“Darcy? He’s always hated Sy. Somehow I think their animosity went beyond a fight over water and land. You’ve been here the longest after Fletcher, Bo. Do you know—”
“Ain’t had a call to pry.”
“Sorry.” She faced him, her smile widening as he nodded. Sometimes it was hard to remember not to question a man about his past as long as he did his work, even someone like Bo, who had been here nearly eighteen years.
“I’d best be gettin’ back. Watch yoreself.”
Lacey watched him ride away, her lips trembling. She would miss Sy, but even now that she was alone, there were no tears. There had been none when he died, and none this morning. She had heard their whispered comments about her unnatural behavior. But she couldn’t defend herself. How could she explain to anyone that Sy never allowed her to cry?
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying and failing to shut out the sound of his harsh, contemptuous voice.
“Cryin’ ain’t nothin’ more’n a damn silly female trick. Women think they’ll get their own way by sheddin’ tears. You ain’t gonna cry. You ain’t gonna be growin’ up like some weak-kneed female.”
And she had not. Blinking her eyes against the blinding rays of sun, Lacey could not recall the last time she had cried. A hard man, some called Sy, and she above all knew it was true. He had not been an easy man to please. There was no memory of his ever hugging or kissing her. Maggie had been there to tend real or imagined bruises, and there had been plenty of them in trying desperately to please Sy.
She had never called him Father. Strange that she should think of that now.
The roan’s shift from a. three-legged doze demanded her attention. His proud head lifted high, and Lacey hastened to reassure him, gathering up the reins. Two riders were heading in her direction. She squinted, trying to make out who they were, but they were too far away. The stallion communicated his sudden impatience for standing so long, and Lacey urged him down the steep grade.
Her musings clarified her belief that Sy had raised her to rule the Reina, and while she was saddened by his death, it would be dishonest to deny she was more than ready to take on the challenge.
The heat was intense. Sweat rolled down her face and neck. Lacey wiped it aside with the back of her hand. A sudden chill along with the desire to urge the roan away from home beset her. She dismissed it as being tiredness and was forced to bring her horse into a walk as Luke Hollis, one of her newer hands, rode toward her and the other rider veered off toward the milling cattle.
Easing his own dun-colored horse alongside, he briefly touched the brim of his hat. “Folks gone?”
“I hope so. I’m just heading back.”
“Found nearly forty head up near the bluff. Got to give you right ’bout ’em bein’ there.”
Lacey merely nodded, but secretly she was pleased with his admission. Keeping the horses to a walk, they ambled along. One of the biggest obstacles Lacey had to overcome was having the men accept her as boss. There had been one or two incidents in town in the last few weeks where her hands had taken a ribbing because they worked for a woman. Luke’s loyalty lent her additional courage.
“Ward tell you we got fewer calves?”
“No. We haven’t had a chance to go over the count.”
“Don’t mean to butt in, him bein’ foreman, but you’re right to keep ’em bunched up for a while. Don’t ’spect trouble, but none of us can be sure what Darcy’ll do.”
“I told Ward I wanted extra men guarding the herd at night.” Lacey was watching him, saw him frown, and knew that Ward had not said anything about her order. “Guess I’ll remind him when I get back.”
“You do that. Miz Lacey, it ain’t my place, bein’ as how I’m new here, but we’re all behind you. I jus’ wanted you to know that if there’s anythin’ I can do, jus’ ask.”
Her gratitude filled her softly murmured thank-you as she rode off. There was one last place that Lacey had to go before she returned to the house.
The lone stand of pines marked the gravesites. She didn’t dismount but stopped, staring at the four small headstones. There were names carved on each, for her brothers, who had all died before their first year had passed. It was the one thing that had marred Sy’s dream for the Reina. He lacked a son, a living one, she reminded herself.
