Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (4 page)

      
Yet she felt compelled to make an attempt to know him, to have some idea of what her future with him held. She knew only that he was a wealthy rancher involved in territorial politics. At age fifty, surely he must have been married before. When did his first wife die? Were there any children? What was his ranch like? Was the house primitive or comfortable? Were there savage Indians nearby? Her mind reeled as the realization sunk in:
I am married to a man I know virtually nothing about.
 

      
Preoccupied, Carrie ignored the breathtaking, high-ceilinged room with its elegant clerestory windows and deep Persian carpets. Noah had chosen the most comfortable and ostentatious steamboat on the St. Louis-St. Paul run, but Carrie was in no frame of mind to appreciate the selection.

      
Noticing her disoriented manner, Noah assumed it was a combination of tiredness from the hectic past few days and virginal fearfulness about the night to come. He smiled tolerantly, anticipating her initiation into the physical delights of marriage. There was no doubt of her innocence. He had Patience's assurance, and she would never risk crossing him with such a deception.

      
“Why don't I have a steward show you to our stateroom so you can rest and freshen up? I'll be down to escort you to dinner at seven.” He looked at her with a smiling face and deliberately kept his tone of voice solicitous.

      
However, Carrie decided something in his eyes was not right. They were cold and gleaming, almost feral. She forced a return smile and nodded in acquiescence, grateful to escape and collect her thoughts.

      
I'm being fanciful, like a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. Oh, damn, I just don't want it to be him, that's all.
Carrie's thoughts skittered in all directions as she lay on the bed in their spacious cabin.

      
For a riverboat stateroom it was quite large—nearly fourteen feet square with gleaming brass lights and rose velvet-flocked wallpaper. Thick carpets repeated the muted rose tones combined with soft deep blues. The delicate French Provincial dressing table was set against a huge mirror. However, none of the opulence of the room consoled Carrie.

      
Tonight she must share this bed with Noah Sinclair. Forcing herself to confront her fears, Carrie acknowledged the undeniable facts.
I made the bargain. Now I have to make it work. I must stop imagining things and make an effort to get to know him. Once I do, things will look better.
She recalled one of her father's most cogent lessons to her as a child: Nothing is as bad as the unknown. Face any fear and it will never be as terrible as cowardly imagining. Upon rising, she began to dress for dinner.

      
When Noah opened the door and found her waiting in the stateroom, his earlier feelings about her innocent loveliness were doubly confirmed. Carrie had chosen a dinner gown of rich gold satin, with a somewhat fuller skirt than current fashion dictated. The low décolletage was quite dramatic on her tall, willowy frame. The color picked up amber flecks in her eyes and the fiery glow of highlights in her hair. She wore her only good jewelry—a small pendant and drop earrings of topaz. They matched the gown perfectly and their very simplicity added an aura of innocence to balance the creamy swell of bosom and the sophistication of the dress. Her hair was piled high on her head, with a few artful curls tumbling onto one shoulder.

      
Noah studied her from head to foot with a harsh, possessive stare. “You're beautiful.” His voice was surprisingly hoarse. Then he extended his arm as she murmured her thanks and placed her slim pale hand on his expensive broadcloth sleeve.

      
After they were seated at a table with a splendid view of the river, Carrie looked around the elegant dining room. Dazzling white damask tablecloths covered the round tables, with crystal bud vases gracing every one, each filled with a delicate blood-red rosebud. The ornate silver and fine bone china gleamed in the flicker of the lights. The room gave the illusion of endless space. Every wall was covered with mirrors, and the dark woodwork was ornately carved and lustrous.

      
For the first time since embarking on the journey, Noah felt his new wife was aware of the magnificence of her surroundings. “The food is as superb as the decor. I've traveled with the Diamond Jo Line often. Do you like it,. Carrie?”

