And One Rode West by Heather Graham
Jeremy noted Willy Smith, a new recruit, standing straight and staring at the coming promise of death with wide-eyed horror. He looked just like an animal caught in a sudden bright light.
He was a target as big as the side of a barn to the Comanche.
“Get down!” Jeremy shouted, leaping toward the boy. He brought them both flat on the ground, not daring to look at Willy again but keeping both eyes on the horses that pounded surely toward them.
He kept shooting, emptying the six chambers of his revolver. He released Willy as he hastily filled the chamber again as the Indians raced around them in a complete circle.
“I’m all right now, Colonel,” Willy choked out. “I’m all right. I can shoot pert near as good as Darcy, and I won’t lose my senses again, sir.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Jeremy told him.
Dust rose, choking them.
Willy Smith took aim. He fired. A shrieking brave came flying from his painted pony, landing dead just in front of Willy. The boy stared at the dead Indian a second, then took aim again.
They were doing well. They had downed at least ten of the warriors in the first go-round.
“Injured, dead?” he shouted.
Artimas called out for an assessment. No one dead yet. Two wounded.
“We have to take them all this time around!” he called. “Else we’ll be sitting ducks for target practice!”
“Right, Colonel!” Darcy called and grinned. “I’m going to get me the first one this time, Colonel.”
“You do that.”
As he had expected, the remaining warriors began to circle again. They were lucky. If the Indians had thought to pin Jeremy’s troops down in the same trenches, they might have done better. Except that Jeremy wouldn’t have stayed in the death trap—he would have charged the Indians.
The circle began again with the braves crying out their horrible war cries.
Darcy caught the first of them, just as he had promised. Jeremy began to fire. Aiming, squeezing, aiming, squeezing, faster, faster. He caught one, lost one, caught two. His men were good. By the time the second circle was completed, only five of the braves were left to ride away.
“Mount up! We’ve got to stop them before they bring more warriors against us!”
He leapt upon his horse, spurred the creature into motion, and started after the retreating Indians. Darcy and Artimas were right with him; the rest followed at a gallop behind. Darcy aimed his carbine and brought down one Indian. Jeremy caught two more in rapid succession. Artimas caught the fourth, and a man from the ranks brought down the last of them.
“Let’s leave them where they fell!” Artimas said bitterly, after dismounting by the first of the fallen Indians. The brave was half naked, his chest and face painted, his lance, still curled in his fingers, decorated with several scalps, some white, some Indian from other tribes.
“No. We’ll bury them all. Maybe that will delay their discovery for a while, and buy us some time.”
Darcy had already started digging with his gun butt. He looked at Jeremy. “Colonel, sir, what’s going to happen when we ride this way with the whole regiment?”
“They won’t attack the regiment, Darcy.”
“Why?”
“Because they haven’t the numbers to do so.”
“Why, Colonel, sir, there’s hundreds of them stupid savages out here—”
“First lesson, Private! They’re not stupid. See how they planned the artillery arrow attack that did in these men from Fort Smith? Second, don’t go causing a big war by assuming they’re all savages—we’re very friendly with a number of tribes.”
Near his side, Sergeant Rodriguez, a Mexican-born soldier who had served most of his life in the West, spit out a big wad of tobacco. “Madre mío, niño! Some of them are much more clean and smart than lots of the gringo riffraff we get in the West, eh Colonel, sir?”
Jeremy smiled. “Right,” he said. But his smile faded quickly. It was growing darker, they were miles and miles from camp, and they still had lots of burying to do.
“Let’s get to it, shall we?” he ordered.
This was a new company for him. Darcy had served with him just briefly before the end of the war and he knew that the man was a tremendous sharpshooter. He was grateful to have him.
He wondered if Darcy didn’t hear Rebel yells in the Indian whoops when he shut his eyes, just as Jeremy had.
He suddenly broke out in a sweat. God help him, but this was easier. Easier than shooting at men in gray uniforms and wondering if he might be aiming at his brother-in-law.
They finished with the burial detail, dusting over the Indians, packing down the trench dirt over their own dead. In the midst of it, a groan had been heard, and they had discovered one man just barely alive. They had gone back to thoroughly look over every dead man to be sure that he was dead before finishing with the burying. The survivor had an arrow in his upper back, but they had managed to extract it without further injury, get some water into him, douse the wound with whiskey, and bandage it well. Jeremy was certain that the young man would make it.
He had survived this far—he could go all the way.
He forced his own men to ride until the moon was high in the sky. They rode for over seven hours and they rode hard, but they covered nearly fifty miles. He knew they would not be attacked if they camped on the plains.
He lay beneath the stars, watching the sky, exhausted but anxious for morning.
Christa should have arrived. He stared at the sky, but he saw his wife’s face. Beautiful, delicate, refined.
Passionate, alive, stormy, disobedient, and defiant, her blue eyes flashing.
He winced. What would it be?
Well, she would learn a few lessons in the West, he thought. She’d probably pass out from the weight of her petticoats on the first day!
Whoa, don’t be malicious there, sir, he warned himself. But she did have a few lessons to learn.
He inhaled deeply. So did he.
