The Hunter's Prey (7 page)

“Show me more.”

I blinked, uncertain what he was talking about. He could see every inch. Then I realized that he wanted to see my emotions, my pleasure, my willingness.

So I touched myself again as I had never done before. I circled and played as my fingers learned how to awaken the excitement that he had taught me.
 

I watched Jimmy closely while I did so, my eyes caressing the strong masculine form that fine tailoring had hidden. He had wonderful sweeps of muscle across his chest and a flat stomach that looked fit to lift a horse. I sighed when I saw his legs, with their long corded muscles flowing down to catch his knees then swelling briefly to hold his calves’ speed and determination. Finally ending at neat, square ankles so unlike a woman’s in their ability to carry his strength forward. His broad shoulders were perfectly suited to his height and carried his strong neck and head well. As for his cock, well, I had seen many before but his was especially handsome, since I knew so well what a wonderful lover he was.
 

Jimmy’s slender fingers toyed with his cock, sliding the loose skin up and down all of the hard shaft. I gasped when he pulled that skin over the fat tip, deliberately inciting more wet beads to emerge from the narrow slit. His eyelids drooped sensually, their thick lashes almost concealing his blue eyes.
 

He smiled and I saw a glint of white teeth against his lip. I blinked and he curled his lip back. He deliberately showed me his fangs. I choked as I wondered what he really wanted from me. I could pretend that the hawk had no connection to him but this was different.
 

My finger hesitated and my bud pulsed restlessly. My body’s heat increased under his dark blue gaze.
 

I remembered how many times he could have injured me as Bixby had. How many times he had given delight to me. How he had always protected me from any harm.
 

My finger moved again and I spread my legs wider in invitation.

“You’re going to be very sore,” Jimmy growled.

I laughed and held out my arms to him. He came onto me in a rush that wiped away every other memory of a man in this bed. I wrapped my arms and legs around him and pulled him against me until his heat burned into me. His fat cock rubbed my folds and I pushed against it. I arched my neck and caressed his head as his mouth tasted my shoulder. But I wanted everything he could show me.

“More, please,” I begged, stroking his hair and wriggling against him.
 

He came into me hard and fast, slamming into action. I dug my heels into his back and thrust myself onto him. We rode each other like wild cavalry that night, galloping headlong into a passion that asked only for honesty and willingness. I sobbed his name when ecstasy flared hot and bright, as I felt his fangs sink into my blood.
 

I don’t know how often he had me. I don’t clearly remember how many positions that we found, just that I always liked each one. Some were excellent, like his chest hair rubbing my back while my backside snuggled his stomach and his cock nudged that hidden spot inside me. Some were sweetly enjoyable, like sitting on his lap while his arms leisurely lifted me up and down his hard cock. But I could always smell him on my skin as his cream overflowed my core and glided over my thighs.
 

Finally, I fell asleep with my face buried in the pillow.

I blinked sleepily when he woke me, and reached for the covers, trying to go back to sleep.

“Sweet Anne, you look like a little hen, who’s finally found a comfortable roost.” He dropped a kiss on my hair. “Rest then and be happy when you face the world again.”

He kissed me on the cheek and I mumbled something. I was asleep before the door opened.

I awoke to the sound of laughter ringing through the room. At some point during the night, after the rain had finally stopped, Jimmy had opened the window to let the cool air in. I stretched, discovering twinges in places that had never known them before. I purred, remembering how I had gained those aches.

I listened without opening my eyes. Linda and Clare were laughing but so were many other people. I got up and went over to the window, making sure to fasten my robe snugly first. There were a few drops of blood on my neck but nothing that mattered.

A dozen or more people were standing in the road, looking up at the tree and pointing at Jones. He was a wretched sight, with scratches on his face and hands from the birds and a bloody trouser leg. His clothes and hair were smeared with chicken deposits. Now he was trying to find a way down from the treetop but couldn’t find a branch that looked sturdy enough for his weight. At least his wounded leg didn’t seem to be giving him any more trouble than its mate.

While I stood there, another car stopped to see what all the commotion was about. Its passengers soon joined the others in poking fun at Jones. By the time I finished dressing, every resident of Susanville had found an excuse to see the mayor in that tree. The fire department’s truck suffered one of its frequent breakdowns so Jones didn’t touch ground until afternoon.
 

Miss Jessie spoke to all of her boarders over breakfast that morning. She informed us that she was sure that all of her young ladies had seen nothing unusual on Saturday night or Sunday morning. We nodded dutifully, our mouths full of the excellent food. None of us would dare speak about the mayor’s misadventures anywhere that Miss Jessie might hear.

Then she told us that she was taking a vacation for the next month and closing the house. She frowned at the girls who objected to that and reminded them just whose business this was. When they were silent and everyone was worried, she announced that every boarder would receive one hundred dollars in cash, to help overcome any discomfort that the closing would cause.

This sum silenced even the noisiest boarder. One hundred dollars was a fortune then to girls like us.

She finished by saying that she hoped we would all remember her kindness and return when she reopened. Most of the boarders did.

I heard that when Jones showed up at the courthouse on Monday morning, no one could look at him without laughing. He was in a foul temper, of course, but the ridicule was worse to him than anything else. He went home within an hour and was never seen again in Susanville. Gossip said that he and his wife moved to Florida, where they lost a fortune playing at real estate.
 

Linda and Clare became backup singers for a gospel music star, who took them to Nashville. They wrote songs for him, including one about the Susanville chicken roost. He recorded it for a country music album and it was heard on the radio. But mostly he stayed with gospel and the song faded. Except, of course, in my house since I have a copy of every song Linda and Clare ever wrote or recorded.

