Forbidden Fires (13 page)

Caitlyn knew the hands grumbled about Rafe. He demanded a day’s work for a day’s pay, allowed no slacking off, no drinking in the bunkhouse after work. What he asked
was
no more than her father had asked, but the men resented taking orders from a half-breed. Paulie had told her the men talked constantly of quitting, but so far none of them had turned in his time.

If only things between herself and Rafe were running as smoothly as the operation of the ranch, she mused as she hung a load of wash on the line. Rafe had moved into the spare bedroom and rarely spoke to her except to advise her about the affairs of the ranch. They ate their meals in virtual silence, the tension between them growing stronger with each passing day. And each Saturday night he put on his good shirt, shined his boots, and rode into town.

Those hours that Rafe was in town caused Caitlyn agonies of distress as she imagined her husband in the arms of another woman, touching her, kissing her, wooing some cheap tart with the sweet words that Caitlyn so longed to hear. But Rafe had made no move toward her, said nothing to indicate he cared. Indeed, he seemed perfectly happy with the way things were, and she could not humble herself to beg for his touch.

And now, worst of all, she was dreaming about him at night, her sleep haunted by shadowy images of his handsome face, by dark phantom fingers that caressed her skin and caused her to awaken, her breath ragged, her skin covered with a fine layer of perspiration.

There had been so many times when she thought he would take her in his arms. So many times when his eyes met hers, when the tension hummed between them. Sometimes, when he passed close by her, she felt all her nerve endings reach out for him. She would not have rebuffed him if he had reached for her then. Indeed, she would have welcomed his touch as a flower welcomed the sun. But he never laid a hand on her, never suggested they alter their sleeping arrangements.

And yet, he wanted her. She knew it. She could see it when he looked at her, feel it in the words that went unsaid. Sometimes she wanted to scream at him for ignoring her. Couldn’t he understand the awful strain she had been under the past few weeks? She’d buried her father and gotten married in such a short time. All she’d needed was a little time to adjust to the enormous changes in her life. She longed to explain her actions on their wedding night, but the longer she put it off, the harder it became, and now it was impossible.

She hated him, she thought as she plucked the clothespins from his shirt and dropped it in the laundry basket at her feet. Hated him with a passion. A wry grin turned up the corner of her mouth. Passion, she mused, that was the operative word. He had stirred her desires with little more than a few kisses on their wedding day, making her yearn for more, so much more. Despite the fact that she didn’t love him, that he was part Indian, she longed for his kisses, for the touch of his hands in her hair, the press of his body turning her limbs to jelly, making her stomach quiver with anticipation.

She dropped the last article of clothing into the basket, lifted it onto her hip, and carried it toward the back door. It was then she saw Rafe. He was exercising Black Wind, riding the horse at a trot around the corral. The beautiful horse moved fluidly, long legs reaching out, neck arched, head high, tail flowing like black silk. And Rafe… The sun glistened on his naked back and broad shoulders, and touched his hair with blue highlights. She admired the taut muscles in his legs as he guided the horse with the pressure of his knees.

If only she were an artist, she thought for the second time since she had known Rafe, so that she might capture the beauty of man and beast as they circled the corral, two magnificent creatures made one for this brief moment.

The laundry basket, balanced on her right hip, was momentarily forgotten as she watched Rafe rein the mare into a tight rearing turn and circle the opposite way.

Rafe saw Caitlyn out of the corner of his eye as he reined the horse around. He circled the corral one more time, then drew Black Wind to a halt and slid to the ground. Removing the bridle, he gave the horse an affectionate slap on the neck and vaulted over the corral fence.

He felt his heart beat a little faster as he approached Caitlyn. It was amazing the effect she had on him. He had only to look at her to want her. The fact that she had been watching him pleased him more than it should have.

“I’ll carry that,” he said, taking the laundry basket from her.

