Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance)

by Matthews, Devon

  “Did he mistreat you in any way?”

  Somehow, she met his steady gaze without faltering. “No.”

  Her father let out a long breath. She realized he’d been holding it.

  “This is an ugly business,” he said. “There’ll be talk, you know that.

  She dropped her head and merely nodded.

  “The sooner this damned fence war is put to rest, the sooner it’ll all be forgotten.”

  Forgotten. Maybe the fence war would dim in importance with the passage of days, but Angel knew she’d never forget Rane. Her heart ached with the thought that she might never see him again. It burned like a hot coal in her brain. They’d never really said goodbye.

  “I’m glad you’re home, Angel.”

  She lifted her eyes to her father’s face as his kindly spoken words took her by surprise.

  A sudden grin tilted the drooping gray mustache hiding most of his mouth. “You sound like a Yankee when you talk.”

  The out-of-the-blue remark coaxed a weak smile to her lips. “You’ll just have to get used to it.”

  Now that they were alone, he stood back and looked at her again. She knew his sharp old eyes missed nothing.

  “I hope that dress didn’t fit you when you left New York. You look like you’ve been starved and staked out in the sun to dry.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Angel picked up the silverware lying atop the folded, yellowed napkin beside her father’s plate. For the third time, she realigned the pieces so they were precisely spaced. The cloth covering the dining table looked dingy, though not quite as bad as the napkin. All the linens in the house needed a good washing, but that was just one chore on a very long list of things she’d found that needed attention.

  After awakening to an empty house, she’d spent the entire morning dusting, sweeping, and clearing out what had to be several weeks’ worth of accumulated trash. It was a wonder the place wasn’t infested with rats.

  What had happened to the servants?

  Rather than pace the length of the dining room and adjacent parlor again, Angel pulled a chair next to the window and perched on its edge. The sun was going down. Where was her father, or anyone else for that matter? When he didn’t show up at the supper hour, she’d worried, then gotten angry. Now worry had settled permanently in the pit of her stomach.

  Had he run into trouble with Lundy’s men? What if something had happened to him? She squeezed her eyes closed and pressed her hands to her forehead. Damn you, Pa, where are you?

  Blowing out a breath, she opened her eyes, grabbed the arms of the chair and launched herself out of it. Gray dusk had settled within the parlor. She crossed to the fireplace for matches and lit the wicks of the two lamps stationed at each end of the sturdy mantle. As she reached to replace the box, her attention caught on the photograph displayed at the mantle’s center.

  Her mother’s picture perfect image dredged up a new wave of guilt. Unsmiling, her mother sat ramrod straight with her lace-covered hands folded primly in her lap. Angel moved closer and pressed her fingertips to the sepia-toned image, then quickly pulled them back.

  “Ilsa.” She whispered the name almost in dread. If she spoke it too loudly, would her mother’s apparition appear to smite her? No. Her mother’s spirit had never dwelled within these walls. This had always been her father’s domain.

  Angel had often wondered why a woman such as her mother, a lady of gentle rearing, had married a man as coarse and tempestuous as Roy Clayton. An unlikely match. A fine blooded mare and a common workhorse. She was the result, neither completely coarse nor fine, but something in between, and both sides pulled at her.

  From outside, the hoof beats of an approaching horse grew steadily louder. Her heart leaped. Rushing to a window, she saw her father headed for the barn on a big gray. Thank God.

  On her way out of the parlor, she snatched the box of matches down from the mantle and hurried into the dining room. Six ivory tapers occupied the candelabrum standing in the center of the table. One by one, she lit them. Pinpoints of light reflected from the silver and the rims of the two ordinary china plates she’d set out. Standing back, she realized the yellowed lighting made even the sullied linens appear almost elegant. Perhaps the day’s work wouldn’t be a total loss.

  Out in the kitchen, the back door whined open, and then closed forcefully, sending a shudder throughout the house.

