Tao-yo-cha. Comanche flows nicely from your tongue.” She regarded him a moment. “You aren’t, by any chance, part Indian.”
“I’m not sure. The Rands are so mixed, it’s hard to keep track. My mother—she was Black Dutch. That’s where I got my hair and eyes. My father is—God only knows. I believe the name Rand is an abbreviation of something foreign—Russian or Italian or something. My father told me once, but it was such a mouthful, I promptly forgot. And who really cares?”
“Black Dutch?”
“A darker strain.” He searched her troubled gaze and smiled. “Heritage is extremely important to you, isn’t it? You can’t imagine my not knowing what I am or caring.”
She averted her gaze. “Some must wear their heritage.”
Beneath the stiff pride, he heard a world of hurt in her voice. He regarded her creamy skin. “You’re beautiful, Indigo.”
He wasn’t sure where the words came from or why he had said them. But they were out. The moment he spoke, the fragile comaraderie that had begun to develop between them was shattered. She fastened those huge blue eyes on his—vulnerable eyes that belied her impish smile. He saw pain in those eyes, pain she tried desperately to hide. And fear. Of what, he didn’t know.
The tension between them became almost palpable. Jake wanted to kick himself. He was afraid to move or say anything more. The breeze picked up and rustled in the tall pines. The sound seemed lonely.
Following her example, he applied himself to his meal, wondering what it was about him that unnerved her so. Even if she sensed that he found her attractive, she could surely see he wasn’t the type to act on it. Or could she? Last night on the mountain, his behavior had been less than exemplary. Perhaps his size intimidated her. They were miles from town. Maybe she was afraid he’d make an improper advance and try to press the issue.
He had never used his strength against a woman. But she couldn’t know that. Short of telling her, he couldn’t think of a single thing he could do to ease her fears. He never had been good with words. If he so much as alluded to rape, she was sure to think he’d been entertaining the notion.
“Indigo, am I imagining it, or do I frighten you?”
She stiffened at the question. “Why would I be frightened?”
That was a good question. “You just seem nervous, that’s all. If I’ve done something—”
“You haven’t.”
His mouth felt suddenly dry. “I hope not.” Aiming for a lighter note, he said, “I’m harmless, really. Ask anyone.”
He didn’t look harmless to Indigo. Right at the moment, he seemed a yard wide at the shoulders. His denim-sheathed legs appeared endlessly long. The sleeves of his green wool shirt were folded back to reveal the tendons that roped his bronzed forearms. He sat a mere two feet away, close enough to snake out a hand and grab her when she wasn’t expecting it. She hadn’t missed the gleam in his eyes, and she knew what put it there. Once, a lifetime ago, another white man had looked at her that way.
“I’m not afraid of you or anyone else,” she told him.
It was a lie, one of the few she had ever told. Everything about Jake Rand frightened her. She couldn’t shake the feeling—a premonition, perhaps?—that he was somehow going to gain control over her life. The moment she first saw him, she had sensed it—an inexplicable something, a strange feeling of recognition—as if her destiny had finally come calling.
He wasn’t a man to be taken lightly. Every pore of his skin radiated strength; every movement he made was ruggedly masculine. Oh, yes, he frightened her. She had seen women over at the general store looking at a new bolt of cloth in the same way that he looked at her. Tempted, but telling themselves no. Nine times out of ten, those women returned, again and again, and finally bought the cloth. A week later, they wore new dresses, patterned just the way they wanted them. Indigo didn’t
“I’m not sure. The Rands are so mixed, it’s hard to keep track. My mother—she was Black Dutch. That’s where I got my hair and eyes. My father is—God only knows. I believe the name Rand is an abbreviation of something foreign—Russian or Italian or something. My father told me once, but it was such a mouthful, I promptly forgot. And who really cares?”
“Black Dutch?”
“A darker strain.” He searched her troubled gaze and smiled. “Heritage is extremely important to you, isn’t it? You can’t imagine my not knowing what I am or caring.”
She averted her gaze. “Some must wear their heritage.”
Beneath the stiff pride, he heard a world of hurt in her voice. He regarded her creamy skin. “You’re beautiful, Indigo.”
He wasn’t sure where the words came from or why he had said them. But they were out. The moment he spoke, the fragile comaraderie that had begun to develop between them was shattered. She fastened those huge blue eyes on his—vulnerable eyes that belied her impish smile. He saw pain in those eyes, pain she tried desperately to hide. And fear. Of what, he didn’t know.
The tension between them became almost palpable. Jake wanted to kick himself. He was afraid to move or say anything more. The breeze picked up and rustled in the tall pines. The sound seemed lonely.
Following her example, he applied himself to his meal, wondering what it was about him that unnerved her so. Even if she sensed that he found her attractive, she could surely see he wasn’t the type to act on it. Or could she? Last night on the mountain, his behavior had been less than exemplary. Perhaps his size intimidated her. They were miles from town. Maybe she was afraid he’d make an improper advance and try to press the issue.
He had never used his strength against a woman. But she couldn’t know that. Short of telling her, he couldn’t think of a single thing he could do to ease her fears. He never had been good with words. If he so much as alluded to rape, she was sure to think he’d been entertaining the notion.
“Indigo, am I imagining it, or do I frighten you?”
She stiffened at the question. “Why would I be frightened?”
That was a good question. “You just seem nervous, that’s all. If I’ve done something—”
“You haven’t.”
His mouth felt suddenly dry. “I hope not.” Aiming for a lighter note, he said, “I’m harmless, really. Ask anyone.”
He didn’t look harmless to Indigo. Right at the moment, he seemed a yard wide at the shoulders. His denim-sheathed legs appeared endlessly long. The sleeves of his green wool shirt were folded back to reveal the tendons that roped his bronzed forearms. He sat a mere two feet away, close enough to snake out a hand and grab her when she wasn’t expecting it. She hadn’t missed the gleam in his eyes, and she knew what put it there. Once, a lifetime ago, another white man had looked at her that way.
“I’m not afraid of you or anyone else,” she told him.
It was a lie, one of the few she had ever told. Everything about Jake Rand frightened her. She couldn’t shake the feeling—a premonition, perhaps?—that he was somehow going to gain control over her life. The moment she first saw him, she had sensed it—an inexplicable something, a strange feeling of recognition—as if her destiny had finally come calling.
He wasn’t a man to be taken lightly. Every pore of his skin radiated strength; every movement he made was ruggedly masculine. Oh, yes, he frightened her. She had seen women over at the general store looking at a new bolt of cloth in the same way that he looked at her. Tempted, but telling themselves no. Nine times out of ten, those women returned, again and again, and finally bought the cloth. A week later, they wore new dresses, patterned just the way they wanted them. Indigo didn’t
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