Never Love a Lawman Read online

  Rachel searched his face. He was watching her just as intently, but his gaze didn’t look like curiosity. He was guarded with her, even mistrustful, and he wasn’t prepared to engage her. Faint lines creased the corners of his eyes, as though somewhere inside he was wincing. His lips, in spite of being slightly damp from her kisses, did not invite more of the same. There was nothing in the mildly reproachful set of his mouth that suggested he ever smiled.

  She rose up on her toes again and kissed him anyway, making a pass up his spine with her fingertips. “The boots, I think,” she said against his mouth. “Sit down.”

  Wyatt’s legs folded under him when she applied two fingers to his breastbone and gave him a gentle push. Rachel did not suppose that she’d had any real impact on that outcome and did not believe his cooperation was a foregone conclusion. She knelt in front of him, took his boot by the heel, and wrestled him out of it. The boot flew out of her hands when she finally got it free, and the momentum carried her backward. She thumped to the floor just before the boot thumped against the wall behind her.

  She stared at her empty hands, took account of her awkward, unflattering sprawl, and sighed deeply; then she got back on her knees and braced herself to take off the other boot. She glanced up just as she was gripping the heel and thought she saw Wyatt’s mouth twitch. If it wasn’t her imagination or wishful thinking, then that mere suggestion of humor was an improvement over the wariness of moments before.

  Rachel found the second boot far easier to remove. When it didn’t fly out of her hand, she simply tossed it over her shoulder to join its mate. Standing, she brushed off her hands, then turned and disappeared into the washroom.

  Wyatt stared at the door she closed behind her and wondered if she intended to leave him long in this state, or even if she was prepared to finish what she’d begun. He quickly dismissed the idea of going after her. He couldn’t see himself backing away easily if she’d changed her mind, and it was difficult to imagine a worse ending to six weeks of restraint.

  Some nights he lay awake wondering why he denied himself. Forbearance could easily become frustration, and he would turn on his side and look at Rachel huddled on the edge of the bed. He’d listen to her breathing softly; watch the way her hand sometimes drifted toward her mouth as she slept. Sometimes she made faint, incoherent sounds in her sleep. A protest. A murmur. A moan.

  She never reached for him. Wishing that she would, willing her to do so, could not make it happen. He was careful not to touch her, although there were times he extended his arm across the divide and his fingers strayed close. She was so unaware; her vulnerability was the fence that she’d drawn around herself, whether she understood it or not. While she was perfectly capable of standing toe-to-toe with him during the day, sleep exposed her as defenseless.

  He let her be.

  So now he sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers curled tightly over the side, and waited yet again. To his way of thinking, for his patience to be finally and fully rewarded, Rachel would have to appear stark naked on the threshold. And she’d have to do it in about ten seconds.

  The door opened.

  Nothing that came to his mind was appropriate to say out loud. Some of the sentiments, like oh, sweet Lord and hallelujah, were suitable for church but not for this moment. Others, like damn and every variation on that theme, did not express the reverence he felt. Still other words were just too coarse and could not be softened, no matter that awe was all he wanted to convey.

  Rachel shifted uncomfortably when Wyatt merely stared at her. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even blink. She wasn’t naked, but the sheer lawn nightgown she was wearing certainly suggested she could be. And very easily, too.

  Wyatt almost launched himself at her when he saw her falter and thought she was going to retreat into the washroom. She stepped over the threshold, though, gaining confidence as she approached him, and he stayed his ground.

  She stopped at the point where his knees presented a barrier, but as soon as he opened them, she stepped into the breach. Taking his hands, she placed them on her hips, then slipped her own hands into his hair. She ruffled the overlong, curling ends and lightly stroked the back of his neck with her fingertips. She held his gaze as he looked up at her.

  “I’m not wearing a corset,” she said.

  Wyatt’s mouth had gone dry when she stepped between his splayed legs. He wasn’t sure he could spit, let alone speak, and removing his tongue from where it cleaved to the roof of his mouth required a conscious effort. “I noticed that right off.”

