Chapter 11

Eyebrows arched, arms akimbo at the waist of her night wrapper, Libby awaited his answer.

"You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that," he told her, reaching up irritably to button his shirt. He watched those steely gray eyes of hers fall to the dark bit of hair peeking out, then jerk back up to his face.

"I wasn't sneaking," she protested. "I didn't even see you until I was almost out here, in fact. I couldn't sleep and I just came out to get some air."

"Yeah? So'd I."

A line formed between Libby's eyes as she sniffed delicately in his direction.

"S'matter?" he asked, wondering as he said it why his words were so slurred. That red-eye really packed a wallop.

Her nostrils flared again. This time her expression sank into shock. "Why... you... you've been drinking!"

His gaze skimmed down the length of her flannel wrapper and slowly ran back up again. He swayed against the fence. "Is there a law against having a drink or two on your own time?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You, Mr. Whitlaw, are drunk as a skunk."

"How indelicate of you t'say so. Been compared to a lot of animals in my time, but never a... skunk." He grinned lazily at her. He was tempted to reach out and touch her face. The way the moonlight kissed it made it look like smooth, carved ivory. But she seemed to be weaving just out of reach. Chase folded his arms across his chest and swayed against the post. She was right. He was drunk.

But not nearly drunk enough.

She was studying him as if he were an obscure puzzle piece that didn't quite fit into the whole.

"Is... is it your leg?" she asked hopefully.

His good humor bled away. "What?"

"Your leg. It seems to bother you from time to time. Is that why you're drinking, to dull the pain?"

He stared at the question in her eyes and considered—for one wild moment—telling her the truth. Considered getting the locket out of his saddlebags and handing it to her. Just like that. It would, after all, make everything easier, cleaner. She'd tell him to pack his things, and he wouldn't be tempted to do what he wanted to do right now.

But just as quickly, he discarded the idea. She needed him. Oh, not in the way it seemed right now. She needed his help. If the rifle incident this morning was any indication, she needed him more than she knew.

"Yeah," he answered at last. "It's my leg."

She nodded sympathetically, her gray eyes meeting his. "Did it happen during the War?"

"It did." He turned away, hoping to close the subject, but she persisted.

"How long ago?"

He kept his eyes trained on the mares resting in the paddock. "Two years."

"Two years," she repeated quietly. "My husband, Lee, died two years ago in the Wilderness outside of Chancellorsville...."

A muscle in Chase's cheek jumped and he pulled his flask from his pocket, taking another long pull. Perhaps he meant to shock her into silence. Mostly, he wanted her to leave him alone. He wiped the whiskey from his lips with the back of one hand and glared down at her.

"Two years is a long time," she murmured, unperturbed by his menacing look. "A long time to be in pain."

Chase wondered suddenly if she was referring to herself or to him. She'd been alone as long as he had. The whiskey was making his head throb, and he squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Libby—"

"I have some liniment in the barn. Perhaps it would help to rub some on—"

He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Libby, you were right. I am drunk. Go back in the house."

Libby didn't move. She felt his fingers digging into her shoulders. She should have turned and run at his words, but something in his expression held her there. Her racing pulse thudded in her ears. "I... I can't sleep."

"What is it you want from me?" he demanded, giving her a little shake.

"I—I... nothing. I don't want anything. I just wanted to get some air."

He dropped his hands disgustedly and started for the barn.

"No, that's not true," she blurted out, stopping him but failing to turn him around. "I want to know why you kissed me that way today." She wished she could call back her question, but it was too late.

He turned around now. "What way?"

"Like... like you meant it."

A grin tipped one side of his mouth, but didn't reach his eyes. "I always mean it when I kiss a woman."

"I see." She gathered her arms across her chest. His answer stung, as she supposed he meant it to.

He started to turn away from her, but his bad leg buckled beneath him and he made a grab for the fencepost. Without thinking, Libby jumped to help him, grasping his arm and hauling him back up.

He mumbled a curse. "I can make it on my own."

"Sure you can, if you want to sleep in the paddock. Come on. I'll help you to bed." She wrapped his arm around her shoulder and aimed for the barn. His limp was pronounced now, and he wasn't bothering to try to hide it from her.

Draping his arm around her neck, he dipped his nose into her hair and filled his lungs. "You smell good, Lib—"

"And you smell like whiskey." Libby frowned.

"—like lilacs.... How come you smell like lilacs?"

"Lilac soap," she told him, keeping her focus on the barn door. "I make it out of the wild lilacs that bloom in the spring, higher up."

