Dorothy Garlock (27 page)

“If it comes to that, we’ll have our own ceremony. I feel that I’m already your wife. I won’t feel more so because a man opens a Bible and reads a few words to make it legal in the eyes of the law. Our act of love made you my husband in my heart. The seed of our love may already be growing in my belly.” Her palms moved around to glide over his cheeks. “It’s unfortunate that some white people have a superior attitude toward Indians, though I’m not sure why. I also suspect
they
don’t know why they think the way they do. It’s what they’ve been taught. I sympathize with them and pity them because they are trying so desperately hard to be
above
someone.”

“It’s human nature, I guess,” he admitted tiredly. “It’s always been that way; the whites over the blacks, the rich over the poor, the strong over the weak.”

“But there are changes in the wind, Logan,” she said hopefully. The tips of her fingers traced his wide mouth. “There’ll be hundreds of new families coming west and gradually opinions will change.”

“Rosalee, Rosalee . . .” He said her name twice as he often did and hugged her so tightly her breath was cut off for a short while. “It will take a long time,” he said in a distressed, husky whisper.

“I can wait,” she said gently. “And I’ll be happy all the while.” Her inability to relieve his distress made her weak. She lifted herself on her toes. “Kiss me, then we’ll get ready to go.”

For a long moment he stood looking down at her, then slowly smiled. “You’re good for me.” His smile widened and the look of happiness on his face made him breathtakingly handsome. “I’d rather go back to bed.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” she said tartly. “It’s the middle of the day. Only this morning we—” She felt oddly exhilarated and embarrassed.

“Yes? We what?” His eyes teased her.

Her face flooded with color and he laughed. From the first, his half-serious, half-teasing attacks on her modesty had fought with her time-honored inhibitions. They had bathed in the pool at night, made love in the dark. She had not yet exhibited her naked body in the light of day, nor had she looked upon his nakedness. Her mind was filled with these thoughts when he swung her up into his arms and carried her into the coolness of the stone and adobe dwelling.

“You’re indecent!” she protested.

“The Cheyenne make love anytime they get the urge, day or night.” He laid her down on the mattress and stretched his long length out beside her.

“What a lovely custom.” Her words were breathed on his lips.

They lay quietly and kissed for a long while before Logan separated from her. He knelt at her feet, removed her shoes and stockings, then her dress and her shift. While he undressed he gazed silently into the blue-green depths of her eyes and saw there the love that he ached for.

Rosalee had never seen a man naked before, and he was more magnificent than she imagined he would be. The bronze skin on his hard-muscled shoulders and hairless chest glowed warmly. His rib cage was lean, his buttocks taut and slim. Her eyes moved down to black hair from which sprang his rod of life, throbbingly erect, and marveled at its awakening. Her gaze lingered there, then traveled down his muscled legs before moving swiftly to his face.

She stared up at him feeling none of the inhibitions she thought she would feel if a man looked at her naked body. The warmth in his dark eyes made her feel beautiful. They caressed the length of her body for countless minutes before he dropped down beside her and clasped her so tightly to his chest she couldn’t tell whose heart she felt pulsing between them.

“You’re beautiful, my bronze lover.” She said it so softly that he felt the words on her lips. “I want you so much. Here. Now.” She guided his hand to the seat of her desire.

“I love you,” he said with deep emotion as he slipped a hand beneath her hips, not even realizing he had said the words.

“I love you with all my heart,” she said, her voice rasping roughly. “I never dreamed love was so powerful, so wonderful.”

He rose over her, his pelvis seeking, and then glided strongly into her. She sighed as he penetrated to his full length, and she locked her hands in the small of his back, arching herself against him. Tenderly, he guided her to the heights of passion, held her teetering on the brink of an all-consuming desire, and when she could bear the tension no longer, carried her with him into the blaze of fulfillment.

Their joining was wholly unlike the other times, though the same need for each other obsessed them. Now there was a strong sense of urgency that trembled on the verge of blind panic, endured endlessly, then slowly eased. They emerged, shocked and weak with spent emotions, into the reality of their separate selves.

