by Freda, Paula
"Mark, I'll leave the shore anytime and go inland, as long as you come with me."
"Cybelle, I can't go on fighting my feelings. Get out of this house and on with your life."
"I won't," Cybelle protested. She grabbed him affectionately by his collar. Over the years she'd grown a few inches and now her chin was level with the front of his neck. "I love you and you love me. I'm not going to leave your home, even if you throw me out. I'll just camp outside on the grounds until you give what we feel for each other a chance." She yanked down on his collar until his face was close to hers and their lips were almost touching. "Leatrice won her man, and Val persisted until Harriet fell in love with him. Doreen and Esteban have rekindled their love. You're crazy about me. Stop fighting it."
She was a minx, Mark thought, his defenses nothing more than charred ruins."
"Mark, give in. Marry me. Give me a few years and three or four kids. I won't look so young to you."
She made him laugh. She was like a breath of fresh air in a stale existence.
"Cybelle don't torture me," he entreated.
Mark spoke silently to Cybelle's father. "Not one to mince words is she. I've held out all these years, but she won't permit me to do so any longer. You made me promise to insure her hap-piness, but you never warned me how easily I'd fall in love with her. So what do you say, Jacques? Would you mind very much if I surrendered the key to my heart and accepted hers? She's not a child anymore. She's a grown woman. And she's everything I'm not. Free-spirited, a sparrow, delicate, yet full of zest. I still can't fathom what she sees in me. But beyond all my reasoning, she loves me. You won't hold it against me, will you, if I go on protecting her, dedicating my life to her. I promise you if she ever tires of me, I'll never try to force her to stay. Cybelle is special. You always said she was. And knowing how stubborn she and I are, I think we'll make it work. How about it, Jacques, old buddy, have we got your blessing?"
A white moth hovered about the rose bush. The moonlight touched its wings and they shone like white gems. Cybelle let go of Mark's collar and standing on tiptoe closed her arms about his shoulders. Hesitantly, then daringly, she touched her lips to his. Mark took her arms from his shoulders and clasped both her hands into his and held them against his chest.
Cybelle read the surrender on his face and in his eyes and her happiness overwhelmed her. At last, she'd cracked the stone that held his heart prisoner. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and to her Mark was handsome and debonair, tall, sophisticated and refined. He was everything she aspired to be; the complete opposite of her popcorn nature. Above all, he was kind and giving. A gentle man. She loved him. And he loved her.
"Are you sure, Cybelle?" Mark asked. "It's my very soul you're holding."
Cybelle's reply was a hungry kiss that sent his senses reeling.
"Forever, Cybelle," Mark wept and gathered her into his arms.
Hovering above the rose bush a moment longer, the moth flitted merrily beneath the moonlit sky, and then flew away.
♥♥
*****************************
Driscoll's Lady
by Paula Freda
Smashwords Edition
This novella appeared in my book
Roses in the Dark (also available through
Smashwords)(ISBN 978-1-4523-6176-5)
that comprised four interwoven love stories,
written by the same author, Paula Freda.
Story and Bookcover (author's personal photos circa 1981)
© 2005 by Dorothy Paula Freda
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are a product of the authors imagination.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
Vast pastures shading to soft fawn
Snowcapped mountains shrouded
in pale blue mist
Lush grassland, buttes and
rising hills
Blue skies and candy mountains
Driscoll’s Lady cow punching?
"Impossible. It will never work! Would he — ?" Leatrice whispered as she gazed down upon the confluence of rock, land and water that was Three Forks. Her waist-length quilted jacket was buttoned to the collar against the wintry November morning. Heavy denims hugged her hips. Her feet encased in leather boots were set slightly apart and firmly on the ground. She tapped a dry twig absently against her denimed leg. She was determined to accomplish the impossible. Over-head, wisps of white clouds dotted the expanse of pale blue sky. Below, the cold waters of the Gallatin, Madison and Jefferson Rivers, frosted with snowy white sunlight, wove and interwove, converging to give birth to the Missouri River in Montana. Leatrice flung the dry twig aside. A dozen paces behind her, her horse waited, tethered to a young conifer. As he saw her approaching, the red-gold stallion tugged at the reins and when they held, he snorted.
