Until he felt her arch again, and heard her hoarse, sharp cry. She seemed to shimmer under him, around him, and he drove into her hard, his head thrown back by the force of his climax, a guttural cry forced from his straining throat.
It was a warrior’s cry of triumph in defeat.
* * * *
“Did I hurt you?” He shifted his weight to the side, drawing her to face him, her leg over his hip. “I didn’t expect . . .” He moved slightly against her, inside her, and she knew what he hadn’t expected.
“There has been no one but you from that day at Jasper Pond, Nick Dusaq.”
She felt his reaction, in the surge inside her and in the fine tensing of his muscles around her.
“I love you, Nick. I’ve tried not to. Tried at the start and tried when you left and tried when you came back, but it’s there. I love you.”
He pulled out of her body, his dark eyes wary.
“Do you have feelings for me, Nick?”
“I told you,” he said impatiently. “You belong to me.”
“And I told you, we belong together.”
Ignoring that, he sat up, and she followed, grasping her chemise from the edge of the bedstead.
“We’ll marry, now that you’re a widow again,” he said. “I’ll take care of you and the boy, and the spread.”
Pulling on her chemise gave her an instant to think.
She’d married Edward Terhune to save her father and the Circle T. She’d married Gordon to save her son and the Circle T. Now Nick offered her a way to strengthen the ranch she loved, to give her son a father. All she had to do was take what she most wanted.
But she also wanted it from love. And he offered none.
“You’ll marry me, take care of me and our son and the ranch. But you won’t love me.”
“This isn’t that damn book you read at Christmas where the crippled boy gets healed, the miser reforms. That isn’t how things happen.”
“What about Shag and Ruth? Or my parents? Or Bob and Myrna or a dozen others around here? You don’t think they’ve had love?”
“Then maybe it’s those of Dusaq blood.” He stood and dragged on his pants with sharp, angry motions. “Because it damned sure didn’t bring anything but harsh words and harsher blows for my mother. And you see what marriage gave Alba every time she walks.”
As if afraid he’d revealed too much, his expression hardened. In his silence, he was slipping away from her, as surely as Brujo had carried him away from her earlier. She reached to him, sliding her hands on his chest, feeling the hurried beat of his heart.
“That wasn’t love that did that, Nick. Or marriage. It was men, evil men and—” Eyes widening with understanding, she stared. “Are you afraid you’ll be like your father, Nick, is that what it is? Oh, Nick. No.”
She reached to put her arms around his neck, but he grasped her wrists and held her away.
“Nick, you’re not like that.”
“I’m Pierre Dusaq’s blood.” His dead, cold voice shivered dread into her soul.
“But you’re not him.”
His mouth curled cruelly. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Her gesture took in the tumbled mattress and their half-clothed states. “I do.”
For a slice of a second, she saw something in his eyes, then nothing.
“Don’t go confusin’ that with love, darlin’. There’s scores in whorehouses who know better. Ask them if you want to know the difference.”
With fragile dignity she drew the material of her chemise more closely around her.
“I know the difference. I was taught by Edward Terhune. And I know that what you do with my body is love. When you know that, then you come to me, Nick Dusaq.”
* * * *
Alba opened the cabin’s windows and door before stepping out to gaze to the mountains rising in the west like a counterpoint to the sun behind her. For days she had scrubbed and washed, shaking out dust and cold shadows of the long winter. Yesterday she had her first bath in the pool behind the cabin, shivering at the chill but enjoying its contrast with the warming sensation as she rubbed liniment on her hip. Trying not to think of Davis’ hand on her skin. Or his lips on hers.
“Alba?”
She spun around at the quiet voice that could have come from her thoughts. The broom fell from her hands and clattered across the threshold. Davis bent to pick it up.
“Thank you. You startled me.”
“Yes,” was all he said.
They had not spoken of that winter’s night alone. But Alba felt it, weighty, between them. He asked no questions, made no demands. Yet, always, his gaze shadowed her, leaving her nervous, unsettled . . . and oddly comforted.
