Amy’s body tensed. “Did you hear anything?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she crossed the floor to her bedroom, opened the door and peered inside. The only sign of her mother was the painted image above her bed.
“No,” Walker answered. “Why?”
Hearing the jangle of Walker’s spurs, Amy quickly pulled the door closed. Like a dutiful sentry she stood in front of it. “My imagination,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders, hoping her air of nonchalance would divert him. She could not allow Walker to see the painting. The picture represented her mother’s life—first as a prostitute, then as a madam, who had bedded so many clients that she didn’t know who Amy’s father was.
Walker simply wouldn’t understand.
“What’s in there?” He took a step toward her.
Panic rose inside her but she forced herself to appear calm and stepped directly in front of him, blocking his path. “It’s just my bedroom,” she told him, as if that was explanation enough. He hesitated but a moment, then moved to go around her. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Heart,” she said, placing her hand upon his chest to halt him, “but some things simply aren’t done. You do not enter a lady’s bedroom without an invitation.” The words were no sooner out than Amy realized exactly where the reprimand had come from. Her mother had taught all her protégées that rule—no customer was allowed entry into a girl’s bedroom without explicit permission. Such formality was intended to eliminate disastrous surprises, as well as protect what little privacy the girls had.
Much to Amy’s relief, Walker didn’t argue. He seemed at a loss for words, even embarrassed.
“Well, I...I guess I’d better go.”
“Yes, I guess you’d better.”
He strode to the front door, then jerked it open. “Thanks for the biscuits,” he said over his shoulder, though he didn’t sound thankful at all.
Amy pursed her lips in a tight smile. “My pleasure.”
She followed behind him, then stood on the threshold, watching as he slowly made his way to the edge of the porch. He stopped before he reached the steps and looked north toward Havilah. After a moment, he turned and faced her.
Amy raised a defensive brow. “Yes?” she prompted. “Was there something you forgot?”
He looked her square in the eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “My backbone.” Walker wrapped his hand around the porch post. “Look, I’m not real good at tea and biscuit manners, but I’m no monster, either. The reason I rode down here was because...well...we got off to a bad start the other day and now...well, here we go again. It seems we can’t talk without gettin’ all riled up at each other.”
Was he apologizing? Amy searched his handsome face but couldn’t seem to get past his eyes. Such beautiful eyes for a man. So expressive. A girl could lose her heart just gazing into them.
He nudged his hat up his forehead. “So anyway...I got somethin’ to say and I don’t want to leave here till I’ve said it.”
He wasn’t apologizing, she realized. But he seemed to be making a genuine effort to talk to her in a reasonable manner, which was better than sarcasm and a Pinkerton threat.
“All right. I’m listening.” Curious but guarded, Amy crossed her arms in front of her and leaned against the door frame. She avoided looking into his eyes.
Walker sat sideways on the porch rail, his right leg bent at the knee. “I don’t know anything about you ’cept what little you’ve told me and what I can see with my own eyes,” he began. His gaze ran up, then down the length of her body as he spoke. “And what I see is you’re a lady. You’ll never make it out here on your own. Ranchin’ and cattle—that’s men’s work. I’ve only known one woman cattle rancher, and believe me, she was no lady.”
“Mr. Heart—”
“Call me Walker,” he interrupted, “and let me finish.” His polite insistence cut her off and kept her quiet. “I don’t want you to take this wrong—like I’m tryin’ to scare you off or somethin’.” He removed his hat and set it on the crook of his knee. “Heartbreak Ranch...well, it’s...my life and I’m not going to give it up without a fight.”
“I don’t blame you,” she replied. She had been here only a few days and already she had fallen in love with the vast expanse of grazing land and the surrounding mountains. She could imagine how he felt, thinking he might lose it all and not even know why. She looked away, feeling guilty for her deceit.
“What’s wrong?” He left the porch rail and came toward her.
Amy took an unconscious step back. “Nothing’s wrong.” But, in truth, Walker’s honest admission of his feelings left her drained of all energy and fight. “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep particularly well last night.”
“Sure you’re not comin’ down with somethin’?”
“I’m sure.” She stood up straight as if to prove her point. He took another step toward her, forcing her to look up at him.
“I just want to add one thing,” he said. “The other day...I said some things...implied some things about you and your ma that I shouldn’t have.”
Those implications, still fresh in her memory, sent a surge of anger through her. “Don’t insult me by saying you didn’t mean them,” Amy snapped, her chin jutting forward with wounded pride. She stared at him, her gaze narrowing. “But tell me, Mr. Heart—I mean, Walker,” she corrected herself. “Do you still think I look like the kind of woman who would offer her—what did you call them?—oh, yes, services in exchange for money? Look at me closely and tell me what you see, because if I do—if I do look like that kind of woman, I— I—” She stopped midsentence, mortified to realize he was doing just as she had asked—looking at her. Intently looking at her. Amy’s mind went blank as her body grew hot. Just because she’d told him to look at her didn’t mean he had to do it like that, with such fervor. Point lost, she had no idea how to continue.
