by Maggie James
Soon she took over the vigil, but Ryder swam only briefly.
When he came out, she was sitting beneath the sparse shade of a cottonwood tree, knees drawn to her chin. A slight breeze had begun to stir but not enough to cool the fires smoldering within her, for he had stripped completely.
Their heated gazes locked as he walked directly toward her, passing his clothing which he had left on the ground.
He dropped beside her, still imprisoning her with his lust-filled eyes.
A small sound seeped from her throat as he reached for her. Hands clutching his shoulders, her lips softened beneath his almost-bruising kiss, she allowed her tongue to slide gently into his mouth.
He groaned softly, and she pulled back long enough to tease, “No one is standing guard, you know.”
“Outlaws be damned,” he growled, claiming her lips once more.
His long fingers tugged at the ribbon at the front of her chemise, which was wet and plastered to her body. His mouth moved slowly across her shoulders.
With the ribbon untied, her breasts tumbled forth, and he bent his head and kissed each in turn as though it were a delicate, succulent fruit that must be caressed only with tenderness, lest it bruise.
Hooking his thumbs in her pantalets, he pulled them down over her hips and off her ankles to be cast aside.
He stretched her out on the ground and settled beside her as he kneaded the curve of her waist, then moved warm hands lower to smooth over her buttocks and slide between.
Deftly he laced his fingers through the damp, curling hair at the apex of her thighs before diving downward to stroke and tease the folds of her sex.
She arched against him, flames of desire licking from head to toe, the core of her throbbing with damp, slick heat. She pulled him closer, wanting him and sobbing deep in her throat to think how in that burning moment she would surely die if she did not have him.
“Take me,” she moaned. “Please, please, Ryder…take me.”
And he did so, spreading her thighs and positioning himself between. “Put your legs around me,” he urged, “and your heels on my back. Then ride me, sweetheart. Ride me with everything you have.”
He plunged into her, and the gasp of ecstasy came from her very soul.
She matched his every thrust with one of her own, her nails digging into the rock-hard flesh of his broad back. He did not wince but urged her on, his face contorted with the tension of holding back to ensure she reached her own pinnacle before he released his seed into her core.
At last, they came together. For long moments they lay quietly in each other’s arms, rocked by the splendor of their passion.
With great effort, Ryder finally forced himself to draw away from her. “We’ve got to ride, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her fevered brow. “We’ve got the rest of our lives for this.”
The rest of our lives. Kitty mulled the words over as she hurriedly dressed.
They could mean nothing.
Or everything.
Only time would tell.
It was nearly sundown when Ryder cried triumphantly, “That’s it. Beyond that cluster of boulders. It’s the camp. It has to be.”
They dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and galloped the rest of the way, charging around the rocks and into the clearing to share shouts of jubilation.
There were a few tools about—shovels, picks, and empty barrels—and sacks of feed for mules no longer there. A well was situated near a small wood shack.
Quickly dismounting, they went first to the shack.
It had a small porch, with two old rocking chairs that had seen better days.
Kitty felt a wave of sadness as she sank into one and began to rock to and fro. “He sat here,” she said in wonder. “My uncle actually sat here, probably in the evenings after a hard day digging. However did they get them here, though?” she marveled.
“On pack mules,” Ryder said. “And, yes, he probably did sit here after a hard day digging, but where in the hell was the dig?” He scanned the barren clearing surrounded by boulders. “I don’t see any signs, much less the opening to a mine shaft.”
“Maybe this was just where they ate and slept, and they mined somewhere else.”
“Not according to the map. It leads right here and nowhere else.”
Kitty jumped from the rocker. “The fireplace. This shack has a chimney. I saw it. So there will be a fireplace, and maybe that’s what the Bible verse meant.”
They went inside to see that the shack had but three walls, the back wall actually being the side of a boulder. It was only one room with a dirt floor. There was a table made of a board laid across two large rocks, and two benches made in similar fashion.
On each side was a mattress made of saw grass, with animal skins for cover.
The fireplace was crude but adequate. A few cooking pots were scattered around, along with utensils made of tin or clay. Ryder gestured to the coffeepot. “I wish it was full and piping hot.”
“It can be,” Kitty said cheerily, indicating the supplies stacked in a corner. “I see coffee, as well as flour. I can make tortillas for our supper. Maybe you can snare a rabbit.”
“Right now I’m not concerned with food.” He squatted in front of the fireplace and leaned inside to look up, then said, “I can see daylight up there, so it’s not a false chimney.”
He checked all around it. “Nothing. No loose stones. No signs of digging.” He lifted the lid of the wood box beside it. “Just a few pieces of kindling wood.” With a sigh, he straightened. “I think we can forget anything to do with fireplace or chimney.
“But there’s something we’d better notice real quick,” he said suddenly, sharply, as he spotted the stack of boxes in another corner. “Dynamite. They must have left it here to keep it from getting wet if it rained. Probably did it just before they left, because they wouldn’t have been so stupid as to keep it near where they had a fire going.
“This means,” he whirled on her, eyes shining, “that the dig has to be around here somewhere. If we only had a Bible to try and figure out the verse—”
“We do,” she cried, rushing to the mattress closest to her. She knelt and picked up the worn Bible from where it lay, partially covered.
