Running Wild

by Denise Eagan

  She took a deep breath. Focus. Concentrate. She could do this.

  Oh no, she couldn’t, not when every cell in her body wanted to touch him, kiss him.

  Yes, she could. She was Star Montgomery; she could do anything she put her mind to. Taking a breath, she nodded and tried again. And again and again. With a minimum of words exchanged between them, she kept at it until she’d emptied the gun three times, and still she hadn’t come close to hitting a can. Not even when they removed their gloves so that she could “feel” the shot, or opened their coats to correct for any tightness that might get in the way. Her shoulder ached and her nose burned from the smoke.

  By and by, he said, “O.K. Let me see if I can show you better this way.” He moved behind her and started to wrap his arms around her waist. He paused. “If you don’t mind?”

  She could feel his hips pressed against her bottom.

  “No,” she replied shakily.

  He wrapped his long arms around her, placing one hand on the rifle, the other on the trigger. “O.K., now aim it.”

  She did.

  “Good, take a couple breaths. . . .” He breathed with her, in her ear, further dissolving her already shaky concentration. With his finger over hers, they squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked, they moved together with the recoil, and she heard a different sound than the light smack of a bullet into the hillside. She heard no smack at all.

  “Well, I reckon that was better. . . .” Nicholas said. He dropped his arms, and her body felt lonely where he no longer touched her.

  “Did I hit something?”

  “The hay bale.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?” she squealed, letting go of the gun. Nicholas held onto it as she jumped up.

  “Hey!” he snapped. “Careful there! The gun’s loaded.”

  “Yes, but Nicholas, I hit something!”

  He chuckled as he laid the gun on the crate. “Yeah, O.K., you did.”

  “I didn’t think I was ever going to,” she said turning to him in delight.

  He rose and grinned down at her. “Me neither.”

  She grimaced. “I suppose I didn’t, really, did I? You were the one who pulled the trigger.”

  Still grinning, he shook his head. “Couldn’t have done it without you, and that’s a fact. Reckon I just don’t have the strength all by my lonesome.”

  She gave his arm a little squeeze. “Oh, no, I ‘reckon’ you do well enough.”

  “Well maybe I have the muscles, but you sure got a way of drainin’ ’em of strength.”

  A ripple of sensual excitement passed over her own muscles. “You have a way of drawing all the air from my lungs,” she said in a low voice.

  His face tensed. Desire crackled in his eyes before they drifted down to rest upon her breasts.

  “Seems to me you’re breathin’ just fine.”

  She wasn’t, as he must certainly observe, for her breathing was just shy of gasping. She stepped forward, shrinking the tiny space between them.

  “Would you like to discover if you can take my breath away entirely?”

  A battle fought in his eyes, as if he didn’t want to kiss her, but could not resist. Then he lowered his head to hers, while placing his hands on both sides of her face, the calluses of his palms raspy against her chilled cheeks. His lips were rough, but his kiss chaste and gentle, slowly warming her cold lips. His tongue slipped out to caress her bottom lip, and her breath caught in her throat. She opened for him and he deepened the kiss, plunging inside to touch, to taste, to titillate. Heat flashed through her blood, vanquishing reason. She slipped her hands inside his jacket to run along the rough cotton of his shirt, reveling in his tight, flat belly. A man, all man; he smelled of leather and pine and gun smoke.

  His self-control edged away, and he shifted closer, hips tight against hers. His arousal pressed against the soft junction of her legs and she started to tremble. Oh, she wanted to feel his bare skin under her hands. She pulled at the buttons of his shirt, and then his long johns until she could slide her hand inside, over the muscles of his chest, glorying in the warmth of his skin and the silky hair gliding between her fingers. He gasped, raised his head, and gripped her shoulders. “Oh hell,” he swore softly. He buried his head in her hair, his breath warming her ear. “More. . .” he whispered.

