A Western Romance: Matthew Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 2) (Taking the High Road series)

by Morris Fenris

  With a hiss of outrage, she jerked free.

  Her anticipated reaction neither angered nor disappointed him. Instead, pleased, his grin widened. “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “I do look forward to this.”

  “You will look forward to your own death!” she flashed.

  “Har-har-har. Someday, for sure, in bed, with a bottle of booze and a naked woman on either side of me. Raquel, kindly take the lady to her room so she can consider her—options.”

  The Mexican girl raised her head. Acute dislike shone from her black eyes as she said sullenly, “This way, Miss. Follow me.”

  The manservant, the cook, and two other retainers were allowed no chance to express their opinions, yea or nay, about this new situation. Not verbally, anyway. Certainly their expressions registered shock, dismay, doubt. Especially Horace, for whom his despicable employer could clearly sink no lower in terms of degradation and misery.

  They were left to be summarily dismissed, while Star trailed along in the wake of her alleged maid.

  Out of the magnificently appointed foyer, down a wide hallway laden with oil paintings, past heavy paneled doors here and there, closed against entrance. Star gave herself a mental shake. Pay attention to what’s going on, in case a chance comes along to escape!

  “In here,” the maid pointed out ungraciously. “This is your room.”

  Cautiously Star slipped inside, glancing around the perimeter like a big cat sniffing for danger. The tone of its spaciousness, luxury, and beauty hardly registered when she was seeking out placement of windows, and their ease of opening.

  “Thank you, Raquel. It is Raquel, isn’t it?” At the dour nod, Star reached out with a friendly hand. “I get the sense you don’t want me here.”

  “Why should I? He’s mine, this Mr. Bower. He belongs to me. He should not have brought you here, and you should not have come.”

  A spasm of pity for this girl with her bruised face and unhappy eyes wrenched across Star’s middle. “I wish I’d had a choice in the matter,” she explained gently. “But I didn’t. Believe me Raquel; I was forced into this situation. I truly do not want to be in this place.”

  “I don’ believe you. There. The clothes he has chosen for you to wear. After you have bathed, I am to help you dress and do your hair.”

  Star cast a disparaging eye over the elaborate gown, spread out in rosewood, silver, and gold splendor across the bed. Everything else complete, from the high-heeled brocade shoes and sheer stockings even down to petticoats and a lacy embroidered camisole. She could easily guess at the reason for that.

  “What does he think I am,” she scoffed, “some sort of Spanish princess? I won’t wear such a getup.”

  The black eyes snapped, sending furious daggers her way. “You will wear what he gives you, Miss High and Mighty, or he will punish you.”

  Turning from her contemplation of bolting from this velvet prison, Star felt again the wrench of pity. “As he did you?”

  A shrug of dismissal. “Like he tell me, if I don’ lissen, I deserve to be beat.”

  “Raquel!” Horrified, Star reached out once more, hoping to connect in some way. “No one deserves to be beaten. No one!”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I go fill your tub now. Then we get you ready. Mr. Bower will want to look you over before the cook puts out his evening meal.”

  Once she had sunk down into bubbles up to her chin, Star would admit, however namby-pamby that might make her, to thoroughly enjoying the huge tub full of water, prepared for once by hands other than her own. The rush of heat directly from a spigot, the fragrant salts and oils, the thick fluffy towel, the floor-length robe of incredible softness and warmth...such extravagance.

  And to take advantage of everything Franklin Bower wished to offer, all she need do was say, “Yes.” Agree to anything he desired. Adapt to his moods. Accept his foibles, his mistreatment, his twists and turns.

  “No!” Belting herself into the wrapper’s opulent brocade folds, Star stomped barefoot from the bathroom into the bedroom designated as hers. “No, I will not!”

  Raquel glanced up, scowling, from the fabric she had been running through her fingers. “You’re lucky. He never give me anything so nice as this.”

  “Too bad,” Star spat back. “I’m sure you’d be well worth it.” At what cost to her own self-respect must she try to win the allegiance and possible friendship of Bower’s former bedmate?

