by Nan Ryan
At that unpleasant thought, Cole’s forehead knit and his jaw tightened. Since he’d made love to her, something had nagged at him, worried him, had stayed in the back of his mind. When he had taken her, there had been a fleeting second when—just as he had entered her—he could have sworn she was a virgin. She had been so incredibly tight and small and…oh, for Pete sake, who the hell was he trying to kid.
Marietta was no virgin. Hadn’t been for years. She used her luscious body as a bargaining chip. Old metals millionaire Maltese was but the latest in a long line of lovers she had favored with her charms in return for something she wanted.
Now she wanted something from him, that’s why she had seduced him. She wanted him to let her go so she could run back to Central City and her singing career.
Cole knew enough about women to suppose that Marietta, despite her protestations to the contrary, would likely come into his arms again if he wanted her, reached out to her. She had, he could tell, enjoyed the lovemaking more than she had expected.
The prospect of making love to her again was tempting, no denying it.
But he would resist.
He wished to hell he had never touched her in the first place and he vowed to himself that he wouldn’t touch her again.
For two reasons.
One, he felt bad about making love to Maxwell Lacey’s granddaughter.
The second, more important reason was that he was half-afraid. Afraid of her. Afraid of himself. Afraid that if she were to lie in his arms again, she might take more than his body. He was, he realized, in danger of foolishly falling in love with this beautiful, selfish woman who he was sure used men then tossed them aside when they were no longer needed.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
He wouldn’t let her get her claws into him.
Cole abruptly turned his head and looked at Marietta. She was staring straight ahead, not at him. Hungrily he gazed at her, recalling the faint intoxicating perfume of her hair and the pale perfection of her bare, warm body pressed against his own.
Cole felt his heart squeeze in his chest. God, how could a woman make love the way she had when it meant nothing to her.
Cole turned his attention back on the trail ahead. To hell with her. It was a world full of women with perfumed hair and pale bodies. She was no different than the others. Soon as he had delivered her to her grandfather, he would go right out and find himself one just as desirable as Marietta.
In Central City, an unhappy Maltese had given up on Marietta ever returning. If Lightnin’ couldn’t bring her back, nobody could. His precious darling was gone forever and his life was now meaningless. All his great wealth and power meant nothing to him.
Not without Marietta.
After losing count of the long, lonely days without her, Maltese finally forced himself to leave Marietta’s silent, empty quarters. Despondent, he dressed and went out to dine alone one hot noontime.
He chose his favorite restaurant—Marietta’s favorite—the Castle Top. But the fine meal served on fragile china and sparkling crystal was tasteless to him. He hardly touched his food nor tasted the fine red wine. Maltese sighed, pushed the plate away, left the restaurant and strolled aimlessly down Eureka Street.
Soon he stopped short.
He blinked and anxiously lifted a hand to shade his eyes against the blinding summer sunlight.
A few yards ahead stood a tall, well-groomed and attractive woman. Her pale-blond hair was glittering with golden highlights and her slender frame was handsomely garbed in a tight-bodiced dress of yellow organza.
She was gazing fixedly into a shop’s glass window. Maltese stared for a long moment, his heartbeat beginning to quicken, his fingertips to tingle. His eyes aglitter, he lifted his hands and straightened his gray silk cravat, brushed imaginary lint from the lapels of his custom-cut frock coat then ran his fingers through the thick wings of his long-neglected silver hair.
Maltese cautiously approached the young woman. He reached her and saw that she was admiring a pair of kid-leather slippers attractively displayed in the glass shop window.
Maltese could hardly contain his rising excitement. Afraid she might bolt and run, he waited a long moment, allowing her time to become aware of his presence.
At last he said, “The shoes are quite lovely, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” the young woman replied, never taking her eyes off the leather slippers, “but much too expensive.”
“Allow me to purchase them for you,” said Maltese, then held his breath.
The young woman turned to look at him. She was beautiful. She favored him with a dimpling smile and said, “You’d do that? You’d buy the shoes for me when you don’t even know me?”
