Prairie Moon

by Maggie Osborne

  When she realized their eyes had locked across the table and the air had shifted, her mouth went dry. Usually she attributed the tension between them to irritation or frustration at a situation. That was easier to accept than to give the tension its true name. But she felt her breath quicken and knew what she experienced was wanton longing. She had felt it and fought it for a long time.

  “I’m impulsive and bad tempered,” she whispered, feeling the need to build a wall.

  “I don’t give a damn.” He stared at her lips.

  “I carry grudges. Look how long I’ve blamed and hated the Wards.” She looked at the knots rising and falling along his jaw.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Oh Lord, she was falling into an abyss, spinning, tumbling, dizzy with wanting him. No wall would keep them apart.

  Cameron swore softly and she wondered if she had spoken aloud. He stared at her through narrowed eyes. “I’m going to take you back to the hotel,” he said softly, speaking between his teeth. “Then I’m going to the gentlemen’s-club room to smoke and drink.”

  She didn’t understand. A minute ago she would have wagered everything she owned that he felt the same raw needs that she did. She would have bet the earth that he ached with wanting her as she ached with needing him.

  “Cameron.” Her voice was a whisper. “What is it?” She couldn’t have been wrong. She saw his desire in his hard, intent gaze, read it in the clenched fists resting on the tablecloth. “This thing, this secret, has been between us too long. In the name of heaven, tell me and let’s be done with it. Cameron, I beg you.”

  Pain thinned his lips and tightened his expression, hurting her to witness it. Della drew a breath and held it, knowing she was seeing something that few people, if any, had seen. Impulsively she reached across the table and placed her palm over his balled fist. “Oh, Cameron, I’m sorry. Whatever it is—I’m sorry.”

  A sound close to despair grew out of his throat. “Don’t say another word. Not a word.” He moved his fist away from her hand and stood abruptly. “I should have told you long ago. It’s a blot on my honor that I didn’t.” Briefly he closed his eyes, then stared at her. “I swear to you. I’ll tell you everything after you’ve seen your daughter.”

  Della looked up in astonishment. His pain and the tone of his voice almost frightened her. She would have said that James Cameron couldn’t feel that level of pain or despair, that he had left such emotions far behind him. In fact, no one watching Cameron now would guess what Della was seeing because she knew him and she loved him and she read him with her heart.

  Silently she stood and took his arm. And for the first time fear vanquished her curiosity. She no longer wanted to know his secret.

  Chapter 17

  An hour ago Della had turned out the lamps, leaving the fire burning for warmth and light. Sitting in the center of her bed, she brushed her hair with long, even strokes and listened for any sound from the adjoining room.

  Cameron had returned about thirty minutes ago, she’d heard his hallway door close then movement followed by silence. A few minutes later she’d caught the fragrant scent of one of his thin cigars and pictured him sitting in bed, smoking in the dark. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, either.

  Lowering her brush, she stared unseeing into the low flames flickering in the hearth. Would it be so wrong for two lonely people to reach out to each other? Just this one time? Would it harm anyone? Offend anyone?

  She and Cameron were mature adults who understood that sex was not commitment. There would be no misunderstandings. And they would respect each other no less for having shared themselves. She knew this because she knew herself and she knew him. There would be awkwardness tomorrow, but it would melt like morning mist. And sex would complicate an association that already felt tangled, but they would manage those complications.

  He wanted her. Despite his pulling back, Cameron needed her. Della knew that, sensed it with every cell in her body.

  But he would never walk through that door and come to her. It would never happen. He would not betray his friendship with Clarence, nor would he betray the role he’d assumed of being her protector.

  If they were ever to find comfort in each other’s arms, Della would have to go to him. She swallowed hard and stared at the connecting doors. Could she be that brazen? Was she really that emancipated from the constricted woman she once had been? Did she need him that much?

  Slowly she lowered the hairbrush to her lap. Her hands trembled. Don’t think about it, just do it, she ordered herself. This was destined from the first. It’s right, it’s so right. But you must go to him.

