“I’ll see what I can do,” he said quietly.
She looked askance at his somber features. “What are you talking about?” Her words were hesitant and he watched as her fingers formed fists in her lap.
“I have a little influence, Gussie. I’ll call in a marker or two.”
Bewilderment colored her features. “What sort of influence?” And then she rose, a napkin falling from her lap to the floor. Leaving it where it lay, she stepped back from him. “Who do you have influence with, Cleary?”
“The name is Jon,” he reminded her quietly.
“Right now your name is Cleary,” she told him. “Jon is my husband, a man I know. Cleary is a man with secrets, and I fear that is your identity tonight.”
“You’re wrong, Gussie. Tonight I’m the man you married. You can use any name you like to identify me, but the bottom line is that you’re my wife, and you’re my responsibility.” He reached out, his hand snaking to clasp her wrist, drawing her back to the bedside.
“I suppose you want me to climb in that bed with you,” she said stubbornly. “But you may be in for a grand awakening.”
“No, I think you’re the one with a surprise in store, sweetheart.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, retaining his hold on her with very little effort. Standing carefully, he drew her closer, his free arm circling her waist. “Whether or not we disagree about your brother, one thing will not change,” he told her, aware of the weakness that gripped his legs.
He widened his stride, balancing himself, taking her weight as he held her. “You will sleep in my bed, Gussie. You don’t have to fear that I’ll manhandle you. I probably couldn’t if I wanted to. And I’ll never force myself on you, so don’t be looking at me like a wounded puppy. But, you’ll sleep here. With me. Not just tonight, but every night.”
Her backbone felt as stiff as the broomstick in his kitchen, but her breasts were soft against his chest and he felt the reaction begin in his groin, the heat gathering as his firm arousal pressed against her. She looked up at him quickly, already aware of the needs his body could not conceal.
“Get undressed, Gussie.” And then he waited for her nod of agreement, releasing her from his grip as it was reluctantly given. He accepted it as a solemn promise. Gussie would not walk out the door and leave him alone. Not tonight, anyway. And if he was very cautious, if he whispered the words that sheltered in his heart, she would sleep in his arms.
She could not deny him. She’d promised to obey, and the knowledge that Cleary would never hurt her, would not take advantage of her, allowed her to undress as he watched. He was aroused—of that she was certain. He wanted her with a passion she recognized, his eyes narrowing, glittering in the lamplight, his mouth thinned and drawn taut. And yet, he would withhold his desire, control the urge to take her to himself.
He’d promised, and Jon Cleary was an honest man.
Her nightgown fell into place and she removed her drawers from beneath its folds. If there was a trace of disappointment in his eyes at her hidden maneuvers, he concealed it well, glancing aside as she leaned to blow out the lamp, holding the sheet high for her to crawl beneath its concealing cover. And then he reached for her, his hands careful, his touch gentle.
Settling her head on his shoulder, he turned, his wounded hip uppermost, and his arms surrounded her. One broad palm pressed against her back, just beneath her waist, where her hips widened a bit, where her bottom grew taut as she felt once more the unfamiliar pressure of a man’s touch. His other arm beneath her head, he folded it to surround her, and in his embrace she recognized anew the knowledge that Jon Cleary was her master in this area.
Lips that softened as they touched her skin pressed without urgency against her forehead. Words that murmured beneath his breath told her of her beauty, and she was cradled against a masculine form that left no doubt in her mind that desire ran rampant within the man she’d married. His male member twitched against her thigh, and she inhaled sharply.
“I promised. Remember?”
“I know,” she whispered in return. And yet, she was not satisfied. She’d thought to remain aloof, to obey his edict and sleep beside him, ignoring his male physique and all that the awakening flesh he pressed against her represented. But it was of no use. No use, whatsoever. The memory of his loving was alive in her mind, along with the tingling sensation she recognized as his hard flesh nudged the triangle where her thighs met.
