Arizona Gold (26 page)

She held tightly to him, nails digging into his shoulders as he continued to feast, turning her blood to liquid fire as her heart pounded so fast she feared it would burst from her chest.

And then it happened—deep, twisting, gnawing licks of pleasure like blows from a whip. Within, without, over and under. Her insides were exploding, and she began to undulate her hips, striving to get closer to him as he plunged yet deeper, harder, almost bruising, fingers digging into the softness of her hips.

She twisted her head from side to side, writhing in the most delicious rapture she had ever known, and he held on tightly, making her ride with his rhythmic assault.

At last, he released her, but not for long, as he tore out of his clothes and positioned himself above her once again.

And this time she did feel the hard plunging of his desire and clung to him yet tighter, reveling in the feel, for the afterglow of her own pleasure burned as bright and hot as the embers of the campfire that refused to die.

Ryder took himself to glory quickly, for it had been all he could do to hold back as he had consumed her with his tongue, his mouth. He had wanted to send her into a frenzy of longing, to teach her the pleasures of her body she had not known existed. But it had taken every ounce of willpower he could muster to hold back.

For a long while, they clung together, arms and legs entwined, then finally they drew apart, gasping for breath.

“We…we’ll never find the treasure like this,” Kitty said, attempting humor in the wake of embarrassment to have so lost control.

“Maybe,” he said as he drew her into the circle of his arms once more, “we’ve already found it.”

Ryder lay awake a long time after Kitty had fallen asleep.

Nothing had been resolved.

She had made no commitment.

He had no reason to think she felt anything for him beyond passion, but then she was a stubborn sort. So he dared to wonder if perhaps she were fighting an inner battle, fearing that to love would mean giving up the independence she so fiercely clung to.

He worried, too, that the same obstinacy and spirit that had drawn him to her might be her ultimate downfall.

Coyotay had found her when she was overly confident in thinking she could find the camp.

The outlaws had tracked her because she was not experienced enough to cover her trail.

Both were mistakes that could have cost her her life, and they worried him, because if she did go her separate way when their quest was over, what was to become of her?

But all he could do in the time they had together was to try and make her love him…

…
as he loved her
.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I’m starting to think we’ll never find it,” Kitty said, feeling discouraged.

It was mid-morning, and they had set out at dawn to take advantage of the cool, crisp air before the sweltering heat settled in.

“It shouldn’t be much farther,” Ryder said without looking at her. They rode side by side, but he was ever alert for any sign of danger, eyes constantly darting about. “How’s your water holding out?”

Kitty unlooped her canteen from the saddle horn and shook it. “I’m afraid there’s not much left.”

“We’ll run into the San Pedro again beyond those buttes. We can fill our canteens and let the horses drink, because after that we’ll be heading away from the river. And unless we happen across a stream, we might be in for a dry spell.”

Kitty wanted to get her bearings. She did not like having no idea where she was. “The trail has been so crooked. How far would you say we are from Tombstone?”

“Probably a day’s ride.” He flashed a crooked grin. “We got kind of sidetracked, you know.”

Kitty blushed and felt a stirring warmth to think of the splendor they had shared in each other’s arms.

He pointed to a distant mountain of rock and sparse vegetation. “My people’s camp is only a half day’s ride through that pass. Once you reach the other side, you’d see familiar signs and know where you were. But I’d never risk going that way again. It’s on the fringe of Comanche country to the north, and they keep sentries in the pass. It’s a death trap.”

“But you made it through.”

“Yes, by riding like the devil was on my heels with arrows flying over my head. You can’t see it from here, but the pass is very narrow, with lots of outcroppings and ledges where the Comanche can hide. I knew it was dangerous when I did it, but I was in a hurry to get back to camp. I had gone to find special herbs found only on this side, that my mother needed for a sick baby, and there was no time to waste.”

“And did the baby live?”

He smiled. “Oh, yes. My mother is very good with her potions. A medicine man didn’t escape the reservation with us, but she’s the next best thing.”

“A medicine
woman
,” Kitty said pleasantly.

“Well, she can’t be called that. She would have to convince everyone that she had a special gift—the ability to interpret dreams and omens, and subject herself to long fasts and vigils. She would have to go off by herself to meditate and communicate with spirits, especially at night. She doesn’t care about that. She just mixes her potions and minds her own business, and people can call her what they want to.”

He looked at her suddenly, sharply. “Have you given any thought to what I said last night about your going with us to Mexico?”

“Some.” She was not about to confide she had thought of little else.

“Even if we find the gold, it will be a struggle. Shelters have to be built, herds of cattle started, crops planted.”

“And without the gold?”

“Some will starve before spring, because there won’t be money to buy food to see us through the winter. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to go.”

She hedged. “I need to think about it,” she said. After all, he had only said he loved her—not that he wanted to marry her. And even, that revelation might have been inspired by the heat of the moment.

