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Authors: Janet Dailey

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BOOK: The Pride of Hannah Wade
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“Drinking and gambling. You disappoint me, Captain.”

“They are honest sins.”

“Indeed.” A smile broke across her lips, creating a small dimple in her left cheek. It danced there an instant before she gave him her hand. “Good evening, Captain Cutter,”

“Mrs. Wade.” Briefly, he pressed his mouth to the smooth knuckles of her hand, inhaling the warm fragrance of her skin.

A moment later she was gliding through the door and Cutter was alone with the night. He paused to take a last drag on the cigar, then flipped the butt into the darkness. Down the steps he ran with a light tread and swung along Officers’ Row to the bachelor quarters. A shot of whiskey was sounding better and better.

“Hayes. Hayes!” he called impatiently for his striker, tugging at the collar of his dress uniform the minute he entered his rooms.

A gangly Negro lad still in his teens tumbled into the room, all eagerness to serve his officer. “Yes, sir, Captain.”

A city boy from Philadelphia, Hayes had never been west until two months ago. He couldn’t ride, couldn’t shoot, but he was pursuing the romance, glamour, and adventure of a soldier’s life for all it was worth.

“Whiskey—and my blues.” Cutter shed the jacket of the dress uniform and tossed it on a chair for the boy to pick up.

“Going out again, sir?” Hayes tried to do all the chores at once, carrying the regular uniform while juggling a whiskey bottle and a glass, and picking up the discarded suit. “Where?”

“To see if there isn’t a game in progress in Grim-shaw’s back room—or to start one if there isn’t.” He rescued the bottle and glass from the young private’s clutches before they shattered on the floor.

“Ya mean poker? Gosh, sir, you don’t suppose I could come along and watch?”

There was the smallest break in the lift of the whiskey glass, the faintest hesitation of movement. Then Cutter threw the liquor down his throat, a hardness ridging his jaw and cheekbone.

“Not with me, Hayes.” The denial was flat and unequivocal.

There was a line that existed between officers and enlisted men—a line that wasn’t to be crossed. The delineation of rank had to be maintained for order and discipline. Nothing must ever interfere with the unquestioning obedience to an officer’s command.

“Yes, sir.” Hayes’s glum, crestfallen response tugged at Cutter, but he poured himself another drink and finished changing uniforms.

Thirty minutes later he was seated at the poker table playing a game of seven card stud in the private room located in back of the fort’s trading store. Oates Grimshaw, who held the trading franchise with the army, ran the store and reserved a separate room for officers, segregated from the enlisted men. An attempt had been made at giving it a decor befitting a gentleman’s rank. Inexpensive reproductions of hunting scenes adorned the rough walls and water-filled ollas were suspended from the rafters to cool the room. The latest available newspapers and eastern publications were on the tables conveniently situated near the armchairs. Officially, gambling was against army regulations, but a friendly game between fellow officers was invariably overlooked.

With a snap and a flourish, cards were dealt to the players around the table, four besides Cutter. Two were fellow officers, second lieutenants in rank, and the one in the checked jacket and bowler hat was Hy Boler, owner and editor of the Silver City
Gazette.
The well-dressed fourth man was the proprietor, Oates Grimshaw.

One of Grimshaw’s lackeys brought a round of drinks, then disappeared through the door, swallowed up in the smoky haze of the enlisted men’s side. A pair of aces were showing among the cards in front of Cutter
as he flipped a poker chip into the table’s center without looking at his hole cards. “That pair is worth something.” He waited to see who was going to stay.

There was a spilling of chips into the pot, each player matching the bet and remaining in the game to see the last card. “Down and dirty.” Oates Grimshaw dealt it out. His bushy mustache swept into handlebars as if its thick profusion could make up for the receding hair on his head.

“Come on, Lady Luck,” the newspaperman coaxed in a murmur as he dragged the final card close to the edge of the table to steal a look. He was a big man, his bulk solid, and he had a bulldog quality to his features. An easterner, he hadn’t adapted to the western style of dress, clinging instead to his vests and gold watch chain.

“Speaking of ladies”—Grimshaw finished the deal with himself and set the deck aside—“you didn’t stay long at the Wades’ party for that new lieutenant and his wife, Captain.” It was an idle observation, not requiring comment as he picked up his three hole cards to peruse them in cautious secrecy. “Mrs. Wade is a beautiful woman. I’ve always thought so.”

