Montan a Wildfire

What it—he—wanted was Amanda Lennox. He wanted her soft and willing... as hot and as hungry for him as he was for her.

In other words, he wanted what he couldn't have.

Ever.

Soft and willing or hard and fighting, it didn't matter. He couldn't have her. Not Amanda Lennox. Not tonight, not any night. The memory of her creamy white skin and the way it glowed like expensive porcelain in the moonlight told him why. The sight of his own copper flesh as he stopped swimming and waded to where the water was only waist-deep confirmed it.

Amanda Lennox was white. Worse, she was a society snob, born and bred. A—shudder—lady to the core, she was off-limits to a filthy half-breed like himself. It didn't matter that he'd been raised white. It didn't matter that his only memories of his mother's tribe—hell, of his mother, for that matter—were so vague they were virtually nonexistent. The white man's blood pumping through his veins mingled with the blood of a savage. And that, when it came right down to it, was all that mattered to white people. All white people.

Amanda Lennox was no different. And why the hell did that knowledge disturb him so damn much? Why did she disturb him? He didn't know, but she did. There was something about her, something illusive and indefinable, that made him hungry. That made him remember things best forgotten.

Jake had never been one to put stock in memories. In his life, there had been few incidents worth reflecting on for more than a passing second or two. Even those fleeting recollections weren't greeted fondly. This time was no exception.

He'd been twelve years old the first time he'd realized he was different. Oh, he'd known it before then, sure, but no one on his father's spread had dared to come right out and say it, so he'd never thought it mattered. His innocence came to an end the night the foreman's son had cornered him out behind the barn.

Stuart Price. The name twisted through Jake's mind, bringing the familiar ugly face, the familiar surge of hatred.

Price had made it clear that it was high time the little red-skinned boy learned his place. Jake's place, he'd found out shortly, was face-down in the rich Montana soil—if not buried six feet beneath it. Price said he'd decided that Jake's weekly visits to their white neighbor's daughter were not proper, and would no longer be tolerated... just before the brawny fourteen year old had planted his beefy fist in Jake's face and broken his nose.

Jake had learned a lot of things that night. The first was just how nasty the word "breed" could be snarled. The second was that a white boy was never, ever to be trusted. The third, and most important, was that if he was going to survive in this life, he'd better learn to use his fists—because there was a whole world of Stuart Prices out there, and he was damn well going to need to know how to fight.

Jake shook his head and scowled, his palm absently rubbing the back of his still-damp neck. He hadn't been a good fighter back then. Oh hell, who was he kidding? He hadn't been any kind of fighter. His father was a big bear of a man who, because of his size, had never needed to use his fists. Whether by intent or neglect, Yancy Chandler had never taught Jake how to protect himself. After the night Stuart Price had beaten him to a bloody pulp, Jake had learned to fight back. Damn straight, he had! In fact, as with everything else, he'd taught himself.

Prejudice. That was the lesson he'd started to learn that moonlit night behind the barn. In the years since, more lessons had followed. Most had the same theme; stay away from white girls. It was a hard lesson for Jake to learn, but learn it he had... years after his encounter with Price was only a bitter-tasting memory. He'd learned how to survive the way he learned everything: the hard way. His body and mind still bore the scars of his last, and final lesson. That was the message that had really hammered the point home. It wasn't an experience Jake cared to repeat. Ever.

Therefore, it wasn't surprising that bedding a white lady hadn't entered his mind in years. What was surprising—damn surprising—was that it had not only entered his mind tonight, it had planted itself there. Somewhere between setting Amanda Lennox on her feet, and plunging his naked body into the snowfed river, the idea of touching her—really touching her—everywhere—had taken root. Neither his head or body seemed willing to shake the notion loose.

Damn that woman, Jake swore inwardly, as he plowed his long wet hair back from his face. Damn her for making me remember. Damn her for making me want her!

Muttering a savage curse beneath his breath, he swaggered out of the river. With brisk strokes, he toweled the water off his body with his shirt, then yanked on his pants. His fingers were cold, numb, and water-wrinkled as he worked the wedge of buttons closed.

It was as he bent at the waist, his hand poised on his belt, that he heard the noise. It wasn't much, really; just a faint rustle of leaves and the soft snap of a twig. Had his nerves not already been on edge, he wouldn't have noticed the sound.

But his nerves were on edge. And he did notice.

Lightning quick, he straightened. By the time his gaze snapped over his shoulder—a scant heartbeat later—the leather sheath had been relieved of its knife. The wooden hilt warmed to his palm as his gaze narrowed, scanning the trees. He held the blade close to his waist, his knees bent slightly to put him in optimum striking position. He studied each thick tree trunk, waiting for a shadow to disengage itself.

When none did, he scowled. Was he hearing things? Jumping at shadows? Was that what entertaining dirty thoughts about Amanda Lennox's tempting white body did to him? He'd rather not think so, but it was possible. God knows, the memory of her sweet curves would distract a saint. And nothing was moving out there. Nothing at all.

The hair at his nape prickled, telling him what his sight did not. Someone was out there. And whoever was out there was watching him. Closely.

Again, his gaze scanned the area. This time he noticed something he hadn't seen before. Or that hadn't been there before. It was just a speck of color, a splash of blue and yellow down by the base of one of the trees. He squinted, barely able to make it out in the muted moonlight filtering down through the leaves. But he saw enough. He knew who the intruder was.

Jake's grip on the knife loosened, and his hand dropped to his side. "You can come out now, princess," he growled impatiently. "The show's over."

Leaves rustled. More twigs snapped. The splash of blue and yellow grew, melting into the shape of a skirt. More of her came into view when she pushed herself away from the tree she'd been hiding behind.

Jake thought her stance looked unnaturally stiff as she limped into the clearing, cradling a small tin pan to her chest like it was a protective shield. The color in her cheeks was high, the flush enhanced by the moonlight. Against his will, he found himself admiring the way she kept her chin tilted proudly, her shoulders squared, her back priggishly straight—as if her spine were molded out of uncompromising iron.

Amanda pursed her lips, and met Jake's amused gaze with a boldness that astonished them both. But not half as much as her words did.

"Pity, Mr. Chandler," she said, her voice cool and composed, dripping with dignity. "It wasn't a very good show."

Chapter 4

While Amanda heard the words, she found it hard to believe she'd actually had the gall to say them. Not a very good show? Was she losing her mind? No price was too steep to pay for the privilege of watching Jacob Blackhawk Chandler step naked and proud out of that moonlit river.

The man was magnificent. Raw and rugged. Coppery and firm. Wet. The way he'd strolled onto the bank had given a new connotation to the word swagger. He hadn't seemed inhibited by his nakedness. If anything, his carriage suggested a man who owned the night and everything in it. His stance was arrow straight, his shoulders squared at a proud angle that only enhanced the smooth wedge of his chest and his lean, firm hips.