Passion Flower

by Diana Palmer

  “What did you put in there?” he asked.

  “One armadillo, two rattlers, a quart of beans, some tomatoes, and a hatful of jalapeño peppers.”

  His hands contracted, making her jump. “A hatful of jalapeño peppers would take the rust off my truck.”

  “Probably the tires, too,” she commented, trying to keep her voice steady. “But Bib told me you Texans like your chili hot.”

  He turned her around to face him. He searched her eyes for a long, taut moment, and she felt her feet melting into the floor as she looked back. Something seemed to link them for that tiny space of time, joining them soul to soul for one explosive second. She heard him catch his breath and then she was free, all too soon.

  “Would...would you like a glass of milk with this?” she asked after she’d served the chili into bowls and put it on the table, along with the sliced cornbread and some canned fruit.

  “Didn’t you make coffee?” he asked, glancing up.

  “Sure. I just thought...”

  “I don’t need anything to put out the fire,” he told her with a wicked smile. “I’m not a tenderfoot from Jawja.”

  She moved to the coffeepot and poured two cups. She set his in front of him and sat down. “For your information, suh,” she drawled, “we Georgians have been known to eat rattlesnakes while they were still wiggling. And an aunt of mine makes a barbecued sparerib dish that makes Texas chili taste like oatmeal by comparison.”

  “Is that so? Let’s see.” He dipped into his chili, savored it, put the spoon down, and glared at her. “You call this hot?” he asked.

  She tasted hers and went into coughing spasms. While she was fanning her mouth wildly, he got up with a weary sigh, went to the cupboard, got a glass, and filled it with cold milk.

  He handed it to her and sat back down, with a bottle of Tabasco sauce in his free hand. While she gulped milk, he poured half the contents of the bottle into his chili and then tasted it again.

  “Just right.” He grinned. “But next time, honey, it wouldn’t hurt to add another handful of those peppers.”

  She made a sound between a moan and a gasp and drained the milk glass.

  “Now, what were you saying about barbecued spareribs making chili taste like oatmeal?” he asked politely. “I especially liked the part about the rattlers...”

  “Would you pass the cornbread, please?” she asked proudly.

  “Don’t you want the rest of your chili?” he returned.

  “I’ll eat it later,” she said. “I made an apple pie for dessert.”

  He stifled a smile as he dug into his own chili. It got bigger when she shifted her chair so that she didn’t have to watch him eat it.

  Chapter Four

  IT HAD BEEN a long time since Jennifer had been on a horse, but once Everett decided that she was going riding with him one morning, it was useless to argue.

  “I’ll fall off,” she grumbled as she stared up at the palomino gelding he’d chosen for her. “Besides, I’ve got work to do.”

  “You’ve ironed every curtain in the house, washed everything that isn’t tied down, scrubbed all the floors, and finished my paperwork. What’s left?” he asked, hands low on his hips, his eyes mocking.

  “I haven’t started supper,” she said victoriously.

  “So we’ll eat late,” he replied. “Now, get on.”

  With a hard glare, she let him put her into the saddle. She was still weak, but her hair had begun to regain its earlier luster and her spirit was returning with a vengeance.

  “Were you always so domineering, or did you take lessons?” she asked.

  “It sort of comes naturally out here, honey,” he told her with a hard laugh. “You either get tough or you go broke.”

  His eyes ran over her, from her short-sleeved button-up blue print blouse down to the legs of her worn jeans, and he frowned. “You could use some more clothes,” he observed.

  “I used to have a closetful,” she sighed. “But in recent months my clothing budget has been pretty small. Anyway, I don’t need to dress up around here, do I?”

  “You could use a pair of new jeans, at least,” he said. His lean hand slid along her thigh gently, where the material was almost see-through, and the touch quickened her pulse.

  “Yours aren’t much better,” she protested, glancing down from his denim shirt to the jeans that outlined his powerful legs.

  “I wear mine out fast,” he reminded her. “Ranching is tough on clothes.”

