What had happened to the gracious host who’d shared his food and his history, as if pleading for her to understand his antisocial facade? Charity turned in disgust and stalked toward the tallest rushes she could find.
“Men exaggerate their exploits,” Devereau said softly. “Blue and I shared a lot of things, but a woman was never one of them. He complained that my companions were too demure to suit him.”
His tender massage around her shoulders relaxed her, and she chuckled. “I suppose I fit that description well enough,” she said softly. “But I’m still not comfortable, knowing he can watch our every move and hear us talking.”
“So we won’t talk,” he murmured. Dillon led her behind the rushes and silently knelt with her on the grassy banks of the stream. He pulled Charity to him, ignoring his sore muscles to clutch her close for the kiss he’d been wanting for days now.
Deftly he peeled the fringed dress up over her hips, past her concave stomach and her breasts, all the while plying her lips hungrily with his. He could feel her passion rising, somewhat subdued because she was so weak, and he pulled away reluctantly. “Blue made a valid point about the undertow. I couldn’t swim strongly enough to—”
“So we’ll just wash each other, where the current’s not so strong.”
He kissed the tip of her sunburned nose. “I probably shouldn’t wet my bandage, since—”
“So I’ll take it off you. We’ll wrap your ribs again when we get back to the house.” As her hands wandered over his bruised shoulders, Charity felt a familiar flame licking inside her. She found the end of the wide, white strip of linen and uncoiled it quickly. “You’re not one to sleep in your own dirt, Dillon,” she added in a husky voice. “You’ll thank me for this, truly you will.”
Devereau couldn’t bear to disappoint her, and he prayed that the fall from his horse hadn’t made him too sore—or temporarily unable—to respond to the invitation in her glimmering eyes. They removed the rest of their clothing as quickly as their aching limbs would allow and slipped into the water.
Charity shuddered, grabbing for her husband. “Why didn’t you warn me how cold—”
“Because I hoped you’d cling to me this way,” he murmured as he coaxed her legs around him. “You’ve become quite the hoyden, Charity.”
“Don’t tell Jackson, or he’ll join us.” She nibbled his ear and then playfully rubbed against him, delighting in her power to arouse his desire. His skin felt warm and slick beneath the water, and the light stubble on his chin rubbed her seductively as he kissed the ridge of her jaw and the hollows of her collarbone. Charity let her head loll back, luxuriating in the tenderness of a tongue that caressed first one breast and then the other.
Despite their buoyancy in the chest-deep water, Dillon’s legs trembled and he thought better of sliding her down onto his manhood. He loosened his grip, allowing her to skim against him until her breasts bobbed in the water again. “We’d better save it for bed,” he whispered. “If I slip in this mud, we’re both goners.”
Realizing how valiantly he was hiding his pain, Charity nipped her lip. “I’m sorry, Dillon. I forgot—”
“You are not! You’re taking advantage of my weakened state, and you know it.”
She smiled coyly. “Well, there’s one part of you that feels plenty strong—Golden Peacock!”
“You little ...” Dillon lowered his eyelids, chuckling. “I think it’s time we douse this Hair of Flame— don’t you?”
Charity shrieked as her husband tossed her toward the center of the stream. He dove after her, pushing her under the water until they tussled beneath the surface, rolling over each other with a playfulness that heightened their desire. When Dillon found her nipples with his lips she retaliated by gripping him between the legs.
He surfaced with a raucous hoot. Charity popped up close behind him, shaking her wet hair so it would slap him on the back. They turned to each other, laughing as they shared another hug.
“We’d better bathe,” Dillon whispered against her ear. “Jackson won’t sit idly by while we’re having so much fun.”
“You’re right. And it’s getting dark.” She fetched the bar of lilac soap from her pile of clean clothing, and lovingly stroked Dillon’s shoulders with it. “Mmm . . . Golden Peacock smell pretty,” she teased.
“Golden Peacock get his revenge come bedtime, woman,” He took his turn with the soap, gently caressing her breasts, her back . . . her slender thighs and the soft coils between them. Charity’s wet skin radiated heat and desire; her heart throbbed against his own as he held her for a lingering kiss.
