“Maybe I was hasty taking off your shoes.” His voice was husky with emotion. “If you need to go outside, I’ll slip them back on.”
“Will you go with me?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go then.” Kristin slipped her bare feet into the shoes. Buck draped his coat around her.
“I had my shawl last night. It got lost along the way.”
“Can you make another out of that blue yarn?”
“The sky blue? You’re afraid I’ll knit socks for you out of that yarn,” she teased.
They walked out into the darkness. Behind a thick fir tree, Buck stopped.
“You’ll be all right here. I’ll not be far away.”
“Don’t leave me. I don’t care if . . . if you stay.” Her voice was a mere breath of a whisper.
“I’ll be just a few steps away. Call me.”
“Don’t go far.” Kristin fumbled with her clothing, squatted down and quickly relieved her swollen bladder. She stood and called out to him even as she rearranged her clothing. “Buck.”
“Here I am.” His hand reached for her. She went to him eagerly.
With his arm holding her securely to his side, they went back to the warm shelter. Buck closed the door flap and put more sticks on the fire. He brought the food basket to the bedroll.
“You may not care for Indian food, but you should eat. We’ve got miles to travel tomorrow.”
“Do you like it?”
“I’m used to it.”
The basket held cold roasted grouse, flat Indian bread and a food Buck told her was wasna, a pemmican made with dried meat pounded with chokecherries and stuffed into sack casings instead of a buffalo bladder as was done in days of old. There were also wild plums and grapes.
“A feast,” Kristin said, and smiled.
“It is. The only thing lacking is Indian turnips, cane shoots, mushrooms, boiled onions and a hindquarter of . . . ah . . . meat.”
“What kind of meat?” Kristin pulled away a piece of the grouse.
“You don’t want to know.” His eyes smiled into hers.
“Yes, I do. This meat is very good. What kind of meat?” she asked again.
“Dog.” He watched her, his eyes shining with amusement.
“Did you say—?”
“Yes.”
“Like . . . Sam?”
“Yes.”
She raised her brows and her mouth formed a silent O. Then she took a deep breath and smiled.
“I can’t let it spoil my supper. This wasna isn’t bad. It’s kind of gritty though.”
“That’s the chokecherry seeds in it. Very little in the way of food goes to waste.”
The fire had burned low by the time they finished eating. Kristin wiped her hands on the wet cloth, then offered it to Buck.
Into the silence that followed Kristin asked, “Do you think everything is all right back . . . back home?”
“If not, wouldn’t your cousin have told you?”
“I mean at Larkspur. Wisconsin is no longer my home.”
“Your cousin wants to take you back there.”
“He hasn’t mentioned it because he knows I wouldn’t go. He knows my heart is here now.”
“You love him?” The question was so important to him that he couldn’t look at her.
“Yes. I love him the same way Bonnie loves Bernie. He is almost my twin. After my mother died, he was the only person who cared about me. My brother, Ferd, took me into his home because it would have looked bad if he hadn’t, but he never really cared for me. Maybe it was because we had different mothers.”
After another long awkward silence, Buck said, “I’ll put out the fire if you want to take off your dress and lie down.”
“You don’t have to put it out.”
Kristin’s fingers worked at the buttons on the front of her dress. She averted her eyes in sudden confusion.
“Reckon I’ll step outside,” Buck got to his feet.
She didn’t ask him to stay or if he would be nearby. She followed him with large questioning eyes. When she was alone, she stood, removed her dress and her drawers, leaving only her thin shift covering her body. Feeling wanton and scared, but determined, she lay down on the bedroll, turned on her side and pulled Buck’s blanket up over her.
After a while she began to feel a little fluttering sensation in her stomach. Would he come back? He had said they must stay together tonight. He had not answered when she asked if they would sleep together. He would have come to take her from the Indian out of loyalty to her Uncle Yarby. That was the kind of man he was. But had she misread his intentions when he called her his love? Honey? Sweetheart?
