Mail-Order Man (21 page)

 

 

A good washing was what he needed.

Arriving at the Nickel Dime headquarters in the midnight hour, Brax waved good-night to Geoff and the grizzled ranch hand; they headed for the bunkhouse. Damn, Brax felt good. Geoff wouldn't be leaving. He would stay.

While it was tempting to make a beeline for his wife, he wouldn't go to her smelling like cows and three nights on the road. He headed for the well to draw a big bucket of water.

That he lugged into the cookhouse; he didn't bother with a lantern. He built a fire in the stove, setting the bucket atop it. The heavy table shoved aside, he dragged the hip bath into the middle of the dirt floor. A good washing and some dental sprucing up, and sure as shootin', he'd be ready to hike into the house and pull his beautiful wife into his hungry embrace.

Using baking soda on his teeth, then a mouthwash of whiskey, he took care of half the problem. Settled as a tall man could get with his legs drawn up to his chin, he savored the warm water and the joys of a cake of soap. All the while he went through his ablutions, he kept an ear peeled. Surely Skylla knew he'd gotten home. Would she visit? This cookhouse seemed the best spot for a reunion, since the main house would be cluttered with big-eared women with no men to call their own.

“Braxton?”

His wife.

He smiled toward the door she opened, his smile widening when he got a gander at her. He let himself drink in her womanly curves and the luxurious fall of her hair. He liked it down. But his smile faded when he got a good long look at her outfit. She wore britches and a shirt. Shoot, he'd hoped for her naked, and would have settled for a nightgown and wrapper. Fully dressed said something's up and it ain't good.

“Hello, Braxton.”

Upset but doing her best to control it, Skylla refused to gaze at her husband's naked shoulders and knees, evident in the hip bath. She centered on his face. Was that a wise choice? His eyes, so alluring in the dim light, so intense with obvious desire, aroused her passion.

His lips beckoned. “I've missed you,” he said in a voice hoarse with longing. He lifted his arms in invitation.

“We've got trouble,” she announced.

His elbows settled on the rim of the tub. “I was hoping for good news.”

“There's been some of that.” She told him about Titus's cowboys returning, then sat down on a chair and spoke of her problem. “Kathy Ann is in love.”

“Let me guess the lucky fellow. Stalking Wolf.”

“Yes.”

Braxton ran a hand down his face. “Has he shown up?”

“No. He sent messengers. With a gift.”

“It sounds serious.”

Skylla could have bopped him on the head. “I'd like to know why you aren't upset.”

“Stalking Wolf is a good man. And you and I both know he has more than a passing interest in Piglet.”

“I don't want her taking up with a dirty, thieving savage. Besides, she's just a child, fifteen or no fifteen!”

“It's not your decision to make. She'll do what she wants, and no one will be able to stop her.”

“You can be blase. She's not your sister.”

“That's a low blow. I've done my best for that girl.”

Skylla lowered her gaze. He had. He'd done his best for everyone and everything connected to the ranch. Claudine, forever crying wolf, had been nothing but mean-minded.
But what about the “fake” topaz? What about his helping himself to the treasure trove?
It would be petty to mention those things.

“By your silence, I take it you don't think I've done right by Kathy Ann.”

“You have been good to her. Moreover, you're right. She'll do her own choosing. After the unhappiness of my sister's younger years, I ought to be pleased at their love match. But life with the chief of a nomadic and savage people? No!”

“What does Claudine have to say about the girl?”

“This brings up another problem. Claudine got married this afternoon. To Webb Albright.”

“There is a God.”

“I wouldn't get too tickled if I were you.” Skylla launched into the whole story, including the awful truth about Winslow Packard. “I think there's going to be trouble.”

“Let it rip. I'm not scared.” Before she could open her mouth, he murmured, “I've missed you. Missed you like crazy.”

“I've missed you, too.”

“This water's getting cold. Mind if I get out? Would you mind drying my back?”

She knew what that would lead to, and though she wanted it as much as Braxton did, she admitted, “I have a headache.”

He exhaled in exasperation. “Skylla, we've been married less than a week. We made pretty good love, more than once. And we made pretty good partners, dealing with Stalking Wolf. Those things ought to count for something.” Impatience filtered into his expression. “Is this the way it's going to be with us? You let your family give you a headache, then you don't want to make love with your new husband.”

