Silence fell, comfortable, filled with night sounds—a shivering wail of a coyote, plaintive and lost against the vast sky; small scuttling sounds of nocturnal creatures that came out after the heat of the day melded into cooler gloom. The moon was higher now, and nearly full, a silver disc that spread ethereal light over the mountain ridges but left deep purple-black shadows in the crevices.
On nights like these, the Comanche were said to take advantage of the light for their raids. She held her hands out to the warmth of the fire, shivering at the thought.
“Do you ever miss riding with the Comanche, Steve? I know you lived with them as a boy, but did you—”
When she stopped, he finished, “Go on raids with them? It would be a good night for it tonight. Plenty of light to see by.” His teeth flashed in a grin. “You’d make some brave a good prize, but once he tried to tame you he’d probably prefer to have your scalp at his belt, instead.”
“You just say things like that to annoy me. If I was such a bad hostage, you would have drowned me in a sack.”
“Don’t think it didn’t occur to me more than once. Ah hell, Ginny, sometimes it seems like only last week when I first saw you—”
“And mistook me for a whore.”
“Understandable if you take into consideration that I’d been told a red-haired Frenchwoman would be coming to my room for the night, and there you were.”
“Yes. There I was.” She caught and held his gaze. “And here I still am. Do you ever get tired of moving around so much, Steve? Don’t you ever want to just stay in one place, know that when you go to bed, it’s your own bed? That when you wake up the next day, you’ll see the same faces of the people who love you?”
He was quiet for such a long time, she thought he did not intend to answer her, and moved to rise from the rock where she sat, intent upon finding her bedroll.
But then he said softly, as if to himself, “It’s not that I don’t want that. Part of me does. But there’s a part of me that’s never satisfied to stay in one place for long, always restless, looking for something else. I don’t know why. I don’t know if it’s forever. And sometimes I think that maybe I’ve found what I’ve been looking for with you. I know that I don’t want any other woman, but I’m just not too sure what I do want.”
A shiver traced down her spine, and she clenched her hands tightly together in her lap. “Well…” She forced a laugh that sounded hollow. “That’s honest, at least.”
“Yes. I think you deserve honesty. Ginny.” He stood up and stepped around the fire, pulling her close to hold her against him. His hand clenched the hair at the back of her neck to pull her head backward until she looked up into his eyes, an inexorable tug that would not allow her to look away. “You know I love you. I’ve told you so over and over again. I mean it when I say it. It’s not something I would ever say if I didn’t.”
“Yes, I know.” A lump in her throat prevented her from saying more, and she took comfort as he held her hard against him, the thud of his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath her cheek.
The next day, a line of squalls moved across the mountains, rendering the pass slippery and dangerous. Steve took them up into the rocks off the trail, picking a spot carefully in case of a rockslide.
“Sometimes the ground gets too soft, and boulders the size of a two-story building come crashing down the slope, taking everything in the path along with them. A rockslide can bury an entire village in minutes. I saw it once, from a ledge overlooking a valley. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do but watch as people tried to run. Few escaped. It was over too quick. Later, we could hear the cries of those trapped in the rubble, and pulled out the ones we could find.”
He said it dispassionately, but she had a sudden image of him pulling aside jagged rocks and digging through the mud to rescue those trapped. It was an image that contrasted sharply with some in her memory, of him facing a man in the street, drawing his revolver so fast it was a blur, killing without evincing regret. Two completely different images of the same man. Could he be both?
She thought then of Matt Cooper, who had taught her how to use a knife when she was a soldadera forced to follow the army with Tom Beal, and his careless kindnesses when it was convenient for him. And she remembered, too, that Steve had killed him for it, for using her as he had, even though Matt had been the only man who was kind to her during those long, wretched days of torment.
There was a kind of justice in it that she appreciated, though she’d felt a faint sense of regret when he told her.
