Desperado's Gold

by Linda Jones

  He tasted her, her lips and her neck, her breasts, her rosy nipples, and Catalina lifted her hips and guided him inside her. He thrust deep, lost in the rhythm and the power of passion. He moved and Catalina rocked with him. Her hands danced over his body, and when he buried himself deep inside her once more she grabbed him, holding on for dear life as the spasms rocked her. He joined her, claiming her the only way he knew how.

  Jackson rested his head against her shoulder and was completely still. Catalina’s breathing was hard and ragged, and only gradually did it slow, return to near normal. When he lifted his head to look down at her she smiled at him, a satisfied and almost sly grin that forced him to smile back.

  “I do love you,” she whispered breathlessly.

  He couldn’t speak, so he kissed her.

  Catalina all but purred, a long, slow murmur from deep in her throat. “When will Doc be home?”

  “Not for another couple of hours at least.”

  “Goodness only knows when we’ll be alone again.” She ran her hand down his side, fluttering over a healing wound. “But I don’t suppose I should ask too much of you,” she said coyly. “You’re not completely recuperated.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Because it sounded a little like a challenge.”

  Catalina shook her head slowly from side to side, and her whiskey eyes sparkled. “I wouldn’t be so juvenile as to dare you … ”

  Jackson covered her mouth with his. Heaven help him, he wanted her as much as he had before.

  He braced himself up on one elbow and looked down at Catalina. He couldn’t let her sleep for very long, but he couldn’t bear to disturb anything so beautifully peaceful.

  Her lips were red and swollen, her cheeks flushed, and her hair spilled around her like a cloud spun from gold. He wanted to bury himself in her again, but it was too soon for her. She’d been a virgin when he’d bedded her in Baxter, and he wasn’t certain how it was with a woman so inexperienced. He had worried about her that second time, but she had come to him without a qualm, had offered herself to him and then taken from him as well.

  She’d called his name just once, and then had shattered beneath him as he’d driven deep and hard. If he’d ever doubted her insistence that they were two halves of a complete soul, he didn’t any longer.

  That one night they’d had in Baxter had been extraordinary, and he’d known then that Catalina was different. He had wanted her so badly, more than he’d ever wanted anything.

  But this was different. Stronger, more frightening. In Baxter he had bedded her because he wanted her. Today he had become a part of her because he loved her. Making love, she called it, and that suddenly made sense.

  He touched a strand of hair that floated across the pillow and caressed it gently. His smile faded. He’d almost lost her in that whirlwind of dust. For a moment his heart had stopped, when he’d seen her fade away from him as if she’d never been real — never been more than a dream. The first real fear he’d ever known had hit him then, like a bolt of lightning, hard and deep.

  Losing Catalina was the only thing he feared. The only thing he would ever fear.

  A hundred years. Her story shouldn’t have been believable. He’d never given her explanations of her past, of her knowledge, more than a passing thought. But he couldn’t deny what he’d seen with his own eyes.

  Her eyes fluttered open and fastened on his face, gold sparks dancing merrily in that radiant face. “I fell asleep,” she muttered contentedly.

  “Yes, you did.” Since she was already awake he gave in to the temptation to touch her, to trail his fingers across her breasts and down her flat belly. It was a lazy motion, a mark of possession. And joy. Just to touch her skin, to see her smile.

  “I guess we should get dressed.” Catalina didn’t make a move, didn’t even twitch a muscle, as Jackson continued to trail his fingers over her body. “When will Doc be back, do you suppose?”

  “Soon,” Jackson answered lazily. “Much too soon.”

  Catalina sat up slowly, rolling her bare shoulders. “If I hobble around the place with a huge smile on my face, do you think he’ll guess what happened while he was gone?”

  “I really don’t care.” He leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on her swollen lips.

  “He’ll be shocked,” Catalina said. “And he did save your life. And this is his house.”

  “Regrets?” he asked, trailing a finger across her soft cheek and under her chin.

