Then he saw Charlie McCain, and his breath caught. The man sat beneath a deep overhang, with a lantern directly over his head and a leather-bound book opened on his lap. His legs were covered with a brightly striped blanket; one arm was tied in a sling. From the scowl on Mr. McCain’s face, Will figured the man wasn’t enjoying his convalescence.
“Pa, somebody’s here to see you…”
When Charlie glanced toward the approaching trio, his eyes opened wide, and Will saw at once where Priscilla got her blue eyes. Like her mother’s hair, her father’s eyes had dulled a bit with the passage of time, but Will had no doubt that twenty-three years ago, Charlie McCain’s blue eyes had shone in all their brilliance in the offices of Radnor, Radnor, & Kane in Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love.
“…about Joaquín,” Priscilla was saying. “He’s been—”
Before Priscilla could finish, Will stepped forward extending his hand to Charlie, who stared at it, transfixed.
“William Penn Radnor IV, Mr.…uh, McCain.”
Charlie gawked, solemn, speechless.
“He’s the one who came to our aid in the corral, dear,” Kate was saying.
“Joaquín’s been arrested, Pa. For—”
“Leave us,” Charlie interrupted. He tore his gaze from the vision of his past. “Bring that bottle of good whiskey, Kate, then leave us.” He turned to Priscilla. “You, too, Miss Priss.”
Chagrined at being dismissed so curtly, Priscilla stomped from the courtyard. No wonder the whole country talked about Pa. He guarded anything concerning Joaquín as jealously as if it were that elusive cache of gold in Spanish Creek Canyon. Perhaps she should talk to him. With Joaquín in jail, the gossip could get ugly. Even if it weren’t true, it couldn’t help hurting Mama.
While her mother fetched the whiskey Pa requested, Priscilla wandered to the front veranda, where she sat on the steps and absorbed the last rays of the evening sun. Ever changing, yet always the same, the late-day sky reminded her of a theater production filled with passion and aggression and an ethereal majesty that never failed to lift her above the problems of the day. For the moments it took the sun to disappear beyond the distant ridge of mountains, each second different and more vibrant than the last, everything else in the world dimmed, as if eclipsed by the wonder and the beauty. For those few moments, anything seemed possible.
Even defeating the Haskels. They might be powerful, but viewed in contrast to the power of nature, they were not invincible.
Will Radnor had no part in their schemes. She was sure of that. Not yet, at least. He couldn’t have come all the way to New Mexico Territory to aid the Haskels in taking Spanish Creek Ranch. She’d be foolish even to think such a thing. He probably hadn’t known about their land-grabbing ways until she told him. Besides, Will Radnor wasn’t that kind of man. She could tell.
She’d been too hard on him. That, too, was certain. But that could be remedied. By the time he and Pa finished their discussion, she and Mama would have supper on the table…
Jumping to her feet, Priscilla headed for the kitchen, but before she reached the front door, it burst open in her face. Will Radnor stormed past without so much as a by-your-leave.
Until then she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for him. That was a surprise in itself. As was his stormy mood. What could Pa have done to send him off in such a stew? She followed him down the steps.
“Will?” At her call, he stopped, midway between the house and the hitching rail. He didn’t turn around, prickling her ire, until she recalled the numerous times she had snubbed him.
“Supper’s almost ready.” She spoke from the bottom step.
Still he didn’t turn. She watched his shoulders bunch in a jerky fashion, a shrug, she supposed. She wondered again what her father could have said. Or had her own rude behavior finally caught up with her?
“We wouldn’t want you to go away thinking us inhospitable.”
Will moved. Reaching the hitching rail, he turned around. His eyes leveled on hers. His expression was unreadable.
“It isn’t safe,” she insisted, “riding back to town in the dark. Mama’ll be happy to have you—”
Will’s gaze held hers, dark and piercing. Even though she had no idea what was on his mind, she stopped speaking. He withdrew a rifle from the saddle scabbard, checked it, then thrust it back in place. Priscilla bristled at his silent rebuff. Venturing forward, she stopped directly in front of him, fists on hips.
