Spellbound Trilogy: The Wind Casts No Shadow, Heart of the Jaguar, Shadows in the Mirror

by Jeanne Rose

  "Is something wrong?"

  Her, "It won't be, not if I have anything to say about it," confused Frances, but she could see the madam was in no mood to explain. Undoubtedly Belle was having problems with Louisa again.

  "I'd better get cleaned up."

  Belle didn't seem to hear. Frances limped to the stairs and tried not to wince as she ever-so-slowly climbed them. On entering her room, she heard a familiar splashing. Someone using her tub again? Without thinking, she opened the door fast...only to see Rosa lifting a bucket of steaming water.

  The maid smiled. "Senor Chaco asked Juanita and me to do this."

  A hot bath, complete with a thick layer of heavenly scented bubbles. "Oh, how considerate."

  While Rosa finished adding water, Frances went back into the bedroom with barely the energy to remove her boots and clothing. She left them where she dropped them on the floor. No sooner had she slipped into a silk robe then she heard Rosa leave the next room by the hall door. Brushing the dust from her hair, she pinned it up in a knot and headed for the tub, dropping the robe on the floor beside it.

  "Heavenly," she moaned as she slid down into the water.

  She lay there for a few moments, allowing the hot water to do its work on her muscles. Then she found a fresh cake of fragrant soap and ran it over her wet arms, sighing with contentment as she left trails of bubbles down them both.

  "Need some help with your back?"

  Startled, Frances whipped around to see Chaco leaning against the wall just inside the door to her bedroom. The soap went flying. How long had he been standing there, watching her? Her heart beat faster as she sank lower into the tub under cover of the fast disappearing bubbles.

  "What are you doing in here?" she demanded, too tired to act as indignant as she should.

  He hesitated a moment, as if he were waiting for something. An objection from her, perhaps? When she made none, he eased from the spot, crossed to the other door and locked it. "I wanted you to know you don't have to make an appearance downstairs tonight." He retrieved the cake of soap. "I cleared it with Jack and the boys."

  "I'm so glad my bartender and other employees are willing to let me have the night off." She thought she ought to do something about the inappropriateness of their situation. "You can leave now that you've given me the message."

  But he didn't seem so inclined. He stared down at her with those gray eyes that for once looked warm instead of cold or spooky. And Frances noticed he had already cleaned up and changed into fresh clothing. He'd even shaved the beard stubble and had tied his thick black hair back from his face.

  Having trouble breathing, she forced out, "That was nice of you to arrange for my bath," then realized how stupid that must sound. Why wasn't she ordering him out of her rooms? No man had ever seen her bathe before. Not even Nate.

  "I remembered you liked them."

  Nate. She could hardly conjure his image in her mind, Frances thought guiltily. Could hardly remember what he looked like. And she was trying extra hard.

  But Chaco wasn't the same man who'd shot her husband, she told herself. He'd turned his back on his profession. He'd been willing to try to stop bloodshed between the Indians and the whites rather than create more. He'd committed himself to a dangerous quest to save countless lives.

  If there was a God – which she realized she believed despite her falling out with her father, despite her questioning her own faith – then didn't Chaco's self-sacrifice count for something in the grand scheme of things?

  He reached over her and took a big sponge from a shelf. Without a by-your-leave, he dipped the sponge into the tub, then briskly rubbed the soap against the wet surface.

  "Lean forward." When she looked at him uncomprehendingly, he explained, "I can't do your back with you like this."

  Mesmerized...insane...too tired to fight his will...she edged forward, arms crossed in front of her, protecting her breasts. Even the thought of his seeing them sent a thrill curling through her.

  At the first touch of the sponge along her back, Frances closed her eyes and sighed. "Are you trying to get even for last time?" she asked. "When I made such a big deal about your using my tub?"

  "Does it feel like I'm trying to get even about something?"

  It felt as if she were being seduced. So why wasn't she fighting it? Fighting him? She remembered that hollow sensation that had gripped her when she'd thought of his leaving Santa Fe. She had her answer.

