Taming Talia

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  God, what a mouth she had. A mouth meant for kissing… He could only imagine her full lips around his cock.

  “Mr. Fields?” An underlying note of amusement.

  Damn. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a woman. “Sorry, I’m afraid my train of thought wandered.” She was playing him. Surely she knew beauty like hers would leave most men—even this man—panting like dogs to bed her.

  He cleared his throat. “As to your question, how would I know? I would organize the available paperwork. Bills of sale. Land deeds. Mineral holdings. Bank statements. Stock certificates and earnings. It would all fall into place quite logically, I assure you.”

  “And then?”

  “I would look into everyday expenses for maintaining this ranch. If you desired to rid yourself of what is likely an enormous expense, running an estate of this size, I could set up an auction. You might want to consider relocating to San Francisco or even the northeast.”

  “The northeast?” As she rose from her chair, the widow’s eyes flashed with anger. “Leave the land where I grew up? Leave the land which is part of my soul?” She slapped her hand on the table. “Never!”

  The woman had fire in her eyes, and, where her home was concerned, a fire in her belly. Whether she possessed this same fire in bed was what he desired to know more than anything.

  But first he must know whether or not she had his client’s son murdered.

  “The land,” she said. “This place is everything to me. It was taken from my family not once, but twice. I won’t part with it for any reason.”

  “Twice?”

  “Yes, twice.” She strode about the room, waving her hands in the air. “Once when the area came under control of the United States. My family had enough hidden gold and influence in the area that they managed to buy it back piece by piece, nearly bankrupting themselves over the years. Then a second time when my father traded me and the land in one tidy parcel in return for my husband’s newfound gold. My father and anyone else will play hell getting this land back. It belongs to me and will belong to my heirs. But my merciless, mercenary father will never see a square single inch of this land back under his control…ever.”

  “Heirs? Did your husband leave you…?”

  “No, damn him! He couldn’t quite manage that feat either.”

  Fury was written across her face, but before he could make any response, her housekeeper entered, clearing her throat. “Pardon, but the last two men are ready to leave before the weather gets any worse. They want to know if you have any further instructions.”

  The housekeeper’s diversion seemed to calm the widow somewhat. She gave a polite nod. “I’ll just be a moment,” she said, then swept from the room as elegantly as any society dame back home.

  There was no doubt about it. The woman was a handful. The more he talked with her, the more he realized he had little chance of succeeding in his assignment. Even if he proved the widow had nothing to do with Montrose’s death, there was no way she would leave New Mexico of her own volition. The very idea of attempting to drag her kicking and screaming for two and a half thousand miles to New York City was daunting, to say the least.

  He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Alerted by quick, light footsteps on the tile floor and the swishing of silk skirts, he heard her before he saw her. He looked over his shoulder. The widow had returned.

  Her cheeks flushing, she glided to the chair on his left, then sat. “Please accept my apology, Mr. Fields. My behavior was unforgivably rude. This land—my land—is something I am very passionate about.”

  “I’ve always admired passion in a lady, Mrs. Montrose. The apology is mine to make.” He rose from his chair, and, taking her hand in his, he bowed. “You have suffered a loss. I should have waited for a more appropriate time to call with my proposition. With your permission, I’ll take my leave and return at a later date.”

  She jerked her hand away. “No!” The widow’s jaw clenched, and one hand went to her throat, where she toyed with an ivory broach. “I mean—the rudeness is on my part, not yours. And I’m most interested in hearing what you have to say about my finances. My position is difficult.” She covered his hand with her delicate one, entreating him to remain. “I don’t trust my husband’s local associates or his family in the East. And I certainly don’t trust my father to look after my interests. I have no one I can trust. You—you are a stranger and therefore can remain neutral.”