      
Hearing her name on his lips gave her a soft flush of unexpected pleasure. Here was her opening. She must draw him out so they could really talk. “It's beautiful beyond anything I've ever seen, Noah. I—I've been rather preoccupied, I guess, since we boarded. I didn't mean to be rude or inattentive, please believe me. It's just that...well, we really know so little of one another. Could—could we try to become acquainted...on our honeymoon, I mean?” She hated her voice. It broke and quavered in all the wrong places, making her seem girlishly immature.

      
Noah smiled and nodded, patronizingly it seemed to Carrie. “All right, my dear. Tell me about yourself. I can see you have good taste in clothes. The topaz jewelry is lovely. Was it your mother's?” Considering its insignificant value, Noah cynically surmised it was allotted to Carrie by Patience, whose greed for expensive jewelry would have left nothing of any real worth for her niece.

      
Carrie's face lit up. “Yes, these belonged to my mother. I have only a few things left, but I dearly love them.” She fingered the frail chain across her delicate collarbone as she spoke. Briefly, sparing his kinswoman much, Carrie told Noah of her life since she was a thirteen-year-old girl come to live with Patience and Hiram. Considering how sheltered her life had been, and considering how much of her aunt's behavior she had to omit, Carrie felt her discourse sadly brief and colorless.
 

      
She said nothing of Gerald either, assuming Patience had told Noah everything about her infatuation with that fortune hunter. He asked few questions and seemed only moderately interested in her simple narration. Still, she felt a desperate need to continue their first real conversation.

      
“Have you lived out West all your life?” There was a long pause, as if Noah was weighing his words before he replied. Carrie fidgeted nervously as their soup course was faultlessly served by two waiters.

      
“I came to Montana Territory with my younger brother Abel about thirty years ago—from Tennessee. Just a kid wanting to make my fortune. There was a gold strike in 1852. We hit a pretty good vein, but after getting a small stake, it played out. For a while we bought trail-worn horses and cattle from settlers heading west, fattened them up, and resold them to others coming later. We roasted charcoal, did some blacksmithing. Anything to make cash money. Got together a good amount—hoarded it actually. Then we bought prime stock and staked out the land that became Circle S. From there on it was pure hellish work to get where I am today.”

      
Carrie intuited he left out so much more than the brief sketch told. “Is your brother at your ranch?”

      
Noah's face closed over abruptly, and he said in a flat voice, “Abel was killed by Crow Indians twenty years ago. Don't let's talk about it anymore.”

      
Carrie flushed, feeling both sorry and embarrassed for bringing up painful memories. “Tell me about the Circle S.”

      
Noah finally warmed to the subject, describing the unimaginable distances in the ‘basin, the tens of thousands of cattle from Oregon crossbred with newer Hereford and shorthorn stock. He described the main house of stout oak and ash, built sixteen years ago. It sounded spacious and comfortable.

      
The question almost asked itself, “You must have built such a lovely house for a family. Were you married before?”

      
If the question about his dead brother was met with reticence, this was met with stony silence. The seconds seemed to tick into infinity as Carrie watched Noah carefully wipe his mouth with a snowy napkin, meticulously set it on the tableside, and then regard her with a glacial stare that fairly pinioned her to the chair.

      
‘‘You are young. For that I will forgive you this once for such a breach. Never again inquire about any predecessors, Carrie. Considering my age, obviously I've been married before. I was not married when I met you. That is all that need be your concern. That and the fact that I require an heir. You, my dear, are here to see to that rather significant matter. Now, shall we enjoy the main course? The beef is done to a turn and quite superb, I assure you.”

      
The waiter approached the table, bearing a huge silver tray, redolent with prime beef ribs. They were well done, not pink as Carrie preferred. Noah seemed to relish the overcooked meat, but Carrie ate mechanically, drinking more freely of the accompanying red wine than was her wont.

      
His cold dismissal earlier had cut her to the quick, but even more, she was frightened by his unwillingness to share with her anything of his personal life. All he cared about was an heir for his cattle kingdom, and she was his breeding heifer, his brood mare, his... Her mind choked back the repugnant thoughts even as her throat choked back the badly overdone beef. She reached again for the wine glass. What was happening to her? Where was she heading? A blackish light reflected off the crosscurrents of the river outside her window, swirling downward, ever downward.

