Nate (The Rock Creek Six)

by Handeland, Lori

  Jo ignored that. Sometimes it was best. "I'm interested in a particular man. Nate Lang?"

  The bartender shook his head. "No se. I don't know."

  "Big." She lifted her free arm as high as it would go. "He wears pearl-handled pistols, but he doesn't use them."

  "No se pearl." The man shrugged.

  "He shaves his head." She made a cutting motion with her hand, near her head. "No hair?"

  "Ah! Muy drunk."

  Jo sighed. "That would be him. Where is he?"

  The bartender nodded at the back door of the saloon.

  "Gracias." Jo followed his direction. When one of the men grabbed at her arm, she brought the butt of her rifle down on his fingers and kept walking.

  As she reached the door, a rustle made Jo spin about, pulling her rifle into position. But everyone, including the pigs and the dogs, continued to stare at their drinks or the dirt. Nevertheless, she didn't plan on being interrupted now that she was so near to her goal.

  "You can all just stay right here. I'll take care of him and I don't need any help. Comprende?"

  "Senorita, we know better than to go near the hombre's place. He wants no company while he dies."

  Jo's heart stuttered. She could not breathe. She'd feared dying was what Nate had planned, yet hearing someone say so made that fear far too real.

  "He has been crazy. He and his friend—the man with the eyes that show nothing?"

  Cash, Jo thought. The only time his eyes came alive was when he held four kings and an ace in his hand.

  "They fought terribly. We thought one of them would kill the other."

  "What did they fight about?"

  "No se. My English was not good enough for most of the words."

  "I bet not." Knowing those two, most of the words had been foul.

  "Then the smaller man rode off and the big one, he ordered whiskey by the bottle and keep them coming." The bartender frowned. "Perhaps you should return to your home and let him be."

  "I know how to handle him."

  Shrugging, the man pulled a full bottle from beneath the bar. "If you say so. But take him another when you go."

  Jo stared at the amber liquid, so pretty and so lethal. "I don't think I will," she murmured.

  "His fury is on your head then."

  "Ain't it always?" Jo tipped her rifle against her shoulder and ducked out the door.

  To the rear was another adobe, the front of it directly opposite the back of the saloon. Trust Nate to find the most convenient resting place.

  His door was wide open, but the room was dark, so she stepped into the doorway where he'd be able to see her in the glow of the rising full moon that washed Soledad in silver.

  "Nate?" she whispered. "You awake?"

  Squinting, she tried to discern any hint of movement within. The sound of a match being struck was followed by the flare of a flame. The wavering glow revealed a candle on the table. A hand appeared from the darkness and held the match to the wick.

  Flickering yellow light illuminated Nate sprawled in a chair. The pristine pistols he never used but always wore lay on the table as if waiting for something. His rifle was propped at an odd angle, facing him instead of the door. Jo frowned. That was hardly safe even if it was unloaded. She knew it wasn't.

  "You came."

  His voice was a raspy murmur that never failed to make her shiver; his light blue eyes glowed near feverish in the candlelight. He had not shaved in quite a while and black stubble liberally sprinkled with silver shaded both his head and his face.

  Just seeing him whole and alive made tears burn her eyes and crowd her throat. She must be more exhausted than she knew, because Jo Clancy rarely bothered to cry. What was the point?

  "I've been waitin' for you, angel face."

  Angel face?

  Jo stepped into the room, moved into the light. "Nate, do you know who I am?"

  "Of course I know. Do I look drunk?"

  Jo tilted her head. He didn't. But with Nate that didn't mean he wasn't. She'd seen him fight battles after drinking for days. In fact, Cash said that Nate drunk was a better shot by far than Nate sober. In Jo's opinion that wasn't a compliment, but tell it to a man.

  "You bring me a bottle?"

  "No. And I won't either, so don't ask. I've come to take you home, Nate."

  As if that was what he expected, he nodded. "I knew you'd come when I needed you the most. You got here just in time."

