In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  In his impatience, Trig’s hand assisted hers while the other gripped a handful of her wrapper. Ignoring the countless buttons that would only delay him, he pulled up, bunching the cambric into a tangle at her hips and baring her slender thighs.

  “Christ, you’re beautiful.” He fisted his hand into the satin weight of her hair, kissed her long and deep.

  But he forced himself to slow down, to give her time to change her mind while they still could.

  “We can stop, Carleigh,” he said, his tone husky against the curve of her neck. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

  “I want to.”

  Yes, Carleigh thought, drowning in the fervor of their ardor. She wanted to. She’d come too far not to seek completion now.

  She took his face between his hands and brought his mouth back to hers. With no further words between them, her thighs parted and her knees bent, inviting him, preparing for him. He fit his body to hers, hip to hip. Her body moved beneath his, a silent plea to end their torture, to bring it to blissful fruition.

  His blade probed her flesh and found the barrier of her virginity. Carleigh’s breath hitched at the sharp, swift reality of all that was happening. He rocked with her gently, firmly, and once he was through, she arched against him with a cry.

  He plunged deeper, sweeping away her pain and uncertainty with his thrusts until he built her higher, so high, until she could climb no further, until she was left to shatter in sudden, blinding climax.

  But as the diaphanous fog from their coupling lifted, shards of dread crept in. They fused together, piece by piece, to slice through her with the cold finality of truth.

  With a whimpering sob, she pushed against him. Hard enough to take him by surprise. He thumped onto his side to the mattress.

  “Oh, God. Get off me.” Carleigh heaved in a hoarse breath. “What have I done? What have I done?”

  She scrambled from beneath him, her hands clawing at her wrapper in a desperate need to cover herself. Horror coursed through her, biting and harsh.

  Oh, God.

  She bolted from the bed, yanking the cambric past her thighs, shielding herself from him. Her arms wrapped tight about her torso; her knees buckled. She feared she might faint.

  “Carleigh.” Trig spoke her name roughly. His arm extended toward her, his fingers moving in a beckoning gesture. “Come here.”

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently. “No, no.”

  He swore and pushed himself to a sitting position.

  “Stay away from me, Trig. I—I mean, Mr. Mathison. I’ll scream. I swear it.”

  The room spun and swayed. She sucked in a breath. Two, three. She wavered on the edge of hysteria.

  He swore again, savagely, and got up from the bed. He fastened each pants button in little jerks. She stumbled to the chair, the one that held their coats, and fell into it. She drew her knees up to her chest and curled into a tight ball of misery.

  He stepped toward her, and she cried out.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she said.

  He halted again. “Carleigh. Don’t do this.”

  “Do what, Mr. Mathison? Regret what I’ve done? I’ve just had sex with a man I don’t know. Am I supposed to simply roll over and fall asleep?”

  For a moment, he said nothing. “It’s done. Don’t torture yourself for it.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair, heaved a hard breath. “I shouldn’t have—“

  “Don’t touch me ever again.”

  A muscle moved in his lean cheek. “Get into the bed. I’ll sleep in the chair tonight.”

  “I can’t sleep there. Not after we—after what just happened. I can’t.”

  His eye narrowed. “Carleigh.”

  “My dog. Spencer. Bring him to me.” She swallowed. “Please.”

  For a moment, she thought he’d refuse. He stood there, looking grim in the firelight, his stance rigid. Finally, he pivoted toward the fireplace where Spencer slept and lifted him by one hand. He gave him to Carleigh, and she snuggled him against her breast.

  Turning, he pulled a blanket and pillow off the bed, draped them over her, covering her body and most of the chair in the process. Refusing to meet his dark-eyed glance, she burrowed into their warmth without thanks.

  She stared past him into the fire in the block.

  She would never be the same again.

