Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings (8 page)

He was at the buffet, heaping her plate with eggs and ham. She could never eat it all, even though she was starving. He set the plate before her.

She met his black eyes. “Thank you!”

“Grits! I'll get you a bowl.”

“No, that's fine. Really, I've never eaten them—”

“This may be Indian territory, but it's damned close to Texas. Grits are a staple, you'd best get used to them. Easterners!” he said, black eyes on her. Then he added very softly,
“Northeasterners!”
He turned away from her suddenly, his tone changing. “Mrs. Peabody, this was delightful, as usual.”

“Have more coffee, Mr. McK—er, Blade.”

He picked up his cup, walking with it to the rear window of the room, from where he could see Mr. Delaney's stables.

“Things look about ready,” he said.

Jessica sat back, sipping her coffee, studying him. She felt warm tremors assailing her once again. There was so much she liked about him. He was exceedingly handsome this morning in fitted dark trousers, a black cavalry-styled shirt and riding boots. His dark hair, cut to his nape, seemed exceptionally sleek, his face clean shaven but rugged.

Outlaw? He couldn't be. His manners were perfect. He could taunt her easily enough, but he was kind and courteous to Mrs. Peabody, the perfect gentleman. He was so obviously Indian, yet so obviously white. He had been well educated somewhere, but he seemed to live nowhere, with nothing but his beautiful bay and his saddlebags. And vengeance. The whole idea gave her goose bumps. And yet, he had his right to it, that was what Mr. Delaney had said.…

He turned, his coffee cup cradled in his hand. “Eat up,” he told her.

“If you're in a hurry, I don't have to eat—”

“Yes, you do,” he said with amusement. “You're definitely going to need your strength.”

For the ranch? For herself? For him?

She lowered her face quickly. Damn him, she had to stop blushing. She wasn't going to let him spend endless days and nights doing this to her!

Her hunger had been real; she ate everything. When she was finished, they rose, and she discovered that Mrs. Peabody already had asked her boys to bring Jessica's trunk out to the wagon. They were all set to go. Moments later, they both had said their goodbyes. She crawled up on the wagon, taking the reins. But Blade leapt up beside her, taking them from her.

“You're welcome to ride your horse—” she began.

“He's tethered to the back,” he assured her curtly. Then his gaze was upon her for a long moment. “I've got to make sure I earn my keep, eh, Mrs. Dylan?”

She gritted her teeth, swiftly looking downward, aware that Mrs. Peabody and Mr. Delaney were still waving, watching them start their ride out of town.

“I do wish that you'd stop that!” she whispered.

“Why? You were the one doing the bargaining, the one who suggested the price.”

“Because I would have paid anything—”

“For this land? I am dying to see it!”

“My husband left it to me!” she said icily.

“Your husband—the chaste Yank?” he said.

“The dead one,” she murmured, looking away. Then she stared at him suddenly. “Does that bother you? That he was a Union soldier?”

“That
you're
a Yank?” he inquired, his gaze upon her again, a black brow arched. “No,” he said after a moment. “Hell, no, the war's over, isn't it? Long over.”

But there was a note of bitterness to his voice. The war wasn't really over. Not for him.

“I don't give a damn what he was, or what you are, Mrs. Dylan. Not so long as it doesn't affect our bargain.”

She stiffened her shoulders and looked ahead. “If you're going to earn your keep, McKenna, start getting us there!”

He, too, looked ahead, and they rode in silence for a long while.

Morning turned into afternoon. They stopped at a stream, watered the horses, drank deeply themselves and moved onward again. Blade rode his bay for awhile, and Jessica took the reins. She soon learned why he had been helping her. In an hour, her hands were blistering.

“The trail is steep here!” he yelled at her suddenly. “You've got to control those horses!”

“I'm trying!” Damn the blisters. She took firm hold, and they moved through the trees. And then, with the sun setting and casting an incredible golden glow upon the valley below, she saw it.

