The Lone Star Collection Page 18

  Sandy’s early morning grumpiness quickly dissipated. I do believe that woman is flirting with me. She’s right about getting off to an early start; we’ll have more time to spend together.

  After enjoying a hearty breakfast, Sandy led Lane up the trail which she had taken the previous day. When they came to a fork, she selected a new path that wound around the north face of the peak. She showed Lane the hollow pockets in the basalt where long ago, molten minerals had cooled into colorful formations of pompom agate.

  “I had no idea that rocks came in gay colors,” Lane remarked. She carefully stowed several purple and pink specimens into her backpack.

  Sandy grinned at her friend. “I’m glad you’re having a good time. Let’s take a lunch break. There’s a good place on the ledge above us.”

  When the two women reached the flat shelf of gray rhyolite jutting out from the mountainside, they immediately dropped their packs to marvel at the panoramic view of the Chihuahuan Desert.

  “It’s gorgeous here. We can see for a hundred miles!”

  “Yes, the view is breathtaking,” Sandy replied, “but what’s really special is sharing it with you.” She leaned closer, brushing Lane’s lips with a butterfly kiss. Hesitantly, she drew back, silently questioning.

  Soft hands cupped Sandy’s cheek then settled on the back of her neck tugging her close. The kisses came gently at first, then with increasing passion. When Lane nuzzled a very sensitive spot above her collarbone, Sandy trembled involuntarily from the stream of sparks pulsing down her core. She moaned as Lane sucked and lightly nipped at the delicate flesh on the side of her neck. Waves of heat lapped over her body. Her knees threatened to buckle. Surprised by the suddenness and intensity of her body’s response, Sandy withdrew slightly to create a bit of tactile separation. After pausing to catch her breath, she remarked, “Whew, you’re making me dizzy!”

  “I’ve been known to sweep women off their feet.” Lane chuckled. She pulled Sandy down beside her, wrapping one arm around her middle.

  Sandy sighed and rested her head on Lane’s shoulder. She had carefully guarded her feelings for so many years. It was time to take a risk.

  “Lane, I have this easy feeling with you, but there is also a sensual hunger, too. Usually, I don’t let my barriers down this quickly.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt a connection with anyone,” Lane replied. “After Jeanne died, I was emotionally spent. A couple of years later, I tried dating. It was a miserable experience, so I focused on work and friends.”

  “Yes, I know what it’s like to be trapped in an emotional void,” Sandy confessed. “Perhaps it’s best not to analyze too much. Let’s just be in the present and enjoy this moment.”

  Sandy and Lane sat intertwined, each woman savoring the warmth and comfort from emotionally joining. Spawned by years of loneliness, the deep-seated yearning evaporated as two souls touched and connected.

  When the midday sun rose overhead, hunger intruded on the women’s consciousness. “Time for sustenance,” Sandy remarked. “There’s something in this high desert air that really whets my appetite.” She dived into her backpack and pulled out peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches.

  Lane eagerly accepted the sandwich. “This should satisfy some of my appetite,” she replied, winking at Sandy.

  After lunch, both women felt stiff from sitting on the unforgiving rocky tufa. Lane stood and stretched, helping Sandy to her feet. “I have an idea,” she suggested. “Let’s take a bath!”

  “Uh, Lane, I realize that I haven’t had a shower in three days. Are you implying that I’ve gotten a little gamey?”

  “No, silly. I’m suggesting an adventure.”

  “Uh, what kind of adventure? There isn’t any plumbing for at least 65 miles.”

  “It’s a surprise! Come on, we need to be back in camp well before sundown.”

  Puzzled, Sandy considered possible options. Maybe Lane has a solar shower rigged up behind her tent. That could be a brief but interesting experience. Okay, let’s see what happens.

  The descent from near the summit took until mid-afternoon. When they reached camp, Lane issued instructions.

  “Sandy, pack a change of clothes and a towel. A blanket might be good, too. We’ll also need your lanterns. I’ll grab some drinks and snacks for dinner. Be back in 20 minutes.” Before Sandy could reply, Lane rushed off to her own tent.

