Inextinguishable Love: Firefighter and Interracial Romance

by Kathleen Bunker

  It wasn't just that they were two men who had been known to thieve and kill. It was the fact that the way they were shackled in the tub meant that the only position available for her to get a good look necessitated that she climb into the bath with them.

  “Forgive me, Lady Widow, but I do not believe now is the time to fall back on delicate sensibilities.”

  Travis was right and she was well aware of it.

  “Yes, yes. Alright.”

  There was a great deal of maneuvering that ended with her placed in a ring of masculine legs. Her back was pressed firmly to Travis' chest, though she knelt in the circle of Angus' thighs. Despite the fact that everyone was clothed and a medical situation was taking place, intimacy hung in the air like perfume.

  Her hands trembled as she lifted them to the very first button. Heat rose from his body in thick waves. The fabric of his button down shirt, heavy with rain and blood, had plastered itself to his skin, revealing a physique that seemed crafted to draw the eye.

  Genevieve had not had a great deal of practice undressing men. Her husband, when he had chosen to come to her bedroom rather than visit the women of the gambling hall, had come to her in a robe. Even that had happened less and less frequently as the years had gone on. She had, at first, wondered what it was those women could do that kept him so interested. Later she had decided that there was nothing wrong with her, as her husband was a man who was easily distracted. In the most recent years she had relegated herself to something of married spinsterhood. At least, of course, until her had whisked her away to this.

  “Problem?” Angus asked. The rain had pulled his braid out of its binding and the locks hung heavy around a face as hard and chiseled as granite.

  “I believe that you have drawn the eye of our Lady Widow,” Travis quipped. His lips were nearly at her ear. “How marvelous.”

  “Hardly,” she snapped. As if to prove herself she deftly undid one button, and then the next. “I simply did not want to cause more harm than necessarily.”

  “Well of course,” Travis answered, “we wouldn't want that.”

  The fabric peeled away slowly, revealing a chest crafted of warm copper. A pattern of scars wove itself across the lean lines of him, but they did not detract from the ultimately masculine form. No indeed, they seemed to emphasize it.

  The wound was no larger around than the tip of her thumb, at least in the front. She tugged the shirt down his arm until she could see the line of his shoulder. There was a slight bulge where there shouldn't be. A gentle touch was enough to confirm her suspicions.

  “The bullet is stuck just beneath the skin,” she explained. “I'll need to remove it.”

  “Are you a healer as well as a bounty hunter?” The Gentleman asked. She felt him move behind her, the lean press of his chest to her back had her senses growing hot.

  Genevieve shook her head and cleared her throat. “My father was. I was his nurse for many years.”

  “Get on with it,” Angus demanded, thrusting his wounded shoulder in her direction. There was a tightness around his lips, and a paleness beneath his eyes that told her he was in a great deal of pain. She nodded.

  “I'll need some hot water, a small knife and bandages,” she said, more to herself than the two men.

  “I could assist,” The Gentleman said. “I was at the university before making my way out West, I took several anatomy classes.”

  “I'm sure that has been of great help in your current occupation.”

  “It has, actually.” He treated her with a charming smile. With his hat off she could see that his locks were a rich and lustrous brown, with a stubborn curl around his face. “Though I don't think your remark was intended to be facetious.”

  She made a non-committal sound and began rooting around in the few bits of luggage that had managed to be salvaged. It was precious little. When the rain relented, she would have to go out and scavenge for more items.

  She had a pot for boiling water. Travis had a small knife tucked in his boot. The only clean fabric, however, was the cotton of her favorite chemise. She resisted the urge to curse.

  “It's just a dress.” Angus gritted his teeth.

  “Your lack of civility continues to astound and astonish,” Travis smirked. “That, my friend, is a very fine lady’s undergown, hand crafted if I am not mistaken.”

  “Did you take classes in tailoring at your university as well?” Genevieve snipped. “Or are you just an expert in women's underthings.”

  Travis laughed. “With a wit like yours, ma’am, I am happy to show you what an expert I can be.”

  Her cheeks flamed brilliantly enough that she decided to turn away.

  “I'll have to go boil the water.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Try not to die before I return.”

  Angus didn't die in the time that it took her to boil the water and put together the bandages, but he had turned several shades paler than he had been. The wound wasn't bleeding externally. That was not a good sign. It meant that something was bleeding on the inside.

  “Damn,” she cursed.

  “Such language coming from a fine lady’s mouth,” Travis quipped. It wasn't very light-hearted, however. His concern for his friend was creasing his handsome brow. “How is he?”

  “Get out of the tub,” she commanded. “I'll need to lay him out.”

  It was no easy feat to climb out of the bath, but Travis managed it. His arms were placed at an angle that was going to quickly cut off the circulation.

  “Let me help,” he offered once more. “I give you my word that I will not harm you.”

  She snorted and tried to adjust Angus, but Travis' new position didn't give her enough room for that. “I don't believe you.”

  “You don't have to,” he explained, “but you do need my help, and the room to operate.”

