“Does he have it?” Hal demanded.
“Not yet. Etheridge’s replacement, James Ripley, has come east with the ledger book and the sale should take place this week. He has relatives in Council Bluffs and Sioux City, so the meeting will occur along the Missouri.”
“Where?”
“Probably Sioux City,” Evans answered William.
“Probably?” Viola exclaimed. “We have to stop Lennox from buying that book and you don’t know where to go?”
Evans spread his hands. “My informant said either Sioux City or Omaha. I favor Sioux City since Omaha is a Union Pacific town. The U.P.’s backed by the Crédit Mobilier, who fired Lennox three years ago.”
“Why?” Viola whispered to Hal.
“Cousin Duncan says Lennox was found in bed with two of the directors’ wives. At the same time,” Hal answered absently, considering the distance to Sioux City. With the Missouri running so high, it would take longer than usual to reach.
Viola choked. “Greedy fool.”
Hal realized what he’d said and tried to divert her. “He also has a clever tongue.”
Viola raised an eyebrow at that, then turned her attention to the others’ debate.
“Omaha is closer to Fort McGowan so it might be more convenient for Ripley,” William said, countering Evans’s suggestion.
“My money’s on Sioux City, which Lennox can easily reach without taking a U.P. train,” Evans said. “Afterwards, he can return to Washington—and Belknap—in less than a week.”
“That does sound the likeliest option,” William said slowly.
“Given that, the Belle should make Omaha late tomorrow afternoon but she’ll have to tie up there overnight.” Hal made plans briskly. “So, tomorrow night, we can look for Lennox and Ripley, just in case they stopped there. If not, we sail for Sioux City at first light. They’re unlikely to try another attack in a city.”
“And when we find them—”
“We take the ledger book,” Viola finished for her husband. “By force, if necessary.”
Hal’s mouth slowly settled into the same mirthless smile he’d worn when chasing guerrillas out of swamps. Force. Oh yes, we’ll fight. And this time, unlike that dustup outside the Tenderloin gambling hell or the duel at his sister’s house, Hal would not let Lennox walk away. Any threat to Viola and her family, or to Rosalind, must end immediately.
Hal’s heart leapt when he saw Rosalind, waiting patiently in her borrowed oilskins on the hurricane deck outside Sampson’s cabin. It was ridiculous to be so exhilarated by the sight of one female. She glanced at him briefly, then looked back at the river, with the same bored but alert posture he’d seen from so many sentries during the war: her gray eyes continually sweeping her surroundings, her body relaxed but ready to use a gun on a moment’s notice.
“Anything happen?” Hal asked quietly, coming down the half-dozen steps to join her on the hurricane deck. The rain had stopped, but the boat was now shrouded in a thick river fog.
She shook her head. “They identified the sniper, a drifter who’s known for his mean streak and love of money. Not a particularly good marksman, thank God.”
“Amen,” Hal echoed, thinking of the blood running down William’s cheek and the terror on Viola’s face when she saw it. A crack shot would have killed William with the first bullet, then taken Viola—or him—with the next.
Dear God, he could have died and never seen Rosalind again. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. To his surprise, they were shaking. Worse, a cold lump of ice sat in his stomach. He’d been steady as a rock when he’d guided the squadron past Vicksburg. But the thought of never seeing one tall, long-legged, high-bosomed female with a clever mind had almost undone him.
Utter foolishness. He’d lived through worse than being shot at by one man with a gun. But logic didn’t rule his emotions tonight.
Hal jammed his hat back on and turned for the stairs.
“Are you finished for the night, sir?” she asked.
“Yes. Come along.” He had to touch her. He had to reassure himself he was still alive and she was still his. He tried to make conversation while his feet led them toward his cabin. “Did you hear all of it?”
“Most of it, I think.” She kept pace with him easily.
“Any thoughts?”
“It’s very credible, sir. Lennox assisted in many of his bank’s Washington dealings. He’d know who to talk to, if he wanted to injure someone who did business with the Army.”
Hal grunted. “Figures. Do you think Lennox would go to Omaha or Sioux City?”
