Читать книгу The Ashtons: Walker, Ford & Mercedes - Emilie Rose - Страница 15

Walker and Tamra had spent the afternoon with families who had no electricity and no running water. People living in abandoned camper shells, in old shacks, in rusted-out trailers. But even so, he’d seen pride in their eyes, determination, kindness, a sense of community.

And now Tamra had taken him to the Wounded Knee Memorial. He wasn’t sure why she’d decided to come here, especially today, after driving all over the reservation. They were both road weary and tired.

Walker studied his surroundings. Aside from a Lakota couple selling dream catchers in a shelter of pine boughs, there was no one around. He suspected a few tourists trickled by now and then, or else the enterprising young couple wouldn’t have any customers.

A green sign, suffering from vandalism, offered a historical account of the Massacre of Wounded Knee. The word massacre had been bolted onto the sign with a sheet of metal, covering something below it.

“What did it say before?” Walker asked Tamra, who stood beside him, her hair glistening in the late-day sun.

“Battle,” she told him.

“The Battle of Wounded Knee?”

“That was what the government originally called it.”

But it wasn’t a battle, Tamra explained, as he gazed at the sign. It was a massacre—a place where more than three hundred Indians, mostly women and children, were killed on December 29, 1890, for supporting the Ghost Dance, a religion that had been outlawed on Lakota reservations.

Fourteen days prior to the massacre, the tribal police murdered Sitting Bull at his home. That prompted Big Foot, another Lakota chief, to lead his band to Pine Ridge, where he hoped to seek shelter with Chief Red Cloud, who was trying to make peace with the army. But Big Foot, an old man ill with pneumonia, and most of his people, were exterminated instead. Those who survived told their story, recounting the chilling details.

“It was the Seventh Cavalry who shot them,” Tamra said. “Custer’s old unit. The government sent them, along with other troops, to arrest the Ghost Dancers. The morning after Big Foot and his band were captured, a gun went off during a scuffle. And that was it. That was how the massacre started.” She paused, her voice impassioned with the past, with a war-torn history. “At first the struggle was fought at close quarters, but most of the Indians had already surrendered their weapons. There were only a hundred warriors. The rest were women, children and old men. When they ran to take cover, the cavalry opened fire with cannons that were positioned above the camp. Later some of the women were found two or three miles away, a sign that they were chased down and killed.”

Walker glanced at the craft booth, where dream catchers fluttered, feathers stirring in the breeze. “The Seventh Cavalry got their revenge.”

“Yes, they did.” Tamra followed his gaze. “The Ghost Dance was supposed to bring back the old way, to encourage spiritual powers to save us. At the time, the government was reducing our land and cutting our promised rations. The Lakota were sick and starving. They needed hope.”

“They needed the Ghost Dance,” he said.

She nodded, and he thought about the documentary on TV, the reenactment of a woman and child bleeding in the snow. Was that a depiction of Wounded Knee? Of the massacre? He’d only caught a glimpse of it while he was switching channels, but it had affected him just the same.

“Someone found a baby still suckling from its dead mother,” she said, her words creating a devastating image in his mind. “And after most of the people had been killed, there were soldiers who called out, claiming that those who weren’t wounded should come forth, that they would be safe. But when some of the little boys crept out of their hiding places, they were butchered.” She paused, took a breath. “We have an annual event called Future Generations Riders, where the organizers take a group of horseback riders, mostly children, on the same trail as the Wounded Knee victims. Sitting Bull’s great-great-great-grandson is one of the leaders. Some of the kids don’t know their culture, so it helps them learn, to look to the future. Hope can come from grief. From accepting who you are.”

“Spencer told me that being Indian didn’t matter,” Walker admitted. “That I needed to forget about it if I wanted to succeed.”

“I was told the same thing. From my mother, from your mother. But Mary and I have changed. We believe differently now.”

“Can we visit the grave site?” he asked, compelled by his heritage, the Lakota blood he’d fought so hard to ignore.

“Yes, of course,” she told him, meeting his gaze.

He wondered if she could see into his heart, if she knew what he was thinking. If she did, she didn’t say anything. Instead she led him to a road that looped around like a teardrop.

On top of a hill, a rustic archway announced the entrance to the cemetery. A mass grave, hedged by a small slab of concrete, was marked with a stone obelisk, listing the names of the Indians buried there. Native gifts, feathers and tobacco offerings adorned their resting place. Surrounding the memorial were other graves, a bit more modern, scattered in the rough grass.