“Come on, Jasper,” Leatrice said, untying her horse, “I have a mountain to scale.” Bringing the freed reins about his neck and grasping the saddle horn, she mounted the quarter stallion. She rode quickly back to her ranch, the Bar LB, and headed straight for her study.
Heels thudding resolutely, she crossed the wood floor to her desk set luxuriously in front of a pair of French doors. She removed her jacket and loosened the black ribbon tied into a bow below the collar of her white silk shirt. Riding roughshod over a momentary hesitation, she dialed the Triple R.
An elderly man’s voice answered.
Leatrice spoke, “Binney, get Driscoll, and tell him he’d better talk to me, unless he’d rather I send the sheriff over with an eviction notice.”
A moment of silence, then retreating footsteps. Leatrice’s hand holding the receiver was sweating. The muscles in her stomach contracted when a voice, gritty as powdered pumice, cut through the earpiece. “What do you want this time, Lee?” Leatrice told her pride to go to Hades. “Didn’t Binney tell you what I said?” She tried to imagine the expression on the rough-hewn features of the tall, broad-shouldered rancher, square-jawed and sandy-haired.
“No. Just that you’d made some horn-bustin’ threat and I’d better get my tail on in here.”
Feeling her courage threatening to wane, she squared her shoulders. “Seth Driscoll, you don’t legally own the Triple R. On the strength of a rumor, I had my lawyer investigate the courthouse records. Seth, your land belongs to me.” The silence on the other end was deafening.
“What in tarnation are you talking about?”
“Bessenger from whom you purchased the Triple R forged his ownership papers. The land comprising the Triple R was originally part of the Bar LB, my ranch. Kenneth Halstrom, the previous owner of the Bar LB, never sold Bessenger the five thousand acres that comprise the Triple R today. Whatever his reasons, he allowed Bessenger to occupy the land. When you bought the spread fifteen years ago from Bessenger, Halstrom kept quiet about the forged deed. But the fact remains that there never was a legal transfer of property between the two, and the Triple R is still a division of the Bar LB, my cattle ranch.”
“Lee, if this is another one of your tricks — “
“My lawyer has obtained all the written proof I need and the Sheriff will be advised within the hour if you don’t agree to meet with me and talk terms. Believe me, Seth, I don’t want to take your land away. I know how hard you’ve struggled to keep it. Come up to the ranch. I have a solution.”
“In a day or two,” Seth replied dryly. “I’ve got some investi-gating of my own to do. If what you say is true, we’ll talk. In the meantime, stay clear of the Triple R.” The phone at the other end slammed shut.
Slowly Leatrice replaced the receiver. Am I insane, she wondered? Yet I know that he loves me, by his own admission. She felt weary and in need of time to think. She left the study and went upstairs to her bedroom.
She had purchased the ranch a year ago and upon moving into the main house had lavished a small fortune r
edecorating, adorning it with elegant, thickset dark furniture. The product of conservative, loving and very rich parents, Leatrice had spent most of her years in their restored Federal mansion in the Hudson River Valley. Educated in the best schools, the best clothes and everything she could want at her beck and call, she was despite all this, bored.
Traveling somewhat relieved the boredom. It was while exploring the stupendous country of Montana surrounding the dude ranch at which she was staying, that she and her horse became lost. Tired and thirsty, they wandered upon the Triple R. The owner of the Triple R, Seth Driscoll, offered her his hospitality. She liked what she saw and asked if she might stay on as a paying guest.
Leatrice was a realist. She had never believed in love at first sight. But the moment she came face to face with her tall rugged host, she learned that it was possible. Call it a case of opposites attract, or finding a real man, earthy and basic, basic to the untamed country about him, Leatrice was at a loss to halt the yearning that overwhelmed her. Never before denied, she used every one of her feminine wiles to lure the tough Montanan under her spell. Used to men fawning over her — her looks, her grace, her wealth, and the added prospect of her eventual inheritance, she expected no less. But Seth appeared oblivious to her charms and her riches.
