by Brenda Joyce
"His hands were gentle," Joanna whispered.
Lucy gaped at her.
"I don't think he's going to hurt us, Lucy," Joanna said hesitantly.
Lucy stared at Joanna, who rarely offered an opinion unless it was asked for. Then she squeezed her friend's hand. "I'm sure you're right," she said, to ease her fears. "Don't worry, I won't leave you."
Shoz returned with material for the splint, and Lucy jumped guiltily. He looked at her sharply as he knelt down. Lucy got the impression that he had overheard them—and knew what they had tried to do. Her heartbeat accelerated, but he didn't comment. Instead, he worked surely and fast, as if he'd tended sprained ankles dozens of times. Watching him, Lucy began to relax. If he was going to hurt them, would he be so helpful now?
She didn't think so.
Had she overreacted to their situation? Lucy bit her lip. Knowing herself, she could honestly admit it was a slight possibility. After all, other than being rude, had he done anything terrible to them? He'd only asked for a ride, and he had fixed the Duryea.
Joanna seemed impervious to pain. Noting this and the way Joanna was gazing at the outlaw's dark head abruptly drew Lucy to the present. Lucy felt her hackles rise, one by one. He wasn't really handsome, although he did have a profile that could have been carved by a master. She grudgingly admitted that he was attractive, in an unusual way, in a rough, dangerous way. She watched his hands. They did, indeed, look gentle.
"Is that better?" he asked.
Lucy scowled at his back. Joanna nodded, whispering a thank you. The outlaw lifted Joanna into his arms without even asking her permission. Joanna clung to him as he carried her back to their campfire. Lucy's anger grew, and she didn't question why.
"Feel better?" she mocked. "Oh, thank you!" She stomped after them.
Joanna was settled comfortably in the outlaw's bedroll and he was stoking the fire when Lucy returned. That sight annoyed her, too. He rocked back onto his heels, squinting at her. Hands on her hips, Lucy stared back. He reached into a saddlebag and tossed a can at her. She just managed to catch it. He dumped the pan out, along with a small can opener. "Start cooking," he said.
"Why me?" Lucy asked mutinously.
"Your friend is hurt."
"Why not you?"
"You're the woman."
Lucy had never opened a can in her life. She wasn't about to start now. His attitude was irritating. She threw the can at him. "I refuse to cater to you," she retorted. "For your information, women are equal to men—in every way. So you can cook yourself."
"Women are equal to men, huh?" He laughed. "In every way? Really?"
He was making fun of her and she did not understand the innuendos, but was certain they were there. "In every way. But I don't expect a backwoods person like yourself to be familiar with liberal thinking."
"Oh, I'm real liberal," he said, still laughing. "If you come on over here, I'll show you just how liberal I am— and we can test out your theories of equality."
"You would make fun of something you don't understand."
He stood up, his smile vanishing. It had been a startling smile, very white and dimpled. "If you're so damn equal, princess, why didn't you get down on your knees in the dirt to fix that fancy heap of metal?"
She flushed.
"You don't believe in equality, honey, you believe in aristocracy."
"That's not true! My mother is a leading suffragette, Grace Br—" He waited.
Lucy didn't dare reveal her family name, just in case he was as immoral as he looked. Just in case he wasn't averse to kidnapping. Unable to speak, she glared.
"To hell with equality, start cooking. If you want to eat, that is."
"I happen to be full."
"On what? Caviar blintzes?"
"We dined sumptuously in San Antonio this afternoon," she lied. "I couldn't possibly eat another thing."
"Fine," he said, and he opened the can.
Lucy couldn't believe she had won so easily. Agitated from the exchange, she sat down next to Joanna, who had fallen asleep. She watched him cook the beans and the meat. Her stomach began to growl and she flushed, hoping he hadn't heard. What he was making did not look appetizing, but it smelled wonderful, and the truth was, they'd only had a continental-style breakfast that morning. She swallowed. She regretted her lie and wished she could take it back. Never would she let him see that she was famished. She should have fought harder with him over the issue of cooking instead of pretending to be full. Or confessed the truth—that she hadn't the faintest idea how to cook.
