Chastity (15 page)

    Will Morgan stared out the window of the cabin. His deceptively youthful features and dark eyes tense, he surveyed the dusty road that cut northward through the thin, sparse grass of Indian Territory. He moved his slender, tightly knit frame stiffly. It was hot, but the bright sunlight of early morning was fading. It was going to rain.

    Irritated, he glanced toward the hastily constructed corrals nearby where his men moved lackadaisically with branding irons in hand. Rustling cattle was the easy part. He enjoyed the excitement, the danger, and the knowledge that with a simple twitch of his finger, he held life in his hands. But he had little patience for what followed until the cattle could be safely sold.

  Morgan turned irritably toward the bucket in the corner. One taste from the ladle proved the water to be warm, and he spat it back with disgust. He had returned a few days earlier expecting to find the cattle ready for shipping, but he should have known better. His men weren't inclined toward the hard work of rebranding. The lazy bastards were worthless unless he was standing over them, and he had been forced to spend the greater part of the morning doing just that. He was sick of it! Causing him even more agitation was the realization that their laziness prevented him from following through with a plan of a more personal nature.

    Red hair that shone like fire in the sunlight… brown eyes shot with green… cool, white skin… She had said her name was Chastity. He had told her his name was Jefferson. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. She was a lady, but he had seen the fire that simmered just below her calm surface. He had felt her inner heat when she looked at him… when she smiled. He had the feeling that she didn't give herself easily, but in the time since he had tipped his hat and ridden away, the feeling had grown rapidly stronger that, had he not been forced to leave town when he did, he would have gotten far more from her than a smile.

    Fantasies of moist, white skin and hungry lips had allowed him no rest in the time since. So intense had his thoughts of her grown that he had pushed his men to the limit in returning to   their hideout, hoping to follow the same trail back as soon as possible. It frustrated him no end that he needed to remain to ensure that the work was done.
he
had never felt so intense a desire as he did for that woman he had met so briefly. The thought of her was a knot tightening within him to the point of pain.

    Suddenly realizing that he was all but salivating, Morgan halted his thoughts. He turned sharply at the sound of movement behind him, seeing the young, dark-haired woman who worked beside the fireplace. Sensing his gaze, she turned toward him. He had found Conchita in a border-town cantina several months earlier. A few smiles and the right soft words had been all that was needed. It had been easy… too easy. She worshipped him. She'd do anything to please him.

    Morgan inwardly sneered. That didn't surprise him. Women were crazy about him. The charm that so effectively hid the true man beneath his boyish good looks drew them like magnets. He knew part of the reason for that charm was the education he had received from his father, who had taught him to be courteous and respectful, and who had impressed upon him the value of a smile. The only problem was that his father had beaten those attributes into him, using religion as an excuse for brutality, and courtesy as a means to an end.

    His mother had died when he was ten, but he had felt little sense of loss. She had been a weak woman, who had bowed to his father's every   demand, observing every beating as she prayed loudly for his salvation. Some said she died of pneumonia, but Morgan knew that she had been harried to death. He had decided then and there that he wouldn't let himself suffer her fate when he grew up, and that if anybody was going to do the harrying, it was going to be him.

    Morgan's inner sneer became a smile. His father had remarried when he was fourteen. It pleased him no end that he had been so successful at emulating his father's talents that his new wife, Jessica had ended up panting after him like a bitch in heat. And the day he left them both behind, he made sure his father knew it. That had been one of the greatest satisfactions of his life.

    On his own in the time since, he had quickly learned that the only true friend a man had was the one settled snugly in the holster on his hip, and that the only difference between one woman and another was how quickly he tired of her.

    And if he saw signs of his father's brutal nature in himself, he dismissed them. Using his gun came as naturally to him as using women, and the truth was, the only person he cared about pleasing was himself.

    Morgan glanced out the window to check the location of the men, then turned back to see Conchita already approaching him. Beside him in a moment, Conchita pressed herself against him. Her dark eyes glowed with emotion as she whispered, "You love me, Morgan?"

   Love her? Conchita moved herself against him, and Morgan felt a familiar heat rise in his groin. It occurred to him that it might be amusing to tell her that she had been the furthest thought from his mind since he'd returned from Sedalia, that he already had plans to replace her, and that the pleasure she afforded him bore not even the slightest connection to love.
But he wouldn'tnot yet.
And he'd tell her he loved her, if that was what she wanted.

    Morgan looked down at Conchita's mouth. Satisfaction stirred when her lips parted. Her low gasp when he slid his hand up to caress her breast was the reaction he wanted. Grasping her hand, he could feel her trembling as he turned abruptly, drawing her along behind him as he walked rapidly toward the bedroom in the rear.

    Morgan slammed the bedroom door behind them, and as Conchita turned into his arms, the fleeting thought struck him that he hadn't even needed to say the words.

    She didn't like this.

    The sky grew more threatening by the moment. The balmy air had turned heavier, and the trill of songbirds along the trail had gone silent. In their stead, thunder rumbled in the distance and occasional bursts of lightning were visible on the horizon.

