Love a Dark Rider

by Shirlee Busbee

  His eyes on Sara's expressive face, Yancy smiled and said over his shoulder to Bartholomew, "I know that you and Tansy just arrived here, but we are planning on removing to Paloma for the summer and I wonder if you would care to accompany us." He shot Sara a mocking look before turning back to Bartholomew and saying, "I have a great many cattle to gather up and bulls to castrate, as well as mustangs to run down and capture—my bride intends that I shall work hard during the next few months. I'm sending some of the men and their families over there tomorrow morning. You could go with them or wait and travel with us later in the week."

  Bartholomew clucked his tongue reprovingly. "If that isn't just like you! Always rushing here and there, and

  'm

  now you're dragging your bride along with you! Shocking!" He suddenly grinned. "Tansy always had a soft spot for Paloma, and I shall look forward to seeing the place again myself—especially if you will allow me to leave the running of the household to the others and let me help with the roundup."

  "I had planned to asked you to do just that," Yancy said dryly. "You are, if I remember correctly, an expert horseman, and there are vaqueros from my grandfather's day who still talk of your roping skills."

  "Then Tansy and I shall be delighted to accompany you and Madam Sara when you leave for Paloma! I shall just finish putting these things away and go tell her of the change in plans."

  In his haste to finish his task, Bartholomew moved with rare clumsiness and inadvertently knocked down an object which had been lying on the shelf of the wardrobe. Startled, he stared at the Spanish dagger lying on the floor. Sara recognized it instantly; it was the same dagger she had found so recently in Yancy's possession, the same dagger that had been used to kill Margaret. ...

  Picking up the weapon, Bartholomew glanced across at Yancy, who had gone curiously still. He asked slowly, "What are you doing with this? It's the same dagger, isn't it?"

  Yancy's features were unrevealing. "Yes, I believe it's the same one my grandfather gave you."

  Dismayed and horrified, staring at Bartholomew as if she had never seen him before, Sara squeaked, "Bartholomew! That isn't your dagger, is it?"

  Bartholomew shrugged. "Why, yes, it is. As Yancy just mentioned, Don Armando gave it to me, oh, years ago. It is very distinctive—I would know it anywhere." His dark eyes inscrutable, Bartholomew looked at Yancy and asked tightly, "How did it come to be here and in your possession?"

  G^19

  An ominous stillness filled the room, the three inhabitants frozen in place, Bartholomew's words hanging in the air. Where before there had been lightness and laughter, there was now only suspicion and ugly accusations that were yet unspoken.

  Gripped by a terrible feeling of dread and denial, Sara stared at Bartholomew, unwilling to believe that he had been the one who had murdered Margaret. It occurred to her that she was having a harder time believing Bartholomew capable of having murdered Margaret than she had Yancy, and on far more damning evidence. Margaret had threatened Bartholomew's position in the Cantrell household, had threatened to destroy the very fabric of his life, and Bartholomew had just admitted that the Spanish dagger, the dagger that had killed Margaret, was hisl

  It seemed to Sara as if the three of them remained unmoving, their eyes locked on the slim, deadly blade in Bartholomew's hand, for hours, yet it must have been only a second or two. Then, shattering the tension, Yancy turned away and said idly, "I'm not quite certain how it got here, but I think it must have been inadvertently packed with my things one of the last times I was at Magnolia Grove." He seated himself casually on the bed and added, "I know how much you treasure it,

  but I'm afraid that when I found it, I just stuck it away, intending to return it to you the next time I saw you." He grinned wryly. "I hadn't meant for there to be such a long time between our meetings, but the war made visits to Magnolia Grove somewhat difficult!"

  Bartholomew smiled, shaking his head. "I'd wondered where it had disappeared to. I just never thought to ask you about it."

  "Well, you'd better take the blasted thing and keep better care of it in the future—you never know where a weapon like that will turn up!"

  Bartholomew chuckled and, taking the dagger with him, walked out of the room.

  There was a thunderous silence after his departure. A second or two later, Sara said tautly, "You knew all along that it was his dagger—that it wasn't yours!"

