by Shirl Henke
Rory Madigan was wading into the water for a morning swim—stark naked! She had already seen those broad shoulders and powerful arms bared, but never the rest of him. Breath failed her as her eyes traveled lower, past the tan line at his trim waist, to fasten on the lighter flesh below, untouched by the blazing Nevada sun. Hard, narrow buttocks moved rhythmically as his long, sinewy legs carried him deeper until he suddenly dove forward into the current and vanished cleanly beneath the surface.
Frantically, she watched the water. Good heavens, had he drowned? Then his head broke the surface. He shook his shaggy hair from his eyes as he began to slice cleanly across the river, heading toward a large pink rock jutting out into the current about twenty feet away from her. He climbed up onto the rock and sat, with his body turned in profile, watching the sun rise over the southeast side of the river. She was close enough to see the early morning light catch the glimmer of water beading in iridescent droplets on the smooth contours of his hard muscles. He raised one hand and combed his fingers through his hair, shaking it back from his forehead.
Rory leaned lazily backward against the rock and tilted his head toward the sunrise, as if to nap. When he spoke, she almost fell to her knees in panic. “Are you going to hide and peek all morning or come join me? It's warm here, and the water's cool and refreshing before the heat of the day.”
Rebekah clutched the willow branches like a lifeline. How did he know anyone was there? Surely, he could not know it was her.
“I know it's you, Rebekah. I can see Bessie May tied up above the rise.”
Infuriating man! “I came to talk with you, Rory, not to frolic like Aphrodite in the waves,” she shouted breathlessly.
“But first you decided to look your fill.” There was laughter in his voice.
A hot denial sprang to her lips, but the truth of his accusation made her choke on it. She swallowed and took a deep breath, knowing her face was glowing as red as a beacon. That was probably what he recognized, not her fat old mare. “I'm going to turn around, close my eyes, and wait until you're decent. Then we need to talk.”
“You'll have the devil's own wait, darlin'. I've never been decent. Sister Frances Rose, not to mention my own mother, always assured me of it.”
She spun around to wait as he dove into the water and swam back to shore. When she heard the rustling noise of denims scraping over wet skin, all sorts of erotic images flashed into her mind; but she rubbed her temples, attempting to subdue them and concentrate on the problem at hand. Then, his hand touched her shoulder lightly and she gasped in surprise. He turned her around and pulled her into his arms. His flesh was still wet, yet surprisingly warm to the touch as her fingers pressed into the black hair on his chest. Gleaming beads of water glistened and dripped from his hair and ran down his shoulders and arms. His scent was clean and tangy as he drew her closer, staring into her face, his lashes spiky with water, his eyes intense.
“Now, what's upset you so much that you're over an hour early for our meeting?”
Her mind went blank. She stammered as he lowered his mouth to brush against her brow and temples, then nuzzle lower, past her jaw to her throat. “Amos Wells,” she finally blurted out.
He tensed, then drew back and looked at her, a troubled expression on his face. “What about Wells?”
“After yesterday...well, I knew he might be angry about my switching baskets with Celia, but when you paid so much for mine...it made him look like a fool and everyone in town started gossiping about it. When I arrived home, my mother had already heard.”
“I can just bet half those old biddies from the picnic raced over to tell her,” he said grimly. “Rebekah, I know I'm not rich like Wells, but I'll go to your father—”
“No! That is, you're not Amos Wells. He can ruin my father's church and my brother-in-law's new job. I've embarrassed him, and I have to make my apologies—”
“I won't have you abasing yourself before that petty, pompous ass. No man with an ounce of pride in himself would blackmail a woman with her family's security. And no family who loved you would let you sacrifice yourself.” He seethed with anger, his fingers digging into her arms until he felt her wince. “I'm sorry, darlin'.”
She shook her head as he rubbed her arms tenderly. “You don't understand, Rory. My father and Henry haven't asked me to do anything. In fact, my father doesn't even know about his threats.” She explained about the exchange of notes and Amos's carefully veiled threats, knowing Rory's anger had been ignited but desperate to make him realize that she had to handle the situation in her own way.
