Tender Touch (28 page)

With soap from his saddlebag, he lathered her entire body, lingering at her breasts and the juncture of her legs until she moaned and squirmed against him. Then, his lips quirked up in a smile, he dunked her.

She came up spluttering, but laughing as well.

Happy to take her turn, she lathered her hands and smeared him with white suds. The hairs on his chest sprang back up after her hand passed over them, each rimmed with white like hoarfrost. She turned him around and soaped his back, glorying in the firm ridges of muscles and the texture of his skin, rough compared to her own. As her hand dipped below his waist, she noticed how his skin smoothed out where his buttocks began. A sudden fit of shyness took her and she stopped. He turned to face her. Without meaning to, she let her gaze drop and her face grew red. He was fully aroused.

“Aren’t you going to finish?” he said, grinning.

The words were a dare. She pushed aside the ghost of her old familiar fear. Firming her chin, she took the soap and lathered her hands again.

Col watched her conquer her shyness and fear. Her touch when it came was all the more incredible, knowing what it cost her. She dabbed a dollop of suds in his navel, smiled up at him, then blew it away. Her warm breath on his wet skin made him tremble. When her hand moved below the water and found him, he groaned. She reached between his legs, cupping him gently, washing, caressing, exploring, until he thought he would have to order her to stop. Then she moved on, crouching with only her head above water as she washed his hairy legs.

Slowly she worked her way back up and found, to her surprise, that she no longer wanted to skip over that part of him that made her truly his, that bound them together. Sex with him was not the ugly, painful, degrading act she had been forced to submit to with Barret.

Touching Col, joining with him was right and beautiful. It made her feel beautiful, loved, cherished. She wanted to make him feel that way too.

So she stood, took him in her hand and tested the varying textures, the firmness, the pulsing throb, and marveled that she could bring that look of tortured bliss to his face.

Col groaned and pulled from her grasp. He was on fire, his patience gone. He dunked himself to rinse away the soap.

When he came back up, he crushed her to him and took her lips in a savage kiss. Then he gentled it, feathering his mouth over hers. She responded with a whisper of her lips on his. Growling with pleasure at her response, he deepened the kiss. She mimicked his every move.

If he devoured, she consumed.

If his tongue dipped into her mouth, to taste, to tempt, to tantalize, hers tiptoed to dance coyly with his.

If he suckled her lower lip, she suckled his upper one. If he nipped, she nibbled.

Finally he tore his mouth from hers and moved to her breasts. Each nipple in turn he laved and sucked while she tangled her fingers in his wet hair and moaned. He couldn’t get enough of her. His hands travelled every curve, every plane, every hollow and dip. And his lips followed, down lower and lower, until the water blocked his way.

Cupping her buttocks with his hands, he lifted her, and slowly eased her back down until his hardness found the soft heated portal he sought. Before his lips claimed hers, he saw her shock turn to purring contentment as her body closed tightly around him, sheathing him in hot ecstasy.

He took her like that, in a ride more wild than she’d ever imagined. To a height she could not believe.

When it was over, he bathed her again. Then he carried her from the water and laid her on the grass. With the sun warming and drying them, they curled up together and dozed the morning away.

Brianna was the last to awaken. She opened her eyes to find Col braced on one elbow, peering down at her and smiling crookedly. She stretched and smiled back.

“I wish we didn’t have to go back,” she said. “I wish we could stay here forever and forget all about. ..” Her voice trailed off and he knew it was her husband’s name she hadn’t been able to say.

He leaned down to kiss her. “We don’t have to go back yet.”

His mouth moved to her breast, his hand to her thigh. The next hour he spent fulfilling a dream that had pestered him for weeks. He kissed every inch of her. When he moved between her legs, she tried to pull him away. A shaft of blistering heat dissolved her objections as his tongue found her. Lost in rapture, Brianna closed her eyes and surrendered to the warm seduction of the sun’s fiery rays.

