Deborah Camp (28 page)

He sat down, and she rose to her knees and unbuttoned his shirt. She removed his belt, her gaze flirting with his, but her hands moving quickly and not straying from their task. Not until the clothes were puddled on the floor did those hands caress and stroke, massage and squeeze. They were like water on his heated skin, cool and liquid. They washed him in love and gentleness, in her feminine power and her womanly allure. He was a vessel for her, and she poured over him and inside him, filling him with sensations that flowed through his veins like a river of fire.

He lay on his back, sprawled, supplicant. She combed
her fingers through her hair and then tipped her head forward, and her hair swept down his chest and pooled around his throbbing member. Her lips touched him there. Every muscle in his body tensed involuntarily. No woman had ever done this to him. He didn’t know what to think about it. Her lips stroked him there again, and thinking was no longer possible.

As his body quickened and hardened, she sat astride him and urged him to a climax that left him breathless and stunned. Her body slid against his. She rained kisses across his chest and tweaked his nipples to throbbing awareness.

“My beautiful man,” she whispered against his chest where his heart thudded. “You’re so big and powerful. I look at you and I want you.”

“Lucky me.” He meant it. He buried his hands in her hair and flipped her onto her back. Gazing at her round breasts, small waist, and flared hips, his mouth went dry. “How’d I get so lucky?”

Framing her petite face in his hands, he committed each feature to memory down to the dimples peeking out at the corners of her lush mouth. Then he claimed his favorite parts of her with his mouth—her small breasts, the curve of her waist, the indentations on either side of her knee, and especially the graceful sweep of her breastbone, which made him think of an archer’s bow. He licked a path along that ridge, and she laughed under her breath.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, licking me like I’m a piece of candy.”

“I want to eat you up,” he confessed. He pushed his hands up under her and cupped her hips, lifted them, and then placed himself between her spread thighs. He
locked gazes with her for a few heart-stopping moments. He saw no fear, no uneasiness, no questions in her liquid brown eyes, and so he acted on instinct and lowered his mouth to her. He licked her. Like candy.

Her hoarse moans filled his head. He kneaded her buttocks and lost himself in her and in the incredible preoccupation of her body. Her giving, glowing body. He held her tightly, his mouth and tongue worshiping her, his mind reeling from the onslaught of such extreme pleasure. She quaked in his hands and against his mouth. She made sounds that weren’t quite human, spawned by feelings not quite bearable.

While she was still trembling, he straightened from her and plunged deeply into her. She sat up and wound her arms around his neck. Her backside warmed his thighs, her breasts rubbed against his chest as she moved and he slid in and out of her.

She held onto him and bit lightly on his ear lobe. When he knew he was close, he drove into her, sending her over the edge again before he achieved his own release. Their bodies shuddering against each other, they moaned and spoke words of love and held each other tight, a handhold to keep anchored to earth, to time, to each other. Drew eased himself to one side of her, his body limp but his mind sharp. He had been with women, of course, but never like this, never with this abandon or with this certainty that the rewards would be intense and soul-stirring.

He gazed at her profile, the slightly tipped-up nose, the pouting lips, the round, determined chin. Her hair lay like pale gold ribbons across the pillow and around her shoulders. With each breath, a pulse ticked in her neck, disturbing the skin.

Rolling closer, he pressed his lips to that pulse and it quickened. The words—those words that changed everything between a man and a woman—smoked in his mind like a fresh brand, but he did not speak them to her. He could not. They would demand a response from her, and he didn’t think she was ready to answer him. She had said as much.

No one would ever own her
.

“You’re so good to me,” she said, turning her head to smile at him.

“But am I good
for
you?”

She knitted her brow and a sadness fell across her face like a veil. “We’re good for each other.”

He kissed her white shoulder, then put his hand there, momentarily mystified by the contrast of his deeply tanned hand upon her milky skin. He had told her he wasn’t the marrying kind. She had told him she would not be owned. They were clear on this. So why did she look sad and why did he feel that sadness in the chambers of his heart?

“You’re not happy.”

