Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  Samantha was confused. “I thought she wanted a baby.”

  “It’s not the baby she doesn’t want. It’s me.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second. Angie loves you.”

  “I always knew she’d leave. Maybe she used this thing to get done what she wanted to do all along.”

  “No, I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I know her better than that.”

  “She’s changed, Sam. Something in her has hardened against me. Everything I do is wrong now.”

  “Maybe you just don’t understand her.”

  “Well, you’ve got me there,” he growled. “I sure as hell don’t.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Samantha whispered.

  “Then you weren’t married long enough before Jared died. You probably didn’t have time to fight. I don’t think we fought much either in the first three years.”

  Samantha laughed softly. “You’re wrong. We had our things to fight about.”

  Lance scowled. “Like what?”

  “Jared was happy-go-lucky with everything, especially money, most of which was mine. We argued a lot actually.”

  “It never showed.”

  “I was too proud to let anyone suspect I’d made a bad bargain.”

  “Did you?”

  “It seemed so at times, but Jared taught me a lot of things I’m glad I know. And he gave me Nicholas. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

  Lance’s eyes narrowed; she guessed what he was thinking. “Yes,” she whispered, “Even though Nicholas has been sick, I’ve loved having him. Even if he dies, which is unthinkable and will break my heart and probably kill me, I’ll never regret having him and loving him.”

  Tears flooded her eyes. Lance pulled her into his arms. “You’re a brave little punchkin, Sam.”

  “I’m no longer a punchkin,” she said, protesting his use of a pet name he’d made up years ago after taking her to a Punch-and-Judy show.

  “You’ll always be a punchkin to me.” He kissed her temple and sighed. His warm breath on the side of her face filled her with happiness. She felt safe and secure for the first time in years.

  “I don’t want to be a punchkin to you. I want…”

  “What do you want, Sam?”

  “I want you. I know it’s too soon and I have no right. But I want…to be anything you want me to be.” She felt odd, as if she were parroting words she’d heard in her own dream.

  Before she could say anything more, he lowered his head and kissed her, and it was like the dream, only more unsettling. His touch disoriented her, made her want to cry. She couldn’t comprehend if it was love or relief or sadness—for what she didn’t know.

  Sam’s lips were soft. Her mouth opened under his probing, and he felt her tremble and move herself to accommodate him—whatever he wanted. Once she had adjusted to his kissing her, he slid his hands up her sides and cupped her full breasts. She trembled again, and he had the awful feeling he could read her mind, just as he had when she was little. He felt her struggle to accept his more intimate touching.

  He knew he was pushing her too fast. But, driven by his own demons, he slid his hand down and stroked her belly and thighs; she trembled violently, as if she could barely keep herself still under his touch.

  She was like a child, trusting him, forcing herself further and further to please him. Her acceptance and acquiescence inflamed him, filled him with lust and exultation. He wanted to take her there. To lift her skirts and…

  His mind flashed him a vision of himself driving into her, not caring who she was or what she meant to him. The image so horrified him that he dispelled it. He knew Chane had been right to warn him. This wasn’t love he felt. It welled up from the depths of him, and once loosed, would be no more controllable now than it had been with Colette.

  He ended the kiss and hugged Sam. Her cheeks were wet with tears that scourged him. He knew Sam loved him, and that he had trampled on that love. He knew that when she gave herself to him, everything needed to be right between them. And…dammit…it wasn’t.

  But his impulses were strong. Even her tears fed his lust. He wanted her on the ground, naked and crying, to receive his rage and lust and despair. But he still had control enough to realize that if he took her now, in the mood he was in, it would be an act of violation, not love.

  But the demons urged him to ignore that. They urged him to take her, to make it right later. All he had to do was give in to them and pretend he didn’t know what was coming. Pretend that he fully expected himself to court and marry Sam. But in all honesty, he didn’t know what he might do. And until he did—if he were going to face himself in the mornings and shave without taking the blade to his own throat—he had to wait.

  He took Sam by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “It’s late. We need to get some rest.”

  “Why?” she whispered, searching his face, no doubt wondering if she’d done something wrong.

  “Because if I don’t, I’ll do something unforgivable.”

  “You can’t. Nothing you can do will be unforgivable.”

  Lance gripped her shoulders and scowled down into her lovely face. “Then you don’t know me, Sam!” he growled in anger and despair. “I’ve done things…even I can’t live with.”

  His fierceness sent a thrill of excitement and fear up her spine. “I know it’s too soon to say this, but I love you, Lance. I belong to you,” she whispered. “I’ve always belonged to you.”

  Lance knew Sam was right about that. She had always belonged to him. She wanted him, but whether she realized it or not, everything had to happen in a certain order. Even for her.

  With a supreme effort, he turned her with firm hands and walked her back to the house. At the front door of her ridiculous house he stopped her and turned her to face him. She tried to put her arms around him, but he took them and put them at her sides.

  “Go upstairs and lock your bedroom door,” he growled.

  “Lance, I trust you.”

