Rain Shadow (Dutch Country Brides)

by Cheryl St. John

  “You want everything just as much, just as hard and fast as I do.”

  She only knew she wanted him. No doubt she’d breached some unspoken rule of propriety. Perhaps wives didn’t want everything as hard and fast as their husbands. Humiliation burned her cheeks. “How unladylike of me.”

  “No, Rain Shadow.” He knelt beside her chair.

  She forced herself to meet his earnest gaze.

  “No,” he whispered. “I was proving something to myself.”

  “That you could have me if you wanted?”

  “No.” He took her hand and rubbed his thumb across the back. “Please, don’t think that.”

  “What am I supposed to think?” She watched his thumb stroke back and forth and wanted to draw it to her mouth, wanted to pull all of him against her, inside her.

  He laid her hand in her lap. “Just think about what you really want. Think about it tomorrow when we’re not together, and you can see more clearly.”

  When you’re not near, and my judgment isn’t influenced by my traitorous body, you mean. “All right.”

  “Go to bed, now.”

  She rose obediently, gathering her boots and socks. The clock chimed, punctuating her good-night.

  “Good night, Rain Shadow. Sleep well.”

  Rain Shadow almost laughed. Any sleep at all would be a miracle.

  * * *

  “Do I hafta finish these numbers, Ma? You know I can do ’em.” Slade twirled a tooth-scarred pencil between his fingers and served her his best martyred-little-boy expression.

  Rain Shadow sliced a slab of bacon. “Your mind needs to be as healthy as your body.”

  “I know, Ma. But you know how sometimes your...seat hurts after you practice too much? Or your arms? That’s how my head feels today.”

  Rain Shadow met Anton’s amused gaze. Perched in the rocker, Nikolaus at his feet in a pile of wood shavings, Anton whittled a length of birch.

  “All right,” she conceded.

  Slade grinned.

  “Ain’t it about time for me and Slade to go to Aunt Annette’s?” Nikolaus asked.

  Anton glanced at the mantel clock. “Yep, it is. Wrap up warm. I’ll walk with you.”

  “I have to get my bag.” Nikolaus bounded for the ladder. “C’mon, Slade. Get your clothes ready.”

  Rain Shadow glanced from one boy to the other. “What do you mean?”

  Nikolaus paused on the bottom rung. “I always spend the night when we pull taffy. Slade’ll stay, too, won’t he?” Unsettled, she laid the knife down and wiped her hands on a clean flour sack. The thought of Slade not being here with her didn’t rest easily on her conscience. Too many troubling things had happened recently. “I—I don’t know.”

  She cast Anton a nervous glance.

  “He’s as safe with my brother as he is with me,” Anton assured her softly.

  Three sets of eyes awaited her decision. Time stopped. Anton had brought several dogs home a few days earlier, and there hadn’t been an incident since. If Anton didn’t have a concern over the boys staying at Annette and Franz’s, she guessed it would be safe. He’d been right the other day when she’d panicked—she couldn’t hide her son away forever. Besides, how could she let Nikky go without him? “Use the outhouse on the way, and don’t go out again until morning.”

  “Aw-right!” Nikolaus bounded up the ladder.

  Slade gave her a quick hug. “Thanks.”

  Anton stood and brushed shavings from his lap. “I’ll clean this up later.’ ’

  She turned to the dinner she’d started. “They’ll eat there?”

  He nodded and grabbed his coat.

  “You don’t have to hurry. Our meal will take a while longer.”

  Their sons returned, laden with the worn saddlebags they played with full to bursting. Slade hugged her soundly, and she kissed his forehead.

  Nikolaus stood timidly between her and the door, a half wistful expression on his cherubic features.

  “’Bye, Nikky,” she said with a smile.

  “’Bye, Rain Shadow.” He flipped his mittened hand in an awkward wave.

  She’d watched the touches between her son and Anton, Anton’s enormous hand guiding Slade’s narrow one over a wooden horse they shaped, the three enthusiastically wrestling on the floor, the man affectionately ruffling her boy’s hair.