“They didn't give me a headache. You did. All along I've tried to have faith in you, but all along I get clues that you're not to be trusted.” She inhaled. “I want to know something. How old are you?”

His answer was slow, hesitant. “Thirty-one.”

“You claimed to be twenty-nine.”

“I did.”

“Did Joanie Johnson's father buy your mother a piano?”

“He did not. I worked eighteen hours a day at Woody's to buy that piano. Who put such a notion in your head, anyway? Don't bother answering. Claudine did it.”

While Skylla felt relief over the piano, she would have
all
her questions answered. Her eyes closed. “Braxton, the topaz you traded to Stalking Wolf. It was all glass. Fakes.”

“Not true. Not true at all.”

A giant whoosh of water accompanied Braxton's departure from the bath. She heard him making the motions of drying off with a towel he must have gotten from the cupboard. Even before he put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him, she felt his imminent touch.

She meant to look into his face and demand a better explanation about the topaz. It was then that she noticed the deep-purple bruise on his shoulder. How it must hurt! It hurt her just to recall that Indian brave battering Braxton with a club.

“It's not painful, if that's what you're thinking,” he said, reading her mind.

“Skylla, about those gemstones . . .” He bent at the knees to sit on his heels. The towel broke loose as he shifted, the material pooling at his privates. “I can't imagine Titus burying
glass.
There'd be no reason for it.”

Heartened by the rank honesty in her husband's face, Skylla exhaled in relief. The guileless look in his eyes gave her further comfort. She placed her hand over his. “Thank goodness for you. I—I . . . well, I'll admit I've had awful thoughts. Please forgive me for doubting you.”

“Let's don't start that forgiving business.”

She stood, invitation in her tone as she said, “It's late. We should turn in.”

“Best offer I've heard lately.” He, too, got to his feet. One hand holding the towel in front of his manly equipment, he appended in a voice heavy with ardor, “The best offer . . . ever.”

The moment he took her fingers with his free hand, a clap of thunder rent the air. Lightning pulsed, casting the cookhouse in a gray light, and rain beat a tattoo on the tin roof. Immediately, the clean crisp scent of nature washing the earth mingled with the nice scent of a freshly washed husband.

“Autumn rain,” he said quietly. “Overdue. But welcome, wouldn't you say?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Should we make a dash for it?”

“We'll catch our deaths if we do.”

“That's what I was thinking.” He lifted his hand to trace his fingers along Skylla's cheek. “We wouldn't want to catch our deaths, would we?”

She shook her head, smiling up at him and luxuriating in the tingles that his touch elicited. “It would be wise if we waited out the storm here.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Do you like rain?” she asked, realizing how little she knew of his likes and dislikes.

“Yeah, I like it. Especially when it's just you and me and the rain beating on the roof. What do you say about us making a pallet on the table. . . ? We could sit on it. And watch the rain through the windows.”

“I'll grab a tablecloth out of the drawer.” As soon as she finished spreading it across the oaken table, she felt the tickle of his breath on her neck. She shivered. Deliciously.

“Skylla . . . I want to do more than watch the rain.”

“I know.”

The towel slipped when he wound both arms around her. Her fingers climbed to curl into his hair. Feeling his growing erection, she pressed against it.

“I want a kiss,” he murmured.

Her lips parted as he angled his mouth to hers. For a splendid moment he explored her lips, drawing forth shivers along with a moan of desire. Then his tongue dipped between her teeth to explore the core of her mouth. He tasted of whiskey, not a bad taste. Her hands moved to the sides of his face, and she held him as he now held her. The need for more than a kiss roared through her, like the thunder outdoors.

When he ended the kiss, he nipped her bottom lip with his teeth. “We're not doing a very good job of watching the rain,” he said silkily. “And I think you'd get more out of that if we got you out of these clothes.”

“Such wisdom. Such good advice.”

Without so much as a fumble, he unbuttoned her shirt and slipped his hand inside her camisole. The calluses on his fingertips gently abraded her breast and its now-puckered tip. As he slipped the shirt off her shoulders, his lips enticingly touched the dip of her throat, then trailed provocative kisses to her shoulder and down her arm.

After untying the camisole and slipping it over her head, he reverently folded her shirt and undergarment. With lightning illuminating the kitchen, he laid her things on the chair. She gazed with appreciative eyes on the play of his back and arms as he moved. It became a yearning, the need to run her hands along those bunched muscles.

