The Wrong Cowboy

by Lauri Robinson

  The next second, when his mouth covered hers, his hands slid around her waist, and she’d never known such completion. That’s what being in his arms was like. As if she miraculously grew into the person she’d been born to be. When his hold pulled her closer she went willingly. The kiss was so tender and precious her hands went to the sides of his face. Smooth skin filled her palms and she held on, not wanting him to ever move.

  Other than to keep kissing her. That was her wish, that Stafford would never stop kissing her.

  He shifted slightly, pulling her closer yet and moving his mouth across hers, licking her lips with the tip of his tongue. It wasn’t a gasp, but more of a pleasure-filled sigh that made her lips part, and when his tongue entered her mouth she grasped his face more firmly. An inner desire took over, had her swirling her tongue with his until she grew dizzy and remarkably clear-headed at the same time. Her focus had crystallized. Stafford. He filled every single thought and sensation.

  They kissed until her lungs could no longer hold air. He pulled his lips from hers and kissed the side of her face, her eyelids and brows, while she struggled for a full breath. The air refueled her, and as if he sensed the exact moment it happened, his lips returned to hers.

  This happened several times, each kiss more perfect than the last. She’d never felt so alive. Every part of her throbbed and tingled. Stafford’s hands showed her just how sensitive some areas were. Her back, her shoulders, her sides, and as shocking as it was, her breasts. He was fondling one right now, and it was the most amazing thing. Half of her said she shouldn’t let him do that, the other half was disappointed he wasn’t caressing the other one the same way. His whispers were addictive, too. Even while kissing her he kept saying how beautiful she was, how soft and that she smelled wonderful. No one had ever said such things to her, and they must be going to her head for she’d certainly never felt so dizzy.

  He shifted again, easing her back against the seat, and she couldn’t think beyond how wonderful he made her feel. His kisses roamed down her neck, his breath hot and his lips moist. Eyes closed, fully enthralled by the sensations, she leaned her head back. His mouth went lower, licking the skin exposed by the neckline of Gertrude’s seersucker dress.

  Her breasts were throbbing now, and her back arched, straining her upward toward him. Stafford’s kisses went lower and the heat of his mouth penetrated the material of her dress and underclothes. It was wicked, but so fascinating she prayed he wouldn’t stop.

  To her shock, he mouthed her nipples, which had grown hard, and the sensation had a sharp effect on her lower body. Her most private region was burning with a remarkable heat that was as pleasurable as it was torturous.

  “Stafford,” she whispered, unsure what she should do.

  He mumbled and brushed each nipple with his lips again before his kisses trailed up her neck and settled over her mouth again. When that kiss ended, she was as weak as an infant, yet full of unexpected cravings that had her catching glimpses of paradise. At least that’s what she assumed the flashes were.

  Images of Stafford kissing and caressing her, and laughing and loving, kept flashing behind her closed lids. Each one was like a miniature promise and she wished there were a million falling stars, so she could cast wishes and have every one of them come true.

  “We need to start rolling,” Stafford said, his voice husky.

  Her head was resting against his chest, where she could hear his heart thudding. That was as remarkable as kissing him. She’d never been this close to someone, almost as if they were a pair, like shoes, that belonged together. That, too, was a silly thought. She seemed to be full of them—silly thoughts—and unable to comprehend what he’d meant, she asked, “Rolling?”

  “Yes,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “It’s late. Mrs. Baker and the children will be wondering where we are.”

  Almost like a clock chiming the hour something clanged inside her head. How had she forgotten the children? How had she—

  “Marie.” Stafford had leaned back, was now forcing her to look up at him by holding her chin with one hand.

  “What?”

  “I won’t let anyone take you or the kids away.” He leaned forward and kissed her softly, which shattered her thoughts all over again.

  She was still trying to gather the pieces when the wagon started to move. He must have taken the reins, but one arm was still around her, holding her close to his side. Unable to make sense of all the things still going on inside her, all the silly notions and images still flashing, she laid her head on his shoulder. She’d be able to think again when everything slowed down.

  That did finally happen. In an almost vicious way the world returned. The one where she had six children to take care of and those children belonged to Mick, not Stafford.

  The air in her lungs turned stale, and Marie sat up to let it out and take a new breath, which didn’t ease the emptiness rising inside her. Nothing made sense. How could she be so full one minute and so empty the next? It was as though someone was playing a cruel trick on her.

  “We have some decisions to make,” Stafford said.

  She nodded, but a short time later, when his words sank in, she asked, “Decisions about what?”

  Stafford bit his tongue. He was jumping the gun. One kiss, well, several, hot and rather life-changing kisses, didn’t guarantee she felt the same way he did. He wasn’t so sure he felt that way. His mind was miles ahead. Or weeks ahead. Thinking of the life he now wanted. Marriage. A wife. A family.

  Marie.

  He eased his arm over her head and took the reins in both hands. Then he flipped the leather over the horses’ backs, making the animals put a bit more speed in their steps.

  “The children,” he said. “Mrs. Smith.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Mrs. Smith.”

