Til Death Do Us Part

by Beverly Barton

“I’ll go change.” She whirled around, then saw her sketch pad on the floor. “Where are we going?” She walked by the plaid chair, stuck out her foot and kicked the pad under the chair.

  “I thought you might want to go out past Trinidad to the old archaeological dig where your great-grandparents worked the summer they lived here.”

  Halting in the doorway to her bedroom, Joanna swung around and faced J.T. “What? I tried to get permission from the man who owns the land, to go out to the old site, but I could never get anywhere with him. He said he had enough trespassers traipsing around on his property, stealing artifacts and—”

  “That old man was my grandfather’s worst enemy. It seems Hezekiah Mahoney married the woman my grandfather had picked out for himself and John Thomas never forgave either of them. I think it pleased Hezekiah to see my grandfather taken down a peg or two when he had to claim a half-breed as his heir.”

  “Are you saying—”

  “I’m saying Hezekiah and I have always understood each other.” J.T. walked over and sat down in the plaid chair. “I’ve done him a few favors over the years, and he owes me one or two. He isn’t unreasonable. He allows archaeologists and archaeology students to work out at the old dig.”

  “And he gave us permission to visit the site?”

  “Yep. So hurry up and change clothes.”

  “Can we stay out there for the rest of the day?” she asked. “Do you have the time? I’d love to take a sketch pad and do some work while we’re there. I need some fresh ideas for the paintings I’ve been commissioned to do.”

  “We can stay until the sun goes down, if that’s what you want,” J.T. said. “You can look the place over. We can eat Elena’s lunch. And you can draw to your heart’s content.”

  “Thanks, J.T.”

  He liked her smile. Real. Honest. Warm. “Jo, while we’re out there, we need to talk. Okay?”

  Her smile disappeared, and J.T. wished he’d waited to mention anything about their needing to talk. But he wanted to prepare her, get her ready for what he had to tell her. No matter what happened in the days and weeks ahead, he was not going to lie to her. Not about anything.

  “Okay,” she said, then hurried into her bedroom.

  J.T. laid his Stetson on the hand-carved table to his right. Leaning over, resting his elbows on his thighs, he let his hands dangle between his spread legs.

  Today’s excursion out to the old archaeological dig on Mahoney’s ranch had been Elena’s idea. She’d been after him for two days to call old Hezekiah and arrange to take Joanna on this special outing. After his talk with Lieutenant Milton George and his telephone calls—one to Sam Dundee, and another to an FBI friend, Dane Carmichael—J.T. had decided it might be easier for him to discuss hard, cold facts with Joanna while she was relaxed and enjoying herself.

  In the five days since he’d accepted responsibility for her safekeeping, J.T. had taken precautions to keep Joanna Beaumont as safe as possible without actually placing a twenty-four-hour-a-day guard at her door. He had suggested she should move into the main house. After all, they had more than enough room. But she hadn’t wanted to leave her own home. He supposed he understood how she felt. But if Plott did make a move, J.T. would have no choice but to insist she stay with him. Or—and he really didn’t want to think about his other choice—he would have to move into the renovated bunkhouse with her.

  He had lived in close confines with a beautiful woman more than once and been able to remain completely professional and emotionally uninvolved. But Joanna Beaumont was more than just a client. She was someone he desired. That could pose a major problem for him—wanting a woman he had sworn to protect. A woman who, by her own admission, didn’t completely trust him.

  Staring down at his booted feet, J.T. noticed the edge of some sort of book sticking out from underneath the chair. He reached down, pulled out the large notebook, and picked it up. Leaning back in the chair, he laid the sketch pad on his lap and opened it to the first page. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He turned the page, then sucked in a deep breath and let it out. Hurriedly, he flipped through the pages, and on each, he saw himself. They were rough, obviously hastily sketched likenesses, but there was no mistaking Joanna’s chosen subject. When he looked at the last sketch, about halfway through the pad, he closed his eyes, blotting out what he saw. In that one drawing, she had come too close to capturing the real J. T. Blackwood. A man at odds with himself. Hard. Cold. Cynical. A man torn between two cultures—the one his grandfather had forced him to accept, and the one the old man had taught him to be ashamed of and to completely reject.

