Frontier Woman

by Joan Johnston

  “Bra-va . . .”

  Then it was too late to stop her. He grasped her hair in his hands and held her where she was, his feet wide apart, his head thrown back, nostrils flared, eyes closed, mouth gaping wide in an agony of ecstasy, while he surrendered himself to her love.

  Cricket loved the taste of him, loved the soft-hard feel of him, loved the power of bringing him such intense pleasure. At last, she kissed her way back up his body, until her tongue found the pulse behind his ear. She nipped his neck and buried her nose in the slick wetness of his hot skin.

  Creed held her tight against him, fitted them together like staves of a barrel, waiting for some measure of control to return. He kissed her ear, dipping his tongue inside. He kissed her throat, finding the pulse that raced unchecked. He kissed her temple, her cheek, her chin, her closed eyes, her nose. He found her mouth and ravaged it, tasting himself there.

  Creed laid Cricket down on the captain’s bed and followed to lie next to her. He began a thorough search for all the spots on her body that were sensitive to his fingers and his tongue.

  He found one beneath her arm.

  Cricket quivered.

  Another on her hip.

  Her hands grasped his shoulders and enjoyed the feel of the corded muscle there.

  The pads of her fingers and the spaces between.

  Sweet Lord, how good that felt!

  Her breasts.

  He sucked like a babe, and she wished to succor him like this always.

  The small of her back.

  She stretched her arms above her head and arched, making a deeper dish for him to drink from.

  Her buttocks.

  He made her laugh with his nips and then choke on that laughter, as his love bites released a flood of passion.

  The hipbones that protruded beyond her concave belly.

  His tongue was rough like a cat’s, and wet, and she wished he would go lower with it.

  Her thighs.

  She could feel his silk hair on one thigh and his warm tongue on the other.

  The heat and the heart of her.

  She wantonly spread her legs so he could rest his head between them and taste, and suck, and lick, and . . . oh, God . . . oh, God. . . .

  Cricket’s pleasure pleasured Creed. He couldn’t get enough of her. He gave her only a moment’s respite before he seated himself deep inside her, possessing her, being possessed by her, making them one.

  Cricket wrapped her legs around him and clutched his shoulders with her hands, holding him tight, fearing the closeness would not last, fearing that when all was said and done he would drop her off at her father’s door and return to the beautiful Angelique.

  Creed forced himself to be still. A moment from now it would be too late to stop. He wanted to speak the words. He wanted Cricket to know how he felt.

  “Look at me, Brava,” Creed rasped.

  Cricket’s glazed eyes focused on the angled face so close to her own.

  “This ceremony was forced on both of us tonight. But you should know Angelique means—”

  Cricket stopped his words with her hand. She couldn’t bear to hear him say Angelique meant more to him than she did. “You don’t have to say any more.” It was better to live with the illusion of love than to face stark reality. He belonged to her tonight. And she intended to fight and keep on fighting for his love. She burrowed against Creed, holding him tight.

  Creed brushed the hair away from her forehead, glad that she understood his love without the need to have the words spoken aloud. He kissed her lips and found there the promise that she returned his love. They spoke through their passion. Creed’s powerful thrusts were met by the strength of the woman beneath him. The sense of desperation that seized them both lent ferocity to their lovemaking. It was a tumultuous coupling, a merging of bodies and spirits that left them exhilarated and exhausted.

  Cricket lay beneath Creed, his breath coming in heaving bellows that forced the air in and out of her gasping lungs in time with his. He had desired her. She knew he had. Surely he could not leave her now at her father’s door. But he hadn’t said he loved her. Nor had she said she loved him.

  But they had the rest of their lives to say the words. Didn’t they?

  Chapter 23

  CRICKET KNEW SHE WAS HOME WHEN SHE HEARD Rogue’s ululating cry of welcome.

  “My God! It’s a pack of wolves!”

  Cricket followed Angelique’s pointing finger to the three young wolves running on a parallel course with them. She whistled and the wolves changed direction, heading directly for the two riders who flanked the open carriage carrying Angelique LeFevre and her father.

