Wild Texas Rose

by Martha Hix

  Chapter Eighteen

  The diffused sun lightened the back of Mariah’s eyelids, but her half-awake senses paid little heed. She snuggled deeper in the soft covers, but soon the scent of coffee and food tickled her nostrils. Sounds–horses and wagons and people and a rooster’s crow–pene-trated her hearing, but those things were muffled, as if ... This wasn’t the farm. Where was she?

  She yanked up in bed, and almost upset the tray Whit was setting by her side.

  “Morning, glory,” he said, winking an eye. “Ever had breakfast in bed?”

  Still confused, she rattled, “ ‘Why, what . . . Good heavens. I shouldn’t have ... Why’d you let me spend the night?”

  “You fell asleep in the front room, Red. What was I to do? Strap you on your mare and give the ole girl a nudge in her side?”

  A short laugh escaped her throat. “No, I guess not.”

  She settled back against the pillow and tucked the sheet under her arms. Her now-clear eyes assessed the unshaven, half-dressed man who stood beside her and was placing the tray on a bedside table.

  Butterflies tickled her midsection at the sight of his tousled jet-black hair. The flutters increased as she gazed at his olive-toned chest, which was bare save for whorled hair and scars. A pair of denim breeches, the top button unfastened, hugged his thighs. She realized her own state of dress. She wore only her thin chemise. Had they ...?

  Surely she would have remembered their sleeping together, but her head turned to the opposite side of the bed for assurance. The other pillow had no indention.

  “I slept on the sofa, Red.”

  “ ‘What’s the matter?” she teased, relieved. “Was I snoring?”

  “You got that right. I never heard such a racket. Thought a big black bear was holed up in here.”

  “Oh, you!” Laughing, she grabbed the unused pillow and threw it at his face. “Big black bear, my eye.”

  “I’ll teach you not to use violence with me, little red bear.”

  He slung his leg over hers and, with lightning speed, pinned her hips between his knees. His fingers wiggled and descended on her ribs. Through her giggling beseeches to stop, Whit unmercifully tickled her.

  “I’ll withhold your honey and water,” he warned in feigned menace. “My fingers will continue to draw the bear’s misery until repentance against my poor person escapes those snoring lips.”

  “Never!” she cried.

  “You will.”

  His fingers stilled for a moment, his hands curving around her sides, and she smiled. She needed to be with Whit, and wanted nothing to diminish this wonderful feeling he roused within her. She wouldn’t think about the world outside this bedroom.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” he teased. “I won’t be taken in by soft eyes.”

  Once more he set to tickling her ribs, but she was on the offensive. Her pelvis nudged against the juncture of his legs, and she taunted, “Then what are you going to do ... about your problem?”

  His fingers stilled, then moved to cover her chemise-draped breasts. “What would you have me do?”

  Brazenly, she locked her brown eyes with the blue of his. “Whatever tickles your fancy.”

  “Tickles my fancy, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  His voice was low as he asked, “You promise you’ll grant me all my desires?”

  “Yes, Whit, I’ll grant your fancies.”

  His Adam’s apple moved up and down his throat once as he swallowed. “Kiss me.”

  Whatever he wanted was fine with Mariah. Absolutely, breathtakingly fine. “Come here.”

  He lowered his upper body, his face stopping within inches of hers. She caught mingling smells–soap, the spice of bay rum, warm skin–those wonderful scents which were Whit Reagor. Her hands cupped his unshaven cheeks, and she delighted in the rough feel against her sensitive palms. Her lips parted, her head leaving the pillow as she touched her tongue to the chiseled planes of his mouth. But it wasn’t she who continued to give the kiss, for they both were willing participants.

  “You taste so sweet,” he murmured, then trailed his tongue to her ear, eliciting her quivers of delight.

  Her hand smoothed to his chest, encountering an indention that evoked a question. “Whit, how did you get these scars?”

  “From a war not nearly as troublesome as you.

  “Which war?”

  “Civil,” he answered, his teeth nipping her chin. “Now shut up about such nonsense.”

