by Eli Easton
Marcy and Emmie walked up to the group. Emmie’s arms were folded over her chest, as if she was not sure of her welcome, and Marcy looked curious.
“Well, now,” Pa-Pa said. “I’ve always been of a mind that gals should be protected. No gal of ours needs to risk her neck while we’re around. That just ain’t right.”
“And Marcy and Emmie too,” Robby said cheerfully. “If they want to. We should all be able to shoot a gun.”
“Now, Rowena, what the heck did I just say?” Pa-Pa said testily.
Robby ignored him. He went to Trace and held out his hand. Trace’s eyes widened in horror. Robby could see the thought cross his face—not my gun! It almost made Robby laugh. But he just stood there, staring Trace down, hand out.
“I need to be able to defend myself,” he said quietly.
Trace narrowed his eyes in warning, but he took one of his guns from its holster and laid the butt in Robby’s palm.
“Thank you,” Robby said with a sugary smile.
Roy and Wayne burst out laughing, but Pa-Pa didn’t think it was funny. “Trace, what’re ya doin? That’s your gun!”
“It’s a very fashionable sport, Pa-Pa,” Robby said breezily, walking to the line. “Why, they have a ladies’ day at the shooting range in St. Louis.”
“They do?” Pa-Pa gaped.
Robby had no idea if they did or not. But he knew Jenny Daley went to the shooting range in New York and said a lady ought to be able to defend herself. She was known for keeping a little Deringer in her garter belt.
Robby aimed, arm straight out, trying to focus. His first shot didn’t hit any of the cans. He tried again and missed. Now he felt like a fool.
Trace walked over. “You’re holdin’ it too hard. This here gun likes a light touch. Lemma show ya.” He stood behind Robby, put his arm parallel to his, and wrapped his fingers around Robby’s hand. “Loosen up your grip.”
Robby relaxed his hand. This reminded him of another time Trace had wrapped his hand around Robby’s fist and moved it. He swallowed hard.
“That’s right. Confident, but not tense. Now squeeze.”
Robby was a terrible, terrible person, because Trace saying “squeeze” made him stir down below. He gritted his teeth and put his attention where it belonged—on the gun. He squeezed the trigger.
The middle can in the pyramid shot straight back. The rest of the cans didn’t even stir.
Roy let out whoops of laughter.
Wayne said, “By God, bet even you couldn’t get that shot, Trace!”
“It was pure luck,” Robby admitted with a smile. “But your instruction did help. Thank you.”
“I’ll set it up for you again, Rowena.” Clovis lumbered over to retrieve the can.
Robby tried a few more shots and managed to hit the pyramid, though he never repeated that particular shot. He stood back and waved to Marcy and Emmie. “You ladies want to try?”
Pa-Pa came up and grabbed the gun from Robby. “No, now, that’s enough. Them gals don’t wanna learn to shoot. This ain’t St. Louis.”
“The gals do that other thing we thought they wouldn’t like,” Clovis put in mysteriously.
“That’s true, Pa. And that’s a lot more, er, rough than taking a few pot shots,” Wayne admitted grudgingly.
Robby wondered what the hell they were talking about.
“I always thought we oughta be more security-minded,” Trace put in. “Livin’ out here, there’s the chance of an Indian war party or cattle thieves or even army deserters. You know that. And then there’s this other trouble. It’s serious business, Pa.”
“No, now, you hush up. I don’t want the gals worryin’ about that,” Pa ordered. He gave Trace a dead-man’s stare, rolling his tongue around in his mouth.
Trace pressed his lips tight. Robby knew they were talking about the Bowery Boys and the possibility they might come shooting.
A shiver went down Robby’s spine. This discussion, and the target practice, was making it all too real. There were times when he forgot about the Bowery Boys. But, like a lurking wolf pack, they were still out there in the dark. The idea that they’d come for him here made him feel sick. It was one thing to be grateful that Trace and his brothers would protect him. That was a nice fantasy. But would they? Could they? What if they were killed trying?
Marcy stepped forward with a determined expression. “Trace is right, Pa-Pa. You men are sometimes gone all day with the herd. And we womenfolk have the children to protect. We ought to at least be able to aim and fire a gun.”
