Breed True

by Gem Sivad

Grady didn't let the moment pass. Talk to your woman. The words of Dan Two-Horse resonated in his mind. "I already have feelings for you. I hoped you would grow to have them for me."

  She peered down at him and then touched his chin, lifting it so she could study his expression. "You do?" Grady held still while she explored his face with the tip of her finger, as though reading his soul. "Does that mean you want me for more than a year?"

  "Forever." He held her gaze and waited.

  She didn't give him back words, but settled him deeper inside of her, bending to claim his lips. When she ended the kiss, she smiled. "Maybe we could do that again." His cock surged to full strength inside of her. He never had enough of her, and tonight she matched his need with equal fire, her sheath burning his cock as she held him inside with want, not duty.

  He turned so that she lay under him. "Again?" he asked.

  Her shy nod and flushed cheeks were all the encouragement he needed. Hours later, passion sated at last, they lay quietly before the burning embers in the fireplace. He cushioned her body with his, turning so that he held her in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder.

  There was so much he wanted to say to her, but in the afterglow of their first true lovemaking, he hid behind whispered words in the language of his mother—words that Julie didn't know.

  You are my woman. I will walk beside you all of our lives. Let me be your man. Let me be your life.

  While she slept easy, spooned against his side, relaxed in his keeping, he thought about her. He realized he no longer cared what she'd been or done before she married him.

  He smiled and nuzzled her hair, inhaling his scent mixed with hers. It had taken him less than an hour to maneuver her into being his wife, but almost six months to claim her as his woman.

  His thoughts were confirmed when she opened her eyes, looked into his, and blushed. This beautiful woman is mine. Fascinated he watched the pink flush wash over her, staining her body and face with a bright rose color.

  She reached for her nightgown, straining away from his embrace to grab it. It was the same tattered gown she'd worn since the first night, and it suddenly offended him greatly.

  Before she could rescue it, he threw in on the fire, where it disappeared in a burst of flame.

  "Put my shirt on. I like the way you look wearing my clothes." He put his red shirt, which he knew she was partial to, over her shoulders and watched as she pulled her hair free of the collar and then buttoned it closed.

  Reluctantly, he stood and pulled on his pants. She busied herself tidying the blankets and checking the twins, although they still slept and gave her no one to hide behind.

  When she started to withdraw into herself, Grady knew he had to forge a connection stronger than the passion they'd just shared. He looked out the window marshaling his thoughts.

  "Tell me," he invited. "Tell me how Julie Fulton, from a small farm back East, ended up married to a no-good crook like Frank Rossiter."

  He thought that was a safe way to start a conversation since there was no disputing that her deceased husband had been among the lower forms of life.

  Julie sighed. "When I was just eighteen," she began her story, "and full of myself…"

  she flashed Grady a smile so filled with mischief that he could see the girl chasing womanhood.

  "…I met Frank Rossiter at an ice cream social. I ignored my mother's warning and latched on to the best-dressed man there when he asked me to dance."

  Grady wondered why he'd ever thought her features hard and then realized how much she had changed since she'd come to Hawks Nest.

  "My mother was recently remarried. Her new husband had a way of looking at me that made me uncomfortable. Without being vain—I know men stare—and being young and foolish, I enjoyed it then."

  She said the last regretfully and then explained. "When it was my stepfather ogling it wasn't fun anymore. Mama wanted me out. She told me to choose a man and get my own home."

  She was so pretty it didn't surprise Grady that men had been lined up, looking, although he felt possessive stirrings when he thought about it.

  "There were plenty of farmers I could have married," Julie admitted. "But I didn't want a man who smelled of pig manure or hayfields. I didn't know the sweet-smelling stranger who came courting was a gambler. And my mother didn't approve of him, but wanted me out of the house worse, so I ran off with him."

