Fire Brand

by Diana Palmer

  She rolled over and pulled the covers up over her head. Men, she thought furiously, would just never understand the female mind. On the other hand, Bowie was a puzzle she didn’t expect to fathom in the near future.

  Down the hall, Bowie was lying awake himself, wondering why Gaby had gone to her own room. He’d been occupied all night trying to cool down his ardor. He loved Gaby and he wanted her, but she wasn’t in any condition for what a few sweet kisses would inevitably lead to. He had to put her welfare first. So he’d stayed out late, removing himself from temptation, and then gone into his study for the same reason. He cared far too much for Gaby to put his pleasure before hers. And he guessed she’d realized that, since she’d gone to her own room. She probably knew he’d understand that she was asking him to wait. He smiled to himself. Sweet Gaby, so thoughtful. He closed his eyes with a contented sigh. It hadn’t been a bad couple of days’ work. He had a new daddy and a new wife, and now all he had to do was show Gaby how sweet lovemaking could be. He’d smoothed away her fears—God knew how, in his impatience—and she wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Once she was better, he could show her how ungrounded those fears really were. He fell asleep on the thought.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HARVEY WAS ALREADY at his desk, spreading out information, and Bob Chalmers was bending over it looking at what Harvey had found.

  “What have you got?” Gaby asked breathlessly as she joined them.

  “Enough to cause a lot of trouble,” Harvey said quietly. “Take a peek.”

  Gaby read over Bob’s shoulder. The neatly typed notes documented Bio-Ag’s two lawsuits—in Texas they accused Bio-Ag of causing groundwater contamination from careless use of dangerous pesticides resulting in dead cattle. Cotton West had also refused to spend the extra money for proper drains in the fields. Several landowners had sued because the eroded land had blown onto their fields and covered them in dust. There was another case pending in Texas, involving the deliberate laying by of fields to obtain government subsidies.

  “Can you prove that?” Bob asked Harvey. “About the government subsidies?”

  “You bet I can,” Harvey replied. “The lawsuits are a matter of public record. Although,” he added with a tiny grin, “they’re public record in a town nobody ever heard of—”

  “Your friend Johnny Blake called from Phoenix, too,” Bob told her. “He said that the mysterious Mr. Samuels has something of a reputation for making money at the expense of the land. He gave me some numbers to call and asked if he could have access to your information. Considering that I stole you from him, I thought it was the least we could do—after we run the story first, of course.” He chuckled wickedly.

  Gaby sighed. Bowie had been right all along. His instincts had been good, and hers hadn’t. Well, so much for her idealistic goals of providing new jobs for Lassiter’s unemployed. This would take the small community out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  “Shall I phone Mr. Barry, Mr. Logan, and Mr. Samuels, tell them our intentions, and offer them the chance to say something in their own behalf?”

  “Sure.” Bob grinned. “But do it quick. I want you and Harvey to get this thing together and in type before the end of the day. We’re going to run a hell of a front page story Thursday.” He smiled ruefully at Gaby. “And I’ll go right to my terminal and write a nice editorial praising your stepbrother...”

  “My husband.” Gaby blushed as she extended her left hand, complete with wedding band. “We went down to Mexico Saturday.”

  “What a story! And you didn’t call me to take pics?” Bob accused.

  “There was a wire service photographer there,” Gaby said, frowning a little. “He took plenty. I suppose they’ll show up somewhere.” The thought of them showing up back in Kentucky worried her, and it showed in her face.

  Harvey took one look at it and got up abruptly. “Why don’t we go phone those Bio-Ag people?” he suggested. “Bob, I want to ask you about something. Oh—congratulations, Gaby,” he added with a warm smile.

  Gaby went on to her office, grateful for the momentary reprieve. Odd that Harvey should realize how upset she was and intervene. She wondered just how much he’d found out about her past, and then dismissed it. He hadn’t had time, and if Bowie couldn’t find anything, then surely Harvey couldn’t. Or could he?