  His plan to insinuate himself into the lovely widow’s good graces was working, but why didn’t it please him more? Frankly, he felt guilty. The woman before him was nothing like the insipid society beauties he’d known at home. Too bad he was here to prove she’d murdered her husband. Seeing her fire when confronted with the idea of selling her vast land holdings, he could easily believe she’d ordered the deed without a qualm. And from what he’d heard in town about Reginald Montrose, he was perhaps a man who needed killing.

  No one had been arrested for Montrose’s death. According to the sheriff, Montrose had been in the midst of fornicating with a whore when he was attacked. His attacker, a drifter by the name of Juan Ojeda, had fled the scene. And his escape was suspicious because he’d gotten away without a trace.

  “You’re so quiet. Will you help me?” The entreaty in her tone, the underlying intensity, the unspoken need in her eyes—what man could refuse?

  Not this man.

  He swallowed, then nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Montrose, I will.”

  “Good.” She smiled, her dark eyes glowing and lashes fluttering at his response. “Since we are to be in business of a sorts together, you must you call me Natalia. I don’t care to be reminded of his surname at every turn.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to be so familiar.” What a liar. If he wasn’t careful, they would be more than familiar.

  She peered at him from eyes as dark as a moonless night, a slight smile curving her full red lips. “I insist. And I shall call you Jared,” she said, following her bold statement with an emphatic nod.

  How was it she made the sound of his name seem more intimate than a lover’s touch? His cock hardened, and his mouth grew dry as desert sand. Reaching for his coffee, he swallowed the remainder. Finally able to speak, he said, “Thank you, Natalia. This was a delicious meal. And you’re a gracious hostess, especially to a stranger.”

  “We are known for our hospitality to strangers. But strangers need not remain so.” She touched her lips with her napkin. “Perhaps you would care for an after-dinner brandy in the drawing room?”

  “Yes, that would be excellent.” He waited for her to rise, then followed her like the lapdog he was in imminent danger of becoming…if he didn’t keep to his assignment.

  Natalia vainly tried to quell the eruption of emotions that rumbled through her. She rubbed the fingers of the hand she’d used to touch the stranger; they still prickled as if she’d slept on them and sensation was just now returning.

  This man—this Jared Fields—was a mystery. Polished and polite. Clean. Intelligent. What game was he playing? As much as she wanted to bed him straightaway until she could stand no more, she wouldn’t. Not with so much still unknown.

  Only a step behind her, his manly presence radiated heat like the afternoon sun. She could feel him. Smell him. Dios, she wanted to taste him.

  Pausing at the kitchen door, she stopped long enough to tell Sarita to serve them in the sitting room. “The cognac, then go home to Pedro. He’ll be missing you. The kitchen can wait until tomorrow.” Natalia rubbed her upper arms. “Dress warmly. It’s turning colder outside, and storm clouds are gathering.”

  “Sí.” The housekeeper nodded, tucking her head in an attempt to hide her knowing smile. Of all the people in the world, Sarita knew what Natalia had had to put up with. The abuse. The absence of anything resembling a kind word. Indeed, Sarita would wish her well with the man in black.

  “She doesn’t live in?” Jared asked.

  “She has sleeping qua
rters, for when we entertained, but she has a husband and returns most nights after dinner. Now that I’m a widow, my needs are very simple.”

  “You aren’t afraid at night here by yourself?”

  “No. The ranch hands normally take turns guarding.” She smiled. “And when I’m alone, as I am now—well, I’m very adept with the shotgun I keep under my bed.”

  “Good to know,” he said, sounding somewhat amused.

  She led the way down the central hall into the sitting room where she’d first met him, then noted the warmth of the room. Or was it the fire within which heated her so? Yet it was turning colder, if the wind whipping up from the arroyo was any indication.

  She arranged her skirts carefully and sat. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” This time he chose a silk-upholstered wingback chair, leaning back and resting one of his ankles across his knee. Long, lean-muscled legs. He reached for his pocket, then seemed to think better of it and dropped his hand.

