by Brenda Joyce
“From New York, Mother?” There was the very faintest hint of scorn in her tone. “Are you from New York, Shoz?”
“No.”
She smiled prettily again. “I didn’t think so.” She laughed softly.
She would be an easy conquest, and he knew it—and a boring one, but he could positively feel the heat of Marianne’s wrath, so he asked her if she wanted to dance. When Darlene agreed, her big blue eyes never leaving his face, her laughter soft and coquettish, he heard Marianne actually hiss.
“I am so hot,” Lucy declared, fanning herself.
“Can I get you something, Miss Lucy?” Billy asked.
She batted her eyes at him. “I would love a glass of that wicked red punch. The one spiked with alcohol.”
“I’ll get it,” Leon said quickly, but annoyance was in his tone. He stalked off.
Billy glared after him. “How about some cake?”
“Punch and cake; why not?” Lucy said gaily. When Billy departed, Lucy turned to Joanna. “Who the hell is that!”
Joanna, demure in a pale pink dress next to Lucy’s flaming red ball gown, followed her gaze. “You’ve met Darlene,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”
“No, I don’t,” Lucy said sourly, although now she did recognize Leon’s sister. With open fury and a murderous scowl, she watched Shoz and Darlene make their way through the crowd, hips bumping, heads bent together. “What a pasty white skinny blonde!” Lucy declared.
“I think she’s beautiful,” Joanna said.
Lucy glared. “She has the figure of a twelve-year-old!”
“You’re jealous.”
Before she could deny it, Nicole appeared, wrapping one arm around Lucy’s waist. She looked almost sinful in a yellow off-the-shoulder Mexican blouse with wide crimson and gold silk skirts. She wore huge gold hoops that touched her bare shoulders. Lucy thought she looked exotic—like a wild gypsy. “Who is Lucy jealous of?”
“I am not jealous,” Lucy said.
“You don’t look very happy on Grandpa’s birthday,” Nicole accused. “And what a party! Who has the figure of a twelve-year-old?”
Lucy frowned, but her gaze found Darlene and Shoz again. Nicole followed her gaze. Joanna answered. “Darlene Claxton.”
“Don’t worry, Lucy,” Nicole said. “She’s pretty, but next to you, she’s nothing. Who is that?”
There was no question about to whom Nicole was referring, and Lucy was shocked by the surge of jealousy she fell. “He’s not for you, Nicole.”
Her cousin looked at her quickly. “He’s not my type! He reminds me of Daddy and Uncle Brett!” She shuddered dramatically. “I am not stupid. I have no intention of ever getting involved with a strong man. In fact, I have no intention of ever marrying at all.”
Nicole’s words were more than theatrics. Not only was she headstrong and rather wild, she had failed dismally during her first few Seasons in London—even before the scandal that had erupted shortly afterwards. It was a bit of an embarrassment as her younger sister Regina had already had several offers and she had not as yet made her debut.
“So,” Nicole said slyly, “who is that?”
“He is just some riffraff that Grandpa hired,” Lucy answered irritably. She did not want to discuss Shoz with Nicole. Her cousin would soon guess everything.
“Really?” Nicole teased. “He is very handsome—in a rugged way.”
Lucy was saved from responding by Leon’s return. “Leon!” She smiled widely. “Thank you!” She took the punch and drained half the cup.
“Careful, Lucy,” Leon warned, disapproval in his tone.
“Why?” Lucy asked. “You know the conventional bores me.” She finished the glass, following Shoz and Darlene with her eyes. They were standing much too close, and it was the height of bad taste.
Leon took the glass from her. “How about another dance?” He lowered his voice. “Before you become cooked.”
“I’m too hot,” Lucy stated. “Nicole will dance with you, won’t you?” Now that Shoz was no longer watching her, she didn’t feel like dancing. Earlier he had been watching her, and she had been dancing for him. It had been exhilarating.
Nicole wouldn’t let Leon off the hook, and reluctantly he led her out amongst the twirling dancers. Billy returned with a few assorted desserts, and Lucy took a bite of each. Shoz and Darlene had disappeared. Her vexation was intense. She searched the crowd. Where were they?
