Chapter 12

 

Saturday arrived more swiftly than a raven at a roadkill. Tempest's last hope of avoiding the Stefans’ barn dance vanished when her father announced at breakfast that he would be going.

Her nerves were already frayed from sleeping with Buck's warm body next to hers the past few nights. The children had been moved to a smaller bed Buck built for them, so she was alone with him now in the big bed. She knew she should make him sleep on the floor again, but she couldn’t make herself do it. Instead, she lay there each night, wondering, hoping, fearing. Waiting. Each night he turned away and went instantly to sleep. One more night like that and she would go crazy. Yet the alternative was equally unacceptable.

Buck said nothing about the dance until the older man left, trailed by the children who were pestering him to help them pull carrots to feed the horses and mules. Ethan, sniffling with a slight cold, dragged his “bankie” behind him. Tempest shook her head. As she scraped dishes into the slop bucket, she tried to ignore the man at the table boring a hole in her back with his gaze. It was useless.

"Weren't going to tell me, were you?" Buck said finally.

The abrasive sound of the knife on the earthenware added to the tension. "Tell you what?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "You know damn well what.”

"It's an engagement party . . . the oldest Stefan girl is marrying Ivan Volynskji. Since I don't know them well, and Ethan isn’t over his sniffles, I hadn't planned to go. Besides, I have nothing appropriate to wear to a dance."

His chair grated on the floor as he shoved away from the table. The warmth of his big frame and the tingling of her body told her he stood directly behind her. It took a conscious effort not to lean into him. Touch me. Oh, Sweet Mary, please touch me.

But he didn't. "Ethan isn’t that sick,” he said. “According to the Widow Sims, everyone within ten miles is coming . . . partly to see us. She says we need to be there . . . to curb the gossip."

Tempest stared at him. "You mean you already knew about the dance?"

"I was hoping for some hint that you wanted to go with me."

Spinning back to the sideboard, she scraped another plate. "I have no intention of pandering to their morbid curiosity. If they want to see you so dratted bad, let them come here."

"Morbid?"

"You're supposed to be dead, remember? That, and the romantic notion of a bride being stolen from her wedding by a husband more interested in the . . . woman he was bedding than his own wife, is all that interests them."

He nuzzled her neck under her ear. His beard tickled her sensitive skin, making her shiver. "Do I feel dead?" he asked huskily, ignoring her barb about Lacey.

She whirled and shoved against his chest. "No. You don’t look dead, feel dead or smell dead. Can we get off the subject now?"

Buck didn't budge. He placed his hands on either side of her, trapping her against the sideboard as snugly as a rabbit in a snare. The look in his eyes set her every nerve trembling. It was the look she'd craved for days, a hungry look that said she and she alone could nourish him.

"You sure don't feel dead," he whispered, bending to kiss her cheek. "You feel warm and real and good. Kiss me, pretty lady. I haven't had nearly enough kisses in my life and your mouth was made for the job.”

He gave her no chance to object. His mouth silenced hers in the most delicious way possible, his tongue stroking the inner surface of her lips with such delicacy she felt cherished, and banished all thoughts of resistance. Her hands found their way up his hard chest to the thick hair at the back of his head. To sink her fingers into those silky strands was like a dream come true. They looked like midnight but felt like liquid sunshine, bathing her soul. With light brushing motions, his lips moved over hers, nipping at their fullness. Finally, he crushed her to him, his mouth demanding, almost bruising as it plundered hers. Tempest thought he would devour her, and she relished it. She couldn't get close enough. Her hips arched brazenly against him, glorying in the proof of her effect on him. She wanted to touch him, to taste him, to climb inside and become part of him.

Buck knew he was out of control. He ordered himself to move away, and cursed his inability to obey. He pressed even more intimately to her, grinding gently, building the heat until he thought he would erupt like a volcano, burning them both to cinders. He’d wanted her too desperately, for too long. Turning away from her each night to keep from touching her had been torture. Now that she was in his arms, his body refused to give up the sweet feel of her against him.

