Linda Castle (15 page)

Marydyth caught herself gasping in delight when they rode over a rise and Hollenbeck Corners disappeared behind them. She had been locked up for so many summers. The colors of nature’s palette washed over her and she looked at summer on the wild free plain for the first time in three long bleak years.

Barrel cactus were blooming with orangy crowns; short purple verbena was flowering everywhere. A roadrunner darted out from behind a stand of jumping cholla cactus, and a long-eared jackrabbit watched them from the shade provided by a huge cluster of prickly pears while he nibbled at the bright reddish blooms.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” Flynn’s deep baritone washed over her.

She turned and looked at him. His chiseled face was half in shadow from the brim of his pale hat. Marydyth found herself breathing an unconscious sigh of relief because she couldn’t see those probing eyes on her face.

“Yes. I hadn’t realized how much of this I had missed.” She focused on the trail ahead, unable to stop butterflies from entering her belly each time she looked at Flynn.

They rode over gentle rises and down into a long, rugged cut where the ragged mountains rose up on every side. Brittle brush and Mojave yucca made it necessary to weave and thread their way through a maze of sorts. In the distance Marydyth could see Joshua trees and saguaro reaching toward the sky. Abruptly she pulled up on the reins.

“What?” A note of concern was in Flynn’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Marydyth swallowed thickly.

“I can hear it in your voice, Marydyth. Tell me.” Flynn reached across the small space separating their horses and touched her hand with his. A diffuse heat twined from that spot to her middle.

“The century plant.” She lifted her hand and pointed.

He frowned and followed the line of her finger. There, on the rough ridge of land, was a solitary century plant in bloom.

“There was one on the outside of Yuma’s walls. I saw it once. I used to tell myself…all I had to do was hang on until it bloomed.”

“But they only bloom once every hundred years, Marydyth.” Flynn squeezed her fingers, wishing he could erase some of the misery from her face.

“I know.” She laughed but it was a nervous sound that held no joy. “It was a foolish thought, but it kept me going.”

“I thought your hatred of me kept you going,” he said softly.

She didn’t look at him.

He reached out and grasped her chin in his fingers and drew her gently around.

“Is that true? Was it your hatred of me that gave you strength?”

Her eyes misted over. She blinked and searched his face. Was she looking for the answer there? Or was it something else she sought?

“I don’t hate you.”

The information settled over him like heavy fog. For a moment his heart actually seemed to freeze within his rib cage.

He didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing. He cleared his voice and released the hold he had on her
chin. But when he kicked Jack, a strange, prickly satisfaction sat in the saddle with him.

She doesn’t hate me.

The morning wore on while they rode in silence. By mutual agreement they had decided to skirt around both Millville and Charleston and head straight toward Brunckow’s cabin for their first stop. At nearly sundown Flynn saw the dark outline of cabin walls. He drew his pistol and stopped Jack.

“Hold up and wait here,” he ordered.

“What’s the matter?” Marydyth frowned, feeling her belly sink to her boot tops.

“Probably nothing, but this cabin is a favorite hideout for outlaws and no-goods.” Flynn glanced at her and managed a crooked smile. “I’d just as soon not have my hair parted by a bullet while we bed down for the night.”

Marydyth nodded. Once again that feeling of safety washed over her. She had always thought he hated her, but perhaps she had been wrong about that as well as how she felt about him. She watched him lope Jack toward the structure, keeping low in the saddle, body tensed and ready for anything.

A hot surge of admiration swept through her. He was a hard man—an unyielding man—but he had provided Rachel a home full of security and acceptance.

For that kindness she would be forever grateful to Flynn O’Bannion.

Within moments she saw Flynn wave his Stetson in the air. She exhaled the breath she had been unconsciously holding and kneed Trooper forward. By the time she reached the cabin, Flynn had a blaze going in the remnant of the fireplace on one partial wall. Coffee was
boiling and the smell of frying bacon made her mouth water.

“Need some help?” Marydyth asked.

He looked up and grinned. “What’s the matter—afraid I’ll poison you?”

For half a heartbeat she stiffened and then a strange thing happened. She found herself chuckling with him.

“Go on. Go unsaddle the horses and I’ll do this,” she said with a giggle.

