Agnes and the Renegade (Men of Defiance) (20 page)

“Agkhee, look at the sky.” She did as he asked, seeing sparkling lights spread like fairy dust across the sky. “Do the stars look the same in your world?”

“Chayton, your world and mine share the same sky and the same earth.”

“No. Your world builds towns like crusted scabs upon the earth. My world lives with the earth, in the way that it lives.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I’ve never seen so many stars as I do out here.”

He kissed her temple. “I do not want to be right. I want everything to be as it was before.”

“Before, you and I did not exist. Would you undo us?”

Chayton sighed. “It is wrong to live in any time but the present. And right now, you are everything to me. But it is difficult to not think of everything that no longer is.”

“I know. I don’t have my parents anymore. And I don’t have Theo. Loss is never easy. It takes a piece of us, I think.”

His arms tightened around her. “Agkhee, I am glad you are my wife. With you, my life will be one worth living.”

Aggie smiled. She would have answered, but his hands distracted her as one moved to cup a breast and the other stroked down her belly to slip between her legs. She didn’t open her legs to his caress, but enjoyed the sensations of his wide finger easing between her soft feminine folds. He kissed her neck. His hot, moist tongue stroked her skin, sucking it, tasting it. His palm moved from one breast to the other, and he caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh,” she groaned, unable to articulate a coherent comment. His hands and mouth were everywhere. She could feel his growing erection against her bottom. Somehow, he’d lifted her over his body. His thumb was massaging that spot that was so terribly, wonderfully sensitive. She spread her legs over his, aching for more of his touch, for his body to join hers. They’d been intimate several times over the last few days. She couldn’t seem to get enough of him.

He sat up, holding her on his lap, working her body until sensations flooded her, forcing cries from her as she writhed, empty of him, yearning for him to take her. As the first throes of passion ebbed, he lifted her and slipped her down over his erect penis. She folded her legs by his thighs and took over the movements, slipping up and down him as his hands gripped her hips, managing her angle and speed, slowing her strokes despite her attempts to go faster. His pace was maddening. She groaned a complaint. “Chayton, please!”

He leaned over her, pushing her forward onto her hands and knees. She could feel so much of him. He braced his hands beside hers on the blanket as he pumped into her. Every thrust jostled her breasts, stroked her body in intimate places. He kissed her back, grazing her with his teeth. He leaned on one hand, freeing his other hand to capture her breasts, holding her as he pumped into her. When he eased that hand lower down her body, touching the place above where he entered her, she couldn’t hold back her response. She bucked against his hips, drawing him deeper, deeper inside of her, crying out with the extraordinary pleasure he was giving her.
 

The sounds of her pleasure echoed against the canyon walls. Her reaction triggered his release. He straightened on his knees, gripped her hips, banging himself against her body with a fury he’d not yet shown in their couplings, thrusting, thrusting, then holding their bodies tightly clenched as his release pulsed inside of her.

When the waves eased between them, she was spent, utterly without strength to support herself. She collapsed beside him. He drew the cover over them, then leaned on his side and grinned down at her as she fought for breath. She smiled up at him. He set a hand on her abdomen, spreading his fingers out over the soft skin between her hips. He looked at her, then swept a glance around the painted walls hanging over them. “This is an auspicious place to create a baby.”

She looked down at his hand, then covered it with both of hers. “Do you think we did?”

“It would give me joy to be a father again.”

She smiled at him, reaching a hand up to touch his serious face. “I love you.”

His gaze was solemn as he looked at her. “I will protect you, Agkhee. You and our children. I love you.” He leaned over to kiss her forehead, her nose, her mouth. His hair slipped forward, stroking her skin in its warm, silky length.

* * *

White Bird heard a floorboard creek in the hallway outside her room, followed by the audible step of a cane. She had enough time to slip her father’s portrait down behind her dresser before her great-grandmother stepped into her room. Of course, the painting landed with a loud thud. She faced the door and pretended as if the noise hadn’t come from her room.

A cane pushed the door wider. Her grandmother stood in the doorway, eyeing her. “What have you there, girl?”

