Velvet Thunder (2 page)

After the choking dust settled, he gave her a look that would have sent the hardiest cowpoke scrambling for safety. Unmoved, she tried to buck him off, twisting and jerking, slamming her lower body against his.

“Look, lady—and I use the term loosely—if you know what's good for you, you'll hold still!”

He wondered if she felt his growing desire pressing against her leg. More to the point, if she was worldly enough to know what it was, to understand what it meant.

When fear darkened her eyes, he cursed silently, fighting to tamp down his burgeoning desire. Obviously, it had been far too long since he'd had a woman. But the sprite gazing up at him as if he had two heads was not the kind of woman he needed. Although she was dressed provocatively in snug black leather pants and a tight fringed vest, he knew she was a lady, at least an innocent. He could almost smell her virginal fear.

Losing himself in eyes as black as midnight, he sought to remind himself that he was a sophisticated northern gentleman, and as such he didn't take advantage of virgins. No matter how damned adorable they were.

Unconsciously, he shifted against her, increasing her unease, spurring her into action.

“You rutting boar,” she accused him, feigning bravado. “Get the hell off of me.”

The scent of her, the feel of her, called forth something primitive, untamed, passionate in Heath; her breath, brushing warm against his face, was the final blow. Dipping his head, he ground his lips against her own and silenced her with a kiss.

She gasped, enticing him to slip his tongue between her lips. As he deepened the kiss, all thoughts of propriety and ladies burned up in the heat of desire. He wanted more; he wanted all of her. Shifting to his side, he slid his hand down her back, cupping the firmest little fanny he'd ever had the pleasure to fondle.

She ceased her struggle as he continued his tender assault, skimming his hands over her writhing form. One hand found its way to the silken braid that rested on her breasts. Grazing the sensitive flesh with the backs of his fingers, he untied the scrap of rawhide that imprisoned her hair and sifted his fingers through the cool silver strands, spreading her hair like a gossamer cape about her shoulders.

When she made a helpless noise in her throat, he gentled. His tongue made long, lazy forays into her mouth. Pleasing him, she returned his kiss shyly. She tasted of lemonade, sunshine, and willingness.

But when he insinuated a knee between her thighs, she came to herself. Acting on pure instinct, she clamped her perfect white teeth down on his tongue.

His runaway passion flickered, dimmed, and died in the space of a heartbeat. “Owww.” He rolled off her and touched his throbbing tongue with the tip of his finger . A single drop of blood glistened in the sunlight. He held it close to her face. “See what you did.”

She was unmoved. Every inch of her rigid body shouted defiance. “You deserve worse, you depraved son of a bitch.”

“Why you little—” he began, reaching for her.

She surged to her feet and scampered to the edge of the cliff. After scrubbing her tingling lips with the back of her hand, she spat his kiss into the dust. “If you ever touch me again, I'll blow so many holes in you, you won't hold water.”

“You'll find I don't scare easily.” His tone was smug, for in her potent gaze, he read a combination of anger and desire. He suspected that he had just given the girl her first kiss and that she hadn't found it as objectionable as she pretended. Arrogantly, he winked at her, knowing that it would enrage her further. But why he wanted to provoke her, he couldn't say.

Surprisingly, her expression relaxed. Offering him half a smile, she slipped her hands behind her neck, as if to rebraid her hair.

Her shirt, pulled tight across firm young breasts, caused him to suck in a sharp breath. He imagined shaping those breasts in the palms of his hands. Pleasantly distracted, he failed to see her withdraw the bowie knife hidden in the scabbard under her collar.

With a flip of her wrist she sent the deadly weapon sailing toward him.

“What?” he yelled, barely sidestepping the knife. Clearly astounded, he wondered what kind of a hellcat he had stumbled upon.

She was horrified to have missed the mark, not to mention seeing such rage on his face. “Oh, shit!”

Scrabbling over the rim, she slipped and slid down the cliff. With a safe distance between them, she stopped at the base of the cliff, shaded her eyes with an unsteady hand, and peered up at him. He stood on the upper ledge, silhouetted by the blazing sun, looking larger than life. She was momentarily mesmerized.

