A Land Called Deseret

by Janet Dailey

  Shock waves tremble through her. The sun must have begun to affect her brain! When they had driven up, had she really been wishing that she was married to Travis and this was her home? This pathetic excuse of a house? The man she married would have a mansion and servants. Had she lost her mind?

  "What's the matter?" Travis questioned. "Did you forget something?"

  "Yes." My sanity, LaRaine thought, then realized she'd given him an affirmative answer and took it back. "No, I didn't forget anything."

  She walked to the rear of the pickup where the grocery bags were. Travis was lifting an ice chest out of the truck bed.

  "Why don't you paint this place?" she accused. "It looks terrible."

  "It does need it badly," he agreed. "I've got a far as buying the paint, but I haven't had time to do it."

  "Take time," she retorted.

  "When you're running a ranch, it doesn't work that way, Rainey," Travis explained with amused patience, and carried the ice chest to the house.

  Loading her arms with two bags of groceries, LaRaine followed him. He still used the shortened version of her name, and Joe, who was beginning to lose his shyness with her, had picked it up as well. Travis was in the kitchen unloading the perishables from the chest. LaRaine carried the bags to the counter.

  "There are two more bags in the truck," she told him, and checked the roast in the crockpot. "Is Joe back yet?"

  "He might be in the barn choring." Travis set the ice chest on the back porch. "I'll bring in the rest of the groceries."

  The front screen door slammed behind him as LaRaine began unpacking the groceries. When one was empty she started on the next.

  "Rainey?" Travis called to her from outside.

  "What?" she shouted back her answer.

  "Come here a minute."

  She set the loaf of bread in her hand on the counter and walked into the living room. Through the wire mesh of the door, she could see Travis standing on the porch, looking off to the west. There seemed little reason for the urgency that had been in his voice.

  "What is it?" She pushed the door open and stepped onto the porch.

  He cast her a brief glance backward. "I want you to see the sunset."

  "A sunset?" LaRaine frowned. "The sun goes down every day. One's just like all the rest." She turned to walk back in the house.

  "Cynic!" he taunted, caught her hand. "You haven't seen one like this sunset." He pulled her to the end of the porch. Placing both hands on her shoulder, he faced her toward the west. "Look at it."

  The latent power of his hold tingled through her. He stood behind her, his body warmth touching the full length of her. Her pulse began behaving erratically, reacting to his nearness. She could feel the way his breath faintly stirred the top of her hair and caught the vague male fragrance of his shaving lotion.

  Out of self-defense, she concentrated on the scene before her. The sun sank behind the far mountains, a blaze of orange red light fanning upward. A scattering of gray cloud was underlined with the reflected titian light and the valley floor was tinted with a yellow orange color.

  "It is kind of spectacular, isn't it?" she admitted with awed amazement.

  "Watch," Travis ordered quietly. "It will change."

  It did. Like a slow-turning color wheel, the orange glare faded into a rosy pink, shading the clouds to a lavender hue. The fanning light of the setting sun began to fold up, leaving pale pink traces across the horizon.

  A sigh of regret slipped from LaRaine's lips. Travis's fingers tightened on the soft flesh of her upper arms in silent agreement. The evening star winked from behind a wispy cloud tail. LaRaine lingered until she felt the provocative caress of his hands slowly and unconsciously rubbing a small area of her arms.

  "Well?" he asked expectantly.

  "It was beautiful." Her voice was tight, unnerved by the sensations running through her.

  She turned, attempting to elude the excitement he was arousing, but Travis didn't move out of her way. Instead he smoothed a large hand over her cheek and lifted her head. The lazy smile on his firm mouth sent her heart tripping itself.

  "I'll make a country girl out of you yet," he murmured.

  Her breath caught in her throat. At that moment he could have made anything out her that he wished. LaRaine was putty, ready to submit to a master's hands, willing to please as long as he would go on looking at her like that. Then his gaze strayed from her and his hands came away as he released her completely from his touch.

  "Hi, Joe," he said.

