by Heidi Betts
"What? Drinking? I think it's a damn fine notion."
He stopped when he reached the far end of the bar where a half-empty glass of amber liquid sat, a half-full bottle beside it. Propping one booted foot on the brass rail near the bottom of the pine wood counter, he hitched his shoulders and slouched over his drink.
"What's wrong with you?” Hannah hissed, moving close to the bar so as not to be overheard by anyone else. “Your sister just had a baby and both she and the infant are healthy, yet you're moping around like . . . like somebody shot your dog."
"I don't have a dog,” he replied in a monotone.
Giving in to temptation, she slapped his arm with the back of her hand. “You know what I mean. This is a good day. You should be happy. Why aren't you?"
"Not everyone celebrates the birth of a new child, Hannah,” he told her without taking his eyes off the bottle of whiskey before him. “Especially those who don't think they'll ever have children of their own."
Hannah rocked back on her heels, stunned. That was why David was acting so strangely? He wanted children and didn't think he'd get the chance to have them?
"What a silly thing to be upset about,” she said, trying to lighten his mood. “There's plenty of time for that sort of thing, David, if that's what you want."
It killed her to say it, but David was far from unmarriageable. He had years ahead of him to find a wife. Men weren't considered on the shelf nearly as early as women were, if ever. He could wait well into his later years to marry, if he chose.
He was handsome and virile and so kind, a girl couldn't help but be charmed. Any woman worth her salt would have no problem defying society's small-minded views of his Indian blood and risking the censure of others for a man who treated her as well as David would. Why he couldn't see that bewildered her. Why he couldn't see that she was completely in love with him already was incomprehensible to her.
He shook his head and downed the last of the liquor in his glass. “Not for me."
Walker knew Hannah didn't understand. Couldn't. She didn't know what it was like to want someone, and to know that if he couldn't have her, he'd rather spend the rest of his life alone.
He'd grown up knowing he was different, knowing little girls looked at him differently than they looked at the white boys their own age. Knowing his adoptive parents were more accepting than most of the people in Purgatory, and that even though they'd always told him he could do anything despite others’ prejudices, his entire life was going to be an uphill battle. And knowing, too, that he could never have the one girl he really wanted.
Seeing Hannah holding his newborn niece a few hours earlier had driven the point home harder and more painfully than he'd ever imagined.
Clay and Regan were wrong. He couldn't have all the things white men had. He could only walk through life like a ghost, straddling the line between the Comanche world and the white man's, pretending to be satisfied with whatever scraps of happiness came his way.
He'd thought he'd come to terms with that fact years ago. But that was before he'd seen Hannah again. Seen her, talked with her, touched her, made love with her.
Now it rankled. Rubbed his backside like a burr in his trousers.
He cocked his head, fixing Hannah with a sharp glare. “You think I'm such a catch?” he asked her, the words edged with bitterness. “Would you be willing to marry me, notsa?ka?? Bear my children? Put up with the whispers and straight-out disdain the people of Purgatory would heap on you for hitching yourself to a half-breed?"
One golden brow arched high over a cornflower blue eye turned stormy with ire. “If I thought you were sincere instead of drunk, I just might. You underestimate yourself, David,” she said more softly. “I've never met anyone who worked so hard to belittle himself before anyone else gets the chance. Maybe if you gave yourself the benefit of a doubt once in a while, others would, too."
With that, she whirled around, ready to head for the door. Only a hard hand on her elbow kept her from taking more than a step in that direction.
"Do you think it's that easy?” he bit out, spinning her back to face him. “Being part Comanche isn't something I can hide, like a birthmark or a bum leg. Folks see it every time they look at me. My hair, my skin . . . they know exactly what I am and cross the street to keep from getting too close."
A muscle in his jaw ticked with each angry word, his fingers wrapping tighter around her arm. But Hannah wasn't intimidated.
"I have never seen anyone cross the street to avoid coming in contact with you. I've never seen anyone look away from you rather than be caught staring at a half-breed. I don't know what it's like in other towns, but the people of Purgatory treat you the same as anyone else. They watched you grow up and think of you as just plain David Walker, son of Clay and Regan Walker."
Her voice gentled as she reached up with her free hand to pry his white-knuckled fingers from her arm. “You're the only one who still thinks of yourself as that little half-breed orphan, David."
Chapter Nineteen
Walker stood, dumbfounded, watching a hat-wearing, trousers-clad Hannah dodge drunken cowboys and saloon girls as she marched out of the Devil's Den. The hinged double doors swung wildly after her exit.
Before she could get too far, he hopped up, threw a handful of coins on the bar, and chased after her. She was nearing the end of the boardwalk that lined the saloon, about to step off into the street. He lengthened his strides, eating up the distance between them in seconds flat.
Reaching out, he slapped a hand over her mouth to keep her from yelling out and looped his other arm about her waist. She weighed little more than a sack of sugar, and he had no problem plucking her off her feet and carting her the short distance around the side of the building.
It was dark here, pitch black. Hell had no street lamps and what little light filtered out of the saloon's windows didn't reach this far around the corner.
