by Gayle Eden
“I want love, Morgan. You don’t know me well enough to love me.”
His nostrils flared. “And you know me?”
“Fairly well—now.” She loosed her arm and stood there, searching his face a moment. “You can come and call on me if you’d like. We’ll talk about Marriage—if—we are both certain we’re getting what we need in each other—after a few months. Didn’t you learn that from your own parents? I certainly should have with mine.”
He relaxed his grit teeth. “I’ll call on you, Rose. I didn’t mean to imply I would do things half-ass'd. But I want you, too.”
“I want you, Morgan.” She reached up and touched his lips. “But I’ve learned a lesson. Maybe, we both have.” There were tears in her eyes she would not spill. Strength held her together though. “You want me. I believe that. But you’ll know if you love me or not, soon enough.”
He mounted and they rode back to the ranch. Cursing, Morgan figured he would be rock hard most of the day just replaying that scene. More seriously, he knew what he felt for Rose was more than sexual. He was wise enough to realize she wouldn’t believe him right now.
They parted after he collected the magazine. He told her he would call on her the next evening.
Morgan did.
He showed up after finishing work on the range. Wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms, black boots and trousers, a black hat. He ignored the grin from the hands as he dismounted carrying flowers and candy.
He knocked on the front door, and ignored Corey’s snort, as she looked him up and down. After he stepped in the parlor and saw Rose—nothing else mattered.
She wore a low square neck gown of summer cream, a gauzy thing that form fit her hourglass curves and had a bustle. Her hair was piled up and curled down over her shoulder. My God, he thought. Did I really have that encounter with this woman? She was lovely, lush, and beautiful. Now he thought that inner shyness, that self-consciousness he had seen in Rose, was something else. It was her womanly side. Her hungers, needs, and longing to feel sexual and beautiful without guilt. He could spend a lifetime letting Rose Landry feel beautiful and sexual. He could stand here for hours simply looking at her.
He offered the flowers.
“I’m off with Alex to look at fruit trees,” Corey called from the doorway. “You two don’t need a chaperone, I’m sure.”
“Enjoy yourself.” Rose called that while walking toward him and taking the flowers. “Thank you. Take a seat.”
He sat on the deep green sofa, watching her walk to the kitchen and return with them in a vase. She set it on the mantle. Watching her next pour coffee from a flowery pot, Morgan enjoyed her movements, he liked the way she moved in that gown. When she set down across from him in a chair, reaching him a cup and saucer, he was almost too into enjoying looking at her to realize she had.
“Thanks.” He took it, handing her the box of chocolates.
She opened them to share with him.
Morgan looked around seeing a dress dummy with dark green material over it and dozens of hatboxes, and fabric rolls in the corner.
“I’m doing the uniforms and habits for Jordan’s school. Embroidering the emblems, and altering habits, that she’d ordered. Also, decorating the top hats.”
Impressed he swallowed a drink and met her calm face. “Why don’t you open a shop and make money off what you can do?”
“Jordan is paying me well. And, I might. I can replicate most fashionable gowns and hats.”
Morgan remembered his mother wearing thousand dollar Paris dresses. “I like what you’re wearing today.”
She looked down, running a finger over the cream ribbon edging the bodice. “I made this, last year.’
A book on the side table caught his notice. “Sewing and Reading…what else do you do—aside from ranching?”
“Art.” She shrugged. “That book is one I saved a year to buy.”
He got up and went over, reading the spine. Morgan had read the book years ago. “I’ve read this. It was in my library. If I knew you were interested in something besides poetry I’d have loaned it to you.”
She snorted.
He grinned slightly. “Another assumption. I know. Feel free to come by and take any book you want to read. There’s a dozen on technical studies you likely won’t enjoy.”
Morgan sat down after she murmured she would. For an hour then they talked music and art, Morgan having a formal education, had read many of the books she had. They talked family, ranching, and it was fully dark by the time she excused herself and then invited him into the kitchen.
A soft lamp on the table, he shared a light meal with her, still talking and still more transfixed with watching her and listening, seeing her expressions—liking them all.
By the time Ryder came in to clean up and bathe, Rose walked him to the barn as he saddled his horse. That done, Morgan turned, holding the reins, and fit his hand on the small of her back, having enjoyed talking with her, realizing how perfect Rose was for him—as a wife and companion, a lover. Wondering—that he found himself having to prove he could be the same for her.
“Is it proper to call twice a week?”
“Yes.”
Nudging her toward him, he placed a soft kiss on her mouth. Raising his head, he added, “All day on Saturday?”
She laughed, putting her hands on his arms. “Yes.”
“Will you go into town and have dinner at the hotel?”
“I don’t—” She began to pull back.
“Rose,” he chided and cupped her face. “You’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I know.” Morgan kissed her again, this time fully tasting. Before he mounted the horse he supplied, “I’ll be back on Thursday. But Saturday, dress for town.”
She sighed and nodded walking out as he rode off.
* * * *
Morgan looked back at her bathed by the amber lights of the barn. He would like nothing more than to ride back and swoop her up, carry her to his house, and spend the night loving her. Turning back, he spurred the horse into a gallop. He would court her though, and he’d learn all about her. He would do whatever it took to make Rose Landry his.
