by Avery, Joan
Ouray lifted a hand and two young women approached with a large woven blanket. The blanket was sky blue. Woven into it was a beautiful pattern in red that reminded Kate of a bird in flight, its wings outstretched. The sun was on one side, the moon on the other. The women wrapped the blanket around her and Stephen.
Ouray spoke then in Ute. There was a great surge in the crowd and whoops of joy and laughter filled the camp. Then to Kate’s surprise, everyone walked away.
…
He would have to explain. But how did he tell Kate that, in the eyes of the Utes, they had just been married?
And when she asked him why he had allowed it, what would he tell her? Why did he allow it?
“What just happened?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Where is Otto?”
“Even the Ute would find it in poor taste for Otto to spend the night with us tonight.”
“Why?”
“Come and I’ll tell you.” He drew her into the tepee. The small fire gave a warm glow to everything within the translucent elk skin walls. Outside laughter offset the solitude within.
She repeated her question. “Why would it be poor taste for Otto to spend the night with us?”
She was beautiful. A pale ghost-like image of an Indian maiden. Her breasts heaved under the clinging dress.
“Because it is our wedding night.”
“Our wedding night?” she blurted out. “And you were party to this?”
“Ouray wished to honor me for my victory.”
“By giving me to you?”
“I don’t think he saw it that way. It’s common for Ute men to take their late wife’s sister as their second wife.”
“But we are not Ute.”
Stephen closed the distance between them in two short strides. He placed his hands on her shaking shoulders. Touching her was a mistake. It would be sheer torture to pull away again.
“Ouray gave us to each other because he is a wise man. Because he sees the love we have denied all this time.” He was asking for more than Kate’s trust now.
Her eyes had filled with tears.
He released her and turned to collect himself.
Her touch on his back was as light as a feather. She traced the delicate pattern of paint that masked his distorted back. He dared not move. Dared not ask what her touch meant.
Her voice, when she spoke, reverberated with tears. “I don’t think I ever hated you. I was just frightened.”
“Frightened of me?” He turned.
“No. Frightened of the feelings I have for you.”
He went to speak and her fingertips touched his lips, silencing him.
“I love you. I think I loved you long before I realized it myself. Perhaps that was why I was so angry.” She removed her fingers from his lips. “I don’t want to be angry any longer.”
She reached up and drew him to her. She kissed him softly at first, testing the corners where his lips met before covering his mouth with her own. The warmth of her tongue sought out the recesses of his mouth.
The gentle prodding coursed through his body, gaining momentum until like a tidal wave it washed over him, leaving him breathless.
He pulled her into an embrace. The softness of her chamois dress was like a second skin. He could feel her heartbeat, her breasts against his bare chest. He cradled the soft mounds of her buttocks and pressed her into him. Still it was not close enough. He pulled away and one by one untied the leather laces that ran down the front of the dress. When he was done, he cradled her face in his hands. Was she sure? The warm glow in her eyes answered him yes.
He slid his hands down her neck and across her shoulders, taking the dress with them. Released from her shoulders, it tumbled to the floor, sliding over her breasts and hips as it fell. She was beautiful. And she was his.
He pressed a kiss to the small indentation at the base of her throat. He moved lower still and her hands softly guided his head. He played with the hardened nib of her breast. Teasing, cajoling, until its rigidity spoke of pleasure received. He knelt and offered the same ministrations to its twin. He lay his head against her chest and listened to her heartbeat, almost as rapid as his own.
He suckled and teased, kissed and licked her breasts until she moaned. His loins throbbed in response. He moved his tongue lower, tracing a delicate line down to her stomach where he explored its soft indentation.
Still lower he dropped. Her hands on his head tried to stop his pilgrimage, but soon relented. He found the soft curls of her maidenhead and laved them reverently. She purred and he grew harder still.
She gasped as he found the moist recesses of her womanhood.
“Stephen,” she whispered.
It was a request, a plea, and he was only too willing to grant it. He guided her down onto the warmth and softness of the buffalo robe. He kissed the flatness of her stomach, gently opening her legs. Deliberately he sought out the increasingly wet folds of swollen pink flesh between her legs. She groaned with pleasure, and he intensified his attentions, exploring until she writhed with pleasure, her hands on his head as if she were nearing the unbearable. He found her nub and teased it. Her body stiffened. He continued until she shook with a great spasm.
He slid his body up hers, nestling his swollen shaft between her wet thighs. Her eyes shimmered and her cheeks were flushed with pleasure. Her hands on his buttocks urged him to enter her.
And he did, letting the feel of her warm, wet, swollen flesh sheath him. He throbbed with desire and yet was reluctant to hurry, reluctant to miss a moment of the pleasure she offered him. He kissed her until he could not bear it a moment longer. He rose up on his hands and began to move, slowly at first and then increasing the rhythm until it beat out the universal human cry for immortality. She spoke to him, her whispered entreaties encouraging.
His seed entered her at the same time he heard her answering moan. The release left him weak with pleasure. He captured her face and began kissing her again, starting with a soft exploration of her lips.
