by Kay Hooper
She went to pour herself a cup of coffee, still wearing her gun. She seemed a bit distant, preoccupied. He watched her.
“Another storm coming.” There was restlessness in her voice.
“When?” He had a feeling she’d know.
“Tonight.” She was frowning just a bit, gazing at the cup in her hand, a grim set to her delicate lips. “Worse than the last, I’d guess.”
Falcon wondered if she was implying it was time for him to leave, and the thought made his stomach muscles tighten in a sudden spasm of pain. Then she was going on. He relaxed.
“We’ve enough food for a week or so, even if the snares catch nothing,” she said slowly. “Enough feed for the horses. If the storm lasts more than a week, we may have to start taking the barn apart, to burn the wood.”
He blinked, then caught the faint gleam of humor in her fine eyes as she glanced at him. After a moment, he asked, “Any sign of company?”
Victoria leaned a hip against the table and gazed at him. Her face was as serene as ever, but the green eyes were abruptly shuttered. “No.”
He went to pour a cup of coffee for himself, gesturing silently at her knife, lying on the table near her. “Thanks for the loan.”
“You’re welcome.”
She didn’t reach for the knife, which both disappointed him and caused his respect for her to reluctantly edge up yet another notch. Somewhere along the way, he realized, in her traumatic girlhood or since, this woman had learned that a hidden weapon is effective only as long as the hiding place is secret; she wouldn’t show him where she carried it.
He didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to wonder where she had learned that. He looked at her and felt his stomach muscles tighten again, knot, felt heat spread through him. She was so beautiful, even in her man’s clothes, and his body ached with wanting her for so long. He hadn’t forgotten that, not even weakened by shock and pain, and not now, when he was healing physically and so aware of her.
Wet, green eyes and bitten lips.
She was so calm now, so emotionless. He wanted, suddenly, to destroy that calm. To force her to feel the savage emotions he felt himself. But the words that emerged from his mouth were not those he would have chosen if he had given himself a moment to reflect—even though they did force a response from her.
“I heard your husband was killed.”
Her body went stiff. “While I was in New York.”
“The telegram.” He didn’t want to remember that night, what he had said to her, didn’t want to remind them both of what had happened to them. But they were acting like strangers, and he couldn’t bear that.
“Yes. He’d just been found missing then.” Her eyes were unreadable again, but there was a white look of strain around her lips as she stared at him. “I didn’t find out the rest until I reached the ranch.”
Falcon knew what the rest was, but he made it a question. “He was murdered? And you’re after his killers?”
“Yes.” Her eyes darkened, something like horror stirring in their depths. “Oh, yes, they murdered him. And I’m after them.”
“Why not let the law—“
Her laugh—soft, flat, empty—interrupted him. “The law? Our local sheriff made a show of looking for Morgan’s killers. Gathered a posse. Followed tracks for a day or two. Then he came to me just before the funeral, hat in hand, his eyes full of pity, and told me the trail had vanished. He told me Morgan had probably been killed by drifters, by outlaws already long gone. He told me he’d send out handbills, except that there weren’t any witnesses, and, so, no descriptions. He told me to be brave. He told me to go on with my life. I was young, he said. And lovely, in case he hadn’t mentioned it. And I’d need a man around the place.” She laughed again. “You’re a bright man, Falcon; I’m sure you can follow the direction of his very unselfish thoughts.”
Falcon could. “You could have contacted a federal marshal,” he told her.
“And be told the same thing again? No witnesses, no descriptions, no trail, no killers. And no need to waste a marshal’s time.”
“How can you hope to find them?” Falcon asked reasonably. “If you don’t have any more to go on than that?” He was wondering about the gold, wondering, still, if she could possibly know about that.
“But I do have more. I followed a few trails myself. And I came up with a terrified eight-year-old boy…who saw everything. The son of one of our ranch hands. The law wouldn’t believe him. I do. I know him. And I know he gave me a better description than most men could have given, even though he didn’t see the men clearly. I know what their horses look like, and that’s enough.”