“All women are beautiful,” Cutter replied dryly, and sliced off the end of a new cigar with his knife, then placed it in his mouth to moisten the cut tobacco end.

“I’ve seen some that would disprove that claim,” one of the lieutenants scoffed, a bachelor like most of the junior officers at the fort.

“That’s because you got too close.” Cutter smiled and made his bet, his pair of aces showing still commanding the table. “A thing of beauty can rarely withstand a close inspection for flaws.”

“Yes. You are likely to find another man’s fingerprints all over her.” Hy Boler frowned over his cards. “I don’t have any use for a woman who’s been handled by others.” He reached for his chips. “I’ll see you, and raise you.”

The second lieutenant took another look at his cards. “Handled or not, there’s something to be said for taking down the hair of a beautiful woman.” He matched the bet.

Cutter had an instant’s vision of the deep mahogany tresses lying in a smooth pile atop Mrs. Wade’s head when she’d stood with him on the porch. Just as quickly, he clicked it off.

As the betting came full circle to him, he matched the single raise and called the bets. He flipped over his downed cards. “Full house. Aces over sixes.”

“Damn,” the newspaperman swore at his luck as the winnings went to Cutter.

The cards were thrown into the center to be gathered by Grimshaw, the dealer. “Women,” he shuffled the deck. “They are the root of many a man’s troubles.”

“I don’t know.” Cutter settled back in his chair to await the new deal. “A man’s always running either from something or after it.”

“Which would you be doing, Captain?” the trader asked curiously.

“Well, it depends”—a grin curved his mouth—“on whether the Apaches are chasing me or I’m chasing the Apaches.”

Grimshaw pushed the cards to be cut, and asked the table, “How about a little five-card draw?”

It was late by the time the last of the guests had gone along to their own quarters on Officers’ Row. After an initial clean-up, the striker was dismissed for the night, leaving the bulk of the work for the morning.

Seated on the small cushioned bench in front of her vanity mirror, Hannah stroked the bristled brush through the length of her deeply red-brown hair, its hidden fire cascading down her back onto the voluminous, lace-trimmed nightgown. Stephen lay in bed, his hands folded under his head as he watched her.

“It’s late, Hannah. Turn out the lamp and come to bed.” A low urgency vibrated through his husky, well-modulated voice.

She felt its invisible caress and gentle pull. Her lips softened. She found it sweet that Stephen disliked going to sleep unless she was at his side. He was so devoted to her.

A little knot of excitement tightened her stomach at the sight of him lying in bed waiting for her, his strong arms ready to hold her. The gilded hairbrush was returned to its place next to its companion comb and hand mirror as Hannah straightened to blow out the lamp flame.

The defused glow of the lamp momentarily backlighted her, silhouetting the high roundness of her breasts, the concave flatness of her stomach, and the full curve of her bottom. Stephen’s tongue seemed to thicken in his throat as he watched his wife, her cotton nighttown made diaphanous by the light. A stiffening heat burned in his loins. Then the room dissolved into darkness, lamp smoke briefly scenting the air.

In the ghostly light of varying shades of gray and black, she approached the bed, the white of her nightgown a mass against a darkened backdrop. With blood running fast through his veins, Stephen unclasped his hands and reached to encircle her shoulders with an arm as she joined him in the bed.

“Your hair ...” His hand made a slow stroke down the rippling waves of red-brown hair that had fallen into the valley between her breasts. He curled the ends around his finger, using the motion as an excuse to leave his hand there, resting against the firm swell of one breast, the material of her nightgown interposing. “It reminds me of rose petals, all velvety and scented with a sweet, heady fragrance.”

Her head turned on the pillow, her face tilting toward his, her body warm against him. In the paleness
of the night’s shadows, Stephen could see the pulse beating in her throat, confirmation that her emotions were stirred by his touch, his nearness.

“Do you ever tire of complimenting me, Stephen?” Her lips were smiling at him, but her tone was saying she loved it.

“No. I never tire of holding you and kissing you. My own sweet love.” He leaned toward her and kissed her lips, lingering on their soft shape to nuzzle and tickle her with his mustache. “The evening was a success. Everyone enjoyed themselves, naturally. They always do when you entertain.”

