Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  Believing a smile would be in order, Phoebe gave Sarah one. “If you have any questions, dear, just ask me, and I’ll be glad to help.”

  “Oh, I know what to do,” Sarah assured her. Then she warmed to the topic. “I just got to pester him until he takes his medicine and don’t let him rest until I change the bandage around his throat, ‘cause it’s sore. I soaked salt pork, just like you always done, only I had to use coal oil ‘cause we don’t have no turpentine. And I wrapped it up in a wool rag even though it’s hot as blazes. William’s bein’ a real fuss pot about it, too.

  “Pete says he don’t have a through of calomel to give him, but he’s got something he says is just as good, so I reckon I’ll use it. I expect it’s for the best anyway since we don’t got any castor oil, and he’d likely get salivated.”

  Phoebe listened to the little girl rattle off her list of nursing duties and put a hand to her forehead. “My God, she sounds just like me.”

  “Doesn’t she though?” Jack sounded merely amused. “You’d better run along now, Sarah. Don’t want William to get comfortable now, do you? I’m sure there’s something you need to do for him to make him miserable.”

  Sarah brightened immediately. “All right, Jack!”

  “Thank you, Sarah!” Phoebe stared after the receding form of her niece and shook her head. “I had no idea how infernally annoying I’ve been to them.”

  “It’s just love, Miss Honeycutt. You just love them, is all.”

  Phoebe stared at him, unable to think of a suitable answer.

  “And now we’d better get out of this wagon before it decides to collapse some more. Sorry I can’t help you today.”

  “That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Valentine.” Phoebe scooted out of the wagon faster than a jackrabbit with its tail on fire.

  Chapter Eleven

  An hour or so later, Phoebe heaved a sigh and stuck her feet further into the Pecos River. It felt so good to soak in the coolness of the water and to know they were in no more peril from the flames of that awful fire. Only God and Pete Spotted Pony knew about Yves Basteau, she supposed, but she couldn’t quite make herself worry about the villain tonight.

  Of course, the fact that she’d drunk almost half of a tin cupful of bourbon might account for her fuzzy complacence, but she didn’t think so. She just felt—happy—and chalked up the fact to having almost died earlier in the day, and coming through the terror unscathed.

  She’d rigged up a bolster for Jack out of a saddle and a couple of blankets, and felt rather proud of her efforts. He leaned against it now and watched her as she dabbled her feet. The weather was as close to balmy as this part of the world ever got, and Phoebe couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so comfortable. She knew she had a silly smile on her face as she watched the sluggish Pecos River amble by, but she couldn’t make herself worry about that, either.

  “How do you know Mr. Basteau was responsible for the fire, Mr. Valentine?” She realized his grin looked a little silly, too, and was glad.

  “Oh, prairie fires can be started in a number of ways. Sometimes lightning starts ‘em, but there hasn’t been any lightning. Sometimes Indians start contained fires to herd buffaloes, but there aren’t any herds or any hunting bands around. Besides, Basteau started chasing us in front of the fire. That was a pretty solid clue, all by itself.”

  Phoebe nodded and knew she should feel more upset about it all than she did. Maybe tomorrow her natural fussiness would resuscitate and she’d resume fretting and stewing.

  “It was a pretty stupid stunt on Basteau’s part. We were too close to the river for the fire to get us, and I reckon he didn’t count on you.” Jack smiled at her and Phoebe felt both embarrassed and proud. “Besides, the fire scared the game away from the area he’s got to hide in.”

  “Mmmm.” Phoebe guessed what he was telling her made a certain kind of sense.

  “Anyway, Pete’ll find him.”

  “Good.” Phoebe didn’t want to think about Basteau any longer. She felt dreamy and nostalgic this evening. The moon hung like a slice of melon in the sky, with stars caught in its crescent like berries.

  Now there was a pleasant thought, melons and berries. She’d eaten neither for years but used to gobble them up greedily when she was a child. Of course, it had never crossed her mind to savor them back then. She hadn’t known that someday melons and berries would be only a fond memory.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Jack’s voice sounded lazy, as if he were feeling dreamy, too.

  “Just thinkin’ about melons and berries.”

