After Eden

by Joyce Brandon

  The thin cotton shift was too flimsy to withstand the quick, remorseless movement of his hands. Amazingly, she was naked in his arms. Her knees buckled. Still kissing her, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. When Andrea felt the softly yielding surface beneath her, she could not remember how she had gotten there.

  Their bodies pressed together with a fierceness that was pure instinct. A languid urgency of the blood—primitive and breathless—incapacitated her. His mouth devoured her, pulled streamers of pleasure from her loins and filled her body with a passion that somehow made her need match his. Was it her blood that pulsed and pounded to get out? Or his blood that tried to get in?

  His mouth burned a trail to her breast, and her blood tightened into a heated pool at her loins, throbbing painfully.

  Groaning, he came back to her mouth. They kissed for an eternity. Somehow he was naked, nudging her legs apart with his knee. His hand found her hand and led it to him. The shock of his smooth flesh—pulsing and heated against her fingers—caused her eyes to fly open.

  His tawny blond hair, backlighted by the sun coming in the window, was the color of Tía’s.

  Tía.

  Oh, God! She had promised Tía…

  “Oh, no!” she groaned, her hand jerking away from him. “No. We mustn’t!” Panting, she caught his hair with both hands and jerked.

  “Owww! Goddammit!” Cursing, Steve raised himself up on one elbow. What the hell was she trying to do? If this was a trick of some sort, she would be almost as sorry as Russ Sloan was going to be. They’d come too far to back off now.

  Instinctively Andrea clutched at the only lie that could save her. “Steve…” she panted, her breasts heaving with the effort it cost. “I’m…your…sister…”

  Blue eyes hard with desire, one hand still caressing her breast, Steve looked too dazed to comprehend.

  “Steve,” Andrea gasped. “Steve…I’m…Teresa!”

  His eyes registered both shock and recognition. She could feel his body stiffening, the lithe heat withdrawing. Stifling a moan, he rolled off her and turned over onto his stomach, eyes closed.

  “Steve…”

  Pressing the hard ache of his erection into the soft mattress, Steve groaned. The throb of his pain felt as if it shook the room.

  “Steve,” she whispered.

  “Go away,” he growled. “Before I change my mind.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling rejected and abandoned. More than anything in the world, she wanted to touch him, to stroke those long, flat muscles of his back, to feel again the heat and urgency. Her body was clamoring for his. The transition had been too abrupt, too painful.

  “Go!”

  There was no mistaking how he felt about it. Embarrassed, Andrea scurried off the bed.

  “I have to dress,” she protested. “I can’t leave like this…”

  “Dress!” he ordered.

  Riding clothes hastily in place, she came to stand beside the bed. He hadn’t moved or covered himself or looked at her.

  “Are you angry with me? You shouldn’t be, you know. You really didn’t give me a chance to tell you—”

  “Out!” he shouted.

  Like a thief caught red-handed, Andrea bolted for the door and stopped only when she was on the other side. Standing in the hall, heart hammering almost as wildly as it had been earlier when his mouth had devoured hers and his lean body had pressed fiercely against her, she wanted to go back in and explain. But even if she told him the truth, which was impossible because of her promise to Tía, it wouldn’t change anything. He would never forgive her.

  Remembering everything suddenly, she felt the welcome return of anger. He’d had no right to barge in there and try to make love to her. She wouldn’t ask for his forgiveness. What a ninny she had been!

  Andrea made a face at the door. She was suddenly glad Steve Burkhart was mad. He could just stay that way. But as she turned away from the door to go downstairs, a small voice inside her wondered what it would have been like if she hadn’t stopped him.

  Chapter Ten

  A mile and a half outside of town, Tía breathed her first easy breath since seeing the old man in the serape. Reining her horse, she turned in the saddle to look back at Tombstone Hills, treeless, brown, and dreary. It was hard to believe they were filled to overflowing with precious silver. But in the hotel lobby, men—dressed in expensive, gaudy suits, like exotic, overweight birds—talked of fortunes made and lost. According to them, ore samples assayed at from $15,000 to $50,000 a ton. All day and all night ore wagons rumbled through town to the smelters. Still faintly audible from this distance, the heavy sound of the stamp mills sounded like a giant heartbeat.