Jesu, he couldn’t wait. All the long nights without her he had lain haunted by her memory. What was it with Christa? What tore at his body and emotions so deeply? He had longed for her to arrive, then he had berated himself for ever suggesting that she come. This was no place for Christa.
But dear God! He wanted her. He didn’t give a damn how he found her when he returned. He felt torn by the pain and waste of his discovery on the plains, and he wanted nothing but comfort.
Christa? he thought, bemused. Comfort? She was like a little tigress, a wounded animal, proud, fierce, and ever on the defensive.
Yes, maybe they were both like wounded animals. Maybe time would heal some of the lacerations.
He closed his eyes tightly. Maybe he was falling in love with his wife. Maybe he had always been just a little bit in love with her.
Aroused yes, but more. She infuriated him, but there was more. Christa would not be beaten. And he could not help but admire her for that. Exactly what were his feelings? He didn’t know.
He did know that he wanted to see her, no matter what her mood. Whether she was pleasant or furious because she’d realized just what a life he had brought her to!
He smiled, and pulled his hat low over his eyes. Tomorrow he would cleanse away the sight of the men in the trench. He would do so in her arms.
He didn’t know how he would find her—clinging to Jesse perhaps, or sitting in his tent with her toes tucked under an elegant gown.
But as it happened, he found her in a more delightful manner than he had thought to imagine. She was in his tent, in the hip bath, surrounded by a froth of bubbles. She didn’t hear him when he first came and he paused, unable to resist the temptation to watch her for a while.
Where had Nathaniel gotten hold of those bubbles?
They were wonderful. They covered her body, they popped, and then they no longer covered her. She leaned back, surrounded by bubbles. She lifted them and smoothed them over her shoulders. She seemed as sleek and luxurious and sens
Suddenly, she sensed that he was there. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him. God, they were blue. Bluer than any sky in deepest summer, richer than any sea.
She was definitely startled by his appearance. Obviously, she hadn’t intended to be discovered so.
He smiled slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hello, darlin’!” he murmured softly.
“You’re—you’re here!” she whispered, dismayed. A flush rose to her cheeks.
“It is my tent,” he pointed out. “You did come here to join me, remember?”
“Yes, of course. I—it’s just I intended to be in the perfect plains garb! I meant to be ready for you,” she murmured, her lashes sweeping her cheeks again.
It seemed that all the wicked fires of hell came bursting to flame within him. “Christa!” he promised her hoarsely, “trust me! At this particular moment, there couldn’t be a more perfect garb for you to wear—nor could you appear to be the more perfect wife!”
And with that, he took his first, swift steps toward her.
Perhaps she wasn’t ready for him.
He was more than ready for her.
Ten
So much for being entirely dignified upon his return, Christa thought quickly. Her fingers curled around the rim of the tub as he swiftly approached her.
She hadn’t realized how anxious she had been for the sight of him. She studied him avidly, noting every little thing about him. There was a slight stubble on his cheeks and he needed a hair trim. His eyes seemed very dark, gray as storm clouds. His hair was tousled when he tossed his plumed cavalry hat aside. He was usually so impeccable in his uniform; today he was covered in a light coating of dust. He seemed taller than ever, broader in the shoulders. His cheeks seemed just a bit gaunt, but they added to the hardness of his rugged good looks. Her heart seemed to slam and scamper. She hadn’t realized just how anxious she had been for this moment, just how hungry she had actually been for the sight of him.
It frightened her.
And just what was his intent? Did he mean to dive, uniform and all, into the small tub with her? A stray lock of deep auburn hair fell over his forehead, giving him a rakish look. As he came nearer she searched frantically for something to say, but no words came to her lips.
She shrieked out softly, discovering his intent. He didn’t crawl into the tub with her, he reached inside of it and plucked her out. She felt absurdly faint for a moment, clinging to him. His arms felt incredibly hot and incredibly strong. He held her and long strides brought them quickly to the bed. He laid her down upon it and paused, taking a long look at her. Then he was beside her, wrapping her into his arms, and his lips were upon her naked throat, touching, tasting, licking away the drops of water that lay there. She began to tremble, feeling an overwhelming urge to simply give in to it all. But words came tumbling from her lips because he was always so quick to take her, and always so distant when the fire was quenched!
“How was your journey, Christa?” she asked herself out loud, trying to ignore the masculine lips upon her nudity. “It was fine, thank you. And the babe? Fine, too, I believe. Were you ill at all? Just a bit. Amazingly, it ended aboard the steamer, and I did very well from then on. How have you found the camp? The men, for Yanks, have been as pleasant as can be expected. How—”
She broke off. She had caught his attention at last. He leaned upon an elbow, staring down at her. His eyes were silver with laughter and appreciation now, even if it was a dark silver, and none of the determination or intent had left them.
“I had intended to get to all that,” he assured her.
“Well, you hadn’t done so!” she whispered. “All this time since we’ve seen each other, and you just grabbed me up and brought me to the—”
“All this time! That’s quite the point, Christa. All this time! My love, believe me! This is the first act to be expected of any loving husband!”
Any loving husband, she thought.
