Thunder In Her Body

Thunder

In

Her

Body

¤

C. B. Stanton

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the women who survived the lessons of their twenties and thirties and are now fully mature, sexually awakened, and who believe that deep and abiding, life-long love is possible and attainable, if nothing more than in their most private fantasies.

C
hapter 1

¤

           The Cattle Baron Restaurant

              “
H
ey Girl.  Let’s get crackin’. I’m starved and we’re gonna eat high on the hog tonight,” Lynette yelled up the stairs to Clare on the second floor of the condo.

“Pork?” Clare yelled back with a distinct question in her tone.

“No silly.  We will not dine on swine,” Lynette laughed at her own alliteration. “I’m taking you to the fancy steak house up on Main Road, so shake a tail feather,

I’m famished,” Lynette quipped, excitement in her voice.

IN THE EIGHT OR NINE YEARS that Lynette had been coming to the central New Mexico mountains and the two years since she bought her condo, she’d never been inside the Cattle Baron Restaurant.  Oh, she’d driven by it dozens of times and took note of the overflow of cars in its parking lot, especially on weekend nights, but most of the time she was alone in her mountain getaway, and she didn’t want to eat alone in a big fancy restaurant.  She preferred to test the local cuisine served in the small mom-and-pop restaurants, some of which were no more than a questionable
cocina
with four or five formica-topped tables and mixed-matched chairs. Though somewhat greasy, the food was always plentiful there. When she felt bold she’d ask for a Santa Fe-style dish which was spicy as hell, then restore the feeling on her tongue with freshly fried, puffy sopapillas which she slathered in warm, sticky honey.  She liked to converse with the affable owners.  With a wink or a knowing whisper they’d share with her what was really going on behind the scenes in this upscale resort community.

“Well, damn!” Lynette muttered almost inaudibly to herself.  Expecting crystal chandeliers, bright lights and expensive elegance inside the restaurant, at least, that’s how she’d imagined the Cattle Baron, she was surprised and sorely mistaken about its interior.  It was big, and nice, but it certainly wouldn’t be considered fancy.  It was just western! -with long banquettes of soft, darkly tanned leather seating on three sides of the vestibule area.  Rows of live green plants stood mildly unattended in one long window-box along the plate glass window.  The lighting, slightly subdued and diffuse, cast a yellowish glow across the sparsely decorated waiting area.  Past the reception desk she could see plenty of dressed tables and broad, brown high-backed booths. This could have been a roadside restaurant in any town, in any southwestern state in the union.  Clare caught the puzzled look on Lynette’s face, opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it.   On this Saturday night, as usual, the place was packed, and there was standing room only in the ample but unremarkable waiting area.

