Something Wild (26 page)

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Charity straightened the covers on
the big four-poster, smoothing out wrinkles, trying to get a handle on neatness. She fluffed her pillow, then gathered Mike’s into her arms and inhaled the now familiar scents of Irish Spring and Old Spice.

Two weeks they’d been married. Two weeks learning the ropes at the ranch, two weeks of meeting parishioners and trying to become a good minister’s wife, something that had seemed daunting at first, but was quickly becoming one of the many joys in her life. Mike was respected and loved, and the first time she heard him preach, she was captivated by his gentleness, his humor, the way no one fidgeted as he spoke, but sat quietly and soaked in his words.

His laid-back style as a minister was completely the opposite when it came to running Jack’s ranch and his own. He was respected, trusted, and for the most part, no-nonsense. Woody, one of the ranch hands, had even commented—offhandedly— that he hoped she could soften up the boss, because he’d been a hell of a taskmaster in the last few years.

She’d told Woody she’d work on it. Of course, the first thing she needed to work on was making Mike love her as much as he’d loved Jessie. Maybe then he’d be able to stay in their bed all night long. As it stood right now, he’d make love to her, hold her, then slip from under the covers when he thought she’d fallen asleep and go downstairs, where he prowled the house and caught a few moment’s sleep on the couch.

More often than not he was gone when she woke, off riding the range somewhere, but he always came home for lunch—and most of the time he had an appetite for something more. She’d never deny him. Never.

She loved him and for now, she’d take anything and everything he could give her. Someday, maybe, she’d no longer have to share him with another woman.

Letting her torment out on a sigh, she fluffed Mike’s pillow up against the headboard. There were far too many good things in her life to dwell on this one not-so-small problem in her marriage.

She did a few little pirouettes out of their bedroom, then skipped down the stairs. Satan was waiting for her in the corral. Another day of singing her heart out. Another day of the mustang standing at the far side of the corral staring at her as if she’d lost her mind.

When she hit the living room, she cast her eyes down on the hardwood floor and the Indian rugs, and made a beeline through a room she desperately wanted to redecorate. Jessie’s paintings had a bad habit of glaring at her, taunting her, making her think she didn’t belong in this house.

It was the paintings that didn’t belong, but she didn’t have the heart to tell Mike she wanted to get rid of them. All in good time, she told herself. She couldn’t make changes so soon. Someday— hopefully—Mike would realize why she preferred the kitchen to this room. She’d tell him how the pictures haunted her, but deep inside she was afraid he’d tell her the watercolors and oils had to stay, because they kept Jessie close to him, made her seem just as real and alive as she’d been when she painted them.

Dragging her worries back to a dark place where she wouldn’t think about them again today, she pushed through the door and stood outside in the cool spring air—where she could breathe again. Standing on the front porch, she looked at the meandering stream with its trickle of winter run-off. The aspens were starting to green out, and the sun would soon be turning the morning’s pink sky a bright peacock blue, with only a hit-or-miss puffy white cloud floating by.

Mike had built this place himself. He’d crafted much of the furniture over the years, too. Every day she learned something new about him. Every day she loved him more.

Striking out across the yard, she watched Satan pacing the corral, his fur sleeker now that winter had faded and warmer weather was just around the corner. She grabbed the straight-back chair that had been her constant companion for nearly two weeks, opened the tall paddock gate, and secured it once she was safely inside.

Satan glared at her, then showed her who was boss by rearing up on his hind legs and batting his front hooves against the sky.

“Good morning to you, too.” Charity grinned, no longer phased by Satan’s antics. She set the chair down in the center of the corral, plopped her jeans-covered butt on the seat, and glared right back.

“Where should we start today, Satan? We’ve already covered most every Ella Fitzgerald standard. How about we give Broadway a try?”

Satan snorted and circled the perimeter of the corral, wary as ever.

“How about ‘Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains’?”

Another snort.

