River's Edge (Unlikely Gentlemen, Book 1)
Read River's Edge (Unlikely Gentlemen, Book 1) Online
Authors: Gem Sivad
River Prescott has everything she's ever wanted—except perhaps a man. The unconventional ranch owning artist is very certain she doesn't want a husband. But sometimes she can't help wishing for a lover; especially after her new neighbor trespasses and she gets a full frontal view of his assets.
Edge Grayson moves onto the rundown spread he's inherited, expecting to stay aloof from nearby town business. But between local artist, River Prescott's determination to seduce him and protecting her from a killer on the prowl, the ex-gunslinger is finding respectability a lot more dangerous than his former life of sin.
RIVER’S EDGE
UNLIKELY GENTLEMEN,
BOOK I
Copyright © 2013 Gem Sivad
ISBN 978-1-62622900-6
Published by Dark Mountain Books
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
Editor
V.N. Johnson
Cover Design
Michael Hart /
Booknibbles.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
1888, an artist seeking inspiration…
Mending fences…
Emmett is a swine…
Their paths intersect…
Collision course…
Sprockets and chains…
Welcome gifts…
I would have guessed you older…
Don’t let her have a lick…
Missing parts…
A ridiculous affair…
Excuse me, I love you…
Six months later…
AN EXCERPT FROM
OUTRAGEOUS PRIDE
Unlikely Gentlemen, Book II
1888, an artist seeking inspiration…
At the top of the bluff, River Prescott stopped to draw breath, analyzing the day’s view of fence and lazy river. She often used this rustic setting for her landscapes because of its constant, yet ever changing, scenery.
In past seasons of pouring rain that overflowed the riverbanks, she’d captured the excitement of the violent storms, painting landscapes filled with rain flattened grasses, swollen creeks and the ripple of fish beneath fast flowing water.
But during the past two years, dry heat had parched the area; no rain had fallen to replenish the land. In turn, the local ranchers took water from an ever diminishing river. The cycle had reduced the waterway here to little more than a winding stream that separated the willow on one bank from the broken board fence on the other.
The sight nagged at her, challenging her. In her commercial paintings, she tamed each scene, reduced it to its basest elements—river, fence, grass, a hint of wind, perhaps a bird, a fox or two—all in all, a safe, cozy picture that would someday grace the mantle of a
nouveau riche.
But, she built a private gallery of other work, paintings that weren’t safe, that shaped her ideas and reflected her thoughts. In those pictures, the fox ate the bird, scattering feathers and tearing through fragile bones with white, snapping teeth. Or sometimes lightning split the
ancient willow as it bent over the river greedily sucking up the water.
She imagined the tree a living being, its gnarled trunk twisting into thick branches, its trailing willow leaves beckoning to the unwary. Staring at it now, it seemed as if the drifting tendrils entwined like silver ghosts with the rising mist. The loud caw of a hawk overhead jarred her from her whimsical reflections.
I need to stop piddling and get busy. It will be hot soon.
Guiltily her gaze moved across the landscape, seeking inspiration for the day. Mesmerizing though
the tree was, minus the ghosts,
she’d already painted it an abundance of times for her commercial customers, and even the tree no longer held appeal as a subject.
Today’s mood dictated she move closer to the riverbank. With her satchel of tools in hand, she followed the steep path to the willow below. Once there, she climbed to the familiar spot where the trunk split, arching into two parts. H
idden in her secret bower behind a cascading waterfall of foliage,
she laid a blanket across the bigger limb, creating a cushioned seat for her observations.
River ignored the pencils and sketch pad she’d unpacked, now lined up, and waiting. Instead she used the damp cloth she’d brought along to wipe her hands and face. Peering through a gap in the branches allowed her a perfect view of both the near bank and farther distance across the river. She desperately scanned the area, hoping for anything to distract her from mindless apathy—preferably the titillation of animals in play.
It is a pathetic truth that watching two fox race each other has become more compelling than sketching one more landscape of rustic America…
Resting her back against the trunk of the tree, she situated herself comfortably, prepared to observe any wild life visiting the shallows for an early morning drink. A bunny appeared, whiskers twitching, nose sniffing the air before sipping delicately from the stream and hopping away.
Not another rabbit. I can’t.
Poised though she was to sketch, her pencil remained unmoving.
