Summer Hawk

by Peggy Webb

  “You won’t be needing these.” Joseph pried the reins from her tight fingers, then raked her into his arms. Her breath shooshed out as he flattened her against his chest.

  He planted his mouth down on hers in a way that brooked no argument.

  Who wanted to argue? Callie was a starving woman suddenly turned loose in a banquet hall. He kissed her deeply, urgently, and she responded in kind. His lips devoured, his tongue probed. Holding on as if he would never let go, he kissed her until they both lost their breath.

  Then they leaned back and stared at each other, too stunned for words. With a sound more animal than human, he took her again, his mouth punishing, bruising in the intensity of his hunger.

  She swayed against him, a young sapling bending with the wind. Every muscle in his body was rigid. Pressed so tightly against him she could hardly breathe, she felt every sinew, every bone, every sharp angle.

  With his mouth locked on hers he tangled his fingers in her hair, holding her captive while he played his heartbreaking brand of magic.

  Somewhere in the distant regions of Callie’s mind she heard echoes of the old questions. Why did Joseph deny his heritage? Why was he breaking his vow of not involving himself with another virologist? Did the old rules still hold?

  But she was too far gone to ask the questions. Perhaps she never would ask them.

  She needed what Joseph was giving, wanted what he offered. No questions. No promises. No holds barred.

  His hips took up the urgent rhythm of his tongue, and Callie strained against him, trying to feel him, all of him, through their layers of clothes.

  As if he had read her mind, Joseph ripped aside her shirt, scattering buttons to the four winds. She was braless and his eyes blazed as he lowered his lips to her breast. Callie arched her back, a bold honey-colored goddess offering herself to him. His lips closed over her, and he took her nipple deep in his mouth.

  It was not enough. For either of them.

  They ripped aside their clothes and with one accord fell to the ground. Wild in their need, the only sounds they made were akin to those of a mating stallion covering his mare.

  Joseph’s first thrust drove her back into the ground, and she arched high to meet him. Beads of sweat gathered on his face and dripped into the valley between her breasts. Callie dug her fingernails into his back and hooked her legs over his shoulders.

  Her cries echoed through the darkened mountains, and Joseph held her on the burning edge until she was trembling. Then it started all over again, the rhythm escalating until her blood was singing once more.

  Rolling over, he took her with him. She needed no words, no commands. She rode as if she owned the world, as if everything she knew and loved was held tightly inside.

  Golden, glorious, glowing. That’s how she felt.

  The stars were no longer in the sky. They had fallen one by one and lodged in her heart. And there they would remain.

  Forever.

  She said none of this aloud, for instinct told Callie that Joseph had not come to talk about forever. Instead, she kept the secrets in her heart while she kept the flame in her body.

  Joseph moaned and writhed beneath her, then lacing his fingers through hers, he squeezed. Hard.

  “Now, Callie. Now!”

  They erupted at the same time. The explosion shook Callie to her very marrow. Limp and sated, her legs trembling, her heart pounding, she fell against him and rested her cheek on his chest.

  Wrapping his arms tightly around her, he pushed her damp hair back from her hot face. Neither of them spoke. The wind picked up speed, branches whispered, and Joseph’s stallion whinnied.

  “We must tether him,” she said.

  “Later.” Joseph’s arms tightened. “If I ever let you go I’m afraid I might lose you.”

  “Don’t let go,” Callie whispered. “Don’t let go.”

  Joseph was in heaven. He was in hell.

  After once having this woman, how could he ever let her go? And yet, he knew he must.

  Need had driven him to her mountain. Need and a passion so great it bordered on obsession.

  But nothing had changed for them. Not her job, not his. Their clash over heritage was there, simmering just beneath the surface. The old fears still lingered. The old problems remained.

  For the moment, though, she was his. Her skin melted into his, her breath mingled with his, her heart beat a perfect rhythm with his. There in the mountains with the moon and stars as their witnesses they were united in heart and body as surely as if they had taken sacred vows. Nothing could change that, and nothing could take it away.

