Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  His hands spread across the small of her back, urging her closer. "Are you sure, Cara?"

  The whispered words sent a shiver of desire shooting down her spine to burst into tingling warmth deep inside her. She had wanted this man for nine long years. And suddenly, all her worries and fears paled in the blinding light of her need for him.

  "Oh, yes, Michael, I'm sure."

  She sucked in a ragged breath, as he struggled out of his pants. He was magnificent. Everything she'd dreamed he'd be. She reached for him, pulling him close, letting the heat from the water beat down on them.

  Michael's hands were shaking. He'd never wanted any woman as much as he wanted Cara. Had wanted her, for so many years. But still he hesitated. What did he have to offer her? He was a misfit in her time. And he knew, with certainty, that he had to go home. So what was he doing? Taking what she had to offer and giving nothing in return?

  He shuddered as she wrapped a hand around him. Shyly, stroking, up and down, up and down. Oh God, she was amazing. He found her lips and kissed her deeply, sucking and stroking with his tongue, mimicking the actions of her hand, longing to bury himself in her throbbing warmth. His hands cupped her bottom. And she raised her arms to twine them in his hair, her breasts brushing across his chest.

  They gyrated together, following the moves of a spontaneous dance, the feeling of their bodies, rubbing together, intensified by the pulsing water. He tried to maintain rational thought, but his heart was beating in tandem with hers and he knew that, at least for this moment, she belonged to him.

  And he would give her all that he had to give.

  With a groan, he bent and took the tip of one rosy breast into his mouth, circling it with his tongue, feeling it tighten with his touch, the fingers of one hand trailing down her belly in slow, sensuous circles. Sucking vigorously at her breast, his hand moved even lower, sliding one finger inside, feeling her heat surround him. She cried out as his finger found her soft center, and he smiled, nipping at one taut nipple with his teeth.

  Cara's body sang, with each stroke of his finger, each tug of his mouth at her breast. The warmth was building inside her, until she literally throbbed with desire, wanting him to fill her until she burst.

  He shifted, bringing his lips back to hers. Kissing and stroking until she thought she would explode. "Please. Please."

  He pushed her back against the wall, bracing her body with his. The water was behind them now, a waterfall of sound, the resulting mist and steam twirling around them like fairy lovers.

  Keeping his weight against her chest, he cupped his hands under her, lifting her up. With a moan, she twined her legs around him, feeling him slide into her. With a gentle rocking motion he began to tease her, sliding in and then out, in and then out, in, out, in, out…

  "Now."

  The word echoed around them and with one long thrust, he filled her. With driving need, she urged him to go deeper, faster, begging for more. She wrapped her arms around him, holding tightly as he held her pinned above the world. Her entire being concentrated on the exquisite feel of him pounding deeper and deeper, higher and higher, until the world erupted in one amazing explosion of color and light, and she could no longer tell where he ended and she began.

  Gradually, softly, she slid down from the precipice, until she rested comfortably, her head nestled against his shoulder, a gentle rain washing them tenderly with fine fingers of mist.

  13

  The sun was still hidden behind the gray-white clouds clinging to the mountains. The heavenly curtain diffused the sunrise, giving it an ethereal glow. Loralee sat in the rocker on Ginny's porch, her soft humming a counterpoint to the rhythm of the creaking runners. She breathed deeply, letting the crisp morning air fill and renew her.

  It was her favorite time of day. A time of new beginnings. Not that someone like her deserved second chances. She had learned that lesson well. A body had to accept her lot in life. She reached for the silver oval between her breasts, lovingly rubbing her thumb across the carved design. But it was all right to remember. Sometimes the memories were all she had.

  Loralee shook her head, attempting to clear away the past. No sense in moping. Life was too short. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to focus on positive things, but all she could see were Corabeth's sightless eyes.