  "Why are you here?" she asked, touching her forehead to her drawn-up knees.

  "To take care of you. You shouldn't be alone tonight."

  "A premonition?"

  "Instinct. After all that talk about the skinwalker . . ."

  Did he only feel obligation to protect her then? Because of Nate? "What if there was no skinwalker?"

  "I'd be downstairs," he began, disappointing her. "Though I'd still want to be here with you."

  She raised her face to look at him and recognized the longing in his expression. The same longing she had for him. Maybe she had become a wanton, but she couldn't stop the admission from escaping her.

  "I'd want you to be here with me, too," she whispered, "even if there was no skinwalker."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHACO LOOKED DEEP into her eyes as if he were trying to read her very soul. Then he dropped the sponge and got to his feet. Stifling a protest, turning her head away so he wouldn't see her disappointment, Frances never expected him to reach down into the tub.

  "What –?" she choked out as his hands slid along her back and her derriere.

  In answer, Chaco lifted her, freeing her from the soapy water, hefted her against him, then carried her into the bedroom, dripping water and suds. He gently laid her on the bed and loomed over her, his knee pressing into the mattress beside her naked hip. Frances breathed heavily as he unbuttoned his shirt. The sleeves and the front where he'd held her against him were as wet as she. The very slowness of his actions gave her the opportunity to protest.

  She didn't say a word. She watched...suddenly breathless...fascinated...as unbearable heat coiled through her.

  Surely her living at the Blue Sky had changed her, after all, for she had never felt this same hunger, this overwhelming desire, for her husband. Memories of her short time with Nate threatened to intrude, but Frances banished them lest they stop her. She didn't want to stop. She wanted Chaco Jones with every fiber of her being.

  While he stripped off the shirt, she boldly reached out to unbutton his denim pants. He sucked in his breath and his nostrils flared. Head thrown back, eyes closed, he reached down, pressed her hand into him through the material. Too impenetrable. She wanted to feel him. Freeing her hand, she slid it inside the denim, startled when she found no other barrier. She grasped him and he fell over her, raining kisses on her face and neck and breasts.

  Then he turned to her mouth, seduced from it a sensuality she hadn't known herself capable of. He began a rhythm she couldn't resist, neither with her tongue nor her hand. Soon she was breathless, writhing with anticipation, stroking him with something akin to desperation. And she didn't understand why he caught her wrist in a fierce hold and stopped her from continuing.

  "Slow and easy," he said, finally stirring from her side to remove his boots and pants. "I want to remember this night. I want you to remember, too."

  As he undressed, her eyes sought the most exciting part of him. Eyes wide, she licked her lips and swallowed hard, trying to imagine that inside her.

  But Chaco was in no hurry. He spread her legs and enticed her into trusting him, first with his hands, then with his mouth. His teeth nipped the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, making them quake. Then his tongue laved a path to the heart of her passion, making her quake harder.

  Though this new and surely unusual act startled her, Frances didn't consider stopping him. Through slitted eyes, she observed his every movement as he loved her in this strange and wonderful way. She reached down, found the rawhide binding his hair and tore the strip
free. Watching the long black strands feathering her thighs, she imagined she was being seduced by a savage.

  Smiling, she curled her fingers in the thick pelt, lifted her hips and rocked, soon losing herself in the heat and the pleasure.

  And just when she thought she could stand it no more, that surely she would shatter if he didn't stop, Chaco slid up and into her, filling her with even more pleasure. Her legs wrapped around his back of their own accord and her hips tilted so that she sheathed his entire length. They fit perfectly, she thought, as if they were made for one another.

  Chaco was breathing hard. Watching her face. Waiting? Frances wanted to wait no longer. She wanted to return the pleasure he'd given her. And so, as she began moving, as he bent his head so he could suckle her breasts, she was amazed when her own arousal escalated. Within seconds she was digging her nails into his back, urging him to move faster.

  "Frankie," he whispered, his mouth finding hers as his body went taut, triggering a response that sent her reeling.

