Breathless

by Beverly Jenkins

  Rhine cracked, “You are getting fairly long in the tooth.”

  “Yours will always be longer.” The shared grin reminded Kent just how much he’d missed having him in his life.

  They spent the next few minutes talking about salary. Kent thought the figure Rhine offered to be fair.

  “As I said, Portia’s been handling Blanchard’s books and payroll, and I don’t see that changing once I’m the new owner. She’ll also take care of ordering of any supplies you can’t get in Tucson.”

  Kent wondered how she’d feel about his taking over as foreman. He found himself looking forward to interacting with her on a regular basis.

  “You’ll need to sit down with her and go over how the dude ranch visits are handled, too, since she’s the one who coordinates it all. Any questions on anything we’ve talked about so far?”

  “No. I would like to ride over and take a hard look at the buildings and the stables, but out of respect for his passing, I’ll wait until after the funeral.”

  “The wake will be at his place, so you’ll be able to see some of it, if you want to go.”

  “I only met him at the party last night but I liked him, so I would like to pay my respects if that’s okay.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “Are the other hands staying on?”

  “They said they’d let me know after the funeral.”

  “Did you tell them you were bringing in a new foreman?”

  “I told them there was a good possibility.”

  “Were any of them hoping to move up to foreman?”

  Rhine considered that for a moment. “I don’t know that either. I probably should have considered that.”

  “Yes, but then I wouldn’t have a job, so we’ll wait and see what happens. If they all decide to move on, we’ll hire new men. It may take some time but the work will get done.” Kent was accustomed to putting in a full day’s work so if he had to run the place shorthanded for a while he would. “Anything you want me to do in the meantime? All this sitting around is wearing on me.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. How are you at chopping wood?”

  Kent shrugged. “I’ve chopped a few piles in my life.”

  “Good. The kitchen always needs wood and Eddy says they’re running low. The man who usually does it hasn’t shown up for the past week or so. Not sure if he’s quit on us or what, but there are enough logs out by the barn to keep you busy for a few days.”

  “Okay. You spoke of the wake. When’s the funeral?”

  “In a few days, I suppose. His daughter is his only family so there’s no one else she has to wait for to arrive.”

  Kent wondered who’d mourn him when his time came. He assumed his father would see the Pearly Gates first but afterwards? There were no other Randolphs either—at least as far as he knew. Burying the maudlin thoughts, he asked Rhine, “I assume you’ll want me living there as opposed to here?”

  Rhine nodded. “He has a nice-sized place so you may as well move into the house.”

  “Where’d the old foreman stay?”

  “Bunkhouse.”

  Kent mulled that over for a moment, too. If the other men stayed, he wondered how they’d feel about him being in the old man’s house, or if they’d care. It could pave the way for some resentment and he didn’t want to start off that way. He supposed he’d have to wait and see. No sense in worrying over something that might come into play. “How about I decide after I talk with the hands, if they stay.”

  “How about you simply move into the house. I don’t want it sitting empty.”

  He nodded. “Whatever you say.”

  “Good. Anything else for now?”

  “No. I’ll get started on Eddy’s wood. Where is it?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Chapter Four

  Carrying the Blanchard ledgers and receipts Rhine wanted her to review, Portia decided to check on Regan before heading to her office. She knocked on the connecting door to her sister’s room and when Regan answered, stepped inside. Unlike her own neat-as-a-pin living quarters, Regan’s always resembled the aftermath of a storm. All the gowns she must have considered wearing last night were lying across the bed and over the backs of chairs, the shoe choices covered the floor, and her vanity table was a chaos of face paints, hair brushes, and combs. Accustomed to the sight, Portia ignored it and concentrated on the sadness in her sister’s eyes. “How are you feeling?”

  Dressed in a shirt and denims, Regan, standing in front of the open French doors, shrugged. “I’ll be better eventually, I suppose.”

  “We’ll all miss him.”

  “He’s the first person to die that I truly loved.”

