Emma nearly choked on a mouthful of potatoes. Macon. Steven had gone to his half-brother, the man who wanted more than anything to see him dead. “The fool,” she sputtered, setting the plate down and starting to scramble out from underneath the wagon. “Did he go alone?”
“Missy sit down and finish supper,” Sing Cho said. “Mr. Fairfax not alone. He take Mr. Deva.”
She knew she needed all her strength, so Emma sat down and ate dutifully. She was still worried, though, and the food lay like rain-soaked newspaper in the pit of her stomach.
Sing Cho went back to his work.
Steven and Mr. Deva returned a half hour later, the latter leading the little pinto mare Emma had rented in Whitneyville. Flinging her plate down, forgetting her aching thighs and back and bottom, she raced to meet Steven, fury replacing her anxiety.
She watched him swing down from his gelding’s back and hand the reins to Mr. Deva, who led both horses away toward the improvised corral on the far side of the camp.
Angry as she was, Emma remembered the rule Steven had imposed. “You’re an idiot, Mr. Fairfax,” she said clearly.
He was, though it seemed impossible, even dirtier than she was. His grin made a striking contrast against the dust-caked tan of his face. He took her by the elbow and hustled her around the side of the supply wagon, where they had a semblance of privacy.
“If you have further complaints about my intelligence, Miss Emma,” he said with biting cordiality, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t voice them in front of men who work for me. It undercuts my authority.”
“You could have been killed,” Emma spat, too miserable to care what effect her words might have had.
“Macon isn’t going to kill me,” Steven assured her, bis voice gentler now, his hands resting lightly on her upper arms. “That would be too easy and too quick. He wants to watch me suffer, Emma, and see me humiliated before the whole city of New Orleans.”
Emma felt ill. She covered her face with both hands, but the torturous images were there, behind her eyelids.
Steven put his arms around her. “I’ve been having a lot of second thoughts about your coming to Louisiana with me, Emma. It’s not just the trial. There’s an epidemic of yellow fever sweeping the South.” He paused and sighed, then went on. “We’ll still be married, if that’s what you want, but I think you should stay in Whitneyville, with Chloe, until the trial is over.”
Her head flew back from his shoulder in her haste to look up at his face. “No.”
Steven sighed. “I’ll come back for you when I can,” he promised.
“I’m going with you,” Emma insisted feverishly. “I won’t get sick and I couldn’t stand being apart from you, waiting day after day to hear the verdict—”
He laid his gloved fingers to her mouth. “I don’t think you understand what it will be like in New Orleans,” he said. “I’ll probably be arrested as soon as I step down from the train. Don’t you see, we’ll be separated for a while anyway?”
“I’m going with you,” Emma repeated, her voice muffled by the front of his shirt, and she clung to him as though prison guards were even then trying to pull him away. “If you leave me here, I’ll only follow you.”
She felt Steven’s chest move as he sighed. “You’d have been better off if you’d never met me,” he said sadly, and then he freed himself from Emma’s embrace and walked away.
She was too proud to go after him, so she went back to the wagon and crawled underneath, still wearing her boots and the big coat that kept her warm when the night air turned chilly. Stretching out on the blankets, Emma curled up into a ball and waited.
The epidemic seemed far away, unreal.
After an hour Steven joined her, smelling of sweat and dust and whiskey. He pulled her close and kissed her lightly on the temple.
She laid her hand on his upper arm and felt the bandage there. Sing Cho had checked the wound regularly; it was healing, and there was no sign of infection. All the same, she withdrew her hand quickly.
He gave her a nibbling kiss on the mouth, then lay down and closed his eyes.
Emma burned for his touch, for the peculiar comforts only he could give. “Make love to me, Steven,” she whispered.
He chuckled. “We’re lot alone, remember?”
“I can be quiet, I promise.”
“Well, I don’t know if I can. Go to sleep, Emma.”
“I can’t. My whole body aches, and I want you.” She laid her hand on him, took satisfaction in his effort to stifle the resulting groan and in the leaping hardness pressing against her fingers.