Tears of frustration and confusion were trickling from between her closed eyelids when she heard him enter the tepee. Regardless of her doubts, her resolve was firm. She would have this night with him. She opened her eyes and saw him squatting beside the fire.
“Come to bed. I know you’re tired.”
“Kristin—” His voice was strained. “I’m too dirty to sleep there with you.”
“Not if you . . . take off your clothes.”
“Oh, Lord—” Could he endure the gut-crushing agony of losing her if he was unable to control his desire for her and she was repulsed by him?
“Come.” She folded back the blanket in invitation. “What harm is there in us sharing these blankets?”
The hunger to be with her, sleep with her in his arms, was too great. He stood and pulled off his shirt. Kristin could not pull her eyes away. His dark hair, wild as usual, matched the mat on his chest that tapered to his navel. By the dim light of the dying fire she could see that his shoulders were broad, heavily muscled and that his skin was darker than hers and smooth.
He sat down on the end of the bedroll and removed his boots. He was as still as a stone for a full minute as if trying to come to a decision. His big, shaggy head turned toward her.
“These . . . britches are filthy—”
“So was my dress.”
He stood, worked at his belt and stepped quickly out of the heavy duck pants. She had seen the knee-length underwear he wore when she washed his clothes. It looked different now on his magnificently sculptured body than it had when she hung it on the line. She held her breath at the wonder of being here with him like this.
He slid under the blanket. A moan escaped him when his arms closed around her, and he pulled her into the curve of his big, hard body.
“Ahhh—” she breathed joyously, and tugged the blanket up and about his naked shoulders. She was safely ensconced against his firm, wide chest. She felt the sigh that went through him before she heard it.
“This feels good—”
“More than good—wonderful,” she snuggled against him and whispered against his shoulder.
“More than wonderful. Much more.”
For an endless time he held her clamped to him, desperate in his hunger to feel every inch of her, breathing hard into her hair. She tilted her head. His lips unerringly found hers. They caught and clung, released and caught again. They laughed together, low, intimate, joyous. Her moist breath on his neck preceded her lips that fastened and made little sucking movements reducing him to a quivering mass of pleasure.
“Humm . . . I’m so warm,” she murmured and giggled happily. “I didn’t know you had . . . hair on your chest.”
“I wish I had shaved.”
“I don’t mind.” Her fingertips went to his cheeks, to his lips. She laughed again, her face in the curve of his neck.
“I’ll scratch your face.”
“I have so many sore spots, one more won’t matter.”
“Where? Where do you hurt?” His arms loosened. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” Her arms tightened about him. “Buck? Do you think I’m a . . . bad woman for wanting to be with you like this?”
“Why would I think that? I wanted it, too. I wanted it so bad my insides were tied up in knots.”
“We can be together like th
is . . . all night long.” She yawned. “I wish I wasn’t so tired.”
A great wave of tenderness washed over him. She was wonderful, magnificent, and had stood up far better than most women would have under the circumstances. If he had nothing else, he would have this night with her to remember. The niggling fear that she might not want him after they returned to the Larkspur and she was with Gustaf again lingered in the back of his mind.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered with his lips against her forehead.
“Will you sleep, too? Oh . . . I’m so comfortable. Are you? Are you warm?” She tucked the blanket closer about his shoulders.
“I could sleep on a pile of rocks with you in my arms.”
“What a lovely thing to say! Will you tell me that in the morning?”
She sighed. Her head was pillowed on his arm, her legs interlaced with his, her breasts pressed to his chest. The feelings they had for each other were wholly without passion. More than thirty-six hours of physical and mental stress had taken a toll on their young bodies.
Kristin was first to fall asleep. The man holding her wanted to stay awake in order not to lose a minute of this time with her. But after two days in the saddle with a scant two hours of sleep, his body demanded rest.