* * * *
Ryder showed up at the McCabe house for his fitting on Friday. He met Lucas’s wry grin with a nod. The man was standing in a suit with pens and chalk markings, in the large front parlor. A fussy little gent was going around him scribbling on a pad and murmuring to himself.
The outfit wasn’t bad looking, black thigh length jacket and black trousers, and a white silk shirt with banded collar. It gave Ryder hope that his niece had something simpler in mind for himself.
“Remove it. Very carefully,” the gent told Lucas, and then turned to him.
He looked Ryder up and down and exclaimed, “You are rather tall.”
Ryder took off his hat and poncho.
The gent smiled. “But well built.” He waved him over where Lucas had stood and soon Ryder was draped in a shiny black fabric, being penned into a short Spanish style jacket, and snug trousers.
Taking a whiskey Lucas offered him upon entering, he listened to the Taylor saying, “This will have beautiful embroidery, here and here,” He touched the lapels. “A white silk shirt such as you favor, and the trousers will be embroidered as well.”
Stepping back, he looked Ryder up and down, a finger tapping his chin. “Although I am not fond of hair free of pomade, I can see this…natural style suits a man of your appearance. The brown skin…. We don’t see much of that where I am from.”
Sighing, Ryder stood an hour for adjustments before he was allowed to get into his clothing again. Smoothing his thick hair with his fingers, he was on the porch when Lucas told him Falon was in town at Alex’s office working.
“Tell her I was here.”
“I will, and thanks, for giving her away. It means a lot.”
Ryder pulled on his poncho and settled his hat, his brown eyes looking over the richly laid out lawn. “I’m surprised she asked m
e. I didn’t see them growing up, though Sara wrote of them often.”
“Yes. Still, she feels you are her uncle.” Lucas stepped down and walked to his horse with him. “Not many men would give their kin away to someone like me. Particularly, not Falon—considering.”
“Falon loves you.” Ryder shrugged. “Whatever happened and caused the accident, that’s what it was. The rest of it was something between yourself and Finn.”
“I’m glad you didn’t stop Sara from going with him.”
Ryder climbed in the saddle and looked at Lucas. “Sara loved him too, from the time she was young. She just needed to know everyone else would understand her forgiving Finn, and being with him again. She needed to know it was okay to go.”
Lucas nodded. “You and she were close?”
“Yes. Although we didn’t see each other. Sara needed someone to confide in. After pa died, she needed it more. I didn’t want her to wed Frank, but I wasn’t in a position to offer some alternative.”
“You lived east awhile?”
“Awhile.” Ryder nodded but didn’t want to expand that conformation. He tipped his hat and turned the horse. He was many years over that episode in his life, but he didn’t want to talk about it.
He didn’t particularly like to talk. He liked Lucas, and he had nothing against the family anymore. He just had been on his own most of his coming up, and he made his own way, even if it was drifting until the last few years. He had seen his share of gunfights, knifings and bad men. He had spent many nights in cheap hotels and gambling palaces that always brought some kind of trouble. He’d done what he had to when the occasion warranted. Early betrayal had taught him two things—not to make friendships, and not to worship any woman. He had not feared much before then, afterwards, he didn’t believe in much either.
Passing by the newly made road to Jordan McCabe’s riding academy, he pulled to a halt eyeing the fancy sign she’d likely had painted back east. Ryder remembered he had things to deliver to Jordan for Rose in the morning. She was going into town with Morgan. He could have passed the chore on to one of the hands. He should. He wanted Jordan, sexually. He told himself that was all it was. The same thing a dozen men thought about when she was around. It was not hard to figure, because of that cinnamon hair, cream skin, and those light green eyes.
Kneeing the mount, he headed for the ranch, mentally listing her long legs and lithe body, the way her accent sounded. He could admit she had qualities to admire; a brain and toughness, skill, even under silk and satin, she was unique. She was hard to ignore even for him.
Ryder had not expected her to throw out a challenge the last time they spoke. He had been trying to insult and anger her. Hopeful, she’d keep ignoring him. He saw her grit and determination. A lot like Finn. But, he saw her pride too, and figured it would serve to make her keep a distance. What he saw in Jordan was a dangerous combination. Dangerous—because it could make a man forget to keep his guard up.
She was just enough challenge, tease, innocence, and bravado, to make her impossible to ignore. It didn’t help that she looked at him, over him, with thoughts he could read either. He told himself he had scared her off, but knew better. He didn’t want her to accept the only offer he gave her—at the same time—it was something he spent too much time thinking about.
Returning to the ranch, Ryder stalled the horse and brushed it down. He could see Rose in the parlor when he entered the house and answered her reminder with a nod, on his way to the kitchens. He was aware Corey was spending her days with Alex Croft, and probably should worry about it. Given what he observed about his youngest niece. However, he saw a lot of Sara in her too, and didn’t figure a lecture would make much difference. The women were grown and they had been raised to have good sense and were strong enough to make decisions, and mistakes, on their own.