They rode on again when the rain stopped. It was drier up higher into the mountains, where the air was thinner and it was harder to breathe. The view was breathtaking, a network of yawning canyons patchworked with furiously twisting rivers across a landscape ribbed with green-and-brown hills. Fresh-scrubbed by the rains, emerald-green basins cradled picturesque villages, the missions tiny white beacons of hope when seen from such a high altitude.
The ride down was more harrowing than the arduous ascent, as the trail seemed to drop through narrow gorges rimmed by steep spirals of rock that made her think of stalagmites. In places, no sunlight could get through. The walls were so high that only a thin ribbon of light could be seen high overhead.
Halfway down, Steve took a detour down a rocky ledge edged with thick brush and stunted mesquite. The air grew cooler, and she could hear a loud, muffled roar, like the approach of a train. Vegetation became thicker and almost tropical, reminding her of the trees near Oaxaca.
When they rode around a bend, the low roar suddenly turned into a deafening crash, and Ginny sucked in a sharp breath as she saw the source.
From high above, cascading over gray rock formations like graceful wings, water poured in a thundering rush to a wooded pool. Spume rose into the damp air, and sunlight glinted from the curve of a rainbow that disappeared into the mist.
Steve grinned at her, and beckoned for her to follow him, words useless in the noise of the falling water.
They were to spend the night here, a short distance down from where the water bombarded rocks and the shallow basin. Ginny immediately took off all her clothes and splashed in the water that was crystal clear and breathtakingly cold. She scrubbed her body, then her hair, standing waist-deep in the natural pool, toes curled into the pebbles on the bottom for balance against the swirling current. She felt like a mermaid, bare breasted, hair heavy wet ropes draped down her back and over her shoulders.
Steve was downstream a bit farther, investigating the most likely spot for them to spend the night, and she took advantage of his absence to lay down on a warm, mossy rock in the sun. There was something so sensual and free about being totally naked, and she closed her eyes against the glaring light beating down.
It had been far too long since she had enjoyed such freedom; Nassau, perhaps, when she had discovered the bathing pool surrounded by palm, pomegranate and orange trees, a veritable paradise. She stretched languorously. Perhaps her skin would tan to a peachy gold color again if she lay here long enough. What would Steve say when he came back and found her like this?
She almost laughed at the thought of his face, then thought that he would probably strip off his own clothes and join her. He’d looked hot, dusty and tired, but determined to find a place he deemed safe to spend the night. Why could they not stay here, by the pool?
Oh, she really was entirely too much of a sensualist, for she was certain she could go about without clothes all the time if it wouldn’t shock everyone who knew her. Wasn’t it true that Benjamin Franklin had been what they called a freethinker, preferring to sit in his own parlor as naked as the day he’d been born? Of course, men could get away with doing such things and not be regarded by society as loose. Eccentric, perhaps, but not immoral.
But then again, Franklin was known to enjoy many ladies in his time, though public record did not chronicle opinions of his habits. Ginny thought she would probably have liked him for his autonomy of spirit, if for no other reason.
&nbs
p; It was so pleasant, being lulled into tranquility by the rushing sound of water and the heat of the sun on her body. Her breasts were warm, the nipples tightly beaded. It was strangely arousing to lie beneath the sky in such abandon.
Droplets of water spattered on her belly and thighs, and over the noise of the waterfall she heard Steve say, “You look like a virgin sacrifice.”
She smiled blindly, relishing the damp heat that rose from the rocks, arching upward when she felt Steve’s hand on her belly, then her breast. It was exquisitely erotic, lying atop the rock while he stroked and caressed her, her eyes closed as she gave herself up to pure sensation.
His hands moved over her leisurely at first, touching her with familiar assurance, palms spread over her ribs, then testing the cushion of her breasts, his skin abrasive enough to send delicious little shivers through her at his caress. With the heat of the sun on her bare body and the stroke of his hands along her thighs, then between, Ginny felt wanton, a purely sexual excitement throbbing inside her, turning her blood to liquid heat and her flesh to malleable clay in his hands.
