Love a Dark Rider

by Shirlee Busbee

  A frown between his brows, Sam paused, but giving Sara a reassuring smile, he had taken a step forward when the door to their right suddenly burst open. To say who was the most surprised, the tall young man scowling darkly as he stood frozen in the doorway or Sam and Sara, would have been impossible.

  Despite his unwelcoming expression, the young man was undeniably the handsomest man Sara had ever seen in her young life. He wore a full-sleeved white shirt, a scarlet silk sash tied flamboyantly around his waist and slim-fitting nankeen trousers which clung to his long, sleekly muscled legs, but it was his face that held Sara's undivided attention and she could not seem to tear her fascinated gaze away from his strikingly handsome features. Handsome and dangerous, she thought giddily, her eyes taking in the bright glitter of his thick-lashed amber-gold eyes and the reckless curve to his firm mouth, the upper lip thinly chiseled and the bottom one sensually full. Ruffled black hair framed his lean features; his complexion was Spanish-dark and he had the haughty aquiline nose often seen in portraits of the conquistadors. He bore little resemblance to Sam, except for those heavy-browed, amber-gold eyes, but it was obvious that

  he and Sam shared the same steel-honed physique. This man's height was perhaps an inch or two above Sam's six feet and his shoulders were broader, but Sara had no doubt that she was staring at Sam's son, Yancy Cantrell.

  Yancy recovered himself first, and a sardonic smile slashing across his dark face, he said, "The next time I come to visit, I shall make certain that you are in residence before I leave del Sol! It is indeed fortunate that you have finally arrived home, mi padre —another day here at Magnolia Grove with only your charming wife for company, and I might have been driven to murder!"

  Consternation on his features, Sam replied, "Yancy! Don't tell me that you and Margaret have been arguing again. In her condition ..."

  If anything, Yancy's sardonic smile widened. "Believe me, sir, despite her condition, Margaret is capable of anything^ As if becoming aware for the first time of Sara standing slightly behind Sam, Yancy flicked his gaze over her slight form. "And what have we here?" he drawled mockingly. "Your latest act of atonement?"

  "Stop that this instant!" Sam ordered sharply. "Sara is a mere child, certainly not a worthy opponent for you. Her father died recently. He was a distant cousin of mine, and now she is my ward. You will treat her with all the respect and decorum due any member of my family."

  "Oh. And, of course, your family is so deserving of this respect, siT'

  A woman's voice suddenly rang out from behind Yancy. "Who is it? Who are you talking to?"

  Yancy bowed with insulting exaggeration and stepped out into the hallway. "Why, only your beloved husband and his, ah, ward, I believe he called her."

  "Sam? Sam is home?" came the breathless reply, and a second later a vision of butter-yellow curls and limpid blue eyes, gowned in a delectable creation of pale

  blue silk and delicate lace, came surging into the doorway. Due to the style of the day—steel-hooped skirts with voluminous petticoats and tightly laced corsets— Margaret's pregnancy did not yet show very much; except for a slightly thickened waist, which no amount of lacing could conceal, and a certain excessive fullness to her already impressive bosom, Margaret Cantrell was the very picture of feminine beauty.

  Sam had not exaggerated when he had claimed that Margaret was lovely. She was indeed, possessing wide, fulsomely lashed eyes, a daintily shaped little nose, a rosy Cupid's-bow mouth and a naturally voluptuous form. Sara wasn't surprised that both Sam and Yancy had fallen in love with her. Youthful admiration in her gaze, embarrassingly conscious of her own lack of curves and the soiled state of her gingham gown, Sara stared hopefully at Margaret's beautiful face. This woman was Sam's wife, and if Margaret did not like her...

  It took one glance of those cool blue eyes to tell Sara that she would find no welcome here, that and the sudden petulant curve of her mouth. "Oh, you brought her with you, after all," Margaret said flatly.

  Sam began to make soothing noises, but it was Yancy who drawled, "One hears how impending motherhood brings out all that is gentle and maternal in a woman ... obviously, such is not true in your case, is it, dear stepmama?"

  Margaret's hands clenched into fists and her blue eyes sparkled with temper. "I've had about all of you that I can stand!" Margaret cried. "Go back to your miserable rancho with its snakes and cattle. I don't ever want you to come to my house again!"

