The Rainbow's Foot

by Denise Dietz

  He leaned sideways again, and she felt the mattress bounce again.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  “Whoa,” she agreed with a giggle.

  John’s voice sounded different, but Dimity didn’t dwell on that for too long. Because his hand was beneath her robe, inside her bodice. He palmed her breast, his thumb lightly stroking her nipple. Blindly, she caught his wrist and guided his hand lower, until it found the throb between her legs.

  “Jesus de Christo! I never met me a woman so hot she’d make love atop a horse.”

  Dimity opened her eyes. She wasn’t in bed next to John. She slumped across the front of Cherokee Bill’s saddle. His arm rested against her stomach while his fingers—

  “Leave me alone, you fiend!”

  “Hold still. You’re making my black dance.”

  Frightened, she obeyed. Cherokee Bill changed her position so that she faced him on the saddle, her legs dangling. The hard leather hurt her bottom, and the saddle horn pressed against her lower back. The wine still heated her belly but her bare toes were chilled. That and that alone took the edge off her fear.

  “Put me down!” she screamed.

  “This was your idea.”

  “Put me down, you mangy cur!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He placed her feet upon the pebbly ground and nudged his stallion with his heels.

  “Wait! Don’t ride away. Where am I?”

  “On the crest of a hill, above the field where we first met. Cherokee Bill thanks you kindly for your company, ma’am.”

  “No, wait. You can’t just leave me.” Dimity clutched at the outlaw’s boot, but felt her hands slide as the moon spun and the ground began to rise.

  “Hold on, pretty owl. Don’t you be swooning again. Cherokee Bill was only funning.” He hefted her up, and once again she felt his arms settle around her. “Admire the idea of making love atop my horse. Don’t know why I ain’t figured it before.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Kill you?”

  “Shoot me with your gun?”

  “Guess you could put it that way,” he teased, his voice tender. “Aw, you’re scared. Don’t be scared. Cherokee Bill won’t hurt you.”

  He took off his gun belt and slung it, buckled, over the saddle horn. Unfastening his trousers, he placed his hands beneath her buttocks and pulled her forward so that she straddled his lap.

  She felt his rock-hard bulge between her thighs. “Please don’t.”

  “I won’t,” he murmured against her mouth.

  “You must understand, I cannot do this.”

  “Cherokee Bill understands.”

  Removing her robe, he buried his face against her breasts. At the same time, he tore her nightgown’s thin material down the length of her back. As she tried to squirm free from him, her robe and gown fell to the trail.

  She pushed his face away. “I can’t. Not on top of your horse. He’ll buck.”

  “I’ll buck. My black’s been trained to stay put. Many a time he’s stood for hours without moving more than a hoof and tail.”

  Tempted to capitulate, Dimity remembered. “Inside the house you called me a boozy whore.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then I must have meant it. Cherokee Bill never says anything he doesn’t mean.”

  “Oh!” She stiffened her fingers into claws and reached for his face.

  He captured her wrists with one hand. His other hand helped her inch forward until she had impaled herself on his erection.

  His horse remained motionless. The moon tilted and the stars blurred. Dimity tensed, then lost all control, sinking backwards toward the stallion’s mane.

  Cherokee Bill pulled her away from the holsters and horn. His tongue licked the strained arch of her throat. She began to cry and felt his tongue tipple her tears as fast as they fell. What a tender gesture. He might be an outlaw but he had the soul of a Romeo. The thought sent her into an ecstasy so powerful, her body convulsed with it. “Oh . . . oh . . . Romeo . . .”

  Bill grasped her buttocks with both hands and increased the rhythm of his thrusts. He thought he heard her say romadizo, but he must have heard wrong. Why would anyone, even a woman, say “cold in the head” during her most violent spasm?

  At long last the fire died out, but not before he had pumped his own hot offering into her body.

  Draped in Bill’s shirt, Dimity nestled her head against his furred chest. “May we do it again?” she asked.

  “No. My black’s stood still long enough.”

  “You don’t want me?”

  He tweaked her nose. “I want you.”

