“That’s where you and I differ in our opinions, little brother,” Wyatt said. “What concerns you concerns me, and Rowdy, too. Damn it, Gideon, that woman in there loves you. Practically eats you up with her eyes every time she looks at you. Do you have any idea how rare that is, and how flat-out, bone stupid it would be to throw her away? She might wait for you for a while, might even be content to cash the bank drafts you send her and carry on. But I’ll wager that one fine day some likely-looking fellow will come moseying along and she’ll get herself a divorce—it will be easy, if you abandon her like you’re talking about doing—and marry right up with him. Hell of a thing for you, if you come to your senses all of a sudden, turn up back here ready to buckle down and act like a man instead of a kid, and find her gone.”
Even though that was pretty much what Gideon had been telling himself he hoped would happen—that Lydia would eventually remarry, settle down to a happy life with a man who would be good to her—the thought made him half-sick now. When he’d finally claimed her fully, it had been more than a physical bonding—it had forged him to her in deeper, less definable ways that felt sacred—and permanent.
“It’s best if I cut her loose,” Gideon insisted, but he couldn’t look at Wyatt as he spoke. Instead, he stared out over the dancing green grass, and the cattle and everything Wyatt and Sarah had built by linking their hearts together, as well as their minds and hands.
“All right, then,” Wyatt said, sounding beaten. Gideon wasn’t deceived by his brother’s tone, though—no Yarbro, at least not Wyatt or Rowdy—was ever beaten. Like their pa used to say, the only way to keep them down was to kill them. “What about Jacob Fitch?”
Gideon had to release his jaw before he could answer, he’d clamped it down so hard. And he looked straight into Wyatt’s eyes now. “You said you’d look out for her. You and Rowdy.”
“We will,” Wyatt agreed. “But you’re missing the point, Gideon. Looking after Lydia is your responsibility. We’ll be brothers to her, make no mistake about that, but you are her husband.”
With all his concerns about what was going on at the mine, and all the new feelings making love to Lydia had unleashed in him, Gideon had pushed the problem of Jacob Fitch to the back of his mind. “Don’t you think he’d have done something by now, if he was going to?” he asked, but he sounded uncertain, even to himself.
“I think,” Wyatt said, “that Fitch is the kind of man who’ll wait as long as he has to, for the right opportunity to make his move and pay you back for taking Lydia away from him. Sooner or later, that opportunity will come—and you can be damn sure, Gideon, that he won’t miss it.”
“Looks like I’m caught between a rock and a hard place,” Gideon said, with a lightness he didn’t feel and a laugh that fell short of humor.
“You sure as hell are,” Wyatt agreed. “But you’ve got brothers, and you’ve got friends. And you’ve got a lady who would face down the devil for you. Take it from me, Gideon—I speak from experience—there is nothing more important than the love of the right woman.”
Gideon thought long, and he thought hard. His throat scalded, as though he’d swallowed acid, and so did the backs of his eyes. “Things might get ugly, Wyatt,” he finally said. “Real ugly.”
Wyatt chuckled, slapped Gideon’s shoulder and then let his hand rest there for a few minutes. “I can handle ‘ugly,’” he said. “Did I ever tell you about that gal I lived with for a while, before I went to prison down in Texas, all those years ago? She’d have made a fine addition to Pappy’s train-robbing gang—she could have derailed the Illinois Central just by standing on the tracks.”
Gideon laughed—really laughed—and Christ, it felt good.
Hope flickered, somewhere in the general area of his heart, but it was a faltering flame.
“Do you love Lydia, Gideon?” Wyatt asked, his voice quiet and his eyes serious again.
“Yes,” Gideon answered. “I’m pretty sure I do.”
“You might start by telling her that. And while you’re at it, tell her you mean to make a life with her, right here in Stone Creek.”
“There’ll be trouble, Wyatt,” Gideon reminded his brother.
“And I’m even better acquainted with trouble,” Wyatt retorted easily, “than I am with ‘ugly.’” He paused, slapped Gideon’s back again, though with less force this time. “Now,” he said. “Let’s go on into the house and get some of that blackberry cobbler before Owen finishes it off.”
