by Thea Devine
She examined her hair. She had combed out most of the tangles last night after her bath. Prestina had insisted she take one to cool off her body and her "soul." Yes, well her soul was hot and sorely tried at this point. Her father was somewhere in Bozeman making all kinds of arrangements she knew nothing of, and in fact had no right to know anything of, and she was stuck at Sweetland, to all intents and purposes a "thing" to be used at will by its master.
She ran the brush through her black curls with more
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force than necessary. Her hair was behaving willfully, flying every which way, as crackly as her temper. Her face, in the mirror, appeared drawn to her, and her eyes unnaturally large and glittering with blazing blue fire. She already knew she was after someone today. She was going to make trouble. She started talking to herself, but it did no good. She did not like feeling helpless and impotent, unsure and dependent. She wanted her father and their ranch back; she wanted things the way they had been before the fire.
Perhaps, she thought, I should see the damage for myself. And the idea calmed her. She should have done it days ago. Perhaps viewing the finality of it would reconcile her to the situation now.
She braided her hair briskly, thrust her feet into the too-tight work boots she had been wearing rather than the footwear that had been provided with the dress, and slipped the dress over her naked body. Without the undergarments and the petticoats, it hung on her. It flattened her breasts. It dragged on the floor.
She cursed. It was deliberate; it had to be that Madame had designed it in just this way, and that Ardelle would not accede to her requirement of shirtwaists and skirts rather than formal morning and afternoon dresses, which she never wore before coming to Sweetland. She had had one "good" dress before then, one dress that she utilized for all occasions that had required more than a skirt and shirt —weddings, parties, trips to Bozeman for visiting, or entertaining prospective buyers for-her father.
But never for everyday wear; it just wasn't practical on the ranch, where everything had to be dun-colored to hide the dust and washable when the dirt caked too thickly on the hem or the collar.
This was impossible. She tugged off the dress, fumbling at the interminable buttons, and resentfully threw on the underwear and petticoats, and finally the dress.
Miraculously, it hung precisely right, the buttons now fitting gently across the swell of her breasts and curving sweetly in at the waist, to flow over her hips and swag up into the merest suggestion of a bustle.
Too suggestive, she thought angrily, grabbing up the narrow black waistband that tied around her waist to trail its ends over the slightly exaggerated back of the dress.
Oh, Madame was talented indeed, she fumed, as she made her Way downstairs. She knew exactly how to subdue the body, and Ardelle was working mightily on the soul. Between the two of them—and Deuce—what chance did she have?
Ardelle was dressed all in white today, which emphasized the pallor of the face she turned to Kalida as she walked into the dining room once again. Something flared in the depths of her sherry eyes as they swept over Kalida, and then she nodded approvingly. "Just so,~ Kalida; do sit down and have breakfast with us now."
Kalida bridled, and then she noticed Ellie at the head of the table and sank into the nearest chair. Dear Ellie; she did not need her help. Ellie was going after Sweetland all on her own, Kalida perceived, or else why would Madame have altered her dove-gray dress so drastically? And subtly. Rows and rows of lace cascaded across the bodice now, directing the eye toward her bosom and the discreet vee of the redesigned neckline. And Ellie's hair, once again flowing down her back and drawn away from her face, emphasized her deep dark opaque eyes and her excellent cheekbones.
Oh yes, Ellie was firming herself up for something, Kalida thought, and she would be happy to help her. She nodded to Prestina, who had brought the coffee and a platter with biscuits and bacon, and nibbled at these while she considered Ellie and Ardelle's paper-white appearance.
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"I am sure," Ardelle said after a while, "that you are much more comfortable in that neatly fitted dress than you have been in that ill-fitting shirt and skirt you were wearing."
"Well, actually I'm not," Kalida said firmly, calmly, not the slightest bit rudely, bud Ardelle reacted just as if she had responded snidely.
Her eyes flashed red fire, and she turned back to Ellie and murmured, "I don't know why Deuce persists," as if to herself; but of course she was speaking to Ellie. She and Ellie were seemingly very cozy.
Kalida hid a smile. "Neither do I," she said loudly, not pretending she hadn't heard Ardelle's comment.
Ardelle's pale face swiveled back to her. "I hope we can convince him then," she said plainly. "All you need do is keep up this reprehensible behavior."
"Thank you; I'll keep that suggestion in mind," Kalida said seriously. So Ardelle was beginning to understand. Except, she believed that this was Kalida's true nature. All to the good then. Better and better, in fact. Ellie was looking like a veritable queen of taste, tact, and propriety next to her. Surely Ardelle would bring Deuce to see that. And with her new stylish look in her hair and clothing, she seemed younger, more vibrant. More attractive.
More sensual.
Where did that thought come from? Kalida wondered, not liking it at all. She took a quick sip of her coffee and scalded her tongue. Sensual. Really. Ellie Dean.
But that's what Deuce would want, her implacable inner self pointed out pragmatically. Wouldn't he? Deuce would never tolerate a statue as the mistress of Sweetland. How many times has he told you he wants a willing, loving woman in his arms? Which hasn't been you. And could be someone else.
