He panted against her face. "Don't be frightened."
"No... it's just so... oh!" She gasped as he pushed his finger against her woman's opening, as if he was trying to push it inside her. Inside her! She didn't want to lie quietly. She couldn't. A tense, tight feeling curled low in her belly, spreading, filling her chest until she couldn't breathe and the blood rushed in her ears.
His hair brushed her cheek as he lowered his head. He fumbled with the opening to his union suit with one hand while he grasped the hem of her night rail with the other, shoving it up around her waist.
A wet heat was spreading in a growing pool from that part of her as if she were melting down there. "Oh, please," she said again, wanting something, wanting something, wanting something...
He grew still above her, his chest heaving. His breathing was heavy and harsh. Lantern light gleamed off the sweat on his neck. "I'm sorry, but I have to be inside you now, girl. I gotta get inside you."
And he did just that: he pushed his hard, stiff man's thing inside her, and she nearly screamed. Only by stuffing her fist in her mouth could she stop it. Her eyes opened wide as he plunged deeper into her; she felt that he was ripping her in two. She struggled against the pain, heaving up against him. He thrust into her again and then again, and then he shuddered, arched his back, and a groan tore out from between his lips.
He collapsed on top of her, panting heavily, his face buried in her hair. She wanted to tell him that he was crushing her, that she couldn't breathe. She was burning between her legs, deep inside her woman's self where he still was, stretching her wide. Invading her.
He pulled out of her and rolled onto his side, gathering her up so that they lay nose to nose. The burning between her thighs eased somewhat. She could feel a hot wetness there now. She wondered if he had torn something inside her, if she was bleeding.
The sheets had gotten shoved to the bottom of the bed, and her night rail was twisted up around her waist. The air was cold on her bare skin. But she couldn't move, even to cover herself. She sucked in a deep, heart-shuddering breath. Her throat felt skinned raw, her chest tight and sore.
He rubbed his curled fingers back and forth across her mouth, pulling at her lower lip. "God, you were so small. I've... I never had me a virgin before. I didn't expect you to be so small. I guess it hurt pretty bad, huh?"
"Yes."
"Aw, girl." He rose above her, cupping her face in his big hands. "I wanted you so much, I couldn't seem to... Next time I'll go gentler on you, slower."
Her eyes stung and she clenched them shut. It wasn't really the pain of it that made her want to cry. It was the disappointment. Somehow she had thought this moment would change things between them. Make everything right, make it perfect. "But from the beginning of the creation God made them male and female. For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife; And they twain shall be one flesh..." One flesh. He had taken her, possessed her body. She should be as one with him now. Yet never had she felt more alone.
His mouth sought hers, and she gave it to him. His man's lips that were not as hard as they looked, but warm and soothing, and the tightness in her chest eased somewhat.
"I love you, girl," he said, and then held himself still, and she knew what he was waiting for. "I'd like to think you could see your way to loving me back," he went on, when the silence stretched out and grew tight.
She opened her eyes. His face was floating above her and he was smiling at her with his eyes, and she thought suddenly of that first time she had seen him, the cowboy of her dreams. "I will try to love you, Gus," she said. "I will try."
He sighed a laugh. "Clementine... always so serious." He lifted her hand, rubbing his thumb over the scars her father had given her. "No one's gonna hurt you anymore, girl," he said, but she knew he lied. He could hurt her even without meaning to.
Later she lay beside him in the still darkness of the night, listening to his deep, even breathing. She wondered what a chippy's tricks were, if those soiled doves with their violet dresses and red-tasseled shoes and their husky laughter knew of a way to keep it from hurting so much. Her night rail was still twisted up around her waist. She touched her bare belly, inched her fingers slowly down until they brushed the hair between her thighs. And felt the echo of something that, strangely, was more pleasure than pain.
She pushed herself up on one elbow to look at him, but it was too dark to see his face. She knew, though, that even in sleep the laughter showed around his eyes. The laughter that was so much a part of him had already become a part of her as well, so that she could not imagine life without it. Her hand hovered above his cheek. She didn't know why, but she wanted to touch him. Shyness and reserve held her back. It was hard for her to show him how she felt, hard to understand these feelings.
