Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family)

by Georgina Gentry

  “And then what?”

  A shadow crossed his face. “I have unfinished business, back at Falcon’s Lair. I must protect the old couple who have loved and trusted me. There’s a snake in their midst who must be dealt with.”

  “But, Bandit—”

  His lips kissed the corner of her mouth. “Ask nothing else, Aimée, beloved. We have been made a gift of tonight. There’s no promise of tomorrow. That’s how we all should live, savoring the precious time we have.”

  She lay down on the soft robe, staring into the fire. “You’re right. Are we in any danger that the Indians might change their minds? Should we try to slip away in the dark?”

  Bandit shook his head, leaning back on one elbow. “We’d stand no chance of escaping the warriors. They know this land as intimately as a man knows his woman’s breasts.”

  With that, he bent over, pulled her torn blouse away. Her breasts were rounded globes of softness, her nipples pink as roses. She looked up at him, held out her arms. “I ask nothing more, Texas,” she whispered. “We have tonight, and no one can ever take that away from us.”

  With a sigh, he bent to kiss her between her breasts, and she felt her nipples harden with desire.

  “Aimée, beloved,” he murmured, his lips depositing little angel kisses along the cleft between her breasts. “Somehow, I feel that it was planned for us to meet, to be together. Do you suppose there’s really Someone or Something out there who cares enough that on a tiny, spinning planet, He would have your stagecoach reach that place and point in time just as I arrived?”

  “It’s called a miracle, my love.” She ran her lips along his jawbone, nibbled the corners of his mouth. “And love like this, why that must be a miracle, too.”

  “Oh, sweet, I love you so much. I don’t want this night ever to end.” He took her in his arms, stroking her hair, and kissed the tip of her nose. “If you only knew how much I care about you . . .”

  “Show me,” she challenged, speaking the words against his lips. “Oh, Texas, show me. . . .”

  His big, square hands cupped her breasts, teased her nipples into taut peaks. As she gasped at the sensation, his hands slid, warm and hard, down her rib cage, to the hollow of her belly.

  She felt her body moisten with expectation as his hands stroked her thighs, and she arched up against him, unable to keep from sighing with pleasure.

  His tongue, hot and wet, found the hollow of her navel, kissed agonizingly lower . . . lower. “The ultimate kiss, sweet,” he whispered, “the ultimate kiss.”

  She caught her fingers in his blond hair, pulled him hard against her femininity as he kissed her there. His tongue teased, taunted, took.

  “Oh, Texas,” she gasped in pleasure holding his face tight against her, willing him never to stop kissing and touching there. Then she pulled him up to kiss him, tasted the essence of her own dew on his lips as he kissed her deeply.

  She opened her mouth wide in surrender, letting his tongue plunge deep, stroke the inner velvet of her mouth. He groaned aloud, and she reached with her hand to hold him, felt him throbbing hot and hard within her grasp, felt the rich seed of him, drew in his male scent. “Take me, beloved, take me!”

  He slipped her slim ankles above his wide shoulders and reached to grasp her small shoulders in his big hands. “I want to take you deeper than I’ve ever taken you before, sweet Aimée,” he whispered, “but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  In answer, she tilted her hips up to him. “Deep,” she commanded, “take me deep. I want to feel you throbbing with life inside me.”

  He hesitated just a moment against her opening. She felt him hot against her, pulsating with seed. Then he took a deep breath and drove hard into her.

  She might have cried out if his tongue had not been in her mouth, dominating her, taking hers. Even if she wanted to, she could not stop him now as he rode her in a frenzy, her legs up over his shoulders so she was helpless beneath his hard driving body.

  Her breasts hardened under his chest, but his hands gripped her shoulders, pinning her as he mated her in a hard driving urge. She felt him, throbbing with the life he had to give, deep within her velvet place as she dug her nails into his bare, rippling back, drawing blood. She reached up to bite his nipples, felt them swell with desire against her teeth. Like two wild things, they coupled, clenching onto each other, her body squeezing his, trying to force out the seed that her womb craved so instinctively.

