Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  Would Steve care?

  Suddenly irritated, Samantha sat up in bed. “Listen to me, Steve Sheridan,” she said angrily, “I love Lance, and I’ll go to bed with him if I want to.”

  A knock came on the door. Startled, she grabbed her robe and ran to answer it. Malcomb’s quizzical face peered in the crack.

  “I thought I heard madam calling.”

  “No,” she said, flushing. “I was talking to myself.”

  Malcomb shuffled away. Samantha closed the door and leaned against it, hoping Steve hadn’t been hurt by that posse or gotten lost or killed.

  Lance couldn’t rest. His muscles felt tight. Usually on a Sunday he’d lie around the house and start to feel sleepy. But not today—all he could think about was Angie.

  He’d done a lot of thinking in the weeks since Angie had left him. And he’d realized that falling in love had never worked for him. He’d loved Lucinda, only to lose her. Then he’d loved Angie and lost her.

  Well, he’d gotten over ’Cinda—he could get over Angie. He trusted that. But still, night after night he had worked himself to exhaustion, only to go home and be haunted by her. To save what little sanity he still had, he had decided that the solution was to marry Samantha. He would propose to her tonight and marry her as soon as his divorce was final.

  He closed his eyes; Angie’s face appeared before him, her porcelain-smooth skin glowing, her small coral freckles perfectly positioned to make his lips long to kiss them. The vision of her, so still and perfect, caused a pang around his heart. Love seared him. Scalded him.

  Angie was an odd combination of toughness, sweetness, and fragility. She was soft as a kitten in some ways. Tough as catgut in others. And only she knew when she’d be which. He liked being kept a little off-balance by a woman. Part of him liked routine and knowing what to expect, but part of him liked her stubbornness and wildness and independence.

  One night they had gone to a party. She’d danced with other men, so he had danced with other women. After a while, he had looked for her and been told she’d left. He had gone looking for her, only to find her at home, naked and furious with jealousy. When he opened the door, she’d thrown a perfume bottle at him, barely missing. He’d tackled her and they’d made love the rest of the night. She had just the right amount of wildness and passion.

  Now the image he carried in his heart—of a fragile beauty with vivid, flashing dark eyes and shining, wheat-colored hair—tormented him nightly. She had slim fingers with perfect little oval fingerprints. Slim, golden, delicate feminine fingers. Hands so soft and fragile to the touch that he felt certain he could crush every bone in them with no trouble at all.

  But those same hands got strong when she wanted to do something with them. He’d never understood how that happened. They could be so soft and delicate to touch, and yet so powerful when she was working. He’d seen her lift and position the heaviest camera effortlessly.

  She could handle anything she wanted to handle. But she couldn’t handle his wanting a baby. Even when she didn’t have to do anything about it. Rage came up in him; he had the insane desire to throttle her.

  Instead he stood and walked into his office to the telephone he rarely used. He gave the operator his brother’s telephone number and waited until Malcomb answered.

  “Malcomb, this is Mr. Kincaid—Lance,” he said, clarifying.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “After you serve dinner tonight for Mrs. Forrester and myself, you and your staff may be excused.”

  “Why, thank you, sir,” Malcomb said, his thin voice registering his surprise.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Shall we stay to pick up the dishes, sir?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Does my brother happen to have a bottle of good wine in the cellar?”

  “A very nice one, actually. Tastes like rum punch. I think you had a bit of it at Christmastime.”

  “We’ll have that.”

  “This neckline is cut lower than I remembered,” Samantha said to Jennie’s maid, Amanda, who knelt beside her smoothing the blue silk princess gown that hugged Samantha’s slender waist and fanned out in gores to her ankles. Long blue velvet ribbons streamed from the poufed blue lace sleeves to her hem. She touched her diamond-and-sapphire pendant. The jewels glittered, and her breasts looked full and rosy in the light of the electric lamps on either side of the vanity.

  A knock at her door caused Samantha to turn from the mirror. “I’ll get the door,” she said, stepping around Amanda.

