Turner's Rainbow 2 - The Rainbow Promise (12 page)

Luke broke away and went upstairs. He took his time dressing, and by the time he came back down, Sarah was dry, dressed, and sitting by the heat of the stove brushing out her hair. She smiled at him, and he managed a tight smile in return. He pulled the tub out and emptied it in the yard. Normally he would have returned to the house, but tonight he couldn't. He strolled to the corral and stood watching the horses. He walked through the barn, breathing in the familiar rich, acrid odor of animals and grain. Usually it soothed him, but not tonight.

Dark, insidious thoughts plagued his mind—images of Sarah naked and hot beneath him; memories of her breasts in his hands, infinitely soft and tantalizing; a whispering voice that told him that one time wouldn't hurt, that Dr. Banks was an old biddy without any understanding of a young man's hunger, that Sarah would welcome him. She would welcome him. He knew it. She never denied him anything; she gave him her love unstintingly, with no thought of herself. That was what made it so hard. He was the one who must be responsible for both of them. He had to take care of her.

It didn't matter that he imagined the feel of her lips on his body so strongly it was as if they were moving down him right now. It didn't matter that his blood pumped hot and thick through his veins, pounding in his head. He had to be strong.

He checked out the tack. It was all in good shape, supple and clean. There was nothing to do with it to keep his hands occupied. He went inside and took the shotgun and rifle out of the gun rack. He broke them down on the kitchen table and cleaned them. That wasn't necessary, either, but he had to do something. He couldn't go upstairs to Sarah yet. He thrust the long-handled brush into each barrel, turning it to clean them. He oiled the parts and fitted them back together. He smoothed a cloth over the polished wood stock and barrel. His hand glided slowly over the gun. He glanced down at his hands, and with a snort of exasperation, he threw down the cloth. He replaced the guns in the rack, washed his hands, and went upstairs.

Their room was dark. Sarah lay on her side in the bed. Luke slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him, and undressed in the dark. Thank Heaven she was asleep. He climbed into bed.

Sarah rolled over. "Luke."

She wasn't asleep. His heartbeat picked up. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"No."

"Good night."

"Good night."

Luke had kissed Sarah good night before they went to sleep for three years, but he hesitated now. A good night kiss, a mere brushing of their lips. It was a gesture, that was all. It couldn't hurt. That wasn't passion, that was love, and, oh God, he loved her, too.

Luke leaned over to press his lips to hers briefly, sexlessly. His mouth touched hers. And he was lost.

H
er mouth was soft and wet and warm. His tongue found its home in the familiar, delightful cave. Sarah's arms went around his neck, and his arms slid under her, crushing her to him. Her breasts pressed into his chest through the thin cloth of her gown. He could feel her nipples hardening against him. His mouth widened over hers, grinding into her. His manhood was like red-hot steel He could think of nothing except burying himself in her

Luke kissed her again and again, knowing it was wrong, but unable to stop himself. He told himself that he would do as he had done the other time, savoring her sweetness and pleasuring her without coming into her. He kissed her wildly all over her face and neck, nibbling, licking, sucking, murmuring a litany of words of love, sex, and heat.

Sarah responded without hesitation. She, too, was restless and yearning, aching for his touch. She wanted his hands all over her; she wanted his fullness inside her. She wanted to feel every inch of his male strength. She murmured his name, digging her hands into his hair, and arched up against him.

Luke sat up and unfastened Sarah's gown, impatiently jerking off two buttons that defied his clumsy fingers. He whipped it off over her head and threw it on the floor. He braced himself on his arms and looked down at her. His eyes were pale in the darkness, fierce and wild. Sarah stared back at him, her breath coming rapidly in her throat. He seemed so strange in the pale wash of the moonlight, ferocious and untamed, like a wild beast. It should have been frightening, and it was, a little, but in a way that excited her. It stirred her to think that desire for her could drive Luke to the edges of control, could unleash the primitive man hidden deep within him, but at the same time she knew, with a deep, abiding mist, that Luke would never hurt her.

His eyes moved down her face to the narrow column of her throat and lower still, over the plain of her chest to her breasts. They were full and pink tipped, the nipples pebbling. He cupped one in his brown, hard hand. Her flesh was pale against his, velvet soft to his roughness. He kneaded the lush flesh. His thumb rasped over her nipple, and it tightened in response. He took it between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed gently, his eyes darkening as he watched the nipple harden and elongate.

Luke lowered his head to her breast. His lips skimmed over the luscious mound, exploring its exquisite softness. He brushed across her nipple, then back. Once. Twice. Again. His tongue came out and circled the button of flesh, then lashed across it. Sarah strained upward, seeking the pleasure with which he teased her. He groaned and pulled her nipple fully into his mouth.

