MM01 - Valley of Fire (8 page)

When she opened them, he had his sword pointed toward the ground.

“I don't want to finish this game,” she said.

“Neither do I.” He tossed the cottonwood branch aside and took her elbow. “Let's go back inside.”

They didn't talk as they went back to the main house. After that intimate swordplay, there seemed nothing much to say.

The screen door popped behind them, and they walked into the brightly lit room. At one end the dishes were stacked in the sink, unwashed, and at the other end Velma and Clyde sat in two sagging easy chairs, Velma doing needlepoint and Clyde watching two TVs. The large color console set was tuned to a hell-fire-and-damnation evangelist, and the small black-and-white portable atop the color TV was tuned to a baseball game. Clyde was alternately cussing and saying amen, sometimes saying the amens when the Dodgers scored a run and cussing when he was supposed to be praying.

It was a sight to see. It was also a relief, for it served to break the spell of sensuality that had bound Rick and Martha Ann. They grinned at each other.

Velma looked up from her needlepoint. “You're back. Did you have a good walk?”

“The moon was lovely,” Martha Ann said.

“The stars have never been brighter,” Rick added.

Velma checked out their flushed faces. Her plan was working. Tonight would be the finishing touch. She grinned, pleased with herself.

“Clyde, they had a good time.”

“Amen.”

“Clyde!” His head jerked up, and he looked at his wife.

“You say something, Velma?”

“I said they had a
good
time.”

“Well, now, that's just wonderful. Just
great”
He smiled at his guests for a while, and then smiled at Velma. He might not know much about tractors, but he did know about love. He'd known a walk in the moonlight would do the trick. Finally, remembering his manners, he jumped up and offered Martha Ann his chair. “Here. You take this comfortable seat.”

“Thank you, but this one will be fine.”

She started toward a straight-backed kitchen chair, but Rick intercepted. He carried two chairs across the room to where Velma and Clyde were sitting. He and Martha Ann sat down side by side.

“Clyde, turn up that preacher. Can you two hear all right?”

“Great,” Rick said.

“We'll watch something else if you want to,” Clyde said. “There's not much on tonight though.”

“I like games.” Rick winked at Martha Ann. “Especially baseball,” he said to Clyde.

For the next two hours they sat on the hard chairs watching the two television screens with Clyde and Velma. The best Rick could tell the Dodgers hit a homerun somewhere around Revelation, the Cardinals struck out in the middle of Ezekiel, and fourteen sinners got saved in the bottom of the sixth inning. It was an incredible evening.

When the two clocks struck ten, Velma and Clyde looked at each other and winked. Velma disappeared briefly, then came back and announced, “Bedtime.”

“That sounds great,” Martha Ann said. “It has been a very long day.”

“For me too.” Rick stood up and stretched. “A soft bed will feel great.”

“You two follow me, and I'll show you to your room.”

Room
? Martha Ann thought. She looked at Rick, and he shrugged his shoulders as if to say,
Beats me
.

The ranch house consisted of the front room, which served as kitchen, dining, and living area, and two small bedrooms separated by a tiny hall.

Velma opened a door and swept her arm grandly through the air. “Here it is. Just like mine.” She grinned at them. “I believe in giving my guests all the comforts of home.”

The bedroom was identical to the one Martha Ann had seen earlier. Exotic curtains were draped around the bed and over the walls, and scented candles were already lit and burning in every corner of the room.

Martha Ann felt her stomach tighten. One bedroom. She should have realized earlier how small the house was. She should have known it couldn't possibly have two guest bedrooms. She guessed she'd been too tired or too hot or too hungry to notice.

She swung her gaze to Rick. He was taking it all in stride. In fact, he was even smiling. Saints preserve her. What would she do?

Velma was watching her expectantly. She felt compelled to say something. “It's lovely, Velma. Thank you.”

“I knew you'd like it... you two traveling together, and all.” She began to back out of the room. “Well, you two have a good night's sleep.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

 o0o

Clyde was waiting in the hall.

“How did it go, Velma? Did they like it?”

“The best I could tell, they did. Are you sure everything's in place?”

