“Well, then, why don’t you find something for me to wear. There’s a light green faille dress hanging in the wardrobe—”
“Oh, no, no,” Nicolette interrupted. “That’s far too dressy to wear to watch Buck break the horses. Here,” she added, pulling out a plain linen shirtwaist and Molly’s favorite suede riding skirt. “I have a skirt just like this. It’s perfect.”
Molly eyed Nicolette’s gay apparel with a jaundiced eye, but said nothing. Charles was right; Nicolette had a crush on someone, or she wouldn’t be dressed for suitors. Smiling to herself, she went into the bathroom. She would have liked to spend some time at the piano with Nicolette this morning, but obviously that would have to wait.
She wasn’t looking forward to the morning Nicolette had planned for her. Being forced to watch Buck break horses wasn’t high on her list of things to do. And force it would be, for the last thing she wanted to do was watch a grown man grin with glee as he was tossed around on top of a wild horse.
She paused. Tossed around on a wild horse. Maybe off a wild horse … A slightly evil grin creased her mouth. Maybe it would be entertaining, after all.
After a lively breakfast, Charles went on an errand and Nicolette dragged Molly to the corral. Most of the hands milled around, covertly watching them as they waited for the action to begin.
A big, burly man with a heavy growth of black stubble stepped out of the barn. Cruelly muscled, he carried himself like a bully. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and shoved a cigar to the corner of his mouth. He carried a whip.
She shuddered as Nicolette leaned toward her. “That’s the foreman, Mr. Poteet,” she whispered. “Isn’t he scary?”
Molly nodded. Indeed, he was scary, but he dipped his head in her direction, and she hesitantly answered with a polite nod.
Her gaze left him when she caught a glimpse of Buck as he came around the corner of the barn, pulling on a pair of gloves. His hat was pulled down over his eyes, too. But a different feeling entirely washed over her when she looked at him. His shoulders, so wide and hard, drew her gaze. Their accidental meeting in the kitchen the night before swam in front of her. Little shivers of excitement danced along her arms in spite of her efforts to pretend the tryst hadn’t phased her.
“Oh,” Nicolette whispered, squeezing Molly’s arm. “Here comes Buck.”
Molly bit the insides of her cheeks to avoid making a face or a wry comment. Nicolette’s voice held the awe one saves for real heroes. Like Mr. Cooper’s Pathfinder.
“Buck! Halooo, Buck!” Nicolette gave him an enthusiastic wave.
He tipped his Stetson in their direction and took his place at the corral.
“Did you see? He winked at me.” She clutched her hands over her heart.
Molly gave her a stern look. Buck hadn’t winked, Nicolette had just imagined it. And it was a dangerous fantasy—especially for Buck, who might possibly have a completely innocent role in Nicolette’s adolescent daydreams.
“Hey, amigo,” one of the hands shouted. “Let her ride.”
Buck dropped onto the horse’s back and shoved his boots into the stirrups. The brown stallion twisted sideways and bucked, kicking his hind feet straight out behind him.
Molly’s hands went to her mouth and she pressed hard, trying to keep her feelings under control. The stallion was strong and beautiful, and attacked the ground beneath him, belligerently trying to rid himself of the weight on his back.
She stared at Buck. It wasn’t entertaining at all. She actually feared for him. But he was graceful and supple as he rode the beast. His thighs, as tightly muscled as iron, clamped the stallion’s belly while his torso moved with the animal, thrusting hard, then pulling back. Thrusting, pulling back … Thrusting, pulling back …
A slow heat seeped into Molly’s vitals as she watched Buck work. Each thrust of his pelvis sent a wave of current along her nerves and she caught her breath, fighting the feelings that swirled through her.
The animal’s sides heaved with exertion, innocently mimicking Molly’s own labored breathing. He continued to pitch, turning in circles, kicking his hooves high, trying desperately to unseat the rider, but Buck held firm.
