Scarlet Sunset, Silver Nights

by Leigh Greenwood

  “Only because you never had to before,” Gaddy said, not the least bit apologetic. “Men just naturally fall all over themselves trying to please you. This one’s different though. He might stay a year or ride out tomorrow, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Well he’s not going anywhere now,” Pamela snapped, “not with that bullet hole in his shoulder.” But she knew Gaddy was right, and the fact that he knew she knew riled her. “He shouldn’t even be riding a horse,” she added with a touch of acerbity, “especially not that dun.”

  “Goes like a charm for him. That man’s got a way with animals.” He glanced at his cousin’s puckered brow. And that ain’t all he’s got a way with he thought. But Gaddy took care not to voice that thought out loud.

  Slade made up his mind.

  He had been born and bred in Texas, and he shared the usual Texan’s belief that no better place existed on this earth, but his ride over the Bar Double-B range had convinced him this valley was as close to paradise as any man was likely to find. No place in California or Montana or Canada could suit him better. A longing to stay, to settle down rose inside him. Pamela had offered him a job, a permanent position if he chose. Well, he did choose. If the Texas sheriff didn’t find him, he would stay here for the rest of his life. If he did find him, well, he would face that when the time came.

  He returned to the corral and unsaddled the hammerhead dun. He cuffed him when he tried to bite him.

  “Instead of biting and kicking every time I come around, you ought be grateful I’m willing to put up with you,” Slade chided as he rubbed him down. “This freedom of yours is no great thing. I walked through your precious desert, and there’s not enough food and water out there to keep a burro alive. You’d be down to skin and bones inside a week.”

  “You always talk to horses?” Gaddy asked. Slade looked up to see him leaning against the corner of the barn, a wide grin on his face.

  “Sure. Most times it’s the only company I have. Besides, they don’t argue with you.”

  “Just bite and kick.”

  “He’s not a bad fella. Just showing me he’s got a mind of his own.”

  “Well you can talk to him all you want. Don’t guess anybody else around here will be anxious to horn in on you.”

  “I’ve been wondering why that stream was dry,” Slade said, changing the subject. “Being late spring, I figured it ought to still have a pretty good flow of water.”

  “I guess you found Uncle Josh’s dams.”

  “Four of them.”

  “There’s two more higher up. They keep the whole valley green right through till fall. Something about subterranean irrigation.”

  “Now I understand why Mongo’s so anxious to marry your cousin. This valley’s like finding a gold mine.”

  But Gaddy had no interest in irrigation. “Got something over in the bunkhouse to show you. One of the boys found it in the desert and brought it in. Thought it might be yours.”

  It was Slade’s saddle and bed roll.

  “You tell whoever brought this in he saved me a trip. Can’t say I wanted to go after it.”

  “You planning to stay?”

  Slade thought Gaddy tried not to sound too optimistic, but he could see the hope in his eyes.

  “Yeah,” Slade said slowly, “I think I just might.”

  Gaddy whooped and grinned from ear to ear. “What changed your mind?”

  “Several things, but mostly I don’t feel rightabout leaving just now. Not with Pamela’s father gone and things a mite unsettled.”

  “I knew it,” Gaddy said. He slapped his leg in happiness, convinced his hunch about a budding romance had proved right. But he sobered quickly. “If what you suspect is true, though, things could be in a hell of a mess soon. What do you plan to do?” His expression was serious enough, but his eyes gleamed with the eagerness of a boy bored with day-to-day routine and anxious for excitement.

  Slade decided right now was the time to start stripping gunfights and range wars of their glamour. Many a kid just like Gaddy had died before learning that lesson.

  “Now that I’ve got my gear, I think I’ll get cleaned up. Thought I’d take a bath and change my clothes. Might be a good idea to impress the boss lady.”

