Built of thick adobe bricks, the house was relatively cool. With constant vigilance, a degree of safety existed inside the compound, but Steve followed his father’s example every night before retiring. He checked the outside doors and flashed a signal at the sentries with a lantern. If all was well, they would take turns whistling an answering signal that everything was secure.
That done, Steve walked the length of the hall from his office to the women’s rooms on the east and listened to be sure everything was all right. As he stopped in front of Judy’s closed door, the hair on his neck prickled. On the surface, all was as it should be, but…
That nerve-end tingle of warning on his neck froze his steps. Frowning, he opened Judy’s door and stepped inside.
There was enough moonlight coming in the window to illuminate Judy’s empty bed. Unimpeded by bars, curtains at her window wafted gently in the cooling night breeze.
“Damn!” Instantly furious, Steve stalked to the window, reached outside, and closed the wrought-iron grillwork. The bars had been installed over every window to keep out intruders. At his father’s request Steve had designed and built them himself. On a hot night it allowed the windows to be opened without fear of a surprise visitor. In case of fire they could be opened from the inside. Bill Burkhart had had a passion for security. Not even a child could squeeze through when they were locked in place. Unfortunately Judy had a bad habit of sneaking out and leaving the window unprotected so she could sneak back in without being caught. Why the hell couldn’t she just go to bed like other people? When he found her, he would shake the teeth out of her head. There was no excuse for her to jeopardize the entire household…
Making a fist, he turned to leave. On the moonlit floor beneath the window, a small dark shadow caught his eye. Stooping down, he touched it, and alarm grew within him.
It was the top three inches of a warrior’s feather. Steve picked up the feather and walked quickly across the room. In the hall he stopped to listen. A sound like creaking bedsprings came from Andrea’s room. Steve walked to her door and opened it noiselessly.
Outlined against the barred window, a life-and-death struggle was taking place on the bed: moonlight gleamed off a muscular back poised above Andrea’s slender, arched body. One hand covered her mouth while the other held a knife at her throat.
Steve yelled, threw himself across the intervening space to the bed, caught the warrior broadside, and tumbled him over Andrea. They hit the floor with a loud thump! and rolled toward the window, locked together in a death grip. The knife flew out of the brave’s hand, hit the wall, and bounced onto the floor. The brave scrambled after his weapon and grabbed for the blade the same time Steve did. Steve got hold of it, too, but the brave, grunting and panting, forced him down and raised the knife over his head. It took all the strength he could muster to keep the warrior from forcing the knife into his chest.
As they strained against one another, Steve felt himself weakening. He used the last of his strength to try to force the knife loose from the brave’s hand, but the Indian’s grip was too strong. Behind the snarling face of the brave, Steve caught a glimpse of Andrea, huddled on the bed, clutching her torn gown around her body.
Steve was big and well built, but this warrior felt at least thirty pounds heavier than his own hundred and seventy pounds. If he didn’t end this soon, the man would wear him down by sheer weight.
On top now and straddling Steve’s chest, the warrior plunged the knife downward toward Steve’s chest. Steve wriggled frantically, and the brave was forced to regain his leverage. Seeing his opportunity, Steve brought his right knee up hard between the man’s legs. The Indian convulsed and lost his grip on the knife. Steve wrenched it away and swiftly plunged the blade into the warrior’s heaving chest. The brave stiffened and slowly collapsed on top of Steve.
“Oh, God!” Andrea screamed.
Steve rolled the Indian off him. In the moonlight, Andrea watched the blood trickle out of the brave’s mouth. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp.
“Oh, Steve!” Andrea cried. “He tried to…to…he was going to scalp…”
Shaking uncontrollably, tears sparkling on her cheeks, Andrea started to sob. Steve moved close to the bed and pulled Andrea up, gathering the now hysterical woman into his arms.
“Hey! You’re all right now,” he whispered, awkwardly stroking her hair and back. She pressed against him, crying hard. Her torn nightgown slipped down, leaving her naked to the waist in his arms.
