In answer, Clara placed a hand upon his chest.
He swooped like a hawk, kissing her hard and deep. Her grip upon him tightened and she pressed her body to his. All he need do was lean backward and he could take her to his bed. She clutched his coat, tugging at him as she moaned.
It was his undoing. He lay her down, trailing kisses over her cheek and neck. She writhed beneath him, making him hard with wanting. He took her earlobe in his mouth and sucked.
She arched up against him. The room seemed filled with lilacs as Clara’s hand snaked down his chest to find the bulge at his groin. Nimble fingers stroked him. The animal rush of need brought him rearing up to gather her skirts. He stared down at her flushed and panting, seeing the marks his passion had left upon her pale neck and shame doused his lust.
He drew back. This was a good woman, not some whore.
He pushed her to arm’s length.
“I’m sorry, Clara.”
She struggled to a sitting position, confusion etched her brow. Her heavy breathing made it impossible for Nate not to glance at her full breasts. He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to bed her.
“I can’t,” he said.
“But why?”
“You were Jacob’s bride. He loved you with all his heart.”
“And I loved him.”
There, she had said it, cutting to the truth of the matter. She still loved his brother.
“But he never made me feel the way you do.”
His breathing caught as he struggled not to reach for her again. Then he realized what she meant.
Lust. This is the emotion he raised in a noble woman, the baser urge of rutting animals. He felt Jacob’s ghost staring down at them from heaven.
He stood. “I’ll sleep elsewhere.”
“But this is your home.”
“And you are Jacob’s woman. He brings us together and he holds us apart. I don’t blame you for your feelings. He was the better man.”
Nate crossed the room and reached for the latch. Her hand fell upon his arm, staying him. He could not face her, so he stood waiting, his insides still trembling with need.
“Nate, if you leave, then others will know. Do not shame me.”
Harvey’s words of earlier in the day returned to him. Respectable women don’t care what their husbands do, so much as what folk will say.
He turned to her. “I’m going so I don’t shame you.”
“But a good wife sees to her husband’s needs. All his needs. If you leave it makes me a poor wife—married just two days and already my husband seeks out the company of other women.”
“I’ll sleep in the store.”
“It amounts to the same thing. I’ve driven you from your home. I’ll not have it. If you’ve any respect for me, you will not do this.”
He did not have the courage to stay, but he did not wish to bring her more sorrow. The black cat weaved about his legs, purring. He released the knob.
“Where will I sleep?”
“In your bed.”
He faced her. She seemed so calm now, so sure.
“And you?”
“Beside my husband.”
“No.” He shook his head.
“Yes.”
He relented, knowing this for the grand mistake it would be. “All right, Clara. I’ll stay.”
“And in the morning you will eat your breakfast here and come home for supper, too.”
He nodded, ready to agree to anything if only she would release his arm and step away.
“If need be, you can return to your work after your meal, but you must eat, after all.”
He nodded his consent and she released him. He felt branded by her touch. Awkward silence followed. Clara shifted her feet. “Are you ready to retire?”
He was ready to bay at the moon. Somehow he nodded.
“Shall I snuff the lamp?”
He sat on the bed, waiting. She laid a white cotton gown over the chair and placed a brush upon the table. Her fingers worked at the pins behind her head, removing them one by one. He gripped his knees with enough force to make his fingers ache.
The brush drew down her thick hair making it shimmer like a waterfall in the lamplight. His breath caught.
This was what Jacob had seen every night before retiring. Did he know how lucky he had been?
She sat and released the laces of her boots, then rolled her high socks down over her knees as he devoured the glimpse of soft flesh. With one hand on the closure of her dress and the other on the lamp she gazed his way.
Her eyes questioned and he nodded. The room went dark as the lamp winked out.
He hung his gunbelt on the headboard and stripped out of his boots and britches, then drew away his shirt, leaving him in his long johns. From the center of the room came the rustle of fabric. He pictured her there naked just beyond his reach and then saw her emerge from the night as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Moonlight stole through the window.
He made her out, cast in blue as she dropped her petticoat. She gave him her back, as his gaze measured the narrow waist and flaring hips. His breathing came in ragged gasps now as he fought to remain on the bed.
She turned, reaching for her nightgown. His breathing stopped as he stared at the full orb of her breast cast in moonlight. Quickly now she drew on the gown, popping her head through the middle and pulling at the hem. Her long legs vanished in a cloud of white.
He breathed again.
Clara shuffled toward him, tangling in his discarded breeches and stumbling toward the bed. He was on his feet and catching her before she fell.
She steadied herself on his forearms and then stepped back.
“Which side do you prefer?” she asked. Her whispered voice exposed some of her disquiet.
He did not trust himself to speak. Clearing his throat he tried to pretend that he wasn’t hard as a chunk of cord wood and randy as a goat.
“Which what?” His words were gravel.
“Side of the bed—the wall or the room side?”
Pick the easy getaway.
“Room side.”
She stepped past him and slipped beneath the covers. He stood there a moment, not daring to lie down beside her. No man should face such temptation.