Over and over, he whispered her name, his voice low and tortured. His mouth explored her face while his hands slipped beneath her loose shirt, inched up her rib cage and found her breasts. Tempest cried out, as if the pleasure were too much. Her head fell back, giving him access to her neck. Beneath her jaw and down the side of her neck, he trailed kisses until he found the seductive hollow at the base that had tempted him so often as it peeked from the opening of her shirt. He bathed it now with his tongue, his thumbs stroking her nipples to hard peaks.

A drop of milk collected on his thumb. A ravenous need to taste it overwhelmed him. He shoved the shirt to her neck, went down on his knees and put his mouth to her breast. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

Tempest gasped as his mouth closed over her nipple. What he was doing was as arousing as it was shocking, in broad daylight with the door open. She could hear the children calling for Grunt to come and get a carrot. What if they walked in and saw Buck crouched there at her feet, her shirt rucked up about her shoulders and his mouth sucking, sucking?

Instead of pushing him away as she knew she should, she held his head more tightly to her. Knowing they might be caught at any moment filled her with a giddy sort of exhilaration that shocked her. He was drinking the milk Ethan no longer wanted, going from breast to breast, suckling them dry, easing the discomfort of their fullness, his hands cupping, squeezing, worshiping.

Out of the corner of half-closed eyes, she saw a shadow cross a sunlit square of the window. “Buck!” She thrust him away.

He came to his feet in a swift, graceful motion, eyes blazing with a hunger that wrenched her heart and increased the ache in the part of her he had yet to touch. A boot scuffed the dirt outside and her father's voice came to them as he spoke to Rooster. Leaning against the sideboard, Tempest stared at Buck, afraid to move and test her trembling legs. He yanked down her shirt and turned her about. "The dishes," he whispered.

Buck vanished into the back room.

A moment later Ronan appeared in the open doorway. Tempest rattled the dishes as she forced her hands to perform what should be second nature, but which seemed impossible at the moment. She couldn’t look at her father. Her face was warm and she knew it must be as red as the paper roses pasted on the wall.

"'Tis a bonny day," Ronan said. "The bairns are building a wall with rocks so they can play ‘fort.’ I've a notion to ride up Dry Fork Canyon and visit with the Ancient Ones."

"That's a good idea, Papa," she croaked, and cleared her voice. She felt his gaze on her but couldn't face him.

"Did yer Skeet go back to bed?"

"No. The roof leaked last night. He's cleaning up the floor."

"Does he need help, do ye think?"

"No," she said a little too quickly. "No, I don't think so."

"Ah. Well, I'm off then."

The moment he was gone, Tempest covered her face with wet, soapy hands. That was how Buck found her when he came from the bedroom. He stood behind her, feeling helpless. He wanted to ask if she was only embarrassed or if she regretted what happened between them. The words wouldn't come; he was afraid of her answer. What they had shared seemed beautiful to him, as beautiful and precious as a desert rainbow. He couldn't bear the thought that she might not see it the same way.

"Who are the Ancient Ones?" he asked finally to distract her.

Tempest straightened and began scrubbing dishes again. "Indians. The ones who built the ruins and carved the designs in the rocks you see everywhere in the canyon. The Utes call them the Ancient Ones.”

Buck stepped to the open door and gazed after her father. "Don't suppose any of them left behind some whiskey, do you? Never saw Ronan show any interest in Indian ruins before."

Tempest tried to laugh but the sound came out strained. “He visits them often, actually. A Welsh grandmother filled him with tales of Celtic druids and witches and magic when he was young. I think the Indian drawings hold the same fascination for him as the strange stone monuments all over Britain no one’s ever figured out. A mystery to solve.” She sighed wearily. “But you’re right to suspect him. He could easily have a bottle hidden in one of them.”

Buck knew nothing of druids and stone monuments. Nor were they a subject he wished to discuss at the moment. What he really wanted was to finish what they had started before her father came in, but he sensed that for her the mood was gone. Tense with frustration, he mumbled something about checking on Spook and went outside.

As he walked toward the pasture, he thought about Ronan. Tempest's father had been sober more than drunk lately, even doing some work about the place. If the Stefan's barn dance tonight went the way of most such events, there would be enough liquor floating around to strike every man there booze-blind, let alone one old Scotsman, and there would be no way to prevent Ronan from imbibing.