“Thank you,” Caitlyn murmured, trying not to stare at his naked chest, or at the narrow trickle of sweat making its way toward his flat belly.

She turned on her heel and opened the back door, deeply aware of the man behind her. He smelled of sweat, horse, and tobacco. Masculine smells, she mused, and not at all unpleasant.

Rafe placed the basket on the kitchen table, then straddled one of the chairs, his arms folded across the latticed backrest.

“Would you like some lemonade?” Caitlyn asked.

“Yeah.” He watched her bustle about the kitchen, enthralled by her beauty, by the grace of her movements as she took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with cold lemonade, then sliced him a piece of chocolate cake. How many nights had he lain awake, wanting her? How many times had he left his lonely bed and gone outside, breathing in the crisp air, letting it cool his fevered flesh?

He drew his thoughts away from the desire that plagued him like an old wound. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken and dumplings.”

Rafe nodded. She was a good cook, but his mind was not on food. If she were truly his wife, he would take her in his arms and kiss her soundly, perhaps make love to her there, on the kitchen floor, in the full light of day. If she were truly his wife, he would tell her of the nights he had dreamed of her, confess that he found her the most desirable woman in the world. If she were truly his wife, he would not have to tell her, he thought wryly. She would know.

He muttered an oath under his breath as he stood up. Draining the glass in one long swallow, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “See you at dinner,” he said gruffly, and left the house.

Dinner was a strained, silent meal. It was Saturday night, and Rafe was going to town.

Caitlyn ate without tasting her food, her imagination already picturing him in the arms of another woman, holding her, laughing with her, making love to her. Unbidden, unstoppable, the tears came.

Rafe chanced to look up at that moment, the food on his plate forgotten as he saw the silent tears tracking Caitlyn’s cheeks.

“What is it?” he asked, troubled by the quiet misery he saw reflected in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Saturday,” Caitlyn wailed.

Rafe frowned. “So?”

Caitlyn wiped the tears from her eyes with the corner or her napkin. “So you’ll be going into town and I’ll be here all alone.”
There,
she thought,
I’ve said it.

“I’d stay home if I had a reason,” he said gruffly. His eyes were hard when he looked at her, hard and unyielding. He wanted her, but he had vowed never to touch her again, not until she could come to him, willing and ready to be his wife.

Caitlyn swallowed hard. She wanted him, but she couldn’t admit it, not out loud. And what if she agreed to let him make love to her and then couldn’t go through with it?

“Rafe, I…can’t you give me a little more time to…”

“Take all the time you want,” he said curtly, and with a disgusted frown, he rose from the table and went to his room.

Moments later he emerged looking devilishly handsome in a pair of black twill pants and a dark red shirt.

“Don’t wait up,” he muttered caustically, and then he was gone.

The next five hours dragged as though time had stopped. Caitlyn cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, and mopped the kitchen floor. She lit a fire in the hearth when she ran out of chores, picked up a book and tried to read, but the words made no sense and she tossed the book aside.

Filled with dismay, she gazed into the fire. The dancing flames were hypnotic, lulling her to sleep. As always, Rafe’s dark image paraded through her dreams, his smile roguish, captivating. But this night her dreams turned to nightmares, his smile to a grimace, and suddenly there wasn’t just one Indian in her dream, but dozens, all painted for war. They swarmed over the ranch, killing her father and Luther, killing the cowhands, burning the barn and the house. And then they were chasing her. She heard a voice calling her name, felt rough hands shaking her…

“Caitlyn! Dammit, Caty, wake up!”

Rafe shook her, his eyes filled with concern as he saw the tears coursing down her cheeks, heard her soft cries of pain. He drew her into his arms as her eyelids fluttered open. “It’s all right,” he murmured, dropping to the floor before the hearth, his arms tight around her. “It’s all right.” His hand stroked her hair, and his breath was a whisper against her cheek, soft, warm, and scented with brandy.

