0 comments/ 8655 views/ 0 favorites Claire's Eyes Ch. 01 By: Pheona Pierre looked deeply into Claire's eyes. He could not believe how far he could see into her soul, how the depths swirled with love and passion for him. He blinked, looking away. He should not allow himself to feel this way. He was a married man…yet every fiber in his body, no, his soul, yearned for just one touch of her. One touch, that was all he needed. Surely that would sate the primal desire surging in his loins? He dared to look again, searching out her eyes. His brow furrowed. Could he be wrong? Perhaps he only imagined the passion. Did she truly feel the same for him? As their eyes again connected, he felt the jolt of passionate electricity between them, saw the desire in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips, the arching of her body towards his. At this moment, time stood still. Pierre opened his heart, and let Claire into his soul. There would be no other who would reach him so deeply, who would be given a key to his inner sanctum, who would inflame the heat of his loins. With just a look. No, she was all he could see, smell, feel without touching. With just his eyes, Pierre told Claire these things, conveyed his pledge to their eternal union. He joined their souls, their hearts, and their lives. Forever. Eternally. Wholly. Pierre looked over his shoulder at the man who held his life's breath, who controlled his remaining time on this earth. The shrouded hangman grunted, shifting his weight on the dusty planks. The crowd was growing, all knew a hanging was a spectacle that drew the majority of the town. It was something to witness, the taking of a life. The taught snap of the rope as it stopped the flow of oxygen to the brain and the lungs, violently ending life. It was awesome and terrifying, and few would miss it. Pierre was soon to die. His mind sought refuge, escaping reality. He closed his eyes, sinking into his memories. He smiled, recalling the first visage of true love, an all encompassing love, a love that had rooted deep into his soul and very existence. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Pierre was riding the borders of his ranch, mapping the areas of the fence that needed repair. As he crested a hill, the sunlight caused him to squint and lower his Stetson. He spied two men standing in front of a lone female. She was half naked, covered in dust, and screaming for help. One man slapped her as she tried to scream again, ordering her silence. She cowered in the dirt, desperately gathering her torn dress, trying in vain to cover her breasts. The men started to laugh; one dark haired, tall and lean, sporting a holster on each hip; the other bald, short and squat, aiming a rifle at the girl. Pierre seethed with anger, mentally assessing how he could help her with three guns against his one. He had heard of this; young girls kidnapped, raped and murdered in the wilds, with no one yet caught for the crimes. As Pierre prepared to charge down the hill, the tall man grabbed the woman. "Take off your clothes!" he demanded. She cried out, begging to be set free. She offered them anything; she would not tell the sheriff, would pretend it never occurred, would give them all earthly possessions; if only they would release her. Again they laughed, clapping each other on the back as if they enjoyed her plight. "Little lady", the short bald one chuckled, "We ain't let the other girls go, so why would we let you?" She became hysterical, sobbing into the earth. A heartbeat later she raised her tear and dirt streaked face, composing herself. She held her head high, and stood. Pierre marveled at her strength under such a terrifying and hopeless situation. A lone female, far from any help, standing her ground, eyeing down the barrel of a rifle. "Take off your damn clothes!" barked the tall man. Pierre watched as she stood silent, defiantly looking the men in the eye. With a trembling hand, she reached up to remove what was left of her tattered rags. The men drooled, enraptured by her young supple body. As she lowered the rags to her waist, milky globes emerged, tipped with rosy aureoles. Under their lusting gaze her nipples tightened in fear, and angrily she thrust out her chest. Pierre marveled at her breasts, desire surging forth. Fool, he chided himself. She needs your help, not your lust! He shifted in his saddle, sliding his hand back to grasp his rifle. He slid it out, and looked back at the scene. The girl was starting to lower the dress further, and he could see the petticoats at her waist. The men chuckled and ogled, anticipating their visual treat. Her eyes scanned the horizon, and then she saw him, their eyes locking briefly. She quickly looked back at the men. Pierre froze, fearing recognition. He then sighed with