The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  She barely moved when he went to work on her legs. It was, after all, the natural next step, she reminded her intrigued libido. Moving might also have meant acknowledging that her intimate flesh was warm and wet, ripe with interest in his touch. Oddly enough, her loins weren’t frantic to have him.

  Still, there were a dozen men outside, close enough to hear almost everything. She shrugged that observation off, too tired to protest. Besides, she’d been an Army wife for years. If she’d objected to Cyrus’s attentions while traveling with his hundred or more troopers, she’d have lost many opportunities to enjoy his pleasures.

  Morgan kneaded the backs of her calves until every knot created by the day’s long ride was gone. Steadily, he worked up her thighs until they, too, lolled open for him, lax and inviting. Orgasm started to gather in her blood, a slow rich swell like a great tide, but not one that needed her muscles’ frantic twitching. Cream slowly dripped onto her leg and Morgan swirled oil across it, then rubbed the cream into her skin.

  Jessamyn sighed softly, enjoying another touch of hedonism.

  He rolled her over and kneaded the front of her legs. Her leg muscles were less stressed here and responded quickly to the oil. Soon he was stroking her legs with a more intensely carnal touch, one that sent shivers of arousal through her body.

  She shuddered, recognizing his invitation, and instinctively rubbed her breasts through her chemise. Frustrated by the cloth, she drew it up restlessly until she could fondle her breasts directly.

  Morgan growled softly and spread her legs wider. His hands ranged up the insides of her thighs, stroking and kneading. He worked more oil into his hands and smoothed it over her mound and down between her legs, working it into every inch. She moaned and twisted under him when he plumped and smoothed every fold, bringing them to their fullest glory, teasing every delicate frill into a bouquet.

  Her eyes closed, her hands locked on his shoulders, because the only sense that mattered now was touch when she was floating away on a wave of his creation.

  His blunt finger teased her gently, finding those last traces of soreness where the muscles ran up the insides of her thighs into her depths. His finger returned, oilier now, and circled her entrance. She sighed, calmed and captivated, and opened farther for him. He circled her again and again, until it seemed a great spiraling wave was sliding inside her on his hand. Two fingers perhaps—or was it three?—eased into her, pumping her slowly, like the mountain creek flowing past the tent.

  Jessamyn moaned again, bucking gently against his hand. Orgasm was close but not yet overwhelming.

  “Take it now, Jessamyn,” Morgan ordered, his voice harsh against her ear.

  She sighed and climaxed, clenching around his fingers while her entire body flowed into rapture. Ecstasy, bright and solid, caught her before tension flowed completely out of her.

  “Ah, Morgan,” she sighed. “Thank you.”

  An instant later, she slid completely into sleep.

  Morgan knelt between her legs, condom in hand, and stared incredulously at her. His cock was throbbing hot and hard, ready to thrust home, but Jessamyn had fallen asleep?

  He snatched up the linen towel and began to stroke himself, while imagining what he’d do when he had her where she could howl in pleasure. All too soon, he was pouring his seed into the damned towel and biting his lip lest his men hear him.

  Afterward, he sank back onto his haunches and began to laugh softly. At least one thing had improved in the past nine years. This time, Jessamyn was the one snoring peacefully away, not he. Maybe he had learned some self-discipline after all.

  He climbed to his feet and slipped her under the covers, protecting her from the cold night air here at eight thousand feet.

  Jessamyn eyed Morgan warily over her coffee mug, trying to gauge his temper. She’d woken up, warm and safe and very relaxed, to find a cup of coffee being waved under her nose. Would he still be polite, since she’d fallen asleep before he’d relieved his own excitement last night?

  Without a hint of ill temper, Morgan had told her he’d be back in fifteen minutes to help her dress and done exactly that. Now she’d just eaten an excellent breakfast and the men were finishing up breaking camp in the first light of dawn. Morgan was as busy as any of them and helping with any task, even packing the immense two-hundred-pound packs onto the mules.