He molded her, hands clever at finding the spot that elicited the most intense response, fingers sliding over her mist-dampened skin with unerring accuracy. The moss beneath her was a soft, fragrant cushion. Sunlight was displaced by the heat of his hands as he skimmed her thigh, up to the crevice between her legs. His thumb found her in a heady, potent kiss across her quivering center, and her hips arced up into his hand.
“Keep your eyes closed, Ginny,” he murmured when she started to open them. “Don’t think. Don’t talk. Just feel.”
The steady, loud collapse of water plummeting from two hundred feet above was a constant roar in her ears, the air alive with a damp mist that permeated muscle and bone. His hand moved, his thumb an erotic friction across the aching, melting heart of her until the heat of the sun coalesced into a blinding white flame to ignite a shuddering release that swept through her like wildfire and left her boneless, drained as she reached out for him.
“Oh God, Steve…”
Her hand encountered bare flesh, fingers finding old scars on his back, sliding up over taut muscles and smooth skin to curve around his neck, tangling in the crisp dark hair that was slightly damp.
“You drive me to distraction, Ginny. I should have known I’d come back to find you as naked as a woodland nymph.” His laugh was rueful, swallowed as she pulled his face down to hers to kiss him deeply.
“I could live like this,” she murmured dreamily, eyes still closed against the light. “I’d love nothing better than to go naked all the time.”
“You should live in the Pacific where there are islands filled with people who wear little or nothing, then. I’m afraid we’re too civilized, even out here.”
She opened her eyes the tiniest bit as he straightened, raked a hand through his hair and glanced around them. Then her eyes widened slightly.
When had he taken off his clothes? She watched through slitted eyes as he loomed above, silhouetted against sunlight, a dark golden god with an aura of light behind him, familiar and beloved. He was the only man she had ever loved so passionately, ever risked her life for, or would again if necessary….
Her throat ached suddenly, with love and yearning, and all the things she wanted to say. Reaching up, she lay her palm against his lean jaw as he gazed down at her, his eyes slightly narrowed, the lashes making long shadows against his dark skin.
“I don’t want this moment to end, Steve. I wish we could stay here forever—oh, I don’t mean abandon our children, of course, but wouldn’t it be nice if we could stay a little longer, at least?”
Instead of replying, he scooped her into his arms, startling a gasp from her as he carried her from the rock to the edge of the pool that seethed with lacy froth.
She thought for a moment he intended to drop her, but as a protest formed on her lips, he stepped down into the pool with her in his arms, laughing as she clutched at him. He said something, but she couldn’t hear him over the pounding crash of water pummeling dark rock, splashing back up in delicate geysers that sprayed over them. It was surprisingly shallow where they stood, the water so clear she could see pink, brown and black rocks lying on the bottom.
The world closed in around them, enveloping them in spume and sound. With her arm still around his neck, Steve released her legs and she slid down him in a sensuous glide of damp skin against damp skin until her feet gained purchase in water that came just above her waist. Sculpted muscle drifted under her palm as her hand coasted over his body in a light skimming exploration, over the taut band of muscles on his chest, then the corded ropes of muscle on his belly, lower until she found him in a brazen caress.
He sucked in his breath as she held him. She didn’t need to hear the words to decipher his mood, for his body was willing evidence that he wanted her.
As water lapped around them and spilled over high black knees of rock studding the cliff, Steve put his hands on her waist and lifted her to straddle him, his legs apart and braced for balance. She understood immediately, and put her arms around his neck. Her breasts were against his chest, her legs clamped around his hips.
Then he was inside her, filling her with a swift, hard thrust of his body, his hands guiding her movements as she shuddered. Warm sunlight, cool water, heated friction and the rhythmic noise of crashing water combined in a collage of exquisite sensations that Ginny knew she would never forget.
"Bruja…mi corazón…." His husky endearments were whispers in her ear, the thundering roar of the falls muting words and world, drowning her in pleasure and aching love.
