Larkspur (39 page)

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“Mornin’, sleepyhead.”

Kristin opened her eyes. Buck was leaning over her. Firelight flickered over his tousled hair, his face, and down over the mat of hair that covered his chest. His eyes held hers in a sensuous embrace. Her arms lifted to encircle his neck, his arms closed around her.

“Is it morning?”

“Uh-huh.”

He tucked silky strands of her hair behind her ear and stroked her cheeks with his fingertips. Relaxed after her deep sleep, Kristin lost all touch with rational thinking. Her eyes moved lovingly over his smiling face. Her fingers spread and her palm rubbed in a circular motion against the rough hair on his chest. He seemed to be as mesmerized by her as she was by him. It was as if the world had suddenly fallen away, leaving only the two of them.

Buck knew the instant she became aware of the aroused part of him that pressed tightly to her hipbone. He searched the depths of her gaze for her reaction.

She didn’t cringe away from it.

He lowered his head slowly until his lips were a fraction of an inch from hers. The sweet scent of her breath, the tangy smell of her skin, and the firm warm flesh of her thigh between his were a wild and powerful drug that started a craving for fulfillment deep in the center of his being.

Small puffs of air came from between her lips. Her hand slid up his throat, then to the back of his neck. The core of passion that had long lain dormant within her flared into life, and, driven by her love, strong and pure, she fastened her lips to his.

The arms that held her to him were rock-hard, yet his response to her was so strong that they trembled. He deepened the kiss. She quivered at the heady invasion of his mouth and ran the tip of her tongue over the sharp edge of his teeth in welcome.

“Kristin, sweet—” He spoke thickly, his breath coming in even gasps that matched hers. In spite of himself he pressed and rubbed his hard aching flesh against her. “Tell me to go—”

“Do you want to go?”

“No, my darlin’ girl . . . no! But I will—”

She pulled away from him a little and pulled her chemise down to her waist.

“I will never tell you to go, my dear, sweet man. I love you and, right now . . . I want to feel my breasts against you.”

The tenderness of her tone caused a wild, sweet singing in his heart. His mouth moved over hers, gentle at first and then hard. She felt the tremor that shook him when the softness of her breasts touched the hair-roughened skin of his chest.

For a long while he loved her with his hands and his lips and his murmured words. “Kristin . . . my Kristin.” A deep longing compelled her to meet his passion equally. She kept her eyes tightly closed, not wanting to come out of the dreamlike state. Suddenly the driving force of feeling took her beyond herself into a mindless void where there were only Buck’s lips, Buck’s hands, Buck’s hard demanding body covering hers.

Without hesitation, their bodies joined in mutual, frantic need. She heard sounds of his smothered groans, as if they came from a long way to reach her ears. Incredibly, there was no awkwardness, no hesitation, and she felt only a few seconds of discomfort when he entered and filled her. Then their pleasure rose to almost intolerable heights.

Kristin had never felt anything like the sensations she was feeling now. Her hands moved over the smooth muscles of his back and down to the smoothness of his buttocks. Aware of his tense excitement, listening to the heavy beat of his heart, she knew the excruciating joy of mating with her man. She moved against him, clutching at his back while he pressed into her. She wrenched upward and tensed, wanting to know and have every little bit of him. His weight pressed her into the bedroll, and her arms tightened about him as they rode out the storm of their emotions.

When it was over, neither one of them moved. Kristin could feel tiny aftershocks of climax in the heated sheath that enclosed him. Gradually their hearts and lungs regained their natural rhythms. His head rested on her shoulder, his lips touched the spot beneath her ear. They lay still, sharing the sweet aftermath of their loving.

“Kristin, sweet one. I’m sorry . . . if I was rough. I wanted you so . . . bad—” The soft ragged whisper came to her ear.

“You were not rough. I’m not fragile. I liked what we did and how we did it.” She shifted her legs slightly to cradle his hips more comfortably between her thighs.

Buck lifted his upper body and supported it by both elbows. There was a seeking look in his eyes.

“Kristin?” Her name was a murmured, husky whisper. “You know what I am. I’ve not had much schooling and my manners are not what they ought to be. I’ve got a spot of land and a small herd of steers. Not much to offer a woman like you. But Kristin . . . sweet, would you . . . consider marrying me?”

