Unbroken Hearts

by Anna Murray

  Sarah stiffened, her pulse pounded, and her heart jolted wildly. His touch stoked an unwilling fire within her, awakening primitive needs she didn't fully know she had. Her traitorous hand reached out and touched the side of his face, and her eyes fixed longingly on his lips.

  Cal surrendered his control. Swiftly he brought his mouth down on top of hers in an urgent slanting motion that knocked his hat off his head. His kiss flowed from gentle-sweet to hard-need, and Sarah shuddered with desire. After a few brief seconds he pulled back.

  "Open your mouth sweetheart."

  She opened her mouth to ask why, but before a sound could escape Cal pressed his strong mouth against hers again, and this time he drew her tongue into lush sweetness and suckled, possessively branding her with his heat.

  Sarah arched toward him and responded in kind, circling his lower lip with her tongue. His taste and warmth fed an ache low in her belly. A moaning sound in the back of her throat drew a groan from deep within him, and he pulled her tightly against his chest to savor soft breasts edged with hard nipples. Her breathing was ragged, a sweet agony that beat in rhythm to the throbbing newborn need asserting itself in the core of her body.

  Suddenly Sarah pulled away; her deep breaths inhaled his intoxicating masculine scent. Exciting and frightening new feelings were buffeting her, like a gale wildly spinning the windmill back home at the farm. It was scary and amazing and exciting and forbidden, all at the same time.

  "I-I can't," she gasped. Sarah was busy trying to control the breathing problem, nearly panting, and her palms were sweating profusely. She hastily tried to wipe them across her thighs.

  Cal responded with a deeper kiss. His desperate caressing words swept across her lips. "I want you Sarah. I've wanted you ever since I saw you on that white pony. You taste so sweet."

  Her heart soared and she felt wonderfully dizzy. Oh Lord. This man smelled wonderful and his kisses were magic. Cal worshipped at her neck; he nibbled at the hollow of her throat, sending jolts of ecstasy through intimate places in her body. He took her hands and urged them under his shirt to touch bare chest, as he moved his hand over the curve of her breasts, and brushed her nipples gently, feeling them delightfully tighten beneath the fabric of her camisole. Sarah moaned deep in her throat, and she ran her hands across his hard stomach, delighting in the rock-hard lean mass of muscles that rippled under her fingertips. Cal, who was only too aware of her silent longing and shaking with his own need, lowered Sarah to the ground with his good arm and pressed his body against hers, so that Sarah felt his arousal cradled against her hip. Then he groaned painfully, abruptly pulled himself away and sat up.

  "Sarah, I promised myself I wouldn't do this." His breathing was labored, and his voice sounded painful. He silently cursed his lack of control. Capturing a fine woman must be done slowly, steadily, and patiently. He never intended for things to go this far, at least not this day. The last thing he wanted was for Sarah to think that he had decided to slake his lust on her, carelessly seducing, and simply taking what Roy had purchased just days ago at Lola's. After all, she was on the white. She was an innocent -- she'd told him as much.

  Sarah looked into his darkened eyes and blushed. Her hands flew to her cheeks. She was still gasping for air, chest heaving, her body still craving the physical intimacy. She jerked up from her prone position, hung her head, and tears fell.

  "I'm sorry." She whimpered. With trembling hands she buttoned her shirt. "I don't do this sort of thing. I don't know what got into me, honestly I –"

  "No! Sarah, it was my fault. I wanted you." His hands were also shaking, his face was still hot with yearning, and his dark eyes yet reflected his urgent need. His voice was wrenching, a sound akin to a bent wheel scraping against the side of a wagon.

  He reached around behind her and deftly plucked up his hat. Then he yanked it onto his head, hastily excused himself, and walked down the creek bank to the water, where he waited for the blasted burning to subside. After he collected his thoughts he strolled back up the slope, smiling gently at Sarah as if absolutely nothing had happened between them.

  Sarah suddenly felt angry and ashamed. And she wondered. How many other girls had he taken to his "special place?" Did he stop because he didn't feel real affection for her like she felt for him? He'd said he wanted her, but Sarah knew that wanting and loving were likely very two different things. Perhaps this was just another entertaining tryst for an experienced man like Caleb Easton, one who couldn't possibly consider her, the orphaned country girl in oversized pants and ragged old shirt, more than a pleasant morning diversion.

