Summer Moon

by Jill Marie Landis

  To seal their marriage vows.

  Outside, the moon was on the rise. Round, brilliant, obliterating all but one lone star beside it. It shone down and drenched the rolling prairie, the gentle sloping land.

  As Reed reached up and stroked her cheek, he ran his fingers through her hair, patient. Waiting.

  Kate stared out at the man in the moon.

  She had made something of her life at Saint Perpetua’s and then she had taken a chance on her dream.

  She was no whore. She was not her mother.

  She was a wife, and, determined to be the best wife a man ever had, Kate drew his hand away from her gown, clung to it as she rose to her feet. Then she gathered her nightgown in her hand and slowly drew it over her head. She let it fall across the arm of the rocker. Shivering despite the heat of summer, astounded by her own boldness, she stood before him in nothing but milk-white moonlight.

  She was a dream wrapped in moonbeams. His wife. His love. Soft and gentle, warm as the ever-present breeze kissing the prairie.

  He liked this newfound shyness in her. It gave him strength that may have otherwise failed him. She lifted the sheet and carefully slipped in beside him, somehow aware of the damn ache in his shoulder, even though the origin of it escaped him now.

  He wanted his wife. Wanted to love her until she was certain she was his stars, his moon. The way Daniel was his sunshine, even on the darkest of days.

  Her skin was smooth and silky. White as cream. Intoxicating. He drew her fingers to his lips, kissed them one by one, ran his hand up her arm and pulled her so close their bodies touched from shoulder to shoulder.

  She trembled with excitement as he whispered love words against her neck, in the hollow of her shoulder, in her ear until she moaned. Then he placed his hand beneath her chin, brought her lips up to his. He brushed aside the fall of long hair and kissed her. He fell into the kiss, the heat and the wetness, and sucked her tongue.

  Tonight, she kissed like a virgin. He took his cue from her, smiled against her lips and tried to roll to his side, but the dull ache became a searing pain in his shoulder.

  “It hurts. . . .”

  She went perfectly still. “If you would rather wait . . .”

  “I would rather die than wait.” He kissed her deeply. He would find a way.

  “See how much I need you?” He took her hand, drew it beneath the sheet, across his stomach, until he urged her to curl her fingers around his arousal. “Take me inside you.”

  She gasped at his boldness, but she did not draw back. Nor did she let go. Instead, with a slow determination that bordered on torture, she began to trail her fingers over him, exploring by touch.

  They had all the time in the world, and so he gave himself up to the sheer pleasure of the silky stroke of her hand, closed his eyes, let his senses gambol. A hint of roses swirled around her, reminding him of the old, red trailing rose his mother had brought all the way from Georgia before he was born. He had not thought of it in years.

  Without letting him go, she shifted, drew her legs up until she was on her knees beside him. As the sheet slid down her body, the night breeze caressed their bare skin.

  Reed slipped his hand between her thighs, unerringly found her dewy dampness. He pressed her mound, massaged her gently until she was softly panting. She leaned over him, her hands on both sides of his head, her long, auburn hair surrounding them until they were enclosed in a swaying, sensual web.

  “I need you.” He had waited so very, very long. He’d thought he would have to wait forever.

  Her knee went across him. She settled there with her cheek against his heart. He could feel her breath against his chest, the moisture of tears was there, too.

  “Are you crying?” he asked. “Why?”

  “. . . so happy . . .”

  He felt the whispered words against his bare skin. He slid his hands to her hips, urged her to straddle him. Then he lowered her with measured slowness, spreading her gently as he inched himself inside.

  She stiffened for an instant when he met with resistance, then gave a soft cry and enveloped him fully.

  He lifted his chin, urged her to kiss him. It was a moment or two before she moved, and then she covered his lips with hers. They lay locked together. She melted inside and relaxed. Her hips gradually began to move in a sensuous, rhythmic motion. She was tender, even tentative. She gave of herself, took no more than his injured, feverish body could give.

