Lionhearted Libby

by Joyce Armor

  “And a great deal of convenience,” she added, clinking their glasses before taking a big gulp.

  Now what did that mean, he wondered. It sounded good when he said it, but not as good when she said it.

  She polished off her glass and poured herself another one, obviously trying to overcome her nervousness.

  “So Jackson is my father-in-law,” he mused. “That will take some getting used to.”

  “And I’m not used to having a decent father either,” she said.

  “I think your Mr. DeJulius will be here in a few hours with the law.”

  “He isn’t mine. Perish the thought. And I would not be surprised.”

  He walked to her, grabbed her free hand and gently pulled her toward one of the fireplace chairs. Then he sat, urging her onto his lap. “I will keep you safe,” he promised. “No one is going to hurt you or make you do anything you don’t want to do, especially Edward DeJulius.”

  “You’re a good man, Garrett. I know you married me to save me.”

  “Well, that’s not the only reason,” he said, softly kissing his way down her neck.

  She had expected to be uncomfortable and anxious, but just like that, it seemed her body was on fire. She heard a sensuous moan and realized with some surprise it was hers. So much for feigned or unfeigned modesty. He tried to take the glass from her hand, but she resisted and downed the contents first. He chuckled, taking her empty glass and placing it with his on the side table before wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her even closer. Her body seemed to mold into his. Yes, this was convenient, all right.

  He kissed her then, sweetly at first and then deepening the kiss. Before long, his tongue had invaded her lips, darting, probing, sending waves of electricity through her body, particularly to her nether regions. And then Libby’s tongue was dueling with his, propelling equally vibrant impulses throughout his body.

  Garrett could not have been more surprised at the passionate firecracker he held in his arms. He had expected to have to coax her, assure her, entice her. As he kissed her cheeks, her chin and neck, he pushed her robe off her shoulders, then reached behind her and began unbuttoning her gown. Surely now she would stiffen, but instead she removed his bolo tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. Glory be, he was going to blow his stack like a raw teen if he didn’t slow things down. He would think Libby was more experienced than she let on, except her kissing had all the earmarks of an innocent, sweet and rather flat until he had awoken something in her. It was like taking his finger out of a dam. Damn!

  And then he was lowering her gown down her silky skin, revealing not a corset, as he had expected, since she was a city girl—holy mother, she came by that figure naturally—but a rather sheer camisole and nothing underneath. Absolutely nothing. Lord help him. At that moment, she finished unbuttoning his shirt and hurriedly helped him remove it. Then she placed her hands on his chest, tracing the soft brown hair down to his hard abdomen before gliding back up and chafing his nipples. At that point, he stood abruptly, pulling her up with him. She winced as she put weight on her ankle.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, lifting her in his arms. “You are so beautiful. He kissed her again, long and deeply.

  “You are awfully pretty, too,” she said, and he chuckled.

  “He carried her toward the bed, and she smiled shyly, reveling in his tender care.

  She honestly did not remember getting naked or him taking his clothes off, but suddenly there they were in bed, thrashing about madly, her ankle be damned. At one point he kneaded a breast and she played with his bellybutton, causing both to groan at once. But it was a happy groan, she understood to the core of her being.

  Perhaps she should have shrunk back in dismay or modesty when his hand floated down between her legs, but honestly it felt so good, she didn’t have the strength or desire to protest. He was her husband, her wanton alter-ego reasoned. Then when his mouth kissed its way down to the same spot, she was utterly lost. Something, some great ball of energy, was building. It seemed only moments before it blew and she shattered into a million shards of…what? Elation? Joy? Ecstasy? Whatever it was, she felt almost drugged afterwards, as he gently kneed her legs open and slowly entered her with his apparently incredibly large male organ.

  It didn’t hurt although it seemed like it was a tight fit at first. Then he thrust forward and it pinched a bit, but it really wasn’t as bad as Glory had described it. And then he was circling a nipple with his tongue in rhythm with his movement down below, which now included a thumb on the spot she thought of as her bull’s-eye. Unbelievably, to her, at least, she felt herself hurtling toward that incredible freefall of ecstasy again. This time she would have screamed if Garrett hadn’t placed his tongue on her tonsils in a torrid kiss at just the right moment.