IT WAS DARK WHEN GIDEON and Lydia got back to town, and the sky overhead was spattered with bright stars. From the moment Gideon and Wyatt had entered the house, earlier that day, and claimed their shares of Sarah’s delicious cobbler, Lydia had sensed a change in her husband.
But maybe it was only wishful thinking. She’d found it all too easy, surrounded by Wyatt and Sarah’s happy, boisterous family and the sturdy walls of that house, to imagine herself and Gideon a few years in the future, with children of their own.
“You go on in and see to Snippet,” Gideon told her, drawing the horse and buggy to a stop in front of the Porter house. “I’ll wait till you’re inside, then take the rig back to Rowdy’s barn and put the horse up for the night.”
Without waiting for Lydia’s reply, he secured the buggy’s brake and the reins. Jumped to the ground and then helped her down as carefully as if she were made of the thinnest glass.
He opened the front gate for her, and as she passed, he spoke again, gruffly. “Lydia?”
She stopped to look up at him, saw flecks of starlight in his eyes. “Yes?”
“I’m going to want to make love to you again when I get back, if you’re willing. And it’ll be easier on you this time, I promise.”
Lydia’s cheeks burned, not with embarrassment, but with sweet anticipation. “I’m willing, Gideon,” she said softly.
She saw wanting in his face and in his eyes as he looked at her, and sadness, too. He touched her cheek.
“There’s trouble ahead, Lydia,” he told her. “It’s of my own making, mostly, but it’s trouble just the same.”
Lydia supposed she’d known that all along. “Whatever it is,” she said quietly, “we can handle it—together.”
He nodded, then grinned slightly. “Go on in the house,” he said, “so I can get this horse and buggy back where they belong and come home to you.”
Lydia’s heart swelled with a hope she hardly dared entertain. What had passed between Wyatt and Gideon, she wondered, to bring about this change in her husband? Knowing the disappointment would be too great to bear if she asked Gideon, straight-out, if he meant to stay after all, and he said he didn’t, she locked the question away in her heart.
As soon as she’d stepped into the house and closed the door behind her, Lydia hurried to the nearest window. Watched as Gideon stood gazing after her for several long moments, then climbed into the buggy and drove away.
Once he’d disappeared from sight, she went on to the kitchen, found Snippet sitting up in his basket. After turning up one of the gaslights, she took the baby’s bottle from the counter, filled it with milk at the icebox, and put it into a pan of water. Set the works on the stove to warm up a little.
“You seem a mite stronger,” she said to Snippet, scooping him up for a nuzzle between his pointy little ears and a brief visit to the yard.
Once outside, and set on his wobbly feet, Snippet lifted one tiny leg against the bottom porch step, and his stub of a tail wagged when Lydia praised him for a job well-done.
He’d taken what milk he could manage and gone back to sleep in his basket by the time Gideon returned, entering through the kitchen door, the way he usually did.
Lydia was just washing her hands at the sink, and she smiled curiously at Gideon, over one shoulder. He looked as though he’d run all the way from Lark and Rowdy’s.
His eyes smoldered as he gazed at her, but there was tenderness in them, too. Having locked the door, he simply held out a hand to Lydia, and waited.
&nb
sp; She went to him.
He took her into his arms, and mischief danced in his eyes now. “Are the aunts light sleepers?” he asked.
Lydia laughed and blushed at the same time. “No,” she said. “But Helga is.”
Gideon sighed philosophically. “Then I guess we’d better use the bed.”
“Gideon,” Lydia scolded, though not with much conviction. “The things you say.”
Without letting go of her hand, and grinning, Gideon turned the gaslight out and strode in the direction of the stairs, pulling her with him.
“The things I say, Mrs. Yarbro,” he told her, as they climbed the steps, “are nothing compared to the things I’m about to do.”
That time, she was too breathless to scold.
As soon as they’d reached the bedroom, Gideon moved to light the bedside lamp. Probably looking for matches, he opened the desk drawer.
