Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (19 page)

Sam poured the tea, and when he came back to the table, Emily got up, giving him her chair. He pulled her down on his lap, and she leaned wearily against him. His hand moved caressingly over her swollen abdomen.

“Does your back hurt, honey?” Sam’s eyes moved over Emily’s face with so much love reflected in them that it almost brought tears to Katy’s.

“No more than usual.”

Unconsciously, Katy’s eyes went to Rowe. His lids were lowered, and through the tangle of black lashes, she could see the gleam of his dark eyes. She pulled her lower lip in and held it with her teeth while she struggled with the yearning to be held and loved as Sam was holding and loving Emily. Rowe’s slitted eyes held hers until a flush came to her cheeks; then he opened them wider and smiled.

Damn him! Can he read my mind? Katy tossed her head and turned her smile on Emily.

“Would you mind if I wash up before I go to bed?”

“Of course not. How remiss of me.” Emily sat up on her husband’s knees. “Sam will bring a pail of warm water to your room.” She indicated the doorway beneath the stairs. “A washbowl, soap, and towels are already there.” Emily made a move to get up from her husband’s lap.

“Sit still, Emily,” Rowe said, rising. “I’ll take care of it.’

“Thanks, Rowe,” Sam said. “I think I’ll take my wife and son to bed.”

“It may be a girl, Sam,” Emily chided gently and flashed him a tired smile before she spoke to Rowe. “If it is, we’re going to call her Rose, after Sam’s sister who was killed while he was away fighting during the war.”

“And if it’s a boy?”

“We’ve decided on Gavin McCourtney Sparks, after my father who came to this country from Scotland when he was nine years old and became an orphan before his feet touched the soil. He made his own way after that and captured the heart of my mother, a beautiful Southern belle, who loved him to distraction until the day he died. Sam and I are hoping our son will have the courage and convictions of the first Gavin McCourtney.”

“And why wouldn’t he, with two such parents to love and guide him?” Rowe asked.

Katy thought she heard a note of wistfulness in his voice and was surprised by it. Abruptly, he turned to the stove, lifted the lid on the reservoir, and dipped the warm water into a pail.

Katy pushed herself away from the table and carried the teacups to the tin sink. She was so stiff and sore she could scarcely feel her feet on the plank floor, but she kept her back straight and gritted her teeth to keep from groaning.

“Anton, your bed’s in the loft, same as before,” Sam said. “I’m going to make this woman of mine get off her feet.” He put his arm around his wife and urged her toward the bedroom door.

“Good night,” Anton said. “I think I’ll sit on the porch for a while and smoke.”

“Make yourselves at home,” Emily called. “Good night, everyone.”

“I’ll blow out the lamp after I light the one in Katy’s room,” Rowe said. “Good night.”

Left alone with Rowe, Katy did her best to ignore him. She picked up her valise and headed for the adjoining room. Rowe came behind her carrying the lamp and the bucket of water. She moved aside for him to enter, then followed him into the room.

The room was small and neat. A black iron bedstead with shiny brass knobs on the corner posts took up one-half of the room. The bed was covered with a pieced quilt of bright colors; on the floor was a braided rag rug. A washstand and a low chest completed the furnishings except for a wooden cradle that stood beneath the only window. Waiting for Rowe to light the lamp and leave, Katy rocked the cradle gently and wondered if it had been made for the child who was stillborn.

“Take off your shoes and lie down on the bed, Katy. I’ll rub the soreness out of your legs.”

Katy’s head jerked around as if it were pulled by invisible strings. “What?”

Rowe blew out the lamp he had brought from the kitchen. “Are you deaf as well as so stiff and sore you can hardly walk? I can rub some of that soreness out of your legs.”

“I
thought
that was what you said. You’ll do no such thing! I’ll thank you to leave,” she said haughtily.

Rowe stood with his hands resting on his hips, his head jutted forward, his eyes so narrow that she couldn’t see them.

“Get on that bed face down, or I’ll put you there.”

“You touch me and you’ll have a fight on your hands.” She faced him with tight lips, the light of battle in her eyes.

He took a step toward her. “It’s no more than I expected.”

“I’ll scream,” she threatened. “Then what will you tell the Sparks who think you’re so
wonderful
?”

