Blue Dalton Page 9

  Walker saw her come around the side of the cabin. He leaned across the kitchen sink and knocked the quarter-paned window open with a light bang of his fist. “How do you like your eggs?”

  “Cooked. Really cooked,” she said, looking up at him from where she crouched by the water spigot.

  From that particular angle, and without any forethought on his part, he could see down the front of her chambray shirt. If the woman had been inclined to wear clothes that fit instead of everything big and baggy, the angle wouldn’t have made a difference. But she wasn’t, and the angle did. The gentle rises of her breasts were exposed just enough to give his heart a start.

  “Cooked. Right,” he mumbled, ducking his head back inside. When he was sure she couldn’t see him, he gave in to the smile tugging at his mouth. He’d been tempted by the best, by women who’d made vocations out of teasing, women who’d made no secret of what they’d wanted from him. But Blue, like every other feeling she aroused in him—and aroused was the operative word—tempted him without even knowing it:

  “Cooked like your goose, Walker,” he whispered to himself, cracking eggs into the frying pan.

  Blue finished setting up Trapper’s food and water and checked his stitches before heading inside the cabin. On the porch step she took one last look at the morning light spilling over the high ridges of the Rawahs. The peaks glistened with remnants of winter’s snow. She took a deep breath, loving the dew-fresh air, the abundance of wilderness spreading out around her, and the comforting knowledge she was finally back where she belonged.

  “Breakfast’s ready, Blue. Come and get it,” she heard him holler from the kitchen. His words brought the faintest smile to her lips. He made it sound as if he’d been cooking her breakfast for years.

  Her smile quickly faded. She had to lie to him. To trust him was a sucker’s bet. Just because he’d kissed her didn’t make him a better man than all the rest, no matter who his mother had or had not loved. Straightening her shoulders, Blue strode into the cabin, determined to play her plan out to the last detail.

  Warmth from last night’s fire remained in the simply furnished living room, washing over her chilled skin with a gentle touch. She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it by the door. In daylight the cabin seemed as fresh and welcoming as the mountains outside. Sunlight streamed through the thick-glassed windows and burnished the pine paneling to a golden glow. Things she hadn’t noticed before struck her one by one: the casual disarray of books on the shelves in the corner, many of them open or marked with a slip of paper; the hutch next to the dining room table, filled with mismatched china; the sun-catcher in the window shaped like a trout, casting rainbows against the walls.

  Whatever else he was, Walker Evans was no drifter. The cabin was a home not a stopping place. It made facing him that much more difficult when she passed through the entry into the kitchen.

  Walker sensed her presence before he heard or saw her. He purposely kept his attention on the eggs. “Plates are in the cupboard next to the sink. Coffee mugs are hanging on the wall. Help yourself.”

  Blue did, then on impulse warmed his cup with coffee from the pot. In the small kitchen she had to reach around him, and as soon as she did she realized something besides impulse had prompted the gesture. She’d wanted to get closer to him, had been irresistibly drawn by his nearness and her memories of sunlight on his skin.

  Walker felt her brush against his arm. He looked down at the flaxen head below his shoulder and half-turned toward her. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Flustered, she set the pot on the stove and started to back away, but he reached out and captured her wrist. A shallow breath escaped her. She didn’t dare to raise her eyes. The bracelet glinted up at her, banding his dark skin and the light-brown hair dusting his forearm. The sleek silver contrasted with the prominent veins running down the back of his hand, its beauty matching the strength she felt in his grasp.

  “You should have let me fix this,” he said, lifting her hand into the light and tracing the new bandage with his thumb.

  “They looked at it in Walden, put some stuff on it, and I cleaned and bandaged it again last night.” Her gaze slipped down to the waistband of his jeans, and heat rose in her cheeks. The denim was soft, worn to the contours of his hips and the junctures of his thighs, the creases indelibly marked by faded color. He’d pulled her into his lap two nights ago and she’d felt him against her.

  “Is your tetanus up-to-date?”

  “Yes.” She gave a little shrug. “Seems I’m always doing something to myself.”

  “Now, why do I find that so easy to believe?” His soft laughter washed over her, heightening her blush. He released her and returned his attention to finishing their breakfast.

  It took Blue a second or two to remember what she’d been doing. Then with a jerky movement she opened the cupboard to get their plates, determined to put a tight rein on her overheated imagination. He’d touched her, and parts of her had crumbled inside—the smart parts. She wouldn’t let it happen again.

  He filled the plates as she held them out. “I put some things on the table I thought you might be interested in.”

  Still disconcerted by her thoughts, she didn’t respond.

  “Did your father ever tell you where Lacey’s Lode came from?” he asked.

  “No. He barely talked about it at all . . . except when he was drinking.”

  He didn’t comment on her admission. “Well, neither of them could ever be positive, but my dad had plenty of theories, most of which he pursued with a diligence I wish he’d used on finding the jewelry instead. I guess your old man had him too scared to do that, though.”

  “He wasn’t a scary man,” she came to her father’s defense. “He was quiet, kept his own counsel, but he never hurt anybody.”

