by Diana Palmer
She was thinking the same thing. The half-open door inhibited her, too. She grimaced. “Good day, Captain Powell,” she whispered miserably.
He gave her one long, last look and forced himself to leave her. The widow Moye didn’t say a word, but the smile she gave a shaken Lisa was expressive.
APRIL CAME. A WARRANT had been issued for “Red” López for an alleged killing in Fronteras, after charges had been made against him for disorderly conduct in Douglas by the Mexican Consul. But the local law-enforcement officers denied that López was drunk or disorderly and did not arrest him. Teddy read that and grinned. López was something of a hero to his young mind, and he eagerly read every word about the rebel captain that he could find, saving it up to tell Trilby whenever he saw her. It was Teddy who imparted the news that López was now known as “El Capitán,” and was becoming a local legend. Thorn had met the man, but he rarely spoke of anything regarding the revolution. It made Trilby uneasy that he was so quiet on the subject, and she wondered just how much he knew that he hadn’t told her. If only they could talk!
The archaeology students arrived the first week of April. They were a bright, happy bunch of young men. Trilby had hoped up until the last minute that Sissy would be coming with them, but McCollum and several young men got off the train by themselves in Douglas.
“I tried to get Miss Bates to come along,” McCollum said in his jovial, gruff manner. “But the matter of a chaperon had to be addressed, and her mother felt that to have her travel in the company of so many single young men was improper. She did not protest the decision,” he added, in case Trilby hadn’t already gotten the idea.
So Sissy hadn’t wanted to come. Presumably she knew that Naki wasn’t going to back down an inch and she was doing what she thought was best for both of them. Trilby was sad just the same. She’d have loved spending some time with her friend. It would have been wonderful to have someone to talk to, now that she and Thorn had such a distance between them. Sissy didn’t know about Naki’s absence, or what they were beginning to suspect as the cause of it. There was no confirmation that he was down in Mexico, of course, but there was suspicion.
“I do have letters from Miss Bates and her brother for you,” McCollum said, producing them with a smile. “She sends her love.”
“How are they all?” Trilby asked, without being specific. She was all too aware of a terse, solemn Thorn standing just behind Craig McCollum.
“I believe that young Ben is thinking of coming back out here to seek his fortune as a cowboy.” He laughed. “And Richard…” He hesitated, with a glance at Thorn.
“Go ahead. Tell her,” Thorn invited grimly.
“He…uh…sent Trilby a letter.”
“I’ll see it, if you don’t mind,” Thorn replied.
“I mind,” Trilby interjected, glaring at him. “It’s my letter!”
“You’re my wife,” Thorn told her, his black eyes glittering. “And I draw the line at love letters from other men!”
McCollum looked, and felt, uncomfortable. Bates had forced the letter onto him and he hadn’t wanted to interfere. He had some inkling of how jealous Thorn was of his young wife. “I’ll have to find it,” he told Thorn. “It’s packed.”
“When we get to the house, then,” Thorn said. He fought for composure, through the outrage he felt. Damn Richard!
Trilby was uncertain as to why Richard should be writing personal letters to her when he knew she was married. It disturbed her almost as much as Thorn’s unreasonable anger. It wasn’t as if she’d solicited the letter!
MCCOLLUM SMILED apologetically at Trilby. “I’m an archaeologist, not a diplomat,” he said. “I hope I haven’t caused you any problems.” He had dark eyes, with very long lashes, and a lean, rugged face. He was tall, like Thorn, but huskier.
“No, of course not,” she said, dismissing her worries. “You study old things, don’t you?” Trilby asked. “Like the skeletons of dinosaurs?”
McCollum groaned. “That’s paleontology, not archaeology.”
“He’ll pitch you headfirst down a kiva if you say things like that to him,” one of his bespectacled students interrupted, faintly amused. “He’s very volatile for an educated man. Aren’t you, Dr. McCollum, sir?”
