He stared out a window now, apparently not even aware of her last statement. “You’d better calm down or I’ll lose more guests,” she declared, sitting down at the table. “Come over here and I’ll show you something new.”
He turned and looked at the paper and tobacco. She sprinkled some of the tobacco onto the paper as he walked over and sat down. He watched her as she rolled the paper, licking its edge and pressing it firmly so that the tobacco was packed tightly in the middle.
“There,” she said. She held it out to him. “Try it.”
He frowned. “What is it?”
“It’s a cigarette. Something new—getting pretty popular. A lot of men like them better than cigars. Go ahead. Light it.”
He took it and studied it, then put one end to his lips. She shivered with desire at the manliness about him, the fine line of his lips as he held the cigarette and then lit it. He puffed on it curiously, and she wanted to laugh, charmed by his curiosity.
“You don’t puff them. You inhale the smoke. It’s not a pipe or a cigar. It’s a cigarette.”
He frowned, then took another puff, this time sucking a little in. He blew the smoke out. Her eyebrows arched. “No cough?”
He shrugged. “I have inhaled the Indian pipe many times. It is a sweeter taste, better than this. But something this small is handy, and I like it better than a cigar. Besides, Abbie doesn’t like cigars. Perhaps she would like this—” He stopped short. How easy it was to think of her.
Their eyes met. “She’s under your skin like your own blood, isn’t she?” Anna said quietly.
He took another drag on the new cigarette, this time a deeper one. “I’ll have to get her out from under it then,” he answered. “The more I think about that, the more I know I am right.”
“You’ll never do it.”
He studied her lovely eyes, his eyes dropping to her full bosom. “Perhaps I haven’t tried hard enough.”
He met her eyes again and their gaze held for a long time, her blood racing with heated passion. “Perhaps not. But I am saying you’ll never get rid of your need for Abbie, and you’ll never truly leave her. You’re a strong man in all other ways, but when it comes to her you’re weak.”
His eyes flashed and he ground out the cigarette in a saucer. “I am going riding. I feel the walls closing in on me.” He rose and walked to the door, turning back once to look at her again. “You’re probably right. Perhaps I need to find out for myself just how weak—or strong—I am. I will think about it.”
He left her sitting there wondering what he had meant by that remark. Would he come to her bed after all? She sighed and looked at the cigarette, touching the end his lips had touched, hungering for those same lips to touch her own in passion and desire, yet hating herself for wanting him and for not caring whether she betrayed Abbie despite how much she respected the woman.
“Once a harlot, always a harlot, Anna Gale,” she muttered to herself. She turned down the lamp and walked out, going up the stairs to her bedroom, and the empty bed that awaited her. Yes, her life had certainly changed.
Margaret carried the tray of empty glasses back to the bar, feeling awkward in her new red satin shoes with the raised heels. She was not accustomed to such painful footwear, nor was she good at keeping her balance on something that wasn’t flat. But the shoes matched her low-cut red satin dress perfectly. The dress was fitting for a saloon girl and should have made her feel less conspicuous, but instead it made her feel more so. To make matters worse, Morgan Brown was back, and she had felt his eyes on her all evening. She had deliberately avoided him, not certain why, for he was exceedingly handsome. He was a tall, strong-looking man, with eyes that aroused feelings in her the other white men did not. As she waited for the order of drinks, she felt a presence close behind her.
“What happened to the tunic and moccasins?” came the gentle voice.
She felt a shiver, and turned to look up into Morgan Brown’s dark eyes. “I got tired of the game,” she told him. “Playing the squaw. I decided to dress like the white whores.”
“But you aren’t white. And you aren’t a whore—not inside.”
Her eyes flashed and she turned around again to pick up the tray. “How would you know? And why do you keep watching me? I wish you would stop. I should have you thrown out of here.”
He chuckled, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Since when is it illegal for a male customer to watch the prostitutes, especially when he’s figuring on doing business?”