    A chill shivered down Chastity's spine as the wild terrain of Indian Territory enveloped their   wagon more completely with every passing mile. Reed and she had arrived in Baxter Springs in the early hours of the morning. Reed had wasted no time in securing a wagon and filling it with supplies, apparently intent on getting immediately onto the trail. The few words she had been able to exchange with the townsfolk had reinforced what Reed had told her about the resentment and downright hatred some felt for the Indians, as well as the dire state of Reverend Stiles's mission. She had understood Reed's desire to get immediately under way, but…

    Chastity glanced covertly at Reed as he sat silently on the driver's seat beside her. His features were sober and still as the afternoon waned, his gaze coldly intent as he scrutinized the passing countryside, and his hands strong and adept on the reins as he kept the team moving forward. Yet questions she could no longer avoid plagued her as she studied him in silence. The change in his appearance since she first saw him enter the railcar that day less than a week earlier had never been more glaring. Sitting erect and clean-shaven, his fair hair trimmed to lie neatly against his neck, his light eyes clear, he exuded a strength and masculinity that bore little resemblance to the stooped and bearded parson whom she had approached for help. His eyes were too sharp, his gaze too unyielding, the resolution that drove him too keenly displayed.

    Yet the change was not only physical. Complete silence had reigned between them since they had begun their journey. There had been no talk of the mission or the needy Indian children there. Reed had made no attempt to discuss the part she would play in reestablishing the school or the supplies she would need. Instead, it was almost as if he had dedicated himself to a new cause from which she was purposely excluded. She could almost believe that the concerned, protective man who had rescued her from the loathsome storekeeper's unwanted attentions and the soft-spoken, sympathetic man whose arm had encircled her on the train the previous night were figments of her imagination, for those men had disappeared the moment they had stepped onto the soil of Baxter Springs. In fact, she could not be sure which of the many sides of the Reverend Reed Farrell
was the true man
.

    It had become discomfortingly clear that
none
of them might prove true.

    And it suddenly seemed plausible that in agreeing to accompany him, she may have made the biggest mistake of her life.

    As they rode more deeply into the unsettled wilderness, the question again rose in Chastity's mind. What was she doing here?

    The wagon slipped into a rut in the road, jolting Chastity from her thoughts, and another chill moved down her spine. She recalled her first glimpse of their large wagon, with its bleached canvas cover supported by a strong    frame that allowed a grown man to stand almost upright inside it. The sight of it had stirred disturbing memories.

    The steady, lumbering roll of the wagon as the journey progressed struck another uneasy chord, stimulating bittersweet images of the life, love, and family her world as she had known itthat she had lost so many years ago in a wagon just like this.

    
''The girls are worse, aren't they, Justine?"

    
"They need a doctor soon. Something's wrong, isn't it? You're frightening me, Clay. Please answer me."

    
"We've reached the river crossing, but it's flooded. It isn't safe. If we don't find another one, we'll have to wait until the river goes down."

    
"Until it goes down?
It's still raining. How long will that take? The girls need a doctor now."

    
"It isn't safe to cross, Justine."

    
"Clay…"

    
"There's nothing I can do."

    The pain of remembrance suddenly overwhelming her, Chastity reached unconsciously for the locket at her throat and clutched it tightly.

    Soft grunts of pleasure broke the silence of the darkened room as the heat within it grew more intense. Perspiration beaded Morgan's skin as he turned abruptly, pinning the naked woman beneath him to the bed with his weight.

    Separating her thighs with his knee, he paused as she whispered, "No, not yet,
querido
."

    The longing in Conchita's dark eyes bespoke emotions that went past the stimulation of the moment. "It's too soon."

    
Too soon…

    Morgan surveyed the heated golden tint of Conchita's skin, the loving hunger that glowed in her dark eyes. He allowed his gaze to sweep the sharp planes of her face, the lush curve of her breasts, and the fullness of her hips before it came to rest on the warm juncture of her thighs where gratification awaited.

    
Too soon?
No, not for him.

    Plunging abruptly within her, Morgan heard her protesting rasp, and a low grunt of pleasure escaped his throat. He raised himself, plunging deeper, the sound of her protests adding impetus to thrusts that grew stronger, more frenzied. Climaxing, Morgan collapsed upon her as he sought to catch his breath.

    Morgan was about to withdraw when Conchita wrapped her arms around him and clutched him close. He heard the uncertainty in her voice as she whispered against his cheek, "Do you love me,
querido?
"

    Withdrawing from her embrace, Morgan forced a smile. He was so tempted.

    No, not yet.

    Leaning closer, Morgan smiled and stroked the straight black strands splayed against the pillow. He whispered, "Of course I love you, Conchita. How can you doubt it?" The responsive catch of her breath as he twisted his fingers   in the silky strands pleased him, encouraging him to continue more softly, "You always please me, Conchita. You know that, don't you?"

    Conchita's heavy lids flickered as he leaned closer. Conchita's gaze darted to his lips.

    His hand still locked in her hair, Will rolled to his back, drawing her with him so she lay prone upon him. He felt her heat and the wetness that lingered. He saw her uncertainty, and he inwardly smiled.

    Morgan whispered, "Do you love me, Conchita?"

    
"
Si
…" Conchita's lips trembled and her eyes grew moist. "I love you, Morgan, more than I have ever loved."

    "I'm glad." Morgan surveyed her face. He had been too quick. She was uneasy. Smiling his boyish smile, he reached up to caress her breasts. "You like me to touch you, don't you?"

    Conchita's breathing grew heavier.
"
Si
…"

    He could see the hunger in her eyes as he brushed the dark crests of her breasts with his lips. "I like you to touch me, too."