  She had barely finished her second magnificent involuntary shuddering as he increased his rate of oh-so-potent thrusts when he stiffened and groaned sensuously, spilling his hot seed within her. And darned if just the thought of that didn’t spark her sexual appetite all over again. What was wrong with her? He stayed on top of her for a few minutes before rolling aside, taking her with him. They laid there together for several more minutes until their breathing finally returned to a normal level.

  “Well,” she said at last. “I guess we’re consummated.’

  “Are you all right?” he asked gently. He knew his way around a woman’s body, and he knew she had received plenty of physical pleasure, but he had no experience with virgins. He didn’t know if she was feeling guilty or dirty or ashamed or if she was about to berate him or burst into tears.

  “That was…that was…”

  Oh, please, don’t let her cry. I can’t abide crying.

  “…amazing…wonderful.”

  “Wonderful?”

  “I had no idea. Can we do it again?”

  He laughed and pulled her closer. “Almost as often as you want,” he chuckled, “but you have to give me a little time to get my strength back.”

  “Oh, really?” She ran her hand down his chest, through his triangle of hair down below and watched his organ come to attention.”

  “Well, not always.”

  And then they were thrashing about the bed again, this time even more urgently. A few minutes later, they were both sated, spooning on the bed. Garrett listened as Libby’s breathing steadied in sleep. He knew he should be feeling incredibly lucky that he had discovered this untapped well of passion, but it was somehow all too sudden for him. It was moving too fast. Once the physical sensation passed, he felt like a noose was slowly tightening around his neck. He had to step back, emotionally at least. It was too risky. She was a city girl, like her mother. She wouldn’t be staying, even if Jackson was her father.

  He watched her lying so peacefully, her chest—and those glorious breasts—moving as she breathed in and out. She looked even younger than her almost 21 years. She looked so vulnerable. And so beautiful. Just because she would leave, did that mean they couldn’t enjoy each other while she was here? What if he got her with child and then she left? Like her mother. He would have to think about that. He just knew he could not let her into his heart. He liked her. He was fairly certain she liked him, lately, anyway. It was enough. It would have to be enough.

  Libby woke up a few hours later and realized she was alone. For some reason, she was not surprised. Garrett’s side of the bed was cold, so he had been gone for quite a while, although she could still smell his male essence, rather piney and leathery. She indulged in a catlike stretch and thought about her introduction to coupling. Oh, my. Her friend Glory had not begun to explain it accurately. Or maybe it was just the magic of Garrett Winslow. And it was magic. Big magic.

  Yes, he was opinionated. Yes, he had done everything to convince her he was unkind and uninterested in her. But if she looked at what he did and not what he said, she saw kindness and caring. He had rescued her more than once and for God sakes, he had married her to save her from the St. Louis devils, as she had
come to think of her stepfather and Edward DeJulius. For some reason she thought of fish, the ones that are small and get thrown back in the water, and the ones big enough to keep. Garrett was a keeper. And she was Mrs. Garrett Winslow, a married woman. It boggled the mind.

  Did he love her? That was laughable. Would he ever? Perhaps not. Maybe she would never be able to chip away that block of protection around his heart. But Libby was taking it one day at a time, and while she did not love Garrett (did she?), she admired and respected him. He was handsome and brave and honest, and maybe their affection for one another would grow. Now she had a husband and a father, and she would make the best of both relationships. And in Carmen, she had found the maternal comfort she had never known. And even if none of those relationships worked out the way she wished they would, she still knew she belonged in the West, where women were more independent and corsets weren’t required. She knew it in her bones and in her soul.

