High Plains Passion

by Beaudelaire, Simone

  Something hot and tight clamped down in her belly, making her clench. Dylan explored that reaction, pushing one finger into her body. His thumb continued strumming as he probed in deep, pulled back, and pushed in.

  “Almost there,” he rumbled against her lips. “Almost there. Let go, darlin'. Let the pleasure take you.”

  What does he mean? It does feel like something's building, but wha…uh… “Ohhhhhh!” Lydia sighed as ripples of sensation seemed to spring from the core of her body, locking her muscles and tingling across her skin.

  A shift in the balance of the mattress told her Dylan was moving, returning to his position covering her body. Still trapped in a storm of ecstasy, she paid little mind to him moving her legs, opening them wider and kneeling between. That is, until he grasped her hand and drew it down, wrapping her fingers around something hard and thick. Her eyes flew open.

  “Last chance, Lydia. Do we stop for today? You don't have to do everything at once.”

  She stared at her hand, wrapped around his jutting man-part. It pulsed against her fingers. She squeezed, drawing a groan from the depths of his soul. The sun had shifted, sending shafts of light and shadow across their skin like a tapestry.

  “You belong to me, Dylan Brody, heart and soul. I'm ready to add our bodies to the list. Don't stop.”

  “You know how this works?”

  She guided his sex to the opening of her body. “Is this right?”

  “Just right.” He sighed. “I love you, Lydia.”

  She fed the tip into her well. I hope this doesn't hurt too badly.

  He pressed forward another scant inch, embedding himself in her, but not with any depth. She lifted up to meet him, and another inch slid home. He grasped her bottom. “Deep breath,” he instructed.

  She inhaled and he pushed forward hard. A sharp pinch told her the deed was done. That's it? Startled by the lack of expected pain, she relaxed. Dylan hovered over her, weight braced on his elbows, and stared down into her eyes. “You all right?”

  “Not bad at all,” she replied, still stunned that the feared event had proven so easy.

  “Good. All right then.” He eased back and pushed in again.

  Now this is what I imagined. How did the girls describe it? A dirty old man between your legs, sawing away? Though the description seemed to fit, the actual sensation didn't. The pleasure on Dylan's face as he claimed her body for his own filled her with pride. I'm making him feel that good. Perhaps because he was neither dirty nor old, but the man she loved, his thrusting was not a problem, but a pleasure. Oh, or maybe it actually feels good, she realized. I'll have to see next time, when it's not so new and strange. Dylan groaned and a new gush of moisture seemed to signal the end of their first encounter. He relaxed on her, letting her lush body take his weight as she petted his back. Interesting. Very interesting. I hope we can do this again soon. I think I want to learn more.

  Chapter 8

  When Lydia bolted awake at her customary hour, well before dawn, she startled herself by feeling… fine. No discomfort. No regret. Well, except for being alone when I want Dylan with me. Here then, was the most compelling reason their marriage had to be sanctioned by church and law. Her man could sleep beside her instead of creeping out into the alley and hoping not to be seen. Stretching, Lydia rose and fumbled across the room to the table in the corner, where she lit a lamp. By its dim and flickering light, she made her way to the wardrobe and retrieved garments, dressing herself mechanically as her mind dwelt on the previous evening.

  Once in the kitchen, she hummed to herself as she puttered around the kitchen, shaking flour onto the counter by the light of a lantern, portioning out starter, and then adding eggs and milk she retrieved from the icebox.

  “Hoodle dang fol-de-dye-do,” she sang aloud, mixing the sticky mixture with her fingertips until it began to come together.

  “What a disheartening choice,” a soft voice said in her ear. “Can't you sing a happier song that 'Sweet Betsy from Pike'?”

  Lydia jumped with a squeal, flinging dough into all the corners of the room. “Dylan, dang nabbit, look what you've done!” she whined.

  “Sorry, darlin',” he said sheepishly, wiping a glob from his mustache. “I wasn't trying to scare you, just to say good morning.”

