Mesmerized, Lucy stood immobile in the doorway of the parlor, where she’d been having tea with Miss Rathbone. She could hear the older woman’s footsteps behind her, and she knew without looking that Miss Rathbone had put on her sternest bulldog glare.
Elena put her hands up as if to ward off the young man’s emotion.
“His Honor sees visitors by appointment only.” Elena’s smooth, accented words gave no hint of welcome. “I will leave for him a message if you wish.”
“Cameron, are you in there? It’s Horace Singletary! Are you there?” he shouted past the woman. “Do you hear me? Papa’s dead, you bastard! Do you know what that means? It means I won’t rest until the truth’s out!”
From behind his thin-framed glasses, his gaze came to rest on Lucy, and in the space of a moment, his expression changed from fury to embarrassment. But in that fraction of a second that fell between the two, Lucy thought she recognized a flash of interest.
In the silence that followed, she imagined she could hear the beating of her heart. She revised her estimate. He was indeed a man, rather a handsome one despite his reddened eyes. His back straightened, and he took an audible breath.
“I — I do apologize . . .” His gaze flicked to take in both Miss Rathbone and Elena, then returned to Lucy once again. “I — I’m sorry for my outburst. It’s — it’s just that Papa has passed on.”
“I will leave your message for the judge,” Elena repeated coldly, and she began to close the door.
“Please don’t do that,” Lucy heard herself saying, though she could not imagine why. Didn’t she have enough problems of her own, without burdening herself with those of others? But there was something in the young man’s face that so compelled her, as if he were a mirror reflecting her own misery.
Before she realized what she was doing, she’d stepped forward and grasped the door’s edge, just above the knob.
“You’re upset,” she said consolingly. “You must come in and take some tea.”
Elena stepped back, her gaze accusing. “His Honor will not like this.”
Lucy turned to face her. “I am the mistress of this house now, and Judge Cameron is not home. So you’ll have to wait until he comes back to tattle.”
The lovely Spanish features hardened into fury. With a snort of disgust, Elena turned on her heel and muttered something about making the judge’s favorite chicken soup for lunch. Then she disappeared into the kitchen in a flurry of dark skirts.
The young man at the doorway flushed and tugged his collar. “It’s not right that I should come inside when you’re alone.”
But something in his gaze convinced her he wouldn’t mind being alone with her at all. She shook her head, berating herself for her wild imaginings. He had lost his father, for heaven’s sake. His mind could hardly conjure thoughts of romance, particularly not with the wife of a man he clearly hated.
“Nonsense,” she replied, offering her hand. “I’m not alone at all. Miss Rathbone’s here. We were just having a goodbye tea in the parlor. Come inside; tell me all about your father. Perhaps there’s something I can do to help.”
He touched her hand; it felt as if a spark leapt from his fingertips to hers. Surely, he had sensed it, too. Or else why had he drawn away so quickly?
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he told her. “There are arrangements I must see to. But I do hope you’ll forgive my outburst. It was never meant for ladies’ ears. And I won’t forget your kindness either, Miss — I mean Missus Cameron.”
“It’s Lucy. I insist.”
He bowed stiffly at the waist. “Goodbye then, Lucy. I hope ‘His Honor’ appreciates what a lady he has wed.”
He left then, and she watched him mount his horse and ride away.
Lucy turned toward an odd, wheezing sound. Miss Rathbone was holding a kerchief to her eyes.
“You’re ill?” Lucy asked. It seemed no more likely than the moon dropping from the heavens or the endless prairie suddenly overgrown with trees. She’d always thought Miss Rathbone more a force of nature than a person, who might grow sick or even die.
But when Miss Rathbone moved her kerchief, Lucy saw a most amazing sight, the woman’s teeth. Small and sharp looking, they appeared to smile, even to laugh. Such a thing was not to be imagined!
“So he wonders if Judge Cameron realizes what a ‘lady’ he has wed?” Miss Rathbone said, retreating toward her own room, presumably to pack. Her laughter and her words receded down the hall. “So do I, dear Lucy. So do I.”