Chapter Twenty-five

The afternoon was gone by the time Col and Brianna rejoined the wagon train. The sun had barely begun to rouge the western skyline. Grabbing Brianna’s reins a few hundred yards from the wagons, he brought them both to a halt.

“Gonna leave you here,” he said.

“Why? Where are you going?”

“I want you to go back to the train. I’ll be back sometime before morning.”

Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “You’re going after Barret, aren’t you?”

When he didn’t answer she urged her horse closer so she could take hold of his arm. “Please, Col, if he’s as far back as you said he is, there’s no need. You’ll only be putting yourself in danger for nothing.”

His eyes softened as he gazed at her. His mouth quirked. “Sure enjoy you fretting over me, instead of being mad at me.”

“If you go, I’ll be furious with you.”

He grinned and ran a finger over her succulent lower lip. “Yeah, but I think I know how to soften you up now.”

From a rise a few hundred yards farther up the trail, Edward Magrudge smirked as he watched the touching farewell. No doubt they’d snuck off somewhere to roll in the grass together. Huh! Punch Moulton had told him the truth. Columbus Nigh and Brianna Villard were not brother and sister. The high-toned “widow” who thought she was too good for Edward Magrudge had been rutting like any other whore with a filthy squawman.

She would pay for that.

And soon, the wagon master thought, pleased to see Col ride off toward Fort Laramie. Thanks to Punch, Magrudge knew where the mountain man was likely headed. More importantly, he knew it meant Brianna would be sleeping alone and unprotected tonight.

At least she would be until Magrudge joined her.

His body stiffened and began to throb with need at the thought. He rubbed the growing bulge in his crotch and whispered, “Soon, old friend, real soon.”

One by one the lanterns winked out. The wagons grew dark and silence fell, except for the roar of the creek, the “Whoo! Whoo!” of an owl, and a coyote yipping in the hills somewhere.

The road had taken the train away from the North Platte. Ever since Fort Laramie, high rocky cliffs and broken ground had hidden the North Platte from view. Tonight they’d found a fine camp on Horseshoe Creek, with good wood, clean water, and the best grass in weeks. Making fifteen miles was nothing to crow about, but Brianna reminded herself that they’d had worse days. Tomorrow they’d try for LaPrele Creek. She punched her pillow and lay back down, too worried about Col to sleep.

Patch curled up beside her, her ears perked at the singing of the coyote. Brianna stroked the kitten and murmured to reassure her she was safe. Patch rewarded her with the low rumble of a contented purr.

Where was Col?

Anytime now she expected to hear rain on the canvas roof. But the day had been glorious. She didn’t want to go to sleep and lose the glow her day with Col had given her. Tomorrow the guilt would return, along with the fear. Right now she wanted to wallow like a buffalo in the memory of his touch and sweet words. He loved her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to believe it. With all her heart, she wished he were here with her now to prove it to her, over and over, the way he had in the hidden canyon.

It was close to midnight now. Surely he would be back soon.

If only Barret would give up and go home. For Col to die trying to guard her freedom would be too cruel, too unfair. He shouldn’t be fighting her battles for her. She shouldn’t allow him to fight them.

Realization struck home with the impact of a two thousand pound buffalo impaling her on his horns. She sat up. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? The answer was so simple. Hadn’t she wanted to see it?

The likelihood that she had indeed been avoiding the reality of her situation was not pleasant to accept. But there was no denying it.

She had the means to make Barret give her a divorce. Not here on the Oregon Trail, but back in St. Louis, buried under a rose bush. She was the only one who knew the location, the only one who could wield the power the knowledge gave her.

Power. What a sweet word, she thought, as she lay down again and snuggled into her bed.

No more would Columbus Nigh have to play knight in shining armor for her, or endanger his precious life for her sake. She’d make sure of that.

A whisper of sound from outside caught her attention. Wind. Or footsteps in the grass. Patch sat up, her sharp golden eyes and pointy ears directed toward the rear of the wagon. When the sound came again, Brianna, too, sat up.

