Lord of the High Lonesome

by Janet Dailey

  Uncoiling himself from his chair, Reese walked slowly around to the front corner of the desk. “How much, Kit?” he challenged.

  She didn’t follow his question. “What are you talking about?” she demanded coldly.

  “How much do you want? I’ll buy it from you. Just name your price.”

  The audacity that he would even think they would consider it boiled within her. “Do you think we’ll sell it?” Kit blazed. “Nate brought his bride here. His daughter was born here — and his granddaughter. His wife and his daughter are buried here. Nate will be buried here and I will be buried here. We will never sell it!”

  “Everybody has a price.”

  “Money isn’t our god! We belong to the land. You can’t buy us off. We will be here to wave goodbye to you when you leave. The land is ours!”

  “You can be assured I’ll do some checking on that.” His look was a forbidding one. “In the meantime, it seems we have a standoff.”

  His checking would uncover more than a deeded title. A flame of inevitability seared through her, consuming and scorching. Her backbone became ramrod straight; her shoulders were squared, her arms held rigidly at her sides. The noble carriage of her head was part of the savage pride with which Kit armed herself, haughty and regal and protective.

  “We were here before you. We will be here when you leave,” Kit declared.

  His brooding gaze skimmed her length, “Kyle was right … yes, Kyle,” Reese commented with a cold, curling smile. “Remember an hour ago you stood before him in all your majestic anger and tore him apart. When you left I heard him call you the virgin queen. That’s what you look like standing in front of the fireplace. The supreme ruler.”

  Something splintered inside her. “You should have waited around.” Kit knew what she was saying. She wanted him to know. She wanted to lash out at him and cut him with the words that had been used on her. “You would have heard what else he calls me. What everyone has called me. The baron’s bastard daughter.”

  The fine white rage of a million hurts trembled through Kit as she saw his gathering frown, the sudden intensity of his gaze, and the look he darted to the portrait above her head.

  “He was your father?”

  “Oh, I can’t prove it.” Kit dismissed the need with a tiny but infinitely proud shrug. “On my birth certificate the father is listed as unknown. There’s little physical resemblance since I take after my mother.”

  “When? I —” Muscles leaped along his jaw, his mouth clamping shut as if he regretted the question.

  But for Kit it was like the spewing forth of all the bottled-up hate and bitterness. She wanted him to know where once she had dreaded his finding out.

  “Like you, the baron paid a visit to this ranch twenty-two years ago when he inherited. The portrait was done at about the same time, but Nate has assured me he looked older than that. He was in his forties at the time. No doubt the artist practiced flattery.” Kit felt all the raging resentment and hurt when she glanced up to the painting.

  “And your mother?”

  “She was seventeen at the time, a young girl just blossoming into a woman, and the baron just couldn’t resist aiding the budding process,” Kit issued spitefully. “Her name was Sara, which the baron informed her meant ‘princess.’ It isn’t any wonder that her head was turned by the attentions of a handsome, wealthy and titled man. He must have seemed like Prince Charming coming to carry her away to his castle.”

  “But surely your grandfather —” Reese frowned.

  A bubble of bitter laughter came from her throat. “Nate doesn’t have a snobbish bone in his body. You must remember Sara was his only child, the light of his life. Nothing was too good for her. Her happiness came above all else.

  “Besides, the baron was most respectful toward her. Nate had no reason to suspect that the baron’s attentions were anything but honorable. In the evenings the baron courted her like a suitor in the living room, and always under the eye of Nate and my grandmother. Nate had no cause to wonder what went on during the long horseback rides in the afternoon.”

  “And when your grandfather learned?”

  “He was shocked, angry, shamed.” Kit continued to stare at the portrait, responding to the questions and trembling with the hatred of her answers. “I’m sure all the things any father would be. You can imagine his reaction when the baron informed him he was already married.”

