The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  She was beginning to wonder if she understood Morgan at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As Jessamyn had expected, the first day seemed particularly long. The scenery was spectacular: first, the barren mountain peak at the top of the pass with the few twisted pine trees. After that, they descended quickly through stands of Douglas fir, dark and misty with little growing on the ground below, before passing through one of the famous aspen forests, its green leaves singing in the summer breezes. Here wildflowers grew thick beyond the trail, almost reaching a mule’s belly, while brightly colored birds flitted past or watched them from branches high above. Waterfalls were frequent and the rivers and streams ran deep and fast, racing each other to carry meltwater to the Atlantic.

  Jessamyn sighed over a particularly rapid brook. She could have stayed at this meadow longer but she knew she needed to keep moving. Brief rides back in Jackson had not been enough to maintain her stamina as a rider. Now her entire body was starting to complain about its abrupt reintroduction to horsemanship. But as she’d hoped when she gave Starshine to Elizabeth Anne after Cyrus’s death, the mare was in superb condition, quite unlike her mistress.

  Thankfully, Morgan and his men were all ex-cavalrymen—how had Donovan & Sons found and kept so many?—and they kept to the cavalry ways for traveling long distances. For ten minutes out of every hour, they dismounted and led the horses, a pattern designed to keep their mounts fresh enough for battle. But from Jessamyn’s perspective, it had the salutary effect of stretching her limbs and slowing the arrival of cramps.

  They usually walked, with occasionally bursts of trotting, which kept the horses—and Jessamyn—refreshed. Through all of this, the patient mules kept up steadily, their silver bells tinkling as they paced along. The lead mare had a deeper bell, which the mules seemed to recognize. Certainly they fell in behind her quickly, with very little urging from the teamsters.

  Jessamyn took another drink of water, capped her canteen, and hooked it on her saddle.

  A feathery leaf teased her cheek. She jumped and spun around, ready to take to task whoever had startled her.

  Morgan held out a bouquet to her, wearing a mischievous expression. Daisies, fluffy white flowers above fernlike leaves, conical purple sunflowers, and yellow sunflowers had been neatly wrapped in a damp kerchief. “For my lady,” he said loudly with a bow, and added very softly, “Just consider how I can excite you with any of these tonight.”

  Her jaw dropped. Shockingly fast, her breasts swelled against her corset and heat gathered between her legs. Over his shoulder, she could see his men smiling at them like fatuous dolts. She accepted the flowers helplessly. “Thank you.”

  He caught her hand and kissed each finger. “My pleasure, dear lady.”

  She blushed scarlet. “Thank you for bringing me on this expedition,” she added softly. “It’s beautiful here.”

  He glanced up at her, his eyes softening. “No more so than you.”

  Her pulse speeded up. She was still somewhat flustered when they took the trail again.

  Maggie sulked, took another breath laden with stinking sage, and wanted to throw up. Charlie and some of the men were fishing for catfish, while others napped during the noontime break.

  To her right, an oxbow of the Rio Grande River meandered past. But everywhere else was miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles of desert. Oh, there were grasses and other shrubs present, too, given last year’s wet winter, but this was still a desert with only cottonwoods to be seen. Worst of all, there was no shopping and no one to flirt with except Charlie, he of the vicious temper and shrinking sanity.

  If he had left her at Fort Garland like the adoring husband he said he was, she would not be in this wretched place. Then she could have waited for a stagecoach—she shuddered at the contrast to their private railroad car—to carry her back to civilization, while he fetched the precious gold.

  She’d been very well behaved last night: she hadn’t mentioned her aching muscles, a hot bath, or her French maid. She’d praised Charlie effusively for the successful train attack upon Morgan. She had not said anything derogatory when Charlie’s male organ remained wizened despite her attentions. Of course, given her state of extreme discomfort, she’d been grateful for once that he was incapable of satisfying a woman.

  This morning she’d even fetched him coffee before he woke up, an easy feat since she hadn’t slept a wink. Then she’d delicately suggested to him that he might—might!—consider sending her back to Denver to watch over their empire.

