The Rustler's Bride

by Tatiana March

  He’d been talking in the soft voice of reminiscing. Now his voice grew razor sharp. “You get my meaning, son?” His eyes bore into Declan’s. “If you touch my daughter, I’ll cut off your balls and feed them to you. And that’s no empty threat.” He waited in silence. When Declan didn’t reply, he raised his voice. “You hear me, son?”

  Over at the desk, Victoria was pretending to be engrossed in dipping the pen in the ink well and carefully copying words from a tattered document into a some kind of a leather-bound journal, but Declan could tell she was listening to every word.

  “I hear you,” he said.

  “Good,” Sinclair replied. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

  Declan got to his feet. “I could leave,” he said. His manner was easy, his tone indifferent. “Ride out in the morning. There’s nothing to keep me here.”

  An oath in a feminine voice rippled across the room. Both men looked up.

  “A blot.” Victoria glanced up from her papers, scowling. “I put a blot on the page.”

  Her father stared back at her and spoke with a blunt emphasis and a thickened Scottish burr. “Better than putting a blot on ye reputation, me lass.” He turned back to Declan. “There’s nothing to keep you here but my daughter’s word to the sheriff who let you live. If you ride out—which would not bother me in the least—best to make sure you leave the county—nae, leave the territory—for Garth Weston will be on your trail before sunset, and this time he’ll not hesitate to put a rope around your neck.”

  Sinclair reached over to the table by his elbow, poured whiskey into another shot glass and held it out to Declan, who remained on his feet. “Drink up, me lad,” he said grimly. “It’s one year to the day, and not a moment longer. After that, I’ll want you off my land.”

  Declan took the glass, raised it to his lips and tipped his head back. The liquor burned a trail of fire down his chest. Not a year, he thought. I’ll be done with you within a month. He leaned down to prop the empty glass on the table. As he turned on his heels and walked out of the library without another word, he could feel Victoria’s eyes on his back.

  ****

  Victoria suffered a restless night, troubled by the battle of masculine wills that seemed to have settled like a dark cloud over the household. Didn’t Declan know how to be grateful? Didn’t her father know how to declare a truce and make the best of the situation?

  A shudder of irritation rippled over her as she recalled the threats her father had made in the library. Why did men have to posture so? And why did they think it was up to them to argue over her, as if she were a piece of rawhide two dogs had clamped their jaws on and were tugging into different directions.

  She would choose her own direction.

  And right now, that direction was to get to know the man she had married. Every time she laid eyes on him, strange sensations twisted at the base of her spine. At school, some girls had boasted about clandestine trysts with men, and now Victoria found herself recalling their stories and wondering what it would feel like, to do with Declan Beaulieu those brazen things the wanton girls had talked about.

  When the first rays of light finally peeked through the shutters, heralding the dawn, Victoria scrambled out of bed and tiptoed to the washstand. She hurried through her morning ablutions and pulled on a cotton shirt and a pair of canvas overalls.

  Good riddance to corsets and gowns. Boarding school had been all pink and frilly, with dainty bow-legged furniture. Her bedroom was the opposite, furnished with heavy, ornately carved pieces in dark wood, bought from the ranchos south of the border, or commissioned from the Mexican artisans in Tucson.

  Ready to tackle the day, she clattered into the dining room and steeled herself for a showdown when her father saw her clothing.

  Mrs. Flynn was bustling by the table. The housekeeper always dressed in black, in honor of a husband who had died two decades ago, only days after she stepped off the stagecoach as a mail order bride. Victoria had offered to pay for more cheerful dresses, but Mrs. Flynn said she’d been wearing black so long the idea of colors made her dizzy.

  “Where’s my father?” Victoria asked as she sat down.

  “Mr. Sinclair ate already. He’s gone into town.”

  Gone into town. Victoria broke into a grin of irrepressible glee. Thank God for small mercies. Not only did she escape an argument over her outfit, but she could seek out Declan without having to worry about her father erupting into another fit of rage.