Hannah was kicking and struggling against his hold, though he had no doubt she knew exactly who restrained her. She wasn't fighting him out of fear but fury at his heavy-handedness.
When he decided they were far enough away to have a private conversation, he put her down, turned her to face him, and slowly removed his hand from her mouth.
He expected an immediate lambasting for treating her so roughly, but instead she pressed her lips together in a grim line, crossed her arms beneath her breasts, and glared at him from under the rim of her Stetson.
His mind raced with the multitude of things he could say to her. They all scrambled together in his head, pounding painfully against the insides of his skull, but none of them found their way to his vocal chords.
Instead, he felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. No one had ever thought as highly of him as Hannah seemed to. No one had ever defended him before. And certainly no one had ever been brave enough to tell him he was acting like an idiot.
He wasn't sure he believed her every word. He'd spent too long being ostracized to suddenly think the town of Purgatory paid no attention to the color of his skin.
But she'd given him something to consider. Memories to reassess. He thought he should maybe even talk with his mother and father to find out how they felt he'd been treated, both before and after his adoption.
"I really upset you in there, huh?” he asked. His gaze stayed latched on the light pink rosebud of her mouth, so he saw the minute her lips pursed even tighter.
"I have that effect on people now and then,” he went on, thinking of how many times he'd sent his mother into conniptions while growing up. His father used to say Walker was the only kid on earth who could turn Regan's corkscrew curls straight as a board.
"I'm sorry,” he said, still focusing on the fine features of her delicate face. “As soon as my sister is able to travel, I think we should head for Purgatory. You need to get back before the town starts to think you've been abducted, and hopefully I can find a place there to hide Bright Eyes and the children. My father is there, too, and it can't hurt
to have a sheriff on our side in case Lynch does come calling."
Her expression remained impassive, her crossed arms making her look prickly as a porcupine. He blew out a frustrated breath, not knowing where the hell to start or how to go about getting her to forgive him.
"I'm trying to apologize here, Hannah. Not doing a very respectable job of it, I'm afraid, but what I'm saying is that when we get back to Purgatory, I'm going to give some serious consideration to what you said inside. Maybe I'll take a stroll down the middle of town and see how folks react. Maybe you can go with me and well see how they react to the two of us together."
Even in the darkness of the alley, he saw her eyes widen at that. He liked to think the stiff set of her shoulders loosened a bit, too.
"That's terribly . . . agreeable of you,” she said, finally unpursing the thread-thin line of her lips.
"I know. Don't get used to it, though. I'm bound to switch back to my usual disagreeable self at any minute."
She smiled. The first real sign of happiness he'd witnessed since he'd seen her cradling his newly born niece.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against her own. “So do you forgive me?"
"For what? Being disagreeable?"
He chuckled. “Among other things, but mostly that, yeah."
Dropping her arms from their earlier hostile position beneath her breasts, she brought them to his sides, her fingers curling into the soft leather of his dun-colored shirt.
With an exaggerated sigh, she said, “Well, I've forgiven you for less, so . . . I suppose."
He couldn't remember ever doing anything that required her forgiveness before but thought it better not to press his luck by questioning her generosity.
Glad to be in her good graces again, he laid his lips just below her left ear and pressed both palms flat on the vertical planks of wood that sided the building at her back. “Has anyone ever told you you've got a smart mouth? I hope you don't talk to your students like that."
"I speak to my students however I like,” she replied primly. “I am the teacher, after all. And besides, my mouth isn't the only part of my body that's intelligent."
"Is that right?” He grinned, letting his hands slide down the wall, over her back, to the curve of her rear end. “Is this one of those other places?” he asked, giving the rounded globes a licentious squeeze.
She gave a short yelp and pressed herself more tightly to his front, trying halfheartedly to shift away from his roving hands.
"It's one of them,” she said breathlessly, “but there's another part of me that's wishing you'd use a little bit of your own smart mouth to hush up and kiss me."
He pushed the hat back on her head and looked deep into her eyes. Loose plaits of blond hair fell free, glowing silver in the pale moonlight as it dusted her shoulders.
"That, I can do,” he said, his warm breath dancing on her face. And then he gently took her bottom lip between his teeth. Toying, teasing.
His hands tightened on her bottom, drawing her against him until his jutting arousal settled in the vee of her legs. They were separated only by their clothing, which did nothing to keep even the smallest sensation from rushing to his nerve endings.
He kissed her wildly, absorbing every nuance of her mouth, every scent and taste and impression. He wanted to soak her into his system so he could carry her with him everywhere he went and never again be without her. She was a dizziness in his blood, like the strongest opiate or hundred-proof liquor.
Leaning his full weight into her, he pressed her back against the building. His knee found its way between her legs and she eagerly opened to him, straddling his thigh and rubbing there like a cat in heat.
Walker wasn't far behind, feeling like the tip of a lucifer held too close to the campfire, ready to explode.
"Now,” she whispered raggedly, tearing her mouth away from his own. “Now, David, now."
No woman had ever begged him so sweetly, so desperately. And he'd never wanted one as badly as he wanted Hannah. She was right; it had to be now.