  "Magnolia Grove isn't yours yet, sweet stepmama— for all your plotting!" Yancy replied furiously, the glitter in his amber-gold eyes decidedly unpleasant.

  "'Yancyl Margaretl Stop this at once!" Sam commanded angrily. He threw a harassed glance around and noticed that the butler, a tall, distinguished mulatto in pristine white-and-claret garb, had come upon the scene. Sam looked back at the two combatants and said hastily, "This is no place to have such a discussion! Let us retire to the library, where we can talk in private." Glancing over to the silent butler, Sam smiled slightly and said, "Hello, Bartholomew! As you can see, I have returned. Will you please tell Tansy and ask her to prepare some of those potato dumplings that I like for supper? Oh, and see to it that the Rose Room is prepared for my ward, Miss Sara Rawlings. She will be making her home with us from now on, and I want you and the staff to extend her every courtesy."

  "Of course, sir. It shall be done." Bowing, Bartholomew turned and disappeared.

  His expression that of a harried rabbit, Sam looked once again at Yancy and Margaret. "To the library, please!"

  Sara thought that she might have been handed over to Bartholomew. In fact, she wished most heartily that she had been, but such was not the case. Herding the other two in front of him, Sam clasped her hand and dragged her along behind him. "It is unfortunate that this is your introduction to my home," he muttered, "but since you are going to live here, you might as well see what you are getting yourself into!"

  Sara had no choice but to follow in Sam's wake. As she hurried behind him, she had the uneasy feeling that this was not the first time Margaret and Yancy had clashed or that Sam had tried to act as mediator between them.

  After reaching the library—a handsome room of generous proportions, with row upon row of book-lined shelves covering every bit of wall space not taken up

  with tall, ruby damask-draped windows, Sam released her hand. As he walked over to his massive cherry-wood desk, which was set at one end of the room, Sara was able to retreat to a shadowed comer and hope that better sense had prevailed upon Yancy and Margaret.

  Her hopes were not realized. Sam had barely taken his place behind the desk when Margaret burst out, "Order him gone from here! I am your wife, the mother of your unborn child, and I tell you that I cannot bear to have him in my home one instant longer!"

  "It wouldn't be your home," Yancy shot back, "if it hadn't been for my misguided misunderstanding of your character."

  "Oh! How can you say such a wicked thing!" Her eyes filling with tears, Margaret glanced beseechingly at Sam. "Are you going to just stand there and let him talk to me that way? I thought you loved me!"

  Throwing his son a warning glance, Sam said placatingly, "Margaret, of course I love you! Now, don't distress yourself, my dear—Yancy doesn't mean a word of it—it is only his temper speaking."

  "But I do mean every word I say," Yancy retorted unrepentantly, a black scowl on his face.

  An unwilling observer to the ugly scene before her, Sara was filled with pity for Sam. He was like a bone between two snarling dogs—^two snarling dogs whom he loved dearly.

  Ignoring Yancy's comment, peeking up at her husband from behind the heavily laced handkerchief that had miraculously appeared in her hand, Margaret murmured, "Oh, Sam! You know how much he torments me and makes me so unhappy. And in my condition . .."

  "Such wonderful theatrics, dear stepmama!" Yancy interposed with sudden amusement. "Did you ever consider, I mean beyond marrying a wealthy man, gaining your fortune on the stage?"

  Over her handkerchief,
Margaret glared at him, but before she could reply, Sam said tiredly, "Please! Could we cease the hostilities for a moment?"

  Yancy hesitated, and Sara, despite herself, had the distinct impression that he had just noticed how very tired Sam looked and realized that his father had just remmed from a long, arduous journey. His gaze softened marginally and he contented himself with merely saying, ''Diosl How you can believe her when she twists everything to suit her own purpose is beyond me!"

  "And am I twisting things when I say that not five minutes ago you threatened to kill me?" Margaret asked sweetly, a triumphant smile on her bow-shaped mouth.

  Alarm on his face, Sam glanced in horror at his son. "Did you?"

  Yancy's lips twisted derisively. ''Si I told her that there was no way that she or any brat of hers would ever own one inch of Alvarez land—^that I would kill her first!"

