She stepped inside and took a deep breath of the moist, woodsy air. It was like walking into a roomful of beloved friends. She needed flowers. To her, a house without plants was a house without life.
“Are you all okay?” she asked them. To her immense relief, she found Juana had done a good job of keeping everything watered. She walked down the aisle between the two rows of tiered wooden shelves, stopping to pinch a dead leaf or speak to a blossom.
“Good job, Juana,” she whispered.
South of the greenhouse, on the same side of the barn, the workshop where she sculpted was open to the elements under a high shed. It had fared less well. The storm had blown sand onto her modeling tools, the canvas covering her wet clay—everything.
She lifted the canvas. The clay she’d brought down from the mountain last month was still damp and pliable beneath its soaked canvas cover. I must be the only person in the world who has to water dirt, Juana had grumbled good-naturedly. She didn’t understand why a woman with money would take on a whole passel of chores where it wasn’t necessary, but Samantha knew Juana took an odd, complaining sort of pride in her mistress’s many interests and oddities.
In the barn, Samantha checked each of her horses, stopping longest beside Brickelbush, her favorite. “How are you, boy? Did you miss me?”
Brickelbush snorted and nuzzled her hand. She reached into her pocket for sugar, felt only the cold metal bullets she’d put there earlier and brought her hand out empty. “Sorry, boy. It was a rough trip home.” She patted his head and stroked his long, silky neck. The smell of her barn reminded her of the livery stable at Picket Post…and Steve Sheridan.
On the porch she stopped and checked her bird feeder. It was quiet for the moment, unattended by the hundreds of birds who regularly stopped to eat the seed she ordered from a Chicago catalog company. The feeder, one of the few earthenware pieces she hadn’t glazed, was half full.
The parlor smelled of sand and chili. From the kitchen, the clatter of dishes and the sounds of Juana and Tristera talking gave her a good feeling. She liked her house filled with the smells of good food and the sounds of happy people. She loved harmony, cleanliness, and order. Unfortunately it was rarely attained in this house. If only Steve Sheridan had agreed to stay and build her a real house…
They had to travel slow. It took three hours to cover less than ten miles. Near sunset, Steve got his first glimpse of Samantha’s house—a two-story, New England–style cottage set at the foot of an Arizona mountain.
He shook his head at the sight. Samantha Forrester had done all the wrong things. For starters, this desert fairly cried out for adobe at least two feet thick, and she’d built a toothpick house under a mountain that looked precarious as hell. And then…
And then nothing, he told himself abruptly. What Samantha Forrester did or did not do was none of his concern. He hoped he could remember that.
Next to the trickling creek, a family of Indians had erected tepees using government canvas instead of buffalo or antelope hides. This signified either a more civilized or a poorer Indian. They were dressed like Papago, who had adopted European-style shirts, pants, dresses, skirts, and blouses. Steve peered at the faces of the women and children who stepped outside to watch them ride slowly past.
Nearby, a dozen horses grazed. Two sheepdogs slept in the shade of a tree. Ricos, Steve thought. Rich Indians. Steve suddenly understood when he saw the tall warrior step out of the tepee to stand with one hand on each woman’s shoulder. Steve recognized Silver Fish, whom he’d seen leaving the papagueria—the Papago Indian Reservation—the day he’d arrived. According to Crows Walking, Silver Fish was a hero to the reservation Indians. He stole horses and cattle from the whites, and they never caught him.
Steve nodded at Silver Fish, who showed by the slightest flicker of his narrowing eyes that he acknowledged the greeting. Steve led Sender up the long incline toward the house, which sat between an enormous barn and a locomotive turntable with its own train shed. Railroad tracks stretched to the south, gleaming in the sunlight. Apparently Samantha Forrester was better connected than he’d thought. She had a spur line practically to her front door. As they climbed the gentle hill and neared the house, he saw that the train shed was empty. At least her palace car hadn’t beaten her home.