Like twin firetips, her bare breasts burned into his chest. He held her close, trying to ignore the flame that threatened to ignite in his loins. But after a while he could feel the sweat breaking on his forehead and hear the roar of blood in his ears.
“You’re safe now. He’s dead.”
Andrea didn’t hear Steve’s words. She wanted only the protection offered in his arms. She pressed her face into the warmth of his neck and cheek, oblivious to everything except her need to feel safe again. His sturdy warmth coupled with his masculine, musky smell was a soothing balm to her shattered nerves.
She hugged him tight, and involuntarily Steve’s arms tightened around her. She raised her head, exposing her throat to his lips, and without thinking Steve buried his face in the fragrant mass of her silky hair. Overwhelmed by her softness he crushed her against him. He meant only to hold her close enough to satisfy the fierce need that was raging against his willpower, but her lips were only a breath away—open, sweet, trembling…
Steve’s warm mouth claimed hers at last, and Andrea’s fingers stole under his shirt and pressed against the warm smooth skin of his back, still damp with perspiration from the savage’s attack. His kisses made her forget everything except how good he made her feel. Once her hands had pressed against his flesh, she knew he wouldn’t stop. His skin cried out to be touched just the way hers did. Her mouth opened to receive him, and his tongue slipped in and filled her as if he couldn’t get deep enough inside her. As Andrea eased back onto the bed, she could feel his passion throbbing against her.
Moving with her as if they were one, Steve’s lithe form pressed her more deeply into the yielding surface of the bed. His hips twisted against her as if he were already inside her. Andrea strained upward. He clawed at the restraining fabric of her nightgown, and Andrea helped him move it aside.
“Andrea, Andrea, Andrea…” She could hear his tortured voice and feel the urgency in his loins. His mouth found her again, and his legs forced hers apart. Arching, grinding against him, she moaned.
“Andrea, please let me love you…”
“¡Patrón! ¡Patrón! ¡Señor Steve!”
Steve bolted to consciousness and nearly collapsed with frustration. The clamor of feet running down the hall was not a dream. Men shouted his name. Someone would be at the door any second. Steve cursed softly and lifted himself away from Andrea’s warm, soft body. He struggled into a sitting position. He wanted to kill the first man to burst into the room.
Dazed and disheveled, her naked flesh gleaming in the moonlight, Andrea sat up, swaying in the middle of the bed. Steve wanted to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t work. Abruptly he stood up and stalked to the door, pushing it nearly closed.
“Señor Steve, we heard a scream,” Carmen cried.
Half a dozen men and women crowded the hall. Shielding Andrea from their view, Steve quickly explained what had happened. “Search the grounds. If you find any more Injuns—kill ’em. Either this is a renegade of Chatto’s, or those bastards didn’t keep their word.”
The men stomped away. Carmen remained in the hall, twisting the sash of her nightgown in her hands. “La patrona is injured, no?”
“La patrona’s fine.”
“I heard her scream. I call the vaqueros…”
“You did good, Carmen. She’s fine. Just scared. She would probably appreciate a cup of tea to calm her nerves.”
Steve knew Carmen desperately wanted proof of his statement, but she backed away and shuffled anxiously
toward the kitchen.
Taking a deep breath, Steve stepped back into the bedroom and closed the door. Andrea was still on the bed, exactly as he had left her, her breasts gleaming like sculptured ivory cones in the faint moonlight. What the hell did she think she was doing? The chilling rage that had come over him when they were interrupted carried him forward.
Stalking to the bed, he caught her by the arm and jerked her forward. He had no idea what he intended to do. He was still inflamed by the desire to spread her satiny thighs and feel himself inside her, but even half-dazed he now remembered that this woman who had trembled and sobbed in his arms, opening her mouth and her body to him, was his sister.
“Get dressed, Andrea. Get some clothes on and keep them on! And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from me. Do you understand?” he asked, his voice harsh.
Finally comprehending her nakedness, Andrea reached down to cover herself. “That’s not fair,” she began, hurt that he was acting as if the whole incident had somehow been engineered by her at his expense.
“I don’t give a damn what’s fair,” he threatened.
The look of anger on his face, and his cold, furious tone, convinced her that he was serious.
