Her fingers skimmed over his shoulders and down his lean waist. She cupped his buttocks, lifting her pelvis, pressing her womanhood against his arousal.
Cupping the back of her head, he drew her up. Her nipples brushed his wiry chest hair, sending bolts of white-hot desire through him. He kissed her, pushing his tongue past her full lips. She moaned as her hand slid around and began to stroke him.
When he broke the kiss, he looked into her eyes. They flamed with a pure, sensuous hunger.
Neither spoke as he positioned himself at the center of her moist heat. In one swift move, he slid inside her. Her warm moisture enveloped him. He began to ride her, moving in and out as if he were half possessed. She moaned his name. He exploded inside her.
Matthias awoke with a start. His body was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration and he was breathing hard.
What was happening to him?
Chapter Ten
Over the next couple of days, the chilly days of spring quickly gave way to the hot, blistering ones of summer. Abby began to develop a routine with the boys and her chores, and she was starting to feel a measure of control.
Though Mr. Barrington worked his ranch during the day, he was home every day at sunset. He clearly hadn’t forgotten Holden’s warning.
The evenings quickly became Abby’s favorite time. For a couple of brief hours the day’s chores were done and with Mr. Barrington present, the cabin sizzled with an unspoken energy.
This evening, like the few before it, the four of them sat at the table by the lantern’s glowing light. Mr. Barrington read to Tommy while she taught Quinn his letters. They were almost like a real family.
“M,” Abby said. She and Quinn sat by the hearth. “M is for marmalade, mud and money.”
“And Mom,” Quinn said.
“That’s right,” Abby said.
Quinn looked up from the page and studied her. “Do you look like my mom?”
Mr. Barrington stopped, then laid down his book.
Abby kept her voice even. “I don’t know, Quinn. I’ve never seen your ma.”
“Pa,” Quinn said turning immediately to his father. “Does Abby look like Ma?”
Lantern light glowed on his chiseled features. His gaze, a mixture of pain and frustration met hers. “No.”
Abby set her piece of chalk down. She wanted for Mr. Barrington to expand on his answer. He didn’t.
She glanced into Quinn’s expectant eyes. “Maybe you could tell us what she looked like.”
Quinn lifted his gaze to his father’s. “Would you, Pa?”
Mr. Barrington’s expression turned fierce as he looked over the boys’ heads at Abby. His voice was barely a raspy whisper when he spoke. “You don’t remember her?”
Quinn shook his head. “No, sir.”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping a fraction. “It’s been over a year and you were only three at the time. I suppose it’s natural.” He closed the book gently. “She didn’t look a thing like Abby. She was shorter and had blue eyes.”
Abby was shocked to feel a pang of envy for Elise. The dead woman had borne two wonderful sons and had forever captured Mr. Barrington’s heart. She hoped if she worked hard enough she could somehow make up for Elise’s loss but as she looked into Quinn’s young curious eyes, she knew he needed his memories of his mother. “Mr. Barrington, do you have a picture of Elise?”
His brows furrowed, he drew in a steadying breath before he glanced at the boys. They looked up at him with questioning expressions. “I do.”
Abby sat a little straighter at the prospect of seeing the face of the woman whose memory had shadowed her since her arrival.
Mr. Barrington rose and walked to a chest that sat at the edge of his bed. Abby had dusted the chest with the initials EB carved on it a dozen times. She’d been sorely tempted to open it but hadn’t.
Nervous anticipation sizzled in her veins as he lifted a worn Bible out. From the yellowed pages he pulled out two tintypes.
In the soft lantern light, Abby could see Mr. Barrington’s face harden with sadness. Deliberately, he closed the chest and rose.
He sat back down at the table, his callous-tipped fingers closed over the tintype.
Abby’s body itched with curiosity but she restrained herself. Folding her hands on her lap, she watched as the boys rose from their seats and stood beside their father.
Mr. Barrington unfurled his fingers and held the image close to the lamp. “This is your ma.”
Quinn lay his small hand on Mr. Barrington’s shoulder as he leaned closer. “How come she’s not smiling?”
“Most people don’t smile in pictures,” Mr. Barrington said patiently. And then before the inevitable “why” came, he added, “You have to sit real still until a big flash goes off. It’s easier not to smile.”