by Brenda Joyce
"Yes, but you can relax, it's Leon Claxton, and that should please even Rathe!"
"How serious is serious?" He removed his Stetson to wipe his forehead, and frowned. "He related to Roger Claxton, the New York senator?"
"Yes, Leon is his son, and he hasn't proposed, if that's what you want to know."
Derek smiled wolfishly. "Yeah, well, if he's at all like his old man, then he's not for her."
"Why not! You like Roger—and he and Rathe are good friends."
"He and Rathe are close associates, with many of the same interests. That's not quite the same thing as good friends. If Leon's like his old man, he won't make a good husband: ambition will be his first and only interest."
Miranda frowned, absorbing what he had said. "I hear something." They both listened, and in the distance, there was the faint sound of a train's whistle.
"I don't hear anything. Now I remember. We met Leon once, briefly, when we were in New York last summer. He had just returned from Spain, where he had his first post as assistant consul in Madrid. Roger has big plans for Leon. I think he was just awarded the post as assistant to the police commissioner, Teddy Roosevelt. Do you know why Leon left Spain?" Miranda shook her head.
' 'He was married—and his wife died over there in childbirth."
"I didn't know that."
Derek's mouth set. "He may have the right bloodlines, but he's not for Lucy."
"Here it is: look, Derek!" Miranda interrupted.
The big black locomotive came roaring into the station. Derek grabbed Miranda's arm. "Stop getting so excited, you'll have a heart attack!" he shouted over the roar of the train. He was flushed with excitement, too.
"There is nothing wrong with my heart, and you know it," she returned more calmly. But she was clutching her hands. The train had stopped, and two blue-suited conductors with their red-trimmed caps leapt off, and then the passengers began disembarking while a few people boarded. But there was no sign of Lucy.
"Derek." Miranda gripped his elbow in alarm. Derek patted her reassuringly and strode over to one of the conductors. Although sometimes his right knee acted up and was a bit stiff, today his strides were long and agile. "Sir!"
The conductor handed a woman passenger up and turned to face Derek, whom he immediately recognized. "Mr. Bragg!" His smile was genuinely pleasant, not at all obsequious—even though Derek owned this spur that the train was on. After a lengthy exchange, Derek told Miranda to wait while he climbed aboard. Five minutes later, he appeared, grim-faced, and re-joined her on the platform. "She's not on the train, and the conductor said he hasn't seen a girl fitting her description. He's been working the line from New Orleans."
"What do you think happened?" Miranda was too upset to think that Derek had probably referred to Lucy as he always did, as "my little redheaded granddaughter."
"Lucy was on that train," Derek said. "She sent us a telegram the day she left." "Oh my Lord," Miranda said.
"I'm going to wire New York. Just in case she and her friend didn't leave."
"Lucy would never be that irresponsible!"
"And then I'm hiring the Pinkertons," Derek roared.
"And Rathe and Grace?"
"Rathe's in Havana at the villa or at Maravilla. Grace is in Washington, but I don't know where the hell she's staying. If I have to, I can find out. But right now, I don't want to worry either one of them—not yet."
She was barely awake, and just for an instant she thought she was at home in her sumptuously canopied four-poster bed. When her elbow made contact with a stone and a lot of dirt, reality came rushing back to jar her. She recalled Joanna's hard, accusing glare, and remembered instantly what she and the stranger had done.
She smiled.
No one had ever told her that being with a man was the height of ecstasy. No one had even hinted it could be so wonderful. His image assailed her forcefully. Dark, powerful, his broad chest wet and slick, his thighs braced hard in the tight jeans. He wasn't really handsome, his face was too rough and masculine, but he was utterly compelling. Delicious feelings were washing over her just thinking about him.
Now she knew why some of her mother's suffragette friends espoused free love. They insisted that women were equal to men—in every way. Her mother believed in equality, too.
But not in free love.
Lucy sobered. She was wrapped in his bedroll, the stranger's, and she had shared it last night with Joanna. Oh, God! She didn't even know his name! And Joanna had seen them!
