Orchids in Moonlight

by Patricia Hagan

  Even as he lowered his lips to nibble softly and whisper how much he wanted her, a part of him was ever alert should the Indians return. With his hands cupping her bottom and drawing her closer, she squirmed deliciously to feel the hard, rigid length of him against her belly.

  He inhaled her fragrant softness, the damp sweetness of her hair. With his tongue, he trailed a path of fire to her ear, to drive her to fever pitch with his hot, wet assault.

  Jaime could wait no longer; she trembled from wanting him. No longer shy, no longer able to hold back from yielding to her own incessant urge, she boldly mounted him.

  Smiling with delight, he grasped her by her tiny waist and settled her down upon him. She gasped softly but reveled in the ecstatic wonder of how he filled her.

  He reached for her breasts, and she leaned forward to render her all. He drew her to his hungry lips to suckle, and she arched her back and pressed her fingertips against his chest to stroke, urging him onward.

  "Never," she whispered throatily, her face raised to the night and bathed in moon glow, "never have I known anything so wonderful."

  He caught the tip of her nipple between his teeth and bit just hard enough to make her bottom wriggle delightfully upon his shaft. "It gets better and better," he promised, flicking his tongue to and fro, sending rivulets of torturous delight into her loins. "It hasn't even started."

  Afterward, when she had joined a shooting star to soar across the heavens in glorious explosion, and he had emptied himself inside her in his own soul-searing climax, Jaime lay quietly in his arms and pondered his words.

  It hasn't even started....

  Locked in her throat were many words of endearment she yearned to speak in that quiet moment of awe and splendor but dared not.

  She had tried not to fall in love but to no avail. Now all she could do was savor the time they had together and keep him from knowing how she felt, lest he regard her with pity for her foolishness.

  Wanting to break the rapturous spell that had enveloped her before she did yield to impulse and confess what she was feeling, Jaime rolled over on her stomach to prop her chin on her hands and stare out at the glowing landscape below.

  Something caught her eye.

  Mere inches away, a strange flower was growing, and she was at once awed by its graceful beauty. It had three upright petals and two drooping, with a delicate ragged throat. In the moonlight, it seemed to glow with a silver hue, although she could see it was a bluish purple color with fingers of white at the base of the petals. "I don't think I've ever seen anything so pretty," she whispered reverently.

  "Neither have I." Cord smiled. He was not talking about the flower.

  "I think it's called an iris." She touched her fingertip to a satiny petal. "I saw some sketches of different flowers in a book once, and I remember seeing one like this."

  He turned to join her in scrutiny. "Actually, it's an orchid. Someone has to have planted it here. Remember me showing you flowers all along the trail that pioneers passing through had set out? This one is what they call cultivated, or hybrid. I don't know why anyone would leave it here and expect it to grow. The last one I saw was in a greenhouse in California."

  "But it is growing, and it's beautiful."

  He reached out and plucked the blossom, then turned on his back to drink in the sight of her as he tucked it above her ear.

  As he traced his thumb across her lower lip, she smiled ever so shyly as he murmured, "Orchids in moonlight... and you."

  He pulled her face toward his. "What man could ask for more?"

  And he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss.

  Chapter 12

  By day, they concentrated on the journey at hand, covering as much ground as possible between dawn and dusk.

  By night, they slept in each other's arms, spent with passion.

  Yet while Cord treated her with tenderness and affection in so many ways, Jaime was disappointed that he never murmured a word of personal endearment. So she bit back her own utterances and avowals of affection, even though she could feel her love for him growing deeper.

  Sometimes, compounded by the weariness of the grueling trek, her frustration would become unbearable. She would lag behind, eyes boring into his back as though trying to see inside to his very heart and discover what made him hold that part of him distant.

  She had pressed the orchid between the pages of her Bible, and one afternoon, trying to take her mind off how much she adored him, Jaime asked about it, reminding him, "You said you saw one in a greenhouse."

