California Caress (24 page)

She didn’t immediately seize the advantage of her conquest. No, she had some well-deserved teasing of her own to do first. Dipping a finger just beneath the parted waistband, she drew her finger up in a long, straight line. What started out as a thin mass of golden curls beneath her inquisitive fingertip noticeably thickened the higher she went. Her lips curled into a smile as she heard Drake’s breath deepen to a thick, ragged gulp.

Her fingertip teased each small nipple in turn before straying down the same slow path it had just ascended. His stomach muscles contracted as she passed, and a pent-up sigh whispered through the air as her hand disappeared in the open trousers and her fingers curled around him.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, sunshine,” he growled in her ear, as his hand parted the creamy thighs and slipped between.

“And if I don’t?” she asked huskily, draping a leg across his hip. “What happens then?”

“You learn.”

Gently, she found herself pressed back against the mattress. Her hands were again free, and she used them to run a smooth path over his arm and shoulders as he slipped the rest of his shirt free and tossed it aside. His trousers were quick to follow, as was her chemise.

Even cloaked in shadows, Hope thought, he looked magnificent, what with his broad shoulders, lean hips, and various other enticing commodities. Every muscle flexed with life. Her palms itched to reach out and caress each sinewy tissue, but there wasn’t time. Drake, having divested them of their clothes, had returned to her side.

His thumb traced the cloth wrapped around her shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice serious.

Hope caressed his cheek, his neck, his shoulder. “You won’t,” she assured him, then reached up and pulled him down on top of her.

Drake took full advantage of the invitation. As his lips sought her mouth, his knee worked its way between her thighs. She moaned with pleasure, opening to him fully, the way the dewy petals of a rose open to the first kiss of a morning sun.

No further enticement was necessary. Keeping as much weight off Hope as was possible, Drake buried himself in her sweetness.

His movements were sure and firm, igniting a fire from what had, only seconds before, been a slow, exquisite spark. She matched him thrust for thrust, wrapping her legs around his rock-hard thighs and urging him deeper. Like a tidal wave, their pleasure increased, driving them closer and closer to the fulfillment their bodies feverishly craved.

What had begun as a gentle, insistent throbbing grew to a pulsating demand met with each thrust and retreat. Higher and higher they climbed until, finally, Hope reached the shattering peak of ecstasy. With a cry of pure delight, she clutched Drake’s sides, glorying in the feel of each delicious plunge of magnificent satisfaction.

The feel of Hope tightening around him tore Drake apart. With a groan, he buried his face against the sensuous taper of her throat. Filling her completely, he surrendered to the shuddering white-hot satisfaction.

Slowly, Hope relaxed. When Drake rolled off her and dragged her against his side, she went without complaint. His breathing was harsh and ragged as it grazed the top of her head. To Hope, it was the sweetest caress, matched only by the sound of his heart pounding beneath her ear. She nuzzled closer. Never in her life could she remember feeling anything as wonderful as the arm encircling her shoulders.

“No regrets?” he asked, tossing the comforter over their naked bodies.

The yawn she had been about to stifle died in her throat. Her heart tightened and she couldn’t seem to stop the instinctive response that rippled through her. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “No regrets.”

Closing her eyes, she blinked back tears. Her contentment evaporated quicker than steam off boiling water. She shouldn’t feel disappointment, but she did, and felt it deeply. She’d asked nothing from Drake Frazier, and nothing was exactly what she’d received.

Silly fool! s
he chided herself angrily.
What did you expect, sweet words of love? And from a gunslinger no less!

“Hope?”

Closing her eyes, she pretended to be on the verge of sleep. She could feel Drake watching her, but she didn’t have the courage to face him; not yet. She was too disappointed, too angry with herself for expecting something she could never have.

“Hope, are you awake?”

She forced her breathing to go slow and even.

Goddamn it, Hope!
she mentally screamed at herself,
Didn’t you learn long ago that love is for other people, not you? Why should this time be any different?
Because Drake had accepted her scars.
So? Why wouldn’t he? It would be an awful dull ride without someone to dally with. And no one else is available.

That he had made love to her before today didn’t matter in the least. She knew his motives for what they were now. At least, she thought she did.

Six days saw Hope well enough to sit by the campfire for the evening meals. She felt guilty at having to let Drake run and fetch-and-tow for her, but her strength hadn’t returned enough to let her do much by herself yet.

Yet,
Hope thought as she sat huddled beneath a warm wool blanket. She stared vacantly into the dancing flames that would cook their dinner as soon as Drake brought it back. The sky above was black as ink, with a layer of clouds covering all but a handful of twinkling stars from view. The moon could be distinguished only by the silver glow it radiated from behind its fluffy white covering. The Platte River gurgled as it twisted at her right, like a gigantic snake. Somewhere, a wolf bayed at the moon.

Most nights, the low notes of Drake’s harmonica rivaled the pleasant sound of trickling water. Tonight, he was out hunting game, and Hope found she missed the music almost as much as she missed the man. Even knowing he would be back soon didn’t settle her unusually alert nerves.

Her hair was still damp from a recent bath. She combed the snarls out with her fingers, letting the crackling warmth of the campfire dry the hair in glistening curls around her face and shoulders, then tied the thick chestnut strands back at her nape with the thin strip of leather she had found among Drake’s belongings. A twinge shot through her shoulder and her hand dropped to her lap. The baggy denim trousers he had bought her felt rough against her skin.

Wrinkling her nose, she glanced down at her shirt—Drake’s shirt. The plaid material hung from her shoulders, the shoulder seams falling halfway to her elbows. In compensation, she’d rolled the too long sleeves up over her wrists, halfway between forearm and elbow. The tail was purposely not tucked in, her sole attempt to conceal the indecency of her male attire—not that anyone would see to care. But she still had some pride!

