The Wayward Heart

by Jill Gregory

  “Matt, no! Let me go,” she gasped as he began to fondle her breasts. His legs wrapped around hers as they rolled upon the blanket.

  “I said no!” she practically screamed. “I won’t marry you, Matt, and I never will, and you had better accept that as fact!”

  These words at last penetrated his ardor, for he stopped nipping at her neck and removed his hand from her breast, staring at her. Slowly, his expression darkened.

  “You won’t... marry me?” His eyes narrowed.

  “No. I won’t. I tried to explain it to you, but if you don’t understand, there’s nothing more I can say. I... I’m sorry, Matt.”

  She was aware that her voice sounded stiff and awkward, but she couldn’t help it. She was sorry about hurting him, but she was also angry at the way he’d been mauling her, refusing to listen to her protests, refusing to respect her wishes.

  “Matt, please take me home now.”

  “All right.” His tone was hard. “I reckon I don’t have any choice but to take you at your word.”

  Releasing her abruptly, he snatched up the picnic blanket. With a frown, he tossed it into the carriage.

  She handed him the wicker basket in silence, and allowed him to help her up onto the carriage seat. The picnic was over, and it had ended on a note far different from the way it had begun.

  As the mare drew the vehicle across the valley trail, neither occupant of the carriage seemed much concerned with the glorious summer scenery, or the heat and heavy stillness in the air. The silence between the two of them was intense and uneasy.

  When at last Matt set her down at her door, almost all of Bryony’s anger had dissipated. She felt only sad and empty, as if she’d lost something that had meant a great deal to her.

  But there were far different emotions swirling in Matt Richards mind as he drove swiftly off toward the Twin Bars ranch.

  And if Bryony had been able to read his thoughts, she’d have been more than a little bit unsettled.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A letter from Roger Davenport arrived on Monday afternoon, two days after the picnic.

  Bryony tore it open curiously. She dropped into the upholstered easy chair in her father’s study to read the elegant, even lines Roger had written across the expensive stationery.

  She’d been depressed ever since the unfortunate conclusion of the picnic, but this diversion immediately claimed her interest, making her wonder with a surge of excitement why Roger had written. As she scanned the letter, her eyes began to sparkle with amusement.

  Roger had sprinkled his letter with protestations of love, assuring her most fervently that he had not met anyone who could replace her in his affections, and insisting that he still wished to marry her as eagerly as ever. He expressed certainty that she had by now tired of her rough new life, and that she was more than ready to return to civilization, and to the fashionable society she had so impulsively abandoned.

  In addition, Roger blithely informed her, he was prepared to give her a second chance to reclaim her place in proper circles.

  She blinked, smiled, and read on. He claimed it was necessary that he travel by stagecoach to El Paso and San Francisco on banking business for his father in June, so he was planning to make a special additional stop in Winchester solely to see her.

  Though he didn’t say so explicitly, Roger hinted in a most unsubtle way that he meant to propose marriage to her once again—this time with the certainty of acceptance.

  Bryony laughed aloud. How conceited he was! She shook her head and wondered how she’d tolerated it for so long.

  Still, she felt strangely glad that Roger would be passing through town. It would be good to show him just how well she was doing on her own, to make him see that she didn’t need him to look after her.

  An idea then popped into her head so suddenly that she sat bolt upright in her chair. At the same moment, Judge Hamilton entered the room, having been admitted to the house by Rosita.

  “Well, my girl, what do you have on your mind?” he asked heartily, noting her rapt expression.

  “Oh, Judge Hamilton, I’ve just had the most marvelous idea!” she exclaimed, jumping up in her excitement. “What do you think of my throwing a party—a real party, with dancing and refreshments and music? A fiesta!”

  “Sounds fine to me. What’s the occasion?”

  “An old friend of mine from St. Louis will be passing through town in June and I’d like to show him that life in Arizona is not as uncivilized as he seems to think! And it would liven things up around here a bit—you know life can be a little dull without social amusements.”