  Rachel was encouraged by the rasp in his voice. “There’s not much that gets past you, Sheriff.”

  He wasn’t so certain that was true. He hadn’t seen this coming. His fingers tightened a fraction on her buttocks, just enough to tilt her pelvis toward him. His nostrils flared slightly as he became aware of the moist, musky scent of her sex and the subtle fragrance of her lavender soap.

  Rachel cupped his face, brushed the pad of her thumb across his lower lip, then allowed her hands to drift lower as she slowly dropped to her knees between his thighs. His palms grazed her waist, her rib cage, the underside of her breasts, and came to rest lightly on her shoulders before he gripped the silken rope of her braided hair in his right hand.

  She turned her head, kissed his knuckles while her fingers strayed to the button fly of his trousers. She heard his harsh intake of air, but he didn’t try to stop her. Sparing him a glance, she asked, “You don’t mind?”

  “Only if you stop.” Her faint smile was enigmatic, maddeningly so from Wyatt’s perspective. “Rachel?”

  “Mmm?” She didn’t look up, concentrating on the buttons instead. She opened one after another along the revealing ridge in his trousers.

  “Have you been talking to someone?”

  Rachel parted his fly. His erection pressed hard against his drawers. She reached inside, circled his cock with her fingers, and drew it out.

  “Rachel.” Caught in the constriction of his throat, her name was barely audible. He saw her eyes widen infinitesimally. In other circumstances he might have been flattered, but not when she seemed to need to prove something to him, and perhaps to herself. “It’s not—”

  But her mouth was already closing over him. She pulled back on his foreskin, her tongue flicking around the sensitive head of his cock. He held her thick plait of hair as if it were a lifeline. The moist suck of her mouth drew him in. She cupped his balls, fondled them. The gentle manipulation of her fingers elicited a groan. His skin was suddenly too small for him, the fit of it unnaturally tight against muscle and sinew that were now defined by tension.

  Her tongue swirled. She took him deeper. Her fist on the root of his shaft made it feel as if she was taking all of him. He watched her, his blood surging and thrumming, making him so hard that he thought she would draw back. Her fingers merely tightened. Her jaw relaxed, and what she did was swallow.

  Wyatt’s own jaw clenched and unclenched, the muscle in his cheek jumping in the exact rhythm that his cock was pulsing. The cadence of his breathing changed. He drew in an uneven draught of air, held it. All of his senses sharpened, and there, where she held him, the pleasure was so finely honed that he thought it might cut him.

  He closed his eyes, the image of her kneeling between his thighs burned into the back of them. His head fell back, exposing the taut cord in his throat. He released her hair and clenched the edge of the bed again. His knuckles were almost bloodless.

  The words that had seemed out of place earlier were the only ones he could voice now. They felt raw in his throat, part need, part prayer, expressive of pleasure that was almost too painful to bear.

  It was Rachel, though, who softly gasped. Wyatt caught her by the upper arms, holding her as tightly as he’d held the edge of the bed, and lifted her away from him. He drew her up, urgency defining his jerky movements and rough handling, and pushed her back on the bed. He followed her down, covering her, grabbing fistfuls of her nightgown until th
e hem was bunched around her waist.

  He was between her thighs now and moments later buried deep inside her. Her back arched. She cried out, not from the force of his thrust, but from the intensity of feeling. She clutched his shoulders, dug her heels into the mattress. Her pelvis tilted. He rocked her back, stroking her, making her take him as completely as she’d done before, demanding that she commit all of herself.

  He moved powerfully but not for long. She made that impossible with her sounds of sweet surrender. Smooth and sleek and slippery, she contracted around him. His strokes shortened, quickened. He gave a shout of pure relief as he came, shuddered hard, and released his seed.

