Blood and Iron Ch. 03

The voice of conscience was the loudest, stepping into the silence as she trailed off. Stern and pitiless denial. Too dangerous a notion, too sensual a feeling in the promise of her body curled up against him through the night. She was no longer the child she had mentioned, and a shared bed was not so innocent as once it had been. He should refuse. Take his place there in the dirt, and let her sleep alone on the blanket, as she had in nights before.

But there were other thoughts inside him, more sympathetic to this plea. The whispers of desire, of course, returned and burning slow inside him, eager for any excuse or chance to touch her, to feel even distantly the flesh he carried bare and glistening in memory. More than that, though, was the tugging of paternal obligation, awareness of the ache she carried in he voice, in the wringing of her fingers. He should do anything he could to help relieve it. Almost anything. Even if it were not wholly innocent, to pretend at the simple, unthought intimacies of her girlhood...it was surely not so sinister a plan that it must be forbidden. Not if that was all it was. Just to lay beside her, the way he had all those years ago...even the banality of comfort joined its voice to the chorus, his old bones protesting at the prospect of another night on the cold, uneven earth. How much finer it would be to share with her the bedroll, to have a body's warmth against him as he slept.

"S'ppose we could maybe share it." His answer was hardly more than a grunt, a mutter. Any enthusiasm it might have carried restrained instead by his inner censor, graceless and bitter in this defeat. But all the same, she sniffed quick and heartened there beside him, her delicate hand clasping more firmly now at his forearm. Her cheek sliding just so slightly against his shoulder, smooth and tender, as he headed now for the sturdy blanket already laid out upon the ground. Hoping he was doing right.

---

It was years since they'd stopped that evening, decades, a lifetime. So much had happened, so much revealed that she thought she never would or should, so many twists and turns of feeling. The horror that had run unbridled through her when he held her gun up to his temple. The tension and catharsis of their embrace, of telling him she loved him. The blissful madness that had taken her there, with his arms around her...and the shame and misery after, as he pushed her away, anger and disgust like poison in his voice.

But he didn't hate her. He said he didn't, and that was already more than she could hope. Said that he loved her - even if it was a lie, the affirmation wrapped around her like silk and cotton, soft and warm. Repeated melodic in her mind, a dizzy whisper, he loves me. He loves me. Her pa, descending now to lay next to her on the rough linen blanket, his bulk so comforting beside her. Their elbows crowding awkwardly together, side by side. A trembling inside her, a nervous thrill of joy, hearing the quiet susurration of his breath, feeling the weight of his arm resting barely atop hers. This, too - he'd agreed to it, the wish that had scurried out like a field mouse from memories of the time before. Nights on the dimmest edge of recollection, the world huge before her...and the security she'd felt, the perfect safety and affection, scootched up close against her father's side. One strong arm clutched close around her, a shield against the monsters of the night.

Maybe she didn't really need that shield anymore, as such. Quite a while indeed since she'd taken any fright from the howl of coyotes or the crack of distant thunder...but all the same, his presence there beside her had a feeling still unworn by time, a sense of rightness, of belonging. Missing just one thing.

"We ain't got room like this." She murmured across to him, turned over on her side to face away, out into the night. It was true; as it was, there'd been scarcely an inch of space on either side of the bedroll. But then, space wasn't really the concern - and her heart beat swift and anxious as she intoned the next few words. "You got to squeeze up closer."

For the longest while, he gave no response at all. Just lay there, silent and unmoving. In her new position, she couldn't even glance at his expression - only listen to is breathing slightly deepen, sharpen there behind her, as solid in her mind as the pressure of his arm upon her back. Her own breath shallow, baited, waiting as seconds flowed past one another, the night breeze blowing cool and slow against them. And then - a tiny smile pulled joyful at her lips as she felt him stir, shift, turn. His broad chest rising up to press against her back, a warm and tingling contact like that which she'd barely dared in their dance the night before. Dreams and distant memories bleeding into reality as his arm slid so solidly around her, clasped across her abdomen, beneath her breasts. And the heat that flared once more inside her as he held her close, the burn that trickled like liquid down from her belly, bubbled ticklish around her thighs...

