Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  “How did you know?” Deborah's eyes were wide violet pools now.

  “Rafe heard he was in San Antonio. Flores was a fiend—filth, who sold your husband to the Comanche,” Lucia replied with vehemence.

  “But you didn't see...you weren't there when he gutted that man,” Deborah said in a choked voice.

  “The pig died quick, I am sure—too quick! I was there, Deborah, when Flores watched Iron Hand's men tie Rafe down and strip him naked. They brought red-hot tongs to rip off his manroot—that's the kind of monster Flores was—he brought many men to that death! Only Rafe's puha—his courage—saved his life.”

  Deborah turned, shaken and ashen. “He's lived through so much.” She raised her eyes to meet Lucia's. “It's strange, you know. I thought that I had too—making a new life in Texas, running a business, raising Adam. But I never realized what he had to suffer to build Renacimiento.”

  “He has survived things that most men would not have been able to face,” Lucia said quietly. “The night we escaped, he was hit in the side by an arrow. War arrows are barbed with three prongs on each side. I had to pull it from his flesh while he bit on a green willow branch to keep from making a sound. I tied the wound up and he rode for three days, bleeding all the while.”

  Remembering all his scars and her cruel remarks to him about them, she felt ashamed. “I really don't know him at all. I guess that's what frightens me—he's lived through such violence and evil—it's made him violent, but...”

  “It has not made him evil, Deborah. No man who loves with the single-minded devotion of Rafe Fleming can ever be evil. He is the gentlest man I've ever seen when he tames horses. Put Enrique Flores from your mind. He does not deserve anyone's pity. Only remember how good it is to have a man like Rafe Fleming on your side,” Lucia said with pride. “He saved my life.”

  “Rafael saved me, too. Flores had abducted me when the army left the city. Rafael followed him into the thick of shooting between rangers and Mexican soldiers to rescue me.”

  “We both have reason to love him; but, Deborah, it is you that he loves. You are his wife, his woman. Me he treats like a sister. I am not your rival, nor ever will be.” She stretched out her hand in entreaty. Silently, Deborah clasped it and they embraced.

  * * * *

  After a long, relaxing bath, Deborah came downstairs for dinner. Seeing Lucia basting several large prairie chickens spitted in the wide stone fireplace, she offered to help. “I've cooked for twenty ravenous boarders for years, so just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it.” Her smile was as warming as the air circulating around the hearth.

  Lucia wiped her brow with the back of her arm and nodded with a grin. “Well, Dom usually sets the table while I make coffee and finish cooking the vegetables and carving the meat. Nice boy but clumsy. He breaks a half dozen dishes a week.”

  Deborah laughed. ‘Then, I'll set the table and fill the bowls while you carve.”

  During the meal, Deborah felt Joe's eyes on her, then watched his shrewd gaze shift to Lucia and back to her. He knows she's in love with Rafael and wonders if I'm jealous, she thought in silent amazement. During the journey to Renacimiento, Rafael had talked a great deal about the half-breed Cherokee partner who had saved his life and taught him to survive on the frontier. Now I begin to realize just what horrors he had to survive.

  As Lucia and Deborah cleared the table, Rafe, at Adam's insistence, took his son down to the corrals to check on Blazer once more. Having Dom to help her with the dishes, Lucia ushered Deborah out of the warm, steamy kitchen. “You've had a long ride and lots of excitement. Go take a walk in the cool evening air before turning in.”

  Taking the kindly advice, she headed for the courtyard, filled with beautiful potted flowering shrubs and trees. Beyond the house lay an herb and vegetable garden. Curious to see what it contained, she walked the neat rows and knelt down to examine a fine cluster of lemon mint leaves.

  “Right glad ta have ya home, ma'am. Rafe'll be able to settle down now, I reckon.” Joe had come up behind her silently.

  With a start, Deborah looked up at him but before she could stand, he squatted in the dirt beside her. ‘Always cud judge a female by whether she had a way with growin' things. You'll do jest fine here, Deborah.”

  “I—I do want to belong, Joe,” she said uncertainly.

  “You will,” he answered simply. “Ya made a real fine start by acceptin' Lucia.” His eyes searched her face.