  His smile warmed her. How could a man who shaved his head and spent most days drinking be so darned handsome? Was it only because she loved him so?

  "I've been waiting it seems like forever, angel face. I was starting to think you didn't want me to come home."

  He'd never called her angel face before. Jo kind of liked it, fool that she was. "Of course I want you home, Nate. Everyone does."

  "And after all I've done. I didn't expect to be welcome."

  "Funny thing about home. No matter what, you get welcomed there."

  He picked up a pistol, his long capable fingers stroking the pearly handle. The way he did that made her nervous, but she couldn't figure out why. He'd had those guns for as long as she'd known him and never fired a one. When she'd asked once why he wore them he'd said, "Penance, Josephine," and looked so sad she hadn't had the courage to pursue what he meant by that.

  She moved closer, plucked the rifle from the floor and the pistol from his hand, then placed all of the weapons, hers included, on the far side of the table.

  "Time to go?"

  He sprawled in the chair, far too big for the thing, shirt unbuttoned, feet bare. At least his pants were fastened. Despite his years of dissipation, there was no fat on him. Sometimes she wished there was.

  "Not tonight," she answered. "We'll sleep first, leave at dawn."

  "Dawn seems about right."

  Suddenly he stood, towering over her, crowding her against the table. Startled at the unaccustomed speed of his movement, Jo glanced into his face and stilled at what she saw there—emotions she'd never seen before and couldn't put a name to now.

  "I missed you so much."

  He knocked her hat from her head. Dust sprinkled across her nose and she fought a sneeze. He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. The need to sneeze vanished as another need took its place. She could not move.

  "I missed you too," she whispered. "Why did you leave?"

  "You left first."

  That was true. But he'd told her to go. Agreed along with her stepmother and father that her absence from Rock Creek would be best for everyone concerned. That had hurt, too, along with a hundred other small things.

  His large hand moved from her cheek to the back of her head. "I've been wanting to do this for so long."

  He kissed her. Jo was so shocked, she let him. His mouth was warm; his tongue tasted of mint. His lips nibbled and pulled as if he would devour her whole.

  No one but Nate had ever kissed her. No one but Nate ever would. She could kiss him for hours, days, an eternity. She would do anything for him—gladly. All he had to do was ask.

  He scooped her into his arms and tucked her against his chest. Reaching over, he pinched the candle dead. Darkness cloaked the cottage, relieved only by the moonlight through the door. At the bed, he lowered them both to the mattress.

  She pushed against his chest. "Wait. Nate, what—"

  He lifted his head, gazed into her eyes. "I love you, angel face. I've been waiting and waiting for you to come to me."

  He loved her? He'd been waiting for her? Jo shook her head. She couldn't believe this. She must have fallen off Ruth and banged her head on a rock in the desert. She was really dead and in heaven now. She must be, because Nate loving her was a wish come true.

  His mouth trailed along her chin, teased her collarbone. How had he gotten her shirt open? She didn't care when he kissed the slight swell of her breast.

  "This will be my last night here, right?" She nodded, speechless. "Let me show you how much I love you. Then when th
e dawn comes, you can take me home."

  In answer, Jo pulled Nate's mouth back to hers.

  Chapter 2

  She was smaller than he remembered, thinner too. And what had happened to her hair? But the sweet response of her lips... that was the same.

  He had not made love in so long. Oh, he'd had sex—countless times—anything to make the agony abate for a while, anything so he would not have to sleep alone, awaken in the darkness, and face his demons.

  Of course the demons arrived with the daylight, as well, which was why the whiskey came in handy. They would return stronger when he was sick and weak, but getting them gone for a little while was worth the headache.

  He wanted to do more than kiss her and touch her. He wanted to murmur all that he felt, everything he'd kept inside, a secret from everyone he cared for. But he would not spoil this night with the past.

