Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  Over the next three days he loved her as often as his stamina would allow—beside the fire, on the shore, under the stars . . . and there was that unprecedented coupling on horseback.

  Both were careful to avoid further mention of the future. By unspoken agreement, they were content to live in the present, to seize every moment of happiness they could. And by the third day they knew their time had come to an end. They were hopelessly in love . . . and helpless to confess it.

  Lying in Heath’s arms beneath a black velvet sky, Stevie sighed.

  “What’s wrong, angel?”

  “I’ve been thinking”—she paused, reluctant to continue—“I need to get back. We should leave tomorrow.”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  “It’s what we should do.”

  He knew she was right. U.S. Marshal Heath Turner had never shirked his job before, not until he met the fiery, beautiful temptress snuggled against his heart. He loved spending time with her; more precisely, he loved her.

  Still, the guilt of cavorting in paradise with a seductive sprite when he should be on assignment had begun to wear on him.

  “Okay,” he sighed. “But we still have tonight.”

  Dawn was a precious gift from God to the lovers lying snug in each other’s arms. It loomed out of the darkness, grew more definite, then engulfed the slumbering world, capturing them in its panoramic embrace.

  The morning sun shone bright overhead; rivers of gold streamed from the sky, gilding their naked bodies. A breathy sigh wafting through the valley swept them with a cool caress while the stream at their side bubbled musically down the mountain, serenading them in its wake.

  But they were wholly unaware of the glorious spectacle. They were lost in a world of their own. Today was the day that they would leave their idyllic hideaway and face the future.

  Together or alone, they didn’t know.

  As he told her, Heath had not meant to take her innocence, nor to fall in love with her. But now that he had, he would never let her go. Without a word he pressed his body flush with hers from shoulder to ankle. She shivered, reflecting his need, causing the breath to lodge in his throat.

  Slipping into her body as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he looked down into her face and was struck anew by her incomparable beauty, beauty not limited to physical perfection, but beauty of the soul. Beauty, the depth of which, could be seen only by the man who had grown to love her deeply.

  When had it happened, this all-consuming love? He didn’t know. Stevie just sneaked up on his blind side, burrowed under his skin, then became an obsession. And he would never let her go, he vowed silently with every thrust of his body. This was the beginning for them. The beginning of a lifetime of love and happiness, together, forever.

  Their passion blossomed to previously unimaginable heights. They moved as one, rising and falling, locked in an embrace that spoke of tenderness and desire in equal measure.

  His pale hips ground against her bronze flesh. The contrasting color was ironic, perhaps even symbolic. She was Indian; he was white. Their people were at war while they were linked together body and soul.

  Heath knew it would require courage to flaunt convention, strength to reach out and grasp what they both so desperately wanted. They would encounter opposition from society in general, and from individuals in particular, chiefly his mother.

  But it wouldn’t matter, he affirmed silently, kissing her feverishly. Turner men did not sound retreat once they entered battle. The general, Chap, and Rad would be disappointed in him if he turned his back on the woman he loved, simply for the accident of her birth.

  But would she turn her back on him? He knew fear in the depth of his soul. Raw, stark fear that he might lose this woman he held close to his heart.

  Inordinately disturbed by the thought, he engulfed her slender body completely and increased his efforts. He rained heated kisses on her dusky cheeks. It was then that he felt the tears coursing down her cheeks. Dear God, had his vigorous lovemaking hurt her?

  He stared down into her eyes. The pain of loss, the resignation of defeat were evident in their watery depths. His heart lurched in his chest. Though they were still joined, neither of them moved. “Honey . . .” he began hoarsely.

  Stifling a sob, she held him to her and shook her head. “Please, don’t say anything.” Stevie was not hurting physically but emotionally. When they rode out of the valley today, their love affair must end. And the prospect was breaking her heart.

