Dance Hall Road Page 10

  His silver eyes lighting up with indignant sparks, he protested. “George? I’d have to slit my throat.”

  “Well, I know your mother didn’t name you Buck. No mother would do that. You can name your dog Buck. Buck is a name you acquire as you grow older, possibly, but no mother would intentionally name her son, Buck—at least I wouldn’t think so.”

  Studying his features, the shape of his head, his noble brow, his strong jaw and rather prominent nose, she gave him her assessment. “I bet you were a beautiful baby, very handsome. I bet your mother gave you a very important name.”

  His mouth pulled to the side, his mustache twitched, he almost smiled. Recovering quickly, he reverted to sourpuss. “You know, I liked it better when you couldn’t hear. You didn’t talk so much.”

  “If you think you can change the subject, you’re wrong.” With a shake of her head, she repeated, “Come, come, Mr. Hoyt, what is your given name, the name your mother gave you?”

  “What makes you think I had a mother,” he asked, leaning forward, his arms folding on the tabletop.

  Taking up her chair, she sat down, put one elbow on the table, and then cupped her chin in her palm, her head tilted to the side, ignoring his mulish facade. “Oh, I know you had a mother. She taught you how to cook and sew, and nurture. You had a mother, and I would wager she loved you and you loved her.”

  Yes. Pulling in her chin, proud of herself, yes, it was true, she could tell all of that about him by the way he’d taken care of her—of Gabriel.

  It pleased her to see him blanch, his eyes looking everywhere but at her before turning his glare on her. “Yeah, so I had a mother—everybody’s got a mother—I had a half-dozen mothers.”

  Petra had to think that one over. A half-dozen mothers? He’d said it before. How could he have a half-dozen mothers? Maybe he’d been raised in a convent. It certainly would explain a lot of things. Although she couldn’t quite see Mr. Hoyt as a little boy surrounded by a flock of nuns. If he’d been raised in a convent, then he’d certainly managed to escape unscathed by the experience.

  With a shake of her head, she dismissed him. He was talking in riddles again, trying to get her off track. “What did all these mothers call you, Mr. Hoyt?” she asked, not about to give up on the topic.

  Finally, he chuckled and sat back in his chair. “You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you? All right. All right. My name is Hoyt.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I know that. Your first name, what is your first name?”

  “Hoyt is my first name. I changed it when I bought this place. My full name is Hoyt Mathias VanDeveer Buxton. No one else knows it,” he said under his breath.

  Lurching forward he shook his finger in front of her nose. “You got to promise not to repeat it. I’m sorry I told you. Van Buxton is wanted for horse thievin’ in the San Joaquin Valley in California. I don’t care much for the idea of my neck gettin’ stretched out at the end of a rope. So keep what I just told you under your hat.”

  In awe, whispering, she asked, “Van…VanDeveer…Buxton, that’s you—you were a horse thief?”

  With a nod of his head, he grinned. “Van Buxton, young and stupid, got out of the business as soon as he could. One moonless night, as he rode out into the Humboldt Sink, not far from Reno, a bullet in his shoulder, parched, tongue swollen, a posse on his tail, it occurred to that dumb kid—me—that I would die at an early age unless I made some changes.

  “I lost the posse…somehow. They probably figured me as good as dead headin’ out across no-man’s-land wounded. But I lived to cross over into Oregon. At the time, I thought I was headin’ for Canada. But I stopped here, bought this place. I grew some hair to hide behind, and just forgot to shave until you came along.”

  “So some of your stories, they’re from personal experiences?”

  Now she had a clear vision of him, young and frightened, wounded out on the desert in the moonlight. Yes. Oh, yes, Petra could relate to that feeling.

  Leaning in, his nose inches from hers, he pinned her down with a glare. “When and how did you get hold of any of my stories? Did I say you could read my stories? I didn’t.”

  She waved her hand to shoo aside his scold. “Oh, pooh, I suspect you left your notebook lying around on purpose so I might read your stories. And, by the way, I liked them very much. They’re colorful, funny, full of danger and impossible plots. You should get them published.”