“Alba.” She stopped, her shoulder near his chest, her head lowered. “I’m riding to the Circle T, to see if Henry can fix that plow blade that broke digging you a garden.”
Rachel had sent a letter saying she’d leased out the house at Natchez and had returned with the others to the Circle T home ranch. So she would be there.
“Nick said he would purchase one.”
Davis shrugged. “There are other things we need if Henry’ll fix it.”
Nick would not ask such a favor, so Davis would do the asking. Alba understood that. She also understood it would not be mentioned to her brother unless it succeeded.
“I thought you might ride with me,” Davis went on. “Really give that saddle a try.”
He had presented an adapted sidesaddle to her shortly after their return from Natchez. She had tried it for short rides with pleasure. The sense of freedom was heady. And the saddle was remarkably comfortable, its deepened curve accommodating her hip perfectly. Nick, at first showing chagrin at his failure to help his sister that way, had praised Davis’ ingenuity. Throughout, Davis maintained the saddle wouldn’t be truly tested until she made a longer trip.
“Thank you, Davis, but—”
“You wouldn’t have to ride back. If you tire, you can ride with me in the wagon.”
His offer touched the very reason she hesitated. Yet if the saddle was comfortable for such a journey, she would no longer be restricted to using the wagon. She would have a degree of freedom she had never before known. It was her choice. Her choice.
“Thank you, Davis. I will be ready very shortly.”
* * * *
Rachel heard the wagon, and came out of the drafty Circle T barn with Henry following. Her frown lifted into a weary smile.
“How wonderful to see you!” she called as Alba, wearing her new serge riding suit, rode in on a gentle mare beside the wagon Davis drove. “I see Davis’ experiment was a success.”
“It is a marvel,” said Alba, her face glowing.
Henry offered a brawny arm to help her dismount while Rachel helped Davis secure the wagon team.
“Mrs. Wood.” Davis tipped his hat. “I wondered if you’d be willing to let Henry try his hand at fixing this plow blade?”
Rachel noticed he said nothing about Nick in this. She also noticed with some uneasiness that Davis’ gaze went to the collected horses in the near corral.
“Of course. He has wagon wheel rims to see to, so settle with him when he can get to it. If it’s okay with you, Henry?” she asked as the older hand and Alba came up.
“Fine by me. I’ll look it over soon as I finish up here with Miz Wood.”
“We’ll finish later. You and Davis look at it now, while I get Alba a cool drink.”
But it was too late. Davis stood rooted to the spot, staring at the horses.
“What’s all this?”
Rachel sighed, but gave no answer. She didn’t need to.
Davis was already saying, “Those’re your top breeders. What’re they all doing here in the corral?”
“She’s fixin’ to sell ‘em,” Henry said with disapproval.
Davis pivoted to her. “Sell them?”
Inconsequentially, Rachel had the thought that Davis Andresson was no longer the boy who’d arrived at th
e Circle T. He’d filled out—physically and in other ways. In a quiet assurance, and a deep steadiness. At the moment, she wished he’d remained a gangly youth.
“Some of the stock, yes.”
“Most,” grumbled Henry.
“Why?” Davis demanded.
“I can’t afford not to.” Her bald statement produced a frozen silence.
Davis looked to the horses then to her, sympathy softening his eyes. Rachel turned away.
“That’s the way of it.” Henry sadly shook his head.
“Come, Rachel.” Alba’s hand was gentle on her arm. “Let us find a cool drink in the house.”
Rachel allowed herself to be drawn along. If there had been a way to keep the horses . . . But it would have meant selling Natchez or the Circle T and that would have broken her promise to her father or to Gordon. To keep the ranches going she needed land more than she needed breeding stock horses. Her dream could wait.
Alba talked quietly as they sat on the front porch bench, drinking cool tea Esther provided and eating pieces of gingerbread.