  But there was something she needed to express, a poignant feeling of gratitude. She twisted her head away and caressed his cheek in an attempt to cool his ardor . . . momentarily. More than his kiss, she needed to thank him for the past few days, for what he had taught her about love and life, for all that he had given her . . . for making her a woman. “The past few days have been the most wonderful time in my life. I’ll never forget it. You made me a woman. Taught me what it was like to be loved by a man.”

  He looked at her with such love that her breath caught in her throat. Regaining a measure of her composure, she said as one wise beyond her years, “To be loved, not by a white man nor an Indian.” She smiled wistfully. “Just a man. I can never thank you enough for that.”

  Eyes suspiciously bright, he blessed her with a sexy smile. “Truly, sweetheart, it was my pleasure.”

  She chuckled on cue. Their gazes met and held, stygian black, sapphire blue, each trying desperately to read what was in the other’s heart.

  Finally, Stevie’s smile faded. Her voice barely broke a whisper. “But I don’t want or expect anything else from you.”

  Unable to bear the hurt in his gaze, she stared unseeing at the scene around them. Finally, the beauty of nature faded into focus.

  “Look around us, Heath. This isn’t reality. It’s . . . it’s paradise,” she breathed against his throat. “A place where race and society don’t matter. Where everyone is equal and nobody has to apologize for the circumstances of their birth.” Her arms tightened around his waist again. She was silent for a moment as he rocked against her. “Oh, God, it was wonderful, wasn’t it?” Her voice broke as she met his gaze once more.

  “It doesn’t have to end, sugar.”

  “Yes, it does.” There was the ring of finality to her agonized whisper. “But let’s not talk anymore. Just make love to me. One last time.”

  Heath pushed down a surge of panic. One last time? Hardly. He would love her now as she requested, but that wouldn’t be the end.

  Taking note of her poignant resignation—and the hot, moist pressure below his waist—convinced him that this was not the appropriate time to discuss the future. Later, he would convince her that they would spend the rest of their lives together, that he would allow nothing and no one to tear them apart, not even her.

  His hand trembled slightly as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. The simple act, so sweet, so gentle, warmed her heart. He recognized the affection brimming in the ebony depths of her eyes. “I love you, Stevie Johns,” he confessed, then kissed her with all the love in his heart.

  She returned his kiss as if she were saying good-bye forever. “And I love you, Heath Turner,” she surprised them both. “But that doesn’t change who we are. And what must be . . .”

  “Shhh. Just let me love you.”

  And he did.

  Much later, they dressed, broke camp, and left their mountain hideaway in silence. The heady emotion they experienced as they topped the brow of the ridge made speech impossible. There were some things better felt than told, better shown than confessed.

  When they halted side by side, the emerald valley a majestic picture in the distance, Heath pulled her over onto his lap. He cradled her in his arms. She snuggled deeper into his embrace. He tightened his hold as if he would never let her go. Still, they couldn’t get close enough. It was as if they wanted to fuse themselves together.

  The kiss he bestowed upon her then shook them emotionally and physically. His lips
and tongue made love to her mouth over and over. Sipping, tasting, savoring, devouring, he kissed her until they were both trembling and breathless. It was the giving and taking of a vow.

  Unwilling to commit, Stevie broke away abruptly. When she lifted her eyes, she noted with wonder his unabashed look of affection. It moved her even more than his passionate kiss. A soft whimper escaped her kiss-swollen lips as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.

  His hands had a mind of their own. As if he were sightless, he sought to memorize her with his touch. From shoulder to knee he caressed her, paying homage to the flesh that caused his body to swell and ache.

  Groaning, she squirmed on his lap, her bottom branded by the hot hardness upon which she sat.

  His breathing grew shallow, fast, labored. “Whoa, sweetheart,” he gasped. “We can’t go on like this. I won’t be able to stop.”

  “Guess you better put me back on my horse, then.”

  His body protested. But with thoughts of making camp early pacifying him, he kissed her one last time then shifted her over to her saddle. “Just don’t be wiggling around in my lap like that anymore, young lady. Otherwise, you know what you’ll get.”

  She blushed at his rakish wink. “I’ll try to remember that.” As if she could think of anything else.

