"Breaking and entering."
"We didn't break a thing. The door was open."
"Well, we're entering."
"So we are." He couldn't suppress the laughter in his voice. "Any idea where Nick might keep his secrets?"
"There's a study back this way." She darted around him to lead the way.
He placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Hang on, sweetheart. I know you're anxious to find out what's going on, but I think I'd better go first."
She shot a resentful look at him, but stopped, allowing him to pass her. "It's the door on the right."
He opened the door and stepped inside, moving to the center of the room, so that she could follow. The room was no different than the rest of the house. It looked more like a museum than a place somebody lived.
There was a large, ornate desk straddling the wall in front of the room's only window. On one side there was a large fireplace with two armchairs on either side. The opposite wall was dominated by books. Rows and rows of books. They covered the wall completely, except for an elaborately carved alcove in the center, used effectively to showcase a large urn.
"It looks the same as it always does."
"And how is that?" he couldn't resist asking.
"Like an army of maids is standing in the corner waiting to clean up each speck of dust before it even has time to land."
He smiled, picturing white capped women armed with brushes and brooms. "You take the bookcase and I'll take the desk."
"What are we looking for?"
He blew out a breath. "I haven't the faintest idea. Something odd or out of place. Something unusual. Something that will tie Vargas to the fire."
She nodded and began to examine the books. He sat in the chair behind the desk and pulled open a drawer. Pads of paper and odd looking instruments he assumed were for writing, filled the little compartments of a oblong box. Nothing out of the ordinary here. At least not for someone who lived in the twenty-first century.
He pulled open another drawer and found files, but the contents had nothing to do with Cara or the paintings. Damn. He slammed the drawer shut and was reaching for another when he heard an odd scraping noise.
He looked up in time to see Cara, urn lid in hand, disappearing into a gaping hole where the alcove had been. He jumped up, almost tripping over the leg of the desk in his hurry to reach her.
The mechanism clicked shut and the wall was filled with nothing but books. No alcove, no Cara. Heart pounding, he skidded to a stop, his eyes searching the shelves for some sign of the missing indentation. There was nothing to indicate the wall had ever been any different. Just rows and rows of books.
Cara was gone.
15
Patrick watched as Loralee bent and pulled a pan of biscuits out of the stove, the smell of warm bread filling the air, making his mouth water. At least he thought it was the biscuits. The sight of her soft, round bottom was definitely cause for salivating, too.
"You didn't have to do this, you know." His voice came out more like a croak. Hell, he was acting like a fifteen-year-old boy.
She turned and smiled at him, causing a whole new set of reactions. "I know. But you've helped me out so much. First with Corabeth, then with the fire, and now offering me your home. There aren't many decent men who'd do that for someone like me, Patrick. Heavens, the least I can do is cook you and Pete a nice supper."
"Well, I just don't want you to go to too much trouble."
"No trouble at all." She picked up a bowl and started to stir the potatoes, the action making her breasts push against the cotton of her dress.
He licked his lips and figured he'd best get the hell out of there before his body started to give away his train of thought. "Have I got enough time to feed the horses?"
"I reckon so." She wiped a strand of hair away from her face with a flour covered hand, leaving a streak of white across her cheek. He sucked in a breath, his traitorous mind envisioning what it would taste like to lick away the flour. "Let Pete know it's almost ready, will you?"
He nodded and headed for the door, not trusting his voice to perform properly.
"Patrick?"
He steeled himself and turned. Her eyes were as big as saucers and as soft as a deer's. Oh Lord, he had it bad.
"Thanks for everything."
"My pleasure." My pleasure. What in the world was he thinking? She was a working girl. If nothing else that meant she had experience out the wazoo. What could she possibly see in a greenhorn like him? Hell, he'd offered her his protection, not a tumble in the sheets.
He stomped out onto the porch and across the yard to the stable. It was a far sight bigger than the one at Ginny's, but still not quite big enough for their needs. He glanced over at the wood frame standing stark against blue sky. Michael had said that if they were going to make a go of it, they had to invest in their dream. The barn was the first step.