He awakened several times in the night. Once was when Kristin turned, and pressed her back to his chest and her firm, round buttocks to his groin. He settled her head on his arm and went back to sleep. Another time he awakened to find his hand cupping her breast and her hand on his holding it there. His face was buried in her hair. He sighed with contentment and went back to sleep.
* * *
“Mornin’, sleepyhead.”
Kristin opened her eyes. Buck was leaning over her. Firelight flickered over his tousled hair, his face, and down over the mat of hair that covered his chest. His eyes held hers in a sensuous embrace. Her arms lifted to encircle his neck, his arms closed around her.
“Is it morning?”
“Uh-huh.”
He tucked silky strands of her hair behind her ear and stroked her cheeks with his fingertips. Relaxed after her deep sleep, Kristin lost all touch with rational thinking. Her eyes moved lovingly over his smiling face. Her fingers spread and her palm rubbed in a circular motion against the rough hair on his chest. He seemed to be as mesmerized by her as she was by him. It was as if the world had suddenly fallen away, leaving only the two of them.
Buck knew the instant she became aware of the aroused part of him that pressed tightly to her hipbone. He searched the depths of her gaze for her reaction.
She didn’t cringe away from it.
He lowered his head slowly until his lips were a fraction of an inch from hers. The sweet scent of her breath, the tangy smell of her skin, and the firm warm flesh of her thigh between his were a wild and powerful drug that started a craving for fulfillment deep in the center of his being.
Small puffs of air came from between her lips. Her hand slid up his throat, then to the back of his neck. The core of passion that had long lain dormant within her flared into life, and, driven by her love, strong and pure, she fastened her lips to his.
The arms that held her to him were rock-hard, yet his response to her was so strong that they trembled. He deepened the kiss. She quivered at the heady invasion of his mouth and ran the tip of her tongue over the sharp edge of his teeth in welcome.
“Kristin, sweet—” He spoke thickly, his breath coming in even gasps that matched hers. In spite of himself he pressed and rubbed his hard aching flesh against her. “Tell me to go—”
“Do you want to go?”
“No, my darlin’ girl . . . no! But I will—”
She pulled away from him a little and pulled her chemise down to her waist.
“I will never tell you to go, my dear, sweet man. I love you and, right now . . . I want to feel my breasts against you.”
The tenderness of her tone caused a wild, sweet singing in his heart. His mouth moved over hers, gentle at first and then hard. She felt the tremor that shook him when the softness of her breasts touched the hair-roughened skin of his chest.
For a long while he loved her with his hands and his lips and his murmured words. “Kristin . . . my Kristin.” A deep longing compelled her to meet his passion equally. She kept her eyes tightly closed, not wanting to come out of the dreamlike state. Suddenly the driving force of feeling took her beyond herself into a mindless void where there were only Buck’s lips, Buck’s hands, Buck’s hard demanding body covering hers.
Without hesitation, their bodies joined in mutual, frantic need. She heard sounds of his smothered groans, as if they came from a long way to reach her ears. Incredibly, there was no awkwardness, no hesitation, and she felt only a few seconds of discomfort when he entered and filled her. Then their pleasure rose to almost intolerable heights.
Kristin had never felt anything like the sensations she was feeling now. Her hands moved over the smooth muscles of his back and down to the smoothness of his buttocks. Aware of his tense excitement, listening to the heavy beat of his heart, she knew the excruciating joy of mating with her man. She moved against him, clutching at his back while he pressed into her. She wrenched upward and tensed, wanting to know and have every little bit of him. His weight pressed her into the bedroll, and her arms tightened about him as they rode out the storm of their emotions.
When it was over, neither one of them moved. Kristin could feel tiny aftershocks of climax in the heated sheath that enclosed him. Gradually their hearts and lungs regained their natural rhythms. His head rested on her shoulder, his lips touched the spot beneath her ear. They lay still, sharing the sweet aftermath of their loving.
“Kristin, sweet one. I’m sorry . . . if I was rough. I wanted you so . . . bad—” The soft ragged whisper came to her ear.
