Chapter 13

 

Buck hugged Tempest so fiercely the buttons on his double-breasted shirt were impressed in her flesh above the neckline of her dress. Her pulse leaped as his mouth took hers, and her knees went soft as biscuit dough.

"Maybe that will get the message through to these women that I'm more than happy with the wife I already have," he whispered when he finally ended the kiss.

“But I’m not your wife.”

“Pretend.”

Tempest glanced about at the people for whom they were performing this charade. Faces stared back, open mouthed with shock. A few, like Viola's, beamed approval, others appeared green with envy. It occurred to her that she was proud to be thought Buck’s wife, would be proud to truly be… She didn’t let herself finish the thought. It wouldn't be wise.

"Know what I'd like to do now?" Buck asked quietly. "I’d like to whisk you home, tuck the kids in bed and spend three or four hours showing you all the ways I’d cherish you . . . if you were my wife.”

The loud thrum of her heart all but drowned out the fiddles and Nathan Olney’s harmonica as the musicians began another waltz. Her entire being, body and soul, zeroed in on the feel of his hard masculine body brushing against hers and the illicit seduction of his words.

". . . the pulse inside your elbow, I'd kiss that too, before I moved back up to your neck. I'd lick the hollow at the base of your throat, slick my tongue downward until I found your breast and . . ."

His words inflamed her as nothing else ever had. That he was saying them, albeit in a whisper, amidst a crowd of people, heightened their seductive effect. An ache centered at her core, making her want to squirm against the hardness probing her through the layers of her skirts. She hadn't known a woman could feel such lust.

". . . round and round till the tips grow hard as my . . ."

Could they become a real family? She wasn’t too old to have more children. Would Buck want children of his own?

". . . and the insides of your thighs. Judas, Tempest, you've no idea how I've wondered what they would feel like. Soft as a puppy's ear? Smooth as satin? Warm, cool? Wide with welcome, or shut tight as a clam? Dammit, woman, let's go home."

Tempest suddenly realized they had stopped dancing. Even through that long heavenly kiss, their bodies had swayed in time to the music. Now they stood alone in the middle of the floor while other couples swirled around them in a cotillion. Her arms were around his neck, her fingers buried in the thick midnight hair. And he was looking down at her, questioningly, and so intense she felt it in her toes.

"W-what?" She had been so lost in her thoughts and the sensations he was creating in her that she wasn’t sure what he had been saying, except that it had been sinful and delicious.

"I said, let's go home."

Like his body, his hungry voice caressed every inch of her, inside out, until it was no wonder she couldn't think straight. All she could do was feel, and what she felt was him, chest to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh, yearning, craving . . . If someone had asked her name at that instant, she couldn't have answered. She had no identity separate from Buck Maddux, and the driving need to become one with him. "Yes, let's go home."

"I'll fetch the cart," he said.

"Yes, do." She would have agreed to almost anything at that instant. The desire in his eyes and the knowledge that she was the one who had put it there had her soaring higher than eagles’ wings. But the moment he stepped away, taking his warmth with him, reality flooded back. "Holy Saint Mary," she murmured, watching him weave through the crowd toward the door. "What am I going to do?"

“I certainly know what I'd do if I were you,” Viola said, stepped up next to her.

"What?"

"Why, child, I'd give in."

"Oh, but, Viola, I don't want to be tied to a man again. Getting bedded isn't enough of a pleasure to warrant that big a sacrifice." At least it never had been before.

"You don't have to marry him to enjoy his lovemaking, dear.”

Viola laughed at the shock on her young friend's face. "No need to look at me like that, young lady. I wasn't always old. Was I, Mr. Sims? And, for that matter, even old folks enjoy a bit of loving now and again."

“Ready, Tempest?" Buck walked up, his arms loaded with their wraps. "The cart's out front. It's a good thing we decided to leave now; it's going to start raining any second. If we're lucky, maybe we can beat it home."

She let him drape her heavy wool shawl around her shoulders and went to fetch Angel while he swaddled a still-sleeping Ethan in a blanket.

"Buck, I don't see Papa anywhere,” she said when she came back.

