by Nan Ryan
This is to certify unequivocally that I, Barrett McClain, did on my wedding night take the precious virginity of my bride, Angie Webster McClain. My last will and testament is now and forevermore in effect upon this most holy consummation.
It was signed, Barrett McClain. Asa lowered the paper and looked down at the grinning old man. Questions filled his head, but he remained silent, as did Punch Dobson. Both signed and dated the document and handed it back to the beaming bridegroom.
“Will that be all, sir?” Punch was edging backward toward the door.
“Yes, yes, get out of here, boys.” Barrett waved them away with the witnessed paper. “I need to get to my wife. She’ll be wanting me to crawl atop her again,” he said chuckling wickedly.
Nodding, Asa followed Punch into the corridor and groaned inwardly when Barrett said from behind him, “You men take up your places outside these doors again. I know you’re tired, but I don’t want my bride and me to be disturbed. Perhaps late this afternoon when I’ve had my fill …” He slammed the door after them, still chuckling.
Barrett slipped back into the master suite, past the bed to his desk. He placed the witnessed codicil on top of the will and hurried into his big bathroom. Barely able to contain his excitement, he spruced himself up for his sleeping bride. Shaved, bathed and with white hair brushed, he came back into the bedroom. From the desk he took both documents, rolled them neatly into a scroll, tied a blue ribbon around them and walked eagerly to the bed.
Barrett took a seat beside the slumbering Angie. Feeling he was surely the most fortunate man in Texas, he gently trailed the rolled-up will down her velvety right cheek. Angie flinched slightly, but remained asleep. Barrett licked his lips and slipped the papers beneath one gray satin lapel, slowly sliding it down over her breast. Angie roused. Her thick lashes fluttered restlessly and her beautiful emerald eyes came open.
Angie awoke to find a leering, naked Barrett McClain leaning over her, tickling her with something. Her first reaction was to scream. Her lips parted; her hand flew up automatically to brush the tickling paper aside. Then reality crept in, and with it the determination to see this through with as little agony as possible. She’d made up her mind the previous night that she would be hard and cold and make this wicked man think he’d been the one to take her virginity, so that she might take his fortune. That lie had been taken care of. Now came the difficult part of her scheme. Like it or not, she’d have to endure this repulsive creature sleeping with her from time to time. She’d see to it that it was infrequent, but she’d have to live through a few nightmarish couplings if she were to keep him happy enough to inherit all his money.
“Morning, wife,” Barrett said thickly, slowly, surely pushing the satin robe apart.
Angie stretched and purred like a lazy, satisfied cat. “Barrett, my husband,” she murmured, arching her back provocatively.
Barrett’s heated eyes were on her exposed left breast and Angie fought the nausea churning violently in her stomach. The tube of paper was lifted from her breast and Angie shuddered involuntarily; it again touched her body. Barrett, grinning, slid the scroll inside the robe between her knees and was slowly, agonizingly moving it up between her legs. The sweat of sexual arousal now beaded his lip above his white mustache, and his breathing was ragged and loud. Angie felt her lower lip quiver and bit down on it to stop the trembling. The lewd, lascivious old lecher was pressing the roll of paper between her shivering thighs, tickling her, tormenting her, while he whispered suggestively, “Does that feel good, little wife? Move your legs wider apart, darling. Let me prepare your sweet body to accept me.”
Steeling herself, Angie said calmly, “Darling, I’m not clean. Let me take a nice hot bath and then …” She lifted a shoulder from the bed, grabbing at the robe.
“No, Angie,” he said as he pushed her back. “I can’t wait that long. Besides, I want to tell you what this very important document is. Can you guess, my sweet?” Even as he spoke, the bizarre stimulation continued, Barrett roughly rotating the stiff parchment on her tender flesh. “I’ll tell you, since you would never be able to guess.” His eyes held a happy, glazed look. “It’s my last will and testament, Angie. In it, I leave everything I own to you, darling. Pecos gets nothing, it all goes to you. There was only one condition that had to be met. I had to take your virginity.” Impulsively, he leaned to her and kissed her breast. Angie felt a spasm of revulsion. Undaunted, he lifted his white head and continued speaking. “That condition, of course, was met last evening. Oh, darling, darling,” he raved ecstatically, “I’m so happy! It was wonderful, wonderful. I admit I drank too much in celebration, but I recall enough and the evidence was there.” His eyes sparkling, he added huskily, “You naughty child. I saw the scratch marks on my back this morning. Why, you must have been like a wildcat, honey. You even left your teeth marks on me.”