  She shook her head. Lowell had mentioned that the mules were particularly frisky, being more accustomed to two-hundred-fifty-pound packs.

  “We’ll cross the Rio Grande today,” Morgan remarked, coming back to her after the last mule had been loaded. “Jones crossed it yesterday.”

  She cocked an eye at him. “How difficult do you think it will be?”

  “Deadly, if the river’s running too high for the ferry. Time-consuming, if the ferry’s still running. Around here, the Rio Grande is over two hundred fifty feet wide and more than ten feet deep, even in a dry year.”

  She nodded, flinching at the thought of swimming all of the mules across. And the big packs of supplies? Please, God, let the ferry be running.

  “How much sharpshooting practice were you able to put in back in Jackson?”

  Jessamyn’s attention snapped back to him. The last time he’d mentioned her sharpshooting, she was eleven and he’d been furious that she brought down more ducks than he had.

  During her marriage, horsemanship and sharpshooting had been her defenses against the terror of worrying about Cyrus and he’d strongly encouraged her to improve her skills, despite the disapproval of the closed military society. He’d even worked hard to teach her the best of military customs, including seeking out former snipers to be her tutors.

  “Some,” she answered slowly. “George took me out hunting regularly.”

  Morgan snorted. “He probably took credit for the bag.”

  She chuckled. “Agreed—but he also shared the meat, which was very welcome.”

  “You’ll need to practice.” Morgan’s eyes searched hers, fierce as an eagle’s. “I’ve heard gossip that you were very good but that was a year ago. Even if you might have been as good as an infantryman then, you’ve probably lost some of that edge. You’ll need to be fast and accurate, as skillful as a Donovan & Sons employee if possible, if you’re to stand beside us in a fight.”

  Deep inside her, a spark caught and burned. Even Cyrus had never mentioned she might stand with men in a line of battle.

  “I’d also like,” she said slowly and softly, praying her words wouldn’t extinguish that spark of hope, “to look at Aunt Serafina’s diary more, since she was a descendant of Ortiz.”

  “Jessamyn…” Morgan sighed.

  Little rode back into camp and waved at him. Morgan lifted his hand in response and stood up. He looked back down at her. “Are you sure?”

  Jessamyn stared into his eyes, which were open and soft, willing him to understand and believe just this once. “Aunt Serafina left a note in the diary, saying she hopes its stories will help me on my journey. What else could she mean but searching for Ortiz’s gold?”

  He hesitated, then lifted her hand and kissed it. “Very well. If you need extra light at night to read the old diary, tell me.”

  “Thank you.” She sprang up and hugged him, surprised and pleased he’d allow even that small a chance for Ortiz’s gold to exist.

  Chapter Fifteen

  San Luis Valley, Colorado

  Jessamyn took another look at the Rio Grande’s raging torrent, grateful to be on its western side at last. As she watched, an entire ponderosa pine, almost forty feet long, swept past in the brown water.

  The day was sunny and hot but that only sent more ice-cold water pouring off those peaks into the river. Thank God the ferry had been running or they’d have spent at least two days here, laboring to cross. Swimming the horses and mules across, unloading the packs and carrying the contents across item by item. Praying nobody was drowned. Even if every man and animal had survived that trial, some of the supplies would still be lost.
What survived such a crossing was frequently surprising and occasionally not enough to keep the men and animals alive.

  Roaring water was no respecter of what was useful, as she’d painfully learned in the Army. Dangerous items like bullets and dynamite, kept in heavy locked chests, stayed dry and could be washed up by raging rivers, their contents unharmed. Also things that somebody clutched, and would fight for, tended to survive, even if damaged. But the stuff of life—flour, hardtack, beans, and more—would be soaked and pounded into the ground by hooves. Thunderstorms were just as damaging, when horses panicked and trampled wooden packs.

  Risks like those were why Morgan traveled with so many mules, to carry extra supplies.

  “Ready?” Morgan asked.

  Jessamyn’s glance tracked the Rio Grande’s long sweep upriver, to the snowcapped San Juan Mountains. “Where do you think Charlie is?”

