“I don’t like that saloon of his, and that’s a fact. I don’t reckon I’d spit on the place if it took fire. But I’ve got nothing agin Trey. Fact is, I respect him a lot, for the way he looks after that little girl in there, if nothin’ else,” June-bug answered, with a nod toward Christabel’s closet-sized room. “That says a lot about a man, to my way of thinkin’, his bein’ willin’ to take responsibility for his child. A lot of them don’t—like Mike Houghton, for instance. Trey could probably have found another relative to take Emma in, but he didn’t. When she needed him, he made a place for her.”
Rachel couldn’t refute any of that, but then, Trey’s morals weren’t the cause of her dilemma in the first place. Had he been a different man than the one she’d glimpsed behind that incorrigibly stubborn exterior, she would never have fallen in love with him. No, it was more than the smaller differences that had worried her all along—the saloon and the gambling, her desire to keep teaching. He was going to tell her something about himself, she sensed that, something she didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know. She’d seen it in his eyes, out there in the road.
Not unexpectedly, Trey came to call that night and solemnly asked Rachel to go out for a walk with him. Although his expression was grim, he was slicked up like a man headed for his own hanging, and he carried a bunch of wildflowers, obviously just gathered, in one hand.
She accepted the blossoms with a certain poignant sorrow and put them in water, after quietly accepting his invitation. She borrowed a shawl from June-bug before leaving the station, for the breeze was crisp, despite the fact that summer would be soon be upon them.
“You must know that I care about you,” Trey said, when they were beside the springs that gave the place its name, the water of the flowing pool musical and dappled with starlight. “That’s why I’ve got to tell you something I’ve never told anybody except for one judge, down in Colorado.”
Rachel waited, barely able to breathe, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle.
He met her eyes. “My wife—Emma’s mother—was killed when a couple of outlaws robbed a store in Great Falls,” he said. She saw the memory of that day in his face, and grieved with him and for him, but she did not speak.
He thrust out a sigh. “I shot them, Rachel,” he said. “One between the eyes, one through the heart.”
Rachel swallowed. “In cold blood?” she whispered. She had no real sympathy for the dead outlaws; they were killers, after all, and thieves. But neither did she believe in taking the law into one’s own hands.
“I didn’t ambush them, if that’s what you mean. Legally, I suppose, it was a fair fight. But yes, my blood was cold when I did it.”
“Are you wanted?”
He considered the question. “No,” he said. “I turned myself in to a marshal, down Colorado way, in a fit of good conscience. He refused to press charges and that was the end of it, as far as the law was concerned.”
She just stood there, at a loss for what to say. Right or wrong, she loved him, and it wasn’t her place to sit in judgment of what he’d done. She might, in fact, have done the same thing, in his place. “Then it’s over,” she said softly.
He took a step toward her, then stopped, plainly uncertain. “You’ve got to understand, Rachel,” he said. “I’m not sorry for what I did. I’d do it again.”
She bit her lower lip. “Fair enough,” she said.
There was a long silence. Then he favored her with a tentative, lopsided grin. “If that’s the way of it, Miss English, I’m through biding my time. I want to know what I have to do to make you my wife.”
Rachel stared at him, her heart soaring. Although she’d been certain of her own feelings, she had, of course, not been entirely sure of his. “You want to marry me?”
Trey cleared his throat. He was holding his hat in both hands, turning it slowly between his fingers. “Yes,” he said, after a long time. “I love you, Rachel. I wouldn’t have chosen to, but I do.”
Rachel wanted to fling her arms around his neck in pure jubilation, but she held herself back. There were too many things still unsettled. “I can’t give up teaching,” she said, after a very long time. “I won’t.”
Trey threw her own words back at her. “Fair enough,” he said, with surprising readiness. “I don’t mean to close down the saloon, so I guess we’re even.”
Rachel drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “You must know it isn’t a proper place to raise Emma or any other children who might come along,” she said, in a nervous rush of words.