He never looked her way, stirring the pot with concentration. Once a wolf howled, and he cocked his head to the side, listening. Lucy decided she would pretend nonchalance when he ate. He took the meal off the fire and began to eat right from the pan.
At first, she was shocked by his manners. Then, when she realized that he really had no intention of offering her any food, she cried out. He turned sharply. His look was questioning.
Lucy stood, trembling. "I'm going to wash my face before bed." She hurried away.
It was a small brook, really just a muddy trickle, not far from the circle of firelight, but hidden from sight by a cluster of scrubby trees. She scooped up water and splashed it on her face, thinking about how awful he was—and how stupid she was. He had not one ounce of gentlemanly blood in his veins. To eat in front of her without sharing, even if she had said she was full!
She found, dismayed, that the water was gritty and full of dirt, and she sank onto her buttocks in the loamy bank. Her feet throbbed, her entire body felt like it had been run over by a dray, she was starving, she was filthy, and she realized she felt like crying.
She settled for a sniffle or two, and started to feel better. This would pass, she told herself, carefully wiping her eyes. Soon she would be at Grandpa Derek's and this would be one big joke; she and Joanna would laugh countless times remembering this adventure. Wouldn't they?
And then she heard a noise.
An animal, grunting. Or a man.
Chapter 4
What was she doing?
Restlessly Shoz's gaze swept the circle of firelight, passing indifferently over a sleeping Joanna. He tried to penetrate the darkness beyond, where he knew the muddy little stream trickled past the three scrub oaks. He could not pierce the engulfing night. Before, he had heard her splashing water, then he had heard her sniffling. Now he listened intently and heard nothing but a lonely night owl.
What was she doing?
It seemed that she had been gone for a long time, but he knew no more than ten or fifteen minutes had passed. Why was he impatient, when patience was a skill of survival he had learned so long ago? His mind was even playing tricks on him, cruel ones, vivid ones. He imagined her unbuttoning her blouse and baring her big white breasts, to bathe. He stood and began pacing, tugging at the crotch of his Levis. He was not used to this kind of predicament.
He was spoiled when it came to women. Women found him irresistible—all of them. There had never been one he hadn't been able to get, not that he could remember. But this one .. . She was a rich girl, a spoiled girl, a brat, and he did not like her. He liked very few women other than his mother and sister, and Lucy was not one of them. He knew her type intimately; she was another Marianne. He had given up ladies a long time ago.
Of course, he thought with a smile, she wanted him. She despised him and had condemned him as a lowlife tramp, but she wanted him. He could have her if he lifted his little finger. He'd seen how she looked at him, and knew damn well she'd gotten a thrill in showing off her pretty little ankles. He wanted to laugh. Ankles! As if that could arouse someone like him. Didn't she know her perspiration-drenched jacket and blouse were more provocative than a bare foot?
So—what was stopping him?
He knew damn well it wasn't decency—he didn't have any left.
Still, in a way, just the tiniest way, she reminded him of his half-sister, Christina. They didn't look alike, not at all. Christina was dark
blond and beautiful, a real heart-stopper. She was a little bit spoiled, a little bit arrogant, but her heart was all gold. Unlike the princess's. Maybe it was because of Christina. Maybe it was also because she was so young.
After all, he hated virgins.
He had a few doubts on that score, however. He wouldn't be at all surprised if the high-society deb wasn't a spoiled bird as well.
He stubbed the ground with the toe of his worn boot. What in hell was she doing? Had she fallen asleep? Been eaten by a mountain lion? Tried to escape again?
That thought jerked him out of his reverie, and with a low curse, he plunged into the darkness after her. He moved soundlessly. It was not a conscious attempt to maintain silence. He was three-quarters Apache, had been raised steeped in both his Indian heritage and western civilization, and the past five years had forced wariness upon him. It had become a way of life.
