by Lisa Plumley
“Ahhh, Curly Top. Just because it feels good doesn’t make it right.”
“It doesn’t make it wrong, either,” she insisted. How could something that made her feel so cherished, so valued, be wrong? She refused to believe it.
Mason’s intense, brown-eyed gaze swept over her face, taking in her features as though they were the most mesmerizing he’d ever seen.
“Pretty,” he murmured, and the single word made her heart race faster. He smiled, and her heart turned over.
“…but willful. I was right about you,” he said, stroking her cheek. “You’re a danger to a man like me.”
His approving look made the damning words into a compliment. The pressure of his thighs capturing hers made them into a lie. This was all his doing—not hers. Amelia couldn’t have resisted him if she wanted to. He made her blood feel heated clear to boiling.
His knee rubbed against her hip; the ball of his thumb brushed over her lower lip. “I think your madness is catching,” Mason said. “I can’t stop touching you.”
Amelia quivered. “If this is madness, I’ve got it, too,” she whispered. “Oh, Mason—what are you doing to me? I’ve never felt anything like this, not even when you kissed me!”
Around them the wind’s momentum increased, swirling her skirts and her hair, its turbulence echoing the wildness of her feelings. The air felt heavy, suddenly moist with impending rain.
Wordlessly Mason smiled and leaned forward. She felt his beard soft against her jaw, then the warmth of his mouth took his hand’s place at her earlobe.
“I feel it, too,” he said, his lips moving against the soft outer arch of her ear. “It’s your doing, Amy.”
She gasped as the tip of his tongue tickled her ear, then retreated. He moaned, low in his throat, and the sound vibrated against her neck. “I suppose next you’ll want a reward. And I won’t be able to say no.”
The sun slipped behind a cloud, sending shadows and a deepening coolness around them. Compared with the wind, Mason’s body felt twice as hot beside her. The fresh scent of rainfall nearby mixed with the pungency of sagebrush and soil. Dimly, Amelia realized a storm was gathering.
“Re…reward?” she whispered, not caring at that moment if the wind rushed down and swept them up where they sat, if only Mason would stay with her.
“For rescuing me.”
Mason kissed her earlobe, then the curve of her jaw. Pleasure swept from the places his lips touched, swirling in a hot current that made her clench fistfuls of his shirt for support. Dizziness threatened to swamp her, but it was sweet, so sweet.
“What you did took courage—” he trailed more kisses along her jaw, nearer and nearer to her lips “—more courage than I gave you credit for.”
Amelia shook her head. “I drove the oxen in circles, I almost k—killed the wash women, and that station hand nearly c—caught us,” she protested.
Oh, but his lips felt good! It was hard to speak with him kissing her throat like that. Her voice sounded breathless and husky, even to her own ears. “I—I was scared the whole time.”
Mason’s hands flatted along her cheeks, tilting her face upward. “The fear is what makes it courageous.”
His mouth covered hers, sending a shudder of pleasure through her. His lips slid along hers, warm and inviting, and it felt as though every ounce of sensation in her body was centered in the union of their mouths. Breathlessly, Amelia curved her hand along Mason’s neck and held on. His need, his urgency, buffeted her…and thrilled her.
Courageous…she’d never done anything more courageous than return Mason’s kiss. Tentatively she touched her lips to his again. His low groan was her reward. His arms tightened around her, holding her ever closer, crushing her breasts against his chest.
Her senses reeled with the leathery, musky scent of man, with the vibrant feel of his hard-muscled body beneath her fingertips. Gently his tongue stroked hers, softly and then with mounting intensity as they became caught up in the kiss.
So this was what all the fuss what about, Amelia thought disjointedly. No wonder poets wrote of true love; no wonder people were said to die of a broken heart. At that moment, she understood everything. One taste of this could never, never be enough. Despite everything that separated them, at that moment she knew the truth.
She was falling in love with Mason.
Smiling, filled with wonder at the realization, Amelia eased him down to meet her again. He closed his eyes and trembled beneath her palms. His kiss was giddy pleasure she knew she’d never get her fill of. Bliss.