A sip or two of whiskey would go down his own gullet real well right now, Buck thought. His mind needed numbing. So did his body, but there wasn’t enough liquor in the county to kill its cravings. For the millionth time he told himself to mount his horse and get away from Tempest and her canyon. It was insane to stay, feeling as he did. The situation would only end in disaster. He didn’t deserve her. Pretending for a while to have a home, a family, a wife, had been heaven, even if he did hate himself for the indulgence. Giving up what he’d found here would take every ounce of will power he possessed.

Tonight, he promised himself. He would give himself one more night. Tomorrow he’d pay Jonas Creedy a visit. After painting the man a very clear picture of what the half-breed could expect if he bothered Tempest again, Buck would instruct Swede to send for him if Tempest needed help. Then he’d leave.

But tonight he and Tempest would dance and laugh and hold each other close, as any husband and wife, enjoying a party. Ethan would fall asleep beneath the chairs the way Buck had as a child, and Angel would make herself sick eating too much cake. He would carry them out to the cart while Tempest said her good-byes, and they would go home together.

Home. Was it wrong to ask for one more night to enjoy feeling like a husband and father? Tomorrow would be soon enough to face the loneliness that was all he would have for the rest of his life. For now, he wanted a small taste of what might have been. He knew Tempest wasn't Ellen. His feelings for Tempest went beyond what he'd felt for the innocent young girl he'd married. The girl he had killed.

And after the dance? After they were home, and the children were tucked away, and Ronan was snoring on his cot in the front room? There was no pretense about what he hoped would happen after that.

Closing his eyes he envisioned Tempest leaning against the sideboard, her shirt shoved up and held in place by the up thrust of her beautiful breasts. Her lips were parted and she was panting. Her nipples were hard and swollen. Reddened from the pressure of his mouth. Her legs were braced a little apart, as though waiting for him to fit himself between them where he belonged. And her eyes, oh Judas, her eyes—big with wonder, sensuous and drowsy, dark and wild with a hunger that matched his own.

Buck opened his eyes and banished the vision. An entire day had to be gotten through before night came. He'd never make it if he didn't get his mind on something else. Like the problem of finding her a dress.

High above, the sun crested the jagged tips of the towering sandstone walls. It glinted off the fanciful spires and castle-like formations, and sprinkled them with gold dust. Buck breathed in the crisp clean air and gazed about as though seeing the canyon for the first time. With the toe of his boot, he nudged the sandy, seemingly infertile soil, crouched and scooped the dirt into his hand. Off to his left the green of Tempest's irrigated garden—what was left of it after the harvest anyway—proved the land wasn't infertile at all. Only dry. The challenge of this harsh land called to him. He understood now why Tempest fought so hard to hang onto her small ranch. And he wanted the same thing. California and the Pacific Ocean were a dream, one he had needed to get him through prison. But he far preferred the warm, living reality of Tempest and the children. Everything he had ever truly wanted in life was right here.

* * *

The evening turned even colder than the previous night and thunder grumbled in the distance, but the revelers inside the Stefan's brightly lit barn were oblivious. Fiddle music and laughter blocked out most sounds. In the loft children screamed and raced about in a wild game of "it." Bits of hay from their stomping feet filtered between the crevices in the loft floor onto the dancers below.

Tempest stood behind the refreshments table passing out cups of punch, spiked for the men, plain for children and ladies. Ethan snoozed on a chair nearby, his thumb in his mouth and his "bankie" tucked under his chin. Like the other youngsters her age, Angel chased about, getting underfoot. Ronan had joined a group of men discussing politics and cattle disease while passing a flask among them. She wished she could tell the men not to give him any liquor, but she couldn’t bring herself to humiliate him that way.

Beside Tempest, Viola tapped her toe and hummed to the music. "You ought to rescue that man of yours, Tempest. He hasn’t been off that dance floor for a good hour. Must be parched as a sun dried cow chip by now."