He rose to his feet, the smile making his normally rigid mouth full and sensual.

“There’s a small stream in back. I’ll take the horses down to water.” He stood up and slipped the rifle from the scabbard on his saddle. He thrust it toward her.

Marydyth looked up in surprise. She wiped her hands on the front of her Levi’s and took the rifle. “What’s this for?”

“You know how to use it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you know what it’s for,” he said with a nod. And while they stood looking at each other, the atmosphere around them shifted and changed. An unspoken truce had finally been reached in the isolated cabin where Frederick Brunckow had thought to find his fortune.

“I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here—waiting.”

M
arydyth did not dream that night She rose before dawn and found Flynn already frying bacon and drinking strong black coffee—standard camp fare, but somehow the aroma and the company made it just right.

She pulled herself from her bedroll and stood, stretching the kinks from her back.

“Morning,” Flynn said.

“Good morning.” She was amazed that the night had gone by so quickly. The last thing she remembered was staring up at velvet black sky studded with diamondlike

points of light. Then it was simply morning.

After they ate, they saddled up and started out again. Marydyth felt more rested than she could remember and as the sun rose and beat down on them she found herself happy.

Then when she was feeling drowsy from the dipping disk of the sun in the west and the gentle sway of the horse below, Flynn cleared his throat and pulled Jack to a stop.

“There’s the Lavender Lady.” He pointed toward an outcrop of rock, gray and black in the dusk.

Marydyth stood up in her stirrups and squinted. The
mine was nothing more than a giant cavern carved into the stone. A weathered sign that had once said Lavender Lady, J.C. Hollenbeck, Owner had cracked in two. The top half was still attached crookedly to a cedar post.

Flynn laughed, and she realized that her expression must have betrayed her.

“It ain’t much to look at from the outside, is it?” He dismounted and waited for her to do the same. While she was stretching the stiffness from her legs he took her reins.

“There’s a stream about a quarter mile away. I’ll take the horses to water so you can have a few minutes of privacy.”

“Thanks.” She took a step but her legs were weak and shaky. It was years since she had ridden this long, and every muscle in her body ached.

“I’ll get a fire going when I get back and then we’ll eat,” he said over his shoulder as he led the two geldings away.

Flynn was true to his word. Within the hour they ate another portion of bacon, biscuits and washed it all down with strong coffee. Flynn had built a fire near a sheltering overhang of rugged stone. Their upturned saddles would be both pillow and mattress, just as they had been in Brunckow’s cabin.

Marydyth tugged off her boots and snuggled down in the blankets, feeling a sense of well-being that she had never known before. She looked forward to another night without nightmares.

That was the thought in her head when she glanced at Flynn one last time, crouched by the fire. Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep, thinking how the future was going to be better than the past.

* * *

Marydyth was alone in her cell. The air was cold, and she was shivering beneath the thin blanket, mourning for her lost baby.

Then the air became heavy, thick and wet. The scent of river, magnolias and the South permeated everything around Marydyth.

She was on the riverboat. It was her wedding night.

Oh God, no.

Andre was drunk, cruel and rough. The kiss he gave her was sloppy and wet. He bruised her lip, made it bleed.

“Come here.” His words were slurred

“Please, Andre, please. Not like this—I’m frightened.”

He tore her gown, told her she was sixteen, old enough to take a man. He raked his nails over her breasts as he tore away the last of her clothing. Reddened streaks welled up on her flesh. She struggled in fear.

He grew angry and slapped her. She shoved him.

“Little bitch.” He unbuttoned his placket and drew himself out. Gripping his flesh like a weapon, crazy-eyed, reeking of liquor, he advanced upon her and hit her across the mouth with his free hand. “If you will not lie down for me then we’ll do this another way.” He grabbed her by the hair, forced her head downward.she was gagging, struggling.

Marydyth screamed She fought to breathe, fought to raise her head from the disgusting thing that he was forcing her to do. But no matter how she struggled, Andre and the dream would not let her go.

Flynn tossed off his blanket and rushed to her. He knelt beside her. “Marydyth. Marydyth, it’s Flynn.”

She was thrashing wildly, talking out of her head, struggling with someone named Andre.

Andre.
Her first husband.

She was lost in the grip of her nightmare. Flynn could not reach her. She didn’t seem to know where she was or who he was.

