“You like what you see?” she whispered.
“Yes. Very much.”
“Then maybe you’d better have some, huh?”
“The idea had occurred to me.”
Ruby laughed, flopped on the bed on her stomach, and twisted around to face him. Ki slipped quickly out of his clothes. The big green eyes never left him; they touched him all over, followed him intently with a gaze he could almost feel. Her mouth opened slightly, lips full and lazy. She watched him in wonder, never speaking to him at all, saying all she wanted to say with her eyes. He cupped her small breasts in his hands, kissing the dusky nipples until they rose into hard little points. She was terribly sensitive there, and in a moment just the touch of his tongue set her trembling against him.
Ki let his hands trail lightly over her belly, down to the delicate silken nest between her legs. Ruby moaned, lifting her thighs up to greet him. Her fingers moved shyly down his body, almost afraid of what she might find.
“Oh!” A cry escaped her lips; she touched his swollen member, grasped it softly in her fist, and guided it gently inside her. Ki felt the vibrant heat of her body, the warm and fragile flesh pressing around him. He thrust himself eagerly into that warmth; her legs whispered about him, urging him even deeper. Her arms found his back and raced to his hips. Ki thrust harder, no longer afraid the slender body would break beneath him. Ruby caught the rhythm of his love, matched it with her body and the quick little explosions of her breath.
Ki felt himself climbing toward an intense, almost unbearable peak of pleasure. Ruby gasped. Her body trembled and jerked against him in an uncontrollable spasm of joy. She cried out, threw back her head, and laughed as he surged free inside her...
“Think I’ll ever see you again?” she asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes people come together again. I hope we do that, Ruby. You are a treasure I won’t forget.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes. Honestly.” He buttoned his shirt and bent to kiss her. She said nothing at all, but simply smiled with her eyes.
Ki slipped a twenty-dollar gold piece on the dresser and left her. He knew it was likely four times more than she’d ever get in a place like Roster. Paying to love a woman was a thing he didn’t wholly understand. Still, it was the path the girl had chosen, and he had meant what he said. He wouldn’t soon forget her.
Chapter 4
The land was flat and barren for a good three miles or so out of Roster. Then the narrow dirt road snaked into gently rolling hills dotted with small clusters of trees. The trees looked tempting with their inviting pools of shade, but Jessie and Ki kept to the road.
“They didn’t know anything, and of course I didn’t figure they would,” Jessie sighed. “Maybe Bridger wrote something down somewhere, but I kind of doubt it.”
“No.” Ki shook his head and squinted into the sun. “It is as we said before. What he could tell us, he kept in his head.”
“Not figuring he wouldn’t be here to deliver it in person,” Jessie finished. She paused, batting at an angry green fly circling the head of her horse. “Damn! They’re a jump ahead of us, Ki. And nobody’s being real subtle, are they? They must want that wheat land real bad. I wonder what they’ve told the settlers to get ‘em so itchy to sell—and lose money in the bargain?”
Ki didn’t answer. He was thinking about Torgler, seeing him on the streets of Roster with his friend. A man like that wouldn’t turn an eye in San Francisco or Denver. But he didn’t belong in Roster. Not unless he was doing exactly what Ki figured he was doing . . .
“Good grief, Ki—can you imagine?” Jessie reined in her horse and peered down into the narrow valley. “Looks like we just rode out of Kansas into the far end of Europe!”
Jessie was right. The settlement looked nothing at all like an American town. The immigrants had clung to their Old World customs and taken little from their adopted land. Instead of scattering their houses over the limitless slopes of grass, the small, sod-roofed dwellings were huddled close together, one wall nearly butting against the next. Early-evening cookfires brought the smell of some strong, spicy soup wafting up the hill. Late shadows stretched across the valley, and to Ki, the shaggy-roofed structures looked like big lazy animals bunched together for the night.
Jessie and Ki made their way down the slope to the village. In the east, vast fields of wheat blazed like gold in the late summer sun. A little distance off, a dark line of trees showed there was water nearby.
