Fires of Paradise (4 page)

She found, dismayed, that the water was gritty and full of dirt, and she sank onto her buttocks in the loamy bank. Her feet throbbed, her entire body felt like it had been run over by a dray, she was starving, she was filthy, and she realized she felt like crying.

She settled for a sniffle or two, and started to feel better. This would pass, she told herself, carefully wiping her eyes. Soon she would be at Grandpa Derek's and this would be one big joke; she and Joanna would laugh countless times remembering this adventure. Wouldn't they?

And then she heard a noise.

An animal, grunting. Or a man.

Chapter 4

What was she doing?

Restlessly Shoz's gaze swept the circle of firelight, passing indifferently over a sleeping Joanna. He tried to penetrate the darkness beyond, where he knew the muddy little stream trickled past the three scrub oaks. He could not pierce the engulfing night. Before, he had heard her splashing water, then he had heard her sniffling. Now he listened intently and heard nothing but a lonely night owl.

What was she doing?

It seemed that she had been gone for a long time, but he knew no more than ten or fifteen minutes had passed. Why was he impatient, when patience was a skill of survival he had learned so long ago? His mind was even playing tricks on him, cruel ones, vivid ones. He imagined her unbuttoning her blouse and baring her big white breasts, to bathe. He stood and began pacing, tugging at the crotch of his Levis. He was not used to this kind of predicament.

He was spoiled when it came to women. Women found him irresistible—all of them. There had never been one he hadn't been able to get, not that he could remember. But this one .. . She was a rich girl, a spoiled girl, a brat, and he did not like her. He liked very few women other than his mother and sister, and Lucy was not one of them. He knew her type intimately; she was another Marianne. He had given up
ladies
a long time ago.

Of course, he thought with a smile, she wanted him. She despised him and had condemned him as a lowlife tramp, but she wanted him. He could have her if he lifted his little finger. He'd seen how she looked at him, and knew damn well she'd gotten a thrill in showing off her pretty little ankles. He wanted to laugh. Ankles! As if that could arouse someone like him. Didn't she know her perspiration-drenched jacket and blouse were more provocative than a bare foot?

So—what was stopping him?

He knew damn well it wasn't decency—he didn't have any left.

Still, in a way, just the tiniest way, she reminded him of his half-sister, Christina. They didn't look alike, not at all. Christina was dark blond and beautiful, a real heart-stopper. She was a little bit spoiled, a little bit arrogant, but
her
heart was all gold. Unlike the princess's. Maybe it was because of Christina. Maybe it was also because she was so young.

After all, he hated virgins.

He had a few doubts on that score, however. He wouldn't be at all surprised if the high-society deb wasn't a spoiled bird as well.

He stubbed the ground with the toe of his worn boot. What in hell was she doing? Had she fallen asleep? Been eaten by a mountain lion? Tried to escape again?

That thought jerked him out of his reverie, and with a low curse, he plunged into the darkness after her. He moved soundlessly. It was not a conscious attempt to maintain silence. He was three-quarters Apache, had been raised steeped in both his Indian heritage and western civilization, and the past five years had forced wariness upon him. It had become a way of life.

He paused when he saw her, deliberately stepping back behind one of the oaks. She was bathed in moonlight. She wasn't doing anything, just sitting there with her knees tucked up under her dusty skirts, her smudged chin in her palms, and he could make out her forlorn expression. She looked like a ragamuffin—and he almost softened.

But he didn't. He wanted her too much. She had a siren's sensual body, and he was nearly oblivious to her dirty face and orphaned look. Two weeks without a woman was his problem, not the little princess's. What was her name? Lucy. Lucy. He rolled it over on his tongue silently. It didn't help ease the flow of his racing blood; if anything, it worsened his situation.

He wanted her, and if his thoughts hadn't been so damn sentimental a few moments ago, if she didn't look so damn young right now, he would seduce her. She would be willing. He was experienced enough to recognize this. He grunted at the thought of what she would feel like.

She whirled, on her feet, and saw him. Her immediate surprise faded. She stared. The way she was looking at him made him become very still.

He edged his shoulder against the tree. Her riveted gaze made him forget all his saintly intentions; he was destined for hell anyway. "Look at me," he commanded softly.