Lucy closed her eyes. She had done many harebrained, wild things in her life, but never something like this. If her parents ever found out, she was finished. In fact, if anyone ever found out, she would be ruined, forever. She would never make a good marriage and she'd have to marry someone old and fat or become a spinster. This was a very grim thought indeed.
She didn't even like him, really. He was the lowest sort, or at least, his manners were. She could never bring him home, even if he wore decent clothes. He was too rude and mean. Too dangerous. Lucy shuddered. What had she done?
And until last night, she hadn't thought that he liked her. Of course, she had been wrong. Hadn't she?
Unsure, Lucy sat up. Then she dismissed her uncertainty. Of course he liked her; why shouldn't he? Everyone liked her—she was very popular. And she was pretty—almost everyone she knew told her how beautiful she was.
But—how should she act with him now?
How did a woman act with a man she barely knew but had been so intimate with? Lucy smiled. Now she was being silly: she knew what to do—she was a woman used to men's company and their adoration. She would treat him the way she treated all her other beaux.
"He is not here," Joanna said.
Lucy shifted around to find Joanna gazing at her from a perch on a boulder. Joanna knew. No one else knew, and God forbid they should. How much had she really seen? Last night she hadn't been able to talk at all to Joanna, who had been very distraught. "Good morning," she tried cheerfully.
"He's not here," Joanna repeated, clearly distressed.
Lucy did not want to talk about him. "He's probably just gone off to do whatever it is that men do in the morning," she said, getting up. She started to fuss with her hair, hastily braided last night when Shoz had propelled her back to camp after Joanna had discovered them. She had to find out exactly what Joanna had seen.
"He left way before the sun came up, hours ago. He's gone." Joanna was dismayed and on the verge of tears.
Lucy's hands stilled. He had made love to her last night; he couldn't have left her. She smoothed down her hopelessly soiled and wrinkled skirt. "No, I don't believe it."
"He's left us out here, alone. Because of you."
"Of course he didn't leave because of me!" "He had his way with you and left!" "No, he didn't! Joanna," Lucy said slowly, "I tried to tell you last night, it wasn't what you think you saw." Joanna looked at her.
Lucy smiled. "Really, it wasn't. We didn't do anything. Oh, a few kisses, but no different from Leon Claxton." "I saw you," Joanna cried. "I saw everything]" Lucy stared back as color rose high on her cheeks. Abruptly she sat back down, stunned. "It really wasn't what you think." Had Joanna seen everything? Certain memories that Lucy had been carefully editing began to surface. Knifelike panic stabbed her. She grew calmer only by recalling that she and Joanna had been best friends since they were eight, living on the same block, and Joanna had never ratted on her despite her many other escapades. It was awful that she had been a witness to Lucy's shameful behavior, but Lucy knew she could trust her to remain silent. Now Lucy could face the other disturbing issue. "He's really left?" "Yes."
Lucy stood. "He's really left?" Her heart was slamming against her chest. "He didn't leave," she said. "He couldn't!"
"He abandoned us! He is gone, Lucy, gone."
Lucy felt like exploding. He had made love to her, used her, and left her? She paced wildly to the fire. "Damn him!'' She picked up a burnt piece of wood and hurled it, as far as she could. An
d then she saw his saddle. "He's coming back! He left his saddle! No cowboy would leave his saddle!" Lucy cried. She turned to her friend. "You are wrong—he didn't leave us, Joanna!"
It was blazing hot.
The sun beat down mercilessly upon the parched plain. Trees that looked stunted dotted the landscape. The grass was a harsh yellow. And nestled amongst a cluster of surprisingly lush green cottonwoods that grew by a small creek, was a weathered, doorless shack.
In the shade of the sagging, overhanging roof, Shoz conducted his business. First, they shook hands. Two swarthy men had brought the goods. The old one was fat and grizzled; the lean young one had a red cast to his skin. Spencer rifles filled the scabbards on their saddles, and six- shooters hung from their hips. The young one had a knife sheathed in his belt, and Fat Jack, Shoz knew, had a blade hidden in his boot—as did Shoz.
"I want to see the goods," Shoz said, stepping out into the blinding sun. His shirt clung to his back, soaked. He had trotted Apache-style most of the ten miles he'd traveled that morning, and he'd arrived way before his "friends." Just to make sure it wasn't a trap.