“I’ll build you a house, if that’s what you want. Hell, I’ll sell my homestead to Landry Kildare and take out a mortgage at the bank over in Choteau. Send for one of those mail-order places like Miss June-bug’s always talking about, with the bathtubs and the hot water and all.”
Rachel laid a hand to her heart. “You’d do that?”
“I told you,” Trey said gravely. “I love you. Besides that, Teacher, if I can’t bed you pretty damn soon, I’m going to have to start spending half my time sitting in the horse trough.”
She laughed at the image, though his declaration had brought tears to her eyes. “There was someone else,” she reminded him. “His name was Langdon and we were in love … we thought … we—”
He laid a finger to her lips. “That’s past. All it means is that our wedding night will be a bit easier for you. Besides, Rachel, I’m not exactly pure myself, you know. There was Emma’s mother, for one.”
She swallowed. “I’ll marry you, then, Trey Hargreaves. I’ll raise your daughter as my own, and I’ll bear your children, as many as you give me. I’ll even live above that dratted saloon of yours—but only until our house is finished.”
He pulled her close, grinning, and arranged her head for his impending kiss, the kiss that would seal their bargain. “Deal,” he said, and brought his mouth down on hers.
The wedding was held a month later, by which time Trey had put in the order for a small house, which would be sent west from Chicago by rail and then freight wagon, to be erected on a plot of land well down the road from the Brimstone. School would start in just two weeks, and so far, no one had objected to having a married teacher in the schoolhouse, so classes were to begin on schedule.
Folks came from all over to attend the ceremony, everyone from Granny Johnson to the Wainwright family. Evangeline had agreed to stand up for Rachel; Jacob would perform the service itself, of course, and June-bug was to sing.
Because it was a beautiful day, full summer now, the marriage party assembled in the grassy sideyard of the station, where tables had been set out and ribbons hung from the trees. Rachel wore June-bug’s wedding dress, a lovely confection of ivory satin, dripping with lace, while Trey, looking nervous as an unshod horse on rocky ground, donned his dark suit.
Christabel and Emma had erected a bower of sorts, using wildflowers and foliage gathered in their wanderings, under which Jacob would stand, facing the bride and groom.
June-bug’s song had all the women in tears right off, Rachel included. Trey tugged at his shirt collar with one finger, obviously wishing the whole thing were over and done with. It would be a long time before he got his wish, though, because after the ceremony there was a community meal, everything from roast beef to wedding cake, and after that was another dance. While Rachel was equally anxious that they be alone together, it was after all her wedding day, the only one she ever intended to have, and she meant to savor every moment, be fully present for every joy. The pleasures of the night to come would take care of themselves.
The exchange of vows was relatively short, and within a few minutes, Jacob had pronounced Trey and Rachel to be man and wife. Trey turned to Rachel, wrapped both arms around her, and lifted her clear off her feet for his kiss. Hurrahs went up all around.
The meal followed—Rachel, now Mrs. Hargreaves, nibbled at a few things, but she had no real appetite. Trey, on the other hand, seemed ravenous, and consumed a plateful of fried chicken, sliced beef, de
viled eggs, potato salad, and pickles. After that, he had cake, and while the women presented Rachel with intricately stitched quilt blocks cut from flour sacks and other yard goods, Trey hung his jacket on a tree limb, pushed up his sleeves, and proceeded to beat every man present at a game of horseshoes.
Rachel tried not to watch her new husband, but her gaze kept straying off in search of him, and she supposed her longing showed as plainly as her love. Although she was hardly experienced, she was no shrinking maiden either, and she anticipated the consummation of their marriage as much as Trey did.
The afternoon seemed endless, the hot, slow hours rolling by like whole days, but at last the evening came, and there was more food, and paper lanterns suspended among the ribbons, from the tree branches, were lit. Old Mr. Prudham produced his fiddle again, and the dancing began.
The first dance was, of course, a waltz, and Rachel and Trey moved together, into each other’s arms, slowly whirling round and round beneath a summer moon. The grass smelled sweetly and Rachel’s heart was full.
