Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  And otherwise, damn her, she was all sass and daring. That was Angel Devlin. No doubt about it. With her words, her body, her attitude … she pushed him, challenged him. And he reacted every time. Strongly. Physically. Damn but he wanted her, he now admitted.

  Jack shifted his stance, willed his body’s reaction to settle. Wasn’t this just the hell of it, he chastised himself? Of all the women in the world, he ached for the one he couldn’t trust. Sure, he’d told her earlier that he didn’t think she’d killed his father. But what he needed was to be sure of that. In his heart and in his mind. And where was the proof? He had none. Neither did she. Only her word. Only his willingness to accept it. Even if just for now.

  So why in hell was he putting himself through this? he wondered. And then answered … because he could feel the tug of her, because he did ache to touch her, to hold her. But what if he did, only to discover later that she was guilty? In that eventuality, he’d have to shoot himself in the head. It was that simple.

  But after an interesting afternoon spent in his father’s office, searching for deeds and titles and such, and coming up empty-handed, he now suspected he could take that chance, could risk this unlikely partnership with her. Because from what he’d seen—and what he hadn’t found—he now believed she was only a small part of the mystery that surrounded the deserted Circle D ranch. On that basis, if no other, he felt he could give her the benefit of the doubt. If she wanted it. If she cared. If she wouldn’t laugh at him … and then carry out her threat to shoot him.

  A bit of humor quirked Jack’s mouth—and reminded him that, despite their handshake, she remained his adversary. She was someone who wanted everything that was his. Yeah—everything but me. The thought had Jack again mouthing a silent curse. Why did he care? Wasn’t this a bit sudden, all these feelings he was having for her? Hell, he acted as if there were already something—something good—between them. When there wasn’t anything at all between them. Except suspicion and distrust.

  So why then did he feel as if he’d known her for years? That they’d experienced so much more than they actually had? Was it because of all the strong emotions they’d put each other through in such a short time? Strong emotions that arose from difficult circumstances? Could be, Jack decided. Maybe.

  But suddenly he saw her as she’d been earlier that afternoon out at Pa’s grave. Her eyes had widened. She’d risen slowly to her feet, and wordlessly turned and walked away. Then she’d stayed away from him the rest of the day. All because he’d said he’d have a hard time keeping his hands off her. But would he? Jack frowned at that question, his eyes narrowed. Angel Devlin was a threat to him and to the Circle D. He’d do well to remember that. So, the sooner he got his answers from her, and she was away from here, the better off they’d both be.

  He could question her now, he supposed. No, he was too tired. And too hungry. So, instead, he stood there, quietly watching her every move. Like a silk shawl around a woman’s shoulders, she seemed to slip around the room, to flow over the open space. And what was she cooking? He glanced over the meal’s ingredients spread across the chopping block in the center of the room. Judging by the smells, she knew her way around a meal. In fact, it was the beckoning aromas wafting up to his bedroom that had finally drawn him down here, his stomach rumbling angrily.

  But now that he was here, he didn’t know what to say, what to do. Was she cooking for them both? Or just herself? Was he supposed to help her? Or stay out of her way? He would’ve asked her all that, except … she was Angel Devlin. She might move like silk, but she bit like a rattler. Jack knew her well enough already to know he’d get a fight for every word he uttered. He grinned. All that was true but, damn, right now she sure looked like her name, like an angel. Again, he raked her up and down with his steadily heating gaze. She was a most pleasing figure of a woman.

  In his heightened state of awareness, Jack saw her as almost calculating in her innocence and her unguarded sensuality. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull her to him. He also wanted very much to nuzzle her neck, to pepper kisses down its column, across her shoulder … Whew. Jack shifted his weight, willing away his body’s response to her. This was Angel Devlin he was lusting after. Again, that stopped him, cooled his thoughts and his body. Because she’d do exactly as she’d said she would. She’d shoot him if he touched her.