  Okay, no solar shower. What the devil does she have in mind?

  Sandy quickly packed the supplies that Lane requested and added oil to the lanterns. When Lane drove up, she was ready and very curious.

  “Stow your stuff in back,” Lane suggested. She punched a button on the instrument panel and the Explorer’s rear hatch popped open.

  Sandy noticed that the passenger seats in the back of the SUV were folded down to make a flat surface. She saw blankets, pillows, a duffle bag, and a small cooler.

  “Lane, you’ve packed enough for a week. Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you to a secret spot. I found out about it from Mattie and Jake. They don’t usually tell campers about this place. Too many people don’t respect the environment.”

  When they reached the base of Needle Peak, Lane drove for several miles before taking a barely discernible side road.

  “Now you know why we had to leave while it’s still daylight. No way I could find this trail in the dark,” Lane explained.

  Sandy leaned back in her seat and tried to appear disinterested. She is enjoying her secret far too much. I’m not asking any more questions.

  Fifteen more minutes passed before Lane announced, “Hey, we’re here!” She slowed to a stop near an outcropping of lava rocks. “This is Apache Springs. The water is heated thanks to this area’s volcanic history.”

  Sandy eagerly abandoned the Explorer to investigate the springs. “What a really neat place! It’s pretty and very secluded.”

  “Yes, it is. Sandy, would you mind gathering some wood? A fire will be nice when the evening turns chilly.”

  “Sure, no problem. Thank you for bringing me here.”

  Sandy occasionally peeked at her friend while she searched for pieces of deadfall. Lane appeared to be busy with some task in the back of the Explorer.

  By the time the sky changed from scarlet hues to lavender twilight, Sandy had a nice fire blazing. The two women shared a light meal and watched the stars make their appearance. Although their conversation focused on the natural beauty of their surroundings, each woman felt a titillating sense of anticipation.

  Sandy finally grew impatient. “In case you’ve forgotten,” she reminded Lane, “you promised me a bath.”

  Smirking, she pulled off her boots and socks. Teasingly, she unbuttoned her shirt and casually tossed it aside. Her jeans were the next to go. When Sandy discarded her undershirt, shadows from the flickering flames licked at her breasts and taut nipples. She finished torturing Lane by slowly slipping off her bikini briefs.

  With a mischievous smile playing on her face, Sandy eased into the pool. Immersed up to her chin, she rested her elbows on a rocky outcropping in the middle of the springs. “Hey, the water is really pleasant. What’s keeping you?”

  Sandy watched Lane quickly undress. An insistent ache began to throb low in her belly. The silvery glow from the starlight revealed Lane’s lightly muscled body, trim, yet rounded with the soft curves of a woman in her middle years. Wow, she’s lovely!

  Lane waded into the pool until the warm water covered the top of her shoulders, then she glided over to Sandy. “I want you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with need.

  Wordlessly, Sandy joined Lane. The silky softness of their bodies melded into one. Hands and lips explored each other in the timeless way of lovers. Walls crumbled and time stood still in that perfect moment when release came fierce and exquisitely sweet.

  The two lovers held each other for a long time, immersed in their precious soulful joining. Eventually, practicality won out.

  �
��We should get out of the water before we turn into prunes,” Lane remarked.

  “You’re right.” Sandy laughed. “No need for more wrinkles.”

  The two women emerged from the springs and were instantly greeted by the cool, desert evening. The dying embers of the fire didn’t provide much heat. The two lovers quickly toweled off each other, then wrapped themselves in blankets.

  “How are you going to find the way back to the campgrounds in the darkness,” Sandy asked. “The trail we followed was faint even in daylight.”

  “I can’t,” Lane admitted. “I guess we’re stuck sleeping here.” She shrugged, grinning impishly.

  When Sandy reached for her clothes, Lane stopped her. “No need to put those on.”

  “Oh, are you going to keep me warm?”

  “Definitely,” Lane replied, tossing sand on the fire. “Come on!”