She sat up and slowly eased her legs out of bed, then stood up. Her skin was moist and hot, and there was a hollowness in her chest, an emptiness.
She groped in the dark for the water jug and used the towel to wipe away the stickiness between her thighs, then crept on quiet feet out of the bedroom and across the cabin to the door. She lifted her cloak off the peg and wrapped it around her nightdress. The leather hinges squealed when she opened the door, and she shut it quickly behind her.
The silent mountains cast long, dark shadows over the land. A hard, brittle moon drifted in and out of the clouds, and the tops of the cottonwoods rustled at a touch of the grass-scented wind. The road and corral and the pastures beyond were shot with moonlit patches. The night was beautiful and ominous, and it filled her with a loneliness that was both good and sad.
The moon drew her, and she stepped out into the yard and began walking toward the corral. Cool mud oozed over her bare feet, sending shivers up her legs. A flurry of wind buffeted her. She grew still, for she could hear another, stronger gust coming. A sound like low thunder, then a whistling shriek as it shrilled through the cottonwoods, and the slap of it against her body. It was as if the wind was trying to swat her off the face of the earth. Something within her wanted to shriek back at the wind. Or with it.
A scarf of clouds wrapped itself around the moon, enshrouding the land in darkness. The wind died, leaving a silence that was a sound in itself—a rushing noise in her ears that might have been the wind coming back, or her own breath.
A coyote yipped, breaking the spell. An uneasy tremor ran down her spine. She'd read in Shona's novels that Indians made animal noises, signaling to one another as they crept up on unsuspecting settlements with their scalping knives.
A stick broke, a bush rustled. A silent scream crawled up her throat, choking off her breath. A red eye glowed in the dark— then the scent of tobacco came to her on the wind:
The clouds passed, unveiling the moon. The outline of his body was stark and black against the horizon. Like the pines, he was motionless. But she knew he saw her, had been watching her all along.
The red eye arced and flared in the darkness, trailing sparks. The shadow moved, coming toward her. She whirled and ran for the cabin. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, shaking, her eyes closed tight.
He had boasted of how he made his women scream.
She brought a trembling fist up to her breast to quiet the hard, fast thrumming of her heart.
Hot air and the smell of rotgut whiskey and stale sweat hit Zach Rafferty in the face. He let the door swing shut behind him with a loud slap, and everyone turned to look. Everyone except the crimson-haired woman dealing solitaire to herself at a table by the stove.
He hung his cartridge belt on an elk-horn rack beneath a sign that read park your guns here. He headed for the bar, stepping around a puddle of water.
"'Evenin', Saphronie," he said to the woman who was swamping the floor. A child of about three clung to her skirts. The child looked up at Rafferty, her blue eyes wide, and a smile began to form around the thumb she had in her mouth. Rafferty ruffled her blond curls, then tugged at her ear, and a coin magically appeared in h
is hand. "Why, lookit here, little Patsy. You're hatching nickels outta your ears."
The child took the coin, laughing with delight. The woman ducked her head to mumble something, her breath barely fluttering the heavy black net veil she wore over her face.
Rafferty tossed two bits onto a counter ringed with the sweat of glasses. "The good stuff, Shiloh," he said to the gin-slinger. "Not that tanglefoot in the barrel."
The bartender shook his head and chuckled at the joke, for they both knew that what was in the bottles under the bar was the same stuff that was in the barrel on the butcher block behind the bar. It was all rotgut.
Shiloh pulled the cork out with his teeth, then set the bottle down before Rafferty so that he could pour his own shot. He scooped Rafferty's two bits into the money drawer.
Rafferty put another twenty-five cents on the bar. "Pour one for yourself."
The round black face broke into a big smile. "I wouldn't want to hurt your feelings by refusing, no, sir."
Shiloh poured his drink and lifted the glass in a toast. "Here's how."