You’ve heard the story from there a thousand times. How I took Scamp with me to San Antonio to visit you and Aunt Mabel. How I went to the dance and met Ezra, the handsomest man I’ve ever seen in a uniform. How we married within the month and he’s been your father and my husband ever since. How your brother Michael arrived within a year, James three years later, and…
 

Never mind; you’ve heard it before or remember it for yourself.
 

I told him the truth about my history, of course, before we married. All of it, including the lessons Jimmy taught me that night, but no mention of any individual men. Mercifully, Ezra has never been jealous of my past, choosing to live in the present and future like the career soldier he is. He often teases me about being a curious wench who never tires of exploring her man.
 

Sometimes, though, I pray for Jimmy, who deserves better than the loneliness I saw. I hope he lays down his ancient grief and finds happiness in a woman’s arms.
 

A Tale Of Don Rafael Perez

It was a fine summer day in the Texas Hill Country, meaning that it was hot and steamy. The weather promised a storm, hopefully only a thunderstorm and nothing worse.

Elizabeth Smith sat peacefully at the kitchen table, her gnarled hands shelling peas with the careless ease learned from decades of practice. The scene was the same as it had been when she left to marry her second husband almost seventy years ago. The barn was just visible beyond her small garden, blocking the view of her son John’s house with all its modern conveniences. She preferred to stay in the house her father had built, where she could avoid any squeaky floorboard. Not, of course, that her grandson Henry permitted squeaks in any building that his family lived in.
 

Henry liked to manage both people and things, which was probably why his daughter Mary was over here now, far from the swimming pool or the air-conditioned house. She paced around the kitchen, unable to settle, her eyes red-rimmed and dull from too little sleep and too many tears.

Elizabeth sighed, recognizing her own past in the younger woman’s actions.

“Would you like some coffee, Gran?”
 

“Thank you, Mary, thank you. A cup of coffee would be very nice. Do you know where everything is? Of course, you do; you’ve visited me here a thousand times.” Elizabeth settled back and let Mary pour the coffee. But she kept a thread of talk spinning between them.

“I remember when I saw you in the hospital the day you were born. And when you and Joe got married here at the old family ranch. You two looked so fine that day.”
 

Elizabeth clucked at her clumsiness when the tears spilled silently down Mary’s face. She got up with a spryness belying her age and wrapped her arms around her great-granddaughter. Mary buried her face against the familiar shoulder and shook with her sobs.
 

“There, there now honey. You can cry if you want to. Joe may still be alive. They just said he was missing over there in Southeast Asia; they didn’t know he was dead for sure. There’s still hope. There, there…”
 

Elizabeth patted Mary’s shoulder and kept talking to her, her words a soft croon against the quiet afternoon.

“Sometimes it’s best to just cry it out. A good bit of crying can be just the thing for a person, like a thunderstorm bringing rain and washing the earth clean. But some storms aren’t like that at all. They take life away. I can still remember feeling my baby ripped out of my arms by the big hurricane.” She stopped, reliving that agony again. It always hurt; she’d just learned ways to live with the pain. She went on, trying to explain those lessons in words.

“When that happens, you’ve just got to follow the good earth’s example: hunker down and try to survive until it’s time to sprout again.”

She fell silent and simply held Mary as the tears gradually ended.
 

“But, Gran, didn’t you pray that your husband lived through that storm?” Mary stood up a little shakily and accepted Elizabeth’s handkerchief to blow her nose with.
 

“How long did I hope? Honey, I didn’t see my husband swept away by the water but I heard him. A week later, I identified his body after the tide brought it back to the land. So I hoped and prayed during that week. But when I saw what was left of him, well, I was more than ready to let him go to the darkness of the grave.”

Mary shuddered at the thought. Her former restlessness returned in part and she checked the clock. The peach pies wouldn’t be done for another half hour and the kitchen was becoming very hot.

Would you like to sit on the porch, Gran? Maybe you could tell me a story, like you used to when I was small,” Mary asked wistfully.

“Of course, I’d be glad to, honey.” Elizabeth smiled at her, remembering the bright-faced child with her long pigtails who was as ready to hear a tall tale as she was to play pranks on her older brothers. It was a terrible thing to see so much fear and pain on a girl who hadn’t yet seen her twentieth birthday. But Mary was older now than Elizabeth had been when she lost both husband and baby to the great Galveston hurricane.

“Would you like to hear a story about a tornado? Perhaps you’re ready to hear about storms and how folks find shelter from them.”

Mary agreed eagerly, clearly hoping for one of Gran’s tales to distract her, as they always had before. Elizabeth smiled to herself. She waited until they were both settled in rockers on the porch before beginning.

* * * * *

I was twenty-five when this tornado hit. You’ve seen the picture of me from that age: five feet of hard-working Texas woman. My curves were all in the right places, if I do say so myself, and I had lots of yellow curls. Men paid a lot of calls but I didn’t pay them any heed. I was living back here at home after my husband and baby were swept away by that big hurricane at Galveston. Hundreds of miles of land felt like a safe distance between me and the sea. I wasn’t much interested in living, let alone getting close to a man.
 

It was Monday and I was doing the wash and the baking. Ma and Pa had gone flying out of the house at first light when my brother-in-law came by. My sister Betty thought the time had finally come to deliver her first. The three of them were buzzing with excitement that I just couldn’t share. So I stayed home to do the chores.

You grew up with electricity. Do you remember hearing just how much work washday took? All day feeding that stove to get hot water for the wash, then using the hot oven to bake bread and sweets for the rest of the week. It was just what I needed though: hard labor that left me no room for thinking about anything else.