Free Deep as the Rivers (Santa Fe Trilogy) by Shirl Henke Page B

  “In more ways than one,” he murmured, feeling the cool silkiness of her skin where his hand pressed lightly against her back. The delicate fragrance of redbud and daffodils scented the night air combined with the pungent moisture of fog that drifted up from the river after dusk. Yet he smelled nothing but the perfume in her hair and wanted nothing more than to spill its fiery splendor around her bare shoulders and bury his face in it.
        The terrace was sparsely populated by strollers since the early spring evening had begun to turn cool. Then, too, proper young ladies did not wander unattended into the darkness with their dance partners. Olivia was acutely aware of the man walking beside her who guided her with the lightest touch as if she were his creature, utterly malleable, eager to do his bidding. That incredible and troubling kiss in the deserted Virginia cabin had haunted her dreams. She could still feel the heat and hardness of his body, taste his mouth, smell the male scent of him, as if he had marked her for all time with just that one brief encounter.
        “I should not be out here with you,” she finally said as the glow of lantern light faded and only the sliver of a new moon cast its silvery light on them.
        “No, you probably should not,” Samuel said, guiding her farther away from the house into the cool isolation of the yard. A large stone wall, ten feet high, surrounded the grounds. When they could go no farther, he stopped, uncertain of what he would do next.
        Olivia stood surrounded by shrubbery, her head and shoulders dappled by the shadows of a redbud tree which had just begun to blossom. She faced him and did not move. A slight tremor shook her slender figure as a breeze arose, but she did not tremble from the cold. A dark pervasive heat infused her being.
        Samuel saw the tiny shudder, heard the soft expectant catch of her breath and he was lost. Uttering an oath he gathered her into his arms, pulling her against him as he stepped behind the redbud. When his mouth swooped down to hers, she gave a small incoherent cry and flung her arms around his neck.
        From the opposite end of the yard a figure stood in deep shadows watching the young couple kiss with such fierce ardor. The embrace continued for several moments as Shelby slanted his lips against hers, shifting and deepening his caresses while Olivia molded herself to him, clinging and whimpering in acquiescence.
        When Shelby backed against the cold stone wall, he seemed to regain his senses and broke off the wildly passionate kiss, holding her at arm’s length, then touching her face tenderly with his hand. They exchanged a few murmured words as she repaired her dishabille. He offered her his arm and escorted her back to the bright lights and music coming from the house.
        Emory Wescott moved out of the shadows, his cold gray eyes narrowed in calculation. Then a slow smile insinuated itself across his fleshy face.
     
    * * * *
     
        Emory and Olivia rode up to the bluffs north of the city as the sun rose in dazzling splendor across the wide expanse of the Missouri River rushing below them. A wide open rolling stretch of grassland had been made into a racetrack where all the citizens of St. Louis congregated, from rough river rats to wealthy businessmen.
        “Yer awfully quiet this morning, gel. Not feeling quite the thing? Did you drink too much of old Auguste’s French wine last night?” Emory studied her with hooded eyes.
        “Of course not,” she replied more waspishly than she intended, then softened her voice assuringly, “I sipped only one glass of champagne. Never fear, I shall do fine this morning.”
        “Only see that you do,” he admonished, squinting ahead at the gathering crowd as he reined in the carriage horses beside a thicket of sumac growing near the side of the road.
        When the phaeton came to a halt, Olivia seized a small carpetbag from the floor and