As the ship plunged into the waves in a wild rocking motion, his mouth moved against damp strands of hair that straggled over her cheek. “I love you, green-eyes. Don’t you know that?”
“Yes…oh Steve, yes!” Arching upward, she shuddered at the rough friction of his body inside her, the exquisite torment of his powerful thrusts. Inside the cabin, it was warm and stuffy, the humid air that filtered through the small round porthole over the bunk smelling of the sea and wind. It was a voyage into sensual discovery, an exploration of the senses and, ultimately, of their souls.
By the time the ship docked at Point Isabel below Brownsville, Texas, Ginny felt for the first time that she held a piece of Steve Morgan’s heart.
MEXICO
13
The Liberty docked at Point Isabel around midnight. The lights on the shore were dimmed by heavy fog, faint blurred pinpricks against black velvet shadows. They spent the night aboard ship, disembarking at first light the next morning, while their baggage was being unloaded.
Ginny waited in the warm morning air that pressed down like a heavy hand on her, the humid dampness clinging to her hair and face, filling her lungs. Seabirds swooped and cried over the harbor, a familiar melody punctuated by the groan of chains hauling baggage from the hold of the ship, and the bellowed orders of the stevedores unloading it.
Wagons rattled on wooden docks, lumbering vehicles that would carry Ginny’s trunks and personal belongings to Don Francisco’s hacienda. The things she had purchased in London shops to furnish their home, even some of the children’s new furniture and toys, would be stored until they had decided where to live. The Hacienda de la Nostalgia was her favorite home in Mexico, but Steve had suggested they inspect his new estates before they made a final decision.
“Hearst tells me that the rancho is situated in a prime location, and we may find it more accessible to the United States, Ginny.”
So she had agreed, reluctantly, for she truly loved the home she had been given as a wedding present, but they could always travel between the two homes if they chose to do so. So much depended upon the political situation in Mexico, upon the revolution that was still raging between Díaz and President Lerdo.
Frowning, she couldn’t help but notice that Steve had hired a villainous-looking group of men to escort their baggage train to Don Francisco’s hacienda.
“They look like bandits,” she said frankly, but Steve only laughed.
“I’ll be sure to pass on your compliment, Ginny.”
But then, she thought, watching him as he went to meet with the ship’s captain, he looked rather like a bandit himself, wearing his guns again, slung low on his hips and tied to his thighs with leather thongs. It reminded her of all the times she had seen him use those guns, his ruthless proficiency and dangerous reputation as a gunman. He seemed to have reverted once he wore them again, becoming as hard as he looked.
At his insistence, she had packed only a single leather trunk, a small one that held just her necessities, a few gowns and toiletries, for their journey. “I still don’t see why we cannot travel with the baggage,” she’d protested, but Steve was impatient.
“We don’t need anything hindering us, Ginny. Besides, I remember when you used to wear calzόnes and a sombrero and be glad to have them.”
“Yes, I remember that, too, but I’m not as foolish as I used to be,” she’d replied tartly. “And I have no desire to arrive at your grandfather’s hacienda dressed as a peasant.”
“Pack carefully then, because most of your trunks will go with the rest of the baggage. Paco hired dependable men to get it there safely.”
“I don’t understand why we can’t take it with us. It’s not as if it would be that much trouble. And why hire so many men to guard trunks full of clothing and household goods? What else have you got in there, for heaven’s sake?”
“I’d like to be there for my grandfather’s birthday fiesta, and if we have to drag your trunks halfway across the country we’re liable to miss it by a month,” he said in a mocking drawl, ignoring her question about the trunks.
Now curiosity prompted Ginny to inspect the baggage for herself, and she made her way down the docks to the stacks of wooden crates that were being loaded aboard heavy wagons. Long narrow crates that she’d never seen were being loaded, and she moved closer to inspect them.
To her indignant surprise, she was swiftly stopped by one of the guards.
“That’s close enough, ma’am. This is private property.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I am Virginia Morgan, and this is my private property that is being loaded.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know who you are. But I have my orders. No one is allowed near this cargo.”
Irate, she snapped, “What is your name, sir? I want to know just who is keeping me from my own belongings.”
“Butch Casey,” he said with a shrug that conveyed his indifference to her anger and her questions. “My job is to get your baggage to Mexico in one piece, ma’am.” The glance from his cold blue eyes was neither hostile nor cordial, but strangely wary.
“Just what else are you supposed to get to Mexico in one piece, Mr. Casey? Do you think I’m blind or deaf? I know how many trunks I have and how many wagons it takes to carry them. I may allow my husband to think I haven’t noticed there are a lot more crates than necessary, but I have.”
Casey’s attention was riveted on her; his head jerked in a nod. “That’s between you and Mr. Morgan, ma’am. Good day.”
Their brief confrontation only served to strengthen her convictions that there was much more going on than Steve would admit, but she did not ask him about it again. Recent experience proved he would only
