by Sandra Brown
For the first time he was angry about what had happened. Furious, impotent rage surged through his dying body. If he hadn't been fighting Jake, if he had been wearing his gunbelt, if he had had nothing to hide in the first place... If, if, if.
That was an exercise in futility and he didn't have time to indulge it. He should have died over twenty years ago, riddled with gunshots after a bank robbery. God had seen fit to let him live, had granted him a second chance, had given him the marvelous gift of the life with Lydia. He had no argument with Divine will.
"Tell them." The words came out on ragged breaths that required all the strength he could garner.
Lydia didn't have to ask what he meant. "Are you sure?"
He blinked once in affirmation. Better that his children understood why he had had to die violently than to remain forever in the dark. What good was keeping the secret now? Would they love him less? He gazed at their tear-glossed eyes. No. He didn't think so.
Lydia touched his hair. Her fingers barely sifted through the raven strands sprinkled with silver, but she loved the texture of it. A smile ghosted over her lips. "I love you, Sonny Clark." She kissed his forehead, then looked at her children. "Your father's real name was Sonny Clark. His mother was a prostitute and he was raised in a brothel. After the war, he became an outlaw who rode with Jesse and Frank James."
In a steady voice, almost emotionlessly, she told them the unbelievable story of Ross's life, how he had been left for dead and nursed back to health by a hermit in the hills of Tennessee, John Sachs by name.
"When he was well enough, he changed his appearance and went down into the valley to find work. He was hired on at the Gentry stables. That's where he met your mother, Lee. She was from an aristocratic family, but she fell in love with the stable hand. I don't blame her," Lydia added gently, glancing down at her husband.
She related how Ross had married Victoria much to her father's displeasure and how they decided to migrate to Texas and assume ownership of some land, the deed of which had been given to Ross by John Sachs. That land had become River Bend.
Victoria hadn't been as confident in their future as she had pretended and had taken a pouch of jewelry from her home when they left. Her father assumed Ross had stolen it and went after them. Since Victoria had convinced Ross to leave in her father's absence, he hadn't known their destination.
"He didn't even know she was pregnant with you," Lydia told her stepson. "Nor did he know that she had died until he caught up with us in Jefferson. In the meantime, he had found out about Ross's past. He didn't believe that you were his grandson and tried to kill your father out of vengeance for Victoria's death. A Pinkerton detective named Majors shot and killed him."
Ross nudged her arm. "Shot... you," he rasped.
Lydia ducked her head, then faced her children's incredulous faces again. "The scar on my shoulder..." she said uneasily. "I tried to save Ross's life."
The room was still. The only sound was the ticking clock in the corner.
"What happened to this detective, this Majors?" Lee asked huskily.
"We never saw him again," Lydia answered softly, and smiled down at Ross. "He let Ross go. I think he could see that your father wasn't an outlaw anymore. He wasn't Sonny Clark. He was truly Ross Coleman. And, Lee, we have that jewelry. We saved it for you because it belonged to your mother and her family. We planned to give it to you when you turned twenty-one."
"And no one ever knew about Papa's past?" Banner asked.
"Not even Ma," Lydia said, looking toward the older woman as she stood quietly weeping. Micah was patting her shoulder.
"And Jake?" Banner whispered, seeking her husband's eyes.
"I knew some of it," he replied softly. "Not all."
"How did Grady find out?" Banner asked the question uppermost in all their minds. No answer was forthcoming. Then Banner asked another question. "Mama, did you have another baby, before me, before you met Papa?"
What little color remained in Lydia's face drained. Wildly, she looked inquiringly at Ma, who shook her head in denial. Jake answered her unspoken question. "Priscilla must have told her."
"Priscilla?" Lydia repeated. "Priscilla Watkins? When? How?"
"In Fort Worth. She cornered Banner on the street. They were having a conversation before I interrupted it."
Everything inside Lydia sagged. She slumped forward. Her greatest shame, one she had wanted to outlive, was back again to haunt her on this, the worst day of her life. She felt Ross's hand on hers, squeezing.