"Be my guest," Fat Jack said, spitting out a wad of tobacco. The young one said nothing. He couldn't; his tongue had been cut out long ago.
Shoz strolled to the two burros sleeping in the sun. Both were packing mounds of canvas-covered gear. Shoz flipped up a tarp, unlashed a bundle, and gently set it on the ground. There he opened the burlap feed bag and nudged out twelve standard U.S. Army carbines.
He smiled, replaced them in the feed bag, relashed it closed, and then fastened it to the burro. Both burros packed five bags each, and he checked every one to make sure they contained rifles and not anything else—he'd never been cheated yet.
"Satisfied?" queried Fat Jack from beneath the sagging roof.
Shoz strolled over. "Yeah. I'll take the mules, too."
"Sorta figured that," Fat Jack said. "Bein' as there ain't no pack animals around—no mount either. Rattler?"
"Dog hole," Shoz said shortly. It had only happened yesterday, yet whenever he thought about putting his magnificent chestnut to sleep, it killed him. He'd had no choice, for the stallion had broken his foreleg.
Shoz lifted his shirt and tore the tape from his abdomen, without a wince. He unrolled the thick wad of bills. He counted out five thousand dollars in twenties, then added one bill more for the mules. The deal had been negotiated in Laredo weeks ago.
After the men had left, Shoz led the mules away. Their progress was slow, but he didn't care. He was sure Fat Jack and the mute wouldn't try to kill him and steal back the already stolen guns, only because they'd arranged to do business again in a few months time. Also, Fat Jack knew him. Knew he didn't kill so easily.
So his thoughts drifted to the girl.
What a piece of baggage.
Hadn't he sensed it? Known it? Known she'd be hot? Being with her had been an explosion, and he could explode now, just remembering. Then he recalled Joanna, and he laughed.
Poor Joanna had been shocked and rigidly disapproving and maybe jealous. He had been amused. Lucy had been just as shocked as her friend at having been caught in the act. He wouldn't have minded continuing, but Lucy had run after Joanna, trying to explain that they hadn't done anything. Joanna refused to listen.
How long would it take to get to the Bragg ranch? Now that they had the mules, they could make it by tomorrow noon. Too bad. He wouldn't mind having the Princess warm his bed for a while. But it wasn't to be. Still, there was always tonight.
He started to whistle.
Five miles from the hut at Geoffard's Hanging Tree, he stopped and unpacked the mules. The spade was where he'd left it, buried very shallowly ten paces north of the hanging tree. Shoz started to dig.
An hour later, he'd buried all the rifles, and an hour after that, he rode back into the camp.
They were waiting for him. One with a smile of relief. The other one furious.
Chapter 6
"Where have you been!"
She didn't exactly mean to shout. But she had begun to think that Joanna was right, that he had deserted them, deserted her, as the sun rose and rose with no sign of his return. And with the soaring heat, her temper rose as well. No gentleman would leave them alone all day like this, virtually abandoning them, without even a note as to his intentions. Without even a personal note, for her. But then, he wasn't a gentleman, was he? He wasn't from her circle of friends, he wasn't anything at all like the men she knew back home. He was a tramp, and she shouldn't be forgetting it. The hotter it got and the longer she waited, the more Lucy remembered his rudeness and insolence. "Where have you been!"
"None of your business."
She recoiled.
Joanna sat complacently, watching them. Shoz nudged the ashes of last night's fire with his boot. "No food, no fire? What have you girls been doing all day?''
Lucy froze at the implied criticism. She was already regretting her outburst—this wasn't how you greeted someone you'd been intimate with even if that someone had abandoned you for an entire sweltering day. It wasn't the first time her temper had gotten the better of her, and she resolved, not for the first time, to make amends. Yet she couldn't help thinking that he didn't act as if he really liked her, which could not be possible, not after what they'd done.
"We thought you weren't coming back," Joanna said. "Isn't that right, Lucy?"
