Angel looked over at him. His expression was no longer clouded with sadness. Relieved, although not understanding his question, she asked, “Feel what?”
“That there’s more than one thing going on here. There’s you. And my father going to get you. There’re the things that went on here. All the ransacking and the missing money and papers. And the men and the cattle. I hope like hell they’re just on the trail to Abilene. But my father being killed … all that. I have to wonder if any of those things—or all of them—are connected somehow.”
Angel hadn’t thought of the situation in those terms. But now she nodded thoughtfully and said, “You could be right. About a connection. Like maybe things were already set to happen, things your father didn’t even know about until he started back here with me. That makes some sense.”
“I agree. I just wonder what that connection is.”
Angel watched him rub at his jaw, watched him avoid the angry cut on his chin. When she began to warm up to him too much for her own liking, she blurted, “We probably won’t find it sitting here.”
He cut his gaze over to her, his expression sobering into sincerity. “No, we won’t. But whatever it is we’re going to find out, Angel … it’s going to mean something to both of us, I just know it. What I’m trying to say is we’re in this together. Me and you. You can’t leave.”
Angel huffed out her breath. “I expect you’re right,” she said barely above a whisper, as she stared into those blue Daltry eyes of his. What he said was true. She felt it, knew it. They were as tightly bound to each other as wet was to water. She’d been just plain silly earlier to think she could ride away.
“So you’ll be staying on? At least until we sort all this out?”
She raised her head a fraction. “I’ll be staying.” She meant for good, since Wallace Daltry had left the place to her. But she didn’t see any reason to go into all that now, especially considering the look of relief on Jack’s face. But still, this new partnership between them, no matter his need to keep her here, didn’t excuse what he’d done earlier. She couldn’t forgive that. So she added, “Now I have something I want to say.”
“All right. Go ahead. Say it. Anything.”
Watching his hands, fearing he’d take hold of hers again—and thereby turn her insides to butter—Angel tucked them up under the blanket. “Up until now,” she began, speaking with deliberation so that she would be sure to get her words right, “I’ve only made threats about what I’d do to you if you laid a hand on me—”
“Say no more,” he interrupted. “I won’t, Angel. I swear it. Jesus, I’m sorry. I’ve already told you I won’t ever do it again. And I mean it. At the time, I felt it was the only way—well, no. That’s no excuse, either.” He looked into her eyes, holding her gaze, speaking softly now. “I’m sorry.”
Angel swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and watched him lean forward to plant his elbows on his knees. He lowered his head, as if the fate of the world rested on his shoulders, and then covered his face with his hands. Angel didn’t know what to do, what to say. She only just barely stopped herself from reaching out to give a comforting pat to his shoulder.
And that—seeing her own hand stretched out to him—was when she knew she’d forgiven him. A first for her … with anyone. She usually held on to a grudge. Before now, hoarding hurts had been one of the things that kept her strong. So was she getting weak now? Weak or not, she decided he needed to know how she felt. Without asking herself why she cared if he felt better or not, Angel broke the silence with her simple words. “I believe you.”
Jack’s head came up. Wide blue eyes, full of guilt and hope, stared at her.
Uncomfortable in her role as forgiver, uncertain if he even understood what she’d meant, she tried again. “When you say you’re sorry … I believe you.” His expression didn’t change. Angel quirked her mouth and arched an eyebrow. “That’ll have to take, because I’m not about to say it again, cowboy.”
A tentative grin curved his wide mouth. “Cowboy, huh?” Then he chuckled. “Now I know you mean it.”
Then he stood up, acting as if none of this had happened, and offered her his hand. “Come on. It’s still early. We’ll go exchange that blanket for some better-fitting clothes and then see if we can scare up something decent to eat. After that, we’ll decide what our first move should be, what we can do with the rest of the day.”
Angel looked into his eyes, relieved to see, from his open expression, that he most likely didn’t mean … that, when he spoke of what they’d do with the rest of the day. Only then did she tug the blanket around her legs, holding it secure at her waist with one hand, and raise her free hand to meet his.