  J.T. closed the pad and slipped it back under the chair. He wished he’d never seen the damned thing. If Joanna was sketching him, over and over again, seeing past the facade he presented to the world and getting too close to the angry, disillusioned man inside him, that meant she had allowed all the romantic nonsense concerning their great-grandparents to make her think— Hell! He had to put a stop to this before it started. He wasn’t averse to the idea of having an affair with Joanna, now that he realized she wasn’t just another spoiled rich girl out for kicks. But no way did he want her to think of him as some dream lover who could fulfill all her fantasies.

  It would be better for both of them if he set her straight today. He didn’t know a damn thing about romance or happily-ever-after or making love to a woman who needed the utmost tenderness.

  He wondered if there had been a man in her life, someone she had trusted enough to take into her bed, since the night Lenny Plott had raped her. What did it do to a woman to be brutalized that way, to lose all sense of power and control? What would I have done if I’d been her fiancé? J.T. asked himself. He knew he would have wanted to hunt Plott down and kill him with his bare hands. And he knew he never would have deserted Joanna. If she’d been his woman, he would have— But she hadn’t been his woman, wasn’t his woman now. And for both their sakes, he had to keep it that way.

  “I DON’T KNOW how to thank you, J.T.” Joanna spread her arms open wide as if somehow she could embrace the land and the sky, and perhaps even grasp the moment and hold on to it forever. “It still looks so much like Annabelle described it and yet so very different, too. They lived in tents right here on the site, and went into Trinidad for supplies.”

  “Your great-grandfather was the archaeologist. Why did he bring his wife along with him? This is some pretty rugged country, even now. It could hardly have been a suitable place for a Virginia society matron.” J.T. lifted the thermos from the picnic basket he had placed beside him when he’d sat down atop the huge, oddly shaped rock formation.

  Joanna looked down into the valley below. Such a wide-open space. Such an incredible view. Steep-walled canyons. Never-ending blue sky. And colors so sharp and vivid, they took her breath away.

  “Annabelle was a lot more than a society matron. She was a site artist and photographer. She kept a detailed record of the artifacts her husband found, photographing or sketching every discovery. And, for your information, Ernest Beaumont wasn’t just an archaeologist.” She turned and smiled at J.T. “He was a world-renowned archaeologist, and he counted among his friends both Earl H. Morris and Alfred V. Kidder. He took part in Kidder’s Pecos conference in 1927.” Suddenly realizing she was babbling, Joanna hushed, shook her head and laughed. “I admit that, after reading Annabelle’s diary, I found out everything I could about my great-grandparents.”

  “Did you discover the reason your great-grandmother committed adultery?” J.T. asked.

  Her laughter died as quickly as it had been born. She sat down on the rock beside J.T. and watched while he poured iced tea into plastic cups. He handed her a cup. She accepted it, being careful to neither touch him nor look at him.

  “Ernest Beaumont had been a contemporary of Annabelle’s father, who had arranged the marriage for Annabelle, his only child, shortly before his death.” Joanna sipped her tea. “She was eighteen when she married. Ernest was forty-two. She was a dutiful wife,
who gave him two sons, and often accompanied him on his archaeological digs, working with him. They had a contented marriage, but not a passionate one.”

  “So Annabelle met Benjamin and saw her chance to put a little passion into her life.” J.T. unwrapped a ham-and-cheese sandwich. “She had a summer affair with a wild savage, then returned to her safe, secure life in Virginia and wrote beautiful prose about her ‘great love.’” J.T. grunted, his cynicism obvious in both his words and the cold expression on his face. “She did love him. She never forgot him. Never loved anyone else.”

  “Yeah, sure. Look, Jo, if she’d really loved Benjamin, she’d have given up everything and stayed out here in New Mexico with him.”

  “How could she have done that? It wasn’t as if all she had to do was pack her bags and leave her husband. She had two children. And it was Benjamin who told her she couldn’t sacrifice her children for him. That if she did, someday she’d grow to hate him.”

