The baby. His baby. He felt a swelling happiness at the thought of having another child. And because it was growing inside his wife—his fiery, feisty Libby—he was euphoric. Did that mean he loved her? He didn’t know, but the idea was no longer alien to him.
The coyotes continued to howl. They weren’t far away; in fact, they sounded closer now. That wasn’t unusual, but he wondered if Libby could sleep through such eerie sounds.
Feeling a chill in the air, he slid from the bed and padded to the great room to stoke up the fire.
“Jackson?”
Not entirely surprised that she was awake, he turned. She stood in the doorway, wearing the soft white nightgown with the high prudish collar. In spite of that, she didn’t look prudish at all. She looked seductive, and he couldn’t deny he was tempted.
“Did I wake you?”
She shook her head as she moved toward him. “No. It’s the coyotes.”
“I thought they might bother you.” He returned to the fire.
“I couldn’t sleep. I—” She gasped. “Oh, I’ve never noticed the scars on your back.”
“Battle wounds,” he murmured, suddenly remembering how he’d gotten each and every one. He hoisted a log and dropped it onto the fire.
She touched his shoulder blade. “Oh, my. This one’s so deep.”
“And puckered. What color is it now? I don’t get much of a chance to look at it.”
“It’s white. White and kind of … kind of shiny.”
Her fingers traced it, and he closed his eyes, savoring her gentle touch. “It used to be pink. Before that it was an angry red.”
“How did you get it?” Her voice was tender, concerned.
“Some Aussie madman sliced me with a knife.”
“In one of your wars?”
He chuckled. “I’d like you to think so, but I got that one in a bar fight.”
Her fingers moved over his back in Braille-like fashion. He found it necessary to clench his jaw, for the desire to expel a sigh of pleasure was overwhelming. “And this one?” She stopped at his waist, near his spine.
“Got gouged there by a Turk.”
“In another bar fight?” Her voice held a smile.
“No,” he answered, pretending to be offended.
She was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry. It could have been a very serious wound. I didn’t mean to make light of it. Did you get it in a battle?”
“Sort of,” he hedged.
“Sort of?”
“We were fighting because he thought I was ogling his woman.”
She laughed softly behind him. “And were you?”
“Damn right. It isn’t often that a man sees a woman pick up coins from the top of a bar with her …um …” He felt himself color.
“Her what?”
“It isn’t the thing to say in mixed company.”
“But I’m your wife,” she urged, her fingers lingering on his skin.
His wife. God, how those words filled him with joy. Her touch was excruciating pleasure, if there ever was such a thing. “You’d probably be offended.”
“Then clean it up for me,” she suggested. “Please.”
He jabbed the poker into the fire, fussing with the logs. Ah, what the hell. She knew he wasn’t perfect. “She could pick up coins off a bar with her—” He coughed, uncomfortable. “With her breasts by leaning over and pushing them together.”
“Oh, my,” Libby said with a pretty laugh. “Do people really do such things in public?”
He turned and found her eyes sparkling. “You mean you might be tempted to do it in private?”
Laughing again, she swatted him. “No. I mean I can’t imagine a woman actually doing something so outrageous.”
He touched her cheek. Her trembling beneath his fingers forced him to remove them. He turned back to the fire.
“You’d be surprised what women in other parts of the world will do for money. Or in this part of the world, for that matter.”
“I guess I’m pretty innocent,” she answered.
He lowered himself to the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace, his forearms dangling over his knees.
“Are you staying up for a while?”
He nodded. “Go on to bed, Libby. If you leave the door open, it’ll warm up some in there.” He could warm her up, but she probably wouldn’t be amenable to the suggestion.
She hovered nearby. “I could keep you company.”
He uttered a harsh laugh. “You don’t have to do me any favors.”
Releasing a sigh, she announced, “Jackson, I have to talk to you.” She took a seat beside him.
He didn’t like her tone, and already knew he’d be dissatisfied with what she had to say. “So say it and get it over with.”
Another sigh. She traced a pattern on the rug. “I can live with a lot of things. I can understand you not … not falling in love with me. I’ve decided I can even live with it. I was stubborn and…and hard-headed and filled with impossible girlish dreams.”
He studied her, intensely interested, but said nothing.
“What I can’t live with is you being unfaithful. And if I don’t—” She coughed and cleared her throat. “I mean, if we don’t … well, sleep together, I can’t expect you to be a faithful husband. You promised me a lot of things and were honest with me about the things you couldn’t promise me. I appreciate that, and I can live with it.”
He touched her knee, eliciting a reflexive response. Sure. She could live with it, but could he? He wanted her welcome response, like the night they had first made love. “Are you saying you want to sleep with me or that you’re simply willing to do so because you’re afraid I’ll be unfaithful if you don’t?”
“Oh, don’t be dense, Jackson Wolfe,” she muttered, tossing him a frustrated look. “You know good and well I enjoyed it the first time.”