  A chill wind blew across them, and Callie shivered. Without a word, Joseph carried her inside the tent and laid her upon a blanket the colors of the earth. It was handwoven with Apache symbols adorning the center and the four corners.

  Everything in the tent spoke of her Apache heritage—the gathering baskets in one corner, the beaded moccasins, the clay bowls. Joseph was transported back to his childhood, back to a time when being Sioux caused him pride rather than shame, back to a time when he would have fought to the death to defend the name Hawk.

  The Hawk. His father’s spirit guide, his totem.

  Surrounded by nature and the trappings of a once great nation, a long-buried pride floated to the surface, and he soared, as strong and fierce as the great bird of prey from which he took his name.

  Callie touched his cheek, and in the moonlight spilling through the tent door he saw wonder in her face.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she whispered. Sighing, she settled against him, her body soft and yielding.

  He traced her face with his fingertips, memorizing every line. The poetry of his people filled his soul, and overflowed.

  “Soft as the hart to the spring goes my heart to yours. I drink your sparkling waters, the nectar of the sweetest flowers, and I am content.”

  “That’s beautiful,” she said. With wanton abandon she lifted herself away from him and spread herself upon the blanket, her hair a velvet cloud and her legs a silken invitation.

  “Drink my sparkling waters,” she whispered.

  Joseph seized the moment, for all too soon it would be gone. Yesterday would be a dream and tomorrow might not never come.

  She was sweet and warm and moist, like strawberries ripened in the sun and eaten straight from the vine. He couldn’t get enough of her. With lips and tongue he teased her, devoured her, and brought her once again to the edge of the precipice.

  Arching high under his questing tongue, she caught fistfuls of blanket and held on so she wouldn’t fall over.

  But the delicious agony was too much to bear—for both of them.

  “Joseph, Joseph!”

  She screamed out her need, and Joseph lifted her up so that they faced each other, joined heart and body, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck. The wind caught her cries and lifted them up toward the darkening sky where they merged with the stars.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Joseph woke up, Callie was gone. He had hoped to wake up with her in his arms. He had hoped to make slow, gentle love to her, not merely for the beauty of it, but to make up to her for the savage mating of the night before.

  His blood heated at the thought of her. So strong was his need, so hot was his passion that if she walked through the door he would have a hard time staying away from her.

  Still, Joseph knew he had to show Callie that she was more to him than a sexual partner. If he couldn’t tell her of his love, the least he could do was show her kindness, compassion and a tender regard.

  He dressed quickly and went outside. Her horse was gone. Joseph’s heart sank. What did that mean? With Callie, it could mean anything. She was not the kind of woman who gave herself lightly, and she was certainly not the kind of woman who cast principles to the four winds simply because Joseph had walked up her mountain and into her life.

  Temporarily, he reminded himself. His stay on Callie’s mountain was temporar
y.

  He knelt beside the fire she’d built that morning. The ashes were cold. Callie had been gone a long time.

  But where?

  “Callie?” Joseph called her, softly at first, then with hands cupped to his mouth. “Callie!”

  There was no answer, only the sound of squirrels chattering in the branches overhead and the sound of wind in the trees. Though she had taken her horse, Joseph walked the perimeters of the camp, venturing into the woods as far as he wanted to go on foot.

  Back at camp, he went inside the tent. Her clothes were still there, as well as the gathering baskets, her blankets, her clay pots. She wouldn’t leave without her things.

  Or would she? As hot-tempered as she was hot-blooded, she would always be a woman full of surprises and contradictions.

  There was only one thing left to do: get on his horse and find her. Joseph looked askance at the stallion. Thunderbolt tossed his head in a gesture of pure disdain.

  “I guess it’s just you and me, old boy.”

  Thunderbolt whinnied and pawed the ground. Joseph took a firm stand.