  “Probably just coming out of that marsh, where the river bends hard to the west.”

  She gathered up Starshine’s reins. “What are we waiting for?”

  Morgan whistled and the cavalcade moved out, with the two of them at its head. The water was so loud here that it was almost impossible to hear the animals’ normal travel sounds, even the mules’ silvery bells.

  Jessamyn eyed the great river once more and decided to think about deserts instead. She did have some questions she’d been saving up for years. “Morgan?”

  “Yes?”

  “I understood Cochise was always the white man’s enemy in the Arizona Territory.”

  He glanced over at her, his rifle riding easily across his saddle’s cantle, ready for immediate use. With his absolute ease as a horseman and the beautiful Indian pony under him, he seemed the embodiment of a primal warrior and a suitable companion in this wild country.

  Jessamyn’s eyes widened, something feminine deep inside her coming alive in recognition.

  But Morgan was speaking, his Mississippi drawl soaking into her bones. “Cochise’s tribe sold wood to the local Army fort then and were friendly to Anglos. I think he saw us as potential allies against Mexicans, their traditional enemies. I made friends with some young Apaches, thanks to a horse.”

  She forced herself to think about Morgan and Cochise. “What happened? Did your father object?”

  “My father wanted a piece of the Great Southern Empire, whenever a railroad built a year-round transcontinental route. Peace with local tribes would be very valuable then and he encouraged me to make friends, with only two conditions. My studies had to be good enough for West Point.”

  She laughed at that, remembering how Morgan could devour books when he chose. He laughed with her, his gray eyes dancing underneath his hat brim.

  “And?”

  He shrugged, hesitating a little.

  “And?” she prodded him.

  He lowered his voice. “There could be no risk of a child.”

  Jessamyn gaped at him. Good heavens, John Tyler had been ruthlessly pragmatic. “He didn’t want to risk a claimant to Longacres.”

  Morgan’s mouth twisted. “Probably. To me, it seemed a very small concession. So I agreed and I rode with Cochise’s men every chance I could, raiding other Apache tribes.”

  “What you must have seen. And learned,” Jessamyn breathed. Mountains and deserts, the hidden cities…

  He nodded, gray eyes searching her expression. “Some of those lessons kept me alive during the War.”

  “Tracking varmints over bare rock.”

  A smile dawned, edged and anticipatory. “Definitely.”

  They both looked ahead at the San Juans’ foothills, almost two full days’ riding ahead. “Tell me more,” she urged.

  Crack! Jessamyn’s last bullet sent the rock’s remaining chunk into the little stream below. Ten out of ten shots into the same fist-sized rock on the other side of the stream, two hundred yards away. She was careful to hide her grin, though; Morgan was a hard taskmaster when it came to practicing shooting skills. The setting was utterly peaceful—a hilltop clearing in the San Juans’ foothills overlooking the Rio Grande River, with Chaco and Starshine grazing placidly behind them and tea brewing on a small fire—but he was still a merciless instructor.

  They’d spent two days riding across the incredibly flat San Luis Valley with its abundance of sage and sand, and infrequent prospectors and ranchers. Three times a day, he’d taken her out with their guns—first, with her pocket Navy Colt, then with her Sharps carbine, the shorter-barreled version of the famous sniper’s rifle. It had been manufactured during the War and converted to a repeater afterward. Cyrus had bought it for her as a Christmas present, when the Army decided they wanted more modern weapons. She sniffed disparagingly at Washington’s lack of common sense and returned to considering Morgan’s practices.

  He’d taken her through the basic drills first, such as cleaning and loading, before he’d let her fire either one. Even then she’d had to prove her skills from the standing position and at close range, before he’d let her so much as kneel. She’d considered mentioning the attackers she’d killed on the train, in hopes that would speed her acceptance.

  But she’d held her tongue, deciding that she’d rather follow his directions than pester him, at least for now. These shooting practices were the only times he escaped his heavy responsibilities, except in the evening.

