by Martha Hix
Whit took ten steps toward her. Five feet separated them. He swallowed hard. The full moon behind her, she tilted her head to one side and brushed her hair. Long hair. Red. Thick and flowing. Beautiful hair that invited his fingers. He yearned to take the hairbrush from her hand and pull it gently through those dark-russet tresses. He ached to wrap a curl around his finger and bring it to his lips.
“To hell with right and wrong,” he whispered. “Let me show you how good it can be between a man and a woman.” Whit offered his hand. His voice was hoarse with desire as he murmured, “Mariah, come here. Let me be your man.”
Chapter Eight
“Come here,” Whit repeated above the surrounding night sounds. In the light of the full moon, he held his arms out to Mariah. “Let me hold you.”
Her pulse quickened, yet she didn’t comply. Her heart filled with doubt, she glanced at his tousled curly hair, then lowered her gaze to the dark tufts of hair on his chest revealed by the unsnapped shirt, which was pulled free of his close-fitting dungarees. Sensuality emanated from him.
They would make love. It was inevitable, she realized. Since their first meeting she had refused to admit the force majeure of it, but no more.
Would lovemaking be different with Whit, different from Joseph’s fumblings?
“You don’t have to be frightened, sweetheart,” Whit said huskily. “I just want to show you how good it can be.”
“I might not think it’s good.”
“Don’t bet on that.” Whit rubbed his chin. “But if you don’t want me, say the word and I’ll back off.”
“No. Please don’t.” She shortened the gap between them, but her muscles were stiff with uncertainty.
“Relax, sweetheart.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “Let yourself go with the feeling.”
How was she supposed to do that? With Joseph she’d been asleep. With Whit she knew there would be no sleeping.
“Go with your instincts, sweet baby.”
She did. He drew her close, the heat of his body blanking out the chill brought by evening, bringing ease. Now pliant, she murmured his name. Her arms lifted to his shoulders. Leather and tobacco and wood smoke mingled with the warm clean scent of him. Lowering and tilting his head, he covered her lips with a kiss of fire and tenderness.
Feeling the tip of his coffee-tinged tongue touching her teeth, sliding into the interior, she was surprised, and delighted, by this new experience. She welcomed his deepening kiss. Her fingers slipped through the curls at the back of his head; his hair was soft, though coarse, and the feel of it tingled the nerve endings in her fingers. His lips moved to her neck, his hands to the curve of her waist, and he caressed her midriff with his thumbs. The tender ministrations aroused her senses. Overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through her body, she gave up her dread.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he requested, then swept her from the ground to carry her to his bedroll and there to lay her across the thick cushion.
Her arms reached for him as he stripped his shirt from his sinewed torso. “It’s cold without you,” she whispered.
“We can’t let that happen.”
He descended to their lair, bringing her gowned body against the warmth of his flesh. Anew he kissed her, his big hands caressing her cheekbones and earlobes. Instinctively she thrust her pelvis against his, receiving an answering movement in kind, and felt the hard bulge in his britches. She was aflame.
With fluid grace he removed the barrier to his manhood by sweeping the denim trousers from his long, long legs. Fascinated, she stared at his naked splendor.
“You’re more magnificent than I remembered,” she admitted, yet a fleeting moment of uncertainty wrought from innocence plagued her. “But must you take your clothes off?”
He smiled. “It’s better this way, darlin’.” Levering above her, he touched the hair that enticed him so, spreading those locks across the rust-colored Indian blanket. “Am I going too fast for you, my sweet?”
“Yes, but maybe not. I . . . I don’t know, really.”
“Hey, now. You’re not an innocent,” he replied, his thumb and forefinger working the buttons of her nightgown. “Don’t be shy.” His callused palm slid over a firm, rounded breast. “Tell me when it feels good.”
“Th-that feels good,” she murmured as he tweaked her nipple.
Brushing the nightgown bodice to the side, he placed his lips where his fingers had been. “I could do this for hours,” he murmured, drawing her nipple into his mouth.