“Sioux City,” she said promptly and stepped onto the boiler deck with him.
Hal raised an eyebrow as he turned down the promenade for their cabin.
She answered his unspoken question. “Sir, several of the Crédit Mobilier directors hate Lennox and have done their best to ruin him. Appearing in Omaha, and thumbing his nose at the U.P., would likely infuriate them beyond all restraint. It might be enough of an insult to force Dunleavy & Livingston to fire him. Sioux City is much safer.”
“I agree. But we’ll make the rounds of the hotels and gambling dens in Omaha, in case he’s there.” He entered his stateroom and hung up his hat and coat. Cicero brushed past them, heading for his cot.
She was frowning as she pulled the door shut behind her. Damn, but she was beautiful, even in men’s clothing.
“I could help you search,” she offered, her gray eyes thoughtful as she hung up her coat and hat. “I’ve seen him more often than you have so I should recognize him easily.”
“Too dangerous.” His voice was thick. The air was laden with her scent—the light, clean smell of soap and something uniquely hers. He would never have known it again if he’d been killed.
Nonsense. Any man who thought about being killed would be dead very soon. He’d seen that happen often enough during the war. No, what he had to focus on was saving Viola and William. Do something concrete, not dwell on what could be lost.
Still, his hands were shaking slightly when he cupped her face and his chest was tight. “Let’s think about this instead.” The one sure way to stop her talking and keep him from thinking.
He bent his head towards hers. She immediately tilted her head back, slanting it to meet his approach. He kissed her lightly, his lips teasing her. The tips of his whiskers brushed her skin, sending an echoing frisson into his bones.
He groaned, a harsh needy sound even to his own ears. He cared nothing now, in the aftermath of nearly losing his life, for the danger of their discovery as lovers. Her hands slipped up into his hair and pulled him closer. A shudder ran down his spine and into his loins.
His tongue probed her more deeply, finding and savoring the contrast between her agile tongue and strong teeth. She moaned something as she leaned into him, her long elegant body now a warm caress along his entire length. Need spiked him wherever she touched, making his skin prickle in hungry awareness. His hands slipped down to her shoulders—so slender and strong—then down her back, pulling her closer to him.
He fondled her ass…. Damn, but she was beautiful, firm and curving so perfectly into his hands. She moaned again and wrapped her leg around his, inviting more caresses. He readily obliged her, enjoying every warm curve and sinew as much as the taste of her mouth. His cock swelled until his drawers were a prison.
He lifted his head from hers. She looked back up at him, eyes dazed. “Too many clothes,” he answered her unspoken question.
“Ah.” She started to unbutton her frock coat.
Hal smiled, certain that he looked like a lion anticipating his next meal, and followed her example. He was undressed well before she was, thanks to carelessly tossing his garments over the chair. A fine sheen of sweat coated him, emphasizing his cock’s eagerness.
Next door, in the grand saloon, men’s voices swelled and flowed as they discussed the attack. Someone started to sing one of the old wartime campfire songs, providing a lonely underpinning to t
he others’ harsh phrases. It was a song Hal had heard before, in the swamps during the siege of Vicksburg. Many men had died during those days, and he’d written more than one letter of condolence to a mother.
He shook himself. Tonight was for the living, not the dead. His legs trembled slightly, but he stiffened them until he stood steady again.
Hal stepped up behind her and nuzzled the nape of her neck. Such a long, elegant sweep of white skin and sinew and bone. With all those wonderful hidden nerves and delicate pulse points to inflame a lover’s senses. Pity that more women didn’t cut their hair short.
Rosalind shivered and moaned, bending her neck forward in wordless invitation. Only her undershirt and drawers hid the rest of her temptations.
Despite his throbbing cock, Hal took his time before moving down to her shoulders, pulling aside her undershirt to expose the fragile skin. He was careful to touch her only with his hands, trying to keep himself under control by somehow limiting his contact with her.
He licked and kissed and nibbled lightly until she was shaking like a leaf. She started to turn towards him, but he tightened his hold on her shoulders. “Not yet.”
“I can barely stand up.” Her hoarse voice, probably meant to be tart, sounded needy.