“Go ahead. Scream, if that’s what you want to do. I’ll wait.”

“I’m not . . . bluffing—”

“I think you are, but if you’re not, I’ll tell them we’ve been sleeping together and that we’re going to be married when we get to Virginia City. I’ll tell them we’ve had a lover’s quarrel and that I’m trying to make up with you.”

“They wouldn’t believe that! I told them I’m going home!” Anger raised her voice.

“Be quiet unless you want them to hear you,” he whispered. “Get on the bed, Katy. If you don’t, I’ll spend the night in here with you, and I guarantee you’ll not get much sleep.”

“You . . . wouldn’t dare!”

“I’d dare anything where you’re concerned. But rest assured, sweetheart, I’ve no intentions of taking your virginity tonight. I’m going to wait until we are completely alone and I have plenty of time to enjoy it. Then, my girl, you’re going to know what it’s like to be thoroughly and completely loved by a man, and, I might add, you’ll think you’re in heaven!”

“You’re disgusting! Don’t you dare talk to me like
that.
You’re the most egotistical, despicable creature I’ve ever met. I was right about you, Garrick Rowe. You’re mean, and the blood of every blackguard for centuries must run in your veins.”

“So you do believe in reincarnation.”

“I do not. Get out of this room.”

“Not until you let me rub the kinks out of your legs and back. On second thought, lie down on the rug. The bed’s too soft and it’ll squeak.”

“You’re . . . you’re another Bluebeard!”

“Ah . . . so you read the Classics too. We’ll discuss them some long winter night as we sit before our fire with our little ones at our knees.”

“What?”

“Katy, arguing with you makes me . . . randy as a billy goat.”

“What?”

“You said that, sweetheart. Do you want me to shout it?” He raised his voice. “Arguing with you makes me—”

“Hush up!” she hissed. “Oh, all right.” She got down on her knees, then stretched out on her stomach. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“You’ll be glad you did, sweetheart. Trust me.” Smothering his chuckle, he sat down on the floor beside her, lifted her foot, and began to unlace her shoes.

“I’d sooner trust a hungry wolf!”

Rowe removed her shoes. When he reached up inside the leg of the riding skirt to unfasten the knot in her stocking just below her knee and pull it off, Katy drew in a gasping breath and tried to roll away from him. Her head and shoulders came up off the floor.

“Stop it! That’s indecent!”

Rowe laughed softly. With his hand in the small of her back he pushed her back down on the floor while his other hand traveled up her leg to work on the knot in the other stocking.

“There’s nothing indecent about what I’m doing. Be still, sweet one.” Oh, God! Did he have the strength to do no more than this? He longed to caress her bare legs, her smooth, tight buttocks, to hold her soft breasts in the palms of his hands. He wanted to feel the full length of her naked body against him and bury the rigidly erect staff of his maleness in her so that the fruit of his love would grow in her body. But he must take one step at a time, he cautioned himself. “Turn your cheek to the floor, and bring your arms down to your sides.” He spoke in a conversational tone meant to calm her.

His hand cradled her bare foot while his fingers worked the joints of her ankle and toes. He worked on first one foot and then the other before his strong hands moved up to knead the muscles in the calves of her legs. At first she let out little gasps of pain which Rowe ignored. He worked the backs of her thighs with thumbs and fingers and then rubbed them vigorously with the palms of his hands. Even through the heavy material of her riding skirt, he could feel the muscles relax.

Katy felt in no way threatened by the hands that worked her stiff muscles, and she was almost asleep by the time he finished with her legs and thighs. On his knees beside her, he lifted the thick rope of hair off her back before his large, strong hands massaged the muscles between her shoulder blades. His fingers traveled down her spine, exerting pressure on each vertebra. Her eyes were closed and small moans of pleasure came from her parted lips.

Rowe thought she was the most beautiful, exciting woman he had ever known. Her hair, the color of pure honey, was fine and warm, her body was straight and strong, yet incredibly soft. She was a full, mature woman, fiery in character, bright in mind, and high in spirit.

He loved her!

