Mary Freake, a pale woman with a tiny pointed chin, backed away from the venom in her mistress’s face, nodding in acquiescence. She needed this job, and she’d heard stories about what happened to people who carried tales to that nice Mr. McCormick. “Yes, ma’am. No offense intended, ma’am.”
Sandra didn’t stop to acknowledge her victory. The servants weren’t people to her—they were battlements hired by her father to protect him from her. They came with the house, like furniture. She slipped up the stairs, thinking her angry thoughts. All she had to do was walk back inside this house and she filled up with rage, as if it leaked into her from the air here. She could feel the rage bubbling in her veins.
She fairly flew up the stairs. There was nothing she could do until tonight. Then she would show her father. She would show all of them!
Sandra slept all day Sunday, only getting up at teatime to bathe and dress herself for dinner. She could get away with almost anything as long as she was pretty and charming to Daddy’s dinner guests.
That brought a bitter smile to her young face. How long had she known that? Forever it seemed, but she’d learned it a little at a time. Beginning when she was very young. Her first conscious memory of her father was when her mother died.
“Daddy, Daddy…”
“What is it? What do you want?” Sam McCormick asked impatiently, fighting his way back to the surface. He’d been drowning in his own bitter thoughts, reliving that last hour when the woman he loved, who had promised to love him forever, abandoned him to this grief. “Maramee! Oh, God, Maramee, please don’t leave me! Please! I love you! I need you!”
Tears had welled in her gray eyes. “I’m sorry, Sam,” she whispered.
“Please don’t leave me…” He was crying, great silent sobs that were tearing his insides apart. Her hand was so cool. So cool. How long had he been crying? He looked up suddenly and knew she was gone. His whole world ended that day—that moment. Except that the remnants of their life, their world, wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Daddy…Daddy…”
“Sandra—please—go play.”
“I don’t want to play, Daddy. I want to help you. What are you drinking? Can I have some?”
“Of course not. You’re not old enough. Now run along. Daddy wants to think.”
“I’ll help you think, Daddy. I’ll be good and quiet.”
“If you want to be good, go outside and play.”
“I’ll just sit here beside you, okay, Daddy? I just want to sit with you.”
“Margaret! Margaret! Would you come get this child!” he yelled to the housekeeper.
Margaret came rushing in.
“Naughty girl! Why do you keep bothering your poor daddy? Doesn’t he have enough problems? I’m sorry, Mr. McCormick. I didn’t realize she was bothering you again.”
“No, it’s okay. You can’t watch her every second. Maybe I should get a governess for her.”
Margaret had picked her up, and she had cried all the way up to her room. She had cried all afternoon and she didn’t even know why she did. But she had slowly learned not to bother her father. She had a whole houseful of women to remind her what a busy, important man he was.
Sandra had learned her role well, so that she had become almost invisible. Tonight she suffered graciously and smilingly through the Sunday dinner and after-dinner rituals and then kissed her father’s cheek and asked to be excused.
“Of course, dear. Good night,” he said absently, turning back to his guests.
Sandra glided smoothly up the stairs until she was out of sight, then ran the rest of the way. She changed her evening gown for riding clothes—a buff-colored silk blouse and a divided riding skirt. She shrugged into a long, full coat and slipped out the back way without being seen to walk the short distance to Tim Summers’ house.
“Sandra!” he said, a quick frown knitting his brow. Wariness and calculation clouded his black eyes as he pulled her inside. “Did anyone see you leave? Are you alone?”
She walked slowly into the middle of the large, sparsely decorated parlor, wondering if she had made a mistake coming here. “No one saw me,” she said petulantly.
“Did you see Cantrell?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do as I told you?”
“Yes,” she said sullenly, feeling the dark ugliness of remorse. Cantrell had tried to be her friend.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked, his voice becoming cordial.
“Yes, please,” she said, grateful that he wasn’t treating her like a bothersome child. Maybe it would be all right after all.
