Christine Dorsey (18 page)

He dropped to his knees, his hands clutching her buttocks, his hot breath searing through the skirt and single petticoat covering her. And then her legs did give out. Slowly she sank, sliding down his body until he cupped her face and kissed her again.

He seemed to sense her need to touch him, for he pulled at her sleeves, freeing her arms.

His skin was smooth and sleek with sweat. Samantha couldn’t get enough of running her hands over him. Her breasts were pressed to his naked chest, her thighs to his, and the rock-hard evidence of his desire for her nudged her soft stomach.

Jake shifted and she writhed, and together they tumbled toward his blanket. Instinctively Jake twisted to absorb the brunt of the fall on himself. Pain replaced passion as white hot agony shot from his wound. “Damn,” was all he managed to grit between his clenched teeth as he rolled onto his back.

“What is it?” Momentarily bewildered, Samantha lay atop him, her pale breasts mounds of creamy softness pressed against his darker chest. The sides of the stall threw them in shadow but Samantha could make out the lines of pain around his mouth. “Oh, my heavens. Your wound. How could I have forgotten?”

“Most likely the same way I forgot,” Jake countered. The pain was beginning to subside into a dull ache.

“Did you open it? Is it bleeding?”

“No.”

“What can I do?”

Jake shifted, trying to keep his expression sober. She was staring down at him so seriously. “If you could move just a little.”

“Oh my. I’m hurting you.” Embarrassed color flooded Samantha as she glanced down to see herself sprawled, half naked, on top of him. “Let me get up.”

“No.” Jake grabbed her arm. “Just wriggle over this way a bit.”

“But—” Samantha’s words were cut off by a kiss so deep and thorough that she forgot to protest. By the time it was over, his right hand was above her stocking, stroking her thigh, and her legs were spread over his hips.

Jake rolled to his side, taking Samantha with him. She tumbled onto the wool blanket. The last pins securing her hair fell out, spilling golden curls that fanned out, framing her face. And then he was atop her, supporting his weight on the elbow of his right arm.

Her skirts had risen, tangled with her legs, and Jake pushed them higher. His hand splayed across her bare hip then, seeking a more intimate haven, delved between her legs. Her eyes sprang open when he touched her, gently stroking the tender flesh that ached for him. And then she moaned as his finger became bolder and fiery desire washed over her.

Jake wasn’t certain how he managed to unfasten the buttons of his pants. All he knew was one moment he was watching her eyes flutter shut and the next pressing into her moist heat. She was tight but wet with desire and he came into her with one strong thrust.

Her cry of pain rang in his ears, and Jake stopped, forcing himself to be still until sweat broke out on his forehead. He hadn’t thought about her being a virgin. Bundy Atwood’s remarks this afternoon implied a relationship that went beyond handholding and chaste kisses. He found Atwood’s references to Samantha annoying, and the man himself contemptible, but now Jake realized he’d believed his lies. Maybe he just wanted to believe them.

But now it was obvious they weren’t true.

Jake shifted. He could barely make out her features. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Her answer was little more than a breath of air. And then she moved, fractionally at first, but as Jake took up the rhythm, more smoothly. She reached for something, her mind, her body, her soul, all strove for the crest of the wave. She slipped and slid, meeting the hard intensity of his body, straining toward something she couldn’t define.

His control vanished. Her heat, the moist movements of her body, obliterated all but the most primal need. Jake tried to stem the tide rushing through him, to prolong the pleasure, but too long his body had endured the ache of abstinence. Jake exploded inside her, thrusting deep and convulsively.

He rolled away quickly. The dull pain he’d felt around his wound didn’t seem so dull anymore. And supporting himself on one trembling arm was impossible. His breathing was ragged and a sudden deep lethargy swept over him. He tried to focus his mind on what had happened, but couldn’t. All Jake knew was that he hadn’t lost control like that in a very long time. Not since his randy youth.

Turning his head, he studied the woman beside him. She lay on the farthest corner of the blanket. He hadn’t heard her move. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing shallow. Jake watched the erotic rise and fall of her breasts before forcing his attention back to her face. She looked small and fragile, and Jake felt guilt flood him. He should have been gentler with her... hell, he should never have touched her.

“Samantha.” His hand reached out to where hers lay limp on the blanket.

She jerked it away. “Don’t say anything.” Samantha sighed and sat up. Why hadn’t she noticed how itchy the blanket was before, or how strongly it smelled of straw?

He expected her to be meek, even weepy. She looked so vulnerable lying there, and Jake had lots of experience with that reaction. But she wasn’t crying, or even whimpering. She just stared at him, disbelief shadowing her blue eyes.

“I’m sorry.” The words seemed banal, and Jake regretted them the moment they were out of his mouth. Besides, he had no idea what part of it he was apologizing for.

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she turned away. “It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have come out here.” Samantha bit her bottom lip. If she didn’t get away from here, she was going to cry, and cry hysterically. He’d already witnessed her bawling once. She didn’t want him to see her again. Especially with this... this... whatever it was, as the cause.

Twisting about, Samantha tried to find a sleeve. Her dress was wrinkled and littered with straw, and for the life of her, she couldn’t find the right hole.

“Let me help you.”

“No!” Samantha’s eyes closed as she pulled her arm away from his fingers. “I can do it.” Pushing to her feet, she scurried behind the stall side, crouching down to hide herself from his eyes. She squirmed and struggled, tearing the worn cotton, but finally managing to shove her arms into the sleeves. Her fingers trembled as she buttoned the front as quickly as she could. She didn’t want him coming behind the meager partition to offer any more assistance.

He didn’t.

By the time Samantha managed to right her clothes as best she could, she’d also managed to fight back the desire to cry. Or worse, to throw herself into his arms and beg him not to leave her.