“Carousel? South Pacific?”

Satan lowered his head and decided to munch on fresh hay. “All right, we’ll start with ‘Bali Hai.’”

Charity crossed her legs and launched into song. A couple of birds fluttered out of the barn, somewhere else a horse whinnied, but Satan ignored her, just as he’d done for nearly two weeks. Patience was the key, she reminded herself. A strong will, determination, and patience. If Mike wanted this horse gentled, then by God she’d gentle him—in her own way.

One hour stretched into two, then to three. She’d sung every song from
South Pacific
, tried a little bit of Doris Day’s “Que Sera, Sera,” but still Satan ignored her.

She refused to be daunted. After all, there was always tomorrow.

“How about something from
Beauty and the Beast
?” she asked the stubborn mustang, but got no response. “How about
The Little Mermaid
?” Satan merely turned his back on her and looked out across the prairie—the place she knew he longed to be. “That’s okay, boy,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t want to be locked up, either. But I’m doing this for Mike.”

Snort.

“All right, so you don’t understand. I’d do anything for him. Anything.”

Behind her she heard a dog bark. Satan’s head jerked up in fright, his head whipping around, his eyes wide.

Charity spun toward the sound of crunching gravel and watched Rufus running circles around Crosby as he hobbled toward the corral.

“You think that gall-darned horse understands you?” He put his gnarled hands on a corral rail and peeked inside.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so.” Charity climbed the fencing, swung her legs over the top rail, and dropped down to the ground. She pulled an apple from her jacket pocket.

“Want some?”

“Teeth ain’t good enough to eat those damned things.”

Charity took a healthy bite of the red delicious. “I’ve got some cake in the house.”

“Ain’t hungry.”

“You’re awfully chipper today.”

Crosby shrugged. “I got my good days; got my bad.”

Charity could relate to that. She leaned against the corral next to Crosby. “You didn’t walk here all the way from your place, did you?”

“Weather’s good. Knees aren’t so stiff today. Figured I’d take my mornin‘ constitutional and come out this way for a change.”

“It’s almost afternoon,” Charity teased.

“You get old like me and it’ll take you all mornin‘ to walk a few miles. Besides, the gall-darned doctor told me I wasn’t walkin’ enough. Figure doin‘ this’ll save me a lecture the next time I get hauled to that old fart’s office.”

“If you ever want company,” Charity said, feeling uncomfortable with Crosby striking out across the prairie on his own, “I could meet you at your place in the morning and we could walk together.”

“You got better things to do than fuss with me. Besides, I usually crawl out of bed long before dawn. Got the feelin‘ that husband of yours would rather have you in bed with him that time of mornin’ than out roaming the prairie with me.”

If only that were true, Charity thought.

“Mike’s going to be home soon. I’m fixing roast beef sandwiches for lunch. Would you like to join us?”

“Nope. Better start headin‘ back if I expect to get home before dark. Sure is hell gettin’ old and slow.”

Charity wrapped an arm around his shoulder and walked with him a ways, talking a bit about the old days, how things had changed over the years. At last they parted company, and she watched cautiously as he hobbled along a well-worn path with Rufus at his side.

A herd of pronghorn antelope had come close to the ranch to feed, and their heads popped to attention when they heard Crosby’s plodding boot steps. A moment later they loped off, running away from Crosby and the barking dog. She watched their graceful departure, their swift movements as they ran up a slow rise, then quickly angled off and ran in another direction.

Something had startled them. A coyote maybe. And then she saw Mike and Buck come over the rise, heading for home. Her husband sat tall in the saddle, his black Stetson pulled low on his brow. The weather had warmed enough that he wore only a chambray shirt, and she couldn’t help but think about the hard, bronzed skin beneath.

His beard was heavy, darker than normal for this time of day. That rough stubble would feel awfully nice, awfully naughty, she thought, brushing lightly over her nipples. Suddenly her breasts ached and a needy throb settled deep within her.