  Usually at night, there was only a little talking around the campfire. By the time camp was made, the packs taken off the mules, the animals groomed and fed, then the men fed—everyone was exhausted with only enough hours left to sleep before they had to rise again.

  Slowly, they carved a half hour and another half hour off Charlie’s lead.

  Morgan drove himself harder than anyone else, always alert to give a hand or provide direction, the first one awake and last one asleep. In the evening, the two of them would chat a little, mostly family gossip or childhood memories, especially old pranks. Once alone in their tent, he was always certain to satisfy their strong carnal appetites, providing the most enjoyable diversions for both of them.

  Jessamyn flushed and began to reload, slipping the cartridges in with the absent skill of long practice. He sat behind her now, scanning the hillside across from them in search of targets.

  She’d thought more than once of suggesting to him that he slow down, perhaps let her relax him a bit. He was carrying a heavy burden on this trip. Would it destroy him to let her take the lead just once? Why, she could show him some tricks that might just surprise him, dammit!

  At least her fingers weren’t shaking as she reloaded. There was something to be said for long practice over the years. Her father had first noticed her innate talent and paid the best tutors to foster it. Cyrus had also encouraged her because he noticed how much calmer she was when he was gone, if she’d been practicing those skills. But he’d also taken the astonishing steps of training her to military standards for speed and accuracy, even seeking out infantry veterans to teach her their skills. She’d remonstrated with him for setting society on its ear in that fashion. But he’d laughed, saying he was a cavalry officer, not infantry, and didn’t care about others’ prejudices.

  Morgan was an entirely different style of instructor than any she’d had before. For one thing, he was faster than anyone she’d ever known, even the desperadoes she’d seen in Kansas. For another, he was either quiet or pushing her to do better. She’d made every shot since yesterday morning but he hadn’t let her try any long shots until today. And two hundred yards was hardly much of a test of her skills.

  “See that rock higher up above the stream, the one shaped like rabbit ears?” he drawled, focusing his field glasses.

  She studied it with her first real flash of interest. Clearly visible now that the afternoon breezes had blown the previous shootings’ smoke away, it lay over three hundred yards distant with some very interesting breezes in between, according to the aspens. “Of course.”

  “Put ten consecutive shots into it, from a prone position, and we’ll have tea.
”

  Tea at last? Jessamyn promptly dropped onto her stomach, sliding the precious map tube next to her and without considering her riding habit for a moment. She studied the wind then brought the carbine up, centering her sights on the rock.

  “You may fire when ready.”

  She destroyed the rock completely with her seventh shot and spent her last three shots making the dust dance.

  “Well done,” Morgan praised and lifted her onto her feet.

  Chaco tossed up his head, making his tack jingle softly, while Starshine whinnied. Immediately, both of Morgan’s hands rested lightly on his Colts, his hands crossed and ready to meet the newcomers in the wickedly fast cross-draw. Jessamyn stiffened, dropping her hand onto her Colt, her heart pounding in her throat.

  Grainger and Little strolled around the hillside, leading their mounts. Jessamyn’s heart returned to its normal position at the sight of their scouts.

  “Excellent shooting, Mrs. Evans,” the younger man greeted her. “Does Jones know about your capabilities?”

  Her eyebrows flew up and she shook hands with him. “I doubt it. I was a child of ten when he left Memphis and Charlie has never paid much attention to anyone other than himself.”

  “He cares deeply for his wife,” Morgan cautioned. “She’s his Achilles’ heel. He stayed in Rio Piedras two months to court her, when he could have departed without her in a week.”

  “Rumor says he killed an Italian count she flirted with,” Jessamyn commented.

  The men stared at her.

  She spread her hands. “Great-Aunt Eulalia hears all the gossip.”

  Morgan shook his head. “Great-Aunt Eulalia is the most dangerous woman I know. Let’s discuss something safer, like this expedition. When do we reach the Three Needles?”

  “Tomorrow,” Little answered, eyeing his trail boss curiously.

  “Please join us for tea,” Morgan invited. “We can also discuss the route.”