by Diana Palmer
Her lack of suitors was due as much to her own repugnance of men as to her father's watchfulness. She remembered King's mouth on her wrist and palm, though, and wondered vaguely at the pleasure it had given her, at the sensations it had produced in her virginal body.
King had felt that same pleasure, she was certain of it. She had, after all, seen his hand shake. Amazing, she marveled, that he despised her but could still be attracted to her. Not that he wanted to be, she realized. He'd made that very plain to his mother. She turned her hot cheek into the pillow. A minute later, she pillowed it on the wrist that King had kissed and went to sleep.
The trail had grown cold for Quinn. He lost it in the Guadalupes and had just started, reluctantly, back down to the valley below, when he spotted three riders with pack mules in the distance.
In the wilderness, it paid to be careful. He withdrew his rifle from its saddle sheath and urged his mount slowly down the path, his keen dark eyes never leaving the distant riders. He worked his way down and around behind them, using all his skills not to be detected.
When they stopped and dismounted, he did, also. He moved quietly through the underbrush in a stop/start motion like that of an animal. Only man, he knew, made rhythmic footsteps.
He hesitated just at the edge of their camp with his rifle ready. But there was something familiar about those men, especially the eldest.
When he realized his mistake, he laughed out loud. The sound brought the three men around, the oldest one reaching for his sidearm before he recognized Quinn.
"For heaven's sake!" Brant Culhane chuckled, holstering his pistol. He went forward to shake the Ranger's hand. "What are you doing way up here?"
"Tracking Rodriguez," he told Brant. "Hello, Father. And you, Alan."
"Rodriguez is dead, they say," Brant Culhane mused. " Or invisible."
"He is neither, I assure you," Quinn said wearily. "I grow tired of pursuing him however. How is Amelia?"
"Very well," Hartwell said curtly. "She is staying with Enid while we're away."
Quinn frowned. "And King?" he added.
"Certainly, and King," Hartwell muttered. His dislike of King was apparent. "Your absence of late has been felt. Have you lost all interest in your family?"
Only in watching you browbeat my sister with no recourse, he almost said. He stared at his parent with quiet hostility, wondering as he did a great deal these days at the shocking change in their father's personality over the past few years. "My duties require a great deal of travel," he said noncommittally. "King is well?"
"Disgustingly healthy, as usual," Brant said with a smile. "Roundup is in full swing. He'll be cursing when I get home, but we were losing a lot of cattle to a mountain lion. I hope to bag him while we're up here."
"Good luck, then. I have to move along."
"You could spend the night, surely," Hartwell complained.
"I could not," Quinn countered lazily. "I have to make a stop in Juarez on the way back to confer with the Mexican authorities. I'll see you soon, Father, in El Paso."
"As you say."
Quinn said his good-byes, and when he was riding back toward Texas, he thought bitterly that his father got worse by the day. The man who had once been congenial and tolerant was now inflexible and contemptuous of everyone he considered his inferior.
Quinn pitied Amelia. Something must be done about her situation. She had changed since his removal from home, first away to war and then into the Rangers. The bright, happy girl he remembered from her childhood had gone forever. She was somber and quiet and frightened. He wished she could talk to him, tell him what troubled her. At least she was safe for the moment at Latigo. King might not like her, but he would take care of her.
He crossed the Rio Grande eventually and rode down through the mountains toward Juarez. It was dark now, and he camped for the night, his guns ready. A sound caught his attention, a movement in the rocks as if someone had stumbled and fallen.
His pistol in hand, he moved carefully around the boulders to see what the source of the commotion was. He found a dark-haired young boy in worn jeans and sandals and a stained gray poncho lying in an awkward position at the bottom of a small incline, groaning.
"Are you all right?" he asked in English.
" No hablo ," he murmured painfully.
" ¿Usted es Mexicano ?" he asked immediately in Spanish.
" Sí ," he replied. " ¿De donde es ?"
" Estoy de los Estados Unidos ," he replied. "El Paso."
