Sunset Embrace (27 page)

"Hidy," he chirped. "Nice evenin', ain't it?"

"You snooping little bastard," Priscilla screamed. "How long have you been here?"

"'Bout as long as that thing in Bubba's pants has grown. When did you start sproutin' gourds in your breeches, Bubba? That one is 'bout the biggest one I ever did see."

"I'm gonna kill you," Bubba said and flew toward his brother, who leaped off the stump and went tearing through the trees, whooping like an Indian. Bubba tore out after him.

"Goddamn stupid hillbillies," Priscilla muttered as she Jumbled to rearrange her clothing. She kept up the scathing litany until she reached her wagon and flopped down on her bedroll to lament her frustration and the sad plight of her life.

* * *

Ross turned his back to the dancers and dipped his cup into the bottom of the beer barrel. He was stonily furious. He was green with jealousy. He was more than a little drunk. The latter was the only one of those conditions he could control, but he didn't want to. He tossed down another cup of beer, wishing it were whiskey so he would get drunk quicker.

What the hell did he care if she flaunted herself in front of a Milquetoast like Hill? Let him have her. As soon as they got to Texas and established residency, he would start divorce proceedings. Everything was still haywire in this part of the country since the war. Surely a divorce wouldn't be that hard to obtain.

Reflexively, he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, his fury building as he tried to attune himself to the ribald tale Mr. Appleton was telling. Everyone else seemed to be hanging on to every lewd word. All Ross concentrated on was keeping his gaze off Lydia who smiled up into Hill's face. She had never looked at him like that. He found her sensuously curving mouth and the voluptuous way her body swayed to the music repulsive. At least, that what's he told himself.

She was deliberately making a fool of him, that's what she was doing. Dancing with her highfalutin' friend was her way of pointing up her husband's shortcomings. Well, by God, he wasn't going to stand here and be made a fool of by that chit he had been roped into marrying. If he had to carry her off by that wild head of hair—

Where was she?

Ross had turned around to scan the frenzied dancers. His intoxicated eyes tried to focus on the couples, but after several minutes passed and he couldn't locate either Lydia or Winston, he dropped his tin cup in the dust and began to shove his way through the noisy crowd.

"Hey, Coleman, watch out—"

"Where you goin\ Ross?"

"Ross, get enough to drink?"

"Where's your lady—"

He was impervious to everything around him. He felt the familiar tension building. The violence in him rose and filled his pores, seeking an outlet. He hadn't felt it so powerfully since that last job he had pulled with Jesse and Frank. His fists balled mechanically; automatically he felt for the holster and its lethal cargo. It wasn't there, but still he stalked through the crowd, intent on finding his betraying wife and her paramour.

"Ross, I told the girls to take Lee back to our wagon and put him to bed so you and Lydia can stay at the party as long as you like," Ma said, when he passed by her. He gazed down at her with unseeing eyes. "Leave him in our wagon till morning. No need to—"

"Where is she?" he hissed.

Ma had been watching him for an hour and knew that he was reeking with jealousy. She had the wisdom not to smile. Instead she let her eyes wander over the dancers. "Who? Lydia?"

"Yes, Lydia." Ross spat out the name as though holding it on his tongue too long was hateful to him.

"Don't rightly know. She was dancin' with Mr. Hill last I saw."

Ross pushed his way past a celebrating group and stumbled in the direction of the wagons, which for the most part were dark and deserted. If she had gone to his wagon ... If he found them together ... He didn't want to know . . . He had to know . . . Where was she . . .

* * *

Lydia had never had such a good time in her life. Winston was treating her like she hadn't grown up with trash, living in a hovel, forced to submit to the sexual abuse of her stepbrother. Winston treated her like a lady, complimenting her on the way she looked and on her dancing, fetching her cups of punch, laughing with her, sharing her exuberance.

When he started coughing, she asked if he were all right. He insisted he was and she took his word for it until they had to stop dancing and draw outside the circle of couples. He had a coughing seizure, the likes of which Lydia had never seen.

"Winston?" she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder as he bent at the waist, his whole body convulsing as he strangled. "What can I do?"

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm fine."

But he wasn't. There were flecks of blood in the corners of his lips and his face had gone to the color of old wax. "Do you want me to fetch Moses?"