  “Yeah, I’d like that,” he said and pulled back in his seat. “But it’s easier said than done.”

  Bouncing forward he demanded to know, asking, “What-a-yah mean impossible plots? Funny? There’s nothing funny about my stories.”

  With a shake of her head, giggling to herself, determined to stay on topic, Petra moved the conversation forward. “We digress. I can’t call you Buck,” she said and gave out a sigh. “It just isn’t you. You aren’t Mr. Hoyt to me, not now. Buck is…is too coarse a name for you.”

  Scraping his chair back, he sprang to his feet and began to pace back and forth in front of the table, his fingers raking through his chestnut hair. “What is this? What’s wrong with Mr. Hoyt? I’m fine with that.”

  Coming to a standstill, his hands going to the tabletop, he leaned down, eyebrows drawn together over a scowl. “Mr. Hoyt keeps me in my place. It reminds me I can’t have you. I got to leave you alone.”

  Petra rose and came around to stand at his side.

  Facing her, he begged with his eyes and said, “I shouldn’t want you.”

  Taking his hand, she pulled him over to the rocking chair and directed him to take the chair. Before he could protest, she sat on his lap and put her hands on either side of his big face. A long silence loomed between them as they gazed into each other’s eyes. In his eyes, she recognized his resolve to honor her. But Petra hoped to convey, without words, she didn’t want to fight the inevitable.

  Before their lips met, he said, “We’re gonna be sorry.” With their lips barely touching, a tingling sensation rippled all the way down to her toes. Holding her breath, his fingers slid down behind her ear, as his other hand went to her hip. The warmth of his hand on her bottom through the fabric of her blanket skirt felt so good, so right, she wanted to cry.

  When his tongue explored the seam between her lips, she started to quake. She felt the fire building down low. It started out as a plaintive ache, then blossomed into an all-out cry for attention. Parting her lips, she invited him to deepen the kiss. One hand held her head captive while his tongue danced with her own.

  With lips against his, she heard herself cry out with pleasure and helpless need. He stopped, his breathing ragged, the muscles in his arms quivering, holding her carefully as he’d done before.

  “Mathias, Matt…” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  “What?” She didn’t understand, “Mathias?”

  His lips moving against hers, he said, “Mathias. Mama used to call me Mathias when she wanted to scold and Matt when she called me in to supper or told me to do my chores.”

  Tipping her head back, Petra searched the depths of his gray eyes, and the planes of his face. “Yes, I think Matt suits you very well. I like it.”

  He nodded and tightened his grip on her. One hand went to her waist and his fingers started to bunch up her shirt. His other hand, warm and rough, sought her bare breast. Then his fingers began to circle her hard, taught nipple. Her milk leaked onto his fingers, making them slick as they moved across her skin in a slow, hypnotic motion.

  Emitting a primitive growl, his lips found her neck and glided against her skin. Driving her mad with his tongue, she squirmed, thinking she should probably protest, while her body begged for more. The contradictory sensations of pleasure and ache, of right and wrong, simply ceased to matter as waves of desire slithered down, down deep into her core, gathering there to pool in an eddy of need.

  Vaguely aware his hand had moved down to her abdomen to untie the string on the waist of her long johns, she considered putting a st
op to this, but it was too late. She couldn’t stop, didn’t want to. When his fingers slid over her belly to her mound, she surrendered, laying her head on his shoulder. With her eyes closed, she spread her legs. His fingers moved around and in and out of the folds of her privates.

  These were primal sensations—wicked and all consuming. Shutting out everything but the feel of his fingers, she concentrated on the waves of exquisite vibrations setting her body to thrumming to an exotic, intoxicating rhythm.

  The waves, when they crested and she felt the spasms of pleasure and pain lick through her, she cried out with joy and release. She wept with wonder, held fast, safe, secure, in Mr. Hoyt’s…Matt’s…arms.

  Chapter Ten

  Her body trembling, cradled in his arms, Buck tried his best to console her. Assailed by guilt and sheer panic, he whispered his heartfelt apologies, but found nothing he could do or say would put a halt to Petra’s weeping.

