Sunset Embrace (39 page)

Ross tossed the dregs of his coffee onto the ground and stood up. He took off his hat and hung it on a nail at the back of the wagon, peeled off his shirt, and poured water into the tin basin he used to wash in. After sluicing several handfuls over his face and neck he said, "If you mean, does a woman conceive every time she's with a man, the answer is no." He blotted his face dry with a towel.

"How many times do you figure? I mean ... if you was to ... you know, go off inside her several times, three or four maybe, could it be—"

"Bubba," Ross said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Why don't you tell me what's bothering you."

Pitiably Bubba looked up into Ross's face, then trowed his head dejectedly Ross felt the thin shoulders begin to shake beneath his hand as Bubba dissolved into wracking sobs.

The whole story poured out then, about his wanting Priscilla, going crazy with want of her, about his bribing Luke to do his chores while he met her that day by the river. He confessed how they had spent that afternoon. He also confessed that it had been his first time and how good it had been.

He was openly weeping when he wiped his nose and eyes on his shirtsleeves. "But if I hadn't been diddlin' her, Luke would still be alive. It's all my fault. I was a horny bastard ruttin' my guts out while my brother was gettin' his throat, cut."

Ross cursed at the sky. Why did this boy have to suffer this guilt? Wasn't it enough that his brother had been so ruthlessly butchered?

He looked down at Bubba's ravaged face and almost envied him his ability to care that much about someone. When he was Bubba's age he had killed his first man. He had felt nothing except a sense of elation. He had felt not one twinge of remorse, much less the tormenting despair that this young man was feeling. Bubba didn't know how lucky he was to be able to cry.

"It wasn't your fault, Bubba," Ross said levelly. "Luke was always wandering off by himself. It could have happened anytime. It was purely a coincidence that you were with Priscilla at the time." Ross remembered the days he had wanted Lydia so bad he had thought he would die if he couldn't have her. "Any man understands what it's like to want a woman."

"Hell, I wish I'd never touched her. Now she's saying that she might get a baby. My ma'll kill me. If hers don't kill me first."

Ross laughed then, and Bubba looked up at him, surprised. "How much do you like Priscilla?" Ross didn't want to malign the girl if the boy was in love with her, or thought himself to be.

Bubba shifted uneasily. "At first I thought I wanted to marry her. I truly thought I loved her." He cursed again. "She's right. She said all I wanted to do was mate her and that now I have, I don't care nothin' 'bout her no more. I guess I'm gonna have to marry her," he said unenthusiastically.

"You'll have to get in line."

"Huh?"

"Scout told me she was pressuring him to marry her. Bubba," he said gently, "she's had plenty of other men." He didn't tell the boy that the invitation had been extended to him many times. Subtly, but one a man couldn't fail to recognize. "And if she does get pregnant, she'd have a helluva time proving who the father was. She's a clever little tart to string you along like this." When he saw the dismay on the boy's face, he patted him on the back. "There's a Priscilla in every man's life, the girl who initiates him, who lures him under her skirt, then acts offended afterward."

"Did you have a girl like that, Ross?"

Ross scoffed and wondered what Bubba would say if he knew Ross had been tutored by a whole harem, who would gladly oblige him on lazy afternoons or evenings when business was slow. He grinned in the darkness and his teeth flashed brightly. "That's the second lesson you need to learn. A gentleman never tells."

He was relieved to see Bubba smile. He looked like himself for the first time since Luke had been killed. "Don't blame yourself for what happened to Luke. It was not your fault."

"I'll always feel bad about it."

"Sure you will. It'll hurt for a long time," Ross conceded. "But a man puts his mistakes behind him and tries to do better the next time." He pointed a finger at the boy and said sternly, "And stay away from tramps like Priscilla Watkins. If she let you do it to her, she'll let any other man. Someone special will come along for you in a few years."

"Like Lydia."

"Lydia?" Ross's head snapped up. He would have thought Victoria would be a young man's ideal woman.

Bubba swallowed, afraid he had raised Ross's ire. "Meanin' no offense, but Lydia's 'bout the prettiest woman I ever did see. Luke and me both thought so that first day we found her in the woods, though she didn't look too pert then."

