Tumbleweed Letters Read online

  “The book.”

  “It’ll wait.” His one large hand sifted into her hair while his other cupped her breast. “Sophie Catherine,” he exhaled on a moan. His thumb rubbed across her nipple until it beaded in response.

  She gasped, and her eyes drifted shut. “Cam.” His dark head rose toward her breast and his tongue circled it, dampening the material of her gown. He blew on the wet fabric, and she shivered. His tongue swirled around her nipple again and his mouth drew it in, material and all.

  Desire pooled low, and dampness spread. A moan escaped her lips and her head leaned back. Is this how a man can make a woman feel? Oh, ’tis glorious, so it is.

  “You smell so good. Like roses.” His warm breath fanned over her neck like a caress. He brought a strand of hair to his nose and inhaled. “Even your hair smells like roses.” The thumb of his other hand slowly tortured her nipple.

  She fought to think beyond the sweet torture to her body. “’Tis Madam Dora’s store-bought soap.” Her fingers somehow found their way to his chest, curling and uncurling in the mat of dark hair. How very soft it was, like the down of a baby gosling. Kisses feathered across her face, and she sighed. “Can…can you imagine buying store-bought soap?”

  “I’m thinking my wife should have more of it.” His hand bunched the hem of her nightgown, slowly pulling it upward. Warm calloused fingers caressed her leg.

  “I…I wasn’t a whore at Madam Dora’s.” Clearing the air on her good name, such as it was after Tommy Flannigan ruined it, was important. It also led the way to another important revelation.

  “I know. She told me.” He pressed slow, wet kisses to her neck. His fingertips trailed up her leg close to that very private place, and her legs clamped together.

  “I…I’m untouched, Cam.”

  Fingers stilled, and the kisses on her neck stopped. “You’re still a virgin?”

  “Aye.” Her admission echoed in the bedroom. “I told you I was only married for three hours. Tommy and I were just about…just about to…ah…”

  Several long, loud sighs responded to her proclamation almost as if he were trying to regain control. He pulled her nightgown over her legs and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “Rest your head on my shoulder, wife, while I read. I promised you time, and you’ll have it. Just don’t keep me waiting forever.” He leaned over to retrieve his book from the floor.

  She rested her head on his shoulder and tried to ignore the evidence of his arousal. Even two heavy quilts couldn’t hide it. Was she expected to take all that inside her? Oh, she’d need time to adjust to that thought. Her thighs squeezed together in a protective movement.

  Muscles moved as he found the beginning of the book. His voice shook as he began reading. “The Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.” He flipped the page slowly, his broad calloused hand stroking the paper in an almost reverent gesture. The sound of his voice, intimately hushed and full of wonder, continued, “Chapter One. It was the…”

  Chapter Nine

  Cam woke on his side, spooned against Sophie Catherine’s warm body, her hair draped over his arm. He hadn’t slept this soundly in months. Having a woman in his bed again felt good. There was a rightness about it.

  He leaned up on an elbow and watched her sleep, this stranger who was now his wife. How would they get along? Would she be difficult? Would she come to care for him? Could he come to care for her?

  She slept with her mouth open slightly. Soft breathing echoed in the silence of their bedroom. Red-blonde eyelashes swept across pale cheeks peppered with a smattering of freckles.

  His Amanda had been darker in coloring, although she was careful to shield her skin from the sun. Freckles never had the chance to mar her porcelain skin. She was a southern belle, and he loved her still. Yet here he lay wrapped around another woman, ready for anything she would give him.

  He gently shook her shoulder. “Sophie Catherine.”

  She moaned and stretched, her bottom pushing against his erection.

  He wanted her, wanted the release her body would bring. Until she wanted him in return, he’d have to wait. No matter how painful. Patience. You promised. Before he broke his promise, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his jeans. “I’m getting up.”

  Blankets rustled behind him. “I’ll make coffee,” she said around a yawn.

  He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her push her long hair over her head. For some reason the sight aroused him even more. “Stay in bed until Eli gets up.”

  She crawled across the bed, her round bottom very fetching as she crept toward the footboard. “No, a wife makes breakfast for her husband.”

