A Lady Bought with Rifles by Jeanne Williams

rely on myself, perhaps the sooner I start the better.”
    â€œMiranda.”
    Something in his voice stabbed to my depths. Why, oh, why did he have to have a wife? I wondered if Reina knew and if there was anything between them. He had been kind. I could scarcely help loving him. But he mustn’t guess that or he’d pity me, find me pathetic.
    â€œMiranda,” he said again.
    I slid down from the ledge, but he was suddenly before me, and though he kept his arms rigidly at his sides, I feared to move past him. I knew instinctively that a motion of mine could send him out of that tight control. Though I thrilled to the thought, whatever went on between men and women was to me a fascinating, somewhat terrifying matter of conjecture. The depth of my ignorance had me believing it was blood, not semen, that men discharged. In spite of what had happened after we watched the stallion, I still didn’t know exactly what went on between men and women, both wanted and feared it. I waited by the rock, pinioned by eyes that had taken on the cool glow of the moon.
    â€œI never worried much about my crossed trails,” he said, keeping his hands at his sides. “But they’ve got me where I can’t say or do what I’d like to. I can’t—won’t—hurt you, Miranda.”
    I was hurting, and I knew he was. A yearning that was more than desire was almost palpable between us. As if to break his silent intensity, he spoke in a louder tone. “I owe your parents my life. If you let me help you, it’s the only way I can ever pay them back.”
    It would be ungracious and foolish to refuse an offer made like that. Even though the future could not be guessed at, knowing this enigmatic man would be my friend made me feel much safer. I managed a shaky smile.
    â€œThank you, Trace.”
    He gave a quick nod of satisfaction. “Good. When Sewa can travel, I’ll take you to Hermosillo.” He slipped his hand beneath my elbow, turning back down the canyon. “Don’t forget, Miranda. As long as I live, you have a friend.”
    Friend?
    I should have been glad of that, but I felt a surge of anger at his marriage, the woman in his past who barred him from me, everything that forbade my loving him. Overwhelmed, I looked up at him. “Oh, Trace!” I said forlornly. Then, in this strange world of moon and shadow, I could say what I never would have by day. “Trace, kiss me.”
    A tremor went through him. I felt a surge of power, of confidence, almost as if I were the older, experienced one. Taking his hands, I kissed them, carried them to my breasts, excited by his hesitation. His breath escaped in a shuddering sigh. He brought me into his arms, bent his head, and kissed me, parting my lips, finding my tongue with his.
    â€œAll right,” he said in a funny, ragged tone. “All right, my sweetheart. I can do something for you. Make you feel good without hurting you for marriage.”
    â€œBut that doesn’t sound fair for you, Trace.”
    He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I’ll love it—just seeing you, holding you, doing what I can.” He had brought me down on a flat rock ledge, his hands opening my bodice, freeing my breasts, molding them with his fingers, which lightly brushed the tips till I arched against him, avid for his caresses, his mouth, the long hard length of his body.
    He nuzzled my nipples with lips and tongue. One hand pushed aside my skirts, stroked up to the eagerness between my legs, toyed in a way that brought parts of me alive that had slept till now. Then, as the friction of his hand, though pleasurable, became a bit painful, his tongue left my breast, and in a second I felt a slow deep stroking, an incredibly sensitive yet virile exploration varied with light, swift flecks that sent liquid fire through me, centered it beneath that sure expert tongue that stroked faster, faster, coaxing till that secret part of me