He shook his head, clapping a handkerchief to his mouth again. "He's having fun," he choked out when his coughing subsided. But the next attack was worse than the last and Lydia became truly alarmed.

"Winston, tell me what to do."

"My medicine," he said in a garbled voice.

Her eyes searched out Ross, but he was standing with the throng of men crowded around the beer barrel and she would have to wend her way through the dancers to reach him. She didn't want to leave Winston alone that long. She clutched his sleeve. "Where is it? Your medicine. Where is it, Winston?"

"Wagon," he gasped out.

"Come on," she said, making up her mind to take care of him herself rather than run for someone else. He might choke to death before she could get anyone's attention and she knew he would be embarrassed if she caused a commotion because of him. Putting her arm around his waist and splaying her other hand over his chest, she led him into the deep shadows where the wagons were stopped for the night. "Where is yours?" she asked.

Weakly he pointed it out and they made stumbling progress across the camp. "I'm sorry, Lydia," he kept repeating.

"Hush, now. Don't talk or you'll start coughing again."

"I hate myself for this."

"It isn't your fault." At the tailgate of his wagon, she asked, "Can you get inside?"

He nodded and by a sheer act of will pulled himself up, taking wheezing breaths and pausing to cough. At last they gained the inside and Lydia blinked against the darkness while Winston crawled toward his bedroll. He fell upon it heavily and rolled onto his back, seized by another fit of coughing.

Lydia, her eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, searched out a lantern and match and had soon lit the wick, keeping the flame turned down low. "Where's the medicine?" she asked him softly, while he struggled for air with collapsing lungs.

He pointed to a small wooden chest. Lydia lifted it toward him, raising the lid to reveal several dark bottles of tinctures in the velvet-lined teak box. With a shaky hand he pointed out the one he needed.

She set the chest aside and uncorked the bottle. Raising his head with one hand, she pressed the dark brown vial to his lips. He drank a generous amount, then lay back weakly.

"Thank you, Lydia."

"Are you better?" she asked. Her brows wrinkled with concern and her mouth puckered with anxiety.

Wisps of hair surrounded her face like filaments of light. Her skin was dewy from her overexertion. The scent of her cologne permeated the interior of the starkly masculine wagon. She had no idea how beautiful she looked to the ill man who would have given anything at that moment to be strong and whole.

"I'm better," he replied sadly, wishing the look she bestowed on him could be one of passion rather than pity.

"Let me help you out of this." She untied the silk tie from around his neck and unabashedly unbuttoned his vest and shirtfront.

Catching her hands, Winston stilled her. "Moses can do that when he comes in. Go back to the party. I'll be fine."

"Should I go and get him now?"

He shook his head on the fine linen pillowcase. "When he notices I'm not dancing, he'll be along." He tightened his grip on her hand. "Thank you, Lydia."

"It was nothing." Instinctively, maternally, her fingers brushed back the damp curls that lay on his forehead. At the same time, Winston raised her other hand to his lips and kissed it softly.

Ross plunged through the opening of the wagon like a pillaging vandal, Singing open the canvas flaps and holding them wide. Startled by the sound, Lydia whipped her head around, but not before Ross had seen what looked to his jealousy-crazed mind to be a tender, loving scene.

Lydia shrank from him. He was no longer wearing his vest or bandanna. Several of his shirt buttons had been opened to reveal each rippling muscle and a carpet of dark hair. His face was fearsome. Green eyes impaled her from beneath hooding black brows. Lying in damp disarray over his forehead, his hair was as untamed as his fierce expression. Beneath the frowning moustache, his mouth was a hard, straight line. His legs were planted wide apart, the muscles in his thighs contracting and bulging in the tight-fitting black pants.

Even the bravest of souls would cower under that magnificent physical presence. His fierce countenance portended disaster for anyone he considered his enemy.

"Ross?" Lydia squeaked.

"A touching scene," he snarled.

Winston struggled to sit up. "Let me—"

"He's sick. I looked for you. He was choking. There was—"

"You're my wife," Ross growled, taking two lunging strides to reach her. He wrapped his fingers around her upper arm and jerked her to her feet. "I didn't want you to be. I still don't. But as long as you are, goddamn you, you'll act like it."

