Chapter Sixteen

 

 

By the time Doc Grady had come and gone; pronounced Jimmy healthy but for an alarming number of scrapes and cuts and a wrenched shoulder; prepared a very interesting sling for him to wear for two weeks; dosed the boy with a vile-tasting substance that Jimmy barely gagged down; and Philippe had carried Jimmy to a spare room upstairs, midnight had long since passed. Mrs. Van der Linden had been cajoled against her will into preparing Jimmy’s room, and had then retired to her own with a sharp word from Philippe speeding her on her way.

Philippe had recruited one of his hired hands to sleep in Jimmy’s room and to report if the boy experienced any strange symptoms. The hired lad wasn’t much older than Jimmy, but already he was willing and able to assume the duties of an adult. Such behavior wasn’t uncommon in the territory, and Heather appreciated her fellow New Mexicans a lot during that crisis.

As she stood in the hallway outside of Jimmy’s room after giving her brother an unwanted goodnight kiss, she realized she was so tired, she was shaking. Passing a hand over her eyes, she murmured, “Thank God he’ll be all right.”

She felt Philippe’s hand splay gently on her back, and almost succumbed to the urge to turn and throw her arms around him. “I’m glad of that. I was worried when I first saw him. So was Mike.”

Heather managed a wan smile. “I imagine he was. Mike has a brother just Jimmy’s age.”

“He’ll be fine in a few days.”

“I reckon.”

Knowing she had to do it sometime, and it would be wise to do so before she fell over in fatigue, Heather turned and held out a hand to Philippe. “I can’t thank you enough for all of your help tonight, Philippe. You’ve had plenty to worry about without having to take care of my family, as well, but you have been taking care of us.” Tonight she was too tired to resent it. “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

He took her hand, but didn’t shake it. Instead, she felt his thumb gently massage her knuckles. The caress sent sparks through her. “Taking care of you and your family is a pleasure, Heather. It’s not a bother.

Her hand felt so good in his. He was so big and safe and comfortable, and she felt so small and insecure and alone.

“Heather . . .”

Her eyes drifted shut, and she didn’t want to speak. She sort of wanted to cuddle up and purr, actually. “Yes?” she managed after several seconds.

“About tonight.”

“Yes?” Glory, she hoped he wouldn’t renew his proposal now, because she knew good and well that in her present state she wouldn’t be able to dilly-dally or to “think” about it. Rather, she’d accept him on the spot, thereby ruining his life. Or maybe not. Her physical strength was too depleted for her brain to think the matter through.

He tugged gently on her hand, and she stumbled forward—smack up against him. Since she was there, and since she didn’t care to fall over, and since she’d wanted to do it all evening anyway, she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his broad, hard chest. She felt so good there.

His lips touched her hair, and she sighed deeply, pressing her breasts against him. Oh, my, that felt good. Because she was longing for some kind of closeness, she tilted her head back and looked up at him, hoping he’d kiss her. His eyes warmed her through and through. She wouldn’t have been surprised if steam had risen from her, in fact.

“Heather,” he said again, his voice rough.

She sighed.

He didn’t speak again. Instead, he did as she’d hoped he’d do and kissed her. Thank God. Heather melted into him as if she and he had been crafted together at the beginning of time, separated somehow by an evil fate, and had finally been reunited there, in the upstairs hallway of Philippe St. Pierre’s ranch house.

Before she could slither into a puddle of melted flesh on the hall carpet, Philippe swept her up into his arms. Heather was awfully glad of it because her legs had begun to quiver like rubber bands. She hoped he wouldn’t carry her far—for example, downstairs to her own room—but would opt for a nearby and more intimate resting place. Hang the consequences.

Fortunately for her, Philippe was of a like mind. His room was only two doors down and across the hall from where they’d stashed Jimmy. Heather was very happy when he carried her there, kicked the door open, and took her inside.

She heard him murmur, “This is wrong,” and a frisson of alarm shot through her.

“No it isn’t,” she whispered, frantic. If he stopped now, she’d die; she knew it. “It’s not wrong at all.” It was precisely what she needed, although she wasn’t sure what “it” was, exactly. Something that only married people were supposed to do—that much she knew.

He carried her to the bed. “You’re right. It’s not wrong.”

