And just like that, there she was again. Not in the flesh this time, but her face and her body filled his mind's eye anyway. He had been able to keep his thoughts away from her for a few minutes, but that seemed to be the limit.
If this kept up, he wasn't going to have any choice about what to do next.
He would have to leave the Red River station before something happened that could never be forgiven. Before he did something that would tear apart the fragile shreds of honor and self-respect that he had left . . .
Chapter Five
Theodore was nowhere in sight when Sandra came back into the trading post, and she felt a surge of relief. But as soon as she did, a feeling of disloyalty came over her, and she caught at her bottom lip, worrying it between her even white teeth.
Her husband was gone a great deal these days, and Sandra had no idea where he was spending his time. She didn't care. When he wasn't home, at least he wasn't tormenting her.
She almost felt like laughing whenever she thought about the situation. Theodore was constantly accusing her of sneaking around and keeping things from him, but he was the one who was usually missing. He was the one who had secrets. And he became violent whenever she dared to question him about his comings and goings.
It hadn't always been that way. When she had first met him, he had been . . . well, not charming, perhaps, but at least likable. And friendly, that was another good word to describe Theodore Maxwell.
Lord, it hadn't taken long for that to change.
It had started with Theodore insisting that he wasn't good enough for her. He had constantly talked about someday having more money, as if that would justify her affection for him. He wanted her love, wanted it with a need bordering on desperation, but he didn't seem to know how to go about keeping it. Sandra had never cared that much about money. If that was all she was interested in when it came to men, she could have picked richer suitors.
The jealousy popped up soon after Theodore's obsession with wealth. He wanted her to account for every minute of her time, which wasn't difficult. She hardly ever went anywhere, other than next door to the stage station.
She didn't know what she would have done without Jake.
She'd known Jake even longer than she had known Theodore; the stationmaster had been acquainted with her father. Growing up, Jake Maxwell had been almost like an uncle to her, and that was one reason she was willing to marry Theodore. If the son was anything like the father, she had reasoned, it would be a good marriage.
But Theodore wasn't like Jake at all, and she had found herself relying on her father-in-law for friendship. He was like a rock she could hang on to for support while she tried to sort out the unexpected twists and turns of her life.
And then things got even more complicated. Jake began looking at her not like a father-in-law looks at his son's wife, but rather the way a man looks at a woman—a woman he desires.
The worst part about it, Sandra found herself thinking more than once, was that she didn't mind. Didn't mind at all.
At first she had simply been flattered, but then she discovered that she was starting to regard Jake in the same light: as a man, not just as her father-in-law. He was quite a bit older than her, that was true, but he was healthy and vigorous and looked younger than he was, probably because he led an active life. He was kind and considerate and genuinely fond of her, she was sure of that.
As incredible as it seemed to her at times, she was beginning to realize that she had married the wrong Maxwell.
Sandra spent the afternoon brooding over the situation, hardly speaking to the customers who came into the trading post. She knew she was being impolite, but the latest encounter with Jake, when he had looked so hungrily at her in the barn, was consuming her thoughts. When Theodore finally wandered in, late in the afternoon, she hardly looked up at him.
But she did ask, "Where have you been?"
That was a mistake, and she knew it even as she spoke the words. But she supposed she was in the mood for a fight. She wouldn't let him hit her this time, she knew that. Before she would allow that, she would reach for the loaded shotgun he kept under the counter in the rear of the store. Not even Theodore was foolish enough to advance in the face of a loaded greener.
"That's none of your damned business," he replied peevishly as he came behind the counter. "You don't tell me about your comings and goings. I don't see why I should tell you about mine."
That was a more reasonable response than she usually got from him these days. She prodded him again. "There's no secrets about where I go. You're the one who's hiding something, Theodore."
"You're crazy," he said without looking at her. "I've known it from the first. I never should have married you."
"You're probably right," she sniffed contemptuously.