  Deborah blushed under his kindly scrutiny. “I knew you understood—that is, you knew I was jealous of her. But now, I believe my husband and she weren't lovers. Rafael and I are strangers to each other in so many ways. We've built separate lives for the past six years...”

  ”Ya both built 'em in Texas, didn't ya?” At her nod, he pressed further. “Tell me, all them years alone, did ya ever quit thinkin' o' Rafe?”

  “No, never,” she replied in a pained whisper.

  “Wall, he never forgot ‘bout you neither.”

  “I could see that the moment I entered the parlor,” she said with a tremulous smile.

  “Don't let him bein' different than the dandyman he used ta be worry ya none,” Joe reassured her. “He's a hard man fer a hard land; but if n ya lived in Texas fer six years, ya oughtta savvy thet.”

  A hint of a smile played around her lips as she eyed him. “Some things about his transformation have been surprising, I must admit.”

  “Like who he keeps company with?” He grinned. “I may be a Frenchy, but I ain't 'xactly a blue-blooded Creole.”

  “I never expected my husband's views on race to change so dramatically. At least that's one thing we'll never argue over again,” she said with a smile.

  “Funny how bein' on th' receivin' end can change a body's idees ‘bout thet.” Joe turned and spat a lob of tobacco into the bushes.

  “You mean being a slave of the Comanche?” Deborah shuddered.

  “Yep. Rafe don't hold with no man ownin' another, white, red, er black, not no more.”

  “He's learned some lessons, but in other ways he's still the same arrogant, egotistical male he always was,” Deborah said, thinking of his high-handed tactics in bringing her to Renacimiento.

  “You want him ta be different? Give in ta ya all th' time, let ya run over him?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “No... not that. I wouldn't want a man I could dictate to...” She halted in puzzlement, unable to put her own feelings into words.

  Joe chuckled. “After survivin' everthin' th' both o' ya did alone, you oughtta be able ta make it together. He's a strong man—be a strong woman. Mebbe back in New Orleans he couldn't handle thet. I never knowed Rafael Flamenco, but I sure as hell know Rafe Fleming.”

  * * * *

  Be a strong woman. The words echoed in Deborah's head as she prepared for bed that night. Bed. It seemed all his dominance began and ended with the hypnotic physical control he had over her, from the first smoldering caresses in that rain-swept cabin back at the Beechers' country estate. With a determined stride, Deborah rose from her dressing table and went to one of her trunks.

  A few minutes later, she stood in front of the mirror, critically eyeing herself. The night rail was simply made, of white silk, flowing and full with a satin ribbon gathering the neckline primly high at her throat. Matching satin cuffs gathered the sleeves at her slim wrists. It was virginally pure, except that it was so sheer as to be almost transparent! In an attempt to prod Deborah into remarriage, Obedience had bought the scandalous creation for her.

  “Any feller whut's got him eyes'll have 'em pop clean outta his head seein' yew in thet.” Deborah could hear her old friend's voice as if it were yesterday.

  Hearing Rafael's footsteps coming down the hall, she took a deep breath and poised in the center of the room. Her hair was brushed to luminous silvery splendor around her shoulders and she was barefooted.

  “Adam's sound asleep in his new bed and—” Rafe stopped frozen in his tracks as he looked at the vision
before him. Shoving the door to their room closed, he leaned against the solid oak frame and looked her up and down. “Oh, Moon Flower. After all the days on the trail, I've dreamed of this,” he whispered as he walked slowly toward her. Gingerly he touched the gown. “Is it made of moonbeams?” he whispered in that soft, silky voice that never failed to thrill her.

  “Only silk, not moonbeams,” she replied on a breathless gasp as his hand reached out to tease a nipple through the fabric. He moved back a step, taking a coil of gilt hair in his hand and trailing it through his fingers as he looked at her beautiful breasts, then down to the slim hollows of her flanks. When his eyes moved lower to the silver curls at the juncture of her legs, Deborah thought she would melt from the scorching heat of his eyes.

  Seeing the flush creep up her throat and face, Rafe smiled. “Come here, Moon Flower.” She obeyed. “Now,” he said silkily, reaching for her hand and placing it on his shirtfront. She could feel his heart's steady thrum as she unbuttoned the shirt and peeled it off. Once his chest was revealed, she ran both hands up through the crisp hair, reveling in the hardness of his muscles flexing. He lowered his mouth slowly to hers.