  She opened it to find Lance there, looking extremely handsome in a dark blue serge suit that showed off his broad shoulders and slim hips. His white shirt and collar gleamed brightly against darkly tanned skin.

  “I thought I’d save Malcomb a climb up the stairs,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, well, thank you. I’m ready.”

  Lance held out his arm for her. “You look beautiful in blue…any color for that matter.”

  The look in his eyes caused heat to flush her cheeks. “Why, thank you,” she said, her heart pounding against her suddenly dry throat.

  He walked her downstairs with unaccustomed gravity and seated her at the head of the table with himself on her right. She felt very much a queen, looking down the long, highly polished mahogany table, bare except for two place settings.

  Lance remained quiet while dinner was being served. Only after Malcomb and Amanda withdrew to the pantry did he speak.

  “Sam,” he began, a pained expression mottling his usually smooth brow, “I need to apologize to you for my behavior when I visited you.”

  “You don’t,” she whispered.

  “Yes, I do. I acted like a damned fool—”

  “Then I forgive you,” she said, interrupting him. “For anything and everything you think you did wrong.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Then Lance looked at her closely. “If we marry, will you come and live with me in Durango, where I work?”

  Caught off-guard by such bluntness, Samantha stammered. “Why…uh…yes, of course.”

  Lance digested that for a moment, then asked, “Do you think you might want to have another…uh…other children?”

  Surprised, Samantha put down her fork. “Why, yes. I suppose so.”

  They ate in silence for a moment. Then Lance took a bite of his dessert and swallowed it without chewing. “Sam, have you ever, or maybe I should say, do you now harbor a burning desire to be a career woman?”

  For the first time in his life, probably, he now sounded like an attorney. Samantha stifled the urge to smile. He was being so serious, uncharacteristically serious. “Why, no. I don’t think so,” she said carefully.

  Malcomb stepped into the room. “If that will be all, sir…?”

  “Thank you, Malcomb. Good night,” Lance said firmly.

  Malcomb bowed stiffly and backed out of the room. Lance stood abruptly and offered Samantha his arm. She looked from Malcomb’s retreating form to Lance’s hand, feeling like a woman who had missed a beat on the dance floor and was now hopelessly out of step.

  Confused, she stood, and Lance guided her to the veranda doors. He opened them and led her to the stone railing that enclosed the small patio, his hands firm and purposeful on her waist. Then he turned her; his eyes burned into hers.

  “You look stunning in that gown,” he said, his raspy voice barely more than a whisper.

  “So do you,” she said nonsensically.

  Still gazing intently into her eyes, he leaned down and brought his lips to her forehead. Her own eyes closed; she waited with heart barely beating. He kissed her lightly, first on the forehead, then on the cheeks. Being in his arms felt like a homecoming, but something vague and disquieting niggled in her mind, causing her to pull back.

  “Malcomb—” she began.

  Lance raised an eyebrow at her. “Has gone to bed,” he whispered, pulling her forcefully against the length of him.

  Sam was so different from Angie, who would have been as wild
and greedy as he. Sam was soft and richly endowed—and sweet as a child. He kissed her slowly, savoring the taste and texture of her mouth, the tremulousness of her body. He knew she was fighting the urge to stop him, to push his hands away from her breasts, praying they didn’t slip even lower. But knowing all that only inflamed him the more. He teased her nipples and reveled in her struggle for perfect submission. Knowing how difficult this was for her fed his lust.

  He remembered nights when she’d climbed into his bed for comfort. Long after he’d comforted her, he had lain awake, aching with the need to shove his young tool into something, anything, to cool the fires that her nearness had roused. He’d never touched Sam inappropriately then, because it had been unthinkable to him. She was a child then, even softer and needier than now.

  But she wasn’t a child now, for all the emotional similarities. She was a woman, opening her mouth and her legs to him. And he was the needy one now, too ravaged by Angie’s leaving to stop himself from taking the comfort Sam offered.

