The Half-Breed's Woman Read online

  How could he ride tomorrow? It would be agonizing. But knowing him as she did, she was sure that he would stubbornly attempt it, no matter what.

  Unless she didn’t catch that stage tomorrow.

  Amarillo could wait a few more days. She would tell him she didn’t feel well. That she needed to recover from her “headache.” Her face grew warm as she remembered his laughing response from the hallway. She’d say also that her stomach felt queasy, just for good measure.

  Would he believe her? What choice did he have? He’d been injured protecting her. Now, she must protect him. If she left tomorrow, he would surely feel he must accompany her. Before, the situation might have been an answer to a prayer. She would have welcomed the chance to go on without him. Now, she needed him. He was her protection and her destruction, as she walked the fine-drawn line in between. She forced her breathing into regularity as her thoughts raced.

  No man would ever direct her life again. California awaited. A new life awaited. No one would know who she was—what she had done. And if she wanted to put off leaving for a couple of days, who was Marshal McCall to say otherwise? He need never know her decision was tempered by her concern for his well-being.

  No, she couldn’t do it. Pushing on to Amarillo would be torturous for him. Those ribs of his would certainly not be well enough to travel by 9:00 a.m. She’d wait until Wednesday, when the next stage came through; see how they’d healed by then.

  She smiled in the darkness. It might even be Friday before her upset stomach was sitting well enough to travel. Of course, that all depended on the marshal who slept restlessly beside her…

  ****

  An hour later, unable to sleep, Jaxson carefully lifted himself to one elbow, then sat up on the edge of the bed. He came to his feet with a whispered streak of curses in a mixture of languages. He padded to the fireplace and reached for a log, his side shooting jagged fire through what seemed like every nerve ending in his body. Ignoring the pain, he managed to place two logs carefully on the grate.

  He lifted the other ladder-back chair and carried it across the room, setting it in front of the fireplace. He couldn’t lie in bed any longer. Maybe his ribs would ease a little if he sat up.

  He shifted until he found the most comfortable position, knowing it wouldn’t last long, and stared into the fire. In a few hours, it would be morning. Today would be no different than any other.

  How in the hell was he going to ride? He knew he could, because he had to. He’d lived and dealt with pain from his earliest memories. He and his brother, Brendan, being half white, had endured much in their growing-up years with the Cherokee. It had been good training, he thought, for what had come later. Their time with their father, a beast of a man, determined to “civilize” his sons. And even after that, in his adult life, he’d had his share of injuries.

  So “if” he could ride wasn’t really the question. It was just the dread of it. Wondering how long he could take it. There was no doubt he’d have to stop and rest from time to time, let the stage move on and catch up to it later.

  “Jax?” Callie sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her voice was husky with sleep, and Jax felt a shot of desire leap through his veins. Awake now, she brushed a strand of silky copper hair out of her face and looked at him. “Oh, I feel awful,” she moaned. She laid back down on the bed, and put a hand to her stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” Jax started out of the chair, but was drawn up short by the pain. He grabbed his side, leaning against the wooden back of his seat.

  “My-My stomach. And my head, too,” she added.

  “You sick?” Jax’s voice was ragged.

  “I-I guess so,” Callie answered softly. “I really don’t feel well at all.”

  Jax could hardly believe it. He almost didn’t dare to. “What about the stage, Sarah? Think you’ll be able to—to manage it?”

  “Ohhhh…” she wailed in response. “Don’t even mention it! I can’t stand to think about the way it moves and rocks—I’d be sick, for sure.” She pulled the covers up over her. “I feel feverish, too.”

  Guilty relief flooded through him. He didn’t want her to be sick. It was probably just a case of nerves, anyhow, after all that had happened. But no matter what it was, it meant a delay in their departure. He relaxed against the smooth wood back of the chair. Reprieve. At least for two more days.

