T.K. went still, searching for words. "Not my woman. Patrick's woman." Now why did he say that? His brother was dead. T.K. looked at the braves. They sat their horses, their feet dangling, their coal-black eyes focused on Lee as she drew the water and returned to the house. At Grayhawk's command, they slid off their horses and gathered up the supplies.
"Patrick plans to marry the woman, Grayhawk." Another lie.
"Does Patrick plan a quick return?"
"We look for him soon."
Grayhawk mounted his pony. His voice was rich with laughter. "It will not be soon enough, I fear." He led his braves away single file.
With cold, hard anger to propel him, T.K. strode toward the house. Lee stood near the big range stove, her hands busy controlling a pot and stirring the contents. His glacial gaze swept over her, stopping at the red-and-blue head covering.
He pushed his hat to the back of his head and walked close enough to look down into her wide-eyed stare. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Abruptly, he jerked the offending bonnet from her head.
"As much pleasure as it would give me, I suppose I can't bend you over my knee, lift your skirt, and apply my palm to your bare backside."
Bewildered, she met his eyes and saw his anger. "Have your savage friends been giving lessons on how to treat a woman? And what makes you think you'd come away without any scars?"
She whirled away from him, only to be spun around and crushed against his chest. He looked at her, at the softly tempting mouth.
"Why didn't you stay inside?" he grated near her ear.
She twisted futilely, succeeding only in fitting more closely against his lean frame. "Vesper's got something wrong with her shoulder, so I was the logical one to go to the well. We had to have water. Besides, we didn't know how long the Indians would be here. Even you didn't know."
His arm became a vise around her waist. "I was concerned for you, Lee."
When she tried to avoid his low voice, she accidentally lifted her face within inches of his. He hesitated, then lowered his head to let his mouth brush her tremulous lips. Her lips didn't part. A frustrated growl sounded deep in his throat, and the fragile touch was broken.
He slowly released her, then walked to the window and thrust his hands in his pockets. He could still feel the exciting softness of her body in his arms, and the disappointment when she didn't respond. "I thought you understood my orders."
"I don't take kindly to orders, especially when something as important as water is needed."
When he turned back, his breath caught in his throat. She was running her hands through her hair, letting the thick mane fall about her shoulders. Her eyes gleamed in golden brown defiance. He forced the words out. "I'm accustomed to the people around me following my directions."
The proud look never left her. "Your directions weren't clear. I thought it was my yellow hair you were concerned about." She gave an elaborate shrug. "I took proper precaution before going to the well."
An unsatisfactory reply, but there was nothing he could do about it. "You don't believe those same Indians steal and rape and kill, do you?" He was close enough to cup her chin and force her face up. His gaze narrowed. "My God," he whispered, "you really don't believe it."
"Oh, I believe that Indians do those things. But you said yourself these Indians were your friends. Besides, they're on their way to the reservation."
He dismissed her answer with a shake of his head. "Even with that cold bastard MacKenzie and his filthy army, it'll take time." He slid his hands down to let his fingers curl gently around her arms. ''The Lazy B needs a woman, Lee."
"I'm sure Patrick will show up with another woman, maybe a respectable one."
Her words galled him. Patrick again, but he knew she was alluding to the scene at the church. "I seldom give a damn about what people think. If I had had any idea this morning that"
She interrupted, trying unsuccessfully to smile. "They had their fun, and I've forgotten it. Almost."
"Best way to handle it." He wondered if she would forget Putnam. He wouldn't, not until he settled the score.
The wind rose during the night, rattling the windows, but died down by midmorning. T.K. rode in from checking the herds, arriving in time to see the Hy-Meadow preacher alight from his open buggy.
"Mr. Burke. T.K. I thought we might converse and leave the heated words of yesterday behind us."
"Did you remember you needed money for the church, Parson? Or perhaps you came to see the pretty lady yourself?"
The insult struck the man's putty face like a slap. "Oh, no. I had another reason, Mr. Burke, one that you and the young woman might like to consider, especially since a child's involved."
He had T.K.'s attention. "Is that so? What've you got on your mind?"