  It seemed an eternity passed before he could move. Occasionally, his muscles twitched, but that was outside his control, aftershocks of the quake. He levered himself away from Rachel, feeling the resistance she applied with her arms and legs, the murmur of protest that came to her lips, and turned over on his back in spite of what she wanted. He fixed his drawers and trousers, drew his shirt down.

  He lay there for a time, aware of nothing so much as the sound of his own breathing and the vaguely unsettled feeling that was cradling his heart.

  Rachel straightened the hem of her nightgown and drew it down over her thighs. She curled on her side. Raising her head on her elbow, she stared at his profile. Lamplight lent his features a warmth that she wasn’t certain was there. Except for the light rise and fall of his chest, he was still. His eyes were open, but he stared at the ceiling without blinking. He turned his head suddenly, startling her with the razor-like sharpness of his gaze.

  “Did I hurt you?” In spite of his intentions, it was more accusation than question. He watched her closely, his eyes narrowing, almost daring her to lie to him.

  Rachel merely sighed. “No.”

  He grunted softly.

  She didn’t know how to interpret the sound that came from the back of his throat. It could have been satisfaction or skepticism. “Your concern is touching, Wyatt, but it’s unwarranted.”

  “I was rough.”

  “Did it seem as though I minded?”

  “I came at you like—”

  Rachel laid her index finger across his lips, stopping him. “Like a man who had been thinking about it for a long time.” She withdrew her finger and reminded him, “I invited you, Wyatt.”

  He grunted again.

  “Does that mean you agree?” she asked.

  Searching her face, he nodded.

  “Good,” she said, edging closer. “It seemed as though you’d forgotten.”

  “Not likely.” His voice still sounded rough to his own ears. “It was a hell of a greeting, Rachel.” The lamplight was sufficient for him to see her cheeks grow warm with color, but she didn’t look away. Her candid regard, even if it was a little forced, was still intriguing. “Where did you learn to invite a man that way?”

  She shrugged.

  Wyatt saw her eyes dart away, though it happened so quickly he’d have been willing to believe he imagined it if they had been talking about almost anything else. “Seems like something you might remember. I’m inclined to believe you didn’t learn it from your mother.” A chuckle vibrated deep in his throat when Rachel’s eyes widened and the warmth in her cheeks became real heat. He cocked an eyebrow. “Your sister, maybe?”

  She shook her head quickly. “Sarah wouldn’t. She’s…well, she wouldn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t do it? Or wouldn’t tell you?”

  “Either.” She dropped her elbow and let her head fall to the pillow. The rest of her reply was slightly muffled. “Both.”

  “So not your sister.” A particularly ugly thought removed the hint of teasing from his voice. “Rachel?”

  She was immediately aware of the change in him, though unaware of the source of it. Tension was suddenly palpable. She lifted her head a fraction. “What is it?”

  “Was it Foster Maddox?”

  At first she truly didn’t understand what he was asking her. “Foster? What about him?” Then she realized the direction his thoughts had taken him. “No, Wyatt,” she said firmly. “Foster only talked about wanting me in his bed. He was never more explicit than that. His attempts at forcing me were just that. Attempts.” She felt the tension that had set his frame so rigidly begin to ease. “If you must know, and it seems you must, I came upon an informative book at Miss LaRosa’s.”

  Wyatt felt as if he had legs under him again. He pushed Foster Maddox to the back of his mind. “Informative?”

  “A primer, one might say.”

  “I doubt anyone would say that.”

  “Well, I would. It was filled with illustrated lessons.”

  “Is that right? I imagine you felt compelled to study it.”

  “Of course. Virginia was mortified when she saw me examining it, and she really didn’t want to answer my questions, but I explained that I would put my questions to one of the other girls and that decided her. I don’t think she wanted me to have a conversation with Miss LaRosa.”

  “Probably not,” said Wyatt.

  “There would have been some awkwardness there, I think.”

  “You don’t say.” Death Valley was not as dry as Wyatt’s tone.