“You are very beautiful, Teacher,” Trey said softly, looking down into her eyes. They were dancing alone, for this was the wedding waltz, reserved for the bride and groom. “I can’t wait to have you to myself.”
A sweet shiver went through Rachel, and she batted her eyelashes, pretending to be coy. “Why, Mr. Hargreaves, are you making improper advances?”
Oh, yes, Mrs. Hargreaves,” he answered. “Most improper.” He kissed her lightly, quickly on the mouth. “I mean to have you carrying on something awful, and right soon now.”
Rachel trembled; he felt it and smiled again.
“You have a lot of confidence in your abilities as a lover,” she teased.
“All of it justified,” Trey boasted shamelessly, “as you shall soon learn. Though not soon enough, I’m afraid, to suit your long-suffering husband.”
She laughed. “Poor darling,” she said, and stroked his smoothly shaven cheek with the back of one hand, “how will I comfort you?”
He made a growling sound and spun her around once, off her feet, before resuming the waltz. The wedding guests, hearing nothing but probably suspecting a great deal, laughed and applauded.
In time, as all things do, the wedding dance ended. Those visitors who weren’t passing the night at the station, as the Wainwrights were, offered their last congratulations of the day and departed in wagons and buggies, on horseback and even on foot. Emma, plainly pleased to have Rachel for a stepmother as well as a teacher, was to board with the McCaffreys for a while, so the newlyweds would have the rooms over the saloon to themselves.
They walked through the sultry darkness together, Trey and Rachel, her hand clasped firmly in his. When they reached the bottom of the rear stairs, he suddenly swept her up into his arms and carried her. Reaching the door, he pushed it open with one foot, and then they were inside.
Rachel, who had been so cavalier before, was suddenly nervous. Teasing Trey at the party had been one thing, being alone with him in a darkened room, where they would soon make love for the first time, was quite another. Her heart began to race with a strange combination of anticipation and pure terror.
Trey kissed her, so deeply and so thoroughly that she stumbled when he set her on her feet and might have fallen if she hadn’t reached out and grasped hold of something that turned out to be a bedpost, when he struck a match to a lamp wick and she could see her surroundings.
She stared at the magnificent carved bed in amazement. She hadn’t noticed it when she had last visited the Hargreaves home, that day she’d taken tea and cookies with Emma and Trey, but then, she hadn’t been out of the general living area.
Trey apparently read her mind. Shedding his coat, he nodded toward the lovely piece of furniture. “Pretty grand, isn’t it?” he said, with a flashing grin. “I had it sent over from Choteau, and if you don’t think I had a devil of a time keeping you from hearing about it, you’d best think again.”
Rachel felt the mattress with a tentative push of one hand and found it firm but very inviting. For a major piece of furniture to arrive at Springwater without her seeing or getting word of it was indeed a remarkable thing. The arrival of the stagecoach was an event, let alone that of a freight wagon. “It’s … lovely.”
Trey unfastened his collar and tossed it aside. “Not so lovely as you are,” he said, and his voice sounded husky, masculine—hungry. He approached Rachel and, standing before her, slipped his fingers into her hair and let it down, disregarding the many pins that tinkled to the floor. He kissed her again, and the contact left her drunk with wanting, actually swaying on her feet. On some remote level of her mind, she was wondering if she really had made love with Langdon, or only imagined that she had, for this was something altogether different.
When the kiss was over, he ran his mouth lightly along the edge of Rachel’s jaw, igniting a thousand achy little fires under her flesh. “Do you know when I fell in love with your he asked, in a gruff whisper.
“W-When?” Rachel managed. She was fairly crackling with sensation by then, and hardly able to keep from flinging herself at Trey like a wanton.
“When you poked your head out of that stage window, with that stupid feather on your hat bobbing in the wind, and inquired if I was an outlaw.”
Rachel might have laughed, if she hadn’t been in a state of sweet agony. “I fell in love with you,” she said, “when you pulled me out of the coach and up onto your horse.”
