“Can we take him to your place?” Marc asked, the anguish he felt coloring every syllable he spoke. “His horse has run off, and mine’s got to be put out of her misery. Your house is the closest, and you’ve got a wagon.”
“Of course, of course. I’ll do anything I can for you.”
Together, they lifted the big man and placed him on top of the wire chicken cage in the bed of the buckboard. Marc first had to put an end to his horse’s physical suffering, which he did quickly and with obvious anguish. Then he jumped up onto the front of the buckboard and took the reins from Colleen.
“Let’s hope this old nag of yours remembers how to run.” And with that he shouted, “Hee-yah!” and slapped the reins against the animal’s back.
Chapter Five
Sitting on the side of Colleen’s bed, Marc looked down at his friend, feeling in his chest a rage that was so feral in nature it frightened him. The sensation was murderous on a grand scale.
“He’ll be fine, but I’m guessing it’ll take a couple days,” Colleen said, standing nearby, her arms folded beneath her breasts as she looked down at Frank. “Thank God the bullet only grazed him.”
The sniper’s first bullet had gouged a two inch long furrow in Frank’s scalp along the side of his head above his ear. Had the bullet been a hair more on target, it would have been fatal instead of merely causing a flesh wound. All head wounds were dangerous, and all bled profusely, and this one was no different in that respect. Marc had been fooled by all the blood into thinking that his friend had been fatally hit. Never had he been so happy to discover he was wrong.
With fatigue in her tone, Colleen asked, “How do you figure he got the goose egg on the back of his head?”
“He got hit by the first shot and rolled sideways off his horse. My bet is that the bullet wounded him, certainly it dazed him badly, but he hit the back of his head on something when he hit the ground. Either it was a rock or perhaps a horse’s hoof.”
Marc studied Frank’s breathing momentarily. It was shallow and steady. For an hour, the wounded man had slipped in and out of consciousness, though now he was merely sleeping.
“He hurt his hand when either my horse or his stepped on him.” Marc pointed to Frank’s right wrist and the purplish semicircle bruise that went from the wrist to the thickly muscled forearm. “He’s damned lucky it’s not broken.”
“You’re both damned lucky you weren’t shot.”
“He was shot.”
Colleen’s lips compressed as she looked down at Marc. “I mean shot dead, so there’s no need to get out the sewing kit to put in stitches because the patient isn’t ever going to get any better. That kind of shot.”
Marc gave her a smile and briefly let his gaze slide over her form. He could sense her fatigue from the many hours laboring for the Sons of Freedom banquet, and after that had needed to help him tend to Frank’s wounds. Still, he wasn’t inclined to part company with his friend. Death had been too close.
“I’ll never be able to thank you properly for helping us tonight.” Still seated on the bed, he reached out and took Colleen’s hand in his. His fingers curled around hers, and he squeezed fondly. “Where the hell did you learn to use a rifle like that?”
“My father couldn’t read or write, but he knew how to make butter and cheese, and because he taught me those skills, I’ve been able to live here on the homestead, earning my own keep. But the only way to keep chickens in this country is to keep the coyotes, wolves, and foxes out of the chicken coop. The only way I know how to do that is with a Henry repeating rifle.”
Marc glanced around the one-room house. A full-sized bed only a couple years old was tucked into one corner. A cooking stove that looked several decades old was in the opposite corner. The kitchen table appeared to be very sturdy, though both it and the four bentwood chairs around it had seen many years of use. A small chest of drawers held a white porcelain pitcher and basin on the tabletop. Above it was a small mirror. The single piece of furniture appeared to hold most of Colleen’s clothes. Marc suspected that the large bureau beside the chest of drawers, obviously not made by a skilled carpenter because the doors did not close properly and the pinewood itself was coarse and unvarnished, held the remainder of her clothes. In the cupboards near the stove would be what simple foodstuffs she had on hand.
