“You’ll change your mind when you know him.”
“I know him. Men like him, anyway. I won’t change my mind. Neither will your papa. We’re your parents. You’ll just have to trust us…for a while.”
Anger swept away the last vestige of Priscilla’s joy at returning home to find Will here. Anger…and despair. She hated quarreling with Mama. She and Pa had their quarrels from time to time. Mama said it came from being so much alike. But Mama was always in control, always a lady. Quarreling with Mama never failed to leave Priscilla feeling inept and childish.
Perturbed by her own feelings as much as by her mother’s obstinate rejection of Will Radnor, she turned and stomped across the veranda. Before she’d gone more than a few steps, however, the front door burst open and Uncle Crockett strode through. “I’m taking Radnor up into the hills. We’ll keep watch.”
“Wonderful,” Kate responded.
“I’m coming, too.”
“No, you’re not,” Kate objected.
“Just him an’ me, Jake,” Uncle Crockett explained. “Your pa wants you to fill him in on our trip to Fort Stanton.”
It was a ploy to keep them apart, Priscilla knew. But what choice did she have, except to go along? Inside the house, Pa was nowhere around.
“Your papa’s resting,” Kate explained. “You need rest, too, darling. After lunch you can go over the trip with him.”
Priscilla used the time to her advantage, bathing, washing her hair, selecting a clean pair of chamois britches and a silk shirt. She polished her boots, buffed her nails, and brushed her hair until it shone. All the while, she made plans.
If Will spent the day in the hills, tired as he was, he couldn’t return to Santa Fé until at least tomorrow. She’d see him tonight.
Tonight. For some elusive reason, well beyond her ability to comprehend, her body flushed with the thought. She wished for petticoats and put on her lacy camisole, instead, recalling Jessie’s approval of it.
She wished for a dress with billowing skirts and ruffles like she’d seen on the Mexican dancers in Santa Fé, but she wouldn’t know how to act in such a dress, even if she owned one.
It wasn’t that she didn’t have a single dress. Three hung in her closet. Mama had made them and hung them there. But Priscilla had never touched them, except in searching for lost shirts or britches. She took one out now and held it against her.
Standing before the looking glass she tried to envision how she would look in it. Made of heavy navy blue broadcloth, the gown was fashioned with long fitted sleeves that ended with pristine white piqué cuffs, and a neckline which would surely strangle her when she swallowed. Although the bodice was fitted to the waist and would reveal the outline of her figure, Priscilla’s body objected. Recalling Will’s hands on her back, on her waist, her skin craved freedom. Her loose silk shirt touched her sensuously, like a soft wind in early spring, like Will’s hands.
The thought startled her. She’d never considered that a man might put his hands on her naked body. Why should Will’s embrace have created such unchaste sensations? No answer came to mind, but a strange idea did, the idea that her body was wise beyond her experience.
And the possibility of learning such wildly sensuous lessons in Will’s arms eased even her anger at her obstinate parents. She would bring them around. One way or another. She always did.
At lunch Pa was still in a stormy mood. Priscilla knew it had something to do with Will following her to the barn. Mama wasn’t any happier. She’d hoped to persuade them to invite Will to supper, but the odds on that were looking slim.
Of course, Mama noticed her silk shirt. All she did was lift her eyebrows, but Priscilla knew the look of disapproval well. After lunch her mother led the way to the library. Priscilla followed at Pa’s pace.
“Damned nuisance, this walking stick.”
“How much longer will you need it?”
“Rest of my life, accordin’ to your mama.”
Priscilla grinned at his petulance. He’d never been one to sit around. “Not that long, Pa.”
“I’m fixin’ to throw the dadburnt thing clear into Old Mexico.”
Without thinking, Priscilla responded with a cheery, “I heard Will took it away from you.” One of the things she’d always loved about Pa was his ability to laugh at himself. He never took himself seriously, therefore he never took offense, a trait she had thankfully inherited. It had allowed her to function in a world where nice girls grew up to be ladies and were expected to dress and comport themselves as such. But when Pa spoke, she discovered, that the humor of this particular situation had been lost on him.