  “What are you doing up so early?” she wanted to know.

  “I haven't gone to bed yet,” he replied. By the dim light, Lydia noticed the shadows under his eyes. “After I left here, some folks got into the moonshine and got a bit rowdy. They 'borrowed' some horses and went riding all over the prairie. Took me hours to round them all up. Damned fools.”

  “Where are they now?” she wanted to know.

  “Singing Danny Boy in five party harmony in the jail,” he replied, his lips twisting into sour lines. “The lot of them couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “You do have the most glamorous job in town, don't you, Dylan?”

  “I sure do, Miz Lydia.” Then he grabbed her around the waist in an uncouth clutch and planted a wet smooch on her lips. “I'm heading home to bed, and I sure do hope I can sleep, but I wanted to see you on the way through. Are you doing all right?”

  Lydia smiled. “Wonderfully. I feel… happy and naughty at the same time. Um, Dylan, how did you get into my shop? It's all locked up.”

  “You may have locked the café, darlin', but you left the garden gate open.”

  She squinted at the kitchen door, open to allow a cooling breeze into the sweltering kitchen, heated by the oversized cast-iron stove in which a fire awaited the bread she'd been trying to make. Sure enough, the far gate into the alleyway stood ajar.

  “Well, I never,” Lydia harrumphed, disgusted with herself.

  “You never should,” Dylan replied, turning serious. “All kinds of riffraff might see that and think it's an invitation. I don't want some dirty farmhand poaching my woman.”

  “No worries there, honey,” she replied. “Anyone comes this way without permission, I have a collection of cast iron skillets and the arms to swing them… and don't even get me started on the knives.” Among other things I'd rather not mention.

  “You're strong and smart,” Dylan said, “and I trust you can hold your own, but do be careful, won't you? I love you and now that I have you, I don't want to lose you.”

  The humor had gone from his voice, and Lydia recalled his sad story about his lost bride and child. Insensitive, Lydia. “I promise to be more careful,” she vowed, slipping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a more thorough kiss. Then she smiled against his lips. “Now, if you want to come in through the gate some time, when the café is closed up for the night, but before it gets too late for me, you might work out some kind of signal.”

  “I'll let you know to expect me, how's that?” he asked. “I'd say starting with tonight.”

  The thought of Dylan joining her in her bed again caused a flare of eager nervousness to ignite in Lydia's belly. “I think I could find my way to allowing it,” she replied. “But only if you get some rest. You look exhausted.”

  “I am,” he agreed. “See you later, darlin'. Maybe around seven, unless something comes up.”

  “I'll be waiting,” she promised.

  Dylan fell asleep easily, and dreamed of pleasant things he wouldn't quite remember later, until a loud pounding at the door shook him from slumber. He sat bolt upright in bed. Shaking off the lingering urge to sleep, he dragged on a pair of jeans he found on the floor and stumbled to the door. He yanked it open to see Jesse West standing on the other side.

  “Put your shirt on,” the younger man complained. “I don't want to go blind.”

  “If you don't want to go blind,” Dylan quipped back, “keep your hands out of your trousers. You want to see me dressed, wait until I come to work. Don't roust me out my bed. This had better be good, Mr. 'I can handle everything'.”

  “I can,” Jesse boasted, stepping over the threshold. Despite his teasing, Dylan noticed his
eyes looked tight and the corners of his mouth crimped. “I just thought you might want to know about this.” He lifted a sheet of paper and waved it in the air, creating a rustling sound that jarred Dylan's barely-awake ears badly.

  “Quit shaking that,” he grumped. “I'm getting coffee. Come on.” He hobbled toward the kitchen, his feet aching. “So what the hell is so important, West? Did we get another letter?”

  “Yeah,” Jesse agreed, following Dylan into the tiny kitchen of his two-room home near the edge of town. It seemed the year had finally gotten the message that fall had arrived, as the breeze blowing through the windows had a decided bite to it. And about time. It's heading on towards October. Back in Minnesota, we might have snow by now, and frost every night would be no surprise. Dylan grabbed his kettle and stuck it into the sink, pumping the handle until a chilly stream poured over his hand, most of it landing inside the metal receptacle.