  There was a muffled curse behind her, but it merely seemed an extension of her own violent feelings. What had begun as a caustic attempt to inflict pain had become a purging. The words, the story that Kit had never uttered to anyone had to be released.

  “The baron was willing to fulfill any financial obligations to Sara and her child. He was very clever. He knew he was leaving and would probably never come back. So he deeded the house to Nate and arranged for Sara to receive an income for the rest of her life, and also the child when it was born.”

  “And your grandfather continued working for him?” Reese demanded with a frown of disbelief in his voice.

  “You must understand Nate,” Kit defended him staunchly. “His first thought has always been to do what was best for his family, regardless of any personal cost. When this happened he felt guilty, as if he was somehow to blame for not foreseeing it. Here he had a home and a very good job. He was among friends and could provide for his family. I don’t think his pride would have let him run away. I’m sure he thought the scandal would subside in time, but the story made such delicious gossip. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that in our democratic society we should be so hung up on titles?”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  “She died within a year after I was born.” A new raw edge entered her voice, exposing another of her many wounds. “She must have hated the sight of me, a constant reminder of what she had done. They say she died of pneumonia, but I know it was the shame and humiliation that she couldn’t endure.”

  “When did you find out about … your father?” His voice was quiet, prompting her to continue.

  “When I was little I didn’t understand what parents were. I guess I thought grandparents were all anybody had, that everybody’s parents were dead. Of course, my world was the ranch. Nate and Martha and Lew were the only people I knew and they protected me. When I was old enough to go to school, all that changed.”

  Kit glared at the portrait, vibrating like a volcano about to erupt. “Children can be very cruel. The older kids started calling me the baron’s bastard. They were only repeating what they’d heard their parents say. I didn’t understand what it meant but I knew it made me different from them and in a way that I couldn’t change.”

  How it had hurt when they called her names. Kit could still vividly remember the bewildering pain their taunts caused. In the beginning she had been too young to conceal her sensitivity. Knowing they could get a reaction from her had only added to the children’s malicious delight in teasing her to tears.

  Two things Kit learned very quickly. Coming home in tears upset her beloved grandparents. They had explained, as much as a young child could understand, why she was different from the others. Although they had never used the word, Kit felt the shame that lay behind their voices, the sting of illegitimacy.

  Secondly, she learned that if she stayed away from the other children, it didn’t give them a chance to hurt her. This aloofness, this holding herself apart from them, kept the story from dying. The children concluded that she did it because she thought she was too good for them, that she was royalty. The die was cast for the rest of her school years and Kit had built the hardened shell around her to protect herself from any more hurt.

  “So that, dear cousin, five or six times removed —” the sarcasm of hate rolled from her tongue “— is the story.” The remark was flung over her shoulder to Reese, but Kit’s gaze remained riveted on the portrait, her hands clenched into fists with little of the raging fury within her released. There was too much of it and it had been contained too long. I
t was merely the hissing whistle of a tea kettle with, the water still boiling inside.

  “I’m not even a love child,” she jeered at herself. “Just the product of that man’s lust.”

  “The baron died without issue, Kit. You were his only child. Why didn’t you contest my inheritance of his estate?” Reese questioned.

  “And resurrect the whole scandal, expose it again to public ears? At the moment the knowledge is confined. If I had made a claim, it would have been spread all over the whole world. I have more compassion for Nate than that,” she issued contemptuously. “He’s an old man, as you said. He deserves to know some peace. Besides, you are welcome to it. I want nothing that belonged to him.” Her look spat on the painting and the man it represented.

  “He’s the one who did this to you, isn’t he? The one who hurt you,” he guessed.

  “Yes.” At first, the positive answer was just a simple snapping sound. The second “yes!” was mote strident, revealing the accumulated years of bitterness. “Yes!” The hoarse cry was an uncorking of emotions. “I hate him!” Every inch of Kit vibrated with the violent depths of the emotion and She hurled it at the portrait. “I hate him for what he did to my grandparents! And I hate him for what he did to my mother! And I hate him for what he’s done to me! I hate him! I hate him!”