  “Don’t!” he said through clenched teeth. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Don’t trust me! And don’t let me into your room.”

  Samantha stepped close to him and tried to put her arm around his neck. “Lance…”

  She pressed against him, and lust was so strong in him he felt crazed by it. A voice within urged him to take her anyway. He took her hands and forced them down—and her away from him. “Dammit! I’m not fit to be trusted!” He turned and tramped down the steps.

  “Lance, where are you going?”

  “For a walk.”

  Samantha ran after him. “Are you coming back?”

  “I hope not.” Lance stalked across the yard and strode down the railroad tracks, walking fast. “If I do, shoot me.”

  She wanted to follow him, but she stopped. She knew Lance well enough to know that once he made up his mind, only a loaded shotgun would stop him. And only then if she used it.

  Samantha lay awake half the night, burning from the first real kiss he’d ever given her, tinglingly alive with emotions and dreams.

  Lance wanted her. His kiss had shown her how much, though he was too honorable to take her until after his divorce from Angie. But he had told her, or at least implied, that he might not be able to wait. She knew, with a certainty that amazed her, that he would be back. Probably unannounced and unexpected, but he wouldn’t be able to wait any more than she would. Next time things would be right between them. And then they would be married. She’d be safely home again, where she belonged. After long years of insecurity and struggle all her dreams were about to come true.

  She slept lightly and heard him come in just as the sky was turning pink. The hostess in her felt a strong need to rush downstairs to see that he found his room and everything he needed to be comfortable. But she had grown up with him and knew that he was perfectly capable of making himself comfortable. She might love him to distraction, but she had lived with him in the same house long enough to know that men, at least Kincaid men,
could take care of themselves when they had to. And Lance had ordered her to stay away from him.

  That thought caused her to smile. Lance wanted her. He wanted her so much that he had to walk the desert all night just to behave himself. A sense of power and euphoria fused into something very near ecstasy within her.

  She burrowed down under the covers and smiled into her pillow. Then her mind flashed on a picture of Steve, his expression grim, his eyes flashing with anger. Her smile turned into a grimace. Chane may have made Steve so angry he’d quit. When he got into his protective-brother mood, he could be very annoying.

  She might get up to find Steve on her doorstep, resignation in hand. That thought caused a sinking feeling somewhere deep inside.

  Usually, if she awakened before her alarm clock went off, she savored the warmth of her bed and the early dawn sounds of birds chirping, roosters crowing, hens clucking, and horses neighing.

  As a rule she could easily and deliciously slip back into sleep, but this morning slumber evaded her. The longer she lay there, the more tense she became. Finally she threw off her covers and sat up.

  Chapter Ten

  Samantha found Lance asleep on the sofa, fully clothed even to his brown leather boots, which looked white with fresh scuff marks and sand. She was standing over him, trying to decide if he’d want to be awakened for breakfast, when he opened one eye and caught her.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “That’s one woman’s opinion,” he rasped.

  “Are you going to be this cranky all day?” she said teasingly.

  “Hope not.” He groaned and sat up.

  “Breakfast is ready,” she said, turning away to give him some privacy. She hated waking up with anyone watching her.

  Nicholas met them in the hall. He attached himself to his uncle Lance, which precluded any chance of her getting to speak privately with him again.

  Chane returned from the work site in time for lunch. Samantha recognized Steve’s horse beneath Chane’s tall form and rushed down the steps to greet him, her heart beating faster in anxiety and dread.

  “So did you kill and skin him, or did he loan you his horse willingly?” she asked, trying for a humorous note.

  “It was like taking candy from a baby,” Chane said, grinning.

  “Lunch is ready,” she said, ignoring the bait he was dangling before her.

  “I checked the foundation they’ve poured and it seems to be in order, in case you were worried.”

  Samantha expelled the breath she’d been holding. “So they’ve got that much done?”

  “Moving right along. The foundation is well placed,” he said grudgingly.

  “How did Steve take it? Your going up there to check on him?” she asked cautiously.

  Chane grinned. “Took it like a man. Hardly showed his dander once. But I gigged him a little, just for good measure.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Oh, nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Chane! What did you do to my builder?”

  “Is that all he is?” he asked, quirking his eyebrows. “Your builder?”

  Samantha flushed.

  “‘My builder,’” Chane said, mimicking the tone the Kincaid males had used to tease the Kincaid females about their beaus fifteen years ago.

  Samantha took a swing at Chane. Laughing, he blocked her swing, caught her arms, and twirled her around so that she couldn’t hit him again.

  “What did you do to him?” Samantha whispered fiercely.

  Chane shrugged. “Just pointed out a thing or two that he could have done better.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, nothing you’d understand. It was just builder talk,” he said, grinning his enigmatic grin. She knew he wasn’t going to be pinned down, and it frustrated her enormously.

  Fortunately for Chane, Lance stepped out on the porch. Chane released Samantha’s arms, hugged her, and steadied her before letting go and focusing his attention on his brother.

  “You look like hell,” he said to Lance.