  With that conviction firmly in mind, she rose to find warm water in the bowl and ewer on her dressing table, courtesy, no doubt, of Carmen. She had no idea how much sleep she had gotten. Probably no more than a few hours. She had washed up and donned her gray day dress with cuff bands and piping around the neckline and was just leaving her bedroom when she heard a commotion downstairs. There was no mistaking the angry voice that must be Edward Capo DeJulius.

  “She’s my fiancée and she’s coming with me.”

  DeJulius—she knew it was him by his Eastern dress and evil look—Garrett, Jackson and a man she presumed to be the police chief or sheriff were standing in the hallway outside the dining room. Garrett was about to put him in his place when Libby floated down the stairway, barely limping, claiming, “I am not your fiancée, and I would not walk across the street with you.”

  What a beautiful, feisty daughter, Jackson thought.

  She looks gorgeous, but why couldn’t she have stayed in bed a while longer, Garrett thought.

  You bitch, Edward Capo DeJulius thought.

  The sheriff was thinking about his lumbago.

  “You’ve seen the marriage contract, sheriff. Do your duty.”

  “Slavery ended with the Emancipation Proclamation,” Libby announced, marching right up to DeJulius. “I am not your property.”

  Sheriff Braun, a man of 50 with graying brown hair, who looked capable although past his prime, turned to DeJulius. “Seems the lady has a point, sir.”

  “I have a valid marriage contract, and my fiancée is returning to St. Louis with me.”

  “You’re delusional,” Libby spat out and would have struck DeJulius if Garrett hadn’t grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back.

  “You can see she is out of control and needs a strong hand,” the greedy devil said haughtily.

  Jackson stepped forward. “Be careful, mister. You’re talking about my daughter.”

  “Elias Parminter is her father,” DeJulius said.

  “He’s my stepfather, you…you horn-beast.”

  The sheriff turned to Jackson. “Is this true?”

  “Yes. Her mother, Elinora, was my first wife.”

  “And Libby is my wife,” Garrett said.

  “That’s impossible,” DeJulius cried.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all,” said the sheriff.

  “It’s a lie!” yelled the annoying man, spittle flying from the sides of his mouth.

  Garrett reached in his pocket, pulled out the marriage papers and handed them to the sheriff, with maybe a little smugness in his demeanor. The sheriff looked over the papers and handed them back to Garrett.

  “The papers look legitimate,” he explained to DeJulius. He pointed to Garrett. “She’s married to him, and in any case, Jackson is her father, so her stepfather has no power to make a contract for her.”

  “The marriage is a sham. She doesn’t even know him.”

  “Talk about lies,” Libby said, taking a step toward DeJulius before Garrett pulled her back again.

  The sheriff studied the young couple. “Is the marriage real? I mean, has it been…”

  “More than once!” Libby announced triumphantly, to Jackson’s and the sheriff’s shock and Garrett’s amusement.

  “Slut!” DeJulius spat out and Jackson slugged him in the jaw before Garrett could react. DeJulius hit the floor with a thud, out cold.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Easterners. God save us all. Help me get him outside to his carriage, Garrett. I’ll make sure he catches the next stage.”

  “Thanks, Ed,” Jackson said, nursing his knuckles. He had forgotten how much it hurt to hit someone.

  “Congratulations on your daughter and on your marriage,” the sheriff said to the men, then bent down to pick up the fallen man. Garrett stepped forward to help him, barely feeling the twinge in his shoulder.

  * * *

  Edward DeJulius left on the stage as ordered. His jaw bruised and aching and anger burning in his gut, he got off the stage in Butte. There, he secured a hotel room and headed to a less reputable area of town to a rather rundown saloon called The Last Depot. DeJulius entered through the swinging doors and nearly took a step back at the stench of cheap alcohol, cheaper cigar smoke and sweat. There were several tables occupied by cowpokes and a gambler or two. The floor looked like it hadn’t been swept in a month of Sundays. He went straight to the bar, ignoring the frilly, feathery whore at the end of the bar as well as the obviously inebriated fellow in the cheap suit at the nearest table, nursing a bottle of gin.

  “I’m looking to hire a couple of men,” DeJulius said to the barkeep as he sipped his second glass of rotgut whiskey.