  The housekeeper set a cup in front of her and poured. “I made fresh coffee.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Flynn. You’re a marvel.”

  “One needs to be, to prepare something that is fit to eat out of the scrawny carcasses Mr. Norris brings me.”

  Victoria turned her burst of amusement into a hiccup. The housekeeper never wasted an opportunity to complain about Cookie, whose job it was to slaughter and prepare the meat they ate. But—Victoria thought with a suppressed smile—it was a known fact that women had a tendency to grumble about men for whom they secretly carried a torch.

  Mrs. Flynn’s ample bosom bounced up and down as she rocked on her feet, her face puckered in a frown, as if she wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how to put it.

  “What is it, Mrs. Flynn?” Victoria prompted.

  “I met that husband of yours last night.” The housekeeper’s expression grew wistful. “My, my. You don’t see one like that every day. An outlaw, I’m hearing. And staying just the year to keep his neck out of the noose.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Flynn. As always, the bush telegraph has been quite accurate.”

  “Didn’t have much of an appetite last night. Said it was the hanging, but I’m thinking it was the stew.” The broad face puckered once more. “The piece of meat Mr. Norris sent me was tougher than a strip of rawhide.”

  “I’m sure you stew was excellent, Mrs. Flynn.”

  The housekeeper gave a little grunt, appearing mollified. She rocked a moment in silence. “Would you like a piece of advice, Miss Victoria?” she finally asked.

  Mrs. Flynn had arrived at Red Rock when Victoria was sixteen, two years before she went off to boarding school. They weren’t particularly close, but as the only older female on the ranch—the only other female of any age now that the maids were gone—the housekeeper felt entitled to take a maternal interest.

  “I’m sure I’ll get it, whether I want it or not,” Victoria replied.

  “Keep your distance, that’s what I’m saying. A man like that, he’ll take your heart with him when he rides out of here.” Mrs. Flynn pinched her lips into a tight seam and dipped her head in a forceful nod. Then she shuffled out of the room, with the haughty posture of a woman who has said her piece and has no intention of remaining around to hear it challenged.

  Victoria mulled over the remark while she helped herself to eggs and ham from the display Mrs. Flynn had set out. The housekeeper’s warning struck a deeper cord than her father’s threats, and yet Victoria chose to ignore the sudden stirring of misgivings. She would stick to her plan—find Declan and get properly acquainted. And what better time to start than right now? With that thought, she attacked her breakfast and devoured every morsel with unladylike haste.

  Outside, the sunshine fell like a cloak of heat over the arid landscape. There were no ranch hands about. Victoria spent a few idle few moments drifting between the outbuildings, and then she located Declan at the stables, mucking out the stalls. For a moment, she paused at the entrance. Unaware of her presence—or pretending not to notice her—he continued the steady rhythm of ducking down and straightening, the muscles on his arms and shoulders bunching and flexing as he scooped up the soiled straw with a pitchfork and tossed it into the wheelbarrow behind him.

  “Good morning,” Victoria said, and moved deeper into the dim light.

  Declan stood straight. He propped the tip of the pitchfork against the cement floor, and, lifting one arm, wiped a tattered sleeve across his brow. Strands of golden h
air clung to his damp skin. His black Stetson—the only part of his clothing that didn’t look as if it might disintegrate any moment—hung from a peg on the wall.

  He offered no reply to her greeting. He merely stared at her with narrowed eyes, caution stamped on his battered features. Victoria drifted closer. Her hips swayed with the lazy steps of an aimless stroll that suggested she had stumbled upon him purely by chance.

  “How are you settling in?” she asked.

  At first, she didn’t think he would answer. Then he lifted the pitchfork again and started swinging it, but his pace was slower, and there was a new tension to his movements.

  “Met the men,” he said finally.

  “How’s your room?”

  He slanted a rueful glance at her. “Adequate.”

  Adequate. An educated word.