  ****

  By the time Tuesday evening arrived, Callie was losing her mind. She had played the invalid to the hilt, had even drunk the Baby Percy medicine Jax had sent for. She’d asked him to order a bath for her, before supper, and he’d grinned as he went out the door. When she heard him call down to Mr. Daly over the balcony railing, ordering her bath in a voice the whole hotel was sure to hear, she covered her head and wailed in frustration.

  After a moment, he came back in, closing the door behind him. She threw the covers off and glared at him. “Why, in Heavens’ name, did you do that? Now everyone in this hotel will think I’m your—your—”

  “Woman?” he supplied helpfully. “Prostitute? Wh-”

  “Yes!” she snapped. “All those things!”

  He lazily braced a hand against the wall, facing her. “It’s what I want them to think. It’s your protection.”

  “From whom?” she screeched.

  “Anyone and everyone, Sarah.” His voice was quiet, serious.

  “They’ll all think—”

  “What do you care!” he flared. “It may help you stay alive, and you’ll never see any of these people again anyway. They won’t remember your name in a month. All they’ll talk about is the half-breed’s woman.”

  Callie’s mouth rounded into an ‘o’, her breath rushing out as if she’d been struck.

  “Just try to bear the shame for a little while, Sarah,” he continued scathingly. “I promise you, when you get to Amarillo, you’ll get a brand new start. And you’ll be alive to enjoy it.”

  Before she could respond, a knock sounded at the door, and as Jax opened it, a huge washtub was brought inside, followed by several buckets of hot water. Callie lay in bed, her face a frozen mask, as not one of the hotel employees dared to meet her eyes. When they’d all gone, Jax indicated the tub with a sardonic wave of his hand.

  “Don’t be too long, Miss Smith. I’d like a bath, too. And no lavender soap, please. I’ll be using your water.” With that, he turned and stalked out, banging the door shut behind him.

  “Oh!” Callie wanted to scream. The man was infuriatingly high-handed.

  But he was right. Callie had noticed the deferential way he was treated by everyone he came into contact with. What was it the station agent had said? That Jax was ‘gun-handy’? So he must be fast—and good. And dangerous. Yes, she had to admit that what he was doing was for her own good. But to be thought a whore…She stepped into the tub, dutifully reaching for the plain lye soap the hotel provided. It would serve him right if she did use lavender, she thought waspishly. But she couldn’t stay angry at him. Jax was only trying to protect her from a man who, as he knew first-hand, could be vicious beyond imagining. How she wished she could confide in him! Why was Wolf Blocker interested in her, anyway? Would Jax know? If she was honest with him…it could make all the difference.

  As she bathed, Callie remembered the raw edge in his voice, his sudden anger. All they’ll talk about is the half-breed’s woman. She stopped the luxurious trail of the warm rag over her neck. Why, he thought her objection was because he was Indian! She hadn’t even thought about that part of it. All that had entered her mind was the scandal of being a kept woman. Anybody’s kept woman.

  She washed and rinsed her hair and was just wrapping the huge towel around herself when Jax entered.

  With an effort, she forced herself not to cringe in embarrassment. As if it were an everyday affair, she met his eyes, and saw the hot light of desire leap through them briefly before he shuttered them.

  “Finished?” he asked curtly, as if he always saw her like this.

  His attitude
made her anger overcome the embarrassment. She lifted her chin. “Quite,” she purred. “Shall I help you with your…boots?”

  Jax looked at her warily. “Don’tcha think you’d better get dressed first?” His voice was rough.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied thoughtfully, “I only have the one gown, and it’s in need of a wash, too.”

  “Well,” he muttered, glancing away from her toward the bed, “put on a—a sheet or somethin’.” He waved his hand toward the bed. “Or one of my shirts.” He moistened his lips. “It should cover…everything.” As if that thought galvanized him to move, Jax went to his saddlebags, took out a clean shirt, then handed it to Callie. “Here.”

  “Turn around,” Callie said, still holding the towel around her.

  “No, I’ll just step outside.”

  “Now, really, that would hardly be in keeping with what you told the world a half-hour ago, Jax. Just turn around.” She twirled her fingers at him. “I trust you. I can trust you, can’t I, Jax?”