  The Judge grinned appreciatively at her. “Wanting to kick up your heels, are you? Can’t say that I blame you, my girl. When are you planning to have this party?”

  Bryony didn’t answer immediately. Although she didn’t say so, she inwardly thought that this would be an ideal way to smooth things over with Matt Richards.

  She’d invite him to the party within the next few days, and then he’d know that there were no hard feelings on her part about his behavior on Saturday. They could become friends again, without strain or tension between them.

  More than anything else, she wanted to return to their old, comfortable relationship.

  So, her mind racing, she began planning her list of guests with growing excitement. She’d invite the Judge, of course, and Matt, and Frank and Edna Billings, and Buck Monroe, along with the other ranch hands—and some of the neighboring ranching families, as well as a few of the cavalry officers and their wives from Fort Lowell.

  And Samuel and Annie Blake. This would be a perfect opportunity to make peace with them, as well as with the handful of other small ranchers who’d feuded with her father, and who remained unfriendly and distrustful toward her. The more she thought about it, the more the party sounded like an ideal way to improve relations in the valley.

  She could hardly wait to issue her invitations.

  “Bryony, my dear, when are you planning to throw this shindig?” the Judge repeated.

  “Oh.” She smiled happily at him. “Let’s see. Roger is arriving by stage on June 18, or thereabouts, depending on the conditions of the roads and the absence of Indian problems. So I believe I’ll plan the fiesta for the twentieth of June, since Roger plans to stay in Winchester a few days at least. Does that sound right to you?”

  “Sure, honey,” the Judge agreed. “But don’t you reckon you’d best let Rosita in on all these plans? After all, she’s the one who’ll have to do all the cooking for these hordes of guests you’ll have flocking to your door.”

  “Heavens, yes! Excuse me a moment, Judge, I’ll be right back!”

  She flew off to inform Rosita of her plans and returned a short time later, flushed and excited and happy, to find Judge Hamilton staring absorbedly out of the study window.

  “Rosita suggested we hire some women she knows to help out with the cooking and serving,” she began, but broke off when the Judge turned around and she saw the worried expression on his face.

  “What is it?” she asked, hurrying toward him.

  “I don’t like the looks of that sky,” he replied grimly, scanning the horizon.

  The study window was open, but no mountain breeze fanned the room. There was a hazy stillness outside. The sky hung bright and blue overhead, like a heavy canopy. No cloud disturbed its vast blue expanse, except over the southernmost mountains where a black, fog-like shroud lurked above stark red cliffs.

  “It looks to me like we’re in for a dust storm.” The Judge frowned. “Maybe a rainstorm to boot. I’ve seen it happen this way many times. This strange, silent peacefulness is the only warning of what’s to come. Yep, it’s calm, all right. Too calm. Something’s going to bust.”

  “Is that all?” Relieved, Bryony laughed. “From your expression, I thought something terrible was about to happen. It seems to me we could use a little rain. It’s scarce enough in these parts.”

  His weather beaten face looked grave a
s he turned sharply away from the window.

  “Bryony, you don’t understand. These storms are killers. The dust can blind you and flail your flesh like a million tiny whips. The rain can wash half a mountain away, wiping out everything else in its path right along with it.” He shook his head. “If you take my advice, you’ll send the men out pronto to round up the strays and try to get the herd under some sort of cover, away from the steep trails. As for you, my girl, stay in this house and keep it bolted tight. There’s going to be trouble before the day is up, or I’m a lovesick coyote!”

  Bryony hurried to the window and peered upward at the sky, wanting to see for herself what kind of danger threatened. She could see nothing but the calm, placid sky, and those shreds of dark mist over the mountaintops. There didn’t seem anything unusually ominous in this, but she knew that Judge Hamilton was wiser than she in such matters.

  “Well,” she said doubtfully, “perhaps Shorty and I will have just a brief lesson today.”

  The Judge continued to look concerned. He insisted on following her out to the corral where Shorty waited with their mounts. As they drew up, Bryony saw that Shadow was even more restless than usual, pawing the ground and stamping his powerful hooves, his handsome head held high as he sniffed the heavy, windless air.

