In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “I’ll warrant by the time we’re finished, you’re going to like being naked. You’ll have no shyness with it.” He pulled the shirt off, tossed it aside. “Lift your arms.”

  He grasped the linen, swept it over her head and added the undergarment to the growing pile on the carpet. His heated perusal lowered to her breasts, and he swallowed.

  “Damn, but you’re beautiful,” he said.

  Her nipples puckered, more from the intensity of his gaze and the huskiness in his voice than the coolness in the room. He crooked a finger, drew the knuckle slowly over the peak of one breast, and the nub hardened even more.

  Her pulse faltered. If that one tiny touch could melt her bones, what would the coming night bring?

  She longed to find out. She gave in to her own ache to touch him, and her palms slid across his chest, taut with muscle, dusted with dark hairs. She explored the breadth of him; he was incredibly warm, incredibly strong. She pressed a silent kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat.

  His arms drew her closer, and his embrace flattened her breasts against him. The contact of their skin aroused her nerve endings, and she forgot to breathe.

  “Sweet Carleigh,” he murmured into her hair. His chest rumbled with the words he spoke as tender as an endearment. “Pull back the covers and get into bed. I’ll join you shortly.”

  By the time he dispensed with his trousers and boots, she had snuggled under the covers, pulled clear to her neck.

  He pulled them off again and nudged her onto her belly.

  “What’s this?” she asked, raising up on her elbows and peeking at him over her shoulder. “Some tantalizing torture I’ve yet to know?”

  He chuckled. “No torture, but love as I make it with you.” He freed her hair from its pins and speared his fingers through the dark mass. “Lay down and close your eyes. I want to feel you all over. I want you to feel me touching you.”

  Anticipation sluiced through her, and she eased into the pillow, her cheek against the crisp cotton. The mattress dipped, and he positioned his knees on either side of her, lifted her hair from the back of her neck and pressed his lips to her nape.

  If she loved him nuzzling her from the front, she loved it more so from behind. With only her mind to form the vision of him, she became immersed in the sensuality, the magic, the feel of his touch.

  His open palms stroked down her arms and back up again. He licked her spine, down, down, all the way down to the small of her back. And back up again.

  She moaned at the heat spiraling deep inside her, a hot, delicious heat which only escalated with every stroke of his tongue, every caress of his hands. Her hips moved; she strove to satisfy the building ache. He gently squeezed the flesh of her buttocks, moved upward to trace the dip at her waist, then upward still, skimming the sides of her breasts. He massaged her shoulders, his thumbs soothing between the blades, exciting her. His hands slipped beneath her, and with a breast cupped in each palm, it seemed he surrounded her, that his body could swallow her whole.

  “Trig, oh, God, that’s enough.” She hardly recognized the breathlessness as her own. “I can’t not touch you anymore.”

  She twisted, reaching for him, and he was there, his mouth hot and hard on hers. His blade quivered against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and her legs parted, seeking him. She wanted him inside her, wanted him to fill the throbbing emptiness he’d created.

  “Soon, love. Soon,” he whispered.

  He moved away, lower, leaving her lips wet and swollen, her breathing quick pants of need.

  He took a nipple into his mouth and sucked strongly. She arched toward him with a gasping cry at the way he made her feel, the sensation unlike everything she’d ever experienced before. She was on the brink of falling, falling into some blinding precipice that beckoned and pulled her deeper. Her fingers slid into his hair, holding him to her, knowing she would barely survive this new torture if he didn’t end it soon.

  But she wanted more, and when he took the other nipple to do the same, he sent her catapulting to the brink, ready to shatter into a million pieces. She mewled, shameless and blatant, pleading her female need. Her hips moved beneath him, her knees bent and spread, and rasping her name, he finally rose above her.

  His strong body trembled; every muscle bulged with the effort of holding back, of prolonging the ecstasy. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on his skin. He hovered on the precipice with her, as if to savor it, revel in it, pleasuring them both.

  Suddenly he groaned and found his place within her with a deep thrust. She lifted, meeting him stroke for stroke, gasp for gasp. He drove faster. Deeper. Harder. Until with one final shuddering plunge, they climaxed, filling the room with exultant cries of their completion.