  He’d immediately lost his temper and accused her of wanting to remain behind to take Morgan as her lover. Only reflexes sharpened during earliest childhood had enabled her to dodge the boiling hot coffee he threw at her. The only thing that had saved her life was her open-mouthed astonishment at his accusation of a pre-arranged rendezvous with Morgan. Truly, if she could have managed it, she would have created one—but she hadn’t.

  Charlie had eventually forgiven her and insisted, once again, that she accompany him to the San Juan Mountains.

  She curled her lip and shifted against the tree, adjusting her leather chaps. Charlie’s family lore insisted there was so much gold left that a man couldn’t put his arms around it. Anything less than that would not be worth this hellacious journey. But maybe tomorrow she could sleep late.

  Suddenly Donleavy, one of Charlie’s recent recruits, started fighting to bring in a fish. Maggie sprang up to see what he had caught, grateful for any distraction. The other men—except Charlie, who continued to fish on the other side of the oxbow—clustered around him as well.

  After a long struggle, Donleavy finally landed a massive catfish well over a foot long, its snout sprouting great long whiskers. He whooped triumphantly and the others joined in, especially the cook. Dinner tonight would be excellent and a pleasant change from the typical train food.

  “Oh, you wonderful man,” Maggie cooed, thinking about the superb meal to come. “How happy you’ve made me!”

  Charlie suddenly stormed through the stand of cottonwoods. “You bastard! Do you think you’re a better fisherman than I am?”

  Donleavy gaped, the great catfish hanging from his hand.

  Maggie immediately swung around and batted her eyes at her husband. Dammit, was every man in the world a target for Charlie’s jealousy? “Charlie sweetheart, you must have the best fishing rig on the Rio Grande River.”

  She clutched his arm firmly and smiled up at her husband, praying Hazleton or the cook would remove the fish from harm’s way. She would be furious if Charlie destroyed her hope of a good meal. “Please show me how you baited it,” she cooed as prettily as she could.

  A growl vibrated silently in Charlie’s throat and his forearm was an iron bar under her hands. His men were watching them, frozen in place.

  She trailed her fingers up his sleeve. “Please, Charlie darling, I’d be so excited to see your—pole.”

  He looked down at her and she managed to lick her lips, adding a lascivious fillip.

  He covered her hand with his. “Whatever you wish, darling.”

  For once, she wasn’t pretending to be a lady when she leaned on his arm while they walked through the grove. He’d been very close to killing Donleavy—because she’d complimented his catch. They couldn’t bring back the gold and return her to her Denver mansion too quickly.

  Jessamyn rode out of Fort Garland beside Morgan, heaving a private sigh of relief. Making conversation with her old friends had been an effort, both because of her exhaustion and because they wanted to ask about her companions. While she could explain a race across Colorado—almost any wild jaunt could be credited to competitive masculine furors—she found it far harder to string together a sentence about Morgan when she was wondering what wickedness he meant to employ in their bed that evening.

  At least she’d learned something of the trail ahead and those who’d traveled it, including Charlie and Maggie Jones.

  A few minutes later, she and Morgan joi
ned their companions, who were briskly setting up camp just within sight of the fort’s walls, in a pleasant grove of cottonwoods close to Trinchera Creek’s silver waters. The San Luis Valley was a broad flat stretch of land, full of sagebrush and sand and almost two days’ ride across. It was bordered by the Sangre de Cristos’s jagged peaks on the east and the San Juan Mountains’ massive bulk on the west.

  Thanks to last winter’s rains and thunderstorms like the one that afternoon, there was grass for the horses and plenty of water. Her friends had warned her to be cautious of storms higher into the mountains.

  But here beside the creek, everything was peaceful. Dawson, the cook, and his assistant were busy making dinner. Some of the men were unpacking mules, carefully balancing the heavy packs as they came off. But many of the horses and mules were unpacked and staked out, while the gear tent had already been set up. Aparejos, pads, and blankets were spread out to dry, with their ropes and mantas. Other men had started grooming horses and mules, removing the sweat and strain of the day’s travel.