  Yancy stretched himself out beside her on the bed, his hands locked behind his head. "Hmm, yeah, I knew it was Bartholomew's dagger." Dryly, he added, "As he said—it is distinctive and not easily mistaken for another knife."

  Anger kindling in her eyes, Sara snapped, "Didn't it occur to you that I would have liked to know such a thing? You lied to me that morning I found Margaret's body, when you claimed there was no sign of a dagger! You wanted me to doubt what I had seen!" Her anger growing, she was unaware of the precarious slide of the sheet down her body and said hotly, "You deliberately misled me! You deliberately let me think that the dagger was yours! Oh, but you're sly! You never once admitted that the dagger wasn't yours! Never once hinted that you knew to whom it belonged!" Another thought occurred to her. "Sam recognized it, too! That's why you both pretended it wasn't there—you and Sam didn't want suspicion falling on Bartholomew!"

  "Something like that," Yancy admitted with exasper-

  ating calm, and Sara was so furious she could have hit him. Glaring at his dark face, her bosom heaving, she said tightly, "The dagger is Bartholomew's—he could have killed her, and you and Sam decided to play God!"

  "Not exactly," Yancy murmured, a mocking gleam dancing in his eyes. "We just didn't want to watch a member of the family, even a member from the wrong side of the blanket, hang!"

  Thoroughly outraged and incensed, Sara stared speechlessly at him for a moment. "But you knew that everyone was going to think that you had done it!" she finally exclaimed incredulously. "You might have hanged instead, you bloody fool!"

  Yancy looked very pleased at her reaction. "Not likely, sweetheart! There would have had to be a lot more evidence than just my oft-stated aversion to Margaret in order to convict me of murder! I know I'd threatened to kill her, but that didn't mean that I had killed her! Besides, my father was a prominent member of the community, and while not everyone thinks of me as a model of decorum, the sheriff would have been very uncomfortable arresting me with nothing more than hot-tempered threats to incriminate me. And don't forget, Sam gave me an impeccable alibi." The mocking light died from his eyes and he added somberly. "But the sheriff wouldn't have hesitated a second to arrest Bartholomew if he'd seen the dagger and discovered that the murder weapon was the property of a black man. Bartholomew's relationship to us wouldn't have mattered. All the sheriff would have seen was an 'uppity nigger' with a knife and that would have been the end of that! Trust me—Bartholomew would have hanged, and neither Sam nor I wanted to see that happen."

  What Yancy had said made sense, but Sara just had to ask the obvious question. "But what if he did it? What if he's guilty?"

  Yancy regarded her for a long moment, the expression in his eyes chilling Sara. "She deserved killing," he said flatly. "And quite frankly, I don't particularly care who did the deed. She's dead, and who killed her or why doesn't interest me—it never did!"

  "You can't mean that!" Sara burst out, aghast. "Everyone thinks that you did it?"

  "That bothers you?" he inquired dryly.

  Sara was suddenly aware that a lot depended upon her answer, and tucking the sheet modestly under her arms, she looked down at her hands and said carefully, "Not exactly. It's not that I'm ashamed or embarrassed by what people think, but it's not fair for you to be painted a blackhearted murderer... if you didn't do it."

  Yancy lifted up her chin. His eyes boring mto hers, he asked gently, "And what do you think, sweet wife? Did I do it? Did I kill her?"

  A lump rose in Sara's throat. It always came back to this: Yancy would not defend himself, would not offer an
y explanations, would not refute any of the evidence against him .. . and yet by his very manner he demanded that she believe him innocent. She gazed intently at his dark, beloved features and the pain in her heart was nearly intolerable. Yancy Cantrell was a complex man. He could be both cruel and kind, arrogant and yet so very tenderly considerate of others, but he could also be inexorable in chasing after what he wanted, allowing nothing and no one to stand in his way. He brooked no interference and was used to arranging his life just as he saw fit. He was capable of killing—in war, to protect his family, to save his own life; she didn't doubt that. She also didn't doubt that he wouldn't hesitate to kill for revenge, but outright murder?

  "Is it such a hard question to answer, Sara?" he inquired with an edge to his voice. "You cannot sit on

  the fence forever, you know—you believe that either I killed Margaret or I didn't. Which is it?"

