Elizabeth Lane (27 page)

“Sarah,” he moaned low in his throat as he arched her onto the waiting bed. “Sarah, my darling.”

She pulled him down to her, blurring the words with her mouth. Their lips teased and nibbled, tongues blending like flames in a yearning dance that sent ripples of molten heat cascading through Sarah’s body. She felt his hand sliding over her thighs, her hips, his exquisite touch a licking fire through the fabric of her gown.

Her breath stopped as his fingers worked the low-cut bodice off her shoulders to expose the silken moons of her breasts. The texture of his callused palm was ecstasy on her skin. She gave herself up to its sweetness as he cupped her, stroking and kneading until she began to moan. Her hips shifted beneath him, pressing against his hardness in a frenzy of need.

Hand pausing, he leaned above her in the lamplight. His eyes were dark with love, his breath a harsh rasp in his chest as he gazed down at her face. “My beautiful Sarah,” he whispered. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you, or how much.”

“More…” She arched her breast to his hand again, but instead of doing her bidding, he bent his head to capture one tingling nipple in his mouth. His rough-tipped tongue moved with exquisite slowness, circling the puckered ring of the aureole, sucking, laving the exquisitely sensitive tip until a crescendo of aching tugs erupted downward through Sarah’s body. Her hips arched upward in a frantic quest for the fulfillment that only he could give her.

“Please…” she begged. “Please, Donovan…” One hand found his belt and tugged at the buckle. There would be no time to fully undress, she knew, but their clothing seemed to melt away in the driving heat of their desire. His hand found the parting of her legs. With a sure touch his fingers
moved upward to tangle the fevered nest of curls, to stroke and caress the desire-moistened folds….

Sarah’s mouth went slack as he touched her. For a long moment she lay still, her eyes closed as the exquisite sensations rippled over her. Then she stirred in his arms. Her fingers tugged wantonly at his buttons, frantic to free him from his confining clothes. Spurred by her impatience, he finished the job himself, only to groan as her hand closed around the smooth, hard shaft of his manhood.

“Sarah, I don’t want to hurt you….”

“I love you, Donovan.” She opened to him like a flower. She felt his touch, his probing as he readied her. Then her mouth opened in a little cry of joy as he thrust into her damp, pulsing center. Her hands clenched on his buttocks, holding him, pulling him deep.

Heaven.

Sarah’s head fell back with an ecstatic whimper as he began to move in long, urgent strokes. Unbidden, she met each quivering thrust with her own, arching to him until their bodies moved as one. Little by little the singing began inside her, a trembling life paean that flowed from the core of pleasure, through every nerve, fiber and cell, until she felt as if her whole being were made of exquisitely throbbing light. It was as if Donovan had become part of her, and she part of him.

It was as if their souls had joined.

She felt his gasping breath against her shoulder as the rapture took them both. Her hands raked his hair, fingers clasping and quivering as the mounting waves of ecstasy swept over them.

“Sarah—” He rasped her name as his body shuddered against her. “Sarah, love—”

Her breath stopped as his seed burst into her. She felt her womb clench like a warm, wet fist, again…again…

And then there was only stillness. Stillness and love.

They rearranged their clothing in silence, both painfully aware of the fleeting time. Donovan ached with tenderness
as he watched Sarah pull up her stockings and smooth her skirt over her petticoats. They had stolen a few brief moments for themselves, but the dangerous night would spare them no more. It was time to get back upstairs, to face what had to be faced.

He took the small revolver from the corner of the chest and slipped it into his pocket. The paring knife he handed to Sarah, watching as she slipped it into her bodice. Her gray eyes were huge in the flickering lamplight.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, taking up the lantern. Sarah nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. The love between them was strong and sure, but this was no time for sentiment, or for promises that could not be kept. Both of them knew it.

They passed into the cellar and she took the lantern, holding it while he pushed the shelf over the opening. Donovan felt her fragile strength beside him. He felt the warmth of her love as he moved up the ladder behind her. If only he could leave her in the secret room, to wait safely until the danger was over.

But Sarah, he knew, would not hear of it. She would fight at his side.

His thoughts dissolved at the sound of a scream from the saloon—a woman’s throaty voice, vibrating with terror.

“It’s Zoe!” Sarah sprinted across the kitchen, leaving Donovan to conceal the trapdoor and shut the closet. He saw her burst into the saloon, only to freeze in the doorway, thunderstruck by what she saw.

