“You’re exquisite, Judy.”
His lips on her skin felt different from other men’s—they felt more real, more satisfying.
“Kiss me. Don’t stop,” she pleaded.
His lips resumed their slow, hungry feasting. They worshipped her mouth, her breasts, her secret places, until she felt sure she would die of the sweet, delicious sensations.
At last he lifted himself away from her, and with his fine gray eyes intent on her face, exulting in her every gasping, indrawn breath, he positioned himself and took her.
Judy moaned until she was writhing in blind ecstasy, her blood clamoring with strange, sweet terror.
Tears scalded her eyes. She hated Grant suddenly. He was the most heartless traitor of all. She had never suspected he could become so filled with masculine power and mercilessness that his lips and hands could start such wild trembling and desire.
It wasn’t fair that Grant—who would leave her tomorrow, never to return—should be the one to touch her to the depths of her soul.
This must be what possession meant—the lean hardness of his body wiping out everything except the fierce, urgent need to be one with this man she had never really known before.
Chapter Forty-Six
“Now, niña, it is time to let us see your courage…or lack of it…”
Tía turned to face Mateo. If Johnny could walk so bravely, appearing indomitable and stalwart, she would not grovel.
Mateo took off his shirt and tossed it on the single straight-backed chair in the corner.
Tía walked to the bed and sat down. Johnny was gone, and now this man who once had been her papa demanded that she lie with him as his woman. The thought overwhelmed her. But she had promised this exchange for the lives of Johnny and her mother. An unexpected calm descended over Tía.
She had promised, and now she must go through with it.
In spite of her newfound calm, she wasn’t sure she could go through with this. Her mind simply would not accept the image of her lying down in bed with the man who was no longer her father. Just the image of it made a lump start in her belly and roll upward like a knot in a rope being pulled through a tight sleeve. The knot caught at her throat and came bubbling out as a sob. It was followed by another knot, and another. Once started, the sobs echoed faster and faster until they were spilling out of her in a continuous stream. She was helpless to stop them.
Mateo watched in amazement and horror. In a matter of seconds, Teresa had gone from the capable young woman who had fooled her lover to a howling child. She curled one leg under her, clutched her hands under her chin, and cried as if she were three years old—great, gasping sobs that filled the room.
And for the life of him Mateo could not figure out how she’d tricked him into watching it, but once seen, the picture could not be erased from his mind.
When Teresa was six years old, a kitten had followed her home from town and appeared ready to stay. Rita had asked him to get rid of it. Teresa had guessed what he planned to do and had cried exactly like this—openmouthed, louder than a train whistle, and with total abandon. He had not been able to kill the kitten.
Now, tricked into watching, all the lustful vengeance that had flooded him earlier mysteriously diminished. His arms hung like weights from his shoulders. His back ached with sudden tiredness. If he stayed, he feared he would be reduced to holding her while she cried. Already his hands longed to pull her into his arms for comfort, but he would not go that far. He forced his feet to walk to the door, his leaden hand to turn the handle.
In panic Teresa leaped off the bed. “Papa!”
On the verge of slamming the door behind him, Mateo stopped. “Don’t Papa me.”
“Ple…please don’t…don’t…” she sobbed.
Strangely, Mateo could not remember what he had threatened to do if she did not make good on her end of the bargain. But apparently Teresa did. She ran across the room, got between him and the door, and pushed him toward the bed.
“I’m here, see?”
Mateo gritted his teeth. He had no energy for this. All he wanted was to escape.
“Come to the bed, Papa. I’ll honor my word. I promise.”
She scampered into the middle of the bed, and pulled him down beside her. “See?”
“The only thing I see is that you have learned nothing.”
“About what?”
Mateo almost groaned aloud. Her eyes were round and frantic with her desire to please him, to save her cocky young caballero. She had no idea that she had destroyed him. “About being a woman. You didn’t cry with that gringo,” he said bitterly.
Tía looked at him as if he should have known better but obviously didn’t. “That’s different, Papa. I love Johnny. He asked me to marry him.”
As if her words had reminded her of things too painful to endure, she broke into a fresh fit of crying. Mateo watched in alarm and consternation. The child was going to damage herself with all this crying. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His hands itched to push the hair off her flushed face. Finally, when he could stand it no more, he pulled her into his arms and held her shaking body.
At some point her crying stopped. But it didn’t matter. Mateo was too tired to move. It seemed that all the tiredness of a lifetime had pooled in his body—the tiredness of trying to right a lifetime of wrongs, of being stabbed, of losing Teresa and Andrea, even the tiredness of losing Rita. He turned over onto his stomach and let the sound of Teresa’s breathing and her occasional gasping, indrawn breaths lull him to sleep.
It was well after midnight when Rita arrived at the pueblos. Her guide, Abuelito, not nearly as threatening once she’d gotten used to him, was worth every penny she had paid him. Joking at length with the sentries, he gave all the proper signals and responses and delivered her without incident to the guard who stood at the foot of the steps leading up to Mateo’s room.