  LaRaine took a shaky breath and glanced over her shoulder to see the young ranch hand walking from the barn. His hazel eyes darted from one to the other and LaRaine wondered how much he had seen. Her cheeks grew warm, and the faint blush made her angry.

  Why was she embarrassed? She had done love scenes much more torrid than this in front of a camera with a multitude of people watching. The difference was that this time her partner in the scene was Travis. She bolted from that knowledge.

  "I'd better see about dinner," she murmured as an excuse, and hurried from the porch before Joe reached it.

  THREE MORNINGS LATER, LaRaine carried two of her blouses, that she had wisely learned had to be hand-washed, out to hang on the clothesline. Travis and Joe had ridden out of the yard only minutes before. She had sent a Thermos of soup, some sandwiches and fruit with them since they weren't coming back for the noon meal.

  With the blouses on the line, she started toward the house. She glared her dislike at the bare, grayed board siding. Then she remembered Travis's statement that he had bought the paint for the house. Pausing, she tried to visualize what it would look like with a coat of paint. It would be a distinct improvement, she decided. There was nothing wrong with the way the house was designed or built. It simply looked shabby and run-down.

  If she had to live in the house for possibly another six weeks, why did it have to look as if it were about to fall on her head? She had become fairly organized in her housework. Travis might not have the time, but she could arrange to have it. After conquering the mysteries of housework, painting a house seemed remarkably easy to her.

  With the decision thus formed, she sent in search of the paint. She found the five-gallon pails in the storage side of the shed where Travis and Joe slept, as well as a small stepladder. She carted the stepladder to the house and had to drag the heavy can of paint. In the house, she rummaged through the junk drawer until she found a brush. Then, armed with all she needed, she began painting the front of the house, the thirsty boards drinking in the white liquid.

  By the end of the day her arms ached from holding the brush. All she had painted was the lower half of the front of the house; the stepladder wasn't high enough to reach the second story of the house. LaRaine stepped back to admire what she had done. Already she could see the graceful lines of the building peeping through.

  Pressing a hand against her lower back, she arched her spine to ease the cramping muscles. Then at the sound of drumming hooves, a smile curved her mouth and she turned expectantly to greet Travis and Joe as they rode into the yard. Her smile deepened at their stunned looks.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Travis demanded, the big bay dancing beneath him.

  "That's a foolish question," LaRaine laughed. "I'm painting the house. You may not have the time, but I do. And I'm tired of living in something that resembles a broken-down shack."

  "So you propose to do it all by yourself?" he challenged.

  She had expected him to be pleased by what she had done, not angry. After all, it was to his benefit. She wasn't even getting paid to do this.

  "Yes, I plan to do it myself," she retorted with stringing swiftness. "All I need is a taller ladder to reach the second floor."

  "There's one in the barn," Joe volunteered the information.

  "Go and get it," Travis ordered. "We have a couple of hours of daylight left. Between the two of us, we should be able to get most of it done before it gets too dark to see." His gaze sla
shed to LaRaine. "You, get in the house and in the house and start dinner."

  "I said I'd paint the house. You and Joe don't have to help me," she protested at the heavy-handed way he was taking over.

  "Let's get this straight, Rainey," His dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm not going to have you waltzing twenty feet off the ground with a paintbrush in your hand when you don't know one end of a ladder from the other. You'd fall and break your neck…and expect met to pick up the pieces. Get in the house as I told you." He reined the bay toward the barn, muttering to Joe, "Like it or nor we've got a house to paint!"

  Subdued by his reasoning more than his anger, LaRaine went into the house to finish the last of the preparations for the evening meal. The next day Travis relented and permitted her to help as long as she kept both feet on the ground. In two days, the three of them had completely finished the house.

  The results were so outstanding that after Travis had ridden out the third morning, LaRaine tackled the low shed, painting the outside, washing the windows and wiping down the interior walls. It looked remarkably habitable when she had finished. That only left the barn—but Travis had threatened her with violence if she attempted it.

