Sage and Sand Read online

  Somehow, Marshall's proximity isn't helping.

  When the stage doesn't start forward, Marshall glances at him—a fleeting look first, but a longer one when their eyes lock. Bram curses inwardly when Marshall's gaze cuts down to Bram's hands; he hates the thought of this man thinking him a coward. He hates not being able to still himself by force of will.

  "How old're you, kid?" Marshall's voice cuts straight through him, low and rough. He doesn't sound pitying. There's something straightforward in his tone, some genuine curiosity. He asks the question quietly, and the sound of his voice sends a surprised shiver along Bram's skin. Those eyes feel like they're looking straight through him, and it takes Bram a moment to find his voice and answer.

  "Twenty."

  "You ever shoot a man before?"

  "No," Bram admits without thinking. He's never shot anyone. He's never been this close to any kind of death, even traveling with his father. Now, with the violence behind him and calm still out of reach, he's not sure whether it's the dead bandit or Cooper's body in the coach upsetting him so badly. Both. Either. He suddenly doesn't care.

  He startles at the warm weight of Marshall's hand at the back of his neck. Strong fingers curl around his nape, not threatening, just a reassuring pressure that—impossibly—steadies Bram and lets him take a firmer grip on the reins.

  "Killing ain't likely to get easier for you with practice," Marshall says. "But you'll be all right."

  When he takes his hand back, Bram feels chilly despite the dry heat and miles of sand, the parched sagebrush stretching to every horizon.

  *

  The five-hour journey passes in silence. Bram has a hundred curiosities about the man riding beside him, but something stops him voicing his questions. Repeatedly, he finds his attention drawn to Marshall's somber profile, and every time it happens he chides himself to keep his eyes forward. If Marshall notices, he gives no sign.

  They reach the township of Darrow just as the sun begins to sink toward the horizon. Bram stops the coach at the corner of two sullen-looking streets, and Marshall dismounts with a smirk. Bram doesn't ask why here; there's a dead man in with his cargo, and Bram would as soon put a little distance there himself. Back on his horse, Marshall tips his hat in one final salute and rides off without a word. Bram watches his disappearing back and wonders at the unfamiliar clench of feeling in his chest.

  The sheriff is Bram's first stop. It's a drudging, unpleasant business, but by the end he's given Cooper's body into more capable hands.

  Bram's second stop is a local freight office, the largest in town. Squat stables abut a more imposing building, with a dusty track out front that passes for a courtyard. Bram draws his horses to a stop at the shadowed stable doors and climbs down from his bench. This company doesn't bear the Caldwell name, but they've been good and reliable partners for years. Bram feels only relief at handing coach and contents alike over to the skinny employee that comes darting out of the main building.

  There are formalities, not all of them brief. The sheriff's visit has already delayed him, and the sun is long set by the time Bram steps back into the street. His horses will be seen to, his stagecoach restocked so that tomorrow he can depart for home. Hiring a new gunman will delay him, but there's no point in such worries now. There's nothing he can do until morning. Tonight his thoughts are dull, his body is exhausted, and the hour is late. Lamplight does a poor job brightening the grimy street, and the long shadows make every building ominous.

  What Bram wants most—a tub of water to wash away the grime of the road—is easily come by. There are ample bathhouses to choose from near the freight offices. It's not until he emerges, clean and calmer for it, that he realizes the fault in his strategy. He needs food and a place to sleep, but at this late hour most reputable establishments will have closed their doors.

  Despite these more immediate concerns, his thoughts return to Marshall Maddox. Bram wonders where the man has gotten to by now, if he's even still in town. He wonders, too, why he cares.

  As if summoned by the very thought, Marshall appears at his side. Bram freezes, staring in unmasked surprise. He's shocked less by the sudden appearance than by his own reaction. A cool thrill runs along his spine, and inexplicable heat rises to his face.

  Marshall gives him a wry look, oblivious to the fact that his presence has put a stutter to Bram's heartbeat, and then drapes a careless arm over Bram's shoulders. "Come on, kid. I know a place. Cheap food, clean floors, they might even have a room free if you ask nicely."

