Sweet Savage Love Page 9

  He couldn’t just stay here staring—he couldn’t let the woman suspect what he was thinking.

  “We’ll be making camp for the night pretty soon,” he said harshly, wheeling his horse around. “Better wake the ladies up.”

  Giving his horse its head, Carl rode quickly away to the west, where the herd that was his responsibility showed as a dark, dusty blur in the distance. Damn it all, he should have stayed back there, finding a good place to get the cattle bedded down for the night. But all he could think of right now was Ginny Brandon, and how much he’d like to get her bedded down.

  Go slow, he warned himself. She’s not like most of the other women you’ve met. And Brandon wouldn’t like it—Brandon had already hinted he had big plans for his daughter. But this was a country where a man stood a chance to become anything he wanted to be, and his family was just as good as Brandon’s—it’s a long, long trip we have ahead of us, Carl thought. A lot can happen!

  10

  The days and nights and the weary, bone-shaking hours on the arid, dusty trail fell into a relentless, unremitting pattern. Because of the cattle, they travelled slowly, hunting every river and waterhole, although these were few and far between and they had all been instructed to conserve their water.

  Even the routine became familiar. Ginny had become used to waking very early in the morning when the sky showed only faint traces of pink; dressing hurriedly inside the wagon and going outside to join everyone else at breakfast—always preceded by a scalding hot cup of strong, black coffee. She had even forced herself to become used to the coffee that the cook produced. She sometimes wondered if old Lewt, the cook, ever slept. His fire seemed to go all night, just in case some tired cowboy wanted to snatch a cup of coffee to keep him awake.

  “Ca-aa-tch up!” Pop Wilkins’ raucous bellow would come after a while, and the teams would be hitched, the mules always cantankerous and balky at first. By the time Pop called his first “stree-tch out!” the whips would be popping, and slowly, protestingly, the wagons would begin to roll. This was the time Ginny loved best—the early morning, before it became too hot. Then the air had a fresh, pristine quality to it that seemed to soften even the jagged outline of distant hills they never seemed to reach.

  They made camp just before sunset, circling the heavy wagons into an untidy kind of horseshoe shape, and always the chuckwagon would be ahead of them, the cook fires burning brightly. By the time the sun had set and the night seemed to rush in around them, the enclosed space with its glowing fires would seem warm and safe. It was hard to imagine that somewhere out there were Indians—that even worse dangers might lie ahead.

  Now that the herd seemed to have settled down, Carl Hoskins often rode over, usually with a spare horse or two from the remuda, and both Ginny and Sonya enjoyed the long rides with him, ahead of the wagons and their dust. Most often, it was Ginny who rode with Carl, and his manner, though always respectful, grew more relaxed and informal.

  Ginny enjoyed these rides, especially since she had altered one of her riding habits to permit her to ride astride, instead of side-saddle. Her divided skirt, purchased in San Antonio, was of soft buckskin, with a tightly fitting basque that emphasized her slim figure, and unmistakably, Carl Hoskins at least, was very much aware that she was a woman.

  Even Sonya remarked how handsome Carl looked now, with his fair hair bleached by the sun and his skin already tanned to a golden brown that contrasted with his gray eyes. He looked broader, harder, and in consequence, more attractive to Ginny. It was fun to have a man to ride with and flirt with, although from the look she sometimes glimpsed in Carl’s eyes Ginny knew that one of these days he’d try to kiss her. And what then? Should she let him? How would it feel? She had already learned that all men did not kiss a woman the same way—Steve Morgan had taught her that, and she hated him more each time she remembered the way he had treated her.

  He’s hardly a gentleman, she reminded herself, and he’s obviously unused to associating with ladies! And yet, she could not help remembering that when he’d joined them for dinner at her father’s invitation, his dark suit, worn with a deep blue silk waistcoat had been as impeccably tailored as her father’s, and his company manners had shown that he should certainly have known better than to act the way he had the previous night.

  I shouldn’t think about him at all, Ginny thought crossly. He’s the type of man I completely despise, and I’m glad he’s stayed out of my way since the journey began.