Suddenly the horse stopped, his head lowered and his sides continuing to heave. Buck nudged the stallion. It lifted its head and walked sedately toward the fence. Buck started and stopped the spirited animal several times, indicating he was in control. After a few turns around the corral, he dismounted.
A roar went up from the hands, Spanish and English adulations mixed with the lusty laughter of weak men who attempt to identify with another man’s strengths.
“Let me take ’em fer ya, Buck.” An old geezer with a grizzled feed bag beard hobbled up, ready to take the reins.
Buck shook his head and took the stallion into the barn himself.
Molly expelled a breath, unaware that she’d been holding it so long she had the beginnings of a headache. She watched Buck disappear into the barn, blatantly eyeing his back beneath the sweat soaked shirt.
“Isn’t he wonderful?”
Clearing her throat, she looked at Nicolette. The girl’s eyes were shiny and her face glowed. Definitely a girlish crush. “Well,” she answered. “He certainly does know horses. But Nicolette,” she continued, her voice scolding, “it isn’t wise to be so obvious. The man might be dangerous, and anyway, he’s far too old for you.”
Nicolette’s laughter peeled like chimes. “Dangerous? Buck? He’s as gentle as a lamb. And how do you know how old he is?”
“I don’t know, of course,” she lied. “But your brother—”
“Oh, pooh on Charles,” she answered around a pout. “Buck is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met.”
Molly swallowed an unladylike snort. “Surely there are boys your age who are exciting and interesting.”
Nicolette made a face. “They’re just boys. Buck is …” She looked at the sky and sighed. “Buck is so handsome and strong.”
“He’s also a grown man and a breed, Nicolette.”
“Breed, schmeed.” She turned and glared at Molly. “I didn’t think you had the same horrible prejudices that Charles has. But then,” she added glibly, “I guess that’s why he likes you so much. You’re such a prude, Margaret. I suppose you never had these feelings when you were my age.
“I’m going to practice,” she said crisply, tossing the words over her shoulder. She flounced away and walked toward the house, leaving Molly feeling older than dirt.
Oh, if you only knew. Molly realized that she had never been able to rid herself of those memorable infatuations with Buck. They had always been there, nudging her memory. And now, when she wanted so desperately to be rid of him both in her head and in her heart, he was practically underfoot.
Glancing after Nicolette as she walked daintily toward the house, Molly felt the urge to go after her and shake some sense into her. But she knew better. It was wiser to discretely bring the problem up with Charles. But not before she talked to Buck. If Buck was deliberately teasing the girl, he was asking for trouble. Charles had told her as much last night. And, she thought, feat skittering up her spine, even if he wasn’t, Charles wasn’t the type to let a breed affect his sister in any way, good or bad.
She started toward the barn, then stopped. Why did she care what happened to Buck, anyway? Actually, getting him fired was what she’d wanted from the moment she discovered he was working for Charles. She wanted to be rid of him. She wanted him gone.
But her good sense told her to at least warn Buck of possible trouble. Glancing toward the barn, she decided now was as good a time as any to confront him. If anyone overheard, all they would hear would be her chastising Buck for leading Nicolette on. It would sound innocent and sincere.
The sounds of Nicolette attacking a Bach invention on the piano faded as Molly strode purposefully into the barn. The interior was shadowy. Light filtered in from a window high at the point of the roof, the beacon a shaft of d
ancing particles of dust. An odor of hay and manure reached her nostrils, but it was faint enough to be merely earthy, not pungent. The darkness and the quiet were provocative, titillating.
Her boots made no noise as she moved over the dirt packed floor, past the empty stalls. As she neared the back of the barn, she heard Buck’s voice, seductive, raspy, outrageously sexy. And, she thought, her foolish heart bumping, he was only talking to a horse.
She paused when she saw him and rested her shoulder against the rough wooden doorway. He was shirtless, the muscles in his back moving, bunching, releasing as he curried the brown stallion. He still murmured words of confidence with each stroke of the brush. The animal’s ears twitched, as if focusing on the sound of Buck’s voice. She wondered what it was about him that had changed. Of course, he was seven years older, but that wasn’t it. He seemed more contained now, less apt to fly into a rage. He’d always been so angry. At her, at the Whites, at the world. And, more often than not, working hard at getting good and falling down drunk.