“I don’t need anything but you.” She framed his face with the palms of her hands. “You’re the sweetest, kindest man in all the world. If you hadn’t asked me to marry you, my heart would have broken right in two. I want to be with you forever. I’ll be so proud to be your wife.”

She caught her breath as his face was transformed with love and happiness. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought the glistening she saw in the brilliant green eyes was caused by tears.

“We’ll plant our roots on the Larkspur, my darlin’. We’ll have sons and daughters to bring us grandchildren. And when we’re old, we’ll sit on the porch and look at the mountains. Oh, Buck. I’m so happy, I think that . . . I might even like Runs Fast . . . a little!”

His lips moved to hers. Gently and tenderly he held them captive in a long, lingering, trembling kiss. When he would have moved his lips away, she followed with her own, and his sigh was a mingling of pleasure and need as he flexed his hips and she flexed hers in a welcoming response.

He was sure that he was the luckiest man alive.

Chapter Twenty-five

I
t had been a day of anxiety at the Larkspur.

Bonnie cooked meals, and the men came silently to the table to eat them. Gustaf had such a look of anguish on his face that it was difficult to believe that he was the cheerful man he had been a few days ago. He blamed himself for allowing the Indian to come in and steal Kristin away.

Bonnie felt guilty because she was here and Kristin wasn’t or could be dead. There were many
ifs
in her mind.
If
she had gone into the house with Kristin.
If
she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her visit with Gustaf, she might have heard something.
If
she and her brother had not come here in the first place.

After the noon meal, Bonnie went to see about the new calf and fed a few of the remaining biscuits to Sam. The dog gobbled the treat and hurried back to the bunkhouse, where he figured to get another bit of food from Tandy. During the last few days he and the old man had become fast friends. Sam lay beside the bunk for hours at a time while Tandy’s fingers stroked his bristly head.

By late afternoon a fresh, cool breeze blew down from the mountains. Bonnie stood on the porch. In the evening light the vista as far as she could see was an arcadia of peace and beauty. The blue-gray of the mountains was a background for the pale gold grasses and the dark green of the cedars. She drew in a long breath of the fresh air and permitted herself to enjoy the view before she went back into the house to put the supper on the table.

Even Gilly was quiet during the evening meal. Bernie encouraged him to talk about Buck and his friendship with the Sioux, but after a few grunted responses the conversation died. Bonnie set a pan of rice pudding on the table and turned to get the coffee pot when the Indian lad, known as Beaver Boy, opened the door and said two words that caused a flurry of action.

“Wasicun
come.”

Chair legs scraped the floor as the men got to their feet. Gilly picked up his rifle and headed for the front of the house. The others followed. Two riders were coming out of the woods at the north side of the house.

“It’s Marshal Lyster. He doesn’t have authority out here,” Bernie said. “I don’t know the other fellow.”

“I do. He was with Mike Bruza the morning I poured coffee on him. Two-bit gunslinger is what Mr. Stark called him.”

Marshal Lyster rode up to within a few yards of the porch.

“Evenin’, folks. I could smell your supper a mile out. Smelled mighty good.”

“If yo’re expectin’ an invite to supper, yo’re outta luck,” Gilly said bluntly. “What’d ya want here?”

“Come to see Lenning. Got some papers to serve.” Lyster shifted his weight to get off the horse, but after Gilly spoke again he settled back into the saddle.

“Nobody invited ya to get down.”

“Ain’t ya the hired hand here?”

“Ya might say that.”

“I know the gal and her brother, but who’re you?” Lyster’s eyes focused on Gustaf.

“Name’s Gus. Who are you?”

“Marshal Lyster.”

“Of Big Timber, not out here.” Bonnie’s voice was fringed with sarcasm. She ignored the grinning, rat-faced man on the other horse who was leering at her as if he’d never seen a woman before.

“Still mouthy, ain’t ya, gal.”

“Her name is Miss Gates.” Gustaf spoke sharply to the big pot-bellied man on the horse. “You’re sadly lacking in manners for a public official.”

“Ya think so, huh? And you tinhorns have big mouths. Well, are we gettin’ an invite to supper or not?”

“I cooked it. I’d give it to the buzzards first.”

“My, my.” The marshal leaned on the saddle horn and leered at Bonnie. “Somebody’s goin’ to have to take you in hand and knock the sass outta ya, gal. It just might get done before the night’s over.”