“Ki . . .” Jessie pulled in her horse and pointed curiously off the trail. “Look there. What do you suppose that is?”
Ki glanced at the lone fencepost rammed into the earth. “Flowers of some kind,” he muttered to himself, then slid off his mount and walked to the post. A large, intricately woven wreath was hung from a single nail driven into the wood. Ki snapped off a few of the white blossoms and brought them back to Jessie. “Wolfsbane,” he told her. “I have seen the plant before. It’s poisonous, by the way.”
Jessie took one of the flowers, looked at it, and shrugged. “Some kind of custom, I guess.”
Ki mounted up and followed her down the hill. Now he could see that there were more of the posts, scattered in a rough circle about the perimeter of the village. Each held one of the pale, flowery wreaths.
Several of the settlers spotted them coming, stopped what they were doing, and watched the pair approach. j waved a greeting, but no one waved back. There was a small, open common in the center of the village, and she urged her mount in that direction. A group of men clad in baggy gray smocks and trousers were gathered there, and one stepped forward to meet her. Jessie smiled. The short, white-bearded old man met her greeting without expression and set his stolid frame directly in her path.
“What is it you want?” he said roughly. Hard blue eyes flicked from Jessie to Ki. “Is nothing here to see. You ride on now.”
Jessie exchanged a quick look with Ki. “We need to talk to whoever’s in charge. Oh, yes. The elder, isn’t it?”
“I am in charge,” the old man said curtly. “What is it you want, girl?”
“My name is Jessica Starbuck,” Jessie told him. “And I—”
“Huh? You?” The man blinked and stood up straight. He turned to his fellows, and his stony features split in a weathered grin. Jessie caught her name several times in the rapid, throaty speech, and heard it passed through the crowd.
The bearded man strode forward and thrust out a stubby hand. “Get down, please, Miss Star-book. Excuse the very bad manners, yes? You are mos’ welcome here!”
Jessie took his hand, and the man made a courtly show of helping her off the horse. She introduced Ki, and the fellow greeted him like a lost son and slapped him soundly on the back. Jessie caught the name Gustolf—whatever else came after was unpronounceable and she let it go at that.
Gustolf ushered them quickly through the now-friendly crowd and guided them toward a cottage slightly larger than the rest. Fully half the village tried to follow them inside, but Gustolf sternly waved them away and closed the heavily timbered door behind him.
“All of them you must meet,” he said, waving his hand expansively. “That is for later, though. Not now. Now we have a glass of Gustolf’s very finest wine in honor of Jeskya—Jess-i-ca—hah! I say it! Jess-i-ca Star-buck and her friend. Sonia! The good wine, and make sure the glasses are all clean!”
Ki decided Gustolf was a lusty old man indeed. The deep lines in his face said he couldn’t be a day under seventy, yet the girl he introduced as his daughter was a slender, dark-eyed beauty no more than nineteen or twenty. Her skin was pale olive and honey, so fresh and smooth that it seemed to glow. She greeted her father’s guests shyly, then ducked her face under a riot of thick black hair and hurried about her business.
“So.” Gustolf raised his glass to Ki and Jessie. “I drink to the Star-buck name, lady.” He downed the drink quickly and wet his lips. I . . . read about your father.“ He looked at the table and shook his
head. ”It is bad. I am sorry. He was a good man, and we owe him much here.“
“Thank you,” said Jessie. “I appreciate your thoughts.” The wine was sharp but slightly sweet. It left a delicate, fruity taste on her lips. The wine, the dusty amber bottle, and old Gustolf himself blended easily into the somber, Old World mood of the cottage. The few pieces of furniture present were dark and massive, heavily carved with thick leaves and twisted vines. Faded icons of painted and gold-leafed wood with candles mounted beneath them hung about the walls, along with a pair of crossed, crescent-shaped blades that Jessie sensed were far older than anything else in the house. In spite of the sultry summer evening, a fire was crackling in the big stone fireplace. And, to add to the unwanted heat, Sonia was cooking over an enormous black and silver stove that filled one whole side of the room. It was clearly a family treasure, one that had been shined and polished through several generations.