He groaned and threw back the covers, then changed his mind and lay on the top.
Clara rested still and rigid beside him. He drummed his fingers on his chest and tried to banish the image of Clara cast in silvery light.
He lay beside her a long while arguing with himself. The fire in the stove no longer heated the room. He shivered in his underwear. Beside him, Clara’s breathing told him she slept.
At last he drew down the covers and eased beneath the sheets warmed by Clara’s body. He closed his eyes, courting sleep, but his mind played tricks, sending him dreams of loving her. He woke trembling, bathed in sweat. This would not do. He could not rest. This fever for her poisoned his blood; his jaw ached from clenching his teeth.
Enough of this, he thought, throwing back the covers. Clara’s hand reached out, clutching his arm.
“Where are you going?” Her voice sounded husky from sleep. The intimate whispered question struck him like another arrow to the groin.
“Outhouse,” he lied.
Her hand slipped away and he ventured into the night. The cat joined him on the step. He rubbed its head, feeling the purr vibrate through his palm.
“She makes me crazy as an elk in rut,” he told her.
The cat circled around, rubbing his hand. Clara’s hair was softer.
He shook his head in misery. “I can’t go to the whorehouse in my underwear and I can’t sit on this step all night.”
Already the cold stone numbed his seat.
“I ought to jump in the creek.”
The cat wandered off, leaving him with his thoughts.
It took some time for the cold to steal the fever from him. Shivering, he headed back inside and stoked the stove, adding more wood. Finally he returned to his bed
, staring down at his wife. She lay curled in his spot on the mattress. As he sat upon the edge she moved over. When he lay beside her, wrapped in the sheets warmed by her body, she settled against him, hugging his arm as a child hugs a doll.
He sighed as his body came to full attention once more.
How long he stared at the ceiling, he did not know, but he watched the moonlight recede until there was nothing but darkness and the warm, inviting scent of her body and the feel of her embrace.
A screech brought him from his bed. He reached for the holster hanging from his headboard. He had not cleared leather when he noted the sun shone brightly through the open door. Another shriek brought him around to see a small backside, swathed in pale blue skirts, emerging from behind the sack of flour.
“Mama, I found them! Two, Mama, two!”
Nate holstered his revolver.
“Hush now,” Clara said and then turned toward him. Her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry she woke you. She is so excited about the kittens.”
Kitty ran across the room to him. “She made a nest of your shirt for her babies.”
Nate sank to the bed blinking at the child. What should he say to her?
Kitty grasped his hand and pulled. “Come and see the kitties!”
He let her steer him to the creatures.
“See? See? Can I keep them?”
She stared up with wide hopeful eyes. Her hands were clasped and she bounced up and down like an Indian rubber ball.
“Yes. They’re yours.”
Kitty squealed again and he grimaced at the ear-splitting sound. Then she threw her arms around his legs and hugged him.
“The mama cat is under your bed. She won’t come out.”
“I know just how she feels.”
“But her babies are crying.”
Clara intervened. “Come to the table now, Kitty.”
The child looked to him for help. “Do I have to?”
“Do as your mother says.”
He did not need to raise his voice for the girl stomped to the table and sat, shoveling oatmeal into her mouth without seeming to swallow. Her gaze remained focused on the bed.
Nate slipped into his trousers and a new shirt and then headed for the outhouse. He grabbed the bucket from the step on the way by and went to the creek to wash. Returning, he found his breakfast waiting. No oatmeal for him. He had gravy and biscuits. He smiled. Maybe there was something to be said for a full-time woman.
“How did you sleep?” she asked.
He nearly laughed. His ears buzzed from fatigue.
“Fine,” he lied.
Kitty straightened and pointed with her spoon, then slid from her seat with the agility of an eel. Nate turned to see the cat carrying one of her kittens in her mouth as she hurried toward the bed and disappeared beneath.
He grasped the girl’s arm, holding her before him as they watched the cat return for her second kitten.
Kitty wriggled. “I want to see.”
Nate drew her back and the girl turned her attention from the bed to Nate.
“That cat needs peace to feed her kittens. If you bother her, she’ll leave them and they’ll die.”
Kitty’s eyes widened. For the first time she stood absolutely still. Her mouth dropped open, she drew a breath and then emitted an ear-splitting wail.
Nate flinched as if struck. What in tarnation?
Kitty bawled as panic washed Nate like an ice bath.
“It’s all right now. I brought them home for you to care for. But that mama needs time with her litter.”
Had she heard him past her wailing? Fat tears streamed down Kitty’s cheeks. He grabbed his napkin and brushed them aside. This was why children made him edgy. They were unpredictable as wolverines. Quiet one moment and howling the next and they fell down all the time and dropped things.
He puffed a breath and tried again. “It’s all right. They won’t die if you let her care for them.”
Kitty closed her mouth and sniffled.
He patted her shoulder in a move that felt awkward as writing with his left hand. “You understand? She moved them because you made her feel her babies were not safe behind the flour sack. So you mustn’t crawl under the bed. Give the cat peace to care for them and when she comes out, you can pet her and feed her.”