  Did Nikky crave a motherly touch as much as Slade needed a fatherly one? Rain Shadow feared she would embarrass him, or worse yet—feared that she’d misconstrued his hesitation. How could she have? He was a little boy without a mother.

  “Wait.” She searched the hooks near the door until she found a woolen cap. Kneeling, she pulled it over his golden curls and flattened it around his ears. “Can’t have you catching cold.”

  Face-to-face, he smiled disarmingly, his sky-blue eyes and freckle-dusted cheeks an angelic vision. His mother must have been beautiful—was beautiful, she corrected herself, recalling the daguerreotype in Anton’s room. “Have fun,” she said, and dotted his nose with her index finger.

  Impulsively, he flung his arms around her neck and hugged her soundly. She wrapped her arms around his back and returned the embrace, her eyes flooding with tears.

  How had this happened? She had fallen in love with Anton’s son. Nikolaus released her, turned to his father, and the three left, a gust of winter wind swirling about her ankles.

  Thank goodness Nikolaus had Annette, and he obviously held a special place in her heart. Rain Shadow couldn’t let this be her concern. She wouldn’t be here long enough to give Nikky the attention he needed. Annette would.

  Staring at the closed wooden door, recognition seeped into her pores. Anton would return shortly. And they would be alone together. The memory of their kisses a few nights earlier brought a flush to her cheeks.

  Think about it... think about what you really want...

  What did she really want? Before the train had derailed and she’d discovered her son in Anton’s dimly lit bedroom, she’d been certain she wanted to be the best sharpshooter known to mankind. Certain she didn’t want to be dependent on a man for anything. Those certainties had grown hazy and confusing beneath Anton’s somber blue gaze. Her resolve vanished within the heated embrace of his muscled arms. What had he done to her?

  What was she doing living in this cabin with him, mending his shirts and cooking his meals? His meals! She spun toward the table, praying she’d have an edible one ready. A batch of biscuits wouldn’t take long. The stove took a knack she couldn’t seem to master. She could outshoot and outride any worthy opponent, accurately throw a knife at a target from twenty-five feet, catch enough game or fish to survive ten winters, but she had yet to prepare a meal without charring something.

  In her haste, she spilled milk down the front of her dress. Aggravated, she gathered skillets and ingredients, and cooked over the fireplace, a tried and true method. The bacon, turned often on the trivet, browned evenly. The biscuits, just the right distance from the fire, were golden brown. Rain Shadow opened one of the jars of green beans Lydia had given her, and peaches, too.

  Glancing down at her soiled dress and apron, she washed her face and hands, dashed into the bedroom and peeled off the wet clothing. Her underthings were damp, as well, so she hung them over the back of a chair, brushed her hair out quickly and attempted to pin it to her head the way Annette and Lydia did.

  “Smells good!” Anton’s voice boomed from the other room.

  “It’s ready. Just a minute!” She reached into her trunk and drew out the first dress she touched, ivory doeskin. She really should wear one of her new ones, but they took so long to adjust and button, and all those underclothes were required. She’d actually fixed a decent meal, she couldn’t let it scorch now. She slipped the soft leather dress over her head.

  Anton looked up from the wood shavings he’d swept into a tidy pile. His intense blue eyes riveted on her, radiating approval.

  Rain Shadow. Undeniably, irresistibly beautiful. Exotic. Try as
he did to stick to his idealistic thoughts and plans, her unconventional appearance, habits and spunk entranced him. He watched her grab a flour sack and remove the skillet from the fire. Her pale dress clung to every perfect curve, displayed her smooth, slender calves and ankles. She looked lovely in her new cotton dresses, lovelier than every woman he knew, but this...this was the manner of dress that ignited his blood, drummed it through his veins in a tortuous blaze he was hard-pressed to squelch.

  Studying her, he realized her hair wasn’t Indian-like at all. The ever-present braid upheld the illusion of straight black hair, but gathered in a loose knot, tendrils curled becomingly at her neck and cheeks. The fire’s glow cast alluring highlights. A few pins removed, and the tresses would fall around her like a silken curtain.

