Grudgingly, Steven smiled. “You think he’s good for her, then?”
“I know he is,” answered Devlin, with surety. “And she’s good for him, too. Which isn’t to say there won’t be an earthquake or two before they get the knack of being married.”
Steven laughed, then sobered at the expression on his father’s face.
“Steven, be careful,” Devlin said. “Gideon owns a share of the Central Pacific Railroad, and he’s as much as admitted to me that he’d like to hand you over to their agents for prosecution.”
It was several moments before Steven answered. “That puts Willow in one hell of a position, doesn’t it?”
“If anything spoils their chance to be happy, it will be that, I think,” agreed Devlin pensively. “Steven, will you lay off the goddamned trains? I’m a rich man and you’ll never bankrupt me that way.”
Steven grinned. “So you’re on to that, are you?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out who you were trying to hurt. Everything you’ve ever stolen has been mine. Damnit all to hell, you don’t have to steal from me—you’re my son and anything I have is yours for the asking.”
The handsome face, a masculine version of Chastity’s, stiffened. “I don’t want—or need—anything from you.”
“Well, I want something from you, God damnit!”
Steven was on his feet, flinging down his coffee mug. “What?” he demanded furiously. “Do you want to make me a partner in your many businesses, Papa? Do you want to acknowledge me, the notorious outlaw, as your son?”
Devlin rose no less furiously to his feet. “What the hell do you mean, do I want to acknowledge you? I’ve never denied you!”
Fury crept, crimson, up Steven’s muscular neck. “No?” he bellowed. “Then tell me, dear Papa, why you never even looked for me? Tell me why you didn’t come for us!”
For the first time, Devlin realized the full depths of his son’s animosity toward him. In the face of the man, he saw the hurts of the child. “My God, Steven, I did look for you! I hired detectives, I—”
“You’re a liar!”
“And you’re a hardheaded smart-ass!” Devlin yelled back. “I did find your mother, Steven. In ’63. She was dancing in a hurdy-gurdy house. I begged her, Steven, I begged her to tell me where you were. She was afraid to, and rightfully so, because I would have stolen you from her without a second thought!”
“Why didn’t you keep trying?”
“Because I was a fool, that’s why. I spent the night with Chastity. God help me, I was married to Evadne and still I couldn’t resist your mother—and when I woke up, she was gone, along with every hope I had of finding you.”
Steven turned away, and an old grief moved in the powerful shoulders and tall frame he had inherited from Devlin. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you like, Steven. Throw your goddamned life away to spite me. But keep in mind that, one of these days, it will be too damned late to put aside what you’re doing and make something of yourself.”
“What about Coy and Reilly?” Steven asked, in distracted and more moderate tones. “They don’t know anything but running with me.”
“You’ll get them killed if you keep this up. Is that what you want for your half brothers, Steven? Do you want Willow to see the three of you hanged?”
Steven shuddered involuntarily and tilted his head back to search the gray skies. “It’s already too late for me,” he said, after a long time. “If I turn myself in, can you get them pardoned? Coy and Reilly, I mean?”
“Yes,” Devlin said, without hesitation. “I could get you pardoned, too, if you’d just stop robbing trains and overturning wagonloads of copper ore.”
Steven turned to face his father and, for a moment, hope flashed in his eyes, but it was almost immediately displaced by the old skepticism and disbelief. God in heaven, did he think Devlin was trying to draw him and Jay Forbes’s two half-witted sons into some kind of trap?
The idea filled Devlin with raging anguish. “You think I’d sell you out?” he hissed incredulously. “You think I’d see my own son arrested and maybe even hanged?”
Maddeningly, Steven shrugged. “Just think how peaceful your life would be if I were dead,” he said.
Half-blinded by his hurt and his anger, Devlin stormed over to his son and backhanded him so hard that Steven, caught off guard, stumbled and almost lost his footing.
Pale, the younger man bellowed a curse and doubled up one lethal fist.