His fingers fumbled at the front of her pants, struggling to get them undone. She reached out to do the same for him and their arms tangled together like an ivy vine gone loco. But soon her trousers fell loose about her waist and he shoved them roughly down her legs, until she was bare from hip to calf.
With his other hand, he unbuttoned the flap of his own breeches. His throbbing member sprang free and he lifted Hannah off her feet, bringing her down again so fast, they both gasped at the sudden force of their bodies coming together.
But she didn't give him time to catch his breath. With her hands on his shoulders, her feet flat against the wall at her back, and her knees braced on his hips, she rocked her body up and down, riding him like a quarter-miler on the last leg of a cash prize race. He could only keep his hands on her waist for leverage and pray he lasted. At the pace she was setting, he wasn't sure he would.
"God, Hannah,” he groaned, biting her neck, flexing his fingers in her supple flesh, grinding his chest against the budded nipples poking through the thin material of her shirt.
"Yes,” she answered him, with both her mouth and her body. “Yes, yes, yes."
"Haa, haa, haa,” he repeated her litany in
Comanche, driving into her even as she came down on him.
Their hard, thrusting movements struck like lightning, sending a flash of hot, almost indescribable pleasure from the place where their bodies met, through every bone, muscle, and vital organ. The top of his head all but shot off, and he felt nothing but her damp warmth surrounding him, drawing him in, driving him insane.
Suddenly, her nails curled into his arms like talons and she stiffened above him, crying out as her climax hit. He covered her mouth with his own, muffling the noises of her completion, not knowing who might be passing the corner of the building at just that moment.
And then he was kissing her for real as his hips lurched forward and an orgasm more powerful than any he'd experienced before washed over him like a strong ocean wave. It shook him to the soles of his boots and left him weak as an orphaned calf, barely able to keep himself on his feet.
Hannah's lifeless weight bore down on him, too, and it was all he could do to let her slide slowly down his tall frame and get her feet beneath her before collapsing on top of her, pinning them both to the wall.
"Shit,” he muttered, and was glad to get out that much.
He didn't know where she found the energy, but she chuckled, her head resting against his shoulder as they both struggled for air. Their trousers were still down around their knees, their backsides visible to anyone who cared to see, and Walker couldn't say he gave a stallion's left nut. He wouldn't have the coordination to pull up his pants if he tried.
"I hope that's a complimentary expletive,” Hannah rasped just below his ear, “and not a complaint."
"Definitely. It's times like these I'm glad I can cuss in two languages.” He took a moment to catch his breath. “Is your behind getting cold?"
She laughed again. “Not cold, exactly, but there is a slight breeze blowing through. And I've got a bit more than my . . . bottom hanging out, in case you hadn't noticed."
He'd noticed. He just hadn't wanted to cover her up anytime soon. But what kind of gentleman would he be if he ravished her standing up against the outside of a whorehouse and didn't even pull her trousers back up afterwards?
Walker grimaced, realizing there wasn't a single part of that sentence he ever wanted his mother to overhear. She'd drag him out back by his ear faster than he could say, “It was all Hannah's idea!” And when it came to wielding a birch stick over something she considered unsuitable, Regan didn't much care how old he was. She'd just get herself a bigger switch.
Forcing himself to move, he stretched down, careful not to dislodge Hannah from where she rested on his chest. With one hand, he dragged the canvas breeches up the length of her legs, holding them in place with his hips until he could get the tail of her shirt tucked i
n and the front buttons fastened.
"Better?” he asked, breathing hard again from the effort of doing all that practically one-handed.
She nodded, then reached around the width of his body to tug at his own trousers. Her motions brought her in direct contact with every inch of nether flesh still exposed to the night wind.
Wrapping his hand around her wrist, he stopped her. “Maybe I should do that."
"Why?” she asked, glancing up at him with complete innocence in her shadowed eyes. “Did I do something wrong?"
He gave a harsh laugh. “No, notsa?ka?, you do everything absolutely right. Believe me. I'm just afraid that if you keep rubbing against me like that, pulling our pants up at all will end up being a big waste of time."
And sure enough, it took some doing to get himself properly adjusted and shut behind the placket of his trousers.
By the time he finished, Hannah was leaning against the building, hands clasped behind her back. She looked relaxed, almost boneless, and was watching him with a cross between unbridled lust and complete dazed-ness.
The dusty black hat sat at a cockeyed angle on her head, and tendrils of hair fell haphazardly about her heart-shaped face. It made him want to grab her up and kiss her, then strip her of her clothes and ravage her all over again.
"We'd better get back to the cabin. Check on Bright Eyes and the kids,” he said.
Lifting her hat, he swept up the loose strands of hair and tucked them beneath the brim, thinking that if they didn't move out of this alleyway soon, they might never leave. And eventually the sun would come up. People would find them, naked and slaked and wrapped around each other like a couple of cuddlebugs.
She inclined her head in agreement, seeming to use every spare bit of energy she possessed to push herself away from the wall. He lifted a hand to her and she took it without a second's hesitation.
"What does that word mean? The one you keep calling me—notsa?ka?"