Only the bed was relatively new. Marc knew why the large bed was in such good condition. Allen Carpenter had bought it so that he’d have a comfortable place to make love to Colleen when he came calling on her rather than having her meet him at the hotel. It was her love for the selfish man that had relegated her to the fringes of Golden Valley’s polite society. Many women in town openly shunned her for her past sexual transgressions.
Compared to his own lavish surroundings at home, complete with a staff of eight to ensure that his wishes were instantly fulfilled, Colleen’s small home was emblematic of a meager lifestyle he could imagine but not truly understand.
“As long as he’s sleeping so soundly now, why don’t I finally go take care of my horse and the wagon?” Colleen suggested. She tried to ease her hand out from Marc’s grasp, but he tightened his fingers around hers. “It’s got to be done. That mare’s older than I am, and if I leave her in harness all night she’ll end up lame. So unless you want to see me pulling that buckboard to town myself tomorrow, you’d better let me finish my work.”
Marc looked up into her eyes for a moment, seeing the true beauty in their emerald green depths for the first time. Then, impulsively, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.
“No, you stay here,” he said at last, releasing her hand. He rose, fighting against the urge to put his hands on her shoulders to draw her into a surrounding embrace. Her lips seemed plump and moist and irresistibly kissable, and memories of kissing them surged to the forefront of his consciousness. “I’ll take care of your horse and the wagon. You said earlier that you wanted to wash up. Go ahead and do that. I’ll stay outside to give you privacy until you come get me. We can figure out what to do after that.”
* * * *
Colleen watched Marc step outside, closing the door behind him. Alone now with Frank, the full weight of the day’s activities suddenly pressed down upon her. In only a few hours, it would be dawn and she’d have to milk her cow and once again begin her day’s duties. Having to deal with a nighttime emergency didn’t mean the next day’s responsibilities would disappear.
She looked down at Frank, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest beneath the blankets. She had been embarrassed, but only for a short time, when Marc had asked her for scissors and then cut off all of the man’s clothing, fearful there might be other wounds. Colleen had known that he was a big man, of course, but she hadn’t realized just how muscular he was until she saw him naked. Even in the complete relaxation of sleep, his body had been startlingly muscular, ostentatiously virile. Allen didn’t have a body so exquisitely developed. Not nearly so well. As Colleen mentally compared what she’d seen of Frank and what had been hers with Allen Carpenter, she uncharitably decided she’d been shortchanged by the Fates.
Memories of kissing the two men prior to the banquet came flooding back into Colleen’s consciousness, and she became flushed with embarrassment. She had already learned that lesson and was continuing to pay a terrible price for her lack of sensual willpower.
That, anyway, was what she tried to tell herself. But she knew she was lying. No amount of self-delusion could keep her from being aware that she had responded to kisses by both Frank and Marc and that her body had ignited instantly and to a degree that it never had with Allen Carpenter.
Stop thinking about those kisses. Marc and Frank have already forgotten about them, and if you’ve got any sense at all in that Irish head of yours, you’ll forget them, too.
She looked at Frank, then at the closed door, then walked determinedly over to the water pitcher and basin on the chest of drawers. Every night she gave herself a quick, efficient sponge bath. It
was only on Sunday nights that she put the boilers on the stove to fill her bathtub, allowing herself a leisurely, hot bath that she took such pleasure in.
She poured the water into the basin, took one last glance at Frank to assure herself that he was sleeping, then quickly unbuttoned her blue blouse and stripped out of it, dropping the garment to the wooden floor. Her camisole came next, and once bare-breasted, she crossed her arms over her bosom and looked again at the man lying in her bed. Assured that her patient was indeed asleep, she then pulled off her boots and rapidly removed her trousers and her rather tattered, homemade cotton underwear.
Standing completely naked in a room with a man, even a sleeping man, was not something Colleen could do without her heart suddenly tightening in her chest.
A lifetime habit of nightly bathing, combined with all the exertion she’d been through during the long day, steeled Colleen’s determination. She moved quickly to pull the thick woven mat out from beneath the chest of drawers. Standing on the mat, she grabbed the washcloth and unfolded it in her hands, then scooped water from the basin and bent over, burying her face in the cool, clear water, exactly as she had done every night since her youth.