“Go ahead, boy,” Devlin breathed. “Go ahead and beat the hell out of me. Do it. And you’ll see that nothing, nothing, Steven, is changed!”
Slowly, his blue eyes dark with an anguish to match Devlin’s own, Steven unclenched his fist.
Devlin wanted to grasp his shoulders, but he didn’t dare; the moment was too fragile. “I love you, Steven,” he said quietly, and in all truth. “For God’s sake, let me help you before it’s too late.”
Steven wavered visibly, but again the trust in his face was fleeting. “It’s already too late,” he said, and then he turned and disappeared into the surrounding woods. Devlin knew that he would not be back.
This time, the tears Devlin Gallagher shed had nothing whatsoever to do with Evadne’s death.
* * *
The last room that Willow and Gideon toured was the master bedroom, and not by accident, Willow reflected, unnerved.
Grinning slightly, because he always seemed to understand so much more than he should have, Gideon left his wife to stand at the windows nearest the huge four-poster bed.
“You can see the mountains from here,” he said presently.
Unconcerned, for the moment, with the distant Rockies, Willow was staring at the bed. Would she lie here, with Gideon, for a thousand nights, a million nights? Would she bear his children here?
Or would he leave her, once his apparent penchant had been appeased?
Tears filled Willow’s golden eyes and the sob she couldn’t hold back made Gideon turn to face her. In two strides, he was standing before her, pulling her close, burying one hand in her hair. The pins that held her heavy tresses in place were thus displaced, and thick tendrils began to fall around her shoulders and down her back.
Gideon was somehow moved by this, and his mouth came to hers, swiftly and with hungry desperation.
Stricken and yet unable to stop herself, Willow returned his kiss, greeted his conquering tongue with her own. His hands made fiery magic along her rib cage, rising to the rounding of her breasts, sliding down to cup her bottom and press her lower body into the searing evidence of his desire.
“Willow,” he said, when the kiss ended at last. “Willow.”
She closed her eyes, enclosed in a delicious blaze of heat, as his hands came to the bodice of her simple black dress and began working the buttons from their tiny loops. When the dress had been opened, he unlaced the camisole beneath, revealing the full, passion-weighted breasts that awaited him.
Gideon drew in his breath and his hand rose shakily to close over the sweet mounds, his palms chafing their rosy peaks to a hard wanting. “Do you want me to take you home?” he asked, in a voice that was barely audible. And even as he spoke, he drew Willow to the bed, sat down, then positioned her gently on his lap.
“This is home,” Willow answered, and his mouth came to the peak of her breast, greedy and warm and wholly welcome.
6
A voice deep in Willow’s mind pleaded caution, but she could not heed it, for her newly awakened body was making demands of its own. It was caught in a cascade of craving that could be met only by this man.
She had no memory of shedding her clothes, nor of Gideon shedding his, but now they lay together on Mrs. Baker’s bare mattress, naked and strong in the breeze that floated in through the window Gideon had opened.
Willow knew a moment of fear, sensing the strength of this man, a strength that was not just physical but mental, too. What elemental forces would be unleashed with his passion?
/> As if he’d looked into Willow’s mind and read her deepest thoughts, Gideon traced the outline of her jaw, smoothed back the dense dark-taffy hair he had freed from its thick braid. “I wouldn’t hurt you, ever,” he said. And his mouth went to the sensitive length of her neck, making a tender exploration there.
A shudder of unqualified need went through Willow. “Gideon,” she whispered, “I’ve never—I mean—”
“I know,” he murmured, into the hollow above her collarbone.
Willow sighed and then gasped as his lips moved softly over the swell of her breast to nibble tentatively at its dusky rose peak. Once, long ago, she had overheard Steven and one of his women making love in a hayloft. They had not known that she was there, of course, and she had not been able to run away, for she had been held in place by a bond of curiosity and by her fear of being caught.
There had been much movement and much noise, and both Steven and the woman had cried out at intervals, as though they were in the throes of unendurable agony. Willow had been terrified, but to her amazement, Steven and his woman had seemed fully recovered when she saw them later. There had been a certain shine in the woman’s eyes, and Steven had smiled at her a great deal, as though the two had shared a private joke.