  He remembered how she’d responded to him the other night, how close he’d been to giving in to his desire. She wouldn’t have stopped him. He knew it. Knew with an assuredness he’d never known before. Knew if he gave in now, it would all be over.

  And they were completely alone—

  Chapter Thirteen

  Snowflakes swirled on the frozen ground beneath Miguel’s horse’s hooves. Clouds played cat and mouse with the moon. He eyed the cabin murderously. The wind caught at the brim of his hat. He unrolled a blanket from behind his saddle and draped it across his head and shoulders.

  He should have taken the necklace by force when he found her. Instead he had wheedled and cajoled. After all his watchful, careful plots and plans, she had humiliated him. If she had stepped into the night without her holster he could have had the locket. The puta!

  He should have shot her. He should have shot Neubauer. They had made a fool of him! Miguel de Ruiz, descendant of one of the most prominent families in Argentina! She had told him the child was Neubauer’s. If not for the conversation he had overheard in the saloon, Miguel might never have known. Resentment flared anew at the memory.

  “D’juh hear the oldest Neubauer son went and got hisself hitched again?”

  A bleary-eyed farmer had leaned into his beer and peered at his neighbor. “Thought that Clanton girl was being courted by that Beker fella from Accord.”

  “Weren’t her.”

  The other’s brows shot up. “No? Who then? McLaury’s youngest?”

  “Nope. Done married hisseff that Indian princess from the Wild West Show.”

  “She’s a looker.”

  “Got herself a kid, too. Nice looking boy. ’Bout a year older’n his own boy... must be ’bout seven. Black hair and eyes. ’Bout as different from Nikolaus as night and day, but I seen Anton with him, and he treats the boy just like his own.”

  Ruiz had seethed anew, the remainder of the conversation going unheard. Seven. The boy was seven. A little more than seven years ago he had met her on board the Nebraska and had taken her.

  She had been a virgin. Now she was a liar.

  He had a son.

  A son he could take back to his country and present to his father. An accomplishment. His father would welcome Miguel with open arms if he knew he had a grandson. His three brothers had each taken their inheritance and carved their fortune in various investments—mining, manufacturing, shipping. Was it his fault his funds had dwindled before he had time to choose a worthy investment?

  A little more than seven years ago when his father had shunned him, only one of his brothers had been married, and his wife had borne him two daughters. Miguel pulled the blanket tighter around his hunched shoulders and absorbed the significance of that fact.

  He had a son. Even if his brothers had had sons since, his was the first. All along he’d had a son. All along she had withheld the information. Lied when confronted.

  She would be sorry. Sorry she had shunned him as his father had. Sorry she had kept his son from him. He would see to it.

  Neubauer had accompanied the children to the other house, and then returned. He and Rain Shadow were occupied for the evening. All Miguel need do was bide his time. A little longer. An opportunity would present itself.

  He gazed into the night winter sky. Perhaps in the morning. If the weather cooperated, the snow would cover his tracks. He would be home in a matter of weeks. He imagined presenting the child to his father. Family was everything in his culture. No doubt his father pined for a way to make peace. No doubt he would welcome his son and grandson home. Home with its many comforts—a warm fire, a bottle of port, servants to attend his every need. Home...with his son.

  * * *

  They were alone in the snug cabin, its sturdy log walls and snapping fire cocooning them from the winter cold and wind. Apprehension quavered in the pit of Rain Shadow’s belly, sending signals to every limb. She willed herself not to tremble.

  Her eyes met his, something dark and absorbing drawing her into the heat of his unconscious seduction. On the tabletop between them were the vestiges of his culture, material things proclaiming his family ties, his heritage. Delicate blue-scrolled china plates, cups and saucers. A reed-slim vase where she’d placed a single dried flower. Did Anton find her artless efforts lacking? She’d tried so hard to prepare a suitable meal, serve it in the manner he was accustomed to. The disquieting look in his eyes gave no indication of how he liked the food.

  She was reminded of the calm before a storm, those minutes of heavy, oppressive stillness before wind gusted and rain poured from the skies in torrents. A volatile undercurrent passed between them.