He rolled onto his side and began laying her bare beneath the blanket. “You know,” he said with gruff resignation, “a few months in prison would probably do me good. I could catch up on my rest.”
Emma gasped with pleasure when his cool fingers found her warm, plump breast and closed over it possessively. She laid her hands beside her head and bit down hard on her lower lip.
When Steven’s lips replaced his hand, Emma was lost. Her groan of delighted acquiescence would have been heard all over the camp if Steven hadn’t covered her mouth with his palm. When a fine mist of perspiration covered her body, and she felt she would die if Steven didn’t satisfy her, he displaced her skirt with one hand and mounted her.
She arched against him, trying 20;Make lake him inside her, out he only teased her with brief samplings of himself. His mouth moved close to her ear.
“This is going to be hard and fast,” he warned huskily. “But don’t get used to it. When I have you, I like it to be at my leisure. I like taking everything you have to give.”
Emma trembled, her thighs widening as she felt him prodding her with his heat and power. She arched her back when she felt him enter her in a long, slow stroke.
He covered her mouth with his, while clasping her hands in his own and pressing them into the rough fabric of the blanket. He swallowed every moan and cry she gave as his body moved relentlessly upon hers.
She longed to writhe in her passion, but his possession permitted her to do nothing more than receive him. The sensations built until she couldn’t sort herself into mind, spirit, and body, until she was not one woman, but all women. With every stroke he wound her tighter and tighter, like the spring of a watch. Then in a glorious, silent explosion, the spring spiraled outward in a spinning dash toward freedom.
Steven kissed Emma until she’d stopped bucking beneath him, until she was absolutely still, except for her trembling. She watched, dazed, as he bared his teeth, flung his head back and stiffened violently.
He fell to her, his breathing ragged, and she entangled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, consoling him in his tremulous joy.
“I love you,” he ground out when he was able to speak.
Emma moved to close her blouse, but Steven grasped her hands and stopped her. Pulling her onto her side, he slid downward until he could take a nipple into his mouth, and he sucked until exhaustion claimed him.
When Emma awakened in the dark hours just before dawn, Steven was gone. Buttoning her bodice, thinking that her whole life might one day consist of this same aching feeling of aloneness, Emma steeled herself against a fresh flow of tears and went back to sleep.
The coming days were much like that one. Riding the pinto mare Steven had recovered for her, Emma did her best to keep up with the men. Although there were many times when she felt sure she would fall out of the saddle and just lie there on the ground, never to get up again, she persisted.
Hygiene was a problem, since she had no fresh clothes and no real opportunity to bathe. If they stopped near water, she always crept away and got herself as clean as she could, but these efforts were haphazard at best.
Late in the afternoon of the sixth day they came to the rim of a giant basin and saw the bustling little community of Spokane below, nestled in the curve of a narrow river. Dreaming of hot baths, of hours of sleep in a real bed and food that hadn’t been cooked over an open fire, Emma dr
ew strength from the sight.
Driving the caterwauling cattle along ahead of them, the cowboys whooped and whistled at the prospect of money, whiskey, and women.
The herd filled the main street of the city, spooking horses and sending ladies scurrying for the safety of shops and restaurants. Emma gazed with longing at a black sateen skirt and lacy white bodice displayed in one of the windows.
Steven, whose horse was close beside hers, gave her muchdge with his elbow. “Here,” he said, handing her a sizable bill. “Buy whatever you need and check into that hotel we saw when we rode in. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve turned the herd over to the army.”
Emma hesitated only for a moment before handing the money back. She wasn’t comfortable taking funds from Steven, since he wasn’t yet her husband, and she still had over twenty dollars of her own. She was returning his glare and preparing to turn and make her way through the sea of cattle, when she saw a tall, well-built man in an impeccable blue uniform step out of a building and stride toward them. He had gold epaulets on his broad shoulders and wide yellow stripes down the outside of his trouser legs. All in all, he was a most splendid sight.