"He was a fool...." Chase muttered under his breath.

Libby looked up at him. He wasn't talking to her, but to the star-speckled night sky. She kept walking. "Who?"

"Thought he was a goddamned hero...."

It was the whiskey talking, Libby decided. She pulled open the door to the darkened barn. The only light came from the moonlight spilling through the doorway. The milch cow and several horses shifted restively.

Libby looked up at the loft and realized she'd never get him up there. She scanned the stalls and found an empty one. "Over here."

"A hundred thousand heroes, only... there weren't any heroes," he slurred. "Only fools."

The straw was fresh in the stall and she intended to dump him unceremoniously into it. But to her dismay, when she started to disengage his arm, he took her hand and pulled her down with him. In a tangle of arms and legs, they fell together, landing in the cushion of straw.

The weight of his leg across hers pinned her where she was. Her first panicked thought was that he'd passed out on top of her. His body lay sprawled over hers with all the intimacy of a spent lover's. The thought sent fear spiraling through her. She pushed a hand against his shoulder. "Chase..."

"Hmmm?"

His voice was startling close, his breath warm against her ear and cheek.

"Let me up."

He didn't answer her with words. Instead, his hand slid up her rib cage to cover one breast and knead it sensuously. She inhaled sharply. Her traitorous nipple beaded into a hard nub beneath the flannel of her wrapper, betraying her, and her pulse throbbed.

"Chase—don't! Let me up," she appealed, pushing his hand away. The straw rustled beneath them as he slid down lower. "You're drunk!"

"Not drunk enough," he answered ruefully against the ivory column of her throat. "Not nearly drunk enough..." Then, his mouth slashed diagonally over hers, exploring the moist, dark cavern of her mouth with languid skill. His tongue flicked boldly in and out, teasing and tempting her. Traversing the smooth outline of her teeth, he dared her tongue to join his.

Dizzy and confused, Libby tasted the whiskey he'd drunk. But it was passion, not whiskey, that drugged his kisses now, and she found herself unable to deny the heat rising within her own body. His heartbeat thudded in crazy unison with her own.

His fingers went to the braid that fell across her shoulder and dangled over one breast. "Let your hair down, Libby," he said, pulling out the ribbon. He ran his fingers down the plaiting, loosing thick, golden tresses.

Libby bit the inside of her lip as his gentle fingers massaged her scalp, and she leaned into his touch like a cat being stroked, shamelessly wanting more. A soft moan escaped her. It had been years since a man had run his fingers through her hair or touched her the way Chase was touching her now. It felt wonderful yet dangerous. Heat traveled, like wildfire, through her limbs. She rocked her head back and forth against the straw in useless denial of the pleasure he was giving her.

"It's n-not..." She stuttered, unable to complete a coherent thought. "We shouldn't be—"

"You're right," he told her, dipping his head to the hollow at the base of her throat once more and pressing his lips to her thudding pulse. "So, tell me to stop, Lib." His beard rasped her skin erotically, while his lips burned a trail of kisses down her throat. Showers of sparks traveled down her limbs setting fire to her skin.

"S-stop..." she whispered, but the word caught in her throat like a lie.

He shook his head slowly, brushing the curve of her breast with his lips. "Say it like you mean it, Lib."

Libby let out an incoherent sound as her own helplessness came back to haunt her. She could no more stop him from doing what he was doing to her than she could stop her heart from pounding in her chest.

Dipping lower, like a bee to the nectar of a flower, he pushed aside the fabric of her nightdress and eased his hand inside to cup a bare breast. His thumb traced a maddeningly slow circle around the beaded crest.

"You're so damn pretty," he whispered against her skin. Now he teased her nipple with his open palm. "So soft."

His mouth continued its torturous exploration of her throat and began to move lower. He worked his way down the curve of her chest with long, wet kisses.

Then his mouth closed over the dusky crest of her nipple. Sucking and tugging at the puckered nub, he drove her to the brink where pleasure became pain before transferring his attention to her other breast. His tongue took deliberate pleasure in laving and teasing her there. Libby moaned, giving voice to the unbearable pressure that gathered at the back of her throat. Arching her back instinctively, she gave him freer access to the swollen mound.

Never had Lee's touch made her quake with need as Chase's did. Never had she felt so helpless to stop herself from wanting. Her heart slammed in her chest and her breath came in short raspy gasps.

Chase groaned in response and shifted his weight across her leg until the evidence of his passion pressed fully against her hip. His body was taut and hot. His heated skin scorched hers where his hands roamed over the rest of her body, exploring, discovering.