Truth be told, he wasn't sure he wanted to continue without his brother. The ranch had always been Michael's. He'd just sort of come along for the ride. Without his brother's guiding force, there just might not be a dream anymore.
"I see you been talking to Loralee." Pete ambled up, his eyes on Patrick's pants.
Patrick felt himself go hot all over. "Sheesh, Pete, do you have to point it out to the whole world?"
Pete's eyes crinkled at the corners as his mouth curled into a grin. "Don't need me pointin' it out. You're doin' a fine job all by your lonesome." They walked into the stable to a chorus of whinnies and braying. "Hell, boy, even the horses can see the stick in yer drawers."
"Cut it out, Pete. Even you have to admit Loralee is a mighty pretty girl."
"Yes, she is. But she's also a—"
"Don't say it."
Pete opened the bin that held the oats and began filling a bucket with grain. "Well, son, I don't mean no disrespect, it's just that I figure you got to call a spade a spade. And I thought you needed remindin'."
"Look, I'm not having feelings for Loralee if that's what you mean. I just find her attractive. That's all."
"You tryin' to convince me or yourself?" Pete poured some oats in Roscoe's trough. "Get some hay will you?"
Happy for an end to the present turn of conversation, Patrick forked some hay from an open bale and threw it into a burro's stall. The animal brayed with delight. He continued down the line of stalls, working in tandem with Pete and his bucket of oats.
"You tell anyone else about this morning?"
Patrick frowned, thinking Pete was referring to his preoccupation with Loralee again. He started to retort, but then saw the serious glint in the older man's eyes. "You mean about Amos?"
Pete nodded, squirting a spray of tobacco neatly between his teeth. "Amos, the fire, all of it."
"No. We just came straight here."
"You still thinkin' this has something to do with Duncan?"
Patrick stopped, leaning against the pitchfork. "Honest to God, I haven't got a clue. It seems like it has to be related, but I can't prove anything. Hell, we don't even know for certain it was Amos who set the fire."
Pete nodded, pouring the last of the oats into Jack's trough. "Well, until we get this all figured out, I think your girl is better off staying out here."
Patrick sighed. "Pete, I told you already, she is not my girl."
Pete grinned. "You could've fooled me."
Pete grabbed another biscuit, sopped it in gravy and then popped the whole thing in his mouth. Patrick swallowed a laugh and looked across the table, meeting Loralee's equally mirth-filled gaze. "Pete, you'd think you'd never had a biscuit."
Pete swallowed and reached for another one with a grin. "Them things you make ain't biscuits. They're more like river rocks."
"Now look, old man, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have eaten at all."
"Well now, after tasting this, I can't help but wonder if I wouldn't have been better off." He smiled congenially and reached for the mashed potatoes.
Loralee beamed at them both,
and for the first time in a long time, Patrick actually felt like the ranch was home. He slurped up a mouthful of stew, wondering just what she did to get the rabbit so tender. His always came out stringy and tough. Took practically a whole meal to chew one bite.
The door shook as someone pounded on it. The mood was shattered in an instant. Loralee jumped up, panic flashing across her face. Patrick reached for his rifle, satisfied to see that Pete was doing the same.
"Hey, what's a fella got to do to get some grub around here?" At the sound of Arless' voice, everybody relaxed. The door burst open and a red-faced Arless staggered into the room. "I could smell that stew all the way from the road. 'Bout time you took some cooking lessons, Patrick, me boy."
He came to a full stop on spying Loralee, ripping his tattered hat from his head. "Why, Miss Loralee, I should have knowed right off those heavenly smells weren't caused by anything Patrick concocted."
Pete indicated the empty chair. "Have a seat, Arless, there's plenty to go around."
He straddled the chair backward and then with a look from both Pete and Patrick stood up and turned the chair around, sitting on it properly. "Don't mind if I do." He heaped his plate with stew and potatoes, took three biscuits and dug in with a sigh. "Now this is eating."