Charlie's land. There was the house, a log structure, big and sprawling in an L-shape. There were corrals and paddocks before it, long stables and a huge barn. Even from this distance, she could see they were all in need of repair. Still, the spread below her was impressive.

“How much is yours?” Blade asked.

“Five hundred acres,” she told him.

He sniffed. “Cattle land, trees, a stream passing through there …” He shrugged. “Maybe you're right. Maybe this place is worth fighting for. I haven't seen ranch land quite so fine since—”

“Since?” she asked softly.

“A different life,” he murmured. “Let's get down there.”

Twilight was with them even as they reached the house. They worked together in silence, getting the candles and lamps first so that they could see what they were up to. Blade cared for the horses, taking them into the stables he had swept out to give them water and grain.

Jessica began to sweep the house. It was filthy, years of grime and dust having accumulated on the furnishing. Nonetheless, it was a fine house. There was a kitchen with a sink and a pump that drew fresh water from the well.

Charlie had furnished the place. There was a big leather sofa that sat before the fireplace, two rockers at its sides. There was a knit rug on the wooden floor, and a dining table with six well-carved seats. Down the hallway there were four bedrooms, two of them fully furnished with cherrywood bed frames and dressers, and one even had a beautiful washstand with a marble top. The largest bedroom also had a screen that surrounded a big wooden tub, and Jessica promised herself that it would be one of the first things she cleaned in the morning. That night, she swept and scrubbed the floors and countertops, stripped the bed, plumped up the mattress, and put new sheets on it. When she turned, he was there. He stood tall and strikingly handsome in the lamplight.

“Horses are all taken care of,” Blade said. “A hinge was off the front door so I took care of that, too.” He smiled suddenly, watching her with a new interest “Then I smelled something good from inside. Can you actually cook?”

“You didn't think I could?”

He strode to her, picking up her hand. His fingertip traced the bubblelike blisters, and she winced. “You've had servants your whole life,” he said softly.

She wrenched her hand back. “Fine. Don't eat.”

“I'm a gambling man,” he reminded her.

She strode by him quickly. She'd set the ham and beans in a pot above the fire as she wasn't too sure about her stove yet. The mixture was bubbling, and she found two of the plates she had cleaned and filled them, bringing them to the table.

“I'll get some water,” she said, eyeing him nervously. “The glasses are right there. They're washed. Or—I suppose you might want whiskey. The coffee is on now, but it will take a minute—”

“Never mind,” he told her, “I bought something from Mrs. Peabody this morning myself.” His saddlebags lay near the door. He pulled out a bottle of red wine and brought it to the table. “Will you join me, Mrs. Dylan?”

She nodded. He poured the wine. She sat down and sipped it quickly. Then, sliding a napkin onto her lap, she dipped into her food. Across the table, Blade joined her.

Warm, flushed and exhausted, Jessica quickly drank a glass of the wine. She could feel his eyes on her. He took a spoonful of the ham and beans, still watching her.

“Will it do?” she whispered.

“It's excellent.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you really doing here, Jessica Dylan?” he asked suddenly.

“You just said that it was good land. You said—”

“Good land. But you're rich. You must have had some decent life back East.”

“I want to be here. Is that so difficult to understand?”

“Just difficult to believe,” he told her dryly.

“And what about you?” she demanded. “Are you some kind of outlaw?”

“You tell me,” he replied.

She drained a second glass of wine. It was getting to her tonight. Perhaps because she was so very tired. She set the glass down and stood uneasily. “I'll get the coffee,” she murmured.

But he was beside her, a subtle grin on his lips, sweeping her into his arms. “I'll take care of the coffee. You—we don't need any.”

He carried her into the bedroom, laid her upon the bed and started to take her clothing off.

“I can manage.”

“You can't manage anything else tonight,” he told her curtly.

Ah, yes! She owed him. The days were when he worked. The nights were when she paid.

Instead, she found the covers pulled up over her nakedness and felt his palm upon her brow.

“Good night, Mrs. Dylan.”