They were strangers, but the night was magical, the moment deeply intimate, and he compelled obedience. Lucy obeyed. She stood very still, almost afraid to move, the thick, hot night wrapped around them like wet, crushed velvet. Everything seemed to have stopped, frozen in time: the air, the crickets, the owl, her heart. In the moonlight she could make out the glistening sheen of his damp body where his shirt hung open, and his strained expression. His jeans were stretched taut. She should lift her gaze, drag it anywhere but there, and finally she did. He smiled slightly. There was no mistaking the raw look in his eyes—although Lucy had never seen such a look before.

    The air was very sticky, and a wet heat seemed to have risen all over her skin. There was a shortness to her breathing, making it difficult to fill her lungs, and Lucy became aware of the strange tension, throbbing between them, mesmerizing her. She knew she should leave, go back to the campfire and Joanna, but she did not want to leave. "Come here, Lucy," he said.

Lucy knew she must leave, now. Or it would be too late. Her instincts were ripe, bursting. She did not move.

Shoz smiled. The smile was lazy and sensual, but he felt tense and determined. His chest rose and fell, hard. He stalked her. She backed up a step.

"Don't be afraid," he said softly. "I won't hurt you."

Lucy stopped. He was so close, and his eyes commanded that she wait for him. There was fire there, like the fire running in her own veins. She looked at his mouth, sensually sculpted, parted slightly, and she felt an insane desire to kiss him. To kiss
him.
Taste him. She could already taste him, damp and salty... He gripped her hand, forcing it down between them.

"I want you," he said.

"No," she tried, not meaning it.

"I want you. Are you a virgin?"

She shook her head no, a protest that was automatic— having nothing to do with his question.

"Good. I hate virgins."

He pressed her hand against his erection.

She gasped, her eyes flying to his. What she saw in his eyes, silver in the moonlight, stilled her initial shock. She felt him pulsating beneath her palm, felt the burning heat. "Hold me," he said harshly. "Hard."

Lucy stood motionless, her heart slamming, and as if the Devil were instructing her, her fingers curled around him.

"Yes, princess," he said, and he slipped an arm around her and guided them both to their knees. Lucy felt his warm breath on her cheek, his mouth brushing there. She gasped, reaching for his shoulders. Crazy desire trailed in the wake of his lips. Lucy no longer knew herself. His face was pressed into her neck, his wet, hard body covered hers, his powerful arms crushing her in his embrace. And he was rocking his hips against her softness, and Lucy thought she might die, trapped between heaven and hell.

"Please," Lucy moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders. A second later he was crying out and arching against her belly.

"Damn," he said, into her neck. "That wasn't too good for you, was it, princess?"

Lucy whimpered, unable to make a coherent sound.

Then his hand was in her chignon. She gasped as he anchored her by a hank of hair while flipping up her skirts. His other hand slid up along her silk-clad thigh.

When he slipped his fingers beneath her drawers, Lucy fell back, spreading her legs wantonly. "God, you're ready, aren't you, princess?" he said with a shaky laugh. "Come on, baby, come now."

It was an order that made no sense. It didn't matter. He was stroking between her thighs rhythmically, expertly, and Lucy could not bear it.

He locked his arms around her hips and buried his face between her legs. Lucy was shocked. She felt his tongue. Any desire to protest ceased instantly, as he stroked and laved her intimately, mercilessly. She began climbing peaks, racing from one to the next, higher and higher.. . Her world shattered. She fell.

Drifting downward, Lucy became aware of many things gradually. The night air was a pleasant and balmy caress upon her naked legs. A rock was digging into her shoulder, hurting her. And he was propped up on one elbow, staring at her.

What had she done?

Very cautiously, Lucy looked back at him, her eyes wide. He smiled, a smug, satisfied look that seemed especially male; it instantly infuriated her. She sat up abruptly, hastily pulling her skirts down over her naked body; he caught her palm. When he didn't release it, she lifted her gaze to his face.

This time he wasn't smiling.

"I..." she began breathlessly, and stopped. Her heart had picked up its beat beneath the intensity of his stare. What had they done? Actual realization and total recall struck her. My God!

He silenced her abruptly with a hard kiss. Lucy forgot everything. His mouth was demanding, hungry. It became greedy. So did hers. She could not get enough of him. Soon his tongue delved into her mouth, stroking insistently, soon hers was mating with his. Lucy had kissed many men. But never like this.

His hands were on her breasts, seeking, searching, intent. Without her having been aware of it, he had undone the dozens of tiny buttons and insinuated his palm beneath the many layers of her underclothes. She felt him cupping her with growing urgency. He touched her nipple, teasing it into erectness.

