Lynna Banning Page 23

  This must be what Black Eagle and his wife were doing that night in the tipi. Oh, the wonder of it, a man and a woman together! The sweet, sweet wonder. Dizzy with longing, she lay back on the soft pallet and waited for him.

  He knelt beside her, and she caught her breath. His body was lean and hard and warm. The heat of his skin drew her, almost against her will. She reached out one hand, touched his taut belly.

  Ben captured her fingers and gently repositioned them at her side. “Not so fast,” he murmured.

  He eased her shirt off. Already unbuttoned down the front, it was just a matter of slipping her arms out of the sleeves and pulling the garment down off her shoulders. Next he slid her camisole straps down, untying the neck ribbon she had carefully knotted not twenty minutes before. He stripped the lacy garment off over her head, brushing the tips of her breasts with his fingers.

  A thrill spiraled into her midsection, coiled below her belly. She wanted him to touch her again.

  Instead, he loosened the drawstring tie of her underdrawers, then paused, his hand resting at her waist.

  “Jessamyn, listen to me. There’s risk here, more for you than for me. I have to know—are you really sure you want this?”

  She could not help the smile that tugged at her lips. “I’m sure, Ben.” She lifted her mouth to his. “Very sure.”

  He gave a low, choked laugh. “Thank God,” he murmured. He reached for the top of her drawers, tugged them down over her knees and ankles. “Even if I wanted to,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I’m not sure I could stop.”

  He smoothed his hands over her breasts, grazed his thumbs lightly over the swollen peaks. “I haven’t loved a woman in a long time.”

  Jessamyn’s heart soared. Wherever his fingers rested, fire licked her skin. She drew in a deep, ragged breath, expelled it in a shaky sigh, drew in another. Ben breathed in rhythm with her. His controlled, purposeful movements contrasted with the sound of his uneven inhalations, and she found herself panting as she listened to him.

  The sound of their breathing in concert sent a thrill through her. She was the cause of his hunger, the focus of his struggle for control. In the same way, she admitted, he was responsible for the swelling, soaring ecstasy that flooded her being. She mattered to him.

  And, she knew now, he mattered to her, mattered more than the risk of letting him take her in the way a man possessed a woman. She was frightened. Yet, slowly, deftly, he soothed away her fear.

  He drew his tongue between her breasts, then beneath them, circling purposefully up and around her flesh until he reached the erect nipples. Her fingers curled and stiffened as he stroked in languid spirals over the engorged peaks, repeating the process again and again until she thought she would scream.

  She gasped his name. He lifted his head, then moved lower, across her belly, then lower still. Instinctively, she raised one knee. He spread his fingers near her inner thigh, held them there for a heartbeat. Then, very slowly, he dipped his tongue into the private place between her thighs, stroking back and forth as she cried out.

  She listened to the uneven rasp of air pulling in and out of his lungs, her own unsteady breaths matching his. How exposed they were to one another—naked and defenseless. A shiver of apprehension rippled through her.

  She had no experience, did not know what to do, or even what to expect. But in the next moment he groaned deep in his throat and murmured her name, his voice close to breaking.

  He was shaken by what was happening between them, just as she was! A delicious languor filled her. She lifted both arms over her head and gave herself up to it.

  His tongue grazed her heated skin, explored, making subtle variations in its path among the folds of her sensitive flesh. God in heaven, what ecstasy! Behind her closed lids, crimson stars floated against black velvet.

  He thrust his tongue inside her, and she arched. Withdrawing, he inserted one finger, slipping it deep, curving upward to touch an undreamed-of secret place. The sensation he elicited set her afire. She moved against him, her mouth opening on a sob of delight.

  He withdrew, then rose over her and entered her, a slow, steady pushing in to her center. It felt hard and full. Instinctively, she closed her inner muscles around him and heard him gasp.

  His entire body trembled. He withdrew once more, then sought her mouth. She opened to him, felt his tongue touch hers, his hard, swollen member pause at her entrance. And then he slid one hand under her hips and lifted her to meet him.

  He drove deep inside, his mouth covering her cry.

