“What do you suggest?” Trace called.
“How about I send her away and keep my gun trained on her?” Slade replied. “You come out and face me. I’ll have my gun on her the whole time. If you shoot me, I
will
still shoot her, so you better not take the coward’s way out. Face me. You have to be as curious as I am who’s the quicker hand. Besides, you owe me. I could have let Comstock kill you, but then we’d never have known the truth.”
Lightning tore across the sky, struck the ground a short ways off in the distance. Out in the open like this, they were targets of its wrath.
Trace raised two fingers in salute. “Send the woman away and let’s get this done. That storm’s almost upon us. How about we start walking and meet on that flat spot in the rock?”
“Deal!” Slade gave Mae a push, yet kept his pistol trained on her just as he’d warned.
Matching the gunman’s stride, Trace headed out to the point halfway between them. As they reached the flat outcropping, they stopped and appraised each other. Trace shifted to Slade’s left, so the gunman would have a harder time keeping his eye on Mae.
“So how do we do this?” he called, stalling, watching Mae edge backward. Lightning crackled once again, followed by an earthshaking boom. An idea occurred: “How about we let the lightning make the call? The next strike and we draw.”
The corner of Slade’s mouth quirked upward. “Agreed.”
A gust of wind swept up the hillside, the smell of rain pushed before it. Trace wanted to look at Mae, didn’t want to die without seeing her beautiful face again. Yet he dared not take his eyes off his opponent. Slade was too damn fast.
Old-timers said life passed by your eyes at times like this. Not so for Trace. He saw Mae’s beautiful face, almost saw her horse farm in Kentucky and the life they would have together if he just survived this next moment.
Slade was all focus. His eyes burned holes in Trace. His fingers at his side wiggled faintly, keeping them
lose and ready to draw. By his expression, he could already taste victory. Then, in that heartbeat, a jagged streak of lightning rose from the ground, traveling skyward, so close that Trace felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
Trace’s gun left its holster in a fluid motion, fired without thought but instinct. And a prayer. Slade himself moved so fast that Trace barely saw the gun clearing leather. For a long moment they stood frozen in this strange shard of time, not breathing, neither moving; then Michael Slade looked down at the front of his shirt. He brushed the fingers of his left hand across the black fabric and then pulled them back, stared at the red staining his hand. Blood. His expression seemed puzzled. Then his legs folded up.
Trace moved cautiously toward the kneeling man. He was smart enough to know a wounded animal was dangerous, and the gun was still clutched in Slade’s right hand. But then, without letting go, the gunman tilted sideways and fell to the ground.
He heard Mae cry out but he didn’t trust Slade. Cocking the hammer of his Colt, Trace moved to the fallen gunman’s side. Unlike Comstock, Slade didn’t raise his pistol. Trace’s aim had been true. Up close, he could see a small hole that was dead center in the man’s chest. Slade wouldn’t last but a few more heartbeats.
“I was…fast,” he said, with an odd expression.
Trace nodded. “Yes,” was all he could think to say.
“Trace Ord…” Slade closed his eyes.
“I’m here.”
“Protect…her…” What ever else Slade intended to say, it died on his lips.
Trace looked up to see Mae running toward him, Preacher on her heels. She practically jumped into his arms, knocking him backward. He was forced to retreat a step to keep from going down with her. He spoke her name in a hoarse whisper, his hand reaching to comb through her hair, and he kissed away the tears streaking down her cheeks.
She pulled free, her fingers flitting over the contours of his face as if she scarcely believed he was alive. She had to be sure.
“I…I saw you go down,” she murmured. “The horses…I saw them trample you. Then Jared was going to kill you. Now this ‘I’m the fastest gun around these parts’ nonsense. Trace Ord, if you ever—!”
“Hush, Mae.” He laughed. “This is one hell of a way to conduct a courtship. I shoot you and then end up nearly getting killed by one bastard after another, each with the dying request that I protect you. I think
I’m
the one who needs protecting.”
“Hush? Don’t you dare tell me to—”
“Just hush so I can say what I need to. Marry me, Mae.” Maybe it wasn’t the proposal women dreamed of, but she didn’t seem to object. Mae Ahern gasped, and her reply seemed lodged in her throat. She did manage to nod.
