“Patton could hide a hundred head of my stock in some arroyo on his property for months, and I’d never know it. Or hot iron my CC brand into his OOX, run those steers down to Cheyenne, and ship them east. I’ve got no way of proving one way or the other that he took them.
“But that’s not what’s worrying me tonight. Tonight it’s a woman. Her name is Hannah and she’s … different.”
Maybe that was why he felt so attracted to her, almost against his will. He loved Emaline. He couldn’t understand how this other woman could so quickly turn him into a stag in rut. He found it funny—more odd, really, than ha-ha funny—that he’d felt incensed at the thought of handing Hannah over to Ransom. Especially when he was perfectly happy with the thought of Ransom handing Emaline over to him.
He couldn’t have them both.
What if you could have both and had to choose? Emaline, of course. No question, no hesitation, no—
Flint found himself hesitating, nonetheless. Why? What was it about Hannah McMurtry that he found so appealing? How had he let her get under his skin? Why could she make his body turn hot and hard in an instant when such a thing had never—not ever—happened with Emaline?
“It’s because I’ve seen Hannah naked,” Flint said as he shoved Buck’s mane back and smoothed his hand over the horse’s neck. “Even though I’ve laid eyes on every square inch of her, I only allowed myself to touch her enough to do what needed to be done to make her well. I wanted to touch more. A lot more. It’s only because I was tempted, and resisted that temptation, that I want to do more now,” he told Buck.
He stopped rubbing the horse’s neck as he realized that was probably the answer he’d been seeking.
The horse shoved his nose against Flint’s chest, looking for more attention. Buck lowered his head, and Flint laughed. “All right. I know what you want.” He scratched behind the animal’s ears while Buck hung his head low and stayed still.
“I’ll tell you this,” Flint said. “I’m not going to succumb to temptation. I only want Hannah so bad because I’ve been too long without a woman. Yes, she’s damned pretty. But she doesn’t have Emaline’s dark beauty,” he said. “Hmm. Maybe that’s why I find myself so drawn to her. Hannah’s so very different from Emaline.”
Buck lifted his head, and Flint continued scratching, this time under the horse’s chin.
“Hannah’s taller than Emaline, which means she’ll fit against me better in all the right places. And she has those wild, untamed blond curls, which makes me wonder, Buck, if she’s anything like her hair. Emaline’s hair is always combed so perfectly, every hair in its proper place, which is why I think of Emaline in terms of perfection, I suppose.
“Hannah has those forthright, almost bold blue eyes. She’s not at all demure like Emaline. And Hannah’s body …”
Flint stopped stroking his horse and let his mind’s eye review Hannah’s naked form, a body he’d seen in the flesh, so he knew how very flawless—and very female—it was.
Emaline was always the picture of propriety, dressed in a rigid, tightly laced corset and a dress that came up to her throat, down to her toes, and covered her arms all the way to the wrists. He could imagine what lay beneath the sober, well-designed cloth. But he didn’t know.
With Hannah there was no guessing, no wondering. Emaline might be a lady. But he knew for a fact that Hannah was all woman.
That was the problem. He didn’t have to imagine Hannah naked in his bed. He could remember the exact feel of the parts of her smooth, silky skin it had been necessary to touch. He’d had his hands in her hair as it tumbled over his pillow. He’d even imagined what it might be like to lie beside her but denied himself the pleasure.
That was it. All this denial was making him crave something he didn’t even want. He wanted Emaline, damn it!
Buck shoved his head against Flint’s chest, and he realized he’d stopped stroking the animal. He found another favorite spot, at the base of Buck’s throat, and began scratching again.
Considering how long he’d been without a woman, it was no mystery that he was knotted up inside as tight as a wet rope. “I would have reacted to any female the way I reacted to Hannah tonight,” he told Buck.
Buck snorted and nodded his head.
Flint laughed and rubbed Buck’s jaw, then slid his hand down over his horse’s muzzle. “I should be getting some shut-eye, not standing out here talking to you. Only problem is, there’s a woman in my bed.”