Thank heavens. Heather had been worried there for a minute. He set her tenderly on his bed. It was a high bed, a four-poster with a heavy tester. It was a lovely bed, really, and Heather liked it a lot. She sank into the feather mattress and felt like the princess in the fairy tale, only without the pea. She couldn’t feel anything but blissful softness.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Heather.”

Oh, how sweet. “Thank you.” She wondered if she was supposed to say something about his handsomeness and decided it wouldn’t hurt. “You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

His crooked grin looked a little cynical. Heather blinked, wondering if her eyes were too tired to be seeing things correctly. She guessed she wasn’t when he spoke again. At the same time, he started unbuttoning his shirt. Heather listened and watched, fascinated.

“I’m handsome. I’m rich. So why do you have to think about accepting my proposal of marriage?”

He slipped his shirt off, and Heather gaped at his chest, covered with black curls. Not too many black curls; just enough. And what a chest he had. Corded with muscles, lean, spare. The man was perfect. She swallowed and said, “Um—what?” She’d forgotten his question.

Chuckling, Philippe unbuckled his belt. Mercy sakes. This was it. Or it was about to be it. She stared at him, figuring it was impolite of her but unable to resist. Since he was staring back at her, she guessed she wasn’t being too awful, although she was pretty sure her mother would think so.

Lord, what a perfect way to dampen one’s ardor. Heather mentally smacked herself and told herself she didn’t need to think about her family right now. In fact, family was the last thing she needed to think about in this instance.

In order to get herself back into Philippe’s bedroom, she slipped off her robe and let it puddle on the bed. That left her in her unrevealing flannel nightgown—she hadn’t had time to dress when they’d brought Jimmy into the house—and she decided to leave it on until Philippe either took it off of her or worked around it. She had no idea how these things went forward.

Philippe nodded at the nightgown as the last button on his trousers popped open. Heather noticed that there seemed to be a huge bulge behind his fly, and she could hardly wait to see what was causing the bulge. She was also a little frightened, but overall she was pleased to note that her anticipation far overrode her fear.

“I’ve seen more seductive garments on horses, Heather.”

Startled, Heather glanced down at her nightgown and then up at Philippe. He was smiling at her, genuinely, and with a good deal of warmth in his expression, so she guessed she shouldn’t be offended. In fact, he was probably right. With an answering grin, she said, “I’m afraid my mother would have horsewhipped me if I’d tried to wear anything less, um, flannel.”

He laughed and shoved his trousers down. Heather suppressed a gasp with difficulty when his fully aroused sex thrust out at her.

Good God! Was that thing supposed to fit inside her? Impossible. At least, it looked impossible from where Heather sat. She was no longer sure this was such a good idea.

Heather guessed she was goggling because Philippe said softly, “Don’t be frightened. I’ll try to be very careful. The first time always hurts a little bit.” He sank down onto the feather mattress next to her, and lifted an eyebrow. “It will be your first time, will it not?”

Shocked out of her trepidation by his question, she blurted indignantly, “Of course it will be! What kind of woman do you think I am, anyway?”

His fingers found the tie at the throat of her nightgown, and he laughed softly. “The kind of woman I want to marry.” His big hands pushed the fabric aside and down her shoulders.

“Oh.” That put everything in a much better light. Heather sucked in a deep breath. Merciful heavens, his hands felt good on her naked skin. Were women supposed to feel this way when men touched them?

“Oh? Is that all you can say?”

“Um, yes.”

“Ah.” Philippe’s warm lips touched the flesh at the base of her throat, and Heather feared she’d die right there, in his bed, from sheer pleasure. “That’s the word I wanted to hear.”

Her thoughts were getting fuzzier by the second, but she didn’t think fuzzy thoughts accounted for her not understanding his comment. “I, ah, beg your, ah, pardon?” The pardon ended on a gasp when his hand pushed the nightgown all the way down until it pooled around her naked hips and his mouth—his wonderful, talented, brilliant mouth—covered her left nipple. Her head fell back when his warm tongue flicked over the pebbled nub. Good heavens, that felt good.

“I wanted to hear you say yes, Heather,” Philippe elucidated in a husky voice. “I wanted to hear you say yes to my proposal.”