  Cam was adding wood to the fireplace in the parlor when Sophie Catherine passed through on her way to the kitchen. “Fire’s already built in the cookstove.”

  “Thanks.” She pumped water into the coffeepot.

  “You put your hair back in a braid.” He was hoping she’d leave it down. Her hair flowing free had been a magnificent sight.

  She scooped coffee beans into the hand grinder. “What? Oh, my hair. I always braid it or put it in a bun during the day, especially on a day like today, when I have a lot of work to do.”

  He stepped behind her when she set the pot on the stove. “I enjoy seeing it down.” The need to touch her was great.

  She stilled when his hands wrapped around her waist and drew her back to him. Her breathing hitched. “I…I…ah…don’t have any combs to keep the hair out of my face, so this has to do.” She shifted her shoulders in that impatient way she had. “Now, give me room to move so I can get your breakfast ready.”

  When he lowered his head to press a kiss to her neck, he was pleased at her gasp. He couldn’t help the laughter that sprang from his chest. “Yes, Sophie Catherine.” Something about her brusque, almost irritated demeanor amused him.

  She opened the door to the pantry, and two mice scampered out. “Cam,” her voice dripped with vexation. “We need cats. Madame Dora kept cats in every bedchamber to take care of rats and mice.” She glared at him, her hands planted on her hips. “I won’t live like this.”

  ****

  Sophie wrapped lunch for Cam in a clean cloth. As soon as he left for his day on the range, she would turn her attentions to the house.

  “Give me a kiss goodbye to keep me warm. It’s a chilly morning out there.” He stepped close, his blue eyes soft with some kind of emotion.

  She wanted him to kiss her. In fact she feared how much she wanted it. Her palms went to his chest and gently pushed. “Then ’tis a coat you’ll be needing more than a kiss.”

  Soft lips covered hers. His tongue swept across the seam of her lips. “Open for me, Sophie Catherine. Warm my heart before I head off.”

  His lips were a hair’s width from hers when he spoke. The movement of his lips tickled not only her lips but also many parts of her body, creating a quiver of excitement. Oh, he was a charmer, he was.

  Her arms slowly rose across his broad shoulders, and his embrace tightened. Lips touched and lightning struck her heart. It had to be lightning, the way heat spread to every part of her body while his lips moved over hers. A male groan mingled with her moan of need.

  “Daddy, me kiss. Me kiss.” Eli scampered into the kitchen.

  They stepped away from each other, both breathing rapidly, both obviously affected by the power of that kiss. Cam scooped Eli into his arms and kissed him.

  Eli shook his head. “No.” He pointed a chubby finger at Sophie. “Me kiss.”

  “You want to kiss Momma?” Cam stepped closer so the child could lean close and kiss her.

  “Momma?” Eli smacked a kiss on her lips.

  “Yes, Eli. Momma.” He handed the boy off to Sophie and gathered the lunch she’d prepared for him. “I’ll see you both at suppertime.” He gave them each a kiss and walked outside.

  Her morning was full of cleaning. Eli took to banging a wooden spoon on a pan once she showed him the noise he could make. She also taught him
three new words—spoon, pan, bang—and took delight in teaching him something.

  Rolling up the large rug in the parlor and dragging it outside to the clothesline proved more of a chore than she liked, but not as difficult as heaving it across the clothesline. She worked up a sweat with her efforts, but after several tries and a few muttered curses, she met with success.

  Evidently not wanting to let his new momma out of his sight, Eli brought his pan and spoon outside behind her. When she began beating the carpet with a rug beater, he joined in the process, using his big wooden spoon.

  “Are you helping Momma?”

  Blond curls bounced in the sunlight. “Helping Momma.”

  She began counting with every strike of the rattan rug beater. “One, two, three. Now, Eli, you do it.” To her delight, he did. “What a smart boy you are.” After several minutes of counting out loud and beating the flowered carpet, she straightened to ease her aching back muscles—and came face to face with an Indian watching her over the clothesline.

  Sophie screamed and her hand flew to her chest. Her heart raced and her stomach clenched. Saints preserve us, we’ll be scalped.

