Prairie Song Page 14

  As they traveled, Brant told her of growing up in the streets of Fort Worth. He talked of how he and Daniel, who was two years older, had become friends. His folks had been killed by Indians and Daniel’s by an angry slave who worked their farm. He’d planned to kill the whole family, but Daniel’s parents had hidden him in the food cellar. Daniel had huddled in the total blackness, frightened, listening to his parents scream as they suffered a violent death.

  Hattie’s Parlor was a big gambling place back then and she paid the boys to run errands, so Brant and Daniel had met and become friends. When the war came, Brant was seventeen and in a hurry to fight. Daniel wanted no part of it, so he joined the church.

  Cherish listened quietly, wanting to ask a hundred questions. One kept turning over and over in her mind but he never mentioned the scars on both their wrists. When he talked of the young Daniel, he did so with a softness in his voice that wasn’t there when he mentioned Father Daniel.

  Just past nightfall, they were on the outskirts of Fort Worth. They circled the back of Hattie’s barn and went around to the dark side where Brant had once kissed her. There, to her amazement, beneath a layer of dirt, was a trapdoor.

  Hank held the door. “I’ll stay here and keep watch. You get Cherish to her room safely. When you return, we’ve got a meeting to go to.”

  Brant took one step into the passageway and looked back at Hank. “Problem?”

  Hank nodded but said no more. Brant took Cherish’s hand and led her into the total darkness.

  The air was cool and damp against her skin. She could smell the earth around her, but the passage was tall enough for her to walk through.

  Brant talked softly as though to calm her fears. “Hattie says her English mother would have called this a ‘priest hole.’ Back a long time ago, when priests were often being hunted in Europe, they built all the abbeys with secret ways to get out.”

  “Why did Hattie build this?” Cherish drew closer to him as they continued through the blackness.

  “When she first constructed the place she had a few gentlemen friends who came to call and didn’t want anyone knowing that they had visited her. When the Knights met here before the war, a few of them might have known about this passage, but most came through the front door of Hattie’s. Back then they were proud to be members of the group. Talk was, even old Rip Ford, who had been head of the Texas Rangers, was one of the organizers.”

  Cherish had heard of “Rest In Peace” Ford all her life. He’d been everything from a senator to a newspaper editor. If he’d been involved, this group of Knights must have been a powerful organization.

  Brant pulled her on through the darkness. “As far as I know, only Daniel, Hank, and me know about it now. And Barfield, of course. I showed it to him the other night when I left. Hattie locked the inside door years ago and told everyone to keep out.”

  “How much farther?” Cherish tried to keep the fear out of her voice but the tunnel was closing in around her and she could feel thin lines of spider webs brushing her face. She moved closer to Brant.

  “We’re almost there.” Brant slowed and pulled her even with him in the slender tunnel. “But before we go into the house I’ve got a few questions about last night.”

  Cherish laughed, loving the way she’d teased him. They were close, brushing one another in the darkness, but he didn’t touch her. She could feel his breath against her hair and smell the blending of leather and danger that always followed him.

  “What happened last night?” His voice was hard, demanding information.

  Cherish raised her hands to his chest and spread her fingers out over his shirt. “You don’t remember?”

  She heard his sudden intake of breath as she boldly pushed his jacket aside and leaned her cheek against his heart. Laughter and excitement bubbled inside her, but she kept her voice low. “I know you told me to stay away from you, but last night you voiced no objection …”

  “Cherish, what happened?” His voice was tight, coming from between clenched teeth. “I told you once to stop playing games with me.”

  “I’m not playing a game.” She moved her lips to touch his throat as she talked. “I loved being in your arms last night.”

  His body was as hard as stone. He knew the kiss in the rain had been a mistake. She was so soft, so tiny, so fragile. His love would crush her and destroy them both. She belonged with a gentle man who ran a mercantile and came home every night at six, not an outlaw whose days were numbered.

  “I want you to hold me like you did in your sleep last night,” she whispered against his throat. “I want to know that what I feel for you is returned.”

  Her hands moved into his hair as her body leaned into his. “Please hold me, Brant.”

  Like an oak in a violent storm, he snapped from the blow of her pleading. His arms went round her and crushed her against him as his lips found hers. For a moment his kiss was hard and fierce with need. She molded against him willingly, melting into his very soul.

  Slowly, his kiss softened. He loosened his hold on her. She responded by brushing his hair with her fingers. Her hands moved hesitantly to feel the hard wall of his chest and trace the lines of his shoulders.

  As the kiss continued, he realized that this was what she wanted and needed: not the wild passion of sexual arousal, but a gentle loving. He forced himself to relax and touch her softly, lightly. His kisses turned tender. His mind was whirling like a dust devil. The few times he’d had sex, it had always been wild and almost brutal, with a whore who earned her money in numbers. But with Cherish the world had shifted and changed and, to his surprise, he found the slow loving far more satisfying. If he didn’t slow down, he’d frighten her as he had a few nights ago beside the barn.