relief, thankful that this girl was level headed enough not to show any outward reaction. She began to slowly gyrate her hips as she undressed, causing the men to groan and chuckle. "That's right, girly. Maybe we'll let you live if you satisfy us," urged the short man. "Come on, let me see the goods!" She began to swirl and wiggle her hips, twirling around while lowering her petticoats. The men were entranced, enthralled as the force of her spinning caused her breasts to jiggle and bounce. "Oh ya," groaned the tall one. He began to remove his gun belt, preparing to enjoy the fruits wantonly displayed in front of him. The shorter one followed, tossing the rifle aside and undoing the laces of his breeches. Moments later the men were without pants, their erections bulging forth, slapping against their belly's. Now! Pierre slapped the horse's backside, causing it to surge forth, stampeding down the hill. The girl saw him coming, quickly pulling up her clothes. The men turned, mouths agape, leaping for their guns. Pierre dug his spurs into the horse, urging it to move faster. He was almost upon her… The girl ran towards him, arms up stretched, desperation etched upon her face. Pierre heard a shot ring out, and felt more than saw the girl jerk forward, crimson appearing at her waist. "No!" Pierre screamed. With all his might he lunged ahead, driving the spurs deeper. The horse pounded forward, creating a huge cloud of dust. Pierre leaned to his left, half off the saddle, clinging to the saddle horn. He grabbed the girl's arm, pulling her violently onto his lap. She struggled as the saddle horn dug into her wound, but Pierre held her fast. He dared not let her fall, this was his only chance to save her. Shots rang out as he sped off down the hill, and he chanced a look back. The men were trying to pull on their clothes, realising he was out of their range of fire. Their horses had been tethered to a nearby stump, and they raced towards them. Pierre urged on his horse, silently begging it's forgiveness for again spurring it's sides. The girl lay upon his lap, lifeless and silent. Her body flopped up and down with each gallop, and Pierre feared the worst. He had to get them to a safe place, away from danger, so he could tend to her. His saddle bag contained supplies, as he often slept under the stars while he rode his land. He also carried bandages and medicine, in case of injury. On the range one had to fend for oneself, as he owned over a hundred acres and would often be gone for days, seeing no one. He raced toward a place he knew well, he had often played there as a boy. He had discovered it when his Father and the ranch hands had been fencing the family claim, many years ago. It was hidden behind a clump of gnarled trees, and it could not be seen unless you were right in front of it. To the passerby, it looked like a few trees slightly up a hill, with a boundary fence above them. Pierre guided his horse towards the trees, looking back often to see if they were followed. He saw no one, and sighed in relief. Perspiration clung to him, his heart racing with the fear that she was dead. Finally they were in the trees, and Pierre lowered her to the ground. She crumpled into a lifeless heap, not uttering a sound. Pierre leapt down, holding the reins and guiding the horse to the mouth of the cave he knew so well. Often he would sleep here, sheltered from the rains of spring and the cold of winter. He unstrapped the pack from the horse, and tossed it into the cave. He followed with his rifle, and quickly laid out his bedroll. He ran back to get the girl, fear rising in his heart. He gently gathered her in his arms, and carried her into the cave. Claire's Eyes Ch. 02 Pierre gently laid her onto the bedroll, carefully tearing at her garments to find the wound. He removed her tattered dress, leaving only the petticoats. He chided himself for looking at her breasts. He was attending to her life, not sating his desire! He gently turned her on her side, looking at her lower back. The bullet had gone clean through, and he offered a silent prayer of thanks. If it had been lodged in her stomach, it would have caused further damage. He did not have the tools, or the training, to remove it. He grabbed his pack, and removed his medicine kit. He poured iodine over the wound, grimacing as the dark liquid stained her belly and back. He laid a clean cloth bandage upon the bedroll, and rolled her onto her back. He then pressed another bandage upon the left side of her stomach. He had no bandage long enough to hold them in place, so he stripped off his shirt and tore it into a long tourniquet. He gently wrapped it around her waist, holding the bandages in place. Pierre sat back on his heels, wiping his brow with a blood stained hand. He observed her now, her