  Even Pop Wilkins, who always became garrulous over the campfire after their evening meal, admitted frankly that he didn’t know what to make of Steve Morgan.

  “He’s a loner, I guess,” Pop said. “Most fast guns are. Seems like they’re a breed apart—allus keepin’ to themselves. Morgan now, he knows what he’s doing far as scoutin’ goes, but he sure don’t talk much, except to that compadre of hisn.”

  “What would a man like that have to talk about?” Ginny said scornfully, and Hoskins, who sat beside her, grinned.

  “Nothing that would interest an educated young lady, I’m sure,” he murmured in a low voice meant for her ears alone, and she flashed a smile at him.

  They were camped for the night on the evening of their sixth day on the trail, and because the scouts had discovered a small creek, its banks shaded by willows and pecan trees, they had decided to make camp earlier than usual. The cattle had been watered already and were bedded down in a natural hollow in the plain some two miles to the west—the enormous casks in the water wagon had been laboriously filled to the brim.

  “Probably our last good water for quite a ways,” Pop had commented sourly, adding, “never been much of a water drinkin’ man myself, but there been times, trailin’ across the desert when that’s all I’d dream about.”

  “Why couldn’t we have camped closer to the stream?” Ginny asked him. She gave Sonya an almost pleading look. “I’m longing for a bath—a real bath!”

  “Too much cover over there for hostiles,” Pop explained. He rose to his feet and stretched. “Orders are, everyone stays in camp. Injuns now, they know every waterhole and crik in this part of the country, and they’re liable to act like they own it. Morgan’s out scoutin’ sign right now.”

  “I don’t believe there are any Indians around here,” Ginny said petulantly. “We’ve been travelling through such flat country, wouldn’t you think we’d have seen signs of them? Besides, I don’t think even an Indian would want to live around here, it’s almost a desert!”

  “Injuns are funny,” Carl said pacifically. “Never have figured them out, or the way they think.”

  “Well, at least Mr. Davis seems to feel safe enough! And he does have a nice voice, doesn’t he?”

  From somewhere at the other end of the camp, where the cowboys usually ate around their own cookfire, Paco Davis sang softly, accompanied by his guitar—songs in Spanish that Ginny could not understand.

  Carl Hoskins gave the women a look that mirrored a kind of distaste.

  “Don’t know about his singing—but he’s a good scout, I guess,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s just—” he hesitated and plunged on, “well, he’s a ’breed. I hate ’breeds. Never met up with one I could trust, yet.”

  “Breed? You mean—because he’s half Spanish?” Sonya knitted her brow, gazing inquiringly at Carl.

  “Spanish? No ma’am, I mean he’s half Mex—Mexican. They like to call themselves Spanish, I guess, but most of them are mixed with Indian.”

  “Mr. Morgan looks like one himself, except for his eyes…” Ginny said sourly.

  He’d ridden briefly into camp earlier, she remembered, only taking the time to swallow down a cup of coffee and eat a bowlful of beans, standing up. Strange how his manners seemed to have deserted him completely, for his only acknowledgment of their presence had been to touch his hat politely. She’d thought then, viciously, that he belonged out there in the country beyond the safe circle of their wagons, with the wolves and coyotes. Even the clothes he wore blended in
with the brown, arid plains. Fringed leather pants that eliminated the need for chaps, and a buckskin shirt, open at the neck, with the usual kerchief knotted around his throat. And he’d taken to wearing two guns. She’d thought then that he looked like an Indian himself, especially with his face burned brown by the sun.

  Carl Hoskins leaned forward now, slightly lowering his voice.

  “Strange you should say that,” he said to Ginny. “I’ve heard rumors myself that he’s a breed. But of course no one dares say so to his face—he’s shot men for less. A man as fast as he is with a gun is nothing more than a cold-blooded killer. Easy enough to provoke a man into a gunfight, and then cut him down.” Heatedly, Carl added, “They ought to change the laws out here—do something about the way some professional killers can shoot down innocent men and get away clean, just because it was supposed to be a fair fight!”