The air whispered through willow branches, lightly caressing her eyelids and she imagined it to be the gentle brush of a lover’s lips. Her mouth curved into a smile at the whimsical notion. Sighing, she set aside that unproductive thought, forcing her attention outward to the task ahead.
Alright, the fence it will be. Definitely shades of silver and light gray with patches of charcoal almost black.
In her mind she selected the colors she’d use to create the focal point when today’s sketch grew into a panoramic landscape.
Suddenly a horse approached and the rider reined to a halt on the other side of the water. Tipping his hat back, he leaned on his pommel as he inspected the broken down fence separating River’s land from the neighboring ranch.
His scrutiny seemed beyond casual interest, making her feel more than a little embarrassed at the rotting posts and fallen rails. Even though the adjacent property had been abandoned, the Prescotts should have maintained the boundary line.
Truthfully, River was at fault. Having found the quaintly picturesque setting useful, she’d asked Amos to leave this section of fence in a state of disrepair. She brushed aside that irritating ranch concern, and seized the muse of the moment, focusing on the cowboy.
He was a stranger and she had no reason to alert him to her presence. Before he watered his horse and left, she hastily sketched a quick image for later transfer to paint and canvas.
It startled her when, instead of riding away, he dismounted and retrieved tools from his saddlebags. Without wasting any time, he set to work fixing the broken-down fence separating them.
Energized by her human subject, River immortalized muscle, sweat and brawn in light pencil strokes. When he aimed his hammer wrong, landing a solid blow to thumb instead of nail, he grunted. River stifled an echoing groan as tension coiled in her belly, responding to the guttural, primitive sound.
By midmorning, the earlier breeze had stilled and the relentless sun poured from a cloudless sky, raising the day’s temperature to scorching hot. Inside her willow retreat, perspiration trickled from River’s forehead to her nose and dropped in a splat on her sketchpad.
Pursing her lips impatiently, she sent a stream of air upward, attempting to move the damp curls plastered to her forehead. Abruptly, the cessation of noise below pulled her gaze back to the cowboy. He’d stopped hammering and, as she watched, he pulled his shirt over his head, wiped his face with it before dropping it on the ground.
Wishing she could discard the bodice of her riding habit in a similar manner, River settled for swiping the crumpled and damp washcloth across her face. Prodded by earthy desire rather than artistic intent, she studied him. She had, of course, seen partially clothed male torsos before—but not often and never in the last five years.
Even from the distance of the willow tree, his masculine beauty made her insides quiver but her pragmatic nature, wince.
Has he no sense?
She gloried in enjoying the sight of his exposed skin. But as the sun crept higher in the sky, his tan muscles became flaming red and her indecorous ogling gave way to concern.
By the time the sun reached overhead, she regretted her initial silence for two reasons. First, she wanted to caution the fool that his commune with nature would be sorely regretted tonight. Much as she didn’t want her cowboy Adonis to cover an inch of skin, he needed to protect himself from the merciless rays.
Decidedly more pressing, her bladder warned that shortly she would be forced to climb from her perch, revealing her presence. As she considered methods of getting away unseen, he stopped work.
Thank God.
Tensely, she watched him gather his shirt, hanging it around his neck like a towel while putting his equipment in his saddlebags. But, instead of leaving, he led his horse to the lopping gate and came through. His actions were innocuous enough. He scratched his horse’s muzzle affectionately, murmuring words she couldn’t hear.
Surprising her, he mounted and rode into the river, splashing water as he crossed to her side. He sat on his mount just below the branch she occupied, close enough for her to see details of his features she’d only guessed at before—lined forehead, bushy brows, strong jaw hidden beneath dark whiskers, bump that marred an otherwise perfectly formed nose.
He tilted his head, drawing a deep breath as if inhaling the perfume of morning.
“Lilacs,” he murmured, his approval delivered in a gravelly voice. His gaze skated over the clearing as if seeking the flowers.
River hastily balled her wash cloth in her hand, trying to suppress the aroma of lilac as she peeked at the man so close she could count the sun lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. His glance turned back to his morning’s accomplishment and his expression changed to a depreciating, lop-sided grin.
“Take a long time at the rate we’re working,” he murmured. His horse cocked his ears, snorting as if agreeing and the cowboy patted the beast’s withers in silent communication with the animal.
