Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  By the time they arrived home and shared a light, cold repast in stony silence, Melanie was exhausted. After dinner she retired to her room, where she quickly slipped off her clothes and sank gratefully into the tub Genia had prepared for her. After almost falling asleep in the water, she roused herself enough to slip on a silk night rail and climb between the cool sheets in her lonely bed. There sleep claimed her at once.

  Down the hall, Lee paced, unwilling to give in to the aching exhaustion and lie down. Visions of Melanie in her bath danced through his head. He heard the splash of water from her tub and Genia's low murmur as she bid the mistress good night. He could almost feel his wife's velvety skin, slick with bath oil, see her glistening and golden in the candlelight, smell the fragrance of night flowers that always seemed to cling to her.

  He felt unreasoningly angry with her for being involved in the dangerous tangle with Walkman and Blaine; but more than that, he was furiously jealous of her working on the project with Jeremy Lawrence. The young ranger's promise that he would no longer tell Melanie about their plans did little to reassure Lee. She trusts him—likes him…and he's always treated her with kindness and respect.

  Lee sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. All she could think of was her damnable newspaper story—her crusade, never her husband. Least of all her husband, who forced himself on her and then scorned her, he admitted bitterly to himself for the first time. “Small wonder she turns to Lawrence and practically lives at the Star after the way I've handled things,” he muttered aloud to the empty room. With a snarled oath he ripped off his clothes and rang for Kai to bring him bathwater. He must wash away the stink of death lingering from the Broughton place.

  By the time he fell asleep it was past midnight. The moon was up, shining in on his long dark body as he tossed and turned in the throes of an old nightmare. He was back in the Apachería with McGordy's men. It was his first trip out as a scalper, a bitter twenty-two-year old boy riding with the others, screaming through the camp, shooting Apaches as they roused from drunken slumber. When his guns had all been fired, he used his knife and his feet, slashing and kicking at the warriors who threw themselves at him until he was covered with blood. So much blood. The bile rose in his throat; he thrashed across the big bed, reliving in his dreams the first time he had taken an Apache scalp.

  Something awakened Melanie, a low keening cry, almost like an animal in unbearable pain. She sat up abruptly in bed, peering around the room and then out the window at the still, moon-bright night. There it was again, not outside but down the hall, coming from Lee's room! She threw the covers off and leaped from the bed, not even pausing to put on a robe as she dashed barefoot down the long hall.

  When she shoved his door farther ajar, she could see him. Half enshrouded in the sheets, his body was dark against their moon-bleached sheen. He tossed and thrashed like a wild animal caught in the jaws of a cruel trap. Frightened and uncertain now, she slowly stepped into the room. It was large and forbidding, smelling of leather and tobacco, of male musk—his scent.

  Once more Lee cried out, a sharp gasp of anguish, then subsided to unintelligible mutterings. He rolled over onto his stomach, clenching the pillow in his hands and burying his face in it as if to stifle his unconscious cries. Melanie felt compelled to move closer and closer to the big bed and the man writhing on it. He was slicked with perspiration and quite obviously naked beneath the thin sheet.

  She would have been tempted to admire his lean, well-muscled physique, outlined with such clarity in the moonlight, but just then he began to talk again—cry out, really. The anguish in his voice riveted her as a torrent of barely coherent Spanish poured out in whispered gasps.

  “Blood, so damn much blood...the smell...God, I can't do it...I can't...you bastard, McGordy, you like it, don't you—don't you....” He subsided for a minute, then resumed, “It's a woman, Blessed Virgin, a woman—no...don't—aaugh! Jesus, just pull it out, Fouqué...forget the barbs...it's got to come out or I'll die of blood poisoning…”

  He's dreaming about his time as a scalper, she thought in dawning horror, now beginning to realize that when he described the Broughton atrocity to her it was only one of many such savage scenes that he had witnessed in his years on the frontier. The intensity of his pain surged across the room and flowed over her in a tidal wave. Melanie knew she must end it for both of them by awakening him. She walked resolutely to the big bed and knelt on its edge. When she placed her hand on his back, the heat from his body scorched her palm. She could feel the hard muscles quiver beneath her cool fingers as she shook him.