  “You come by it honestly then.” He set the pan back on the stove, and when she looked up at him with a quizzical glance, he explained further, “You’re the quietest damn woman I ever met. Half the time I can read your mind, and the other half I don’t have a clue. Do you ever tell anybody what’s going on in your head?”

  Read her mind? She sincerely hoped not, for she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt which of her thoughts she hadn’t been able to conceal. Her thoughts of him came upon her too suddenly, with too much force to hide. “No one has ever asked,” she stated bluntly, and started to head for the table in the living room.

  But he didn’t let her go, stopping her with a question. “And if someone did? If I did? Would you tell me?”

  “No.” She didn’t need to think about her answer. He was the last person on earth she’d tell her thoughts to, since lately most of them centered around deceiving him and more than a few of them dwelled on kissing him again.

  Walker followed her to the table, carrying their coffee cups, no less mystified by the lady than he’d been before.

  “Have you ever heard the term ‘old pawn’?” he asked, turning the conversation to something he did understand and knew would interest her. He sat down and opened one of the books on the table.

  “I saw it once. Used it once.”

  “To the man you asked about the value of the pieces.” It was a statement of fact not a question, and Blue wondered again about him reading her mind. “I bet he didn’t believe you at first.”

  “Not at first,” she admitted.

  “Read this.” He turned the book toward her.

  Blue skimmed the first couple of paragraphs, until her attention was caught by a date and the word “robbery.” She lowered her fork to her plate and pulled the book closer, and the further she read, the more fascinated she became. The Buckner & Edward Trading Post . . . 1898 . . . robbed by armed outlaws . . . Slater Gang tracked into the southern ranges of the Colorado Rockies. She flipped the page. Buckner killed in pursuit . . . Edward sold post to Wattel brothers in spring of 1990.

  “Doesn’t say what they got away with,” she said.

  “Doesn’t have to. It was a trading post i
n New Mexico, close to the Indian reservations. They all had pawn vaults, and in every pawn vault was a treasure hoard of Indian jewelry. Whatever else they took, they wouldn’t have left the silver and turquoise.”

  “This isn’t proof,” she insisted, not wanting to believe yet another story of theft related to her inheritance.

  “The only proof we’ll ever have is if the pawn tickets are still attached to the jewelry when we find it.”

  “Then what?” She glanced up from the book.

  “Then we can name our price.”

  “What about descendants?”

  “Whose? Buckner’s? Edward probably wrote the loss off when he sold the business. The Wattel brothers started with a clean slate. The Indians got their value when they pawned their hard goods, and Slater stole the stuff. Evans and Dalton, Blue, those are the only descendants we need to worry about, unless you want to spend another hundred years sorting everything out.”

  He watched her slip back into the quiet deepness of her thoughts, her delicate jaw set as she cut off a piece of egg. He wondered what else he could do to draw her out. The conversation obviously hadn’t worked. Staring at her probably didn’t help either.

  But damn she was pretty. A rainbow from the window caught in her hair, slipping to grace the tawny skin of her cheek every time she moved her head. He had the wildest compulsion to capture it with his thumb in a caress. He wished she would smile again. He wished she would look up at him with her dark-brown eyes and smile at him.

  Ha, he thought with a self-derisive grin. This was the day they’d find what they’d both been looking for, and then she’d go on her way. He was tempted to lie to her just to keep her around a while longer, but that wouldn’t be right. If nothing else, he wanted her to know him as a man of his word, the one man who hadn’t tried to cheat her.

  “Looks like a good day today.” He offered up the weather, the most innocuous thing he could think to talk about.

  Blue cast a glance out the far window, avoiding even the slightest chance of accidentally running into his green-flecked, amber eyes, then looked back to her plate. “Yes.”

  The rainbow on her skin refracted with her movement, tangling in her hair and reappearing as a palette brush of color below her cheekbone. Walker forced his gaze away from her, before he actually did reach out and touch her.

  They finished eating in silence, Blue staring at her plate, and Walker trying not to stare at her. When he’d downed his last piece of toast, he stood up and walked over to the bookcase on the other side of the living room. He came back with a roll of maps and set them on the table.

  “Time to get to work,” he said, flattening out the maps. “Show me the mark.”

  Blue fumbled with her napkin, not daring to give in too easily, not exactly sure how to lie with conviction. With all the thieving and lying already attributed to Lacey’s Lode, she didn’t know why hers had to feel like the worst. “You’ll have to give me something first,” she said, buying a moment’s time.

  He glanced at her. “I already gave you my word. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No.”

  Fine, he thought. If he’d been in her position, he wouldn’t have given anything away for free either.

  “Two hundred twenty degrees,” he said, conceding the first of his carefully memorized directions.

  “How far?”

  “Two.”

  “Two what?”

  “He didn’t say, but it’s got to be miles. He gets more detailed later.”

  “How detailed?”

  “Paces, different bearings, maybe landmarks.”

  Good, Blue thought, rising from her chair and joining him at the side of the table. She could count paces and make compass bearings when they were on the trail.

  Resting one hand on her hip, she looked down at the map of North Park and made a mental note of two miles on a 220-degree bearing from the true mark, knowing she’d have to map it out later for accuracy. Then she placed the tip of her finger a fraction of an inch, more than a mile, to the left.