“You turn up in my arms and kiss me like that one more time, and I promise you, I’ll take you, sister or not!”
Steve stalked down the hall toward his bedroom. Halfway there he remembered he had been looking for Judy when he’d surprised the savage’s attack on Andrea. Grateful for the distraction, he now searched every room in the house. It served two purposes: it assured him there were no Indians lurking in the casa grande, and it diffused the intensity of his thwarted passion.
In the bedroom next to his, he found Grant Foreman and Judy. Judy slumped in the chair next to the bed, sound asleep, clasping Grant’s limp hand in hers. In the dim glow of the lamp on the table beside Grant’s bed, her soft brown hair framed her face.
Standing over her, seeing the exhaustion in every line of her body, he felt the fury he’d held against her drain out of him, leaving him cold and shaken.
He picked Judy up, carried her to the other side of the big bed, and laid her down next to Grant. She was too thin nowadays; she looked too vulnerable and young. He smoothed wisps of hair away from her face and then leaned down to kiss her warm forehead. He must be getting old. He couldn’t remember ever kissing her so tenderly before. It had been a long time since he had really looked at her. Even in sleep, her face looked strangely ravaged, grief-stricken.
An unexpected sadness rose inside him and made him feel suddenly drained. He couldn’t tell whether it was because he’d never have Andrea or because he’d wronged Judy by assuming she’d been out tonight. He’d better get some sleep.
Once in his bedroom, Steve fell across the mattress and buried his face into the quilt. Maybe he was losing his mind. Was this how it started? Everything caught you off guard? And you could no longer control your own body?
I don’t give a damn what’s fair. You turn up in my arms and kiss me like that one more time, and I promise you, I’ll take you, sister or not! A heartless threat for any woman who’d been scared to death by a half-naked savage. Two savages, if you count me, he thought guiltily. Andrea had been terrified. He had been the one to pull her into his arms. But once she was pressed against him, he’d forgotten everything except how much he wanted her.
Andrea was as much his sister as Judy.
Too keyed up to sleep, Steve punched his pillow. For the first time in his life he felt hatred toward his father for putting him in this position.
Tensely Steve pressed his bent arm over his face. He loved his pa—how could he have guessed his son would lust after his own flesh and blood? He had to get rid of Andrea, or he would be doomed to spend the rest of his life wanting her. He’d pay her anything she wanted; do anything she asked. He had no choice.
Chapter Nineteen
As Tía set the table for breakfast, Steve and Johnny tramped into the long dining hall, stamped a few times to get the sand off their boots, and then sat down at the end of the table. Steve nodded to Tía. Johnny’s look was more intent and penetrating. Steve talked while Johnny’s dark gaze followed her every step. After a while Johnny grunted a few replies to Steve’s near monologue. Tía was so engrossed listening to the sound of his voice she couldn’t remember what to do next. She surveyed the table, but nothing came to her. In frustration she walked into the kitchen and busied herself by the door, listening. She wished the sound of Johnny’s voice weren’t so compelling, but today she found herself hanging on his every word.
Steve started to talk again, then stopped. “Did you hear a word I said?” Tía searched her own mind and realized that she had listened to their whole conversation and didn’t know what Steve had said, either.
“I didn’t know you wanted me to listen to all that,” Johnny answered, sounding surprised and innocent. Tía had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing.
“I can see if I want your attention I’m going to have to keep you out of the house. I said I want extra guards at intervals along the wall, and I don’t want the riders to go out today.”
Carmen picked up a milk pitcher and walked past Tía toward the table. Seconds later she walked back into the kitchen. “I was going to pour the milk for you, pequita, but perhaps you would like to do it.”
Tía reddened. “Me? Why?”
“It might be a thing of more ease for you, since you no doubt understand where you have stacked the cups.”
Tía flushed from her toes to her hairline. She took the pitcher from Carmen and rushed back into the dining hall. Johnny looked up at her, and she knew he’d heard Carmen. He winked. Tía’s insides were so strangely affected that she almost dropped the pitcher.
