Only My Love

by Jo Goodman

  "I never said the last thing you mentioned."

  "No, I did. Because it's true. I won't help you get away from here." It was too dangerous. She couldn't do it on her own and he wasn't ready to go with her. He couldn't tell her those things.

  "I realize that now." The feel of his fingers in her hair, against her scalp, was so gentle, so soothing. She felt as if she could give herself up to him. Then he reminded her that he wasn't so different from the men he rode with. He seemed bent on making her understand he wasn't her hero. "I suppose I didn't take the right meaning from those articles you gave me."

  "The articles? You mean the ones about the robbery? From the Denver paper?"

  She nodded. The movement brought his thumb in contact with her lower lip. He ran it along its length. Her tongue touched the very tip. She heard his breath catch.

  "Michael?"

  "Yes?"

  "If you're wanting me to notice you as a woman right now, you're doing a helluva job."

  "I am?"

  In answer he found her hand and brought it to his groin. She could feel the heat and hardness of him through his drawers.

  "Oh, my," she said softly. "Does it hurt?"

  Her question elicited something between laughter and a groan. Ethan leaned over and pressed his mouth and body against her. His hands pushed up her nightshirt. Her hands were tugging at his drawers. "You're sure?" he asked. His hungry mouth was against her ear.

  "Please... yes... I want you."

  There were no preliminaries this time. She was ready for him and Ethan drove into her hard. Her heels pressed into the bedding as she lifted for his thrusts. The pads of her fingers pressed whitely into his arms. Her mouth sought his. Their tongues matched the energy and motion of their bodies. His hands stroked her. He couldn't touch her in enough places. Her hair. Her breasts. Her mouth. The sensitive inside of her elbow. Her skin was fragrant, musky. It was his own scent he smelled, the scent of him on her while he was in her deeply, filling her, touching her so intimately that he was part of her. And she held him, rocked with him, and accepted from him what she had never accepted from any man. She clung to him and there were soft keening cries at the back of her throat, urgent little murmurs that spoke of her pleasure, her passion. She felt the sleekness of his muscled back, the tension that rippled through him as her hands caressed. There was the wetness of her mouth on his shoulder and at his throat, her fingers in his ebony hair, her calves stretched out beside the length of his. She twisted beneath him, rising, falling, arching in her need. His long beautiful fingers were in the thickness of her hair. He whispered her name and his breath was hot on her face. She tasted her name on his lips. His whiskey soft voice held secrets and pleasure.

  Michael shuddered. The long line of her neck was exposed as she arched with the force of her release. Her body strained with the fullness of her pleasure. She felt the cadence of Ethan's rhythm change, the stroking became more shallow and furious and then the final thrust and the tension in every part of his body as he spilled himself into her.

  Their breathing was harsh, their bodies damp. Ethan turned so that Michael could lie comfortably on her side and rest against him. His hand slipped beneath the neckline of the nightshirt and felt the steady strength of her heart. He brought her hand to his. The beats were in unison.

  "Are you all right?" he asked after awhile. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  "No. No hurt."

  "I was rough."

  "I didn't mind." She touched his shoulder, exploring with her fingers. "I think I was rough back." She found a small indentation on his flesh. "Did I bite you?"

  "Old wound," he said, raising her fingers to his mouth. He kissed the tip of each one in turn. "But you did bite me." He didn't need light to know that she was embarrassed by the revelation. He could feel the heat in her cheek against his chest. "I didn't mind. I've never been with a woman who enjoys loving the way you do." And he hadn't, he thought. Michael was the most completely sensual woman he had ever known, in or out of bed. She liked to touch things. He'd seen her hands smooth over the folds of a dress she was putting away. She ran her fingers around the corners of her notepad whenever she closed it for the night. He thought she was familiar with the texture of most everything she saw because it was part of her nature to touch. She liked the cold, the heat. She'd sit at the window watching snow fall for hours if he didn't make her turn in. He'd seen her working in the kitchen taking hot pies from the oven, holding them just below her face so she could inhale the steam and the fragrance. She'd sat at the table one Sunday morning with a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. Between sipping it so delicately, enjoying the sweet aroma, and warming her hands, she'd let it grow mostly cold. He'd thought then that no one had ever enjoyed simple pleasures the way Michael did.