Sarah gasped. Her fingers dug into Luke's shoulders. Her nails scratched him, but he didn't feel it, too lost in his passion. His mouth left her breasts and trailed down her body, lovingly caressing her swollen abdomen. His hand glided up the inside of her smooth thigh. His breath was hot and rapid, his muscles trembling under the force of his need.

Luke's fingers tangled in the curls between her legs and found the eager dampness there. He sucked in his breath as he moved across the satiny, layered flesh, seeking the center of her heat. His head moved lower, and his hand went beneath her buttocks, lifting her up to his questing mouth. Sarah moaned as his tongue found the tender morsel of flesh it sought and be loved her gently, tenderly.

"Luke, Luke," Sarah's voice was ragged and uneven. She reached for him blindly.

Luke felt her muscles tightening, and he knew what would follow. He thought of being inside her when the waves of pleasure struck her, of feeling her clamp tightly around him. Pure, driving lust swept through him. He could not live without possessing her.

There was no conscious thought in him, only instinct and desire. He moved between her legs and slid into her. She was damp and tight around him. He groaned, Sarah circled her hips beneath him, luxuriating in the way he filled her so completely. It had been so long, so achingly long. He began to thrust within her, long, hard strokes that shook her, filled her, turned her into fire. Sarah moved with him, lost in the sensations he evoked in her. The heat built inside her, gathering into a hot, hard knot that tightened with each movement of Luke's body. It was almost unbearable, always just out of her reach, and she sobbed his name, straining up against him.

At last the sweet, piercing pleasure burst within her. Sarah cried out, arching up against him, and her movements hurled Luke into a world of new, unbelievable pleasure. He bucked against her, spilling out his hot seed.

Luke collapsed, shuddering under the intensity of his storm. His hair was damp with sweat, and Sarah combed her fingers through it lovingly. She kissed the top of his head.

"Oh, God." He rolled from her "I'm sorry"

Sarah smiled. "I'm not." She took his hand and raised it to her lips. "I love you."

He pulled her into his arms, squeezing her tightly against him. "And I love you. Oh, Lord, I love you."

❧

Sarah could see the guilt in Luke's eyes the next morning, but she had no regrets. His tension was gone, the taut lines around his mouth and eyes smoothed out. He was happier and more at peace than he had been in weeks. So was she. They were able to smile at each other or hold hands or kiss without being racked by desire.

Sunday was a lazy day. Sarah and Luke sat in the swing on the porch half the afternoon, gently rocking and watching the breeze play among the blossoms of the fruit trees. Julia was quiet all day, and Sarah detected a certain sadness in Julia's blue eyes. Sarah wondered if Julia was still sorrowing over her husband's death or if something else had disturbed her—such as seeing James Banks the day before. But Julia was a private person, like Luke, one who did not easily open up and talk, so Sarah didn't pry.

On Monday, Luke and Micah worked on the west forty, carrying their lunch with them. Sarah and Julia tackled the housecleaning, sweeping, dusting, and hanging out the rag rugs to be beaten. They worked all morning, and about twelve-thirty they went inside to fix lunch.

Suddenly, as they stepped inside the kitchen, Sarah felt something warm and liquid gush down her legs. Her stomach turned to ice, and she stopped dead still. "Julia?"

Julia turned inquiringly and saw Sarah's pale face. She started toward her "Sarah! What is it?"

Sarah gazed down at her skirt as if the lower half of her body didn't belong to her. "I—don't know." She raised her skirts above her ankles. The insides of her stockings were stained bright red, and there was blood on the floor.

"Oh my God!" Julia grabbed Sarah and propelled her to a chair, "Vance! Run get Luke. Tell him to hurry."

"Julia, what is it? What's happening?" Fear was etched on Sarah's face. "Am I losing my baby?"

❧

Luke set down the sack of seed with a sigh. "Time for lunch, don't you think?"

Micah grunted in agreement, dropping his hoe, and the two men walked to the creek* where they had left their lunch. Neither said much, which suited them both. Luke was a quiet, solitary man, and it had pleased him to discover that his new hired hand was the same. Last summer Luke had hired a man who had talked incessantly, and Luke had thought he would go crazy before they got in the crops.

Micah said little, and when he did talk, it was to some purpose. He was a good, strong worker, too, and quick to understand whatever instructions Luke gave him. In fact, it seemed to Luke as if their minds were attuned; more and more often Micah did exactly what Luke had in mind without having to be told.

They sat down in the shade of a willow beside the creek and opened the sack of sandwiches Julia had prepared for them. Luke pulled out the mason jars of lemonade that they had set in the stream earlier to keep cool. They drank thirstily and devoured their sandwiches. Their hunger somewhat assuaged, they ate the remaining sandwiches, hunks of cheese, and apple tarts more slowly, savoring the taste.

"Mrs. Dobson be a fine cook," Micah commented, sinking his teeth into his second apple tart.

Luke smiled as he brushed his hands on his pants leg to remove the crumbs. "She is that. She makes an apple dumpling that'd make you think you died and went to Heaven."