Buck’s dark head was easy to locate among the throng. Tempest frowned. Eloise Jensen was clinging tighter to him than a vine on a trellis. A moment ago it had been Lucy Bennet. Tempest knew he was only being polite and sociable, banishing gossip from the ladies’ minds, but country manners did not require a man to enjoy himself quite so thoroughly. She had to admit he was the most handsome of the men. His vivid blue eyes were a striking contrast to his tanned face and the midnight darkness of his hair. His strength and self-assurance made him as conspicuous as the distinctive white streak over his brow. A hawk among sparrows. Merely looking at him made her heart purr. But the way he spread his seductive charm among so many twittering females infuriated her.

"He's not my man,” she muttered to Viola while offering Anna Hopkins a cup of punch. "Besides, I wouldn't dream of spoiling his fun."

Viola shook her head. "Now, dear, it isn’t good to let a man think you don't care what he does with other women. It gives him ideas."

"He can have all the ideas he wants, as long as they don't involve me."

In a tone of exasperation, Viola spoke to the empty space beside her. "She already knows she’s a fool, Mr. Sims. I told her she’d never find another like him. Not around here."

Tempest ignored her friend. She knew Viola was right but she wasn't about to admit it. Eloise Jensen was leading Buck toward the barn door, her breasts pressed against his arm. Her head was tipped back as she gazed up at him, her lips pouting invitingly. "Skunk-faced weasel,” Tempest griped beneath her breath. “I absolutely refuse to care what he does." Eloise, on the other hand, Tempest yearned to snatch bald.

Viola followed Tempest's gaze. "Glory be. Doesn't he know what folks'll think seeing him go off with a young girl like that? It’s no way to counter the gossip about him and that girl at the Princess. Best go after him, dear, or you won't have a shred of pride left."

"I haven't any now, blast his devil's heart," Tempest retorted. "I can't believe what a bunch of hypocrites those women are, so shocked at having a ‘thieving womanizer’ in their midst, yet batting their eyelashes and acting like he was an oversized chocolate cake they couldn’t wait to gobble up.”

Viola smiled. “We women are a contrary lot, as Mr. Sims likes to say. We love dangerous men, especially ones as handsome as Mr. Maddux."

"I don't think anyone believed for one second that he's really Skeet."

"Perhaps not, but they won't say anything to Jonas. There isn't a one of them can stomach the man. Mr. Johansson certainly is keeping his mouth shut. Everyone knows he and Mr. Maddux have become friends, but no one can get Swede to say a word about him."

"I don't care what they think, as long as Jonas leaves me alone."

At that moment Jonas Creedy appeared in the doorway. Tempest hated the fear the sight of him instilled in her, and the awful feeling of vulnerability at knowing how close he’d come to defiling her. That he had seen her naked breasts and put his mouth on them mortified her to her very soul. The hair at her nape rose as his gaze lit upon her. His eyes swept her body, and his snide smile made it plain he was remembering what he had done to her. She closed her eyes and turned away, while heat rose to her cheeks. Suddenly the smells of straw, coffee, perfume on unwashed bodies, and the other barn scents no amount of cleaning could erase overwhelmed her, nearly causing her to swoon. Horrified, she stiffened her spine.

"Gracious,” said Viola. “Jonas is heading right toward us. After what your Mr. Maddux did to him for attacking you, I’m astonished that the scoundrel has the nerve to even look at you."

Before Tempest could decide on a plan of action, Buck walked into the barn. Pretending she hadn't seen Jonas, she left the refreshments table and merged with the crowd, taking a roundabout route she hoped would place her in Buck's path. He saw her and motioned for her to meet him on the dance floor.

"How sweet of you to break off your moonlight tryst with Eloise to rescue me,” she gushed as they met, her eyelashes batting coquettishly.

Buck grinned as he swept her into his arms and twirled her across the floor. "I'm glad you appreciate my sacrifice."

"Why, how could I do otherwise?" Her voice still sweet as Viola’s cinnamon rolls, she added, "You skunk-breathed, two-headed vulture."

"Now, sweetheart, no need to overdo the gratitude. I know you love me."

Under the guise of a dance step, she stomped his toe.

Buck bit off a curse. "Is that any way to treat your loving husband? And here I was about to tell you how pretty you look."

