Daisies In The Wind (36 page)

Rebeccah cried out at the throbbing fullness
that filled her as he plunged deeply into her, again and again. Joy
burst through her, a wild, swiftly gliding joy. She felt as if she
were racing down a steep canyon at breakneck speed, spinning into
whirling space, out of control, and yet brilliantly alive and
soaring.

At last, deliciously spent, cozily entwined,
they lay together as the flames of the fire dwindled and darkness
cocooned the room.

“Sweet Rebeccah,” Wolf murmured, holding her
close against his naked side. He leaned down to drop a kiss upon
the peak of her breast. “Don’t ever leave me.”

“Leave you?” Like Clarissa? Even after
tonight, with the glory of their lovemaking, was there a seed of
worry inside him? She pulled free and stared at him. “I would
sooner ride off a cliff at the top of Bull Mountain than ever leave
you,” she told him fiercely and sealed it with a long, giving,
fervent kiss. “Wolf,” she said shakily at last, coming up for air.
“Don’t ever, ever doubt my love.”

“I won’t,” he said, and the slow, heated grin
she loved spread across his face. “On one condition.”

“What condition?”

“Snuggle back down here and demonstrate it
for me all over again.”

He gave her no time for any spoken reply, but
reading only the delighted gleam in her eyes, he yanked her back
into his arms and they began all over again.

“I have an idea,” Rebeccah said the next
morning as she sat up naked on the bedroll and stretched her arms
luxuriously above her head.

Wolf immediately tugged her down atop him,
holding her there facing him, with her breasts pressed against his
chest and her hips molded against him, and grinned.

“So do I.”

A laugh bubbled from her lips. She felt
beautiful, and deliciously satisfied. Cool, wintry sunshine filled
the Montana sky outside the window, the snow was melting, and life
tasted incredibly sweet. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The hand that cradled her buttocks slid
languorously up her spine until it touched the long, thick curtain
of her hair. He twisted his fingers in the ebony strands and kissed
her with gently nibbling kisses until she forgot what she was going
to say.

As her breathing quickened, Wolf rolled her
onto her back and moved his body atop hers. His tongue found her
breast and began to lick the taut, achingly sensitive nipple.

“I must admit, I like your ideas,” she
gasped, and it was his turn to laugh.

“I’ve got lots more ideas to show you,
Rebeccah,” he promised as he slid his hand between her legs.

Much later they raced out of the cabin to the
tiny creek trickling through smooth gray rocks, and, yelling and
splashing, they bathed quickly in the icy water. Their fingers
shook afterward as they pulled on their clothes and then scurried
back to the house and the heat of the stove for a makeshift
breakfast of jerky and hardtack, which Wolf kept stored in his
pack.

“So,” Wolf said, swallowing a mouthful of the
jerky and admiring the lovely way her skin glowed in the clear
winter sunshine streaming through the window. “What’s your
idea?”

“
Now
he wants to know,” Rebeccah
murmured to no one in particular, throwing up her hands. “It would
serve you right if I couldn’t remember it at all.”

“But you do.”

“Of course I do.” She poured them each
another cup of coffee. “I think we should go to Butte right away
and see Crystal McCoy.”

“Who the hell is Crystal McCoy?”

“My father’s mistress.” At his raised brows
she hurried on. “I didn’t know anything about her until Russ and
Homer told me yesterday, but it seems to me that if anybody knows
anything about some papers relating to this mine, it would be her.
I certainly don’t, and she seems to be the only other person my
father cared for.” Quickly she told him what Russ had said about
Bear’s visits to Butte.

“It’s worth a try. Maybe she can shed a
little light on this whole thing. But I’ll tell you this, Rebeccah.
I’m going to get to the bottom of this mine business once and for
all—even if it means rounding up any and all of the hombres who
think you’ve got possession of these mine papers and throwing them
in jail—or killing them. No more waiting around until the next
varmint comes after you. Next time we might not be so lucky.”

We. He said
we, Rebeccah thought
with a joyous lift of the heart. “Yes, Wolf,” she said softly, too
happy for the moment even to think about reminding him that going
around killing people without cause was against the law. He
wouldn’t do it, she knew, not unless it was self-defense or to
actually protect her, but she enjoyed the sentiment. Wolf finished
his breakfast in deep thoughtfulness, obviously still troubled by
how to extricate her from danger before it struck again, and
Rebeccah feasted her eyes on him and wondered at her own fortune in
having won the love of this incredibly splendid man.