Walker reached for Tamra’s hand and whispered a prayer. She slid her fingers through his, and they stood side by side, a man and a woman who’d forged a bond.

A closeness neither of them could deny.

After they went back to her truck, they sat in silence for a while. Finally he turned to look at her. She moved closer, and they kissed.

Slowly, gently.

And even though the exchange was more emotional than physical, more sweet than sexual, he wished they could make love tonight, hold each other in the same bed. Of course, he knew that wasn’t possible. Especially since he’d agreed to stay at his mother’s house.

Confused, he ended the kiss, still tasting her on his tongue, still wanting what he shouldn’t have.

Tamra lay beside Mary, who snored a bit too loudly. Restless, she glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost one o’clock in the morning. She’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, trying not to toss and turn. But it wasn’t the other woman’s snoring that kept her awake.

It was Walker.

She’d given him her room, offering him a private place to sleep. But picturing him in her bed was making her skin warm. When she touched her lips, intent on reliving his kiss, she knew she was in trouble.

She couldn’t fantasize about Walker, not here, not now, not like this. Guilty, she climbed out of bed, cautious not to wake Mary.

What she needed was a drink of water. A tall glass, full of ice. Something to douse her emotions, to cool her skin.

As she padded down the hall, the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. Once she reached the kitchen, she stalled. Walker stood at the counter, drinking a glass of water, doing exactly what she had come to do.

He hadn’t noticed her yet. He faced the tiny window above the sink, gazing out at the night. His chest was bare and a pair of shorts rode low on his hips. His hair, those dark, sexy strands, fell across his forehead in sleepless disarray.

Suddenly he turned and caught sight of her. The glass in his hand nearly slipped. She could almost hear it crashing to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay. I was just—”

He roamed his gaze over her, and she became acutely aware of her short summer nightgown, of the soft cotton material.

“Just what?”

“Thirsty,” he told her.

“Me, too.”

“Then you can have this.”

He handed her his water, and she put her mouth on the rim of the glass, sipping the liquid, wishing she were tasting him. The ice crackled, jarring the stillness.

He continued to watch her, taking in every inch of her body. He seemed to like what he saw, the slight cleavage between her breasts, the flare of her hips, the length of her bare legs.

She took another sip of his drink and noticed that his nipples were erect. She wanted to drop her gaze, but she didn’t have the nerve to glance at his fly, to be that bold in the middle of the night.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Not in your bed.”

Tamra returned his glass, giving him the rest of the water. In the process, her hand touched his. “Why not?” she asked, her heart picking up speed.

“Because I kept imagining your scent on everything. The sheets, the pillowcase.”

Dizzy, she took a deep breath, dragging oxygen into her lungs. “I don’t wear perfume.”

“I know. I can tell. You wear lotion. Whenever we get really close, I can smell it on your skin.”

“It’s just a moisturizer.” She knew that was a dumb thing to say, but she didn’t know how else to respond. He was looking at her with lust in his eyes, with a hunger so deep, she wanted to crawl all over him.

Right here. In his mother’s kitchen.

“It’s soft,” he said. “Airy. Like the plants and flowers in the greenhouse at my family’s estate.” He set his glass on the counter and moved forward.

She swallowed, got thirsty again, envisioned his mouth covering hers. She knew he was seducing her, but she didn’t care. She liked the erotic expression on his face, the deep, husky tone of his voice.

He took another step toward her, his feet silent on the faded linoleum. “I haven’t been with anyone in months.”

A vein fluttered at her neck. She could feel it, skittering beneath her skin. “It’s been longer than that for me.”

“I’m good at controlling my urges,” he told her.

She stood perfectly still. He was only inches away, so close they struggled to breathe the same air. “So am I. But I can’t seem to do that with you.”

“Me, neither.” He cursed, just once, before he dragged her into his arms, before he kissed her so hard, her head spun.

When he pinned her against the counter, she nearly wept. His mouth plundered hers, over and over, giving her what she wanted, making the moment last.

Heat. Intensity. A tongue-to-tongue sensation.

She gripped his shoulders; he cupped her bottom and pulled her flush against his body. Then they broke apart and stared at each other.

“We can’t do this,” he said. “Not here.”

