She released a long breath. “You had me fooled. And scared the crap out of me.”
“Excellent. Now you just be yourself and everything will go fine.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the desk chair. “Now, let’s prepare. What’s your name, and what are you doing here?”
She shook her head. “Not here. If you think Beautiful was pissed off before—”
“Point taken.” He stood. “Okay, let’s get our things packed up. After that we should grab some sleep. It will take us five hours to get there, so we need to leave here at midnight.”
Lucius popped his head into the doorway. “I packed a big thermos of coffee and a cooler full of food for you. They’re on the kitchen table. Grab it when you go. I’m heading up to bed, taking Franny with me. Gaucho’s snoozing by the refrigerator. I think he’s waiting for a chicken to fall out.”
Hugging him hard, Emma said, “We’ll keep you posted as much as we can. If there’s a problem—”
“What? With your Marine training and his bad ass attitude, you’ll fit in just fine.” Lucius shook his head. “Just don’t get lost in there. Evil can be seductive and powerful, and power can ruin the most ethical man.”
Lucius left the room, and Emma continued to put their supplies into a backpack. A thought struck her, and she started laughing.
He cocked his head. “What?”
“Just thinking about my ancestors and their hunting parties. I’ll be following in the footsteps of some brave women warriors who fought with Custer. You and I will be counting some coups.”
Bronco emptied boxes of .308 rounds into an ammo can. “George Armstrong Custer?”
“The same. I bet you didn’t know that Crow warriors served as scouts and soldiers alongside General Custer’s troops in the fight against their old enemies, the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho. And that at least two Crow women served as warriors in this battle, Osh-Tisch, which means Finds-Them-and-Kills-Them and The-Other-Magpie. The-Other-Magpie fought because the Sioux had killed her brother. All she had was a stick and spit. She rode into battle with Osh-Tisch, who could shoot like a demon. The-Other-Magpie hit the enemy with a stick and spit on them. While the warrior was wondering what the hell that was all about, Osh-Tisch shot them.”
“Like tag-team wrestling?” He chuckled and dumped more ammo into the can. “These are going to be super heavy.”
“Well, if we can’t shoot them, we can hit them in the head with the ammo cans.”
“Good point.” Bronco opened a duffle bag and began putting olive drab shirts and pants in it. “Interesting. What’s this counting coup thing?”
“To become a chief, a Crow warrior had to ‘count coup’ by doing one of four things—striking an enemy with a bare hand or stick without killing him, leading a successful raid, stealing horses from an enemy camp, or grabbing a bow or gun in hand-to-hand combat.”
“So if you do any of those things, you can be a chief?” He frowned. “Did they really let women do that? I thought Native American women were all Indian princesses or maidens—or drudges doing all the heavy work.”
“Ohmigod.” She put her fists on her hips. “Step away from the TV. You’ve been watching too many cartoons. Erase the Pocahontas myth from your mind, please. Women were—and are still respected members of our society. We owned the teepees and all the household goods. The men moved in with us. If we wanted to get a divorce, all we had to do was get up at a dance and say, ‘I’m throwing my husband away. Anyone who wants him can have him.’ That simple. It went the other way, too, but women had rights and owned property. Our descent is through our mothers, not our fathers. We were and still are a matrilineal society.”
Bronco put his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. I’m a product of bad education.”
“One more tidbit for you. At ten years of age, a child named Pine Leaf was captured in a raid on the Gros Ventre. Raised like a boy, she became a great warrior and ultimately a woman chief. She and Beautiful are both my ancestors. Don’t mess with me or my family, or you will regret it.”
He grinned. “I will never regret meeting you, Emma. Of that I’m positive.” He glanced around the office. “I think we’re packed. Now, let’s go grab some sleep.”
Emma took in Bronco’s jaunty smile and wondered how he could consider closing his eyes when for all they knew they’d be dead by dawn. Did Pine Leaf sleep when she was fighting her enemies? Did Beautiful Blackfeather snooze when her daughter died in childbirth? Where was her inner woman warrior?
