Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance)

by Matthews, Devon

  She scanned the room for more missiles and backtracked when her gaze raked over an expensive, imported Italian lamp with an etched glass shade that dripped crystal teardrops. Now that just might make some noise. She picked it up with both hands and let it fly at a full-length cheval mirror. The resultant crash of shattering glass startled her and sent her leaping back to dodge the flying shards of debris.

  The guard posted outside the window pressed his face against the pane, his eyes rounded with surprise. He lifted a hand and rapped so hard the entire casement rattled. “What the hell you doin’?”

  Still primed for violence, Angel snatched up the first thing at hand and flung it at his face. The chamber pot crashed right through the window glass and sent the guard reeling backward to avoid the shower of broken glass.

  The bedroom door swung inward with a creak of strained hinges, and she whirled to face it. With a slow sweeping gaze, Lundy’s big underling surveyed the damage she’d wrought, and then he lifted his eyes and glared at her.

  She tossed back her hair with a defiant flip, planted her hands against her hips and aimed a scowl right back at him.

  Without a word, he stalked into the room and picked her up bodily, though she flailed and kicked at him with all her might. He flung her down on the bed with such force, she bounced several times.

  She cowered against the bed when he leaned over her, his sour breath blasting in furious gusts against her face.

  He lifted a skillet-sized hand and jabbed a condemning finger toward the end of her nose. “Don’t move! And don’t break nothin’ else, or I’ll come back and tie you up so’s you can’t!”

  Angel attempted to swallow and found her mouth had suddenly gone dry. Somehow, she forced out, “I demand to see Horace Lundy this instant!”

  The guard straightened and stood looking down at her from the side of the bed with his ham-fisted, ape-like arms hanging straight down at his sides. His heavy black caterpillar brows collided over his nose that was flattened and crooked. The incorrectly healed breaks forced him to breathe through his open mouth, which made him look like a slack-jawed dimwit. “I’ll pass it on,” he said. He turned and walked out the door. Seconds later, the heavy bolt on the outside of the door jammed into locked position with a loud click.

  Weariness replaced the tension holding Angel rigid on the bed. She sighed, and then slowly relaxed, sinking back into the linen-covered pillows.

  Breaking Horace’s expensive possessions—while satisfying—was not the way to fight them. They had her at their mercy. Like the big brute said, if she made too much fuss, they could tie her up. If she screamed, they could even resort to gagging her.

  What chance did she have? Not even Rane had been able to prevail against them.

  Scalding tears welled and overflowed to streak each side of her face. She didn’t bother wiping them away. Despite her conviction that Rane still lived, her heart felt bruised and sore, and she could no more stop the tears than she could escape the four walls imprisoning her.

  Angel’s eyes had started to drift closed when the bolt outside the door emitted a grinding screech. She sprang upright, instantly wide-eyed and alert.

  The door opened and, once more, the big guard walked into the room with no warning.

  Angel scooted to the side of the bed and set her feet on the floor. Were they moving her now that she’d done some damage? To a windowless storage room, perhaps, barren of furnishings or even light? The thought gave her a deep-seated shudder.

  “You’re to come with me,” the guard said. “Mr. Lundy’s ready to see you now.”

  Surprise brought her to her feet. She submitted when he clamped strong fingers around her arm and led her out the door.

  Out on the portico, the heels of her boots rang hollow on terra-cotta tiles. Once fashionable, the boots were now scuffed and the thin leather worn nearly through from the constant rubbing of stirrups. With her free hand, she held the front hem of the dress off the floor to keep from tripping over it.

  The guard led her through an arch and into an open-air courtyard. She lifted her head and inhaled deeply of the first fresh air she’d breathed in three days. It was cooler here and smelled of green algae and damp musty earth. Trained wisteria covered the curved stone arches surrounding the yard. At its center, water poured forth in a steady stream from an upended urn held in the dimpled hands of a chubby-faced cherub and splashed into an irregularly shaped pool. The musical sound echoed with a hollow tinkle between the confining walls. Fronds of ferns and other aquatic flora surrounded the artificial edge of the pool. Just beneath the water’s surface, the lazy movements of several large goldfish reflected the noonday sun.