“If you want to pass my course, Haskins, you’d better treat me with the proper respect,” McCollum said jokingly. “Down on your knees, man, and beg forgiveness!”
Trilby began looking around rather pointedly, her hand shading her eyes.
“What are you looking for?” McCollum asked.
“Men with nets.”
McCollum laughed. He had a deep, rich voice and it thundered around them pleasantly. “Touché. You have a sense of humor, Mrs. Vance. You need it, no doubt, to live with Thorn.”
Thorn glared at him. “I have an even disposition.”
McCollum nodded. “Like a rattlesnake planted headfirst in a tar pit.”
Trilby started laughing and couldn’t stop. After a minute, Thorn muttered something about supervising the loading of the luggage.
“Here, I’ll help you with that,” McCollum volunteered, striding along with him.
“He’s not so gruff when you get to know him,” the student, Haskins, said, with a grin.
“I met him very briefly once before,” Trilby said politely. “Is he married?”
“Widowed,” Haskins said. “He has a son about twelve who stays with his sister most of the time. They don’t really get along very well.”
“Do you like him? Dr. McCollum, I mean.”
“We all do,” Haskins said. “He’s very knowledgeable, and for all his brusque manner, he’s a kind man.” He gestured to some other well-dressed young men. “There’s the rest of the group, Harry, Sid, Marty, and Darren. They’re nice. We’re all graduate students, you know, not freshmen. This archaeology course is just a refresher for most of us, and the emphasis this trip is going to be on some anthropological studies of the local Apaches—with a dash of digging in the old Hohokam ruins. Dr. McCollum says we’re going to be well rounded in anthropology and archaeology when he’s finished with us!”
“Mr. Haskins, I don’t doubt that a bit,” she said, and smiled at him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TRILBY HAD HOPED that she could get a quick look at what Richard had written before they got to Los Santos. But with McCollum and his students in the car with them, and several more in a hired car behind, it was impossible. And when they got to the ranch, even before Thorn saw his guests to their quarters, he demanded to see the letter.
McCollum made a silent apology to Trilby as he produced it from his valise and reluctantly handed it over. He muttered something about talking to Haskins and left the two of them alone.
“It’s mine,” Trilby protested.
Thorn looked right at her and opened it. “And you’re mine,” he said flatly. “I won’t have other men writing to you while we’re married.”
The letter was very legible, full of regret and apology. Richard wrote that Trilby’s face as he left haunted him. He wanted her to write to him so that he’d know she was all right. Having been married to a savage, and he emphasized the word, she might need a shoulder to cry on. His was broad, and she was welcome to it. He was deeply sorry for the way he’d treated her during his visit. In fact, he added, he was reconsidering his entire means of living. He was certain that he’d made a terrible mistake when he’d turned his back on Trilby.
Thorn felt sick all over. He handed the letter to Trilby with a steady hand and eyes that were cold and lifeless. “He sends his condolences for your predicament,” he said curtly. “The knowledge that you’ve married a ‘savage’ like me is obviously weighing on his mind.”
He turned and strode out of the room to find the archaeology students and get them settled, leaving Trilby alone.
She fingered the letter and stared at it without really seeing it. The look in Thorn’s eyes had made her want to cry. She hadn’t thought of him as a savage for a very lon
g time, but he didn’t know that. She hadn’t managed to find enough nerve to tell him.
LATER DR. MCCOLLUM took his students out by automobile to do some digging in a site near the ranch. Pottery shards had been found there, and a few Folsom points—the fluted projectile points of the Paleo-Indians, the Ice Age hunters who preyed on the woolly mammoths and mastadons that had inhabited North America during the late Pleistocene time period—almost twelve thousand years ago. They were to stop by the Apache reservation on the way home to do some cultural research.
Trilby sat and worried about Thorn. He didn’t know how she felt, but she hoped he cared about her. There was always hope. But sometimes hope needed a little help. She’d allowed things to rock along between Thorn and herself without trying to approach him. She’d thought she was doing the right thing, giving him time to come to grips with Sally and Curt’s betrayal. Perhaps she’d been wrong to do that.
