For a moment she couldn’t speak, for quite literally, her heart had jumped to her throat. Seeking to return to a safer and to her mind a more pressing subject, she warned him, “I shan’t return to that despicable house, Mr. Grant.”
His waning patience snapped. She could see it in his brown eyes, which were suddenly neither warm nor teasing. “Another thing, Miss Madolyn Morley’s-sister Sinclair. You’re to treat Goldie and her girls with respect.”
“How dare you—”
“No, how dare you? An advocate of woman suffrage, by your own admission, a champion of women’s rights, passin’ judgment on the way other women are forced to make their livin’.”
Madolyn stared at him, wide-eyed. Fury pounded in her heart and throbbed in her throat. She looked away from his assessing stare, not liking the verdict she saw there. “There is always another way to make a living.”
“Reserve judgment, at least till you’re out from under their roof.” He bounced her in his arms, drawing her attention back to him. Before she could berate him further, he added, “Promise me that, or I’ll leave you to sleep in the street.”
She glared at him.
“Trust me on this, Maddie. I’ll leave you right here. And good riddance.”
Embarrassment battled with anger. “How dare you dress me down in such a…” She cast her eyes wildly from side to side, slightly relieved to find that they were still alone. But that didn’t make him any less right. Or her any less wrong.
“Promise?”
Madolyn gritted her teeth. “I can’t be gone from this place soon enough.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“I shall keep my mouth shut about what I think of…of…” Nothing she could say fit the realm of topics suitable for a decent woman to discuss. Surely he got the idea.
“That’s a start,” he said good-naturedly. “But I’ll require more before I carry you up those two flights of stairs.”
“The back way,” she instructed.
“Any way you cut it, Maddie, it’s two flights.”
“The back way, sir, or I shall not go.”
Abruptly Tyler set her on her feet in the middle of the road and started off toward the House of Negotiable Love. Tears stung her eyes. “You are a beast, sir. Every man out here is a beast.”
Tyler turned, studied her, finally tipping his hat. “Then Morley Damn-his-hide is right, this is no place for a lady.”
She watched him stride confidently toward the house. Gathering her skirts, she hobbled after, one shoe on, one shoe off. Her twisted ankle throbbed unmercifully, but she made it back to the house and up the steep back staircase.
Entering her room, she found a welcome surprise—Lucky and a tub of warm water.
“Mr. Tyler tole us ’bout your mishap, honey. Take off that stockin’ an’ sit down right here. Soak your ankle in these salts while I fetch you a tray of supper.”
While Lucky was gone, Tyler poked his head in the door. His ominous presence filled the doorway. She glared at him.
“Still not ready to thank me, huh?”
“Get out of here, Mr. Grant, before you have me shrieking like a shrew.”
He grinned, glanced around at the stacks of baggage, then settled his brown gaze on her naked foot. She flushed in spite of herself.
“I suppose it’s safe to assume you brought along another pair of shoes.”
“Of course, I brought another pair of shoes.”
“Well, search ’em out, Maddie. We’ll leave for Morley’s first thing in the mornin’.”
“I shall find another way, thank you.”
“What is it with you? You keep thankin’ me for things I haven’t done. Somebody ought to teach you gratitude, Maddie.” He winked. “Maybe I’ll have a go at it myself.”
It was a confusing statement, one Madolyn pondered off and on all night. Now, with the clear light of day, she sipped Miss Goldie Nugget’s store tea and chastised herself.
“Hope that ankle’s not swollen on you this mornin’, Miss Maddie,” Lucky called from the bedchamber where Madolyn could see her making the bed. What luxury! And at what a price! Her pride, her dignity, and if that wretched Tyler Grant had his way, her immortal soul.
“It’s fine, thank you.” Madolyn shook out the crisply laundered white napkin. It reminded her of Tyler’s shirt. She paused, lost in thought. Where did he have his shirts laundered? She examined the napkin absently. Here? Who? How—
“Miss Goldie sends her apologies, honey.” Lucky tucked a pillow beneath her chin and tugged on a freshly ironed pillow case. “Said you’re not to worry ’bout runnin’ into her or the girls. They’ll keep their distance while you’re with us.”
