Wyoming Wildfire (44 page)

She wandered about the house mechanically recording what was needed to make it liveable again, yet all the while thinking of the absent furnishings in their new settings at the Elkhorn, and inseparable from that, Burch. Always, it was Burch. Every empty corner, every missing chair, every disheartening thought contained the germ of some remembrance that would conjure up a memory, some random fragment of those six months, and underscore the bleakness of her future.

Maybe her aunt was right; maybe she couldn’t live here again, maybe she should consider selling the house. It contained too many painful links to dreams that had disappointed her, dreams that no longer held out a promise of happiness. Maybe she should leave Lexington altogether and make a totally new life for herself far away from everything that had ever happened to her.

She wandered upstairs and through her old room, searching out the secret corners and remembering the private moments that she had collected over the years. Every one of them had occurred before she met Burch, but now they seemed to exist only through him. Frantically she searched for something to shut out the memories, to ease the hurt, but there was nothing, only the hard, shiny floors emphasizing the emptiness of the house—and her life. With jarring suddenness Sibyl knew that she could never come back; this world was just as closed to her as the Elkhorn.

She drifted into one of the extra bedrooms they had never used, and its strangeness comforted her. Some unused furnishings were stored there, and she sank down on a pile of mattresses by the window and stared thoughtfully through the dusty panes.

She had visited the farm, too. She hadn’t expected it to be the same, being owned by someone else and all her father’s projects discontinued, but even the barns, with their massive stone foundations supporting two full floors above, seemed to be less imposing than she remembered. She didn’t know what she could ever have found to interest her in such a small, predictable property.

Most difficult of all was the visit to her mother’s grave. Unsuspecting, she carried the weight of her troubles with her, thinking somehow the burden would be taken from her shoulders. Instead, it weighed even more heavily; there was no answer for her there. Her mother had given in to her grief and let it destroy her. Sibyl couldn’t give in, couldn’t give up; she had to fight back, to struggle to find some solution for her life. She was alive, vibrant, and determined; she had tasted some of life’s sweetness and she wanted more. But how? There were no answers for her in Lexington, not from people who were unable to change, unable to meet the challenges and demands of a new world with honesty and dignity; not from Aunt Louisa who lived by a code Sibyl found repellant.

Only meek, underrated Augusta had the courage to meet the future and accept it. She had a strength none of them had been able to recognize, the courage go forward without denying her past. She was able to take life and love as it was offered to her, and savor its sweetness without longing for the slice someone else had cut away. It made Sibyl ashamed to think she had never seen what Burch and Lasso saw so easily.

“Burch!” The name rose to her lips of its own accord, and she crumpled up with a sob of despair. “I didn’t know it could hurt so much to love you. Oh God,” she wailed, “why did you let me go? Why aren’t you here?”

“I am here.”

Sibyl’s body turned to stone. She must be going crazy. Now she was hearing things. “Don’t be a fool, there’s nobody here,” she said aloud to calm her racing pulse. “You’re letting your imagination get the best of you.”

“Just look up,” the voice said, echoing through the empty room. Fearfully Sibyl raised her eyes, and through a mist of tears she saw the well-loved features framed in the open doorway. She
must
be dreaming, losing her mind. Maybe she’d fainted. But then the shadowy shape moved toward her, and she heard the sound of his heels on the bare floor, saw the weathered features come into clear focus despite the tears. With a half-smothered shriek she flew up from the window and threw herself into his outstretched arms. His hungry lips found hers, crushing her mouth in a searing kiss that left her breathless. Every bit of the feelings she had so steadfastly refused to acknowledge, all the grinding desire she had staunchly denied, swept her up in a rampaging flood that recognized no restraint; she had no desire for any. She was in the arms of the man she loved, embraced by the body her own body craved, and no one and nothing else in the world mattered.

“Is it really you?” she asked breathlessly, emerging from his embrace.

“Do you have to ask after that welcome?”