  Despite his concern for the threat to his wife's life, Sam looked thoroughly confused. "But what is this? Margaret has no claim to any of your land."

  Margaret asked gently, "But, Sam, darling, have you forgotten Casa Paloma? The thousand acres of land that Don Armando gave you and Madelina when Yancy was bom?"

  Bewilderment obvious on his handsome features, Sam replied, "Of course I haven't forgotten it! But what does Casa Paloma have to do with you? And what does Casa Paloma have to do with Yancy's professed desire to kill you?"

  "Oh, dearest, you have forgotten, haven't you?" Margaret said sadly. "Or were you only teasing me?" She looked bravely resigned. "I suppose it will always be so— my child forced to take second place to Madelina's...."

  With every word Margaret had spoken, Sam appeared even more confused and alarmed, while Yancy's face had darkened.

  There was a menacing silence, the room filled with a terrible tenseness, the very air seeming to crackle with the threat of violence, and Sara fairly jumped when Yancy suddenly exploded. Bending forward, he slammed one clenched fist against the fine wood of his father's desk. "For Dios I refuse to take part in this charade any longer and watch her lead you around like some tame bull. Did you or did you not promise her that you would give her child Casa Paloma?"

  Stricken, Sam stared from one intent face to the other. Weakly, he muttered, "I never promised . . . exactly. I may have said something to the effect that I hoped ... perhaps one day . . . that you and my unborn child might live in harmony together." He darted an apologetic glance at Margaret. "But, my dear, how you could take that to mean ... It has always been my intention that Yancy would one day inherit Casa Paloma—it has belonged to his mother's family for generations."

  Margaret's blue eyes filled with tears and she sent Sam a look of gentle reproach. "I understand. Yancy's wishes must, of course, always come first with you! It doesn't matter that my child is to be denied his birthright or that I am to be subjected to this sort of horrible confrontation in my delicate condition."

  Sam was obviously torn, and after casting a despairing glance at Yancy, he looked at his wife helplessly. "Margaret, my dear, please don't distress yourself this way. It is not good for you, you know that."

  A pitiful sob drifted on the air and hastily Sam added, "If it means that much to you, sweetheart, we'll discuss it more thoroughly at a later date. Perhaps some compromise can be achieved."

  Margaret came around the desk and threw her arms

  around Sam's neck. "Oh, darling, I knew you would not deny me!" She kissed him on the cheek. "What a dreadful wife I am, darling! You are no doubt exhausted from your journey, and here I am scrabbling with your excessively irritating son. You stay here and settle things with Yancy, and I shall go and see that a hot bath is prepared for you.'*

  Before Sam could stop her or request that she take Sara with her, Margaret skipped gaily out of the room. There was an uncomfortable silence and then Yancy growled from between gritted teeth, "There is nothing to settlel You may leave her and her child everything you possess—^your money, your slaves. Magnolia Grove, the plantation, the house—everything except Casa Paloma." He paused, obviously fighting his temper, and then continued with dangerous calm. "Casa Paloma is Alvarez land—as you damn well know, it sits right in the middle of my rancho—I will not have her or her brat claiming one inch of it." His amber-gold eyes glittering fiercely, he bent nearer his father and snarled softly, "I'll kill her first!"

  G^3

  Ignoring Sam's shocked expostulation, Yancy strode swiftly from the library, the door slamming loudly behind him. For a long moment Sam said nothing; then, turning to Sara, he said ruefully, "Welcome to Magnolia Grove, my dear. You have just seen us at our worst, and I hope that we have not given you a distaste for your new home."

  Sara muttered uncertainly, "They are very, very dramatic, are they not?"

  Sam chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you could say that! But come, now—let us see if the room Bartholomew has prepared for you is to your satisfaction."

  The room was everything that Sara could have wished for, and again she was reminded of Mockingbird Hill. Not that this room duplicated hers at her former home, but it was definitely as spacious and richly furnished. The walls were hung with pale rose silk, light green draperies of some diaphanous material floated at the narrow windows, and the floor was covered with a fine Axminster carpet in shades of cream, green and rose. A tall mahogany armoire had been set against one wall; a marble-topped washstand stood near it. On another wall a gilt-edged mirror had been placed above a daintily inlaid satinwood dressing table with a velvet-covered stool in front of it, and overshadowing all was the bed,

  an enormous four-poster swathed in rose-shaded silk bed hangings.

