by Jill Gregory
“I won’t let you forget,” she whispered back, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips. Their arms encircled each other, bodies touching, clinging of their own accord. The kiss deepened. His arms came round her, crushing her to him, and the passion flashed between them, a blaze of lightning zigzagging between two loving hearts.
He undressed her, stripping away the silk gown, the chemise and silk stockings, unlocking the thick gold mane of her hair from the pins that had held it in place; she undressed him, her fingers brushing the soft, curly black hair on his chest, stroking him, then kissing him with a yearning need that intensified with each moment.
They loved each other in the waning afternoon, as sunset bloomed in the sky over Fire Mesa, and then twilight came, lavender-gray, soft as down, drifting over the mountains, the mesas and plains, and the fine old house in the midst of horse country.
When morning dawned, bright and serene as a girl on the first day of school, Juliana saw the gift that had been overlooked, a large pink-and-blue-ribboned package set on the oak bureau beside the window.
“It’s from Wade and Tommy,” she reported back to Cole, as she read the card and plunked the package and her own naked body back onto the bed.
“I saw Wade take it from the pile downstairs and bring it up here yesterday, but I forgot all about it,” Cole remarked rather absently, for he was drinking in the sight of his lovely bride as she wore nothing but autumn sunshine.
“What are those boys up to now?” Juliana muttered as she struggled with the ribbon. Cole snapped it in two for her easily, and then lifted open the lid of the box.
Juliana started to giggle.
“Baby clothes,” she announced, lifting the dozen various miniature nightgowns, booties, bonnets, and tiny blankets one by one. “Oh, aren’t they precious? And aren’t those boys ridiculous? We’ve only been married less than a day ...”
“No harm in planning ahead,” her husband commented, grinning at the sight of the finely made little clothes. The sight of them gave him a strange warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that went along nicely with the tight, hungry sensation Juliana’s tousled hair and naked loveliness inspired. “I think they’ve got the right idea here,” Cole said slowly, gathering her into his arms. He breathed in the fresh, flowerlike scent of her hair. “This is a big house, and we’ve got a lot of rooms to fill up. Can’t hurt to get started. When it comes to fulfilling family responsibilities, there’s no time like the present, that’s what I always say ...”
“I’ve never heard you say that before ...” she murmured.
He pinched her bottom. “I’ve never been married before.”
The kiss they shared was long and intimate. “Now I am,” he added, threading his fingers through her hair. “Very married. And we’ve got all these little baby clothes sitting here, going to waste, with not a single baby to wear them ...”
Juliana gasped with pleasure at what his mouth and his hands were doing to her. “We can’t have that,” she agreed breathlessly, moving her hips tantalizingly against him, and pressing soft kisses against his chest.
Joy, desire, passion, love—all of these flowed through her as she held him close and nibbled at the corners of his lips. “There’s only one thing to do,” she whispered, closing her eyes as one delicious sensation after another washed over her.
He studied her flushed face, and lifted an eyebrow questioningly.
“Come live with me and be my love,” she smiled, echoing the words of the poem he had spoken to her only yesterday, delighting in the luscious flow and meaning of each word, “and our love will fill up all these rooms and those baby clothes too, and our hearts will be full as a stream in springtime....”
“Sounds damn good to me.”
And as he held her tight, cherishing her with all his being, and made love to her on that fresh and rosy day, they both knew that it was indeed good—as good as anything on earth could be, as close as mortal man and woman could ever come to heaven.
They made love beneath a shining sun—and touched the stars.
* * * * * * * * *
For a complete list of my books, visit www.jillgregory.net
Read on for excerpts from Daisies in the Wind and When the Heart Beckons.
Daisies in the Wind
Wolf Bodine looked like he was in the mood to pick a fight with someone. Why shouldn’t he target me? she wondered wearily. But his next words came as a surprise.
“It looks like I’m the one who’s beholden to you, Miss Rawlings.”