I don't like that thought, her mind shouted back.
Unnecessary to shout, the inner voice chided.
Damn it, Kalida clamped down on her unruly ruminations, I will not think about that.
She hid her harassed expression behind the coffee cup again and listened halfheartedly to Ardelle and Ellie discussing the gardening chores they were scheduled to accomplish that morning.
Ellie's dark head bent forward respectfully as she nodded and responded to Ardelle's words, but her eyes, her lambent glowing black eyes, were fixed pointedly on Kalida, as if she were saying, Here is how to get on with Ardelle, and why you are ruining your chance here, I'll never understand. But I'm willing to take up the slack. Very willing.
Kalida met the mesmerizing black stare defiantly. She was perfect at the head of the table, perfect with her ease and grace at directing the table and pouring the coffee. Perfect gracing the parlor waiting Deuce after his hard day on the range, pushing aside his hard-muscled body in its grimy, sweaty clothes as being too cowboyish for her parlor, so he must go bathe and change. Yes, she would do that, and she would be so particular and dainty about herself that anything else between them had to be impossible.
Or did it?
Ellie's hot eyes glittered knowingly as Kalida pursued her scenario. Ellie would have a separate bedroom and a closet full of clothes, and she would perform her chores without perspiring or wrinkling a cuff or dragging a hem in the dirt. And she would bring that cool capability to her bed, where once a month, she might allow Deuce to . . .
To what? Touch her? Undress her? Caress her marble skin, play with her, reach for her in the same way he had commanded her, Kalida?
No! The picture would not form; it just wasn't possible. Kalida smiled, a mysterious cryptic smile that wafted
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across her firm lips for just a second, and it squelched Elbe's confidence for one brief triumphal moment. Then Elbe squared her shoulders and stood up, throwing a challenge across the long table at her rival.
Kalida was jolted by the sight of her standing there, her body slender and curvaceously suggestive in the refurbished dress. God, Madame had been a regular machine during the night, Kalida thought ruefully. Or perhaps Ellie had done it hers
elf. Ellie was, after all, a widow; she would have had to devise many economizing ways to make ends meet. How fortuitous she happened to be at the Rylands' when the fire broke out!
These linked but unsequential thoughts were broken into by Ardelle's impatient voice. "Kalida!" Again her face took on that obstinate disapproving look, for it was obvious she had startled Kalida. "You'll take gloves and basket and join us in the garden." An order, brooking no protest.
"I think not," Kalida said, wiping her mouth carefully and standing also. "I think I will go for a walk." She turned her back on Ardelle then and proceeded out of the room to the hallway and the front door.
She was shaking. She had fully expected Ardelle's long, omnipresent cane to snake out and hook her around her legs, tripping her to detain her. But nothing so melodramatic happened. There was silence behind her, and silence before her. And as always, the ever-present sense of latent energy. But none of it was apparent in the placid fields surrounding the house, none of the commotion of the range, or even the smooth machinery in Prestina's capable hands that made sure the house functioned smoothly.
Kalida stepped out onto the porch. So different from her own home, she thought with a pang. There she had done so much of the work. She had only to look at her hands to measure the depth and worth of her capabilities. Her father had relied on her so much, on her love of the
land and the joy she had taken in the mundane chores of the ranch.
Papa should have had a son, she thought. But he hadn't; he had had one all-fired stubborn daughter who loved to ride and hustle cattle, whom he had sold to finance his future. She had had great worth all around, she concluded as she turned right toward the barn rather than have to pass the garden where she was sure Ardelle and Ellie were working assiduously in the most ladylike way possible.
And, after all, Papa had to rebuild now. He couldn't possible like having to start again, with both house and herd, with having to renegotiate his life all over again. As she meandered past the barn and stables, she felt a huge wave of sympathy for what fate had dealt her father, and she paused a moment to whistle for Malca, who was prancing around the corral. Kalida climbed up on the bars of the fence to scratch Malca's ears and whisper assurances that she herself did not feel.
The change had not affected Malca. Malca did not have to build a new life, Kalida reflected as she continued on through the narrow pathways of the corral. But I will. I will have to. After all, there was nothing wrong with Deuce-except he was arrogant, high-handed, a bully, stubborn, dominating, and his damned hands kept getting in the way.
"No," she murmured, not even aware she had said it out loud; it was a negation of what she knew was not possible—making a new life at Sweetland.
But a strong, sure voice contradicted her insolently, "Yes," and her preoccupied gaze swung up and glanced off of Deuce's amused gray eyes. He was bare to the waist, with a towel slung around his muscular shoulders, and he was leaning lazily against the bunkhouse door. Beside him was a barrel of water which, from the puddles on the ground around it, looked as if he had been almost
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bathing in it. "I keep telling you," he added, still with that suggestive lilt in his tone, "yes, but you just don't listen, Kalida."
She flared up immediately. "You just don't hear, Deuce Cavender, any damned thing your highness doesn't want to."
He made a regretful sound. "I sure thought a contented sun-warmed kitty was strolling into my front yard this morning, pert and pretty with a nice new dress and maybe a slightly better humor; but I always seem to be out of luck, don't I, Kalida? You're always going to present the face of a lady tomcat, just spitting for a fight."