Lydia saw him go still in the dimness.
He took the watercolor portrait she’d tucked away out of the drawer, examined it in the glow from the window, and looked up at her. Because he was facing into the darkness, she couldn’t see his expression.
“You painted this?” he asked, after a very long time.
Shyly, Lydia nodded. “It’s not very good, but—”
Still holding the picture, he turned away again, found the matches he’d been looking for before, and lit the wick in the lamp. “Not very good?” he countered. “Lydia, it practically breathes.”
She knotted her hands together, unsure of what to say.
“Is this how you see me?” Gideon finally asked.
She bit her lower lip. Nodded.
He grinned. “I had no idea I was such a handsome devil,” he said, setting the picture carefully back in the drawer before turning to look at her again—and seeing the tears in her eyes. He whispered her name, all merriment gone from his face.
“Did you look closely at that picture, Gideon?” she asked, wiping away her tears with the back of one hand. “Did you see the leaving in it?”
Very slowly, he opened his arms. “If you’ll have me, Lydia Yarbro, I’d just as soon stay,” he said gruffly.
And she flew to him, threw her arms around his neck.
He held her very close. “Lydia?” he murmured, close to her ear.
“Yes?”
“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”
Lydia leaned back, looked up into Gideon’s face. “Did you just say—?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I said I love you.”
“You said,” Lydia corrected, “that you were pretty sure you loved me.”
Gideon chuckled. “So I did,” he agreed huskily.
She smiled. “I’m not sure I want to settle for ‘pretty sure,’ Gideon Yarbro.”
He began hauling up her skirts and petticoats. “I’m not sure you’re in any position to argue,” he teased. “And isn’t there something you’re supposed to say back, when a man tells you he loves you?”
Need rushed through her; she felt his thumbs hook deftly under the waistband of her new bloomers.
“Lydia?” he prompted, murmuring the name, tilting his head to nibble at her right earlobe.
“I’m—pretty sure—I love you—too,” Lydia gasped out.
“Fair enough,” Gideon allowed, easing her bloomers down just far enough to reach in and cup her most private place with one hand. With the heel of his palm, he stroked his way to bare skin, already moist with the want of him. “Fair enough.”
Somehow, without her knowing, he’d maneuvered her to the wall; she felt it at her back. Her breath came hard, making her breasts rise and fall, the nipples hard against the inside of her camisole. “Shouldn’t we—use the—bed?”
“Eventually,” Gideon said. “How does this damn dress open?”
All the while, he was making those slow, easy circles between her legs.
Lydia gasped again, as he began using his fingers. “It—oh, dear God—it buttons—up the back—”
He turned her away from him, still plying her, still plucking and teasing. With his free hand, he worked the buttons in question, with his mouth, he tasted her nape.
Lest she lose her balance, Lydia pressed her palms to the wall, tipped her head back, bit deep into her lower lip to keep from shaming herself by begging—begging—Gideon not to stop what he was doing to her.
But he did stop—at least long enough to remove the dress and petticoat and untie the ribbons at the front of her camisole, so that her breasts spilled free. The bloomers slid to her ankles—she kicked them away.
Gideon chuckled at that, turned her around. “Standing up,” he told her, his voice gravelly, “that’s how I was going to have you in the kitchen yesterday—and that’s how I’m going to have you right now.”
Lydia’s eyes widened—oh, but he was caressing her again, still, preparing her for taking, and that quelled all thought of propriety.
“But first—” he murmured.
She’d managed to keep her hips still until then, but now they were moving, surging against his hand. “Gideon—”
He knelt.
“Oh, no,” she whimpered, even as a thrill of desire flamed through her.
“Oh, yes,” he countered, and then he put his mouth where his fingers had been, and this time, there was no pillow to muffle her groans.
Lydia’s eyes rolled shut; she gave herself up to the wicked pleasure he wrought with every expert flick of his tongue, every motion of his lips. He nibbled, and then he was greedy, and Lydia pressed her bare back to the wall, and drove her fingers into Gideon’s hair, and held him to her.