  She sat down at her desk, still worried. She hadn’t thought about the past in several days, but now it stared her right in the face. What was she going to do, now that she and Bowie were married? If she’d had time to think, she’d probably have found a way to get out of it, but things had gone too quickly. Her mind had shut down, and by the time it was working again, the ring was on her finger.

  She loved Bowie—that was the one inescapable fact. But if her past ever caught up with her, what would she do? She couldn’t even tell Bowie the whole truth—she couldn’t confess what had really happened that night in Kentucky, because it would involve him. And if he ever let it slip, and anyone else found out, the ensuing scandal could ruin the McCaydes. Worse, it would even involve Mr. Kingman and Aggie now, because the Kingman fortune would ensure that Ted got his share of notoriety, too.

  She felt the blood draining out of her face. What in the world was she going to do?

  “Better get busy,” Harvey murmured, peeking around the door. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Oh. Sure thing.” She smiled at him. “Thanks.”

  He seemed to know without asking what she was thanking him for. He only smiled. “No sweat.”

  He left her to pick up the phone and start dialing.

  Mr. Barry was shocked. Mr. Logan blustered and fumbled for words while Gaby read him part of what was going into print. But Mr. Samuels, when she reached him in Los Angeles, was supremely nonchalant.

  “Well, you win a few, you lose a few,” he replied carelessly. “We do make an impact on the local economy, you know, and there would have been a goodly number of jobs.”

  “There would have been a devastating amount of damage to the land,” Gaby replied, “and the aquifer.”

  “Minor details,” he replied, “and they don’t really concern us. We use the land and then, when we make our money, we find more. That’s big business, Miss Cane. We feel it’s up to the local citizens to decide between progress and the ecology. We’re in the business of making a profit.”

  “Yes, I can understand that,” Gaby said quietly. “But don’t you really care about the damage you do?”

  “Of course we care,” he said. “But we can’t afford to care too much—not in this day and time. Some of the things big corporations do to protect the land—installing expensive drains, laser leveling the land, adding chemicals to prevent salinization—take more money than we can afford to spend.”

  “Of course they’re expensive,” she returned, “but they guarantee that the land can be used over and over again. One of your major plantings is cotton, and nothing exhausts the land more quickly and more permanently.”

  “True,” he agreed. “But it’s a good cash crop, and it’s more economical to grow than some others.” He sighed. “You’re good at your job, Miss Cane. Lassiter would have suited us very well. But, then, there are richer areas with better water, and we’ll find them. Good day.”

  With those ominous words ringing in her ears, she put the receiver down belatedly.

  “The thing is, he’s right, in his way,” she told Harvey later. “You can’t afford too much sentiment in business. But Bowie’s right, too—you can’t replace history and the ecology once they’re gone.” She put her head in her hands. “Oh, I hate being a reporter. Life was so much easier when I could only see one side of an issue.”

  “I know what you mean,” Harvey said. “But at least we’re objective. I know a lot of reporters who aren’t. They deliberately slant news to suit their own viewpoints. Some paper
s do it, too—hatchet jobs, yellow journalism.” He shook his head. “No wonder the media’s been attacked so often in recent years. Honor used to be such an integral part of it. Now it’s reporters after Pulitzers, and to hell with how they get them.”

  She was scrolling her copy as he talked. “I don’t feel right about having my byline on this with you,” she said. “You did all the work.”

  “I did not,” he returned. “You came in with all the questions about effluent and drains and groundwater tables. I had to learn about those things before I could even ask the right questions.” His broad face went a little red. “It embarrassed me that I didn’t know already—that I took Bio-Ag’s word as gospel. No good reporter takes anything at face value. You laid the groundwork for the story—I just helped follow it up.”

  She smiled at him. “Harvey, I didn’t have the sources you have, and I lacked a lot of experience that you had. I think we’re about even on embarrassment. But it’s great to be working with you.”