"Definitely not a candidate for mistress of Sweetland," Kalida agreed sweetly, changing her tack entirely as he inoved forward aggressively. "I entirely agree. So since you have the cows and my father's life in your hands, you can rest easy that power is yours; and, if you really need it, a more willing woman is available for you right in your very home, one who urgently wants what you can provide for her."
He stopped dead at that one. His face closed up, except that his eyes became steely and reflective. "Yes, I have power and I have you," he said finally, "and I'm not giving either up. I don't care who the hell else is dreaming in my house."
"No, you don't hear," Kalida said sadly, and made one move forward, which incited him instantly to grasp her arms and prevent her from advancing.
"It's you who doesn't hear me,"' he gritted, his fingers digging deeply into her flesh. "And you can't see me for the fog in front of your eyes, either. You're a fool, Kalida. A stupid fool. And a provoking vixen. You think your defiant tongue will protect you from me, as well as you think you can entice every man jack on this place. But I tell you, you'll get nowhere any which way you try to outwit me, Kalida, and you'll do it at your own expense."
His flinty eyes bore into her bolt-blue gaze, which would have splayed him to smithereens if she could have even reached his rock hard chest. She was inflamed by his words, and suddenly from his closeness and the awareness of his naked torso inches from her body. The heat of his anger fueled hers, and the heat of his body, his heaving chest, his blazing eyes all swept over her in one telling perception, w^ich suddenly made her breathless and tremblingly aware of small things that she saw with sensual clarity —his matted chest hair, his bulging breast muscles with the flat male nipples now as peaked as her own, the sweat trickling downward from his shoulders. She wanted to slide her hand through the wiry hair and touch his nipples to see if they were as hard as hers, to discover if he would feel the same things she felt when he caressed hers. She wanted to feel his nakedness and wetness with her hand, and she couldn't move. He held her immobile, just as aware of the charged tension between them as she. More aware, as he followed her softening blue gaze to his chest.
"You want me, Kalida," he said flatly, without moving, without releasing her.
"I want my freedom," she contradicted instantly, her senses flailing wildly against an onslaught that neither she nor he could control. She reacted to his nearness and to his nakedness, to his touch, and she always would, and she had to get away from him before he devoured her. She was gratified that he let her go, but she realized immediately that he had done so because he had known she would not move. How did he know that?
She flexed her arm. It was cramped from his tight grasp.
"So there is your freedom," he said mockingly, crossing his arms and watching her.
"And if I turned around and walked down the wagon road out of here . . ."
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"I'd come after you," he said simply, "and I'd bring you back, and I'd do it however many times it takes you to learn you belong here."
"I don't belong here. I don't belong to you." She was fanning herself into a fury. "I don't — "
"Don't, don't, don't. Here we go again. Damn it, Kalida, you have the most vexatious tongue full of negatives I ever heard in a woman. I swear I'm going to make you say yes, Kalida. You're going to shout it all over Sweetland, when I get through with you, you are going to submit, capitulate, and you are going to scream, yes —in my arms and to me. Get that straight, Kalida. To me."
She did not know what prevented her from launching herself into him and scratching his eyes out. The arrogance of him! The high-handed male stupidity of him to think she would ever yield to him! She clenched her fists and squeezed her toes together so her foot would not kick him. She could defeat him with words, and she would.
"Fine sentiments, your majesty, but just how do you propose to accomplish that?" she asked impudently.
He smiled insolently, and his £yes, now smoky with intent, rested on her stubbornly set lips. "I believe I have ways to make you change your mind."
"I believe you will never touch me again," she lashed out at the lazy complacency in his tone of voice.
"You just won't learn," he murmured regretfully. There was a taut readiness about him now; the
laziness had vanished with her last taunt, the challenge he could not ignore. His huge hand reached for hers and lifted it to his bare chest.
Her reluctant fingers grazed the thin wiry hair and rested there without moving. Her breath caught and held; she knew she could turn and run right now, and she knew she wanted to provoke him even more. "Ellie Dean would love to stand in a barnyard with you," she murmured suggestively, and that finally got her what she wanted —
his mouth twisting on hers, seeking to overpower the words and the woman. He pulled her against him, and her other hand slid into the curly crisp hair on his chest, tugging it as his tongue invaded her mouth and sought hers. He did not play with her now; he wanted only to dominate her, to incite her passion, to make her wild with wanting.
The thick, round little buttons on her dress pressed into his bare skin, and he hated them. His hands began the torturous task of finding their way to her bare skin. There was none. His heated caresses felt the silky smoothness of fabric, draped and fitted beguilingly, a total impediment to his feeling her nakedness. He groaned in frustration. "Say yes now, Kalida," he commanded, removing his burning mouth from hers.
"No," she answered, her lips quirking slightly at his vain attempts to undress her. Perfect! Fifty jnore dresses like it, she thought as his mouth crushed against hers again, reaching for her, delving deep, nipping at the tip of her tongue as she kept withdrawing and then seeking his. Games, all games, and yet the yearning unfurling inside her was real.