  As if to prove it, his gaze winged to her left hip, where a gunbelt with a holstered Colt rode low and ready. One of his old guns, he recognized. So she’d use his own gun against him, huh? Yep, came his instant and amused reply to himself.

  “You going to stand there all night staring at my backside? Or are you going to help get this supper on the table?” She never even turned around, just spoke over her shoulder as she pulled down the oven door and, her hand protected by a wadded-up bit of thick towel, lifted out a skillet of baked cornbread.

  Caught—and feeling guilty for it—Jack straightened up, denying the heat of embarrassment that stained his cheeks. “I’m going to help,” he declared, thinking he sounded silly just saying the words.

  “Good,” she said, hefting the hot skillet to the top of the wood-burning stove, closing the oven door, and then finally turning to him. She now eyed him in that unnerving manner of hers as she pulled the towel off her hand and flung it to the drop-leaf table in front of her. Her hair was pulled back and an apron protected her white blouse and the front of her brown skirt. She’d changed out of his muddy denims from this afternoon. Actually, she looked wifely. Except for the Colt she’d strapped on … much to Jack’s continued amusement.

  She must have picked up on his assessment of her appearance because she glared at him, snapping, “If you don’t help, you don’t eat. At least, not what I cook.”

  “Fair enough. What do you want me to do?”

  She eyed him a moment longer and then looked around, reminding Jack of a field general surveying his troops, before finally telling him, “Set the table.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” With a slow grin, Jack came away from the doorjamb, intent on the china cabinet and the plates stacked inside it. “Is that a new rule? You don’t help, you don’t eat?”

  “It is. And get those big bowls. We’ll need ’em. It’s a stew. A chicken stew with dumplings.”

  Once they’d sat down and had gotten past the awkwardness of their first shared meal together, once they’d eaten and were ready to push their now empty bowls away, Jack rested his elbows on the kitchen’s tabletop, tented his fingers, and broached the subject that had been bothering him all during their meal—a most delicious and satisfying one, he had to admit.

  “Earlier, Angel,” he began, garnering her sober attention when he broke the quiet that, before now, had been punctuated only by the harmonious clinking of silverware on china. “You said something I didn’t understand.”

  Warily, Angel stared back at him. Then she lowered her gaze to her plate, laying her knife beside it—just so, as if its placement were a matter of great significance. Finally, she looked up at him again. “And what was that?”

  Jack watched her closely, realizing that his question was the first test of the bargain they’d struck only today. “Earlier, you said you’d made your own way in life. Or so you thought. What’d you mean by that?”

  Angel’s chin rose with her deep intake of a breath. She looked away and exhaled. Her hands slipped away from the table’s edge, sliding down to her lap. After a moment, she turned back to him and explained. “All those years I worked at the hotel, I thought I was making my own way. But it turns out I was wrong. If we can believe your father.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched. Gone was any notion of being smitten with her looks. Instead, he gritted out, “My father never told a lie in his life.”

  Her gaze steady, she said, “I’m not so sure about that, Jack.”

  Despite her quiet use of his name, outrage stiffened Jack’s body and squeezed his heart. “Be careful what you say. A man is only as good as his word. And I won’t sit
here and listen to—”

  “He was paying my way. Did you know about that?” she asked, cutting him off.

  Into the charged silence between them Jack blurted, “What? Paying your way? What does that—how do I know you’re telling me the truth? That he actually said that?”

  She bristled, sitting up straighter and jutting her chin out. “Because I don’t lie, either. Name one I’ve told you.”

  “I can’t,” Jack admitted readily enough, adding, “But neither can I name one truth you’ve told me. One that you can prove.”

  Angel leaned forward, holding his attention with the heated force of her black eyes. “I told you where to find your father.”

  He hated like hell doing it, but Jack was forced to concede that she had. “Yes, you did.”

