by Nora Roberts
When she’d finished the beans, she hiccuped, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned back against the hearth only to lose her balance when a stone gave way. Nursing a bruised elbow, she shifted. She would have replaced the stone, but something caught her eye. Crouching again, she reached into the small opening that was now exposed and slowly pulled out a bag.
With her lips caught tight between her teeth, she poured gold coins into her lap. Two hundred and thirty dollars. Sarah pressed both hands to her mouth, swallowed, then counted again. There was no mistake. She hadn’t known until that moment how much money could mean. She could buy decent food, fuel, whatever she needed to make her way.
She poured the coins back into the bag and dug into the hole again. This time she found the deed to Sarah’s Pride.
What an odd man he must have been, she thought. To hide his possessions beneath a stone.
The last and most precious item she discovered in the hiding place was her father’s journal. It delighted her. The small brown book filled with her father’s cramped handwriting meant more to Sarah than all the gold coins in Arizona. She hugged it to her as she’d wanted to hug her father. Before she rose with it, she replaced the gold and the deed under the stone. She would read about one of his days each evening. It would be like a gift, something that each day would bring her a little closer to this man she’d never really known. For now she would go back to the stream, wash as best she could and gather water for the morning. Jake watched her come out of the cabin with a pail in one hand and a lantern in the other. He’d made himself as comfortable as he needed to be among the rocks. There had been enough jerky and hardtack in his saddlebag to make a passable supper. Not what he’d planned on, exactly, but passable.
He’d be damned if he could figure out why he’d decided to keep an eye on her. The lady wasn’t his problem. But even as he’d been cursing her and steering his horse toward town, he’d known he couldn’t just ride off and leave her there alone.
Maybe it was because he knew what it was to lose everything. Or because he’d been alone himself for more years then he cared to remember. Or maybe, damn her, it had something to do with the way she’d looked coming down that bluff with her bonnet trailing by the ribbons and tears still drying on her face. He hadn’t thought he had a weak spot. Certainly not where women were concerned. He shoved himself to his feet. He just didn’t have anything better to do.
He stayed well behind her. He knew how to move silently, over rock, through brush, in sunlight or in the dark of the moon. That was both a matter of survival and a matter of blood. In his youth he’d spent some years with his grandmother’s people and he’d learned more than any white man could have learned in a lifetime about tracking without leaving a mark, about hunting without making a sound.
As for the woman, she was still wearing that fancy skirt with the bustle and shoes that were made for city sidewalks rather than rough ground. Twice Jake had to stop and wait, or even at a crawl he’d have caught up with her.
Probably break an ankle before she was through, he thought. That might be the best thing that could happen to her. Then he’d just cart her on back to town. Couldn’t say he’d mind too much picking her up again. She felt good-maybe too good. He had to grin when she shrieked and landed on her fancy bustle because a rabbit darted across her path.
Nope, the pretty little duchess from Philadelphia wasn’t going to last a day.
With a hand to her heart, Sarah straggled to her feet. She’d never seen a rabbit that large in her life. With a little sound of distress, she noted that she’d torn the hem of her skirt. How did the women out here manage? she wondered as she began to walk again. In this heat, a corset felt like iron and a fashionable skirt prevented anything but the most delicate walking.
When she reached the stream, she dropped down on a rock and went to work with her buttonhook. It was heaven, absolute heaven, to remove her shoes. There was a blister starting on her heel, but she’d worry about that later. Right now all she could think about was splashing some cool water on her skin.
She glanced around cautiously. There couldn’t be anyone there. The sensation of being watched was a natural one, she supposed, when a woman was alone in the wilderness and the sun was going down. She unpinned the cameo at her throat and placed it carefully in her skirt pocket. It was the one thing she had that had belonged to her mother.
Humming to keep herself company, she unbuttoned her blouse and folded it over a rock. With the greatest relief, she unfastened her corset and dropped it on top of the blouse. She could breathe, really breathe, for the first time all day. Hurrying now, she stripped down to her chemise, then unhooked her stockings.
Glorious. She closed her eyes and let out a low sound of pleasure when she stepped into the narrow, ankle-deep stream. The water, trickling down from the mountains, was cold and clear as ice.
What the hell did she think she was doing? Jake let out a low oath and averted his eyes. He didn’t need this aggravation. Who would have thought the woman would strip down and play in the water with the night coming on? He glanced back to see her bend down to splash her face. There was nothing between the two of them but shadows and sunlight.
Water dampened the cotton she wore so that it clung here and there. When she bent to scoop up more water, the ruffles at the bodice sagged to tease him. Crouching behind the rock, he began to curse himself instead of her.
His own fault. Didn’t he know minding your own business, and only your own, was the best way to get by? He’d just had to be riding along when the Apaches had hit the stage. He’d just had to be the one to tell her about her father. He’d just had to feel obliged to drive her out here. And then to stay.
What he should be doing was getting good and drunk at Carlotta’s and spending the night in a feather bed wrestling with a woman. The kind of woman who knew what a man needed and didn’t ask a bunch of fool questions. The kind of woman, Jake thought viciously, who didn’t expect you to come to tea on Sunday. He glanced back to see that one of the straps of Sarah’s chemise had fallen down her arm and that her legs were gleaming and wet. Her shoulders were pale and smooth and bare.