They started toward Butte at mid-morning,
traveling in easy stages throughout the day, the pristine banks of
snow glistening and melting all around them. After a short stop in
the small town of Serenity, where they consumed a quick dinner in
the tiny hotel dining room, which smelled like grease and burned
ham, they then pressed on for Butte, reaching the town just as
daylight was fading. The sky burned a fiery amber-red as Wolf and
Rebeccah reined in before the Double Barrel Saloon.

Rebeccah felt the stares of the cowboys,
miners, gamblers, and drifters clustered throughout the wide,
opulent room as Wolf escorted her through the swinging double doors
and over to the gleaming mahogany bar. She tried to ignore the
glances she received, but one cowboy in a gray wide-brimmed hat and
fringed vest actually let out a low whoop as she passed by him, and
Wolf spun quickly about to grab him by his shirt.

“Down, boy!” Wolf growled softly. His eyes
flashed an ominous warning that the cowboy couldn’t mistake.

“No offense meant, ma’am,” he stammered
quickly with a pleading glance at Rebeccah.

“None taken,” Rebeccah murmured. And then she
put a hand lightly on Wolf’s arm. “Wolf, it’s
all right
.
Let him go.”

A balding piano player with a gray handlebar
mustache banged on tinny keys in the duskily lit corner of the bar.
There were paintings of women in various states of dishabille
adorning the gold-flecked walls, and smoke hung everywhere. Men
played cards at most of the tables, but occasionally two or three
sat in groups, talking in low voices, or watching the saloon girls,
who pranced back and forth in their black silk stockings, high kid
boots, and bright velvet dresses, the latter gaudily low-cut and
spangled with sequins and baubles, flowers and feathers. Rebeccah
had been in such places in her youth, but it was a long time ago.
She wanted to stare about curiously and marvel at this strange,
wild, decadent atmosphere, but she had business to conduct, and it
was far more important than indulging idle curiosity.

At the bar Wolf asked for Crystal McCoy.

“Who wants to see her?” the potbellied
bartender asked, peering shrewdly at them from beneath shaggy black
brows.

Rebeccah put both palms facedown on the
gleaming surface of the bar. “Rebeccah Rawlings,” she said
crisply.

The bartender started, and focused his small,
mud-colored eyes on her for a long moment. He swore under his
breath.

“Rebeccah Rawlings, are you, now? If that
don’t beat all. Come with me, lass. Crystal will sure want to see
you.”

He left his post and lumbered like a grizzly
around the bar, leading them into a murky corridor off the main
saloon and then up a short flight of stairs to a closed door.

The sign on the door read
PRIVATE
.

He rapped on the paneled wood.
“Visitors.”

“Who is it?” called a tired-sounding
voice.

The bartender grinned and pushed open the
door. “Rebeccah Rawlings!” he announced.

Wolf and Rebeccah stepped inside.

* * *

Two men rode from opposite directions and met
at a bald knoll ten miles outside of Powder Creek. They dismounted
and walked toward each other, their breaths coming in white puffs
in the chill air of dusk.

“Why’d you let her out of your sight?” the
larger man demanded, looking as if he’d like to shoot his slimmer
companion between the eyes.

The other man cupped his hands and lit up one
of his homemade smokes, calm as dawn. “What did you expect me to
do—blow the whole plan to smithereens by making a nuisance out of
myself? She was getting damned suspicious as it was. That’s one
filly who’s too shrewd for her own good.” He drew in deeply on the
tobacco, a scowl darkening his handsome features. “I’ve got a funny
feeling she trusts that damned sheriff a hell of a lot more than
she trusts me.”

“Good work!” the other man exclaimed
sarcastically. “This whole plan is collapsing under our noses,
Navarro! We should’ve just grabbed the girl, taken her somewhere
where Bodine can’t find her, and made her talk!”

“That’s what your old pards tried to do, and
now they’ve got Bodine breathing down their necks, you damned
fool,” Chance Navarro said coldly.