  After a brief conference with Shorty, in which he agreed with the Judge’s prediction, and assured Bryony that he’d already dispatched men to secure the herd, the wiry little foreman scratched at his grizzled beard, and gazed thoughtfully at the dark-haired young woman before him.

  “Wal, Miss Hill, if you’re set on havin’ yer shootin’ lesson today, I reckon I ain’t aboot to disappoint you,” he remarked in his low, gravelly voice.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea, Shorty?” Judge Hamilton interjected. “That storm could rush down from the mountains like a herd of loco cattle. And before suppertime, too, by my reckoning.”

  The foreman squinted into the distance, his mouth moving rhythmically as he chewed his tobacco. “Shore, that storm’s a’comin’, Judge, but I’d be mighty surprised if it hits sooner’n two, mebbe three hours from now. We’ve got time for a little ridin’ and shootin’, if that’s what the boss lady wants.”

  “Oh, yes, Shorty, I do,” Bryony chimed in quickly. She flashed a warm smile at the Judge.

  “Please don’t worry. We’ll ride back long before the storm breaks. Everything will be just fine.”

  Judge Hamilton saw them off, then, with a frowning glance at the sky, he mounted his own horse and headed home to his lodgings in town. Bryony, meanwhile, rode beside her foreman in silence as they galloped west of the ranch, toward the foot of the massive, stone-faced mountain that was their customary site for her lessons.

  When they reached the foot of the mountain, Bryony and Shorty dismounted and tethered their horses to a nearby paloverde. They stood on a rolling plain dotted with cacti and ironwood, with the mountain at their backs. Golden eagles glided overhead with huge, outspread wings, their cries filling the still, leaden air as they hunted for prey. It was a desolate spot, this lonely plain, ringed by small, parched hills. A forsaken place where Bryony could practice her shooting undisturbed by the appraising eyes of her ranch hands.

  She liked its privacy, and the fact that no one but Shorty could witness her blunders—although when she managed to hit five out of six of the tin cans Shorty arranged on nearby boulders, she did wish that someone else could see her skill.

  But today, concentrating on improving her speed, she was glad that no one else was present. Some day she’d demonstrate her skill for others to see, and then they’d be impressed by her expertise, but in the meantime, she would simply practice patiently and do her best to follow Shorty’s instructions.

  It was a good session. Shorty gave her several tips on how to draw her derringer in one smooth, fluid motion from the holster she wore about her hips, saving what could amount to precious instants in a dangerous situation. She practiced with a Colt revolver also, noting its heavier weight, and taking advantage of its six-shooter capacity to fire at the tin-can targets in rapid succession, hitting three out of five that Shorty had set up.

  Not bad, she thought, pleased with her skill as Shorty grinned at her.

  Roger would indeed be surprised.

  She became so intent upon her target practice that she forgot all about the approaching storm until Shorty began gathering up the tin cans, announcing in his gruff way that it was time they were headed back.

  “I reckon we’ve tested this here storm long enough, ma’am,” the foreman drawled, stretching out a hand for his six-shooter, which she still held. “We’d best ride on back to the Circle H before she breaks wide open. Matter of fact, that wind ‘pears to be pickin’ up a bit already. The dust’ll be flyin’ soon.”

  Bryony glanced upward, alarmed to see that the previously hidden shreds of clouds now had grown larger and more ominous. The same heavy stillness hung in the air as it had before, only now the wind seemed to have awakened as if from a deep sleep, and it stirred restlessly, sending the dust and sand of the plains into little dancing whirlwinds.

  Shorty had already mounted his horse and was waiting for her, his sharp eyes studying the clouded horizon. He spat out his much-chewed tobacco and smacked his lips. “She’s movin’ in faster than I thought, Miss Hill. We gotta make tracks if we want to git back ‘fore the big dust starts blowin.”

  Shadow snorted nervously in the rising wind. Bryony was just about to place her foot in the stirrup when the shot rang out of the growing darkness.