“Gustolf...” Jessie leaned toward the old man over the table. “We came out here because we heard you were having some problems. If there’s anything we can do to help . . .”
“What?” Gustolf came suddenly alert. “What problems, lady? I do not understand this. What have you heard about my village that I have not?”
“I don’t really know,” said Jessie. “I was hoping you could tell us that.” The look in Gustolf’s eye told her this was definitely not the time to bring up Tom Bridger, and what had happened to him. Gustolf would have known Tom if he knew anybody in Roster, and if he hadn’t yet heard about the murder, she figured it could wait. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Sonia had stopped work to listen over her father’s shoulder.
“What we’ve heard,” Jessie went on, “is that you’ve got things going real well here and have a good crop coming in—but that you and your people were thinking about selling out now and moving on somewhere else. I don’t understand that.”
Gustolf looked down at his stubby hands. “I . . . have shame, Miss Jessica. You think we are not grateful for what you have done, yes? I do not blame you for this.”
“Oh, please . . .” The old man looked so pained that Jessie reached out instinctively and took his hands. “Look, I don’t set myself up to judge what you or anyone else wants to do with what they have. I don’t figure that’s any of my business. If something’s wrong here, though, maybe it does concern me. I guess what I’m asking is why the sudden interest in selling something that looks like it’s working out so well? I—”
“Ah, business!” Gustolf made a face, pulled himself up quickly, and held out his palms. “It is bad luck to talk business on an empty stomach.” He forced a broad grin and filled the glasses again. “You stay and have supper. Then we talk. All right?”
“Father . . .” Sonia turned on him, her dark eyes curiously strained. “Maybe . . . our guests would rather get back to town. It will be dark when we finish supper...”
“No, no, they will stay,” Gustolf said firmly. Jessie caught the silent message that passed between them. “It is all right, Sonia, eh? Go about your business, girl.”
Jessie started to speak, but decided against it. Instead, she sipped her wine and looked at the old man, trying to read whatever it was that lay just behind his eyes. Something was definitely there, but he’d hidden it too well for her to see.
Jessie wanted to get Ki aside to see if he could make any sense out of Gustolf’s behavior and Sonia’s obvious reluctance to have them around. Gustolf, though, gave them no chance to be alone, and stood firm in his resolve to avoid any talk more serious than the various merits of the wines of Central Euorpe. He seemed to have endless information on the subject, and told Jessie and Ki that in the old country he’d been a master winemaker.
“Why did you leave all that?” Ki asked politely. “A master winemaker is a most distinguished person.”
“Pah! Not anymore, he isn‘t!” Gustolf screwed up his face. “That is all gone now. Over. Behind me. And good riddance too!”
“Now, Father...” Sonia came up and rested a hand on his shoulder. Whatever had disturbed her before seemed to have vanished. “Please don’t get him on politics,” she said, giving her father a scolding glance. “You will never hear the end of it, Miss Jessica.”
“Jessie’s just fine, and I would like to hear more.”
“Hah, you see?” growled Gustolf. “And what would you know, daughter? You have no respect for an old man.”
“You are a fine man, and not old at all. And I have much respect for you.” She patted him on the cheek and turned away in a whirl of heavy skirts. “Except when you are being an old fool, of course!” Gustolf reached out to grab for her with a big bearlike paw, but Sonia leaped lightly out of his way. Jessie raised a brow at Ki. Apparently the mood in Gustolf’s household had shifted as quickly in one direction as it had in the other.