“Jon?” Her whisper was soft, questioning, and he stilled the movement of his hand against her hips, that subtle circling that edged her ever closer to his arousal. “Jon, you don’t have to keep your promise. Not unless you really want to.”
“Are you angry with me?” His voice seemed to come from somewhere deep within him, vibrating against her ear.
She shook her head. “No. I might not agree with you entirely, but—”
His rumble of laughter welled up and his arms tightened their hold. “Now, that’s an understatement, if ever I heard one,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her temple. He lifted to his elbow, and his fingers twined in the cascading length of her hair. “I don’t care if you’re madder ’n hell, to tell the truth, sweetheart. If you’ll let me, I want to make love to you. We don’t have to always agree on everything. You’ve found that out already.”
He bent to kiss her, and she opened to him, holding her breath as his teeth touched her lower lip, biting gently, then suckling the tender flesh. “You can deny me, and I’ll live through it,” he said quietly. “But you’ll be denying yourself, too, and you know it. I’m glad you’re able to acknowledge that you want me. Maybe not as much as I want you, but I think I can make you happy and give you pleasure, if you’ll let me.”
Her arms lifted to circle his shoulders, her fingers sliding into his hair, pressing against his scalp. She returned his kiss, and as if it were a signal, he responded eagerly. With leisurely movements, his hands caressed her willing flesh. With softly spoken queries he discerned her needs, and his gentle touches answered the cry of her weeping flesh.
She moaned and he inhaled the sound. Her hands trembled and he placed them against his firm arousal, showing her with his broad palms and agile fingers what would please him best. Shivering against him, she submitted to his loving, her hips lifting to seek the succor he provided. And when her cries rose in the darkness, he heard them with a satisfaction he’d never known before.
She was his. His. And that knowledge brought him to the brink of completion before he was ready. He lifted her leg over his side, and she curled it around his waist, careful to stay clear of the bandage she’d put in place. He sought and found her warmth, and she welcomed him, curving against him, accepting his mastery over her body as he pressed home into her tender depths.
It was an easy, gentle possession, and he reveled in the silken softness of her womanhood. Her internal muscles were tense, holding him in a tight, intimate embrace, her whispers of pleasure akin to music in his ears.
He filled her with the essence of his yearning, claiming her body with a tenderness she had not expected. His fingers clutched her thigh, holding her where he would for his enhanced pleasure, and she pressed against him. She ached for a deeper touch from that invasive part of him, thankful for the care he took with her fragile flesh, yet arching against him as if she would invite him deeper yet. Invite the sweet fire of his possession into her very being.
His husky sounds of rapture were breathed into her ear, and he felt the dampness of tears against his throat and chest. “Gussie? Have I hurt you?” He lifted from her, but she would not allow him to set her apart from him, clutching at his neck with fingers that strained for purchase.
“No,” she whispered. “You didn’t hurt me, Jon. I just want to be a part of you and hold you closer.”
His eyes closed as he felt a prickle of tears rise to invade their surfaces. It would not do for him to weep. He hadn’t shed a tear since…
He couldn’t remember the last time. Perhaps when his fathe
r died, and he was left to mourn the man who had sired him. At sixteen, he was still a lad, yet had been forced to become a man.
Now, at thirty-four, a man full grown, he was burdened with a past containing both good and bad, and it seemed at times that the bad weighed far the heaviest. Thirty-four, and for the first time in his life, loving a woman beyond any expectation he’d ever had in that direction.
He was a husband, holding a beautiful woman in his arms, a woman he’d kept in ignorance. And for that he might pay a high price. Fear overwhelmed happiness for a moment, and desperation tightened his hold on the slender body he held. For he faced the possibility of being exposed as a liar, should events fall into place—as they surely would.
He bent to kiss her, deeply, fervently and with all of the love he could bestow upon her face and form, wondering if it might be the last time she would lie thus by his side. Praying in his deepest heart that the bond he’d forged between their bodies would be sufficient to bind their hearts as one.
