Hummingbird (16 page)

"Put your arms down, Abbie." She stared into his black, amused eyes, unable to make her muscles move.

"What?" she gulped.

"You heard me." At last she did as ordered, but again in slow motion. "Since I scared Melcher away and you declined to accept my apology for it, I figured the least I could do is make up for what you missed, huh?"

Here it comes, she thought in panic, and her eyes slid closed while she quaked all over.

"But I'm stuck in this bed, so you'll have to come to me, Abbie… come on." He made a beckoning motion with the tip of the gun. When she stood directly beside and above him, he pointed the pistol at her, not even looking up as he did so. "You were so all-fired breathless with Melcher, there were times when I heard you heart pitty-patting clear in here. But if old Melcher had any spine, he'd have hung around at least for a little billing and cooing. You know what I mean? Since the big, bad train robber chased him off, the least he can do now is stand in for old Melcher, right?" When she only stood quaking, saying nothing, his silky voice continued. "I know you get the picture, Abbie, so kiss me. I'm waiting."

"No… no. I won't," she answered, wondering where she got the air to speak—her chest felt crushed by fear. He moved the pistol then and even through her nightie she could feel the cold metal barrel against her hip. He still didn't even look up, just nudged her hip with the gun. She slowly leaned over and, with eyes wide open, touched his lips quickly with hers.

"You call that a kiss?" he scoffed when she jumped away again. "That felt like some dry, old lizard whipped her tail across my lips. Try it again, like you would if I were Melcher."

"Why are you doing this—" she began, but he cut her off.

"Again, Abbie! And shut your eyes this time. Only a lizard keeps her eyes open while she's kissing."

She lowered her face to his, seeing his black, amused eyes close before her as she dropped her eyelids and kissed him again. The new growth of moustache was like the stem of a wild rose bush.

"Getting better," he said when she again leaped away. "Now give me some tongue."

"Dear God…" she moaned, mortified.

"He's not going to help you now, Abbie, so get down here and do as I say."

"Please…" she whispered.

"Please, Jesse!" he corrected.

"Please, Jesse… I've never… I haven't…"

"Quit stalling and get to it," he ordered. "And sit down here. I'm getting dizzy watching you bounce up and down."

With her insides trembling, she sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, hating every black whisker that shadowed his skin, every hair that surrounded his hatefully handsome face.

"What is it you want of me? Please get it over with," she begged.

"I want a responsive, wet female kiss out of you. Haven't you ever kissed a man before, Abbie? I have nothing but time while you practice. What are you afraid of?" When her eyes refused to lower to the gun at her side, he chuckled. "Let's get back to the lesson at hand. You were going to give me some tongue.

It's called french kissing and everybody does it that way, probably even lizards." He lounged there insolently, and when she sat stiffly he had to put the gun to her again, this time beneath her right jaw.

"Wet!" was all he said, then cocked the gun, making her jump at the metallic click.

She closed her eyes and resigned herself. He didn't quite close his, saw hers pinched tightly shut beneath woven eyebrows, saw her brows twitch as the tip of her tongue touched his upper lip and his tongue came out to meet it. Against her lips he said, "Relax, Abbie," and he lowered the gun and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his bare chest, turning his mouth sideways on hers. "Put your arms around me," he said as he felt her elbows digging against him in resistance. "Come on, Abbie, unless you want to be here all day." And one of her arms crept up around his neck, the other around his bare side. She felt the gun, still in the hand which he used to press the back of her head, forcing their mouths so tightly together His lips opened farther; the inside of his mouth was hot. He pushed his tongue into the secret crevices of her mouth, withdrew it again, then lightly bit her tongue making her fearfully push against his chest. But he somehow wrestled her arms away, pulling her against him, squashing her breasts flat against his skin, combating her every move while his mouth retained its hold on hers. He broke away then, sliding his lips down, taking her lower lip gently between his teeth. "Jesse!" he ordered in a fierce whisper, "… say it."

"Jesse," she whimpered before his mouth slid onto hers again, warm and wet and melting some of her resistance.

"Jesse… again," he demanded, feeling her thundering heartbeat through the thin batiste nightgown upon his chest.