“You might be a fair shot from the top of a stagecoach in broad open daylight, but it’s dark now, and there’re outlaws out there—and Haskels.”
Will reached to pick up his reins.
“Blast you, greenhorn. If you think you can get out of our rematch by getting yourself shot—”
Will dropped the reins. His hands shot out. He grabbed her shoulders, jerked her forward, crushing his lips to hers. The impact hit her with the intensity of a thunderbolt. His fingers dug into her shoulders, while his lips moved over hers so fiercely, with so much pressure that she felt his teeth grind against hers through their lips.
Her heart thudded with the cadence of a war drum; tears stung her eyes. Will’s day-old stubble scratched her chin. But still she didn’t think to move, to struggle.
Suddenly, she realized that his kiss had changed. His lips opened; they stroked hers, gently, sending something tingling and tender racing down her spine.
She felt his tongue, wet against her skin. Something soft took hold of her, something magical. Her own lips began to move, she could feel them, but she didn’t know how, or why.
Will’s grip on her shoulders eased. His hands slipped up her neck, cupped her face. His tongue breached the opening created by her own moving lips; he dipped inside. She shuddered.
Of an instant, he released her. His gaze delved into hers, holding hers, steady. But she wasn’t steady, far from it. She could feel herself tremble. She clasped her arms about her chest but was powerless to turn her gaze away. Behind her, the front door slammed. Will’s brows narrowed.
“I work for the Haskels, Miss Priss.” His lighthearted tone turned harsh. “Don’t you forget that.” Turning abruptly, he caught up his reins, stepped in the saddle, and swung his horse around, breaking eye contact.
Stunned by the entire experience, Priscilla watched him ride away. The finality of his statement clashed with the soft, sweet emotions called forth by his kiss. She felt empty with his leaving, confused by his behavior…Humiliated.
Suddenly her mother was there, cradling her in her arms, loving, consoling. “There, there, darling. It’ll be all right. It was a hard lesson, but a necessary one. That man is no good. He just proved it.”
Three
By morning Priscilla had decided to forgive Will Radnor. The magical emotions aroused by his kiss had gone a long way in dispelling the anger and hurt brought on by his rougher treatment. After all, she reasoned, hadn’t she snubbed and belittled him every time they’d met, so far? No one could be expected to take such treatment sitting down, not even a greenhorn.
He was due a turn—and an apology. And that’s what she would do. Apologize. First chance she got.
That decision made, Priscilla’s plan began to take shape. By daybreak, she was chomping at the bit to implement it. The only hitch she could see was finding an excuse to go into town. Then she arrived at the kitchen and discovered that the angels must surely be smiling on her, to use one of her mother’s favorite phrases.
“I’m going into Santa Fé this morning, Kate,” Pa was saying when Priscilla reached the doorway. “Need to check on Joaquín. While I’m there, I might as well see what Newt’s doin’ to apprehend those road agents.”
Her mother agreed. “Yes, dear, you must see about Joaquín. I suppose we should send word to Nalin.” She handed Priscilla a plate.
“Let me see how bad things are, sweetheart. No need to worry his mama until we have to.”
“Or Victorio,” Mama said. “Didn’t Crockett say he was conside
ring taking his people to Mexico?”
“Might’ve already left,” Pa said. “In any case, we can’t make it worse by giving those braves of his another excuse to clash with authorities.”
“I agree.”
Priscilla bided her time, while her parents discussed the Apache war chief, Victorio, and his difficulties with the army. She filled her plate with her mother’s breakfast specialty—hash-brown potatoes mixed with sausage, scrambled eggs, and roasted green chiles—and sat down to eat.
At a lull in the conversation, she offered, “I’ll drive you into town, Pa.”
His head jerked up; he frowned down the length of the table. The ashen cast to his complexion was made even more stark by the dark circles under his eyes. Obviously, he hadn’t slept any better than Priscilla, a fact that fueled her suspicions. She fought them down. Of course, Pa would be worried about Joaquín. Why, Joaquín had been born right here in this house. He’d been raised alongside her, for the most part. Even though he had taken off on his own several years ago, Pa still loved him. She loved him, too. Even her mother did. Priscilla could see how folks might get the wrong idea.
