Claudia Dain (39 page)

He held her softly, the hard possession of their first mating gone to be replaced by tender caresses and slow meanderings over bared skin and loose limbs.

With his hands, he told her that he would never hurt her. With his mouth, he promised to want her forever. With his body, he claimed her.

So gentle, so thorough, so leisurely in his taking of her. Laying her down, smoothing his hands over her breasts and stomach and hips, sliding fingertips over the tops of her thighs and across her ribs, kissing her eyes and her cheeks and her throat. And her mouth. Giving himself to her. Taking her for himself as a precious thing, yearned for, sought after, and found. Kept. Treasured. Cherished.

Loved.

She wanted it to be so. She wanted to believe his hands and his kiss, to sink into the softness of unhurried love, knowing that same love would be there tomorrow and tomorrow. To rest in love. To love without fear. To be loved.

She wanted to be loved.

He spread her legs slowly and she reached up for him, urging him down to her. The cords of muscle in his arms and chest stood out in the pearl-gray light of night; if she did not know him for who he was, she would have been afraid. He was a hard man, hard in body and hard in deeds, but his spirit was not hard.

He said he wouldn't leave her and he was a man who said only what he meant to say. And who wanted the same of her. It was a great gift, this shared talk of no boundaries and no barriers, if she could accept it. If she could believe it.

He came into her in one hard push. She wrapped herself around him and took him into her, feeling the fullness he brought to her, the heat and the completeness that were so much a part of what he was teaching her about the marriage bed. His strokes were slow, measured, full, and she matched him, kissing his throat and his shoulder, holding on to the ridged planes of his back. Wanting him, wanting everything about him, and eased down to her soul to know that he wanted her. Even for this. Even if only for this.

The tension building inside her pushed aside all thoughts and feelings until she was lost in sensation, remembering only that Jack was with her and Jack would take care of her. That he had promised never to hurt her. She trusted that. And with the freedom of trust Anne fell down into pure sensation, pure ecstasy, trusting Jack to protect her as she fell. Throbbing hard against his thrusts, pushed to a place of no boundaries, she could feel only Jack. He was in her, a part of her, in a place where they were one. Whole. Together. Pulsing. He held her, his breath loud and sharp in her ear, falling with her, holding her as they fell together.

He was sweating, his back shining in the dim light, the curtains moving in the narrow breeze of the partially opened window. He held her, kissed her temple, kissed her breast and left her body. But he didn't leave her.

Their breathing settled down to normal. The wind blew suddenly cold and she moved to set the bed to rights, wanting the comfort of a blanket, wanting the haze of sleep to take her while she lay in Jack's arms.

"Where's my pillow?" she said, patting the bed, looking for it.

"I threw it on the floor," Jack said, reaching down to get it. "Just a precaution."

The sound of their shared laughter followed them as they fell into sleep.

* * *

His mama called out again, calling him. She'd made something for him, a treat of apples and crust and cream. He wanted the treat, but he knew his mama would send him to bed for a rest after he had finished eating. It was that time of day. He crunched lower into the brush, delighting in the knowledge that she couldn't see him, and worked on the last line in the dust that would finish his house.

The shot rang out against the heat and the quiet.

His mama stopped calling.

Lifting his head, he could just see where she lay, the red of her blood running over the hard-packed dirt so fast there wasn't a chance for it to sink in. His daddy fired twice from the corral and was answered with the crack of a dozen shots, rifle shots. He knew the sound of a rifle. Men rode in, trampling his daddy into the dirt, and collected the herd of horses that was his daddy's living. They rode off on horses covered in sweat and dust; they rode off as quietly as they had ridden in. Except this time, there were no rifle shots.

The sun was still hot, only now it wasn't hot enough to warm him.

He shivered until the sun set, seated firmly in his own scratched-out little bedroom next to the Brazos. He stayed there, in the last place he had felt safe, all the night through.

Sometime the next day, a woman who had shared flour and salt with his mama came by with her man. He could hear her crying clearly all the way to his little house in the dirt. But he did not raise his head.

Calling, calling... He could not answer her. She found him, in time, and held him to her bosom. She did not smell like his mama and her bosom felt different. He let her hold him anyway. She bundled him up in her shawl, still shivering, and walked him to her buggy.

His house got ruined when she had clutched him to her, the lines blurring and rubbing away until it resembled nothing but random scratches in the dust with some of the walls of his house lost altogether. He couldn't help looking back at his house as she led him away. She wouldn't let him look at all at the house that his daddy built. Her man was doing something with his daddy and mama, he couldn't see what. He didn't try very hard to find out.

The flour and salt woman knew that his family had relatives in New Orleans; she paid for the train ticket herself and bought him a new pair of pants and a pair of shoes that were too big. He wore them anyway. He'd been to town before with his daddy and knew the shopkeeper by sight. He knew the man at the livery and the man at the train depot. He knew the sight of the town; it was familiar.

She settled him on the train, putting his basket of food between his thigh and the window and asking if he didn't have to use the privy just one more time. He was too embarrassed to answer, even though he did want to use the privy just one more time. She told the conductor to watch out for him and make certain he got off when he should. She told him that he was going to family, that he was going to be just fine. She had that tightness in her voice that his mama got just before she cried. He didn't know why this woman would want to cry. She must be different in that way, too, not just in her smell and the feel of her bosom.