  Not for the first time, she wished she'd never left Leadville, but then dreams were powerful things and she'd been intent on following hers. And of course there'd been Mary. Loralee smiled and rocked, thinking about the tiny angel who had erupted into her life with a swirl of yellow curls and a voice that rivaled a tent town preacher at a revival. At least Mary was safe.

  She shivered, and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. The mountain mist swirled across rocky chasms, taking on an almost ominous cast. For the first time it occurred to her that she was alone. And with Amos Striker out there somewhere, alone wasn't good.

  Ginny had been up and out before dawn, heading into town for supplies. Women of ill-repute had to shop early or not at all. It wasn't seemly to mix with proper society. And the Ute were at the bottom of the ladder. Not that she was much better off.

  As far as she was concerned, folks didn't come any better than Ginny. Without so much as a whisper of concern, Ginny'd insisted she stay with her until things got sorted out. Yes indeedy, Ginny was a stand-up gal, and the color of her skin didn't matter one bit. Why, she wasn't sure she'd ever met anyone as kind as Ginny.

  A picture of Patrick Macpherson flashed in her mind, his languid green eyes smiling at her. She felt a stirring deep inside, something she hadn't felt since before… She pushed her hair out of her face, dispelling the image. No sense letting her imagination run away with her.

  The clatter of falling rocks interrupted the still peace of the morning. Loralee jerked in the direction of the sound, heart pounding, her eyes searching the mountainside.

  A mule deer stepped out of the shadows, its head lifted, sniffing for signs of danger. Finally, satisfied that all was as it should be, the lithe creature walked to the edge of the stream and bent its graceful neck to drink.

  Loralee blew out a breath, holding a hand to her chest in relief. She was mighty jumpy this morning. She assured herself once again that there was no reason for anybody to be after her. She didn't know a thing. Not a dad-gummed thing.

  But Amos Striker doesn't know that.

  Loralee glanced down the road. Empty. Ginny probably wouldn't be back for another hour or so. No sense in getting herself worked into a lather waiting. What she needed was company. As she stood up, the old rocker creaked in protest, the sharp sound sending the deer darting back into the shadows of the mountain.

  Might not be any people around, but old Jack was here and there were certainly lots of men who figured a horse was better company than a woman. What was good for the gander…

  She grabbed a pail from the corner of the porch and headed out for water. No point in arriving empty handed. Ginny's spring was off to the side of her house, hidden by a little stand of pines nestled against a rocky buttress of the mountain. Loralee felt her spirits lift as she stepped through the fragrant pines into the quiet clearing.

  Kneeling beside the small pool, she stared at her reflection. Distorted by the water, she almost looked pretty, her hair catching the first rays of sunlight, drab brown streaked with gold. She dipped a hand in the water, erasing her image. No sense in being vain. She filled her hands with water and drank, relishing the feel of the cool liquid sliding down her throat.

  Thirst quenched, she dipped the bucket into the water, filling it to the brim. A branch snapped behind her, the crack echoing through the still glade. She froze, the bucket still in the water. Holding her breath, she waited for a second sound, afraid to turn around.

  Everything was quiet. Slowly, she turned, dragging the dripping bucket with her. Her gaze darted wildly around the clearing, searching for signs of an intruder.

  Nothing.

  Gradually, her heart returned to it
s normal rhythm. She was way too edgy.

  With a shaky laugh, she brushed the dirt off her skirts and headed for Jack's lean-to. The horse was standing in the shelter of the rickety building, watching her with baleful eyes, as if to ask where she'd been.

  "Morning fella. Feeling a bit lonely?" She dumped the water in the battered tin pan that served as a trough. The horse bent his head to drink greedily. She stroked his side, not certain who was benefiting most from the contact, her or Jack.

  "I was kinda lonely, too. Thought maybe we could keep each other company for a bit." Jack raised his head, tossing it as if in agreement. Loralee laughed, the sound doing much to dispel her unease. Spying a dusty brush on what passed for a shelf, she took it and began to stroke the old horse. "I've no idea how to do this proper, Jack, but I don't imagine you care much as long as it feels good."

