Thunder In Her Body Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents are the results of the author’s fertile imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved. This book, or any portion of it, may not be reproduced without written permission from the author , except a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review; nor may any parts of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2013 C.B.Stanton

  All rights reserved

  ISBN 13:978-1482766240

  ISBN 148276624810

  Printed in the US on acid-free paper

  Thunder

  In

  Her

  Body

  ¤

  C. B. Stanton

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all the women who survived the lessons of their twenties and thirties and are now fully mature, sexually awakened, and who believe that deep and abiding, life-long love is possible and attainable, if nothing more than in their most private fantasies.

  Chapter 1

  ¤

  The Cattle Baron Restaurant

  “Hey Girl. Let’s get crackin’. I’m starved and we’re gonna eat high on the hog tonight,” Lynette yelled up the stairs to Clare on the second floor of the condo.

  “Pork?” Clare yelled back with a distinct question in her tone.

  “No silly. We will not dine on swine,” Lynette laughed at her own alliteration. “I’m taking you to the fancy steak house up on Main Road, so shake a tail feather,

  I’m famished,” Lynette quipped, excitement in her voice.

  IN THE EIGHT OR NINE YEARS that Lynette had been coming to the central New Mexico mountains and the two years since she bought her condo, she’d never been inside the Cattle Baron Restaurant. Oh, she’d driven by it dozens of times and took note of the overflow of cars in its parking lot, especially on weekend nights, but most of the time she was alone in her mountain getaway, and she didn’t want to eat alone in a big fancy restaurant. She preferred to test the local cuisine served in the small mom-and-pop restaurants, some of which were no more than a questionable cocina with four or five formica-topped tables and mixed-matched chairs. Though somewhat greasy, the food was always plentiful there. When she felt bold she’d ask for a Santa Fe-style dish which was spicy as hell, then restore the feeling on her tongue with freshly fried, puffy sopapillas which she slathered in warm, sticky honey. She liked to converse with the affable owners. With a wink or a knowing whisper they’d share with her what was really going on behind the scenes in this upscale resort community.

  “Well, damn!” Lynette muttered almost inaudibly to herself. Expecting crystal chandeliers, bright lights and expensive elegance inside the restaurant, at least, that’s how she’d imagined the Cattle Baron, she was surprised and sorely mistaken about its interior. It was big, and nice, but it certainly wouldn’t be considered fancy. It was just western! -with long banquettes of soft, darkly tanned leather seating on three sides of the vestibule area. Rows of live green plants stood mildly unattended in one long window-box along the plate glass window. The lighting, slightly subdued and diffuse, cast a yellowish glow across the sparsely decorated waiting area. Past the reception desk she could see plenty of dressed tables and broad, brown high-backed booths. This could have been a roadside restaurant in any town, in any southwestern state in the union. Clare caught the puzzled look on Lynette’s face, opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it. On this Saturday night, as usual, the place was packed, and there was standing room only in the ample but unremarkable waiting area.

  Older, obviously well-to-do retired couples sat patiently waiting for their table to be readied. Tourists with their bright, white tennis shoes leaned against the walls. ”Locals” in their somewhat worn blue jeans, T-shirts and “gimme caps” mulled around in small bundles near the entrance. There wasn’t much color there save for two Hispanic families. For whatever the reason, Lynette noticed an interesting pair – two men who relinquished their seats for a white-haired couple. The men were now standing to the far side of the waiting area. One, Anglo, with silvery grey hair, dressed in a crisp white western shirt, and blue jeans starched so hard that they crackled when he moved his legs. He was at least 6 foot 2” tall, well preserved, wearing a fawn-colored Stetson, tan ostrich boots, and though he couldn’t be called overly handsome, he was good looking in a rich, rugged sort of way. Her eyes were quickly drawn to the other man and on him she fixed her gaze. She tried to take in the whole of his being. Yes, she was staring. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. It was as though a force was dragging her to him. It was as though she’d known him, was knowing him, in that instant. He was gorgeous. The embodiment of the handsome, beautiful specimen of a full-blooded Native-American male who to her, exuded power, masculinity and sex appeal. She’d seen him in artistic photographs by well-known photographers. His likeness had been painted by the artists of the west. He was the unshirted, bareback, sweat drenched warrior astride the painted pony. He was strength in stillness. He had an entire look about him that instantly created a warmth around her shoulders. Not quite as tall as his companion – maybe 6 feet, he wore a crisp, blue and white striped long-sleeve shirt. A black tooled leather belt fastened with a gorgeous silver and turquoise belt buckle surrounding his well-proportioned waist. His freshly pressed, starched blue jeans broke just at the right place atop his beautifully-shined black western boots. His face was the color of honey when you hold it up to the sunlight. The shape was oval and somewhat narrow. Beneath the shirt which wore itself comfortably on his body she could make out the broad shoulders, fully developed chest and a flat abdomen. He was trim but not lean by any means. He had what some would characterize as the Native-American nose – narrow yet hooked in that downward curve; beautiful, chiseled high cheek bones and his lips were even, full, and well defined. His eyes seemed narrow slits when he focused them on the floor, but they lifted and opened when he looked into the distance – like he looked at Lynette. There were a few tell-tale marks of possible juvenile acne many years ago, a bit like Wes Studi the Native- American movie star, but other than a bit weathered, his face was even, and handsome. His straight, thick, shiny black hair showed light streaks of grey running from his temples to the ends of his long pony tail, tied low, and held by an invisible clasp at the nape of his neck. “Oh, Good Jesus he is beautiful,” the little voice in her head kept repeating like a mantra. “Oh, Good Jesus …! He stood casually, relaxed and in such a way that Lynette noticed his groin area was clearly uneven. With many men in jeans you can’t tell what kind of package they possess. There is no evidence of anything, yet one knows the male genitalia whatever it is, or however much it is, or isn’t, lurks behind the zippered garment. But there it was. That rise, that soft bulge, off center, visible, palpable, still, in position, unmoving, but apparent; drawing her eyes to it, undressing it in that crowded room. Just as she nudged Clare and nodded for her friend to look toward the two gentlemen, he noticed her noticing him. He looked right at her and began a slow, friendly smile. He held her eyes for several seconds until she blinked in embarrassment and looked away. She looked back as he shifted his dark grey western straw hat from his right to his left hand. He caught her looking at him again. She tried to turn away but her head would not obey her brain. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. This time his head tilted a tiny bit in acknowledgement of her, and again he smiled, slowly, without parting his lips. It was a soft, kind smile and it pulled her into him. She could feel her thighs in her white linen slacks. The unde
r-curve of her ample buttocks seemed to swell.