Lucy felt heat rising to her face as her eyes narrowed with fury. “I hope highwaymen beset your stagecoach!” she muttered. Somehow that didn’t seem enough, so she imagined Miss Rathbone other hardships: the Harvey Houses boarded up, leaving the passengers to suffer vermin-ridden biscuits, railcars crowded with uncouth Westerners, wild Indians forcing the train off the tracks.
When those scenarios failed to cheer her, Lucy consoled herself by remembering Horace Singletary’s eyes. Beyond the rims of his glasses and redness of his fresh grief, they were very blue.
So very blue. Like David’s.
* * *
Esteban’s English wasn’t a whole lot better than Quinn’s Spanish, but by using simple words and gestures, Quinn explained that they were fleeing outlaws who had attacked Anna’s cabin. They needed food and rest to recover.
The vaquero helped Quinn carry Anna to the house and insisted that she take the only bedroom. As Esteban pulled back a blanket woven with bright bands of color, Quinn laid her gently in the bed and loosened the top buttons of her shirt. As he did, she groaned and shifted restlessly. Still, Quinn reasoned, she’d feel better after resting, so the pair left her alone.
Esteban raided Señora Rodriguez’s larder for tortillas and smoked sausage that he called chorizo, then left to rob the rancho’s hens of eggs. The two men worked together to cook a hearty breakfast, though Quinn’s part mainly consisted of helping to light the cast iron cook stove fire.
As he gulped the reheated coffee the cowboy offered, Quinn hoped the thick brew would revive him. He concentrated on keeping his eyes open until Esteban removed the skillet from the heat.
As Esteban had before him, Quinn scooped scrambled eggs and fried chorizo into a flat, round tortilla. Then he drizzled the red sauce the Mexican used and rolled up the concoction. Half of the mixture fell out the tortilla’s back end as he bit into it, but he wasn’t sorry. The heat from the red sauce was so blistering that all he tasted was the pain. He grabbed his mug of coffee but hesitated, his gaze sweeping the kitchen for something cool to ease the heat.
Esteban’s laughter rattled the plates in the señora’s china cabinet. He set down Quinn’s portion for the dog, who bolted it down too quickly to even taste it, much less suffer burns. Once the cowhand recovered from his mirth, he wrapped another burrito, as he called it, and passed it to Quinn.
“Not so caliente this time,” he promised. The tips of his thick, black mustache still quivered with the effort of poorly restrained humor.
Quinn noticed he had left off the red sauce on this one, so he tried the roll-up, more cautiously than before. Now that the throbbing of his wounded taste buds had diminished, he relished the combination of the flat but tender bread, mellow eggs, and slightly spicy bits of seasoned sausage. His stomach had not been happier in days.
Anna staggered into the kitchen, her eyes bleary with fatigue. Her loose hair was tousled, reminding Quinn of times that he had bedded her so long ago.
“Weren’t you going to invite me to breakfast?” She turned her coolest gaze on him. “Or don’t you feed your prisoners?”
Quinn flinched, wishing he could un-say what he’d told her about the way he’d felt. Remembering her fainting spell, he tried to console himself by imagining she would forget his declaration. It wasn’t that his feelings had changed one iota. His timing, on the other hand, had left a great deal to be desired.
Turning her attention from him, Anna conversed with Esteban in swift, torrential
Spanish, words that blended until they became as indistinct as water. Although he busied himself rolling another burrito, Quinn hated being left out of the conversation. For all he knew, Anna was telling the ranch hand her own one-sided story of how she’d been bound and forced to leave the canyon. The two of them might be plotting against him while he sat here eating.
Esteban’s smile faltered, and he quickly crossed himself. Anna, too, looked grim. But the vaquero never glanced his way, let alone glared or made a move toward the gun-butt stuck into his belt. And Quinn pulled Hamby’s name out of the flood of Spanish, so he imagined Anna was describing the outlaw and his crimes.
For several more minutes, Anna and Esteban conversed. Then the cowhand packed some food into a leather satchel and called, “Adios.”
There. Finally, Quinn could pick out one word he understood. He impressed himself by stringing together a pair. “Adios, and gracias!”