Some curiosity made Emma linger. “What’s his rank?” she asked Steven.
Steven’s jaw was set, and his eyes had narrowed slightly in his dirty face. “He’s a major,” he replied, with a trace of bitterness in his voice.
“You the trail boss?” the major asked. At Steven’s nod, he took off his campaign hat and dragged one sleeve across his forehead. Emma saw that he was fair-haired, with beautiful amber eyes, good skin, and teeth as strikingly white as Steven’s. He had a tense look about him, though, as if something continually chewed at him.
Steven swung down off his horse and walked up to him, offering a recalcitrant greeting. “Hello, Yank,” he said, and Emma closed her eyes. Leave it to Steven to start the war up again, just when everybody else was beginning to forget about it.
The major grinned. “Hello, Johnny,” he responded easily.
“His name is Steven,” Emma called out impulsively, standing in her stirrups. “Steven Fairfax.”
For her trouble, she was rewarded with an over-the-shoulder glare from Steven and a laugh from the major.
“I know somebody like you,” the handsome soldier said.
Steven’s demeanor had softened a little, but he pointed at Emma nonetheless, and the narrowing of his eyes warned her to be about her business and leave him to his. “You have things to do,” he reminded her.
Irate, but still eager for a bath and food and clean clothes, Emma dismounted and tethered her horse to a hitching post. After giving the major a broad smile, not for his benefit but for Steven’s, she walked into the dress shop where she’d seen the skirt and blouse she wanted.
“Caleb Halliday, Mr. Fairfax,” the Yankee said, offering a gloved hand.
Steven hesitated for a moment, then shook the major’s hand.
His soldiers were already taking over the herd from Big John’s cowhands. It made Steven nervous to see so many blue uniforms around all at once. He was anxious to get the papers signed, collect the bank draft, pay off the men, and turn his full attention to Emma. Nobody knew better than he did how precious their time together really was.
Halliday inspected a few of the cattle in a knowledgeable offhand way that commanded respect. Then he and Steven went into a saloon together and sat down.
Steven had taken refreshment in the presence of Yankees before, of course, but never one in uniform. Still edgy, he tossed back the first drink and promptly poured himself a second.
“How’s Big John?” the major asked, and Steven saw real interest in his whiskey-colored eyes, along with a certain weariness.
Steven would have been willing to bet he had woman trouble. “Ornery as ever,” he replied, scanning the papers Halliday had taken from the inside pocket of his gold-trimmed blue coat. “He would have made the trip himself, but he was busy with the branding.”
The major nodded, still nursing his first drink. He was a pleasant sort, and Steven found it hard to dislike him.
They completed the rest of their business in record time, then Steven asked, “Where can a man get a hot bath around here?”
Halliday grinned, obviously remembering Emma. “There’s a bathhouse just down the street, behind Finnegan’s Saloon. Twenty-five cents for fresh water, five for somebody else’s.”
Steven nodded and stood, extending his hand to the major. “Thanks,” he said.
Halliday shook his hand and then tucked his copy of the signed contract into his inside pocket. He acknowledged Steven’s thanks with a nod and added, “Give my regards to Big John.”
It wasn’t hard to find the boys; they were lined up at the bar, spending whatever they had left of last month’s wages.
The herd was on its way to Fort Deveraux, under the care of the army, but the dust of their passing still roiled in the air.
Steven took the draft to the nearest bank, drew enough cash to pay the cowhands, then had the clerk write up a check made out to Big John. When he returned to the saloon to pay the men, the major was gone.
After giving each of the men their agreed salary for the drive, he left the saloon and headed for Sing Cho’s supply wagon. He got clean clothes from the back and handed the Chinese his money.
The response was a polite bow of thanks.
Steven left Sing Cho and followed the major’s directions to the bathhouse. At the door he paid a quarter, and a short man with grizzled hair and a tobacco-stained beard pointed to a row of cubicles curtained off with canvas. “Last one on the left,” he said. “I’ll have the hot water for you in a jiffy. You want a cigar and some whiskey? It’s fifteen cents extry.”