He paused when he saw her, deliberately stepping back behind one of the oaks. She was bathed in moonlight. She wasn't doing anything, just sitting there with her knees tucked up under her dusty skirts, her smudged chin in her palms, and he could make out her forlorn expression. She looked like a ragamuffin—and he almost softened.
But he didn't. He wanted her too much. She had a siren's sensual body, and he was nearly oblivious to her dirty face and orphaned look. Two weeks without a woman was his problem, not the little princess's. What was her name? Lucy. Lucy. He rolled it over on his tongue silently. It didn't help ease the flow of his racing blood; if anything, it worsened his situation.
He wanted her, and if his thoughts hadn't been so damn sentimental a few moments ago, if she didn't look so damn young right now, he would seduce her. She would be willing. He was experienced enough to recognize this. He grunted at the thought of what she would feel like.
She whirled, on her feet, and saw him. Her immediate surprise faded. She stared. The way she was looking at him made him become very still.
He edged his shoulder against the tree. Her riveted gaze made him forget all his saintly intentions; he was destined for hell anyway. "Look at me," he commanded softly.
They were strangers, but the night was magical, the moment deeply intimate, and he compelled obedience. Lucy obeyed. She stood very still, almost afraid to move, the thick, hot night wrapped around them like wet, crushed velvet. Everything seemed to have stopped, frozen in time: the air, the crickets, the owl, her heart. In the moonlight she could make out the glistening sheen of his damp body where his shirt hung open, and his strained expression. His jeans were stretched taut. She should lift her gaze, drag it anywhere but there, and finally she did. He smiled slightly. There was no mistaking the raw look in his eyes—although Lucy had never seen such a look before.
The air was very sticky, and a wet heat seemed to have risen all over her skin. There was a shortness to her breathing, making it difficult to fill her lungs, and Lucy became aware of the strange tension, throbbing between them, mesmerizing her. She knew she should leave, go back to the campfire and Joanna, but she did not want to leave. "Come here, Lucy," he said.
Lucy knew she must leave, now. Or it would be too late. Her instincts were ripe, bursting. She did not move.
Shoz smiled. The smile was lazy and sensual, but he felt tense and determined. His chest rose and fell, hard. He stalked her. She backed up a step.
"Don't be afraid," he said softly. "I won't hurt you."
Lucy stopped. He was so close, and his eyes commanded that she wait for him. There was fire there, like the fire running in her own veins. She looked at his mouth, sensually sculpted, parted slightly, and she felt an insane desire to kiss him. To kiss him. Taste him. She could already taste him, damp and salty... He gripped her hand, forcing it down between them.
"I want you," he said.
"No," she tried, not meaning it.
"I want you. Are you a virgin?"
She shook her head no, a protest that was automatic— having nothing to do with his question.
"Good. I hate virgins."
He pressed her hand against his erection.
She gasped, her eyes flying to his. What she saw in his eyes, silver in the moonlight, stilled her initial shock. She felt him pulsating beneath her palm, felt the burning heat. "Hold me," he said harshly. "Hard."
Lucy stood motionless, her heart slamming, and as if the Devil were instructing her, her fingers curled around him.
"Yes, princess," he said, and he slipped an arm around her and guided them both to their knees. Lucy felt his warm breath on her cheek, his mouth brushing there. She gasped, reaching for his shoulders. Crazy desire trailed in the wake of his lips. Lucy no longer knew herself. His face was pressed into her neck, his wet, hard body covered hers, his powerful arms crushing her in his embrace. And he was rocking his hips against her softness, and Lucy thought she might die, trapped between heaven and hell.
"Please," Lucy moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders. A second later he was crying out and arching against her belly.
"Damn," he said, into her neck. "That wasn't too good for you, was it, princess?"
Lucy whimpered, unable to make a coherent sound.
Then his hand was in her chignon. She gasped as he anchored her by a hank of hair while flipping up her skirts. His other hand slid up along her silk-clad thigh.
When he slipped his fingers beneath her drawers, Lucy fell back, spreading her legs wantonly. "God, you're ready, aren't you, princess?" he said with a shaky laugh. "Come on, baby, come now."