  “Only one of us is going to come out a winner this time, and it’s not going to be you.”

  The stallion accepted the bridle, but when Joseph put the saddle on his back, he kicked and bucked as if he meant business. Why had it been so easy when Callie’s father did it?

  Joseph felt foolish. From the looks of things, you’d think he had never ridden a horse. Exactly the opposite was true. He’d had his own pony as a child, then in his teenage years he’d owned a horse that was the envy of his friends, a beautiful paint named Stargazer who won every race Joseph entered.

  On Stargazer Joseph had felt ten feet tall. He remembered the feel of the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. He remembered the rich smells of spring, the greening grasses, the pungent scent of cedar trees, the pregnant earth ripe with flowers. He had ridden barebacked, leaning low over Stargazer’s back, guiding the horse with knees and whispered commands.

  Seized by inspiration, Joseph cast the saddle aside, then went inside the tent for one of Callie’s blankets.

  “Is this what you want, old boy?”

  Docile, Thunderbolt accepted the blanket, and when Joseph leaped on his back, the stallion still stood at perfect attention. Joseph patted his neck.

  “I should have known this is what you’re accustomed to.”

  He had no idea which direction to go, but Thunderbolt had a few ideas of his own.

  “I guess you’ve been here before, huh boy?”

  Joseph gave the horse his head, and twenty minutes from camp he received his reward. He didn’t have to draw in the reins, for the horse knew that no creature in his right mind, neither man nor beast, could resist the view. They came upon it suddenly, and it literally took Joseph’s breath away.

  A lake of the most impossible blue lay underneath a sky that looked as if it had been polished. Massive bluffs surrounded the lake, and a waterfall roared down one of the sheer rock faces. Ancient trees rose up to meet the sky, benevolent giants who guarded the secluded valley, and keeping watch over all was the sun.

  As Joseph watched, sky and land and water merged into one sparkling jewel, and in its center was Callie Red Cloud.

  She emerged from the falls, naked and glorious, and in one smooth move plunged into the sky-blue waters. With strong, sure strokes she swam the length of the lake, and when she walked ashore, she was so serene, so confident, Joseph could have sworn he was looking at a goddess.

  His heart lifted, and with it his hands and his voice. In the ancient ways of his people, he paid homage to four beloved things above—the clouds, the sun, the clear sky, and He who lives in the clear sky.

  The years fell away, and he was once again Sioux, deeply in love with the land and the woman who graced it.

  She was worthy of adoration, of songs, of gifts. The wind stirred the cedars, and Joseph reached up and plucked cedar boughs, then pressed his knees into the stallion’s side.

  “Go like the wind. Callie waits.”

  Callie heard the thundering hooves and even before she saw the stallion, she knew its rider. She knew in her bones, in her blood, in her heart. She knew, and she waited.

  When she looked up, Joseph filled her vision, blocking out the sun and the tall green grasses and the sweet blue waters that had cooled her hot skin. She knew other things, too, feelings so raw, so real they filled her up until there was room for nothing else, not rational thought, not plans, not even a future. Just the here and the now. Only the moment. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered.

  Joseph’s hair was long and dark, and he rode bareback. On the colorful blanket astride the powerful stallion, he was every inch Sioux.

  Callie’s heart thundered as loudly as the horse’s hooves.

  If only it were so. If only Joseph would acknowledge his heritage. If only…

  Joseph drew the stallion to a halt. “I woke up and you were gone.”

  His face told stories so sweet she wanted to swoon. I missed you, it said. I wanted you there by my side.

  “I often come here,” she said. “To think and to meditate.”

  He swung down from the stallion and cupped her face.

  “What were you thinking of, Callie?”

  His voice was soft, seductive, a full and complete acknowledgment of what they were to each other. The thing about Joseph that she loved was how he made her feel. Dignified. Worthy. Even naked, with the sun warming her skin, she felt like a queen clothed in the finest robes.