She sprinted toward him, breaking into an all-out run when he neared the house, swung down from Buck’s saddle, and loosened the cinch. When he turned toward her, he was smiling, and she leaped into his arms, knowing he’d catch her.

Sweeping his hat from his head, he held it against her back, and let her have her way with his mouth.

“Miss me?” he asked, when she allowed him to come up for air.

“Mmmm,” she whispered, kissing him softly, loving the feel of her legs straddling his waist, his hand pressing against her bottom to keep her against him, the warmth of his mouth. “I never get enough of you.”

“Want more?”

Looking into his eyes, she saw a devilish glint. “Before lunch or after?” she asked, hoping it would be before.

“It’s been a rough morning.” He gently ran his bristled cheek over her face. “Thought I’d call it quits for the day, maybe take a long, relaxing bath. Maybe even a nap.” He kissed her nose, her eyes. “You look plum tuckered out, too. You been thinking at all about a bath? A nap?”

“That’s all I’ve thought about.”

His slow easy smile made her melt against him, and she kept her arms clasped tightly about him as he carried her into the house, up the stairs, and into their bedroom.

It wasn’t but a moment later that a heap of clothes lay in the middle of the floor, the claw-foot was filling with steamy water, and Mike was holding her close, kissing her, giving her a standing ovation even though she’d done nothing more than turn on the faucet and add a little something special to the water.

When the tub was three-quarters full and scented bubbles began to pop over the top, Mike lowered himself into the water and wiggled a finger at Charity to join him.

She quickly twisted her braid on top of her head and fastened it with pins, grabbed a can of shaving cream, a razor and towel, then climbed into the bath with her husband, settling down on his ready and waiting hips.

“You aren’t thinking about giving me a shave, are you?” He had a slight, fear-filled frown on his face.

“Was there something else you wanted to do?”

“Quite a few things.” He scratched his cheek, but his eyes darted to her breasts bobbing on top the water right along with the bubbles. “Tell you what, you give me a shave, and”—he pinched her nipples lightly and rolled them between his thumbs and forefingers—“and I’ll play till you’re done.”

Throbbing set in, deep, delightful throbbing. She suddenly wanted to forget about the shave and get down to business, but running a razor over Mike’s face had been her idea, and he was perfectly content with his bathtub toys, so she sprayed a dollop of shaving cream in her hand and swirled it slowly over his neck and face.

Suddenly Mike’s hands were under her arms, lifting her slightly. “I’ve got an idea, something that might make your job a little more comfortable.”

She knew exactly what he meant, especially when one of his hands dove back under water and he let her down slowly, down, down, down, right onto something very hard, something very, very nice. A little purr sounded in her throat when she took him inside her, and she watched Mike lean against the back of the tub, close his eyes, and groan out a sigh of deep satisfaction.

“There,” he said through nearly clenched teeth, “isn’t that much more comfortable?”

“Much.” She wiggled a bit to find the perfect fit. She moaned a little, Mike groaned a lot.

“All right, baby,” he said, with a sigh, “I’m ready for whatever you want to do to me.”

Lifting the razor to the base of his neck, she lightly touched his skin, and pulled the razor upward, sweeping away foam and black stubble, leaving behind pinkish-bronze skin, all smooth and ... she leaned forward and kissed the spot she’d just shaved.

Mike’s eyes popped open. “Might be a good idea for you not to move your lower body too much while you’re shaving me. I kind of like living, and that razor’s gonna do a hell of a number on my throat if I start bucking.”

She smiled, and watched his eyelids close again, loving the way his long black lashes rested against his skin. Slowly, she stroked away another path of stubble, then another and another. She worked carefully at the skin under his nose, then started in on his cheeks, completely caught up in her work, until she felt something—a finger, no doubt—playing with a certain little hot button that had been resting quite contentedly in the tub, knowing it would soon get an exhilarating workout.