He knew what he needed. His hand closed over her wrist. Her pulse jumped, but she only stared, as if she were mesmerized by the contrast of his skin against hers. Dazed, she watched her own fingers spread and smooth over the hard line of his chest.
The fire had warmed it, warmed her. Slowly she lifted her head and looked at him. His eyes were dark, darker than she’d ever seen them. Storm clouds, she thought. Or gunsmoke. She thought she could hear her heart pounding in her head. Then there was no sound. No sound at all.
He reached for her face, just to rub his palm over her cheek. Nothing in his life had ever seemed so soft or looked so beautiful. The fire was in her eyes, glowing, heating. There was passion there. He knew enough of women to recognize it. Her cheeks, drained of color by fatigue, were as delicate as glass. He leaned toward her, his eyes open, ready for her to shy away.
She leaned toward him, her pulse pounding, waiting for him to take.
An inch apart, they hesitated, his breath merging with hers. Softly, more softly than either of them would have thought he could, he brushed his lips over hers. And heard her sigh. Gently, with hands more used to molding the grips of guns, he drew her to him. And felt her give. Her lips parted, as they would only for him.
Boldly, as she had never known she could, she ran her hands up his chest. Was he trembling? She murmured to him, lost in the wonder of it. His body was rigid with tension, even as he took the kiss deeper, gloriously deeper. She tasted the hot flavor of desire on his lips as they moved, restless and hungry, over hers.
Eager for more, she pressed against him, letting her arms link tight behind him, and her mouth tell him everything.
He felt the need burst through him like wildfire, searing his mind and loins and heart. Her name tore out of him as he twisted her in his arms and plundered her mouth. The flames beside them leaped, caught by the wind, and sent sparks shooting into the air. He felt her body strain against his, seeking more. Desperate, he tugged at the torn neck of her blouse.
She could only gasp when he covered her breast with his hand. His palm was rough with calluses, and the sensation made her arch and ache. Then his mouth was on her, hot and wet and greedy as it trailed down. Helpless, she dragged her hands through his hair.
She had faced death. This was life. This was love. His lips raced over her until she was a mass of nerves and need. Recklessly she dragged his mouth back to hers and drove them both toward delirium. His hands were everywhere, pressing, bruising, exciting. With her breath hammering in and out of her lungs, she began to tremble.
His mouth was buried at her throat. The taste of her had seeped into him, and now it was all he knew, all e wanted to know. She was shuddering. Over and over, beneath his own, her body shook. Jake dug his fingers into the dirt as he fought to drag himself back. He’d forgotten what he was. What she was. Hadn’t he proven that by nearly taking her on the ground? He heard her soft, breathless moan as he rolled away from her.
She was dizzy, dazed, desperate. With her eyes half closed, she reached out. The moment she touched him, he was moving away, standing.
“Jake.”
He felt as though he’d been shot, low in the gut, and would bleed for the rest of his life. In silence, he smothered the fire and began to break camp.
Sarah suddenly felt the cold, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “What’s wrong?”
“We’ve got to ride.”
“But…” Her skin still tingled where his hands had scraped over it. “I thought…that is, it seemed as though…”
“Damn it, woman, I said we’ve got to ride.” He yanked a duster out of his saddlebag and tossed it to her. “Put that on.”
She held it against her as she watched him secure his saddlebags again. She wouldn’t cry. Biting her lip hard to make sure, she vowed she would never cry over him. He didn’t want her. It had just been a whim. He preferred another kind of woman. After dragging the duster around her shoulders, she walked to the horse.
“I can mount,” she said coldly when he took her arm.
With a nod, he stepped back, then vaulted into the saddle behind her.
Chapter Eight
The crack of the rifle echoed over the rock and sent a lone hawk wheeling. Sarah gritted her teeth, cocked the lever and squeezed again. The empty whiskey bottle exploded. She was improving, she decided as she mopped her brow and reloaded. And she was determined to get better still.
Lucius wandered over, Lafitte dancing at his heels.
“You got a good eye there, Miss Sarah.”
“Thank you.” She lowered the rifle to give the pup a scratch. Jake was right. He was going to be a big one. “I believe I do.”
No one was going to have to rescue her again, not from a rattlesnake, not from Apache marauders, not from the wrath of God himself. In the two weeks since Jake had dropped her, without a word and apparently without a thought, on her doorstep, she’d increased her daily rifle practice. Her aim had sharpened a great deal since she’d taken to imagining that the empty bottles and cans were Jake’s grinning face.
“I told you, Lucius, there’s no need for you to watch my every move. What happened before wasn’t your fault.”
“I can’t help feeling it was. You hired me on to keep a look out around here. Then the first time my pants’re down-so to speak, Miss Sarah-you’re in trouble.”
“I’m back now, and unharmed.”
“And I’m mighty grateful for it. If Jake hadn’t just ridden up…I’d have tried to get you back, Miss Sarah, but he was the man for it.”
She bit back the unkind remark that sprang to mind. He had saved her, had risked his life to do so. Whatever had happened afterward couldn’t diminish that.
“I’m very grateful to Mr. Redman, Lucius.”
“Jake just done what he had to.”
She remembered the knife fight with a shudder. “I sincerely hope he won’t be required to do anything like it again.”
“That’s why I’m going to keep a better eye on you. I tell you the God’s truth now, Miss Sarah, worrying after a woman’s a troublesome thing. I ain’t had to bother since my wife died.”
“Why, Lucius, I never knew you’d been married.” “Some years back. Quiet Water was her name. She was mighty dear to me.”
“You had an Indian wife?” Wanting to hear more, Sarah sat down on a rock, spreading her skirts.
He didn’t talk about it often, at least not when he was sober. But he found he was making himself comfortable and telling his tale. “Yes, ma’am. She was Apache, one of Little Bear’s tribe. Fact is, she’d’ve been some kind of aunt to him. I met her when I’d come out here to do some soldiering. Fought Cheyenne, mostly. That would have been back in ‘62.
Didn’t mind the fighting, but I sure got tired of the marching. I headed south some to do a little prospecting.
Anyways, I met up with John Redman. That was Jake’s pa.”
“You knew Jake’s father?”
“Knew him right well. Partnered up for a while. He and his missus had hit some hard times. Lot of people didn’t care much for the idea of him being half-Apache.” With a little laugh, he shrugged. “He told me once that some of his tribe didn’t care much for the idea of him being half-white. So there you go.” “What kind of man was he?”
“Hardheaded, but real quiet. Didn’t say much less’n you said something first. Could be funny. Sometimes it wouldn’t occur to you for a minute or two that he’d made a joke. He was good for a laugh. Guess he was the best