  “The letter is postmarked Colorado again,” Jesse said, “but the content disturbs me.”

  “How so?” Dylan moved the two steps to the stove, set the kettle on the burner and opened the fire box to poke at the coals. They flared to red, so he added another bit of fuel and made his way to his kitchen table, where Jesse sat, elbows on the red plaid tablecloth, glaring at the message in his hands.

  “It asks whether we enjoyed our Founder's Day celebration.”

  Dylan lowered his eyebrows. “That was yesterday. How the hell…?”

  “Damned if I know,” Jesse replied. “It's crazy. How could this even have happened?” He paused, tapping his lips again, his sign of deep thought. “Do you really think the robbers are holed up in Colorado? Wouldn't that be a little obvious?”

  Dylan considered the idea. “But if they're not, why are the letters postmarked from there?”

  Jesse scratched his head. “Mail travels. If the letters were sent to Pueblo from somewhere else, and an accomplice received them, they could send it from there. If it was someone local, no one would notice. Especially if it's a bigger city like Pueblo. Who would even pay attention to a local mailing a letter?”

  “You might be on to something there, West,” Dylan said, startled again by the astute reasoning of his new deputy. “But that gives us a new problem. They could be anywhere.”

  “Yes.” Jesse's face turned grim. “Anywhere we don't want them to be.”

  “It's not a good sign,” Dylan agreed. “At the very least, there's one operative here in town keeping the gang informed. At worst…”

  “The gang is here, or at least nearby, and there's only one operative in Colorado receiving messages and sending them back here.”

  “Or some combination thereof.”

  The younger man nodded. “Here I thought bringing my wife home would keep her safe from the life I used to lead. Looks like we're no better off.”

  “Well, except, there's safety in numbers. A whole lot of people live in this town. Even if half of them are women and children, every man will fight to protect it. There's no way the gang can take the whole town.”

  “I know,” Jesse agree. “Even Billy Fulton would take up a gun if Miss Lydia or Miss Esther were threatened. But I'm not worried so much about the town as about what their next move will be. This is a taunt. They're teasing us, letting us know they're close by. In order for us to have this letter now, they must have sent it no more than a week ago. The details here…” he pointed to the paper, “were finalized at the meeting last Sunday, or so my wife tells me.”

  “So they're letting us know they're nearby,” Dylan said grimly.

  Jesse nodded with a frown. “They wouldn't take that risk unless they felt relatively secure, which means they must have more members, enough to cause a problem, and that means they're probably planning another strike. Remind me again what actual actions they've taken against Garden?”

  “I wouldn't say the train robberies themselves,” Dylan replied, thinking out loud. “That was their original mission, and they hit several between Colorado and Wichita.”

  “Right. How did they decide to focus on a town again, instead of going after more trains? That doesn't seem very lucrative.”

  “I'm pretty sure it's personal,” Dylan replied, sucking in a lungful of air and releasing it in a noisy whoosh. Rising, he dumped a serving of coffee grounds into the press and poured water over it.

  “Lay it out for me,” Jesse said. “Yes, I've heard it before, but you never know when a retelling will provide something important.”

  “All right.” Dylan splashed the strong, black brew into a blue-speckled tin cup and made his way back to the table. “When they hit the Wichita run back in December, Cody and Kristina were on the train. They somehow managed to distract the robbers and sneak a few people off, one of whom stole one of the robber's horses and rode back to town to get help. When we got there, we drove off the band. A few died, including one in the car with Cody and Kristina, and for some reason Kristina's brother Calvin, who was also killed. They rounded up a second, a young kid, whom we took into custody. He was tried for murder and convicted.”

  Jesse sat in silence, his face grim as the images seemed to be flashing inside his head.