  Her blood rushed through her veins, making her skin hot and tender under the scratching of his whiskers. While his mouth coasted over her ear and along the sensitive skin of her neck in tiny, flaming kisses, she continued her investigation. Her palms passed over his nipples, causing him to shudder, bringing her the same delicious reaction. Conscious thought evaporated, replaced by a yearning for more, to explore the most male of all parts, rigid and proud against her lower belly. She shifted her attentions downward to pull at his belt.

  He tensed. “No.”

  No?

  He dropped his hands and stepped back. Under his whiskers and lightly tanned skin, his face was flushed, his eyes dark and glassy. “No, ma’am,” he said shakily. “This is wrong.”

  Her body was cold where his had been, but the area between her legs was tickly and moist, begging for attention. Why, she thought foggily, why had he moved away?

  “I can’t do this,” Nicholas said. “I won’t do this.”

  He was talking. He was thinking. How could he think?

  And then she was thinking, too. They were outside. She could feel the sun on her head. Clouds over them—in a clearing. A gun. They’d been shooting.

  “Why?” she asked, taking a step forward. She didn’t care about shooting, she just wanted him to pull her back into his arms and kiss her again.

  “Why?” he asked, buttoning his shirt. Her eyes rested upon the movements of his hands, then lower to where she saw that remarkable bulge straining the fly of his pants. “Because it’s wrong,” he said. “That’s why. You oughta know that.”

  His tone was accusatory, but she didn’t care. She’d long since come to terms with the hot, Montgomery blood flowing through her veins. Modern-day doctors believed women to have little or no interest in passion, but she was an exception. Montgomerys were born sexual creatures. “Why is it wrong?”

  Frowning at her, he pulled on his gloves. “For a whole slew of reasons. Like we aren’t married, or even courting. Like your father—” He stopped, shook his head and grabbed the rifle and bag. “Better head back now.”

  “I think we should discuss this.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” Brushing by her, he strode toward the path leading to the ranch house.

  “I don’t agree,” she said, hastening to catch up to him. “I think perhaps you misunderstand the situation. I’ve determined never to marry. You know that, as does my family, and so you need have no fear of ruining me.” She squeezed in next to him on the narrow path. “And yet, I see no reason why my dedication to the cause ought to compel me into a lifetime of celibacy.”

  “A lifetime of celibacy.” He stopped abruptly and frowned down at her. “You mean this isn’t just me? You’ve done this with other men?”

  “Yes. . . No. . . .” He appeared cross, while her whole body still thrummed with hot, liquid craving. She must, must change his mind or risk madness. “I only meant that you needn’t feel guilt, or fear repercussions. With discretion we might indulge—”

  “No,” he said and started walking again with quick angry strides.

  She followed him. “But why?”

  “Because it’s wrong, that’s why. Women ought not to behave that way outside of marriage. Nobody’s forcing you to marry, but if you don’t, well then you forfeit the rest. You live with the consequences of the choices you make.”

  “But why can’t I have both?”

  “Because that’s the way it is.”

  She bit her lip and searched for another tack. “All right, what about those women in town? You aren’t married, but you still—get—them.”

  He glowered down at her. “That’s different. And not something you sh
ould talk about, either.”

  She stiffened. “I shall talk about whatever I wish to talk about.”

  “Then you’ll be talkin’ to yourself.”

  Drat. Stubborn, stubborn man! “Honestly Nicholas, this makes not a particle of sense. You have the same needs that I do. Why can you not put aside my morality and think of me like those other women?”

  “Like a whore?” he snapped coming to another stop. “You want me to treat you that way?”

  She stopped too. His eyes glittered down at her with a combination of barely-leashed lust and anger. “Why no, of course not,” she reasoned. “There’s no payment involved, but no ties, either. Merely a few hours of pleasure.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. She bit her lip and added, “Or more. We aren’t leaving for almost a fortnight.”

  “Or more,” he repeated. “While you’re living under my roof?”

  “Naturally. That is precisely what it makes it all so perfect.”

  “With your parents sleeping only a few rooms away?” His hands formed fists at this side.

  “They don’t—”

  “I won’t take advantage of a woman living under my roof.”