“This must have been your father’s bed,” she said, almost reverently, as she pointed to a candle in a wax-covered jug nearby. “He probably read from his Bible every night before he fell asleep.”
Ryder took it from her and immediately opened to the front and the book of Genesis.
“So you do know a little about the Bible,” she said. “Like how the chapters are arranged.”
“The missionaries introduced me to it, yes,” he said absently as he turned the pages. “Here,” he cried. “Chapter 18, verse 27—‘Behold now, I have taken upon me to speak unto the Lord, which am but dust and ashes.’
“Which doesn’t mean a damn thing to me,” he concluded lamely.
“Me, either. So what do we do now?”
“Think about it while I get this dynamite out of here. It makes me uneasy. You can draw some water from the well. I’ll get a fire going once I get the dynamite out, and then you can make us some coffee.”
“I can help you with the smaller boxes.” She started toward them.
“No.” He spoke so loudly she jumped.
“No,” he repeated, more softly, then explained, “The blasting caps are in the smaller boxes and may be more dangerous than the dynamite.”
Reaching into a box, he gingerly took out a small, tubular-shaped object. “In order for dynamite to explode, it has to have a heavy jolt—like this cap. It’s made of something known as fulminate of mercury. You put it in the dynamite stick and then set it off with either a spark or a light concussion. But caps alone can blow up and take a hand—or even a life. They’re nothing to mess around with.”
“How do you know about such things?”
“I worked in a mine once to make a few dollars when the army didn’t need me as a scout. T
hey had me doing the dynamiting, and, believe me, I learned quick so I wouldn’t make a mistake. Blasting is slow, however. It advances a tunnel by maybe three feet each explosion.”
“Wasn’t it terribly dangerous for my uncle and your father to transport it here?”
“Oh, yes, and you can believe they packed everything very carefully and moved easy to keep from jarring it.”
He picked up a box of dynamite and carried it out. Kitty went to the well, and groaned when she saw it was boarded over.
“It must have gone dry,” Ryder said when she told him. “But don’t worry. I’m stacking the dynamite on top of the rocks just above it, and I spotted a watering hole on the other side. Probably it’s fed by an underground stream. We can get water there.
“By the way,” he added, lifting another box, “I noticed something interesting up there. It appears that’s where they kept the dynamite when it wasn’t in the shack. I found some caps strewn about.”
Kitty felt renewed hope. “Then the dig has to be somewhere around here, Ryder.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. But it’s going to be dark soon. We’ll have to wait till morning to try to find it.”
Alone, Kitty wandered about the tiny shack, deeply moved to think this was where her uncle had lived. How she wished she could have seen him one more time to tell him how much he truly meant to her. And if the gold could not be found, she was glad to have come so far, if only to visit what had been his home.
Finding a knapsack, she opened it and immediately wept to find the letters she had written to him through the years. Tied with a pink ribbon, they were packed with a worn, moth-eaten sweater she had knitted for him the year she tried her hand at ladylike crafts. It was the one garment she had been able to complete, and though it was crudely made, he had apparently treasured it.
She sat on the floor and cradled the sweater to her cheek as childhood memories came sweeping back. The years with her uncle had been the only truly happy ones she had known. She wished now she had run away to follow him to Arizona. She could have cooked for him, cared for him, and things would have been different for both of them. And his life would not have been cut short so tragically, and—
A strange noise was coming from inside the wood box.
Thinking it was a rat or a snake, she raised up on her knees and drew her pistol, then cautiously reached to lift the lid.
Just then it banged open with a loud clatter, kindling sticks scattering as Ryder poked his head up to find himself staring into a gun barrel. “Don’t shoot.”
Wide eyed, Kitty holstered her pistol. “How did you get in there?”
He climbed out and dusted himself off. “When I was stacking the dynamite I noticed a large hole beneath the edge of one of the larger rocks. I looked inside and realized it was actually a tunnel of some sort, so I climbed in to see where it went, hoping it would lead to the mine shaft. It led here instead.”
Kitty rocked back on her heels. “Why on earth would they have done that?”
“Obviously for an escape route in case they got trapped in here by outlaws or Indians. There’s no telling what we’re going to find around this place, and—” He saw the open knapsack beside her. “What do you have there?”
“The letters I wrote my uncle over the years. Looks like he kept every one of them.”
He saw her sadness and gathered her close. “It hurts, I know. They shouldn’t have died. They should have given up the damn map, told where the gold was.”
He rested his chin on top of her head as he continued to hold her. “I keep thinking how my father hinted he’d be going to Mexico with us, and the look on my mother’s face when I told her. I realized then they never stopped loving each other. It was going to be a chance for them to be together and make a new life.
“I hope we don’t lose our chance,” he murmured, his cheek brushing her hair.
“I hope not, too, Ryder,” she said shakily, pressing closer against him, delighting in the warm, masculine scent of him and how she felt so protected, so cherished, in the circle of his arms.
He bent his head and kissed her, long and deep and possessing. She yielded, twining her arms about his neck.