Mason’s hands moved to her waist, cradling her. His thumbs caressed her, skimming lightly over her ribs, arousing more sensation there. His knuckles grazed the underside of her bosom, and beneath her dress and chemise Amelia felt her nipples pucker with thrilling sensitivity. Her plain borrowed chemise suddenly felt two sizes too small.
He smiled at her, and the tenderness in his gaze was nearly her undoing. She had to tell him how she felt.
“Mason, I think I’m falling in lo—”
A raindrop plopped onto her head; another landed on her cheek, followed quickly by a third.
“What?” She raised her open palms skyward, frowning, momentarily distracted from her declaration by the surprise of rain on a mostly sunny afternoon.
Another fat drop fell onto her bare collarbone and traveled downward toward the neckline of her dress. Mason followed its progress with his fingertip, a rakish grin lighting his face. Amelia felt his warm, callused fingertip trace a wet trail an inch below her blue-checked neckline, and nearly forgot what she’d been about to tell him.
She stopped his finger and held it tight in her fist. How else to tell him such important news? If he kept on the way he was, she wouldn’t have a thought in her head aside from the wicked ones already there.
She took a deep breath. “Mason, I lo—”
More rain fell, harder now, battering atop the wagon’s canvas cover. Suddenly, it became a downpour. Amelia could barely see for the rainwater coming down on them. The sky had darkened so much that the hillside looked muddy and indistinct beside the wagon.
She swiped at her eyes, then, without thinking, tried to shake the water from her fingers. Mason laughed.
“You won’t be able to shake your hands dry in this,” he said, shielding his head from the downpour. Somewhere nearby, thunder boomed—followed by a bright white flash of lightning. He grabbed her hand, nodding toward the covered rear of the wagon. “Get back there. We’ve got to get to higher ground.”
“But—”
“Go.” Typically, he didn’t give her a chance to explain. A final nod toward the wagon bed, then Mason bent to unwind the traces and get the oxen in motion.
Her declaration would have to wait for a better time. Sighing, Amelia climbed obediently behind the driver’s bench into the wagon bed. The wagon lurched forward a few inches, headed around the incline beside them. Rain pattered on the canvas cover, gaining intensity with each passing minute.
Just as she’d almost cleared a place to sit amidst the supplies, the wagon slid backward, pitching her hard onto a barrel. The wind seemed to change directions, sending new torrents of rain into the wagon.
This wasn’t one of the gentle spring showers Amelia was used to back home in the States. This was a full-fledged storm—and the middle of a gully was probably the worst place for them to be.
Mason swore, flinging rainwater backwards from his sodden shirt as the worked the traces, trying to urge the animals forward again. At this pace, they’d end up further down the hill than they’d begun.
“Are Arizona Territory storms always like this?” Amelia shouted from beneath the canvas.
“Yes,” he called back through gritted teeth.
Water sloshed against the wagon wheels, splattering muddy liquid onto the bench beside him. She stared at the gritty brown spots it left behind, beginning to feel afraid for the first time. What if the gully filled with rainwater? What if it just kept on raining?
“No! Get back.”
He rose and wrapped the traces around the mud-splashed bench, leaving as much slack in the lines as he could without letting them droop behind the animals. Turning, Mason leaned into the covered part of the wagon, bracing both big hands on the edge. Water dripped from his hair, his nose, his chin…every stitch of clothing he had on had been soaked in mere minutes.
He grabbed her arm, moving his face close to hers. Between the gloom beneath the canvas and the darkening, storm-clouded sky, Amelia could barely see him.
“I’m going out to lead them up the hill,” he said, breathing heavily from the exertion of controlling the oxen. “Stay here and hang on.”
“No! Mason, you can’t—”
But he was already gone.
Chapter Ten
Outside the wagon stinging rain drove hard at Mason, drenching his clothes, his hair, his face. His shirt and pants stuck to his skin, but somehow water still managed to drip beneath his collar and run cold down his spine.
