Bushedwhacked Groom (33 page)

She burrowed her head under the covers, found his manhood and teased it with her own tongue, stroking
up and down, glorying in the sexy taste of him. At
once the shaft sprang to life and she heard Lucky gasp.

His fingers twisted in her hair. “Molly. God, what are
you doing?”

“Forgot to bob for apples, sugar,” she murmured with
a husky chuckle. Then she ran her tongue in torment
ing circles over his testicles . . .

Lucky groaned like a man on fire. Molly's tongue
was hot, wet, velvety, the purest torture, the sweetest heaven. He loved her so much for abandoning all re
straint and giving him such wicked pleasure. She
licked and tasted him for long, ecstatic moments, mak
ing him grip the sheets until he could take no more. Then, when she drew his maleness gently inside her
mouth, a powerful shudder seized him and he pulled
her body upward, plunging inside her womanhood,
ravishing her with his kiss. She melted, gasping, into
his hammering thrusts, and they claimed each other
fiercely for much of the night.

Chapter Thirty-six

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The tooting of a train whistle awakened Lucky early.
He kissed his bride, who appeared so peaceful and
beautiful lying beside him in the rosy light. What a
wondrous night they had shared!

Quietly, he got up and pulled on his jeans. The
sounds of muffled shouts and clanging drew him over
to the window. The Wild West show had definitely ar
rived. He stared out to see roustabouts, Indians and
cowboys swarming out of a train parked at the station
house, unloading everything from tents and crates to
horses, calves and buffalo. He watched the procession move from the station house to the outskirts of town,
heard the banging as tents were raised and bleachers
set up.

Scant weeks before he would have considered the
scene unfolding before him to be outlandish. Now it
seemed right, almost natural. He’d quit fighting his
fate, he realized; he was accepting his lot, and grateful for it. After all, as he’d recently admitted to Molly, he
did seem to be the type of old-fashioned man who fit
in much better here than in 2004.

But the enormity of what had happened to him
paled by comparison to his feelings for his bride. Turning to stare at her, he found his eyes misting with emo
tion. He knew now that it was Molly who had
ultimately drawn him here; she was the true reason he
had defied time, death and the laws of the universe.
They truly were destined to be together, and he could now
hope they’d find their happily ever after.

He turned back to the window and wiped away a tear. He knew one obstacle remained in the path of
their storybook ending. He needed to tell her about
his feelings as soon as possible—as soon as he could
overcome his fear that she might never return
them . . .

***

Molly opened her eyes to see Lucky standing at the
window—shirtless, in his jeans. How magnificent he
was, with the rays of the dawn outlining his tall form,
his shiny hair and broad, sinewy shoulders.

Last night had been incredibly special, and she
longed to tell him her feelings, burned to reveal to
him that her woman’s time was now several days late,
and she sensed—indeed, she knew!—that she carried his
child inside her. She wanted to apologize for her own
misdeeds but feared bringing up that touchy subject
with him. He’d been so angry at her for so long. Now at
last he seemed to be coming around. Indeed, he’d ad
mitted recently that he didn’t think she was like Misti,
after all—and she could now hope she might eventu
ally win his trust. But she feared if she reached out to
him too soon, she might only re-ignite his outrage.
What if he still couldn’t forgive her for using him so
ruthlessly?

What was he thinking now? Was he happy to be
here? Or was he looking out, dreaming of the world he
had lost and wanting it back?

Then he turned, smiling, holding his arms out to
her.
“
Hey, sugar, come see. The Wild West show has arrived in
town.”

***

Lucky felt overcome with happiness as he watched
Molly grab her wrapper and come rushing into his
arms. He clutched her close, inhaling her wonderful
scent. “Morning, sugar. You sleep okay?”

“Yeah, if you can count maybe half an hour’s rest as
sleeping,” she teased.

He nodded toward the window. “Look, they’re set
ting up the show.”

Molly gazed at the workers milling about on the out
skirts of town. “That’s what got you up so early?”

“Yeah. I’m surprised the noise didn’t awaken you.”

She bit her lip.

“What is it, honey?”

She bravely met his gaze. “It’s just that . . .when I saw
you standing at the window, gazing out . . . Well, I was
afraid . . .”

“Yes?”

She drew a bracing breath. “Are you thinking of go
ing back again, Lucky?”

He tensed. “What?”

“It’s just you looked so wistful—like you were ready to leave or something.”

He gathered her to his heart.
“
Oh, honey. You
shouldn’t worry about that.”

“But it’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?”

Lucky felt lacerated by guilt. “Maybe
I’m
just now
learning what I want, sugar.”

She still appeared unconvinced. “You know, Ma had
her chance to leave once. She told me about it.”

“You mean when the stagecoach returned to
Reklaw Gorge?”

She gasped. “So she told you?”

“Yes.”

Plaintively, she asked, “If it came back again for you,
would you go?”

Lucky felt even worse, especially as he remembered
his earlier attempts to rebuild the stage. He wanted to
reassure her that he would never, ever leave her.

But what if that was something he couldn’t ultimately control?
he thought with sudden fear. What if the same forces that had brought him here could snatch him away just as precipitously? It wasn’t a prospect he’d really consid
ered before now, since he’d been so hell-bent on run
ning, so cavalier about the whole concept of destiny
that he’d only considered it in terms of a possible es
cape route. He’d never flipped the coin and consid
ered the possibility that he might
want
to stay yet not be allowed to do so. Now the possibility that he might in
deed be wrenched away from the woman he’d come
to love was scary as hell.

What a fool he’d been.