  “Well, it didn’t come to that. It also could be that Virginia was worried I’d keep her wedding dress hostage, though where she would get an idea like that, I can’t imagine.”

  “Strange, I’m not having that same problem.” Wyatt rubbed his chin with the back of his knuckles. “You want to tell her that she did a damn fine job explaining things or should I?” He managed to avoid the fist Rachel thrust in his direction, catching her by the wrist and pulling her across the small distance that separated them.

  She settled quickly and hugged his side, resting her head against his shoulder and securing him with an arm across his chest. “I was nervous,” she confessed, whispering.

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Really?” That pleased her ridiculously. “I thought you’d hear my heart pounding.”

  “Above my own? Not likely.”

  Rachel smiled, content. Not long after, she fell asleep in the middle of a thought.

  Wyatt supported her until his shoulder went numb; then he eased out from under her. He didn’t think he could get her under the covers without waking her, so he drew the quilt up from the foot of the bed. Giving her a last look, he moved quietly to the adjoining washroom. When he came out, barefoot and stripped to a pair of drawers, it was apparent that she hadn’t stirred. Wyatt padded to the kitchen to add wood to the stove and adjust the flue and damper. He did the same in the parlor, ensuring that the house would remain relatively warm until shortly after he rose in the morning. He turned back the lamp beside his reading chair and the one where Rachel had been sewing, then wandered to the front window and drew back the lace curtain. The sky was milky, an effect of a full moon and a cloud cover. The flagstone walk and gated entrance were visible, but beyond that everything was a dark gray silhouette.

  He hadn’t seen Sid Walker today, but he didn’t require the old miner’s rheumatic bones to know that a storm was on the way. There’d been an odd lull in the snowfall that everyone had come to expect in late autumn, and some folks were moved to say that it was downright balmy. As a Boston native, Wyatt didn’t think he had ever experienced balmy, so he listened to the talk without comment. He’d noticed that a certain foreboding accompanied all the discussion, the general feeling being that the weather would turn on them hard.

  Looking at the sky now, Wyatt suspected it was about to happen.

  He wandered through the darkened room, stubbed his toe on the chest of photographs that had been left lying on the floor in the wake of more important matters, and cursed under his breath as he hobbled off to the bedroom.

  Rachel was still sleeping, although she had apparently roused herself long enough to put herself between the sheets. He noticed that while she’d stolen all the covers for herself, she was at least still in the middle of the bed. He w
ouldn’t have to drag her back from the edge.

  Wyatt left the lamp burning on the dresser but turned it back so that light merely flickered inside the etched glass globe. He slid into bed beside her and tugged some of the blankets over him, although she was the real source of warmth. It was not unpleasant when she turned on her side and attached herself to him. He pressed his lips to the crown of her dark hair. He thought he heard her sigh, but it could have been his own.

  Sleep claimed him.

  Rachel was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed when he woke. The lamp that he had been careful to turn back had been given a twist in the other direction and the wick glowed brightly, casting light over her shoulder. Her concession to the room’s persistent chill was the quilt she’d tucked around her. Only the upper portion of her face was visible above it. From Wyatt’s vantage point, her hands were hidden behind the open lid of the chest she’d retrieved from the parlor. She appeared to be studying more photographs, her concentration so centered on her task that she failed to notice that he was watching her.

  He took shameless advantage of it, doing nothing to call attention to himself.

  Her head was bent slightly forward, her eyes lowered. He could tell, though, when her gaze shifted between photographs because the shape of her mouth invariably changed. Sometimes her lips parted. Sometimes the tip of her tongue rested at one corner. Sometimes she simply smiled. Occasionally her eyebrows would lift, or she would rub the bridge of her nose with a knuckle, but mostly it was the expressive tilt of her mouth that he watched.

  That was how he knew when she finally came upon the photograph that he’d been alternately hoping and dreading that she would find.

  It was not merely the suggestion of a frown that gave her away, but the quick indrawn breath that followed. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and worried it absently as she made her study, angling her head, not the photograph.