Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance)

by Matthews, Devon

  God help him, would he never forget!

  A strangled sound of raw torment slipped from his throat. The lightning flashed again with a stuttered cracking that might have been the sound of his own heart ripping from his chest. The angel, remote, unmoving, stared with her indifferent eyes.

  Rane shoved away from the wall and staggered into the downpour. “¡Vaya infierno!” he shouted at the lifeless statue. He drew back his arm and flung the bottle in his hand with strength bordering on madness. The vessel sailed into darkness and shattered explosively when it struck stone.

  He waited, half expecting the wrath of God to strike him down in the mud and streaming water. But there was nothing, only the soft rushing sound of the rain falling around him.

  “Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it.”

  Slowly, he turned toward the voice. Benito stood in an open doorway, a dark figure silhouetted by wavering lamplight. Rane dashed the water from his eyes and shook his head at the irony of having his own words thrown back at him.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “So, what will you do if you do not try?” Benito asked. He lifted his hand. “It’s cold. It’s raining. And you are a sorry sight, amigo.”

  When Benito faded back inside his room and closed the door, Rane hung his head. Battering rain pounded the back of his skull and streamed from his face. If only it could run through his burning heart and cleanse his soul with such ease.

  He turned and lifted his eyes to the angel once more. Mercy, he silently cried. But the lifeless seraph would not be moved to grant him any boons. There was only one living, breathing angel who could help him now. She was far away and tonight he was more undeserving of her than ever.

  Being acknowledged by his father hadn’t given him the satisfaction he’d thought it would. Instead, it had made him aware that there was something even more vital missing from his life. His own feelings of self-worth, perhaps. He’d wasted so much time chasing after vengeance, he’d lost sight of many other paths where he might have found happiness, or contentment, or at least some sense of peace. Now, he’d strayed so far, he didn’t know if he could ever claw his way back again.

  What will you do if you do not try?

  Too late, he realized he’d turned his back on the one thing that had given his life meaning—Angel’s love.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The land was ripe and heavy with summer. Tall, slender stalks of yucca stood top-heavy with bushel-sized clusters of opulent white blooms. Vivid splashes of yellow and scarlet dotted scattered clumps of mustard and paintbrush. Strung out over the open range, cattle grazed on tall, waving grass the color of golden ochre beneath a sky so blue and flawless it brought a sweet ache to Angel’s heart.

  The skies over New York had never been this crisp. The air never so clear and clean. Thoughts of returning to the city, of turning to her Aunt Nelda for help made every moment in this place she loved seem even more precious.

  Would she be forced to leave it?

  She glanced at her father, relaxed against the worn leather of the carriage seat opposite her. Only his gray gaze moved with a restless sweep as he scanned the lay of the land. Pride softened his weathered face. They were on Flying C range, his domain. She knew he viewed everything around him through the eyes of a cattleman. Grass conditions, soil erosion, even to the number of strays grazing his land. If only he could see her with the same clear vision.

  The carriage veered into the lane, tossing up the earthy smell of sun-baked sand from the barren track. In the distance, the two-story white house and its supporting structures stood as a man-made oasis in the midst of some of nature’s most unforgiving landscape. Angel sat up straighter. Home at last.

  When they neared the house, a woman moved beneath the shadows of the porch roof and stood at the top of the front steps, waiting. Time apart allowed Angel to see the changes that had taken place in Carmella since her arrival at the Flying C. She now wore her thick, lively hair in a coronet at the crown of her head. Her provocative peasant garments had been replaced by a concealing dress of plain calico. She looked every inch the proper matron.

  When the carriage rolled to a stop, Carmella hurried down the steps to meet them. A beaming smile wreathed her face.

  “Looks like somebody’s glad to see us,” Roy said as he climbed from the carriage.

  “Welcome home, Patron,” Carmella called.

  Roy grinned. “Did you miss us?”

  “Very much,” Carmella replied. “It is good you are back.”

  “We had a hell of a trip,” Roy told her.

  Angel tapped her father on the shoulder, and he turned to hand her down the step. She stood a moment and reacquainted herself with solid ground.

  Will descended from the driver’s seat and skirted to the rear of the rig. He lifted the cover on the boot, exposing their baggage. Roy walked back to help him.

  Still wearing an almost giddy smile on her face, Carmella linked her arm with Angel’s and urged her toward the house. “I have much to tell you,” she said.

  “I have a few things to tell you, too,” Angel replied.

  On the steps, Carmella looked back at Roy and Will and called out, “I made a cake!”

  Upstairs, Angel bustled Carmella into her bedroom, then closed and locked the door.

  “What did the doctor say?” the housekeeper asked without preamble.

  Angel sighed, relieved to be reunited with her friend and confidante. “He confirmed it. I’m going to have a baby.”

  “When?”

  “Barely more than six months from now.”