No. Judgement firm and scolding in her head, striving for control. Fighting off the too-familiar itching of sensation that purred so damned insistent just between her legs...she couldn't drop into that again. This was something deeper. Just...to be with him, the way she hadn't been in so terribly long. Without her armor in the way, without suspicion or fear or worry. To lay there in her pa's arms, in the beginning fuzz of sleep; cradled, protected. Loved...to feel his warmth around her, so big and comforting, to make herself forget the years of anger and of pain and be again his little rose, blooming in the gentle light of his embrace.

It was only what she'd been before. It couldn't be wrong, not like those vague and guilty fantasies she'd imagined, of his roaming lips and hands. Even if it felt a touch alike, now in the moment. Even if her consciousness fastened to the feeling of his fingers at her stomach, slightly spread, halfway wishing they might begin to move, to wander, caress upon her body. Perhaps to slip beneath the waist of her jeans, and to explore there amidst the blush of heat she felt pulsing between her thighs...some wild and thoughtless part of her clung desperate to the dream, not caring that she shouldn't, that he was her father. Babbling madly in her head of things she didn't dare to want. That he could somehow love her as more than just a daughter. That she could be the mare to his stallion, the heifer to his bull, together like the animals she'd sometimes watched from the corner of her eye, fascinated and appalled. That he might want her, claim her, hold her, take her...

It was in these thoughts that the memory grabbed her of something he had said, one of his words of idle humor. The question tugging insistent at her tongue, until she had little choice but to ask. "Pa," whispered back in darkness, her voice straining slightly nervous with the crowding of these senseless wishes. "Do you really think I'm pretty?"

She felt him stiffen there behind her at the question, muscles tensing in the arm around her waist. A brief exhalation from his nose, tight and troubled. "Ain't for me to say." He grunted back, distant and uneasy.

"But you said it already," she couldn't help pointing out. Her hand sitting atop his at the bottom of her ribs, thumb stroking slow and reflective at the space between his fingers. Faint tension in her heart, mad hopes pushing on her tongue. A kind of fear fluttering quietly in her throat - she wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything, but she was afraid of this. Of his answer, of his judgement, of his eyes there behind her, taking her in and seeing...what? A little girl still, six years old, forever innocent? A woman hardly different from a man, in her jeans and formless shirt, her hair close-cropped, unkempt?

She'd never cared, before. How she looked to boys, or later on, to men - it was just another of those petty irrelevancies, distractions in the way of what was truly important. Her dresses discarded by the age of ten, once she discovered for herself how ill-suited they were to riding. Her mother, of course, had frowned, complained, warned her that everyone would think she was a boy if she went out that way, that she might just turn into one, too. But ultimately Molly gave in, as she so often did. Let it be, with no more than an occasional grumble or shake of the head.

Alice still remembered that first delivery from Montgomery Ward, the package stuffed tight with her new jeans, and with the fabric and patterns for her shirts. Loose on her, rough on her skin...but it had felt somehow right, slipping into them for the first time. Calming. A little echo of when she'd sometimes open up the trunk in her room, pull out one of her father's abandoned shirts to wear. Not really wear, of course. They didn't fit, didn't even close to fit. But she'd thread her arms through all the same, button up the buttons, and just sit for a while. Hugging herself, closing her eyes, breathing in the slight scent the clothes still carried, the trace she didn't want to forget.

There'd been a handful of confusions, such as her mother had warned - at least, until her body began to change, develop. And true, no man had ever ridden up to the ranch bearing a proposal, the way they had for a few of the other girls around the town. But that was just the way she wanted it. She couldn't have accepted any proposal, anyway, wouldn't have wanted to. Not while her Pa was still out there, waiting for her. Depending on her to follow in his footsteps, to track him down, help break him from whatever band of evil-doers was holding him prisoner.

Even once her search began in earnest, when she ran into men sometimes who looked past her outfit - who whistled at her in a way she soon came to recognize, or who had a certain cast to their gaze as they offered her a drink, or who suggested that they might know where this 'Mr. Blake' was, if she only followed them to their room - none of them mattered. The last, of course, she could not ignore...but the application of bluster and threats never found one who genuinely knew anything. They were obstacles, annoyances, and if 'beauty' was what attracted them, she would have rather been without.

