Somehow, he’d have to get Molly to understand the depths of Campion’s hatred. But he’d have to be careful—she wasn’t ready to listen to the truth. Maybe there would never be a good time. That was a chance he’d have to take. But not because he cared about her. Hell, no. If it weren’t for June, he’d let Molly wallow in her lies and stupidity.
She was someone he didn’t want to care about, yet he couldn’t begin to explain the feeling that crept over him when she’d stood in front of him, pleading her pathetic case. The years had been very, very kind to her. At fourteen, she’d been a reckless, burgeoning beauty. Now, at twenty-one, she was an exquisite young woman who had apparently learned how to tame her wild side. But wild or tame, Molly Lindquist was more woman than any man could handle. He knew that better than anyone.
Pushing out a lusty sigh, he crossed to the cupboard and stared at the door where he knew Che kept a bottle of liquor. God, he thought, dragging his hands over his face again, he sure could use a drink.
Two
Trying desperately to calm herself after her run-in with Buck, Molly took a nervous, solitary tour through the downstairs rooms again. Lamps were lit, further softening the delicate tones of dusk. She ended up in the salon, where the highly polished piano silently beckoned her. Sliding onto the needlepoint bench, she ran her fingers over the sumptuous grand’s ivory keys. She cringed. It needed tuning. Badly. At times like this, she found her perfect pitch more of a curse than a blessing. Finding someone to tune the piano would probably be difficult out here. But if Nicolette practiced as she should, the piano needed to be sound. Not just for the player, but for the piano itself. The Steinway was such a beautiful work of art, it was a shame to treat it like it had no heart. And it did have heart. Every time someone sat down to play it, it gave back every bit as much as it got. Quality always showed. Rather like people.
Yes, like people. And even though Buck didn’t believe in her noble reasons for what she was doing, she did. Accepting who she was hadn’t come easily. She’d never truly been ashamed of her Indian blood. If she were alone in the world, she might have flaunted it, for she could survive on what she made as a teacher. She might not like it, but she could. But Molly had her mother’s future to think about, and she wanted to be with her. Badly.
She caressed middle C, then stretched to play an octave. Yes, she could survive on her own if she had to. But … would she? She didn’t have the luxury of finding out. Her mother, the sweet, simple girl-woman who had done the best she knew how to raise her, was the driving force behind Molly’s practical need to secure a future. But even without that, there was no reason to think she wouldn’t have cared for Charles anyway, and accepted his proposal.
Again, that germ of fear about Charles that Buck had planted grew in her chest. Hatred for the Indians was something she understood. Something she’d grown up knowing existed. Something she’d painfully experienced firsthand. Years ago she’d decided that the only thing she wanted from that man who had sired her was his name, and she’d taken it. She wasn’t naive. She’d left her naiveté back at the vineyard. She was just being practical. She was trying to blend, trying to survive.
Well, she thought, running scales over the keys, she’d show Buck that she wasn’t the selfish brat he painted her to be. He hadn’t been around for the last seven years, what in the hell did he know about her anymore, anyway? She closed her eyes and sighed. Hell. She’d thought the word, which was as good as saying it. It was Buck’s fault. He made her so angry, she’d probably blurt out a good juicy cuss word right in front of Charles if she wasn’t careful.
Her finger struck a sour A flat. Everything seemed to be going sour. Her life, her luck, her plans …
She shook her head vigorously. It was foolish to sink into self-pity. She’d never been one to do so, and she wasn’t going to start now.
She tried to block out the occasional unpleasant twang of the keys. It definitely needed tuning. She’d find a way to have it done or do it herself. It wouldn’t be the first time. She’d tuned the piano at the school often enough, and had found herself enjoying the work.
Ignoring the sour notes, she launched into one of her favorite Chopin valses. It always buoyed her spirits. Chopin was her composer of choice for piano music. That any mortal could write such beautiful, poetic melodies nearly made her weep. Music had always spoken to her with far more emotion than words ever had—until she discovered Mr. Cooper, of course, and his exciting, dangerous stories about the frontier.
