MM01 - Valley of Fire

by Peggy Webb

  Martha Ann took the elaborate stage costume. “Are you sure, Velma? It's much too pretty to wear around the house.”

  “Shoot. I believe in gilding the lily.” She reached back into her closet and came out with a nightgown that would have caused legions of angels to fall from grace. “Here, you can wear this tonight... unless you prefer sleeping in the nude.” She winked.

  Martha Ann looked at the gown. It was so sheer and sexy she'd feel naughty wearing it even in the privacy of her own bedroom.

  “Are you sure about this, Velma? I don't want to impose.”

  “All that stuffs too little for me now. You wear it while you're here. Enjoy life. That's what I say.”

  “Thanks, Velma. And now if you could show me the bathroom, I'd love to take a bath.”

  “I guess you forgot; we don't have running water. But we've got the finest bathtub in the world—the creek.”

  “What about privacy?”

  Velma laughed. “You don't have to worry about being seen. The creek's a long way from the house, and there's nothing for miles around except a few jackrabbits and some straggly old cows and a sidewinder or two. You'll have as much privacy as you would in the finest hotel—and you'll be just as pampered.” She delved into her dresser drawers and came out with a large plastic bottle. Seduction, the label said.

  “Bubble bath,” Velma said. “Guaranteed to do the trick.”

  The only trick Martha Ann wanted was to get rid of the dirt on her and on her clothes. She took the bubble bath, a towel, and the borrowed harem suit, then Velma showed her the way to the creek.

  It was a secluded spot, far enough away from the house to guarantee privacy and shielded by a thick growth of bushes and several large cottonwood trees.

  After Velma had gone, Martha Ann stripped off her dirty clothes and washed them in the creek. Then she spread them on stones to dry.

  The sun felt so good that she stood for a moment, trying to decide whether to take a bath or a nap. She chose to take a bath. She followed the winding creek downstream to a spot where the water pooled into a quiet lagoon. Velma had been right. It was the finest bathtub in the world. The water was deep blue and serene, dappled with the sunlight that filtered through the branches of overhanging trees.

  Clutching her bottle of bubble bath, Martha Ann waded in. The shaded water was chilly, and she shivered. She moved slowly toward deeper water, taking time to get used to the temperature. When she was waist-deep, she plunged her head under and came up dripping. Feeling refreshed and reckless, she dumped the bubble bath into the creek and stirred the water with her hands to create a foam. Bubbles swirled around her.

  She scooped a handful of bubbles up with one hand and tossed the bottle over her head with the other.

  o0o

  Rick McGill came out of the bushes just in time to catch the flying bottle. It landed with a plop in his outstretched hand. He had thought the sounds he'd heard coming from the creek were being made by an old cow, but he was wrong. They were made by Martha Ann Riley. She was waist-deep in the water, her hair slicked back from her head, and her back shiny with sunshine and bubbles. For a moment he thought he'd died and been transported to Glory Land. He'd hoped for a bath and had gotten a vision instead. Fate was smiling on him after all.

  “How's the water, sweetheart?”

  Martha Ann's back stiffened and shivers went up her spine. Good grief. Here she was without her clothes, and Rick McGill had her trapped. It was just like him to pull such a stunt. And just when she was beginning to trust him.

  She ducked out of sight under the water and tried to think what to do.

  “No need to be modest, sweetheart. I've seen naked women before.”

  His wicked chuckle echoed across the water. Martha Ann had held her breath so long, she was beginning to get light-headed. She'd have to do something soon. It would serve him right if she just marched up the bank buck naked and gave him a piece of her mind.

  “If you don't come on out, I'll have to come in and get you.”

  He would, too. Still holding her breath, she knee-walked toward deeper water. When she judged that she was deep enough, she turned around and stood up. She'd miscalculated by half an inch. The twinkle in his eye told her that he thought he was the cause of all that puckering.

  She quickly stepped backward into water deep enough to cover the tops of her breasts. “Don't look so smug. The water's cold.”