No, she could not make a momentous decision that could affect the rest of her life unless she was completely sure it was what she wanted. After all, she still had much to learn about the other side of Ryder—the side that was Apache. Perhaps custom demanded he marry one of his own kind. Maybe Adeeta would be his choice. What then? Would he make her his mistress? She did not know about such things, only that she could never share him with another woman.

She dragged in a heavy breath. She was weary from riding doggedly in the sun, as well as exhausted from the delicious hours of lovemaking the night before.

They reached the river, and the cool, dark waters proved irresistible in the miserable heat. Kitty, soaked with perspiration, peeled down to her undergarments and waded right in.

Ryder, however, hung back, and Kitty called, “Aren’t you coming in?”

His grin was wry. “You seem to forget what happened when you went swimming yesterday. Somebody needs to keep watch. I’ll go in when you’re through.”

She did not tarry as long as she would have otherwise. They needed to be on their way, and she wanted him to have his turn in the water.

Soon she took over the vigil, but Ryder swam only briefly.

When he came out, she was sitting beneath the sparse shade of a cottonwood tree, knees drawn to her chin. A slight breeze had begun to stir but not enough to cool the fires smoldering within her, for he had stripped completely.

Their heated gazes locked as he walked directly toward her, passing his clothing which he had left on the ground.

He dropped beside her, still imprisoning her with his lust-filled eyes.

A small sound seeped from her throat as he reached for her. Hands clutching his shoulders, her lips softened beneath his almost-bruising kiss, she allowed her tongue to slide gently into his mouth.

He groaned softly, and she pulled back long enough to tease, “No one is standing guard, you know.”

“Outlaws be damned,” he growled, claiming her lips once more.

His long fingers tugged at the ribbon at the front of her chemise, which was wet and plastered to her body. His mouth moved slowly across her shoulders.

With the ribbon untied, her breasts tumbled forth, and he bent his head and kissed each in turn as though it were a delicate, succulent fruit that must be caressed only with tenderness, lest it bruise.

Hooking his thumbs in her pantalets, he pulled them down over her hips and off her ankles to be cast aside.

He stretched her out on the ground and settled beside her as he kneaded the curve of her waist, then moved warm hands lower to smooth over her buttocks and slide between.

Deftly he laced his fingers through the damp, curling hair at the apex of her thighs before diving downward to stroke and tease the folds of her sex.

She arched against him, flames of desire licking from head to toe, the core of her throbbing with damp, slick heat. She pulled him closer, wanting him and sobbing deep in her throat to think how in that burning moment she would surely die if she did not have him.

“Take me,” she moaned. “Please, please, Ryder…take me.”

And he did so, spreading her thighs and positioning himself between. “Put your legs around me,” he urged, “and your heels on my back. Then ride me, sweetheart. Ride me with everything you have.”

He plunged into her, and the gasp of ecstasy came from her very soul.

She matched his every thrust with one of her own, her nails digging into the rock-hard flesh of his broad back. He did not wince but urged her on, his face contorted with the tension of holding back to ensure she reached her own pinnacle before he released his seed into her core.

At last, they came together. For long moments they lay quietly in each other’s arms, rocked by the splendor of their passion.

With great effort, Ryder finally forced himself to draw away from her. “We’ve got to ride, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her fevered brow. “We’ve got the rest of our lives for this.”

The rest of our lives
. Kitty mulled the words over as she hurriedly dressed.

They could mean nothing.

Or everything.

Only time would tell.

It was nearly sundown when Ryder cried triumphantly, “That’s it. Beyond that cluster of boulders. It’s the camp. It has to be.”

They dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and galloped the rest of the way, charging around the rocks and into the clearing to share shouts of jubilation.

There were a few tools about—shovels, picks, and empty barrels—and sacks of feed for mules no longer there. A well was situated near a small wood shack.

Quickly dismounting, they went first to the shack.

It had a small porch, with two old rocking chairs that had seen better days.

Kitty felt a wave of sadness as she sank into one and began to rock to and fro. “He sat here,” she said in wonder. “My uncle actually sat here, probably in the evenings after a hard day digging. However did they get them here, though?” she marveled.

“On pack mules,” Ryder said. “And, yes, he probably did sit here after a hard day digging, but where in the hell was the dig?” He scanned the barren clearing surrounded by boulders. “I don’t see any signs, much less the opening to a mine shaft.”

“Maybe this was just where they ate and slept, and they mined somewhere else.”

“Not according to the map. It leads right here and nowhere else.”

Kitty jumped from the rocker. “The fireplace. This shack has a chimney. I saw it. So there will be a fireplace, and maybe that’s what the Bible verse meant.”

