Dorothy Garlock (23 page)

Rosalee was not really aware when it ended. When she returned to reality, Logan was leaning over her, his weight on his forearms. Her arms were around his neck, her breast pressed firmly to his chest.

The sweet familiar smell of his breath and the light brush of his mustache against her face brought a small inarticulate sound from her. She tightened her arms and her body, holding him inside her warmth and hungrily turned her mouth to his. Her hand moved to his tumbled, thick hair, and fondled the back of his neck lovingly.

“Are you all right, love?”

She laughed softly, caught his lower lip between her teeth and bit gently. Her hands moved down to where they were joined, enjoying the feel of where he disappeared into her body.

“You’ve brought me something very new, my Indian brave. We have done something wonderful together. So this is mating,” she said with something like awe in her voice. “I am filled with you. I think I shall always feel empty without you there.”

His breath caught and he couldn’t say anything. He was still fully extended within her. A mighty gust of passion surged up, rocked them, enveloped them in a swirling, translucent world where nothing existed but the two of them and the ecstasy they shared.

Long afterward, lying face to face, they held each other. Her head rested on his arm, hers was curled about his chest her palm flat against his back.

“I tried to keep control, but it slipped away and I lost myself in you.”

She smiled against his mouth. “I never imagined it would be so all-consuming.” She stretched lazily, her thighs sliding through his hair-roughened ones. “I feel so . . . good.”

He cuddled her against him. “Go to sleep, love,” he murmured.

Hours later, with Rosalee sleeping soundly in his arms, Logan tried to still his troubled thoughts. He had tried. God! How he had tried! He placed soft kisses on her forehead and she mumbled sleepily and snuggled closer.

“Oh, my sweet woman,” he whispered. “What have I done to you?”

After his confrontation with Rosalee, Mary, and Case Malone, Adam Clayhill rode away from the Spurlock ranch in a rage. Anger unfailingly turned his face a mottled crimson. He was a large, raw-boned man with a powerful frame. When he was angry, he struck out brutally. Now, his spurs stabbed his luckless mount again and again. The gelding’s powerful haunches propelled it forward into a hard run and dust spurted under its hoofs as it sought relief from the punishing jabs. Within two miles Adam had outdistanced the other riders. The wind beating against his face failed to cool his temper; and when he looked behind him and saw that he was alone, he hauled his blowing horse to a halt so suddenly the mount reared and plunged to the side.

The men rode up, but kept a distance between themselves and their violently angry boss.

“What the hell you sitting there for?” Adam roared. “Get your big, stupid asses on down to the draw and out of sight; come night, flag it back there and burn the sonofabitch down! If the Spurlocks are in the house, so be it. The slut’s no better than the gawddamn stinkin’ red ass! Burn it!” he shouted. “If there’s one fuckin’ stick left you can collect your pay and haul your asses off my ranch. I’ll have no man working for me who can’t take orders. Hear me?”

The men moved restlessly. Frank Gerhart, the young drover who had been with Shorty Banes the day Grant Spurlock was killed, hung back when the rest of the men rode off down the draw. It had gone against his grain when Banes and Shatto beat and stomped the Indian. It wasn’t that he cared about the goddamn Indian, he rationalized. The bastard should have stayed on the reservation. It was just that he’d not realized what scum he was riding with until they hauled out the stick between his legs and started to cut his nuts. Jesus! If they’d do that to the Indian, they’d do it to him if he crossed them. And then there was the matter of the blind man. Holy Christ! Poor bastard! He was only trying to protect his daughter. Frank wanted no part of burning the girl out. He’d hired on as a cowhand, not a raider! But how was he going to get out of it?

“Mr. Clayhill . . .”

“What the hell you hanging back for?”

“I got a pain in my gut ’n a runnin’ off at the bowels. I don’t know if’n I kin sit a saddle much longer.”

Adam’s hard gaze fixed on the young rider, and fresh anger poured out of him. “You chicken shit! You don’t have a pain in the gut! You got no guts! Get the hell off my land, get the hell out of the territory, you gawddamn, squeamish Indian lover! Shorty said you were a pain in the ass! If you hadn’t dragged your feet the bastard would have been dead by now, or wishing he were.”

Frank’s eyes fell under the older man’s glare. “If’n yore firin’ me, I’ll collect my pay and git.”