Pretending along with him, Angie smiled prettily. “You’re an exciting lover, Barrett. I suppose I got carried away.”
“Oh, God, Angie!” He grew inflamed and tossed the will aside. Jerking her robe completely open, he bent and hungrily kissed her bare stomach. He crawled on the bed, breathing heavily. “I was going to take my time with you this morning, kiss you, stroke you, but as you can see—” he inclined his white head downward to the jutting, bobbing hard flesh between his pale, veined legs “—I can’t wait.”
Angie watched through horror-filled eyes as he pushed her legs wide and crawled between them. It was in that ghastly instant that she knew she couldn’t go through with her well-thought-out plans. She couldn’t do it! There wasn’t enough money in all the world!
“No!” she screamed and began to fight. “Get off me, you disgusting old hypocrite!”
Eyes wide, he stared in shock. “Darling, darling, don’t speak to me like that. Surely you’re not afraid after our night together, why, the pain is …”
Pushing on his broad chest with all her might, Angie squirmed violently, successfully resisting the unwanted penetration he was so desperately trying to achieve. “We did nothing last night! Nothing! Do you hear me? And we never will. I hate you, despise the sight of you, can’t bear for you to touch me.”
“Angie, Angie,” he blubbered, dumbfounded, “you don’t mean that, you can’t. I made love to you last night; I took your—”
“You took nothing and you never will! Your son beat you to it, you vile, evil excuse of a man.” She saw the hurt spring to his eyes. Unmoved, she continued, holding him off as she shouted, “I married you so I would be safe from Pecos, but you lied and now I hate you more than I hate him.”
Barrett’s face had grown crimson. Sensual excitement and shock were racking his body. Confused, hurt, unbelieving, he still continued to try to make love to his wife. “No, Angie, no. It’s not … You … The doctor told me …”
Angie flailed at the panting old man. Her hand came in contact with the wet, sweaty hair beneath his right arm, and the repugnance of that brush gave her new strength. She fought like a wild animal, but Barrett attacked just as viciously. Angie made it crystal clear how repelling she found him. “You slimy, slippery snake,” she raged, “you subjected me to that exam, but you brought in the doctor too soon, you stupid, possessive fool. Pecos took my virginity shortly afterward.” She began to laugh and cry hysterically, tears rolling down her burning cheeks. Above her face, Barrett’s expression changed from one of misery caused by her words to the unmistakable registering of extreme physical pain.
His hand abruptly left her body and clutched at his white head. His eyes rolled back, and he gagged and tried to get his breath. A loud frightened groan escaped his white lips and he collapsed on Angie. His limp, heavy body sagged atop her. Angie, too, fought for breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew it was not liquor that had felled the old man this time. She wasn’t sure what was wrong, but she knew instinctively that something serious, perhaps even life-threatening, had happened to Barrett McClain.
Angie pushed him from her. He was un
conscious. For a long moment she simply stared at him, relieved he could no longer paw her or seduce her. She sprang from the bed, her left foot stepping on a scroll of paper on the carpet.
Angie began to smile, a cold, determined smile. Unhurriedly, she retied the gray satin robe, picked up the will and put it back on Barrett’s desk. Smiling still, she crossed the room to the door. Angie took a deep breath, ran her fingers through her tumbled hair and threw open the door.
“Mr. Granger! Mr. Dobson! Come quick!” Angie called frantically, “It’s my husband, it’s Barrett! Something’s wrong. Hurry, please, please hurry!”
PECOS LEFT THE PASS that same afternoon. Deciding hard work deep inside his Lost Madre mine was exactly the change he needed, Pecos headed for Buenaventura, Mexico. The sleepy little village baking under the hot Mexican sun brought a smile to Pecos’s face. Buenaventura never changed. Lining its dusty main street were a Catholic church, one dirt-floored cantina, a livery stable and blacksmith shop and a telegraph office that doubled as the general store. The town offered little opportunity or diversion, but the brown smiling people who lived there were happy and content.
