GLORIOUS ANGEL - JOHANNA LINDSEY

by Glorious Angel (lit)

  They continued talking for the rest of the morning, then Mary Lou said she had to go. Angela saw her out to the porch with the promise that Mary Lou would come for dinner on Saturday night and bring her father.

  As she watched Mary Lou ride off down the path leading from the house, Angela’s eye was caught by the large hardwood tree some distance by the road, and the grave beneath it. She had discovered the grave the day after her arrival and visited it often whenever no one else was around.

  She turned as she saw Grant by the well and started toward him. Grant finished filling a second bucket of water and set it down on the ground. He smiled as she approached. She had her hair tied back with a red bandanna, and was wearing a crisp yellow blouse tucked into a russet skirt. As dark as the skirt was, it still showed dirt stains around the knees from where she’d knelt in her garden. But she still looked as beautiful and fresh as ever, Grant thought wistfully.

  “You’re gonna end up ruinin‘ all your pretty clothes, boss-lady, if you don’t give up on that fool garden,” Grant teased.

  Angela looked down at her skirt and smiled. “I guess I’ll just have to start wearing breeches again, like I did on my pa’s farm.”

  “I ain’t so sure that’s a good idea,” Grant replied. “I’d like the men to get some work done, not spend their time watchin‘ you in that damn garden.”

  “How would it be if I wore baggy shirts?”

  “You’re gonna do as you damn well please anyway, so why ask me?”

  She laughed and pointed to the buckets of water. “Are those for me?”

  “Yeah. I thought you’d be wantin‘ ’em about now, but if you ask me, it’s a waste of water.”

  “You’ll change your tune once you get a taste of fresh vegetables on the table. Come spring, I thought I’d widen the area and plant some corn and peas too.”

  “This is a ranch, not a farm, Angela.”

  “It never hurts to be self-sufficient.”

  “Well, it’s your land,” he shrugged. “Was Mary Lou Markham here?”

  Angela nodded. “You knew her before the war, didn’t you? Back when your father was foreman here?”

  “Yeah. She’s turned out right pretty from the girl I remember. Though I see she hasn’t changed much. Still a tomboy.”

  “She’s running her own ranch now. That can’t be easy.”

  “She should have gone back to her father when Charles Markham died, instead of try in‘ to prove she can run a ranch by herself,” he snorted.

  “You’re so sure of what everyone should do! You’re infuriating, Grant!”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I’ve been called names before.”

  Angela shook her head and watched Grant saunter back to the barn. He really was impossible. But she had grown very fond of him.

  With Grant out of sight, Angela turned and walked slowly across the dirt yard to her mother’s grave and knelt down beside it. This was a private time for her, one she didn’t indulge in often.

  “What are you doin‘ out here, Angela?” Grant spoke from behind her, causing her to jump. “This is twice now I’ve spotted you by this grave.”

  “You were here when she died, weren’t you, Grant?” she asked in a soft voice, disregarding his question.

  Grant stared for a moment at the wooden cross. “Yeah, I was here. I was a kid—five, I think—when old man Maitland buried her there himself. My pa told me about the woman later. He said Jacob took her death real hard.”

  “Wasn’t Bradford here when it happened?”

  “Fact is, Jacob had only arrived a few days earlier. He had sent Brad to town to close out his accounts. The old man made Brad take care of all his own responsibilities, even when he was young.”

  “But he found out about it when he returned?”

  “No. For some reason, Jacob didn’t want him to know anything about it. They left the next day to return to Alabama. But why all the questions, Angela? You couldn’t have known the woman. You must have been just a baby when it happened.”

  Tears came, and she couldn’t stop them. “I knew her,” she murmured softly, “for a short time.”

  “She was your mother, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  Grant’s green eyes darkened. “I’m sorry, Angela.”

  “I’m all right, Grant,” Angela said weakly. “I grieved for my mother when I was a child—when I didn’t have her with me. All these years, I thought she was alive. I only recently learned that she died here so long ago. I’m so sorry I never knew her.”