She laid her ear against his lips. "It...never mat-mattered to me." Her tears dripped saltily onto his face. She wept openly now with love. Her heart and soul overflowed with it and it had to come pouring out. "Ross, Ross," she cried out in a pleading voice. Momentarily she rested her head on his stomach.
It was Banner who drew her mother's head up. She smoothed down Lydia's hair, which, except for the color, was identical to hers. "It's all right, Mama. It doesn't matter. Really it doesn't. I love you. I was just curious, that's all."
Lydia shook her head. "No, it's best if it's all told." She paused to draw in a deep breath. "I was running away when I collapsed in the woods and gave birth to the baby. I thought I had killed its father. He was my stepbrother. Not by blood," she rushed to say when she saw the horror register on their faces. "My mama married a man named Otis Russell when I was about ten. He and Clancey made our lives hell."
She explained about Russell's death and Clancey's abuse. "He... he... I got pregnant by him. When Mama died, I ran away. He came after me. When he found me, I knocked him down and he hit his head on a rock. I thought he was dead, so I kept running, afraid someone would blame his death on me. I was glad when the baby was stillborn and wanted to die of shame myself. But when I woke up, Bubba was there."
Lydia looked at him and smiled. Something inside Banner snapped, painfully, like a dry twig.
"The Langstons took care of me," Lydia continued. "Then I was taken to Ross when my milk came. Victoria had just died, leaving him with a hungry newborn. I nursed you, Lee. I've always loved you like my own."
"I know that." The young man was fighting a losing battle with unmanly tears.
"But Clancey wasn't dead. He caught up with the wagon train and found me married to Ross. Somehow he had discovered Ross's identity too. He knew about the jewelry Ross had supposedly stolen. He threatened me. I was terrified of him. I was afraid he would hurt Ross or Lee." She glanced up at Lee. "There was even a time when he suspected you were his child and that I had lied about his baby dying. He was capable of brutality, I knew that."
She stood and went to Ma. Taking the older woman's hands between her own, she stared into the lined face she had loved for so long. "Ma, it was my stepbrother Clancey who killed Luke. Forgive me for not telling you. But I couldn't. I was so ashamed."
Ma's only reaction was a brief puckering of her lips. She reached out and drew Lydia to her, patting her back in comfort and reassurance. "Weren't none of your doin'. Don't see that it rightly matters who killed him. Didn't then, don't now."
Lydia pushed herself away. "Clancey killed Winston Hill, too. He died protecting me. That's another thing I've had to live with."
"What happened to him?" Banner asked, hating the man she had thankfully never known.
"He's dead." Lydia's voice held a finality that no one dared breach. Save one.
"I killed him."
The three words echoed in the room. All eyes turned to Jake. Even Ross reacted. His whole body twitched and he tried to turn his head toward Jake.
"I overheard him threatening Lydia to bring the law down on Ross that night we arrived in Jefferson. He bragged about killing Luke. I tracked him into town, waited until I caught him alone in a dark alley and slit his belly open with Luke's own knife."
He turned to his mother. "Ma, if it's any consolation, Luke's murder was avenged years ago."
She came forward and touched her oldest son's cheek. Then, losing her composure, she wrapped her
bulky arms around him. This explained so many things, his bitterness, his wariness of people, his self-imposed loneliness. He had taken the burden of the family on himself when he was still a mere boy and she suffered for him.
"Bubba."
The raspy voice called to him from the couch. Jake rushed to Ross's side quickly. As though tacitly agreeing on their need for privacy, everyone else fell back out of hearing. Jake knelt beside the couch. "Yes, Ross?"
"Thank you." The words, though barely spoken, were heartfelt. The emerald eyes were clouded by more than pain now. They were shiny with tears of gratitude. "Wish... I'd... killed him."
Jake smiled wryly. "Sounds to me like you already had your hands full."
Ross tried to smile back, but it was more a grimace of pain. "Sorry about..."
Jake shook his head. "I know you didn't mean to fight me, Ross. It's not worth apologizing for. We gave you quite a shock."
"Banner.. .you'll..."
"I love her, Ross. Didn't count on it happening, but..."