  Amazingly, the girl turned to offer a slow, calculating grin; her face, washed free of artifice and hostility, was suddenly revealed as that of a pretty, good-humored girl, caught in a web of circumstance she had neither asked for nor bargained for. “I’m sure I would be, too. You will finish getting ready now, yes?”

  With a sigh, Star sank down into a padded dark wood chair near the bed. “What does he have on you, Raquel?”

  “¿Perdóneme?”

  “Bower. What is he using for blackmail against you? I can’t really believe that you’d willingly stay in that evil man’s clutches.”

  “I like him, Miss. I like Mr. Bower, and he—”

  “Balderdash.”

  A shadow crossed over the girl’s expression. “All right, then. I like what he can do for me. I like living in this house.”

  “And?”

  The shadow darkened, almost into despair; only a slight whisper remained of the deep-throated voice. “He keeps my brother hostage.”

  “Hostage?” Star leaned forward, puzzled and curious. “How so?”

  Raquel, eyes wide, visually searched the room for eavesdroppers before daring to reply, in an even softer, more confidential tone: “The silver mine, Señorita. The one Mr. Bower owns, down by the border. His men have taken slaves to work there, and one is my only brother, Benito.”

  “And Bower has threatened—”

  “To kill him, he says, if I do not do as he say. Oh, Miss!” Tears suddenly glimmered along the girl’s thick black lashes. “Please, he must not know I told you this. So many lives at stake—all those men working, under the mountain, in such terrible conditions. If I do not obey him, Mr. Bower, he will kill Benito, and everyone else!”

  “And you’ve seen this?” Star demanded, shocked. “You know this to be true?”

  “Yes, of course. A letter—I have a letter from my brother, telling me.”

  Star’s thoughts raced to the almost equally untenable position in which her mother had been placed. There, too, a loved one’s future depended solely upon another’s acquiescence. Franklin Bower was a monster, trading on terror. How could he have slipped through some crack in the law for so long, without being called to account for his wrongdoings?

  “There has to be something we can do,” she muttered, staring off into space for several silent minutes, until, eventually, Raquel joggled her arm for attention.

  “Miss, please, we have to get you dressed. And do your hair. Mr. Bower, he will be coming in soon from the ranchero, wanting his supper. Wanting you at his table. You must be ready for him, or else he might...”

  Her expression grim, Star patted the girl’s hand for reassurance. “All right. We’ll be ready for him, don’t worry. Tell me, once this meal is over, is there any way you can sneak me out of the house, help me grab a horse and run?”

  Raquel backed away, mouth forming an O of opposition. “You would be a horse thief!” she hissed. “And I, too. They would hang us!”

  “Only if we were caught. I need to get away, contact the authorities. We need a rescue plan, Raquel. Will you help me?”

  Again that furtive scan of the room, as if the very walls were listening.

  Thump! Thump!

  “All right, gals, what’s goin’ on in there?” demanded a dreaded voice from the hallway. “I’m mighty hungry and ready t’ eat. Goin’ now to clean up. You gettin’ dressed, Star? You helpin’ her, you little Mexican hussy?”

  Shivering, the maid closed her eyes and drew in a breath. “Yes, Mr. Bower, we be ready soon. I help the lady.” Opening her eyes once more, her gaze
met that of Star’s, as she pledged, “I will help you, Miss Mendoza.”

  The evening meal dragged on interminably. Even in this charming hacienda, with its thick walls built of adobe and its many slanted windows, the air felt hot and stifling. Due partly to the multitude of beeswax candles lit against twilight and full dark, due also to the very heavy food that Bower seemed to prefer. How much better, in this climate, to partake of light salads and native fruits and vegetables. No, he must choose a huge beef roast to be charred over open flame and served still bloody and half-raw, and boiled potatoes with sourdough bread.

  Star, seated at the foot of the expansive dining room table, opposite her host at its head, nibbled at what she could and gave up on the rest. Longing, meanwhile, for some nice fresh greens, or a cool tapioca pudding.

  “How you doin’ down there?” Bower wanted to know. He was sawing away at the gory mess on his plate. Occasionally this resulted in the stab of a fork, or the slosh of a spoon through some sort of broth.

  “Fine.”

