Susan Johnson (8 page)

“Oh, God …” she breathed as stabbing pleasure flooded her mind. There was no escape from the sensation. No comparison in all the former days of her life; no answer to the blind yearning, no argument, no excuse. “Please, Trey, I need you,” Empress cried softly.

And together they explored the delirious limits of passion.

* * *

Hours later, despite Trey’s glib words to Blue, he drowsily held Empress in the circle of his arms. She had sleepily said, “Thank you,” to him, a compounded gratitude: for the money; for the future her family now had; and strangely, where she should feel remorse—a muffled thank-you murmured into Trey’s warm chest … for the way she felt—wonderfully safe. And only in that instant did she realize how dreadfully frightened she’d been standing in Lily’s parlor. But no more. Breathing trustfully in Trey’s embrace, she slept.

He’d watched her then, lightly stroking the soft, sun-streaked curls coiled over his body, gazing at her lacy lashes, shades darker than her hair, lying like silk on her cheeks, deciding with a casual certainty as his glance traced the fine delicacy of her features that she was more beautiful than any woman he’d ever seen. It was an objective assessment made by a man who’d seen a great many beauties of the world—at close range. And for a virgin—he smiled faintly and tucked an errant tendril behind her ear—well, she’d disproved all the stories about green virgins. “Good night, fierce kitten,” he whispered. His voice was tender, for the words meant much more.

My Lord, he was tired, a sweet, ringing weariness of contentment, and very soon exhaustion overtook him, too, and he fell asleep peacefully.

I
t seemed only seconds later, although some time had passed, when Trey felt someone shaking him awake. His fatigued, vaguely inebriated brain took a hazy moment to recall exactly where he was. Then his eyes snapped open and he groaned silently.

Flo was standing over him, vivid in crimson silk, holding a half-empty champagne bottle, whispering in a voice that would carry a mile in the storm blowing outside, “Move over, Trey, honey, I brought champagne.”

He looked quickly to see that Empress still slept, relaxed fractionally when he saw she did, then whispered back, “It’s late, sweetheart, and I’m tired. How about some other time?”

“Nope,” Flo replied with a wobbly, back-and-forth motion of her head. “Don’t want to wait. Want to have a teeny, tiny drink with you,” and so saying, she tipped the bottle up and swallowed a large gulp. “Here, your turn,” she offered cordially with a tipsy smile.

“No thanks,” Trey politely refused, warily watching her sway beside him. “My head’s slightly sore from the brandy.”

“Champagne’s better for hangovers,” she observed with a studied wink. “Same as two women are better than one. And if you’re not going to move over, I’ll have to sit on her.”

Trey rolled a swift half turn away, protecting Empress in his arms, and just narrowly averted being fallen on.

“Hi there,” Flo said cheerfully, dropping abruptly beside him in a flow of red silk and lace. “You look awake now. Wake up the little lady and let’s all have a drink of the bubbly.”

Sighing, Trey took the bottle held out to him and drank.

“Give her some too,” Flo insisted, her voice gently slurred, and generously waved her arm toward Empress.

“Let her sleep.”

“Hell, no. Let’s see what fifty thousand buys. I’ve never seen a high-priced whore like that, Trey, honey. I want to see.”

“You’re drunk, Flo.”

“Well, so are you.”

He probably was, but not as drunk as she. He had sense enough not to argue. “Good champagne,” he said instead, and handed the bottle back to her.

“You gonna wake her?”

He shook his head and smiled.

“Since when don’t you like a menage à trois, Trey, lovey?”

“Christ, Flo!” he exclaimed softly, at a loss for an explanation to her frank declaration.

“She somethin’ special?” Flo asked, mildly pugnacious.

“No,” Trey replied, thinking better of it. “Maybe,” he relented. Then, exasperated, he exclaimed, “Lord, Flo, I don’t know!”

“Don’t
know
, don’t
want
to, everything’s ‘don’t’ with you tonight. Don’t ‘don’t’ me anymore, sweetie pie. If you won’t wake her, I will!”