  Sam pushed against his chest. “What?” he asked.

  “I can’t do this,” she whimpered.

  “What’s wrong?” he rasped.

  “I don’t know,” she wailed. It didn’t make sense, because this was exactly what she had always wanted. But a sense of panic almost overwhelmed her.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  The sound was coming from the front door. Lance frowned and released her. “Stay right here,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

  She barely had time to catch her breath before he was back. “It’s a telegram. For you.”

  “Oh, no.”

  She ripped it open, saw the words, but at first her mind refused to read them. “It’s Nicholas,” she whispered.

  Lance took it from her and read it aloud. “‘Nicholas taken sick. Come at once. Juana.’”

  “Oh, God.” Juana was not a sophisticated woman. She would not think of a telegram unless something awful had happened. Panic gripped her. Tears streamed down her cheeks. And she knew suddenly that this was the moment she had dreaded all her life. This was the moment she had come to Arizona Territory to avoid.

  Lance insisted on going with her. They reached her house at midnight. Samantha could hear the wheezing from the front door.

  “Oh, God!” She groaned, cursing herself for leaving him. She ran all the way to the bedroom.

  “Señora! Thank the good Lord you’ve come,” Juana cried, wiping tears from her eyes.

  Lance stopped at the door of the sickroom. Samantha checked Nicholas and found his forehead hot to her touch. His fever was at least a hundred and four degrees. His nose ran. His eyes watered. He shook with chills. His breathing was labored.

  “Oh, baby, I shouldn’t have left you,” she whispered.

  Nicholas opened his eyes and then closed them again.

  Lance sniffed the air of the sickroom. “Sam, come here a minute.”

  Frowning, she turned and walked toward him.

  “Smell that?” he demanded. “He has measles. I can smell them.”

  “Measles!” Samantha said between ragged breaths.

  “Yes, measles,” he said, grinning. “They smell like red ants taste.”

  She turned to Juana. “Have you had measles?”

  “Sí.”

  Then to Tristera. “And you?”

  “Yes, it was the worst two weeks of my life. Four children at the school died.”

  “He’ll be fine. This isn’t wonderful news, but it’s better than I expected,” Lance said, backing out of the room. Samantha followed him outside.

  “Take care of my boy,” he growled, pulling her into his arms for a quick hug.

  “I will.”

  “I think he’ll be all right now that his mother’s home.” Lance rubbed her cheek with his hand. “In case you didn’t understand what was going on back there,” he said, tilting his head toward Phoenix. “I…uh…think…hope…that I proposed to you.”

  “You did?”

  “In my own clumsy way, yes.”

  Samantha frowned. “And what did I say?”

  “I think you said yes.”

  That jolted Samantha. “It wasn’t very romantic.”

  “I’m too old for romance, Sam. If there is one thing I’ve learned from my experiences in love, it is that life is too serious to take casually. I’ve tried romance. It doesn’t work.”

  “But…”

  “Trust me, Sam,” he said firmly. “I can be romantic later, after we settle our differences, if there are any.”

  “This feels too much like the last time you proposed to me.”

  Lance sighed. “Sam…”

  “Don’t say it. I’ve gone along with everything, because I love you. Really love you. But I—I,” she said, pausing to gather her courage, “I think you had better settle things with Angie before we consider ourselves engaged.”

  “I can’t settle things with Angie. She’s…” He stopped.

  Samantha frowned, guessing what he’d been about to say. “She isn’t dead, Lance. She’s angry.”

  The stubborn look was back in his eyes. Muscles writhed beneath the smooth, darkly tanned skin of his jaw.

  “She’s dead as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Lucinda is dead. Angie is alive and well and probably suffering.”

  Raw pain flashed deep in Lance’s eyes; she saw the reflection of it. Compassion for him ached through her. This was the Lance she loved. She longed to take him into her arms, but she resisted. “Lance, you need to talk this out with Angie. I won’t promise to marry you until you do.”

