by Diana Palmer
Still she didn't move. The thought of being closeted with her worst enemy was disconcerting. She didn't want him to see how vulnerable she was to him.
"I said," he added very quietly, holding her eyes, "close the door."
She tried one last time. "It's improper," she said.
"In this house, in the absence of my father, I decide what is and is not improper. Do as I say."
His look was calculating. Amelia almost rebelled. But she was tired and worn. She gave in and gently closed the door.
Something flashed in King's eyes before he averted them to the ashtray in which he flicked ashes from his long cigar. He'd hoped to prod her temper, to see if she had reserves of that spunk he'd seen only once, when she was with Marie's children. But he couldn't make it happen. Perhaps she really was the weakling she appeared to be when her father was close by.
Amelia sat down in the chair facing the desk, on its very edge, with her hands clutched together in her lap.
"I went into town today. I met an acquaintance of your father who asked if Alan's engagement to you had been announced."
She was shocked. "What?"
"It seems that your father has in mind inciting my brother to marry you," he said without preamble. "And that he has advertised this intention to certain of his acquaintances in banking."
Her lips opened to protest, but she saw the uselessness of it. "Whatever my father's intentions, Alan is only my friend," she said. How could her father have been so indiscreet?!
King's eyes flashed dangerously. "Be his friend, by all means, if it pleases you. But marriage is out of the question," he added deliberately. "I strongly advise you to repulse any attempt my brother may make to form an alliance with you."
She worked at composing her face. "May I ask why?"
"My brother needs a strong woman," he said simply. "You have hidden talents, I admit. But you are hardly my idea of the modern woman. Your father tells you how and when to breathe, Miss Howard," he added coldly, leaning forward to spear her with his gaze. "A woman who is so easily led by a parent will be quite unable to cope even with a man as genteel as my brother, much less with life on a ranch the size of this one."
He seemed to think nothing of piling insults on her head. She could hardly believe what she was hearing.
"Mr. Culhane, your brother and I are friends," she emphasized. "I assure you that he no more wants to marry me than I want to marry him. As to the other, my father has said nothing of this to either of us, I assure you!"
He was watching her with that steady unblinking stare that made her fidget nervously. "And if he had, what would you have told him?"
She went very still and averted her face.
He saw the faint movement of her body. "Why are you afraid of your father?" he asked curtly.
The question rattled her. "You are mistaken," she faltered.
"Am I?" He lifted the cigar to his firm mouth, still holding her gaze. "My mother tells me that she has invited you to the Valverde fiesta Friday evening."
"Unless you object ?"
"It would be dangerous to leave a young woman here unattended. Of course you will accompany us." His eyes narrowed speculatively. "Perhaps we can find a suitable young man to escort you."
She stood up very calmly. "I do not require an escort, but thank you, Mr. Culhane, for your consideration." Let him chew on that for a while, she thought with faint triumph.
He leaned back in the chair again, watching her. He always seemed to be watching her, she thought.
"Quinn said that you never kept company with a man," he remarked abruptly.
"There was no time for such frivolous behavior," she replied as she moved to the door. "I had younger brothers to take care of, until they died, and the house to keep."
"Your mother did very little."
"My mother was an invalid," she said with a faint sharpness to her tone. "She was unable to care for the house."
He was silent. The cigar sat smoking in his lean hand. Her carriage was very proud, he noted. She had an innate dignity about her that sat oddly beside her cowardice.
"You are twenty. It is time you married."
"So long as my choice falls short of Alan," she agreed.
He glowered, looking for sarcasm in her lovely face, but it was calm and quite composed.
"I have plans for Alan."
"So he tells me," she replied. "You and my father are two of a kind, Mr. Culhane."
"An insult, Miss Howard?" he asked.
She turned to the door. "You must apply your own interpretation."
She left him without waiting to be dismissed, closing the door quickly behind her. Her heart was hammering as she went to rejoin Mrs. Culhane in the kitchen. The odd little exchange left her breathless and exhilarated. No man of her acquaintance had ever had the effect on her that King Culhane did.