  Nearing hysteria, she hiccupped a few times, even giggled. He didn’t know what to make of her reaction. He didn’t know if she was upset, angry, embarrassed, sorry…, he couldn’t tell.

  “I didn’t know, I really didn’t,” she managed to say between gulping sobs.

  Struggling for control, her eyes brimming with tears, Petra asked him the startling question, “Is…is what happened, supposed to happen? Your fingers—plucking at me like the strings on a harp, set my body to vibrating out of control.”

  Her eyes alight from within, she begged him, “Please, I’d like to try it again?”

  Overwhelmed with relief, feeling on the verge of hysteria himself, he nearly burst out bawling. Swallowing down the hard lump he gave her his answer. “Damn right. You can do it again and again. The whole idea is to feel good…better than just good. That’s why men like to do it, ‘cause it feels so damn good. But most of the time men don’t think much about pleasuring anyone but themselves.

  “Men…we…need a breather now and then, but women, in my experience, can pretty much go off all day and all night if they get the right kind of encouragement. If you want to try it, I think I could keep up. Hell, no matter if I lag behind a bit, I’d be pleased to help you practice doing your part, ma’am.”

  Laughing, Petra in his arms, Buck came to his feet to deposit her, none too ceremoniously, on the bed, then he enthusiastically proceeded to remove his shirt and trousers. Giggling, Petra quickly shed her clothes and tossed them over the side of the bed. She scooted over to make room for him as he climbed in next to her. Stretching out on his side, his arm going beneath her head, Buck eased one of his big hairy legs between her thighs, then stopped cold. His gaze falling into the deep blue depths of her shining eyes, he heard the niggling voice of his conscience warn him, if you follow your inclination, and bed this woman, your life will change…nothing will ever be the same again…nothing.

  “I think I can guess what you’re thinking, Mathias Buxton.” Her fingers slid down the side of his ribcage to his hip, her gaze locked with his. “I bet you’re worried I might be stupid enough to believe what we’re about to do means something.” She shook her head and batted her eyes. “Don’t give it another thought. Not long ago I might’ve conjured up some idiotic dream of you and me before the hearth. I would’ve assumed that lying together automatically spelled commitment. But no more. I’ve given up on such foolishness.”

  Buck opened his mouth to give her an honest assessment of what their copulating would mean to him, but her lips closed over his, stopping him from speaking. Then she inched back to say, “You see, I intend to be practical. I’m going to leave my heart out of this. Whatever this is, be it mere fascination, experimentation or pure lust, it doesn’t matter, not to me.”

  She put her fingers over his lips. “Don’t say a word. I would bet you’re of a like mind. In all practicality, I’m quite certain you’ll not disappoint me. I’m confident you’ll see to it I have a delightful experience, one I will always remember and never regret.”

  Her sultry smile, meant to assure him of her understanding, merely served to confuse and frustrate him. Her hand, warm and soft, massaged his butt, distracting him from the unease her little speech had given him.

  With her fingers stroking his ear as she spoke, her words soft, her breath warm on his neck, all rational thought left him. He could only think how perfect she was. Her coffee brown tresses fanning out on his pillow and down over the white purity of her shoulders, barely concealing her breasts. How could he ignore those lips, plump and ripe, the color of raspberries? No man worth his salt could think straight under these conditions.

  “There’s no need for either of us to make promises we have no intention of keeping.”

  She’d pretty much expressed his heretofore philosophy on the subject of casual, uninvolved intercourse. However, coming out of the mouth of a woman, it didn’t sound very fair, to his ears. Winter days were long, and right now, he held Petra more or less captive here in his house. And, at this point, he wasn’t sure who had seduced whom.

  However it came about, the bottom line, he’d never given much thought to having a wife, a family, but by damn, a fine woman like Petra had a right to expect promises, didn’t she?

  Had she really expected him to lie, make a promise so he could get between her legs? A fine woman like Petra Yurvasi had a right to expect any promises given to be as good as gold, a promise she could count on.