The thought no longer had the power to hurt her as it had when she was a child, too young to understand his rages that made him lock himself in his office and drink away the devil plaguing him. She had learned to stay away from him until he would emerge with bloodshot eyes and bellow his strident orders. Those times were best forgotten. Her mother’s grave was set off from the others’, and Lacey felt a deep regret that she had never known the woman who had given birth to her. She was the last born, the only survivor, the hated blot on Sy’s manhood. Painful memories that belonged buried with him.
Lacey rode on. She had served her years of apprenticeship and learned the best each man had to offer. The earning of the men’s respect had come hard, for Sy could not demand that from them, but she had earned it.
The Reina was hers.
When she reached the corral, Fletcher watched her dismount and waved her away with the reminder that the judge was still waiting for her. Whitewashed adobe walls seemed to shimmer in the afternoon’s heat. The two oaken gates, their brass trim gleaming, stood open, revealing the empty courtyard.
Lacey heaved a sigh of relief to find everyone gone and the area clean. In the silence the serenity seeped into her. Open tiled archways framed lush, flowering plants, and an underground spring, necessary for survival against Indian attacks, filled a small stone pool in the courtyard’s center. Wrought-iron benches were scattered around. It was a setting that Sy had provided for his bride, who longed for her home in New Orleans. And for the first time in a long time Lacey wondered if her mother’s family still lived there.
“So, you decided to come back?”
Maggie’s voice, filled with reproach, came from behind her. Lacey faced her, knowing she was in for a lecture.
“Goin’ off like that! Makin’ a—”
“Maggie, don’t. Not now. What I need is a hot bath after I get done with Curt and the judge.”
Staring up at her narrowed eyes, Maggie noticed yet again the hardness that was becoming more than a protective shell in Lacey.
Lacey saw Curt step out of the office, his stance indicating his impatience with her delay.
“You changin’ ’fore you go in there?”
“No, Maggie. I don’t want the surface trappings of a woman to impede me. Sy always said that wolves prey on the weak.” Lacey was as startled as Maggie by her choice of words. “Don’t mind me,” she hastened to assure her. “I’m just tired. Neither Curt nor Judge Walker would hurt me.”
“Well, you know my feelings ’bout that one. He might be a good lawyer, folks seem to think so, but I never liked him. You be careful. He thinks he owns you and the Reina. You wouldn’t be wantin’ to repeat—”
“That’s enough, Maggie!” There was pain in her eyes that she didn’t bother to hide. Only Maggie knew she had suffered a miscarriage on the trail drive. Lacey knew that she had been lucky she was not far along, and so she was able to keep Sy from finding out. As it was, Sy had been out of sorts with her for taking on with her female complaints. Lacey bore his mutterings, all the while thinking that he would kill Curt if he knew the truth.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Wasn’t meanin’ to stir up the past. I’m just warnin’ you, that’s all.”
Lacey couldn’t answer her. She walked toward Curt, who stepped aside as she entered the room. Her eyes blinked as she stood a few moments, letting them adjust to the dim interior.
Curt leaned close to ask, “Where were you so long?”
“Doesn’t matter, I’m here now. And stop questioning me in that tone,”
she added, angry with his possessiveness. Still disturbed by the past Maggie had raked up, Lacey didn’t bother to look at him. “Well, let’s get this over with.”
She headed directly to the desk dominating the far corner of the room. Lacey’s hesitation was barely noticed before she sat in what she still considered to be Sy’s chair. With a quick motion she removed her hat, carelessly tossing it on the desk.
“Judge Walker,” she acknowledged with a quick nod. He stood with a drink in hand before the massive stone fireplace. Lacey half heard his murmurs of sympathy as she fought down the memory of her sixteenth summer, when Curt had arrived in the small town of Sonora to set up his practice. He was young and brash, filled with charm, and Lacey thought herself in love with him. By summer’s end she was no longer a girl. It took her a few moments to collect herself, and she glanced around the room.
It was the restless move of the man in the far shadowed corner that attracted her attention. Once again he was staring at her with a direct boldness that instantly infuriated her.