  She knew that, having had to get four layers of mud off his several times. “Well, I don’t put mine to the same use. I don’t fix fences and pull calves and vet cattle.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. His hand was still resting absently on her thin leg. “You work hard enough. If I didn’t already know it, I’d be told twice a day by Eddie or Bib.”

  “I like your men,” she said.

  “They like you. So do I,” he added on a smile. “You brighten up the place.”

  But not as a woman, she thought, watching him. He was completely unaware of her sexually. Even when his eyes did wander over her, it was in an indifferent way. It disturbed her, oddly enough, that he didn’t see her as a woman. Because she sure did see him as a man. That sensuous physique was playing on her nerves even now as she glanced down at it with a helpless appreciation.

  “All we need is a violin,” she murmured, grinning.

  He stared up at her, but he didn’t smile. “Your hair seems lighter,” he remarked.

  The oddest kind of pleasure swept through her. He’d noticed. She’d just washed it, and the dullness was leaving it. It shimmered with silvery lights where it peeked out from under her hat.

  “I just washed it,” she remarked.

  He shook his head. “It never looked that way before.”

  “I wasn’t healthy before,” she returned. “I feel so much better out here,” she remarked, sighing as she looked around, with happiness shining out of her like a beacon. “Oh, what a marvelous view! Poor city people.”

  He turned away and mounted his buckskin gelding. “Come on. I’ll show you the bottoms. That’s where I’ve got my new stock.”

  “Does it flood when it rains?” she asked. It was hard getting into the rhythm of the horse, but somehow she managed it.

  “Yes, ma’am, it does,” he assured her in a grim tone. “Uncle Ben lost thirty head in a flood when I was a boy. I watched them wash away. Incredible, the force of the water when it’s unleashed.”

  “It used to flood back home sometimes,” she observed.

  “Yes, but not like it does out here,” he commented. “Wait until you’ve seen a Texas rainstorm, and you’ll know what I mean.”

  “I grew up reading Zane Grey,” she informed him. “I know all about dry washes and flash floods and stampeding.”

  “Zane Grey?” he asked, staring at her. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “I told you I loved Texas,” she said with a quick smile. She closed her eyes, letting the horse pick its own way beside his. “Just breathe that air,” she said lazily. “Rett, I’ll bet if you bottled it, you could get rich overnight!”

  “I could get rich overnight by selling off oil leases if I wanted to,” he said curtly. He lit a cigarette, without looking at her.

  She felt as if she’d offended him. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Did I hit a nerve?”

  “A raw one,” he agreed, glancing at her. “Bobby was forever after me about those leases.”

  “He never won,” she said, grinning. “Did he?”

  His broad shoulders shifted. “I thought about it once or twice, when times got hard. But it’s like a cop-out. I want to make this place pay with cattle, not oil. I don’t want my land tied up in oil rigs and pumps cluttering up my landscape.” He gestured toward the horizon
. “Not too far out there, Apaches used to camp. Santa Ana’s troops cut through part of this property on their way to the Alamo. After that, the local cattlemen pooled their cattle here to start them up the Chisolm Trail. During the Civil War, Confederates passed through on their way to Mexico. There’s one hell of a lot of history here, and I don’t want to spoil it.”

  She was watching him when he spoke, and her eyes involuntarily lingered on his strong jaw, his sensuous mouth. “Yes,” she said softly, “I can understand that.”

  He glanced at her over his cigarette and smiled. “Where did you grow up?” he asked curiously.

  “In a small town in south Georgia,” she recalled. “Edison, by name. It wasn’t a big place, but it had a big heart. Open fields and lots of pines and a flat horizon like this out beyond it. It’s mostly agricultural land there, with huge farms. My grandfather’s was very small. Back in his day, it was cotton. Now it’s peanuts and soybeans.”

  “How long did you live there?”

  “Until I was around ten,” she recalled. “Dad got a job in Atlanta, and we moved there. We lived better, but I never liked it as much as home.”