  Dimity smiled, satisfied. Because Cherokee Bill, by his own admission, never said anything he didn’t mean.

  Six

  John McDonald belched behind his linen napkin as he watched Dimity fill his breakfast plate with a second helping of eggs and biscuits.

  She looked different. Softer. Although barely past sunrise, she had bathed and insisted that she, not Tonna, serve his breakfast. She even moved differently, swinging her rump under her long skirt as she walked from the dining room’s sideboard to the mahogany table.

  Could this new attitude have anything to do with the appearance of yesterday’s outlaw? Upon recovering from her illness, had his young wife understood the importance of a husband’s protection?

  The swish of her starched petticoats was music to his ears. She seemed unaware of her provocative motion. It was as if she had gone to sleep a girl and awakened a woman. When she bent forward to pour his coffee, he inhaled the scent she had applied above the opening of her white blouse. Rather than a braided bun, her hair hung loose. It rippled like a field of wheat and smelled like lemons. He circled her waist, moved lower, caressed the curve of her buttocks.

  “Be careful, darling,” she said. “The coffee’s hot.”

  Darling? She’d never called him darling before. Now she was looking at him, her eyes wide. “Guess what, John?”

  He arched an eyebrow.

  “My mare came back,” she said.

  “Sandpiper came back?”

  “Yes. And headed straight for the barn.”

  “You’ve been outside?” Dumbfounded by both these revelations, McDonald negligently sipped his coffee and burned the roof of his mouth.

  “Tonna brought me fresh eggs and told me. Then I had to see for myself, and there she was, looking none the worse for wear.”

  “I wonder why Cherokee Bill let her go.”

  “You said horse stealing was a hanging offense. Perhaps he had second thoughts.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “After breakfast I shall curry Sandpiper and take a long ride.”

  “No, Dimity. Cherokee Bill might be hiding nearby.”

  “You said he was far away.”

  “Only if he had your mare.” McDonald tossed the napkin over his plate. “I’ll round up Percy and a few hands and we’ll search the hills. You must remain inside the house.”

  Her face crumpled and her eyes filled with tears. “Soon I shall be with child and I won’t be able to ride.”

  True, thought McDonald. Jane never left the house during her confinement, endlessly sighing and sewing. A cedar chest held dozens of finely stitched baby shirts.

  Was Dimity pregnant? That could be another reason for the startling change in her disposition. It had only been eleven days since she had been visited by her monthly courses, but he had claimed his husbandly rights on two occasions. Could pregnancy affect a woman so quickly? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember when Jane had not been pregnant. He resolved to humor Dimity’s every whim.

  “Very well, my dear, you may ride. Take Tonna with you. Make sure she’s well armed, stay close to the house, and don’t let Sandpiper stumble.”

  “I shall be prudent, darling, I promise.”

  McDonald saw his young wife smile and realized she was ripe for bedding. Perhaps tonight she’d even let him take off her damnfool nightgown.


  *****

  “Tonna, you must swear to God.”

  “I do not believe in your god.”

  Lowering her pale lashes, Dimity gazed at the beads plaited throughout the ebony strands of her servant’s long braids. “You don’t understand.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t. Cherokee Bill said he’d stay until the next new moon. That’s a full month. Suppose John and Black Percy find Bill’s hiding place? I must warn him.”

  “I will keep your secret and ride with you since I do not want my husband ambushed. Even Cherokee Bill cannot point two weapons at the same time if he is bedding you.”

  “Bedding me? In daylight?” Dimity shivered and, for the first time, saw Tonna smile.

  “You are so young, Dimity McDonald.”

  “Pooh! You’re only three years older than I.” She chewed her bottom lip. “We planned to meet tonight. Bill promised he’d wait by the first pasture.”

  “No. You must not do this. Your husband—”

  “Snores till cock’s crow.”

  “Suppose John McDonald wakes to use the privy and discovers you are gone?”