"He's passed out in a corner. I don't reckon he'll wake up before dawn. No need to disturb him. Let’s just get ourselves home."

Lightning lit the sky as Buck tucked the children into the cart and helped Tempest inside. Spook stomped restively nearby.

"I've got a bad feeling we're going to get soaked,” Buck told her as he vaulted into his saddle. "Drive that thing as fast as you can . . . without tipping it over."

His premonition about the storm proved true.

Huge raindrops mercilessly drummed the heads and shoulders of the trio hunched in the cart. The raging storm obscured all sound except the thunder cracking and rumbling overhead, echoing off the cliffs in seemingly endless peals that gradually faded, only to burst once more overhead, deafeningly loud.

Ethan awoke terrified as a particularly noisy clap of thunder exploded nearby. The boy fought his way out from under the quilts and slicker Buck had tucked over the children. Sobbing, Ethan nearly fell from the cart as he scrambled onto his mother's lap. She nestled him close, wrapping her shawl around them both, but in no time they were soaked and shivering. No amount of threatening or cajoling would get the boy back under the shelter he had shared with his sister.

As they neared the house Buck galloped ahead and dashed inside to light a lantern. A bright wedge of yellow welcomed Tempest as she pulled up to the open door. Lifting Ethan from her arms, Buck shouted for her to get Angel inside. Ethan sneezed as Buck set the boy on his bed and stripped off his wet clothes, giving the act no more thought now than he would undressing himself. Frowning, Buck noticed the unusual heat of Ethan’s downy skin. Quickly, he dried the boy, dressed him in his nightdress and tucked him in bed, while Tempest did the same for Angel. Then he went out to take care of the animals.

"I put the coffee on,” she told him as he peeled off his wet coat after coming back inside. She herself had changed into a wrapper and soft slippers.

"Good,” he said, smiling, “I'll fetch some brandy from my saddlebags to doctor it up with."

"Don't put any in mine. One drunk in this family is enough."

“A thimbleful isn’t enough to turn you into a drunk, and it'll go a long way in warding off any chill you may have caught."

Tempest found the doctored coffee surprisingly tasty. After her second cup she decided Buck was right; the alcohol sped through her body like fire on a trail of gunpowder, warming her from the inside out until she felt languid and content, without any overwhelming urge to drain the bottle dry.

"Feel better?" he asked.

He lounged on the floor near the stove, arms folded behind his head, legs extended in a long, narrow vee, bare feet pointed toward the heat. She smiled, thinking how much he looked like Rooster when the hound snuck in the house on a cold night. Except the dog usually thrust all four legs in the air, his hairy belly begging to be scratched. A vision of Buck's naked chest with its thicket of hair, flashed in front of her, bringing a nearly irresistible urge to apply her nails to his abdomen and see if he would groan and writhe with pleasure the way Rooster would. "Yes,” she said, smiling, “like a cat who just had a saucer of cream."

Buck glanced over at her. She did look decidedly feline curled in the rocker with her head relaxed against the pressed wood design, eyes half-closed. Her lips glistened from her last sip of the fragrant brew, making him long to taste her with his tongue. As though she had read his mind, she lazily licked her lower lip clean, and a coil of desire unfurled in his stomach.

"No lingering chill?"

"No, I’m toasty warm from fingertips to toes."

She rolled her head back and forth against the chair.

"Is your neck stiff?" He yearned for an excuse—any excuse—to touch her.

"A little. My back, too, probably from bending over that table all evening serving punch."

He sat up. "Come here, I'll rub your neck for you.” He patted the floor between his thighs.

Tempest knew she should stay where she was. She would be a fool to become intimate with a man who had made it abundantly clear he would never settle down. But one glimpse of the feverish look in his eye had her blood racing. He wanted her, and she no longer had the energy or the inclination to resist. Giving herself to him would hurt no one but herself. She knew how to avoid pregnancy, and she suspected laying with Buck would provide her with sweet memories to take out in years to come, on cold, lonely nights when her thoughts returned to these magical moments of feeling desired, even loved.