“What the devil!” Donovan had caught up with her now. He stared past her shoulder into a nightmare scene from hell.

MacIntyre had awakened. He was lying on his back, head straining upward, eyes bulging with enraged effort. His single, massive, iron-muscled hand was clenched in a stranglehold around Spade’s throat.

Zoe cowered against a corner of the piano, clutching her torn dressing gown against her breasts, her mouth agape in
a silent echo of her scream. It was easy enough to guess what had happened. With Dooley dozing, Spade had seized the chance to make another pass at her. Now the gunman’s body jerked spasmodically as MacIntyre’s immense fingers crushed his windpipe like a garrote.

Spade was dying, Donovan realized numbly as he gripped Sarah’s arm and jerked her against his shoulder. That, or he was already dead, and MacIntyre’s rage was too maniacal to recognize a stopping point.

For an instant, Donovan’s gaze flashed to Simeon Dooley. What he saw chilled his flesh to the bone. Dooley was sitting back in his chair, fingers toying idly with the trigger of his rifle as he watched Spade die. Clearly, he had no intention of rescuing his slow-witted cohort. Spade had outlived his usefulness. His death would remove an inconvenience and leave more robbery loot for the two survivors.

Spade’s body slumped to the floor as MacIntyre let go. The gunman lay limp as a rag doll, his head skewed grotesquely on his twisted neck, his eyes already glassing over with death. MacIntyre had fallen back onto his pillow. His eyes were closed, his forehead beaded with sweat. Zoe crouched beside him now, her sensual mahogany face gray with shock as she cradled him in her arms.

Only now did Dooley raise the rifle to his shoulder and lever back the hammer.

“No!”
Sarah’s cry ripped the air as she tore free of Donovan and flashed across the room. Her outthrust arm caught the barrel, jarring the muzzle to one side.

Donovan moved.

“Leggo, you hell-bitch!” Dooley snarled as Sarah clung desperately to the barrel.

“No!” she muttered as he whipped her back and forth like a rat. “I won’t let you—”

Her words ended in a painful gasp as Dooley’s big left hand crashed into her cheek, knocking her into a sprawl on the floor. Dooley swung the rifle, taking aim at Sarah now.
But he was not fast enough. In a flash, Donovan had reached him and jammed the barrel of Smitty’s pistol against the outlaw’s temple.

“Slow and easy, if you want to live, Corporal,” he said. “Lay the rifle on the floor.”

The sweaty stink of fear rose from Dooley’s body as he lowered the Spencer with his right hand. “Son-of-a-bitchin’ lawman,” he growled, “I should’ve let Cherokee kill you right off!”

“Shut up and drop it.” Donovan jabbed the cold muzzle into his flesh and thumbed back the hammer. Only then did he remember Cherokee upstairs with the children. A silent prayer moved his lips as he realized what a fearful gamble he had taken in saving Sarah. “Let the gun go, Dooley,” he ordered. “Put both hands on the table where I can see them.”

The rifle thumped against the floor as Dooley obeyed. Donovan used his foot to scoot the weapon toward Sarah. “Pick it up,” he ordered her softly. “Do you know how to use it?”

Sarah nodded. Her face was white as she bent to pick up the weapon.

“Now, I want you to hold it on our friend, here, while I get Zoe and MacIntyre outside,” Donovan said. “If the murdering bastard moves, shoot to kill. Can you do it?”

Sarah leveled the cocked rifle at Dooley’s chest, her mouth set in a determined line. She would be all right, Donovan reminded himself as he eased off the pistol’s hammer and tucked the small gun into the back of his belt. As Lydia Taggart, she had faced years of danger with a brave heart and a cool head. He knew he could depend on her now.

Dooley’s face widened into a desperate grin as Donovan moved along the bar. “Why, Miss Lydia! How could you hurt me—a pretty little thing like you? I thought we were friends.”

Sarah’s shoulders stiffened as she gripped the rifle. “We might be friends under the right circumstances, Corporal, but when you threaten people I care about, it ends right there. If you think I wouldn’t shoot you in the blink of an eye—”

Dooley’s grin froze and faded as Sarah’s finger tensed on the trigger. Yes, she would be all right, Donovan concluded as he turned away to help Zoe shift the groaning MacIntyre onto the quilt and drag him toward the front door. There was always a chance the motion might reopen MacIntyre’s wound, but in any case he would be safer outside, where someone could get him to his house.

