Widow Woman

by Patricia McLinn

  His tongue slid inside her mouth, dizzying her with the sensation, and even more with the craving it stirred.

  She wanted .

  After so long of not allowing herself to want beyond survival and absence of pain, she wanted more. So much more. But he could not touch her, he could not see . . . .

  “Davis, no—I’m not . . . Not only my hip. There are other . . . marks.” She straightened within his loosening arms.

  “I know, Alba.” He held her, but with enough space between them to look at each other. “I’ve seen you.”

  Her breath came fast and harsh as she saw the truth in his eyes. “You have seen?”

  “I knew you bathed in the creek when the weather warmed. It can be rough here, ‘specially in spring, and you aren’t as strong as . . .” He dropped his arms from around her. “I worried.”

  “You watched me. As I bathed.”

  He met her look with no hint of shame. “Yes.”

  An inexplicable heat exploded under her ribs, not the heat he had coaxed from her with this touch, but a blast like an oven door opening.

  “You watched me. You spied on me—”

  “I was worried.” And now he looked it. He reached a hand toward her. She slapped it away.

  “Worried like you would be for a sick animal.”

  “No, I—”

  “I am not your injured puppy you protect from your father and brothers. I do not need you to protect me, Davis Andresson. I do not want you to watch me. I do not want you to touch me.” She stood. He started to rise, but she shoved a palm into his chest, knocking him back. “I do not want your kisses of pity.”

  She left him sitting on the bent grass where his kisses had brought her such pleasure.

  * * * *

  The Chapman girl Nick had seen at Natchez sat on a stump outside the Circle T bunkhouse, tracing something in the dust with a stick.

  “Mrs. Wood in the house?” Without waiting for the answer, he started up the steps.

  “She’s not there,” said the girl.

  “I’ll check myself—in case she came back.”

  Two steps inside the door, he stopped, frozen as solid as an icicle in January, and feeling as breakable.

  Every eye turned to him. Esther stirred a pot on the stove. Myrna Chapman sat by the long table he’d eaten at so often. But what held his muscles motionless while emotions eddied through him was the bit of humanity Myrna held on her lap.

  Even that pair of eyes fastened on him. Black as his own. Curious. Unclouded by trouble or fear. With the openness of Rachel’s.

  “Here.”

  He wasn’t even aware of movement around him until Esther’s hand wrapped around his arm, directing him to a chair.

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Wood.” His rediscovered voice came gruff.

  “Sit,” Esther ordered. “Myrna, you see to the front parlor. Give me Johnny.”

  As soon as the door closed behind Myrna, Esther, with the baby in her arms, turned to him.

  “I said sit.”

  He sat. “I’m looking for Mrs. Wood. Tell me where to find her, and I’ll be gone.”

  She ignored that. Before he knew what she was about, she’d placed the child in his lap.

  “What’re you—Take him back.” Instead, the woman stepped away.

  Instinctively, his large, awkward hands encircled the small but oddly sturdy rib-cage to keep the child from falling. The child’s head bobbed slightly, but his eyes never left Nick’s face.

  “He’s called Johnny.”

  “It’s nothing to me,” he lied.

  “John Nicholas Wood.”

  It was a double kick to the chest. His name—and another’s.

  Beneath the baby’s smooth skin, he could see the bold line of bones that would strengthen the forehead, that would angle the cheeks. He knew those lines from his own reflection caught in smooth water. The mouth would be wide, yet with no weakness. Like Rachel’s. The rich, warm skin blended her fairness and his bronze tinge.

  Their son.

  The child stared at him with unflagging intensity. Like a gunfighter awaiting an opponent’s draw, though Nick knew there was no enmity in this stare. More like the searching interest of Rachel’s scrutiny. Like that first time at the pond, when her eyes had seemed to strip him barer than any lack of clothes could do . . . and he hadn’t minded.

  A sensation stole into him. Feelings he could ignore, but not sensation. Especially not this sensation. It was so strong, it blocked out all else.