Ah. That cleared it all up. And, while she hadn’t actually accepted his proposal, but rather his proposition, Heather understood. Proposal. Proposition. Whatever. This was heaven.

“After tonight, you won’t be able to refuse me,” Philippe went on.

Little did he know. Heather could do as she damned well pleased. She always had, much to her mother’s dismay.

However, in this instance, she did believe Philippe was right. If this is what marital intimacy entailed, she would be very happy to be married to him. Not to anyone else. Just to Philippe. She couldn’t even imagine another man doing these things to her. Not if he expected to live, anyway. But Philippe . . . Well, Philippe was special.

She said, “Oh, my.”

“Feels good, does it?”

“Oh, my, yes.”

“Good.” He laid her back gently and maneuvered the nightgown the rest of the way down her legs and off of her body. He tossed it aside. “I’ll get you some more appropriate night wear soon, sweet.” His lips kissed a path to her other breast and murmured, “Or perhaps I won’t. This is much more enticing.”

Yes indeedy. It sure was. Heather arched her back, thrusting her right breast into Philippe’s mouth. Fortunately, he knew what to do with it, and Heather worried that she might shriek or do something else to embarrass herself if he kept it up. What he was doing to her felt so good.

His lips moved from her breast, much to her displeasure. She almost uttered a protest, but didn’t, which was all right, since what he did next was every bit as luxuriously thrilling as what he’d been doing. Heather hadn’t realized how sensitive the flesh around her breasts was until Philippe taught her. She delighted in the lesson.

When his lips feathered down her body, she gasped and dug her fingers into his hair. She could feel him chuckle as his tongue slid around her belly button and finally dove into it. Her hips lifted involuntarily, and she uttered a small scream when his hand covered the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

Good Lord, was he supposed to be doing that? “Ahhh,” she moaned when his middle finger sought and found the most sensitive nub on her body, and guessed that answered her question.

“You’re so beautiful, Heather. So damned beautiful.” His words spread out with his breath, warm and delicious, on her lower belly.

She appreciated his assessment of her relative loveliness, but couldn’t thank him at the moment. There was too much need and too much sensation rioting inside her.

Mercy, mercy, mercy, was he kissing her even lower? Heather jammed a fist into her mouth to keep from crying out when she felt his tongue take over from where his fingers had been playing. Good Lord in heaven, what was he doing to her?

Pressure, pleasure. Pleasure, pressure. The feelings became so intense that Heather discovered her body going rigid with anticipation. All at once, the dam burst, and she hurtled over the edge of pleasure and pressure into an ecstasy of carnal delight.

Thank heavens she’d already covered her mouth or she’d have roused the household with her scream of pleasure.

She had no idea how long she writhed in satisfaction, or how long Philippe had been murmuring to her when she finally came to her senses.

“Beautiful. Beautiful.”

The words slithered around in her mushy brain for several seconds before she understood they came from Philippe, and that he’d been watching her. She supposed she should be embarrassed, but she wasn’t.

Feeling exhausted and absolutely fulfilled, she sat up suddenly and reached for Philippe. He let her pull him up so that she could kiss him madly. Sweet heaven above, but she loved him! She kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, and hardly realized what was happening when he positioned himself above her and guided his enormous sex to her still-sensitive passage.

When she’d first seen it, she’d been a little alarmed because it seemed awfully big to fit down there. She had no qualms anymore.

Sure enough, when Philippe engaged her in a long, deep, thrilling kiss, and she felt him there, at the opening of her passage, she didn’t even think about it, but thrust her hips upward to receive him. With a groan, he plunged home.

Heather’s eyes, which had been closed as she thoroughly enjoyed her first sexual experience, popped open. She found Philippe gazing tenderly down at her, an expression of concern on his handsome face.

“Did that hurt, darling?”

Darling. Oh, wasn’t that sweet?

However, it did hurt. A little. Before she answered, Heather tested the sensations going on within her.

Actually, it wasn’t so much pain as a feeling of fullness, of having something unusual happening to her. Which it was. She moved her hips a little, tentatively.

Philippe uttered a small grunt of pleasure, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Be careful,” he whispered. “I’m about to explode.”