"How," Rafferty said. He tossed back half the shot, shuddering hard. Somebody had doctored the rotgut with cayenne pepper to give it more fire, and it tore the hell out of his throat going down. It eased his nerves, though, once it hit bottom. Nerves that were stretched fiddle-string tight.
He turned around and settled his back against the bar to survey all the excitement in the Best in the West Casino.
The wind was crying wild under the eaves of the tin roof, stirring up drafts. The two large brass lamps with red glass globes hung from the rafters, creaking and swaying, giving the place a hellish look. A new piano sat against the far wall, its keyboard grinning silently.
Saphronie had finished her mopping and was now emptying the spittoons into a bucket, her daughter still hanging on to her skirts. He wondered how hungry he'd have to be before he'd do that. Probably not all that hungry, for he'd done worse, come to think of it. In the room's red light, the black veil made the woman look mysterious and exotic, like a harem girl in a dime circus. But he'd seen the face beneath the veil once, seen what had been done to her, and it had only left him feeling sad.
Two of the hurdy-gurdy girls sprawled on chairs, looking bored. Since there were normally three of them, he figured the other must be with a customer in the room out back. Only one table was occupied, by three men playing poker. Deep play it must have been, because no one was doing any talking. One of them announced himself as a professional by the tinhorn cut of his clothes.
Shiloh had hung up his fiddle for the night, so no one was dancing. The only noise came from a sheepherder in a black plug hat and bib overalls, who stood at the other end of the bar and talked to himself, because no one else would talk with him. But then, mutton-punchers were about as welcome in cattle country as a whore in a preacher's front parlor.
Rafferty decided to amuse himself by watching Mrs. Yorke. Haughty, naughty Mrs. Yorke, who was working hard at ignoring him.
One of the hurdy-gurdy girls—Nancy, he thought her name was—got up and came sauntering toward him. Her lips, which were painted a boxcar red, greeted him with a tired smile. "You lonesome tonight, Rafferty?"
Rafferty shook his head, smiling to soften the rejection. His gaze went back to Hannah Yorke. She must have lost her game, for she was shuffling the cards, her slender white hands moving as gracefully as a dove's wings. She had eyes that stirred a man, and hair the deep red color that on a horse was called blood bay.
The sheepherder pushed himself off the bar and gave his belt a hitch. Nancy saw him coming and hurried away. A moment later Rafferty's nose was assaulted by the stink of woolly monsters and his ears by a voice that grated like a rusty gate. "If you're savin' yer juice for that Hannah, mister, you kin ferget it."
Rafferty turned to look into a face that the wind and sun had sucked dry. "Yeah?" he said. "And why is that?"
"Keeps herself to herself, does Hannah Yorke. She won't have a man in her bed now—not fer love or money. They say that only two years ago she was workin' the line over in Dead-wood. Now thar she sits, with a copper-plated crotch and too hoity-toity to give a man the time of day." He sighed. "Damn. What a waste of a good whore."
Rafferty's lips pulled back from his teeth in a smile. But the sheepherder, who could see his eyes, lost all the color in his face.
The man blinked and scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "Din't mean nothin' by it. Was only talk." He took a step back and then another. "Din't mean nothin'." He kept on backing up until he was standing where he'd been before, mumbling to himself again.
Rafferty's gaze went back to Mrs. Hannah Yorke. The red lanterns cast a glow on her white shoulders and put fiery sparks in her hair. She knew that he was watching her, that he wanted her. Yet she sat over there, playing that game of solitaire, as if she were all alone in the world. And as if she liked it that way.
He'd been trying to charm his way into the woman's bed for months now and gotten nowhere. Maybe that sheepherder had a point, maybe a more direct approach was required.
He set his glass down carefully onto the bar. "Give me a bottle, Shiloh."
"Sure thing." The gin-slinger took an empty bottle from under the counter and filled it from the barrel. He twisted a cork in its mouth and asked Rafferty if he wanted it wrapped.
"No. Thanks. 'Night, Shiloh."
"Good night, cowboy."