Their escort was silent as he walked them back to the sod house, staying a few steps behind. Dillon didn’t care—he felt too invigorated to humor Blue’s disapproval or jealousy or whatever was making him glower. At the door he kissed his wife and then swatted her behind. “Tell your father to join us out here while you get ready for bed,” he suggested.
Charity nodded, still radiant from their foreplay and anticipating a more satisfying embrace. After Papa stepped outside, she pulled one of her new nightgowns from her suitcase, aware that in a one-room shack there was no way to make love without the other occupants knowing it. She stepped into the far shadows, contemplating this problem as she removed the gingham dress.
Male voices drifted inside, Jackson Blue’s sounding as crass as ever. “You’re stronger than I thought, if you can throw your woman across the stream.”
“You were spying on us?”
“She screamed. I thought she was drowning.”
Charity rammed her arms into the sleeves of her nightie. How dare he watch, when he knew damn well—
“My point is,” the Indian’s deep voice went on, “that I suspect you’ll be on your way soon. I’m telling you again to leave well enough alone, Devereau. After Powers pulls his heist in Dodge, he plans to disappear to San Francisco—by this time he and Maggie are probably on the train. Why waste your time and money chasing after a woman who’ll make you extremely sorry if you catch her?”
Papa coughed. “What did Powers do to the Cheyenne that prompted them to kidnap Charity? They obviously mistook her for Marcella.”
“Part of it was cocksure stupidity,” the Indian replied, “but they had good reason to be after that pair. The tribe nearly starved last winter because Powers and the government agent sold the beef and commodities meant to supply the Cheyenne for several months. He told Dull Knife the cattle never made it to the railhead. Maggie apparently let the truth slip when she was distracting Soaring Eagle and the tribal elders, while Powers was playing the sympathetic railroad representative. You’re married to one slippery bitch, Reverend.”
Papa’s response was indignant, yet it sounded as though he agreed with Blue and planned to let Mama slip away. THEY weren’t held prisoner with only drugged water to keep them alive—THEY didn’t feel Broken Willow’s spit on their faces, Charity fumed. She crossed her arms tightly, debating whether to march outside and remind them about what she’d suffered because of Mama and Powers, but she crawled onto the bed instead. It was just like a bunch of men to decide what was best for her without asking her opinion!
Outside, Dillon’s battered body ached and all thoughts of taking delight in his wife vanished while he listened to Blue’s arguments. The scout looked expectantly at him, for the answer to a question he hadn’t been paying attention to. “I’ll consider your advice,” he hedged, “but I have my own reasons for confronting Powers. And I doubt Charity’s ready to give up either.”
“You’re a fool to let her wheedle you into this,” Blue retorted. “Haven’t you taken enough abuse because of her wild-ass ideas?”
He was suddenly too exhausted to fight back. “I’ve been called worse than a fool for listening to a woman, gentlemen,” he said wearily, “and I’m going to bed.”
The cabin was dark except for the red glow of embers in the fireplace, and it took his eyes a moment to pick out the few pieces of furniture. Charity was stretched out next
to the wall, looking as pathetic as an undernourished kitten beneath the folds of her nightgown. Again he chided himself for getting involved in the Scotts’ personal business—for encouraging them on a journey that had nearly cost Charity her life.
But a deal was a deal, and his feisty wife would remind him of that if he told her they weren’t traveling any farther. Dillon let his pants drop, trying to recall the feel of her wet, satiny skin and the grip of her legs wrapped around him, and the wild abandon she’d driven him to when they frolicked in the stream. He knew ways to keep her on the verge of exploding until Blue and her father were asleep, ways to love her that wouldn’t wake them up ... unless she moaned in that alley-cat way she had.
As he stretched out beside her, he caught the warm scent of lilacs, and his manhood snapped to attention. If he could keep his strength up—and keep her quiet . . .
But she was already asleep.
Once again Charity awoke to the rich aromas of bacon and coffee and cornmeal mush. All traces of the drug had left her body and she felt alert and refreshed. Glancing around the small shack, she realized the men had gone outside so she could dress.