  Tombstone was different from sleepy little Tubac, but even Tombstone was not as different as Albany had been.

  Ignoring the look Judy flashed him, Johnny turned his horse and rode back to where Tía had halted the gentle, easy-gaited mare he had chosen for her.

  “You all right?” he asked, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead.

  “I just wanted one last look at the first boom town I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s not Tubac,” he agreed.

  Tía felt uncomfortable. He watched her in that intent way that made her feel strangely insecure. As if his dark eyes could see her heart beating much too fast, and he thought it was caused by him. He was probably conceited enough to think that…

  He had a way of tucking the corners of his smooth lips in that drew attention to his mouth, probably hoping to make a girl remember what it felt like when he kissed her. His lean cheeks were a rich terra-cotta color, the same color as on his hands.

  Tía suddenly remembered how Johnny’s warm hand had felt when he’d stopped her in front of the hotel. Heat flushed into those two spots on her cheeks.

  He looked at her as if waiting for a reply to a question. His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips. “How far is the ranch from here?” Tía asked, hoping to distract him.

  “’Bout thirty miles. You’ll be on Burkhart land in about five miles, but the casa grande is at the north end of the Sulphur Springs Valley, about three miles south of Fort Bowie.”

  Johnny pointed east at an imposing mountain range. “Those are the Chiricahuas. It’s about two miles this side of the mountains. Probably the best cattle country in the territory. That isn’t saying much, though. Bill bought it almost thirty years ago for a song. Heard he bought the whole valley for ten thousand dollars, from the widow of an army colonel who had bought it at auction after the army took it away from some Mexicans.”

  “Sounds like Steve and Judy have enough greenbacks to burn a wet donkey,” she said, awed by people who owned the house they lived in and the land it sat on. She and Andrea and Mama had always lived on other people’s land, in other people’s houses.

  “Yeah,” he said dryly. “But not from ranchin’. Old Bill bought half of the Lucky Cuss mine from Dick Gird and the Schieffelin brothers before they knew it was worth a fortune. Paid ten thousand dollars for half interest, the price of the equipment to mine the silver. They pull out that much a week now.”

  “Ten thousand a week! That’s amazing! What would anybody do with that much money?”

  Johnny grinned. Her eyes were as round as the bottoms of teacups. “If it was your money, what would you do first?”

  “First? Me?” Squinting into the sun, Tía shook her head. She couldn’t comprehend that much money. “If it was mine to actually spend, I’d buy a real house for my mama…a fancy, two-story house with land and trees and a well. We’ve never owned a house. Do your folks have a house?”

  His smile slowly faded. “No.”

  “Would you like to buy them one?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tía whispered. Impulsively she reached out and covered his hand with hers.

  Johnny knew he should tell her it had happened a long time ago, but he wanted her touch and her sympathy. Then maybe she’d stop trying to run away from h
im.

  Johnny’s hand felt wonderful under hers, but Judy might be watching. Tía cheek-reined her horse sideways. It stepped to the left in a small prancing movement that made it easy for her to let go.

  It was time to get the conversation onto safer ground. “Does Steve live at the ranch most of the time?”

  “No, Steve’s a dedicated mining engineer. He’s usually needed at the mine, but he’s taking some time to referee Andrea’s arrival. Probably hoping Judy doesn’t kill her.”

  Tía searched his eyes to see if he was serious. Amusement warmed in their depths, and she relaxed. “What’s he like?”

  “Steve’s a good man, but he’s not the one for you.”

  Tía laughed. “And why not?”

  “Because I am.”

  Tía started to reply, but Johnny craned his neck and narrowed his eyes at something. She turned to see.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing east of them.

  It looked as if the desert were on the move. At first she did not trust her eyes. Then she saw it was a herd of something a rusty-brown color. “What is it?”