She nodded, fighting the pressure between her legs, the desperation he’d incited. “Then where?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled his hand through his hair. “I can’t think clearly.”

Neither could she. All she wanted was him. Walker Ashton. A boy she’d heard about since she was a child. A man she barely knew.

“We could go for a drive,” he suggested. “In my car.”

The SUV he’d rented, she thought. A vehicle with four-wheel-drive and big backseat. Suddenly she felt like a teenager, a moonstruck girl who should know better. “What if your mom wakes up?”

“We’ll leave her a note.”

“And say what? That we decided to cruise around the rez in the middle of the night? Or drive to Gordon for a piece of pie?”

He made a face. “Do you have a better idea?”

“At least let me get dressed. Grab something from my room. Mary knows I’d never go out like this.”

That made him smile. Apparently, he’d been willing to climb behind the wheel just as he was—half-naked and much too aroused. “My clothes are in your room, too. Will you get me a shirt? A pair of tennis shoes?”

She nodded, but as she turned away, he latched on to her arm. She thought he was going to kiss her again, but he didn’t. He frowned instead.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I don’t have any protection.”

“I’m on the Pill.”

He was still frowning. “I thought you haven’t been with anyone for a while.”

“I haven’t. But I prefer to be prepared.”

He searched her gaze. “Because of the father of your baby?”

She let out the breath she was holding. “Yes.”

“I can’t make any promises, Tamra. No happily-ever-afters. But I wouldn’t do what he did. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

“Thank you.” She realized they were whispering, speaking in hushed tones, talking about something far more intimate than sex.

And this time when she turned away to get their clothes, he didn’t stop her.

Walker drove into the night, traveling on a dirt road, thinking this had to be the most strangely erotic moment of his life. Tamra sat beside him with a shopping bag on her lap. He hadn’t asked her what was in it. For now he was trying to decide where to park. The reservation was dark, eerie, beautiful. The land went on forever, with trees swaying to the moonlight. In the distance a coyote howled.

“I don’t know how far to go,” he said.

She turned to look at him. She’d changed into a sundress that sported a row of tiny buttons down the front. On her feet, she wore cowboy boots. He’d never seen a more compelling woman. Her hair was the color of a raven’s wing, sleek and shiny and begging to be touched.

“With me?” she asked.

He blinked, wondered what she meant. Then it dawned on him. She was responding to his statement. The SUV hit a slight bump in the road, and he grinned. He knew how far to go with her. “I was talking about how far I should keep driving, where would be a good place to park.”

“Oh.”

She ducked her head and he suspected she was blushing. He reached over to slide his fingers through her hair, just for a second, just to feel the silkiness against his skin. “I’m going to do everything imaginable to you.”

“Oh,” she said again, only sexier this time.

Damn if he didn’t want to pull over right now, right in the middle of the road. “How about over there?” he gestured to a copse of cottonwoods.

Tamra glanced out the window. “The river is that way. There might be people camped by the water.”

“Then we’ll go in the other direction.” He cut across the terrain, closer to the hills, to a backdrop that took his breath away. He’d never made love in an area so vast, so romantic.

He parked beneath a jagged stretch of moonlight, where stars danced in the sky. “What’s in the bag, Tamra?”

She clutched it to her chest. “A blanket. Some extra clothes.”

“Extra clothes?” He touched her hair again, toying with a strand that looped across her cheek. “What for?”

“In case the ones we’re wearing get torn.”

Walker’s pulse jumped. Excited, intrigued, far too aroused, he moved closer. “Does that mean we can go crazy?”

She chewed her lip, a girlish habit he’d seen her do before. “You kept warning me that we were going to tear off each other clothes and I—” she paused, leaned toward him “—thought we better be prepared.”

He wasn’t sure if anything could prepare him for this moment—this middle-of-the-night, heaven-help-him lust. Anxious, he took her in his arms, his hands nearly quaking. She held on to him, too, gripping his shoulders.

And then they kissed, as deeply as they could, tongue to tongue, heart to beating heart.

A second later they went mad. He attacked her dress, sending every last button flying. She did the same thing to his shirt, ripping the denim with feminine force.

When she climbed onto his lap, he thought he might die. He breasts were exposed, only inches from his mouth. She was jammed between him and the steering wheel, but she didn’t seem to mind. So much for the blanket, he thought. She’d dropped it, along with their extra clothes, onto the floorboard.