  *

  The place is clean. It's neither a tavern nor a proper hotel, though it seems to be making an effort at both. The common room is barely large enough for the hearth and two tables crammed into it. Bram thinks that even at this hour there should be other patrons drinking in the firelight, but there's no one else to ruin the homey warmth. There's only the owner, a round little man with friendly eyes, who steps forward and locks the door behind them. Bram's eyes track Marshall's progress across the room, despite his own best efforts to mind his host, who has already introduced himself as Francis. Francis is busy assuring him that their only available accommodations may be sparse, but should do well enough for one night.

  "I don't mind sparse," Bram says when Francis points across the room, to a door tucked beneath the stairs. It looks to be little more than a closet from here, but as long as it's a closet with a clean bed Bram's not going to complain. He pays without haggling.

  "Sit." His host nudges him toward the table nearest the hearth—the one where Marshall is already sitting, watching their exchange with piercing eyes. "Sit, I'll fetch you something to eat." Bram must look more dead on his feet than he realized; he hasn't even asked about food.

  He sits without protest, and when dry bread and a bowl of leftover stew appear before him, he eats with ravenous appetite. The stew is cold but surprisingly good, and the food is gone before it even occurs to Bram how rude he's being. When he pushes the empty bowl aside and raises his eyes, he finds Marshall hatless and watching him with something damn near amusement on his face.

  "G'night, Frank," Marshall says to their host, though he doesn't take his eyes off of Bram. Across the room, there's an audible creak of stairs, as Francis climbs to the second floor and disappears into the hallway. The soft thump of footsteps disappears more slowly, and then a door shuts somewhere above. The sound signals solitude, and Bram shifts on his bench, suddenly restless. He can't work out why Marshall brought him here, or why he seems determined to meddle in Bram's affairs.

  "Why're you helping me?" he asks finally, when frustrated curiosity finally outweighs his more diplomatic instincts. "No one's ever had my back like you done today, and I can't figure what's in it for you."

  Marshall doesn't answer, and the silence that follows is broken only by the pop and crackle of the fire burning low. Bram has no explanation for the way his gut tightens, or the way his face heats as Marshall peers at him with a heavy, unreadable expression. The air feels warm along his skin, and again Bram's heartbeat quickens in his chest.

  He doesn't know what's wrong with him, but he'd do anything to break the spell that's come with all this quiet.

  Eventually, sheepish and overwhelmed by the distracting intensity in Marshall's eyes, Bram drops his gaze to the uneven grain of the table. The silence persists for a heartbeat longer, and then Marshall's voice breaks in on a low chuckle. For some reason, instead of riling him, the sound slots beneath Bram's skin and catches his breath in his throat. There's no malice in the quiet laughter, which dies away as suddenly as it began.

  "You're a good kid. I like you." Marshall's words sound easy enough on the surface, but a heavier undercurrent darkens them with meaning. There's the scrape of wood as Marshall rises from the bench, and Bram's gaze rises to watch him stretch tiredly. Weak firelight from the hearth casts him almost entirely in shadows. "I'm beat. See you around."

  Then Marshall moves for the stairs, and a sharp edge of protest lodges between Bram's ribs.
r />   He rises thoughtlessly, not sure why he can't let Marshall walk away, but desperate to stop him from disappearing up those stairs. His footsteps carry him forward in a quiet rush, putting him directly in Marshall's path. When he squares his shoulders, his heart is already racing in his chest. He thinks he understands the meaning behind the gravel in Marshall's voice, and with understanding comes the startling revelation of just what Bram is desperate for. He marvels that he didn't work it out sooner.

  Marshall has stopped abruptly, and he stares at Bram, brow creased ominously. There's warning in his posture, and in the dark flash of comprehension in his eyes.

  "Don't fuck with me, kid," Marshall says in a voice more like a growl than proper speech. "Go get some sleep; you've got a long way to travel tomorrow."

  Bram holds his ground. He's never been one to second guess his own instincts, and he's not going to be intimidated into retreat. It doesn't cross his mind that he might be reading the situation entirely wrong; somehow, he knows better.