“Nick, perhaps, could be of aid,” Alba said in the same tone she had just used to describe discovering spring flowers by her cabin.
Rachel stiffened. “I will not ask him.”
“You aided him, Rachel, with money to pay for the hay.”
“I won’t ask him, and I want you to promise you won’t tell him.”
“But—”
“Promise, Alba, that you will not tell him.”
“I will not tell him.”
Rachel relaxed against the bench. “I know you mean well, but there are things you don’t understand. Your brother, well, he’s not an easy man.”
“He can be a hard man, but he is not a bad man. His heart is hidden, but it is good.”
Her tongue felt stiff as she answered. “I don’t think he’s a bad man.”
Alba hardly seemed to hear. Her hands tightened in her lap. Her eyes grew dim and lost. “You don’t know what some men can do. You don’t know.”
She shuddered, and Rachel put a hand over hers.
“Nick told me. About your husband. About how . . . how he died.”
Alba looked up. “My brother told you?”
“Yes.”
“But he could not tell you everything, because I did not tell him everything. There were things . . .” In Alba’s eyes Rachel saw a horror she could hardly imagine. “My husband liked cruelty. Do you understand? He enjoyed hurting. All creatures. I could not tell Nick those things because it would have driven him to such anger.”
Rachel ached for the woman, for the pain she’d suffered, and the pain she’d held inside to protect Nick.
“I fear for my brother. He still has such rage. From our father, and from what my husband did to me.”
“And what he believes I did to him.” The words slipped out before Rachel could consider them.
Alba faced her. “No, not rage, not even at the beginning. Sorrow, I think. And pain, but not rage. You are the center of his thoughts, you and the little one.”
“Being the center of someone’s thoughts does not mean there is affection or caring there.”
Alba stared out to the openness that stretched before them until the sky bowed down to meet it. “No, that is true. Sometimes the center of your thoughts demands to be there by fear, even hatred.”
To divert Alba, Rachel ventured a gentle teasing. “But that’s not how you’ve come to be the center of a certain someone’s thoughts lately, is it?”
Alba looked at her blankly, then flushed with a high color. “I don’t—It is not—What you saw is not—”
Instantly remorseful, Rachel said with emphasis, “You have no cause to explain anything to me. But if what I saw wasn’t what I thought, there’s no reason it shouldn’t be. Or couldn’t be. At least not from Davis’ side, I’d wager.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. Let me talk. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you how to handle your business. But there’s something that happened I think you might want to know about. That summer Davis and Nick worked for the Circle T, a man came to look at my horses. He said he was looking to buy. He took out a filly. Young, not fully settled, but not high-strung or testy. When he brought her back, her mouth was bleeding, and she had welts and she was scared.” Rachel went grim at the memory. “When I caught up with them, Nick had dragged the man out of the saddle and was doing his best to throttle him, and Davis was already tending to Fanny.”
Alba smiled tentatively. “That sounds very much like them. Each of them.”
“Yes. It took me a while to see how much like each of them it was. And to see that what one had wasn’t better than the other, only different. Nick’s instinct was to protect—and to punish if it came to that. Davis’ was to heal. The world needs both. People need both.”
* * * *
“Rachel’s selling her horses.”
“What?”
Nick spun around, face and hair damp from the water he’d splashed on, to glare at Davis, a half-dozen paces away. Alba froze where she stood, just inside the open door, watching the two men who were so intent on each other they wouldn’t notice her.
“You heard. Rachel’s selling her horses. She needs the money.”
She’d had no idea Davis intended to confront Nick on this. She had ridden back from the Circle T, keeping a distance from the wagon. Last night at supper and this morning at breakfast, Davis had seemed increasingly restless, as if waiting for her to speak, while her promise to Rachel kept her still.
“Since when do you call her Rachel?”
Davis didn’t flinch at the sneer in Nick’s voice.