“It did turn out well,” Hannah conceded modestly, and drew back slightly, her skin tingling from the contact with the soft bristle of his mustache. The dimness accentuated the proud and handsome features of her husband. “You looked so grand in your uniform tonight.” Her slender fingers touched the collar of his nightshirt where it opened at the throat, a furry mat of chest hairs curling inches below the slit. “This nightshirt doesn’t fit the image of a dashing officer. Perhaps I should sew you a new one with epaulets on the shoulders.”

Hannah was conscious of the physical stimulation of his embrace, senses heightened, stomach fluttering with unnamed emotions. The pleasure she experienced during lovemaking was a very special thing.

“Epaulets? And a sash and braid, too?” Stephen laughed softly at the idea. “What did I do before you came into my life?” An answer wasn’t required.

“Love me?” She asked in order to be told.

“Insanely,” he insisted, his arm tightening around her, a barely perceptible movement. “I know I should send you east for the summer, out of this deadly heat.”

“I wouldn’t go,” she returned evenly. “My place is here, with you.”

“I wouldn’t let you go anyway. I can barely stand to
let you out of my sight. This evening I nearly came out on the porch to bring an end to your dalliance with that officer. Who were you with?”

“Captain Cutter. Were you Jealous?” She eyed him with fascination.

“Naturally. Half the men in this fort are at your feet, jumping to do your slightest bidding. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?” he mocked.

“I’m your wife. How do you expect them to treat me? It’s kind of-them to be so attentive to me and to allow me to feel important, just because I had the good fortune of marrying you.” Hannah was sincere, certain it was her position more than her looks that gained her the attention of the men in the officer corps. Idle flirtation was a harmless game everyone played, an exercise in wordplay, a stimulant of sorts, and nothing more.

“What of young Lieutenant Delvecchio? He was a lovesick puppy, dogging your heels almost all evening.”

“That isn’t kind,” she protested at the way he derided the young officer’s gallant behavior. “He’s promised to ride with me the day after tomorrow when you’ll be on duty. Lieutenant Sloane is going to accompany us. I think he plans to obtain a gentle horse for his wife to ride, and he wants to check out the safe trails.”

“Your idea, I’m sure,” Stephen murmured.

“It would be pleasant to have another woman with whom I can go horseback riding,” Hannah admitted. “Especially when you’re on patrol.”

“I hate leaving you, Hannah,” he said with force.

But she’d seen differently at the times he’d ridden out with his troop for a week or more at a time. He felt regret, yes, at leaving her behind; but an excitement had been in his eyes, a deep-running thrill at the chance to soldier, and the little fears only gave a greater buoyancy to his feelings. These were all the things he tried to hide from her searching, memorizing eyes when
they said good-bye. She always felt the well of sharpening, tender feelings, the need to clutch and hold on—and to pretend she felt none of those sensations.

“I know you do, my darling.” Her fingers smoothed aside the lock of thick brown hair that fell across his forehead.

He kissed her, holding back the roughening needs that ridged his muscles. Her response was a pliant warmth as she combed her fingers into his hair. His hand shifted to cover the mound of her breast, the material an irritating barrier that stilled his caress.

“Hannah?” He made the ancient request against her lips, his breath running hotly over her skin.

“Yes,” she agreed to his passion. The precautions .to avoid conception were understood between them, not needing reaffirmation.

The kiss spoke of needs and hungers; their hands caressed and urged; their bodies pressed closer beneath the bedcovers. In the enveloping darkness came the love sounds of disturbed breathing, moistly clinging lips, and rustling clothing. Their voices were little more than moans, the words scarcely understandable murmurings.

Their nightclothes were pushed out of the way, bunched high around their bodies, but not removed. It was a deft, exciting touching under the garments, a sensual exploring of breast and nipple peak, shivers of stimulation dancing over skin.

Lovemaking was a world of sensation and near shapes, of things sensed but not fully seen. His hands held her lips, keeping her in position for his penetration. It was a natural fitting, a coupling cloaked in the room’s darkness and enhanced by the touch of mystery it kept. It swirled around them, catching them up in the rhythm and its building tempo.

BOOK: The Pride of Hannah Wade
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