Maverick Heart

by Joan Johnston

  She kept her eyes on his, said his name over and over to remind herself it was him. And the feelings came. Feelings she had never imagined. With his mouth, his lips, his tongue, and his teeth, he worshiped her body. And asked nothing in return.

  She reached tentatively for his shoulder and felt him tense as her fingers touched his flesh. Muscle and sinew, and beneath it, bone. She let her fingertips wander into the damp curls at his nape. Down his back. Then around to the hard muscles of his abdomen and the crisp black curls on his chest.

  “God, Freddy, when you touch me—”

  She jerked her hand away, horrified that she had done something wrong.

  He caught her hand and pulled it back against his chest. “You didn’t let me finish, sweetheart. It feels good, Freddy. I love it when you put your hands on me.”

  He showed her how to touch him and touched her in return. It was a gentle exploration of each other’s bodies.

  But he had not forgotten his intention. She knew it when his hand slipped between her thighs.

  She froze and gasped as he slid a finger inside her. She had expected it to hurt, but she was wet and it glided easily into the passage. He kissed her again, his tongue thrusting in tandem with his finger inside her. She felt her body arch instinctively toward his hand as he withdrew his finger from inside her.

  “I think it’s best if we do this together,” he said in a quiet voice.

  She gritted her teeth and steeled herself for his intrusion. Instead, he took her hand and led it down to touch what had so frightened her. “No, Rand!”

  “It’s a part of me, Freddy, that wants to be inside of you. You can decide how much and how fast.”

  She tried to draw her hand away again, but he held her firmly against him. It took a few moments for her to feel the heat of him, and the softness of his skin, and the hardness of his shaft.

  “You’re too big,” she whispered.

  “I promise you I’m not,” he said with a small smile. “But we’ll go as slow as you want.”

  He helped her place the soft tip of him at the entrance to her body and pushed just a little with his hips. “Does that hurt?”

  She could tell from the strain in his voice that this was as difficult for him as it was for her. Which kept the panic at bay long enough for her to consider what he had said. “No. No, it doesn’t hurt. Yet.” But she knew it would soon. She gritted her teeth. Because she loved him, because he wanted this so badly, she was willing to bear the pain for him.

  He pressed farther into her and paused. When she made no objection, he spread her legs farther apart with his knees and pushed onward.

  “I think it hurts,” she said, grasping his arms tightly and gritting her teeth.

  He started to slide out of her, but to her surprise, her body arched upward, to take more of him. Her eyes flashed open, and she stared up at him.

  He was searching her face. “Are you sure it hurts?”

  “You’re … I’m …” She groaned as he slid into her all the way.

  “I’m inside you, Freddy,” he murmured in her ear. “Oh, God, Freddy, it’s wonderful.”

  She felt like crying, because it was wonderful. She bit her lower lip and arched upward to meet his slow thrusts. Once. Twice. Thrice.

  His hands slipped under her buttocks to support her, and he began moving steadily within her. Their bodies were slick with sweat, their lungs laboring to keep them alive.

  Then he was arching upward and backward with a look on his face that was almost pain as he spilled his seed within her. She felt her body tightening around him, convulsing with pleasure. She followed him over the precipice into an oblivion of joy.

  They were still wrapped in each other’s arms minutes later when they heard horses thundering by the tipi. Rand jerked himself from Freddy’s embrace, yanked on his trousers, and shoved past the flapped doorway to see what was going on.

  “What is it, Rand?” Freddy asked, hastily wrapping her nakedness in the buffalo hide. “What’s happening?”

  Rand frowned. “Hawk and about a dozen braves are riding out of camp. It looks like they’re going on another raid.”

  20

  Verity lifted a heavy cast-iron dutch oven from the heat and set it in the center of the four-hole stove to cool. Her scones—she had learned to call them biscuits—were done. She lifted the lid and peeked inside. Lightly browned and fluffy. She allowed herself a smile. During the past six weeks, Viscountess Linden had turned into a damned fine cook.

  Verity crossed and stood looking out the front window at the pink and purple dawn. She hoped it portended more of the warm spell they’d been having. Every day during the past week, the temperature had risen a little more. The snow was gone from the prairie, leaving behind a sea of dead yellow stalks. If Rand was stranded somewhere, he might be able to take advantage of this break in the freezing temperatures to make his way home. If there was a God, and if he was merciful, Rand would bring Freddy with him.

  But it was hard to keep on hoping.

  When Verity had first sent a letter to Colonel Peters asking him to keep an eye out for any sign of Rand and Freddy, he had responded by dispatching word to the reservation Sioux that he would pay for any information as to the whereabouts of the couple. When Rand and Freddy had showed up safe and sound at the ranch, Verity had informed Colonel Peters, and the colonel had relayed a message to the Sioux that the missing white folk had been found.

  Apparently, some of the Sioux had not gotten the second message, because two weeks after Rand had disappeared in the snowstorm one had shown up at the fort with Rand’s horse, demanding payment for information concerning the location where he had discovered the animal.