At the front porch, Steve halloed the house. Nicholas’s face appeared at the window, and he let out a yell.
“Hey, Mama, it’s Mr. Sheridan and Sender!”
Footsteps sounded on the wood floors. Samantha Forrester opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.
“Mr. Sheridan…” Her cheeks flushed with rosy color. She looked from Steve to Sender, and her color quickly faded. “Bring him in, please.”
Sender swayed in the saddle a bit melodramatically. Steve helped him down and supported him on one side. Samantha rushed down to support the other, and together they half carried Sender up the steps. Steve saw a Mexican woman poke her head out and rush back into the house. “Juana, get the medicine box,” Samantha called after her. “And bring a clean sheet. We’ll put him on the sofa.”
The house was richly furnished, but what piqued Steve’s interest was the lack of family pictures on the walls. Every house he’d been in since leaving the pueblos was cluttered with family photographs.
“Did your family’s home burn down?”
“No. Why?”
“You don’t have any photographs.”
“Oh.” Samantha avoided his eyes. “Not everyone worships at the hearth of a family tree.”
“I suppose not.”
Samantha turned away. She didn’t know Steve Sheridan well enough to tell him she had no photographs of her parents, because she hated them.
Juana waddled back into the room and spread a quilt over the sofa’s heavy leather cushions. Unlike the dainty Louis XIV sofas that were all the rage back East, and about as useful to a tired or wounded man as tickets to the opera, this one looked comfortable. Steve eased Sender onto it; the young man closed his eyes in gratitude.
“What happened to him?” Samantha asked, straightening to face Steve.
He took her by the elbow and led her out of Sender’s hearing. “He happened onto rustlers. One of them took a shot at him and left him for dead.”
Rage flared in her lovely eyes. “Those rotten…I don’t mind about the cattle, but why do they have to shoot my people? This is twice now. Last time the young man died. He was only twenty-three years old.” Emotion thickened her voice, and she turned away. “I shouldn’t be standing here. He needs help.” Samantha walked out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a pitcher of water, a bowl, a towel, and a box of medical supplies. Steve pulled up a chair for her. She nodded her thanks and sat down beside Sender.
“Juana sent a man for the doctor,” she said quietly to Sender. “He’ll be here soon, but in the meantime…” She gently cleaned around the wound, then wrapped it with clean, boiled cotton strips. “You look awfully peaked, Sender.”
“I’d give my saddle for a biscuit.”
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
Sender looked puzzled. “Pretty sure I ate on Friday before I was shot.”
Distressed, Samantha rushed from the room.
Sender motioned Steve closer. “What day is this?”
“Sunday.”
“No wonder I’m a bit puny. Mighty fine woman, Mrs. Forrester,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to upset her. They coulda just run me off, but they wanted me daid. On Friday I happened onto our ramrod with two of those rustling scalawags who work for the Dart spread. In case Bush kills me, I wanted someone to know.”
Samantha walked back into the room with a bowl of soup. She sat down beside Sender, scooped up a spoonful of the warm liquid, and offered it to him. Sender was so embarrassed at having a beautiful woman hand-feed him that he choked up and wouldn’t open his mouth. Steve had to take the bowl from her and lead her aside.
“What?”
“He�
�s just a boy. His nervous system isn’t set up to accommodate such intimate attention from a beautiful woman.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Would you like some soup, Mr. Sheridan?”
“I wasn’t blessed with Sender’s good sense.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I suppose you’re going to get back on your horse and leave again?” Steve watched the smile fade from her pretty blue eyes. He got the feeling that if he stayed around a little longer, he might figure out what she really looked like behind the dazzle.
“As much as I hate it, I guess I do have to be going.”
“Hallo the house!”
Steve glanced outside. Ham Russell and five of his henchmen sat a few feet from the porch.
