Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (19 page)

Tightening his hold on her waist, Ben paid little heed to his wife’s affronted tone. “If you ever have occasion to
really
shoot that rifle, believe me, there’ll be distractions aplenty. And not a one of them pleasurable. You have to learn to put the distractions out of your mind.” With a soft pent-up groan, he rubbed his cheek against Lydia’s, luxuriating in the silky feel of her hair against his face. “Just pretend that I’m not here, all right?”

“
That
will be most difficult, and you know it.” Despite the censure in her voice, a pulse of desire throbbed between Lydia’s legs. Pressed as familiarly as they were, she could feel Ben’s broad chest expand and contract with each deep breath. Instinctively, she matched her breathing pattern to his.

“Go ahead and cock your weapon,” Ben husked, the soft rasp of his mustache teasing the sensitive skin along the nape of her neck.

Brusquely snapping her wrist back-and-forth, Lydia released the trigger guard. Then, deciding to give the man a taste of his own medicine, she thoroughly insinuated herself against his erection, rotating her derriere in a slow circular motion. Not once, but twice.

“Given your woefully swollen condition, I don’t think that
—”

“Just fire the damn rifle,” Ben grated in her ear, having suddenly become something of a spoilsport.

“Very well.”

Focusing her attention on the lone peach can perched atop the rocky outcropping, Lydia slowed her breathing, closed one eye, and pulled the trigger
. In the next instant, the can arced through the air before noisily clattering on the rocks below.

“All right, the lesson is over,” Ben
said gruffly as he snatched the rifle out of her arms. Scanning the surrounding area, his gaze settled on a large thicket of densely leafed bushes. “That looks as good a place as any.”

Suddenly realizing his intent, she balked. “But Dixie is
—”

“Busy reciting the multiplication tables.” Tugging on her arm, Ben urged her to follow him. “Trust me
. She’ll never notice that we’re gone.”

“But what if she does? What if she wanders over here and finds us undressed and
—”

“If it’ll ease your mind, we won’t get undressed. And we won’t be gon
e for more than a few minutes.”

Gnawing on her lower lip,
Lydia hesitantly nodded her consent. “But
only
for a few minutes,” she qualified.

“Truth be told, Mrs. Strong, I don’t know if I can hold out more than a minute or two.”

Taking her by the hand, Ben led Lydia behind the clump of bushes. Once there, he carefully set the rifle on the ground before pulling her into his arms.

“You know, I still can’t believe
that we wasted the first four weeks of our marriage sleeping in separate beds when we could have been doing this,” he murmured, scooping his hands around her derriere.

Plying her fingers to the buttons on
Ben’s shirt, Lydia smiled. “We were rather foolish, weren’t we?”

Easing his hands
away from her, Ben slipped his thumbs under his suspenders and pulled them off his shoulders, the canvas straps dangling around his hips.

“What’s this ‘we’?” With a quick tug, he yanked his shirt over his head
and impatiently tossed it onto the ground, the bright red flannel adding a splash of color to the drab-colored grass.

“Don’t start with me, Ben Strong.” Brazenly,
Lydia’s hand slipped between his legs. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re currently at my mercy.”

“Believe me, I noticed,” he growled,
as he shuddered against her. “So now that you’ve got me in the palm of your hand, just what do you intend to do with me?”

“Oh, I thought I mig
ht do this.”

Leaning into her husband, Lydia rubbed her hand up and down his swollen erection, his manly organ straining again
st the fabric of his trousers.

Groaning, Ben reached for the top button on her bodice,
clearly bewildered when she slapped his hands away.

“If you’ll recall, I only agreed to this tryst under the condition that
we remain clothed,” she reminded him.

“
But I already took off my shirt.”

“So you
did.” She whisked her tongue over one of his hardened nipples.

When Ben made a move to draw her closer to him, she stepped away from him, silently upbraiding
him with a shake of the head.

“Aw, come on, Lydia. You’re not playing fair.”