Her parents always went to town on Saturday, along with Teddy. She phoned while Thorn was out and persuaded them to take Samantha along, to get some new cloth for a dress.
“Do pick out something pretty, Samantha,” Trilby told her. “Bright, remember, with flowers.”
“I will, Trilby,” the child said, and she smiled. She did a lot of that these days. She was even much more at ease with her father, who managed a little time at the end of each day to read her a story. That was the one feather in Trilby’s cap, that she’d managed to bring father and daughter closer together and make a family environment for little Samantha. “Won’t you be lonely?”
“Your father will be home for dinner soon,” Trilby said. “I’ll busy myself baking him a cake.”
“He likes chocolate ’specially,” Samantha said, with a tiny grin.
“And so does a little girl I know,” Trilby murmured.
Samantha laughed and waved as she rode off with the Langs.
TRILBY BAKED THE CAKE. Then she changed into a pretty light blue dress with ruffles and lace, brushed her hair and left it loose, and put on some of her precious perfume.
When Thorn came in, he was tired. He’d been in a meeting with some other border landowners all morning. He looked different in a city suit. It lent him an unusual elegance.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked when he saw Trilby sitting in the parlor with her needlework.
“Why, no,” she said, smiling up at him. “Would you like something to drink?”
“A glass of iced tea would be nice.”
She laid her needlework aside and went to get it while he sat wearily down on the sofa. He was just a little dusty from the ride home, and when she got back, he was brushing himself down.
“Thank you,” he said formally. He took the glass of cold tea and drank half of it without taking a breath. “God, that’s good.”
Trilby took the brush from him and did his boots so that the black leather shone like glass. She paused there, with one soft hand on his knee.
He froze at the contact. She never touched him. It was always he who did the approaching, or had, until it became a chore to get past her resistance. It had been a long time since he’d had the nerve to touch Trilby and risk being rejected.
“I would like to ask you something,” she said, looking up at him quietly.
“What do you want? A divorce?” he asked, with a mocking smile to conceal the sudden cold stillness inside him.
She looked away. “No. Not that.”
He relaxed slowly. “What then?”
She hesitated. “You…might not want to.”
He put the glass down and drew her close between his knees, coaxing her face up to his quiet, dark eyes. “What do you want, Trilby?”
Her soft lips parted with a nervous sigh. She searched his eyes hopefully. “Thorn, would you give me a child?”
He didn’t react. Not one muscle moved in his face. “I beg your pardon?” he asked. His voice was deep and measured, but there was a strange note in it.
“I want to have a baby,” she said before she lost all her courage. Her face flushed, but she looked at him bravely.
He let out the breath he’d been holding. His hands tightened on her arms. “I—I only know of one way to give you one,” he said hesitantly.
She nodded.
“Does this sudden decision have anything to do with Bates’s letter?” he asked, with cold menace.
“No, although I suppose you’ll certainly think so,” she replied, with resignation. “Richard is part of the past now. I am married to you and I do not believe in divorce.”
“And you think having my child would improve our relationship?”
“Wouldn’t it?” she replied, her eyes soft and steady on his hard face. “Oh, Thorn, wouldn’t you really like another child? A son this time, perhaps?”
He wasn’t breathing quite steadily. She was offering him heaven, but he didn’t trust her. It was too soon after that damned letter.
“A baby…is a big step,” he began.
“Yes.” She reached up and looped her arms around his neck. She let her eyes fall to his hard, thin mouth and she looked at it until he began to yield to the pressure she exerted to bring his face down to hers. “Isn’t this the way you like to kiss me?” she whispered, and put her open mouth on his.
He made a sound deep in his throat. It took only a few seconds to weaken his resolve and bring him to the brink of madness. He gathered her up against him and kissed her and kissed her—until the fever burned too high to be quenched with kisses alone. He’d been starved for so long that he could barely breathe while he kissed her.
