Rafael’s smile faded. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
He resumed his gentle smoothing of the curls around her face, and without thinking Claire turned her head to seek his touch against her cheek.
Rafael spoke quietly. “I didn’t take anything from you. I only gave. I wanted to show you what magic there is in your own body. I couldn’t bear the thought that you would let Hartman rob you of that kind of pleasure forever.”
“Hartman?”
“The man who raped you yesterday. His name was Burt Hartman.”
Claire shuddered as the cruel, pale features of the violent stranger formed in her mind. “Burt Hartman,” she said slowly. “I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Nothing,” Rafael said. “Don’t dwell on it, but don’t try to forget it either. Don’t give him that power over you. He took something from you by force. It’s up to you to stop him from taking more.”
“What more could he take?”
“He could take the rest of your life. He could take your peace of mind, your restful sleep at night, your emotional balance during every waking moment. Don’t give those to him. He’s gone. He isn’t here to take anything more from you, unless you choose to give it to him.”
“He has already taken my life.”
“He has taken one life. It’s not wrong to close the door on one life, if at the same time you open a door to another life. What is wrong is to give up on life altogether.”
“Another life?” Her words came out low and hesitant.
“If you’re determined to kill off Claire Vanderfleet, a society girl from Philadelphia, you need to resurrect yourself as someone else.”
She made a small, helpless gesture. “Who?”
Rafael took her hand and held it between his. “It is up to you to find out.”
“Will you help me?” Claire laced her fingers into his and gripped tight, feeling the strength in his touch. “Will you let me stay with you?”
“I’ll help you, but I don’t have the answers. You’ll have to find the way forward within you.” He straightened and pulled her up to her feet. “You can start in little steps.”
Claire frowned. “How do I know what is the first step?”
Rafael gave her a serene smile. “It’s the same as any other morning. The first step is to get up and have breakfast. Come. I have some fresh fruit prepared for you.”
Like a docile child, Claire allowed Rafael to help her get dressed, and then she followed him across the room to the long table made of unvarnished timber.
“I think I understand,” she said. “You’re trying to tell me that whatever happens, life’s little routines don’t change?”
“That’s right.” He pulled out a chair and eased her into it. “Focus on those familiar routines. If you manage to take one small step at a time, soon you’ll realize that you’ve gone farther than you ever imagined you’d be able to go.”
She searched his calm features. “Will you help me?”
“I’ll help you.” Rafael pushed a plate in front of her. “Eat.”
Claire picked up a slice of apple. To her amazement, her lips parted and her mouth closed around the piece of fruit. Her teeth chewed and, like on any other morning, her body accepted the nourishment and prepared to live through another day.
****
Poor, poor Claire.
Susanna knelt in the parlor at Circle Star and closed her eyes as her lips moved in a silent prayer. Claire was always so full of life, so ready for mischief. There was another side to her friend that people noticed less—the defender of the weak, the crusader for lost causes, the girl who stood up for what she believed in.
Claire had believed in her freedom to act impulsively, ignoring the restraint of social conventions, and now she had paid a terrible price. Susanna’s face crumpled. The tears of guilt and pity and horror coursed in warm trails down her cheeks.
If she hadn’t invited Claire to stay.
If she hadn’t given her friend those daring clothes.
If she had warned Claire about the dangers in the Arizona Territory, still a lawless frontier, ruled by violence. If she’d made it clear to the men that her friend was not to ride out alone. If she’d gotten out of bed earlier and accompanied Claire. If they had given her a more placid horse. If Claire had ridden downstream instead of upstream.
If …if…if.
But time couldn’t be turned back.
Susanna tried to banish from her mind the letter her friend had asked her to write—the letter telling her family that she had died in an accident. A heavy sigh shuddered out of her chest at the prospect. Eventually, she would have to do it. She owed it to Claire. And yet, she wanted to postpone the task for as long as she could.