  Startled, she glanced back in time to see Shorty slide from his saddle to crumple in the dust beside his skittering mount.

  For one horrifying moment, Bryony couldn’t move. She could only stare in gaping shock at the foreman’s limp figure sprawled face down in the dirt. A scream rose in her throat, and it echoed loud and wild across the plain. Then, as if her cry had broken the spell that held her frozen, she bolted toward Shorty and pulled frantically at his unmoving form. As he flopped onto his back, his head rolled loosely backward at a grotesque angle, and blood spouted from his chest, warm and sticky upon her hands and clothes. She screamed again, recoiling from the horror before her.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard the pounding of hooves and wild yells. Then another shot rang out, zooming directly over her head, and she leaped up from her knees to stare in stunned terror at the approaching riders.

  Two Indian braves, their feathers and war paint and buckskin garments clearly apparent even from this distance, were descending upon her at a furious pace. Their warlike shrieks tore through the air, striking icy terror into the depths of her heart.

  All of the terrible stories she’d heard about Apache atrocities flashed through her mind in one agonizing instant, and then, driven by sheer, blood-curdling panic, she began to run. Shadow neighed with fright, sensing danger even as Bryony sprang wildly into the saddle. She spurred him into motion, but another shot rang past her—so close that her skin prickled.

  She didn’t look back. The Indians were closing in. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere but straight ahead—toward the mountain.

  Leaning low over Shadow’s mane, she sobbed desperate pleas to the galloping stallion, begging him to be swift enough to save her. Her hands, sticky with Shorty’s blood, clung desperately to the reins and nausea threatened to engulf her.

  Shadow tore across the remaining open land like a flash of lightning, but even as they reached the base of the stone-faced mountain, Bryony heard sounds of swift pursuit from behind, and the air-splitting war whoops struck dread into her heart. Gasping and sobbing in desperation, she urged Shadow on, up the steeply winding, treacherous path of the mountain, even as the wind began to roar and a great whirling cloud of dust rose up from the earth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Though it was only late afternoon, the Silver Spur had already begun to fill up for the evening. Cowboys, ranchers, and townsmen sought shelter from the approaching storm, preparin
g to spend the whole of what promised to be a wild evening within the big, gaudy confines of the brightly lit saloon.

  The piano player pounded the keys as the saloon girls swarmed between the gambling tables and the bar, all of them attired in their most provocative, gaily colored gowns.

  Meg Donahue, with garnets swinging from her ears, and a skintight dress of russet taffeta hugging her buxom form, was helping Luke at the bar, while Lila Garrett, the tall, long-legged brunette in gold satin, was dancing atop one of the card tables, swishing her skirts teasingly about her black-stockinged knees to the uproarious approval of the leering cowboys.

  Ginger LaRue, busy refilling the glasses of five already-drunk miners passing through town, kept glancing impatiently at the swinging doors to the saloon, and swearing exasperatedly every time a man strode through them. She swore because none of them was the man she was waiting for—Texas Jim Logan.

  Where the hell is he? she wondered angrily as she hastily arranged the miners’ glasses on a tray.

  Texas had promised to buy her dinner tonight at the hotel, and she’d gone to a damned lot of trouble getting permission from Meg to leave the saloon for an hour.

  She’d also spent the whole afternoon fixing herself up for him. Her arm positively ached from brushing her copper hair until it gleamed like newly minted pennies, and she’d tried on four of her best dresses before deciding on the slinky red silk gown that dipped brazenly across her breasts. Jet earrings dangled from her ears, and an assortment of sparkling bracelets and rings adorned her hands and wrists, while a glittering rhinestone necklace flashed at her throat. Her lips and cheeks were painted bright red, and her tawny eyes shone with anticipation.

  Ginger’s evenings with Texas had been less frequent lately. He hadn’t been around much and apparently had been staying at night in his hotel room.

  Or so he had implied. Ginger suspected he was involved with someone else. As she worked in the saloon, her shrewd glance darted from Lila to Gracie to Ellie Sue, wondering furiously which of them he was taking to bed these days.