His eyes actually glimmered. What did he see, for heaven’s sake? It was a sure bet he wasn’t seeing the proper, sophisticated, young woman she’d intended him to see. Feeling suddenly breathless and light-headed, she lifted her bodice away from her skin. She could feel her face redden beneath his scrutiny and told herself to turn and walk away, but somehow she couldn’t seem to make herself take that first step.
Walker took it for her. One step closer brought them toe to toe. Amy watched as he raised his hand and cradled her chin between his fingers. “You want to know what I see? I see a smart and beautiful young woman who’s too stubborn and independent for her own good.” His eyes were so light blue they appeared silver. She could see herself on their glittering surface.
“Walker? There’s something I need to tell—” The words died in her throat. She couldn’t do it. Not now.
Walker was mesmerized by the contrast between his rough, suntanned hand—the hand he used to tie up calves and cock a pistol—and her soft, ivory face. To think that she was that same creamy white all over stirred him in ways he had never experienced with any other woman.
“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he said, bending his head toward hers. He hadn’t meant to kiss her, but he couldn’t help himself. Not even a saint could have resisted such a vulnerable and bewildered look. And there was one other thing. He’d seen it in her eyes the moment he’d gotten down off his horse and confronted her that first day. She was attracted to him. She probably wouldn’t admit it—even to herself—but there were some things that eyes couldn’t hide.
The emotions that came with kissing her took him by surprise. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it sure wasn’t this all-consuming need to hold her against his body and never let her go. He moved his hand away from her chin and explored the soft contours of her jaw and cheek and realized how delicate she was—like the spring poppies that grew on the hillside.
His mouth moved over hers gently yet insistently, coaxing her lips apart, tasting the sweetness just within. When he felt her tremble, he moved his hand around behind her head, steadying her. She opened her mouth to him, moaning softly, pleading un
intelligibly for him to stop, even as she stretched up and twined her arms around his neck. Like a schoolboy, he shivered with excitement, but then the man took over and he pulled her close.
The last thing Amy had expected from this day was to find herself in Walker Heart’s arms. What had she said to bring it about? What had he said? For the life of her she couldn’t think of a thing, but with each passing second it mattered less and less. Nobody had ever kissed her like Walker was kissing her, as if she were revered, cherished. There was tenderness in him that confused her, that could almost make her believe he was in love with her.
In some distant region of her mind, Amy knew that was impossible. Walker Heart couldn’t love her. She was his enemy.
Yet, there had to be something there. No man could kiss a woman the way he was kissing her and not feel something for her.
“God, Amy, you have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, his lips exploring her neck.
You have no idea what you’re doing to me, she repeated to herself. It wasn’t just the kiss or the way he was holding her; it was more than that. It was a sense of well-being, of closeness and of joy. She’d never experienced feelings like these before.
“Walker.” It took every bit of her will to push her hands against his chest. But she had to stop him—and herself—before things got out of control. She knew if she didn’t stop him now it might be impossible to stop him later. He held her a moment longer as if to test her. She remained firm, then took a step backward, breathing heavily. “I think you’d better leave,” she said, her heart aching under her breast.
His hands slipped away. “I think you’re right.”
CHAPTER THREE
AMY KEPT HER MIND busy by doing what she could to fix things inside and outside the house. But there was a lot that needed doing and a body could only do so much without new lumber, whitewash and muscle.
Most of all the roof needed fixing. It was full of acorn-size holes, as was the wood siding. The whole house seemed to be a haven for an army of tireless, redheaded woodpeckers. A long-dead oak tree standing nearby served as their multilevel home, though Amy would have sworn they rarely used it. The birds spent the mornings pecking holes in the roof, the afternoons pecking holes in the siding and the evenings feeding their screaming babies—a whole new generation of wood-pecking pests.
The days went by quickly, spent chasing the birds away and doing chores. It was the nights she dreaded, when there was nothing to occupy her mind, nothing to keep her from thinking about Walker Heart, his words, his kiss, his embrace, his desire for her. Her desire for him. Each night loomed longer and lonelier than the one before it.
It had been two weeks since Walker’s last visit but it seemed much longer. Toddy by her side, Amy sat on the porch step, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the most spectacular sunset she’d ever seen. The sun’s last rays ignited the low clouds clustered over the Tehachapi Mountains, setting them ablaze with bright orange light. It was the kind of sunset poets wrote about, to be appreciated by lovers, not by a lone woman and her dog.
Amy put her arm around Toddy and pulled him close. “Oh, Toddy, what have I gotten myself into?” Toddy licked her hand and she reached up and scratched him behind his ears. “I can’t stop thinking about him no matter what I do.” Toddy stared at her, head cocked to one side as if considering her dilemma. He made a funny, whiny sound that made Amy smile. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m feeling sorry for myself.” She kissed him on the snout, then got up. “Come on, boy. Time for supper.”
Amy took one last, wistful look at the disappearing sunset, then stepped into the shack.
* * *
A THUNDEROUS NOISE pounded the roof. Amy woke with a start and bolted upright. Toddy scampered out from under the covers and barked.
The pounding continued, but it didn’t sound like any thunder she’d ever heard. The woodpeckers? No, it couldn’t be. Even if they all attacked the roof at the same time, they couldn’t make that kind of noise. A hailstorm maybe?