  She didn’t say another word about wars or scars, but couldn’t get either one out of her thoughts. The American Civil War was fought in the early sixties. Whit must have been very young at the time, and her heart went out to him as she ruminated over what must have been.

  “Which side did you fight for?” she asked, unable to give up in spite of his request.

  “What in the hell kind of question is that? The Confederacy, of course. I’m a Texan, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Well, I read that Texans were divided in their loyalties. Sam Houston–”

  “You wanna talk about Sam Houston when we’re trying to make love? Damn, woman, have I got body odor or something?”

  “No, silly goose.” Chuckling, she snuggled against him. “I do believe you had a bath this morning.”

  “Well, Red, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  “ ‘Why doesn’t the man in question give me a big kiss?”

  “I’ll have none of that. Did you forget your promise?”

  “No.” Her tongue dipped into one of the scars on his chest, and she felt him shiver. “I’m at your beck and call.”

  He tensed, the air leaving his lungs. His eyes riveted to hers. “Make love to me, sweet Mariah,” he said, his deep timbre cloaked with desire. “Let me watch you undress. Grant me my pleasure, as you promised, and you’ll be amply rewarded.”

  Excitement surged through her. Even without the wild energy and skilled attention he had shown to her body on former occasions, she was tingling with wanting Whit. So easily he aroused her.

  Drawing the hem of her chemise to the start of her thighs, she rose to her knees, facing him. Her fingers pulled at the top ribbon of her garment, then at another ribbon and another with excruciating slowness. She slipped the strap from one shoulder, and Whit groaned as a plump breast and its hardened peak were bared to his sight.

  It gave her great pleasure to see him aroused, and she continued her disrobing enticingly. The other strap was slipped to the top of the remaining breast, but she pulled back the material when his nostrils flared with interest.

  “Sweet mercies,” he murmured as she continued her tantalization by dropping the chemise to the curve of her waist.

  “Had enough, cowboy?”

  “Not on your life.” But then with a sudden oath he pulled the cotton material to the top of her thighs so that he could flatten his palm on her downy, coppery triangle. His lips moved to the valley between her breasts. “You drive me mad with passion.”

  Her palm rubbed across the back of his huge, tanned hand, pressing him against her. “I think you’ve had enough,” she murmured.

  “I reckon.”

  He took the lead. His face replaced his hand, and he gentled kiss upon kiss to her tummy. The prickles of his cheeks rasped against her, and the feeling was marvelous, glorious, provocative. Her fingers lost power, the chemise slipping to her knees, and she tunneled her fingers through his thick curly hair. She could hold him like this for a long, long time, but she ached for the pleasures yet to unfold.

  “Do you have another fancy, my lord?” she asked, meaning the title and drawing back to rid her knees of the accoutrement.

  He chuckled. “I do.” Smoothly, he eased back on the mattress. “Unbutton my breeches.”

  “Yes,” she teased, running her palm across his heated, manly bulge. “I can see how you might be uncomfortable. But you didn’t say please.”

  “Please.”

  The toil was difficult, his breeches being so tight,
but she worked one button free and then two more. He is glorious, she thought. Her hand slipped between the V of denim, and his manhood was hot against her fingers, hot and smooth and turgid.

  “How you arouse me,” he said with huskily. “As none other has done before.”

  Her heart raced at his confession. Her fingers clamped compulsively around him, the pad of her thumb resting on the smooth, moist tip. With his hoarse tutoring she discovered a way to bring him to even further agitation.

  A minute later he urged her to refrain, adding, “Baby, baby . . .”

  He swept the breeches from his thigh, sending the blue denim flying across the bed as she laid her head against the pillow. Lightly he covered her naked flesh with his own, his tongue flicking against her earlobe, his finger moving to the center of her desire. Deeper she swirled in the glory of passion.

  Tenderly, gently, his finger led her on a journey to the heavens. Stars shooting through every vein in her body, she dug her nails into his back. “Oh, Whit ... please! I need you.”

  His lips touched a closed eye. “Not yet. I won’t let you renege on your promise.”

  Barely able to think with any clarity, she lifted her lashes. “Your fancy isn’t tickled, my lord?”