  “Lee, Lee, wake up. You're having a nightmare—it's only a dream. Wake up!” He knocked her hand away and rolled over onto his back in one rough motion, still crying out in the grip of the nightmare. Now, the heat of his body was radiating along her thigh and belly as she sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over him. His darkly furred chest felt damp with sweat as she ran her fingers through the hair. Gently, she shook and massaged him in an attempt to bring him out of the nightmare. “Wake up, Lee, please,” she cried more loudly now, reaching up with her other hand to stroke his temple.

  Suddenly, one hand snaked up to encircle her slim wrist and yank it away from his face. His eyes flew open and he stared at her in dumbfounded amazement…and dawning consternation. “What the hell are you doing here?” He levered himself up in bed and looked around the room, orienting himself, pulling back from the abyss that had once again enveloped him. His eyes glowed when he turned them on her, seeming to penetrate the sheer silk that barely concealed her lush curves.

  “You—you were having a nightmare—a terrible dream. I heard you all the way down the hall, and I came to investigate…” Her voice faded into a choked whisper as she realized the vulnerable position she was in now that she had awakened him.

  He quirked one brow at her cynically. “Always investigating, my little reporter.” Gradually, as his mind cleared he realized what he had probably cried out. Eyes narrowed, he asked, “How well can you understand Spanish?”

  Even before she replied, “I'm fluent in Spanish,” he had been fairly certain. Damn!

  Forcing herself to meet his accusing, angry gaze, she said, “I know you were reliving your experience in New Mexico. It must have been horrible…” Once more her voice failed her and she looked down at his strong dark fingers clamped tightly over her tiny wrist. It throbbed wickedly and she tried to pull away. Sensing that he was hurting her, he loosened his hold but did not release her wrist.

  “The Apachería was horrible—beyond anything you could imagine,” he said tiredly. “Seeing the Broughton family must have triggered the dream. I haven't had it in months,” he muttered darkly. When she tried to pull away again, he began to massage her aching wrist softly.

  Melanie was certain he could hear her heart hammering. Surely, he could see it pulsing through her thin night rail. “If you're all right now, I'll—”

  “A minute ago you were investigating like a bold lady journalist. You're not going to turn and run now like a scared little rabbit, are you?” His voice held an odd teasing quality that excited and yet unnerved her.

  “I'm not scared,” she lied, “but you are hurting me.” Her eyes refused to meet his, fixing on the imprisoned wrist. She couldn't help but notice how his fingers enwrapped it. Damn, why do even his hands have to be beautiful!

  Slowly, he moved her hand up to his chest and pressed the small soft palm against his heart so she could feel its quickly pulsing rhythm. Of their own volition, her fingers flexed into the thick, springy hair and her long nails raked through it. She could feel his heartbeat accelerate. He released his grip on her wrist and moved his hand deftly to her heart, touching her breast lightly with callused fingertips that grazed the sheer silk of her night rail. He was rewarded when her heart, too, sped erratically.

  With a small smile he whispered, “Now we're even, little Night Flower.”

  “We'll never be even, Lee,” she replied on a cho
ked sob. “Not in your eyes.”

  Angrily, he pulled her to him, looping one long arm behind her back to hold her tightly against his chest. “Don't start your recriminations now, Mellie—you're my wife and you came to my room.” He gave her no chance to reply; but drew her quickly into a hot, searching kiss, tangling his other hand in the long straight hair that fell like satin down her back.

  Melanie felt him savage her lips, demanding entry to her mouth while his fingers dug into her hair, twisting and pulling on it. She could hear the pounding of his heart and the rasp of his erratic breathing. His need was starkly revealed, making him vulnerable. First, he was the trembling, sweating man gripped by a terrifying nightmare, then the harsh, demanding lover enslaved by passion—a passion that, God help her, she could never resist.