He stopped short in his tracks, jabbing his walking stick in the direction of Santa Fé. “I told you, Miss Priss. I never want to hear that man’s name on your lips again.”
Tears rushed to Priscilla’s eyes. She stared aghast, stunned as much by her own reaction as by Pa’s harsh words. She wiped her face furiously with the back of her hand. She never cried. Never. Wordlessly, she stalked off, leaving Pa to hobble after.
A moody silence enveloped the library. Mama sat behind the desk, ledger opened before her; Pa took an easy chair, grumbling about throwing his walking stick away. Priscilla pulled a ladder-back chair up to the opposite side of the desk. She dumped the first sack of gold coins onto the surface and proceeded to count.
“Didn’t you count that at Fort Stanton?” Pa barked.
“Of course.” She continued to recount the money.
“Five hundred dollars?” Pa quizzed.
Priscilla nodded, counting in stacks of ten-dollar gold pieces.
“That should put us in the clear for taxes.”
“For this year,” Mama said.
“Other than that,” Pa asked, “how’d the drive go, Jake?” Priscilla didn’t miss his attempt to make amends. “Any problem out of Holbert’s Santa Fé boys?”
“No trouble. Uncle Crockett could keep a sidewinder in line. You should have seen them, though, when a couple of Victorio’s braves rode into camp the second night out. I thought those cowboys would turn tail and run for cover when I asked the Apaches to sit at the fire and share our meal.”
Charlie grunted. He should have laughed. Generally he loved hearing such a tale.
“I had a steer cut out for them to take back to the ranchería,” she continued. “They got fired up over Joaquín. Wanted to ride into town and break him out of jail. I told them Wi—”
Priscilla stopped with Will’s name on her tongue, conditioned now to the choleric response it drew from her parents. “I told them Joaquín had a lawyer, and we would keep them informed how things came out.”
“That’s all we need,” Charlie groused. “Victorio’s braves charging into Santa Fé on the warpath.”
“They won’t,” Kate predicted. “Victorio is too busy keeping his people out of the army’s way. None of his braves would dare take off on a tangent right now.”
The money was all counted. Priscilla resacked it, then rose and began storing it in the safe. Her mind played idly with the coming night, and how she could slip out of the house to see Will.
Suddenly the front door burst open and the situation was taken out of her hands. Footsteps sounded in the foyer. After a curt knock, the library door opened to Uncle Crockett and Will, who propelled a ragamuffin boy about twelve or so into the room by a hand to his frail shoulder.
Charlie tried to rise, failed to make it, and slammed his walking stick against the floor. Kate rose and came around the desk. Priscilla had to concentrate on standing still, else she would have rushed to Will’s side.
His eyes held hers for one brief, wonderful moment, before his attention turned to her pa.
“Jessie sent the kid,” Uncle Crockett explained.
“Tell Mister McCain what you told us, Jorge.” Will encouraged him in a gentle voice. His hand rested lightly on the boy’s shoulder. Priscilla wondered how her parents could consider such a man no good.
“They’re gonna break Wo
unded Eagle outta jail.” The boy’s eyes were round as the ten-dollar gold pieces Priscilla had locked away and just as bright.
“Joaquín?” Kate sank back against the desk.
A stunned silence followed. Charlie tried again to rise and made it this time.
Priscilla crossed the room without thinking. She knelt before the child, with Will’s nearness burning into her flesh. She resisted the urge to look at him. “Who, Jorge? Who’s going to break Joaquín out of jail?”
“The Haskels.”
All eyes stared at the child.
“Haskels?” Charlie snorted. “Humph! They’re the ones who put him in there.”
“Maybe this is their way of releasing him without admitting they don’t have a case,” Kate reasoned.
“They’re planning to lynch him.” Will’s voice was quiet, steady.
“Lynch him?” Priscilla cried.
“Why in tarnation would they do that?” Charlie barked. “Tell Mr. McCain exactly what Jessie said,” Will encouraged the boy.