He’d told Sara he would look after the ranch and he would keep an eye on Rose and Corey. He’d do what he promised but they were independent and mature enough to take the consequences of their choices. Rose, he was not worried about, already knowing that Morgan and she had something between them. Corey, he worried about but decided to depend on Alex’s sense of boundaries. He recognized that untamed and daring spirit in Corey. She was going to do, as she wanted, regardless. His consolation was, as Sara often wrote, that Corey was strong enough to handle her choices and her mistakes.
Sitting at the table with coffee, he was still there when Rose served up supper. She didn’t talk much, except to mention the town folks and the hotel, leaving him to discern she was nervous about her dinner with Morgan.
“You’ve nothing to worry about, Rose.” He took his empty plate to the sink and touched her shoulder. “People always find something to talk about. You and Morgan go and enjoy yourselves. He’ll knock the head off of any sonofabitch who gets out of line.”
She laughed a little. “That’s what I’m half afraid of.”
“Don’t be.” He stepped back and went to get his hat and do the evening feeding. “Since you shot that bull, I don’t think anyone in PineFlatts wants to get on your bad side, either.” He winked and caught her grin as he left.
Staying out at the barn and coming in later. Hearing Corey in the bath, and waiting his turn. Later still, Ryder soaked and then shaved, his mind on the errand in the morning. His body was stirred as he lay on the bed afterwards. If he was lucky, she would be out somewhere and her hired hands would greet him. He would be there and back before noon.
Chapter Twelve
Jordan had gone for an early ride and was returning when she saw Ryder arrive. Stabling the filly, she strode into the structure, having donned her riding trousers, boots, and a linen shirt. Arriving soon in the front hall of the parlor, where the boys had already begun helping Ryder stack boxes. Just inside the doorway, she laid the whip aside and pulled off her supple gloves. Her eyes went over Ryder while he put down two long boxes.
His tobacco brown hair was growing longer on his nape, rich and thick against the oak tan of his skin. When he straightened and spotted her, she felt a little dip in her stomach from those velvet brown eyes.
“That’s it,” one of the lads drew her attention.
“Thank you.” She smiled and waited until the door closed behind them, shifting her gaze again to Ryder as the smile faded. “I’ve something for you.” Her gaze slowly moved down, over that tossed back poncho and his tan shirt, the snug leather trousers and hand tooled boots. Back—up his long, hard, body and broad shoulders.
His expression revealed nothing. At least he didn’t leave. She excused herself, her heart racing a little too fast, her mind a little giddy while she called herself daft for even thinking of it—let alone going through with it.
He was half sitting on the back of the sofa, turned toward the fireplace, when she crossed the polished wood floor again. Taking his arms as he had folded them, she opened his hand and dropped a key in his palm.
“What’s this?” His thumb rubbed it as his eyes moved over her face.
“A key to my house.” She hid her nerves by folding her own arms and remaining still under his dark eyed scrutiny. “I’ll have dinner ready by eight. If you want to skip that, fine. I still have to eat.”
He straightened, making her crane her neck looking up at him under that flat crown. It put their bodies close enough that he could have touched her. However, he still stroked that key idly while those unreadable eyes held her own.
“Eight?”
“Yes.”
He tucked the key in his shirt pocket and stepped around her. Still managing to bring a tingle to her skin from his masculine scent and presence.
He lingered behind her for several tense moments. Jordan inwardly braced herself for rejection, half thought, he would toss the key at her feet. But several ticks of the clock passed, and then he murmured, “Wear your hair down.”
She swallowed and nodded. Closing her eyes while his tread took him to the door and then it opened and closed. Jordan had to sit on the couch an h
our before she could put the habits and hats away properly. What could have been a long day, so tense and nervous was she, turned out to be a fractious one, keeping her busy inside, and out, with the horses, as one high-strung filly kicked slats out of the corral and five of the horses got free.
By the time she headed for her house, she was sweaty and tenser. She didn’t have time for planning and doing all she’d fantasized she would.
Taking a bath, scrubbing actually, she got her scented lotion on, and wet hair wrapped in a towel, she half buttoned a man’s shirt that landed mid-thigh—rushing down the stairs to put on hens, rubbing in herbs, setting spring veggies to simmer. Down in her cellar, she debated on wine or whiskey, but brought a nice red wine to the table, setting two glasses down—and pouring herself one for courage.
Racing around the stone and plaster kitchen, she kept hearing that blasted clock ticking and though she knew he didn’t likely want “fancy,” she still took time to place candles on the table and light them.
Setting out white bone china, bread she’d baked that morning. She got fruit sliced before she heard the front door open.
Muttering a curse, she dashed into the main parlor, yanking the towel off her head. “I’m running late.” She scraped her hair back with her fingers, feeling the heavy dampness settle against her back.
Ryder took off his hat and hung it up; next, he untied the poncho at the shoulder and hung it also. Looking—delicious and dangerous in black shirt and buckskin trousers that molded all the manly parts of him. Finger combing his own tobacco brown hair, he was staring up from her bare feet and legs, over the loose half-buttoned shirt.
“Everything looks fine to me.”
She raked her teeth over her lip, shamefully aroused at that compliment. “There’s wine on the table, opened. Let me run up and—”
“Don’t change.”