Christine Dorsey

by The Rebel's Kiss

  Her skirts had risen, tangled with her legs, and Jake pushed them higher. His hand splayed across her bare hip then, seeking a more intimate haven, delved between her legs. Her eyes sprang open when he touched her, gently stroking the tender flesh that ached for him. And then she moaned as his finger became bolder and fiery desire washed over her.

  Jake wasn’t certain how he managed to unfasten the buttons of his pants. All he knew was one moment he was watching her eyes flutter shut and the next pressing into her moist heat. She was tight but wet with desire and he came into her with one strong thrust.

  Her cry of pain rang in his ears, and Jake stopped, forcing himself to be still until sweat broke out on his forehead. He hadn’t thought about her being a virgin. Bundy Atwood’s remarks this afternoon implied a relationship that went beyond handholding and chaste kisses. He found Atwood’s references to Samantha annoying, and the man himself contemptible, but now Jake realized he’d believed his lies. Maybe he just wanted to believe them.

  But now it was obvious they weren’t true.

  Jake shifted. He could barely make out her features. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was little more than a breath of air. And then she moved, fractionally at first, but as Jake took up the rhythm, more smoothly. She reached for something, her mind, her body, her soul, all strove for the crest of the wave. She slipped and slid, meeting the hard intensity of his body, straining toward something she couldn’t define.

  His control vanished. Her heat, the moist movements of her body, obliterated all but the most primal need. Jake tried to stem the tide rushing through him, to prolong the pleasure, but too long his body had endured the ache of abstinence. Jake exploded inside her, thrusting deep and convulsively.

  He rolled away quickly. The dull pain he’d felt around his wound didn’t seem so dull anymore. And supporting himself on one trembling arm was impossible. His breathing was ragged and a sudden deep lethargy swept over him. He tried to focus his mind on what had happened, but couldn’t. All Jake knew was that he hadn’t lost control like that in a very long time. Not since his randy youth.

  Turning his head, he studied the woman beside him. She lay on the farthest corner of the blanket. He hadn’t heard her move. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing shallow. Jake watched the erotic rise and fall of her breasts before forcing his attention back to her face. She looked small and fragile, and Jake felt guilt flood him. He should have been gentler with her... hell, he should never have touched her.

  “Samantha.” His hand reached out to where hers lay limp on the blanket.

  She jerked it away. “Don’t say anything.” Samantha sighed and sat up. Why hadn’t she noticed how itchy the blanket was before, or how strongly it smelled of straw?

  He expected her to be meek, even weepy. She looked so vulnerable lying there, and Jake had lots of experience with that reaction. But she wasn’t crying, or even whimpering. She just stared at him, disbelief shadowing her blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” The words seemed banal, and Jake regretted them the moment they were out of his mouth. Besides, he had no idea what part of it he was apologizing for.

  Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she turned away. “It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have come out here.” Samantha bit her bottom lip. If she didn’t get away from here, she was going to cry, and cry hysterically. He’d already witnessed her bawling once. She didn’t want him to see her again. Especially with this... this... whatever it was, as the cause.

  Twisting about, Samantha tried to find a sleeve. Her dress was wrinkled and littered with straw, and for the life of her, she couldn’t find the right hole.

  “Let me help you.”

  “No!” Samantha’s eyes closed as she pulled her arm away from his fingers. “I can do it.” Pushing to her feet, she scurried behind the stall side, crouching down to hide herself from his eyes. She squirmed and struggled, tearing the worn cotton, but finally managing to shove her arms into the sleeves. Her fingers trembled as she buttoned the front as quickly as she could. She didn’t want him coming behind the meager partition to offer any more assistance.

  He didn’t.

  By the time Samantha managed to right her clothes as best she could, she’d also managed to fight back the desire to cry. Or worse, to throw herself into his arms and beg him not to leave her.