“But you’re the one who devised the rules,” she replied, hitching her skirt several inches so that she could slip her hands under her petticoat. With a flick of the wrist, she loosened the drawstring on her drawers, the ruffled fabric falling to her ankles.

Ben watched her coy performance, whistling his approval when she calmly stepped out of her drawers.
“I do believe, Mrs. Strong, that it was wrong of me to have ever accused you of being a frigid, humorless woman.”

“I’m certainly glad to have dispelled
that
rumor.” Plucking her undergarment off of the ground, Lydia carefully laid it on a nearby bush. “And while we’re on the subject, I believe that you also accused me of being an ‘ice queen.’”

“I
did
?” Ben’s eyes opened wide in mock surprise. “What was I thinking?”

“Not to mention
that you once called me an iron maiden.”

“Iron widow,” he corrected. “And that was only because I was so randy, I thought I’d burst every time I got near you.”
Taking hold of her wrist, Ben drew Lydia to the ground. Kneeling in front of her, he tenderly cupped her face between his hands. “A blind man. That’s what I was those first four weeks of marriage.”

“
You were also a stubborn man. And a proud one, too,” Lydia added, unwilling to let her husband off the hook so easily. “And willful. Goodness, but you were a willful—”

“All right, Mrs. Strong. You better stop while you’re ahead.”

“I’m not so sure that I want to do that.” Smiling, she pushed Ben to the ground, hiking her skirts so that she could straddle his hips.

“
Sweet Jesus, but I’ve got me a lusty, red-headed woman,” Ben whispered, sliding his hands over her breasts, his thumbs stroking her nipples. “How did I ever get this lucky, being as proud and willful as I am?”

Arching her back, Lydia pressed her breasts into the palms of his hands. “Having a handsome face and manly physique
were certainly in your favor.”

Ben removed
his hands from her bosom and grasped Lydia by the hips. “So, you think I’m manly, do you?” Holding her in place, he thrust against her woman’s place, his wool trousers pleasurably abrading her sensitive skin. “Is that man enough for you?”

“Oh, yes,” she gasped, her hands braced against
his chest.

“You know, wife of mine, I do
believe that I’m smitten with you.” As he spoke, Ben finagled a hand between their hips to unbutton his trousers. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say—”

Ben
stopped in mid-sentence, his hands instantly stilling.

In the next instant
, he unceremoniously shoved Lydia off of his body, a thunderstruck expression on his face.

“Ben, whatever is the
—”

“Shh!”

With no explanation as to his actions, Ben rolled onto his side, his ear flush to the ground. For several seconds, he stayed thus posed, until, with a loudly muttered curse, he lunged to his feet.

“We need to get to the wagon on the double-quick,” he tersely commanded as he snatched
hold of the rifle.

Baffled, Lydia reached for her drawers, unnerved by her husband’s abrupt mood swing.
“I don’t under—”

“There’s no time for that,” Ben interjected, fling
ing her drawers to the ground.

M
anacling his left hand around her wrist, he ran toward the wagon. Not so much as breaking his stride, he bent at the waist, snatching the box of gun cartridges off of the ground.

As they neared
the wagon, he barked Dixie’s name. Clearly startled, the child glanced up from the pages of her arithmetic book.

“Dixie! Quick! Get in the wagon!”

Dixie obediently scrambled from the table and scurried toward the tailgate of the Conestoga as fast as her eight-year-old legs could carry her.

Reaching the encampment, Ben released his hold on
Lydia’s wrist. Utterly confounded, she placed a hand over her pounding heart, struggling to pull air into her lungs. Her confusion intensified when Ben leapt onto the back of the tailgate. A moment later, he reappeared, a shovel grasped in his hand.

“Take this and start digging a hole under the wagon,” he ordered
, thrusting the shovel at her.

Peeved, Lydia took the shovel from him, annoyed with his brusque manner. “Before I do anything, I
want you to tell me what’s going on.”