When she did, as their hands met again, as his fingers closed around hers, she looked into his eyes. He smiled sincerely, one that seemed to come from his heart. A sudden warmth spread through Angel. She felt her mouth begin to curve with a smile that wanted to answer his … for being heartfelt.
* * *
The late afternoon air, swept clean by the earlier thunderstorm, smelled cool and fresh, like wet laundry hanging on a clothesline. Angel breathed in deeply of its rich, earthy scent. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be outside, to feel the wind against her face, to smell the prairie. She supposed some would say the prairie had no scent to it. But Angel knew better. It was like … dried wood, like warm sand, but with a faint touch of flowery perfume to it.
What am I doing? Remarking on nature was something she’d never done until now. Before, each day had merely meant more long, hard hours of work at the hotel. So what could be different about this particular day that made her feel glad to be alive?
Perplexed, Angel tried to get to the bottom of her emotions, tried to capture the real question she wanted to ask herself. What, she finally came up with, did she have now, that gave her this feeling of being glad to be alive, that she hadn’t possessed before? There. That was what she wanted to know.
Suddenly, as if the answer lurked, waiting only for her to seize on it, it popped into her consciousness. It was this. Riding her own horse across the open prairie meadows. And what it represented. This was what was meant by belonging to the land. By owning a piece of it. By having something to call your own. She loved it. Loved the Circle D. Like she’d never loved anything before.
Thinking of the Circle D in such terms brought her riding companion into clear focus for her. Angel stole a glance to her left, her breath eclipsed by just the male and muscled sight of Jack Daltry. He paid her no mind, instead casting his sharp-eyed gaze this way and that, maybe looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might point them in the direction of the answers they sought. While the prairie held his attention, Angel found hers caught by the thoughtful expression on his face, by the air of quiet that enveloped him. By the way he sat his big brown horse, fitting his body’s movements to the animal’s natural gait.
Unexpectedly, Jack glanced over at her, caught her staring. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. Because a trace of a smile tugged at his lips and crinkled the skin at the outer edges of his blue eyes. Under that black Stetson of his, he nodded to her, acknowledging her. Angel shifted desperately, distractedly in her saddle, as if something besides her conscience pinched her. But giving no sign that he noticed her discomfiture, Jack looked away again, off to his left.
Relieved beyond measure, Angel jerked her own gaze away from the man, sighting instead on a nearby scraggly stand of blackjack oaks that heralded a creek’s watery course. Suddenly she wished Jack would talk. Why was he so danged quiet? came her question raised by irritation with him for affecting her so. Usually the man had plenty to say. But the one time she needed the distraction of his words, even if they did always come in the form of hard questions, he kept his own counsel.
Well, Angel consoled herself, maybe she didn’t much feel like talking, either. Because she’d already talked to him more in the past few days, she believed, than she had to everyone else sh
e’d ever known, all combined. Besides that, her jaw hurt like hell and talking only made it worse. As if to punctuate her thought, her jaw throbbed, seemed to pulse.
She winced, welcoming the cool sanity of the pain. But she was still losing her battle to keep from thinking about what had happened this afternoon. It was after the soup in the office. Again she saw herself standing in the doorway to Jack Daltry’s bedroom and watching him sort through his clothes. Finally he’d come up with another pair of his outrageously big denims for her to wear.
Again, she saw him tossing her the pants in an offhand manner. Again she felt them hitting her in the chest. She’d had to catch them at the expense of loosing the blanket that covered her lower half. She’d fumbled to retrieve it but had lost. So there she’d stood, her feet and legs bared to his eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the hot look of wanting that Jack had sent her way as his gaze traveled the length of her and held her in its thrall. Angel remembered her breath catching, remembered expecting her usual response to such a look from a man.