  Slipping from the bed, she moved on bare feet to the door, and opened her side. Then, heart pounding, she drew a deep breath and eased his door open.

  A fire burned low in Cameron’s fireplace, but it was the light from her hearth that fell through the doors and onto the bed. He lay against the pillows, one hand on an upraised knee, the other holding a cigar.

  Della wet her lips, wishing to heaven that he would say something. She couldn’t read his expression. “James,” she said in a low, uncertain voice. “If you send me back to my room, I will die of humiliation.”

  Without taking his eyes off her, Cameron stubbed out the cigar in an ashtray on the side table. She couldn’t know that the light behind her turned her nightgown transparent and he could see the curve of her waist and the shapely length of her legs. His throat dried and his arousal was instant.

  Cameron knew what was right and honorable, knew what he had to do. But he also knew what it had cost her to open the doors and come to him. He knew he would damage her if he rejected her. First, he had to accept her, and then he had to tell her the whole truth. Heaven knew this was not the moment he would have chosen, and he cursed beneath his breath.

  He opened his arms. “Come here.”

  The air ran out of her in a rush of relief, and she ran across the space that separated them, hesitated, then climbed onto his bed. “Thank God. I was afraid you might not . . .”

  He framed her face between his hands and stroked his thumbs along the contours of her lips, stopping her nervous words. Her cheeks were soft beneath his palms, and her lips were wide and smooth. She was in his bed.

  Gently he guided her into his arms and held her, feeling the warmth of her breasts against his shirt front, her breath on his neck.

  “We have to talk,” he said hoarsely.

  He’d wanted to bury his hands in her loose hair almost from the first moment he’d seen her, and he did so now, letting the silken weight spill through his fingers. Her hair was thicker, heavier than he’d imagined, but as wonderful and erotic as he had fantasized it would be. Della was in his bed. The wonder of it awed him.

  Bowing his head, he inhaled the scent of her skin, and a sound emerged from deep in his throat. He should send her away. Now. He absolutely knew it. Right now. But he had loved her for so long. He had needed someone—this someone—all of his life. At this moment he saw his life for what it was and what it would always be, lonely and alone. No one had gotten as close to him as the woman in his arms. How could he send her away? Miraculously she was in his bed, in his arms.

  “James, kiss me.”

  He brought his mouth down hard on hers, letting his passion punish her for bringing him something he could not have. He plundered and invaded, took what she offered and more. When they leaned apart, their breathing was hot and ragged, and he had never wanted a woman more in his life.

  “Good Lord,” she whispered, her eyes wide, her face lit by firelight. “Never in my life have I been kissed like that! I didn’t even know . . .”

  “Della, listen to me.” He tried to clear the hoarseness from his throat. He was a selfish bastard, kissing her when he had no right. Wanting her so much that his hands shook. “Stop. I have to talk to you.”

  “Now?” She kissed his throat, let her tongue touch his skin.

  “Oh God.” Smothering a groan, he caught her hands before she touch
ed him again, demonstrating a depth of control that he hadn’t known he possessed. “Now.”

  Her head fell back and she gazed at him from eyes smoky with desire. Her lips parted. “There’s nothing you have to say that won’t wait for thirty minutes.”

  She kissed him again and this time it was her tongue that tasted and explored while she opened the buttons down his shirt, leaving a trail of tingling heat where her fingertips brushed his skin.

  He cursed, hating himself for wavering. Needing her like a drowning man needs air. While he could still think, he tried one last time. “Della, we cannot do this. When you hear what I have to tell you—”

  “Shhh.” She pushed his shirt down, her hands electric and arousing on his shoulders. “Your secret has waited this long, it can wait a little longer.”

  Cameron watched his trembling fingers pull the ribbon at her throat, and then the next ribbon, opening bows that revealed a deep V of creamy, firelit skin. And he couldn’t fight it anymore. He wasn’t that upstanding, wasn’t that strong. He would take this one good thing in his life, this night that she offered, because he couldn’t refuse her. It wasn’t in him.

