Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  “Moses French,” the older woman finished the sentence emphatically. “Yep, ‘specially after I got plumb tired o' hearin' ole Racine Schwartz caterwaulin' ‘bout how his favorite buckskins ‘n knife wuz stole from his room. Then they come home all by theyselves a week er so after thet story wuz printed. Right remarkable.” She shook her head in reproof. “Gal, what yore doin'll be the death o' yew.”

  “This won't be nearly as bad as that massacre, believe me. All I'm going to do is sneak up where Lame Deer told me Blaine is meeting the renegades. I'm not fool enough to try and shoot it out with a bunch of gunmen and Comanche!”

  “They ketch sight o' yew 'n' yore as dead meat as them cows,” Obedience yelled after the small woman, who had quickly slipped past her and dashed down the back steps. Fuming and cussing, the big woman shambled after the girl, realizing the futility of trying to catch her. Small, agile Melanie would be traveling too quickly for a man of Wash's considerable bulk to outride her. Frantically, Obedience cast her eyes up and down the street as she stood on the front porch of the boardinghouse.

  “Whut's frettin' yew, sweet pea?” Wash said, coming up behind his wife and placing his enormous bear-paw hand on her shoulder.

  “Jeehosaphat! We gotta find someone ta stop thet fool child afore she ends up buzzard bait er worse!” Quickly, she told him that Melanie was Moses French and described the dangerous situation about to take place if someone didn't stop the girl.

  “I seen Lee Velasquez up th' street ‘bout two minutes ago. I'll git him.” Wash moved with surprising speed toward his big bay gelding.

  * * * *

  “She what?” Lee's eyes blackened with fury and incredulity.

  “She's Moses French, ya see, ‘n she got them fool Injun kids spyin' on thet thievin' rascal Blaine,” Wash explained further, as if dealing with a simpleton. “Someone's gotta ketch her, ‘n yew know this country and kin track. I'd go, but ole Gentry here'll never outrun thet little gal.”

  With a curse, Lee vaulted onto Sangre's back in front of the Sandoval house, where Wash had intercepted him. “I'll head to Father Gus's school and find that boy,” he called out as he vanished in a cloud of dust kicked up by the big stallion's hooves.

  After an hour on the trail at a punishing pace, Lee was as hot and sweaty as the big blue roan, who was enjoying the exercise. His rider was not. He cursed Melanie Fleming in English, then Spanish, then switched back to English; it had more uniquely graphic words with which to express his feelings.

  All sorts of horrible images of her small body lying bullet-riddled and bloodied on the hot Texas earth flashed through his mind. Then, he pictured her as she had looked at the Slades' fiesta last week, all frothy in a cream lace dress, dancing with one of those mooning cowhands of Jim's. The vision of her earthy, sensuous beauty haunted him as he rode. She had a good half hour's head start on him. If only he were in time.

  As he rounded a curve in the road, he could see he was near the Cedar Fork area of Clear Creek. When he heard the distant bawl of cattle, he knew the stolen herd was not far ahead. He reined in Sangre and considered, Where would I go to spy on them if I were Moses French? Then, he saw a brushy thicket that stretched along a rise of ground on the far side of the creek. A natural observation point—if the Comanche and Blaine's men hadn't concluded the same thing and posted a sentry who'd already killed her! Slowly, he backtracked and headed toward the thicket from the opposite direction.

  All his years in the Apachería had honed Lee's instincts for survival. He knew how to smell out an enemy and had never been taken by surprise. When he sighted several renegade Comanche and Lucas Blaine standing over the inert bodies of two cowhands, the raiders were unaware of his presence. Obviously, the savages had surprised the luckless wranglers at their campfire and killed both men. Now, they were haggling with Blaine over the guns while the trader's men drove off the cattle. Where the hell is Melanie?

  Lee tied Sangre in a low-lying willow copse across the creek. The horse was trained to silence and would never give him away. Then, he moved toward the rise on foot, crawling up the steep, rocky pathway noiselessly. He could hear the sounds of the Comanche riding off. When he crested the hill he saw her, kneeling behind a jutting rock, watching the scene below intently.

  Silent as an Apache, he stalked her, crouching down as he neared the edge of the precipice.