She quickly donned the blue gingham gown and tried to tame hair that was unruly from being slept on wet. When she stepped outside, her husband and his companions were seated on inverted wooden crates, drinking coffee. “Breakfast smells wonderful,” she said, managing a smile for their host.
Three unshaven faces looked at her over tin cups, only Dillon’s hinting at any enthusiasm. “You slept well, I trust?” Blue asked.
It occurred to Charity that he and her father had spent the night on bedrolls, which accounted for
Papa’s sullen expression. “Yes, thank you,” she replied pertly, “and if Dillon feels up to traveling, we won’t bother you any longer.”
The Indian stood, as if to establish his authority. “And where will you go, Mrs. Devereau?”
Charity saw no purpose in pussyfooting around her reply. A wagon was parked off to the side of the soddie—they’d needed it to carry the luggage here, of course—and Satan and a pair of horses were grazing the sparse grass in the shade of the house. “I overheard your conversation last night,” she replied staunchly, “and Dodge City is our logical destination. If we leave after breakfast, we might catch Mama and Powers before they hightail it to California.”
Jackson rolled his eyes and Papa quickly stood up. “Haven’t you witnessed enough of your mother’s brazen behavior?” he demanded. “What can we possibly gain by confronting her, daughter? What’s left to say?”
Charity caught Dillon’s amused smile and thought, He’s learning. Then she looked each of them straight in the eye. “Satisfaction,” she stated. “The satisfaction of hearing Mama admit to all the terrible cons she’s pulled, and the chance to ask why she left us in the first place. That’s what you’re afraid to hear, isn’t it?”
Her father reached up to grip his lapels, preparing for a lecture, but he lost steam when he realized he wasn’t wearing his coat. He had secrets he wasn’t telling her, yet Charity felt sorry for him out here, so far removed from the domain of his pulpit. She sighed and smiled at him. “You’ve got to go to Dodge to catch the train home anyway, Papa. You might as well go with us.”
Chapter 19
Charity could only gape as they entered Dodge City, too amazed to notice the blazing sun or the way her dress clung to her sweaty body. Dillon was driving them along the widest main street she’d ever seen— with railroad tracks down its center!—yet their path was too clogged with excited people for the horses to make much headway. “What’s going on?” she murmured, unable to take her eyes from the mass of humanity that surrounded them.
Papa shifted beside her on the cramped wagon seat. “They say Dodge City’s the Babylon of the frontier, and I believe it! One saloon after the other! Don’t any of these people work for a living?”
Chuckling, Dillon reined in the horses to avoid running over a gaggle of giggling ladies. “It’s the Fourth of July,” he reminded them. “There’s a banner up ahead. What’s it say?”
Charity squinted at the sign. “Independence Day parade, two o’clock. It must be nearly—”
“One-thirty,” her father declared as he snapped his pocket watch shut. “Why do I have the feeling we’ll get our pockets picked, or at the very least be stranded without a hotel room? I knew we shouldn’t have come here!”
Devereau kept his grin to himself. Noah Scott had complained for the entire trip, clearly hoping Marcella and Erroll were long gone. “Horse thieving’s the most prevalent crime here,” he reassured his riders. “However, I’ve heard rumors that a man could break all ten commandments in one night, die with his boots on, and be buried in Boot Hill the next morning. Sounds like a town that needs divine guidance, Reverend.”
Her father let out a snort, unimpressed, while Charity read the saloon signs they were passing . . . the Alamo, the Alhambra, the Long Branch. They stopped in front of Wright and Beverly’s mercantile, where two white, mounted buffalo flanked the doorway.
“I’ll check the Dodge House first,” her husband was saying, “and if it’s full I’ll ask the saloon keepers about lodgings. No doubt some of them remember me.”
Charity watched him swing down a little stiffly from the wagon seat. “I suppose you’ve been kicked out of this town, too?”
Dillon laughed, holding his sides to keep his ribs from aching. “No, sweetheart, I’ve never been to Dodge. Some of these establishments were hauled here on flatcars from Abilene and Wichita. You’ll be perfectly safe until I return—these people are too excited about the parade to get nasty.”
