by Nan Ryan
Within minutes both had lost all control. They were two pagan lovers, drenched in perspiration, sliding and slipping on each other. They mated like a couple of animals, gasping and clawing and moaning, each intent on taking everything the other had to give. Avaricious in their quest for the ultimate, they were rash and reckless, caught up in the blazing need for total, blinding release.
Anxious, panting, Brit rolled up into a sitting position, cupped Anna’s bouncing bottom in his hands and drew her closer, tighter against him. At the same time he flexed the muscles of his buttocks and surged into her.
Soon it started for them both—a deep, all-consuming orgasm that left them weak and powerless in its throes. Both Brit and Anna could feel his full-to-bursting erection exploding inside her, and they cried out in their shared ecstasy. Frantically they clung to each other, trembling and gasping for breath as burst after burst of intense physical pleasure rocked them.
When, finally, all the tiny aftershocks had passed, their breathing had slowed and their heartbeats had returned to normal, the pair continued to stay as they were. Holding each other. Sighing contentedly. Savoring the perfect peace that follows such splendid lovemaking.
Nineteen
Anna awakened when strong morning sunshine, streaming in through her tall bedroom windows, touched her face. Lying on her stomach, clutching her pillow, she drowsily opened her eyes.
The first thing she saw was the hammered-silver concha.
The small circular disk lay on the bedside table, glittering brightly in the summer sunlight. Beginning to smile, Anna levered herself up on her elbows, reached out and scooped up the shiny ornament. A shiver of delight surging through her, she raised the shimmering disk to her lips and kissed it reverently.
Then she flopped over onto her back, pressed the concho to her breasts and squeezed her eyes shut sighing dreamily. A rush of recollection washed over her and she blushed as she recalled with vivid clarity the wonderfully forbidden things that she and Brit had done during their long, unforgettable night of lovemaking.
The flood of fresh memories made her squirm and tingle. Anna could almost feel Brit’s long tapered fingers on her face, his amazingly soft, sculptured lips tasting hers, his lean, hard body pressed against her own.
“Oh, Brit, my love,” she whispered in the silence. “Do you love me half as much as I love you?”
Sure she knew the answer to her question, Anna tossed back the silky sheets and got out of bed. Like a child she laughed and spun wildly around in a circle, so happy she wanted to shout it to the rooftops. To tell every single soul on earth that Brit Caruth was in love with her and she was in love with him.
Careening to an abrupt stop, the slightly dizzy Anna was struck with the thought that Brit might very well be downstairs in the dining room right this minute. LaDextra had said that today’s breakfast would be served from shortly after dawn right on through midmorning, so that the departing house guests could enjoy the morning meal at an hour best suited to their travel plans.
Kissing the silver concho one last time, Anna carefully laid it back on the night table. Then she yanked her nightgown up over her head and tossed it aside. Naked, she dashed into the bathroom where, thankfully, a tub had been run for her. Sinking down into the sudsy depths, Anna hurriedly bathed, blushing again when she saw that her breasts were still pink from Brit’s fiery kisses.
Even more telling was the novel soreness between her legs, a mild discomfort that gave her more pleasure than pain. A secret, silent reminder of her passionate lover’s intimate invasion.
Bathed and toweled dry, Anna sped into her dressing room, yanking down the first dress she saw. It was a girlish-looking, pink cotton shirtwaist with short puff sleeves, tiny covered buttons from throat to waist, and full, billowing skirts.
Eager to get downstairs to hopefully see Brit, she dressed quickly, brushed her long hair a few strokes, pulled the left side back behind her ear and secured it with a gold clasp. Twenty minutes after awakening, Anna was out the bedroom door and descending the center staircase.
Midway down, she paused on a carpeted step and listened. Voices and laughter carried from the dining room. Anna recognized the various voices of the visiting San Antonio contingent. Everyone else was to have gone home earlier in the morning. These half-dozen party-loving San Antonians would be the last to leave the ranch.