  There was a powerful expanding in his chest, just the way his lungs expanded with the cool, pine-tipped air some mornings. He’d had the sensation before, he thought, his eyes narrowing and his brows tightening automatically in an effort of memory.

  It all happened at once then.

  He remembered when he’d had the sensation before. The first time he’d seen the old Wallace spread and dreamed of making it his. The first time he’d looked over the fall-dried valleys and still verdant rises stepping toward the mountains and known it was his.

  And every time with Rachel.

  It was an ambush. How could he fight this? Emotion he could lock away; he’d done that all his life. But how could he keep sensations at bay?

  Before he could do more than form that thought, the child in his arms set up a frightened howl that shattered Nick’s absorption. His big hands jerked tighter in reaction, and the howl escalated.

  And a sound from the door he belatedly realized had opened brought his head around to find Rachel staring right at him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rachel knew her heart hadn’t stopped beating, because she wasn’t dead. Dying surely would have been less painful than the sharp, heavy pulse that seemed to rock her ribs.

  To walk in the door and see Nick holding their son . . .

  Oh, she’d known Nick was here. She’d known that as soon as she’d set eyes on Brujo. And she’d steeled herself for whatever new torment he’d devised to put her through.

  But she hadn’t expected this.

  Not the awe in his eyes. Not the awe in her heart. Not the naturalness of those two dark heads so close together.

  Not the urge to soothe whatever pain had slammed that fierce scowl onto his face, an expression that the child in his arms surveyed with instinctual dismay.

  Not the rush of tenderness that threatened to swamp her when Johnny’s cries brought a look of near panic to Nick’s face. The man who’d braved blizzards, who’d faced down angry steers, who’d stood up to belligerent men. Now he held a child stiffly away from him, his hard face looking as if it might crack.

  “Rachel.”

  It was a near plea.

  And, God help her, she would never be able to deny Nick Dusaq’s plea.

  The hard heels of her riding boots clicking on the floor drew the baby’s attention. As soon as he saw his mother, his cries intensified, and he reached pitifully for the security of her arms as she gathered him from Nick’s stiff hands.

  “It’s all right, Johnny,” she murmured, smoothing her cheek over the soft hair at the top of his head.

  Nick released a long sigh of relief. But did she also hear a hint of wistfulness?

  “He—” Esther jerked her head toward Nick “—said he needed to see you.”

  Rachel had told him to come to her when he could give her his heart. But no one, no matter how foolishly hopeful, could even glance at his austere face now and indulge a hope he had come to give his heart.

  She held Johnny close to her, hoping he’d protect her from hope. “I told you, Nick . . .”

  The lines of his face hardened. “It’s business.”

  She felt the stiffening of her shoulders and back; she had needed to hear his words. “Then you can wait for me in the other room.” Crossing the kitchen, she shifted her son to one arm and used the other to hold open the door to the office. “Johnny’s hungry. I’ll be in as soon as he’s fed.”

  A warmth started across his eyes, and she lowered her head befo
re she could be seduced by it. But she was aware of Nick passing close to her as he crossed the threshold.

  “I’ll feed Johnny,” Esther said, reaching for the baby.

  “It’s all right, Esther. I’ll . . .”

  “You got business, attend to it,” the older woman said.

  Rachel reluctantly released Johnny, and followed Nick, closing the door behind her.

  He stood not three feet away, watching her.

  “If the child’s hungry, don’t you . . . ?” His eyes dropped to her breasts, and Rachel felt as if the heat of that look had burned right through her skin and into her lungs, where it made each draw of breath sear her.

  “No. Not anymore.” She stumbled to a halt, hoping that would end his questions, too.

  “I suppose I should have known.” His eyes met hers, the memory of his hands and mouth on her breasts alive in the dark depths of his look, and immediately bringing the memory to life in her body.

  “What is your business, Nick?” She moved behind the desk.

  “Are you selling your horses?”