Guilt, which Tyler had successfully pricked the night before, reared its ugly head again. “Oh, Lucky, I didn’t intend to offend her or any of you.”
“We know that. Mr. Tyler should have tole you what kinda place he was bringin’ you to, ’fore he moved you in lock, stock, an’ barrel.”
“That’s water under the bridge.” She sipped the tepid tea.
Lucky laughed. “Now there’s a sayin’ we don’t hear much of out here.”
“And it’s no excuse for rudeness. Would you tell Miss Nugget that the accommodations are most comfortable. I’m sure they shall be the most pleasant part of my stay in Buckhorn. I appreciate her hospitality. And yours, Lucky. I’m sorry for—”
“No need apologizin’. You didn’t offend no one. The girls got a good laugh out of it. And Miss Goldie, too. Now you eat up ’fore your breakfast gets cold. Mr. Tyler’ll be waitin’ to drive you out to your brother’s.”
“Oh, no. I shall find someone else.”
“Mr. Tyler says he’s agonna do it.”
“But surely…I mean, he must have a lot to do at the ranch. Surely there’s someone I could hire to drive me to Morley’s.”
“If Mr. Tyler says he’s agonna do it, he’s agonna do it. This here’s Mr. Tyler’s town, and what he says goes.”
Madolyn hadn’t realized she was so hungry. She stuffed the last bite of biscuit in her mouth and stared at her empty plate. “His town?”
“Yes’m, his town.”
“That sounds like feudalism.”
“Nope, honey, sounds like jes’ what it is. Two men ownin’ all the country aroun’ here. Mr. Tyler an’ your brother. But don’t you fret none. Ain’t a finer gentleman aroun’ than Mr. Tyler.”
“Then Buckhorn is certainly hard up for gentlemen!” But she whispered the response, mindful not to offend this kindly woman again.
It had been a bitch of a night. Generally Tyler enjoyed the nights he spent in town. He would drink a while in the parlor, then come upstairs and climb into his soft bed, pull up sunshine-fresh sheets, and let himself be lulled to sleep by the tinkling of Elmo’s piano, which was faint as fairy-music by the time it drifted up two flights of stairs. Only rarely did he accommodate himself with a trip to the second floor of the House of Negotiable Love. That was never the reason he came to town.
At a knock on his door, he pulled on his duckins, ran fingers through his hair, and opened the door.
“Brought your things, Tyler.”
“Thanks, Annie.”
“An’ your breakfast.”
Tyler watched the slight, copper-haired girl peek into his room. “Thanks,” he said again. “Here, let me take these things.” He examined the two crisply laundered shirts. “Beautiful, as usual.” When he reached for the breakfast tray with his other hand, Penny-Ante Annie held on.
He could tell by the way she wrinkled her nose that his peculiar behavior confused her. Generally, he invited her in, flirted a little, and that was the end of it. He glanced to Maddie’s door, relieved to see it closed. Damnation, had that stiff-spined woman gotten under his skin? While his thoughts were distracted, Penny-Ante slipped past him. Jittery as a June bug, he watched her set the tray on his tea table.
Still he stood in the open door, as though his feet were fastened to the floorboards. He
held the laundered shirts in one hand, unmindful of his bare chest, his bare feet, or of the top two buttons on his fly, which were undone.
Annie uncovered his plate and poured his coffee.
“Don’t bother with that,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
She looked up, a coquettish grin on her rosy lips. “Missed you downstairs last night, Tyler.”
“Yeah, well…” Voices came from beyond Maddie’s door. Must be Lucky, bringing Maddie’s breakfast. “Listen, Annie, uh, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m facin’ a bitch of a day.”
She sidled up to him, twirled an index finger playfully in his exposed navel. “Too bad, Tyler.”
At that moment, Maddie’s door opened. Tyler started. Penny-Ante giggled. “What kinda day was that you said, Tyler? Doin’ what? Or should I say with—”
“Mornin’, Mr. Tyler.”
Tyler stood, unable to move, his attention focused on Maddie’s door. “Mornin’, Lucky.”