“Sleep?” She grabbed his collar and pulled him close. “Tomorrow we face a nation of insane people who will shoot first and ask questions after. Since you like metaphors, we’re jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Before we go down in flames, there’s one thing you and I are going to do.”
“What?” he breathed.
She went up on her tiptoes, placed her lips on his, and kissed him as if there was no tomorrow.
****
As Bronco lifted her off her feet, she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he pushed her back against the wall. She gasped when he slid his hands under her T-shirt and found her unfettered breasts. He lifted the material and moved his mouth from her lips to her hardening nipples. She pulled his head closer, arched against him, and his erection rubbed against her jeans, aching to be set free. The thump of her butt against the woodwork reminded him they were in the office—with the door open.
“My room?” He gasped while licking her nipples.
She moaned and pressed harder against his groin, riding his bulge like a bucking stallion. “Don’t stop.”
“Now?” He slid his hand under her buttocks and nipped her neck.
She hissed and brought her lips down on his for a searing kiss. He bucked involuntarily at the connection, and she groaned.
“Make love to me as if there’s nothing standing between us and death but the connection between our souls.”
“Elevator,” he murmured against her breasts.
“Yes.” Slowly, she slid down his legs, over his throbbing erection. “Now.”
Hands entwined, she leaned against his shoulder as they walked toward the elevator, pausing every five steps to kiss, pull away, take a few steps, and kiss again. They stepped into the brass cage, pressed the up button, and the elevator shook into movement. She stroked the scar on his cheek, and he shuddered.
She whispered, “How did you get this?”
“Training accident,” he lied. Now was not the time for his sordid family history. “I was chasing a ‘bad guy’, leaped without looking where I was heading, and landed on broken glass. Bled like mad.”
He stroked her forehead. “You? How’d you get that?”
“Thought a bull would be as easy to ride as a horse.” She giggled. “On a farm, not in a rodeo.”
“Crazy woman.”
“I was ten.”
“Crazy girl.”
He ran his finger along her lower lip, and she sucked the digit into her mouth. She drew it in and out, swirling her tongue around his index finger, giving him a heady preview of things to come. The elevator stopped. She removed his finger with a popping sound and smirked.
Hand in hand, they entered his room, lit only by the full moon. He held up a finger and peeked in the bathroom. No eyes stared back from the mirror. That was a relief. “We’re alone.”
He pulled his T-Shirt over his head and then without taking her eyes off his face, Emma peeled her own shirt off. Her breasts were full and round, high and perky, with dark pink nipples that made his mouth water. Above her right breast and below her collar bone sat a puckered circular scar. Two Gothic letters tattooed in black ink encircled the scar.
“MF?” he asked.
“Mother f—”
“Got it. From the meth head tweaker at the convenience store?” He guffawed. “You got him, not the other way around.”
She drew closer. “And for this operation, MF will stand for Mongols Forever, should anyone ask. I took a bullet for my cl
ub. Street cred.”
He grabbed her by the waist and lowered his lips to the nipple and pulled with his teeth as she moaned. He whispered, “Do you like a rough ride, Emma Bearkiller?”
“I like to ride real stallions. No little ponies for me.”
Running his hands over her back as they kissed, he stopped and turned her around. “Sweet Mother of God.” Scars crisscrossed her back like hashtags, some looping down and beneath her denim jeans. “Do they hurt?”
She shook her head. “Not as much as they did at first. I put yarrow tea on them every day. Speaking of which, I need to see how that worked out for your butt.” She pulled at his belt. “Medicine woman’s orders.”
When he dropped his jeans and kicked them aside, his erection stood at attention, proud and free. Her eyes danced with admiration—and mischief.
“Turn around,” she ordered. “I need to see where you were chafed.”
He complied and felt a hand press against his butt cheek. “To your liking?”