An image of Hannah standing beside his bed wearing nothing but his plaid wool shirt and his too-large gray socks rose in his mind. His body reacted violently and insistently.
Flint swore.
“She might as well have been naked,” he told Buck. “Because I knew what she looked like under my clothes. Yes, my clothes. I could have had them off of her in two seconds flat.”
He straightened Buck’s forelock so it lay in the center of the horse’s forehead. “If only I hadn’t needed to undress her. If only I hadn’t seen everything. Nipples like pink rosebuds. That slightly rounded belly.”
Flint stepped back and held out his callused hands and stared at them. “A waist I could span with these two hands. And those legs of hers. Long and sleek. And strong, I bet. Strong enough to wrap around me.”
Buck whinnied, and Flint realized the animal must have sensed how agitated he was in body and mind. He gripped the edge of the stall door and took a deep breath and huffed it out. That didn’t really help the most obvious problem.
He was hard as a rock.
“I’d better get back inside,” he said as he met Buck’s steady, brown-eyed gaze. “Yeah, I know. It’s crazy to spend the night in bed with her. What choice do I have? It’s either a soft bed in there or a pile of scratchy hay out here. I choose the soft bed, no matter how much more agony it causes.”
It was going to be sweet misery lying there on his back staring at the ceiling and wanting second best. At least he would have something to distract him from thoughts of Emaline with his brother. Flint scowled as he imagined Ransom undressing Emaline, seeing what he yearned to discover for himself.
Buck sidestepped and shook his head up and down.
“Don’t get yourself all het up,” Flint said in a soothing voice. “I’m taking my frustration and leaving.”
He’d only moved a couple of steps toward the door when Buck’s head reappeared over the stall door. Flint turned back to give his horse a consoling pat on the side of his neck. “None of this is your fault. I promise not to take it out on you like I did the other day, running you hell-bent-for-leather. Just be patient if you find me a bit distracted over the next couple of weeks.”
Buck nickered.
Flint laughed at the horse—and at himself. “Yeah, we’re two crazy fools, all right. Good night, Buck. See you in the morning, hopefully in a better mood than I’m in tonight.”
Flint blew out the lantern and left the barn, determined to keep his hands off Hannah, no matter what. He didn’t want her. He wanted Emaline. He could wait to see whether Emaline and Ransom came to some agreement. The prize was within his grasp. He had no intention of ruining things by succumbing to the siren call of Mrs. Hannah McMurtry.
Hannah was already in bed, dressed in one of Flint’s wool shirts, by the time he returned to the bedroom. The lantern was extinguished but she could see his silhouette in the scant moonlight. She opened her mouth to greet him, but a lump was lodged in her throat like a ragged stone.
She realized Flint was undressing when she heard him removing clothing. Cowboy boots hit the floor with two heavy thunks. His belt clinked as he unbuckled it and clunked as it hit the floor. She heard the soft brush of Levi’s, the whoosh of his wool shirt dropping on the ladderback chair beside the window, and finally, the chuffing exhale as he pulled his long john shirt off over his head.
Hannah’s stomach lurched when she saw the moon gleam off naked male flesh. She’d thought Flint would at least wear his long johns to bed. She told herself that stripping
down to bare skin was understandable. The changeable Wyoming weather had turned sunny and warm late in the day, taking the chill out of the air. With the fire, the room felt almost toasty warm. She held her breath, waiting, but the bottoms stayed on.
Flint said nothing, so she remained silent.
Hannah felt the bed sink down and resisted rolling into the hollow in the center created by Flint’s greater weight on the other side. She heard him grunt and shift as he rearranged the pillow under his head and watched him settle flat on his back.
Then all was silent.
Not quite silent. Hannah heard the whistle of the wind through a narrow slit in the wooden wall near the window.
“I’ll caulk that hole tomorrow,” Flint said into the darkness. “Crack’s been there since spring. Didn’t mind the whistle through the summer, but come winter it’ll be cold as a witch’s—” He stopped himself and finished, “Consider it fixed.”