  Grady listened to the familiar story of a con artist fleecing a mark—and no doubt Rossiter had seen the young Julie as easy pickings. She'd owned a little land inherited from her grandmother. "Sixty acres," Julie admitted. "A farmhouse and outbuildings that needed work. I thought I was too good for that." Her laugh was filled with self scorn.

  "I thought I was being smart to insist on marriage. I didn't realize…"

  That pretty much described the whole affair. Frank Rossiter had married her before one of the locals could intervene, whisked her away from everyone who could have helped, and sold the farm quickly after.

  "He told me that I looked like a rube, and I embarrassed him. So one of the first things he bought with my money was a new wardrobe for me." He reached over to stroke her hair, tousled from their lovemaking.

  "That was some wardrobe. I went from cotton pantalettes and prim shirtwaists to cheap silks and satins. Even I knew that wasn't how decent women dressed. But Frank had a purpose in his choices."

  He wished he hadn't asked. She stood up wearing his shirt and nothing else, and frowned down at him

  "I was not a whore. You understand that, don't you?" She stated it unequivocally.

  "Frank had intentions from the first. But when I could have gotten away and gone home, my damned pride kept me there. And at first, stupid kid that I was, I liked the fancy dresses cut too low. By the time I realized what Frank had in mind, I'd lost control of the money and everything else."

  Grady had no doubt of that. Rossiter had been an expert.

  She shivered, hugging his shirt tighter around her as bad memories disturbed the aftermath of their lovemaking. "Come over here," Grady told her.

  Julie hesitated and then stepped into his arms. He picked her up, wrapping the discarded blanket around her, as he settled them into the rocking chair.

  The rest of the story unfolded, sordid and sad. Rossiter had turned her into a partner in con games. He'd said she needed a new name—Jewel. He'd told her it would be like her stage name.

  Julie rubbed her cheek against his chest, seeking warmth and reassurance. "By that time," she confessed, "I was more than happy to call myself something different. I didn't want anyone to ever know that Julie Fulton had been brought so low."

  The rest of the story was a tale of Frank's violent rages and the fists he'd applied liberally.

  "By the second week, I was ready to leave him. I didn't love Frank Rossiter when I married him. I didn't even know him. But I thought love would grow. I thought he did me a favor by getting me away from the small-minded community I despised. I thought if I did what he asked and tried to please him in every way, things would settle down between us."

  Grady could barely hear her final whisper. "I was wrong."

  Chapter Sixteen

  If it was one thing Julie didn't want to talk about, it was her life with Frank Rossiter or what she had done while married to him. But she had been a coward to keep her silence this long.

  "Frank was invited to a party." She knew her body had tensed, remembering, but she needed to tell Grady before she lost her nerve.

  "We'd been invited to what was supposed to be a friendly poker game held in Teddy James' rooms above the Golden Eagle Saloon. He said Alan Michaels was entertaining bankers from Philadelphia, and it would be easy money for Frank to pick up."

  It had been friendly all right. She shuddered. "I was supposed to be the entertainment."

  Grady looked blank, and then his face darkened before cold settled across his features. She looked away, but continued.

  When Frank escorted her through the do
or, Alan Michaels had greeted them, slapping Frank on the back before he reached for Julie and grabbed her breasts, squeezing them until it hurt.

  "Look what I have for you fellows." He'd spun her into the room and made no pretense that she was anything other than part of the night's fun.

  She'd tried to leave right then, but Frank blocked that move, although he was already upset at Michaels.

  "It would have been worse," she continued telling her gritty story. "But for once in his life, Frank protected me. I had to sit in on the poker game. It was my job to distract the other players, while Frank fleeced them."

  It had been Frank's determination to get her at the table, and next to a mark, that had saved her from Michaels' attentions.

  "I picked the only man at the table dressed like a rancher and not in a three-piece suit. The Eastern bankers were already half drunk, and they were more interested in the fancy women in one of the back bedrooms than in playing cards."

  "The rancher," Julie paused and then went on, "was a gentleman in control of his faculties. He had a cup of coffee in front of him, and it was obvious he was the only man at the table Frank would have to beat."

