The Legend Of Love

by Nan Ryan

  All right, so she would admit it! She, too, Elizabeth Montbleau Curtin, was once unwillingly attracted by his strong allure; so sexual, so forceful, so powerfully male.

  But that did not put her in the ranks with the blond doña or the Mexican waitress. She would be no man’s fool, certainly not West Quarternight’s.

  Let women who court danger and hurt have the menacing mountains. As for herself, she’d had more than enough pain in her life. She would be perfectly content with the peaceful valley meadows for the rest of her days.

  Elizabeth picked up her discarded book and sat down to read. Ten minutes later she again tossed it aside. Feeling she would scream if she stayed cooped up all afternoon, Elizabeth looked in on Edmund, found him still asleep, closed the door, and went to the pine writing desk on the east wall of the sitting room.

  Not bothering to pull out the chair and sit down, she drew a sheet of beige parchment paper from the desk’s middle drawer, took a pen from the inkwell, and hurriedly jotted a note informing her brother-in-law that she had gone shopping to pick up a few small items she needed for the trip.

  It was not until she was downstairs, through the empty hotel lobby, and out on the quiet street that she remembered it was siesta time. All the shops were closed and would stay closed until four o’clock.

  Elizabeth sighed.

  She looked up one side of the deserted street, and down the other.

  She supposed she should go back upstairs, but felt she couldn’t bear it. She’d take a walk. Do some window shopping. See if she could spot a new hat for tomorrow morning’s important church ceremonies, the laying of the cornerstone for Bishop Lamy’s new St. Francis Cathedral.

  Elizabeth sauntered around the plaza, stopping to gaze into shop fronts, finding it strange to be the only person on the streets. It was eerily quiet. Even the cats and dogs were dozing in the warm sunshine. Smiling, Elizabeth started to step around a sleek black tomcat asleep on the flat stone portal of El Palacio Real.

  She jumped, startled, when the pantherlike creature made low, growling sounds of menace deep in the back of his throat. Elizabeth stopped short. The shiny black cat slowly raised his regal head and opened his cold golden eyes. He lay there motionless, like the sphinx, staring at her. Not quite brave enough to stroke him, Elizabeth leaned down, put her hands on her knees, and said aloud, “If you think I’m afraid of you, you’re wrong. I could have you purring in a matter of seconds.” The golden eyes gleamed and a strange rattling sound came from down deep in the cat’s black chest. Elizabeth straightened, shivered, and slowly backed away. Waiting until she was ten feet from the cat, she turned around and went on her way, smiling again.

  She looked up, and her smile grew wider. At the far end of the palace, on the broad shaded portal, sat the old Navajo woman, Micoma. From the distance, Elizabeth couldn’t tell if she was asleep, so she approached quietly, not wishing to disturb her if she was sleeping.

  Elizabeth was still some distance away when the gray head turned in her direction, a toothless smile spread over the wrinkled brown face, and a bony, arthritic hand lifted.

  “Micoma,” Elizabeth said happily and hurried to her. Shaking the thin hand in both of her own, she said, “It seems we’re the only ones awake. May I visit with you for a while?”

  The watery black eyes shining, Micoma said, “I look for you sooner.”

  Like a little girl, Elizabeth dropped down on the porch. Drawing her legs up under her and spreading her skirts out, she said, “Sooner? Micoma, I didn’t know I was coming here until—”

  “But I know,” Micoma interrupted. “I tell you to come. You not hear? You not come outdoors while others sleep?” Again the toothless smile.

  “Why, I guess I did. I was in the hotel and I felt so restless, like I couldn’t stay inside another minute.” She smiled at Micoma. “Was that your doing?”

  Micoma’s black eyes disappeared into creases of weathered skin and she nodded, pleased with herself. “Micoma’s doing,” she bragged softly. Opening her eyes, she said, as she had the other time, “Never see such hair before. Hold out, so Micoma can get better look.”

  Glad to oblige, Elizabeth put the tips of her fingers through the ends of her long, unbound hair. She moved her hands out away from her head, allowing the fiery locks to spread like a huge silken fan.

