A Fire in the Blood

by Shirl Henke

  He threw back his head and chuckled. "Persistent little heifer, aren't you?"

  "It has something to do with your being in the French Legion, doesn't it?"

  "They're North African desert tribesmen. Murderously fierce fighters."

  "Were they anything like your mother's people?" She could feel him stiffen, although he did not miss a beat in the dance.

  "I don't know," he said flatly. "My grandmother was raped by some marauding tribe in Mexico. She bore my mother as a result. It's ironic. All my life I've been called a breed. I don't even know what tribe of Indians my blood comes from."

  She reached up with one hand and stroked his cheek. "It must've been awful for your mother, too.”

  He shrugged. "Her family were Kinenos. The Mexicans Richard King brought to Texas to work his Running W Ranch. He hired on the whole village. Gave them a new life. In return they became fanatically loyal to him. When she was just sixteen, my mother married my father."

  "Robbins is an American name."

  "John Jeremiah Robbins was a Boston Yankee who went west to make his fortune."

  "And your mother's Indian blood didn't bother him at all, did it?"

  Jess smiled grimly. "He was the only one in Texas it didn't bother."

  He had never talked this much about his mysterious past. The liquor had not affected his reflexes, but it did seem to ease his closemouthed restraint. "Tell me about your father."

  Just then the music ended. Jess stopped moving, but did not release her. She burrowed more tightly against his body, knowing he would tell her to go.

  "You're going to smell of whiskey and cigarettes."

  "I don't care."

  "Your pa and Lemuel Mathis will care." He took her by her shoulders and held her at arm's length, letting his eyes rake up and down her body. "That is some creation," he said in a low, hoarse voice. One hand slipped down to touch the heavy lace dripping from the low-cut neckline. He ached to pull it off, baring her luscious breasts. His fingers lightly traced the swell of bare silvery flesh above the bodice, then withdrew as if he had been burned. "Go back where you belong, Lissa."

  She framed his face with her hands. "I belong with you, Jess."

  "More fairy tales, Lissa?"

  She choked back a sob of frustration and seized his hand, replacing it on her breast. "Feel me, Jess, feel my heart beat. It beats for you. Oh, please, please." She melted against him, raising her lips for his kiss.

  He tried to put her aside again, but she would have none of it and held his hand until he found himself cupping her breast, reaching inside the frothy lace to tease her nipple into pebbly hardness. "Which of us is the craziest," he murmured as his lips savaged hers in a fierce, possessive kiss.

  She returned it, letting her tongue duel with his, tasting the tang of liquor and the pungency of his cigarettes. Their lips brushed, pressed, reformed over each other with growing ardor. Then the sudden crunch of boots moving through the dry grass penetrated Jess's fevered brain. He broke away and pulled her behind him in one fluid motion, while pulling his gun from its holster.

  They stood in silence, each fighting to still their ragged breathing. The music had stopped inside the big house, and the hum of voices was low. The intruder's cough came from somewhere across the other side of the corral, followed by the trickle of liquid hitting the earth as he urinated. Finally he retraced his steps toward the bunkhouse.

  As soon as they were alone again, Jess whispered, "Go now before someone else comes along."

  She could sense the determination in his voice and knew it was madness to remain out here in the open. She took a deep breath and swallowed. "I can only bear to let Lemuel and those other men touch me, to smile and dance and pretend I'm enjoying the party, if you'll be there when it's over."

  Her big golden eyes glowed at him in the moonlight. "You can't come back here—"

  "You can come to me. My room is at the far west end of the house. See the light?" She pointed to her window, overlooking the blacksmith shop where they stood. "Watch for the guests to leave. It should only be another hour or two. As soon as the house is asleep, come up the outside stairs. I'll be waiting by the door to let you inside."

  He shook his head. "Will you understand? We can't be caught together! I might even have to shoot your pa—or let him kill me."

  "Papa and Cy Evers have been drinking. He'll sleep long past sunup. Germaine is the one who spies on me, and she's already passed out. No one will see us."

  "No, Lissa."