  “I know.” Portia couldn’t imagine a world without the crusty old horse wrangler who’d been such an important part of their life. Fifteen years ago when they moved to the Territory, he’d given them their first mares. Because of his lessons, she and Regan could ride hell-bent for leather and clear fences without fear. She could still hear his voice in her mind. Horses don’t care if you’re girls. They just want to know you can ride! “No one will fault you if you want to spend the day in your room.”

  “No, I have a few deliveries to make. He wouldn’t want me in here moping.”

  Portia agreed. Because of the strength he’d instilled in them, coupled with the fearlessness they’d learned from Eddy and Rhine, she and her sister felt capable of weathering any storm, and they’d weather this one, too. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

  Regan nodded and Portia closed the door softly.

  Seated in her office with the doors that led outdoors open to the warmth and breeze of the afternoon, Portia pored over Mr. Blanchard’s books, looking for anything that might prove problematic to Rhine’s purchase of his ranch. She knew there wasn’t, but according to her uncle, Blanchard’s son-in-law, Charlie Landry, had hired someone to review the books, and Portia didn’t want anything found that required an explanation. With that in mind, she double-checked payroll records, bank deposits, supply orders, and everything else, and when done, she was satisfied that the ledgers would pass muster. She stood and stretched to get the kink out of her spine. Hearing the ringing of an axe, she assumed Bailey Durham the wood chopper had finally shown up to do his job. He wasn’t the most reliable worker and where he’d been for the past week was anyone’s guess. Unlocking the small strongbox she kept in the bottom drawer of her desk, she counted out what he was owed for his services and left her office to pay him.

  But it wasn’t Durham. It was Kent attired in denims and the shirt portion of a gray union suit. The sleeves were pushed up past his elbows and he was swinging the axe with accurate authority. Over by the breezeway she spotted Gabriella Salinas and Rosalie Cork, two of the young women from the kitchen, spying on him with girlish adoration. Portia couldn’t fault them. He was gloriously made, an attribute Portia rarely commented on even inwardly. The girls met her eyes, grinned, and quickly ducked back inside.

  He worked the axe free and was preparing to swing again when he finally noticed her. Pausing, he took a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “Duchess.”

  She also didn’t want to admit the way her senses fluttered when he addressed her thus, a completely different reaction from when she was twelve. “I heard the axe. I thought it was Bailey Durham.”

  “He the guy who usually does this?”

  She nodded. “I came to pay him.”

  “Ah.” He raised the axe and lowered it again. Tossed the split wood onto the pile and began again. “How’s your sister?”

  “She’s doing okay. Mr. Blanchard wouldn’t want her holed up in her room being sad so she’s going to take care of some deliveries.”

  “Only met him last night, but I liked him because of the way he stood up for you when Day complained about your uppity mouth.”

  His eyes were on her mouth and she swallowed with a suddenly dry throat.

  He went back to chopping. “Blanchard t
old him you’d marry a man who appreciated your mouth and if Day didn’t, he should take himself out of the running. And I agree.”

  Her senses leapt like flames. Did that mean he was considering a run for her, too? For a woman determined to remain unmarried, her reactions to him were slowly tearing down the walls she’d encased herself in and she wasn’t sure what to do with that.

  His next words threw her further off balance. “Rhine asked me to be foreman once he buys Blanchard’s place. You and I will need to get together so I can learn how you run the dude ranch.”

  “Of course. Whenever you’re ready we can discuss it.” She could hardly keep her walls intact if circumstances kept plotting to throw them together.

  He brought the axe down again and she fed her eyes on the way his strong hands gripped the handle and the play of the muscles in his arms.

  Gabriella walked up carrying a jug of water. “Mr. Randolph, Mrs. Fontaine thought you might need this,” she said. “Rather warm today.”

  “Thanks.” He took the offering and the smile he turned on young woman seemed to melt her where she stood.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Seeing Portia watching her, she said, “I should get back to work.”

  “Wait,” he called to her. “What’s your name?”

  “Gabriella Salinas.”

  “Thanks again, Gabriella. Tell Mrs. Fontaine thanks, too.”

