INNOCENCE LOST
Bet Goldman has known Jesse Wheeler all her life. When she was a crippled child, he taught her to ride his stallion, Firestriker, giving her the strength to walk for the first time. When she was a young girl, the shared Christmases at his ranch, warming each other with innocent kisses. Now they are in their thirties and though each is promised to someone else, Jesse's face is still etched in Bet's dreams...his velvety voice still sounds in her head. But like a favorite fantasy, his is too exquisite to entertain.
Then, on a steamship bound for the Klondike, the fates give Bet a roommate. Jesse has come to win her with long, slow kisses and hungry caresses. Bet tries to fight the searing attraction she has long denied, but they are alone in a tiny cabin, with all the time in the world--and all the passion of a lifetime... .Top of Page
He kissed her. Not a tender kiss like those he'd given her in college, but a deep kiss and greedy, the way he might drink a glass of water when thirsty. That quality moved her, a sense of need mixed with passion. His hands gripped both her shoulders. He leaned into her body and pressed her backward...
He deepened the kiss. The thrum of her blood drowned out the ocean. Citrus cologne tickled her nose. His fingers plucked her finely spun blouse sleeves, sliding over her skin and tightening...He pressed tightly against her, trapping her in a half-sitting position.
Bending down, he nipped the curve of her neck. A thrill spiraled through her. She'd relived his kisses so many times, but she didn't remember this darkness, this velvety texture and bolt of sheer joy.. . . Top of Page
A twisted limb touches the sky.
The perfect form is always a lie.
Bettina will live within me forever.
Such desolate secrets, yet she never cries.
Zachary English, American poet and short story writer, 1875-1916
CHAPTER ONE
Dancing couples whirled through soft candlelight--men in black suits trimmed with velvet; women in gowns of bright-colored satin. Jesse Wheeler threaded his way through the swirl of bodies, attracting attention as always. Though few of the dancers looked directly at Jesse, their gazes strayed toward his dark figure. A glance here and there. A whispered remark. A slight sway of attraction. There was something so exotic about him--the untamable mane of curly black hair; the skin glinting like a new penny; the extravagant grace of his slim-hipped body, that even the most jaded noticed.
"You want to dance with him, don't you?" Don Daniel Wheeler took Bet Goldman's elbow. He steered her to the edge of the waxed parquet dance floor.
"No." Bet pressed one hand to the small of her back, doing her best to straighten her spine. She'd never make a true ramrod posture, but she made a serious try at looking normal. From the waist up she succeeded, but her lower back curved at an odd angle. "Not really."
Out on the floor, Jesse Wheeler bowed to a lanky blonde in a gray satin ball gown. The violins welled with the movement, as if the musicians had picked up the grand gesture. The lithe woman stepped into his arms. They made a fine couple. Jess--black haired, six feet tall, and strong-featured with the graceful carriage of his Spanish forebearers. His companion matched him in all but his coloring, a slender aristocrat, a gold complement to his darkness.
Pain flared in Bet's spine. She leaned lightly forward. She'd wanted to dance with Jesse all her life, but she'd go to her grave before she'd admit it. "I don't like dancing really." She accepted Don Wheeler's arm, feeling the fine wool sleeve beneath her silk one. She flushed, correcting her previous thought. She'd known Jesse since she was eleven. It only felt as if life had begun when she met him. "I like riding better."
The older man smiled, chucking her chin. "That's our Bet. Always the liar."
"Who is she?" Bet asked, turning away from the don's piercing blue eyes. She did not recognize the tall graceful woman, but thought her a local ranch owner's daughter, judging from her confident posture and the tasteful tailoring of her low-cut gown. He matchless perfection worried Bet just a little.
In the nineteen years since she'd known Jesse Wheeler, many women had thrown themselves at him. He'd never returned the affection of any. He claimed he'd never found the right partner, but Bet knew better than that. That commanding man--heir to this ranch and self-assured dancer--had grown up in vast baronial splendor with mostly horses for friends. His controlled exterior hid a lifelong shyness; he was as wary of strangers as an untamed mustang. Bet put her worries out of her mind. It seemed too unlikely and too depressing that Jesse would form a serious attachment just when she needed his help. Still, it did not hurt to ask. "Does Jesse like her?"
"You'll find out soon enough." The silver-haired don tugged at her sleeve, pulling Bet toward the outdoor veranda. Candlelight glinted off his old-fashioned conches, accenting the matching curls on his head. He tried to guide her by the waist, but Bet shied away lightly and lingered by the sideboard. The cool night breeze leaked through the French doors, mixing with the warmth from the bodies and the dry heat from the fireplace. The scent of cut pine drenched the air. She adjusted the drape of her paisley shawl and paused as if she wanted a drink.
Gallant as always, Don Wheeler stopped. A certain sadness haunted his eyes, but Bet didn't question its presence. She'd known Jesse's father for many years. Though a fortunate man in many ways, he often seemed slightly dejected. With a slight bow toward Bet, he lifted the ladle and dipped it in the claret-colored liquid.
Bet accepted the drink and turned toward Jesse. She searched his face for some hint of expression, but he'd always been opaque in that aspect. He bold features gave lie to the boast of his mother that no Indian blood sullied her lineage. No verbal description could capture his beauty and probably no photograph either. He had a long face, smooth-skinned and high-cheekboned, whose allure lay in its pride and aloofness. He might have been made of obsidian really, at least until he kissed a woman. Bet knew something about that velvet experience. She smiled, sipping the punch. "Do you really think me a fearful liar?"
"Certainly, Darlin'. Look at these ladies." The aging former sea captain nodded his head toward the room's center. "Everyone wants to dance with my Jesse."
"True." Bet laughed through the tension in her corded muscles. She wanted to knuckle the ache in her back, but did nothing more than lean into her corset, letting the special stays take the weight. "I don't know why I should be different."
"'You are special though. And don't you forget it." Don Wheeler pulled a flask out of his vest and spiked the punch with some of the liquid. "Why don't you ask him? You know he'd teach you."
"And let everyone laugh at the cripple?"
"No one would laugh. Laugh and what does it matter? You didn't let that stop you from riding."
"That's not the same."
"Why?"
Bet swallowed the cool, sweet-flavored liquid. "It just isn't, Don Wheeler."
He leaned over and whispered a whiskey-scented suggestion. "'Then ask him when you two are along."
The night air played with Bet's neck, lifting the fine spray of hair at the nape. She'd known the ranchero for almost twenty years. He'd never tried to play the matchmaker. "Who's the woman, Don Wheeler?"
But her old compadre just smiled sadly.
"Kathleen Sage demonstrates that she truly understands the soul of the artist and the heart of a woman in this warm and beautifully rendered romance. The light touches of humor combined with the intense emotions create a tale that will play on your heartstrings." --Romantic Times Magazine
Top of Page