Ki wasn’t sure when either Sonia or her father had had time to invite guests to dinner, but they somehow arrived on schedule. There were two of them: a somber, heavyset man in his fifties named Zascha, and a man of Ki’s own age called Feodor. It seemed as if Gustolf had deliberately asked one to offset the other. Zascha was a brooding, sour fellow with a permanent frown between his heavy brows, while Feodor was the other side of the coin. He was a darkly handsome man with a nose like a hawk and a full head of thick, curly hair. A lazy grin curled the corners of his lips, and his black eyes flashed with amusement. At first glance, he seemed a man who might drift through life enjoying its pleasures. Ki, however, saw deeper than that. Feodor’s easy manner was deceptive. He knew exactly what was taking place around him. Ki recognized something of himself in the man, as well—he moved slowly, because there was nothing happening that required moving fast.
Ki saw something else too. A single glance at Sonia when Feodor entered the room told him the girl was his for the taking. Feodor answered her look—warmly, but without great interest. On the other hand, his dark eyes rested for a long moment on Jessie. Jessie accepted his glance and gave it back boldly, much to Ki’s irritation.
Jessie couldn’t remember when she’d had so much to eat. The rich, spicy dishes, aided by a continuous flow of the old man’s wine, left her sleepy and a little lightheaded.
Gustolf caught her eye and gave her a wink. “Ah, you like our food and drink, lady? That’s good. Very good! Here—you must try a sip of this.” He made a small circle with his thumb and forefinger and blew a kiss in the air. “It is exquisite, but a very light and airy wine—”
“No, please!” Jessie laughed and held up a protesting hand. “I’m about to pop right now, Gustolf. Don’t know where I got it, but I must have some Hungarian in me somewhere.”
Gustolf blinked in surprise. The gloomy Zascha scowled and shook his head.
“Did I say something wrong?”
Gustolf caught her bewildered expression and laughed. “Is nothing, lady. You could not know, yes?”
“What he’s trying to say politely,” grinned Feodor, “is that you have insulted him greatly, but he forgives you.”
“No, no,” Gustolf protested.
“Listen, I’m sorry,” Jessie began.
“We’re Hungarians,” Feodor explained, “as far as the rest of the world sees, but we, ah . . . don’t acknowledge the Hungarian government. We’re Transylvanians. And before that, Rumanians.”
“Oh,” Jessie said contritely.
“It goes back a long way, and gets a little confused,” said Feodor. “To make a long story short, we came here because there’s no longer any place for our people in the old country.”
“Well, I think you came to the right place,” said Jessie. “Most everyone here had some good reason for leaving Europe.”
“It’s a good place to be,” Feodor agreed fiercely. “A man has a chance, by God, and there’s no one to stop him but himself!”
“Hah!” Zascha gave him a scornful laugh and downed his wine. Jessie noticed that most of it dribbled down his chin. “You are a young fool, Feodor.” He leaned forward and focused awkwa
rdly on Jessie. “It is no different here, boy. There are nobles like her, and peasants like us. Who do you think gets the land in the end?”
“Zascha!” Gustolf jolted the table with his fist and went livid. He jerked out of his seat and faced the man in a rage. “This noble, as you call her, is a Starbuck. And who do you think pays your way from New York and helps you buy the land you sit on, eh? By God, you insult the guest who fills that fat belly of yours!”
“For her own profit, you can be sure!” roared Zascha. “There is always a reason someone gives you something, Gustolf. So they can someday steal it back, yes?”
Feodor came out of his chair, but Gustolf’s big hand held him back. “No. It is my house, and I take care of it. Leave, Zascha. Now. You shame me at my table. You shame us all.”
Zascha muttered to himself, but the look in Gustolf’s eye brought him quickly to his feet. He lurched away from the table and slammed the heavy door behind him.
“I offer my apology,” Gustolf told Jessie. “He . . . has no understanding. I am afraid many of my people do not.”
“Is that why some of them are determined to sell their land?”
For a moment, Gustolf was taken back. “So. We are back to this again, are we not?”
“Yes, Gustolf,” Jessica said evenly. “We are. As I said before, it’s none of my business what you do, but I’d like to know why. The loans you have from the Green River Land Company are low-interest, with a long payoff. And you’ve got our ironclad promise to buy your wheat at a very good price.”
“Yes,” Gustolf said wearily, “this is all true.”
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