by Anita Mills
“Miss Ross!” Louise Baxter gasped.
Clay stopped and swung around, his hand resting easily on his remaining Colt. For the briefest moment his eyes flicked from her to Ramon, then back, and he relaxed enough to give her that hint of a smile.
“Miss Ross,” he acknowledged politely.
Embarrassed by her own boldness, she passed her tongue over suddenly dry lips. “I … uh … still have your gun. And Captain Walker isn’t here, so I couldn’t give him your letter.”
That surprised him. “Hap’s not come in?”
“No one’s seen him.”
Clay frowned. “He must’ve run into something.” His expression lightened abruptly, and he shrugged. Taking off the black felt hat, he wiped his soaked hair back with his arm. “Thanks for the reminder—I’ll be sure to get it before I leave again.”
As he walked on, the Baxters caught up to her, and Louise was fuming. “Of all the uncivil—Charles, did you see that? Not so much as a word to me!” she sputtered indignantly.
“You wouldn’t have spoken to him,” her husband reminded her. “You despise him.”
“Ah know, but one would have thought he’d have at least tried. After all, ah am your wife, Charles.” She looked to Amanda. “And ah’m shocked to find you know him, Miss Ross. Why, he’s downright evil.”
“Well, I wouldn’t precisely say we are well acquainted,” Amanda protested. “We were on the Overland stagecoach when it came under attack, and he merely loaned me his gun for the rest of the journey here.”
“I would have protected you, Maria,” Ramon declared glumly.
“Yes, I saw that,” she reminded him.
“You cannot know how depraved he is,” Louise insisted. “Why, Charles was at Fort Concho when—”
“That’s enough,” her husband said, cutting her off. “It doesn’t do you any credit to repeat tales, Louise.” He took his wife’s elbow, steering her toward the officers’ mess. “Come, my dear—it grows late, and Col. Hardison doesn’t like to wait for his dinner.”
“As if he could eat after this,” she complained. “Ah know I cannot.”
As Amanda started to follow them, Ramon reached to stay her, whispering, “She is nothing to me, Maria.” When she didn’t respond, he insisted, “It is she who flirts with me.”
“Charles Baxter probably deserves a great deal better,” she muttered. “The woman’s too silly for words.”
“Sí. You do not need to be jealous, querida. I would not give her the second look, I swear it. You are a jewel, and she is a common stone.”
“I’m not jealous, I assure you.”
He moved closer. “Maria, how can I convince you I love you?” As she backed away, he said earnestly, “You have become everything to me.”
She looked about her for the means of escape, but aside from the staring Apaches, there was no one. “Ramon, you’ve got to stop this.” She took another step backward. “I like you quite well as a cousin,” she lied.
“I want more than that, Maria.”
“Ramon, I have no romantic attachment to anyone.”
“Then I will hope.”
“Nor do I want one,” she declared flatly.
“You see a desperate man, Maria. What must I do to win your heart?”
“Would you listen to me?” As he came still closer, she lost her temper. “Ramon, is something wrong with your ears? How many ways do I have to say it? I have tried to spare your feelings, but you won’t let me!” As his face darkened, she gave vent to her feelings. “Look—you were Mama’s nephew by marriage, and while I am prepared to tolerate you for that I don’t feel anything more—and I don’t think I ever will.”
“Maria—”
Checking her anger, she said more gently, “You must not think I am ungrateful for all you have done for me—for all your family did for my mother and the ranch—but I … well, I wouldn’t make a very good wife for you. You deserve a woman who wants to marry you, and I am sure there must be dozens of them.”
“There is another man in your heart.”
“Of course there isn’t!” she snapped. “I don’t even know anybody out here!”
He reached out to her. “I can make you happy, Maria. Let me show you—let me prove to you that—”
“Ramon, you’ve got to stop this! And you’ve got to stop it now! I’ve no wish to travel all the rest of the way to Ybarra-Ross like this! Do you hear me? I’d rather go on alone than listen to any more of this!”