Later, she would remember their hours on the mossy rock and in the pool with wistful longing, for it was the last time for quite a while they were to be so carefree….
18
Zacatecas at last. The ancient grove of trees still stood sentry, heedless of time and the elements, casting deep shadows in the blue light of late evening. Dogs began to bark, a scattered sound in the soft dusk. Splinters of light like huge fireflies flickered behind thick-boled trees and dusty leaves. Their horses picked up the pace, sensing the end of the journey.
Home. There was the sense of returning home, to a familiar beloved place, Ginny thought. Yet she had felt this way the first time she had come, strangely enough, as if she were coming home after a long journey.
Now it was true, in a way.
Vaquera rode out to greet them, armed and grinning, acting as both an escort and a guard. “Don Esteban, you are expected!”
“So I see. Luis, where is my lazy cousin, that he will not come out to greet us?” Steve rode a little ahead, lapsing into the dialect of the vaquera, laughing with them when it was drolly observed that Don Renaldo was no doubt unaware of the time again.
“He reads all the time, that one! The señora must always coax him out of the house, or he would never be seen about.”
But when they neared the house, the door opened and Renaldo came out to greet them with his wife at his side.
“¡Hola! Cousin,” he called cheerfully, his tall, rather stooped frame silhouetted against the welcoming lights inside. The two-story house sprawled at the end of a long, curving drive flanked by tall shrubs. Nightblooming flowers clambered over a trellis and lent a fading fragrance to the air. Twin lanterns illuminated a shallow flight of steps to the narrow porch that wrapped around the house.
Aching, unaccustomed to the long ride, Ginny dismounted stiffly, then yielded her reins to the small boy who came running up to greet them.
“Don Esteban, Doña Genia!” the boy said, grinning from ear to ear, his teeth white in a dark, shining face.
Steve had already dismounted, and passed a hand over the top of the boy’s head to ruffle his hair. “¡Hola, Juan! You have grown since last we saw you.”
“Sí, Don Esteban!”
“Esteban,” Renaldo said, stepping down from the porch to greet his cousin, “we received your telegram just yesterday, but the little house is ready for you. Mi
ssie and Rosa saw to that.”
“Rosa is here, too?” Ginny smiled with pleasure as she went forward to greet Melissa Carter Ortega, Renaldo’s wife.
Missie was smiling, her pretty freckled face as young as it had been when last she saw her, untouched by years or tragedy.
“Ginny, it’s so good to see you again,” Missie said, and it was obvious she meant it. She came to her, arms enclosing her in a hug that was both affectionate and warm. Then she stepped back, laughing. “But come inside! You must be exhausted after your trip, and I want to hear all about Laura and Franco. I can’t believe that they’re nearly four now. I miss them so. Oh, and you must meet our Alejandro. Why, he’s not yet a year old but so big…well, you’ll see.”
Half turning when she reached the top step, she said to her husband, “Don’t you let Steve go off anywhere with Luis. I know how they are, so you just bring them on inside with you. Later, you men can catch up on everything.”
Missie took control so efficiently and good-naturedly that no one complained, but instead complied with her wishes as easily as if it had been intended all along.
Ginny soon found herself divested of outer garments and trail dust, ensconced in a huge stuffed chair that bespoke comfort and welcome, sipping fruit juice from an iced glass. Missie certainly had blossomed after marriage to Renaldo. She was confident now, mistress of the house and her own nature, and quite obviously still terribly in love with her husband.
There was an inner glow to her that Ginny envied. A sense of peace emanated from her, imbuing the house with it. Even the heartbreaking loss of their first child had not shattered her new serenity, it seemed. Bruised it certainly, but not destroyed it.
“Tell me about Laura and Franco,” Missie begged, perched on the arm of a fat chair near Ginny. “Are they big now? Oh, I wish I could see them again. I cried for a week after they left here. I felt as if I were losing them forever.”
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