  She could feel his heart pick up speed. Hers did, too. When she felt him pull her arms down to his belt, she complied eagerly. Then, she began to unfasten the buttons of his fly with tantalizing slowness.

  Deborah slid his pants down, past his hips and small, hard buttocks. Impatiently, he shrugged them down and stepped out of them, kicking off his soft moccasins.

  Like a man unwrapping a delicate Christmas gift, Rafe took one of her wrists and unlooped the satin band, kissing the small pulse there, then repeating the process on the other arm. When he finished, he rested her arms across his bare shoulders. She let them hang limply, drugged with sensation, as he turned his attention to the satin drawstring at her throat. As the gown whispered to the floor, he scooped her into his arms and walked to the bed. He laid her down, his black eyes riveted on her possessively. “I've waited so long, Moon Flower,” he whispered.

  Deborah let her eyes return the compliment, looking at his lean, bronzed body, hard and scarred. Its beautiful patterns of black body hair all led her to that central pulsing core of him. She reached up and touched it and felt his legs actually tremble. “Come,” was her invitation.

  “Yes,” was his whispered reply as he slid onto the bed beside her.

  They lay on their sides, bodies entwined. With his tongue, he slowly rimmed around the outside of her mouth. Deborah shivered and closed her eyes, lips parting slightly in response to the teasing. Rafe flicked the tip of his tongue against her teeth, and carefully, in a circling caress, stroked the inside of her lips. His efforts were rewarded with a soft moan. Aggressively now, he began to probe more deeply.

  At that moment, Deborah closed her lips gently but firmly, and with a slight sucking motion held her love captive. He was taken by surprise. His “proper Bostonian” had never before responded so boldly. Surprise gave way to a sense of slight uneasiness as she released his tongue and followed its retreat with her own assault. She penetrated and pillaged her husband's mouth with even more passion than he had shown toward her. Startled, he tried to pull away; but Deborah, her hand pressing against the back of his neck, would not be fended off.

  Rafael rolled over, pressing her onto her back, breaking the kiss. As he looked into her beautiful face, he felt puzzled and a bit wary. Yet the beauty that had always fired him again ignited the heat in his loins.

  “Moon Flower, you are so beautiful,” he rasped, after all these years still half-resentful, half-fearful of the power that she had over him.

  As Deborah's fingers caressed his jaw, the expression on her face sobered. “You, too, love, are so beautiful.”

  The candlelight made her hair shimmer silver, her face an incandescent gold. Rafael balanced his weight on his knees and elbows but deliberately allowed his body to pinion the slender length of his wife on the bed. Drunk with need, he thrust his face into the hollow of her shoulder and began to nuzzle, kiss, and savor. God, I want you, I need you. His arms slid along the sheets, and his fingers twisted, almost cruelly, into the mass of silver hair. His lips and tongue traced a tingling path along Deborah's throat, up her neck to her ear. Her lavender eyes snapped open as she reached out, furrowing her nails into the curly hair at her dark lover's temples.

  “Rafael, I love you.”

  When he continued to feast gluttonously, Deborah clutched more forcefully at his dark hair. He found himself staring into the questioning face of his wife.

  “Yes, I need you,” he choked, his throat dry and constricted.

  Almost in shame, Rafe slid backward onto his knees, still keeping the weight of his upper body pressing on the slim figure beneath him. His lips and tongue greedily explored the small erect nipples, and he grew more intoxicated, savoring Deborah's whimpers of pleasure as she writhed under him. His teasing fingers stroked a trail down her sides to her hips, her thighs.

  Deborah groaned. Lost in a delirium of ecstasy, she lifted her long, shapely legs, seeking to scissor them around the waist of her tormentor. Rafe thwarted the attempt as he seized her legs at the back of her knees and thrust them firmly forward. Strong hands massaged the satiny flesh at the backs of her thighs, moving downward to squeeze and knead her firm round buttocks. Gliding over the swell of her hips, his dark hands slipped upward along her sides to grasp her arms in a viselike grip. Then, he shifted his weight slightly forward.

  Deborah felt his lean, hard biceps pressing against the backs of her thighs, pushing her knees even closer to her breasts. The subtle pressure spread her legs. In a flash of realization, she understood that she was powerless, a prisoner—and God help her, a willing prisoner.