  “Not my fault. Sam made me sleep on the sofa. Remember that next time she comes to visit you.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  They both laughed. Chane took Samantha by the waist and guided her through the front door. “And now she won’t feed us, and we’re about to starve,” he growled.

  “You two are incorrigible,” she protested, laughing.

  Chane and Lance left shortly after lunch. Samantha stood on the porch beside Tristera and Nicholas and watched them board the palace car. She had wanted them to stay for dinner, but Chane was eager to get back to Jennie and Amy.

  The train left, and Samantha’s disappointment was sharp. She and Lance hadn’t had another chance to talk; Nicholas had stuck to his uncles like flypaper.

  She felt cranky about Steve, too. She worried about how Chane had affected him, and how he would respond when she told him that Lance was free now and threatening to court her. Not that it was any of Steve’s business…but they had kissed. And maybe those few kisses entitled Steve to expect certain things from her, like fidelity or something. But they’d made no commitment to one another.

  The train receded until it was the size of a toy. Regretfully she turned away and ran into the screen door, which someone had left open at an odd angle. “Damn!” she said, letting out an unaccustomed curse word.

  Tristera frowned her sympathy and concern. “Did I…?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Samantha said, forcing an even tone and turning away. Somehow everything was wrong. Finally Lance had come to her and let her know he wanted her, but her traitorous mind was busy worrying about Steve Sheridan.

  Purposefully and carefully she opened the door, walked through the house, and bolted up the stairs. Safely in her room at last, she lay down on her bed and let the tears come.

  All her life she had wanted only to have Lance’s love. Now, at last, she was within hope of reaching that goal. Lance had as good as told her he wanted her and would be back for her. So why was she crying?

  No answer was forthcoming. The tears continued flowing until Nicholas knocked on her door and demanded she come out and read his lessons.

  That evening after dinner, Tristera talked Samantha into playing the piano and singing duets with some of the songs she’d learned in “away” school.

  Shortly after sunset they were interrupted by one of Samantha’s riders coming back from town with the mail. Samantha thanked the rider and carried the single item of mail—a small, cheap envelope—to the table. There was no return address.

  Nicholas followed the rider outside.

  “Excuse me,” Samantha said to Tristera, as she tore off the end of the envelope. The letter was printed on cheap tablet paper in large, childlike letters.

  Mrs. Forrester,

  Steve Sheridan is a devil. Keep him away from your son. He will kill him and break your heart.

  A friend.

  “Someone’s idea of a bad joke,” Samantha said quietly. “Read this.” She handed the letter to Tristera.

  The girl read in silence. “Who sent this?” she asked, turning the letter and envelope over.

  “Sounds like a woman, doesn’t it?” Samantha asked, taking the note back and rereading it. “It has to be a woman.” That gave Samantha an odd feeling. She had never thought of Steve as having women in his past. But of course every man did. It was an unsettling thought, though. She tried, unsuccessfully, to fit what she knew about Steve to the message in the letter.

  “Do you suppose there could be any truth in this?”

  Tristera shook her head. “No. Do you?”

  “I don’t think so, but I wish Steve hadn’t just left. I want to show it to him. What do you think?”

  Tristera closed her eyes and fingered the letter. A vision came to her, but it was of Steve, his head bowed and bloody. He appeared in great pain. “I know not. But he is a great warrior, a good man.”

  While Samantha trusted her instincts
about Steve, the note had hit her weakest spot. “Do you think I have anything to fear from Steve? Where Nicholas is concerned?”

  “I have seen Señor Steve with Nicholas many times. I do not pretend to be an expert on white men, but I would swear that he would never hurt a child.”

  “Damn!” Samantha whispered. “Why couldn’t I have just married the man I loved years ago and been safe by now? All my friends from college did that. I’m the only one still hanging by a thread.”

  “You went to college? I thought only men did that.”

  Samantha shrugged. “I was fortunate. My guardian believes in educating women as well as men.”

  Samantha pondered the problem in silence. She wanted to show Steve the letter. It didn’t really alarm her, because she trusted her own and Tristera’s instincts about him. But if he didn’t ride down in a few days, she would ride up to the work site or send a man to fetch Steve.

  Ian Macready took over much of the supervision of the workmen, which left Steve free to concentrate on the coordinating and planning. Work went well. Only days after Ian’s arrival his bricklayers laid the first course of adobe around the basement perimeter.

  One afternoon a rider came with a note from Samantha Forrester. With quickened heartbeat, Steve opened the envelope and read the beautiful script. She needed to see him. Excitement vied with frustration.

  Every night since he’d ridden away and left her at the mercy of Lance Kincaid, Steve had agonized over just how far that relationship had progressed. Then he’d realized, after much more agonizing, that it was none of his business. But that didn’t stop the empty feeling around his heart.

  Steve had tried, unsuccessfully, to put Samantha out of his thoughts. Yet every night when he lay down, her face filled his mind. He saw her smiling down at Nicholas as she sang to him. He saw her lovely face gleaming softly after he’d kissed her, and then there would be no sleep for him. Just the thought of her set his blood beating with a stronger stroke.