*  *  *

Evening came, and they were ready to leave the valley. The wagon had been hidden among the willows and the bay team turned loose to roam and forage. They had stored the few things Rosalee had brought from home and the supplies Logan had purchased in town in a cache in the cliff dwelling he had discovered several days ago. Rosalee went down the ramp to the valley floor and Logan brushed the dust with a willow branch to erase their tracks.

Mercury, saddled, with a bedroll tied on behind, waited impatiently; stomped and snorted, anxious to be away. The mare, more docile, her reins hanging on the ground tying her as securely as if she were staked, cropped the grass, raising her head occasionally to keep an eye on her offspring. Rosalee insisted on riding astride the mare Indian fashion, with only a blanket between her and the horse because that was the way she had learned to ride. The Spurlocks had owned only one saddle and her father had used it first, then Ben, when he took over the work on the ranch.

She stood beside the mare, tall and slim, in the old split riding skirt she had yanked from the peg on the wall above her bunk, a faded blue shirt and a round-brimmed leather hat Logan had given her from his pack, and waited for him. As she looked back and saw him coming down the ramp, her heart swelled with pride. He put his arms around her for a brief embrace, joining her in a silent good-bye to their special time together.

“Ready?” She nodded. When he held his hands low, she stepped into them and he boosted her onto the mare’s back. “Brutus, lead out. Rosalee will watch the baby,” he told the wolf dog that came slinking out of the brush.

“I want to go to the Haywards, Logan. Odell has been there two weeks and will be wondering why I’ve not come for her.”

“Do you want to take her with you to Mrs. Gregg’s?”

“I don’t know what to do. Mary’s isn’t the . . . place for her or for Ben, yet—”

“Is there a boardinghouse in town? I’ve been thinking about taking you there. You can take Ben and Odell with you.”

“We can’t do that,” she said quickly. “We’ll have to stay someplace where I can work for our keep.”

“You’re not to worry about that. You belong to me, now.” He placed his hand on her thigh. “I take care of my own.”

“But . . .”

“That means Odell and Ben, too, my love.” His tone implied, “don’t argue,” and she didn’t. “Stay close,” he commanded. “If we run into trouble, you’re to do exactly as I tell you. Our lives will depend on it. If I put you on Mercury and say ‘go,’ head for Mrs. Gregg’s. There isn’t a horse in the territory that can catch him once he’s reached his stride.”

“I’ll not leave you to face them alone! I can handle a rifle,” she declared staunchly.

“I know that, but we won’t face them in a shootout. We’ll cut and run and pick our own time, Indian fashion.” He grinned at that and was rewarded by her answering smile. “The men working for Clayhill know only force, not tactics. We’ll outsmart them.”

“You’re right, my love.” She leaned toward him and his lips met hers in a brief kiss. “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I’ll do exactly as you tell me.” His hand squeezed her thigh and his dark eyes loved her. He handed her the end of the rope attached to the foal’s halter and swung into the saddle.

When they left the valley Logan turned south. Rosalee was surprised, but didn’t question him. Later, they made a deep circle and rode for a mile down a field of gray stone over which water had run and would run again after a heavy rain. She knew then he was doing what he could to keep the Clayhill men from discovering the entrance to their valley.

The sky was alive with a million stars, but it was so dark Rosalee could scarcely see the rump of Logan’s horse. She followed him, keeping close, feeling a oneness with him although she couldn’t see him. He was her man; she would follow him to the end of the world. When they reached the wooded bench, she shivered in the cool fresh mountain breeze that came down through the spruce and pine trees. It was a relief when they took an animal trail that led off the bench and rode through aspens and the cottonwood that shielded them from the wind.

Rosalee began to recognize landmarks. They passed over a draw that marked the western border of their land. A feeling of homesickness struck her. She had never been away from Odell and Ben this long before. Just thinking of Odell brought a mistiness to her eyes, and she longed to see the girl’s pixie face and bright blue eyes.

Her mind was so full of these thoughts that Rosalee failed to notice that Logan had reined Mercury to a stop until she was beside him. He put his finger to his lips and then motioned toward Brutus. The dog stood stiffly at attention, his head turned at a right angle.

