“I’ll carry that,” he said, taking the laundry basket from her.
“Thank you,” Caitlyn murmured, trying not to stare at his naked chest, or at the narrow trickle of sweat making its way toward his flat belly.
She turned on her heel and opened the back door, deeply aware of the man behind her. He smelled of sweat, horse, and tobacco. Masculine smells, she mused, and not at all unpleasant.
Rafe placed the basket on the kitchen table, then straddled one of the chairs, his arms folded across the latticed backrest.
“Would you like some lemonade?” Caitlyn asked.
“Yeah.” He watched her bustle about the kitchen, enthralled by her beauty, by the grace of her movements as she took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with cold lemonade, then sliced him a piece of chocolate cake. How many nights had he lain awake, wanting her? How many times had he left his lonely bed and gone outside, breathing in the crisp air, letting it cool his fevered flesh?
He drew his thoughts away from the desire that plagued him like an old wound. “What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken and dumplings.”
Rafe nodded. She was a good cook, but his mind was not on food. If she were truly his wife, he would take her in his arms and kiss her soundly, perhaps make love to her there, on the kitchen floor, in the full light of day. If she were truly his wife, he would tell her of the nights he had dreamed of her, confess that he found her the most desirable woman in the world. If she were truly his wife, he would not have to tell her, he thought wryly. She would know.
He muttered an oath under his breath as he stood up. Draining the glass in one long swallow, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “See you at dinner,” he said gruffly, and left the house.
Dinner was a strained, silent meal. It was Saturday night, and Rafe was going to town.
Caitlyn ate without tasting her food, her imagination already picturing him in the arms of another woman, holding her, laughing with her, making love to her. Unbidden, unstoppable, the tears came.
Rafe chanced to look up at that moment, the food on his plate forgotten as he saw the silent tears tracking Caitlyn’s cheeks.
“What is it?” he asked, troubled by the quiet misery he saw reflected in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Saturday,” Caitlyn wailed.
Rafe frowned. “So?”
Caitlyn wiped the tears from her eyes with the corner or her napkin. “So you’ll be going into town and I’ll be here all alone.” There, she thought, I’ve said it.
“I’d stay home if I had a reason,” he said gruffly. His eyes were hard when he looked at her, hard and unyielding. He wanted her, but he had vowed never to touch her again, not until she could come to him, willing and ready to be his wife.
Caitlyn swallowed hard. She wanted him, but she couldn’t admit it, not out loud. And what if she agreed to let him make love to her and then couldn’t go through with it?
“Rafe, I…can’t you give me a little more time to…”
“Take all the time you want,” he said curtly, and with a disgusted frown, he rose from the table and went to his room.
Moments later he emerged looking devilishly handsome in a pair of black twill pants and a dark red shirt.
“Don’t wait up,” he muttered caustically, and then he was gone.
The next five hours dragged as though time had stopped. Caitlyn cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, and mopped the kitchen floor. She lit a fire in the hearth when she ran out of chores, picked up a book and tried to read, but the words made no sense and she tossed the book aside.
Filled with dismay, she gazed into the fire. The dancing flames were hypnotic, lulling her to sleep. As always, Rafe’s dark image paraded through her dreams, his smile roguish, captivating. But this night her dreams turned to nightmares, his smile to a grimace, and suddenly there wasn’t just one Indian in her dream, but dozens, all painted for war. They swarmed over the ranch, killing her father and Luther, killing the cowhands, burning the barn and the house. And then they were chasing her. She heard a voice calling her name, felt rough hands shaking her…
“Caitlyn! Dammit, Caty, wake up!”
Rafe shook her, his eyes filled with concern as he saw the tears coursing down her cheeks, heard her soft cries of pain. He drew her into his arms as her eyelids fluttered open. “It’s all right,” he murmured, dropping to the floor before the hearth, his arms tight around her. “It’s all right.” His hand stroked her hair, and his breath was a whisper against her cheek, soft, warm, and scented with brandy.