  While the ancient Indian woman stared in wonder at the “hair on fire,” someone else was quietly admiring its blazing glory from afar.

  A hat pulled low on his forehead, a cigar planted firmly between his teeth, West Quarternight was just across Lincoln Avenue, outside the now silent Red Dawg Saloon. Lolling lazily in a straight chair tipped back on two legs, his own long legs were stretched out before him, his moccasined feet resting atop the hitchrail.

  His narrowed silver-gray eyes were on the blazing red hair.

  Elizabeth might as well have waved a crimson red flag before a charging bull.

  West had seen her the minute she stepped out of the hotel. Had watched her idly stroll around the plaza, stopping to look in store windows. Had observed her shy flirtation with the dozing black cat. He had watched it all and remained totally still. When she quickly backed away from the cat, he was quietly amused, knowing she was a little bit afraid of the big black tom. He had watched as she headed down the long porch of the palace. Had caught her look of joy when she had seen Micoma. And he had smiled when—like an adorable child—she had sat down on the porch with Micoma.

  All that, he had watched in unmoving silence. Keeping his distance. Purposely staying away from her. Allowing her the pleasure of the warm afternoon, the freedom of being out on her own and unbothered by him or anyone else.

  But now she had gone too far.

  That wild mane of bright cinnamon hair all spread out with the sunlight striking it was more than he could stand.

  West urged the two front legs of his chair back down to the plank floor. He lifted his moccasined feet from the hitchrail, then lowered them to the sidewalk. He rose, took the cigar from his mouth, and flicked it out into the dusty street. He took off his hat, lifted his arm, and ran his long brown fingers through his hair, then put the pearl-gray hat back on, pulling the brim low.

  He stepped down off the roofed walk, and as silently as an Indian, moved toward the seductive shimmer of that remarkable red hair blazing in the afternoon sunlight. Unhurried, West moved steadily closer, like a predator calmly stalking his unsuspecting prey.

  Elizabeth was blissfully unaware of West’s presence, but the old woman knew he was coming long before he got up from his chair.

  And she knew more.

  She knew that the tall, dark man calmly approaching didn’t realize it, and would have laughed had she told him, but his role—the one he played so effortlessly, was so comfortable with—would one day change. The day would come when he would not be the predator, but the prey. No longer the hunter, but the hunted. And possibly, if he were not very careful, the victim instead of the victor.

  But not now.

  On this quiet warm afternoon the power was all his. He was coming for this red-haired woman. He would take her away. The woman would struggle against her fascination for him. She would fight him as no other woman ever had. But her attempts to resist him, her unwillingness to surrender, her strong indomitable spirit, would only further draw him to her.

  So that finally her beautiful blazing hair, which was now pulling him to her, would one day ignite more than his body. His heart would burn as well.

  Suddenly, Micoma frowned with worry and confusion.

  Was this tall, dark man coming toward them one of her sons? This innocent-looking woman with hair of fire was married!

  It was not good. These two had no future together. She couldn’t allow this smiling red-haired woman to break her son’s heart.

  Abruptly Micoma leaned close to Elizabeth, clutched her arm in a death grip. She said firmly, “My son comes now to join us. You must ignore him! I will send him away.”

  “But why?�
� asked Elizabeth, releasing her hair, and turning her head to look around.

  West Quarternight silently stood on the stone porch directly behind Elizabeth, between her and the sun. Removing his hat, he said, “Afternoon, Micoma, Mrs. Curtin.”

  Her flat black eyes flashing with alarm, Micoma said, “You go away! Do not take this woman with you!”

  West stepped closer, but remained standing, his long brown fingers gripping the brim of his hat.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, looking at Micoma. “What have I done?”

  “Not done it yet,” Micoma spit out. “And better not do!”

  Elizabeth said nothing. She was baffled by the old Navajo’s behavior. And she was uneasy with West Quarternight standing so close. His hard thigh was inches from her face and she couldn’t help noticing the way his soft leather trousers clung to his slim hips and long legs.

  She heard him saying calmly, “I’m going, Micoma. I’ll see Mrs. Curtin back to her hotel.” He put a firm hand under Elizabeth’s arm and effortlessly drew her to her feet.

