Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance Page 20

  “And why’d you come after us? You could have been lost in these mountains and never heard from again.”

  Still sprawled on the ground, the odd-looking young man answered, “I came to warn you. You’ve been betrayed.”

  Tucker held out his hand to help the newspaperman stand. “By whom?”

  “By Señor Hildalgo. He knows you’re looking for treasure and he wants it.”

  “He and half the population of New Mexico know about the treasure. It’s no secret,” Raven said crossly. “What do you want?”

  Mr. Small hesitated. “I want—I thought that you ought to know that a Mexican named Porfiro is looking for you. He’s going to wait until you find the treasure and then take it from you.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Tucker said.

  “But do you know he’s working for Hidalgo?”

  The confirmation of his suspicion came as no surprise to Tucker. Except he would have guessed the partnership included the bridegroom’s father as well.

  “I still don’t understand,” Raven said. “How’d you find Jonah?”

  “I bought a scrawny horse from the livery stable. The animal had once belonged to a priest. When we started out of San Felipe, he took off across the mountain and ended up at the village where he’d once lived. A man named Benito took me to the priest.”

  “Benito.” Tucker nodded at Raven. “And how did that get you here?”

  “The friar accepted my donation to the church. When he learned of my mission, he suggested that I take this contrary animal. He insisted that if anybody could find you, Jonah would. I just let him go. Seems the priest was right. Have you found the treasure yet?”

  Tucker was unable to conceal his dismay. “No. I don’t suppose it may have occurred to you that you could be leading Porfiro straight to us.”

  “His men were still at the fiesta. I don’t think they were to start out until morning. They planned to wait outside the walls and follow you. I left long before they did.”

  “And just what made you decide to warn us?” Tucker growled.

  “It was stick with the banker or the two of you. You held more appeal. You don’t have to share the treasure with me, Mrs. Farrell. I just want to come along. And I bought a gun, to help you defend yourself against the bandits. See?”

  In a scabbard attached to Jonah’s saddle was a rifle, new and shiny and almost as long as Jonah was tall.

  “Oh, Mr. Small, you took such a risk. If you don’t want the treasure, what could you possibly expect to gain?”

  “This could be the story of a lifetime. If not, I still want to share the adventure. I have to do this. From the moment I stepped on that stage heading west, I knew that something was pulling me. Now I know what. Haven’t you ever wanted something so bad that you’d do anything to make it happen?”

  “Yes, I suppose I have,” Raven answered softly.

  “You’re wearing an Indian garment, aren’t you, Mrs. Farrell?” Mr. Small asked.

  “I am part Arapaho,” she replied.

  “The dress you wore when you left the stagecoach.” He nodded his head happily.

  “Yes. Make yourself at home, Mr. Small. I was just about to make breakfast.”

  Food, she thought, fuel for the body. Though she was chagrined to think, at a time like this, that Mr. Small’s presence might mean that Tucker wouldn’t require so much fuel for the body.

  For the first time in her life, beneath her breath, Raven Alexander let out an Irishman’s oath.

  16

  “Sikya volimu

  Hamisi manatu

  Talasi yammu

  Pitzazgwa timakiang

  Tuve-nanguyimani.”

  After supper Raven stood by the creek singing softly as the last rays of sunlight disappeared.

  Tucker came to stand beside her. “What does your song mean?”

  “It’s about butterflies. A Hopi Indian guest sang it once at our green corn festival.”

  “Sing it in English.”

  “I’m not sure I can. Sometimes the translation loses meaning, but I’ll try.

  ‘Yellow butterflies,

  fly over the blossoming virgin corn,

  with pollen-painted faces

  chase one another in brilliant throngs.

  Bring new life.’ ”

  “The melody of the song sounded very sad, but the words are of hope,” Tucker observed.

  “Yes, remember I told you that pain precedes joy.”

  Tucker remembered and his gut tightened at the thought of what had precipitated her words. Across the campfire, Lawrence Small wrote in a notebook. Though he’d cajoled Raven all during supper she’d refused to disclose any information about the treasure they were seeking. Her only comment was that it was lost and she and Tucker were searching for it.

  “It could be just a beautiful legend,” she’d explained. “Nobody knows that the treasure even exists. You could be risking your life for nothing, Mr. Small.”

  “Please, Mrs. Farrell,” he’d said, “call me Larry. No, make that Lawrence. I left little Larry back in New York with my family.”

  “Maybe,” Tucker had suggested kindly, “that’s where you ought to be, also. The West is a tough place for a tenderfoot.”

  “I really don’t want to intrude,” the long-legged man said, “but this is very important to me—even if—even if I die in the process.”

  He hadn’t elaborated further. Now Tucker wanted to know more about Lawrence’s motives.

  “What are we going to do about Small, Raven?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think? Can he be trusted?”

  “It isn’t a matter so much of trust as of practicality. He’s trouble. We’ll have to look after him when we ought to be watching out for ourselves.”

  “Perhaps,” Raven replied. “But there is more to the man than even he believes. He was right about our being pursued. And he is supposed to be here, I’m certain of that.”

