by Eden Carson
The sight of his body tightening in reaction had her stroking down further, along his upper thigh, and across again to flutter over both legs. She deliberately avoided his phallus, not quite certain she could touch him there and still turn him away if he demanded everything from her.
The feel of Ruth’s palms resting against his upper thighs and her delicate fingers stroking tentatively between his legs was the limit for Jackson. He took her wandering hands into his and pulled them to his suddenly dry mouth for a safe kiss, lips to palm.
“It’s my turn now. Turn over,” Jackson commanded.
He took Ruth into his hands, and carefully turned her over onto her stomach.
The feel of the cool grass against her fully heated flesh was surprisingly addictive. And when he slid his warm body against her backside, she moaned in unexpected pleasure.
Jackson passed his hands up and down the sides of Ruth’s breasts, over and over, grazing the smooth silk, until they swelled in response to the cool grass and his burning fingers. He thrust his naked hips gently against her, rubbing her hard nipples against the cool ground. He repeated the caress again and again, until she felt her body grow taut and humid, nearing fulfillment as she was stroked in unison by Jackson’s muscled warmth on her backside and the silk of her gown along her swollen sex.
She reached out for something to touch and felt his strong hands cover hers in reassurance that she would soon be satisfied.
When he pulled away from Ruth’s straining need to sit at her feet, she cried out in protest. Jackson stopped her from lifting herself up with a gentle but firm caress from her neck to her feet. He repeated the full body stroke with both hands, three times, until he felt her settle once again into the rhythm he chose.
As she settled back down into the grass, he turned his focus to each part of her body. He took her naked foot into his hands, setting it against his bare chest as he stroked each side with his index finger, circling her heel, and finally caressing along the curve of her toes. Leaving both feet lying against his chest, he moved in closer to Ruth. He bent her legs at the knees and parting her thighs until her feet rested on his shoulders. Repeating his former attention to both feet, he murmured her name and praised her beauty.
Ruth heard every sweet word but understood none of it, pleased merely by the sound of Jackson’s deep voice, and the feel of his hands sliding over her body, from toes to fingertips. She felt him move his touch across head and scalp, caressing the silk of her dark hair. When he stroked down her back to rest on her buttocks, she felt her body move of its own volition into his touch. When he held his hands perfectly still, her body responded in kind and pressed up against him, demanding his touch.
Jackson responded and moved his hands to graze her upper thighs – first one, then the other. As Ruth’s cries increased and her body swelled in need, he stroked along the crease separating her buttocks. He repeated the caress, until minutes later the silk of her gown was tucked firmly inside her.
Ruth’s essence poured out of her when he deliberately tugged on the silk, so she could feel every inch slide out of her. When she felt her lover’s fingers replace the damp silk inside her body and stroke her rhythmically, her body took over and thrust fully against the damp earth and Jackson’s touch.
With his left thumb still inside her and her frantic thrusting pushing against his chest, he reached around the front of Ruth with his other large hand. With one soft touch, he brought her to release, crying out his name.
Jackson continued to gently stroke Ruth, as she calmed her breathing, lying there against the earth in the setting sun.
As darkness set in, he stood up and reached a hand down to Ruth.
“Still fully-clothed, as promised,” Jackson spoke to the flushed Ruth, as he watched her fiddle with her hair and straighten her mussed clothing.
He quickly dressed himself and then lifted Ruth up into the saddle. As he mounted his horse and they prepared to return to the ranch, Jackson looked over his broad shoulder to stare openly at his fully satisfied woman.
“Tell me, Miss Ruth. Where am I on your list now?”
Chapter 55
Jasper Smith timed his entry into Fort Lyon carefully, making sure he arrived on market day. He was able to lose himself effortlessly in the dozens of people coming and going into the Fort, just another dusty cowhand passing through.
He’d come here many times before. On one of his earlier trips, he had made the effort to just sit and watch the day-to-day activity that took place. He’d met the ancient cobbler on that trip and made a point of visiting the shoemaker’s tent whenever he passed through.