“Col?”

Silence.

“Col? Is that you out there?”

This time she heard a muffled response, a weary, indistinct grunt so like Col, her heart leaped. The wagon lurched beneath his weight. She grinned. It wasn’t raining yet, and she didn’t care whether it did or not. Wanting to be ready for him, she yanked off her nightdress, pulled the quilt up to her nose and waited.

***

Columbus Nigh sat motionless on the dappled gray’s back and watched the doe lower her head to the slow-moving backwash at the edge of Horse Creek. The deer was so close, Col could hear her lap up the water. He’d seen hundreds of similar scenes, a wild animal going about its business, unaware of danger downwind.

. A few more days would bring them to the Sweetwater River. His gaze wandered toward Laramie Peak. Before dark, the peak had been hidden by dark angry clouds heading this way. It remained hidden. Stars and a partial moon told him the storm was a few hours away yet, even though midnight must be close now.

Once they hit the Sweetwater he’d be able to see the towering, snowy peaks of the Wind River Mountains in the distance. The mere thought warmed his heart. For seventeen years, the Western mountains had been “home” to Col. The Wind River Valley in particular.

A notion had niggled at the back of his mind all day. He wanted to show Brianna the beauty of the Wind River and his special valley. They could visit the Gros Ventre Range as well, then angle north to the lower Yellowstone with its geysers and stinking mud pots. The need to share his world with her, see if it gave her the same thrill it gave him, grew stronger with every minute.

Brianna had her heart set on Oregon. Not Col. But wherever he went, he wanted her beside him. He wanted to marry her, to bind her to him forever. Legally. The idea astounded him. The only kind of marriage he’d ever imagined was the one-day-at-a-time Indian kind, all he had thought a man like him could hope for.

But Brianna had given him hope for more. That was the most amazing notion of all, that he, Columbus Nigh, a crude, illiterate squawman, might actually win a woman as beautiful and fine as Brianna Villard.

Of course, thanks to her, he wasn’t as uneducated as he used to be. He could read now. All the same, for her to love him was almost impossible to believe. Yet he had only to remember back a few hours to their time by the spring to know it was true, whether she admitted it or not.

For his part, Col would take her on any terms, whether it meant running the rest of their lives to avoid Barret Wight, or facing the man now.

If killing Wight was what it would take to make Brianna his for the rest of his life, Col would do it. He’d shoot Wight down in cold blood, the same way he would a rabid wolf.

The doe lifted her head, ears pricked. The gelding, too, listened. Then Col heard it—hoof beats. Slow and hesitant.

The doe bolted.

Col stayed put.

A few seconds later, a rider emerged in a patch of moonlight. The horse, a bay gelding, nickered a greeting to the dappled gray. Even in the dim light, Col recognized the man, and had a hunch what he was up to.

“Looking for me?” Col drawled.

Stinky Harris whirled in his saddle and cursed as his gaze found Col silhouetted against the silver wash of the creek.

Barret had sent Stinky to rendezvous with Punch and learn what was happening. As Stinky was preparing to ride back, Col and Brianna had showed up and Punch had pointed the man out. When Col rode off alone, the two men decided it might be an excellent time to ambush the pain in the butt mountain man.

Stinky had meant to be invisible. But it wasn’t too late to rectify matters. He had the element of surprise on his side; Columbus Nigh didn’t know he was about to die.

If Col hadn’t been the man he was, he might not have caught the glint of metal near the man’s hip. As it was, instinct sent him flying off the gray’s back a fraction of a second before a pistol shot ripped the air. He rolled as he struck ground and dug for the pistol tucked in his belt.

A second shot shattered the air. Then silence.

***

The hand over Brianna’s mouth tasted like manure and smelled like sweaty tobacco as she bit into the thick fleshy palm. Magrudge cursed. He jerked his hand away for a fraction of a second, just long enough for her to manage a strangled scream before the hand slapped back down over her mouth.

