Chasing the Sunset

by Barbara Mack

  He laughed softly. “You do it,” he said, and lay down on the blankets, his eyes glinting at her wickedly.

  Maggie pulled his boots off and threw them carelessly away, her impatient fingers going straight back to the fastening of his pants, nearly ripping them off in her haste to free him from them. Her hands trembled, and she panted as she finally got them off of his long legs. Full of wonder, she put out a hand and stroked the lustrous skin of his stomach, then let her hand wander slowly downward. Nick groaned with pleasure, so she did it again, slowly, liking the way his skin felt to her touch.

  “Your skin is so soft,” she said. “And you are so hard underneath.” She could see the beat of his heart in his stomach and his hands were shaking, and it filled her with a sense of her own power. She could bring this man to a quivering mass, just with a touch, and she liked it. She liked it a great deal. “Do you enjoy it when I do that?” she whispered.

  “God,” he moaned. “Do not stop or I will die.”

  She bent to lick a path down his chest, evading his grasping hands, her breasts brushing against him, and he moaned again.

  He pulled her up instead to lie on top of him, one leg slightly bent and inserted between

  her thighs. The friction of his hair-roughened leg against her softer parts made her cry out, and Nick drank the cry from her mouth. He delved deep into the depths of her mouth, his hands cupping her face, his tongue thrusting against hers in an imitation of the act he intended to commit. Maggie’s hands delved into the hair on his chest, stroking, touching, learning the various textures of his body.

  “Silk,” she murmured to him. “The hair on your chest. It is as soft as silk.”

  “It could not be as soft and smooth as your skin,” he whispered into the perfect shell of her ear, and then licked it, making her quiver. When he slipped a finger inside her warm, wet depths, she writhed and bucked against him, crying out, and Nick felt his own passion leap in response.

  Maggie moaned and rode his leg, unconsciously bucking her hips. Nick deliberately shifted his leg and she bit him, hard. He laughed, delighted with her untutored response to him.

  “Just like that, darling,” he said. “Take what you want. Take me,” he whispered into her ear. “Tonight you are the master, Maggie, for I am your slave,” He kissed her swiftly. "I am yours. Do with me as you will."

  Maggie stared at him, shocked, but he could see the speculation in her eyes. He lifted her and put her astride him, then fitted himself to her entrance, moaning as her sweet essence flowed over him. He filled his hands with her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the tips.

  “We’ll do it this way. Take as much or as little of me as you wish,” Nick told Maggie tenderly. “You are in control, you decide.” Then he smiled a wicked smile that could have enticed an angel out of heaven.

  Even in the midst of her passion, Maggie felt tears stab at her eyes for his thoughtfulness.

  Though she had never alluded to it, she had wondered how she would feel when his body first covered hers; wondered if it would bring back bitter memories of her husband and the nightly rape that she had endured. Now she did not have to worry, for her body would cover his instead, and she could stop whenever she wished.

  She rocked back and forth a little, experimenting, and he groaned and grasped her body a little tighter. Maggie smiled. She liked this. She sank down farther upon him, his hands grasping her hips now, and they found a slow rhythm together, smiling into each other’s eyes with the pleasure of it all, and then she could think of nothing but how he filled her, how he stroked her. She arched her back, taking all of him, loving the feel of him inside her, the feel of his hand on her body, rubbing and caressing. Maggie leaned over to press her breasts into the hair of his chest, loving that, too. Loving it all. Loving him. She loved him so, this man. It swelled inside her, and she kissed him with her tears of joy sparkling in her green eyes.

  He bit her lip, and then soothed it with his tongue, and Maggie went wild for him. She began to pant and jerk, making small urgent cries that would have mortified her if she had known, then Nick rolled them both over and lifted her, cupping her buttocks in his hands. She wrapped her legs around him, her nails scoring furrows in his back, and he moved faster and faster, until she cried out his name and he felt her spasm around him. His release seemed to come all the way from his spine, and he rolled to his side, carrying her with him, never wanting to loose her from his arms. He pressed trembling little kisses all over her face as they lay there together, and he thought that he wanted to stay here like this with her forever, this precious woman that he had found.