She was being foolish and she knew it, but her wounded emotions wouldn't let her stop. She kept pressing him on his whereabouts during the afternoon, following him from one end of the trading post to the other while he tried to take a rough inventory of their goods, until he abruptly threw down the pencil and piece of paper he was using to jot down figures. Whirling toward her, he grabbed her arms.
Sandra gasped. She was nowhere near the shotgun under the counter. She'd let herself be trapped, and now there was no telling what he would do to her.
"Shut up!" he said brokenly. "I'm tired of listening to you!" He shook her as he spoke. "You keep your pretty little nose out of my business, or you'll be sorry, Sandra. I can promise you that."
Thankfully, he hadn't struck her. She tried to pull away from him, but his fingers tightened painfully on her shoulders. "Let me go!" she cried.
He jerked her closer, until his breath was hot in her face. "Not yet. Not until you understand. Maybe I'm not man enough for you anymore, maybe I never was. But you're damn well going to have to make the best of it." He drew a deep, ragged breath. "Someday, you'll feel differently about me. When I'm a rich, important man, maybe you won't think you made such a mistake by marrying me!"
It wouldn't do any good to tell him that her mistake wasn't in marrying a man who wasn't rich; what she had done wrong was to pick a man for her mate who was unbalanced. She was growing more convinced every day that Theodore was insane.
She stood stock-still, his hands digging into her shoulders, tears filming her eyes and threatening to brim over and roll down her cheeks. She didn't want him to see her crying. She blinked furiously, trying to drive the moisture away.
Finally, he released her with a little shove and curtly turned away. Sandra bit back the sigh of relief she felt welling up inside her. Theodore stalked to the front door and left the building. As soon as he was gone, Sandra was able to breathe again. She turned to one of the shelves in the center of the store, rested her palms on it, and let her head sag as she tried to quiet the turmoil inside her.
A few minutes later, a soft, tentative footstep made her look up. Jake Maxwell stood in the doorway, one foot inside the store, the other still on the porch. He frowned and asked, "What's wrong, Sandy? I just saw Ted come out of here lookin' like a mad 'possum."
Sandra shook her head. "It's nothing for you to worry about, Jake. Just a little disagreement."
"Seems like you and that boy of mine 've been havin' them disagreements pretty regular." Jake came a few steps closer. He took a deep breath, hesitated, then blurted, "He didn't hit you this time, did he?"
Her head snapped up. "How did you . . . She managed to break off the question before finishing it, but it was too late. Jake knew quite well what she had been about to ask.
"How'd I know? Shoot, I'm not blind, girl." He stepped up to her and put a hand on her arm. "I'll have a talk with him." His voice was grim. "I'll straighten him out. I'm his father. I've got a right. . ."
"No." Sandra caught at her father-in-law's sleeve. "Please don't get mixed up in this, Jake. Theodore's changed. He's not like he used to be."
"He's still my son, and I won't have him mistreatin' somebody as fine as you."
A b
leak smile tugged at her mouth. "He doesn't think I'm fine."
"Son or not, the boy's a fool," Jake said quietly.
Sandra looked up at him. His hand was still on her arm, and she was clutching his sleeve. After a long moment, she said, "Thank you, Jake. I . . . I don't know what I would have done . . ."
"Hush." He put his arm around her and folded her against him. "Just hush now. It'll be all right."
Sandra didn't know how long they stood there like that. The moment seemed to last forever, and yet it was over much too soon when Jake finally let her go and stepped back.
"Reckon you'll be all right now?" he asked.
She nodded and wiped away a few errant tears. "I'll be fine," she told him. "Thank you, Jake."
"Glad to help," he said gruffly. He started to turn away.
Sandra lifted her hand. She was all too aware of how she had felt while she was in his arms. She had felt safe and protected, of course, but there had been more to it than that.
She had wanted him to hold her forever.