"Jesse," she whispered while he rubbed the back of her neck with his fingers and the butt of the gun: warm and cold together. Then he silenced the word again, kissing her with that same intercourse of tongues as before, compounding fear and delight, sensuality and shame, refusal and acceptance all within her confused body.

"Ab…"he whispered then, "Ab…" Her lips were free to correct him but the thought never entered her head, for some strange languor had befallen her. Then, using his hands and mouth, he pushed her abruptly away, stunning her by asking, "Did it tickle that time?"

She could not look at him. Her head hung down and she felt suddenly filthy, violated in some way she could not comprehend. Not by him but by herself, because she'd stopped fighting him sometime while his tongue moved within her mouth, because she'd begun liking the wet, warm touch of it, the feel of his broad, muscled shoulders beneath her hand, her racing heart upon his chest.

"Today's lesson is over," he said dismissingly, the satisfied smile once again about his eyes. "I told you, when I set out to get even you'd know it."

"And I told you that force is not strength. Gentleness is strength."

"Force is damn effective, though, isn't it, Abbie?"

Once free of him, off the bed, her courage returned. "I want you out of here, do you hear? Immediately!"

"Don't forget who holds the gun, Abbie. Besides, I can't walk yet. What reason will you give all your inquisitive neighbors when they ask why you threw a helpless man out of your house? Will you tell them it was because he taught you how to kiss properly?"

"They won't ask. None of them was willing to take you in in the first place. They won't find fault with me for putting you out now."

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that, Abbie. Doc Dougherty said you were the only one who stood up and spoke for me out of this whole town. I've been meaning to thank you for that."

His words brought her blood to the boiling point. Oh, the nerve of the conceited fool to sit there thanking her after what he'd just done! "Your thanks are not essential, nor are they wanted anymore. The railroad is paying me to keep you until they can get their hands on you. It's all the thanks I need!"

He reared back and laughed. "Have you thought of why they want me, Abbie?" he asked, with a knowing look in his eyes.

"What a question from a
train robber
!" She longed to smack the disgusting smirk from his face. "I shall go to the depot today and wire whomever it is that wants you next to come and get you! The railroad can have you, wound, moustache, and all!"

"You'll miss the money you could make off me during my recuperation."

"I will miss nothing of you, you filthy, conceited goat!" she all but shrieked.

"Enough!" he suddenly roared. "Get out of here and get yourself dressed and make me some breakfast before I decide to get even with you for feeding me that liver last night. How long can a man live without decent food?"

She stomped to the pile of clothing at the foot of his bed, flailing the air with each piece before hooking it in the crook of an arm and stamping her way out. Her lips were pursed so tightly that her teeth were dry from sucking wind. When she was gone, Jesse's head arched back and his body bounced with great gasps of silent laughter. Then he dug his dirty shirt out from under the sheet near his feet, wrapped the empty gun in it, and put it back under the mattress.

She had absolutely no intention of cooking him one morsel of food. She made a fire, bathed, dressed, and all the while he periodically bellyached for his breakfast.

"What the hell's taking you so long out there?"

"I'm starving, woman!"

"Where's my food?"

She kept her eye on the clock, anxious for it to reach a proper hour so she could go over town and send the wire. But in the midst of her extreme pleasure in starving the goat in the other room, he informed her,

"I don't smell anything cooking out there. I have this gun trained at the wall where I think you are. Should I try for a lucky shot?"

His answer was the loud, tinny whack of a kettle as she smacked it onto the range. She'd fill him up to shut him up, but she'd be blinkered if she'd feed him anything remotely delectable! Cornmeal was the fastest, cheapest, least appetizing thing she could think of. He kept up the needling while she cooked.

"What are you doing now, butchering the hog for bacon?… I smell something cooking. What is it?… If you're thinking of wasting time bringing me the pitcher and bowl, forget it, unless they're filled with food.

A man could starve here and go unnoticed while he's doing it!"

On and on he yammered until by the time she took his tray in she was livid.

"Ah, I see you heard me at last," he said, with a stupid grin on his face. She looked for the gun but it was nowhere in sight.

"The people clear over town heard, I'm sure."