  Her grin was so wide, he knew she was right. Doc would certainly know what had happened if she looked at him like that.

  “None,” she assured him.

  He gathered her clothing for her and helped her dress as slowly as he had undressed her. Only then did he reluctantly put his own clothes back on.

  When he looked up, after his trousers had been properly fastened, Catalina was frowning at him.

  “Did you really think I was somehow involved with Harold Goodman’s plot to kill you?”

  Jackson lifted his eyebrows slightly. “I thought you had forgotten about that.”

  She was shaking her head slowly.

  “Not really,” he admitted. “But when I looked out the window and saw you talking to him, away from the house, and you hadn’t said a word about seeing him approach … ”

  “I explained that,” Catalina said, but she stood and leaned close, and there was no anger in her eyes. “I was trying to keep him away from you. I guess I think everyone sees you as I do. You do look different, but I swear, Jackson, if you dyed your hair white and had plastic surgery, I’d still know those eyes.”

  “Plastic surgery?”

  “Never mind.”

  Catalina grabbed the wulfenite she had placed on the bedside table and slipped it around his neck once again. “Goodness, Doc will be back soon and there’s no dinner cooking, and I didn’t finish the mending I started this morning, and … ” She stopped suddenly and spun around to face him. “Jackson, what are we going to do about Doc Booker?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “If he stays here, he’ll be killed for certain. You heard Goodman. He’s hired another gun to come in and take care of Doc. If we leave him here alone … ”

  “What do you mean if?”

  “Maybe we could convince him to come with us, to Texas.” She said it so easily, it was as if the idea had just sprung into her mind. But Jackson had the feeling that Catalina had been cooking this one up for a while. Maybe since Harold had threatened the old man; maybe while she’d been lying beside him, pretending to sleep.

  “I don’t think he’ll go.” It was the truth. Pure stubbornness had kept the old man here this long, stubbornness and a love for the place he called his own.

  Catalina turned away from him, and he saw the dejected slump of her shoulders. “I’ll worry about him,” she said quietly. “He’s a cranky old guy, but he saved your life, and he helped me get Alberta off my back.”

  Jackson shook his head again, though Catalina couldn’t see. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her.

  “We can ask him,” he finally agreed. “I can be quite persuasive, when I have to be.”

  Catalina spun on him, a bright liveliness in her every move. “I know,” she whispered.

  Catalina all but ran around the table, setting tin plates and flatware haphazardly in their approximate places. Jackson had spotted Doc’s wagon from the window, approaching at a slow but steady pace.

  Jackson seemed unconcerned, moving slowly, flashing her small smiles whenever she looked his way. The biscuits were almost done, and the stew — a concoction she had tossed together using dried meat and canned goods — was bubbling on the stove. It would just have to do.

  She could hear Doc, now, his wagon wheels in the dirt, his hoarse voice calling to the horses. She checked the front of her dress to make absolutely certain all the buttons were properly fastened, and when she lifted her head she s
aw Jackson step into her room.

  “Get out of there,” she hissed. If Doc stepped into the house and Jackson came out of her bedroom … well, they’d certainly be tossed out, and Jackson wasn’t quite ready to travel. Soon, he said. Soon.

  Jackson came out swinging the piece of wulfenite she had left on the dresser, only now it was suspended from a length of white ribbon, knotted at the middle. He wore his piece against his skin. She could see the small lump it made beneath his shirt.

  Without a word, he slipped the beribboned wulfenite around her neck, being careful not to muss her recently repaired hairstyle. The stone rested between her breasts, and he covered it with his hand. His smile faded, and he looked almost uncertain, hesitant. Scared? Was that fear mixed with indecision in those pale blue eyes?

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then he closed it again, bending forward to kiss her lightly, no more than a faint brush of his lips against hers.

  “I love you,” he whispered harshly, awkwardly, and then he stepped away from her … just as Doc threw open the door.