  The hostess called for a party of eight, and that group of people followed behind her like hungry imprinted ducklings. The male host then called out “Raines, party of six.” A third employee with an arm full of menus already in hand called out, “McMurray, party of five.”

  The entrance door of the restaurant swung open with a whoosh several times and a gaggle of noisy patrons entered and once again filled the vestibule pushing the already waiting throng inexorably forward like bottles on an automated assembly line. Those already in possession of the leather seating, sat suspiciously still as if afraid they would loose their comfort. For a few moments Lynette lost sight of the man. She and Clare listened to the conversations all around them, like voyeurs, but they exchanged few words. Lynette was distracted. She wanted to see the man again. She wanted to take in his countenance again. He was beautiful and beauty is what had ultimately brought her to this mountain paradise.

  Situated at altitudes between 6400 and 7800 feet, Crystal Bend was the perfect place to escape the dog days of Texas’ summers. It wasn’t even officially summer yet! and temperatures in Austin, Dallas and Houston suffocated people with 95 degree-plus heat. The humidity bore down on them like wet sheets in a poorly ventilated laundry factory. Knowing that the condo would be rented out for Memorial Day and the opening of the horse racing season, Lynette had convinced Clare to come along with her before the holiday. It was their plan to be refugees from the damnable heat and spend the better part of a week in the tall, cool pines surrounded by mountain peaks that changed from rapturous purples to gleaming copper as she sun moved slowly across in the heavens. So on this late May, Saturday afternoon, with temperatures on the desert floor in the 90s, and in Crystal Bend in the high 60s, they’d driven through the brown, parched, high desert landscape toward her lush, green mountain retreat.

  Two years prior, Lynette had come, and with a realtor, tried to find that lifetime dream - a cabin in the woods, up in the mountains; some place cool with four seasons. Not the two seasons she endured in central Texas – summer and not summer! By then, unfortunately for her, Crystal Bend had been discovered. The prices of property spiraled so rapidly upward that there were no cabins that she could afford. When she visited this area a decade ago, there were only about 4,000 people in the village. Now there were nearly 8,000 and property values skyrocketed with the growth in population. Surely a fixer upper might fall within her price range, she reasoned, but even those, with needed repairs and updates, would be more than she planned to spend. The next best thing was a condo. There were a few in her price range, but all were too small; somewhere in the 500 to 800 square foot size. “You can’t whip a cat without getting hair in your mouth,” she told her realtor as they went from one tiny, unsatisfactory unit to another.

  After a quick lunch, her realtor took her to a complex near the edge of the village where a relatively new unit had come on the market. This place, though it didn’t have the curb appeal of some of the other condo complexes, featured units with large square footage. She’d stipulated that she didn’t want a lot of stairs, because of her recent knee surgery, but the unit was a real find! It was over 1400 square feet, big and roomy with two large bedrooms, two full baths, one with a jetted tub – living room, dining area, sun room, kitchen, fireplace, laundry area, plenty of closet space and a deck facing one of the mountains. Best of all, it was fully furnished in really upscale southwestern décor. The only draw backs were the stairs up from the garage, and the steps from the first floor, main living level, up to the upper second story. After some thought, she decided that this condo, stairs and all, was the best bargain and a sensible investment. The previous owners had obviously taken excellent care of it. It had fresh paint, was well-maintained, everything worked, and it would make good rental property when she was not there. From all sides there were mountain views and it was within ten minutes walk to all the quaint downtown shops and cafes. This was it. Her mountain hideaway.