  It was that last word that made her heart sink. She knew she was going to have to do more than just pull out a bullet. There was something very wrong, and there was a very good chance she'd need his help before the end.

  “Fine,” she said, pulling the key out of her pocket. “But I won’t hesitate to shoot you if you try to pull anything over on me.”

  “I believe you.”

  She unlocked him and there was one tense moment where she wondered if he would strike her or run. He did neither. Rather, he knelt by the tub and helped heft his friend out. With more chain available they could pull him out of the tub and lay him out on the floor. He was a tall man, and took up a great deal of space. She knelt to one side, Travis to the other.

  “Wash your hands,” she told him.

  Travis removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was younger than she originally thought. The mustache made him look more mature, but under the soft lantern light she realized that they were of an age.

  “Would you like something to bite down on?” she asked Angus.

  He shook his head. “Just...just do it.”

  When they were both ready, she began.

  It was hours’ worth of work that left her back aching and her brow wet. Travis, as he had claimed, was an excellent assistant. The beginning was the easiest part, the removal of the bullet. It was barely an inch beneath the skin, and it took nearly nothing to remove it.

  “It's broken.” She held it up, examining the ball. “There is another half of a bullet lodged inside.”

  Travis gave her a long look. “Then let us make haste.”

  She didn't have any tools save for the sharp knife. There was nothing she could do to investigate the wound, save for her own hands. They would have to do.

  “This is going to hurt,” she told Angus. He said nothing, merely gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

  She washed her hand once more and then proceeded to explore the wound. Angus shivered.

  “Hold him still!” she commanded.

  Travis pressed down on his friend’s good shoulder in an effort to keep him from moving.

  “Well?” he demanded.

 
“One moment.”

  “I'm not sure that he has many moments left to offer you, Widow.”

  “Silence!” she commanded once more.

  She closed her eyes and felt around with her finger. The wound was hot, too hot, burning off whatever had infected it. She probed gently. Then the very tip of her finger found the rounded edge of a bullet.

  “There it is! Give me the knife.”

  Her hand was covered with slick blood when the weight of the handle hit her palm. She gripped it firmly and then pushed it into the wound. Angus' leg jerked, stomping against the ground.

  “Shhh,” she whispered. “I know it hurts, I know, shhh.”

  She turned her wrist and felt the bullet move.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Come on.”

  “Quickly,” Travis goaded. “He's gone very pale.”

  She turned her wrist again and suddenly, a tiny bit of metal no larger than the tip of her smallest finger clattered against the ground.

  “There it is!” Travis cheered.

  He leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. His lips were satin as they flattened against hers. Caught up in the triumph of the moment she returned the motion, parting her mouth and lashing her tongue hungrily against his.

  Her body woke to the taste of him. She made a small sound and then ripped away.

  He was grinning, she was not.

  “That was hardly appropriate.”

  “You didn't seem to mind at first.”

  “Shows what you know.” The words held a great deal of heat, but not a lot of honesty.

  She turned her gaze back to Angus. “I'll need to bind the wound.”

  They propped him up and, as a team, they wrapped bits of her cut up chemise around him, binding the wound. It was tedious, but easier than the operation had been.

  “What is your prognosis, Lady Widow?”

  “He'll live,” she said, “but only if he doesn't aggravate it. The wound is quite willing to bleed, and I do not know that he'll be able to survive it opening.”

  “So we will not be traveling?”

  “He's worth a great deal more alive than he is dead,” she expressed. “We can stay for a few days at least.”

  “Back into the cuffs with me, then?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Into the cuffs.”

  *****

  A few days quickly turned into a few weeks. Whether it was the initial bullet wound, or the fact that half the operation had been done with a knife, Angus did not heal quickly.

  In fact, halfway through his healing process Genevieve tried to move him. The wound split open. Had it not been for quick thinking and a great deal of effort he could have died.

  As she had no desire to kill the man, they were stuck here for the foreseeable future.

  It did not help that they had no horses and very few supplies. One of the few things that had managed to survive the raid, the crash and the subsequent rain (which had gone on for nearly three days) had been the seeds her husband had purchased. Neatly packed in wax lined packages the seeds were relatively untouched. That and her husband's journal.

  She took it as a sign from God, because what few supplies they had were running out.

  She walked into the bathroom on the morning of the second week. Angus was asleep in the tub, a layer of blanket had been tucked around him and the cushion from the stage coach made for a decent enough pillow.

  “I'll need your help,” she told Travis.

  He held up his cuffed wrists. “I am at your disposal.”

  She uncuffed him and led him out to the front yard.

  “He isn't thriving. I can't move him and I can't drag his dead body to the nearest town without potentially killing him.”

  “You aren't the Widow, are you?”

  She paused. “I'm a widow.”

  “But not THE Widow.” He fixed his eyes on her. They were good eyes, a rich hazel shade that ran closer to green. “She wouldn't care if the man lived or died, only that she turned in a body. She is cold that way.”