  He shouted her name with his release, and at that moment violent waves of pleasure rolled through her. The exquisite spasms went on and on, convulsing her body, her entire being. Ben held her until it was finished and she lay panting in his arms.

  “Jessamyn?” His voice was hushed, unsteady.

  She reached her arms around his body and pulled him down on top of her.

  “Are you all right?” he breathed.

  She felt like laughing, weeping, even singing. “Yes. I am very all right. I didn’t know it would be so…so wondrous. So beautiful. Did you?”

  “No,” he breathed. “It’s never been like this before.”

  Jessamyn laced her fingers through his dark hair and smiled up at the ceiling. “Good,” she said. She sighed with satisfaction. “I like surprising you.”

  She closed her eyes, tightened her arms around him. “Stay with me,” she murmured, her voice drowsy.

  Ben held her close. He didn’t want to crush her with his weight, yet he didn’t want to break the connection between his body and hers. At last he compromised by rolling to one side, bringing her with him, held tight against his body. In less than a minute, her breathing slowed and deepened.

  She was not asleep. To his astonishment, she caressed his chest with her fingertips, murmuring something—his name, and something else. A word. “Again.”

  He stopped breathing, strained to be sure he had heard correctly.

  “Again, Ben. Please.”

  He’d do anything—anything!—for her. He’d bring her the moon if she asked. After what she’d given him, no request, however unattainable, however unmeasurable, was impossible.

  He turned her over, hovered above her while he caught her mouth under his. He felt her hands move slowly up his arms, over his shoulders to his neck, felt her fingers lace themselves into his hair. When he touched her, she opened her thighs, moved her hips to meet him.

  He entered her slowly, his member hard, throbbing again with need. She felt like hot, wet silk. He pressed deep, deeper, and she closed around him.

  “Ben. Ben.” Her hands fluttered at his back like birds’ wings.

  A transforming joy pumped through his veins, demanding culmination. Completion. He moved within her, took pleasure in the sounds she made, words whispered brokenly for his ears alone, for him only. “Ben, I want to be yours…now. Make me yours.”

  It was not the gift of her body that meant so much, but her allowing him to find himself, with her. In her. For him, it was a resurrection of his belief in his own value, his own inner wholeness and strength. He knew he would never forget this night. God in heaven, he would never be the same.

  Toward morning, the storm blew itself out. Moonlight bathed the pallet where Ben lay, Jessamyn curled in his arms. He had slept briefly, then lay thinking for the rest of the night hours.

  He thought about the woman beside him. About himself. About Lorena and Jeremiah, and Walks Dancing. What Jessamyn had told him about Jeremiah and Lorena explained some of his deputy’s inexplicable behavior over the past year. Some, but not all.

  Why had Jeremiah hidden his feelings for Lorena all these years? He must have come close to hating Ben when Lorena had become engaged to him. Then, after the war, when he and Jeremiah had made their way home to Carolina, they’d found the woman they both loved had married someone else, someone with land and money. That winter, Jeremiah had steadied him through a private hell. Later, when he’d moved on to Dako
ta Territory with the U.S. Cavalry, Jeremiah had stuck with him.

  Why? Jeremiah was the one person in the world Ben trusted with his life, even though—unknown to him all that time—the two friends had been rivals. It seemed odd that his lifelong companion would share his feelings about the Indian girl, Walks Dancing, but not about Lorena. Maybe Jeremiah had never come to terms with events as they had played out after the war. Chances were Jeremiah had never forgiven Ben for courting and then winning the beautiful heiress. And when she’d rejected him, he’d left her behind.

  Ben rolled onto his side, laid his arm across Jessamyn’s midsection. Her chest rose and fell as she slept, and he slipped his hand under the blanket covering them both, stroked the warm, smooth flesh of her belly.

  He was in love with her, no doubt about that. He’d known for days, but he accepted the knowledge with trepidation. There was no room in his life for a woman. He would never be able to trust a female, even if he did love her. The only human being on earth he trusted, outside of himself, was Jeremiah.