Buck closed his eyes, savoring her warmth and the scent of her skin as his fingers explored the seductive curves and hollows of her collarbones and his thumbs gently kneaded the taut cords of her neck. "Relax," he whispered close to her ear. "Lean against me, I won't break." He drew her back until her spine met his chest, and returned his hands to her neck.

After a moment she began to squirm. "Your shirt’s wet and the buttons are digging into me."

"That's easy enough to fix." He sat her upright while he swiftly drew the garment off over his head. His denims were wet, too. He considered offering to take them off and decided she wasn’t ready for that yet.

The moment he brought her back against his bare chest, his heat warmed her through her wrapper. Something soft and warm and slightly damp brushed over her nape, and she realized it was his lips on her neck. Swirls of desire eddied through her, making her shiver. She knew she should stop him, but the words wouldn't come. Visions writhed in her head. Dark sensuous visions without substance, dreams veiled in rainbow mists.

Teeth nipped the slackened cords of her neck. Tempest shuddered as need splintered through her. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, giving his lips better access to her neck. He ran his tongue up to her ear and closed his mouth over the lobe, sucking gently. His breath on her cheek was almost as warm as the tongue laving the inner crevice of her ear. All the while, his hands kneaded her shoulders, liquefying her bones. The heavenly feel of his touch awoke every nerve in her body. She marveled that she could feel so vibrantly alive and totally relaxed at the same time.

"Better?" he whispered.

"Hmm." She didn't want to answer, afraid he would stop. His mouth moved across her cheek toward her lips. Without thinking, she turned and met the kiss.

Buck moaned. "You taste like sin," he murmured against her lips.

Tempest gave a throaty giggle. How could anything taste like sin? Sin had no taste.

He coiled his left arm about her waist and pulled her more fully against him. The kiss intensified. He pressed her to open to him and she did. The feel of his tongue inside her mouth was the most provocative thing she'd ever known, and she realized it was what she had craved ever since they’d left the dance. She realized something else, too—sin did have a flavor.

Buck bit off a groan as desire slammed through him at her generous reaction, leaving him hard and aching. He hadn't known women could taste so good, or feel so good, and wondered if this was the difference between whores and good women. Ellen had never allowed his lips to touch anything except her mouth and cheek. Lovemaking between them had been an awkward affair conducted in darkness beneath the bed covers.

The horrible memories of the night Ellen died filled him with a sort of desperation, a need to wipe them away forever, to replace them with new ones he could treasure instead of abhor. He needed to be loved. To clutch greedily at all the things he had missed out on with Ellen, the joys he had never known—like the chance to pleasure a woman as he never had before. Frantically he buried the memories in a crypt deep within his brain. He sucked in a few deep breaths, and forced his mind back to the woman in his arms.

But holding her, kissing her, wasn't enough. The need inside him had exploded into one of such magnitude he wasn't sure it could ever be sated. Slowly he slid his left hand up Tempest's rib cage until his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. Her plump flesh filled his hand as if created especially for him. He felt it swell, felt her shift restlessly in a subtly sensuous movement that pressed her rounded flesh fully into his palm, as though begging for more. He grew jealous of the fabric that lay closer to her sweet body than he could. He wanted to feel the silky smoothness of her naked skin, see the dusky rose of her nipples, taste . . .

Most of all, he wanted her to feel as much pleasure as he did. She’d suffered so much in her life, had been cheated so unfairly. He was sure her husband hadn’t made her happy, hadn’t given her the ecstasy Buck was determined to give her.

Blistering heat surged to his groin as her nipple blossomed beneath her wrapper. He quelled a bolt of impatience that caused his hand to shake. He felt as awkward and uncertain and out of control as he had the first time he had taken Ellen, when both of them had been unschooled virgins. But he wasn't a boy anymore. He was a man who had been with more women than he could count. What was it that made this one feel differently in his arms? That made this breast fuller, tauter, more enticing? These lips softer, tastier, more irresistible?

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that their lovemaking continue to its natural conclusion.