It was still unbelievably hot. The sun was just starting to set, but it would be a couple of hours before it cooled down. Lucy turned slowly to face her friend, knowing it was the heat and their desperate circumstances that made her want to murder her. "Not exactly," she said, giving Joanna a look. She gave Shoz a strained smile. "I had no doubts that you would return."
"Really?" He was smiling, as if he knew she was a liar. He was also carelessly eyeing her with lazy sexual interest. Lucy had long since thrown off her jacket, which was ruined. She had rolled up her sleeves and had removed her shoes and stockings. She knew she didn't look the least bit attractive, and that, combined with his disgraceful lewdness, made her turn away and struggle to maintain her composure and her resolve. He was supposed to like her, care about her. She was supposed to be pleasant and flirtatious. All reasonable behavior seemed to be a scant instant from slipping from her grasp. Irrevocably.
She didn't dare ask him where he had been all day, so she watched him reach for one of the saddlebags, her hopes suddenly soaring. Maybe he was going to cook for all of them tonight! She and Joanna hadn't eaten all day, because neither one of them had the slightest idea of how to prepare the rations he'd left. Lucy had tried her hand at coffee, and it had been a gritty disaster. Not to mention the fact that she'd burned her thumb lighting the fire and gotten three splinters gathering wood.
He removed some hobbles from the saddlebag and inspected the pan with the burned, muddy coffee. "You can stand a knife in this," he said with disgust.
Now was the time to be humble, and Lucy knew it. "I've never made coffee before," she admitted.
"Don't widen those eyes at me," he scowled. "You can damn well learn, princess. I am not your servant."
Why was he so testy? "I didn't imply any such thing."
He turned away and walked to the stream. Lucy watched him, confused and agitated. This was not going well, not at all. Why was he being so nasty to her? Was it possible that he regretted last night? The thought was horrifying!
One of the burros brayed. Her attention diverted, Lucy saw both mules, drinking from the stream.
"Donkeys," she breathed.
Shoz had reached the animals and was hobbling them. Lucy ran after him. "You left us to get donkeys?"
He leaned his shoulder against one furry flank. He looked at her.
Lucy hesitated. This explained why he had left them. He hadn't abandoned them, and he could have; he'd gone to find them transportation, so he wasn't as bad as he seemed. This was more like what she was used to. She smiled tentatively and laid a hand on his arm.
It was the way she remembered it, all silken steel, and she felt a thrill just touching him.
"Now what do you want?" he said bluntly.
She dropped her hand. "Nothing, I... I don't even know your name.'' She blushed, because under the circumstances, she should be embarrassed that they had not even introduced themselves.
"Shoz."
"Shoz? What kind of name is that?" "An Apache one."
Lucy blinked, and was about to tell him that there was a drop of Apache blood in her veins, too, but he continued in a hard voice, "I was named after my uncle. Shozkay. A real, live full-blooded Indian. At least, he was alive before U.S. soldiers hung him. Aren't you going to faint, princess?" He sneered. "Gasp or scream?"
Lucy stepped back at the cold anger in his tone. He abruptly turned away. "Wait!" she cried, reaching for his arm.
"Now what?"
She withdrew her hand hastily. "I came to say thank you."
"For what? Last night?"
Her eyes widened at the unspeakable reference. She glanced over her shoulder. "Don't you ever speak of that again!"
"She didn't hear. Besides, she saw us." Lucy wanted to hit him. He was so obviously enjoying her distress. "She won't say anything!" He shrugged. "I don't care one way or the other."
She had the terrible feeling that he meant it. "You don't mean that," she whispered.
His gaze narrowed and he cursed. "Don't look at me like that. Like I hurt your feelings. This isn't New York, and I'm not one of your love-struck swains."
A long moment passed. He had just made himself very clear. "Believe me, you did not hurt my feelings. You could not."
"Bravo," he murmured.
Her eyes flashed. "I only wanted to thank you for taking the trouble of finding us the mules."
He laughed. "Honey, I don't do anything for nothing, much less if it's trouble."
"What are you saying?"
He stared at her. "I guess you're used to being waited on hand and foot. But I've never waited on anybody in my life. I hate to disillusion you, but I did not spend the whole goddamn day looking for mules for your little backside."