When his hero did nothing but stare at him expres-sionless, he rushed on. "She's all soft and neat, but don't look like she'd mind bein' touched, messed up, you know?"

Lydia, languishing in the clover, her clothes rumpled, laughing over the green stains on her stockings and awaiting him playfully when he teased her about a muddy spot on her knee. Lydia, never fussing at him for tangling his fingers in her hair. Lydia, her face wrinkled in concentration as she pored over the pages of a book, struggling to read it correctly.

"She's dainty and all, but brave too."

"Brave?" Ross echoed. It was as if they were talking about someone he didn't know but wanted an opinion of.

"Yeah, like the way she took over carin' for the horses when you was away and I was feelin' poorly. She was scared of 'em at first, but she didn't let that stop her. Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but she sneaks sugar down to 'em and they heed the little words she whispers to em almost as much as they heed you. She's been after me to teach her how to ride too. I said I would if you didn't mind, but she said she wanted to keep it a secret until she could surprise you. I been settin' her up on one of the mares now and again whenever you ain't around to see. You don't mind, do you, Ross?"

Dumbly he shook his head. Lydia riding horseback? "No, I guess she should get used to the horses since she'll be around them once we get settled on our place." She had wanted to surprise him?

"That's what I thought," Bubba said, relieved that Ross wasn't mad at him for taking the liberty of teaching his wife to ride. "You should see her, holdin' on to that saddle horn for dear life." He chuckled softly. "'Course she's learning to ride astride on account of you ain't got no sidesaddle."

"Of course."

"Don't let on like you know when she springs that surprise on you."

"No, I won't."

Bubba looked toward the wagon wistfully. "Hope I meet up with a woman just like Lydia someday." Then, afraid he had overstepped the bounds of friendship, said quickly, "'Night, Ross, and thanks for the . . . uh . . . thanks for everythin'." He disappeared into the darkness.

"'Night," Ross said absently.

The wagon was dark and he felt his way across the floor to the pallet. He tugged off his boots and pants and lay down beside the sleeping form of his wife.

"Ross?" she questioned sleepily.

"I'm back."

"Did you follow him?"

"Lost him after dark. I don't think he stuck around, though. Nothing to worry about."

She only wished that were true. "Did you eat something?"

"I'm not hungry." To belie what he said, his stomach rumbled and gurgled noisily.

"You are!" she exclaimed softly, reaching in the dark and rubbing her hand on his stomach. Except she missed her mark and her fingers brushed the satiny arrow of hair that she knew pointed from his navel downward.

He moaned as his body reacted instantly. His absti-nrnce during the days when her mood had been so volatile was catching up with him. Reflexively, when she started to pull her hand back, he caught it and dragged it back to press against his abdomen. He kicked himself free of his underwear and, turning to face her, rid her of her nightgown with his free hand.

"I
am
hungry, Lydia. Nourish me."

He kissed her rapaciously, her mouth the prey of his starrving tongue. He nibbled his way down her throat. His mouth settled on the plump curve of her breast, wandering at will and taking lovebites until it found her nipple.

She whimpered her gratification, "You tasted my milk once. Do you remember?"

"Yes. God, yes," he murmured. He took as much of her in his mouth as possible.

"I wish I still had milk. I would gladly feed you, Ross."

His moan was heartfelt, soulfelt, and he urged her hand down. She resisted only a moment before she let him guide her past the wiry thatch of hair to his masculinity. Then he released her hand, letting her choose what she would do.

He whispered her name in entreaty, chanting it as he kissed her breasts, caressed them with his tongue and moustache and softly plucked at them with his lips. Thinking only about how much she loved him, she trailed the backs of her fingers along the hard, velvety length of him, then closed her hand around it.

His curse was blasphemous, or was it a prayer he spoke, as her fingers began to learn the shape, the feel, the textures, the strength of him. She discovered the first beads of moisture at the tip and used them to lubricate the spearhead.

"Oh, God, Lydia. Yes, yes." His words were disjointed, his breathing ragged. "Faster, my love. That's it. Oh, sweet ... I ..."