The man coughed discreetly; then as if by rote, he launched into his speech. "The lady's reputation is being questioned, and there are men who would consider her fair game. Since the child has a marked resemblance to you, have you considered marriage between you as a possible solution?"
The preacher and his congregation had not bought the story that Patrick would return to make her his bride. Alongside that startling fact was a picture of Lee DuBois with her shoulders bare, her hair loose over her breasts, lying with her head on his pillow.
"Are you a spokesman for your congregation, Parson?"
The man shuffled his feet. "We're a God-fearing community, Mr. Burke. We don't want to give our young people wrong ideas."
T.K. pulled the makings for a smoke from his pocket. "Wrong ideas always turn up if the woman is beautiful. It keeps the gossips occupied."
They both turned when they heard the door slam. Lee came toward them, hesitated suddenly recognizing the visitor, then continued her way. Her full breasts were clearly defined in the soft fabric of her shirt. Her hips were slender, molded seductively into pants T.K. had bought at the trading post.
T.K. looked at the preacher, whose gaze remained rooted to the attractive woman approaching them. As she drew nearer, the clergyman's face turned a mottled red. "I should be getting on," he mumbled. "It's getting late."
Enjoying the man's discomfort, T.K. became amiable. "No need to go, Preacher. It's the shank of the day. Besides I'm sure you'll want to speak to Miss DuBois again."
Using his little finger, T.K. flipped the ash off his cigarette. "You remember the parson, Lee." He offered her a tight smile, leaving her to guess at the reason for the minister's visit, then turned his attention to a point just above the man's head. "He's paying us a visit."
He watched as Lee faced the minister, her face serene. "I recognized the Hy-Meadow pastor. I would have known him anywhere. I hope I'm not interrupting something that doesn't concern me."
The Hy-Meadow pastor let his eyes linger on her male attire. He pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. "No, not at all, Miss Dewboze," he said hastily, "but I better be gettin' back."
When T.K. spoke, his words were insinuatingly smooth. "No need to rush, Parson. We're hospitable and most folks are welcome."
The man had had enough. Without a glance at Lee, he got into his buggy and picked up the reins. "Give my suggestion some thought, Mr. Burke." He circled his buggy, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
"You provided the preacher with an interesting picture. I imagine most of the women he knows ride sidesaddle."
"The preacher brought his picture with him. My apparel wouldn't have altered it." She gave a humorless laugh. "I came out to saddle Drum, but I don't feel much like riding now."
The masculine urge to protect tugged at him again. "Don't let what people say hurt you."
"Don't you?"
"Not usually."
"Toddie can't take up for himself."
The poignancy in her voice didn't escape him. "Toddie's too young to know."
"Doesn't it disturb you that the people in Hy-Meadow are wondering about Patrick's son?"
He watched her moist mobile mouth and observed the secrets hidden in
her brown eyes. He had to tell her the truth. "I've thought about it."
She didn't shrink from his words, but there was an aching loneliness in the glance she turned on him. "I've thought about it, too."
His brooding gaze stayed on her until she disappeared inside the house. She had spoken of taking Toddie and leaving. What would she and Toddie have done if he hadn't shown up at Boggy Creek at the time of the tornado? Where would she have gone? To whom? Patrick?
He kicked viciously at a clump of weeds. The holier-than-thou preacher had forced him to face reality. How long should he wait before telling her about Patrick's death? What if he married Lee BuDois himself, assuming she would have him, for the reasons suggested by the preacher, and Patrick, not dead at all, returned?
T.K. backed up to the wooden fence, hooked his heel over the bottom rail, and took out the makings for a smoke. He sprinkled tobacco into a paper and licked it shut. No use flattering himself. When Patrick jangled his spurs, the women came running. What would Lee do if Patrick were alive and came charging up to the front door? Would she choose husband or lover?
Chapter Five
T.K. rode into the little town of Dusty Flats ahead of the darkness and the tumbleweeds. He stood up in the stirrups to ease the weary muscles in his legs after his twenty-mile trip across the prairie, most of which belonged to him. In the distance, a coyote howled its eerie loneliness into the night air. The smell of smoldering trash drifted across his nostrils.
