by Shirl Henke
Married. She had dreamed of the day ever since she was a girl back in St. Louis, envisioning then a proper courtship followed by an expensive engagement ring and an elaborate wedding at St. Stephens Lutheran Church. She looked down at the dusty riding skirt and boots she wore. Some bridal outfit! But when she surreptitiously turned her eyes on Jess's chiseled profile, she knew that the fancy accoutrements were unimportant. All that mattered was that she would wed the man she loved—and that he would love her in return.
I'll make you love me, Jesse Robbins, see if I won't!
By the time they arrived in Cheyenne, the last pink and gold rays of light were vanishing behind the Medicine Bows.
"We'll have to get hotel rooms for tonight and find a preacher in the morning," Jess said, as raucous noise from an outlying saloon greeted their arrival.
Rooms. Plural. She smiled at his concern for her reputation. "I know where Judge Sprague lives. He's an old family friend. He'll marry us right now," she said quietly.
"Where does he live?" Jess listened to her directions, then turned Blaze down a tree-lined side street. For the past hours he had tortured himself with the insane idea of taking her with him back to Texas. She would be his wife. Only he would ever have the right to touch her, not that vicious Diamond E foreman or that ham-handed Association president. All summer long, thoughts of them putting their hands on Lissa had tortured him. But old Marcus had been right. No white man in Wyoming would take her after the shame of bearing a child with mixed blood.
However much he wanted to believe their marriage could survive; he understood it could not. Picturing her in his small, crude one-story ranch house, he knew she would quickly grow to hate it, hate him. Life in Texas was hard on women, even those born to it. For Lissa, raised with every luxury, it would be unendurable. She would end up wrinkled and careworn, old before her time, her bright gold eyes flat with defeat and her fiery hair faded to gray. He had seen so many of those women, dressed in ragged homespun with several small children tugging on their skirts and a baby on their hip. Women with thin, pinched faces, beyond despair, hopeless, dreamless.
Better that Lissa go back East where she had grown up and take their child with her. There the stigma of his blood would not be as bad. Perhaps if the babe resembled her, no one would even suspect. In time, she could have their marriage set aside and remarry. Perhaps he would oblige her sooner by stopping a bullet and leaving her a widow. Either way, he would never see her again—or see the child they had made.
The pain clawed at him as they reined in and dismounted in front of an elegant brick house. When he reached up to help her down, he fought the urge to pull her into his embrace. Instead, he woodenly set her away from him and they walked silently up the steep stairs of the porch. He lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall. Its sepulchral sound echoed down the deserted street.
"Good evening," a servant said in equally grave tones as he held the door partially ajar. When his pale eyes lit on Lissa, his demeanor changed immediately. "Miss Jacobson. What brings you to Cheyenne?" he asked with a smile wreathing his wrinkled face. Quickly he opened the heavy oak door to admit her and Jess, eyeing the armed and menacing-looking stranger warily.
"I've come to see the judge, Morton. Is he at home?"
"Right this way. You rest in the parlor while I fetch him," Morton replied, ushering them down a dark, richly appointed hall and into a small room filled with intricately carved oak furniture. English pastoral oils hung from the walls, which were covered with dull maroon paper that soaked up the light from a crystal lamp fixture. Photographs sat on every flat surface in the room.
Lissa picked one up. "That was Mrs. Sprague. She died when I was a child. The judge never remarried," she said wistfully, placing the picture back on a marble-topped table.
He looked at her, standing in this expensive room. "You belong here," he said flatly.
"What do you mean?"
Before he could reply, the door opened and a rotund man with wide brown eyes and close-cropped gray hair stepped into the room. "Morton said you were here, Lissa child. I hope nothing's happened to your father?" He extended two pawlike hands to hers and patted them fondly.
"No, Papa's at the J Bar." She swallowed and took a deep breath for courage. "He sent us here." Turning to Jess, she made introductions. "Judge Sprague, I would like you to meet Jesse Robbins. We want you to marry us."