  “And you are feeling all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Angel methodically pulled the pins from her hat and tossed them onto the dresser. “He told me to keep soda crackers by my bed for the morning sickness.” She removed her hat and laid it atop the pins. Restless, she crossed to the window and looked out. Below, her father and Will still struggled with the baggage. She turned to look at Carmella and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “But that’s not all. Will knows.”

  Carmella gasped. “How?”

  “He followed me and spoke to the doctor. The wretched little man told him everything.”

  Apprehension clouded Carmella’s eyes. She shook her head. “This is very bad.”

  “Worse than bad,” Angel amended. “It’s that much more ammunition for his blackmail scheme.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He still wants me to marry him. He wants to claim the baby as his.”

  Carmella’s eyes widened. “Señor Keegan es muy loco.”

  “Evidently,” Angel agreed.

  “What will you do?”

  She shrugged and plopped down on the bed. “I wish I knew.”

  “Someone needs to teach that hombre a lesson,” Carmella murmured.

  “Well, it won’t be my father, or any of the men on the Flying C.” She knew only one man capable of standing toe to toe with Will Keegan, and he had deserted her.

  Carmella took a seat on the bed next to her and captured her hand in a reassuring grip. “Do not give up. There may still be hope.” Mischief danced in the woman’s dark eyes.

  Angel eyed her with suspicion. “Why do I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”

  Carmella nodded enthusiastically. “Sí. I have much to tell you.” She sidled closer and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Señor Rane is at the Hacienda. He came back!”

  Angel’s heart quickened a telling beat.

  “I am told Benito is there, too. But why, I do not know, since he is such a worthless perro. I figured Señor Rane would kill him, but no, he takes him in and treats him with respect. If he thinks he will help him work, he should know by now—”

  “Carmella, please!”

  The woman must have realized she was rambling because she instantly ceased. She even managed to look contrite, which gave Angel an awkward moment of guilt for speaking so sharply.
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  She drew in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “Now. Tell me exactly what you’ve heard.”

  Calmer, Carmella continued. “All I know is, Señor Rane is staying at the Hacienda, and Benito is there, too.” Again, she latched onto Angel’s hand. “You must tell him about the baby, Señorita. He is strong. He will know what to do.”

  Angel’s jaw clenched. “I’m afraid even Rane doesn’t have all the answers. Not this time, anyway. He left me. If he’s come back, his return has nothing to do with me.”

  “You must tell him,” Carmella insisted.

  Angel shook her head. “No. I won’t spring a trap on him when he doesn’t wish to be caught.”

  ****

  Angel stood on the doorstep of the Hacienda, fighting the anxiety that honed her nerves to a brittle edge. A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and the sky threatened rain. The house looked deserted, shrouded in gloom, as if the stone itself had faded to gray the night Horace died.

  She shouldn’t have come. And she knew no wild impulse was to blame. Since the day she returned from El Paso more than a week ago and learned Rane had returned, she’d been as restless as a doomed prisoner on the eve of execution.

  At her touch, the massive door swung inward with a high-pitched whine. She jerked her hand back from the brass handle. After another moment of hesitant uncertainty, she opened the door wider and ventured through.

  Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous foyer. She stopped and listened. Unearthly silence sent shivers chasing over her skin. The air felt close and oppressive. A thick film of dust coated the terra-cotta tiles. Footprints, both old and new, trailed in all directions, intersecting like bird tracks at the silty edge of a waterhole.

  In the center of the courtyard, now long untended, the marble cherub still hefted its urn, but no water issued forth with a pleasant tinkle. The pool surrounding the cherub’s pudgy feet had dried up. A gray mantle of bird droppings covered the statue’s head, arms, and wings. Wisteria ran riot and crawled across the stone portico, reaching out from the curved arches with long, unfettered tendrils. The cloying perfume of the lavender pods hung heavy in the still air. The rapid advance of neglect filled her with sadness.

  An echoed sound, as though something heavy had been dropped, shattered the stillness. Angel sucked in a sharp breath.

  She turned, looking for the origin of the disturbance. The door of Horace’s office, the room where he had died, stood open. With her heart beating wildly in her throat, she lifted on tiptoe to keep her heels from clicking on the tiles, and stepped quietly to the door.

  Narrow, slanted shafts of weak light filtered between the heavy velvet drapes hanging at the windows. A smoke-like haze and an air of the forbidden pervaded the room. Before one of the floor to ceiling bookcases, a man sat cross-legged on the floor. Thick Turkish carpet muted the clap of the ponderous texts he stacked next to him.

  Angel’s breath ran shallow, with the anticipation of seeing him again—with the dread that he still didn’t need her as she needed him.

  “Rane?”

  His hands stilled, clutching one gilt-edged volume, and she knew he’d heard her. She stared at his motionless back, at the dark sweep of hair brushing the lower edge of his collar, at broad shoulders that looked capable of bearing any burden. Except hers.

  He turned his head and looked at her. She met his disturbing eyes, mesmerized as always by the intensity he projected with just the power of his gaze. An unexpected quiver slid down her spine.

  She ventured another step inside the room. “What are you doing here?”