Pa-Pa gave a frustrated grunt. “I can see everyone is set against me. Well, hell, if you gals want to shoot at some god-blame peach cans, I suppose there ain’t no harm in it. But if we do have any trouble, the womenfolk will be hidin’ in the house, and that’s all there is to it!”
“Agreed,” Trace said with a nod.
“Now can I shoot or are we gonna yammer all the live long day?” Pa-Pa complained.
He grabbed the rifle from Clovis, aimed it at the closest pyramid, and blasted the hell out of it.
Robby wondered if he’d pictured Rowena’s face on that stack as he fired.
Chapter Twenty-One
That afternoon, Trace went off to town, so Robby worked in the garden. He craved time alone with Trace, craved the reassurance of his solid weight. And he needed the relief of shedding Rowena for a while. But it was hard for both of them to get away. And Marcy and Emmie were still busy with sewing, so other chores, like the garden, needed doing.
The July heat had killed off the more delicate peas and lettuce. But the tomatoes were going gangbusters and so were the weeds. Growing up, Robby’s family had a large vegetable garden. His mother and sisters had mostly tended it, but he knew enough to tell a weed from a vegetable and when plants needed watering or were done for the season. At least while he worked, he was alone and could be Robby in his own head.
He’d worked for well over an hour when a shadow fell across him. He looked up hoping to see Trace. But it was Clovis standing at the garden gate. When Robby met his eyes, Clovis dropped his gaze to the ground. “Hey there, Miss Fairchild. Ya all right? It’s a hot afternoon.”
Robby wiped his face with his elbow, feeling sweaty, then mentally kicked himself. He hoped he hadn’t smeared his makeup.
“I am a bit thirsty.” He stood up and swayed. The blood had settled in his haunches.
Clovis was there in a tick and he took Robby’s elbow. “Here, lemma help ya.”
“Thanks, Clovis.”
Clovis steered Robby out of the garden and over to the pump. He worked the pump handle vigorously, causing a stream of cold, fresh water to spill out. Robby cupped his hands in the flow, took a drink, then dabbed some on his face. He patted it dry carefully with his apron, hoping there was still a trace of color left.
Clovis stood there, his eyes now raised to the blue sky as if looking for rain. Lord, the poor man was a mess.
“Wanna sit on the porch for a spell?” Robby offered. Because the porch was right there, its nearest corner in the shade cast by the house, and because Clovis could use a spot of kindness.
“Sure! That’d be nice,” Clovis said eagerly.
They settled on the wooden boards, Robby closest to the house and Clovis a careful two feet away.
“My, it’s warm today,” Robby murmured, bringing Rowena to the fore. He fanned himself with his apron.
“Ya don’t have to work in the garden, ya know.” Clovis looked Robby in the eyes but swallowed nervously. “It don’t seem like the kindy thing you’d like.”
“Oh? And what kind of thing do you suppose I’d like?”
Clovis stroked his beard, his expression unsure. “I dunno. Piana, maybe? Ya seem kindy refined.”
Aw. That was sweet. Rowena thought so anyway. “Well, Clovis. I guess we all do what we must.”
“Do ya play piana? ’Cause I could save up and get ya one if ya want.”
“No, I don’t play piano, though I’ve been known to si
ng a bar or two.”
“Oh. Guess ya don’t need anythin’ special for that.” Clovis hesitated, then spoke in a rush. “I had feelins for a gal once. Liked her so much my hands sweat every time I saw her. But she didn’t want nothin’ to do with me. I don’t want that to happen again.”
Damn. Robby got an ache in his chest. Poor Clovis. “Well. You’re a nice man, Clovis. And that counts for a lot. But it’s not everything.”
He blinked, his brow troubled. “What else do ya want?”
If his tone hadn’t been so honestly bewildered, Robby might have laughed. But he supposed he could take a few minutes to make some woman down the line a lot less irritated.
“Well, it’s the way your brothers treat Marcy and Emmie. Wives are not slaves. Taking care of the house and garden, teaching the kids, putting up food for the winter, all those things that Marcy and Emmie do, those are just as important as your work with the cattle.”
Clovis’s face reddened, but he nodded slowly. “Everythin’s been so much better since Marcy come. Before her, the house was so awful bad, I could hardly stand to be in it. And we ate beans and burnt potatoes every meal. I do ’preciate what the gals do.”