  “They’re coming this way. Somebody do something!”

  Cricket exchanged a conspiratorial grin with Creed over the top of Angelique’s head. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Shoot them! Kill them!” By now Angelique was hysterical and had practically climbed into her father’s lap. The chargé, true diplomat that he was, geared his behavior to that of Cricket and Creed. Seeing they weren’t particularly alarmed, he remained outwardly calm, hiding his agitation.

  “All right,” Cricket said, warming up to the game. “Here goes.” She pulled a Paterson from her saddle holster and began shooting high above the wolves’ heads.

  The three wolves split apart, Rascal and Ruffian breaking off to the right and left, while Rogue came straight ahead. In fact, Rogue appeared to be coming faster now than he had before Cricket had blasted away with her gun.

  Angelique clung to her father but turned to Creed, the whites of her eyes huge, and begged, “Save me!”

  Creed flashed an admonitory glance at Cricket. Teasing Angelique was one thing. Scaring her half to death was another.

  “Angelique, there’s nothing to be—”

  “Look at that!”

  The chargé had interrupted Creed to point with disbelief at Cricket. She’d spurred her mount away from the carriage toward the center wolf and now dismounted directly in the vulpine creature’s path.

  Angelique’s wide-eyed fear had become wide-eyed wonder. Was Cricket about to get herself killed? How absolutely marvelous!

  The chargé pulled the carriage to an abrupt halt, watching aghast as the three wolves converged on the defenseless girl. “Do something, man,” he shouted at Creed.

  “Cricket is—”

  Then there was no more time for words. The three wolves were all over Cricket. The chargé turned his face away, hearing the wolves’ ferocious growls and Cricket’s shrieks and unable to bear the sight of the poor girl being torn to shreds by the wolves’ sharp fangs.

  Angelique, however, wasn’t about to miss her moment of glory. Her eyes stayed on Cricket, who disappeared beneath the mound of gray fur—and bounced back up again with a grin on her face. Cricket ruffled the fur on the largest wolf’s neck, petted the ears of another, and scratched the chin of the third. She was playing with the wolves. Angelique blinked her eyes once to make sure she wasn’t mistaken.

  “The wolves are licking her!”

  The chargé whirled to confirm his daughter’s discovery and laughed out loud with relief.

  Angelique turned to Creed, her eyes narrowing to an unflattering squint and her lips flattening in anger.

  “I tried to tell you there was no danger,” he placated. “The wolves are Cricket’s pets. She raised them from pups.”

  The chargé laughed again to release the last of his nervous tension. “You had me worried there for a moment,” he admitted. “You know, this really is an uncivilized place if a girl makes pets of wolves. It looks like you and I will have to learn to expect the unexpected in Texas,” he said to his daughter.

  Creed didn’t deny the chargé’s observation. Those who lived in Texas met the ruthless demands of the wilderness and did what they had to do to survive. To be always on the cutting edge of danger made life a precious thing, always to be lived to the fullest. Life promised plenty of misery, so you took your joy where you c
ould find it. It was hard to blame Cricket for the harmless trick she’d played on Angelique. He’d seen a lot worse. Frontier fun was often as hazardous as frontier life.

  Hazardous. That word brought to mind Creed’s coming meeting with Rip Stewart, which he expected to be anything but fun. He’d been thinking during the whole ride from Galveston to Three Oaks how best to approach Rip. He hadn’t found any answers.

  Cricket had barely sent the wolves on their way when they had another visitor. “Luke!”

  The young man greeted Cricket with a grin. “Nice to see you again, Cricket.”

  “You, too,” Cricket said.

  “Hello, Creed. Glad you’re back. Your timing couldn’t be better. It’s about to get real busy around here.”

  Creed could tell Luke wanted to elaborate but not in the chargé’s presence.

  “I expect you’re Beaufort LeFevre,” Luke said, extending his hand to the chargé. “Luke Summers.”

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Summers. This is my daughter, Angelique.”