  A different look darkens Marshall's face when Bram remains in his path, this one somber and pensive. He takes a deliberate step forward. Then a second, stopping so near Bram can feel the heat of him.

  Marshall's gaze is potent, and Bram understands that this is a test. He continues to hold his ground, not letting the sheer power of the man's physical presence subdue him. A moment later he's rewarded by a wicked grin spreading slowly across Marshall's face.

  He's not expecting Marshall to shove him, and he stumbles back a step, colliding with the banister behind him. He inhales sharply as Marshall looms forward, still not touching Bram but bracketing him in as surely as if he were. Bram is starting to think he might go mad; he tries to meet Marshall's eyes, but his gaze keeps dropping to the man's mouth instead. His face is aflame, and he consoles himself that Marshall can't possibly see the warm flush in this scant light.

  Then Marshall backs abruptly away. Bram stares, feeling rejected and suddenly cold, wondering if he's done something wrong.

  Before he can ask, Marshall cocks his head to one side and says, "Come on, then."

  This time when he moves for the stairs, Bram follows quietly behind.

  *

  Marshall's room is at the very end of the upstairs hall. It's a tiny space, dark but for an open window letting in a cool breeze and just enough moonlight. Marshall nudges him across the threshold, and a moment later Bram hears the sturdy click of the door latching shut.

  He stands perfectly still as Marshall circles him slowly. They stare at each other, and Bram swallows. The silence is thrilling, and it sends anticipation twisting beneath his skin.

  It's Marshall who moves first, stepping forward so suddenly that Bram stumbles back. Marshall just keeps coming, closing the distance between them, pushing Bram deliberately until his shoulders bump the door. There's the press of cool wood along his spine, and it's like the moment at the base of the stairs all over again.

  There's something sharper in the air now, though. Marshall braces one palm flat beside Bram's head as he leans in; his other hand curls beneath Bram's chin, urging him to meet Marshall's eyes. There's something almost terrifying in the way Marshall is watching him, the fierceness of his focus. It's as though he's not looking at Bram, but through him, to every carefully guarded secret. Somehow, the thought doesn't scare him like it should.

  He reaches one hand between them and twists his fingers in the front of Marshall's shirt, thoughtlessly tugging him closer.

  Marshall breathes a greedy sound and crushes Bram hard against the door, taking his mouth in a rough kiss. Bram gasps as Marshall's fingers slide into his hair, cupping the back of his skull. Marshall's entire body presses closer, an inferno of heat trapping him in place, hurrying his pulse.

  The first nudge of tongue catches him off guard, but Bram parts his lips readily. The deeper kiss sets off something bright and eager in his chest, and he frames Marshall's face with both hands. Marshall's hair is soft and clean where it curls over his fingertips, and Bram moans around Marshall's tongue.

  He's too occupied to protest when those strong hands release him, and a moment later he hears the heavy thump of a long leather coat dropping to the floor. Bram feels foolish, but also frantic as he reaches now for the buttons of Marshall's shirt. The top four already gape open, but Bram's fingers fumble at the next in line, one after another until the very last button falls loose. He barely notices Marshall doing the same to him, distracted as he is by the heat beneath his hands.

  Then Marshall grabs him by both wrists and pins them to either side of Bram's head, jostling him against the door and breaking the kiss. Bram stares, wondering again if he's done something wrong.

  But Marshall is staring back just as hard, and there's no censure in his eyes. A wicked smile curls slowly at one corner of his mouth, and he regards Bram with an expression that kindles fire through his blood. Marshall's shirt hangs off his broad shoulders, baring his muscled chest, firm planes broken by frequent scars.

  When Marshall leans forward again, it's not to reclaim the kiss that's already taken Bram apart. Instead, Marshall's mouth presses hot to his throat, just beneath his jaw. Bram gasps at the teasing sting of teeth, but chokes back the louder sounds that want to follow. The door is sturdy, but not so thick as to prevent someone overhearing if he makes too much noise.

