Kate Wingo - Western Fire 01 (21 page)

“Thank you,” she croaked,
handing the bottle back to him.

Infuriated with Spencer
for forcing her to endure this appalling circle of hell, she sat with her back ramrod straight, each second more agonizing than the one before it. Although she tried valiantly to detach herself from her lurid surroundings, it proved an impossible undertaking.

Raising an arm, Bloody Ned pointed to an inebriated bushwhacker who had a squealing woman hoisted in front of him, her legs le
wdly wrapped around the man’s waist.

“Now, that’s what I call ridin’ a Dutch gal,” Sykes chortled.

“Indeed,” Mercy replied stiffly, shocked by their bawdy, immoral behavior.

A few seconds later, t
o her consternation, Bloody Ned leaned toward her, his mouth grazing her ear. Instinctively, she recoiled from him.

“If you grow tired of old Spence, you feel free to mosey on over to my bedroll. You hear?”

“Thank you very much. That’s a . . . a kind offer.” Mercy forced a terse smile onto her lips while at the same time she tried to edge herself as far away from the brute as possible.

To her relief, Spencer rose to his feet, offering her
a hand. Mercy took it without argument, wanting nothing more than to depart the den of drunken iniquity.

Sykes glanced up at them. “H
ow come y’all leavin’ so soon?”

“It’s about time
that Mercy and I got settled for the night.”

“Hey, give her one for me,” someone snickered.

“Damn lucky bastard,” another man drunkenly opined.

Placing a hand on the small of
Mercy’s back, Spencer guided her through the crowd. They’d just reached the edge of the woods when someone stepped out of the shadows, blocking their path. A female someone as it turned out.

Mercy’s mouth fell open, shocked by the liberal amount of bosom
that the woman’s tight-fitting frock exposed.

In the next instant, her s
hock transmuted into something akin to jealousy when the woman stepped to within an arm’s length of Spencer. The hussy then planted one hand on her hip while with the other she twirled a long, black curl.

“Hey, Spence. Where
have you been keeping yourself lately?”

“I’ve been busy,”
Spencer muttered.

It didn’t escape Mercy’s notice that he
looked and sounded like a man who had something to hide.

“Well, how’s about busying yourself with me tonight? Hmm?”

At hearing that, Mercy gasped, utterly astonished that any God-fearing woman would issue so brazen an invitation. And do so in front of a third party, no less.

“Now, Lou Ann, can’t you
see that I’m already spoken for?”

I
n a state of shock, Mercy was further astonished when the other woman unexpectedly extended an arm in her direction. With a surprisingly gentle hand, she touched Mercy’s jaw – a jaw that was badly bruised from having come into contact with a jayhawker’s fist earlier in the day.

“Did Spence do that to you, honey?”

“Hell, no! I didn’t do that do her!” Spencer roared, clearly objecting to the allegation. “You know I’d never treat a woman like that.”

“Don’t I though?” Lou Ann cast Spencer a
flirtatious glance. “I always said that you were the nicest one of the bunch. A real gentleman. In
and
out of bed.”

“Damn it, Lou Ann. Did you have to go and say that?”

“Well, it’s true.” Puckering her painted lips, Lou Ann blew Spencer a playful kiss before she took her leave and sauntered toward the clearing.

Mercy’s eyes watered
with angry tears as she watched the other woman’s hips provocatively sway from side-to-side.

“Why did you bring me here?” she whispered, her voice quavering unsteadily.

“I told you why. And I also told you that it’s only for a few days.”

“And
while we’re here will you be spending time with that . . . that
harlot
?”

Spencer put a mollifying hand on her shoulder. “
You gotta believe me, Mercy. There’s no reason for you to be jealous.”

“Jealous? Humph!” Mercy rolled her shoulder away from him. “It’s absolutely irrelevant to me who you spend your time with.”

“If you don’t care, then why ask the question?”

“Because . . .”
Assailed with a tumult of conflicting emotions, Mercy was rendered dumbstruck, unable to think of a suitable excuse. “I don’t know why,” she finally mumbled, dejectedly staring at the ground.