“Do you want some more punch?”
“What?”
Billy repeated the question, and Lucy nodded. She knew where they were, she knew what they were doing. She had no doubts on that score. Not that she cared; in fact, it was the utmost relief to finally have him direct his vulgar attentions at someone else.
She was standing alone. Joanna had abandoned her, and Billy had gone for the punch. She thrust her hands on her hips. She shouldn’t spy, but … she was going to see what they were doing.
Joanna didn’t mean to spy.
Lucy was involved with her suitors, as always, so she wandered off, trailing after the dark, handsome Shoz and the flirtatious Darlene. She wished she could flirt like Darlene. Not like Lucy. She never imagined she could ever be anything like Lucy, not in any way. Lucy was too bold and too vibrant. But Darlene was a bit pale and gentle and somewhat demure, not so different from herself. If Shoz liked her …
But she wasn’t like Darlene; she wasn’t blond with a perfect petite figure. She didn’t know how to flirt, and she would die before even trying. And he didn’t like her, not even a little. He was barely aware of her existence. He only had eyes for Lucy—and now Darlene.
She wondered what it felt like to be in his arms, the way Lucy had been.
Joanna realized she was following just Darlene, that Shoz was nowhere in sight. Where had he gone to? A moment ago they’d been together. But there were so many people now, it was getting so crowded, that he could be anywhere. She found herself standing behind Darlene, and was about to say hello.
“Mother!” Darlene exclaimed, no longer so demure. “Mother! Why haven’t you ever introduced us before!”
Joanna stepped back a bit, not really meaning to listen. But she did.
“He is not for you, Darlene,” Marianne Claxton said, her blue eyes blazing with fury. Joanna caught a glimpse of her and was stunned by the depth of passion she saw, by the raw jealousy and hatred she saw on Mrs. Claxton’s face. She assumed it was directed at Shoz, although it appeared to be aimed at her own daughter.
“Why not? Because he’s a cowboy?” Darlene asked contemptuously. “Or because you want him?”
“You listen to me,” Marianne said harshly, grabbing her daughter’s gloved wrist. Darlene gasped, but Marianne yanked her close. “Listen to me! That man is not for you! He is a dangerous criminal!”
Darlene pulled her hand free. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying that he is an escaped convict, Darlene. He is a felon—wanted by the law.”
It was late; soon it would be midnight. The fiesta was in full swing; there must have been at least a thousand people reveling in the moonlight. It wasn’t easy to find them amongst the crowd. Lucy’s determination grew, and with it, her suspicions. If Shoz and Darlene were not among the partiers, where were they?
They weren’t dancing or among the group still enjoying the barbecue. The night was thick and hot, and the air petal-soft. The wild strains of the Spanish band followed Lucy everywhere. She grabbed Maria. “Have you seen the new hand? Shoz?”
Maria shook her head.
Lucy turned away, frowning, then caught a glimpse of Darlene dancing with one of her friends. A wave of relief washed over her. They weren’t together. It didn’t really concern her, yet Lucy couldn’t stand the idea of Shoz throwing her over for one of her peers. But if he wasn’t with Darlene, then who was he with? And where was he?
Lucy left the party and began heading for the stables and the bunkhouse, partially on instinct but mostly propelled by mulish determinatio
n. She would search everywhere if she had to. Walking between two whitewashed barns, she left the sounds of the music and laughter behind. The night air was wet and still. A fine film of perspiration covered her body; her bare shoulders and chest gleamed.
And then she saw a dark figure leaning against the paddock adjoining the studs’ stable. She didn’t have to see clearly to know it was him—and he was alone. Her pulse quickened. He was smoking, his cigarette glowing each time he lifted it to his lips.
Lucy paused when she could see him, her breasts already heaving. “Hiding?” she demanded sarcastically. “Or waiting for someone!”
He tossed the cigarette and ground it under his heel. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for someone, all right.”
“I knew it! Which lover are you waiting for, Shoz? Darlene? Someone else? Who!”
“You.”