“Quit fighting me, you slut.”

Magrudge’s breath was as foul as his hand. He lay on top of her, pinning her legs with his. Her arms were trapped as well, but she had hold of the quilt and wouldn’t let go. With his free hand he struggled to tear the quilt from her death grip. “You’re gonna like what I got better than what that stinking Nigh gave you today.”

He laughed at her muffled oath.

“Nothing I like more’n a beautiful woman with spirit. Like Little Beaver. You know who she was?”

She tried to bite his hand again. He slapped her hard and had the hand back over her mouth before she could do more than yelp. His grip was so tight her teeth cut into her lips and she tasted blood.

“Little Beaver fought, too,” he whispered, while his hand snaked under the quilt to find warm, naked flesh. He wormed his way under her arm and captured a breast. “Ah, that’s nice, bigger’n Little Beaver’s.”

Brianna choked on the bile her revulsion brought up from her stomach. She let go of the quilt to push his hand away. In the tussle that followed, Magrudge managed to pull the quilt to her waist. His legs kept him from getting rid of it altogether. Trying to get her uncov-ered and fend her off at the same time proved awkward. The bitch was stronger than he’d expected. But that only added to the challenge, and the excitement.

Her left arm was still locked beneath him, but she was belting him with her right for all she was worth. His ear rang from the resounding blow she struck on the side of his face. Growling, he cuffed her a good one.

Blackness swirled inside Brianna’s head. The world retreated. She fought to remain conscious. Magrudge had managed to work his trousers part-way off and was yanking again on the quilt.

Neither of them heard the approaching horse outside. Magrudge had almost reached his goal. The blanket had been shoved out of the way and he was working to get her legs parted, when suddenly his heavy body was hauled off of her.

The wagon rocked from side to side as Columbus Nigh yanked the wagon captain up by the shirt collar. One glimpse told him she was alive. He didn’t take time to ask questions. He dragged Magrudge to his feet and punched him the stomach with a force that slammed him into the tailgate. He smashed his right fist into Magrudge’s nose, then his left into the man’s jaw.

Marc Beaudouin’s face appeared above the tailgate. Then he leaned inside and grabbed at the intruder’s coa
t collar, hauling him backward.

“I’ve got him,” he told Nigh. “See to Brianna.”

As the would-be rapist disappeared out the tailgate, Col turned to see Brianna huddled in the far comer, the quilt drawn up to her chin. Wordlessly, he sat on the bed and pulled her into his arms. She was trembling, her breasts heaving as she fought back tears. Gently, he held her, one hand stroking her bare back, his lips against her hair.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’re safe now, he won’t touch you again.”

An image came to his mind: Magrudge lying on top of her, his hands grabbing at the sweet flesh Col had so tenderly loved earlier that day. Rage roared in his ears, shutting out all other sounds. It took every ounce of his strength not to leave her there, frightened and alone, while he tore that bastard apart, limb by limb. Never had he felt such fury. Even finding Little Beaver battered and bloody had not affected him like this.

“Col, he . . . he . . . Little Beaver.”

Thinking she was trying to assure him that, unlike Little Beaver, she was alive, he murmured, “I know. Thank God.”

Brianna hiccuped and tried again. “No. Magrudge .
.
. he said Little Beaver fought. I think he
  . . .
he’s the one—”

Coldrew back and stared at her. Her words sank through the fog of his mind, like rocks in a misty pool. For a long moment he was quiet. Then he asked, “Are you all right?”

She nodded.

“Don’t worry,” he said.

Then he was gone.

When Col leaped down from the tailgate, he saw Magrudge sitting on the tongue of the next wagon. The man’s pants were in place and he was sucking on the side of his palm. His nose angled crosswise on his face. Blood trailed down around his mouth and dripped off his chin. Jeb Hanks stood nearby, feet spread, a pistol trained on the villain.