“Please don’t fret about that, sugar,” he quietly pleaded. “I’m not planning to go anywhere, believe
me.” He forced a smile. “Now come on. Let’s get gussied
up, have some breakfast and go see the show.”

“Sure, Lucky.”

But he noted her smile seemed forced as she turned
away.

***

By mid-morning when Lucky escorted his lovely bride
out of the hotel, the air rang with noise and the main
street of
Colorado
City
was jammed with parked bug
gies, antique roadsters and hitched horses. Citizens
mobbed the boardwalks, trooping toward the Wild
West show still being set up on the outskirts of town.

The huge sideshow panorama extended along
Main
Street
for several hundred yards. A makeshift arena oc
cupied its center, while bleachers, shaded by massive tents, flanked it on either side. Closer to town, an Indian market was already in full swing, the sounds of chanting and drums and the smells of smoke and barbecuing game adding to the Native American aura,
while nearby attendees huddled about a ticket stand.
The air rang with the sounds of mallets being
pounded, horses neighing, people talking. A huge
throng of humanity swarmed the open area between the bleachers—performers in their colorful cowboy
and Indian costumes, people from all over the region.

“Wow, this place is busier than a cattle yard at
roundup,” Lucky muttered.

Molly, looking lovely in a frock of lime green, nodded toward the crowd.” I see Pa over there waiting in
line for tickets.”

Lucky nodded. “Yeah, and I see your ma in the Indian market with Grandma—she seems to be haggling
with a squaw over a broom.”

Molly chuckled. “She does prize her brooms.”

“Then we’d best behave ourselves.” He offered his
arm. “Let’s have a better look around.”

They strolled through the Indian market, perusing
the piles of colorful blankets and tooled leather goods
laid out, observing squaws grinding pemmican and
weaving baskets. Soon they paused before a table
crammed with patent medicines in colorful metal
tins—everything from “authentic” Indian herbal remedies to chewing tobacco to “Indian Maiden” cologne.

“See something for what ails you?” Lucky teased his
bride.

She gave him an unexpected, poignant look. “I don’t
think there’s a cure for what ails me.”

Lucky eyed her quizzically. Could she actually be
coming to care for him? The very possibility brought
an unexpected tightness to his chest.

They moved on to browse at a table of Indian jew
elry—colorful beads, bracelets, necklaces and bolos. He observed Molly fingering a handsome turquoise
and silver necklace. “You favor it?”

“Oh, Lucky, it’s exquisite, but—”

He reached for his wallet. “It’s yours.” He turned to
the Sioux squaw who sat scowling behind the table.
“How much?”

She held up one hand with fingers splayed. “Five
dollar.”

Lucky groaned. He had only the four dollars Cole
had given him for helping out at roundup. For a few
moments he haggled with the squaw, patiently listen
ing to her broken English. When Molly reached into her own knitted reticule to rescue him, Lucky turned
and touched her hand firmly. “No.” Lucky turned back
to the woman. “Four dollars. Take it or leave it.”

The squaw snatched up the money and Lucky
grabbed the necklace. He proudly fastened it about his bride’s neck. “There.”

She beamed. “Thanks, Lucky.”

Her parents stepped up. “Molly, how lovely you
look,” Jessica gushed, touching the turquoise.

“Lucky bought it for me,” she declared proudly.

Cole nodded. “Good for him, honey. Well, I’ve got tickets for everyone, and I see they’re letting folks into
the bleachers. We’d best grab good seats while we can.”

While the performers busied themselves lining up at
the end of their makeshift arena, the family settled on second-row bleachers, and the boys soon joined them,
sitting just beyond Lucky and Molly. He noted a lot of folks from Mariposa filing into the stands, including the
Bledsoes and several other families from the church.
He watched the boys crane their necks as Ezra Trumble
and his four lovely daughters climbed the bleachers
down at the other end, then frown as the Trumbles were followed by Sheriff Hackett and his ever-present com
panion Dulcie Hicks, along with the Hicks cousins.

Next to him, he heard Zach curse and watched him
glare in the direction of the Hickses. “Them damn
sidewinders—you don’t suppose Sheriff Hackett, his
whore and them no-account Hicks boys came here
with the Trumbles?”

As Matt and Vance added angry comments of their
own, Lucky quickly scolded them. “Come on, boys, set
tle down. You don’t want to ruin this day for your par
ents and grandma, do you?”

They fell glumly silent.

The tension eased a bit as Cole glanced westward
and remarked, “Hey, I see Billy, Dumpling and their brood on their way over here.” He extended a sheaf of
tickets toward Cory. “Cory, why don’t you go take them
these and steer them in our direction?”

Cory vaulted off with the tickets; the boys scowled
but made no further comments.

Relieved, Lucky turned to Molly. “You excited about the show, honey?”

She grinned. “Oh, yeah. It’s not my first Wild West
show, but it’ll be my first time seeing Buffalo Bill.”

“After reading all those Buntline novels, I’m sure you can’t wait,” he teased.

“Hey, you read ‘em, too, right?”

Jessica, who had been listening to the exchange, re
marked to Lucky, “Did you know Buntline’s hundreds of dime novels launched Buffalo Bill’s career?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes, ma’am. My granddad had a
Buntline collection, and he read me some of the sto
ries when I was little. It was pretty wild and strange stuff. Granddad
told me Buntline portrayed Cody as a teetotaler, when
he was an infamous drunk.”

“Still is,” Cole put in wryly. “The stories of Bill almost
falling off his horse are legendary. Good thing he’s had
a succession of smart mounts, beginning with Powder
Face.”