Justin Box, a favorite cousin of LaDextra’s, was speaking, telling an amusing story. When he concluded, laughter followed. Anna felt her pulse leap when she heard Brit’s low distinctive baritone. So excited she felt like she might burst out giggling, she skipped down the remainder of the stairs.
Just outside the high-ceilinged dining room, Anna paused, drew a deep, slow breath, then walked through the wide, arched doorway.
“Ah, here she is now,” LaDextra announced, and everyone turned to greet Anna.
Almost everyone.
Having eyes only for the dark, handsome man seated on the opposite side of the table, Anna felt her world come crashing down abruptly when Brit finally looked up.
Not the slightest flicker of fire lit his eyes. Instead he touched her with a brief, chilly glance, then dismissed her, returning his attention to the plate of food before him.
There was no warmly drawled “good morning.” No meaningful exchange of sweet secrets shared. No silent, private messages.
Nothing.
Stunned, shaken, Anna had to put her hand on the back of LaDextra’s chair to steady herself.
“Well, lazy bones, we thought you were going to sleep all day,” LaDextra accused affectionately. The others merrily chimed in, teasing her.
I wish I had. I wish I had never awakened. I wish I could go back to sleep and never wake up!
As calmly as possible, Anna said, “I’m not fooled. You’re all still at the breakfast table, so how long could you have been up?”
LaDextra laughed, nodded. “Get yourself something to eat, honey, and sit down there between cousins Justin and Olivia.”
Anna gave no reply, but turned and went to the heavily laden sideboard, grateful for the opportunity to temporarily have her back to Brit and the others. Fighting the tears that were threatening, Anna was so upset her hands shook as she spooned scrambled eggs from the silver warming platter. Wishing she could turn and run out of the room, she continued, with difficulty, to fill her plate.
Inhaling shallowly, Anna firmly gripped the plate with cold, stiff hands, turned and went to the table. Justin Box, the gangly, bearded, sixty-five-year-old San Antonio cousin, quickly rose to his feet and pulled out a chair for her.
“Thank you, Cousin Justin,” she said, and sat down.
“You’re mighty welcome, Anna,” said the cheerful Justin Box. “Olivia and I were just saying to LaDextra that we sure want you to come to San Antone one of these days soon and spend a couple of weeks. We’d love to have your company, and there’s lots to do and see there.”
“Justin’s right.” His soft-spoken wife, Olivia, seconded the notion. “Come for a nice long visit and we’ll go shopping and to the theater and to all the fine restaurants. And we know several handsome young bachelors who would be thrilled to meet you.”
“Sounds lovely,” said Anna, forcing a smile. “I might just take you up on your kind invitation.”
So saying, she hazarded a quick, nervous glance at Brit, hoping against hope that she had jumped to conclusions earlier, that he would, if he had the chance, make eye contact, signal her, silently reassure her.
It never happened.
He didn’t give her a look.
Or a thought.
Throughout the endless meal, Anna sat directly across the table from the stunningly attractive man who had been so burning hot last night. And who was now so icy cold. She was devastated. Brokenhearted. And totally baffled. What had she done wrong? How had she displeased him? Had last night meant nothing to him, when it had meant everything to her?
In agony Anna pushed her food around her plate, made obligato
ry small talk and carefully hid her disillusionment and pain. She was, after all, a master at concealing her innermost feelings, at facing terrible dilemmas alone, at keeping her own counsel. To those around her, she appeared to be at ease and perfectly placid. No one in the dining room suspected that she was so hurt and miserable she could hardly retain her composure.
Relief flooded Anna when finally the long meal ended. It was time for the last of the visitors to leave The Regent. Amid much talk and laughter, they all began to drift out of the house and toward the waiting carriages that would take them to The Regent’s private train spur. In the confusion, Anna managed to slip unnoticed up the stairs and to the welcome privacy of her room.