He licked her nipples, switching sides, blowing on each one, making them peak. She pulled his head closer, encouraging him to suckle.

Desperate, he lifted her dress to her thighs, running his hands along the waistband of her panties. She moaned and rubbed against his fly.

He closed his eyes, opened them, smiled at her.

She was watching everything he did, trying to see in the dark. He turned on the dome light, illuminating the vehicle with a soft glow. He didn’t care if it drained the battery. He could stay here, just like this, for the rest of his life.

His body was rock hard, thick and solid and eager to penetrate hers. Only, they were still half-dressed, still torturing each other with foreplay.

She looked incredible, with her luscious curves and golden-brown skin. Her neck was long and slender, and her nipples were damp with saliva.

His saliva. His hunger. His insatiable need.

“I could eat you alive,” he said.

“Then do it.” She rocked forward in his lap, creating friction, giving him a slightly shy, slightly sirenlike smile. “And I’ll do it to you, too.”

Every ounce of blood rushed straight to his groin. He had no idea how she could be so subtle yet so obvious. Women, he thought, were fascinating creatures.

“This could be a dream.” He nuzzled her neck, tongued the shell of her ear and inhaled the fragrance on her skin, the lotion that drove him to distraction. “A wet dream,” he added, dragging her into the backseat.

Once again, he hiked up her dress, but this time, he removed her panties, clutching the piece of lace. He wondered if she’d chosen them for him or if she always wore such sexy little underthings.

When he kissed her there—right there—she bucked against his mouth. Wanting more, he pushed her legs open even farther, showing her how naughty he intended to get.

She practically melted against him, dissolving like spun sugar. Then she took off her dress and boots, tossing them aside, offering him every inch of her naked body.

A sacrifice, he thought. A gift.

Within minutes—heart pounding, soul-spinning minutes—Tamra kept her promise, shifting her body so she could pleasure him, too. So they could make love to each other at the same time.

She dislodged his shorts and took him in her mouth, making his stomach muscles quiver, making his blood swim.

Yet somewhere deep down, he knew this was more than an affair. This was their emotions, a blend of sex and sin, of passion and warmth, of unbridled affection.

A pleasure so deep, he feared he might drown.

He kept tasting her, licking her while she did erotic things to him. And when she climaxed, when she convulsed against his tongue, he fought the urge to come, too.

Knowing he couldn’t let her take him all the way, he stopped her before it happened. She sat up and gazed at him, still glassy-eyed from her climax.

Finally she smiled at him, and he realized why. His shorts were halfway down his legs, and he was still wearing his shirt, the fabric she’d torn to smithereens. He grinned and tackled her, pinning her to the seat.

She wrestled with his clothes, and they went crazy all over again. By the time he was completely naked, she dug her nails into his skin, clawing him like a dark-eyed cat, a feline in heat.

He thrust into her, full hilt. She wrapped her legs around him, and they gazed at each other, trapped in a candid moment, in being as close as possible.

She grabbed on to the plastic handhold above her head, bracing herself for a deep, driving rhythm, telling him, without words, what she wanted.

He didn’t disappoint. He took her, hard and fast, rough and dangerous.

There was no other way to describe their coupling. The crush of their mouths, the clank of teeth, the greedy, frantic, carnivorous sensation of pounding straight into her.

The woman stealing his senses.

She made his mind spin, his breath catch, his heart nearly beat its way out of his chest.

Together, they let themselves fall. She clung to him, gasping in his ear, shuddering in his arms. He came, too, spilling into her, warm and wet and drugging.

In the moments that followed, they remained still, afraid to move, to break the connection.

Finally he withdrew, leaving her damp with his seed. Unsure of what else to do, he grabbed his discarded shirt and tucked it between her legs, letting her use it like a towel.

“You’re not sorry, are you?” she asked.

“No. Why would I be?”

“Because you said we were going to be sorry afterward.”

“I said that before I knew you.” He scooted next to her, smoothing her hair away from her face, thinking how beautiful she was.

“I’m not sorry, either.”

He smiled, then noticed she looked chilled. He remembered the blanket she’d brought and climbed in the front seat to retrieve it.

“Here.” He slipped it over her shoulders, and she invited him to share it with her.

He turned off the dome light, darkening the car, bathing them in the pitch of night. And as they snuggled in the dark, he wondered if they would be sorry later.

When he left the reservation without her.