That Pa would risk encouraging the local gossips by rushing to Joaquín’s side, bespoke the measure of the man. Priscilla’s pride swelled at his unselfishness.
But the alarm that passed between her parents at her offer to drive Pa to town had nothing to do with Joaquín, Priscilla discovered.
“Your mama told me what happened between you and young William Radnor.”
Priscilla felt herself flush.
“Is your mama right? Have you learned your lesson?”
“My lesson?”
“That he’s no good.”
“I…uh…”
Pa’s tone changed, softened. “You don’t have to talk about it, sugar. Long as you know to stay away from him and his kind.”
Priscilla struggled to suppress a grin. “You mean greenhorns, Pa?”
“I mean any dadburnt feller who’d kiss a girl the first time he laid eyes on her. He’s no good. Not for my daughter.”
“It wasn’t the first time he’d laid eyes on me, Pa,” she teased. “We met on the stagecoach.”
Pa’s eyes flashed.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him quickly. “I can take care of myself. You taught me.”
“Humph!”
“About going to town,” she continued between bites. “While you check on Joaquín, I’ll haggle with the government officials, wrangle us a contract for those steers.”
“Fine, Jake.” Pa was all business again. “That’s fine.”
But when she rose to leave the table, he added, “I expect you to stay away from Radnor.”
Priscilla studied him from the doorway. He was serious. Poor Pa. What would he do when she really found a man to court her? “He’s defending Joaquín, Pa.”
“I know that. But the order stands.”
“Order?” The word order had never set well with Priscilla; it tended to bow her neck quicker’n an old mossy horn could spook a good horse. She figured Pa ought to’ve learned that by now. “It was just a kiss, Pa. You taught me how to judge a man’s character. Don’t you trust me?”
“Trusting you has nothing to do with it,” he barked. “It’s that dadburnt Radnor. He’s—”
Priscilla watched her mother cross the room while Pa ranted. She placed a hand on his shoulder, the time-honored signal for him to shut up. This time it didn’t work.
“I mean, he’s…he works for the Haskels.”
Priscilla eyed her parents curiously. “And he’s a greenhorn.” She grinned. “Likely he’d be about as worthless on a ranch as Red Avery.” Will’s help in the branding pen popped to mind, but she resisted bringing it up. “He’s new to the territory,” she added. “He didn’t have any way of knowing about the blasted Haskels until he got to town.”
Pa’s eyes flashed again. Mama looked downright worried.
“I can’t believe you’re both so concerned about one simple kiss. Why don’t you reserve judgment until he finishes defending Joaquín?”
Priscilla watched Pa shovel a forkload of her mother’s scrambled eggs into his mouth. He chewed, wiped his lips with his napkin, and looked back at Priscilla. He was glaring.
“That’s the same damned thing he said.”
While Pa finished breakfast and called Red Avery to hook up the wagon and team, Priscilla headed for her room to dress. Her parents’ attitude surprised her, but she knew it shouldn’t. Likely any parent would be worried if they saw a stranger kiss their daughter.
And Will was, after all, a stranger. But it hadn’t been one simple kiss. Far from it. And she was hard pressed to control her anticipation of seeing him again. But she had to control herself. In Pa’s mood, he’d likely leave her at home if he suspected her real reason for going to town. Her real reason—to apologize to Will Radnor.
Searching her closet, Priscilla drew out a new pair of chamois-colored leather britches and a matching silk shirt Mama had tried unsuccessfully to persuade her to wear the last time they went to town. Priscilla could hear her now:
“If you won’t put on a skirt, darling, at least wear a more ladylike blouse.”
Priscilla had declined at the time. Not that she objected to the blouse. It fit as loosely as her other shirts, but being silk, it required a fancy lace camisole underneath, or so Mama claimed.
Picking up the flimsy bit of lace now, Priscilla tried to decide what the object of wearing such a garment could be. It covered her skin in a few places but otherwise did little to either conceal or contain, which Priscilla had always figured were the two reasons for wearing undergarments.