  Expectantly, Angel turned and straightened her spine. Her palms were sweaty. She started to scrub them against the skirt of her dress and thought better of it. Calm and poise, she reminded herself. A lady is always calm and poised in any situation. That was the first rule she’d learned at Miss Marvel’s Academy.

  At the very last instant, she remembered to put a smile on her lips.

  Her father stepped through the door and stopped. More accurately, he froze. He’d removed his hat and the flattened hair ringing his head was damp with sweat. Fine dust coated his worn denims and his boots. He looked like an old cowhand who’d wandered into the wrong place, and he stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

  As the seconds passed, Angel felt the smile slipping from her lips. Despite the possible damage to delicate fabric, she gripped handfuls of rustling silk in her sweaty palms. She glanced down, at the peacock blue dress gleaming in the candlelight. The gown was nothing too elaborate, just something she’d worn on occasion for the evening meal at her aunt’s back in New York.

  Her father continued to stare at her.

  “Pa, is something wrong?”

  He blinked, and then seemed to come back to himself. He cleared his throat. “No. Why would anything be wrong?”

  In the renewed silenced, the big Regulator in the hallway ticked off several seconds.

  Her father lifted his hand and motioned toward her dress. “I see you found your belongings.”

  The smile returned to her lips. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “They came in on the stage without you. I had everything put up in your room.” He cleared his throat again. “So. I guess you found them.”

  “Yes,” she repeated. She tried to smooth the frown she felt pulling at her brows. Why did he seem so ill at ease?

  As if he’d read her mind, he chuckled softly and waved a hand through the air. “You know, when I walked in, for a minute there...”

  “What?” she prompted.

  “Well, you look just like your mother.”

  So, he had thought he’d seen a ghost. Disconcerted, Angel nervously smoothed the side of her upswept hair. He followed the movement. She dropped her hand quickly, realizing she’d unconsciously imitated the style her mother wore in the photograph.

  She forced another smile. “Well, then,” she said with a serenity she was far from feeling. “I have supper prepared. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll serve.”

  He shifted his feet. “I didn’t know you’d be cookin’, so I ate some beans and pone with the boys over at the line shack.”

  He must have seen her disappointment because he swept a quick glance at the table and hastily added, “But since you’ve gone to so much trouble, I guess I could eat a little more.”

  Bless his old heart. He was trying to meet her half way. The knowledge warmed her.

  She carried a plate of fried ham, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a basket of biscuits from the kitchen and placed them on the table. Her father sat at the head of it, in his usual spot.

  “Looks good.” He waited until she’d taken her seat at the opposite end of the table, and then reached for his napkin and unceremoniously dumped his silverware. Angel bit her lip as she watched him stuff one end of the napkin inside the dusty, sweaty collar of his shirt. Plucking up his fork, he stretched forward and speared a thick slice of ham.

  Angel picked up her napkin and carefully placed it across her lap. “Everything may be a little...dry,” she warned. “It’s been sitting in the warmer for quite some time.”

  He tossed her a grin. “Looks good to me. Sorry I left you alone so long today.�
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  He picked up the potato bowl and spooned a huge lump onto his plate. Just as she’d feared, they’d congealed to a solid mass.

  “What happened to the help?’ she asked.

  “Lit out.” He took a biscuit from the top of the pile and bit into it. With a sinking heart, she realized he took a long time chewing it before he swallowed. “When Horace’s boys started aimin’ bullets across the fence, they were too scared to stick around.” He shook his head. “Gutless.”

  He still appeared to be working some of the biscuit around inside his mouth. She’d forgotten drinks.

  “I made coffee,” she offered.

  He nodded. “That’d be good.”

  After returning with steaming cups of black coffee and sitting his in front of him, she returned to her seat. “So, what have you been doing all day?”

  He eschewed the delicate china handle and wrapped his hand around the body of the cup. After blowing back the steam, he took a long drink. “Been keepin’ an eye out for what’s goin’ on down at the Hacienda.”

  “What’s been going on?”