They went inside to see that the shack had but three walls, the back wall actually being the side of a boulder. It was only one room with a dirt floor. There was a table made of a board laid across two large rocks, and two benches made in similar fashion.

On each side was a mattress made of saw grass, with animal skins for cover.

The fireplace was crude but adequate. A few cooking pots were scattered around, along with utensils made of tin or clay. Ryder gestured to the coffeepot. “I wish it was full and piping hot.”

“It can be,” Kitty said cheerily, indicating the supplies stacked in a corner. “I see coffee, as well as flour. I can make tortillas for our supper. Maybe you can snare a rabbit.”

“Right now I’m not concerned with food.” He squatted in front of the fireplace and leaned inside to look up, then said, “I can see daylight up there, so it’s not a false chimney.”

He checked all around it. “Nothing. No loose stones. No signs of digging.” He lifted the lid of the wood box beside it. “Just a few pieces of kindling wood.” With a sigh, he straightened. “I think we can forget anything to do with fireplace or chimney.

“But there’s something we’d better notice real quick,” he said suddenly, sharply, as he spotted the stack of boxes in another corner. “Dynamite. They must have left it here to keep it from getting wet if it rained. Probably did it just before they left, because they wouldn’t have been so stupid as to keep it near where they had a fire going.

“This means,” he whirled on her, eyes shining, “that the dig has to be around here somewhere. If we only had a Bible to try and figure out the verse—”

“We do,” she cried, rushing to the mattress closest to her. She knelt and picked up the worn Bible from where it lay, partially covered.

“This must have been your father’s bed,” she said, almost reverently, as she pointed to a candle in a wax-covered jug nearby. “He probably read from his Bible every night before he fell asleep.”

Ryder took it from her and immediately opened to the front and the book of Genesis.

“So you do know a little about the Bible,” she said. “Like how the chapters are arranged.”

“The missionaries introduced me to it, yes,” he said absently as he turned the pages. “Here,” he cried. “Chapter 18, verse 27—‘Behold now, I have taken upon me to speak unto the Lord, which am but dust and ashes.’

“Which doesn’t mean a damn thing to me,” he concluded lamely.

“Me, either. So what do we do now?”

“Think about it while I get this dynamite out of here. It makes me uneasy. You can draw some water from the well. I’ll get a fire going once I get the dynamite out, and then you can make us some coffee.”

“I can help you with the smaller boxes.” She started toward them.

“No.” He spoke so loudly she jumped.

“No,” he repeated, more softly, then explained, “The blasting caps are in the smaller boxes and may be more dangerous than the dynamite.”

Reaching into a box, he gingerly took out a small, tubular-shaped object. “In order for dynamite to explode, it has to have a heavy jolt—like this cap. It’s made of something known as fulminate of mercury. You put it in the dynamite stick and then set it off with either a spark or a light concussion. But caps alone can blow up and take a hand—or even a life. They’re nothing to mess around with.”

“How do you know about such things?”

“I worked in a mine once to make a few dollars when the army didn’t need me as a scout. They had me doing the dynamiting, and, believe me, I learned quick so I wouldn’t make a mistake. Blasting is slow, however. It advances a tunnel by maybe three feet each explosion.”

“Wasn’t it terribly dangerous for my uncle and your father to transport it here?”

“Oh, yes, and you can believe they packed everything very carefully and moved easy to keep from jarring it.”

He picked up a box of dynamite and carried it out. Kitty went to the well, and groaned when she saw it was boarded over.

“It must have gone dry,” Ryder said when she told him. “But don’t worry. I’m stacking the dynamite on top of the rocks just above it, and I spotted a watering hole on the other side. Probably it’s fed by an underground stream. We can get water there.

“By the way,” he added, lifting another box, “I noticed something interesting up there. It appears that’s where they kept the dynamite when it wasn’t in the shack. I found some caps strewn about.”

Kitty felt renewed hope. “Then the dig has to be somewhere around here, Ryder.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. But it’s going to be dark soon. We’ll have to wait till morning to try to find it.”

Alone, Kitty wandered about the tiny shack, deeply moved to think this was where her uncle had lived. How she wished she could have seen him one more time to tell him how much he truly meant to her. And if the gold could not be found, she was glad to have come so far, if only to visit what had been his home.

Finding a knapsack, she opened it and immediately wept to find the letters she had written to him through the years. Tied with a pink ribbon, they were packed with a worn, moth-eaten sweater she had knitted for him the year she tried her hand at ladylike crafts. It was the one garment she had been able to complete, and though it was crudely made, he had apparently treasured it.

She sat on the floor and cradled the sweater to her cheek as childhood memories came sweeping back. The years with her uncle had been the only truly happy ones she had known. She wished now she had run away to follow him to Arizona. She could have cooked for him, cared for him, and things would have been different for both of them. And his life would not have been cut short so tragically, and—