"Good! Maybe somebody will take pity on me and bring me some hardtack and jerky to store under my mattress. It would sure beat the cooking around here—not to mention the service. You didn't bring me any more of your slimy eggs, did you?"

"You are insufferable! Despicable!" she spit venomously.

He only smiled broader than before. "You too, Miss Abigail, you too." He sounded downright jovial.

"Now stand back and let me at this Epicurean delight of the week. Ahhh, cornmeal. Takes a skilled hand to make cornmeal."

The only thing she could think of at the moment was, "Even animals wash before they eat."

"Oh yeah? Name me one," he said through a mouthful of cornmeal. She looked aside in distaste.

"A racoon."

"Coons wash their food, not their faces. Besides, they can afford the time. Nobody makes them throw up then leaves them to starve all night."

It was beyond her why she spoke to him at all. But just once she'd like to get the best of him. But there was no dealing with a swine. Irritated, she flounced out. In a ridiculously short time he called for more cornmeal mush.

"I could use another bowl of that Epicurean cornmeal," he informed her loudly. She took the kettle right in there and plopped a now-cold gob of the stuff in his bowl. It had, in the ensuing time, acquired the look and texture of dried adobe.

"When you get rid of me, why don't you get a job slinging hash?" He grinned devilishly. "You've got a real knack for it." He chopped the cornmeal brick into smaller pellets that sat like islands sticking out of the lake of cream he poured over them. As she turned on her heel, he was smiling crookedly and digging in again.

Why in the world did I ever think that taking care of him would be preferable to "slinging hash" at Louis Culpepper's, she wondered. I would work for Louis now… and gladly… if only I could!

By the time he'd filled that empty leg of his he'd cleaned up enough cornmeal to stuff a flock of geese. All he said by way of appreciation was, "We could use you in camp, Abbie." It crossed her mind that any woman foolish enough to be found in a bandit's camp would undoubtedly find herself used, all right!

Next he raised his voice and shouted, "What does a man have to do to get a pot of hot water around here? I need to wash up and shave. Do you hear me, Abbie?"

She had no source of comparison by which to measure the man's capacity for being overbearing and rude, but surely he must set the world's record, she thought. She delivered the water and as stinging an insult as she could manage. "Wash yourself… if you've ever learned how!"

He only laughed and observed, "Witty little chit this morning, aren't you?"

He made a real sideshow out of his washing. Even from the kitchen she knew every single thing he was doing. He sang out loud, splashed, exclaimed how good this felt, and that felt. It was disgusting. She had no idea how he was coping with one hand, but she didn't care. Several times she became angrier because he almost made her smile. Finally he called, "I'm as fresh as a blinkin' nasturtium. Come and smell!"

Even in the kitchen she blushed. Never in her life had she been so worked up. He had to threaten her with the gun again to get her to bring the shaving gear. When she carried it in, she cast her eyes down her nose at an angle suggesting that perhaps she was trying to outstare a fly on its end. "Shall we proceed?"

she asked acidly. Half expecting him to be buck naked, she was at least relieved to see he'd covered himself with the sheet.

"We?"

She stood with strained patience, awaiting his newest objection, wishing she could take the blade and scrape every hair off his entire head.

Maybe the look in her eye told him to beware, for he finally said, "Keep away from my beard, woman.

You made me wash up by myself—just why so anxious to help me shave? As if I didn't know. I've got one and a half good hands and I can sit up now. I'll manage without your help." Then, as she turned to leave, he added, "… Delila."

Her back stiffened, and he began his shave. He was damned if he was going to let her near his moustache again after what he'd done to her this morning. He smiled, remembering it. But shaving turned out to be more difficult than he'd planned, being only slightly better than one-handed. The mirror was one of hers.

Damn female gizmo! he thought. He tried to hold the long handle between his knees while he pulled at one cheek, used the other hand to work the blade, but the useless thing slipped down or turned sideways, refusing to stay where he wanted it. He finally gave up in frustration and called, "Miss Abigail, I can't manage the mirror Come and hold it for me." She only began singing as if she hadn't heard a word he said. But his voice was deep and strong again, and there was no way it could be missed. "Did somebody step on a cat's tail out there? Seems I have to shout to be heard above the caterwauling!