  “What did your father do?”

  “He was an architect,” she said, smiling. “A very good one, too. He added a lot to the city’s skyline in his day.” She glanced at him. “Your father...”

  “I don’t discuss him,” he said matter-of-factly, with a level stare.

  “Why?”

  He drew in an impatient breath and reined in his horse to light another cigarette. He was chain smoking, something he rarely did. “I said, I don’t discuss him.”

  “Sorry, boss,” she replied, pulling her hat down over her eyes in an excellent imitation of tall, lean Bib as she mimicked his drawl. “I shore didn’t mean to rile you.”

  His lips tugged up. He blew out a cloud of smoke and flexed his broad shoulders, rippling the fabric that covered them. “My father was an alcoholic, Jenny.”

  She knew that already, but she wasn’t about to give Eddie away. Everett wouldn’t like being gossiped about by his employees. “It must have been a rough childhood for you and Robert,” she said innocently.

  “Bobby was raised by Uncle Ben and Aunt Emma,” he said. “Bobby and I inherited this place from them. They were fine people. Ben spent his life fighting to hold this property. It was a struggle for him to pay taxes. I helped him get into breeding Herefords when I moved in with them. I was just a green kid,” he recalled, “all big ears and feet and gigantic ideas. Fifteen, and I had all the answers.” He sighed, blowing out another cloud of smoke. “Now I’m almost thirty-five, and every day I come up short of new answers.”

  “Don’t we all?” Jennifer said with a smile. “I was lucky, I suppose. My parents loved each other, and me, and we were well-off. I didn’t appreciate it at the time. When I lost them it was a staggering blow.” She leaned forward in the saddle to gaze at the horizon. “How about your mother?”

  “A desperate woman, completely undomesticated,” he said quietly. “She ran off with the first man who offered her an alternative to starvation. An insurance salesman,” he scoffed. “Bobby was just a baby. She walked out the door and never looked back.”

  “I can’t imagine a woman that callous,” she said, glancing at him. “Do you ever hear from her now? Is she still alive?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care.” He lifted the cigarette to his chiseled lips. His eyes cut around to meet hers, and they were cold with memory and pain. “I don’t much like women.”

  She felt the impact of the statement to her toes. She knew why he didn’t like women, that was the problem, but she was too intelligent to think that she could pry that far, to mention the city woman who’d dumped him because he was poor.

  “It would have left scars, I imagine,” she agreed.

  “Let’s ride.” He stuck the cigarette between his lips and urged his mount into a gallop.

  Riding beside him without difficulty now, Jennifer felt alive and vital. He was such a devastating man, she thought, glancing at him, so sensuous even in faded jeans and shirt. He was powerfully built, like an athlete, and she didn’t imagine many men could compete with him.

  “Have you ever ridden in rodeo competition?” she asked suddenly without meaning to.

  He glanced at her and slowed his mount. “Have I what?”

  “Ridden in rodeos?”

  He chuckled. “What brought that on?”

  “You’re so big...”

  He stopped his horse and stared at her, his wrists crossed over the pommel of his saddle. “Too big,” he returned. “The best riders are lean and wiry.”

  “Oh.”

  “But in my younger days, I did some bareback riding and bulldogging. It was fun until I broke my arm in two places.”

  “I’ll bet that slowed you down,” she murmured dryly.

  “It’s about the only thing that ever did.” He glanced at her rapt face. Live oaks and feathery mesquite trees and prickly pear cactus and wildflowers filled the long space to the horizon and Jennifer was staring at the landscape as if she’d landed in heaven. There were fences everywhere, enclosing pastures where Everett’s white-faced Herefords grazed. The fences were old, graying and knotty and more like posts than neatly cut wood, with barbed wire stretched between them.

  “Like what you see?” Everett mused.