  The Indian said that when he caught the mustang it bore no saddle or bridle, but he knew it belonged to a white man because of the horseshoe brand on it. There was no way of knowing whether the Sioux was telling the truth, but the horse had a sprained right hock that suggested Rand might have unsaddled the animal himself because it was too injured to be ridden.

  Despite the freezing weather, Miles had gone with the Sioux to the spot where he said he found the horse. But Miles had seen no sign of Rand, dead or alive.

  Miles had not given her a chance to dwell on Rand’s and Freddy’s fates. He had kept her busy with endless household chores in the daytime. And he had claimed her body in bed at night. Verity blushed as she remembered the animal sounds she had uttered as he made love to her the evening just past.

  As though her thoughts had conjured him, Miles came up behind her and slipped his arms around her. His palms came to rest possessively on her belly. “Good morning,” he murmured, nuzzling her nape. She laid her hands over his, leaned back against him, and smiled.

  She knew for certain now that she was going to have another child. Miles would have another chance to be a father. She was going to tell him so today.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  She had been plagued by morning sickness for a week. That was how she had known for sure she was pregnant. She had told Miles it must have been something she ate—her first attempt at ham and lentil soup—to give herself a little more time to accept the idea before she told him about it. But he had given her the perfect opportunity to speak, and she wasn’t about to pass it up.

  “Actually, Miles, I’m pregnant.”

  It was so quiet you could hear daylight coming.

  “Miles?”

  His palms gently circled her abdomen through her jeans, feeling for changes in her shape. It was too soon for him to find any.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “As sure as a woman can be.”

  His hands slid up to her waist, and his arms tightened around her. He said quietly, “I can hardly believe it.”

  She wanted him to turn her around. She wanted to see his face, to know what he was feeling. He kept himself hidden from her, forcing her to ask, “Are you happy, Miles?”

  She felt a shudder roll through him.

  “I never
thought … I never planned …”He sucked in a breath of air and huffed it out again.

  “Miles—”

  Suddenly he was whirling her around, hugging her, pressing kisses on her eyes and nose and mouth. He lifted her high and swung her around. The boyish grin on his face brought a smile to hers.

  “God, Verity! A baby!”

  “Set me down, Miles,” she said with a laugh. “You’re going to make me sick.”

  Immediately he was all concern. She landed on her feet, and his hands cradled her belly as he asked, “Are you all right? Did I hurt the baby?”

  “We’re both fine.”

  “How long—I mean, when—”

  “You’re going to become a father for the second time in May.” Too late she realized she should have phrased it differently.

  Miles plowed all ten fingers through his hair, then turned his back on her and stood, hands limp at his sides, staring out across the prairie. His jubilation had ended as quickly as it had begun.

  She knew he was thinking of his first child, the son who, even if he returned alive, might still be lost to him. Knew he was lamenting what had been snatched from his grasp. Wishing things had been different. Wondering what would have happened, if only …

  She stood at his shoulder and said, “This could be a new beginning for us, Miles. We could do everything right this time. We could love each other freely and take joy in the birth of our child.”

  “I don’t know, Verity,” he said with a sigh. “What if something goes wrong again?”

  “Something probably will,” she said. “It always does.”

  He slanted his head to look at her, a wry smile distorting the scar at the corner of his mouth. “And you still want to try?”

  “I’d rather try and fail than never try at all,” she said. “I love you, Miles.”

  She had said the words before, but he had not believed her. She waited to see if he would accept them now.

  He turned and took her hands in his. His thumbs caressed her knuckles, and she realized her hands now resembled Mrs. Peters’s. They were red and rough from the harsh soap Frog had brought for her to use on the dishes and callused from churning butter and sweeping floors and scrubbing laundry. She started to withdraw them, but Miles tightened his grasp.

  She looked up and met his gray-eyed gaze and knew he did not mind.

  “They’re good, strong, hard-working hands,” he said. “The hands of a rancher’s wife.”

  “Oh, Miles.” She knew then it would be all right. He would let himself forget the past. He would let himself love the child to come. And he would let himself love her again. One day she would hear the words “I love you” on his lips and know he meant them from the heart.

  In fact, it might happen sooner than she had dared to hope, if the torment on his face was any sign of the struggle going on inside him to tear down a lifetime of walls and let her in.

  “Verity, I—”

  The door burst open with such force that the second hinge, the one that had not been replaced, broke from the strain. Verity opened her mouth to make a sound of disgust and froze when she realized who stood in the doorway.

  “Rand! Rand!” She jerked her hands free and raced toward him. He caught her, and she hugged him tight around the waist. Tears blurred her eyes and a swell of feeling choked off speech.

  It wasn’t until she heard Miles speak that she realized Freddy was right behind Rand. She shoved herself away from Rand and searched Freddy’s face for signs of distress as a result of her kidnapping. Freddy’s teeth clamped her lower lip, and her eyes lowered protectively from Verity’s regard. Freddy’s gaze flickered to Rand for … for reassurance, Verity realized. Something awful had happened to Freddy, but Rand had somehow made it all right. It was Verity’s acceptance of her dishonored state that Freddy doubted.

  Oh, dear child, how could you think I would hold you to blame? I, who have been brutalized by a monster, would never think less of you for being a victim, as well. Verity opened her arms and enfolded the young woman in a circle of warmth and welcome.