He touched her face, patting gently. He shook her. It did no good. She screamed and kicked and fought him. The horses blew and stomped, frightened by the sound of Marydyth’s terror.

“Ah, to hell with it!” Flynn cursed in a low voice.

He drew her near him, just as he had held Rachel during her night terrors. His voice was low and he wasn’t sure what he was saying, anything to calm her, anything to slay the demons in her mind.

He stroked her brow, moving a handful of sweatdampened golden curls from her forehead. Clouds had scudded across the sky and blocked out the stars and most of the moon. The last embers from the fire were glowing, casting a bit of light onto her face and the smooth column of her slender neck. She smelled of fresh air and woman and fear.

“I’m all right now.” There were tears in her voice. “You can let me go. I’m-I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself.”

He inhaled a ragged breath, determined to ignore the stirring within him. “You don’t have to be so strong, Marydyth. It’s all right to admit you are not made of stone. You can talk to me about this.”

No, I can’t talk to anybody. I can’t let anybody know what happened and why I murdered Andre.

She pulled away from him enough to look up. He could barely make out her eyes from the dim glow of the dying fire. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She doesn’t trust me any more than I trust her, not down deep, not where it really counts.

“Then you don’t have to, Marydyth. It’s all right, I understand.”

“Don’t be nice to me, please, please don’t.”

“You deserve to have somebody be nice to you.” He dragged his index finger down her cheek. His turgid body was straining against the two bottom buttons, the only ones that were fastened on his Levi’s.

She shuddered. “Flynn, if you are nice to me, I’ll cry.”

“Then start crying, honey.” He dipped his head low. “’Cause I am going to be nice to you.” Flynn pulled her fully up onto his lap. Her weight settled firmly on his throbbing groin.

“Flynn?”

“Yes, Marydyth?”

“Would you—I mean—could you—?”

“Could I what?” His pulse had settled into a heavy thud in his ears.

“Could you kiss me…please?”

The kiss he gave her was full of sparks and hot burning desire, and Marydyth leaned willingly into his embrace. It had been so long since she had felt like a desirable woman, even longer since she had known the touch of a man like Flynn O’Bannion.

She probably never had.

He was different. He was unique, both complicated and simple in a way that made her blood burn and her heart beat fast. He was a hard man, but nobody could argue that Flynn O’Bannion was anything but
all
man.

She could feel the sinewy muscles in his arms contract as he held her close. When she slipped her hand up around his neck she touched corded tendons and raw strength. As she drew in a deep breath, never breaking
the kiss, she inhaled the scent of desert and ashes, the scent of his buckskin shirt—of Flynn himself.

He squeezed her tighter and probed deep with his tongue. And when she thought his kiss would crush the very life from her, he turned gentle and teasing, drawing her bottom lip into his mouth to tenderly nip at it.

“God, you’re like honeysuckle nectar.” He nuzzled her neck and nipped bits of her flesh as he roamed over her face in his own private exploration.

She rubbed her palms along his collarbones, sculpted them down the front of his chest beneath the turquoise beads at the front of his buckskin shirt. Her nails scraped along the slender channel of hair that grew down the center toward his belly. He was warm, hard and soft and all sexy.

“It has been a long time,” she murmured. “So long.”

He slipped his hand inside the shirt she had borrowed from him for the trip. Under the soft, lacy camisole he cupped her breast. Gently, but with a definite purpose in mind, he rubbed his open hand across it, lingering on her nipple, rubbing his rough warm palm in a circular motion, lifting her, drawing her out, making her hotter. Her breasts grew heavy with wanting. There was a drawing sensation that went all the way to her groin when he grasped her nipple between his index finger and thumb.

She shivered.

He bent his head and kissed her again, exploring the inside of her mouth with his tongue, plunging and withdrawing in hard, rapid strokes. Flynn shifted slightly, turning his head without ever breaking the contact of his warm mouth.

Her heart beat faster and her hands slipped lower, over his ribs, across his drum-tight belly, to the half-buttoned placket of his Levi’s.

“I want you, Marydyth.” His breathing had grown harsh.

“Then take me,” she said as she rubbed her flattened palm across the hard bulge that jerked in response.

