Untethered (27 page)

But Cricket still found her courage was absent. There seemed to be only timidity and fear in her bosom. Yet as tears of heartbreaking regret escaped her eyes, trickling down over her temples, Heath slowly caressed her cheek with his once more, the corners of their mouths meeting as they had before—and then, oh so blessedly, their lips.

More tears fled Cricket’s weary eyes as Heath’s kiss lingered on her lips. It was a soft, careful, and caring kiss, and it was followed by another—and another. With each consecutive kiss he offered—with each tender kiss she accepted and reciprocated—Cricket’s tears were suddenly borne of the wild exhilaration of returning strength beginning to swell inside her.

And when she thought she could never possibly experience a more powerful delirium than the one Heath’s tender, lingering kisses were raining over her, he slowly moved his thumbs from where they’d rested beneath her chin to gently press the place just below her lower lip, coaxing her lips to part.

Cricket’s knees buckled, and she melted against him as his mouth claimed hers with the driven, moist, and fiery kiss of the abruptly unleashed eruption of passion. Heath caught her in the embrace of his powerful arms, his mouth never separating from hers even for an instant. But she was weak and found herself clinging to him not only because she was desperate to prolong their impassioned exchange of kisses but also because she could not find her own feet for a moment.

As Heath continued to support her—to hold her—to kiss her as Cricket could never have imagined, not in all her wildest dreams of him—she at last managed to slip one hand under his arm, as her other traveled caressively over his opposing shoulder. And then an ounce of strength returned to her, and she rebounded somewhat, clinging to him as he kissed her.

Her mind was on fire—her body as well! She felt as if she couldn’t breathe one moment and in the next felt as if so much breath were inside her that she might fly apart. Again and again Heath claimed her mouth with his—kissed with such intensity that Cricket was sure the warm, rich flavor of his kiss was all the sustenance she would ever need again. Over and over Cricket returned Heath’s affectionate advances—endeavoring to please him with her answering kisses as thoroughly as his intoxicated her. And all the while tears escaped her eyes to trickle over her temples and cheeks—tears of consuming, feverish bliss.

Heath felt her hand caress the breadth of his shoulder—felt her fingers travel to caress the back of his neck. He quivered as she melted to him—her warm, tender body so welcoming of his physical attentions.

The gesture affected him far more than he ever could have dreamed it would—her simple touch sending his mind whirling and his body into such a state of desire that he began to tremble with restraining it. Again and again—over and over—he endeavored to drink his fill of her kiss, of her mouth, of the feel of her soft, tempting body pressed against his. The sense of holding her in his arms—of having her so willingly there—caused moisture to rise in his eyes, for he sensed he could’ve won her heart in a different life. If he weren’t the failed Texas Ranger burdened with the deaths of eight innocent girls—if he were a good man like her father or Cooper Keel or even the young Hudson Oliver—if Heath had been a man like those, he might have owned the girl he so desperately cared for and craved—the girl in his arms that was accepting and returning his kiss.

Suddenly, Heath’s hands gripped Cricket’s waist as his mouth ground against hers with a wanton intensity. The moist heat of his kiss moved to her neck for a time, and Cricket wondered if the tears of joy streaming over her cheeks would ever stop. She didn’t care if he thought her weak for so easily succumbing to his near seduction. In those moments, there was nothing else in all the world she wanted more than to be in his arms forever—to feel the warmth of his mouth on her skin and against her lips.

Again he embraced her—as if he’d meant to stop kissing her and then changed his mind. His mouth left her neck, finding her lips. Hungry, hot, and entirely unbridled—those were the kisses Heathro Thibodaux demanded, and Cricket’s trembling was tempestuous. As her heart beat madly within her breast, as her breath came in ragged sobs spurred by mingled desire and fear, she could sense the desperation in him—the knowing—the knowing that tomorrow might find them both dead, left as carrion for the coyotes, buzzards, and any other creatures that would feed on their corpses.