Now what, Heather wondered, did he mean by that? It sounded rather exciting. She decided it didn’t hurt after all and said so. “No, Philippe. You’re not hurting me.”

He let out a breath of relief, as if he’d been hoping to hear her say so. Then he started moving—really moving—inside of her, and Heather got so caught up in the activity that she forgot all about the newness of it all, the possibility of pain, and the unconventionality of her, an unmarried woman, making love with an unmarried man. The pressure and pleasure started building again, shocking her, and it wasn’t long before she was carried away entirely and achieved a second shattering release.

Afterwards, she decided it was a very good thing that Philippe had taken that moment to kiss her deeply, or she’d have screamed for sure, and probably scared the cows outside into another stampede. Shortly after her second amazing climax, Philippe roared like a lion, bucked hard, and achieved his own release.

Panting heavily, he lowered himself onto her, slid to one side—presumably so he wouldn’t squish her with his weight, although Heather would have welcomed it on top of her—and held her tightly. She was glad to note that he seemed as depleted by the experience as she. Although she hadn’t considered it beforehand, Philippe probably had a lot of experience doing this sort of thing, and she might well have disappointed him. She didn’t think she had, to judge by his present state.

After a moment, he lifted his hand and brushed her hair back from her damp forehead. “You’re wonderful, Heather. You’ll marry me now. You’ll have to.”

She would? She did? Hmmm. Heather wasn’t sure about the “have-to’s” inherent in this situation—but she was going to marry him. He was too wonderful to let slip away. She snuggled against him. “All right, Philippe. I’d love to marry you.”

He hugged her hard. “Good.”

Speaking of love . . . Heather frowned into the darkness. She was happy, to be sure. And she was pleased that Philippe wanted to marry her. But he hadn’t said a single, solitary word about love. Unless she’d been so engrossed she’d missed it.

But no. She was sure she’d have remembered that. She sighed heavily. It was no matter. Life in the territory was too uncertain a prospect to make it prudent for a woman to hold out for everything, she reckoned. If she lived, say, back in New York City or some other place where life wasn’t so precarious, she’d probably have held out for a declaration of love. In the territory, folks had more common sense than that.

After all, what did love have to do with anything? What mattered was stability, strength, and honor. Money helped a good deal. And Philippe had all of those attributes. And, what’s more, he obviously desired her. That was a good start. It was a whole lot better than many folks started with.

Heather couldn’t figure out why she still felt a tiny bit bleak in her heart of hearts after she’d cleared up all of those points in her mind.

* * *

“Ha! I knew you couldn’t hold out against a rich man’s wiles.”

Heather scowled at D.A. Bologh, who was whipping up a breakfast soufflé, replete with bacon, cheese, and mushrooms. Heather wished he’d stop using those dratted mushrooms. She was afraid Philippe would ask her where they’d come from again, and she’d have to tell him she didn’t know because D.A. Bologh did all the cooking, and he’d think she was crazy. Again.

At least she knew what a soufflé was now. When she’d first started this job, she wouldn’t have known a soufflé from an outhouse. She’d read about soufflés in several cookbooks by this time; she might even be able to make one by this time if she tried hard enough, although she wouldn’t try it unless forced to do so for fear she’d bump the stove or underbeat the eggs or something and make it fall.

“That’s not nice. And it isn’t true, either. I don’t care if he’s rich or not. I’d never marry a man for his money. I think Philippe a wonderful man. Why, just look at what he’s done for the town of Fort Summers!” She spread her arms wide and felt a little silly—but it was the truth. Philippe never advertised his good acts, but he’d helped more people than anyone else in town ever had. Why, he was almost like Fort Summers’ own personal Saint Nicholas.

D.A. snorted, which didn’t do much to keep Heather’s mood cheerful. She’d been as near to floating as made no mind after her night with Philippe. She’d never felt so perfectly feminine and beautiful and wanted and desired in her life. The feeling had lasted through the night, into the morning, and even a little while beyond Philippe’s good-morning kiss and sweet questions regarding the state of her health.

Then he’d left for work, and Heather had returned to reality with a thump. A painful thump. Muscles she hadn’t realized she possessed were aching this morning.