“I can’t believe he would have the gall to come here after what he did in town,” Samantha said, stalking to the front door. Tristera rushed from the kitchen, flashed Steve an alarmed look, and followed Samantha outside. Steve decided to remain out of sight, just in case he was needed. From outside, he heard Samantha’s voice, cool and haughty and completely in control.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Russell?”
“We were just riding by and wondered if you might need some help clearing the trash off your creek banks.”
“Trash?”
“Seen about a dozen Indians camping down there.”
“Silver Fish and his family work for me, Mr. Russell.”
“Work for you? What the blazes you doing here—starting a new reservation?”
“I hire whom I please, Mr. Russell.” Samantha let her gaze flit over the scruffy lot riding with him. “I see you do, too.”
Russell’s face reflected sudden anger. “Us being neighbors and all, I thought we was friends, but you ain’t treatin’ me like a friend, Mrs. Forrester.”
“Anyone who’d rope one of my hands and drag him behind a horse doesn’t deserve to be treated as a friend, Mr. Russell.”
“Now, that was a little fracas between Ramon and me. Wouldn’t expect that to affect us.”
“You would be wrong, then, Mr. Russell.”
Russell scowled. “Temper is a downfall with me, Mrs. Forrester. I have to admit that.”
“Good day, Mr. Russell.”
But Ham wasn’t ready to leave. He had come miles out of his way to get a glimpse of that little redheaded gal. He wanted to spend time with her, to somehow get her to stop looking at him as if he were a tomato worm.
Grover Bush walked around the side of the house, saw them, and turned to leave.
“Mr. Bush,” Samantha called after him.
“I need to be getting back to my…” He headed back around the side of the house.
“Mr. Bush!”
He stopped. “Yeah?”
“Please escort these gentlemen to our property line. They have concluded their business here.”
Bush looked from Ham Russell to her. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I didn’t sign on as a gunfighter. And I ain’t being paid a fighting wage.”
Samantha flushed with embarrassment. He was right, of course, but it seemed a cowardly excuse.
Ham Russell snickered as Bush walked away, then he slid out of his saddle and started up the steps. To Samantha’s immense relief, Steve Sheridan opened the door and stepped outside, her shotgun in the crook of his right arm.
“You boys don’t look bulletproof to me,” he said.
“Son of a bi—”
“Would you mind spelling that for the lady?” Steve interrupted, lifting the shotgun slightly, so it pointed straight at Russell’s chest. “Why don’t you boys just climb back aboard and see how fast you can hightail it on home?”
“Well,” Russell said, looking angrily from Samantha to Steve, “what do we have here?”
The implication was obvious in the tone of his voice. Steve pumped the shotgun. “Unless you want to look like you’ve been catching cannonballs with your midsection, you’d better mount up, turn that horse, and move it.”
“Hell, we can take him,” said Roy Bowles, spitting tobacco into the dust.
Halfway up the steps, Ham Russell looked as though he just might call Steve’s bluff. At that moment Ramon stepped around the side of the house and leveled his shotgun at Bowles.
“Reckon I shoulda killed you when I had the chance,” Bowles growled.
Ramon pumped his shotgun. “Maybe I should take that as advice myself, señor.”
Russell turned to Sheridan. “You planning on staying in these parts?”
“I’ll stay as long as I want to.”
“Uh-huh. In that case, maybe you better remember that you ain’t bulletproof, neither.” Russell turned and mounted. Their horses kicked up a dust cloud as they galloped away.
Steve glanced at the house and saw Sender’s pale face behind the window glass. He walked to the door and opened it. “Were they the ones who shot you?”
“Nope.”
Steve searched the young man’s face, decided he was either telling the truth or the best liar he’d ever met. “You don’t look strong enough to be standing up,” he said.
Sender nodded. Steve closed the door and walked over to Ramon, who had sagged against the side of the house in immense relief.
“Guess you’ve earned your pay for this month,” Steve said, grinning at the look on the young man’s face. Ramon was probably the feistiest scared man he’d ever seen.
“Maybe I’ve just repaid the help you gave me in town, señor.”