“I would,” he said. “I’ll buy you the shoes. I’ll buy you all the shoes you want, my dear child. Would you like that?”
“I would, sir,” she said in a soft, honeyed voice. “Of course I would.”
Maltese took the young lady’s arm. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”
Twenty-Four
“You hear something?”
“No.”
“You sure?” Cole asked and drew rein.
“I said no,” Marietta replied sarcastically and rode on.
“Sorry I bothered you,” Cole said and again put the black into motion.
“So am I.”
The curt exchange was the first time Marietta and Cole had spoken in hours. Nonetheless they were intensely aware of each other. The physical attraction between them had become nothing short of palpable.
In silent mutual agreement, when nighttime came, they no longer slept side by side. Each took a blanket and spread it safely apart from the other. They usually ended up directly across the dying campfire from one another.
There were, however, those unavoidable occasions when they accidentally bumped into each other. When that happened, both profusely apologized and backed away as if they had come in contact with a hot stove.
The mere brushing of their tense bodies caused each to shudder with unspent desire. They were of the same mind.
Neither wanted to make love to the other again.
Both were dying to make love to the other again.
They said very little to each other, but Cole had casually informed Marietta earlier that, at last, they had left Colorado behind. Had crossed the narrow strip bordering the top of Texas known as No Man’s Land. They were finally riding down into the northernmost part of the Lone Star State, that three-thousand-foot-high tableland called the Texas Panhandle.
It was a desolate, windswept, lonely land of dry ravines, shallow canyons, deep arroyos and precious few trees. Scattered cedars and junipers and mesquite dotted the prairie, and the occasional stand of cottonwoods and willows wherever there was a little water.
In this lonely land the sky was a huge blue dome and the earth as flat as a floor, stretching endlessly in every direction. Marietta felt it was as if they were the only two people on earth.
But Cole knew better.
On this sweltering-hot July afternoon, as the sun was westering, the pair rode southward in strained silence. Marietta was awed by the barren grandeur surrounding them and she idly wondered how many people had crossed these vast high plains of Texas. And, she wondered, had anyone actually settled there?
She noted that Cole was more alert than usual, although slouched comfortably in the saddle.
His squinted gaze was carefully scanning the trail before them. Periodically he turned to look over his shoulder at the trail behind them. It was as if he was expecting trouble.
Cole sat up straighter in the saddle when he spotted a small cloud of dust on the southern horizon. His heartbeat accelerated, then slowed as two riders approached at a gallop.
He looked at Marietta and said calmly, “I told you I heard something. We have company, but there’s no cause for alarm. Likely just a couple of buffalo hunters. You go along with anything I say or do, you understand?”
Marietta nodded. “I un
derstand.”
Marietta tensed when she noticed Cole’s right hand move down to rest on the butt of his Colt .45. The riders neared and Cole saw that he had guessed correctly; they smelled of buffalo. One was leading a couple of remounts weighed down with untanned hides.
The hunters came to a stop a few feet away and the younger of the pair, a big, bearded fellow with a mouthful of broken, blackened teeth, said, “Folks, I’m Jesse Vance and this here’s my pa, Nate Vance.”
“Nate. Jesse,” Cole acknowledged, “Cole Heflin. The lady is Marietta.”
Marietta nodded.
Jesse rubbed his bearded chin and grinned, showing all his rotted teeth as he stared hungrily at Marietta.
He said, “Me and Pa was ‘a fixin’ to bed down for the night. It’s mighty lonely out here on the prairie. What say we camp together? We got some fresh buffalo meat for supper.”
Cole knew the best way to handle the hunters was to befriend them. Or pretend to. If he showed any reluctance to accept their hospitality, he would have a fight on his hands. A fight that he would lose and Marietta would be at their mercy.
Marietta was surprised and incensed when Cole smiled and said, “Sounds like a good idea to me, Jesse.”