Pecos looped the reins of his bay around the hitching post in front of the cantina. He stepped inside, blinking after the bright glare of the sun. The small sultry room was deserted, except for the lone, graying man asleep on bent elbows behind the rough-plank bar. The flies buzzing in the shafts of light that came through knotholes made the only sound in the dim room. Pecos clomped to the bar, smiled and removed his sweat-stained Stetson and chamois gloves.
“Think an honest gringo could get a whiskey?” His deep voice boomed loudly.
The sleeping man bolted awake, blinking in confusion. His black squinting eyes looked up at Pecos, and a broad, white-toothed grin spread over the slender old man’s face. “Señior McClain!” Hector Topia reached across the splintered bar.
Pecos shook his hand warmly and inquired as to the health of the entire Topia clan. “Pecos, Pecos,” the thin, tired man said as he beamed happily and pulled a bottle half-full of whiskey from under the bar. “They all fine! Only one daughter left at home.”
Pecos picked up the whiskey, drank it down and watched Hector pour again. “That’s good, Hector. Don’t know how you managed to raise … how many is it? A dozen, thirteen? And all of ’em turned out smart and good-looking.”
“Sí,” Hector said, nodding proudly. “Is fourteen, Pecos, you forget one. You right though, all fine children. You know Antonio go to Mexico City to be doctor!”
“Quite an accomplishment, amigo,” Pecos mused and tossed down his drink. “Have you seen any of my men? I’m down to stay awhile, see if I can’t coax some ore out of the stubborn Lost Madre.”
“Ah, sí, you in luck, Pecos. Young Jose Rodriguez come to Buenaventura every Monday afternoon to buy supplies. He be here anytime now.”
“Good. I’ll ride out to the mine with him. He’s a good boy, Jose.”
“I hope so.” Hector’s black eyes twinkled. “He visit my little Rosalinda, hold her hand in moonlight.”
Pecos chuckled. “Ah, romance.”
“What about you, Pecos? When you fall in love?”
Pecos continued to smile easily. “I don’t believe it’s in the cards for me, my friend.”
Within the hour young Jose Rodriguez rode into Buenaventura. Happy to see the tall, brave man who’d saved him from a beating, Jose grabbed Pecos and hugged him tightly, speaking in rapid Spanish.
Used to the overly zealous, smothering affection of Reno Sanchez and Lupe, Pecos made no move to pull away from the lad. When finally Jose released him, Pecos questioned him at length about the progress at the mine. Not surprised to hear that operating funds were running low and still only traces of gold had been brought out of the cavern, Pecos patted the ten thousand dollars in his pocket and told the young man help had finally arrived. Together they walked into the general store where a sad-faced Mexican handed Pecos McClain a wire.
Your father suffered a massive stroke on Sunday, September 11. Is in grave condition. Return at once to Tierra del Sol.
Mrs. Barrett McClain
ANGIE WAS at her husband’s bedside when Pecos arrived at the ranch. Since the morning he’d collapsed atop her, Barrett McClain had not spoken a word nor moved a muscle. Dr. Wilson, the owl-eyed physician who had examined Angie, arrived at Del Sol two hours after Barrett’s attack. He knew immediately that the elder McClain had suffered an irreversible stroke and that his chances of surviving were very slight. Should Barrett live, he would most certainly never again be a thinking, functioning human being.
Dutifully, Angie sat at Barrett’s bedside in the huge master suite, neither consoling nor tormenting him. There were times when she looked at him that she was certain he was remembering the shocking truths she’d flung in his face on that fateful morning of his collapse. She could see it in the sick, brown eyes—a look of hurt, disbelief, heartbreak.
Angie was unmoved. She hoped he did remember. She hoped he remembered every word she had said to him because she certainly remembered all the lies he’d told her. She remembered the degradation of his lust, the cold hatred she’d felt for him, still felt even with him near death. Coolly she considered the possibility of his passing. It mattered little to her one way or the other. Either way, whether he survived or died, she was at long last free. In his present state, he could no longer be a threat to her. That thought was consoling. Should he live, he could never again touch her; should he die, then she was one of the wealthiest women in all of the Lone Star State.