“A man who
quits
in the middle of the month gets no pay. Collect your tack and hightail it.” Adam’s tone conveyed his contempt, and his hard blue eyes studied the young cowboy as if seeing him for the first time. “Be gone by the time I get to the ranch, or by Gawd, I’ll bury you there.” He wheeled his horse in the direction of a roundup camp. He’d send Banes and his crew to the Spurlock ranch in case there were any more yellow bellies in the bunch. First Case Malone and now this whining bastard! Good Gawd, where were the men with blood and guts like Chivington who drove the damn savages onto the reservations where they belonged?

Frank spurred his horse and took off on the run. He was glad it was over. It was only the second or third time he’d even talked to Clayhill. The crotchety old bastard had showed his ass good at the Spurlock’s. It wasn’t right for him to treat Miss Spurlock like a slut. Frank reasoned that he might have strayed down sinner’s path, but he didn’t hold with talking filthy man-talk to ladies, and he didn’t hold with cutting, killing, and burning. By God, he wasn’t a murderer!

Frank didn’t know exactly where he’d go, or what he’d do. He’d spent the last of his money in town thinking he had almost a month’s pay coming. He’d not press for it. That old bastard wasn’t above having him gunned down, and Shorty Banes would do anything to stay in good with the old man. It was best to collect his tack and ride out. He’d work somewhere for beans and bread until he could land another job. Anything was better than getting sucked into a mess like this. He didn’t want to tangle with that Indian, and he didn’t want to tangle with Case Malone. Somebody was going to get killed before this was over, and he was going to make sure it wasn’t him.

*  *  *

When Frank rode past the white, wood fence that surrounded the big ranch house, he was surprised to see Della Clayhill come through the gate and call out to him.

“Cowboy . . . come here.”

Frank reined his horse. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Didn’t you ride out with Mr. Clayhill to look for the Indian?”

Della looked into the young rider’s eyes, then slowly let hers wander over his face and settle on his lips before she smiled. It was a trick she used when she wanted to beguile a man into thinking what she wanted him to think and telling her what she wanted to know. It worked almost every time with those whose positions were inferior.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well? Did you find him?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is that all you can say? Come now—you’re far too handsome to not be able to talk to a woman. I bet you have to fight them off of you when you go to town.” Della laughed up at him and placed her hand on his leg. “Are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to pry every word out of you?”

“Nothin’s happened yet, ma’am. The Injun’s at the Spurlocks. The girl wouldn’t let yore pa at him. Guess he’s pretty stowed up.”

“Stowed up? What happened to him?”

“Wal, now . . . yore pa knows ’bout it. He even knowed Mrs. Gregg had took him to the Spurlocks. Shorty had a set-ta with the Injun in town ’n him ’n Shatto wanted ta waylay him. They beat the livin’ daylights outta him. They’d a done more, but Mrs. Gregg come and we scattered.”

“What more were they going to do? Were they going to kill him?” Della asked sharply.

“No, ma’am. I don’t reckon. They was agoin’ ta . . . agoin’ ta . . . ah . . .”

“What were they going to do, for Christ sake!” Della’s patience was wearing thin. Besides, she had come out into the sun without a hat and could feel the heat on her face. She’d be sure to get a freckle or two out of this, but it would be worth it if she could find out anything more about the handsome brute who’d been constantly in her thoughts since she saw him in town. His black eyes had looked straight into hers. She had known exactly what he was thinking, what he wanted. . . .

“They was agoin’ ta, ya know, do what they do ta make a . . . gelding.”

“Cut his balls? Holy shit!” The words exploded from Della’s mouth. “If the sons of bitches had ruined him I’d have personally shoved a hot poker up their asses and reamed them out good! The stupid bastards!”

The change in her face was almost as shocking to Frank as her words. The sweet smile slid away an instant before her lips spat out the vulgar words. Her eyes glittered with a cold light and her nostrils flared.

Frank gaped. She reminded him of a small, deadly snake, coiled and ready to strike. He’d been brought up to believe ladies were something special to be protected and revered. He’d not heard the cheapest whore say the things this
lady
was saying. Disillusionment pressed down on him. He wanted to move on, to get his things and leave this ranch forever, but hesitated to put his heels to his horse because her hand on his leg had tightened.