Zoe carried the foot end of the blanket. Her sultry features mirrored her concern as she leaned over MacIntyre, unmindful of her torn, disheveled dressing gown. Signaling a halt at the threshold, Donovan took an abandoned coat from the rack and placed it gently around her shoulders. When she passed through the front door, Zoe would be entering a world almost as hostile as the one she had left. He could only hope she would find welcome and sanctuary.

As he slid back the bolt and cracked open the door, Donovan glimpsed the flare of torches in the street. The storm had ended and a large crowd had assembled to keep vigil. The supplies Dooley had demanded were piled on the stoop, covered with a wet tarpaulin. Three horses, saddled and bridled, drooped along the hitching rail, their manes and tails still shedding rainwater.

The crowd edged closer as someone noticed the opening door. “Somebody come and help these people!” Donovan shouted above the mutter of voices. There was an agonizing pause, as if no one dared get within range of a possible bullet. Then, suddenly there were hands, lifting MacIntyre in the quilt, hands ushering Zoe out of harm’s way. The two of them would be safe, Donovan reassured himself as he swiftly bolted the door and turned his attention back to the drama inside the saloon.

Sarah stood steadfast, still covering Dooley with the Spencer. But her face was ragged with fatigue, her eyes bloodshot in the flickering lamplight. She had long since reached the end of her physical strength and was running on sheer willpower. If he could not bring this ordeal to a swift end, Donovan knew, she would shatter under the strain.

With Smitty’s pistol still tucked in the back of his belt, he strode to her side and carefully disengaged the rifle from her hands. “Get back out of the way, love,” he murmured. “I’ll take over from here.”

She yielded the long gun with a small breath of relief. Almost as an afterthought, Donovan gave her a furtive nudge as she passed behind him. The motion brushed the butt of the pistol against her forearm. She hesitated, then, guessing at what he wanted, slipped the weapon out of his belt.

“That’s it,” he muttered, his eyes riveted on Dooley. “You’ve got exactly the right idea.” He gave her a few seconds to hide the pistol in the folds of her skirt. Then, as she moved toward the far side of the saloon, he stepped closer to the big man and jammed the rifle muzzle against his rough-whiskered throat.

“So that’s your game!” he declared in a loud voice, gambling that Cherokee would be listening. “Pretty clever of you, Dooley, letting that poor devil MacIntyre get rid of Spade for you. Now, who’re you counting on to kill off Cherokee, so you can have all the loot to yourself? Are you waiting for
me
to do the job?”

“Shut up, Cole!” Dooley growled. “An’ if you know what’s good for them kids upstairs, you’ll put down that gun!”

“Listen, you double-crossing bastard, I’ve got your plan all figured out!” Donovan plunged ahead, starkly aware of the prickling danger sense that raised the hair on the back of his neck. “You’ll kill off Spade and Cherokee and get away clean. Then when the claims are transferred, you’ll get
rid of me, too. I’ve a mind not to take you on as a partner after all, not unless you change your tune.”

“You found the papers?” Dooley’s eyes narrowed greedily.

“We found more than papers. You can be a rich man for life if you make the right choice, Dooley. Get your slitmouthed friend out of the way, and we’ll talk.”

“You’re full o’ hogwash, Cole!” Dooley smirked up at him. “And you might as well lay that rifle down. You ain’t gonna shoot nobody.”

The danger sense was unmistakable now. It clawed at Donovan’s nerve ends, screaming like a cougar in his head. He heard Sarah’s horrified gasp, and he knew that he had carried his bluff as far as he dared.

Dooley’s sneer widened into a grin. “Turn around, Cole. Put the gun on the table. Then look behind you.”

Donovan lowered the rifle, moving now with exquisite caution. He knew exactly what he would see. Even so, as he turned, the sight that met his gaze tore at his heart.

Cherokee crouched partway down the staircase. Clutched against his side, white with terror, was Katy.

The rage that welled up in Donovan’s chest was white-hot, dizzying in its fury. Katy’s eyes were saucers of fear in her wan little face. Through the lamplit glare, they pleaded silently for help and comfort. But there was nothing he dared do. The cold iron barrel of Cherokee’s Colt lay black against her russet curls, its deadly muzzle resting like a viper’s head along the pale curve of her cheek.

Donovan forced his tight throat to form words. “Let her go, Cherokee,” he rasped. “You’ve gunned down a lot of men, I know. But I’ll wager you’ve never had a child on your conscience—a pretty little girl who’ll grow up to be a fine woman one day.”