“Where’s this husband of yours?” Wilson stood before her, a belligerent thrust of his jaw making her aware of the determination he harbored. “I’ve been here two days already, and you haven’t seen fit to introduce me to the man.”
Augusta scanned his bedraggled appearance and smiled sweetly. “You don’t look fit to meet a hound dog, brother dear. Where’ve you been?”
“Cleaning out your attic, as if you didn’t know.” His age showed in the youthful petulance he displayed, she thought, and her heart was touched by the fleeting glimpse of the boy he’d been.
“I thought Honey was doing that.”
“I’m helping her,” he said defensively. “She shouldn’t be handling heavy boxes.”
“There aren’t any up there,” Augusta said quietly. “I only asked her to sweep and open the windows to air out the place.”
Wilson’s hands rested on his hips, a defensive position she recalled from his youth, and then he grinned, as if he recognized his own foolishness. “Well, it happens I wanted to spend time with her,” he confessed. “She’s a pretty girl and I think she likes me.”
“And she’s pregnant.” The words were nonjudgmental, but Augusta knew her gaze held a warning.
“She’s had a rough time of things.”
“Do you see yourself as her rescuer?” Augusta turned away from him and lifted the basket of trash she’d carried from the kitchen. The burn pile was at the furthest point from the house, and she’d taken on the task of gathering up all the bits and pieces that needed to be disposed of today.
Close on her heels, Wilson double-stepped to reach her side, taking the basket from her with a quick movement. “Let me carry that,” he said gruffly. “You do too much, Gussie. Mama would roll over in her grave if she could see how hard you work. And if she knew what you’ve done with your inheritance.”
“And what did you do with yours?” Her glance in his direction held accusation and he flinched.
“Generally made a mess of things,” he admitted.
They reached the hole in which household trash was burned and he dumped the basket, then reached into his pocket for a box of matches. She watched his profile as he lit one and bent to hold its flame to a piece of paper. He squatted there, watching as the fire caught and flared, his gaze attached firmly to the blaze.
“I’ll take you to my husband’s home this afternoon,” she said quietly.
“His name’s Cleary,” Wilson said. “Honey told me.”
A chill touched Augusta’s spine as her brother’s voice hardened, spitting out Jonathan’s last name as if it were a bit of garbage he’d brought to his mouth.
“Yes, it is,” she murmured. “Have you heard of him?”
“Maybe. I ran into a fella by that name, up in Wyoming, last year.”
She searched her memory. Had Jon mentioned being that far north? It seemed she should be able to recall if he had. His scant referrals to his past had lodged in her brain, and she’d reviewed them frequently. “His family is from hereabouts,” she said. “He’s a Texan, born and bred,” she said, unconsciously quoting Jonathan’s claim.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Wilson told her, rising to stand beside her as the smoke filled the air around them.
They stepped back from the fire, waiting till it should burn down before they left it unguarded. “What do you mean?” Augusta looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun overhead.
“The man I knew was some sort of government fella. I wondered then if he might not have been a Texas Ranger.”
“He was a lawman?”
Wilson nodded. “Working with the Wyoming Cattlemen’s Association.” He turned to meet her gaze and his own was shielded, as if he hid secrets he would not share.
“Did he arrest you?” Her heart beat faster, its rhythm wild as she considered the possibility of Cleary hiding such a thing from her.
“We’re not talkin’ about your husband, sis. We’re discussing a man in Wyoming, and the likelihood of them being one and the same is pretty far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“Did he arrest you?” she repeated.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of? Did he send you to prison?”
He shot her a look of astonishment. “I did that to myself. You can’t blame someone else for your crimes. I found that out over the past few months.”
“And now you’re on the run.” She felt quick tears behind her eyelids, and her gaze dropped to the fire pit. “If my husband should be the man you knew, would he be obliged to turn you over to the sheriff?”
“Does he know I’m here?”
She nodded. “He read the letter you sent me.” Her hands thrust deeply into her apron pockets. “He hasn’t mentioned you.”
“If it’s the same fella, he knew me as Gus.”