“I won’t know until they get here.”

Spinning on his heel, Ben ducked into the wagon, returning a few seconds later with a large barrel.

“Until
who
gets here?” Lydia demanded to know, her patience wearing thin.

Ben glanced at the f
ar horizon, his eyes narrowed.

“Comanche, more than likely.”

“
Comanche Indians!”

At hearing the unadulterated fear in
Lydia’s voice, Ben inwardly flinched.

The word ‘Indian’ had a way of doing that to people. And if the word ‘Indian’ could put the fear of the Lord into even the most unrepentant of sinners, then the word ‘Comanche’ instilled in folks a fear of all else under the heavens.

Grasping the shovel in a white-knuckled grip, Lydia furtively scanned the seemingly peaceful horizon. Trembling, she swung her gaze to where he stood on the wagon tailgate.

“W-what are we going t-to do?”

Going down on bent knee, Ben extended a hand toward his wife, briefly caressing her face with the tips of his fingers. “Only thing we can do . . . hold our ground and fight ‘em.”

Lydia visibly paled. “But, surely
, if we hitch the horses to the wagon we can—”

“We can’t outrun them, Lydia. Even if we weren’t hauling a wagon,” he added, having anticipated her next suggestion. Knowing
that they had only a few minutes to erect a defense, Ben quickly rose to his feet and pointed to an area near the side of the wagon. “Take that shovel and start digging a hole as wide and deep as possible.”

“W-why?”

“So we can hide Dixie.”

“Dixie!” Lydia’s hand flew to her breast, her eyes owl-like.

“She won’t be safe in the wagon,” he said point-blank. “Men, women, children, as long as their skin color is white, it’s all the same to these Comanches. They give no quarter.
Ever
.”

And by God, they better not expect any from him.
Because he sure as hell wasn’t going to show any mercy this day.

Leaping off
of the wagon, Ben turned and lugged a barrel over the edge of the tailgate, rolling it to where he intended to erect a makeshift defense. Galvanized into action, Lydia vigorously applied herself to digging a hole to shelter her daughter.

After placing a second large barrel into position, Ben vaulted back into the wagon. Quickly surveying the materials he had to work with, he de
cided on two oversized trunks.

Moments later
, the trunks were in place beside the barrels, creating a breastworks from which they could fire their weapons. Fortunately, the wagon was parked next to a large outcropping of limestone, the ragged rocks providing a natural barrier from an attack on their rear flank.

That done
, he fortified their defenses with a box of ammunition, several water canteens, and a haversack full of hardtack. Because he wasn’t wearing a gun belt, he shoved his loaded Colt pistol into the waistband of his trousers. Standing a few feet away, Lydia worked tirelessly, repeatedly putting her booted foot to the shovel.

“Aren’t you going to
put on a shirt?” she asked, pointedly glancing at his bare chest.

Looping a thumb around each suspender, Ben yanked the canvas straps off his hips and onto his shoulders. “That’s as dressed as I’ve got time for. You need to
hurry and shovel up that dirt on the double-quick. We’ve only got a few minutes before they charge in here.”

Lydia’s foot slipped on the shovel.
“
Charge!?
”

“If you think these savages intend to trot by and cordially pay their respects, think again.” Although harsh words, Ben knew from experience that a coddled soldier made for a
weak soldier. “I’ll be right back. I need to run off the horses and the milk cow. We sure as hell don’t want to be stuck out here breathing the putrid stink of dead animals.”

“But without the horses, how will we ever escape?” Lydia wailed, not bothering to hide her
terror.

Rather than tell Lydia the truth
– that he didn’t hold out much hope for escape – he strode toward the horses. Behind him, Ben heard his wife fearfully whimper. Tightly clamping his jaw, he forced himself to turn a deaf ear. Knowing that they were about to undergo the most horrific duress imaginable, he focused instead on those things that he could control.

