Creed enfolded her in his embrace and gently lowered her so they were both stretched out face-to-face on the feather bed. He emblazoned her face and neck with kisses that tingled, but he kept their bodies separated, murmuring to her across the distance that separated them.
Cricket felt her bones melting until she was as limp as a day-old starched shirt, pliant and malleable beneath Creed’s persuasive kissing. She let her fingertips roam across his bare chest, caressing the smooth skin over hard muscle, while she tried to listen to what he was saying . . . something about satisfying needs. . . . Maybe her woman’s intuition had been mistaken. He was certainly acting as though he cared. Would he show her what it meant to be a woman in a man’s arms? Would he make her feel those incredible spiraling sensations again?
“It pleases me to be touched by you, Brava.”
That sounded encouraging.
“But I’m like any other man when a beautiful woman touches him . . .”
That was even better—he thought her a beautiful woman.
“. . . I have animal urges that have to be satisfied—or it becomes very painful.”
Animal urges?
“At times like that, any woman will do.”
Any woman?
“So I’ll be counting on you to take care of that little chore for me. Okay, Brava?”
Chore?
Cricket grabbed a hank of Creed’s thick black hair and yanked his head away from where he was nuzzling her neck so fast he yelped in pain. His eyes were lambent with desire, and his lips were parted in readiness for another kiss.
“Listen, you shaggy-haired ravager of women, I stopped doing chores when I turned ten,” she raged. “If my touch is so distressful to you then I think I can manage to control myself. I trust you’ll do the same.” She yanked his hair once more for good measure before she shoved herself away from him to the other side of the bed.
“Does this mean we won’t be sleeping together tonight?”
Cricket looked down at the hard floor and compared it to the feathered comfort beneath her. “Now that we’ve settled this matter of touching one another once and for all, I don’t see any reason why we can’t share the bed.”
Cricket turned to arrange the sheet at that moment, or she would have seen the agonized expression that crossed Creed’s face. She continued, “And you can expect to lose your hand—or any other part of you—if it so much as slips an inch over on my side. Furthermore, in the future I’ll expect you to keep your hands to yourself.”
“That’s going to make teaching you how to dance rather difficult.”
Cricket’s tirade sputtered to a stop. She’d forgotten all about the dancing lessons. She steamed and stewed for a moment before she said, “I’ll tell you where and when to touch, Creed, not the other way around.”
“Fine, Brava. Now that we have that all settled, how about let’s get some sleep.”
Instead of answering, Cricket pulled the sheet down and slipped underneath. Even lying stiff as a board, the feather bed was pure heaven. She wasn’t sorry she’d given up the floor, even if it meant she had to lie beside Creed without touching all night. She held tightly to her anger because she very much feared the alternative was a deep and abiding despair. Was that all she was to Creed—just another woman? She’d been ignorant of relations between husbands and wives, but she was learning fast, and some of the lessons weren’t at all pleasant.
Cricket waited while he blew out the candle, discarded his trousers, and joined her in bed. Then she drew a line down the center of the bed, right through Creed’s naked thigh.
“Move it!” she commanded.
Creed grunted, but obeyed. If he wanted to wake up in one piece, he thought, he’d be smart to sleep on the floor himself. But he wasn’t about to let her talk him out of his own bed. At least now he wouldn’t have to worry about her throwing herself at him. He wondered why that made him feel as though he’d lost something very important.
It had begun to matter less and less that Cricket couldn’t make biscuits or find the right spoon at the table, and she should never hide those firm buttocks and long legs under the current fashions. He’d thought her less than a whole human being because she didn’t act like other girls, but how mistaken he’d been.
Despite outward appearances, she cared deeply what others thought about her. He now knew she’d kept all those feelings hidden because she’d been hurt by the painful criticisms, like his own. But he wasn’t sorry he’d forced her to acknowledge she was a woman. It had been like glimpsing a cactus unfolding its vivid blossoms to observe Cricket as she accepted her femininity.