  “Wait,” he said against her lips. Sliding from the bed, he built up the fire so he could see her better. Then he pushed off his trousers and smiled at her sharp intake of breath. When she fumbled with her nightgown, he shook his head. “No.” Taking her hand, he drew her off the bed and into his arms where he kissed her long and deep, savoring the length of her body pressed against his.

  He wanted to remove her gown himself, revealing her by inches, watching the lace hem slide up her calves, her pale thighs, past a triangle of lustrous brown to the inner curve of her waist, where he paused to kiss her forehead, her eyelids, her temples before he drew the gown to her full, heavy breasts. She gazed into his eyes, her breathing rapid, then she raised her arms and he drew off the nightgown and let it flutter to the floor near their feet.

  “No,” he said when she would have covered herself from shyness or modesty. Gently he drew her arms away. “Let me look at you.”

  Gold and orange shadows played on the perfection of her form. She was all that he had imagined, everything wonderful and splendid that he had ever wanted a woman to be.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, awed by her.

  “So are you.” Lifting a hand, she traced her fingertips along the scar on his shoulder, then touched a more recent scar on his chest. She flattened her palm over the scar that Luke Apple had left, then she closed her eyes and swayed.

  He caught her and lifted her in his arms, felt her hair slide over his bare shoulder and arm before he placed her on the bed. She half sat up and reached for him, but he shook his head and gently pressed her back into the pillows.

  For the first time that he could remember, he wanted to make love instead of having sex. Tonight meant much more than satisfying an urge. Seeing her with her head flung back and her throat arched, caressing her, loving her, was a dream he had carried for years, a dream that would never come true again.

  He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, tasted her skin, made love to each breast, pressed his ear to her heart and listened to her pulse race as loud and fast as his own. He ran his tongue along the inside of her arm while his hands stroked her thighs preparing the way for his mouth.

  When his fingers found her feathery center, she cried out his name and writhed beneath his hand, lifting to him, inflaming him with her desire. But for the first time in his life, a woman’s pleasure was more important than his own.

  He took his time, not hurrying, learning the taste and touch of her beneath his lips and hands, discovering tenderness. And finally, he brought his tongue to the hot liquid center where he teased until she was wild and thrashing and sobbing his name again and again. Only then did he rise above her and thrust forward. Her fingernails gripped his arms, his shoulders. Her hands flew over his chest, his face, his hair. And finally her eyes flew open, she gasped, then she arched up to him with a deep shudder. He dropped his head, kissed her, then let the tension build and build until he could contain it no longer, could only explode in helpless joy.

  It was the worst thing he had ever done.

  When his head cleared and he could breathe, he looked down into her softly shining gaze and detested himself. What he had just done was unforgivable.

  “I had no idea,” she whispered, touching his lips with her fingers. Wonder filled her eyes. “I thought I knew, but I didn’t.”

  “Don’t move.” Easing away from her, he slipped out of bed and poured water into the basin on top of the bureau. After wetting a towel, he returned and sat beside her to blot the perspiration from her forehead and throat. He moved the wet towel toward her breasts, then stopped and pushed the cloth into her hand before turning away to gather her nightgown. “Are you thirsty? I have some whisky.”

  “Just water, please.”

  The fire had burned low, but he didn’t build it up again. The wrong he had just done her tightened his chest with shame. It must show on his face, he thought, drawing on his trousers. And later, when he remembered every detail of tonight, he suspected his shame would deepen when he admitted that he could hate himself for what he’d done without regretting a single moment.

  When she’d had her water and had done up the ribbons on her nightgown, Cameron plumped the pillows against the headboard and drew her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder and placed a hand on his chest. He loved the feel of her silky hair on his skin, and wished they could hold each other and whisper lovers’ words. But the clock was ticking against them. Within mere minutes everything would change. He cleared his throat and felt her tense in his arms.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Not tonight. Your secrets will keep until tomorrow. Please, James.”