  “Ma’am.” Luke touched the brim of his hat to acknowledge Angelique. He could see she was one of those women who found her worth in a man’s compliments, and his assessing look quickly labeled her an easy woman. He smiled knowingly. Luke never refused a woman’s gift, freely given.

  Angelique thought Luke Summers might as well have touched her down between her legs, the way she felt beneath his smoldering gaze. She hadn’t expected to find this Texas character appealing, and the fact she had irked her. She allowed herself to be rude in retaliation, ignoring the man as though he didn’t exist.

  Such cutting behavior might have worked in Boston and New Orleans, but it was soon clear the rules were different in Texas. Luke spurred his horse up close to the carriage and murmured for Angelique’s ears only, “Give a holler when you’re ready, Angel, honey. I’ll be there.”

  Angelique opened her mouth to snap a biting response, but the man’s husky voice had sent chills down to the very bottom of her spine, and by the time she recovered he was speaking to her father.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. LeFevre, I need to speak privately with Creed for a moment,” Luke said.

  “Certainly.”

  The two Rangers rode ahead of the carriage some distance, speaking in low voices that made Cricket certain they were discussing Sloan and the rebels. She had no intention of being excluded any longer. She kneed her horse and brought him abreast of the Rangers.

  “You might as well tell me what’s going on. Otherwise, I’ll ask Sloan and find out from her,” she said.

  “This is none of your business, Brava,” Creed warned.

  “Why not tell her what’s going on,” Luke said. “If she knows Sloan’s not going to be in any danger maybe she’ll stay out of the way.”

  Creed snorted. “I doubt it.”

  Cricket rolled her eyes.

  “All right, but hear me well, Brava. If you get Sloan involved in what we have planned, she’s liable to wind up getting hurt or killed. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Cricket nodded.

  “Antonio Guerrero is meeting tomorrow morning with several Mexican military officers. Our spies have found out they’ll have documents with them that outline plans to invade San Antonio with a Mexican army. As soon as we’re sure everyone is present, we’ll spring our trap. According to our spies, Antonio has agreed to meet Sloan after the meeting, so she’s not expected to be anywhere near the revolutionaries’ camp when we make our move. And I want it to stay that way.”

  “Yes, sir!” Cricket snapped off a reckless military salute.

  “Dammit, Brava, I mean it.”

  Cricket turned her face away from Creed. She wasn’t going to interfere. She wanted this all over with as much as he did. But what if she couldn’t convince him to stay with her when his business was done? If she wasn’t going to be Creed’s wife anymore, did that mean she could go back to being just Rip’s brat? Somehow, Cricket didn’t think so.

  Creed knew what he’d promised Cricket: The end of the rebel threat meant the end of their relationship, as well. He’d racked his brain for a way to make things come out differently, but she’d never said she loved him, and if she wanted to be free of him he’d have to let her go. The hell he would. He fought the anger and frustration that rose within him. He’d be in no shape to deal with Rip Stewart if he didn’t keep his wits about him now.

  Luke rode with them the rest of the way to the plantation house. When he saw Rip waiting on the front porch he grinned and said, “Uh-oh. Think I’ll leave you here. Good luck.” Then he was gone.

  Cricket had imagined this reunion a hundred ways. The one she liked best was Rip standing on the front porch with his arms open wide to welcome her back. Well, Cricket thought wryly as she dismounted, she had half her wish.

  Rip stood on the front porch with his hands bunched on his hips. “Go to your room, Cricket,” he ordered.

  Not even a hello. Not even an “I missed you.” If her father was going to ignore the fact she was Creed’s wife, then so was she. Rip’s brat let him have it with both barrels.

  “Like hell I will!”

  “Like hell you will!”

  They faced off as though the interim had never happened. This was normal. This was comfortable. This was safe.

  “Do as your father says, Brava.”

  Rip and Cricket both turned on the Ranger in astonishment. Creed looked only at Cricket. He said quietly, but firmly, “Go to your room, Brava.”

