A Father's Vow

by Myrna Temte

  No, Sam Brightwater wasn’t always charming, but he kissed better than Beethoven wrote symphonies, better than Poe wrote scary stories, better than Edison dreamed up new inventions. He must be an Indian psychic when it came to kissing. Or was that a psychic Indian?

  She didn’t know, and certainly didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was kissing Sam. She actually began to believe that he knew exactly what she wanted—when and where and how hard to touch his lips to hers—before she did.

  He kissed her as if she was the only woman he ever would want to kiss, as if he couldn’t possibly get enough of her, and yet, as if he was in no hurry whatsoever.

  His braids fell across her breasts. She grasped one above the cloth wrapping and twined it through her fingers. He’d tantalized her twice before, just like this. He wasn’t going to get away from her this time. Not until she was ready to let him go. She lay the palm of her other hand flat against the center of his shirt and thrilled to feel his heart pounding with the same wild excitement that was surging through her all the way to her fingers and toenails.

  He released her mouth, and, ignoring her whimpers of disappointment at the loss of contact, he nuzzled the tender crook between her neck and shoulder. He was struggling to control himself, gathering himself to pull away from her. She could feel it in the tension radiating from his body, hear it in his ragged breathing, but darn him, she wasn’t ready to stop. Not yet.

  His hot, moist breath striking such a sensitive spot created a dark, erotic whirlpool in her mind that beckoned to her with an irresistible attraction. She’d never seen that dark whirlpool before and she wanted to explore it, wallow in it, yes, even drown in it. He could take her there. She needed him to take her there.

  Damn, Sam thought, if he didn’t put some space between himself and Julia in the next fifteen seconds, he couldn’t guarantee he’d continue to behave like a gentleman. But he didn’t want to put space between them. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  She was, without a shred of doubt, the most delicious, kissable woman he’d ever encountered. Every time he kissed her, this incredible, overwhelming arousal hit him harder and faster. Burying his face in her neck like this wasn’t exactly cooling him off, either.

  She smelled of a musky, womanly sort of scent that tempted him to lick her skin. Oh, jeez, she tasted as good as she smelled, a little salty, a little sweet, and the sound of her breathing suddenly quickening made him crazy.

  Oh, sweet Maheo, she had his earlobe between her teeth, and the warm, wet sweep of her tongue was setting him on fire. And how had she gotten so much of his shirt unbuttoned without him noticing until her hands were all over his bare chest? Stroking, patting, rubbing, she touched him as if she were a blind person memorizing him by the texture of his skin and the shape and strength of the muscles and bones beneath it.

  It was pleasure and pain, heaven and hell, desire and need all wrapped up in a confusing onslaught of sensations that shifted and changed with the slightest movement either one of them made. He’d regain control of the situation if only she would stop— Don’t let her fondle the ridge of his spine like that. He was so sensitive there, she’d have him climbing right out of his skin.

  She guided his mouth back to hers, and their tongues tangled in a mating dance as old as their tribe. He wanted her. She was accepting, even welcoming him. Rational thoughts fled; instincts took over.

  She pulled the tails of his shirt free of the waistband of his jeans and fumbled with his belt buckle. Her fingers grazed his arousal, then came back and caressed him through the layers of cotton and denim. He’d never known a woman who expressed her own lusty desires with such honesty, and it freed him from the necessity he otherwise might have felt to go slowly.

  Still holding her, he slid off the log and lay her on her back. Lying beside her, he explored her body with the same urgent sense of wonder she had shown toward his. Any article of clothing that got in the way, he pushed aside, then pulled off and flung aside. His hands and his lips delighted in caressing her smooth, warm skin, sleek, supple muscles, sweet, delectable curves. Suddenly she was naked in his arms, and he was lost.