“Oh, very much, but I need to complete my inspection.” She stroked his buttocks with both hands, and he trembled as she skimmed her hands up and down his inner thighs, then feathered her fingers between his legs, tickling him.
“Do I get to return the favor?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Keep your eyes front.” Material swished and her belted jeans thumped on the floor. “About face.”
He turned. The moonlight shimmered on her skin, caressing every inch. Hands floating over her arms, his mouth hovered over her neck, breasts, and belly like a butterfly. A kiss here, a lick there, a nip in between, he kissed his way down her belly to the dark triangle between her legs. Feeling as if he was worshipping an ancient goddess, he knelt before her primal splendor. Palming her buttocks with both his hands, Bronco pulled her against his mouth and slid his tongue between her wet folds. Moaning, she pressed his head into her core and rocked against his mouth. She tasted like the ocean and confidences between lovers. Probing deeper he found her trembling nub, and then slid his fingers deep within her molten core. She gasped, and cried out, “Oh God!” and shuddered.
“You approve?”
Breathless, she finally responded, “Very much.” She pulled him to his feet. “Your turn.”
“In bed, my beautiful Indian princess.” He pointed to the four-poster. “More comfortable.”
“Me or the bed?”
“The bed for sure. We’ll soon find out if you are.”
Jumping onto the bed, she opened her arms and invited him in.
“A considerate lover, how nice.” Hands on either side of her head in a modified push up, he hovered over her, then leaned in for a long, lingering kiss. “Did you miss me?”
Smiling, eyes shining, she pulled his head back to hers. “Like the moon and the stars.”
He lay on top of her, reached into the nightstand and withdrew his wallet. “Emergency stash.” He rolled onto his back, ripped the packet open and began to slide the condom onto the tip of his penis. She grabbed his hand and helped him unroll the latex and stroked him.
She whispered, “Just want to ensure this is properly applied, medically speaking, that is.”
“Of course. We don’t want any slip ups—just slipping into something comfortable.” He rolled back over and palmed her core. “If you’re ready for me, that is.”
“Let me show you how ready I am.” Placing her thumb on the tip of his erection, she rubbed back and forth and his entire body quivered in response.
“You’re killing me,” he moaned. “But don’t stop.”
She drew her hand up and down his hardness and explored the contours of his maleness with her clever fingers causing him to shudder with delight. “I have to be sure this is the right fit.” Emma gave a throaty laugh. After torturing him for what felt like hours, but was truly only moments, she finally said, “I think you’re properly protected now.”
He groaned as she guided him into her center, wrapped her legs around his back, and rose up to meet him. He plunged into her warmth, wrapped his arms around her warrior’s back, and nuzzled his face against her neck, clutching her as if this would be their last embrace. With terrible timing, the enormity of the task before them hit him and regrets about dragging her into hell nagged him. What if he got them both killed? It was one thing to put his life in danger—but hers?
“Is something wrong? Are you okay? Or is it me? Do my scars turn you off?”
Damn, it was not her fault, none of this was.
“No,” he croaked past a baseball sized lump in his throat. “You’re the strongest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. I was taking a moment—to enjoy the pleasure of being so close to you.” He kissed her, and she invited him into her mouth, tongues tangling. She nibbled at his bottom lip and raked her fingernails down his back and across his buttocks. Ripples of pleasure raced to his groin, and he slid back to thrust deeper into her core. She moaned and cried, “Yes,” even as she rose again to meet him. Uninhibited, Emma’s passion mirrored his until when at last they came together, he called her name and collapsed on her beautiful breasts.
He had never been so out of control in his life. Even in the sack, he had always prided himself on his ability to orchestrate each move in what he considered his symphony of lovemaking. He had not been in control from the instant she kissed him. This woman, this horse whisperer, had taken charge of his body and now his heart was following.