  The Indian’s dark hair was parted down the middle and braided into two braids. Two feathers rose from the back. His dark eyebrows were dipped in annoyance. “You make too much noise.”

  She struggled to catch her breath, to stop her heart beating its way out of her chest and to cease the trembling of her legs. “Who…who…” She glanced around, frantic, fearful. Where was Cam? Why wasn’t he here to protect her and the child?

  “You cook these.” Two dead rabbits flopped across the clothesline. One eyebrow rose as he shook them at her as if willing her to take the dead animals.

  She snatched the rabbits from him and eyed her strange visitor. Who was he, and why had he gifted her with rabbits? Did he expect her to cook for him?

  “Bear!” Eli shrieked as he dashed around the hanging rug.

  The man stooped to pick up the boy. “Eli. You grow big and strong.”

  Eli patted his chest. “Big.” His smile indicated he knew the Indian.

  Sophie squared her shoulders, swallowed her fear, and dashed around the carpet to retrieve her child. She quickly surveyed the area. Thank God the Native was alone. “May I have my son, please?” She dropped the rabbits and extended her hands. Surely he wouldn’t harm Eli.

  He narrowed his eyes and leaned Eli away from her. “Your son?”

  “As of yesterday, yes. I’m his new momma.” In an instant, she knew she’d give her life for this little boy with the limited vocabulary and a fondness for material.

  Eli pointed at her. “My momma. Mine.”

  “You married Cam? I didn’t think he’d ever stop grieving for Amanda.”

  “You know my husband?” She inched closer and prepared to snatch the child from this warrior’s arms.

  “Since we were boys. Where is he?”

  She’d be wise to keep that information to herself. Not that she knew where her husband was, only that he’d gone to the canyon to check on the cattle, to see how they’d adjusted to their new surroundings. He said he’d be home by suppertime. By then she and the child could be dead. “He’ll be right back,” she lied. Then she grabbed for Eli, and saw danger flicker in the Indian’s eyes as his hold on the boy tightened.

  ****

  Cam made a sudden decision and turned Samson toward Deadwood. His gaze swept to the sun, an orb behind banks of pale gray clouds—early afternoon, by his estimation. If he didn’t dawdle in town he’d have enough time to complete his business and still get home before dark. For the first time since his Amanda passed, he didn’t have Eli with him, nor did he dread the thought of returning to an empty house. Today, he’d go home to a warm supper and a sassy wife. No, she wasn’t his Amanda, not by a long shot, but there was something endearing about her. He smiled and leaned forward in the saddle, urging Samson onward.

  When he finally made the outskirts of Deadwood, riding past Chinatown, he headed straight for Main Street and Madam Dora’s brothel. He swung down from Samson, and Mrs. Dunlap hurried toward him. Oh, God.

  “Mr. McBride?” Her arm waved as she approached. “I have a question to ask you.”

  He doffed his hat in respectful greeting, just as his maw had taught him. “Good day, Mrs. Dunlap. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you know”—she placed a gloved hand on his forearm—“that rumors are being spread about you?”

  He had a fair idea where this conversation was headed. “Rumors, ma’am?”

  “Yes.” She cast a glance around them and leaned in, her voice lowered. “Nasty rumors.”

  “I’m a hard-working rancher. What could anyone have to say about me?” He’d make her spell it out and then put a halt to her nonsense.

  Mrs. Dunlap took in a large breath as if to give herself enough steam to forge ahead with her train of thought. “Folks are saying you married one of Madame Dora’s girls yesterday.” She pressed a hand to her puffy bosom in an innocent gesture. “Of course, I told them it couldn’t be true. Not a good God-fearing man like yourself.”

  “My Amanda always said you were a good woman, Mrs. Dunlap.” Good for sticking your nose in other people’s affairs.

  She preened under his fake compliment. “Well, she was always the sweetest soul, herself.”

