Like children we throw our heads back and laugh riotous as we race against the wind; driving our horses forth through the sand until we feel as though we are flying.
In one timeless moment, our hands and gazes collide and interlock between us; our unspoken bond seeming to solidify as our horses slow and draw closer together.
“You know, Elizabeth, these last few days have been quite an adventure,” he tells me, gracing me with a beautiful white toothed smile. “And I have you to thank. I have to say it, Gal—you are one amazing woman.”
My cheeks flush bright red beneath the heat of this excessive praise. I open my mouth to respond, only to shut it seconds later, as a loud, rough snort rents the atmosphere around us.
I jump in my saddle as I turn to face the source of the sound; a pair of tall, grimy men dressed in tattered clothes and riding astride mangy, flea bitten horses.
“Well don’t you two make the sweetest pair?” sneers the older of the two men, spitting over the head of his horse as I recoil in disgust. “Would you care to give us your horses, so that the two of you can walk hand in hand across the desert?”
Duke shakes his head.
“Sorry,” he replies, tone stiff and tense as he tightens his hold on my hand. “These horses are not for sale.”
Our two unwelcome visitors exchange sly smiles, moving forward as one on the backs of their horses as they erase the distance between us.
“Now we didn’t say anything about buyin’ the horses,” said the younger man, tilting his head in our direction, “Did we?”
I have heard enough.
“Look, we were havin’ a fine ol’ time here all by ourselves,” I inform them, using my free hand to wave them away. “Now why don’t you two just mosey on along, so we can continue all by our lonesome?”
I gasp outright as—in a synchronized move—the men before us slip their hands beneath their waistbands and produce a menacing pair of silver hued steel pistols; guns they aim straight at our hearts as they charge us in a conjoined flourish.
Soon the nefarious pair entraps us on both sides; raising their guns as they motion for us to surrender our horses.
“Hand ‘em over!” they proclaim in a deadly chorus, clicking their barrels in unison.
“OK, OK!” I relent, lifting my hands in a show of submission as I shift sharp in my saddle. “Just cool your heels a minute, and give me a chance to dismount good and proper.”
Just then I dismount good and proper; in the process kicking my leg up high to strike the hand of the nearest assailant—causing the stunned hoodlum to drop his gun and fall backward off his mount.
Taking my cue, Duke balls his fists and surges forward to clock the chin of his own assailant; a man who, visibly stunned by the easy defeat of his foundering partner, doesn’t even think now to shoot his own gun. Instead he too falls helpless from the back of his horse, his gun falling useless to the ground as he lands limp alongside it.
“Let’s get out of here!” Duke commands, grabbing up his reins with one hand and slapping the side of my horse with the other. “Now!”
Following his lead, I dig my heels into the side of my mount as we rush frantic from the scene; not looking back as our horses trot with breakneck speed away from the source of our greatest danger.
I wince seconds later as the sound of brutal gunfire rents the air around us; coming closer and closer as the rhythm of pounding hooves follows in all too close accord.
Ducking our heads low to our chests and urging our horses forward, Duke and I act in flawless synch; dipping our hands to the waistbands of our blue jeans to retrieve our own stock of hidden revolvers.
Turning as one to face our adversaries, we fire off several rounds even as our heads bow to dodge the bullets intended to take our lives.
Our own aim rings the truest, sweeping our enemies clean off their horses—this time to meet their fates.
Forcing my gaze forward, I bow low over my horse’s neck and join hands once again with a solemn Duke; this time in a seeming act of desperation as we flee the bloodshed that threatens to consume us.
It seems an eternity until we find our way into a thick wooded copse; seeking shelter in the trees as we leap from our horses and into one another’s arms.
Seeking to erase the atrocious memory of that which has just befallen us, we cling to one another as our lips collide in an impassioned, near desperate kiss.
Losing myself in his muscular arms, I merge my trembling lips with his as he holds my body closer than close. The fear, the anger, melt away as he cradles me to him, lending me a dose of needed strength as I hope and strive to do the same for him.