Pecos knocked lightly and entered the dim room. “Don’t get up,” he said softly to Angie when she started to rise from her chair. Pecos’s eyes stayed on her for only an instant, then went to the bed where the sick old man lay. He came closer, looked down at his father and felt a squeezing pain in his chest. Whatever else the prostrate man was, he was his father. For that reason, and that one alone, Pecos’s wide shoulders slumped and he felt a surge of pity for the un-moving form beneath the covers.
Angie rose, her heart in her throat, and watched Pecos almost shyly pick up Barrett McClain’s cold, lifeless hand. Pecos leaned over his father. “Dad?”
The brown, sick eyes were wide open. A flicker of recognition passed over those staring eyes. Close on its heels was the unmistakable look of pure hatred. Pecos had seen that look hundreds of times. Patiently placing the cold hand back by his father’s side, Pecos stepped back. Without looking at her, he spoke to Angie.
“Your husband may make it after all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s still capable of hatred.” His steely-eyed gaze swung around to her. “I’m positive he’s just as capable of passion. Perhaps his love for you will pull him through.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
BARRETT MCCLAIN LINGERED for a week. His son did not go into his room again. He stood dry-eyed beside his Aunt Emily at the cemetery while the minister extolled the dead man in a eulogy that made Pecos cynically wonder just who lay in the heavy bronze casket. He had great difficulty recognizing his departed, devious father as the good, kind, holy man the preacher was so generously praising.
Angie stood in front of the casket, stoic, devoid of feeling. She was no longer, nor would she ever again be, the trusting, innocent, frightened girl who had stepped down from the train on the Marfa platform into a spring sandstorm. Shoulders straight, chin held high, Angie Webster McClain could summon up no regret or sadness over the death of Barrett McClain. She was not the hypocrite he had been. She was relieved he was gone, and she had no intention of pretending otherwise. Unruffled by the looks of censure and disdain in the eyes of the mourners gathered at graveside, Angie met their gazes defiantly, caring little what they thought about her lack of grief.
At Del Sol, callers filled the big mansion from mid-morning to late afternoon. Angie refused to circulate. She went to her suite to rest, irritated that the two big, burly bodyguards who’d always shadowed Barrett, now dogged h
er every step. Telling herself she’d put a stop to it later, Angie slipped inside her bedroom and found Delores waiting.
“Angie,” the servant said, helping her out of the black dress, “are you not going to stay downstairs and greet your guests?”
“No,” Angie answered calmly, “I am not. Let Pecos McClain greet them. They are his friends, not mine.” Stripped to her lacy chemise, Angie sat down on a rose-colored velvet chaise and sighed.
“I think for his sake, you should—”
“For whose sake?” Angie looked up at her in irritation.
“Pecos’s,” Delores said softly. She laid the black dress aside and sank down on the chaise at Angie’s stockinged feet. Pulling the small feet onto her lap, she began a restful massage of the right instep. “I think you should … Pecos and you must learn to …”
“Delores, what are you trying to say to me?” Angie lay back, draping an arm over her eyes.
“Barrett McClain is gone now, Angie. Pecos will be running the ranch and—”
“No, he won’t.” Angie lowered her arm and began to smile.
Puzzled, the servant rubbed vigorously at Angie’s foot, her brown eyes wide. “Why do you smile? I do not understand, I …”
“I’m about to explain, Delores, and I don’t think you’ll like what I’m going to tell you. You see, on my wedding night, I saw the last will and testament of my dear husband, Barrett.”
“You know what it says?” Her dark eyes flashed, questioning.
“Indeed I do,” Angie replied, toying with a loose strand of hair falling beside her ear. “Everything now belongs to me.”
Delores gasped and her brown hand flew to her mouth. “No! It cannot be! What about Pecos?”
“What about him?” Angie’s green eyes narrowed.
Sputtering, her dark face coloring, Delores reminded her, ‘He is rightful heir to Del Sol! This land belonged to his mother long before …”