  “Yes, I did,” she came right back. “I didn’t lie about that. And I’m not lying about this. Your father told me himself that he paid my way. And don’t think I like the notion one bit more than you do. Because I don’t.”

  “Well, we share that, then. Because you’re right. I don’t like it.”

  Apparently his words, or something in his voice, got to her. Because she settled back in her chair and, when she spoke, it was in a softer, more thoughtful tone. “I don’t expect that you do. But I’m the one who’s beholden to him for it.” She looked down at her hands a moment before again meeting his gaze. “I was hoping you’d know why he’d put out good money on me.”

  “Well, I don’t.” Jack firmed his jaw. He hadn’t meant to snap like that. He allowed a wordless moment to pass before asking, “What does that mean, anyway? He paid your way?”

  “Just that. He paid Saul, starting when I was twelve, to let me work and sleep at the hotel, even when there was really no job. Saul paid me out of what your father paid him. That’s according to your father.”

  “Unbelievable,” was Jack’s soft response.

  “Yeah. So, either he paid out the money … and lied to you about it. Or he didn’t pay it out … and lied to me.”

  Jack heard her, knew the truth of her words, but couldn’t seem to stop himself from defending his father. “He didn’t lie to me because he never told me one way or the other. In fact, I don’t think I ever heard him even say your name. But I don’t see how he could slip that kind of money, for that many years, past me.” Mounting emotion had Jack hitting the tabletop with his fist. “I’ve done the accounting books for years. I would have noticed.”

  “Didn’t he keep cash around?”

  Jack caught and held her gaze. He saw where she was going with this. And he didn’t like it. Because it was totally logical. “Yeah, he kept cash around and”—now he began to understand—“he made regular trips to Red River Station.…” He thought about it and stared at Angel, who looked as sorry as he was surprised. “Well, I’ll be a son of a gun.”

  “Then, it’s true,” she said. “At the least … he had his secrets. And I’m one of them.”

  A sudden thought all but twisted Jack’s gut. “Angel, are you telling me you’re his … daughter?”

  A strangled chuckle erupted from her. “No. I knew my father. He was a farmer and died at Red River Station when I was five. My mother didn’t—well, she never … took up with men until after that.” Then, after a long pause, she added, “I’m not your sister, Jack.”

  Relief … layers of it … coursed through Jack, warming him and dampening his skin. Relief because of his strong attraction to her, mainly. But relief also because of the life she’d led and the guilt he would’ve felt for her being unclaimed by his father. And even further relief—he wasn’t proud of it, but there it was—because if she’d been blood kin, that meant he’d have to share the Circle D with her. He wasn’t prepared to do that.

  Jack looked at her. “This is too much, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, crossing her arms under her bosom and making her words sound like a dare. “Yep. A real can of worms.”

  Jack considered her, knowing she wouldn’t give an inch, no matter how ugly it got between them. Anger and resentment exploded through him, his muscles bunched, begging for physical release, and he wanted to jump up and pace the room. But he was as good as glued to his chair by the emotional force of her revelation. His father had paid for her upkeep most of her life. Why would he do that? Jack decided to put that very question to her. “Why in the hell would he do that, Angel? And I mean pay your way.”

  She shrugged, looking awfully calm and collected. He hated that about her. Because around her, he was neither of those things.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I asked him the same thing. And he just said because he owed me.”

  “He owed you?” Bracing his palms against the table’s edge, Jack leaned in toward her. “What’d he owe you? And why?”

  Angel made a wide “who knows” gesture with her hands. “I asked him that, too.”

  “Well, what did he say, Angel?” Jack heard his abrupt, even belligerent, tone but couldn’t help it. This was crazy, what she was saying.

  “Well, Jack,” Angel mimicked, “as I recall, he said the answers were all here.”

  “Here?” Now Jack sat back—with enough force that he nearly sent his chair over backward. He grabbed for the table’s edge to steady himself. “Here? At the Circle D?”