River’s heart unexpectedly jumped in response to the smile, her mouth automatically mirroring the curve of his lips. Viewing the man’s easy manner while he thought himself unobserved, her wariness abated. Before she could anticipate his intentions or call out a warning of her presence, he dismounted, ground-tied his horse, and dropped the shirt once again.
Pope was right. Hope springs eternal.
The famous poet’s admonition flitted across her mind as she waited breathlessly for more possible revelations. The cowboy didn’t disappoint.
Swiftly, he unbuckled his gunbelt and removed the chaps he wore over his denims. Piece by piece he shed the rest of his clothes, discarding them all before reaching into his saddlebag and pulling out a sliver of soap and a drying cloth.
Grasping her pencil, River leaned forward, almost falling from her hiding spot as she prepared to draw her first live nude subject. She had studied Hellenic art, copying pictures of naked gods and men.
Hermes of Atalante,
the Roman statue by Lysippus, remained her favorite. But the sun-kissed figure below eclipsed the one-dimensional depictions in her books.
Standing thigh deep with his back turned toward her and his shoulder muscles rippling, the cowboy reached low, scooping water to wet his face and chest. The fiery red color of his shoulders and back contrasted with the pale skin on his rump and thighs. He bent to cup water and rinsed white soap from the dark tufts of hair sprouting from his armpits.
River stared at the taut muscles in his buttocks, a jagged scar ruining the contour of the left cheek. And then he turned around, displaying a form more magnificent than any pictures of sculpted perfections she’d studied. Her gaze roved across his body, greedily examining and cataloguing the earthy reality.
He rubbed soap over his chest, swirling white lather around his nubs, pausing to squeeze the tips between finger and thumb. Rough laughter escaped him as his manhood bobbled in response.
River’s left hand lifted of its own accord, cupping the material covering her bosom. Though only plump in wishful dreams, her breasts each sported a dusty areola, darkly ringing a sensitive tip. She imagined him caressing her flesh, pinching her nipples as he had his own and a surge of need clawed at her belly.
She bit her bottom lip, concentrating as she detailed the heavy shoulder muscles, the sprinkling of dark chest hair, and the sharp hipbones framing the flat belly. Not even his navel escaped her feathered strokes that mimicked the fine hairs that circled it before arrowing toward his groin.
As she watched, sunrays highlighted a line of water that trickled down from shoulder to chest and rolled over his flat stomach. Glistening drops collected in the dark thatch surrounding his manhood. His penis appeared more robust than the hairless groins of the marble statues she’d studied in her books.
River swallowed, trying to quell her breathless fascination with his maleness. As though her scrutiny had caused the action, he fisted his hand around his shaft and stoked the flesh between his legs until it became engorged.
She wasn’t prepared and the erotic motion caught her unawares. The pencil she gripped snapped into two parts as a flood of heat scalded her insides. She stifled a moan and forced her gaze away from the intimate act and back to the harsh planes of his face.
Almost casually, he rinsed, walked out of the water to his pile of clothes, picked up his gun, and pointed it at the approximate place where she crouched in the tree.
“Come down from there now or I’ll start shooting.” His tone bore little resemblance to that of the easy-going cowboy she’d spied on all morning.
“Please go away,” she called to him, hastily cramming her sketchbook into her satchel. She had every reason to believe this stern-voiced stranger might actually carry out his threat. The sound of her voice identifying her gender seemed to jar him a bit.
He lowered the gun, pulling on his trousers and stepping into his boots before walking beneath the willow.
“You coming down?” he growled.
“No,” she answered, estimating the distance to the ground from the limb where she perched. She might have to jump and run. Cloaked behind a screen of leaves, she couldn’t see his actions or anticipate his intentions.
“Guess I’ll have to come up to meet you, then.” The tree swayed under his weight as he began to climb.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she called to him.
“I’d rather peeping-toms didn’t watch me bathe. It appears we all get disappointed sometimes.” His voice held an unexpected edge of humor, as if he thought the situation funny.
“In point of fact, you’re trespassing,” River protested, prepared to defend herself with the broken pencil stub.
He paused in his climb and the willow stopped swaying. “That I am. Beg pardon.” Instead of arguing or continuing up the tree, he began a retreat.