White Bird held her hands up. “Nothing.”

Her great-grandmother, who was as formidable as any of the elders among the Lakota, was unconvinced. “I saw the painting before you dropped it behind the dresser. I’d like to see it again.”

There was no point pretending she hadn’t done the very thing her great-grandmother accused her of—that would be dishonest. She reached behind the dresser and retrieved Miss Hamilton’s work. After propping it up against some trinket boxes on her dresser, she stepped back to look at it. She wasn’t supposed to have it, but she knew that Logan-
p'apá
was going to get some of the artist’s paintings, and since they were just sitting there in the tent down at the hunting cabin, with no one to guard them or even look at and enjoy them, she thought it wouldn’t be bad if she brought one home early.
 

She looked at her great-grandmother out of the corner of her eye. They’d been waiting for more than a week for her father and Miss Hamilton to return from the Valley of Painted Walls. Tension was running high in the house as they all tried to keep her elder distracted from her father’s absence.

“That’s my grandson, isn’t it?”

“It is. He’s fierce and handsome, isn’t he?”

Mrs. Burkholder didn’t respond. “Where did you get this?”

“From Miss Hamilton. She’s been painting him. There are several more of him. Would you like to see them?”

“Yes.”

White Bird took her grandmother’s hand. “I will show them to you. I will saddle horses for us.”

“Not horses. Haven’t you a surrey? If you don’t, we’ll take my carriage. We’ll make the journey in comfort. How far is it?”

“Not far. Only an hour south of here.”

“Very well. I will change. Perhaps you could tell Mrs. Taggert to join us. I think a picnic lunch would be a lovely idea.”

A half-hour later, the three of them were on their way down to Miss Hamilton’s cabin. Ester had to hide her smile at White Bird’s excitement over the excursion. She liked her great-granddaughter, despite her unfortunate skin color. She was as vivacious and charming as her own Lucy had been. The ride down to the cabin was shorter than she expected. She caught herself leaning forward as a cabin and a large white tent came into sight. They stopped in front of the cabin. The surrey shifted as Mrs. Taggert climbed down, then helped her down.
 

“Miss Hamilton has been very busy painting this entire summer,” Mrs. Taggert said as they crossed the grounds to the big tent. “She’s preparing for a grand show in Denver this autumn.”

“Have you seen her work?” Ester asked her hostess.

“Only a little of it. She’s very talented.”

“Hurry! Her work is in the tent!” White Bird called, running ahead to stand at the tent’s entrance.

“White Bird, you haven’t been down here bothering Miss Hamilton, have you?” Mrs. Taggert asked the girl.

“No—I was curious. She has a tent full of paintings. My
até’s
in all of them, Sarah-
m'amá
.”

Ester followed the girl into the tent. The art that met her stopped her in her tracks. All of it was museum quality, exquisitely detailed. The works were expert compositions with depth and rich colors. She moved a few steps deeper into the tent. White Bird hadn’t exaggerated. She stepped around a couple of tall screens on which were hung various landscapes, some of which included an Indian. Looking up, she saw two tall portraits of a warrior, the same man in the small painting White Bird kept hidden in her room.
 

Ester didn’t believe in the “noble savage” mythology. The indigenous people she’d met were simply savages—brutal killers by nature who deserved to be eliminated from the land they roamed like wild animals. They’d destroyed her family and were a scourge to noble settlers everywhere. Her beliefs were empirical, learned over a lifetime through numerous encounters of her own and through those experiences of her friends, colleagues, and acquaintances.
 

Yet here she was, confronted with the truth of her grandson’s life: he was far more Indian than white man. Even she didn’t miss the irony that he was the only future she had, and he gave no indication her legacy held any value to him. She felt the weight of her years as she stood in that tent, studying the image of a descendant she didn’t know but upon whom so much rested, including the peace of his ancestors. His
white
ancestors.

