And One Rode West by Heather Graham
She broke off because he was striding across the room to her. He caught hold of her elbows, lifting her, swirling her around.
“Let’s get this straight right now, Christa. I said everything I had to say to your brother about Callie back then, but if you want to know something, my love, I’ll tell you. Once I met him, I never felt much bitterness or anger toward your brother. It was too painfully clear that he was very much in love with Callie, and so damned obvious that Callie was in love with him. That makes up for a hell of a lot of sins, Christa. And just for the record, I’m not a Cameron. I have faltered and fallen upon occasion. But whether you believe it or not, we heathen Yanks raised in the Maryland farm country were brought up with a certain code of ethics too. I’d never use any animosity I had against Daniel against you in any way.”
“Then—”
“No, no, no, hear me out. My turn, my way. This is between us, Christa.”
“I see,” she said coolly, staring at her arms where he touched her with a scornful command that he release her in her eyes. “All your animosity is strictly toward me.”
He released her. He’d break a bone if he didn’t.
“This isn’t hallowed ground!” he told her.
Her lashes fluttered. She started to turn away. He grasped her back with a force that sent her spinning hard against him. “This is why you’re coming with me!” he said sharply. He did what he’d been itching to do since he’d first seen her. He raked his fingers through the soft wealth of her hair, and kissed her. Touched those lips that were so quick to curl against him with his own. Hunger and dreams bubbled to the surface. He kissed her hard, ruthlessly, determinedly. Tasted the sweetness of her mouth, the mold of her lips, the very indefinable femininity about her that was so very elusive and so very beautiful and seductive.
Perhaps he took her by surprise. Perhaps he had been so forceful so that he left her no room to protest. A single sound escaped her; her arms rose between them, falling against his chest once, and then no more. His arms encircled her while his lips molded to hers. He sank down to the ground with her.
They were upon the fur.
He’d never meant to do this. To disappear such a length of time, then return and take his unwilling bride on a cottage floor.
But he continually discovered himself doing things he didn’t intend in the least with her.
Her lips were parted to his. Perhaps she was not so willing a participant in the kiss, but she did not deny it. She made no effort to twist from him. He kissed her and kissed her, and her breath came too quickly and her heart hammered. When he brought her down, her arms laced around his neck. To keep her from falling, of course. But still, there was no protest.
She was laid down upon the floor, her hair spread across it, ebony blue. He leaned over her, aware of her eyes again and the sweeping richness of her black lashes. He stretched out beside her, cupping her breast beneath the fabric of her gown. Her lashes fell, her cheeks found color. He covered her mouth with his own once again, his hand tugging upon her skirt and petticoat. Damn women. They wore so much clothing. He was impeded further by the lacy pantalets she wore, but he impatiently found the tie to the garment and freed it. His palms moved over the naked flesh of her belly. He massaged it and slipped his fingers between her legs.
He heard the first rumble of sound from deep within her throat and ignored it. Touching her, feeling the silky hair of her triangle, the tender, damp flesh of her sex, added fuel to a fire that had tormented him all the time that he had spent away from her. He had sworn it would be hell. It was indeed his own hell, for he burned in it, wanting her. Now the flames were flaming to a peak. He wedged his weight between her thighs, fumbling quickly with his cavalry trousers. Some sense of sanity within him cautioned him that she was still new at this game, and not exactly an avid player—no matter the torment of his own desire. He touched her again, seeking erotic zones to tease, to arouse. To his surprise he was at the least rewarded with a startled gasp. He rotated his touch, moving more deeply inside her. She tried to clench her thighs against him but his body cleanly divided them and she was certainly at his mercy. Another sound escaped her as she felt the first thrust of his sex, just at the very vulnerable portals of her own. He could feel the charge and friction, the heat of his own desire. Her fingers bit into his blue-clad shoulders, she buried her face against his neck. He lifted his hips and thrust deeply and cleanly within her, feeling her arms tighten about him as he did so. He expected a cry, of pain or of protest. No sound escaped her. Slow! he warned himself. And he tried. But the dreams blended with reality. The sweetness of her scent pervaded his blood. The hunger he had lived with since he had left her gnawed with a burning ache for fulfillment. The flesh of her buttocks and thighs was like satin beneath his touch, and being within her, clothed and sheathed by the hot liquid heat of her body, touched off depths of desire he had scarcely known existed. As unwilling a bride as Christa might be, she was still, as she so often said herself, a Cameron. And her passions were all Cameron, wild and exciting. Whether she meant to give to him or not, she did. Perhaps she merely rode the storm. As the intensity of his need rose in a sweet and merciless spiral, he locked her into his embrace and rhythm. He forced her hips into a liquid smooth undulation. He swept her into his tempest, until it burst upon him, wonderful and volatile. He drifted downward, amazed at the sensations she created, at just how damned good it was to have her. Nothing had ever seemed quite so fierce or quite so sweet before.
Imagine! he mocked himself, if she were just willing!
She was quiet, breathing hard, her eyes downcast. She tried, which was futile with him still half atop her, to straighten her knees and bring down her skirts.