  She stood, straightening her skirts, and started toward the barn door without looking toward the stall where they had made love. She almost made it out of the barn before his voice stopped her.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Samantha turned. He was standing, leaning against the post, his arms crossed loosely. He’d pulled up his pants, but was still shirtless. Samantha swallowed, remembering how his tawny skin felt beneath her fingers. Determined, she pushed that thought aside. With her chin raised, she looked him squarely in the eye. “I’m fine. Good night, Captain Morgan.” It sounded ridiculous, calling him by so formal a title after what they had just done, but at least her voice was firm. And her legs were strong as they carried her across the yard.

  He’d responded to her words, but as Samantha crept into the cabin she realized that he’d said not good night, but good-bye.

  She couldn’t sleep. Not even after scrubbing herself with the water in the pitcher and putting on her night rail. Samantha spent the night in the rocking chair, her knees tucked under her chin.

  Near dawn she heard Will climb down the ladder from the loft. He made his way across the parlor, calling to Charity before going outside. Less than five minutes later he was back, bursting through the door and shouting.

  Samantha shut her eyes as he called to her from the other room. “Sam! Sam! He’s gone.”

  Chapter Nine

  Flames sizzled and smoke spiraled into the morning sky as Jake poured dregs from his coffeepot on the small campfire. How could he have forgotten in three short weeks how terrible his coffee tasted? And his cooking was even worse. Scraping the congealed beans from the skillet, Jake tried not to compare his meager fare with the tender biscuits Samantha would be pulling from her Dutch oven about now.

  No doubt about it, that woman could cook.

  “It’s not her culinary skills you can’t get off your mind,” Jake mumbled to himself as he rolled his blanket. He stood, stretching the kinks from his body—still favoring his left side—and hiked the saddle over his horse. He stopped a little past midnight thinking to make camp and get some sleep before heading south.

  He might as well have stayed in the saddle for all the rest he got. He tossed and turned, cursing the hard ground, the droning mosquitoes, even the mournful call of a lonesome wolf. In short, everything but the real problem.

  He’d treated her badly.

  Never mind that she’d shot him; that she hated the sight of his uniform; that her acrid tongue could sometimes slice as neat as a knife. He’d treated her badly.

  Jake tried to soothe his conscience by telling himself she wanted him too. But it didn’t work. Jake tightened the cinch. He was older, certainly more experienced, and he should have stopped it.

  But the truth was, he hadn’t wanted to stop. So he’d used her, and now he couldn’t get her or what they did on his itchy wool blanket out of his mind. And worse, to his way of thinking, Jake knew guilt wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t let thoughts of her go.

  “Howdy.”

  Jake grabbed for his revolver, twisting toward the sound of the voice in one fluid motion. His horse pawed the ground and Jake cocked the gun, squinting into the early morning sun. Damn careless of him to let someone come riding into his camp without even hearing it. Another reason to put Samantha Lowery firmly from his mind.

  “Ain’t no call for that. I’m a Reb, like you.” The man sitting on the spotted mare did sport several pieces of a Confederate uniform, but during four long years Jake had learned not every Southerner was a friend.

  He kept the gun leveled. “What do you want?”

&
nbsp; “Nothing much. Saw smoke from your fire.” The man climbed down from his horse, seemingly oblivious to the loaded gun pointed his way. Jake couldn’t decide if he was brave or crazy. “Thought you might like some company. I like company.”

  Jake watched through narrowed eyes as the stranger squatted by the drowned fire that offered nothing in the way of heat. The man was short and squat, pudgy in a soft doughy way. His face was broad and guilelessly open as he looked up at Jake.

  “Well, do ya?”

  “Do I what?” He couldn’t explain why, but Jake was finding it hard to keep a gun trained on the man.

  “Like company?” he said as if he was asking the most natural thing in the world, and Jake was remiss in not answering.

  “I suppose. But I’m not really after any right now.”

  “I’ll wait,” the man said and settled back on his haunches, presumably to do just that.

  The words were so innocently delivered that for a moment Jake could only stare. Noticing the revolver still trained at the man’s back, Jake reholstered it. “Listen friend—”

  “Abner. Abner Moore. But you can call me Ab. All my friends do.”