Now, though...it was different, worlds apart. It was him, his eyes on her, his appraisal, and she wanted suddenly so badly for him to like what he saw. Wanted his gaze to carry that same flash of hunger she'd seen from men before, the drive and the desire she'd almost thought she'd felt in his embrace of minutes prior. When his hands had roamed so firm and delicious on her back, his arms holding her so tight and close and perfect. His fingers rough against her cheek, long and solid, and his smile, oh, that subtle, bushy smile so close before her eyes...she couldn't even wonder how she'd been so foolish as to kiss him. The moment lived inside her, summoned by the thought, strengthened by the sensation even now of his arm around her waist - the urgent straining of her heart, pounding desperately for things she hardly knew and would not dare to name. The heat that flowed within her, slow and damp and sickly sweet. All the world had seemed to focus to his smile, his mouth, his lips curved slight and strong before her, and she could only think again of those sometime sleepy fantasies, when he'd kiss her, and touch her, and all the vague and wonderful things that followed...it was the madness of joy that drove her to it, blissful exhuberance, hope and fearlessness in her father's grasp.

For a few moments, too, she'd even thought those dreams had come to life. When he'd seemed to accept her clumsy advance, informed by no more than casual observation of the occasional couple in indiscreet moments. How his lips had moved against hers, firm, experienced, his arms drawing her tighter to his chest. The sound like a growl from deep in his throat, thrilling in her ears and shivering down her spine. Her heart, a drum played rapid and shallow as she began to think, to believe, to hope, that maybe...

"You're healthy." His voice came at last, muttering evasive, pulling her back to the present. "Young and healthy, s'all I meant." She could feel his breath, running slow and warm among the downy hairs at the back of her neck. "Anyhow, ain't the time to talk about it. We got to get to sleep."

"We got time," she stubbornly persisted. This was not the answer she wanted, not even an answer at all. "Ain't in no hurry anymore. Don't even have no place we got to go tomorrow, really."

"Then we can talk tomorrow," he returned gruffly. His hand shifting slightly upward on her belly, holding her still close and tender despite the seeming of irritation in his tone. "Ain't got to hash things out right now, little rose."

At this her tongue held still, somewhat appeased by the feeling of the name again, spreading through her like the ripples of a pebble in a pond. A soft delight resounding in her soul, cluching his arm tight around her. He was right, anyway. There was tomorrow. And the day after that, and the week, and the month, and the year...there was a future now, not just the painful past she'd known. A future with him, with her pa - even though she told herself she hadn't yet forgiven him, the thought still hummed brightly in her mind, glittering with promises vague but ambitious. All those dreams she'd had, in all the years of searching. Travelling with him, being his companion, his deputy; maybe some of them were not to be, but so many others could yet take place. If she wanted them, if he let them. Perhaps even of those guiltier fantasies, pulsing insistent and hot from the back of her mind...awareness acute inside her of the fact that he had not denied her question, as she feared he might.

Enough. Her thumb moved absently on his wrist where it came out from his sleeve, stroking quiet at the rough of leathered skin. Permitting sleep to gain a foothold now, held in this embrace, her pa behind her and around her, wrapping her up warm and loving...it was a dream already, unlived in all too long. His body feeling so strong against her, so solid, so real. The rest could wait a while longer. For now, this was enough.

---

"Get up."

Words gutteral and sharp cracked at the black of sleep, a sliver of consciousness shining through. James' eyes flickering slowly open, dull and filmy; he had scarce begun to rouse himself to wakefulness when a booted foot kicked savage at his leg, a stab of sudden pain along his nerves as he was shoved partly off the bedroll and the voice repeated harsher still, "Get up!"

The assault, at least, was rousing. Blinking swiftly cleared his gaze enough to focus blearily upward on the bulky figure standing at his feet. Alice still laying at his side, likewise stirring as his arm released her, as he pushed himself upright; it was a long moment before his mind engaged, and processed the image there before him, recognized the face that seethed redly down. His voice croaking slightly in this early morning. "...Jack?"

It was. The man from days before, who had tried almost to kill him at the door of the saloon, now looming over the both of them. That ugly black revolver once more clutched between his meaty fingers, aimed squarely at James' chest. His expression dark and mocking, a touch of triumph mixed in amongst the wider stew of anger. Humiliation pickled into fury. "That's right," he fairly sneered the answer, "It's Jack. Now get up. Nice'n slow, no sudden moves. I wanna see them hands reachin' for the sky."

