by Yvonne Jocks
She slid her soft little hand up him, slowly, then all the way down, as if measuring him, and his erection strained so hard against the buttons that separated him and her, it Really did hurt, but he wasn't about to say a thing. She curled her fingers around the girth of him, then traced the different shape at his tip— oh, lordy—-and then investigated what lay beneath the whole setup.
Jack gritted his teeth, threw his head back, fought it.
Audra twisted around as if to better see what there was to see— No more clothes come off! —and then, quick-learning little minx, bent closer and kissed the taut material. At the heat of her breath, before any moisture could even seep through to delight him further, it was al over. Jack's cry shuddered out of him as hot and unstoppable as his seed, wetting the front of his trousers for the first time since his youth. He couldn't even summon the strength to be embarrassed.
Audra reared back from him, eyes wide, apparently not sure what had happened but sure that something had. “Oh!”
Damned right, “Oh.” Trembling, almost helpless, he somehow caught her with a hand in her curling, wild sorrel hair and pulled her head back to his own. He made love to her mouth as he would have liked to do with the rest of her—not that this hadn't come blissfully close—and held on to her until, as his body slowly relaxed, his mind seemed to reappear as well.
Oh, my. Who would ever have thought?
Audra.
“I love you, darlin',” he admitted hoarsely. It only now occurred to him that he hadn't told her before, and he felt bad for that.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. And not just due to .. .” He slid his hand down her bare arm, savored the feel of her. “I loved you before this.”
“This was nice, though,” she assured him, and snuggled in closer, not the least bit afraid. Nice? His relief nearly undid him. He wasn't sure what he'd do if, because of his inability to control himself, to leave after a kiss or so, he'd frightened her. “I was afraid it would be vulgar and loud.”
He narrowed his eyes, didn't mention that they had been loud. “Why would you think that?”
She blushed, but refused to answer. “Can we do it again?” She even slid a hand teasingly over his thigh—but he caught her wrist, lifting it to safety before placing it against his chest instead. This had been too close a cal . Blissful though it was, it left him vaguely unsated. If she ever held him like that again, she should be guiding him inside of her, hot and wet and virginal...
Still, against all odds, virginal. He rolled away from her, fast, before he could change his mind.
“We've got to talk, darlin'.”
He found his shirt, pulled it on, and, as he buttoned it, left it untucked to better hide the damp spot on his pants. When he looked over his shoulder at her, she'd put her arms back into her bodice sleeves and was trying to pull up her stockings, eyes sad.
He hated to see her sad ... but damned if he knew what to do about it.
“I love you,” he insisted, rising on his knees in the hay beside her. “And you love me.”
She nodded.
“But”—and the pain of this surprised him—“you don't want to marry me?”
She hesitated, obviously reluctant to hurt his feelings. “I want to marry you, Jack. I've never wanted anyone else like I want you. I'm just... afraid.”
He managed to help her button her bodice without ripping it off her again. Some initial hesitance he was used to. He accepted it as part of her. “Afraid of what, sugar?”
“Wel .. .” She could not even meet his eyes to ask it. “How would you support us?”
The question wasn't what left a hole in his gut—it was the truth behind it. Gambling, while it had its high points, wasn't known for the kind of stability a wife required. In fact, a fellow's luck tended to drop in direct proportion to how badly he needed the money. "I reckon I could do anything I had to. I took to the mercantile quick enough, now, didn't I?"
She nodded, looking down. “Yes. You could do anything. But would you be happy?” He stared at her, and finally she risked peeking up at him again. "I love you, Jack. I want you to be happy, not tied down by a wife, or babies, when you'd rather be off having ... well ..."
“Fun,” he finished for her, low, and the word had never sounded so profane.
She nodded. “Fun.”
The hell with fun—he wanted her! But some edge of sanity kept him from saying that, because his clearheaded, responsible Audra had a point. It was easy enough for him to give up so-called fun tonight. He'd just experienced something so momentous that to cal it fun would be an insult. But what about when times got hard—and times always got hard. He hadn't come far from the
transient life his own family had lived, wandering from town to town, living out of charity barrels and handouts, often cold, always hungry. His father had been a preacher, but the family still didn't get the respect any poor, stable dirt farmer would.
Jack had always figured he'd shoot himself before he'd turn to dirt farming.
He stared at Audra blankly, realizing that even that life—stable, but no less poor—would be an affront to her. And Ham's suggestion that he buy the store? He'd seen the futility of that. Audra could live better as a teacher than as a wife, and that, too, would chafe as the years passed.
“I suppose we could just have . . . well . . . nights like this,” she suggested softly, looking at the stables around them. “When I can get out. It was wonderful, Jack. It's worth the risk.”
Become his mistress? Some women that would be good enough for. Not her. How did she think she would face her pupils— herself? How would she face her family?
It probably wouldn't be long before regret about her remarkable behavior tonight set in and Jack became the one she couldn't face. He dreaded that moment.
“Early Rogers was supposed to leave a cable for you today,” he said, low.
Audra looked up sharply, confused. “He did. But—”
“They're proud of you,” he said, voice thick. She flushed, so very pretty in the lamplight.