“Don’t tease me,” she begged. “I can’t stand it. Just hold me,” she implored, unwilling to leave the comforting circle of his arms. Thinking poorly of such a waste of time, Burch applied himself to reassuring her in a manner that soon reduced her bones to mush. But he didn’t confine himself to her lips. With his teeth, lips, and tongue he caressed her neck, tantalized her ears, and trailed molten kisses across her shoulders. Sibyl’s body, long denied its fulfillment, leapt in response, all of her senses awakened and clamoring for relief.

The smell of him brought memories of the nights they spent in each others arms rushing back, and suddenly it was as though they had been whisked back in time to the blissful days before Christmas, when they were secure in each other’s love. Burch’s hands traveled over her body, and when she moaned in response, arching her body against his own heated desire, his nimble fingers rapidly unbuttoned the front of her dress to lift out one soft white breast. Sibyl felt as though her whole body would explode when Burch’s lips touched her throbbing nipples; she slumped away from him, too weak to stand. Scooping her up, he deposited her on the stack of mattresses.

Sibyl felt like she was floating on a cloud, a cloud of fire that sent flames lapping at every part of her body. Burch had freed the second breast, and the torture of it caused Sibyl to writhe pleasurably, trying to pull his body to hers, her hands trying to open his shirt. She wiggled her body, helping Burch free her from her dress. Then her fumbling fingers joined his to rid him of his restraining garments. There was no slow beginning, no loving tenderness, no lingering caresses. Burch and Sibyl came together without preliminaries, driven by a force that deprived them of reason or control. Burch entered her quickly, driven toward his own release without regard for her. Sibyl, equally oblivious to anything except her own maddening need, strove to satisfy her longing with the same blind haste. The climax came quickly, but it brought no release of the terrible pressure that had been building within them for months.

Almost at once Burch’s control reasserted itself, and he began to move slowly, rhythmically, letting his lips and hands caress Sibyl’s soft skin, toy with her still-throbbing breasts, hold her lips in long, lingering kisses while his tongue explored her mouth. Gradually, he kindled in her a sense of excitement, a higher level of responsiveness, and a thrill of expectancy. He remembered all the most sensitive places and exploited every one of them until Sibyl was twisting and turning in ecstasy. “Please,” she begged of him, but he continued with the same intensity, varying his strokes but never their tempo, until she thought she could stand it no longer.

Sibyl threw herself against him, crying for liberation, demanding relief from the teasing and tantalizing motion. With infinite expertise, Burch was keeping her on the very edge, building the tension, the need for release, but never going far enough to allow her to reach that all-important pinnacle.

“Faster, please go faster,” Sibyl begged. Burst after burst of agonizing pleasure swept over her, racking her body from end to end, but never that one magnificent eruption, that one final explosion that would release all the tension, satisfy all the need, achieve all the pleasure that she knew was there. Sibyl could stand it no longer, and she moved on the attack.

Sibyl increased her own tempo without waiting for Burch. She kissed him with all the passion of a tortured soul, nipping at his skin with her teeth until he groaned in protest. Her fingers, those gracefully slim instruments of pleasure, began to explore his body, tickling the rippling muscles of his abdomen, gripping the firm buttocks and drawing them toward her. Before long Burch’s body was consumed by the fire she had ignited, and he was no longer able to keep up the steady, torturing tempo. They quickened together, moving toward each other with purpose and urgency. Their breath came in gasps and their bodies grew stiff with the sweet agony that was ready to burst over them like a healing balm. Then at last that ultimate, supreme fulfillment rocked them both at the same instant, fusing them into one entity and cleansing them of the months of waiting and longing.

For a long while afterwards they lay perfectly still, Burch’s strong arms holding her tight, wrapped in and warmed by the euphoria of being together again. For a few moments before her ability to think and reason returned, Sibyl thought that this might be enough, that she had magnified the differences and fears that had separated them.

“I still can’t believe it,” she said in wonder. “It seems like years since I left.”