“Gus?” She lifted bewildered eyes, whispering the lone syllable with a hissing sound that made him smile.
“I didn’t use my name, sis. Remember how I used to tease you and tell you that Mama should have named me Gus, not you? And how we used to call ourselves Gus and Gussie?”
She nodded, her mind frantic as she considered the possibilities of what this day might bring. “He’s not a lawman,” she stated fervently. “He has something to do with banks. But if he were a lawman, he’d have told me that.”
Wilson shrugged. “Then we have nothing to worry about, have we?”
“The house needs cleaning,” Augusta said as she opened the front door. “I haven’t had time to turn out the corners yet. I thought maybe I’d bring the ladies over tomorrow and we could do a thorough job of it.”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me,” Wilson said, waiting for her to step over the threshold into the entry hall. “I think you’re nervous, sis, and I don’t want you to be. I’ll face whatever happens here.”
“You’re my brother,” she said tightly. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t let it.”
“You always cheered for the underdog, even when we were kids,” Wilson remembered. He looked around, admiring the high ceiling, the wainscoting and the wide, curving staircase. “It’s a beautiful house. You’ll make a beautiful home here, sis.”
“Not if I find out Cleary has lied to me,” she said fiercely. “I can’t tolerate a liar. Especially not a man who—”
“A man who what?” The voice came from the parlor, and with silent steps, Cleary moved from the doorway into the entry hall. “A man who married you and took you to bed, Augusta? Would that make me more than a liar?” His glance slid past Wilson to focus on the woman whose face had gone pale at his words.
And then he allowed his narrowed gaze to touch the man beside her once more. “Hello, Gus. Fancy meeting you here.”
Augusta murmured a word that gripped his heart and, as she slumped to the floor, Cleary stepped forward to take her weight in his arms. He grunted at the pain he’d managed to inflict on his wound, his lips tightening as he lifted her.
“Let me have her,” Wilson said qu
ickly. “Tell me where to take her.”
“I’ve got her,” Cleary murmured, unable to inhale deeply enough to speak in a normal tone. I’ve got her. Perhaps for the last time he held his wife, given her words only moments before.
He relished the slight weight of her, unwilling to give her to the other man, clasping her against his chest with ebbing strength. He’d thought himself healed, almost ready to face the coming task. And he laughed silently as he recognized his own foolishness.
The sofa beckoned, and he bent to relinquish Augusta’s form to the horsehair cushions. Her arm hung to the floor and he lifted its limp weight, placing it across her waist. Then he knelt beside her, and his hand was warm against cool, seemingly lifeless flesh. Her cheek was waxen, her eyelids closed, concealing the bright blue of her sparkling eyes.
Yet, he knew that when they opened and met his own, they would no longer be filled with warmth. The soft light of love they’d held so recently would be gone, and he would be faced with the desolate black pit of hatred. It was the other side of love. He’d heard it spoken thusly and never before understood the meaning. Now it faced him with the intensity of a pain he might never escape.
“Gussie.” His whisper was soft, his voice calling her back from the escape her mind had sought. He looked up at the young man beside him. “Go into the kitchen and bring a glass of water. Dampen a towel so I can wipe her face.”
He needed these moments with her, he thought, listening as Wilson left the room, aware of his footsteps in the hallway, the swinging of the kitchen door as it opened and closed.
Bending over the woman he loved, he touched her cheek with his own, seeking to infuse her with the warmth of his body. His hands held hers and he rubbed the slender fingers, then lifted them to his mouth, his lips tasting the sweetness of her skin.
“Sweetheart, wake up for me.” His whisper was desperate, needing to reach her, probing the depths of unconsciousness into which she’d retreated. “I love you, Gussie.” He whispered the words against her ear, words he’d spoken to no other woman. She knew already of his love; he’d made it clear. Even the first time they’d come together, he’d murmured the words in her ear. And yet, he repeated them again, as if by hearing them once more, she might forgive him his sins against her.
The Texan Page 19