He left her then. Alone. Untouched. She bit her lip, wondering if she hadn't been a disappointment to him, if he didn't want her with the same fire he once had. She should be relieved, she thought. Surely, she was. She was so exhausted. So she slept.

Not alone. In the morning, she awakened with the first rays of sunlight. They fell softly into the room. She started to rise, again realizing she was naked. And then she felt his touch, his fingers sliding down the length of her spine, curving over her buttocks. Her breath caught. His hand circled persistently on her hip, drawing her around to him to meet his eyes.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dylan.”

She started to tremble. She was amazed. She wasn't afraid. She wanted him.

His lips found hers. He touched her, guiding her hands upon him. He kissed her mouth, her cheeks. He spent long moments laving her breasts, then, moving lower, creating hot fires between her thighs. He stroked her there, kissed her there and made love to her until she was crying out softly, arching, straining to meet his thunderous beat. She needed him, ached for him, longed for the sweet surcease she had so recently learned was within the magic of the world. Suddenly, it was hers. The sweet heat and lightning shot through her. She clung to him, screaming out. And there was no reason for him to still the sound with his kiss, for there was no one to hear them in their wilderness.

Later, the sun streaked in more fully. She turned to him suddenly, biting her lower lip. He groaned softly, caressing her side as he held her to him. “What now?” he asked. “No more modesty, no turning away? No distress over what comes between us?”

She met his eyes, shook her head, and turned bright red.

He laughed out loud, as he stroked her cheek with his knuckles, then leapt from the bed. “Up, Mrs. Dylan! It's going to be a damned long day!”

Chapter Seven

T
o Blade, it wasn't so incredibly amazing that Jessica began to rise in the middle of the night, saddle and bridle her horse and begin to ride out. It was amazing that she really believed she did so without waking him!

Actually, it all began after they had been in the house about five days. They had been long, productive days. He'd forgotten how good it felt to work on the land. The satisfaction of repairing broken fences, fixing a house. A home. Jessica—who had seemed such a hothouse flower from the East—proved to be anything but. Maybe she'd just never blistered her hands before.

She had a knack for making a house a home, and in those first few days it seemed that he was living in some kind of dream of paradise. He'd work through the day, and at night, she'd always manage to make something tempting. There were warm, clean drapes up all over now, fresh hot coffee always ready—and even flowers on the table. At night, after dinner, they would spend a few hours before the fire, and he would tell her his opinion of the best cattle to buy, or how to judge a ranch hand once she was ready to start hiring on men.… It was downright homey.

Sometimes they even went a little further. They were two closed people, opening up just a little to give one another personal glimpses. He learned that she had been born in New York State, that her family had been in the country since the first Pilgrims had landed, that her father had made his money in steel and that she had been his only heir. Blade had been curious that anyone so wealthy and comfortable in the East would brave such hazards in the West. “Money is only worth the things that can be bought with it,” she had said softly, staring into the fire.

“You could have bought a lot back East.”

“Things only have value if you really want them. I really wanted this land.”

That was as far as she had gone. On his part, he had told her that he had gone to school back East himself, to a Virginia military academy, and he even conceded that he had ridden with Mosby until the bitter end of the war. She'd heard plenty about Mosby's men, even in upstate New York, and he knew she was curious, staring at him, wondering why a half-breed Sioux would risk his neck so for the Confederate cause.

He didn't tell her about Quantrill. And though he easily described life with his mother's people—the warmth, the harmony that could exist within the tribe—he never mentioned the Sioux wife he had brought home to his father. He tried to explain to Jessica that some of the Plains Indians had formed deep friendships, while others were natural enemies, fighting one another since tales and memory could recall.

They both gave. They both held back. And still, the domesticity of their situation seemed to be swiftly entangling him. The days, the evenings, and the nights.

It was wrong. Wrong to have such a hunger for her, to hold her through the dark hours, needing her, demanding her. Wrong for her, wrong for him. But he couldn't let her go. He couldn't let this beauty slip though his fingers, couldn't fight the fascination of being with her and seeing her flower with each night.…