  “Horace’s men are pullin’ out on him. Been ridin’ out of there all day, like rats desertin’ a sinkin’ ship.”

  Rats deserting a sinking ship, an apt description. A hopeful sign. Perhaps this senseless fighting would end without more bloodshed. “Do you think it’s over?”

  Her father shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Too soon to tell.”

  “What do you plan on doing now?” she asked.

  “Wait.” He expelled a heavy breath. “All we can do now is wait and see what happens.”

  Waiting was the hardest thing of all. Angel felt as if she’d been waiting for one thing or another for most of her life. Her thoughts veered to Rane. He, too, had been waiting. For the opportunity to get to Lundy. Was that time near at hand? Had he also been out there somewhere today watching Horace’s men ride away?

  When her father had eaten his fill, Angel carried the dishes to the kitchen. After blowing out the candles on the dining table, she followed him into the parlor.

  He stood with his elbows propped atop the well-used makeshift bar he’d built next to the liquor cabinet, holding a half-filled glass of whiskey in his hand. The top of the bar was scarred and water-ringed, like many of the furnishings in the house. The parlor’s worn horsehair sofa and a pair of matching armchairs looked downright shabby compared to the things in Aunt Nelda’s elegantly furnished home. Standing there in her silk evening dress, Angel felt out of step with her surroundings. Her father fit here perfectly, but she no longer knew exactly where she belonged.

  Hugging her arms across her stomach, she wandered to a window with a southern view. Across the darkened yard the faint glow of lamplight revealed someone now occupied the bunkhouse. She strained her ears, but heard no banter of rowdy cowhands. Only eerie silence came back to her. Where were all her father’s men? Out there in the darkness somewhere, guarding over the house? Somehow, she didn’t think so.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” She turned from the window. “When I spoke to Horace, he said you’ve fenced off lands that are public domain. Is this true?”

  His jaw worked with irritation. “Horace is talkin’ about the land that stretches between here and the Hacienda. It used to be open range. Well, it ain’t no more. For years, I’ve been buyin’ it, piece by piece. The deeds are in my office, if you want to see them. That land is mine, bought and paid for.”

  “I believe you, Pa. I don’t need to see any proof. But I do have another question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you learned Horace had me locked up down at the Hacienda, why did you still refuse to give him what he was demanding?”

  He blinked several times, and then dropped his gaze to the glass in his hand. Lifting the liquor to his lips, he took a long swallow before facing her again. “Cause I ain’t never bowed down nor give in to any sorry, lowdown bastard that’s tried to take something away from me. If I had, we’d be standin’ out there in the road right now without a pot to piss in nor a window to throw it out of.”

  Typical Pa. Crude. Stubbornness, pure and simple. He’d allowed her to remain locked away in that darkened room, agonizing about the fate of the two men she loved, because he was simply too stubborn to consider doing anything else.

  “I would have gotten you out of there,” he continued, “if Mantorres hadn’t interfered.”

  He thought of Rane’s intervention as interference. With a sigh, she turned back to the window. “Do you think we’re safe here?”

  “Don’t you worry. I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you.” His baritone chuckle filled the room. “Times sure have changed. Two years ago, you’d have been sittin’ out on the porch with a pistol across your knees, guardin’ the place yourself.”

  “Yes, I probably would have,” she agreed. Across the yard, the light inside the bunkhouse dimmed, and then was snuffed altogether. Faced with nothing but darkness and her own dejected reflection in the sullied pane, she turned away and pressed her back against the wall.

  “If you don’t feel safe,” her father continued, “we’ll see about gettin’ some help around here. I didn’t want you back home just so you would work yourself to a frazzle, cookin’ and cleanin’.”

  She started to ask why he did want her back with such urgency, but a knock at the front door intruded. Strange. She’d heard no horse outside.

  Gauging from his reaction, he’d been expecting it. He thumped his glass down on the bar and hurried into the hall. After a moment, the front door opened and her father’s voice boomed, “Well, come on in, Will.”