  “My, my. How the lady does protest.” He stood there with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, looking as if he could see straight under the water, and enjoying every bit of what he saw.

  “You can turn around and leave, Rick McGill. I don't plan to provide entertainment.”

  “I came for a bath. The entertainment is an added attraction.”

  He tossed the plastic bottle to the ground and began to unbutton his shirt.

  “What do you think you're doing?”

  “Undressing. I always bathe in the nude.”

  “Don't you dare set foot in this water.”

  He laughed. “I think the creek's big enough for two.”

  She watched with fascination as he stripped off his shirt and flung it to the ground. His chest looked so good, it could set saints to sinning. She wished she had her rosary.

  Rick sat down on the ground and took off his shoes. He hadn't expected to encounter Martha Ann at the creek, but that didn't change his plans one bit. He was hot and tired, and he was going to have his bath. Having her there only added a little spice to the afternoon.

  He stood up and unbuckled his belt.

  “Don't you dare take off your pants.”

  “You don't expect me to bathe with my pants on, now do you?” Grinning, he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and began to inch them down over his hips.

  Until he started pulling off his pants, Martha Ann had thought she could win this contest of wills. Now, she began to wonder. She decided to change her tactics.

  “If you think you're going to entice me by showing me the merchandise, Rick McGill, you'd better know this: I'm not interested.”

  The pants kept moving downward. “If you don't want to see the merchandise, sweetheart, you'd better turn around.”

  She whirled around so fast her feet slipped out from under her. She came up sputtering, but this time with her back toward him.

  “You are the cockiest...”

  “Not at the moment, my dear.”

  “...most arrogant, bullheaded, aggravating, unscrupulous man I've ever had the misfortune to meet.” Behind her she could hear him undressing. He was making a big to-do of it, primarily to irritate her, she guessed. She crossed her arms over her chest and continued her tirade.

  “If that's not just like you to plan this ravishment in the creek...”

  “Ravishment in the creek.” He hooted with laughter. Martha Ann Riley, a.k.a. Mrs. Lucky O'Grady, might not have planned to provide entertainment, but she was certainly doing a super job of it. Ravishment in the creek. He chuckled again. It sounded like the name of a low-budget movie.

  He tossed his pants on the ground and waded into the creek. “My dear, I prefer my women sweet, and at the moment you are about as sweet as a crock of pickles left too long in the brine.”

  A crock of pickles. That did it!

  “If you take one step more, you're a dead man.”

  “What I am right now is a dirty man...”

  “I'll say...”

  “...and I intend to wash.”

  He made so much racket in the water, he sounded like two Brahman bulls. Naturally he would. He wanted her to know he was washing that fabulous chest of his. If it hadn't been for his chest, she might have stayed in the creek and fought it out with him. But there was that chest, as tan as a copper penny and looking better than strawberry ice cream on a hot day. Goodness gracious. She'd never be able to resist it if she stayed.

  “Since you insist on ruining my bath, I'm leaving.”

  He chuckled. “So soon, sweetheart? The fu
n's just getting started.”

  “Not with me, it's not.” She started toward the creek bank, then stopped to warn him. “And don't you dare look.”

  “I wouldn't dream of it, being the gentleman I am.”

  He kept his word. She waded all the way to the bank while his back was turned. Quickly she snatched up her towel and draped it around herself. It covered the essentials.

  She was reaching for her shoes when he turned around.

  “You look fetching in that towel.”

  She decided to have one last word.

  “If you think not watching me leave the water has redeemed you, you're sadly mistaken. Nothing you can do, no apology you can ever make will cleanse your black-hearted, wife-chasing soul.”

  She spun around, picked up the harem suit, and was halfway up the bank before he spoke.

  “I never make apologies.”

  She'd just have to let him have the last word, she decided. If she turned back around she'd see his chest. And if she saw his chest one more time, there was no telling what kind of fool she'd make of herself.