  “Annabelle’s diary sure has you hooked, doesn’t it?” J.T. handed her a sandwich. “Elena packed chips and pickles. Want some?”

  “No, thank you.” She unwrapped the sliced sandwich, lifted one of the halves to her mouth and took a bite.

  “Hey, there’s no need for you to get upset with me or pout,” J.T. said. “You and I disagree about our great-grandparents’ affair. You think it was some grand passion, some eternal love, and that they’re up in heaven now, reunited and happy. I, on the other hand, think they had the hots for each other, sneaked off together every chance they could, but when the summer ended, they went their separate ways without a bunch of mushy sentimental exchanges or broken hearts.” Joanna chewed slowly, swallowed, and took another bite. She turned her back on J.T., not wanting to listen to him make light of their great-grandparents’ tragic love affair. Obviously, the man didn’t have a romantic, loving bone in his body.

  J.T. grasped her shoulder. She jumped, then jerked around and faced him. “You don’t know the first thing about love. Real love. The kind Annabelle and Benjamin shared.”

  “Let’s drop the subject.” He squeezed her shoulder. She glared at his hand. Immediately, he slipped his hand down her arm. His touch was light, but sensual. Joanna shivered. J.T. lifted his hand, clutched her chin and tilted her face. “Besides, we’ve got more important things to discuss than our ancestors.”

  Joanna held up her right hand in J.T.’s face. “You might not believe in mushy, sentimental exchanges or passionate, everlasting love, but Benjamin Greymountain did. He put his whole heart into crafting this ring.” She grabbed J.T.’s right hand, lifting it in hers. “And this one. These rings symbolized everything he felt. Everything he and Annabelle had shared.”

  J.T. glared at her. Her heart pounded, the beat drowning out every other sound. He grasped her by the back of the neck, sliding one hand under her long ponytail while gripping her waist with the other, and drawing her toward him.

  “What do you want me to say, Jo?” He lowered his head, his lips so close to hers that he felt her breath on his mouth. “Okay. Maybe Annabelle and Benjamin were in love. How do I know? What the hell difference does it make? Just because you and I inherited their rings, doesn’t mean there’s some special bond between us.”

  Who was he trying so damned hard to convince—her or himself? He wanted to deny it, wanted to pretend it didn’t exist. But it did. There was some sort of bond between him and Joanna. There had been since the moment they met. But it wasn’t what she thought it was, wasn’t what she wanted. It was plain, old-fashioned lust. And J.T. would bet his last dollar that lust had been the overriding emotion between Benjamin and Annabelle.

  J.T. wanted to take Joanna. Here. Now. On this hard, hot rock in the middle of nowhere, with only the birds and the insects and the big blue sky as witnesses. And perhaps the ghosts of two long-dead lovers. Had his great-grandfather felt this way about Annabelle? Had his blood run hot every time he’d touched her?

  J.T. took Joanna in his arms, kissing her as he had longed to kiss her since the day they met. A wild, hungry passion ruled his actions. He was neither gentle nor patient. When she did not respond, but sat in his arms, stiff and unyielding, he thrust his tongue into her mouth and cupped her hip with one hand while he held her head in place with the other.

  He ended the kiss abruptly, resting his forehead against hers. His breathing was ragged and harsh. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he held her at arm’s length. “I’m sorry, Jo. I didn’t mean to be so rough. I’m not used to taking things easy or being gentle.”

  She looked directly at him. “You think I need to be handled with kid gloves, don’t you? Because of the rape. You think I’m not normal anymore, that I can’t react the way a normal woman would.”

  “I don’t think any such thing.” He rubbed her shoulders. “I just think my kiss might have been a little too brutal. You froze solid in my arms, honey.”

  “For your information, you aren’t the first man who’s kissed me since… I have dated. There have been other men. Is your ego so enormous you think all you had to do was kiss me and I’d fall at your feet, that you would be the only one who could sexually arouse me?”

  “Did you respond to any of these men you dated?” His touch on her shoulders softened. “Did you have sex with any of them?”

  “I—I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  He ran one hand across her shoulder, then draped his big fingers around the side of her neck, caressing her with tenderness. “I made you a promise to protect you, to keep you safe. Now, I’m going to make you another promise. I promise that I’ll never take your power and control away from you. That even if I possess you completely, it will be only because you’ve given me the right.”