  "But with the house and shed looking brand-new, the barn is an eyesore," LaRaine had protested.

  "In another month, I'll have the spare time to rent a sprayer and paint it. Until then, leave it alone," he had warned.

  Instead of being satisfied with the transformation of the exterior, LaRaine was depressed by the ugliness of the interior. She glared at the dreary gray tile on the lower half of the kitchen wall. This room was the worst of them all, and the one she had to spend the most time in.

  Absently she picked at a loose gray square with her fingernail. The tile popped off onto the floor. The one beside was pried free just as easily. LaRaine set to work. A few tiles were more stubborn, but they couldn't resist the efforts of a screwdriver.

  Three hours later, squares of the tile lay on the floor near two walls. LaRaine was halfway through with the third when she heard footsteps on the porch followed by the opening of the screen door. It was Travis. She had learned to recognize his footsteps by now. She glanced around at he destruction she'd caused and braced herself for his reaction when he entered the kitchen.

  Two strides into the room Travis came to an abrupt halt. His gaze made a slow, sweeping arc of the wall. When it came to a stop to meet LaRaine's wary look, is mouth was grim.

  "You couldn't stand it, right?" The question was dry.

  "Could you, if you were in here hour after hour?" she challenged.

  "Do you think that yellow glue fried on the walls looks any better?" Travis countered.

  "No," she admitted. "I thought if I couldn't chip it off, maybe I could sand it smooth so the walls could be painted."

  "Not a chance," he denied. "If you want to paint the walls, they'll have to be replastered, and I'm not going to that expense."

  "I'll try anyway. At least, I won't have to look at that ugly gray tile anymore."

  LaRaine returned her attention to the stubborn square of tile and hammered the point of the screwdriver under its edge. Her hand slipped, grazing her fingers against the roughness of the dried glue, snapping a fingernail. With a startled cry of alarm she dropped the screwdriver and held the finger of the broken nail, as if to comfort it for its loss.

  "What did you do? Cut yourself?" Travis was at her side in an instant, reaching for her hand. "Let met see."

  "I broke a fingernail," she wailed.

  "You broke a—" His mouth snapped shut on the astounded exclamation. "Good God, Rainey, I thought you were hurt," he muttered.

  "I was always so proud of my nails." Tears misted her eyes as she stared at her hands. "They were always so long and now…now look at them."

  She spread her fingers out for Travis to see. Half the nails were broken or chipped, filed down to a short curve.

  "Rainey, I'm sorry." He attempted to be sympathetic, but she heard the underlying amusement in his voice, as if it were a silly thing for her to be so upset about.

  "No, you're not. You don't understand." She snatched her hands away and sniffed angrily at her tears. "Where is there a pair of nail clippers?"

  In the bathroom she found some and proceeded to snip off the long fingernails that remained. Travis frowned, "You aren't cutting them all, are your?"

  "They might as well match the rest," she announced.

  He shook his head, his mouth quirking. "I don't understand you, Rainey. One minute you are crying because broke a nail—next, you're cutting them all off."

  "I never asked you to understand me." LaRaine brushed past him to return to the kitchen and resume her demolition of the gray tiles.

  "Yes, but I want to," Travis argued calmly, and took the screwdriver from her hand when she picked it up.

  Setting it on the counter, he grasped her shoulders and drew her toward him. Her hands came up to rest in mute resistance against his muscled chest. His heady nearness shook her senses.

  "You aren't the same woman who came to work for me. You aren't pampered or spoiled anymore. You're still headstrong and determined to have your own way—" his gaze flickered to the havoc she had raised with the kitchen, to prove his point, "—but you've changed."

  "Have I?" was all LaRaine could think of to say.

  "Two months ago would you have done this? Or painted a house?" He eyed her mockingly.

  "No," she admitted in all honesty.

  "You see?" A dark brow arched complacently.

