Pemberley Ranch - Jack Caldwell [33]
“And bring back a bottle with you—the good stuff. Not that rotgut shit you serve the cowpokes.”
She turned, but Whitehead was already back to his ledgers. “Sure, George, sure. Nothin’ but the best for you.”
George Whitehead didn’t answer as he continued to work.
May
Summer came on fast in Central Texas. It was the middle of May, and the temperature was already reaching the ninety-degree mark. It made riding the range hot work for man and beast, as Darcy was experiencing.
Caesar walked along the ridgeline, head hanging low, as a sweaty Darcy watched his cattle. With half the workforce riding north along the Chisholm Trail with the herd heading for market, Pemberley needed every hand it had to do the everyday chores. So it was that Darcy fell back into his old job of supervising the herd as he had done before and after the war, before his father’s passing. The work was long and hot, but Darcy paid it no mind—it was what he was born to do. Besides, it gave a man the time to think.
Darcy’s thoughts, as much as he tried to steer them elsewhere, kept coming back to the mystery that was Beth Bennet. She was a mystery to him, at least.
It was midday, and the sun beat unmercifully upon Caesar, so Darcy moved towards the river, intending to wash his face in the cool water. He found himself a bit upriver of Thompson Crossing, which brought Beth back into his thoughts. He worked his way south along the trees and brush that lined the riverbank, making his way to the ford.
He would later have no idea why he stopped well short of his goal. He would recall no particular sight or sound, just a feeling. He looked around, but only saw dense bushes near a large oak, its branches hanging low. Darcy dismounted, tying Caesar’s reins to a branch, and began to make his way through the brush. He could make out the faint sounds of splashing, so he half-crouched, removing his hat in the shade and cover. A couple of feet from the bank, he sat back on his heels and carefully peered through the undergrowth.
It was a vision right out of his most intense dreams. A brown-haired nymph was playing in the water just off the opposite bank. She was swimming in what best could be described as a small cove shielded on three sides by trees hanging right over the water. Darcy realized that he was in the one perfect spot to observe her; a few feet to the left or right and the leaves from the overhanging limbs would conceal the cove completely. It took him a moment to realize that the nymph was Beth Bennet.
The next thing Darcy knew he was sitting down in his little spot, an audience of one for the erotic show. He couldn’t see all that much, as Beth’s head was the only portion of her body above the water, her long hair trailing behind. But even ignoring the bundle lying carefully on the opposite bank, the river was clear enough for him to know, with an electric charge racing through his body, that the lovely lady was without a stitch of clothes on.
Decency, honor, a lifetime of training—all fled in an instant. Darcy could not tear his eyes from what he now realized was his one desire. Trembling, he breathed as slowly as he could, so as not to reveal himself. Darcy existed in a world of agony and ecstasy; he knew he should turn away, but could not. He wanted to jump in the river, swim over to her, and take her—love her— again and again. Instead, he sat as still as he could, sweat dripping down his face, his jeans becoming as tight as his breathing.
Beth dropped beneath the surface. At this, Darcy became alarmed, but before he could move a muscle, she came up again, only to lie back and float in the lazy current. Darcy froze; her breasts were exposed, their perky perfection kissed by the dappled sunlight through the canopy. Time stood still, all sound ceased, as Darcy was frozen by the siren song of desire, a real-life Calypso unknowingly taunting Odysseus. Lust and passion roared through his veins, and he felt he was going to explode.
By the time Beth dipped underwater again, Darcy found himself on one knee, beginning to move