This time she encouraged and pursued him on her own. She rolled him onto his back and tasted him, from his lips to his neck to the indentation at the base of his throat. She teased and titillated until his nipples were hard with pleasure. Her abundant hair trailed along his chest, leaving a wake in her path as she moved still lower.
Her lips touched his flaccid manhood, sending a surge of desire through him. The shaft rose with a will of its own. As she explored, he moaned with the pleasure of her travels. With every kiss, every soft coming together of flesh, he grew harder. He reached out and guided her onto him. She smiled with surprise. She moved tentatively and now he smiled. Once again they began the rhythm, once again they joined together in the eternal ritual of life, until satiated, they curled together and fell asleep.
…
Kate awoke to the quiet just before dawn, wrapped in Stephen’s arms.
After she had fallen asleep, he had pulled over a second buffalo robe to cover them both. She pressed back into him and he stirred. His breath warmed the bare skin of her shoulder. Why had she struggled so long?
She had felt complete last night. And the joy it had brought her was unlike any she had ever known. Stephen ran a hand along her thigh. She nestled in closer. His whispered words when they came were lazy with sleep.
“I love you.” The words caressed her. “I love you, Lizzie.”
Her sister’s name on his lips seared her heart and her soul.
Chapter Twenty-two
Silverton sat on its haunches like a warty toad amid the beauty of the San Juan Mountains. It was much smaller than she had anticipated, not much more than a collection of weather-beaten shacks. Its location, however, was breathtaking. Nestled in a small valley, it was almost overwhelmed by the snow-capped mountains that surrounded it.
She and Stephen had spent the last two days pushing to reach the town. There had been little opportunity to talk, and Kate had been grateful. Now, a new fear dominated her thoughts. What did he intend to d
o? If he was determined to kill Morse, he would end up back in prison. She prayed he would abandon his plans. So much had changed since they had begun this trip. There was so much more to lose now.
She loved him. Lizzie’s name on his lips had ripped her heart apart. Left it a raw beating mass of flesh. Did he really love her or did her dead sister still hold him tight? She needed to know. Needed to be sure. But at this moment she was sure of only one thing. She couldn’t lose him to Zechariah Morse.
Stephen pulled his horse up slightly ahead of her at the top of the valley. She reined in as well.
“What do you intend to do?” she was forced to ask.
“I’m going to find Morse.” He would not face her.
“And then what? Are you going to shoot him in cold blood and return to prison?” She could not keep a tinge of sarcasm out of her voice.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he snapped back.
“Please, Stephen. Let the authorities take care of it. Please.” She kneed her horse until she came abreast of him. She took the reins of his horse as if she could stop him.
His hand covered hers. “You don’t understand, Kate. This is not St. Louis. The locals are under Morse’s influence. They’d shoot me themselves given the opportunity.”
“Then don’t give them the opportunity. Let’s go back. Now. Before anyone even knows we are here.”
“I can’t,” he answered, removing his hands from hers. “I can’t.” He spoke as much to himself as to her. “You can come or stay, but I’m going ahead.” He kicked his horse into a canter and descended to the valley floor.
Kate kneed her own horse and, with a prayer on her lips, followed him as they descended into what she was sure would be her own personal hell.
…
“Where’s Zechariah Morse?” Stephen entered the only saloon in town. His Colt was strapped to his thigh, his Winchester in his hand.
“Ain’t seen him for a coupla days.” The tobacco chewing bartender had ignored Stephen’s entrance, preferring to methodically polish the oak bar. Only now did he look up. A few remaining strands of hair, stuck to his balding scalp by the liberal application of pomade, did not move as he squinted to get a better look at Stephen.
“Damned if it ain’t you.”
“Yes, it’s me. Where’s Morse?”
“If I were you, Worth, I’d get yer ass out of town before he comes back.”
“Where is he?”
“Him and some of his men went up to inspect a new mine they been diggin’ on the west side of the valley, down past where old man Creary was workin’ his digs.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Day, maybe two. He said to expect him back before dark today.”
“When you see him, tell him I have unfinished business I need to settle with him.”
“He ain’t gonna take lightly to seeing you again. He heard that injun sprung you from prison, been talking about nothin’ else since it happened.”
“Well now he can stop talking. I’ll be back tomorrow, so tell him to expect me.”
Stephen pushed open the door and almost knocked Kate down. Her look sent guilt shooting through him.
“He’s not here.” Her whole body sagged as the tension drained from her. He helped her to remount and headed out of town.
“Where are we going?” she called to him.
“Home.”
…
The cabin had changed little in the two years he had been gone. Wood still lay stacked against the southern wall ready for a warming fire. A sun catcher that Lizzie had obtained by trade with a group of Navajos still hung on the low branch of a pine outside the cabin window. “I want it to catch dreams of only good things for us.” Lizzie had said.
The sight of the cabin brought the memories flooding back.
Ironically, they were pleasant memories. Memories of sunny days and happy smiles and a child, a boy, born into a world that had promised only good things. He had not counted on fate to hand his future and that of his wife and son over to Zechariah Morse.