  Chapter 4

  Carleigh didn’t know how long she sat there staring at the dwindling fire, her body numb, her thoughts frozen in her head. She knew only that time ceased to exist. Her life, the purity and innocence of it, had been taken from her forever.

  Her first real attempt at independence had failed miserably. She’d used poor judgment. Never had she done anything so shocking as what she did with Trig Mathison. Or irresponsible. Or foolish and reprehensible and so positively appalling she could never forgive herself for it.

  Never.

  She behaved with all the morals of a harlot. There was not a lower class of woman. None more despised by respectable society. And now she, Carleigh Chandler, proper and upright from the moment she drew her first breath, was no better.

  What could she have been thinking, allowing a man to enter her body as Trig Mathison had done? All because she'd been feeling sorry for herself from her father's deceit? Because she'd been hungry for comfort? Because she needed to have the world made right again, and Trig's kisses and sheltering embrace had done all that?

  The depth of that need didn't matter. Not now, and she allowed herself no forgiveness for her actions. The self-loathing rolled through her, over and over again, heavy and oppressive.

  He might have given her a baby.

  The thought burst inside her brain with no warning, and she drew in a slow breath at the realization. His seed would be strong, as powerful and determined as he. His child could be growing inside her womb even now.

  Carleigh's gaze dragged from the flames to study him on the bed. Pillows propped him against the headboard, making him appear both formidable and relaxed in sleep.

  He still wore his boots and black pants, his long legs stretched out before him, one ankle over the other. He was shirtless, his chest broad and taut with muscle, his skin shadowed and bronzed from the sun.

  Her gaze pulled away and touched on a small, ashes-filled bowl on the mattress next to him. He'd smoked one cigarette after another, his unfathomable, hooded gaze rarely leaving her, as if he found it imperative to keep her constantly in his sight.

  As if her anguish concerned him.

  Why, she couldn't fathom. He could've left her and not looked back. After all, he got what he wanted, didn't he? He’d taken his physical release from her with a great deal of pleasure. Of that she had no doubt.

  What thoughts went through his dark head afterward? Did he experience regret? Triumph? Or did he feel nothing at all?

  They didn't exchange a single word after he covered her with the blanket. Hours passed, and eventually he'd fallen asleep.

  But he had stayed.

  Why?

  You're far away from your father's house.

  Unbidden, the words Trig said sailed into her memory.

  How did he even know she had a father and that she fled far away from his house?

  Suspicion surfaced inside Carleigh. Infused her with a spark of renewed life. The spark flickered and flared, burned into her soul, igniting the suspicions inside her until they raged for answers.

  He knew her somehow. He knew her. Even before she revealed her name to the hotel clerk downstairs, Trig Mathison had known who she was.

  And he'd been waiting for her when she found herself without a room for the night. He strode forward at just the right moment, when she needed him the most, and slipped into her life, rescuing her and her dog and invoking her naïve gratitude and respect.

  Who was he?

  Her glance darted to his leather bag only a few feet away. She thought of the conten
ts inside, of what they might reveal.

  Trig slept quietly; his bare chest rose and fell in rhythmic breathing. She pulled the blanket from her shoulders, laid Spencer on the floor, taking care not to disturb him, and slid from the chair. Kneeling next to the bag, she tugged at the brass latch holding it closed.

  It didn't budge. Her mouth formed a grimace of frustration. She hadn't an inkling of where Trig might keep the key, and her mind groped for a solution.

  Her hairpins on the dresser. She tiptoed across the room and plucked one from the dresser top, then cast a nervous glance toward Trig. He hadn't moved. She didn't want to think what he would do if he discovered her going through his things.

  Kneeling again before the bag, she slipped the pin into the keyhole and worked the thin metal against the tumbler. It wasn’t her habit to burglarize locks, and while her fingers moved frantically back and forth, she prayed the hairpin would work magic.