He poured two drinks and led her to the couch. He sat down beside her and looked her over while she sipped gingerly at the drink. She had changed since that night at the river. Before she had been a pretty, if somewhat vapid, young woman. Now, with her breasts swinging free beneath the thin silk blouse she wore, she was very desirable.
“I don’t know you very well,” she said softly, flushing at the truth in her words even though he had taken liberties with her that still caused a dull ache of shame when she allowed herself to think about it.
“But you can trust me.”
“Can I?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why did you tell me to invite Dallas Younger to stay and dance the other night?”
Tim hesitated, watching her eyes and the particularly glazed look when she mentioned Dallas Younger’s name. He had expected her to ask why she was told to mark Cantrell’s face. Since the party, he’d had an opportunity to reappraise his plan, and it had not come up wanting in any serious respect. Except that if Sandra turned up dead, Cantrell might have an alibi and it would be harder to place the blame on him. So Sandra would disappear. Blame would be more easily placed on Cantrell, with no definite time frame to worry about. A hundred men could be deputized to track down Cantrell and hang him. With claw marks on his face and Sandra’s locket in his possession Cantrell wouldn’t be able to convince an angry lynch mob of his innocence, would he?
He moved closer to her, his eyes darting from her half-opened mouth to her eyes. “Dallas Younger wants you,” he said softly to distract her from any more questions.
“He does?” A heavy pulse started in her throat.
“I told him he didn’t have a chance.”
She frowned, not understanding. “What?”
“Well, you’re in love with Cantrell, aren’t you?”
Sandra swallowed miserably, remembering Ward’s rejection of her and her own duplicity. She shook her head.
“You’re not in love with him?” he asked, looking surprised. “Then there is some hope for Dallas?” Tim lifted Sandra’s drink to her lips and watched her obediently sip the straight whiskey he had poured into her glass. “That makes more sense, though, when I think about it, since Cantrell has asked Leslie Powers to marry him…”
“He asked Leslie?”
“You didn’t know that?” he lied smoothly.
“I thought Leslie was going to marry you.”
Tim sighed, looking hurt. “So did I.” He waited for the impact to hit her, then he proceeded. “So we’ve both been rejected, haven’t we?” The rest of his plan was clear now. Even if Sandra were found alive, which was unlikely, she was so stupid and gullible that she would think she had run off with Dallas Younger. With their agreement, she wouldn’t mention him even if she did realize it was his idea.
Pain was bright and sharp in her smoky gray eyes. She was really quite lovely. He set her drink on the floor, put his arm around her, and pulled her close. “Poor baby,” he crooned. “Poor sweet Sandra…”
She was completely pliant in his arms. His eyes darting from her glazed eyes to the rapid rise and fall of her rich breasts, he reached out slowly, deliberately, and began unbuttoning her blouse. He slipped his hand inside, cupping the silky, heavy swell of her breast, feeling the warmth and the tumultuous pounding of her heart.
Sandra moaned and turned her face away, shamed by the look in his glitt
ering black eyes but unable to stop him.
His fingers moved slowly, insistently, playing with the tiny bud until it was rock-hard, stroking and teasing the sensitive flesh until she could no longer think coherently.
“Stand up and take your clothes off for me,” he whispered against her ear.
Sandra was in an agony of wanting, but there was something about Tim Summers that discomposed her. She had taken off her clothes with men before, but then it had been playful or teasing or because she wanted to. With Tim it had to be because he ordered it, and there was something humiliating in obeying him, in watching the twisted, ugly expression in his eyes while she did so. She still had some pride…
“I think I’d better go,” she said weakly.
He didn’t answer her in words. He caught her hair at the nape and pulled her head back, forgetting himself, forcing a cry of surprise and pain from her half-opened mouth. “I need you, Sandra,” he whispered urgently against her cheek. “We need each other. Don’t disappoint me.”
“You’re hurting me,” she whimpered.
Tim relaxed his grip on her hair, reminding himself that he had to go slow until he had her where he wanted her.
“Sorry, but you’re so beautiful,” he lied softly.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she whined, stalling.
“Because Dallas wants you. And because we are alike, you and I. If you insist on meeting Dallas as he wants you to, I might be willing to help you.”