“Right where it ought to be. I had to make a few substitutions though. It's an old recipe, and you can't find the ear of a bison anymore.”

“What did you use?”

“Remember that old heifer that got sick on the range and died last week?”

“Yes.”

“The buzzards hadn't gotten to the ears yet. I used one of them.”

“I'm just dying to know how everything's going in there.”

“We might be able to hear if we pressed our ears up against the wall.”

“Clyde! I'm shocked at you. Some things are private matters.” She smoothed her hands over her hips and patted her wig. “Let's go, honey. I believe in letting things take their natural course.”

Clyde and Velma linked arms and went down the hall to their own bedroom, secure in the knowledge that love was taking its natural course—thanks to a little assistance from them.

 o0o

Inside the guest bedroom Rick and Martha Ann were squared off on opposite sides of the bed.

“Quit looking so pleased,” she said.

“Who? Me? I didn't plan this.”

“But I'll bet you're perfectly willing to take advantage of the situation.”

“It takes two, sweetheart.”

Martha Ann ignored that comment. She glanced toward the hard floor. “I suppose one of us could make a pallet down there.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor, Mrs. O'Grady. You take the bed.”

She chewed her lower lip. “It looks so uncomfortable down there.”

“It's not my idea of a perfect place to sleep, but it will do.”

She patted the mattress. “It seems a shame.” She glanced at Rick, who was still standing on the other side of the bed. “After all, you did spend last night sleeping on the rocks.”

“So did you.”

“It's a big bed.”

“It is.”

“I suppose you could stay on your side.”

“And you could stay on yours.”

“We could even put a divider in the middle, a rolled up sheet or something.”

“A Wall of Jericho.”

She knew exactly what he was talking about, for she loved old movies. It had been a while since she'd seen Clark Gable in
It Happened One Night,
but she distinctly remembered the night the Walls of Jericho came tumbling down.

She lifted her chin. “We're both adults. We don't need a Wall of Jericho. We’ll just agree to stay on opposite sides of the bed.”

He grinned. “A gentleman's agreement.”

“Precisely.”

He hurried around the bed. She backed against the wall.

“I always seal my bargains, Mrs. O'Grady.”

“I know.”

Grinning, he stuck out his hand. “With a handshake. Remember?”

“Of course. I was just resting.” She leaned against the wall a while longer and even threw in a big yawn for effect, then she took his hand.

The handshake was brief and firm and businesslike.

“Well, now. That's done. Since I'm a gentleman, I'll let you undress first.”

“Undress?”

“You don't plan to sleep in your clothes, do you?”

“Of course not. Velma lent me a gown.”

“I'll turn my back while you change.”

He did. She changed into the gown, which was not much better than being naked, and slid quickly under the sheets.

“All finished,” she said.

He turned back around. “How's the bed?”

“Comfortable.” She pulled the covers up to her chin.

“Cold?” Rick began to unbutton his shirt.

“No.... Yes. That's the funny thing about these nights in the desert. You can be burning up one minute and freezing the next.”

“I'm willing to warm you up.” He peeled off the shirt and reached for his belt buckle.

“No!” She fanned the sheets. “Actually, I'm a little hot.” He gave her a knowing grin. She decided to change the subject. “Did Clyde give you pajamas to sleep in?”

“I'm afraid not, pet. Anyway, I don't wear pajamas.”

“You don't?”

“I sleep in the nude.”

She suddenly wished she had put up a Wall of Jericho.

“But don't worry,” Rick added. “Since I'm in bed with a married lady, I'll keep my shorts on.”

“You had better.”

“At least for a little while.”

When he began to slide his pants down over his hips, she squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the gossamer curtains being drawn back, felt the mattress sag, and heard the bedsprings creak. There was a small swishing sound as Rick dropped the curtain and settled down into bed.

He stretched and yawned under the guise of getting comfortable, but she figured he was doing all that movement to get her attention. She kept her eyes shut, her legs pressed tightly together, and her hands straight down by her sides. It was as relaxing as being on the stretching rack during the Spanish Inquisition.

His foot touched hers. “Excuse me.”

“Certainly.” She jerked her foot away.