  She'd sat next to him, prepared to flirt and practice her wiles. Instead, he'd looked at her sympathetically and given her advice.

  "You don't belong with this crew, lass. Best get shut of that fool you're traveling with, because he'll take you down."

  She'd not acknowledged his warning even though it was true. But she'd felt better with him at the table. Alan Michaels had stood smoking a cigar and watching her when she'd resisted another banker's attempts to pull her out of her chair and into the bedroom.

  Julie's thoughts returned to the present when Grady questioned her sharply.

  "And did you distract them?" Grady's spoke with disgust and anger, but Julie continued, determined to finally tell him about that night.

  "I don't know what would have happened if interest had not been turned in another direction." Julie's voice was grim; the moments of Grady's tender lovemaking sustained her need to trust him.

  She had presented a distraction at the table, but not the kind Frank needed.

  "So, Rossiter," Michaels stood behind her chair and deliberately looked at her breasts that were on display in the gown cut lower than a whore's. "You don't care if I fuck your wife, do you?"

  She acknowledged her part in the deadly confrontation that had ensued. When the eastern banker had grabbed her by her hair, intent on forcing her from her chair, she'd picked up the only thing she could use for a weapon, pitching the rancher's cup of hot coffee over her shoulder into her attacker's face.

  She didn't want to revisit the moment Frank had grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back while he propelled her into a second bedroom not yet being used by the businessmen.

  "Rossiter," Michaels had called after him, mopping his face and laughing. "Don't ruin her mouth. I have plans for it."

  The rancher, who had been kind to her, had protested, and she'd heard a scuffle when he tried to follow.

  "Frank disagreed with my refusal and pulled me into another room to discipline me.

  That's when Alan Michaels killed a man. When Frank heard the gun fired in the other room, he was more interested in that than in me. I took that opportunity to leave."

  She'd had her leg over the sill and ready to climb out and down, when Frank abruptly quit watching the bankers, locked the bedroom door, and followed her out the window.

  "Jesus, Julie. That maniac Michaels just shot the old man." When Frank called her real name, she knew he was just as scared as she was.

  They'd sneaked out of town under cover of night, not bothering to report what they'd witnessed to the sheriff of Eclipse.

  "We left while they were disposing of the body, which I think, is the only reason I'm still alive."

  She stared at her clenched hands, unable to look at Grady again. "Alan Michaels is not the kind of man you blackmail. I assume that Frank didn't understand that, and that's why he's dead."

  Grady's question was tense, letting her know that he already suspected the answer.

  "Who was it, Julie? Who did Alan Michaels murder that night?"

  Julie closed her eyes so that she would not have to look at him when he repudiated her.

  "Your father," she whispered. "I didn't know at first. No one introduced him, and it all happened so fast, he never introduced himself. But"—she stopped, opened her eyes, and met his gaze—"later, when word of Henry Hawks' shooting reached us in Albuquerque, Frank said that was the man Alan Michaels had murdered."

  "I'm so sorry." Julie's stomach knotted in fear at the rage on Grady's face. "He was defending me. I caused it to happen. If I'd just played along and not made a fuss, your father would still be alive."

  Her words hung between them before he seemed to grasp their import. Then he shook his head. "No, sweetheart, my dad would be proud to die for that cause, but Alan Michaels used the poker game as bait."

  With his words, Grady removed the burden of guilt that she had carried over his father's murder.

  "Everyone in Texas knew my dad liked a good game of cards. He got that invitation from Michaels a week after the business consortium hit town."

  Looking at it from that perspective, it did seem to Julie as though Michaels had concocted a bold plan to eliminate Henry Hawks as a means of grabbing Hawks Nest land.

  "My father's horse came in without him, and when we backtracked, we found his body on the trail home. Afterward, the sheriff and I talked to Michaels about the poker game. He said that my father had been the night's big winner and celebrated in the Golden Eagle before leaving."