  The few times in her life she had visited the Hacienda, the courtyard had enchanted Angel. Now, she only saw it in passing. Once on the other side, the big man dragged her through another portal and, suddenly, she stood before the closed door of Horace Lundy’s private office.

  The guard raised his hand and rapped three times.

  “Come in.”

  Angel recognized Horace’s voice. Her heart skipped to a faster rhythm. Queasiness assailed her stomach. She’d imagined this moment countless times during the past three days. Now that it was at hand, all the words she’d planned flew right out of her head.

  The guard released her arm. “Go on in,” he said. “And don’t try anything. I’ll be standing right here.”

  Angel hesitated long enough to draw in a deep, strengthening breath before she opened the door and stepped inside.

  Horace Lundy sat behind his desk with his fingers steepled together and propped against his chin. When he saw her, he gripped the chair’s armrests and stood.

  Angel closed the door and pressed her back against it, taking in the man before her. He’d always dressed to the teeth. But now, his dark suit looked as if he’d slept in it and more than once. Two years had wrought changes. He’d aged and not very gracefully. His once dark hair had gone almost completely white. His skin looked sallow and heavily lined. Although he belonged to her father’s generation, Angel had always thought him handsome and distinguished. Now, he simply looked old and not quite healthy to boot. He’d always seemed so devoted to his wife, Francine. Had the woman’s death, and his subsequent financial reversal, brought on this rapid decline?

  He looked so harmless, almost fragile. All thoughts of murder evaporated from her mind. After all, this was Horace, a man she’d known all her life. Now that he’d seen her, surely he would relent in his extortion scheme. She found herself wanting to feel sorry for him. But she quickly conquered that impulse. Anyone who employed the methods he’d used to get her there didn’t deserve pity.

  He offered her a tenuous smile. “Evangeline.”

  Angel pushed away from the door and strode forward with renewed determination. “Horace, I demand to be released this very minute!”

  He sighed airily. “So much for pleasantries.”

  “Pleasant! You call being shot at and held here against my will pleasant!”

  “If you’ll take a seat, we’ll discuss it.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Suit yourself.” He lowered himself to his comfortable leather chair and laced his fingers over his chest. “I understand you’ve thrown quite a tantrum in your room.”

  “If I could, I would demolish this entire house with my bare hands!”

  “I understand,” he replied with damnable calm, “but I wish you’d try to control your temper. It looks like you might be here for quite some time.”

  “I don’t think so,” she retorted. “Do you think my father’s just sitting over at the Flying C twiddling his thumbs?”

  Horace shrugged. “He doesn’t have enough manpower to take any real initiative against me. This place is a fortress. He’s still dragging his feet with the money, which is unfortunate. Either he pays up, or you’ll be spending Christmas at the Hacienda.”

  She knew he wouldn’t respond to threats. Maybe if she tried reasoning with him. She inhaled a
steadying breath and said in a calmer tone, “Please let me go.”

  “No.”

  “If you’ll let me go to my father, I’ll talk to him. He’s a fair man. If you release me of your own volition, I’m sure he’ll look on it favorably. He might help you, if I ask him to. I’m sure he doesn’t want to see you ruined. Be reasonable, Horace, and he’ll help you. I know he will.”

  The corners of his lips curved in a satiric smile. A memory flirted with the edges of her consciousness, but she couldn’t quite grasp it.

  “I think you overestimate your influence, my dear. Besides, do you think a little loan is going to help me? It’s going to take more than that... much more. Roy Clayton fenced off land that’s been public domain for the past thirty years. My cattle died as a consequence. I’ll accept nothing less than full payment for them.”

