Summary:  An Indian woman who ‘haunts’ young, tenderfoot Joe during a cattle drive gives him a night he’ll never forget.

Rated:  MA  Contains scenes of a sexually-explicit nature.   Word Count: 1,520

(Originally posted in the R forums in 2011 as part of a challenge for steamy summer reading.)

 

Tall Tales and Taller Truths

Old Hank

Cowboys love to tell tales, the taller the better. Out on the trail, when the night gets thicker and the drive gets longer, the tales get taller—and another kind of drive gets stronger, the kind that makes men loco. That’s when the tales turn to women. And when that kind of talk’s goin’ on, you know what a man’s got a mind to do if he slips off on his own, on account it ain’t his mind doin’ his thinkin’ then.

And when a tenderfoot heads off like Little Joe done that night, he can sure take a ribbing for it. Everyone knew Little Joe had no tales to tell of his own, tall or not.

* * *

Little Joe

I didn’t like being the butt of jokes so I headed off to the lake. I sat down where I could look out over the water and tried to put my mind on other things. That’s when I saw her again, the Indian woman who’d been following me. I’d seen her for the past three days, always watching from a distance. At first I thought we might be heading into an attack, and I told Adam as much. But we never saw any other Indians, and no one else ever saw her. Just me. Now there she was again; only this time she wasn’t watching. She was walking right toward me.

I stood up slowly and looked around. The moon was full and there were plenty enough stars to let me see she was alone. I could feel my heart hammering when she came up close to me. The sway of her hips made me realize those campfire stories had affected me more than I’d thought.

“Hello?”

She didn’t answer. She just smiled. She put her hand on my chest, looked right into my eyes…and smiled.

I realized my heart wasn’t the only thing throbbing.

* * *

She Who Rides the Wind

He had come for me. I knew this when a breeze took his scent to me, a breeze on a night that was too still for breezes. The breeze-that-could-not-be dropped a white feather into my lap. I turned to see from where it had come. My eyes found him. And I knew it was meant to be.

I had first noticed him driving cattle. I too had been driven, sent away from my tribe after he-who-was-my-husband was killed and I refused to be taken by another. This man reminded me of he-who-was-my-husband. His face was different, but his shape was the same. And his spirit, I could see now in his eyes, that too was the same.

I could also see the part of him that bore his seed was the same. And it was awakening as it had always awakened whenever he-who-was-my-husband returned to our wickiup after a long time hunting.

He tried to speak in the strange words of the white man, but we did not need words. I knew he had not come to replace he-who-was-my-husband. We would share no wickiup. The Great Spirit had sent him to me, and me to him, and had awakened that-which-bore-his-seed. We must come together to appease the Great Spirit. It would please us too. It would be enough.

He tried to back away, but the boulder upon which he leaned had less power to stop him than the need awakening in that-which-bore-his-seed. I could see the fabric of his white man’s breeches stretching. I reached down to release it.

He made a sound like the yelp of a coyote. His hand gripped mine with a strength I had nearly forgotten. It was a good strength. A pleasing strength. I could feel myself hardening then too. My breasts cried out to be touched by that hand. I pulled away to untie my deerskin dress, and let it fall to the ground. His eyes grew wide and he yelped again. He feared what he wanted. White men have strange fears.

I reached for his hand and placed it over my breast. His wanting was stronger than his fear. He did not pull away. His touch was warm and gentle, pleasing as he began to explore the soft flesh, his thumb playing across my nipple.

I leaned closer and kissed his cheek. He moved closer then, too. I touched his lips with mine and ran my tongue across them until I reached in and found his. This time when my hand strayed to where he bulged against the fabric, he did not push me away. But my fingers were clumsy; his breeches confounded me. I could not free that-which-bore-his-seed.

He was trembling when he pulled back. But even trembling he quickly rid himself of the leather piece holding his gun. A moment later his breeches were gone too.

That-which-bore-his-seed was firm and pulsing with a promise I had been too long without. I pulled him closer—o r he me; I cannot say if one moved first. When that pulsing reached my skin, the hot wetness of him made my own flesh hot and wet and desperate for the feel of him inside me. I would wait no longer.

With my hands behind his neck, I guided him to the ground. I urged him to lie on his back and straddled him. I took hold of that-which-bore-his-seed and explored it as he had explored my breast. And he did not yelp. He pulled me closer, his hands strong, demanding and familiar. I helped him reach the place he must fill, and then mounted him, sinking down upon that-which-bore-his-seed, driving it into me.

I awoke to him as he awoke to me, pumping with every pulse he gave, riding him as white men ride mustangs fresh from the wild. He, with the strength of the mustang, bucked against me, pressing deeper and deeper, almost too deep and yet not deep enough.

His eyes as wild as the mustang, he gripped my shoulders and turned us until I was on my back. And then he thrust into me with such force I slid across the pebbled ground. I cried out softly, spellbound at the feel of him deep inside me, immersed in his strength. He huffed with the fervor of the great buffalo, drawing power from the fire that joined us. I wrapped my arms tightly around him, keeping us locked together. I held him and released him as he bore down upon me, filling me and filling me and filling me until my lungs could barely draw breath.

My pulse quickening, my heart beating in a fevered pace, I fell into this man’s rhythm, this man who was and was not he-who-was-my-husband. It was the rhythm of the earth itself. And for a moment we two were one, as the Great Spirit had willed it to be.

* * *

Little Joe

By the time my head cleared, she was gone. I never heard her move away. She was just gone, almost like she’d never been there at all, like she’d been a ghost or a dream. But no ghost or dream could have given me what she did.

I know I should feel guilty. It’s a poor excuse to say I couldn’t stop myself, although it’s true; I couldn’t. A preacher would call her a temptress and me a sinner for submitting to her wiles. But I don’t feel guilty. I can’t. Something in her eyes made it clear I shouldn’t.

I looked for her after that, every day on the drive and every night near the camp, but I never saw her again. Why she came, why she chose me, I’ll never know. All I do know is those tall tales don’t get under my skin anymore. I know how tall they really are. And I know my own tale would beat any one of ’em. Only I’ll never tell it, because then I would have to feel guilty, and I don’t want to spoil it that way. Not ever.

* * *

Old Hank

When Little Joe come back from the lake that night, he had a different look to him, like he knew somethin’ no one else knew, somethin’ important. Shorty teased him about that Indian woman he’d talked about seein’, and that look of his got strong enough to shut Shorty right up. And instead of gettin’ all riled up about it like he’d done before, he turned away and went to his bedroll. Went right to sleep too, like there wasn’t nothin’ in the world to worry him.

After a while the tales started to get tall about him and that Indian girl. He never said nothin’ to stop them, and that made the tales get taller still. No one ever knew what was true. But it didn’t matter none. No one ever called him tenderfoot again.