  “Chulus,” he said, reaching back to pull a spyglass out of his saddlebag. “Coatimundis.”

  “Oh.” Tía had seen coatis in Tubac. They traveled in bands of a dozen or more. This looked like more than a hundred. She’d never seen so many before. Their long fluffy tails—ringed like raccoons—bobbed skyward as they ran. As the band neared Tía and Johnny, Tía laughed. The coatis were the most implausible-looking animals she’d ever seen, like small brown bears with long hind legs and a shambling gait. They had the noses of pigs, faces masked like badgers, and the lean, wiry bodies of coyotes.

  The band passed within twenty yards of Tía, cutting across their trail. Soon the leaders disappeared among the cholla cacti that dotted the desert.

  “They can climb a tree quick as a tomcat,” Johnny said.

  “I saw one in the alley behind the restaurant in Tubac once. It was going through the garbage.”

  Johnny shot her a cocky grin. “Must have been an old one. They get too old to keep up with the rest, but they make good scavengers. They’re like coyotes. They’ll eat about anything they can find or catch.”

  They looked a little like skunks with their tails up and waving overhead as they ran along. They made good time, ten or fifteen miles an hour, Tía guessed. The last of the band, the old ones and the little ones, passed, and Tía looked in the direction of the other riders. “Shouldn’t we catch up?”

  Glancing at the trail ahead of them, Johnny shrugged. The last packhorse had entered the ravine where Judy’s phony Indians would attack. The same frustration he had felt when he’d tried unsuccessfully to reason with Judy was back now, burning like bile in his throat. He had wanted to take Judy by the shoulders and shake her until she rattled. This sort of stunt was usually reserved for pilgrims who had bragged too much about their prowess as great white hunters, not for an unarmed female, probably tired and scared, coming to a strange town under what could only be the most trying circumstances. Steve had shared Johnny’s anger when he’d found out about the prank after lunch, but Judy had already dispatched her “Indians.” It was too late by then to call it off, but Johnny couldn’t help thinking that it was a damned shame. With her proud carriage and level gaze, Teresa Andrea Garcia-Lorca looked like a woman who deserved better treatment.

  “Tía,” he said, “you’re safer here.”

  Tía’s stomach gave a sudden, sick lurch. “Is Andrea in danger, then?”

  Johnny gazed into her suddenly fearful eyes. Guns, arrows, scared people, and nervous horses were a volatile mix, but he couldn’t bring himself to scare Tía any more than she already was. “Naw, the boys’ll just run her back into town.”

  “You’re lying to me, aren’t you?”

  Johnny shrugged. Her blue eyes might look as clear as a mountain stream, but they weren’t that way to accommodate men looking in, they were for her to look out. She didn’t miss anything important. At the same time her eyes called up something primitive and protective in him. He felt naked before her gaze—naked and hungry. He wanted to tell her to forget Andrea and Judy; they could take care of themselves. He just wanted to touch Tía again, and at the same time, he resented that naive longing. His life was complicated enough already. She was just a kid: a big-eyed, fresh-faced kid who didn’t know anything about men—or she wouldn’t be asking him questions and expecting the truth.

  “Andrea could be hurt, couldn’t she?” Tía demanded.

  “Andrea looks like a woman who can take care of herself.”

  “Does her body look like it won’t break if she falls off a horse on rocky ground?” Something that had been bothering Tía all day finally crystallized in her mind. Andrea was a good shot, but she was not capable on horseback. They had both forgotten that in their excitement at turning the tables on Judy. Now it suddenly seemed like insanity to risk Andrea for a slight advantage that would disappear as soon as Judy found out who was who.

  Tía turned her horse back toward the rest of their party.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I like Judy a lot, but I’m not going to let her go through with this. Someone might be hurt,” Tía said.

  They were in a ravine now. According to Judy, it was the last one before they would break out onto the flat valley floor and head northeast toward the ranch. Glancing at Steve, who rode about ten feet to the left of her, Andrea tried to gauge the depth of his anger.