The week passed slowly. Amelia and King's mother sewed, worked in the kitchen garden, and did the routine chores, like washing clothes. Wash day was a long and drawn-out chore that took almost a full day every week. It involved some heavy lifting, so assistance from two of King's men had to be requisitioned. They had to fill the huge wash tubs with water for washing and rinsing, and the big black kettle on the fire had to be replenished with water and bleach for boiling the white things to get them clean.
At least twice a week, chickens were killed and cleaned and cooked, not only by Enid but also by the small, wizened man who cooked for the cowboys in the bunkhouse. A calf was often butchered for the men, with some for the household kitchen as well. Other meats, from hogs butchered the past fall and made into sausage and hams, and steers, hung in the smokehouse until they were needed. Breads and canned vegetables from last summer's harvest constituted the major part of meals. That would be true until the garden that had been planted earlier in the month was yielding fresh vegetables.
King spent long hours in the saddle and away from the house, to Amelia's eternal gratitude. She was very relaxed when she didn't have to worry about the sharp side of King's tongue.
In fact, without her father's fearful presence, she was like a different woman. She was relaxed and gay. Enid noticed the sudden change with sly interest, but she never said a word.
Amelia took a few minutes late one afternoon to gather some early spring flowers in the meadow under the mesquite trees. It was a lovely March day, just the right temperature, with the sun making soft shadows on the ground. She felt free as she gazed at the high peaks of the mountains in a chain around the horizon. If only she could jump on a horse and ride away, far away, and never have to worry about her father's health again!
But at least he wasn't here now, she told herself. She was free. Free!
She laughed and spread her arms, dancing around in a circle to an imaginary waltz, her heart so full of the beauty of her surroundings that she felt near to bursting.
The sound of horse's hooves startled her and froze her in an awkward position with her skirts flying around her ankles. She stopped so suddenly that she almost fell over.
King reined in under a big mesquite limb and stared down at her from under the shadowy brim of his black hat.
"Have you gone mad in the sun?" he asked politely.
"Perhaps I have," she said. She felt cold even in the hot sun with his icy eyes biting into her.
"I wanted to warn you not to stray far from the house," he said solemnly. "A couple of Mexicans have shot a rancher just over the mountain from here. They haven't been apprehended."
Her hand went to the high lace collar at the throat of her green gingham dress. "Oh, my."
"There's no need for immediate concern. My men will watch the house. But don't go far."
"I won't." She noticed the sidearm he was wearing. That was new to her, the old black gun belt with the nickle-plated .45 Colt swinging from it, its worn black handle speaking of use.
His eyes followed her gaze. "My father gave it to me when I turned eighteen," he informed her. "It went with me when I joined Colon
el Wood and Colonel Roosevelt in Cuba in '98 and we charged up Kettle Hill to route the Spanish."
"Yes, I remember. You fought in the Spanish-American War. So did Quinn, in the same volunteer cavalry." She remembered how worried she'd been, for both of them. Alan hadn't gone. College had been much more important to him than fighting a war.
"Quinn enjoyed soldiering," he told her. "Probably that's why becoming a Ranger had such appeal for him. We had two Texas Rangers in our immediate outfit. Quinn became pals with them."
This was the first time he'd ever really spoken to her as a person instead of a nuisance. She found herself smiling.
"Our uncle was a peace officer in Missouri," she said. "He was killed by outlaws in a bank robbery."
He nodded. Quinn had related the story often in their college days. He leaned over the pommel, and his eyes went to the bouquet in her slender hands. "What are those for?"
"The dinner table," she said. "Enid asked me to pick them."
"My mother loves flowers." His eyes lifted to hers. "Do you?"
"Oh yes. Back home I had a rose garden," she told him. She looked around with patent disappointment. "I don't suppose roses live out here"
"Some do," he said. "But other kinds of flowers do better. I'll take you out on the desert one day, Miss Howard, if you survive a west Texas summer, and show them to you."
