Sunset Embrace (23 page)

Still experiencing aftershocks from his kiss the day before, seeing him that way took on a new dimension. Lydia's insides quivered when she remembered the way his hands had intimately conformed her body to his. Perhaps the thought of mating with him wasn't hateful because he was more physically attractive than Clancey. For whatever reason, she admitted to a frank interest in the way he was made.

She decided she would ask his opinion of the stew.
Taste this and tell me if it needs more salt, please.
That was a wifely request, wasn t it? A plausible excuse for her to talk to him while he was washing? Taking a spoonful of stew with her, she rounded the end of the wagon.

Ross was bending over the basin. The supple groove of his spine separated his back into two toasty loaves of flesh. The muscles rippled with each movement of his arms as they brought handfuls of water up to his head. Suddenly he straightened, wet head thrown back, his hands covering his eyes. Droplets of water splashed on his chest and rolled down the furred expanse to that fine line of dark hair that disappeared into his pants where his sex was a full bulge.

Lydia forced a swallow past her beating heart. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to touch him. All of him. Because he was beautiful.

But then she saw Priscilla Watkins lounging against one of the trees nearest the wagon. Her eyes were glassy and drowsy behind half-lowered lids, her expression rapt, as she watched Ross.

Lydia went hot all over and she had an overpowering temptation to fling the scalding stew into the girls lascivious face. How dare Priscilla stand there gaping at, lusting for, her husband!

When the girl saw Lydia, her lips curled into a knowing smirk before she slipped back into the cover of the trees.

Irrationally Lydia took her anger out on Ross. "Aren't you done yet?" she demanded haughtily.

He lowered his hands and looked in her direction, realizing for the first time that she was there. Endearingly, his wet hair dripped, onto his ears and neck. "No," he snapped back. "Are we on a schedule?"

"Hurry up. Suppers almost done." With a flourish of her skirts, she turned on her heel and stalked back to the fire, wondering what she was so mad at. "And for heaven's sake put some clothes on," she called back over her shoulder.

That's all the provocation Ross needed. His nerves were stretched to the breaking point. If he couldn't find sexual release, losing his temper would suffice. He stormed around the end of the wagon, pulling on a shirt.

"You may not have noticed, but I rarely wash with my shirt on."

After slinging the spoon back into the stew, she spun around to face him. "No, you'd much rather parade around half naked so the likes of that Watkins girl can get an eyeful of you."

He shook his head, trying to muddle through what she had said, and trying to rid himself of the need to crush her body to his and silence her with another soul-rending kiss. "What the hell are you harping about. I wasn't parading anywhere. I can't help it if that hot-blooded little twit comes snooping around when I'm washing."

Lydia's face went furiously pink. Her dainty hands balled into ridiculously fragile fists. "You mean she's done it before?"

He shrugged and the gesture was full of pure conceit. "Sure. Lots of times."

"Well, she won't see any more of vou. You're a married man. You'll wash inside the wagon."

He took a step toward her, which necessitated her bending her head back to look up at him. "The hell I will," he ground out. "Marriage doesn't give you ownership of me. I'll continue to do what I've always done, which is whatever I damn well please, and you'll have absolutely no say in the matter."

"I
do
have some say in the matter," she hissed back. "I'm your
wife."

"My wife is dead."

The instant the words left his lips, he regretted them. Lydia reeled backward as though he had actually struck her, and he had to curb an impulse to reach out and catch her back to him.

He had said those hateful words because he had been reciting them to himself all day. Since he had kissed Lydia yesterday, he had carried on mental conversations with Victoria, apologizing to her for wanting another woman with a need that left him weak. To the ghost that haunted him, he had justified his desire for the woman who now bore his name. He was only a man. Not a very stalwart man at that. Could Victoria blame him for wanting, needing, another woman?

He felt guilty as sin. But that didn't keep him from wanting to take what rightfully and lawfully was his to take. He was in a moral dilemma. And though he had lifted himself out of a life of crime, moral dilemmas were still new to Ross and he hated them like hell. He had to blame somebody for the war being waged within his conscience. Lydia was a convenient whipping post on which to vent his frustration.