  They cried out together and Frances was lost, caught up in the sensations that pulsated through her until she was too weak to move or speak or breathe. She gasped for air and Chaco fell on her, rolling to his side, gathering her to him with arms and legs so that she couldn't tell where one of them ended and the other began.

  Her head tucked into the crook of his neck, Frances thought she would be content to remain so always.

  But it wasn't to be.

  Her heart had barely slowed before a knock at the door disturbed them.

  "Tell whoever it is to go away," Chaco muttered.

  "What if there's a problem in the casino?" She felt his sigh. And called out, "Yes, who is it?"

  "Juanita, Senora Gannon. Senor Chaco...have you seen him?"

  Placing her hand over Chaco's mouth, Frances asked, "Is there a problem?"

  "A man, he is looking for Senor Chaco. His name is Martinez. He says it is urgent."

  "Thank you, Juanita. If I see Chaco, I shall tell him."

  He tore his mouth from her fingers and raised both brows. "If you see me?"

  "Well, what would you have preferred? That I announce to the maid that Senor Chaco is right here in my bed?"

  He gazed at her steadily. "Why not?"

  "I have a reputation – "

  "Yeah, right." Face pulled into a thundercloud, he started to rise.

  "Chaco, please." She grabbed his arm. "I'm not sorry this happened between us." Not yet, at any rate. "But I'm not used to people thinking...that is, I've never...I mean..." Because he was staring at her uncomprehendingly, she took a deep breath and said, "Nate was the only man..."

  "Before me?" he finished, his expression turning amazed.

  A flush heated Frances's neck. Now thoroughly embarrassed by the admission, she pulled a pillow from the head of the bed to cover what she could of herself. "He saved me from being an old maid."

  Chaco's laugh made the flush spread. But, as if to reassure her, he leaned over, tossed the pillow and cupped her hip with wickedly enticing fingers. "Old maid? You're a hell of a passionate woman, Frankie."

  Falling from his lips, the shortened version of her name seemed right. "Passionate enough to keep you here a while longer?" she asked.

  He kissed her. "You bet." Another kiss. "Though Martinez seems pretty anxious to find me." His hand slid from hip to breast. "He might be pounding at the door next if I don't find him first."

  "So? We don't have to answer it!" she said, desperate to keep him with her.

  He studied her for a moment. "What're you afraid of?"

  "Your leaving...for good."

  "Who says I am?"

  "But Martinez – "

  "Is no friend of mine. That's why I'm extra-curious about what he wants. I'm through being a gunman, Frankie. I thought you believed that."

  "I-I want to."

  He gave her one last reassuring kiss before rising. "Then believe it."

  But as he quickly pulled on his clothes, Frances remained unsettled. Her sense of impending danger intensified, only now she wasn't certain whose it was. Maybe the premonition had never been meant for her, but for Chaco. Maybe she was being warned that something terrible would happen to him.

  For danger awaited Chaco in every direction, she realized, no matter which way he turned. Indians. A skinwalker. Now a gunman.

  More than anything, Frances wanted to belong somewhere. And to someone. But with belonging came responsibility. Realizing that she had fallen in love with Chaco Jones no matter his gunfighter past, Frances feared she could easily lose him in any number of ways...especially if she tried to hold on too tight.

  So when he leaned over her to give her one last kiss and said, "Be back when I can," she didn't renew her protest.

  Praying she was wrong, that all the talk of witches and visions had merely incited her imagination to do its worst, Frances pulled the bedding around her now-chilled body and watched him go, whispering, "And I'll be waiting."

  UPON ENTERING THE CASINO, Chaco immediately spotted Raul Martinez, belly up to the bar, an arm around Ruby's waist. He stood back and studied the hired gun for a moment. Martinez hadn't changed – same rumpled clothes, shaggy hair and drooping mustache. But while he had both drink and woman in hand as usual, he seemed truly uninterested in either. Instead, he appeared to be oddly alert. Waiting.

  For him?

  Chaco chose not to keep the gunman waiting any longer. He surged through the growing crowd surrounding the bar. "Martinez. Heard you were looking for me."