“He hears something we don’t hear. So does Mercury,” Logan murmured. The stallion’s ears twitched backward and then forward, his lips quivered. Logan dismounted and put his hand over his nose. He slipped his rifle from the boot on the saddle and handed the reins to Rosalee. “Take the horses into that heavy brush, deep enough to be out of sight. Brutus and I will go down that draw.” He pointed to the right. “If shooting starts, tie the mare, get on Mercury, and go. Is that understood?”

“Oh, Logan—”

“Is that understood?” he asked again.

“Yes, my . . . love,” she said softly. Their eyes held for an instant, then she kneed the mare and moved away from him. Leaving him would be the last thing she’d want to do, but she knew the wisdom of his thinking. He would be more able to defend himself or get away if he didn’t have her to think about.

Behind the screen of scrub and brush, Rosalee strained her ears for foreign sounds but heard nothing. The breeze couldn’t reach her among the thick brush and insects buzzed around her head. Behind her a branch rubbed against another, dry leaves rustled. Something, a bird or squirrel or rabbit, scuttled into the brush. Mercury nipped at the foal and she danced to the end of the lead rope. The beating wings of an owl sweeping past almost caused Rosalee to drop the rope. She grimaced in self-disgust at the frightened fluttering of her heart and waited while the minutes went slowly by.

Logan held his rifle ready and went down through the trees, easing down into the gully, being careful of rolling stones and dry branches. Brutus moved silently ahead of him. At the bottom, close against a tree trunk, he listened. The constant rustling of trees and brush as the wind swept through the gully made it difficult for him to hear clearly, but it carried with it a faint smell of woodsmoke. Logan waved Brutus on and they followed the creek bottom until he heard the stamping and blowing of horses tied to a stringer and the low murmur of voices.

There was a small chance a sentry had been posted, so Logan proceeded with caution, moving silently as a shadow from tree to tree. When he could see the glow of the campfire through the trees he circled it until he found the horses. There were eight. He crouched low and scrutinized literally every inch of ground between him and a big windfall before he ran lightly from shadow to shadow until he reached it. He sank down amid the brush that grew around the rotting trunk and looked straight into the camp.

Logan counted eight men. Eight men, eight horses—they hadn’t bothered to post a sentry. Shorty Banes was there as well as one of the young drovers who was with him the day they had attacked Logan on the trail. The men lounged around the campfire. One whittled a stick, one was tossing cards into a hat, and another was playing a game of solitaire. The rest were joshing amongst themselves and laughing.

“I ain’t amindin’ this a’tall. If’n the ol’ man wants ta pay my wages fer lookin’ fer that redskin, I’ll take it. But I ain’t acarin’ if’n we find ’em.”

“Any fool coulda figured that,” Shorty growled.

He limped to the fire, crouched there, and filled a cup from the black coffeepot. Logan studied him. He was a brutal, ruthless man, utterly without regard for anyone. He was the worst of the bunch and all the more dangerous because he was stupid. Logan had had a few like him in his company during the war, and sooner or later their bad tempers and inability to cooperate with their fellow soldiers had gotten them killed. Logan knew that if he dropped Shorty the rest would scatter after firing a wild shot or two. He also knew that if the situation were reversed and Shorty Banes had him in his sights that’s what he would do. The streak of decency in Logan that some men would construe as weakness caused him to hold his fire.

One of the drovers, lying propped against his saddle, brought out a harmonica and played a lonesome tune. He finished it, played a faster ditty and one of the young drovers jumped to his feet and began to jig and sing in a surprisingly good voice.

“Ole Clayhill was a fine ole man,

He washed his face in a fryin’ pan.

Land is all the ole man craves,

He’ll put that Injun in his grave.”

Loud guffaws and cheers erupted at the end of the verse. “Give us another’n, Larson,” someone shouted. “Hell! He ortta be asingin’ at the saloon. Hit’s better’n that fat gal what cain’t git ’er legs t’gether!”

“Hell! A mule could walk atween ’em without atouchin’ her.”

“Ya ortta know, Larson. Ya been atween ’em enuff. How was hit?”

“Like abouncin’ on a feather bed with my pecker in a bucket a lard!” The young cowhand chortled. “She ain’t thar no more. I must a wore her plum out.”

The harmonica player drew in and out on the instrument as if he were huffing and puffing, then played a moaning sound that ended in a long, drawn out sigh. The drovers slapped their hats against their legs and roared with laughter.