her small stature, especially with yards of sodden fabric weighing her down. He dove beneath the murky water and swam toward the last place he’d seen her yellow dress.
The current thrust him around the bend where the banks of the creek widened near the place he’d crossed with Hamish on his ferry only the day before. Spying a heap of yellow lying on the wooden raft, Duncan cut through the water. He grabbed hold of a corner post to keep from being sent farther downriver. Resting his forehead against the hewn wood, he drew in a few calming breaths, and then he glanced at the lady.
She lay on her back, her hand across her midsection. If it weren’t for the rapid rise and fall of her chest, he’d assume she enjoyed resting on her perch much like the water turtles who gathered on rocks to sunbathe. However, the sun remained hidden far behind the clouds and the heavy rain.
Duncan swiped the water from his eyes and pushed himself onto the anchored ferry. The back of his head pounded with the fierce clang of a hammer hitting a rail tie. Leaning on his elbows, he circled his neck, stretching the tense muscles, trying to relieve the thundering in his skull. However, if he was to be honest with himself, which he made a point to do—after all, if a man couldn’t tell himself the truth, he wasn’t worth a fleck of dust—he hoped to settle the fright right out of his bones. He’d known the woman less than a quarter of an hour, and already she’d torn more emotion out of him than any lady of his acquaintance since he’d left Scotland, ten years ago at the young age of seventeen. She’d made him care about her well-being and play the knight.
He could hear her laughter in his mind before he’d even completed the thought. If it hadn’t been for him, she’d still be standing on the bank, hands on hips, commanding him to halt. Her ability to navigate the creek, in a gown no less, and pull herself to safety, impressed him. He should have listened to her. Then he wouldn’t have dropped the rifle.
“I suppose I owe you an apology.”
The sound of the creek rushing around the bend roared in her silence. The tap of each raindrop smacking the surfaces around him increased in intensity. Her lack of sarcasm unnerved him. An uneasiness pricked the base of his neck.
“Miss?” He glanced over his shoulder and noticed her spectacles no longer rested on the bridge of her nose. He turned more toward her and took note of how her hair had come completely loose from its knot. His thoughts jumbled into a knotted ball of yarn. Before he could halt himself, he reached out to tap her shoulder and found his fingers brushing against her hair. Not one, but all of his fingers became captivated by the drenched ringlets. He could almost imagine spending his days like this, with her lounging on a crude, rickety raft in a muddy creek instead of spending his days being wooed by men with ideas bigger than their bank accounts, stiff collars and musky cigars.
A stone settled in the pit of his stomach and he jerked his hand back, his fingers snagging in her hair. He was surprised that she didn’t cry out like he’d expect ladies to do when having their hair pulled.
He turned onto his knees and grabbed hold of her shoulders and began to shake her. Warm, sticky residue seeped through her gown, oozing against his hand. He eased his hand back, knowing what he’d find. That stone in his stomach began to mull around like boulders tumbling from a mountaintop. Blood spread from her shoulder and down the sleeve of her gown.
“Duncan Murray, you’re as black-hearted as they come and you’ve done a lot of rotten things, but ye never shot a lassie afore,” he told himself. He’d never shot anyone outside of the war.
He glanced around the small cove to see if Hamish had followed by land, but only drab gray trees waiting for their spring coats to sprout lined the river banks. The old man was nowhere to be seen. Rusa Valley lay east half an hour’s ride by horseback. A well-worn path to the west would take him back toward Hamish and the hopes of shelter.
Duncan stood to his feet, the ferry rocking beneath them. Scooping her into his arms, he settled her against his chest, her head resting in the crook of his arm. The warmth of her breath filtered through the cotton strands of his soaked shirt, singeing his skin.
He stepped over the ledge, onto the bank and then readjusted her. Her arms snaked around his neck, causing his pulse to thunder. The clanging of bells, much like the ones alerting a town to a fire, roared in his ears, warning him he trod dangerous territory. He should just lay her right down on the muddy bank, forget about Hamish’s offer and hightail it back to Topeka. Perhaps leave Kansas altogether, especially given the certainty the feel of her in his arms would never leave his memory.
This woman had managed to steal his wits. One touch of her left him rattled, ready to jump in his father’s wastrel footsteps. In his father’s case, married to one woman, his mind on another. Several others.
He ducked beneath the limb of a tree and came face-to-face with the end of a revolver and the barrel of a rifle. The revolver clicked as the mechanism slid back. He eyed the two women pulling a bead on him, and he nearly dropped the woman in his arms. The piercing dark eyes and matching scowls told him all he needed to know. These women were all sisters.
“How many more of you are there?” he asked.
The shorter one narrowed her eyes. “You railroad men have tried all sorts of things to get our land, mister.”
“Kidnapping isn’t one of them,” the taller one added.
“Railroad man? Kidnapping?”
What did the railroad have to do with these women? Weston had briefed him on the latest plans to build the iron road through the county only days ago through the middle of Rusa Valley, and this bit of land was far from it. Before asking what they meant, the shorter one let out a high-pitched scream as she removed her finger from the trigger. “You shot Camy!” She whipped her head around and faced the taller sister. “He shot Camy.”
He glanced down at the woman in his arms. Almond-shaped eyes rested in a sun-kissed, heart-shaped face. Her bow-shaped lips were slightly parted. Her dark curls formed a pillow for her head against his arm, and he couldn’t help imagining gazing upon her beauty every day for the rest of his life and calling the name that suited her.
“Cam—Cameron Sims?” Dread curled in his stomach, pounding like wild horses in his head, and he nearly dropped her. So much for her not being Hamish’s relation. So much for her not being the woman Hamish wanted him to marry. Everything in him told him to get away from her as fast as he could.
Her lashes fluttered and then opened. A pool of warm cocoa with flecks of gold blinked up at him, laced with pain. She blinked again. “You rescued me.”
“Not exactly,” he snapped, ashamed of his actions causing her need to be rescued.
Her eyes grew wide at his terse response, and at the moment he wasn’t apologetic. He’d been a fool to follow Hamish out here with the promise of a home worthy of Scotland only to be swindled into marriage by a conniving old man. The woman in his arms was far from homely.
Her mouth opened and closed as if she wanted to say something. Instead she raised her head and looked from one sister to the other and back to him. She started to push against his shoulders and groaned in pain. Eyelids falling, her head fell and dangled over his arm. His protective instinct had him rolling her closer into him. The curve of her cheek resting against his chest.
The sisters lowered their weapons and rushed toward them.
The taller of the two sisters probed Camy’s wound. “Is this her only injury?”
Duncan shrugged. “It’s
