Texas Proud (Vincente 2)

by Constance O'Banyon

  "He realizes that I..." Her voice faded away. She couldn't think clearly, and she couldn't think of a solid reason why a man like Noble would want her dead. "Some people don't need a reason to kill, Dr. Stanhope."

  "And you believe that Noble is one of those people?"

  "No' she said truthfully. "But it seems to me that-"

  "Do you want the truth?" he asked kindly.

  She nodded, trusting Dr. Stanhope as she had trusted her own father.

  "Noble probably saved your life by removing the bullet. It missed your heart by less than a quarter of an inch."

  She shivered at his words. She searched her memory carefully, feeling as if she viewed it through a fragile veil. Noble couldn't have shot her because he certainly hadn't been concealing a gun at the time she'd been shot. They were both naked in the river! Distress filled her mind. When she tried to move, pain shot through her as if it were tearing at her flesh. She lay very still, gasping for breath.

  She wouldn't try that again anytime soon.

  "You will have to remain quiet, Rachel, if you want the wound to heal," Dr. Stanhope told her sternly while he patted her hand. "Try not to upset yourself"

  Rachel hardly heard him because she was still trying to sort out her thoughts. "If Noble didn't shoot me himself, he could have had one of his men do it."

  "Who?" Dr. Stanhope asked, with a slight edge to his voice. "Kindhearted Alejandro? He would die for Noble, but he wouldn't kill a woman for him. Perhaps you think Margretta did it-or one of her sons. Understand this, Rachel. Noble didn't shoot you, and he didn't have anyone else do it either."

  "One of the vaqueros could have done it."

  "No. They all left after Don Reinaldo died."

  "So they deserted Noble," Rachel said with satisfaction.

  The doctor nodded while he applied healing ointment to her wound and then rebound it. "I have a gut feeling that most of them will hightail it back when they hear Noble has returned. The vaqueros of Casa del Sol have a strong loyalty to the Vincente family."

  "Well," she said, changing the subject, "someone shot me, Dr. Stanhope. I certainly didn't do it myself."

  "That much is true." He studied her for a long moment. "Noble didn't tell me any of the particulars. He just said that the two of you were together when you were shot. Would you care to tell me what you remember about the incident so I can relate it to Sheriff Crenshaw?"

  Her face reddened and she looked away. She couldn't tell anyone, especially not Dr. Stanhope, that she'd been swimming naked with Noble Vincente. "I don't remember... very clearly." With effort she raised her hand to her chest, feeling the bulkiness of the bandages. "When can I go home?" she asked, wishing she could leave with him.

  "Not just yet. I don't want you moved for at least a week. You've lost a lot of blood, and I can't take a chance on your rupturing the wound."

  Rachel had been so terrified of Noble when she thought he was going to kill her. Now she no longer feared him, but she was deeply ashamed because of her brazen conduct at the river. How could she ever face him again after he'd seen her naked?

  Dr. Stanhope took her silence as consent. "You will have the best of care here, Rachel."

  "You never believed that Noble shot my father, did you, Dr. Stanhope?"

  "Nope. I've known Noble all his life, and a cowardly act would not be in his nature. Like his father before him, Noble's a man of honor." The doctor offered her a spoonful of some foulsmelling concoction. "Take it like a good girl," he said, smiling.

  She wrinkled her nose just as she had when she'd been a little girl and he'd coaxed medicine down her throat. "What is it?"

  "Just something to take the edge off the pain so you can sleep."

  Reluctantly she allowed him to lift her head and spoon the liquid into her mouth. With a satisfied nod, he eased her head back against the pillow. "Do you want me to send for your sister?"

  "No!" She almost shouted the word, and then quickly said in a softer tone, "I don't want Delia to know what happened. Not until I'm able to go home."

  Dr. Stanhope picked up his black bag and ambled for the door. "Suit yourself. I'll be back to see you in a day or two. I'll leave instructions with Margretta on what to feed you. After today I expect you to eat plenty of red meat to build your strength." He turned back to face her. "You don't still believe Noble shot you, do you?"