Jess nodded to the judge, who he noted did not offer to shake his hand. A grim smile slashed his face when the judge held her arm protectively and spluttered.
"Aren't you the gun—the man Marcus hired? Surely, Lissa—"
"I have my father's permission, Judge," Lissa interrupted, moving away from him and taking Jess's arm. Her eyes implored that he question her no further, but it was useless.
His shrewd brown eyes sized up the dangerous- looking breed. Hiram Sprague supposed that a foolish young woman raised back East might think Robbins was handsome, romantic, some such balderdash. "You haven't run away from home, have you? This would break your father's heart, Lissa," he remonstrated.
"I'm afraid I've already done that. You see, Judge, we must marry." She stressed the last words, feeling the heat stealing into her cheeks as the judge paled and looked at Jess.
"She's telling the truth, your honor. If you don't marry us, we'll have to wait until tomorrow and hunt us up a preacher." Jess's voice was level, emotionless.
The old man looked incredulously from the harsh expression on Robbins's face to Lissa, studying them both. God help them, they were telling the truth! "I'm surprised Marcus didn't kill you," he said thickly to the gunman.
The faintest hint of a smile touched Jess's lips. "It wasn't because he didn't want to."
"I'll get my book. Wait here," Sprague said tersely. Within a few minutes, they were reciting their vows in front of the sternly disapproving judge. When he reached the part that called for a ring, Lissa was amazed when Jess produced one, a slim gold band, which was obviously very old. He slid it on her finger, saying the words in such a cool, emotionless voice that she wanted to weep.
Judge Sprague pronounced them legally wed and closed his book with an abrupt snap. Jess considered offering the sour old man a fee, then decided against it. He knew Sprague would refuse curtly. He took Lissa's arm, and she quickly drew her hand through the bend of his elbow.
"We'd better try to find a place for the night. Your honor," he said, nodding to the old man who stood with his arms resting around his paunch.
Lissa murmured her good-byes, glad to leave the disapproving presence of a man who had suddenly become a stranger.
When they stepped outside into the cool darkness, she touched the ring, turning it around and around on her finger. It was a perfect fit. "Where did you get the ring, Jess?"
He helped her mount up. "It belonged to my mother."
"Is there no family left?" she asked, realizing that as of now she, too, was completely cut off.
"My parents are both dead. I've got a kid brother." He volunteered nothing else as they rode toward the center of town. Getting a hotel room is going to be a bitch, he thought angrily. If that prissy clerk at the Metropolitan had tried to refuse him when he was alone, Jess could only imagine how ugly it would be when he walked in with a white wife. Wife. She was his. Just once before he told her good-bye, he could lie with her legally, morally. It was his right. But once he did, how much harder would it be to let her go? Deep in his own tortured thoughts, Jess
did not hear her question until she repeated it.
"What's your brother's name?"
"Jonah." A small smile touched his face as he thought about his restless, twenty-year-old brother.
"Does he live in Texas?"
They were nearing a respectable-looking hotel on 17th Street. Jess swung off Blaze. "Let it be, Lissa. I don't want to talk about my family," he said grimly.
She bit her lip but said nothing, just followed him into the lobby. The clerk looked from Jess to Lissa and his eyes narro
wed, but before he could voice any protest, Jess shoved the signed register at him along with a sizable amount of cash. "We'll be needing two rooms," he said in a silky, menacing voice that caused the fat clerk to break out in an instant sweat. Without looking at Lissa again, he seized two keys and handed them to Jess. "Top of the stairs, at the end of the hall."
Jess turned and handed her one key. "Order a bath and whatever food you want sent up to your room. I have to send a wire."
"I'll order for both of us. Don't be long, Jess," she replied in a husky voice. "We have some things to talk about," she added meaningfully.
He sighed. "All right. Let's go up and talk first. I can send the wire later," he said tightly. He glared at the moon-faced clerk, who immediately stopped eavesdropping and bent his head to the account ledgers on which he had been working.