His tone was soft. Downright pleasant.
Caught off guard, she nearly dropped the cups. Hastily she set them in the sink and spun to face him, suspicion darkening her violet eyes. What was he up to now? “Not at all,” she said warily. “It was nothing.”
“You’re wrong.” Wolf had been trying hard not to notice how pretty she looked in her yellow-and-white calico dress, her cheeks flushed from the excitement of the night, her eyes overbright in her lovely, pale face. Every instinct told him to stop thinking so much about Rebeccah Rawlings. But she seemed to be haunting him these days, and he couldn’t figure out why. Frustrated by his own weakness, he nevertheless couldn’t keep his mind off how fresh and angelic she looked, how like summer flowers she smelled, how her slim eyebrows drew adorably together when she was thinking hard about something. And about how her feet fidgeted when she was nervous. They were fidgeting right now, Wolf noticed, and wondered with half amusement, half consternation if he made her nervous.
Lightning flashed beyond the window. Wolf stepped closer to her and saw her foot wiggle.
“You went out into the storm to rescue Joey, and you kept Billy from catching pneumonia,” he said, keeping his voice even and dispassionate, even when she turned those intoxicating eyes on him. “You took care of them both. You kept them warm and dry. I’d say that’s something.”
“Well—”
“Don’t argue with me. I’m trying to thank you.”
“It isn’t necess—”
“Rebeccah,” he cut her off. “Just say, ‘You’re welcome’.”
Confused, Rebeccah only gazed at him, feeling ridiculous. But it was hard to think when he was staring at her like that, hard to protect herself against his steady, powerful brand of charm.
Suddenly he grinned. Rebeccah’s heart turned over. He closed the distance between them with one stride, and before either of them seemed quite aware of what he was doing, he seized her with a firmness that would not be deterred and stared intently down into her face.
“It’s easy,” he continued, his tone more patient now, his vivid gray eyes glinting into hers with hypnotic warmth. She noted that his chestnut hair was damp, and this made it look even darker in the lamplight. He smelled of autumn rain and crisp leaves and good polished leather. His dimples deepened as he smiled, and he looked almost boyish, Rebeccah thought, her heart melting—yet not like a little boy at all.
“You’re ... welcome,” he prodded her gently. He sounded amused. His mouth curled in a slow smile. His face was only inches from hers. “Say it, Miss Rawlings.”
“You’re ... welcome, Sheriff.”
“Wolf,” he corrected swiftly.
“Wolf,” she murmured. A dizzy sense of unreality gripped her.
He leaned toward her. What the hell am I doing? Wolf wondered at the last moment, and paused. He told himself to pull away. But a force stronger than his own common sense kept him rooted to the spot, holding Miss Rebeccah Rawlings firmly by the arms, gazing directly into those brilliant eyes.
Then his lips touched hers. Lightly, tentatively.
“Wolf,” she breathed again, and her hands crept shyly against his chest.
That slight movement, the softness of her touch, was his undoing. Casting reservation aside, he deepened the kiss, and his warm, rough mouth captured hers. His powerful arms locked around her slender form before either of them realized what was happening. He inhaled the fresh, flower scent of her as he drew her close. H
eld her tight. Tasted deeply.
Rebeccah felt her senses swooning. Her full mouth clung eagerly to his. From her temples to her toenails she suddenly quivered all over with hot, glowing pleasure. Was this a dream—one of her many thousands of dreams since that night years ago when she’d stared into the jeweled heart of a campfire and hungered for him?
No, it was real. Real. His hands at her waist were strong, hot even through the fabric of her gown. His lips deliciously imprisoned hers, and she clung to the warmth of his mouth as if to sweet life itself.
“Sheriff ...” she gasped when he stopped for breath.
“Wolf,” he corrected her roughly, and kissed her again.
Continue on for an excerpt from When the Heart Beckons
When the Heart Beckons
Annabel waited, pressing back against the stall. She heard the blacksmith return to work, swearing under his breath, and then she eased her way to the rear door and out once more into the quickly falling dusk.