  He cleared his throat. “I like working with you, too.” He went redder. “By the way, I’ve given up trying to dig up your past. We all have skeletons. Yours are safe from me.”

  “Thanks, Harvey,” she said huskily. He only nodded, and left. She wondered if he’d learned much. Hopefully he hadn’t.

  The day passed all too quickly, but Gaby and Harvey had finished their joint project by quitting time. They stayed late going over it for errors, so that it was almost dark by the time Gaby finally got to Casa Río.

  Bowie was waiting on the front porch, pacing. Her heart lifted at his thunderous expression.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, his black eyes flashing at her. “It’s almost dark. I know you’re Bio-Ag’s biggest fan, but there are people around here who don’t. I don’t want anybody shooting at you.”

  She looked up at him. She almost told him what she and Harvey had done, but the mockery in his voice stung her pride. She pushed back her hair. “Nobody will,” she assured him. “Is Mr. Kingman back?”

  “Not until tomorrow,” he said curtly. “Don’t change the subject. You’ve got no business riding around in the desert at night.”

  “It isn’t night, and I’ve been shot at before.”

  He ground his teeth together. “Don’t remind me.” He threw up his hands. “I thought if you worked on a small paper, you’d be out of danger.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “I wasn’t the one who stirred up this hornet’s nest in the first place,” she reminded him.

  “No, you’re all for progress, aren’t you?” he asked with a steady glare. “To hell with the ecology and the land itself, let’s have plenty of jobs!”

  “Oh, yeah?” she shot back with her hands on her hips. “You’re a builder! How many trees have you cut down? How many birds and squirrels are homeless because of you?!”

  “You have to cut down an occasional tree...!”

  “Could you two please keep your voices down?” Aggie grimaced, leaning out the front door. “Montoya and Tía Elena are threatening to go on strike.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Bowie muttered.

  “There was a Buddy Holly song by that name,” Gaby said brightly. “Supposedly taken from John Wayne’s favorite expression in the movie, The Searchers.”

  Bowie glared at her. “I don’t need any historical tidbits, thank you.”

  “Besides, darling, he doesn’t remotely resemble John Wayne,” Aggie returned. “I met him once, you know, when he was filming in Old Tucson. He was quite a gentleman, and a frequent visitor to Tucson.”

  “You never told me,” Gaby beamed.

  “I didn’t think of it. Bowie, I never did get a chance to thank you for going after Ted,” she added, smiling up at her tall, irritable son.

  “It was that, or watch you moon around here until you faded away,” he said lazily. “As it turned out, he was just as miserable as you were, but his pride was keeping him in Jackson.”

  Aggie stared at him. “Then, how did you get him here?”

  “Oh, I told him I’d let him take me to ball games.” He shrugged. “I think that was what did it.”

  Aggie laughed delightedly. “You didn’t!”

  “And I offered to let him teach me how to rope. You did know that he was world champion calf roper two years running?”

  “No,” Aggie returned, wide-eyed. “Was he, really? I don’t keep up with the rodeo circuit, although most people know of the Kingmans.”

  “He was best all around two years running, too,” Gaby offered.

  “But I thought you disliked him,” the older woman murmured, searching Bowie’s hard face.

  “I disliked the idea of him,” he corrected gently. “Then it dawned on me from something he said that you aren’t dead from the neck down just because you’re past the hopscotch stage. I guess you can fall in love at any age.”

  Aggie smiled gently. “Yes, you can. I never expected to—not like this.” She sighed. “But he’s all I want.”

  “That works both ways. His sisters said he was driving them crazy. They were glad to see him leave, I think.” He chuckled.

  “What are they like?” Aggie asked hesitantly.

  “Just like him, but they smile more,” he replied. “You’ll like them. I did.”

  Aggie relaxed visibly. “I was afraid of more infighting. Not that I’d have minded enough to give him up a second time. I’m just not that strong.”