“Put your hands on the door to steady yourself. After you take off your undershirt,” he added. A risky move but he needed to feel more than fine linen.
“Hal,” she protested weakly, then gasped.
Hal licked the pulse point he’d just nipped, enjoying the fine tremors running through her skin. And if he stayed behind her, she wouldn’t see how his hands still shook. Dear God in heaven, he’d come so close to losing her.
Mumbling something under her breath, she yanked the undershirt over her head and threw it onto the chair. Hal grinned at the disorder she’d caused, so untypical of his little lady gambler. And so redolent of inner turmoil—and arousal.
Muttering, Rosalind turned back to the outside door and placed her palms flat on it. Light from the grand saloon filtered in through the transom on the opposite wall, highlighting the clean sweep of her spine and long legs. Her position also had the most enticing result of thrusting her ass out at him.
Hal gave himself a moment to enjoy the view. His cock surged appreciatively to a damned uncomfortable size.
“Hal, please…” she gritted.
“Damn, but you’re beautiful.”
“And you’re entirely too far away,” she retorted.
He chuckled and ran his finger lightly down her spine, enjoying the faint bumps indicating each vertebra. Then he laid his palms flat on her shoulder blades and glided them up to her collarbone. “Lovely,” he said hoarsely and bent to delicately nibble. Who was he torturing more, him or her, as he cupped her sweet breasts, with their taut nipples?
“Hal. Oh, dear heavens. Hal.” Her head fell forward.
He worked his way down her back, exploring and laying claim to every inch with lips and teeth and tongue. His fingertips and palms also mapped her, noting every point, every caress that made her shudder and moan his name. From time to time, he’d play with her breasts and her sweet belly, enjoying how she arched and wiggled under him.
He wondered once if anyone could hear them, then thrust the thought away. No one and nothing else mattered, only searing this woman into his memory.
Her hips twisted and pushed toward him, triggering jolts of hunger through him. His cock burned and throbbed for her, sending matching pulses through his body until he could barely think. Hal tried to remember why he’d wanted to take his time, but couldn’t think of a reason to counter the hot, tight swell of his desperate balls.
He sank to his knees behind her and nipped the ripe curve of her rump through her drawers. Rosalind jumped and shrieked, barely managing to muffle the sound against her arm.
Hal would have smiled except need rode him too hard for such softness. He rubbed his cheek against the spot to soothe her, crooning her name. She steadied slightly under him, moaning and trembling like a horse ready to bolt. The rich scent of her musk was clearer now, so close to its source.
He slipped a finger between her legs. Dear heavens, she was very wet indeed. He groaned his appreciation and pressed the seam up into her, rubbing her sensitive folds. Her knees buckled until she rested on the edge of his hand, gasping and shaking as dew flowed down her leg.
“Hal, please. You’re killing me.” Her voice was a hoarse thread of sound. Her thighs trembled against him in the desperate pulses of near-orgasm.
He ran his tongue down the seam in her drawers, from her spine past the sweet hidden delights of her rosebud, until it met his hand. She sobbed his name as more dew gushed and he sucked it through the linen. Her clit throbbed against his thumb.
He pressed the seam hard against her clit. She wailed and climaxed in a wild spasm that left her sagging against him.
Hands trembling, Hal lifted her and laid her facedown across the bed, with her feet on the ground. A moment later, he had her drawers unbuttoned and yanked to the floor.
He stepped up between her legs and rubbed his cock against her sweet inner flesh, from thigh to thigh and through her folds. He slid it up the crack in her ass until it nudged her spine and rocked his hips, enjoying how his cockhead rippled over the varying muscles and bones. She was so heartbreakingly perfect.
She moaned again. Her hips circled restlessly, and more dew glided down to anoint his thighs.
He took his cock in his hand—his shaking hand, dammit—and guided it into her, barely steadying himself enough to find her on the first touch. And he trembled like a colt when her intimate hairs rubbed his loins, setting off sparks throughout his entire body.
The contact banished all discipline, turning him into little more than a rutting stallion. He thrust into her hard and fast, barely sane enough to be glad her channel clasped and welcomed him. She was hot and moist deep inside, the epitome of the cauldron of life and exactly what he needed.