Deep in the heart of the house, Gaucho stirred and barked, laughing at him. His feline partner had been courteous enough to stay out of his mind during their intimate moments, but now he was all up in Bronco’s business. He knew Bert was going to kill him for bedding his sister. But this one time, a little insubordination went a long way toward making him feel better about the fact that they were on their way to an armed camp.
Tomorrow might be their day to die, but tonight for a short while was their time to live. They had a room, a soft bed, and a truckload of pent up craving. He’d be a fool to let it go to waste. Rising once again to the occasion, he rolled onto his back and pulled Emma on top, determined to mark her as his now and forever.
Chapter Thirteen
At midnight on the dot, having caught only an hour of sleep after a breath-defying lovemaking session, Emma climbed behind the wheel of her trusty pick-up truck and began driving into the unknown. Purring loudly, Gaucho curled into a ball on Bronco’s lap, and fell asleep. Before long, his owner’s head began to nod, giving her ample privacy and the opportunity to reflect on recent events.
The sex was amazing. Ethereal, possibly supernatural. So what’s the problem? The very reason she was attracted to him should have been her first warning. Like a too stupid to live heroine in a horror movie, she’d not only gone into the house, but down into the pitch black cellar without a flashlight. The man was a loner, a trickster, an adrenaline fueled drifter whose only desire was to live on the edge. He was so used to working undercover, she wondered if any of his emotions were real. In the moonlight drenched hotel room, magic lit up every corner with love. In the front seat of a dusty old truck, however, the magic was gone, along with the irresistible combination of adrenaline, lust, and dancing with death.
The man had no clue, not a single shred of knowledge when it came to Native Americans. In her world, language, culture, history, and relationships were the glue that bound the family clan and the tribe together. He was an interloper, an outsider, uninterested in any culture outside his own—whatever the hell that was. While Bronco didn’t appear to be a misogynistic racist, he could be keeping that under wraps—along with any other antisocial tendencies not worn on his inked sleeves.
Beautiful had it all wrong. For one thing, she’d been dead over a hundred years. For another, even when she was alive, she’d been one of four wives—all sisters. Emma was not the least bit interested in playing second, third, or fourth fiddle to other women. That era was long gone. Plus, Beautiful had been a shape-shifter, which had its own set of rules. Why did Beautiful hav
e to stick her nose into Emma’s love life, anyway? Seriously, no one else she knew in the tribe had this much interference from those who’d gone to the other camp.
Regardless of her ancestor’s opinion, Bronco was wrong for her and she knew it. The sex was great, but there was no need to go any further. She would never allow herself to be some man’s appendage. No, she was an independent woman with her own home, her own business, her own life, and her place within her tribe with all her cousins, aunts, and uncles. Just like Woman Chief, she would never give that up. As soon as this mission was over and the bad guys were caught, she was sending his adorable outsider’s ass packing. She’d be firm, polite—wait—what if he didn’t want to stay with her?
Slamming her palm on the steering wheel, she cursed herself mentally. Stupid woman. Aside from the impromptu roll in the hay, what made her think for even one nanosecond that he was that interested in her? Here she’d been thinking about how she’d give him the tip of her cowboy boot, when in fact the man was probably just going to hop on his bike and ride into the sunset—alone. Well, that made things easier, didn’t it? No need to get her tail feathers in a bunch, after all. The man had all the reliability of a coyote, a master trickster. She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror, gave herself a grim smile, and nodded her head. All’s well that ends well, and soon enough, this little romance would be over and done.
A loud gasp from the passenger seat startled her. Reflexively, she jerked the wheel. The truck wobbled, and the bike jounced in the back.
“Stop!” Bronco shouted, and Gaucho growled and hissed.
Heart trip hammering in her chest, she slowed the vehicle down to ensure the bike wouldn’t launch itself out of the bed of the truck and into the cab. At last, she pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Without looking at the man beside her, she yelled, “What the hell’s going on?” When she turned the dome light on, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Legacy of Evil Page 13