" Ah. El Paso del Norte ," he said, grimacing. " Puede ayudarme? Mi pierna pienso que es quebrado ."
He thought that he had broken his leg, did he? Quinn didn't think so. He examined it and found no breaks. A sprain, probably, but it wouldn't hurt any less. He explained that to the boy and asked if he was alone. There was an odd look in his eyes.
" Mi compañero va allá ," he said, gesturing toward Juarez. " No sé cuando está ."
He could derive no more information. The more he questioned the boy, the more belligerent and frightened he became, as if he had something to hide. He was amazingly reticent.
"Here, then," he murmured, falling back into more comfortable English, "let's get you to the fire."
He holstered his sidearm and lifted the boy. He needed a bath, he thought wryly.
"God, you stink," he murmured.
Amazingly, he understood him. His lips pulled into a shy smile. "I have a run-in with a, como se dice , a polecat," he told him in broken English.
"A skunk!"
" Sí . It no come off, yes?"
"It no come off, no." He shook his head. He appeared to be stuck with the boy for the time being. He hoped his nose would survive.
"Do you have a name?" he asked when he put the young man down at the small camp fire. " ¿Como se llama ?" he added.
" Me llamo Juliano Madison ," he replied. " Soy de Chihuahua ."
" Con mucho gusto ," he said gallantly, wondering at the boy's last name. His eyes were very light. He might be a mixture of Mistizo and white.
" El gusto es mio ," he returned politely. "I would die for a cup of coffee," he added on a groan.
"Aren't you a bit young to drink it?" Quinn asked, puzzled.
"I am sixteen, señor ," the boy replied tersely. "Not a man yet, es verdad , but not a boy. Díos mio , if only I had been a man ! Papa, he will kill me."
"Oh, I see. You snuck off from home, is that it?" He chuckled. "Well, fathers aren't so bad, sometimes. He's probably worried." He knelt by the camp fire. "You can have the coffee. And a nip of brandy to help the pain," he said, fishing out his brandy flask.
" Señor , you have saved my life. When I lost my horse, I thought I would surely die, bumping about in the dark." His face hardened. "Manolito will die, of a certainty, for what he has done this night. My papa will slit his ugly throat!"
"You have family in Mexico?"
"Only my papa and my three uncles," he said.
"I think they need to take better care of you, if you don't mind my saying so," he mused dryly.
"I failed my papa," he said heavily, grimacing as he shifted his hurt leg. "Manolito got drunk in Del Rio and didn't want to leave. And, Díos , what he did to her ! Papa will kill him, or I will! They ran me out of town, so I was going home to bring the others. And this has to happen!"
"Where are you bound?"
"Chihuahua," he said reluctantly.
Quinn was wary of the boy's reticence. His profession made him that way.
"Here. See if this doesn't help your leg."
The boy took the cup he offered and sipped. "Why, it is good coffee," he said, surprised.
"One learns to make it so, eventually."
"Why are you down here, señor ?" he queried after a minute.
He hesitated. It wouldn't do to tell the boy who he was or why he was here. Most Mexicans loved Rodriguez. "I have to see the Mexican authorities on some financial business."
The boy studied him, his huge pale eyes unblinking on the
blond man's face. "You mean, money matters?"
Quinn pulled back his vest closer over the five-pointed silver star under it. "Yes. I'm in banking in Texas."
The boy's hands trembled around the cup, and he winced.
"What is it?" he asked.
"My leg it hurts me," he added, rubbing it.
"How about a spot of brandy?" he asked, smiling.
He poured some into a cup and handed it to the boy, who took it gratefully. Quinn fixed a place for him to sleep, deciding that it would be as well to leave the boy at the nearest village and let him rest before continuing all the way home. But the one thing he was not going to do was turn his back. He'd sleep with his gun in his hand tonight, just in case. The boy had shifty eyes, forever looking around as if he was being chased. Quinn didn't want to risk having his throat slit in his sleep by that grimy hand holding the tin coffee cup.