  She gasped when he first pushed himself inside her, but when he paused to give her time to adjust to the intimate invasion, she crossed her ankles above his hips and hugged him closer with her thighs. She clutched at his shoulders, and her inner muscles tightened around his shaft as if she feared he would abandon her. And then they joined with a damn-the-consequences abandon more suited to a pair of drunk teenagers than sober, supposedly responsible adults.

  Awed by the powerful sensations rushing through her, Julia gazed up at Sam and surrendered her last hold on sanity. His eyes were half-closed, his features sharpened with the strain of exertion. His muscles rippled with each thrust of his hips. He was giving her everything he had to give and she took it, knowing that he would ultimately demand the same from her.

  When the time came, she would gladly give it back. Even with her limited sexual experience, she knew they were sharing something rare. She had never known physical pleasure could be so intense, or that physical pleasure could create such intense emotions. She wanted to blend herself with him, needed to share herself with him, ached to become a living, breathing part of him.

  She raised her hands to the back of his head, urging him down for a kiss. He hesitated for moment, but when he complied, it was as if together they unleashed a force stronger than the two of them. He groaned, and then surged into her with a hard, driving rhythm that sent her careening out of control.

  When he heard her shrieks of completion and felt her body tighten around his shaft, Sam couldn’t hold back his own climax. He felt as exhilarated as if he’d thrown himself headfirst off a cliff and somehow managed to cheat both injury and death, and he thought he finally understood at least a little of the appeal people found in skydiving. It was absolutely incredible. She was absolutely incredible. The whole world was absolutely incredible.

  Supporting his weight on his elbows he gazed down into her face and felt a deep pocket of tenderness open right under his heart. She looked…satisfied. Her eyes were closed, her thick, long lashes fanned across her cheeks. Her lips were pressed together and curved into a sultry little smile.

  He stroked a long, tousled lock of hair off her forehead. Her lashes fluttered, then slowly lifted. The instant her eyes met his and recognition dawned, her pupils widened as if in horror and her body tensed. And then she delivered a verbal blow that deflated more than just his ego.

  “Oh, God, Sam, we didn’t use a condom.”

  Ten

  “You mean, you’re not using any kind of birth control?” Sam asked. “Nothing?”

  “This isn’t something I do all the time,” Julia said, wondering if he would believe her now, after the way she’d acted.

  Wincing at the horror dawning in Sam’s eyes, Julia braced herself for the condemnation that was sure to follow. In the back of her mind, she could already hear echoes of her mother’s strident voice, lecturing about the disasters an unplanned, unwanted pregnancy would wreak on a woman’s life. Every disaster would be her own fault, of course. According to Betty Stedman it was always the woman’s fault.

  The temptation to rationalize was huge. She’d never wanted a man as much as she had wanted Sam. He’d swept her off her feet. She hadn’t been a virgin, but neither had she had enough sexual experience to realize it could all happen so fast. It never had before. She’d never enjoyed it that much before, either.

  But Sam had enjoyed it, too, so why was it the woman who was always responsible for the results of sexual activity? Who had written that particular rule in the first place? Some man who didn’t want to assume responsibility for a child he had fathered? It wasn’t fair.

  Don’t let me hear you whining about how unfair life is, her mother’s voice taunted her. Nobody ever promised you anything was going to be fair. I told you exactly how these things worked. If you didn’t listen, you should have. You’re going to be stuck with this k
id for the next eighteen or twenty years. Get used to it.

  Suddenly Julia felt every tiny pebble and twig lying underneath her, poking into her back, bottom and thighs with bruising force. The weight of Sam’s body on top of her, which, until this instant, had been pleasant, even comforting, made it impossible for her to breathe. She pressed her palms against his chest. He pulled away from her, and illogically, she felt abandoned and bereft.

  Oh, God, she couldn’t face him. Not now. This was all her fault. She had flirted with him, kissed him and shamelessly gone right on kissing him when he might have stopped. She had to get up, get dressed and get out of here.

