Montana Wildfire Page 7

  Stuart Price. The name twisted through Jake's mind, bringing the familiar ugly face, the familiar surge of hatred.

  Price had made it clear that it was high time the little red-skinned boy learned his place. Jake's place, he'd found out shortly, was face-down in the rich Montana soil—if not buried six feet beneath it. Price said he'd decided that Jake's weekly visits to their white neighbor's daughter were not proper, and would no longer be tolerated... just before the brawny fourteen year old had planted his beefy fist in Jake's face and broken his nose.

  Jake had learned a lot of things that night. The first was just how nasty the word "breed" could be snarled. The second was that a white boy was never, ever to be trusted. The third, and most important, was that if he was going to survive in this life, he'd better learn to use his fists—because there was a whole world of Stuart Prices out there, and he was damn well going to need to know how to fight.

  Jake shook his head and scowled, his palm absently rubbing the back of his still-damp neck. He hadn't been a good fighter back then. Oh hell, who was he kidding? He hadn't been any kind of fighter. His father was a big bear of a man who, because of his size, had never needed to use his fists. Whether by intent or neglect, Yancy Chandler had never taught Jake how to protect himself. After the night Stuart Price had beaten him to a bloody pulp, Jake had learned to fight back. Damn straight, he had! In fact, as with everything else, he'd taught himself.

  Prejudice. That was the lesson he'd started to learn that moonlit night behind the barn. In the years since, more lessons had followed. Most had the same theme; stay away from white girls. It was a hard lesson for Jake to learn, but learn it he had... years after his encounter with Price was only a bitter-tasting memory. He'd learned how to survive the way he learned everything: the hard way. His body and mind still bore the scars of his last, and final lesson. That was the message that had really hammered the point home. It wasn't an experience Jake cared to repeat. Ever.

  Therefore, it wasn't surprising that bedding a white lady hadn't entered his mind in years. What was surprising—damn surprising—was that it had not only entered his mind tonight, it had planted itself there. Somewhere between setting Amanda Lennox on her feet, and plunging his naked body into the snowfed river, the idea of touching her—really touching her—everywhere—had taken root. Neither his head or body seemed willing to shake the notion loose.

  Damn that woman, Jake swore inwardly, as he plowed his long wet hair back from his face. Damn her for making me remember. Damn her for making me want her!

  Muttering a savage curse beneath his breath, he swaggered out of the river. With brisk strokes, he toweled the water off his body with his shirt, then yanked on his pants. His fingers were cold, numb, and water-wrinkled as he worked the wedge of buttons closed.

  It was as he bent at the waist, his hand poised on his belt, that he heard the noise. It wasn't much, really; just a faint rustle of leaves and the soft snap of a twig. Had his nerves not already been on edge, he wouldn't have noticed the sound.

  But his nerves were on edge. And he did notice.

  Lightning quick, he straightened. By the time his gaze snapped over his shoulder—a scant heartbeat later—the leather sheath had been relieved of its knife. The wooden hilt warmed to his palm as his gaze narrowed, scanning the trees. He held the blade close to his waist, his knees bent slightly to put him in optimum striking position. He studied each thick tree trunk, waiting for a shadow to disengage itself.

  When none did, he scowled. Was he hearing things? Jumping at shadows? Was that what entertaining dirty thoughts about Amanda Lennox's tempting white body did to him? He'd rather not think so, but it was possible. God knows, the memory of her sweet curves would distract a saint. And nothing was moving out there. Nothing at all.

  The hair at his nape prickled, telling him what his sight did not. Someone was out there. And whoever was out there was watching him. Closely.

  Again, his gaze scanned the area. This time he noticed something he hadn't seen before. Or that hadn't been there before. It was just a speck of color, a splash of blue and yellow down by the base of one of the trees. He squinted, barely able to make it out in the muted moonlight filtering down through the leaves. But he saw enough. He knew who the intruder was.

  Jake's grip on the knife loosened, and his hand dropped to his side. "You can come out now, princess," he growled impatiently. "The show's over."

