satisfaction.
"That was delicious," she sighed.
"You liked it?" A sideways glance moved briefly over her face.
"Mmmm, did I ever!" Leah pressed a hand against her full stomach. "How did you manage to catch the quail? Did you set a snare?" Unless she had slept very soundly, she hadn't heard any gunshot.
"Quail?" A crooked grin lifted one corner of his mouth.
"That's what it was, wasn't it?" She eyed him curiously.
"No," Reilly drawled the word. "I don't mean to ruin your meal, but it was rattlesnake."
Closing her eyes, Leah quickly swallowed a lump that had suddenly risen in her throat, then took a couple of shaky, calming breaths. Slowly the color returned to her face as the brief nausea passed.
"Is the meal still delicious?" He had been watching her changing expression with wicked laughter in his eyes.
"Maybe not quite as good as it was when I thought I was eating quail," Leah admitted.
Reilly smiled, lighting a cigarette and handing it to her, then lighting one for himself. Their cigarette smoke mingled with the wispy trail from the fire. Although the shock of actually eating snake had worn off, Leah wanted to divert the conversation from food.
"Do you know that in all the time we've been stranded, you've hardly told me anything about yourself? I've rattled on about my parents and Lonnie and my vagabond childhood, but I know very little about you, except that you design turquoise jewelry."
There were a lot of other things she had observed about him, his calmness in a crisis, his knowledge of the desert, but no actual facts about his life.
"What would you like to know, for instance?" he asked dryly, yet not refusing to divulge personal information about himself.
"I don't know." In truth, Leah wanted to know everything, but she tried to sound lighthearted and nonchalant. "For instance, how did someone who's part Indian get a name like Reilly Smith?"
"You were expecting something more like John Black Feather," Reilly chuckled, exhaling a gauzy cloud of smoke.
"Something like that," she laughed easily at his jesting reply.
"My mother was a half-breed. It's from her that I received my Indian ancestry. The name is from my father, who was Irish." At the questioning arch of Leah's eyebrow, Reilly smiled and nodded. "Yes, although his surname was Smith, he was strictly Irish."
"How?"
"It was common practice years ago for men with questionable pasts to change their names. That's what my father's father did. My father never knew what his real name was, but the family rumor said that my grandfather had killed a man in a bar-room fight back East. No one ever proved whether it was fact or fantasy. One fact is known and that is that he married an Irish lass named Maureen O'Reilly, who was my grandmother. My father left off the 'O' when he named me."
"Are your parents alive?"
"No. My father was killed in a car accident shortly after I was born. And my mother wasn't able to keep me with her, so I was raised by her parents on a reservation. She died when I was eight." Reilly studied the tip of his cigarette for a few silent seconds, then glanced at Leah and smiled almost absently. "Anything else you want to know?"
Leah stared into the fire. Remembering Grady's comment that Reilly was a loner, she was surprised that he had already told her so much about his past. But his last question had invited her to ask more and, she definitely wanted to know more.
"What was it like growing up on a reservation?"
"Simple." Knowing that reply was insufficient, he continued, "I went to school with other Indian children, took care of my grandparents' sheep, and helped with other chores. Their home was in an isolated area of semi-desert land. My grandfather made turquoise jewelry as a hobby and a way to supplement their meager income. Whenever I had my work done, he would let me help." A corner of his mouth lifted wryly in memory. "My help was mostly cobbing."
"What's that?" she frowned.
"Separating the turquoise from the host rock
"That was delicious," she sighed.
"You liked it?" A sideways glance moved briefly over her face.
"Mmmm, did I ever!" Leah pressed a hand against her full stomach. "How did you manage to catch the quail? Did you set a snare?" Unless she had slept very soundly, she hadn't heard any gunshot.
"Quail?" A crooked grin lifted one corner of his mouth.
"That's what it was, wasn't it?" She eyed him curiously.
"No," Reilly drawled the word. "I don't mean to ruin your meal, but it was rattlesnake."
Closing her eyes, Leah quickly swallowed a lump that had suddenly risen in her throat, then took a couple of shaky, calming breaths. Slowly the color returned to her face as the brief nausea passed.
"Is the meal still delicious?" He had been watching her changing expression with wicked laughter in his eyes.
"Maybe not quite as good as it was when I thought I was eating quail," Leah admitted.
Reilly smiled, lighting a cigarette and handing it to her, then lighting one for himself. Their cigarette smoke mingled with the wispy trail from the fire. Although the shock of actually eating snake had worn off, Leah wanted to divert the conversation from food.
"Do you know that in all the time we've been stranded, you've hardly told me anything about yourself? I've rattled on about my parents and Lonnie and my vagabond childhood, but I know very little about you, except that you design turquoise jewelry."
There were a lot of other things she had observed about him, his calmness in a crisis, his knowledge of the desert, but no actual facts about his life.
"What would you like to know, for instance?" he asked dryly, yet not refusing to divulge personal information about himself.
"I don't know." In truth, Leah wanted to know everything, but she tried to sound lighthearted and nonchalant. "For instance, how did someone who's part Indian get a name like Reilly Smith?"
"You were expecting something more like John Black Feather," Reilly chuckled, exhaling a gauzy cloud of smoke.
"Something like that," she laughed easily at his jesting reply.
"My mother was a half-breed. It's from her that I received my Indian ancestry. The name is from my father, who was Irish." At the questioning arch of Leah's eyebrow, Reilly smiled and nodded. "Yes, although his surname was Smith, he was strictly Irish."
"How?"
"It was common practice years ago for men with questionable pasts to change their names. That's what my father's father did. My father never knew what his real name was, but the family rumor said that my grandfather had killed a man in a bar-room fight back East. No one ever proved whether it was fact or fantasy. One fact is known and that is that he married an Irish lass named Maureen O'Reilly, who was my grandmother. My father left off the 'O' when he named me."
"Are your parents alive?"
"No. My father was killed in a car accident shortly after I was born. And my mother wasn't able to keep me with her, so I was raised by her parents on a reservation. She died when I was eight." Reilly studied the tip of his cigarette for a few silent seconds, then glanced at Leah and smiled almost absently. "Anything else you want to know?"
Leah stared into the fire. Remembering Grady's comment that Reilly was a loner, she was surprised that he had already told her so much about his past. But his last question had invited her to ask more and, she definitely wanted to know more.
"What was it like growing up on a reservation?"
"Simple." Knowing that reply was insufficient, he continued, "I went to school with other Indian children, took care of my grandparents' sheep, and helped with other chores. Their home was in an isolated area of semi-desert land. My grandfather made turquoise jewelry as a hobby and a way to supplement their meager income. Whenever I had my work done, he would let me help." A corner of his mouth lifted wryly in memory. "My help was mostly cobbing."
"What's that?" she frowned.
"Separating the turquoise from the host rock
Similar Books