Tears of hurt and fury sprang into Lydia's eyes. "Oh, yes. You'll never let me forget that I follow in Victorias hallowed footsteps, will you?"

Bubba Langston saw the air between them fairly crackling with animosity. They looked like hunger-crazed wild animals, straining against invisible leashes, ready to tear into each other. He knew he was stepping into a lion's den, but he had been sent to fetch Ross. Swallowing his caution, he said a trifle too loudly, "Uh, Ross?"

The man's dark head swiveled around and Bubba was lashed by razor-sharp green eyes. "Yes?"

Bubba quailed under Ross's hard stare. "They sent me for you," he said in a rush. "There's a wagon of ... ladies, sort of . . ."

Luke, who had tagged along, snorted a laugh behind him. Bubba turned around and glared at him warningly. Luke's laughter was reduced to a shaking of his shoulders and muffled sounds.

"They're broke down by the river. Mr. Grayson asked you to come help."

Ross looked at Lydia long and hard before taking up his hat and saying to the boys, "Show me where they are."

Lydia watched him stalk away. Disconsolately she picked up Lee, who had been perfectly happy lying in his crib, and held his small warm body to her chest in hopes of finding comfort from him. She sank onto the small stool and stared dejectedly into the fire.

An hour passed. Most everyone else had eaten supper and was getting settled for the night. Lydia noticed that folks were avoiding her, casting furtive glances in her direction. She wasn't hungry, but she ate anyway, determined not to let Ross and his hateful words destroy her healthy appetite. She could have been eating sawdust. Lee was sleepy, and after keeping him up as long as she could for company, she put him down for the night.

She was stepping back into the evening air when Ma, looking as tight-lipped and foreboding as any Indian chief on the warpath, came marching up to her. "You best see to your husband," she said stonily, giving Lydia a sound push.

"But—-"

"Git. That wagon full of floozies is over yonder by the creek."

"Floozies?"

"Yes, floozies," Ma came close to shouting impatiently. "Git, I'll stay with Lee."

Lydia was puzzled as she crossed the camp. Everybody was looking at her like they all knew something tragic, but didn't want to be the one to tell her.

The wagon by the river didn't look like any other Lydia had ever seen. It was gaily decorated with a garland of wild roses, hearts, and doves painted on its sides.-The wheels were red with white hearts painted over the hubs. Even the canvas top seemed frivolous with underthings hanging from it on pegs. Lydia had never seen such lacy, transparent, frilly garments and wondered what purpose many of them served.

Ross was sitting on Lucky, one leg raised and hooked around the saddle horn. He was indolently leaning over the saddle, he was smoking a cigar, his hat was pushed back, his teeth were flashing whitely against his moustache as he tossed back his head and laughed—all of which made Lydia furious. His attitude of cocky self-assurance reminded her of Scout. And Scouts conceit had always irritated her.

He was chatting with the five women who were languorously draped on the wagon seat or sitting barelegged astride the team horses. The one whq had his eye now was fanning herself with a broad purple plume fan. Her dress was scandalously low-cut, revealing twin white mounds of bosom.

Lydia strode up to the wagon like a tiny soldier, her back straight, her head high and tilted at a disdainful angle.

The madam was the first to see her. Her Ian stopped its lazy waving and she admired the girl marching toward them with such determination in her bearing and expression. She was a good assessor of womanflesh and she recognized a potential money-maker when she saw one. Made up, corseted, and dressed in something besides calico, this girl could earn her a fortune. What fabulous coloring.

Ross realized his audiences attention had lapsed. The young women were looking at something beyond his shoulder. He turned his head to see Lydia coming toward them. She stopped a few feet from his stirrups and looked up at him.

"Are you taking supper at the wagon, Mr. Coleman?"

He drew on the cigar and blew a cloud of smoke into the air over his head. He studied the cigar as he answered slowly. "Ladies, this is Mrs. Coleman. Lydia, Madam LaRue and her . . . wards."

Lydia's cheeks flamed scarlet as the girls twittered behind their hands. She heard one of them say, "Have ya eveah in ya life seen hayeh like that?"