  “He didn’t last night. Last night I rode to Bill’s campsite and we made love, wrapped inside his blankets. I rode Sandpiper home, just before sunrise, cloaked in Bill’s shirt. Nobody saw me. I washed away all trace of our love, pinned his shirt to the clothesline, and cooked John’s breakfast. Today I must warn Bill and return his shirt. Tonight—”

  “There must be no tonight. You play with fire.”

  “I play with water. You were right about waterfalls. Is there an Indian potion to make John sleep? Something I can hide in his drink?”

  “Ask your own Indian!”

  “Please?”

  “I have herbs in my garden, Dimity, but many that cure can also kill.”

  “Surely there’s a plant for harmless sleep. Remember what I told you about Romeo and Juliet?”

  “Cherokee Bill is no Romeo.”

  “Yes, he is. He dried my tears with his tongue. Mr. Shakespeare didn’t write that, but he would have if he’d thought of it.” Dimity sighed. “All right, I’ll find another way. But don’t expect me to give up my outlaw. There was a full moon last night, and Bill promised he’d stay until the next full moon. That’s a long time.”

  “A month seems endless when you are sixteen, Dimity.”

  “A month is forever, Tonna.”

  *****

  Cherokee Bill grinned. “You brought a friend to share our fun, pretty owl?”

  “I brought my servant to stand guard. My husband and some of his hands are looking for you. It was a mistake to return on my mare.”

  “It would have been far more dangerous for me to hand you over to your husband,” Bill said, crushing her against his chest.

  “Are you mad? Let me go.” She pulled away from his rough embrace then reconsidered. His thick dark pelt felt so comfortable, not the least bit scratchy.

  About to catapult into his arms again, she heard him say, “Cherokee Bill thanks you kindly for his shirt and the warning, ma’am.”

  “Yes, well, I, you’re welcome.”

  “Was there something else?”

  “No. Yes. Do you have food?”

  “Cookies and wine. Are you hungry again?”

  Her cheeks burned. “I’ll bring chicken and biscuits tonight.”

  “Cherokee Bill looks forward to his supper.”

  Dimity stamped her foot. “Where are your blankets?”

  He gestured toward the trees. “Do you have need of a blanket, pretty owl?”

  Bill was laughing at her, damn his soul! She swayed forward, only half faking her swoon.

  He swept her up into his arms and carried her through leafy shadows. She disrobed and watched him remove his guns, boots and trousers. She feigned reluctance when he pried her legs apart. After he’d penetrated, she ran her nails down his back, drawing blood.

  “Jesus de Christo,” he swore. “Sheathe your claws!”

  “Sheathe your sword.”

  “Wildcat!”

  “Angel.”

  *****

  Shifting in her chair, Dimity glanced at John from beneath her pale lashes. “It’s too early to be certain, darling, but I believe I am with child.”

  “I’m very pleased, my dear.”

  “Did Jane know so soon?”

  “To tell the truth, Dimity, I don’t recall a time when Jane was not with child.” Seated in his comfortable armchair, McDonald sipped his drink. Dimity had brought him a second glass of hot cider, garnished with a stick of cinnamon, an odd beverage for a summer night, but tasty.

  The living-room windows were open and yet he felt so hot. There was no blaze in the fireplace but he saw blue sparks. His eyes were filled with blue sparks.

  “John!”

  “Yes?”

  “I was telling you I’ve been feeling poorly, especially at night.”

  “I’m sorry, Dimity.” Now his tongue felt thick and fuzzy. And he had sharp belly pains.

  “Perhaps Rosita can prepare one of the guest rooms. I need my own bed. My health is so delicate. Papa used to say I’d faint at the puff of a breeze. John darling, are you all right?”

  “A touch of indigestion. Your stew was tasty but I ate too much.”

  “I prepared it the way you like it. Onions and mushrooms and basil and chili peppers and — John, what’s wrong?” Alarmed, Dimity watched his glass of cider fall from his hand as he clutched his belly. Rising, she placed her fingers across his brow. “You have a fever! Here I’ve been prattling on and on about my small malady while you are truly ill.”

  “Not ill, tired. We rode all day. No trace of Cherokee Bill.”

  “Let me help you upstairs.”

  “Fetch Percy.”