  Come morning, he and Jessamyn would head out. He’d found what he had suspected—a hideout and a supply of guns. He’d bet money the weapons were destined for Black Eagle’s camp and the weary, smallpox-ravaged remnants of Klamath warriors. He’d also bet money that, sooner or later, Thad Whittaker’s murderer would step over the threshold of this cabin and into the trap Ben intended to set for him.

  At first light, he’d take Jessamyn back to Wildwood Valley and alert Jeremiah. With his deputy, capturing a killer on the run would be easy. God knew they’d done it half a dozen times before. In the meantime, he’d just lie here with Jessamyn beside him and plan his next move.

  His lids snapped open at a sound outside. Horses!

  He eased himself away from Jessamyn, slipped quietly from under the blanket and grabbed up the rifle. Naked, he moved to the single narrow window and peered out.

  Pale moonlight illuminated the surrounding trees, the canyon ridge above them, the jagged trail snaking down the canyon wall. Two horses. The first, a roan, bore a single rider. The second was loaded with supplies. Swaying behind came a surefooted brown mule. Two crates of rifles were strapped across the animal’s broad back, one balanced on each side. The trio descended slowly, picking its way among the jumble of rocks and mud deposited by the storm. The moon’s silvery light barely outlined the edges of the trail where it hugged the sheer canyon face.

  Ben stepped away from the window and bent over Jessamyn’s sleeping form. “Jess!” He shook her shoulder. “Wake up! Someone’s coming.”

  Catlike, she stretched and yawned. “What?”

  “Get up, Jess. We’ve got company.” He yanked the blanket off her and she sat up.

  Ben gathered up her smallclothes and shirt, snatched her dry jeans off the floor and tossed them to her. Without a word, she scrambled off the pallet and hurriedly pulled the garments on.

  “Who is it, can you tell?”

  Ben snapped up his fly. “One man. Looks kind of familiar, but not a horse I recognize. Can’t tell if he’s armed, but at least he’s alone.” He stuffed his shirt into the waistband, shrugged into his sheepskin jacket.

  “He can’t see our horses yet. Thank God we let the fire die last night—the smoke would be visible for miles.”

  Jessamyn did not answer. Fully dressed, she tugged on her boots and jacket, then rolled up her bedroll into a tight wool sausage. When Ben did the same with his, she snatched them both up, jammed her still-damp hat over her tangled hair and followed him to the cabin door.

  At the threshold, Ben paused. Catching her shoulder with his free hand, he pulled her close and kissed her, hard. “Keep low. Run for the horses.”

  She stared up at him for a split second, her face white, her eyes huge pools of emerald light. He wanted nothing more than to wrap both arms around her warm, pliant body and take her back to bed, but there wasn’t time. Even with his necessarily slow, laborious descent into the canyon, any minute their visitor would spot them. He might forego questions and shoot on sight.

  With an inward groan, Ben turned away, unbolted the door and edged it open. “Stay close,” he ordered.

  He slipped outside and headed toward the horses. Jessamyn moved in his shadow, her footsteps quiet and steady.

  Overhead, a single star gleamed. Ben slapped a folded dry blanket on the mare’s back, then threw on the saddle and cinched it tight. The bit and bridle were next.

  When he’d saddled his own horse, he hastily tied the saddlebags and bedrolls in place, then turned to help Jessamyn.

  She flashed him a quick, shaky grin from atop her mare. She’d mounted by herself. Spunky lady, he thought. Looked mighty dainty, but didn’t need coddling. His heart swelled in admiration.

  He spoke in a low voice. “If I remember right, there’s an old Indian trail out the other side of the canyon. If we’re lucky, we won’t be seen.”

  Jessamyn nodded and lifted the mare’s reins.

  “Walk her,” he said. “It’ll be quieter.”

  He nudged the gelding past her mare, heading away from the cabin in the gray predawn light. Behind him, the clomping of hooves on wet earth grew louder. Birds began to twitter high in the dripping tree limbs. The mule hawed suddenly, and a deadly silence fell.

  Gradually, step by muffled step, Ben led Jessamyn away from the danger along the unused Indian trail that wound down into a thickly wooded ravine. The minute they reached the cover of mist-wrapped cypress and pine trees, Ben released a pent-up breath.