  Already the medicine was taking effect and she was feeling drowsy. "No."

  "Noble believes whoever shot you was aiming at him and hit you by mistake."

  "Most likely," she said, yawning and drifting off to sleep.

  Noble was waiting in the hallway when Dr. Stanhope emerged from the bedroom. His face was etched with worry. "How is she?"

  "She'll be all right. It would have been a different story, though, if you'd waited to remove the bullet until I got here. Gangrene could have set in.,,

  "I was scared as hell, Doctor. I never want to go through that again. I don't know how you do that day after day."

  Dr. Stanhope chuckled. "So are you saying you have a little more respect for my profession?"

  "I've always respected you. But more now that I had to...well, it wasn't easy to stick a knife in Rachel."

  "I can imagine. Sometimes she's downright formidable. She's a rule unto herself here in Madragon County. Her pa raised her like a son, and she carries responsibilities many grown men would shirk. And yet everyone respects her. Hell, she could've been married a dozen times if she'd so chosen, and it isn't because she owns the Broken Spur. She's grown into the real beauty of the family."

  Noble could have told the doctor just how beautiful Rachel was, but he only nodded grimly in agreement, wondering why Rachel had never married. His gaze met Dr. Stanhope's. "She must not be moved too soon or she could break open the wound."

  "I already told her that," said Dr. Stanhope, gripping his bag and moving away.

  Noble leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "She's afraid of me. She thinks I shot her."

  The doctor paused. "She did at first, but not now."

  "Will you remain here until she's well enough to leave?"

  "Can't. But I'll be back tomorrow or the next day. I'll just slip down to the kitchen and have some of Margretta's coffee and delicious tortillas. I'll need to instruct her on how to take care of our patient."

  Noble walked down the stairs, out the front door into the morning air. He raised his head upward, his gaze tracing the high, thin clouds. Rachel was going to be all right. But somewhere out there was an unknown assailant who'd shot her.

  The prayer he'd tried to say at his father's grave, but couldn't, slipped from between his lips now. "Thank you, God, for letting her live."

  Rachel awoke only once more that day. She witnessed a golden sunset, and heard the mournful sound of the wind whispering through the trees outside the double doors.

  Margretta entered with a happy smile and a bowl of thin beef broth. After Rachel had pushed the bowl away, the housekeeper gave her a spoonful of the foul-tasting medicine, and Rachel fell asleep.

  Later that night, Noble threw a blanket on the floor of the empty bedroom across the hallway from Rachel. Although Margretta was sleeping in the room with her, he wanted to be nearby so he would hear if Rachel should need him during the night. And he wanted to make certain that whoever shot her would not get that close again.

  He lay down on his back and clasped his hands behind his head. The big house didn't seem quite so empty now. There was life here there was Rachel.

  He rolled to his side, trying to find a comfortable position. He couldn't shake the guilt that weighed heavily upon him; Rachel had been shot because of him. No one would want to harm her. The bullet had most certainly been meant for him.

  He closed his eyes, but they crept open again and he stared into the darkness, watching the moon play tag with floating clouds. Unable to sleep, he got up and wandered to the window. Absently he gazed down into the courtyard, listening to the wind whispering through the trees an
d the rustle of dead leaves swirling about in the fountain courtyard. He made a mental note to have one of Alejandro's sons clean the courtyard tomorrow.

  His mind turned again to Rachel. Who would want him dead badly enough to endanger her life to get at him?

  Hell, it could have been any one of a dozen people. He was certainly not without enemies.

  Whoever it was, he'd find them eventually.

  Austin, Texas

  The butler walked with practiced dignity across the ornate, red-and-gold Chinese carpet on his way to the dining room.

  In the background, there were sounds of the house coming to life -a servant waxing the dark oak banisters, another shining the brass door handles downstairs, while still another washed the windows. Somewhere in the distance, faint kitchen sounds filtered into the front part of the house the banging of pots and pans, the sound of a chopping knife, the murmured voice of the head cook giving instructions for the day.