  “Oh, yes,” she sighed. “I can almost see it the way it would have been a hundred and more years ago, when settlers and drovers and cattlemen and gunfighters came through here.” She glanced at him. “Did you know that Dr. John Henry Holliday, better known as Doc, hailed from Valdosta, Georgia?” she added. “Or that he went west because the doctors said he’d die of tuberculosis if he didn’t find a drier climate quick? Or that he and his cousin were supposed to be married, and when they found out about the TB, he went west and she joined a nunnery in Atlanta? And that he once backed down a gang of cowboys in Dodge City and saved Wyatt Earp’s life?”

  He burst out laughing. “My God, you do know your history, don’t you?”

  “There was this fantastic biography of Holliday by John Myers Myers,” she told him. “It was the most exciting book I ever read. I wish I had a copy. I tried to get one once, but it was out of print.”

  “Isn’t Holliday buried out West somewhere?” he asked.

  “In Glenwood Springs, Colorado,” she volunteered. “He had a standing bet that a bullet would get him before the TB did, but he lost. He died in a sanitarium out there. He always said he had the edge in gunfights, because he didn’t care if he died—and most men did.” She smiled. “He was a frail little man, not at all the way he’s portrayed in films most of the time. He was blond and blue-eyed and most likely had a slow Southern drawl. Gunfighter, gambler, and heavy drinker he might have been, but he had some fine qualities, too, like loyalty and courage.”

  “We had a few brave men in Texas, too,” he said, smoking his cigarette with a grin. “Some of them fought a little battle with a few thousand Mexicans in a Spanish mission in San Antonio.”

  “Yes, in the Alamo,” she said, grinning. “In 1836, and some of those men were from Georgia.”

  He burst out laughing. “I can’t catch you out on anything, can I?”

  “I’m proud of my state,” she told him. “Even though Texas does feel like home, too. If my grandfather hadn’t come back, I might have been born here.”

  “Why did he go back?” he asked, curious.

  “I never knew,” she said. “But I expect he got into trouble. He was something of a hell-raiser even when I knew him.” She recalled the little old man sitting astride a chair in her mother’s kitchen, relating hair-raising escapes from the Germans during World War I while he smoked his pipe. He’d died when she was fourteen, and she still remembered going to Edison for the funeral, to a cemetery near
Fort Gaines where Spanish moss fell from the trees. It had been a quiet place, a fitting place for the old gentleman to be laid to rest. In his home country. Under spreading oak trees.

  “You miss him,” Everett said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “My Uncle Ben was something like that,” he murmured, lifting his eyes to the horizon. “He had a big heart and a black temper. Sometimes it was hard to see the one for the other,” he added with a short laugh. “I idolized him. He had nothing, but he bowed to no man. He’d have approved of what I’m doing with this place. He’d have fought the quick money, too. He liked a challenge.”

  And so, she would have bet, did his nephew. She couldn’t picture Everett Culhane liking anything that came too easily. He would have loved living in the nineteenth century, when a man could build an empire.

  “You’d have been right at home here in the middle eighteen hundreds,” she remarked, putting the thought into words. “Like John Chisum, you’d have built an empire of your own.”

  “Think so?” he mused. He glanced at her. “What do you think I’m trying to do now?”

  “The same thing,” she murmured. “And I’d bet you’ll succeed.”

  He looked her over. “Would you?” His eyes caught hers and held them for a long moment before he tossed his cigarette onto the ground and stepped down out of the saddle to grind it under his boot.

  A sudden sizzling sound nearby shocked Jennifer, but it did something far worse to the horse she was riding. The gelding suddenly reared up, and when it came back down again it was running wild.

  She pulled back feverishly on the reins, but the horse wouldn’t break its speed at all. “Whoa!” she yelled into its ear. “Whoa, you stupid animal!”

  Finally, she leaned forward and hung on to the reins and the horse’s mane at the same time, holding on with her knees as well. It was a wild ride, and she didn’t have time to worry about whether or not she was going to survive it. In the back of her mind she recalled Everett’s sudden shout, but nothing registered after that.