  Leaves rustled. More twigs snapped. The splash of blue and yellow grew, melting into the shape of a skirt. More of her came into view when she pushed herself away from the tree she'd been hiding behind.

  Jake thought her stance looked unnaturally stiff as she limped into the clearing, cradling a small tin pan to her chest like it was a protective shield. The color in her cheeks was high, the flush enhanced by the moonlight. Against his will, he found himself admiring the way she kept her chin tilted proudly, her shoulders squared, her back priggishly straight—as if her spine were molded out of uncompromising iron.

  Amanda pursed her lips, and met Jake's amused gaze with a boldness that astonished them both. But not half as much as her words did.

  "Pity, Mr. Chandler," she said, her voice cool and composed, dripping with dignity. "It wasn't a very good show."

  Chapter 4

  While Amanda heard the words, she found it hard to believe she'd actually had the gall to say them. Not a very good show? Was she losing her mind? No price was too steep to pay for the privilege of watching Jacob Blackhawk Chandler step naked and proud out of that moonlit river.

  The man was magnificent. Raw and rugged. Coppery and firm. Wet. The way he'd strolled onto the bank had given a new connotation to the word swagger. He hadn't seemed inhibited by his nakedness. If anything, his carriage suggested a man who owned the night and everything in it. His stance was arrow straight, his shoulders squared at a proud angle that only enhanced the smooth wedge of his chest and his lean, firm hips.

  The moonlight glinted off his hair, making the long, damp strands gleam an appealing shade of silver-black. The way the muted light sparkled off the beads of water clinging to his skin... well, that was indecent. And fascinating beyond reason.

  A proper lady would have gasped, blushed, and beat a hasty retreat. Not necessarily in that order. Amanda thought it a pity all three options were, at the moment, unavailable to her. She couldn't gasp—she had no breath for it—and her feet felt as though they were encased in lead, making it impossible for her to leave. Even if she could have coaxed herself to move, there was no guarantee her knees would support her. Try though she did, she couldn't tear her gaze from his lean, half-naked body.

  Jake Chandler swimming naked had been the last thing Amanda had expected to see when she'd set out to discover why he hadn't returned to camp. In a way that was typically her own, she'd thought to find him lying in the bushes somewhere, his beautiful carcass mauled by wild animals.

  His beautiful carcass, she was both pleased and alarmed to see, was perfectly fit. Every inch of him looked robust and healthy. Her concern about what had happened to him had died a quick, painless death when she'd reached the trees bordering the river... heard the splashes... saw him swimming... and noticed he wasn't wearing a stitch beneath all that icy water.

  That was when her knees had turned to mush. They still trembled beneath her skirt. Would the sight of him ever fade from her mind? Amanda rather doubted it. More likely, the image was engraved in her memory; she had an uneasy feeling it would stay there until the day she died.

  Clearing her throat, Amanda forced her wayward thoughts to take an abrupt turn. Reminding herself that the man was still half-naked wasn't difficult at all, since her mind had never really strayed from that fact!

  He was also, she realized abruptly, standing much closer to her. When had he moved? Why hadn't she noticed? Amanda didn't know, and there was no time to figure it out. Right now she was having a devil of a time trying to shift her gaze from the beads of water he hadn't mopped away. The drops glistened
like silver crystals against the firm copper of his shoulder. Her fingers curled around the pan. It took effort to resist the urge to reach out and rub those droplets into her tingling fingertips.

  "I don't suggest you keep staring at me like that, princess. A man is apt to take that look in your eyes as a challenge to put on a better show. One a properly bred... lady isn't likely to forget." Jake grinned as, with the crook of his index finger, he snapped her gaping mouth shut. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think that's what you want." One inky brow slanted high. His hand turned inward, and she shivered when his palm scorched her oddly sensitive chin. "Or is it?"

  "What I want, Mr. Chandler, is for you to stop touching me."

  "Why? Does it bother you?"

  Amanda craned her neck, trying to break the contact. She might as well not have bothered. Jake's hand tracked her. His fingertips felt hot and moist, branding her skin as he cupped the base of her neck. His thumb feathered the spot where her pulse hammered.