Marietta didn’t like the looks of the two big, unkempt men and couldn’t understand why Cole would agree to camping with them. But she held her tongue, stayed close to Cole.
Soon the men had gathered mesquite kindling and had a fire going. They began roasting buffalo steaks on a spit and telling tall tales as full darkness enveloped the high plains. When Jesse broke out a bottle of whiskey, Cole drank and laughed with the two rough-looking customers.
As soon as the meal was finished, Marietta rose, took her blanket and walked away from the crackling fire and the laughing men. She lay in silence beneath the stars, angry with Cole for allowing these two dangerous-looking characters to spend the night with them.
She listened as the men talked and laughed loudly and soon she heard the young one, Jesse, say, “Cole, you’re our friend, now, ain’t you?”
Cole replied levelly, “Friends to the end, Jesse.”
“Well, what’d you allow if I was to tell you I’m kinda taken with that pretty, red-haired gal with you.”
Cole laughed easily. Then said, “I’m pretty taken with her myself.”
Jesse took another swig from the bottle, wiped his mouth on his dirty shirtsleeve and said, “Well, now, friend, looks like you have her all the time. How about if I have her jest for the night?”
Marietta’s blood ran cold and she stiffened with fear. Not daring to breathe, she waited for Cole’s reply.
Cole chuckled, slapped Jesse on the back and said, “Jesse, that little gal’s my wife.”
“Does that mean I can’t have her?” asked Jesse.
Before Cole could reply, the older, quieter Nate spoke up. “Damn it all, boy, didn’t your ma and me teach you no better than that? You can’t jest take a man’s wife with him right there. It ain’t neighborly.”
“Your pa’s right, Jesse. If she wasn’t my wife, why, I’d say go ahead.”
Jesse tried another tack. “If’n I give you all them hides we got, could I have her for an hour?”
“No, Jesse.” Cole kept his voice low, level. “I love my wife. She’s a good, virtuous woman.” He paused, then added, “I’d kill any man who tried to touch her. Is that clear?”
“It’s clear, Cole,” said Nate. Turning to his son, he said, “Ain’t it, Jesse?”
Jesse nodded, then sighed with disappointment.
Cole yawned, rose to his feet and said, “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us tomorrow, so I’ll be turning in now.”
“‘Night, Cole,” said Nate.
Cole took his blanket and walked directly to where Marietta lay. His back to the two buffalo hunters, he stood just above her, put his forefinger perpendicular to his lips, warning her to keep silent.
He then sank to his knees, turned around and stretched out next to her. Marietta lifted her head to give him a questioning look. Cole cautioned her with his eyes and put a supportive arm beneath her head. He never said a word, but he wrapped his arm around her and drew her into his embrace.
Marietta didn’t fight it. Afraid of the buffalo hunters, she snuggled close and draped an arm across Cole’s chest. He felt her trembling and drew her closer still, his intent to comfort and reassure. His arms tightened around her when the chilling exchange between the drunken buffalo hunters carried on the still night air.
Jesse said, “Pa, I’m gonna go on over there and take that red-haired gal for myself.”
“No you’re not, you damn fool,” said the older man. “Don’t you know who that fella is?”
“I don’t care who he is, I want that pretty woman.” Jesse started to rise.
His pa grabbed his arm, pulled him back down. “Jesse, that there’s the man who burned Hadleyville back in the war. I seen the wanted poster in Tascosa last spring, offering a reward for his capture. Hellfire, he’s as mean as they make’em.”
“Damnation!” Jesse swore, but sank back down and lifted the whiskey bottle to his lips.
Cole grinned and relaxed.
Marietta put her lips close to Cole’s ear and admitted, “I’m afraid, Cole.”
He whispered, “Don’t be, baby. I’ve got you, I won’t let anybody hurt you.”
She believed him, but still she couldn’t go to sleep. She lay awake long after the rowdy buffalo hunters were snoring loudly, no longer posing a threat.