The German shoemaker was crotchety and bitter, with a heavy accent and sour disposition. He didn’t get any visitors but Smith. But being the only cobbler at the Fort meant that he knew virtually every man, woman, and child within a hundred miles. Most folks only owned one pair of boots, so were forced to wait while the old German made his repairs. Since he mostly mumbled to himself in his native tongue while practicing his craft, the town thought he knew only the most basic of English.
But Smith knew better.
The cobbler was a wily sort and enjoyed knowing the business of those around him. The German made a point of worsening his English whenever someone visited that he thought might have something interesting to say. He gathered gossip with no ill intent – just the quiet satisfaction of knowing more than those around him.
Smith soon figured out that no one enjoyed quiet satisfaction nearly as much as an audience for their cleverness. This formed the basis of his odd friendship with the German, who always offered a pint of homemade beer to Jasper Smith when he showed up unannounced. The outlaw quickly invented several German ancestors. He made them far back enough that he wasn’t expected to know the language or the land of the shoemaker’s birth. The invented family was just there to provide an excuse for Smith’s visits. Barely half a pint into their first beer, the German would share every tidbit of gossip, juicy and dull alike, with his always attentive visitor.
Smith might not have been book-smart, but he recognized the value of information. He never failed to curry the favor of at least one lonely soul in every town he passed through, figuring he’d find a use for them sooner or later.
Today was sooner for the unknowing German, as Smith sidled up to the flap of the cobbler’s tent, calling out his arrival. “Peter Franz, are you there? Ask me in for a beer.”
The flap of the canvas tent fluttered open to reveal the wrinkled and sunburned face of the German. He didn’t smile at the sight of his only friend. He never did. He merely greeted Smith with a strong slap to the back.
The cobbler motioned for Smith to take a seat at his makeshift work table – a collection of empty whiskey barrels topped with sheets of lumber. The table was set up next to the tent, under the dubious protection of an oilskin tarp strapped between two small pines.
“Old man, when are you going to move out of this pig sty?” Smith asked, as he took a seat on a muddy whiskey barrel. “You work seven days a week, charge double what the best whores in San Francisco get, and still live like a ratty Injun. Snow’s coming any day now.”
The unperturbed German set down two glasses brimming with his home brew, and replied in barely-accented English, “The day I buy a decent house is the day the women of this town will start seeing me as a decent man. And before I know it, they’ll be lining up at my shiny new door offering themselves up for a proper wedding.”
Franz took a long swallow, unmindful of the brackish water dripping through the weakening seams of his makeshift roof. “I’m staying right here.”
Smith laughed in genuine mirth at the thought of the surly German – who looked to be one hundred if he were a day – overrun with prospective brides.
“Old man, the day you catch yourself a woman in a town with a dozen men for every sorry excuse for a female is the day I take up an honest living.”
Franz snorted and poured them both a second round.
Smith was
n’t sure if the grunt was for the vision of Smith plying an honest trade, or the cobbler’s own prospects of seeing another naked female in this lifetime.
Smith took a long swallow of the German’s home brew before getting down to business. “Speaking of brides, my old friend, I’m looking for one.”
The normally stoic German choked on a mouthful of beer at the news. “You want to be married?”
Smith laughed out loud at the thought. “Hell no,” he swore. “I had me a wife once, and I never liked her so much as after she was dead in the ground.”
He swiped his dusty sleeve across his mouth, taking a moment to decide how much to reveal to the clever German. “I’m looking for another man’s wife. I got no interest in her myself. It’s just a job. She was on her way to get hitched when her train was set upon by outlaws.”
“I heard about that,” the German said. “Funny how train travel became more dangerous since talk of that new spur line started. I seem to recall your boss man trying to talk the railroad chiefs into buying up his land for that spur line.”