“Who are you?”
“Let me explain, Lacey,” the judge solemnly intoned. “This isn’t going to be easy, but—”
“With all due respect,” she interrupted, “I asked him. But why is he here? This is a private matter that concerns no one else. If you’re afraid of his trying to run, I’ll have Fletcher keep watch over him.”
“That won’t be necessary, Lacey. You’re right about this matter being private, and if you will let me finish—”
“Finish?” she snapped. “Why don’t you try for plain and simple? Why is he allowed to be here?” She faced Curt, noted his silence and his shrug. “What’s going on?” It was an instinctive move that forced Lacey to look again at the man sitting with a lazy ease in the far corner.
She really didn’t expect him to answer her. He knew it and grinned. But neither of the two men she had appealed to were jumping in to answer her.
“They allowed me to stay here, Miss Garrett, because I belong here, same as you.”
“What!” Lacey’s shock tremored her voice. In mute appeal she glanced up to find Curt by her side.
“The judge was trying to explain to you that this is Rafe Parrish.”
The name meant nothing to her. Lacey glanced at each man in turn: the judge lowered his gaze, Curt stared at the floor, and the stranger boldly returned her look.
“Who the hell is he?”
Curt and the judge shared a despairing look. It was Curt who spoke first. “You wanted it this way, so tell her.” He stepped closer and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Yes, do that.” Lacey was beset by a coiling knot of fear snaking its way up from deep inside herself. Gripping the edge of the desk, she waited.
“There’s no way to soften what I must reveal,” Judge Walker stated, pulling a thick sheaf of papers from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
“In view of the extraordinary circumstances, Lacey, I want you to listen to him,” Curt ordered. “I’ve already looked over the papers he has and verified that it is Sy’s signature.”
“Papers?” she asked, tension flowing insidiously.
“There’s a new will, dated three months ago. The one I had in my possession is void. I’ve read this new will, and while the terms shock me, I have no doubt that these are Sy’s instructions the judge is carrying out.”
At the sound of the judge clearing his throat, Curt spun around. “Neither Lacey nor I question your integrity, but what’s at stake here can’t be dismissed lightly.”
“I accept that, Curt.”
Lacey stared at the stately figure of the judge. His bushy eyebrows met over a wide beaked nose, giving prominence to his eyes. “Please, go on.”
“Since the few smaller bequests remain the same, I’ll wait to read them and, with your permission, proceed to that which concerns you.”
She listened to his somber voice read of Sy’s being of sound mind and his careful deliberation before setting down the new terms of his will. Her knuckles whitened in a death grip against the wooden desk. Feeling the stranger’s eyes upon her, while she refused to glance at him, frightened her more than she cared to admit.
“…and to Lacey Garrett, I must first ask her for her forgiveness. No man was more proud to call her daughter. I cannot with clear conscience leave her less than one half of the lands herein known as—”
“No! It can’t be!” she shouted. Curt silenced her with a look so forbidding, it frightened her. Was that her meek whisper, apologizing to the judge? It had to be, for he continued.
“To the man known as Rafe Parrish, I humbly ask for forgiveness and bequest unto him an equal share of my ranch, the Reina. If for any reason he cannot or will not assume his half ownership, the ranch belongs in its entirety to Lacey Garrett, provided the additional terms I have set forth are met by either or both of them.” The judge stopped, glanced at Curt and then at Lacey before he went on.
“Rafe Parrish must be a full working partner on the ranch for one year after my death before his name shall appear on its deed. Should he marry within that time, the term will be considered fulfilled. For the woman known to all as Lacey Garrett, I hereby set the following condition: If she marries within the year of my death she forfeits her claim unless she has title by default.”