  Angel clutched her arms against her waist and paced in front of the floor to ceiling bookshelves lining the walls, a veritable library of gilt-edged volumes. She paused at the window and stared through the parting of heavy velvet drapes the color of northern evergreens. Sunlight bleached colorless the stone wall in the near distance that blocked the view of the outside world. Horace was right. The Hacienda had been built like a fort. The stone wall continued around the perimeter of the compound. With two men positioned atop each wall, the place was unapproachable. The outer defense had been built at the same time as the house, during the days when raiding bands of Indians and Mexicans were a constant threat.

  “For thirty years, I’ve watched Roy Clayton shout in his crude way and ride rough-shod over everyone to get what he wanted,” the bitter man continued. “Just once before I die, I intend to have the last word.”

  She stopped and huffed an incredulous breath. “So, is that what this is about? Revenge? I thought you only wanted the money.”

  Horace fell silent. Angel turned to find him watching her with a critical, assessing gaze. She looked down, trying to see what he saw: the ill fitting clothing on her body, her sun-browned hands. Stark disapproval blazed in his sunken eyes.

  He leaned forward and transferred his clasped hands to the top of the desk. “I don’t see why you’re so anxious to go home. Even I can see, two years back east hasn’t smoothed your rough edges. You look so much like Ilsa, and yet you’re so very different than she was.” Lines of sadness creased his forehead. “You are your father’s daughter.”

  The words echoed through her mind, only it was her aunt’s voice she heard. You’re still your father’s daughter.

  “Ilsa wanted so much more for you. If only she had lived...”

  Angel’s head snapped up. She ground her teeth. “How dare you drag my mother into this and insult me! Do you dare still call yourself a gentleman? You loosed a horde of bounty hunters on me. Did you tell them they were free to shoot at will? What do you think my mother would have had to say about that!”

  He regarded her in silence. It was answer enough.

  “Is your idea of a lady one who submits passively to this kind of treatment? If so, that’s one thing I’ll never be.” She gripped the edge of the desk with both hands and leaned, trembling, toward him.

  “You’ll never get away with this. You’re out of your depth. Men have died because of your foolishness.”

  He cocked an indifferent brow. “Dregs,” he said. “This country is better rid of them.”

  A twisting pain wormed through Angel’s heart. “Why did you order your men to kill Rane Mantorres?”

  Mention of the pistolero’s name wrought a change in Lundy’s composed mien. His eyes narrowed and took on a faraway look. A long moment passed before he answered. “He asked for what he got. For years, he’s been a thorn in my side.”

  “Why?” Angel demanded.

  “Oh, you know these Mexicans. They get something into their heads and they turn it into a crusade. They’re all fanatics,” he concluded, waving his hand dismissively. “But that’s all in the past now. Dead and buried.”

  With a shudder, he visibly pulled himself away from his dark thoughts and met her level gaze once more. “I hope his death hasn’t troubled you overmuch. I know when people are thrown together in difficult circumstances, they sometimes form an attachment.”

  The man’s coldness played like icy fingers along Angel’s spine. She had a sudden, overwhelming desire to be elsewhere, anywhere but in that room with him. She went to the door and placed her hand over the knob.

  “Will you have dinner with me this evening?” he asked from behind her. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a female companion at my table.”

  Angel shivered with deep-rooted revulsion at the softly uttered request. He sounded as though he’d completely forgotten their conversation of five minutes ago. “I’d sooner break bread with a snake,” she replied with more sadness than venom.

  “Very well.” He didn’t bother hiding his disappointment.

  Angel opened the door and found the guard barring her way.

  “Escort her back to her room,” Horace instructed.

  The guard wrapped strong fingers around her arm and led her away.

  Angel was locked inside the bedroom once more. In her absence, the broken glass had been cleared away, along with every remaining unnecessary object in the room. The shattered window admitted only narrow shafts of light between planks that had been nailed over the opening. She sat on the side of the bed, still and thoughtful. Her meeting with Horace had left her feeling more disturbed than before. The man had lost all reason. It was as if he were dead inside. Under the circumstances, there was no telling what he might do.