  He nickered softly, his lips splitting into an equine grin.

  "I thought so." His coat was dappled with patches of winter hair, making him look even more scraggly than usual. "We've got to stick together you and I. There's no one else to look after us, now."

  She started on the convex curve of his sway-back, the brush moving with a slow, steady motion. Jack closed his eyes and blew softly through his nose, the equivalent of horse ecstasy, she supposed. Seemed men were men no matter the species. Just stroke them a little and they go all soft and gooey.

  "There now," she crooned, "does that feel better?" She rested her head against his flank, letting the rhythm of the brush lull her, the motion soothing her as much as the horse. The sun was filtering through the loose boards of the lean-to and the warmth seeped into her, adding to the lethargy of the moment.

  Suddenly, Jack reared his head, ears laid flat against his skull.

  Loralee stepped back, searching the lean-to for a sign of danger, her pleasant mood vanishing as quickly as the mist on the mountains in the hot morning sun. Jack bared his teeth. And Loralee tightened her grip on the brush. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it would have to do.

  A jay shot from under the rafters, its shrill call filling the lean-to. Loralee gasped in relief as Jack immediately calmed. "Aren't we a fine pair? Scared to death by a little old jay." She patted the sorrel on the nose. "Well, now that the big, bad bird is gone, what do you say I get you something to eat?"

  Jack snorted in agreement, his tail flicking back and forth. He didn't look the slightest bit embarrassed about the bird. Maybe it had been a killer jay. She laughed at her own musings.

  "This is what I get for chattin' with a horse." She looped an arm around Jack's neck. "Before long people will start talkin' about crazy Loralee and pulling their children out of my way." Not that they didn't do that already.

  "All right then, you stay right here. I'll be right back."

  She crossed the dusty swatch of ground that passed as Ginny's yard and pulled open the door to the storage shack. It had been an outhouse once. Ginny'd built a new one out over the creek. This one's window had been boarded up, along with the hole which now served as a kind of shelf. Loralee sucked in a breath and stepped inside. She knew it was probably her imagination, but she would swear the room still stank.

  The barrel of oats was in the far corner and she had to step over a couple of boxes to get to it. The top was fastened down with a bent nail. She twisted it and lifted the lid. There was a rusty looking ladle in the bottom and she used that to fill the bucket with grain.

  Satisfied that she had enough, she dropped the ladle into the barrel just as the outside door slammed shut, smothering the little room in darkness.

  Loralee dropped the bucket and the lid, the resulting clatter adding to her terror. She dropped to the floor, crouching in the corner, hoping that the barrel would hide her. The dark surrounded her, feeding her fear. Panic knifed through her.

  She tried to breath slowly, to assure herself that it was just the wind closing the door, but try as she might she couldn't move an inch. Over the stench of the closed room, she thought she caught a whiff of something else, something familiar, but for the life of her, she couldn't identify it.

  She waited, her breath stuck in her throat. The smell got stronger, overpowering the scent of the old outhouse. Kerosene. Oh Lord, it was kerosene. With blind panic, she jumped up, intent on reaching the door, but tripped over something, sprawling across the dirty floor. Without even waiting to catch her breath, she scrambled to her knees and began crawling, hands extended, guiding her through the darkened room.

  The scent grew stronger and she thought she could smell the first wisp of smoke. She had to find the door. A thin crack of light outlined the opening and she breathed a sigh of relief at the sight. With trembling hands, she felt for the handle, twisting it to open the door.

  Nothing happened.

  She pushed against it. Again, nothing

  Something blocked the door from the outside.

  A sob welled in her throat and she whispered the word, 'no.' She could smell the smoke more clearly now. She sucked in a breath, determined to open the door. She wasn't going down without a fight.

  She slammed into the door with her whole body. The building shook, but the door refused to budge. She stood back, catching her breath, trying to think what to do.

