, ignoring the splashing. What was that sound? He squinted. Humming. She was humming, something familiar, a song he knew from his childhood, a lullaby, maybe. His knife nicked the pelt too deeply and he cursed. What the hell difference did it make, what tune she hummed? He had work to do and then he needed rest.

  Emma returned and stowed her gear, then shook out her blanket and removed her coat. The white shirt beneath was not the army issue he’d worn when training at West Point. Instead, the fine fabric and lacy trim sculpted over Emma’s curves. He tore his gaze away and focused on the cat skin.

  “When we get over the pass, I’m going to tan this hide and make you a proper coat.”

  “I already have a coat.”

  He sighed. “That’s an army jacket.”

  She said nothing.

  “What do you think will happen if you show up in California wearing an army jacket?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ever been arrested?”

  “No.” Her level gaze met and held his. “But I’ve been in prison for years.”

  He rolled up the cleaned skin and tied it tight for carrying. “What’s that suppose to mean?”

  “It means for the first time in my life I am not surrounded by men, mules and manure. I can breathe here.”

  He scratched his neck regarding her. He felt like that out here. But women were practical. They liked men who held respectable positions in stuffy little offices scratching away with pen and ink. His teeth ground together. He’d never heard of a woman feeling trapped. She made no sense.

  “Do you have family, Mr. Turner?”

  It had been a long time since he made polite conversation, but he gave it a whirl.

  “I have four brothers and one sister back east in Jessup’s Cut, Maryland.”

  “Maryland? My mother is from Baltimore. Lucille Brady was her maiden name. Her father is in shipping.”

  “Nathan Brady?”

  “Yes. You’ve heard of him?”

  He owned half the harbor. Of cours
e he knew him. “Heard his name.”

  What was the granddaughter of such a wealthy man doing out here in the wilderness? “Your mother at Fort Lancing?”

  She looked as if he had struck her, recoiling slightly. Then she cleared her throat. “My mother is East, for her health, you understand.”

  He sensed she hid something because her fingers clutching her skirt belied the rigid smile fixed upon her lips. He didn’t really want to know anything about her and had only asked to be polite, so he let the topic drop.

  Emma, however, was not done. “Why do you so dislike women?”

  He didn’t need to answer, but found he wanted to. “That would be Helen Grant’s fault. She decided to make a husband of me.”

  What she did to achieve her ambition turned his stomach. She’d been as ruthless as any hunter.

  “She decided?” Emma’s voice held disbelief.

  “Even when I turned her down.”

  He’d believed Helen when she said she loved him. His jaw clenched as he recalled his stupidity. She had only wanted to collar him. Nearly succeeded, too. When she’d miscarried, he’d wiggled out of the trap. When she’d tried to sleep with him a second time, he’d understood the first time had been no act of passion but one of cold calculation.

  Emma’s gaze fixed him to the spot.

  “Not the right woman or not the right time?” she asked.

  “Both, I guess. Between Helen’s pushing me one way and the book pulling me another, I finally just came apart.”

  He remembered the day he walked out. His mother, Helen and his sister all had bathed him in their tears. But he had finally seen them for what they were and refused to be swayed.

  “What book?” asked Emma.

  “The journal of Lewis and Clark. After that, there was no keeping me home.” His pappy, a dissatisfied attorney himself, had seemed to understand. He’d correctly blamed the book. His pap had threatened to burn it, but in the end, he’d rescued his son and sent him to the University of Pennsylvania for instruction in mathematics and celestial navigation. If Jake had never read that journal, he might now be writing contracts by day and lying beside Helen at night.

  “You ran away?” Emma leaned forward, looking suddenly intrigued.

  “In a manner of speaking. Joined the army as a surveyor.” Jake said no more. That information alone might be too revealing. But she was a woman and though naturally curious, she could not guess his business from that small revelation.

  Emma’s gaze narrowed and she nodded as if she had suspected this all along, which was ridiculous, of course, when she knew only what he told her.

  At last her frown disappeared and the hint of a smile curled her full lips. “So you escaped. How did you do it?”

  “Shook my pap’s hand, told my mother I was grown and told Helen I didn’t love her.”

  She made a sound he could not interpret, and then she said, “I admire you.”

  “What for?”

  “Your courage. It is difficult to disappoint your family, don’t you think?”

  “Gets easier with distance.”

  She stared off into the darkness. “Perhaps so.”

  Chapter Four

  She disturbed his rest. So, instead of waking him, the crow cawing on a rock above his head merely marked the time to rise. Jake readied the horses as dawn broke.

  Emma crawled stiffly from her blanket and he cursed beneath his breath to see her hair had slipped from the single braid and now curled about her face. She looked soft, warm and inviting. He returned to packing. He noted she rose wearing her wool coat. Had the cool temperatures of the night chilled her? She wobbled toward the stream, obviously saddle sore, but she said nothing as he tightened her horse’s girth. The big chestnut swung his head about and tried to take a hunk out of him. Jake sidestepped just in time and decided Emma could take care of her own damn horse.

  Loaded at last, they headed up the ridge.

  Morning stretched silent except for the wind and birdcalls. The harsh repeating cry of a jay brought Helen to mind. She had complained about everything up to and including the wind rearranging a wisp of hair from her bun. He eyed Emma, suspicious of her silence. He’d never met a woman like her.