Like that desert flower, she had proven to be surprisingly soft, incredibly fragile, much more vulnerable than the thick-skinned, prickly surface that protected what was deep inside. When he held her in his arms, and her body naturally molded itself to him, when her mouth opened under his, she was all the woman a man could want.
Oh, he wanted her, all right. But he wasn’t going to have her. Once he dealt with Sloan Stewart and got the information he needed to put Antonio Guerrero out of business, he’d send Cricket back to her father. And that was the end of that.
It was Cricket who woke first the next morning. Creed’s arm was curled around her, and she could feel his iron grip on her ribs through her chemise. The flat of his hand splayed possessively across her belly. It amazed her how secure she felt. He held her possessively, his hairy thigh imprisoning her under its weight. The uneasy feeling crept over her that she was caught like a rabbit in a snare. Escape became imperative. She slipped from Creed’s grasp and dressed quickly, determined to spend the day under the Texas sun. Perhaps it was only the three days cooped up inside which had caused that uncomfortable trapped sensation.
She went to the dining room hunting for something to eat and discovered Tom there ahead of her.
“I didn’t think you’d be up so early,” he said. “Where’s Jarrett?”
“Still sleeping.”
Cricket turned away from Tom’s speculative look, helping herself to a cup of coffee before she joined him at the table.
Tom perused the young woman who sat across from him. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Since the death of his Indian wife, Jarrett had always preferred small, feminine blondes like the American chargé’s daughter, Angelique LeFevre. This auburn-haired Amazon in osnaburg trousers hardly fit the bill. It was a shame how she’d been raised, but Amy liked her and seemed to think she was perfect for Jarrett. From the flush on Cricket’s face, his wife was probably right.
His next thought found its way out of his mouth without conscious thought. “I never thought Jarrett would marry again, after the way he mourned when his Comanche wife died.”
Cricket’s head whipped around to face Tom. “He had a Comanche wife?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Jarrett told me he’d lived among the Comanches, but he didn’t tell me much else.”
“I guess that’s not surprising. None of us talk much about what happened.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t suppose Jarrett would mind me telling you. He and our mother were both captured by the Comanches when he was eight. He spent nine years with those Red Devils before we managed to get him back.”
“Did you ever meet his Comanche wife?”
“Summer Wind? I saw her once, the day we got Jarrett back from the Comanches.”
When Tom offered no more, Cricket’s curiosity prodded her to ask, “Was she pretty?”
“She was a squaw, like any other. I thought Jarrett was going to kill Pa, though, when he separated him from her. Jarrett didn’t want anything to do with white men. He was Comanche through and through, and he must have loved that squaw, because all Pa had to do was threaten to kill her, and Jarrett came with us after that.”
“What happened to your mother? Was your father able to rescue her, too?”
“Oh, he found her all right. But she was some Comanche chief’s paraibo by then. Pa didn’t
have any use for a squaw, so he left her there.”
“But what happened to her wasn’t her fault. She had no choice in the matter,” Cricket protested. “Couldn’t you have helped her?”
“Wasn’t my place. The decision was Pa’s.”
“But if it had been up to you—”
“It wasn’t up to me. But my pa said she’d lain down under too many Comanche bucks, and that kind of dirt wasn’t ever going to wash off.”
Cricket’s eyes rounded incredulously. “Do you feel the same way?”
“Never had to think about it. Wouldn’t have done any good. Pa’s mind was made up.”
“That seems so unfair. You don’t treat Creed any different, and he was with the Comanches as long as your mother. You’re as close as any two brothers I’ve ever seen.”
Tom pursed his lips in irritation. He’d respected his father, and when Simon Creed had said an unpure woman was an unfit mother and an abomination as a wife, he hadn’t questioned him. “A brother’s one thing,” he said at last. “A man’s wife is something else entirely.”
“But she was your mother and—”
“I don’t even know if she’s alive anymore, so there’s no sense talking about it. What’s done is done.” Tom shoved himself away from the table. “Tell Creed I’ll be at the cotton gin again today.” Without waiting for Cricket’s acknowledgment, he left the room.