“I am,” she said, rolling onto her side and pressing her front to his. “You make me happy.” She kissed him. “My darling.” Another kiss. “My dearest.” She smiled. “I’ve never talked to a man like this. I like it.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She pursed her lips and kissed the air between them. “You think other people do this?”

“Sure. That’s how babies are made.”

She slapped his shoulder. “That’s not what—oh.” Her eyes brimmed with something he couldn’t name. “You think we’ve done that? Made a baby? What if we have?”

He lay on his back, words failing him. A baby. He’d always been so careful before, told any woman he was with that he wouldn’t stay around to be a pa to some child. He didn’t know how, wasn’t interested in learning, in failing. But now… a baby with Cassie. A smile poked at his lips. Lord! A child! Would that bind her to him? Is that what he wanted?

“It’s okay.” Her voice sounded distant. “Don’t answer. I already know.”

She had shifted onto her other side, facing away from him. He inched closer and placed an arm around her.

“I’d do the right thing by you,” he said, striving to make her feel better, to ease her mind.

She was quiet. Quiet in his arms.

After a while, he sensed that she’d fallen asleep, and he was glad she’d relaxed, that what he had said had soothed her. His words had done nothing to pacify him.

He slept fitfully, dozing for minutes at a time, but never falling fully into the blackness of the night. Before dawn he kissed Cassie’s shoulder and left the tangle of blankets. He dressed and went outside to feed the horses.

Ice was already pouring grain into the troughs. He glanced at Drew, then eyed him more carefully.

“You didn’t sleep any?”

“Not enough.” Drew stretched his arms above his head. “You ever think about settling down with a woman and having kids?”

“Sure. Is that why you couldn’t sleep? Has she got you to thinking about raising babies?”

“She’s a good woman.”

“Sí
. Wonder why she came here?”

Drew grabbed up a pitchfork and began cleaning one of the stalls. “She came to marry my old man.”

“Yes, but what kind of life did she have that made this one seem so good to her that she would marry a man she had never seen?”

“I don’t know. Women alone have it hard.”

“What did she do before?”

“I think she worked at a depot restaurant.”

“She doesn’t talk about it?”

He shrugged. “Not much. I don’t like to talk about my past either.”

“A pretty woman like her—looks like she could have found herself a man where she was before.”

“What are you saying?” Drew challenged.

Ice moved on, dragging the feed bag behind him, his gait still unnatural because of his healing injury. “Nothing, nothing. I am saying nothing.”

“Good.” Drew stabbed at the soiled hay. “’Cause I came out here to work, not to talk.” He grunted, releasing some of his frustration. “Talking does no good anyhow. No good.” He thought he heard Ice chuckling, but he was out of sight by the time Drew could step from the stall to give him hell for it.

He attacked the hay again and found himself wondering about Cassie’s life before the Square D. Had she come to his father a virgin? Had she come to the ranch in search of a home, or had she been running from someone?

Did it matter? Not really, except that he wanted to know everything about her. The more he knew about her, the more he could take with him when this fleeting happiness was gone and she belonged to another man. A better man. A man who didn’t carry his past like a cross, who didn’t bring trouble with him, wasn’t tainted
by prison and injustice and an inability to trust his own heart.

Of course, if there was a baby …

He shoved that thought from his mind, finding it too bright and beautiful to hold there for more than a moment.

T
he shouting brought Cassie around from the vegetable garden she’d been weeding and to the front of the house, where she found Drew and Sheriff Nelson face to face in a yelling match. Both men were obviously on the verge of pummeling each other with the bunched fists now held stiffly at their sides. Blood caked one of the sheriff’s shirtsleeves and dripped off his fingertips.

“I won’t stand here and be called a thief,” Drew said, jaw clenched and lips barely moving.

“I got a job to do and I’m doing it.” Sheriff Nelson narrowed his eyes and his mustache seemed to bristle.

Cassie dropped her hoe and rushed to squeeze herself between the two men. “What in tarnation is going on here?” she demanded, planting a hand on each outthrust chest and giving a shove. “Back off so I can breathe!”

Drew obeyed first, then the sheriff. She kept her palms flattened against them, just in case.

“All right, then. What’s going on? I could hear y’all bellowing all the way to the border.”