  "In California," he confirmed. "The man who built it cultivates orchids, but he also grows a variety of other flowers for his bees."

  "Bees? For honey?"

  "That's right. The climate is great for bees and flowers. Wild roses, violets, mint, clover. Everything bees like. Certain kinds grow year round, but with the number of homesteaders coming to clear fields and graze sheep that eat everything by the root, flowers are dwindling. That's why cultivation started, to plant alfalfa, honeysuckle, even groves of oranges.

  "But orchids don't give off a fragrance," he went on. "The bees don't want them, so they're grown just for their beauty. Probably the one we found was planted there as a lark by a botanist passing by."

  "Well, it doesn't matter who left it. I'll always treasure it."

  When he did not respond, Jaime bit back disappointment to again be reminded how he avoided any nuance of romance or intimacy—except in bed.

  * * *

  As they wound their way higher into the Sierras, the air became colder. Warily, Cord watched the skies in fear of snow clouds gathering, while Jaime wrapped a blanket about herself to try and keep warm as she rode.

  The day the Indians appeared, Jaime nearly fell off the mule in fright, but Cord snapped, "Don't move. Don't scream. Don't make a sound."

  He held his rifle across his lap in readiness should the Indians make an aggressive move. There were five of them, and they did not seem hostile, for it was Jaime they were looking at, and Cord saw the fear etched on their faces. As if by instinct, their ponies began to back away.

  He spoke to them in their language, and they all tried to respond at once, pointing at Jaime as they did so. He laughed. "News travels fast out here. All the Pah Utes for miles around have heard about the crazy woman with gold hair. Of course, the story has grown a little with each smoke signal, and now you're considered not only tetched but heap bad medicine, as well."

  Jaime did not like the way they were gawking at her but knew it was better than being scalped and said so.

  "Actually, scalping would solve the problem." He was able to tease her, despite the tension. "Your hair gives you away."

  The Indians were turning to leave. Jaime saw the dead sheep slung over the rumps of their ponies and knew these were hunters, like the two they had encountered previously.

  She was startled when Cord called out to stop them, pointing at her while he communicated in the strange gibberish.

  "What are you doing?" she cried. "Why did you stop them? Let them go. I don't like this...."

  "You will," he said confidently. "I just made a trade."

  Astonished, she watched as one of the Indians removed the big thick buffalo-skin coat he was wearing. Keeping his eye on her lest she cast a spell, he handed it over to Cord before rushing to join his fellow braves, who were already hurrying away.

  Cord helped her put it on. It was bulky and heavy and smelled to high heaven, but the warmth was welcome.

  As the Indians disappeared around a bend in the trail, she wanted to know what he had given them in return. "I didn't see you offer anything."

  "Yes, I did." He flashed a grin. "I told them you promised not to work bad medicine on them if they'd give you a coat."

  She tried not to laugh. "That's swindling, and you know it."

  "Not really. They think they got the best part of the deal.

  "And maybe they did," he added, wrinkling his nose as he caught a whiff of the smelly coat. "But you
probably won't need to wear it after the next few days. Not for a while, anyway. It's time for what's called Indian summer." He went on to explain how, even though they were almost into late autumn, the weather could turn surprisingly mild and warm for the next few weeks. "It's like nature is giving one last chance to get ready for the bitter cold of winter."

  * * *

  A few days later, his prediction came true, and Jaime reveled in the sweet warmth of sunshine streaming down on her face. He made her pull out the slat bonnet she had used to hide from him in the beginning, remarking that her face would blister.

  "It just feels so wonderful," she argued, twisting her hair up to cool her neck and back. "We went through some really cold weather for a few days. We saw ice, remember?"

  "And we'll see more, just beyond that next pass."

  She squinted in the midday sun to see what looked like a tall thin crevice running between two mountains and wanted to know what awaited.

  "The roughest part of the trail. Almost straight up. And it's bitter cold, because little sunlight shines through the trees. The firs and pines are real thick there, because we're below the timberline."

