Lone Star 01 (14 page)

“Bend forward a tad,” he said. “If you can.”

She leaned over, biting her lip to stifle a moan, feeling him gently peel away the ripped fabric that was stuck to her coagulating blood. The long gash opened up again, a line of warm moistness seeping out and rivuleting down her back.

“Doesn't look too deep,” Daryl said, still frowning with concern. “My guess is, with a cleaning and bandaging and a good smear of ointment, your cut should heal up right fine.”

She tried to make light of it. “Nary a scar, doctor?”

“Probably not, if we treat it right soon. I ain't any doc, though; I'm just going by how I tend my cows.”

Shortly they were up and riding again, across the range of wooded slopes, stony ridges, and brushy draws. Jessica fell to following Daryl again, more than willing to let him find their way through. He did, competently. And as fatigued and aching as she was, Jessica made sure to memorize the route he took.

When they cleared the hills and entered his ranch yard, the buildings dozed dark and still, appearing abandoned, as if the rustlers had not only made off with a small bunch of Spraddled M stock, but with all the hands as well.

Inside the house, Daryl lit a glass stand lamp and ushered Jessica into the kitchen. “Stay here,” he said, and then made two trips outside, one for wood with which to stoke the cast-iron Duchess stove, and the other for water to fill the washtub he placed on the stove's burners. While the water was heating, he hauled out a heavy tin bathtub, and placed it near the stove.

“This ain't the height of modesty,” he said, beginning to redden around the ears. “But I reckon it'll just have to do.”

“I'll manage nicely, thank you,” Jessica replied, managing to keep a serious expression. She trailed him into an adjacent bedroom, saying, “Bad as it was, we learned a lot tonight.”

“Sure did.” His back was to her as he ransacked a tall wardrobe. “Now, I know I've got a clean towel in here somewheres.”

“We learned that Ryker wants a big chunk of Wyoming for no good reason, and that in order to get it, he's resorting to rustling.”

“The one don't mean the other. Ah, here're a couple.”

“Yes, it does. When we ran into those steers—your steers—they were being herded toward the Block-Two-Dot, weren't they?”

“Yeah, along that rocky gorge. No wonder Deputy Oakes could never find no tracks,” Daryl said, as they returned to the kitchen. “I'll use this one for freshenin‘. Here, you take the bigger one.”

The bigger towel was the size of a child's blanket. Jessica refolded it and laid it on the kitchen table, continuing, “And I'll bet you anything that the men who were herding them are the same men we saw earlier—that first bunch who rode into the Block-Two-Dot yard, and then rode off again with some of the bunkhouse crew.”

“Okay, so supposing there is a connection. But why? Ryker don't need more stock; he already owns more'n his range can handle.”

“Daryl, Ryker isn't a rancher like the rest of you, struggling to make ends meet, hoping to build a future. He's a crook, tied in with a whole ring of bigger crooks who'll stop at nothing to gain control of that block of land we saw on that map. It follows like night follows day that he's using the rustlers to cripple you ranchers, as a wedge to buy you up for nickels and force you off your property.”

Daryl brooded for a moment, then stepped closer, searching her eyes. “Jessie, you'd best leave Eucher Butte as soon as you can.”

“Leave? I don't want to leave, I want to stay.”

“I want you to stay too, of course, but you must leave, for your own sake. I won't have you dying for a fight that isn't yours.”

“This is my fight, Daryl. More than you know.”

“You've already done as much as any man could. More!” He gripped her tenderly by the shoulders. “But if you're right, and in my gut I know you are, then Ryker and these other crooks won't stop at nothing. They sure won't stop at brutalizing or killing a woman.”

“And what about ... about Ki?” she asked, faltering, a lump gathering in her throat. “We made it our fight when we came in answer to Mrs. Waldemar's letter, and now that Ki is missing, I won't rest—I cannot rest—until I finish the fight we started together.”

Daryl heard her sob, as she pressed her cheek against his chest. It seemed so natural for her to melt in his arms, as natural as lowering his face to kiss her, the pressure of her body like an eager promise. Shaken and chagrined, Daryl released her, taking a step backwards. “F-forgive me, Jessica, I didn't mean to be forward.”