His hands dropped, and he stepped back. For a moment his liquid brown eyes flashed anger. He drew a deep breath, then let it out. “I see that you spurn me, Maria.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!”
“It is not necessary to say anything more.”
She exhaled heavily, then shook her head. “I’m sorry—truly sorry. Now, if you will pardon me, I think I will go in to dinner.”
She walked about five feet before he spoke again. “I treat you like the Spanish queen, Maria. The blood of Andalusian princes flows through these veins, and I would have given it to our sons.”
She spun around to face him again. “Look, I said I was sorry—what more can I do? I’m not ready to marry anyone, Ramon. Right now, I’m going home to run a ranch.”
“You will be sorry, Maria.”
Coming back outside, Clay saw that the girl was still having trouble with her unwanted suitor, and he made a spur-of-the-moment decision to intervene. Before he reached them, he rested his hand lightly on the butt of his revolver. “Sandoval,” he said softly, “you’re bothering the lady.”
Turning around, Ramon gave a start, then his dark skin paled. “Señor, I assure you it is no such thing,” he said stiffly.
Clay looked to Amanda. “Miss Ross, I’ll take my other gun now.”
“Yes, of course—it’s in my room. If you’ll wait here, I’ll bring it right out,” she murmured gratefully.
Without so much as a glance at Ramon, she hurried toward the officers’ quarters where she’d been staying with the Baxters. Once inside, she closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. She’d not wanted to hurt anyone, not even Ramon, and she felt more than a little guilty. Surely there must have been a better way to deter him, but for the life of her, she hadn’t been able to think of one.
Maybe she should have held her tongue until she got home, but the oppressive heat had made her irritable enough to forget her proper upbringing. Now she faced at least two and maybe three more days with her step-cousin. And that brief glimpse at the anger in his eyes was unsettling. It was, she reflected wearily, going to be a miserable journey, even if the heat broke.
She went to her traveling trunk and opened it. There, on top of her folded clothes, was Clay McAlester’s revolver. Picking it up, she handled it gingerly, then took out the small bag where she’d put the bullets he’d given her. She’d not needed them, but they’d provided a sense of security she was going to miss. Maybe she ought to buy a gun of her own before she left Fort Stockton. At least then she wouldn’t be wholly dependent on Ramon for protection.
Returning to where she’d left the two men, she found McAlester alone. As she handed the weapon back to him barrel first, she said simply, “Thank you for letting me carry it.” There was an awkward pause as her words just seemed to hang in the air. “And thank you for dealing with my step-cousin,” she added sincerely.
A faint, somewhat sardonic smile curved the corners of his mouth, and for the briefest moment, it seemed to melt the ice in his eyes. “Mighty wearying having men throw themselves at your feet, huh?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a pretty girl’s burden. The ugly ones don’t have the problem.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment, Mr. McAlester?”
“You could take it that way.”
“I don’t think I will,” she decided. “It lacked something.”
“Yeah—well, I don’t pass out too many.”
He held up the Colt, inspecting it, then rotated the cylinders, loading five. While returning the gun to his empty holster, he met her gaze again. “Out here, you’d better get used to being pestered. If this wasn’t a Negro post, you’d have had a dozen offers in the first fifteen minutes.”
“Probably because there aren’t any women,” she murmured.
“Not too many,” he admitted. He hesitated, then tipped his hat. “Thanks for keeping my gun.”
With that he walked off. She thought of Louise Baxter, and some imp prompted her to call out, “Wait!” When the ranger paused, she dared to ask, “Aren’t you going to eat dinner?”
“I’m going to wash up first.”
That meant he wouldn’t be in the officers’ mess, and that stood to reason—he probably knew he wasn’t wanted there. She watched as he crossed the parade ground, and she wondered how he could endure being such an outcast among his own people.