  Joanna shivered. He was telling her that he wanted her, that he expected them to become lovers. Did she want him? Was she prepared to be his lover? “There hasn’t been anyone since… My former fiancé and I—”

  Releasing her, not touching her at all, J.T. lowered his head and kissed her again. This time his mouth moved over hers with soft, tender passion. When she made no protest, he deepened the kiss by slow degrees. Joanna slipped her arms around his neck, encouraging him, responding, hesitantly at first, but soon taking charge of the kiss. When she was breathless and trembling, she eased away from him and stood.

  The bright afternoon sun coated her with warmth. She breathed deeply, then smiled at J.T. “You’re a man of your word, aren’t you, J. T. Blackwood?”

  “I try to be,” he said. “If I give a promise, I keep it.”

  She nodded, then turned away from him and looked back down over the wide expanse of northwestern New Mexico’s rugged yet fiercely beautiful landscape. Did believing J.T. was a man of his word mean that she trusted him? She wanted to trust him—indeed, needed to trust him—and perhaps, on some level, she did. But not completely, and never with her heart.

  “Before we left the ranch this morning, you said we needed to talk, and I know it wasn’t about Annabelle and Benjamin,” Joanna said.

  He stood, walked over to her and drew her back up against his chest. She relaxed against him.

  “I talked to Lieutenant George.” Joanna tensed in his arms. “He has contacted Claire Andrews and Libby Felton.”

  “How did he find Libby?” Joanna asked.

  “It wasn’t difficult. She has a driver’s license, a couple of credit cards. She files income taxes.”

  “Oh, I never thought about how easy it would be to find her. Where is she living now?”

  “Texas,” J.T. said.

  “What else did Lieutenant George tell you?”

  “Plott seems to have disappeared, and left no trace.” J.T. hugged her to him. “And even if Plott has more trouble than the authorities had getting the information he needs on you and the other two women, it won’t be impossible for him to get it.”

  “What are you saying? That if Plott wants to find us, he can?”

  “I’m afraid so. I contacted an old friend of mine, Da
ne Carmichael. He’s an FBI agent. You realize the Feds are already involved. They were called in when Melody Horton was kidnapped.”

  “And?”

  “Hell, Jo. Why didn’t you tell me Plott had millions of dollars at his disposal? The guy is some sort of Virginia blue blood whose name is really Leonard Mayfield Plott III, and he comes from the same kind of wealthy, aristocratic background you do.”

  “I know.” She crossed her arms over J.T.’s where they wrapped around her. “But I don’t see what his background has to do with—”

  “A guy with that kind of money can pay to get any information he needs. God knows how much he paid out to engineer his escape from prison.”

  “He’s going to find me, isn’t he? And when he knows where I am, he’ll come after me.”

  “Yeah, there’s a good chance that sooner or later he’ll come to Trinidad. But we’ll be ready for him. I’ll keep you safe.”

  They stood there, looking down at the canyon below them. Joanna thought she heard the sound of drums somewhere off in the distance, but when she saw a streak of lightning on the far horizon, followed by a low rumble of thunder, she realized she had imagined the drums—just as she had imagined them the first time she’d seen J.T.

  At sunset, J.T. drove up to the ranch house and parked, then rounded the vehicle, lifted Joanna’s sketch pad from her lap and assisted her.

  “J.T.!” Elena ran out into the yard. “I was just going to call you on your cellular phone when Alex heard you drive up.”

  “What’s wrong?” Joanna asked.

  Alex stepped off the porch. Elena turned to him, her eyes pleading. Alex looked directly at J.T. “That Lieutenant George just phoned from Richmond. It seems Claire Andrews received a phone call from Lenny Plott this afternoon. He warned her that he was heading west, that he had business in Missouri and he’d be seeing her soon.”

  Joanna gasped, then covered her mouth with her clutched fist. J.T. put his arm around her and pulled her up against him.

  “He’s found out where Claire lives,” Joanna said. “How long will it be before he finds me, too?”