She raised her eyebrows. That was it. So far, she hadn’t seen him drunk.
“What are you doing here, brat?”
She jumped, his voice startling her. He still hadn’t turned. “How did you know it was me?”
He chuckled, and the raspy, tobacco-rough sound made her breath catch in her throat. “I can tell.”
“Impossible,” she answered, meandering slowly toward him. “You must have glanced over your shoulder.”
“Didn’t have to. I’ve always been able to tell when you’re around. I could seven years ago, and I can today.”
She snorted lightly. “Have you got an extra sensitive nose or something?”
He still hadn’t turned around. “When it comes to your scent, I have.”
He could smell her? Well, that was an attractive notion, she thought dryly. Even so, an odd heaviness gathered in her pelvis. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never worn perfume, and I’m not wearing any now.”
He stopped brushing, turned and stared at her. His dark eyes smoldered as his gaze raked over her. “It’s not perfume I smell, brat.”
She wanted desperately to give him a blazing retort, but found it hard to breath, much less talk. All of her energy was centered elsewhere—in dark, warm places that swelled with unwanted desire. Finally, “That … that’s bull,” she whispered. “And … and don’t call me ‘brat.’ ”
He merely shrugged and put the currycomb on the ledge near the door. He was closer now, and she could smell him as well. The sweat of man and animal, leather, tobacco, hay, and the dark, secretive odor of the back room in the barn. The erotic overlay of all the scents mingling in the electric air between them made her heart bump and her knees weak.
“What are you doing here?” he asked again.
Finally coming to her senses, she pulled herself up straight. “Are you flirting with Nicolette?”
A humorless sound erupted from his throat. “Why in the hell would I flirt with a sixteen-year-old girl?”
Molly swallowed, watching the corded muscle flex in his arm as he braced it against the wall beside her. She followed the hard, vein-threaded lines of his limb until her gaze met the thatch of black hair under his arm. She tried to control a shiver. “She has a crush on you, you know.”
“I know,” he answered simply, his gaze never wavering. “I liked your hair better last night.”
She wanted to move away but didn’t … or couldn’t, as the memory of his hands opening her robe throbbed behind her eyes. “If Charles …” she began weakly, then took a deep breath. “If Charles has any reason to believe you’re leading the girl on, he’ll kill you.”
He moved away, turning back to the horse and stroking the animal’s shoulder. She felt a foolish sense of loss. “He really will, Buck.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Anger erupted inside her. She took a step and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him around. “Don’t be a fool. You’re the one who warned me about Charles’s feelings for breeds. You know it’s dangerous to play games with him.”
With whiplash speed he turned and gripped her shoulders, his gaze burning into hers. “Listen to yourself. What in the hell do you think he’ll do to you when he finds out the game you’re playing?”
A stab of fear plunged through her, making her dizzy. “It will be different with me,” she heard herself say. “He’s in love with me.”
He swore, the sound oozing disgust. “There’s a name for a woman like you, a woman who marries a man just because he’s rich enough to give her everything she thinks she wants.”
“It’s not like that at all,” she spat.
“Then tell me you love him.”
She gazed up into his face, his features so taut they looked chiseled from stone. Glancing away, she swallowed hard. “I … I care for him a great deal. Love will come. I’m going to marry him, Buck. Love will come later. It will. I know it will.” Her words sounded limp and weak even to her own ears.
Buck pushed her away and swore. “You don’t know him at all. You think he has this simple little prejudice against breeds and Mexicans. Listen to me, brat. He may hire us to work for him. But a woman like you? Hell, once he finds out what you are, he’ll treat you like a whore. Nothing else. He’d never allow his legitimate heir to have even a trace of Indian blood.”