  They were silent for several minutes, and then Angela turned around and started back to the house. In her room, she cried for the lost love of Jacob and Charissa, and for her mother, whom she would not see again.

  Chapter 40

  THE wind howled fiercely against the windows. The sky was a black sheet, as if thick curtains had been drawn against the moon and stars. With the wind came the cold, seeping in through loose boards in the walls.

  “Looks like we’ll be getting some rain finally,” Angela remarked as she poured Grant a second cup of coffee and then went back into the kitchen.

  “More like a storm,” he replied and picked up his guitar to start a sad, lonely tune. “Hope your little garden can withstand a heavy downpour.”

  As Grant continued strumming his guitar, she asked, “You will be available for dinner tomorrow night, won’t you?”

  “That’s twice you’ve asked me that,” Grant replied. “What’s so special about tomorrow night?”

  “Well, you usually go into town with the men on Saturday night. I just want to be sure you’ll be here. I’m having guests.”

  He looked up at her now, his brow raised. “Oh?”

  “Mary Lou and her father will be here,” Angela said quickly, hoping he wouldn’t object. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Grant smiled. “Why should I mind? As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen Walter Howard in years. The evenin‘ ought to be quite interestin’.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Have you met Walter Howard?” Grant asked, amused.

  “No.”

  “If he hasn’t changed, I think you’ll find him a little, uh, difficult. You’ll probably hear his views on women before the evenin‘ is through, and you certainly won’t agree with him.”

  “Another Grant Marlowe, only older, is that what you mean?” she asked.

  He laughed heartily. “Now have I ever told you what you should or shouldn’t be doin‘?”

  “You certainly have,” she laughed. “In fact, that’s about all you ever—”

  The door burst open with a gust of wind and Angela looked up into a glowering face.

  She could have sworn she was looking into the fires of hell, but the golden blaze belonged to Bradford Maitland, who stood just inside the doorway, his saddle in one hand, his bedroll and saddlebags in the other.

  What on earth was he doing here, covered in dust and bedraggled, with a thick stubble of beard covering his face? And why did he look at her as if he wanted to kill her? She had imagined many times their meeting again, but never like this, with the furies of hell showing in his eyes. She was the one who had every right to be furious, not he!

  Bradford finally looked away from her and dropped his saddle on the floor, making Angela jump. She watched the dust fly off the saddle and the rushing wind catch the dust and scatter it about the room. Bradford then kicked the door shut. With the wind locked outside once again, the room suddenly felt stifling.

  With great effort, Angela tore her eyes away from Bradford and looked at Grant. He stood a few paces away from the couch. These two men were friends. Then why then did Grant look so wary? And why didn’t Bradford say something?

  The strained silence continued as Bradford moved across the room to the kitchen and dumped the rest of his gear on the table there, scattering more trail dust. Angela followed him with her eyes, remembering all the sleepless nights she had spent cursing this man. She wanted to lash out at him now, but s
he couldn’t find the power to speak, or even to move.

  Bradford broke the silence, his voice strained and hard as he faced Grant. “I can see that neither of you expected me, but I’m here. It was unfortunate that I had to break up your tender scene. Now I want you to get your things, Grant, and clear out.”

  “You firin‘ me, Brad?”

  “Of course not. We have a deal,” Bradford said harshly. “I have no intention of letting a woman break it. Now get your things and move them back into the bunkhouse.”

  “But that’s where my gear has always been!” Grant replied indignantly. “If you’ve got a bone to pick, Brad, I wish you’d get to it.”

  “Nothing of the sort. So you’ve practiced discretion for the lady’s sake,” Bradford sneered cruelly. “That’s very commendable. But I’m tired, so please get the hell out of here and take her with you.”

  Grant looked quickly at Angela, whose violet eyes were steadily growing darker. Brad had no call to talk about Angela that way.