“I know that life in these parts can be good and rough,” I speak finally, clinging to Duke’s muscular frame as he encloses my waist with encompassing hands. “I just have to say, though, that this day has been horrifying. I mean, I have had to defend myself before, and I have had to take drastic measures to ensure my safety. Oh, but I never savor the feeling. I detest it.”
Catching me up in his arms, Duke rains my face with sweet baby kisses as he sweeps me clear off my feet and carries me over to a soft patch of clover at the center of the forest.
“I was scared too, baby girl,” he reveals on a whisper. “But don’t you see, Girl? It’s OK to be afraid. It’s OK to show weakness once in a while.”
“It’s OK to love.”
With these words, he seizes my lips in yet another sumptuous kiss; this one deeper and more intense as he swings me affectionate in his arms.
Our tongues entangle as my lover soothes me with his comforting hands, all the while kissing me senseless in the heat of the Texas sun.
“Feel better?” he asks against my lips, running his hand through my long mane of soft chestnut hair.
In an effort to make me feel better still, Duke retreats to his saddle bags and retrieves the modest lunch that we had planned to eat as a carefree picnic. Yet now the ham sandwiches, the corn pone, the chittlins and buttermilk biscuits seem therapeutic in their substance; fortifying our bodies and easing our minds as we sit easy by a makeshift campfire in the haven of the forest.
Enjoying our meal with some equally fortifying vials of cold, hard whiskey, we soon relax as we trade tales of the various horses we had bought, raced and sold; both—or so I’m pretty sure—exaggerating to high heavens as we boast about our victorious careers.
Talk turns personal toward the end of the evening, as Duke tosses my body full in the depths of the luxurious clover; holding my gaze as he raises up on his knees and slowly, seductively unbuttons and strips away his tight denim shirt—revealing once again the massive bronzed chest that I love to gaze upon and touch to my heart’s content.
Giving himself fully and freely to me, he collapses beside me in our bed of ivy and crooks his finger slow and seductive in my direction.
“Come to me, Princess,” he releases on a growl, tossing his long dark hair to flirtatious effect as he flashes those azure eyes straight in my direction, “Let me make you all better.”
Surging upward in the ivy with a hearty whoop, I descend upon my surprised lover and declare, “No need to tell me twice!”
Straddling him just as I would one of my prized stallions, I lean downward to kiss and lick his perfect pectoral muscles; my hands caressing his rock-hard abdominals as he wraps his arms tight around my waist.
Making quick work of one another’s clothes, we treat one another to a sensual massage; my hands soothing and molding the muscles of his hard torso as he rubs and kneads my saddle weary back.
The brisk winds of a Texas night succor our bodies as our arms and legs entangle between us; our lips colliding in a binding kiss as our enjoined bodies roll free across the ivy.
“I want to make love to you like no man ever has,” he promises me, laying an affectionate squeeze on my bare rear end as he smacks his lips against mine.
Making good on this promise, he slips his hand between my thighs and coaxes open my feminine folds; rubbing and kneading my sensitiv
e clit to send shards of raw erotic arousal coursing wild throughout my entire body.
Eager to repay the favor, I slide my tickling fingertips down the base of his massive shaft; arousing my lover as our bodies strain and writhe together beneath the blissful cover of a Texas moon.
The essence of starlight casts my lover in a near angelic light as he continues to pleasure me; pumping my nub with ardent fervor as he deepens our soulful kiss. I let loose with an ecstatic cry as passion overcomes me, embracing my animal nature as I wriggle restless in Duke’s arms and—fully and finally—impale myself on his shaft.
Pitching his head back to release his own animal howl, he then lowers his full, sumptuous lips to my breasts and suckles my tender nipples; drawing an exalted moan from deep in my throat as our hips and thighs interlock between us.
Our bodies engage in a decadent tango that seems all the more magical when danced in moonlight. I clutch the strands of his silky hair as I thrust myself against him; our joined beings igniting and uniting with a friction that threatens to drive us insane.