  At age 45 – and about to turn 46 in June, she was fortunate to have been able to retire from state service in Texas so young. Twenty-five years “in cubicle hell” as she liked to call it, which included her federal service. Now, she’d embarked on a second career building on all those years of government service. Her new training and consulting company kept her road-weary-busy at times but she was happier than she’d been in a long time.

  More names were called and with the removal of a particularly animated group there was, for the first time, room on the soft, dark leather banquette for others to sit. Clare and Lynette stood awkwardly waiting to see who would fill the vacant places. There was room for two or three next to where the good looking male pair still stood, but the men did not take the places. Instead, the Native male beckoned to Lynette and Clare to come and sit as though they were a part of a group who’d been saving space for them. With a shy shrug, Lynette urged Clare forward toward the couch.

  “You gentlemen have been waiting longer than we have,” Lynette said apologetically.

  “We don’t really mind standing awhile longer,” the Native male offered.

  The tall Anglo guy spoke up in a very friendly voice.

  “Ma’m ladies first.”

  “Thank you,” Clare replied, as she lowered herself onto the soft, well-worn leather.

  Lynette was blushingly aware of how sensitive her nether regions were to the feel of the already warmed leather. And positioned now closest to the Native, she could smell the freshness of his starched jeans but she dared not look sideways or up. If she did, the bulge would be only inches from her face.

  After another five minutes or so, the raven-haired hostess with the distinctive Spanish accent approached the two gentlemen and said, “Sirs, we’re not going to have a table for two for quite awhile, as you can see we’re just running over tonight. But we have a booth for four, if some others could join you. It would get you seated quicker and help us move our seating right along,” she said with something of a plea in her voice.

  The tanned one turned slightly and looked down at Clare and Lynette.

  “Would it be too forward if we asked you ladies to join us for dinner?” he inquired in a beautiful soft tone.

  “It’d be nice if you could,” the taller of the two chimed in. “Lot better lookin’ company than just this ol’ boy,” he joked, with something of a Dallas drawl. “Besides, I’m hungry enough to wet this here hat and start chewing on it,” he laughed.

  The ladies looked quickly at each other for shared approval. After an awkward second, Clare replied, “That’s very kind of you. We’d love to.”

  The front of the Cattle Baron faced the parking lot and Main Road, the central shopping drag in Crystal Bend, and though it was getting on toward dusk, there was a nice light still peaking over the pines and spraying through the windows. The eating area itself was lit with that same dim, yellowish glow as the vestibule. As Lynette followed Clare into their side of the booth, she noticed how much more golden the Native looked in this evening sprinkled light. She glanced at him every chance she got. There was something so appealing about him. The way he walked, the smoothness of his voice, his polished manner, and because Lynette believed in auras, his aura felt healthy and good. She liked him already and she didn’t even know his name.

  Sitting directly across from Clare, both of them closest to the huge plate glass window, the tall, Anglo spoke up immediately.

  “My name is Aaron Whitehall,” he said reaching across the table to shake both women’s hands.

  “I’m Blaze Snowdown,” the Native-American said, also reaching to shake hands. As a business woman, Lynette was accustomed to giving and receiving a firm hand shake. When her hand slipped into his for that brief shake, he looked right into her eyes and slowly squeezed her hand the way a mother squeezes the tiny toes of her infant. His hand was strong, with long beautifully shaped fingers but his grasp was tender. Releasing his grip, as if reluctant, his fingers coursed smoothly down the back of her ha
nd. He continued to look at her face, sketching her eye brows, examining the pupils of her deep brown orbs, tracing down her balanced nose to the center of her berry-stained, full lips, then her chin. Neither Clare nor Aaron noticed the intimacy of that touch, but she did.

  “I’m Clare Sommerville, and this is my best friend, Lynette Trudeaux,” she said.

  “It’s my pleasure, gentlemen,” Lynette spoke, smiling brightly, trying to keep her voice even.

  “Snowdown?” Lynette observed, tipping her head a bit sideways.

  She thought before she spoke, completing the question in her mind.

  “Snowdown. Sounds like English aristocrary?”

  “Hardly,” Blaze replied with a half throaty cough.

  “Is it anglicized for a reason?” she asked kindly, looking at Blaze. Most people tiptoed around the cultural element of Indian naming despite their innate curiosity. Something about the name told her that there was another name behind it. She meant no harm. She just wanted to know.

  “Culturally literate are we?,” he asked with a pleasant smile. “My given name is Snow Comes Down, but the Navy shortened it, so I have two birth certificates, one with each name,” he responded with no evidence of embarrassment or insult. Lynette smiled appreciatively, giving a long, slow blink.

  “You live up here?” Aaron asked politely.

  “No, not really,” Clare answered. “We come up here from time to time and stay at Lynette’s place. She loves it up here, and is thinking of maybe retiring on this mountain someday,” Clare replied.