“Perhaps it makes sense for you to stay a few days. We need to figure out more about this Mr. Smith, make sure that when you leave, you’ll have a safe passage.”
For a moment, they contemplated each other, each uncertain exactly what they might expect from those few days. Then Roy released her hands and went to sit in the single chair.
“Get the spoons. Don’t bother with the plates. We can eat straight from the pot.”
Celia did as told, rummaging in their saddlebags and holding up the pair of battered spoons as if they were priceless silverware. Roy gestured for her to come closer and pulled her over to perch on his knee.
Laughing now, the moment of tension forgotten, she settled there, and they shared the simple supper, his arm around her waist, their heads bent together over the steaming stew pot. A feeling of contentment stole over Roy. As a child, when he had been banished to sit alone in the kitchen corner, or later, after his mother died, to live in the stables like an animal, he would have given anything for such domesticity, such sense of acceptance and belonging.
* * *
While Roy went to take the supper dish back to the cook shack, Celia stood in the middle of the cabin and felt a flicker of nerves. Her gaze drew to the pine bed covered with blankets. Sleeping beside Roy had seemed natural the day before, the euphoria of surviving the snakebite and Miss Ada’s whiskey-fortified tea shattering her modesty.
She glanced around the cramped space. It would be impossible for them to undress at the same time without bumping into each other. Quickly, she got out of her riding costume and hung it up on a hook on the wall. Cold air enveloped her. Shivering, she scooped water from the pail by the door into a basin and washed her face and cleaned her teeth.
For an instant, she hovered on her feet, undecided. Then she quickly stripped out of her undergarments and bundled them into the oak chest. The best way to overcome the moral constraints of her upbringing was to meet them head-on. She sat on the edge of the bed, removed her shoes and socks and darted beneath the covers. Just in time, for footsteps sounded outside and there was a knock on the door.
“Celia? It’s me, Roy. Let me in.”
“It’s open.”
Roy stepped into the cabin with a gust of cold air. It was fully dark outside now. Celia could hear a burst of rowdy laughter, then a single gunshot. A shiver of fear rippled over her.
“You should have bolted the door,” Roy told her.
“But you were close by.”
“Always bolt the door if you’re alone after dark.”
She nodded. The thought of the dangers that surrounded them made her edgy. To her surprise, they also caused a restless anticipation to surge within her. As if the lawless environment was rubbing off on her, making her greedy for physical pleasures.
Her gaze swept over Roy, skimming his wide shoulders, tracing his handsome features. He’d pulled his eye patch aside. His hair curled damp about his face, and she guessed he’d been at the creek to have his evening wash.
He swung a small metal bucket onto the table. “I brought you hot water to wash.”
“No need. I had a bath yesterday, and there was little trail dust today.”
“Are you sure?”
“I...” A blush flared on her skin. “Perhaps, if you’ll help...”
“All right.” He removed his gun belt, placed one of the pistols on the bed by the pillow. After shrugging out of his shirt, he took a small flannel cloth from his saddlebags, set the bucket of water on the floor and knelt by the bedside.
With unhurried motions, he dipped the cloth in the bucket, wrung it dry and lifted the edge of the blankets. “Celia...you’re naked... I thought...”
“Isn’t this how couples sleep together?”
“Celia...” He sank to sit on the floor, the cloth gripped in his fingers. “Celia, I can’t...we can’t...” His expression grew fraught. “Don’t do this, Celia. Don’t lead us deeper and deeper into intimacy. It’s all too easy to believe that if love is powerful enough it will conquer every obstacle, but it doesn’t work like that.”
“I’m not asking for a future.”
“No. But you’re asking for trouble. Just because you are good and pure, it doesn’t protect you from evil. It doesn’t insulate you from bad things happening. Bad things happening to you because of me. Because of what I am.” Roy’s features contorted with some inner pain. When he spoke again, his voice came out strained. “Celia, what Miss Mabel told you...about her husband...I was there...I saw him hang.”
His hand fisted around the cloth, sending a rivulet dripping to the floor, but he appeared not to notice. The single lamp burning was on the table behind him, leaving his face in shadows that emphasized his stricken expression.
“It was in my first year at the outlaw camp. I was only fifteen. Jim Rowland—Miss Mabel’s husband—had been kind to me. He was an educated man, and he gave me books to read, helped me to make up for the lack of schooling. When he was captured, the rest of us rode out with a plan to spring him from the jail. But it could not be done. There were too many guards. So instead, we watched them hang him.”
Celia saw the quick rise and fall of Roy’s naked chest as he sucked in a sharp breath. “They made a circus of it. Like the Fourth of July celebrations. People brought picnics. A band played merry tunes. The only thing that lacked was fireworks.”
He looked up at her, horror in his eyes. “Miss Mabel stood right in front of the gallows. When they sprang the trap, she collapsed to her knees. There was no one helping her, no one to comfort her. They all shunned her, an outlaw’s widow who had deceived them for years. She didn’t cry, but she made this terrible croaking sound, as if every breath she took tore at her insides. She had already buried her little boy, and she had no tears left. But I’ve never seen such grief. Never.”
