Turning from the wardrobe, her gaze fell on the bed and a sudden heat engulfed her as she thought of the coming night, of slipping into bed beside Rafe. It seemed shameful to contemplate such things in the light of day and she hurried from the room.
Night would come soon enough.
Chapter Eleven
Caitlyn sat across the dining table from Rafe, the remains of a roast beef dinner between them. The house was quiet, and the quiet engulfed them.
Caitlyn sipped a cup of coffee, wishing she could think of something light and airy to say. The silence between them filled her with anxiety and unrest. What was he thinking? Why didn’t he say something?
The meal had started on a light note. He had complimented her cooking, and they had chatted about the ranch while they ate. Caitlyn had told him of her visit to the bunkhouse, unable to mask her surprise that none of the hands had quit on the spot.
Gradually, they had run out of conversation, leaving only a taut silence.
She put her cup aside and rose smoothly to her feet. Preferring to do her own cooking and cleaning now that she was married, she had asked Consuelo to stay on to cook and do the washing for the cowhands.
She was conscious of Rafe’s eyes watching her as she moved from the dining room to the kitchen. He was leaning back in his chair, one hand shoved into his pants pocket, the other holding a long black cigar. He had not asked her permission to smoke this time, and it had not occurred to her to object. This was his house now.
Rafe felt the tension build in him as he watched Caitlyn clear the table, her skirts rustling as she moved. He watched the tantalizing sway of her hips, the way her breasts pushed against the fabric of her bodice when she reached over her head, the graceful lift of her hand as she brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
He followed her into the parlor when the dishes were done, and sank into the chair that had been her father’s favorite and was now his. It was an odd feeling, knowing that he had a place to call his own. He had never owned a home before, never owned a piece of ground—or a woman.
In New Orleans, he had lived in hotels and rooming houses with his father; they had taken their meals in restaurants. With the Cheyenne, he had owned only the clothes on his back, his weapons, and a couple of horses. But now he was a man of property. A married man with a virgin bride.
His eyes sought Caitlyn. She was sitting on the sofa, mending a tear in the hem of one of her dresses. The firelight played across her features and danced in her hair, and he knew he had never seen anything more lovely, more desirable, than the woman sitting across the room.
He glanced at the clock, willing the time to pass so that he could take her to bed and love her as he so longed to do. He wondered what she would do if he swept her into his arms and made love to her on the floor in front of the fire. Would she be shocked or pleased?
If theirs had been a love match, he would have made her his by now, but she did not love him. In truth, he doubted if she even liked him very much. She had married him because she needed a husband and he was the best of a bad lot. And he had married her because he wanted her as he had never wanted any woman.
Caitlyn looked up from her mending, her eyes drawn to his. The dress fell from her fingers as she read the raw hunger in Rafe’s steady gaze. The tension stretched between them, as taut as a Lakota bowstring, as vibrant as the fire that crackled in the hearth.
She felt his gaze on her face, saw the way his hands balled into tight fists as his eyes traveled over her breasts and then back to her face to linger on her mouth. She licked lips gone suddenly dry, and felt a peculiar tingle in the pit of her stomach as Rafe stood up and walked toward her.
“Caitlyn.”
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. The moment she had dreaded, and anticipated, had come.
Rafe knelt before her, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with passion. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured as he reached up to remove the pins from her hair. “I won’t hurt you.”
Caitlyn nodded, mesmerized by the feel of his hands in her hair, by the intensity of his gaze. She closed her eyes as he leaned forward to kiss her. His lips were like fire, his hands like flames as he removed her clothing. He kissed her until she was breathless, mindless, and then he drew away from her to shed his own clothes.
Shy, yet curious, she opened her eyes to watch him. The firelight cast reddish-orange shadows across his chest and face, reminding her of the flames that had consumed the barn the day her father had been killed.
Indian.
She stared at Rafe and all she saw was her father’s body lying face down in the dirt, an arrow protruding from his back. Her ears rang with the sound of heathen war cries, the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder filled her nostrils.
Indian.
She saw her brothers lying dead in the dust. Arlo had died from an arrow in his throat. A lance had pierced Morgan’s heart. There had been blood everywhere.
Indian.
She shook her head as Rafe knelt beside her. “No.”
“It’ll be all right, Caitlyn,” he assured her, thinking it was only a case of wedding-night jitters that made her hesitant.
Caitlyn stared at him. His skin was dark, his hair long, straight, and black, as black as the heathen war paint the Indians had worn the day they killed her father.
Guilt and remorse swept the passion from her heart. Indians had killed her brothers and her father, and she had married one. What had she been thinking when she agreed to marry Rafe? How could she have let her desire for a man blind her to what he was?
Rafe reached out to stroke her cheek and she recoiled from his touch. His hands were large and brown and strong. She thrust her hands against his chest to hold him away.
“Don’t,” she whimpered. “Please don’t.”
Rafe swore softly as he imprisoned both her hands in one of his. “Don’t fight me, Caitlyn,” he said, his voice husky with desire. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Don’t touch me,” she cried, her voice rising hysterically. “Don’t ever touch me again!”