The door closed, and Anna turned her gaze on him and switched to English. “He’s seen what Hamby and his men can do. He was hired to help protect the rancho, but he’s riding after the Rodriguez family to be certain they’re all right. He insists we make ourselves at home for as long as necessary. These people are not only my patients, they’re my friends. If they were here, they’d tell me what is theirs is mine.”
“Good. I can’t wait to settle into a soft bed with real linens.”
Anna’s expression hardened. “Esteban suggested you’d be comfortable in his bunk. The shed’s just down the path.”
He remembered his panicked ride to find her, his terror at the thought she would be dead. He didn’t mean to settle for a bunkhouse, didn’t think he could survive so far from her. “Anna, I’m so tired, I swear you wouldn’t have to worry. Besides, it’s not as if we haven’t been sleeping in the same room for weeks.”
“Then, there was no choice.” She skewered him with a gaze as cold and hard as steel. “Now, I prefer to share the room with Notion.”
She turned and poured fresh water into the washbowl to clean her hands.
Quinn fixed her a burrito and slathered on enough hot sauce to melt the snowcaps off the mountains to the north. When she turned around, he pushed the plate toward her.
She rewarded him with a stiff nod, and for a moment he felt guilty about his childish retaliation. But the moment passed, and he watched eagerly as she bit into the tortilla.
She didn’t even break a sweat. Instead, after a bite or two, she reached for the small clay pot and added to the inferno.
He supposed that when a woman had hellfire running through her veins, she didn’t mind it so much in her mouth.
* * *
The moment Quinn left to find his borrowed bunk, Anna shoved half a plain tortilla in her mouth. She had long ago discovered that gulping water only intensified the burning, and she didn’t want to imagine — much less suffer — anything hotter than this fire.
She wiped tears from her eyes. Madre de Dios, she had forgotten just how spicy the Rodriguez family made their salsa! After living in the area so long, Anna had learned to enjoy food seasoned with the fruit of the chile. But her taste buds were Yankee born and bred; she’d never been able to tolerate anything so hot.
Curse Ryan for his mischief — and curse her stubbornness as well. She’d heaped on more torment just to prove that she was tougher — the same foolish machismo she had long disdained in men.
Grateful that the heat was abating, she drank a cup of cooling coffee, all the while fighting a smile that tugged the corners of her mouth. She’d seen Quinn watching her, trying to appear nonchalant while waiting for her to erupt like a volcano, for her eyes to overflow. She gave in to temptation and grinned, absurdly pleased with her performance. Maybe a touch of machismo wasn’t so bad after all.
She must be giddy with exhaustion, she thought as she struggled to her feet. Exhaustion and relief, despite the fact that the outlaws might have other horses, that they could find Quinn and her at any time.
But she could only think of hauling her stiff body into a clean bed and sleeping for a while. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the possibility that resting now might be a dangerous mistake.
* * *
Anna stood before the chamber set that rested on the mirrored stand. She watched herself brush out her tangled hair, then begin unbuttoning her torn and soiled shirt with a right hand that no longer throbbed with pain. Yet her brain pulsed a reminder of how Quinn had last loosened these buttons, how his warm fingertips had touched what lay beneath. Her breasts ached at the memory, unleashing a flood of others. How his lips had followed errant fingers, kissing at her neck, her hardened nipples. A long-extinguished fire flared to life inside her, heating her body with desire for a man she’d robbed and wronged six years before.
A man just a few short steps away in a bunkhouse, as if he were her hired hand. She groaned in frustration, banishing temptation. She was merely tired, that was all. So very, very tired.
Her soiled shirt dropped to the wood floor. She dipped a fresh white cloth into the cool water, wrung it, used it to wash the dirt from her arms, her back, her breasts . . . The mirror showed dark bruises scattered like constellations in reverse.
She pulled off her boots and socks, then unbuttoned the dusty jeans and slid them down. To continue washing off the stain of Hamby’s touch.
She shuddered, thinking of the outlaw, somehow sensing that eyes were on her now. She glanced into the window, saw the silhouette behind her of a man — the upper half of a tall man framed by the window. The filmy curtains blew around him like a shroud.