Roy fell silent and lifted the cloth he’d been gripping. Almost touching her bare shoulder with it, he let his hand hover in the air, not quite completing the motion. It seemed to Celia as if that small distance symbolized what he was about to say.
“Afterward, Miss Mabel had no place to go. She ended up in a bordello. Although she did well and now owns the place, I can’t risk putting you in a similar position. And I can’t risk letting you so deep into my heart that when you go there’ll be nothing left but emptiness too great to bear. We’ll both have to keep ourselves whole, so we can survive when we are alone again.”
Celia swallowed. Roy looked more handsome than ever, the humility of his words contrasting with the blatant masculinity of his powerful body. She reached out, trailed her fingertips over the ridged contours of his muscles and felt the heat on his skin.
“I understand,” she said. “But it is already too late. You have already become a part of me. I know that after we say goodbye I’ll never stop missing you. The best you can do for me is to build up memories. Give me something to take with me when I go.”
Instead of replying, Roy lifted his other hand and cupped her cheek in his callused palm. Celia could feel his hand shaking, could feel the tension in him. She waited. Finally, Roy gave a long, slow sigh. She couldn’t see his brown eye well enough in the shadowed light of the lamp on the table behind him, but she could tell his blue eye was bright with emotion. When he spoke, his voice was very low.
“Thank you, Celia. Thank you for this...for making a home for us. The next few days and nights will be the only chance we’ll ever have to be together. Let us make the most of them, although we must take care not to create a child.”
The cloth in his hand had cooled, and he dipped it in warm water again and wrung it dry in order to not dampen the bedclothes. Then he proceeded to wash her, gently sliding the cloth over her skin. He did not miss an inch of her. His touch wasn’t overtly sexual, but the smooth, even motion of his hand stroking her body stirred an edgy need inside Celia that begged to be eased. She began to shift restlessly on
the bed. Her fingers fisted into the crisp sheet she had found in the oak chest and used to cover the worn rag mattress.
“Enough?” Roy said.
When she nodded. Roy straightened on his feet and turned to blow out the lamp on the table. The cabin plunged into darkness.
“I can’t see,” she told him in agitated whisper.
“Oh, but I can.” She could hear the laughter in his voice. Fabric rustled. Clothing tumbled to the earth floor. A boot thudded down, then another. In her mind, Celia pictured Roy completely naked, only a step away from her. Somehow, not seeing him added an element of suspense that felt like a powerful narcotic.
A hand closed on her shoulder. “Move aside. On second thoughts, don’t.”
She felt him climb up onto the bed, felt his powerful frame settle over hers. His skin was hot, his muscles taut. Instinctively, she eased her legs apart to accommodate him, but instead of taking up the invitation, Roy edged downward along her body.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Don’t ask and you won’t be told lies.” She could hear laughter in his voice.
And then the mattress shifted beneath her as Roy adjusted his position. A moment later, she felt it there, right in her secret place, a hot wetness that catapulted her into a dark abyss of pleasure so intense, so decadent, that she would not have believed it possible. On and on it went, waves of sensation that left her writhing on the bed, deaf and blind to all the world except that small part of her body and Roy’s mouth upon it.
When the tremors of completion had finally subsided and Celia regained her senses, the mattress dipped again as Roy moved back up along the bed to lie beside her. He pulled her into the circle of his arms. Celia broke free, sat up and gathered her courage. So far, their lovemaking had seemed terribly one-sided, and she wished to remedy the imbalance.
“I want to make you feel like you made me feel.”
“Celia...it’s not something a man can ask a lady to do.”
“You are not asking,” she pointed out. “I’m insisting.”
It didn’t take long for her to convince Roy, and in low, husky tones he instructed her how to go about returning the favor. The complete darkness in the room offered a cloak of modesty while she learned her way around a man’s body, discovered how to touch him and give him pleasure. The raw violence of his reaction told her that this release had been as powerful as hers, and she found a new sense of satisfaction from having brought it about.
Afterward, as Celia lay curled up in Roy’s embrace, his voice rang inside her head. The next few days and nights will be the only chance we’ll ever have to be together. Let us make the most of them. She lay awake for long hours, listening to his heartbeat, regret filling her that one of those precious days and nights was already almost gone.
Chapter Twelve
When Celia awakened, the scents of coffee and bacon filled the cabin and streaks of morning light filtered in between the closed shutters. Roy was seated at the small pine table by the window, fully dressed, watching her.
Recollections of the way they had brought pleasure to each other in the darkness of the night flickered through Celia’s mind, suddenly making her feel shy. Trying to act confident, she wriggled to a sitting position on the bed. Instinctively, she fumbled at the bedclothes, pulled them up to her chin to cover her bare breasts.
Roy’s lips curved into a grin. At his amused expression, the foolishness of her prim action struck Celia. She burst into giggles, and yet the modesty of her upbringing would not allow her to let the covers fall away and reveal her nakedness.
“Turn around,” she demanded.
“There’s not enough room to turn around. I’ll close my eyes, how’s that?”