  Eighteen

  *

  “Nope,” Doc Booker said firmly again. “I’m not running away from anybody. Especially not a little snotnose like Harold Goodman.”

  Jackson had said little, and Catalina threw him an imploring glance. He sighed and set his spoon aside, resting both elbows on the table. “Harold Goodman may be a snotnosed brat, but he’s a dangerous one. He damn near killed me.”

  “If it’s my time to die, then so be it,” Doc said angrily. He turned tired eyes to Catalina. “You’re getting to be quite the cook. This is delicious stew.”

  “You’re trying to change the subject.”

  “Yep.”

  Catalina picked at her bowl of stew. Suddenly it made her stomach turn. Just the smell. It was as if she could identify every ingredient by the odor, and not one of them was pleasant. The meat was especially strong, and that onion … She pushed the bowl away and tried a sip of milk, wondered exactly when refrigerators were going to be invented.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Doc said kindly. “It means more to me than you can know, that you’re concerned for my welfare. I appreciate it, but I think you’re going to have your hands full taking care of this one.” He nodded in Jackson’s direction.

  Catalina stared down at the folded hands resting in her lap. All right, so she couldn’t change the world. She’d saved Jackson. Maybe that was the only interference she was allowed.

  “We would love to have you come with us,” she tried one more time. “If you change your mind … ”

  “Thank you,” he interrupted her gruffly, “but I’m too old to be leaving behind everything I know. You two, now that’s different. I admire what you’re doing. It takes courage to start over. Courage I don’t have.”

  Catalina lifted her head and stared at Jackson. “We’ll be leaving soon,” she said, resigned to leaving Doc behind. “Probably next week.”

  “I figured that,” Doc rumbled.

  “Jackson’s growing stronger every day,” she continued. “He could probably travel now, if he had to.”

  “Probably.”

  “We owe you so much,” Catalina said, and even though she wanted her voice to be strong, it wavered. “We’ll never forget you.”

  “I’m not dead yet,” Doc barked, but there was a spark of tenderness in his eyes.

  Catalina felt as if she was back in school — that very strict all girls’ school in Spring Hill — and she was breaking the rules.

  Jackson was right beside her, the fingers of one hand twined through hers, a basket loaded with biscuits and ham and a horribly tough little cake swinging from the other.

  Doc was all the way on the opposite side of his little ranch for the afternoon, mending a section of fence where the posts had rotted through and fallen. Jackson had tried to help, but Doc had sent him back to the house, declaring him unfit for any sort of ranching duties.

  So Catalina had packed them a picnic, and had insisted that they explore a little. There was little leisure time, and she never had enough time alone with Jackson.

  He barely limped at all any more, except at the end of the day, when he was very tired, and he didn’t have any trouble keeping up with her as she plunged forward.

  They almost stumbled into the little creek, it was so narrow and shallow. It certainly wasn’t suitable for bathing or swimming or washing clothes, though she was tempted to lie in the middle of it and let the water wash over her. At last, a glimpse at water that she hadn’t had to pump.

  The trees at the edge of the water cast inviting shade, and appeared to be much healthier than the struggling excuses she had seen near Doc’s house.

  “Here,” she said certainly, spinning on Jackson and giving him a smile.

  “Finally,” he muttered, but he returned her smile and set their lunch on the ground. “Do you think we’re still in Arizona Territory?”

  “Grouch,” she accused.

  “Tireless wench,” he answered.

  “Wench?” She moved closer to Jackson, all but settling her chin on his chest. “I don’t know if I like that or not.”

  “It’s better than grouch.”

  Jackson sat on the ground in the cool shade and pulled her with him, wrapping his arms around her waist and placing her easily beside him. He seemed content, at the moment, and she knew Jackson well enough to realize that real peace was rare for him, and perhaps would always be.

  “I do apologize,” she said formally. “You have a wonderfully cheerful disposition, my dear.”