Now Gideon’s hands were making magic along Willow’s rib cage and his mouth feasted at her breasts, first one and then the other, that sweetly scandalous way that he had before, that day in the hills. She began to thrash beneath him. She had cried out then. Was that why Steven’s woman had moaned and pleaded, as if in anguish?
Willow was filled with confusion and need, dread and wanting. “Gideon, Gideon,” she said senselessly.
His answer was a hoarse chortle. “Soon, hellcat. You aren’t ready yet.”
And his mouth coursed downward, planting warm kisses that knifed all the way through to Willow’s backbone, so fierce was the pleasure they gave. “R-ready?” she whispered, her hands tangled in his hair.
He was at the very portal of her womanhood now, his breath heating her entire body, despite the breeze from the window, causing every inch of her flesh to glisten. “Ummm,” he said, and then he took her full in his mouth. The gentle motion was piercing, creating a comfort that was almost pain.
Willow writhed and twisted, though the last thing she wanted was to break away. Gideon’s hands caught her hips and held them high and still and the pleasure grew keener, until Willow was certain that she could not bear it another moment.
“Gideon, Gideon!” she cried, as a shattering, burning tumult broke within her, then slowly faded, leaving her trembling and shaken.
Gideon lowered her gently back to the bed. His eyes were slumberous and veiled as they swept over her nakedness, claiming her. Careful not to let his full weight rest upon her, Gideon lowered himself and she felt the muscles in his sun-browned body ripple with need and restraint. The heated length of his manhood was both alarming and welcome where it pressed against her thigh.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, as though spellbound, burying his face in the bright, silken tangle of Willow’s hair.
She lay still beneath him, sated and yet knowing that the fullness of her womanhood was awakening again, drawn up from her depths by the hard power of his body, the scent of his hair and skin. “Come to me,” she whispered, bold even in her relative innocence.
With a groan, Gideon nudged Willow’s legs apart and sought entrance gently. “Sorceress,” he rasped, and then he was within her, though just barely.
Instinct caused Willow to grasp his taut, muscular buttocks in her hands and press him closer.
He moaned, as if in terrible pain. “Easy—for God’s sake—this will hurt you if we go too fast.”
Maria’s words of warning loomed suddenly in Willow’s mind. There would be pain the first time, she had said. But Willow’s yearning was greater than her fear. “Please, Gideon,” she said, in a hushed and tender voice.
Gideon came to her fully, in a cautious thrust. Willow felt a quick, tearing sting, but the sensation soon passed and she clutched at him as he made to withdraw. Surely, this wasn’t all there was to this magical, puzzling rite—she had expected, dreamed of so much more.
But Gideon returned, this time with more power and force, and Willow was consumed in wildfire despite the tenderness of the passage he traveled.
The movements of Gideon’s body were metered by his passion now, quickening with each thrust. He began to repeat her name over and over again in a strangled voice, and Willow, half-blinded by a bevy of new sensations, new emotions, allowed that voice to guide her through to the shuddering, raucous fulfillment that awaited them both.
They lay still, in sweet exhaustion, for some time. Then, with a nervous giggle, Willow announced, “You’re squashing me.”
Gideon immediately shifted away to lie on his back. His breath came ragged from somewhere deep in his chest, and he stared up at the ceiling as though he could see through it to the unbounded skies beyond. “Small vengeance,” he answered, “for what you just did to me.”
Willow sat up; if there had been covers, she would have clutched them to her. “I beg your pardon?” she asked; perhaps because her passions had been aroused, she was quick to anger.
“Relax, hellcat,” Gideon said. “I meant no offense by that remark. And, just in case you’re about to ask, yes. What we just did could make you pregnant.”
Willow swallowed. Their alliance was an uncertain one, for all its fire, and she suddenly felt very much alone, even though Gideon was within touching distance. “What if I did have a baby, Gideon? What would happen then—between us, I mean?”