  Safe. For the moment, anyway. Now all he had to do was get Jessamyn out of Copperblossom Canyon and back to town. He shot a quick backward glance at her.

  She met his gaze, lifted her mangled hat in a spur-ofthe-moment salute, and smiled.

  All the way out of the steep-sided canyon, Ben’s throat ached with joy.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jessamyn racked the type case and laid it on the slanted composing table. Her eyes aching from hours of selecting the tiny pieces of metal and slipping them into place, she slid off the high stool, untied her work apron and swept past the keg of printer’s ink Otto Frieder had delivered that afternoon. Along with the ink, the beaming storekeeper had announced the birth of his daughter.

  “Was early, but Dr. Bartel, he say she is fine baby,” Otto had sputtered. “And—” He’d moved his two extended forefingers in toward each other. “So tiny. Like a china doll she looks!”

  All afternoon and evening Jessamyn thought about the Frieders’ new baby, the life a young girl and later a grown woman faced out here in the West—physical hardships and unending work. And there were other dangers, as well— emotional risks, such as men like Ben Kearney who turned her heart inside out with pleasure and then wrenched it with longing for something that could not continue.

  With a sigh, she laid her apron over the battered oak desk in the front office. She had made love with a man, let him touch her in intimate places, and she had reveled in it. She had taken his body into hers at the height of passion, and—despite her mother’s admonitions and Miss Bennett’s training in propriety—she didn’t regret one minute of it.

  But she knew it couldn’t go on. Ben was not the marrying kind and, to be honest, neither was she. Still, for a woman like herself, a properly reared single lady, now with a career as a dedicated newspaperwoman, there was certainly a limit to the boundaries she could overstep and still remain respectable.

  Jessamyn turned down the lamp wick and puffed out the flame with a quick breath. She hadn’t seen Ben since they’d returned to Wildwood Valley two nights ago. He’d left her with a quick, warm kiss and had vanished down the dark path. He hadn’t been angry—his mouth, hot and sweet on hers for those few glorious instants, had told her that. But she knew he had other things on his mind—Spencer repeating rifles and her father’s murderer. She wondered what he planned to do now.

  In the next instant she knew the answer. When he found Jeremiah, the two men would buckle on their gun belts and ride back
up into the mountains to capture an outlaw.

  Her heart all but stopped beating. Merciful heaven, here was a hazard about life in the West she hadn’t considered before—caring about a man whose life was in danger!

  Hurriedly she locked the news office door and in the dusky light made her way along the plank walk, past the Dixon House hotel and Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon. Both establishments were lit up like Christmas trees. The sheriffs office was dark. She supposed Ben had ridden out to his brother’s ranch for supper, or maybe he and Jeremiah were both at the saloon. Jeremiah hadn’t stopped in to visit at the Times office since Walks Dancing had come to stay with Cora. The deputy might be there at the house now, visiting the Indian girl.

  She quickened her step. She wanted to ask Jeremiah’s help when she put the next issue of her newspaper to bed. She covered the quarter-mile walk to the big white house preoccupied by the articles she had to finish for her next edition—the latest news about President Johnson and impeachment, the new plan for the railroad to bypass Jacksonville in favor of Medford, which would put that city in line for county seat. Bad news in good English, Papa used to say.

  She would print nothing about the sheriff’s closing the net around the cattle thief and her father’s killer, at least not until Ben made an arrest. She would not, for a second time, compromise his plans for capturing the outlaw. Besides, if she held the news over, it would make a bigger splash to break the entire story at one time.

  When Jessamyn entered Cora’s warm, good-smelling kitchen, she found the elderly housekeeper rolling biscuit dough out on a floured board while Walks Dancing stood at the stove, stirring a kettle of simmering stew.

  “Where’ve you been, child? I’d near give up on you gettin’ home in time for supper, but your Indian friend here wouldn’t eat without you.” Cora stamped out rounds of dough with an upended jelly glass. “Beats me how you two can communicate—she can’t say but two words in English.”

  Jessamyn flashed a quick smile at Walks Dancing and bent to sniff the stew. Turning, she noticed a bouquet of pale gold roses arranged on the kitchen table. The spicy perfume sent an odd, empty ache into her chest.