Her fire had returned, and he liked it. But she’d put him through hell, and he didn’t want to make this easy for her. He patted her knee affectionately. “Good. Then we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“In the—” She stood up with a huff. “Fine. I’m sorry I bothered you with something so trivial as the rest of our lives together.”
She started to stomp toward the bedroom, but he grabbed her ankle, tumbling her to the rug. “Come back here.”
Attempting to wriggle away, she thumped his arm with the heel of her free foot. “Let go of me, you mule.”
“Oh, now I’m a mule? How many other barnyard animals are you going to compare me to?”
She squirmed beneath his touch. “Just … just leave me alone.”
“So you’ve changed your mind again?”
“No,” she spat. “But obviously you have.” She wiggled, trying to get free.
He got to his knees and dragged her toward him by both of her ankles, pulling until he could hold her legs behind him with both hands. She glared up at him, sparks of fire in her eyes.
“Now what will you do?” she demanded. “If you try to hold me with both hands, you can’t use either of them.”
He allowed a smirk. “Who says I have to use my hands?”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed with caution. “Now I think I’ve changed my mind.”
He pulled her hips onto his lap, close enough so that she could feel the stiff ridge behind his underwear. Her nightgown had ridden up, and he could see her. His hunger thickened when firelight glistened off her wet curls, because he knew then that she was ready, no matter how much she fought him or what she said. Still, he wouldn’t force her. He simply pressed against her softness, holding them together. Binding them.
She stared up at him from the floor. Although she feigned indifference, something else was in her eyes. He waited.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove,” she murmured.
His answer was more pressure. He glanced at where they joined. Her thighs and belly were white against her luxurious dark brown curls. He remembered how she smelled, how she tasted,
and his mouth watered, anticipating another taste, another time. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself not to think about being inside her.
Talk. Talking would help take his mind off his itch. “The night after the wedding, when you sent me out into the rain—”
“I didn’t,” she argued. “You went of your own free will.”
“Aren’t you even the least bit curious as to where I went?” He applied more pressure, watching her eyes.
She blinked repeatedly, appearing to concentrate. “I … I don’t know any of the bawdy houses in Thief River, nor am I interested in learning where they are.”
“I went to the one between the general store and the millinery shop.” He applied more pressure, aching to rub against her, for she was so wet that the front of his under-drawers was damp.
Her eyes widened. “But … that’s the jail.”
“Exactly.”
“Then … then you didn’t—”
“I didn’t, and I’m sorry I made you believe I would,” he assured her, undulating slightly against her.
“And you haven’t—”
“I haven’t.” He kept up the movement. “I will be a faithful husband, Libby, because I want to be.”
He knew the moment she began to change. Her sweet mouth opened; her breathing became faster, more erratic. She made little sounds in her throat. Her eyes were dark with passion, heavy-lidded with imminent ecstasy. He almost spent just watching her.
“J-Jackson …” Her voice caught, and she closed her eyes, her pelvis surging toward him and her legs squeezing his waist. She reached for him but couldn’t touch him.
As she stiffened and climaxed, he watched her rapture and knew a fulfillment he couldn’t explain. When she went limp, he slid her to the rug, moved his hands up her hips, and gazed at the beauty of her, all damp, swollen, and satisfied.
His gaze went to her face. She stared at him through heavy lids, her cheeks flushed.
“That was a dirty trick.”
Giving her a lopsided smile, he answered, “I know. I’m full of them.”
Although her nightgown was pushed to her neck, she didn’t attempt to cover herself. His hand wandered toward her breasts, and she held his gaze. “Thanks for the warning.”
His fingertips touched a turgid nipple and he grinned again. “Shall I tell you how much I loved watching you come?”
She made a satisfied sound in her throat as he dragged his rough palm over her nipple. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered, moving restlessly, “I can feel that all the way down here.” She briefly touched herself.
“So can I.”
She looked at the tent his underwear made over his groin, then gave him a shy glance. “May I see it?”
Pleased at her boldness, he slid his underwear down his hips and over his erection.
When she touched it, he sucked in a ragged breath.
“It’s big,” she whispered, examining his shaft.
The compliment wasn’t lost on him. Seed leaked from the tip, wetting her fingers. He called upon all of his strength to keep it from spurting like a fountain.
“Mahalia was right.”
“About what?” He gritted his teeth, attempting to hold back.
“She said any man with thumbs the size of yours has a—”
In spite of his delicious discomfort, he was amused. “A what?”
She flushed. “Has a big … organ.”
He couldn’t stop the laugh. “Mahalia is a wealth of information, isn’t she?”
Libby threaded her fingers through his bush, testing his root from bottom to tip, then from tip to bottom. She put her fingers around it and gave it a gentle squeeze, eliciting from him an exquisite moan.
“I probably shouldn’t do that.”
“Not continuously, anyway,” he answered, trying to keep his voice from wavering.
She gazed at him. “It makes me want you inside me.”
He removed her hand, unbuttoned her gown, and pulled it off over her head. “In due time, dear Libby. In due time.”