face pale and drawn in pain. Her lips were purple, yet a slight breath emerged from them. He covered her with his blanket and left the cave. Pierre emerged from the cave to the settling dusk, it would soon be dark. He brought a canteen out to the horse, and gave it a long drink. It was still lathered up, covered in sweat. Pierre stroked Rusty’s nose as he drank, murmuring words of thanks for saving their lives. He freed Rusty’s reins after slipping a note under the saddle blanket, asking for help and their location. He undid the bridle, and gave the horse it’s freedom. Rusty neighed at Pierre, asking why he did not climb aboard. Pierre slapped his rump, and clicked his tongue. “Git, Rusty!” Pierre yelled. The trees, while concealing the cave, would not hide his horse. He knew if he gave the horse it’s head, it would make it back to the ranch house. He climbed up the hill, his eyes sweeping the horizon. He saw no sign of the two criminals, and went back inside the cave. Pierre gathered the branches he kept in a corner of the cave to conceal the entrance. After it was camouflaged, he retrieved his saddle bag. In it he carried a flint, and lit a fire at the rear of the cave. A smoke hole had been made years ago, and the fire soon lit up the cave. He knew it was safe to have smoke curl into the sky at night, but not during the day when it could be spotted. He was glad he had had the foresight to fill the cave with wood this spring. He heard a moan from the girl, and went to kneel at her side. She was covered in perspiration, and writhed in pain. He checked the bandages while he murmured words of comfort, and replaced one of them. The blood was slowing down, and he was relieved. He did not have a lot of bandages, or iodine. He got out his whiskey flask, and put it to her lips. She pulled her head away at the taste, but he coaxed a few drops into her mouth. Soon she slept easier, numbed by the bitter alcohol. Pierre settled back on his haunches, and sighed. He felt hope come over him, sensing that she would be all right. He hoped she could avoid infection, he should know by morning. He went to the fire and made some coffee and soup, using dried vegetables and meat from his pack. Luckily he had filled his canteens recently, and had a few days worth of water. Once the soup was simmering, he took a cupful of broth and let it cool. After he ate, he brought the cooled broth to the girl, and coaxed some into her. A few minutes later she sighed, and fell into a deep sleep. Pierre watched her sleep, perched in a corner of the cave, sipping coffee. The fire warmed them both, and flickered light and shadow over the girl. Pierre scratched his head, and tossed his Stetson nearby. Damn, he thought. This is one hell of a mess. He uncoiled his long, muscular legs, and ran his hands through his wavy black hair. His bare chest reflected light and shadow, as the firelight played with the night. He took off his cowboy boots, worn and patched, spurs tinkling in the quiet. He looked for a place to lay down, and realised he only had one bedroll and blanket. It was close to summer, but the nights were still cool. He went over to the girl, and laid beside her. He brought a cup of water with him, in case she needed a drink during the night. He wiggled closer, trying to share the blanket and pad, without touching her. He thought of his wife as he laid there, listening to the girl’s steady breathing. Tara was a caring woman, and they were dear friends. Unfortunately, that was the extent of his feeling for her. Theirs was a marriage arranged by their parents, and had been eight years in length so far. Pierre enjoyed Tara’s company, yet their lovemaking, when he could bring himself to do so, was infrequent. They had yet to sire a child, though the subject was rarely discussed. Tara was busy with committees, fundraising, and such, while he ran the ranch. It was a peaceful, yet passionless marriage. Pierre shook his head to clear it. Divorce was unheard of, and he respected Tara too much to have an affair behind her back. He knew when he married her what he was getting into, yet at times he felt regret. Moving closer to the girl, though still not touching her, Pierre slowly drifted off to sleep. He slept fitfully, dreaming of milky breasts covered in crimson blood, intertwined with visions of Tara and his loveless marriage. Pierre jerked awake, tense and ready to spring into action. He reached for his rifle, and heard the sound again. It was the girl, moaning and writhing. Pierre added a log to the fire, so he could see better. As he knelt near her, he could see perspiration on her brow again, she tossed her head restlessly, and emitted moans of pain. Pierre lifted the blanket, leaving her chest covered, and removed a bandage. He drew in a sharp breath, and sat