  And as he approached the Mexican, Martinez gave Ruby a pat on the behind and sent her away. Chaco thought the little blonde seemed relieved.

  "Jones, my old friend!"

  They'd never been friends. Chaco didn't even like the other man, and he figured the unspoken disaffection went both ways.

  "Taking yourself a rest from the Double Bar?"

  "The permanent kind." Martinez downed a shot and poured himself another. "Quit. Went to work for Murphy."

  Instigator of the Lincoln County War, businessman L.G. Murphy had the backing of the so-called Santa Fe Ring, a group of corrupt officials.

  "He's here in town?" Chaco asked, thinking Martinez might be acting as bodyguard.

  "Nah, he's back in Lincoln. Sent me to find you. He's tired of the war and especially William Bonney and wants to end things fast. Figures you could take The Kid if there was to be a meeting set up. Pays good. More'n twice what old Ralston put out."

  For a shoot-out with Billy the Kid, a ruthless murderer? "Not interested."

  Martinez made a face and surveyed the poker and monte tables. "You like this place so much then?"

  "Not a bad way to make a living."

  The Mexican snorted. "For a man used to the open range? Used to the power of a gun?"

  "Problem was the smell of death. I never wanted to get used to that."

  Chaco smelled something else right now. Something rotten. Instinct warned him Martinez wasn't exactly being straight with him.

  And when the gunman said, "Any rules against the manager sitting down for a coupla friendly hands of cards with an old compadre?" Chaco said, "None."

  Maybe a little time with Martinez was all he needed to read through the other man's bluff.

  SHE HAD BEEN FURIOUS when her spells had failed to work on her enemy, more furious that the Indians had dared to rise up against her. But now she had a new plan, one that almost soothed the savage beast in her. One that had best not go wrong. She was thinking about the details as she headed back out of the cursed town when a carriage came whipping around a corner and almost ran her over.

  Jumping to the side of the road and into an adobe wall, she shouted, "Idiots!"

  The driver brought the horse under control, and the passenger leaned out toward her. "Ah, Senorita, our apologies," he said, waving a bottle.

  The other's dark eyes glittered as she approached the stopped carriage. "Can we invite you to join us?" he asked after getting a good look at the Mexican
peasant's outfit – short red skirt and low cut white blouse, both without benefit of undergarments. "Eusebio Velarde at your service. And this is my younger brother Enrique."

  "Eusebio," she repeated, licking her lips. "And Enrique."

  Perfect.

  They both wanted her. She could see it in their lust-filled eyes that could not stay away from the hollow between her breasts. Her breath quickened at the thought of having them both at the same time, and she tugged at the already too-low blouse so the swell of her flesh was better displayed, her dark nipples peeping out from the ruffle. They were so hungry for her, their tongues were practically hanging out.

  Why not take them? A reward for her ingenuity in hiring the gunman. Brothers would be a special treat to satisfy her jaded appetite.

  And they were ricos. Her lips curled as she realized that, while doubling her pleasure, she could use them not only to teach the Jicarilla a lesson well-deserved after their attempted betrayal, but to revenge herself on all Spanish men who were as arrogant as these two.

  Lowering her eyes, she said, "I would join you...but not here."

  Enrique jumped out of the carriage and vowed, "We would go to the ends of the earth to please you."

  "That you shall," she promised as he helped her up.

  She clenched her jaw against the twinge of her shoulder, and she remembered the difficulty of removing the bullet. Her flesh was still healing. The last weeks had been hard on her, and taking her pleasures with these two would be even more draining. Not as taxing as obtaining her powers had been, of course – she had almost died then – but enough to leave her weak and unable to work her witchery on anyone else for a while.

  No matter. Martinez would take care of Chaco Jones. She was only sorry she would not be there to watch.

  In a celebratory mood, she guided the Velarde brothers into a nearby clearing, away from the road at the edge of town.

  "A blanket," one said, producing the item from under the seat with a flourish.

  The other held out his half empty bottle. "And wine."

  "How thoughtful," she said, lowering her lashes and reclining on the covered ground.