Older, obviously well-to-do retired couples sat patiently waiting for their table to be readied.  Tourists with their bright, white tennis shoes leaned against the walls.  ”
Locals
” in their somewhat worn blue jeans, T-shirts and “gimme caps” mulled around in small bundles near the entrance.  There wasn’t much
color
there save for two Hispanic  families.   For whatever the reason, Lynette noticed an interesting pair – two men who relinquished their seats for a white-haired couple.  The men were now standing to the far side of the waiting area.  One, Anglo, with silvery grey hair, dressed in a crisp white western shirt, and blue jeans starched so hard that they crackled when he moved his legs.  He was at least 6 foot 2” tall, well preserved, wearing a fawn-colored Stetson, tan ostrich boots, and though he couldn’t be called overly handsome, he was good looking in a rich, rugged sort of way.                 Her eyes were quickly drawn to the other man and on him she fixed her gaze.  She tried to take in the whole of his being.  Yes, she was staring.  She couldn’t take her eyes off him.  It was as though a force was dragging her to him.  It was as though she’d known him, was knowing him, in that instant. He was gorgeous.  The embodiment of the handsome, beautiful specimen of a full-blooded Native-American male who to her, exuded power, masculinity and sex appeal.  She’d seen him in artistic photographs by well-known photographers.  His likeness had been painted by the artists of the west.  He was the unshirted, bareback, sweat drenched warrior astride the painted pony.    He was strength in stillness.  He had an entire look about him that instantly created a warmth around her shoulders.  Not quite as tall as his companion – maybe 6 feet, he wore a crisp, blue and white striped long-sleeve shirt.  A black tooled leather belt fastened with a gorgeous silver and turquoise belt buckle surrounding his well-proportioned waist. His freshly pressed, starched blue jeans broke just at the right place atop his beautifully-shined black western boots.  His face was the color of honey when you hold it up to the sunlight.  The shape was oval and somewhat narrow.  Beneath the shirt which wore itself comfortably on his body she could make out the broad shoulders, fully developed chest and a flat abdomen.  He was trim but not lean by any means.  He had what some would characterize as the Native-American nose – narrow yet hooked in that downward curve; beautiful, chiseled high cheek bones and his lips were even, full, and well defined.  His eyes seemed narrow slits when he focused them on the floor, but they lifted and opened when he looked into the distance – like he looked at Lynette. There were a few tell-tale marks of possible juvenile acne many years ago, a bit like Wes Studi the Native- American movie star, but other than a bit weathered, his face was even, and handsome. His straight, thick, shiny black hair showed light streaks of grey running from his temples to the ends of his long pony tail, tied low, and held by an invisible clasp at the nape of his neck.  “
Oh, Good Jesus he is beautiful
,” the little voice in her head kept repeating like a mantra.  “
Oh, Good Jesus …!
He stood casually, relaxed and in such a way that Lynette noticed his groin area was clearly uneven.  With many men in jeans you can’t tell what kind of package they possess.  There is no evidence of anything, yet one knows the male genitalia whatever it is, or however much it is, or isn’t, lurks behind the zippered garment. But there it was.  That rise, that soft bulge, off center, visible, palpable, still, in position, unmoving, but apparent; drawing her eyes to it, undressing it in that crowded room.  Just as she nudged Clare and nodded for her friend to look toward the two gentlemen, he noticed her noticing him.  He looked right at her and began a slow, friendly smile.  He held her eyes for several seconds until she blinked in embarrassment and looked away.  She looked back as he shifted his dark grey western straw hat from his right to his left hand.  He caught her looking at him again.  She tried to turn away but her head would not obey her brain.  She couldn’t take her eyes off him.  This time his head tilted a tiny bit in acknowledgement of her, and again he smiled, slowly, without parting his lips.  It was a soft, kind smile and it pulled her into him.  She could feel her thighs in her white linen slacks.  The under-curve of her ample buttocks seemed to swell.

The hostess called for a party of eight, and that group of people followed behind her like hungry imprinted ducklings.  The male host then called out “Raines, party of six.”  A third employee with an arm full of menus already in hand called out, “McMurray, party of five.”

The entrance door of the restaurant swung open with a whoosh several times and a gaggle of noisy patrons entered and once again filled the vestibule pushing the already waiting throng inexorably forward like bottles on an automated assembly line.  Those already in possession of the leather seating, sat suspiciously still as if afraid they would loose their comfort. For a few moments Lynette lost sight of the man.  She and Clare listened to the conversations all around them, like voyeurs, but they exchanged few words.  Lynette was distracted.  She wanted to see the man again.  She wanted to take in his countenance again.  He was beautiful and beauty is what had ultimately brought her to this mountain paradise.

Situated at altitudes between 6400 and 7800 feet, Crystal Bend was the perfect place to escape the dog days of Texas’ summers.  It wasn’t even officially summer yet! and temperatures in Austin, Dallas and Houston suffocated people with 95 degree-plus heat.  The humidity bore down on them like wet sheets in a poorly ventilated laundry factory. Knowing that the condo would be rented out for Memorial Day and the opening of the horse racing season, Lynette had convinced Clare to come along with her before the holiday.  It was their plan to be refugees from the damnable heat and spend the better part of a week in the tall, cool pines surrounded by mountain peaks that changed from rapturous purples to gleaming copper as she sun moved slowly across in the heavens.  So on this late May, Saturday afternoon, with temperatures on the desert floor in the 90s, and in Crystal Bend in the high 60s, they’d driven through the brown, parched, high desert landscape toward her lush, green mountain retreat.

Two years prior, Lynette had come, and with a realtor, tried to find that lifetime dream - a cabin in the woods, up in the mountains; some place cool with four seasons.  Not the two seasons she endured in central Texas – summer and not summer!  By then, unfortunately for her, Crystal Bend had been
discovered
.   The prices of property spiraled so rapidly upward that there were no cabins that she could afford.  When she visited this area a decade ago, there were only about 4,000 people in the village.  Now there were nearly 8,000 and property values skyrocketed with the growth in population.  Surely a
fixer upper
might fall within her price range, she reasoned, but even those, with needed repairs and updates, would be more than she planned to spend. The next best thing was a condo.  There were a few in her price range, but all were too small; somewhere in the 500 to 800 square foot size.  “You can’t whip a cat without getting hair in your mouth,” she told her realtor as they went from one tiny, unsatisfactory unit to another.