Smith wasn’t sure what, if anything, the German knew. But he’d be damned if he’d be tricked into revealing his own crimes. “Some son of a senator got that land contract. My boss has taken up farming. And he’s starting up a family while he’s at it.”
“Ah, so it is Masterson who is missing the wife?” Franz concluded.
Smith nodded. “Masterson went looking for the girl, to rescue her after that terrible train robbery. But she was nowhere to be found. Near as I can figure, she got scared and joined up with some of her fellow travelers. I think she was headed this way, maybe trying to find a way back East.”
“Of course,” the cobbler said. “You’d be surprised at the number of ladies passing through our little Fort these days.”
“What do you know?” Smith tried in vain to keep the anxiousness out of his voice, but the Germen was adept at listening, it being his only pastime aside from beer making.
“I don’t know anything. But I hear quite a lot. For example, I know the first lieutenant is marrying his second cousin in three weeks’ time. He ordered himself a brand new pair of dress boots just the other day. And the lieutenant’s woman brought along two younger sisters for a nice long visit, to find husbands nearby. But those wouldn’t be the ladies you want.”
Franz scratched his balding head. “There’s at least a half dozen new fancy ladies working in town since you were here last. And a trapper’s fourteen-year-old daughter was brought to town for the first time three days past. And I can’t forget –.”
Smith shuffled his feet impatiently, knowing that now was not the time to lose his temper. The old German was not afraid of Smith, even knowing what he was capable of doing. So the shoemaker continued to bait him with his long-winded recounting of each and every female that had passed through the bustling Fort for months on end. Smith knew he was being tested and his friend would not easily give up his moment of triumph.
Even money wouldn’t sway the man. His only wants were beer and gossip, and the cobbler met both needs with his small shoe business. Smith knew you couldn’t bribe a man who wanted for nothing. He would just have to let himself be toyed with for as long as the German took his pleasure.
Nearly two hours later, Smith couldn’t keep his seat any longer and resorted to pacing wildly back and forth under the open sky, suddenly grateful for the freezing sleet that cooled his burning temper.
The German’s laugh was so unexpected that Smith stopped in his tracks, never having seen the man so much as grin at a dirty joke. “What the hell, old man. No one laughs at me.” Smith lunged across the table toward the smirking Franz, but stopped dead in his tracks when two wrinkled hands tilted a shotgun up from underneath the table.
“Tell me where she is!” Smith demanded, knowing Masterson would torture him if he failed to deliver Ruth.
Seeing Jasper Smith with true fear in his eyes satisfied the aging German. It felt good to know he had not lost all power to age. “Have a seat, my old friend,” Franz invited. “I will tell you what you need to know.”
And much to Smith’s surprise, the man did just that.
Franz had repaired the shoes for three of the stable owner’s sons the day after Ruth and Sue had made their deal with Colonel Roe. The oldest boy was smitten with Ruth and could not stop talking about the pretty lady who had smiled at him both times they had spoken. The youngest had teased his older brother many times in the German’s presence, repeatedly pointing out that the lady was already in love with Marshal Jackson and his skinny, manure-shoveling brother didn’t have a chance.
But the Marshal’s presence in the lady’s life and his well-earned reputation as a dangerous lawman were two pieces of information that the German kept close to the chest. He was high on his new found power and only let Smith know that both ladies planned to return in two weeks’ time.
Smith didn’t question his good luck and immediately telegraphed Masterson to meet him at the Fort.
Chapter 56
“Ruth, can you bring me some more sugar for the coffee?” Sue hollered from the kitchen.
Ruth was already in Sue’s large pantry, rummaging for enough flour for one last cake, and quickly found the sugar. “I‘ve got it,” she called out.
Ruth filled both arms with the bags of flour and sugar, silently amazed to see such large stores of food. She had been rationing staples for so many years that she had almost forgotten what bounty looked like. Ruth struggled with her ingrained frugality but still could not stop herself from questioning Sue. “Are you sure we really need another cake?” Ruth asked. “I‘d hate to see it go to waste.”