  As they climbed up the creek bank, she keenly felt both disappointment and guilt. For him she could never be more than one of "Lola's gals".

  Cal led the horses from where they were happily grazing on grass, oblivious to the emotional storms raging inside their riders. Cal executed his one-armed mount, and Sarah peered from beneath veiled lashes to see the muscles tighten across his chest and shoulders.

  Stony silence hung between them on the ride back toward the ranch house. Cal's expression betrayed nothing of what he was thinking, and Sarah took an unusual interest in each wildflower growing along their path. Her mind was flooded with new feelings; she knew it would take time to pick through this experience. And she also worried. Would her brazen behavior get her fired from her first real job? All the same, she couldn't stop thinking of the long hot kisses and passionate invitation that lit Cal's eyes and penetrated his voice. She ran over the intimate details of their love play, and she laid them down to a memory, to revisit and give comfort to her whenever she felt lonely in the days and years ahead. She'd always be able to remember of how one man had wanted her one morning near a creek.

  They passed by a large grassy outcropping, which jutted out halfway up a grassy slope, casting a long cool shadow over the land. The sun had risen farther in the sky, and Sarah reined in on the gray mare to slow to an amble in the shade, so as to tie on her bonnet.

  Abruptly the mare's head came up. Nostrils flared. The dreadful warning of impending danger came seconds too late. As she was trying to coax her mount to the safety of a brush thicket near the rocks Sarah heard a low, dull thud. At the same moment a sharp pain seared into the left side of her back. Her mouth flew open in a startled, agonizing howl.

  Quick as lightening Cal turned. His face drawn, his dark eyes flashed with muted terror. In one smooth, violent motion Cal jerked his left arm from the sling and grabbed for his six-shooter with his right. He spurred his mount, quickly came up beside her. Sarah slumped forward in her saddle, and Cal leaned to grab the reins from her, intent on leading Sarah's horse to cover behind the steep rocky hill.

  Just then they heard another dreadful thud. This time it struck somewhere behind Sarah, hard, on her mount's hindquarter.

  The mare reared straight up. Cal never got a firm grasp on the reins; the spooked mare jumped and bolted away, off the trail, and she started a frantic race toward home.

  When the horse had jolted Sarah found that she was helpless to control the enraged animal. She could do nothing but cling blindly to the horse's neck. Sarah's heart stuck in her throat, beating twice as fast as the horse's pounding hooves as they blazed across the prairie.

  "I'm with you!" Cal shouted, and the voice reached her like a distant cry against a storm.

  Terror ripped at Cal's gut. Panicked horses could run through fences and careen into buildings. Cal had once seen a man killed instantly when drawn under a horse's hooves during a runaway. He kicked his horse harder to keep up with the charging mare. If he could get alongside he'd have a chance at pulling her to safety. He cursed. If only I had two strong arms!

  What the hell? Cal watched a bloodstain growing across the back of Sarah's shirt. She valiantly clung to the mare's mane, keeping her body low, one with the animal.

  Cal had never abused an animal before. But now he recklessly spurred and cursed, and his heaving horse struggled to keep pace. As he began to close the gap with the gre
y mare, he wished he'd chosen his fastest stallion that morning, not this reserve gelding. Of course he'd planned on a pleasant courting ride -- not a trip to purgatory.

  The barn and corral came into sight, but Sarah's horse continued the wild run, showing no signs of relenting. Cal raced behind, choking on the dust cloud being kicked up.

  As luck would have it, Ned and Bailey, the ranch foreman, were standing near the corral and saw them coming. Billy, the youngest hand and wrangler -- too old for milk and too young for whiskey -- sat frozen to the top rail of the fence.

  Ned and Bailey gathered their wits and jumped into action. Bailey had a rope and Ned ran for another, and they shouted for more help. Fourteen-year-old Billy sprang from the fence, and as no horses were saddled, he mounted the closest, bareback.

  Inch by inch Cal fought to close the gap between their horses. At last he drew up alongside Sarah, in a flurry of pounding and heaving. At just the right moment, he rose and stood in his stirrups, coaxing his horse to close in from her left side.

