Elizabeth Lane - The Stranger

‘Dancing isn’t all that hard. I could teach you the basics.’

‘You mean here? Now?’ Laura asked.

‘Why not?’

Caleb swept her into his arms. The hand that caught the small of her back was firm and strong. He held her close, following the subtle cues of her legs and body until he felt sure enough to take the lead.

Laura could feel the light brush of his arousal through her skirt, and the sweet, wet burning of her own response. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her hairline and nuzzled her forehead. They stood holding each other, both of them trembling in the darkness.

His mouth skimmed hers. She responded hungrily, her body arching upwards to press against his. He lifted her off her feet and she hung suspended against him.

Abruptly he groaned. ‘Laura, you need to go back to the dance now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you stay out here I won’t be held responsible for what I do to you.’

Elizabeth Lanehas lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

ANGELS IN THE SNOW (in Stay for Christmas anthology)

HER DEAREST ENEMY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

As a descendant of pioneers who settled the American West, I live in awe of the women who survived frontier life. The thought of how it must have been for them, facing danger, illness and unthinkable hardship every day for the sake of their families, fills me with admiration and gratitude.

Most amazing of all were the women who survived alone, raising children, ploughing fields, herding livestock, planting and harvesting—women who had to be teachers, doctors, farmers, even warriors when danger threatened their loved ones.

Having been a single mother myself, I know that even with a good job and modern conveniences raising a family alone can be tough, sometimes heartbreaking. This book is my tribute to all of you, single and married, who give of yourselves to make a better world for your children, and for children everywhere. Enjoy.

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For my sister, my friends,

and strong women everywhere.

New Mexico Territory, May, 1876

Caleb McCurdy saw the girl as he rode through the ranch gate with his two brothers. She was standing outside the modest adobe house, her arms reaching up to hang a pair of faded long johns over a sagging clothesline. Her figure, clad in a blue gingham frock beneath a spotless white apron, was small and neat. The loose ends of a yellow ribbon fluttered from her taffy-hued curls.

She looked to be about seventeen—Caleb’s own age. The sight of her after the long desert crossing was like a drink of sweet, cool water.

“Quit your gawkin’, boy,” Caleb’s eldest brother, Noah, growled. “Pretty thing like that, hangin’ up a man’s underwear, I’d wager she’s already taken.”

“What the hell!” Caleb’s second brother, Zeke, grinned and licked his chapped lips. “Ain’t no law against a fellow fillin’his eyes is there? Lawse, what a little sweetheart! Gets me hard just lookin’ at her!”

Caleb shot him a look of disgust. Their father had always claimed Zeke was born crazy. As a child Zeke had enjoyed tormenting small animals. Then he’d hit his teens and discovered women.

“Shut up, Zeke,” Caleb muttered. “What if she hears you talkin’ like that?”

Zeke’s only reply was a derisive snort.

The girl had seen them. Clothespins dropped to the dust as they pulled their mounts to a halt. She hesitated, gazing at the trio with wide, startled eyes like a doe about to bolt.

“Howdy, ma’am.” Noah touched the brim of his grease-stained Stetson. “Didn’t mean to spook you. My brothers and me, we come all the way from Texas, and it’s been a long, dusty ride. We was hopin’ you’d be kind enough to let us water our horses and fill our canteens. Then we’ll be on our way.”

She gazed uncertainly at the three riders. Caleb knew she didn’t like what she saw. They looked like filthy saddle tramps, which they pretty much were. Noah was slit-eyed and lantern-jawed, with a scruffy beard that had been gray for as long as Caleb could remember. Zeke had pockmarked skin, prominent yellowish eyes and full red lips that curved in a humorless smile.

When the girl’s gray eyes found him, Caleb knew that she saw little more than a shadow, dark and wiry and silent beneath his low-brimmed hat—a gangly youth who looked more like his Comanche mother than he did like his fully white half brothers. She gave him the barest glance before she spoke.

“Wait here, please.” Her throaty voice carried an ill-hidden note of anxiety. “I’ll go and get my husband.”

Zeke chuckled as she fled around the corner of the house. “What a little honey,” he murmured. “Lawse, what I wouldn’t give for a go at what’s under them petticoats!”

“That’s enough, Zeke.” Noah shifted in the saddle, pulling his long jacket over the hefty Colt .45 that hung at his hip. “Last thing we need out here is you makin’trouble with the squatters. You can damn well keep your pants buttoned till we pull off that big job and get to California. After that, you can hump all the women you want!”

Caleb glanced from one man to the other. He’d known all along that his brothers were wild. Still, he’d been elated when they’d agreed to let him tag along to California after their father’s death. For a boy who’d never been out of the county where he was born, the trip had loomed as a great adventure.

So far, however, the journey had been disappointing. The endless days in the saddle, eating dust and listening to Zeke and Noah snap at each other, were beginning to wear on him. And what was this talk about pulling a job? Something didn’t sound right, Caleb thought. Maybe it was time he thought about cutting off on his own.

But now that both his parents were dead, Noah and Zeke were all the family he had. How could he just ride off and leave them? Blood had to count for something, didn’t it?

Caleb’s thoughts dissolved as the girl came back around the corner of the house. With her was a tall young man with fair hair, blue eyes and a long-barreled Winchester rifle in his hands. To Caleb he looked like a hero from the cover of a dime novel.

He took a moment to look the three riders up and down before he smiled and lowered the gun. “Mark Shafton,” he said. “And this is my wife, Laura. You’re welcome to the water, gentlemen. In fact, we’d be pleased to have you stay for a meal. Laura makes a right tasty pot of bean stew, and today she’s cooked enough for an army.”

The young wife kept her face lowered. Her fingertips pressed her husband’s arm in what Caleb guessed to be a silent plea to get rid of the strangers. But Mark Shafton paid her no attention. The man was either a saint or a fool, maybe both. The smell of seasoned beans that drifted from the house made Caleb’s mouth water, but he couldn’t help hoping—for pretty Laura’s sake—that Noah would decline the offer.