  “But you won’t be taking advantage of me. I’ve spent weeks attempting to persuade you of that. I am perfectly willing to be your lover, Nicholas. You haven’t seduced me, this is my choice.”

  He was breathing heavily, his eyes almost black with that vibrating combination of desire and outrage. For a moment it seemed like his whole body wavered, and she thought he might relent. He’s a rancher, she told her pounding heart. A cowboy. It isn’t as if he need follow Soci—

  “No,” he cut off her thoughts. He turned on his heel and started down the path again. She did a little jog to keep up with him. “It’s the wrong choice.”

  Her heart sank. She waited for him to explain. He remained silent and the silence stretched into minutes. They were almost back to the house.

  “I think you ought to let me decide that, don’t you?” she said at last.

  They stepped out of the cottonwoods and into the yard. “Suit yourself,” he growled. “Just find a different man. I’m not interested.”

  Melinda opened the front door just as Nicholas’s words turned into dynamite and blew apart weeks of dreams and fantasies.

  ***

  “Supper in half an hour,” Melinda said, as they entered the house. Nick returned her interest with a scowl, turning to lean his rifle against the wall. “How did the lesson go?”

  “Apparently I’m not naturally talented at shooting,” Star answered. Miz Montgomery, Nick reminded himself sternly. It was Miz Montgomery, always would be. It had to be, now, tomorrow, forever. “For which the tin cans must surely be grateful,” Miz Montgomery added. In spite of her attempt at mirth, her voice was low and hoarse. Almost like a woman shortly after—

  “Star not naturally talented?” Ward Montgomery asked from the top of the stairs. “It’s not possible.”

  Sonuvabitch, Nick thought, jaw clenching as he lay the bag of bullets on the table next to the hat rack. All he needed to make this the most uncomfortable situation of his life was to bring Ward into it. Guilt mixed with the fire still burning in his veins, ending in a thick sludge in his belly.

  “Perhaps she merely needs practice,” Melinda offered, as Ward descended the stairs.

  Practice—he remembered her hands on him, teasing—

  The last thing in the world Miz Montgomery needed was practice.

  It was the first thing his body wanted.

  “I’m—I’m not certain that would make much of a difference,” Miz Montgomery answered. Her voice was stilly raspy, and unusually hesitant.

  He turned her way as she removed her coat. The lines of her face, still pink from the cold, were tight. She met his gaze with a defiant lift of her chin and bright, sparkling eyes. Not with her usual merriment, but with unshed tears.

  He sucked in his breath. Damn it, he hadn’t meant to hurt her. What the hell kind of cad would do that to her?

  “It’s been my experience that few activities do not improve with practice,” Ward said.

  The kind who would not betray a friend, a father. If Ward knew the thoughts he had about his daughter—

  What kind of woman would ask that of him?

  The kind who thought shotguns and rabid cougars were exciting. The wild kind.

  He’s spent twenty years taming the West, but he still hadn’t the smallest notion of how to tame a Boston Aristocrat.

  “I’m prob’ly not the best teacher,” Nick said gruffly.

  “You’ve done a fine job with Dickie,” Melinda said.

  “It’s different with a woman. You oughta ask Jim,” Nick said to Miz Montgomery, hanging his coat on the rack. She stepped forward at the same time and her arm brushed against him. Desire flared like birch bark added to a smoldering fire. He clenched his teeth.

  She drew in her breath and then gradually exhaled. “I fear that Jim would be of little help,” she answered in a tight voice.

  He held her gaze as his skin itched with the need for more contact, his body suddenly cold where she’d touched him earlier. Cold and lonesome and yearning for more. Touches, caresses, kisses until they were both panting and desperate. . . .

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Jim’s a fine shot.”

  “Being good at something does not necessarily qualify one for teaching,” she replied. “It has also been my experience that the best learning comes when teacher and student are well-matched.”