“They would be proud of you, too, if they just got to know you,” she defended him.
Somehow, with the taste of her sex still in his mouth and the feel of linen-covered curls imprinted on his tongue, he doubted that. Really, he had only one choice. He'd flirted with it since his arrival, but this time, if he didn't fol ow through, they'd be the ruin of each other. "I've got to leave, Audra.
If I don't get out of here now, I don't know if I can. And I've got to."
Her eyes filled with tears; one even escaped to slide down her cheek. But she nodded even as she said, “I don't want you to go!”
Her voice wavered pitiably on the last word, and he caught her to him, held her tight, buried his face in her beautiful, curly hair. “Oh, darlin', I don't want to leave you either. But I can't ruin you. I won't let myself do that. I'd die before I'd do that.”
They held each other tight for a long, long time. He made vague noises about coming back for her, finding her in Wyoming if he missed her in Texas, and she pleaded with him to do so ... but surely they both knew that, unless something drastic changed between them, such a reunion would end as painfully as this.
After one last kiss, Jack somehow made his arms let go of her, made himself saddle Queen, unbolted the doors and forced himself to mount. “I love you, schoolmarm,” he told her from the safety of horseback. “You're the best thing to ever happen to me. Don't you forget it.”
“I love you too, you ... you gambler,” she told him, weeping openly now. “And you're worth every bit of it.”
And at that, Jack had to spur his horse the hell out of there.
One thing a gambler had to know was when to throw in his hand.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Teachers each day will fill lamps, clean chimneys, sweep the floor, and clean the blackboards.
—Rules for Teachers
Somehow Audra survived the next day. She attended church, collected clothes from the Ladies'
Aid, and delivered them to the mercantile. Jack Really had gone; he'd left their pen for her. After that, the day passed in a dreary procession of chores and responsibilities. She missed him through every minute of it. But each minute did make way for the next, even so.
She survived Monday, too, and then Tuesday and Wednesday. It helped that, in Heddy's absence, Audra kept busy teaching both the big children and the little ones. The little ones hugged her so readily, and smiled with their whole faces—how could she regret her decision not to have her own children except by a husband who could provide a good life for them? How could she regret Jack's decision to leave her with a chance at self-respect?
Good sense didn't heal her grief at what she lost when he rode away. But Aunt Heddy returned with good news about Uncle Matthew's slow recovery. The week ended; another began. And good sense did soothe Audra's self-worth. She still felt lonely, especially in bed at night when unexpected urges confused and complicated her loss. But better loneliness than regrets. Even if she missed Jack worse than she missed her family, worse than she missed her home . . . worse than she suspected she would miss a lost limb.
Audra distracted herself by experimenting with some of his less scandalous lessons. She resumed shopping at Ferris Hamilton's mercantile—after Lucy's departure. Soon townsfolk began to trickle back, too. “If that nice teacher is doing it,” they said, “then it must be all right.”
The truest rules were those she imposed upon herself. But a good reputation didn't hurt, either.
For hers, Audra had only one person to thank. It became a subtle but constant comfort with the passage of time. She would rather pine for Jack as her hero than resent him as her ruin.
And she hoped that, wherever he was, he found some of that same, subtle solace.
“Where the heck do you get your money, Harry?” Jack asked a particularly affluent gambling companion. “Robbing banks?”
He didn't expect an answer, of course, nor did Harry offer one. The big, handsome man with the seemingly endless income just laughed and said, “Worse ways to earn a living.”
Jack stared at his hand—four tens, right off—and wondered if gambling weren't rapidly becoming one of those worse ways. He hadn't given a damn what happened to him since riding into Hell's Half-Acre a few weeks earlier. Not since his incredible night with Audra, in fact. Thus, Jack won more money than he'd ever seen in his life, and he didn't even care. Tonight found him tired, restless. But he had no intention of stopping until either he stopped winning or the other players, particularly well-heeled Harry Longbaugh, ran through their stake. Since Harry and his friend were admittedly “just passing through,” Jack didn't figure he'd get another chance.
And one just didn't quit in the middle of a lucky streak.
Harry's partner, slightly older and nowhere near as free with his bets, said, "I reckon there's a passel of better ways to earn a living, too. Give me three, Red."
The dealer gave Jim Lowe, an amiable fellow with sandy brown hair, the three cards.
Harry took two.
Jack said, “I'll take one,” and Lowe said, “Well, heck,” and threw in his hand.
Harry said, “Doesn't mean a thing. I'm in for a ten-spot.” And the madness started again.
“The problem with earning a living,” mused Jack as they played, "is that a fellow either shackles himself to some dul , respectable employment or else he stays free to enjoy a little adventure and ends up with so much durned freedom it..."
. . . Costs him the one thing he most wants?
“The problem with freedom,” said Lowe, his tone implying he'd warmed to this topic before, and Harry's groan implying the same thing, "is that you find yourself stuck outside the very walls you fought not to get stuck inside. Laura, would you kindly fetch me another sarsaparilla?"
“Make it two,” said Jack.
Harry added, “And a rye, straight. up,” and pretty Laura fetched.