  The ecstasy in Carleigh subsided in languid waves, and a wonderful lethargy took over. Trig sprawled over her with a loud sigh of male satisfaction.

  “A man could get addicted to that.” His face was half-buried in her hair on the pillow. “He’d die one hell of a happy man with you in his bed every night.”

  She smiled and kissed his jaw. “I could say the same about you, you know. Our coupling has exhausted me. But it’s left me wanting for more.”

  He grunted. “Give me a few minutes, Miss Chandler.”

  She laughed and kissed him again. Their lovemaking had been exquisite in every way. What woman wouldn’t want to make love to him?

  He reached over to pull the bedcovers over them, then curled his arm loosely around her neck. Carleigh basked in his warmth, his strength. She snuggled closer and slipped her knee between his thighs.

  She wanted these moments between them to last forever. A lifetime of naked bodies beneath the covers. Of being held and protected by the man she loved.

  Had her mother felt this way about Papa? Surely she loved him once. Perhaps he even loved her, too, at first. Carleigh’s heart squeezed at the pain Belle must’ve endured when he banished her to Mexico.

  “What are you thinking about so hard?” Trig asked, shifting to his back and settling her head against his shoulder.

  “My parents. My mother especially.”

  At her sigh, he smoothed her hair from her cheek. “A prostitute has a hard life, Carleigh. She’s paid to give a man the use of her body for his own pleasure. He doesn’t give much thought to pleasuring her in return. Nothing like what we just had.” His arm tightened around her. “It’s the price she pays to survive when she finds herself with no other choice.”

  It saddened her to think of the life her mother led. Somehow, circumstances in her past had hurtled beyond her control, and she’d been forced to pay too high a price.

  “She deserves another chance,” Carleigh said.

  “Yes. God willing, we’ll give her that chance.”

  But at the somberness in his tone, Carleigh sat up, taking the sheet with her and pressing it to her bosom. That somberness frightened her.

  “What if we fail tomorrow, Trig? What if something goes terribly wrong, and we can’t stop her from going back to Belén? What if I never see her again?”

  “It could happen. I want you to know that.” He grasped her elbow and pulled her back down beside him. “But I’ll try my damnedest to see that it doesn’t. You know that, too, don’t you?”

  She stroked his cheek, felt the slight abrasiveness of his beard against her fingers. Her heart swelled with renewed love for him. With unwavering trust.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good.” He pulled the sheet down and filled his palm with her breast. “Now make love to me again. It’ll be dawn before we know it.”

  The heavenly poppy pulled Liko from the depths of his despair and left him drunk on her rich perfume. He floated on her magic wings, drifted into a velvet world.

  And felt at peace.

  A single candle burned in the tiny opium den. He reclined on the straw mat, a pillow beneath his head, a pipe loose in his hand. Through languid, deliciously heavy lids, he watched the flame flicker in a fasci
nating dance of distortion and color.

  Sweet, gentle peace.

  The mournful notes of a lute reached him through the euphoria, intoxicating him further with the exquisite pleasure of the sound. With every pull of the Black Smoke, he prolonged the soothing caress, the secret to happiness.

  Failing didn’t seem so important now.

  Somewhere deep in his dreamy reality, a thought formed, eloquent and perfect, a buried treasure rising from the abyss of despair and failure. A resolution so stunning, so flawless, it could only have been shaped within his smoky paradise.

  He had a new weapon against the man who had stolen Carleigh from him.

  And his name was Seth Mathison.

  Chapter 17

  A stiff breeze blew off the Pacific Ocean, and Carleigh shivered, whether from the chill or from apprehension, she couldn’t be sure. Gif had gotten them through the wharf’s gates with the assistance of the Collector at the Port, and she crouched in the shadows beside the Customs Warehouse. Inside her coat, Spencer slept quietly, safe inside the sarong she’d fashioned to keep him against her.