  “Aimée, I love you,” he whispered against her lips, and he put his tongue deep into her throat, plunged his male steel deep one more time, shuddered, and gave up his seed.

  In that split second, she felt the spurt of his maleness and her body began to surge in a rhythm of its own, clenching onto his, demanding every drop he had to give. And as she locked onto his sword, she dug her nails into his broad back, surrendered to the spasms of desire that swept over her.

  For a long time, she quivered, aware only of the heat and perspiration of him, the taste and scent of him, his big heart pounding hard against her soft flesh.

  When her eyes flickered open his lips nursed her breasts, drawing the nipples up to tiny points of hot desire, making her want him again. His hands squeezed her breasts, kneading them as a kitten does, and she felt a wave of tenderness sweep over her for this giant of a man.

  He kissed her face, murmuring words of tenderness that she was sure this tough cowboy had said to no other woman. He was as vulnerable in his newly discovered gentleness as a child. She cradled him very close, crooned softly to him, and began making love to him all over again.

  He smiled at her, kissed her eyelids. “An unforgettable night,” he whispered. “Oh, Aimée, if I die tomorrow, this has been worth it!”

  She snuggled against the strength and power of the man, feeling secure, protected. No one would ever hurt her as long as she was safe in her love’s arms.

  They made love again and again, and finally exhausted and drained, they dropped off to sleep, cradled in each other’s embrace.

  Colonel Mackenzie turned in his saddle, peered through the darkness as Murphy galloped up. “What is it now, Sergeant?” Everything seemed to be conspiring to slow the regiment, to keep them from reaching the Indian camp by dawn.

  “Sir”—the beefy Irishman saluted—“we’ve hesitated to tell you, but the pack mules keep falling behind.”

  Mackenzie reined in, swearing inwardly. “Well, no one expects fully loaded pack mules to keep up with the cavalry. How far behind?”

  He saw the sergeant hesitate, fearing his well-known temper. “Sometimes maybe as much as a mile, sir.”

  Mackenzie began to curse, ignoring the stoic Seminole scouts who had reined in and now sat their horses, awaiting his orders. “Why wasn’t I told before?”

  Murphy didn’t answer. But Mackenzie realized it was because of his own famous temper.

  “If we were ambushed,” Mackenzie grumbled, “it would be an easy matter to cut us off from our supplies if the mules lag that far behind. We’d be helpless with all our food and ammunition captured.”

  “Yes, sir. The officer in charge of the mules knows that. He asks that you slow the column down so that the mules can keep up.”

  “Slow down!” The colonel rubbed his sweating face with his maimed hand. “We can’t slow down. It’s after midnight now, and we need the element of surprise. We must catch that camp asleep, hit it at dawn. We’ve got a long way to go.”

  “Sir, I told him I’d tell you; that’s all.” Murphy’s beefy red face revealed he was glad the decision wasn’t his responsibility.

  Mackenzie groaned aloud, arching his back to stop it from aching. It seemed as if he had sat his horse forever. What time was it? After midnight. In the wee hours of Sunday. The Fourth Cavalry had been in the saddle since dawn Saturday.

  Time was his enemy, moving relentless toward Sunday’s dawn with the cavalry still a long way from the Indian camps he planned to attack.

  The decision, it was his to make. Sometimes the duty

of command became almost more than he could bear. It had cost his father his career, and what Ranald did now might cost more than a career: it might cost most of the Fourth Cavalry their lives. The longer they stayed in Mexico, the slower they moved, the greater the chance for discovery.

  If either the Federales or the Indians discovered he had crossed the border before he could make his attack, he’d have a helluva fight on his hands. Yet he couldn’t leave the supplies behind. What good were soldiers without bullets? What good were horses without feed? The grass in this miserable stretch of desert wouldn’t even feed a burro.

  What to do? He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. The he looked over at Lieutenant Carter who flexed his shoulders, awaiting his decision. Mackenzie had to have those mules to carry back the captive Indian women and children the army intended to hold for ransom to insure that the Indians stopped raiding.