Trembling at his magic, she held him to her breast. And when his palm traveled along the inside of her thigh, she was caught in a wondrous vortex, swirling and spinning. Her legs refused to be still, those movements causing her nightgown to ride up her thighs. Her hands wandered over the taut muscles of his back. Scars and all, he was male perfection.
Whit’s talented fingers and lips found other sensitive places–the inside of her elbows and wrists, the hollow of her collarbone, the center of her ear. Something within her begged for him to possess every inch of her body. And she wanted all of him, too.
“Still like it, sweetheart?” he taunted in a silky tone.
“Oh, yes.” Having no wish to be coy about her desires, she was totally abandoned to the wonder of discovery.
“You’ll like this even more.” Whit’s hand caressed her shapely body, making its way slowly, provocatively, between her thighs. “I haven’t been able to keep my wits,” he murmured huskily, “thinking of doing this to you.”
Ever so gently and carefully, he slid the tip of his finger rhythmically across the bud of her desire. She moaned with pleasure. Never, never had she imagined lovemaking could be anywhere near this rapturous!
At the point when she believed nothing could be more fulfilling, Whit positioned himself between her spread legs. The tip of his manhood touched her portal, and he leaned forward to take her lips in a kiss of wild, unbridled desire.
“Why must sin be so sweet?” he asked, his voice a mixture of agony and bliss.
An answer eluded her, for she was beyond reason and clear thought. Instinctively, her thighs tightened around his hips, for something within her now sensed there was something more ... more exciting and fulfilling to be discovered.
And he had to have more. He thrust into her, but was stopped by her virginal barrier. “Oh, my God,” he groaned in agony, his teeth clenching. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“T-tell you wh-what?”
“No man’s had you before, Mariah. No man.”
All she knew with any certainty was that her primitive needs were unsatisfied. “D-don’t understand. J-Joseph–”
“Goddamn Joe Jaye.” Whit tunneled his fingers through her hair, his thumbs pressing her jaw. “And goddamn me, too, because I can’t stop, and it’s going to hurt you.”
“D-don’t want you to stop.”
“Sweet mercies.” With one powerful lunge he claimed her, and she cried out. Once more, Whit stilled his movements. “I’m sorry,” he whispered after inhaling several times. “Please don’t cry. The pain will pass, I promise.”
“I’m not crying. I feel better already. But ... are we finished?”
He chuckled. “Not hardly, sweet witch.”
At first gently, then with surer rhythm, he moved within her. Within seconds she was on fire again, aflame with passion, thrashing with ecstasy. Deeper and deeper he lunged to draw heightened awareness from both of them. Over and over he groaned her name in rhapsody’s litany, and her fire–their fire!–turned to a conflagration of passion. Barely able to breathe, she reached the pinnacle of ecstasy. Raising her hips to receive his final thrust, she realized for the first time in her life what she’d been created for. To be a woman to this man.
Breathing fast, he rolled to the side, bringing Mariah with him. Her head nestled against his shoulder, he pulled his Indian blanket over their bodies. “You okay?” he whispered, wiping the beads of perspiration from her brow.
“Whit, you t
alk too much,” she teased, then she drifted into contented, sated sleep.
Whit, however, could not sleep. With quite an effort, he managed to fish a cigar from his saddlebag. Striking a match on a rock, he drew smoke into his mouth. Now that his breathing and wits were halfway back to normal, he wondered why Mariah had lied to him about her virginity.
“You’ve just deflowered Joe’s woman,” he muttered, snuffing out his smoke. Guilt plagued him, but there was no turning back now.
He didn’t know what the hell he had gotten into, but the trouble was, he wasn’t sure he wanted to get out of it. He’d made love to more women than he could ever remember, but none of them, not even Jenny, had aroused him this mightily. With only tonight to love Mariah, how could he get his fill of her?
