Legacies (23 page)

"In this part of the country, Miss Gordon, if you're going to carry a gun—more importantly, if you're going to point it at someone—you better know how to shoot it."

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She could well imagine how humorous he thought this was and refused to meet his gaze, knowing those gray eyes would be laughing at her. Instead, she stared at the weapon in his hand, watching as he deftly and familiarly checked to see whether it was loaded.

"Before you pull the trigger, you have to cock it. Like this." With his thumb, he pulled back the hammer. "See how it's done."

"Yes," she snapped.

Gently, he eased the hammer back into place. Then, with a slight movement of his hand, the derringer lay in his callused palm. "You better hang onto this, Miss Gordon. Next time you may need it. But try to remember how to use it." She looked up in disbelief, doubting that he truly intended to give it back to her. He smiled, ever so faintly. "And don't shoot at the ground. This thing only carries one bullet."

There were snickers behind him. Self-consciously, Susannah took the derringer from him and shoved it inside the pocket of her skirt.

"Kelly, Hayes, out of the wagon." Still looking at her, he lifted his voice to bark the order, then turned to face them, his tone becoming light. "I have the feeling the lady wouldn't appreciate you two going through her things. Although you might look quite fetching in petticoats and bonnets."

Guffaws of laughter followed his remark, accompanied by a few ribald comments, spoken low out of deference to Susannah. She heard parts of them and shut her ears to the rest. Someone mentioned the coffee, and they drifted back toward the fire. Wanting to avoid them, she busily set about cleaning the dishes.

Almost immediately, Reverend Cole came over to her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. And you don't have to say it. I know it was a stupid thing to do."

"We have all done one or two of those in our lives, Susannah. Do not be too hard on yourself."

"That isn't easy." She managed a smile, then darted a quick glance at the men lounging around the campfire, drinking coffee and trading stories. "Maybe it's the war. It seemed so far away when I was in New England. I keep remembering the burnt-out houses we passed. And I keep wondering if these men were responsible."

"No, some were set by Yankee torches."

Susannah stiffened, recognizing Rans Lassiter's voice behind her. "I didn't know." She tried to pretend she wasn't surprised that he was there.

"It's easier to blame us Johnny Rebs. But the Yankees have their night riders. And then there are the others . . . bushwhackers like Quantrill. You can never be sure which side they're on. It usually depends on what there is to be looted."

"Quantrill was one of the men who led the attack on Independence, Missouri, in August, wasn't he? I read about it in the papers."

"He's somewhere in Arkansas now, but the way he drifts in and out of the territory, you can't be sure. If a man ever rides up on a black stallion, dressed fancy, with a plume in his hat, you keep that derringer handy, Miss Gordon. It's said he has an eye for the ladies."

"I appreciate the warning."

"This is good coffee, the first we've had in a long while." He swirled the liquid in his tin cup, then drank it down. "Only two things I know that could beat it—a bottle of good whiskey or a beautiful woman. A man could get drunk on either." The way he looked at her made Susannah feel warm all over, but this time not from embarrassment. He pulled his gaze away. "You and the reverend better get yourselves a cup before we drink it all."

He turned and walked back to the fire, pausing on the edge of the circle and listening to the talk, but taking no part in it.
 

"He seems lonely," Susannah murmured.
 

"And young," Reverend Cole added. She glanced at him in questioning surprise. "He can't be more than twenty-six or twenty-seven."

"He has to be older than that. His eyes—"

"His eyes are old from all he's seen . . . the things he's gone through. I saw the same look in the eyes of some of the young Cherokee men who walked that long trail from Georgia. His eyes don't have that bitterness though, just the soberness of hard experience. He still knows how to smile. That is precious, Susannah. There was a time when I thought your father would never smile again. So many didn't."

She had heard the stories of the suffering many times, but Reverend Cole made it seem real. Maybe because he looked so sad ... so sorry. She slipped a hand into the crook of his arm. "Let's get some coffee."

