Sahara Splendor

by Charlotte Hubbard

  When the little towhead grimaced, Sahara had to laugh. Book work had never been her favorite pastime, either. “And perhaps, if Mr. Jenkins sees you’re learning to read and write,” she told him, “he’ll stop picking on you. And maybe, if you do very well and Mr. McGee agrees to it, you can ride up in the driver’s box sometime. Would you like that, Mitch?”

  When his pale face lit up, she knew he’d be a diligent student—and the ride would be more pleasant for everyone without his whining and Phineas Jenkins’s perpetual complaints about it. They still had hundreds of miles to travel in the confines of the coach, and its luxurious interior and relative roominess weren’t enough to keep testy temperaments under control.

  By the time she swung back onto the gleaming blue and black carriage, however, Sahara was too eager to be on the open road to worry about her passengers and their bickering. They had eaten another satisfying meal, and she was once again clad in practical pants and a shirt; and the endless blue sky and rolling prairie seemed to call her name.

  “How about a driving lesson?” she said with a wide grin at Fergus. “That’s a fine-looking team of blacks you’ve hitched us to, and there’s not a rain cloud in sight—and I’m ready!”

  “Aye, I believe y’are!” the driver replied with a chuckle. As soon as Luther was settled on her other side, he gave a shrill whistle and cracked his long whip well above the horses’ backs. “We’ll give these folks a show to remember us by, and then the ribbons’ll be yers, lass.”

  Sahara laughed aloud, reveling in the surge forward and the pounding hooves—and the awe on the onlookers’ faces as the stagecoach raced toward the edge of town. She looked up over her shoulder to see Madigan watching her from the roof with a gleam in his coffee-colored eyes…a gleam that suggested he had another type of surging on his mind. As the sun caught the blond highlights of his light brown hair, he glowed like a sunlit hayfìeld, and Sahara knew exactly how she’d reward him for his skillful negotiating with Major Ziegler.

  She turned then to the buckskinned expressman beside her, noting his usual hawklike vigilance as he scanned the plains stretching before them. “I trust you got a message off to the ranch?”

  “Yep.”

  After a few moments, she realized she was waiting in vain for any further explanation. With his hat crammed firmly over his wiry hair and the breeze riffling his beard, Luther Bean looked as primitive as a mountain man, and she suspected his taciturn nature reflected the lone-wolf tendencies of that breed rather than any displeasure he felt toward her. It was just his way to keep his own counsel.

  “And you found men to work for Mrs. Kent?”

  “Yep. Three.” He glanced briefly at her before returning his gaze to the horizon. “Hope it’s all right by you that I took the cash to pay them in advance. Long time till our next run.”

  “That’s fine, Luther. Thank you.”

  They were slowing down, now that Junction City was a half mile behind them, and Sahara watched her blue-uniformed driver intently. As always, Fergus sat with his wrists resting on his knees, his hands, relaxed, and as he lightly applied the brake, its whine seemed to signal to the horses before he talked to them.

  “All right, ye bonnie blacks,” he crooned to them, “ye’ll be in the hands of a fine lady now, and I expect ye to behave accordingly!”

  McGee then looked at her, his eyes shining in his swarthy face. “Do ye see how the ribbons’re woven ‘twixt me fingers? Since ye favor yer right hand, we’ll start ye with that side of the team, till ye get the feel for it. Easy, now. Yer trainer turns out animals with fine, sensitive mouths, and they respond to the slightest pressure.”

  When three of the soft leather reins rested between her digit and middle fingers, and the other three lay between her fourth and fifth ones, Sahara held her breath. The glossy Morgans had slowed to the steady trot at

  which they always proceeded along the open road, yet the horses on the right were suddenly edgy, tossing their heads.

  “Relax, lass, ye’ve got to climb the ribbons a bit to adjust yer hold,” McGee instructed patiently. “The topmost reins control yer lead team, the swing reins’re divided, and the lowest are on the wheelers, that need less guidance. There now—see how they get back to their business when ye loosen yer grip?”