“I’d be right glad to do the job fer ya, marshal.” Greg Meader leaned forward, a wolfish grin on his face.

“Just try it, you weasel-faced mule’s ass, and I’ll spread your rotten guts all over the territory!” Bonnie used her voice to cut as deeply as her words, but Meader only laughed.

“Wheee—! Ain’t she a caution?”

“Buck ain’t here, so be gone,” Gilly broke into the conversation.

“Is Miss Anderson here? Miss Kristin Anderson, old Yarby’s kin.”

“I know who she is. She ain’t here either.”

“Off some’r’s ballin’ with Lenning. Huh?”

“Drop your guns.” The voice came from behind.

Bonnie spun around to see Mike Bruza in the doorway, two six-guns in his hands.

“Took ya long enough.” The marshal swung down from his horse.

“An Indian kid was hangin’ around the back. Had to wait till he left,” Bruza said. “I’d a shot the little bastard, if not for the racket it’d a made.”

Meader dismounted and swaggered up onto the porch. He jerked the rifles from the hands of Gustaf and Gilly and lifted the gun out of the holster Bernie wore.

“We know Lenning ain’t here. Had a feller watchin’ the house all day. We figure to wait for him here where it’s warm and we got somethin’ to pass the time with.” Bruza spoke as if he and not Lyster was in charge. “Meanwhile”—he gave Bonnie a nudge with the end of his gun—“put some supper on the table and . . . be careful with that coffeepot, or I’ll put a bullet right between yore brother’s eyes.” He swung the gun around and pointed it at Bernie’s head.

The marshal led the way into the kitchen; the men followed, knowing that Mike had his gun in Bonnie’s back.

“Sit down on the floor,” Lyster commanded. He cut the line Kristin had strung over the stove to dry the dish towels. While Meader held his gun on the men, the marshal bound their hands behind their backs. “Now scoot back against the wall. Behave and nobody’ll get hurt. It’s Lenning and the Anderson woman we want.”

“Speak fer yoreself, marshal. I’m wantin’ me some a that.” Meader spoke with his beady eyes on Bonnie.

“Ya’ll have to stand in line after me,” Mike said. “This bitch
owes
me. She damn near ruined my whacker. It’s all right now,” he said as if to reassure her. “I tried it out a couple of times down at Flo’s.” Mike gave Bonnie another shove. “What’s that in the pan?”

“Rice puddin’. I let the dog pee in it.”

Meader laughed uproariously. “Ain’t she somethin’?” he said between guffaws. “I like a woman with sass.”

Mike was not amused. “What I said about that brother of yores goes.” He poked Bonnie in the back again with the gun. “Get some grub on the table and keep your mouth shut.” He was almost shouting by the time he finished.

Bonnie added wood to the firebox and moved the stew kettle to the front of the stove. She added a couple of dippers of water and several pinches of salt. From beneath the work counter she took a jar, opened it and reached in for what looked like a handful of dried leaves.

“What’s that?” Mike was behind her touching her shoulder with his chin.

“Sage. I had to water down the stew to make enough.” She shrugged her shoulder away from him, dropped the leaves in the pot and stirred vigorously with a long wooden spoon.

“I don’t like sage.”

“Too late, it’s in there.” Bonnie replaced the lid and shoved the jar back under the counter. As she turned her head, her eyes caught Gilly’s briefly.

The marshal settled down in one of the big chairs. Meader roamed about the room. He pulled down the lid on Buck’s rolltop desk, pawed around and then closed it. He went into the room shared by Bonnie and Kristin and came out with Kristin’s hairbrush. Long blond hairs were entwined in the bristles!

“She’s been here.”

“Hell, we know that!” Mike snatched the brush from Meader’s hand. He gave Gilly a vicious kick on the thigh. “Where is she?”

“How the hell do I know? Her’n Buck rode off some’er’s. Buck said somethin’ ’bout Helena.”

“Helena! Ya lyin’ bastard.” He threw the hairbrush against the wall. “No woman’d go to Helena and not take her hairbrush.” He squatted down beside Gustaf. “What’re ya doin’ here, pretty boy?”

“Thank you, sir, for the compliment,” Gustaf said pleasantly. “Just passing through your beautiful country. I was invited to stay a spell and rest up. And here I am.”

“Here you are,” Mike echoed. “Tinhorn, you stopped at the wrong place.”