Just how much he loved her struck him suddenly, with all the power and force of a bullet. He stopped rubbing her back, rested his clenched fists on his thighs and stared down at her. It came to him that his entire way of looking at himself and the world had changed since he had met her. He had not believed himself capable of such love. Small, petty things no longer mattered. The hatred his half brother Justin bore him was a fact he’d had to contend with all his life. It was no longer important. The emotions he felt for Katherine Burns were awesome, exhilarating, frightening, and far stronger than any feeling he’d had for mother, country, or sense of justice. This mouthy little imp-eyed, headstrong woman was in his heart. He would hold her there until the end of time.

Rowe came out of his near-trance and made circles beneath her shoulder blades with his fingers. Katy sighed with pleasure, turned her head, and looked at him with dreamy eyes. A warm, lopsided smile curved her lips.

“That feels wonderful, Rowe. Thank you,” she murmured and closed her eyes.

She was tired. Rowe felt his heart expand in his chest. She would love him, he vowed, and they would spend all their days together. He continued to lightly stroke her back; soon, she was sleeping soundly. Rowe sat on the floor beside her, gazing upon her. Slowly he reached out and picked up the end of her braid, untied the thin leather string, and began to loosen the strands that slid through his fingers like silk threads. When he finished he spread her hair over her back and ran his palm down the length of it to her hips.

Katy, Katy, you belong to me so stop trying to run away. I could no more let you go than I could voluntarily stop breathing.

Rowe heard Anton moving around in the loft. He got to his feet and turned back the bed covers. Katy had been too tired to wash. He carefully picked her up and stood beside the bed for a long moment looking at the woman in his arms. Her head had fallen to his shoulder, her hair flowed down over his arm. He wanted to kiss her but refused to take advantage. She didn’t awaken when he placed her on the bed, or when he unbuttoned her shirt, or when he carefully slipped the riding skirt down over her hips.

He smiled when he saw the blue stain on the leg of her drawers. This was the pair he had seen drying by the creek; the pair the bluejay had left his calling card on when he failed to pluck the shiny button from the waistband. Katy rolled onto her side and tucked a palm beneath her cheek.

Rowe stooped and place a light kiss on the soft swell of her breast, which was covered by only the thin camisole. He moved so the light of the lamp shone on her face. She was his Nightrose. Fate had brought them together, and they would be together always. He looked at her for long, endless minutes before he drew the covers up around her, blew out the lamp, and quietly left the room.

He would be gone by the time she awakened in the morning and discovered he had opened her shirt and removed her skirt. He grinned in the dark as he made his way up the stairs to the loft. She would be madder than a wet hen, but she’d have a few hours to cool down before he returned from Hogback Mountain.

Twelve

Allowing Theresa to skip along in front of her, Mary walked down the street toward the mercantile. After so many days of rain, it was good to feel the sun on her face. A group of off-duty miners were waiting to go into Mrs. Chandler’s eatery as soon as she announced the meal was ready. A few of them were so bashful that they turned their heads away from the small, well-rounded woman with her tiny waist and generous curves. All of them feasted their eyes on Theresa. Most of the men were married and lonesome for their families. They doted on the only two children in town, Theresa and little Julia Hillard.

Mary went up the steps and onto the clean porch of Mr. Glossberg’s store. She stood just inside the door, her eyes sweeping the room. It had already taken on the scent of new goods, spices, and saddle leather. Elias Glossberg had sold out almost completely the goods he had brought to Trinity ten days before. He came from behind the counter to greet her.

“Good day to you, Mrs. Stanton. And to you too, young miss,” he said to Theresa.

Elias Glossberg was younger than Mary had at first believed him to be. It was the expression he wore on his face that was old. He was well educated, tended to the business of his store, and never intruded on anyone. He had come to the new country from Romania; and in the ten years he had been here, he had learned that people were the same the world over. The men on the wagon train considered him an outsider because he didn’t attend their church services on Sunday. Here in Trinity he was also an outsider because he didn’t speak the rough language of the miners.

Elias, however, was a realist. He’d not had grand illusions when he had come to America. He had expected to work hard and live hard. He had traveled extensively, and at age thirty he wanted to settle down where there were people to buy his goods. He would have gone on with the wagon train to Oregon if they had allowed it. Now he was glad he had been forced to stop at Trinity. He found no pleasure in being among people who hold a man at arm’s length. Garrick Rowe, however, had not appeared to think him different. He had accepted him for what he was—a merchant with goods to sell.