  Don’t kid yourself. She’s a woman, same as all women. Maybe just a sight tougher. Sooner or later she’ll come round to the same thing—weddings and babies.

  He felt the trap, hidden just before him, waiting for one misstep. Well, he’d be damned first. Jake pressed his heels into Duchess’s sides increasing the distance between them.

  Late in the day they headed up Union Pass. High peaks lay hidden beneath low clouds. He studied the hovering gray mass and wondered if it had snowed farther up.

  At dusk, Jake battled the urge to continue. Cloud cover masked the gathering darkness, but it was near. He knew better than to face that pass late in the day. He stared skyward and cursed, for in his bones he felt the snow falling above them.

  He called a halt.

  The next morning he rose before dawn and cooked a stew in his only pot. There’d be no more fire until they cleared the pass. With luck, they would cross the worst in one long day. Because of the danger and unpredictability of the weather, the journey could take much longer. After cutting grass for the horses, he turned to wake Emma.

  She gave a pathetic little moan as he roused her and she fought his urging to wake. Then looking about as if bewildered, she sat up without a word of protest.

  “Come eat,” he whispered and moved off.

  She approached the fire and he offered her a tin plate laden with wildcat stew mixed with her navy beans. If she thought the meal odd for the time of day she did not say.

  “We’ll cross the divide today?” she asked.

  He nodded, concentrating on getting the hot food into his belly as fast as possible. He glanced to the sky, noting the disappearance of clouds as the stars faded with the forthcoming dawn. When he returned his attention to the woman across the fire, he saw her plate sat upon her knees as she stared into the darkness. He wondered what she might be thinking.

  “Not too late to turn back,” he said. “If you’ve a mind to, I guess now would be a good time. The pass might only stay open another few weeks.”

  “Sealing me in on the western slopes?”

  “Might say so.”

  She paused only long enough to draw a deep breath. “I’ve cast my lot with you, Mr. Turner. I shall move forward.”

  “Then I suppose you best call me Jake.”

  “And you may call me Emma.”

  She smiled and his heart rate accelerated. The woman acted on him like coffee. He scowled and remembered why he’d given up coffee. It made him nervous.

  “Finish up. We got a long trail ahead.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She ate as he cleared his throat, unaccustomed to using his voice so early in the day. “We’ll be leaving the tree line and heading into scrub brush and patchy grass. Higher still the grass disappears and we’re left on gravel. Slippery as ice in places. We’ll cut between two peaks picking down one of the biggest rock fields I ever saw. Must have been some racket when that broke loose. The western slope is just the same in reverse, rock, grass, brush and finally pine. We want to make it to cover before full dark. It gets bitter cold on the rock face. The wind bites to the bone.”

  He hadn’t spoken so much since he left the Rendezvous. He offered Emma more stew and she declined, so he ate the rest from the pot. He glanced up, expecting her to plague him over his table manners, but was greeted only with her cautious stare.

  They headed off before the sun broke behind them. By full light they reached the scrub brush and patchy grass. The horses startled partridges from cover and he pulled his shotgun clear and fired, bringing down three birds. He gathered them up and paused to look back. To the north and south, the Rockies cut an immense jagged course across the land, stretching as far as a man could see. They were mighty and made a body feel like an ant on a rock pile. But, oh,
he loved the sight of them.

  “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” Her words echoed his thoughts.

  He didn’t hide the smile. After all, she was behind him. Few men had seen such a sight and damn few women. Fact was Emma might be the first white woman to cross this way.

  He mounted up and the horses scrambled over loose gravel. This time he chose a different trail than on his last journey, pausing to find a passage accessible to wagons. The route took them east of the rock field over level ground. The passage required several switchbacks, but he thought a good team of oxen might make it, though it would take many days. The sun climbed the eastern sky as they scaled the slope. Ahead, he saw what he’d feared.

  Snow blanketed their path. He judged the covering to be at least a foot thick. How deep it sat higher up was any man’s guess. He drew the horses to a halt.

  “Damnation,” he muttered.

  “Oh, look. Snow!” Delight rang in Emma’s voice.

  He turned in his saddle to glare at her.

  “No reason to sound so happy about it. We’ll have to wade through that, you know.”

  He dismounted and threw grass before each mount. He handed Emma a hank of jerked moose, gingerly this time so as not to accidentally touch her fingers. Finally, he drew out his chronometer taking careful note of the time as the sun reached its zenith and recording the data in his journal. Later on he would make the calculations. He noted the compass reading, then sighted three peaks for his map. He scratched a few notes with his pencil before tucking his work safely away. When he glanced up he found Emma studying him in silence, a look of speculation upon her face.

  By midafternoon, the horses waded through knee-deep snow. They pushed slowly along as he considered how much time it might take to cross this plain of white. Before him on the ridge, a marmot scrambled over the dirty patches and disappeared into a hole.

  He drew his hat low on his forehead to reduce the glare and peered out only when necessary, keeping his eyes on the trail directly ahead. Hours passed and still they had not finished the ascent. The snow grew icy and hard enough to bear the horses’ weight. Unfortunately, now they slid on the frozen slopes. If the mule went down, it might damage his equipment. He hoped he’d chosen correctly, counting on the surefootedness of the mule to keep his precious instruments safe. He cursed as his horse stumbled again and lowered his hat against the dazzling brightness of sun on ice.