She turned to the piano when she was happy, troubled, angry or out-of-sorts. Whatever her mood, she could find a piece to fit it. The piano was her panacea.
As she came to the end of the valse, she looked up and saw a woman standing in the doorway. She finished and got up briskly, smoothing down her skirt. “I’m sorry, was I bothering you?”
The woman, an attractive Mexican whose coal black hair was pulled back into a severe bun, shook her head. “It was quite lovely,” she answered, her voice holding just a hint of an accent. “I’m Mrs. Alvarez, the housekeeper. And you are Miss Lindquist. Nicolette’s teacher.”
Molly stepped forward and took the woman’s hand, grasping it warmly. “Yes. How nice to meet you, Mrs. Alvarez.” She looked into the woman’s face, noting the hardened experiences that were captured in soft places. Pain and hardship radiated from the tight lines on either side of her mouth and at the corners of her dark, haunting eyes. Knowing that any woman who wasn’t white had miseries that could easily have been her own, Molly rarely missed the pain that was stamped with such subtlety on their faces.
A smile briefly flitted about the woman’s lips. Molly was sure others wouldn’t even notice the overlay of grief in it.
She removed her hand from Molly’s and thrust it into the pocket of her crisp, white apron. “You will play often?”
Molly gave her a tentative shrug. “If no one complains. I plan to be available for Nicolette every day. I don’t want her getting rusty just because she isn’t at school.” She waited for the woman to respond. When she didn’t, Molly blathered on. “I’ve been without a piano for weeks, and I have to restrain myself from playing on and on just to make up for lost time.”
Mrs. Alvarez merely nodded and left the room, leaving Molly puzzled. Shrugging again, she returned to the piano, launching into a string of preludes and mazurkas before finishing up with her favorite polonaise.
When she’d finished, she dropped her chin to her chest and closed her eyes. The piece always left her drained, satisfied. Probably like making love.
The silent voice shook her upright and she blinked, glancing around her. Where in the world had that thought come from? As she rubbed the back of her neck, the vision of Buck loomed before her, his black gaze filled with scorn.
Forcing Buck from her thoughts, she looked up at the portrait that hung on the wall near the piano. It looked so much like Nicolette, yet Molly was sure it wasn’t. There was a diaphanous quality to the painting, hinting at the subject’s delicate fragility. Her beauty was almost celestial.
“Are you sore from your trip?”
Molly jumped at the sound of Charles’s voice. He squeezed his thumbs gently along the cords of her neck and rubbed. Even though his touch was a bit more familiar than she had expected, it felt marvelous.
She turned and looked up at him when his hands left her neck. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Not long. As I finished my work, I heard you play. It delights me. The piano needs playing, I know that. Nicolette has been lazy about practicing. I don’t think she really appreciates what I’ve been able to give her.”
Molly fondled the highly polished, beautifully carved music stand, then glanced up at the portrait again.
“Who is that woman?”
Charles’s fingers suddenly tensed on her shoulders. “My mother. She … she died many years ago.”
Molly sighed, sensing that Charles still missed her. “She’s really very beauti
ful.”
“Yes,” he answered tersely. “She was also a lover of the arts. This was her favorite room.”
Molly sensed a great disturbance in his words. She decided it was best to change the subject. One day, perhaps, he would bare his soul. She wanted them to share everything.
“I love your home, Charles. I love everything about it. It’s more beautiful and grander than I’d ever imagined.”
He joined her on the bench and took her hands in his. “I hear an unspoken ‘yet’ at the end of that sentence.”
She shook her head, her gaze moving over his handsome features. She wished she could tell him her fears, and deeply wanted him to comfort her. With the appearance of Buck Randall, her well-ordered life had erupted like volcanic ash. “It’s really nothing, Charles. I guess I’m just tired from the trip.”
He touched her chin. “How can you be tired and still look so beautiful?”