  Sahara had gained immediate respect for McGee’s finger dexterity, because she doubted she was having any effect at all on the horse nearest the coach. How did he adjust the reins between his fourth and fifth fingers without moving the other set in that same hand? “Incredible,” she mumbled, hoping she didn’t look horribly uncoordinated to the man in blue corduroy.

  “Ye’re doin’ well, Miss Sahara,” Fergus encouraged. “Here’s the other set of ribbons, now. Stay calm, and remember that Fergus McGee didn’t learn it all in one lesson, either.”

  Only when she carefully positioned the left-hand ribbons and again adjusted her grip on them did she realize how her heart was fluttering. The team of six glossy Morgans was trotting along perfectly—and she was in control of them! “This…this is something!” she whispered.

  McGee chuckled and looked at her with the same lingering warmth she’d noted before. “Keep ‘em at a steady trot, now,” he said in a low voice. “At this rate, we do about seven miles in an hour’s time and keep the horses healthy. Yer regular coaches make a hundred-fifty miles a day, under good conditions, includin’ stops and the all-night drivin’. We’re tendin’ other business, of course…and we’re in no hurry to see this journey end, now are we?”

  His gaze held hers until she looked away. Such a brazen Scot he was, with those bold gray eyes and the muscled thigh that rested against her own! If she responded to his suggestive words, she’d lose control of the team and have Madigan gnashing at the bit, as well. Better to divert McGee with innocent chatter.

  “Do you never gallop them, except for show?” Sahara asked. “At this pace, the ride gets a bit monotonous for them I’d think.”

  “Aye, these same horses usually carry the stages back and forth between Junction City and the next station without much variety,” he replied. “But when they gallop, the loss of ground contact makes for less control of the load—which doesn’t much matter here on the flats, but in nasty weather and on the mountain passes farther along, speed can spell trouble. Unless ye’re outrunnin’ Indians, of course.”

  Sahara sensed he’d slipped that not-so-subtle remark in to pay her back for ignoring his innuendo, but she was too enthralled with her driving to care. They rolled steadily along, and with Madigan pointing out occasional prairie dog towns and distant buffalo herds from his vantage point on the roof, and the crystal blue sky uninterrupted for miles in every direction above them, she again felt a wondrous sense of oneness with the universe.

  Perhaps this pace was perfect after all, if it meant the lengthening of these lovely summer days.

  It was the nights Madigan lived for, though, because to allow the two heavier freight wagons to keep pace with Sahara’s coach, they stopped at dusk when they came to a station. The horses were unhitched and allowed to drink in the stream before being corralled and fed. Then McGee and Bean stretched out on the roof of the coach for a few hours’ rest, and Phineas Jenkins usually napped or scribbled in a notebook, a pipe clenched between his teeth.

  The stations were becoming more Spartan as they traveled west, offering the crudest of facilities, with only a soddie or a covered dugout for the station keepers to live in. But no one complained. As the regular coaches met or passed them, they were all reminded that those passengers had no such chances for a few hours’ rest or to stretch their ride-weary legs, and they were grateful.

  Roxanne, so fastidious he wondered if she would’ve survived the regular run, insisted upon a quick bath in the stream each evening, and Sahara joined her. Dan kept watch, smiling at the girlish chatter behind his back—and he kept Mitch occupied until the ladies were dressed again. After his own quick dip, he knew Sahara would be waiting for him in the most private place s
he could find, and after Roxanne and her son stretched out inside the coach, he went to her.

  “Another fine day, another splendid night with you,” he murmured as they lolled in the cool grass. “You amaze me, Sahara. Fort Harker and Fort Fletcher were no match for your shrewdness and wiles.”

  “They knew I was coming. And thanks to Ziegler, I imagine word about your ruthless bargaining convinced them to accept our terms before we even arrived.” She unbuttoned his shirt, eager to feel the freshness of his smooth skin against hers. “We make an unbeatable team, Madigan.”

  “And I’m about to drive all thoughts of stagecoaches and army outposts—and randy drivers—out of your mind, young lady.”

  “Are ye now?” she quipped.