  The bites and kisses that Marshall trails down his throat make it difficult to keep quiet. It seems ages before Marshall releases his wrists, and then it's only to nudge the shirt from Bram's shoulders and toss it aside. When Marshall's mouth reaches the junction of throat and shoulder, he bites down harder. It's not nearly enough to cause true hurt, but Bram still gasps at the sharp sensation. An instant later Marshall's tongue is there, soothing the spot where Bram knows he'll wear a visible bruise come morning.

  The thought sends a thrill along his skin, and he almost whimpers.

  Then Marshall slips one hand down the front of Bram's pants, and every coherent thought flees from his mind. He hadn't even noticed Marshall at work on his laces. Now calloused fingers close warmly around his length, and he inhales raggedly. He wraps his arms around broad shoulders, muffling a cry against bare skin as Marshall eases Bram's cock into the cool air and gives a slow, taunting stroke. Marshall traces his thumb along the underside, teases the ridge before sliding his whole hand higher, toward the base.

  Marshall's palm is warm and dry, his touch overwhelming, and Bram's head thumps helplessly back as sensation swells inside him. It rises, crests, and carries him over the edge too quickly.

  Embarrassment follows soon enough. He feels foolish to have spent so fast, from so little, and he stares at the floor as his face heats with shame.

  Marshall's answering laugh isn't mean-spirited, but it rankles Bram anyway. He keeps his gaze trained stubbornly downward, determined not to look up until he's thought of something to say.

  But Marshall curls a hand beneath Bram's chin and tilts his face up, forcing eye contact. He doesn't speak. He just leans in for another, slower kiss.

  "Don't worry," Marshall says when he pulls back. The gravel of his voice is becoming familiar, and it sends a visceral shiver down Bram's spine. "Ain't done with you just yet."

  The next few minutes are a chaos of laces and buttons and falling fabric. When he realizes Marshall's aim is to see them both completely undressed, Bram tries to help. Flustered as he is, his movements are clumsy, and mostly he just hampers their efforts. It seems a small miracle when at last they both stand naked, moonlight rendering them in dramatic shadows. Marshall takes a deliberate step back, and cool air chills Bram's skin.

  He feels self-conscious, bare before his companion's hungry scrutiny.

  He's not so self-conscious that he won't look his fill of the view offered in return. Most men, in Bram's experience, look slightly ridiculous in the nude. Less imposing, more graceless and vulnerable, not quite so well formed as their dusty clothes might make them seem.

  Marshall Maddox appears to be an except
ion. Naked in the moonlight, his body is nothing but muscle and strength. He looks every bit as imposing as he appeared when he stormed to Bram's rescue in his leather coat and low-brimmed hat. A thick scattering of hair darkens his chest, and his arms and shoulders look strong enough to tear down walls barehanded. Marshall's cock stands rigid, and Bram's entire body warms at the sight. He knows, from a lifetime of overheard mutterings, what it is two men might do in the privacy of a shared bed. Now, looking at the size of the aroused length before him, Bram wonders how those things can be possible.

  He's honestly surprised to realize he's not afraid. His own spent arousal stirs eagerly, rallying to the occasion, and he forces himself to draw a steadying breath. Marshall approaches, his expression fierce, and Bram's blood rushes south all the faster at the look in his eyes. He can't quite fathom how that look came to be locked on him. He feels out of his depth and ridiculous.

  But he also wants, and the power of it catches his breath in his throat.

  Hardly realizing what he's doing, Bram drops to his knees.

  Marshall's eyes widen, and his face might be comical if Bram's pulse weren't making such a racket in his chest. As it is he only keeps his gaze turned upwards for a moment before staring instead at the flushed length before him.

  He won't pretend to know what he's doing. But then, he doesn't figure he needs to. He reaches out, curling his hand around the base. Surprising how natural it feels, holding a cock at this unfamiliar angle, feeling the warm slide of someone else's flesh against his palm. He gives a tentative stroke and smiles at the hiss of breath from above him. Then, closing his eyes to savor every detail, he leans forward and takes the flared head into his mouth.