“Fair enough,” Steve said. A smart man knew when to be afraid. A courageous man didn’t let that stop him from doing what needed to be done. Ramon’s willingness to step forward meant a lot to Steve.
Suddenly Samantha sat down on the top step. Steve walked over and sat down beside her. “You lead an exciting life for a widow woman.”
Samantha flinched—she hated the term “widow woman”—and then smiled. “You don’t do too badly yourself.”
“Just since I met you. I used to lead the quiet life of a gentleman builder.”
“I can’t believe Mr. Bush just ignored my request to see them off my property. I should have fired him on the spot. But then who would ramrod my ranch? It isn’t that easy to find a good man.”
Steve had an opinion about that, and now that he believed Sender Thompson was going to tell her that he’d seen Bush with the rustlers, he no longer had a reason not to give it to her.
“Sender thinks he was shot because he saw Bush with two men driving a small herd of your cattle.”
Samantha paled. Her wide blue eyes searched his. “Why didn’t he tell me this?”
“Maybe for the same reason he couldn’t eat soup out of your spoon.” Steve smiled at her, and for a moment Samantha lost herself in those wonderfully expressive eyes. Of its own accord, her hand reached up to his face. At the touch of his warm, slightly moist skin, she realized what she was doing and how it must look.
“I…thought you had…a…” She lapsed into silence, flushing at how easily she could get herself into trouble with this man whose skin she longed to touch…again and again…
“Get it off then,” he said, assuming it was a bug.
“It’s…” Her heart pounded at the obvious lie.
“Go ahead. Hit it if you have to. I’ll be still.”
Suddenly the thought of pretending to slap a nonexistent bug off him caused her to feel foolish. But, even though she felt ridiculous, she knew she was going to go along with it.
“Go ahead, before it bites me.”
“It’s gone,” she fibbed.
“What was it?”
Samantha was saved by Grover Bush, who came tramping around the side of the house leading a gray mare. A dozen riders followed him, stopping a few feet from the house to watch.
“I took that as a firing,” Bush said simply.
“If I were a man, I’d horsewhip you until your hide wouldn’t hold water,” she said. “Sender Thompson saw you with the men who’re rustling my cattle. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. Where I co
me from men don’t ride both sides of the fence and get away with it.”
Bush’s face turned red. “You go telling lies like that about me and your being a woman won’t save you. I won’t stand for it!”
Steve rose beside her. “Keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Bush, or I’ll shoot it off and shove it down your lying throat.”
Bush turned white around the mouth. He looked at the men who had followed him around the side of the house. “This is a frame!”
Steve counted it as significant that the men stayed silent and watchful, none of them murmuring their support.
The front door opened, and Sender Thompson, white-faced and shaking from the effort to stand, groped his way outside and leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re a lying coyote, Bush. I seen you with them rustlers. That’s why they tried to kill me. So’s I wouldn’t come back here and tell the truth about what you and them’re doing to a fine widow woman.”
Samantha cringed. She had thought that once her husband had been dead a year, she could revert to being a single woman without having to marry another man just to get rid of the title.
An angry murmur interrupted her thoughts. The other riders were beginning to turn against Bush. His face flushed red; he looked like a man about to burst a blood vessel.
“If I were you, Bush,” Steve said, loud enough for all to hear, “I’d beat it out of Arizona Territory, because the next time Mrs. Forrester goes into town she’s going to talk to the marshal. I reckon there’ll be a warrant out for your arrest shortly—and for the men who shot Sender Thompson.”
Bush gave up the charade, turned his horse, and dug his spurs into its flanks. “Damned liars!” he yelled over his shoulder.
Steve watched until Bush was out of sight, then looked quickly at Samantha. She was so angry her face was pink. An ache of compassion started low in his spine. It shouldn’t be so hard for a woman. If he were free, he’d stay on until she could find an honest man to help her. But under the circumstances he might just bring more trouble down on her.
Adobe Palace Page 15