Pushing corset, bust bodice, and chemise down, he took the distended tip into his mouth and began to suck gently.

Lucy arched wildly into his rock-hard body. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, undulating against him and the fullness grinding against her. They strained at each other like fierce mating animals, panting and heaving. Lucy's teeth found the tender skin of his throat.

He reached between them to free himself and then he was thrusting deep inside her.

The pain was brief and instantly forgotten. Lucy clung to him as he thrust once, twice, again. Heaven and hell. Hard and fast. Fire, fire and... ice. He was on his feet. Lucy lay stunned and bereft and open at his feet. A knife glinted in his hand. "Who is it?" he demanded.

Lucy sat up, reflexively covering herself, shocked.

Shoz, poised to fight, relaxed, and sheathed his knife.

Confused, her senses returning, her pulse racing, Lucy tried to comprehend what was happening. And then she saw Joanna.

Chapter 5

Derek Bragg squinted down the railroad tracks and into the early morning sun. On the platform beside him, his diminutive wife tugged his sleeve. "Do you see anything?" Miranda asked.

"It's going to be a scorcher today," Derek said in reply, something of a shout. His hearing wasn't what it used to be, and he tended to shout. Although, for some reason, he always understood every word his wife said to him. "Don't see a thing. Train's late."

"It will come," Miranda said calmly. Yet her eyes, and her dress, belied her calm. She couldn't stand still, a tiny figure dwarfed by her leonine husband, who was, in her view, still the finest specimen of man around. Now her purple eyes danced excitedly, making her seem sixteen, not seventy-one—to her husband at least. She was wearing her Sunday best, a fine day gown of sprigged yellow linen with leg-o'-mutton sleeves and a bell-shaped skirt.

Suddenly Derek put his arm around her, squeezing. "Can barely wait," he roared.

"Oh, it will be so good to see Lucy again," Miranda agreed, beaming.

Derek grinned. "I'm glad Lucy came on ahead of Rathe and Grace. Although I'm real surprised Rathe let her travel this far alone."

"She's not alone, she's with Joanna and a chaperone."

Derek snorted. "Some old biddy's gonna keep Lucy in line? Hah!"

"Derek! You've never met Mrs. Seymour! Did I tell you Lucy's beau will be coming to visit in two weeks, too?" Among many, many others, Miranda thought wickedly, barely able to wait for the surprise she was planning for her husband.

Derek's eyes narrowed. "She's got a serious beau?"

"Yes, but you can relax, it's Leon Claxton, and that should please even Rathe!"

"How serious is serious?" He removed his Stetson to wipe his forehead, and frowned. "He related to Roger Claxton, the New York senator?"

"Yes, Leon is his son, and he hasn't proposed, if that's what you want to know."

Derek smiled wolfishly. "Yeah, well, if he's at all like his old man, then he's not for her."

"Why not! You like Roger—and he and Rathe are good friends."

"He and Rathe are close associates, with many of the same interests. That's not quite the same thing as good friends. If Leon's like his old man, he won't make a good husband: ambition will be his first and only interest."

Miranda frowned, absorbing what he had said. "I hear something." They both listened, and in the distance, there was the faint sound of a train's whistle.

"I don't hear anything. Now I remember. We met Leon once, briefly, when we were in New York last summer. He had just returned from Spain, where he had his first post as assistant consul in Madrid. Roger has big plans for Leon. I think he was just awarded the post as assistant to the police commissioner, Teddy Roosevelt. Do you know why Leon left Spain?" Miranda shook her head.

' 'He was married—and his wife died over there in childbirth."

"I didn't know that."

Derek's mouth set. "He may have the right bloodlines, but he's not for Lucy."

"Here it is: look, Derek!" Miranda interrupted.

The big black locomotive came roaring into the station. Derek grabbed Miranda's arm. "Stop getting so excited, you'll have a heart attack!" he shouted over the roar of the train. He was flushed with excitement, too.

"There is nothing wrong with my heart, and you know it," she returned more calmly. But she was clutching her hands. The train had stopped, and two blue-suited conductors with their red-trimmed caps leapt off, and then the passengers began disembarking while a few people boarded. But there was no sign of Lucy.

"Derek." Miranda gripped his elbow in alarm. Derek patted her reassuringly and strode over to one of the conductors. Although sometimes his right knee acted up and was a bit stiff, today his strides were long and agile. "Sir!"

