Here With Me (25 page)

He felt too warm, like he couldn’t breathe.
There was noise all around him but he wasn’t part of it. He danced
with Hannah. Only Hannah.

“George?” Melody said. She stood next to him,
her violet eyes filled with concern. “What’s wrong?”

He opened his mouth but it felt like his
throat had closed. He could feel fresh sweat on the back of his
neck. “I’m sorry,” he managed.

“It’s all right,” she rushed to assure him.
“Whatever it is, it’s all right. I’ll make our excuses to
Grandmother,” she said. She turned quickly and walked away.

He barely caught up with her by the time
she’d reached the piano room. “Wait,” he said. He extended his hand
to her. “I. . .” He stopped. There was nothing he could explain,
nothing that would not leave her with doubts and concerns and more
questions than he could ever answer. The past was better left in
the past. “We shouldn’t disappoint your grandmother. May I. . .have
this dance?” he asked.

She hesitated and then suddenly she was in
his arms and they were dancing. She smelled sweet and fragrant,
like a new rose, and her skin was warm and very soft. And with each
calming breath that he took, the room slowly came back into focus.
Pearl had dimmed the lights and the woman who’d been playing the
harp had moved to the piano. The double doors leading to the back
porch had been opened and he felt the cool night breeze.

The others had taken their places at the edge
of the room, watching, offering smiles and gentle nods of approval.
He and Melody were the center of attention but he felt strangely
detached from all of it. It was as if they were alone, separate
from the rest of the world.

It was just her. And him. And while he knew
it was weak of him, he gave into the need to hold her. He pulled
her close enough that she was pressed up against him and the top of
her head just brushed the underside of his jaw.

They danced that song and another and at some
point, he wasn’t sure when, others left their spots next to the
wall, took the hands of their partners, and joined them. The room
was full of people dancing. Bernard and Rebecca, the Tripperts,
even Bessie had shed her apron and was enjoying the company of a
man.

He knew that for a man who had sworn off
touching, he was doing a poor job of keeping his promises. And as
he might have predicted, his body was beginning to ache with what
was becoming a most common response. He shifted, hoping to hide his
need. He knew the decent thing to do would be pull away, but having
Melody in his arms felt too good, too right.

Melody’s slight stumble and the tap on his
back came almost simultaneously. It was Bernard, with Rebecca on
his arm. “It’s time for my dance with the groom,” she said.

Oh, Christ. He couldn’t dance with someone
else. “I. . .uh. . .I can’t—”

“He can’t because I’m getting a little tired
and he’s going to walk me to our room,” Melody said, smiling
sweetly at Rebecca. She had her fingernails pressed hard into the
palm of his hand. Heat flooded his face. She knew exactly how the
dancing had affected him.

“Bernard,” she said, “would you be a dear and
let Grandmother know. Tell her I’m fine, just a little tired.”

Bernard nodded, evidently relieved not to
have to let Rebecca free to dance with another man. Melody pulled
on his arm and before he knew it they were at the staircase, up the
stairs, and behind closed doors in their bedroom. She sat on the
bed and he leaned his body against the solid wood door.

“Thank you,” he said. There was, after all,
no sense ignoring what had just happened. He’d been poking into her
and there was no excusing that away.

“My pleasure,” she said. She didn’t sound
angry. She got up off the bed and walked with purpose toward
him.

“Don’t,” he begged, shaking his head.

She didn’t listen. She got close and then
leaned forward and gently kissed his lips. He willed his body to
stay still, to endure but the collar of his shirt felt too tight
around his neck and when he tried to swallow, it was like his
throat had forgotten how. She ran her tongue across his lips and he
curled his hands into a fist. She suckled on the very edge of his
bottom lip. It was a light touch, barely there, and yet it seemed
to pull on his body, to where he thought he might just break
through his own skin.

“Melody,” he said. She had to stop.

“Open your mouth, George,” she whispered.

And like a greedy fool, he did. And then her
tongue was inside. He felt the pull all the way to his wanting
cock.