Nevertheless, she wasn’t on a honeymoon or anything, and she had work to do. Not to mention a brother in less-than-dire, but still extreme, need. Her first duty, therefore, after washing up and tidying and trying to make herself appear as if she hadn’t been making delicious love to Philippe all night, was to visit Jimmy’s room. He was sitting up in bed, playing cards with the Mike Mulligan.

Both males had smiled at her. She’d asked about Jimmy’s health, been reassured, and had told her brother she’d bring up a breakfast tray for the both of them as soon as she could.

Jimmy had looked skeptical. “Are you gonna cook it?”

Heather felt her lips pinch up and tried to relax them. “I’m regarded as a fine cook these days, Jimmy Mahaffey.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop looking at me like that!” Heather cried. “You look horrible enough with all those scratches and bruises, without adding that look to the mix.”

Mike had laughed. Jimmy had huffed crossly. Heather had absconded to the kitchen, her mood somewhat mangled. And now here was D.A. Bologh, killing it off.

“This isn’t fair,” she muttered as she flipped ham slices, which she’d fried herself, and hadn’t burned—miracle of miracles—onto a platter for Jimmy. Her brother adored fried ham for breakfast. “I was feeling wonderful until you and Jimmy and Mike started in on me.”

D.A.’s laugh sounded as mean and cynical as it ever did. “It’s because you’re living a lie, and you know it, sweetheart. You’re going to marry the man, and he doesn’t have any idea what he’s getting.”

Recalling the night she’d just spent in Philippe’s arms, Heather said, “Yes, he does!” She slammed her hand on the table so hard, the platter jumped and a piece of ham skittered off onto the table. She picked it up in her fingers—a breach of etiquette her mother, not to mention Mrs. Van der Linden, would deplore—and slapped it irritably back where it belonged.

“Like hell,” D.A. said, smirking.

“He does! I told him all about you.”

D.A.’s head swiveled, one of his eyebrows lifted, and he sneered at her. “Ah, yes, I recall that night of your confession. And I suppose he believed every word of it.”

Glowering, Heather muttered, “No. He didn’t.”

“I thought not.”

“But I told him.”

“You’re just trying to make yourself feel better. You know he thinks you’re the one who’s been doing the cooking.”

She sighed heavily. “I know.”

D.A. slipped the soufflé into the oven, turned, leaned back against the stove—which must be blazing hot—crossed his arms over his chest, and grinned at her. “I think it’s about time for a reckoning, Heather Mahaffey, you sweet little thing, you.”

She eyed him uneasily as she stuck a soft-cooked egg into a pretty porcelain eggcup. Jimmy would think that was swell, never having seen an eggcup before. “What do you mean? What kind of reckoning?”

“I think it’s about time for you to pay up.”

Heather’s heart skidded and fell sickeningly. She swallowed. Her throat closed up on her, and she couldn’t ask.

D.A. evidently didn’t expect her to. “I’ve been doing your job for over a month now, dearie. And quite well, too, if I do say so myself.”

She nodded because it was true.

“But, as you know, we made a bargain before I started working here. And it’s just about time for you to pay the piper. So to speak.” His grin broadened. For the first time, Heather noticed that his teeth were kind of sharp, like the canines of a dog, although not quite so pointy. They gave him a truly evil appearance, and she wished he’d stop smiling.

D.A. tapped those pointy teeth with his forefinger. “What do you say, sweetie pie? Don’t you think it’s time you started paying? For services rendered, you know.”

Heather’s spunk returned like a cyclone. Her spine stiffened, her heart lifted, her throat loosened up, and so did her tongue. Her voice was quite vinegary when she snapped, “I have no idea what we bargained for, because you never told me, don’t forget. Perhaps I’ll believe the price is too high.” That was good; she wished she’d considered such an option before. She sniffed disdainfully to add emphasis to her words.

D.A. didn’t like them at all. His grin vanished. “You’ll pay,” he snarled. “You have to because you said you would.”

She wagged a finger at him. “But I didn’t say what I’d pay. It’s not fair to expect a person to pay unless she knows what the price is ahead of time.”

“You didn’t care about the blasted price before you said yes.”

She huffed, irked at having the truth used against her. “I know. And it was foolish of me to make a bargain when I didn’t know what I was bargaining with.” A little less sure of herself and afraid of his answer, she asked, “Um, what exactly were you expecting in return for your services, D.A.?”

