as she kissed him back. It was pleasant, kissing Mike, but there were no fireworks, no bells, none of the wondrous excitement the novels described in vivid detail when the hero took the girl in his arms.
“Good night, Loralee,” Mike said huskily. “I had a great time.”
“Me, too. Thanks, Mike.”
He bent and kissed her once more. “Sleep well.”
Loralee stood outside, watching Mike ride away. Then, with a little sigh, she went inside to get ready for bed. But sleep wouldn’t come. She was too keyed up from the music and the dancing and the unfamiliar effects of the whiskey.
Dressed in her nightgown and a bulky robe, she wandered outside to walk in the yard. The night was dark, the sky like black velvet decorated with stars and a cold silver moon. In the distance, a coyote yapped a melancholy tune.
How different things must have been just a few short years ago, Loralee mused. She would not have dared to wander outside alone and unarmed then. People had been afraid to sleep at night, fearful of being killed in their beds by prowling Apache warriors. Men had carried rifles wherever they went, even while plowing their fields. Women had been afraid to venture out of the safety of their homes. How frightening it must have been, never knowing from one day to the next if the Apaches would strike, never knowing when you kissed your husband goodbye if he would return home that evening, or if his body would be found lying in the dirt in a pool of blood.
Loralee shivered. Drawing her robe more tightly around her, she laughed softly. She was letting her imagination get the best of her. Fortunately, those bloodthirsty days were gone.
She gasped as a dark silhouette emerged from the stand of trees at the south end of the house and came toward her.
Fear was a tight lump in her throat that made screaming impossible; a cold fist clamped tightly around her insides, leaving her too weak to flee for the safety of the house. Petrified, she stared at the rider coming toward her, his face as dark as the shadow of death.
As he rode out of the shadows, moonlight played over his face and shoulders, shining brightly on his copper-hued skin and midnight hair, enveloping him in a silvery haze.
Zuniga. Relief washed through Loralee like water through a sieve, leaving her weak and trembling. She watched, mesmerized, as he slid gracefully from the dun’s bare back and walked toward her, his steps graceful, arrogant.
Loralee’s mouth went dry as Zuniga came to a halt only a few inches away from her. He was so tall, so very big, he made her feel small, vulnerable, helpless. It was most disconcerting, and a little exciting.
She looked up at him, her lips slightly parted, her heart beating wildly in her breast. He smelled of leather and sweat, of wood smoke and sage. His nearness, the sight and the scent of him, all filled her with a peculiar longing so that she swayed toward him, driven by an emotion she did not recognize. Did he know how his mere presence affected her?
Zuniga’s eyes never left Loralee’s face. Her skin was beautiful in the soft glow of the moonlight, her lips pink and slightly moist, her brown eyes as warm as the earth on a summer day.
He was tempted to draw her close, but he could not take her here. The chance of discovery was too great. And yet he could not keep from touching her. Slowly he lifted his hand. Gently he stroked the curve of her cheek. Her skin was smooth and soft and so inviting.
With an effort, he turned away and vaulted lightly onto the back of the dun.
Moments later, she was standing alone in the moonlight, wondering if it had all been a dream.
Loralee moved through the next day like a sleepwalker. As was her habit, she went to Sunday morning church with Mike, though she didn’t hear one word of the sermon. When she closed her eyes to pray, Shad Zuniga’s dark image played across her mind, his face handsome and mysterious, strangely compelling. Their encounter the night before had been
“Good night, Loralee,” Mike said huskily. “I had a great time.”
“Me, too. Thanks, Mike.”
He bent and kissed her once more. “Sleep well.”
Loralee stood outside, watching Mike ride away. Then, with a little sigh, she went inside to get ready for bed. But sleep wouldn’t come. She was too keyed up from the music and the dancing and the unfamiliar effects of the whiskey.
Dressed in her nightgown and a bulky robe, she wandered outside to walk in the yard. The night was dark, the sky like black velvet decorated with stars and a cold silver moon. In the distance, a coyote yapped a melancholy tune.
How different things must have been just a few short years ago, Loralee mused. She would not have dared to wander outside alone and unarmed then. People had been afraid to sleep at night, fearful of being killed in their beds by prowling Apache warriors. Men had carried rifles wherever they went, even while plowing their fields. Women had been afraid to venture out of the safety of their homes. How frightening it must have been, never knowing from one day to the next if the Apaches would strike, never knowing when you kissed your husband goodbye if he would return home that evening, or if his body would be found lying in the dirt in a pool of blood.
Loralee shivered. Drawing her robe more tightly around her, she laughed softly. She was letting her imagination get the best of her. Fortunately, those bloodthirsty days were gone.
She gasped as a dark silhouette emerged from the stand of trees at the south end of the house and came toward her.
Fear was a tight lump in her throat that made screaming impossible; a cold fist clamped tightly around her insides, leaving her too weak to flee for the safety of the house. Petrified, she stared at the rider coming toward her, his face as dark as the shadow of death.
As he rode out of the shadows, moonlight played over his face and shoulders, shining brightly on his copper-hued skin and midnight hair, enveloping him in a silvery haze.
Zuniga. Relief washed through Loralee like water through a sieve, leaving her weak and trembling. She watched, mesmerized, as he slid gracefully from the dun’s bare back and walked toward her, his steps graceful, arrogant.
Loralee’s mouth went dry as Zuniga came to a halt only a few inches away from her. He was so tall, so very big, he made her feel small, vulnerable, helpless. It was most disconcerting, and a little exciting.
She looked up at him, her lips slightly parted, her heart beating wildly in her breast. He smelled of leather and sweat, of wood smoke and sage. His nearness, the sight and the scent of him, all filled her with a peculiar longing so that she swayed toward him, driven by an emotion she did not recognize. Did he know how his mere presence affected her?
Zuniga’s eyes never left Loralee’s face. Her skin was beautiful in the soft glow of the moonlight, her lips pink and slightly moist, her brown eyes as warm as the earth on a summer day.
He was tempted to draw her close, but he could not take her here. The chance of discovery was too great. And yet he could not keep from touching her. Slowly he lifted his hand. Gently he stroked the curve of her cheek. Her skin was smooth and soft and so inviting.
With an effort, he turned away and vaulted lightly onto the back of the dun.
Moments later, she was standing alone in the moonlight, wondering if it had all been a dream.
Loralee moved through the next day like a sleepwalker. As was her habit, she went to Sunday morning church with Mike, though she didn’t hear one word of the sermon. When she closed her eyes to pray, Shad Zuniga’s dark image played across her mind, his face handsome and mysterious, strangely compelling. Their encounter the night before had been
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