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  Chapter Seven

  THERE WERE THREE VASES of Indian pottery on the mantelpiece below the portrait. The rage inside Kit exploded and she grabbed for one of them, intent on destroying the image of the man she despised so much. Her arm was drawn back to throw the vase when it struck something hard. The vase crashed from her hand into the empty cavity of the fireplace.

  “I hate him!” Hoarse and raw, the denunciation came again.

  With her first attempt thwarted, Kit tried again, reaching for a second vase. Reese tried to stop her, but she was a woman possessed. With the strength of ten, she fought to keep him from taking the vase from her. In the resulting skirmish Kit wrenched free, accidentally flinging the painted clay pot away. It broke atop the desk, sending broken chips scattering onto her hat.

  The library door opened and an openmouthed Mrs. Kent stood in its frame. “What’s going on?” she breathed, entirely sure she should not have come to investigate the crashing sounds.

  Both Kit and Reese were breathing heavily, separated only by a few feet and eyeing each other with the wariness of a pair of fighters about to come to blows again. Neither glanced away when the housekeeper spoke. Kit was still in the grip of the volcanic eruption of her rage.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Kent,” Reese dismissed her in clear sharp tones. “There’s only one vase left.”

  The click of the closing door distracted him for only a split second, but it was all the time Kit needed to spin around and seize the last vase. This time she didn’t even attempt to throw it at the picture. Her target was the personification of it. She held it threateningly over her head, aimed at Reese.

  “And I hate you, too!” There were no tears in her eyes, not even of rage. They were dry and hard as a bone. “You are no better than he was! I hate you!”

  With a vicious throw, she hurled the vase at Reese. He dodged it easily as it splintered against the far wall. Kit turned back to the mantel, but there were no more vases. She spied the fireplace poker and grabbed for it.

  Before her fingers could curl around the metal handle, her wrist was caught in an iron grip and she was yanked away from her goal. Kit managed to twist her arm free and started hammering on his chest with both fists, unaware of the picture she made of a frightened, angry child.

  “That’s enough, Kit. Snap out of it!” A pair of hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her hard.

  It had no effect. She was hauled against him, a steel arm binding her close while fingers squeezed the back of her head, forcing it up. His punishing mouth smothered the angry sounds coming from her throat. Kit twisted and struggled but she couldn’t writhe free of the steel embrace. The brutal kiss was relentless, grinding her lips against her teeth. Reese seemed intent on crushing the violence out of her. Eventually Kit had to submit.

  When her resistance ended, the pressure of his mouth on hers changed subtly. Still firm, still commanding, it coaxed a pliancy from her lips. When he got it, his mouth opened moistly over hers, consuming, demanding, promising comfort for her ravaged soul. The hand at the back of her neck no longer threatened to snap it in two. It had begun to massage the taut cords in her neck, sensually rubbing away the violent tension that remained.

  The arm circling her, locking her to him became less of a steel band. Seeking and caressing, his hand moved over her back and shoulders and hips, pressing her closer to the warm, hard support of him. There didn’t seem robe an inch of her body that didn’t feel the touch of his hand or his muscled flesh. There was something healing in that, as if he was wiping away every invisible scar thoughtless words had made.

  Kit shuddered against him in relief that the unbearable pain had finally been assuaged. The shudder cast aside the last thin layer of her protective shell, exposing her utter vulnerability.

  With a sweeping mastery Reese parted her lips, deepening the kiss with a passion that enflamed her senses and ignited that fiery core of her being Kit had always suppressed. The sheer wantonness of her response terrified Kit and her hands fluttered in protest against his chest.

  “It’s all right, kitten.” His low, husky voice soothed her as he began kissing her eyes, her nose, her cheek, her brow. “God knows you have the right to hate.” And he retraced his route all over again, his breath and mouth warm and moist and arousing.