The train made all the sounds of a train getting ready to go and so the flour and salt woman got off after telling him again to sit still and not eat all his food at once. Even through the smoke, he could see that she waited on the platform, waving and holding the end of her shawl to her mouth, as the train pulled away from all he had ever known.

In an act of desperate disobedience, he lunged to his feet and pressed his face to the window. His food basket tumbled to the wooden floor; he ignored it. The town was behind him and the train was surging forward with noisy speed toward the east. His daddy had taught him his directions. His face he kept turned toward the west and the life he was leaving behind him with every turn of the wheels. He could not sit and he could only look back. Behind him was all that was familiar.

Behind him was the last home he would ever know.

He awoke with a start, covered in sweat, and reached for his gun. It was in his hand before he'd taken his first full breath. It steadied him, the feel of his gun in his hand, cold and smooth and heavy.

Anne sat up and reached out to him, her hand on his leg.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothin'. Thought I heard something." He made himself lower his gun, made himself set it on the floor next to the bed.

It was almost dawn, the sky still black, but the black of a night that knows its time is short. The stars were gone, overpowered by a sun they couldn't yet see, and the air was dead still. Trouble was, she could see pretty well in that light.

"You're sweating. Did you have a nightmare?"

"Just hot. Not used to sleeping two to a bed," he said, winking at her in the dim light. His breath was still ragged. He brushed the hair out of his eyes and smiled at his wife. "Can't wait to get used to it, though."

Anne didn't smile back. She pushed his hair back from his face and then ran a hand up and down his back. It was real comforting. He was afraid that was the reason she was doing it.

"What's wrong, Jack?"

"Nothin'."

"Now I know
I'm
married," she said wryly. "Tell me."

Jack slid down in bed and pulled her on top of him, cupping her bottom with his hands and grinning up at her. "You've been a married lady for a whole night. What do you think of it?"

She pushed herself away from him, bracing her hands on either side of his head, and said, "I think you have one set of rules for me and another for yourself. That's a one-sided game by any account."

"I told you, men and women are different."

"And I told you, I'm not a half-wit. We aren't that different. Talk to me."

"Nothing to talk about."

"One-sided," she said, rolling off him and sitting next to him on the bed. "I don't recall you asking me whether I wanted to share any of my secrets with you."

"You didn't share them, I found them out."

"Bull. The fact is, you know them and it wasn't easy for me. You told me that I could trust you. Are you going to trust me?"

It was an important question; the weight of their future rested on it. He didn't want to tell her what he kept tied down tight inside him. She couldn't do anything about it and it didn't help to talk about it.

Trouble was, he understood women. She'd never open up to him again if she felt he was shutting her out. A woman liked a free rein to walk all over a man's life; the best thing a man could do was pick a woman who walked carefully. Come to that, Anne was the most careful woman he'd ever seen.

"Yeah, I'll trust you," he said and pulled her back against him, her back against his chest while he leaned against the headboard. He'd tell her, but he didn't want her looking at him while he did it. A man had some rights to privacy, even with his wife.

"It's a dream I have, that's all."

"The same dream?"

He made an agreeing sort of noise.

"How often?"

"More often than I like."

"Tell me about it. Is it a real dream or a pretend dream?"

"What?"

"You know, a dream that has real people in it and real things happening or—"

"It's a real dream. Too damn real."

"What happens?"

Her hair was soft and thick against his chest, her bottom warm as she nestled between his outstretched legs. The last thing he wanted to do at the moment was talk. But he didn't want to break the trust he was building with her, so he talked.

The things a man did to please his woman.

"I'm a little kid and I'm playing in the dirt next to the river, the Brazos, down in Texas. I can hear my folks a way off, but I'm hiding in the tall grass, digging lines in the dirt with a stick."

Making the home he'd always wanted, but could never have. Until now. Until Anne.

He hadn't wanted to talk about it, but now that he'd started, it seemed to flow up out of him. The images rolled through his mind like they had a thousand times, only this time his eyes were open and it wasn't so bad. It wasn't like he was living it over and over.

"And then I hear a shot and my ma's lying in the dirt, blood running out of her, and my pa's shot a few times and then our horses are run off. And I'm left in the grass by the river."

She didn't say anything, but she shifted sideways and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face to his belly. He could feel her breath on his skin, unexpectedly comforting.

It wasn't so bad, telling her. His gun was just a few inches from his hand, lying on the floor, ready to be grabbed up. He could get to it. Nobody could get him; he was ready. He was always ready now.

"I'm there awhile, through the night anyway, and someone, a woman, comes and takes me off. She buys me some clothes and sets me on a train heading east, off to kin. Folks I ain't never seen before. She gave me some food and I knocked it all over the floor of the car. I felt real bad about that, seeing the trouble she took."

He didn't say anything after that. The birds were starting to call, the black of night giving over to lightest gray edged with pink. It was almost sunrise.

"It's not a dream, is it?" Anne said. He could feel tears on his skin. "It's a memory."

They lay in each other's arms and watched the sun come up.

"Yeah," Jack said, holding her tight against the growing light of the new day.

Chapter 23

The house was just rousing when there was a banging on the front door. Daphne was up and going down those stairs like a trail boss, mumbling her irritation with each step she took. Her temper didn't sweeten when she saw who was parked on her porch.