Molly was stunned by the hatred in Buck’s remark. “Charles would never do that to me. He’s a gentleman. He’s always been the epitome of charm and good manners. And … and he loves me, Buck. When I tell him—and I will tell him—he won’t care.” She was certain Charles loved her. And because of that love, she knew she could change him, if she had to.
Looking back at Buck, she saw the hatred simmering in his eyes. It was so strong, she could feel it. “What’s he done to you? What in the world has he done, to make you hate him so much? Is it because he’s a rich white man with everything in the world you want, but can’t have?”
He turned back, concentrating on the stallion, but his back muscles tensed, as with anger. “That’s your desire, brat, not mine. Not all breeds lust after the white man’s world like you do. Unlike you, I’ve never envied the white man for what he has. I’ve just hated him for what he is.”
The disparaging remark didn’t sit well, but she ignored it. “Then, you will stop encouraging Nicolette?”
He turned again and faced her. “Why in the hell do you care? What I do with my life is my business. I don’t encourage the girl, but I’m going to be civil. And you,” he snarled, suddenly angry, “can stay the devil away from me and my affairs.”
As always, the sparks between them erupted into flame.
“You’re disgusting. I’ve warned you, and if you don’t care for your life any more than that, why should I?” Her breath came hard, her anger was so intense. “You’ve been on a path to self-destruction for years. Oh,” she said, watching the flare in his eyes, “I have been in touch with people at home. I know things about you, Buck. I know that you pickled yourself with whiskey after Honey died, and you probably still do—”
He slammed her against the wall so hard, he nearly knocked the wind out of her. “Never assume to know my business, brat. Never.”
When she caught her breath, she hissed at him. “I don’t give a flying baboon’s butt about your business. I came in here with good intentions. I’ve warned you about your actions with Nicolette. That’s all I can do. If you don’t want to listen, then you can go to hell.”
They stood, nose to nose, like the combative adversaries they’d always been. She could see his pupils dilate, darkening against the circle of gold that rimmed them. She could smell him, feel him, almost taste him.
Suddenly his mouth was on hers, punishing, tormenting, berating. It took her by surprise, took her a moment to respond. Then, when she did, she knew it wasn’t right. Buck wasn’t the one who should be kissing her, Charles was.
She struggled against him, pinching her lips t
ogether, pushing, twisting and shoving to get out of his embrace. He held her tightly, wearing down her resistance as he continued to press himself against her from mouth to knee.
He was hard all over. His bare chest was a solid surface of warm flesh. She reached up, intending to push him away. Yet when she touched his shoulder, she couldn’t resist cupping the skin that encapsulated his muscle.
Suddenly, something akin to a juice-filled fruit exploded low in her belly, sending gushes of hot liquid into her pelvis. Her mouth opened beneath his. It was so good. So hot. So tempting. And fires of hell, it felt right. She allowed him to probe her tongue with his, the heat in her nether regions intensifying.
He lifted her slightly and pulled her close, grinding his pelvis against hers, pressing her against him with blatant familiarity, punishing her with his need. Wanting desperately to melt into him, she wrapped one leg around his, bringing his stiffened manhood closer to the source of her own desire.
A throaty chuckle escaped his mouth, triggering an alarm inside her. With all of her energy and willpower, she turned her head away and shoved at his chest.
He glanced down at her, his eyelids heavy. Smirking, he released her slowly. “So, you’ve—”
On solid ground again, she slapped him hard across the face. “No. Whatever you were going to say, the answer is no.”
He touched his cheek, the old scar denting it devilishly as he smiled “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe. I—”
“I think you’ve missed our little battles. I think you’ve been wondering for years what it would actually taste like to have my tongue in your mouth. I think I should have given you a taste years ago, when you begged for it.”
Anger and desire made her gulp back a powerful shudder. “As I said before, you can go to hell. I forgot about you the minute I left the vineyard.” Taking a deep, shaky breath, she touched the wild tangles of hair that had come loose from her carefully twisted coiffure and marched toward the door. The sound of his husky chuckle followed her as she rushed from the barn.
Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three Page 6
