A Lady of the West by Linda Howard
The river was about a mile from the house, a broad, shallow ribbon that glittered and gulped. “Why wasn’t the house built closer to the river?” she asked. She thought it would have been the sensible thing, to be close to a water supply. There was a small creek that ran just behind the house, but it would disappear in dry weather.
“See how shallow it is? It floods every spring from the runoff.” He pointed to the north, on his left. “See that stand of cottonwoods on the riverbank? The river is about waist deep there. That’s where we take our baths, in the summer, anyway.”
The men bathed in the river? She felt ashamed of her ignorance, for she had assumed that they had bathtubs for their convenience. If she had thought, she would have realized that it would have been a never-ending job to haul and heat enough water for as many men as worked on the ranch.
“How many men are there?”
“A little over a hundred.”
“That many? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Only about half of us are at the hacienda at any given time. The others are out at line shacks or on the ranch. The ranch is over half a million acres.”
She was astounded by the size. No one had bothered to tell her before, and she was too shy to ask, in case it sounded like avarice on her part. But she had trusted Jake enough, and what he’d told her boggled her imagination. The thought of being surrounded by so much space frightened her, but she also felt a sense of exhilaration. She looked back in the direction from which they’d come, but the hacienda was hidden from view by both a thick stand of trees and the lay of the land. Except for Jake, she was alone, more alone than she could ever remember being before. There was the sun and the earth, the river, the wind, the magnificent horse beneath her, and it felt wonderful. She couldn’t wait until she could begin riding on her own, and said as much.
He snorted. “Woman, use your common sense! You can’t go riding out here alone, not ever.”
She started to snap that she’d do whatever she pleased, but her common sense did indeed assert itself as she realized he knew much more about this wild, beautiful land than she did. So she said calmly, “Why?”
“The hacienda has been here for a long time, but that doesn’t mean the land is civilized. If you get tossed off out here and your horse runs away, it means a helluva lot more than walking a half-mile to a neighbor’s house. There aren’t any neighbors. There are bears, mountain lion, and snakes to watch out for. Not only that, there are occasional Indian raids on the cattle, though it isn’t as bad now that the Navaho are on the reservation. They’d steal your cattle while you were looking at them. There are drifters wandering through, and some of our own men aren’t fine, upstanding citizens, in case you haven’t noticed. It wouldn’t do for you to be caught out here on your own.”
“When will you have Emma’s and Celia’s horses trained? Then I’ll be able to ride with them.”
“Celia’s horse has been ready, but I haven’t told her because she’d be hell-bent and determined to take off on her own.” They shared a look of complete understanding, and Jake smiled ruefully. “She’s already been pestering me to let her ride astride like a man.”
Victoria looked horrified. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her her skirts would get in the way, and she’d have to ask you for permission anyway.” His eyes were bright with amusement.
“Thank you very much,” she said tartly, but couldn’t help smiling. “What about Emma’s horse?”
“Miss Emma’s gelding won’t be any trouble, either. It was just this lady I was worried about.”
“She’s behaving perfectly.”
“So she is. It makes me nervous.”
Victoria threw back her head and laughed, exposing her white throat and dislodging the hat; it dangled down her back, suspended by the cords from her neck. Still chuckling, she reached back to retrieve it.
Jake couldn’t stop looking at her; she was so bright and happy, the way she should be. He felt that odd clenching in his chest again, then it eased into a throb.
He reined in and dismounted. She stopped laughing and looked at him in surprise as he came around and lifted her from the saddle. She grabbed at his shoulders, trying to stiffen her arms and hold herself away from him, but he let her slide down his body until her boots touched the ground. Her habit skirt caught on the buckle of his gunbelt, exposing her white petticoat. Her face flamed and she tried to jerk backward, but his hands were still on her waist and he pulled her against him as he bent his head.
He wasn’t rough with her. His mouth was warm, the intrusion of his tongue slow and sweet. Victoria trembled, but she had experienced his kiss before and the temptation to know it again was too powerful. Her arms went around his neck and she welcomed the penetration of her mouth with shy, uncertain movements of her tongue against his. He shuddered, his arms tightening around her, and wonder filled her that she could make this man, dangerous as he was, feel the same hot, uncontrollable pleasure he aroused in her.
He stroked his hands up her back, and she arched into him like a cat. Jake quickly took advantage of the instinctive offering of her body and closed his hand over her breast. Victoria jerked, her eyes flying open. No one had ever touched her there; she tried to tear away from him, but he easily controlled the motion and continued his gentle caress.
“Stop!” she whispered. His hand burned her breast even through the layers of clothing, eliciting a shameful tightening in her nipple. She knew she shouldn’t let him do this, knew she should never enjoy it, but she did. The hot pleasure intensified and a soft moan caught in her throat.
He reached up and removed his hat, then let it drop in the dust beside them. The sun glinted on the green in his narrowed eyes. “Why do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice low and rough. His breathing was fast, his body taut.
“It isn’t right.” The excuse sounded feeble even to her own ears, but it was the excuse that had been drummed into her since the day she had gone to long skirts and left childhood behind. She had never before imagined that it would be so weak against the impulses of her own body.