Rafe drew back as though she had slapped him. His face was hard, his jaw rigid, his eyes like flint. Tainted blood, he thought bitterly. He should have known better.
He dressed quickly, his hands shaking with anger, his breathing ragged. He should have known better than to get involved with another woman, especially a white woman.
He left the house without a word, knowing he had to get away from Caitlyn before he did something they’d both regret.
Once outside, he breathed deeply of the cool night air as he reminded himself of Summer Wind’s treachery, of his vow never to love or trust another woman as long as he lived. He swore a vile oath as he gazed up at the moon. Caitlyn was like the moon, he mused bitterly, bright and cold and out of reach.
Damn! How could he live in the same house with her, sit across the table from her morning and night, and not touch her? He was a man, not a monk. Damn!
A wry grin twisted his lips. If his wife would not have him, there were other women who would. Women who were well versed in the art of pleasing a man, women who could make every time seem like the first time. Women who loved the color of his money more than they despised the color of his skin. With that in mind, he saddled one of the horses and rode into town.
Frenchy’s was located at the north end of Cedar Creek. A large, two-story white house with bright yellow shutters, and a red lamp in the front window, it stood a good distance away from the other buildings. There were at least a dozen horses tethered to the long hitching post out front.
A little Negro boy took the reins from Gallegher’s hand and smiled a knowing smile. “Have a good time, Mistuh,” the boy called as Rafe went up the steps.
The inside of Frenchy’s looked exactly the way decent, God-fearing women imagined with heavy red paper on the walls, lots of gilt-edged mirrors, and cozy little red velvet settees just big enough for two. A large crystal chandelier shimmered from the ceiling in the parlor, the glow
from the candles softening the hard lines on the faces of the women who reclined in the parlor, waiting for their next customer.
It was the room beyond the parlor that drew Rafe’s interest. A long mahogany bar ran the length of the room, and rows of shelves with fancy lead crystal glasses and goblets lined the wall. Two dozen tables were scattered around the room, each ringed by four or five leather-bound chairs. A heavy layer of smoke floated over the heads of the gamblers, and the clink of coins and the soft whisper of cards being shuffled by expert hands could be heard as he entered the room.
He took a place at one of the poker tables, sat back in his chair, and concentrated on the game at hand. Winning was easy, but, more than that, it was necessary. He did not want to have to take money from Caitlyn, and the wages her father had paid him were almost gone.
He won the first three hands, let the fourth one go because the other players were beginning to murmur about his luck. And it was luck. So far. He doubled his bets with each hand and when he left the table two hours later, he had won over a hundred dollars.
He went to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey, which he tossed off in a single swallow, and then he wandered into the parlor to take a look at what Frenchy had to offer in the way of a good time.
Caitlyn stood at the front window, a feeling of despair winding around her heart. Where was Rafe? She shied away from the obvious answer, not wanting to believe it even though she knew it was true. He had gone into town to buy what she had refused him. Pain tore through her heart, a pain so severe, so sharp, she thought she might die of it.
Fighting back tears, she went into her room and donned her nightgown, then slipped into her cold lonely bed, only to lie there for hours, unable to sleep. This was her wedding night. It should be the happiest night of her life. Instead, she was home alone, wondering where her husband was.
Rising, she drew on her robe and went into the parlor. Stirring the ashes in the hearth, she placed a log on the coals and sat in the chair by the window, staring out into the darkness. Tears of misery welled in her eyes. They should not have married so soon, she thought unhappily. She was still mourning her father, still trying to sort out her feelings for Rafe. She was attracted to him and she knew she could trust him. But she had not yet come to terms with the fact that he was half Indian. Perhaps she never would.
“Oh, Lord,” she murmured. “What have I gotten myself into?”
She could not deny her attraction for Rafe, she mused again. And yet, the same thing that attracted her also frightened her. He was half Indian, and she was afraid of Indians. It was all so confusing!
It was well after midnight when she saw him ride into the yard leading Black Wind, and she felt a sudden flicker of relief. Perhaps he had not gone into Cedar Creek for a woman, after all, but only to retrieve his horse.
She stood up, uncertain of what to do. Should she go to bed and pretend she knew nothing of his excursion into town? Or should she confront him and demand to know where he had been?
She was still undecided when the front door swung open and Rafe entered the room.
“Caitlyn,” he murmured, surprised. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied honestly. “Where have you been?”
“I went into town,” he answered, his voice giving nothing away.
“To pick up Black Wind?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing else?”
Rafe quirked one dark eyebrow at her. “Like what?”
She felt the back of her neck grow hot but she had gone too far to turn back now. “I thought you might have gone to Frenchy’s place.” She held her breath as she waited for his answer.
“That’s just where I’ve been, Mrs. Gallegher.” His voice was soft, but the emphasis he placed on her married title cut Caitlyn to the quick. He would not have gone to such a dreadful place if she had not refused him his husbandly rights.
A cold hand curled around her heart, leaving her hurting and speechless. She wanted to scream at him, to reproach him for his infidelity, but she had no one to blame but herself. He was a man, after all, not a gelding, and if she would not have him, there were other women who would.