“You’ve done a lot more than that, haven’t you, Nick?” At the quiet accusation, her brother jerked as if he’d taken a lash. “I’m not judging what you’ve done, but I’m telling you now, she needs help.”
“How do you know she needs money? She tell you that?”
“How do I know? Everybody knows Wood left her a pile of debts and a herd near half-gone. She’s let the house at Natchez and moved the whole passel of them to the Circle T. And she wouldn’t sell those horses if she didn’t have to. Had them all ready to move out yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“I took that plow blade to the Circle T for Henry to fix. Alba rode along, and that’s when we found out about the horses.”
“You’ve taken a lot on yourself, Andresson.”
“Yes, I have. And I’ll take more on myself—what I think is you oughta help Rachel.” Davis turned, his gaze cutting through the gloom to pin Alba where she stood. “What do you think?”
Nick followed Davis’ look as Alba stepped into the fading sunlight. His gaze went from the younger man to his sister and back, his eyes narrowing.
“I agree,” she said.
Davis continued to look at her for a moment before wrenching his gaze to Nick. The men stared at each other, silent seconds piled up. Then Nick turned on his heel and strode into the cabin.
Alba ducked her head to avoid meeting the look she knew Davis gave her, and followed Nick, busying herself with serving supper. Davis followed shortly, but it was a silent, uncomfortable meal, and as soon as she’d cleaned up, they each turned in.
Waking from a fitful sleep, Alba heard a rhythmic sound. From the window of the bedroom, she recognized her brother, pacing in the tamped-down earth, moonlight tracing stark lines in his face.
When she woke for good, later than usual, the sun was well-risen, Davis had started the coffee and Nick was gone.
* * * *
“I’ll tote that.”
Alba straightened with the bucket she’d filled in the creek. She had not expected to see Davis until supper. Of Nick she had no expectations.
“I did not know you would return so soon, or I would have had a meal for you. But there is bread, and beans. Have you eaten?”
“Jerky and biscuits.” He reached for the bucket.
“I can carry—”
When she tried to swing the bucket out of his reach, water nearly slopped over the side and he caught the handle. With a palm under her elbow, he guided her from the creek.
“What are you doing here, Davis?” she asked, cultivating exasperation to hide a dangerous reaction to his solicitude. Rachel’s words about Davis came back to her—he was becoming in some ways a man who would not take no for an answer. He also was a healer.
“I’m sticking near, long as Nick’s away. You tired? Let’s sit a while.”
He’d already set down the bucket and gestured for her to sit on the grass-covered raised earth that edged the open area.
He sat beside her, not too near, yet the rough fabric covering his thigh pinned down her widespread skirt. With frantic, uncoordinated fingers, she tugged at the material. Davis shifted immediately, releasing the fabric. She smoothed her skirt over and over with unsteady hands.
“What do you think Nick’ll do?”
She swallowed against a swell of gratitude that he did not press her about her reaction.
“I do not know. I hope he will help Rachel. They are both . . . strong hearts.” Movement caught from the corner of her eye told her Davis nodded. “They could help each other be strong, if they could drop away the hurts and fears.”
She couldn’t have said how she knew Davis was thinking that her words applied not only to Nick and Rachel, but she did. Without conscious thought, her eyes rose to his. She saw their kindness, their compassion, their strength, their determination. She saw more, and she would have looked away if she could have.
“I wouldn’t ever hurt you, Alba.”
“I know.” She also knew that wasn’t enough of an answer. “But . . .”
His long arms spanned the space between them as he cupped her face with a touch so gentle it could have held a bubble. But his lips, when they met hers, had a hungry heat that chased her heartbeat into a gallop. Only his palms and his lips touched her, as he kissed her again and again.
Until she reached for him.
“Alba . . .”
His murmur against her lips made her sigh. He ended one kiss only long enough to stroke her cheek. When his eyes came to her lips, he pulled in a short breath and brought his mouth to hers. She ran her palms along his back.
Widow Woman Page 26