  She took a deep breath and blew it out. “My name is Genevieve Tavers, my husband was Lord William Tavers and he died on his way out West.”

  “I see.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “Make a new life for myself,” she told him. “My first plan was to sell all of the items that my husband had packed and go to Silver Creek to get in touch with a solicitor and see if I could free the funds that my husband gained upon selling our homes.”

  His voice was surprisingly gentle when he asked, “Is that no longer an option?”

  “My husband was a terrible gambler,” she explained. Her eyes stayed fixed on the empty farmland. “The word 'terrible' is the most important in that particular statement.”

  She held up her husband's journal. The page fell open to a series of bank notes and receipts.

  “I had thought it was just a love of frivolity that pushed him to go out West. It seems that even after selling nearly everything we owned, there is still a rather prodigious amount of debt.”

  “What do you plan to do?” he asked looking down at the rain smeared numbers.

  “I plan to take a new name. My husband is dead and I cannot return home without inheriting the culmination of his stupidity. I plan on making this,” she motioned around her, “my new home.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “A few things,” she admitted. “I need you and your friend alive, but I fear that he needs to be left alone for at least a few more week, perhaps two months. But we do not have the supplies for that.” She held up the sacks of seeds.

  “You want to farm?”

  “It is not my first choice, merely my only one. The closest town is too far and I don't have anything to trade save for you and your friend. I could turn you in now, of course and save myself half my troubles...”

  “But?” he prompted.

  “But...I need your held to start the venture.”

  “So you want me to help you start a farm so that you can keep us alive for a few more months so that you can turn us in at the end of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “I am not seeing how this is helpful to me or Angus at all.”

  “You would be helping a lady in need,” she offered.

  “You seem to forget that we were more than willing to put in that place of need to begin with.”

  She sighed. “I will help free you.”

  “Pardon?” His face lit up with surprise and shock. “I am not entirely sure that I heard you correctly.

  “After I turn you in and receive the reward, I will help you escape so that you can go be capture or killed by someone else.”

  “Why don't you just trade the seeds?” he asked.

  She frowned at him, “Because the food is worth more and I need a renewable source of income.”

  “This place is a lot for a woman to take care of.”

  “I will handle that; will you help me?”

  He eyed her for a long moment, then offered his hand. “Alright, Genevieve Tavers, I will help you.”

  When she took his hand he brought it to his lips and kissed it lightly. It was a gentleman's kiss. Had they been standing in a ballroom rather than the porch of an old house she would have expected him to ask her to dance.

  It struck her that, in a different place, she would have accepted his advances. He was smart, handsome and well mannered. He was everything that an established husband should have been. If you could overlook the robbery and gun slinging.

  “What is going on behind those beautiful eyes of yours, Genevieve?”

  She cleared her throat and took her hand back.

  “I don't know.”

  He smiled, and they both knew that she was lying.

  *****

  The peas went into the ground first, if only because they took nearly no time to grow. The potatoes were next because Genevieve would need as many of them as possible in order to see herself through the winter.

  The p
lan had been explained to Angus at Travis' insistence. He had sat in the tub, propped up by his pillow, his legs stretched out and listened as Genevieve explained who she was and what she planned.

  “You aren't The Widow?” he had asked.

  “No,” she told him.

  “Then why did you say you were?”

  “Well you had a gun pointed in my direction and it seemed like a grand idea at the time.”

  His lips curled into a grin and then widened into a full smile. Then his shoulders started to shake and a booming laugh echoed out of his chest.

  “Oh yes,” he motioned to the tub he was currently cuffed to, “a good idea.”

  She licked her own lips and blushed, her head tilted demurely. “Well, it would have worked if everything else hadn't gone wrong.”

  “Alright,” he said after his laughter had ended. “I will help you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “On one condition,” he said when she turned to leave the room.

  “Oh?”

  He shook the cuff once more. “My wrists are raw.”

  “You'll try to run away.” Genevieve put her hands on her hips.

  “I won’t be running anywhere.” He was angry. He turned his head away and suddenly she understood.

  “For now,” she said before unlocking the cuffs. “But in a few months you'll be outrunning everyone.”

  He sat up and she tried to stand. Her long skirt caught beneath her shoes and she stumbled. His good arm came around her middle, and steadied her from the potential fall. Suddenly she was against him. Her chest pressed flatly against his. Lust, wild and fierce, pounded beneath her skin.

  His dark eyes fixed on her mouth. He wanted to kiss her. She could feel it in the way his arm tightened around her middle, pulling her closer. She could sense it in the way his head tilted ever so slightly. Yet he made no real move to close the distance.

  Her body hummed with the nearness of him. She hated herself for it. She was newly widowed, and hadn't she felt the same desire when Travis had lain his mouth to hers? Yes, and yet no. Was she so fickle? Had her hardship turned her into a wanton woman?

  Perhaps, but when she felt him releasing her, she made a choice.

  She surged up to it. Her lips savaged against his hungrily. For a moment he didn't respond. She pulled back and cleared her throat bashfully.