"Maybe she's better off being out for a while anyway," Jamie said
softly.
"Yeah, maybe." Jon hesitated.
"What are we going to do with her?"
"Take her back to the fort. Then someone can escort her on home."
Jon nodded. He smiled suddenly.
"Someone, fight?"
"Yeah, that's fight. Someone."
"She's your responsibility," Jon said.
"Your burden-- she fell into your arms."
"What? She's a burden I've just set down, Jon." Jon shook his head.
"I don't think so. I don't think so at all. I think that you've taken
something upon yourself, Jamie, and I don't think that you can ever
really let it go."
Jamie arched a brow.
"Yeah? Well, I don't believe you, Jon, and I don't believe her. This yon
Heusen may be a carpetbagging monster, but I don't believe he can be
guilty of this."
"You're just going to have to find out, aren't you?"
"That's not my job, Jon."
"That's not going to matter, is it?
"Cause you see, if the girl is right, then she's in danger. You're going
to have out the truth--or you'll be signing her death warrant."
"That's ridiculous, Jon."
"No, it's not. You really can't let her go."
"The hell I can't."
"Oh?" Jon arched a raven-dark brow.
"Is that so?" He inclined his head toward Jamie.
"Your fingers are still all tied up in her hair, Lieutenant. All tied
up.
Silken webs maybe, but seems to me that you're all tied up."
Jamie gazed at his hand. His fingers were still hovering over her hair.
It was truly the color of honey just kissed by the sun. Much deeper than
blond.
Too touched by light to be brunette.
Golden red.
He pulled his hand away and turned toward Jori with a denial. But Jon,
smiling serenely, had already turned away.
"Doe Peters should be free by now," he said quietly, then he was gone.
Jamie stared at the girl. Silken webs. He clenched down hard on his jaw
because Jori was right about one thing. Someone would have to discover
the truth about her accusations. He didn't believe them. He couldn't
believe them.
And yet. If they were true, to leave her alone in the town of Wiltshire
might very well be to sign her death warrant.
He swore softly and leaped from the wagon. His leg still hurt from where
she had kicked him, and his chin still ached. He could feel it bleeding.
Damn her. She was as quick as a sidewinder, as ornery as a mean bear. He
could still remember her fury. He paused, for he could remember more.
The alluring fullness of her breast beneath his fingers, the softness of
her hair, the warmth of her legs entangled with his. He clenched his
fists at his sides and unclenched them, knowing Jon was right, that he
was going to have to somehow stick beside her until he could find the
truth. She was a hostile little witch. And he already wanted her. Craved
her. Ached to touch her, feel more of her.
He swore softly, determined to behave like an officer and a Southern
gentleman and solve this dilemma with no more thought for his unwilling
companion.
Then he heard her. weeping, crying very, very softly as if she were
muffling the sound in her pillow. She had come back to consciousness,
and it seemed to be a bitter awakening. She cried and cried. He felt her
agony, felt it rip and tear into him, and it was terrible. The horror
of, it reached inside him and touched his heart as it had not been
touched in years.
He had thought his emotions were stripped away by war.
The girl's wrenching sobs brought them back. He started to turn, to go
to her. He stopped himself.
No. She would not want him.
He stiffened his shoulders and walked on.
Chapter Two.
By dusk, all the graves had been dug. By the light of lanterns and camp
fires, Reverend Thorne Dryer of Company B read services over the graves.
Tess Stuart stood near the reverend'. Her eyes were dry now, and she was
silent. Something about her very quietness touched Jamie deeply; she was
small, but so very straight, her shoulders square, her lustrous hair
hidden beneath a black hat and sweeping V 'll, her fornl encompassed in
a handsome black dress with gray pearl buttons on the sleeves and at the
throat. Dust to dust, earth to earth, ashes to ashes. The reverend
called on God to claim His own, to show mercy upon their souls, to give
solace to those who remained behind.
Tess stepped forward to drop a single flower on her cle's grave. She was
still silent, and not a tear marred the perfect and tragic beauty of her
face.
Then she swung around and headed for her wagon. Jamie didn't mean to
follow her, he just discovered that he was doing so. She sensed him just
before she reached the wagon and swung around.
"Yes, Captain?"
"Lieutenant, miss. Lieutenant Slater." "Whatever," she said coolly.
"What do you want?"
Hostile! he thought. More hostile than any full tribe of Indians he had
come across. She made him itch to set a hard hand against her behind,
but she had experienced great pain today. He was a fool to have followed
her.
He should let her be. He didn't want her as a burden, and she didn't
want him as her protector. If she needed a protector. "Miss. Stuart, I
just came by to offer my condolences. To see if you were all right, if
you might need anything for the night."
"I'm just fine, Lieutenant." She hesitated.
"Thank you." She whirled around in her black skirt, then crawled into
the wagon. Jamie clenched his hands tight at his sides and returned to
the group. The funeral was just about over. Jon and Monahen and a few of
the others were stamping down the last of the dirt and erecting wooden
crosses over the graves.
The crosses wouldn't stay long. The wind would take them, the dust would
wear them away, and in time animals then men would tramp upon them. The
West was like that. A man lived and died, and little but bones could be
left behind.
Bones and dreams.
"I ordered the men to set up camp, Lieutenant, just like you said,"
Monahan told him.
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"Is that all, Lieutenant?"
"No. Split them even, Monahan. Half can sleep while the second half stay
on guard. Just in cas~."
"In case the Injuns come back," Monahah said. "In case of anything.
This is the cavalry, Sergeant!"
"Yes, sir!"
Monahan saluted sharply. He shouted orders, his voice loud in the night.
The men at the graves hurried after Monahan as he started toward the
fires where the others were already setting up camp. As Jamie watched,
he saw his men melt into the rocks and crevices around them. They were a
crack troop.
They had campaigned through the most rugged Indian territory in the West
and they had all learned 27 their lessons well. They could walk as
silently as any brave, shoot with the same deadly accuracy and engage in
lethal knife play with ease.
It hadn't been easy for Jamie, not at first. Some of the men had
resented the Rebel who had won his promotions so easily. Some hadn't
thought a Reb ought to be given a gun, and many had had their doubts
about Jamie in Indian country. He had been forced to prove his way at
every step, in battle or in negotiations. They'd met up with a tribe of
warring Apache once near the border, and he had shown them something of
his mettle with his Colts as the battle had begun. Later he found out
there had been some whispering about all the Slater brothers, and how
deadly he and Cole and Malachi had been during the war. Overnight, it
seemed, his reputation had become legendary.