It was an order that made no sense. It didn't matter. He was stroking between her thighs rhythmically, expertly, and Lucy could not bear it.
He locked his arms around her hips and buried his face between her legs. Lucy was shocked. She felt his tongue. Any desire to protest ceased instantly, as he stroked and laved her intimately, mercilessly. She began climbing peaks, racing from one to the next, higher and higher.. . Her world shattered. She fell.
Drifting downward, Lucy became aware of many things gradually. The night air was a pleasant and balmy caress upon her naked legs. A rock was digging into her shoulder, hurting her. And he was propped up on one elbow, staring at her.
What had she done?
Very cautiously, Lucy looked back at him, her eyes wide. He smiled, a smug, satisfied look that seemed especially male; it instantly infuriated her. She sat up abruptly, hastily pulling her skirts down over her naked body; he caught her palm. When he didn't release it, she lifted her gaze to his face.
This time he wasn't smiling.
"I..." she began breathlessly, and stopped. Her heart had picked up its beat beneath the intensity of his stare. What had they done? Actual realization and total recall struck her. My God!
He silenced her abruptly with a hard kiss. Lucy forgot everything. His mouth was demanding, hungry. It became greedy. So did hers. She could not get enough of him. Soon his tongue delved into her mouth, stroking insistently, soon hers was mating with his. Lucy had kissed many men. But never like this.
His hands were on her breasts, seeking, searching, intent. Without her having been aware of it, he had undone the dozens of tiny buttons and insinuated his palm beneath the many layers of her underclothes. She felt him cupping her with growing urgency. He touched her nipple, teasing it into erectness.
Pushing corset, bust bodice, and chemise down, he took the distended tip into his mouth and began to suck gently.
Lucy arched wildly into his rock-hard body. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, undulating against him and the fullness grinding against her. They strained at each other like fierce mating animals, panting and heaving. Lucy's teeth found the tender skin of his throat.
He reached between them to free himself and then he was thrusting deep inside her.
The pain was brief and instantly forgotten. Lucy clung to him as he thrust once, twice, again. Heaven and hell. Hard and fast. Fire, fire and... ice. He was on his feet. Lucy lay stunned and bereft and open at his feet. A knife glinted in his hand. "Who is it?" he demanded.
Lucy sat up, reflexively covering herself, shocked.
Shoz, poised to fight, relaxed, and sheathed his knife.
Confused, her senses returning, her pulse racing, Lucy tried to comprehend what was happening. And then she saw Joanna.
Chapter 5
Derek Bragg squinted down the railroad tracks and into the early morning sun. On the platform beside him, his diminutive wife tugged his sleeve. "Do you see anything?" Miranda asked.
"It's going to be a scorcher today," Derek said in reply, something of a shout. His hearing wasn't what it used to be, and he tended to shout. Although, for some reason, he always understood every word his wife said to him. "Don't see a thing. Train's late."
"It will come," Miranda said calmly. Yet her eyes, and her dress, belied her calm. She couldn't stand still, a tiny figure dwarfed by her leonine husband, who was, in her view, still the finest specimen of man around. Now her purple eyes danced excitedly, making her seem sixteen, not seventy-one—to her husband at least. She was wearing her Sunday best, a fine day gown of sprigged yellow linen with leg-o'-mutton sleeves and a bell-shaped skirt.
Suddenly Derek put his arm around her, squeezing. "Can barely wait," he roared.
"Oh, it will be so good to see Lucy again," Miranda agreed, beaming.
Derek grinned. "I'm glad Lucy came on ahead of Rathe and Grace. Although I'm real surprised Rathe let her travel this far alone."
"She's not alone, she's with Joanna and a chaperone."
Derek snorted. "Some old biddy's gonna keep Lucy in line? Hah!"
"Derek! You've never met Mrs. Seymour! Did I tell you Lucy's beau will be coming to visit in two weeks, too?" Among many, many others, Miranda thought wickedly, barely able to wait for the surprise she was planning for her husband.
Derek's eyes narrowed. "She's got a serious beau?"