“I'll break his neck with my bare hands,” he said in a low, deadly voice, his eyes blazing with fury.
“You'll ruin any chance we have if you do! If you go after him, you'll only be killed and then he'd take far worse reprisals against me and my family. Please, Rory, please.” Her voice broke as she raised her hands and cupped his face. “Don't interfere. Stay away while I soothe his wounded pride. I do owe him an apology for the trick I played, and once the gossip dies down, he'll realize we don't suit and look elsewhere for a wife. But if you come courting, my parents will be angry and Amos will feel cast aside. Everything will be hopelessly complicated.” She looked beseechingly up into his face.
“If you feel you have to do it this way...” He halted grudgingly, then sighed and said, “I'll stay away—but only if you let me know that everything is all right and only for a reasonable length of time.”
She felt the tight knot in her stomach loosen. With a tender smile, she asked, “And how long is a reasonable length of time?” Her fingertips skimmed over his cheek and traced the strong, beautifully sculpted planes of his face. She was drowning in his eyes, in the heat of his nearness, in the hypnotic spell cast by his lips as they nipped at her fingers. His teeth seized her thumb and bit softly into the pad of flesh, sending small shivers of delight coursing down to her toes.
“Have you ever been for a morning swim, Rebekah?”
“Rory, you promised you'd wait—not interfere.” He shook his head as his hand captured hers and drew it to his mouth, nibbling on her sensitive fingertips. “I won't barge in on your father's parsonage or accost Wells on the street...but now you're here and we're alone.” He continued the seduction of her hand and felt her tremble. “Let's go for a swim, Rebekah.”
“I can't. I don't know how to swim,” she added breathlessly. This was madness!
“I'll teach you,” he said, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her from the shelter of the willow into the warm blaze of sunlight.
Chapter Six
“You're mine, Rebekah. I love you and I want to marry you. Say yes,” he whispered as he held her against his chest. She had wrung from him that crazy promise to let her get rid of Wells, but he was going to make damn certain she never forgot that she belonged to him. He waited for her reply, holding his breath as he let her slide to her feet, pressing her breasts against his chest so that their hearts beat together. Their breath mingled, and he stood very still.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Oh, yes, Rory.” It felt so good, so right to be in his arms, surrounded by his scent, to have him touching her, making her feel things she had only dimly imagined before.
There was so much she wanted to learn, and he was the man who would teach her. His mouth again claimed hers in another of those soul-robbing kisses that made her feel like soft clay waiting to be molded by him. He held her tightly, with an urgency that she had never felt in him before, almost desperation as his hands moved possessively over her, one hand teasing her breast until the nipple hardened and she ached. He quickly unfastened the buttons of her blouse and reached inside, shoving her camisole aside as his fingers made contact with her soft skin. His other hand cupped her buttock and lifted her against his lower body, which rocked them in a mysterious yet instinctually familiar rhythm.
His fingers on her breast drew a sharp little gasp of surprised pleasure from her, which led him to grow bolder. He pulled her blouse completely open
and slid the camisole straps from her shoulders, baring both milky globes to the warm morning sun. She held on to him, hearing his hoarse murmur, “Beautiful, so beautiful, Rebekah.” She felt the intimate shock of the breeze touching her bare flesh. Even more intimate was the pressure of his lower body against hers.
Rebekah knew nothing of the ways of men and women. She had read the Greek myths about gods and mortals coupling and puzzled over how the deed was done. She had never dared ask Dorcas, although she had overheard bits and snatches about a woman's marital duties from various older women who always fell silent when young girls approached. Men were made differently than women in that most secret, shameful place, and Rory's body seemed to want to touch hers there. She could feel the hard bulge against her lower belly as his hips moved against hers.