Then, lifting her up, he carried her to lay her down on one of the mattresses. “I think supper will have to wait awhile,” he said huskily as he began to undo the buttons of her blouse while raining kisses over her face, “because we’re having dessert first.”
As he worked on her blouse, she tore at his shirt, his trousers, wanting to be flesh to flesh, heart to heart.
When they were naked, he lay back and spread his thighs, then gently settled her on top of him. She shuddered with delight to feel his swollen shaft enter and began to undulate her hips against him.
He clutched her buttocks tightly, lifting his own to match her, sensuous rhythm.
It did not take long. They felt themselves peaking together. Kitty threw back her head and gave a soft cry as Ryder clutched her tighter in his own journey to bliss.
Afterward, she collapsed beside him, soaked with sweat and exhausted.
“You’re like a wild mustang,” he whispered, caressing her cheek as she snuggled against him. “You can be tamed, but your spirit will never be broken. And that’s how I’d want it, Kitty. I—”
It was like a hailstorm of lead as an explosion of bullets suddenly hit the front wall of the shack.
Kitty screamed, but Ryder, no stranger to sudden danger, reacted quickly. “Stay still,” he ordered, holding her tight against him.
The firing lasted for interminably long moments, then there was silence.
“Now,” he commanded, lunging for his gun in the near-darkness. “Shoot back, goddamn it, and let them know we’re still alive before they rush us.”
Together they fired off several rounds. Ryder dared peer out a window, to see several men running for the cover of the rocks.
“Get your clothes on fast. Then reload.”
Hands shaking, Kitty obeyed. She had never been in a gunfight, and knowing how to shoot was little consolation, she feared, when outnumbered. “How many are there?”
“It’s hard to tell. I can’t see. It’s almost dark.” He was rapidly stuffing bullets into the gun’s cylinder. “I’m glad I tied the horses by the water hole on the other side. Otherwise, they’d probably have been hit.”
Kitty fed her own guns. “There were only two at the river yesterday.”
“Evidently they rounded up a gang. Damn it, maybe I should have covered our tracks, but if they are the murderers, I wanted them to follow.”
“So did I, but I never thought they’d bring all their friends.”
“We’re going to have to clear out of here. I had one more box of dynamite to move, and if it gets hit, we’ll be blown to bits. We can use the tunnel under the wood box. Once we get to the top of the boulders, all we have to do is scramble down the back side to the horses and ride out of here.”
“But what about those murdering bastards?” she protested. “Are we going to just let them get away?”
“Hell, no. I’ll leave you someplace safe, then go back to my camp and get my warriors.”
“That means riding through Comanche Pass.”
“I don’t have a choice.” He slid one last bullet in the cylinder and gave it a spin, then clicked it in place. “Go now. I’ll hang back to cover a few minutes, and then I’ll be right behind you.”
Kitty worried. “But if they start shooting and hit the dynamite—”
“Go.” He hooked a hand around her neck to yank her close for a quick kiss, then released her. “Don’t worry about me.” He gave her a gentle shove.
She took a few steps, then turned to look at him once more, barely able to see him in the shadowy darkness as he crept toward a window.
A shot rang out, then another, and he yelled at her to get the hell out as he started shooting back. But Kitty could not abandon him and rushed to the other window to take aim.
He saw her and yelled, “I
told you to get out of here, damn it—”
And then he was hit.
With a grunt, he pitched forward.
After a few moments, the firing stopped, and Kitty was able to rush to him, but he pushed her away. “Go on. Get in the tunnel.”
“But you’re hurt. I can’t leave you.”
“You’ve got to. It’s my leg. I can’t run, Kitty. Now go. I’ll hold them back.”
“I won’t leave you,” she repeated sharply. “Let’s fire a few rounds and then we’ll both go. I’ll help you through the tunnel.”
“You’re going to get both of us killed,” he fumed. “God, woman, I should have beat that stubborn streak out of you when you were my slave. Start shooting.”
She raised to the window and emptied one of her pistols, then ducked as a hail of bullets was promptly returned.
“Now,” she said. “We can get out while they reload. Put your arm across my shoulders. Hurry…”
He shrugged her away.
“Now who’s being stubborn?”
“Go. I’m coming. I promise.”
But Kitty refused to climb down into the wood box, insisting he go first. “You know the way, how the tunnel curves, and I’ll be behind you in case you pass out.”
She could imagine the fury etched on his face as he snapped, “I’m not going to pass out. I’ve been hurt worse than this.”
She knew he was bleeding badly. “Wait a minute.” She bent and quickly tore a strip of material from the bottom of her skirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound.
When she was finished, he braced himself against the anguish of moving his wounded limb and lowered himself into the box.
Kitty was close behind.
It was pitch dark, and the way was narrow, forcing them to stoop. She knew he had to be in agony.
They began to move upward, stretching, reaching, climbing. Kitty wondered how he was able to endure, and marveled at his strength and courage.
At last, he pulled himself up into the night that had finally descended.
“Are you all right?” she whispered anxiously when she reached his side.
“I think so. The bandage helped.”
“They haven’t fired at the shack any more.”