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Brad,” Grant began, his own temper rising. “There’s nothin‘—”

  “Save it!” Bradford cut him off sharply. “Now do I have to throw you out of here, or will you do as you’re told?”

  “I’m goin‘, dammit!” Grant shouted angrily, then turned to Angela and lowered his voice. “Maybe you’d better come with me,” he offered gently, but he could see that her temper had surfaced too.

  “No!” she cried, folding her arms across her breasts. “This is my house as much as it is his and I’ll be damned if I’ll leave it!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Bradford demanded, coming forward to stand between the open shelves that reached from floor to ceiling, serving as a wall to divide the kitchen from the living area.

  Angela looked directly at him without flinching. “Jacob left half of this ranch to me. You must know that.”

  “If I had known, I wouldn’t be here!” Bradford stormed.

  He cursed himself silently for not paying attention when the will was read, or looking it over when he had the chance. He had assumed Angela would be here, but he was sure he could get rid of her easily. Now what the hell was he going to do?

  “I have a copy of the will if you don’t believe me,” Angela said stiffly.

  His eyes met hers again, and she refused to be cowered by the burning rage. She had been frightened of Bradford before, but she would not be intimidated by him anymore.

  Bradford finally spoke. “I have my own copy of the will, and I shall read it. If what you say is true, then I will buy you out.”

  “No thank you,” she replied icily. “I happen to like it here.”

  Bradford was livid. “Do you honestly intend to stay in this house with me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because you will regret it, Miss Sherrington. I promise you that!”

  Bradford turned and stalked down the hall. Soon, she and Grant heard one of the bedroom doors open and then slam shut.

  “You better go now, Grant. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

  “It don’t look like the two of you can have a civil conversation. Maybe you better let me talk to him,” Grant offered. “Brad seems to have gotten some mighty wrong impressions.”

  “No, I’ll work it out. You just remember to be here on time tomorrow night.”

  Grant grinned. “Are you sure Bradford will let me in the house?”

  “I’m sorry about that, Grant. You were here at my invitation tonight and I should have stood up for you. I assumed Bradford knew I owned half of the ranch, but he didn’t. It won’t happen again. I can invite anyone I please into this house.”

  “Then I’ll be here tomorrow night. But I advise you to stay clear of Brad for the rest of the night. Let him cool off before you try to explain anything to him.”

  Angela stared, aghast. “I have nothing to explain!” she snapped. “Bradford Maitland is the one who has explaining to do—if he can!” she added bitterly.

  Grant shook his head. “I have a suspicion why Brad was so riled, but what have you got to be so angry about?”

  “Never mind, Grant. Now go on and get some sleep. I have a lot of thinking to do,” she replied.

  He left then, and she moved about the room turning off all the oil lamps except one. She did not expect to sleep well that night.

  Chapter 41

  MORNING dawned bright and sunny, without a trace of yesterday’s brooding black clouds. The storm had left behind large puddles throughout the house, caused by holes in the roof.

  Angela was beside herself when she discovered the soaked rugs in the main room and the pools of water on the kitchen floor. The rain had even leaked into the storeroom, ruining two sacks of flour and a large barrel of cornmeal she had foolishly left half open the night before.

  It took her two hours to clean up the mess and to pull the large living-room rugs out onto the porch to dry over the railing. She was exhausted by the time she finished, having slept very little during the night. It was Saturday, and she had invited Mary Lou and her father to dinner.

  Angela dreaded the prospect of seeing Bradford again. She would have to face him eventually. And then what?

  Angela reheated the coffee Bradford had made earlier, then fixed herself a light breakfast. While she was sitting at the table, he came in through the kitchen door, stopping abruptly when he saw her.

  “Any more of those left?” he asked curtly, indicating the biscuit she was holding.

  Angela sighed. He couldn’t even offer a civil morning greeting. She stared at him as he stood belligerently in the middle of the room. He was cleanshaven now, and his hair was still damp from bathing. But the bath had done nothing for his sour disposition.