It was not fear that kept her awake. It was Cole. What he’d said to the hunters kept ringing in her ears and causing her heart to flutter, “That little gal’s my wife. I love my wife.” The way he had said it, the inflection in his tone—it was almost as if he had meant it.
All at once Marietta was too keenly aware of being in Cole’s strong arms. Her head on his shoulder, she could feel the slow, steady beating of his heart beneath her ear. Her hand—she wasn’t sure when—had moved down from his chest. It now rested on his abdomen just above the waistband of his trousers.
She was certain he was asleep. And so, of their own volition, her fingers slipped into his shirt—between the buttons—and touched his warm, smooth flesh.
She was glad he was dead to the world and unaware of her forward action. After a guilty moment wherein she allowed her fingertips to lightly stroke the crisp line of raven hair going down his flat belly, Marietta slowly, cautiously raised her head to look at Cole’s sleeping face.
Her hand stilled.
Her heart raced.
He was wide awake and staring at her, his eyes flashing in the darkness. It was a moment she would never forget. His glittering gaze holding hers, he reached down and deftly unbuttoned his shirt. He pushed the open shirt apart and drew her hand up to the sculpted band of muscle covering his heavily beating heart.
They stared at each other as Marietta raked her nails through the dense hair, then trailed her fingertips down the very center of his chest and belly until she reached the waistband of his trousers.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought he smiled before he drew her head back down onto his shoulder and covered her hand with his own. She held her breath when he gently urged her open hand just down inside his trousers. She shivered as her tingling fingertips came in contact with the tip of his hot, hard erection.
She desperately wanted to touch him, stroke him, release him. Instead, she anxiously withdrew her hand, abruptly coming to her senses, appalled by her own bold behavior.
And then she wanted to smack Cole’s smug face when she heard him chuckle softly and felt his lean body shake with laughter. She huffed with indignation and turned over onto her side away from him.
Then Marietta gritted her teeth when he turned with her, drew her back against him, put an arm around her and whispered, “Me too, darlin’, me too.”
Twenty-Five
The next day things were back to normal.
The buffalo hunters were long gone north
and the barren plains ahead lay deserted. Marietta and Cole, riding south, were making good time.
Once again they were like polite strangers and their respective guards were up. The closeness of the previous night was behind them and forgotten.
Both intended to keep it that way.
The morning and early afternoon passed uneventfully. Quietly. The two exchanged few words, each engrossed in their own troubled thoughts.
It was now late afternoon, not long until sunset. Boredom and exhaustion had set in; both were half-sleepy, half-sullen.
Then all at once Cole’s head snapped up, he frowned, drew rein and brought the black to a swift halt. Marietta rode on a few yards, finally pulled up and turned the piebald mare around.
“What is it?” she asked irritably. “Why are you stopping here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Quiet,” Cole ordered, a hand raised to silence her.
Marietta made a face when he swung down out of the saddle and turned slowly in every direction, listening intently. She shook her head and rolled her eyes heavenward when he sank to his heels, leaned down and put an ear to the ground.
“Have you lost your mind?” she asked.
Cole gave no reply. Just kept his ear pressed to the ground for several long seconds. When he rose to his feet, Marietta could tell that he was worried.
She automatically tensed and said, “Oh, Lord, don’t tell me it’s more dirty buffalo hunters.”
“No. It’s not hunters,” he said, climbing back into the saddle. “Ride!” he shouted, kicking the black into motion. “It’s Comanches!”
“Comanches?” she called out. “How do you know? I don’t see anybody!”
“You soon will!” he shouted, urging the black into long, ground-eating strides.
Cole heard the hoofbeats growing louder, drawing closer. He glanced back over his shoulder—a band of renegade Comanches appeared on a rise behind them. He counted quickly. At least a dozen whooping, painted half-naked young warriors were riding fast across the dusty plains.
Cole turned back, then looked anxiously ahead. Some two hundred yards away was a large, dense thicket of cedars, mesquite and scrub oak.