  “Well—I just resent the way he thinks he can give us all orders!” Ginny said crossly. She was tired, hot and sticky, and above all things she longed for a bath. She felt as if the trail dust had worked its way into her scalp and under her skin—no amount of rubbing ineffectually at her body with a damp washrag really helped. With a stream so close, why shouldn’t she have a bath? She didn’t believe there were Indians anywhere around—Morgan was merely trying to scare them all, to make them think he was earning his pay.

  Abruptly, startling them all, Ginny got to her feet. The willow grove that hid the creek from view wasn’t too far away, and there was still about an hour left until sunset. If she hurried—

  “I think I’ll go back to the wagon and find Tillie,” Ginny said casually. But, almost as if she’d read her mind, Sonya followed her.

  “Ginny—surely you don’t mean to disobey orders? It could be quite dangerous, only think before you do anything precipitate, please!”

  They paused by the wagon and Ginny swung around to face her stepmother, her determination showing in the stubborn tilt of her chin. Oh dear, Sonya thought despairingly, how very much like William she looks when she does that! She could not blame Ginny for wanting to bathe, but it was surely her duty to try to dissuade her. Personally, no matter how much she might have enjoyed being cool and clean again, Sonya had heard too many frightening stories about Indians to dare take any risks. And she couldn’t let Ginny risk herself either.

  “Ginny, I do beg you to change your mind,” Sonya ventured again, her big blue eyes worried. “There may very well be Indians watching us at this very moment! I’m sure that if it was safe Mr. Morgan would have—”

  Because she was tired and irritable, Ginny interrupted impatiently.

  “Mr. Morgan! I’m tired of hearing what he has to say! He’s always warning us about something—or criticizing. And I don’t believe in his Indians either.” About to climb into the wagon, she added scathingly, “I hardly think Mr. Morgan will dare to shoot me for disobeying his silly orders in any case!”

  “Ginny, no! It’s far too dangerous. I cannot let you—”

  Seeing the hurt and anxiety in Sonya’s eyes, Ginny bit back the retort she had been about to make. Instead, she bent down to touch Sonya’s arm, and said firmly, “Sonya, I’m sorry! But I will have a bath. You heard what Mr. Wilkins had to say, it might be weeks before I get another chance. I’ll take Tillie with me, she can wash our clothes, and I promise you I’ll wear my thickest petticoat, and—and I’ll take a rifle. But I’m going to feel clean tonight, for a change.”

  In spite of the fact that Sonya followed her inside the wagon and renewed her pleadings, Ginny remained adamant.

  And Sonya herself admitted that she was far too nervous to go along with them.

  They had already been down to the small, clear stream earlier, to fill their water keg and canteens, and at last, with Tillie following her, Ginny made determinedly for the particular spot she had noticed before. It had been difficult, making Sonya realize that she insisted on having her way, and even Carl Hoskins had been doubtful. But when she had pointed out that Tillie would carry the rifle and was a better shot than she was, he agreed reluctantly to see that none of the men would disturb them.

  “And I promise I’ll be right back,” Ginny had murmured coaxingly, putting her hand on his arm and smiling at him prettily. “Ten minutes—that’s all I need. Oh, please, Carl, don’t you start fussing at me too!”

  Her use of his first name, and the pleading, yet slightly provocative look in her eyes confused him, and made him shrug helplessly.

  “Don’t forget—you see or hear anything, fire a shot and we’ll come running,” he told her finally, and when she turned back once, to look, he was still watching her.

  In spite of her brave words moments earlier, Ginny found herself acting with excessive caution as she approached the small stand of trees that lined the creek on this side. But nothing stirred except a few birds who rose screeching and flapping annoyedly from the shrubbery at her approach.

  “That shows it’s all right, Miss Ginny,” Tillie said with a relieved sigh. “Them birds wouldn’t’ve been sitting there so peaceful like if there’d been anyone else around here but ourselves.”

  Ginny wondered fleetingly where Tillie could have learned something like that, but it made sense, and the sight of what she had already labelled as her spot made her forget everything else but the prospect of a bath at last.