  “And you,” he answered as she turned to kiss the much too tempting side of his neck, “are still tireless.”

  He made love to her there on the ground, without haste, his every move languid, managing — without removing a single stitch of clothing — to touch her everywhere. By the time he entered her she was ready to scream for him. It seemed that every nerve in her body was screaming. She cried out his name as the orgasm tore through her on endless waves and the cry was ripped from deep within her. She had never expected this. Had never known that it was possible for love — physical love — to make her feel as if she were falling apart. As if the molecules within her were rearranged, shredded, and reformed into something new and beautiful.

  As if she had never lived before she’d found Jackson. Her love, her man, the other half of her soul.

  She felt his own release, his own uncontrollable cry, and he locked his lips to hers, devouring her, possessing her more completely than she’d ever thought possible.

  When she could breathe again, when she felt that she could speak, Catalina wrapped her fingers through Jackson’s hair and lifted his head so that she could see his face. She could see that he was as amazed as she at the power they created when they came together, and was relieved — pleased — ecstatic — to know that he had never known that power with any other woman.

  “Do you think it will always be this way between us?” she asked, whispering.

  “I do,” he answered, his voice as soft as hers.

  “I never dreamed … I never knew … ” How did you express yourself at such a time to a nineteenth-century man who thought only prostitutes showed their legs? A man who had once thought she was easy simply because she’d allowed him to see her bare from the knees down? “I love you,” she said simply. “More than I ever thought was possible.”

  Jackson smiled, and then he buried his face against her neck and ran his hands down her sides, slowly, lazily, seductively. They were still joined, still dressed, for heaven’s sake, with just a few pieces of clothing askew.

  Catalina wrapped her hands around his neck and brought his lips to hers, and she could feel him grow again within her.

  Jackson pulled his lips away from hers just briefly, to smile and whisper huskily, “Tireless wench.”

  They were eating when they saw the figure approaching from the opposite side of the creek, and Catalina’s heart leapt into her throat. An Indian, certainly
, just as she had imagined one would look in this time. Bare-chested, wearing buckskin pants and moccasins, long black hair braided, with feathers and beads. It wasn’t until he was almost to the creek that she realized he was just a boy, twelve or thirteen. No more, certainly, though he was almost as tall as she was.

  Jackson was tense, cursing about not having his Colts, even after he saw that it was only a child. Catalina smiled and laid a hand on Jackson’s knee. Would he ever learn to trust strangers?

  The Indian stopped before crossing the water, a question on his beautiful, peaceful face. Catalina rose and motioned the boy over, ignoring Jackson’s whispered curse. He was tense, coiled, distrustful even of a child.

  “Hello,” Catalina called, wondering if the child spoke English. “Would you like something to eat?”

  He smiled and nodded his acceptance as he stepped carelessly across the water. There was a sack slung over his shoulder, and he carried no weapons that Catalina could see. Up close he looked even younger, more serene, definitely harmless. Still, Jackson did not relax.

  Catalina fished out a biscuit and a piece of ham and made a sandwich. There was half a canteen of water, and she handed that to the boy also. She and Jackson had eaten little, having spent their time on other activities. It was fortunate that the boy hadn’t appeared fifteen minutes earlier.

  He ate as if he was starved, and even accepted a piece of the horrible cake Catalina had made. Eventually even Jackson relaxed.

  She waited until the child was finished eating before she attempted to speak to him.

  “My name is Catalina, and this is Jackson.”

  The boy smiled, but Catalina had no idea if he understood her. He popped the last piece of cake into his mouth, brushed off the crumbs, and offered his hand to her. “Thank you. I was really hungry.”

  There was no hint of an accent, and his English was quite good.

  “My name’s Qaletaqa,” he said casually. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “What are you doing way out here?” Jackson asked, his suspicion so clear, Catalina was afraid Qaletaqa would be insulted. But the Indian boy smiled warmly.

  “Traveling. Seeing the world.”