Amy sprang out of bed and ran barefoot into the other room. Dirt and dust fell like heavy snow from the ceiling onto the table, the chairs—everywhere she had spent so much time cleaning. Fearing the roof might collapse at any second, she caught hold of
Toddy’s collar, opened the door and ran outside.
It was with something like dismay that Amy saw there was no army of birds, no dark, thunderous storm clouds, no hailstorm. Nothing! What then? An animal? She shrank back toward the door, pulling Toddy with her. Maybe the raccoon had come back and was on the roof. Or maybe something bigger—like a bear! Not wanting to take any chances, she turned to run inside.
The pounding stopped.
“Amy. You finally up?”
Both Amy and Toddy looked up and stared at the porch’s overhang as if they could see the speaker through the wood and shingle.
Not a raccoon. Not a bear. But a polecat named Walker Heart!
Toddy let loose with a series of howls and Amy stomped down the porch step into the open. A few paces out, she turned, shaded her eyes and glared up at Walker, who was straddling the peak of the roof.
“Mornin’.” Walker lifted a gloved hand. “I know it’s a mite early, but I wanted to—”
“Quiet!” Amy shouted at Toddy to stop his howling. Much to her surprise, the command silenced both Toddy and Walker. “What are you doing up there?”
Walker grinned. “Fixin’ the roof.”
“But it’s—it’s barely even light out.” Amy gestured at the sun, just beginning to creep over the horizon.
“It’s a big job. I needed to get an early start.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done that. I don’t suppose you could have given me some warning?”
“I told you that until I heard from the Pinkerton man, I was gonna run this ranch the way I always have. The roof has to be fixed before the next brandin’.”
Amy bristled at the reminder of the Pinkerton man, ignoring most of what else he said. Second to Walker’s kissing her, she’d thought of little else. “You still could have had the courtesy to tell me,” she snapped. “I spent a lot of time cleaning things up, and now, because of your hammering, there’s dirt all over everything.”
“So I see,” he intoned, his gaze traveling downward.
Confused by his answer and his too-intimate expression, Amy bent her head and looked down at herself. It wasn’t the dirt that made her draw in her breath, but that she was wearing her nightgown.
She could have screamed. Would have screamed if she hadn’t been so embarrassed. She grabbed
Toddy’s collar, made a dash for the house, then bolted the door behind her.
“I should have known he’d do something like this,” she said, looking down at Toddy. “He probably thinks if he makes our lives miserable enough we’ll just pick up and leave.” Toddy gave a low growl that Amy interpreted as agreement. She shook her head and patted him comfortingly. “No, don’t worry. We’re not leaving. We have every right to be here. Sort of.”
Feeling calmer after her talk with Toddy, she dashed around the house gathering up all her personal belongings, then piled them in the bedroom and covered them up. She draped a blue-checkered tablecloth over her mother’s painting and spread an old blanket over her bed quilt. The journal lay on the trunk beside the bed. She hadn’t had time to read it in its entirety, but perhaps today would be the day since she could do little else thanks to Walker.
Moments later Amy left the house carrying a blanket, a food basket and the journal. Toddy prancing by her side, she marched like an infantry soldier toward a grassy knoll near the corral. Considering Walker’s curiosity of what was in her bedroom, she wanted to stay close enough to the house to keep an eye on him.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Walker called after her.
Amy jutted out her chin and kept walking, her sights set on an oak tree. The tree’s leafy branches would provide shade and its trunk would make a solid backrest. She laid her blanket
beneath the tree and sat down.
“Sit, Toddy.” As soon as he sat, she removed his leash, confidant he’d stay close. Two days ago he’d learned his lesson about chasing cattle when one of them chased him. Since then, he’d been content to observe them from afar.
After situating herself, Amy opened the journal to the section entitled “My Life—Bella Duprey” and began reading.
My darling Amy,
If you are reading this, it is because I am unable to educate you in the Art Of Fascination. It is not my wish that you follow in my footsteps and become a courtesan. I want more for you than that. I want you to have a home, a husband and a family—all the things I never had. Because I know you want this, too, I have written this journal in the hopes that it will help you attract, manage and keep the man you love.
Here, in these pages, you will find the secrets of my success—methods and techniques in the art of understanding and pleasing a man. Some of them may shock you. Others you may find laughable. But trust me, done properly, they all work! One word of caution—if you are not desirous of a particular man’s attentions, be wary of casual experimentation.
Amy hadn’t realized that the journal was written specifically for her, although Howard had suggested as much. That her mother would go to so much work for her benefit brought a smile to her lips and tears to her eyes.
She turned the page and was immediately engrossed in her mother’s writings. She read that her mother had made a habit of observing men—their likes, dislikes and responses. With this knowledge, she felt she could assess a man’s temperament as well as determine the best way to enhance his sexual pleasure. Each page confirmed just how dedicated her mother had been to her profession. She’d left nothing to chance. After purchasing the Cock O’ The Walk, she’d hired a Chinese herbalist to help her develop aphrodisiacs, elixirs and potions to soothe the mind, heal the body and heighten sexual pleasure.
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