Stream tendrils curled from his body and were whipped away instantly. The wind buffeted the rain in wet gray sheets, making it damn near impossible to see where he was going. Swearing, he ducked his head and pushed onward against it. At least the rain might wipe out their tracks, making it harder for anyone from Maricopa Wells to follow their trail.
Just ahead, the oxen kept their heads low, too. Their huge bulky bodies dripped rainwater into the fast-growing puddles beneath their hooves. When he reached them, the sharp smell of wet animal hair was almost enough to make him retch. Ignoring it, Mason grabbed the end of the wooden yoke nearest him and urged the oxen forward.
They moved a few feet, their hooves slipping in the thick brown mud. They snorted and blew, straining to pull the wagon around the side of the hill to higher ground. The arroyo they’d stopped beside was the worst possible place to be in a storm like this one. If the rain kept up like it was, he knew, the dry stream bed would fill and overflow with lightning speed. Men and animals had been killed trying to cross the deceptively shallow-looking water. Mason didn’t intend for he and Curly Top to be among them.
He squinted through the rain toward the arroyo, only a few feet ahead. Already dirty brown water rushed past, swirling with dead mesquite branches and tumbleweeds. The parched desert ground couldn’t absorb the onslaught; the water level rose even as they neared it. Hoping the wagon bed—whoever it belonged to—was watertight and the oxen were strong enough, he pressed forward. He had to cross now, else wait behind it until the storm had passed and risk being trapped there.
He reached the swift-flowing water and waded in. Even though he’d expected it, the force of its icy current took his breath away. The team pulled mightily, muscles working in unison. Giving thanks for dumb strong beasts, Mason gritted his teeth and started forward beside them.
His feet sunk ankle-deep in arroyo-bottom muck; it sucked at his boots as he slogged forward. The filthy water seethed and eddied, nearly knee-high, trying to drag him downstream with the current. The first pair of wagon wheels rolled into the water, making the wagon slump and sink. The oxen faltered, stopped by the dead weight of the partly stuck wagon.
“Hah!” Mason screamed, desperate for them to move. Move to the other side, dammit! Slowly, they pulled the wagon over the arroyo. The wheels slurped free of the muck and spewed water as they rolled faster.
The rain drove harder, making the whole world sound liquid. It beat against the canvas wagon cover like Indian war drums and pattered through the thin-leafed plants nearby. He should’ve anticipated a monsoon rain, should’ve made accommodations for it.
It wasn’t his brain that had been making decisions for them, Mason knew, and cursed himself for it. He’d put his woman and himself both in danger, and risked finding his son, to boot. Regret ate at his gut. Was he doomed to endanger everyone around him?
His feet hit the stream bank. Slipping, grabbing the yoke for balance, Mason climbed up the edge. They were going to make it. The rear wagon wheels struck the muddy bank, slid, then jerked forward. Their iron cladding was obliterated by muck; more mud churned beneath as they spun, seeking purchase.
He swiped the water from his eyes and looked toward Curly Top. He had to let her know everything would be all right. Peering through the rain toward the front of the wagon, Mason scanned the front and both sides.
Amy wasn’t there.
She had to be. With a parting slap on the nearest ox’s shoulder, he left them to haul the wagon higher on the arroyo bank and turned back. Still nothing. Had she climbed further into the back of the wagon? With the sun disappeared behind the swollen black clouds, it was hard to see within.
A flash of movement just downstream caught his eye. A garbled sound got his feet working before Mason was sure what he was running to.
Amy. Floundering in the midst of the rushing arroyo, trying to get to her feet. She was a blur amidst the rainfall. Her arms windmilled against the storm, lashing into the flowing water as she tried to catch her balance. Mason remembered the mud sucking him hard into the stream bed, and ran faster.
His foot struck a wet prickly pear cactus. He fell to his knees, felt the long sharp spines pierce his soaked pants clean through to his right knee and thigh, and pushed himself upward again. The spines worked deeper into his flesh as he ran, hot needles sending pain through his leg. Another abortive cry came from Amelia, only a wagon’s-length away now.
