Love a Dark Rider

by Shirlee Busbee

  Her hand shaking slightly, she carefully set down her empty glass. Balefully, she glared at it. It was the brandy. It was the liquor that was filling her head with such nonsensical notions. Sam had never intended for her and Yancy to have children together. Never once had he even hinted at such an idea. He'd married her, for heaven's sake! Her eyes narrowed. And, of course, she would never allow herself to be used as a broodmare—no matter how attractive the stallion. Remembering Yancy's all-too-seductive kiss, she trembled. At least, she hoped she never would!

  Bathed in the soft glow of the lamplight, Sara sat there for a long time, willing herself to relax, to concentrate on something less disturbing than the implications of Sam's will and Yancy's imminent arrival. It was damned difficult, but eventually she turned her thoughts to more practical matters, such as her eventual removal from Magnolia Grove.

  Sara was positive that Yancy would want to sell the plantation, and since she had neither the desire nor the wherewithal even to attempt to buy out his half of the property, she had concluded that someday soon, she and the others would move to Casa Paloma. Her chin took on a stubborn cast. For her lifetime, Casa Paloma was hers, and with the money in New York and her half of the proceeds from the sale of Magnolia Grove, she was confident that she and the others could make a pleasant, if not luxurious, life at the rancho raising cattle and fine horses.

  Sara had no regrets about leaving Magnolia Grove behind. The house held very few happy memories for her, and with Sam gone, there was nothing to tie her to the place. She would be glad to put the past behind her and not have constant painful reminders of all that had gone on before. She was looking forward to moving to Casa Paloma, oddly excited at the prospect of new, never-before-seen horizons and the thrilling adventures she was certain awaited her there.

  She'd been sitting in Sam's office for some time, wrapped in her thoughts, the silence of the house gently cocooning her, when she suddenly became aware of a sound—stealthy footsteps coming down the hallway. . . .

  Frozen, she listened, her heart beating in thick, uncomfortable strokes as the furtive sound came nearer, and her breath literally stopped when the steps halted outside the door to Sam's office. Wide-eyed,

  she stared mesmerized as the crystal doorknob slowly turned.

  Unconsciously, her fingers closed around the heavy glass. It wasn't much of a weapon, but if she threw it and if her aim were good enough . . .

  The door opened and a tall, masculine figure stood there in the darkness. Sara had a brief impression of a wide-brimmed hat pulled low across his face and menacingly broad shoulders covered by a muddy, dark greatcoat in the second before she flung the glass in his direction with all her might. As the glass flew across the room, she snatched up the half-full bottle of brandy and a second glass, armed and ready to sling more missiles, should it be necessary. It never occurred to her to scream for help.

  Sara's aim had been strong and true, and there was a muffled curse as her weapon struck with bruising force high on the intruder's right cheekbone. Her small bosom heaving, her militant stance behind the desk making it clear she intended to fight, she waited tensely for his next move. It surprised her. His hand moving faster than Sara's eyes could follow it, she suddenly found herself looking down the blue barrel of a Colt revolver.

  "Drop them," he said quietly, "or I'll have to put a bullet through that soft, pretty hide of yours."

  The remembered sound of his deep voice reverberating through her skull, Sara dazedly obeyed. When the glass and the bottle were safely placed on top of the desk, his cool amber-gold eyes never leaving hers, he picked up the glass from the floor where it had fallen and walked further into the room. Slamming the door behind him with a deft twist of his foot, he came over to stand in front of Sara. With only the desk between them, he carefully set down the glass and appreciatively regarded the unexpectedly erotic picture she presented.

  The lamplight increased the golden glow of her unbound hair, the shiny mass flowing in gentle waves over one shoulder and down one breast, and he was aware of a powerful urge to reach out and grasp those honey-colored strands to see if they were as silky as they looked. Her eyes were wide and very green as she stared back at him, her dark lashes and brows contrasting vividly with the paleness of her skin, but it was her mouth, her generously curved, enticingly pink mouth, that held his attention for a long moment. Wrenching his gaze away from the tempting promise of her lips, he let it travel indolently downward, noting with unconscious admiration the way the worn emerald-green robe clung to her slender body, and he found himself wondering just what she wore underneath it. . . .