  She sensed the tension in Trig. He smoked a cigarette, saying nothing as he watched for Belle’s arrival. The minutes ticked by. Under the cover of darkness, their plan to snatch her out from under Esteban’s nose seemed plausible enough. But with dawn only minutes away, their chances of detection increased dangerously.

  And so did the chances of failure.

  Carleigh feared it more than anything. The failure. What if they were unable to get to her? What if she didn’t arrive at all? What if she had already left, and they didn’t know it?

  All the terrible questions plagued her during the wait. Failure would mean never seeing her again. Belén would swallow her into its horrid depths forever.

  “They’re coming.”

  Trig’s low voice reached her. She had to strain to detect the muted chink of ankle chains, but it was there, slow and shuffling, growing louder as Esteban led her mother across the wharf toward the waiting one-masted sloop, the same one which had brought her from Belén yesterday. A guard walked with them, his gun trained on Belle. She walked stooped and hag-like, pathetic-looking in her disguise.

  “You know what to do, don’t you, Carleigh?” Trig said.

  “Yes.”

  He had gone over the plan with her, over and over again, until she could recite it in her sleep. Her glance slid toward the sloop and the man slouched at the helm, his hat pulled down nearly over his eyes. He appeared to be sleeping, and she fervently hoped he would stay that way. It would be far easier to truss him like a cooked goose if he were caught unaware.

  “Let’s go.”

  Colt cocked, Trig burst from their hiding place. Twenty yards away, Gif started running, too. Carleigh clutched her coil of rope and bolted for the boat.

  Esteban’s head snapped up. He reached for the weapon at his waist.

  “Don’t move, Esteban,” Trig ordered. “Just hold it right there.”

  But Esteban pulled the hammer back and leveled the gun at Trig’s chest.

  “I’m warning you,” Trig snapped. “A friend of mine has a clear shot at your back. You shoot me. He shoots you.”

  Esteban’s sharp glance darted around him, as if gauging the truth in Trig’s threat. “So you want Belle.”

  “That’s right.”

  He spied Carleigh, running toward the boat. “Surely you were not so foolish to bring her daughter?” His mouth twisted. “She could get killed.”

  Abruptly, his gun swung toward her.

  Belle gasped.

  Carleigh kept running. She was nearly there, at the sloop, at the man who still hadn’t moved. She readied the loop of rope--.

  “Get down, Carleigh!” Belle yelled.

  Esteban’s features contorted, and he lunged toward her instead. His arm came up to strike her, and Carleigh’s heart jumped to her throat.

  “Mother!” she cried. “Watch out!”

  Belle reacted instantly and lifted her arms over her face, protecting herself from the imminent blow. Esteban’s fist connected with the chains, and she fell into him. They both sprawled onto the wharf.

  Her dark gray cloak made her difficult to distinguish in the darkness, and Trig swore, clearly frustrated at his inability to shoot at Esteban. She wrestled with him, both rolling on the wharf, and Carleigh screamed her fear.

  “Carleigh! Get to the boat!” Trig yelled. “Go! Now!”

  Esteban reared up over Belle, his fist upraised, and Carleigh halted in horror. To lose her mother now, to have her seriously hurt . . ..

  A gunshot rang out, and Esteban jerked. The shot came not from the front, where Gif would have been, but from the back.

  From the boat.

  The man she thought had been sleeping jumped onto the wharf and ran toward her as fast as his awkward gait allowed, a limp so familiar, so endearing, that she stopped frozen in her tracks.

  “Pierre? Oh, God, Pierre!”

  “In the boat as you have been told, ma petite. Quickly.”

  “But my mother--.”

  Pierre clutched her arm, pulled her toward him, but she pushed away, her frantic gaze on Belle.

  “We must hurry,” he said.

  Belle pushed Esteban’s bloodied and lifeless body off of her. She groped inside his pockets for the key to her chains, so engrossed in finding them that she didn’t see the prison guard leap toward her.

  A knife gleamed in the dawning light, but before he could plunge the blade into her back, Carleigh braced her feet, threw the rope’s loop over him and yanked hard. The knot slid lightening quick down the hemp and tightened. He jerked to one side, his aim over Belle lost. Trig slammed his fist into the man’s jaw. The knife clattered to the wharf, and he crumpled, unconscious.