“Now, who’s
lying?” Spencer said as he cupped her cheek in his hand. Holding her gaze, he traced the contours of her mouth with his thumb, slowly rubbing it back and forth across her lips.

Flustered, Mercy
unthinkingly slid her hands over the front of his shirt. It had taken only a few moments for her anger to completely thaw, replaced by some other emotion. One that completely disarmed her.

No sooner did she
discern the change in mood than Spencer’s hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers anchoring her in place as he angled his head. He then gently kissed her, his lips softly caressing her trembling mouth. Enthralled, Mercy returned the kiss. Opening her mouth, she shyly invited him to deepen the contact, wondering if she also tasted like whiskey and spring water.

A few moments later,
Spencer groaned as he coaxed her tongue into a more ardent repartee, his passion tempered with a restrained gentleness. And because of that restraint, a heated passion stole over her. Whimpering softly, Mercy wrapped her arms around Spencer’s neck, pressing herself against him, innocently stoking the fire higher still.

When Spencer’s hand grazed the outer curve of her breast, Mercy could scarcely contain herself, her body quivering with anticipation. So
thrilling were his kisses that she almost completely lost sight of the fact that they were standing in the middle of a dark wood, only a few feet from a gang of southern bushwhackers and their coterie of loose women. One of whom, Spencer was intimately familiar with.

Suddenly envisioning Spencer kiss
ing that painted harlot Lou Ann, Mercy forcefully wrenched free of his embrace.

C
learly mystified by her abrupt rejection, Spencer said, “Why did you go and do that? Things were just starting to get good between us.”

Mercy
jutted her chin toward the bonfire. “Is that how you kiss
her
?”

“I haven’t been anywhere near Lou Ann since I met
—” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I even bother. Come one. We’re going back to the wagon.” That said, he grabbed her by the arm, effectively serving notice that he would brook no resistance.

Exhausted form the day’s travails, Mercy allowed
Spencer to drag her through the moonlit forest, relieved when she caught sight of their buckboard wagon.

In stark contrast to
Ned Sykes’ raucous bonfire, all was quiet on this side of the wood. The only person in sight was Dewey who was seated on an upturned log beside a small campfire. Making no secret of the fact that he was glad to see them, he jumped to his feet.

“Everyone’s all settled in for the night,” he informed his older brother. “Do you want me to take the first watch?”

Spencer nodded, yawning as he did so. Taking Dewey’s vacated seat, he proceeded to remove his riding boots. That done, he unbuckled his gun belt and set it beside him. He then pulled his shirt tails free of his trousers.

“
Who is Dewey watching for?” Mercy asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Yankee cavalry, mostly. Although there’s always a chance that a band of jayhawkers might charge through.”

Hearing that, Mercy’s eyes widened. She wondered how she was supposed to get any sleep with so much danger lurking.

“How can you be so cavalier?”

Spencer shrugged. “What do you want me to do? Lose sleep over it?”

“No
. I simply— Oh, never mind,” she muttered under her breath, knowing that it was a losing argument.

Stepping to the back of the wagon, Mercy poked her head through the
two overlapping rugs. In the darkness, she could make out three lumps which she knew to be her mother, Prudence and Gabriel. For want of a mattress, they’d covered the wagon bed with straw before leaving the farm. The uniquely rustic smell incited a pang of heartache, Mercy saddened to think that her family was now reduced to sleeping like vagabonds.

“Is everything all
right?” Pru drowsily inquired.

“Everything is just fine,” Mercy whispered, trying to keep her sadness at bay. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

When she returned to the campfire, she saw that Spencer had laid two bedrolls side by side on the ground. Moreover, he’d had the gall to settle himself upon one of them.

Annoyed with his presumption, she frowne
d. “Surely, you weren’t planning to sleep beside me?”

“
Yep, that was the plan. Unless, of course, you wanted to take Ned up on his earlier offer.”

“I won’t dignify that with a reply,” she huffed
. Bending over, she reached for her bedroll, intending to move it to the other side of the campfire.

