The Pride of Hannah Wade (39 page)

Without thinking, he kissed the salty wetness on her cheek left by the angry tears. When she shifted, tilting her head up to look at him, Cutter gazed at the face
that had lived in his mind for so long, seeing its strength and its stillness. It stirred alive his reckless urges and made him rash.

“You’re beautiful, Hannah.” He saw the sun-bronzed skin over her cheekbones, fully aware that the color didn’t stop with her face, but it was all on the outside. It was the woman within who moved him.

Her lips were soft and unresisting in that first instant of contact. Encouraged, Cutter pressed his advantage and drove against them with warming insistence. Her hungry response jolted through him and his arms tightened aggressively around her. His feverish longings broke through, making him rough with her when he had meant to be gentle.

All sense of restraint was lost in the heat of the moment as they strained together, locked in each other’s arms as their lips found the closeness each was seeking. They stood on the edge of the high desert, giving in to the temptation that was upon them.

When Hannah pulled away from him, Cutter was unprepared. Breathing hard and shaken, he saw her bow her head as she turned from him to avoid his gaze. The sensation of her was still with him, the press of her long legs, so firmly muscled, the strength of her arms, the sensation of her fingers sliding into his hair. He took a step toward her to bring her back, but a small lift of her hand stopped him.

“No.” Pride made her lift her head. The deep disturbance his kiss had caused was revealed in the troubled darkness of her eyes, but there was no mistaking the determination in her denial. “I am married. Maybe it isn’t much of a marriage anymore, but Stephen is my husband.” She turned suddenly wary. “Or did you think that because of the Apaches I have no morals left?”

“No, dammit!” Cutter abruptly checked his rising
temper. “Maybe I stepped out of line, but what happened with the Apaches has nothing to do with it. I’ve wanted—“

“Don’t say it.” She shut her eyes, then opened them wide, in control again. “Don’t say something both of us would come to regret, Cutter.” Unable to argue, he turned grim and silent. She turned to leave, then paused. “Thank you, though, for giving me a sense of worth again.”

A muscle worked in his jaw as Hannah left him to slowly retrace their route. He didn’t want her to walk alone, but he had no right to be at her side, as she’d reminded him. All he could do was add to her problems. He’d never meant to start thinking about her; now Cutter didn’t know how he was going to stop. More than once he’d told himself that he would be better off leaving the service, getting away where no talk of her would follow him, but he’d kept postponing the decision. Maybe now was the time, before more hurt was done. He turned when she was out of his sight.

“Well, if it ain’t the honorable Cap’n Cutter.” Cimmy Lou Hooker sauntered toward him. “I thought you was too good t’mess around with another man’s wife. Or ain’t you got no respect for Majuh Wade?”

His glance sliced past her to the brushy area from which she’d emerged. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough.” The catlike smile on her mouth became more marked. “You reckon she’s tryin’ t’pay the Majuh back fo’ all the time he spent with me while she was gone?”

“My God,” Cutter swore under his breath. “Does John T. know?”

“No, an’ you won’t tell him,” she said, and laughed at the impotent anger darkening his craggy face.

“He’ll find out sooner or later—I won’t have to tell
him. What do you think will happen then?” he challenged.

“I can handle him.” Cimmy Lou shrugged confidently.

He viewed her with utter disgust. “Who ever put the thought in your head that your body is all a man needs to make him happy?” He walked away, returning the salute of a black trooper on a clean-up detail who was coming toward him.

Cimmy Lou’s smile deepened. Now Mrs. Wade couldn’t make a fuss about the presents the major had given her, or she’d have to tell the major what she’d seen. It would serve that high and mighty Captain Cutter right if she did. She took a step in the direction of the enlisted men’s housing, where she’d been going when she’d heard Mrs. Wade’s voice raised in anger and gone to investigate. But Leroy Bitterman’s approach caused her to pause.

“Workin’ hard?” She saw the wheelbarrow he’d left beside the manure pile.

“You shore ain’t,” he accused.

“I got the day’s wash all hung out on the bushes t’dry,” Cimmy Lou informed him.

“Don’t give me that. I seen ya with the cap’n. How come you won’t leave them white officers alone?”

“Why don’t you jest mind yore own business?”

He caught her wrist, ignoring the twists of her arm that attempted to free it. “Yore my business.”