Caitlyn snuggled against him, grateful for the strong arms that held her tight, for the solace of his touch, for the sound of his voice, low and husky, assuring her there was nothing to fear.
“I was having a nightmare,” Caitlyn said. “I was dreaming about the day my father was killed…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes searched his face, so handsome, so obviously Indian. Unconsciously, she stiffened in his embrace.
Rafe felt her body tense and though she didn’t move, he felt her withdraw from him as he saw the accusation in her eyes. He could almost hear the disdain in her voice as she thought the word “Indian” in her mind.
“You okay now?” he asked, his voice cold.
Caitlyn nodded, her eyes trapped in the web of his gaze. She saw the hurt lurking in his eyes, felt his unspoken anger in the arms that still held her close.
“How long are you going to blame me for what happened to your father?” he asked brusquely. “How long will you go on hating me because I’m Indian, and hating yourself because you married me?”
“Rafe…”
“I’m not a savage, Caitlyn. I’ve never murdered anyone, red or white. I’m not a savage,” he repeated, his ebony eyes hot on her face. “If I were, you’d be a woman now, and, oh, hell,” he muttered, “maybe I am a savage.”
His mouth covered hers in a kiss that was almost brutal in its intensity, his lips grinding into hers, his tongue sliding over her lower lip, demanding entrance to the honeyed sweetness within.
It never occurred to Caitlyn to object. Her arms went around his neck, and her mouth opened to his invasion as she kissed him back. The heat from the fireplace was nothing compared to the quick heat that ignited between them. She groaned low in her throat as his lips trailed down her neck, his tongue searing a path along the delicate skin of her throat before returning to her lips. Her heart was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer as Rafe’s hands slid along her ribcage and down her thigh. Without taking his mouth from hers, he stretched out on the floor, taking her with him, so that their bodies were now pressed together, thigh to thigh, heat to heat.
His hand found its way under her nightgown and moved slowly, provocatively, over her ankle and calf to her thigh. She felt her breath catch in her throat as his hand stroked her bare flesh and her arm went around his neck, holding him close, as her tongue mated with his.
From far away she heard a distant sound, insistent, irritating. She whimpered softly when Rafe drew his lips from hers, and only then did she realize someone was knocking on the front door.
Rafe muttered a vile oath as he left Caitlyn and went to the door, his hand reaching for the Winchester rifle above the lintel.
He drew a deep breath, then exhaled in a long frustrated sigh. “Who is it?”
“Paulie.”
Rafe opened the door, frowning. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”
“There was some trouble down at the corral,” Paulie explained. “A mountain lion attacked Caitlyn’s stud.”
“Oh, no,” Caitlyn exclaimed. Rising to her feet, she hurried to Rafe’s side. “Is Red…is he still alive?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I think you should come down and take a look at him.”
“Yes, of course.”
The big red stallion was down on its side in the corral. Long gashes ran along its neck and flanks and it seemed to Caitlyn that there was blood everywhere. But the lacerations were not the worst p
roblem. Somehow, in fighting off the mountain lion, the stallion had broken its left foreleg.
The stallion whickered softly as it caught her scent, and Caitlyn blinked back her tears as she knelt beside the horse.
“How bad is it, Paulie?” she asked, stroking the stud’s forehead.
“Real bad, Mrs. Gallegher.”
“Will he have to be destroyed?”
“I don’t know. It’s your decision, not mine.”
“What would you do?”
“I’d try to save him, if he was mine.”
Caitlyn nodded. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Stay by him. I think your presence soothes him some.”
She sat by Red for the next two hours while Paulie set the stallion’s broken leg, then carefully stitched up the numerous cuts and gashes in the animal’s neck and flanks. Rafe remained with her, holding the stallion’s head so it couldn’t stand up.
It was near dawn when Paulie got up, his face lined with fatigue, his forearms bloody. “I’ve done everything I can do, Mrs. Gallegher. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Caitlyn rose slowly to her feet, the muscles in her legs and back aching from sitting for so long. “Thank you, Paulie.”