But it hadn’t come. She hadn’t turned away, hadn’t stiffened in rejection. No, far from it. She’d stiffened, yes. But with a burst of desire. With a need to feel his hands, his mouth, on her. And now she was finding it hard to forgive herself for that. And hard to forgive him for awakening that need in her. She didn’t want to need anybody.
What she did want was to get through this life on her own. Angel waited, expecting a sense of well-being to flood her, to confirm that she was right to hold herself aloof, just as she always had. But it didn’t happen. Only a pervasive sense of loneliness greeted her. And frightened her.
With a catch in her breathing, Angel blinked, drawing herself back to the present moment, to her surroundings. To Jack. But again her defiant thoughts won out. Again she heard his earlier words that had made them both laugh, that had lightened the tension between them. He’d said something smart about the denims being so big on her, she could probably belt them around her neck and they’d still drag the ground. Angel now looked down at herself all but swimming in his folded-up, tucked-over trousers and admitted he hadn’t been too far off the mark.
And given all those feelings, and the laughter, and how she was warming up to him—and not particularly relishing the thought of being alone with him in the house all afternoon, considering the way they kept staring at each other—she’d readily agreed to take this ride over the Circle D to see if they could find any clues. Or answers. Anything was better than her own confusing thoughts.
Thoughts that centered on the man riding next to her. All her life she’d said she didn’t want anything to do with a man. And now, here was Jack Daltry catching her eye—the one man with the power, the blood right, to send her away, to deny her everything she’d ever wanted. Such as this grassy land they now rode over. And the ranch house, a place to call home, a place where she could belong. Two things she’d never had. A decent place where she could make her own way and live out her life however she saw fit. Lots of folks had all that. Why couldn’t she?
As if to answer that question for herself, as if she needed to prove to some unseen someone that it wasn’t so much to ask, she pictured herself happy and doing just that … running the house, doing the chores, buying provisions, overseeing ranch hands who tended to fat cattle, doing the books—something she’d learned a little bit about from Saul at the hotel—and riding out to inspect her own land. Like she was doing now.
You think Jack Daltry’s going to stand for all that nonsense you’ve built up in your head, Angel? she asked herself. What about him? What about the Circle D’s rightful owner, Jack Daltry? Where does he fit in to your plans, Angel? What’s he doing while you’re living out your dream life?
Poof. That put an end to her little daydream. And left her wide-eyed and wondering.
Ten
Wondering about Jack Daltry. And his final intentions once they got through this mess. Angel finally admitted she didn’t know where he’d be. Or what he’d be doing in this picture she had in her head. All she knew was the Circle D was not his. It was hers. If he could accept that … then maybe he could stay on. But out in the bunkhouse. After all, she could use his knowledge of the place and the cattle business.
Her nose wrinkled with her immediate rejection of that notion. He’d not stand for living in the bunkhouse while she lived in the house where he’d been born. Well, what was she supposed to do with him, if he wouldn’t just go away? Which she didn’t see him doing. And she sure as hell didn’t see herself marrying him to keep the ranch.
She wasn’t about to marry anybody. Ever. Because she knew what he could then expect of her … in the bedroom. She looked over at Jack Daltry. A hot thrill raced through her, pooling at the juncture between her legs. Dammit. All right, she argued with herself, I don’t have to marry him. But could it be that she wanted him … in that way a man and a woman wanted each other? Ashamed, embarrassed, Angel ducked her head, hating herself for even thinking it. How could she want that? She’d seen what such goings-on with men had done to her mother. It had killed her.
But then, almost as if she couldn’t help herself, Angel again sent a shy glance his way. Under his stiff-brimmed hat, his black eyebrows arched above those thick-lashed Daltry blue eyes of his. His profile revealed the almost straight line of his nose, his high cheekbones, the shell of his ear, and that stubborn jaw. His mouth was set in a straight line as he peered into the distance. It was then that Angel realized a few other things about the man.