But as she rounded the corner of the building, heading back toward the hotel, she suddenly collided with a rock-hard wall of sheer male muscle looming directly before her.
“Ma’am.” The harshness of Roy Steele’s voice raised gooseflesh on her arms. She tried to answer in kind.
“Mr. Steele.”
“You know my name.”
For the second time since she’d met him, Annabel felt the hot blush warming her cheeks, but she recovered smoothly. “Why, yes, the clerk at the hotel mentioned it. May I pass, please?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Mr. Steele ...”
“You’re not going anywhere until you answer a question. Why are you following me?”
“Following you? Mr. Steele, you obviously have an exaggerated sense of your power over women. I assure you I am not ...”
“You are.”
She shook her head and let a light laugh trill from her lips. “Well. If you aren’t the vainest man I’ve ever met. Merely because I happen to find myself in the same vicinity as you twice in one day—to my own regret, I assure you ...”
Icy fury clamped down over his implacable features. “Stop prattling. Answer my question or I’ll ...”
“You’ll what? Shoot me? Oh, heavens, I am quite shaking in my boots!”
Annabel was amazed at her own audacity. Truth be told, she was shaking in her boots; her knees rattled quite humiliatingly beneath her serviceable traveling skirt. But she kept her face schooled into an expression of outraged scorn. If there was one thing she hated, it was a bully, and Roy Steele was nothing but a bully, she assured herself.
A bully who looked as if he would like to wring her neck. He reached out one hand and for an agonizing second Annabel thought he was really going to choke her, but he only gripped her by the shoulder. “If you weren’t following me, lady, what the hell are you doing in this alley? A little while ago, I saw you behind me on Main Street, pretending to look in a shop window.”
“You’re quite mad, Mr. Steele. Quite mad. And if you don’t let me go this very instant ...”
“Steele! Freeze!”
A voice like hell’s own thunder roared through the alley. Annabel and Steele both spun toward it.
Annabel’s eyes widened at the sight before her. Good God, not one, but two vicious-looking gunmen glared at them from less than twenty feet away.
They must be outlaws—or gunfighters, Annabel guessed, fighting back a rush of faintness. Her heart was banging against the wall of her chest like an Indian war drum. She’d never seen such dirty, unkempt, savage-looking men.
Unshaven, their faces pockmarked and tough as buffalo hide beneath their stringy brown hair, they looked like the type of men who would as soon wring a cat’s neck as pet it. They both wore long greasy yellow dusters over dirt-stained pants and cracked boots that were torn and splattered with mud. One man was taller than the other, with even tinier, beadier eyes. Annabel noted in alarm that his gun was drawn and pointed straight at Roy Steele. The other man had a long mustache and a scar looping from his cheek down across his pointed chin. They bore a startling resemblance to each other: the same long gangly build, the same flat, squashed noses, the same aura of evil radiating from them, right down to the expression of leering hatred on their faces.
“Who are they?” she whispered to Steele, swallowing past the lump of fear in her throat.
“The Hart brothers. Outlaws. Reckon they mean to kill me.”
“In that case, I think I’ll be going,” she murmured, but as she took one tentative step away from him, the taller gunman fired off a shot that scattered pebbles near her feet.
“Don’t neither of you move none!” he ordered. His brother spat into the dirt and grinned at Steele.
“Steele, you son of a bitch, I’m gonna blow your damned head off.”
“Or else I will!” his brother vowed.
The gunfighter answered with a cool laugh. “You reckon so, Les?”
Annabel could scarcely believe her ears. There was no mistaking the icy nonchalance in Steele’s voice. Peeking over at him, she saw that there was no fear on his face. Not a trace of it. Only a sneer of contempt. She drew in a deep breath though her lungs were tight with fear. Glancing at the other two men, her heart sank. The hatred on their faces had hardened with his cool words and arrogant demeanor. Steele, she thought and it was almost a prayer breathed in the late afternoon stillness, you’d better be good. Damned good.