  Regret sprinkled over him like a mist of spring rain. Inside, where he was still hot and craving her the way he’d never craved anything, he’d wanted her to understand he was speaking about them. Him and her. Not the children. And not some old nosey-nosed merchant.

  A transformation had happened inside him. Or, now that his mind was open, lending clarity to his thoughts and emotions, maybe it wasn’t so much of a transformation as a revelation of just how deeply he’d been lying to himself. He did want all he’d had as a child. Not just the house.

  Stafford twisted his lips, trying to hold back a grin. The image of her lily-white backside still shot into his mind on a regular basis, and it never failed to affect him.

  It might be easier, everything that was happening, if she wasn’t living in his house. Then he could separate himself, take the time to figure out if he really was in love with her or simply pondering a future that was different from what he’d set up for himself. As it was, seeing her every day, watching her take care of the children and now his home, he couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t include her.

  A coil of heat let loose inside him, and he took the reins in one hand again, placing the other around her shoulders to pull her back against his side. That’s where she belonged. Nothing had felt this right in a very long time.

  The trepidation in her eyes had him wanting to slay dragons for her. There were no dragons in this part of the country, or anywhere else in the world, just nosy old women. “Don’t worry about Mrs. Smith,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “She’s just an old busybody.”

  Unease still filled her gaze. “Gertrude says Mrs. Smith may have had something to do with the deaths of her first two husbands.”

  “I’ve heard the rumors,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down her upper arm. Marie’s beauty had enticed him since the beginning. The blue dresses she normally wore gave a hint of the curves beneath, but the peach one she had on today molded to her form perfectly. Pride had filled him as he’d watched her interact with Ralph’s wife, Becca. He was smart
enough to know it wasn’t just the dress, and vain enough to know he wanted to claim what was beneath that dress for himself.

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “The rumors?” he asked, getting his mind back on the right track.

  “Yes. That Mrs. Smith killed her husbands.”

  Stafford took time to ponder what he did believe. He’d never jumped to conclusions about people in the past, had just let things that didn’t concern him roll off his back. It wasn’t quite so easy this time. Mrs. Smith’s actions might truly be endangering things he held dear. Yet, when it came to protecting those people he considered his own, he needed to think with a clear head so he didn’t put them in more danger.

  “Well,” he finally said, grasping for the correct response. “I can’t say that whether I believe them or not has much bearing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not the law. I’m not a judge and jury. But—” He gave her a gentle squeeze to emphasize his answer. “I won’t let her hurt you or the children. I guarantee that.”

  Her smile was tender and the way she bowed her head bashful. He kissed the top of her head again. The action offered little release, considering the desire he had to ravish that delectable body, lily-white backside and all.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” he repeated her question, astounded she didn’t know. “Because you’re mi—” His mind, clear enough to understand most things caught him in time. “My responsibility.”

  “Because you’re Mick Wagner’s partner.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement that held weight with the way she said it.

  That was the one thing he hadn’t quite worked through. Mick hadn’t ordered her as a bride, had no real claim on her, but a small portion of Stafford still held on to an uneasy feeling he was stealing her out from beneath his partner. Having been on the end of such an event once made his behavior hard to justify.

  “Yeah,” he answered, struggling to take a breath.

  They traveled the remaining miles in silence. The ranch was dark and quiet upon their arrival, everyone already settled in for the night. Stafford lifted her from the wagon and bid her a soft good-night, fighting the urge to kiss her one last time.

  Her responding good-night was just as soft, just as lonesome sounding. Stafford waited until she entered the house before leading the horses toward the barn. He had decisions to make, all right. Figuring out if he could live with them was the hardest part. Either way, life was going to be hellish. Having her as his wife was what he wanted, but doing that to Mick...the air lodged in his lungs. There were things a man couldn’t live with, and betraying his best friend was one of them.

  * * *

  Marie watched Stafford through the window of the front door. Something had happened on the way home. Not just the incredible kisses and caresses that left a deep longing inside her. Actually, that longing had grown bittersweet and stronger. Stafford’s later silence had chilled her as poignantly as his embrace had warmed her.

  She had some serious thinking to do, and afraid of encountering anyone, especially Gertrude who’d want to know what had happened in town, Marie tiptoed away from the door and, as stealthily as possible, made her way up the stairs and into her room.

  There, she plopped onto the bed. She’d used the ruse she was Mick Wagner’s mail-order bride, but only because of the children. She’d never wanted marriage. Yes, she had wanted to be part of a family, but an outside part was all she’d hoped for. A nursemaid. That’s what she was. Although she’d once thought differently, she now knew she wasn’t the best nursemaid on Earth. Her behavior of late proved that. Her mind had grown so fickle that the children were rarely her first thought.

  The environment in which they now lived had altered her priorities. Academics and manners—the two subjects Miss Wentworth’s training had focused on—had been overtaken by more basic needs. She still took care of the children’s studies and behavior, but ensuring they had food and shelter, and that they were safe, had overridden other needs ever since leaving Chicago. None of her training had prepared her for that, and life in general hadn’t prepared her for Stafford.