A knock on the door jolted her from her thoughts. Susanna dashed away the tears with the back of her hand and pushed up to her feet. She hurried to the door. Garret had ridden out to Cedar City to fetch the sheriff, and she had been waiting for him to return.
She found Carmen, the matronly cook, standing on the threshold.
“Is the sheriff here?” Susanna asked.
Carmen kneaded her frilly apron with nervous fingers. “No, Miss Susanna,” she replied. “Is Gomez. He ask to see you.”
Gomez. Susanna bit her lip. Another task she would rather avoid. She gave an uneasy nod to Carmen, and the cook trundled back toward the kitchen, wide skirts rustling about her shuffling feet.
Susanna left the parlor and settled to wait by the library entrance. The clatter of boot heels alerted her even before she saw the lean ranch hand emerge from the kitchen corridor.
“Is it true?” Gomez demanded to know.
Susanna ushered him into the library and closed the door. Gomez snatched his hat from his head and raked one hand through his glossy black hair. His dark eyes were wild, his face ashen. Even from a few paces away, Susanna could sense the rage within him.
“Is it true?” he asked a second time. “Did they rape Miss Claire?”
Susanna hesitated, then confirmed the information with a tiny, reluctant jerk of her head. She didn’t ask how he knew. Some of the men would have seen old Miguel Pereira canter up to the house, his horse lathered from the frantic pace, and then they would have seen Susanna herself take off in haste, escorted by Pete and Garret and Ramirez.
Pete might have kept quiet about what they had learned when they found Claire, but Garrett and Ramirez would have wanted to share their outrage with the rest of the men, no doubt planning an attack on Deep Valley.
“I’ll kill him.” Clutching his hat in one hand, Gomez curled his free hand around the wooden handle of the gun in a leather holster at his hip. “I’ll call him out and shoot him down like the varmint he is.”
“No.” Susanna’s tone was sharp.
“It’s my fault.” Gomez met her gaze, and in his eyes she saw the despair of a man who knew he would be impossible to redeem his mistake. When he spoke, his voice was rough with remorse. “I shouldn’t have let her ride out alone…I didn’t stop to think…I mean…you ride out alone all the time, and she was dressed like you…”
Susanna touched his arm. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”
Gomez let out a gruff, anguished sound and made no reply.
A shiver ran through Susanna at the thought of what might happen if the young wrangler rode out to challenge Hartman. She crossed the room to stand behind the desk. When she came back from seeing Claire, she had changed into a gown, intending to impress the sheriff with her educated background, and now she used the formal attire and the setting of the library to emphasize her authority on Gomez.
“There’ll be no killing,” she informed him. “I’ve sent for the sheriff, and I’ll make a complaint on behalf of Claire. Hartman will pay for what he did to her, and I need him to stay alive to sign away his fortune. If he refuses to pay, I want him to hang for his crime. I want him to know that death is near and suffer the shame of a public e
xecution.”
Gomez turned his head aside, as though to spit on the floor to show what he thought of her plan. Then he appeared to remember his surroundings and limited himself to a scornful shift of his shoulders. “You won’t get Hartman. He owns the law—the sheriff and the judge and that crooked lawyer who acts as his errand boy.”
Susanna stood firm. “Claire was a guest in our home, under our protection. If anyone will face Hartman in a gunfight, it will be my husband. His right to take revenge is greater than yours. He’ll be back in a few days. Until then, there is to be no killing. We’ll try the legal way first. Is that understood?”
Grudgingly, Gomez agreed. As Susanna watched him leave, fear tightened its grip on her. The only thing that had stopped the young man from riding to his death was the warrior code of honor that specified who had the greatest right to challenge the enemy.
Although she longed for Connor to return, a small part of her wished that he might be delayed. For she knew without a doubt that he would feel as Gomez did. Ever since he’d been shot, Connor had bristled with eagerness to challenge Hartman into a gunfight, but he had lacked a justifiable cause—until now.