Once inside, with the door closed behind her, she began to tremble and jerk uncontrollably. Tears stung her eyes and she felt cold to the bone, as if she were getting a bad case of chills. On weak, rubbery legs she crossed to the bed, stood there for a long moment staring down at the gleaming silver concho lying on the table, recalling how she had twisted it from Brit’s trousers in a fit of passion.
She could no longer hold back. The tears began to spill down her cheeks. Weeping, her shoulders shaking, Anna sagged to her knees beside the bed, pressed her face into the mattress to muffle her sobs, and cried her heart out.
She wept and wept until her eyes were red and swollen and her head ached with a relentless, pounding pain. She sobbed and shook and choked. She coughed and gasped and could not stop weeping. She cried for a solid hour, until she had no strength or tears left.
Red-faced, exhausted, Anna raised her aching head from the mattress. It was the first time she had cried in fifteen years. She vowed that it would be another fifteen years before she cried again.
The sparkle gone from her eyes, the joy gone from her heart, Anna rose weakly to her feet, a wiser woman. She had, she realized, been a fool to believe that Brit Caruth could love her.
She sat wearily down on the edge of the bed and shook her aching head. How foolish and gullible she had been. How unforgivably stupid to have willingly gone with him to the secluded stables. How naive of her to believe that if a man made love to a woman the way Brit had made love to her, he surely loved her. At least a little.
Brit didn’t love her, had never loved her, would never love her. And now, after having had her, he no longer even wanted her.
Her hurt and humiliation slowly giving way to anger and resentment, Anna silently promised the hard-hearted Brit Caruth that he would be sorry for his callous use of her.
He would pay.
He would pay with the only thing that meant something to him.
The Regent.
She would, she pledged, wage an immediate campaign to convince LaDextra to leave the ranch to her, the true and rightful heir. She could do it. She would do it.
Then the vast Sunland spread would one day belong solely to her, and when it did, she would promptly banish Britton Caruth from the premises.
At twilight that evening a tired LaDextra and Will Davis sat alone on the front veranda after dinner. The two old friends had also dined alone. Anna, they were told by her personal maid, was nursing a bad headache and had requested a tray sent up to her room. As for Brit, he had left the house around noon and hadn’t been seen since. Rocking slowly back and forth, her arthritic hands clutching the chair’s wooden arms, LaDextra mused, “Mighty quiet with everyone gone.”
“Mmm. Peaceful,” said Will. “Nice and peaceful.”
“Yes. Yes it is,” LaDextra agreed. “I’m kind of glad it’s all over.”
“Amen.”
“It was one heck of a blowout though, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed it was.”
Smiling, recalling the merriment LaDextra said, “I suspect Anna’s headache is from drinking too much champagne last night.”
Will nodded, smiled. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Bless her heart she’d never tasted champagne before and I think she had two or three glasses.”
“I know,” Will said. “She got a little tipsy, but no harm done, as far as I can see.”
“No, not really. She’s a responsible young woman, wouldn’t do anything foolish.”
“Never.”
They fell silent for a while, enjoying the gathering summer dusk, watching the fireflies dart about on the front lawn, hearing the crickets start their rhythmic croaking chorus.
“I swear that Brit,” LaDextra was the one who broke the silence. “I guess he never runs down.”
“Doesn’t seem to.”
“I’d wager that right this minute that restless scamp is either at Beverly Harris’s house or in town playing poker at one of the saloons.” LaDextra laughed, adding, “Everybody else might be tired from the celebration, but not Brit. He’ll likely stay out tonight until the wee hours. No telling when he got in last night. Or more likely, this morning.”
Will Davis nodded, then yawned. “Then he’s a better man than I. I’m exhausted. How about you?”
The smile left LaDextra’s wrinkled face. “Tired, Will. Dead tired.”
“I thought as much. It’s getting dark. Let’s get on inside and call it an evening.”
“A capital idea.”
LaDextra, starting to rise from her rocking chair, faltered badly, almost fell. She sat heavily back down in the chair and all the blood drained from her wrinkled face. A worried Will, who knew her better than anyone, realized that something was very wrong. This was more than just exhaustion or weakness. It suddenly dawned on him that LaDextra Regent was ill. Seriously ill. That’s why Dr. McCelland had been at The Regent so often of late.
