Tender Touch by Charlene Raddon

taking her heart with it.
    “You’ll use my saddle the rest of the way.” His tone brooked no argument. “And you’ll ride astride. This ain’t no Sunday ride in the city. Anything, a coon or a flock of birds taking flight, could spook your horse. In that damned sidesaddle, you wouldn’t have a chance of keeping your seat.”
    “But my skirts will bunch up and let my…” She couldn’t bring herself to mention a part of her anatomy to a man. It simply wasn’t done.
    He stared at her, his eyes as cold and piercing as a winter wind. “Let your what?”
    A lancet of fear sliced through her. She couldn’t get out a single word.
    “Failin’ outta that fool sidesaddle and breakin’ your neck is better than lettin’ me see a bit of your ankles? Hell, woman, I watched you bathe. You’re likely wearing thick black stockings anyway.”
    Her blush told him he was right.
    Tossing the saddle into the creek had done little to stem his anger and frustration. Her foolish display of modesty was like tossing lamp oil on a fire. “Go on, then, get your damn saddle back. You know where it is.” His arm shot past her head, pointing to the creek.
    She ducked, shielding her face with her hands. Nigh groaned. He thrust his thumbs into his belt behind his waist to keep from reaching for her and stared at the ground. “Told you I’d never hurt you.”
    He hadn’t, not really. Brianna was trembling and knew she looked like a doe poised for flight, so she forced her shoulders back and faced him. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. And I don’t mean to make things difficult. It’s not easy to let go of tenets drilled into you almost from the moment you were born and do something you’ve always believed would be contemplated only by a . . . a strumpet.”
    Nigh heaved a sigh and let his shoulders slump while he mulled the problem over. “I’ve got a new pair of trousers. You can wear them.”
    “But that would be almost as bad as—”
    His fists clenched. “Woman, you got two choices. Either ride with your skirts hiked up or wear my trousers. No, I lied. There’s a third choice. Fetch yourself back to St. Louie and find some other idiot to get you to Independence.”
    He didn’t wait for her decision, but marched to the dappled gray and proceeded to remove his saddle. Brianna watched him switch the saddle to the buckskin’s back and loosely do up the girth. Then he slugged the mare in the belly. Beast blew out a rush of air. The mare’s stomach contracted and Nigh quickly tightened the girth. That was what she’d forgotten to do, she realized. The mare had been holding her breath so the strap couldn’t be tightened enough. She saw it now, as clear as the blue sky overhead, but she didn’t bother to explain to Columbus Nigh. He was right, she was a fool.
    “I will accept your generous offer of the trousers,” she told him.
    Without comment he fetched them from his pack. “Need a shirt, too.”
    The shirt was the typical thigh-length tunic farmers and tradesmen wore, made of slate blue linsey-woolsey with smocking at the shoulder seams and the tops of the long sleeves. She looked doubtfully at the slit-neck opening, knowing it would probably reach nearly to her waist, but didn’t dare complain. Folding the garments over her arm, she waded into the bushes.
    Nigh shook his head as he watched her go. She acted as if she were going to her own execution. White women were more troublesome than buffalo gnats or skeeters. He thought of the young Snake wife he had lost barely a year ago. Little Beaver had been as practical as they came, cooperative and helpful. No inhibitions and no righteous morals to get in the way. Not once had he regretted taking her—until the day he found her dead.
    ***
    The iron bars were cold and clammy beneath Barret Wight’s moist hands. The stench of urine and dried vomit brought up his gorge. He swallowed it down and hollered once more for the deputy sheriff. “Hey you, Pratt, come here, will