Spinning rapidly, she stooped to snatch up her clothing, to try to cover her nude body.
“Too late, bitch” he said, climbing through the open window. One brown eye stared at her; the other angled sideways. “I’ve seen everything I want.”
He was on her then; she saw the bright blade flashing. His hand tightened around her throat, choking back her screams.
Her screams that came from somewhere, fighting past sleep’s barrier.
She fought wildly, fists slamming into his chest, his face. She was struggling on . . . the bed? He pinned her hands down, shouting past her terror.
“Anna! Anna! It’s just me! Stop fighting — please, stop fighting!”
Quivering with terror, her scream changed to a sob. The sheets were drenched with sweat, as they always were after one of her nightmares. At last, she recognized the handsome face above her, Quinn’s. Her flailing limbs grew still.
She saw the swelling smudge beneath his left eye. “I hit you?”
He released her shoulders and nodded, than sat against a pillow he propped up on the headboard. “I came when I heard you screaming. You didn’t know me. Your eyes were open, but you were seeing — something else.”
She sat up and leaned her head against his bare chest. She wanted him to hold her, to help her stop her trembling, to make the fear recede.
“I’m sorry that I hurt you,” she whispered, conscious for the first time of the thinness of the nightgown she had borrowed once she’d washed. Conscious of the difference in the shadows of the room, the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the open window. She must have slept for hours before she’d dreamed.
“What did you see, Anna?”
She shook her head against him. His few coarse chest hairs tickled against her chin, but otherwise, he felt so warm, so solid. She never wanted him to let her go.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I just want it to go away.”
He stroked her hair, as if she were a small child, then softly kissed the top of her head. She arched her neck back, slowly, until his kisses fell upon her mouth.
His strength flowed into her, skin to skin and lips to lips. A strength so gentle that it soothed her body’s shaking, so natural that it felt like coming home.
He broke off the kiss first, though he held her so close she felt his words fan warmth against her cheek. “I want you, Anna. I have always wanted you, but never more than I do now.�
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She stroked the stubble of his cheek. “This won’t change anything between us. It won’t change what’s past.”
“But we’ve changed so much. We’re not who we were then. What happened was another life, another woman. You’re so much more than she was.”
“It still hurts, just the same. Too many reminders, too many regrets.” She turned to lean her back against his chest.
“What I regret is letting you go back to the cabin, not admitting to myself — or you — the way I feel. I could have lost you, Anna. For a while, I thought I had. It was dark when I rode back, but I could see you. I could see them killing you inside my mind.”
Fear prickled up her neck, and she shuddered at the echo of her nightmare in his words.
He wrapped his arms around her, held her. “I realized then, I love you. What I saw and loved of Annie Faith was only her potential, the woman she was destined to become.”
“‘My only love sprung from my only hate,’” she quoted, her voice trembling as it had with the nightmare.
“But this time,” he continued, reaching forward, his hands settling gently on her breasts, “this time it’s not too late.”
Her head rolled back and she leaned against him, enjoying the fire his touch provoked. The way he cupped her breasts, the way his thumbs stroked her nipples. She ached with need for him and longing. Longing to possess and be possessed.
He rolled her over, pinioning her gently on the bed, and she could not stop his kisses, could not stop herself from kissing back, her mouth opening as if to drink him in.That served only to inflame him, and his lips trailed moist kisses down to her neckline, which he pulled down to expose her breasts. She felt the heat of his mouth suckling, and her body arched, wild with its want.
He paused to pull off his clothing, and in those moments, she peeled away her borrowed gown. When he returned to her, she touched him. Her hands remembered all the things he’d taught her long ago. Her heart remembered the long-forgotten joy of pleasing him.
And as she caressed him, his fingers and his lips did not forget her either. He consumed her with his kisses, stroked the source of all her heat. Then he pulled his body above her, and satisfied the craving he had been meant to fill. Again, again, he thrust deep inside her. Her hips arched toward a rhythm that both felt but neither heard. Faster, faster, like the hoof beats of the swiftest racehorse, the pounding of their hearts.
Canyon Song Page 18