  With the lanterns lighting the way over the uneven terrain, they located the path leading to the Explorer. When Lane raised the hatchback, Sandy saw a cocoon of quilts and pillows. Shivering from the night’s chill, they quickly climbed inside, immediately burrowing under the covers.

  Lane reached overhead and tugged on a panel to reveal a moon roof.

  Sandy gazed up at the tapestry of lights shimmering through the glass ceiling. She snuggled happily, wrapped in her lover’s embrace. “Magic moments,” she whispered, “under the West Texas stars.”

  About the Author

  Yvette Murray

  Yvette Murray, PhD. is a retired university professor with 25 years of clinical experience in psychiatric social work. A native of Central Texas, she currently resides in Austin. Yvette’s hobbies include rock collecting, gardening, and jewelry design. Her favorite past time is reading lesfic novels while accompanied by two feline family members.

  Yvette discovered lesbian fiction in the 1980s. Since that time, she has been involved in various literary and promotional activities, serving as an awards administrator for the Golden Crown Literary Society and organizing the Lone Star LesFic Festivals. Twelve years ago, she formed the Sapphic Reading Group and presently serves as the facilitator. Contact Yvette at LesFicRules@gmail.com

  Remember Me

  Del Robertson

  “Excuse me, but I believe you’re sitting on my grandmother.”

  “I’m sorry—wait—what?”

  Taylor sat open-mouthed as she looked up into emerald green eyes. Red hair framed the woman’s face, falling loosely about both shoulders. Light freckles dusted sunburned cheeks. She clutched a messenger bag at her side like an oversized purse.

  “Well, at least my great, great, great… Honestly, I forget how many greats away she was. The bench you’re sitting on is to honor her.”

  “Oh. Oh!” Taylor scrambled off the bench and looked at the plaque inscribed in polished bronze:

  Dedicated to the fearless women,

  children & other survivors of the Alamo

  Beneath was a list of names.

  “Which one is she?” asked Taylor.

  “One of the others. Her name isn’t listed.”

  “Many documents from that period were lost and eyewitness accounts are scarce. I’m afraid some names will always be lost to history.”

  “Just as I’m afraid that since history is written by the survivors, it is they that choose what is remembered and who is forgotten.”

  “I take it you’re here for the commemoration ceremony?”

  “Yes, sorry. Alison Lindley Parker.” She thrust out her hand.

  “Taylor Whitlock.”

  “Please, forgive my abruptness. Sometimes, I get too passionate.”

  “It’s okay. Really. I like passionate women…I mean, I like women…people…who are passionate about history. I like history.” She took a breath. “I’m a historian.”

  “Well, Taylor Whitlock, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” A smile tugged at her lips. “I happen to like passionate women, too, and historians, and if I haven’t already offended you too much, perhaps you’ll allow me a chance to apologize for my wretched manners.”

  “If that apology comes in the form of lunch, I accept.”

  †

  Alison only dimly registered following Taylor from the Alamo, across the street and down stone stairs to the river walk. The river was lovely, but the brightness from the sun shimmered off the water’s surface, the glare hurting her eyes. She looked away, gaze wandering up long-legged faded jeans and over a heart-shaped butt encased in skintight denim. She honestly couldn’t say how long or how far they’d walked, but she could go another ten miles if Taylor was the tour guide.

  When they reached a restaurant, Alison blinked, feeling as if a haze were being lifted from her eyes. After the heat of outside, the ceiling fans felt as refreshing as a walk-in cooler. She shook her head to dislodge the last lingering effects of the heat, watching Taylor as she ate.

  “You’re staring. Did I get some on me?” Taylor asked, looking down at her shirt.

  “Sorry. You’re nothing like what I pictured a historian should be.”

  Taylor used her thumb to dab at a spot of barbeque sauce at the corner of her mouth. She sucked it off with a loud smack and a lick of her lips. “Let me guess: starched shirt, grey hair, and bifocals on a chain?”

  “Something like that.” Alison licked her lips in mirrored response.