The Baxter woman had chattered incessantly, making supper a tedious affair. Pleading a headache, Amanda managed to escape as a fiddler struck up a reel. Afraid Ramon might follow her, she hesitated, then walked purposefully not to her hot, stuffy room, but rather the short distance to Comanche Springs.
By day the place had been impressive, but with the light of a three-quarter moon reflecting off the water, it was truly beautiful. She sat down at the edge of the spring pool and drew up her legs, covering them with the skirt of her green muslin gown. Even though the sun had long since gone down, the night air was warm, and her clothes too hot, too confining for comfort.
Certain she was alone, she unbuttoned her bodice, exposing the top of her lace-edged cambric corset cover, and sat there, fanning her bosom, trying to cool the elastic that stuck to her damp skin. She’d have liked to loosen her stays and the horsehair pad that itched her backside through her drawers, but it was too much trouble.
She resented the wire and bone cages a fashionable female had to wear, and when she got home, the first things she’d dispense with would be those devices designed to shape her body into something it wasn’t. If God had intended woman to look like a bottom-heavy hourglass, He would surely have created her that way. No, corsets and bustles had to be the Devil’s invention.
A slight breeze stirred over the water, blowing strands of hair away from her face, cooling her. She took a deep breath, smelling the scent of wild roses in the air. There was a serenity, a comforting solitude that lulled the senses. Even though she could still hear the fiddle music coming from the officers’ dining room, she felt as though she were in a different world.
Emboldened by the darkness, she reached beneath the cambric to unhook the front closure of her corset. As it came loose, pulling apart over her breasts, she breathed deeply, savoring the release, feeling the cooler night air in the depths of her lungs. Leaning forward, she undid her thick hair, letting it fall forward until it almost touched the ground. Her fingertips massaged her damp scalp, relieving the itch from more than a dozen pins. Straightening up, she pushed her hair back from her face, combing it with her fingers.
She removed her shoes and rolled down her stockings. Taking them off, she edged closer to the spring pool to dangle her feet in the water. It was so cold that she had to wiggle her toes to keep them from going numb.
She sat there for a long time, enjoying this moment of freedom, this brief respite from the oppressive heat, knowing that she still faced the long ride home under the burning sun. She leaned back, and her long hair slid down her back. It was so utterly, completely peaceful that she could almost hear her own thoughts.
Across the pool, shielded by shadows, Clay lay stretched out, his head propped on an elbow, watching her, wondering if he ought to let her know he was there. He puffed on one of Little Pedro’s cigarillos, thinking the Mexican had liked strong tobacco. Exhaling fully, his gaze strayed again to Amanda Ross, and his pulse raced. She was one fine-looking woman, he’d give her that. But there was more to her than that—as rich as she was, she didn’t turn her head and pretend she didn’t see the ugliness around her. No, she wasn’t afraid to confront it. A man had to admire a woman like that, even if he didn’t much agree with her.
He took another drag off the cigarillo and grimaced. It was funny how he’d never acquired a taste for tobacco, given how much the Comanches prized it. He guessed he just didn’t like the way it smelled on his hands and his clothes.
Amanda knew she oughtn’t to be out alone, but it felt so good to be away from Ramon’s sulks and Louise Baxter’s mush-mouthed chatter. The woman couldn’t know how she sounded, she just couldn’t Every sentence she uttered seemed to begin with “ah,” as though hers were the only opinions that counted. It might have been sufferable if she’d cared about anything, but as far as Amanda could see, she was totally absorbed in herself.
She looked out across the water, then froze. A small red glow brightened, then faded in the darkness. She remained very still, almost afraid to breathe, her gaze fixed on that speck of light. Every story she’d ever heard about the stealth of Comanches sped through her mind, sending a shiver of fear down her spine, followed by the rational thought that no hostile Indian could have ventured this close to an army fort, particularly not one where sentries could see for miles across the West Texas desert.