She stood, straightening her skirts, and started toward the barn door without looking toward the stall where they had made love. She almost made it out of the barn before his voice stopped her.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Samantha turned. He was standing, leaning against the post, his arms crossed loosely. He’d pulled up his pants, but was still shirtless. Samantha swallowed, remembering how his tawny skin felt beneath her fingers. Determined, she pushed that thought aside. With her chin raised, she looked him squarely in the eye. “I’m fine. Good night, Captain Morgan.” It sounded ridiculous, calling him by so formal a title after what they had just done, but at least her voice was firm. And her legs were strong as they carried her across the yard.

He’d responded to her words, but as Samantha crept into the cabin she realized that he’d said not good night, but good-bye.

She couldn’t sleep. Not even after scrubbing herself with the water in the pitcher and putting on her night rail. Samantha spent the night in the rocking chair, her knees tucked under her chin.

Near dawn she heard Will climb down the ladder from the loft. He made his way across the parlor, calling to Charity before going outside. Less than five minutes later he was back, bursting through the door and shouting.

Samantha shut her eyes as he called to her from the other room. “Sam! Sam! He’s gone.”

F
lames sizzled and smoke spiraled into the morning sky as Jake poured dregs from his coffeepot on the small campfire. How could he have forgotten in three short weeks how terrible his coffee tasted? And his cooking was even worse. Scraping the congealed beans from the skillet, Jake tried not to compare his meager fare with the tender biscuits Samantha would be pulling from her Dutch oven about now.

No doubt about it, that woman could cook.

“It’s not her culinary skills you can’t get off your mind,” Jake mumbled to himself as he rolled his blanket. He stood, stretching the kinks from his body—still favoring his left side—and hiked the saddle over his horse. He stopped a little past midnight thinking to make camp and get some sleep before heading south.

He might as well have stayed in the saddle for all the rest he got. He tossed and turned, cursing the hard ground, the droning mosquitoes, even the mournful call of a lonesome wolf. In short, everything but the real problem.

He’d treated her badly.

Never mind that she’d shot him; that she hated the sight of his uniform; that her acrid tongue could sometimes slice as neat as a knife. He’d treated her badly.

Jake tried to soothe his conscience by telling himself she wanted him too. But it didn’t work. Jake tightened the cinch. He was older, certainly more experienced, and he should have stopped it.

But the truth was, he hadn’t wanted to stop. So he’d used her, and now he couldn’t get her or what they did on his itchy wool blanket out of his mind. And worse, to his way of thinking, Jake knew guilt wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t let thoughts of her go.

“Howdy.”

Jake grabbed for his revolver, twisting toward the sound of the voice in one fluid motion. His horse pawed the ground and Jake cocked the gun, squinting into the early morning sun. Damn careless of him to let someone come riding into his camp without even hearing it. Another reason to put Samantha Lowery firmly from his mind.

“Ain’t no call for that. I’m a Reb, like you.” The man sitting on the spotted mare did sport several pieces of a Confederate uniform, but during four long years Jake had learned not every Southerner was a friend.

He kept the gun leveled. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much. Saw smoke from your fire.” The man climbed down from his horse, seemingly oblivious to the loaded gun pointed his way. Jake couldn’t decide if he was brave or crazy. “Thought you might like some company. I like company.”

Jake watched through narrowed eyes as the stranger squatted by the drowned fire that offered nothing in the way of heat. The man was short and squat, pudgy in a soft doughy way. His face was broad and guilelessly open as he looked up at Jake.

“Well, do ya?”

“Do I what?” He couldn’t explain why, but Jake was finding it hard to keep a gun trained on the man.

“Like company?” he said as if he was asking the most natural thing in the world, and Jake was remiss in not answering.

“I suppose. But I’m not really after any right now.”

“I’ll wait,” the man said and settled back on his haunches, presumably to do just that.

The words were so innocently delivered that for a moment Jake could only stare. Noticing the revolver still trained at the man’s back, Jake reholstered it. “Listen friend—”

“Abner. Abner Moore. But you can call me Ab. All my friends do.”

“Sure, Ab.” Jake hunched down beside him and looked into his eyes. He’d run into people like this before, when he was practicing medicine. Even though Abner Moore had the body of a—Jake made a quick survey— forty-year-old man, his mind had settled in at a much younger age. “I’m Jake.”

Shifting, Jake took a look around. There didn’t appear to be anyone with Ab. He was unarmed from what Jake could tell from looking at his too large, dirt-streaked clothing.

“Jake,” the man repeated, then gave an open smile showing the absence of several teeth. Then just as quickly his expression turned serious. “You ever kill you any of them Yankee bastards?”

A sudden vision of prisoners who’d died under his care flashed into Jake’s mind. “Yeah, I suppose I did,” he said, knowing his answer didn’t address what Ab meant. But then he wasn’t sure Ab knew what he meant. His conversation reminded Jake of someone a good deal younger than Will. Especially when he let out a shrill Rebel yell and flopped back on his rear.

“I knowed it. I just knowed you was one of us.” He was grinning again, and Jake shook off the uncomfortable feeling that gave him. “I never got me any of them blue bellies myself, but Landis said there’s still time.”

“Time?” Jake managed a glance about him to assure himself that no one else was around.

“Yeah, you know. Maybe there’s still time for me to kill me some.”

The words would have been bad enough spoken with malice, but Jake didn’t feel there was enough understanding in Ab for that. It was as if he was parroting something he’d heard. “The war’s over,” Jake said calmly. Every time Ab trained his expressionless eyes on him, Jake felt the hackles at the back of his neck bristle.

Ab made a sound through his lips which Jake took to show disagreement. He didn’t wipe away the spittle. “Landis says ain’t never gonna be over. Landis says we gotta show—”