  “All right, Sam, but it won’t do any good. I don’t give any woman two chances at me.” Before she could reply, he turned and strode toward the waiting locomotive.

  Steve hadn’t returned. Samantha noted that fact with concern, but she was too busy taking care of Nicholas to think about anything the rest of that night. At first she had been as relieved as Lance, but as the disease progressed she worried anew. Measles often turned malignant, and after seeing how ill her son was, she realized they could be deadly to him, already weakened as he was by consumption.

  She sent Juana to bed to keep her from collapsing with worry. Then she and Tristera sat with Nicholas through the night, applying hot bran poultices to his chest to ease the breathing.

  The next afternoon, Samantha walked wearily to Nicholas’s window and looked out. From the north she saw a man on horseback riding toward the house. It was too far away to be sure, but it looked like Steve. Her heart leapt and began to beat faster.

  “Watch Nicholas for me,” she said to Tristera.

  “Sí,” she said, not looking up from the sleeping boy.

  Samantha slipped out of the room and hurried down the stairs. She stopped on the landing to look into the mirror and groaned at the disheveled image that looked back at her. She looked wan and tired. Hair straggled from her bun, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She pinched her cheeks, wet her lips, and tried to push some of the wisps of stray hair back into place. She couldn’t look worse!

  Finally she continued on down the stairs and out onto the porch. Steve dismounted at the house and started up the steps. His cheeks were dark with beard stubble, his hat and clothes coated with sand. In spite of it, or perhaps because of it, he exuded male power.

  “Better stop there,” she said, stepping out onto the porch.

  “That bad, huh?” he asked ruefully.

  “Have you had the measles?” she asked.

  “Years ago.”

  “Well then, I guess you’ll be safe here. Nicholas has measles.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said dryly. “How’s he doing?”

  Samantha ignored his jab at her. “Not good. He’s resting now, though.” She paused. “We’ve been worried sick about you and Ramon. What happened? Did the posse find him?”

  Steve’s eyes, hazel in the sunlight, seemed to shine with reflected light. His gaze flitted over her, causing her chest to tighten.
Her right hand stole up to rearrange her hair. She should have changed her gown. It was old and unattractive.

  “The posse didn’t find him, but I did. Ramon’s been shot. One of those bullets we heard caught him in the back.”

  “Oh, no! How bad?”

  “Bad enough. Fortunately for him, the bullet went all the way through. I took him to a safe place, then rejoined the posse. After they gave up, I bought supplies in town and took them back to Ramon. I stayed with him as long as I could. He’s doing better, but I’ll need to go back soon with more food.”

  “I thought you were wasting your time,” she whispered, ashamed.

  “I saved Ramon twice before. What made you think I couldn’t do it again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Steve had expected her to attribute the very finest motives to everything he did, but her eyes told him she’d had experiences with other men that had left her unsure of all men.

  Steve started past her. She reached out and touched his arm. She wanted to let go of his arm, but once touched…“Steve…I’m sorry.”

  He glanced down at her hand on his arm. It was slim and beautiful—and seemed to gleam with the same shimmer as her bewitching face. Her touching him triggered a sudden release of rage, like steam, into his blood.

  “Do I look like a house cat to you?” he snarled.

  “What do you mean?” Samantha asked, her lovely face flushing with embarrassment, her hand wavering, then dropping to her side.

  Steve glanced quickly around to see if anyone was watching, then he grabbed her wrist, dragged her into the parlor, and kicked the door closed.

  “Just what I said,” he growled. “Do I look like a damned pet, that you can flaunt your lover in front of me, spend the weekend with him, and then pet me a few times and I’ll forget?”

  The sharp light in his khaki eyes told her he was furious. His hands held her arms above the elbows, immobilizing them. Such heat had come up in him that she felt it arcing the short distance between his body and hers.

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Yes, you did,” he growled. “You aren’t a child, Samantha Forrester. You know what you’re doing to me. And to him. We’re both dancing to your tune.”