“So they should be treated with respect, like you men treat each other.”
Clovis got a devilish grin. “If ya knew how me and Wayne and Roy can fight, ya wouldn’t say that.”
“But you don’t throw trash on the floor and expect your brothers to pick up after you and order them to fetch you this and that like you don’t have legs,” Robby said, undeterred.
Clovis’s smile vanished. “No. I guess we do got bad manners. Trace always says so. But I don’t rightly know how else to be.”
Clovis sounded embarrassed and discouraged. Robby sighed. It was true that he could hardly expect fine manners when Clovis had never seen any. Well, any other than what Rowena had brought to the table. But most of the time Clovis was too shy to watch her.
Robby honestly didn’t care about Clovis’s manners. But if he hoped to win Miss Stubbens someday, he needed help.
Robby gathered up some leaves and rocks and sticks and arranged them on the porch between them. “This is our supper table.” Robby shifted to face Clovis.
“That’s just sticks and stuff.”
“We’re pretending. Now. These are potatoes,” Robby pointed to a small pile of rocks. “And if you want the potatoes, what do you say?”
Clovis blinked in confusion. “Gimme them potatas?”
Robby laughed. “How about ‘Pass the potatoes, please.’”
“Please pass them potatas,” Clovis said obligingly. There was a twinkle of humor in his eyes.
Robby handed him a rock with a smile. “Here you go, my dear. Now say ‘thank you.’”
“Thank ya kindly, ma’am.”
Robby smiled. “Excellent! See, you know already. Why, you gave me flutters.”
“I don’t have to eat this rock, do I?” Clovis teased.
“No. I believe in penance, but that would be taking it a bit far.”
They smiled at each other. It struck Robby that Clovis was not as unattractive as he had first appeared. His smile was nice, if a bit yellow. And there might be a decent face under all that hair.
“Tell me about this gal you liked. Miss Stubbens, is it?”
Clovis’s face fell. “Yeah. But that don’t matter now.”
“She’s pretty. I met her when we went into town.”
Clovis looked down at the dirt. He tossed his rock “potato” from hand to hand. “I asked to court her. But she said ‘no.’ I reckon I shouldn’t tell ya that. ’Cause ya might decide ya don’t want me either.”
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. But Robby could hear the raw hurt in his voice.
Ugh. Robby wished he could make this whole situation go away or resolve it neatly and tie it up with a little bow. But that wasn’t possible. Rowena would be yet another woman who’d left him high and dry. Or horny and frustrated.
“If Miss Stubbens knew you the way I do, she’d be happy to have you court her.”
Clovis looked at Robby sharply. “Do ya mean it?”
“When I saw her in town, I got the feeling she felt more for you than she let on.”
“But . . . I’m marryin’ you,” Clovis said with a frown.
Robby swallowed a sigh. “I know. Let’s just sit here for a spell and you can practice courting me. Just be yourself, Clovis. Tell me something about what you want in life. Your hopes and dreams. And ask about mine. A woman likes to know you care what she thinks.”
In truth Robby had never given any thought to what a woman wanted from a man. But Rowena had definite feelings on the subject.
Clovis turned red and twisted the rock in his meaty fingers. Haltingly, he began to speak. He wanted so little in life. A good woman to hold him, love him in the dark. Children. For the ranch to go on and on. For healthy beeves and a good crop from the garden.
Robby hoped he got all the things he wanted.
That night at dinner, Clovis said “please” and “thank you” for every dish, his face red. Trace looked at Clovis like he’d gotten heat stroke and Wayne and Roy made fun of him. They teased him by putting on high voices and simpering.
It was obnoxious.
Robby glared at them, chewing his steak slowly. He was building up to say something when Pa-Pa slammed his fist down on the table, causing all the plates and utensils—and people—to jump.
“Gol dang it! Can’t you see Clovis is tryin’ to impress this gal? You boys leave him be! Or better yet, learn a manner or two your own damn selves.”
Roy and Wayne shut up and went back to their dinner. But Pa-Pa gave Robby a glower. “This ain’t St. Louis. Just so’s we’re clear.”
“Yes, Pa-Pa,” Robby said meekly.