"This one'd almost get you there itself."

Luke leaned back against the trunk of the tree, tipping down the brim of his hat to shade his eyes. He felt warm, full, and happy. "Reminds me of Huntsville. We always used to talk about how good something tasted. How soft some woman was."

Micah's eyes opened wide, and he stopped chewing. He swallowed. "Huntsville? You—uh—"

"Was in prison?" Luke shot him a half-amused, half-defensive glance from beneath the brim of his hat. "What did you think? That I was brought up to this kind of life?" He made a sweep of his arm, encompassing the land around him. "Owning land, living in a house like that?"

"Yeah, I s'pose..."

"I wasn't." Luke paused. "I was a sharecropper's kid. Julie and I grew up in a shack that made that room in the barn look like high living."

Micah stared at Luke. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't thought about Luke's past; he had assumed he'd grown up a prosperous farmer's son. Micah didn't think of white people being poor, any more than he would have dreamed that Luke Turner had been in prison. Now that he thought about it, he could see the lines of hard experience on Luke's face. Luke's eyes weren't those of a person who had had everything handed to him. Micah realized, amazed, that the house he'd grown up in in New Mexico had probably been better than Luke's childhood home. No wonder Luke was easy to work with, comfortable to be around. He'd been on the bottom, too.

"I was lucky," Luke went on. "I found Sarah." Instinctively he glanced in the direction of the house, even though he couldn't see it from this distance. He straightened. A small figure was racing through the fields toward them. Luke rose, squinting against the light. "What's that?"

Micah glanced in the direction in which Luke looked. "I don't know." He stood up, shading his eyes. "A kid?"

Vaguely anxious, Luke stepped across the creek. He walked toward the child, and as he walked, his pace quickened, his unease increasing. Micah followed him.

"It's Vance," Luke said. He broke into a trot.

They could see that Vance was running as fast as he could, arms and legs pumping. The boy's face was contorted with effort—and fear. The alarm that had been building in Luke burst into full flower. He began to run.

"Uncle Luke! Uncle Luke!" Vance dropped to his knees, gasping for air, as Luke reached him.

Luke went down on one knee beside his nephew. "What is it? What's the matter?"

"Mama—says—to come," Vance gasped out. "It's Aunt Sarah."

"My God." Luke didn't wait to find out what had happened. He set out running for the house. Micah slung Vance up on his back and ran after Luke.

Nothing had ever taken Luke as long as it did to get to the house that day. He ran harder than he'd ever run in his life, even the time the sheriff had come for him, but still he seemed to get nowhere. His feet pounded across the dirt, and he strained forward, urging every ounce of speed from his legs. His breath whistled in and out of his lungs. His body was cold with fear despite the heat of the day, and all he could think was, "Sarah, Sarah."

When he reached the house, he took the porch steps two at a time and burst into the kitchen. He pulled up short. Sarah sat in a chair, and Julia knelt on the other side of her, holding her hand. Sarah's feet were up on the kitchen table, crossed. Her face was paper white, and the pale gold freckles across her nose and cheeks stuck out garishly.

There was blood all over her legs, all over her skirts, all over the floor.

The world jolted to a stop. "Sarah!"

Sarah opened her eyes. "Luke." Her voice was barely a whisper.

His insides went cold as ice. "What—" He dropped down beside her and looked across at Julia. He couldn't say the awful words crowding his throat. "Julie?"

Julia shook her head. "I don't know. She started bleeding a few minutes ago. She's bled a lot, but she hasn't been in any pain. We need to put her in bed. I—she was too weak to climb the stairs. And we need the doctor."

"I'll carry her. Then I'll go get Banks." His brain felt numb. He couldn't think. Oh, God. Sarah!

The screen door opened. Micah hesitated in the doorway. Luke turned to him with a rush of relief. "Micah. Can you ride a horse?"

"Sure. I done rode all my life."

"Go for Dr. Banks. Tell him Sarah needs him immediately. Take Jo-Jo; he's the fastest."

Micah nodded and turned, already out the door and headed down the steps. Julia came to the door after him and called, "The Banks house is the big white one on Main Street, about a block before downtown." Micah nodded without looking back as he loped into the barn.

Luke picked Sarah up tenderly, moving as if she were more fragile than glass. She leaned her head against his chest. He carried her slowly, carefully, out of the kitchen and up the stairs to their bedroom. Julia ran up before them to turn down the bed and cover one side with towels. Luke set Sarah down on the bed. She winced and breathed in sharply.

"I'm sorry. I tried not to hurt you."

Sarah shook her head. "No, it wasn't you." She looked from Luke to Julia and back. "I—it was a pain. Here." She laid her hand on her abdomen. Tears glistened in her eyes, and she spoke reluctantly, as if she could stave off what was happening by not admitting it. "I think it was a contraction."

Luke glanced at Julia. The worry was plain on her face. Sarah was losing the baby.