  She had never wanted to believe that he had killed Margaret, but every path had seemed to lead right to him. Miserable and uncertain, she stared at him, trying to compile everything she knew about the murder, about Yancy and about her own instincts. Suddenly, with an almost blinding burst of clarity, the truth lay before her. She smiled ruefully. In all her considerations, she had forgotten two very important facets of Yancy's personality: he was a strong man and an intelligent man. An intelligent man would never have allowed someone like Margaret to goad him to murder. Neither would a strong man. A strong man would have been able to rise above the petty aggravations and spiteful acts of Margaret Cantrell. Yancy might have thought about killing her, but such an act was beneath him. Sara was positive that in his own mind, Margaret hadn't been worth killing!

  The tight knot in her chest slowly eased. Of course Yancy hadn't killed Margaret! He'd had no need to! And something else, something she should have realized years ago, occurred to her: Yancy could have destroyed Margaret anytime he chose to. He was an intelligent man; he knew Margaret, knew about her infidelities; and despite Sam's besottedness over his young wife and the bitter chasm that existed between father and son, if Yancy had even once intimated to his father what he knew of her blatant disregard of her marriage vows, Margaret would have been a ruined woman. And Margaret had known itl Known it and tried her best to seduce Yancy, and when he would have none of it, she had tried another tack.

  It was obvious to Sara now, even if it hadn't been at the time, that Margaret had been recklessly skirmishing with Yancy all along, trying desperately to find some

  leverage of her own. She had found it in Casa Paloma. Yancy held the best cards—he could have gone to Sam at any time with the truth of Margaret's infidelities, but he hadn't because he loved his father. And Margaret had decided to exploit that fact. She had never wanted Casa Paloma, she had merely wanted to strike at Yancy and she had been gambling on the fact that in order to save his father pain, Yancy would have let Casa Paloma slip through his fingers, rather than reveal what he knew about her. Margaret had been taking a dangerous chance; Yancy might have eventually gone to Sam and she would have lost everything, but if she won ... if she had won, she would have had the satisfaction of knowing she had wrested something of great value from her most implacable enemy, and that would have made it worth the risk!

  Intent upon her own speculations, Sara suddenly asked out loud, "Would you have told him?"

  Yancy frowned. Not being privy to her thoughts, he had absolutely no idea what she was referring to, and while he was not a mind reader, as Sara had surmised, he was an intelligent man and quick-witted to boot! A second later, enlightenment dawned and he said warily, "I presume you're asking about Margaret and Sam?*'

  Sara nodded. "Would you have? Told him about her infidelities, rather than let her walk away with Casa Paloma?"

  Not wishing to get sidetracked into the past, Yancy irritably tried to turn the path of the conversation. "I thought I was the one asking the questions—and you haven't answered me yet." His frown growing blacker, he muttered, "I don't see how whether I would have told Sam has any bearing on what we were talking about!"

  Sara smiled tenderly at him and, reaching over, cupped his face between her hands, oblivious of the fact that the sheet had fallen and had left her naked from the

  waist up. Brushing her lips against his, she murmured, "You're right, it doesn't have anything to do with us or your question.'*

  Yancy had waited with incredible patience for her answer, but the waiting had stretched his nerves to the breaking point, and the tension that coiled in his big body was almost palpable. It didn't help his frame of mind to be suddenly confronted by the sight of her temptingly jutting little breasts. Despite his best intentions, he was extremely aware of her nakedness, his body responding resoundingly to the nearness of her, his flesh straining against his breeches, his blood thundering in his veins. But her answer to his question was of far more interest to him at the moment, and he gamely fought down the urge to simply take her in his arms and say to hell with the past! Yet even more than needing to slake his passion for her, he needed to know, once and for all, if she really believed that he had killed Margaret. "Well? Did I? Or didn't I?" he demanded harshly.

  Sara's heart went out to him. She had never realized until this moment how very much her answer meant to him. Her green eyes clear and luminous, a breathtaking-ly lovely smile on her rosy lips, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

  Helplessly Yancy returned her kiss, his arms automatically crushing her to him. He was shaking with hunger for her when she finally lifted her sweetly tormenting mouth from his. As if from a great distance, he heard her say softly, "Of course you didn't kill her! You're far too smart to have done anything so silly!"