  Grady's eyes burned with promise. "Teddy James swore he talked to my father in the saloon before Da left."

  "Teddy James was at the poker game," Julie told him. She was shivering—chilled by her memories and the grim look on Grady's face.

  But when Grady hugged her close in his arms, saying, "None of it was your fault, sweetheart," the last remnants of her resistance to him ended.

  *

  Grady watched the play of emotions cross Julie's face. She was softer, warmer, and less frightened than he'd ever seen her. At the same time he was filled with grief and anger for his father's murder, peace was given to him in the form of this woman.

  The fire burned low as she drowsed against him, absently running her fingers up and down his arm. "What is this," she touched the braid that circled his wrist.

  His hunger for her and the wonder of this moment, wouldn't permit him to let her fall asleep.

  "I have this"—he lifted a tendril of red hair and pulled it gently, showing her what he meant—"with me at all times. Your fire warms me."

  She blinked, her half-closed eyes holding an expression of puzzlement.

  "I have the hair that you gave me at our wedding breakfast." He was smug, satisfied at her look of outrage. He'd taken her defiance and made it tribute.

  He felt his lips quirk up in an unfamiliar smile that turned into a grin when she sat up on his lap. "My hair … you kept that hank of hair?"

  " 'Your man is warmed by your fire.' Dawn said those words to me. I didn't understand then what she meant." Julie inspected the braided bracelet he wore.

  Grady explained. "We didn't get the chance to exchange rings. You probably would have thrown it at me, even if I'd had one along." He paused as both of them remembered the bizarre wedding.

  "There was no time that day. I apologize now. But," he became serious, "my pledge to you was made with the hair you sacrificed. I am your man."

  An unfamiliar reckless belligerence filled Grady. He needed her loyalty. He needed to know she was his. He stood, setting her carefully in the rocker, while he went to the box that rested on the mantle above the stone fireplace. He retrieved the turquoise stone ring that rested inside.

  "This is the ring my father gave my mother. Will you wear it as a sign that you are my woman?" He asked her that, because she was already his unhappy wife. He'd not t
old her the truth when he'd said he wanted her to want him . I want her to love me.

  She unclasped the hands that were laced tightly together and slowly extended her left to him. "I will," Julie told him. She held his gaze as he slid the ring over her knuckle and seated it on her fourth finger.

  "My mother wore this ring until she returned to her father's people. The day she left, she put it in that box on the mantle."

  He wanted to let her know that he would not force her to stay. But he wanted her to know too, that she was in his heart.

  "I hope that you will always remain with me, but if you choose to go, put the ring back in its box, and I'll understand."

  She pulled her hand back as though he had slapped her and asked hesitantly, "When did your mother leave?"

  "Two days after I was born," he answered, masking his shame beneath pride.

  At her gasp, he explained stiffly, "My mother, like you, was only a pawn in the lives of men. My father wanted Kiowa land—this place he named Hawks Nest.

  "My Indian grandfather was a shaman. He knew the days ahead would be troubled.

  He made a bargain with my father so that I would be born; he believed that someday I would bring the land back to the Kiowa."

  "And your mother?" Julie stood from the chair and took his arm, moving him so that he sat.

  "There, that's much better." She eased into his lap and leaned back against his chest, pulling his arms around her.

  Then she laid her head against him and told him, "It's not polite to give your woman a ring and then ask for it back. Because of the circumstances, I'll let it slide this time."

  And then playfully she poked him in the chest. "Don't do it again."

  He felt an easing inside of him—as though a spring that had been coiled tightly all the days of his life suddenly loosened and relaxed.

  "You wouldn't go off and leave your baby, would you?" He knew the answer already and didn't need her confirmation. But he asked anyway.

  She pulled his head down and nipped his jaw. "No, I would not. Did your mother ever come back?"

  "My father went after her the first dozen times. Then, he let her go. He could have remarried. No one would have faulted him for taking a white wife once the settlers brought some here to choose from."