Bemused, Sandra gazed into his eyes, the shame slowly dissipating, being replaced by the needy ache that deadened everything else for her. “Please don’t hurt me,” she said softly.
He helped her up and walked her into the bedroom, his hands possessive and rough around her waist.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sunday morning was quiet around the Kincaid household. The family had eaten a late breakfast. The children were upstairs playing in the nursery.
Chane and Jennifer were relaxing in the library before a cozy fire that had been built to take the early November chill out of the air. He was reading the newspaper while she read a book she had started two days ago. They were lost in an easy and companionable silence. Jennie lay curled up on the sofa with her bare feet pressed against Chane’s thigh.
Malcomb came to the end of the sofa, gliding on noiseless feet. “Ahem,” he coughed.
Chane scowled. The man moved so silently he could never tell where he might appear next.
“Yes, Malcomb.”
“The sheriff is here to see you, Mr. Kincaid.”
Jennie gave a low cry and sat up. Malcomb closed the door behind him. “Oh, no, could it be Peter? You don’t suppose…”
“Your brother is fine. We just saw him last night before he left town,” Chane reassured her, folding the paper to put it on the table beneath the electric desk lamp with statuary base—an alabaster water bearer surrounded by crystal teardrops hanging from the lampshade. Chane walked the long way around the sofa so he could touch Jennie’s shining crown of sleep-tousled curls. Neither of them had gotten much sleep, but she looked cuddly and fresh-faced in spite of it in a purple velvet dressing robe that complemented her wide purple eyes.
“Something could have happened to him,” she said, uncomfortably.
His hands closed around the soft warmth of her upper arms. “You worry too much about him and not enough about me.”
“No one has a price on your head,” she whispered, and there was fear and pain in her eyes, shimmering there.
“Jennie, love, he’s fine. More than likely Tatum wants to tell me that more of my cattle have been rustled.”
“You’re probably right,” she said, sighing and putting her head on his broad chest.
“If you press your body against me like that, neither one of us will ever find out what Sheriff Tatum came here to say to me,” he warned, his voice turning sensual.
“Then go! Please, and hurry back,” she said.
Chane found the sheriff waiting in the entry hall. “Morning, Sheriff Tatum. What can I do for you?” he asked, steering him into the dining room.
“Morning, Mr. Kincaid. I’m here on business, to see Miss Powers.”
Chane was instantly alert for all that it didn’t show on the surface. “You’re here to see Leslie?”
“Yes, sir. About her uncle. Guess you haven’t heard. He was found dead this morning about nine o’clock in the livery stable. Found him behind one of the stalls.”
“Horse kick him?”
“No, sir. Throat been cut. Dallas Younger’s swearing it was Ward Cantrell. He claims Miss Powers lied about Cantrell not being the one who kidnapped her. He’s also saying that Cantrell and Miss Powers are lovers. That maybe Cantrell did this so’s he could marry her and own the Powers spread.” He paused. “This does leave her full owner now.”
“Sheriff, I can assure you Miss Powers would not be a party to murder no matter what she stood to gain by her uncle’s death.”
Tatum flushed, staring at the delicate pattern in the plush carpet beneath their feet. He didn’t have nice things himself, but he could appreciate how the brick red pile complemented the rich shine of the mahogany table and chairs.
He did not feel comfortable arguing with a man of Kincaid’s stature, but he did have a job to do. “’Fraid I’m going to have to talk to her anyway,” he said, looking Kincaid in the eye.
Chane knew Tatum was a good man trying to do a difficult job, but he wasn’t sure Leslie could face Younger’s accusations if she had succumbed to Cantrell’s lovemaking. She was level-headed and full of spunk, but she was far too honest.
He made a quick decision. He’d seen Tatum in action on other occasions and hadn’t been disappointed in any serious respects. Tatum already knew a little about the circumstances leading up to Cantrell’s original release and that he had personally arranged it.
