The Pride of Hannah Wade by Janet Dailey Read Free Book Online Page B

betting came full circle to him, he matched the single raise and called the bets. He flipped over his downed cards. “Full house. Aces over sixes.”
    “Damn,” the newspaperman swore at his luck as the winnings went to Cutter.
    The cards were thrown into the center to be gathered by Grimshaw, the dealer. “Women,” he shuffled the deck. “They are the root of many a man’s troubles.”
    “I don’t know.” Cutter settled back in his chair to await the new deal. “A man’s always running either from something or after it.”
    “Which would you be doing, Captain?” the trader asked curiously.
    “Well, it depends”—a grin curved his mouth—“on whether the Apaches are chasing me or I’m chasing the Apaches.”
    Grimshaw pushed the cards to be cut, and asked the table, “How about a little five-card draw?”
    It was late by the time the last of the guests had gone along to their own quarters on Officers’ Row. After an initial clean-up, the striker was dismissed for the night, leaving the bulk of the work for the morning.
    Seated on the small cushioned bench in front of her vanity mirror, Hannah stroked the bristled brush through the length of her deeply red-brown hair, its hidden fire cascading down her back onto the voluminous, lace-trimmed nightgown. Stephen lay in bed, his hands folded under his head as he watched her.
    “It’s late, Hannah. Turn out the lamp and come to bed.” A low urgency vibrated through his husky, well-modulated voice.
    She felt its invisible caress and gentle pull. Her lips softened. She found it sweet that Stephen disliked going to sleep unless she was at his side. He was so devoted to her.
    A little knot of excitement tightened her stomach at the sight of him lying in bed waiting for her, his strong arms ready to hold her. The gilded hairbrush was returned to its place next to its companion comb and hand mirror as Hannah straightened to blow out the lamp flame.
    The defused glow of the lamp momentarily backlighted her, silhouetting the high roundness of her breasts, the concave flatness of her stomach, and the full curve of her bottom. Stephen’s tongue seemed to thicken in his throat as he watched his wife, her cotton nighttown made diaphanous by the light. A stiffening heat burned in his loins. Then the room dissolved into darkness, lamp smoke briefly scenting the air.
    In the ghostly light of varying shades of gray and black, she approached the bed, the white of her nightgown a mass against a darkened backdrop. With blood running fast through his veins, Stephen unclasped his hands and reached to encircle her shoulders with an arm as she joined him in the bed.
    “Your hair ...” His hand made a slow stroke down the rippling waves of red-brown hair that had fallen into the valley between her breasts. He curled the ends around his finger, using the motion as an excuse to leave his hand there, resting against the firm swell of one breast, the material of her nightgown interposing. “It reminds me of rose petals, all velvety and scented with a sweet, heady fragrance.”
    Her head turned on the pillow, her face tilting toward his, her body warm against him. In the palenessof the night’s shadows, Stephen could see the pulse beating in her throat, confirmation that her emotions were stirred by his touch, his nearness.
    “Do you ever tire of complimenting me, Stephen?” Her lips were smiling at him, but her tone was saying she loved it.
    “No. I never tire of holding you and kissing you. My own sweet love.” He leaned toward her and kissed her lips, lingering on their soft shape to nuzzle and tickle her with his mustache. “The evening was a success. Everyone enjoyed themselves, naturally. They always do when you entertain.”
    “It did turn out well,” Hannah conceded modestly, and drew back slightly, her skin tingling from the contact with the soft bristle of his mustache. The dimness accentuated the proud and handsome features of her husband. “You looked so grand