The conductor handed a woman passenger up and turned to face Derek, whom he immediately recognized. "Mr. Bragg!" His smile was genuinely pleasant, not at all obsequious—even though Derek owned this spur that the train was on. After a lengthy exchange, Derek told Miranda to wait while he climbed aboard. Five minutes later, he appeared, grim-faced, and re-joined her on the platform. "She's not on the train, and the conductor said he hasn't seen a girl fitting her description. He's been working the line from New Orleans."

"What do you think happened?" Miranda was too upset to think that Derek had probably referred to Lucy as he always did, as "my little redheaded granddaughter."

"Lucy was on that train," Derek said. "She sent us a telegram the day she left." "Oh my Lord," Miranda said.

"I'm going to wire New York. Just in case she and her friend didn't leave."

"Lucy would never be that irresponsible!"

"And then I'm hiring the Pinkertons," Derek roared.

"And Rathe and Grace?"

"Rathe's in Havana at the villa or at Maravilla. Grace is in Washington, but I don't know where the hell she's staying. If I have to, I can find out. But right now, I don't want to worry either one of them—not yet."

She was barely awake, and just for an instant she thought she was at home in her sumptuously canopied four-poster bed. When her elbow made contact with a stone and a lot of dirt, reality came rushing back to jar her. She recalled Joanna's hard, accusing glare, and remembered instantly what she and the stranger had done.

She smiled.

No one had ever told her that being with a man was the height of ecstasy. No one had even hinted it could be so wonderful. His image assailed her forcefully. Dark, powerful, his broad chest wet and slick, his thighs braced hard in the tight jeans. He wasn't really handsome, his face was too rough and masculine, but he was utterly compelling. Delicious feelings were washing over her just thinking about him.

Now she knew why some of her mother's suffragette friends espoused free love. They insisted that women were equal to men—in every way. Her mother believed in equality, too.

But not in free love.

Lucy sobered. She was wrapped in his bedroll, the stranger's, and she had shared it last night with Joanna. Oh, God! She didn't even know his name! And Joanna had seen them!

Lucy closed her eyes. She had done many harebrained, wild things in her life, but never something like this. If her parents ever found out, she was finished. In fact, if anyone ever found out, she would be ruined, forever. She would never make a good marriage and she'd have to marry someone old and fat or become a spinster. This was a very grim thought indeed.

She didn't even like him, really. He was the lowest sort, or at least, his manners were. She could never bring him home, even if he wore decent clothes. He was too rude and mean. Too dangerous. Lucy shuddered. What had she done?

And until last night, she hadn't thought that he liked her. Of course, she had been wrong. Hadn't she?

Unsure, Lucy sat up. Then she dismissed her uncertainty. Of course he liked her; why shouldn't he? Everyone liked her—she was very popular. And she was pretty—almost everyone she knew told her how beautiful she was.

But—how should she act with him now?

How did a woman act with a man she barely knew but had been so intimate with? Lucy smiled. Now she was being silly: she knew what to do—she was a woman used to men's company and their adoration. She would treat him the way she treated all her other beaux.

"He is not here," Joanna said.

Lucy shifted around to find Joanna gazing at her from a perch on a boulder. Joanna knew. No one else knew, and God forbid they should. How much had she really seen? Last night she hadn't been able to talk at all to Joanna, who had been very distraught. "Good morning," she tried cheerfully.

"He's not here," Joanna repeated, clearly distressed.

Lucy did not want to talk about him. "He's probably just gone off to do whatever it is that men do in the morning," she said, getting up. She started to fuss with her hair, hastily braided last night when Shoz had propelled her back to camp after Joanna had discovered them. She had to find out exactly what Joanna had seen.

"He left way before the sun came up, hours ago. He's gone." Joanna was dismayed and on the verge of tears.

Lucy's hands stilled. He had made love to her last night; he couldn't have left her. She smoothed down her hopelessly soiled and wrinkled skirt. "No, I don't believe it."

"He's left us out here, alone. Because of you."

"Of course he didn't leave because of me!" "He had his way with you and left!" "No, he didn't! Joanna," Lucy said slowly, "I tried to tell you last night, it wasn't what you think you saw." Joanna looked at her.

Lucy smiled. "Really, it wasn't. We didn't do anything. Oh, a few kisses, but no different from Leon Claxton." "I saw you," Joanna cried. "I saw
everything]"
Lucy stared back as color rose high on her cheeks. Abruptly she sat back down, stunned. "It really wasn't what you think." Had Joanna seen everything? Certain memories that Lucy had been carefully editing began to surface. Knifelike panic stabbed her. She grew calmer only by recalling that she and Joanna had been best friends since they were eight, living on the same block, and Joanna had never ratted on her despite her many other escapades. It was awful that she had been a witness to Lucy's shameful behavior, but Lucy knew she could trust her to remain silent. Now Lucy could face the other disturbing issue. "He's really left?" "Yes."

