McCrory's Lady (30 page)

      
Wolf fought for control and regained it as he felt her hunger answer his own. He must make this good for her. His hands raised her hips, letting her get the feel of their bodies gliding against each other. When she quickly caught the rhythm he arched up, thrusting more deeply into her as she rode him wildly.

      
Her hair had come undone from its loose plait and now curtained them with sun-gilded splendor. Wolf tangled his fist in it and pulled her down for a long, searching kiss. When they finally ended the kiss, each gasping for breath in their ecstatic exertions, he slid his hands around her waist. Raising her up, he cupped her breasts and worshiped them with his hands.

      
Eden felt the raw, primitive pleasure course through her and knew at last what it meant to be well and truly loved. Before, she had merely been used. Lazlo had taken, giving nothing in return. But this, this loving with Wolf was glorious, beyond her wildest imaginings. Yet, she craved something...something unknown, unnamed, something more.

      
Wolf looked up at her pale, lithe beauty, moving with such graceful abandon, her porcelain skin flushed, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Then, he felt the first clenching tremor begin from deep inside her womb. He cried, “Open your eyes, Eden, love, look at me.”

      
Her eyes flew open in wonder as her release from the long-built-up wanting found its culmination. Wave after wave surged through her with every stroke of his body into hers. She stared down at him through passion-glazed eyes, entranced as she felt his shaft swell and his body convulse in wracking shudders. And she knew that he, too, felt this same incredible bliss.

      
Eden slumped over his chest, damp and exhausted—and utterly content. He held her, flexing his knees to cradle her against his thighs. “Eden, Eden, I knew it would be good between us, but I could never imagine this.” He kissed her throat, then took her face in his hands and kissed her lips. When he tasted the saltiness of tears on her cheeks, his body stiffened in alarm. “Eden, what is it? Have I hurt you?”

      
“No, of course not,” she said in a low choked voice as her hands feathered over his shoulders and her fingers dug into his thick inky hair. “You gave me pleasure I could never have imagined—with you, it was so beautiful...you should have been the first, Wolf. I wasted—”

      
He silenced her with a kiss, then held her tightly. “I was the first to make it the way it should be, wasn't I?” At her nod of acquiescence, he continued, “That's all that matters, my darling. You were used and cheated before, but that's all over now. No more tears, promise me?”

      
“What about tears of joy, Wolf? Are they permitted?” she asked with a catch in her voice.

      
“I suppose.” His own voice was none too steady at the moment, which he covered by kissing her eyelids and cheeks until all the tears were gone.

      
“We're overdue at the reservation. Dr. Torres will be worried,” Eden said at last, as reality intruded on their idyll.

      
“I still think it's too dangerous for you to be on White Mountain. Would your father let you go if he were home?”

      
She shrugged. “But he isn't—and you're with me. You're all the protection I'll ever need, Wolf.”

* * * *

Prescott

      
Leonard Potkin was six feet one inch tall, sallow skinned and full of himself. Smoothing blunt fingers over his thick head of wavy silver hair, he placed a natty bowler hat on it, straightened his brocade waistcoat over a thickening middle, and descended from the morning stage. After the ghastly trip from Santa Fe, he felt he looked remarkably presentable, certainly more than good enough for a backwater territorial capital like Prescott. But as the senior investigator for the Bureau of Indian Affairs' southwestern division, he did have a certain image to maintain. The smiling group of Western bumpkins dressed in starched shirts and buttoned suits must be the official welcoming committee. At least they were punctual. The stage crossing this godforsaken wilderness had not been.

      
“Gentlemen,” he nodded as a rather dapper-looking young man with dark hair and regular features offered his hand.

      
“Mr. Potkin, I'm Councilman Edward Stanley and these are my legislative colleagues, Councilman Brockton Styles, and Representative Reese Smithe.” Two older men shook his hand gravely. “And this is Mr. Clement Algren, owner of the
Arizona Miner
.”