Cricket gasped as Heath broke the seal of their mouths a moment—long enough to push her back against one of the nearby stall walls of the barn before continuing to near ravage her with such impassioned kissing that Cricket was sure she would awaken at any moment to find she’d only been dreaming of such wonder.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you from fallin’ into the trough,” he mumbled against her mouth. “And I’m sorry I kissed you so wickedly. I shoulda done this instead, Miss Blossom Bottom. I’m sorry.”

Taking Heath’s handsome face between her trembling hands, Cricket gently pushed until he lessened the strength of his aggression. “When d-did you know it was me?” she asked in a whisper. In truth, she didn’t know whether to drop dead with humiliation or spring to the heavens on wings of euphoria.

Heath smiled, stroking her cheek with his thumb as he gazed at her. “The moment the first words came outta your mouth,” he answered.

“B-but how did you know it was me?” she asked next.

Heath still held her against the stall wall—his body keeping hers captive there in the barn.

“Well, it’s your voice for one,” he answered. “I am a Texas Ranger, Magnolia. I’m trained to notice details.”

“And you knew my voice well enough to…but you’ve hardly spoken to me since you moved to Pike’s Creek. How could you possibly know—”

He silenced her a moment with a sweet kiss and then said, “Well, all right…I’ll confess it. It wasn’t just your voice.” He smiled, and the firelight flinted on his gold tooth. “It’s that sweet little blossom bottom of yours, Magnolia. That little swing you’ve got to your barefoot walk. It just shows off that little blossom bottom of yours so perfectly. So…the truth is it was your voice, that little blossom bottom of yours, and a few other things. That’s how I knew it was you.”

“But you were so—” she began.

“I’m sorry,” he interrupted. “I-I just know how dangerous some men can be…and I didn’t want you girls welcomin’ any other men to town like that and findin’ yourselves in some kinda trouble.”

Cricket nodded, overwhelmed for a moment as the irony of it all washed over her. That night—the night she, Ann, Marie, and Vilma had gone about their do-gooding shenanigans and she’d kissed Heathro Thibodaux—that night he’d been trying to warn her that bad men existed who might do terrible things to young women. And now, there she stood in an old barn—a prisoner on her way to be sold into things she never before knew existed.

“I know what would happen to us if Heck actually got us all the way to
New Orleans
, you know,” she whispered.

“What do you mean? Sellin’ you girls into brothel life?” he asked. His eyebrows arched in discomfort then as he added, “Or do you mean you know what…what goes on in a brothel?”

“Both,” she admitted.

Heath stepped back and rather uncomfortably rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “When did you learn about all that, darlin’?”

“Vilma told us…and
Pearl
,” she answered. She shook her head a moment, mumbling, “Why is it always the preachers’ daughters that know things like that?”

Heath laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t know…but it sure seems to be true, don’t it? I mean, there was this boy in the town I grew up in. He was the preacher’s son…and one day we were all out fishin’, and he told us other boys all about this saloon girl he’d seen with the sheriff and that they’d been…”

He paused, looking at Cricket—and she could’ve sworn Heathro Thibodaux blushed.

She giggled. “What? What did that preacher’s son tell you?”

“Nothin’,” he said, still blushing. Reaching out, he put his hands at her waist, pulling her to him again.

Cricket went willingly, of course, and he mumbled, “Won’t you give me another chance, Magnolia? Won’t you welcome me to Pike’s Creek one more time and see if I can do a better job of acceptin’ it this time?”

The teasing was gone from his expression. Reality had taken him over—the reality that the next sunrise might be his last. Fear began to rise in her again, but Cricket was determined to fight it—at least until she’d known one more kiss from Heathro Thibodaux.

Forcing a smile, she put her arms around his neck and asked in a whisper, “But do you promise not to be wicked in return this time, Mr. Thibodaux?”

He grinned then, pulled her body flush with his, and said, “No,” as his mouth claimed hers in a hot, moist, ambrosial kiss of fiery desire.