Jake’s expression didn’t change as he stared down at her. “It doesn’t get any lighter, sweetheart.” The truth in his own words struck him. He had held a lot of women, but none had felt as perfect in his arms as she did; none of them had made him feel at home. It was amazing how he could feel both so comfortable and so aroused at the same time.
“We have to stop.” She knew she should withdraw her arms from around his neck and push him away, but there was something so primitively satisfying in standing there in the bright sun, in his arms, feeling the heat of his body and inhaling the scent of his skin, that she couldn’t bring herself to step away.
“In a minute.” His voice had roughened again, and her heart jumped as he bent toward her. Her strength was washed out on the tide of warmth that filled her, and her head fell back. He trailed biting kisses down her exposed throat, then back up to her mouth. He touched her other breast, and the same tingling assailed her again. A heavy ache began forming deep in her lower body; she squirmed unconsciously, her hips writhing against his, and he made a rough sound as he dropped his arm to circle her hips and grind her into him, rubbing the hard ridge of his manhood against her soft mound.
It had been nasty with the Major. With Jake, she wanted only to cling, blindly seeking more of this fevered pleasure. Her hands slid up into his sun-warmed hair, and she pressed her palms against his head to hold it down where she could take more of his kisses. His taste was heady, a mixture of coffee and tobacco, and his breath filled her, a mingling no less intimate than that of his tongue probing hers.
Sophie shifted impatiently, bumping into them. Jake raised his head. “You sorry jackass,” he said hoarsely.
Victoria was breathing in fast gulps. She stepped back, her hands pressed to her face. In another minute she would have been lying down in the dust for him. That sure knowledge was so at odds with the way she had always thought of herself t
Dear God. She loved him.
She had always thought the state of love required long acquaintance with someone, a sure knowledge of personality and a basis of friendship. Now she knew that it could be forged from a base of lust, that liking wasn’t necessary and that long-held standards crumpled before it.
His hair was tousled, his lips swollen, and his expression hard as he still dealt with his own arousal. He leaned slowly down to pick up his hat, as if every movement had to be careful. After he adjusted it on his head, he said, “I’ll be damned if I apologize.”
“No,” she agreed in a whisper.
“It won’t be the last time.” He reached out and trailed one finger down her pale cheek. “You’re gonna be my woman, but it won’t be in the dirt, with the sun burning this pretty white skin. We’ll be in bed, Victoria, with the door locked, and we won’t have to worry about anyone interrupting.”
The years of her mother’s training shouted at her to deny his arrogant assumption that she was his for the taking, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t lie to herself, couldn’t hide behind strictures that no longer held sway out here in this rough, wild land. She wanted him; she wouldn’t pretend otherwise, even though it wouldn’t, couldn’t, happen.
She moaned inwardly and managed to whisper, “I can’t. I’m married.”
“Married!” He hissed the word. “You’re married to a whoring, murdering bastard. How do you think he got this hacienda? Do you think he paid for it? He murdered the family it belonged to, the Sarratts; he raped Elena Sarratt before he put a bullet in her head. That’s the man you want to be faithful to, the man who was in a whore’s bed the day after you married him.”
His words were like blows. Nausea twisted her stomach and she stumbled to her knees, bent over from the waist, gagging and heaving.
His face grim, Jake got his canteen and tugged his handkerchief free from his throat, then poured water over it. After capping the canteen, he knelt beside Victoria and gently wiped her face. She took the handkerchief and pressed it to her cheeks, trying to deal with the sickness that still roiled in her at the thought of such a man touching her. “How do you know about that family—the Sarratts?” she finally asked in a muffled voice.
“Word gets around.” He held the canteen out to her. “Take a drink of water.”
She swished water around in her mouth before spitting it out on the ground, then drank. She should be mortified, vomiting and spitting in front of a man, but somehow that seemed a petty concern after what Jake had just told her. She lifted her head and stared at him with shadowed eyes. “I can’t stay here,” she said flatly. “I’ll get Emma and Celia and leave. I can’t stay in the same house with him.”
Jake cursed at the idea of her leaving. “No,” he said.
She clutched his arm. “But I can’t stay.”
“You have to stay. I’m here, Victoria. I’ll take care of you.”
“What can you do? You’re not in that house with him, you don’t have to take your meals with him and look at his face, listen to him—”
“It won’t be for much longer,” he said. He hadn’t wanted to tell her that much, but she had reacted more strongly than he’d anticipated to the truth about her husband.
Her dazed eyes focused on him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ve heard some rumors, and that’s all I can tell you. Trust me, Victoria. Stay. I’ll take care of you.”
His green eyes burned into hers. For a moment she was as frightened of him as she was sickened at the thought of the Major; there was something hard in his eyes, as if he would stop at nothing to get his way. Yet he was the man she loved, dangerous as he was. If she left, she might never see him again. Pain clenched her heart at the thought.