Caitlyn snuggled against him, grateful for the strong arms that held her tight, for the solace of his touch, for the sound of his voice, low and husky, assuring her there was nothing to fear.

“I was having a nightmare,” Caitlyn said. “I was dreaming about the day my father was killed…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes searched his face, so handsome, so obviously Indian. Unconsciously, she stiffened in his embrace.

Rafe felt her body tense and though she didn’t move, he felt her withdraw from him as he saw the accusation in her eyes. He could almost hear the disdain in her voice as she thought the word “Indian” in her mind.

“You okay now?” he asked, his voice cold.

Caitlyn nodded, her eyes trapped in the web of his gaze. She saw the hurt lurking in his eyes, felt his unspoken anger in the arms that still held her close.

“How long are you going to blame me for what happened to your father?” he asked brusquely. “How long will you go on hating me because I’m Indian, and hating yourself because you married me?”

“Rafe…”

“I’m not a savage, Caitlyn. I’ve never murdered anyone, red or white. I’m not a savage,” he repeated, his ebony eyes hot on her face. “If I were, you’d be a woman now, and, oh, hell,” he muttered, “maybe I am a savage.”

His mouth covered hers in a kiss that was almost brutal in its intensity, his lips grinding into hers, his tongue sliding over her lower lip, demanding entrance to the honeyed sweetness within.

It never occurred to Caitlyn to object. Her arms went around his neck, and her mouth opened to his invasion as she kissed him back. The heat from the fireplace was nothing compared to the quick heat that ignited between them. She groaned low in her throat as his lips trailed down her neck, his tongue searing a path along the delicate skin of her throat before returning to her lips. Her heart was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer as Rafe’s hands slid along her ribcage and down her thigh. Without taking his mouth from hers, he stretched out on the floor, taking her with him, so that their bodies were now pressed together, thigh to thigh, heat to heat.

His hand found its way under her nightgown and moved slowly, provocatively, over her ankle and calf to her thigh. She felt her breath catch in her throat as his hand stroked her bare flesh and her arm went around his neck, holding him close, as her tongue mated with his.

From far away she heard a distant sound, insistent, irritating. She whimpered softly when Rafe drew his lips from hers, and only then did she realize someone was knocking on the front door.

Rafe muttered a vile oath as he left Caitlyn and went to the door, his hand reaching for the Winchester rifle above the lintel.

He drew a deep breath, then exhaled in a long frustrated sigh. “Who is it?”

“Paulie.”

Rafe opened the door, frowning. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

“There was some trouble down at the corral,” Paulie explained. “A mountain lion attacked Caitlyn’s stud.”

“Oh, no,” Caitlyn exclaimed. Rising to her feet, she hurried to Rafe’s side. “Is Red…is he still alive?”

“Yes, ma’am, but I think you should come down and take a look at him.”

“Yes, of course.”

The big red stallion was down on its side in the corral. Long gashes ran along its neck and flanks and it seemed to Caitlyn that there was blood everywhere. But the lacerations were not the worst problem. Somehow, in fighting off the mountain lion, the stallion had broken its left foreleg.

The stallion whickered softly as it caught her scent, and Caitlyn blinked back her tears as she knelt beside the horse.

“How bad is it, Paulie?” she asked, stroking the stud’s forehead.

“Real bad, Mrs. Gallegher.”

“Will he have to be destroyed?”

“I don’t know. It’s your decision, not mine.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d try to save him, if he was mine.”

Caitlyn nodded. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Stay by him. I think your presence soothes him some.”

She sat by Red for the next two hours while Paulie set the stallion’s broken leg, then carefully stitched up the numerous cuts and gashes in the animal’s neck and flanks. Rafe remained with her, holding the stallion’s head so it couldn’t stand up.

It was near dawn when Paulie got up, his face lined with fatigue, his forearms bloody. “I’ve done everything I can do, Mrs. Gallegher. We’ll just have to wait and see.”