  Gaddy looked disappointed. “Nothing will impress Pamela half as much as getting rid of that beard,” he told Slade with a candor verging on rudeness. “Boy, does she hate seeing hair on a man’s face. She says a man with a beard is hiding something.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “Not all at once, mind you, but off and on. My parents died when I was four and Uncle Josh sort of adopted me. I grew up with Pamela. She’s sorta like a big sister. There’s not much about her I don’t know.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Slade said.

  “I ought to tell you we eat promptly at six. Pamela hates for anybody to be late. Says it’s rude to the cook.”

  “I’ll remember that, too.”

  “If you change your mind about the beard, you can use my gear,” Gaddy offered as he started to wander off. “It’s in the house.”

  “Why do you sleep in the bunkhouse?” Slade had been wondering that ever since he got here.

  Gaddy turned back, but he kept his gaze lowered. “It wouldn’t do to look like Uncle Josh was making a pet of me, not if I wanted to get along with the boys.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Slade said as Gaddy went off. It would be even worse if they thought Pamela was making a pet of him. The boy was obviously trying to fit into the crew, and it was just as obvious no one was letting him. He’d have to see what he could do about that. That kid had the makings of a good man.

  He made a mental note to mention it to Pamela.

  Slade stowed his saddle in the barn and sorted through his gear. He separated what should go in the bam with the saddle, what provisions he would offer to Belva, and what he would take up to the house with him, but his mind was on Gaddy’s remarks. The thought of shaving off his beard, a thought Slade had never even considered until just now, seemed strange. He felt like he had been born with a beard. He had started growing it at thirteen.

  He rejected the idea quickly, but the thought bedeviled him as he walked up to the house, lurked in the back of his mind as he talked to Belva, and was only temporarily banished while Pamela explained how the bath worked. The remark needled him as he watched, fascinated, as the large bathtub filled up with sun-heated water. It sprang into the center of his thoughts again as he soaked his body clean of the dust and sweat of the last several days.

  Luxuriating in more hot water than he had ever enjoyed in his life, the idea of shaving wouldn’t leave him alone. If he intended to stay here, he ought to make a clean break with the past. Shaving off his beard would be a solid step in that direction.

  He had been twelve years old and headed home from choir practice the day he decided to grow it. A couple of neighborhood boys followed him, always at a safe distance, teasing him, calling him, “Pretty boy,” “Angel face,” “Choir boy.” Slade liked singing in the choir, but he hated being told he had the face of a cherub. He was a tall boy for his age, blessed with a sturdy frame, and he had more interest in being a man than an angel. In the west Texas of 1872, angels weren’t much in demand.

  He gave both boys bloody noses and then got a beating with the razor strap when he arrived home with torn clothes and a dirty face. But along the way he noticed a man with a full beard covering his face, and he decided right then he would never ever shave. Now, fifteen years later, he was thinking of doing it for the first time.

  Because Pamela was right. He was hiding from himself, and if he ever hoped to live in this valley with any degree of contentment, he would have to stop. This might only be a small step, and it might prove to be the easiest one, but it would be a step in the right direction.

  But as he dried himself off, being careful to move his injured shoulder as little as possible, he grew less certain of his decision. Could shavi
ng off his beard really mean a new beginning all by itself? No, not unless he admitted he wanted to do it because of Pamela.

  Pamela. Yes, he’d shave for Pamela.

  And for himself.

  Slade vigorously whipped up the shaving cream and worked it into this thick beard. Gaddy didn’t have enough beard to shave, but he had enough shaving equipment for two men. Gaddy wanted to shave because he felt it would make him a man; Slade had grown a beard for the same reason.

  And now he was about to shave it off for a woman who barely liked him.

  There was no doubt now; he was falling in love with Pamela White. The shock of full realization was so great he lowered the razor he had poised to make the first swipe at his beard. After years of carefully avoiding any entanglement, he had fallen into the net even though he was staring right at it all the time.

  His razor bit deep into the stiff matt on his face, but it was so thick it took several passes before he had cleared a patch of skin.

