by Tess LeSue
She laughed as she plunged into the waves. They fizzed and bubbled around her. The water was warm, and she sank into it joyfully. She looked back at the shore to see Tom hastily shedding his clothes. When he ran toward her, she sure did enjoy the sight. The starkness of his tan lines—from his collar, and from where he wore his shirtsleeves rolled up his chiseled forearms—was sexy as hell.
He dove into the waves and had her in his arms in a heartbeat. Their wet bodies slipped against each other. His cock was hard against her stomach; her breasts were hard against his chest. He kissed her like he was a drowning man and she was air. Emma kissed him back, wrapping her legs around him and sliding her hand down his back until she cupped his buttock.
He made a sound of protest. She nipped his lower lip between his teeth.
“This is too quick,” he groaned.
“We’ll go slower next time,” she promised. “Or maybe the time after that.”
He surrendered, hauling her back toward shore and falling onto his back. She straddled him as the waves surged around them. His hands were everywhere at once: squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples, sliding over the curves of her hips and buttocks. They rolled and thrust and bit and rode each other through the rising tide. When Emma came, she screamed. When he came, he yelled her name.
* * *
• • •
IT WAS ONLY later that Emma worried he might recognize her from that night at La Noche. Tall boots, a pink hat and some rouged nipples weren’t much of a disguise. But as far as she could tell, Tom hadn’t twigged. Or if he had, he kept quiet about it.
They swam and made love through the afternoon, and then crept back to their blanket to nap and dry off in the sun. She rested her head on his chest, lazily tracing the whorls of hair around his nipple. Her leg was thrown over his hips, and he had his arms wrapped tight around her. His left hand had found her breast, curling around it as he drifted in and out of sleep. The low light had turned buttery, causing the sand to glitter golden. She sighed, feeling bone-deep contentment. This might be the only time in her life she’d ever really been content.
If he had recognized her, she thought idly, she’d just have to tell him about the whoring. She hadn’t planned to. After all, what did it matter? She wasn’t a fool. She knew this wasn’t forever. A man like Tom Slater didn’t need to stoop to marrying a woman like her. He wasn’t like that old prospector McGinty, happy to turn up a woman like Nora Paul. Tom Slater was a whole different kettle of fish. All of those Slaters were. Tom was the best-looking man she’d ever seen; he was a man with prospects. He could have any woman he wanted. Right now he had Emma, but he wasn’t looking to marry her, was he? He was looking for some kissing and some love in the surf. Someone to keep him company in his bedroll on the ride down to Mexico. Emma knew he cared for her. She wasn’t stupid. But caring and marrying were two completely different things.
So why spoil a beautiful interlude by bringing whoring into the conversation? If he didn’t mention it, she wouldn’t mention it either. She’d just save up these good times like a miser counting every penny.
“What are you thinking?” he asked sleepily, his right hand sliding up and down her spine.
“Nothing at all,” she lied. She let her fingertips trail down the line of hair that ran between his sharply defined stomach muscles, all the way to his cock, which wasn’t looking sleepy in the slightest. “What are you thinking?”
“Guess,” he said thickly.
She did. And she guessed right.
27
THEY’D BEEN TRAVELING for almost two weeks and weren’t far out of Magdalena. Tom was getting itchy. He and Emma had learned every last inch of each other’s bodies, but they hadn’t got around to a single conversation about anything important. She went skittish anytime he tried. And she had treacherous techniques for distracting him. His body was his own worst enemy at those times, and afterward he was too content and sleepy to even remember what he wanted to talk about.
The closer they got to Magdalena, the more excited Calla got and the quieter Emma got. Calla chattered endlessly about home, circling one topic in particular. It didn’t take a genius to work out she was heading back for one reason, and that reason’s name was Miguel Ángel Leon. Tom knew the boy. Well, he wasn’t such a boy anymore. He was sure Calla wouldn’t have any trouble catching his eye. Now that she’d emerged from the habit, Calla was a striking girl. She had masses of shining black hair, which she wore elaborately coiled on her head, and she had a string of fancy dresses, which she wore even though there was no one out here to admire her. It was amazing how those black habits had managed to disguise her looks, and Emma’s. The two of them were beautiful by anyone’s standards. Tom didn’t think Ángel Leon had any idea what was about to hit him.
