“Compost,” she said. “I needed to fertilize a rose bush.”
Declan picked up the shovel and dipped the blade into the heap, as gingerly as a child might dip his toes in the river in the middle of the winter chill.
“Manure, you mean,” he said.
“Compost,” she corrected him. “Manure is just…manure. Compost is manure mixed with earth and rotting vegetation.”
She held her breath as a gust of wind blew their way. Perhaps it wasn’t the best possible day to start her diplomatic efforts. Although the ground had dried as soon as the sun came out after the storm, the compost heap still retained the moisture. It was a smelly pile of sludge. Declan bent down and rammed the shovel into the side. When he lifted it out, it made a slurping sound. The torn seams on his shirt unraveled a little more.
“Stop,” Victoria said.
Declan dropped the shovelful into the bucket and craned to peer down his side, inspecting the fabric. “It’ll hold up.”
“I didn’t mean the shirt.” Victoria dropped to her haunches. A plump worm was wriggling in the hollow made by the blade of the shovel. She found a twig on the ground and lifted the creature to safety on the other side of the compost heap.
“There,” she said softly. “Watch out, Mr. Worm. You don’t want to be chopped in half.” She glanced up at Declan over her shoulder. “They can mend, you know. If you chop off a bit by accident, they’ll grow it back.”
Declan made no reply, merely wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. There was another rasp of tearing fabric. Victoria winced. She darted a glance at her burlap bag. Perhaps she should give Declan the new shirt before he ended up half naked, with bits of yellow fabric fluttering around him like decorations on a Christmas tree.
Before she could put her thought into words, Declan had resumed his task. Grunting with effort, he eased the shovel into the compost heap and yanked it up with a sharp wrench of his arms and shoulders as the moist earth stuck together and resisted being parted.
“That’s enough,” Victoria said when the bucket was half full.
Declan set the shovel back against the wall. His face looked ashen. “Oh dear, Victoria said. “Do you have a delicate nose?”
“No,” Declan replied. “I have cracked ribs.”
Victoria bit her lip, full of remorse. Of course. Because he refused to show his pain, she’d forgotten. His skin had almost healed, with just a pink scar across his chin and some scabbing over the left eyebrow and fading green and purple bruising beneath the eye.
“Didn’t seem to bother you last night,” she said feebly.
He did not smile. Not even a tiny smirk.
“Where do you want this lot?” he asked.
“Up on the hill.” She pointed toward the setting sun.
He made an impatient motion with his hand to usher her along. When Victoria set off, Declan picked up the bucket and followed her. She wanted to fall back, so she could watch his slim hips and broad shoulders and that cocky way the black Stetson rode on his head. Then she realized that with the wind from the west, perhaps it was more prudent to keep ahead of him, upwind of the smells.
“Here,” she said when they reached the small cemetery. “This is my mother.”
A mesquite tree provided a slim shade over the blooming rosebush that grew inside a square piece of ground protected by a small iron fence. Behind the rose stood a polished granite gravestone with gold lettering. Ellen Sinclair. Born 1837. Died 1863. Beloved wife and mother. To one side, a little further away, a dozen white crosses stood in two neat rows.
“It’s only family inside the fence,” Victoria said. “The rest are ranch employees.”
Declan spoke in a low voice. “Your mother is alone.”
Victoria nodded. “No stillborn babies. I was her first and last.” She stared at the sunset that painted the sky pink. It was long ago, and she’d been too young to mourn, but now, sharing it with someone, the grief seemed fresh and sharp.
“I was only two years old when she died. I can’t remember her.” She drew a shaky breath. Her voice caught. “I can’t remember her at all. I wish I had some memories. At least one memory. But I have nothing. Only a few pictures I can’t even recognize because I can’t remember what she looked like.”
Declan moved to stand beside her. “My parents also died young.”
She glanced up at him from the corner of her eye. “How did they die?”