  Now it was Angel’s turn to lean forward and place an elbow on the table. Despite his surprise, a detached part of Jack’s mind insisted on pointing out to him just how wrenchingly sensual she was, even in the kerosene lamp’s smoky light. Struck speechless, as much by her physical nearness as by her words, he could only watch as she rested her chin against her fisted hand and nodded.

  “Yeah. Right here at the Circle D,” Angel said.

  Jack shook his head, feeling a need to clear it. He gestured at her with raised index fingers, holding them as if they were twin revolvers. “Wait. Does that explain your being here? A search for answers?”

  She considered his questions. “Yes, it does. That, and he said he wanted me to own everything here. The cattle, the ranch house, the land, the money. Everything,” she answered.

  Jack jumped up, sending his chair tumbling over. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Angel came to her feet. “I’m talking about the truth.” Her voice sounded as controlled as her movements.

  Jack could only stare at her. Assaulted by questions—why had his father interfered in her lynching? Why had he paid her wages? Why had he said he owed her?—Jack wrenched away from her, kicking his overturned chair out of his way and rubbing at his throbbing temples as he muttered, “Jesus, what’s going on here?”

  From behind him came Angel’s response. “I wish I knew. But Mr. Dal—your father—died before he could, or would, tell me anything. He said … he said there were some papers here … for me.”

  Lowering his hands to his sides, Jack turned to her, noting her hesitations and her air of plunging forward with this bit of information. “Papers?”

  “Legal papers. For me to sign.”

  “Legal papers for you to sign,” Jack heard himself repeating as his mind raced. “So … you could make everything yours?”

  “No. So he could.”

  Anger invaded Jack’s soul, made him speak in a low, threatening tone of voice. “And did you sign them, Angel?”

  She shook her head no, but didn’t say anything. Jack thought that wise of her. “I see. You haven’t signed them. But do you know where they are? Do you have them, I mean? Because I spent all afternoon in the office and upstairs in my father’s room—”

  “I know. I heard you,” she interrupted.

  But Jack went on, as if she hadn’t. “—searching through his belongings and not finding one single scrap of paper. Not a ledger book, a will, a document, or even a deed of any sort. Even the safe is empty. Would you know anything about that?”

  She swallowed, looked hesitant. A cold, sick feeling invaded Jack’s gut. Was she trying to get her story straight before she answered? Finally, she shook
her head and told him, “No. I searched … looking only for the papers to do with me. But everything, like you saw for yourself, was already gone when I got here over a week ago. The safe was open and cleaned out, too. I never had the combination.”

  Jack stared at her. Could he believe her? Should he? was a better question. After all, if Pa’d paid her way all these years and felt he owed her something—hell, everything, according to her—then he surely could have given her the safe’s combination. Jack had to wonder if, in his four-month absence, his father had maybe lost his mind, like some old folks do. Her tale certainly made it sound like he had.

  Either that, or the old man had deeper secrets than those concerning Angel Devlin. But if she was telling the truth, then who had already stolen every significant piece of paper on the place—as well as all the money? Who had, essentially, wiped him out … and left him with only Angel Devlin?

  Another possibility presented itself to Jack. Maybe she had a partner. Maybe her job was to use her lies and her femininity to distract him and keep him from searching too quickly for the truth. And while she did, her partner got far away with the deed and the money. After all, they were talking about a lot of money here.

  Things like this happened all the time, Jack knew. Some lonely rancher got taken in by a huckster female and ended up penniless. Or dead. Jack raked his angry gaze up and down her … and decided there was only one way to find out the truth about her.

  Seven

  Angel didn’t much like the look on Jack Daltry’s face because it had her name written all over it. For about the hundredth time today, she told herself she was sorry she’d cleaned him up. An image of his naked, muscular body, and her pulse-pounding reaction to the sight, leaped unbidden into her consciousness. She instantly squelched it, telling herself he’d been nothing but a pain in the ass since he’d been sober.