Robert Walker - Cutting edge

Lucas climbed into the waiting limo and found Abigail there, a busty, tall, red-cheeked, red-haired woman with alabaster skin, a striking pair of green eyes, and a tempting pair of smiling lips. She seemed one great invitation, and Lucas sacrilegiously wondered if Meredyth had paid for her. Either way, Lucas decided that Meredyth meant well, even if she was misguided; that one day, perhaps sooner than she realized, she would come to him. In the meantime, she feared falling in love with him, and he could hardly blame her. He had little or nothing to offer, save his feelings for her, and in today's society, in a land called Houston, that wasn't worth a whole hell of a lot. It wasn't like the gift of the water beetle and the buzzard who'd fashioned a world for the Cherokees.

A part of him remained, as always, angry with her; another part of him remained, as always, accepting of her.

“Well, so you must be Abigail,” he said to the woman Meredyth had procured for him.

“I'm Lucas-”

“I know who you are.” She beamed, handing him a goblet of brandy. It was a goblet identical to the one he had lifted from Judge Charles Mootry's home, and Abigail sipped from a second one.

“How fitting,” he said, “a girl after my own heart.”

She smiled a disarming smile, her curly hair playing coquettishly about her temples. “Beware…

I'm after more than your heart, Chief…” Stonecoat settled into the seat as Conrad drove off, Meredyth saying, “I hope you like the opera, Lucas.”

“Opera? Well, sure,” he lied. He'd never been to an opera in his life.

“Splendid,” came Meredith's voice from the front. She seemed not to want to look in the back seat.

Lucas took Abigail in his arms, kissing her passionately, more for Meredyth's sake than anyone else's. But he was surprised by Abigail, finding himself stirred by her return kiss, her searching tongue now deeply exploring his mouth.

Sit back, shut up, and enjoy the ride, he told himself, feeling that he had earned it. If he couldn't have Meredyth, then by the Great One, he'd have this proffered substitute, this police groupie, this Abigail Heston, whose hand now played a flutelike pirouette over his wounded knee…