  He rode well. Staring straight ahead, his posture a little rigid and military, probably because of his anger, he rode in silence; she remembered the way his eyes had looked when he’d finally come downstairs to be introduced to his new sister, his pupils narrowed to tiny pinpricks of black, the blue harsh and bright. He hadn’t looked at her as Judy had handled the introduction with her customary sugar-coated contempt. Nodding curtly, his face closed, grim, he had said, “We’ve met.”

  “Your brother has a wonderful way with understatement,” she’d said to Judy, who had glanced suspiciously from one to the other of them.

  “Yes, he does,” Judy purred. “He read the marquis de Sade, and all he had to say about it was that the marquis was capable of being slightly inconsiderate when he was intent on satisfying his own needs.” Squeezing Steve’s arm, Judy laughed.

  Steve grimaced and said, “The marquis probably learned all about women from having sisters…”

  “Think how fortunate you are,” Andrea said, smiling at him, sure he wouldn’t attack with Judy so near. “To have not one but two sisters from whom to learn.”

  But he hadn’t looked as if he’d felt especially fortunate. Now, glancing over at him, Andrea sighed. His face was closed and tight. Was it because he was still furious at her? Or because he was not enthusiastic about the reception Judy had planned for her? Or because he was holding his breath, praying it worked? He did stand to double his inheritance.

  A sound, like Tía yelling, caused Andrea to look back. A few hundred yards behind, Tía, followed by Johnny, whipped her horse and rode fast as if trying to catch up. Andrea glanced quickly at Judy to see if she had noticed that the two of them had dropped behind.

  Still riding beside Steve, Judy had turned in her saddle. Her silky, downturning bottom lip snugged in with disapproval. Andrea strained to hear over the crunch of horses’ hooves on the sandy ground. Tía waved wildly as she raced her horse forward.

  Andrea looked back at Steve, who apparently hadn’t noticed. Just as she did, she saw the “Indians.” Sinister black silhouettes appeared at the top of each side of the shallow ravine; loomed darkly, threateningly, their long, feathered lances piercing the skyline; then started down the embankments, kicking up clouds of dust as their ponies slid on their haunches toward the level, narrow floor of the ravine. Andrea halted the sluggish mare and turned to look at Judy, who instantly became animated.

  Judy pulled back on her reins, causing her horse to rear and paw the air. “Indians! We’re hopelessly
outnumbered! Run for it!”

  Except for Steve, everyone reacted, causing a moment of sheer pandemonium—dust flying, horses whinnying their protests, men yelling.

  “Head back to town! Hurry!” Judy screamed, putting spurs to her mount, leading the disorderly exodus.

  Twenty yards away, tawny brows knit in a frown, Steve sat his saddle and watched. The other riders had kicked their horses into a run and raced past Andrea, following Judy.

  Holding her lethargic mount with her knees, Andrea reached deftly around for the long, slender box she had insisted on keeping with her. Flinging off the lid, she lifted out a sawed-off shotgun. She broke it, checked for shells, and lifted it purposefully to her shoulder.

  Steve jerked instantly alert. Cursing Judy and her half-baked ideas, he spurred his horse toward Andrea, who was taking aim at five close-knit Rancho la Reina riders in disguise.

  “Don’t shoot, dammit!”

  Ignoring his shout, Andrea fired point-blank at the men twenty yards away from her and closing. The air filled with curses and screams. Horses panicked, men fell, and Andrea swung around matter-of-factly and broke the gun to reload.

  Steve reached her side. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, grabbing the shotgun out of her hands.

  “I’m holding off the Indians while the rest of you escape,” she said coolly. “Why didn’t you run?”

  “Why the hell didn’t you?”

  “That is not the direction I want to go,” she said flatly.

  An arrow arched overhead and fell into the dirt a few feet in front of Andrea’s horse. Looking at it with disgust, she reached for the shotgun, but Steve lifted it over his head, keeping it away from her. The “Indians” coming down the north side of the ravine had seen what happened to their accomplices and wisely turned back to scatter in all directions.

  Furious, Andrea turned on Steve. “In spite of you, it looks like a rout.”