  He wanted to add to her pleasure, wanted her to reach fulfillment with him, but with infinite, measured thrusts she coaxed him, milking him to a soul-shattering climax. A primitive sound tore from his throat when he came inside her.

  With his release came a blessed peace, the likes of which he had not known for a long, long time.

  She curled around him, gathered him into her arms. Replete, he slipped into a deep, contented sleep.

  Not until Reed’s breathing settled into a slow, rhythmic pattern did Kate even think of moving. When she did, it was with the utmost care.

  She slid off him but did not leave the bed. Instead, she lay tucked against his side, savoring the hard masculine feel of him. She marveled at the wonder, the magic their bodies had made together.

  Thank God she had taken a chance on happiness. Thank God that she had followed her dream. Now she had made the final step and what had once seemed mysterious and at the same time frightening had turned out to be more than magic. This first night with him would live forever in her heart.

  All her thoughts drifted away when Reed stirred. His eyes were still closed when he softly whispered, “I love you, wife.”

  Tears smarted behind her eyes, though not the first she had shed on this glorious eve. As she let the words seep into her heart, she thought he had eased into sleep again.

  Seconds passed. He gently nudged her calf with his knee. “Say it,” he murmured.

  She realized what he wanted. The words caught in her throat when she joyously echoed, “I love you.”

  It was the first time she had ever said the words aloud to anyone. The first time she had ever had anyone to truly love.

  Reed settled into a deep sleep. The sheet was cool when she drew it over them, careful not to disturb him. She nestled beside him, unwilling to leave even though his seed and traces of her virgin blood were sticky between her thighs.

  She thought again of what had passed between them, so different and yet the same as the acts she had witnessed as a child.

  Kate could not imagine such a personal exchange occurring between two strangers. How had her mother done these intimate things night after night with men she did not know, even if it did keep Kate from starving?

  Although she and Reed might not have exchanged more than a handful of words, he was no stranger to her. She knew his hopes and dreams from his letters. She had come to know every inch of him over the last few hours.

  They were far from strangers. Legally, they were husband and wife. And now they were lovers, as well.

  The moon crested. Its shimmering light poured over the bed, highlighting their bodies—Reed’s heavier, darker form pressed against her pale skin, the bandage on his shoulder showed beneath the long strands of her hair. A pleasant breeze billowed the lace curtains. She looked out toward the moon, a milk-white stain on the rippled surface of the windowpane.

  Not even the glow of the moon could disturb her tonight. Heady with the mysterious power only a woman in love knows, Kate turned her back on the smiling moon-man’s face, curled against her husband’s side, and slept.

  8

  The gray light of dawn barely stained the room when Kate awoke beside Reed. Full of emotions she could not name, she lay there watching him sleep and then slowly, gently, rested her hand on his bare chest above his heart. He was still warm, but not feverish as before, so she was careful not to wake him. Closing her eyes, she imagined hearing his words again.

  “I love you, wife.”

  Wife. She was indeed his wife now. In every way.

&n
bsp; Finally, he stirred, shifted slightly, and ran his tongue across his lips. “Hurts . . .” he whispered.

  She immediately slipped out of bed, grabbed her gown off the floor, and slipped it over her head. His fever was down, but he was obviously in pain. The bottle of laudanum was on the bedside table. She had watched Sofia administer the dose before, had seen her give Reed no more than a spoonful. She decided not to wait for the housekeeper.

  She opened the bottle, filled the spoon, and then gently slipped her free arm beneath his head to cradle it while she eased his lips open with the spoon. Reed opened his eyes for a moment, stared into hers and slowly smiled.

  Kate’s heart took flight again.

  He swallowed, closed his eyes. She tenderly lowered him to the pillow and drew back, smoothed a lock of his dark hair off his forehead.

  She longed to sit beside him and watch him sleep, knowing that sleep would help him heal, but she needed to wash and change, uncomfortable with the idea of Sofia walking in and finding her in her nightgown. After pulling up the sheet and smoothing it across Reed’s chest, she reluctantly stood up and left him.

  As she tiptoed across the hall to the room where she had unpacked and laid out her things, she noticed that Sofia’s door was still closed and was thankful that the woman was getting some much needed rest after all she had been through.