As he headed for the boardwalk, he was swallowed up by the crowd, and Charity’s insides twinged. What if there were no rooms available? What if Mama and Erroll Powers were already on the train—or if not, how could she hope to locate them in a town so full of boisterous people?
The sun suddenly beat hotter on the back of her neck and she scooted away from Papa to cool off. If they didn’t start looking soon, they’d miss Mama for sure ...all these days wasted, and her father would never let her forget it. She couldn’t expect Dillon to escort them all the way to California, so perhaps Dodge City was the end of the line for their marriage, as well as their search.
Her throat tightened at the thought of losing him. A band was tuning up, and people were finding places to stand along Front Street, but none of Dodge City’s gaiety touched her. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about what life would be like without Dillon, and the bustle of activity around them made the odds seem overwhelmingly stacked against remaining his wife. Their unorthodox deal had seemed like the only alternative at the time, yet now—
“That husband of yours is taking his sweet time about coming back,” her father muttered as he tugged at his shirt collar. “We’ll be swept up into the parade if we don’t move this wagon soon. Perhaps I should trade places with you and drive us—”
“Sit down!” she snapped, and was immediately sorry. She was as apprehensive about confronting her mother as Papa was, and her nerves were shot after listening to him yammer all morning. Maybe Dillon knew they wouldn’t find Mama and he’d already abandoned them, to avoid a bitter good-bye. Maybe another of his former flames had come to Dodge . . . such a town offered dozens of opportunities to a man in his profession. Maybe he thought Soaring Eagle had coupled with her while she was drugged ... he hadn’t made the slightest move toward her during the night.
And then he was looking up into her face, his smile framed by a mustache that shone with golden highlights. “We’re set,” he said, and he pulled himself slowly up to the seat. “Two of the fanciest rooms in town are waiting for us, and the first person to protest can spend the night in the Elephant Barn with the cowpokes and the vagrants.”
Charity glanced at Papa’s furrowed brow, and then at Dillon, whose expression remained unruffled. “Where are we staying?” she murmured as the wagon jerked to a start.
“With a friend.�
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The band down the street struck a few opening chords and then piped a jaunty rendition of “Yankee Doodle,” which sent pedestrians scurrying to the boardwalks to watch the parade’s beginning. A few in the crowd applauded their wagon, and Dillon gave them a ceremonious wave, as though he were the lead entry. Charity chuckled, and as he steered the horses down a side alley, he hoped she would retain her sense of humor. He halted the wagon behind a frame building, glancing at their reactions as the back door was swung open by a scantily clad young woman with a come-hither smile.
“Where are we?” Charity murmured. Their greeter’s lacy camisole gaped over an ample bosom and was tucked into pantalets that displayed lush hips and calves. She felt Papa’s temperature rise with his indignation.
Devereau leaned in front of his wife to speak to Scott. “Reverend, I got us the only rooms I could find—and only because two of Miss Silks’s ladies were nice enough to accommodate us. A show of appreciation is in order here, or there’s the Elephant Barn down the way.”
His tone was friendly but firm, and Charity felt her father holding his breath while the fetching brunette kept smiling at them. Finally, he relaxed and tore his eyes from her. “I never thought I’d see the night I slept in a bordello,” Papa said in a tight voice, “but I can’t very well have my suit smelling like a stable either.”
Dillon coughed to keep from laughing, because Noah was enjoying the scenery more than he would admit. “Well then, let’s unload our luggage and get settled. From our windows we should have an excellent view of the festivities.”
As they stepped inside, Charity doubted that Erroll Powers’ mansion could be any more lavish. The flocked wallpaper, fringed lampshades, and gleaming mahogany woodwork were rivaled only by the exquisite gowns or underthings on the boarders, who eyed them as they carried their belongings to the second floor. The upstairs hallway had a large, lace-curtained window at its end, from which three silk fannies blossomed. The ladies were waving gaily at the parade, unaware that a preacher and his family were passing behind them.
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