  “I was thinking of you,” she said.

  Another man might have pressed for more, might have fished for compliments. Not Joseph. He didn’t have to fish: he knew, and the knowing made his eyes gleam.

  He ran his fingertips over her face, gathering droplets of moisture.

  “Of us,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said. “Of us.”

  Then he put his forefinger in her mouth, and she tasted the warm water of the lake and the sun on his skin and something else, something so powerful, so compelling, so appealing she could do nothing but sigh.

  Boulders surrounded them, and the basin was full of rocks. Kneeling, Joseph laid cedar boughs upon the stone.

  “A gift for you,” he said.

  She took his uplifted hand, and kneeling on the cedars she kissed him. The kiss was sweet and deep and tender, for now Callie knew what it was like to love this man.

  Her kiss touched the part of him that was Sioux and unleashed the poetry in his soul. With his hands on her face and his lips only inches from hers, he sang to her of passion that tangled his roots with hers and of hearts planted deep in the breast of Mother Earth so that they grew so big they reached the Father Sky where he turned them into all the stars of the Milky Way.

  When Joseph had finished, she whispered one word, “Hawk,” and he knew she was calling him to love her, calling him to soar, calling him by name.

  All the ancient ways came back to him, and he cast aside his clothes, then knelt before her once more, a noble savage with one fierce purpose: to claim his woman.

  “There is an ancient dance for those who love,” he said.

  “Do we love, Joseph? Is that what we do?”

  “Do you doubt it, Callie?”

  He clasped both her hands and his eyes pierced her like arrows. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  “No,” she whispered. “After last night, how can I doubt that we love? My only doubt is that it will last.”

  Knowing that what she said was true, knowing that he would leave, he died a little inside.

  “We have today.” His eyes questioned her. Is that enough?

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  She gazed deep into his eyes, and the moment crystalized. A breeze whispered secrets and a cardinal swooped so low he momentarily blotted out the sun.

  “Teach me the ancient dance, Joseph.”

  “It is called the mirror dance. The lovers kneel facing each other, as we ar
e doing now, then each one touches himself to show the other what he wants.”

  He pressed his palms hard against hers so he could feel her body as it heated up.

  “Show me what you want, Callie.”

  “This,” she said, cupping her breasts so that they were offered up to him, then slowly, ever so slowly she circled her thumbs around her nipples until they were hard as diamonds.

  His eyes burned into hers as he reached out to mirror her action. She was rich and ripe in his hands, her flesh hot, her breasts heavy with desire. His thumbs circled, massaged, teased. Callie arched her back, lifting herself toward him, and her head fell back so that the long, lovely length of her throat was exposed to him.

  Hunger lashed him and desire drove him to the brink of control. It took every bit of restraint he possessed not to press her back against the cedar boughs and drive into her as he had last night.

  “And what else?” he asked.

  She wet her finger with the tip of her tongue, then touched her hardened nipples.

  “This,” she said.

  He wet his own fingers and massaged her. Afterward he slid her fingers into his mouth then guided her hands in a slow erotic massage over his own chest.

  “More,” she whispered.

  Bending low, he drew her ripe breasts deep into his mouth and suckled until she was swaying and moaning like the north wind. Still, he kept his mouth on her, savoring, tasting, teasing. Driving her wild. Driving him mad.

  And when he had finished he tasted the salt of his own sweat. Facing him, Callie was as tightly wound as a piano wire. With eyes gleaming like twin stars, she touched herself intimately, erotically.

  “Here,” she whispered, and he bent to taste the sweet hot dampness of her.

  She lifted her hips to give him better access, and he delved inside, exploring her deep, dark mysteries. Need clawed at him, and his heart pounded like war drums.

  Trembling, he held back. Control was his gift to Callie.

  He could feel her passion building, building, building, and when she exploded he caught her back to give her support. She wove her hands into his hair and lifted his face to hers. The kiss was openmouthed, deep and hot and hard.