  As much as he hated to take the time, Cord said they would lay over the day before entering the pass. Since the river cut through a narrow gorge, they would be away from it for a spell as they climbed upward. He wanted to catch some river trout and dry the skinned fish in the sun for jerky, as well as give the horse and mules time to rest up. He added she looked like she could use some rest, as well.

  When they made camp, he drifted away to fish and hunt, and Jaime soon grew bored. She decided to look for any vegetation that could be used for food. They still had a few sacks of beans, but any variety in their diet was welcome.

  She moved through the forest, savoring the pungent sweetness of the fragrant pines. Yielding to autumn, the night frosts had begun to sting, bronzing the grasses and ripening the leaves of the creeping heathworts along the banks of the stream to crimson and reddish purple. Where once wildflowers were abundant, only a few daisies and goldenrods remained.

  Warmed by the sun, butterflies had come out to hover and dance above her, and the air was alive with the sound of hummingbirds frantically searching for a last drop of nectar.

  Jaime began to gather pine nuts. Only a half inch long, the white kernels turned brown when roasted and would make a delicious treat for them as they doggedly followed the trail.

  Intent on what she was doing, she ventured deeper and deeper into the dense woods without realizing it, forgetting Cord's warning to stay close to camp. It was only when she had to strain to see in the darkness that she realized she had wandered so far.

  Turning, she lost her bearings and felt a stab of panic to think she might be lost. Then she spotted her marker, as Cord had told her always to do. Fixing on the tiny sapling jutting out from the overhang near the campsite, she made her way back through the brush and foliage, heading for the clear path.

  She did not see the rabbit hole. All of a sudden, her foot dropped belowground to her ankle. Flailing, she managed to keep from pitching forward onto her face and instead fell to one knee, while her other leg remained stiff, her foot stuck.

  She heard the loud, angry buzzing sound at the same instant she felt a sharp white-hot stab into her flesh.

  "Damn bees," she cursed, gritting her teeth against the stinging pain. How could a bee hurt so badly, she wondered dizzily.

  Clutching her leg, she yanked mightily, finally jerking free. Staring into the hole, she saw only darkness, but the buzzing continued. Then, with a creeping chill, she realized the sound was more of a hissing, and she could also hear slithering, as though something was wrestling about, trying to climb out.

  With fear-widened eyes, she looked at her ankle and saw a yellow venom oozing from two tiny puncture wounds.

  "Dear God, no," she breathed in horror. Just then a snake slithered upward from its den to disappear into the brush.

  Hobbling backward away from the hole, panic squeezing to choke and strangle, Jaime prayed for strength to make it back to the campsite. If she passed out here, Cord might not find her till it was too late. It might already be too late, she realized, dread washing over her.

  The pain was excruciating. Daggers of agony were shooting up and down her leg. She ran a little farther before slowing as she remembered one of Wilma Turnage's warnings—anyone bitten by a poisonous snake should try to remain calm, lest the poison spread quicker.

  Several times, she paused to call out to Cord, as loudly as she could, but the sound merely bounced back at her within nature's shielding shroud.

  She was getting dizzy, and it was becoming more difficult to move due to the numbness spreading from the wound. She fell, scraped her head on something, and saw it was a long curved stick. Hoisting herself back up, she pressed her weight against it and continued limping onward.

  She did not know when she reached the site, for her mind had taken her away from the horror of the moment. The ground smashed into her face, and she was taken to merciful oblivion.

  * * *

  Cord lay on his stomach, stretched across the rocks. Below him, in the crystal-clear water, a large, lazy trout swam in the shallows. He waited for what he felt was the right moment, then plunged his hand downward—and missed. With a triumphant flip of its tail, the fish darted away.

  Cord didn't really care. Already he had landed a dozen, which would slice up into a generous supply of jerky. Now he was just passing time, wanting to be alone to try and sort out his thoughts.