Steven nodded, and five minutes later, he was up to his chin in a tubful of clean, hot water, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a lighted cigar clamped between his teeth. He listened with amusement as men splashed and sang in the cubicles all around him.
When he’d finished the cigar and the whiskey, he set about scouring off the dirt and sweat of a week on the trail. When his hair was clean and his skin was back to its normal color, he climbed out of the water, dried himself with the coarse, frayed towel provided, and put on fresh clothes.
The old ones were so bad that, after retrieving his money, Big John’s bank draft, and his copy of the contract with the army, he kicked them into the corner and em for trash.
He was eager to get to Emma, but he forced himself to take the time to step into a barber shop. He had a close shave and got his hair trimmed, then went on to the hotel.
Emma might have spent the rest of her life in the deliciously hot, clean water the maids carried to her room, but she was hungry and tired, and she knew Steven would be back sooner or later. She wanted to be ready for him.
So, reluctantly, she got out of the tub and dried herself off. Wearing only the new camisole and knickers she’d bought at the dress shop, she combed out her wet, tangled hair and patiently plaited it into its customary braid. When that was done, she sat on the edge of the bed and waited for her dinner to arrive.
A maid brought it on a tray, and Emma hid behind the changing screen until she was gone because she didn’t have a wrapper to cover herself.
The moment she heard the door close, she dashed out and attacked the pork chops, boiled corn, mashed potatoes and gravy she’d ordered earlier. When she’d eaten the last scrap, an incredible weariness came over her.
She put the dinner tray on the bureau, pulled back the covers on the crisply made bed, and crawled between the starched sheets. The moment she closed her eyes, she was asleep.
She awakened sometime later to the caress of a cool breeze and opened her eyes to see Steven bending over her with a mischievous grin. He’d tossed back the covers and his eyes moved boldly over Emma’s lush figure.
“I’d almost forgotten there was a woman under all that dirt,” he said.
Emma stretched like a cat, pointing her toes, reaching high above
her head with her arms. Steven was cleanshaven, and his brown hair was neatly trimmed. His chest was bare, and Emma realized he’d already taken off most of his clothes.
A delicious sense of the inevitable swept over her, and she started to lower her hands only to have Steven grasp her at the wrists and prevent the motion. With his free hand he undid the pretty ribbon ties that held her camisole together, and Emma trembled with anticipation when he laid the thin fabric aside.
“Today,” he said hoarsely, “I’m taking my time. Be prepared to put in a very long afternoon, Miss Emma.”
Then he released her and sat down to pull off his boots.
Emma traced the muscles in his bare back with a lazy finger. “When are we getting married?” she asked.
“As soon as we’re through with our honeymoon,” he replied with a grin, standing up to unfasten his trousers. The Colt .45, Emma saw out of the corner of one eye, was resting within reach on the bedside table, as always.
Presently Steven stretched out beside her, his hand deftly working the ties on her drawers. He smoothed them away as skillfully as usual and then maneuvered Emma so that she was kneeling astraddle of his hips, the weight of her torso resting on her elbows.
Then he slid beneath her until he could take a nipple into his mouth.
Emma moaned without restraint as he sucked, yearning to feel him inside her. As he’d promised, however,ven took his time.
When he’d had his fill of both her breasts, he caught hold of Emma’s waist and slid even further downward, until she was fully vulnerable to him. He parted the moist curtain of silk and teased her with his tongue until she was half delirious, her palms sweating where she gripped the metal railings of the headboard, her neck arched.
A fevered litany fell from her lips as she submitted, and the headboard rattled as she rode a fiery steed toward a vision of light and fire. His hands clasped her tensing buttocks as the blazes enveloped her.
Emma’s climax had been a violent one, fierce and seemingly endless, and she collapsed when it ended, her cheek pressed to the pillow, her breath coming in gasps. Surely, she thought, Steven would let her rest before he asked any more of her.
Emma and the Outlaw Page 24