But he was out of bed with Empress in his arms before Flo could maneuver upright with her voluminous skirts, her tight corset, and the bottle she still held. Knowing what she wanted to hear, he said, “Stay there, Flo. I’ll be right back.” Lean, lithe, and naked, he carried Empress into the small adjoining dressing room. Disturbing her as little as possible, he put her to bed on the pastel brocade chaise. Satisfied she was tucked in and warm, he carefully shut the door between the two
rooms and reached for his trousers from the floor where he’d dropped them. It wasn’t until he was buttoning the last button at his waist that he glanced back at Flo. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. She wasn’t going to be easy to handle—she never was, after drinking champagne, he recalled resignedly. This was going to require a certain degree of diplomacy, for Flo had taken the opportunity to undress while he put Empress to bed. She was drowsily lounging against the lacetrimmed pillows like a graceful houri.

Her lashes lifted, and her gaze slowly focused on him. “Come kiss me, Trey, honey. I missed you tonight.” The bottle was gone, her voice was inviting, and she smiled like she had so many times before.

“Flo, sweet darling …” he began placatingly, keeping his distance. “It’s … I’m … Blue’s likely … Blue’s waking me early in the morning, love,” he decided sounded best. “And I’m damned tired. Be a dear now and put on your dress. I wouldn’t be much good to you, anyway. I’m beat.”

“She must be a hot piece.” Her throaty contralto was sweetly acid.

“I didn’t mean that,” he explained hastily. “It’s just late.” Picking up Flo’s rumpled dress, he walked over to the bed, kneeled on the blush velvet, and held it out to her. “We’ve been friends for a long time, honey. Get dressed now and we’ll talk in the morning. How’s that?”

“Don’t like it,” she said, pouting, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder with a flick of her braceleted wrist.

“Let me dress you,” Trey murmured, moving nearer.

“That sounds better,” she purred.

He’d put her dress on, carry her back downstairs, and Lily could have Flo put to bed. He didn’t want to argue with her here. She was champagne-drunk and erratic. And oddly, with feelings he didn’t analyze, he didn’t care to have Empress Jordan find him arguing with a nude, inebriated woman, after he’d just—oh, hell, he didn’t know exactly why. He simply wanted Flo out.

He was facing Flo, so he didn’t see the door she had left ajar ease open, allowing three inches of gun barrel to protrude into the room. He was reaching toward Flo with the dress skirt spread out in a red silk fan, to slide over her head, when he saw her eyes widen in terror.

He was about to calm her, tell her he’d never frighten her, when a faint warning vibration tightened his stomach. A second too late. Before the unconscious alarm had traveled halfway to his brain, something slammed into his back like hot, corrosive acid, and exploding pain shrieked through his senses, at the same time the sound of the blast struck his ears. He saw and heard and felt the excruciating nightmare of hell vividly in the first person and dimly heard the unearthly screams. Flo’s, he recognized. And a second later his failing brain suggested that the low, deep animal cry was his. Just before the corridor he was racing down to escape the suffocating agony closed into black darkness, one nerve receptor, still operating under the smothering torment, sent the message through.
A shotgun blast. He and Flo were shot.
He forced his eyes to move, but the effort was like moving a mountain by hand.
My God. Flo’s dead.

Was he dying too? Don’t tell Mother, he thought. Then a crushing darkness buried him.

Empress was the first to see them.

The roar of the gunshot and the tortured screams were bringing everyone in the house to the room, but Empress tore open the dressing-room door and saw them first.

Her skin chilled to gooseflesh as she looked in on the bloody scene. In the dim glow of lamplight the room was utterly silent, the horror of shrieks piling into a crescendo of anguish, only wispy echoes in her mind. The bed and wrecked bedclothes were splashed, splattered, splotched, and puddled with blood.

There was no question, she thought, her eyes wide with horror. The woman was dead. The pattern of shot catching Trey in the back had exploded in her face, and from that distance the cluster was tight. Empress shut her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before she dared look at Trey. Dear God, she silently prayed, not all that generous warmth and beauty and teasing laughter dead. Let him still be breathing. Please, God!

Opening her eyes, she clutched the blanket from the chaise more securely around her and, trailing white wool across the blood-drenched carpet, ran toward the bed.