He made no reply but turned aside to pick up the bucket he had set down on the gravel ground by a small prickly pear cactus. “Where do you want this?”
“Can you put it over there?” She pointed inside the small enclosure, by the rose bush, and pulled an old wooden ladle from her burlap bag. “I don’t want to just pour out the compost and risk some splashing on the headstone,” she explained.
She stepped over the knee high iron fence and knelt on the ground. The rosebush had been planted into a small pocket of fertile land her father had carved into the desert, working tirelessly with a shovel and a pickaxe, like a miner in search of gold. She dipped the ladle into the compost and carefully spread the mixture at the root of the rose. When she was done, she patted the loose layer down with the curved bottom of the ladle.
Declan stood in silence while she worked.
Melancholy settled over Victoria. It seemed wrong now what she was doing. Trying to manipulate people. Maybe she should just wait. Let time pass and see what came. A year was a long time. If her marriage was meant to be, then it would be.
But a second later she heard the crunch of footsteps coming up the hill and knew it was too late to avoid a confrontation. Victoria turned to watch her father approach. When he reached them, he put down the big clay jug he carried up every day at sundown to water the rose bush and gave her a belligerent stare.
“What’s he doing here?” he asked, with a jerk of his head toward Declan.
A shiver rippled over Victoria at the sight of her father. He was standing with his legs braced, hands loosely fisted by his side, a grim expression on his stark face. The setting sun gilded him, from his tall boots to his wide brimmed hat. The orange glow made him look like a bronze statue of an ancient warrior waiting for the battle call to sound.
“He carried the compost up for me, father.”
“I could have done that.” Her father opened the small gate, picked up the clay jug from the ground, and joined her inside the enclosure. Victoria had noticed he always used the gate, as if stepping over the fence was a mark of disrespect.
“Wait a moment, father,” she told him. “I haven’t quite finished with the compost.” She turned to the blooming rose again and patted down the rich mixture she had already patted down once. Say something, she ordered in her mind. One of you big oafs, say something friendly. When both men remained in stubborn silence, she had to speak up and break the tension.
“I wish I could remember what she looked like,” she said, her tone wistful. “Do you mind describing her to me, father? I like to hear you talk about her.”
Her words faded away. There was no response. The last of the breeze had stilled, and in the silence she could hear noises from the stable yard—the steady clanking of Abe’s hammer against the anvil, voices, a burst of laughter. Carefree sounds.
“What did your wife look like, Mr. Sinclair?” Declan asked quietly.
There, Victoria thought. Sterling qualities.
She peered up from the corner of her eye. Her father was standing by the gravestone, head bent, hat in his hands. For a long moment, he remained still. When he spoke, his voice was low and hesitant. “She was no beauty, my Ellen. But then, she didn’t have to be. She had a quality beyond beauty. A shine. Like the stars in the night. She smiled at a man, and they would forget every ache in their body, every moment of misery in their lives.”
He lifted his chin and let his gaze come to rest on Victoria. “There’s nothing of her in this one. She’s all me. Dark highland looks and quick temper. Ellen was the gentlest person I’ve eve
n known. It might be blasphemy to say this, but they say God knows even when the smallest sparrow falls from a branch. Maybe God knows, but I’m not sure he cares. My wife did.” He made a small motion with his hand toward Victoria. “That’s the one thing you’ve got form your mother. The love of wounded creatures.” He looked over his shoulder at Declan. “She’s always bringing home injured animals. Even vermin.” His voice grew hard. “And that’s the category I put you in. Vermin.”
“Father!” There was pain in her outburst.
“Why did you become a thief?” Andrew Sinclair demanded. “Easy money? The thrill of breaking the law? Envy of men who have earned the money to buy their own land?” When Declan said nothing, his voice rose to a roar. “Answer me, you blue-eyed son of a bitch!”
Victoria winced. It had been a terrible idea to bring them together in the cemetery where her father’s turbulent emotions always sprang to the surface anyway. She saw the two of them staring at each other, features shadowed with hate, hands fisted, shoulders hunched, ready to launch into attack. She had to say something to stop the fight before it could get started.