She felt a sudden chill. A pinto. The boy had seen a pinto, just like the one now in the barn. The man from New York—one of Morgan’s killers? It didn’t make sense; none of it made sense to her! What was it all about?
“On the word of a child, you’re hunting men? What will you do when you find them, Victoria?” He wasn’t conscious of using her name for the first time since seeing her again. “You have no evidence—“
“I will have,” she said, her voice remote. She pushed the speculation to the back of her mind in order to deal with Falcon now. “I’ll have evidence. His killer may still be wearing the ring he took from Morgan’s finger.”
“And if there’s no ring? No evidence? Will you use that gun to get your justice?”
Victoria looked at him for a long, steady moment. “Falcon, the men who killed Morgan will pay for what they did. But I’ll shoot no man down in cold blood. I’ll face them and I’ll be sure—very, very sure. If I can, I’ll take them in alive. If not, they’ll go in dead.” She frowned a bit, adding almost to herself, “I have to know why. An Apache couldn’t have approached Morgan without his knowing; these men disarmed him because he let them get close enough.”
“Men make mistakes,” Falcon noted, watching her.
She shook her head. “Not Morgan. Not that kind of mistake.” Her voice was utterly certain. “I think he knew them, that he let them get that close for some reason. But why did they kill him like that? And the boy said he heard them mention gold.” Gold again, always gold. What did it mean?
Falcon stiffened, but kept his face expressionless. “Gold? The man who followed you here—didn’t he ask about gold?”
“Yes. Gold. I think, no, I’m sure that he was one of the men who killed Morgan. But he was one of the men in the bookshop in New York, the one who struck you down. Why would he have come out here and killed Morgan?” She was obviously bewildered. “And why would they have thought he knew where gold was? Why would they think that? Morgan was a wealthy man; he didn’t want or need gold. He didn’t care about it.”
“Are you sure your husband knew nothing about it?” Falcon was treading warily now, every sense alert, trying to ignore the pain of naming another man her husband.
“Of course I’m sure.”
“And you know nothing about it?”
She stared at him, her green eyes suddenly wary. “I know nothing.”
“But you connect the gold with your husband’s death?” Falcon asked softly. “Why?”
Her reaction to that startled him. Green eyes darkened, horror stirring in them again, and her face drained of color. Huskily, she said, “Because Morgan wasn’t just murdered. He was tortured to death.” She drew a deep breath. “Obviously, they wanted to find out something from him.”
Falcon agreed with her silently. “You think it was the gold?”
“I don’t know what else it could be. But I don’t believe he knew anything about it, and I don’t understand why they believed he did know.” She sighed, a weary sound. “I think Morgan died because of some horrible mistake. He was a good man; he didn’t deserve to die that way. No one deserves to die that way.”
“You saw—“
“Of course I saw!” Her breath caught on a sob, but almost instantly, she was calm again. “I’m the one who found him. There wasn’t much left.”
“I�
��m sorry.”
She looked at him, but said nothing.
“I heard that Fontaine was quite a bit older than you.” He was driven; he had to understand.
“Almost thirty years.”
Falcon watched as she moved over and sat down on the cot, leaning back against the wall. He sank down on the bench at the table, gazing at her. An older, indulgent husband? There was no trace in her of the spoiled, petted wife, and yet—He didn’t understand, and he had to. That innocence in her eyes, the surprise at his passionate caresses. But it couldn’t be. She was too beautiful and vital a woman to share a man’s home without also sharing his bed.
Unerringly, she picked up his train of thought. “Some of the townspeople were certain I’d gone to the city in search of a younger man; they made their beliefs painfully obvious, even before I left for New York.”
“Had you gone looking for a younger man?” he asked bluntly, half-dreading the answer.
“No.”