Someone, probably Dusty and Peg, had shuttered the windows. Only the fresh wood of the door gave away the secrets of its past. Still it was not desolate. He had spent too many happy days here for it ever to be desolate.
Bracing himself, he pried away the board securing the door and lifted the latch. Slowly he opened the door. It was as if he were entering the past. He was sure that if he turned, he would see Lizzie standing in the doorway. Pots and pans hung on nails above the wash sink and the small bed he and Lizzie had shared was the same. It was still covered with the quilt Lizzie had brought from Denver that summer. Its purple violets bloomed against the white patchwork background. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. He rested his fingertips on the top of the table where a dark stain marred the surface. Brown now with age, the stain spread like the hand of death across the rough wood surface and plummeted to the floor where it formed black rivulets that disappeared into the crevices of the floorboards.
Oh God, Lizzie. What had you ever done to them that they should take your life so cruelly?
Every moment hardened him. He would sacrifice anything to get Morse. Anything.
The rustle of skirts penetrated his senses. “You startled me.” He forced a smile.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Welcome.” He stretched out his arms.
She said nothing.
Only a moment earlier, he had been ready to sacrifice anything to get Morse. Now, with Kate before him, life pulled him forward, drawing him away from the past. Kate was his future, his hope, his life.
“You must be tired,” he said. “I’ll get your things and start a fire.”
He fixed a fire and then dinner. They ate in silence and quickly fell asleep in the small bed.
…
Kate’s sleep was disturbed by something. It was deep into the night and yet Stephen was no longer in bed. A frisson of fear ran through her. Then she saw him at the window. A full moon cast him in silhouette. Broad shoulders, muscled arms, tapered waist. He was looking at the Indian bauble that hung from a pine branch outside the window. He was distant, so distant that Kate feared he would never come back to her. Here in this place, had she lost him to Lizzie?
“Come to bed.” Her request was quiet.
He didn’t move. Didn’t respond.
Despair welled up inside her, threatening her equilibrium. She gasped for air and only succeeded in producing a sob. “You still love her, don’t you?”
“Kate? What’s wrong?” He was at the bed in a single stride and she couldn’t bear to have him so close. In the half darkness, she tried to push him away.
“Kate, stop this. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“I can’t compete with Lizzie. I’m not her and I’ll never be her.”
“I know that.”
“But you called me Lizzie the last morning in Ouray’s camp. I can stand your still loving her, but I can’t stand to play substitute. I can’t.” Her face was awash in tears.
“I called you Lizzie?”
“You were half asleep, but perhaps that’s when we speak the truth.”
“No, you’ve got it all wrong.” He pushed a stray lock of hair back from her damp face. “I dreamt of Lizzie that night. It was the first happy dream I’ve had about her since she died. If I said her name, it was to the dream, not to you, Kate.”
She wanted to believe him.
He lay down beside her and took her in his arms. He kissed the top of her head. “After Lizzie died, the only thing that kept me alive was the idea of killing Morse and regaining my son. The prison warden in Canon City was a vile bastard, a cruel and inhumane being who found pleasure in other’s pain. They had a barrel there called ‘The Old Gray Mare.’ It was equipped with straps for the prisoners who were splayed across it before they were whipped with a four-inch leather strap studded with brads. The warden liked to dip the leather in w
ater before he started. There were times when I thought I would die from the pain, but I lived. I always lived so that I could find Morse.”
Kate held tight to him. Afraid to let him go. Afraid this time Morse would succeed.
“I had no other reason to live, don’t you see? The hatred was a valuable thing. It kept me alive. But now I have you. Not Lizzie, you,” he whispered hoarsely as he pulled her still tighter to him. “With your strong-willed, impertinent manner, with your stubborn willingness to risk everything for those you love.
“You asked if I still loved Lizzie. Yes, I will always love her, as will you. But she will not be the one who will help me raise Andy, not the one to give Andy brothers and sisters, and not the one with whom I will grow old. I want that to be you, Kate. I need that to be you.”
“And Morse?” She could barely say the words. Her throat was choked with tears. But now they were tears of hope and happiness.
“I won’t challenge him. I’ll let him know that I’ll be requesting that they re-open the investigation into Lizzie’s death. I will let him sweat with the knowledge that one day, he will be the one sitting in prison.”
She pulled away from him so that she could see his face, and his expression lifted her soul and left her heart singing. He pressed a kiss to her lips. A kiss that was promise of both an end and a beginning.
They lost themselves in one another. It was a passion honed by pain. A tenderness crafted by experience. A commitment driven by a love already tested.
…
“Take this.” Stephen handed Kate the Winchester. “Don’t let anyone in until I get back. I should be gone no longer than two hours. Finish packing our things and we’ll leave as soon as I get back.”
She offered the rifle back. “Maybe you should take it.”
“No. It’s better you have it. I don’t trust Morse.”
“Then let me come with you.”
“That would be even more dangerous. Bar the door on the inside. I promise I won’t get myself killed.”
Kate’s smile was tremulous. “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
She should never have let him go. She should have argued with him, made him understand. He had already let go of so much hatred. But how could she deny him the satisfaction of seeing Morse faced with the threat of justice after all these years?