Amanda knew she should be used to the grueling pace he set. She wasn't. Her routine at the end of each punishing day varied only slightly. First, she would clamber awkwardly from the saddle, her muscles sore, her body stiff and aching. Some nights she was too tired to do more than gulp down a quick meal, then fall instantly asleep. Most times she skipped the meal. Baths in icy mountain-fed lakes or rivers were confined to the early hours of the morning, when her energy was at a premium.
Jake, on the other hand, appeared not to suffer at all from the endless hours of riding. If he was sore, if his back ached from so much time spent straddling a horse, he didn't show it. If he was tired from scouting the woods well into the night, long after Amanda had fallen asleep, he didn't show that either.
Each night Amanda had studied him critically in the firelight. Her reaction was always the same. Disgust—with herself, with him. She'd yet to see him look as bone-weary as she always felt. Just the opposite; the expended energy brought a healthy flush to his coppery cheeks. The daily exertion seemed to already be filling out muscle tone that, in her jaded opinion, couldn't stand much more improvement. It was frustrating that he could look so good, while she felt like a wrung-out dishcloth.
What had started off as a cool but sunny autumn day soon turned sour. Shortly after noon clouds began rolling across the sky. The dimming light made finding Roger's trail almost impossible. Almost, because Jake did somehow manage to locate the prints. Amanda was beginning to think he was a better tracker than he'd let on, and that only confirmed her belief that she'd picked the best man to help her locate Roger.
Roger.
Amanda shivered and hugged the cloak she'd tossed over her shoulders. It didn't help. While the thick black wool kept some of the cold afternoon air at bay, it did nothing to soothe the chill inside of her. What, she wondered, was happening with Roger?
Though she'd been struggling to keep her fears to herself—what good would sharing them with Jake do?—they still ate at her. And now that Jake was no longer talking to her, Amanda found herself with endless hours to think, to dwell on the situation, to worry. What had the kidnapper done to Roger so far? What horrible things would he do to the boy in the future? How was Roger faring? Was he cold? Frightened? Did he think she'd abandoned him? Better yet... who had taken him and why?
Her mind whirled, yet she came up with no concrete answers.
Ignoring Amanda Lennox as best he could, Jake followed the tracks. He pushed onward even when the storm clouds began to look ominous. It wasn't until a rumble of thunder echoed in the distance that he grudgingly slowed the pace. Though the storm was brewing a good distance off, it was coming. He could no longer hope it would blow past them.
The breeze picked up in the late afternoon. The thunderclaps started coming closer together, louder, reverberating over the densely wooded mountains, making the ground tremble.
Sighing with aggravation, Jake reined in the white.
Instinctively, Amanda knew Jake was stopping because of her. A quick glance confirmed the suspicion. His rigid seat said that, had he been alone, he would have continued, impending rain be damned. His uncompromising posture bespoke an aversion to all things weak and feminine—especially those hailing from Boston.
Amanda's jaw ached and her temples pounded from gritting her teeth throughout the day. It was the only way she knew to contain her anger. What was the man's problem now? she wondered crossly. Did he think she would melt if a little rain splattered on her? That she'd drown in tears from a good dousing? Not likely! She was made of stronger stuff than that—at least she hoped she was. And that, Amanda decided hotly, was a lesson about her that Jake Chandler sorely needed to learn. The sooner the better.
She maneuvered the mare up close to the white. The horses had long since grown used to the smell of each other; neither shied from the enforced proximity, nor did they give the other more than a curious glance, "Why are we stopping?" she demanded.
He shrugged. It was a tense, frustrated gesture. "In case you haven't noticed, princess, it's going to rain."
"Hard as this may be for you to believe, storm clouds and that distinct, acidy aroma are indigenous to all parts of the country before a storm. And thunder sounds the same no matter where you are." Her fingers tightened on the reins, and her chin tipped up a haughty notch. Amanda thought it a pity Jake didn't glance her way and therefore missed her subtle show of defiance. "I know it's going to rain, Mr. Chandler. What I don't know, but what I'd like for you to explain to me, is why we are stopping."
Jake kept his gaze riveted to the top of the hill they were only minutes from cresting. His voice, when it came, was low and gritty. "There's a cabin at the bottom of this hill. It's small, not what your used to, not by a long shot, but it's warm and dry. If you hurry you can probably reach it before the storm starts."
"Why?"
His gaze narrowed. Cold and piercing, his attention lit on her briefly, then moved quickly away. "Why what?"
"Why are we stopping? If you can keep going, I certainly can. Contrary to popular belief, a little rain won't hurt me."
Jake kept his opinion on that to himself. He figured that swallowing the words back would, in the long run, be less trouble for them both. The last thing he wanted was to argue with this woman... again. They didn't have time to fight. The storm was closing in quickly. Experience said that once the rain began it would come down hard and furious and cold. For some insane reason he wanted Amanda Lennox someplace warm and dry before that happened. He didn't want her caught out in a lashing downpour, and he definitely didn't want her caught out in one with him!
Jake told himself his motives were purely selfish. Logical. Intelligent, even. If Amanda got wet, she, a woman with such a delicate constitution, unused to such harsh weather, would catch a chill. If she caught a chill, she would get a fever. A fever was only one of the many things he wanted desperately to avoid.
What in God's name would he do with a prissy little white woman who also happened to be sick? He'd nurse her, of course. He wouldn't have much choice. Unfortunately, nursing Amanda Lennox wasn't something Jake wanted to do. Ever. It would mean having to bathe the heat from her creamy white body. It would mean having to touch her, to soothe her, to...
Don't! his mind screamed. Don't even think about it!
And he didn't. At least, not consciously.
Jake forced his thoughts onto a safer path. If Amanda took sick, by the time she recovered Roger's tracks would be long gone. If that happened, Jake would never find the brat, and his obligation to this white woman couldn't be fulfilled. That would never do. He wanted—needed—to get this unpleasant chore over with quickly. That was the only way to be rid of her. If not for the brewing storm, he might have been able to do that. The tracks said Roger and his kidnapper were only a few hours ahead of them. Unfortunately, the storm was only an hour away, two at the most.
Jake had been caught out in enough early winter storms to not be overly concerned at the prospect of being caught out in this one. What he damn well was concerned about—damned concerned about—was the idea of Amanda Lennox being caught out in it with him. He was concerned for reasons other than the obvious; reasons he couldn't let himself think about; reasons he thought about anyway... far too frequently and far too hard.
Wet.
The way her rain-soaked blouse would mold to her luscious white curves was not Jake's reason for deciding they'd be a hell of a lot better off if she weathered the storm somewhere warm and dry, somewhere as far away from him as she could get. No, no. He made sure the idea never crossed his mind. The concentration it took to keep his thoughts from wandering in that direction was staggering. The effort made him grumpier than usual.
"How friendly are the people back East?" he asked irritably.