Her heart had been pounding ever since she’d seen the small sleeping city built into the limestone cliffs. She was insane to come here, she realized. Truly insane. Mateo would kill her. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, it was too late to turn back now. Rita unsheathed the revolver she now wore at her hip, inserted a bullet under the hammer, and snapped the cylinder back into place. She would not go alone.
Guarding el general’s rooms, bored by the long night that stretched ahead like the desert itself, Andano Madrigal was not alarmed by the señora’s appearance. It was obvious in the way Abuelito acted that she was expected by everyone except himself. That was the way it always was. With no warning, a young woman, rumored to be el general’s daughter, had arrived with el general that afternoon. Now, also with no warning, el general’s wife.
Ceremoniously, showing his deep respect, Andano bowed low and let the señora pass. Straightening, he saw a smirk appear on Abuelito’s face. Andano cocked an eyebrow.
“Perhaps now el jefe will be in a better mood, eh, amigo?” Abuelito growled, winking.
Andano laughed. “She looks capable of producing it, does she not?” he asked, mimicking the gruff comments he had overheard in the cantina.
“Sí, if he can keep her still long enough. That one has too much energy for her own good. My butt aches from riding too many miles in too short a time.” Rubbing his aching buttocks, he turned away. “If the señora needs me, I will be at Juanita’s.”
Heart beating faster, Rita climbed the stairs. Thank God Mateo was a proud man. She had never had to make explanations to his people. Each and every one of them accepted everything about his family. Once a long time ago she had heard Patchy Arteaga telling one of the younger men, probably in relation to Tía: El general can do anything he wishes. Gold coins could spill from his loins if he so desired.
A knife had glittered and flashed in the sunlight, and the young vaquero had gulped back any reply he might have made.
Rita paused at the top of the steps. She had no idea what Mateo would do. Her heart lurched sickeningly.
No matter. She had to see him before h
e took out his wrath on Tía. Stepping forward slowly, reaching out for the latch key, she lifted her chin defiantly. If Mateo was with another female, he would just have to get rid of her. This was important. His wife was here on business.
As usual the door was not locked. A lamp burned on the bureau, the tail of the wick barely reaching the kerosene. For a second the light flickered and then slowly settled down again.
On the bed next to the dark, broad shape of Mateo, a slender golden arm gleamed in the lamplight. A tangle of gold curls caused Rita’s breath to catch in her throat. Weakly she leaned against the door.
She was too late. Hands shaking like an aspen leaf in a high wind, she drew the revolver out of the holster at her side. Slowly, taking care not to wake them, she walked to the side of the bed. Mateo was lying on his stomach, one strong arm draped over Tía. Rita pointed the gun squarely between his shoulder blades, then moved the barrel to his left slightly to find his heart. In the lamplight the raised ridges of scar tissue gleamed white against the darkness of his skin. A long time ago she had risked asking him about the scars, but he hadn’t answered her. She had dropped it by saying that perhaps once in his life he had gotten exactly what he deserved. Mateo had only laughed cynically.
Looking at his broad, tapering back, she found that her finger could not work the trigger. Even now, shaking with the desire to send bullets slamming into his hateful body, seeing the weals, she unaccountably remembered the way his skin felt under her hands, the way the long, smooth muscles of his back rippled as he moved in the rhythmic throes of lovemaking.
Another thought came to her, and she stared at Tía, searching for the answer.
No. Tía’s fine pale skin showed no bruises. Curled in on herself like a morning glory closed for the night, she lay quietly—passive with sleep and exhaustion. Shirtless, Mateo slept, but he did not look limp or exhausted. Even in sleep he looked arrogant and lithe. No softness or fat marred that lean, manly frame. Like the cat he was named for, he slept lightly, and Rita, better than anyone, knew how quickly he could go from sleep to complete awareness.
Rita closed her eyes. Tía had no bruises, and she nestled against Mateo like a kitten against its mother. The sight was like a thorn pressing into a wound that had been festering inside Rita for eighteen years. Tía had loved Mateo without reservation, for seventeen years of her life. Had she come to him willingly?
Rita’s stomach turned queasy. Tía had known for weeks that Mateo Lorca was not her father. Perhaps she had been driven to give herself to Mateo to keep his love.
Once the question was there, like a barb in her tortured mind, she had to know, before she killed him…
Turning the revolver in her hand, grasping the barrel, Rita swung it at the back of Mateo’s head. He grunted—a small, surprised sound—and lay still. She grabbed his shirt off the chair, tore it into strips, and tied him to the bed at foot and headboard. Moving with urgency now, she rushed to Tía’s side of the bed and covered her daughter’s mouth with a firm hand. Gently shaking her awake, she watched as Tía’s eyes blinked open. Sleep slowly gave way to surprise. Rita’s fierce maternal instinct took over, and she leaned forward.
“Tía, niña, are you…all right?”
Rita relaxed the pressure of her hand over Tía’s mouth as recognition registered.
Struggling up to a sitting position Tía glanced down at Mateo. The confusion in her eyes pierced Rita’s heart. What had she done to this child? What had ever possessed her to stay complacently accessible to that man—to risk Tía’s life to prove to him that she could be as independent and as cruel as he?