But when she slipped it on and looked in the mirror she was taken aback. For a moment she thought she must be looking at someone else’s reflection. A lady’s, for sure. The soft lace brushed against her skin like spring leaves. She gulped, watching her breasts rise and fall with each breath. They mounded above the garment and snuggled softly into the nest of lace. Almost timidly, she tied the peach-colored ribbon that held the camisole in place.
With infinitely more care than usual, she brushed and rebraided her hair in its one thick braid, buttoned on the silk blouse, and tucked it into her fitted britches. In the back of her closet she found her good pair of boots. Fortunately they had been shined. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d worn them.
Buckling the gunbelt around her hips, she stopped suddenly, reconsidering. It looked so bulky, felt so bulky. But if the Haskels happened to be out and about, she’d need her guns fast.
“Avery’s here with the wagon.” Pa’s voice boomed down the long corridor from the kitchen to Priscilla’s room in the south end of the building.
“Comin’, Pa.” Hastily she scanned her dressing table. Bare, as she liked it. But she didn’t want Will telling her she smelled like a horse today. Today she wanted to smell like a lady. It would make her apology seem more sincere.
On her way to the kitchen she darted into her parents’ bedroom, found a bottle of perfume on the dressing table, sniffed it, turned up her nose, then spritzed it in the general direction of her body a couple of times.
“Jake and I’ll take Avery along with us,” Pa was explaining when Priscilla arrived back at the kitchen. “That’ll leave you and Crockett to defend things here.”
“We’ll be fine, dear.”
Her parents were standing in the center of the big room. Pa was propped up by a crutch under his good armpit. He drew Mama to him from that awkward position and kissed her full on the lips. Her parents had never hidden their passion from Priscilla. Seeing them in each others arms was a common sight. But today it did uncommon things to her. Uncommon, yet far from unpleasant. She felt again Will Radnor’s hands on her waist when he’d helped her down from the stage; but it wasn’t her waist that tingled with the memory—it was higher and lower.
To keep from feeling disloyal to her parents, however, she didn’t allow herself to dwell on Will, except for the apolo
gy she owed him. She was going to town to apologize. That was all.
She worried that her mother might smell the perfume or notice the silk blouse and all would be lost. But Mama’s only comment was to raise her eyebrows.
Priscilla shrugged. “If you’re right about no-good men, you’re probably right about other things.” She kissed her mother lightly on the cheek. “You’re always saying that silk is cooler in summertime than anything else.”
Her mother nodded in an absentminded fashion. Thankfully, her parents were preoccupied with Joaquín. Priscilla was worried about him, too, but that didn’t keep her from cringing inside for deliberately misleading her mother.
Kate followed them out back to the waiting wagon. “Be careful, dear. Please.”
“I will, sweetheart.”
“Keep your guns handy.”
“I will.”
“He’s young, Charlie, but he’s been harboring this hatred for a long time. He’s dangerous.”
Priscilla thought sure she’d misunderstood. “Dangerous? Joaquín?” Mama sounded like she’d been out in the sun bareheaded, which she’d always claimed would fry Priscilla’s brains. “Joaquín doesn’t hate Pa, Mama. Or any of us. He just wants to be part of—” Her admonition came to a sudden standstill at the shocked expression on her mother’s face.
Pa cleared his throat. “Nothin’s gonna happen to me, sweetheart, I promise you that. We’ll be back before you know it.” He kissed Mama soundly, then motioned to Crockett, who fiddled with the harness. “Keep your gun at hand and Kate in sight.”
“Will do, Charlie. No Haskel’s gonna take this place out of our hands.”
Pa’s gaze found Mama’s. “Don’t either of you risk your life for Spanish Creek.”
“We won’t, dear. Don’t you—” She stopped, pinned Priscilla with a haunting look of apprehension. “Be careful, darling.”
Priscilla drove the wagon with her father on the seat beside her and Red Avery in the bed behind.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” Charlie told him. “Check ahead and behind. Can’t have those dadburnt Haskels takin’ us unaware.”
Reluctant Enemies Page 5