* * * *

      
The room was barely lit. Only the dim flicker of a bedside candle broke the quiet—that and Carrie's painful breathing. She lay tense and shivering, trying desperately to force her unwilling limbs to relax. Just then Noah entered the chamber. He had waited for her to disrobe, allowing for her expected virginal modesty. She was safely tucked under the covers of the large bed.

      
Wordlessly, he strode over to the bedside and began to undress with precise care, laying his suit coat and pants over the chair. The soft rustling of garments caused Carrie's eyes to wander in spite of her terror. She could barely catch sight of Noah from the corner of her eye without turning her head to stare openly, an unthinkable breach of decorum! When she saw him turn to gaze on her, she closed her eyes tightly. Even then, she could feel his patronizing amusement as he continued the methodical strip, silk shirt rustling, underwear unsnapping.

      
Noah finally pulled back the heavy covers cloaking Carrie and knelt with one knee on the bed. She jerked her eyes open abruptly when the cold air hit her through the thin batiste fabric of her night rail. Then, quite unintentionally, she looked at his naked flesh. He was darkly tanned from the waist up, and pale below. His whole chest was covered with thick gold-gray hair that traveled from his tanned skin to the lighter area below, where she did not allow her eyes to dwell. His flesh was corded with long, sinewy muscles, yet his midsection was paunchy, showing the effects of the recent years' indulgence in food and liquor. The thickness looked strangely indecent on such a spare frame. The dim uneven candlelight seemed to bounce off the harsh contours of his face, accenting every line and sag. When he climbed onto the bed and bent over her, the loose skin of his belly seemed to hang suspended.

      
Carrie shivered anew.
He's really old,
her mind registered in shock! Disguised in expensively tailored clothes, his body was quite presentable, but now every harsh year of frontier life seemed etched on his flesh.
 

      
Noah looked down at her pale, frozen face. Ignoring her innocent state of nerves, he drank in her youthful beauty. Slowly he ran a calloused hand from her shoulder to her slim flank, relishing the swell of breast and narrowing of waist. He could see through the sheer white cotton garment. Her skin was milky with pink nipples and bright red fur at the junction of her legs. His breath caught, then accelerated. This was going to be good, better than he had imagined even. Dimly he heard Carrie speak through his thickening haze of lust.

      
“I—I don't know what to do, Noah.” Her eyes were wide and so dark green they looked liquid black, like the river at night.

      
“I should hope you don't! That's to be expected. I'm the one who'll do what needs to be done. All you have to do is lay back and let me...” He let out a soft hiss of pleasure as he pulled up the hem of her gown and caressed a long, elegant leg.

      
“Take that gown off.” It was said rapidly in a flat, commanding voice, hoarse with a desire Carrie could neither understand nor reciprocate.

      
Blushing in humiliation and feeling like a filly on the auction block, she knelt awkwardly and pulled the night rail off, tossing it quickly on the floor, then sat huddled in the center of the bed while he looked at her. She could not meet his icy-blue gaze, but she could remember those eyes and feel them sear her flesh, like branding a calf on a roundup. Bits of their dinner conversation about the ranch came back to her idiotically now.
I'm your wife, not one of your cows
, she wanted to cry out. But she did nothing, choking in silence, awaiting his next move.

      
He stared at the proud uptilted young breasts, the breathtaking curve of her slim spine covered by the blazing tangle of hair hanging down her back. He took a fistful of curls, raising her to her knees. Then he moved nearer as he drew her into an embrace.

      
The contact of their bodies was shocking to Carrie. He felt strangely cool against her flesh, and his sinewy frame scratched and tickled her soft skin. He toppled them both abruptly back onto the length of the bed, crushing the air from her lungs when his long, heavy body rolled on top of her. She could feel the pressure of his paunch against her ribs and something else below, hard and probing.