He eyed her keenly for a moment, and his grin slowly returned. Heather’s skin crawled when she saw it. “You.”

She blinked at him. “Um, I beg your pardon?”

He pointed at her with a long, sharp finger, tipped by a long, sharp fingernail. “You heard me, Heather. You.”

She pointed at her chest. “Me?”

“You.”

She squinted at him. “Um, I don’t think I understand.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You might not have known it at the time, but you bargained your sweet little self with me when you begged me to cook for you.”

Heather’s hand dropped to her side. She stared at D.A., unbelieving, for a couple of seconds. Then, as the full meaning of his statement curled through her, making her insides ice up as it did so, she shook her head. “No.” She sucked in air. “Oh, no. That’s not fair, D.A. Bologh.”

He shrugged insolently. “We aren’t talking fair here, Heather my love. We’re talking a bargain.”

She shook her head hard. “Oh, no, we aren’t! If I’d known what you wanted, I’d never have made a deal with you!”

Another shrug made her want to run him through with a cooking fork. “So what? You did make the deal.”

Heather planted her fists on her hips. “That’s not fair! If I’d known what you were bargaining for, I’d have told you to go right straight to perdition, and you know it!”

“A likely story, however apt.” D.A.’s sneer was terrifying to behold. It was a sneer that was calculated to wither Heather’s heart.

She knew it, and used her fear to embolden her, sensing that there was more at stake here than her physical body. She leaned toward D.A., allowing her rage to propel her words. “You’re a lying, cheating, sneaking skunk, D.A. Bologh! You know good and well that you can’t expect a person to agree to something unless you tell them what it is they’re agreeing to before they agree to it!”

“Bah. You’re just a sore loser.”

D.A.’s scorn was tempered slightly when the two of them heard the wind, low and menacing, outside the window. A rumble of thunder reached their ears, sounding as if it came from very far away. Heather was surprised to see him cringe and glance behind him, as if searching for the source of that thunder. She used his moment of discomposure to further her point. Shaking her finger right under his nose, she said, “I’m not a sore loser! If you’d told me what you wanted in exchange for cooking for me, I’d never have agreed to it, and you know it as well as I do! I might be a stinking cook, but I’m not an idiot. And I’m not a whore! I’d rather be roasted over hot coals with the fall chili peppers than give myself to you!”

“How appropriate,” D.A. said, although his sneer had faded some. Another rumble of thunder, closer this time, made him jerk his shoulders. The wind had commenced howling like a soul in torment outside the window.

Heather’s brow furrowed. What was the matter with the man? He surely wasn’t afraid of thunder, was he? She couldn’t imagine D.A. Bologh being afraid of anything.

Through the kitchen window, she saw a flash of lightning in the distance. Strange weather they were having. Fort Summers never experienced thunder and lightning in the morning. She didn’t let the oddity of New Mexico weather thwart her. This was too important.

“Don’t you bandy words with me, you louse,” she shouted. “You know very well that you cheated! Cheaters never prosper!” It was trite, but Heather couldn’t think of anything more brilliant at the moment.

“Cheater, my hind leg!” D.A. shouted back.

A gust of wind sounded like a locomotive as it rushed past the house. An enormous crack of lightning shook the house. It was accompanied by a roar of thunder that made Heather clap her hands over her ears. “Good heavens!” She was so disconcerted by the stormy weather that she was momentarily distracted from her argument with D.A., and whirled around to see what was going on outside. Bolts of lightning and cracks of thunder were ripping through the sky like fire from a Gattling gun. Her mouth fell open, and she could only gape, hoping against hope that the cattle wouldn’t stampede again. She raced to the window to see if the fences were being damaged.

“All right! All right! I give!”

D.A.’s shriek turned her around again. “What?”

A boom of thunder shook the house so hard, she nearly lost her footing. The wind threatened to tear the roof off the house.

D.A., his hands covering his head as if he feared for his very life, screamed, “I give up! You’re right! I cheated!”

The thunder and lightning ceased.

Heather’s shocked gaze darted between the kitchen window and D.A. Bologh and back again. She didn’t know what to make of anything.