  “There was an incident mid-spring, before you arrived. Some unknown person firebombed Rebecca Heitschmidt's dress shop and nearly killed her, but it was a diversion. He attempted to break the kid out of the jail. I stopped him, but he threatened the town.”

  “Okay, and I arrived not too long after that,” Jesse said, putting things together.

  “Couple months after,” Dylan agreed. “But by that time the violence had tapered down to threatening, impersonal notes. Also, don't forget, the kid was hung before you got here. I was expecting major violence around that, but nothing happened.”

  “And I suspect that's because I rounded up the nest.”

  “Your guess does fit, which means the gang had severely reduced numbers, but that the ones left were probably still around here.”

  “Right.” Jesse frowned. “So then, they've been nearby all along, watching us, and the boss, who has a personal vendetta against you, joined them after the roundup in Colorado.”

  “Yeah, well,” Dylan realized, “if the boss figures out you're the one who broke up his gang, he's going to be gunning for you as well.”

  “Damn, this is bad,” Jesse said. “What should our plan of action be? I don't like sitting here waiting. We know they're nearby. We need to find them before they come after us.”

  “I agree,” Dylan said. “I wonder if we can take them before they decide to strike again?”

  “Maybe send a telegram to Pueblo law enforcement,” Jesse suggested. “See if they can figure out who's sending the letters. Press them for information. I know the sheriff over there. I can do it.”

  Now why on God's green earth didn't I think of that ages ago? I must be losing my touch! Sulking, Dylan mumbled, “That would be a big help, Jesse. Be my guest.”

  Jesse nodded. “Right away.” He hopped from the kitchen chair, then turned back. “Dylan, keep your eyes open. I have an itchy feeling. Something's about to happen, and it's not going to be good.”

  “I feel it too,” he agreed. “I'm glad you're here, Jesse. We all need to stay on our toes. Let's call in Rob and every able-bodied man in town and give them the information. We should all be on our guard.”

  “Agreed,” Jesse said, a second before the door banged shut behind him.

  Lydia scurried around the dining room, setting plates of eggs and toast in front of hungry diners. The train had arrived about an hour ago, and her café teemed with strangers. Locals slurped coffee and chatted while harried passengers eyed the door, silently urging her to hurry.

  Lydia couldn't help smiling. All feels right with the world today. I'm happy. She served plate after plate of food, but her mind lingered on Dylan. On their relationship, the intimacy they'd shared. Their upcoming marriage. I think I can make sugar leaves and color them with beet and carrot juice, and use them to decorate our wedding cake,
she thought.

  A hand closed around her wrist, nearly knocking her off balance. She drew up short, frowning over a plate at the man she'd noticed before. “Can I help you, Mister?” she asked. “Did you need more coffee?”

  “I would like to speak with you privately, Miss Carré,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.

  Lydia twisted her lips. “I'm busy, Mr.…”

  “Blaylock,” he reminded her. “Samuel Blaylock. If you wouldn't mind, Miss Carré, this is important.”

  “Mr. Blaylock,” she said, growing colder as he failed to understand her, “the call back to the train is in twenty minutes. These good folks need their breakfast, and then locals have been waiting patiently. Whatever it is will have to wait at least an hour. Now let me go.”

  She set the plate on the table in front of him and yanked her hand free. Go starch your mustache, you bossy dandy. I have work to do.

  She stormed away, ignoring his angry muttering.

  Working as fast as she could, Lydia managed to serve all the travelers in time for them to eat and pay before the 'all aboard' sounded. Then she served breakfast to the locals. But her mood had darkened. Why let one pushy individual spoil the moment? She asked herself. And yet, something felt wrong.

  When the last of the diners wandered out, Lydia sighed as she contemplated the mountain of dishes waiting to be washed before she could begin preparing lunch. A cup of coffee called to her, and yet, the persistent Mr. Blaylock awaited.

  “All right, mister,” she said, standing out of reach of his grabby hands, and leaning her hip against a rickety chair at a nearby table. Her feet ached. “What did you need?”