By now, Alice was largely awake herself; she shifted over, scrabbling instinctively for the gun at her hip. But she had hardly touched the handle when she found herself staring down the stubby barrel of his revolver. "Oh, I ain't forgotten you, missy, you can be sure of that. You too, keep them hands up where I can see them."

With his finger ready on the trigger, she could do little but comply, baring her palms at the craggy-faced man as the pair slowly rose up to their feet. "Now," the next order came swift and severe, "Undo that gun belt. Usin' your left hand. Toss it over here."

"Jack, what in blazes you come after us for?" James demanded sharply as Alice grudgingly surrendered her weapon. His hands likewise raised up to half-mast, speaking somewhere between bafflement and outrage. "You got your money, got your gun. Don't even look like she hurt you none, way you're waving that thing around."

"Figgers you'd ask that, Slim," he snorted, scornful. "Maybe a cheat like you ain't got no self-respect, but Jack Brown don't let hisself get beaten by a woman."

"You like it better the other way around, do you?" Alice retorted archly. Her eyes still itching at her gun, down between them in the dirt.

"Shut it, you. Both of yuh." His gaze flitted back and forth across the pair, cold with hate. Just one new horse beside the two that they had been riding - he was alone here. Not that the fact helped much, the way he'd gotten the drop on them...he spat to his side, brown with chew, slimy and disgusted. "Shoulda known you two was in cahoots. This whore a'yours, turns up just as soon as I catch you cheatin'."

"She ain't nothin' of the kind, Jack." Despite his situation, James' voice went low and firm with warning, protective anger igniting in him at the epithet. "And anyhow, she ain't the one you want. I'm the cheat; she's just some gal tried to be a Samaritan."

"Just some gal yuh happen t'be sleepin' with, eh?" He laughed briefly, spiteful and condescending. "You're an awful liar, Slim. I don't know what sort of scam you're runnin', dressin' her up like that, but I ain't gonna let her walk off braggin' how she beat me 'cause'a no damn lucky shot."

"Lucky shot?" Alice sounded more offended than alarmed. "You let me pick up that gun, I'll show you just how lucky I am."

"I said shut it," he snapped back, dark and venomous. A few moments glaring, his revolver lingering over to her chest. "I didn't ride all night to listen to no smart mouth from a whore."

"You call her that again," James stepped forward now, half between the pair. Daggers in his gaze, and a bluff threatening on his tongue. "And it ain't gonna end well for you."

"That a fact." Jack sounded hardly more than amused, a nasty smile curling in his expression as he, too, took a step closer. The gun pulling away, lifted upward to his shoulder - it seemed for a moment almost a relaxation. Then he brought it quickly down again, striking savagely at James with the butt of the revolver. Pain blooming sharp in his skull as his lip split open, caught between his teeth and the heavy metal handle, and he stumbled backwards, almost fell...

"Pa!" Alice cried out an instant after the event, rushing instinctively towards him. Her voice high and beautifully breathless with the panic of appalled concern; James just shook his head, gestured vaguely, muttered a quick "'m fine."

"'Pa?'" Jack reacted the stronger, thick eyebrows wandering astonished on his forehead. "Well, I'll be damned. She's your kid?" A new appraisal in his eye, staring as she pushed up to James' side, tried to fuss over this new injury despite his protestations. Disapproval, speaking again. "Ain't much of a father, are you, Slim? Damn sure I wouldn't let no daughter of mine walk around in a getup like that."

For all the man's ignorance of their situation, this stung; James answered tightly, finally pushing Alice somewhat aside. "I ain't got to let her do nothing. She's a grown woman." Licking briefly at the blood that oozed swiftly from his lip.

Jack snorted back, derisive. "Ain't much of a man, neither, if'n you really believe that. Got to keep a firm hand on your fillies..." Stepping closer now to Alice, who stood her ground with barely evident discomfort as he eyed her, appraising. An enterprising smirk slowly climbing into his expression. "Wouldn't even be too bad-lookin', though, if she done somethin' with that hair, put on a dress. Or maybe if she took one off."