  “Mrs. Flynn said you didn’t eat much last night.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  Declan finished with the stall that belonged to Flint, her father’s black stallion, and moved on to the next. Victoria scuttled forward to keep him fully in her sights. The horses were all out grazing, except a mare and a newborn foal in the far stall. Flies buzzed in the air. The heat made her dizzy. She could feel beads of sweat gathering on her brow.

  “I’m sorry about my father last night,” she ventured.

  “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  “I mean, those things he said…”

  Declan shrugged and tossed another load of dirty straw into the wheelbarrow.

  “He’ll get over his hostility,” Victoria muttered. “Eventually…”

  Declan shot her a glance, half sour, half amused. The hell he will, and you know it, the single mocking blue eye seemed to say.

  “I mean…you’re my husband…surely, it would be fitting for us to get to know each other a bit…a year is a long time to be tied to a stranger without at least making friends…” Victoria let her fumbling words trail away.

  It wasn’t going as she had expected. In Boston, if she spoke to a gentleman in a ball or in a concert, or if she boldly let a stranger approach her in a store or in the public library on Boylston Street, those men would fall over themselves to engage her in conversation. She might not experienced in the art of flirting, but she knew when a man’s demeanor told her that they wanted her to go away, and that was what Declan’s rigid posture was telling her right now.

  She stood in helpless silence while he continued to work. At the end of the corridor, the foal whinnied. The mare blew soothing sounds from its nostrils, and then Victoria could hear the eager, slurping noises of suckling as the foal found its mother’s teat.

  All of a sudden, loneliness closed in around her. Victoria rarely felt sorry for herself, but now Declan’s taciturn refusal to interrupt his work and keep her company acted like a wrench that lifted the lid from the pain of having grown up without a mother.

  Oh, Declan Beaulieu, speak to me, she thought. Look at me.

  She admitted now that ever since they sat on their horses beneath the hanging oak and took their wedding wows, the girlish dreams she’d made up about the fair haired outlaw had grown into something more, something ill defined, and yet real and powerful.

  “I…I assumed,” she muttered. “Since we’re married…”

  Her voice died away. What had she assumed? She hadn’t really thought it through at all. She had merely acted upon instinct. And instinct drew her to Declan Beaulieu.

  Her eyes followed him as he finished with Buttercup’s stall and came out again. Instead of moving on to the next stall along the row, he halted in front of her. He seemed to tower over her. Victoria’s mouth went dry. Her pulse quickened.

  “It’s no good, Victoria,” he said. “Your father hates me, and for a reason. I’m a rustler. There is no greater enemy to a rancher than a man who steals his cattle. It’s best if you keep out of my way, and I’ll keep out of yours.” He pulled off one stained leather glove and reached out, as if to touch her face, or perhaps her hair, but then he seemed to think better of it and withdrew his hand.

  He pulled the glove back on. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but his words were clear and firm. “I owe my life to you, and that means I need to put your honor above any dark desires that might swirl around my mind when I look at you. I have little to be proud of, and I want to be proud of treating you with the respect you deserve. Don’t make it harder for me. It is hard enough as it is.”

  He turned away and resumed his chores.

  Victoria felt her body shiver with a sudden chill. If there ever had been a rejection clad in the bright mantle of honor, she’d just heard it. There was nothing she could think to do or say that would not appear foolish or desperate.

  And Declan was right.

  If she didn’t watch out, her reputation might be stained beyond repair, leaving her with no choice but to remain married to him. She would incur her father’s wrath and—if Declan chose to ride out at the end of the year anyway—it would doom her to the lonely fate of a woman who bore a man’s name but possessed nothing else of him.

  She turned around and went back into the house. It was no use chasing a dream, a vague, ill defined dream that she could not fully understand even herself. And yet, she knew that as the year went by—no, as the hours and days went by—it would never be possible for her to keep out of Declan’s way, and for him to keep out of hers.

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Three

  “Hey, Beaulieu! Ayuadame. Help me.”

  Declan heard the plea and hurried across the stable yard. Flaco, one of the Mexican vaqueros was trying to lift a timber beam onto the flat roof of the cookhouse. Small and slight, aged anywhere between thirty and forty, Flaco had difficulty coping with tasks that required physical strength.