"Ah, Libby..." The word was a breathy hiss. His palm closed over the mound of her femininity, full of heat even through the flannel wrapper, and her eyes slid shut. Rotating that hand in slow, sensuous circles, he inched up the fabric of her gown with the other, and the night air whispered across her naked legs.

She wasn't so naive she did not realize where this was leading. What they were doing was wrong. So wrong! She wanted him to stop, but just as desperately, she wanted him to finish what he'd begun. The longing that had started as a flutter in her belly had spread and deepened to an inexorable ache between her thighs. What he was doing to her was torture: sweet, erotic, and bordering on pain. Her fingers twined into Chase's thick hair, while her other hand clutched his broad shoulder. "Please, Chase, please."

Chase heard her through the pounding of his blood. He groaned out loud. God, he wanted her. Wanted her the way he'd never wanted a woman in his life. But his need for her had sobered him up like a strong shot of coffee. What they were about to do was a mistake, and he knew she'd hate him for it later.

Yet, the desperation in her voice just now told him they'd gone too far to stop. He couldn't keep himself from satisfying her now, any more than he could have held back the kiss that started it all.

His weight crushed her against the straw as he dragged his hand up her bare inner thigh, up toward the soft triangle between her legs. Libby gasped as he dipped his fingers into the damp slickness there. She clamped her legs tightly together at the shock of his touch. "No!"

"Open up to me, Libby." His fingers found her again, relentlessly. "Let me do this for you."

"No," she said. Shock tightened her throat. "Lee never..."

Chase's expression hardened and his hand stilled. "Never what? Never touched you this way?"

Her head rocked back and forth against the straw. "We just... just..." She halted. Embarrassment kept her from saying more.

Chase cursed silently. Lee Honeycutt was more of a fool than he'd thought. "Open up to me, Libby." Once more he dropped his mouth to her beautiful breasts and laved an erect nipple with his tongue. "You'll like it. I promise."

Libby moaned and allowed her legs to relax slightly as his hand once more touched the heated ache between her legs. In and out his fingers slid, wet from the moisture within her, until she thought she could bear it no more. The motion of his fingers caused her hips to undulate against his palm in an ancient primal rhythm she had no control over.

Her body went taut with urgency; a thirst rose in her, one that could be quenched only by his touch. He went on touching her there while his mouth teased and tugged at her breast. She was on fire. A searing heat and tension curled low, first in her belly, then gathered strength and took her like a hot, gusting wind eddy, spinning her out of control.

Libby plunged her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer as release shattered her into fragmented pieces of light in the darkness. A cry wrenched from her, but he muffled the sound with his kiss. His breathing, she discovered was as ragged as her own, and she could feel his strong body tremble under the palms of her hands.

His mouth left hers abruptly, and he dipped his forehead to her bare shoulder, trying to get his breathing under control. "Ah, Libby... Libby."

Confused, Libby blinked in the darkness. Was he going to stop now and not make love to her? She swallowed and smoothed back the hair from his sweaty forehead. "Chase, don't stop... I want you to—"

"No," he told her harshly, shaking his head against her chest.

Stunned that he would deny himself after what they'd just done, she took his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. "Why not?"

His eyes met hers in the darkness. "I can't. Don't you see? You'd hate me for it later." He rolled off her and stared up in into the darkness. "You're wrong. I wouldn't hate you for doing something we both wanted."

"Yes, you would," he repeated with the conviction of a man who knew the truth. "What happened was my fault, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I started this. I was drunk. I'm not drunk anymore."

She stiffened beside him. "I thought... Does that mean what happened here didn't mean anything to you? Was it just the whiskey?" A tremble in her voice betrayed her pain at the thought.

He let out a harsh breath. God, how he wished it were that easy. But nothing about his life had been simple since he'd met her. "No," he answered, "it wasn't just the whiskey." His body was still hard and hot for her. If she touched him again he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself the next time. "Libby, get out of here before I change my mind."

She reached out and touched his arm and he jumped as if she'd burned him. He pushed her hand away and sat up abruptly. "Libby..." he warned.

She sat up beside him in the dark, pulling the sides of her wrapper together. Her eyes burned and her chest ached. She suddenly felt foolish and exposed and angry. But more than any of those things, she felt hurt. Hurt that he could turn her away like this. "All right. If that's what you want, I'll go. I suppose I've made enough of a fool of myself for one night." She started to get to her feet, but he grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

"It's not you, Libby. Don't ever think that. It's me. If I thought..." He couldn't finish. He dropped her wrist. "Trust me when I tell you I can only hurt you. You don't belong with a man like me. I can't be what you want, Lib. I'm sorry. Hell, I've already made a mess of things."