Tempest never felt the trembling fingers that worked free the buttons of her simple wrapper. She was too lost in the wonder of Buck's kiss. In the sleekness of his inner lip, the soft rasp of his tongue against hers, the evenness of his teeth. She squirmed, seeking some vague something she couldn't name. The brush of scarred fingers on her tender, sensitized flesh warned her what he was about. Her wrapper was open to her waist and his hand was tugging on the ribbon at the neckline of her chemise. For a second she froze as common sense struggled to claim her. But the delicious memory of his mouth on her breasts kept her still. Her chemise parted, his callused palm glided over her flesh, and intense pleasure fractured what self-control she had left.

She drew back from his kiss, eyes clenched as she absorbed every nuance of his devil's touch. His lips moved down her throat to the hollow at the base, and lower. Breathlessly she waited, like an eaglet poised for its first taste of flight. Closer and closer he drew to the taut peak yearning for his kiss, and beaded with a fresh supply of milk, while she waited . . . and waited . . .

A sound pierced her concentration. A hacking cough from the back room. The mother in her surged to life, bringing guilt and an unpleasant return to reality. She was trying to disentangle herself from Buck when Angel called, "Mama, Ethan's coughing. He'th all hot, and I don't feel tho good either."

Tempest was gone so suddenly Buck found himself clutching air that felt icy cold compared to the warmth he had been caressing. He stared dumbly at his empty hands for a long moment, listening to his own ragged breathing. His nostrils flared to catch the fading scent of her, musky with arousal.

Damn! The dream had nearly come true.

With a groan he collapsed on the floor, too tightly sprung with need to curse.

* * *

Outside, Jonas collapsed against the wall of the dugout. His breath was ragged, his heart racing from what he had seen through the slit provided by the ill-fitting window covering. Rain ran down his dark face and dripped off his chin, but he was oblivious to everything except the scene being replayed on the backdrop of his mind: Tempest’s strawberry red nipples swelling, hardening, jutting toward her husband’s waiting mouth, begging to be sucked and nibbled and bitten.

His tongue slid along his lips, but it wasn't the rain he tasted. His mouth formed a moue as they enclosed an imaginary nipple. It should be him inside the house. It should be his hands stroking her naked flesh. His tongue tasting her secrets. And he was ready for her. Ah, Gawd, but he was ready.

His hand drifted to the bulge pulsing beneath the soaked fabric of his pants. He squeezed, shuddered, squeezed again. In his mind it was Tempest’s hand caressing him, her fingers ripping open the placket and freeing his straining flesh. He didn't feel the cold rain, the cutting wind, only the pleasure of his hand—Tempest’s hand—stroking faster and faster.

No, her mouth, it was her mouth on him, that vicious unrestrained mouth of hers, hot and wet and greedy. For him. Only him.

* * *

The air in the dugout was thick and steamy from the kettles and pans of water boiling on the cook stove. The odor of mustard and onions permeated the house. From the stove where Buck was adding wood to keep the room warm and the water steaming, he watched Tempest fuss and worry. In spite of sniffles and a slight fever, Angel was sleeping peacefully, but Ethan’s cold had developed into a hard cough that seemed to be growing worse. Buck adjusted the damper and went to stand by the bed, frustrated by his inability to do more. “Is the onion plaster doing any good?”

Glancing up, Tempest shook her head. “No more than the mustard did. I wish I knew what to do. The only time Angel was ever sick was when she caught the measles in St. Louis. The children have both been so healthy.”

“I never should have dragged all of you to the dance.” His voice was harsh with self-condemnation.

Putting her hand on his, Tempest assured him, “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.” He jerked away to pace the limited confines of the room. “I knew it was going to storm. When I went outside with Eloise, I saw the clouds boiling in, faster than I had expected. If I’d brought you straight home, the children would be all right now.” Instead he had dragged her onto the dance floor and done his best to seduce her. Lust had driven him home, not concern for her or the children, and he hated himself for it.

A violent paroxysm of coughing convulsed Ethan’s small body. When it eased, Tempest spooned cool syrup made from boiled wild onions down her son’s throat, holding his mouth closed and stroking his neck to make him swallow. Feebly, Ethan pushed at her hands. The moment she released him he began to wail.

“He’s getting hoarse.” Tempest drew the quilts more snugly around the boy. “I think it might be croup.”