He did not love her, but if she closed her eyes at that moment, she might well believe that he did. His lips were against her earlobe and his words were hot and evocative. “You smell so sweet, taste so sweet … Jesu, all of you!” He moved like quicksilver. One minute his lips were upon hers, the next second his tongue stroked her breast, and a spiraling began deep in the pit of her belly. Words of protest bubbled in her throat, but she did not issue them. Her fingers fell upon his waving russet hair, but briefly, for he was moving again, touching all of her, whispering more feverishly against her flesh. Her fingers fell upon his shoulders and she felt the dust upon him.
“You’re covered with dust!” she whispered.
“Sorry!” he apologized briefly. Moving back he stripped off his jacket and shirt. She closed her eyes quickly, alarmed at how pleased she was at the sight of his chest, how fascinated she would be to touch it. When she opened her eyes again, he had stripped naked and was coming for her, and it seemed the devil’s dance had begun within her, all at the sight of his nudity and the protruding hardness of his arousal. When he crawled atop her again, she noticed a streak of red running down his neck and she cried out in earnest.
“You’re injured!”
“I’m not.”
“Let me tend to it!”
“If it’s anything, it’s a scratch, and I’d far rather you attend to other things at the moment!” he cried in frustration.
He had other things on his mind.
But she didn’t mind. He was always, even in his most fervent moments, a considerate lover. And there was a curious sense of rightness when he was with her so, when she felt his body blanket her own.
When she felt his body enter her own. Taking her, making them one. Moving. Even as she twisted her head, biting into her lower lip, feeling the rugged heat and rhythm of his motion, she discovered that deny it or not, she was pleased that he did want her so. Her fingers rested on his shoulders, and she felt the tremendous tension in the rise and fall of his muscles, felt the hunger building and building within him.
She had imagined something like this. But she had never felt this with Liam, never sensed that this could come.
Her breath caught with the sudden force of his movement, and she very nearly felt something exploding within her, something promised, something wonderful. Then she was washed in the rich expulsion from her husband and felt the shuddering that shook through him again and again.
She bit her lip hard, something inside telling her that it was wrong to deny him, that perhaps she could give them both a chance if she could quit denying him. But they had been apart too long. She didn’t know his feelings, and she certainly didn’t know his mood.
He fell to her side and was silent for a while. She curled to her side, not facing him, but not moving away from him. His fingers moved idly over her back.
“Liam McCloskey is dead,” he told her. The words were soft—she still thought that there was a note of anger to his voice.
Her lashes fluttered over her cheeks. “I know that very well,” she murmured. Darkness had fallen since he had come. Just dusky at first, then darker and darker. Outside the tent, the stars would be dotting the heavens. The moon would be rising. She had slept here last night alone, but she hadn’t felt the wilderness so keenly.
Neither had she felt so truly alone then, for she had been waiting for him. But now she felt his withdrawal. He rolled to his back. She thought that there was now a note of grave disappointment in his tone, more jarring than the sarcasm of his words. “Liam is dead, the war is over, but you’re still fighting. And you may look as sweet and southern and delicate as magnolia blossoms but we both know that you’re no simpering belle! It’s a pity, my love, a true pity, that you were not in the field. No matter how many had died, you’d not have allowed Lee to
She stiffened, stunned that tears could suddenly burn so hotly behind her eyes. “All this time we’ve been separated,” she charged, “and you’re being exceptionally cruel!”
“All this time! And you’re still as cold as ice. Well, my love,” he said wearily. “You may not believe this, but I do not try to make you so wretchedly miserable.”
She frowned, glad of the darkness. “I’m—I’m not wretchedly miserable,” she said softly.
The tent had grown very dark. She felt him looming over her again. “No?” he queried. “You don’t hate me, or”—she felt his slight hesitation—“this?”
Even in the dark—and even after the incredibly intimate things they had just shared—she felt herself blushing. “No,” she murmured. “I—I don’t hate this. I mean, I don’t find you physically detestable. I mean—”
He laughed. She wasn’t sure if he was amused or if the sound was entirely ironic. His lips touched hers again briefly. “Welcome to camp life, my love,” he murmured. “My fair, sweet cavalry wife!”
He rose from the bed. “You need to dress quickly, Christa. I want a bath, but not one filled with rose-scented bubbles. The men might find it difficult to take me seriously if I smell too sweet.”
He lit the lamp on his camp desk. Soft light flooded the room and Christa looked away from his nakedness, but he quickly drew his trousers back on and walked to the flap of the tent, lifting it to call to Nathaniel. Christa dived beneath the covers as he did so. She opened her mouth to warn him that she needed some time, but the words died in her throat.
There was something in the bed. Something very warm and furry. Something that moved.
She shrieked out, jumping from the bed. Jeremy stared at her, astounded.
“There’s something hairy in there! That moves!”
“Thank God it isn’t me!” Jeremy murmured, then ripped the bedding aside. Christa gasped again as two little creatures leaped up, flew from the bed to the ground, then raced wildly in opposite directions, finding the way out at last. She stared in astonishment and horror. Jeremy was doubled over in laughter.