  Trig untangled Belle from the chains, and she hastened to her feet, free, free at last.

  “We must escape before they come after us,” Pierre yelled, grasping Carleigh’s arm again. She dropped the rope and spun to flee with him toward the boat.

  “What are you doing here?” she gasped.

  “When I learned about the telegram Mathison sent your papa, I knew how determined you were to find your mama in Mexico. I took a ship to San Diego to help you.”

  They reached the boat, and she climbed in. “But how could you have guessed I’d want to kidnap her?”

  “From the telegram Esteban sent to Belen. Her paramour, the prison’s physician, heard of the orders to bring her here and tracked me down with the news. A couple of wires between us, and the plan is made. I knew you would not want her to go back, and I prayed you would be here. Hurry, ma petite. Take the helm.”

  Trig and Gif ran with Belle toward the sloop.

  “See that schooner over there?” Gif bellowed, pointing into the harbor. “Her captain is Jules Rooney. He’ll take you to ‘Frisco as soon as you’re on board.”

  “Thanks, old man. For everything.” Trig slowed just long enough to take his friend’s big paw in a hearty handshake.

  “Never mind thanking me. Get moving. The place’ll be swarming with police any time now. I’ll hold ‘em off as long as I can.” He grinned as he released the sloop’s mooring. “And I haven’t forgotten those confectionaries you promised. I’m expecting a big box full.”

  Trig grinned back. “You’ll get one.”

  He climbed into the sloop and pushed off. Carleigh gripped the tiller in her hand.

  “Gif,” she said, all the gratitude that needed to be expressed rushing inside her with too little time to express it. “Flower--.”

  “I’ll tell her you said good-by. And wire us when you get back. I want a full report that says you made it safe.”

  “We will,” Trig and Carleigh said in unison.

  The sloop slid through the water. Carleigh maneuvered the rudder to catch the breeze with the sails.

  “Trim the mainsail, Pierre!” she called out, but before he could adjust the canvas to take the gusts, gunshots pelted the water around the
m.

  “Get down!” he yelled, pushing Belle into a crouched position in her seat.

  “There’s a whole army of police after us,” Trig said, his attention riveted on the officers scrambling like mice from all corners of the wharf.

  “You’re escaping with a condemned prisoner. A good reason to fire upon us, isn’t it?” Belle asked, peering at them from beneath her cloak’s hood and clearly more amused than afraid at their predicament.

  Carleigh gripped the tiller with a white-knuckled grip. If it was the last thing she did, she refused to let her mother get captured.

  Blue Belle Lamont would not go back to Mexico. Not ever again.

  “Just get us to the schooner, Carleigh,” Trig called over his shoulder. He fired off a shot. “I’ll do the rest.”

  “Not by yourself.” Pierre withdrew a revolver from inside his coat. “I will help you.”

  Carleigh focused on the tall ship looming on the horizon. All her masts were unfurled and ready. She was heavily armed; Carleigh could see at least forty guns amidships.

  A sharp explosion from one of the cannons scattered her thoughts. The ball hit the ocean hard, sending a huge spray of water toward the sky, a serious warning to their assailants to retreat.

  The ploy worked. The boats halted immediately after the policemen realized they were pathetically inept against the mighty schooner, that to give chase would only lead to their own bloodshed. Each turned in an abrupt about-face back to the wharf, and the waters fell quiet.

  They drew closer to the schooner, emblazoned with the word “Liberty” on her bow. Carleigh glanced upward to see the crew watching them from the bulwark. She maneuvered to the windward side, toward the ladder hanging there.

  They climbed upward to the deck, Belle first, followed by Carleigh. A white-haired man in a crisp uniform met them at the rail and lent his assistance.

  “You must be the captain,” Belle said. She blew out a breath from her exertions and tucked strands of hair behind her ear.

  “Yes, ma’am. Captain Jules Rooney. Welcome aboard the Liberty.”

  “Thank you. We are most grateful for your assistance.”