Kitty rubbed her eye.
“It’s all right now. But you must let her be.”
“I promise.” Kitty nodded her seriousness and solemnly returned to her place, resuming control of her spoon.
He exhaled his relief and returned to his meal, but paused, feeling Clara’s gaze upon him.
She stared at him now with a loving smile upon her lips. He blinked in wonder. What had he done to receive such a gift?
She brought him coffee. He returned her smile as he accepted the cup.
Her gaze raked him pausing on his face. A prickling awareness crackled between them. She stood close as he felt the tension building between them once more.
She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I couldn’t sleep either.”
Chapter Six
Nate had little experience with respectable women such as a minister’s widow. Jacob had always been better with sporting fine manners. No matter how he shook it around his brain, he just couldn’t get past his shortcomings. He wanted to make Clara happy. But the hows of it flummoxed him.
Last night she’d been worried about appearances. He never would have thought of that. Even Harvey understood it, and his partner had never been married. Seemed every man knew these secrets but him. So he stayed to please her, straining not to do something to offend her and as a consequence he’d dozed off twice so far this morning. This last time he upset the inkpot, staining his finger and thumb bright blue.
He stood to shake off the lethargy and thought of his bed. He should build her a better house, something with rooms and a kitchen. He fiddled with the frayed cuff of his favorite shirt as he returned to his desk. And he’d better buy himself some new clothes so that didn’t embarrass her as well.
He sat back down in frustration. The clothes didn’t change the man inside them. Putting on airs. That’s what his father had said.
But the man wasn’t his father. Nate felt sure Clara was right. She was so smart, too clever for the likes of him.
He rubbed his tired eyes and focused on the books again. But his eyelids grew heavy and he rested his head on his arm allowing himself to rest—just for a minute.
Charley’s voice intruded into his dreams. He was dancing with Clara, swinging her round and round.
“Nate, you best get out here now!” Charley stood at the door motioning for him to hurry.
Nate startled to his feet, came around his desk and stumbled out into the bar. The quiet stopped him. Every miner in the place stared toward the entrance.
There stood Clara, wide-eyed and staring. Did the woman have no common sense? If she worried about what people would think, she shouldn’t venture into a bar like a common whore. Nate crossed to her in angry strides, captured her elbow and steered her out to the wooden walkway.
“What the devil are you doing on the south side of the street?”
“You have to come home.”
“What?”
“Home. I need you at home.”
Only then he recalled his promise to return for supper. He glanced up to see the summer sky turning toward twilight. Had she waited all this time for his return? No one had ever checked up on him before. He didn’t know if he should be flattered or angry.
“Clara, the only kind of women you’ll find on the south side of Colorado Avenue are the working girls. You need to go.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” Her head dropped and she clasped her palms together. Then her shoulders slumped, and she began to cry.
He gathered her into his arms. “Oh, it’s all right. No harm done. I’m sorry I missed your supper.”
“I’ve shamed you.”
“No, you haven’t. You couldn’t.”<
br />
“I could. You don’t know me.”
“I know you, Clara. You’re good as gold.”
Her sobs came faster now, so he held her tight as she nestled against him, sorry for her pain, but not the excuse to comfort her.
Clara clutched the rough fabric of Nate’s lapels wondering how to tell him? She wasn’t good as gold. She was a fraud. Instead she came to the reason she’d tracked him here. Urgency pressed her to speak.
“Nate, you must come home.”
“I’m not hungry.”
The door behind him opened, and light splashed across the wooden slats.
“Is this your wife, Justice?”
Clara stiffened at the familiar voice. Memories she could never forget leaped upon her like a wild beast. Impossible. He could not be here. He had been bound for California.
“Kingston,” said Nate by way of a greeting. He drew Clara to his side.
She resisted the urge to hide behind him.
“I wanted to express my congratulations to your bride.”
Her blood turned to ice, as certainty settled over her like a shroud. It was him.
She wanted to run or burrow beneath Nate’s coat. Instead she lifted her chin. Dread congealed in her belly like cold lard as she realized what had happened. He had recognized her in the saloon and hunted her down.
Nate’s hand went about her back. “Clara, this is Carl Kingston. He runs a—er—a business on the south side of Colorado Avenue.”
She knew what kind of evil business he ran.
Clara glared at the leering face of Carl Bickerfield.
“So happy to meet you, Mrs. Justice. Welcome to the goldfields.”
There was not the least question that he knew her. She could see it in the triumphant glimmer of his eyes. She waited for him to expose her, feeling the dread build in her like steam in a tea kettle. Instead, he tipped his hat in farewell and headed down Colorado Avenue.
“Stay away from that one,” said Nate.
Yes, she would. She remembered his fist pounding at her breasts and belly. How she hated and feared him.
She tracked Bickerfield with her gaze until he disappeared into the following building. So he had done it. He had his whorehouse, minus one whore.
Wed Under Western Skies Page 24