  Within a quarter of an hour, Kate was dressed and brushing out her hair when she heard loud, rapid knocking on the door downstairs. Afraid the pounding would awaken Sofia and Reed, she raced through the house in the weak morning light.

  The pounding came from the back of the house. She ran into the kitchen, opened the back door to Scrappy, who had a dark scowl on his face.

  “The boy’s gone,” he barked.

  “What?” She rushed past him, ran across the veranda, and headed toward the horse barn. The wrangler ran along behind her.

  “I went to open up the barn and check on him, but he’s not there,” he explained.

  “How did he get out?” Last night the boy hadn’t been able to stand, let alone walk. She half suspected Scrappy Parks of setting him free just to be rid of him.

  “He tipped over the water bucket and climbed out.”

  Kate recalled having seen a bucket of water in the stall, but had not thought anything of it at the time. The child needed water. She paused outside the barn doors.

  “Did he take a horse?” Her mind raced as she scanned the prairie beyond the corral area. The land was bathed in morning light, the sky glowing pink.

  “He didn’t take a horse. I guess he couldn’t work the bolts on the stalls or he would have.”

  Instantly, Kate calmed. “He couldn’t have gotten very far on foot,” she thought aloud. “Have you looked for him?”

  “Ma’am, I just woke up, saw he was gone, and went to the house. It was dark until a few minutes ago.”

  She started around the side of the barn, not knowing where to begin. Scrappy shouted a second later, and she backtracked.

  “He went this way.” He pointed at an impression in the dirt. The boy had dragged himself along, crawling, trailing his bad leg, headed northwest, away from the rising sun.

  Kate’s heart went out to him, trying to imagine the strength of will and endurance for the pain the child must surely be suffering.

  They found him far beyond the open corral area, sound asleep where the grass was thick, high, and beaten down where he had passed. He lay stretched out with his cheek cradled on his arm.

  “What now?”

  At the sound of Scrappy’s voice, the boy came awake and pushed himself up. When he turned to face them, there was sullen resignation on his face. His eyes were swollen and red from crying, his hair matted and littered with grass and straw.

  He looked like a pitiful, broken little scarecrow. “We’re going to have to splint that ankle,” Kate said half to herself.

  “Hell.” Behind her, Scrappy spat.

  “Please, refrain from cursing, Mr. Parks.”

  “Shit. There ain’t no way to get near him.”

  She turned on him, hands on hips. “Would you please try to be just a bit more positive, Mr. Parks?”

  “I’m pos-a-tively certain he ain’t gonna let us get near enough to touch him, let alone set that busted leg—even if I hold a gun on him.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind.” Kate frowned down at the boy, thinking as she twisted a stray lock of her hair. She watched the child’s eyes dart from her to Scrappy and back again.

  “Surely he’s exhausted. We have to get him to the house.”

  Scrappy merely laughed at the idea.

  “Go get Sofia,” she said, unwilling to be swayed. “Tell her to bring the laudanum.”

  “You thinking of puttin’ him out?”

  “Please, Mr. Parks. Just go.”

  “You keep clear of him,” he warned. “I won’t be here to hit him on the conk if he jumps you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Just to make certain, Kate took a step back. As long as the boy could not leap in her direction, she would be safe enough.

  Once Scrappy was gone, Kate gathered her skirt and sat down in the grass. The boy seemed to relax a bit after the cowhand left and Kate retreated, but his expression remained wary. His huge eyes never left her.

  “I am Kate,” she said slowly. Then she pointed to her chest and said a bit louder, “Kaaaate.”

  Then she pointed at him and waited. When he made no response, she went through the motions again, pointing and repeating her name over and over.

  From the look on his face, she knew that if the boy could curse, he was silently damning her to Comanche hell.

  Next she tried eating motions. “Are you hungry? We’ll take you inside and get you something to eat.”

  No response. The child merely stared back with blank, expressionless eyes and scratched his thin neck with grubby fingers.