  "If you don't come to me, I will come to the bunkhouse," she said desperately. "I know your bed is right by the door at the north end—"

  "Jesus! You'd do it, wouldn't you?" he said raggedly.

  "I'll do whatever I have to, Jess."

  He swore beneath his breath, then whispered, "Go back and stay there."

  "Only if you promise to come to me," she replied stubbornly.

  "Wait. I'll come." He kissed her again, hard and fast, then shooed her roughly away from him, toward the glittering lights and raucous laughter at the big, elegant house on the hill.

  Chapter Thirteen

  All the guests departed with hearty farewells. The creaking of buggy springs and soft plodding of horses' hooves finally faded away. Down at the bunkhouse, the main topic of conversation among the cowboys was the fancy shindig.

  "You see Yancy sparkin' that homely little filly of Cy Evers?" one hand asked.

  "Yep. Always figgered he'd set his sights on Miz Lissa," another chimed in. "Cridellia Evers got a face built fer a hackamore. Wonder whut changed his mind?"

  "Reckon he finally realized Miz Lissa's bound to marry ole Lemuel Mathis," Rob Osder said.

  "Funny, though. Brewster useta be sweet as honey on a hive fer Miz Lissa, but tonight them two got on like a pair o' bobcats in a gunnysack," Luke Deevers said speculatively.

  "Best yew let off a jawin' bout the boss's daughter and let me git some shuteye," Vinegar said balefully, '"er I'll roust yew outta yer blankets at three-thirty when I gotta start fixin' breakfast."

  Jess lay on his bunk, waiting for the last desultory conversations between the hands to die down. The bunkhouse finally grew quiet, and the varied cadences of loud and soft snores filled the still night air. Jess reclined motionlessly, yet the tension in his body belied all the whiskey he had drunk earlier. Yancy was already suspicious about Lissa's relationship with him. It was madness to risk sneaking into the big house. Yet the sweet allure of her perfume still haunted him, and the feel of her as she danced with him under the stars would not leave his mind.

  She had been the stuff of dreams, with her hair piled high on her head, gleaming like dark fire in the moonlight, which made her skin appear even more milky. Hell, her dress doubtlessly cost more than he made in a month. What was he doing with a rich, spoiled white girl? If she had been older, married, more worldly, he would not have had any qualms, but Lissa was none of those. He could still feel the instant of raw male triumph when he had sundered her maidenhead. She belonged to him in a way no other man could ever claim.

  Yet he knew that one day another man would claim her—a rich white man who would put his hands on her silken flesh. The thought of it made his gut clench with jealous fury. All of his life he had been an outsider, understanding his place even if he did not accept it meekly. He had drawn a shell of indifference around himself, scorning white society, white rules, white women. His life had been satisfactory until now. He lived by his

  own code and bowed to no man. Now he was willing to sneak around in the dark for a few stolen hours of pleasure with Lissa.

  Lissa. Would she keep to her threat and seek him out here? He smiled grimly. She was just spoiled and reckless enough to do it. If he was caught in this tortuous coil, he was not alone. She seemed as powerless to break free as he.

  With a silent oath, he swung his legs over the side of his bunk and started to rise. Sounds of snoring were all that broke the late-night stillness. He began to pull on his boots when Tate Shannon
's low voice cut through the hum of the bunkhouse nocturne.

  "Don't do it, Jess."

  "Don't do what? Take a leak?"

  "Cut the crap, Jess. You'll get caught sooner or later. Then there'll be hell to pay."

  "Shit, Tate, there already is hell to pay," Jess whispered as he finished pulling on his boots and silently slipped from the bunkhouse.

  The moon had set and the warm night air blew softly, sending the tall stands of sycamores and oak around the house to soughing. In the distance a coyote wailed—for its mate? He walked slowly, careful to stay in the shadows as he approached the narrow wooden stairs at the back of the mansion. When he looked up the steep steps, he could see the door was opened just a bit. He climbed them as if they were a gallows, his hand never moving from the butt of his revolver.

  As soon as he reached the top step, Lissa swung the door wide and flung herself into his arms. He held her tightly, kissing her with fierce possessiveness, as if to erase the touch of all those men who had danced with her earlier in the night.