back. Pus was oozing from the wound. It had become infected, as he feared. He slowly and gently turned her on her side, and lifted the cloth bandage. It was fine, so he put her on her back again. He got more iodine from the pack, and the last bandage. He would need to wash and boil the used ones, as she would need more. He wiped away as much pus as he could, and poured the last of the iodine on it. She jerked in pain, still sleeping fitfully. He replaced the tourniquet, and covered her up. He wet her lips with water from the cup, and she licked them. He did this several times, until she seemed to sigh and settle into a deeper sleep. Pierre poured himself an old, strong coffee, and sat near the fire. He put on some water to boil, using a full canteen. That left only three, and there was no water nearby. Pierre sent a silent message to his horse, urging it home to deliver the message. Help could reach them in two days if the horse went straight home. As the water simmered, Pierre sat back and watched her sleep. She had waist length chocolate hair, now matted and dirty. He could see curls in it, and wondered if it was naturally curly. Her hair framed her head in a pillow of brown, spilling all around her. Her eyelashes fluttered with a dream, and he wondered what it was about. Her skin was still pale, faintly tinged with alabaster. Her complexion was unlined and without make up. Pierre liked that, he was not one for the made up ladies. He liked women who were themselves, not what they thought a man wanted them to be. The water boiled, and he tossed in the used bandages. He had rinsed them some, but the boiling water turned an angry red. He dared not use more water, so he lifted them out with his knife, which he had let sit in the coals to sterilize first. He placed them to dry on a rock heated by the fire pit, and hoped they were free of germs. They were a pink colour, but should be safe, he thought. Pierre tossed the water and rinsed the pot. Settling back beside the girl, he wet her lips some more, helping her to drink more water. She seemed at peace, so he laid down again. He did not let himself think, only listened to her breathing, the crackle of the fire, and the sizzle of the bandages drying on the rock. Finally, sleep claimed him. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Pierre was jerked back to the present as the hangman placed the noose around his neck. A female yelled for his death, and he searched among the sea of faces to see Tara shaking her fist at him. He had tried to convince her of his innocence, but she would not hear of it. His heart ached with the loss of his wife’s friendship, he had thought they could withstand anything. Would no one believe him? Reality shocked his senses, and he again retreated into his past… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Pierre felt a movement behind him, and awoke suddenly. The fire was almost out, and he could hear birds chirping outside the cave. It must be sunrise, he thought. He sat up and looked at the girl. She was again bathed in sweat, and he could see a dark patch on the blanket near her abdomen. He lifted it, and swore softly. It was full of oozing pus. He checked her back, which was fine, and went to retrieve the bandages from the rock. He was out of iodine, and at a loss. He had heard of cowboys in this situation, who cauterized the wound, like branding a calf. He sat and thought long and hard, and could not come up with any other solution. He hated to hurt her that way, hated to burn a bullet wound, but he knew of no other choice. He had to save her, she did not deserve to die in such a way. She was young and innocent, and he felt a protective emotion rising up in his heart. He went and stoked the fire, and scrounged around for metal to heat. He had his knife, but it was too long and narrow. The cooking pots were too thin, they would melt in the flames. He emptied his pack, and found nothing. He sat down hard, at a loss. He bowed his head in frustration, bracing his head in his hands, elbows on knees. His eye caught a glimmer of light, and he looked at his waist. Yes! His belt buckle, that would do. It was a gift from his Father, upon his eighteenth birthday. It was forged by the ranch smithy, and was large and oval. It shone with the brand of the Forest Grove ranch, three trees intertwined. He removed it from his belt, and placed it in the fire. He moved over to the girl, and removed the pus soaked bandages. He wiped off the pus with the second last bandage, and put it aside. He rinsed the wound with boiled water, and let it air dry. It was as clean as he could get it, so he turned to the fire. He took his cooking tongs and carefully got his buckle from the fire. It glowed red, sending out waves of pulsing heat. He straddled the girl’s legs, and