  Hunger-driven, Rafe lowered his head to kiss the firmness of his captive's stomach, to nibble the inviting swell of abdomen, to tongue her navel. The exquisite torture lasted she knew not how long when suddenly it stopped. In desperation, she opened her eyes and saw that Rafael had now assumed a position on his side, his hips and rock-hard abdomen pressed against the resilient softness of her thighs. Deborah could only partially suppress the cry that escaped her as he entered her.

  Rafe drew in an unsteady breath and paused to regain control of himself. Instinctively, Deborah drew back her legs so that her knees were now almost touching the swollen tips of her breasts. With a will of their own, the trembling thighs spread even wider in a gesture of welcome.

  As he began to rock his hips slowly back and forth, Deborah's eyelids fluttered closed. She felt his fingers streak a burning path down the inside of one of her thighs and then up the other. She sighed as the questing hand came to rest on her pale-thatched mound. Her body arched as he began to knead the curly hair in a gentle, circular motion.

  Rafe thought, So beautiful, so very beautiful, as he allowed his fingers to stray downward, stroking the wetness beneath the pale pubic hair. Her lithe body shuddered. Unencumbered by the burden of his weight, she shook spasmodically. Rafe continued to thrust slowly back and forth, while his fingers stroked first up and down and then around and around in small, tight circles, caressing the wet, sensitive spot.

  Completely overpowered by her passion, Deborah ground her shoulder blades into the bed, her head pressed back into the rumpled pillow. Small, gasping whimpers and sobs wrenched from her throat in a rhythm perfectly attuned to that of the slow, powerful thrusts of her husband. Suddenly, all motion stopped.

  Deborah's passion-darkened eyes flew open. She looked toward her dark love, still lying on his side, his head propped on a mound of covers. His handsome face was intent. Wracked with need, she reached to touch that beloved cheek, but Rafael intercepted her fingers with a kiss, then moved his head slightly and flicked his tongue across her palm. Deborah felt a searing sensation surge up her arm and through her body. She pleaded, “Love, please, now!”

  Rafe studied her face carefully. “No, Moon Flower, not yet.”

  Deborah almost sobbed in frustration. She c
losed her eyes, and rolling her head sideways, away from his searching eyes. Slowly, the thrusting and stroking began again. Now, between her legs she felt a pool of liquid fire, a fire that gradually engulfed her body. The whimpering became a fierce animal cry. She was unaware of the writhing contortions of her own body, knowing only that she was swelling, swelling—and then it started from somewhere deep inside her. She cried out as her body thrashed in an ecstasy so violent that it was almost agony. The violet eyes opened, and above her she saw the intent, almost grim face of her husband.

  “Rafael, oh, my love!”

  Gradually, in spite of his slow, tantalizing thrusts, the spasms began to subside, but at that moment, Rafael started to drive his hips forward and downward in an ever-quickening rhythm. She threw her head from side to side in a swirling tangle of silver hair. Pleasure-drugged, her eyes were open but unseeing. From the valley of her orgasm, she was being driven to a new peak, one as high as the first.

  As her vision cleared, she realized that during her passion storm, Rafael had once again positioned himself over her. The hard biceps were once again pressing against the backs of her thighs, literally holding her hips off the bed. Although he had ceased his thrusting, she could still feel him inside her—rigid.

  His weight supported by his outstretched arms, Rafe began once more to rock slowly back and forth. He could feel the caress of her sheath, pulling at him, engulfing him. He closed his eyes as his own passion, so long held in check, began to swell to a climax.

  Deborah had been watching the beautiful lean body above her. When Rafe began to gasp and throw back his head, Deborah, with all the strength that she could muster in her long legs, drove her heels downward until they rested on the bed. At the same time, she reached up to grasp handfuls of thick black hair—pulling his head toward hers. He found himself staring into the beautiful face of his wife. Her eyes now gleamed like blue violet flame.

  No, my love, not yet—and not like this!” Deborah's arms encircled her stunned lover, clasping him close to her breasts. Her legs twined around the sinewy, dark thighs, and in an instant, a startled Rafael found himself rolled onto his back. Placing the palms of her hands on his furry chest, she pushed herself upward, astraddle his hips. Rafe attempted to prop himself up on his elbows. “Deborah?” His voice was uncertain.