Not another moment passed before she got her chance, and he felt so wonderful, so strong, so . . . capable. Eagerly, her hands swept over the hard lines of his hips, and she chuckled with pleasure upon scooting her fingertips to the satiny yet unbelievably rigid part of him.

In a voice barely detectable under the staccato beat of the rain, he said, “Skylla . . . oh, sweet baby, see what you've done to me.”

Without modesty, she looked at him . . . there. “You're beautiful,” she stated without hesitation. “Truly beautiful.”

He chuckled. “You're too kind, sweetheart. I'd say it's more along the lines of it's-so-ugly-it's-cute.”

“You are mistaken. Only true beauty could rouse such a heat in my private parts.”

This drew a peal of laughter. “You, my wanton little wife, are quite a woman. Quite a woman. And I'm getting more impatient by the moment to . . . watch the rain.”

His nimble fingers worked the buttons of her britches, then slid them and her drawers down her legs. She felt as if she were ablaze, so heated was her blood. Would she be transmuted into an inferno of passion? Oh, yes. She did believe so.

“I don't think I want simply to watch the rain,” she whispered, gazing up into his marvelous eyes.

“What do you want?”

“You.”

With that he lifted her onto the table. Letting her legs dangle freely, he spread her thighs, stepping between them. His thumbs at her armpits and his hands spreading to support her ribs, he began to finish what they had started. He cherished her breasts, her belly, her navel—each with hot and ardent lips. When the fingers of one of his hands covered her naked mound, she whimpered. That whimper turned to a gasp at the same moment he delved into the cleft of her womanly place.

“You feel so good,” he uttered. “Perfect.”

“In the vein of it's-so-ugly-it's-pretty?”

Gently, he nipped the tip of her nose with his teeth. “You would have made a good strumpet in some bawdy alehouse of old, my love.”

Feeling saucy as a wench and paraphrasing Shakespeare, she winked at her adored husband. “Milord, you make much ado about nothing.”

“I'll teach you to call me a liar!”

His finger found her most sensitive nub, and he knew exactly how to exact passion. The ability to stay upright departed her, and she fell back on the table, bracing herself on her elbows. She looked down at him; he was smiling a wicked smile. She started to lean forward . . . but there was no doing anything beyond giving in to her wondrous feelings, for he had lowered his mouth to that place where his fingertip had been. His tongue made a slow and masterful foray. Never too rough, never too gentle, always with a proficiency not to be improved upon, he laved her. Was there no end to the wonders of him?

Suddenly, flashes of heat singed her every pore, her every cell, her every vein. And like a burning leaf as it curled in a fire, her muscles drew inward. “Stop! For God's sake, Braxton, stop! I can't take it!”

He stopped.

Yet she hated herself for asking.

That emotion lasted a fraction of a second. His long and thick erection slid into her wet portal. She moaned. And then he had her in his arms, her behind leaving the table.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he commanded in a hoarse voice. “Put your arms around my neck.”

She did as bade.

His strong legs planted to the earthen floor, he pushed deeper into her, and lifted her from the table. She gasped at her response. Her nails dug into his back, her teeth into his shoulder. Was there anything better than making love to him?

“Am I too rough for you, my precious wife?”

“Not in the least.”

Unconvinced, he added, “I can make love to you gently. Or I can give you the wildness of my loving. Which will you have, wife?”

“I-I'm not sure.”

“Know your power. Use it. Tell me what you want.”

They went still, still as a calm night. This wasn't a clement night. She didn't want tranquil. Her half-lidded eyes blazed a trail to his fixed gaze. “Hold nothing back, husband.”

He didn't.

Her moans of ecstasy, not one but several, filled the cookhouse. He rubbed raw her ability to make sense of anything. Yet there was a certain clarity to her feelings. Her mouth rushed to his shoulder again as he pumped wildly into her, and she couldn't help but nip at his skin.

He yelped. He yelped at the same moment that his primal groan drowned the beat of the rain. The pulse of his release shot into her—she felt it in his every action. A calm, a celestial calm, settled through her. She knew, as women have known throughout the ages, that she and her husband were forever cleaved, the one unto the other.

He went still. Too still? She had hurt him.

“I . . . I'm sorry. Oh, Braxton, my darling, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. This is the shoulder the Indians attacked, isn't it?”

Holding her tight, he let his lips hover over hers. “I'm man enough to take it.”

 

 

“Is there anything to eat around here?”