The Proposition

“So I gather you read the book, too?”

She nodded. “Mr. Merriweather loaned it to me and my sister years ago. The story is very dramatic.”

“The Mountie sounds like an incompetent fool.”

“He was a bit on the slow side.”

“Written by an Englishman from the colony of Hong Kong.”

“Um-hmm. I’m sure Mr. Merriweather wouldn’t mind loaning it to you. You might learn from Cherokee Joe’s tracking methods.”

“Thanks but I’ll pass.”

He had a way of making her feel inadequate, as if she always said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing.

She walked closer. “May I claim one of the bedrolls?”

“Any one you like. I’ll keep the fire burning so we’ll be warm all night.”

He rose to his feet. The campfire spit and popped beside them. Even though the air was hot, she shivered when she looked at him.

Flames of fire reflected off his profile—across the darkened jaw, the straight nose, the rigid cheekbones.

A confusing mix of feelings raced through her. They would sleep together tonight.

She recalled that for a brief time as an adolescent, she and Caroline had competed for his affections. Caroline had always won every silly rivalry they’d ever set. But Jessica had dreamed of how his kiss might feel. A real kiss, not like the two he had given her—once when he brushed her cheek at a wedding, and once at a Christmas social. Now as his full lips parted and his gaze glossed over her mouth, she wondered still.

She should have thought before she spoke, but her anger at herself for wondering about his kiss made her want to distance herself. “Why didn’t you think about horse thieves before we left? Surely it’s something you should have considered on a journey with your prize mares.”

His face darkened. “I was keeping my plans quiet. Just a few of my men and the commander knew the exact day I was leaving and where I was heading. Thanks to you and your stunt of going above my head, the whole town discovered it overnight.”

She stepped back at his rebuke. “I didn’t realize.”

Menacing, he stepped forward, bridging the distance she wanted to widen. “If I lose any of my horses, I’m holding you responsible.”

She’d messed up his plans again. As if she were that same spoiled woman he accused her of being.

The corner of his mouth twisted. “You and your father finagled a prize stallion out from underneath me years ago. This time, maybe you’ll have to reimburse me for my trouble, and these ones will cost you a lot more.”

“Travis, I didn’t realize—”

“Ready for bed, all?” Mr. Merriweather hobbled out from the tree, wearing a long cotton night shift similar to hers.

Travis shook his head at the friendly man. “Forget the rattlers, forget the horse thieves. I’ll tell you one thing I am worried about. Your feet. Seems to me you can barely walk.”

“My feet will be fine.”

“How many blisters do you have?”

“Just two. One on the bottom of each foot.”

Travis stalked to his pack and withdrew a roll of cloth. “Tomorrow morning, wrap your feet with this gauze before you shove them back into your boots.”

His eyes narrowed on the two of them standing by the fire. He peered down at her legs, apparently for the first time. His bare, muscled arms tightened. His gaze roved her lower half. “Is that what you’re wearing to bed? Both of you—only nightshirts?”

“What’s wrong with them?” she asked.

“You’re not sleeping in a castle. You’re sleeping in the middle of the wilderness!”

Jessica was too startled by his booming voice to respond. He always seemed to be teetering on the edge of anger, and she always seemed to be pushing him over.

“If we have to jump up in a hurry, Merriweather, because we’re getting mauled by bears, how are you going to protect us naked beneath a nightshirt? And you, Miss Charm School, what about you? If you have to jump onto a horse, are you willing to ride in that thin little thing? For God’s sake,” he said, stomping to the third bedroll and flinging it into the air, “think of how Cherokee Joe would dress!”

“In his clothes!” shouted Mr. Merriweather. “By George, his clothes. That’s why you’re still in your pants and undershirt. That’s what you’re sleeping in, aren’t you?”

“Put some pants on, woman,” Travis grumbled with fury, brushing past her so only she could hear. She withered at his next words. “With your back to the fire, I can see through your whole damn gown.”

From beneath her covers, Jessica watched Travis stir the fire then check the horses. Apparently, he couldn’t sleep, either. She stilled with nervous expectation. She wanted him to return to his bedroll and fall asleep so she could get something from her pack, something she’d forgotten and didn’t want him to see. If he caught her, they’d certainly clash again.

She squirmed on the hard ground, trying to forget about the flat rock lodged beneath her back. Six feet to her left, Mr. Merriweather snored. Draped near her feet, Travis’s bedroll lay empty. He’d tried going to sleep alongside the both of them an hour ago, but had risen only moments earlier.

Her gaze traveled the fifty feet of moonlit space and rested on Travis’s hands. He patted the horses one at a time. His handling stopped short of Independence and Jessica was riveted again by the discomfort in his manner. What was it that he didn’t like about that horse?

Her eyes stung from weariness. The long day had tired her, not so much the physical exertion, but the mental strain of being on her guard with Travis. And discovering Dr. Finch had gone to medical college in Glasgow. She’d thought he was lying about his education. This was the first time she’d heard of Dr. Virginia Bullock having the same professor.

Jessica considered the problem, adamant she was still somehow correct. Could it be Dr. Finch’s discussion with Dr. Virginia Bullock had been framed in front of Travis in such a way that he only appeared to have had the same physiology professor? Why?

Hearing the jingle of spurs approaching the campfire, she closed her eyes quickly and pretended sleep. The heat of the fire warmed her lids and touched her lips.

After waiting two minutes for the sound of rustling blankets, she heard none.

Go to bed, she wanted to scream.

Slowing opening one eye, she found him seated on a log, long legs spanned in front of him, hands propped on solid knees, a stick in his hand as he turned red-hot coals.

She had to admit, he was pleasant on the eyes. Blue-denim pants hugged a flat waistline, molded lower to firm thighs then bunched slightly at the knees before falling above pointed black boots. The muscles of his bronzed arms tensed with his movements, then relaxed, then tensed again. A knot formed in her stomach as she watched him being him.

The strain in his face had lifted. The wrinkles between his eyebrows that appeared whenever he looked at her had faded. His mouth, parted slightly, slackened in the red light. Deep black hair framed his temples, and the rough shadow of a beard reminded her again how much he looked like a dangerous pirate.

He was rude and arrogant and had treated her badly since the minute she’d approached him for help.

But she couldn’t deny how good he was at what he did. He was a master in leading the horses through the foothills, an expert in supplying food and drink and shelter. While she watched the serenity in his face, she was mesmerized by the pleasure he seemed to derive from being the boss and taking charge of everyone and everything.

A horse neighed. Travis turned his head in that direction, as a concerned parent might, then instinctively rose, armed with his Colt revolver. He made his way to investigate. He scoured the ground then seemed satisfied that all was well. Perhaps he’d thought it was a rattler. Because he remained with the horses, she figured it was her chance to jump up to her pack.

Sliding out from her covers, she tugged her boots over her stocking feet. She bunched her nightgown in one hand above the ivory pants she’d decided to sleep in—tomorrow she’d try sleeping in her blouse, too, but for tonight she was already changed—then heaved to her feet. Her pack was still resting beneath the pine tree, ten feet away. She’d be back before he realized she was gone.

Kneeling, she undid the bulging side pouch, rifling through her journal, her pencils, her money, her papers, until her fingers touched soft flannel. With a gentle smile, she pulled it out, held it to her face and inhaled the calming scent of clean fabric. Perhaps it was superstitious of her, but she’d never be able to fall asleep if she left her infant’s nightgown alone in the cold. She would tuck it beneath her pillow.