  She'd have to content herself with stomping. It was what she'd always done when Evelyn had gotten the best of her.

  As she stomped off, she heard him laughing.

  o0o

  Velma and Clyde heard it all. They were hiding in the thick bushes beside the creek, checking on the progress of their plan.

  “Good Lord, Velma,” Clyde whispered, “do you think I ought to peek through there and see what's going on? She sounds mad enough to kill him.”

  “I draw the line at spying, Clyde.”

  Velma and Clyde prided themselves on being experts in love. Weddings didn't matter to them; they'd never bothered with one themselves. What they understood was passion. And they'd seen it in Rick and Martha Ann. Their job, as they saw it, was to give that passion an opportunity. Maybe even an assist.

  “Velma, do you think I should have waited till she finished her bath before I sent him down there to the creek?”

  “Shoot. That wouldn't have worked. She might have had her clothes back on.”

  “Maybe I should have told him she'd be down there. Some men don't like surprises.”

  “I never knew a man who didn't like a surprise like that.” Velma clutched his arm. “Shoot, Clyde. Listen to that. I think she's leaving.”

  He patted her hand. “Don't look so blue, Velma honey. I've got a plan.”

  o0o

  Dinner that evening was straight out of a Marx Brothers movie. Velma and Clyde were sitting out on the front porch pretending they wanted to eat in the open air. It was one of the flimsiest excuses Martha Ann had ever heard for leaving her alone with Rick McGill.

  She decided that she was really getting her money's worth. She had wanted to have some excitement while finding her brother-in-law. Between Mr. and Mrs. Running Bear and Rick McGill, she was getting almost more than she bargained for. Almost but not quite. She was equal to anything.

  Rick was leaning back in his chair across the kitchen table from her, relaxed and good-humored and looking as innocent as a little boy in his Sunday best on the front pew during church services. But she could feel the excitement, the tension in him. There was no telling what he would do or say next.

  The uncertainty thrilled her. She loved her profession, but teaching history was so predictable, so routine that she craved the glamour of the unknown.

  Something was bound to happen. She could feel it.

  “That's a remarkable costume you're wearing, Mrs. O'Grady.”

  Rick had used her formal title, a sure tip-off that he was up to something.

  “Thank you. It's Velma's.”

  “It's one of her stage costumes, isn't it?”

  “I think so.”

  “When's the show?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Rick pushed his plate aside, folded his hands behind his head, and tipped his straight chair back on two legs.

  “Since you're dressed in that harem suit, I thought you might do the Dance of the Seven Veils for me.”

  “Sorry. I'm not a performer.”

  He chuckled. “That was quite a show you put on this afternoon.

  “That was no show.”

  “Pretending to be outraged when I knew all along that you were having as much fun as I was.”

  She repressed her grin. That scamp had seen straight through her. Besides that, he was the most aggressive man she'd ever met. Nothing deterred him. She'd tried intimidation, direct orders, fear, rejection. Nothing worked with Rick McGill.

  There was one last thing she could try. Cutting a small bite of tough steak, she set out to tame Rick McGill with boredom.

  Her first ploy was not to initiate any conversation. She sat back in her chair and chewed as if her life depended on it.

  Rick hadn't caught on yet.

  “What did you do this afternoon?”

  No reply. She merely shrugged her shoulders and attacked her soggy potatoes.

  “Clyde and I spent the afternoon trying to repair his tractor.” He paused, waiting. She said nothing. “He told me several Indian legends.”

  She couldn't treat him to complete silence. He'd think she was pouting, and she never pouted.

  “That's nice,” she said.

  “Velma came out three times to see about us.”

  “That's nice.”

  “She brought cold lemonade.”

  “That's nice.”

  Suddenly Rick's chair banged to the floor. He strode around the table and lifted her from her chair.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just checking to see if you're still in there somewhere.”

  He turned her around and pulled her so close, her breath swooshed out. Taking one of her arms, he draped it around his shoulders.