  Bower planted one elbow on the table and gestured with his knife. “Dress looks good on you, Star. Fits like a glove. Leaves bare all I wanted t’ see bare.”

  “Yes.”

  She couldn’t deny that the gown certainly was beautiful. Fit more for a formal banquet, possibly a castle ball, than a simple home-cooked meal, but undeniably beautiful with its range of colors and gold and silver thread. In another time, another place, she would have taken great pleasure in wearing it.

  One more pause. Into his goblet he poured a second—or third—helping of wine, deep red potent wine that, held up to the light, carried all the dark mysteries of Andalusia. “That maid do all right helpin’ you out and such, like I told her to?”

  “Fine.”

  One of the staff appeared, a boy dressed in loose white tunic and pants, to bring a covered silver dish. Removing the lid, Bower leaned forward to inhale the scent of the steam with pleasure. A whisk of his hand sent the server scurrying away. “Ah. Rocky Mountain Oysters. Only it’s our own brand here, native stuff right from the ranch. Want some?”

  Star had gone pale. “No.”

  “Suit yourself.” Bower was eating his way through several courses, polite enough to actually employ his napkin on occasion. “Wanna take a little walk around the place when we’re finished here, get t’ know each other better?”

  “No.”

  Finished for the moment, he put down knife and fork to stare at her in the flickering candlelight. The expression in his eyes, even seen from the length of the table, sent chills chasing up and down her spine. “Not much of a talker, are you, Star?” As if that was a liability. He shrugged and reached again for the wine glass. “Don’t matter. I didn’t bring you here for talkin’, anyway.”

  Her fingers tightened around each claw-foot end of the chair arms. “What, then?”

  “Oh, Star, Star.” Grinning, he chided her with one hand waving slowly back and forth. “I gave you credit for bein’ smarter than all that. You know very damned well what I have in mind. And you came along out with me from town by your own free will.”

  “Under duress,” she reminded him.

  “You mean that little thing aboutcher maw? Hell’s bells, girl, had t’ convince you somehow, didn’t I? And, Star...” The timbre of his voice lowered, slow and insinuating, “...you and me are gonna have us a good ole rip-roarin’ time tonight, ain’t we?”

  Suddenly, she pushed back the weighty chair and rose, regal as a queen in her stiffened brocade and ornamental gilt. “I’m finished, thank you,” she said coolly. Her manner and demeanor gave no hint of the turmoil roiling around inside or the quaking of her very bones under the fanciful gown. “I have a headache, and I’m going to my room.”

  “Do you now? Are you?” Frowning, he shoved upright as well, throwing down utensils with a silvery crash. “Maybe I should send the Mexican girl along, have her give you some powders or whatnot.”

  She inclined her head. Raquel’s earlier handiwork with brush and comb had twirled her hair into an intricate knot, fastened in place by several dozen pins apparently driven straight into her skull. Costume and coiffure presented the picture of a beautiful Spanish lady, and that taken straight from any painting by one of the old masters.

  “If that is your preference.”

  “If that is my preference. Hell, no, it’s not my preference!” Kicking the chair aside, he launched himself toward her before she quite realized his intention, and seized one arm in a grip that would leave bruises. “My preference is that we head along to my bedroom, Star Mendoza,” he rumbled. “You got me all lathered up, and I’m ready t’ take care of business right about now.”

  “Mine.” Star straightened, pulling herself together, gathering herself into order, ready to strike as a snake strikes—at the first opportune moment.

  “What?”

  “Mine. My bedroom, not yours.” At least she was familiar with her own room’s layout. Who knew what sort of barriers he had erected in his?

  “Oh. Well, then...” A slow, lecherous smile, looking her up and down.

  Bower paused, there in the dim-lit hallway, with one hand still holding her fast. The other was left free to roam, from her cheekbone still flushed by shame, to her throat, to the full breast where her heartbeat fluttered wildly, to her waist and back again. Driving her back hard against the wall, he thrust his own big quickening body up tight to hers.

  A low guttural sound escaped him, brought all the way up from his midsection to explode in a great puff of breath: “Star!” as his fingers joined force to pull at her bodice and push down inside. “Star!”