  "Is that a bad thing," she asked, "to enjoy it so much? My mother says it's not."

  "Your mother's a wise woman then."

  "I wonder," Michael said, more to herself than to Ethan. "Some people think my mother's a whore."

  Ethan wondered what he was supposed to say to that. "I've mostly been with whores," he said finally. "If they happened to enjoy it, they still enjoyed my money more."

  "It was never about money to my mother. It was always about love. Love made her stupid." Bitterness tinged her voice. "It won't happen to me. I won't let it."

  It occurred to Ethan that she was trying to convince herself. That meant in some corner of her mind she was afraid it could happen. Mary Michael Dennehy feared taking the same path as her mother. Ethan stroked her hair. When he spoke his breath ruffled strands of it. "You won't let it," he repeated softly.

  "I love my mother."

  "Mm-hmm."

  "But I don't respect what she became for him."

  "Him?"

  "My father."

  Ethan said nothing. His hand slipped to her shoulder. He caressed her lightly, soothingly, without sexual intent. In a few minutes she was asleep. A little while after that so was he.

  * * *

  When they woke it was just dawn. Light spotted the room through the checked curtains. The stove was cold. They were making love.

  Michael blinked widely. "How did—"

  "I don't-"

  "It feels-"

  "Good. Do you-"

  "Want it?"

  "Yes."

  "Yes," she said.

  His groan was captured by her mouth. His hips ground against hers. They spoke all the while, in half-sentences, finishing uncompleted thoughts for each other, never erring in the interpretation. He seemed to know precisely where to touch her to get the response he wanted. She seemed to know just how to caress him to make him want her more.

  She couldn't be this soft, he thought. He couldn't be this hard, she thought. She was eager and filled with wanting. He was hungry and filled her with him. They rolled across the top of the bed, tangling in the sheets. Neither of them noticed when the comforter fell over the side of the bed and onto the floor. They were still warm in the cold room. They were laughing.

  His fingers tickled her then his mouth made her burn. She batted at him playfully then her hands clutched him fiercely. She drove her body up against him as he drove into her. He spent first, then held her, stroking, until she shivered with pleasure in his arms.

  They slept again.

  * * *

  The sun was only a little higher in the sky when they woke the second time. Without a word of his intentions, Ethan bounded out of bed, slipped on a pair of jeans, and left the room. The banging of the tub as he dragged it down the hall announced his return. Someone from another room yelled for a little quiet. Michael grinned as Ethan came into view.

  She held a finger to her lips, slightly swollen with his kisses. "Sunday morning," she said.

  Ethan merely grunted. He went after buckets of water and a kettle for heating it.

  While he was gone Michael wrapped herself in the comforter and sat in a chair near the window. She pulled back the curtains. There were frost flowers on t
he panes. She blew on them softly, melting them with her warm breath. Clearing one pane, she wiped away the condensation with the back of her hand and looked out. The sun was shining brightly now but there had been another snowfall during the night. The hitching posts wore thick white caps of snow. It lay still and unmarked on the tops of porches and eaves. It filled the rutted street making it seem smooth as cotton bunting. Icicles just above her window dripped rainbows of color on the sill.

  "Your bath awaits," Ethan said. When she didn't move Ethan went to the window. Her head was resting at an angle against the frame. She'd fallen asleep again just sitting there in the chair. "Michael," he said softly. "Sleepyhead."

  "Mm?"

  He kissed her on the mouth, a light and nibbling kiss that engaged her almost instantly. When he straightened he was smiling. "Your bath," he said again. "Or should I use the water first?" He laughed as she jumped to her feet, nearly tripping over herself to lay claim to the fresh hot water. "I guess not." He plopped himself down on the bed while Michael slipped into the tub. "Too hot?"