  “You don’t say,” said the pock-marked young man with a couple of front teeth missing. He was drying shot glasses as he spoke.

  “The kind who know how to keep their mouths shut.” DeJulius ran his gloved finger around the rim of his shot glass.

  The bar man unbuttoned the top button of his brocade vest and studied the Eastern dandy across from him. He looked like he had money.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure if I can think of anyone like that,” he said cagily.

  DeJulius looked at the little worm and sighed. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a gold coin, tossing it on the bar.

  The barkeep picked it up, bit on it to ascertain its authenticity and then said, “The Gentry brothers. You can most likely find them sleeping it off in the livery on Beeker Street.” When DeJulius looked at him questioningly, he added, “Head out the door. Second street on your right.”

  Fifteen minutes later, DeJulius had finally kicked and shaken the Gentry brothers awake. They reeked of cheap booze and a decided lack of hygiene. Their shirts were filthy, and they were several days past needing a shave. They even looked stupid.

  “Tarnation, whaddya want, mister?” said the one with the scar on his cheek.

  “I have a job for you,” DeJulius said, removing the man’s hand from his wrist as if he were infected.

  “What kinda job?” asked the brother, whose furry teeth made the St. Louis man want to retch.

  “Does it really matter?”

  Scarface ran a hand over his chin. “Not if the pay is right,” he said, then turned and spat into a pile of hay. As he struggled to his feet, several horses neighed. DeJulius thought he might need to go outside and get a breath of air before he went on.

  He breathed as little as possible as he looked over the two men. “I think we can work something out, gentlemen,” he said, smiling.

  “Gentlemen, Dooley. He called us gentlemen,” laughed Furry Teeth. He, too, rose, scratching his crotch as he did.

  Good lord. “I assume you have horses.”

  The men looked at each other and laughed. “Mister, only citified men don’t have horses,” said Scarface.

  “Yes, well, I do believe we will be able to strike a deal,” said DeJulius, stepping back and fingering the derringer in his pocket. It wouldn’t do for these lowly creatures to decide to rob him instead of becoming employees.

  Finally, they
came to terms. He agreed to pay them $100 up front to kidnap Libby Parminter Winslow, and if they had to kill Jackson Butterman and Garrett Winslow to do it, so much the better. He would pay them an additional $100 when they sent a message to his hotel in Butte and he met them outside of town with their captive.

  The Gentry brothers whooped and hollered as if they had discovered a gold mine. Edward Capo DeJulius walked out of the livery determined to return to his hotel and take a long, hot bath. He had given the disgusting cowboys a deadline of one week to accomplish their task. Now all he had to do was wait and make marriage and travel arrangements. He wasn’t the least bit worried about finding a minister to perform the ceremony, as he well knew the value of money and had little regard for the clergy anyway. And he wasn’t concerned about turning Libby into a bigamist. She wouldn’t live long enough for the judgment to matter. He’d take her dowry and be gone, into the wind.

  * * *

  On a side track in Helena, Elias Parminter stood at his desk in his rail car, clutching a telegram in his hand, his knuckles white with fury. He had read the missive three times before it had finally sunk in: That bitch of a stepdaughter of his had gotten married, and not to Edward DeJulius. He could kill her! Oh, wait, that’s what that incompetent he had hired was already supposed to do. The one who had gotten himself killed.

  The buzzing in his head was getting worse, and ignorant, worthless people made it pulse on top of that. He took several ragged breaths and then poured himself a double shot of bourbon, drinking it down in one gulp. It calmed him slightly, but it didn’t stop his hands from shaking. Things were spiraling out of control, and he couldn’t let that happen.

  Think. He had to think. The telegram also mentioned that DeJulius was in Montana as well. He might have known. That weasel was trying to cut his own deal. Ah, but knowing the cutthroat as he did, DeJulius was probably planning to take out the new husband. That would cut his own cost in half. He just had to get rid of Elizabeth before DeJulius could marry her, which would more than double his rewards.