  With her fingers on his lips, she shook her head and smiled into his eyes. “I don’t have any expectations. Really I don’t. I’ve been disappointed, betrayed, every time I pinned my hopes on one person. I’m never going to do that again. But I intend to take full advantage of your generosity,” she said with a sly smile playing on her lips, while her hand slid around his hip to find the inside of his thigh, her fingers encouraging his manhood to stand tall.

  Breaking eye contact, he groaned, savoring the feel of her small hand wrapped around him. All indignation set aside, he lowered his head to find a warm breast, where his tongue began to work a rock-hard, begging-for-attention nipple. For a few moments, he was lost in the sensation of lips on flesh and the delicious hunger for rapture.

  When he looked up and found her gaze on him, he said what he was thinking, “All I know is, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

  “I don’t want to talk anymore.” Eyes half-closed, her long dark lashes brushed her flushed cheeks. She arched her back, stretching like a cat, her body half beneath him, she said, “I just want to feel.”

  His gaze traveled down the length of her. She was like a work of art, her alabaster skin smooth and warm to his touch, her stomach slightly rounded, her breasts pink and nipples puckered, slick with milk. And between her legs, a valley where a thatch of black hair beckoned his fingers and lips to explore.

  “I want to feel, Matt,” she said, more insistent. “Lift me up. Lift me up and out of myself. Show me all I’ve been missing. I need to make up for lost time, lost nights, lost hours.”

  »»•««

  The days of solitary confinement, the long nights alone in a cold bed, cooking for one, thinking of no one but himself, were gone. Petra and Gabriel filled every hour of Buck’s days now. To his chagrin, even his stories had taken on a less violent, more domesticated tone. Without his permission, and not knowing why, his usual wolfish, solitary heroes now fell helplessly under the spell of the hard-hearted harlot or the ice-maiden or the prim, starchy, lace-collared schoolmarm. When he wrote, his heroes, every one of them, miraculously wound up blissfully happy, discovering that love could melt hard hearts made of ice, and calm volatile volcanoes.

  When Petra read his stories aloud to him, Buck had to laugh at the soppy stuff he’d put down on paper. It sounded like the drivel you might find in Harper’s Bazaar or Godey’s Lady’s Book.

  Petra didn’t think his stories were silly at all. She did correct his spelling and punctuation, which irritated him, but he tolerated the changes because it was something they did together, arguing and wrangling over verbs and comma
s.

  Several times a day his conscience pestered him. Surely, Petra deserved more, deserved some kind of commitment from the man who now so thoroughly exploited her, her willingness, nay, eagerness to please and be pleasured by him.

  Increasingly, it irritated him that she didn’t believe him capable of making a commitment. Because of her past experiences, Buck figured Petra believed all men in general avoided commitment if they could.

  When given the opportunity, Petra now believed, men used until they got tired of the same old dish day after day. But Buck couldn’t help but resent being lumped in with a group of no-account bastards—bastards like the Laski brothers.

  In the silence following their coupling, Buck lay quiet, catching his breath, to work through all the baffling changes in his life, in his way of thinking.

  Finding it difficult to remember a world existed beyond this house, a world holding danger for both of them, Buck reminded himself he needed to say something about the mail carrier, Smiley’s, imminent arrival. Feeling Petra’s hand run down his ribcage, her fingers soft and warm, he sucked in his breath, forgetting all about Smiley.

  But with the coming of the dawn he knew the old fool could show up any day now, and once again, he and Petra would have to face the reality of their situation. Buck had three short adventure stories Petra had encouraged him to mail out to one of those dime novel publishers. But first, he needed to find a way to explain to her, without letting it slip he ran a whorehouse, why she should stay out of sight when and if Smiley did show up.

  He’d put off the topic long enough. Now, past mid-day and Gabriel down for his nap, this was their time, time to make love.

  Buck had to admit it was making love. He would call it that. He knew it wasn’t just lust, he’d made love to Petra and she’d made love to him right back. He now knew the difference. Another universe had opened up for him. When they were in bed together, his chest ached with emotion. At times he thought his heart, so full of heat and desire for this woman, might explode.