Susanna’s mouth tightened. Surely, Gomez and Connor ought to understand that Hartman would never engage in a fair fight? He’d hide behind his army of men and refuse to draw his gun when confronted. Anyone who tried to kill him would end up dead, either from a hired gun’s bullet or strung up on a rope for murder.
The legal way was best.
It was the only way.
Outside, hooves clattered across the yard and came to a halt by the front door. The knocker pounded in a harsh, urgent beat. Susanna focused her mind while she waited for Carmen to let the sheriff inside and show him to the library. She couldn’t change what had happened, but she would get justice for Claire.
****
Burt Hartman cursed under his breath as he heard the pounding on his front door. Who could be traveling through the desert after dark? The butler had already retired for the night, forcing Hartman to hurry to the door himself. The flickering oil lamp he carried in one hand threw ghostly shadows on the walls.
On the doorstep, the gangly frame of the lawyer, Catterill, silhouetted against the inky black night. “This had better be important,” Hartman said curtly. He peered into the darkness behind Catterill, to make sure the lawyer had arrived alone.
“It sure is important,” Catterill replied and stepped inside without waiting to be invited. Hartman didn’t move out of the way. The two men, both tall and gaunt, would have collided if Catterill hadn’t swerved at the last moment to keep their paths apart.
“Did that bastard McGregor finally have the good sense to die?” Hartman rasped, trying to think of a good reason for a visit at such an inconvenient hour. “He’s turning out to be a persistent son-of-a-bitch.”
“He’s alive and breathing. He’s gone off to San Francisco,” Catterill said and eased deeper into the hall. “Anyway, if he’d died, that could have waited until morning. This can’t.”
“Spit it out. I was about to turn in.”
Catterill lifted his brows. “That wench you rutted on.”
“Is she making trouble?” Hartman’s mouth twisted in dismay. “The bitch. I already paid her off.”
A gloating smirk crept over Catterill’s narrow features. It quickly vanished, but the usual expression of subservience didn’t return. “Not enough, it seems,” the lawyer said, attempting to sound casual.
“What?” Hartman raised the lantern higher. “How much does she want?”
“Everything.” Catterill swept his arm. “Your house. Your land. Your cattle.”
Hartman gave a cackle of laughter. “Is she crazy?”
Catterill puckered his face, as though giving the question serious thought. “No,” he said finally. “Not really, considering her father is Judge Vanderfleet, who is personal friends with President Cleveland.”
“But she was just a slut,” Hartman cried, fear crawling up his spine.
“She’s a houseguest at Circle Star. It seems her horse bolted and ran off, leaving her stranded. She wandered up to your house asking for help.”
Hartman’s voice became shrill. “She was dressed like a whore.”
Catterill no longer bothered to hide his contempt. “You know Susanna McGregor, the way she dresses to ride around the ranch?”
Hartman gave a reluctant nod.
“Well, it seems Susanna had bought her friend similar clothes. These society girls get a thrill from doing a Wild West act.”
“She didn’t say who she was,” Hartman pleaded. “How was I supposed to know?”
“Seems she tried,” Catterill pointed out. “Gave her name and tried to explain her business. That big foreman of yours cut her off.”
“Matt Duncan,” Hartman said. “The bastard. It’s his fault.”
“It’s you who raped the girl, Burt, not Matt Duncan,” Catterill replied. “I hear the foreman warned the rest of the men off when he realized she was no whore.”
It was the first time in their acquaintance the lawyer had addressed Hartman by his first name, thus putting them on equal footing. Hartman felt his blood congeal in his veins. Everything he had fought for, everything he had swindled and murdered for was going to end up in ruins.
“What should I do?” he asked, frantic now. “Does the sheriff know?”
“The sheriff has been instructed,” Catterill confirmed. “The girl is refusing to see anyone, but Susanna McGregor has lodged a complaint on her behalf.”