Hovering worriedly over her, Will said, “My God, LaDextra, what it is? Are you…?”
LaDextra shook her head and admitted to her old friend, “I haven’t long, Will, but you must not tell anyone. I don’t want the children to know just yet.”
His face a study in distress, Will helped the feeble woman up and into the house. “I’ll get Dr. McCelland out here right away and—”
“No use, there’s nothing he can do,” said LaDextra. “It’s my heart.”
“But surely—”
“No, Will. It’s too late. My days are numbered.”
Will exhaled heavily and asked, “How long, my dear?”
The ailing Regent matriarch smiled wistfully and said, “When the summer dies, so will I.”
Twenty
His hat brim pulled low over his dark, squinted eyes, a troubled Brit Caruth crouched on his heels in a distant lowland pasture of The Regent. He was alone on this blistering July morning.
Brit reached down and scooped up a handful of dry, crumbling soil, then let it slowly sift through his gloved fingers. He shook his head, exhaled heavily and rose slowly to his feet.
Hands resting lightly on his hips, he stood in the desert wasteland with the west Texas wind and dust blowing into his face and pressing his shirt against his chest. The useless sea of sand had, until this summer, been a verdant valley pasture carpeted with gamma grass and stocked with pure-blooded Polangus and Hereford stock.
Now the huge pasture was silent empty.
The cattle that had once grazed contentedly here had been shipped to market at a loss or moved to higher pastures where patches of scrub grass still grew and shallow water holes still offered some degree of relief from constant thirst. Some of the cattle had perished. Hundreds, maybe thousands more would die if it didn’t rain soon.
Water was a bigger problem than grass.
The ground water here was too deep for wind-mills, and the closest unoccupied water hole was the Hueco Tanks, midway between the Guadalupes and the Rio Grande. The ranch was solely dependent on adequate rainfall. Without it the land, the cattle, the people could not survive.
This drought had been a long one.
It was now late July and no rain had fallen in months. Not a drop since early spring. Brit couldn’t recall so much as a sprinkle since just before the April roundup. God, if he’d known then what he knew now, he would have s
ent fifteen or twenty thousand more head to market.
This was not the first time the area had suffered from a lack of rain. Brit could remember a particularly long drought that had stretched all across southwest Texas, but that was before The Regent was stocked with blooded cattle. Back then, when he was young and just learning to be a cowboy, scrubby longhorns had dominated the Texas cattle country. They had filled the many pastures of The Regent the clacking of their horns a constant sound on the open range.
They were a breed apart, those ugly, gangly creatures. Tough, strong-legged, the longhorns could survive almost anything. They could be driven ten to twelve miles a day for a hundred unremitting days or more through heat and cold, drought or deluge, across mountains or plains, or rivers that weren’t bridged.
Too bad these pampered Angus and Herefords weren’t a little more like those rugged Texas longhorns.
Brit tipped his head back and looked up.
Not a cloud in the sky.
No hope of rain.
He sighed, reached into his shirt pocket and took out a long, thin cigar. He stuck the cheroot between his lips and lit it, cupping his hands around the tiny match flame. He shook out the match, inhaled deeply of the cigar smoke and gazed wistfully across the endless barren acres of the land he loved, to El Capitán’s towering peak standing sentinel in brilliant morning sunshine.
From where Brit stood he could pick out the cow trails up Guadalupe Peak and Pine Canyon that were cut—he had helped cut them—into the mountains to allow the cowmen on horseback to reach the stock in the high country.
If he had ridden up those mountain trails once, he had done it a thousand times.
He had, he reminisced, done it all on this immense Texas spread. He had spent his entire adult life riding line, bogging, haying, rounding up cattle, plowing fireguards, feeding cattle, freighting supplies. You name it, he’d done it. And, hopefully, he would continue to do all those things until he was too old and too tired to mount a horse.