  The Chandler residence exuded wealth- although if asked, few people could have said how Whit Chandler came by his fortune. He was popular with almost everyone Texans, as well as Yankees. He walked the difficult path of courting both camps without offending either-a talent he was proud of Such was Whit's personality that most people liked him, although, again, none could have said why. His easy charm, perhaps. His ability to listen to whoever spoke to him as if that person had his whole attention. He was likable, charming, and he did have a beautiful wife, which didn't hurt.

  Delia sat across the table from her husband, observing him as he read the daily newspaper. Whit's face was angular, handsome in a boyish sort of way, and he looked much younger than his thirtyfive years. His hair was blond and curly. He had a slightly crooked nose that had been broken in his youth, the result of his quick temper - a temper he'd long since learned to control. His eyes were deep-set and a nondescript color, somewhere between gray and blue. He was a complex man. Delia wasn't sure she understood him at all, nor did she really care to.

  Her role was to play the dutiful wife when the world was watching, and she did that well. It was easy to fool everyone by pretending to adore her husband and hang on to his every word as if they were pearls of wisdom. But within their own home, they were little more than strangers. Whit came often enough to her bed, because lovemak ing was the one good thing they shared. But there was no love between them, at least not on Delia's part. And Whit had never said he loved her, so she assumed he didn't not that it mattered.

  The butler entered the room, cleared his throat and held out a silver tray to Whit.

  "Good morning, Hamish." Whit smiled as he took the note, then looked puzzled. "It's from Harvey Briscal."

  "That little weasel. I didn't even know he could write," Delia said with disgust. She leaned closer to her husband, trying to read the letter, but it was badly written and most of the words were misspelled. "He's Ira Crenshaw's deputy. I only met him once, and he impressed me as being a fool. I didn't like him in the least."

  Whit scanned the note and raised his gaze to Delia. "Dammit," he exploded, glaring at his wife. "That sister of yours has gone too far this time!"

  Delia nodded for Hamish to leave, and waited until he departed to speak. "What are you talking about? What's Rachel done now?"

  He slid the note across the smooth surface of the table, and Delia scanned it hastily. "If I read this correctly, it says she's been wounded"-her face drained of color-"but it doesn't say how bad she is or who shot her!" Delia rose quickly to her feet. "I must go to her at once!"

  Whit gripped her arm and jerked her back into her chair. "Read on."

  Her gaze went back to the letter and she sucked in her breath. "It says she is recovering at Casa del Sol." She looked at Whit with a puzzled expression. "Whatever does it mean? Why would she be with Noble? She despises him."

  "That's exactly what I intend to find out." Whit threw his napkin forcefully across the table. "Although I have someone watching her, she still finds a way to get in trouble. It's time I paid your sister a visit. You surely haven't gotten anywhere with her. This time you'll remain here and I'll go to see her. Your sister will ruin us all."

  Delia glared at him. "You are too cold-blooded. My sister's been shot. We don't know how badly, and all you can think about is how it will affect you. Well, know this: Rachel's my sister, and not you or anyone will keep me from going to her when she needs me. And as for her ruining us, what about your own family? You never see your mother or your brother. You never invite them here. They're the only family you have left, and you act as if you are ashamed of them."

  Whit's forehead furrowed with a frown, and his blond eyebrows almost met across the bridge of his nose. "I admit my family will never be a part of my life." He smiled, not with humor but with cruelty. "Do you think I don't know that my brother, Frank, always lusted after you? He wanted you, but I got you, God help me."

  Delia dropped her gaze. "I have to pack if I'm going to leave this morning."

  Whit's eyes narrowed. "I don't want you to go near Noble, do you understand me? He's probably still in love with you."

  Delia continued to keep her eyes averted so he wouldn't read her thoughts he was good at reading people's thoughts, and especially hers. She had allowed Whit to think that Noble had once loved her, but it wasn't true; it never had been.

  Wanting to change the subject, she pushed Harvey Briscal's note back toward whit and said, "Have you set this man to watching Rachel? If you have, I don't like it. Is your spy the deputy?"