He cupped a strong and undeniably masculine hand over one of her still-pulsing breasts. “Then I would have to share this,” he answered.
Tears smarted in Willow’s eyes and Gideon saw them; he drew her down so that her head rested on his shoulder. His flesh, too, was moist with the exertion of climbing to the heights.
“What do you think would happen, Willow?” he asked softly, entangling a hand in her hair. “Do you imagine that I would leave you and my child, without even looking back?”
Willow shivered. “How do I know what you would do, Gideon Marshall? You’re a stranger to me, a portrait come to life.”
He laughed; the sound was deep in his chest, rumbling under Willow’s ear. “I’m Lancelot,” he said.
Willow would have bolted upright again if he hadn’t stayed her. “You know about that?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out, hellcat. I hope you realize that I’m not made up of oil and canvas and paint thinner, but flesh and blood.”
Willow colored richly, for there was no denying what this complicated, exasperating man was made of. “I imagined a lot of things about you, but I never dreamed of anything like this,” she confessed.
Gideon laughed. “What, pray tell, did you imagine, fair damsel?”
Willow’s throat ached over the girlish naivete of the answer she had to give. “I—I thought you would just—well—I knew you would be inside me, but I didn’t know how it would feel. I didn’t know we would move like that . . .”
This time Gideon did not laugh, and the humor in his voice was tender. “You thought I was just going to jump on you and then lie there?”
“Yes,” admitted Willow.
They were silent for a time, lying close, Gideon’s hand moving softly in Willow’s hair. Finally, turning to lie above her again, his lips not an inch from her own, Gideon breathed, “Never fear, m’lady. I will stay with you, and I will slay dragons for you.”
A feeling of lush well-being swept over Willow, but beneath this lurked a niggling doubt. Promises made when the two of them had just made love were one thing, but she knew from bitter experience that reality was another.
Gideon meant to hunt down her brother. Would he slay Steven, too, like the dragons he’d mentioned?
His mouth came down to cover hers then, searching and hungry in a sleepy sort of way, and it was nightfall before they both labored back
into their clothes and returned to town.
* * *
To Gideon’s immense relief, the mourners, strangers all, had gone by the time he and Willow reached Judge Gallagher’s house. Only Zachary remained and, though he was not in the mood to spar with his brother, Gideon could at least deal with his presence.
Zachary remained silent until Willow had bounded up the stairs, her hair trailing loose behind her, her cheeks glowing. Then, in the quiet of the Gallagher parlor, he lifted his brandy snifter in a wry and patently unfriendly salute. “Some people deal with grief in very interesting ways,” he remarked.
Gideon stiffened, then willed his taut muscles to go loose. To aid in this, he helped himself to a glass of his father-in-law’s imported whiskey. “Willow is, after all, my wife,” he said, with an ease he did not feel.
“Who would know that better than I?” countered Zachary. Leaning back against the mantel over the fireplace, he gave the impression of a relaxed man, but Gideon knew that inwardly his brother was coiled like a snake, prepared to strike at any moment.
Gideon pinioned Zachary with a scathing look. “Listen, Zachary, I’ve been patient about this. When I found out what you did, I wanted to kill you. I didn’t, obviously. So why don’t you just let well enough alone and shut up while you can?”
Zachary made a contemptuous sound deep in his throat and smirked. “Do you, perchance, labor under the delusion that you’re any kind of match for me, little brother?”
“It’s no delusion, Zachary, and you know it.”
Zachary smiled, showing his dazzling white teeth, but he paled slightly, too. “All right, Gid, all right. We’re neither one of us thinking straight, what with Mama buried just today.”
There was a barb hidden in those words and it caught on Gideon’s sense of honor, smarting. Had it been wrong, his losing himself in Willow’s sweet fire on this grim day? Carefully, he hid the fact that Zachary had hit his mark. “Don’t be maudlin, Zachary,” he said hoarsely, “we weren’t close to our mother, either one of us, so let’s not pretend to be devastated by her loss. She virtually abandoned us, after all.”
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