  He loved the feel of her warm, soft body against his. He loved the way her small hands touched him, like he was a treasure she’d found and had to explore. And most of all he loved the way she made him feel inside, as if he were worth a great deal to her, more than anyone else in the world. She wasn’t a woman of the streets turning tricks for money. She was a priceless angel. He secretly wondered if she would ever need him as much as he needed her.

  Cherish broke the kiss and cuddled into his arms. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Brant kissed the top of her head. “For what?”

  “For holding me,” she added. “There is no gentler place than your arms.”

  Brant laughed, for he doubted anyone in the world would agree with her. But, because she thought it, it somehow became true. He found himself moving his hand over her shoulder and holding her securely in his embrace.

  “I’m afraid sometimes,” she whispered. “Afraid that there is no part of me left. During the war I hurt so badly for the wounded that I finally had no feeling remaining. But with you it’s as though you found the tiny little feeling left in me and pulled it forward.”

  “You care about everyone. I was just one of the hundred you fought to save.” Brant didn’t want to admit it, but he’d seen her put everyone ahead of herself.

  “No!” Cherish rubbed her head against his chin. “I need to help people but I feel a need for you.”

  Brant wasn’t sure what she was asking. “What do you want of me, Cherish?”

  “This is a good start.”

  “And if I touch you again, will you pull away?”

  “Maybe,” she answered. “And if I ask to be held again, will you hold me?”

  “Always,” he answered as he pulled her against him. “As long as there is breath left in my body.”

  Minutes later, Cherish passed through the passage to the basement of Hattie’s Parlor. She stepped into a large room without windows. Only the light from the open stairway door gave her direction. When she started up the steps, Brant didn’t follow.

  “Good night,” he whispered as his hand released hers.

  She turned to hold him one last time, but his shadow had melted completely into the blackness. She wanted to ask when she’d see him again, but she
knew there was no answer to her question.

  As she reached the top of the stairs, Bar appeared. His thin face broke into a bright smile. “So you’re the latest ghost who’s been hauntin’ this place.”

  Cherish laughed.

  Bar danced by her side, not knowing how to show her just how pleased he was about having her home. “Everybody was real worried about you, but when I heard you might be with Brant, I figured you were all right.”

  Cherish caught the flittering boy and hugged him. He stepped back, embarrassed by the unaccustomed display of affection. “Miss Maggie’s gone with Grayson to look for you.”

  Guiding him into the kitchen, Cherish ordered, “Fill me in while I fix something to eat.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You hungry?”

  “Always,” he answered as he jumped onto the counter and started talking as fast as he could. By the time she’d fixed some food and they’d eaten, Cherish knew everything that had happened since she’d left.

  Although she resented Grayson’s interference in her life, she was thankful for the guards at the front door. She was sure that whoever this man was, who was claiming to be Westley, he would be unable to get into the house. She excused herself and went upstairs, anxious to close her eyes and dream of being in Brant’s arms.

  Chapter 15

  Grayson decided that riding next to Margaret ranked somewhere between being tortured by Indians and trailing a buffalo herd. When she wasn’t questioning his judgment in direction, she was referring to him as a “damn Yankee.” By late afternoon the sky had turned dark and brooding and so had his mood.

  “We’ll make camp there.” He pointed to a cluster of cottonwoods.

  Margaret followed but asked, “Don’t you think we need to make more miles? After all, they have quite a start on us and, assuming we’re going in the right direction, we’ll never catch them at this rate.”

  Grayson gritted his teeth and swung from his horse. He was beginning to see why he’d enjoyed his job for so many years. For the most part he’d been alone.

  She didn’t wait for him to help her down, but jumped to the ground and began unloading supplies. As she worked, she speculated on how he ever caught any outlaws if he always stopped so early.

  When he set up camp she followed behind him, arranging everything in different order and explaining the practicality of each adjustment.

  Grayson took his anger out on the slab of bacon in his pack. He cut into the salted meat with a vengeance, but didn’t utter a word.

  As he gathered firewood, she questioned how wise a campfire would be in this open country. Wouldn’t everyone for miles see the flame at night? With each remark, Grayson threw another log on the campfire until it blazed high enough to roast a full-grown mule deer until it was well-done. He had no fear of an Indian or outlaw attack. It might be a pleasant diversion to being henpecked all day. He laughed suddenly to himself. If he were attacked by savages, they’d better kill Margaret outright, or she’d be telling them what to do and rearranging their camps as well.

  The sun was setting somewhere behind gray clouds when they ate. She complained about the pork being too salty and the coffee far too strong to be healthy.

  Grayson ate his meal in silence, then rolled onto his bedroll and pulled his hat low, ending, he hoped, her lecture for one night. To his relief, he heard her moving across the fire to her own bedroll with only the sound of the flames and the wind to touch his ears. He’d decided somewhere in the last ten miles that she was the most frustrating female in Texas, if not North America. He was beginning to wonder if she’d come with him to find Cherish or just to make his life a living hell.

  Finally, her movements stopped and her breathing grew regular with sleep. He smiled to himself, knowing that the only prayer he’d have tonight was that she didn’t talk in her sleep. He let out a long breath and relaxed.