Spencer
immediately manacled her wrist with his hand. “I’m tired of fighting with you, Mercy. Just climb into your bedroll and let’s call it a night.”

Releasing her wrist,
Spencer rolled onto his side, turning his back to her. In a quandary, Mercy stared at that broad back. She, too, was tired of fighting. It had been one of the most trying, painful days of her life. And she hoped to never have another one like it as long as she lived.

Exhaustion getting the better of her,
Mercy unlaced her boots and placed them at the foot of her bedroll. Then, hoping that Spencer had fallen asleep, she pulled back the woolen blanket with as little fanfare as possible, situating herself beneath it.

Unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground, she shivered, drawing her knees to her stomach to keep warm.
A few seconds later, Spencer rolled toward her, causing Mercy’s breath to catch in her throat as he curled his body around her backside.

“
Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Pipe down, will ya? I’m not gonna do anything other than hold you,” he said, straightening the blanket over her shoulders.

“Please see to it that you don’t. Since making your acquaintance, I have been made to realize that ‘the wages of sin is death.’”

“
For God’s sake, don’t start preaching at me,” Spencer growled in her ear, tightening his arm around her waist. “And for you information, that day we spent in the barn was real special to me. Now shut up and go to sleep.”

Resigned to her fate, Mercy closed her eyes, easing herself into the warmth of his body. Slowly, muscle by muscle, she relaxed, lulled to sleep by
the sound of Spencer’s breath.

Mercy opened her eyes. S
tartled to find herself indecently draped over Spencer’s torso, her hand curled around his neck, her heart thumped against her breastbone.

Slowly, so as not to awaken him, she inched away from
Spencer’s body, resettling herself at a less intimate distance. Evidently, as the temperature had dropped during the course of the night, she’d sought him out. And though a slight chill still lingered, she did not wish to be discovered in so compromising a pose.

Last night,
after they left Ned’s raucous bonfire, she’d succumbed to her urges, returning Spencer’s kiss with what could only be called a wanton abandon. But she had not been herself yesterday, having had one shock too many over the course of that interminably long, painful day. Her life, and that of her entire family, had changed course in the blink of an eye. As a result, when Spencer kissed her she’d not had the inner strength to rebuke his advances until it was too late. However, a new day had dawned and she would never,
never,
again permit him to treat her as though she was nothing more than a bushwhacker’s trollop.

About to get up from the pallet, Mercy froze as Spence
r let out a deep, manly groan.

To her consternation,
he rolled toward her, flinging an arm around her waist while at the same time he wedged a muscular thigh between her legs.

Mercy lay
unmoving, acutely aware of each place where his body touched hers, her loins throbbing with rebellious desire. To her shame, her nipples began to harden into small knots. That, in turn, caused her to conjure an image of Spencer brazenly suckling her bare breasts.

Confused by the vivid
fantasy, Mercy wondered how she would react if Spencer suddenly unbuttoned her clothing and caressed her naked body with his lips and tongue.
Just as he did five weeks ago.
Would she be seized with the same burst of intense pleasure she’d experienced that morning in the barn? A pleasure that had been unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

Unable to stop herself, Mercy raised a hand toward Spencer, her fingers timidly gliding through his tousled hair, surprised by its silky texture.
Although his locks were in dire need of a good trimming, his thick shoulder-length hair nonetheless made him look like a knight of old.

Mercy next
touched his face, entranced by the prickly feel of his stubbled cheeks.

There was no denying that Spencer McCabe was a ruggedly handsome man with his square jaw and straight, well-shaped nose.
To her mind, however, it was his unusual amber-colored eyes that best defined him. Peering into those eyes, she could always gauge his mood, able to determine if he was angry or amused . . .
or aroused
. She could still recall how, when they made love in the barn, his pupils had dilated, almost obliterating his eye color altogether.

Continuing her exploration, Mercy slid her hand along his shoulder and upper back, convinced that his body was composed entirely of muscle and sinew. Even though he wore a shirt, she could feel his heated strength as she ran her fingers over his
—

“Mornin’”

Mercy’s eyes widened in alarm, realizing, too late, that Spencer had awakened.