And if she touched him again now, with the emotions that were coursing through both of them, they might not be able to back away this time. The thing that had been haunting both of them might come stampeding right out into the open.
Sandra couldn't stop herself. Her fingertips lightly brushed his shoulder.
Jake stopped in his tracks. He didn't look at her. A shudder ran through his shoulders, visible evidence of the indecision that was gripping him. He might still be able to walk away from her, she sensed, unless she communicated with him somehow that this was what she wanted.
She whispered his name.
He turned sharply, his hands reaching out to grasp her upper arms. They pulled her toward him, but unlike Theodore, this was a gentle urging. Sandra came willingly, pressing herself against him as his mouth started toward hers.
One last time, he stopped. Jake Maxwell had always been a good man. There had been some wild times in his past—nobody had ever mistaken the Texas frontier for a Sunday School—but there were lines he had never crossed.
Until now.
He kissed his daughter-in-law.
Sandra molded herself into his embrace. She felt her own pulse hammering in her head, and she felt the beat of his heart against her. Her lips opened under his.
Right away, she knew she'd never been kissed like this. Theodore hardly ever kissed her, even when they were in bed.
She shoved thoughts of Theodore out of her head, not even worrying that he might return and find her in his father's arms. Whenever they had an argument and he stomped out like that, he was always gone at least an hour. As usual, she had no idea where he went, but she didn't care. As long as he wasn't here . . .
This moment really could have lasted forever, as far as she was concerned.
* * *
What the hell was he doing? Jake Maxwell asked himself.
Well, the answer was simple enough, he supposed. He was holding a woman, a beautiful young woman whose lips were warm and sweet, whose breasts were flattened against his chest, whose soft belly was pressed to his. He'd known women before. After all, he had been married for a long time. When he had finished mourning for his beloved wife, he'd had no desire to marry again, but there had been a few visits to soiled doves when he went down to Sherman to pick up supplies for the stage station. He was fully aware of what he was doing, all right.
But it had never been like this before, not even with his wife.
The only problem was that the girl happened to be married to his son.
Maxwell tore his mouth away from Sandra's and said, "Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn . . ." The cursing trailed off into a heartfelt whisper.
"It's all right, Jake," she said.
"No, it's not! You're my . . ."
"I know who I am," she interrupted. "And I know who you are. And I don't care, not now." She lifted her face to his and kissed him again.
The fingers of Maxwell's big hands splayed out against her back. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, knew it was all wrong and against every moral code there was. But he couldn't help himself. If Sandra had screamed or slapped him, he could have slunk away like some cur, but instead she seemed more than happy to be there in his arms, her mouth hot and urgent under his.
Hell, she wanted this as much as he did!
That realization burst on him with stunning force. All along, her reactions to his lustful glances had puzzled him. Now it was clear she felt the same way. Maxwell didn't know what to make of that, but he could ponder on it later.
Right now he had better things to do.
When they broke the second kiss, Sandra rested her head against his shoulder. He lifted a hand and stroked her hair, breathing deeply of the sweet scent coming from it. Her breath was warm against his throat. After a few moments, she asked in a whisper, "What are we going to do?"
That same question had begun to echo in Maxwell's brain. What could they do? It was bad enough they'd wound up hugging and kissing like this.
They certainly couldn't let this go any farther. For one thing, Theodore might come walking in at any moment and catch them.
Maxwell felt a flush of shame. He told himself he ought to be worried about lusting after his daughter-in-law, rather than thinking about being caught in the act. This was the worst thing he had ever done.
If only it hadn't felt so damned good, he thought.
He took a deep breath and said, "This has to be the end of it, Sandy. You and me both know this ain't right, and it can't go on." He thought she was about to say something in protest, so he hurried on, "I'm mighty sorry things ain't worked out for you and Ted like we all hoped they would. But it won't make things any better for you and me to . . . to . . ."
"Sin together?" Her voice sounded faintly mocking as she spoke without looking up at him.