  Her exotic violet eyes drew him, and unblinking, he studied the twin ebony wings of her brows, her slightly parted, seductive lips. He remembered the satiny feel of them beneath his, the hungry way she responded to his mouth with hers. He was light-headed, as if he’d had too many beers, the way she always made him feel, the way he didn’t want to feel about her—about any woman.

  Under his gaze, her breathing changed tempo. Her breasts rose and fell beneath the quill work on her dress, diminishing his resolve to stay clear of this woman whose soft voice and strong body had him neglecting reason.

  He wanted to climb across the table and pull her against him, crush her lips beneath his and taste the nectar of her mouth. Anton imagined sliding his hands beneath her dress. But wanting her was more than the physical enticement of her exquisite scents and softness. Needing her involved so much more.

  He had feelings for her.

  The thoughts were a mistake.

  She was willing. She’d made that plenty obvious the other night. All he had to do was close the four short feet between them, touch her hair and skin the way he yearned to, and the torture would end. Was he denying himself for nothing? Was he so noble? No, he answered himself. He couldn’t afford to love her.

  If he didn’t love her, she couldn’t hurt him. But his desire and the feelings expanding in his chest stole his breath and his sanity. His fingertips tingled as though her silken skin was beneath them now. It had been a long, long time since he’d been with a willing woman. And he’d never had feelings like these. He felt guilty about that.

  “Is there anything wrong?” Her full lips parted. “Is there something else you want?” Her eloquent eyes were uncertain, waiting for reassurance. “Anton?”

  The air was suffocating, the silence deafening, like that dead still before the storm.

  “You.” His reply split the quiet like a lightning bolt. “I want you.”

  Rain Shadow caught her breath and resisted pressing her hand to her racing heart. How much had that admission cost him? Though he obviously had no appetite for the food on his plate, his eyes devoured her. A tremor began in her arms and legs and whipped through her body. The famished look in his eyes and the taut lines around his mouth were almost frightening. Frightening because of his enormous appetites, his extreme emotions and actions. Frightening because of the consuming desire she recognized...and reciprocated.

  Alarming, though arousing.

  Startling, yet dizzily exciting.

  Exciting in a way that melted every last defense into a liquid pool of fire. She opened he
r mouth and flicked her tongue across her lips.

  His nostrils flared.

  Her heart thundered. “What’s stopping you?”

  The tumultuous storm broke in the depths of his untamed eyes. He stood, the chair clattering to the floor behind him. Rain Shadow’s heart thundered a warning in her breast. She rose and met his mouth with hers. He made a noise deep in his throat, a sound of torture and surrender. His kiss was long and hard, stealing her breath and her common sense. His long, sinewed arms wrapped around her and held her possessively against him.

  Anton ran eager fingers through her hair, and pins scattered across the tabletop and floor. Released, the raven tresses spread around her shoulders. He pulled his mouth from hers and buried his face in her hair, nudged his nose along her neck and nipped at the tender cord beneath her ear, assailing her with exquisite tremors.

  He inhaled deeply. “Ah, you smell good.”

  Instinctively, she raised her arms and wrapped them around his shoulders. Mouth at her ear, his fingers found the thin leather tie behind her neck and loosened it. He peeled the soft garment forward, coaxing her arms from his neck. The dress caught on her forearms, baring her upper body to him.

  Alive and trembling, she watched him, read his approval behind eyes of blue fire. He kissed her again with his lips and his tongue, then pulled back. Sliding his touch along her sides, he reached both thumbs inward and caressed. Rain Shadow saw the effect of her immediate response on his enraptured face. Her body’s answer to his touch invited his palms to cup her, to test her weight and shape. She was aware of each rough callus at the base of his fingers, trembled at the glorious texture of his palms against her tender skin. Boldly, she watched his tanned hands dwarf her breasts. The sight spiraled pleasure and turned it into an overwhelming ache. He turned his wrists and kneaded her gently.

  One hand trailed upward, and he raised her chin with a knuckle, forcing her to look up. She met his greedy lips and yanked her restless arms from the confines of her dress, framing his face with both hands. Impatiently, she pressed herself into his hand, and he wrapped his other arm around her, drawing her against him. The kiss grew demanding. Tormenting.