  The force of his demand was like a blast of heated wind. She gripped the edge of the desk. “I didn’t think Alba would tell you.”

  “She didn’t. Davis did.”

  “Davis?” That surprised her only an instant, then it made sense. Sense that Alba wouldn’t break her word, and that Davis would try to help.

  “Are you selling?” he repeated impatiently.

  “Yes.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “You need the money.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I won’t take charity from you, isn’t that what you said to me? Well, if that’s good enough for Nick Dusaq, it’s good enough for me.”

  “Then I’ll buy your horses.”

  “It’s too late,” she said, almost defiant. “I sold them this morning in Chelico. Got my price, too.”

  “Warrior?” She could almost imagine she heard sympathy and concern.

  Rachel felt the immediate sting in her eyes. Lord, how pitiful, to melt at so small a sign of caring. She sank into the chair to mask her rapid blinking.

  “No, not Warrior. I . . . I couldn’t.”

  “Good. Then he can stand to stud with a couple mares I brought up from Texas. They’re tough little things, they should breed good cow ponies.”

  “Nick, I won’t—”

  “Don’t waste your pride on me, Rachel. It’s business I’m proposing, not charity. We’ll breed ‘em both, and split the foals.”

  “No stud fee?”

  He grinned, his teeth white and even against his darker skin, the skin around his eyes folding into fans of amusement. A shivering tingle slid through Rachel. She remembered the sensation of his teeth teasing her flesh, she remembered the texture of his skin under her hands.

  “Won’t take charity, but you’ll drive a hard bargain, huh, Rachel? Okay, you get first pick of the foals.”

  He adjusted his hat, and she knew he was readying to leave. He hadn’t come to give her his heart, yet the urge to find some excuse to keep him was strong enough to make her clench her teeth to keep a plea from escaping.

  “One of the mares is coming into season. Davis’ll bring her round when it’s time.”

  “Good.”

  His dark eyes scanned her from under the shadowing brim. He nodded and started for the door. But before he reached it, he spun to her, legs slightly spread, hands tight at his sides.

  “You think there’s something between Davis and my sister?”

  Trying to absorb the abruptness of the question as well as the change of subject, she responded only with a choked, “What?”

  But he took it literally. “I don’t know precisely what. It’s just sometimes—I don’t know,” he repeated. “I thought it might be something women’d see. Besides, you seem to get along real well with Alba.”

  “And you thought that if she’d told me something I’d go telling you?” she asked, torn between indignation and a wondering kind of amazement at his uncharacteristic uncertainty. It was the same sort of reaction she’d seen in his eyes when he’d held Johnny.

  “No, I didn’t think that. Hell, I don’t know what I thought.”

  “If there should be something between them, I’d be one who’d think it a fine thing. But it’s their hearts that’ll make the decisions, not mine. Not yours either, Nick.”

  His face darkened. “I won’t see her hurt. Not by anybody.”

  “If you’re talking about her heart, you can’t protect anybody’s heart.” She swallowed, trying to ease the ache in her own chest. “If you’re talking about other matters, well, do you think Davis is capable of hurting her?”

  “Any man’s capable,” he said grimly.

  Rachel figured he was thinking of his own demons, though he spoke of Davis and Alba. “Nick, you know Davis Andresson. You trust him. Do you truly think he is capable of hurting Alba?”

  He stared at her, his tense stance unyielding, but the struggle apparent in the depths of his eyes. His lips parted, and Rachel felt a swell of hope. Then he clamped them shut again, and turned to the door.

  “I’ll send Davis with the mare,” he muttered without facing her.

  * * * *

  Thomas Dunn made no pretense of politeness when Nick strode into the KD office. “What do you want, Dusaq?”

  “You need cattle. I have cattle to sell.”

  “I had the feeling, a while back, that you didn’t want to sell anything to me under any circumstances.”

  “I didn’t. Now I do.”

  Dunn’s eyebrows rose, then his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I have use for cash.”