  “I’m begging for your gracious help. I did get married yesterday…to Madame Dora’s cleaning lady.” He ignored her gasp. “I’m a protective husband, Mrs. Dunlap, and would gladly go toe-to-toe with anyone foolish enough to speak badly about my wife. Sophie Catherine was never a prostitute.” Over Mrs. Dunlap’s shoulder, Jethro Rhinehardt was talking to a stranger, and both men stared in his direction. “Please pass the word. Cam McBride protects his own.”

  Her mouth gaped. “Well…”

  He suppressed a smile as he turned on his heel and stepped inside Madam Dora’s.

  “What is the groom doing in my fine establishment?” Dora rustled toward him, wearing emerald green, a color that would look good on Sophie Catherine. “Don’t tell me you wore out the bride already.”

  “No, not hardly.” I wish. “The mice in my house don’t make my wife happy. She said you took care of a similar problem with cats. Do you know where I can get a couple?”

  There was a twinkle in her eye. “Now, why do you suppose people refer to my place as a ‘cat house’? Got cats in every room. Give me a little time, and I’ll round you up a couple.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’ve got some shopping to do, and then I’ll be back.” He opened the door and stilled. “Miz Dora, where do you buy that rose-smelling soap?” The heat of a blush crept up his neck. Thank goodness his long hair hid it.

  Dora laughed. “Liked the smell of it, did you? Well, Thatcher’s Mercantile keeps it in stock for me.”

  When Cam turned Samson toward home, he had brown-wrapped parcels in his saddlebags and a burlap bag with two angry cats inside slung behind him on the saddle. He’d cut small holes so they could get fresh air but, as he quickly learned, cats did not like confinement. To protect his horse from cat claws poking out of the bag, he took off his canvas duster and draped it across his mount. He hadn’t thought about protecting himself, though, and by the time he saw the ranch house, his backside felt as if it were shredded raw.

  He stopped Samson at the cemetery and dismounted to say a few words to his Amanda before heading on to the cabin.

  Chapter Ten

  Once Sophie got over her initial fears where Standing Bear was concerned, she found him remarkably interesting. Not only had he brought a piece of soft deerskin decorated with colorful beads for Eli, but he regaled her with Native beliefs while she skinned the rabbits. As she prepared stew, he sat at the kitchen table and told her how his people thanked wild animals, before killing them, for the nourishment and skins they would provide with their death.

  “Savages,” people called them, or “dirty redskins.” Standing Bear was neither, and she was surprised by h
er interest in his world. He told her how his people were driven to the Black Hills and gifted the land from the Pale Eyes’ government. Never mind the fact his tribe had wintered there for generations before the Pale Eyes decided their government owned it. Now the founders and citizens of Deadwood built their town on reservation land. His people felt robbed again—first their freedom and then the land promised to them.

  “Natives don’t believe anyone can own land. Mother Nature gives us use of all lands. We show respect by taking care of the land, but it is never ours.” His head turned quickly. “I hear Cam’s horse.”

  She hadn’t heard a thing.

  He stepped lightly into the parlor to one of the front windows. “He’s still going to her grave.” Standing Bear shook his head once. “I thought with you here, he’d stop.”

  “Stop what?” She stood next to the Native and fixed her gaze on her husband. He sat on a log, hat in his hands and mouth moving. “What’s he doing?”

  “Since the day he buried her, he’s gone to her grave every evening to tell her what he did that day. He never makes a decision without talking it over with her first.”

  A prick of jealousy teased her heart. She twisted the skirt of her apron as she peered out the window. “How do you know that’s what he’s doing?”

  “I’ve heard him do this. His grief was so bad, I often came to check on him.” He shifted, his shoulder touching hers, and cast a glance on her. “You must stop this. It is not good. The spirit of the dead woman is killing him.”

  “Me? How can I stop him from visiting the cemetery?”

  “You are his wife. You must fill his thoughts with a yearning for you.”

  The heat of an indignant blush slapped her cheeks. “You shouldn’t speak of such things to me.”

  “Be his wife. Heal his soul. This is your job.”

  Humiliated, she turned and moved back into the kitchen. Standing Bear’s words stung. Her husband’s behavior hurt her pride. She glanced back over her shoulder at the Native. “Be Cam’s wife,” he’d said. Saints preserve me, I’ve just been given marital advice from an Indian.