  “You little—” Dan tugged her pants down with feverish hands, wishing these trysts weren’t necessarily so hasty. “The way he looks at you, and thickens that accent—”

  “Does it make you hot, Madigan?” Sahara demanded in a throaty whisper. She ran a bare foot up the inside of his thigh and nudged him with it, loving the way he sucked in his breath. “Drop those pants and make me steam. Do you think I’m lying here naked so you’ll look at me all night?”

  “I wish I could,” he murmured as he obeyed her husky command. “When we get to Denver, we’re renting a room and finding a preacher.”

  “In that order?”

  Dan drew back, slipping a long, skilled finger between her legs. “If it matters to you what order, tell me to stop this. Tell me to put my clothes back on.”

  Sahara closed her eyes against a wild spiraling of inner heat. A gasp was her only audible reply.

  “I thought so.” Smiling slyly, he spread her velvety legs, but instead of moving over her, he lowered his lips to the quivering, fragrant femininity so temptingly displayed in the moonlight.

  She had to clasp her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out. What had possessed him to—how could his hot, probing tongue know exactly where to—

  “Dan…Dan, if you don’t stop, I’ll scream!”

  Her writhing told Madigan she was about to explode—if only they had a private place, so her moans could inspire his own! He moved forward, guiding her willowy legs onto his shoulders so he could kneel at the altar of her beautiful body and watch her face as he entered her ever so slowly.

  In and out, inch by glorious inch he loved her. Sahara couldn’t recall when she last drew breath, and she didn’t care. Madigan had her suspended in time and space, with the serene night sky as his backdrop. His hands spanned her hips and ran along her sides, tender yet urgent. His eyes were closed, his smile tight with the effort it took to move so slowly, so smoothly, as he pleasured her.

  Her legs formed a pale, provocative vee up his darker chest; his stomach muscles flexed in rhythm as his breath quickened. But one look at Madigan’s shaft sliding in and out of her was Sahara’s undoing. With a whimper, she arched up to meet him, gritting her teeth against a shriek that would bring the others running.

  And as he burst forth within her, Dan had to grip her hips to keep a hold on reality. Spasm followed spasm, Sahara’s thrusts meshing perfectly with his. “God, I love you,” he mumbled as he collapsed on top of her.

  “You’d better,” she breathed, “because no one else could ever please me this way.”

  Was the prairie always this beautiful, or did she see everything through the eyes of love now? Sahara was overwhelmed by the kindness and genuine pride displayed by her station keepers, and touched by their gratitude when they saw the increase in pay and supplies.

  Several of the home stations were on ranches or farms that people had homesteaded near the stage road expressly to provide a market for their hay, eggs, butchered beef, and garden vegetables—and passengers paid a dollar a meal for such home-cooked delicacies this far west. Many of the swing stations were little more than dugouts with a rough corral nearby, but those men welcomed her as though she were their queen, eager to hear news from Atchison and other places they’d passed through.

  “Ye’ve won their hearts, lass,” Fergus commented when they pulled away from the Stormy Hollow station. “It’s cost ye a pretty penny to improve the rations and pay, but ye can bet yer men—and their women—won’t forget it.”

  Sahara beamed and switched places with him for her daily driving lesson. Her hands were becoming accustomed to the soft, slick reins, and as her confidence grew she tried new skills. “I’m going to have the horses take us in a circle around the freight wagons, and then resume the lead,” she announced.

  “This I’ve got to see.”

  Glancing over at Luther Bean, she thought she caught a hint of approval in the lines around his eyes, yet he was bracing his booted feet against the front of the box and grasping the side rail—as though he expected her to overturn the coach!

  Well, she’d show him! Inhaling deeply, Sahara focused on the six cream-colored Morgans as though she could negotiate the turn by will alone. Lightly applying the brake, she called out “Gee!” and tightened her grip on the lead pair’s reins. As though by magic, they veered right, and she intuitively climbed the ribbons of the swing team and then the wheelers at just the right moments to produce a smooth, flawless turn. Her heart grew two sizes as McGee slapped her on the back and Madigan congratulated her from his seat on the roof.

  “Hey there, Sahara!” Charlie Oswald called out when she pulled alongside his tandem wagons. Even Tom Underwood nodded. She couldn’t ignore the ebony eyes that watched her secretively from beneath the brim of his black hat, but what could he do to her, with all these other men around?