  Melanie watched as the last of the renegades prepared to ride away, sporting several new rifles each. One Comanche stayed behind, however, searching the campsite of the unfortunate cowboys, apparently looking for anything of value to pilfer.

  If I can capture him red-handed, Wash and Jim can wring the truth out of him about Blaine. Melanie’s mind was fixed on the renegade across the creek. Just as she started to get up, a set of steel fingers tightened over her mouth and a powerful arm squeezed the breath from her rib cage.

  Lee Velasquez's voice was unmistakable, even through clenched teeth as he whispered in her ear, “Don't do anything else stupid like scream and bring those savages down on us. Now I'm going to release you—promise to be quiet?” At her affirmative nod, he let her go.

  Melanie jerked away from him and hugged herself around the middle where his iron-hard grip had bruised her. “Ooh,” she whispered, laboring to regain her breath, “I think you've broken my ribs. What are you doing here?”

  He arched his brows in a fierce scowl and shot back, “A better question might be what is a lone female doing riding after cutthroats and Comanches!”

  “Look, they're gone—all but that one fellow,” Melanie said, turning to watch again.

  “Good. We can get the hell out of here before he sees us.” Grabbing her arm, Lee began to pull her back from·the overhang.

  Melanie jerked free furiously, hissing, “I'm not going anywhere with you! I'm here for a story to expose Lucas Blaine and his thieves. Go back to your San Antonio belle and rescue her when she has the vapors. I'm going to catch a murderer before he gets away.”

  When she tried to storm past him, he grabbed her roughly with both hands and shook her until her teeth rattled. “Get this straight. I didn't ride Sangre into the ground to save your pretty little ass for my own amusement or out of some misguided sense of chivalry. I came because the Oakleys asked me. Moses French has written her last story!”

  Her eyes flashed fiery gold like a cornered she-cat. “I don't want your help—I don't care if the Blessed Virgin and the Archangel Michael sent you!” She tried in vain to wriggle free.

  As they engaged in a silent struggle punctuated by heavy breathing, Lee looked over her head at the clearing across the stream. The last Comanche had mounted up and was leaving the scene of their crime. “Your quarry's getting away, Moses. Give it up,” he said, now half amused at her fierce resistance.

  She turned and emitted a furious oath when she saw the rider escaping. Lee began to release her when she stilled her thrashing. Then, she reached in the pocket of her skirt, pulled out a six-shot pepperbox, and aimed it directly at his chest.

  “Now back off or, so help me God, I'll shoot you! I'm going to stop him!” She heard the hiss of air escape from between his clenched teeth as he looked down at the lethal Allen and Thurber. His face lost all expression and he stepped back a pace, still standing directly in her path. “Move!” she ordered.

  “He's gone, Melanie. What're you going to do—ride him down? A Comanche? Never aim a gun at a man unless you're prepared for the consequences.” He didn't budge.

  Suddenly, she sensed he was dangerously angry, in a different way than he had been moments earlier. She could feel the trembling in her knees spread upward to her hand holding the small gun, which now seemed to weigh fifty pounds. “How dare you presume to rescue me when I obviously don't need help?” she demanded, trying to keep the edge of her own anger sparked to stop her shaking.

  Lee's face betrayed none of the savage fury coursing through him. “Do you recall what I did to Zeb Brocker when he tried to pull a gun on me?” he asked levelly. “I could s
nap that pretty little neck of yours.” His eyes commanded her to get rid of the gun, even though he continued to stand deceptively still, poised cat-taut, waiting for her to obey.

  Melanie's fright grew, but so did her rage. “Order your sweet little girlfriend around, but don't play lord and master with me, you—you scalper!”

  As she vented her spleen, Melanie gesticulated, moving the gun the tiniest bit off center. It was the split second's opening Lee needed. With one lightning sweep he knocked the gun flying, numbing her hand with the force of the blow. His other hand reached for her, grabbing at her shoulder, but she twisted away. Lee caught the thin silk of her shirt, ripping it all the way to her waist and revealing the swell of her breasts over their tight confinement in a lacy camisole. She backed up a step, clutching at the torn fabric to cover herself. He moved forward a step, but made no further attempt to touch her.