  Suppose he still looked like a cherub. It had been bad enough at twelve, but it could be fatal at twenty-eight. No point thinking about changing his mind now, even if he did end up looking younger than Gaddy. He moaned. Whatever his reason, whatever the consequences, he had committed himself to removing his beard, to pursuing Pamela, and to being in danger of discovery because he hadn’t moved out of reach of that Texas sheriff. He saw all of this and still ruthlessly shaved off the barrier that had protected him from the world for fifteen years.

  Moments later he stared back at a man whose face had no meaning to him. He might as well be looking at a stranger. No, there was still a little of the youthful Billy Wilson about his face. He recognized Slade Morgan’s eyes, too, but nothing else was familiar. Hell, now he’d probably need another name. Before long, even he might forget who he really was.

  They stared in bewilderment when he came to the table.

  “Who the hell are you?” Gaddy demanded, coming out of his chair with a jump.

  Slade laughed. It was worth every minute of the painful indecision to see the look on Pamela’s face. She knew who he was even if Gaddy and Belva didn’t.

  Slade’s hair turned several shades lighter whenever he washed it; tonight it was neatly combed, freshly trimmed, and a golden blond. He knew he didn’t look like an ordinary cowhand any more. Age had matured his features into those of a man of distinction. Nothing of the boy remained. His clothes were different too. Instead of his usual faded jeans and checkered shirt, he had put on a black shirt with a string tie, black pants, and a wide black leather belt. Only the moccasins Pamela had given him for his feet were familiar. His feet still hurt and he wasn’t about to force them into boots until he had to.

  He wasn’t wearing his guns.

  The expression of disbelief on Pamela’s face lasted only a few moments before she managed to collect her wits. “You’re just in time, Slade,” she said, finding her voice at last.

  “I’ll be damned if it’s not,” Gaddy exclaimed, his threatening look turning to one of delighted surprise. “I would never have recognized you.”

  “Me neither,” Belva agreed.

  “The moccasins gave him away,” Pamela said aloud. But it was the eyes. His eyes. With or without a beard there could be no mistaking their intensity.

  “I sure never expected this when I told you Pamela hated beards,” Gaddy disclosed ingenuously. “People don’t generally pay much attention to what I say.”

  “I had a reason for growing this beard,” Slade told him. “You just made me realize it wasn’t there any longer.”

  “And what might that have been?” Belva asked. Pamela shot her a reproachful glance, but Belva lifted her chin in defiance.

  “Nothing more than a young boy’s desire to look like a man,” Slade said with a disarming smile. “The ladies in the church used to call me a cherub. You might think that’s a compliment, but it’s a terrible cross for a twelve-year-old.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t take to wearing guns then,” Pamela said, and Slade was glad to see some of the tension leave the corners of her mouth.

  “My mother didn’t approve of guns any more than you do. She was furious with my Dad for teaching me so young.”

  “When did you learn?”

  “I was shooting rocks out of the air by the time I was six.”

  “Six?” Pamela’s voice virtually squeaked.

  “You can’t start too young in the carnival business. Folks will pay to see almost any kind of gun trick, but they’ll pay even more when a kid’s doing the shooting. Especially if that kid is a blond cherub.”

  “You were a trick shot in a carnival?” Gaddy asked fascinated.

  “Sure was. My Daddy and I went all over Texas, Louisiana, and Missouri, even up to Chicago on occasion. There wasn’t an act to compare to us.”

  “Will you show me some of your tricks?”

  Slade looked at Pamela. It was hard to tell what thoughts were going through her mind. It looked like she was doing her best to school her features into impassivity.

  “I haven’t done them in quite some time now. I don’t know that I still can.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  Slade looked at Pamela. “Because of a woman.”

  He wanted to tell her that Trish meant nothing to him, but he knew this wasn’t the time or the place. Considering how she felt about guns, there might never be a good time.

  “Damnation,” Gaddy exclaimed, “I wouldn’t have quit a carnival for a female. Just think of going to all those big cities. What’s it like?”

  “Noisy and crowded,” Slade told him. “And full of people who’d sooner cheat you than say good morning. There’s not a single place I’ve ever been I wouldn’t trade for this valley.”