“Father,” she blurted out, a trace of desperation in her voice. “That’s a stupid thing to say. I have blue eyes too, and so did mother. That’s another thing I got from her.”
Startled, her father gaped at her. “What did you say?”
She nodded toward Declan. “You called him a blue-eyed son of a bitch.”
“Watch you language, girl. I didn’t spend a fortune to hear you cussing.”
“I’m only following your example.”
Her father’s temper, quick to flare, was equally quick to settle. He batted his hat against his thigh and muttered, “Didn’t you have a better place to stir up trouble than your mother’s grave?” Not waiting for her to come up with a reply, or even to move out of the way, he reached down for the clay jug, lifted it high and upended it over the rose bush. The water sent a thick spray of compost splashing up to her knees.
“God,” she muttered, sniffing at the air. “Now I smell like a dung heap.”
Her father tossed a rueful look at her and walked out of the iron gate. As he passed Declan, he turned back to look at her and said, “What was the point of saving him from the noose if you’re going to strangle him with a shirt?”
And with that parting comment, he left them in the thickening dusk.
Victoria peered at Declan from beneath her brows. “Sorry,” she said.
Declan shrugged. “He is right. To a cattleman, a rustler is vermin.”
“I meant the shirt.” She dug in her burlap bag and tossed Mrs. Flynn’s shirt to him. “Here. Believe me or not, I didn’t do it on purpose. That shirt was a genuine effort.”
“I know.” Declan caught the plaid blue shirt in the air.
Victoria watched her father’s tall figure striding down the hillside. There had already been too much turmoil for her to cope with in the last two days. She couldn’t take any more emotional upheaval. Not tonight. Not even with the soft evening light falling over the landscape and cicadas singing and fresh scents in the air. She sniffed at her soaking wet knees. And perhaps smells not so fresh.
“You go on ahead,” she told Declan. “I’ll stay a while.”
His brows lifted. “Will you be all right?”
She nodded.
“Can you shoot?”
She nodded.
“I mean, shoot straight.”
She nodded.
He took out one of the big revolvers, pushed out the cylinder to check the ammunition and then handed the gun to her. “Here. In case there’s a snake. It’s on an empty chamber for safety. You can give it back to me tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” She balanced the heavy weapon in her hand. Sterling qualities, she thought as she watched Declan make his way back down the path, the plaid shirt slung over his shoulder, the empty bucket dangling in his hand. She had sought proof of his worth as a man, as a husband, and everything he did had offered it to her.
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Chapter Six
Declan kept up his resolve for two days and two and a half nights. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He spent endless hours in an agonized struggle with his conscience.
He told himself it was right—evil right—to make his marriage real. What better way to crush Andrew Sinclair than to take his daughter away from him?
He told himself it was right—true right—to make his marriage real. When Andrew Sinclair lost his ranch, he could take care of Victoria. He could get a job as a ranch foreman somewhere north. Montana. Wyoming. He could provide for her.
Then he told himself it was not all right in any way at all. She needed to be able to marry one of those affluent men her father had talked about. And that was the thought that got him out of bed. The thought of her married to someone else.
Right or wrong, he didn’t know. But he knew he had to do it.
He got up in the faint glow of moonlight and took his yellow shirt from the bedpost where he’d slung it. He shoved his arms into the sleeves, tearing another seam. His bare feet were soundless on the floor as he padded out of the room.
Around him, the house slept. A clock somewhere had chimed midnight long ago. Taking the stairs on tiptoe, he counted doors in the upstairs corridor until he found the one that matched Victoria’s bedroom window. Last night, he had sat on horseback on the other side of the stable yard, watching her light go out.
He tried the brass knob. It turned without a sound.