He knew the feeling. He wasn’t quite sure what had hit him. Something had changed in him these last two weeks. Something he didn’t want to change back. And it had everything to do with the bobcat over there in the black dress. They hadn’t talked about what would happen when they got to Magdalena.
He needed to meet his men in Arizpe. He had business waiting. He wanted to ask her to come with him, but every time he tried to talk to her, she skittered away. And they were running out of time.
He was considering his next move with Emma when the trouble broke out. It was Winnie’s fault. The girl had become a handful these last two weeks. Once she’d emerged from a state of shock, she’d grown sullen, and then downright angry. She was prone to tantrums and last week had even struck out at Anna. Tom had heard Emma talking quietly to Anna, counseling patience. And Anna had been patient. She had the patience of a saint, in Tom’s opinion. But tonight Winnie must have pushed her too far, because she gave a shout and then exploded in tears. She ran off to the new tent they’d bought in San Diego and hid herself away, but they could still hear her sobbing.
“All right!” Emma’s voice cracked across the camp. “That’s enough.”
Tom looked up from his whittling. He’d never heard Emma angry like that before. She fixed Winnie with a hard stare and was wiping dough off her hands with a cloth.
“You!” she ordered, pointing at the girl. “Come here.”
Tom heard Anna gasp through the canvas, and then she came running from the tent. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “She didn’t mean it.”
Emma ignored her, staring at the child and crooking her finger for her to come. Dark eyes blazing, Winnie strutted over, oozing insolence.
“You best adjust your attitude, miss,” Emma warned her.
“Or what?”
Emma’s eyebrows went up.
“She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” Anna protested, stepping between them.
“Yes, she does,” Calla stepped up beside Emma, her hands on her hips. “She knows exactly what she’s saying. And she’s been a brat since we left San Diego.”
“What do you expect?” Anna exploded. “She was kidnapped!”
Tom didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d never been caught in a fight between women before. He felt like he should give them some privacy, but to be honest, he was kind of afraid to move, for fear he’d draw attention to himself and get dragged into it.
“That ain’t no excuse, Anna, and you know it.”
“She’s just a baby,” Anna wailed.
“No, she ain’t,” Emma said firmly.
Tom sat frozen as he watched Emma push Anna out of the way. He’d not seen her like this before. Her face was stern as she looked down at the girl. Tom felt an urge to step between them. He agreed with Anna. Surely, the girl deserved some time and care.
“You apologize to Anna,” Emma said shortly.
“She don’t need to.” Anna was wringing her hands.
“I won’t,” Winnie said fiercely.
“Oh ho,” Calla scoffed, “and why not? You think you’re special? You think you don’
t have to act nice, like everyone else?”
Tom found himself rising to protect the girl. What in hell were they doing? Winnie was standing her ground, but even from here, Tom could see her chin was wobbling. Hadn’t the kid been through enough?
“You stay where you are,” Emma warned him, without even turning to look at him. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Tom stopped dead, half-standing, half-crouching.
“You think you’re the only one who’s had something bad happen to them?” Calla asked Winnie.
The girl had spirit, Tom gave her that; her look was mutinous as she glared at Calla.
“You ever bother to ask Anna why she ended up whoring? Or me? Or Emma here?”
What? Tom sat down with a thud. Emma glanced over at him, and he saw a shadow cross her face. But she stayed where she was.
Whore. The word rang in his head. And then he remembered the whore in La Noche, and he felt like he’d been punched. He remembered her posed at the head of the stairs, back arched, breasts bared. Hell, everything bared. The southern drawl. The long legs. The red hair . . .
Goddamn it. He was an idiot. How had he been so stupid?