Releasing the horses from their iron hobbles, he swung his arms in the air, spooking the docile creatures into charging up the riverbank away from the encampment. The milk cow was more reluctant to leave, Ben having to swat it with a leafy oak switch to get
it to lumber after the horses.

As he glanced toward the wagon, Ben spied a cloud of dust on the
far horizon, kicked up by riders on the charge. With a certitude born of experience, he knew they were the same group of riders who’d earlier caused the ground to vibrate beneath his ear. Thank God, he’d been flat on his back tousling with his wife; otherwise the Indians would’ve caught them unawares. Forewarned, at least they had a fighting chance.

“Quick! Get Dixie,”
Ben yelled as he ran toward the wagon, his mind and body now moving at a heightened pace. Combat was only moments away. As it always did before battle, the blood lust pumped through his veins, fast and furious.

Grabbing the shovel from where Lydia
had tossed it aside in her haste to retrieve her daughter, Ben jammed his booted foot against it, deepening and widening the hole.

A few moments late
r, Lydia escorted Dixie to their fortified breastworks, the child fearfully clutching a rag doll to her chest.

Throwing the shovel aside, Ben knelt in front of his stepdaughter, bracing his han
ds on her quivering shoulders. “Listen up, sweetheart. We’re going to hide you in this hole while the Indians are here.”

Wide-eyed, the child’s face blanched of all color.

Silently damning the capricious gods who landed them in this mess, Ben tightened his grip on Dixie’s small, quaking frame. “No matter what happens, I want you to keep quiet and stay in your hidey hole. Even if you hear your mother scream. Even if it gets dark or you get cold. Do you understand, Corporal Dixie?”

Clearly terrified, the child nodded her head. Then, her eyes shimmering with tears,
Dixie raised her right hand to her temple, giving him a soldier’s salute. Without hesitating, Ben snapped out a salute of his own before hugging his stepdaughter to his chest.

Knowing there wasn’t time for any more of a farewell than that, Ben scooped Dixie into his arms and planted her inside the earthen hole. Handing her a canteen of water and several days’ worth of hardtack, he carefully slid a trunk over top of her, leaving a small gap for fresh air to seep in. As a further protective measure, he covered the air hole with the same leafy oak switch
that he’d used to swat the milk cow.

“All right, Lydia.
It’s time for us to hunker down and—” Ben stopped in mid-stream. His gut twisted at the sight of Lydia, trembling violently as tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks.

Roughly grabbing
his wife by the upper arms, he shook her.
Hard
.

“Listen to me!” he snarled between clenched teeth. “I need you to be strong! You can cry all you want later
. But right now, you have to be strong. If not for me, then for Dixie.”

Lydia’s chin lifted, lucidity returning at the mention of her daughter’s name. “I’m sorry,” she
said stiffly, wiping at her tears with her dress sleeve. “I’m just so. . . .”

Terrified
, Ben thought, the unspoken word hovering between them. As he knew full well, in the moments prior to battle, fear had a life all its own, infecting even the most stalwart and boastful of men.

Wrapping a hand around Lydia’s wrist, he yanked her to the ground, handing her the same rifle
that she’d earlier used to blast peach cans off the stone ledges. He then squatted beside her and quickly checked his own rifle, taking a moment to make sure that it was fully loaded.

It was.

Not moving so much as a muscle, Ben fixed his sights on the thin, almost indistinct line of timber that rimmed the perimeter of the arid plain. The uneasy sense of foreboding that he’d been nursing for the last several days was about to come full circle.

At hearing the pounding din of ho
oves that signaled the Comanches approach, Ben chambered a cartridge and slid his finger over the trigger. With his other hand, he gestured to the wide, muddy river that meandered between their makeshift defense and the advancing Indians.

“To get to us, they’ve got to cross that river. And though
it’s shallow, it’ll slow ‘em down a bit. That’ll enable us to pick them off before they can breach the encampment,” he said, hoping to bolster his wife’s confidence.

“I know what you’re doing,” Lydia murmured with a shaky smile. “And I thank you.”