  He nodded, then murmured, “Yeah. You can trust me.” He blew his breath out in a harsh rush.

  “All done,” she said after a moment. “How do I look?”

  As Jax once more turned to face her, Callie struck an impish pose, one hand on her hip the other in the air.

  He looked down quickly, but not in time to veil the naked desire in his dark eyes. His breathing was measured, Callie realized, and steady.

  “You look…wonderful.”

  Callie gave him a slow, measuring smile. “Come on, Marshal. Sit down, and let me pull your boots off.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Huh-uh. That’d be just plain stupid with your ribs hurt like they are, now wouldn’t it, Mr. McCall? Allow me, your kept woman, to do that for you.”

  “Sarah—” he began, but Callie gently pushed him down to the side of the bed and carefully pulled his boots off, setting them beside the night table.

  He stood up, and Callie returned, brushing his hands aside as she took over the task of unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Sarah, I can do this.” His voice became edgy.

  Callie smiled up at him innocently, wondering just how far he’d play the game she’d started. But even as she thought it, she couldn’t understand why she wanted to antagonize him.

  “Oh, I’m sure you are able, Marshal, but isn’t this what a whore does for her man?”

  ****

  With a predatory growl, he yanked her to him, putting his mouth to hers as it fell open in surprise. In an instant, he was crushing her body against his, molding the curves of her sweet, warm skin against the hardness of his own body. His mouth slanted hotly across hers, his tongue plundering her, tasting the honey of her kiss.

  His fingers splayed across her back and speared into her damp hair, as it cascaded around her, falling to her waist. She made a soft noise in her throat, then gasped at the fierce joining, as her breath left her. Her hands came up across his back, under his arms, careful of the wounded right side.

  Callie tentatively touched her tongue to his, her fingers threading through his hair.

  “God,” he muttered hoarsely against her lips, pulling her closer, molding her body to his own hard, straining arousal. She yielded under the onslaught of his mouth upon hers, and he felt her desire, poorly concealed, under his fingertips as he touched her.

  “This, Sarah,” he whispered roughly, lifting his mouth from hers for the briefest of moments. “This is what a whore does for her man.” Or what a woman does, for the man she loves.

  But Jax couldn’t afford to think that way, and it angered him that that word ‘love’ had entered his thoughts at least twice during the past two days in connection with Miss Callie Buchanan. Sarah Smith. Whatever.

  Callie’s breath caught. “And this, too?” She began to boldly unbuckle Jax’s belt.

  “Dammit, Sarah, stop it!” Jax grasped her fingers in his, holding them immobile.

  “Oh,” Callie pouted. “I thought you were enjoying our little…liaison. Is it to be over so soon, then, mon cher?”

  Jax stripped off his shirt and threw it on the bed, ignoring the shaft of pain that skidded through his side at the sharp movement.

  “You’re damn straight, ma petite,” he mocked. “It’s over.”

  Eight years his junior. A baby. But—not really. She was no child. She was a woman, and a damn desirable one at that. But she wasn’t for him. She was only his assignment. She was business—not pleasure.

  “Jax—”

  “Now, you listen to me, Sarah. I did what I had to do for your protection.”

  “I hardly see how proclaiming me your whore is protection, Marshal,” she replied acidly.

  He glared at her, getting control of his anger. “Because no one in this town will dare to do you harm as long as you are my woman, Sarah. I think I’ve explained all this to you already. The only one who would try to hurt you would be Blocker. And I won’t let that happen.”

  Jax released Callie’s hands slowly, seeing the sparks of anger gutter out in her eyes. She looked down into the scant three-inch space that separated them. As she lowered her head, errant tendrils of damp hair tickled Jax’s chest. He took a deep, steadying breath. Something was different. No lavender scent, he realized, and with the same thought, it occurred to him how much he missed it.

  “It…wasn’t that-that you’re half Indian, Jax.” Callie’s voice was soft, and Jax thought he heard the husky edge of tears.

  He shook his head. “What do you mean, chica?”