  Suddenly, the latch snapped open, the sound startling her in the silence of the room. Her eyes closed in trepidation, her ears braced for Trig’s wrath. But hearing nothing, her eyes opened again. With every sense attuned to him, she opened the leather case, plunged her hand inside and groped past denim Levis, cotton shirts, woolen socks. Finding nothing unusual, her desperation growing, her fingers swept the sides and latched onto a paper envelope.

  She snatched it from the bag. Twisting toward the firelight, she stared at the contents.

  Cash. Lots of it. And tucked amongst the bills was the letter from her mother.

  Shock slammed into her.

  The bastard.

  Everything fell into place with chilling clarity. Her father had hired him to bring her back home. She should have known Papa would be so underhanded and conniving. Worse, Trig would be as determined as he to keep her from finding her mother.

  Her breath quickened. She had to escape Trig. Now. This minute. Before he awakened and learned she knew who he was, what he intended.

  The bedsheets rustled behind her, and she froze, heart pounding. Trig shifted on the mattress, his long, lean body changing position in sleep. His dark head swiveled on the pillow and angled away from her.

  She didn't move for second after pulse-tripping second. Finally, assured he hadn't awakened, she hurried to gather her clothing.

  Thank God she'd not strewn it all about the room. She dropped the envelope into her own satchel, scooped up her stockings, shoes and dress where they laid neatly next to the bathtub, added her coat from the chair and Spencer's leash, and clutched the entire heap to her chest. With her free hand, she grasped the satchel's handle, hastened toward her little dog, and gathered him up, too, hoping, praying, he’d not bark and give her away.

  She halted, her gaze darting to the lamp table. The pair of room keys were still there, forgotten in the sequence of events which transpired after Trig’s arrival. Carleigh grabbed them.

  She fumbled with the door handle and its lock, turned the knob with agonizing slowness, and pulled the door open just wide enough that she could slip through, then once in the hall, pull it closed again.

  The wooden floor chilled her bare feet. Silence surrounded her. All the patrons of the hotel were sound asleep in their beds, but she knew no victory, only a frantic desperation that Trig Mathison would not let her go so easily, that once he woke and found her gone, he’d rush after her, determined to find her again.

  She pushed one of the keys into the mortise, turned it to set the lock and barricaded Trig inside.

  But how long would the bolt hinder him?

  Ornate sconces were mounted on the wall outside the door frames of each hotel room. Their dim electrical lighting chased away the pre-dawn darkness.

  Carleigh eased her load onto the floor. She had little with which to delay Trig, but if nothing else, she was an expert at knot-tying.

  She hooked one end of Spencer’s leash around the door knob, then reached up on tiptoe to wrap the other around the base of the wall sconce. Working quickly, she twisted the leather into another small circle, brought the end around the sconce yet again, then down through the loop. After pulling as hard as she could, she tested the bowline. Satisfied it was taut and the leather would not give easily, she collected her untidy bundle and hurried toward the stairs.

  The lock and lashing would prevent Trig from opening the door. By the time he managed to free himself, she would be back on the Wells Fargo Stage and on her way to Mexico.

  The mid-afternoon sun poured inward from the open window of the stagecoach, and Carleigh squeezed her eyes shut against the brilliance. Dust coated her tongue, her skin, her clothing. Weariness soaked into her bones. The coach hurtled over the rutted road at high speed, jarring her tired body and preventing the sleep she craved.

  Yet she was glad the burly driver was again at the reins. He drove like a demon escaping the fires of hell, but with the skill of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and thrilling at the danger of it. With every passing hour that dragged by, the six-horse team brought her closer to her mother.

  And farther away from Trig.

  The dawning of a new day and her flight from the Central Hotel brought with them a new perspective of the night. She couldn’t banish Trig from her thoughts, though God alone knew how hard she tried. She didn’t want to think of him, of how she’d melted from the mastery of his touch and the knee-buckling power of his kisses. For he was like no other man she’d known before.

  No other.