His lips trailed soft wet kisses down her throat and caught a breast, closing hotly over it. Frissons of fire shot through her; and she arched involuntarily against him, forgetting in an instant what the mysterious and menacing changes in his lower body meant. As he feasted on her breasts, moving from one to the other, licking, suckling, and teasing with his tongue, they sank to their knees in the soft grass. But when he raised his head, his face ferocious and glazed with passion, the spell was broken. She could feel his hands at her waist, unfastening her belt and beginning to pull her skirt down. He looked like a stranger, some demonic god from mythology. This was not her Rory, who laughed with her and shared his childhood sorrows. This was a stranger.
And she was a stranger to herself as well, shamelessly naked, allowing him to look at and touch her bare flesh as if he had the right even though they were not yet wed. She twisted away, reaching down to seize his hands and pull them from their task. “No, Rory, no! Please, it isn't right. I can't.”
His hands stilled, but he did not release her. Trembling with all the youthful desire he had suppressed since he first met Rebekah Sinclair, Rory gritted his teeth, fighting for calm. “It is right. I love you and you love me—you said you'd marry me.” His breath came out in labored gasps, halting his speech.
“Yes,” she whispered brokenly, still not daring to look at him. “But we're not married yet.”
“We could be. You're the one who's asked me to wait, to stay away from you and your family while you let Amos Wells call on you.”
“Amos Wells means nothing to me!” she cried, her head flying up as her tear-blurred eyes met his harsh gaze. “I only want to get rid of him. It's you I love. But this is wrong, too. I'm not...I can't, I'm sorry.” She struggled to slip her camisole up, once more covering her breasts.
“You're afraid. Don't be. Not of me, Rebekah. Not ever.” He sighed roughly, then began gently helping her refasten her badly disheveled clothing, his touch gentle and slow. He had been rough, passion blinded, wanting to place his mark of possession on her; and he had taken advantage of her own repressed sexual desire. “You're a real lady with high morals. I'm the one who owes you an apology. You have nothing to apologize about—not to me and not to Amos Wells either.”
She rose shakily with his help. “It always comes back to Amos Wells, doesn't it?”
“Until he's out of your life. You will send him away, won't you, Rebekah?”
She looked at his earnest yet wary expression. He was jealous and afraid. Afraid of losing her to an older, wealthier man from her parents' world. This was her Rory again, her love, the man she had felt such a bond with from the first moment they had met. Her proud, yet frightened Irishman. “Yes, Rory. I will send him away,” she echoed, so filled with the awe of his love and his vulnerability that she ignored the monumental difficulties in keeping such a vow.
“I'll be here at the river every evening this week. Try to slip away and meet me.”
“It will be difficult with Mama watching me, but I'll try.”
Her hand reached out tenderly, and he took it in his. Together they walked past the willows and up to where her fat old mare grazed contentedly.
“It's getting late. My parents will be up, and I'll have to explain where I've been if I can't slip in before they notice I'm gone.”
He helped her mount the sidesaddle and then took her fingers and planted a soft kiss on them before releasing her. “I'll be waiting for you, darlin'.”
His voice echoed as Rebekah rode toward town.
* * * *
Rebekah adjusted the collar on her dress, surreptitiously slipping her finger inside the neckline to ease the stricture. She was so nervous that she felt as if she would choke, sitting in the family parlor waiting for Amos Wells to arrive. Her mother fussed with a starched lace doily on the pedestal table in front of the window.
The room looks like I do, forlorn and threadbare, Rebekah thought. The chairs and sofa were faded and mismatched, acquired as donations from parishioners. The various tables in the room, although polished painstakingly, were of poor quality, each covered with a doily and cheap knickknacks Dorcas had collected over the years. A small tea table sat in the center of the room with her mother's pride and joy atop it, a sterling tea service that had been a wedding gift from Ephraim's cousin Noah, a prosperous Montana cattleman. Its luster made the frayed blue brocade of the sofa look even more washed out. The lace curtains hanging crisp and white on the windows were thin from repeated launderings, and the lace was mended in many places.