  “There are only a couple more in the oven, but I can make you some eggs and hotcakes if you like.”

  “Don’t bother,” Bradford replied, then added irritably, “And a ranch is no place for those damn chickens I saw out back.”

  “I happen to like eggs and roast chicken,” she told him, trying desperately to keep her voice level.

  “Ed Cox raises chickens just for that purpose,” he retorted.

  “I know,” she smiled. “That’s where I got my chickens. And I might remind you that I don’t need your permission to keep them.”

  He grunted and moved to the counter. “What about this?” he asked, lifting up the towel covering a large loaf of golden cornbread.

  “That is for the dressing I’m going to make for tonight’s dinner,” Angela replied.

  “You can make more cornbread later, can’t you?” he asked impatiently.

  “Yes, but—”

  Bradford picked up a knife and cut the loaf in half. She sighed and moved away from the table to get syrup and more butter. Without a word, she set the food on the table, then brought him a steaming cup of strong black coffee.

  He sat silently eating at the table with his back to her. Angela fumed. He was treating her like a servant. She would be damned if she would go to any bother for him again. He could eat when she did, or he could fix his own.

  She busied herself at the counter, starting another batch of cornbread.

  “Bradford,” she began, without turning away from the counter, “there will be guests for dinner tonight. I’ve invited Mary Lou Markham and her father, Walter Howard. And Grant too. Can I expect you also?”

  “Quite the little hostess, aren’t you?” he asked bitterly. “So the runaway sparrow has found a nest. Just so I’ll know, do you have these little parties every night?”

  Angela’s back stiffened and she turned around to face him. He was sitting sideways with the coffee cup in his hands, and looking at her in a contemptuous manner.

  “For your information, this is the first time I have invited guests to dinner.”

  “Besides Grant,” he replied, his voice turning harsh.

  Angela gasped. So that was it! Bradford was acting like this because of Grant. But that was ridiculous. He had
absolutely no right to be jealous, not when he was engaged.

  “Bradford, I invite Grant to have dinner occasionally because we have become friends. There is nothing between Grant and me.”

  “I am not a fool, Angela,” Bradford said drily and walked to the door. “Nor do I give a damn who you keep company with. And as for tonight, no, I won’t be here for your little party. I’m going into town this afternoon, and since I feel the need of a good whore, I probably won’t be back tonight.” He opened the door, then turned back to her. “Unless, of course, you would like to oblige me. I pay top dollar for a good whore, and as I remember, you were quite a good one.” He chuckled at her shocked face.

  Bradford leaned precariously against the long black bar, staring pensively at the glass of whiskey before him. He had drunk heavily all evening while playing cards at a corner table. He was finally feeling the results of his liquor consumption and had only just quit the game. He had lost more than two hundred dollars. But what the hell, it was only money.

  He drained his glass and then bought a full bottle of whiskey from the bartender. He glanced slowly around the smoke-filled room.

  Two tawdrily dressed saloon girls had caught his eye earlier, but now he just wasn’t inclined. He couldn’t deny that he needed a woman. In New York, he had thrown himself into business matters so completely that he hadn’t found the time for female company. But he decided just to lose himself in the sweet relief of liquor. He had to drown out the torturous images playing havoc with his mind.

  Moving unsteadily, he left the saloon, the bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand. The fresh night air was like a splash of cold water after the stench of smoke and sweat from the crowded saloon. He gained his directions without too much difficulty, and started toward the hotel at the other end of town. The long street seemed deserted, and the din he had just left receded slowly as he walked.

  Suddenly a blast of gunfire exploded across the street and Bradford heard a bullet whiz past him. It took him a moment to realize what was happening before he dove for the nearest doorway and crouched into it. He saw a streak of light across the street as another bullet was fired, then another flew from a different gun some yards away from the first. He understood that whoever held those guns were firing at him.