“Why did you come back?” Della demanded curtly.

“Mr. Clayhill will tell ya. I come fer my tack.”

“Why? Did he fire you?”

“Yes.” Frank left off the “ma’am” deliberately. She didn’t seem to notice.

“What happened at the Spurlocks?”

“Nothin’. Miss Spurlock held us off with a gun. Yore pa backed down.”

Della hooted with laughter. “I bet he liked that! He’ll be fit to be tied by the time he gets home. Is he staying there with her?”

“Who . . . ma’am?”

“The Indian, you fool! Is he living at the Spurlocks?”

“I’m athinkin’ nobody’ll be livin’ there fer long. Yore pa give orders ta burn ’em out.” Frank’s young voice was tight and thin and disapproving, but Della was so taken up with her own thoughts she didn’t notice.

“Good! That’ll get rid of her!”

Frank looked at her cold face and wondered how he could ever have thought she was a lady, a real lady. He nudged his horse and headed the animal toward the bunkhouse.

Della’s hand slid absently from his thigh when the animal moved away. Her mind was utterly absorbed in thoughts that had nothing to do with the young cowhand. She had to find a way to reach the Indian. Why was Adam in such a goddamn hurry to get rid of him? What difference did a few weeks or a few months make to him? She was pleased with the way she’d been able to manipulate Adam. They’d had a good tumble in bed, and she had no doubt that within a few days or weeks she’d have him ready to do whatever she wanted. But holy shit, he was fifty years old! Once or twice and he was all through. Just thinking about lying with the half-breed, being impaled by his rigid maleness, caused an undulating heat inside her. She’d heard Indians were the best at the game of sex; all primed like a stud looking for mare in season. She was determined to find out for herself if it was true.

A short while later, his personal belongings and his bedroll tied behind his saddle, Frank left the ranch. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and anything that had to do with the Clayhills, and especially Della Clayhill, the old man’s stepdaughter.

*  *  *

When Case Malone left Rosalee and Logan after pointing out the entrance to the valley of the cliff dwellers, he took a different route back to the Spurlock ranch. The single track ran through thick stands of cedar and pine, and topped out on the plateau. He rode swiftly toward the Spurlock ranch, and as he came nearer, dropped down into the long, green valley, his approach masked by junipers.

Case’s face gentled when he thought of his reason for being so far from Texas and the likelihood he would make the Colorado Territory his home. “Mary.” Her name slipped un-noticed from his lips, and he gave himself up to his favorite pastime—daydreaming about her. Lovely, proud Mary. He was thirty-eight years old and he had loved her all his life. He had wanted her when she was fifteen, but had gone away to give her time to grow up. When he returned she was married to Tom Gregg. The crushing hurt had sent him on a two year spree, then to war. He came home to an empty life and had joined the Texas Rangers. When he heard she was widowed, he came looking for her to take her home.

Mary would never go back to Texas. He knew that now, but what the hell! Home was Mary. When he came to Junction City and found his love the madam of a whorehouse, he had been shocked. But he could see now how that could have happened. Mary had forever been the champion of the under-dog. In order to support herself, Mary had provided a place for the women to ply their trade. It had never entered Case’s mind that Mary was active in the business other than that it was her house and she set the rules. He had to smile when he thought of the courage it must have taken for Mary to undertake such a venture. Her upbringing had been so rigid he’d sometimes wondered if her mother was bucking for sainthood. He knew one thing for certain: he was going to marry that woman. He’d waited long enough while she dilly-dallied, thinking she was a scarlet woman and not good enough for him.

Drawing up at the crest of a low hill, Case scanned his back trail. He sat on his horse for a moment, studying the terrain before and behind him with a careful eye. It was growing late and the sun was already behind the mountain. The softness of the evening was settling over the valley, and the air was cooler.

He thought of the Indian, Logan Horn. He was a man. He had to be to buy up that land knowing what he had to face. Case took pride in the fact that he could take the measure of a man in a matter of minutes. It came from long practice; dealing with cowboys, drifters, and every type of man imaginable during the war. He had learned quickly which ones he could depend upon to stand beside him when the going got rough and which ones would turn tail and run. Horn would stand. He might die standing there, but he’d stand.