“We’ll have to keep him in one of the stalls until his leg heals. I don’t want him walking around on it.”
“He won’t like that,” Caitlyn remarked, smiling faintly. “And he’ll be a bear to ride when his leg is better. You know how he is if he isn’t exercised every day.”
Paulie nodded. There was no guarantee she’d ever be able to ride the blood bay stallion again and they both knew it.
“Let’s go, Caitlyn,” Rafe said, draping his arm around her shoulders. “You need some sleep. And I think Paulie does, too.”
She didn’t argue, but willingly followed Rafe out of the barn and back to the house. His arm slid down to her waist as they made their way down the narrow hallway to Caitlyn’s bedroom. He took his arm from her waist when they reached the door and a sudden awkwardness rose between them.
They had been so close earlier, Caitlyn thought, wishing she knew how to recapture the intimacy of those moments before the fire. She almost asked him to stay the night with her so she might enjoy the comfort of his presence, discover what it would be like to fall asleep in his arms. But then, unbidden, came the thought of Frenchy’s women, painted, powdered, and perfumed, sharing a bed with Rafe, holding him as she had been holding him, their hands more familiar with the hard planes and textures of her husband’s body than she was.
“Good night, Rafe,” she said curtly. How could she have let him kiss her earlier? How could she have forgotten that he preferred other women to his own wife?
“Caitlyn.” There was a wealth of unspoken desire in his voice, a need to hold her, to comfort her.
For an endless moment they stood close, not quite touching.
She wanted him, Caitlyn thought, regardless of how many other women he had known. She wanted him, and that thought shamed her.
Rafe waited, hoping Caitlyn would ask him to stay, and when she didn’t, he shoved his hands into his pants pockets and turned away. His voice was cold and bitter when he bid her good night and left her there, alone, untouched, and empty inside.
The following Saturday Caitlyn told Rafe she needed to go to Cedar Creek to get supplies, but all she really wanted was to get away from the ranch. She needed to see Christine, to talk to someone who would listen without sitting in judgment.
She dressed carefully that morning as appearances were important now, more important than ever. No one in town must ever suspect she was less than happy, that her marriage was far from perfect.
She chose a green dress with tiny white flowers embroidered on the scooped bodice. A wide white sash spanned her waist, and black kid boots hugged her feet. She took a last quick glance in the mirror before leaving the room. The dress complimented her hair and eyes and flattered her figure. She wondered if Rafe would notice how nice she looked, and then scolded herself for caring.
He was waiting for her in the parlor. He had gone shopping since their marriage, purchasing several pairs of trousers and shirts, as well as a pair of dress boots and a broad-brimmed black Stetson. Today he wore black pants and a dark blue shirt. His hat was pushed back on his head.
“Ready?” he asked curtly, and when Caitlyn nodded, he opened the door for her and followed her outside.
His hands were strong and sure as he helped her into the buckboard. Vaulting up onto the seat beside her, he took up the reins and clucked to the horses.
Caitlyn was hardly aware of the trip to town, so conscious was she of the man beside her. She felt her heart quicken each time his thigh brushed against hers, each time the jostling of the buckboard caused his arm to bump hers.
From the corner of her eye she studied his profile. Was it possible he had grown more handsome since they first met? Had his shoulders always been so broad, his legs so long?
She thought of the nights she had lain awake wanting him and yet, even as she desired him, she could not forget the nights he went to town. The image of Rafe making love to one of Frenchy’s whores haunted and tormented her, making her own desire for him seem cheap, tawdry.
Rafe kept his eyes on the road. Since the night of Caitlyn’s nightmare, he had waited, hoping she would admit she wanted him, hoping she would be able to forget he was half Indian and see him as a man and nothing more. But she seemed content with things the way they were, and he refused to beg for her favors. Indeed, he cursed himself for caring. Women were nothing but trouble, and yet he could no longer deny that he cared for her, that he wanted more than just a few quick kisses and an hour in her arms to relieve the awful ache that plagued him day and night. He wanted to share his thoughts with her, his dreams, his doubts.