"What brings you out this way, Arless? Besides free food," Patrick added dryly.
"Figured I'd best head for home. Lena don't tolerate my being gone for long."
Arless and Lena lived up the valley a piece, near Slumgullion Pass. He often spent the night at Clune in route one way or the other.
"To hear the sheriff tell it, she's already on the war path." Pete's gaze met Patrick's, a question there.
"Could be. Danged woman won't let me alone." Arless shot them a crooked-toothed smile and reached for another biscuit. "Me, I ain't in no hurry."
"Well, you know you're always welcome here," Patrick said.
"Coffee?" Loralee smiled down at him.
He nodded and she bent over him to pour the hot liquid in his cup, her nearness setting his insides on fire. He managed to refrain from pulling her into his lap, instead mumbling thanks to her breasts as they brushed past.
She moved away and he sat back, relieved that the sensual onslaught was over. He was just congratulating himself on handling it all with some amount of dignity when he realized Arless and Pete had stopped eating, their know-it-all eyes twinkling with laughter.
"Ready for a little dessert, boy." Pete winked and Arless started laughing.
Heat washed across Patrick's face. A quick glance at the stove assured him that Loralee had her back turned. He glared at his two dinner partners.
"Who wants pie?" Loralee carried the pie plate over to the table and watched as three pairs of hungry eyes devoured the pie before she even had a chance to cut it. She'd forgotten how much men could eat. It was amazing. Why, she'd made two dozen biscuits and there wasn't one left.
She had to admit it made a body feel good to have her cooking appreciated. And truth be told, that wasn't the only thing making her body feel good. Every time she got within three feet of Patrick Macpherson, her hands started to sweat and she felt tingly all over. She sucked in a breath, swallowing her thoughts. No good ever came of feelings like that. No good at all.
She focused on the pie, cutting it into hefty slabs and placing them on four tin plates.
"Patrick, why don't you and Loralee take your pie out on the porch. Me and Arless have some business to discuss."
Arless looked up from pouring a flask of whiskey into his coffee. "We do?"
Pete shot him a look. "We do."
He frowned, then grinned. "Oh right."
Pete made a shooing motion toward the door. "Out. Sunset won't last forever."
Loralee tightened her grip on the plate, her mind of two accords. Go… stay… go. Her feet seemed to have made their own decision, and she started for the door. Patrick jumped up, managing to knock his chair over, hot color staining his face.
Good, at least she wasn't alone in her confusion. They arrived at the door at the same time and got stuck trying to pass through. She sucked in a breath as his hard body pressed against hers. Lord, she was behaving like a schoolgirl, and that was hardly the case, to say the least.
Finally, they managed to get out of the room and settle on the porch. Loralee sat on the top step and Patrick sat across from her, his long legs straddling the railing.
"I think we were set up." Patrick's emerald eyes twinkled and she felt a sudden burst of warmth somewhere deep inside.
"Yes, but with such a lack of subtlety." They laughed and then ate in companionable silence. The sun hung orange-red at the crest of the mountains, almost as if it was riding them. Loralee knew that in just a few minutes it would dismount, dropping behind the peaks, leaving behind pale streamers of pink and orange. And even those would soon slip away almost as if they were tethered to the sun itself. Sunset came fast in the mountains.
"Why'd you become a…" Patrick stopped, his face burning red again.
"Whore?" She filled in the word for him, unashamed of her choices.
"I'm sorry I shouldn't have asked you that. It's just that sometimes you seem so innocent, I forget that you, that you… Aw, hell."
She reached up and patted his knee. "It's all right. It's an honest question." She sighed. "I ran away from home when I was thirteen. My daddy drank. And when he was through sleeping with Mama, he started turning on us."
"Us?"
"Me and my sister, Faye." She set her plate and fork down on the step and leaned back, looking out at the mountains, remembering. "I woke up one morning, stiff and bruised, and figured I'd had about enough. So I packed up my stuff and left."
