Fireblossom

by Wright, Cynthia

  "In my spare time," he admitted laconically.

  "And Gramma Susan knew all along what was afoot over here, didn't she?"

  "Mmm... yes." As his mouth brushed the nape of her neck, he murmured, "Christ, but you smell magical. Oh, Maddie..."

  It came to her that his fingers had been unfastening the tiny buttons that marched down the back of her gown, opening them with such practiced skill that she hadn't even felt what was happening until the fabric separated and the heel of his palm touched the softness of her upper back.

  "This bed is the most beautiful present that anyone has ever given me," she said solemnly. "I just want to say that to you."

  "Well, I have a confession to make." He drew the tops of her sleeves down and kissed each of her creamy shoulders in turn.

  "A confession?" Little shivers of pleasure ran over her nerves.

  "About the bed. As a present." Clasping her hips with strong hands, Fox drew her back against him so that she could feel his hardness even through their clothes. "My motives were not entirely sentimental. In truth, I may have even been thinking a little bit about myself when I built it."

  She melted into him, cheeks flushed while a telltale tingling warmth blossomed under her skirts. "What were you thinking?" Her voice sounded giddy to her own ears.

  "Shall I show you instead, Mrs. Matthews?"

  "Please..."

  The soaring within her reminded Maddie of the day she had stood naked under the waterfall, in broad daylight, and of the passion she had allowed to flourish when she and Fox made love outdoors, aglow in the prairie sunset. It was as if this magnificent being had lived always within her, and Fox had turned the key that liberated her. Thrilled with anticipation, Maddie smiled into his blue eyes as he undressed her slowly, slowly. Off came her muslin petticoat, and then her corset, unlaced by Fox in a way that tantalized her to the point of trembling. At last her breasts were bared, the nipples tightening in the air; but Fox chose to touch them only with his eyes.

  Maddie had forgotten how weak she could become from craving him, how incredibly wanton he made her feel. He knelt before her, rolled her stockings down her legs and drew off her slippers, and she reached out to touch the ruffled hair on his head.

  When he rose, Maddie stood before him wearing only her diamond wedding ring. "You are far too beautiful for words," he whispered. It made him smile and feel a rush of love to see how confident she was, her slim shoulders and back straight and her chin raised as she basked in the sunbeams and her husband's approving gaze. Her coppery-gold mane of hair spilled to her hips, more stunning than any piece of jewelry or expensive gown. It seemed ages since he'd taken in the sight of her shapely, milk-white limbs with their dusting of freckles, her full pink-crested breasts, her narrow waist, and dainty wedge of auburn curls that marked the apex of her thighs. His bride was so much more than a beautiful, desirable woman; her body was more perfect than any other because he loved her so.

  "I like this," she said, with an irresistible smile.

  "Oh?" How lucky he'd been to find this bright, enchanting woman.

  Maddie stretched up her arms and rose on tiptoe. "This—this feeling that I've just found out I'm a butterfly, when all along I assumed I must be a wholly different species!" She bent her naked form into a graceful arabesque, eyes sparkling. "I wish I could explain—"

  "You don't have to. I understand."

  "Yes, I suppose you do." Her expression softened and she began to unbutton his starched white shirt. "You led me into this... metamorphosis." Her hands were slim and pale against the muscled, nut-brown planes of Fox's chest. She adored the sensation of his chest hair, crisp and soft at once, when she splayed her fingers and moved them up toward his shoulders.

  Deftly Fox stripped off his own clothes and stood, bronzed and powerful, in the hazy shaft of sunlight. He lifted Maddie off the ground and covered her mouth with his own, aware in the midst of that endless, burning kiss of het exquisite fragility, of the swell of her breasts against his hard chest, the fineness of her bones when his hands caressed her. She smelled deliciously of herself; it was a scent he never could pinpoint. Wildflowers, vanilla, lavender... no, just Maddie.

  His hands cupped her curved buttocks and she arched against him and brought her legs up, wrapping them around his waist. Both of them knew a sudden shock when her parted thighs afforded abrupt proof of her arousal. She was pink and dewy, like a rose opening at dawn—and it happened that she came flush against Fox's fully erect, throbbing manhood.