  “Sweet thoughts.”

  “Mmmm. Haven’t eaten a good melon for years.”

  “That so?”

  “Mmmm. My Grandma Forrest used to grow mush melons and watermelons. She had the sweetest blackberries, too.”

  “I bet she did.”

  “Grandma Forrest had a big house in Charleston.” Phoebe felt very wistful as she stared into the fruit-salad sky. “We visited her lots of times when I was little. She was my mama’s mama.”

  “Mmmm?” Jack leaned back and watched her, twirling a blade of grass in his long, brown fingers.

  For once Phoebe didn’t feel frightened or intimidated by Jack’s easy-going ways. She guessed this was the reason her mama always told her never to touch spirits. It was difficult to keep up one’s guard when one felt this relaxed after having consumed less than half a cupful. Then she thought, Oh, pooh; who cares? and giggled when she realized she’d just proved her mama’s point.

  “Grandma Forrest lived in a great big house. Three stories, and stuffed full of furniture and old paintings. She had lots of money.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “I guess.” Phoebe actually took a moment to think about it, but she felt too whimsical to come to any firm conclusions on the matter. “She liked cats, Grandma Forrest. Had ‘em sprinkled all over her furniture like salt. I took a mole in amongst ‘em once.”

  Jack’s laughter rippled out soft and slow and made her smile.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Phoebe took another tiny sip of her bourbon, wrinkled her nose, and nodded. “It’s the Lord’s honest truth. I took a mole in that house and let it loose just to see what the cats would do.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “I reckon they didn’t take out after it ‘cause they had all the food they needed handed to ‘em on a silver platter—or—well, you know what I mean.”

  “I know.”

  “Grandma Forrest, though, well, she like to skinned me.”

  Jack’s mellow chuckle made Phoebe’s toes curl and did strange things to her heart and other internal organs.

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  She peered at him and found his eyes warm and twinkling and inviting as all get-out. In reaction she tucked her knees up and hugged them. “I had to. My brothers dared me. Double-dared me.” She gave him a pert look. “They were twins, you know.”

  “I know.”

  He had to kiss her or die. Jack knew that, and he hoped she’d understand because he didn’t figure on perishing out here on the shore of the Pecos River with half the Texas plain burned to a crisp in front of them.

  He scooted over nearer to her, half expecting her to draw back in alarm. She didn’t, and he wondered if she knew what he wanted and wanted it, too.

  Very softly, he whispered, “I want to kiss you, Phoebe.”

  A tiny, eloquent sigh escaped her lips. “I’d purely like that, Jack.”

  Very carefully, he took the tin cup out of her hand and set it aside. Then, being sure not to jar his sore arm, he put his hand on her shoulder and tilted his head toward hers. As soon as his lips touched hers, he felt her surrender as sweet as life itself, and his heart filled with wonder.

  “Oh, Lord, Phoebe. Oh, Lord.”

  Her arms slipped around him and he felt her lips go soft and pliant unde
r his. At the very first teasing of his tongue, she opened her mouth for him. He felt her own tongue begin to dance with his, and his hand slipped from her shoulder to grasp her around the waist. She was sweeter than wine, sweeter than sugar.

  Her waist was so small. Even as he kissed her he realized he wanted to pamper her, to give her back everything she’d had wrenched away from her.

  “Oh, Lord, Phoebe.”

  She sighed his name, and he was lost.

  She was enchanting. She was moonlight and magnolias and everything he’d never known he needed in his life until now. She was soft as thistledown and as dear as gold. His hands molded her flesh, warm under the thin, over-washed fabric of her shirtwaist and he could feel where the material had been patched.

  “I was wrong about you, Phoebe,” he murmured as he pressed kisses onto her throat.

  “Mmmm?”

  She had arched her head back when his assault on her throat began and didn’t seem terribly interested in his confession. Nevertheless, it was important to him to tell her what he had to say.

  “I was wrong. You’re not a worthless southern belle. You’re a fine woman. A fine woman.”

  “Thank you.” Her whisper kissed him, soft as the balmy night.