Their gazes met and held. Something indefinable, as old as time itself, passed between them. Bending slightly, he touched the brim of his hat in mock salute.

“Arrogant ass,” she muttered without heat. Fleet as a deer, she whirled about and ran west.

Heath watched her retreat. She disappeared behind an outcropping of rocks. Still, he watched. After what seemed an eternity, the sound of horses' hooves echoed through the valley. She burst into view, riding a palomino. His heart thundered in his chest. Woman and horse, wild with freedom, their silver-blond manes streaming in the wind, galloped across the plains as if the devil himself were nipping at their heels. Not only was she riding astride, but without a saddle.

A faint smile sculpted Heath's lips. “Until later, little hellion.”

 

 

A tall man dressed in unrelieved black, lurking across the valley atop Mustang Mesa, lowered his army field glasses. He had witnessed the confrontation with interest.

Climbing down from his high perch, he headed toward Sandy Johns's spread. His orders were to kill the rancher. If he timed it right, the man who had just kissed Miss Johns senseless would be blamed for her father's murder.

“I don't think the little lady likes you.”

Heath pivoted and drew his gun, crouching low. Straightening, he exhaled with relief and leathered his weapon. “Damn it, Jay! You want to get yourself shot? You know better than to sneak up on me like that!

U.S. Marshal Jay Hampton regarded his partner wryly. “You were expecting me, weren't you?” he asked rhetorically. “Besides, since when could anybody sneak up on you?”

“Well, I was a little distracted.”

“So I noticed. That was some distraction!” Jay whistled his appreciation, clearly unaffected by Heath's surly disposition. Being cursed at, shot at, and practically stabbed to death by a delicious demon in breeches could wear on a man's patience, he allowed.

Still, he was somewhat alarmed at Heath's obvious exhaustion, physical and emotional. Ever since the two had served as special aides to Abraham Lincoln during the American Civil War, they had been closer than brothers. Now working for the Justice Department—riding together, chasing outlaws across the country, and saving each other's hides time and again, their bond was even stronger. They often communicated without words. Jay knew the exact instant his irritation waned.

Releasing the last of his tension with a sigh, Heath sauntered over to Jay. “Good to see you, partner.”

“And you.” Jay shook Heath's hand firmly. Smiling, he raised a questioning brow. “By the way, who was that sweet little confection you were attempting to gobble up?”

Characteristically, Heath muttered something unintelligible and slapped his hat against a rock-hard thigh. “Damned if I know! I was riding along, enjoying the scenery, and next thing I know somebody's taking shots at me. When I tried to subdue her, she threw a knife at my head.”

Leaning against the boulder at his back, Jay crossed his feet at the ankles, plucked two cheroots from his vest pocket, and offered Heath a smoke. “Looks to me like she was aiming at something a sight more vital than your head.”

Heath halted in the act of lighting his cigar; his brow furrowed. Had the girl really been aiming at his privates? Considering the scandalous way he had treated her, pawing her and kissing her as if she were little more than a trollop for hire, he wouldn't blame her.

But surely not! Decent women didn't try to geld strangers, even west of the Pecos. But he wouldn't put anything past her. A twisted sort of fascination teased his mind. Very twisted, he acknowledged.

“You would be wise to steer clear of her, partner,” Jay broke into his thoughts. “Even if she doesn't kill you in your sleep, she'll be nothing but trouble.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

Hoping Heath could handle the itty-bitty female, he pushed away from the boulder, looking every inch a serious lawman. “Just don't say I didn't warn you”

Heath nodded.

“Oh, well, we're not here to talk about our love lives. Or lack thereof. And I'm your partner, not your priest.”

Heath voiced agreement. Taking Jay's cue, he ground his half-smoked cigar beneath the toe of his boot and turned to business. “Well, partner, why have we been summoned to Adobe Wells?”

“Not we. You,” Jay corrected him. “After I fill you in on your assignment, I return to Indian Territory.”