  Suddenly he straightened and surged forward, using his long body to greatest advantage. He drove his legs powerfully into the stirrups, and his steel arm grabbed her around the waist. The surprise made her loosen her grip on the mare's mane.

  "Let go!" he yelled above the din.

  Cal pulled Sarah to the safety of his lap, where she instinctively twisted and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. She sowed her sobs, shamelessly, into his broad chest.

  Blood ran down her sleeve and covered her hand. Cal slowed his horse and he cradled Sarah against him. She pressed her face deep into his neck where hot tears of relief mingled with his cold sweat.

  The runaway mare didn't slow as she neared the corral. Bailey was now on a mount, and he and Billy rode straight into the danger. They roped the crazed animal on their first attempt. Two night herding men appeared. They'd been asleep in the bunkhouse when they'd heard the shouting. They looped more ropes around the gray and wrestled against her.

  The lathered, heaving runaway was brought to heel, and walked back to her stall, led by Bailey, who chanted honeyed words to calm the wounded animal.

  "You'll be fine now," Cal murmured shakily into Sarah's hair. He prayed that he was telling her the truth.

  Ned, face etched with worry, rushed to Cal's side. His limp was more pronounced than usual. "What can I do?" He rasped.

  "Get a doctor," Cal mouthed so Sarah couldn't hear him. Ned nodded and raced to saddle up, but Billy had beaten him to the task and was already cinching leather on a fast gelding.

  Amidst all the chaos Cal jumped from the saddle, took Sarah in his arms, and gingerly carried her into the house. Her confused eyes scanned his tight face just before she lost consciousness.

  "Get the arrow out of my back," she whispered.

  Chapter 12

  Cal took the steps two-at-a-time. He swept past wide-eyed Emily who'd watched the drama unfold from the porch with Mama.

  "M-Mr. Easton! What happened?" Emily's little face was full-moon pale; her light blue eyes yawned wide with fright.

  "She's hurt. Don't know how badly," he tossed back. "Ned's going for Doc Chandler."

  Cal carried Sarah up the stairs. She felt as light as a feather quilt. The door to his room was slightly ajar; he kicked it fully open and strode over wood planking to the bed.

  Carefully he laid Sarah on her side. Then he gently rolled her to her stomach. His trembling hands tore her oversized shirt up the back, and he lowered her camisole to reveal the wound on her shoulder.

  Cal scowled. Maybe it felt like an arrow to Sarah, but it wasn't. Nor was it a bullet wound. He saw a sharp gash about four inches in length. It was a deep cut, but it didn't penetrate like a gunshot.

  As he gazed down he regretted taking her riding. It had gone badly. He'd have to find it in himself to apologize for his ungentlemanly advances, and now this on top of it.

  He took her limp hand and held it gently in his own.

  Emily walked into the room, and taking one look at the blood stained sheet she shrieked. "Oh my God! Sarah is dying!" Then she fell to her knees and wailed.

  "Emily she's not dying." Cal rose from where he was seated at the bedside, and he took another set of tiny hands into his own.

  "Oh." Her angel blue eyes were glimmering with tears. "It just ain't fair!" she blurted. "Sarah gets all the hurting!"

  "How's that?" Cal's eyes narrowed, and his voice tightened.

  "Th-those bad men, what gone and killed my uncle," she spouted, "one hurt Sarah! P-poor, poor Sarah! He, he pulled up her skirts and laid on her. The blood ruined her skirt after, because somehow he cut her – oh my God –-." She clapped a hand over her mouth and whimpered.

  Cal felt like he'd been gored in the stomach. "Oh no. Oh no," he closed his eyes, "Emily --"

  "Oh, I wasn't to talk about any of that," Emily blanched.

  Cal held her little shaking hand. His coffee eyes were brimming. "Sarah will be OK." He looked into her eyes. "There now," he whispered, "I'll take care of your sister, but I need you to help me with Mama. No one else can do it Emily. Ned had to fetch the doctor."

  Emily sobered, and then she hopped forward and impulsively hugged Cal.

  He wrapped an arm around her tiny shaking shoulders, and for a moment they clung to each other. He ran a rough hand over her angel hair.

  Emily pulled away. "I'll go take care of your mama now. Mr. Easton. Take good care of my sister." Her voice was thin, but her posture was strong.