  His gaze shifted to her lips to see her answer. They parted tremulously, but LaRaine had lost her voice somewhere in the turmoil of her senses. The distance between their mouths was slowly shortened by Travis until it didn't exist at all. A warm, rushing tide surged through her as her fingers spread across his chest, feeling the heavy beat of his heart. His drugging kiss demanded a response. LaRaine, who had long been addicted, it seemed, to his brand of kisses, responded willingly.

  Before passion could run away with either of them, Travis was lifting his head and enclosing her in his arms. Her head rested against the hard pillow of his chest and she could feel the point of his chin brushing the top of her hair.

  "Instead of replastering the walls, I could panel the lower half of the room," he suggested. "How would that be?"

  "That would be fine, if you were lucky enough to find any wood paneling to match the horrid color of the cabinets," LaRaine dryly qualified her agreement.

  "No new cupboards, Rainey," Travis denied in a mock growl. "I have to go to town tomorrow. I'll see what I can find." Sliding a finger under her chin, he lifted it up. "Is that all right?"

  If he had suggested gray tile, LaRiane felt she would have agree. "Yes."

  His hard kiss was much too brief. Then he handed her back the screwdriver. "I'll let you get back to your work so I do mine."

  It was several minutes after he had left the house before LaRaine turned the screwdriver back to pry off the tile. He was such a handsome brute. She knew she was dangerously close to falling in love for the first time in her life—if she weren't already in love with him.

  LATE THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, she dashed out of the house to meet Travis when he returned from town. Sheets of wall paneling were in the rear of the truck.

  "You've bought some!" she cried, as delighted as if he had brought her home a fur coat.

  Travis slammed the truck door shut and walked to the bed of the truck. "Yes, I found some paneling, but I'm not sure what you're going to say when you see."

  "Why?" LaRaine frowned. Then he lifted the top sheet and she knew. "Gray!" She stared at the light gray, wood-finished paneling in disbelief. The rich-looking birch wood was attractive—but gray?"

  "Yes, I know," he said dryly. "You've just got rid of the gray tile. But before you explode, let me show you what I have in mind."

  He carried the paneling into the house and propped it against one wall. LaRaine followed, liking the richness of the light birch but
skeptical that it would work.

  "What are you going to do about the cabinets?" As attractive as the paneling was, it clashed badly with the cherry-wood stain of the kitchen cupboards.

  "We'll paint them white and antique them with gray to match the paneling," Travis explained. "It will lighten the room."

  The idea immediately ignited LaRaine's imagination. "And for color, we can paper the walls in a red, gingham-checked fabric with curtains to match. And you could do the table and chairs to match the cupboards. The floor could be recovered in large squares of black and white tile."

  "I hadn't thought about the floor, but—" Travis hesitated "—I suppose we might as well go all the way."

  "When can we start?" she breathed excitedly.

  "Is tonight soon enough?" he asked with amusement. "I can only work at this in the evenings, Rainey. I can't take any more time away from the ranch work."

  "I'll help," LaRaine promised.

  When Joe learned of the project, he volunteered his assistance. Except for the painting, the two men did most of the work. LaRaine held paneling sheets and spare nails and pasted the wallpaper for them to hang. It took a week's worth of nights before the kitchen was finished.

  When it was done, LaRaine stared in amazement. She had never believed the room could look so stunning. Even the old black and white gas stove fitted in perfectly with the rich, cheery room.

  "Well?" Travis challenged. "Do you like?"

  "Like it? I love it!" In a burst of spontaneity, she hugged him. Locking her arms behind him, she tipped her head back. "We should toast it with champagne or something. Do you like it?"

  "I love it." He huskily repeated her answer.

  A painful lump became lodged in her throat and she suddenly wished that Travis was referring to her instead of the kitchen. But his love already given…to that girl named Natalie. Forcing out a breathless laugh, LaRaine glided away from him.

  "We don't have champagne, but there is some coffee. Would you like a cup?" She walked to the kitchen counter.

  "No," Travis refused. "It's late. I'd better be turning in."

  Her first impulse was to object, but she stifled it.