  The silence spun out as they regarded each other, and then, as if he had seen enough, he reholstered the pistol and seated himself in one of the old leather chairs in front of the desk. He tipped back his hat and with insulting familiarity put his boots on one comer of the desk, crossing his feet as he did so.

  "I didn't expect you to be happy with my return ..." Yancy Cantrell drawled softly, "but, dear little stepmama, was it necessary to greet me with such violence?"

  His words broke the spell that had held her motionless. Ashamed of her reaction to his return, ashamed of the way her heart was pounding in her breast and of the crazy curl of excitement that was twisting in her belly, she glared at him and retorted tartly, "If you hadn't been creeping through the house like a thief, I wouldn't have reacted as I did. You frightened me!"

  He touched his cheekbone where the glass had hit him and in the lamplight she could see a faint smear of blood. "I frightened you!" he muttered disbelievingly. "Well, lady, I can't exactly say that you didn't give me a start! As for creeping in like a thief—you forget this was once

  my home, and since it was late, I didn't want to disturb the household with my arrival." An unpleasant gleam in his eyes, he added, "If this is my reward for trying to be considerate, I can promise you I won't make that mistake again!"

  Feeling chagrined and as if she had been just a little mean-spirited, Sara grimaced and muttered, "I apologize. But you did frighten me and I reacted before I realized that it was you. I'm sorry."

  "Are you? I wonder. You'll forgive me if I harbor some doubt!"

  Her lips tightened, but refusing to be baited, she asked quietly, "Could I get you something? Are you hungry?"

  For a moment his eyes slid down her slender form and Sara's pulse leaped, but then he shook his head and smiled lazily. "I'm hungry, all right, but I reckon I can wait a while to satiate my appetite." He paused, watching with undisguised interest the blush that spread across her cheeks, and then said, "But in the meantime, I wouldn't say no to a shot of that brandy you were going to throw at me."

  Wishing she'd thrown the brandy at him when she'd had the chance, Sara jerkily poured him a generous shot in the other glass. He leaned forward and handed her the glass she had thrown at him. "Pour yourself one—I hate to drink alone."

  Deciding that she was probably going to need it, she didn't argue with him. When she had settled uncertainly once more in her chair, she looked wcirily across at him.

  The years had changed him. Yancy Cantrell had always been a handsome man, but there was something about him now that was more than just mere handsomeness. It was as if the years had hardened him, obliterated any hint of softness to his features. There was a new grimness to his face that hadn't been there before, a grimness that

  intensified the chiseled boldness of his cheeks and jaw and reminded Sara uneasily that in all probability she was sitting here quietly alone with Margaret's murderer. She shivered suddenly, but despite all the reasons that she should get up and rush from the room, she could not take her eyes off his dark Spanish face. The slightly cruel cast to his lips seemed more pronounced than she remembered, and the aquiline shape of his nose increased the inherently haughty expression on his face, but it was the open cynicism that she saw in his eyes that made Sara move restively in her chair.

  For something to do, she took a healthy gulp of her brandy and promptly choked o
n the fiery liquor. Recovering herself, aware her cheeks were flaming with embarrassment, she glanced across at him. He was staring at her, something in his gaze making her instantly wary and va-y nervous. "What is it?" she demanded, unable to bear his scrutiny a moment longer. "Why are you staring at me?"

  He shrugged and took a sip of his brandy. "You've grown up. My memory of you was of all big green eyes and a gentle mouth that should have smiled more than it did."

  That he had remembered her at all pleased Sara far more than it should have, and to compensate for that fact, she snapped, "There hasn't been a great deal to smile about these past years!"

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he replied lightly. "After all, you've done rather well for yourself, haven't you?"