Flushed with guilt, Rita gathered her daughter into her arms and held her close. “Did he…force you?”
“What?”
“Did he rape you?”
“No.” Tía flushed with shame to be asked such a question. It seemed to condemn her in some elemental way.
Rita breathed a sigh of relief and replaced her gun in its holster. She would probably wish she had killed him, but she was grateful she didn’t have to. “We have to leave…before he wakes up.”
Tía rubbed her eyes. They felt tired and gritty. “He has men everywhere.”
Rita stood up. “I am his wife. They let me in. They will let me out. Apparently he did not tell them otherwise. Come. Get ready. I will watch him to be sure he stays out.”
“I’m ready.”
“Good. Now…can you laugh?”
Not understanding, Tía shook her head.
“Never mind. Smile. I will handle everything. Follow my lead.”
Arm in arm, whispering and smiling as if they shared secrets only women would understand, they skipped merrily down the stairs. Andano smiled knowingly.
They reached the bottom of the steps and walked quite close to the guard. Giggling like a half-drunk schoolgirl, Rita walked Tía straight into him.
“Watch where you are standing, peón,” Rita said in a low, forceful voice.
“A thousand pardons, señora,” he said quickly.
“Only if you will be so good as to summon a man to bring our guide and our horses around.”
“Now, señora?” he asked, frowning as he looked up at his general’s bedchamber.
Rita laughed softly. “Unless you would like to receive the order from El Gato Negro himself, after disturbing him when he has a toothache. I am sure he can arrange a suitable punishment for such insolence, especially when I tell him you were disrespectful to his wife.”
Andano flinched. When displeased, the anger of el general was legendary. When it involved his wife…aiyee! There were stories of volcanic explosions. And these last three months after el general had been attacked and stabbed by the soldiers and had been forced to send the señora into hiding while he recuperated, they had all walked on eggshells. This day, apparently because he knew she had been coming to see him, he had been almost like himself again. Andano would not be the one to upset the new tranquility.
“Un momento, señora. I will bring them myself,” he said quickly.
Rita nodded her satisfaction, and Andano hurried away.
“How did you know he had not told them I was a prisoner?” Tía whispered.
Rita smiled, “El general has far too much pride. He would never admit that one of his women would run away.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Andrea paced outside the door to Steve’s bedroom, oblivious to the sounds of women talking in the parlor, the rattle of pans as Carmen, Cruz, and Lupe cleaned up the mess they had made helping Andrea care for the injured men.
They could have gone to Tombstone. Johnny said they were as close to the town as they were to the ranch, but Steve had wanted to go to the ranch.
Dr. Potter had been with Steve for what seemed like hours, and still the door remained closed. It was a dread barrier. Once she crossed over the threshold, the words he uttered, the words she heard would change her life.
Agonized, she could only remember Steve’s face—slack with sleep or tight with pain. Either way, she was exhausted from feeling his pain with every step of the horse. With her eyes closed she could see his hands, white with the effort to hang on so they could move more quickly. Even half-dying, his first thoughts had been for the safety of the others…
The door opened. Andrea’s heart chugged down like a locomotive engine under pressure, then accelerated. Tired from three days of tending badly wounded men, running his fingers through his thin, gray hair, Potter stepped out into the hall.
“How…how is he?” Her voice was timid, fearful. “He’s…going to be all right, isn’t he?”
“Not much good at reading the future. Never had the gift.”
“But he’s not dying,” she protested weakly, more afraid that he would confirm her fears than hopeful he would deny them.
“He wants to see you.”
Her heart sank like a lead weight. She turned away from the doctor’s tired face and stumbled through the door.
Steve’s face was averted. His hands lay on h
is flat belly. His eyes were closed, but his chest lifted slightly with each shallow breath. His broad chest was wrapped with a clean white bandage. His head was swathed with more bandages. Shaking all over, she sagged into the chair beside his bed. Needing assurance, she touched his warm hand. His head turned toward her, his eyes flickering and opening at her touch. He recognized her.
“You’re going to be okay,” she lied, brightly, squeezing his hand.
Licking his dry lips, he shook his head. Momentarily, his eyes closed then opened. “If I don’t make it, will you take care of Judy for me?…”
“Of course.” Tears streamed down Andrea’s cheeks.
“Where are we?”
“You’re home now. You’re safe.”
His voice was barely more than a whisper. Andrea had to lean close to hear him. “Where’s Judy? I want to see her.”
“She’s fine. Rutledge will bring her home today. She’s on her way now. I can’t imagine what’s taking her so long. Red said she was leaving as soon as he got there to get the doctor.” She was repeating herself.
“If I don’t get to see her…” Pain closed his eyes. Muscles in his jaw clamped hard against it. Slowly it eased, leaving him white, his face wet with perspiration. “Tell her that my half of everything belongs to her. There’s a will in my desk…to make it official…”
“You’re going to be fine…please don’t talk like this…”
“Any word from…Johnny?”
“No…no.”
“Tía?”
“No…no.”
Steve’s hand tightened around hers. “Johnny will find her. He’s a good…man.”
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