"Never?" she asked, surprised.
"No."
"I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood. Maybe it isn't the color of my skin you'd like to change. Maybe it's the color of yours."
Jake leaned forward, sitting up to pillow one elbow atop his rock-hard thigh. The muscle jerking his cheek, combined with his tight expression, said she'd hit a nerve.
"I'm not ashamed of the color of my skin," he growled, and leaned forward still more.
"Aren't you?"
"No," he hissed, his eyes narrowing to angry grey slits. "I'm proud of it. Damn proud."
"Ah, yes, I can see that," she countered with a sarcasm that surprised even herself. She raked his flannel shirt and tight denim pants—white man's clothes—with a telling glance. The furious color in Jake's cheeks said her meaning was not missed. "You know, from the start you've told me all white people, even without knowing you, automatically label you a savage." She sighed and shook her head. "This may sound like a stupid question, but... hasn't it ever occurred to you that you go out of your way to give them that impression? You—"
"Shut up," Jake snapped, and pushed to his feet. He looked edgy, as though he was fighting the urge to stalk the distance between them and wrap his fingers around her throat—anything to get her to stop talking. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about, lady, so just shut the hell up!"
If her nerves hadn't already been raw, Amanda might have taken his grittily uttered advice and kept her peace. But her nerves were raw, and the things she was saying now were things she'd thought—but lacked the courage to actually say—at least a hundred times since she'd met this man.
Their time together was running short. It wouldn't be long before they reached Pony. The clerk had said a day, maybe two. Now that Roger was with them, they wouldn't have the freedom to talk that they'd once had—and had rarely used.
Did she want to look back on these last few days with Jake with regret? Did she want to constantly be reminded of all the things she should have said, but hadn't?
Amanda glanced up his sinewy length, their combative gazes locked. "It bothers you to hear the truth doesn't it, Jake?"
"Not half as much as it's going to bother you when I plant my fist down your throat, Amanda."
A sliver of cowardice curled down her spine, but she was surprised by how little effort it took to shove the emotion away. Perhaps it was having killed two men earlier that made the threat of being roughed up a bit lack its sting? Shrugging, she rested her chin atop her knees and averted her gaze to the fire. "You won't hurt me."
"You sound awful sure of that."
Though his tone was antagonistic, as though he wanted for her to fight with him, Amanda refused to oblige. She kept her voice dignified, controlled. "I am."
Prissy. That was the tone of voice Jake heard, the one that scratched down his spine like fingernails on slate. But, unfortunately, that was secondary—because what really grated, on him was knowing that she was right. He wouldn't hurt her, couldn't even if he'd wanted to. And he didn't really want to.
"I'm going for a walk," he snapped, and spun on his heel. He'd no more stepped into the shadows where the warmth of the fire didn't reach when Amanda's voice rang out behind him, stopping him cold.
"Run all you want, but sooner or later you re going to have to stop and face the truth."
"And what, exactly, is the truth, Amanda?"
"That you're never going to be all white, no matter how much you may want to be."
"Dammit, woman, I don't want to be white!"
Amanda's voice lowered. "And you call me a liar!"
Well, that comment had Jake retracing his steps in record time. He didn't stop near the boulder, but instead stalked past it, his cat-silent steps angrily rounding the campfire. He stopped only when the toe of his moccasin threatened to make contact with her outer thigh. Hands planted solidly on hips, he stood glowering down at the top of her golden head. "I don't lie, Miss Lennox. Ever."
"You just did."
"Yeah? Then that's something I must have picked up along the way. I had a damn good teacher. You." He reached down and banded his fingers around her upper arms, dragging her to her feet. He barely noticed the pain that shot through his arm as he hauled her up roughly against his chest. The feel of her breath whooshing from her lungs wasn't as satisfying as it should have been, but Jake was too confused to notice.
A question had been circling around them for the last four hours. He hadn't asked it. And, whether or not she saw it glinting in his eyes every time he looked at her, she hadn't answered it. Now, feeling her body crushed against him, Jake surrendered to an overpowering need to know.
"Why?" he asked roughly as he lowered his head so their noses almost touched. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in her eyes. He hated the face staring back at him—his face. It was unrecognizable; a ruthless, furious savage hell-bent on tormenting a poor, quivering little white lady. Jesus, he'd sunk pretty damn low these days!
"Why what?" Amanda countered breathlessly. She couldn't help the shaky quality of her voice, of her body. Being this close to Jake did that to her. It weakened what little resolve she'd ever had. The feel of his hands on her, of his breath scorching her upturned face, flooded her with memories... and initiated a fire in her blood that she'd learned weeks ago she was powerless to douse.