  His black eyes locked with her golden ones. Then, his hypnotic gaze slowly lowered to her parted lips to watch as she moistened them with her tongue, breathless with fright and some other emotion he knew she had never felt before. His scorching eyes traveled to her voluptuously rounded breasts, then down to her tiny waist and flared hips, perfectly encased in the tailored riding skirt. “Your taste in clothes has certainly improved.”

  “If admiring my clothes inspires you to rip them off me, I'll go back to my old wardrobe, thank you,” she said stiffly.

  He watched the rise and fall of her breasts as she stood with her arms crossed protectively over them. “I've had you under my skin ever since we collided in Austin six years ago,” he said, more angry at himself than at her because his reaction to her had always made him feel disloyal to Dulcia.

  Melanie could feel the leashed fury and sexual tension uncoiling in him. Cornered and desperate, she made a swift lunge to get past him.

  Lee was too quick for her. His hands once more imprisoned her shoulders. When she raised her fists to swing at him, he quickly grabbed her fragile wrists. In their struggle her torn blouse once more fell open. As Melanie thrashed against his imprisoning grip, one camisole strap snapped. She could feel the tight lace garment riding down until her right breast was exposed. In humiliation and shame, she kicked out at him in a frenzy to escape. Her pointed boots stabbed his shin and he let out a snarled oath of pain, which swiftly changed to a hiss of agony when she raised her knee to his groin. The action was inadvertent on Melanie's part as she flailed and kicked wildly.

  “You little bitch,” he ground out, yanking her against his chest so hard they both lost their balance and tumbled backward to the ground. Lee's body cushioned the fall for her, but the breath was knocked from both of them. Gasping for air, Melanie tried to pull free; but he rolled them over and imprisoned her beneath him.

  “Now, let's see you try that sweet trick again,” he panted as he threw one leg across her thighs, immobilizing her lower body. Her fingernails raked across his face before he secured her wrists. He stared down at her small, beautiful face.

  “Please,” was all she could get out in a hoarse, terrified whisper. Her eyes glowed like liquid gold, shimmering with unshed tears of fury and fright. Her hair had come free from its pins and tangled around her shoulders. Holding both her hands in one of his, he took the other and seized the cluster of gleaming ebony curls. Her hair smelled of wild roses, delicate and sensuous, like the night blossom he'd found at his ranch.

  He could feel her shivering terror. Slowly, the red haze of lust abated, leaving a bemused gentleness. He stared into her golden eyes, then lowered his mouth to kiss first one, then the other. “Don't cry, little Night Flower, don't cry,” he whispered raggedly as silvery droplets squeezed through her brushy black lashes. He continued his softened assault, trailing his lips down to her mouth and brushing it feather lightly until he could sense her opening to gasp in surprise. He centered his mouth over hers then and kissed her deeply, his tongue entering the virgin recesses to tease and tantalize.

  Melanie sensed the change in him from brutal predator to gentle seducer. Every nerve in her body seemed stretched tight, no longer in terror but now in some new unnamed and unknown way. She heard his whispered endearment, but the words didn't register because the warm, probing magic of his lips and tongue had taken her reason away. She could feel the bone-crushing hold he had on her wrists loosen then relent as he moved his hand downward, between their bodies to trace a scorching pattern around her bared breast. The nipple contracted in a frisson of pleasure, and she found herself arching up for yet another caress.

  Her fingers ran through his shaggy black hair, then clutched convulsively at his shoulder when he deserted her lips and moved his head lower to her breasts. Slowly, like a man unwrapping a treasure, he eased the camisole all the way down, baring both rounded globes with their hard rosy points. He circled one tip with his tongue while his hand continued to caress the other.

  Melanie heard a whimper of pleasure and dimly realized it was her own voice. Now, her writhing was not in protest but in ecstasy. Never had she felt anything like the sensations flowing through her body, which seemed to have a will of its own, instinctively reacting to his practiced hands and mouth. She clung to him, letting him bare her breasts and suckle them, run a lean, callused hand down her thigh and reach beneath her skirts. Then, he stroked back up her sleek little leg toward the warm, liquid core of her body. She arched and pleaded incoherently.