  “You said, earlier, they wouldn’t remember my name. Only that I was the—the half-breed’s w-woman.”

  Jax nodded. “Yeah. I remember.” He remembered too much. The wounded look of surprise in her expression, as if he’d just said something unbelievably cruel. And he had; but it had been aimed at himself, not at her. As he started to explain, she looked up into his eyes, and he saw no explanation was needed. Her chocolate gaze was shimmering with tears, but not for herself.

  “I’d never look at it that way, you know, Jax. I wouldn’t care what people said about me being with a—a—” she broke off, unable to say the hateful word.

  “Half-breed,” he supplied easily.

  She looked away, then down at the floor between them. “It was just the idea of being a whore. A prostitute. No matter whose I was, just—just that I was.”

  Jax didn’t speak. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d say too much. He’d tell her everything. But before he could form a response, Callie went on.

  “It—It wasn’t you, Jax. Do you understand?” She looked up at him. “Do you, Jaxson?”

  Jax nodded and pulled her to him carefully, inhaling the clean scent of her hair as she laid her head against his chest. “Yeah. I understand, sweetheart. It’s just a word, you know. Half white, half red. Doesn’t bother me.”

  ****

  Sweetheart. Callie squeezed her eyes shut tight. He’d called her that three days ago, after the fight with Blocker. Scared, sweetheart? he’d asked. How long had it been since anyone had used an endearment with her? Years. Over two years, she knew. It had been when her mother was living. And she knew Jax really didn’t mean it; it was just a careless slip of the tongue.

  But it sounded so wonderful.

  After a long moment, Callie stood away from Jax reluctantly. “Let me untie the bandage for you, Mr. McCall,” she teased. “Your bathwater is getting cold. Something you warned me about earlier, I think.” Her fingers nimbly opened the knot and she carefully unwrapped the length of material from around his hard, muscle-gridded belly.

  He drew in his breath sharply, at the feel of her cool fingers on his warm skin.

  He swore harshly.

  “Did I hurt you?” She looked up quickly.

  “Huh-uh,” he ground out, barely able to keep his hands off her. “I’m okay.”

  He reached to unbuckle the gun belt, crossing to lay it beside the clean towel on the chair. Within easy reach of the tub. Callie gave him a quizzical lo
ok as he came back to the bed and unfastened his belt, laying it on the bed with his shirt and the bandage.

  “Planning to shoot someone while you’re bathing?”

  Jax could see the laughing glint in Callie’s eyes.

  “I’ve had to do it before,” he answered shortly. He slowly began to unbutton his jeans. Suddenly, the heat between them was unbearable. He looked into Callie’s eyes, his fingers working the third button of his fly.

  She moistened her lips and swallowed hard, but held his gaze unflinchingly. “What now?” she asked in a ragged whisper.

  Jax stopped at the fourth button. “You, Miss Smith,” he said, turning away from her, “—are going to go lie in bed and cover your head. You’re going to give me a few minutes—” he broke off and held up his hand to forestall the protest on her lips, “—a very few minutes—of privacy.”

  She started to say something again, but he interrupted. “Surely you can see the wisdom of this. Where else can you go?” He glanced back to see the flush of pink creep into her cheeks.

  She nodded meekly and turned to go to the bed as he’d suggested. She pulled the sheet up to her neck, glaring at him before she yanked it over her still-damp hair.

  Jax waited, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Then, he unbuttoned the last two buttons of his jeans and pulled them off, then his socks. He stepped into the tub, now lukewarm, and began to bathe.

  “By the way, Sarah,” he said matter-of-factly, “I ordered room service for us, so—”

  “You what?” she screeched, throwing off the quilt and sheet unthinkingly. Just as quickly, she pulled it back over her head again with a groan.

  Jax grinned. “Room service. You haven’t eaten much the last couple of days, and I’m starving, so—”

  “Jaxson McCall! How could you do this!” Her voice was muffled, but he had no trouble understanding what she was saying.

  “Do what?” He lathered his cloth and washed his neck. Whiskers. He needed to shave. He reached for the razor and hand mirror.