  Hours later, raindrops splattered on Grayson’s hands, waking him instantly. He lifted his hat and studied the sky. With the instincts born of one who had lived most of his life without a roof over his head, Grayson grabbed his gear and headed for the shelter of the trees where he’d tied the horses.

  By the time he’d returned, the splatters had become a drizzle. He stood for a moment over Maggie, debating whether to awaken her or allow the rain to do so. If she woke in a river, she’d have plenty to complain about. At least this was one thing today she couldn’t blame him for. Courtesy won over judgment as he nudged her softly with the toe of his boot.

  She came alive like an angry bear, grabbing her blankets and running for the trees. By the time he’d collected her gear and followed, she was already huddled in the shelter of a huge cottonwood.

  “Why didn’t you awaken me earlier? I could have helped you move everything. Won’t this erase any tracks we might find? We should have left yesterday.” She continued, but he’d stopped listening. A person can hear only so much before his mind just shuts off. He knew she was angry with him about lying to her and she’d taken the best vengeance—not with a clean wound to the chest but with a thousand tiny marks. Her badgering was pricking him an inch at a time, killing him drop by drop. Before they’d finished this search, he’d either be dead or a murderer—her murderer.

  “Grayson, are you listening to me?” She pulled at his arm.

  “No!” He looked down at her in the darkness. He could only see her outline, but he knew the shine of her ebony hair and the glow of her indigo eyes by heart. Her hair was free now and floating around her like a shadowy cloud. If he could just look at her with her mouth closed, he’d love her the rest of his life.

  “I’ve had it!” She suddenly pushed at him. “Stop standing there like an innocent statue. If you’re trying to make my life miserable, you’ve succeeded.”

  Like a flash of lightning across his mind he realized what he’d done. All day he’d taken the roughest trails, ridden harder than he would have pushed any other man or woman, and even blackened the coffee as if daring her to complain. Nothing made sense to him anymore. He understood why she was angry at him, but why had he tried to push her? He wanted her to accept him, to love him, yet all he’d done was make her dislike him more.

  “And another thing, Captain Kirkland. Don’t you ever wake me with the toe of your boot again, or I swear you’ll be walking with a limp.”

  Grayson’s sudden laughter angered her more. He realized how foolish a game he’d been playing. He’d had his pride hurt. All day he’d been pushing her, baiting her, so that he’d learn to hate her and be able to forget the hunger always burning inside of him.

  “Stop that laughing!” She shoved him away from the shelter of the cottonwood and into the rain.

  Grayson turned his face to the storm and roared. He’d been such a fool. She was never going to allow him to get away with an inch. And he was never going to allow her to get away from him no matter how many faults she discovered in him.

  “You’ve gone mad!” she yelled above the rain. “First you don’t listen and now that mud-coffee must have polluted your brain.” She poked at him with her finger. “You’ve lost what little mind God gives Yankees.”

  Grayson pulled her to him. “Quiet!” he shouted. She tried to jerk away, but he held her fast. The rain was falling on them both with shelter only inches away, but still he held her close. He loved watching the water splash against her cheeks and run down her face. The cold wind cooled his anger but whetted his passion.

  He lifted her suddenly into his arms and returned to the safety of the tree. She shook the rain from her hair and turned her back to him.

  “Everything you’ve said today has been right.” He knew he was talking more to himself than to her. “I thought if I could irritate you enough, you’d grow angry and I’d grow angry and maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t want you in my bed or in my life.”

  Maggie spun around and shoved him. “Well, you’ve done a fine job, for I don’t want you at all. I want you as far out of my life as you can get. And as for in your bed, Captain Kirkland,
it’ll be a cold day in …”

  “Liar!” He pinned her gently against the aging tree trunk and ignored the jabs and kicks she so freely gave him. “You want me, Maggie. You can fight and kick and call me every name you know, but you want me as much as I want you.”

  “I’ll have you know, I never …” She didn’t finish. His mouth came down on hers with all the force of the spring storm. He leaned back and lifted her off the ground into his arms, and she clung to him as she floated inches above the earth. Passion thundered in their ears as the white lightning of their love shook both of their bodies with desire.

  When she would have turned away and broken the kiss, his lips demanded her compliance. Her fingers dug into his hair and all the world fell away except his arms. Her body made her the liar he’d called her, for every part of her wanted him and had since he’d first touched her. She could deny it to her grave, but there was no denying the way she fit alongside him. Her body moved against him, answering the years of need and longing in them both.

  Slowly, he turned and lowered himself to the ground. He leaned his back against the tree and pulled her into his lap. His kisses had grown tender, satisfying a longing so deep inside her she was afraid to move for fear she might starve in a moment without him.

  As his mouth finally moved from her lips to her neck, she whispered, “I hate you.”

  His lips didn’t stop their journey, but continued along her throat. “Do you?” he whispered, biting lightly at her ear. “Do you hate the way I kiss you, or is it the way my hands move over you?” As he whispered to her, he moved his fingers along her legs and arms, branding her with his touch, forever charging the banks of her passion with his constant flow of desire.

  His arms were no longer imprisoning her, but she didn’t pull away. He moved one finger down the opening of her blouse and pulled the first button free. “I think I inspire more than one emotion in you.”