  She pulled him into the dark, silent hallway as she returned his kiss with ardor.

  Lissa was barefoot, clad only in the sheerest white batiste nightgown. She looked ethereal, shimmering in the darkness like some fairy vision bent on working mischief on a mere mortal such as he. Thick, soft carpet absorbed the sound of his boots while she pulled him the scant six feet to her room.

  He could see little of the furnishings, for the light from the window was filtered out by a set of frilly curtains. A narrow bed with a canopy sat against the inside wall. As she pulled him toward it, he whispered hoarsely, "Someone will hear us, Lissa."

  She shook her head as she unbuttoned his shirt. "The next room is a storage closet, and Papa is near the end of the hall. Germaine sleeps across from him, but she's dead drunk tonight."

  By this time she was pulling his shirttail from his denims. He unbuckled his holster and let it slip onto the braided rug beside the bed. Lissa ran her hands hungrily over his shoulders and down the hard muscles of his chest, letting her fingers play in the dark patterns of hair that narrowed into a vee at the waistband of his pants. When her busy fingers began to unbutton the fly, he picked her up and laid her on the bed, whispering, "Boots first."

  Sitting on the edge of her small bed, he quickly pulled the boots off, then turned to where she sat crouched on the mattress with her glorious hair tumbled about her shoulders, the soft folds of the gown rucked up about her hips. He reached out and tugged at the drawstring on the prim neckline. It gave way, baring the hollows of her collarbone and swell of her breasts. He reached out to touch the pale skin, his hand looking black as sin against her pristine flesh. His fingertips traced the rise of her breast. Then he took both hands and cupped the small, perfect spheres, gently massaging them until her breathing grew even more ragged.

  His mouth descended on one hard, pebbly nipple, wetting the sheer cloth as he teased it with his tongue, then bit and suckled on it, leaving the fabric translucent so he could see the perfection of the pink rosette. He repeated the process with her other breast. Her fingers threaded through his long straight hair, tugging him closer, thrusting her aching breasts against his hot, questing mouth.

  "Jess, Jess, oh, yes, yes." Her hands moved down his neck, over the bunched muscles in his back, then around his waist, sliding inside his denims. He knelt on the bed and ran his hands over the curve of her hips, bunching up the gauzy nightgown in his fists, shoving it out of the way.

  His palms splayed across her lower back and he cupped her buttocks, pulling her against the growing shaft still imprisoned by his tight denims. She held tightly to him, kneeling in the center of her bed—the lovely virginal bed where she had fantasized about her swarthy lover for so many weeks. The fierceness of his desire burned her like a licking, consuming flame. She moaned low in her throat and unbuttoned his pants until they slid lower, freeing his sex.

  "Touch me, Lissa," he whispered, willing her to obey his bold command. When her soft little hands slid between their bodies and took hold of him, he almost cried aloud in exultation, knowing that he must bury himself deeply within her now or he would spill his seed at once, so desperate was his need.

  "Open for me." He spread her knees and felt between her legs for the pearly wetness that told him she was ready to receive him. His mouth absorbed her small, animal-like cries as he impaled himself inside the slick, tight walls of her sheath.

  Bracing himself, he thrust deeper within her, then held her very still until he could regain control of his body. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, letting him support their weight as they knelt together on the bed. He held her quietly as she accommodated the length and fullness of his flesh within her, then lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips.

  Lissa could feel him slide deeper inside her as she clung to him, squeezing her thighs tightly around his waist and moving restlessly against the hardness of his body. She was desperate for him to quench the ache rippling deep in her belly. When his hips began to thrust slowly, he guided her movements in perfect counterpart to his own. Quickly she caught the rhythm, matching his building frenzy, until she rocked against him with such force that she felt herself falling backward onto the bed, pulling him down on top of her.

  Without breaking their joining, Jess continued the fierce, frantic mating. The tip of his tongue tasted the curve inside her ear, then his teeth sank softly into the lobe and his lips moved lower, brushing the racing pulse in her throat. Her nails scored his back as she urged him on, writhing like a demented thing beneath him until he could feel the delicate silky flesh that sheathed him begin to convulse in sweet release.