  With a low moan, she opened her mouth and returned the kiss, her hot little tongue darting and entwining with his as he had taught her. He had taught her so much in so little time. What will happen to me? she thought in a flash of panic. Then, his lips and hands gentled. The kiss became soft, experimental, his hold on her massaged instead of crushed. He pulled her small body close to him as he reclined on the bed until she lay full-length beside him. One small hand clung to his shoulder and the other wrapped around his neck, then inched upward into the curly hair of his head. She thought no more…

  Lee felt a surge of white-hot exhilaration shoot through him when her rigid protest turned into melting surrender. Then, realizing how roughly he was using her, he brought his passion under control. He savored her mouth with his own, his tongue cunningly tasting, darting, flicking, feeling hers return the erotic exploration. Her breasts pillowed against his chest and her hips arched against his as she writhed in his arms while he ran his hands up and down her spine, feeling the silky perfection of her delicate little body through the night rail.

  Slowly, he broke the intensity of the kiss and moved his lips in a warm rush down her neck to feast on her slender throat and collarbone. As she arched her neck back to accommodate his caresses, her breasts thrust up, straining against the silk. Sitting up, he kicked the sheet from his lower body and then reached down and pulled up the hem of her night rail.

  Understanding that he wanted the last sheer barrier between their bodies removed, she accommodated him, wriggling like a sylph until he pulled the gown over her head, fanning her hair out like spilled ink across the moon-drenched pillow. He tossed the flimsy silk on the floor and lowered his face over her arching, straining breasts. His slim long fingers teased and cupped one, then the other full rounded globe and his breath warmed them until they tightened into hard rosy nubs.

  Mellie wanted desperately to feel the heat of his mouth on her. She moaned and arched her aching breasts to meet his lips. He outlined one with the tip of his tongue, circling back and forth until she thought she'd go mad with the pleasure and the want. Then, he switched abruptly to the other to repeat the process. Finally, his hot, wet lips enveloped the nipple and suckled hard. She cried out in ecstasy, her hands gripping the curly hair of his head, pulling him closer yet.

  Lee rolled over onto his back and lifted her above him so her breasts hung suspended like ripe, rounded melons begging to be tasted. When he opened his lips, she thrust an eager, hardened nipple into it, writhing and panting as he continued to suckle one, then the other.

  She could feel his hot, hard phallus straining against the back of her thigh as she straddled his chest. While he continued to feast greedily on her breasts, she reached a hand behind her and stroked him delicately. Lee gasped and arched, nearly bucking her off his chest. Then, his strong hands fitted over her small hipbones, lifting her up and lowering her down onto him, impaling her slowly on his rigid, pulsing shaft. As he felt her wet, sweet flesh envelop him, he watched her lush little body undulate; her heavy breasts thrust out as she arched her back in ecstasy. He slid his hands up to her waist and held her as she fastened her thighs snugly around him. Eyes closed in a concentration of intense pleasure, she let her head fall back until the long mantle of her hair brushed his thighs.

  Once she was fully seated, with his whole length buried inside her, he thrust upward and moved her lower body in a rotating motion with his hands. Melanie's eyes flew open as raw, electrifying pleasure shot through her. With passion-glazed eyes, she looked down at him, then brought her clenched little fists around to his chest. Her hands opened and the fingers splayed through the muscles as she continued to follow his lead, rocking from side to side, then up and down, riding him in wilder, harder gyrations.

  She was aflame. Her hips matched his in wild pounding rhythm. Lee reached up and pulled great fistfuls of her hair over her shoulders, drawing her face down to his for a long, fierce kiss. As Melanie returned the kiss, her lower body continued to move with a will of its own, unconsciously, instinctively, meeting his, drawing him into her, deeper, harder, until a low keening escaped her mouth through the kiss.

  Lee felt the tight rippling waves begin deep inside her satin sheath and spread outward until her thighs and legs clamped against him. As she cried out and gave one last desperate arch in ecstatic climax, he joined her, his moans meeting hers deep in their fused mouths. He shuddered and exploded, deeply buried inside her, wanting never to be free again. His hands gripped her quivering thighs and held her tightly to him as she fell forward onto his chest.