  Their lips parted, their eyes met, widening, and then they shared a moment of delighted laughter. Fox murmured with exaggerated devilment, "Time for bed, my dear Mrs. Matthews. Don't be frightened..."

  "My wifely duties," she whispered shyly, nodding. "I know that I must—"

  "Indeed!"

  Their bantering was forgotten as he carried her the few steps to their marriage bed and settled her onto the sumptuous feather tick.

  "It's like a cloud," she said in tones of wonderment.

  "A welcoming bed is an important ingredient in a happy marriage," Fox told her.

  "Who told you that?"

  "Your grandmother. No more talking now." He gazed down at her, starving yet wanting to make each blissful taste memorable for both of them. He lifted Maddie's foot and kissed her the elegant curves of her leg. Then, as his mouth burned a similar path over the satiny flesh of her other leg, Maddie began to make little moaning sounds that betrayed her excitement.

  Through her lashes, she watched as Fox kissed her inner thighs, and she ached, yearning for more. Then, like a dream, he was over her on the bed and their mouths fused, she was able to embrace him, touch him, soak up the texture of his warm, rugged body. They rolled together, thrashing, hungry, giving and taking. Then Maddie lay on Fox's chest and straddled him, her bottom up, rubbing against him insistently. With one hand he reached around while they kissed and stroked her bottom, then ventured farther between her legs. She flinched, then moved on his fingers and his shaft, rising up to brace herself on her hands so that he could kiss, knead, and suckle her breasts. He adored the sight of her above him, head thrown back in surprise and urgency as her climax built.

  "Oh." Her eyes opened, then found his face. "Oh!" The contractions seemed to shake her entire body, and her nipples puckered in response. As she rode out the storm, Fox found his way into her, filling her to the hilt.

  "This is... shameless," she managed to gasp at last, then lay down on him and forced a kiss on him.

  Fox was curious to see what she'd do in this position of control, and she reveled in it, moving slowly, tantalizingly, over him. The pleasure was excruciating, and it came to Fox what joy lay ahead for them as they explored the possibilities of physical love.

  "Sweet Madeleine, I love you," he murmured, then turned her into the snowy feather pillows without breaking the connection between their bodies.

  "I love you," Maddie cried, and found that she was weeping again as she met her husband's rhythmic thrusts.

  He was filled with tenderness for her, as if they truly were part of each other, and bent his head to kiss away her sweet-salty tears. When his own climax came, it seemed to be torn from the deepest part of his soul, forging yet another bond between them.

  Maddie cradled him against her, smoothed back his hair, glimpsed the telltale brilliance of his blue eyes. "Oh, Fox, we're very, very lucky, aren't we."

  He could only nod.

  * * *

  Maddie awoke in the middle of the night and remembered again where she was and why. She liked waking and remembering and then feeling the warm tide of joy that rushed over her. This was their bed, in their home, and tonight was only the beginning of decades of happiness beyond price.

  It was a mild night in the Hills. The quilt Gramma Susan had given them lay folded neatly over a chair back. In the moonlight that spilled through the window, the fresh white sheets looked luminous, and Fox's body very dark in contrast. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Maddie saw the di
shes, with the remains of her grandmother's meal on them, cluttering yet another chair Fox had dragged next to the bed. The chairs had been pushed together to form a makeshift table so that the couple could lounge in bed throughout the evening.

  And they had. They'd talked, shared more stories of their childhoods, relived their separate memories of the early weeks in their own relationship, and made plans for their home. They'd eaten, sitting up naked against the headboard and pillows, trading bites of berries or corn bread with honey or succulent roast beef or acorn squash or peach cobbler. And, every so often, they'd turned to each other with renewed hunger and rapture. Fox had brushed Maddie's hair as the sun set, brushing and caressing until she'd begun to doze off. She'd made him lie full-length on top of the sheets and given him a head-to-toe massage by the flickering light of an oil lamp. It was sheer pleasure for her to examine each detail of the body she adored so. And, to her further delight, she'd discovered that her big, strong husband was ticklish!