He was ripped apart, ravaged by the exploding pellets, lying facedown on the silk sheets in a widening field of blood.
His long black hair half covered his face, scarlet rivulets tracing vivid rivers down its satiny length, spreading fingers of liquid death, red and black and spidery across his fine features.

Reaching for his wrist, trailing over the side of the bed, she frantically searched for a pulse. Her fingers explored his strong, muscled forearm slowly, carefully. Nothing. Her heart was thudding in her chest. Don’t panic. Try again, she told herself. And she prayed. This time, after what seemed endless breath-held moments, a faint pulse beat—only once. Had she imagined it? Had she wanted him alive so badly that she’d willed the feeble beat? She waited, her eyes transfixed on the small spot of dark skin beneath her fingertips. At last—a second weak flicker of life. Tears came to her eyes, and she said very softly, “Thank you.”

Two minutes later the room was filled with people, noise, and confusion, and three minutes later Blue and Fox had cleared it.

“We have to get him out of here,” Blue said, his dark glance scanning the two windows facing the street. “There’s too many people and only two of us,” he added, motioning Fox to hand him a blanket from the far side of the bed. Then he gave a curt order for Fox to get their buffalo coats and began wrapping Trey in the blanket.

Empress had been unceremoniously brushed aside when Blue ran into the room, and she now stood at the foot of the bed watching his capable hands gently cover Trey’s torn body. “Where are you taking him?”

He looked at her, a brief cursory glance. “Home.”

“You can’t,” she exclaimed softly. “Those wounds! He’ll bleed to death if you—”

“Not in this cold he won’t.”

“I’ll go with you. I can help.”

“No,” he said. He didn’t ask why she hadn’t been in bed with Trey. Why Flo had been instead. He only worked feverishly to swathe Trey completely, oblivious to the dead woman sprawled across the bed. He didn’t care what had happened in this room with the women. He only knew Trey was in peril here and had to be taken out. “We’re going home.” Blue said it very low in Absarokee, his mouth near Trey’s ear. The whole side of Trey’s face was smeared with blood. To anyone
else no visible response would have been apparent, but Blue was watching closely and saw the trace of movement under Trey’s closed eyelids. “Home,” he repeated in his native tongue, and picked Trey up in his arms like a child, calling on all his adrenaline-flushed strength to lift the man as large as he.

Trey was covered in buffalo robes downstairs, and against Lily’s frantic, impassioned pleas, they left with him. “Call the train,” she’d argued, but they both knew the Arrow Pass drifted first in a storm, and the train wouldn’t get through until the tracks were shoveled clear. “I’ll get Doc McFadden,” she’d insisted, but neither of them trusted white men much.

Mounted on their strong ponies, they rode north, Blue holding Trey, and Fox breaking trail through the heavily drifted snow. It was a superhuman effort by both men and beasts, forcing their way through blizzard winds, subzero cold, and mounting snow. They stayed on the high ground although the wind was fierce, cautious to avoid the dangerous, hidden ravines and coulees where loosely piled snow could bury a horse and man.

They ignored the strange girl from Lily’s, dressed in her range clothes again, struggling behind them on her cow pony, too intent on their own urgent passage through the angry, swirling storm.

But at the ranch house it was she—small, snow-covered, blue with cold—who gave orders how to carry Trey upstairs. They left dark, melting puddles of snow up the Turkish-carpeted stairs and down the long corridor to Trey’s bedroom.

Her name was Empress Jordan, she announced softly to the horror-stricken inhabitants of the house, although no one asked, with Trey’s white face and bloody, ravaged body near death. The last name, Jordan, she pronounced with a French inflection. Trey had bought her that night, in Helena, she shocked them by saying, the faint trace of Gallic accent lending even more incredulity to her calm statement.

They didn’t have time to heed her—Trey’s lifeblood was draining away. But hours later, when the ranch doctor gave up, the delicate girl with tawny, tumbled hair and worn clothes moved out from the shadows of the upstairs hallway and said into the hushed mourning sadness, as palpable as orchestral
dirges, “I know folk medicine from my mother and might be able to save him.”