Too long on the trail, Jake told himself. Too damn long, when a man started to hanker after skinny city women who didn’t know east from west.
Sarah filled the pail as best she could, then stepped out of the stream. It was getting dark much more quickly than she’d expected. But she felt almost human again. Even the thought of the corset made her ribs ache, so she ignored it. After slipping on her blouse, she debated donning her shoes and stockings again. There was no one to see or disapprove. Instead, she hitched on her skirt and made a bundle of the rest. With the water sloshing in the pail, she made her way gingerly along the path.
She had to fight the urge to hurry. With sunset, the air was cooling rapidly. And there were sounds.
Sounds she didn’t recognize or appreciate. Hoots and howls and rustles. Stones dug into her bare feet, and the lantern spread more shadow than light. The half mile back seemed much, much longer than it had before. Again she had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was watching her. Apaches? Mountain lions? Damn Jake Redman. The little adobe dwelling looked like a haven to her now. Half running, she went through the door and bolted it behind her.
The first coyote sent up a howl to the rising moon. Sarah shut her eyes. If she lived through the night, she’d swallow her pride and go back to town.
In the rocks not far away, Jake bedded down.
Chapter Three
Soon after sunrise, Sarah awoke, stiff and sore and hungry. She rolled over, wanting to cling to sleep until Lucilla’s maid brought the morning chocolate. She’d had the most awful dream about some gray-eyed man carrying her off to a hot, desolate place. He’d been handsome, the way men in dreams were supposed to be, but in a rugged, almost uncivilized way. His skin had been like bronze, taut over his face. He’d had high, almost exotic cheekbones, and the dark shadow of a beard. His hair had been u
ntidy and as black as coal-but thick, quite thick, as it had swept down past his collar. She’d wondered, even in the dream, what it would be like to run her hands through it.
There had been something familiar about him, almost as if she’d known him. In fact, when he’d forced her to kiss him, a name had run through her mind. Then he hadn’t had to force her any longer.
Drowsy, Sarah smiled. She would have to tell Lucilla about the dream. They would both laugh about it before they dressed for the day. Lazily she opened her eyes.
This wasn’t the rose-and-white room she used whenever she visited Lucilla and her family. Nor was it the familiar bedroom she had had for years at school. Her father’s house, she thought, as everything came back to her. This was her father’s house, but her father was dead. She was alone. With an effort, she resisted the urge to bury her face in the pillow and weep again. She had to decide what to do, and in order to decide she had to think clearly.
For some time last night she’d been certain the best thing would be for her to return to town and use the money she had found to book passage east again. At best, Lucilla’s family would welcome her. At worst, she could return to the convent. But that had been before she’d begun reading her father’s journal. It had taken only the first two pages, the only two she’d allowed herself, to make her doubt.
He’d begun the journal on the day he’d left her to come west. The love and the hope he’d felt had been in every word. And the sadness. He’d still been raw with grief over the death of Sarah’s mother.
For the first time she fully understood how devastated he had been by the loss of the woman they’d both shared so briefly. And how inadequate he’d felt at finding himself alone with a little girl. He’d made a promise to his wife on her deathbed that he would see that their daughter was well cared for.
She remembered the words her father had written on the yellowed paper.
She was leaving me. There was nothing I could do to stop it. Toward the end there was so much pain I prayed for God to take her quickly. My Ellen, my tiny, delicate Ellen. Her thoughts were all for me, and our sweet Sarah. I promised her. The only comfort I could give was my promise.
Our daughter would have everything Ellen wanted for her. Proper schooling and church on Sunday. She would be raised the way my Ellen would have raised her. Like a lady. One day she’d have a fine house and a father she could be proud of.
He’d come here to try, Sarah thought as she tossed back the thin blanket. And she supposed he’d done as well as he could. Now she had to figure what was best. And if she was going to think, first she needed to eat.
After she’d dressed in her oldest skirt and blouse, she took stock of the-cupboard again. She could not, under any circumstances, face another meal of cold beans. Perhaps he had a storage cellar somewhere, a smokehouse, anything. Sarah pushed open the door and blinked in the blinding sunlight.
At first she thought it was a mirage. But mirages didn’t carry a scent, did they? This one smelled of meat roasting and coffee brewing. And what she saw was Jake Redman sitting cross-legged by a fire ringed with stones. Gathering up her skirt, she forgot her hunger long enough to stride over to him.
“What are you doing here?”
He glanced up and gave her the briefest of nods. He poured coffee from a small pot into a dented tin cup. “Having breakfast.”
“You rode all the way out here to have breakfast?”
She didn’t know what it was he was turning on the spit, but her stomach was ready for just about anything. “Nope.” He tested the meat and judged it done. “Never left.” He jerked his head in the direction of the rocks. “Bedded down over there.”
“There?” Sarah eyed the rocks with some amazement.
“Whatever for?”
He looked up again. The look in his eyes made her hands flutter nervously. It made her feel, though it was foolish, that he knew how she looked stripped down to her chemise, “Let’s say it was a long ride back to town.”