  Lee sensed her acquiescence. Unpracticed but eager, she was instinctively sensuous and passionate. He lost himself in her soft rose-sweet flesh, so intent on discovering the delights of her body that he did not hear the approaching horsemen until they were practically upon him.

  “Lee, what the hell are you doing?” Jim Slade's unmistakable gravel drawl interrupted the lovers.

  “Velasquez, I'll kill you for this.” Rafe Fleming's silky voice held a deadly menace for all its quietness.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rafe Fleming slid from his big sorrel stallion with the effortless grace of a Comanche, his movements sinuous and swift. Before he could reach Lee, Jim Slade intercepted him with a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  “Don't do anything you'll regret, Rafe,” he said in a low, intense voice.

  Lee quickly rose from the dusty ground and pulled Melanie up behind him, shielding her from the prying eyes of the half-dozen riders still mounted behind Slade and Fleming. Damn, as if they haven’t all seen enough!

  Fleming's black eyes glowed like embers as he looked from his daughter's torn clothing to Lee's scratched face. “The son of a bitch attacked her, Jim.” Rafe saw only what he wished to see, his cold voice and tightly coiled manner belying the white-hot rage hammering inside him.

  Jim, who had seen the girl ardently returning Lee’s attentions, was decidedly the calmer of the two, afraid only that Rafe would try to kill his childhood companion before the situation was clarified. “Let's just discuss this before we decide anything,” he replied easily.

  Melanie could feel her father's eyes assessing her disheveled state as he walked past Lee and took her in his arms. She frantically tried to pull the shredded blouse up with one hand while smoothing down her wayward skirts with the other. Silently, he slipped his buckskin vest off and offered it to her. Although far too large, it did at least hold her silk shirt together at the shoulder. Cringing in shame and shock, she listened to the men's strident voices as if she were overhearing them from a great distance.

  Lee turned from the father and daughter to face Jim Slade. “I followed her to keep her from getting killed. She was ready to ride after one of the Comanche who shot those wranglers.” He gestured across the creek to the campsite.

  Seeing the slain men left by the rustlers, Jim barked terse orders, “Wash, Asa, check and see what's gone on over there and wait for us across the creek.”

  As the mounted men wheeled their horses and departed in mute embarrassment, Jim looked quickly between Lee and Rafe, knowing he had to stay calm and keep control of the situation. “All right. I kno
w Wash sent you after her, and I know what she was up to; but that doesn't explain how we found you.” He cast Rafe a quelling look, praying the arrogant Creole would not act precipitately.

  Lee took a long, steadying breath, trying to gather his badly scattered wits. How to explain the unexplainable, the insanely irrational? “I won't make excuses, Jim. She pointed a gun at me and when I took it away from her we struggled. Then, oh, shit, I lost my head, and—”

  “And tore the clothes from her body because she defended herself?” Rafe interrupted with deadly softness.

  “It wasn't quite that simple, Fleming,” Lee replied angrily. “She was out here on a fool's errand and tried to shoot me for the trouble of saving her hide—and, I might add, it's not the first time since she came to San Antonio that I've had to keep someone from killing her.”

  “That doesn't give you the right to manhandle her, mano,” Jim replied levelly, knowing there was much more to the encounter than Lee was revealing.

  “I regret my actions and I apologize,” he said woodenly, looking at Melanie's small dazed face, now smudged with dust. Her eyes were downcast and her lips were bruised from his fierce kisses. He felt a renewed surge of that bizarre combination of desire and fury rise in him once more.

  “So,” Rafe said, releasing Melanie and stepping up to confront Velásquez, “you apologize, do you? After half a dozen cowboys from Bluebonnet saw her pinned to the ground under you and you with your filthy hands all over her body. I'd say it's a little late for regret.” His voice finally rose a notch.

  Two sets of fiery black eyes clashed. Looking at the men, Melanie was shocked at how alike her father and Lee were, tall, dark, and hard-looking—dangerous. She knew Lee was a killer, and she had heard rumors about Rafael Flamenco's early days in Texas. Then Lee's words jarred her from her ruminations.

  “I can't undo what's done and I won't crawl for it, Fleming. Anyway, you and all the others could see the lady wasn't exactly fighting me when you happened on us. She gave me the distinct impression she was enjoying what we were doing.”