He gripped her arms, near her shoulders, and
gently set her away from him. “You’re dangerous,” he said.

She smiled and undid the top button of his
shirt. Then the second and third.

He knew he had to stop her now. But the need
and the want of her were too powerful, too much for him to
deny.

When all the buttons were undone, she pulled
his shirt open and off his shoulders. He pulled his arms out and
let the fine garment drop to the floor. His naked skin felt hot,
then cold, and when she bent her head and took his flat nipple in
her mouth, it was pleasure and pain and he knew that he’d passed a
point of reason.

“I want to—” he stopped. Oh, Christ, her hand
was pressed against his cock. He moved his hips forward, straining
against her. Her head jerked up and he knew at that moment, she’d
realized he was a lost man.

He wrapped one hand in her hair and kissed
her with untamed urgency. They consumed each other with lips and
tongue and heat.

“I want to lay with you,” he said, his breath
coming in spurts.

“Yes, yes. Now,” she begged and he knew that
she was as far gone as he.

He shifted his arms and lifted her up. She
let her head drop back and pieces of her hair, long since pulled
from her fancy clip, hung over his arm. She was wantonly needy and
the urge to service her, to make her his own, to have her cling to
him in madness, made his blood hot.

He wanted to howl at the moon.

He wanted to possess her.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised. He would hold
back, no matter what it cost him. “We’ll take it slow,” he said,
depositing her gently on the bed.

She smiled, shook her head, and reached for
his belt buckle.

“Have mercy, Melody,” he begged. Christ, he
was seeing stars.

And they were exploding in his head and—

Jesus. It wasn’t the stars exploding,
somebody was pounding like hell on the door.

“George, its Arturo. Open the door. I need
your help.”

Melody yanked her hand away and he staggered
back, practically falling on his ass. What the hell? He looked at
Melody but she was busy pulling down her dress.

He whipped the door open and one look at the
man told him that something was very, very wrong.

“What happened?”

“The woman who Pedro spent last night with,
she is married. He swears he didn’t know.” Arturo was speaking
fast, using his hands. “I believe him. After the fight with Rafael,
he told me that he would not have been with her if he’d known about
her and Rafael. I know he would never take another man’s wife.”

This had trouble written all over it. “The
husband knows?”

“Sí. He has called Pedro out.”

“Called him out?” George repeated.

“Challenged him. They’re to meet at the
quarry. Pedro’s got some crazy idea that he loves this woman, even
after all this, so he’s already on his way.”

He heard Melody moving behind him. She
grabbed his arm. “It’s a rock quarry, about five miles straight
east. Arturo, did he go by car?”

“Yes.”

She looked at George. “You can get there much
faster by horse.”

He looked at Arturo. “Can you ride?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll call the police,” Melody said.

Arturo shook his head violently. “No. Her
husband is white, a businessman in town.” He turned to George.
“It’ll be his word against Pedro’s. You have to know I took a
chance coming to you.”

George wished like hell he had his gun. But
none of that could be helped. He turned to Melody and put his hand
on her arm. “Wait. If your police need to be called, then I’ll do
it. But let us go now.”

She kissed him. A hard, bruising smack on the
lips. “Be careful,” she hissed. “If you do something stupid, I
swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.”

George grabbed his shirt off the floor and
buttoned it as Arturo led him down a set of backstairs George
hadn’t even known were there. Then they ran across the yard,
saddled the horses quickly, and rode east.

It reminded him of how he’d ridden with John
Beckett and Fred Goodie. Only that night, he’d been hell-bent to
kill a man and now he was hoping like hell he wasn’t too late to
stop one man from killing another.

Arturo’s horse was no match for Brontë but he
handled it well and it didn’t slow them much. George understood why
Melody had said it would be easier on a horse. The ground was rocky
and rough with weeds so tall they brushed against his boots.

The sky was dark with only a few stars and
the air was sticky and heavy. Both horses and men were breathing
hard by the time they got close to the quarry and it didn’t help
their hearts any when the ringing echo of a gunshot split the quiet
night.