  Sara had thought that she had become impervious to cynical comments about her marriage to Sam, but Yancy's words pricked her. Her eyes bright with suppressed temper, she asked tightly, "And just what do you mean by that?"

  He smiled nastily. "Why, just that the last time I saw you, you were this little waif my father had decided to

  rescue from a, ah, fate worse than death, and now you're the mistress of Magnolia Grove. Quite a change in your social and financial position, don't you agree?"

  The headache Sara had managed to overcome suddenly came roaring back. Her temples throbbing, she said grittily, "I don't think that you are in any position to judge me!" She rose to her feet and swept majestically around the desk. "Since you are so familiar with the house, I'm sure that you will be able to make yourself comfortable. If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you now— there doesn't seem to be very much for us to discuss."

  She started for the door, but Yancy rose in an indolently deceptive movement and closed his hand around her upper arm before Sara had taken two steps. He jerked her around to face him and, his eyes glittering angrily, he said softly, "Don't ever walk away from me again! And I'll decide whether we have something to discuss!"

  Her heart pounding, Sara stared up into his hard, dark face. They were only inches apart, and this close to him, she could smell the scent of horses and leather on his skin and feel the heat of his body radiating against hers.

  As they stood there oddly frozen in time, her slim body barely brushing against the whipcord leanness of his, she told herself that it was fright that was making her blood race in her veins, that it was fear that made her lower limbs tremble, but in her heart she knew she lied . . . and that Yancy was as aware of her as she was of him. With widening eyes she watched the anger fade from his features and the sudden sensual twist to his bottom lip made her mouth go dry.

  Sara made a halfhearted attempt to escape, but Yancy only pulled her into his arms. His breath warm and brandy-scented against her mouth, he muttered, "Ah, hell, chica, we might as well get this over with—God knows I've dreamed of it often." And then he kissed her.

  It was like before, like the first time he had kissed her, only more acute and more powerful, as if the intervening years had deepened and intensified the emotion and the feelings that were within them. His mouth was warm and hard on hers, his big body crushed against hers, and he made no allowances for any resistance on her part. He simply took, his lips moving hungrily across hers, a low growl com.ing from deep within his throat when his tongue found the sweet, moist heat in her mouth. Feverish excitement welled up within Sara and helplessly she let him have his way, the shockingly pleasurable sensation of having her mouth invaded by his questing tongue making her dizzy. She swayed in his embrace and his arms tightened, forcing her even closer to his muscled body, making no attempt to hide from her the extent of his arousal. Her arms crept around his neck, her hands tingling to feel his crisp black hair between her fingers, and impatiently she pushed off his hat. Sighing with delight, she caressed his dark head, her slender form pressed ardently against him. His lips slid from her mouth to her throat and Sara retained just enough sanity to let out a little choked cry of protest when she felt his mouth slide lower, his hand pushing aside the fabric of her robe.

  He muttered something and then he was kissing her again, half-savage, almost violent kisses that made the fire in her belly flare hotter. He kissed her many times, and it was only when his lips began their burning descent once more and she felt his hands move and tighten on her buttocks that full sanity returned. With a soft half moan, half sob, she tore herself out of his arms and bolted from the room as if the very hounds of hell were on her heels.

  6

  Sara dreamed of the Dark Rider that night for the first time in years. The dream was the same as always, her feelings of distress and danger were as strong as always, but for one brief instant she was aware of a tantalizing hint of recognition as she stared at the silhouette of the Dark Rider on the horizon. Even in her sleep she was conscious that there was something familiar about him. ...

  Her heart beating furiously, she woke up. For a few disoriented moments she lay there in bed and then her mouth twisted with disgust. Wonderful! Not only had she humiliated herself with Yancy tonight, but now she was trying to incorporate him into her dreams. Folly!

  Sleep proved impossible after that and with aching eyes she watched the first pink-and-gold streaks of dawn creep into her room. She had curled up in a faded rose silk-covered chair near her balcony for the rest of the night, her unseeing gaze staring at nothing.