King was badly out of humor Sunday morning. He drove the women to church and sat stoically beside them while the sermon was delivered.
Amelia was as aware of him as he seemed to be of her now. It was nerve-racking to sit next to him, so close that she could feel his powerfully muscled leg against her thigh in the crowded pew. His arm was over the back of the seat, and when the man on her other side crossed his legs, Amelia found herself right up against King.
His silver eyes slid down to catch hers and hold them, and for a moment the whole congregation disappeared. Her eyes widened, softened as they searched his lean, craggy face.
He forced his gaze back to the pulpit, but the arm around the back of the seat moved down, and he slowly crossed his own legs, the action pressing his thigh close to hers.
She didn't know how she was going to bear it. Her mind was thinking thoughts far removed from the minister's sermon, and the feel and smell of King's long, fit body was making her tremble and weak all over.
Abruptly, as if the contrast disturbed him too much, his arm moved back to his side. Then, incredibly, his lean hand felt between them for Amelia's and captured it roughly. His fingers edged between her gloved ones and contracted.
He never looked at her. His eyes were fixed on the minister. But his jaw clenched, and he looked a little frightening. Amelia's eyes sought the newness of his hand locked with hers, and she couldn't help the surge of longing it engendered. Helplessly, her thumb smoothed over the back of his big hand, feeling the muscle and strength and warmth of it with quiet fascination.
The sermon was very short that morning, and Amelia was grateful. The last hymn required King to let go of her hand, but he shared his songbook with her, standing much too close to let her look on with him.
Enid couldn't help but notice the attraction which was slowly overcoming her son and their guest. But it delighted her to see King disconcerted like this. She smiled to herself, glancing over at the pew the Valverdes occupied. Darcy was watching, too, and she didn't like what she saw.
As soon as they left the pew, Darcy moved in, appropriating King's arm on the way out of the church and involving him in conversation with herself and her parents.
"She is very persistent," Enid said, watching the girl. "But King's interest in her is dynastical, not romantic. I daresay she leaves him completely cold. Her major interest at the moment is joining the Valverde ranch to ours in marriage. Her father shares it."
"She is a handsome woman, and intelligent," Amelia said quite fairly. "I don't doubt that King finds her attractive."
"Possibly." Enid was noncommittal. She drew Amelia over to speak to some of the women in her ladies' circle group, which occupied them until King was able to extricate himself from the Valverdes and announce his intention to leave.
This time they had a passenger. Miss Valverde had wrangled an invitation to lunch. She climbed in beside King and chatted to him animatedly until they arrived back at Latigo.
Amelia was out of the surrey by the time King helped Darcy and his mother alight, her white lacy dress gathering dust at the hem as she walked quietly to the front porch with the group.
"I'll just keep King company while you get everything on the table, Mrs. Culhane," Darcy said with a faintly superior smile, resplendent in a suit of blue taffeta with black trim and buttons and matching hat. "I'm just hopeless in the kitchen, my mother says."
Amelia didn't doubt it. She smiled back and followed Enid inside, removing her pert veiled hat on the way to her room.
"You needn't change, Amelia," Enid told her. "Everything is ready. Rosa cooks for me on Sunday. She'll have it on the table by the time you freshen up."
"Oh. I don't mind helping."
"I know that, my dear," Enid said with a gentle smile. "You're a lot of company for me and certainly no burden on the household." She glared toward the front porch, where the soft creak of the swing chains could be heard. "And you do at least have good manners!"
"I'll be right along," Amelia said, escaping from what she knew was coming. Mrs. Culhane's dislike of Darcy was apparently growing by the day.
On the porch, Darcy was watching the horizon while King smoked his cigar.
"I do wish you wouldn't smoke," she muttered irritably. "I hate the smell of those nasty things!"
"Sit somewhere else," he invited lazily, smiling at her impatience.
She settled herself like a martyr. "I shall simply have to bear it for the pleasure of sitting close to you."