But the maid had already shuffled down the hallway, and standing in the open door was none other than Miss Maddie Sinclair, herself. She was draped from chin to toe in white batiste; her green eyes were soft with astonishment. He watched her take in his half-clothed body. He took her in, too, as though drinking his fill of some exotic concoction from the bar downstairs. Not too sour, not too sweet—but highly intoxicating.
Black hair flowed in abundant waves around her shoulders. Disheveled waves, that indicated she hadn’t brushed it since she arose from bed. His groin tightened at the sight of her, looking every bit as though she had just climbed out of bed. He was hard-pressed to keep from wishing it had been his.
He barely heard Penny-Ante’s coos. “Well, Tyler, reckon you’d better get started on that promisin’ day.” She scooted off down the hall, leaving him to gape at Maddie.
Suddenly he realized he was standing there half-dressed. He glanced down at his bare feet. Not even half-dressed. When he looked back at Maddie, he could almost read her thoughts.
“It isn’t what you think.” He turned to the staircase where Penny-Ante had disappeared, all except a few wayward strands of copper-colored hair. “She didn’t sl…” He cleared his throat. “I mean…she just brought…” Damnation, what had this woman done to him? Why did he care what she thought? His love life—or lack thereof—was his own business and certainly none of Miss Madolyn Morley’s-sister Sinclair’s.
“Daylight’s wastin’, Maddie. Get dressed and meet me downstairs in an hour.”
“I’ll find another—”
“Damnation, don’t you ever let up?” He ran fingers through his own disheveled hair. “I had a bitch of a night, so don’t rile me. Just get yourself dressed.”
Convinced that she had no choice, short of leaving town without setting eyes on Morley, Madolyn allowed Tyler to drive her. Not until she took her place on the wagon seat beside him, however, did she allow herself to admit how frightened she was. Her stomach tumbled and she felt rather faint—unusual, for she had been blessed with a sturdy constitution. But, of course, she was about to see her brother for the first time in twenty years, a brother who hadn’t even bothered to meet her train. Miss Abigail herself would likely have stomach flutters on such an occasion, delightful, though it would surely turn out to be.
With no more than an arched eyebrow Tyler had taken the valise she packed. He even inquired about her ankle.
“Fine.” She refrained from thanking him for his inquiry.
They skirted the towns and headed north, following a double-rutted wagon road that grew ever fainter the farther they traveled from town. Tyler guided the wagon along the slope of a mountain. Although up close the terrain looked less barren than it had from the train window, it was still a desolate land.
Again she thought how devoid of color the landscape was—grayish brown tufts of grass, with here and there a touch of green; strange-shaped trees and cacti with stranger-sounding names, some of which she had heard on the train—foreign names, like cholla and agave and Spanish dagger. Made the more exotic by the occasional vivid blossom—a pure, waxy white or magenta, or oranges and yellows so brilliant they must have come from the sun itself. The rare splotches of color formed delightful oases for the sight in the midst of an otherwise colorless desert.
A desert populated by no humans, she surmised, for they neither met nor passed anyone for hours. At length the isolation encroached around her, surrounding the wagon as with an invisible barrier. She wished the rails ran through here, then she wouldn’t feel so alone. With a man.
A man like Tyler Grant, who smelled fresh and clean, with just a hint, a satisfying hint, of bay rum; a man who filled the wagon seat as he had filled her night, making it impossible not to bump his shoulder or, heaven forbid, his knee. As before, she staked her space with a lofted parasol.
Tyler’s contradictory personalities confused her. He could be kind, gentle even, like when he arranged for her to have a hot bath or to soak her injured ankle. But he could be harsh, cruel almost, like when he left her standing in the road.
He was decisive, no doubt about that. He took charge of matters in a way that lent her a sense of security she rarely felt with anyone, especially with a member of the opposite sex. Of course, some of his decisions were opposite to what she would have chosen. But that didn’t seem to faze him.
And he was passionate. Lord in heaven, she felt weak recalling the way her baser nature had responded to his passionate attack. Still wanted to, truth known. But as Miss Abigail taught, one’s baser nature must be suppressed at all costs.