He studied her breasts, fighting back the red haze of his hunger. Lowering his head, he sucked one nipple into his mouth causing her to gasp and press him closer. He moved to the other, devouring it, rolling it around and around with his tongue.
Her hands roamed his chest, his back, his stomach, his groin. She rubbed her palm over him, reached under and cradled his sac in her hand.
He swiftly laid her on her back, unable to wait, and drove into her, thrusting deep into her welcoming sheath.
Her legs circled his hips and her arms drew him close. Her nails raked his back as she arched up to meet him. As they sped toward completion, his unbearable ache, the itch that she had caused, became excruciating pleasure, and he kissed her hard and deep, swallowing her cries and making them his own.
She held him tight, and he rolled to his side, bringing her with him.
Tears tracked her cheeks, but her smile was dazzling. She ran her fingers through his hair and stroked his cheek. “Sleep with me.”
It was a quiet request. He would honor it. He began to realize that life with this woman would be different from his life when he wasn’t yet out of his teens. He’d been so wrapped up in his pain over Flicker Feather’s death that he hadn’t realized what their relationship had been lacking.
She’d failed to reach many places inside him. She’d been sweet, passive, and unquestioning. That had been enough … when he was less than twenty.
Libby, on the other hand, had depth and texture and would never settle for less than everything he could give, because she would give back the same.
As they lay in each other’s arms, his fear of the future was suddenly overshadowed by his anticipation of it.
The howling of the coyotes seemed far away, now that she was wrapped in Jackson’s arms. They had made love again on the rug, then had moved to her bed.
Exhausted, they had drifted off to sleep. Now she was awake, not because she was eager to get up but because she didn’t want to waste precious time sleeping when she could be savoring his nearness.
“You awake?” he asked.
She smiled. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I didn’t want to waste time sleeping.” He lifted aside her hair and nuzzled her neck, his fingers suddenly busy with her breasts. “Tell me about your marriage to Sean, Libby.”
“What do you want to know?” she answered on a sigh.
“Why was it never consummated?”
“It’s a long story.” But he had a right to know. “I have to start at the beginning, I think, to help you understand.
“Sean was a distant relative of my father’s. Actually they were very nearly the same age. But our age difference didn’t have anything to do with … with him not sleeping with me. He discovered we were related while we were living and working the fields in the Central Valley. It was peach- picking time, and we always went where there was work. We were a migrant family. White trash, according to many, and they were right.”
Jackson quit toying with her breasts and hugged her. “Go on.”
“The day Sean showed up, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Oh, not that he was handsome, but he was refined and well dressed. And to me, he was rich, because he owned a boardinghouse. He actually owned property, something my father had never done. He had roots, something I wanted desperately. But most of all, he was kind to me, and polite. He had such understanding eyes, as if he knew exactly how miserable my life was. He almost got into a fight when my father took a belt to me because I hadn’t brought in enough money that day.” Libby remembered everything vividly, and it was painful.
“I was stunned when I learned that Sean wanted to take me away with him. Not that I wouldn’t have gone in a minute, but I couldn’t imagine that kind of good fortune ever happening to me. I wanted to leave. I prayed it would happen. When my father insisted on selling me, I didn’t care. When Sean agreed to pay my father’s price, I knew I would do anything for him.”
Jackson
was quiet, his hands moving methodically over her bare back. “Were you happy with him?”
Libby expelled a sigh, “Yes. I was happy to be away from my family. When Sean didn’t insist on his rights as a husband, I didn’t think too much about it. I was only fourteen, after all. But as time went by, I knew there should be something more. I even approached him, something very bold for me at the time, and asked him why he didn’t share my bed.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. He actually came to my bedroom that night and tried to … well, you know. Poor man. He couldn’t do it. Oh, God, Jackson, he wept in my bed.” Libby felt tears of pity even now. “He tried a few times after that. Then he just gave up. It didn’t matter to me.” She rubbed her face against Jackson’s furry chest. “I didn’t know what I was missing. After that, we lived together more like father and daughter than husband and wife. Neither of us ever brought the subject up again.”
Jackson feathered kisses over her face, her neck, her breasts. “My sweet Libby,” he murmured.
Libby touched his hair, devouring his tenderness. Her belly quivered, as if reminding her that his child grew there, and she bit into her bottom lip to keep herself from weeping with joy.
23
It was light when she work Jackson slept soundly beside her. His beard roughened his cheeks and chin. His lashes were spiky thick and tipped with gold, and tiny wrinkles fanned the corners of his eyes. The wound on his forehead where he’d hit the table when she pushed him out of bed had begun to heal. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, which was open slightly. His lips were dry. From the cold and the wind, she thought, remembering how long he’d been out in it the day before. Her husband was no pretty boy. She grinned. She could live with that.
She snuggled against his warm body. How one man could generate so much heat, she’d never know. She had never before slept without any nightclothes. That wouldn’t go over very well at the rooming house, but for here, for now, it was wonderful.
Jane Bonander Page 26