  “I’ll help you, John. I’m your wife.”

  “I don’t want you to see — oh, God!”

  McDonald tried to rise from his chair, but the forward motion made him sick to his stomach.

  He heard Dimity scream, heard footsteps, heard Dimity say, “Can you carry him to the bedroom, Black Percy? Tonna, find the laudanum. I believe there’s also some chamomile on the medicine shelf. Why are you just standing there? Fetch Rosita and tell her to boil water.”

  Dogging Black Percy’s footsteps, Dimity entered the bedroom. She loosened John’s clothes, bathed his body, helped him don a clean nightshirt. Murmuring endearments, she piled hot-water bottles across his chest and fussed with his blankets. When his stomach rebelled yet again, she held a basin underneath his chin. And she carefully measured the opium tincture that brought him blessed sleep.

  McDonald was surprised to find that he enjoyed his illness. Dimity bathed his body and never flinched at his nakedness or his instinctive arousal. She fed him, blowing on the broth to cool it, lifting the spoon to his mouth. Once she even sipped from the spoon, filling her mouth, and leaned over to deliver the broth, along with a wet kiss. Amused, he watched her reaction — a becoming blush, a lowering of her pale lashes.

  “You must think me wanton, John.”

  “Do it again, Dimity.”

  She did, feeding him broth and kisses until his erection poked up through the bed sheets like the blunted horn on one of his lusty stud bulls.

  He had another recurrence of the first night’s stomach pains. Again, Dimity nursed him capably as his belly cramped and he spewed violently into the blasted basin. Again, he gratefully swallowed the opium tincture. When he awoke the next morning, Dimity had dark smudges beneath her eyes. Her body slumped with fatigue, and he insisted, despite her protestations, that she leave the sickroom.

  When his strange ailment finally came to an end, Dimity convinced him that he needed more bed rest. Between great gulping sobs, she said, “If anything happened to you, I would die.”

  He had married Dimity because she was young and fertile. Now he found himself falling in love. So he indulged himself, staying abed many days after the pain was gone.

&nbs
p; *****

  Dimity stamped her foot. Where was Bill?

  A full moon shone down upon a carpet of dandelions, and she thought about weaving the flowers through her braids.

  Where was Bill?

  She had a surprise for her outlaw.

  Escaping undetected from a healthy John was difficult, and she couldn’t chance another stew. In fact, she had tolerated her husband’s clumsy advances three times during the past week. Their brief lovemaking induced natural sleep. She occupied the guest bedroom, but if this went on much longer, she’d be caught and Bill would be shot or hanged.

  Where was he?

  She ached to tell Bill her scheme. Her riding habit’s pockets were stuffed with the banknotes she’d found in John’s office. A carpetbag held her favorite books and all her jewelry, including the emerald necklace John had given her last week. She had admired the necklace during their honeymoon, and John had sent Percy all the way to Denver to buy it for her.

  “Gracias, husband,” she murmured.

  Bill could kidnap her. They would ride for Mexico City and sell her jewels; the emerald was worth a small fortune. Then they’d purchase a ranch and make love night and day, without hiding. John would divorce her, of course, but the scandal wouldn’t touch her in Mexico.

  There was a second surprise, as well. The fib she’d told John had become reality. She’d never been late with her monthly courses, her breasts hurt, and this morning she had vomited her breakfast. She welcomed the inconvenience. Tonna said a woman’s figure rounded after birthing. Bill would like that. He said he fancied a gal with plump curves.

  Oh, how she fancied her angel. Love was pure, so God would forgive her lies and the finely chopped toadstools. She had not killed John, merely caused him discomfort. Toward the end he’d enjoyed his illness, so that made her deceit less sinful.

  She paced back and forth alongside the pasture fence. She had tied Sandpiper’s reins to a fence post, planning to ride away with Bill as soon as he acknowledged her scheme. He had always been early, eager to greet his buha nocturna — his pretty owl — but it was well past their meeting time. Soon the first burst of dawn would color the sky. Soon the full moon would sink beyond the horizon.

  Where was he?