  “And a beautiful one.” His hands pressed the sides of her breasts, pushing them together, and he buried his face in the wonderful softness of her. Her nipples, though, were hard, straining, begging for his attention. Oh, Lord, he was hard for her, aching for her.

  Her gasp of pleasure when he took one small, perfect breast into his mouth was music to his ears. Through the worn fabric, his tongue laved her nipple.

  “Sweet Lord have mercy,” he heard her whisper, and he smiled even as his masculinity threatened to explode.

  “Here, Phoebe.”

  As though she were made of the finest china, he began to unbutton her shirtwaist. Her soft voice surprised him.

  “Jack Valentine,” she murmured in a deep, silky voice. “Black Jack Valentine.”

  Taking the utmost care, he smoothed her shirtwaist down, then slipped the straps of her camisole and shift down, too. He sought the tie to her drawers and suddenly her hand clamped around his wrist. “Leave those on, Black Jack.” Her voice suddenly sounded tense.

  When he glanced at her face, she looked scared for the first time. “Do you want me to stop, Phoebe?” He kept his voice soft and hoped his disappointment didn’t show. Disappointment? Hell, if he had to quit now, he was pretty certain he wouldn’t survive.

  “I . . . I don’t want you to stop, but . . . but people don’t have to undress entirely to do this, do they?”

  Surprised, he murmured, “I don’t guess so.”

  She seemed unutterably relieved and relaxed a little bit. “Fine. Then you just—just leave my drawers on, Black Jack. You have to promise me that.”

  He knew he looked as puzzled as he felt when she repeated her plea. “You can do anything else, but don’t take my drawers down.” Her tiny, “Please?” almost broke his heart, it sounded so sorrowful.

  Watching her carefully, trying to understand why she was so insistent on this one point, he said, “All right, Phoebe. But why, sweetheart? I won’t hurt you.”

  She shut her eyes tight and murmured, “I just—it’s just—you just have to promise me.” She didn’t let up on his wrist.

  When he saw a tear squeeze out from between her clamped eyelids, he realized the request was very important to her. Although he still didn’t understand it, he let go of the tapes and smoothed his hand up to span her rib cage. “All right, sweetheart. I don’t want to upset you.”

  He barely heard her “Thank you.”

  Then he kissed her again, almost starting over, but with fewer clothes in the way. Soon he forgot all about her drawers as her fevered response to his kisses ignited him.

  It was like a match to kerosene, he thought as he tasted her. She made him catch fire and burn hotter than he’d ever burned in his life.

  When he felt her sigh of pleasure, he knew he was making her burn, too. He was shaken clean through to his soul when his hands cupped her warm, spare flesh. Lord, he’d never felt like this, as though he were going to burst. Not even when he was a raw boy could he recall being this hot. When she began to unbutton his shirt, he thought he might not live through the night.

  He couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman as much as he wanted Phoebe Antoinette Honeycutt. The southern drawl he always thought he detested drizzled over his senses like pure honey when she murmured, “Dadblast it. I can’t work these stupid buttons.”

  “Here. Let me,” he offered, as though he were doing her a grand favor. He guessed he just might be when he saw her delighted smile as he unbuttoned his shirt and shucked it off. When her fingers slipped through the thick hair on his chest, he groaned.

  “Oh, Lord, Phoebe. You feel so damned good.”

  “So do you, Jack. Black Jack.”

  He’d always hated his nickname; considered it a moth-eaten, ironic relic of a hateful, hellish time. But the way Phoebe said it made the nickname sound like a prayer. He loved hearing it on her lips. He loved everything on her lips. Especially his.

  She moaned softly when he captured her mouth with his again. Then, when his hairy chest covered her naked breasts, she arched and rubbed against him and he wasn’t sure how much more of this torment he could take.

  When his hand slipped her drawers up to feel her soft thigh, he whispered, “I want you so bad, Phoebe. I want you so damned bad.”

  Her dreamy, “Mmmm,” sounded like neither an invitation nor a rebuff. He didn’t quite know what to make of it. His hand edged its way slowly up her thigh and he felt her squirm. Oh, Lord, she wanted him, too. He knew she did.

  Some remnant of sanity still held sway in Jack’s brain, though. He knew he’d die if he didn’t find some sort of fulfillment with Phoebe tonight. But even so, he wasn’t quite lost to all goodness.