She felt her heart skip a beat. He cared for her deeply, she knew that. But damn Buck. Now that germ of fear had begun to ferment, and no matter how hard she pushed it away, it always came back. Like Buck. Like a bad penny.
Charles leaned toward her, his eyes filled with a strange, disconcerting heat. She allowed the kiss. It wasn’t invasive or hungry, but as their lips clung, it became so. She pulled back, the change alarming her.
Bracketing her face with his hands, he studied her. “I won’t force you, Margaret.” He let out an audible sigh. “But you have to know that being with you once again has rekindled some fires.”
She pulled back, her alarm growing. That sort of talk was dangerous. “Fires, Charles?”
“I’m a man, Margaret. A gentleman, yes, but still, a man. Your beauty inflames me. You’re like … like an ache deep inside me that I can temper only because I want to wait until you’re ready. Until we’re wed.”
He bent and kissed her knuckles, and Molly stared at the top of his head. A dread of a different sort wormed its way into her stomach. For all of her determination to make this match, she hadn’t considered the physical side. She’d purposely avoided thinking about it. “Charles, you … you know I’m not—”
“I said I wouldn’t force you, Margaret.” Meeting her gaze, he squeezed her hands. “But do understand that I care for you deeply. Now,” he said, getting to his feet, “you go up and get some rest before dinner. I insist.”
She gave him a tentative smile, then slid off the piano bench and moved out of the room toward the stairs. As she gave him one last glance, he blew her a kiss. Tempted to lift her skirts and take the steps two at a time, she sedately climbed to the second floor, hurried to her room and closed the door.
His words hammered inside her head as she crossed to the window. She would have to think about them. She wasn’t naive about sex, but she hadn’t thought much about it. Only when Charles insinuated it. It wasn’t something she cared to dwell on. She didn’t like the feelings the image of it dredged up.
Pulling the gauzy curtain aside, she stared down onto the yard. Charles was handsome and gallant, but she certainly hadn’t been drawn to him that way. She’d killed that part of her character long ago, and quite successfully, too.
Or had she? Her pulse raced as Buck rode into sight, his lean body graceful and comfortable astride his mount. Again, like the day before when she’d seen him at the river, old feelings stirred.
Cursing him loudly, she spun away from the window and marched to the bathroom she would share with Nicolette. The roll top tub was filled with bathwater, the bubbles shimmering in the light from the kerosene filled sconces that glowed on either side of the mirror over the sink.
Suddenly feeling tired and dirty, she undressed and sank deeply into the warm, silky water. She sighed aloud. If this wasn’t heaven, it was close to it.
She and Charles dined alone. It was almost comical for the two of them to sit at opposite ends of the long table, but she thought she could get used to it. During her bath, she’d decided that after she and Charles got married, she would try very hard to get used to sharing his bed. It was a woman’s duty, after all. There were many things she would have to sacrifice to make a safe haven for herself and her mother. Her last letter from Anna had nearly made her cry. June sits in her room by the hour, holding your doll, staring out the window. The stinging, burning threat of tears pressed against the backs of her eyes, as it did each time she thought of her mother’s condition. She brought her linen napkin to her mouth and pressed her lips hard against her teeth. It would be foolish and dangerous to let her emotions rule her now.
The silence in the room was deafening. A brief picture of Anna and Nicolas’s crowded, noisy dinner table punctured her thoughts. Nicolas hadn’t allowed more than one person to speak at a time, but he had insisted on everyone having a turn to voice an opinion or share their day. The memory made her sad, but also made her smile.
“That’s not a very happy smile, Margaret.”
She cleared her throat, dabbing her napkin over her lips. “I was just remembering our dinner table when I was a girl.”
Charles leaned back in his chair and studied her. “You have a Swedish heritage, don’t you?”
“My … my father is Swedish, yes.” It wasn’t a lie.
He nodded. “Were there many of you?”