She knew his touch. The way his hands felt on her skin. The memory gave her goosebumps. She knew his kiss. The way his mouth fit over hers, what his tongue was like. Angel licked at her lips, caught herself doing so, and sat up straight. Heck, she fumed, frowning and forcing herself to be practical. So what if I liked his kiss?
Not getting any argument from herself on that score, she then felt free to allow herself, for the first time, to dwell on how she knew firsthand what the rest of him looked like. Well, how could she not? she defended herself. How else could she have cleaned up the man, if she hadn’t first gotten him out of his clothes? Well, she couldn’t have, came her answer. And her absolution.
Given free rein, her mind insisted on replaying for her … slowly … just how he’d looked. Tight skinned. Perfectly formed. Long limbed. Impressively muscled. That dark hair on his chest that centered to a vee as it traveled downward below his waist to where his—Angel’s breath caught. She took herself to task for such thoughts of Jack Daltry by recalling, The man had been hairy and dirty and smelly. And drunk. What’s so wonderful about that?
Now she felt better. Or did, until she started considering his character. He seemed fair and honest. And tough. Like his father. His smile was okay. He didn’t mind laughing, either, it seemed. But Jack Daltry had a temper, too. So do you, a nagging part of her mind accused. Angel quirked her mouth, ignoring her conscience, outrightly refusing to admit that she might want not only the Circle D and all it stood for. That she might also want the Daltry that came with it.
Angel’s hand fisted around her roan’s reins. No, she did not want him, she tried to convince herself. He wasn’t a piece of property she could own, anyway. Wondering how he’d take to being considered property, much like women were, got an amused snort from Angel—and brought Jack’s attention to her.
“You all right?”
“I’m fine,” she blurted, her cheeks heating up. He continued to stare silently and solemnly at her. This time, with more deliberation, she repeated, “I said I’m fine.”
Even though his hat shadowed his features, Angel could see his eyebrows arch. “Pardon me. As long as you’re fine.”
Angel felt ungrateful. For what, she didn’t know. But still, she found herself saying—none too pleasantly, so she could live with herself—“I suppose I ought to thank you for seeing to my horse earlier today.”
He chuckled, no doubt because her irritated tone didn’t match her words. But then he quickly said, “No thanks nece
ssary. He was left out in the rain because of my bad behavior.”
Angel stared at him, wondering what he meant, but then realized the bad behavior he referred to was his popping her in the jaw. “Oh. I see what you mean.”
That killed the conversation for a few plodding paces before Jack spoke up again. “I ought to be thanking you, instead. I just recalled that I left Buffalo tied up at the hitching rail my first day home. Since I didn’t find him still there when I sobered up, I suppose you saw to him?”
Angel shrugged. “Who else? He wasn’t near as much trouble as you turned out to be.”
A hearty laugh burst out of Jack, catching Angel off guard, startling her. But an answering grin fought its way to her lips. She bit down on her bottom one, willing away the humor, but failing. Because she liked being able to make him laugh. And he always did. Even when her barbed words were at his own expense. This trait of his made her wish she could be more like him, instead of always being so quick to find offense, so quick to use words to hurt.
She knew why she was that way. The life she’d led before she came here. Words had been one of her only weapons to keep folks from getting close enough to hurt her. Sure, she’d done what she had to do. But still, she wished she could be different. Maybe now, maybe in this new life she had here at the Circle D, she could learn to let her guard down, could learn to laugh. Like he was doing now.
Just then, Jack levered himself up, his palm pushing against the pommel. About midway in his stretching, as the saddle leather groaned under him, he said, his eyes still brimming with hilarity, “Angel Daltry, you’re a hard woman. But still, I’m beholden to you, ma’am.” He then tipped his Stetson to her.
Fighting a bigger grin, fighting her warming up to him that she couldn’t seem to stop, Angel retreated some, sobering her expression. “I guess you had just cause for your drunken actions that first day. I did shoot at you. And it’s not every day you learn”—too late she realized where her words were headed, but could do nothing at this point except continue—“your father’s been … well, you know.”
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