Jessica looked as though she weren't paying the slightest attention to his apology. She placed the open palm of one hand flat against his cheek. “You need a shave,” she said, stroking upward against the stubble. “When I rub down, it's smooth, and when I rub up, you're all whiskers.”

Daryl shivered, speechless from her caress, staring at her affectionate smile. There were rents in her clothes, and one sleeve of her plaid shirt was almost torn away. Bloodstains and scratches marred her smooth, tanned face and delicate hands, and her long hair, tangled and hatless, gleamed like the hue of fireweed honey where the glowing fire from the stove reflected against it. She was a lovely thing, and Daryl battled hard to retain his control.

“The, ah, the water is warm,” he finally managed, blushing to his hairline. “We ... I mean, you can have a nice bath now.”

Hastily he poured the steaming water into the plunge-tub, leaving a little in the washtub for his own use. He tossed her a cake of soap, grabbed another and his towel, and fled with the washtub into the front room. “Soak as long as you like,” he called.

“I will,” she replied lightly, shedding her clothes in a pool on the kitchen floor. “But Daryl...I expect you to shave.”

A throat-clearing sounded from the other room, causing her to broaden her smile as she eased naked into the bath water. She washed carefully, thoroughly, wanting to be squeaky clean in case anything developed—which, considering Daryl's flustered behavior, was not entirely impossible.

She was not in the habit of seducing men, although occasionally she enjoyed a bit of coy flirting; it was a pleasing game, and it gratified her to know she could arouse the stuffiest, most virtuous of males on a basic, primitive level. Nor was she a promiscuous wanton, the victim of some insatiable sex drive. It was simply that Jessica Starbuck was not a prude or a hypocrite; she was pure woman, proud of her femininity, and she relished the sensation of being attractive to those few men she found desirable.

And Lord, Daryl Melville was desirable! She had thought so ever since their first meeting, and thinking of him now caused her taut breasts to tingle, her rosy nipples to harden involuntarily. Daryl possessed a rare allure that seemed to captivate and fascinate her, to bore to the very essence of her sensual nature. The easy grace of his motions, the strong muscles flexing along his thighs and chest, the hard bas relief of his loins in his pants ...

Whoops! Jessica straightened in the tub, chastising herself. It was one thing to admire him, or even to desire him; it was quite another to get herself worked into a frazzle.

She stepped out of the tub, dripping water and trying to wrap the large towel around her. “Are you decent, Daryl?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don't peek. I'm having trouble with this towel of yours.” She sauntered into the front room, the towel perversely slipping and unraveling, no matter how she tried to hold it closed.

Daryl ignored her warning, naturally. He was standing in front of the fireplace, shaving by the reflection of the large mantelpiece mirror. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only his trousers, and Jessica could see the muscular power of his naked torso as he stroked his cheek with a straight razor.

She also saw him nearly slice an ear off, when he took a look at her, bare-breasted. Hastily, Jessica struggled to raise the hem of the towel back over her bosom. Which she managed to do, but at the cost of one edge of the towel behind her parting like an errant stage curtain and fully, if briefly, exposing her firm buttocks and lithely tapering thighs.

The razor dropped to the floor.

Jessica retreated, scampering. “I said not to peek!”

“I didn't see a thing, Jessie. Honest!” There was a pause, then Daryl asked, “Was there something you wanted?”

“Well, you told me my cut needs ointment and bandages, and I can't very well reach all the way around my back and do it, can I?”

“Oh.” There was another pause, longer and somehow more profound. Then, nervously: “I, ah, I'll do it. You go get arranged on my bed, and I'll be in as soon's I finish here.”

In the bedroom, Jessica stretched out on her stomach on the iron-framed single bed, and very carefully made sure the towel was draped properly over her from the waist down. Mentally she kicked herself, flaming with embarrassment, for that impromptu strip-tease with the towel had been truly accidental, and not like her at all.