  Their clothes were tangled wads that draped hit-or-miss over the log. Her face hot with mortification, she grabbed the closest wad, shook it out and tossed Sam his underwear while she continued a frantic search for her own. Her hands trembled and her breath came in funny-sounding little hitches that were awfully close to being sobs.

  Sam touched her shoulder. “Julia…”

  Violently pulling out of his grasp, she shook her head and grabbed another wad of clothing, stubbornly refusing even to look at him as she shook it. Here at last were her panties, thank heaven. She scrambled into them, then reached for the next wad and found her skirt.

  “Julia,” Sam repeated, his voice still quiet, but tinged with impatience. “Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head again, found his shirt and her bra. She pitched the shirt at Sam, but he let it hit the ground. Her necklace was hanging in the way and her stupid fingers were shaking so much she couldn’t get her stupid bra’s clasp to work. But why call her poor, innocent fingers or her inanimate bra stupid when she was the stupid one?

  Only a stupid woman gives a man what he wants before he puts a ring on her finger, her mother’s voice intoned for her benefit. And only an absolute idiot would ever have sex without protecting herself from pregnancy. You don’t want to be either one, do you, Julia?

  “No, Mama, I don’t,” Julia murmured.

  Oblivious to his nudity, Sam stepped closer to her. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing important.”

  She was appalled to realize she’d spoken out loud to her dead mother right in front of him. She had to get a grip. Yes, it was possible she could be pregnant, but it wasn’t inevitable. Lord, but she wished he would put on his clothes.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t use a condom,” he said. “I’ve got one in my wallet, and I’ve always been responsible about that before, but…well, I…it happened so fast. I just didn’t think.”

  “It’s all right.” It wasn’t all right, of course. If her mother proved correct, her life might never be all right again. But she had to say that, didn’t she? If she blamed him, wouldn’t he just come back and blame her even more? Wasn’t that what always happened to a woman who acted this stupidly?

  Turning away from him, she inhaled a shaky breath. His hands closed over both of her shoulders from behind.

  “Listen to me,” he said, tightening his grip when she would have pulled away again. “I’m not just some jerk. If there are any…negative consequences, I’ll be there for you.”

  Negative consequences? Had he really called a baby, even a possible baby, something as chillingly sterile as negative consequences? Hey, a guy like that was bound to be really helpful and compassionate. Right.

  Sam squeezed her shoulders hard enough to get her attention, but not hard enough to hurt. “Do you understand?”

  Julia nodded, but she was so upset, she doubted she understood a blessed thing. She had to get dressed and get out of here. That was all she wanted. She needed to have some time alone to sort this out. Why couldn’t Sam just understand that and shut up?

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  He cursed under his breath, but she heard him anyway, and couldn’t repress a grimace. He released her, then pulled on his clothes. Neither spoke again until they were in the pickup and headed back to Laughing Horse.

  “Julia, please, it’s not the end of the world,” Sam finally said. “Talk to me, will you?”

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “What I’m thinking? I’m thinking I can’t believe I did this.”

  “Did what? Had sex with an Indian?”

  “Had sex period.” She shot him a disgusted look. “It’s not always about race.”

  “Would you be this upset if I was white?”

  “I would be this upset if you were purple or green. I’m a bastard, remember? Do you have any idea what it’s like to grow up without a father’s name on your birth certificate?”

  “Aw, come on, people don’t make that big of a deal out of illegitimacy anymore.”

  “They did when I was little,” she said. Her mother always had, anyway.

  “I told you I’d be there for you if—”

  “I heard you. But it’s probably not even the right time of the month, so don’t worry about it.”

  “You will tell me if there’s a problem.”

  “Yes, of course, Sam.”

  Her terse answer evidently satisfied him, and he finished driving to her house in silence. The darkness pressed in around her, making her feel smaller and lonelier with every curve in the road. She inhaled a deep breath and tried to focus on positive thoughts.