Jorge squared his slender shoulders. “Señorita Jessie, she say I should come an’ tell you, pronto. The Haskels are gonna break Joaquín outta jail so they can break Charlie McCain.”
“Break Charlie…” Kate’s words were muffled by her gasp.
Priscilla raised eyes to Will who stared at her with a strangely passionate expression. Not the kind of passion she felt when he held her and kissed her. This was passion of a different kind—wild and furious and desperate. As if transmitted to her through his eyes, that passion fired hers.
Will dragged his gaze away from Priscilla. “Tell them, Jorge, in exactly the words you told us.”
“Señorita Jessie, she say Señor Newt told her. He’s the sheriff.” The boy paused as if waiting to be certain this much was understood.
“Go on, boy,” Charlie barked. “We know who the sheriff is, damn his hide.”
“Señorita Jessie say Señor Newt say if they break Joaquín outta jail and lynch him…” Jorge’s eyes traveled up to Will. “That’s hangin’, ain’t it?”
Will nodded. “Go on.”
“Señor Newt say if they lynch him till he’s dead, it will…it will break Charlie McCain, then they can take the ranch. Señorita Jessie, she say she don’t want you broke, Señor McCain.”
Silence hung as though suspended from the vigas overhead. It created a buffer between Priscilla and her parents’ wrath. The boy’s claim put things in perspective; at this moment, everything else was secondary. Rising to her feet, she grasped Will’s arm. “What are you going to do?”
Will looked down at her hand. He stared at it so long, Priscilla began to feel heat rising through his sleeve. Around them pandemonium broke out.
“Humph! They’ll never get away with a stunt like that.”
“They plan on blamin’ it on Victorio and his braves,” Uncle Crockett explained.
“This is absolutely ridiculous.”
“Hell, Kate, every damned thing the Haskels do is ridiculous—or worse.”
“How can we believe this boy?”
Priscilla heard Mama’s strident voice and looked to see her staring, not at the child she accused of lying, but at Priscilla’s hand still clutching Will’s arm.
“He’s telling the truth, Mrs. McCain,” Will responded. “I know Jorge. He lives behind the cantina, runs errands for Jessie, and for me, too, time to time. She sent him, you can be sure of that.”
“But what if he mis—”
“He got the message right, too. The Haskels could pull it off, outrageous as the stunt sounds to civilized people.”
Priscilla watched a strange sort of acknowledgment pass between Will and her pa.
“Whether it will accomplish their end,” Will continued, “breaking Charlie…” Will dropped his gaze to the boy before finishing. “…only Charlie knows.”
“How ’bout it, Crockett?” Charlie quizzed. “You believe this cock ’n bull?”
“Yeah, I do. And you do, too.”
Charlie struck his walking stick against the floor. “Humph! I believe it. Can’t afford not to, which is what they’re bankin’ on. Newt Haskel didn’t accidentally let those plans slip to Jessie. He told her on purpose. They’re countin’ on me stormin’ in and raisin’ a ruckus.” He studied Will. “How much time do we have?”
“Couple of days, maybe. According to what Newt told Jessie, Oscar’s gone somewhere down south, and they’re waiting for him to return.”
Charlie slumped back to his chair, muttering, “Dad-blasted sorry scoundrels. Sorriest excuse for human beings on God’s green earth.” He raised stricken eyes to Kate. “But what in hell can a crippled old man do to stop them?”
Kate slid to her knees beside her husband. She pressed her lips against his arm briefly, then rested her head there.
Will stepped back. “I’ll think of something, Charlie. Joaquín’s my client.”
Priscilla watched Will leave the room with purposeful strides. Silence, heavy and ominous, fell once more over the occupants of the library. Through a haze she saw Uncle Crockett run knobby fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. She stared at his stubby forefinger, recalling stupidly how he had gotten it caught in a rope one day when they were rounding up cattle. Pulled the end off clean at the joint. Priscilla had been no more than twelve at the time. Why did she recall such a thing at this moment?
She turned back to Pa. He held his head in his hands and stared down at his cracked boots. Mama covered one of his hands with her own.
Priscilla glanced back to the open door. The boy, Jorge, had disappeared. Followed Will outside, likely. He’d said he would think of something. But what?