We paw and growl as the howl of a distant coyote joins full and free in our ethereal chorus; Duke driving forth to my very core as we come together to serenade the moon.
Chapter six
The next morning Duke and I go into town just south of his beloved Austin; both figuring that, if we spent the gist of our morning in a private place, we might just be able to keep our hands off each other.
Maybe.
Yet even as my companion and I walk the streets of this busy Texas town—dodging as we do all manner of horses and wagons—I avoid Duke’s eyes as I chide myself for my own chronic weakness.
“Why can I not resist this man?” I scoff inwardly, forcing my face into a casual expression as I also endeavor to walk a few inches apart from Duke.
My troubled meditation is startlingly disrupted by the sudden presence of a gun in my face.
“Not again,” I mumble aloud, adding with a heated sigh, “I mean, one armed hold up per weekend is fun, but two is just excessive.”
“Be silent, woman!”
I stiffen as my words are cut short by the sound of a loud, booming voice; one that, inconveniently enough, belongs to the man who holds the gun to my head.
“Who are you to tell me to be silent?!” I bellow, stomping my feet beneath me.
Duke, who himself stands facing the barrel of a shiny iron gun, raises a curious eyebrow in response to these words.
“You’re more offended by his telling you to shut up than you are by the presence of a gun at your head?” he asks, shrugging off his own question as he turns to face the man who now confronts us. “What is the meaning of this?”
The man before us, a tall, muscular blond wearing what I consider a deceptive white hat and shiny silver star adorning his lapel, chortles outright as he cocks both his pistols with a slick synchronized click.
“You actually have the grit to ask me that question,” he snorts, shaking his head from side to side. “You’re Duke Wyatt, aren’t you?”
At Duke’s affirming nod, the man charges on, “Well, my name is Thomas Wilson, and I happen to be the sheriff of this town. And as it turns out, Duke Wyatt, you murdered one of the forefathers of our little town here. Yesterday, the distinguished Quincy Blake was murdered in cold blood, out in the Texas desert. I found him and his son barely conscious and clinging to life and rushed them back to town. Milo is in a coma and unable to talk—but for our dear Quincy, it was too late. He passed early this mornin’, sayin’ your name on his lips.”
Duke shakes his head.
“Did he also happen to mention the fact that I killed him in self-defense?” he asks, waving his arms in what seems a gesture of sheer frustration. “He tried to rob me of my horse. And after I escaped him, he took off after me with a gun.”
The sheriff scowls.
“Well I should shoot you down right here and now for tellin’ such a bald-faced lie,” he spits out, waving Duke forward with the barrel of his gun. “Come on, Cowboy. You’re going to jail.”
For once shocked into silence, I watch with wide, stunned eyes as the sheriff handcuffs Duke and whisks him away; following with muted steps as he is booked with haste into the city jail.
The next few hours pass in a nightmarish haze, with my dazed, shocked looking companion thrust headfirst into the center of the town square.
Standing at the front of a boisterous crowd, I fold my arms tight before me and listen with disbelieving ears as—within a manner of moments—the man I care a great deal about is condemned for a crime he didn’t commit.
And, for that matter, sentenced to death.
Chapter seven
The moment that a crestfallen Duke is whisked from the town square, I spring into action; determined to in some way save him from a cruel, unjust fate. A fate he meets as he takes the fall for an act that we both committed—an act, furthermore, of self-defense.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and it is with my eyes rolling sharply heavenward that I don a long, outskirted dress of shiny ebony muslin with a matching lace veil; one topped by what even I shall admit is a smart black velvet cap.
Soon I find myself in the musty front room of the local sheriff’s office; once again facing the cretin who now holds Duke in a small, dark cell at the corner of his office.
Looking up from his desk with blank eyes, Sheriff Thomas Wilson greets my arrival with a cold, unforgiving sneer.