At the watering trough, T.K. stopped to let his horse drink before trotting on down the town's main street. He passed the hotel and general store and, farther on, the bank and barbershop. The Cookhouse Saloon beckoned with the biggest sign in town. T.K. followed.
Tired and dirty, he dismounted, flipped the reins over the hitching post, and pushed his way through the swinging doors. The place smelled of unwashed bodies, sweat, and whiskey. He looked around at the cowboys, drovers, a sprinkling of soldiers, and the usual coterie of laughing, garishly dressed girls.
When a high-spirited cowhand vented his good feelings with a loud yi-hoo, T.K.'s mouth quirked in amusement. The cowhands were separating themselves from their end-of-the-month wages with remarkable thoroughness.
It was a Saturday night not much different from the last time he was there. That night had ended in a free-for-all. The chances were pretty good that the present one would, too. He leaned against the bar and glanced up the stairs. "Whiskey, Curly."
The bartender followed his gaze. "Go on up, T.K. She ain't with nobody."
"I'd like to get a bath at the hotel first."
An hour later, he entered the room where Maggie Cook lived and practiced her ancient profession. The place was cluttered with exotic detail. Rich brocades covered comfortable, overstuffed chairs. Red velvet draped the windows and half the walls. The round gilt-edged mirrors revealed and imitated every bold intimacy, including any manifest action in the bed behind the beaded curtain.
Maggie was not around, so T.K. tossed his hat at a hat rack, sank into one of the chairs, and propped his long legs on the elaborately carved table. He let out a comfortable sigh and looked toward the sign marked personal. Maggie kept her private life behind that locked door.
He'd wondered more than once where Maggie was from and how she had come to settle in Dusty Flats. He'd heard she had a man, but the fellow's identity hadn't come to his attention. Probably one of MacKenzie's officers, which was not much of a recommendation. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Almost soundlessly, Maggie came through the private door. She walked up behind him and bent her head, her husky voice caressing his ear. "It's good to see you, honey. I've missed you." She massaged his neck and shoulders, her fingers, with their long well-kept nails, unerringly finding the fatigue spots.
After several moments, she lowered herself to a stool beside him and let her velvet-blue eyes stray over his powerful form. Her hand slid down his flat abdomen to the bulging force of him. "Anybody can see you've stayed away too long, T.K."
T.K. gave her a lazy grin. Maggie knew her business. "Reckon you're right, Maggie."
She wore a pink chiffon gown, allowing her full figure to show faintly through the sheer fabric. Her musky perfume hung heavily in the overly decorated room. Unlike most of the women in her trade, she wore little makeup except about the eyes and mouth. By adding touches of purple and silver to her lids and black to her brows, she made her eyes gleam like huge lapis coals. In the soft light, her pale complexion appeared flawless.
She laughed softly and made a calculating movement that not only bared a snowy shoulder, but also loosened the restraint of her voluptuous bosom. "Never known you to be away so long, honey."
With rueful appreciation, T.K. let his gaze linger on her exposed cleavage. "Tonight I have other things on my mind. I want to talk."
Her hand fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and slid in to stroke his naked chest. "Talk should come later, T.K."
Maggie could get a man's attention. She ran a brisk business, keeping a select clientele for herself, generously allowing her girls to take care of the lusty run-of-the-herd cowboys.
T.K. slumped farther into the chair to give her better access, then feathered a touch along the top of her breast. It was then that Lee's face blurred across his consciousness, and with it the real reason he had sought out Maggie Cook.
Reluctantly, he lifted Maggie's hand from where it tugged at his belt buckle. "Maggie, as much as I'd enjoy climbing into that big bed with you, and as much as I'd like to have that beautiful body accommodate mine, I'm here for another purpose."
The sensual sigh went out of her voice. In one graceful movement, she sought the comfort of a frayed chaise lounge and waved toward a whiskey bottle within easy reach. She smiled companionably. "You're paying for the time, T.K."