She nodded briskly, pushing away the pang of conscience. “The table was always full. As often as not, someone else joined us.” Buck, in the months before she’d been sent away, had eaten with them at least twice a week. She’d often wondered why he wasn’t at home with Honey and his little boy…. What was his name? Rusty. No, Dusty.
A deep, wild part of her had liked having Buck there. But on the surface, she remembered vividly wanting to eat and run. Nicolas wouldn’t let her, so she’d been forced to endure Buck’s presence far longer than she’d cared to. Only because he’d brazenly held her gaze when she’d looked at him. She’d always felt he was judging her. Punishing her with his knowledge of her activities, silently threatening her with it. And she’d always wanted him to be dead drunk, so she could throw it in his face. But he never came to Nicolas’s table drunk. At least, not while she was there.
Even now, so many years later, she felt the same threat. He still made her feel like she had to prove herself. The idea that he didn’t believe what she told him still made her mad.
The sound of muted voices came from the hallway. Mrs. Alvarez stepped into the dining room.
“One of the hands to see you, Senor Campion.”
Charles stood. “Show him in, Angelita.”
Nodding, she retreated, and Buck sauntered into the room, his spurs jingling slightly against the thick Persian carpet. His dusty, well-worn hat dangled from his long, strong fingers, and his black wavy hair was pushed away from his face, exposing a line on his forehead left by the sweatband of his Stetson. His shirt was plastered to his skin, and his jeans hung low on his hips, reminding Molly that they rested well below his hair covered navel.
After her appraisal, in which her heart thumped uncommonly hard, she looked away and lifted her chin high, hoping to hide the feelings this terrible man activated in her. Nerves. It’s just nerves. Of course it was nerves. And fear of discovery. Oh, every time she thought about him being here, she just wanted to scream.
“Yes, Randall?” Charles left the table and came around to stand beside her chair.
“They’re here with the horses. Just thought you should know.”
The raspy, smoky sound of his voice made her heart race in spite of her anger. She remembered a time in her foolish youth when she could have listened to that sound forever. Lord, what a ninny she’d been.
“They’re here? Great! Great news! How many did they get?”
“Eight,” Buck answered, his gaze drifting languidly toward Molly.
Molly studied him briefly, then looked away. She hated that look. The one that told her she was still the selfish brat she’d been seven years before.
“All right. You�
�ll start breaking them in the morning, then?” Charles’s enthusiasm was almost adolescent.
“In the morning,” Buck echoed. Giving Molly a brief nod, he left the room.
She fussed with her napkin, trying to neatly refold it next to her plate. “My, what was that all about?”
“The hands have rounded up eight wild horses. Randall is the best broncobuster I have. If I left it up to him, he’d have them all broken to the saddle in a week.”
Molly bristled under the praise for Buck. “What do you mean, if you left it up to him?”
Charles took his seat again and gently rang the tiny bell beside his plate. “The man is almost superhuman, Margaret. Oh,” he added with a wave of his hand, “I know he’s a breed, but I’ve never found a white man who could handle a horse like that Buck Randall can.” He shook his head. “It’s hard for me to admit that he’s that good. I mean, he’s terrific at what he does. He actually—”
“Oh, Charles, please. Surely he isn’t that good.” Molly tried to make her voice sound light, but it wasn’t easy to do when her teeth were clenched so hard her jaw ached.
“But he is.” He leaned forward, his eyes bright. “I can’t explain it, Margaret. You’ll just have to see for yourself. Tomorrow.”
Her stomach dropped. “Tomorrow?”
“Why, yes. You’ll have to watch him work.” He grinned at her. “You’ll have no choice.”
“Why won’t I have a choice?” She wasn’t going to like this.
His grin widened. “Because Nicolette will insist that you watch.”
“Why?” she asked skeptically.
His grin turned sardonic. “She has a foolish schoolgirl crush on the breed.”
Molly’s stomach lurched. “Surely you don’t approve, Charles.”
He shrugged. “It’s just a crush.”
Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three Page 4