  Angel rolled her eyes, then stood up straight and wondered if it was too late to slip into the kitchen and up the back stairs without being seen. At the moment, exchanging polite chit-chat with one of her father’s cronies was the last thing she wanted to do.

  But it was too late.

  Her father breezed into the parlor, followed closely by a man whose head nearly brushed the ornate lintel topping the door.

  Not what she had expected.

  Her father stepped aside, as if to give her an unobstructed view of the prime specimen of manhood he’d dragged into the house. “Angel, do you remember Will Keegan?”

  Oh, yes, she remembered him. Will Keegan, youngest son of Eb Keegan, who owned the K-Bar outfit over on the big bend of the Pecos River. An old and distinguished family, there had been Keegans in Texas since before the Republic.

  Since he stood head and shoulders above most men, Will had always been hard to overlook. Though he was tall, there was nothing lanky about him. A cattleman through and through, he had the lean, hard physique of a man who spent long days in the saddle. A man who could rope and wrestle a rank steer to the ground with a minimum of fuss. And he’d always been just as adept with the ladies, or so she’d heard.

  Back during the days when she’d roamed the range and been privy to campfire gossip, there had been talk of a scandal involving Will and a squatter’s daughter. In cattle country, anyone who attempted to plow the land and grow crops was labeled a squatter. The rumors had been quickly swept under the rug, mainly because the farmer had suddenly pulled up stakes and moved his family, including his wayward daughter, to unknown climes. At the time, Angel had known without being told that the tight-knit Keegan clan had threatened the man off his land.

  The Keegans had always taken care of their own, so what the hell was Will doing here?

  Remembering her training, Angel forced one foot in front of the other and glided forward. She extended her hand. “Mr. Keegan. How nice to see you again.”

  His severely combed cap of wavy blond hair took a barely perceptible dip. Then, his ice-pale blue eyes lifted to hers and stayed. “Miss Clayton.” His deep baritone sounded stiff and formal. Briefly, his big, callused fingers enveloped her hand. When he released her, she stepped back.

  The steady way he looked at her, the unmistakable gleam of curiosity in his eyes made Angel fee
l like a prize breeder being inspected by a potential buyer. As gracefully as she could, she moved away from him and took a seat on the sofa where she could keep both men under a watchful eye.

  The twinkle in her father’s eyes as he looked from one to the other of them made her uncomfortable. He looked entirely too pleased with himself, as if he knew a secret.

  “Want a drink?” her father asked.

  “Yeah,” Will replied.

  Finally tearing his eyes from her, he tossed the hat he’d been holding against his thigh onto the seat of an armchair and followed her father to the bar.

  With his back turned, Angel studied him with interest. Instead of the usual cowboy work clothes of denim and muslin, he wore dark gray serge trousers, creased front and back. His big pointed-toed boots were remarkably dust-free. Had he brushed them off while waiting at the door?

  Or had he simply walked across the yard to get here?

  She remembered the light in the bunkhouse. It had gone out only minutes before he arrived. An unsettling picture began to form.

  Her father lifted another glass from the cabinet and poured a liberal amount of whiskey. He slid it across the bar and picked up his own glass. “Here’s mud in your eye.”

  “Mud” Will nodded. He picked up his glass and drank the entire contents.

  Her father splashed more whiskey into the glass. “Drink up. I reckon we got good reason to celebrate tonight.”

  Will cast a speculative glance at her over his shoulder. Her father beamed. They both downed a second shot.

  “After today, I’m hopeful we’ll be able to start roundup close to schedule. What do you think, Will?”

  The younger man shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe. Depends on Lundy now.”

  “Course, while all this fightin’s been goin’ on, the herd’s drifted to hell and gone.”

  From the easy conversation taking place, Angel got the idea that the two of them had done this before, and probably many times. With the other man’s arrival, her father had grown animated and looked almost happy. Will appeared more thoughtful. He wasn’t as much of a talker as her father. But some men didn’t need to use a lot of words to get what they wanted. Things just naturally gravitated to them without being coaxed.