  “No.” Elizabeth protested weakly and looked down at Micoma for support.

  She got none. The old woman who had so vehemently warned West away was now smiling and nodding, her reasons for wanting him to leave Elizabeth alone now forgotten.

  Now she saw only her old friend, the brave mountain guide, West Quarternight, standing alongside her new friend, the beautiful Fire Hair, and she was pleased by the sight of them together.

  West had no idea what the old woman was thinking, but he took full advantage of the change. His fingers imprisoning Elizabeth’s upper arm, he smiled engagingly and said to the old Navajo, “Micoma, tell Fire Hair she must come along with me.”

  Micoma, disarmed by the smile, and supposing the pair belonged together, said to Elizabeth, “You go now with him.”

  “But, Micoma—”

  “Mind old Micoma, Fire Hair.”

  “You heard her,” said West triumphantly. “Say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Micoma. I’ll see you again.” Elizabeth said.

  “Good afternoon, Micoma,” West touched his hat brim with thumb and forefinger, gently turned Elizabeth about, and guided her down the stone porch.

  “That was a high-handed trick, Mr. Quarternight, and it’s just not going to work!”

  His eyes on the cloud of shimmering red hair that had lured him across the square, he replied softly, “I believe, Mrs. Curtin, it already has. I have you, don’t I?”

  “You’ll never have me, Quarternight!”

  20

  WEST DIDN’T ANSWER IMMEDIATELY. His fingers closing loosely but firmly around Elizabeth’s upper arm, he silently ushered her back along the palace porch, the way she had come.

  But at the end of the block, West drew her swiftly around the corner and headed in the opposite direction of the La Fonda. Frowning, Elizabeth stopped like a balky mule and tried to wrench herself away from him.

  Almost roughly, West whirled her about into a shadowed doorway, pressed her up against the solid portal, and leaned close.

  “Never, you said? I’ll never have you?” West asked, his slate-gray eyes shining with a hot light, his brown hands spread on either side of the door, trapping her. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten Shreveport.”

  More angry than frightened, Elizabeth lifted both hands to push on his chest. Her blue eyes cold, she said truthfully, “I recall it every day, Quarternight. My shame is exceeded only by my fury.”

  “Ah, sweetheart, forget shame and fury.” He lowered a hand, clasped a long lock of flaming red hair and lifted it to his face. Trailing the silky ends over his nose and mouth, he said softly, “Remember the passion and pleasure.”

  “Let go of my hair,” Elizabeth ordered hotly. “And let go of me! What if someone should see us!”

  “No one will. It’s siesta time. Everyone’s in bed.” His gaze left her hair, went to her mouth. “And that’s where we ought to be. Let’s go to bed.”

  “You will not talk to me this way!”

  Elizabeth gave West a forceful shove, but her hand slipped on the hard muscle of his chest and slid inside his half-open gray chambray shirt. Her sensitive fingertips encountered crisp, dark hair. Her gaze immediately dropped to that deep wedge of dark curling hair at the V of his open shirt. Flustered, she anxiously tried to withdraw her hand. But his came down atop it, pressing her palm to his heart.

  “Leave it,” West ordered. “Leave it and feel how fast my heart beats when I’m with you.”

  Her hand trapped beneath his, her palm flattened on his bare chest, Elizabeth felt the rapid, heavy cadence of his heartbeat thrumming against her spread fingers and couldn’t help but be thrilled by the passion she aroused in him. Her knees weakened and for a long moment Elizabeth was smitten, frozen, suspended, in a hypnotic spell.

  West sensed her resistance diminishing. He confidently moved closer, bent a knee forward, and nudged her legs apart. “Kiss me,” he said, his dark head slowly bending. “Kiss me with your hand on my heart.”

  Half-tempted to do what he asked, curious to see if his heart would race from her kiss, Elizabeth slowly shook her head from side to side and murmured, “No … I … can’t … I—”

  “Sure you can, sweetheart,” West murmured encouragingly, then foolishly pressed his luck by going on to say, “Then I’ll kiss you with my hand on your heart.”

  “Never!” she hissed, jerked her hand out of his open shirt, and began struggling anew.