He rolled over in the bed. His hand brushed against her shoulder. She couldn't move away without falling off the bed, so she waited for him to move his hand. Goose bumps popped out on her arm, and she prayed to be rescued from her own feelings.

“Sorry.” He was as slow as molasses in December moving his hand, and when he did, he dragged it down the whole length of her arm. She hoped he didn't feel her goose bumps.

He finally settled down on his side of the bed, not touching, and she tried to relax. It was impossible. Even the sound of his breathing bothered her. Not that it was unpleasant. On the contrary. She found it extremely pleasant, reassuring even.

She turned her back to him, hoping it would help. It didn't. Her hips hiked up the sheet between them so that she could feel his body heat. Oh, help, she thought. What was she to do? She tried counting sheep, but thoughts of Rick kept creeping into her mind, and she lost count at eight. Or was it nine?

He moved, and his leg brushed against hers. She decided to let it stay there. What was the harm?

The minutes dragged by. Martha Ann felt sweat trickle between her breasts. She had the choice of smothering to death or kicking down the sheet. Being practical, she kicked down the sheet.

“Are you hot?”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.”

“I wasn't asleep.”

“Neither was I.” Bold as he was, he would probably take that admission as an invitation. Her mind groped for a distraction. She wasn't long in finding it. “Do you smell something funny?”

“It must be the candles.”

“Good grief, the candles.” She sat straight up in bed. Too late, she remembered Velma's gown. She risked a peek at Rick. He was propped on his pillow, hands behind his head, staring frankly at her.

She reached for the sheet.

“Don't.” His hand snaked out and caught hers. “Let me look at you in the candlelight.” He took his time, studying her as if she were a rare bird he was thinking of mounting and hanging in his trophy case. Shivers crawled over her skin.

“We forgot to blow out the candles,” she said.

“I didn't forget. I thought it would be romantic to let them burn a while.”

“I'm not looking for romance; I'm looking for Lucky.”

“Ahhh, yes. The elusive husband.” Smiling, he reached up and ran his hand lightly down her cheek. “I hope he appreciates just how lucky he is.”

“Don't.”

It was a token protest, and he knew it. Instead of removing his hand, he let it glide slowly down her cheek, down her throat, and across her left shoulder.

“You were made to be loved, my pet.”

“Not by you.” His fingertips made small circles on her skin. She felt herself go limp.

Rick exerted the lightest pressure on her shoulder, and she slid across the bed toward him. Not even a Wall of Jericho could have kept her out of his arms. It was wrong, it was not in character, and she knew she'd regret it in the morning. But only a saint or a martyr would have turned away, and she had never claimed to be either.

He ran his hands over her back, starting at the back of her neck and working all the way down to the base of her spine. There was nothing quite as erotic as the feel of a man's hands pressing through a silk garment, she thought. Her skin tingled, heated up.

She was in the arms of an expert, and she knew it. She didn't even try to resist him. Besides that, the room was full of a kind of heady fragrance. It wafted from the curtains and floated around the burning candles. Martha Ann felt as if she were at the mercy of some mysterious power. And it was certainly beyond her control.

Her arms circled his shoulders and pulled him closer. His skin was warm and slightly damp with perspiration. She leaned over and nibbled his shoulder. A shudder ran through him.

He flipped her onto her back and pinned her underneath him. For a moment he remained poised above her, propped on his elbows, studying her face. Desire was there, a desire that matched his own. His mouth slammed down on hers. It was a no-holds-barred kiss, a hungry exchange by two experts who knew exactly what they wanted but didn't quite understand why.

Ahhh, he thought. She was good. More than good. She was the best. He thought her excellent rating as a lover might be due to the nightgown she was wearing. It bared enough flesh to tease and covered enough to tantalize. Wearing that gown Martha Ann Riley could have single-handedly brought the American Revolution to a standstill.

Or it could be her skin. Silky, satiny, velvety. That fool poet in his soul was at it again. Or perhaps it was her lips. They were lush and inviting, and he could swear that he tasted the beauty spot.

He ran his right hand down her hips, feeling the silk gown against satin flesh. He almost lost control. His hand closed over the gown and slid it upward. She was making small murmuring sounds now. He loved a woman who voiced her pleasure.