His hand cupped her elbow, his mouth touched her temple. Only tonight ... Tonight was theirs, and he was determined to make the most of it. Which he did.
By morning, however, Whit Reagor knew if he lived to be a hundred, he could never get his fill of Mariah McGuire. But that took him back to his problem. He hadn’t been able to get his fill of Jenny, either.
Whit didn’t speak of his thoughts as they readied the wagon to begin the last leg of their journey, and he sensed Mariah, too, had something on her mind. Both delayed the inevitable, for to voice their questions and statements would burst the moment’s bubble. They were enjoying those final hours together–before the time came to confront Joe Jaye.
At noon, they stopped the wagon to make love again, this time in one of Crosswind’s line shacks, which Whit had made a slight detour to reach. In the aftermath, they rested amid the rumpled sheets of a narrow bed, Whit leaning against the wall with Mariah settled between his spread knees as he gently drew a hairbrush down the curled length of her hair.
“Mmm, that feels marvelous,” she said, then teased, “and you have exactly two weeks to stop.”
“Glad you like it, darlin’.”
“Your gentleness amazes me. How can a rough-and tumble rancher ... ? Tell me about your ranch.”
“It’s just a li’l ole place,” he replied modestly.
“Whit, don’t kid with me that way. Tell me.”
“All right, it’s a hundred sections of cattle land. Not all in one piece, but scattered around west central Texas–my headquarters ranch, and home, three miles southwest of Trick’em. Now, enough about me. Tell me about Guernsey.”
She did, and he tried to imagine being cooped up on an isolated island in the English Channel. He was glad for the wide-open spaces of Texas.
The brush encountered a tangle, and Whit tried to be easy in the untangling, but she jumped forward. “Ow!”
“Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t. I hurt myself scooting on my bottom.” Pivoting her face toward him, she blushed. “I’m a bit sore.”
His question could wait no longer. “Mariah, why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”
“I thought I wasn’t.”
“Care to explain?”
Shame-faced, she summarized the events of that night with Joseph, finishing with “... I had no idea, and he never told me any different.”
“Oh, my poor innocent baby. He duped you.” Wrapping his arms around her, Whit guided her to a prone position and rested the side of his head against her breasts. “Sweetheart, what did he write you about ... uh, about his farm?”
“That pears grow in abundance and that he’s doing quite well.”
Whit put his legs over the bed’s edge. “He lied.”
“How so?” Mariah’s eyes rounded before she shuttered them. “Don’t answer that. I think I know. Since leaving the port of Galveston, I’ve seen this big state grow more and more desolate. How can pears thrive here?”
“They can’t. Joe’s broke.”
“Poor Joseph.” Rising to a seated position, she pulled the sheet up, tucking it under her arms. Her hair cascaded forward as she dropped her head. “Whatever will he do?”
“Whatever will the two of you do, don’t you mean? Soon you’ll be his wife.”
She shook her head slowly, and her eyes were veiled as she admitted, “I’m not going to marry him.”
“Why not?” Whit asked suspiciously, his face turning to stone. “Because he can’t provide for you in the manner befitting a nobleman’s lady? Or because ...” He lunged to his feet and yanked on his breeches. “Or because of what we’ve been doing since last night?”
“My decision had nothing to do with you,” she replied quietly. “I decided days ago that I couldn’t go through with the marriage.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Was it any of your business?”
A few seconds later, Whit nodded. “You’ve got a point.”
She rose from the bed, wrapped the sheet around herself, and made for the pitcher of water sitting on a crude table of unvarnished wood. Studying her movements as she bathed her perfect body, Whit reached for a cigar and lit up. Should he believe her words about him having nothing to do with her decision? He wanted to ... or did he? Last night he had realized he wanted her within his reach, and now she’d told him of her impending freedom. She’d be free, he was free, and they could continue what they had started.
So what if history repeated itself? So what if she, like Jenny, found another man and took off? Well, this time in his life there would be no binding ties to make his suffering all the more difficult.