Preacher just laughed.
M
ae
wiggled her toes in the water, giddy with excitement. Married. She had stood next to Trace and said the words, “I do,” all in front of a preacher. A
real
preacher. The preacher of Timber Junction, the biggest town in the area. She had thought it would never happen, what with the events of the last few days. They’d met up with the U.S. marshal and the northern ranchers who’d hired Trace, and they’d straightened out the entire situation with the rustling. They’d taken Comstock’s men in for questioning—those they could find. Of course, justice had been served earlier. Jared and Michael Slade, the leaders of the group, were already dead.
Trace had spoken to White Eagle, too. The Walapai had managed to round up a number of horses despite the storm, although Standing Thunder of course eluded them. Trace, Preacher, and the Indian leader had all spoken at great length about the stallion, and Mae realized how they all coveted the beast. She’d had a moment of terror that they would go out after the horse once more. But then they’d spoken about something
else—a woman. White Eagle’s daughter? Preacher had said the girl just needed a firm hand, and Trace had nodded. White Eagle had looked sad. That had been the end of it.
A firm hand. That’s what Trace had provided for Mae. He’d brought her right back here to be wed, dispelling all her fears about him putting the horses first. He’d seemed to have only one thing on his mind: making her an honest woman. Her heart fluttered at the memory, and her body tingled. Afterward, he’d ordered a bath for her and gone off to check on the horses and make sure all was in readiness for transport of Diablo and Duchess and themselves on the train back East. They were going home to Grandfather, he’d said. He wouldn’t have her endangered one more moment in the West.
It wasn’t a full bathtub but a half bath, hardly more than an elongated washtub. Still, she was delighted with such luxury after being on the trail. And Trace was right: it did ease the pain of having had him in her body.
She knew she should blush at that image, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Such thoughts only provoked a deep warmth inside her, a need to take him into her again and again. As a young girl she’d seen stallions mounting mares, a cumbersome process that always seemed over before it started. Thus, she wasn’t totally unaware of what would happen. She felt sorry for those poor mares now, for the act between humans in love was nothing like the mating of animals. Oh, there were animalistic impulses—she blushed and wondered if the sounds she’d made had carried through the hotel walls.
And he’d been so worried about hurting her, but the pain had been exquisitely brief. Then she was part of him. The love had woven around them and made it more. So much more.
The water was still warm, the fluffy lather gliding over her wet skin. The sponge fell from her hand and drifted to the side of the tub. Totally relaxed for the first time since she left Kentucky, her arms floating at her sides, she let the warmth lull her to sleep in a gently lapping womb of lavender and rosewater.
Vaguely she grew aware of the pins being pulled from her hair. As the third was tugged free and her long tresses fell loose, she seized the sides of the tub and attempted to sit upright. Water sloshed onto the floor. Strong hands held her back.
A familiar voice softly crooned, “Shhhhh. From the first moment I clapped eyes upon you, I knew it would come to this.”
She laughed. Trace was on his knees at the side of the tub. “Silly man,” she said. “The first moment you saw me, you thought I was a man—a horse thief—and you shot me.”
“True. So, maybe the second?” he teased, unbuttoning his shirt and rolling his sleeves above his elbows. When she didn’t comment, he added, “Surely the third.”
Her brows lifted in challenge, as she drank in this handsome man who was now her husband. He was clean shaven and dressed in black breeches and a white shirt. No longer a renegade rider, he might be a captain of a pirate ship—no, a privateer, for her husband would always be on the right side of the law. While his hair was still long, he’d had several inches trimmed away.
The rest was now pushed back, dark waves curling about his earlobes and two locks falling rakishly over his forehead.
Sunlight streaming through the thin lacy curtains defined the angles and planes of his bronzed face, played wickedly about the sensual shape of his lips and deepened the shadowy hint of a cleft in his strong chin. No doubt about it, she’d cut out the prize stallion from the herd in claiming Trace Ord as her mate. No, that wasn’t right—Trevor Guilliard. Still, he would always be Trace to her. But she was Mrs. Trevor Guilliard. That would take some getting used to, just as it would take a little getting used to, being a wife.