  She had to escape.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rane hunkered on his heels and picked up a handful of powdery dead ash, letting it sift through his fingers to blow away on the fitful wind. The acrid stench of it clogged his nostrils. He clenched his jaw, trying to will away the cold rage that quickened his heart.

  Fire had blackened the four thick adobe walls surrounding him. Only they and the fire pit remained.

  As he looked around the gutted room, memories assailed him. Angel standing at the door. Angel seated at his table, reviling him for ruining her life. Angel in his bed... All so recent. He squeezed his eyes closed, saddened to realize nothing more had ever occurred within these walls that warranted remembering. Had his life truly been that empty?

  Leaves rattling in the restless breeze sounded like rushing water. He opened his eyes and lifted them, seeing open sky where once the thatched roof had been. The new growth on a sheltering cottonwood that had been green only days ago hung limp and black.

  Nothing worth salvaging remained here. Lundy’s men had done a thorough job. Thank God they hadn’t blundered across his mother’s grave. Hidden in the grove, her stone had gone undisturbed.

  Resigned, Rane stood and brushed the ash from his fingers. He stepped through the opening where the stout door had once hung and walked into the yard beyond. He paused, facing the barren southern terrain, the faint trail leading through the desolate Mexican landscape, straight to Clayton Station. His jaw clenched with determination so fierce a shudder ran through him.

  The road to his destiny lay before him; he had only to travel it. Angel was being held prisoner at the Hacienda, and Horace Lundy still prevailed, but not for much longer, he vowed. Lundy thought he was dead, and Rane knew when the man found out otherwise, he would stop at nothing now to kill him.

  “An eye for an eye, viejo.”

  Pago waited in the yard and whickered softly at Rane’s approach. He took the horse’s reins in hand and climbed into the saddle. With a touch against the stallion’s neck, they turned southward and eased into a slow lope. While the wind blew warm against his face, cold purpose lay like a heavy weight in Rane’s heart.

  ****

  The sun was setting, and Angel’s spirits sank right along with it. Each approaching night filled her with dread. During the day, light filtered in through the inch-wide gaps between the boards nailed over the bedroom window.
If she sat next to it, she could catch a breath of fresh air. If she peered through the cracks, she could watch the activity around the ranch compound. But when the sun sank below the horizon, complete darkness settled around her, as thick and suffocating as a tomb.

  The crystal lamp she’d broken hadn’t been replaced. In fact, every breakable object in the room had been removed. Lundy could have given her a silver branch of candles, but he hadn’t. Was he afraid she’d set the room ablaze?

  As night pressed down on the compound, light flared just on the other side of the boards. She moved closer to the crack she’d been looking through. The guard outside was lighting a cigarette. The smell of sulfur drifted to her when he waved out the flame and tossed the match to the ground.

  Angel’s lips parted with the urge to speak. She inhaled a short breath and held it, refusing to let the words slip from her tongue. She knew she must be going mad when she was tempted to draw one of her ruffian jailers into conversation.

  Pressing her forehead against the rough board, she slowly expelled the air she held. Her throat ached with the tears she stubbornly held at bay. How much longer could she stand being shut away in the darkness like an animal?

  Angel woke from a doze with the side of her face braced against the board and the overpowering smell of smoke in her nostrils. Faint voices, raised in panic, drifted from somewhere outside. She lifted her head and blinked several times to clear away the fog of sleep.

  An unnatural orange glow spilled through the cracks. Alarm jolted through her nerves endings, bringing her fully awake. She bolted up from the chair and crowded her face against the boards, peering between them.

  On the far side of the compound, smoke roiled up in an angry black cloud from an outbuilding. Tree-tall flames licked outward from the billowing column and flickered against the blackness of the sky.

  Lundy’s men ran back and forth, shouting, the brilliance behind them reducing them to wavering, stick-thin silhouettes.

  Angel’s thoughts tumbled. If her father had launched an attack on the Hacienda, there would have been gunfire. She’d heard no shots. The hope that had soared within her just as quickly died.