Roy’s eyelids came down, the long lashes forming a dark crescent against the tanned skin. He didn’t have his eye patch on, but Celia knew that as soon as they opened the shutters he would cover his brown eye. For an instant, she drank in his features, and then she pushed the blankets out of the way and swung her feet to the earth floor. Her toes curled against the cold surface and she let out an involuntary groan, accompanied by a shiver.
“Brrrrr... It’s freezing.”
“I’ll get some firewood for tomorrow morning.”
She took a deep breath, jumped to her feet and pulled on her clothing with jerky, hurried motions, fighting the chill in the room. She knew that Roy was peeking from beneath his half-closed lids, just as she had expected he would. She didn’t mind.
When she was ready, her hair gathered into a knot at the nape of her neck, her face and teeth rinsed, she went to join him at the table and perched on his knee. The bout of shyness conquered, she felt at ease. As long as she remained at the camp, she would try not to think about the future, would not spoil their days together by worrying about the parting.
“We need another chair,” she pointed out.
Roy nuzzled her neck. “I like it this way.”
“I want my own chair, so I can work at the table. There’s a needle and thread in the chest. I can repair your worn-out clothing. And I want to write a letter to my father.”
They shared a lazy breakfast, enjoying the sense of togetherness. Roy described the daily routines at the hideout, how the cook banged his pots and pans to announce the mealtimes. Those who didn’t hurry to the cook shack risked being left without.
“If you want a lie-in, it’s fine, but I’ll have to get up before the food runs out. And today I’ll have to do some work. A string of unbroken mustangs was delivered while I was away and I need to get started on them.”
“Can I come and watch?”
“You can move freely around the camp while I’m close by, and I can accompany you for walks along the valley. But anytime I need to leave you alone, you’ll have to be careful. Stay inside the cabin and bolt the door unless I’m within sight.”
After they’d finished eating, Roy gathered up the empty dishes. “I’ll take these back to the cook shack. I need to catch up with some of the men. I’ll talk to Dale Hunter about posting your letter when he rides out tomorrow, and I’ll see you again at lunchtime.”
With a bittersweet mix of anxiety and contentment, Celia watched him go. She opened the shutters, letting in the crisp morning air. Outside, she could hear masculine voices and laughter, horses whinnying, a crow screeching. Everyday sounds. And then the steady popping of gunfire from target practice pierced all the other sounds, reminding her of the lawless nature of the camp.
Celia closed her mind to the sudden flash of fear. She went to her saddlebags and took out the pen and writing tablet and the small bottle of ink she had packed before leaving home. She arranged the equipment on the table, sat down and composed a letter to her father, deliberating over each word.
Dear Papa,
You longed to see me settled, my future secured, and it gives me great pleasure to tell you that I am married.
My husband is a fine man, a horse wrangler by trade. Currently he is occupied breaking wild mustangs for a fee, but he has some savings that will allow me to make a home where I can bring up our children while he travels around for his work.
Before you went to prison you mentioned a small family legacy coming to me. I am glad to inform you that I have received the money. I am fully aware of the measures you have taken to provide for me, and you have my love and gratitude.
In my eyes, you have never done anything wrong, and you are the best of fathers, have always been. I hope your waning health is not causing you too much distress. I trust the prison doctor is taking good care of you, and the warden is an honorable man who treats you with compassion.
I don’t expect that I shall have an opportunity to visit, but you are in my thoughts.
Your loving daughter,
Celia.
She blew on the sheet to dry the ink, read the finished letter once more. The reference t
o a husband and children caused a bittersweet pang of regret, not just because she was stretching the truth, but because the lie could never become reality. However, nothing less than marriage would have the power to reassure her father, and reassuring him was the main purpose of the letter. A long, rambling account of her travels might have served to entertain him, but she didn’t want her key messages to be lost among trivia. Further, she was short on writing paper and wished to preserve her supply, in case no opportunity arose to acquire more.
Craning out through the window, Celia surveyed the camp for Roy’s whereabouts. He was standing near the corrals, half turned away, but she could tell he kept glancing toward the cabin. Surely, that counted as him being within sight, and she could go outside.
She checked her appearance in the small mirror she carried in her saddlebags and took the time to apply some of Miss Mabel’s cream over her scar. Her hair was neatly gathered at the nape of her neck. She patted her hands over her velvet riding costume, smoothing the fabric. Mr. Smith was a gentleman, with a gentleman’s manners, and it might help if she looked like a lady.
Outside, a brisk wind added to the autumn cool, whipping her heavy skirts around her legs. She made her way to the entrance of the ranch house. Davies, the compact, square-faced man with sandy hair who had searched her for weapons the day before, lounged in the open doorway.
Celia gathered her courage. “I wish to speak to Mr. Smith.”
Davies pushed his shoulder from the jamb. He stared at her, but there was a reverent, awestruck quality to his perusal. It took him a moment to find his voice.
“I’ll tell him.”
“I’ll wait.”
She listened to the cadence of his boots as he vanished into the building. “The lady wants to see you,” Davies called into the inner sanctum. Celia could not make out the muffled reply, but a moment later Davies reappeared and gestured for her to follow him inside.
The Outlaw and the Runaway Page 17