  The blood rushed in his ears, her words a balm and a benediction to his tortured soul. Almost violently his arms closed tighter around her, his mouth blindly seeking hers, a hint of tears, unnoticed by either of them, trembling behind his closed lids. With something close to frenzy they moved together, their hands reaching and

  caressing, clothes once more flying in all directions as they lost themselves in the ecstasy to be found in each other's arms. It was quite some time before Yancy left his wife's arms and dressed himself for the second time that afternoon.

  The room was in shadows, and for a long time after he had slid silently from the bed and garbed himself, he stood there staring down at the sleep-softened features of his bride. She looked very sweet and vulnerable as she lay there, her slender, well-loved form outlined by the sheet, her lips still flushed and rosy from their latest lovemaking. As the minutes passed and he stared at her, all the intensely powerful emotions that he usually kept hidden deep within himself were clear for anyone to see in the depths of his amber-gold eyes. Then the shutter fell, hiding the fierce secrets of his heart, and he walked quietly from the room.

  When Sara woke a half hour later, she wasn't surprised to find Yancy gone; in fact, she thought with a rueful smile, she was growing quite used to going to sleep in his arms and then waking alone. Humming to herself, her heart very light, she rang for Maria.

  Sometime later, freshly bathed and wearing a new gown, sewn by one of the women in the village, of lime-green muslin trimmed around the neck, the elbow-length ruffled sleeves and the hem with a darker green silk ribbon, Sara walked slowly to the rear courtyard. It was early evening by now, dusk just starting to fall, one of her favorite times of day. Automatically, she wandered to the fountain and idly watched the goldfish swimming in the cool blue-green depths. The lanterns which adorned the various archways had been lit, fuzzy golden pools of light spilling out into the courtyard, and the scents of jasmine and damask rose drifted on the cooling air. Dreamily Sara breathed in the heavy fragrance of the flowers, thinking that no matter where in

  the world she might ever find herself, she would never again smell that particular mixture of scents without thinking of evenings at del Sol.

  For the first time since she had found Margaret's body over seven years ago, Sara was at peace about the
murder. She still didn't know who had killed Sam's second wife, but like Yancy, right now, at this exact moment, she wasn't even certain that she cared who had killed Margaret. At least it hadn't been Yancy It was amazing, after all her doubts and reservations about his guilt or innocence, how bone-deep sure she was in that belief, and she wondered how she could have thought even for a second that Yancy had killed Margaret.

  She would have been lying if she hadn't admitted to herself that she was greatly disturbed to have discovered that the dagger which had killed Margaret belonged to Bartholomew. She didn't want Bartholomew to be the killer—whether the killing was justified or not! She sighed. Perhaps Yancy was right about that, too! Perhaps it would just be best to put the murder behind her and forget about it. But even with her newfound confidence that Yancy had not done the crime, Sara could not shake a feeling of unease ... a feeling that none of them were safe until whoever had killed Margaret was caught.

  She had entered the courtyard in a lighthearted mood, but as the moments passed and she stared with increasing vagueness at the goldfish, she became pensive. Nothing had been settled between her and Yancy. She grimaced ruefully. Nothing except that their bodies responded wildly to each other. They were married; they had made love, but as yet, not one word of love had passed between them. Sara knew her own heart; she just wished Yancy would tell her what was in his heart. She knew he cared for her—she would have had to be both blind and deaf not to have realized that, while he might not love her, she certainly aroused deep feelings within him. She wrinkled

  her straight little nose disgustedly. Knowing your husband had deep feelings for you was not quite the same as knowing he loved you. Some men had great feelings for their horses and dogs, but that didn't mean that they loved them!

  She sighed. Life certainly would have been much less complicated if Sam hadn't left Casa Paloma to her in such an archaic fashion. With a sinking heart, she realized that until the question of Casa Paloma was settled, even if Yancy were to declare his lasting, undying love for her, she would always wonder if he were telling the truth, or if he had been motivated to marry her simply to get his hands on the lands of his forefathers.