But why in hell would he think she was a whore? Why would it even cross his mind?
Whore. The word turned his stomach. And then he remembered Deathrider throwing her over his shoulder and taking the stairs two at a time.
He felt sick. And following the cold wave of nausea came a hot flush of rage.
“You ask Anna about her husband, the one who just about beat her to death,” Calla was railing, “the one who sold her to his friends for liquor money.” The words barely registered with Tom. It wasn’t until he heard Emma’s name that he looked up.
“You ask Emma who raped her when she was thirteen years old! That ain’t much older than you are now, my girl. You ask her how many years she had to live through that. All of us have bad things happen to us, and it ain’t no excuse. Not for anything. Emma taught me that.”
“That’s enough now.” Emma put a hand on Calla’s arm. “Why don’t you go and look after Anna?”
Anna had gone quiet, Tom saw. She was weeping steadily, but she wasn’t protesting anymore. Calla led her off to the tent. “You listen good to Emma, you hear?” she called back over her shoulder to Winnie.
Emma sighed and gave Tom one last glance. Then she seemed to dismiss him for the moment. Tom’s head was spinning.
“You know how to make cinnamon rolls, Winnie?” Emma asked.
Cinnamon rolls? Tom watched in disbelief as she led the kid to the dough. He’d just found out she was a whore. That she’d been raped . . . at thirteen . . . and now she was making cinnamon rolls?
As though reading his mind, she gave him a sharp look. “You could do with making some rolls too,” she suggested. “Get over here.”
He didn’t move. He wasn’t about to make dessert. He felt like the whole world had just been turned upside down. “You’re a whore,” he said numbly.
“Was,” she corrected. “I was a whore. I ain’t been one for some time now.” Her gaze was sharp as glass.
So Deathrider hadn’t been a customer, then. Tom felt like his horse had kicked him. It was bad enough to think she’d slept with Deathrider for money, but to think she’d done it for . . . because she . . .
Hell. He couldn’t sit here anymore.
“You got raped?” Winnie still sounded sullen, but not quite so much as before.
He couldn’t bring himself to leave before he heard the answer to that question.
“I did.” Emma sounded appallingly matter-of-fact. She handed a hunk of dough to Winnie. “Here, roll some of this out.” Emma tore off another hunk of dough and tossed it to Tom. Reflexively, he caught it.
She’d set three boards out for them to work on. She and Winnie sat on the ground by their boards, rolling out the dough.
“What happened?” Winnie asked softly.
Emma sighed. Tom saw a weight settle on her.
He didn’t know who she was, he realized. An hour or so before, he’d been contemplating asking her to come with him back to Oregon. But what did he know about her, really? That she lied a lot. That she had a mole just behind her left ear. That she tasted of red currants and made the best bread he’d ever eaten in his life. That she was impulsive and argumentative and kind. That she made him laugh.
“This is a long story,” she was saying to Winnie. “Are you sure you want to hear it? It ain’t pretty.”
Winnie nodded. Tom saw Emma close her eyes and take a deep breath. He edged closer and took the board she’d left for him; he moved a bit away from them, but he did sit down and start working the dough. Emma gave him a searching look, but he kept his gaze fixed on his hands.
“When I was twelve, my mother died. She was the one who taught me how to cook.” Both Winnie and Tom listened, riveted, as she painted a picture of her childhood in Duck Creek, Tennessee. She described the farm, her brothers, the long winters. “It was the winter after my mother died that it first happened.”
First happened. That meant it happened more than once. Tom kept his gaze on the dough.
“He saw me out in the bathhouse one morning, and after that . . . well, after that he was at me.”
“Who?” Tom’s voice cracked as he blurted the question. He thought he knew, but he hoped he was wrong. “Who was it?”
“My daddy,” she said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to talk about your daddy raping you.
“Your daddy did that to you?” Winnie was astounded.
“He did, honey. He’d come at me when he’d been drinking. All through that winter, and then the spring, and then through every season after that until I was fourteen.”