  “I’d be a villain to take your virginity, Phoebe,” he murmured.

  When all he got from her was another dreamy, “Mmmm,” he figured she was too lost in the throes of her first passion to know how close she was to being deflowered. Hell.

  Well, there were other ways to satisfy each other. They weren’t ways he’d choose if their circumstances were different—if she weren’t Phoebe Honeycutt and he weren’t Jack Valentine. But he couldn’t take her here, on the banks of the Pecos River, with them not merely unmarried but not even within a million miles of being promised. He couldn’t do it. He cared too much. The realization, although it did nothing to dampen his ardor, firmed up his resolve to spare her his brutish desires.

  Another peek at her face almost made his resolve topple. She was so lost in bliss he didn’t think she’d mind a whit if he plunged into her right now, as he longed to do.

  But he wouldn’t do it.

  With a groan of frustration, he kissed her again. She responded with passion, pressing her breasts against his chest. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her fingers splayed through the hair on the back of his head and made gooseflesh rise on his arms even as his masculinity lurched and pressed against his trouser buttons until he ached.

  When his hand reached inside the slit of her drawers and found the petals of her secrets, he sent a finger inside to explore. He found her as wet and ready as he ever could have hoped, and groaned again. With infinite care, he began to caress her. When he gently stroked the rigid center of her femininity, she arched against his fingers and gasped.

  “My God!”

  “Phoebe, Phoebe,” he murmured. “Let me make you feel good, Phoebe.”

  “Oh, my dear Lord,” she whimpered, and he guessed she was agreeing.

  Since Jack was not a martyr although he guessed he might, in a pinch, pass for a good man, he said, “You can make me feel good, too, sweetheart. Will you do that for me?”

  Her arch, gasp, and breathless, “Oh, mercy, yes,” decided him against seeking further compliance. Since his one hand was occupied
, he quickly unbuttoned his breeches with the other. The proof of his desire leapt out, hot, hard, and aching. Very gently, he took Phoebe’s hand and guided it to his shaft.

  “Mercy sakes.” She sounded stunned, and he hoped she wouldn’t renege.

  “That’s what you do to me, Phoebe. You make me grow that hard.”

  He guessed he’d distracted her, because she opened those magnificent eyes of hers and stared at him. “I do?”

  “Oh, yes, you do.” He kissed her again and his hard flesh leapt in her hand, but Phoebe—Phoebe, who could always be depended upon in a crisis—didn’t let go of him. Instead, she slipped her hand up his silky shaft, experimenting, he was sure, with the feel and texture of it. He inhaled sharply and kept up his own tender ministrations.

  She was a wonderful student. “Oh, my God, Phoebe,” he moaned at one point. By that time he wasn’t sure who was taking and who was giving.

  She was driving him crazy with her soft, sweet stroking. He was trying his damnedest to do the same to her. When he heard her startled, “Oh, Jack! Oh, my sweet heaven,” and felt her tense beneath his hand, he couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Oh, Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe.” And, indelicate though he knew it to be, when he realized he had brought her to her pinnacle, his seed spurted onto the blanket beside her. And, even through the haze of incredible pleasure she’d brought him, his heart ached because he wanted to be inside her.

  # # #

  Phoebe was absolutely stunned. It wasn’t the first time in her life she’d been stunned, but it was the first time the condition had been precipitated by pleasure. Incredible, heart-stopping pleasure.

  So this is what it was all about. Lord have mercy. She slammed the door against a horde of indignant Honeycutt-belle ancestors, all trying to berate her for wantonness. She refused to pay attention to them now.

  She was out of breath. Small wonder. She’d had no idea this man-woman thing took so much energy.

  Panting hard, she managed to open her eyes and discovered Jack Valentine’s ebony head resting on her breasts. Right there, smack on her naked breasts, with his swarthy hand cupping one of them as though it were precious to him. She brought a hand up to rest on those beautiful jet-black curls of his, and smiled when she realized he was panting, too. Good. She didn’t want to be alone in this. With a sigh, she sank back and allowed her sated feelings to drift.