“I guess I’d better level with you, Sheriff. Have a seat. Let me take your jacket. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Coffee’s fine,” he said, taking the chair Chane nodded at. When Malcomb had come and gone with the coffee, Chane told Tatum the truth—that Cantrell was Jennie’s brother and a rich man in his own right. Coupled with Tatum’s prior knowledge that Cantrell had been sworn as an Arizona ranger, the explanation seemed sufficient.
“I’m a reasonable man, Mr. Kincaid. You know that. I’ll look elsewhere for the killer, but frankly, it won’t help much, my knowing. There must be a hundred men that Younger’s talked to since this morning. Any one of them could take a hankering to shoot Cantrell on sight. Seems to me if you want to protect your brother-in-law, you’d better make an announcement or something.”
Chane knew the man was right. They’d considered that. But Ward Cantrell was only wanted in Wyoming for working on the wrong side in a cattle dispute. Peter Van Vleet was wanted in Kansas for almost a dozen counts of murder.
“I know your advice is good, Sheriff, but we can’t do that yet. We’ll just have to pray he stays out of their way.”
The sheriff left, and Chane sent Jennie, armed only with the information that Powers was dead, upstairs to break the news to Leslie. He wanted her prepared and composed before she had to face any questions from anyone. Her open, sunny disposition was prone to bantering, teasing, and blunt truths. She might admit her interest in Cantrell, and that could lead anywhere, depending upon the mood of the mob.
Leslie was stunned by the news. She hadn’t known Mark Powers at all three months ago; then she had tried to like him and ended up hating him, but she hadn’t wanted him dead. Even hearing that she was full owner of the Powers ranch had no meaning for her.
“I could never live there,” she said, frowning at Jennie. “Not as long as Younger is…”
Jennie saw the frown and understood. “But you can fire Younger now, disband his riders,” she said, patting her hand.
Leslie looked stunned by her new power. “I can, can’t I? Then I will, immediately.” But she knew she still wouldn’t f
eel safe in that house. There were too many memories, and no assurance that Younger wouldn’t come back.
Jennie left Leslie to dress and found Chane in the library, holding the paper absently, as if he had dropped into deep thought. He reached up and patted her hand. “Is she all right, dear?” he asked.
Jennie sighed and sat down beside him on the sofa. “She’s fine. But I’ve been worrying. Do you suppose they could blame Pe—I mean Ward?”
“Don’t go looking for trouble,” he said gruffly, feeling a moment of guilt that he hadn’t told her everything, but he didn’t believe things were out of control to the point where he and Ward couldn’t handle them. “I’ll keep my eye on things. Ward’s pretty damned good at taking care of himself, you know.”
“I know,” she sighed, “but I just couldn’t stand it if something happened to him.”
Her eyes were darkened with pain and worry. Chane cursed the circumstances that kept her in constant fear. Her love for her brother had been a constant threat to their happiness, and he was feeling that threat more each day, not less. He stood up and pulled her into his arms.
Jennie pressed herself against the length of his hard, masculine body. “I love you so much,” she whispered, her silky voice barely more than a whisper. They had made love the night before, and she should have been sated with it, but his clean-smelling masculine scent aroused her again.
His warm hand stroked her face. His thumb teased lightly over her lips and then lifted her chin. His mouth was warm and adhesive against hers, clinging softly.
He meant to kiss her lightly, teasingly, but the spark that was always between them caught fire and leaped into brilliance. He took her there, on the sofa, with only a closed door between them and the rest of the family, and her lovely legs wrapped around him, holding him tight against her. She should have protested, but she wanted him with a fierceness that frightened her.
He brought them much too quickly to fulfillment. When he lifted his dark head from her breasts, her lashes were dreamily closed, her carnation-white skin was flushed pink, and her silver blond hair was fanned out on the sofa. She was so appealing to all his senses—he ached with desire to possess her completely, even now, when the proof of his possession was still between her legs. There were times when he felt mad with desire for her. The only time he possessed her completely was when he was making love to her, and those times were too short, even when they made love most of the night. The rest of the time, Jennie withdrew into her own interests: her music or her ballet or their children. For the most part he appreciated her individuality, but part of him still wanted to possess all of her.
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 34