  “Then I’m going to have to get some better answers than we’ve heard so far.” Tucker returned to the campfire, Raven’s hand in his. “Why would you risk your life to come after us, Mr. Small?”

  Eagerly the newspaperman closed his notebook, wrapped it in a protective oilcloth cover, and looked up. “It isn’t the treasure that matters, it’s that I helped find it.”

  “What will you do when we find the treasure?”

  “I’ll write the story. Lawrence Small will write a story for all the world to read. I know you don’t understand, but that’s what’s important.”

  “Why is that so important, Mr. Small—Lawrence?”

  He frowned and stared at the fire for a moment. “You may not understand, but I’ll try to explain. My father and brothers publish one of the largest newspapers in New York City. They’re very good at what they do. I’m not.”

  Tucker sat on a log he’d drawn to the fire and drew Raven down beside him.

  “Why?” Tucker asked. “Why aren’t you good at it?”

  “I don’t know. As a boy I was the kind who tripped over his shoelaces, who turned over the inkwell, who spilled the milk. I’m more like my mother. My brothers—they were exactly right to be newspapermen. They looked the part. They were composed and they fit in anywhere, with men or women, exactly like my father. I’ll never fit into his world until I do something special.”

  “I should think that with proper training, you could learn to write good stories, Lawrence,” Raven said. “Perhaps you need to practice writing little stories first. If what you have to say is interesting enough, people will take notice.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “I wish that were true, but it isn’t.”

  “Lawrence,” Raven insisted, “look at me. I’m a mixed breed. My sisters and my father were white. But my mother was half Indian. I never fit in their world. I had to find my own. So will you.”

  “Ah, forget about Lawrence. Not even my mother calls me that. I’m just Larry. That’s all I’ll ever be. And it isn’t just writing stories. It’s
writing stories that people want to read. The only things they’d let me write were advertisements and notices. I figured that if I came out here and wrote about outlaws and gunfighters, I’d prove to everyone that I’m a real newspaperman. That probably sounds silly to you, Mr. Farrell. You’re the same kind of man my brothers are.”

  “No,” Raven said softly, “that isn’t silly. Everybody wants to be respected. Please, come with us. Whatever we find, you’ll share. But promise me you’ll wait until we tell you that the story can be told.”

  Tucker couldn’t believe Raven’s words. “You’re going to let a newspaperman tell the world about the treasure?”

  “Once we find the treasure, there will be no keeping it secret anyway. We have to sell it to buy the land. If we allow Lawrence to release the news, he’ll do it properly and perhaps we can keep the location secret.”

  What she said made some kind of sense, Tucker decided. “And you’ll agree to that, Lawrence?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Farrell. Whatever you say.”

  “I say you’re a lucky man, meeting Raven. We both are.”

  “Lucky? I like that,” Lawrence said. “What would you think about calling me that? Lucky Small. No, not Small. If I’m going to change it, let’s go all the way. What about Smith. Lucky Smith, that’s a Western name, isn’t it?”

  “Lucky Smith it is,” Tucker agreed. “And we can use another gun. Three people are better than two. All right, it’s a deal. But you have to keep up. We don’t wait and we don’t take the easy way.”

  “By the way, Lucky,” Raven added, “there’s something else you should know. We don’t know where the treasure is.”

  “If we never find it, I hope you won’t be disappointed, partner,” Tucker said.

  “Not unless you’re disappointed by my confession,” Lucky said. “You’ll have to show me how to fire the rifle. I’ve never used one in my life.”

  Tucker bit back a groan. “Didn’t your father believe in teaching you to defend yourself?”

  “Yes, but my mother didn’t like firearms. The only thing I’m good at is fencing, and I don’t think the bad guys out here know a foil from a fencepost.”

  It was hard sleeping next to Raven and not holding her in his arms. In fact, it was damned impossible. Once he knew that Lucky was sleeping soundly, Tucker rose and led Raven away from the campfire to the meadow where they’d seen the butterflies that afternoon.

  “What are you doing, Tucker?”

  He drew her down to the grassy carpet and lay over her, his elbows supporting his weight. “I’m just going to kiss you good night. You may welcome Lucky into our camp, but I don’t.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to be concerned about. He’s a very sound sleeper.”

  Tucker toyed with a strand of hair that had escaped her braid. What was he doing? A grown man, sneaking a woman off into the night.

  “How do you know that?” His voice was more ruthless than he’d intended. She’d turned to face him, her hands sliding up his back, digging into the fabric of his denim shirt while she was adjusting her body beneath him.

  “Because,” she said breathlessly, “while you were bedding down the horses, he made a big point of telling me.”

  “And I don’t suppose you intended to share that with me?”

  “Of course I did. You never gave me a chance.”

  And then he was kissing her, his tongue seeking the sweetness of her mouth. He rolled away from her for a moment and lifted her dress high enough to reach her bare breasts. For several moments he traced the shape of her body as if he’d never touched it before.

  Then his shirt was unbuttoned and their bodies were touching, bare skin against bare skin, heat against heat.

  “Raven, this is unbelievable. It’s crazy,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t let me do this. I shouldn’t be touching you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re meant for more than this, more than just being Tucker Farrell’s—”

  “Woman? Why?”