Cricket sat at the table only long enough to finish her coffee before she rose and left as well. She didn’t want to get caught by Amy and end up having to make biscuits or pie dough or bread. She headed for the stable, saddled Valor, called Rogue, and galloped off across the fields before the sun was even well up.
Cricket turned her face to the sky and bathed in the sunshine. Its warmth brought a cleansing perspiration to her skin. When the Texas wind had dried those dewdrops, she felt refreshed and renewed. She rode the boundaries of Lion’s Dare, watching the hoe hands at work in the cotton fields, the Negroes mending fences, planting new fruit trees, working on their own gardens.
Lion’s Dare presented an almost idyllic picture of what life could be on the Texas frontier. There was peace and prosperity. There was love in abundance: the love of a man for the land, the love of a man and woman for each other, and the love of parents for their child. Cricket wondered what it would be like to have a home and a husband and a child of her own.
The vision eluded her because she couldn’t imagine a home that wasn’t Three Oaks, or a husband who wasn’t Creed, and the child always turned into blue-eyed, blond-haired Seth.
Cricket finally ended up sitting under an oak at the farthest edge of Lion’s Dare, working on a chain of dandelions, while Valor grazed nearby, and Rogue slept next to her. She was daydreaming again when she was interrupted by a sarcastic voice.
“Seen any Indians?”
Cricket refused to let Creed’s fierce expression intimidate her. “Not a one,” she replied as she went back to work on her dandelion chain.
Creed dismounted and crossed to stand spread-legged in front of her, his shadow blocking the sunshine that threaded through the bare branches above them. “You know how dangerous it is to be out here alone. A Comanche would as soon hang a woman’s hair from his shield as a man’s. Or maybe you’d like to become Tall Bear’s squaw. Is that it?”
Cricket looked up lazily from the flowers in her lap. “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.” With that announcement, she pulled her Paterson from the belt at her waist and proceeded to shoot five prickly pears off a cactus that was an astounding distance away. When she’d finished, she calmly reloaded, stuck the gun into her belt, and turned her attention back to the dandelions. “That could just as easily have been five Comanches, sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds.”
Cricket’s fearlessness irked Creed. He didn’t know why he should care so much, but he did. The thought of some Comanche buck touching Cricket tied his gut up in knots. Yet he couldn’t say her self-confidence was entirely misplaced. She was an excellent rider, an excellent shot, and quick to react to danger. One on one she might even stand a chance against a Comanche warrior—if she rode like the very devil while she emptied her Paterson. Against even a small band of Comanches, however, Cricket was going to be in trouble. But how was he going to rid her of her false sense of security?
“Being a good shot isn’t going to help you much if you’re caught by surprise.”
“No one’s going to surprise me.”
“Oh, no?”
“Between Valor and Rogue I have two exceptional sentinels.” Cricket ignored the fact that neither animal had given the slightest hint of Creed’s approach. He’d spoiled them both for that purpose. “Of course, I’m not too bad at watching out for myself, either.”
Before Creed could guess what she had in mind, Cricket hooked a toe behind his boot and lunged at him. Her shoulder hit him at the knees, throwing him totally off balance. He would’ve fallen had he not reached up and caught a dead limb of the pin oak above him. However, the rotten branch held him for only a moment before it broke with an ear-shattering crack and sent him tumbling.
Cricket had been so certain of the success of her surprise attack that she’d surged past the point where Creed should have landed. That left her directly under him when he fell.
“Uummph!”
“Oommph!”
Both Cricket and Creed had the wind knocked out of them, but since Creed landed on top of Cricket, she cushioned his fall. They lay in the tall grass catching their breaths, their bodies a tangle of arms and legs.
“Get off,” Cricket grunted at last.
“I don’t think I can.”
“What?”
“I think maybe something is broken,” Creed said.
“Are you sure?”
“No, but I landed on my elbow. Let me lie here a minute and see if any feeling comes back into my arm.”