  “Sure, Ab.” Jake hunched down beside him and looked into his eyes. He’d run into people like this before, when he was practicing medicine. Even though Abner Moore had the body of a—Jake made a quick survey— forty-year-old man, his mind had settled in at a much younger age. “I’m Jake.”

  Shifting, Jake took a look around. There didn’t appear to be anyone with Ab. He was unarmed from what Jake could tell from looking at his too large, dirt-streaked clothing.

  “Jake,” the man repeated, then gave an open smile showing the absence of several teeth. Then just as quickly his expression turned serious. “You ever kill you any of them Yankee bastards?”

  A sudden vision of prisoners who’d died under his care flashed into Jake’s mind. “Yeah, I suppose I did,” he said, knowing his answer didn’t address what Ab meant. But then he wasn’t sure Ab knew what he meant. His conversation reminded Jake of someone a good deal younger than Will. Especially when he let out a shrill Rebel yell and flopped back on his rear.

  “I knowed it. I just knowed you was one of us.” He was grinning again, and Jake shook off the uncomfortable feeling that gave him. “I never got me any of them blue bellies myself, but Landis said there’s still time.”

  “Time?” Jake managed a glance about him to assure himself that no one else was around.

  “Yeah, you know. Maybe there’s still time for me to kill me some.”

  The words would have been bad enough spoken with malice, but Jake didn’t feel there was enough understanding in Ab for that. It was as if he was parroting something he’d heard. “The war’s over,” Jake said calmly. Every time Ab trained his expressionless eyes on him, Jake felt the hackles at the back of his neck bristle.

  Ab made a sound through his lips which Jake took to show disagreement. He didn’t wipe away the spittle. “Landis says ain’t never gonna be over. Landis says we gotta show—”

  “Who’s Landis?”

  “My brother.” Ab’s expression seemed to indicate he thought Jake should know that. “He takes care of me. He and Bundy, and—”

  “Bundy Atwood?” It was more than the back of his neck that was prickling now.

  “Yeah.” Ab backhanded his mouth. “He’s my friend. Killed hisself a lot of damn bluebellies, he did. Now he’s going to kill more. Gonna take care of his woman too, bloody bitch.”

  Ab delivered his obscenities with the same causal tone he talked of killing. The lack of emotion was unnerving. Jake tried to match his tone. “What woman is that?”

  Again the expression of disbelief. “Damn Samantha Lowery, the bitch.” He spoke the phrase as if they were all part of Samantha’s name. Jake supposed he’d heard it often enough to believe it. “But Bundy’s going to take care of her. Said I could help. I like that, sticking my poker in women. You like to do that, Jake?”

  It took a moment for Jake to control himself enough to answer. He had the strongest desire to plant his fist squarely in Ab’s flabby jaw, to pull his revolver and plug him full of holes. Instead he forced himself to remember whom he was dealing with. He was spared answering as Ab went on telling how Landis took him to town to see Miss Betsy sometimes. But he thought he was going to like doing it to the Yankee bitch more, ’cause she was prettier.

  “Course, Bundy, he says everyone will get his turn. Bundy’s nice. He’s my friend.”

  “Listen, Ab.” Jake stood. “I’m going to be on my way now.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No. I don’t think you should.”

  “But Landis says I ain’t to go nowhere by myself. He says I might get into trouble.”

  Jake stared down at the hulk of a man and felt something close to pity. An emotion the situation didn’t warrant, he assured himself. “Where’s your brother now?”

  “That way.” Ab pointed one ham hock of a hand in the direction he’d come. When Jake followed the motion, he noticed a small group of mounted men coming down the road, headed in their direction.

  Reaching for his gun was second nature.

  Ab noticed the reaction. He rolled over to his knees, following Jake’s gaze. A big grin spread across his face. “It’s Landis,” he said, hefting himself up. “You ain’t going to need that. You’re my friend.”