  “By not telling you the truth long ago, I’ve done us both a great wrong.” He closed his arms around her and bent his head to inhale the warm fragrance of her hair and skin. In minutes she would jerk away from him.

  “I don’t believe you’ve wronged anyone.” She pressed her palm against his heart.

  She would, and very quickly.

  “I’ve told you about the war,” he said, raising his head and looking into the darkness. He would rather have walked into a hail of bullets than say what had to be said. “But not everything.”

  “I’ve known from the first there was something else to tell,” she said against his chest. In her voice he heard dread mixed with curiosity.

  Speaking into the shadows above her head, he told her about that day in the forest when the war had ended for him. He told her about the man in the gray uniform appearing at the top of the ditch and both of them firing.

  He felt her grow rigid in his arms. “Wait. You said a gray uniform, but you mean blue.”

  “I wore the blue uniform, Della.”

  She sat up and stared down at him with bewilderment and confusion. “But that can’t be,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “That would make you a Yankee.”

  “We both fired.” Looking into her face, he wondered if she could smell the burnt powder or hear the artillery in the distance. He could, and it seemed so real. “The Confederate soldier rolled into the ditch.” Her eyes locked to his, wide and dark and not wanting to believe. “We were trapped together by the bombardment. Eventually I wanted to know who he was, so I went through his pockets.”

  “This was the man you told me about, the soldier who put a face on the enemy.” He could hardly hear her words, but he heard the raw harshness, saw the rapid rise and fall of her breast. “This was the last man you killed, wasn’t it? What was his name, James?” She asked the question, but she moved back on the bed and shook her head as if she didn’t want to hear. A single tear spilled over her lashes and rolled down her cheek before she dashed it away with an angry gesture. “Say his name!”

  He pulled a hand down his face. “You know who it was, Della. It was Clarence Ward.”

  Shaking hands covered her ears, t
hen slid to her lips. Her eyes seemed huge and her face was white with shock. No sound emerged when her lips moved.

  “I don’t know why I kept your letter and his, and your wedding photograph.” Reaching for her or touching her in any way would have been wrong, the worst thing he could do. But he wanted to hold and comfort her. “I regretted taking those items because I realized almost immediately that I’d have to find you and return what was yours.”

  Horror flattened her gaze. “I used to wonder how it had happened, and if Clarence had seen the face of the man who killed him. But when I had the chance to ask about the circumstances, I didn’t.” She blinked then shook her head. “Oh God. You said you were with him when he died, and I assumed . . .”

  He couldn’t bear to see her stunned expression so he swung his legs off the bed and bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing hard at his jaw. There was nothing more to say. He stared at the flickering embers and listened.

  “Everything that happened to me,” she said in a raw voice, working it out, “happened because you fired a rifle that day. I lost my husband, my daughter lost her father. The Wards lost their son. I’m living on a dirt farm in Texas because you were trapped behind the lines. Because of you, I haven’t seen my daughter in ten years. I’m alone with a tarnished reputation, thousands of miles from everything that was familiar . . . because you killed my husband. My whole life changed that day. Everything.”

  A long, rasping moan began in her chest and emerged from the back of her throat. If anguish had a voice, it would sound like this, too painful to bear hearing. “Oh my God! I slept with you!” She pushed herself to the far edge of the bed. “I gave myself to you!”

  There was no defense. Nothing he could say. But he did turn to face her, that seemed the decent thing, and he saw the revulsion that twisted her expression.

  “You son of a bitch. How could you! How could you bed the wife of a man you killed?”

  She flew at him and Cameron saw her swing back her arm, but he didn’t attempt to deflect the blow, didn’t turn away. She hit him hard enough to snap his head to the side. When he faced her, she hit him again and a trickle of blood leaked from his nose. He didn’t notice. Nothing physical could wound as deep as the revulsion and loathing burning in her eyes.