by Diana Palmer
The screen door swung open, and a middle-aged woman stomped onto the porch. Margaret Floyd, the housekeeper, was a big, buxom woman in her sixties with white hair and dark eyes and a mean-looking expression.
“Well, it’s about time,” she said, parking her hands on her broad hips. She was wearing a pale yellow print housedress with purple bedroom shoes, and a splattered white apron hugged her ample middle. “You’re an hour late. What did you do, get hijacked on the way back? I’ve ruined dinner, you’ll be glad to know, and who’s that?”
Elissa was being dragged up the steps and pushed forward like a shield before she had time to catch her breath.
“This is Elissa Dean,” King said, holding her there firmly, even though she wasn’t struggling.
“Well, glory be!” Margaret’s broad face brightened like a sunflower. “Finally!”
She rushed forward, and Elissa found herself engulfed in the smell of flour and apples.
“I thought he’d never get enough sense to bring you home,” Margaret gushed. “Idiot, chasing after them stupid city women.” She glared at King before turning back to Elissa. “You look like a nice girl. He says you still live at home,” she added with unashamed curiosity.
“Well, yes,” Elissa stammered. “My folks wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Margaret looked as if all her prayers had been answered. “Lordy, child, do come in and let me feed you. I’ve got a delicious pot roast, even if I do say so myself, and a pan of homemade rolls, and I baked him an apple pie.”
King went back to get the luggage, muttering things it was just as well Margaret didn’t actually hear. Margaret was a wonderful cook, had a mind like a steel trap and didn’t feel the least bashful about asking the most intimate kind of questions.
King finally ran her off so they could eat their meal in peace. Elissa’s face was beet red by then, and he looked a bit put out himself. Elissa couldn’t know that over the years, only Bess had ever been afforded such courteous treatment by the housekeeper. Margaret had always found not-so-subtle ways of showing her disapproval for the type of woman King had entertained so frequently in his younger days. Bess had been different, because Margaret knew her background and was frankly sorry for her.
“It’s a lovely meal,” Elissa said finally.
“Lovely,” he muttered.
She didn’t attempt conversation again. She finished the food and allowed Margaret to whisk her upstairs to unpack.
King was called out the minute he left the supper table to attend to sixty things the foreman—Ben Floyd, Margaret’s husband—hadn’t been able to, despite neighbor Blake Donavan’s help.
Elissa found herself alone after Margaret went to her own small house below the stables, and when King didn’t come back by midnight, she went to bed. Her first day on the ranch had been an experience.
The next morning, she awoke to strange noises. Cattle lowing. A rooster crowing. The barking of a dog. Clatter from downstairs. She sat up in bed with a lazy yawn and drank in the sweet, clean country air. It wasn’t so far removed from the Florida coast, after all. Country was country, except for the noises.
She got up and dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved blouse, feeling as summery as the weather. She left her hair down and her face clear of makeup.
Downstairs, King was sitting at the breakfast table with a brooding look. But it wasn’t the King she’d become accustomed to. This was a Westerner with a capital W. She stood stock-still in the doorway, just staring.
From his faded jeans and dusty boots up over a blue-and-white Western shirt to his dark hair, he was a different man. It wasn’t only the clothing; it was something in his face. A different look. A naturalness. A man in his native setting.
He looked up from his newspaper and cocked an eyebrow. “Well? Aren’t you hungry?”
“Of course.” She sat down beside him, her eyes curious.
“You’ve seen me in jeans before,” he reminded her, amused at her expression.
“You never looked like this before,” she faltered. Her eyes searched his.
He winked at her. “Did you sleep well?”
“Beautifully.” She sighed. “How about you?”
“When I finally got to sleep,” he muttered darkly, “it was soundly. Ben had five hours’ work waiting.”
“Wasn’t some neighbor supposed to be watching things for you?”
“He was, and he did,” came a deep, amused voice from the doorway, “but only Kingston can sign Kingston’s name to his checks.”
Elissa turned to find the voice. The man she saw made her shiver. He looked dangerous, a wild man with unruly black hair and pale green eyes set in lashes as thick and black as his eyebrows. He was lithe and lean and sported a scar down one cheek and a nose that looked to have been broken once too often. Somehow he didn’t look like the kind of man King would call a friend, and Elissa wondered how much else there was to learn about the enigmatic man she’d fallen in love with.
“Blake Donavan,” King introduced him. “This is my houseguest, Elissa Dean.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Donavan,” she said hesitantly.
He gave her an indifferent appraisal and nodded. “Same here.” He turned his attention to King. “If you’ve got everything you need, I’ll head back home. I’ve got those damned lawyers waiting. At least this time it’s for something productive. My signature goes on a document, and the suit’s settled once and for all.”
King lifted his coffee cup. “I hear Meredith Calhoun just won an award for her latest book.”
The green eyes kindled, and the lean face seemed to close up. Obviously this writer, whoever she was, was a touchy subject for Blake Donavan, Elissa noted. Had King brought up the name deliberately? she wondered.
“I’ve got work to do,” Donavan said tersely. “See you, Roper. Miss Dean,” he added, touching the brim of his hat, and was gone.