  Within minutes, Sofia came running with Scrappy lumbering beside her. Kate breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I brought the laudanum.” While Sofia paused to catch her breath, Scrappy shoved his hands on his hips and chewed on his bottom lip, staring down at the boy.

  “He tried to escape,” Kate told Sofia. “His ankle is either broken or very badly sprained. We have to get him cleaned up, but I’m afraid he’s as wild as a barn kitten. I can’t think of any way to get near him other than to drug him. Then we can move him to the house.”

  “You sure you want to take him inside?” Scrappy shook his head as if Kate had lost her mind.

  “He’s only a child, Mr. Parks.”

  “You don’t understand the Comanche,” the wrangler said.

  “Look at him,” Kate pleaded. “He’s very young. And he’s not Comanche. Even so, even if he was, I’m afraid I would have to insist on giving him the best of care.”

  Sofia, who had been concentrating on Kate, whirled around to look at the child. Her breath caught on a gasp. The sun had risen higher in the last few minutes. Full daylight now shone on the boy’s face.

  Despite the dirt, perhaps because of it, his eyes appeared more brilliant blue, wide and definitely full of loathing as he stared back at them. His hair was dark, faded by the sun to red-brown in places, not unlike Kate’s own. His lips were full and pouting, his chin tipped defiantly toward them.

  “Ay, Dios mio.” Sofia nearly dropped the amber bottle and spoon as she pressed one hand to her heart and reeled back a step. “This can’t be. . . .”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Kate put her hand beneath the woman’s elbow to steady her and watched, startled and uncomprehending, as the housekeeper’s eyes flooded with tears.

  “There has been so much . . . I have not been thinking clearly or I would have suspected, but . . . it can’t be!” She began to whisper what sounded like a prayer in Spanish and then, in a show of anger, she turned on Scrappy. “You never told me that he was white!”

  “What’s wrong?” Kate looked down at the boy who appeared more frightened by So
fia’s dramatic reaction than by either her or Scrappy. The housekeeper was staring at the child, openly crying now.

  “Daniel?” Emotion choked Sofia’s voice. “Is it you?”

  “Daniel?” Scrappy was visibly shaken. His eyes went huge and then scrunched into a frown as he shook his head in disbelief.

  “Who’s Daniel?” Kate asked.

  “Reed Junior’s son.” Sofia was trembling uncontrollably now. The silver teaspoon clicked against the glass medicine bottle in her hand.

  “What are you talking about? How can this be Reed’s son? Reed’s son is dead.”

  Sofia shook her head and wiped her eyes as she fought to collect herself.

  “His son was either killed or stolen by Comanches the night his mother died. We never knew for certain. Reed Junior . . . ,” Sofia could not take her eyes off the child. “I believe he preferred to think of him as . . . dead.”

  “He preferred to think of him as dead?”

  Sofia nodded slightly. “The Rangers must have found him.”

  Kate shook her head. Was the woman trying to tell her that Reed had found his long-lost son and purposely left the injured boy tied to a hitching post?

  How could Reed, wounded himself, have handled the boy on horseback? Had the child been hurt before Reed found him, or could he have injured the boy?

  Scrappy was mumbling something dark and unthinkable.

  “What did you say?” Kate hoped she had not heard him right.

  “I said this is worse than him dyin’.” He sounded grave and thoroughly convinced the boy would be better off dead than turned Comanche.

  Sofia looked at Scrappy in disdain. “Didn’t you even suspect? Who else could this be?”

  “Lil’ Daniel’s just a baby. This ain’t him.” Scrappy was horrified by the possibility that this wild boy could be Reed’s son.

  “He is not a baby now.” Sofia indicated the boy on the ground with a wave of her hand. “He was three back then. He would be eight, nearly nine now.”

  Kate listened to their exchange. More than anything else, she wondered what kind of world she had walked into. More determined than ever to help the boy, she took the sedative and spoon from Sofia, who was still dealing with her own shock and doubt and was in no condition to help. Then Kate motioned Scrappy forward and kept her voice low and even as she issued instructions to Scrappy.