  Clearing her throat, Amanda forced her voice to sound firm and steady; everything her insides were not. "Let's just say it... annoys me."

  Jake angled his head, and a lock of hair skated over his bare shoulder. The sleek black strands absorbed the beads of water clinging to his skin. When he didn't say anything, her gaze lifted. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight. His grin broadened, as though he was satisfied he finally had her full attention. With him standing there half-naked, there was never really a doubt of that!

  "Annoys," he drawled, his tone deceptively lazy, "as in the way an itch that needs scratching would annoy you? Or annoys... as in rankles the hell out of you but you don't know why?"

  His voice was low and husky, a velvet caress tickling her ears. His breath smoldered over her upturned cheeks. Amanda shivered and decided the man was too sexually magnetic for both their good. It took concentration to push the observation aside. Overlooking her disturbing reaction to him was not so easy, but she managed. She couldn't let her mind or body be swayed by his blatant appeal. It wouldn't safe. No, no, not safe at all!

  "Which is it, Miss Lennox? What is it about me that... annoys you?"

  Amanda feigned an exasperated sigh, and mentally counted to ten. It didn't help. Her annoyance remained hot inside her; it was only a degree cooler than her unexpected fascination with Jake Chandler. It was a fascination that, in her mind, had roots based in insanity. Obviously, she was losing her mind. That was the only way to explain why the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand caused her heart to skip and her blood to simmer. She was going crazy, and that was that.

  "Maybe I should answer the question for you since you seem to be having trouble finding your tongue."

  The words broke the spell he'd woven around her. Amanda snapped back to her senses. Hugging the pan tightly, she glared at him. Not for the first time was she relieved that their height was comparable, that she wasn't forced to look up at him. "Is this conversation leading somewhere, Mr. Chandler?"

  "Could be." His shrug was casual. The way his thumb traced her pulse, still throbbing against his fingertip, was not. The feel of his calloused skin abrading her sensitive flesh sent tiny quivers bolting down Amanda's spine. "Why did you come down here, princess?"

  Ah, she'd wondered when he would get around to asking about that. Did the egotistical cad think she'd come to get a glimpse of his naked body? Ha! Nothing could be further from the truth. Seeing him wet and naked had been an unexpected bonus. Of course, she wasn't about to tell him that!

  This time when she pulled back, Jake let her go. His hand dropped reluctantly to his side.

  Amanda took an awkward step back, and as the cool evening air rushed between them, she felt a nice, calming sliver of sanity return. At least with some distance separating them she could think almost rationally. Now, if she could convince Jake to put a shirt on, she'd be all set! The sight of his chest—with its complex cords of muscle and touchably smooth copper skin—was a distraction she could have lived without.

  "I wanted a bath," she said suddenly. The half-truth sounded pitifully lame.

  The way his brows arched said Jake agreed. His gaze dipped to the pan, and a ghost of a grin tugged at his lips. "In that? Think you'll fit?"

  "Fit?"

  "Yeah, 'fit'. I mean, let's face it." His gaze lifted, lingering on the swell of her breasts. His steely eyes smoldered. "You aren't exactly what I'd call scrawny."

  Amanda bristled. "Are you insulting me?"

  "Hell, no. That was a compliment. I don't like my women scrawny."

  "Your women? Your women?" Her eyes widened; the green depths spit fire. "I am not your woman, Mr. Chandler. Nor will I ever be. I have better taste than that. Now, if you'll step aside I can get my water and be out of your way."

  "You're not in my way."

  "Maybe not. But you are in mine!"

  "So go around me," he said, and didn't move.

  Amanda gritted her teeth. Her temples throbbed a protest. It took effort not to reach up and massage the ache away. The only thing stopping her was knowing that Jake Would take it as a sign of weakness. A normal man wouldn't have; a headache was, after all, a negligible complaint. But this man wasn't anyone's idea of "normal." No doubt the arrogant beast would take pride in thinking he'd riled her enough to make her head pound. Amanda refused to give him that kind of satisfaction.

