Sam's Creed. Sarah McCarty

make it into something. Something good.

      The first time she’d seen him coming up the rise, she’d been praying, asking God to send her a solution to her problem. Folding the rest of the biscuit into the napkin to keep it from crumbling, she wondered—did that make Sam the answer to her prayer?

      She bit off more jerky, chewing contemplatively. It was a strange idea, but it had also been a strange prayer. Besides, what was the point of praying if one was not going to believe that occasionally a prayer would be answered?

      Even if the timing of Sam’s arrival was coincidence and not divine intervention—she was aware she might be convincing herself because she wanted it to be so—Sam was still a solution to her problem that she could easily live with. She did not kid herself that Sam was a forever man, but he was a man who could probably provide the happiness it was rumored a woman could experience in bed. He would not worry about her modesty, about offending her. About right or wrong. He would merely take what he wanted, give her what she needed. No more, no less. Exactly what she had prayed for. This could work.

      Tejala wanted her as a virgin sacrifice to his power. Proof to the people of his town that he was invincible. That they owed him for their existence, and his benevolence could be counted on only as long as they submitted to his will. That’s why he hadn’t taken her by force. He’d left her lying in the dirt, vowing that before he would marry her she would crawl to him begging for the honor to be his wife—the honor she’d rejected. First he would take her pride, then he would take her home and lastly he would take her life. If she let him.

      She did not feel like letting him.

      Studying Sam, taking in his naturally aggressive posture, his broad shoulders that narrowed to his lean hips, the revolver that rode his hip, she saw a man designed to give Tejala headaches. Tejala would never accept being second to this man, just as she would never accept Tejala as her first man. She might not be able to win their war, but on the subject of whom she gave her virginity to, that battle she could win.

      Sam was a warrior like Tejala, but with a difference. Tejala made her skin crawl, but Sam made her want to crawl under his skin. Where she’d be safe. Maybe that was the difference. She took another bite of dry biscuit. Her father had always told her that when she met a man who made her feel safe, who made her heart race, one others held in respect, then she would be looking at the man God had made for her. She grimaced. As a child she had believed him. As an adult she knew things were more complicated.

      Her father had been a romantic. A good man, but impractical in some ways. Still, there was merit in his words about looking for a lover. Much more than in the advice her mother had handed out.

      Her mother was the opposite of her father—practical to the core. Isabella had always thought her mother had very little respect for her father. Their marriage had been arranged. A good marriage producing a contract that joined property boundaries. She did not think her mother had ever forgiven her father for being caught up in the excitement and romance of making his fortune, for leaving Spain and coming to the territory. Her mother would have been content being the wife of a third son of a respectable family. She was not content being the wife of the only aristocrat in the new land.

      That dissatisfaction drove her to want more for Isabella. In her mother’s eyes, Isabella needed to return to Spain to find a husband. Short of that, she needed to marry Tejala and secure the family’s future in the land to which her father had chosen to bring them. Her mother was a great believer in exploiting the rules of the society in which she found herself. So was Isabella. Just not in the same way.

      Her parents’ different views had torn their family apart, forced Isabella to flee, killed her father. She closed her eyes against that memory, everything going black around her, leaving only the sound of her father calling her name, Tejala’s laugh, a spray of blood hitting paper, an awful gurgle and then nothing. No more pain, no more dreams. Nothing except flight and the knowledge that each day might be the day Tejala found the way to force her to crawl. As if she would ever crawl to that son of a dog.

      “If you don’t ease up that grip, your dinner is gonna be crumbs.”

      Isabella looked down. She was holding the napkin so tightly the contents squeezed out between her fingers. “I am sorry.”

      She pulled the corner of the napkin back. One of the biscuits had survived pretty much intact. The jerky was invulnerable to the assault. She urged Sweet Pea closer to Breeze, gritting her teeth against the agony in her thighs. Holding out the food, she offered the intact biscuit. “This one did not suffer too much.”

      Those too-observant eyes of his touched on her face. She had not looked in a mirror lately, but she knew from how her face felt when she washed in the streams that she’d lost the plumpness in her cheeks. Her father would be horrified. She was unconcerned with that, but she wished she would lose a bit of the plumpness in her chest. The binding that kept her more-than-ample breasts from bouncing painfully was hot. And it made her break out in an irritation rash if she had to exert herself. As she had had to the past two days. Just thinking about the rash made her think of the itch, which immediately became in dire need of scratching. Of course, with Sam watching her so closely, she could not scratch a thing. She held out the biscuit. “You must hunger.”

      His blue eyes went dark. His nostrils flared and his gaze traveled her figure. “I can wait.”

      Her breath caught. He was not talking food, but because she could not think how to answer, she kept on with the pretense. “It is not possible I can eat all this.”

      Sweet Pea stepped in a hole, jerking her thighs along the rough edge of the saddle. The pain was too much. Dropping the packet of food, she grabbed the pommel, a groan grating past her lips. Kell made short work of her dinner. A blur of gray, a snap of teeth and it was gone.

      Strong hands cupped her waist. She squealed as Sweet Pea sidestepped, and suddenly she was falling. But only for a second. Then she was lifted and her rear connected with Sam’s hard thighs. His arm came around her stomach, securing her in place. Her hat fell back off her head, getting caught between his shoulder and her back. The string dug in like a noose around her neck. She grabbed for it, kicking with her feet, wrenching at the tie.

      Sam’s hands replaced hers, working between the string and her neck. “Easy, now.”

      She could not breathe. Harsh noises clogged her throat, struggling to get free. He was choking her. She clawed at his hands.

      “Isabella!”

      The call for attention slipped under her panic, giving her something to hold on to. She opened her eyes. Sam’s face was inches away. Sam. Not Tejala. His hand was on her shoulder. He was talking to her.

      “The string’s gone. You can breathe, Isabella. Just open your mouth and suck in some of this nice cool evening air.”

      He made it sound so simple. Just breathe in and out. No big deal for most people. But she had a horror of being choked. It came at the strangest times. And ususally in front of people she would prefer didn’t know. Like now. With Sam.

      His thumb brushed her jaw. “Now, Isabella.”

      She held his gaze and tried. The obstruction in her throat cleared. She took one breath, and then two. The night air was sweet. Then again, any air was sweet after choking almost to death. She touched her neck, tucked her fingers under the lax string of the hat and yanked it over her head.

      “Yeah, I think we can do without that for a bit.” Sam took the hat and hooked it over the saddle horn. His fingertips replaced hers at her throat. Just the tips, tracing the spot where the sensation of a noose lingered. As if he knew. She went breathless again. He moved his hand to her shoulder, just under the collar of her shirt. For no reason she could discern, she apologized. “I’m sorry. I do not like my throat touched.”

      His eyes lingered where his fingers had been.

      “So I noticed. Any particular reason?”

      She shrugged her shoulder, rubbing against his chest. It was a scandalous thing to feel his chest on her arm, his thighs under hers. “I just dislike