Her room proved to be somewhat spartan compared to the suite at the Metropolitan, but the rates were substantially lower. Jess was lucky to have collected his monthly wage the preceding week, else he would not have been able to afford lodging, meals, and the train ticket he intended to purchase.
Lissa paced to a window overlooking the street and peered out into the darkness, hugging herself, looking very lovely and vulnerable. "Why two rooms, Jess? Isn't it a little late for that?"
"It'll be easier for you to dissolve the marriage later on if there's evidence that it wasn't consummated."
She stiffened. "Then you plan to leave me? Leave your child before it's even born?" She turned to him with furious anger blazing in her eyes, but the naked anguish she saw on his face stopped her rush of heated words.
"Your father will forgive you eventually. Meanwhile, you have other kin back East. It wouldn't be as bad for a child with Indian blood there. .. ." His voice cracked. He swore beneath his breath and turned to the door. "I'm going to buy you a railroad ticket and make arrangements to get you back to J Bar. Marcus can get you at the Squaw Creek station."
She said nothing, just stood silhouetted in the window, a small, solitary figure, until he was gone. He left her key lying on the table beside the door. Slowly she walked over and picked it up. Then a slow smile curved her lips as she rang for room service.
Jess stabled the horses and made arrangements to get her home the next day, then walked slowly back to their hotel. As he fished his room key from his pocket, he thought of Lissa's lush body lying just across the hall. If he knocked, he knew she would welcome him. Steeling himself, he unlocked his door and stepped into the dark room.
Instantly his instincts, honed by years living on the edge of danger, told him that he was not alone. He froze, gun in hand, peering into the darkness. Then a match flared and Lissa's face appeared, haloed in light.
"You should've saved your money, Jess," Lissa whispered as she lit the lamp.
Chapter Sixteen
She walked toward him like a stalking tigress, clad only in sheer batiste undergarments that were translucent in the soft light. "I am your wife. Can you deny me?" she asked softly. "Can you deny yourself?"
With a snarled oath, he began to strip off his clothes, tearing buttons from his shirt, flinging his gunbelt across a chair, kicking his boots and denims away. "Damn you, Lissa. I'll have to stop a bullet to free you, but tonight you're mine!"
His mouth descended on hers with savage intensity, slanting across it with bruising, possessive force. She melted against him, yielding and sweet and silent. Their bodies fused together, pressing and sliding as their hands caressed, traveling up and down each other's backs.
His fingers caught the lacy straps of her camisole and pulled them off her shoulders, baring her breasts. When his hot, seeking mouth fastened on the aching tip of one pale pink nipple, she arched up, moaning deep in her throat. Her breasts were tender and swollen from her pregnancy, incredibly sensitive. Her fingers glided up into his straight black hair and grabbed thick, shiny fistfuls.
Jess cupped her breasts, hefting their greater size and fullness with wonder. How could he not have seen the changes in her body? Because he was too feverish with lust to take note of anything. No other woman had ever made him crazy the way Lissa did. Then his palms slid over the slight swell of her belly, pulling the tapes of her underwear loose and shoving the sheer cotton over the curve of her hips. She kicked it away as he reached down and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed.
They rolled across the soft coverlet in a tangle of arms and legs, kissing fiercely, raining small licks and bites across each other's shoulders and neck. Lissa could feel the hardness of his sex pressing into her belly and stroked it boldly with one hand. He growled low in his throat and raised himself over her. She spread her thighs and guided him home with a small, whimpering cry.
At first he rode her hard and fast, loving her with the fury and fire of his desperation. Then he stopped and held her tight, realizing that this would be the last night, the last time he lay with her. She seemed to sense the change in him as he resumed stroking her slowly, savoringly.
"Don't ever leave me, Jess, ever . . ." Her voice faded away into breathless gasps. "I. .. love . . . you . . . I. . . love . . . you." Just as she felt the sweeping pull of sweet release swamp her senses, he murmured something in reply, muffled against her throat. Was it "I love you?" She could not be certain.
His staff swelled and shuddered deep within her, and they both fell again into the shimmering world of ecstasy they had so often entered together. This time there was a sense of bittersweet wonder. Time was rushing on, whispering words they did not wish to hear. The beautiful communion was over too soon.