  Unfortunately, the only remotely positive thought she could dredge up at the moment was that at least she wouldn’t have to listen to an endless stream of I-told-you-so’s from her mother. It took a special kind of person to feel this grateful for her mother’s death. It truly was a wonder a person capable of such irreverent thoughts hadn’t already been fried by a lightning bolt from heaven.

  Oh, stop, she told herself, practically choking on a strangled, half-hysterical laugh. Just stop feeling sorry for yourself. Lots of people had worse childhoods than you did, and you don’t hear them whining, do you? Forget about it and get on with your life.

  Wouldn’t it be ironic, though, if she repeated her mother’s worst mistake, and then ended up reliving her mother’s whole miserable life? Well, she wouldn’t be like her mother. No matter what happened, she wouldn’t allow herself to become bitter and twisted.

  Sam parked in front of her house and insisted on walking her to the door. She said good-night and would have slipped inside, but he gently grasped her chin and pressed a warm, sweet kiss on her trembling lips. Pulling back, he studied her face for a long moment before releasing her.

  “I really am sorry, Jules,” he said. “But it’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  With a nod of acknowledgment, she stepped into the blessed solitude of her house, shut the door and waited until she heard his pickup start and drive away. When she could no longer hear the engine, she sprinted to her bedroom and flipped back the page of her personal calendar and looked for the red dot indicating the start of her last period.

  Two syllables came out of her mouth when she found it.

  “Uh-oh.”

  Early the next morning, Sam drove to the outskirts of Whitehorn, stopped at a convenience store and bought a sack of doughnuts and two large cups of coffee to go. Then he turned around and drove the twenty-seven miles back to the reservation. He’d been up most of the night, cursing himself for leaving Julia alone when she was still upset.

  Not that she’d given him much choice. She’d been polite enough about saying good-night, but her eyes and body language had practically screamed at him to go away and leave her the hell alone. So, he’d left.

  And worried all night.

  He couldn’t go to work without seeing her. He didn’t care if he had to wake her. He didn’t care if he had to wake up half the reservation. He needed to see her and know she really was all right.

  It was barely six o’clock when he parked in front of her house, but it looked as if there might be a light on in the back, the kitchen, maybe. He carried his paper sack up onto the porch and knocked on the door. Holding his breath, he silently c
ounted to fifteen and knocked again. The door finally opened a crack after the third round of knocking.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is, Brightwater?” a tousled, bleary-eyed Julia demanded through the crack.

  “I know exactly what time it is. That’s why I brought breakfast.” Sam pushed on the door with a firm, steady pressure that gave her plenty of time to get out of the way but still allowed him entrance.

  “I don’t eat breakfast,” she grumbled.

  He reached into his sack, brought out one of the cups and waved it under her nose. She sniffed appreciatively and followed him into the kitchen as obediently as an entranced cartoon character following a trail of steaming food. Grabbing two napkins from a plastic holder on the table, he set out the rest of his offerings, smiling when she took a chocolate doughnut in spite of what she’d said about not eating breakfast.

  She looked almost as tired as he felt, with dark circles beneath her eyes and a world-weary expression to go with them. Her peach-colored robe was one of those shapeless terry-cloth numbers that covered her from neck to ankles. She sat with her heels pulled up to her bottom on the chair and the big robe pulled down over her toes, yet somehow she still looked totally appealing and utterly desirable. Vivid images of their lovemaking raced through his mind, but he forced the reverie aside. He’d come to talk, not seduce her all over again.

  They sipped coffee and munched in silence. Halfway through the chocolate doughnut, she sat back and gave him a thoughtful frown.

  “All right, I’m awake now. What are you really doing here, Sam?”

  “I don’t mind telling you,” he said slowly, buying some time to come up with the right way to say what he needed to tell her this morning. He’d had hours to think about everything she’d said, and he hadn’t liked the picture that had finally become clear to him. “I’ve had a rough night of it.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes at him. Before she could say anything, he pressed on.

  “I don’t know how to say this, except straight out.”