  His fingers weaved around a long auburn lock of her hair, rubbing it across his rock-hard chest. “Oh, it’s more than tickled, but . . .”

  “What would please you more?”

  His eyes were half lidded, and a crooked grin stole across his rugged features. “Ride me as if I were a stallion.”

  “Whit, we’ve never ...!”

  “I know,” he replied, his thumb trailing to the sensitive, aroused peak of her breast. “Never. But will you do it?”

  She grinned. His idea had appeal. A great amount of appeal, even though it held a hint of the wicked and wanton. But in Whit’s arms, she was wicked and wanton! And with his hands tantalizing her breasts like that ... “I don’t know how.”

  “My precious innocent, I’ll teach you.” Again, he rolled to his back. Guiding her leg across his belly, he insinuated his throbbing shaft against her. His hands canvassed her hips, then lifted her to him. “Surround me with you.”

  She did, and she heard him groan as he plunged upward, “So tight. So sweet. Oh, sweetheart ...” were his ragged words. Spreading her hair across her breasts, he said, “I’ve had so many fantasies about this.”

  And he was so big, so filling, that she thought she had ascended the firmament as she rode him to the point she knew to be heaven. As he filled her with his seed, she collapsed against him, her face burying into the musky wall of his hirsute chest.

  “Thank you,” he said, holding her close.

  “For what?”

  “For being you, my love.”

  My love. He had called her “my love”! How sweet those words ... even if they had been murmured in the afterglow of their passion. Oh, to be loved by Whit ...

  She recalled the previous evening, and his patience and understanding when she had poured out her heart. He was a good man, a fine man, a man who was kind to others ... and who loved kittens.

  I love him.

  “Love me, Whit. Please love me.”

  He grinned, and began his tender touches again. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  That wasn’t what she had meant, but she had her prayers. Someday he would love her, not simply make sweet, beautiful love to her. In her heart, she knew that to be true. In the meantime, she would enjoy what he offered... and he was offering something wonderfully enjoyable right then.

  Much later she ran the pad of a finger across his flat nipple. “How are the kittens?”

  “Great Scott, Mariah, you’re thinking about kittens at a moment like this?”

  “What are you thinking about?” she challenged.

  “Your beauty.” He nestled her into the crook of his arm. “There’s only one thing more beautiful in this world than your face and body. Your heart.”

  His sincere, tender words wound through Mariah, and she smiled.

  He gave her one more kiss, then scooted away to grab his breeches. “I’ll bet you’re hungry. Time for breakfast.”

  Warmed by his tenderness, and by her love, she smiled. Her grin broadened while she watched him tug on those breeches. He was the beautiful one!

  “Hope you’re hungry, Red, ’cause I fixed us a whopper of a breakfast.”

  Her eyes settled on his now-covered private parts. “I am hungry.”

  He crossed to the bedside table, all the while pointing a finger at her. “Greedy. Disgracefully greedy, that’s what you are.”

  “Absolutely. I’m hungry as a . . . bear.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “You’ll get plenty of what you’re begging for as soon as we have our breakfast. I’m starving. For food.”

  Obviously proud of his endeavors, he placed the breakfast tray across her lap, but his face fell. “Guess it got cold.”

  Mariah’s stomach turned. Several pieces of unleavened bread–no, they had to be several flat gray biscuits–garnished a large platter holding a burned-to-black steak and a half dozen fried eggs. Fried eggs, each with a brown lace edge and a coating of congealed fat.

  A tear formed, though, when she touched a wilted bluebonnet that centered an empty glass. A thousand roses would not have been more touching.

  As Whit filled her plate, then handed it to her, she smiled. “The food smells delicious,” she lied, for the fare had no smell at all. “Cold doesn’t bother me.” She crunched into the dry bread. The biscuit seemed to expand in her mouth. Would she ever be able to swallow it? It was all she could do not to choke as she complimented, “Mmm. Delicious.”