  EIGHT

  Maggie woke reluctantly, not wanting to leave her warm, comfortable nest in Nick’s arms. She pillowed her head on his chest, hiding, but the light from the sun would not go away. Finally she lifted her head and squinted her eyes as she looked around. Nick opened his eyes when he felt her move.

  “Good morning,” he said, the words full of hot desire and sensual promise, and Maggie blushed as she thought of last night and all the things they had done to one another.

  Nick chuckled. They had made love twice more, falling asleep in each other’s arms for short periods, then waking up to lose themselves in each other again. He did not know how she could still blush after all the things that they had done together through the long night, but it was enchanting to see the pretty color flood her skin. He flicked a finger over the freckles on her nose; he had developed a fascination with them last night and had tried to count them by the flickering firelight and plant a kiss on her pliant mouth for every one he had found.

  “We should go,” he said. “They will all be worried about us.”

  Maggie groaned, and stretched like a cat. She ached in muscles she had not known she had.

  “I suppose,” she said unenthusiastically. She did not want anyone to worry, but she did not want to leave this place either. This dirty cabin had been a place of enchantment last night; her world had become a fairytale love story as Nick claimed her in front of the dilapidated fireplace.

  Nick pressed her to him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, belly to belly. Their skin touched everywhere and his mouth ravished hers until she was breathless. Then he pulled her clinging arms from around his neck with a purely male aura of satisfaction.

  “That is for you to remember all day,” he murmured, then swatted her behind. “Now let’s go home.”

  Maggie yelped and grumbled, but a cup of coffee did sound good right now. Her mouth watered. Some biscuits and gravy, maybe some bacon, too . . . Her stomach growled.

  Nick saddled Jet and they rode him double back to the farm, Maggie contented in his arms. At first they went slowly, gazing often into each other’s eyes, pressing kisses against greedy mouths, but then Nick took a path out of the forest into a pasture that he said was a straight shot to the house. He grinned at her with mischief shining from his every pore.

  “How fast do you think Jet can go carrying both of us?” he asked, and gave Jet a tap with his heels that had the stallion galloping for home.

  They rode recklessly fast through the pasture, the wind tossing Maggie’s hair behind her in one long streamer, both of them laughing giddily like children. Maggie whooped as loudly as Nick did, leaning low over the horse’s neck, urging him on with her voice, and Jet responded because he loved to run fast as much as they liked to go fast.

  They thundered into the yard and pulled the horse up right in front of the stables. Tommy and Ned had both come out to see who was coming across the lawn at such a high speed. Nick slid off Jet’s back and pulled Maggie with him, throwing the reins to a grinning Tommy.

  “Walk him out, would you, Tommy?”

  “Yes sir,” Tommy said, and slanted his eyes at Maggie. “Glad to see that you are all right, Miss Maggie,” he said, and Maggie was sure that what she and Nick had done together was written all over her face . . . and then it was, as she blushed bright scarlet and turned pointedly away from Tommy’s knowing grin.

 
; “I am going up to the house,” she said, trying to maintain her dignity. “Has everyone already had breakfast?”

  “If you could call it that,” grumped Ned. “Runny eggs and burnt toast, and Tommy’s coffee is worse than mine, and Kathleen is not here yet, so I could not get her to cook me anything.”

  “Well, come on up in a few minutes,” she said in amusement. “I will put a pot on to brew before I go and clean up.”

  “Are you all right, Maggie?” Ned asked hesitantly, and Maggie’s smile flew across her face with a brilliance that rivaled the sun.

  “Oh, yes, Uncle Ned,” she said softly. “I am just . . . wonderful.”

  The lines around his eyes grew deeper as his smile grew larger. He hugged her against him for a moment, and smoothed a hand over her disheveled hair. “It is glad I am,” he said. “If you are happy, then I am happy for you, Maggie girl.”

  Maggie fairly danced up to the house, a broad smile creasing her face. She could not help it, she was just so content that the joy just seemed to come bubbling up out of her. She put the coffeepot on to boil and ran upstairs to change into clean clothes.

  She stared at herself in the mirror and searched for differences in her face. She traced her reddened mouth with a finger, touched the whisker burn on her neck with a small, secretive smile, but she still looked exactly the same as she had yesterday. She wondered how that could be, when she felt so different inside.