He bit his lip, rolling from her. He’d done well, he taunted himself. Let’s see, he’d invaded her place of peace, then taken her nearly fully clothed on the very floor of her sanctuary. Now she was trying to cover a slim, shapely leg and to his annoyance, he was discovering that he could be aroused again himself by just such a sight.
Jenny would have taken a look at herself and giggled. And she would have whispered in his ear. “Well, that was fun, but really, Jeremy, shouldn’t we shed our clothing this time?”
But, no! This was Christa, with her flaming blue eyes and midnight hair. And the sweet passion that simmered beneath everything, driving him to distraction. Making him want her more than he had ever wanted Jenny.
No.
Yes.
But denying him still.
She was uncomfortable, he realized. And she’d been in love once, yes. But she’d never married her Reb, never taken a chance on learning what it was to be in love and make love.
He rose, adjusting his trousers. He walked to the back window and looked out over the river before gazing back to her.
“I’m sorry,” he told her quietly. It took some effort.
She didn’t answer him. She was sitting up, her black hair a fall over her face, hiding her eyes. She was still trying to straighten out her attire. Her shoulders were squared. “It’s really to be expected—” she began.
In that voice of hers. In that regal southern belle voice that set his nerves on edge.
He was back beside her in a number of seconds. He didn’t touch her, but he hunkered down before her furiously. “All right, Christa, I’m not sorry. I’m not in the least damned sorry. You’re my wife. This is what married people do!”
“Actually, most married people are completely polite and respectful of one another,” she said smoothly, tossing back that mountain of hair. “They don’t just couple like—”
“Jesu! Christa, you cannot be so blind! What do you think Daniel and Callie were so excited about this morning, sharing a cup of tea? Come, my love. Where do you think that damned fur came from in the first place?” He inclined his head toward the fireplace and the fur rug before it.
She was gracefully on her feet in seconds. “So why bother to apologize?”
He stood, hands on his hips, facing her. “
She jerked her hand free. Her chin was high, her eyes blazing. “If you’re trying to shock or frighten me, Jeremy, you can go to hell. I survived the war. And I’ll survive you. I—”
“Yes, you are a survivor! No one fights so damned well, Christa. Had you just been in the damned field, Grant would have never stood a chance of taking the Rebs. I’m sure the goddamned Indians would be quaking in their buckskins if they knew you were coming.”
She threw back her full mane of ebony hair, her eyes sizzling, her hands on her hips, the whole of her trembling. Actually, he’d never seen her quite so vital, so passionate, so wild.
So beautiful, sensual, and appealing.
“You sorry excuse for humanity!” she lashed out. “You can just stop it, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he taunted. “Call in big brother? Tear me limb from limb?”
A cry of fury brought her flying across the room against him. He had goaded her on, and still, he hadn’t quite been ready for her. She nearly knocked him flat. He caught his balance just in time. He caught her fingers just seconds before she could bring her nails raking across his face.
Husky laughter spilled from him then, even though he gave himself an inward warning. She was someone to reckon with.
“Christa—”
“Let go of me!” She kicked him hard, right in the shin. It hurt like hell.
“Christa!” He jerked her around so that her back was flat against his chest and her arms were tightly locked against his hold over her breast. She tried to bite him. He wrenched harder on his hold and she went dead still, rigid as steel.
“Don’t raise a hand against me. And no more kicking. Or biting.”
She remained still. And trembling. She tossed back her head. “Or what?” she whispered vehemently in turn.
He lowered his mouth against her ear. “Or I’ll make you sorry, I promise.”
He knew, from the feel of her, that she longed to tell him he didn’t begin to know what sorry was—not yet. She’d see to it that he did.
But she was quiet for a long while. Then words seemed to explode from her.
“I’ll best you yet, you Yank!”
“Ah, yes!” He pushed her from him. When she spun around quickly to face him again, he swept her a low bow. “You’re a Cameron! God has nothing on you, my love!”
“How dare you—”
“How dare I? I’ve no choice, do I? I’ve wed into the Holy Family.”
“That’s blasphemous as well as despicable. Leave it to a—”
“Yankee bastard. Yes. Well, I do apologize for disturbing your peace. Jesse intends to accompany you into Richmond to see me off, but we don’t need to start until sometime tomorrow. I’m interested in some of the books in your brothers’ library, so, should you find yourself pining for me, you’ll know where I’ll be. You can have hours and hours to yourself to go cry over your tombstones. Enjoy yourself!”
With another exaggerated and courtly bow—certainly as well executed as any given her by a prewar beau—he left her.
But as he walked toward the house, his shoulders squared, a tempest of anguish seethed within him.
Jesu! He was sorry. Sometimes it seemed that the war was all that he had ever lived. He had despised the fighting of it, he had hated seeing his family, friends, and neighbors die, no matter which side they had fought for! It had been agonizing to watch the fall of Vicksburg.
A Marylander, he understood Christa, understood her pain and all that she had lost. But understanding hurt too. He didn’t want to be crude with her. Or cruel. He kept finding himself wanting to put his arms around her. Soothe her.