Heath merely nodded. He didn't want the team to be split up, but it never occurred to him to question orders. “Why have
I
been summoned to Adobe Wells?”

“Apparently half the outlaws in New Mexico have swarmed there. You're to mingle with them; pass yourself off as Lucky Diamond again, and see what you can learn.” Jay smiled conspiratorially “Captain said to tell you he's enlarged your reputation a bit.”

Heath grimaced. “What have I done this time?”

Jay placed his hand over his heart. “Sent Barnes Elder to that great poker game in the sky.”

Heath whistled softly. “I'm getting good! If I didn't know it was all fabrication, I'd be impressed myself. Barnes Elder, huh?”

“Yeah, poor ol' Barnes never even cleared leather,” Jay said of the fictitious gunman. “Seems he was dealing aces off the bottom of the deck. Being a professional gambler, you couldn't allow that.”

“Certainly not.”

Jay sobered. “You know this means every downy-faced sod-buster with the price of a bullet will be gunning for you. And you won't get much help from the local law. The sheriff's a green kid who's afraid of his own shadow, and the territory judge is a fancy dresser with a questionable character. Name's Elias Colt Jack. Has an eye patch and sometimes goes by the moniker One-eyed Jack. He's trying to take over the whole valley, but we don't know why. The only thing we know for certain about him is that he's not a judge.”

“Let's see now . . .” Heath began dryly, counting off on his fingers. “I'm going up against virtually every shootist in the territory—every novice who wants to make his reputation by drawing on the man who killed Barnes Elder—without my partner at my back. All in a town where the law consists of a wet-behind-the-ears sheriff and a greedy judge who's not really a judge. Do you have any more good news?”

Jay threw Heath an impudent grin. “If you add the doll who practically castrated you, I'd say that about covers it.”

“The lengths we go to t' serve our country,” Heath deadpanned.

Jay chuckled. “Yep. Makes you wonder about our intelligence, doesn't it?”

Heath raised an ebony brow, agreeing. “What's your assignment, as if I didn't know.”

Jay's smile disappeared. “I've got to find Rachel and put that bitch away again. For good this time. I don't know how long it'll take me, but as soon as I square things, I'll be back.”

For the past two years, Jay—and Heath, when he wasn't on other assignments—had been chasing a cold-hearted murderer named Rachel Jackson, who had broken out of the Arkansas Territorial Prison, killing two guards in the process.

Rumor had it that Rachel was in Santa Fe. While Heath spent time in New York, visiting his ill father, Jay visited New Mexico's territorial capital. But the report hadn't panned out; Rachel was nowhere to be found. So Jay had received orders from their captain to alert Heath to the problems in Adobe Wells, then head back to the Nations after Rachel.

“How's your dad?” Jay asked quietly.

“Rad and Chap”—he referred to his doctor twin brothers—“say he's stable for now. He's still having pains in his chest though, and they're keeping him in bed.”

“Knowing the general, that can't be easy.”

Despite the worry about his father, Heath returned Jay's smile. “No, I imagine not. That's why both Rad and Chap closed their practice in Richmond indefinitely. They're staying for the duration.” He looked out over the valley, his deep, husky voice betraying a sense of guilt, “I should be there too.”

“I know how you feel, Heath. But the general wouldn't want you to sit by his side. It would make him feel as if you were waiting for him to die. And if I know the old man, he'll pull through.”

Heath drew a deep, cleansing breath. “Dear Lord, I hope you're right.”

“I am.” Jay cleared his throat, knowing it was time they were both on the trail. “Guess I'd best be movin' on. I'll be back this way soon as I finish up in the Nations.”

Heath nodded. The two returned to their horses, parting company with reluctance.

“Watch your back, partner. You hear?” Jay drawled.

“I will.” Heath watched as Jay mounted and rode away. “You do the same,” he called to Jay's retreating form.

With a backward wave, Jay disappeared from sight.

High atop Warrior, Heath kicked his horse into a gallop and headed toward Adobe Wells.

Hopefully, there was still time to reach town before nightfall.