A Dreams Unlimited Publication - electronically published in arrangement with the author
ISBN 1-892520-18-4
All rights reserved. Copyright April 1999 by Nikita Black
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by copying, fax or any other means, without permission. For information, contact:
Dreams Unlimited
PO Box 543 Northford, CT 06472-0543
Dreams Unlimited
21 Drummond Gardens
Epsom, Surrey
KT19 8RP
England
or email: marketing@dreams-unlimited. com The Dreams Unlimited website address is: http: //www. dreams-unlimited. com
Chapter One
Colorado Territory, 1862
Sally Hewitt lay back on a low granite slab, relishing the feel of the sun's dappled rays on her naked skin. Her long, honey-colored hair was spread out on the rock to dry, her calico dress and camisole draped over a nearby bush. Lord have mercy, it felt glorious to be clean again.
She slipped a hand into the stream swirling below the rock and dribbled water over her face and neck, shivering at the contrast between the early summer heat and the chilly Rocky Mountain snowmelt. The scent of warm pine needles drifted up from the meadow surrounding the small pool where she'd bathed, and she could hear the chatter of jaybirds in the trees overhead.
She dipped into the cool water again, this time letting it run in rivulets down between her breasts and over her stomach. Her muscles clenched in sensual delight. God, she missed the simple pleasures of life on her gramma's Virginia farm. Swimming in the pond, clean feather beds, riding old Dancer, eating anything but biscuits and beans.
Gregory.
The memory of the boy from the farm next door made her smile. She'd let him kiss her once. That had felt glorious, too.
Slowly, the stream water dripped down between her fingers and over her body. She let out a gasp when a cold drop landed on her sensitive nipple. The impertinent bud beaded up and begged for more.
Mmmm. Yes, like that. It had felt exactly like that when Gregory had pressed his lips to hers. She'd quickened then, too, and would have begged for more. But the polecat had just chucked her under the chin and gone looking for her sister, Alyssa.
Not that she blamed him, she thought with a sigh. Alyssa had always been the pretty one. The feminine one. Sally was the tomboy. What they called 'sassy, ' for lack of a more flattering term.
She closed her eyes and grinned. Well, that was just fine by her. She was the clean one now, and Alyssa was cowering back at the wagon, safely ensconced in two weeks' worth of dirt and grime, scared witless by Ernie Tompkin's campfire stories about a war party of Arapaho renegades which he claimed roamed this part of the Territory.
She snorted. Like Ernie Tompkins would know anything about wild Indians.
The water lapped peacefully against the granite, and she pushed out a breath.
How would she ever make herself quit this green, tranquil eden to go back to the clouds of dust, the ever-present smell of ox manure, and the eternal squeaking of ungreased wagon wheels?
But go she must. The wagon train waited for no one, and she didn't want to have to kill herself getting back to the Tompkins' covered wagon before it got too far ahead of her.
She sat up and ran her fingers through her hair to comb out the worst tangles the breeze had woven into it as it dried. The sharp snap of a twig behind her made her quickly turn.
Holy mother of God! She froze in terror.
An Indian! On a horse, holding a rifle on his buckskin-clad knee, feathers flying from his long, black hair, and red war paint slashed across his face. A warrior, who was staring at her naked body in a way that told her men were men, regardless of the language they spoke or the color of their skin.
Her heart slammed into her throat and she tried to cover herself with her hands. She bit down hard to keep from screaming. Screeching like a ninny would accomplish
ISBN 1-892520-18-4
All rights reserved. Copyright April 1999 by Nikita Black
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by copying, fax or any other means, without permission. For information, contact:
Dreams Unlimited
PO Box 543 Northford, CT 06472-0543
Dreams Unlimited
21 Drummond Gardens
Epsom, Surrey
KT19 8RP
England
or email: marketing@dreams-unlimited. com The Dreams Unlimited website address is: http: //www. dreams-unlimited. com
Chapter One
Colorado Territory, 1862
Sally Hewitt lay back on a low granite slab, relishing the feel of the sun's dappled rays on her naked skin. Her long, honey-colored hair was spread out on the rock to dry, her calico dress and camisole draped over a nearby bush. Lord have mercy, it felt glorious to be clean again.
She slipped a hand into the stream swirling below the rock and dribbled water over her face and neck, shivering at the contrast between the early summer heat and the chilly Rocky Mountain snowmelt. The scent of warm pine needles drifted up from the meadow surrounding the small pool where she'd bathed, and she could hear the chatter of jaybirds in the trees overhead.
She dipped into the cool water again, this time letting it run in rivulets down between her breasts and over her stomach. Her muscles clenched in sensual delight. God, she missed the simple pleasures of life on her gramma's Virginia farm. Swimming in the pond, clean feather beds, riding old Dancer, eating anything but biscuits and beans.
Gregory.
The memory of the boy from the farm next door made her smile. She'd let him kiss her once. That had felt glorious, too.
Slowly, the stream water dripped down between her fingers and over her body. She let out a gasp when a cold drop landed on her sensitive nipple. The impertinent bud beaded up and begged for more.
Mmmm. Yes, like that. It had felt exactly like that when Gregory had pressed his lips to hers. She'd quickened then, too, and would have begged for more. But the polecat had just chucked her under the chin and gone looking for her sister, Alyssa.
Not that she blamed him, she thought with a sigh. Alyssa had always been the pretty one. The feminine one. Sally was the tomboy. What they called 'sassy, ' for lack of a more flattering term.
She closed her eyes and grinned. Well, that was just fine by her. She was the clean one now, and Alyssa was cowering back at the wagon, safely ensconced in two weeks' worth of dirt and grime, scared witless by Ernie Tompkin's campfire stories about a war party of Arapaho renegades which he claimed roamed this part of the Territory.
She snorted. Like Ernie Tompkins would know anything about wild Indians.
The water lapped peacefully against the granite, and she pushed out a breath.
How would she ever make herself quit this green, tranquil eden to go back to the clouds of dust, the ever-present smell of ox manure, and the eternal squeaking of ungreased wagon wheels?
But go she must. The wagon train waited for no one, and she didn't want to have to kill herself getting back to the Tompkins' covered wagon before it got too far ahead of her.
She sat up and ran her fingers through her hair to comb out the worst tangles the breeze had woven into it as it dried. The sharp snap of a twig behind her made her quickly turn.
Holy mother of God! She froze in terror.
An Indian! On a horse, holding a rifle on his buckskin-clad knee, feathers flying from his long, black hair, and red war paint slashed across his face. A warrior, who was staring at her naked body in a way that told her men were men, regardless of the language they spoke or the color of their skin.
Her heart slammed into her throat and she tried to cover herself with her hands. She bit down hard to keep from screaming. Screeching like a ninny would accomplish
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