With quick efficiency, she ran the wet washcloth all over her face and body, then picked up a large brick of soap, worked up a frothy foam between her palms, and washed herself thoroughly. When entirely soaped, she used the damp washcloth to rinse herself.
The entire process took less than five minutes. After drying herself, Colleen padded barefooted, unable to resist the urge to put one arm over her breasts and the other hand modestly between her legs, over to the bureau her father had made.
She opened the bureau and groaned softly as she looked at her clothing options. With Marc outside and soon to return, she certainly wouldn’t put on either one of her two nightgowns. Both were well-washed, to say the very least, and neither one was flattering. Both were homemade, and one of the nightgowns had been worn so many times that there were places on the bottom and elbows that were paper-thin and nearly see-through. Besides, women didn’t walk around wearing a nightgown when there were men present. That meant she had the option of putting on one of four summer-weight dresses she owned. Two were gray, one yellow, and one a light blue. All of them buttoned up the front, with the yellow one buttoning all the way to the throat and the other three allowing only a modest amount of cleavage to be exposed.
Colleen turned away from the bureau, took a step back toward the chest of drawers where she kept her undergarments, then stopped herself dead in her tracks.
“Damn.” The single whispered word didn’t seem quite enough to Colleen, so she added the spiciest word she ever used on only the rarest of circumstances. “Shit.”
The cause of her vocabulary intemperance was the embarrassingly vivid memory of the current condition of her lingerie. Every pair of drawers she had was homemade, and all needed laundering.
A faint moan, filled with pain, came from the bed. Colleen wheeled instantly to face Frank, her hands again instinctively moving in a failing attempt to cover herself.
Colleen’s fears were unfounded. The injured man moved a little, groaned once more, and then sighed. Never once did he come out of his sleep, so Colleen’s nudity remained unseen. The sleeping man’s groan did, however, focus her efforts. She hurried over to the bureau and an instant later had a lightweight gray wool dress pulled over her head. She made quick work of fastening the buttons nearly to her throat. Though now ostensibly properly attired and covered from ankles to throat, the fact that she wore neither bloomers nor chemise beneath her dress caused a momentary flush of embarrassment.
She was just finishing fastening the small, wooden button at her throat when the soft rap of knuckles against the door sounded. Colleen inhaled deeply, held her breath for a moment to compose herself, then exhaled slowly. She crossed the room to the door and opened it slowly.
“Your horse and buckboard are taken care of,” Marc said, keeping his voice very low. “I thought that—“
“Shhh!” Colleen said, a forefinger to her lips. “Let’s talk outside.”
She stepped out of the house and into the darkness. The moon was full, casting Marc in varying light and shadows. It seemed to enhance the effect of his exhaustion. The fact that Marc was obviously distraught over his friend’s nearly fatal wound made Colleen’s estimation of the man elevate. What Allen Carpenter had felt for her was desire but not love.
Colleen couldn’t help but feel just a little envious of the relationship the two men shared. There was a closeness there that she didn’t have with anyone else.
Marc reached into his pocket for the makings before stopping himself.
“Go ahead and have a cigarette,” Colleen said, keeping her voice low even though they were outside and walking slowly away from her house. The grass was cool and pleasant beneath her bare feet. “It’s been a long night for everyone.” She watched Marc as he deftly rolled a cigarette. The silence was uncomfortable, so she added, “Frank’s going to be fine. And he can stay here as long as necessary. Don’t even think about taking him away until Doc Christopher says it’s safe to move him.”
Before answering, Marc scratched a match with a thumbnail, lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply, then released the smoke in a long, grateful sigh.
“I left the banquet with a pretty good glow going,” he said.
“Glow?” Colleen laughed softly. “That means you were drunk, right?”