  “Go ahead. Smoke if you like. I quite savored the aroma of my husband’s after-dinner cigar.” Little did old Reginald know, when he wasn’t around, she and Sarita both enjoyed smoking a cigarillo after a shared dinner in the kitchen.

  He smiled as if he’d been caught out. “Thank you. I will.” He pulled a cheroot from his inner pocket along with a match. “Nasty habit.” He struck the match on the bottom of his boot.

  “But so pleasant after a meal, no?”

  “Brandy and a cigar—there’s almost nothing better.” His steely gaze warmed as he watched for her response over his cigar.

  “And what do you consider better than an after-dinner brandy and cigar?”

  “Well…” Jared cleared his throat, his tan cheeks darkening. “There are other pleasures… Those not suited to the drawing room.”

  His slow drawl of the last phrase left no doubt in her mind of his meaning. An unwilling bark of laughter forced itself from her throat. “I fear my late husband would have disagreed with you.”

  He shot her a rueful smile, lifting one side of his mustache. “His misfortune.”

  “He’ll never know.” No, Reginald had spent his time whoring and drinking at the Silver Queen. Bastardo. Someone had done her a tremendous favor in killing him. Muchas gracias. She hoped they never caught the man.

  A gust of wind blew through the sitting room, causing the candles to flare and flicker. Two guttered out. “Sarita must have not latched the door securely.” She rose from the settee. “I’ll double-check it.”

  Natalia rushed to the front door, found it shut and secured. The iron handle was icy cold to her touch. Shaking her head, she warily opened the door and was stunned by the sight of snow at least three to four inches deep as far as she could see. Even more amazing was the wind blowing snow until she couldn’t make out any familiar landmarks.

  Surely it wasn’t this bad when Sarita left. True, there had been the threat of storm clouds in the afternoon, but it was early in the year to expect such a storm. Although her housekeeper was no longer in sight, she called her name. Her efforts were wasted, lost in the howl of the wind. She should have remained here. Her home wasn’t far, but in a blizzard like this, how would she find it?

  Chapter Four

  Jared sipped the cognac, relishing the rich taste. One thing for sure, Montrose had kept a fine cellar. Natalia returned with a swish of silk, her dark eyes wide with alarm. Setting the brandy snifter on the side table, he straightened and leaned forward. “What is it?”

  “It’s snowing—three to four inches already—a blizzard. Sarita will never make it home. Why would she have left in a storm like this? I tried calling after her, but she was already out of sight, and the wind…” Natalia’s distress over her servant was obvious as she covered her mouth and nose with her hands, shaking her head. “I have to find her. Bring her back.”

  Jared rose. “Let me see.” He strode to the door and whipped it open. All he could see was a raging white wall of gusting wind and snow. Impossible to see beyond the porch, much less any farther. Whether Natalia’s servant would make it home was doubtful. At least the woman knew the area. He, for one, would never risk heading out in this mess. Returning to town wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not on an unfamiliar road. Shoving the door closed against the onslaught of wind, he turned back to find Natalia had followed. “You can’t go out there.”

  “You don’t understand. I have to. Sarita raised me after my mother died.” She rushed for the door.

  He stopped her by pulling her into his arms, more to comfort than control her. “She knows the way home. Her horse will get her there. You said it’s not far.”

  “I can’t just stand here and do nothing!”

  “No, you can’t. We don’t know how long this weather is going to last. We have to make preparations.” He’d seen snowstorms back East, but they were nothing compared to what he’d experienced in Kansas. One winter, a blizzard had come on suddenly with such fierce intensity that animals had died where they stood. “Where’s the firewood? What about your animals? We have to make sure they’re taken care of.”

  She started shaking in his arms. Her gaze met his, but her chin trembled as she told him, “There’s a stack of firewood behind the stable—don’t know how much. It doesn’t usually snow this early. We’ve had a mild fall.”

  “Focus, Natalia.” He set his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “We don’t have much time.”