  He had wedged one end of the beam against the edge of the roof and was staggering beneath the weight of the other end that he’d propped over his shoulder. Declan crouched behind him, settled his shoulder beneath the beam and straightened his legs.

  “I’ve got it.”

  Flaco slipped away. “Gracias.” He gave Declan a broad smile. He had a pinched, rat-like face with teeth as crooked as a collapsed picket fence, but he was good natured and friendly. The others were reluctant to insult his masculinity by limiting him to easy tasks, but it appeared to Declan that such concerns were misplaced, for Flaco disliked any type of work and he seemed quite at ease with being called with a name that meant ‘skinny’.

  “Where do you want it?” Declan asked.

  Flaco pointed at a gap in the flat roof. “There.”

  Declan crouched once more, jerked his body upright and levered the timber beam up with his raised arms. A string of curses hissed out through his gritted teeth.

  “Es dificil, si? Difficult.”

  Declan gave another grunt. “It’s all right.”

  Mrs. Flynn had caught him shirtless and had seen the damage on his body, but he didn’t want anyone else’s pity. He kept up the stream of curses as he strained his muscles to slide the beam up on the cookhouse roof.

  Cookhouse was really a misnomer. Although the roof was solid, the walls around the outdoor kitchen and eating area were made of heavy timber posts with wide gaps between them. The overall effect was one of a huge cage with an opening for a doorway at each end.

  “Oy, oy, oy. Tu mujer. Wife. Miss Ria,” Flaco said with a lusty roll of his eyes.

  Declan gave the beam one final shunt to roll it into place where a rotten one had already been removed. He turned to look. Victoria was striding up. She was wearing a pair of brown canvas overalls that stretched tight over her rounded bottom. Because the garment was a fraction too small, instead of covering her breasts, the flap at the front acted like a shelf that pushed them up. Her hair was gathered into an elaborate upsweep. Combined with her rough outfit, it created a contrast that would have made any man’s mouth water.

  She nodded a quick greeting and went into the cookhouse. Declan watched. She spoke a few word
s to Cookie, and then she turned around and came out again. Flaco moved closer to the entrance for a better look. Declan grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back.

  “You said it, amigo,” he bent to whisper in the small man’s ear. “My wife.”

  Rio’s black eyes glittered and his sharp features crumpled with laughter.

  Three days ago, when Declan rode with Victoria and her father to the ranch, Andrew Sinclair had taken him straight to the cookhouse and introduced him to the men who had already gathered for lunch. Sinclair had bluntly spelled out the reason for his daughter’s sudden marriage, and had made it clear that the marriage would remain in name only.

  Declan had confirmed every word, but the men had taken to teasing him, goading signs of possessiveness and jealousy out of him. It wouldn’t have been too bad, if Victoria had not been constantly dashing in and out of the yard, dressed in those tight overalls.

  When she was safely out of sight again, Declan left Flaco to finish the repairs on the cookhouse roof and went to the corrals on the other side of the yard to see how the teenage black cowboy, Johnston, was getting on with the horses.

  “Howdy, Mr. Beaulieu.”

  Johnston was tall and lanky, with a curious looseness to his joints. Despite the jerky way he moved, he did not appear clumsy. Watching him made Declan think of a cat’s tail—how it swished with tense little flicks when the animal was about to pounce.

  “You can call me Declan.”

  “Sure, Mr. Beaulieu.” Johnston wiped his face with the red cloth tied around his neck. He turned to Sinclair’s black stallion he’d been grooming. “I’m gonna buy me a horse juss like this one day,” he said, longing in his tone. “I puts money away from my pay.”

  Footsteps sounded behind them. Declan turned. Victoria sauntered past, carrying a rope bridle across her arm. She went to the next corral and called for her palomino. When the horse trotted up, Victoria slipped the bridle on it. Then she led Buttercup out and through the gravel yard to another corral farther away.