That
iconic heavy-lidded cobra gaze, its fine laughter lines crinkled, delivered its
seduction. I returned the gaze with difficulty. Those brown hands smoothed my
trembling body and I combed my fingers through that thick, tousled corn-coloured
hair. The curved lips grinned, clearly coveting mine, and my palms caressed
that gorgeous jaw and neck. The expectant dizzying kiss smothered my gasp. I
jolted awake. My body arched, my thighs juddered and my pleasure was delivered.
Oh, God. I squeezed my thighs together
and the elation eased. I gasped breathlessly, and let my breathing return to
normal. For God’s
sake. Although
it had nothing whatever to do with God.
What a strange dream and awakening! Deep in my soul stirred a
yearning, a deep desire. Forbidden thoughts and feelings. All prompted by
yesterday. I moved
slightly in my hotel bed to sit up. Aargh!
My shoulder thudded with my heartbeat, aching. I laid a palm over the bandage
to ease the pain, and glanced over at the bright red and white cotton bandanna
lying on the cabinet, stained
a darker red with dried blood. I relaxed back against the pillows, closed my
eyes and thought about yesterday. I smiled.
Yesterday I’d looked every inch the cowgirl. Feeling proud of
my independent, adventurous self I had sat, back straight and chin high, in my
saddle, riding astride, guiding my horse towards the edge of the fir-forested
foothills of the Rockies. I had planned to ride up there and take in the views.
Back home in New York I rode a little, but this – riding western-style –
was a real treat. My new ankle-length split riding habit gave me undreamed-of
liberties. I loved the freedom of it. My bandanna was tucked under the collar
of my open-necked blouse and knotted at the front. My jacket, ankle boots and
broad-brimmed felt hat completed the image of an independent cowgirl. And no corset – how
shocking was that? My heart sang.
Now, relaxed against my pillow, I smiled at the remembrance
of it all. My mind snapped. On an impulse, I shot upright and leaped out of bed. Owwww! Not again …
I grasped my shoulder and waited for the thumping pain to subside. Then I
crouched down and delved inside my leather travelling bag and retrieved my
journal and pencil. I’ve
got to write all this down before I forget. I carefully settled
back into bed and began to write feverishly all about yesterday. The gunshot.
Those men. My encounter with her.
My dream.
As I scribbled like a demented being, gloomy spring morning
light edged the curtains at the sash window and glinted on the china jug and
bowl in the wash stand. On the street below, the sounds of men exchanging
greetings and the clip-clop of passing horses wafted in. Drifting up the
stairwell outside my door were the melded aromas of fresh coffee and stale
tobacco. Gosh – I could do with a coffee! But this was more important right now …
I’m staying in Coyote Creek, a burgeoning frontier town
huddled in the foothills of the Rockies. Snow covers much of the greenery, and
the base of the foothills reaches coldly onto the plains. To the west are the
southern Rockies. Montana lies to the north, and to the east stretches this
vast basin until it hits the eastern Rockies and Nebraska. To the south lies
the Colorado Front Range and Colorado itself. So strictly speaking I’m dead
centre of the western frontier, and I love it. I may be a city girl born and
bred, but the wild frontier calls me.
I’m Kate Howard, feminist, bohemian and journalist. A bit
of a rare breed, I’m proud to say. I’m in my mid-twenties, by now expected to
be married. My refusal to wear corset and bustle distressed my respectable,
middle-class mother and sister, but the freedom this has brought me is
breathtaking, particularly when riding a horse. I’d decided to embrace the
opportunity of riding western in the foothills, because I’d heard how thrilling
and exhilarating it can be – and how true this has proved to be.
Yesterday I rode Bella, a fine brown American quarter
horse with a white blaze and socks. The livery stable owner had assured me that
she was reliable and trustworthy. So as I broke from the trees and onto a
grass-covered granite ledge a feeling of delight and ease filtered through me.
Below, Coyote Creek looked like a model town built out of matchsticks and
clusters of stones, and the tiny figures of two deer nibbled on grass on the
outskirts. I closed my eyes and breathed in the clean air.