He rolled her to her back, frantically apologizing for his haste. He needn't have, for her body was dewy with desire and her heart was leaping for joy for this gift she could give him. He sheathed himself in her snug warmth, and after it was over, when he was resting in a golden haze of exhaustion and supreme satisfaction, he thought about what Bubba had said. The boy was right.

M
adam LaRue stared indifferently at the pen and ink sketch lying on her desk in the cluttered, gaudy parlor that her girls referred to as "the front room." Idly, she twined a strand of raven hair round and round on her finger. If she was surprised by the face looking up at her from the parchment, it didn't show. There was no telltale flicker of her penciled eyebrows, no revealing movement in her powdered face, no spot of rising color on her cheeks save the rouge she had applied earlier.

"No, gentlemen. That's not the man I sent to Pearl's room the night she was killed. Are you sure you won't have some sherry?"

Gentry flew out of the pink brocade chair and went to the window, rudely pushing back tasseled curtains. Majors, diplomatic and patient and thorough as always, spoke kindly to the madam, who had made quite a name for herself and her stable of girls in the short time she had been in Owentown. Pearl's murder, seemingly without motive, had served to surround them with an aura of intrigue that Madam had capitalized on.

"Madam LaRue," Majors said, "please remember that this is only an artistic rendering from a photograph. Look again and tell us if you've ever seen this man in your . . . uh
. . .
place of business."

"That's not what you asked me, Mr. Majors. You asked if he was the man I sent to Pearl and I told you no."

"This is a goddamn waste of time," Gentry exploded, whirling away from the window and thumping his meaty fist on Madam's desktop. "Why are you fencing words with this whore?"

With utter contempt curling her painted lips, Madam's shrewd eyes slid up and down the tall, distinguished gentleman. She had known so many of his type. These self-appointed moral monitors of the community led campaigns against establishments like hers, yet they frequented them more regularly than most men and usually preferred the most sordid whores.

She dismissed Gentry with a delicate sniff of her nose. The Pinkerton man was a true gentleman even though he was associated with the law. She didn't discriminate because of that. Some of her best friends and steady clients hud been lawmen.

"Mr. Gentry, please." Majors sighed wearily. He regretted even mentioning the trip to Owentown to Gentry. When they had returned to Knoxville to find that nothing new had been reported, he had begun to sift through what meager information they had.

They had previously dismissed the undercover agents mention of a man resembling Sonny Clark in the Owen-town saloon as not substantial enough to follow up on. But the report of the prostitutes murder was too much of a coincidence to overlook. Lacking any better leads, he and Gentry had come to the railroad town and were now Interviewing the infamous Madam LaRue, though this, too, began to look like a dead end.

"Who is this man?" Madam queried silkily, measuring Majors's attractiveness. Maybe she would give him a free treat for his kindness after they had finished their business. As for the other man, he could go to hell. "Someone I should be wary of?"

"Don't tell her—"

"Gentry!" Majors barked. "Shut up."

When Gentry had sunk back into his chair, fuming but silent, Majors continued. Gentry was embarrassed by anyone finding put that Clark was married to his daughter, but Majors decided to give Madam LaRue the whole story.

"His name is Sonny Clark. He rode with the James gang up until a few years ago. Then he disappeared. He's pulled no more jobs that we know of, though he's still a wanted man. Mr. Gentry here didn't know his true identity when he hired him to work on his stud farm."

Her eyebrows shot up eloquently and she swept a smirking gaze in Gentry's direction. Her derision made his ruddy complexion grow even redder. "He is now married to Gentry's daughter. They ran away with a cache of jewelry, leaving no word or trace of their whereabouts. Mr. Gentry naturally, is concerned about his daughter."

"Why?" Madam asked calmly.

"
Why?
" In spite of Majors's warnings, Gentry bolted Out of his chair again. "The man's a criminal, a murderer, a thief. No telling what he's putting her through."

Madam thought back to the stunning young woman walking proudly and haughtily through the tall grass, and well imagined that she could take care of herself.

"He's not the man who went to Pearl's room that night," she repeated.

"Then we've taken up enough of your time." Majors began to rise. "Thank you—"

"However, he
was
here."