  He was still looking at Pamela. He could feel the tension of wanting her approval spread down into his groin and made his pants downright uncomfortable. He wondered if she believed him. She might not be wearing a beard, but her face was just as much a barrier to his being able to know what she was thinking as his beard had ever been. Maybe she hadn’t gotten over the shock of seeing his face. It doesn’t matter, Slade told himself. She’s bound to tell you what she thinks. She’s never hesitated before.

  A continuous stream of questions from Gaddy and Belva about his life in the carnival followed throughout the meal, what the cities were like, and some of the famous people he had met. Slade answered them all, making everything seem almost ordinary. Pamela asked a few questions too, but Slade got the impression she asked more to keep him from thinking her rude than from any desire to have them answered.

  “I’d better be going,” Gaddy said rising abruptly the minute he had swallowed the last of his dessert. “Dave told me to be back early, but he might not come in after I tell him you’re going to be working for us.”

  “Make sure he knows I’ll have his dinner waiting,” Belva said.

  “Maybe you could spare a few minutes to tell me what I’m supposed to do around here,” Slade said to Pamela as they all rose from the table.

  “The usual stuff,” Gaddy assured him, answering for Pamela, as he settled his hat on his head. “We don’t do nothing different from anybody else.”

  “Maybe not, but I need some special orders. There isn’t much usual stuff I can do in my present condition.”

  “You two talk it over,” Belva said to Pamela. “I can clean up here. And you’d better get going if you’re going,” she said practically shoving Gaddy out the door. “Dave doesn’t like to be kept from his supper too long.”

  Pamela rose from the table. “We can talk in Dad’s office.”

  “Why don’t you use the front porch,” Belva suggested. “It’s a nice evening.”

  Pamela looked daggers at Belva.

  “I would like that,” Slade said. “I’m more used to being outside,” he added when Pamela turned her frosty gaze on him.

  Actually Pamela didn’t want to sit with Slade on the porch or anywhere else right at the moment. She could h
ave cheerfully choked Belva for leaving her no graceful way out. She desperately wanted to be alone to try and sort out her thoughts. Everything inside her was in confusion. She doubted she could think clearly enough to tell Slade what his duties would be.

  God, what a hold he had over her.

  As much as she had wished he would shave his beard, she had never suspected the attractiveness of the face it concealed. Her fingers burned to stroke his face, to touch that fresh, soft skin. Just looking at him had made her nipples hard. No other man had ever caused such a reaction before. She hoped he couldn’t tell from looking at her, but from the glint in his roving eyes, she guessed he had.

  Her heart pounded in her temples as she led the way through the house to the porch. She tried to keep her mind on business, but she couldn’t think of anything except Slade as he entered the dining room. She had known him instantly—he didn’t look a thing like she had imagined he would—he was almost too handsome to believe. There was nothing of the innocent little boy about him now.

  The small lines about his eyes hinted at the cost of his lost idealism. Slate-grey eyes, frosty like her memories of a cold, bitter Chesapeake bay, drew her now. His firm mouth, chiseled from skin never touched by the sun, invited her kiss. It was a bold, magnetic face, but without a smile there was no softness in it, no give.

  Whenever he smiled, it was as though he changed character completely. He smiled just like everyone else. When his lips curved upward and a light danced in his eyes, Pamela felt sure it was genuine. But then it would quickly fade away, and she would wonder if she hadn’t been mistaken.

  She couldn’t understand him at all. But she didn’t need to understand him to appreciate him, to enjoy the excitement generated between them.

  But she couldn’t understand her own feelings either. What she had labeled mere curiosity, a tepid liking at the very most, had exploded into a full-blown fascination underlain by a hot, restless current of desire.

  Desire? That was almost more of a shock to Pamela than the notion of her being captivated by a drifting cowboy. The tingles he set off in her own body confused her. She had never had this terrible awareness of a man’s body before. It got more intense each time she looked into his deep grey eyes.