  “No. No, Mr. Bower,” she managed to gasp.

  “No?” He reared back like a rutting stallion, furious. “You dare—tell me—no—?”

  “Not here. Please—not here...”

  He halted long enough to glance from one side to the other. No employee would have the nerve to interrupt him in whatever he might be doing. But spying, eavesdropping? Entirely possible. She was right. Privacy was essential.

  “C’mon.” He seized hold of Star’s upper arm, dragging her behind him. Her high-heeled shoes clattered on the wooden floor; and, contorted by the rigid control of a whalebone corset, her breath came and went in ragged spurts.

  Reaching her room, Bower slammed open the door and flung her across to the bed, which she fell upon to lie, prostrate and panting, in disheveled, glorious splendor. Another halt, this time so he could survey and appreciate all the beauty that lolled helplessly there, his for the taking.

  “—Been lookin’ forward t’ this—too long—” he muttered thickly, and kicked the door shut behind him.

  Off came the boots, in a fierce, hopping-about tug of war that might have been ludicrous were it not so ominous. Then the gray pin-striped frock coat, easily enough, to be tossed aside partly inside-out; next the stock, fastened with a series of hooks and eyes that had Franklin almost howling in disgust for his manservant’s help. Finally that, too, successfully undone, landed in a heap on the floor.

  Stocking-footed, about to be trouser-less and shirt-less, Bower made his way to the bed.

  Star was still lying half-prone, in exactly the position she had first been hurled, resting on bent elbows with skirts awry. She had uttered no more protests as to her coming fate, offered no more resistance to whatever her captor might desire.

  Grinning with anticipation, he rested both fists on the mattress, one on either side to hold her prisoner, and bent forward.

  Sssstttt!

  In a blur of movement she had whipped free the pearl-handled Bowie knife from its sheath and slashed out. The blade caught him straight across the middle, cutting through braces, vest, and underwear, all the way down to flabby middle. Before Bower had quite realized what just happened, a thin line of blood appeared, red against the fabric. Then more blood, and pain.

  “What—the hell—?”

  Star had scooted backward to the headboard, arm at the ready with weapon drawn
and clenched. With fear and revulsion and alarm all mixed together, the amber of her vigilant eyes had darkened to the color of molasses, and her lips had parted with an ongoing fight for breath.

  Had Franklin cared to scrutinize the girl now, at this very moment, his need for immediate possession would have overridden any other desire. Franklin, however, was more concerned with the wound spurting gore from his insides than diddling someone clearly not in the mood for it.

  “You—no-’count—bitch—!” he roared, stumbling toward her.

  Another quick slash. This one caught him along one cheek, too near the jugular for comfort. Blood gushed forth down the front of shirt and onto the bedding.

  For a moment, stunned with shock, he hesitated. Then rage took over, as red as what was pouring forth from his body in ever more increasing amounts. “God—damn—your filthy—Injun—hide—!”

  Arms upraised, like a giant vulture about to strike, he reached out.

  And suddenly toppled, his weight heavy and motionless upon her.

  Star, shaking as if from ague, feeling half-sick with dread and despair, managed to look up.

  “Hurry, Señorita!” wheezed out Raquel. In one hand she held the solid earthenware jug which she had just cracked over the back of her employer’s skull. “Change, quickly, put on your old clothes, and let us be gone!”

  “You—you didn’t kill him—?”

  “No more than you did. That one, his head is too hard and too empty to die from only a whack.”

  While Star struggled to free herself and her cumbersome garments from under the unconscious rancher to comply, Raquel cast one contemptuous look at the damage she had wrought.

  “I’m thinkin’ he will not be feelin’ so good when he wakes up,” she giggled. “Here, let me unhook that conquistador’s dress. Then we can be on our way.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “Hurry up, you damned scurvy idjuts. They got too much of a head start as it is!” Grumbling and growling like a bear fresh out of hibernation, Franklin Bower lashed his horse into greater speed.

  Never mind the shortcut of rocky terrain he had decided to take. Never mind darkness lit by only a few distant stars, and none of them bright or helpful. Pursuit of the runaways was a sure thing; capture was something else again.