“The sheriff says I shot him and that I’m a cattle thief,” Drew said, his voice hard. “And I don’t take that
from any man, not even if he wears a star.”

“Were you shot on this land?” Cassie asked, shocked.

“That’s right,” Sheriff Nelson said. “I was following a trail of cattle thieves and it took me to the Square D. I crossed onto the land and was shot.”

“Well, it wasn’t Drew. He’s been around here all morning.”

“The man was riding a black horse. Dalton’s black stallion is lathered.”

“Yes, he is, because Drew’s been working him in the corral for the past hour. I’ve been watching him while I weeded the garden.”

“Nobody needs to account for my whereabouts,” Drew snapped. “My word should be enough, and I told the sheriff I had nothing to do with this ambush or any cattle rustling.”

“You were in prison for rustling,” the sheriff said.

The next thing Cassie knew, Drew’s fist flew over her head and smashed into the sheriff’s face. Then the sheriff grabbed Drew by the shirt, and the two men tried to fight without landing any blows on Cassie. Although Drew tried to push her out of the way, Cassie stood firm. Finally, in desperation, she turned toward Drew and let her fists fly. Her knuckles made contact with his jaw and his cheek. He grunted, and tears sprang to her eyes as sharp pain ran from her knuckles to her elbows.

“Oww!” She jerked off her gloves and examined her red fingers. “Look what you’ve done!”

Drew rubbed his jaw. A red spot bloomed on his right cheek where her fist had connected. “You hit me.”

“That’s right, and I’ll hit you again if you don’t rein in your temper.” She looked at the sheriff and saw a
twinkle of humor in his eyes. “Come inside and let me take a look at that bullet hole.” She fired another glance at Drew. “You stay out here and holster your fists.”

“He called me a—”

“I know what he called you. And I know he’s dead wrong about you. We’ll get this straightened out but not by fighting and screaming. Come on, Sheriff.” Linking her arm with the lawman’s, she escorted him onto the porch, where Oleta sat in a rocker and shelled peas. Oleta’s dark eyes were round with fear, but she hadn’t darted inside during the altercation. Cassie figured the poor girl was getting used to the occasional ruckus. Andy kicked and giggled in his baby swing.

“That son of yours is growing faster than chick-weed,” Sheriff Nelson said as he entered the house.

“He’s walking and trying his best to talk,” Cassie said, going to the cupboard for medicine and bandages. “Is the bullet in there?”

“I think so, but just wrap me up and I’ll have the doctor in town dig it out.”

“Fine with me. If I never have to mine for bullets again, it’ll be too soon. You want to take that shirt off, or should I tear the sleeve?”

Hot color stained the sheriff’s cheeks and neck. “Uh, go ahead and tear the sleeve. Shirt’s ruined anyway.”

Cassie bit her lips to keep from grinning at the man’s modesty. Taking up a pair of shears, she clipped off the sleeve and angled Sheriff Nelson toward the sunlight that poured through the window. She examined the wound before trying to clean it.

“Shouldn’t be too much of a trial,” she said. “I can see the bullet.”

“That’s good. Guess my meat is tough.”

“Your head is hard, too.”

He peered at her from beneath bushy brows. “You think you know Drew Dalton? You think you know everything about him?”

“Nobody knows everything about him, but I know enough to be certain he didn’t shoot you. He’s been here all morning, I tell you. And he’s never been a cattle stealer either.”

“He was sent to prison—”

“He was proven innocent.”

“What,
that?”
He flapped one hand in disgust.

“What do you mean? You’re a lawman and you know his sentence was overturned.”

“Give a fast-talking lawyer enough money and he’ll get any sentence overturned. Every sheriff knows that. Him getting out of prison means spit to me. A judge found him guilty.”

“And
another
judge said
that
judge was full of beans,” Cassie said, her temper rising and making her hands shake. She straightened from the wound she was dressing and breathed deeply, trying to release some of her tension. “His own father stuck a knife in his back.”

“When?” Sheriff Nelson gave her a sidelong glance. “I heard they came to blows many a time, but I don’t recall hearing nothing about a knife.”