  "No. It's wonderful."

  "Too much water."

  "No."

  Half his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. "No, I mean there's too much water for me. You're all covered up."

  She flicked water at him. It splattered harmlessly on the floor.

  "While I'm taking my bath," he said, "you can do something about breakfast."

  "Eat it, you mean."

  "Bring it here, I mean. Eggs. Two of them over easy. Flapjacks if Lottie's making them. Forget them if they're Kitty's. I wouldn't mind some of that pastry you were baking yesterday. A pot of hot coffee. Bacon would be nice."

  "I doubt I can carry all of that."

  "You'll have to think of a better excuse. I've seen you manage three pitchers of beer and a tray of glasses."

  Michael sighed dramatically. "All right," she said with feigned reluctance. "But only because you let me use the bathwater first."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  "That's very wise of you," she said sweetly.

  Ethan punched two pillows, making them fuller so he could stuff them behind the small of his back. He leaned against the headboard. "You know you've never told me why," he said with casual interest. "You said you abandoned the idea of trying to manipulate me, but you've never really said what led up to last night."

  "Didn't I?" She frowned, trying to remember what she'd told him. She soaped her arm absently. "I thought I mentioned the Denver papers."

  "You did. But it doesn't mean anything to me."

  "But you're the one who gave them to me to read."

  "So? I read them too. There's nothing in them that you didn't already know."

  She tilted her head in his direction, her look questioning. "Yes, there was."

  "I sure as hell don't understand what you're talking about."

  "I admit I was confused at first." Her voice was low so there was no chance she could be overheard beyond their room. "I thought you meant it as a message to me that I could leave."

  "You said that last night. You said I betrayed you."

  "For stopping me. I did feel betrayed. I thought you were giving me a clear signal to go when I was ready. Instead I discover Happy's outside the saloon just waiting for the opportunity to catch me. You knew he was there. Of course I felt betrayed."

  Ethan still didn't understand. He pinched the bridge of nose with his thumb and forefinger and rubbed gently, thinking.

  "Then I realized that you didn't mean for me to go, that your message was a little different than that. You simply wanted me to trust you. And I did. Do. Last night was proof of that. I would have never let you touch me like that if you hadn't shown me the Denver papers."

  "The papers again," he sighed. "What did you read that I don't know about?"

  A faint frown line appeared between Michael's brows. Her wide mouth turned serious. "Nothing," she said. "Just the articles about the robbery."

  "And?" he prompted. "There must be something else."

  "And I know you didn't kill Drew Beaumont."

  "What?" Belatedly he realized he had shouted the word. Michael had sunk lower in the tub. Her head jerked back and her eyes widened in surprise. "What?" he repeated more softly. "What makes you say that? You saw it with your own eyes."

  "I know what I saw," she said. "But it doesn't make sense because I also know what I read."

  "None of those articles mentioned anything about Drew except as a victim."

  "Knowing Drew he probably took some perverse pleasure in that."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Drew wrote the articles."

  Ethan shook his head in denial of something he didn't want to think about. "No, he didn't. I killed him. I shot him in the chest and I kicked him over the side of the mountain."

  "Just like you and Obie pretended to kill me."

  "Yes... no! Not like that at all. There was no pretending about Drew. What ever you think you know, Michael, you don't know at all. Drew's dead."

  "It's all right," she said. "I won't tell anyone differently. I've seen that some of the others don't completely trust you. My presence has only made things worse for you. But I don't think you have the stomach for murder that they have. That's why you didn't kill me and that's why you didn't kill Drew."

  "You're wrong."

  "I'm not."

  "What makes you so damn sure?" He had to discover if he was vulnerable to the others or only to her. "And don't say the articles. I read them, remember."