If that was pleasure, he'd have hated to see pain. She was as stiff as a board, obviously finding him as distasteful as the cigar but determined to put up a good front. It had disturbed her to see him holding Amelia's hand. She was jealous and determined to show him that she was a better bet than the other girl in the matrimonial stakes.
King knew that already, and he was certain that he didn't want to marry Amelia Howard. But on the other hand, Amelia's hand felt just right in his. There was strength in it, but softness as well. He remembered her soft little palm under his mouth and the look of compassion in her brown eyes when he'd been hurt. It disturbed him to remember it.
He caught a glimpse of Amelia coming toward the door, to call them in to the noon meal, no doubt. Did she think she had him in her grasp, he wondered? Was she seeing him as a possible matrimonial prospect? He couldn't risk that, not when he was so vulnerable toward her.
Without counting the cost, he flipped the cigar out into the dust and abruptly bent, dragging a shocked Darcy up to him. He kissed her with every indication of true passion for the benefit of the woman standing, shocked, in the doorway. He felt absolutely nothing, but that wasn't how it looked to Amelia, or to Darcy when he lifted his head.
"Why, King, how impetuous you are! You'll rumple me!" she complained coyly.
His eyes had flashed to the doorway in time to see Amelia turn and move quickly back the way she'd come. That should get the message across, he thought.
He got to his feet and pulled Darcy up. "Come. They must have it on the table. I thought I saw Miss Howard at the door."
"Did you, indeed?" Darcy was smiling coldly. "I hope she wasn't too embarrassed," she lied.
King didn't reply. He took her arm and led her into the house. His face was as unreadable as stone.
Chapter Six
» ^ «
It was the worst Sunday Amelia could ever remember. Darcy stayed late, so that it was after dark when King drove her home. Amelia made a point of sticking to Enid when he came back, and very shortly after that she went to bed without even looking at him. Witnessing that kiss had destroyed some fantasies in bud. If he wanted to kill her interest in him, he was doing a good job. Amelia was cut to the quick by his attitude. She withdrew into herself and made a religion of staying out of his way.
Instead of placating him, however, her pointed avoidance made him wild. He hated having her look past him or stare at his shirt instead of meeting his eyes. He knew that he'd brought on her shy withdrawal. He'd thought it was what he wanted. Now, he wasn't sure anymore. Every time he looked at her, his heart ached. If only her father would come back and tak
e her home, take her out of his life, so that he could come to grips with the temptation she presented! He wanted no part of such an unaccomplished, dull, spineless woman!
Two nights later, he finished early on the ranch and came in to have supper with the women. It was a quiet meal, and afterward he joined them in the parlor while they did needlework. He rattled his newspaper as he read it. The front page was full of news about the Boer War and how it was progressing. There was another story about a man who was scheduled to be hanged soon in New Mexico territory for shooting a man in a drunken spree. He could hardly keep his mind on the paper with Amelia sitting across from him, her slender body in its lacy garment making him hungry for the feel of it in his arms.
"Your father should be home soon," Enid remarked to King. "He said two weeks, and it's been almost that."
Amelia's face paled. She hadn't realized, in her fool's paradise, that it was so close to the time of her departure from the ranch and a resumption of her father's tyranny. She missed the stitch she was putting into her embroidery pattern and hit her finger accidentally. She winced and stuck her finger in her mouth to stem the flow of blood.
"Are you looking forward to being in your own home again, Amelia?" Mrs. Culhane asked.
"It isn't a home so much as a suite," Amelia confessed. "Father is going to buy a house soon, but we have three rooms in Mrs. Spindle's house right now. It's very nice. She cooks for us as well, and her rents are very reasonable."
"I've lived here all my married life," Enid recalled. "When Brant and I were first married, his father had just finished building this house. We had the rooms that King occupies now." Her eyes sparkled in memory. "Half the people in the territory came to see us married, in the same Methodist church we attended this morning." She glanced up at her son. "You'll be married there as well, I assume."