  The dream forgotten, over and over again the appalling scene in Sam's office played through her mind and she wondered sickly what sort of a lewd, unprincipled creature she was. How could she have allowed Yancy to kiss her that way? Worse, how could she have liked it?

  Tiredly she rubbed her eyes. Merciful heavens! How was she going to face him? Certainly, by her actions last

  night she couldn't have risen in his estimation, and if she had wanted to prove to him that she was a little strumpet, ready to throw herself into the arms of the first available man, she couldn't have chosen a better method! And telling herself that he was no better—after ail, he had been the one who had kissed her—didn't help in the least! What was the matter with her? She believed that he had murdered his previous stepmother—and what did she do but melt in his arms!

  Disgusted with herself and furious with him for being able to destroy whatever common sense she possessed, Sara eventually got up and began to prepare unenthusiastically for the day. A gentle tap on the door startled her and she glanced around as Tansy entered the room, carrying a china pitcher of warm water.

  "Oh! You're awake—I thought you'd still be asleep at this hour," Tansy murmured in her soft, lilting voice as she crossed the room and set the pitcher on a wooden washstand.

  Like Bartholomew, Tansy was a mulatto, her skin a lovely shade of dark honey and her eyes a brilliant hazel. She was a striking woman, having been endowed with the best traits of the two races that had created her. She was tall and lissome and moved with a graceful sway that Sara secretly envied—that and her lush curves. Tansy had no idea who her father had been, but she and her mother had been purchased by old Andy Cantrell on a trip he had made to New Orleans over twenty years ago, when she had been fourteen. Bartholomew had been a young man of twenty-two at the time, but even then they had been attracted to each other, and no one had been surprised three years later when Bartholomew had asked permission to have Tansy as his woman. It was a happy union except, to their great sorrow, they had never been blessed with children.

  Sam had freed Bartholomew and Tansy long before he had left to fight in the war, and Sara had been inordinately grateful that both of them had remained at Magnolia Grove. Her relationship with them had always been warm, and in those first trying months after Sam had left to join General Lee, she didn't know what she would have done without Bartholomew and Tansy. There was little that happened at Magnolia Grove that the loyal couple didn't know about and there was even less that they didn't know about Sara—they treated her like a much-loved younger sibling and scolded and cosseted her outrageously, depending upon the situation.

  Since there was no point in dissembling, Sar
a asked, "Did you know that Yancy returned last night?"

  Tansy smiled, her even teeth flashing whitely. "Indeed I do! He's in my kitchen right now filling himself with biscuits and hot coffee while that man of mine dotes on his every word!" There was much affection in Tansy's tones and a knot formed in Sara's stomach.

  She had always counted on Bartholomew and Tansy as her most trusted allies and often, even after the war, she had thought of their situation as the three of them against the world. Yancy's presence was undoubtedly going to change all that.

  Seeing Sara's grimace and realizing that she wasn't thrilled by the news, Tansy frowned, and as Sara poured the water into a bowl and began to wash her face. Tansy demanded, "Now, why do you look like you just swallowed a lemon? Aren't you happy that the young master has come home?"

  "He's not your master!" Sara muttered. "You're free, remember?"

  Tansy laughed. "Old habits die hard—I suspect he'll always be the young master to us, even when we are all very old. But you still didn't answer my question. Aren't you pleased he's home?"

  Her ablutions finished, Sara turned away and pawed through her hmited wardrobe. There really wasn't much choice—she was still in mourning for Sam. With a sigh, she pulled out a black gown very similar to the one she had worn yesterday.

  Laying the garment on the bed, she glanced over at Tansy. "EX)esn't it bother you that he probably killed Margaret? Or that he cruelly ignored Sam? Even when Sam was dying?"

  Tansy's face closed up and she said, "That hussy deserved killing! As for ignoring Master Sam—they were never close, and how do you know all those letters Master Sam wrote ever got to him? Maybe there is a reason he didn't reply—have you thought of that?"