The son-of-a-bitch was shooting at them.

In one smooth motion, George slid from the
saddle and took cover behind a big rock. Arturo dropped in beside
him. “George, where the hell did that come from?” he whispered.

“A hundred yards up, at the edge of that
stand of trees.” George shifted, just far enough that he could see
around the edge of the rock. The shooter had taken cover. But
George had gotten a good enough look to know it wasn’t Pedro.

“Mister,” George called out. “We mean you no
harm. Put your gun down.”

Silence. Finally, there was a stirring from
the trees. “Who the hell are you?” the man asked.

“I’m George Tyler,” George answered
automatically, then cursed himself when he realized that he’d used
his own name. He didn’t look at Arturo, could only hope that the
man hadn’t noticed.

“This isn’t any of your business,” the man
said.

“Well,” George said, “if you’re gunning for a
man who works at Pearl Song’s ranch, then I think I might have to
debate that. I would, however, prefer not to do it over a rifle
barrel.”

There was no response. George closed his eyes
and listened. The man was moving, circling around to George’s
left.

Damn. Why wasn’t this ever easy?
George motioned for Arturo to stay behind the rock and he moved,
melting into the trees behind him.

George waited and listened, judging the man’s
progress. He heard the snap of a twig, just close enough, and he
rushed him. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs and the
man’s rifle flew. It was no contest. Within seconds the man was
flat on his stomach, his face in the dirt, with George’s booted
foot resting solidly in the middle of his back.

There was just enough light that George saw
Arturo scramble and pick up the man’s gun. He offered it to George
but George waived it away. They needed to settle this without
anybody taking any shots.

“Calm down,” George said to the man.

“You son of a bitch,” the man said.

George lifted his foot, bent down, grabbed
the man’s coat, and flipped him over to his back. Then he planted
his foot once again, inches away from the man’s throat. “My
patience is wearing thin, mister. First you shoot at me and now
you’re swearing at me. You need to understand something. I’m not
going to let you hurt one of my men.”

“Bastard slept with my wife.”

George nodded. “And that was wrong. But he
says he didn’t know.”

The man squirmed under George’s foot. “He’s
lying.”

George did not want to have to tell this man
that Pedro wasn’t the only man his wife had been entertaining while
she should have been working. That was not the kind of news a man
told to a stranger, even when that stranger had been shooting at
you. “Is that what your wife told you?” George asked carefully.

“She. . .she. . .” The man shut his eyes, his
body tensed under George’s foot, and he dug his fingers into the
hard dirt under his body. A minute passed before the man’s body
relaxed, almost seeming to sag into the ground.

“Damn her,” the man said, all trace of fight
gone from his voice. “Damn her to hell. She says she leaving me.
That she loves him.”

George heard the sound of a car off to his
left and he motioned for Arturo to go intercept whoever was
arriving. Then he lifted his foot and stepped back. “Killing my man
won’t make her stay,” he said. “It will only make more trouble for
you.”

The man rubbed his hand across his face. “Do
you think I don’t know that?” he said, his voice heavy with pain.
“I should have known it would never work with her. We’re too
different.”

Sort of like him and Melody. Couldn’t be more
different. They hadn’t even been born in the same century. Just
what the hell had he been thinking when he’d stuck his tongue in
her mouth and his hand up her dress?

The man on the ground shifted. “What are you
going to do about this?” he asked.

George figured he ought to get down on the
ground and kiss the man’s feet. If Arturo hadn’t knocked on the
door, he’d have bedded Melody. That would have been a terrible
mistake.

“Depends,” George said. “What—” he stopped
when he once again heard the sound of a car engine. Perhaps Arturo
had convinced Pedro to leave altogether rather than just stopping
him from coming further. “What do
you
want to do?”

The man looked surprised. “What I want to do
is go home. She’s already cleared her stuff out.”

“Then what?” George asked.

The man thought for a minute. “I don’t think
I have much choice,” he said, sounding resigned. “I guess I’ll go
about my life and pretend that everything’s fine.”