"Well, dammit, that's what it'd be! You know it is."
"I never realized you were that much of a churchgoer, Jake."
"Never cared for sittin' on a hard pew 'til my rear end went numb whilst some sky pilot stood up front and hollered for a few hours. That's torture, not worshippin'. But I still recollect what's right and wrong, Sandy, and this . . . thing . . . between us is wrong."
She slipped out of his arms and turned away, and even though that was what he wanted, he still felt a sharp pang of regret that he was no longer holding her. "I know it," she said without looking at him. "It. . . it just felt so wonderful to be held by a decent man again, a man who cares about me . . ."
"Of course I care about you." He made his voice firm as he reminded them both, "After all, you're my daughter-in-law."
"Yes. I am." She sighed heavily. "I guess you'd better go, Jake."
"Reckon so." He went to the doorway, paused, and looked back at her, hoping he wasn't making the biggest mistake of his life. "Good night, Sandy. Will you be all right?"
"Sure," she answered with a short, humorless laugh. "I'll be just fine."
Maxwell wished he could believe her.
But he didn't wait to debate the matter. Instead, he walked to the stage station as fast as his long legs would carry him.
* * *
A figure emerged from the trees nearby, a few minutes after Jake Maxwell had returned to the stagecoach station. The man stood there, his eyes staring stonily at the station building for a long moment before they swung over to the trading post. The store, like the station, was brightly lit. He generally kept the trading post open late for any customers who couldn't come by during the day. Sometimes travelers stopped at night, too.
Theodore Maxwell's lips compressed into a thin line. He had no idea why his father had been inside the trading post for such a long time. He wasn't close enough to have seen what was going on through the open door. But whatever was going on, he knew he didn't like it. Sandra and the old man were getting much too friendly. She was liable to start talking to his father about her husband's frequent absences. She was a bitch with a suspicious mind. There was no telling what she had
figured out.
He had to put a stop to that growing friendship. Now, with everything he had ever wanted almost in his grasp, he couldn't take any chances.
Even if it meant that the old man had to die.
Chapter Six
The wound in Nacho's side felt much better the next morning. He was able to climb out of bed with only faint twinges of pain from the muscles around the injury. When Billy Cambridge changed the dressing after breakfast, the redness around the wound was nearly gone.
"No sign of infection." Cambridge nodded approvingly. "If you're careful, that wound ought to heal just fine, Nacho."
"That means I can ride a horse again, and we can start hunting down those outlaws," Nacho said with a grin.
"Not so fast. I didn't say anything of the sort."
"But you didn't say I couldn't ride," Nacho pointed out. "You know I'm always careful on horseback, Billy. It's not like I'm going to be riding Diablo or anything like that."
Jake Maxwell was sitting at the table in the station's big main room, thumbing tobacco from a rawhide pouch into his pipe. "Diablo," he repeated. "Mighty nasty-soundin' critter."
Nacho's grin widened. "He is. The biggest, blackest, meanest horse you've ever seen. But he can run like the wind when he's in the mood."
"Nacho's ridden Diablo in a dozen or more horse races around Pecos," Cambridge said as he began to wind some fresh strips of bandage around the foreman's torso, just as a precaution.
"And we've never been beaten yet," Nacho added proudly.
Dryly, Cambridge asked, "What about that time he acted up in the starting gate and threw you? Tried to stomp a hole clean through you, didn't he?"
Nacho shrugged. "I always figured that time didn't count, Billy. After all, we never got out of the gate. You can't say we lost, because we never ran."
"But you didn't win."
"But we didn't lose," Nacho insisted. "Being scratched from the field because some devil horse is jumping up and down on your head isn't the same. Is it?"
Cambridge shook his head and put the finishing touches on the bandage. "I won't argue the matter with you," he said. He gestured toward the table and went on, "Sit down and finish your coffee. Then we'll talk about trying to pick up the trail of those bandits."
Red River Ruse Page 6