  Go around, he'd told her. Fine. This once, if it meant getting her precious water and getting away from the confusion this man stirred in her, Amanda would do as he requested and do it quickly. Putting weight on her injured ankle wasn't pleasant. She countered the pain by telling herself she would soon be back at camp, warmed by a crackling fire, sponging the dirt and sweat from her body. And soon after that, she would be asleep—and for a little while at least, blessedly unaware of Jake Chandler.

  Stepping haughtily around him, Amanda limped over to the icy, churning river. She knelt on the sandy bank and dipped the pan into the water. It was a small pan; the amount of water she scooped up was miserly. It was as she was noticing this fact that Jake's previous words burned past her cloud of anger.

  Think you'll fit?

  He'd meant, of course, would she fit into the pan. She knew that now, knew also that he'd been making a joke. Amanda frowned. Jake didn't strike her as the type who made jokes. Hadn't he admitted as much? So why had he? Why, indeed. She had a feeling the observation was important, though she wasn't sure why. Filing the information away—there would be time to consider what it meant later, when she was alone—Amanda pushed awkwardly to her feet, and turned.

  Jake was standing behind her. Amanda saw him, in the same instant she collided with the smooth, hard wall of his chest. Water sloshed from the pan when she stumbled backward.

  His fingers coiled around her upper arms, his grip firm yet at the same time oddly gentle. She wondered if saving her from a plunge in the frigid river was his only reason for touching her. Something—the look in his eyes, perhaps?—told her it had been a convenient excuse.

  "Mr. Chandler, please," she snapped, trying to shrug from his grip. Why oh, why couldn't she think straight when this man touched her? Why...? Oh no, her knees were going weak again. And she was beginning to shake—again.

  "Please what?" he asked, and she thought his tone sounded frustratingly calm.

  "Please unhand me."

  He shook his head. Amanda refused to notice the way the small brown feather, buried in a bed of long black hair, grazed his chest. "Not yet. We've got something to settle first, princess. And the sooner we do it, the better."

  She scowled. Now what was he talking about? And did she really want to stay here long enough to find out? No, she did not. Of course, his grip on her arms said he wasn't giving her a choice. "Couldn't it wait until morning? I'm tired and my ankle is throbbing. All I want is to wash off some of this dirt and get a little sleep."

  "I know," he replied dryly. "Problem is, I want this settled now."

  Her gaze narrowed and sharpened. "And you always get
what you want. Isn't that right, Mr. Chandler?"

  "Always. You'd do well to remember that, Miss Lennox." His hands blazed slow, hot paths down her arms. One by one, his fingers curled inward, manacling her wrists.

  At five foot six, Amanda wasn't exactly short. At one hundred and fifteen perfectly proportioned pounds, she was slender but doubted anyone would consider her delicate. Herself included. So why, for the first time in her life, was she feeling tiny and frail? Feminine? Vulnerable? She didn't know, and she didn't like it. It was an unsettling feeling. "I won't have to, since you'll no doubt remind me often enough."

  "No doubt. Have a seat." He gave a tug on her wrists.

  Amanda, planning to refuse, shifted her weight. Her ankle spasmed with pain. A gasp hissed though her teeth at the same time her knees, already watery from his touch, buckled. The ground felt hard when her tender bottom slammed atop it.

  "Is such manhandling necessary?" she snapped, and yanked her skirt hem primly down around her ankles. She couldn't resist chafing away the lingering feel of him on her wrists. Even though he'd let her go, the skin there still burned with the imprint of his fingers.

  "Probably not. But what the hell? It works."

  Since she'd trained her gaze on the river gurgling in front of her, Amanda felt rather than saw Jake crouch on the ground beside her. Closely beside her. The heat of his leg seared her upper arm. Beneath the scant barrier of her sleeve, her flesh sizzled with awareness.

  A tense moment ticked past. Amanda concentrated on the sound the river made as it lapped against the sandy bank. She told herself she wasn't aware of the way Jake Chandler's steady breath cut through the chilly night air. Or the feel of it puffing over her too-sensitive cheek and neck. But she was.