The song of the crickets should have soothed her—and the scent of sage on the cool evening breeze. Yet how could Cricket be soothed by anything—even the memories and lingering sensation of having been held and kissed by the man of her dreams? How could even her memories—knowing Heathro Thibodaux cared enough for her to kiss her the way he had the day before—keep Cricket from the anxious anticipation of attempted escape?

The posse from Pike’s Creek had not reached them. And Jinny was much worse than even the day before. Already Heck had told Heath that if she continued to slow them, he would have to “take the loss” and arrive in
New Orleans
with only five girls. Therefore, Heath had informed Cricket at midday that he meant to get them away from the outlaws that night.

Mingled terror and hope leapt in Cricket when Heath told her. Perhaps they would truly escape! Perhaps all would be well in the end after all.

Earlier that evening, as the outlaws sat around the fire discussing the many different ways they would spend the money they would be paid by Jacques Cheval, Heath had coaxed them into the heavy drinking of premature celebration. Now their heavy snores of intoxication had begun echoing through the night some time before. But Heath hadn’t come for the girls yet.

Certainly Cricket knew Heath must silently saddle
seven
of the horses, and she knew it must be a difficult task. Yet what was taking him so long? She glanced over to see Marie looking at her—her expression conveying that her thoughts were similar to Cricket’s. Cricket turned her head to her other side and looked to Ann. She knew Ann was worried about Harley. Heck had treated the horse badly, and Ann only hoped he would trust Heath enough to saddle him without making a sound.

A man the outlaws referred to as Burnette had been placed to guard the girls, and Cricket glanced up to see that he sat slumped back against a tree, snoring nearly as loudly as the others. Perhaps Heath wouldn’t have to kill Burnette. Perhaps he would sleep through their escape as Heath hoped the others would. But if he didn’t, Heath
would
kill him. Cricket felt sorry for the man. Yes, he was a brutal, robbing, murdering outlaw—but he’d been someone’s baby once. She wondered for a moment what had set him on the path to evil.

Cricket startled a little as Heath suddenly appeared at her feet. Quietly she sat up, as did Ann and Marie, and then Vilma, Jinny, and
Pearl
. Heath held an index finger to his lips to ensure they did not speak as he drew a large knife from its sheath at his waist and cut the ropes at Cricket’s ankles. Quickly he did the same for the other girls, moving then to their wrists and severing the ropes there.

Burnette stirred a little—moaned in his sleep. Heath’s gaze captured Cricket’s as her eyes filled with tears. She read his mind somehow. Somehow his suddenly sad blue eyes told her that Heath couldn’t risk Burnette waking and sounding an alarm. He nodded to her, and Cricket closed her eyes, concentrating on the fact that Burnette had admitted to killing a Texas Ranger and two women while on a rampage of rape and plundering in a small
Texas
town down south months before with other men. Heath had told this to Cricket—instructed her to tell the other girls—so that when the time came for Burnette to be silenced, they would know his was not innocent blood spilling.

Heath motioned to the girls, indicating that they should not look behind them. And then he quietly crept past them to where Burnette sat.

Heath wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He didn’t want to kill the man and paused, wondering if perhaps Burnette would sleep through their escape. Certainly Heath had killed men before—men just like Burnette—wicked men who raped and murdered women, stole from good people, and hurt them. But he still had no desire to kill him.

Yet if he didn’t get the Pike’s Creek girls and the other two out of there, Heck would kill Jinny come morning. He’d already told Heath that if the girl weren’t better by sunup, he’d put a bullet in her head and move on.

Burnette stirred again, and Heath knew he couldn’t afford to pause any longer. Burnette had not been allowed to drink as heavily as the others, and he would wake at the sound of the retreating horses—no matter how quietly they walked away from the camp.

And as if Heath’s thoughts had summoned Burnette’s consciousness, his eyes opened, and Burnette was fully awake at once, opening his mouth to shout the alarm. But Heathro Thibodaux was quick-handed and lethally accurate—and he turned his back on Burnette’s as the man’s hands went to his cut throat. Heath heard the outlaw’s body slump back against the rocks and felt the burden of another death rest on his already heavy shoulders.