If the judge continued, Lacey didn’t hear him. She was in shock. He could not have done this to her. Not Sy. But Judge Walker would have no reason to lie—he would never be a party to forging a phony document. Curt said he verified Sy’s signature. Curt could be trusted, if anyone could. He was still in love with her. It had to be true that she had not paid the price to call the Reina her own. From the grave Sy was still making the laws she had to live by. But who was Rafe Parrish?
Mentioning his name silently filled her with a vile bitterness. Before she thought, she blurted out, “Who the hell are you that Sy would leave you half the Reina? Are you some bastard son coming to claim his share?”
Curt’s startled “Lacey!” was followed by both men moving to block Rafe’s rise from the chair.
“Get out,” she demanded.
“But, Lacey,” Judge Walker protested, “I haven’t finished. There’s the matter of a letter and other papers that Sy ordered me to give you personally. I want, no, need to explain to you how all this came about.”
“I don’t want to hear any more now. Leave me,” she stated with the ring of authority that had been hers too long to be denied.
Chapter 3
With a considering look that measured Lacey’s temper, Curt motioned to the judge and then, without a word, to Parrish, urging them to leave.
Lacey heard the door close behind them, but she stared unseeing up at the ceiling. Her fingers clutched the wooden arms of the massive padded leather chair, and then, suddenly, she sagged back against it weakly.
Never, never before had she felt such loss and pain as she did at this moment. Not even Sy’s death had brought about this sweeping desolation. Betrayal by the man she strove all her life to please speared her. And most damning of all, she thought with rising fury, she had gone to pieces like a female. For the first time she felt threatened and faced making a decision without facts to help her.
Hatred flared high inside her for the man who, with a look, made her feel so vulnerable. She shrank away from thinking of Sy Garrett’s betrayal. But what else could she call it? Her deep, shuddering breaths kept time with the wood-and-brass ornamental clock sitting on the mantel. The sudden prickling short hairs on her neck forced her gaze from the ceiling down across the room.
The man whose name would be alongside her own as owner of the Reina sat there watching her as arrogantly as if it were his right.
A fresh surge of helpless rage flooded her. Right? He had no rights! Their gazes locked and Lacey shivered. How dare he stare at her like a hungry, p
redatory wolf?
He had no right to make her aware of herself as a woman. And how could he make her afraid of him without having uttered a word? His gaze remained steady, pinning her to the chair. She couldn’t stand the tremors shaking her.
No man was going to make her feel cornered like prey. She would be damned in hell if she would let him get away with disregarding her orders!
Lacey drew a deep breath and released it. She had been a woman in a man’s world long enough not to realize that if she backed down this time, it would give him an advantage over her. No one had ever had that. Nor, she vowed, glaring at him, was he going to be the first.
“You were included in my orders to get out, mister.”
He heard the barely veiled fury in her voice. A corner of his bard mouth lifted in a taunting smile as he watched her grit her teeth in an effort to control her temper. There was no doubt she had one, none at all.
Lacey stared at him. He rose from the chair and walked with a stalking, catlike grace to stand before her. Straining her neck, she looked up at him, realizing he was every bit as tall as Sy had been, well over six feet. He leaned toward her, his broad shoulders filling her vision. She wanted to cringe under his gaze. Never had she been forced to encounter such obvious, crude arrogance in any man’s eyes. It was, she decided, stricken with fear, as if he had stripped her naked and found her wanting.
“Get out,” she grated from between clenched teeth.
There was no betraying flicker of emotion in his face to indicate that he heard her. Lacey studied him, hate vying with fury. His black hair, thick and softly waved, fell over the worn collar of his faded shirt. His face, with its growth of beard hiding the lower contours, gave him the appearance of wicked darkness. The rakish slant of his brows framed his eyes, boldly staring into her own and holding her immobile. They were of a jet-black coldness that chilled her even as his look changed to an animal-like wariness.
He smiled suddenly, wickedly. Softly then, he said, “Don’t you ever dare order me in that tone of voice again, princess. I’m not one of your hirelings to be dismissed any way or any time you see fit. Understand?”
Western Winds Page 3