  She angled her head to Rand and asked, “Where have you been? How did you get here?”

  “We’ve been living at Hawk’s camp,” Rand said.

  “What in heaven’s name—”

  “It’s a long story, Mother,” Rand interrupted. “And we don’t have much time. Hawk is on his way here with a raiding party. We followed him from the village. He’s camped not far from here. I think he’s planning to attack at daybreak.”

  The sun inched beyond the horizon, and a shaft of sunlight struck Verity in the face. She exchanged a panicked look with Miles.

  “How many men does Hawk have with him?” Miles asked Rand.

  “At least a dozen, sir,” Rand said.

  “I’ll go alert the men. You barricade the windows here in the house. And do something with this goddamned door,” Miles said, kicking it savagely as he stalked outside.

  They set frantically to work. Once the windows were shuttered, the only view of the outside was through the gun holes that had been cut at various points along the log wall when the house was built. Rand rolled a nearly full flour barrel close to the door for use in blocking it as soon as Miles was back inside.

  But, the attack came before he returned to the house.

  “You can’t lock Miles out!” Verity cried when Rand started to roll the barrel into place.

  “We can’t wait for him, Mother,” Rand said. “We need to make sure the door is going to stay closed so we can concentrate on defending ourselves.”

  He dropped the barrel into place and accepted the Winchester Freddy handed him from where it had been racked over the mantel. “You two cover the bedroom window,” Rand said. “I’ll watch the front.”

  It was plain neither woman wanted to let him out of her sight, but Rand gave them both a severe look and ordered, “Go!”

  They went.

  Rand hoped all Hawk wanted was a few more cattle. But he knew from stories he had heard in the village that Hawk had recently attacked a ranch somewhere in the area and burned it to the ground, merely for the hate he bore the white man.

  Though he hadn’t let the women see it, he was worried about Miles. He fully expected him to try to make it back to the house, but there was an awful lot of open ground to be covered between here and the bunkhouse. Miles would make an easy target for the Sioux.

  Rand had spent a lot of time thinking about his father over the past six weeks. The whole story had spilled out to Freddy on the nightlong race to get back to the Muleshoe before Hawk. Freddy had interrupted frequently in typical Freddy fashion to ask questions, forcing him to put into words all the things he had been thinking about Miles Broderick.

  “Do you like him, Rand?” Freddy had asked.

  “It’s hard not to like him.”

  “Do you want him to be your father?”

  “I don’t think I have any experience with the sort of father Miles Broderick would be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s so helpful … so interested … so …”

  “Fatherly?”

  “Is that what fathers are supposed to be like? Mine never was.”

  “Talbot, you mean?”

  “Yes. Talbot.”

  “Why not give Miles a chance, Rand?”

  “I suppose I should,” he had said at last. He hadn’t admitted his reservations to her. What if he disappoints me? What if he doesn’t live up to all my expectations?

  In the end, all Rand had determined for sure was that he wanted to get to know Miles Broderick better. That wasn’t going to happen if the fool man managed to get himself killed in the next few minutes.

  Rand kept a sharp eye out for movement through the gun hole closest to the front door. Sure enough, he caught sight of Miles edging his way along the log wall of the bunkhouse, getting ready to brave the run across the open field that separated the ram pasture from the house.

  “Go back inside,” Rand muttered. “I
can take care of the women. Stay where you are.”

  But he knew if it had been him, he would have come. He realized he hadn’t expected any less of Miles. That, he supposed, was the big difference between the man who actually was his father and the man who had let himself be called by that name from the time Rand was born. Broderick never thought of himself first. Talbot always had.

  Rand eyed the flour barrel and realized he had better move it out of the way. His father was going to be in a hell of a hurry by the time he hit the front door.

  As he heaved the barrel out of the way, Rand heard a Sioux war cry and the sound of galloping hooves. He hurried back to the gun hole to see what was happening.

  His father was halfway to the house, running at full tilt, Colt in hand, when a lasso settled around his shoulders and jerked him violently to the ground. The gun flew out of his hand as he was dragged away in a rising cloud of dust.

  Rand raced for the door and swore when it stuck in the frame. He pounded it with his fist to unjam it, then dragged it open.

  “Rand, is something going on in there?” his mother called.

  “Everything’s fine, Mother,” he called as he raced out the front door. “Stay where you are.”

  Rand didn’t take aim, just swung the rifle up as he ran down the porch steps and fired. The shot missed, but it scared off Hawk, who let go of the rope, kicked his pony into a gallop, and disappeared behind the barn.

  Rand didn’t bother shooting again, although he could hear other weapons being fired at the escaping Sioux. His entire attention was focused on his father. Miles had been dragged some distance, and Rand wasn’t sure how badly he was hurt.

  He sank down on one knee, just as Miles rolled over and shoved himself up on his hands. Rand loosened the lasso and pulled it up and off.

  “Hold on to me, Father,” he said. He slid his arm around the injured man, hauled him to his feet, and headed back toward the house at a shambling run.

  He was aware of Miles eyeing him the whole, impossibly long distance to the front door.

  Why did I call him Father?