      
Amenities were exchanged all around as the men escorted their guest toward a large open carriage waiting around the corner from the busy stage office. As they rode down the broad expanse of Montezuma Street, so typical of frontier towns with its rows of saloons and dance halls, Potkin ignored the rustic scenery and turned to business.

      
“I understand why Acting Governor Gosper could not be here, but frankly, gentlemen, I am surprised that Mr. McCrory isn't with your group. It was at his insistence, after all, that this arduous investigation was undertaken,” Potkin said, noting the sour looks on Algren's and Styles' faces.

      
“McCrory's an Injun-lovin' troublemaker,” Representative Smithe pronounced in his crude local twang.

      
“Now, Reese, we can't be disparaging one of the territory's leading businessmen,” Stanley interjected smoothly. “Mr. McCrory will present his case at the banquet in your honor this evening, Mr. Potkin. The acting governor will be in attendance as well.”

      
“Case, indeed,” Algren harrumphed. “McCrory wants to coddle these savages. I've been out to that reservation and I can tell you, Mr. Potkin, they live just like animals.”

      
“McCrory has brought some very serious charges of malfeasance against the White Mountain agent, Caleb Lamp,” Potkin said evenly, surprised at the vehemence of Smithe and Algren. Then, the stentorian voice of Councilman Styles interrupted.

      
“Lamp is indeed a political embarrassment, a greedy little man whom President Hayes should have quietly replaced.”

      
“But first a worthy candidate for the position must be chosen,” Potkin replied with pompous solemnity, casting his eyes from man to man.

      
“I'm certain there are any number of men who would be qualified,” Edward Stanley said cautiously. “Your Mr. McCrory wants the job. Indeed, he made no bones about it in his charges against Agent Lamp,” Potkin said, testing the waters, growing increasingly certain of what the majority of the capital felt.

      
“McCrory would be suicide for the territory,” Representative Smithe yelped. “Damn fool would give them heathens their head until they murdered us all in our beds.”

      
“Colin McCrory does let them wander onto his land and slaughter his cattle at their whim,” Councilman Styles added slyly.

      
“Really?” Potkin stroked his pointed chin speculatively.

      
“Actually, Mr. McCrory has a sort of arrangement with the Apache leaders to let them take cows for food during times when rations are short at the reservation,” Stanley interjected.

      
“It's caving into the demands of criminal bullies, that's what it is, and if Colin McCrory is put in charge of White Mountain, soon we'll have a full-scale uprising on our hands. Apaches will raid from here to the border, unchecked,” Styles pronounced.

      
“Still, Secretary of the Interior Schurz considers him an important personage. McCrory is one of the wealthiest men in Arizona Territory—and politically, he is reform minded and unaligned, qualities President Hayes and his secretary both admire.” Seeing Councilman Styles stiffen with affront, Potkin oiled the waters with practiced skill. “But, of course, the administration would never appoint an Indian agent without consulting the territorial authorities. It would seem there is a local consensus against McCrory.”

      
“Few men in Arizona have cause to love Apaches, I fear,” Stanley said with regret in his voice.

      
“You are going to hear out McCrory, then?” Algren asked, his pudgy hands obviously itching for note pad and pencil.

      
“Of course, gentlemen. Isn't that what an investigator is supposed to do? Colin McCrory has won some influential friends in Washington, where I'm afraid they aren't touched so directly by Indian—er—difficulties. But we shall see, we shall certainly see.” Potkin preened for the rustic politicians.
Frontier oafs.

      
Inside their carriage, another passenger's thoughts were every bit as disdainful and calculating as Leonard Potkin's.
If Win can't kill McCrory, I'll have to discredit him before this pompous ass makes his recommendation.

* * * *

      
“I bet that miserable little weasel Stanley won't dare face us after the despicable way he treated Eden,” Maggie said as they alighted from their carriage in front of the Alarcon Restaurant.

      
“Oh, he'll be there,” Colin replied grimly. “This is politics, after all, and he wants to be the next governor.” His voice was tight and dangerous.