Lissa felt him collapse atop her. His breathing was labored as he cradled her beneath him, struggling to regain control. Her hands glided up his back, tracing the contours of muscle and bone with sweat-slicked fingertips, memorizing every beautiful inch of his body, storing up memories to hold the specter of loss at bay.
Jess, too, seemed to be studying her, holding up a fiery curl and wrapping it about his hand, then rubbing it against his face. "Like silk," he breathed. Warm summer air enveloped them, heavy with the lusty musk of lovemaking and the faint essence of orange blossoms.
They lay, quietly touching, for several moments, more gentle with each other than their passions had ever allowed before. Gradually, the low-burning fires rose once again, hammering in their blood, demanding release. Lissa could feel Jess hardening, still buried deep within her. She moved against him, tightening her thighs against his hips, urging him on as they resumed their old rhythm.
A sense of frantic desperation seemed to take over as they crested, this time swiftly and hungrily. They spent the night alternately making love, then sleeping wrapped in each other's arms, only to reawaken and resume their passion. At last the faint, rosy haze of dawn sent fingers of gold creeping into the room. Jess awakened to feeble light streaming in the open window. He looked down at Lissa in his arms. Her eyes were closed, with deep smudges of fatigue beneath the thick lashes resting on her cheeks. She looked so young and vulnerable that it tore at his heart.
She was his wife, the mother of his child, and he was leaving her. The easiest way would have been to sneak out while she still slept, leaving a note and the railroad ticket, but he could not do it. He propped his head on one hand to better study her sleeping body. A raw wave of possessiveness swept over him. She was his wife, and suddenly all his noble intentions about her remarriage to another man seemed unthinkable.
Another man would raise his child—perhaps treat it hatefully, as he had been treated for what the Anglos considered inferior Indian and Mexican blood. Could he allow that? If the child were a boy, he might return to claim him, but what if it was a girl? He could no more subject a daughter to the hardships of life on his ranch than he could his wife. Let go the dream, Jess, he chided himself.
Sensing his perusal, perhaps aware that he was troubled, Lissa awakened, her lashes fluttered open, and their gazes met. "Magic silver eyes," she said softly as her hand traced the raspy whiskers on his jawline. "What are
you thinking, Jess?" She held her breath.
"That it's time to say good-bye."
"No!" She sat up and the sheet slid down to her waist. "We're married. You can't just leave me."
"We've said it all, Lissa," he replied as he slid from the bed and padded naked across the floor, gathering up his strewn clothing.
"Will it be so easy—just riding away, leaving me surrounded by people who'll scorn me and our child?" She held the sheet protectively clenched over her breasts.
"You know damn well it won't," he snarled savagely. "Get out of Wyoming. Go back East where you'll have the chance to begin again."
"As a divorced woman?" Her tone was scornful and pained.
He paused with his shirt half tucked into his jeans and stared at her. "You came here last night. This is my room, lady. You sealed your chance for an annulment. Or maybe you'd prefer if I hurried up and got careless—"
"Stop it!" She put her hands over her ears to block out his hateful words.
"Get dressed. I'll have breakfast sent up to you," he said, reaching for the door.
As soon as he was gone, she flung back the covers and rushed for the basin in the dry sink. "Forget breakfast!" she yelled at the closed door just before becoming very sick.
Jess sat in the quiet saloon, nursing a cup of ink-black coffee and staring morosely into a plate of greasy fried potatoes he had been unable to finish. A few customers sauntered in to partake of the wretched food, others for a morning jolt of forty-rod whiskey.
Word of his marriage to Lissa Jacobson the preceding evening had already spread like wildfire. Most of the bleary patrons studied him covertly, some with thin-lipped disapproval, others with incredulous curiosity. Old Marcus's fancy Eastern- raised daughter hitching up with a breed killer, imagine that. No one had the nerve to approach the dangerous-looking stranger and ask him about the outlandish tale.
