From Runaway To Pregnant Bride. Tatiana March
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The thudding of the horse’s hooves beneath them altered rhythm. They were slowing down. Annabel eased her hold around the stranger’s waist and peeked past his shoulder. Ahead, the pack mule was grazing on stunted vegetation.
They came to an abrupt halt. The man twisted around in the saddle, curled one powerful arm about her and swept her down to her feet. “You’ll ride the mule.”
For an instant, Annabel stood still, staring up at the rugged features of her rescuer. Regret filled her at the loss of his warmth and strength and the sense of safety she’d felt huddled up against him.
“We ain’t got all day,” he said. “Get on the mule.”
“The mule?” Jolted out of her thoughts, Annabel took a cautious step toward the animal. The mule lifted its head and bared its teeth. Parcels and bundles filled the pack saddle, leaving no room for a rider. She turned to the stranger. “Can’t we ride double on the horse? I don’t weigh much.”
If anything, his expression grew even starker. “You cling like a flea.”
“I...” Her mouth pursed at the cutting remark, but she fought back. “And you’re no softer than a rock.”
“Good,” he said. “Then we’ll both be more comfortable if you ride the mule.”
He vaulted down from the saddle, went to the mule and rearranged the load to create a space for her. Turning to face her again, he studied her in that disconcerting manner he had. His gaze lingered on her features a moment longer. He started to say something, then shrugged his shoulders as if deciding it didn’t matter.
“I’ll boost you up,” he told her. Annabel stood and waited. At Merlin’s Leap, if there was no mounting block for her to use, the grooms laced their hands together to create a step.
The stranger made no effort to link his hands to form a step. He merely stood in silence, then gave a huff of frustration. Bending at the waist, he placed one hand against her midriff, the other hand beneath her rump and shoved, tossing her up like a sack of grain. The mule bucked. Annabel flung up in the air, but somehow, as if by miracle, she landed astride between the packages.
“Let’s go,” the man said.
In a blur, he was up on the buckskin and on his way. Alarmed at the prospect of being left behind, Annabel kicked her heels into the flanks of the mule and started bouncing along.
They rode at a steady lope through the dusty desert plateau, stopping only to let the animals rest and drink every now and then. When they came to a river crossing, they refilled their canteens. At another rest stop, the stranger retreated a few paces. Turning his back, he unbuckled his belt and set to work with the buttons on his fly.
“I’ve got to go, too,” Annabel mumbled and darted off in the other direction.
The man glanced over his shoulder. “Mind the rattlers.”
Annabel’s heart was pounding while she took care of her needs behind a creosote bush. Pretending to be a boy would turn out to be a lot more complicated if she had to share close living quarters with a man, especially with a young, attractive one.
* * *
The kid had been crying. Probably had no idea the tear tracks on his dusty face gave him away. When Clay had first noticed the evidence of weeping, he’d tried to think of something reassuring to say, but words had failed him, just like they always did. He didn’t like lying, and in most cases reassurances were nothing but lies, or at best overoptimistic guesses.
The kid found a rock to stand on and mounted on the mule. It seemed to be a point of pride for the kid to climb into the saddle unassisted. Clay vaulted on the buckskin, but instead of setting off he idled closer to the mule.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Andrew Fairfield.”
“I’m Clay Collier. The man who owns the claim is Mr. Hicks. He can be a bad-tempered devil, but he is generally fair, and he doesn’t go in for beatings.”
“How many men does he employ?”
His brows went up. “How many men?” he said with a hint of mockery. “What do you think he owns, the Vulture Mining Company?”
From the blank look on the kid’s face, Clay surmised the kid had never heard of the richest gold and silver deposit in the southwestern territories.
“You said it’s a mine.” The kid gave him a belligerent scowl.
“Out here, any shovel hole in the ground is called a mine. Where’re you from, kid?”
“Bos—New York City.”
“Well, kid from New York City, this mine employs me, and now you.”
The kid lifted his chin and spoke with a grave earnestness. “I will work for my keep. I am grateful for the opportunity.”
“Ain’t those fancy words. You must have some schooling, kid.” Clay gave him an encouraging nod. “Forget what I said about crawling into holes. Swinging a shovel and a pickaxe is just what you need. Get some meat on your bones.”
Clay took another second to make sure the kid was safely mounted on the mule before he sent the buckskin into an easy trot, satisfied that the kid didn’t seem quite so scared anymore. The familiar feelings of protectiveness surged inside him, mixed with memories of grief and guilt. He quashed the flash of regret. It would be for only a month. Surely, he’d manage to keep the kid safe that long, and could send him off along his way in better shape than he’d arrived.
* * *
The sun sank behind the hills. Twilight fell. As they gained altitude, the sagebrush gave way to pine forests. Gradually, the scenery grew rugged, with deep ravines cutting across outcroppings of gray rock.
Annabel concentrated on staying on the mule while her rescuer led the animal by the rope. Her buttocks hurt from bouncing on the pack saddle. Her stomach growled with hunger. Dust clogged her throat. But she dared not suggest that they stop for a rest, for Clay Collier might have little sympathy for weakness.
When they finally pulled to a halt, darkness blanketed the landscape. The air had turned chilly, making Annabel shiver in her thin cotton shirt and threadbare wool trousers.
Wearily, she observed her surroundings. They were in a clearing of some sort. Ahead, she could see a big, burly man looming in the light of a storm lantern he held high in the air.
Behind the man, shadows played on a solid wall of gray rock. A wooden canopy with a primitive kitchen beneath it huddled against the cliffs. To the left of the canopy, a bonfire burned, illuminating what looked like a cavernous stone overhang.
“I was worried,” the big man said. “Thought you might not make it before the storm breaks.”
“Pushed it hard,” Clay replied. “Brought you another worker. A kid from New York City. Got off the train at the water tower and was left stranded. I’ll take him back next month.”
The man stepped closer, lifting the storm lantern higher. The light fell on his features. Between the brim of his hat and the thick black beard Annabel could see a hooked nose and a pair of shrewd dark eyes.
“I’m a good worker, sir.” She deepened her voice. “I’ll earn my keep.”
The man studied her in the light of the lantern. “Polite, too,” he said. “I have nothing against a kid. It’s women I can’t abide.”
He turned his attention to Clay and questioned him about the delivery. Annabel slid down from the pack mule, alarmed by the man’s blunt words. In silence, she waited while the burly mine owner went to hang the storm lantern on a hook beneath the kitchen canopy. He returned to take the mule by the rope and led the animal to the open cavern, where he began to strip away the load.
Clay had dismounted and was moving about in the darkness. Annabel could hear