      
Maggie looked at his set, angry face and felt the apprehension that had been building all afternoon blossom. “Colin,” she said, placing her hand on his arm, “don't do anything rash. He's not worth it. He'll be there hanging on his mother's arm, using her for moral support. She's the one who really wants to be governor.”

      
He laughed grimly at that. “That old harridan's crossed swords with you, too.”
As if Mariah wasn't enough.
Sighing, he added, “I know this is a very important meeting if I'm going to get the agent's job away from Lamp. I won't do anything stupid.”

      
He turned his attention to inspecting his wife in the soft twilight. Colin was continually amazed at her ladylike air, at the inborn elegance of her bearing. She was dressed in a rust brown silk gown, a dark, shimmering hue few women could carry off; but with her glowing complexion and rich auburn hair, it was electric, a signature color. The clear blue of her eyes matched the evening sky, and the russet tint of her hair was highlighted in a sleek bouffant pompadour with a chignon holding the thick tresses in place at the crown of her head. A few wispy tendrils escaped at her ears and nape, softening her strong, arresting face.

      
Maggie was uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny, never certain if he was pleased by her handsome looks or angry because of his reaction to them. She returned his perusal for the sheer perversity of it. In a black homespun suit with a dark wine brocade waistcoat, Colin looked every inch the prosperous Western businessman. He wore dress boots as did most Arizona stockmen, and he carried a gun, albeit well hidden beneath the immaculate tailoring of his jacket. He was so tall and splendidly handsome she felt the urge to reach up and caress his cleanly shaven jaw line with wifely possessiveness. But the coolly assessing look in those restless whiskey eyes held her impulse in check.

      
“I'll be a gracious lady for Stanley and all his cronies and be especially charming to Mr. Potkin,” she said.

      
He tipped his fingers to the wide brim of his flat crowned hat and nodded. “I'm sure you'll act the perfect lady.”

      
Had he emphasized the word act or was she merely hearing the echoes of her own insecurity in his voice? Before she could think about it any further, they were ushered into the dining room. A small crowd conversed quietly, the men in dark suits and their ladies bedecked in the finest fashions from San Francisco and New Orleans. The women clustered around Sophie Stanley, except for a couple of brave legislators' wives who joined in with the men who surrounded their guest of honor, Leonard Potkin.

      
Colin swore beneath his breath as he swept the room and fastened on Potkin, with Win Barker at his side. “When the hell did he get here? Must've burned up the road from Tucson.”

      
“How did he know the special investigator was arriving today?” Maggie asked.

      
Remembering Ed Phibbs' eavesdropping on Barker's conversation with some unknown legislator, Colin knew the answer. “Someone here wired him well in advance.”

      
Maggie's eyes narrowed on the assembly and swept from face to face, then collided with the spiteful glare of Sophie Stanley. The haughty ice queen imperiously looked away as if dismissing Maggie McCrory as no one of significance. “Are we to sit with Mr. Potkin at dinner?” Maggie asked as they made their way into the special investigator's presence.

      
“Charm him enough and we will,” Colin whispered beneath his breath just before he made introductions between his new wife and Win Barker, Councilman Styles and Representative Smithe.

      
Before he could say anything to Edward Stanley, who was discreetly standing with Leonard Potkin's considerable bulk as a shield, Maggie smiled graciously and said, “Of course, Councilman Stanley and I have already met.” Her eyes held his for a pregnant instant that spoke volumes, then she quickly turned a blinding smile on the Washington visitor. “But I've never had the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir.” She extended her hand like Queen Victoria at a royal reception.

      
Leonard Potkin was dazzled as he bowed and saluted her delicate fingers. What a superbly beautiful wife McCrory had—dressed as elegantly as any of the cabinet officers' wives in Washington. And such an air about her. “I am honored, Mrs. McCrory. Special Investigator Leonard Potkin from the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Washington, at your service.”