He nibbled at her mouth again, fairly driving her wild. “What took us so long to get from then to now?” he asked, unbuttoning the bodice of her borrowed dress, smoothing away the lovely old fabric, revealing her camisole and petticoat. He put his palms over her breasts, holding them gently but at the same time claiming them, and Rachel moaned as her nipples pressed themselves against him.
“Don’t make me wait,” she pleaded.
He lowered his suspenders, unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, and tossed it aside, all with maddening slowness. “I won’t,” he said, “not the first time, anyway. I don’t have that kind of patience.”
Rachel laid her hands to his chest, fingers splayed, and gloried in the feel of his warm, muscular flesh, the mat of dark hair, the hardening of his nipples. While they were kissing, he unlaced her camisole, baring her breasts, and fondled them until Rachel was half frantic to be taken.
Trey finished undressing her, then undressed himself, and eased her backward, onto the new bed, shipped all the way from Choteau. Onto the bed where their children would be conceived and born, where they themselves would die, one and then the other, when they were very, very old.
He stretched out beside her, took long, leisurely suckle at her breasts, and then moved over her, keeping most of his weight suspended on his forearms and elbows. She could see him plainly in the lamplight, though it was dim, see the love and the passion in his eyes, and the question.
She nodded, and he parted her legs gently, with a motion of one knee. She felt him at the entrance to her body, hard and impossibly large, and for a moment her eyes widened and she was afraid.
He paused, waited.
Rachel nodded again, and he was inside her, in a single deep, smooth thrust; she felt herself expand to accommodate him, felt the breath flee her lungs as she was swept up on a wave of desire so high, so hot, so intense that her reason was left behind, spinning in a tidepool.
She cried his name, and scraped his back with her fingernails, and he moved faster, and deeper, ever deeper, until they were both on fire. Then, in a long, undulating flash, the world ended in a cataclysm of fire and light and ferocious pleasure that had them both shouting in release.
When it was over, and their bodies were still at last, and spent, Trey fell beside Rachel, gasping and holding her tightly against his chest. They were both damp with exertion, and she could feel his heart pounding beneath her cheek.
“If I’d known just how good that was going to be,” he said, when he found his breath, “I believe I would have b
een scared.”
Rachel laughed, though her eyes were brimming with tears—tears of homecoming, of joy, of restored hope. “I thought I was dying,” she said, in all honesty. “I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear or think—all I could do was feel.”
He rolled onto his side and kissed her, very lightly, but with the promise of much more. “Give me a few minutes,” he said, “and I’ll take you back up there, to the other side of the stars.”
She stretched, wondering when her melted limbs would be solid again. “Maybe we’d better wait a little while,” she suggested, “just until all my pulses settle down.”
He bent his head, took her nipple in his mouth and drew it into a primal dance with the tip of his tongue, causing her to moan and arch her back slightly. “Not a chance,” he said, after long moments of brazen enjoyment. “Tonight, you’re the student, and I’m the teacher, and the lessons have only begun.”
Rachel whimpered. She felt as though she’d just been hurled to the top of a mountain and then sent careening down again, and she was still wobbly at the knees. Now he was telling her that there were still more sweeping pleasures ahead. “Suppose I can’t bear it?” she fretted.
He found the hollow of her throat and nibbled there. Oh, you can bear it, all right,” he promised, and proceeded to prove it. And prove it. And prove it again. By the time they finally slept, well toward morning, Rachel was exhausted, but she dreamed. She dreamed of silver-eyed babies and a mail-order house with a white picket fence out front and flowers growing in the yard. She dreamed of Emma, grown and beautiful, wearing a wedding dress of her own, and of a busy, thriving town, and a brick schoolhouse, and a white church with a belltower.
In Trey’s arms, in his bed, it was so easy to dream.
*
Rachel was nervous the day school started; her pupils watched her with mischievous eyes and whispered behind their hands when they thought she wasn’t looking. She couldn’t imagine what they were discussing, and wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but order had to be restored.
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