“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll stay.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
She could barely look at the Major that night at the dinner table. The food was tasteless in her mouth. She couldn’t stop thinking what Jake had told her about her husband raping and killing that poor woman. She was cold with revulsion, her thought processes slowed by the grisly images that occupied her mind as plainly as if she’d actually seen it happen.
She took a sip of water. “This is an old house. Who owned it before you?” As soon as she heard the words she was appalled at herself. Why had she said that? Shock was making her stupid.
McLain stiffened and his ruddy face turned a curious gray color. “Why do you ask? Who’s been talkin’ about it?”
The only thing she could do now was pretend casual curiosity. She was aware of Emma’s sharpened interest, but didn’t dare look at her cousin. “No one. I was just wondering about the house. How old is it?”
He looked around the room with furtive eyes, as if assuring himself there was no one lurking in the shadows. “I don’t know. You sure no one said anything about it?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s Spanish missionary architecture, isn’t it? It’s lovely, and it must be at least two hundred years old. Don’t you know?”
McLain took one more quick look around the room. No one had been talking about it; hell, there wasn’t anyone left alive who knew about it except for Garnet, Quinzy, and Wallace, now that Roper had given Pledger his entry into hell. She was only asking because the house was old; Southern aristocrats like her put a lot of stock in old things.
“It’s about that, I guess,” he muttered, and wiped his forehead with his napkin.
“What was the name of the family who owned it before?”
“I don’t remember.” He said it too quickly.
Juana had entered with Lola to clear the table and heard Victoria’s question. She shot the Major a hate-filled look and said, “Sarratt, señor. The family’s name was Sarratt.”
He bolted to his feet, his face flushing with rage. “Don’t mention that name to me, you goddamn bitch!” he roared, sweeping his plate to the floor with a quick motion of his thick arm. “Get out! I’ll kill you! Goddamn it, I’ll teach you to meddle in things that’re none of your goddamn business—”
Juana ducked as he reached for her, but he grabbed her arm and slapped her across the face with all his considerable strength. Lola shrank back, her fists crammed against her mouth to keep her wails stuffed inside. Juana was screaming and would have fallen from the force of the blow if he hadn’t been holding her by the arm. Celia shrieked, her face white, and Emma was rising to her feet.
Icy rage exploded in Victoria. She could gladly have struck her husband down in that moment had she the means at hand. She lunged forward as he lifted his arm to strike Juana again and caught him by the wrist, her fury giving her sufficient strength to thwart him. “Mr. McLain!” Her voice was cold and ferocious. Her blue eyes looked almost colorless as she stared at him, like ice pools around tiny pinpoints of black.
For a moment she thought he would strike her, too, he was so enraged at being balked in his intention to punish Juana. He turned on her with a snarl, but she stood her ground, her face white and her jaw set.
He froze, staring at her as the red color drained from his face. Slowly he let his arm drop.
“How dare you.” She had to push the words through her clenched teeth; they were scarcely more than a hiss. “Those are neither the words nor acts of a gentleman. You have shamed and embarrassed me.” Instinctively, she settled on the attack that would hit him at his most vulnerable point, his pretensions of respectability. Puny though it was, it was the only weapon she had against him.
He reddened again and darted a look at Emma and Celia, who were both staring at him in horror. Damn! The way the girl was looking at him now, she wasn’t likely to let him get close enough to touch her, much
It was all that Mex bitch’s fault, throwing up the Sarratts to him, making him lose control. If he’d ever been able to find the hole that snot-nosed Sarratt whelp had crawled into when he died, he’d have spit on the carcass. But maybe he wasn’t dead … He thought of the knife in his library again, which reminded him of that flashing knife and the boy’s hate-filled eyes.
He felt as if his skin were swelling, as if he might burst. He looked at the silently accusing women, and their stares were like more knives, flashing in the darkness. He whirled and stormed from the room, walking so quickly he was nearly running.
Juana’s sobs were quiet but they echoed in the silence left by McLain’s exit. Victoria put her arms around the girl. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Juana sobbed brokenly.
“Are you hurt?” Victoria asked.
The question affected Juana strangely. She gulped her sobs, raised her bloodshot eyes to meet Victoria’s concerned gaze and said in an unsteady voice, “He’ll hurt you.”
“No, he will not.” Victoria straightened, her blue eyes fierce. Things had changed; she wouldn’t tolerate that monster’s presence in her bedroom if he did happen to try … that again. She would scream the house down, she would vomit if he dared touch her. She would leave, take her family and leave in the morning.
But Jake had said to stay. He’d said he would take care of her. He had said it might not be for much longer.
What had he meant? That he was making plans himself to take them away from here?
The thought terrified her, but she knew she would take the chance. Running away with another man would brand her forever no matter what the circumstances were or the fact that her husband was a murderer. She would be ostracized from polite society, and the thought of it made her go cold, but what did that mean out here? Not as much as the thought of Jake. He frightened her, he infuriated her, but he made her feel so alive that she ached with the force of her own blood coursing through her body. To be with him without the benefit of marriage would cast her soul into mortal danger; to be without him would condemn her to death in life. He had become more important to her than her own life, and that, more than anything else, was what frightened her.