  “But not cattle?”

  Nick maintained a bland stare.

  Dunn seemed to relax. “What’s your price?”

  Nick named a figure slightly under what he’d get on the Eastern markets. Dunn acknowledged that with a thoughtful nod. “So, you think I need cattle.”

  “I know you need cattle. I know your losses.”

  “Everybody had losses this winter.”

  “And that means everybody has two choices. Rebuild their herd or get out. Which is it going to be, Dunn?”

  Dunn’s eyes clashed with Nick’s. Nick didn’t flinch. Locking eyes with an animal could cause it to attack, but sometimes it was the only way to face one down.

  Nothing changed in the older man’s gray eyes before he spoke. “How many head?”

  “Two hundred.”

  A flicker crossed the gray, a mingling of disappointment and perhaps a reluctant respect. “Two hundred? So you’re not one of those getting out of the business, Dusaq? But selling two hundred isn’t the way to build your herd, either. What are you up to?”

  “Two hundred won’t cut my herd too close and it’ll let you rebuild.”

  “But it won’t let me rebuild fast, not the way buying your whole herd would.”

  “No, it won’t.”

  Dunn moved to his ornately carved desk. “I presume a bank draft will do.”

  “On the Chelico bank.”

  They’d never be friends; they might even remain enemies. But each knew the other wouldn’t be driven away—not by nature, not by human means.

  “Delivery?”

  “Send your men with me now. I’ll cut and your men can say yes or no to each head.”

  “I’ll come myself.”

  “Up to you. But it’s got to be now.”

  “I think I begin to understand you, Dusaq.”

  Nick gave no answer, watching flow of pen across paper.

  “I had thought you were too impatient, too cynical for this business. It doesn’t do to be soft, but a man’s got to have a gut optimism that time will turn today’s travail to advantage. Yes,” Dunn went on, blowing on damp ink, “a man has to have faith that things will come right, because he has faith in himself. That’s why I’m buying your cattle.”

  Nick’s eyes went to the window, looking bey
ond lace curtains.

  “Could be that’s why I’m selling them.”

  * * * *

  Not more than a dozen words in nearly four days. Nick figured that was silent, even for Davis Andresson.

  Nick had returned to the cabin two days after he left. Davis hadn’t asked where he’d been and he hadn’t told him. All he’d said was, “We’re leaving for Chelico at first light.”

  “Can’t leave your sister alone.”

  “She can stay a while at the Circle T.”

  Next day they rode with Alba to within sight of the Circle T home ranch, watched her on her way to the house, then veered off toward Chelico.

  In town, Nick found Rachel’s horses had gone to a number of buyers. Most of the two dozen animals sold were already headed East. For those he sent telegrams offering to buy back the ones he could trace. Others, he and Davis set to tracking down.

  After two days, they’d bought an older mare, a two-year-old colt, a yearling and Fanny—not much of Rachel’s precious stock, but some.

  They put miles behind them before making camp. They picketed the horses that night, then led them on a string next morning, it was slower going, but faster than rounding them up if they bolted.

  Davis shifted in his saddle, and cleared his throat.

  “I’m glad you did this, Nick.”

  Nick grunted, not quite willing to admit to himself he was pleased to hear Davis’ voice, much less his words.

  “You won’t regret it,” Davis added.

  “You might. Money for a plow blade went into these horses. If Henry can’t fix it, we’ll be digging Alba’s ground by hand next year. I don’t want my sister coming after me again for abusing your hands.”

  Dull color crept into sight above the fraying collar of Davis’ shirt, but he answered calmly, “Don’t worry about Alba.”

  Nick wondered if the other man intended the proprietary note.

  “When that roan mare comes in season, I want you to take her to the Circle T, match her with Warrior.”

  Davis said nothing, but his eyes remained on Nick.

  It wasn’t until midafternoon that Nick spoke again.

  “I said the other day you were taking a lot on yourself, Davis.”