gathered her hands in his free hand. She must keep very still, so he braced her as best he could. Pierre gritted his teeth, swore softly, asking for forgiveness, and pressed the buckle to her wound. She shrieked in pain, struggling to sit up. He held her tightly, and silently counted to ten before he tossed the buckle away with a curse. He leant over her and held her, muttering soothing sounds. Her face, once restful, was a mask of pain. She opened her eyes, a breath away from his face. Their eyes locked, and he drew in a sharp breath. He stared into her eyes, deep pools of amber and gold. Her brow was drawn in pain, and he smoothed it with his fingertips. She blinked then, tears shimmering. He offered words of caring, telling her all would be well, to rest now. He reached for a cup of water, and she drank deeply. He lowered her head, adjusted the blanket around her, and ensured that the burnt wound was exposed to the air. She settled into a slumber, jerking sporadically as she dozed. “Dammit!” Pierre muttered. That was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. He sought out his buckle, now cool to the touch. He hitched up his pants, and sat near the fire. He put more water on to boil for the bandages, using another canteen. Two left, so he had no more coffee. He did put on another pot for oatmeal, as he needed to eat. He had saved broth from the soup last night, and placed that on a rock to heat. He stretched and stood, his head almost touching the roof of the cave. His six and a half foot frame headed for the mouth of the cave, removing a few branches to go outside. The sun was rising, and he shaded his eyes from the glare. He scanned the horizon, and saw no one. He stretched his arms toward the sky, and grimaced as his back adjusted. The breeze was cool on his bare chest as he looked around. He found no nests, he had hoped an egg or two to join his oatmeal. He walked farther, hopping over the fence to climb the hill above the cave. As he reached the top, he smiled. He had never explored this land, as it was not his property and he respected that. He had no business here, except now. This was an emergency. He gazed at the creek a hundred or so meters away, and ran back down to fetch the canteens. He make quick time of filling them, and returned to the cave, replacing the concealing branches. He rinsed and dried the bandages, ate the oatmeal, and doused the fire. He feared the smoke might draw the outlaws back. Tara and the ranch hands knew the location of the cave, and the note under the saddle blanket would lead them here. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Claire’s heart was breaking as she watched the noose lower over Pierre’s head. She had begged and pleaded with anyone that would listen, including her Father and Tara, but they would not believe in Pierre’s innocence. She was helpless; helplessly in love, helpless to save him. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking her bodice. Her face conveyed all the love and passion for him that she felt in her soul. She thought back to the first time she had gazed closely into those eyes… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Claire’s side hurt, it hurt like hell. She felt the blanket covering her, and then it was carefully moved aside. She sensed gentle fingers removing her bandage, and then there was the pressure of it being cleaned. She was half awake and half asleep, flitting in and out of the hell of reality and the hell of memories. As she felt legs straddle her thighs and grab her hands, she envisioned the two men who had kidnapped her. She screamed in her mind, clawing at her captors. Suddenly she jerked, fully awake and aware of an intense pain in her stomach. She shrieked and struggled, to no avail. They were killing her! As soon as the pain began, it seemed to go. It still hurt, but not as much. She stopped moving, searching her mind for reality. Was this a dream? She felt a body move up above her, then her hands released and breath on her face. She struggled to open her eyes, and was finally rewarded with the sight of the body’s owner. He was glorious; his long black hair brushing her cheeks, his breath fanning her face, his eyes searching her soul. She saw compassion there, and frowned. Who was he? Such a deep, sweet voice was talking, softly telling her all would be well; to rest, to sleep. She felt fingers smooth away the frown, and she watched as the face turned, offering her a view of cheeks in need of a shave, and lips that begged to be kissed. She felt her head lifted, and her thirst was quenched. She was lain back down, and she closed her eyes. She felt safe with him, whoever he was. Her instincts told her, from deep within her soul, that she could trust him. She sighed, and fell into a healing sleep.