  “I will,” she tittered as she hurried away.

  He raised the jug and took a long drink. A trickle of the water slid down the corner of his mouth and Portia, struck by the urge to lap it up, unconsciously ran her tongue over her lips.

  “Do you want some, Duchess?”

  His voice was as soft and filled with intent as she imagined a lover’s invitation might be. Startled, she shook her head. “No. I—I have to get back to my office.”

  As she fled from him for the second time that day, she didn’t see his knowing smile when he hefted the axe and returned to work.

  At dinner that evening, Portia sat across from him at the table, still thinking about her reaction to him and the water jug. She hazarded a look his way and he smiled. Whatever she was coming down with must be serious for her to imagine licking him like a tamed cat. Or a lover, quipped an inner voice she’d never heard before. That caught her so off guard, she dropped her fork and it clattered onto her plate.

  “Something wrong, Portia?” Eddy asked from her seat at the table.

  “No. Just clumsiness on my part. Sorry.” Embarrassed, she kept her eyes from Kent’s but his presence continued to plague her and she was at a loss as to how to make it stop.

  Regan’s voice distracted her from her inner turmoil. “I told everyone on my route today about Mr. Blanchard’s wake. If all the people who said they’d be stopping by to pay their respects actually come, there won’t be enough room in his parlor.”

  “He was well loved,” Rhine said.

  “He was,” Regan replied somberly. “But you know each time I thought about him today, it was about something that made me smile.” She looked over at Portia. “Remember when we were chased by those hornets and had to jump in the pond to escape them?”

  She laughed, “I do. Why he didn’t wait to smoke them out at night like Tana told him I’ll never know.”

  Regan supplied the answer. “Stubborn.”

  Portia nodded.

  “Who was Tana?” Kent asked.

  “An Apache who worked for him,” Portia said. “The nest was a good size and it was right under the lip of the porch, so Mr. Blanchard got a ladder—”

  “Which Portia and I were holding,” Regan added.

  Portia grinned. “He lit a torch, climbed the ladder, and tried to set the nest on fire.”

  Regan laughed, “Those hornets came tearing out of that nest and we dropped the ladder at the same time that he jumped down. They chased us all the way to the pond.”

  Eddy took up the tale, “The girls came home soaking wet from their braids to their boots.”

  Regan said, “Tana laughed so hard he fell on the ground.”

  Kent asked, “Does he still work at the ranch?”

  Rhine replied solemnly, “No. He joined Geronimo when he escaped from San Carlos back in ’81. Blanchard said he was killed in Mexico during a gun battle with the 6th Cavalry.”

  Portia remembered how saddened he’d been by the news. She and Regan had been as well. The old Apache taught them many things about life in their new home, and because he refused to speak English, they even spoke a bit of the Apache language.

  Kent asked, “So what’s the situation with Geronimo now? I think every newspaper in the country covered his surrender last year.”

  “Tenuous at best,” Rhine said. “There are rumors that he’s ready to bolt again. Can’t blame him. His people are penned up like animals, dying from disease and starvation—soldiers torturing them for sport. I wonder what we Americans would do if somebody with bigger guns invaded us and started stealing our land and killing our kin. We’d go on the warpath, too, I’d bet.”

  Portia agreed. For the past thirty years the Apache had been doing their best to retake the land their people had lived on for as long as they could remember. Portia couldn’t condone the killing and raiding they’d been doing in retaliation, but because the government had broken treaty after treaty, the old chiefs like Geronimo and Cochise felt they had no other choice.

  “Have you finished reviewing Blanchard’s ledgers?” her uncle asked, interrupting her thoughts and changing the subject.

  “I have and everything is in order.”

  “Good. I’ll turn them over to the Landry’s bookkeeper in the morning. Once the sale is finalized Kent will be our foreman.”

  “He mentioned it earlier.” She gave him a quick glance.

  “The sooner the two of you can discuss how the place is run, the better.”

  “How about after we’re done here, Portia?” Kent asked.