Lucy stood. "He's really left?" Her heart was slamming against her chest. "He didn't leave," she said. "He couldn't!"

"He abandoned us! He is gone, Lucy,
gone."

Lucy felt like exploding. He had made love to her, used her, and left her? She paced wildly to the fire. "Damn him!'' She picked up a burnt piece of wood and hurled it, as far as she could. And then she saw his saddle. "He's coming back! He left his saddle! No cowboy would leave his saddle!" Lucy cried. She turned to her friend. "You are wrong—he didn't leave us, Joanna!"

It was blazing hot.

The sun beat down mercilessly upon the parched plain. Trees that looked stunted dotted the landscape. The grass was a harsh yellow. And nestled amongst a cluster of surprisingly lush green cottonwoods that grew by a small creek, was a weathered, doorless shack.

In the shade of the sagging, overhanging roof, Shoz conducted his business. First, they shook hands. Two swarthy men had brought the goods. The old one was fat and grizzled; the lean young one had a red cast to his skin. Spencer rifles filled the scabbards on their saddles, and six- shooters hung from their hips. The young one had a knife sheathed in his belt, and Fat Jack, Shoz knew, had a blade hidden in his boot—as did Shoz.

"I want to see the goods," Shoz said, stepping out into the blinding sun. His shirt clung to his back, soaked. He had trotted Apache-style most of the ten miles he'd traveled that morning, and he'd arrived way before his "friends." Just to make sure it wasn't a trap.

"Be my guest," Fat Jack said, spitting out a wad of tobacco. The young one said nothing. He couldn't; his tongue had been cut out long ago.

Shoz strolled to the two burros sleeping in the sun. Both were packing mounds of canvas-covered gear. Shoz flipped up a tarp, unlashed a bundle, and gently set it on the ground. There he opened the burlap feed bag and nudged out twelve standard U.S. Army carbines.

He smiled, replaced them in the feed bag, relashed it closed, and then fastened it to the burro. Both burros packed five bags each, and he checked every one to make sure they contained rifles and not anything else—he'd never been cheated yet.

"Satisfied?" queried Fat Jack from beneath the sagging roof.

Shoz strolled over. "Yeah. I'll take the mules, too."

"Sorta figured that," Fat Jack said. "Bein' as there ain't no pack animals around—no mount either. Rattler?"

"Dog hole," Shoz said shortly. It had only happened yesterday, yet whenever he thought about putting his magnificent chestnut to sleep, it killed him. He'd had no choice, for the stallion had broken his foreleg.

Shoz lifted his shirt and tore the tape from his abdomen, without a wince. He unrolled the thick wad of bills. He counted out five thousand dollars in twenties, then added one bill more for the mules. The deal had been negotiated in Laredo weeks ago.

After the men had left, Shoz led the mules away. Their progress was slow, but he didn't care. He was sure Fat Jack and the mute wouldn't try to kill him and steal back the already stolen guns, only because they'd arranged to do business again in a few months time. Also, Fat Jack knew him. Knew he didn't kill so easily.

So his thoughts drifted to the girl.

What a piece of baggage.

Hadn't he sensed it? Known it? Known she'd be hot? Being with her had been an explosion, and he could explode now, just remembering. Then he recalled Joanna, and he laughed.

Poor Joanna had been shocked and rigidly disapproving and maybe jealous. He had been amused. Lucy had been just as shocked as her friend at having been caught in the act. He wouldn't have minded continuing, but Lucy had run after Joanna, trying to explain that they hadn't done anything. Joanna refused to listen.

How long would it take to get to the Bragg ranch? Now that they had the mules, they could make it by tomorrow noon. Too bad. He wouldn't mind having the Princess warm his bed for a while. But it wasn't to be. Still, there was always tonight.

He started to whistle.

Five miles from the hut at Geoffard's Hanging Tree, he stopped and unpacked the mules. The spade was where he'd left it, buried very shallowly ten paces north of the hanging tree. Shoz started to dig.

An hour later, he'd buried all the rifles, and an hour after that, he rode back into the camp.

They were waiting for him. One with a smile of relief. The other one furious.