  When Maggie went downstairs, Kathleen was there. Kathleen greeted her with a fierce hug. “Maggie, I was so afraid that something had happened to you!”

  “Something has,” Maggie confided, and spilled the whole story to her friend. Kathleen hugged her again, gleefully, and they set to work with happy hearts, the morning flying by as they played as much as they worked.

  At lunchtime, Nick’s hot eyes never left Maggie. He spilled his cup of coffee all over his trouser leg, burned his finger on the serving platter of roast chicken, knocked a bowl of mashed potatoes onto the man next to him, and buttered half of his linen napkin before he noticed, but still he did not take his eyes off of her. Maggie could not keep the fiery blush from swamping her whole body whenever she looked his way, and when the men began to nudge each other and chuckle, she took refuge in the kitchen until he was gone, before she was tempted to do something foolish, like haul him upstairs to the nearest bedroom.

  “Good Lord, he has got it bad,” Kathleen said in awe. “You have got to tell me how you did that, Maggie. I might want to use it on some poor, unsuspecting male some day.”

  Maggie blushed even harder, and Kathleen smirked. “Maybe I do know how you did it, after all,” she snickered, and Maggie snapped a wet towel at her, laughing.

  Just before dinner, right after Kathleen had gone home, Maggie was walking out the back door to throw some vegetable scraps to the chickens when a hand reached out and snatched her. She gave a startled yelp, then wrapped her arms around Nick and purred.

  “I have been thinking of you all day,” he whispered, pressing frantic kisses to her hair, her face, her neck, wherever he could touch.

  “Me, too,” she admitted.

  “Let’s go,” he said, tugging her away from the door. Maggie protested, laughing.

  “What about dinner?”

  “Kathleen packed us a basket,” he said smugly, presenting it. “And Tommy and Ned can fix their own plates.” With that, he began dragging her away again.

  “Wait!” Maggie cried. “I have to take everything off the stove and put it on the table at least, or we will come back to a house on fire.”

  He made a long-suffering noise. “I suppose you are right.”

  Maggie quickly did what she had to do and grabbed an old woolen shawl that Kathleen kept by the back door on a hook.

  “Where are we going?” she panted when Nick grabbed her by the hand and made her run alongside him. “My legs are shorter than yours. Slow down!”

  “We cannot slow down now,” he cried. “We are chasing the sunset!”

  Chasing the sunset ... it sounded lovely even if she did not know what it meant, so Maggie held tight to Nick’s hand and ran as fast as she could. They stopped in the little clearing by the river, the one where Nick had watched Maggie take her clothes off to go swimming, the place that had proved so climactic for them both. Nick sat the basket down and flopped onto his back on the cool grass.

  “Come down here,” he said, staring up at her. She obliged him, laying her head on his shoulder.

  “What is that you said we were doing?” she asked, her fingers idly playing with his hair.

  “That is something my father always said,” he told her and brought her fingers to his

  mouth.

  Maggie felt rather than saw him smile. “Every once in a while, come evening time, we would fill up a picnic basket with food and run for the river as fast as we could, pulling Mother along with us and laughing like fools. Hurry up! he would say. We do not have time to waste, we are chasing the sunset! Then we would lie down upon the ground, our arms around each other, and watch the sun go down.” He reached over and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Just like we are doing now.”

  He cleared his throat. “I have never done this with anyone else before.” He smoothed her hair, and kissed the tip of her nose while Maggie digested the significance of this remark. “But I cannot think of anyone else who I would rather chase the sunset with.” He whispered it, and to Maggie it sounded almost like a vow.

  “Neither can I,” she whispered, and put her lips to his almost chastely.

  “Careful,” he said, smiling into her face. “You will miss the best part.”

  They lay cuddled together, wrapped tight around each other, and watched the dying sun sink below the horizon. A glowing ball of bright orange, it went down in a burst of glorious color, illuminating the sky for mere seconds with serrated bands of crimson, gold and cerulean. Strips of soft violet and pink floated by, then vanished, disappearing into the darkening of the sky.

  Maggie thought that she had never seen a more beautiful sunset in her life; surely there had never been such a beauteous display of riotous hues?

  “So beautiful,” she whispered. Nick agreed, but he was not looking at the sky. He was looking at her.