She moved closer, searching the painted image of her grandson. His face was a stoic mask, but his eyes were full of life, sharp and intelligent. They looked out at her from the flat canvas as if judging her and finding her lacking. She squared her shoulders, refusing the implications of the standoff she sensed was coming.
 

She wasn’t going to live forever. He had no choice but to come into her world and pick up the reins of his mother’s heritage.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Aggie followed Chayton as they made the return hike through the woods back to their base camp in the cave. She couldn’t wait to dive into a few canvases covering the painted canyon they’d visited and the ravine that Chayton wanted her to paint. Her sketchbook was filled with vistas awaiting their birth in canvas and paint; she had several weeks of work ready to start. Perhaps she should take the works she’d finished down to Denver, then return to paint the sketches she’d made.
 

She sighed, unable to decide. She didn’t want to take the time away from her work. It would interrupt her momentum. But she had to get down to Denver to see if she could secure show space with Theo’s friends who owned a gallery.

Her gaze sought out Chayton as he moved over the rough ground of the aspen and evergreen forest. There wasn’t very much brush or undergrowth to climb over—the deer and elk kept it trimmed. Chayton was as much at home on these rocky slopes as any of its native wildlife. She loved watching his legs move with their innate grace as he navigated the terrain. His bow was slung over a shoulder, his pack of quivers slanted across his back.
 

He wore his hair parted in the middle and brought forward in twin braids covered in a wrap of red fabric. She’d learned his intricate toilet during their days together—how he liked to wear his hair, how meticulous he was in plucking his facial and body hair. She understood now why he was always so well groomed. She wore far less ornamentation than he did, preferring to braid her hair or twist it into a simple bun at the base of her neck. He liked to adorn his hair with feathers, beads, and wraps. Everything he wore held a meaning and conveyed protection, strength, or memories. He was a graceful and kind man who honored the land and his ancestors in everything he did. She couldn’t believe how lucky she was that their paths had crossed.
 

“Chayton,” she called out to him. He paused and looked back at her as he stood above her on the slope. “I love you.”

“Why?”

“Because you make me realize how wondrous life is.”

He nodded, then started forward again. “It is a good reason.”
 

As they reached the wider path that led down to the cave, Chayton paused and reached a hand back toward her. She smiled as she put her hand in his. His dark eyes grew somber as he looked down at her. Heat spread over her body. She thought about their leisurely morning by the falls, when he’d sat calmly in front of her, waiting patiently while she wove his long hair into twin braids. She felt as if she’d cast some spell over a large and violent predator, causing him to behave in a gentle manner only with her.
 

She’d styled his hair several different ways, waiting to see when his patience would break. At last, he’d twisted around, grabbed her by the waist, and thrust her beneath him. “Enough, woman!” he’d growled. “I am not a doll.” With a small adjustment of their clothes, he’d entered her. She’d laughed at the sight of his frown, until his fervor stirred her desire and she met his thrusts with her own.

And now he frowned at her all over again. Was it terrible that she wanted to be in his arms again?
 

“Agkhee, we should return to the cabin. If you step out of your shell here, it will be difficult to transport so many paintings.”

Aggie linked her arms up around his neck. She loved touching him, hated when they were far apart. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I’ll get our things ready while you fetch our horses. When we return, will you stay with me at the cabin?”

“You are my wife,
mahasani
. Our lives are one now. I will always be with you.”

She stood on tiptoes to kiss his mouth, then moaned when he tightened his arms around her and fisted her hair, deepening their kiss. When the kiss ended, his reluctance to let her go was written in the rigid features of his face.
 

“I will get the horses,” he said.

* * *

Logan walked outside to watch the horizon for the incoming riders that had been spotted heading onto the property. He leaned against a support post of his front porch as he watched them come down the lane. When they were closer, he saw the afternoon sun glint off the sheriff stars they wore. He went down the porch steps, preparing himself for whatever bad news they brought. Cal Declan was a good man and an honest sheriff, but wasn’t known for making friendly social calls—leastwise, not this far north of town.

Sheriff Declan let his reins rest against his thigh as touched his hat. “Logan. You know my deputy, Brody Rogers.”