With a harsh groan, he stood up, taking her with him. He carried her down the hall and into his bedroom, closing and locking the door behind them.
The room was at the back of the house, and fairly dark in the daylight. Trilby didn’t notice. She was as feverish as Thorn was, hungry for him, eager to feel his skin against hers. By the time he had the clothes out of the way, she was desperate for him.
They fell onto the coverlet, fiercely ardent as they struggled to get even closer than skin to skin would allow. Thorn covered her body with his and went into her almost at once, his need so urgent that he was able to hold back nothing.
He held her mouth in bondage while he buffeted her, his voice hoarse as he groaned his pleasure past her lips, his hands holding her hips still while he invaded the sweet softness of her welcoming body.
She had no shame, no reservations. For once, she matched him, as wild and abandoned as he was, and just as anxious for fulfillment.
When it came, she cried out, her voice throbbing, high-pitched, as she sobbed in violent ecstasy. She felt and heard Thorn above her, giving into the same convulsive madness that had her imprisoned in its silky heat.
His taut muscles relaxed finally, and she felt his full weight on her. He was trembling, as weak as she, but his arms were still possessive.
She could never remember feeling anything that approached this fever of need. Her arms clung to his neck, her body began to move again, insistent, helplessly seeking him.
“Please,” she whispered hoarsely. She kissed him ardently, her body trembling as she felt the hunger begin again. “Please, Thorn, please, please, again!”
“Trilby, I can’t.”
“You must,” she moaned, and sought his lips with her own. She moved under him rhythmically, her body as supple as quicksilver, her hips thrusting up against his in a sensual brush that accomplished a small miracle.
He gasped audibly at the sudden fierce arousal of his body that resulted from her movements.
“Yes,” she whispered, arching up to invite a full, deep possession. She moaned as she felt the rough invasion, and her eyes looked into his, drowsy and sultry. She ran her hands down his flat belly and touched him, watching his face go ruddy with heat as he shivered.
“Make me pregnant,” she said, choking. “Thorn!”
He cried out as the words penetrated his mind, his body, his very soul. He rolled over with her, capturing her mouth a
s his body began to move with hers. They went from one side of the bed to the other, touching in ways they never had, whispering hoarsely to each other, exploring with hands that grew bold and invasive and demanding.
It took a long time, and when they reached fulfillment, Thorn’s shattered cry was a rough echo of Trilby’s in the still room, a triumphant shout of victory over consciousness itself.
“YOU NEVER ANSWERED ME,” he said a long time later, when his passion had cooled. “Was it because of Bates’s letter?”
“It was because I want your child,” she whispered. She turned, levering her body over him. Her swollen lips reached down to brush his. “You never made love to me like that before. Not even on our wedding night.” Her face revealed hidden worry. “Thorn, you weren’t thinking of—of Sally?”
He could have lied, but he didn’t dare. Not now. “No,” he said. “I was thinking of nothing except you and the pleasure you were giving me.”
She relaxed against his cool, muscular body, uncaring that his eyes were on her bare, swollen breasts and her small waist and flaring hips.
She looked, too, discovering his maleness and power and strength.
“In broad daylight,” he sighed ruefully.
“You watched me,” she said huskily.
His face tautened. “I like watching you. Your eyes go black when you reach your peak. Black as diamonds.”
She flushed at the memory of just how intimate it had been. At no time in her life had she felt more like a woman.
“Do you want to sleep in my bed from now on, like a proper wife?” he asked. “Or is procreation the only purpose you had this afternoon?”
She searched his eyes. “No, it wasn’t the only purpose. I would like to sleep with you at night, Thorn.”
He thanked God for miracles, but he didn’t give away the delight she’d dealt him. His pride had taken a beating from her in the past. This time, he was going to play his cards close to his chest.
“I would like that as well,” he said.
He rolled away from her and got up, keeping his back to her as he found the clothes he’d hastily discarded and put them on.