“Yore no good,” Cimmy Lou hissed angrily. “Everybody says you got a rotten core. You even cheat yore own kind.”

“Then make me good. Takes a woman t’make a man good. It’s a woman what makes a man settle down an’ make somethin’ of hisself. Settle me down, Cimmy Lou.” He moved backward toward the thick brush, pulling her with him.

“No.” Her struggles were as weak as her protest as she let herself he dragged into the desert brush. “I don’t want to.”

“I waited long enough.” Bitterman shoved her to the ground and held her down with the weight of his body, pinning her wrists against the sand above her head. She thrashed wildly under him, and he struck her with the flat of his hand. “Why do you make me hurt you? You want what I got t’give.” As she lay panting and still, her cheek throbbing from the slap, his hand grasped the cotton material of her drawers and tore it away from her skin. The ripping sound drew a groan from her. He cupped her face in his hand and turned it to him. “I’ll make you cry out fo’ me before I’m through.” One-handed, he loosened his pants. “It’s time you found out there’s only me.”

She gave a little moan. “Yes.” The assent was reluctantly drawn from her as she gave in to the eagerness growing inside. “Do it, Leroy,” Cimmy urged in aching agreement. “Do it to me.”

He released her hands and they went around his neck to bring him down to her as she wrapped her legs around his waist to lock and hold his hard-driving hips. More than once she called his name, finding primal wonder where before she’d known only calculated pleasure.

“Bitterman? Hey, Bitterman!” a searching voice shouted.

Still panting, he straightened to tuck in his gray uniform blouse and fasten his pants, throwing a glance over his shoulder before bringing his attention back to her love-heavy features. Her slack lips were swollen from his kisses and her black eyes were heavy-lidded and dreamy soft. Behind them, Bitterman could hear someone moving along the edge of the brush looking for him.

“You wanna see me again, don’t you?” he said, low and confident of how completely he’d gotten to her.

“Yes.” Cimmy was slow to rearrange her skirts over her legs.

“We’re gonna get outta here, you an’ me, an’ make us some real money offa these miners. Soon, baby. Real soon,” he promised, and moved away quickly as his name was called again. The rattle of dry brush marked his passage. A moment later, she heard him speak. “You lookin’ fo’ me, Corp’ral?”

“Where the hell have you been, Bitterman? I was about t’figure yore scalp was hanging from some ‘pache’s belt.” Then the voices faded as they moved away and Cimmy didn’t hear Bitterman’s reply. She dawdled a little longer, her body still tingling from its thorough satisfaction, before going back.

The Silver City
Gazette
ran a sensationalized account of Lutero’s capture and imprisonment at the fort, never stating that he’d come to reclaim his white squaw, but covertly raising the question. After two days of more looks and whispers, Hannah came to realize that it didn’t matter whether there was any truth in it; it was what people wanted to believe.

An orderly was lounging in a chair by the door to the post commander’s office when Hannah entered. The tipped-back chair thumped down onto all four legs as he came smartly to attention. But she saw the way he looked at her and knew that the speculation had spread to the colored ranks.

“I’d like to see Colonel Bettendorf, please.” Dust particles danced in the sunlit air by the window, where the morning heat invaded the shadowed interior.

“Yes, ma’am.” For a second longer he eyed her with curious interest, then disappeared into the next room. She heard the low murmur of voices from within and
the returning footsteps as the orderly reappeared. “The colonel will see you, ma’am.” He stepped aside to admit her.

The mutton-chop-whiskered commander stood behind his desk, stern and imposing in front of the map of territorial New Mexico. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Wade?” He was stiff with her.

“I would like your permission to ride one of the calvary mounts.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t allow any pleasure rides to leave this fort. You understand that it’s for your own safety.”

“I am aware of the restriction, Colonel,” Hannah conceded. “I would be content to confine my riding to within the boundaries of the fort. It is the exercise I seek, not the change of scenery.”

“Be that as it may . . .” He faltered slightly. “These are rough horses. We don’t have any mounts suitable for a lady to ride.”

“Excuse me, sir, but Sergeant Hooker pointed out a blue roan with a gentle disposition. I’m sure the horse would be quite satisfactory.” She didn’t bother to remind him that she had ridden rougher horses when she lived with the Apaches—without the benefit of a saddle and curb bit. “Perhaps you could have your orderly accompany me to the stables. If not, I am capable of catching and saddling my own horse.”