“I hardly expect you to watch over me, Mr. Redman.
I explained that I could take… What is that?” Jake was eating with his fingers and with obvious enjoyment. “Rabbit.”
“Rabbit?” Sarah wrinkled her nose at the idea, but her stomach betrayed her. “I suppose you trapped it on my property.”
So it was her property already. “Might’ve.”
“If that’s the case, the least you could do is offer to share.”
Jake obligingly pulled off a hunk of meat. “Help yourself.”
“Don’t you have any… Never mind.” When in Rome, Sarah decided. Taking the meat and the coffee he offered, she sat down on a rock.
“Get yourself some supper last night?”
“Yes, thank you.” Never, never in her life, had she tasted anything better than this roast rabbit in the already-sweltering morning. “You’re an excellent cook, Mr. Redman.”
“I get by.” He offered her another hunk. This time she didn’t hesitate.
“No, really.” She caught herself talking with her mouth full, and she didn’t care. “This is delightful.” Because she doubted that his saddlebags held any linens, she licked her fingers.
“Better than a can of cold beans, anyway.”
She glanced up sharply, but he wasn’t even looking at her. “I suppose.” She’d never had breakfast with a man before, and she decided it would be proper to engage in light conversation. “Tell me, Mr. Redman, what is your profession?”
“Never gave it much thought.”
“But surely you must have some line of work.”
“Nope.” He leaned back against a rock and, taking out his pouch of tobacco, proceeded to roll a cigarette. She looked as fresh and neat as a daisy, he thought. You’d have thought she’d spent the night in some high-priced hotel instead of a mud hut.
Apparently making conversation over a breakfast of roasted rabbit took some skill. Patiently she smoothed her skirts and tried again. “Have you lived in Arizona long?”
“Why?”
“I-” The cool, flat look he sent her had her fumbling.
“Simple curiosity.”
“I don’t know about back in Philadelphia.” Jake took out a match, scraped it on the rock and twisted the end of his cigarette, studying her while “But around here people don’t take kindly to questions.”
“I see.” Her back had stiffened. She’d never encountered anyone to whom rudeness came so easily.
“In a civilized society, a casual question is merely a way to begin a conversation.”
“Around here it’s a way to start a fight.” He drew on the cigarette. “You want to fight with me, Duchess?” “I’ll thank you to stop referring to me by that name.”
He grinned at her again, but lazily, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. “You look like one, especially when you’re riled.”
Her chin came up. She couldn’t help it. But she answered him in calm, even tones. “I assure you, I’m not at all riled. Although you have, on several occasions already, been rude and difficult and annoying.
Where I come from, Mr. Redman, a woman is entitled to a bit more charm and gallantry from a man.”
“That so?” Her mouth dropped open when he slowly drew out his gun. “Don’t move.”
Move? She couldn’t even breathe. She’d only called him rude and, sweet Mary, he was going to shoot her.
“Mr. Redman, I don’t-”
The bullet exploded against the rock a few inches away from her. With a shriek, she tumbled into the dirt. When she found the courage to look up, Jake was standing and lifting something dead and hideous from the rock.
“Rattler,” he said easily. When she moaned and started to cover her eyes, he reached down and hauled her to her feet “I’d take a good look,” he suggested, still holding the snake in front of her. “If you stay around here, you’re going to see plenty more.”
It was the disdain in his voice that had her fighting off the swoon. With what little voice she had left, she asked,
“Would you kindly dispose of that?”
With a muttered curse, he tossed it aside, then began to smother the fire. Sarah felt her breakfast rising uneasily and waited for it to settle. “It appears you saved my life.”
“Yeah, well, don’t let it get around.”
“I won’t, I assure you.” She drew herself up straight, hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her skirts. “I appreciate the meal, Mr. Redman. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a number of things to do.” “You can start by getting yourself into the wagon.
I’ll drive you back to town.”
“I appreciate the offer. As a matter of fact, I would be grateful. I need some supplies.”
“Look, there’s got to be enough sense in that head of yours for you to see you don’t belong out here. It’s a two-hour drive into town. There’s nothing out here but rattlers and coyotes.”
She was afraid he was right. The night she’d spent in the cabin had been the loneliest and most miserable of her life. But somewhere between the rabbit and the snake she’d made up her mind. Matt Conway’s daughter wasn’t going to let all his efforts and his dreams turn to dust. She was staying, Lord help her.
“My father lived here. This place was obviously important to him. I intend to stay.” She doubted Jake Redman had enough heart to understand her “Now, if you’d be good enough to hitch up the wagon, I’ll go change.”
“Change what?”
“Why, my dress, of course. I can hardly go into town like this.”
He cast a glance over her. She already looked dolled-up enough for a church social in her crisp white blouse and gingham skirt. He’d never known gingham to look quite so good on a woman before.
“Lone Bluff ain’t Philadelphia. It ain’t anyplace. You want the wagon hitched, I’ll oblige you, but you’d better watch how it’s done, because there’s not going to be anyone around to do it for you next time.” With that, he slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and walked away.