“
Er, good morning,” she stammered, her hand guiltily sliding off of his shoulder.

“You don’t have to
do that,” Spencer husked, his arm tightening around her waist. “I like it when you touch me.”

Mercy didn’t know how to respond, particularly since she’d been caught with her hand in
the cookie jar, so to speak.

To her embarrassment, Prudence seized
that moment to stumble out of the back of the wagon, a drowsy, stupefied look on her face.

Not about to let her
sister discover her lying abed with Spencer McCabe, Mercy hurriedly wiggled out from under his arm. She then lunged to her feet with a vigor that she did not necessarily feel.

“My sister and I must see to our morning ablutions,” she said abruptly
. As she spoke, it suddenly dawned on her that they were camped in the middle of a forest, and that they lacked even the most basic amenities.

Raising his head,
Spencer gestured toward an overgrown path. “There’s a creek about seventy yards yonder.”

“Thank you,”
Mercy murmured before stepping over to their buckboard. Shoving the woolen rugs aside, she hurriedly grabbed the grain sack that stored their pitiful belongings. While most everything had been lost to the fire, there had been clean towels hanging on the clothesline.

T
owels in hand, she motioned for Pru to follow her, the two of them carefully picking their way through the dense, overgrown woods. Even in the gray, pre-dawn light, Mercy could see why Bloody Ned had selected the site, the thick foliage providing a natural cover with which to hide his gang from enemy eyes.

As she and Pru sidestepped fallen tree limbs and leafy shrubbery, they could hear the cheerful babble of a small creek, the sight of which brought a smile to both their faces. Now, more then ever, they were appreciative of small pleasures
. Indeed, the clear-running creek was the most luxury they’d had since embarking on their unplanned sojourn.

After taking turns keeping guard while each saw to more personal matters, they knelt beside the creek bed, washing the sleep from their faces with
the bracing water.

Unbuttoning her shirt, Mercy
was uncomfortably aware of the fact that she wore no shift or camisole, her undergarments having been ripped asunder by that monster Rawlings. Although, mercifully, Spencer and his deadly accurate six-shooter had ensured
that
was all
that the fiend could do to her.

Shoving the unpleasant memory to the back of her mind,
Mercy dipped one end of her towel into the creek, moistening it in order to wash her neck and shoulders. Not having a comb at her disposal, she ran her fingers through her tangled hair, wincing each time she caught a snarl. Finished ‘combing’ her hair, she then ripped a long, thin piece of fabric from her shirt hem, using it to tie back her hair.

“Might I ask
you a personal question, Sister?”

Hearing the hesitation in Pru’s voice, Mercy said, “O
f course you can.” Admittedly, she was curious as to what her sister would deem so ‘personal’ that she felt obliged to obtain her permission before asking the question.

“Do you love Spencer?”

“I most certainly do not!”

Her
vehement response caused Pru’s brow to furrow. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you love him?”

“
While I may not love him, I am, er, fond of him,” Mercy equivocated. Flustered, she buttoned her shirt, hoping that her sister would let the matter drop.

“But given
how much he loves you, I don’t see why you don’t return his affections.”

“
What an utterly ridiculous notion! Spencer McCabe
does not
love me,” Mercy was quick to assert.

“Then why
is he always staring at you?”

Mercy’s breath caught in her throat
, flabbergasted by her sister’s remark. “He
stares
at me?”

“Nearly all the time. And he particularly likes it when you
get your feathers ruffled.”

“And
how, pray tell, can you possibly know that?”

“Because it makes him smile,” Pru
informed her in a confidential tone of voice, as though she was imparting the greatest of secrets.

“Just because the man is a smiling jackanapes does not mean that he loves me.” That he lusted after her, there was little doubt.
But love?
A remote possibility, at best.

“If
Spencer doesn’t love you, then why he did save us? And why is he taking us to his farm?”

“It remains to be seen whether we shall
ever
set eyes upon Mister McCabe’s fabled farm. In case you haven’t noticed –” Mercy scanned the surrounding woods to make certain that no one lurked nearby – “we are stranded amongst these despicable Southerners.”