  “T-the cattle and drivers are already in La Mesa at the railroad, waiting for transport. My horse is in the stables. Yours too. We keep a cow for milking. Some hens in the henhouse behind the barn.”

  “Anyone else here? The ranch hand who took my horse?”

  “No, he would’ve taken care of the horses before he left for town.”

  “Food? We’re going to need food.”

  “The wine cellar—Reginald converted what used to be the root cellar into storage for wine, but there’s plenty of food laid in.” Her brows drew together as she gazed into his eyes. “How long do you think this is going to last anyway?”

  “A day. A week. Can’t tell. This one is starting off bad. I’ve seen at least one that went on for two weeks.”

  Shooting him a sharp glance, she stepped back. “Have a lot of blizzards in St. Louis, do they?”

  “It was a hunting trip,” he said smoothly, and not a lie, although he’d been hunting a man rather than game. “My party was caught for several days. Long enough that some of the men were looking like they might be pretty tasty.”

  Her gasp told him she believed his half-truth. “You wouldn’t have.”

  He shrugged. “It’s happened before.”

  A mixture of disbelief and realization in her eyes, she nodded slowly. “Yes, the Donner expedition was a long time before I was born, but I read about it.” She sagged against the wall. “You think it could be that bad?”

  “I won’t lie. It could get very bad before it’s over.”

  Natalia ran her hands back through her hair, loosening several strands, softening her appearance, making her seem more vulnerable. A vulnerability which was more than appealing, but which he had no time to take advantage of. Every second counted if they were going to survive.

  “Grain for the horses?”

  “In the stable, but how are we…?”

  “Not we—I’ll see to them before it gets any worse. Is there any rope in the house?”

  Her beautiful face twisted into a frown. “I don’t know of any, but I’m sure there’s plenty in the stables.”

  “So I just have to make it to the stables and run a guideline back to the house.”

  “You don’t know your way. You’ll get lost.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “I know. I can tear bed linens into strips first and tie them together. Then you can use that as a guide to get back to the house.” She nodded. “My husband’s clothes are still here. You’ll need a heavy coat and scarf, and some heavier trousers”

  He grinned. “Works for me.”

&nbs
p; Natalia ran down the hall to her husband’s bedchamber. Another bone of contention early in their marriage had been his refusal to sleep with her in her bedchamber. Given his increasing demands and penchant for rough treatment, she was grateful he didn’t. Having a room of her own was her only refuge.

  She threw open the door to the chifforobe and pulled out the heaviest coat. Normally, it would’ve been packed away, but Sarita had aired his winter garments right before he was killed.

  Her heart clenched at the thought of Sarita being lost in the blizzard. Such a good woman. She deserved better than freezing to death. Natalia fought back the tears, even as she continued to rummage for one of Reginald’s old scarves.

  Upon finding one, she headed to the linen press. As much as she hated destroying the linens her late husband had insisted on ordering from one of the finest stores in New York, surviving this blizzard far outweighed the need for luxurious bed coverings.

  “Natalia.”

  She glanced up at Jared, her heart filling with gratitude she didn’t have to weather the storm alone. “Follow me,” she said, leading him into her own bedchamber, where it was warmer. “You’ll to have to help me with this.” She passed him a stack of sheets. “The stables are quite a distance from the back of the hacienda.”

  His gaze widened, then narrowed. “Are you talking a few hundred yards or miles?”

  “Not miles,” she said with a smile, shaking her head. “Not even a mile. More like a hundred yards or so.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  “I’ll find shears in Sarita’s sleeping quarters.” She set another stack of linens on her bed, then rushed from the room. Her bedroom, a fact very much on her mind.

  Jared watched her retreating form. “Two pair, I hope?” he called. Tearing the linens and knotting them into a makeshift tether could take all night. He’d made it as far as her bedroom, and yet all thoughts—almost all thoughts—of seducing her were of secondary import.