  “When’s the wedding?” he asked.

  “Soon.” She eyed Bowie and Gaby. “Why not make it a double ceremony? We’re having it in the Baptist church, with Reverend Jackson doing the honors. I don’t really like Mexican weddings.”

  “Neither do I,” Bowie said, surprisingly. His black eyes went to Gaby. “I want something a lot more permanent.”

  She couldn’t look away from that quiet, possessive gaze. It made her ripple with feeling. “Oh, so do I,” she whispered.

  “Then, we’ll have the blood tests, and get another license, and do it properly,” Bowie said, without removing his eyes from hers. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said huskily.

  They went inside and had a companionable supper, but Bowie’s black eyes were saying things that Gaby’s body responded to in an alarming way. She had high hopes for the night ahead. But right after he finished eating, there was a phone call which required him to be locked up in the study for the rest of the night.

  Gaby said a gentle good night to Aggie finally, after they’d spent the evening discussing clothes and future plans, and decided to have a relaxing shower.

  She was enjoying the warm water on her tired shoulders when she heard a faint noise and then felt two big, warm hands on her waist, pulling her sharply back against a hard, bare, and definitely masculine body.

  She gasped. “Bowie!”

  “You know what a fanatic I am about water conservation, Gaby,” he murmured at her ear with laughter in his deep voice. “How’s this for saving water?”

  She vibrated like a guitar string as his lean hands worked their way up her body. They were soapy, and the sensation of the silky substance on her bare skin was very arousing. She leaned back, letting him take her weight, while he rubbed soap gently over her taut breasts and down to her thighs, his hands magic, touching her in remembered ways, making her moan softly with the riotous sensations her body had enjoyed once before.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, and pulled her around. The shower stall was enormous, with a huge tiled wall beside it. He eased her back against that, his feet firmly placed on the nonskid floor mat with hers, and his body levered down while his hard mouth found her soft lips and possessed them.

  She felt the delicious abrasion of body hair rubbing against her breasts and flat belly and thighs, and her arms slid around him, holding him hungrily.<
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  His mouth did the most intimate things to hers, teasing and lifting, probing softly, tasting, biting, and her body began to react in a new and helpless way. Her hips lifted and fell against his in an invitation she couldn’t help.

  “All right, honey,” he whispered huskily, as if she’d spoken. His hips moved slightly, his knee edged between her legs, and he shifted.

  Her tiny cry was buried in his warm mouth. She felt her body absorbing him, so easily, with none of the discomfort she’d felt before. This time, it was like slipping into velvet. The sensation was growing with each slow, gentle movement of his body. She was barely aware of the cool tile at her back, the sound of the shower running. She knew they should cut it off, but her mind was steadily becoming clouded by the pleasure he was giving her body.

  Her fingers clung to his shoulders and then, impulsively, ran down his spine to his hips and she held him there, feeling the movements with something like awe. It hadn’t been like this the first time—she hadn’t really felt anything. But the sensations stabbing through her now took her breath, made her heart run wild, tensed her slender body until she thought she couldn’t bear the muscular rigidity.

  A sound broke from her—a hoarse cry that throbbed with sweet anguish as he shifted.

  “There?” he whispered, and his voice sounded strained, too.

  “Yes,” she bit off.

  His hands were flat against the wall beside her head. His mouth brushed against hers in slow, tender movements while the fever between them grew to flashpoint. Gaby’s mouth slid to his hard chest and she bit him helplessly in her passion, her teeth tenderly nipping the hard muscle.

  She heard him groan, and all at once she felt an urgency that she didn’t even understand. She arched up at him, her voice breaking on his name, her hands clutching at his hips. She began to cry because the fury of what she was feeling had torn reason and sanity from her. She clung to him, begging him not to stop. The shower kept pouring beside them, the sound drowning her moans, and the frantic movement of their bodies.