  Portia froze. Lord knew she wanted to come up with an excuse to delay it. Her reaction to him by the woodpile had left her scandalized enough to last a lifetime, but she knew she had no legitimate reason to weasel out of it. “That would be fine. We can use my office.”

  “Okay.”

  Again, she caught herself staring at his lips, the slope of his beard-brushed jaw, his eyes. She quickly dropped her gaze but not before noticing Eddy’s slightly raised eyebrow and the silent look she and Rhine passed between themselves. Pretending there was nothing amiss, Portia took a sip of her wine, set the goblet down with a slightly shaky hand, and returned to her meal.

  After dinner, she and Regan were in the kitchen cleaning up. Portia was doing her best to ignore the amused look her sister had been wearing since entering, but unable to bear it any longer, she said, “Okay. Out with it. You obviously have something to say.”

  Hands in the soapy water as she washed the dishes, Regan replied, “Who me?”

  “Yes, you. Tell me before I bash you over the head with this last chicken leg.”

  They shared a smile and Regan mused aloud, “I wonder how long you’d be sentenced by a judge for such a fowl deed.”

  “Lord, save me,” Portia groaned in response to the terrible pun, and she shook the leg at Regan. “Tell me!”

  “I was just watching you and Kent.”

  “And?”

  Regan mimed pulling back the string on a bow and letting an invisible arrow fly. “Right between the eyes.”

  Portia shook her head. “So now you’re a mime?”

  “No, I’m Cupid and don’t pretend you’ve no idea what I mean. You were looking at the man like he was a piece of chocolate cake.”

  Portia put the last of the leftover chicken in a bowl, covered it with a plate and placed it in the cold box. “I was not.”

  “Yes, you were. Aunt Eddy and Uncle Rhine saw it, too. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Kent’s terribly handsome.”

  Portia picked up a kitchen towel and busied herself drying the wet d
ishes Regan had set in the drain.

  “So you aren’t going to admit he’s handsome either?” Regan asked.

  “I don’t have to admit anything to you, Regan Marie.” They were playfully bantering the way they’d been doing their entire lives.

  “Just wait until he pulls you into a corner and kisses you until your garters catch fire.”

  “You’re always so scandalous.”

  “You’re going to be scandalous, too, when he cracks your highly prized control like a dropped hen’s egg.”

  “That will not happen.”

  Regan studied her and said earnestly, “You need a nice man in your life, sister mine.”

  “My life is fine just the way it is.”

  “Okay,” Regan said softly. “I just want you to be happy, Portia. You’ve earned it. We both have.”

  “I’ve been happy since the day Aunt Eddy and Uncle Rhine saved us. I don’t need anything more.”

  Regan nodded and went back to washing. Her solemnity pulled at Portia’s heart but they finished the rest of the task in silence.

  Seated in her office while waiting for Kent to join her, Portia thought back on her sister’s words and on the incident at the woodpile. What’s wrong with me? She was twenty-seven years old, far past the age of being rendered mindless by a man, yet here she sat. Granted Kent was more handsome than a man had a right to be, but what she sensed about him beneath the surface was attractive as well. He was funny, treated her respectfully, and unlike some of the other men she knew, he didn’t think her odd or less than a woman for managing the hotel. In fact, he seemed quite impressed by her business sense, and during the party, he’d even brought her a piece of cake. A small thing yes, but it had been a kind gesture nonetheless. However, she had life planned out with the goal of forming her own bookkeeping business at some point in the near future, and a man wouldn’t be penciled into the ledger, no matter how tempting she thought him to be. Having always prided herself on approaching difficult situations head-on she spent a few moments mulling over her options. It occurred to her that her thoughts about children building up an immunity to the pox might be a solution. Maybe if she asked him to kiss her, it would feed her attraction enough to bring about a cure for what ailed her. Lord knew she needed one because she’d never wanted to lick a man’s mouth before in her life. Her mind slid back to the image of the water trailing sinuously down corners of his lips and when her senses rose again, she hastily forced the image away. Yes, she needed a cure because the sooner she did away with this distracting attraction the better off she’d be.