by Anita Mills
But above all, in nearly every eloquent word he wrote, there was no mistaking that he loved her. If she didn’t take him, he was going back to rangering, he’d just said. That meant he’d already left it. She read further, taking in the part where he didn’t want to own the Ybarra-Ross, that he’d just as soon read law and earn his own living. The law was a good place for a rebel, because rebels were always ready to take up a cause, he wrote. But if she wanted him to be a rancher, he’d try it.
She was reading through a mist of tears, almost unable to finish the rest of his letter. But the most important thing of all wasn’t in there. Not knowing about the baby, he’d come back to her, not because he felt obligated for anything, but rather because he wanted to. Because he loved her.
And suddenly it didn’t make any difference whether it rained or not. She threw on her cloak and ran down the stairs, nearly knocking the disapproving Mrs. Murphy down. Mumbling an apology, she darted out into the cold rain, and ducked her head down against the bitter wind.
The warm air of the lobby blasted her face when the doorman opened the heavy brass door. Breathless, she pushed back her wet, tangled hair, and marched up to the reception desk.
“Mr. McAlester—Mr. Clayton McAlester’s room number, please.”
Clearly unimpressed, the man looked her up and down before answering, “We don’t run that sort of establishment, miss.”
“No—no—you don’t understand.” She sucked in her breath, then exhaled, trying to slow her pounding heart. “I’m Mrs. McAlester,” she announced baldly. Her hand crept up to her hair, trying to pat it into place. “He’s expecting me, but I’m afraid there was a small accident.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, but I’m all right,” she hastened to add. “I was just shook up a bit.”
His gaze dropped to her cloak, taking in the tailoring, the soutache braid trim, and he relented. “Room 310, madam. It’s up those steps and to the right.”
“Thank you.”
It was all she could do to walk rather than run up the stairs, and when she reached the top, she hurried down the carpeted hall, counting the doors until she reached 310. She hesitated, almost afraid to knock. She stood there, trying to compose what she wanted to say to him. She wasn’t going to tell him about the baby, not yet. She didn’t want him to think that weighed in her change of mind. Finally, she gave his door three quick raps. It seemed like an eternity before he answered it. He was in his shirtsleeves. His muddy shoes were just inside.
As the door swung inward, she blurted out, “I read your letter—all of it.”
He almost couldn’t believe she was standing there. And despite her wet hair, despite her bedraggled appearance, she was in that moment every bit as beautiful as when she’d worn that green dress. He stepped aside to let her pass, then closed the door behind her. His pulse raced as he turned toward her.
“You didn’t have to come in the rain,” he murmured, smiling crookedly. “I would have still been here tomorrow—and probably a lot longer than I was letting on.”
“Yes, well …” The warmth in his eyes made it hard to think. “I came to tell you I’ve changed my mind. There’s nothing on this earth I’d rather be than Mrs. Clayton McAlester.”
His arms were around her, holding her close. His hand smoothed her wet, tangled hair over her soaked cloak. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmured against her crown.
“If we had to deserve everything, we’d never have anything,” she whispered into his shoulder.
“If you want, you can have a big Catholic wedding at Ybarra, but right now I’d like to find a judge. I don’t want to wait for the banns. Then if you’d like, I’ve got enough money saved to take you someplace nice for a wedding trip.”
“Like where?”
He tried to think of a real exotic place, then decided, “How about London? I hear they got all kinds of things over there.”
“No, I don’t need that, Clay. I’d just as soon camp in the desert. As long as it’s not a hundred degrees out, and you don’t make me drink your coffee—or eat any rattlesnake. I don’t care what you say—it does not taste like chicken.”
“You sure you’d want to go back to the desert?”
“Yes.”
Reluctantly, he released her and stepped back. “If you don’t get out of those wet clothes, you’re going to take pneumonia. While you’re doing that, I’ll go down and register you. And I’ll ask the fellow at the desk about the judge.”