Her pique vanished and her heart melted. "I still can't believe you rode all the way to Price to buy me this dress, Buck."

"You really like it?"

"I love it. Yellow's always been my favorite color."

His gaze dropped admiringly to the low décolletage and small puffed sleeves that bared her slender arms, and a startling amount of bosom. "It's amber, to match the flecks in your eyes."

Cocking her head, she asked, "What are you after, Buck Maddux? You're too much of a scoundrel to have done this out of kindness.” He looked so full of himself she couldn't help trying to knock him down a peg or two. “How did you pay for it? You gave Jonas all your money."

Instead of the devilish grin and ribald retort she had expected, he shrugged. "I didn't go all the way to Price. I met a Mormon family in Wellington. A relative back East had sent the woman the dress but the neckline was too daring. It didn’t take much to talk her into trading it for a couple of books I had in my saddlebags.” At last, the smile came, but more sheepish than seductive, and totally serious. "As for what I want, you've always known that."

"Oh, Buck." He looked like a young boy trying to wheedle his way out of mucking out the barn so he could go fishing instead. She wanted to brush the silver-streaked wave off his forehead and clutch him to her breast. Their eyes locked and they moved closer together. Their legs brushed and she tingled with sudden awareness of his hard body against her softer one; his large, rough hand engulfing her smaller hand; his thigh momentarily inserted between hers as they danced. Her satin skirts whispered, enveloping them as they swirled around the dance floor, lost in each other’s gaze as if they were the only two people in the world.

Buck pressed his face in her hair. "Your hair smells good. You’re beautiful with it piled on top of your head like this. I like the wisps curling around your face and down your neck." His voice took on a melancholy tone. "Too beautiful for a drifter like me. You deserve a man who can buy you pretty dresses and take you dancing every week. But I’m damned glad it's me you're with tonight, me who'll be taking you home.”

Tempest hid her face in his shoulder, afraid to let him see the emotions exposed in her eyes. He made her feel beautiful, soft and feminine. No longer a frontier mother who grubbed in dirt with chapped hands and bred mules to keep food in her children’s mouths, but a girl in yellow satin, young and lovely and desired. He crushed her to him and she clung, her heart soaring despite the small voice warning her that she was about to tumble into a deep, deep chasm that could easily swallow her whole. She wanted to be swallowed. Wanted to know the joy Buck’s lips and hands and body promised. Wanted him to make love to her, to solve her problems, to take care of her.

When the music ended, he refused to let her go. The fiddler began another song and Buck swept her away. They danced until they were panting, their cheeks flushed, laughing like youngsters intoxicated by their first taste of sensual awareness, reluctant to let go but afraid to hang on and see where the night might take them.

"Having a good time?" he asked.

"Yes. Not as good as you've been having, though, being pawed and fawned over by every female in the place." Her teasing tone took on a hint of pique. "I can't believe you went outside with Eloise like that."

A dark brow rose. "Jealous?"

"Of course not. I don't give a cat's whiskers if you take Eloise Jensen out in the middle of the dance floor and kiss her till she faints dead at your feet."

As he tipped back his head and laughed, she caught a whiff of night wind and whiskey and silken promises.

"You've been drinking," she said, surprised.

"That's what I was doing while you were imagining me doing Lord knows what with Eloise. She needed to use the necessary. After I escorted her to the barn door, I warmed my blood with a swig from the bottle the men were passing out there.”

Tempest gazed about the room, feigning disinterest. "Your conceit is bigger than Patmos Mountain. What makes you think I was imagining anything about you and Eloise?”

"If you weren't worrying about what I was doing with her, why were you so upset that I’d gone outside with her?”

"I wasn't."

“Yes, you were,” he challenged with a grin.

“I was not.”

"You certainly hustled yourself over to me quickly enough when I came back inside."

Her mouth gaped as she stared at him. "That had nothing to do with Eloise Jensen. I was simply avoiding Jonas. Didn’t you see him?"

“No, I didn’t know he was here.” He stiffened and his eyes narrowed. "The bastard wouldn’t dare even speak to you. He knows I'd kill him."

"I'm not so sure of that. He headed right for me."