  Here, well-hidden by the trees, the creek curved gently inward to form a miniature bay. Grayish-white stones, rounded by the tumbling action of the waters, gleamed through the shallows, and would make an ideal spot for washing clothes. A little beyond, where the branches of a gnarled old willow tree slanted over the water, she would bathe, Ginny decided.

  She studied the opposite bank carefully, noticing how it sloped gently upward. Trees outlined the top of the rise, but enormous boulders, scattered all over the bank, would render it inaccessible, she thought. There was no sign of life, except when the tree branches moved in the gentle breeze. She heard bird-calls, and that was all—that, and the soft, rushing sound of the water.

  Pushing her sleeves back over her elbows, Tillie knelt on the bank, scrubbing efficiently at the clothes, and Ginny laid the clean dress she had brought along over a tree stump before she stripped down to her oldest petticoat, tossing the gown she had been wearing to Tillie.

  Ginny waded into the stream cautiously, shivering when the icy-cold water first came in contact with her hot, sunburned skin. She ducked her head underneath and came up with her hair streaming wet, making her head feel heavier with its weight. It feels so delicious, this is heaven, she thought dreamily, running her fingers through her hair, rubbing her scalp to get all the accumulated dirt and dust loose. She had brought a cake of scented soap with her, and now she used it freely, rubbing perfumed lather through her hair, scrubbing at her skin until it tingled. Only Tillie’s worried “please miss, we promised to hurry back,” recalled her to reality. Again she immersed herself under the water, holding her breath for as long as she dared, and came up sputtering and laughing.

  “Tillie, this is—oh, it’s sheer heaven! You ought to join me!”

  Tillie shook her head primly, and handed Ginny a large, fluffy towel as she emerged reluctantly from the stream, her petticoats clinging to her body.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” Ginny teased Tillie, who was still rinsing out their wet clothes.

  She sat on a flat, warm rock and began drying her hair, rubbing at it vigorously with her head almost enveloped in the folds of the towel. A sudden, frightened gasp from Tillie made her look up, startled.

  “What is it? Tillie, what—”

  “A—a man, miss! I swear, I saw him one minute ago, right up against the sky there, among those trees, and the next, he was gone! Lord, miss, do you suppose it was a ha’nt?”

  “If you saw someone, it certainly wasn’t a ghost!” Ginny said bracingly, although her heart had begun to thump alarmingly. “Where did you put that gun, Tillie?”

  She scrambled to her feet hurriedly, more t
han a little frightened by now, and felt her foot slip on the wet rock, tumbling her backwards into the water. It was a wonder, she thought afterwards, that she hadn’t hit her head on one of the small boulders at the bottom of the natural pool, and been drowned!

  Ginny came to the surface spluttering and gasping for breath, with her hair in her eyes, and felt her hand grasped and held as she was pulled roughly and unceremoniously to her feet.

  Steve Morgan’s voice, usually so indifferent and cold, said furiously.

  “What in hell are you doing out here alone?”

  Blinking water out of her eyes, Ginny found herself speechless as she gazed up into his dark, angry face.

  He was astride his horse, having ridden it, apparently, right into the stream, and her first foolish thought was how did he get here? Where did he appear from? Before she had time to speak he leaned down further, and holding her wet, struggling body by the waist he hauled her (like a sack of potatoes, she said furiously to Sonya later) onto the bank.

  Tillie sat back on her heels, round-eyed and silent, but at a word from Morgan she began to gather up the wet clothes hastily.

  He came off his horse like a panther and caught Ginny’s shoulders, shaking her until she thought her breath would never return.

  “You little idiot! Didn’t I give orders you were to stay in camp? Don’t you realize what kind of danger you’ve been putting yourself in?”

  She cried out then, with anger and pain and frustration, and he released her as abruptly as he’d put his hands on her, staring at her suddenly as if he’d never seen her before. Only then did she realize the sight she must present—half-naked, or worse, considering the way her petticoat clung to her body, revealing everything.