The glow brightened, then faded again, as it moved closer. Hampered by the bulk of drawers, petticoats, bustle, and full skirt, she knew it would be futile to run. No, if she had to, she was going to scream her lungs out and hope she could get the top of her corset fastened before help came.
“Who … who’s out there?” she asked nervously.
Clay flicked the tobacco-wrapped cigar into the water, where it hissed and disappeared. “Just me,” he said. “Clay McAlester.” Relief washed over her, followed by chagrin. “How long have you been here?” she demanded.
“Long enough, I guess,” he admitted. “I was beginning to think you were going to shed all your clothes and jump in.”
“Well, I wasn’t.” She could feel the color rise in her face, and she was grateful it was too dark for him to see it. “Besides, I thought I was alone.” She rose quickly, gathering her skirts about her wet legs. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned him.
“Why not?” He took another step.
“Stay where you are,” she protested, backing away from him. Her hands crept to where her breasts pressed against the top of her corset cover.
“Nice night out,” he observed laconically.
“You know, most gentlemen wouldn’t intrude on a lady—you do know that, don’t you?”
He bent over to pick up her stockings and shoes. Straightening, he held them out to her. The moonlight reflected eerily in his eyes.
“Not too many gentlemen around these parts.” When she made no move to take the clothing, he shrugged, then dropped his tall frame to the ground at her feet. Looking up at her, he said, “Actually, I was here first, and if you’d have come just a mite earlier, you’d have caught me buck-naked in the water.” Reaching into a pocket, he drew out another cigarillo and studied it for a moment, frowning. “Care for one?”
“No, of course not.”
He tossed the little cigar away. “Amazes me what people do for pleasure,” he murmured. “Little Pedro had a real liking for the things.” Looking up again, he actually smiled, revealing fine white teeth. “You going to sit down or run like a scared jackrabbit?”
“I haven’t made up my mind.”
“You don’t have to leave on my account, Amanda.”
“What happened to Miss Ross?” she asked peevishly.
“I don’t know—I guess it didn’t sound right.” His smile broadened. “At least I’m not like Sandoval, calling you Maria.”
“I know,” she said tiredly. “There’s nothing wrong with Maria, but I was named for my father’s mother.”
“Yeah, Big John liked to put his brand on every
thing.”
“You knew him?” As soon as she asked, she knew it was a stupid question.
“No, but I heard a lot about him.”
She stood there, looking down on the ranger, feeling awkward. “He died while I was a child,” she said finally.
“Indians or rustlers?”
“Neither. Big John stood six feet five inches tall—almost as tall as Sam Houston himself—and he was killed by falling off a horse.” Her hands smoothed her skirt. “It has been nearly ten years, and it still seems such an impossible way to die.”
“Sometimes a man can be pumped full of lead and live to tell about it,” he observed. “Other times, all it takes is a tap on his head to break his neck.”
“Yes. Everything about him was bigger than life—everything. The way he built the Ybarra-Ross—the way he thought—even the way he practically stole my mother from beneath her family’s noses. He never thought there was anything he couldn’t do, Mama said.”
He held a far different view of what John Ross had done. As far as he was concerned, the Ybarra heiress wasn’t the only thing Ross had stolen.
“Mama came from one of the original families that settled Texas—before the Anglos came, she liked to tell me. And my grandfather, Don Leandro Ybarra, didn’t like the Texans—he’d have fought against them, but he hated Santa Ana. He just stayed home and waited for the war to end.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled fully. “You don’t want to hear about people you didn’t know, do you?”
“It’s better than sitting out here alone. So, have you decided to stay—or are you afraid of what I might do to you?’
She still hesitated. “Well, before I sit down, will you tell me what was in that bag?”
“What bag?”
“The one you gave Colonel Hardison.”
“Oh, that bag.”
She felt utterly foolish, but she wanted to know. “Lieutenant Baxter said it was probably Señor Mendoza’s head. And Louise thinks that it was what was left after you were done torturing him. I guess you heard Colonel Hardison tell the Apaches to bury it,” she added.