He gently rubbed her arm and to her anger and dismay his touch excited her. Lying with this man would surely be satisfying, so why did she want to fight it? Because he was so sure of himself! Yes, that was it! He took things for granted. “I have already promised another,” she told him.
“Then I’ll pay twice his fee—three times as much if we go upstairs right now.” He moved his hand to her shoulder. “In fact, I’ll pay in advance. I’ll be your only customer for the next week or so. I don’t like the others touching you.”
She turned again, confused. “Why on earth should you care?”
He held her eyes. “Deliver your drinks and let’s go upstairs.” He smiled warmly, his dark eyes dancing with an almost teasing look. A quiet sureness emanated from him, a masculine command. In some ways he reminded her of her father, for he had the same proud look about him, that of a man unaffected by others, afraid of no one, his own man. She tore her eyes from his and ducked around him, setting the drink on a nearby table and bantering with the men who shot insulting remarks at her and pawed at her. She wanted to ignore Morgan Brown but could not, and again her eyes were drawn to his. She suddenly felt as though they were the only two people in the room. She had never felt this way, not even with Sam Temple. This man was much more of a man than Sam, more sure of himself, more mature. She found herself obeying blindly, turning and going up the stairs, aware that he followed.
She went to her room, and he came in behind her, closing the door. She turned to face him and he came closer, placing his hands on her shoulders and bending closer, captivating her, meeting her lips in a tender kiss that brought out passion she had not felt since first lying with Sam. He searched her mouth, while his hands deftly ran down the buttons on the back of her dress. She felt it fall away, felt his hand come around and gently push down the lacy front of her undergarment and caress a firm, young breast. She shivered and whimpered, reaching up around his neck and returning his kiss with heated desire. Then she was in his arms, carried to the bed, lying beneath his broad frame, letting him undress her. She breathed deeply as his lips left her mouth and traveled over her throat to a breast, lightly tasting it. Then she whimpered with ecstasy, and he moved back to her mouth.
“Little Margaret,” he said softly. “I am going to be your customer—tonight and every night for a long time. I told you I would come to you as a man you wanted, not just as a man to lie with for money. You cannot deny that you want me, truly want me, just as I truly want you.”
She reached up and touched his face. “Why do you talk that way?”
He only grinned and kissed her again, and the next hour was one of unbridled passion. After all the men she had been with, this one stirred feelings she hadn’t known she had, touched places none of the others had touched, brought out a wild need she had never felt before. He took from her, and she didn’t mind the taking. She wanted to give, more than she had ever wanted to give. His movements were rhythmic, beautiful, demanding yet gentle. And when he finished with her she was totally exhausted yet rippling with satisfaction … or was it love?
But how could that be? It was impossible! She barely knew this man, yet suddenly she loved in a way she had never loved Sam.
He sat up, leaning against the headboard and reaching down to caress her hair. “Who was the man who came storming up here a few nights ago?” he asked. “The Indian who wore the white man’s clothes?”
She frowned and looked up at him. “My … father. Why?”
He nodded. “I
thought so. A well-spoken man. I heard him ask the bartender which room was yours. He had a slight Tennessee accent. He’s a breed, isn’t he? And you aren’t all Indian, just as I suspected in the first place.”
She sat up straighter. “Why do you care, Morgan?”
His eyes held hers steadily for several seconds. “I am a mulatto. Do you know what that is?”
She frowned. “I… I think it’s kind of like being a half-breed. Only part Negro—dark people. I’ve never seen one. I’ve only heard of them. But father knows of them, and so does mother. There are many of them in the South.”
He snickered sarcastically. “They’re free now, if you want to call it that. They’re going other places. You’ll see one. I’m surprised you haven’t already.” He sighed. “My mother was a Negro slave. She was forced to go to bed with her white master or get a severe whipping.” He looked at her. “I was the result. What do you think of that, Margaret?”
Her eyebrows arched. “I don’t think anything, I guess. Am I supposed to think badly of you?”