"Would you?" she asked with undisguised pleasure, her soft brown eyes lighting up as she looked at him.
Those eyes made him uneasy. The old, familiar turbulence that he didn't understand tugged at him and made him vulnerable. He'd avoided Amelia for years to stay them, but now she was captivating him all over again. At least Darcy didn't manage to drain his resolve. He found her attractive and even desirable, but he wanted her only with his mind, not with his emotions. Amelia made him feel as if tender fingers were stroking his heart. He wanted her until it was painful.
"I have to get back to work," he said abruptly, sitting up straight. "Remember what I said." He wheeled the horse gently and trotted off the way he'd come.
Amelia watched him go, enthralled by the picture he made in the saddle, long and lean and elegant.
As if he sensed her rapt stare he pulled the horse to a halt and abruptly turned in the saddle to look back at her.
She made a pretty picture in the setting sun, with her golden hair haloed by the fiery colors on the horizon. She looked fragile somehow, and lonely. He looked at her for a long moment before he could force himself to move on.
Amelia, having seen that unexpected stare, was touched by it and vaguely discomforted. She sincerely hoped that King wasn't going to start anything. The last thing in the world she needed was to find herself involved with a man as domineering and overbearing as her fatherwhom she was desperate to escape.
Friday arrived. Amelia and Enid had taken two days to sew their respective dresses on the Singer treadle sewing machine in the parlor. Amelia's was made of crisp lavender taffeta with puffy sleeves and an overlay of rich lavender chiffon. Appliquéd lace adorned the bodice and hem in a copy of a Charles Worth design that featured a narrow waist with a gored skirt. It looked very feminine and elegant, and she wore her upswept blond hair in a small tiara of artificial white roses.
"How lovely you look," Enid told her with genuine affection.
"Oh, so do you," Amelia said, smiling. And the older woman did look very elegant in her own gown of green taffeta.
Both women wore long, opera length white gloves and carried purses decorated with seed pearls. Amelia's had belonged to her mother. How fortunate, she thought, that she had it in her cases.
King joined them in the parlor, resplendent in a vested dark suit and a four-handed tie. His black boots were highly polished, and his immaculate dark hair was topped by a new black Stetson.
"My, how handsome you look," his mother said warmly.
His eyebrow jerked at the flattery. His silver eyes went to Amelia and slid over her with something approximating distaste. He made her feel inadequate and dowdy, unusual feelings for a woman whose beauty had not gone unnoticed despite her lack of a social life.
She moved a step away from him, pretending interest in smoothing her dark cloak. The cloak would be needed, because it was still cool at night.
"I'll bring the surrey around," he said curtly and went off to fetch it.
"I prefer the buggy, but these dresses won't ride comfortably if we're packed in like sardines," Enid said, laughing. "We'll let King sit in front, and we'll ride behind."
Amelia smiled, but secretly she was relieved. It didn't make her feel particularly secure to have to sit beside King and try to make conversation. Especially when he made his dislike of her so evident.
"Come along, my dear." Enid motioned to Amelia. There was an ominous rumbling outside, and the older woman grimaced. "Oh, dear, I do hope the rain holds off until we arrive. I don't want to get my skirt muddy before the first dance!" A sentiment which Amelia echoed fervently.
It didn't rain the whole long, bumpy way to the Valverde estate, several miles down the winding dirt road. The sandy trail was firmly packed, but Amelia didn't like to consider how treacherous it would be when rained upon. She and Quinn had once been in a buggy that mired down in Georgia when rains badly muddied the road to church. Even the strong horse Quinn had hitched to the buggy couldn't pull it out. They were forced to ride the horse home, pillion, and Amanda's dignity and her legs felt the strain of it that night. Fortunately in the dark, she hadn't been seen.
King pulled up in front of the porch and helped the women out before he went down to the stable to leave the horse and surrey with the stable hand.
The house was well lighted, its broad front porch full of costumed people drinking punch and conversing, while inside a small band played gay music.