In the flickering light of brass candelebra, T.K. let his heavy-lidded gaze sweep over her smooth, expressionless face, her lavish bosom, and her naked thighs. He ached for release, but when he fantasized at night, it was not about Maggie Cook's body. He rose and poured himself a whiskey.
"What do you or your girls hear these days from the territory, Maggie?" In the heat of the moment, men sometimes mingled their sins and fantasies with bits of news. "Anything interesting?"
She pursed lightly rouged lips, at the same time smoothing her black hair arranged in seductive dishabille. "You know I never tell secrets, T.K."
"Dammit, Maggie. I don't expect you to call names. And I'm not interested in whether Joe Rancher is as much of a man as he boasts."
Her laugh tinkled like glass. "All right then. Colonel MacKenzie is turning his wolves lose on Grayhawk. The biggest wolf is Captain Ahab Smith. The girls call him Habby."
"So I've heard."
"The soldiers that come to see my girls laugh at Habby behind his back. He can't get the big Indian on the reservation. From what I hear, Grayhawk is quite an hombre. Some of the girls wouldn't com plain if he sneaked into their beds."
T.K. chuckled. "Grayhawk steals the army's horses. MacKenzie can't get the Comanches on the reservation until he has all the braves on foot. Truth of the matter is, the colonel's tired of looking like a damned fool, so he sent Smith to take the heat."
Maggie lifted a dismissive shoulder. "Ahab Smith's a bastard. So are most of his men."
Startled, T.K. stared at her. She didn't seem bitter. Maybe Maggie's lover wasn't a soldier. "Matter of opinion."
"I hear you have a young woman staying at your house. Is it true?"
He sat down again. He knew he had come to the right place. If Lee's past had circulated the area, Maggie would have wind of it. "Word seems to have gotten around. How did you hear? From Hy-Meadow or the Lazy B?"
"We have a pretty little quadroon who attracts the buffalo soldiers. Your Vesper is married to one of the regulars."
His mouth tightened. Vesper was a handsome, loyal woman. She had never mentioned her randy, philandering husband except with loving words. "I won't tell her, in case she has
n't heard, but she probably has."
Maggie cocked her head to throw him a provocative glance. "This new woman at your ranch. Is she the reason I'm losing Burke business?"
T.K. laughed at her. "Lee DuBois is Patrick's woman. She had his baby. A boy." He hesitated, then added unnecessarily, "She belongs to Patrick."
Maggie's eyes narrowed to pinpoints. "No woman belongs to a man, T.K. It's hard for me to believe Patrick's married."
"I didn't say they were married. I'm not sure Patrick would marry her even if he could be here."
"I never thought of Patrick as the marrying kind," she agreed sagely.
"Patrick's dead, Maggie."
T.K. was unprepared for the change in Maggie's countenance. Little by little, her face cracked under the assault of her surprise and pain. "My God." She walked unsteadily to pour herself a drink, tossed it down, then poured another. "When did this happen?"
He looked at the ceiling and counted. "March, April, May, June. About four months back. Maybe a little longer. Patrick got into a tough poker game. There was trouble and he lit out for Mexico. I haven't been able to find out what actually happened after that."
T.K. fought the harsh ache that invariably accompanied any thought or mention of his brother. A day didn't go by when he wasn't reminded of something he and Patrick had done together, some outrageous mischief his brother had snared him into. "Haven't been able to find the body for burial. The hell of it is, I may never be able to find it. This sounds crazy, but sometimes I feel he's still alive."
Color flooded back into Maggie's cheeks. She breathed deeply. "Who brought word of his death?"
"Jake rode in with it. At the last minute, I guess Patrick's conscience bothered him, or maybe claiming his son became important to him. Patrick wrote a letter asking me to look after Lee and Toddie. I staked them out at the Lazy. B a few months ago. I haven't told Lee about Patrick's death."
"Why not?"
"Jake didn't actually see Patrick die. In the meantime, there's the boy to think of. If Lee should find out that Patrick is dead, she might leave and take the boy with her."
A Leaf in the Wind Page 7