  Suddenly, the door flew open, the sunlight blinding her even more than the dark had. Hard arms encircled her and she tensed not sure what to expect, her mind too numb to react.

  "Are you all right?"

  The voice washed over her and her heart sang out with relief. Patrick. Patrick was here.

  "Yes, I was…trapped…fire…Amos…Oh, God." Her words tumbled out without rhyme or reason. She buried her face against his chest, unable to think coherently.

  He stroked her hair and back awkwardly, waiting patiently until she found the strength to pull herself together. "I'm all right. Really."

  Still clinging to his hand, she allowed him to pull her outside. She gulped the fresh spring air, grateful for the cool feel of it in her lungs.

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know for sure. I went to the shed to get Jack some breakfast." As if to emphasize the point the horse whinnied from the lean-to. "I was filling the bucket when the door slammed." She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to quell the panic threatening to surface again.

  "It's all right, Loralee. You're safe now."

  "What about the fire?" She whispered the question into his chest, not really certain she wanted an answer.

  "What fire?"

  His response wasn't what she'd expected, his face a contrast between concern and confusion. "I smelled kerosene and then smoke."

  "There wasn't any fire, Loralee."

  Now she was confused. "Yes, there was. I'm certain of it. And someone locked me in."

  His brows drew together. "No, the door was stuck a little, but it definitely wasn't locked."

  She stamped her foot in frustration, her fear turning to anger. "You listen to me, Patrick Macpherson, I know when a door is locked and when it isn't. And I can smell as good as the next person."

  Patrick searched her face, and then, finding whatever it was he was looking for, smiled crookedly. "I believe you."

  Her heart did a little flip-flop and her anger evaporated.

  Patrick let her go and walked to the side of the shed, his eyes scanning the knee high grass butting up to the walls.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "Your fire. If you smelled it, there's got to be some sign of it."

  She nodded and followed him as he walked around the little building, staring at the ground. Coming around the corner, he stopped suddenly and she crashed into his back.

  "Sorry." He shot her a sheepish grin, then sobered as he knelt for a closer look at something.

  "What is it?" She peered over his shoulder. He was staring at the grass.

  "The weeds are crushed here. See?" He gestured to a wilted looking clump.

  Bending closer, she could see that the stalks were indeed broken. "But I don't' see—"

&nbs
p; "Did you walk around here earlier?"

  She shook her head, still confused.

  "Well somebody did." He gestured along the wall and sure enough she could make out several other places where the grass had been pressed flat. Footsteps. A shiver traced its way up her spine.

  Patrick had moved ahead and was standing at the far corner of the shed. She hurried to his side.

  "Take a deep breath."

  She wrinkled her nose and eyed the converted outhouse. "I'd rather not. I've already had a nose full, believe—"

  "Breathe." He cut her off, leaving her nothing to do but obey.

  "Kerosene." She smiled triumphantly. "I told you so." She paused, her momentary elation fading. "What happened to the fire?"

  "Someone put it out. Look." He pushed aside the tall grass.

  Loralee leaned over, her heart beating faster. There was a two foot expanse of bare earth. Charred bits of kindling and grass littered the ground. Several black stripes ran up the wall, fading into the weather-washed boards. Loralee knelt and placed a trembling hand on the ground, her gaze locking with Patrick's.

  He nodded, his expression grim. "It's warm."

  Loralee felt a wave of nausea and swallowed, trying to maintain control, the reality of the situation hitting her like a miner's blast.

  Patrick released the grass, and the evidence disappeared, only the faint scent of kerosene lending credence to her tale.

  She swallowed again, and stood up, her whole body trembling. "I could have—"

  Patrick reached for her hand. "Hush. You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise."

  Loralee sighed. The words sounded good. But they were just words. Her fingers automatically circled her locket. She had firsthand experience with promises, and she knew that despite the best intentions they meant absolutely nothing.

  "Come on, we're getting out of here." Patrick tightened his grip on her hand, propelling her toward the lean-to.