He chuckled and pulled her close to him, letting her nestle into his shoulder. “Of course you are. Don’t people think badly of you?”
She rested a hand on his hard-muscled stomach. “Yes.”
“Well, it’s the same for me, so we’re a lot alike, aren’t we? Both of us have torn souls, so to speak, living in two worlds. Tell me, Margaret, why are you here in this place? You’re so pretty, so young, and it’s obvious you’re educated and intelligent.”
“If we’re so much alike then you know why I’m here. I… loved a white man. He told me he’d marry me. Then he left me—said squaws were only good for sleeping with. He was my first man. He meant everything to me. I gave him what was most important to me, trust and love. And then he made me see there was no future for me. No white man would want me for a wife, and there is no future for me with an Indian man, for I would have to live on a reservation or be constantly running from soldiers. Besides, I was brought up white. I cannot truly live as an Indian, although I know their ways, their language. I care for them, yet I do not feel I am really one of them.”
He kissed her hair. “There, you see? It’s the same for me. No white woman is going to marry me. I won’t lie about what I am, and when they know they scorn me. Yet I don’t really desire Negro women. I’ve wandered all my life, Margaret. I was torn from my mother’s arms when I was eight and she was sold and taken away. I’ve been through a lot, but I’ve worked hard in spite of it all—kept my pride. I’m thirty years old and lonely. I want to settle down. I have a good amount set aside, quite a bit by most standards. I want to share it. I came to Denver to see what I could find here in the way of work and, I guess, to see this wild land called the West. Then I walked into this saloon, and I saw a little girl with an innocent look about her, a girl who looked out of place—maybe as lonely as I was. And she was Indian, but only part Indian, I suspected. She was the first Indian I’d seen that wasn’t wild or on a reservation. I wondered: Is that little girl as mixed up as I am? Is she here because she’s lost like I am, because she doesn’t know whether she’s white or Indian and she’s given up? And then I saw the light. Maybe this was the kind of girl who’d consider settling down with me, in spite of what I am. Because she’s in the same predicament, maybe we’d make a good match.”
She pulled back and looked at him in surprise. “Are you crazy? I hardly know you!”
His eyes dropped to her full, firm breasts. How beautiful she was, with milky brown skin of a distinctive color—not white or red, just as his was not white or black. Why did they have to be anything in particular? They were after all just people, needing the same things all people needed.
“Of course you don’t know me,” he answered, meeting her eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “That’s why we’re going to spend a lot of time together the next few days … and nights. You tell me all about yourself, your parents—everything. And I’ll tell you more about me.” He pulled her closer again, laying her back down and moving on top of her, kissing her eyes. “And we’ll see what happens.”
Never had she felt so overwhelmed by anyone. She put her hands against his shoulders. “Surely you’re not saying you love me!”
He frowned sternly. “Of course not. I only like you—and want you. When I think I love you, I’ll let you know. Maybe love isn’t what we think it is. Maybe it isn’t always something that happens quickly. Maybe it takes some people years to build a really great love.”
Her brown eyes widened and suddenly became innocent and childlike, the way he knew she ought to look. “Morgan! What if we did end up together? What if we had children? What on earth would they be called? Is there a name for such a mixture?”
He smiled sadly. “Yes. They’re called people. Just people.” He covered her mouth with his own and she soon forgot about everything but the fact that Morgan Brown was making love to her again.
Chapter Twenty
Anna was starting to blow out her lamp when a light tapping sounded at her door. It was so faint she wasn’t certain at first that she had heard it. She pulled a robe back on and went to the door, opening it softly, a surge of hot desire rushing through her when she saw Zeke standing there. He wore the cotton pants he had been forced to don while in Denver, but he was shirtless, and his hair hung long and loose. He seemed the epitome of manhood, and her heart ached at the numerous scars on his muscular chest—from the Sun Dance, from past battles and old wounds, from self-inflicted wounds of mourning. He was a man beaten and battered by the hardships of the land and the prejudices of mankind.