  He surged to his feet and moved into the path of wan light coming through the window. “Rearranging the library.”

  Obviously. To find him sitting in the midst of a pile of books was the last thing she’d expected. And he had sidestepped her question.

  Up close, he looked as dangerous and unpredictable as a starving lobo. The way he watched her... Unease simmered just beneath his calm façade. Did having her in the same room make him uncomfortable?

  “Incredible as it may seem, when I was a boy, I read many of the books on these shelves.”

  She threw a quick glance at the impressive collection of literary works behind him. No wonder he was so well spoken. He’d probably read everything from Chaucer and Shakespeare to “The Cottage Physician” and “DaVinci’s Anatomy.”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” he said. “I’ve forgotten most of it.”

  “Who taught you to read?”

  “One of Lundy’s hands was an ex-schoolteacher. I guess he thought it only fitting to give the boss’s little bastard an education.”

  She flinched at the emphasis he put on the word “bastard.”

  “Did Horace know?”

  “No. He never would have allowed his precious books into my hands. My mother slipped them in and out of here without his knowledge.”

  Why was he telling her this now?

  They were both behaving as though nothing at all had happened. As though she’d never sworn her love to him. As though he’d never turned his back on her and walked away.

  She swallowed. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  He moved to stand behind the desk, and a shadow crossed the upper half of his face. Still, the furrow of his dark brows was evident in the dim light. “Don’t you?” he asked. “I know why I came back.”

  He gripped the backrest of the supple leather chair tucked into the kneehole behind the desk. A memory flashed through her mind. Horace reclining in the chair with his head propped in the same spot Rane’s hands now occupied. Suddenly, she knew why she was there. Despite her denial to Carmella, she wanted to tell him about the baby. That’s why she had come.

  “That night...” She faltered, barely able to force out the words. “You told me you wanted no part of the Hacienda.”

  “You think I lied.”

  He shoved the chair farther beneath the desk and stepped around the end of it. Toward her. “I meant what I said that night. I was here for only one reason. Justice.”

  “And I don’t suppose revenge had anything to do with it?”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed.

  A clench of his jaw signaled a swift change. His voice rose an emphatic notch. “Do you think justice was achieved here that night?”

  “Horace confessed—”

  “He had nothing left to lose. My mother is still dead and buried across the river. Not me.” He flung out his hand to indicate their surroundings. “Not any of this. No power this side of Heaven can help her now.”

  He dropped his hand and pulled in a long breath, visibly striving for the calm that had momentarily eluded him.

  “No one can change the past, Rane,” she said, “but I’m sure your mother would be happy to know you’re finally where you belong.”

  His chuckle held no warmth. “You think I belong here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “By right of your birth.”

  “Don’t you mean the accident of my birth?” Bitterness edged his words.

  She thought of the tiny life growing inside her womb. Like father, like son... Would her child be doomed to a life of tragedy because of the accident of its birth?

  He turned from her, moved to stand before a shrouded window and raked aside the drapes. Staring out, he shoved his hands inside his trouser pockets and shifted to a hipshot stance. Outside, there was nothing but barren yard. The stone wall surrounding the compound cut off the view at all angles.

  “What would you say if I tell you, I’ve decided to try my hand at ranching?” he asked.

  Several emotions warred within her. She was glad he would finally stop roaming from place to place, and yet, she couldn’t hold back an overwhelming rush of disappointment. She knew now. The ranch was the reason he had returned.

  “You’re asking my opinion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful. I have no doubt you can do anything you turn your hand to.”<
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  “It won’t be easy,” he said. “It will take years to pay off the debt my dear old papá accumulated on this place.”

  “But, won’t it be worth the effort?” she asked.

  He pulled his hands from his pockets and turned to face her. “Yes, I think it will. In fact, I’m betting on it.”

  The longer he talked, the more cold, dead ashes formed around Angel’s heart. She could almost taste them, bitter and burning in her throat. In running to him, she’d made a fool of herself. Again.

  He walked closer and crossed his arms tight across his chest, as if he couldn’t find anything useful to do with his hands.

  “I’m hanging up my gun,” he said. “You were right. I’ve always lived right on the edge of getting myself killed. Never had much reason to care before.”

  She blinked, trying to will back the prickly sensation that threatened to put tears in her eyes. “I’m glad,” she said. “Glad you found a reason.”

  His disturbing gaze caught hers and held, probing too deep for comfort, touching her soul as only he could, as no one else ever had. Reaching out, he cupped her face between his hands with gentleness and then stepped into the space separating them. She could only stare at him, her self-possession too tenuous, his nearness too devastating.

  He stared into her eyes, searching. Always searching, as though he still sought the answer to some yet unsolved puzzle, and she might have the answer locked deep within.

  “My reason is you, Angel.” A swallow worked his throat. “The night I left, I meant never to come back. I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t. You had already become my life.”

  She frowned into his eyes, certain she mistook his meaning. “My God, Rane. What are you saying?”