Time to move on. I had a job to do. I nudged Bella back
into the forest – and a gunshot fractured the peace. I jerked, and my
shoulder seemed to explode. Birds clattered through branches and Bella reared.
I don’t remember hitting the ground. Bella bolted, swallowed up by the trees. I
lay on my front, my cheek nestled in soft earth, prickled by pine needles. I
was near to fainting, feeling dizzy, light-headed and slightly sick. Crunching
footsteps approached me, then stopped near my head. My heart pounded crazily.
A deep voice growled. “Mornin’, lady.”
Another added. “Easy pickin’s.”
I managed to raise my head a little. Two men leered down
at me. Probably late twenties and stupid. Filthy. Dirt mixed with sweat.
Rumpled cowboy clothes. Their arms hung at their sides, and each had a
holstered pistol strapped to his thigh. Two horses stood nearby. My head
flopped back down and the raging pain in my left shoulder registered. Their
shadows shrouded me and my breathing was laboured. Oh, God … The beginnings of tears surfaced.
Another voice intercepted. “Fer cryin’ out loud …“
A figure, cloaked by deep gloom, emerged from the trees.
It slowly moved forward. My gaze fell on the sunlight-glazed cowboy boot toes,
then, as the figure approached, slowly climbed slim, long legs clad in faded
blue Levis. The light slid over slim hips embraced by a gunbelt. Then my gaze
climbed again, to reveal denim shirt sleeves rolled below the elbows. The light
shifted north again. An open shirt neck formed a narrow V, and a star glinted
on the left breast. Tall. Athletic, clearly. A sheriff or deputy, obviously. My
relief at being rescued overcame everything. Thank God. My curiosity had almost overwhelmed my
pain as well. The sunlight melted the deep shadow veiling the face.
My heart skipped a beat. It’s her.
Jeannie Morgan stood with legs akimbo, and the two idiots
gawped at her.
She flicked her head. “Goddamn sick, the pair o’ ya,
pickin’ on an unarmed gal.” Her husky, androgynous tones broke the hush. “Git
outta here. Move!”
It was fascinating to watch her working her magic. She
moved towards the men and gave the pair of them a heavy-lidded, unblinking,
soul-destroying gaze. Her head was slightly lowered as she looked up and loaded
that gaze upon them. They froze on the spot. Her right hand inched towards the
grip of her holstered gun. They turned tail, scrambled towards their horses,
mounted up and galloped back through the forest.
She watched their escape and chuckled. “Assholes.” She
turned and approached me.
That’s when the sunlight fully drenched her. My
astonishment ripped through me. Her boyish beauty was legendary, and here it
was. My mouth gawped open, I stared round-eyed at her and my pain was
forgotten. She crouched in front of me and her proximity washed over me. My
pain was dragged into the background.
Jeannie Morgan held the look of a gorgeous youth with
feminine overtones. It was well known that she was capable of leaving young
women dangerously breathless, but my lengthy, mesmerised scrutiny revealed the
truth of her gender. A red and white Indian bandanna bound collar-length,
tousled fair hair. A fringe covered half her forehead. A totally unorthodox
approach for a white woman.
Our gazes clashed. Hers, an iridescent, milky pale blue,
won. I was anchored to the spot, frozen, and my heart thundered. She reached
for my hand and, trembling with emotion, I took it. A gentle, warm, pleasant
hand. She pulled me to my feet and I clutched my burning arm. It was only then
that I registered my blood-soaked jacket sleeve. She glanced at it, and
tenderness surged through those eyes as they narrowed in concern.
“Okay, darlin’? Jees – yer bleedin’ badly, huh?” She
studied my blood-soaked sleeve and nodded towards a flat boulder. “Sit there
an’ let’s take a look, darlin’. You’re lucky Ah was on the trail back there an’
heard that shot, huh?”