Daryl entered, clearing his throat a lot, and put a roll of adhesive tape, some gauze bandages, scissors, and a tin of ointment on the bedside table. He sat down, balancing on the edge of the bed with all the caution of a man expecting the mattress to explode.

“Just consider me one of your cows,” Jessica said, hoping to relax him, her face buried in the covers. “I'll moo, if it'll help.”

With a tight chuckle, Daryl opened the tin and began to spread the ointment hesitantly along her wound. It burned like a branding iron.

“My god, Daryl, what is that stuff? Acid?”

“Arnicated carbolic salve,” he answered, pausing to quote the label: “‘The best in the world for burns, flesh injuries, boils, eczema, chilblains, piles, ulcers, and fever sores.'” He started smoothing it on again, assuring her, “Dad swears by it for his salt rheum and ringworm. Don't worry, it'll smart for just a minute, and then it'll just feel nice warm.”

Jessica lay still, skeptically waiting for the salve to stop burning and start warming. Amazingly it did, the warmth penetrating while Daryl continued rubbing gingerly with his fingers. He leaned over her back, so close that she could feel his breath against her flesh and smell the fragrance of his masculine body ... and gradually, against her will, she sensed budding tendrils of pleasure beginning to curl deep down in her belly and loins and gently clenching buttocks.

“Jessie...?”

“Mm?”

“Remember Ryker's cellar? His chains and whips?”

“Mm.”

“Does that kind of thing ... do girls go for that?”

“A few, maybe. Me, I'm strictly a soft touch.”

Daryl touched her softly. Massaging, kneading, his hands eased from where the wound started high on one side, down along her spine to the dimple of flesh just above the crevice of her tensing buttocks. His fingers explored very slowly, almost fearfully, and she could hear his breath deepening, his pulse quickening. And she could feel her own lungs sucking in air, her blood racing with a fire that flamed through her flesh and goaded her to reckless abandon.

She turned over. A slight twinge of self-consciousness stole through her as she sat up facing him, seeing his eyes roaming heatedly over her naked, thrusting breasts. “You'll make some lucky girl a real fine husband,” she teased in a throbbing voice.

His own voice was husky, choking. “I—I'm sorry, Jessie. That's twice now that I've ... I don't know what's come over me.”

“There's nothing to be sorry about.” Intimacy crept into her tone, and she touched his arm. “Only to be happy about,” she continued in a sultry purr, her other hand pulling the towel aside. “You want me. After all, I'm a woman and you're a man...”

His tongue licked his lips to moisten them, as he stared quivering at her delicately molded thighs and golden-fleeced loins. Desire stirred within him, despite his best intentions. Jessica was not for him to take, he told himself; she was offering her love in a moment of anguish, out of grief and hysteria over the loss of her friend Ki, as a desperate effort to forget and drive out her torment. He would not be the cause of her further suffering—he could not be, and live with himself.

“But Jessica, you ... you're an angel ...”

“I'm also a beast,” she murmured tauntingly, reaching down to unbuckle his belt. “Let me prove it, prove both of us are.”

And then Daryl found himself moving, his body responding of its own volition. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, his hips trembling as he rose to slide his pants down, his flesh aching as Jessica ran her hands around his chest and thighs while helping him rid himself of his clothing. Then he was as naked as she, tanned and muscular and admirably masculine.

Daryl joined her on the bed, his mouth coming down on hers. He kissed her and she kissed back, and fire was in their lips. Awkward with passion, he tried to push her flat and enter her from above, but the press of the covers against her wound was too painful for her to accept. Daryl was a solid man, she realized, without a great deal of imagination or experience, and was probably only familiar with the standard position. Well, that was definitely out of the question tonight.

“Daryl,” she whispered, “my back.”

He reared as if scalded. “Jesus, I'm sorry, we can‘t—”

“We can.” She drew away slightly, just enough so she could turn and crouch on her knees and elbows with her buttocks thrusting up. It was a submissive position many women dislike, the cow-hitch posture, but what with one thing and another, it seemed exceptionally appropriate for the occasion. She stifled an urge to moo, saying, “This is how beasts do it, isn't it?”