  Body tense as a skittish, unbroken colt, he feared he'd disgrace himself before he even removed all of her clothes. His hands trembled as he touched her, and not from the whiskey this time—though he'd had enough of that today to take the edge off his life. The world was always a bit fuzzy to Nate; that was the only way he could stay in it.

  He managed to remove her shirt, or maybe she did. Her small, feminine hands tugged his loose. Her fingertips, scratchy with calluses he did not recall, flitted over his quivering belly.

  "Let me touch you." Buttons seemed to come free of their own accord. "Let me see you." Her breath brushed his suddenly bare chest.

  He stilled. "Do that again."

  His voice was a harsh rasp in the quiet of their night. Hers was so much sweeter when she murmured, "Do what?"

  He opened his eyes, but clouds must have moved over the moon, because the room had gone dark as one of the caves he'd explored as a lad in Kentucky. He could not see her face, and perhaps that was for the best.

  "This."

  Leaning over, he blew gently across her breasts, and her gasp of arousal made him smile. He followed the trail of his breath, taking a nipple into his mouth and nearly moaning with delight as the bud hardened against his tongue.

  Her lower body writhed. She tugged on his trousers. "I want to touch you everywhere, Nate."

  "Anything you want, angel face. Anything."

  Quickly he stood, shucked his pants and his shirt, which caught at his left elbow, then got rid of her boots and denims. When had she started wearing those? But beneath the hard material were soft, feminine drawers, beneath those, even softer skin he explored with his palms, then his lips.

  Her legs were stronger. Muscles shifted against his mouth; a pulse beat at her inner thigh, quickening when he pushed his tongue against it. Her hands played in his hair, what hair he had, stroking, soothing, arousing him. She tugged on his ear.

  "I want to touch you. Come here."

  He slid his body along hers, the contact making them both catch their breath. She recovered more quickly than he, tracing her palms over his chest, down his sides, along his hips.

  "You're so big. You make me feel safe."

  He flinched. One thing she'd never been with him was safe.

  Her hands stilled as she sensed his distress, then began to stroke once more. "Shh, "she murmured against his chin. "Everything will be all right."

  And it would be, now that she was here.

  Lethargy washed over him, at war with the humming awareness. The contrast made bright lights blink in front of his eyes, even though the room lay shrouded in darkness.

  He hadn't slept well since Cash left. No one to watch his back, which was exactly why he'd made Cash mad enough to leave. First he'd asked, and when his friend would not go, Nate had pushed him until he did. He'd ridden with Cash long enough to know just what to say to make the gun-fighter leave him alone. Cash always came back eventually. But this time he would be too late.

  Nate had to die somehow, and he'd grown tired of waiting. When she had finally showed up, he'd been deciding if he should use the pistols for the first time, or perhaps the rifle for the last. But now that she had come, the decision was not necessary.

  Her fingers no longer soothed but aroused. He took her mouth as passion surged again. She touched him everywhere, just as she'd promised. When her small hand closed around him, together they moaned.

  He clenched his teeth, let her caress him, let the heat roll over and through him. He had been cold for so long he barely remembered what it felt like to be warm. Oh, how he had missed this, missed her. But he had waited too long to endure the exquisite torture anymore. Removing her hand, he nudged her knees apart and laid himself between her slick folds.

  She rocked against him, mindless. The friction created more heat. Though he wished he could extend this stolen time together for the entire night, such performances were no longer possible for a man of his age and condition. But from the way she moved, the way she gasped his name, the way she clutched him ever closer, ever tighter, she didn't want him to take all night either.

  He began to stroke her entrance with the tip of his shaft, just a little, merely a tease, then a long slide where she needed it the most. His mouth he lowered to her breasts. He rolled a hardened bud with his tongue until she stiffened and cried out, bucking against him. Only then did he sheath himself deeply inside of her. One stroke was all it took for him to lose control.

  The release made lights sparkle again, so bright they hurt his eyes. He couldn't think. Something had been off when he'd joined them together. Something was not right.

  But when she murmured "Nate" against his brow, gathered him to her breast and stroked his hair, for a moment, everything was just as it had always been between him and his angel face.