“I’ll deny everything,” Hartman said, although the words rang hollow. How could this be happening to him?
Catterill gave a derisory snort. “That might be an option, if you hadn’t been stupid enough to do it in front of a dozen men.”
“The sheriff’s bought and paid for,” Hartman said belligerently.
“And the girl’s father is friends with the President of the United States.”
The fight drained out of Hartman. “What do you think will happen?” He heard the panic in his voice and cleared his throat, as though the problem was something he could dislodge with a cough.
The lawyer regarded him with a sinister look. “I think you’ll be hauled in front of a judge and jury, and you’ll be made responsible for every evil deed you’ve ever committed.” Catterill’s lips twitched. If Hartman didn’t know better, he would have suspected the lawyer was struggling to hold back a smile.
Catterill went on, sounding almost cheerful. “They’ll raze you to the ground—that’s assuming a lynch mob doesn’t get to you first.”
Hartman puffed out his chest. “There’ll be no lawlessness. The sheriff must see to that. I’m entitled to protection, and a fair trial. When I tell people how she looked and behaved, how she flaunted herself—”
“From what I hear, according to witnesses the girl said she’d rather be shot than bare herself in front of you.” Catterill hesitated before adding, “The sheriff spent yesterday talking to your men. I believe some may have agreed to testify.”
Hartman fell silent. He felt his bladder tighten. Cold sweat trickled down his back. “What should I do?” he asked after a pause.
Although the lawyer tried to keep his face blank, Hartman could tell the man was bursting with anticipation and greed, like a cat prowling around a bowl of cream.
“Well, there might be a way,” Catterill said, dragging out every word.
“I’m listening,” Hartman said meekly.
The lawyer took his time to reply, and Hartman didn’t dare to hurry him.
“There would need to be some adjustments,” Catterill said.
“Or course,” Hartman agreed at once. “What kind of adjustments?”
The lawyer was all business now. “I want our usual percentage doubled.”
Hartman considered. “All right. If I get off without paying a cent to the girl and without a blemish on my character, I’ll double your cut.”
Catterill nodded. Then he spok
e in a thoughtful tone. “When a man insults a woman’s honor, what is he supposed to do to restore it?”
Hartman stared as it all fell into place. “He offers to marry her.”
Catterill smiled, like a teacher with a clever pupil. “Correct.”
“Son of a bitch,” Hartman muttered under his breath. His blood started pulsing more freely again. He frowned. “You think she’ll do it?
“Honor is a precious thing for these society folks. And nobody else will marry her now, nobody important anyway.” Catterill gestured to indicate his host, as if bestowing his approval. “You’re an eligible man in these parts. She could do worse.”
Hartman felt excitement surge through his body. He thought of the girl, how she had lain in the dust, gritting her teeth, refusing to scream as he pounded into her. His hands shook as he recalled her milky white skin and her magnificent breasts.
He liked being rough with a woman, and she’d taken it. Hell, she probably liked it that way. His eyes narrowed in lustful anticipation. Even if she didn’t enjoy being molested now, when he’d finished teaching her, she would.
“Take care of it,” he told the lawyer. “Put the offer to her. She can have anything she wants if she drops the complaint and agrees to be my wife.”
After Catterill was gone, Hartman stood in the darkened hall. What he wanted so badly could finally be his. Respectability. Connections. Old money East Coast wife. His groin tightened. All that, and a golden haired wench with the body of a whore and the face of an angel.
Groping his privates with one hand, Hartman set off toward his bedroom.
Raping that little bitch might turn out to be the smartest thing he’d ever done.
Back to Contents
Chapter Twenty-One
“Catterill? What on earth does he want?” Susanna asked Miranda, who’d come to seek her in the parlor where she was lounging on the sofa, trying to distract herself by studying baby clothing in the Marshall Ward catalogue. “Tell him I’m busy.”
“He won’t go, Miss Susanna. He claims it is very important.”
Circle Star Page 25