She stepped back abruptly, blinking.
“I was wondering how long it would be before you’d come looking for me.”
“I am not one of your lovers.”
His teeth showed white. “No? Maybe my memory’s playing tricks on me, but I seem to recall one night not too long ago—”
“Don’t you ever bring that up again!” she cried angrily. “As far as I’m concerned, nothing ever happened!”
“You’ve got a convenient way of looking at things, princess. Come here. Parties bore me.”
“You didn’t look so bored an hour ago.”
“Jealous?” He grinned.
“Never.”
“Come here. I want to work on your status—make you my lover.”
His hand came out to grab hers. Lucy stiffened as he pulled her forward, fast. She came up squarely against his hard, warm body. Without any conviction, she pressed her hands to his damp shirt and almost pushed away from him. Instead, she became still.
“Hello, princess,” he murmured, running his hands down her back.
“Shoz.”
“No more games,” he said, and he caught her face in his hands.
The feel of his warm, rough palms cupping her face was wonderful, and so was the strangely warm look in his eyes. “I don’t want to play games either,” Lucy said softly.
The expression in his eyes softened. “Then tell me,” he said, “tell me it’s been as hard for you as it’s been for me, these past weeks; tell me, Lucy, tell me now.”
“It’s been as hard for me,” she said unsteadily. “Shoz—what’s happening?”
“I don’t know—I don’t care.”
Lucy was not prepared for his onslaught. He kissed her, hard, fiercely, a man spending passion long pent up. And she clung to his shirt, kissing him back just as wildly.
In the thick heat of the night, anything was possible.
Marianne paused, squinting in the darkness. She had seen Shoz come this way, toward the barns, but the area ahead of her seemed deserted. She flung a glance over her shoulder, to glimpse the last of the dancers doing a wild two-step. Then she lifted her skirts and hurried forward.
She had no intention of ceasing her search until she found him. She was obsessed. It was fate that he should be here where she was. She knew it.
And she would get her way. She was afraid, oh yes, but the fear heightened her lust. When he finally took her under coercion, he would be rough, and so very powerful. Marianne could not wait, she had to find him, now.
She stopped by the corner of one barn when she saw the lovers ahead of her, their backs to another barn, in a torrid embrace. Instantly her suspicions were aroused, and just the thought that he might be with another woman—even with her daughter—fueled the fury pulsing in her veins. She hurried forward and ducked near stacked bales of hay. Not that she needed to hide. They were too involved to notice anyone.
Clouds broke, spilling moonlight. Marianne gasped. It was him, that bastard, and he was with Lucy Bragg. The thought of murder leapt into her mind.
She wanted to kill them both.
* * *
Leon Claxton was looking for Lucy, and he was angry.
Angry and frustrated. Texas was not his choice of vacation spots, and the past week had barely been tolerable. Lucy had made a point of keeping Joanna at her side, depriving him of any opportunity to be alone with her. On the surface she remained the same, but Leon sensed that she was tense and nervous. Why? What was she hiding? Why was she suddenly too proper to sneak away with him for his kisses?
He didn’t like it. He did not like it when things did not go as he intended.
He also did not like that cowboy, Shoz. The man actually had the balls to be contemptuous of him, Leon Claxton. He hadn’t said anything, but Leon felt it. And like any man worth his salt, Leon sensed the cowboy’s interest in Lucy—sensed that they were adversaries even though it was impossible to think that Shoz might compete with him on any level, for anything, much less for Lucy. Still, when the man was around, Leon was intensely aware of Shoz, and he sensed that the man, Shoz, was just as aware of him. And Lucy was aware of him, too.
Leon sensed that as well.
He wasn’t worried. Just angry and annoyed.
Even more so tonight. Lucy was flirting left and right, and Leon did not appreciate it. He wanted some time with her to reaffirm their relationship. When she left the crowd of the party, Leon seized his chance. He followed her.
And then he saw her in someone else’s arms.
They had both created their own world, in which the only existing force was the need to physically merge.