  After midnight she'd come slowly awake to find that he was touching her intimately with his mouth, and the realization was thrilling beyond reason. Each time they made love seemed new and special and exciting in its own right.

  When Maddie opened her eyes this time, however, she sensed that dawn was approaching... perhaps in an hour or two. Fox was awake again, but his mind had left their marriage bed. Lying on his back, he was staring at the tester frame he'd built. His hands were clasped behind his head and every so often a muscle moved in his cheek.

  "Fox?" Maddie spoke his name in a tiny voice. All night they'd snuggled or at least held hands, but now she sensed that he'd forgotten her. "Is—is something wrong?"

  He didn't look over. "I'm worrying about a lot of things I can't control," he replied, with cool irony. "It's a bad habit men have—worrying that the worst will happen and there's nothing to prevent it."

  "I don't understand. What are you talking about?" Maddie propped herself on an elbow and tried to read his face in the shadows. Its chiseled lines only magnified her anxiety.

  Fox sighed. "Well, if you care to ponder our current circumstances, you'll realize that nothing has changed since I told you at Bear Butte that I'd be doomed if I told the truth about my identity and my past here in Deadwood. Ma got here and spread my real name all over, though, so I thought what the hell and married you, too... for good measure." He continued to stare upward. "Fact is, though, I may have dragged you into this mess with me, if the worst happens. It could spell the end of this little dream world we've begun making here."

  A strange sense of dread crept outward from Maddie's heart. "Fox, we can't think of all these things! I mean, we have other problems, real problems, but there's no use lying awake on our wedding night fretting about them—"

  "Men don't fret, exactly," he interjected, with a trace of amusement.

  "For example, what am I going to do about Sun Smile? Don't you think that I feel responsible for her, since we brought her back here and she's my half-sister? Don't you think I feel guilty for the way I've behaved toward her? I know that there must be something I could do to help draw her out and make her feel loved. Don't you think—"

  "Ye gods!" Fox exclaimed, laughing. "Don't ask me if I think again, because obviously you've been doing enough thinking for both of us! It's clear that I'll have to give up my predawn brooding sessions now that we're married. How can I lie awake and brood if my wife won't be quiet?"

  The cloud had lifted. They were both laughing now, huddling together under the sheet and kissing passionately. Intoxicated with joy and relief, Maddie tried to tickle the secret places she'd discovered earlier, and Fox caught her wrists and pinned her beneath him on the bed.

  "Never in my entire life has any female had the effrontery to tickle me!" he declared in a deep, commanding voice.

  "Is that supposed to deter me?" Maddie countered, nuzzling his chest.

  "I thought I ought to give it a try."

  "Sorry."

  Laughing, Fox released her and they began to kiss and caress each other with renewed desire.

  Whatever the future brought to them, they could weather as long as they were together.... Maddie would have voiced the sentiment aloud, but her mouth was busy elsewhere. Besides, she figured Fox probably knew that as well as she did....

  Chapter 26

  August 21, 1876

  On Monday morning, Maddie and Gramma Susan went down to Main Street with Fox, who had a business meeting. He escorted the ladies into Bullock and Star's store, only to find that they were about to close up.

  "Sorry, folks," said Sol Star. "We're goin' to the funeral."

  Fox held his wife's arm. They glanced at each other, somehow sensing simultaneously that the clouds were rolling in again. "Funeral?"

  "Oh, that's right; your family's been busy with a wedding! Congratulations, uh..." There was still a certain amount of confusion about Fox's surname, and Star was in no hurry to clear it up. "Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Preacher Smith's been killed."

  Susan O'Hara gasped aloud, and Fox put his other arm around her for support. Maddie had gone stark white.

  "Reverend Smith officiated at our wedding," she said weakly. "How could—I mean, less than two days ago he was eating bride cake in my father's parlor!"

  In unison Star and Bullock intoned, "Indians."

  "I hope you'll elaborate," said Fox.