Hannah swallowed over the painful lump in her throat, determined to speak despite the awkwardness of the situation, since they were both awake. “I’d like to see your ranch. Could I ride out with you tomorrow?”
“It’s not safe,” he said flatly.
“I’m not afraid.”
Flint turned his head in her direction, so she saw the gleam of two eyes in a shadowy face. “How well can you ride?” he asked. “Maybe I should be asking, ‘Can you ride?’ ”
Hannah had a sudden image of herself and her twin dressed identically, riding in the park on identical hacks. I have a twin! Hannah and Henrietta. And Hetty—
“The commandant at the fort warned me that a band of renegade Sioux is on the prowl,” Flint continued.
Hannah sat bolt upright. “Oh, my God.”
“Is that what happened to you?” he said, sitting up beside her. “Were you attacked by Indians?”
Hannah stared at Flint, horrified by the terrible images playing out in her mind’s eye. “Hetty,” she gasped. “Hetty!”
“Is that someone you know?”
“My twin. My sister. Oh, no!” Hannah clasped her hands over her eyes to shut out the vision that arose, but it only became more clear. She jerked her hands away and stared at them, seeing them dripping with blood. “Hetty!” she shrieked. Then she saw the rest. “Josie! Josie, no! Help! Someone help us!”
Strong arms surrounded her and pulled her close.
Hannah struggled desperately to be free. “Let me go!”
“Hey, there. Take it easy. I’ve got you. You’re safe,” a low voice crooned.
“I have to go,” Hannah cried. “I have to find them!”
“Go where? Find who?”
“My sisters! Hetty and Josie. Hetty …” Hannah’s mouth opened wide, spilling forth a ululating wail of grief. “And Josie … She …”
Hannah’s body was shaking so hard it felt like she might shatter into a million pieces. “Oh, God. Noooooooo,” she wailed.
The door suddenly opened.
Hannah recoiled from the lantern-lit gargoyle face in the doorway, shrinking back against Flint’s bare chest.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” Ransom demanded.
“Nightmare,” Flint said. “Get out. She’s fine.”
Ransom took another step into the room. “You sure?”
“I said get out!”
A moment later the door shut, and the darkness closed in again.
“No no no no no no,” Hannah groaned, pressing herself closer to Flint, seeking succor. She couldn’t get close enough. She needed to be closer, needed to escape inside him. She grabbed him around the neck and pulled his head down and pressed her mouth against his.
He pulled free and said, “Hannah, stop.”
“Please,” Hannah begged, burrowing closer. “Please hold me. Tighter.” She shoved hard against Flint, catching him off balance, so he slid onto his back.
“Whoa,” he soothed. “Easy, girl. Take it easy.”
She didn’t want to be soothed with words. She needed escape. She need oblivion. She pressed her body against Flint’s, seeking the warmth and strength of him. Her legs slid onto either side of his hips, pressing their flesh close where his was hard and hers was soft. Her mouth reached for his again, surrendering, where no surrender was sought.
She felt his hands on either side of her head, trying to push her back. She struggled against his hold, bringing her lips back to his. When he tried to speak, she put her tongue inside his mouth to quiet his protest.
He went still.
She could taste the cinnamon from the canned-peach pie he’d eaten for dessert. She could taste the black coffee he’d drunk to wash it down. She could taste … him.
His hands slid to her shoulders.
Hannah fought to stay close, afraid he was going to push her away.
Instead, he slid one arm around her, while the other gripped her buttocks and held her tight along the hard ridge she could feel against her belly. His tongue came searching in her mouth. His large, callused hand thrust up under the wool shirt and stroked her bare back before moving to cup her right breast. His thumb brushed the tip, and she hissed in a breath at the pleasure that coursed through her.
Her body coiled in readiness for … something.
Hannah thrust her hands into Flint’s hair and hung on for dear life, as her body writhed beneath his caresses. She thrust her hips against his, wanting to be closer. And closer still. Wanting to become a part of him until there was no more Hannah, no more Flint, just a single person, Hannah-and-Flint.