  Nothing, she assured herself. And once past the second of Tom’s wagons she again executed a right turn, making a wide arc through his dusty wake, and then clucked to the team to trot them proudly into the lead again.

  “Fine job, lass!” Fergus crowed. “Ye’re a born driver, with a real feel for the ribbons. Why, if ye didn’t own this company, I’d hire ye!”

  “Fergus, you’ll swell her head till she can’t sit inside anymore.”

  Had the laconic Luther Bean actually cracked a joke? Sahara leaned forward to look past McGee’s barrel chest at her express messenger, not surprised that he was staring pointedly out toward the horizon. But it was enough that he’d uttered something positive.

  Her pleasure was short-lived, however, once Fergus took the reins again. “It’s easy to see ye love the ride from up here, but I’m thinkin’ the coach’ll be yer best seat till we’ve crossed into Colorado,” he said quietly. “The redskins’ve been vicious out this way, and we can’t risk yer gettin’ hit.”

  Sahara’s first impulse was to protest—she and Madigan were fit enough to climb inside through the windows at the first glimpse of approaching warriors—but recalling the virulence of the Indian attack at the Rents’ quelled her usual feistiness. She agreed to move inside at the next stop, and caught herself glancing warily around each clump of rocks and trees that might conceal roadside attackers.

  Their stay at Bluffton Station was brief, because even the keepers seemed edgy about the prospect of war-painted visitors. Sahara noted how purplish circles were showing beneath Roxanne’s eyes, evidence of her erratic sleep, and Phineas Jenkins was looking—and smelling—seedier by the day, because he hadn’t once bathed since they left Atchison. Confinement in the coach wouldn’t be very pleasant, but Madigan encouraged her to accept it until they crossed into safer territory.

  The station keepers and Fergus were greasing the wheels and checking the harnesses this stop, which gave the riders a chance to study the high, perpendicular rocks that made the Bluffton station unique. The flat surfaces bore dozens of names and dates etched in over the years: a T.R. Hunt from New Jersey made his mark back in 1849, and ten years later a C. Kelley and W.W. Spencer had signed in, sketching an antelope head and a Masonic square and compass beside their names.

  “Gives you a real sense of history, seeing who passed here before us,” Dan commented.

  “And they apparently weren
’t the least bit afraid for their hides, or they wouldn’t have taken the time to write,” Phineas said with a snort. His glance darted in all directions, through eyeglasses so smudgy Sahara wondered how he could see past his nose.

  “I don’t imagine we whites would tolerate the slaughtering of our food supply, or a hostile government herding us onto reservations, either,” she remarked quietly. “Time and again the Indians have signed treaties, and then our politicians have broken them at their convenience.”

  The journalist nearly dropped his pipe. “How can you defend the very heathens who kill your station keepers?” he cried. “Are you telling me that heartrending scene with Elizabeth Kent was all for show, Mrs. Spade?”

  He might as well have slapped her. Sahara felt her anger rising like a swollen stream, and it took supreme effort not to reply in the same caustic tone Jenkins had used. “I have never felt more respect or agony for anyone in my life,” she said in a strained whisper, “but I also understand the plight of a people who’re being driven from ancestral lands, and cheated, all because we think we’re so much more civilized than they are. The issues may look black and white in your city newspaper, Mr. Jenkins, but they’re seldom so clearly spelled out when you’re in the thick of them.”

  Madigan was extremely proud of his woman, but he could see Roxanne Pruitt fidgeting while the blustery, unkempt reporter’s scowl deepened. The carriage wasn’t big enough to allow this conversation to continue without three of them coming to blows while Mrs. Pruitt cowered in a corner—and it was at least another day’s ride into the Colorado Territory. “I can understand your attitude,” he began earnestly, “but, sir, you must consider how difficult it’s been for Sahara to assume responsibility for such a vast enterprise as the Spade Express Company. She—”

  “Of course you’d stick up for her,” Phineas scoffed as he turned on his heel. “You’re fornicating with her. And getting paid, as well!”