But he noticed Pa-Pa put down his jackknife and picked up his fork.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sunday
On Sunday afternoon, Trace waited for Robby by the cabin. He smoked too many cigarettes and wore a path in the grass with his pacing. His usual lassitude had deserted him. He was wound tighter than a watch. Robby appeared, hurrying in his direction, and Trace was disgusted with himself for the swoops of anticipation he felt at the sight of the man.
He had to get ahold of himself. This was plumb foolishness. He’d seen “Rowena” at breakfast that morning and again when they’d had another target practice. Yet here Trace was, feeling like he’d expire if he couldn’t see that face—without the blasted bonnet. Hear that voice—Robby’s real voice, which was surprisingly deep and melodic.
If he couldn’t touch that skin.
It was a sexual fever, that was all. But it was damned stupid timing for it. He forced himself to put on a poker face and greet Robby with a simple, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Robby answered, stopping a few feet away. He seemed to likewise compose himself. “I need to get out of this dress right this minute. And that isn’t an attempt at seduction.”
“All right.”
Trace held open the cabin door and Robby slipped past him. Trace had brought a nicer blanket and a water skin in case they got thirsty. That seemed silly now, but Robby paid them no mind as he tossed aside the bonnet and collar and struggled to unbutton the back of his gray silk dress. “Lord, this thing! Help me, Trace.”
Trace slipped buttons through fabric, his fingers clumsy in their eagerness. When Robby’s creamy back was exposed, he couldn’t keep from stroking it, from planting a sucking kiss on Robby’s shoulder.
Robby made a strangled sound in his throat and wriggled the rest of the way out of the gown. He turned and wrapped his arms around Trace’s neck, kissed him as if his life depended on it. He tasted faintly of tomatoes from lunch, and his tongue was hot and greedy. It made Trace’s knees weak.
When he pulled his lips away to taste Robby’s neck, Robby groaned. “God, I’ve wanted you. Seeing you at the dining table is like torture. And you were deliberately provoking me at target practice.”
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Trace smiled against Robby’s ear. “Maybe I was.”
Robby provoked him too, with a heated look now and then, or fingers trailed along the table or his arm. Not to be able to talk to Robby, touch him, or even look at him for long lest he arouse suspicion—that was the worst kind of frustration. It just made Trace crave him more, in a gut-groan kind of way, like another man might crave a drink of gin.
Robby pulled back to remove the rest of his clothing—camisole, boots, long johns. And there he was. A beautiful young man. Beautiful and coiled tight with vibrant life and purpose. Trace was struck again at how out of place Robby was, how twisted and nonsensical the paths of fate must have been to bring this elevated creature to lowly Crabtree Ranch.
Trace cupped Robby’s face in his hands and stared at him for a long moment before kissing him gently. But Robby didn’t want gentle. He sucked at Trace’s mouth like he could eat Trace alive and tugged at Trace’s clothes.
In seconds he was naked, and all of Robby’s smooth skin pressed against all of Trace’s. Pale olive expanses and dark hair at Robby’s crotch and legs met Trace’s flesh, pale where the sun didn’t shine. The hair on Trace’s chest rubbed Robby’s brown nipples. Robby was shorter, but his long legs put his cock at a level with Trace’s. Their rigid members lined up side-by-side, thrusting against flat stomachs, the spongy heads rubbing up and down steel shafts. Sweet pleasure rippled out at each push and pull while Robby and Trace stared into each other’s eyes. The sensation was so arousing, Trace could have stayed like that for ages. But Robby pushed him back.
“Lay down. I want to taste you,” he said. He looked tousled and dazed with lust, his lips redder now than they’d ever been as Rowena.
“Yeah. Yeah, all right.” Nothing sounded more temping than exploring Robby’s cock with his hands and mouth, up close.
“If you do me first, I can probably come off again when I do you,” Robby suggested, flopping down to sit on the mattress and spreading his legs wide.
The sight socked Trace in the gut. He’d never get over how Robby could be so refined one minute and as bawdy as a strumpet the next. He fell to his knees, but he stayed back for a moment, drinking it in. His nostrils flared to catch the muskier scent between Robby’s legs. The dark hair at Robby’s crotch was shocking against his paler skin. His cock rose stiff and long and pink with a fat head fully emerged from his foreskin. His bollocks were large and distinct, hanging low between those slender thighs. Everything about the sight of him, smell of him, went straight to Trace’s basest yearnings.