"Yeah, well"—he cast a glance at Lydia—"it happens like that sometimes."
"You were right, though. She's carrying my baby." The green eyes cleared instantly, then filled with tears again. Jake rushed on. "I can't tell you how proud I am about having a child from your seed, Ross. He'll be special."
The older man's lips trembled, but he smiled. "You and me, huh? Reckon he'll be sonofabitchin' mean."
Jake laughed. "Reckon he will."
"Keep... keep the happy news for Lydia. She'll need it." Jake's own eyes glossed with tears. He nodded. "You turned into... a fine man, Bubba."
Jake closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, trapping in tears. When he opened them, he saw his friend's face through wavering moisture. "Remember me telling you that I never liked a man as 'much as you, except maybe my brother?" Ross smiled and moved his head in a facsimile of a nod. "That still holds. I'm going to miss you like hell."
The two men clasped hands, years of friendship and unspeakable understanding passing between them. "Watch over Lydia and—"
"I will."
"Goodbye, friend."
"Goodbye, Ross."
"Lydia"—Micah spoke from the door—"the doc just got here. And, Jake, the sheriff wants to see you."
* * *
Priscilla moved the file around the tip of her nail, shaping it to a sharp point. She had bathed, scented, and powdered herself in preparation for her visitor. Her peignoir was a frilly confection in her favorite shade of lavender. She had piled her hair high, but loosely, on the top of her head. She looked exquisite.
A gloating smile curved her mouth and hyer ees narrowed cunningly. To think that just a few weeks ago she had been concerned about the future. Now everything pointed to bright years ahead.
If Grady Sheldon thought he would leave east Texas alive after boldly shooting Ross Coleman as he claimed he would do, he was a greater fool than she suspected. She had pumped him full of confidence, stroked his pride, and stroked his hatred until he was as fanatic about killing Ross Coleman as a samurai warior bent on a suicidal mission.
Priscilla had heard that River Bend was impressive. Coleman wasn't a land baron compared to many in the state, but he would no doubt have his small army of riders who wouldn't stand by and see him murdered without recourse. And even if that weren't so, Jake wouldn't let Sheldon draw another breath after killing Ross.
Priscilla was certain that her partner wasn't long for this world.
And partner she was. She had made sure of that before letting him leave her boudoir the day before. With the aid of an attorney, a loyal patron of hers for years, they had drawn up a contract. Grady had been so drunk on power and lust that he hadn't read all the clauses she had surreptitiously instructed the lawyer to include in the document. One stated mat in the event of the death of a partner, all capital assets and the ownership of the company reverted to the other. She could confidently predict that without ever having spent one dime toward the investment, she would own and control a thriving timber business by this time tomorrow.
She hummed softly as she laid the nail file aside and picked up a buffer. "What is it?" she called out when a knock sounded on the door,
"Your guest is here, Miss Priscilla," the bouncer announced.
"Send him in." The music and raucous noise from the saloon swelled, then diminished to a low rumble as the door was closed. Priscilla said nothing, but kept her buffer poised over her nail until she saw Dub Abernathy's shadow cross her parlor. She was a picture of docile feminine perfection when he entered the bedroom.
She tilted her head up and gazed at him through her lashes. "Are you angry with me?" she asked softly.
He had been. For weeks after their encounter on the city street, he had fumed. The audacity of the strumpet had appalled him. He could easily have wrung her neck. She had made his life hell at home. He had only this week gotten back into his wife's good graces after promising her a vacation to New York. Then this afternoon he had received a decorous, hand-delivered note asking him to come see her.
Repentance was written all over Priscilla's features as she languidly put the nail buffer aside and came to her feet. She made certain that the folds of the violet peignoir fell just right as she took a few hestitant steps toward her former mentor. "I'm sorry, Dub. I was jealous," she said, spreading her arms wide in appeal. "Your wife has you all the time. I saw you lifing her into that buggy and I got livid. It's just not fair that she gets to live with you and I have to wait until it's convenient for you to see me." She moved forward again, stopping just short of touching him. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you or caused you any hardship. Please forgive me."