Just that, just the simple denial. Falcon felt a painful kick in his stomach, reflecting that she must have loved her husband very much, that a man thirty years her senior could have commanded such loyalty from a young and vital woman…at least until she had been thrown into a cellar with a stranger.
Falcon tried not to think about that, tried not to remember. He was having trouble keeping his voice steady, and cleared his throat harshly. “So. On the word of a young and frightened child, you’re hunting men. What about this?” He kept his gaze fixed on her face.
Victoria looked at the handbill he had pulled from his shirt pocket. Her eyes flicked to her saddlebags, then returned to him. She was somehow unsurprised that he had taken advantage of her absence to look through the saddlebags. “I found that near Morgan’s body.”
“You believe one of his killers left it there?”
“It’s a possibility.” She drew a deep breath. “That handbill hadn’t been left out there in the rocks any longer than—than Morgan had.”
Falcon opened the handbill and looked at the date of departure, then refolded the paper and laid it aside on the table. One thought, one realization, filled his mind. “You should have left days ago,” he said softly.
“I have time.” She kept her voice even. “A few days, at least. I can swing south to avoid the bad weather, and—“
“Why didn’t you leave, Victoria? The storm ended three or four days ago. By staying, you’ve gotten caught by a second storm. Why did you stay?”
Victoria remained silent. There was no answer she could give him. What could she say? That she had stayed because she loved him still, despite everything? No, she couldn’t say that. He’d never believe that.
Roughly, he said, “You stayed because of me, didn’t you? You dug a bullet out of me instead of taking that knife and gelding me, and then you stayed here to take care of me instead of leaving to catch the ship. Why, Victoria?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “I would have done as much for any man.”
“Would you?”
Desperately, she ignored the question. “I still have time. They must have taken shelter too. I’ll find them.”
He looked down at the untasted coffee in his cup. He heard his voice speak harshly. “You found me in New York.” He had to hear her admit that he mattered to her, had to.
“No,” she said very quietly, holding on to her composure with all her will. “I found a man I was drawn to, in spite of myself. And you found a lady you were drawn to. Two different people, in another time.”
“You’re saying we’re no longer drawn to each other?” He looked up at her, his eyes glittering.
Victoria looked down at her coffee. “I’m saying we can’t go back to being those people, existing in that time.” Her voice was low. “I lied to you by omission, even though I never meant to do that. I let you believe I was free. In a way, I was free, but I don’t expect you to understand that.”
“Victoria…” He hesitated, then finished roughly. “I still want you.” Immediately, he wondered if she’d suspect him of being interested in her dead husband’s wealth. It only then occurred to him to wonder if she’d suspected he was after her own obvious wealth in New York. But when she spoke, he realized she was thinking along other lines.
“You wanted that lady, that other person. I’m not her anymore.”
“As you said,” he muttered, “we can’t go back.”
“No, we can’t.” She sounded tired. “We know too much about each other—and too little. Too much has happened. And Morgan is dead.”
Falcon felt his jaw aching, and knew his teeth were gritted tightly. Every time she spoke the name of her dead husband, it was like a knife stabbing him. He couldn’t think clearly of anything but that. Years of work, of painstaking search, filtered through his mind, yet he couldn’t grasp a single thought. He just sat looking at her, absently setting aside his cup, standing up and taking a step toward her. His jaw hurt, and there was an ache near his heart, and he badly needed something—anything—to wipe out the betrayal of New York.
“You felt something,” he said, “when you dug a bullet out of me. You felt something then.”
Wet, green eyes and bitten lips.
Victoria kept her eyes lowered, afraid to meet his. Afraid he would see too much truth. She could feel his gaze, feel awareness of him in every nerve of her body. The room was suddenly too hot, too close, and she couldn’t breathe. Grimly, she fought for control, knowing that if she gave in to desire, she would only be confirming this man’s low opinion of her.