  “But what about your people, the treasure, your destiny?”

  For tonight she was beyond caring about anything but this time, this moment. “Tucker, shut up!” When she touched the bulge in his trousers, he sucked in a breath and followed orders.

  He never wanted to stop. He didn’t even try. The only treasure he wanted was the one he held in his arms.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what Lucky said about being a deep sleeper?” Tucker asked later.

  “I waited to see what you would do.”

  “I might have waited too. But I was too eager to touch you again, more eager than you,” he said, knowing he shouldn’t have let himself love her again.

  “Are you sure?”

  She turned toward him, throwing her leg over his muscular thighs, pulling herself half on top of him. She was sure he’d been mistaken about who was the most eager. Then her exploring hand found the part of him that was standing ready to disagree.

  But disagreeing wasn’t nearly so much fun as agreeing. She slid over him, taking him inside her body. Gasping from the sheer pleasure of the act, she held back the truth. She was just as eager, but she’d save that bit of information until a time when she wasn’t learning about fire and eruptions.

  Later, as they watched the stars twinkling overhead, Raven let out a deep sigh of pleasure. “Is it always like this, Tucker?”

  “I hope so,” he said softly. “And I hope we spend a very long time proving it.”

  “So do I.” She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes in sleep.

  Finally, just before the dawn broke, Tucker pulled a sleepy Raven into his arms and carried her back to camp. He didn’t have to hear the exaggerated snoring to know that Lucky had heard their return.

  This time he lay down on the blanket and pulled it over them, continuing to hold Raven in his arms.

  She was his and he was staking his claim. Nobody would know yet, except Lucky. But Tucker knew and that was enough.

  The next morning they started up the valley, following the stream and focusing on the peak where they’d seen the curious slants of light. A band of butterflies danced across the sunshine, as if they were as curious about the travelers as the riders were about them.

  “My goodness,” Lucky observed, “there are a lot of those big beauties, aren’t there?”

  Raven held out her hand, upon which one very large golden pair of wings settled down. “Tucker says that this valley is probably where they spend their winters. We saw a great many of them flying north yesterday.”

  “Too bad I didn’t bring my paints. It would make quite a picture, all this color.”

  Raven rotated her hand and the butterfly flew away. “You paint, Lucky?”

  He blushed. “I used to. But the only artwork that a newspaper uses is pen-and-ink drawings, and I’m not very good at that. I just try to catch the feel of a thing. The exact mechanics don’t always signify.”

  “Beauty of the spirit is always harder to express than fact,” Raven agreed. “Just look at this place, hidden here for centuries. There is something powerful in knowing that you feel what you see. One day you’ll understand what I’m saying.”

  “In the meantime,” Lucky observed philosophically, “the butterflies are our symbols of purity of purpose. I believe they mean that nature approves of what we’re doing.”

  Raven watched him bouncing about on the burro’s back and wondered at that idea. For now she had to agree.

  It quickly became obvious that Lucky’s attempts at riding Jonah were pitiful. Allowing him to walk and pull the animal slowed the two horses down and made the burro frantic. Tucker was convinced that having the newspaperman along would be a hindrance, but he hadn’t thought about this kind of problem.

  “The only way this is going to work,” Tucker finally said, “is for you to ride with me on Yank and let Lucky ride Onawa. Will she allow that?” he asked Raven.

  Raven sat quietly for a moment, then nodded. “She will.”<
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  Tucker turned to Lucky. “Can you ride a horse?”

  “Of course. I had two years of riding lessons. Though I haven’t done a great deal of it. Usually I take a buggy.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Raven said comfortingly. “Onawa will take care of you.”

  Jonah, happy to be rider-free, darted happily between the two horses and danced alongside.

  Raven wasn’t certain that her best interests were served by planting her body against Tucker’s, but once the changes were made, the journey moved faster. She liked being in Tucker’s arms, but it was disturbing all the same.

  Her body’s memories were vivid and she longed for the intimacy of the night before. Not once in her past could she recall hearing anyone describe the feelings between a man and a woman the way she felt about Tucker. Because she had grown up without a mother, these relationships were shrouded in mystery for her.

  Of course, there’d been the coming-of-age celebrations in the Indian village, when the young Indian maids and boys danced together, choosing their partners amidst giggles and secret meetings. But even then she’d remained aloof.

  Until now.

  Happily she leaned back against Tucker and glanced up at him. “Do you think we’ll find it today?” she asked.

  For a moment Tucker was completely nonplussed. “Find it?”

  “The treasure. Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

  Tucker was no longer certain what they were doing. He was awash in sensations that he’d managed to ignore successfully for most of the last twelve years: desire, emotion, a state of constant arousal that no amount of making love seemed to dissipate.

  “What makes you think the treasure is here?” Lucky asked.

  “We—we don’t know. But there were several signs that made us think that the location is up there.”

  Tucker indicated the mountains beyond the upper bowl edge of the valley.

  “ ‘Up there’ covers a lot of territory,” Lucky observed. “Can’t you be a bit more specific?”

  “Not yet,” Raven answered, wishing they could. “When we get there, we’ll know. Until then we’ll just enjoy the ride.”