  They lay locked together in the still night air for several moments, trembling, breathless, disoriented. Gradually, both began to regain their composure. Melanie kept her face buried against the curve of his neck, afraid to meet those glowing black eyes. They were wolf's eyes, predator's eyes, belonging to a man who ruthlessly took what he wanted regardless of the consequences. She crimsoned, recalling the shameless way she had impaled herself on him and ridden him. No wonder he treats me like a placée. I act like one every time he puts his hands on me, she thought bitterly.

  Lee, too, was envisioning the picture of her with her hair flung back and breasts arched, straining to ride him like some pagan goddess on a wild stallion. Then, he felt the stiff, still way she lay now that her passion had abated. Always it was the same—the irresistible melting into him when he reached out to her with his own fierce hunger, then the angry withdrawal after her body's needs had been assuaged. She used him in a far more dishonest way than her mother had used her father.

  Slowly, he raised her off of him and then rolled them both to their sides facing each other. But he did not release her. When she refused to meet his eyes in the dim white moonlight, he reached up and took her small chin in his fingers. Rather more roughly than he had intended, he raised her face to his. They were only inches apart.

  “Regrets again, Night Flower?”

  She forced herself to meet his eyes. “No more than you have, Lee.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You're the one who always freezes up and then turns on me afterward,” he replied bitterly, angry at the vulnerability and hunger he always seemed to reveal to her.

  “Can you honestly say you didn't regret it the first time, when all your plans for an annulment were destroyed?” Her eyes accused him.

  “That's all over now,” he evaded. “We're married, Mellie, and we have to live together. It's inevitable that this happen, even though we sleep apart. A man and a woman who are attracted to each other like we are can't be under the same roof without making love,” he argued reasonably, but he knew anger was creeping into his voice.

  She shook her head and pulled away from him. “In other words, you want me, but you don't like it. Well, there's one simple solution to our dilemma.” She rolled quickly out of his reach and scooped up her night rail as she moved across the floor toward the door. “If we don't live under the same roof, both of us should rest easier.” She vanished down the hall with a slam of the door.

  He flopped back angrily onto the bed and swore softly in Spanish.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I can't live this way, Obedience, I just can't,” Melanie sobbed out as the
big woman rocked her gently in her arms.

  “Now don't take on so,” Obedience said. “Let's git inside and set a spell ‘n yew kin tell me all ‘bout it.”

  Leaving Liberator tied at the side of the boardinghouse, Melanie and Obedience walked arm in arm around to the kitchen door. It was just after dawn. Pink and mauve streaked the morning sky. Melanie had not slept at all last night when she returned to her lonely room. After restlessly pacing for several hours, she had thrown a few clothes in a bag and fled the ranch in the darkness, returning to the Oakleys' boardinghouse and the common sense and assurance she knew Obedience could provide.

  “Now, I 'spect that young husband o' yourn’ll come flyin' in here madder 'n a scalded dog in a few minutes, so yew better talk fast.” Obedience spoke as she began to make a giant pot of coffee. Even Sadie was not astir yet, and the usually busy kitchen seemed eerily quiet.

  Melanie sat on the edge of a chair, fidgeting nervously with her skirt, looking like a wild bird ready to take flight. Her hair hung in tangles down her back from the furious ride into the city, and her silk shirt was buttoned crookedly.

  “I don't know where to begin,” she whispered helplessly, splaying her fingers across her knees.

  “How ‘bout with last night?” Obedience supplied shrewdly and was rewarded with a guilty red flush from the young woman. “He hurt yew?” she asked incredulously, not really believing it herself.

  “No, no—sometimes he frightens me, but...he's never hurt me.”

  Obedience nodded in dawning understanding. “He pleases yew too good, huh?”

  More scarlet blushing and silence.

  “Look, honey, what yew feel's right ‘n natural—ain't nothin' ta run from.”

  “It is if your husband's angry with you afterward,” Melanie said in a sad, soft voice. “He wants me. As long as we're living under the same roof, he can't seem to help...well...” She faded off in a misery of embarrassment.