Her eyes were glacial as she let them gloss over the covey of girls and then the buxom madam, who was still surveying her through narrowed, speculative eyes.

With a dismissive sniff, she looked back up at Ross. "Well? I asked you a question."

Ross stared down at her and wished to God she didn't look so beautiful with the last of the sunrays filtering through her hair. Why did her body look more voluptuous with its slender curves wrapped in plain cloth than did the variety of flesh being so generously displayed for him in scanty satins and laces? She looked like a sulky lioness who needed taming very badly. He felt like vaulting off his horse, hauling her to him, and starting the taming process right then and there. The first thing he would do was kiss that contemptuous curl off her lips.

"No, I'm not having supper in camp. These ladies," he tipped his hat at them and the girls giggled again, "had bogged down in the mud. I helped to pull them out. I've offered to escort them into town where they are looked for by the proprietor of the Shady Rest Saloon."

"Looked for by all those railroad men with loose change filling their pockets," one of the girls drawled seductively.

"That ain't all they got filling their pockets," another added. They burst into ribald laughter, Ross included.

Lydias teeth ground together and her fingernails made half-moons in her palms. "Suit yourself," she said before she swung away and went tromping through the tall grass and wildilowers back to camp.

Ross clamped down on the cigar and watched her go. If she had acted like she cared, if she had begged him, he wouldn't have gone. But she didn't care, didn't give a goddamn, and he was due a good time. He didn't realize until that moment how much he had missed drinking and gambling and whoring. Yes, whoring! First Victoria wouldn't let him touch her for months. Now he was living with a woman he couldn't stand, who deliberately flaunted herself at him when she knew damn good and well he wouldn't take her.

He had had it with family life. With marriage. Damned if he would put up with it any longer. He had his choice of women tonight and by God, if he couldn't walk tomorrow as a result, he was going to bed them all.

He turned back and let his green eyes slide over each of the girls, resting finally on Madam LaRue. "Whenever you're ready, ladies."

* * *

"I see you're findin' the book interestin'."

Lydia looked up from the pages she was holding close to the lantern. "Hello, Winston. Yes, it's fascinating."

He smiled in the dark stillness. "May I sit down?" he asked politely, indicating the other stool. She swallowed a lump of gratitude that Mr. Hill was speaking to her as though nothing had happened. By now everyone in the train knew that Ross had gone into Owentown with the whores. They were giving Lydia wide berth, as though she were in mourning. If only they knew how little she cared, she thought defiantly.

She was lying to herself. Her heart had felt like a lead ball in her chest ever since Ross had scorned her in front of the whores.

"Please sit down, Winston," she said with a forced smile. "Would you care for coffee?"

"Thank you, yes."

After she had poured him a cup and he had sipped at it, he commented, "You must not be having any trouble reading, or you're too proud to ask for my assistance."

She smiled at his gentle rebuke. "I remember more than I thought I would. When I do have trouble with a word, Ross—" She broke off suddenly, having spoken his name. She gazed into the fire, wondering if he was kissing one of those women the way he had kissed her only yesterday. "Ross helps me. He knows how to read," she said proudly.

"How fortunate for you both," Winston remarked quietly. He wished
he
had the strength to fight the man who had brought that look of despair to her face. But even if he did, it was none of his business. Still, what was the man thinking of, insulting her this way in front of all the train? He should be horsewhipped. "Lee's sleeping already?" he asked, changing the subject.

It worked to lift her eyes from the depths of the fire and to replace a great sadness with one of animation. "He's an angel, going right to sleep after his last bottle every night. And he sleeps straight through, but he wakes up early."

"He's a fine boy."

"Yes, he is. Sometimes I forget that he's not mine."

She hadn't intended to admit that. Winston saw her distress immediately and stood up. "Thank you for the coffee," he said, setting the half-full cup on the tailgate of the wagon. "I must turn in. Like Lee, we all must get up early in the morning."

Where will Ross be in the morning? Lydia wondered. "Yes."

"Do you need help with banking your fire?"

"No," she said quickly. She still held out hope that Ross would come back tonight. "I'll do it in a bit. I want to read a while longer."