  Lissa wanted it to go on forever, this hot wild ecstasy, but she ached for that perfect peace, that shattering fulfillment that she had experienced only once before, the first time Jesse Robbins had loved her. Yet when the first tiny waves began to build, she cried out in regret for how quickly the beauty of their joining would be over.

  His mouth drank up her cries, as his body felt the delicious tremors rack her from head to toe. She was the most passionate, responsive woman he had ever taken—and the least experienced. The satiny squeezing of her hot flesh against his robbed him of breath. All too quickly he lost control and felt himself swelling and throbbing, releasing his seed in a white-hot wave of pleasure that left him so utterly spent that he could do nothing but lie atop her, holding her, with his face buried in her tangled, fiery hair.

  Lissa felt his body stiffen and shudder as he pulsed his life force into her, melding it with her own, increasing and prolonging her ride into the realm of pleasure so intense that it was truly madness. And she knew she would do anything to hold this man. Anything at all.

  Finally, when he could breathe freely, Jess pulled away from her, careful not to tumble off the small bed. He straddled her hips with his pants halfway down his thighs, while she lay beneath him, her filmy, virginal nightgown tangled about her waist and slipped off one shoulder. She looked as wanton and satiated as the most expensive harlots he had ever known, and he knew he would never again desire a woman as he did this one.

  Lissa felt bereft by the loss of his body heat when he withdrew from her. She could feel his eyes, glittering in the dim predawn light as he stared down at her, his expression unreadable. She lay dazed and disoriented while he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, pulling his pants up and shrugging into his shirt.

  “I look like a whore, she thought miserably, pulling her bunched-up gown down to cover her legs. They had torn at each other and coupled with their clothes still on! Shame flooded her as she watched him methodically pull on his boots and turn to face her.

  She looked so forlorn and small huddled on the rumpled sheets. No longer the wanton, now she appeared a woeful child who had been caught in some terrible transgression. His heart gave an unfamiliar lurch, and a wave of tenderness washed over him. Then he saw the thin, silvery trails of tears that trickled from the sides of her eyes, gliding sil
ently over her cheekbones. "Lissa, Lissa," he whispered raggedly and drew her into his arms.

  She came up off the bed with a strangled sob. "Don't hate me, Jess. Please, don't hate me." She buried her face against his chest and held on to him with trembling hands.

  He tipped her chin up and touched her tear- thick lashes, drying the droplets with the pads of his thumbs. "Don't, Liss, don't cry. I don't hate you."

  But you don't love me either.

  He held her until her sobs quieted and her arms dropped away, falling lifelessly to her sides when he stepped back, releasing her. "I have to go, Lissa. Vinegar's probably already in his mess kitchen."

  "Will you come back?" she whispered, amazed at the question that seemed to ask itself. Have I no mind, no pride, no self-control left?

  He hesitated. "I shouldn't. We both know that." His voice turned bitter then. "All right, Lissa. I can't help myself, but not here. Your watchdogs won't be drunk every night. I'll ride to the pool by the escarpment any afternoon when I get the chance. Take Cormac with you when you slip off."

  "I'll be careful, Jess."

  He closed the door silently and disappeared into the predawn stillness while she stood hugging herself, alone in her room.

  * * * *

  Yancy Brewster watched Cridellia Evers pick her way through high grass thick with dust that she was assiduously trying to avoid. It coated her pale yellow dress anyway. Strange, on Lissa Jacobson the color was vibrant, making her hair glow like live coals and her skin appear touched by sungold. On the plain little wren prissily mincing to the corral, the color had just the opposite effect. When she waved to him, her pop eyes strained as if trying to jump from their sockets. Old Luke Deevers's words flashed through his mind. "She ain't nothin' fer a drinkin' man ta look at."

  Tipping his hat gallantly, he returned her smile. She was stick-thin and as homely as a Mexican sheep, but she possessed the qualities he prized above all others in a female—she was heiress to a big ranch and she had never cast a lustful eye on a dirty, gut-eating greaser.