  "Yes, I will. And you'll look after Mama?"

  Brave little Emily nodded and turned and scampered down the steps.

  Cal sighed raggedly. He swallowed back tears. Sarah. Suddenly he felt even worse about his uncontrolled lust down at the creek. He supposed he'd been without a woman for too long, but that was scant excuse for his behavior.

  As he silently chastised he decided she needed fresh air, so he opened a window. Cal collected towels and water from the washstand, and he folded and pressed a clean one to Sarah's wound. The bleeding had slowed, and after a minute it stopped. He carefully dabbed the wound with clean water, and finally he pressed another towel against the gash and held it firmly in place.

  The soft breeze wafting across the room was calming. His heart was no longer racing as fast as the mare.

  After a short time Sarah opened her eyes They flickered immediately to Cal and met his dark gaze; confusion and fear were evident in their green depths.

  "Don't roll honey. You've been hurt."

  "I remember."

  Cal dragged a chair over and sat down next to her. Taking her hand again he explained. "It wasn't an arrow, Sarah. It wasn't a bullet, either. I sent Ned for the doctor." He'd leaned over and was speaking a few inches from her ear. His breath slid across her cheek.

  "Something hurts on my back – at my waist." Sarah groaned. "What is it?"

  Cal's eyes drifted downward to something hard lodged between her lower back and the top of her trousers. Gingerly he tugged her pants away; he tried to ignore the glimpse of thin cotton drawers.

  He spied a large stone, which he plucked away. As he turned it in his hand the rock felt heavy; he judged nearly a half-pound in weight, elliptical in shape with a sharp edge.

  "A rock Sarah. It was stuck in your pants, and I removed it," he muttered. Cal set the rock on the table next to his bed. His cheeks had reddened slightly.

  "Oh, that's so much better." Sarah's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you. I could have been killed when that horse bolted." Her voice was a thin whisper of gratitude mixed with awe.

  More than saving her life, he'd risked his own, bad arm and all. Chasing down a runaway horse, and getting so close as to pull her off was a risky maneuver. Both horses could have easily gone down.

  Cal was boiling with fury. Someone threw that rock. More likely they'd used a sling. The Eastons learned to hunt with slings when they were boys, and Cal was a good slingshot. He'd also preferred oval shaped rocks like the one now setting on his bedsid
e table. He'd been able to hit anything accurately, even at 50 yards. But this made no sense. Why would anyone want to hurt Sarah?

  Cal wrestled to put aside his anger for Sarah's sake. He sat and held her hand while they patiently waited for Doc Chandler. How good it felt to sit, touch, and have a quiet conversation with a woman. Cal offered her water and helped her take a few sips.

  Sarah couldn't help but wonder at his innate gentleness, but she supposed it came naturally to him because, after all, he'd had practice caring for his mother. While they waited he left the room only once, to go check up on Emily and his mother, and to reassure them about Sarah's condition. He returned carrying a bottle of whiskey and piece of leather. These were set on the table.

  Over an hour passed, and Ned rode up to the house accompanied by a good-looking young man.

  Cal met them at the top of the stairs. The younger man toted the standard physician's black leather bag, but he was dressed in buckskin pants and a blue plaid shirt that matched his eyes.

  "Where's Doc?"

  Ned set a defensive posture. "Doc Chandler was called out to deliver Mrs. Simmon's baby." He doffed his hat to the man on the step behind him. "This here's Rutherford. He arrived last week after word moved down the trail that we needed another doctor. He comes from a place called Rooster, in Minnesota."

  "That's Rochester," corrected the young doctor. "But I took my training in Boston before that. The gentleman I worked with in Rochester was a union surgeon named Mayo who—"

  "OK, fine! You'll have to do," stormed exasperated Cal. The man looked too young to be a doctor, and it bothered Cal that he was rather handsome. Sarah was lying in his bed half undressed. He'd have preferred old Doc Chandler.

  Doctor Rutherford entered the bedroom and cocked his head low to smile at Sarah.

  "Hello miss. I'm Doctor Rutherford."

  "Hello," Sarah squeaked. If the doctor recognized her as the girl from town who rode the white pony he gave no indication, and for that she was grateful. He leaned over her and pulled back the towel, studied the wound, and shot a look at Cal. "You washed it with water?"