The Drifter's Bride. Tatiana March

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      Chapter One

      Arizona Territory, 1881

      He spotted the white girl at once.

      Ignoring the prickle of coarse grass through his clothing, Carl Ritter crawled forward on his belly over the crest of the hill and lifted the field glasses to his eyes.

      Not a girl. A woman, full-grown.

      Twenty, her father had said. Of an age to marry, the old man had added, as if that made the rescue attempt all the more important.

      Carl compared the woman in his sights to the description he’d been given. Slender body, more than average height. Light skin, tanned to gold. Black hair tumbling in unruly curls past her shoulders. Everything matched, although her father had not talked about the wide, sultry mouth or the big eyes framed with thick, dark lashes.

      No doubt he’d found Jade Armstrong.

      Taking care to keep the late afternoon sun from reflecting in the lenses, Carl surveyed the small Apache village ahead of him. Half a dozen native women bustled around, cooking, curing hides, weaving baskets, their chatter drifting toward him on the spring breeze. A bunch of ragtag children chased each other around the wickiups.

      The white girl was not tied down, and she seemed unharmed. She was kneeling on the ground, pounding corn on a flat stone, appearing to be competent at the task.

      Carl lowered the field glasses and settled down to wait. The braves must have gone out hunting. If they didn’t return for the night, he could use the cover of darkness to sneak in and snatch the girl to safety.

      If the braves returned, he’d have to come up with another plan.

      After thirty minutes, the white girl rose to her feet. Unlike the others, who wore belted tunics over wide skirts, she was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and denim pants. She called out a few guttural words to the native women, then disappeared into the wickiup behind her. A few seconds later, she came out again and set off across the clearing in his direction.

      Alone. Unguarded.

      Tension coiled inside Carl. Could it be that for the first time in his twenty-seven years luck was smiling on him? Field glasses in one hand, Winchester rifle in the other, Carl inched backward through the tall grass, twisting like a lizard, taking his weight on his elbows and knees. As a boy, he’d learned to hide, and three years as a bounty hunter had honed his ability to move without making a sound.

      When the brow of the hill hid him from the Apache camp, Carl rose to a stealthy crouch and eased down the slope. He guessed the girl’s destination was the creek. He’d used the course of the water to find the village and had left his horse a quarter of a mile downstream.

      He was right.

      She followed the twisting path to where several boulders blocked the stream, trapping the current into a whirling pond. With a soft thud of her moccasins, she jumped onto a flat stone and deposited the small object she’d been carrying in one hand down by her feet.

      Carl looked through the field glasses. A cake of soap.

      In the next instant, the girl started to unbutton her shirt. His gut tightened. If he waited… The field glasses jerked in his hands as he imagined her standing there, her skin gilded by the sunlight, every feminine curve and contour bared for his inspection.

      If he waited.

      It was crazy to wait. But his body refused to move. Throat dry, heart hammering, blood thundering in his veins, Carl watched as the girl slipped the shirt down her shoulders, revealing a thin cotton chemise beneath. She tugged her arms free of the shirt and tossed it on the stone. Bending, she balanced on one foot, then the other, to pull off her moccasins. Next she unsnapped her denim pants and pushed the sturdy fabric down her legs.

      She bundled up the clothing and straightened. In a quick move devoid of any vanity, she crossed her arms in front of her, gripped the edge of the flimsy chemise and lifted the garment over her head. Her breasts were small and firm, rosy-tipped. She tilted her face up to the sun. Then she undid the knot at her waist and stepped out of her frilly cotton drawers.

      Sweat beaded on Carl’s skin. The tightness in his gut spread to his loins. His muscles quivered as he fought between the guilt of intruding on a woman’s private ritual—something he knew the Apache punished by death—and his yearning to witness more, to see her pick up the soap and slowly run it over her skin, down her arms, into the dip of her waist, and up again over her breasts…

      Releasing a rough sigh, Carl lowered the field glasses. Only a fool built up a longing for what he couldn’t have. With a final glance, he saw Jade Armstrong crouch on the stone and dip one foot into the water. Resolutely, he turned away and retreated through the juniper thicket, taking care not to snag the branches with his rifle or his body as he forged a path.

      He’d go and fetch his horse.

      Then he’d come back for the girl.

      By the time Carl returned, she was out of the water and almost dressed. He waited for her to finish pulling on her moccasins. The instant she jumped down from the stone, he emerged from the forest scrub and hurried up to her, a finger lifted to his lips as a sign for silence.

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