The four players and the woman, who appeared to be a “special friend” of Red's, played cards in a small room that until recently had been a prostitute's crib off the dance floor of the Red Light Saloon. Politicians had recently “closed” games in the Acre again, so they just holed up. Other than cramped quarters and more privacy, little else changed. Jack had always believed that, in a game of vice against reform, vice would outlast reform every time.
But he felt increasingly less certain that he wanted to be there when it did.
The Acre still housed its share of rebels, proud individuals living life on their own terms. Harry and Lowe, for example, seemed decent enough—intelligent and friendly. But Jack had met a few intelligent, friendly folks among the Candon church congregation, too.
The more he looked, the more readily he admitted that the wild set bred just as many sheep as the godly flock ... and just as many skewed values.
Too many folks seemed to be chasing the money instead of the risk. More players than ever didn't seem to realize there was a risk... until they lost. Twice now, some greenhorn who'd lost fair and square had gone to the authorities and complained about the “illegal” game he'd been happy to patronize until his luck turned. Both times the game ended faster than the constabulary arrived.
But the experience still soured Jack considerably.
Did nobody value the risk itself anymore?
The working women of the Acre, too, had lost most of their allure, and not simply because Jack had come so close to knowing true quality ... in the basest sense of the word. Many of the gals still went into the profession for fair reasons—excitement, profit, the usual. But for too many soiled doves, the glitter of their chosen career had gone brass. Despite having places to turn—like the Women's Industrial Home—gals were killing themselves! For all their miseries, they resisted giving up their “easy” money for the lower wages and longer hours of a factory or domestic position. Too many chose death over a future of low income and hard work.
Could be they didn't believe that, even if they sacrificed everything to reform, the world would let them. Jack could understand that. But it no longer put him in gallant company.
He began to think Harry Longbaugh would never tire of losing when a different woman than Laura slipped into the room. Jack had a hard time lately finding real beauty in any hair color but sorrel and any eye color but gray. But something about the lady's solemn face and the neat way she'd swept her dark hair up and back did catch his attention, even as she went to Harry's side, placed a hand on his shoulder, and whispered something in his ear.
She was no prostitute, thought Jack. Or if she had been, she was no more. The way she made her unheard entreaty to Harry, both serious and sweet, seemed more bridal than bawdy.
Lowe leaned closer to Jack and murmured, "You'd do better to look at your cards than at the lady, son. The kid's been drinking again."
“I—” started Jack, to defend himself; heaven knew he had no interest in another man's woman!
But he stopped himself, unsure how to say more without insulting someone.
Luckily the lady's intervention seemed enough to lure Harry from his losing streak. The bigger man threw in his cards, then stretched, grinning. Excusing himself, he was escorted docilely from the room at the lady's quiet hand.
The other three finished that round almost as an afterthought—Jack won—and groaned their relief. Nobody was anxious to continue. The game that would not end had finally ended.
“How about another sarsaparilla for the road?” suggested Lowe, his round-cheeked grin admitting that he'd noted his and Jack's shared avoidance of liquor. Jack hadn't made the decision to stop drinking ... he just didn't want it anymore.
In any case, Jack accepted and Laura was sent for another round.
“Etta's a lovely woman, isn't she?” asked Lowe, leaning back in his chair.
“Yep,” agreed Jack, though with no great fervor. When Lowe raised his eyebrows in surprise, Jack explained. “She reminded me of a schoolteacher I once knew.”
Once knew.
At the horribly final sound of that, he half wished Laura would bring something stronger. But not quite.
“You've got a good eye,” said Lowe, impressed. “She is a schoolteacher. Was, anyhow ... among a few other things. Now she's happy enough to be Harry's girl.”
Was she? For Audra, becoming little more than “Jack's girl” would seem like a demotion.
“She doesn't look any the worse for wear for her change of station,” he noted, imagining—just briefly—that it could have been his own ladylove coming to fetch him away from a game. He would
have gladly gone, too.
But would it be quit© so idyllic were he the one losing? especially without whatever extravagant backing Harry obviously had? No, he'd made the right decision.
“Oh, she's not in it for the money,” Lowe assured him, misunderstanding. "She might not even be with us except that Harry and I are going respectable ourselves. Anyway, more respectable than . . .
what was it?“ His eyes laughed at the memory. ”Bank robbery."
Jack said, “I imagine bank robbery would be a shade more adventurous, though.”
"Son, life itself is about the biggest adventure there is—it just took me too dang many years to figure that out. If a fellow can't see the gamble in ranching, or in taking up with a good woman like Harry has, he just isn't looking hard enough."
While Red covered his green-felt table for the night, Laura returned with their sarsaparilla. After paying her, the teetotalers toasted each other, amused by their own abstinence.
“Raised Mormon,” offered Lowe, by way of explanation.
“Baptist preacher's son. But that might just be what drove me to drink in the first place.”
They laughed together.
“So you're starting a ranch,” pursued Jack, dismissing the idea for himself almost as quickly as he considered it. Audra's father was a rancher; no way would Jack try to fill his boots, especially without a deuce of experience.
“Could be,” said Lowe amiably. “Better than train robbing.”