She gasped his name when he locked his arms under her armpits and gripped her shoulders, the better to ride her harder. Her dew flowed over his cock and through her folds until they seemed linked by both his cock’s desperate rigidity and her fluid welcome.
But it didn’t—couldn’t—last long. All too soon, his seed burned out of his balls and up his cock, poised on the brink of an eruption. He tried to hold it back, enjoy one more deep delicious lunge into her, but couldn’t.
Rosalind shuddered and bit her arm, groaning as the first hard wave of orgasm rocked her channel and ripped the last vestiges of self-control from Hal.
Lips and teeth locked in a grimace of pleasure and pain, he surrendered to passion and poured himself into her. He filled the condom in a series of spasms that rattled his bones.
Afterward, he lay on top of her for a long time before he could breathe again. He started to shift, to free her of his weight. A single, delicate snore greeted his ears, and he smiled ruefully. No more riding her tonight, even if his loins were willing. He took a moment to savor how her breathing traveled through her ribs and rippled against his chest.
Finally, Hal stood up, his legs barely able to hold him, and studied his lover. She was so beautiful, lying there in the dim light filtering through the transom. Enticing as Aphrodite, with the beautiful curves of her rump below that narrow waist. And those long legs so perfectly made to draw a man in and hold him close while taking pleasure.
He reached toward her—then yanked his hand back. She would be leaving at Fort Benton, walking out of his life as she had walked into it.
His lips curled in a snarl. No. He would do something, anything to keep her. Marriage perhaps, but not children. Dear God in heaven, even with Rosalind as their mother, he couldn’t risk subjecting children to the hot Lindsay temper.
Chapter Fourteen
“So that’s the capital of Nebraska,” Nick Lennox commented, as he leaned on the Spartan’s boiler deck’s rail and looked across the Missouri River. Below him, he could hear the dec
k crew busily letting down the stage on the other side so that passengers and cargo could enjoy the uncertain attractions of Council Bluffs. Downriver, the Cherokee Belle’s stacks glinted as the riverboat worked her way up to Omaha. “A big bridge, a wide river that wants to sweep the bridge away, and a few buildings—some of them solid. Has anyone there considered paving their streets?”
“‘Some towns are famed for beauty, and others for deeds of blood. But say what you may of Omaha, it beats them all for mud,’” Jenkins declaimed in between puffs on his astonishingly foul-smelling cigar. “Or, so said the local paper a few years back.”
“And it still sounds like a good description, at least in springtime. Where did you learn to quote poetry?” He kept the conversation innocent, given the few passengers still on the boiler deck. The smell of coffee and fried bacon drifted past him, reminders of the breakfast being served in the grand saloon.
Jenkins shrugged. “My dad was a preacher and made all his sons memorize poetry when we disappointed him. It still comes in handy when I want to fire up a crowd.”
No wonder Jenkins could start a riot faster than any other rabble-rouser. A quick look confirmed that their listeners had finally left. “Is everything ready?”
Jenkins’s eyes, small and cold in his seemingly jovial face, shifted to meet his. He smiled closemouthed, not displaying any of his foul teeth. “All you have to do is say the word, sir, and the problem will be, ah, dispatched, faster than you can snap your fingers. I’ve also got some plans for that riverboat, in case we get another chance at her.”
“Excellent.” He’d offered a ten thousand dollar bounty for both Donovan’s and Lindsay’s heads, just to ensure Jenkins’s strongest efforts this time. Then a wave of overripe perfume identified another entrant to the conversation. Best be polite, at least while he was still on this pretentious tub. “Good afternoon, Captain Hatcher.”
Like his boat, Aloysius Hatcher was going soft. The bull chest typical of riverboat pilots was echoed by an expanding waistline. Where the Spartan was in desperate want of a fresh coat of paint, Hatcher’s once-fashionable clothing badly needed mending and cleaning. But the sidewheeler had brought them here in excellent time, given the heavy waters, and Hatcher’s eyes were still sharp and steady when he watched the river.
The River Devil Page 23