"Nowhere in particular," he said, and scraped a match up the seam of his pants.
Amanda's gaze strayed over his features. She was mesmerized by the way the flare of orange light heightened and defined the rugged planes of his face. He really was handsome, she thought... in an arrogant, untamed sort of way. The observation reminded her of another question she'd wanted, but not dared to ask him. "You aren't really an Indian, are you, Mr. Chandler?"
He drew on the cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs until it burned. It was released in a long, cloudy stream. "Didn't I tell you to get some sleep?"
"Yes. And I will... after you answer my question. Are you or aren't you an Indian?"
"Half. There's your bedroll." He pointed to the rolled up blanket coiled on the grass... on the opposite side of her little fire. Amanda couldn't help noticing he'd positioned it as far away from his as he could get it—yet close enough so they'd both have heat from the fire.
She sighed, and glanced down. Two inches of moonswept grass separated their hips. The span might as well have been a mile.
"Well?" he prodded when she didn't move.
"In a minute." She nuzzled her cheek atop the pillow of her knees. "I may be a woman, Mr. Chandler, but I'm not stupid. I know you're only half Indian. One look at your eyes told me that. What I meant was, you don't act like any Indian I've ever read about. You don't dress like one," she remembered his moccasins, the eagle feather tucked into his hatband, the long hair, braid and feather, "for the most part,” she amended, “and you certainly don't talk like one."
Jake clamped the cigarette between his teeth and squinted at her. The glowing tip dangled when he spoke. "But I look like one, mostly, and you want to know why. Is that it?"
"Yes."
Whole minutes slipped past, and still Jake didn't answer. Eventually, Amanda gave up waiting. She had a feeling he wasn't going to discuss it.
The tiredness she'd been fighting seeped back. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her of the supper they'd skipped. She was too tired and sore to get up and rummage through her saddlebag. Stifling a yawn in her throat, her lashes fluttered down. She didn't fall asleep immediately, but instead let the heat of Jake warming her side and the sounds of the night temporarily soothe her. Finding Roger seemed like a world away at the moment.
The sound of the campfire crackling brought a smile to her lips. No matter what sort of trickery Jake had used, she had lit that fire by herself. Amanda was more proud of that than she'd been upon conquering her first embroidery sampler—and that was saying something! Which reminded her...
"Mr. Chandler?" she murmured groggily.
"Hmmm?"
"I owe you a good slap for what you did to me with the matches."
His chuckle was light and airy. It tickled its way down her spine. "Yeah, I expect you do. Tell you what. Slap me tomorrow, princess."
"I will." She half sighed, half yawned. "Remind me if I forget, would you?"
She heard Jake chuckle, but if he ever answered her, his reply fell on deaf ears. A few seconds later she was asleep.
Chapter 6
The grass crunched. Even the chirp of birds couldn't mask the sound. Amanda winced, as much from the pain that stabbed up her leg as from the noise, and tried to soften her tread as she crept around the ashy remains of the campfire.
Her gaze swept the clearing, which was touched by the pink fingers of approaching daybreak. A chilly breeze rustled the carpet of grass, the branches of pine trees. Other than that, everything was still. Things were as they should be. Nothing was disturbed. Nothing looked or sounded out of place.
Amanda wasn't fooled. While the shadows were deceiving, the uneasiness that iced down her spine was not. The curls at the nape of her neck prickled—the wispy gold strands felt alive with the current of unseen eyes, eyes that were watching her every move. It was a disturbing feeling.
Goosebumps dotted her arms. She rubbed them away, more sure than ever that she and Jake were not alone. If instinct didn't prove it, the sound of a twig snapping did.
Her fingers grazed the pocket of her skirt, but the bulge of metal tucked inside brought little comfort. She had fished the antique pistol out of her saddlebag when she'd first been jarred awake. It wasn't loaded; she had no bullets. If anyone was out there, she'd hoped just the sight of a gun would scare whoever it was away.
Her gaze fixed on Jake. He lay huddled beneath a thin blue blanket on the opposite side of the clearing. A muted sliver of light filtered through the ceiling of leaves. The pinkish ray glinted off the top of his blacker-than-black head. Though she couldn't see his face—the blanket was drawn up too high—the position of his shoulders suggested he was lying on his side, facing away from her.
Another twig snapped.
Amanda quickened her pace, careful to keep her steps as quiet as her limping gait would allow. Fear made the chore difficult. The feeling of being watched not only persisted, it grew. Her heart pounded in her ears. The tempo was so loud she was surprised the racket didn't wake Jake up.
Sighing in relief, she reached his side of the clearing and went down on one knee behind him. The ground felt cold and lumpy beneath her. An icy chill seeped through her skirt, cooling the fear-warmed flesh beneath.
She shivered, and her hand rose. Her fingers trembled, hesitating for one throbbing heartbeat before making contact with Jake's shoulder, which was padded only slightly by the blanket.