  “Sergeant, can the mules keep up without the packs?”

  Murphy’s eyes widened. “Well, aye, sir, but you wouldn’t be thinkin’ now of dumpin’ the packs, leavin’ the men without food and cartridges—”

  “Dump the packs,” Mackenzie said curtly. “Cut the packs loose and leave them. Pass the word back through the column that every man is to fill his pockets with all the shells and hardtack he can carry for himself. And tell the men each should get a small bag of oats for his own horse.”

  Carter protested. “But, sir, we need those supplies! Besides, stopping will take time—”

  “Are you questioning my authority, Lieutenant?” The colonel glared at the man, aware that his old wounds were aching, cursing the fact that he was a poor rider. How had he ended up in the cavalry? “You heard me, Sergeant. Now do it!”

  The brawny Irishman snapped him a salute, turned, and galloped back along the line of march. Mackenzie shifted his weight in the McClellan saddle, and looking up at the moon, thought about how soon it would be replaced by sunrise. He was bone tired as were his men. “Pass the word to dismount.”

  He looked down the column at his men as they slid stiff-legged from their horses. All the faces mirrored fatigue. What a difference a few hours made. At sunset the night before, his men had brightened, cheered as he’d signaled for silence and then led them across the shallow ford to the steep, cane brake on the Mexican side.

  Mackenzie had told them they had finally been ordered to cross and go after the Indians. Not a man had asked to see the written order. It would never occur to them that there was none. He’d have a mutiny on his hands if he told them the truth. Mutiny. He flinched. His father’s career had been wrecked by a mutiny.

  Now he waited for men to take care of this unexpected development, to hand out supplies, cut the packs loose and leave them laying in the trail. It seemed like forever that he waited, almost hearing the minutes ticking away. Time. Precious time. At this rate, he was just about certain they couldn’t hit the Indian camps at dawn. And to attack later when all the warriors were up and around, and maybe the big group of hunters were returning, might doom his mission.

  Finally Sergeant Murphy reported back. “All done as you ordered, sir. The officer in charge will drive the mules along behind us. He thinks they should have no trouble keeping up now.”

  “Good. Did you bring me some supplies?”

  He accepted the shells and hardtack from the sergeant, a small bag of oats for his weary mount. “Stand to horse,” he said to Captain McLaughlen. McLaughlen turned to pass the order down the line. “Stand to horse. Prepare to mount. Mount.”

  Once again they were headed through the darkness, following the lead of the brave Seminole scouts who rode ahead, reporting back again and again about the trail, the sleeping ranchos they rode past. MacKenzie had cautioned silence, and they now moved almost like ghost riders, each man mindful of the fact that noise might alert Mexicans, only the muffled sound of hooves, the occasional snorting of a horse, or the jingle of a bridle betrayed their passing through the long night.

  The sun will be up in a matter of hours, Mackenzie thought, as he watched the stoic scouts fan out ahead of the column. He hadn’t counted on the delay back there due to the mules, but a column could only ride so fast in the moonlit darkness. Besides, the horses were as weary as their riders, and if the mounts began to fail and fall, he’d have soldiers afoot in this desert with no way to get them back to Texas.

  He pursed his lips, thinking of the coming battle. What would he do if he had a great many wounded? To leave them behind to be tortured by vengeful Indians or shot by Mexican Federales appalled him. Yet if there were many, he would not be able to put them on litters, carry them out. What a devil of a predicament he faced.

  He shifted his slight body in the saddle, trying to find a comfortable position, but there was none. Even if the raid was a success, word of it would quickly spread through the countryside. He’d have angry Mexican troops, Indians, or armed peasants nipping at his heels like a pack of wolves on the fringes of a buffalo herd, hoping to bring down the stragglers. Getting back across the Rio Grande without further losses was going to be a trick in itself.

  Off to the west and ahead, he saw the dim outline of the Santa Rosa Mountains, and he knew it could only be a few more miles. But they were out of time. When he craned his neck to the east, he saw the palest glow on the far horizon, knew it was almost dawn now, less than an hour to go. He began to curse inwardly, knowing they would not arrive in time to hit the camp before the inhabitants were up and around.

