Cheyenne Wife. Judith Stacy

      “Hey, North,” one man called, “I still think you’re getting the worse end of this bargain.”

      More laughter rose from the men as they drifted away; they would be talking about this for days.

      North shook hands once more with Fredericks, Sykes and Becker. Apparently, they were pleased with the deal, and for that, Lily knew she should be grateful. Yet she’d never been so insulted in her life.

      Three broken-down, worn-out horses? That’s all North had offered in trade for her? That’s all he believed she was worth?

      When Becker led the horses back into the stable and Fredericks and Sykes headed to the trade room, Lily climbed down from the crates. She stomped over to North and blocked his path.

      “That’s it?” she demanded, flinging her hand toward the stable.

      North gazed at her, his brows pulled together.

      “That’s what you think I’m worth?” she asked, once more gesturing with her hand.

      He leaned his head slightly sideways, just looking at her.

      “I know you speak English!” Lily declared. She pulled herself up a little taller. “In polite society, a gentleman answers a question posed by a lady.”

      “This isn’t exactly polite society,” North told her. “And as you’ve already said, Miss St. Claire, I’m no gentleman.”

      “Are you suggesting that I should have no expectation of civility from you?” Lily demanded.

      North just looked at her. “Are you still speaking English?”

      “Of course I am!” Lily reined in her runaway temper. Alienating him would do her no good.

      She turned their conversation to a more pressing issue, though she could barely bring it up without blushing.

      “I—I’d like to know what you…expect of me,” Lily said.

      “I expect you to be what you are,” North told her, as if it should be obvious. “A white woman. That’s what I want. Now, pack your things. We’re leaving.”

      “Leaving?” A cold chill swept up Lily’s spine. She drew back from him. The fort that had been so foreign, so frightening to her now seemed as if it were the safest of havens.

      “Do you think you can order me around because you’ve paid my debt?” Lily asked indignantly. “As if I’m your property?”

      North expression hardened. “If this doesn’t suit you, Miss St. Claire, I’m sure Fredericks is still willing to set you up in business.”

      Lily flushed but refused to look away. “All right,” she admitted. “I do owe you for settling my debts. If you’ll just let me leave, I’ll go to my aunt’s home in Richmond. She’s very wealthy. She’ll arrange to send you your money immediately.”

      “The only place you’re going is with me,” North told her. “And when I’m finished with you, I don’t care where you go.”

      For a woman who’d talked nearly nonstop since the first time North had laid eyes on her, Lily hadn’t spoken a word to him—or anyone else—since she’d climbed into the wagon and left the fort.

      Whoever had stolen her horses and her belongings had damaged the wagon considerably; he didn’t know for certain but strongly suspected the culprits were the three men who’d ridden into the fort with her, then taken off for Santa Fe the morning her father died.

      North figured the thieves must have speculated—wrongly—that she would mount an effort to pursue them and recover her possessions, and damaging the wagon would prevent that.

      He’d done minimal repairs and hitched up a team of his own horses to make the journey from the fort. Still, the wagon creaked and moaned with every turn of its wobbly wheels.

      Lily sat huddled at the rear of the wagon, the torn canvas flapping in the breeze. He’d thought that she would sit up front beside him on the seat, but she hadn’t. North wasn’t sure why he’d expected her to, or why it bothered him that she hadn’t.

      He wasn’t sure why many things about Lily troubled him.

      Like the way she smelled. Fresh and clean. Flowers in a spring meadow after a rain shower. No other woman he’d ever known had smelled that way.