Wild Fire (Book II)

Quiet And Still

     Arthur sat down on his cot beneath the lean-to with a thump. He plucked the worn leather cattleman's hat from his head and sat it on the side table near his mother's photo. Two big hands scrubbed down the center of his face wiping away at the tired cobwebs that threatened him there. Something was up. The cowboy could just feel it. And although he didn't think Dutch would harm the young girl, he knew that sparkle in his eye just as good as he knew his own last name. There was a plan swirling in the man's head. Of that, he was sure. But this plan he didn't intend to share with anyone. With John safe and the immediate threats behind them for now, Arthur's instinct to protect something was left searching. Peace was never a thing he reveled in for too long because peace never lasted.

     A deep weight settled across his shoulders as he sighed splaying fingers along the tops of his knees in thought. He turned his head to look towards the journal that lay on the table along with his hat and reached, picking its leather binding up and opening it in his hand. Causally, he scooted back on the cot and took the lead between his fingers opening up to the first clear page.

     There he drew her, awake and staring back at him. Her blonde hair was captured in a tie no one could see, and round eyes asking for his help. She was a lovely little thing, Arthur mused. And although Dutch's normal flavor of women rested in dark waves or fiery red, this girl's golden strands didn't seem to matter much to him. He saw something else in her that Arthur couldn't put a finger on. Something before Miss O'shea and even before the beloved Annabelle. But what? Under the drawing he began to write.

     I am not sure why Dutch hovers over Emma as he does. I would hope that it is because he truly wants to help the young woman for both John and Lilah's sake. But Dutch being Dutch, well...there is always another reason for his actions. I can only hope he has the girl's best interests in mind, but something inside me tells me, I need to keep a watchful eye over her. Sleep with one eye open. Something I intend to do until that little one is on her own two feet.

     He closed the journal wrapping its leather bindings around it and set it back on the desk. Uneasily, he lay back on the cot propping one arm under his head and turning his face back to Dutch's tent. The charming leader had gone back inside, but the lamplight still glowed from within. He couldn't do anything but wait. But Arthur was used to waiting. He had honed the skill of patience a long time ago. So, for now he closed his eyes and settled in. The stars would have to watch over her tonight because sleep was a force he would gratefully give into.

***

     Dutch paced back and forth by the cot holding the still shivering girl in its folds. The thought of her being cold or scared genuinely irritated the man. If it was one thing Dutch Van der linde hated, it was the feeling of being helpless. For a moment he just stood there above her, one hand raised to his mouth feathering the fur of his mustache and lip, his other arm crossed under his elbow as a prop while he thought. Maybe he COULD do something.

     Quietly as he could he stripped down to the red union suit he wore at night. He knelt by the bed and stroked his ringed hand across the softness of her face. "Dutch..." The word slipped from her lips. He stopped frozen, his mouth dropping open.

     The usual hard lines of his face softened with disbelief. She had spoken for the first time since he had held her in his arms on horseback from the trade with Colm. And she had said HIS name. A deep warmth filled him from his toes to his shoulders. The sound of his own name on her lips was like silk moving through the air of the low-lit tent. It encircled him. Held him in place with its perfectness. He wanted to hear it again. Hear her say his name so beautifully, spilling across her tongue. He wanted.......... He wanted to be the reason why she said it.

     He blinked, shaking the spell of it from his eyes, and closed his mouth with firm determination. Carefully as he could, he pulled back the furs and stretched in behind her. Once there he opened the front of his shirt as much as it would allow and lifted the back of the girl's dress until skin ran beneath his fingers. He didn't look, giving her as much modesty as he could. But once there, he reached a long arm around her and pulled her to him, pressing her chilled body against his heat. Almost instantly the shivering stopped. She curled against him seeking the warmth of his chest like a puppy nuzzling, searching for safety. He welcomed her, securing his muscled forearm under and around both her arms, pressing her tight to him and setting his chin atop the nape of her neck.

     She stirred, forcing him to lift his head and turned just slightly, her face looking up at him from below. Her eyes still closed; her 'O' of a mouth open in deep sleep. He studied her, striking the now peaceful look that smoothed the twisted lines of her brow. Beneath his waist, he felt that startled tingle beside her again. A child caught with a cookie frozen with nowhere to hide.

     He forced himself to relax, hugging her closer, if that were even possible, and leaned his mouth to the still visible scar on her bottom lip and kissed her gently there. He could feel the raised skin against the wetness of his tongue. A branding of her unknown torture. Dutch's eyes grew dark and sad. And then they blackened with rage. Never again. Never again would another man touch her. Not a single strand of her golden hair would be harmed, not ever. He would see to it. He would see to the destruction of anything or anyone that even breathed the thought of ever hurting her again. Not while he held her. 'Not while she is mine.' he thought resolutely. Finally, he settled back behind her, tucking his nose into her hair drawing in the sweet smell of her and relaxed into sleep.