  Something was happening deep inside him, something he did not want and fought against, using the painful lessons of the past as ammunition. It didn't help any to feel that Jaime was starting to care deeply for him, as well. But—he gave a bitter laugh—he knew all too well how that would change if she knew the truth about his background. Besides, he had made a vow to neither give nor receive love, and that's the way it had to be. Maybe some men could, but not him. It just wasn't in his blood, due to his father's weakness.

  Where he had chosen to fish, the stream was narrow and jutted off from the river. With the spiky mountains as a frame, gazing up was like looking from out of a deep tunnel. Ringed by mighty firs and pines and a few oaks lower down was the bluish gray sky, and Cord knew he should be heading back to camp.

  Yet he tarried. Thinking of how Jaime would react if she knew of his Indian background, he allowed painful memories to surface.

  The summer he was seventeen seemed a lifetime ago. He was hanging around a military post in Texas by then, earning his keep as a scout. He was a good one too, thanks to all the Apaches had taught him. But back then, he was too naive to fully understand what a stigma it was to have lived with them.

  He learned quickly, however, and painfully, thanks to the daughter of the post commander.

  Her name was Nora Lansing, and the day she and her mother arrived at the post, Cord had taken one look and stupidly forgot his vow never to love. He was smitten, hard and hopelessly.

  With so beautiful and vivacious a young woman on the post, every unmarried officer, and even some of the single enlisted men, beat a path to her door. Cord watched from afar, figuring he didn't stand a chance, but when she began to smile and flirt with him he decided to pay her a call too.

  He had put on clean buckskins, washed and brushed his shoulder-length hair. He even splashed on some rose water after scraping his face with the shaving stone. He'd picked a bouquet of daisies for her from outside the gate. She had been delighted and boldly kissed his cheek in gratitude.

  Then his bubble of happiness burst with a loud bang.

  Major Lansing loomed up behind her in the doorway of their quarters, took one look at Cord, and angrily bellowed, "What's that half-breed doing at my door?"

  Nora had dropped the flowers as if they were covered in spiders. Pressing back against her father she had glared at Cord in revulsion.

  The major was pulling her back, and Cord had tried to explain. "No, Miss Nora. T
hat's not true. I don't have a drop of Indian blood...."

  Major Lansing's lips had curved in a contemptuous sneer. "It doesn't matter. You were raised by the murdering Apaches. That makes you one of them, no better than a savage."

  Cord had defended himself. "Sir, that's just not so. Please. I mean your daughter no harm—"

  "Shut up," Major Lansing had yelled, temper boiling over. "How dare you argue with me? I agreed you could work as a scout, because you know the area, but you're still an Indian, as far as I'm concerned, and I won't have you coming near my daughter. Now get out of here. And get off the post. I won't stand for any half-breeds that don't know their place."

  Cord knew if he lived to be a thousand years old, he would never forget the look on Nora Lansing's face as the door slammed on him.

  if Nora had not joined her father in rejecting him, if she had said just one word in his behalf, he knew it would not have hurt so bad.

  He had left the post that night and moved on.

  Renewing his vow not to feel anything beyond passion for any woman, he made sure he sought out only the soiled doves, the ladies of pleasure, the ones he could pay for their services.

  That was how he regarded Jaime. Her payment was his getting her safely to California. After that, he would put her out of his mind forever.

  There could be no other way.

  He headed back to the camp, confident he again had a hold on his emotions.

  As he approached the camp, he frowned to see there was no campfire burning. Jaime knew to get one going before dusk, and he had never known her not to do what was expected of her.

  With a stab of apprehension, he quickened his step, calling out to her, alarm thick in his voice.

  Then, in the twilight, he saw her.

  With a furious oath, he dropped the fish he was carrying and broke into a run the rest of the way. He knew something was badly wrong by the way she lay in a crumpled heap.

  Kneeling beside her, he saw no blood on her head, except for where she'd scraped her face when she hit the ground. He began to look for another wound and drew a sharp breath when he spotted the swelling above her left ankle.