Rafferty tucked the bottle into his coat pocket and picked up his gun on the way out. He didn't look at Hannah York, and she didn't look at him.
A mournful bleat greeted Zach Rafferty at the hitching rack. A sad-eyed, red-and-white face looked up at him, lit by the lampshine coming through the saloon's windows. Sighing, Rafferty draped his gun belt over his shoulder and hunkered on his heels to scratch the calf behind its red ears. "I told you I wasn't gonna be gone long. You're worse than a woman, you know that, dogie? Nagging at a man just for having a little drink."
He hefted the calf into his arms, straightening with a groan. He walked around the saloon to the two-story white frame house in back. A small lean-to for a horse sat detached from the house. No horse was in it tonight, but there was enough straw to make a bed for the dogie.
He didn't go to the front door of the big white house, but went up the side steps instead. He tried the latch and was not surprised to find it locked. He took a gimlet and a piece of crooked wire out of his pocket. Within seconds the bolt was sliding back with a soft click, and he was inside.
The door opened onto a small sitting room. He waited a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. His boots made no sound on the thick Turkey carpet as he passed through a doorway into the bedroom. He lit a big potbellied lamp, casting a soft yellow glow on curtains of white gauze and crimson damask, on red silk wallpaper, on velvet perfume boxes and a peacock dressing screen, on a black lacquer lady's desk decorated with roses, vines, and gilt.
He hung his cartridge belt on the post of a bedstead carved with bows and flowers and tossed his hat onto the head of the china pug that squatted on a stand beside the hearth. He shrugged out of his long-tailed sourdough overcoat and threw it on a black horsehair fainting coach. He set the whiskey bottle on the papier-mâché table by the bed and stretched out on a feather mattress so thick it sighed with female pleasure as it took his weight. He fluffed up the embroidered pillows behind his back and crossed his spurred boots on the petit point quilt. He pulled out the makings of a cigarette, rolled, and lit it.
He linked his fingers behind his head, his elbows spread wide. He winked at the ceramic cupid that looked down on him from atop the shawl-draped mantel.
He didn't have long to wait. He heard the front door opening downstairs, heard her heels clicking across the hall. Carpet muffled her footsteps now, and then lantern light filled the adjacent sitting room.
Her shadow crossed the threshold first.
In the dim light her eyes were two black holes in a face as pale as birch. Her lips looked stained with blood. She
pulled a little ivory-handled pistol out of the pocket of her violet dress and pointed it at his belly. "Stand up, mister," she said in a smoky voice that would have made him hard if he hadn't been that way already. "Slow and easy."
He stood up slow and easy. Even so, the rowel of one of his spurs caught in the finely sewn quilt, ripping it. The little gun in her hand was a two-shot weapon, and at this distance it could blow a hole in his guts big enough to kill him.
"Step out into the middle of the room." She waved the pistol to show him where she wanted him.
He went where she pointed, but he couldn't stop the smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You gonna salute me with that boob gun, Mrs. Yorke? Or shoot me with it?"
The ceramic cupid on the mantel behind him exploded into a thousand shards. The concussion of the shot rang in his ears, and he laughed. He had felt the kiss of the bullet as it passed his cheek, but he hadn't moved so much as a breath. "You missed," he said.
She swung the barrel of the gun over and down until she had drawn a bead on his balls. "I never miss, cowboy."
He tugged at the buckle of his belt and started toward her. "The name is Rafferty, darlin'. And neither do I."
CHAPTER 5
The wind smacked against the cabin. The log walls trembled and creaked. The wind was a constant thing, settling then blowing, settling then blowing. Clementine tried to breathe in time with the wind. She thought the wind would drive her mad.
Her hands worked a ball of dough, kneading, twisting. It oozed through her fingers, soft and warm and sticky, stirring up a strange, hot restlessness within her. She punched her fist into the dough and looked down the length of the table to her husband. The sour smell of the beer she'd used for yeast pinched her nose, and the wind shrieked outside. She looked at him and felt a hot pain in her chest, as if she'd laced her corset too tight.
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