She lifted her head at last, staring at him proudly even as her knees weakened at the very male expression in his eyes. “Whatever I feel or do not feel is my own concern, Falcon. I will find the men who killed my husband…and nothing else matters.”
Chapter 3
“I don’t believe that.” His voice was taut. “I don’t believe nothing else matters to you.”
“I can’t help what you believe.”
He took another step toward her. Brutally, he said, “You wanted me in New York, Victoria. We were going to spend the night together in your room, remember?”
She half-closed her eyes, struggling to hang on to some semblance of control, of pride. He had already told her what he thought of her, and nothing could take back those words. “I made a mistake,” she said steadily. “It was foolish of me.” End it, just end it now! “I betrayed my husband!”
“You betrayed me!” He was there, suddenly, yanking her up and sending her coffee cup flying, hauling her against him with punishing force. And his kiss was punishing, cruel and bitter. He kissed her with an angry force that sought to wipe away another man’s memory, holding her head firmly so that she couldn’t escape him.
She struggled at first, wildly, matching her strength against his in an unequal contest. He was larger, stronger, furiously angry, not even his healing wound holding him back. She couldn’t escape him, but wrenched her mouth free, and the protest screaming inside her emerged only in an anguished whisper. “No, not like this, not in anger!”
“Any way,” he uttered thickly against her throat, his hands dropping to her hips to pull her lower body tightly against the swelling fullness of his arousal. “Any way I can get you. And you want me, Victoria, as much as I want you.”
He was right and she knew it, knew her body was responding wildly to his, weakening, yielding. The overpowering desire he had instantly ignited in New York was a raging fire she couldn’t damp, couldn’t put out. But he was angry, and she couldn’t bear that, couldn’t bear that he would take her in his fury. And it was that she protested, not his desire or her own. “You promised once that you’d never hurt me,” she whispered, trying to reach him, trying to drain the black rage from him.
“You hurt me.” He lifted his head, eyes blazing. “You stuck a knife in my gut!”
She shook her head a little, confused, unwilling to believe what she heard. “You wanted my body, Falcon, not my heart! You had no right to be hurt, no
right at all. Angry, yes. I knew you’d be angry, but—“
“I loved you!” The words burst out of him, raw and violent, shocking them both.
Victoria was utterly still, gazing up at him. “You…you never said…”
“I didn’t know.” His face was white, his eyes burning like live coals, and a muscle jerked in his hard-held jaw. “It never happened to me before, and I—Goddammit, Victoria, I nearly died when I read that telegram!” His voice was rough, unsteady. “I was half-crazy, ready to kill him, ready to lock you away somewhere until I could make you love me.”
“I do.” Her voice almost wasn’t there. The hands that had pushed against his chest slid upward, around his neck, and her body yielded to his even more now. “I thought you knew. I was willing to break all the rules, forget everything I’d ever been taught.” For the first time since New York, her eyes were alive again, glowing with feeling. “I loved you so much that nothing else mattered.”
He caught his breath, unable to tear his gaze from her softened, tender face. He wanted to question her words, doubt them, deny them, because she had been married. He wanted to ask how she could love him and yet be so determined to find the men who had killed her husband—an action that had to be motivated by extremely powerful emotions. But he loved her, and he wanted to believe that she loved him.
“Victoria…”
Huskily, she said, “I know I killed it, what you felt for me. I know you don’t love me now.”
He made a rough sound and kissed her. “Killed it?” His voice was shaken. “You didn’t kill it, and I couldn’t, no matter how I tried.” There was no anger in him now, only an aching need that had been a part of him so long it was a familiar thing. And there was too much to think about, too much still unanswered; he wanted to just feel.
Victoria was in the same state, her mind numbed by it all but her body achingly alive and aware. She had fought not to love him, not to give in to his desire and her own, and had been defeated in New York. In this small, dark room, she had fought to save his life, even though she had believed he hated her, and she had triumphed. Now she was conscious of nothing but the overwhelming need to belong to him.