Deliberately, Madolyn tucked the edge of her skirt beneath her leg, removing the fabric from contact with Tyler’s britches. She gripped her parasol tighter and tried to do the same with her emotions. She had been in dangerous situations before, many of which, unlike her present difficulty, had been foisted upon her unawares. This time she had been amply forewarned. Dismally she recalled Mr. Rolly’s words:
Don’t know of an unmarried lady in either town who’d turn down an offer to ride out into the country with Tyler Grant. Madolyn’s palms grew wet; her fingers stuck to her cotton gloves and her gloves in turn slipped on the handle of her parasol.
“Damnation, Maddie, put that thing down before you poke out my eye.”
Disconcerted, she jerked her parasol upright. “If you had hired a carriage, sir, I wouldn’t have need of a parasol.”
“A carriage? Where the hell would I have found a carriage? Consider yourself lucky I didn’t make you ride a horse.”
Madolyn huffed, discomfited by his proclivity for treating her as though she had no sense at all. But of course she had been treated like that before. By every man she had ever known. Every man except Morley. Even when she was only ten, Morley had treated her as an equal.
“I’ll thank you not to swear in my presence, Mr. Grant.”
“There you go again. Thankin’ me for the impossible.”
She eyed him furiously.
Flicking the reins over the draft horses’ rumps, Tyler winked at her, turning her already-squeamish insides into a writhing mass of anxiety. She tried to think of a retort, but her brain seemed made of the same queasy mush as her stomach.
Tyler stared down the road, aggravated that he had broken his self-imposed aloofness. If he bickered with Maddie all the way to the ranch, he wouldn’t be prepared to confront Morley. Throughout the night he had tried to plan his strategy for approaching Morley about ’Pache Prancer, but every time he attempted to call forth an image of that honey-colored horse, he saw instead green-eyed Maddie Sinclair. By morning he had relived every image his brain had stored away of her, every word they had exchanged, every touch, every taste…
“Tell me about Morley, Mr. Grant.”
Tyler glanced around at the softening in her tone. Her eyes held his briefly, then skittered back to the road, where her gaze remained fixed on the dim trail. He studied her profile a moment, examined the parasol—rather, her grip on it.
He had figured it was t
he wind whipping the thing around, but now he saw differently. Maddie was shaking, trembling to be more exact. Damnation, was she afraid of him? What the hell had he done this time? Even handing her onto the wagon seat, he had taken care not to touch her in a familiar way. And he certainly hadn’t threatened her since they set out.
“Morley?” he repeated. “What about him?”
“He was sixteen the last time I saw him. He must have changed since then.”
Tyler grunted. “Count on it.”
“In what way?”
“Wait an’ see, Maddie,” he hedged. “Don’t let me ruin your surprise.” Then they rounded a curve, and Tyler figured Maddie’s surprises were about to commence.
Madolyn’s heart flew to her throat at sight of the slight figure who stepped into the roadway from out of nowhere. She gripped the seat with her free hand and gaped at the sight.
A barefooted creature, he wore baggy britches, topped by what looked like a brightly striped blanket. When he removed the oversized hat, she saw a tousle-haired boy of no more than fifteen. But the shotgun he held in his hand was aimed at them.
To be accurate, it was aimed at Tyler.
“Alto, tío. No puede pas—”
Madolyn’s mouth was as dry as the landscape looked. She stared from the boy to Tyler, who sat with no more than a bemused look on his face. Using a congenial tone she considered inappropriate for such desperate circumstances, he spit out a stream of words in Spanish. Madolyn checked to see how the boy took that, and was doubly alarmed to find him staring at her with an expression of unabashed curiosity.
After another exchange in Spanish, the boy stepped aside. Tyler clucked to the team.
“Adiós, Jorge.”
“Adiós, Tío Tyler.”
Mesmerized by the shotgun-wielding child, Madolyn kept the boy in her sights as they passed him by. “Who was that? What did he want? Why—”
“Don’t work yourself into a dither, Maddie. The kid’s name is Jorge; that’s Spanish for George, George Washington, to be exact. He’s guardin’ Morley’s livestock.”
“Livestock?”
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