Carmen waddled outside and rang the bell next to the house. It sounded like a church bell, except tinnier. Within seconds cowboys trooped into the dining hall, and Tía was too busy serving to let herself look at Johnny again. After the first rush, when most of the men had been served, Carmen came out and stopped beside Johnny. “Are those peaches ready yet?”
Johnny chewed the mouthful of food he had just taken and then swallowed loudly. “Green as gourds.”
Dap Parker, a slim, wiry Texan with a droll look on his long face, chimed in. “Gourds look ripe next to them hard little knots.”
Five of the Parker boys worked for Steve: Robert, Dap, Willie B., Leon, and Lindy. They generally managed to sit together. Willie B. Parker picked up a biscuit and slathered warm butter on it. “I et one of ’em yesterday, and that’s probably what almost kilt me. My mouth puckered up so bad I thought I was going to have to kiss Dap to get it unpuckered.”
Coming from Willie B., who had the most innocent face next to Lindy, the comment evoked general laughter. Johnny caught Tía’s gaze and winked at her. Totally disconcerted, Tía forgot what she’d come out of the kitchen for.
“You caballeros have good appetites for men who just fought off an Indian attack,” Carmen said, pausing at the end of the long table to spot a dish that needed to be refilled or a coffee cup that needed to be topped off.
Dap looked up from his plate, his eyes sparkling with merriment. “You call that a fight? Wasn’t hardly noticeable. I’m surprised you remembered it.”
“Dap’s such a hard case, he don’t consider nothing short of the Alamo a fight,” Leon scoffed.
Carmen wagged her finger at Dap. “When men get themselves carried into my dining room with arrows sticking out of their backs, I remember,” she retorted.
Dap nodded in sympathy and changed sides. “These hairy animals can forget anything. They got no shame at all, have they, Carmen? They’d eat on a grave.”
Tía had already realized that Dap almost never said anything he meant. Everything that came out of his mouth was mostly just to agitate his fellow riders.
As the Parkers finished and left, others straggled in. When the last of the riders finally finished, Tía ate with the women and took he
r box of remedies to the bunkhouse to check on Slim Whitman, whose leg had been sliced by an arrow. She found him sitting on the edge of his bunk, strumming a banjo. The other men lolled on their bunks, some of them polishing leather, one braiding a rawhide reata.
Tía turned her back while Slim dropped his pants and wrapped himself in a blanket. When she turned back only one small patch of his wound showed. Tía unwrapped his bandage, carefully. Where the arrow had grazed his thigh, the skin looked raw and red, so she put on a fresh pad soaked in kerosene. As she was rewrapping his leg, she heard the scrape of boots and jingle of a certain pair of spurs on the porch.
Her heart gave a small, traitorous leap. She recognized Johnny’s step. It seemed hard to believe that you could know a man by his spurs.
Steve and then Johnny stepped inside. “Well, how’s your patient?” Steve asked. Johnny’s dark-eyed gaze caressed Tía. He watched her intently, refusing to let go, and she learned how difficult Johnny Brago was to ignore. She smiled noncommittally. “He’s fine, Steve. A couple more days of kerosene compresses should clean that wound up.”
Steve turned to Johnny. “Did you have Tía look at your arm?”
“Last night.”
“Maybe she’d better look at it again.”
Johnny looked askance at Tía and stepped closer to look into her box. His warm body seemed to thin the air around her. It was harder to breathe. “I don’t know. A man can’t be too careful about women with medicine boxes,” he teased.
“The box won’t hurt you. All it has in it is quinine, calomel, blue mass pills, kerosene, rags, Epsom salts, tobacco for toothache, castor oil, a scarificator, some scissors, and a glass cup with a bulb.”
“I never seen such a well-stocked medicine bag,” Johnny said seriously.
Tía knew he was right. The Burkharts had something for every regimen known to man, which unfortunately amounted to only four—Mama called them soak, puke, purge, or bleed remedies. Or five if you counted blistering with hot poultices and plasters. Her own memory of some of the regimens she had endured was that the treatment, though dramatic enough to take your mind off the illness, was generally more dangerous than the disease.
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