Honey. Her voice was like honey, with a western twang, the
Rs audible. I nodded. Oh
God. I fancy her like mad! I was also shocked at this longed-for
encounter, because she was the reason for my visit to Coyote Creek, but I
hadn’t counted on this happening. I’d assumed I would encounter her in town and
hopefully talk to her in my role as a journalist. Because I’d always wanted to
meet her because I’ve been a huge fan of hers since her fame had begun to
burgeon.
And secondly, my boss on my New York newspaper, The Evening Observer,
had always wanted an interview with her. He’d called me into his office and
grinned at me. “Go to Coyote Creek, Kate. Seek out Jeannie Morgan and interview
her. You know you’ve always wanted to.” My dream come true. How could I not?
Now I sat here on a boulder looking up at her. I dragged
free of that discomfiting, seductive gaze as she grinned her toothy crooked
grin, gentle dimples deepening in her cheeks. My heart hammered. My face burned
with … jealousy.
What? I wanted to be
her.
An absurd desire had taken root, too. Her sensuality
distracted me from the pain as she crouched again and helped me remove my
jacket. Her warm breath bathed my face and she smelled not unpleasantly of, I
imagined, cowboy. Kind of smoky. She unbuttoned my sleeve and gently folded the
blood-soaked cotton back to expose my arm below the shoulder. The bullet had
skimmed the skin, leaving an ugly ragged line. She cradled my arm in a strong,
bronzed hand. Her veins were prominent, the skin a silken sheen.
That was so nice, the feeling of her hands upon me.
Her presence and her voice bolted shivers through me. “We
gotta bandage it, darlin’, huh?” She grinned at my mesmerised gaze. Her slim
fingers – her nails pale against her golden skin – unknotted her bandanna and
used it to carefully bind my arm. “You’re gonna have a scar, darlin’.”
I glanced at the white trail across the inside of her
right wrist, and the fine golden down on her forearm, touched by sunlight. On
her left wrist she wore a selection of thin leather bracelets, and a signet
ring on her index finger. She regarded me and I coloured.
She smiled gently. “D’ya carry a gun, darlin’?”
“No. Perhaps I should.”
Pale laughter lines crinkled around her eyes. “Try a small
Derringer mebbe, huh?”
“I will. It was stupid of me to come out unarmed.”
She shrugged. “You’re okay. Jist remember fer next time,
huh? Particular in these parts. You a stranger? Never seen ya before.”
“I’m on vacation. It’s beautiful here.”
“Good t’have yer, darlin’, but ya gotta see the doc ’bout
that arm. Where ya from? Interestin’ accent ya got there.”
“New York. Manhattan.”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded. “Kinda busy, huh?”
I chuckled and nodded, and she grinned back and crinkled
her nose. She was one of those people who when they talk to you make you feel
that you’re the most important person in the world. While she crouched down
there, my gaze meandered along the curve of her long, womanly neck – a small
Indian pendant on a leather thong hung against her smooth brown chest.
She peered intently at me, her eyes slightly thinned. “You’re
trembling fit t’bust, darlin’. Sure you’re okay?”
I nodded and we stood up. She was tall, approaching six
foot.
“All right t’get back? Ah’d give ya a ride only Ah ain’t
headin’ that way.”
“My horse bolted. It’s not far. I can walk.”
“Sure. Okay? S’spect yer hoss went home. You take care
now.” She flashed her grin and winked. That charismatic magnetism filled the
whole forest.
I managed a jocular salute, and she chuckled and threw her
head back, her jaw and neck revealed in all their sexuality. She touched
fingertip to thumb between her lips and whistled. A soft rustling preceded the
entry of a beautiful brown horse into the clearing. She leaped into the saddle and
returned my salute. “Ciao, darlin’!”
She circled her horse, nudged him into the forest and was
gone.
I gaped at the spot where she’d been and touched the scarf
on my arm. I felt emotionally and physically shattered....
If you read that, I hope you did enjoy it and are looking forward to reading more. Currently I'm working on Facebook Advertising graphics and, when that's done, I'm editing Book 3, which, all going well, will be launched during the summer.
OF JEANNIE
Here are some more samples for you...
TWO CHAPTER SAMPLES
BOOK 1
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BOOK 2 |
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