Sighing, her thoughts turned to Drake. Perhaps it was the spicy scent that still clung to the flannel enveloping her shoulders that brought on the thoughts she had, until now, so steadfastly avoided. Or perhaps, more likely, it was the emptiness she felt with him gone.

She shouldn’t miss him, she told herself. Shouldn’t but did. All week he’d been the epitome of kindness. With ease he thawed the cold wall she had constructed. When she needed the hairbrush, he was there to fetch it. When she was thirsty, he was there with a sip from his canteen. And the nights!

Hope blushed to the tips of her toes when she thought of the long, hot nights spent enfolded in his embrace. Her vow that she would never let him touch her again had melted when she’d felt his lips on hers. And she wasn’t sorry. Convinced though she was that the attention couldn’t last, she’d enjoyed every second. No words of love were spoken, and she quickly stopped waiting for them. He didn’t love her, he probably never would, but for now she would greedily take what he gave without asking for more.

These nights would be remembered, as would the gentle way he had nursed her. When she was alone again, she would think of this time fondly, without regret. But she did not look forward to seeing “civilization” again.

A frog croaked from a place downstream. Hope smiled at the pleasant sound as she picked up a rock and tossed it into the water. It landed with a loud splash. The sound masked the frog’s throaty croaks, as well as the crunch of dirt made by footsteps slowly creeping up from behind.

The fire was nothing more than smoldering embers by the time Drake returned to camp. The wolf continued to bay in the distance. It was a dark, ominous sound. The half-wild mustang beneath him snorted as the two dead rabbits he’d slung over the saddle horn slapped the horse’s shoulder.

Scowling, Drake dismounted. The prickle of apprehension that had hit him from out of the blue nearly an hour before was still pulling at his gut. Try though he might, he couldn’t seem to rid himself of it, though he could think of no logical reason for the feeling of intense foreboding.

Running a palm over the back of his aching neck, he surveyed the camp. The smell of charred mesquite was still thick in air that was sweet with coming rain. Hope was nowhere to be seen. Nothing wrong there. He hadn’t expected her to be awake and waiting for him. She was still recuperating, she needed her rest; no matter how good it would have felt to look into her smiling face right now.

A vision of dark hair and bewitchingly large eyes floated at the forefront of his mind as Drake guided the horse toward the wagon. Another surge of morbid anticipation rushed through him.

Goddamn it, what was wrong with him? Nothing was the matter. Everything here was fine, perfectly normal. Perhaps too normal.

Temporarily hooking the horse’s reins around the spokes of the wagon wheel, he decided to check on Hope before he led the horse to the river.

Pushing the canvas curtain aside, he entered the wagon. The wooden joints groaned as the floorboard accepted his weight, the wagon imperceptibly swaying as he moved toward the mattress. With the small interior steeped in shadows, it was impossible to tell whether she was asleep on the bed or not.

Drake’s ears told him what his eyes did not. There was no soft rush of breathing to counter the frog croaking in the river, no shifting of the mattress to absorb the sound of his footsteps.

Like a man walking to the gallows, he approached the mattress. His fists were gripped tightly by his sides as his eyes focused on the shadow-encased bed.

Empty.

Drake tried not to notice the way his heart constricted with each frantic beat. Tried not to, but did.

“Hope?” he called desperately. He hadn’t expected an answer, and he didn’t get one.

Turning on his heel he walked from the wagon. His breath lodged painfully in his throat as he scanned the dirt. A winter spent with Dakota Indians had taught him how to decipher prints better than most trackers. He used that knowledge now—reading the ground as though his life depended on it. And it did.

Hope’s footsteps were easy to spot, as were his own. It was the third set—a man’s footprints—and those of a horse, that made his blood run cold and his hands clench into iron fists. She’d been gone no more than a couple of hours. The prints were too fresh for it to be longer.

“Dammit!” he growled as he thrust himself to his feet.

As though the horse could feel his agitation, the black mustang danced to the right as Drake passed it and entered the wagon. Two minutes later he emerged with a sack of supplies. Tearing the dead rabbits off the saddle horn, he attached the sack to it, then, with a feral growl, spun toward the fidgety horse. He didn’t notice that his palms were laced with sweat until he grabbed the reins. Only then did the magnitude of what was happening hit him like a brick being thrust in his stomach.

Hope had been kidnapped, and Drake had an uncanny feeling he knew who’d taken her. Where and why was another story.

His mind whirled with unanswered questions as Drake swung into the saddle. His former weariness was gone, replaced by stark terror. Digging his heel into the mustang’s flanks, he set the horse in motion. It bolted forward, and Drake leaned closer to the sinewy back to give his mount speed.

The air whipped at his face, the ragged ends of his hair stung his cheeks and brow. He loosened his grip on the reins, giving the horse its head.

She’s alive!
his mind screamed over and over, in time to the stallion’s pounding treads. He wasn’t sure if he was stating a fact or stating a prayer.

Fear, unlike any he had known before, gripped his heart in cold, tight fingers as he rode hard into the night, fast in the direction the hoofprints had led.

Hope sat erect in the saddle, willing her tired, aching body not to slump against the scrawny chest at her back. Try though she did to ignore him, she could feel the man there. Her nostrils stung with the odor of his perspiration and her ears echoed with each rush of his breath. His body moving in rhythm with the horse’s gentle canter was as real as the black drizzle that fell from the midnight sky.

Her once clean clothes were now streaked with dirt from her feeble struggle at the riverbank. The rain plastered the shirt to her body. The shoulder seam had ripped during the scuffle and was now torn and frayed, the delicate skin beneath exposed to the cold, damp air. Three buttons at the collar had popped free, leaving the rapid pulse at her throat equally as bare.