"You'll enjoy this," Enid assured her. "Come. I'll introduce you to our host and hostess."
Enid had told Amelia before that the Valverdes were descendants of Spanish settlers who had been granted a huge tract of land here before the war with Mexico. After the Spanish were driven out of the territory, American settlers were invited in by Mexico. Soon afterward however, the American settlers demanded their independence from Mexico, and war broke out. The Valverde descendants had, by that time, been accepted by American settlers and were part of the independence movement. They retained their huge land grant mainly, Enid said, tongue-in-cheek, because they had enough cowboys to fend off interlopers.
Horace Valverde and his wife Dora were short, dark, and rather reserved. Dora welcomed them with more warmth than her husband, motioning for Darcy to come and join them.
"Have you met our daughter, Darcy, Miss Howard?" she asked Amelia.
"Yes," Amelia said with a quiet smile. "It's nice to see you again, Miss Valverde."
"We're glad that you could come," Darcy said carelessly. She beamed at Enid. "My, you do look lovely!" she added, toadying to the older woman. "Did you buy that gown?"
"You know that I sew my own clothes." Enid chuckled, flattered. "Amelia made hers as well. She's quite accomplished at copying designs she likes."
"Why, yes, your gown does remind me of one I saw in New York," Dora agreed, giving Amelia's gown a second look. "It's a Charles Worth design, isn't it, my dear?"
"Yes, it is," Amelia said, flushing as King joined them, catching the tail end of the conversation.
"King! How dashing you look!" Darcy enthused, taking his arm prisoner with no attempt at formality. "Everyone's ignoring my lovely Jacques Doucet original from Paris," she added with pouting lips.
"You know you always look lovely to me, whatever you wear," King said with a warm, genuine smile.
Amelia felt chilled. Darcy's gown, while it might have flattered a taller woman, made the short, dark Darcy look like an ice cream sundae. The woman was attractive but hardly a beauty. And expensive designer gowns made little difference. Perhaps King loved her and saw her with the eyes of the heart. Imagine him in love, she thought wildly, and had to force
herself not to laugh. He seemed the last man on earth to succumb to a woman's charm.
"Well, who is this vision?" a pleasant male voice enquired, and a tall, blond man with a mustache came up to stand beside King. But it was Amelia, not Darcy, at whom he was staring appreciatively.
"Miss Amelia Howard," Dora said, "this is Ted Simpson, our friend from Boston."
"I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Howard," he said formally, bowing.
"And I, you, sir," she returned, making him a slight curtsy. She smiled up at him unreservedly, because he reminded her of her brother, and she liked him immediately. He wasn't broody or mercurial, and at least he made her feel attractive.
"Would you care to dance?"
"I should be delighted," she told him, and immediately took the arm he preferred. "If you'll excuse me," she said to Enid.
"Certainly, my dear."
King watched them walk away, chattering animatedly, with silver eyes that were positively grim.
"Don't they suit?" Dora asked innocently. "She's very pretty, your houseguest."
"I suppose she's stuck up," Darcy said cattily. "Most pretty women are. Helpless, too, I imagine, and not much use around the house. Can she ride?"
"I don't believe she does," Enid said, taken aback by the criticisms.
"Can you see her on a horse?" King asked with cold sarcasm, shocking his mother even further. "She's a chocolate box beauty with no spirit and even less imagination."
"You seem to know her rather well, to make such easy comparisons," Darcy probed.
King shrugged. "Her brother and I have been best friends for many years. I know Miss Howard only from the vantage point of an infrequent visitor to their home."
"I see." Darcy moved closer to him. "You don't like her, then?"
"Darcy, really, what a question!" Dora laughed nervously.
"No, I don't like her," King replied bluntly, one corner of his wide mouth curling up with contempt as he stared at her and Ted on the dance floor. "She won't last long out here."
Enid started to speak, her angry eyes eloquent, but King forestalled her.
"Shall we dance?" King asked Darcy, and, nodding to his mother and Darcy's, he escorted her inside to the living room with the other dancers.