“You were not rough. I’m not fragile. I liked what we did and how we did it.” She shifted her legs slightly to cradle his hips more comfortably between her thighs.
Buck lifted his upper body and supported it by both elbows. There was a seeking look in his eyes.
“Kristin?” Her name was a murmured, husky whisper. “You know what I am. I’ve not had much schooling and my manners are not what they ought to be. I’ve got a spot of land and a small herd of steers. Not much to offer a woman like you. But Kristin . . . sweet, would you . . . consider marrying me?”
“I don’t need anything but you.” She framed his face with the palms of her hands. “You’re the sweetest, kindest man in all the world. If you hadn’t asked me to marry you, my heart would have broken right in two. I want to be with you forever. I’ll be so proud to be your wife.”
She caught her breath as his face was transformed with love and happiness. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought the glistening she saw in the brilliant green eyes was caused by tears.
“We’ll plant our roots on the Larkspur, my darlin’. We’ll have sons and daughters to bring us grandchildren. And when we’re old, we’ll sit on the porch and look at the mountains. Oh, Buck. I’m so happy, I think that . . . I might even like Runs Fast . . . a little!”
His lips moved to hers. Gently and tenderly he held them captive in a long, lingering, trembling kiss. When he would have moved his lips away, she followed with her own, and his sigh was a mingling of pleasure and need as he flexed his hips and she flexed hers in a welcoming response.
He was sure that he was the luckiest man alive.
Chapter Twenty-five
It had been a day of anxiety at the Larkspur.
Bonnie cooked meals, and the men came silently to the table to eat them. Gustaf had such a look of anguish on his face that it was difficult to believe that he was the cheerful man he had been a few days ago. He blamed himself for allowing the Indian to come in and steal Kristin away.
Bonnie felt guilty because she was here and Kristin wasn’t or could be dead. There were many ifs in her mind. If she had gone into the house with Kristin. If she hadn’t been so wrapped up in he
r visit with Gustaf, she might have heard something. If she and her brother had not come here in the first place.
After the noon meal, Bonnie went to see about the new calf and fed a few of the remaining biscuits to Sam. The dog gobbled the treat and hurried back to the bunkhouse, where he figured to get another bit of food from Tandy. During the last few days he and the old man had become fast friends. Sam lay beside the bunk for hours at a time while Tandy’s fingers stroked his bristly head.
By late afternoon a fresh, cool breeze blew down from the mountains. Bonnie stood on the porch. In the evening light the vista as far as she could see was an arcadia of peace and beauty. The blue-gray of the mountains was a background for the pale gold grasses and the dark green of the cedars. She drew in a long breath of the fresh air and permitted herself to enjoy the view before she went back into the house to put the supper on the table.
Even Gilly was quiet during the evening meal. Bernie encouraged him to talk about Buck and his friendship with the Sioux, but after a few grunted responses the conversation died. Bonnie set a pan of rice pudding on the table and turned to get the coffee pot when the Indian lad, known as Beaver Boy, opened the door and said two words that caused a flurry of action.
“Wasicun come.”
Chair legs scraped the floor as the men got to their feet. Gilly picked up his rifle and headed for the front of the house. The others followed. Two riders were coming out of the woods at the north side of the house.
“It’s Marshal Lyster. He doesn’t have authority out here,” Bernie said. “I don’t know the other fellow.”
“I do. He was with Mike Bruza the morning I poured coffee on him. Two-bit gunslinger is what Mr. Stark called him.”
Marshal Lyster rode up to within a few yards of the porch.
“Evenin’, folks. I could smell your supper a mile out. Smelled mighty good.”
“If yo’re expectin’ an invite to supper, yo’re outta luck,” Gilly said bluntly. “What’d ya want here?”
“Come to see Lenning. Got some papers to serve.” Lyster shifted his weight to get off the horse, but after Gilly spoke again he settled back into the saddle.
Larkspur Page 30