“Only a little.” He grinned a bit sheepishly. “Okay, maybe more than a little. But I was having a good time tonight. Frank took a bundle of cash from Zachery, so that’s good. And you kissed me, so that’s even better.” In the moonlight, his smile was flirtatious. “Do you think it was your kisses that made me drunk?”
“Those are the kinds of words that have seduced more women than either of us can remember,” Colleen replied with suspicion. “Fortunately for me, my history with men makes me immune to your allure.”
“Then you admit that you’re attracted to me?” He took a final puff of his cigarette before flicking it away, the glowing ember arching through the darkness of the Montana night. “That’s a good start.”
He smiled, and Colleen felt her heart tighten and her pussy moisten. The aura that surrounded Marc spoke of an easy charm and a sensual experience that elicited countless feminine orgasms. He was the embodiment of temptation and for that reason he was exactly the kind of man Colleen knew she should avoid.
“I admit nothing of the sort!” Colleen replied with significantly more volume than conviction. “You’ve always been polite and kind to me, but I assure you, my friendship toward you does not include attraction.”
“Kiss me again,” Marc said, stepping closer to Colleen, “and I’ll show you just how wrong you are.”
Chapter Six
When Marc put his hands on Colleen’s shoulders, she shivered. She tried to move away, but he tightened his grip, holding her securely. He could tell that she was unsettled. Of that he had no doubt. What he wasn’t sure of was whether she was nervous of him or of her own passionate reaction to him. He’d known many women had chaotic feelings about the feverish desire he could inspire.
Colleen shook her head as Marc pulled her closer. Her lips moved, but no words came out. Her inner conflict was palpable. He didn’t want to hear her silly words of denial, her futile protests. If he let her get started, it would be more difficult to get her to stop.
“Another kiss,” he whispered, tightening his grasp on her shoulders and holding her firmly enough that she couldn’t escape, yet not so tightly that he caused pain.
A tremble went through Colleen, prompting the taut movement of her breasts beneath the light wool bodice.
“Kiss me,” Marc demanded as he pulled Colleen closer and bent low to slant his mouth down over hers.
His arms went from her shoulders and down her back, pinning her arms to her sides, molding her body to his. His lips sealed over mouth. It was a firm kiss, neither feverishly hard
nor romantically soft. The plush fullness of Colleen’s breasts compressing against his lower chest fueled Marc’s desire. Her femininity was ostentatious, triggering within him an intense masculine response. His cock began growing with startling swiftness, swelling against the front of his gabardine trousers.
His lips moved intimately against hers. He knew how men, at least one dreadful man in particular, had changed her life for the worst by introducing her to a world of sensuality. If Marc had his way with her, would his name be used as an insult the same way Allen Carpenter’s was?
Another shudder went through Colleen, and her lips parted fractionally. It was all the invitation, conscious or otherwise, that Marc needed. The tip of his tongue eased only a small way into her mouth, then moved from side to side, moistening her lips. The softest of moans came from her, and Marc’s cock instantly expanded to its full length and girth.
Marc’s right hand moved downward, past the small of Colleen’s back, until he cupped one sweetly rounded bun. He splayed his fingers and squeezed firmly. A moan came from deep within Colleen’s throat.
Colleen turned her face away from Marc, ending the kiss. She was panting deeply. Marc kissed her neck, the flesh silky beneath his lips. He brought his left hand lower and squeezed her ass. His strong fingers pressed deeply, causing her pelvis to rub against his pulsing cock.
“Oh...oh...oh...” Colleen’s soft exclamation spoke eloquently of desire and frustration.
She was responding to Marc’s kisses and caresses or, perhaps more accurately, her body was responding against her best intentions. Marc shifted his hips, moving them right then left. The friction against his rigid cock drew a low groan from him and a gasp of pleasure from Colleen.
“You make me so hard,” he whispered, the words coming out in a rush, his lips against Colleen’s neck. “Your kisses make my cock turn to stone.”
Maxwell, Brandi - Colleen's Desire [The Lost Collection] (Siren Publishing Menage Everlasting) Page 5