  Twenty-five

  Heath’s lusty plan for a night of unbridled passion was not to be.

  Late that afternoon they heard voices coming from a clearing in the distance. Cautiously, they moved toward the sound. They dismounted and tethered their horses.

  “Stay here,” he whispered to Stevie. When she looked as if she would object, he kissed her soundly. “I’ll be right back.”

  Slipping silently through the woods, he came upon three men and a woman grouped around an open fire. The woman was cooking. She limped back and forth from a large Conestoga wagon to the fire around which the men reclined. It appeared that her ankle was injured. Tears streaked her face; her clothes—of obvious quality—were tattered and filthy. It was apparent that she was being held captive. Heath imagined that beneath all that dirt she was probably very young and quite lovely.

  A whinny from the edge of camp gained his attention. It came from a painted pony milling about a large remuda. No doubt these were the horses stolen from Black Coyote’s camp.

  He swung his gaze back to the thieves. Two of them were comancheros, Mexican banditos dressed like Indians. In Heath’s estimation, they were the lowest form of life on the face of the earth.

  The oldest man, in his sixties, was dressed in a homespun shirt. His black breeches, faded and shiny with age, were held up by frayed suspenders. Sweat stains ringed his underarms and formed a triangle down his chest and between his shoulder blades. A disreputable red rag was tied around his forehead, holding his thin gray hair off his face. A moth-eaten eagle feather hung at a precarious angle, secured by his tattered headband.

  The youngest man wore buckskin breeches and a printed shirt. His eyes had a slightly dull cast, as if he didn’t have all his horses harnessed, intellectually speaking. If possible, he was even filthier than the old man. Heath could smell their unwashed bodies from twenty feet away.

  The third man was an Indian. Large, swarthy, from the Northeast, Heath surmised, probably a Delaware. He stood off to one side, mesmerized by the fire. He was the single most savage-looking man Heath had seen west of the Mississippi. He was virtually naked, dressed in only a low-slung breechcloth and knee-high moccasins. Practically every weapon known to the American Indian hung from his body. But it was the string of scalps dangling from his bare, bronze waist that gave Heath pause.

  As if feeling Heath’s eyes upon him, he dropped his hand to the lethal knife in a sheath at his side. His predatory stance radiated danger, making Heath regret that Stevie was so close by.

  The thought of Stevie caused Heath to return his gaze to the young woman. Even though she was in pain, she moved methodically, as if in a trance . . . or under the influence of drugs. Her hair, oily and drab, hung limp on her narrow shoulders. He felt a mixture of rage and pity at the sight she presented. Rage at her captors, pity for the girl.

  He very nearly jumped out of his skin when Stevie touched his sleeve. Worry for her safety made his tone unusually sharp. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

  “I was worried about you.” She lowered her eyes.

  He angled her head toward him and murmured an apology against her lips. “I’m sorry I snapped. Give me a kiss and we’ll get outta here”

  “Now, ain’t that touchin’?” a high-pitched voice sounded from behind them.

  Stevie and Heath spun around. A teenage boy who bore a marked resemblance to the young man in camp held a rifle on them.

  “Hey, Pa. Look what I found.” He grinned like a jackass eating briars, revealing the decayed snags he no doubt called teeth. Roughly, he prodded Heath with the point of his rifle. He drew back a moccasined foot to kick Stevie.

  Heath’s next words forestalled him. “Touch her and die.”

  The look in Heath’s eyes and his menacing tone convinced the kid. He lowered his foot without touching Stevie. “Move!”

  Slowly, Heath helped Stevie to her feet. They stepped out into the open. His chest swelled with pride when she squared her shoulders and walked forward briskly. He had always considered her an exceptional woman, but never more so than now. As his sister Ann would say, the girl’s got starch in her drawers.

  The comancheros grabbed their guns and leveled them on the intruders. The half-naked Indian squeezed the hilt of his knife more tightly. The captive girl stared blankly at the couple entering camp.