  Walker grinned. She’d landed right where he’d expected, smack dab on the North Star ranch.

  “The starting point is about here. Do you have a bigger-scale map of this area?” she asked.

  “How does five inches to the mile sound?”

  “Like you made it yourself,” she answered warily, slanting him a glance.

  “Almost. I enlarged the U.S. topo.” He pulled another map out of the pile and set it on top. Blue took one look and immediately went on alert. He’d done more than enlarge the map; he’d filled in all the details: the ranch house, the outbuildings, the fence lines. The North Star was spread out before her in all its dilapidated glory. Some of the areas were shaded in, others had notations written on them, all of the additions bespeaking of a search as thorough as her own.

  “You’ve been doing your homework,” she said, using the flip remark to hide her agitation. “I should have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “I could return the favor,” he countered calmly.

  Blue bit back an angry retort, and said only, “Let’s get going and get this over with.”

  She left him standing at the table and strode over to the door. Walker watched her slip into her jacket and grab her pack before she disappeared out the door. For a person on the verge of finding a fortune, even half a fortune, she didn’t seem very excited. But then, his own excitement about Lacey’s Lode seemed strangely subdued this morning.

  Maybe he’d looked too long without success to believe it would come today. Maybe he’d hung too many expectations on old dreams. Or maybe something more important had just walked out of his cabin.

  * * *

  This is too easy,” Walker muttered, pacing the length of the North Star ranchhouse porch.

  Blue silently agreed, cursing herself for not thinking faster when they’d pulled up. All she’d been thinking of was getting him as far away as possible from the true starting mark, and of giving herself an easily identifiable point to work from later when she remapped the directions in the privacy of his bedroom.

  But the ranch house? She could have done better blindfolded if he hadn’t laid his hand on her shoulder when she’d leaned over the bed of the truck to retrieve her pack. The gesture had been casual; her reaction had been anything but casual. He’d lifted her pack out for her, then grinned at her obvious discomfort, and, she was sure, the blush she’d felt stealing up her cheeks.

  “Well, this is it.” She knelt on the porch and pulled a compass out of her backpack. “Two-twenty?” she asked, as if she’d forget a number she’d burned into her memory.

  “Yeah,” he answered, coming over and kneeling beside her. He unrolled the map, anchoring the curled corners with his knees and his large hands, bringing his body much too close to suit her.

  She straightened up.

  “Relax, Blue. I don’t bite,” he drawled.

  Liar, she thought. He’d bit her, quite gently, on the neck two nights ago. Exasperated with herself and the wayward course of her mind, she tucked her hair behind her ear and forced her concentration on the business at hand. When she had the bearing, he measured off the miles and made a mark.

  His eyes immediately narrowed, and Blue cussed silently again. From the looks of the map, she had them hanging off a cliff. The contour intervals were damn close together, but neither of them mentioned the fact.

  “Let’s go,” was all he said, rising with the map in his hands. With a few quick moves he had it rolled up and stuffed into his back pocket.

  Blue hefted her pack to her back, knowing she wasn’t going to get anything else out of him until they’d followed this wild-goose chase to the end.

  Seven

  By the middle of the third day Blue was beginning to doubt if they’d ever get to the end of anything. She had rimrocked them straight out from the North Star, and they’d spent hours backtracking and bushwhacking their way to the bottom of the cliff by another trail. Abel’s convoluted directions had eff
ectively ruined the rest of that first afternoon and the next, and had pretty much turned the current one into a swamp of frayed tempers, muttered curses, and circular paths.

  Groaning softly, she unloaded her pack and dropped to her knees. Let Walker wear a hole in the forest floor; she was taking a break. She dug an orange out of a side pocket and arranged her pack and then herself against a tree trunk. She wasn’t worried about losing him; he’d been crashing around the same quadrant for an hour, and she knew he was never going to find what he was looking for, the “BRK” from the map he’d burned. Bear Rock, she’d told him. He’d believed her, and now she was just waiting for him to find some rock that from some angle looked something like a bear. Then she’d get the fifth in the long line of directions her father had left. She’d never known her father as a puzzle lover, but he’d sure put his all into this game of hide-and-seek; much as Walker was. But the man had to give up sooner or later, and she’d never give up. She’d have Lacey’s Lode by the end of the week.

  “Or die trying,” she muttered, digging her fingers into the peel and tearing it away piece by piece. She’d give him one more day, and if they hadn’t killed each other by then, she was going to shoot him. The thought alone made her feel better, as if she were back in control of at least one part of her life. She bit into the orange and ended up nipping the tip of her tongue. She quickly pressed it against her teeth and sucked hard.

  “Damn him,” she mumbled around the fruit, blaming Walker for her clumsiness. The man grated on her nerves, set her teeth on edge. She couldn’t get within ten feet of him without wanting to run the other way, and the biggest room in his cabin barely measured fifteen feet in length. They were like two caged cats at night, in much too small a cage. Hell, even the western slope of the Medicine Bows wasn’t big enough for the both of them. Her only consolation was that he didn’t seem any more pleased with the situation than she was, or so she told herself every evening when he muttered his gruff good night.