“Who’s Meredith Calhoun?” Elissa whispered, mindful of the open door.
King sighed. “That’s a long story,” he replied, apparently unwilling to delve into it.
“He’s a hard-looking man,” she ventured.
“Pure diamond,” he agreed, “and it goes straight through. If he looks hard, it’s because life made him hard. He was illegitimate, and his mother died in childbirth. He was taken in by a crusty old uncle who adopted him and gave him his name. The uncle died last year, and Donavan’s been in a hell of a court battle for the property ever since.”
“I can see why he won,” she remarked, shivering slightly and wondering anew at King’s ready compassion for life’s unfortunates. Of course, that compassion was what had made him so vulnerable to Bess... “He’s younger than you, isn’t he?” she said weakly, dragging her thoughts back to the present.
His dark eyes narrowed on her face. “Yes. Eight years. He’s almost thirty-three. Why? Does he appeal to you?”
She blinked. That sounded amazingly like jealousy. Why on earth should he feel possessive about her when it was Bess he loved?
Without waiting for her reply—besides, she was too stunned and confused to offer one—he got to his feet. “I’ve got a full day’s work ahead of me.”
“Not in your office, I gather?” she fished.
“On my ranch,” he said, leaning down to press a hard, warm kiss on her parted lips. “This is how I relax, tidbit—by keeping busy. Manual labor built this ranch.”
“You look like a cowboy,” she mused, surprised by the ardent kiss.
“I am a cowboy,” he replied, searching her blue eyes. “I can travel first-class and buy damned near anything I want, but what I like best is a horse under me and open land around me and a night sky to sleep under.”
“Do you?” She reached up to him, and amazingly, he came to her, letting her have his mouth. She kissed him warmly and was stunned by the softness of his lips, by his e
ager participation in a caress that had nothing to do with sex.
“Want to come see the calves later?” he asked as he lifted his head. “If you’re good, I’ll even let you pet one.”
“Yes, I’d like to,” she said, smiling lazily.
He drew in a slow, pleased breath as his eyes drank in her lovely face. “Fairy face,” he whispered. He bent again, brushing her mouth with his. “I’ll see you at lunch. Don’t let Margaret talk you to death.”
“I like Margaret,” she murmured.
“Margaret likes you, too, baby doll,” Margaret said from the doorway with a platter of eggs in her hand. She grinned toothily at King. “You lucky man, you.”
King actually flushed. “I’ve got work to do,” he mumbled, and he left them both there, pulling his hat down over his eyes with a jerk as he strode noisily from the room.
“Only walks that way when I’ve annoyed him,” Margaret assured her, grinning even wider. “But you’re the first girl he’s brought home to me to visit in a long, long time, so I reckon he’s in pretty deep. But you watch him, he’s no choirboy. He can be right dangerous in full pursuit.”
Elissa burst out laughing. “Oh, Margaret, you’re a jewel,” she said, and meant it. “He doesn’t love me, you know. I’m just his friend, that’s all.”
Margaret nodded as she sat down. “That’s right, and I’m a Halloween pumpkin,” she agreed. She helped herself to a cup of coffee and folded her hefty forearms on the table. She stared straight at Elissa. “Now, tell me about yourself. I hear you design clothes.”
It was like the Spanish Inquisition. By the time Elissa was allowed to escape and go exploring around the house, Margaret knew her favorite perfume, her entire family history—she’d hooted with delight upon learning King had brought home a minister’s daughter—and as much as possible of her potential future.
The ranch itself was a new experience. There were well-kept stables housing beautiful Appaloosas, cattle everywhere and a bull who seemed to have his own building and a full-time caretaker. He was red and white, like most of the cattle, and as big as a house. When King came home at lunchtime, he found her at the barn, staring at the creature.
“His name is King’s Pride 4120,” he informed her smugly, hands in his pockets. “He’s out of the foundation herd of Herefords Bobby’s grandfather began here, but I’ve improved the strain with selective breeding.”
“Why does he have a number?” she asked. “Has he been arrested or something?”
“That gets complicated.” He threw an affectionate arm around her shoulders and led her back to the house, explaining things like embryo transplants and daily weight-gain ratios and all the intricacies of breeding superior beef cattle. The technical information rattled around in Elissa’s head like marbles, but it was fascinating all the same.
“Margaret’s making beef-salad sandwiches for lunch,” she told him on the front porch, where the big green swing and several rocking chairs faced the open plains.
“How much has she dragged out of you so far?” he asked with a raised eyebrow and a dry smile.
“Before or after she got to the color of my underwear?” She laughed.
He just shook his head.
Lunch was quiet. Margaret went off to listen to the news while she worked in the kitchen, and King didn’t seem inclined to talk. Afterward, he saddled a horse for her with the ease of long practice and helped her into the saddle. This, at least, was familiar. They’d gone riding together in Jamaica several times over the past two years. She glanced at him under the brim of her borrowed straw hat, thinking how everything about him was familiar to her and yet subtly different these days.
He caught her glance and grinned. “Remember the day we rode down the beach hell-for-leather, and you fell off in the surf?”
“I’m holding on tight this time,” she retorted, wrapping the reins around her hand. “Lead on, cowboy. You won’t lose me.”