“I’ll check it. Which arm?”
“The right one.”
Cricket reached around and found the fingers of Creed’s right hand. They closed around her own, and like lightning Creed bounded to his feet, jerking Cricket up behind him. He whirled and caught her as she flew into his embrace. As he cinched their bodies together, Creed caught the flare of fury in Cricket’s eyes.
Cricket opened her mouth to call Rogue to her aid and remembered he’d defected to Creed’s camp. Valor was nearby, but how could the stallion attack Creed without also harming her?
“Tell me again how you can take care of yourself,” Creed taunted in her ear.
Angry, frustrated, Cricket threw caution to the winds and whistled for Valor. Let the stallion figure out how to help her without harming her.
Valor’s trumpeting neigh sent shivers down Creed’s spine. He’d seen the stallion attack the Comanches but had never expected to see the animal’s sharp hooves aimed in his direction. Valor reared and then charged toward them, teeth bared. Creed had no idea whether the stallion would trample both of them or not, but he couldn’t take the chance.
“Damn it, Brava!”
He threw Cricket aside and stepped away so Valor would have a clear target that didn’t include her. He balanced on the balls of his feet, his muscles tensed, ready to jump out of the stallion’s path at the last instant. He’d played this game before, as a Comanche boy, only there’d been a rider, Tall Bear, on the back of the charging animal. He’d survived that incident with no more than the curving scar on his hip to show for it. But after that he’d never underestimated the danger of a frenzied beast.
Creed was ready to pit the quickness of his reflexes against those of the stallion, but if push came to shove, he might have to kill the beautiful animal, and he didn’t want to do that.
“Call him off, Brava. This has gone far enough.”
When the shrill whistle pierced the air, Valor changed course immediately. The stallion angled off away from Creed, who remained tense a few more moments until he ascertained that the animal no longer constituted a dan
ger to him. He turned to thank Cricket for her wise decision, only to discover she was no longer behind him.
Then he saw her. The stallion never lost stride as he raced toward the girl waiting for him, Rogue by her side. He watched as Cricket caught a handful of Valor’s mane and vaulted onto the stallion’s back while he moved at a full gallop. She turned to grin and wave at Creed before she turned Valor back toward the plantation house.
How had she managed to move from behind him without his knowing it? She was good. He had to admire her for what she’d just accomplished. At the same time he feared for her. The danger from the Comanches was real. If Cricket ignored that danger—or treated it too lightly—it could spell disaster.
So what did he care? If she wanted to get herself killed was that any of his business? He’d be rid of Rip Stewart’s brat—and good riddance!
Creed stared at the cloud of dust in the air that was all that remained to remind him Cricket had been there. His stomach felt queasy. He rubbed his sweaty palms off on his trousers. Then he picked his hat up off the ground, smoothed the turkey feather, and put it on, pulling it down low on his forehead. He crossed to his chestnut, grabbed the reins, stuck his foot in the stirrup, and pulled himself into the saddle.
He kept his mind a blank as long as he could, because he didn’t like the thoughts that kept creeping in. Cricket being beaten and raped. Cricket lying dead, scalped, a lance through her heart. He experienced the most unusual sensation, a sort of tightening of his insides, around the region of his heart.
Then he started to laugh. He laughed so loud he scared a jackrabbit out of hiding. He laughed so loud an eagle swooped down to check out the noise. He laughed so hard his stomach hurt and tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. And this was so funny he didn’t think he was going to be able to stop laughing.
He was in love with Creighton Stewart.
Chapter 16
CRICKET FELT THE FIRST CRAMP ABOUT AN HOUR after she arrived back at the plantation house. She shrugged off the feeling of disappointment that rippled through her. She wasn’t going to have Creed’s baby. Blue blazes! What was the matter with her? She wouldn’t have known what to do with a baby, anyway. Besides, a baby would have tied her to Creed as tight as a cinched saddle. No, she had reasons to be grateful the female miseries were upon her. Except, of course, there was this one little problem. . . .
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