Decidedly displeased, he gave in to her request. “Henry!” he summoned, and his orderly came into the room. “Go with Mrs. Wade and saddle a horse for her to ride. She knows which one.”

“Yes, suh.” He saluted, then paused. “Suh, Cap’n Cutter’s outside.” The mention of his name brought an immediate tensing of Hannah’s nerves, a lifting of her guard.

“Show him in.” The colonel hitched up his pantlegs to sit down as Hannah left his office. In the outer room, she saw Cutter perched on a desk
corner, his long body loose and lanky. The keen blue of his eyes met her glance and held it. She sensed the remembrance of their last meeting turning over in his mind and felt the heated disturbance that the recollection caused. She recognized the danger of such feelings.

“Captain.” She nodded smoothly to him.

“Mrs. Wade.” The acknowledgment was returned with a touch of his hat.

“The colonel said fo’ you to go in, Cap’n.” The orderly relayed the message as Hannah walked past Cutter.

“Thanks.” Cutter pushed off the desk, his gaze following her out the door. There was a heaviness in his chest at the deep reserve she’d shown him. It weighed on him as he went into the adjoining office.

“Good morning, Captain.” Bettendorf looked up from the sheaf of reports and returned the salute Cutter gave him. “I’ve just been advised that C Company will rendezvous with seven other companies of the Ninth along with Agent Clum from the San Carlos reservation and his Apache police on the twenty-first of April. Geronimo and his renegades have been operating out of Ojo Caliente, and the plan is to arrest them and remove them to San Carlos. That’s likely to be a major task for your men. I can’t imagine Geronimo surrendering peaceably.”

“Neither can I, but I won’t be there.” Cutter reached inside his shirt and removed his letter of resignation. “I’m resigning my commission as of the end of March.”

The announcement accompanied by the formal notice stunned the commander. “But we need good officers like you, Cutter.”

“But you don’t need me, Colonel.” Cutter smiled ironically as he automatically rebuttoned the yoked closing of his shirt. “I’ve had it in my mind a long time to get myself some land and run horses and cattle on it. There’s a valley northeast of here with good graze and
water. I’ve saved up some money, and that’s where I’m hound.”

“You’re making a mistake. The army’s in your Wood.”

“No, it isn’t.” He slowly shook his head. “After the war, I stayed in out of stubbornness—because somebody wanted me to quit for the wrong reasons,” Cutter said, recalling the southern-bred girl whose face had long ago faded into a blur in his memory. “I’m tired of a lot of things, Colonel, but mostly I’m tired of the hate—and what it does to people. I guess when I was young I thought I could change it. Now I know better. It’s time for me to get out.”

“Well, if that’s the way you feel. . .” Bettendorf didn’t understand any of what he’d said.

“That’s the way I feel.”

Outside the building, Cutter stopped under the thatched
ramada
and raked a match-head across a rough post to light his cigar. Hannah was riding a white-legged roan around the parade ground. For a long time, he stood and watched her put the horse through its paces. Hungry impulses stirred inside him. The thought was in his mind to tell her of his decision to resign. He took half a dozen steps in her direction before he realized that it changed nothing for them. Instead, he turned away.

When she saw him turn away, Hannah pulled the roan up and absently patted its arched neck. Cutter had the loose, rolling walk of a man accustomed to the saddle, his long arms swinging freely at his sides. Tall and lean, he wasn’t a handsome man, yet he drew her interest almost magnetically. She sat astride the horse, her legs hidden in the voluminous folds of the split skirt she’d made, aware that Cutter at least wouldn’t disapprove of the costume. His easygoing ways and steady patience always gave her a kind of reassurance. But there was nothing about him that explained the restless
pitch of her feelings and the yearning that tugged so wistfully at her heart. It was much too easy to recall, the pressure of his arms around her, that release of a temper and a will too long held in check that had broken through his kiss to move her. Cutter had a man’s needs and a man’s hunger—and a man’s inability to resist temptation. It undoubtedly had been a long time since he was with a woman, and she had tempted him, no more than that. Hannah touched her heels to the roan, urging it forward.

Stephen’s uniform was stiff with dried sweat and caked with layers of dust from five days of scouting patrol. The guard on duty outside the barred door of the adobe-block guardhouse came smartly to attention and held a rigid salute until Stephen returned it. He tapped the four-day-old newspaper against his leg as he glared through the iron grate at the Apache prisoner.