  She’d come to think of him constantly, as well as her wants. Things she hadn’t known she did want—would ever want—were wholly wrapped up with him. Becoming his bride, sharing a life with him—a life she’d caught a glimpse of tonight at the Petersons—was consuming her right now. That and being a proper family. Not just an addition to one.

  Marie bent over to unfasten and remove her shoes and the borrowed dress. Besides being lovely, and as comfortable as Gertrude had claimed it to be, the dress also had a magical quality. It had made her feel pretty and self-assured. Although maybe that hadn’t come from the dress, but from the way Stafford had looked at her when she was wearing it. Several times since leaving the ranch today, when his gaze settled on her, wonderful things had happened inside her. It was as if he admired her, and that allowed her to respect herself in a way she never had before. Had her wanting things for herself, too.

  Wanting him.

  Stepping out of the dress, she hung it on a hook in the wardrobe and inwardly laughed at herself. Respect. No self-respecting woman—nursemaid or not—would have let a man do the things she’d let Stafford do. Marie closed her eyes as her hands went to her breasts. He must think she was nothing short of a trollop. How would she ever face him tomorrow? How would she face herself? Miss Wentworth’s training had dedicated an entire quarter to appropriate behavior—nursemaid conduct—and actions that should never be entertained. Though she couldn’t recall what she’d done tonight being mentioned, it surely had been part of what Miss Wentworth referred to.

  Moonlight filled the room so brightly that she hadn’t lit a lamp, and as she stared out the window, toward the million stars she’d cast wishes upon a short time ago, she chastised herself for failing so miserably. When it came right down to it, she’d failed everyone—Miss Wentworth, Emma Lou, the children, Gertrude Baker—the way she’d hired her under false pretenses—herself, Mick Wagner and Stafford. There wasn’t a single person she hadn’t failed. And she had the horrible feeling it wasn’t over. Mrs. Smith might still win. Especially if she learned about the kissing she and Stafford had done on the way home.

  Marie pulled on her nightgown and got into bed but sleep was slow in coming, and when sunlight eventually filtered through the window Marie wondered if she had slept. Exhausted, inside and out, she climbed from the bed, dragged on one of her blue uniforms and left her room to wake the children.

  Stafford wasn’t in the kitchen, which didn’t provide the relief it should, and he didn’t join them for breakfast. Cooking was becoming second nature and she no longer relied on Gertrude’s watchful eye. That didn’t mean the woman wasn’t as vigilant as ever.

  “What happened yesterday?” Gertrude asked, as they stood side by side washing and drying dishes. “Both you and Stafford are as gray as winter skies this morning.”

  Marie wanted to assure Gertrude that nothing had happened, but the lie formed a lump in her throat. She shrugged and wrung out a cloth to wipe the table.

  “It’s a hard thing,” Gertrude said, “what life does to us. One minute we’re walking along just fine, and then in little more than an instant, we’re tossed into a whirlwind so fierce we fear we’ll never get out.”

  Marie paused in midswipe, letting her hand and the rag rest in the center of the table as she turned to the other woman.

  Gertrude’s expression was a combination of thoughtfulness and confusion. With a shrug, she lifted a stack of dry plates and carried them to the buffet cupboard. “That’s what happened when George died. It took the very definition of who I was away from me.” She shut the glass door and walked back to the sink. “Mrs. George Baker. How I loved being her.” With her eyes closed and a smile on her lips, she said, “It was all I ever wanted.”

&
nbsp; Marie wasn’t exactly sure what caused goose bumps to stand out on her arms, empathy for Gertrude or the flashing images of herself and Stafford that were still plaguing her.

  Opening her eyes, Gertrude sighed audibly. “We didn’t have a lot of money, but we had a good life together.”

  “You still miss him very much, don’t you?” Marie asked, wondering if she’d ever stop missing Stafford in the same situation. He was merely outside and she missed him.

  “Not a day goes by where I don’t miss him,” Gertrude said. “But the pain isn’t as sharp. It’s still there, a dull ache, but I can live with it. Remember him now with joy instead of sorrow.” She crossed the room then, laid both hands on the other end of the table. “Sometimes life pitches us into whirlwinds of good things, too. Like when you hired me.”

  The sincerity in the other woman’s face was so real Marie had to coax up a smile, if for no reason other than to show appreciation. “I’m glad you like it here.”

  “I surely do.” Gertrude reached across the long table and took the rag from beneath Marie’s hand. “I’d gone to work for Chris Striker in order not to starve to death, but here...here I feel whole again.”

  Marie wanted to close her eyes, achieve the same kind of harmony Gertrude showed, but the knot in her stomach, or maybe it was in her heart, wouldn’t let her.

  “Enough of this,” Gertrude said, tossing the rag on the counter. “Come, I want you to try on your new dress so I can make adjustments before finishing it.”

  “Finishing it?” Marie shook her head at being tossed from one subject to the next. “When did you start it?”

  “Yesterday.” Hooking her arm around Marie’s elbow, Gertrude continued as they walked toward the arched doorway. “I stayed up half the night sewing so you can wear it to church tomorrow.”

  Chapter Fourteen