“Any objections?” Rafe asked.
Caitlyn shook her head. She had many objections, she thought furiously, but the words froze in her throat. How could she admit she wanted him now, when he had been to Frenchy’s? He smelled of tobacco, whiskey, and cheap perfume. In her mind’s eyes, she could see him smoking and drinking and carrying on with some cheap tart. The image hurt more than she would have dreamed possible, and she bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying.
Rafe nodded curtly. He had hoped to spark her jealousy, to make her admit she cared for him a little, but he was wasting his time. She didn’t want a husband, only someone to run the ranch.
“Good night, Mrs. Gallegher,” he said caustically, and stalked out of the room.
Caitlyn stared after him, stung by his philandering and his abrupt good night. She was a married woman now, she thought ruefully, and she had never felt more utterly alone.
Rafe’s presence could be felt everywhere in the days that followed. Though he had been in charge for only a few weeks, changes were already taking place. Fences had been mended; the cattle were being branded; calves had been castrated; and the hole in the kitchen roof had been repaired. A couple of trees near the house had been cut down for firewood; debris had been dragged from the river so the water didn’t back up and stagnate; and the horses had all been newly shod. What was left of the barn had been removed and the ground cleared in preparation for the building of a new one.
Caitlyn knew the hands grumbled about Rafe. He demanded a day’s work for a day’s pay, allowed no slacking off, no drinking in the bunkhouse after work. What he asked was no more than her father had asked, but the men resented taking orders from a half-breed. Paulie had told her the men talked constantly of quitting, but so far none of them had turned in his time.
If only things between herself and Rafe were running as smoothly as the operation of the ranch, she mused as she hung a load of wash on the line. Rafe had moved into the spare bedroom and rarely spoke to her except to advise her about the affairs of the ranch. They ate their meals in virtual silence, the tension between them growing stronger with each passing day. And each Saturday night he put on his good shirt, shined his boots, and rode into town.
Those hours that Rafe was in town caused Caitlyn agonies of distress as she imagined her husband in the arms of another woman, touching her, kissing her, wooing some cheap tart with the sweet words that Caitlyn so longed to hear. But Rafe had made no move toward her, said nothing to indicate he cared. Indeed, he seemed perfectly happy with the way things were, and she could not humble herself to beg for his touch.
And now, worst of all, she was dreaming about him at night, her sleep haunted by shadowy images of his handsome face, by dark phantom fingers that caressed her skin and caused her to awaken, her breath ragged, her skin covered with a fine layer of perspiration.
There had been so many times when she thought he would take her in his arms. So many times when his eyes met hers, when the tension hummed between them. Sometimes, when he passed close by her, she felt all her nerve endings reach out for him. She would not have rebuffed him if he had reached for her then. Indeed, she would have welcomed his touch as a flower welcomed the sun. But he never laid a hand on her, never suggested they alter their sleeping arrangements.
And yet, he wanted her. She knew it. She could see it when he looked at her, feel it in the words that went unsaid. Sometimes she wanted to scream at him for ignoring her. Couldn’t he understand the awful strain she had been under the past few weeks? She’d buried her father and gotten married in such a short time. All she’d needed was a little time to adjust to the enormous changes in her life. She longed to explain her actions on their wedding night, but the longer she put it off, the harder it became, and now it was impossible.
She hated him
, she thought as she plucked the clothespins from his shirt and dropped it in the laundry basket at her feet. Hated him with a passion. A wry grin turned up the corner of her mouth. Passion, she mused, that was the operative word. He had stirred her desires with little more than a few kisses on their wedding day, making her yearn for more, so much more. Despite the fact that she didn’t love him, that he was part Indian, she longed for his kisses, for the touch of his hands in her hair, the press of his body turning her limbs to jelly, making her stomach quiver with anticipation.
She dropped the last article of clothing into the basket, lifted it onto her hip, and carried it toward the back door. It was then she saw Rafe. He was exercising Black Wind, riding the horse at a trot around the corral. The beautiful horse moved fluidly, long legs reaching out, neck arched, head high, tail flowing like black silk. And Rafe… The sun glistened on his naked back and broad shoulders, and touched his hair with blue highlights. She admired the taut muscles in his legs as he guided the horse with the pressure of his knees.
If only she were an artist, she thought for the second time since she had known Rafe, so that she might capture the beauty of man and beast as they circled the corral, two magnificent creatures made one for this brief moment.
The laundry basket, balanced on her right hip, was momentarily forgotten as she watched Rafe rein the mare into a tight rearing turn and circle the opposite way.
Rafe saw Caitlyn out of the corner of his eye as he reined the horse around. He circled the corral one more time, then drew Black Wind to a halt and slid to the ground. Removing the bridle, he gave the horse an affectionate slap on the neck and vaulted over the corral fence.
He felt his heart beat a little faster as he approached Caitlyn. It was amazing the effect she had on him. He had only to look at her to want her. The fact that she had been watching him pleased him more than it should have.
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