Prudence stubbornly folded her arms under her chest. “That is beside the point
, and you know it! Spencer loves you. But you’re too ill-humored and thick-headed to see it.”

“I am not ill-humored,” Mercy retorted, appalled by the characterization. “
And I most certainly am not thick-headed.”

Exasperated, Prudence shook her head. “See what I mean? Ever since Papa died,
it’s as though you’ve become a different person. Not only that, you—” Lowering her gaze, Pru gnawed on her lower lip.

“Pray, continue,” Mercy
prodded.

“If you must know, I am of the opinion that you hold all the wrong people responsible for Papa’s death. Spencer had nothing to do with those bad men who killed Papa
. Yet you . . . you continually punish him for something that he didn’t do. And after we received word of Ethan’s death, you . . . you sent him away. And don’t deny it because I watched you from the window.”

Finished, Pru balefully lowered
her gaze, unable to look Mercy in the eye.

Stunned
by her sister’s unflattering charge, Mercy wondered if it was true, if she’d really changed that much since their father’s death.

Have I become so
prejudicial that I no longer see the world with an open heart?

Indeed, she’d heard it said that war brings out that which is most noble, as well as that which is most uncharitable, in mankind. Clearly,
she’d not behaved as nobly as would have been her wont.

Seeing the guilt-ridden flush on Pru’s face, Mercy put a sisterly arm around her shoulde
rs. “You should never be afraid to speak your mind. I know that I’ve changed in the last year. I just hadn’t realized that . . . that it had been for the worse.”

Mercy pushed
out a weary sigh as she gazed at the wooded glen, heartsick that her family had been the recipient of the ill-humored transformation that had come over her in the wake of their father’s death.

But
as for Pru’s girlish delusions about Spencer McCabe being in love with her,
that
was pure poppycock.

Turning
toward her sister, Mercy said solemnly, “From here on out, I shall endeavor to be less ill-humored.”

“And
it might also help if you weren’t so thick-headed.”

“Yes, thank you.” Mercy was tempted to inquire if there were any other shortcomings to add to the list, but held her tongue
at the last. Instead, she said, “We should be getting back to the camp.”

Picking up their towels, the two of them wended their way through the overgrown forest. They hadn’t gone very far when they came to a sudden
halt, both of them startled to hear men speaking in a thick, indecipherable German accent.

Curious to know why there were German men lurking in
the woods, Mercy decided to investigate. From past experience, she suspected that her well-meaning sibling would be more of a hindrance than a help in this undertaking. Which is why she wordlessly signaled for Pru to continue by herself to their encampment. When her sister balked at the silent order, Mercy gave her an insistent shove.

As soon as Pru disappeared from sight, Mercy surveyed the wooded glen. Treading li
ghtly, she peered over the top of a shaggy clump of bushes, her heart hammering against her chest when she caught sight of four men tied to the base of a large tree, their feet and hands shackled with hemp rope. At a glance, she could see that they’d been severely beaten, their faces covered with dried blood. Standing in front of them was Kid Mooney, the young bushwhacker who, weeks earlier, had attempted to physically assault her.

Filled with apprehension
, Mercy watched as Mooney strode back and forth in front of the imprisoned men, a large knife held in his hand.

“You best tell me what I want to know,” he goaded one of the men, holding the knife blade a hairbreadth away from his jugular vein.

“Ve knows nutting!” the man warbled, his eyes bugging from his face.

“You damned lying Dutchman. I’ll make you talk.” Without warning, Mooney maliciously kicked the bound prisoner between the legs, causing the man to howl in pain as tears coursed
down his bloodied cheeks. Cackling with demented glee, Mooney lifted his booted foot, threatening to kick the crying German yet again.

Unmindful of the danger, Mercy charged around the clump of bushes.

“For the love of God! I beg you to stop!”

Mooney pivoted on his heel, drawing a pistol from his holster in the same
instant. Careening to a halt, every muscle in Mercy’s body went rigid as she waited for the bullet’s impact.