“Uh … if I were you, I wouldn’t do that.” Her fingers worked the hook on her cloak. “I sort of told him we were married already.” The cloak slid to the floor, revealing the plain cotton dress. Her eyes on him, she reached to undo the buttons. “I never thought I’d do this again, Clay.” As the dress joined the cloak, she stepped out of it. Her mouth curved seductively. “We can find a judge after while,” she said softly.
“You sure do know what’s on a man’s mind, Mrs. McAlester,” he murmured huskily.
“Do I?”
She never got an answer. This time when he took her into his arms, he bent his head to hers. A low sob rose from her throat, then died in the heat of his kiss. His hands moved eagerly over her hips, gathering her chemise, lifting it up to find the hot, smooth skin below.
“Love me, Clay,” she whispered. “Love me now.”
He lifted her then, taking her to his bed. As she fell back against the featherbed, she was still smiling. Her arms reached out, pulling him down over her, and they were lost in a delicious tangle of arms and legs as they undressed each other. He rolled over, putting her on top. As her legs parted, she received him, then began to move languorously, testing what she could do, savoring the feel of him. His mouth found a nipple, and he began teasing it with his tongue. She threw her head back, giving him better access, and she began to move more deliberately. Her eyes were closed, but there was no mistaking the ecstasy in her face. His hands moved over her back, stroking her bare skin. She twisted her hips, rolling him within her, taking him.
She was panting now, her body demanding more of him. Her head came forward, spilling her hair onto his chest and shoulders, enveloping his face in the auburn silk. She was taking him with her now. His arms closed around her, holding on, while his body rocked in rhythm with hers, straining. And somewhere in the distance he heard his own cries rise in crescendo as he came.
When it was over, she lay there, her head resting on his shoulder. He twisted his head slightly, taking in the soft, white sheets. And he knew she was his destiny. He knew she was forever.
Ybarra-Ross: April 28, 1874
The faint, yellow glow of the kerosene lamp cast his shadow over the bed, making her auburn hair seem almost black where it tumbled over her pillow. In the crook of her arm, the small, down-covered head was barely visible. A lump of pride constricted his throat, nearly overwhelming him.
Reluctantly, he tore himself away and went back to her writing desk, where he opened the latest copy of the Daily Austin Republican. Picking up Amanda’s sewing scissors, he carefully cut out the small, boxed announcement.
M/M Clayton M. McAlester of the Ybarra-Ross welcomed their first child, a daughter, Katherine Isabella, born April 20, 1874. Mrs. McAlester, the former Amanda Ross, is the daughter of the late John Ross and the late Isabella Ybarra, a descendant of the original land grant family. Mr. McAlester, a former Texas Ranger, reports mother and daughter are doing well. We at the Republican wish to offer hearty congratulations to both proud parents.
It was a far cry from what they used to write about him, no doubt about that. He unfolded the letter he’d written his Aunt Jane earlier and placed the clipping inside, knowing she’d want to put it in the family Bible. A wry smile curved his mouth as he pictured her sitting in her straight-backed rocker, her hands clasping that Bible, and he knew she’d be pleased to know he’d been tamed at last. It might even make her overlook the fact that he’d turned Catholic.
Behind him,
Amanda stirred, then roused. “What are you doing?” she asked sleepily.
“I just finished a letter,” he replied, returning to her. For a long moment, he looked down again, taking in the spill of tangled auburn hair, the swell of full breasts straining against the thin lawn of her nightgown. “God, but you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that, don’t you?”
“No, but I like to hear it.”
“Every day of my life,” he promised. Turning around, he adjusted the lantern wick until it flickered one last time, then went out. “Every day of my life,” he repeated, climbing back into bed. Taking care not to disturb his tiny daughter, he wrapped his arms around his wife and nuzzled her fragrant hair. “I’m the luckiest man in Texas,” he murmured. “No—make that the luckiest man alive, Mrs. McAlester.”
More from Anita Mills
The Fire Series
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