  “Kathleen packed cold chicken sandwiches and some fruit. And some lemonade,” he told her. “Got to keep your strength up,” he told her wickedly. “You are going to need the stamina. I have a longing to know if we are just as good together in a bed as we are on a dirt floor.”

  They sat in the growing darkness and ate their dinner, then holding hands, they sprinted back to the house . . . with all of its big beds.

  Nick did think that the loving he and Maggie shared was just as good in his soft bed as on the dirt floor. Indeed, he thought that if it got any better, he would be a dead man.

  The next few weeks took on a dreamlike quality for Maggie. Kathleen lost track of how many times she came upon Maggie when she was supposed to be immersed in some task, instead staring off into the rafters, a small, dreamy smile curving her lips, eyes aglow with some thought or memory she had no wish to share with anyone else. Kathleen would snap her fingers in front of Maggie’s eyes, forcing Maggie back to the present, but the dreamy cast never went completely away from her features. Kathleen had remarked acerbically that if this was what love did to you–turned you into an idiot–then she wanted no part of it. Maggie blushed, and laughed, and apologized. Kathleen put her hands on her ample hips and grinned.

  “I am just jealous,” she had said good-naturedly. “To hear Ned tell it, Nick is just as bad as you are. He has his head so high up in the clouds, he cannot even walk across the stable yard without tripping over something. Ned says that he has to find a dozen reasons a day to send Nick up to the house just to get him out of their hair down to the stables.”

  Nick had been spending a lot of time up at the house, more than he ever had before, and Kathleen had come upon them giggling together, hands entwined, eyes speaking volumes eve
n when they said not a word. Maggie had also disappeared for long periods of time, then reappeared flushed and disordered, hair hastily re-pinned, and once with the back of her dress buttoned up wrong, and her apron on crooked. But even if her clothing had not been in disarray, the glow of satisfaction on her face was evidence enough in itself of what she had been doing.

  “Kathleen?” Maggie questioned hesitantly one day while they were making the week’s supply of bread. “You . . . you do not think that I am terrible, do you? I mean,” she said, and looked down, twisting her hands together. “Because Nick and I are lovers.”

  “Lord, no!” Kathleen said. She cocked her head to one side and wiped her floured hands on her apron. “Maggie, have you ever heard of Mary Wollstonecraft?”

  “No,” Maggie said. “Who’s she?”

  “She is an Englishwoman who wrote a book called The Vindication of the Rights of Woman. She started out as a teacher; she co-owned a school for girls with her sister, and she was appalled at the low level of education most women aspire to, or are kept at by their families. Our preacher found a copy of it and put it idly with his purchases while he was perusing the stacks at a local bookseller’s establishment. When he got it home and actually read it, he was shocked beyond belief. He condemned her book from the pulpit, saying that it was an affront to decent women everywhere, that it should not be allowed into this country, that we needed to protect our innocent flowers of womanhood from this vile outrage and that any who found copies of this base literature should destroy them immediately .” She grinned then, winking at Maggie. “Of course, by the time he got finished talking about it, Mother and I had memorized the title and the author’s name, and we were just dying to have a copy of it. I wrote to Joanne, Nick’s cousin, in Boston and she sent a copy to us straight away.”

  Maggie laughed and kneaded the pliant dough. “What does it say, this book?” she asked curiously.

  “Mary Wollstonecraft says that women are treated little better than slaves in a marriage–that they are encouraged to look beautiful but to be empty-headed, to bow down to the opposite sex as if they were gods, to be submissive above all else. She says that women are kept all their lives in a state of ignorance and dependence, and that the institution of marriage as it stands now–with masters and servants–degrades both parties. She goes so far as to call marriage ‘legal prostitution’, because she says that women trade sex for security. She says that women should be allowed to vote in public elections, that they should have the same rights afforded to them that men have . . . and that includes the right to make love outside of marriage. And Maggie, guess what? The book was published in England in 1792. In more than sixty years, things have not changed much for women, have they? Joanne also sent us a copy of a book that she said sells out the minute that it is reprinted. It is written by Margaret Fuller and called Woman in the Nineteenth Century. It is a very frank discussion about marriage, property laws that relate to women, and increased freedom for women in all regards. ”