He held up a bottle of whiskey, and she could see he had already drunk some. “Want to share a drink with me?” he asked. His face was oddly cold and determined, as though he were angry at the world and intended to do something about it.
Her heart raced. If ever he was susceptible, it was tonight. Or was he the one challenging her? What made her think Zeke Monroe would be had on her terms? He moved past her, walking inside and gazing around her bedroom, decorated in lavender. She quietly closed the door. His huge frame with its wild countenance seemed totally foreign in the room—a man of animal grace and instincts standing amid lavender and lace. She grinned. “Where’s my drink?”
He turned to look at her, his dark eyes running over her voluptuous and available body as she removed her robe to stand in a thin gown that revealed the soft points of her breasts. He poured some whiskey into a glass he had brought up with him and handed it to her.
She took it, feeling fire sweep through her at the mere touch of his fingers. In a flash of remembrance, Zeke visualized Abbie handing him a cup of coffee when she was fifteen and seeing him for the first time. The memory brought a piercing pain to his heart and he turned away, his throat tight. He took a slug of whiskey and Anna sipped hers.
“To what do we owe this occasion?” she asked.
He turned, the bottle gripped in his hand. “To forgetting. If I am going to leave my wife to better things and go off and die, I might as well have one good time with the infamous Anna Gale first, right?” He stepped closer, grasping the back of her neck in his free hand. “A woman is a woman. I don’t need any particular one.” He drew her closer but she stiffened.
“Don’t you? How long do you intend to lie to yourself?”
He reached over and set the bottle on a nearby table, still grasping her neck. “As long as it takes.”
“For what?”
“For my wife to understand what’s best for her. Edwin Tynes is a charming man. He can’t offer her the world without her surrendering sooner or later. I intend to make it easy for her.” He bent closer, meeting her lips savagely, deliberately. She wanted to tell him to leave, but knew she would not.
Their breathing grew heavier as he pressed her close in the strong arms she had dreamed about for years, his sweet lips searching her mouth, bringing out desires other men had failed to stir. Her arms were limp, her drink still held lightly in one hand. She was not seduc
ing him after all. He was seducing her. He always had, without even trying.
He released her slightly then, running one hand over her throat, his fingers then lightly touching the softness of her breasts through the flimsy gown. “I want to sleep with you, Anna,” he told her. He took the drink from her hand and set it on the table. “I’m tired—tired of death and failure, tired of watching loved ones suffer, tired of waiting for Margaret, tired of fighting and killing. I want to make love to you, want to get my daughter home, and then I just want to get out of Abbie’s life and end my own.”
She pulled away slightly. “And you don’t want to make love to your wife before you say farewell to this world, after twenty years and all she’s put up with to stay with you?”
He picked her up in his arms and laid her on the bed, then removed what clothing he wore. Her desire grew at seeing him in his masculine glory, a man whom the years seemed only to bless with more virility.
“If I made love to her again, I’d never be able to leave her.” He moved onto the bed, lying over her and resting on his elbows, studying her beauty, winding his fingers into her dark hair. “It’s easier this way.”
She smiled sadly. “Of course it is. You’re using me, damn you! You know I can’t resist you. It’s wrong and I know you’ll leave again, but I’ve wanted you ever since that one night we had years ago in Santa Fe. You’ve always known it, and I’ll be here for as long as you need me. You can sleep with me every night if you want. I know you’ll go eventually, either to Abbie or to your own death, but you’ll not go before I have you once more!”
He came down on her then, hiding her body beneath his huge frame, beginning her ascent to the heights of ecstasy. It was as though he were the harlot rather than she, for he seemed to know the right moves better than she did. Somehow her gown disappeared, and their skin touched in heated desire. It had been so many years since he had done this to her, but she had not forgotten. Then he had been angry and cruel to her for forcing him to bed her. This time it was different. It was his choice.
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