That thought brought another smile to her lips. She had a lifetime to get used to it.
Trace took up the sponge and soaped it, moving it up her arm and onto her shoulder in slow circles. It seemed wicked, that she should allow a man to do these things to her. That would take getting used to as well.
His sleeves were rolled back to the biceps, exposing the hard rippling muscles that clenched as he continued to soap her. The shirt gaped open in front, giving her a glimpse of the hair pointing arrow-straight downward to disappear into the waistband of his breeches, and Mae swallowed, hunger constricting her throat. Last night when they had made love—their wedding night—it had been in the shadows and silver moonbeams filtering into their room. This was in the brilliant light of morning.
She gasped as the sponge reached her breasts, and then she writhed as he allowed the suds to trickle over nipples. The scented water was silken, his touch as light
as air. Though his fingers trembled as they grazed those hard, tawny buds, he played them as a skilled musician plays his instrument, with reverence and adoration.
It was bewitching and frightening all at once to stare into his eyes, to see the passion rise in them. That expression took her breath away. Set her heart to pounding. Oh, how handsome he was! Yes, his was a handsome face, but ruggedly handsome, all angles and planes—the kind of face an artist would love to paint, she admitted to herself. She’d ask Trace to sit for a painting for her birthday present next spring. So easily she imagined that portrait hanging on a wall at Foxtail Hall.
When his hand slipped beneath the water and settled upon the V between her thighs, Mae’s breath caught in her throat. Slowly at first, with the lightest touch, he began to stroke her there, probing beneath the curls to the sensitive flesh beneath. She leaned into those fingers that spread shock waves of drenching fire through her loins, and the delicious sensation radiated outward over her belly and thighs, like ripples in a quiet pond when a skimmed stone breaks the surface of still water.
Trace took her lips in a smoldering kiss, all while his fingers deftly stroked her sex—faster, deeper—causing sensations to rush at her very core until she arched her spine into the friction causing the ecstasy and groaned as release washed over her like waves of liquid fire. It was then, while she was in the throes of deep contractions, that his fingers first slipped inside her, first one and then another, gliding on the silk of her inner wetness.
She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, yet she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words, not when
his hands were roaming her body, not while his lips were tugging at her nipples. Dizzy, she clung to him as he lifted her out of the water and scooped her up in his arms to carry her to the bed. The feather mattress and counterpane were cool against her damp skin as he laid her down. Not used to a man looking at her nude, she started to reach for the blanket.
Trace caught her wrist. “No, don’t,” he said, yanking off his boots. “I want to see you bathed in sunlight. I want to make love to you and see those beautiful brown eyes as I am inside you.”
Mae lay still, watching while he stripped off his wet shirt and breeches. He was aroused, and the sight of him took her breath away. He was perfectly formed and strongly made, from his broad shoulders to his well-turned, corded thighs. Her wild stallion. Mae’s fingers itched to touch him. It was scandalous to feel this way; it had to be. But the minute he climbed in beside her, she reached to stroke his strong back, followed the curve of his spine to that narrow waist and firm buttocks.
His hands roaming her body brought her to the brink of ecstasy again. His fiery kiss, blazing a searing trail from the base of her throat to the hardened buds of her nipples, seemed to set her very soul ablaze. She was malleable in his hands, and everywhere he touched, every line and curve of her body throbbed with an inner fire. Her very bones were melting.
Trace crushed her close, his strong arms molding their bodies together. Easing himself between her legs, he guided them around his waist, lifting the rounds of her buttocks as he penetrated her in one, long perfect thrust like a sword into its scabbard. Mae moved to his
rhythm, taking him deeper as he plunged and swayed and undulated atop her. All the while, his hooded gaze was riveted to her face, his dark eyes catching glints from the sun’s rays. Mae couldn’t keep her hands from riding up and down his spine, from greedily gripping his buttocks as he filled her.
All at once he rolled over, taking her with him. He was on his back now; she straddled him, her long hair teasing his thighs as she matched his pistoning thrusts.
“Ride me,” he whispered harshly. “My renegade rider.”
His eyes still devoured her. She met his gaze as he cupped her breasts, crushing her tender, hardened nipples against the thick, rough cushion of his palms until she feared she would faint for the firestorm of sensation.