  Her face alight with pleasure, Sara turned to Sam. "Oh, Mr. Cantrell! It is beautiful!"

  Sam smiled indulgently. "Thank you, my dear! Now, don't worry about trying to change for supper—we'll fill that armoire with fancy gowns and fripperies in no time at all. Just acquaint yourself with your new room and refresh yourself, hi a half hour or so, Bartholomew will come and escort you to the dining room.'*

  It wasn't Bartholomew, however, who came to escort Sara to the dining room that evening. Answering the brisk knock, Sara opened the door to be confronted by an expensively gowned woman who could be none other than Margaret's sister, Ann.

  The elder of the two sisters by five years, Ann closely resembled Margaret. In fact, she appeared to be a paler version of Margaret: her hair a slightly less striking shade of gold, her eyes a lighter blue, her shape a trifle less voluptuous and her features just missing the incredible beauty that Margaret possessed. She was undoubtedly an attractive woman, and except when in Margaret's company, she would outshine any other female present.

  Ann stood in the hall, one silk-slippered foot tapping impatiently on the floor, her alabaster shoulders and bosom rising proudly from a low-cut evening gown of fine ruby silk, the yards and yards of material of the voluminous skirt flowing gracefully over the hoop she wore underneath. Her blond hair was arranged in two bunches of long ringlets on either side of her head, and the expression in her blue eyes was only slightly less cold than Margaret's had been earlier.

  Ann's dismissing gaze ran up and down Sara's small, slim form. "So you're Sam's latest little act of charity. I swear that man has the softest heart of anyone I've ever known! It's a good thing he has Margaret to stop most

  people from taking blatant advantage of him!"

  Though feeling distinctly shabby and humble, Sara met Ann's eyes defiantly and asked, "But don't you live here, too? Aren't you also dependent upon Mr. Cantrell?"

  Ann smiled thinly. "Thank God, not any longer! I remarried over four years ago, to a man much more wealthy than poor Sam—my husband, Mr. Shelldrake, and I only came to dine this evening. Although the way it began to rain when we arrived, we may be forced to stay the night."

  Somehow Sara got through the evening, enduring being virtually ignored by the two sisters. However, Sam and Mr. Shelldrake, a bluff, blondly handsome gentleman of about thirty-five years of age, tried gently to draw her out and
make her feel welcome. The butler, Bartholomew, also seemed to look with favor upon her as he moved in elegant silence around the table, deftly serving and removing the various plates and tureens. Frequently she caught his friendly dark eyes on her and once he even winked at her—which, unfortunately, Margaret saw.

  Margaret's lips tightened, and not even waiting for Bartholomew to leave the room, she said abruptly to Sam, "I've been thinking darling, that perhaps we ought to get an English butler."

  At Sam's look of astonishment, she went on airily. "I mean, Bartholomew does very well and I know that he is your father's by-blow and that you feel a certain family loyalty to him, but he really doesn't have the polish one would wish for in one's butler. I mean, even if your poor, misguided father did have him trained and educated in England, he isn't really English, is he?"

  Bartholomew stiffened, and from where she sat, Sara could see the angry flush that stained his dark cheeks. Feeling sorry and embarrassed for him, she focused

  on her Baccarat crystal glass, writhing inwardly at Margaret's blatant cruelty.

  A pained smile on his face, Sam said quietly, "Margaret, I don't believe that this is the time to discuss such things."

  Margaret grimaced. "Oh, Sam, darling! Sometimes you are so stuffy. Very well, we'll talk about it later. But I really think that you should find him some other duties—he does have a certain family resemblance, you know, and I find his presence a distressing reminder of your father's lamentable predilection for consorting with the prettier female slaves. Even if he is your half brother, couldn't you find some other position for him . . . perhaps in the fields? After all, he is only a slave."

  Sam sent an anguished look in Bartholomew's direction and muttered, "Margaret! Please!"

  "Oh, very well! We won't talk about it right now. But, Sam, dear, I do so very much want a proper English butler!"