“Look here, maybe you’re scared of him, but
I’m not,” Neely Stoner flashed back. “This business is taking much
too long—and it’s not the way I usually get things done. I’ve had
my fill of your trying to sweet-talk her into trusting you and
telling you about the mine. I’ve had enough of waitin’ and spyin’.
I say we grab her as soon as she and that infernal sheriff get
back.”

“Your problem, Stoner,” Chance said, his
green eyes shining, “is that you don’t have any imagination. Reb
Rawlings will squawk her head off about that mine and beg us to
take that deed and map off her hands when I’m finished with her.
And we won’t have to harm a single hair on that pretty little head
of hers.”

“Since when are you squeamish about hurtin’
hairs on a woman’s head? You don’t seem to have any problem burning
‘em up alive—”

Chance lunged at him before his words were
done. Navarro’s eyes were now evil slits, his voice low and
chilling. “Keep your damned mouth shut, Stoner, or I’ll shut it for
you—savvy? Don’t ever say that again.”

“Son of a bitch! Navarro—let me go.” Stoner
shoved him away, but his weathered, pockmarked skin had paled.
There was something about the handsome young gambler that made him
feel queasy—like he’d eaten too much bacon fried in its own grease.
“Hell, I don’t care what you’ve done, so long as you come up with a
way to make the girl talk.”

“I have. It’s easy.”

“Well?”

Navarro regarded him with a tight little
smile. “It’s been my experience that most women will do
anything—anything—to protect the folks they love. And Rebeccah
Rawlings thinks she loves Bodine—and his kid, Billy.”

“So?” Then it hit him. Stoner started to
grin. Navarro nodded, his own smirk widening.

“That’s it, Stoner. You’re pretty quick. We
can get Reb Rawlings to do whatever we want. All we have to do is
snatch the kid.”

“What about Bodine? He’ll come after us with
both barrels blazing if we—”

“Leave Bodine to me,” Chance Navarro said
softly. There was a curious anticipatory light in his moss-green
eyes. He started toward his horse. “He won’t be a problem.”

* * *

Crystal McCoy was not at all what Rebeccah
had expected. She had thought the saloon owner would be a woman
like Molly Duke, tall, voluptuous, crude, and sultry. Instead she
found a silvery blond-haired woman of medium height and build.
Crystal McCoy had a pert, intelligent face, lovely cheekbones and
ivory skin, and clear hazel eyes set beneath slanting, forceful
brows. She was perhaps forty. She wore a businesslike white
shirtwaist and severe gray wool skirt, no rings or brooches or
other jewelry, and kept her fair hair piled in a dainty chignon at
the nape of her neck, tied with a black velvet ribbon.

“Come in, Rebeccah,” she said warmly, rising
and holding out her hand as she saw the dark-haired girl enter the
room. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. This is a wonderful
surprise.”

Rebeccah, astonished as much by the low,
cultured voice as by the friendly greeting, found herself gripping
cool, slender fingers.

Quickly she introduced Wolf and then glanced
around the small, simple office, where sheaves of papers covered an
old desk and wooden shutters had not yet been closed against the
encroaching nightfall. Already, though, a kerosene lamp glowed on
the desk.

“What brings you here?” Crystal asked, after
offering them drinks, which they both refused, and then settling
back into her well-worn green leather chair.

“I need some information,” Rebeccah told her,
meeting that inquisitive, polite gaze with a searching one of her
own. She took a deep breath. “Russ Gaglin and Homer Bell told me
about your relationship with my father. I never knew of your
existence before then. But I suddenly realized that you might be
able to shed some light on a certain matter for me. If you
will.”

“Anything I can do for Bear’s daughter, I
will certainly be happy to do,” Crystal McCoy said quietly.

She loved him, Rebeccah realized, gripping
the arms of her chair. This had been no tawdry, shallow coupling,
arranged as a matter of convenience whenever Bear was in the
vicinity. There was a sadness in Crystal McCoy’s eyes, which
Rebeccah recognized as one of genuine grief. She remembered what
Homer had said about Bear and Crystal’s plans to marry, a statement
she had not put much faith in before now. But her heart lifted
suddenly at the knowledge that Bear, too, had found love, that he
had not been all alone these past years, that he had shared a part
of his life with someone who cared for him in return.

“Tell me,” Crystal went on, “what it is you
need to know.”