Goddamn. That bastard had raped her for a year. The dough smooshed through Tom’s fingers as he clenched his fists.
“Did it hurt?” Winnie asked.
“You bet it hurt.” Emma leaned over the girl and helped her fashion her rolls. Tom watched their fingers mesh.
“It hurt so bad I used to have to bite down on my hand so I didn’t yell out.”
“Why didn’t you want to yell out?”
“Because I didn’t want to wake my little brothers.”
“Jesus Christ.” Tom got to his feet. He was too full of feeling to sit here and roll dough. He moved to the wagon and braced his arms against the tray.
“You feeling all right?” Emma asked him.
She was asking him. Tom’s eyes pricked with tears. He screwed his eyes shut and wished he’d shot those bastards back in Hueco del Diablo. He’d never felt so ashamed of being a man before.
Anna and Calla had crept out of the tent to join them. Calla gave him a pat on the back as she passed. He flinched.
“I never got raped before I was whoring,” Calla said. She took up with the dough Tom had left in such a mess. “But I certainly got raped plenty of times after. I got tricked into whoring by a man named La Trobe. He offered me a job as a cook on the goldfields. I was wanting to get away from home because . . . well, never mind the because. But as soon as we got far enough north that I couldn’t get home easily, he started selling me. To vaqueros, to miners, to anyone who’d give him a coin. It didn’t matter if I cried, if I begged, if I screamed, if I fought; they all took their time with me. They’d paid and they were going to get their money’s worth. And then he sold me to a whorehouse in Moke Hill. And that’s where I met Emma. She bought me.”
“Like Tom bought me back in the bad place?”
Tom flinched to hear his name.
“Not quite. The thing about most whorehouses is they keep the girls in debt, so they can’t leave. They charge you for every little thing: your room and board; cleaning the sheets; the broken furniture some of the men leave behind when they go. And you’re permanently in debt, working to dig your way out, and just
getting deeper and deeper in debt every night. But not Emma. Her place was different. She bought my freedom and then offered me the chance to make a whack of money—money that I could keep.”
Tom rested his head against the back of his hand, which was still gripping the wagon tray with white knuckles. If he understood everything Calla was saying, Emma wasn’t just a whore . . . she was a madam. A whoremonger.
He hadn’t known the least thing about her. Not one bit. It just about gave him vertigo, the gap between what he thought she was and what she actually was.
After Calla finished speaking, Anna started up. The things these women had survived beggared belief. They talked and talked, through baking rolls and cooking dinner and eating dinner; they talked until the stars had come out, and they kept talking until the moon had set. Tom didn’t have an appetite and he didn’t feel part of the conversation—didn’t know how to even begin to be part of the conversation—so he took himself off to the edge of the camp, where he turned his head to watch the sky. He didn’t say a word.
The long night of talking seemed to help Winnie. She watched the women avidly as they told stories, and she asked question after question. When the girl started yawning, Anna declared it was well past bedtime. Emma caught the kid by the hand as she passed. “Winnie,” she said, her voice carrying clearly to Tom across the crackling fire, “what happened to you was a bad thing, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and it won’t be the only bad thing that ever happens to you. You don’t have to let it be the most important thing. There are good things ahead of you. We get back up and we get right on walking, right toward those good things. Don’t forget that. And don’t forget that no one expects you to walk alone. We’ll be right here with you.”
Tom had no doubt that Emma had got back up and got right on walking after her ordeal. He’d seen her do it. The woman had more grit than anyone he’d ever known. What he did doubt was that she’d entirely moved on from it. He suspected she’d dragged it with her all these years.
Once Calla left to join the others in the tent, Tom was finally alone with Emma. She stared at him warily over the cook fire. Tom couldn’t bring himself to speak. He didn’t know what in hell he’d say. When she didn’t speak either, he rose to his feet and crossed the camp to join her on her side of the fire. He sat next to her, and they both stared into the flames.