  “Charlie’s ten hours ahead of us,” Jessamyn commented bitterly. She’d hoped to be closer. “We only made up two hours in the Sangre de Cristos.”

  She gathered her courage, preparatory to dismounting. Only her pride had kept her from hobbling in front of her friends at the fort.

  “He has better horses than I expected, probably because he hired Hazleton.” Morgan tied up Chaco with other horses waiting to be unsaddled. “But they’re not rising as early as we are, which should aid us.”

  He clamped his big hands around Jessamyn’s waist and lifted her down. She held on to his shoulders for a moment, hoping her legs would magically become stronger. But what she truly wanted was a hot bath and a long sleep, in more or less that order.

  He nuzzled her cheek and her damn pulse leaped. She cursed under her breath.

  He chuckled softly. “We discussed sleeping arrangements this morning,” he whispered into her ear, took the reins out of her hands, and passed them to Lowell. Starshine nickered hopefully at the smell of fresh hay being unpacked. Lowell nodded and took her off.

  Jessamyn cocked an eyebrow at Morgan suspiciously, willing her frisson to die away. This was not the time to lust for him, not when she needed every wit about her. “What do you mean?”

  “Keep looking around you.”

  Her head swiveled, taking in the full details of the hubbub around her. Most of it was exactly what she’d seen produced many times before by a small troop of men traveling across country. But surprisingly, a large tent stood on the camp’s far side under a pair of cottonwood trees. A lantern glowed inside it, highlighting two cots, a trunk, and a stool. Somehow she’d expected to share a bedroll with him around the fire with his men, in the classic bivouac technique.

  Her attention snapped back to Morgan. “You planned that,” she accused.

  “Yes.” His eyes danced with mischief in the twilight.

  She tried to glare at him. She also tried to stop thinking of all the wonderful possibilities offered by that private tent. “Won’t it require a great deal of time to set up and take down? If it will slow us down…”

  “Don’t be absurd, Jessamyn. For all its fine looks, that tent can be packed up very quickly. It’s also sturdy enough to do well against the cold at higher elevations.”

  He wrapped his arm around her waist. “Come along. You’ll feel better after I’m done with you.”

  She dug in her heels. “Morgan…” She knew she’d recover her old campaigner’s stamina within another day or so. But at this moment, lusting after Morgan was more a matter for her brain than for her body.

  He didn’t slow down, giving her the choice between appearing undignified with her feet dragging behind her or walking beside him. She chose to walk, his Bowie knife brushing against her through her skirts.

  She nodded politely to two of his men, Rutledge and Calhoun, two gentlemen from Alabama who had greeted her first. They smiled back and returned to grooming mules, their Colts and Bowie knives ready at their hips like everyone else’s in this camp. Donovan & Sons had some of the most remarkably deadly—and gentlemanly—employees she’d ever seen, which more than fit the firm’s legend.

  “Can you wash up by yourself?” Morgan asked when they reached the tent. “I need to speak to some of the men.”

  She expected to fall asleep the moment she was alone. “Morgan?”

  “Yes, Jessamyn?”

  She tried to look as alert and energetic as possible. “I will tend Starshine myself tomorrow, as is proper.”

  He frowned. “Jessamyn…”

  “Your men have more than enough to do, between tending the other animals and standing sentry duty. I will carry my share of the burden, beginning with Starshine.”

  Respect flashed over his face, softened by a wry amusement. “Very well, Jessamyn. You may do that, just as you did when the three of us played pirates.”

  She smiled at the old memory. Cyrus, Morgan, and she had split the watch into three equal parts whenever they stood guard in the tree house, waiting for a valuable craft—such as a branch—to float down the stream. “Thank you.”

  He held the flap open for her and she stepped inside, only to gasp at the exquisite sight that met her eyes. Clean sheets and blankets were stretched smoothly across two cots, while pillows were plumped up at their heads. A jug full of water and a basin sat on the trunk, beside two clean towels and a lemon.