“Please,” she begged in a guttural voice.
“Hannah.”
Hannah heard her name, spoken as she’d always dreamed it would be. Almost as she’d dreamed it. There was something else beneath the desire. Something she didn’t want to acknowledge. She shut out the doubt she heard with a grating cry of need.
The hesitation she’d felt in Flint’s body disappeared as she slid her hand down to touch the iron-hard petal-soft part of him between his legs. She couldn’t allow him to abandon her. She couldn’t allow him to stop. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to feel. She wanted to forget.
“Hannah.”
Her name spoken as she’d never imagined it. Harsh. Urgent. Reckless.
Flint covered her mouth with his, his tongue intruding, seeking, demanding. His hands touching, caressing, commanding. His body throbbing and insistent.
Hannah grabbed at the escape Flint offered, as anxious as he was to rid herself of the wool shirt that kept their bare flesh apart. Buttons popped and pinged across the wooden floor. The shirt ripped and slid off her arms, leaving her bare. She gasped as Flint’s rough palms claimed her breasts.
“Ahhh.” Hannah had never felt anything so exquisite. She shoved at his long johns, wanting them off, wanting him inside her. Wanting to disappear inside him.
“Please. Please.” She was all need. Urgent need. Unrelenting need.
His breathing was harsh and uneven as he raced to do her bidding. The rough hair on his chest brushed against her breasts, teasing her with each rise and fall of breath. He kicked once and the cloth that imprisoned his legs was gone.
He grabbed her hips and turned her onto her back, coming over her, spreading her legs roughly with his knees and impaling her in a single stroke.
Hannah gasped and surged upward to meet him. At last. At last. He started to withdraw, and she grasped him around the hips with her crossed legs and held on tight.
“Easy, girl,” he said again. But his voice grated like a rusty hinge.
Hannah relaxed enough to let him withdraw and thrust again.
“Oh. Yes,” she said.
Hannah saw fierce eyes glittering above her in a savage face. But she felt no fear. She rose to greet Flint’s body with the thrust of her own, holding on to his broad shoulders, as she pursued pleasure—and forgetfulness—in frenzied abandon.
She bit Flint’s shoulder to avoid crying out as her body began to spasm and convulse. He muffled his own cry against her throat as he f
ound his own violent release, spilling his seed within her.
Then he was gone, forsaking her, lying flat on his back on the other side of the bed. Their labored breathing was loud in the silence, punctuated at odd times by the whistle from the window.
Hannah felt bereft.
She’d sought escape from the guilt she felt for abandoning her sisters and had found it in a few moments of intense, unbelievable pleasure. But her moment of madness had changed nothing. Hetty and Josie were still gone.
Her sisters had depended on her, but she hadn’t redeemed her promise to return and rescue them. Their lives might be in the balance, and here she was wondering if—or when or how soon—Flint would want to repeat what they’d just done.
Hannah turned her face away, gurgling as she swallowed back the sob that threatened.
“Damn it all to hell,” Flint muttered.
Hannah felt the tears overflowing her eyes and sliding down her face in warm streaks. The sob finally broke free.
When Flint reached out to her, she snapped, “Don’t touch me!”
“Don’t worry,” he said in a ruthless voice. “What just happened was a mistake I don’t intend to repeat.”
Hannah turned her back on him, put her face in the pillow, and wept.
Emaline was standing at Ransom’s open bedroom door wearing a full-length white cotton nightgown embroidered at the neck and hem with tiny pink roses when he returned from his trip across the long upstairs hallway. He hadn’t wanted to go, but she’d insisted he find out what was causing Hannah to cry out so pitifully and painfully.
“Is she all right?” Emaline asked.
“Nightmare,” Ransom replied curtly as he set the lantern on a chest of drawers and closed the bedroom door.
“Could she have fallen asleep that deeply so soon?” Emaline asked. “Are you sure she’s all right? Flint isn’t—”
Ransom rounded on her and said, “Against my better judgment I did what you asked. What happens between Flint and Hannah is their business. We have problems of our own that need to be solved.”
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