  Cricket had expected Creed to rid himself of her but not like this. She’d defied her father out of habit, but if this was Creed’s way of telling her their relationship was over, there was no reason to deny Rip’s request. In fact, the privacy of her own room began to look quite appealing. She only hoped she could contain her grief until she reached that safe haven.

  “All right, I’ll go,” she said at last, all signs of fight gone.

  Rip frowned. Cricket had shouted down his order, then obeyed that—that—kidnapping sonofabitch without so much as a peep. He watched Cricket, head held high, enter the front door and close it softly behind her. This wasn’t like his Cricket at all. Something was very wrong. He whirled on Creed.

  “What have you done to her?”

  “I made her my wife,” he answered simply. “I need to leave Cricket in a safe place while I take care of some dangerous business. Is she welcome to stay here?”

  “Of course.”

  Creed stepped aside so Rip could see the white-haired man and the pretty young woman who’d accompanied the Ranger to Three Oaks. Creed made the introductions that confirmed they were, as Rip had suspected, the American chargé d’affaires to Texas and his daughter.

  “I have to leave you now,” Creed said to LeFevre, “but you’re in good hands.” Creed turned back to Rip. “I’ll return when my business is finished. We’ll talk then.” Without another word, he stalked away to his horse, mounted, and rode away.

  Rip didn’t know when he’d ever been dismissed quite so completely by someone he’d as soon have shot as given the time of day. That penniless bastard had kidnapped his youngest daughter right from under his unsuspecting nose and ruined his carefully laid plans to have Cricket marry one of the richest men in Texas. Juan Carlos Guerrero had withdrawn his son’s offer of marriage the instant he’d learned Cricket had run away with the Ranger.

  But he had only himself to blame for Creed’s presence at Three Oaks. He’d been the one to ask Jack Hays for a Ranger to help curb the theft of his horses by the Comanches. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of a Comanche in months! It was unfortunate Creed had returned to Three Oaks with Beaufort LeFevre and his daughter in tow. Otherwise, Rip could have shot the Ranger on sight and been done with it.

  It was probably a good thing he hadn’t gone off half-cocked, because from the look of things Cricket was a bit enamored of the fellow. At least, he didn’t know what else to make of her blind obedience to the Ranger. He shook his head disgustedly, then turned
back to the diplomat he’d agreed to escort to a meeting with President Mirabeau Lamar.

  “Come on in,” he invited. “You might as well freshen up before supper.”

  Cricket’s worst fears had been realized when Creed dumped her at her father’s front door. She went to her room, lay down on her bed, and closed her eyes, trying not to think, trying not to feel. She ignored Bay’s pleas through the closed door to be allowed to come in and talk with her. She didn’t know how long she’d been alone in her room when there was another knock at the door, but the shadowy darkness suggested the day was nearly gone.

  “Cricket? It’s me, Sloan. Can I come in?”

  “Go away.”

  The door opened and Sloan came in, closing it behind her. “I missed you, Cricket.”

  “Humph.” Cricket sat up in the center of the bed. “Looks like you and Bay are the only ones who did.”

  Sloan stopped long enough to pull her boots off, then joined Cricket on the bed, sitting Indian fashion across from her. “You missed supper.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “So. How’s married life?”

  “Damn, Sloan. You don’t tiptoe around the pansies, do you?”

  Sloan laughed. “I never did. I want to know, Cricket, really. Imagine you married. I never thought I’d see the day.” Sloan didn’t say aloud what else she was thinking. I’m so jealous.

  The two sisters looked each other over for changes that might have occurred while they’d been separated.

  “You don’t look any different,” Sloan said at last. “Marriage must agree with you.”

  “You’ve picked up a little weight, Sloan,” Cricket countered. “Right here.” She poked Sloan in the belly. “That used to be flat. Been eating too many sugared buñuelos?”

  Sloan laughed nervously. She placed a hand on her gently rounded abdomen. “I guess I must have. . . .”

  Sloan had needed someone to talk to, and with her favorite sister gone she’d kept her secret locked up inside her. Because Cricket had eloped with a man she loved, Sloan felt sure if she spoke the truth, her sister would understand. “No, actually I’m—”