"What about your sister?"
"I tried to get her to come, but she was afraid. In the end, I just left her there."
"Where'd you go?"
"Here and there to begin with. I took odd jobs. Washing, cleaning, sweeping up, whatever I could find. I worked mostly for a place to lay my head and a bite to eat. I wound up in St. Louis, cooking for the girls at a fancy bordello." Patrick sat down beside her on the step, his presence comforting somehow. "I worked there for almost five months. The money was good and my bed was clean. Then one night a drunken customer mistook me for one of the girls. I fought like a hellcat at first, then finally decided it wasn't like I had anything to lose."
She laughed and was surprised at how bitter it sounded. "The next morning, he was gone and I had twenty-five dollars. Well, it didn't take too much ciphering to figure out that was more than I made in a week of cooking. And all I had to do was what my pa had already forced me to do." She shrugged philosophically. "Only problem was I wasn't one of the girls. Word got out and I found myself out of a job right quick. So I nosed around and tried to find a place in another parlor house."
"In St. Louis?"
"Yes, at first. Only see there's rules to everything, even whoring, and none of the fancy houses wanted a scrawny kid like me. About the only place I was accepted was on the streets and that was too risky. So I headed west on the first stage out of town.
"Followed the miners mostly. Started out in Del Norte in a dance hall. That's when I changed my name. Saw it on a flyer. Thought it sounded real pretty. Anyway, before long I was making my way. Never had the looks for the fancy places, but I did all right for myself. Finally wound up in Leadville." She stopped memories crowding in faster than she could put them into words. She reached for her locket, comforted by the cool touch of silver.
"Who gave you the locket, Loralee?"
She brought herself back, focusing on Patrick. He had such a strong, handsome face. She could see bits of Duncan in him. She chewed the side of her lip, trying to decide how much to share with him, and finally let the soft light in his eyes decide her. He was a good man.
"My husband."
Patrick couldn't have been more surprised if she'd up and told him she was really a man. She smiled and squeezed his hand, reassuringly. He tried to stop the wa
ve of jealousy that washed through him.
"I met him in Leadville. Handsomest man you ever did see. Tall like you, but thinner with a wiry build. He was a charmer. But real kind to all the girls. He moved around a lot. Always after big money, I guess. Anyway, he always brung us presents when he got back. He never treated us like working girls. Always had respect for us." She stopped and looked up into Patrick's eyes. "Like you." Her whispered words reduced his gut to jelly.
She turned away again, fixing her gaze on the shadows in the barnyard. "He always seemed to wind up with me and we started spending more and more time together. He even took me out in a rented buggy once."
The happiness that the memory brought was reflected in her face and it made Patrick want to buy her a fleet of buggies. She leaned back and sighed. "We spent a whole summer like that. I'd never been with anyone like him before. He made me feel special, like I was the only woman in the world. I quit seeing other men. Didn't seem right. Then I found out I was pregnant."
Patrick felt her confusion and pain as if it was happening right there on the porch. He smoothed the soft curls hanging over her shoulder, his hand aching to touch more than just her hair. But she had a husband, he reminded himself fiercely and dropped his hand to his side.
"At first I wasn't sure I should tell him. I mean, I was a whore. And well, I knew it was his baby, but there wasn't a dad-gummed thing I could do to prove it. But finally, I decided I had to." She tipped up her head to look at him. "It was the right thing to do."
He nodded, too full of conflicting emotions to string together any words.
"Well, he was so proud you'd have thought he was the only man to ever make a baby. Started talking about how we had to get married and give our child a home. A home. Can you imagine me with a real home? After all the things I'd done?" She managed to sound outraged and wistful all at the same time.
He whispered 'yes,' but didn't think she heard him.
"At first I said no. I mean I couldn't very well go and marry him. It would have spoiled his reputation. But he just laughed and said he hadn't any reputation to spoil. And he told me he loved me more than he'd ever loved any living thing. Well, I couldn't resist that long. So we got married. And me with a belly already swelling.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 80