“You’re my woman now,” he stated.
The plain white chemise she was slipping over her head stopped moving halfway to its destination. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Your place is with me.”
Her brown eyes trained on Whit, she fitted the undergarment around her hips. “What do you mean?”
“Yeowwww!” Fancy screeched from her cage, interrupting their discussion. She began to twist and writhe in the small confines. Again, she howled.
“What’s the matter with her?” Mariah crossed the room.
“Beats me.”
Together they observed the fat cat’s strange behavior. Fancy continued to display distress. “She’s in pain,” Whit said. “We’d better get her out of there.”
Mariah eyed Gus to assure herself his cage was out of harm’s way. “Yes.”
Whit unfastened the hasp and took the tabby into his arms with extra care, but she would have none of it. Hair on end and still yowling, she took flight. But just as suddenly, her distress eased and she collapsed in a corner to lick her rump.
Whit strode to her, sat back on his heels, and ran his palm down her coat. He chuckled. “She’ll be all right.”
Mariah stepped over to the cat. “How can you say that? Something must be wrong with her.”
“Only the thing that has plagued females since the beginning of time.” He winked up at Mariah. “Labor.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Instantly she felt terrible for all the rough treatment she’d given an expectant mother. “What can I do to help?”
“Look over there in the cupboard and gather some rags and bring them here,” he said when Fancy’s contractions started anew. “A soft bed will make her more comfortable.”
“Do you think she’ll be in pain for very long?”
“This isn’t her first litter. She’ll deliver soon.”
“Thank goodness.”
Mariah fetched an old linen sheet, Whit folded it, then moved the cat to the soft pallet. Comforted, she looked up at him and purred.
Although Mariah was on pins and needles to press Whit about his vague words of only minutes earlier, she knew now was not the time for such a discussion. Instead, she boiled a pot of coffee.
He said I’m his woman, and my place is with him. That can only mean he wants us to marry.
She felt confident. Gail was right, she thought. We did find something to cherish.
By the time the second pot of coffee was consumed, Fancy was in the final stage of birth. “You’re doing just fine, girl,” Whit murmured,
stroking her forehead. “That’s right. Give it a good hard push.”
Fancy’s body stiffened. A glistening golden head appeared, and a few seconds later, the kitten was born.
The tabby bit through the birthing sack and licked her tiny yellow kitten. Within seconds it began to mewl, and the mother nudged it to a nipple. Minuscule paws began to knead Fancy’s tummy.
“Let’s leave little mommy be.” Whit got to his feet, and put his arm around Mariah’s shoulder.
She nodded as he tightened his grip. In unison, they retreated four steps. “Isn’t the kitten precious?” she asked softly. “Oh, I can’t wait to hold it. I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“Do I detect a bit of the cat lover in you?”
“Nothing is cuter than a kitten.”
“Not even me?” he teased.
“Well,” she said, pulling out the word, “now that you mention it ...”
He laughed and kissed her neck, his touch raising goosebumps on her flesh. “You’re cuter than a kitten, too,” he said.
At that moment Fancy gave birth to her second offspring, this time a pitch-black one, and Mariah smiled.
“Beautiful thing, birth,” Whit said, squeezing her shoulder. “No matter how many times I’ve been around animals bearing their young, I never cease to be awed.”
She was viewing a whole new side of Whit Reagor–the sentimental man–and it was touching. “You’ll make a fine father, Whit.”
He dropped his arm, and she realized something was wrong–even before he said, “Never in a million years.”
“You don’t want children?”
“Fancy needs a bowl of water.”
In a quandary, Mariah watched him act on his words. “Why didn’t you answer my question?”
“After what I told you last night, I’m surprised you’d ask.” He stomped to the bed they had abandoned, sat down, and rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand. “Raising children takes a wife. And a wife means marriage. I’m a ribbon-wearing veteran of that war.”
“You weren’t proposing before Fancy interrupted us! Then what did you mean?” she asked woodenly.