"Yes, before they drink it all." He deliberately repeated the lieutenant's words in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

 

The rebel called Kelly pulled a harmonica out of his pocket and began playing "Dixie." Three soldiers jumped to their feet and began dancing, sashaying around each other, lifting their feet high, and laughing while the rest clapped hands in time with the music and sang.

The instant the hymn of the South ended, the man struck up another lively tune. A scrawny red-haired man grabbed Susannah's hand and pulled her into their makeshift circle. In the next second, another hooked her arm in his and swung her around, passing her on to the next.

Rans watched her as she swung from partner to partner, skipping, swirling, laughing, her skirts flying and revealing her ankles—and the inch-and-a-half high heels on her boots. She wasn't as tall as he'd thought. And he already knew she wasn't as skinny as she looked. He had felt the fullness of those high breasts against his chest, breasts that would more than fill his hand.

He silently cursed the direction of his thoughts and looked down at the coffee dregs in his cup, but the attempted distraction didn't work. He had to watch.

Why didn't he admit it? He was jealous. There she was dancing with his men, supple and graceful in their arms, the gold in her eyes glittering with happiness. Yet, when he had held her, that gold had been fire sparks and her body had been as rigid as a stone statue, but a statue with perfume on her neck. And the perfume wasn't the cheap kind a whore used to smother the smell of her sweat and another man's semen. Rans knew the difference.

Susannah Gordon was a lady, and he was tired of the bar whores and camp followers.

This war hadn't turned out to be what he thought when he first joined up. There had been little glory in the battles and skirmishes he'd fought, only a helluva lot of blood and desperation.

For him, the war had been mostly patrols like this—rides that amounted to burning and looting. Their orders were to cut off the enemy's supplies, destroy their hay and grain fields. He was supposed to make it impossible for them to grow food for themselves or for their animals; he was to make it impossible for the enemy to forage.

Perhaps he hated Quantrill and his ilk so much because he hated himself. After all the fighting and killing, he wanted to feel good inside. She could help him do that.

He heard her peal of laughter, all throaty and warm. It twisted through him, knotting him up into one big ache. Several of his men were singing. He hadn't paid much attention to the song Kelly was playing until he heard the words to it.

 

... The sun so hot I froze to death.

Susannah, don't you cry.

Oh, Susannah, oh, don't you cry for me.

 

He swore again and rubbed the knotted muscles along the back of his neck. When he brought his hand away, Rans accidentally brushed his jaw and felt the sharp stubble of beard growth. He hadn't shaved in three days or bathed in anything other than river water in over a year.

What was the matter with him? Instead of standing around like some damned schoolboy resenting the fun everyone else was having, why didn't he go over there? He wanted to dance with her, hold her in his arms. What was stopping him? He was Ransom Lassiter. His family owned one of the biggest damned ranches in Texas.

He set his cup on a log and walked around the fire ring to the dancers as the song ended. He flashed one warning glance at his men. They stepped back, leaving the path clear to Susannah, their laughing eyes turning silently speculative and knowing. At first she didn't see him, then she turned, the full light from the fire falling on her.

For an instant, Rans could only stare at her smiling lips, parted as she drank in air. Her eyes sparkled with life and her cheeks glowed with high color. A few curling wisps had escaped the neat chignon during the spirited dancing. He liked the hint of dishevelment it gave her. It crossed his mind that she would look that way after he had made love to her, only her lips would be swollen from his kisses.

When he saw her smile start to fade, he made a mock bow. "I believe this is my dance, Miss Gordon." She pressed a hand to the base of her throat as if it would help her to breathe. He wished to hell she hadn't. The action pulled his glance to the deep rise and fall of her breasts, and the material of her gown straining to cover them and succeeding instead in outlining their jutting roundness. "Make it a waltz, Kelly, so the lady can get her breath back." He knew she wanted to plead exhaustion, but he didn't give her a chance.

His hand was at the back of her waist before she could raise an objection. On the very first note, Rans spun her away, the pressure of his hand smoothly guiding her through the steps. Susannah tried but she couldn't seem to break contact with his compelling gray eyes. They held her captive, half-veiled as they were by his sooty lashes and smoldering like hot charcoal.