Libby turned toward him and her heart caught in her chest. Even the darkness couldn't hide the agony she saw written on his face. She had no idea what things he was talking about, but she sensed there was something he wasn't telling her. He was a man full of secrets. A man with a past she'd probably never know. But she was too proud to beg him for answers he wasn't likely to give, or for the kinds of things a woman wanted from a man. The kinds of things she needed from him.

She rose slowly with her back to him. "I think it's best if we put this behind us and pretend it never happened," she said quietly.

His silence answered her. She took it for consent. Stiffly, with her head held high, she walked out of the barn toward the house, trying hard not to break into a run.

Chase watched her go, uncorking the top on his flask of whiskey. He upended it, letting the liquor burn a path of fire down his throat. Maybe if he got drunk enough, he could forget the things she'd made him feel and the burning ache that had settled in his loins. Maybe he could even forget the hurt he'd heard in her voice.

He tipped his head back and took another swig, hoping the liquor would accomplish what reason couldn't. Someday she'd be grateful for what he hadn't done. He knew damn well he would never be.

* * *

Smoke... choking and thick... the roaring noise of cannonade and men screaming. He was running but not moving. His gaze fell to the red water at his feet. Nausea roiled at his gut. They were coming... and he was sinking into the crimson quagmire. His skin crawled with the knowledge. Panic tightened his chest—his breath came hard and fast, burning his throat.

Futilely, he searched for the gun he already knew was gone. On the blazing shore, the Rebel soldier reached out to him from amidst the fire. Chase looked away, helpless. The man's scream of agony was higher pitched than usual. Looking again, he saw that it was Libby's face that watched him from the flames. A silent scream tore from his body....

Chase jerked awake from the nightmare, drenched in sweat and panting in fear. The dream was a brutally familiar one, except for the ending.

That, he realized grimly, was new.

He blinked in the half-light of dawn, turning his cheek against the scratchy straw and repressed a groan. A herd of horses was stampeding through his brain. Where the hell am I? he wondered.

Blinking in the half-light, he struggled to reorient himself. Surprisingly he found he was not in the loft but in a stall, and fully dressed, boots and all. How the hell had he gotten there?

Then, with unfortunate clarity, he remembered all of it—the whiskey, Libby, what he'd done to her.

A noise stilled the curse he was about to utter aloud.

Chase opened his eyes to the shadowy light of dawn with sudden, pulse-pounding alertness. He had the distinct and unsettling feeling he was not alone. His fingers tightened over two fists full of straw. He was listening.

The sound came again.

This time, he recognized the stealthy scrape of boot leather on wood, the sifting fall of straw to the barn floor, the footfalls of a man who did not mean to be heard.

Chase sat bolt upright just as the man evaporated into the hazy morning light through the double barn doors. Instantly, he regretted the haste of the movement and clamped a hand to his forehead. Nevertheless, he lurched out of the stall, aiming for the barn door. The man, if indeed it had been a man, was gone.

Chase considered the possibility that all this had been a figment of his cobweb-cluttered mind. Perhaps no one had been in there. After all, the sneak had disappeared, seemingly into thin air.

On the other hand, if someone had been in the barn or, more to the point, in his loft, what the hell was he doing there? Chase's gear was up there. Saddlebags, bedroll... gun.

Chase narrowed his eyes and made his way up the ladder to the loft. Picking up the rifle that lay beside his things, Chase unloaded it, checked his ammunition carefully and reloaded. There were no signs that the gun had been tampered with. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Then his eyes fell to something lying on top of the hay near his bedroll. Chase reached over and picked up a small packet of brown cigarette papers. He recognized them instantly. They belonged to Bodine. It didn't surprise him that he'd been right about the little bastard. But he was disappointed at not catching him in the act.

What had he been doing? Setting some kind of trap? And more importantly, why? If Bodine was the one trying to sabotage Libby, where did Chase fit in? Why would Bodine be trying to kill him? And more to the point, why would a two-bit wrangler be trying to undermine Libby's operation? None of it made any sense.

He stuffed the cigarette papers in his pocket, gathered up his gear and climbed back down the ladder. He had a few questions to ask Early and the other men. He planned to keep close watch on Bodine until he could prove his suspicions.

Behind him the barn door's heavy hinges creaked. Blanking his mind of all thought, Chase dropped his gear and swung his gun around, leveling it at the figure silhouetted by the morning sun.