Ben made no reply. Tender endearments and cooing love words would have to wait until later.

Much l
ater from the looks of things.

On the other side of the river, about two hundred yards distant, a line of mounted Comanche warriors suddenly materialized out of the noontime haze. At a glance, Ben could see that he and Lydia were woefully outnumbered, approximately twenty armed Indians heading their way at full gallop.

As the high-pitched war whoops became increasingly louder, Lydia grimaced, her left hand trembling around the base of her rifle barrel. Having spent too many years listening to the blood-curdling rebel yell, Ben was inured to such distractions.

“Follow my lead, and don’t fire until I tell you to,” he instructed, trying to keep
Lydia’s attention focused so that fear wouldn’t draw her into its clutches.

Taking a deep, measured breath,
Ben braced himself, a kaleidoscope of images hitting his line of sight in quick succession:

T
he Comanches, moccasinned legs scissoring back-and-forth, kicking their horses’ underbellies as they charged across the river. Lathered horses momentarily faltering in the knee-deep water. Feather-laden war shields swinging to-and-fro. Bits of reflective mirror woven into horses’ manes glimmering in the midday sun.

Then, an ear-splitting cacophony of heathen yowls as a fusillade of flint-tipped war lances came flying their way, landing in a colorful semi-circle around the outer perimeter of their stronghold.

An instant later, all hell broke loose.

Comanche horseman, reins clenched between their teeth, hefted their muskets to their shoulders as th
ey galloped straight for them.

“Fire!” Ben hollered, barking the command as though he had a full regiment of soldiers at his disposal.

The moment he pulled the trigger, a Comanche buck flew backwards off of his horse, nearly blown clean in half. Yanking on the Henry’s trigger guard, Ben pivoted, took aim, and fired a second time, hurling another warrior off of his mount. Again, he pulled on the trigger guard. Again, with the same deadly results.

As had happened so many times during those four horrific years of civil war, instinct
took over, leaving reason by the wayside. Ignoring the volley of bullets that struck the wagon and ricocheted off nearby slabs of limestone, Ben drew yet another warrior into his gunsights as he squeezed the trigger.

Sparing Lydia a quick sidelong glance,
Ben saw that she fired her weapon in a tentative fashion. Which was to be expected. Only a few minutes ago she was shooting at tin cans. Now, quite unexpectedly, she found herself firing at flesh and blood men. Even for a battle-hardened soldier, such gruesome sights were hard to take.

But Lydia wasn’t a soldier. She was a woman, a mother, defending her child against insurmountable odds.

“You’re trying too hard to hit your target,” Ben shouted loudly so as to be heard over the din of war whoops. “You need to fire more rapidly and with less aim. These are injuns not peach cans.”

Lydia
nodded, her small, ladylike hands yanking on the trigger guard, spewing a spent casing. Raising the rifle to her shoulder, she pointed it toward a trio of warriors and fired, one of the Comanche screaming loudly as a large red hole materialized in the middle of his chest.

Following his wife’s lead, Ben took out the two warriors on either side of the slain horseman.

As he’d hoped, the rapid-fire Henry rifles had an effect on the charging Comanches who, armed with outdated smoothbore muskets, were momentarily stunned by the quick succession of deadly fire. One of the warriors, a fierce-looking brave wearing a horned buffalo headdress, tersely hollered a string of what sounded like battle commands.

En masse, the war party charged back across the river, plumes of water splashing in their wake.

“They’re leaving! They’re leaving!” Lydia exclaimed giddily, her eyes pooling with unshed tears.

Ben grimly stared at the riverbank. “They’ll be back. They’re just reconnoitering.”

And when they returned, there would be hell to pay. No doubt about it. He and Lydia may have won the first round, but they were still heavily outnumbered. And having to defend themselves against one of the best light cavalry in the world.

From the other side of the riverbank, the Comanche
s waved their rifles and bows, all the while yelling a torrent of indecipherable epithets.