  He expelled his held breath. With gusto, Whit dug into a biscuit. Gulping, he swallowed and pulled a face. “Jeezus.” He grabbed the plates and the tray. “You ever lie like that to me again, woman, and I’m gonna tan your behind.”

  The biscuit grinding its way to her stomach, she returned, “Promises, promises.”

  He shoved the tray under the bed and shot her a murderous look. “Brazen tart, get dressed. We’ll feast at Jackie Jo’s emporium of fine dining.”

  “It’s”–she glanced at the acorn clock–“for heaven’s sake, I had no idea. Whit, it’s almost noon. I must call on Taft again.”

  “The sheriff isn’t going anywhere. What’s a couple of hours?”

  “Another couple of hours that Joseph’s killer walks free.” She reached for the pile of her neatly folded clothes.

  But Whit’s hand stopped her. “Forget it, Mariah. You won’t get any help from Wilburn Taft. You know he doesn’t give a damn who killed Joe Jaye.”

  “Then the good sheriff will have to be unseated.”

  “Don’t get too smug, Red. He’s in office by default. Last year, Taft was the sole deputy when Sheriff Eldon stole his wife’s gold and ran off with a saloon gal. No one else wanted the star except Taft, and we couldn’t find anyone to accept even a deputy’s badge. Those sentiments haven’t changed. So who’ll take the job?”

  “Someone who believes in right over wrong and who will fight for peace.”

  “Yeah, well, dream on. Sir Thomas More and Prester John have been dead a long time.”

  “How do you know about them?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Um, no reason. I meant no offense.” She had never taken Whit for a learned man. Would she never cease to be amazed by this enigmatic cowman? “Whit,” she said, back to the subject of Taft, “I won’t give up until we have a competent sheriff. And I need help. Will you be my ally?”

  “Against who?”

  “Against lawbreakers who burn someone else’s home. Or commit murder.”

  “What are you wanting, to find the person responsible for Joe’s murder or to start some sort of campaign?”

  “Both.”

  “Count me out. I’m not in the do-gooder business.”

  Mariah pushed her legs over the side of the bed, wrapping her nude body with the
top sheet and knotting the linen above her breasts. Her palms resting on the mattress, she asked, “So you want to keep on the way things are? Having your stable burned, having your livestock slaughtered. I should think you’d have all the more reasons to want peace. Unless avenging the misdeeds against you is all the tranquility you need.”

  “You’re being unfair.”

  “Then I apologize.” She reached for his hand. “Would you have me hold my tongue?”

  “No. Speak your mind.”

  “Whether you’re ready to accept it or not, times are changing. More and more settlers are leaving the East, and they want land of their own; they’ll claim it, too. And fences. Fences have pluses, even for ranchers. You’d need less help to handle the herd, and you could preserve the grasslands by rotating your pastures. Cattle drives won’t last forever, not with the railroads expanding their lines.”

  “Yes, and next you’d have me sowing just a few rows of corn and peas,” he said, his lip curling. He took his hand from hers. “No way, Mariah. My livelihood is the open range. I’ll fight for my way of life. I won’t compromise.”

  “You’ve met other challenges successfully. Why couldn’t you be as successful with new ways of doing things?”

  He frowned. “You’re talking about the future. Just exactly what are you asking of me, right now?”

  “Help me get Wilburn Taft fired.”

  His brows furrowed, Whit leaned an elbow against the chest of drawers. A quarter of a minute later, he replied, “You’re forgetting something. Taft sides with the cattlemen. Do you realize what you’re asking me to do? You’re asking me to turn against my brethren.”

  “I’m asking you to search your conscience, and then do what you feel is right.”

  Whit walked to the window and drew the curtain aside. Pressing his arm against the upper sash, he stared out. Several minutes later, he closed the curtain and turned to Mariah, who was still sitting on the bed’s edge. “I’ll be your ally,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She sighed in both relief and gratification. “Will you speak with the mayor about Sheriff Taft?”

  “What good would that do? I told you no one wants the job.” A moment later, he added, “But there are some men who could help. The Texas Rangers. I know a captain in the Rangers, Big Dan Dodson. Stationed over in Brownwood. He and I are old fishing pals.”