The parlor reeked of genteel poverty, as did the dress she had chosen. Of course, Rebekah's reason for choosing it was not to emphasize her lack of the finery a man like Amos could provide, but to discourage him with her prim, dowdy appearance. The gown was an ivory silk sprigged with tiny green leaves. The leg-of-mutton sleeves and pleated bodice were fashionable, as was the high lace collar, but the overall effect was unflattering. A castoff of Celia's, it had been taken in for Rebekah's slimmer figure. The fit was still too loose, and the color made her gold hair seem dark, her complexion sallow and washed out. And the high collar was as prim as any schoolgirl's father could wish.
Dorcas had wanted her to wear a pale pink dress of Leah's which was newer and fit her better, but could not dispute the fact that this dress was, after all, silk. Rebekah owned mostly castoffs, and both mother and daughter were acutely aware of their poverty. Dorcas had set her face in a stern, disapproving expression and stalked off after admonishing Rebekah to mind her manners with Mr. Wells or the consequences would be dire.
As if she did not already know that! Just then, a light rapping sounded at the front door, and Ephraim answered it. Rebekah could hear the two men exchanging pleasantries as they walked down the narrow hall into the parlor. After constrained greetings and a few nervous remarks on the weather, Ephraim and Dorcas excused themselves, leaving Rebekah seated on the edge of her chair, facing Amos across the tea table. His gray eyes were veiled, his expression revealing nothing.
She took a deep breath for courage, then plunged ahead at once. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Wells, for what happened yesterday. It was not my intention to embarrass you, only to give my friend Celia the opportunity to share her basket with you. She is quite smitten with you.”
“And you are not.” It was not a question, but his voice was surprisingly gentle.
She met his eyes and saw them crinkle in amusement at her discomfiture. Feeling as if she were walking a twisty path through quicksand, she ventured, “I would be less than honest if I used the word smitten. You are a fine-favored man, Mr. Wells, and many of the ladies in town—the single ones, that is—would be honored by your attentions—not that I'm not. Honored, that is.” She ground to a halt, realizing that she was sinking deeper into the quagmire with every word. Please don’t let him be angry.
Wells smiled thinly. “So, you're honored, yet you told me your basket would be trimmed in pink, then switched to rose ribbons.”
“It was childish of Celia and me to switch.” What else should she say? Do? Prostrate herself at his knees like some harem slave?
“Yes, Celia is an impulsive young lady. Rather used to getting her own way. Unlike you, who
under the Reverend Sinclair's upstanding moral guidance, are used to a more self-sacrificing life.”
“You give me too much credit and Celia not enough,” she said in her friend's defense. “The switch was at my instigation.”
“So that Irish stable hand could purchase your basket?” His eyes were cold now, all traces of good humor suddenly erased.
“No! That is, I didn't know he would even be at the picnic. I certainly had no idea he would bid on my basket.” That at least was the truth. If only he did not ask if Rory knew it was hers—and how he had come to learn that fact.
Wells seemed to relax his menacing posture, and his expression softened. “I am relieved to hear that. The attentions of a man of his ilk would greatly distress your family. I will be very honest with you, Rebekah. I know I'm a good deal older than you, but I find you to be most ideally suited to be my wife.”
“But why me?” she blurted out in spite of her attempt to be cautious. “I—I mean, we scarcely know each other, and there are so many more attractive, wealthy ladies in all the big cities you visit.”
“You underrate yourself greatly. You are highly intelligent and well read—thanks to your father—and you are skilled in the domestic arts because of your mother's fine Christian efforts. You also show promise of great beauty.”
One hand flew to her cheek in genuine surprise. “Beauty? Me? My sister Leah is the beauty of the family. Besides,” she said, quickly recovering and remembering her father's admonitions, “beauty is of the soul. The body is only an outer shell of far less importance.”
“It is nevertheless a decided asset for a politically ambitious man to have such a fine ‘outer shell’ on his arm, provided she is also bright and ambitious herself. As I'm certain you know, the Nevada legislature will most probably name me to the United States Senate. I need a wife to accompany me to Carson City and then on to Washington.”