"Sounds like we should remind him who you belong to.”

Before she could object, his mouth claimed hers in a kiss so electrifying she could do nothing except kiss him back with every ounce of feeling her body contained.

* * *

Jonas Creedy took the cup of punch the Widow Sims reluctantly handed him and watched Tempest go into her husband's arms at the edge of the dance area. His nostrils flared as rage surged through him. She should have belonged to him. Would have, if that bastard pretending to be her husband hadn't come along.

Jonas was becoming more and more sure the man was actually Buck Maddux, who went to prison for being Skeet’s accomplice in the payroll robbery. Jonas had sent a wire to the U.S. Marshal in Provo asking for information on Maddux, where he was from, and where he was now. Why the hell hadn’t there been any answer? He cursed, thinking he would have to take another ride to send a wire to the Sugar House Penitentiary. If Maddux had been incarcerated there, maybe the warden could provide a description to prove once and for all who the bastard was.

So far, Jonas’s inquiries had produced no one who could identify Whitney. Jess Barlow, who’d been there longer than anyone else in the territory, would have known the man. Jonas was sorry now that he’d killed the stubborn old codger for refusing to sell him the Carcass Creek Cattle Company. Everyone thought Barlow sold out and moved to California, but he had gone no farther than a grave in his own yard.

Whitney or Maddux, it would be simple enough to kill the bastard. But if Tempest had told the truth about her husband being in prison, he couldn’t have spent the stolen payroll, which meant it had to be stashed somewhere nearby. Tempest had paid back the Army, which meant Whitney had a legal right to the hoard. Jonas could only surmise that the thief was being cautious about anyone learning he had so much cash on hand in case they decided to take it for themselves. He smiled. Who deserved it more than him? He would watch and wait. Once the cash was recovered, he would step in and help himself to it all—the money, the land, and Tempest.

Taking a sip of punch, he coughed and spewed the liquid onto the floor. "What the hell did you give me, woman?" he raved at the plump widow behind the refreshment table. "This sugar water ain't fit for anyone but brats."

"Or rats," she muttered.

Leaning across the table he snarled, "Watch it, you old bitch. You may find that pig slop restaurant of yours going up in flames some night."

The hand she rested on the pistol at her hip was completely at odds with her look of wide-eyed innocence as Viola glanced about. “Why, Mr. Creedy, it isn’t wise to threaten me with my husband close by. You never know what might be waiting in the dark for you some night, unheard and unseen . . . like the dead.” Cocking her head as though listening, she whispered, “Oh, my, did you hear that? I think I heard an owl call.”

Jonas blanched. Beads of sweat formed at his temples, and the back of his neck. It was all he could do to keep from fleeing the suddenly overheated barn. Damn the woman for using his Apache beliefs against him. How had she known his people were terrified of the dead, and that ghosts often spoke with the voice of an owl? He told himself he wasn’t Apache anymore, that their foolish superstitions meant nothing to him, but his fingers tightened on the delicate handle of the punch cup until it shattered and the cup dropped into the punch bowl with a splash.

The widow smiled, as though pleased her punch had been ruined with broken glass. Jonas flexed his hands, yearning to wrap them about her plump neck.

How he would love to wield the switch.

Women turned away as he passed, their hands shielding whispers. He knew they were talking about the way Tempest had humiliated him, walking out on their wedding. They probably all knew about Red shooting him as well. And the humiliation he’d suffered at Skeet’s hands that day at Balanced Rock. A savage sneer distorted Jonas’s mouth as he remembered the way his own men had snickered when he walked up to the ranch house stark naked. Jonas wanted to show them. He wanted to show everybody. Jonas Creedy wasn't merely a half-breed, but a man to be reckoned with, one smarter and more ruthless than any of them. When he found the lost Spanish gold and became the richest man in the territory, they'd come sniveling to his door, begging for his goodwill.

Tempest Whitney wouldn't consider herself too good for him then. She’d be proud to be the wife of the most successful rancher in central Utah. And the bastard claiming to be her husband would no longer be a problem, because he'd be dead. No one could humiliate Jonas Creedy and go unpunished.