He glanced at her, admiring the unblemished beauty of her skin, the gold of her hair, the blush in her cheeks. Her hands were folded in her lap and she seemed totally absorbed in the passing scenery.
He was glad when they reached town. Her nearness was a constant torment, and he left her at the Mercantile store, saying he would meet her back there at three o’clock sharp.
Caitlyn smiled and said that would be fine, then watched as he walked across the street and entered the Cattlemen’s Saloon. With a sigh, she hurried down the street to Christine’s house. She had two hours to visit with her friend and get her shopping done before Rafe came to pick her up.
Christine was surprised to see Caitlyn, and they spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries before Christine’s curiosity got the best of her. Taking Caitlyn’s hand in hers, she squeezed it.
“Enough about the price of yard goods and the weather,” she said candidly. “What’s bothering you?”
“Am I that transparent?” Caitlyn wailed softly.
“No, but then, I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s troubling you. What is it?”
“It’s Rafe,” Caitlyn admitted.
“Does he beat you?” Christine asked, only half joking. The man was an Indian; nothing he did would surprise her.
“No, it’s nothing like that. Oh, Chris, everything is such a mess!”
“I’m listening.”
Caitlyn drew a deep breath and then, her eyes downcast, her voice low, she told Christine about what had happened on her wedding night.
“I behaved badly,” Caitlyn finished. “I hurt him, I know I did.”
“And now you’re sorry.”
Caitlyn nodded. “What should I do? I can’t just sashay up to him and say, ‘I’m sorry, let’s go to bed.’”
“Why not? You’re married.”
Caitlyn stared at her friend in amazement. “How would it sound? What would he think? What if he refused me?”
Christine shrugged. “I think you’re making too much of this. You want him. He seems to want you. What have you got to lose?”
My pride, Caitlyn thought to herself, but she didn’t say the words aloud.
&nbs
p; “Pride’s not much company on a cold night,” Christine said, her impish grin in place once more.
“You amaze me, Chris,” Caitlyn muttered. “You’re not even married, yet here you are, giving me advice. I’m shocked.”
Christine laughed and Caitlyn joined in. The laughter released some of Caitlyn’s tension and she felt better than she had in a long time.
“Anyone can give advice,” Christine said. “I suppose I should be appalled to discuss such an intimate problem, but sometimes I think people make more out of marriage and mating than’s necessary.”
“Well, don’t let anyone else hear you say that. Your reputation would be ruined,” Caitlyn muttered.
“It certainly would be.” Christine laughed. “Let me know how things turn out.”
“I will. Thanks, Chris.” Caitlyn was smiling when she left Christine’s house almost two hours later. Perhaps her friend was right. Perhaps she should take a chance and admit she had been wrong.
She entered the Mercantile store and placed her order, chatting with the owner’s wife while her things were loaded in the back of the buckboard. There were several women in the store and Caitlyn felt them watching her, wondering. Married to a half-breed, she could almost hear them thinking. What is it like? Is he as savage as his Indian ancestors are known to be? Does he abuse her, beat her, degrade her?
Turning from the counter, Caitlyn pasted a smile on her face, hoping she looked like a woman who was happily wedded and bedded. She nodded to several of the ladies as she left the store, felt her cheeks burn with rage when she overheard one of them whisper loudly that Caitlyn Gallegher had a lot of nerve, coming to town to mingle with decent, God-fearing people.
Outside, Caitlyn stood on the boardwalk, her gaze fixed on the saloon across the street, willing Rafe to come for her.
Instead, she saw Abner Wylie walking toward her.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Gallegher,” Abner said, tipping his hat.
“Mr. Wylie.”
“Fine day.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You’re looking well,” he said as his gaze slid over her, lingering on her breasts before returning to her face.
“Thank you,” Caitlyn replied tersely. She kept her hands at her sides, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m supposed to meet my husband at the post office.”
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