When he entered, he found the room bathed in soft moonlight. A cool night breeze flowed in through the open windows. Victoria was sitting up in bed, the plain white covers gathered like snowdrifts about her feet. She wore a nightgown of fine cotton, with a high neck and long sleeves, and lace at the collar. Her hair cascaded in a dark curtain past her shoulders. He could see a blue silk ribbon twined into the glossy tresses.
His ribbon.
“Have you been waiting for me?” he asked.
She didn’t speak, merely dipped her head in a silent nod.
“How long?”
“Five years.” She pursed her mouth. “And nine days.”
Five years of waiting. Nine days of resisting. It seemed crazy now that he had thought he could keep away from her. He wanted her, could no longer remember a time when he hadn’t wanted her. He’d been captured, had almost died, because after hearing that she’d returned home from boarding school he had taken foolish risks, ridding too close to the house, hungry for a glimpse of her.
He crossed the room, sat down on the edge of the bed. Slowly, giving her plenty of time to object, he lifted his hand to the row of tiny buttons at her throat. He sprang the first button open. And the second. And the third. Through it all, his gaze never left hers. When he had enough buttons freed from their moorings, he slipped one hand inside the nightgown and stroked her smooth skin, leaving no doubt about his intentions.
“When you dreamed about me, did you dream of this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His fingertips stilled as they found the upper slope of her breast. He leaned down and covered her mouth with his. The kiss was different now from before. Slow and thorough. The leisurely kiss of a man who knew he had no need to hurry because he planned to take all night.
He pulled away a fraction, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. “After tonight, there’ll be no going back. You understand that, don’t you, Victoria? You’ll belong to me. Your future will be tied to mine, whatever it may bring.”
She made not reply, merely leaned forward for another kiss. He pulled back and repeated his question, his brows furrowed. “You understand, don’t you, Victoria?”
“Yes.”
In the moonlight, he could see into her eyes. They were large and luminous, the blue in them darker and more vivid than his. They held uncertainty and excitement. But more than anything, they blazed with an awakening passion that he knew would brush all reason aside.
“So be it,” Declan said, a
s solemn as a priest.
He took the kiss deeper, slanting his mouth across hers. He let his hand slide lower inside her nightgown, until it could curl around the rounded shape of a breast. Victoria made a breathless sound, something between a murmur and a sigh. Her palms crept up to his chest and clung tight against him, her fingers fisting into his shirt.
Declan broke the kiss and raised his head, rolling one shoulder against the tug of her hold. Victoria gave a little shaky laugh, full of tension. “You didn’t need to keep wearing this horrible thing. It’s far too small. I didn’t write down the measurements but trusted my memory. I must have gotten them mixed up.”
He didn’t reply at first, merely gave her a faint smile. How could he explain? When the shirt chafed against his skin, it felt to him as if her inexpert fingers that had struggled with the thread and needle were touching him, caressing him.
“I wanted to see how long it will take for it to fall apart,” he said finally.
“Oh,” she replied, animated now. “Not long, I guess.” She tugged with her fisted hands against the fabric. Then tugged a little harder. The side seam that had already been unraveling made a rasping sound and ripped open all the way down.
With a tiny whoop of triumph, Victoria pushed her hand through the opening. Her palm flattened against the sleek muscles on his back. The feel of her questing fingers on his bare skin wiped the last remaining doubts from Declan’s mind. All that agony of wrestling with his conscience seemed pointless against the dark tide of desire that rose within him.
Leaning back, so he could see what he was doing, he used both hands to open the rest of the tiny pearl buttons on the bodice of her nightgown, moving slowly down the row. When he had bared her breasts, he let his gaze drop down to the pink, puckered nipples he’d imagined so many times. With the tip of his index finger, he circled each peak.
“Did you dream of this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What else did you dream of?”
“You,” she replied. “Like this.” She locked her fingers into his hair and guided his mouth to her breast. He tasted her, tugged gently with his teeth. The soft whimpering sounds she made sent waves of passion crashing over him. Beneath his caressing mouth, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing accelerated.
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