  And hate was the last emotion Kit was feeling. She was drowning in his kisses, in a sea of physical sensations, each wave that broke over her more devastating than the one before. The frantic pounding of her heart told her she wouldn’t stay afloat for long.

  “Reese, don’t do this, please.” She whispered her plea for his mercy. “Please. Let me go, Reese, please. Reese, Reese, Reese.”

  Even as she begged him with his name, Kit sought the lifeline of his mouth. Her lips clung to it desperately when she found it. The smell, the taste, the feel of him were all she could comprehend. Boneless, Kit melted against him and felt herself sinking. As long as she was wrapped in his arms, she didn’t care.

  Her knees touched something furry and solid, the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. Then Reese’s weight was pressing her backward, turning the rug into a bed for them to he on. The passions raging through Kit were as animalistic and primitive as the rug.

  His mouth was finding all sorts of erotically sensitive areas along her neck and throat, sending delicious shudders of desire shivering over her skin. Her fingers curled into the sensual thickness of his dark brown hair, keeping him there to continue his sensuous exploration.

  His hands weren’t still; intimately they caressed, supported and molded her. The pressing weight of his body was an exquisite pain to be enjoyed, his rangy, muscled length stretched above her. Expert fingers freed her shirt buttons and pushed the material aside. The way her breasts seemed to swell into mature ripeness at his touch stunned Kit, and stimulated her already heightened yearnings for total possession.

  When Reese moved to kiss them, her own fingers tugged at the buttons of his shirt, finally loosening them all and sliding her excited hands over the hard flesh of his stomach and around to the flexing muscles of his back. Kit pulled him down to her, drawing his mouth back to her lips and letting their body heat fuse them together while glorying in the feel of his naked torso against hers.

  Then he was pulling her arms from around him and spreading them above her head. He continued to kiss her lips and her face, but refused to let her hands roam freely over him.

  “You crazy little sex kitten,” Reese declared in a muttering moan against the curve of her mouth. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?”

  Mutely Kit gave a negative shake of her head. She had no more idea what she wa
s doing to him than she had of what he was doing to her. It was new and exciting and frightening. She lacked control and the will to acquire it.

  “Kit.” There was a sudden urgency in his hard kiss. “I want you. For God’s sake, don’t say no.”

  Her breath caught in her throat but she didn’t say a thing. Reese read his own meaning into the silence, the white-hot flame of desire seeming to sear from every inch of him. He explored the jerky pulse in her neck. Kit’s lashed fluttered in surrender, then snapped open as she became conscious of a pair of eyes watching them.

  It was the pair of arrogant, blue eyes in the portrait staring down at the couple intertwined on the bearskin rug. Kit’s stomach churned sickeningly. She was no better than her father. Her sense of decency, her moral standards were no stronger than his.

  With a moaning cry of shame, she pushed Reese away and scrambled weakly to her feet, filled with self-disgust and self-loathing. Stumbling and gasping with pain, Kit ran to the door, deafening her ears to the startled, questioning sound of her name coming from Reese. She was through it in a flash and closing it behind her.

  Her strength deserted her and she leaned against the opposite hallway wall, clutching her shirtfront closed. She sobbed at the agonizing pain, but her eyes were dry. There were no tears to cool the burning shame that seared her as hotly as Reese’s touch had done.

  Her escape was by no means complete. As if to remind her of it, the library door was yanked open. Reese stood there, dark and dangerous, desire still blazing in his eyes, his shirt hanging completely open to reveal the hard flesh of his golden tanned skin.

  “Kit —” He started toward her.

  She didn’t cower, but spat at him like a cornered cat. “Don’t touch me!”

  Reese stopped, seeing her widened eyes with their shimmer of utter denial and her proudly defiant stance, even though she was flattened against the wall in fear. There were hesitant footsteps and the shadowy, plump figure of the housekeeper peered down the hallway. Kit knew Mrs. Kent couldn’t help but see their mutual state of near undress, and quickly, if shakily, she began buttoning her shirt.