“For me it’s like it was yesterday. I can still feel the touch of your skin, smell your hair, hear the soft sound of your breath as you lay sleeping.”

“You watched me sleep?”

“I lay for hours with you in my arms, wondering how I was so lucky.”

“You must not have slept very much.”

“If I had known how little time we had, I wouldn’t have slept at all. Why did you leave?”

Sibyl stiffened perceptibly. She knew this was not enough. The warmth was still there, but it was not the sweet, healing warmth of just a few minutes ago. It turned irreversibly into the bitter heat of regret and lost trust. The coldness of the house penetrated Sibyl’s joy; she sat up with a slight shiver and began to dress quickly.

“Your aunt deserves an explanation as much as I do,” he said, aware of the change in her.

“You went to see Aunt Augusta?”

“As soon as I found you gone. What did you expect me to do, write a letter and then sit back and wait for an answer?”

“I didn’t expect you to come, at least not so soon.” Sibyl tried to recapture the feeling of elation and failed. Her coolness, the certainty that all intimacy between them was over, communicated itself to Burch and he too began to dress.

“I’d have been here sooner,” he said, reaching for his pants, “if it hadn’t taken so long to get rid of Emma.”

Emma! That hated name seemed to haunt her, to follow her wherever she went, driving the last of the warmth away. Only the coldness and the emptiness of regret remained. Suddenly Sibyl felt as though she couldn’t keep from bursting into tears. She ran from the room, fleeing from Burch and the ruin of her dreams. She came to rest in a window seat where she had spent many afternoons as a child. It was here that Burch found her a few minutes later, curled up, staring forlornly out the window. It was a melancholy view; the sun made only a feeble attempt to shine, and the walnut trees stood bare of leaves, unfruitful and unpromising. The whole landscape was wet from the melting snow, a weeping, dripping world outside just as much as inside.

“You do still love me,” he said, half question and half statement.”

“Yes.” To deny it any longer, after what had just happened, would make a wanton out of her. Besides, it felt better to face the truth, bitter as it was. “I suppose I always will.” Burch came closer.

“But nothing has changed?”

“No.” He sat down next to her, taking her hands in his.

“You know you have to tell me why you left, don’t you?” he asked softly. “After coming all the way from Wyoming, you can’t turn me away without an explanation.”

Sibyl did not answer. She couldn’t. The overwhelming sense of loss nearly choked her. How could she explain that his tryst with Emma, no matter how fleeting and unimportant in his eyes, had destroyed any chance they had for a future together. She could not love a man who would not be faithful to her. She was giving up too much to share what he offered with another woman. Other women!

“I do hope this man is your cousin.” Louisa’s regal voice came from the doorway and brought both of them to their feet. The shock of being found virtually in Burch’s arms by her aunt reduced Sibyl to stammering incoherence, but Burch turned without haste to find himself being measured by a pair of almost black eyes that gave no hint of the thoughts behind their intense gaze.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s who I am, but I don’t know you. Should I?”

“I’m Sibyl’s aunt, Louisa Russell, Augusta’s sister. We don’t favor, so don’t perjure yourself swearing to a likeness that isn’t there.”

“No, ma’am,” Burch said, smiling in a way that explained a lot to Louisa. “I guess you’re wondering how I found Sibyl?”

“Not at all. When I returned home and found that Sibyl was still gone out, I was told that a man had come to the house asking for her. I assumed that you were her cousin and had followed her here.”

“Just so, nothing mysterious at all.”

“And I suppose you’ve come to talk with Sibyl about whatever it was that sent her home in such haste. I’ll not hide from you that I did not favor Sibyl’s going off to live in a territory. Neither will I do anything to stand in your way of convincing her of whatever it is you’ve come to say. However, this is not the place. If you would like to come to dinner, we would be happy to receive you at seven. We’re invited to a ball afterwards. It’s Sibyl’s first time out, so I’m afraid she can’t decline at this late date, but you will be allowed to speak with her when we return.”