And she would just as soon be soothed by a rattlesnake, he was certain.
He stood still, suddenly wincing. Damn her! Her pride, and her courage, and her beauty, and all the fire that spilled from her soul! Even before the strange day of their wedding, he had been touched by that fire. But he’d been able to keep his distance then, avoiding the fact that most of his hostility stemmed from desire.
Even now, he wanted to go back. Take her into his arms. Tell her that things would work out.
But no, because then she’d want her own way again!
He had to take care. He couldn’t let her know just how much he understood all that she felt. Couldn’t let her know how he dreamed of her, wanted her.
Damn! He stiffened and gave himself a mental shake. Yankee fool! he accused himself.
He would not weaken. And he wouldn’t fall in love with her.
Unless it was too late already.
Eight
“They’re vast lands out there,” Christa heard Jesse saying when she came to the house at last. She didn’t know where her sisters-in-law were, but she had heard the murmur of male voices coming from the parlor, and she moved toward the doorway, hesitating as she listened to the men speak. “It can be dangerous territory,” he said.
“Especially approaching the Comanche and the Apache tribes,” Daniel added.
Christa looked silently through the doorway. The three of them stood in the center of the room with a map spread out on the table before them.
“Up around Little Rock, the Indians are all fairly civilized,” Jeremy was pointing out.
“Some more so than some of the white folk I know,” Daniel agreed, grinning.
“If you’re referring to Yankees, remember that you’re outnumbered,” Jesse teased.
“Only some Yankees,” Daniel responded easily enough. Christa leaned back against the wall, biting her lower lip. Daniel was coming to grips with the fact that they had lost. Maybe it was easier for him. He’d told her once that by the time it had come to the end, he just hadn’t given a damn. All that he’d wanted was for the dying to stop.
Jeremy was speaking. Because of his words Christa imagined that he was pointing at the map again.
“Once you enter the Great Plains, you’re in the hunting grounds, and you can come across just about anyone there. Southern Cheyenne, their allies, the Shoshone, or the Snakes. Here we’ve got Kiowa, Kiowa Apache—”
“And Comanche,” Jesse said softly.
“Is Christa going to be safe? Daniel demanded. Jesu, Jeremy, I’m not at all sure you’ve any right to be taking her out there.” Christa smiled. Daniel was so blunt. Jesse would be far more diplomatic.
“Military wives often follow their husbands,” Jesse said. “But Jeremy, it is a frightening thought. And if Christa is expecting a baby, it’s more dangerous still.”
“All right, Jesse, you tell me. Just from that standpoint. Do you think it would be dangerous to take her?”
Jesse hesitated. “No,” he said at last. “I have always found that women who are more active during pregnancy do much better in labor.”
“Will there be a company surgeon?” Daniel asked.
A match was struck. Someone was lighting a cheroot. Christa held her breath.
“Major John Weland,” Jeremy said.
“John?” Jesse’s pleasure at the name was obvious.
“You’ve served with him?”
“He was with me until the last year of the war. He is an excellent physician and surgeon.”
Well, Jesse was not going to be worried about her medical welfare, Christa decided bitterly.
“It’s still dangerous territory!” Daniel insisted. “You know that, Jeremy—you were just reading to us from Colonel Cralton’s letter to you.” She
Christa swallowed hard, leaning against the wall. She felt as if she were going to pass out. No, she never passed out. She never even pretended to do such things. But the pictures Daniel’s reading had evoked in her mind … She clamped her hand to her mouth. A wild panic seized her.
“And those men were on a search mission,” Jeremy said. Christa heard the clink of glass. Obviously, everyone had seen mental images of the twelve unfortunate soldiers. “Sent out by a fool to look for a fool,” Jeremy commented. “I intend to keep my regiment together.”
“And you have a certain rapport with the Comanche, so I’ve heard,” Jesse commented.
“No one really knows the Comanche,” Jeremy said. “There are dozens of bands. But yes, I know Buffalo Run, and he does exert some influence.”
“Enough to save Christa?”
“I don’t intend to lose her.” Jeremy sighed. “Listen, it isn’t a perfect life. But I’ll be in command of Fort Jacobson, we’ll be just north of Texas, and I’ll also be receiving a thousand acres of land. Yes, I chose to go west. Just like I chose to fight on the western front when I was given the option at the beginning of the war. I didn’t want to fight my Reb friends from Maryland and Virginia. And now—well, hell, now we’ve won. And I’ve seen Johnson’s idea of his great Reconstruction! Crooked politics, carpetbaggers, swindlers, and chaos. That’s what’s here for Christa if she stays. I chose the West before, and I’m choosing to go farther west now. Hell, yes! I prefer the Indians!”
Christa closed her eyes, bracing herself against the wall. There was silence for a moment. Then she heard her brother speaking softly. “Well, maybe you’ve got a point,” he murmured. “Still, I wonder what Christa will think. Will she be afraid of the Indians?”
Yes! Terrified! She wanted to cry out. But she didn’t.