Then one afternoon as they strolled along a path cloaked in Engelman spruce, simply talking — it was so easy to talk to Seth, to tell him of the wealth and the accompanying boredom, of the suitors and the identical boredom they evoked — Seth, without preamble, suddenly took her in his arms. He studied her face. For a moment she read such ardor in his expression that her heart hammered and she closed her eyes and offered her lips for a kiss. He pushed her away. She gazed at him wide-eyed. The expression in his eyes, grey-green like the sagebrush that abounded in the plains, was as bitter as the shrub.
“Stay away from me, Lee. You’re a rich spoiled Easterner, used to getting your kicks upon demand. Well you haven’t failed with me. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a woman as much as I want you at this moment, but I’m not a fool either. I’ve no intention of joining your long list of admirers.
Stunned, Leatrice pleaded, “No, you don’t understand. You’re wrong.” She was rich, even spoiled, but not selfish, not oblivious to those in need. And she admired him, and cared, so much that she would willingly give up every penny of her wealth if he would look past that wealth and see the woman within. “It’s not like that — not with you,” she entreated, following him as he strode away, cold and contemptuous. “Seth, wait,” she cried. He was not a cruel man. She could never love someone cruel. He turned and waited for her to catch up to him. She was crying and she couldn’t remember the last time her composure had so disrupted. “Seth, I’m not that kind of woman. Please, give me a chance to prove myself. I’m in love with you.”
Some of the coldness in his expression warmed. His hand reached out to wipe away the tears streaming down her cheeks. “All right, Lee, I believe you. My life is the opposite of yours. No doubt, that intrigues you. And you do me proud that someone as refined and beautiful as you would want someone as gritty as me. For a while we might make a go of it. But a few months as a horse rancher’s wife, a poor one at that, would bring you to your senses. When I choose my woman she’ll be Montanan born and bred, and she’ll love the land and the ranch as much as she loves me.” His tone was gentle as he told her, “Go home, Leatrice, to your parents’ beautiful mansion, to your admirers and the parties and the trips abroad. You won’t find what you’re looking for here.”
She returned to New York, hurting inside, and hiding the loneliness. But Seth Driscoll’s rustic features haunted her dreams. The yearning to be near him, to feel his arms about her, to be allowed to love him, tormented her without end. There was no help for it. Her fiercely dominant personality refused to accept defeat. She returned to Montana, determined to learn about the land and the rearing of horses, to become the woman Seth could permit himself to love. She bought the Bar LB and became Driscoll’s neighbor. But nothing she accomplished changed his opinion of her. Seth tolerated her visits to the Triple R. She used the pretext of seeking advice on running the Bar LB; she was after all his neighbor. Seth remained civil to her but also aloof, except for those occasional times when she caught him watching her. He still wanted her. She knew that look; she had seen it before. They were at an impasse, until a few days ago. The cowhands had returned from a cattle round up and were in the bunkhouse drinking beer; restraint was loose. Leatrice often enjoyed a walk before dinner. The shutters to the windows of the bunkhouse were open. As Leatrice passed by, she overheard two of the men repeating a rumor regarding the Triple R. What she heard gave her the leverage she needed. She would play this last card, by hook or crook, and if she succeeded, it would grant her the last opportunity to prove or disprove to Seth Driscoll that she was woman enough for him to love.
Three days passed before Seth finally telephoned her. Fury edged his subdued tone. His words were short and to the point. “All right, Lee. You hold all the aces. When do we meet?”
“My study, this afternoon,” Leatrice replied quickly. Her hand holding the telephone shook.
CHAPTER TWO
Tanner, the Foreman of the Bar LB, buzzed Leatrice on the intercom. “Miss Meredith, ma’am, Driscoll’s here.”