“It’ll be a cold day in Hell when one of our ranch hands allows a chocolate cake to go to waste,” Sue said. “Don’t worry. We‘ve got enough food stored to feed every man, woman, and child on this ranch for two winters to come. One thing we‘ve never had to fret about here is going hungry. Jackson and I meet with every homesteader within riding distance at least twice a year to check our food stores. Jackson got most of the neighbors to agree to store enough food not just for themselves, but for the whole group. That way, if any family were to lose their winter supply in a fire or some other disaster, any one of us could feed them until the next harvest.”
“That’s amazing,” Ruth said. “During the first year of the War, the neighbors would drop by every week to help my mother, after my father and brother were killed. But as the years passed, my mother struggled more and more to feed us. And the neighbors had nothing extra to spare. If I never see another potato again, I‘ll die a happy woman.”
“I was lucky to have spent the War out West with Jackson’s brother. But Jackson saw enough looting and starvation during the War to vow never again to see another human being want for something to eat. We‘ve had good harvests nearly every year we‘ve been here and Jackson not only insists on sharing, but is smart about it and plans in advance for all of us. He’s experimenting right now with Jeb and Michael Jones with new ways to store food, so it‘ll last longer.”
“Who are Jeb and Michael?” Ruth interrupted.
“They‘re two brothers that live about thirty miles due East. You‘ll meet them tomorrow at the dance. They have been homesteading almost as long as we have. They‘re both unmarried, you know. Jeb’s the oldest and is a widower, no kids though. And his younger brother can play a mean fiddle. You might consider dancing a bit with them both.”
“What were you saying about their experimenting?” Ruth tried to change the subject, before Sue moved the topic onto Jackson and their supposed marriage.
“We can our vegetables and dry our own meat, of course. But we also have extra deep root cellars that keep food from rotting well into summer. It was Jeb’s idea to pack the cellar with blocks of ice we cut each spring from the river. The two brothers are always trying new things they read about or hear about from others.”
“My father was like that – always trying new treatments from Europe on his patients,
” Ruth recalled fondly.
“My point is,” Sue continued, “Jackson’s a builder. Some men, you‘ll find, are adventurers and wanderers – off to the gold fields, or sailing to the Far East to seek their fortunes. Lousy husbands, every last one of them. It’s best to meet that type once you‘re safely tucked in widowhood,” Sue advised, with a smile and a wink. “Some farmers and merchants do well enough for their families, but are always envious of the adventurers. They tend to have a wandering eye for the ladies, since they can’t get up the gumption to risk the gold fields. It’s best to steer clear of them too, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Ruth couldn’t help rolling her eyes in good humor, since Sue had not even paused for breath, much less looked to Ruth to see if she were interested in further advice.
Sue forged ahead. “Now if you‘re lucky, you‘ll find yourself a true builder. They‘re rare enough, I‘ll tell you that. They‘re the type to dig deep roots, and create not just a home and life for their own, but to inspire others around them to do the same. That’s Jackson – a builder down to his soul.”
“Miss Sue,” Ruth interrupted. “I saw my own home town – a prosperous, thriving place before the War – sit stagnant for years after the fighting ended. The buildings are still there. The fertile earth too, with sunshine and plenty of water for farming. But the spirit of the people was burned to the ground, sure as if Sherman himself had marched through the quiet streets. I write to one of my old neighbors, now and again. And to this very day, the few Southerners left are still waiting for a builder to pass by and show them the way. So don’t think I fail to see the qualities that you do in Jackson. There’s no quality more dear to me.”
“Stop right there, you two.” Catherine breezed through the kitchen door before she had barely finished her first knock, followed by a tow-headed stampede.
“Cake, Miss Sue! Cake, please!” The squeals of energy filled the tiny kitchen to bursting before Catherine took charge and shooed every last one of her moaning children out the way they had come.