  In spite of the warm water a chill swept through Michael. He hadn't known. Not at all. He'd given her the papers to read and meant nothing by it. He wasn't asking for her trust, he wasn't asking for her help, he wasn't offering anything. She grabbed a towel and started to rise, wrapping it quickly around her. There was an unfamiliar ache between her thighs as she stood, not unpleasant, just unwelcome now that she understood what she hadn't before.

  Ethan watched coldness seep into her, witnessed her withdrawal with his own eyes. She was as defensive as a soldier raising battlements. She slipped into the blood red robe that was Houston's contribution to her clothing. She reached beneath it, pulled off the towel, and began rubbing her hair dry.

  "Michael," Ethan said. "Answer me. What did you read?"

  Her head snapped up and the towel fell around her shoulders. "Every writer has a style unique to him," she said emotionlessly. "You've read my work in my diary. I'd be surprised if you couldn't recognize my writing at some later time, even if you didn't know I was the author of the piece, or even if I used another name. Writing is that individual. Like a signature. I worked with Drew for two years. I've read hundreds of articles that he's written. I know his style almost as well as I know my own. Drew Beaumont wrote those pieces for the Chronicle and they were picked up by the Denver paper, probably by a hundred other papers. Drew finally got his national story because you let him live."

  "You must be wrong."

  She shook her head. "You can deny it all you like, but it doesn't change what I know. It occurred to me that you only thought you might have killed him, that he survived in spite of some wound. But if that were true he would have used his name. This is a story that deserves a byline and Drew would have made certain he got it. When I came upon you your kerchief was around your neck. Drew saw your face yet there's no description of you beyond what is similar to Houston and the others. Drew was close enough to you to have an artist sketch your face later. But there's nothing like that and I asked myself why. There's only one reason that makes sense and that's that he knows I'm with you and he's protecting me by protecting you."

  "You've given the matter a great deal of thought, I see." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and started to undress. He noticed Michael gave immediate attention to her hair again, letting it hang down either side of her face while she buried her head in the towel. "And you keep coming to the wrong conclusions."

  "I know." Her voice was muffled.

  "What?"r />
  Her head sprung up. Her eyes flashed. He was standing beside the tub, naked and unselfconscious about it. That he appeared to have no shame made her even angrier. She threw the towel at him. "I said I know," she snapped.

  Ethan caught the towel, knew what he was supposed to do with it, and deliberately pitched it to the floor. He watched her push herself out of the chair and turn her back on him. He slipped into the tub in his own sweet time. "If you know your conclusions are wrong then why do you keep insisting Drew's alive?"

  Michael began making up the bed. She saw the stained sheets and angrily tore them off. She went to the wardrobe for fresh linens. "My wrong conclusions aren't the same as yours. Drew is alive. I was wrong about other things."

  "Such as?"

  Michael snapped open a sheet and laid it smoothly across the mattress. With swift, economic motions she made triangular creases at all four corners and tucked it under. "I believed you knew it was Drew's writings in those articles. An unfortunate assumption on my part. From there I concluded it was safe for me to leave. We both know that was incorrect. I believed then that you were asking me to trust you, telling me in the only way you could that I could at least rely on you. Do you think I would have gone to bed with you if I hadn't believed you didn't kill Drew?"

  "Lower your voice!"

  "Don't shout at me!"

  Ethan forced himself to take a calming breath. "Get another bar of soap for me, please." He held up the sliver she had been using. "This is useless."

  Michael found one and threw it at him. It slipped through his fingers and knocked him hard in the chest. She winced, knowing it must have hurt, and waited to see what he would do. She half expected him to come out of the tub and force her to eat the thing. She hated the fact that he could still frighten her.

  Ethan watched her face, saw her fear, and held his temper. Things could be, if not precisely simple for him, then at least more pleasurable, if he would tell her the truth. He could, he reasoned, but then he'd live each day wondering if she'd do something to give him away. He wanted to trust her. It said more about him than it did about Michael that he couldn't. He hadn't the least desire to take inventory of his failings now. It was enough that he knew they were considerable.