  Seth Bullock suggested that his partner go on ahead to the funeral, which was to be held at Preacher Smith's house. When the door had closed behind Sol Star, Bullock said, "I have just been composing a letter to a Reverend Chadwick in Louisville, Kentucky, informing him of the details of his friend's death. I discovered his name and address among Preacher Smith's things. It's a sad business."

  "What did happen?" Fox pressed.

  "Preacher Smith was attacked by a band of hostile Indians while returning from Crook City to Deadwood yesterday afternoon. He was shot through the heart, and we believe that death was instantaneous. Certainly there can be no doubt that he is with his Master now, in a far better world than this." Bullock removed his bowler and gazed sadly at the floor for a moment. "I'll be conducting the service at Reverend Smith's grave, and I plan to read part of a poem that he wrote. Have you heard it?"

  "I didn't know that he was a poet," Maddie said. "I should love to hear the verses."

  Seth Bullock took a piece of paper from his suit pocket, unfolded it, and read:

  This evening is the first of June,

  And snow is falling fast.

  The tall pines sigh, howl, and moan,

  Responsive to the blast.

  The shades of night are gathered 'round;

  The fire is burning low,

  I sit and watch the dying coals,

  And think of long ago.

  Silence fell over the room, then Susan O'Hara spoke. "That was really very lovely."

  Bullock nodded and put the paper back in his pocket. "Preacher Smith must've been among the first to come to Deadwood, if he was writing about a summer blizzard like that. He was a true man of God, living out here without any comforts, risking his life every day to bring some peace to the souls of others. I reckon he was a martyr."

  Fox was thinking about Wild Bill. It was beginning to seem risky just living in Deadwood. "I wonder why Indians would kill Preacher Smith," he mused. "Did someone see them? Is there proof?"

  "Well, sir, those that found the body told me it was Indians, so I guess there must've been some sign." He put his hat on again and started toward the door. "You're welcome to stay, ladies, and look through the sample books until I get back. Shouldn't take long." With one hand on the knob, he glanced at Fox. "Can't understand why you'd bring that squaw to a town like Deadwood. People around these parts will always look for someone to go after when they think they have a score to settle. I sure wouldn't feel safe in Deadwood these days if I was an Indian." Bullock's bushy dark brows rose as he added, "Nothing personal, of course. Just a word to the wise. I like you folk
s."

  When they were alone, Maddie and Gramma Susan took chairs at the fabric table and began to leaf through Bullock's sample books, murmuring words of shock and sadness. Fox listened to them, his own heart tight with pain for the loss of one more good man. Bullock's "word to the wise" had started him off on a different trail of thought.

  "Do you mind if I leave you two here for a while?" he asked. When Maddie encouraged him to pursue his own business so they could return home soon, he kissed her cheek, and Susan's.

  "Aren't we all lucky," Susan said absently.

  "Lucky just to be alive, if seems, in this town," Fox replied, and headed out onto Main Street.

  In some ways, Deadwood looked just as it had that day he'd first ridden into town on Watson, and in other ways it was very different. The sides of the gulch were still barren and muddy, littered with burned trees that resembled black toothpicks from afar. There were still miners everywhere one looked, including in between and under the buildings lining Main Street and Sherman Street. There were still fancy girls leaning off balconies in the badlands, gamblers and rowdies flowing in and out of saloons, merchants throwing garbage into the streets, and Chinese still bustling about their northern section of Deadwood.

  On the other hand, the narrow gulch was more crowded now than anyone could have imagined even a few short weeks ago. Fox thought back to the last walk he'd taken with Bill Hickok, when they'd remarked on the new establishments that were springing up like weeds. Jacob Goldberg had arrived from Montana while he and Maddie were away at Bear Butte, and now Goldberg ran the Big Horn Store. There were new restaurants and hotels Fox hadn't noticed before, not to mention more saloons and hurdy-gurdy houses than ever. Jack Langrishe and his wife had established their theater, albeit out of canvas, and were now performing plays with the help of two other actresses. The other day Mrs. Langrishe had told Annie Sunday that a new school was going to begin serving the children of Deadwood, run by a teacher called William Commode.