  "That's none of your concern. But if Rachel isn't watched, who can say what she'll do next? She has no regard for what I'm trying to do for this state."

  "What are you trying to do for Texas?" Delia asked, avoiding his hand when he reached out for her. "I thought you were doing it all to line your own pockets. And you've done quite well there, haven't you?"

  He pretended not to hear her. "Your sister could ruin everything if she's playing the harlot with Noble. The Rutledge sisters seem to have a thing for Spanish blood, do you not-hmm?"

  Anger started in the pit of Delia's stomach and burned a path upward, until her face was flushed. "How dare you say such a thing to me? Rachel is not like that. And you know she despises Noble."

  Whit walked across the room, leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb and stared at her. "What upsets you most about this, Delia? Your sis ter's reputation or the fact that Noble might be in bed with her right now?"

  "Don't go on with this, Whit."

  He was silent for a moment as if he were pondering his next words carefully. Whit never said or did anything without thinking about it first. A mask slid across his face, and he glanced at Delia with a dreadful intentness that made her shudder. "Go get your sister and take her back to the Broken Spur, but stay away from Noble-is that understood?"

  Delia walked over to him. "Ill take her home. And remain with her until I know she's all right."

  "And you won't see Noble alone?"

  "Why pretend you're so upset, Whit? You don't care what I do as long as I do it quietly and secretly, and don't upset your election plans."

  He grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her and brought her face close to his. "You know nothing about my feelings. As long as I keep you in jewels and expensive gowns, you're happy. You have no notion just how much it costs me to keep you happy, my dear." He flung her away. "Don't you ever question where the money comes from, or what I have to do to get it?"

  "Go to hell!" She rubbed her bruised wrist. "I don't want to know your dirty little secrets."

  His smile was humorless and somehow frightening. "I undoubtedly shall, but I'll take you with me." His gaze took on a faraway look. "I'm sure your precious Noble is already in hell. He's no longer the studhorse for simpering young girls to dream about. He's touched the ground like the rest of us without his father's money, he's just another mortal."

  Delia looked at him with new understanding. "You are jealous of Noble. I knew you hated him, but I never realized that you were envious of him."<
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  "Why should I be?" He took out his pocket watch and gauged the time, trying to act casual, but she saw that his hand shook. "Think what I have and look at what he doesn't have, and then tell me I envy him."

  "What do you have?"

  He made a wide sweep with his hand. "Why, my dear, I have all this and you. Noble has lost everything. He's hated and despised by his neighbors, and most probably he'll soon lose Casa del Sol. If I get my hands on the Broken Spur, it's just a matter of time before I take over Casa del Sol as well."

  He started to move away and she fell in step beside him. "You are crazed, Whit. Do you hate him so much?"

  "Hating someone takes too much time. I'm merely happy to see Noble finally get what he deserves."

  "His father was good to you. Don't forget he paid for you to go to that fancy Eastern law school. If it hadn't been for the Vincente money, you wouldn't be where you are today."

  "Yes, Noble's father paid for me to go to school. It seemed that the Vincentes liked to do charity work I was Don Reinaldo Vincente's good deed. I admit that I owe my law degree to him, but I have never been grateful to him. I got where I am because of my brain, Delia." He tapped his head. "My brain!"

  "You hated living on Vincente charity, didn't you? Even now it sticks in your throat like bile. So you aren't so brilliant after all."

  "I can still feel the humiliation of writing all those glowing letters of my progress to Don Reinaldo Vincente, so the old man would continue to pay my expenses. When I earned my degree, I was glad that I no longer had to live on Vincente money."

  "Just think where you'd be today but for their money. You'd probably be living in a sod hut with your family."

  His eyes narrowed. "I don't think so."

  "I understand why you hate Noble. But his father was good to you."

  Bitterness laced Whit's words. "I was never once invited to their ranch. When they had dealings with me, it came through a paid sycophant. Well, I used them to suit my purpose that's all."

  "Just as you've used me?"

  He smiled, lowering his voice so the servants wouldn't overhear. "We use each other, don't we, my dear?"