  “Ah, no, don’t—”

  “You let go of me, West Quarternight!” Elizabeth shouted loudly, pushing on him with all her strength.

  “Not yet. Not until you’ve kissed me.”

  “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to kiss you. Now let me go, I mean it. Let me go … let me—”

  From very near, a man growled loudly, startling them both.

  And all at once a hand—the largest hand Elizabeth had ever seen—took hold of West’s starched shirt collar. One minute West’s tall, lean body was pressing her to the carved door, the next he was being yanked away as easily as if he were a helpless infant.

  Elizabeth blinked in stunned horror.

  Frozen in place, she saw West being hauled backward by a terrifying giant, a fierce, heavily muscled Indian who was so huge he towered over the tall, lean West. Heart hammering with fear, Elizabeth snapped out of her paralysis and instinctively became protective of West.

  “No!” Elizabeth screamed, reacting. She lunged wildly at the huge Indian and pummeled the bullying giant with both fists, frantically shouting at him to let West alone. “Don’t hurt him! He wasn’t doing anything. He wasn’t! Let him go at once!”

  Surprised and relieved when the massive Indian suddenly released West, Elizabeth threw her arms around West’s trim waist and buried her face in his brown throat.

  “Are you all right, West? Did he hurt you?” she shuddered, near tears.

  “I’m fine, sweetheart, fine,” West assured her, embracing her.

  Trembling against him, her eyes closed, Elizabeth heard laughter. Loud laughter. Masculine laughter. Coming from behind her.

  West, his arms around her, his hand gently patting her back, was laughing too. Confused, Elizabeth opened her eyes, lifted her head, and gave West a questioning look. Gently he disengaged her arms from around him and slowly turned her about in front of him.

  There stood the gigantic Indian before her, so tall the silver concho belt going around his big waist was almost at eye level. Fearfully, Elizabeth tipped her head way back and looked up at his face.

  His features were blunt, harsh, as if carved out of hard, dark mahogany. His shoulders were massive and bulging muscles pulled the fabric of his bright turquoise Navajo blouse. A matching turquoise headband held the straight black hair off his face. Soft doeskin pants hugged his awesome thighs and muscled legs, and on his big feet were intricately beaded moccasins. A wide silver bracelet gleamed on his powerful right wrist, and rings of turquoise and silver
flashed on his thick fingers.

  With his unblinking black eyes and his immense size, Elizabeth found the Indian to be a figure so frightening she instinctively swayed back closer against West.

  West lifted his hands and cupped her shoulders.

  Elizabeth tore her gaze from the Indian and looked at the man beside him. Barely reaching to the Indian’s shoulder stood a weathered-faced man in fringed buckskins. He had flowing white hair, a full white beard, and a drooping white mustache. Beneath the full mustache, pink lips were turned up into a broad smile. Bright blue eyes twinkled at her.

  Close to her ear, West said, “Mrs. Curtin, I’d like you to meet my partners. The big guy is Taos.” The giant Indian nodded, smiled down at Elizabeth, but said nothing. “And this white-haired rascal that was growling so loudly is Grady Downs.”

  Grady wiped his hand on his buckskin trousers, stepped eagerly forward, and thrust it out to Elizabeth. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said, cut his eyes to West, then back to her. “Looks like we got here just in time.” He grinned from ear to ear. The still-silent Indian was smiling too. So was West.

  Elizabeth did not smile.

  Incensed, she realized that neither of his partners had actually been appalled by West Quarternight’s disgraceful caveman behavior. On the contrary, it seemed that they fully approved and were amused by his conduct. They had only been teasing West—not trying to save her! The entire incident had been nothing more than a good joke to the lot of them! And the laugh was on her! Well, she saw nothing funny about it!

  “Mr. Downs, Taos,” Elizabeth said coolly, quickly withdrawing her hand from Grady. “If you’ll all excuse me, I must get back to the hotel.”

  “I’ll see you safely back,” said West.

  “You’re the only danger around!” she snapped acidly, whirled, and stalked angrily away while the three men, West, Grady, and Taos, smiled and watched her walk away.