"Ross, please listen to me," Winston pleaded faintly. The last thing he wanted was to bring trouble to Lydia for treating him kindly, "The circumstances are deceiving. Nothing unseemly happened here—"

"Yet," Ross snapped. "But I think I was just in time."

"No!" Lydia cried, trying to wrench her arm free of Ross's hold.

"Come on." He lifted her toward the wagons opening and thrust her through it.

"He's sick," she said, digging her heels in the dirt and pulling on her arm. "I should get—"

"You'll get what's coming to you, what you've been begging for. But you'll get it from me, your
husband,"
he sneered.

She stumbled against him and caught at his belt for support. The glittering anger in his eyes terrified her. Her teeth began to chatter and her bones threatened not to hold her up. "W . . . what do you mean?"

By now they were at his wagon. He scooped her in his arms and lithely took the steps up to the tailgate. He bent almost double over her to get inside the canvas opening.

"Lee—"

"Mas got him." He laughed and the sound sent a cold chill of fear down her spine. "Till morning."

Unceremoniously he dropped her onto her bedroll and she scrambled to cover her legs with her skirt. His lips curled in a nasty smile. "Don't bother with that modesty act, Lydia. If I had any doubts before, you proved tonight what you are."

"No," she whispered and sat up, scooting away from him into the corner of the wagon. She had seen this expression before. On Clancey's face. It was indomitable. It meant that no amount of begging or pleading would stop the man from taking what he wanted. Ross's eyes were alight with too much drink, fury, and lust. "No, Ross, please," she whimpered, covering her chest with her arms.

He peeled off his shirt, leaving his chest and stomach bare. Lydia watched the play of muscle and sinew. The vicious scar looked like an angry red eye winking at her. He unbuckled his belt and whipped the wide strap of leather out of the loops. She hunched forward protectively, thinking he meant to beat her first. But he only dropped the belt at his feet and began slowly to unbutton his pants.

She lifted her soulful eyes to his. Silently they pleaded with him not to do this, not to hurt her, not to use her with no more feeling than Clancey had done. "Please, Ross."

"You wanted a man?" he asked silkily, lowering himself to the bedroll. "Well, that's what you're going to get."

He moved so swiftly that one moment she was balled into the corner of the wagon, and the next she was being pulled beneath him by hands that moved with uncanny speed and skill.

Panicked, wild with the need to escape, she fought him, bucking violently, thrashing with arms and legs, curling her fingers into claws. "No, no," she chanted as she struggled against his unyielding strength that pressed her down.

"Oh, yes. How many have you given it to, huh? What makes me so different?"

The rose petals in her hair were crushed beneath her head as she rolled it from side to side. Her hair tumbled around her face, neck, shoulders. "No, Ross, Ross. God, don't let him do this to me," she cried helplessly.

"God won't help you, Lydia. God doesn t listen. He's never around when you need Him."

He caught her hands in one iron fist and stretched them above her head. Greedily his fingers worked at the buttons on her bodice until they came undone. Once the dress was pushed aside, he ripped at the ribbon on her camisole, then unfastened the tiny buttons. His breathing was loud and harsh as he pulled the garment aside and bared her breasts to his ravaging eyes.

Lydia moaned, squeezed her eyes shut, and turned her head away. If only he had asked her, she might have consented. She might have bartered this for his future kindness. Had he treated her gently, she might have offered it without his asking.

But he was going to hurt her, violate her, bruise her, just like Clancey had. It would be worse this time. Ross had the power to hurt her in a way Clancey never could. She cared for Ross, and that he could treat her with so little regard hurt her to her very soul. He wouldn't think of physically abusing one of his horses.

He didn't let himself touch her breasts. A remnant of sanity in his alcohol-ridden mind warned him that if he caressed her, he might begin to feel tenderness for her. That mustn't happen. She needed punishing and he was going to punish her.

He shoved her skirt and petticoats to her waist and laid hold of the waistband of her pantalets. Yanking hard, he broke the fastening and pushed them down her thighs. She groaned wretchedly and tried to lock her thighs together. Brutally he tore her underdrawers down the length of her legs and prized her thighs apart with his knee. Freeing his erect manhood from his pants, he positioned himself above her.