She tried to be quiet. She tried so hard.
But he drove her relentlessly, and when he finally satisfied her, his hands cupped around her bottom, she shouted his name, and then shouted it again.
Again and again, even after she’d reached the pinnacle, her body bucked and flexed, until she finally sagged into Gideon’s arms.
He rose, lifting her with him, carried her to their bed.
Laid her down.
Dazed, she still saw the worry in his eyes. Knew he was remembering the night before, the blood. “Lydia—?”
She reached for him.
With a groan, he fell to her, still clothed, although his shirt was open to the waist. Had she done that? In her frantic passion, had she somehow opened his shirt, driven by the need to press her palms and fingers to his bare skin?
She didn’t know, didn’t care. “Now, Gideon,” she whispered. “Now.”
She fumbled for the buttons at the front of his trousers; he moved her hand aside, opened them himself. And then, wonderfully hard, with one thrust of his hips, he was inside her.
She was vaguely sore, but this time, there was no pain.
Lydia crooned, loving the feel of him within her, even though she knew it would soon drive her mad.
“Does—it—hurt?” Gideon rasped, poised over her, his hands pressed deep into the mattress, holding himself still with a visible effort.
Lydia turned her head from side to side on the pillow and crooned again, and that one sound, evidently, was Gideon’s undoing. He took her in earnest then, and the bedsprings squeaked gloriously, and the headboard slammed against the wall, and when the friction became too much for both of them, their cries of release mingled in the night air, Gideon’s a low, hoarse shout, Lydia’s a near howl, keening and primitive.
And when they caught their breath, they both laughed.
They were covered in plaster dust.
HE ROSE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, while Lydia was still sleeping.
The temptation to burrow between her legs and suckle her awake, and directly into the throes of a violent climax, was overwhelming, but he’d save that for another morning. With luck, there would be hundreds of other mornings.
First, though, he had to go to Flagstaff. Meet with his contact from the head office of the mining company—and resign.
He’d be back before sunset; in the meantime, he had to t
rust Helga and her stove-poker and, indirectly, his brothers, to keep Lydia safe.
He had so many plans, but they all began with quitting his jobs—as an agent and as a miner. He didn’t know how he’d find another, but he’d saved a lot of his earnings over the years since he’d started working. He could take care of Lydia, her aunts, Helga and the little dog.
He dressed quickly in the darkness, took his .45 from the high wardrobe shelf where it had been since he and Lydia had come to this house, strapped it on.
Unlike the morning before, because he wanted to make sure Snippet hadn’t taken his last breath in the night, and spare Lydia the shock of discovering him if he had, he took the kitchen stairs.
Helga was up—did the woman ever sleep?—bustling around the kitchen. She had the coffee brewed—the aroma made Gideon’s mouth water—and the dog was still among the living.
Eyeing Gideon, Helga said, “You really should move that bed away from the wall.”
Gideon chuckled and nodded, crouched to greet Snippet.
“I’ll tell the aunts there was another thunderstorm,” Helga volunteered, pouring coffee for him and handing it to him as he stood straight again, “but sooner or later, they’re going to wonder why the grass isn’t wet.”
Gideon laughed at that, took a sip of the coffee. It was hot and strong and a damn sight better than Rowdy’s.
By then, Helga had spotted the gun on his left hip. Noted, by the look in her eyes, the easy way he wore it, like it was part of him.
She went a little pale. “Gideon—Mr. Yarbro—what—?”
“Call me Gideon,” he said.
Helga propped her hands on her ample hips. “All right, Gideon,” she replied. “Where are you going at this hour—even the mine is closed on a Sunday—wearing an I-mean-business shooting iron like that one?”
“There’s something I have to do,” he answered, already edging toward the back door. He still had to get a horse from Rowdy’s barn, saddle it and make the two-hour ride to Flagstaff, and even though he wasn’t supposed to meet his contact until noon, he wanted some time to scout around town a little. And he meant to stop in and see Ruby, his stepmother, at her saloon. Tell her he was married and everything.
The Bridegroom Page 24