Something in her voice alerted Buck to her concern and he tried to ease her fear. “I remember a couple of my brothers and sisters having croup. It didn’t seem serious.”

The eyes she turned on him were bleak. “It isn’t, if it’s false croup. Children are always getting false croup. But true croup . . . Parents can’t always tell the difference until it’s too late. A membrane forms in the throat. All of a sudden the child can’t breathe and if no one realizes what’s happening, and doesn’t act fast enough, the child chokes to death. That’s how Viola lost her little boy, their only son. I don’t think Viola ever really got over the tragedy of it."

Buck studied Ethan for any sign of choking. The boy's breathing was ragged, but he seemed to be getting enough air. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“I don’t know.” Tempest tried to remember all she had heard of the illness, and found nothing helpful. She felt the fear taking control of her and struggled to fight it off. “I don’t know, Buck. I don’t know.”

Kneeling beside her, he wrapped her in his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder and he felt her tremble as she fought her tears. She’d always been so strong, his feisty little mustang. It tore him to shreds to see her so vulnerable. “There must be some way to clear his throat. Whatever happens, we’ll handle it. We won’t let him die, Tempest. I promise.”

She drew away, knowing this time he was promising the impossible, and loving him for it anyway. “Oh, sweet Mary, I pray you’re right.”

“I could ride into Price and fetch the doctor.”

“That would take far too long. Please, Buck, don’t leave me.”

Indecision gnawed at him. She needed another woman with her, someone who would be more useful, more of a comfort should anything go wrong. But her eyes pleaded with him, and he couldn’t refuse her. He pulled her into his arms again and held her tight. “He’ll be all right, sweetheart. He’ll be fine.” Please, God.

Time dragged, making seconds seem like hours as they worked to keep Ethan warm and comfortable. Tempest ground herbs and brewed teas which she forced down the boy’s throat. None seemed to do any good. She bustled about, a frantic sort of abruptness to her movements that worried Buck. Her lips moved constantly in silent prayer. He tended the fire and brought in fresh water as it boiled away, cursing the sense of helplessness driving him crazy because he couldn’t do more.

Sometime after midnight, Ethan’s cough took on a brassy tone, accompanied by a whistling sound. His breathing became labored. He was too hoarse to cry.

“It’s croup, Buck,” Tempest said as she stroked the boy’s brow. “There’s no doubt of it now.”

“False? Or true croup?”

“True, I think. I don’t know. Oh, Buck . . .” She shook her head and put her fingers to her mouth. Dark shadows colored the skin beneath her eyes. She looked bedraggled and exhausted. And scared. So scared he could smell it. Or was it his own fear filling his nostrils?

His throat constricted as he watched the boy move fretfully in the bed. Buck wanted to do something, but didn’t know what. He wanted to banish the anguish and fright from Tempest’s eyes. He wanted to make her son well. But all he could do was stand there, and watch, and wait.

Angel woke, complaining of a sore throat. While her mother warmed a cup of ginger tea to soothe the girl’s throat, Buck moved Angel to the other bed where they wouldn’t disturb Ethan. Leaning his back against the wall, he gathered Angel on his lap and began a story.

Suddenly Ethan began to gasp for air, his body convulsing with the effort to breathe. Setting Angel aside and telling her to stay put, Buck leaped from the bed and rushed to the boy. His tiny mouth worked like a dying fish, while his little hands beat at the air.

“Mama, Mama," Angel cried. “Whath wrong with Ethan?”

“Sweet Mary, he’s choking.” Flipping back the covers Tempest lifted the boy in her arms. She sat in the rocker with him face-down on her lap and thumped his back, hoping to dislodge whatever blocked his throat.

“Mama, Ethan’th turning blue!”

Tempest turned Ethan over and cuddled him to her breast. Panic and grief contorted her face as she watched her small son writhe and gasp in her arms. He choked and wheezed, his face like fine porcelain of the palest blue, his eyes huge and wide open, staring up at her helplessly.

Tempest’s tortured gaze cut to Buck, panic screaming from her every pore. "Holy Mother of God, he's dying. My baby is dying.”