  The memory of his arms and body warm against hers haunted her still. He shattered her girlish dreams of falling in love. Of gifting her husband with virginity in the marital bed. He forever changed the woman she was.

  And, by her own weakness, by the wine and lust coursing through her veins, she had allowed it.

  Carleigh fidgeted on the hard seat at the truth of it. In spite of him being her father’s hired man, the act of making love with Trig Mathison had not been . . . unpleasant.

  Not ‘made love’, Carleigh reminded herself with a groan loud enough to draw the curiosity of her fellow passengers. Sex. When he’d had sex with her. There was no ‘love’ about it.

  What had he done when he discovered she was gone?

  What was he doing now?

  She pressed her fingers to her temples and forced him from her mind. She had to concentrate on getting to Mexico. She couldn’t think of the repercussions that would ensue if Trig caught up with her again.

  Carleigh glanced down at her mother’s letter, clutched in her hand. Seeing her handwriting, touching the paper she had touched, made her seem more real.

  More alive.

  Carleigh lifted the missive to her nose, inhaled deeply in search of some scent of her, her perfume perhaps, but she caught only the scent of leather from Trig’s bag, and thoughts of him rushed into her head all over again.

  Exasperated, she tucked the letter securely into one of the deep pockets of her coat. Spencer huddled on her lap, and she drew her hand back and forth along his furry back in absent petting. Without a leash to restrain him, she kept him constantly in her arms and took comfort from his presence, as she always did.

  She stared out the window. The vast California countryside seemed to go on forever and did little to make the time pass any faster. Conversation with the other passengers held no appeal. They were all men anyway, and if they took much notice of a woman traveling alone with her little dog, she ignored them.

  Her eyelids drooped. She’d not slept since two nights hence, and even then, not very well. She rested her head against the side of the coach and succumbed to the exhaustion.

  A sudden gunshot brought her head up again with a start. Had she slept at all? Spencer jumped to all fours from his curled position on her lap and growled.

  Carleigh’s heart pounded; she kept a firm hold on him. “Is someone shooting at us?”

  “Can’t tell,” one of the passengers replied.

  He sat to her right, a kind, grandfatherly type whose name she’d learned was Tom. A concerned frown
formed beneath his grayish-white moustache, and he bent forward to peer out the window.

  Carleigh forced her fear down. If there was trouble, the driver of the Wells Fargo would know what to do. She trusted him in that. It was his job to keep his passengers safe, wasn’t it?

  Another gunshot split the air, then another, and she flinched. Tom and the other passengers murmured their alarm, their gazes straining to see what was happening.

  The stagecoach slowed when Carleigh much preferred it to continue its breakneck speed. She heard the driver’s booming voice, then another’s farther away.

  “How many are they?” demanded one of the men, an Easterner judging from the nasal twang of his accent.

  “Don’t know, but them outlaws travel in packs. Probably plan to steal us blind,” Tom said grimly.

  “Outlaws!” Carleigh gasped, thinking of the thick envelope of money in her satchel, stored high on the top of the stagecoach. She clutched Spencer tighter.

  “Whatever happens, young lady, just be real quiet and do what they tell you. I’ve heard tell these men are ruthless.” His frown deepening, Tom patted her knee.

  The rig’s wheels ground to a halt, and the harnesses on the team fell silent. Carleigh swallowed, her ears pricked to the low rumble of male voices and the words she couldn’t discern.

  “The driver’s comin’ down off the box.” Tom assumed the role of announcer of all that was happening to the others. He leaned over her, his position closest to the window allowing him the best vantage point. “Looks like he’s headin’ this way.”

  Carleigh pressed deeper into the seat and wished she could disappear. Abruptly, the coach’s door opened. Emerson squinted inside, a sheaf of papers in his big hand. His bushy-eyed gaze landed on Carleigh.

  “You Mrs. Mathison?” he demanded.

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  He shook his head, not bothering to repeat the question. He turned away to speak to someone behind him.