  “Hello.” Heath’s tone was deceptively cheerful. “Smelled your cook fire and thought you could spare some food.”

  “The hell you say,” the old man growled with a hint of a Spanish accent. He aimed his rifle straight at Heath’s heart. “That why you was layin’ on the ground spyin’ at us?” He cocked the trigger.

  “Hold on there, friend. We don’t mean any harm. Sorry if we bothered you. My wife and I will just be on our way.”

  “A moment please . . .” the Indian began in a sophisticated voice colored by a light French accent. It sounded so at odds with his appearance that Stevie whipped her head in his direction.

  He returned her stare with undisguised lust. “I apologize for my uncivilized friend, chérie.” When he snapped his fingers, the old man lowered his gun; the younger men did the same. “Come,” the Indian continued. “You are welcome among us.”

  Heath hated the man with every fiber of his being. He tightened his arm around Stevie’s waist.

  “Don’t you dare let that naked ape touch me,” she whispered for Heath’s ears only.

  He smiled and moved his hand closer to his Colt. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  The Indian noted Stevie’s reluctance and Heath’s protective stance. Rage deepened his color, but his tone remained pleasant. He pointed to the pot of food bubbling over the cook fire. “Help yourself, chérie.”

  Biding their time, Heath and Stevie each filled a tin plate with food and sat close together by the fire. The Indian filled tin cups from a blue metal pot. The air hummed with tension as he offered the coffee to Heath and Stevie, his eyes lingering on Stevie overlong.

  When they had pushed the food around their plates for a sufficient time, Heath said, “Appreciate your hospitality. But we should be getting settled for the night.”

  Noting their still-full plates, the Indian challenged, “Not hungry? Won’t you at least drink your coffee?”

  A muscle twitched in Heath’s jaw as the only sign of his displeasure. Who in hell was this savage? He acted as if he were receiving a peer of the realm in Queen Victoria’s parlor. “Certainly.” His lips barely moved as he spoke. He blew on the hot brew, then took a sip. Stevie followed his lead and drained her cup.

  “Now we really must leave.” The steel surety of Heath’s voice was unmistakable. He grasped Stevie’s hand as the wor
ld began to spin before his eyes, slowly at first, then faster and faster. He shook his head to clear his vision, to no avail. The hideous mask of his host’s smiling face faded in and out. The sky changed places with the ground.

  “Heath,” Stevie groaned, slumping against him.

  Heath was furious at himself for falling for such an amateurish stunt as having his coffee drugged. “You bastard.” He leveled his Colt on the Indian. The weapon felt as if it weighed a ton in his hand. “One move and I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!” He waved his gun in the direction of the other men. “Tell ‘em to drop their weapons or so help me God I’ll blow your head off.” When the men complied, he instructed the Indian to gather the guns. “Throw ’em in the back of the wagon.”

  He wrapped his arms around Stevie’s waist and dragged her away from camp. Calling upon his waning strength, he hoisted her over his shoulder. He hated leaving the captive behind. But he feared he had only a few minutes of consciousness left. Silently, he vowed to return for her later, after Stevie was safe.

  The world whirled around him like a top as he moved swiftly away from camp. He fought for control. Waves of nausea buffeted him; bile rose in his throat. He cast about for a place to hide, tumbled headlong into a gully, spilling Stevie onto the ground. Quickly, he gathered her against him and staggered on.

  Finally, he came upon a small cave where a mountain lion had birthed her young earlier in the spring. Hoping that the den was empty, he backed into it. Luck was with them; it was uninhabited.

  He moved deeper inside and laid Stevie on the ground. Returning to the opening, he piled dead branches, rendering the interior completely invisible from outside.

  He could hear the comancheros searching in the distance. Fortunately, the sun had fallen. With a little luck they wouldn’t pick up their trail in the dark. But he knew they would search again at daylight. Tomorrow would just have to take care of itself. For now, he whispered a prayer for Stevie’s safety. Then, falling down beside her, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her cheek. Shadows of the evening crept across the land as he lost consciousness.