Racing from the room, she rushed to the veranda in time to see Will toss the boy onto the back of a saddled horse and send him on his way. He turned to catch up his own reins.
“Will!”
He stopped, reins gathered. His eyes held hers. She had no idea what was on his mind.
She reached him, grasping his sleeve, like in the library. “What’re you going to do?”
His eyes, solemn, serious, traveled over her face slowly, feature by feature. She wondered what he was thinking. “Talk to them, I guess,” he said finally. “Try to reason—”
“Reason? With Oscar Haskel? Or Newt? You might as well try to reason with a fence post.”
“Yeah.” His free hand came up, cupped her jaw in the briefest of contact; his fingers gently traced her face. She felt the fine hairs on her cheek rise. “I’m sorry, Miss Priss. I’ll do the best—”
“We’ll have to beat ’em to it.”
His hand stilled. “What?”
“Break him out of jail. We’ll have to do it before the Haskels. You said we have time. A couple of days.”
“Jailbreaking is against the law, Priscilla.”
“Well, so is murder, greenhorn, and the Haskels have already admitted they intend to murder him.”
“I’ll find another way.”
“There isn’t another way.”
“I’ve never heard of such harebrained tomfoolery.”
“It’ll work. We can—”
“We won’t do anything. Do you hear me? Whatever is done, I’ll do.”
“You’ll need help.”
“Not yours.” Will stared hard at her. The passion in his eyes was for her, now. She thrilled to it…until he spoke.
“Damnation! Why didn’t your parents raise you like a girl?”
His words struck Priscilla like a steer horn to the gut. She ducked her head to hide her hurt. “Well, they didn’t. So you can quit wishing for the impossible. We have more important things to worry about.” She felt him touch her cheek, shooting fiery tingles down her spine.
He lifted her face with two fingers beneath her chin. When she refused to look at him, he planted two soft kisses there, one to each eye. “You’re loco, you know that, cowboy?”
His soft tones eased her wounded pride, but his earlier accusation left her self-conscious. She pursed her
lips and resisted opening her eyes.
“You’re asking me to break a prisoner out of jail, Priscilla.”
At the change of subject, she jumped back into the fray. “He’s innocent.”
“He’s in jail.”
“He’s innocent.”
“I’m an officer of the court,” Will argued. “I can’t go around taking the law into my own hands.”
“The Haskels do.”
“That would make me no better than they are. No, no, no. A thousand times, no.”
“I suppose you have a better idea. Not a stupid one, like reasoning with them. We can’t let them hang Joaquín.”
“I, Priscilla,” he corrected in firm tones, then softer, added, “I won’t let them hang him. I’ll go to Judge Sanders.”
“Blast it all, Will Radnor. Sanders is in Oscar Haskel’s pocket. They’re using you to run roughshod over my pa, and you’re letting—”
He grabbed both her shoulders, drew her close, held her tightly. “I’ll do my best for Joaquín. I told you that. I mean it.” He kissed her then. Rougher than he ever had, quicker than he ever had. Releasing her abruptly, he stepped into the saddle and pulled the reins around.
She figured he was mad. Well, let him be. “I’m coming—”
He looked back at that. “Sit tight, Miss Priss. I’ll let you know when it’s over.”
“I’m coming, damnit.”
A wry smile flitted across his face. “Your mama’s right. You can’t get tangled up with me. There’s no future in it.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Tangled up? Embarrassment flooded her, turned to chagrin, then to fury. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s Joaquín I’m worried about. I certainly don’t intend to leave his safety to a stupid greenhorn like you.”
He looked her solidly in the face, as though he were accepting a challenge from a stranger. “And I certainly don’t intend to leave the law to a trigger-happy cowboy like you.”
Will felt her wrath burn into his back when he rode away from the ranchhouse. What tomfoolery! Break a man out of jail? Him? William Penn Radnor IV, who had hated crime and violence since the day he was ten years old and discovered his father’s murdered body? And who had devised this ignoble plan?
Reluctant Enemies Page 13