“Don’t even think about it, Miss,” he barks, pointing an accusing finger straight in my direction. “Ain’t no way that you’re going to charm me out of my decision to avenge the death of Quincy Blake.”
I nod.
“I understand that, Sir,” I allow, bowing my head in a reverent stance. “I have come to accept the fate of my beloved Duke. All I would like, Mr. Sheriff, is a final moment alone with my man. Could you please just grant us this one last wish?”
The sheriff thinks a moment, then nods.
“Fine then,” he relents with a sigh, adding as he rises from behind his desk, “I could use a good smoke, anyway.”
And with these caring and empathetic words, the sheriff leads me across the office and straight in the direction of its sole, isolated cell. Then, after unlocking the cell door and allowing me entrance, he locks the door and clears the room with a loud, rude snort.
Sitting with head bowed on a cold, hard bench in a remote corner of the cell, Duke springs to his feet as I stride with great purpose into his prison.
“I want you to know, sweet Elizabeth, that I overheard every word you just said to the sheriff,” he tells me with a slight smile. “And your declaration of your love for me makes it well worth the death sentence that I have received….”
“Shut yer mouth, Duke!” I interrupt, holding up a restraining hand between us. “You and I have work to do, and not much time to do it.”
Raising my hands to my hat, I grab hold of a convenient hat pin protruding from my cap and grab Duke’s hand; leading the stunned man swift in the direction of the cell room door.
“I learned a lot more than readin’ back in finishin’ school,” I inform him over my shoulder, opening our door to freedom as we both rush forward.
Reaching once again for my trusty cap, I sweep it clear off my head to reveal my equally trusty pearl handled pistol.
“Ah Darlin’,” Duke grins, bowing low before me. “You really do think of everything.”
Like a flash of lightning we rush through the front door of the sheriff’s office, guns most literally a blazin’ as we storm past a shouting sheriff.
Mounting my waiting horse in one smooth flourish, I keep the aim of my gun levelled on the sheriff as we ride off into the sunset.
“Well how’s that for a quiet day in town?” I shout over my shoulder, wild breezes sweeping through my hair as Duke wraps his arms tight around my waist.
“Every day with you is an adventure, Darlin’,” he returns, pressing his warm, sweet lips soft against m
y cheek. “And the events of today just prove it for sure. I need you as my partner.”
Chapter eight
So in the wake of our little misadventure, with me nearly bein’ beheaded in a public square and all, Liz finally does agree to become my partner—but, sadly enough, only in the horse business. So the next day we take some of our prime stock to the farm of a horse dealer in upper Austin; a 100-acre ranch owned by a revered racer named Stan Darcy.
I frown concerned as Liz and I ride up the cobblestone drive fronting the massive brick three story mansion that belongs to the wealthy but always humble Stan. Oh, as always I admire the tall white columns, sloped rooves and circular front porch that grace this not so humble adobe—what I don’t like so much is the appearance of the telltale red horse truck parked just outside the house.
With curious eyes I glance over at Elizabeth, fetching as always in a lovely day dress of pure white taffeta.
“Are you ready, Miss Elizabeth, to meet the biggest ever varmint in the history of the horse trade?” I ask her.
Liz purses her lips.
“You mean there’s one that takes the crown?” she queries, eyebrows arched. “Above the others?”
Liz gets her answer moments later, when she comes face to face in Stan’s tiled entryway with the one and only Michael Lowell; a slick, oily horse trader with a moustache that twirls right-side up and a smarmy smile that aims in the same general direction.
I almost cringe outright as I see Michael shaking hands with Stan Darcy; a tall, distinguished gentleman with silver hair and a refined suit of clothes.
“Top of the mornin’ to ya, Duke!” Michael greets us, inclining his head in Stan’s direction. “You just missed the biggest and most impressive horse deal of the century.”
Stan shakes his head.
“Now keep in mind, Michael, that we haven’t signed any official type papers yet,” he reminds his partner, adding with a nod toward his two new visitors, “And hello to you, Duke! What business have you here on this fine mornin’?”
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