  Jake was unprepared for the shove Ab gave his hand, but he managed to hang on to his revolver. He also decided holstering it might be his best course at the present. The mounted men had seen his camp and were wasting no time descending upon it. And Ab was ambling off to meet them. Jake slid the gun down his hip and waited.

  “Landis!” Ab reached up, grabbing the bridle of the lead horse, and Jake got his first look at Landis Moore. He was small-framed, especially in comparison to his giant of a brother, with gray-washed black hair curling down his neck and a broad pockmarked face. His eyes were blue, pale, almost silvery in the early light, and they were leveled in anger at Ab.

  “What the hell you think you’re doin’, boy, running off like that?”

  “I weren’t running, Landis.” Ab’s head was bent close to the horses, and he continually rubbed the reins nervously. “It’s just that I was up early and went out ridin’. And I found a friend.”

  Ab swirled around toward Jake, and for the first time Landis seemed to notice him. Not that Jake had gone unobserved during the conversation between the Moores. Jake had seen the scrutiny of the two other riders.

  But now Landis Moore’s eyes were on him, cold and steady. Jake met his stare and couldn’t help thinking of the fear Samantha felt for him. That icy glare would frighten anyone.

  “What’s your name, stranger?”

  “His name is Jake, Landis, and he’s my friend.” Ab’s head was bobbing up and down as if it sat on a loose spring.

  “That right?” Landis demanded.

  “What? That my name is Jake, or that I’m Ab’s friend?” Jake kept his eyes on Landis, but he could sense the two other men, neither of whom he’d ever seen before, moving toward their leader.

  Landis studied him a moment, and then a smile crossed his face that in no way softened the frigid stare. “Both.”

  Jake shifted, his hand resting against his gun. “I’m Jake Morgan. Your brother here wandered into my camp this morning.”

  “He’s a Reb, Landis!”

  “I can see that, Ab.”

  Jake had pulled on his gray tunic to help fight off the chill of the previous night. When Jake had ridden off from Appomattox at the end of the war, it hadn’t occurred to him to toss out his clothes. Pants and coats had been hard enough to come by during the four years of war. They weren’t something to be taken lightly. Nor, Jake had discovered, were they something to be worn lightly.

  “He killed him a lot of Yankee bastards. Told me so,” Ab continued.

  “Did he now?” Landis rose up in his saddle and glanced around. “Where’s your horse, Ab?�
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  “Left him back there, behind them trees.”

  “Go get him.”

  “Sure, Landis.” Ab shuffled to the side. “Where’s Bundy and Jimmy?”

  “Off looking for you, Ab.” Landis kicked his foot free of the stirrup and dismounted. “We weren’t sure which way you’d gone.”

  “Sorry, Landis.” Ab dropped to his knees in the dust at his brother’s feet. “It won’t happen again.”

  “That’s what you said last time.” Landis stepped aside as Ab shielded his head against a blow. “We’ll finish this later,” Landis admonished, bringing a derisive chuckle from the other two. “Right now I want to talk to Jake here.”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “I know. Now go get your horse.”

  Jake watched Ab scurry off, followed by one of the men who were still mounted. The other sat, his hands crossed on the pommel, and waited.

  Landis Moore glanced back toward where his brother had disappeared through some bushes, then back at Jake. “He’s slow.” He tapped a finger to the side of his head. “Been that way since he was born. Nothing to do about it but keep an eye on him. But sometimes he makes that hard. I appreciate what you done for him.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” Jake walked toward his horse and unlooped the reins.

  “Now there’s where we differ in opinion.” Landis moved between Jake and his horse. “No telling what might have happened if you hadn’t been here.”

  Jake cocked his head and waited. Landis Moore was hard to read, but Jake was pretty sure there was more going on here than a simple thank-you.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Why?”

  Again came that smile that seemed more like he was baring his teeth. “It’s not just idle curiosity, let me assure you. I’m Landis Moore.” He paused as if he thought Jake should recognize the name, but when there was no reaction forthcoming, he continued, “I’m sort of the unofficial head of the Reb soldiers in these parts.”

  Jake shrugged. “I’m just passing through.”