  He signaled Captain McLaughlen to ride next to him. “Captain, remember I want your gray horse company to lead the charge.”

  The man snapped him a salute in the moonlit darkness. “Thank you, sir. My men appreciate your confidence. Are you going to split your troops, come in from two directions?”

  Mackenzie snorted. “That’s what Custer did at the Washita against the Cheyenne five years ago. He was lucky he didn’t lose any more men than he did. Mark my words, Captain, he’s going to try that again sometime and come up against warriors who were at the Washita, who will remember and will have learned from it. When that happens, George will wish he’d hadn’t split his troops up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mackenzie listened to the sounds of the column behind him, bridles jangling, horses snorting. “We’ll charge from one end of the camp, count on surprise and momentum to carry us through the entire Kickapoo village.”

  “Yes, sir.” The captain snapped Mackenzie a salute, galloped back to his troop.

  Carter fell in alongside of him. “You’re right about Custer; only his famous luck has kept him from getting killed up to now. You know my brother was a classmate of George’s. I think they both graduated the year before you did.”

  Mackenzie shrugged. Things hadn’t been going too well for George Custer lately. When he did get another chance to make a name for himself, he might act too recklessly. The colonel smiled in spite of himself. “You still planning on writing a book?”

  Carter nodded. “I’ll include a chapter on how we went into Mexico.”

  Mackenzie hunched his aching shoulders. “I hope for our sake your book is going to have a happy ending!”

  Carter regarded him seriously. “I hope so, too, sir.”

  “Tell Bullis I want to confer with his scouts.” Mackenzie looked back toward the east as he rode. A slight bit of pink stained the pale gray and lavender sky. Too soon. Too soon the dawn. But not even God himself could hold it back.

  Amethyst smiled at Bandit. They sat cross-legged before a fire outside the wickiup, eating roasted deer meat and crispy corn cakes baked in the coals. She looked over at the sun, rising now, all bathed in pink and gold. “It was an unforgettable night, Texas.”

  He finished his food, set the gourd container aside, and reached for a cigarillo. “For me, too, sweet, for me, too. The memory will last a lifetime.”

  Dread clutched at her heart. “You—you talk as if you really don’t plan to stay at Falcon’s Lair.’.’

  He didn’t answer, just struck a match on the sole of his boot and stared into the fire. She watched the hard planes of his face in the daylight, loving every detail that she had memorized by touch of mouth and fingertips.

  “Aimée, I had a long talk with old Cougar before you got up. I think I can understand the Indians’ side of things now.”

  She looked around the sprawling camp that was just beginning to come to life as women stirred their cooking fires. “Can we leave with no trouble? Last night seems like a distant nightmare.”

  “Try to forget it, sweet. The outlaws got what they deserved, hard as the justice was.” He stared at the tip of his cigarette. “At least I’ve unlocked part of my past. Now if I could just find this place called Sokol, unlock the rest of it.”

  “Sokol,” she repeated, puzzling over it. “Is it in Texas?”

  He flipped the ash off his smoke. “Don’t really know. Might even be the name of a hotel or a street. Whatever it is, the secret died with my mother.”

  She reached out, put her hand on his knee. “You don’t talk much about her.”

  He gave her a long look. “You know, sweet, I think I could to you. It’s always hurt too much to talk about her. She committed suicide by eating lucifer matches.” He winced as he described the painful way Lidah died.

  “Sounds a lot like my dear Miss Callie’s symptoms,” Amethyst mused, “except the doctor called it dysentery. At first we thought it was just indigestion, because of all the garlic in the meat.”

  “Garlic.” He turned the cigarette over and over in his fingers, staring at it. “Was Romeros there?”

  “Well, yes, of course. Everyone on both ranches came.” She shrugged. “Romeros helped serve the food. Why?”

  A frown crossed his face. “Awfully convenient that she died suddenly, clearing the way for Mona—Monique.”

  Amethyst shook her head in confusion. “What on earth are you hinting at?”

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