Trace pulled her forward until his lips closed around one turgid bud, laving it with his tongue. The tug resonated to her very core, triggering a release that all but drained her sense, and he gripped her waist and took her deeper still, riding her wetness, raising her up and down, his rapid thrusts hammering into her until he groaned and held her down upon his hard shaft as his climax pumped him dry. Mae felt the pulse of him, the very beat of his life force inside her as his seed spilled forth. Her hands splayed out over his taut, heaving chest, felt the pounding of his heart, which shuddered against her soft skin so violently she feared it would burst from his chest. His breath short, he rolled her onto her side and gathered her to him.
Nothing mattered but those arms, those searching lips, the anxious pressure of his manhood within her. He didn’t speak except to say her name, again and again,
against her lips, against her hair, against her breast. The murmur spoken so reverently, like a prayer—a litany of his love—thrilled her to the core.
Vertigo starred her vision. He was hard again, already? They had not separated. Her breath caught. Her heart, hammering against his heaving chest, seemed about to explode as he began to thrust inside her again, his groan resonating through her body. How he filled her. How perfectly they fit together. How easily she moved to the rhythm of his love.
Shifting until he was over her, he raised her hips with his massive hands and she wrapped her legs around his waist, taking him deeper still, undulating in a way that made him cry out in pleasure. Moments later he shuddered to a second pulsating climax inside her. The sound ran her through like a javelin, and waves of icy fire coursed through her loins, her belly, and her thighs, and she followed him into ecstasy.
Again and again he took her, each coupling a nourishment of their passion. It was like mating with a lightning bolt that struck again and again, never needing to recharge. Time didn’t exist—nothing did but the rapture of his embrace.
Mae’s body still throbbed to his pulse long after they lay sated in each other’s arms. Her head rested on Trace’s chest. The heart beneath her ear had slowed to a steady thudding rhythm; his breathing was deep and contented. He imparted gentle caresses, sliding his hand along her arm.
She wanted him. She had always wanted him. Would never stop wanting him.
Trace shifted up in bed, pulling the covers around his hips, not sure Mae was yet fully used to seeing him in the altogether. One day she would be, but he would allow her to reach that point on her own. Theirs had hardly been a romance of courtship, hearts, and flowers. There would be plenty of days for her to lose her shyness. And lose it she would. Mae had grit. She had battled lying men seeking to use her and kept her head.
But she’d lost her heart. He smiled at that thought. Mae. His woman. His wife.
He leaned over and placed a kiss on her bare shoulder, which was still healing—he’d been as careful as he could while they made love. His body clenched in desire, but also in pain at the thought of having shot her. Her body would forevermore bear the scar of their first meeting.
She’d seen the look of pain in his eyes as he’d bathed her, and joked about what grand tales they’d have to tell their children and grandchildren about how they’d met. True to her dauntless spirit, Mae had laughed it off. For him, it wasn’t so easy. He loved her. God, how he loved her. He wanted to cherish and protect her like one of those knights of old his mother had told him about; she was his lady and he would die to defend her.
With Comstock and Slade dead, he should feel some measure of peace. But he was too much a renegade rider, ever mindful of danger lurking around the next bend, behind the far boulder; he simply couldn’t shake the feeling this nightmare wasn’t behind them quite yet. Silly. There was no one left to pose a threat to their happiness. Even so, he chafed that they had to wait for the train traveling east. Perhaps it was how close he had
come to dying and losing her, but he wouldn’t draw a full, peaceful breath until their horses were loaded and they were miles down the track, heading back East. Hell, he wouldn’t let down his guard until they crossed the wide Mississippi and spotted the bluegrass of Kentucky.
No matter how he told himself that this episode of their life was done, something didn’t fit, and no matter how he tried to explain it away, the dying words of those two men haunted and mocked him. Oh, he might assume they regretted their deeds and simply wanted to know the object of their lust and perhaps twisted affection was safe, and in some ways he could accept that. Only, Jared hadn’t been warning him against Slade. So, who? And Slade saying something similar…Oh, he would like to dismiss them both, but he had a deep sense he would regret it if he did. Business unfinished loomed dark on the horizon, but damned if he knew what it was.