Her breath filtered up to him. It was brandy-scented. His favorite label of brandy. Her body looked as smooth as ivory, but as warm as fresh cream. Her lips were wet and shiny and sulky. She was wearing the high heels and stockings he loved, but she wore nothing beneath the corset. Overflowing its satin cups were the mounds of her breasts. If she breathed deeply, he would be able to see their tips as they popped tree. The thought sent a geyser of heat into his loins and his upper lip began to sweat. She was a whore, but she was one without equal. As long as she recognized and acknowledged who had the upper hand, they would get along just fine.
He tossed his hat and cane on the chaise. With an amazing alacrity for a man of his size, he seized Priscilla and jerked her to him, embedding one stubby hand in her hair, twisting painfully, and with the other held her back arched and her stomach pressing against him.
"Don't ever do anything like that again." His lips swooped down on hers. He showed not a trace of caring or tenderness, but ravished her mouth with a bruising tongue. When they pulled apart, Priscilla's eyes were alight with excitement.
She shrugged out of the robe and let it slither down her body to the floor. Dub reached for the hooks on her corset and jerked them open. The backs of his knuckles dug creaters into the soft flesh. As in his fantasy, her breasts spilled into his waiting hands, the redly rouged nipples already hard and eager. He sucked on them ruthlessly, causing pain, but she reveled in it.
Her hands worked frantically to get him out of his clothes. When he was naked, they moved to the bed. He fell on to it on his back and pulled her down to straddle him. He impaled her brutally, but with no more savagery than she rode him to a clawing, biting, gasping climax that left them both weak and breathless.
Minutes later, Priscilla, clad only in the sheer peignoir, came back to the bed carrying a snifter of brandy. She passed it to Dub. He sipped, watching as she reclined against the pillows next to him. He reached over and flicked open the ruffled panels of the negligee.
She stretched her arms above her head and arched her back in brazen disregard for the heated eyes that roved over her nakedness. "You like?" she purred.
He dipped his finger into the brandy, spread it around her nipple, then licked it off. "I like."
Priscilla's hands rested lightly on his head as his mouth wandered further afield, stoppin
g to sample morsels of her flesh on the way. "Too bad this is our last time together."
He was so involved in his activity that several seconds passed before he raised his head and peered into her eyes. They were no longer glowing with passion, but with something much more explosive. "What do you mean?"
She pushed him off her and stood. Going to the dressing table, she picked up a hairbrush and, after pulling the pins from her hair, idly began to brush it. "I'm selling the Garden of Eden and leaving town."
"Selling? I don't understand. Where are you going?"
"That's my business, Dub," she said to his stunned reflection in the mirror. He really did look ridiculous, sitting there naked in bed, with a stupid expression on his face like a toad caught in a lantern light.
She had decided to move to Larsen. Whether Grady managed to stay alive or not, she planned to oversee the timber company from now on. Besides, Larsen was where Jake was. He might think they were finished once and for all, but she sure as hell knew better. She wouldn't stop until Jake came to her bed like a beggar pleading for a crust of bread.
"I'm going into another line of work."
Dub laughed as he came off the bed and began pulling on his clothes. "Well, good luck to you, but I doubt you'll be as good at it as you are at this."
Priscilla's back went rigid and she faced him with smoldering eyes. "I'm glad you're amused tonight. You might not be laughing so hard tomorrow, Mr. Abernathy. There will be a letter from me to your preacher in tomorrow's mail. I've confessed everything, especially how I've led prominent members of his flock astray."
Dub froze in the action of pulling on his vest. "You didn't," he growled.
She smiled sweetly. "Oh, yes, I did. I petitioned his prayers, of course, for my damned soul. But at the same time, I named names. Yours topped the list in capital letters." She tossed her head back and sneered at him. "I was good for an afternoon tumble, but you wouldn't help me when I needed to get those crusaders off my back. You would have seen me in ruination before you would have stuck our your neck to help me. On a public street you looked straight through me. Well, it's about time you and those of your ilk, you hypocritical sons of bitches, paid a premium for my services."