  She was near, too near, and he was starting to harden again, his brain barely functioning due to the visions bursting in his mind’s eye: of his mouth on her breasts, her hands on his staff, of her thighs parting and the ecstasy on her face as he drove inside. . . .

  Behind him, Melinda and Ward had fallen silent, waiting for Nick’s reply. Every answer that came to mind vibrated with eroticism. The seconds ticked into minutes, then hours and days and still no good response came to him, just the increasing tension in his muscles—and down below.

  He had to get out of here.

  “Reckon so,” he finally answered.

  “I have observed that also,” Ward said, “but I believe that something can be learned from everyone, if one applies his or her mind to it. Perhaps you’ll discover the truth in that as well, Star. Nick, I believe you promised me a few hands of bridge before supper time?”

  “Sure. Lookin’ forward to it. If you’ll give me a few minutes to wash up?”

  “I’ll meet you in the parlor.”

  Nick nodded, and then strode swiftly across the room and up the stairs, without a backward glance at Star and her damnable tongue.

  CHAPTER NINE

  They who go

  Feel not the pain of parting; it is they

  Who stay behind that suffer

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Michael Angelo

  Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,

  Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

  Shakespeare, King John III

  The acrid smell of coal smoke floated under Star’s nose. The hiss of steam from the train behind them filled her ears as she watched Nicholas taking his leave of her parents. While her heart sat heavy as stone in her chest, passengers bustled around them, eager to board the train to Denver. I won’t cry, a voice in her brain said over and over again. He is only a man, only of passing physical interest. He’s not worth weeping over.

  Although in truth, she’d wept almost every night since her attempt to seduce Nicholas had met with that terrible final, rejection.

  Too forward. Too tall. Too strong. Not delicate or sweet, lacking modesty and decorum. She’d thought Nicholas would appreciate that. She’d been wrong.

  She’d stayed in her room that first night with the headache and would have kept to herself for the remainder of their visit had Father not summoned her two days into her self-imposed exile. Discrete as he was, he’d made only enough inquires to apprehend a basic understanding of the situation
. Afterwards he had, gently but firmly read her a lecture on good manners and the importance of feigning delight with her hosts, even if she could not feel it. Which, in the end, she did. She’d even managed, after a few stilted attempts, to converse with Nicholas again, and finally to re-establish their easy, flirtatious friendship, complete with occasional bantering, and nothing, nothing personal.

  “And you and Jim and the rest of the family will come East this summer for a visit, correct?” Father was saying, his hand upon Nicholas’s shoulder. “We should love to have you all, children included.”

  Nicholas grinned back, twisting Star’s heart. “Boston would never recover.”

  Mother smiled. “Which would be the most diverting part of all,” she said, amusement turning her speech deep and throaty. Normally it would have touched Star, who, like most of the family, relished her mother’s shallowly hidden rebellious tendencies. “It has been quite some time since the Montgomerys have set the town on its ear.”

  “I reckon since Lee was last living there,” Nicholas answered, although his eyes flickered over Star, no doubt wondering what sort of scandals she’d created.

  “Aye, Lee’s departure did silence quite a bit of speculation,” Father answered with a tense smile.

  “Promise us, Nicholas, that you shall at least consider a visit with us,” Mother said.

  “Put so pretty, ma’am, I’d be a cad not to.”

  “Excellent,” Father said, taking Mother’s elbow. “And now, Morgan, if you would be so obliging my dear, as to join me, it’s time to make sail.”

  “So soon?” she asked wistfully, her eyes straying over the prairie and along the ridge of the mountains in the distance. “I shall miss Colorado, you know. It is so—free.” She sighed. “But I suppose we must leave eventually. Star, come along.”

  “In just a few moments, Mother,” she replied. Nicholas shifted his gaze to her, his eyes dark blue and solemn today, not gleaming with mirth nor glittering with anger and grudging desire. For almost a fortnight, she’d counted the days until she’d escape the pride-destroying agony of his company. Suddenly however, leaving seemed so much more painful than staying. She might never see him again. The tears she’d thus far revealed only to her pillow at night welled up in her eyes.