  She should be nervous about what he was planning. But she couldn’t bring herself to care, not when she was facing fresh water and clean towels.

  An instant later, she’d tossed her hat onto the trunk, blown out the lantern, and was forcing her fingers to unbutton her jacket. Outside, she could hear Morgan talking to Grainger about the trail ahead. How long would it take her to fall asleep in that lovely bed?

  Minutes later, the jacket, shirt, skirt, trousers, and socks were neatly stretched over the trunk, with her boots standing squarely beside it. An instant’s work unfastened her corset’s steel busk, which held it closed in the front, and dropped it onto the trunk.

  Using the light from the campfires outside, Jessamyn poured water into the basin and squeezed the lemon into it. Shivering in anticipation, she dipped a towel into it, wrung it out gently, and buried her face in the cloth. Lovely, cool, fresh water caressed her brow and her cheeks. The towel enveloped her nose and awoke her lips, erasing their flaky, dusty shell. A brisk lemony tang teased her nose, while trails of the same life-giving moisture trickled down her throat.

  Jessamyn moaned and swirled the towel over her face. She dipped it back into the water and repeated the process, sighing. Heaven on earth.

  If only she could go a step further and wash underneath her drawers. They were made of very fine cambric but they’d been trapped between her chamois trousers and her skin for the entire day. If she could wash her bare skin…She was, after all, wearing her chemise, which covered her to the knees.

  She hesitated and listened, holding the towel clutched to her throat like a shield. Morgan and Grainger were still talking, while the cook was telling the men that dinner would be ready in less than five minutes. Perfect. Surely Morgan would sit down to dinner with Grainger and he wouldn’t interrupt her. She slipped off her drawers and went back to washing herself.

  This time, she did so thoroughly, with an eye to cleanliness more than sensual pleasure. She started at the top of her head and worked down, using soap as well, so that the clean portions could dry off. But the regular motions exacerbated her stiff limbs and soon she was whimpering softly. The final stages, when she reached her lower limbs, were particularly agonizing and she had no idea how she would wash her feet.

  “Give me the cloth, Jessamyn,” Morgan said softly.

  She gaped at him. If she hadn’t been biting her lip, she probably would have screamed. How had he managed to sneak into the tent without being heard?

  “The cloth,” he repeated, holding out his hand.

  Too tired to
argue, she handed it over. Morgan pressed her shoulders back gently and she lay down. His hands were very gentle when he washed her feet and she bit her lip in gratitude.

  “Do you do this often?” It was all too easy to remember other times on the train when he’d handled her in the dark and made her sob in pleasure. She was too sore and too exhausted now, of course. But lust still somehow sparkled and danced over her skin whenever he came near, dammit.

  “Occasionally.” He returned to the cot and unbuttoned her chemise’s sleeves. Without saying another word, he began to gently rub a light, unscented oil into her hands and arms.

  She told herself firmly that it was only kindness that made him give her a massage when she was exhausted. She turned her head to watch him, sighing a bit as she yielded to his touch.

  After that, it was easy to let him rub her face and neck, especially because his strong fingers knew exactly where riding had built every knot and kink in her body. She moaned a little and closed her eyes, keeping them shut even when his hands left her head.

  Morgan rolled her over onto her stomach and rubbed her back very gently through her chemise without the oil. Jessamyn muttered and stretched. The sensation was nice but not as smooth as a rubdown had felt directly on her skin with the oil. “Oil, please,” she mumbled.

  “Are you certain?”

  Silly question. She felt better after this massage than after any previous one, even when she’d had a maid. “Yes, of course.”

  He lifted her chemise up and a breath of air touched her skin. She twitched reflexively but two big, warm, magical hands gently settled over her back.

  She sighed and closed her eyes. Morgan knew how to make her feel better. And he did. He worked all the aches out of her back, as well.

  The fact that her traitorous female body was starting to feel well enough to take interest in his masculine body was ridiculous. She could no more handle being ridden by a man than she could have tolerated riding Starshine for another twelve hours, much as her breasts might ache at the thought of his wicked skill in arousing them.