  “Now, Mrs. Lucky O'Grady, let's see how nice you think this is.”

  Without further ado, his mouth came down on hers.

  “Mmft mmt.” She struggled and protested for all of two seconds, and then the adventuress in her gave up to the scoundrel in him. She wrapped her other arm around his neck and pulled his head closer.

  “Mmmmm.” She couldn't have kept that sound of satisfaction from escaping her lips if she'd wanted to. But she didn't want to.

  Acting the married woman was a totally ineffective defense against Rick McGill. She'd have to think of something else. But not now. Now she was going to enjoy this kiss.

  She pressed so close, she could feel the heavy thudding of his heart. His lips were expert, but so were hers. Her ex-husband Marcus had taught her how to kiss, and she'd thought he was the world's all-time best kisser. Until now. Until Rick.

  She opened herself to him, heart and soul. What they were doing suddenly stopped being technique and became magic. She couldn't explain what was happening. She couldn't describe it. She could only feel.

  She soared again and gave herself up to the magic.

  Rick was teaching her a lesson. That's what he kept telling himself. He was also having a mild flirtation. He kept telling himself that. too. But then why was his heart beating so fast, it felt as if it would fly out of his chest, and why was his blood pounding in his ears?

  He moved his hands over her torso. It was bare beneath the miniscule halter top. Other women just had soft skin. Why did hers feel like silk? Why couldn't he get enough of touching her?

  When she pressed closer and moaned, his blood all left his brain. The need exploded in him with such force that he growled deep in his throat. But it was more than need, more than desire. It was something so indescribably beautiful that he couldn't begin to fathom it. He could only feel.

  Bending her slightly backward, he delved into her mouth with his tongue. It was heaven. It was like flying through the skies at night with the stars so close, he could feel their heat on his face.

  He moved his hands over her. The harem pants were obligingly slit in all the right places. Her legs were trim and tight and silken. By George, every inch of her
skin was silk. He was dangerously close to being enchanted.

  One last taste, one last dip into that heavenly mouth, one last touch—that's all he would allow himself. His mouth slanted over hers, and her response sent jolts of lightning through him. Maybe two, he decided. No more than three.

  At last he knew there was no hope for him except to stop. He broke off the kiss and stared down at her long enough to give him time to catch his breath.

  “Now, let's hear you say 'that's nice.' “ He hadn't known voices really got gruff with passion until he heard his own. He was barely on the edge of control. He hoped she didn't notice.

  Martha Ann took a shaky breath. “That's nice, but your technique could use some polishing.”

  “Perhaps we should try again.”

  “Sorry. I'm taken.” She sat hastily back down in her chair. “You'll just have to find some sweet unattached young woman to teach you the finer points of kissing.”

  “What a pity. You kiss with such enthusiasm.”

  “I wasn't kissing.”

  “You weren't?” He went to the other side of the table and sat down, grinning. “What were you doing?”

  “I was just exercising my mouth.” She put down her fork and pursed her lips in a series of contortions. “See. It helps keep wrinkles from forming.” She picked up her fork and ate a small bite of string beans, taking her time chewing. “A woman my age has to think of these things.”

  He laughed. “What else does a woman your age think of? You, in particular.”

  “Oh, lots of things. Music, theater, politics, education.”

  “Let's take music. Do you like jazz? Pop? Blues? Classical? Golden oldies?”

  “All of them, especially golden oldies. Everything about the forties fascinates me.”

  Rick took a big bite of steak, thinking. He should have known. A woman who could kiss and who liked golden oldies, to boot. Of course, she was scared to death of flying, which was a great passion of his, but two out of three wasn't bad.

  “I suppose you're a Republican?”

  “Dyed-in-the-wool Democrat.”

  “Then you hate taxes but love giveaway programs.”

  “I think that excellence in anything has its price. If that price is higher taxes, then I'm willing to pay my share. Especially for education.”