  Back when she was still alive.

  * * *

  Jo was in heaven. Nate loved her. He'd made love to her.

  While he slept, she touched him gently—his short, short hair, his long, long back, his hip, his hand. Then she laid her palm over his heart. The steady beat reassured her. He was real. What had happened between them was true.

  She should be horrified, but she wasn't. Having an impossible wish granted could only be a gift from God, and that was what this night had been for her.

  Nate would never take her innocence and not make her his wife. Perhaps they'd gone about this backward, but she couldn't be sorry. She had never expected to marry, to have the children she craved in her secret soul, because she'd known this man was the only one she wanted, and if she couldn't have him, she would have no one.

  She'd never imagined anything could be so beautiful as holding the man you loved in your arms while he slept. She could still feel him deep within her—a part of her now and for always.

  There had been pain; she'd known there would be. But coming on the heels of incredible pleasure, her pain had faded quickly. Having him so close, a part of her body and soul for a single moment, had made her lost innocence but a memory.

  She wasn't innocent in the true sense of the word. Not that there wouldn't be blood on the sheets in the morning, but she had not lived a sheltered life, despite being a preacher's daughter.

  Her father had not tended his flock well. In fact, Jo had done quite a bit of the tending, especially of the women. At first she'd believed women came to her because they were able to talk more easily with another woman Then she'd discovered the extent of her father's womanizing, along with a host of other vices, and she'd realized women were avoiding him as much as they were coming to her. Nevertheless, Jo had heard things that would have curled her hair—if she had hair that would curl.

  Her time in Indian Territory, and later in the Comanche reservations to the south, had only increased her familiarity with the human body and the facts that were life. People in prison—and that's what the reservations were—did not have an inclination toward modesty.

  Nate mumbled "angel face" and rubbed his cheek along her breast. Desire flared, surprising her. Shouldn't she be satisfied? Maybe her sexual knowledge wasn't as vast as she'd believed.

  She wasn
't satisfied. She wanted him again. But he was so tired. Jo ran a hand over his shorn head.

  Even in the early days, when he'd denied they were friends, when he'd called her a pest and an infant, she'd felt something more for him than she should have.

  Though long past the age when most young women would marry, Jo had never had a beau. Her father had spent most of his pastoral career wandering, dragging Jo from town to town. As a result she'd never had a friend, let alone a suitor.

  By the time he accepted a permanent job in Rock Creek, the war had removed most of the eligible bachelors from the town. Any who were left had seen her as the preacher's daughter and treated her like a spinster missionary. She'd never cared because she had little interest in men. She was too busy with her life's work of helping others.

  But things had changed when Nate came to town. Jo's senses had come alive in his presence. Secretly she began to admire his large, hard, muscled body and crave the scent of his smooth, bronzed skin. How many nights had she spent praying that her inappropriate thoughts, her unseemly lust, would go away?

  As time passed and his sadness wormed its way into her heart and his rare but sweet smile consumed her soul, she'd fallen hopelessly in love with him.

  Jo had never dreamed Nate might love her back. She'd only hoped he would let her help him, heal him, that perhaps her friendship might save him. She didn't know why he'd abandoned his faith, turned his back on God, become a taker of life and not a giver. She was certain he had his reasons, but he had not shared them with her, or with anyone as far as she knew.

  Perhaps when he awoke in her arms, he might tell her all about his past. Maybe he'd even tell her why things had changed so suddenly, so wonderfully, so brilliantly between them.

  Once, a long time ago, she'd come to his room and seen he'd been crying. The knowledge had made all she felt for him bubble inside. She'd tried to get him to talk, to tell her what hurt him so, but the more she pressed, the more upset he became, and she could not bear to see him tremble with the memories he would not share.

  His pain had cut her so deeply, she'd needed to touch him, and so she'd been foolish. When she'd left for the night she'd run her thumb along the snaky tracks of his tears, then pressed her mouth to his.