“You kin wipe that smug look off your face, Steele, ‘cause we got you now, and you know it,” Mustache crowed with glee. “You knew we’d get you for killing Jesse. Wal, your time has come. You’re going to hell where you belong.”
Steele kept his gaze riveted on the men, but spoke to Annabel in a calm, offhand tone. “I’d get out of here if I were you.”
“H-how do you suggest I do that?”
“Run.”
Run. Run away and leave him there to face these cutthroats alone. Well, why not? He certainly seemed able to take care of himself, and he was hardly her concern. Yet Annabel hated the idea of dashing away like a scared rabbit before these two ugly lumps of vermin. “I never run, Mr. Steele,” she murmured, her gaze fixed warily on the Hart brothers all the while. “It’s so undignified ...”
“You little fool. This isn’t a parlor game. Run.”
Les waved his gun. “What’re you talkin’ to your lady friend fer? Pay attention, you low-down bastard—you’re about to die!”
Steele let out another low, cold laugh. The sound of it chilled Annabel’s blood. “Does this female look like any lady friend of mine, Les? Hell, I don’t even know this woman. And I don’t want to. Get her out of here so the three of us can settle this.”
“Mebbe she’d like to watch. How ‘bout it, little lady? You want to watch this hombre die?”
“I’d much rather have a cup of tea at the hotel,” she confessed, trying to smile though her lips felt like cardboard. “And I’d like to ask your permission to go there right now and do just that—but first I feel I must point out to you that two against one is hardly fair odds, gentlemen. And you might not realize this, Mr., er, Les, but you already have your gun drawn! That’s not a typical gun duel, not at all, from everything I’ve seen and read. Why, you’ll go to jail.”
Mustache shoved his hat back on his head. “Not if there ain’t no witnesses.”
The implication of this remark made Annabel swallow hard. “I admire you for thinking ahead,” she managed faintly, “but perhaps you gentlemen could just discuss this first ...”
“No more talk.” Les Hart suddenly went tense with readiness, his eyes razoring in on Steele once more. “Steele, you never shoulda killed our brother.”
“We’ve been waiting a long time to git you, and we’re not goin’ to wait a minute more,” Mustache growled. “I jest wanted to see the look on your face and now ...”
“Watch out! Behind you!” Annabel shouted, her arm lifting to point and instinctively the two men jerked around.
At th
e same moment Roy Steele knocked her to the ground.
Then the street exploded in a thunderous, violent blur.
Gunshots rent the air, dust and smoke billowed, blood erupted. Annabel, face down in the dust, heard herself screaming.
She stopped at last, jamming a dirty fist into her mouth and lifting her head to stare in disbelief at the bloody tableau.
The Hart brothers sprawled dead in the alley. At least one was dead, she amended, gulping down the sick nausea that rose in her throat. The other still twitched in a grotesquely horrible little dance. After what seemed like endless seconds, his elbows and knees went still and the gurgling in his throat stopped.
Roy Steele stood calmly, feet planted apart, surveying the scene. He looked as cool and remote as a glacier. His gaze flickered to her, his black eyes gleaming above the wisp of blue smoke that curled upward from his Colt .45.
“I told you to run.”
* * * * * * * * *
About the Author
Jill Gregory is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of more than thirty historical and contemporary novels and has been honored with the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award, as well as with back-to-back Reviewer’s Choice awards for Best Western Historical Romance. Her books have been published in more than twenty-four countries. Jill grew up in Chicago and received her bachelor of arts degree in English from the University of Illinois. An animal lover, Jill loves long walks, reading, hot tea on a winter’s day, and the company of friends. She lives in Michigan with her husband, and enjoys her home overlooking the woods where the deer, rabbits, squirrels, and an occasional owl or hawk come out to play. Visit Jill on the web at www.jillgregory.net.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4