In her bedroom, Leatrice flicked on the reply switch. “Have him wait in the study, she ordered. “Oh, and break out a bottle of — " “Cut the social graces, Lee, and get down here.” Seth’s voice came through grindingly loud and sharp.
Leatrice eyed the intercom as though it was made of flesh and blood. Seth was angry. Well he was going to be angrier. But she was counting on his anger, and his stubborn streak, to see her plan realized. She meant to attempt the impossible, the ludicrous and the incredible. Seth Driscoll was no irresponsible, impulsive youth. He was a man nearing his fortieth birthday. He would not easily discard his property — her property — and the years of backbreaking, hard-riding work he had lavished upon it. He would accept her solution.
At the landing at the bottom of the stairs Leatrice paused. The door to her study was open. Seth Driscoll stood waiting, turned slightly toward the French doors. His sandy-colored hair was ruffled as though he had run a nervous hand through it. His grey-green eyes were pensive and fixed on the outline of snowcapped mountains in the distance. His lips were pressed together, his square jaw tight, raised as if in anticipation not to his liking. The front of his lambskin shearling coat was open, revealing a wide, trunk neck above the plaid shirt that was tucked-in haphazardly into his heavyweight denims, as though he’d dressed more for comfort and necessity than looks. He held his battered Stetson at his side, the curled brim clenched tightly in his large, sun-tanned fist. His feet in heavy dusty riding boots were set slightly apart as if at any moment he might open the French doors and stride out.
But it was not the vast pastures shading to soft fawn with the coming of winter, or the snowcapped mountains shrouded in pale blue mist that Seth Driscoll saw as he gazed out the French doors, but the records at the courthouse proving Leatrice’s claim. The present clerk could find no copy of a bill of sale from the previous owner of the Bar LB for the five thousand acres known as the Triple R Division. The deed Seth and his lawyer had accepted from Bessenger as valid at the time of the sale had been forged. Everything he had worked for, his security for the future, his one hold on life, had all been for nothing.
Bessenger had died two years ago, and the courthouse clerk who had abetted him in the illegal transfer had quit the Montana country long ago, neglecting to leave a forwarding address. Seth’s brow furrowed. Upstairs that scheming she-devil must be congratulating herself for having dropped the ground from under him.
Seth loved the land he rode daily, as his father had loved it before him. Calvin Driscoll had harbored one real ambition; to afford a spread he could call his own on which to breed horses and work cattle. He had spent his life cowpunching on other men’s ranches, never to fulfill his amb
ition. Seth watched his father grow old and disillusioned, and finally die along with his dream, his hopes withered. After his father’s death, Seth scraped and saved from the pittance paid for cattle doctorin’ and punchin’, fixin’ fences, and occasionally rodeoing, and he achieved his goal. He bought the Triple R, five thousand acres of lush grassland, buttes and rising hills. He began with four broodmares and a stallion. Fifteen years later his horse count numbered in the hundreds, pure breed quarter horses that cattle ranchers who could not afford to raise their own remudas for rounding up cattle, or simply horsemen in need of sturdy steeds, bought at top dollar and praised highly.
A tingling sensation in the nape of his neck made him turn. Leatrice had entered the room. It was the same each time he saw her, the gut feeling that he wanted her. He had to pull hard on the reins to keep from succumbing. She was too tall for a woman, too broad of shoulder, too intelligent and shrewd, too rich and used to getting her own way, too presumptuous and arrogant for a female according to his book. A usurper, a schemer, an Easterner coming to his country a year and a half-ago not knowing a heifer from a steer, or a stallion from a gelding.
He was glad of the added height nature had bequeath him. It gave him the advantage of looking down at Leatrice, of being able to withstand the rock hardness, the authoritative and indomitable pull of those blue eyes. They would fell a lesser man. Alone in the study, Seth and Leatrice faced each other, neither sure of where to begin.
The phone rang breaking the silence. Leatrice turned off the ringer. “May I offer you some refreshment?” she asked.