Around and around, they whirled. With each turn, she was spun closer and made even more aware of the brush of his legs through the thickness of her skirts. Yet she had to hold on to him. She had the impression he knew that. Did he also know all the crazy things she was feeling—like the curious fluttering in her stomach?

"I'm not altogether sure you want me to catch my breath, Lieutenant," she accused, conscious that it was still coming in a shallow rush. "I think you're trying to steal it."

"Could I?" His softly drawled question was like a lover's caress. Her pulse accelerated at an alarming rate.

"Lieutenant, I—"

"Rans. We aren't too formal in Texas."

"I see." She swallowed, trying to rid herself of the tension that strung her nerves on a thin thread.

"Do you?" His glance went to her throat, reminding Susannah of the perfume she had automatically dabbed behind her ears this morning—the perfume he had remarked on earlier. "I don't think you realize how tempted I am to forget you're a lady."

She looked away, suddenly noticing how far they were from the fire. Darkness was all around them. "That isn't something a gentleman would say." He was no longer spinning her in graceful circles. They were practically dancing in place, going through the motions of the waltz steps, but barely moving at all.

"No? The gentlemen you've known must have been fools. Or else they were blind."
 

"I don't think—"

"Good. I don't want you to think. I only want you to dance with me."

Again Susannah was guided into another sweeping turn. She stepped on something. It rolled, throwing her off balance and twisting her ankle. She stumbled against him. Immediately, both of his arms went around her to catch and steady her. Susannah found herself again literally face to face with him; only this time their lips were actually touching. It was like a lightning bolt jolting through her. Looking into his eyes, she couldn't make herself move in any direction.

"You don't need to be afraid of me, Susannah." He whispered the assurance, his lips moving against hers to form the words. She hadn't realized her own lips were so sensitive, yet she could feel every feather-light touch against them. "Don't be afraid."

A warmth—a pressure spread over her mouth. Dear God, he was kissing her, and she was afraid—afraid of the things she was feeling. She pushed away from him and took a quick step back. She gasped at the sharp twinge of pain that shot from her ankle.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." Tentatively she put her weight on it, testing its strength. Luckily, she felt nothing more than an achy soreness. "I turned my ankle. That's all." Suddenly, he scooped her off her feet and cradled her body in his arms. "What are you doing? You can't intend to carry me?" Didn't he realize how big she was? At five feet eight, she was no lightweight.

"That is exactly what I'm going to do." There was a splash of white in his dark beard when he smiled at her. "Put your arms around my neck."

There really wasn't anywhere else to put them. But when she felt the rippling bulge of his shoulder and neck muscles, Susannah wasn't too sure this was a good idea, although she had to admit he didn't seem to be struggling under her weight.

"This isn't necessary," she murmured. "I can walk."

"But I don't want to find out you can," he drawled, his gray eyes glinting with mercuric brightness. "I'm enjoying this too much."

"Stop it." Susannah knew he didn't mean it, not really. Anything in skirts would look good to him.

"Susannah, are you all right?" Reverend Cole hurried forward to meet them.

"I turned my ankle. If the lieutenant would put me down, I could walk it off. But he is too busy playing the gallant and chivalrous Southern officer to listen."

The lieutenant's jaw tightened, his mouth disappearing altogether in the shadow of his dark beard. He stopped abruptly and let her feet swing to the ground, his eyes changing back to the hard gray color of flint. Aware he was angry, she moved away, walking gingerly but without difficulty.

"My men and I will bed down over there in the trees for the night, Reverend. I've thrown out a picket so you and Miss Gordon should be safe here in camp. I would put out the fire, though. No sense advertising where you are to any bushwhackers who might be roaming around." His glance flicked briefly to Susannah. "In the morning, we'll escort you home."
 

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"We owe you for the food and the coffee." He turned on his heel and walked away, followed reluctantly by his men. Susannah watched him, conscious of the strong regret she felt at his leaving.