  Taylor Whitlock was about as far away from starched shirt as anyone could get. Her ebony hair was short enough that it spiked in the front. At least four buttons of her untucked denim shirt were undone, revealing a black tank top beneath. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing corded forearms.

  “I may be a bit…unconventional…by some of my colleague’s standards, but I promise, I do have my papers. Along with a real grown-up’s office that requires card clearance and everything.” There was a hint of a repressed note that Taylor’s joking manner couldn’t quite hide.

  Ali felt her lips curve into a smile as she recalled the tri-fold souvenir pamphlet she had acquired at the Alamo’s front entrance that morning. “Oh, I’m quite certain you’re authentic.”

  “So, I take it you’re not from around here?”

  “Why, Taylor, is that a line?” Alison raised an eyebrow.

  “Um, no? Unless you want it to be? I mean, it’s just that I noticed you have an accent.”

  “I might say the same about you, with that charming southern drawl. I’m from St. Louis.”

  “You came all this way just for the commemoration?” asked Taylor.

  “Attending the dedication ceremony is a way for me to honor the memory of my ancestor, but this is what really bought my ticket here.”

  Alison unlatched her messenger bag and pulled out a sealed clear plastic bag. Inside, on top of several newspaper clippings, documents, and other memorabilia, was a leather-bound book with the initials S.L. branded into the bottom corner.

  “Is that—”

  “—a handwritten journal detailing the fall of the Alamo.”

  “Is this a prank? Did Madison put you up to this?” Blue eyes studied Alison with razor-sharp intensity.

  “This isn’t a joke. It’s my great grandmother, Sarah Lindley’s diary. It details her first-hand account of her days in Texas, complete with dates, including the events the morning of March 6, 1836.”

  Taylor gasped. She reached out, fingers trembling, nearly touching the bag. At the last moment, she withdrew, fingers curling in upon themselves.

  “I have to examine this. But not here; in a controlled environment; my office.”

  Taylor stood, motioning for Alison to do the same. She tucked the documents safely inside her messenger bag, barely getting the flap closed and buckled before Taylor was grabbing her hand and dragging her out of the restaurant.

  †

  Alison sat patiently in a leather-backed chair in Taylor’s office, watching her read. Taylor had scarcely mumbled a dozen words, but her excitement was palpable. It had been evident from the firm clasp she kept on Ali’s
hand and in the long-legged strides she’d taken as she practically speed-walked them back to the Alamo.

  Fingers still entangled, she’d led them to a side gate camouflaged by shrubbery. A swipe of a magnetic card strip had them through the gate and a door marked Employees Only, where another swipe gained them entrance. From there, it was down a dimly lit corridor and past an electronic security pad.

  The black leather journal cover was weathered and worn soft about the edges and spine. The pages were yellow with age, the edges brittle, and the ink was faded. Some of the hand-scrawled letters near the bottom of the pages were smudged, and it was easy to imagine Sarah Lindley hunched over the journal with her quill, the cuff of her blouse brushing against fresh ink.

  †

  February 20, 1836

  It has been twelve days since our arrival in San Antonio de Bexar. Tension is thick in the air. Whether in anticipation of the Mexican army rumored to be on the march or because of the growing strife between Bowie’s volunteer army and Bill’s regular troops, I cannot say. Bill has taken the threat seriously and has urged us to be prepared whilst Bowie is casual, encouraging his men to dance and sing throughout the night. I fear that the residents of San Antonio will tire of us long before General Santa Anna arrives.

  “Sarah, you should be sleeping, not writing.”

  Sarah placed her quill upon the small writing desk and turned in the chair. John was stretched out on his pallet upon the floor, feet crossed at the ankles and an arm tucked beneath his head.

  “How can anyone sleep with all manner of carousing going on from dusk to dawn?” Sarah asked as she crossed the room to sit upon the bed to unlace her boots.

  “Perhaps you’d care to join them? I’m certain I overheard Bill ask you on more than one occasion.” The teasing smile on John’s face shone bright, even in the dim lantern light.