He spied her, on her knees in the water. What in the hell was she doing out in the arroyo when he’d told her to stay in the wagon? Her unbound hair was plastered to her head and neck, her face white beneath a smudged coating of mud. Rain beat upon her, making her next cry sound choked. Coughing, she lunged toward a passing tree branch—and missed.
“Mason!” she cried. “Mason!”
His heart seized like a fist in his chest. He knew she hadn’t seen him yet, hadn’t even looked his way, yet Amy had called for him to help her. Believed he could help her.
Something else swirled past, a dark lumpy shape in the water. She surged toward it, lugged it closer…and screamed. Hysterically, she beat at the water, trying to make whatever it was flow downstream. Unbalanced by the effort, she flailed sideways. The current knocked her shoulder-first into the water.
Mason reached the water’s edge just as Amelia came up sputtering. The thing she’d grabbed—a dead coyote, he saw now—flowed over a half-submerged clump of barrel cactus and disappeared.
“Amy!” he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth to make his voice carry further. “Amy, hang on!”
Her face turned unerringly toward him. She gaped as though he were a vision standing there, too much to hope for. Rainwater ran into her mouth and down her neck, making her gag. Coughing, she tried to shout his name.
The water flowed chest-high around her as she struggled uselessly to free herself from the muddy arroyo bottom. Between the weight of her sodden layers of skirts, the vicious speed of the current, and the boot-sucking muck, she was well and truly caught. Her fate would be the same as the coyote’s if he didn’t reach her in time. The thought made his blood run cold.
“I’m coming!” Mason yelled again, plunging into the water as fast as he could move.
The temperature had plummeted; he shivered at the feel of the icy water against his calves and knew how bone-cold Amelia must be submerged in it. Kicking water aside with violent strides, finally Mason reached her.
“Mason!” She lurched toward him, both arms flung wide. Her fingers clenched, searching for something, anything to grab onto. Her teeth clattered uncontrollably from the chill.
He caught her beneath her arms and lifted her upward, yelling with the effort of dragging her free from the mud and murky water. Her wet, shivering body slammed into his. Sobbing, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Beneath his spread fingers Amy’s shoulder blades poked sharp and shuddery through her dr
ess. She was more delicately made than he’d known. She gasped for air, her shoulders heaving, holding onto Mason as though he was the only solid thing in a world turned liquid and treacherous. The rain pelted them both, wrapping them in a cold cloak of mist. The storm showed no sign of letting up.
The tightness in Mason’s chest eased as he held her. He’d gotten to her in time; she was going to be all right. He looked down at her mud-splattered, pale face squashed fearfully against his chest, and hard on the heels of that small relief came white-hot anger. What in the hell had she been thinking, to get out of the wagon and put herself in danger? She could’ve been killed. It was pure dead luck he’d looked back for Curly Top when he had, and spotted her in the arroyo.
“Let’s get you back to the wagon,” he said gruffly, swinging his arm behind her knees to lift her against his chest. He felt ornery, conflicted as a new preacher in a whorehouse—and a sight more relieved Amy was safe than he wanted to be.
His irritation must have shown, because she cried out when he hauled her upward, splashing water in a wide arc all around them, then turned toward the arroyo bank.
“I’m sorry!” she said. “I—”
“Don’t.”
Scowling, Mason reached higher ground. Their clothes streamed water onto the marshy soil, but the sound was lost amidst the water filling the puddles underfoot and trickling from the rocks and low-country bushes nearby. Still he carried her, straight toward the now-motionless wagon. At its head, the nearest ox watched their approach, lowing mournfully.
In his arms, Amy coughed. Stubbornly, she went on explaining herself. “I only wanted to help you,” she yelled hoarsely over the sounds of the storm. She panted between the words, doubtless worn out from her struggles. “I found an apple in the—”
“Shut up,” Mason gritted. There wasn’t an explanation he wanted to hear for nearly losing her. He ducked his head, trying to shield her from the downpour.
Her hands tightened at the back of his neck—with frustration, he guessed, and didn’t give a damn. Curly Top could damn well stew in frustration for all he cared.