He stared at her for a moment. She could barely make out his eyes in the shadow of the night, but she felt the heat of them on her face.

“Are you sure?” His voice was deep and husky with desire. “I want you to be sure—I mean…it’s me.”

“I know who you are,” she whispered as she pressed her hand harder against him. “I could never forget.”

“No, I guess you couldn’t.” He pulled away and raked his fingers through his tousled hair. “I don’t know what got into me,” he said gruffly.

She reached out to him, grabbing his shirt on either side where it hung open, feeling the hard edges of the beading against her palms.

“You don’t understand, Flynn.” She tilted her head. “I know who you are—what you are—and what I want.” She pulled him close and kissed him. She explored his mouth with her tongue.

“Marydyth, are you sure?” His breath was coming ragged and fast. “We can stop now.”

“No. I want you, Flynn. I
need
you. Make me remember what it is to be a woman…”

He groaned and pulled her to him. With expert hands and care he drew her beneath him on the bedroll. He popped open the front of her shirt and shoved down the top of her camisole. Fire and ice skipped along her body as he deposited kisses to her breasts. His stubbly beard scratched her skin, and his lips were soft and gentle as the petals of a rose while he stimulated every nerve ending. Then, when the ache in her middle had become a steady hungry throb, he licked one nipple and drew it
into his mouth. Liquid fire poured through her veins and she found her pelvis arching up to meet him.

“Oh, Flynn…”

“I know, sugar, I know.” He deftly opened the placket on her Levi’s and shoved them down to her knees as she squirmed and lifted her bottom to help him. Finally she was free of the trousers. Then he slipped his hand inside her drawers and touched her.

A searing path of wanton desire arched from that point and flared throughout her body. A hundred lonely nights, a million shattered dreams, fell away, and there was only Flynn. Only Flynn, with his sensual mouth, Flynn, with his talented hands, Flynn, whose hard sex nudged against her.

Marydyth’s heart and body sang as she welcomed him inside her. While the darkness of night folded over them and more clouds gathered, he demonstrated every way he knew of giving her pleasure.

Flynn was still awake when the sky turned pink in the east. After he had taken Marydyth in every way a man could take a woman, his senses had returned. Now he was plagued by guilt.

He had taken advantage of her.

She had been frightened and vulnerable after her nightmare and he had behaved like a horny billy goat.

It sickened him to think of what he had done. Flynn had never been a saint, not by a long country mile, but he had never in his life taken advantage of a woman.

Until now.

It didn’t sit well with him, and he vowed not to repeat his mistake. He intended to apologize and let Marydyth know that as soon as possible.

She woke while he was building a fire for coffee. Her
curls were tousled and she had the heavy-lidded look of a woman well pleasured.

A current of conflicting feelings roared through him. He didn’t want to notice how the lacy camisole tightened over her breasts when she breathed. He didn’t want to remember how her soft breasts exactly fit inside his palms as though they had been made just for him or the way her flesh had tightened around him until he thought he would pass out from the pleasure.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Morning.” He stood up with the empty pot in his hand. “I’m going down to get us some water. It’ll give you a few minutes.” He felt awkward and tongue-tied in the light of day. “You’ll be all right?”

“Um-hmm. I’ve got the rifle.” She nodded in the direction of the rifle he had left with her yesterday.

He didn’t want
Marydyth,
for God’s sake.

He couldn’t.

Flynn climbed over the scattered boulders and stood aside for the horses to follow him up. He could see the shimmering thread of the stream below. Sunlight made a string of diamonds sparkle on the water’s surface, occasionally blinding him with their brightness. He started to put the coffeepot in his other hand, but it slipped and clattered to the rocks.

“Damn it.” He bent over to pick it up and the report of the rifle smacked by him, sending rock shards splintering into his thigh. He felt as if he had been peppered with rock salt. Another shot rang out, and Trooper squealed and toppled over backward.

Flynn crouched low and let Jack’s reins slip through his fingers. He pulled his gun from his holster and peered at the emptiness around him.

The smell of blood engulfed Flynn. He looked at the gelding, which was still, and clearly dead. Flynn could see a black bullet hole in the horse’s head and a trickle of blood running onto the rocks.

Beads of sweat popped up beneath his hat and along the nape of his neck while he scanned the rocky horizon.