Lucy clung frantically, straining against him, every inch of her wedged and pressed as close as possible to his body, his heat. Shoz had her buttocks in his hands, had her lifted and pressed against his groin, had her riding him. Later, he would wonder how he’d ever had the mental coherence to understand what was happening.
Something clicked in the back of his mind. Voices, a cry of pain. From within the stable. A horse’s agitated snort. Hooves stomping in frenzy on stone. And then the gunshot.
He thrust Lucy behind him and against the barn, straining to listen. His body reflexively shielded her.
“What?” Lucy cried.
“There was a shot,” he gasped, panting.
“I didn’t hear anything.” She was trembling, and he could feel it.
And then the door to the barn was flying open, horses and riders galloping out. Lucy shrank against the wall of the barn as a horse swept by them, his flank actually grazing Shoz. Comprehension came a moment later.
“That’s Grandpa’s stud!” she shrieked. “They’re stealing Grandpa’s stud!”
Shoz moved. He darted into the bam. One light was on, illuminating the old groom lying facedown in blood. Shoz dropped to his knees and found his pulse. He’d been shot in the back and was dead.
Then he saw the horse, riderless and saddled and ready to go, near the dead man. He grimaced; it was obviously an inside job—the old groom had been one of them but had been murdered at the last moment by the avaricious rustlers. He leapt on the horse and went thundering out of the barn.
He heard Lucy’s cry of shock as he swept past her, but did not stop. He was too intent on following the thieves with Bragg’s prized stallion. He wasn’t positive, but now he remembered how big they both were—and he wondered if it was Red and Jake.
And there was another retort. Instantaneously Shoz felt the searing in his back, and realized he’d been shot.
From behind.
15
Dawn broke, shading the sky pink and gray. Lucy hadn’t slept all night. She sat in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in her hand, still in the flame-red dress from the night before. Joanna and Nicole sat with her, having kept vigil with her since the theft of Derek’s prize stallion. Her aunt Jane and Regina had stayed up for a while, too, but they had long since gone to their rooms and to bed.
She wondered if he might die.
She felt sick.
Miranda and Grace came into the kitchen. Lucy leapt to her feet. “What’s happened?”
“The posse’s get
ting ready to go out,” Grace replied. “The sheriff’s just arrived.”
Sheriff Sanders had been at the party, as had almost everyone in town. When Shoz had been shot, Lucy had run for her father, and for help. Shoz had been taken inside, (ended by Doc Jones, but had been too weak to answer more than a couple of questions, already fighting unconsciousness. Sanders had also questioned Lucy. She had told him they had been talking outside the stud barn when the robbery had occurred. That Shoz had run after the thieves, on foot, and then been shot. Sanders had questioned others, too, but no one else had witnessed the horse stealing and shooting. Doc Jones had shortly thereafter produced the bullet. It came from a small derringer such as those favored by ladies. This only added confusion to the unfolding drama. Had a woman shot Shoz? If so, why? And who had it been? Most of their guests had already gone to their accommodations and homes for the night, and it was impossible now to search and question everyone, looking for the handgun. Sanders had left a few hours after midnight, to get a couple hours sleep before attempting to track the thieves in the light of day.
“How is he?” Lucy managed as her mother put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She wanted to be in the guest room where Shoz, semiconscious and in pain, had been placed hours ago. But she didn’t dare. She’d already used up all her excuses for going there. He had water and blankets and had been dosed lightly with laudanum by Doc Jones.
“He’s sleeping,” Grace replied, squeezing her shoulder. But her mother’s gaze was too intent and too questioning, too astute; Lucy looked away.
“Jones says that normally he wouldn’t worry,” Miranda said, “being as Shoz is strong as a bull, but after that crack on the head, he’s afraid the shock will be too much. The gunshot itself isn’t too bad.”
Lucy was white. Nicole was staring at her.
Joanna asked, “He might die?”
“Hush,” Grace scolded. “Of course he won’t die.” Again, she looked at her daughter.
He might die, Lucy thought miserably. She knew she shouldn’t care, but she did. She was sick. Even sicker because she knew something nobody else seemed to have noticed, something she should have told the sheriff and hadn’t. He was one of the thieves.