“Let’s see.”
He took off, nudging his Appaloosa gelding to a quick lead. She followed on her mare, laughing delightedly at the open land and his company and the sunny afternoon.
The calves were Herefords, and not newborn as she’d expected. The calves started coming in February and March, he told her, to coincide with his breeding program. They were fattened up and then sold when they reached the desired weight.
“It’s so sad to think of eating them,” she mused while she scratched a white-topknotted head above soulful brown eyes. “Isn’t he cute?”
He leaned against the fence post, his hat pushed back, his eyes watchful. “They tell stories about the cattle drives in the old days and how close the cattle got to their drovers. They say that sometimes the cowboys had to actually go with the cattle into the abattoirs, to keep them from stampeding. They bawled when the drovers started to leave them.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She was vaguely embarrassed at her sentimentality and tried to hide her reaction, but he saw her tears. He caught her gently by the shoulders, turning her. He bent, lifting her into his arms, and carried her back to the horses.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You softhearted little greenhorn,” he whispered back, and he smiled as he brought his mouth with exquisite tenderness to hers.
He’d meant it to be a sweet, comforting gesture, but her mouth opened beneath his, and his breath stopped in his throat. He hesitated, but only for a second. Then he carried her away from the horses and laid her down in the tall buffalo grass, his lean body settling completely over her.
“King!” she gasped.
“Elissa,” he breathed huskily. He kissed her hungrily, giving in to the aching need, the long nights of wanting her. He reached under her to catch her hips and drag them lazily against his, letting her feel the evidence of his need. And for long, exquisite moments, they enjoyed the touch and taste and feel for each other.
Then, when it was almost too much, he groaned and rolled onto his back. Not since his teens had he felt so damned helpless to control himself. And she could see how much she aroused him.
She sat up, her eyes like saucers, and he held her rapt gaze.
“This never happens to me,” he whispered, his voice deep and husky and gruff. “Never this quick or this completely with any woman but you, damn it.”
Her lips parted on a smile as she looked at him, not with triumph but with love. “Do you mind if that makes me proud?” she asked softly.
He drew in an unsteady breath. “I guess not.” He sat up, bending over his upraised knees. “I can’t imagine how I’ve lasted this long.”
She touched his hand where it rested on his knee. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, searching the dark, tormented eyes that met hers. “But it pleases me that even if you don’t love me, at least you want me.”
He brought her hand to his mouth. “Do you want me to love you?” he asked quietly. “Because that may come in time. Marry me, Elissa.”
She lowered her eyes to his hand. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said finally, biting her tongue to keep from screaming yes. She had to be reasonable. She couldn’t let her love for him influence her; she had to think of what was best for him, too, since obviously he wasn’t thinking at all.
His fingers tightened. He started to speak and then seemed to decide against it. “All right.”
She looked up. “Does Bobby know we’re here?”
“Yes,” he said finally. “I called him a few hours ago. Bess is in Oklahoma City until tomorrow morning. He invited us to go riding with them.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.” He tilted her face up. “Don’t decide now. You’ve got one hell of a big decision to work up to by bedtime.”
Her lips trembled. “I...I care for you,” she whispered.
His hand touched her cheek, and he wished he could read her mind. He felt guilty and
uncertain, but he cared for her, too, in his way. “Then marry me,” he said, feeling oddly certain that it would be the right thing for them both. “Say yes.”
She managed a quiet sigh. Logic went out the window. “Yes.”
He stared into her eyes for a long time, feeling electricity arc between them. He wanted her. He was fond of her. She cared for him. It would be enough. And it would be a final, permanent barrier between him and Bess.
He bent to her mouth and kissed her very gently before he helped her to her feet and back into the saddle. He didn’t say another word all the way home.
CHAPTER NINE
ELISSA SPENT THE afternoon helping Margaret in the kitchen. King had gone out again, presumably to finish his ranch work. Margaret kept throwing the younger woman speaking glances, and Elissa knew she must look troubled.
“Out with it,” Margaret said finally. “What’s wrong?”
“He wants to marry me,” Elissa replied, scouring a pan they’d used to fry steak for lunch.
“Hallelujah!”
“It isn’t that simple,” she said with a rueful smile. She turned back to the pan. “He doesn’t love me.”
“Men don’t know what love is until they’re in too deep to climb out,” Margaret observed, chuckling. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. There’s enough there to build on—you mark my words.”
Elissa tingled. Yes, he did look at her as if she were a sumptuous dessert. But there was still Bess to consider. She sighed.
“Don’t worry about it,” the older woman coaxed. “Just say yes, and I’ll take care of everything. Let’s see, invitations and the reception, and champagne and hors d’oeuvres,” she murmured.
Elissa didn’t say anything else. She was too worried.
They sat down to supper alone, and after cleaning up, Margaret finally went home, bubbling with happiness. Elissa arranged a plate for King and covered it, and she was just wiping up a spill on the floor when King walked in the back door.
He looked at little dusty and very tired. He studied her from under the wide brim of his Stetson, taking in the picture she made in a loose gold-and-white caftan, kneeling there against the spotless cream linoleum.
