His hands clasped her shoulders from behind; his touch burned through the silk. Or was it her skin, burning from embarrassment.
“Hmmm…roses. I’ve never shot against such a sweet-smelling opponent.” His face was near, so near his cheek touched her hair, so near she felt his warm breath against her ear. Before she could control it, a soft shudder coursed down her spine. His grip tightened.
She took aim, fired, and hit the next petal, and the next. Her pistol was empty. She felt his right hand leave her shoulder. From her peripheral vision she watched him extend an arm in front of her. She saw his gun. A small, pocket-sized pistol. He fired. Once, twice, three times, four, hitting a petal dead-center each time.
“That’s five shots,” she mumbled. Will dropped the little pistol to the grass and turned her by the shoulders.
She stared down at the gun.
“It’s a little hot to stick back in my britches,” he explained. “I mean…uh…”
Priscilla looked up. His face was mottled, like he was embarrassed about something, but his eyes smoldered with something different, an emotion she had no name for—one that left her feeling warm and giddy all over, nonetheless.
“You need a holster,” she said quietly.
He didn’t respond right away, but kept looking at her with that expression that made her knees go weak. It reminded her of his kiss, the good part. Even though she was mad enough to feed him horseshoe nails, all she could think about was kissing him again.
“It wasn’t my idea to ignore you, Miss Priss. Your father ordered me to never so much as look at you again.”
“Pa?”
“Humm…last night and again today.”
Priscilla felt herself engulfed in flames. But they were no longer flames of embarrassment or anger. They were something way beyond her experience. They made her feel terrible and wonderful and giddy and weak. She recalled Jessie’s warning not to let a man know how she felt. How could she keep such an obvious fact a secret? She tried not to look at him.
“I’m not supposed to speak to you, either.”
Will’s hands slipped up her arms, clasped softly around her neck, traveled to her face. He cupped her jaws in his palms and lifted her face, staring into her eyes with an expression that stopped her heart. Jessie was right. She had a lot to learn.
“But he didn’t say I couldn’t apologize.” Will’s whispers blew against her lips.
Apologize? Him? She was the one who needed to apologize. She’d snubbed and belittled—
“I was aggravated last night,” he was saying, “but not with you.” His breath tickled her lips seductively. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”
Her eyes searched his. He was sincere…or awfully good at acting like it. Were her parents right? They usually were.
Then his lips claimed hers, and all thoughts of parents and no-good men evaporated. There went that shudder again. How embarrassing.
How wonderful. Now he was kissing her. Really kissing her. His lips caressed hers, softly, tenderly. Slanting, moving. Without realizing it she reached out; her hands touched his body, grasped him around the ribs. She felt him tremble.
Or had she imagined it? Was it she who trembled? She felt like her body was full of light and life, glowing and quaking like aspen leaves in late fall.
His tongue touched her lips again, parted her lips again, dipped inside. Her breath came short. When he tugged her to him, she went willingly.
The sheer lace of her camisole and the thin silk of her blouse did little to protect her from the impact when her chest met his. One of his hands was on her back, splayed across her shoulders, supporting her, pressing her to him. When her breasts flattened against him, she felt her nipples grow taut.
Again, embarrassment coursed through her—could he tell? She knew he could. But her embarrassment was swept away by another wave of sweet, fiery, spine-tingling passion, as Will continued to kiss her with the softest, tenderest, wettest kisses this side of heaven.
She was only half aware of his hands moving around her sides. When the heels of his palms rested against the edges of her breasts, pressing them together in front, another wave of fiery heat chased the last. She sighed into his open lips.
At the sound, Will drew back. He looked into her eyes, deeply, as if searching for something. “Priscilla McCain.”
She suppressed a shudder at the musical way his strange accent played with her name.
Then his eyes turned cold. “Hell fire and damnation!”
She froze. He’d done that before. Confused her by saying something soft or teasing, then following it with something cold and harsh.
When her breathing steadied, she felt awkward, standing there in his arms, with them staring into each other eyes, neither of them speaking. “How did you find me?”
“Jessie said you were waiting for me.”
Their expressions registered the truth simultaneously. Will laughed; Priscilla blushed.
“She came over to the jail and whispered it to me. Said you asked her to. You didn’t?”
“Of course, not. I never wanted to see you again.”
He grinned. Then he did the most unusual—and wonderful—thing. He kissed her again. Quick. Hard. Solid. Yet tender, oh, so tender. “How’d you feel about it now, Miss Priss?”
She grimaced. “I could shoot Pa for calling me that.”
Before the words were out of her mouth, Will had stiffened.
“I didn’t mean it,” she assured him. “It was just a…a phrase we use out here.”
“I know.” But the spell had been broken. He stepped back, picked up his little pistol and began reloading it.
Priscilla took it from him, turned it over, wondering whether her trembling would ever cease. “I’ve seen a gun like this somewhere.”
“I thought you might have. It’s an old gun. Not many people would know it only holds five shots.”
“That was instinct.” She squinted at the pistol. “Or memory. I don’t remember where I saw one.” She looked at him and was surprised to see his face grim. “Where’d you get it?”
“Belonged to my father’s law partner. It’s one of a matched pair.”
Priscilla laughed, hoping to lighten his mood. Wanting to bring back the magic. “Matched pair or not, it won’t do you much good out here. It isn’t a Western gun, greenhorn.”
And then he did the strangest thing. Strange and wonderful. He took her in his arms and held her tightly against his chest. She could hear his heart beat against her. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.
It was her first real embrace. And it was wonderful beyond all her expectations. For a man who was no-good, Will Radnor knew how to do some pretty wonderful things.
Four
Will left first, and Priscilla gradually regained her wits. Whether he was no good or not remained to be seen, but one thing was certain—Pa thought he was. Pa would have a conniption fit if he so much as suspected she’d been with Will.
She touched her lips. And she’d certainly been with Will! Pray God, she would be again. But first things first. She had a cattle drive to organize. That ought to take Pa’s mind off Will Radnor.
On her way back to the jail, she located Clem Holbert and arranged for him to find some cowboys to help with the drive. All the while, she was practically bursting with plans, plans totally unrelated to driving a bunch of steers to market. Even the necessity of lying to Pa about seeing Will, was alleviated by her scheme to make things right. Her parents would come around once they got to know Will—if she didn’t slip and ruin things first. As soon as Joaquín was free, she would set about convincing them to give Will another chance. They would come around. They had never denied her anything she wanted.
And she’d never wanted anything like this in her life.
Pa was waiting for her in front of the jail, propped against the adobe wall, his walking stick, as he called it, stuck under his good armpit. If he’d had two good legs, he would have been pacing.
No, Priscill
a reconsidered, if he’d had two good legs, he would have come after her. The idea of Pa discovering her in Will’s arms jolted her.
“Took you long enough,” Pa barked.
“Where’s Red?” she asked, attempting to divert his attention from her tardiness.
“Took off chasin’ some dadburnt bones a feller found on a place north of town. Run over there and fetch the wagon.” He squinted at her, heightening her rising feelings of guilt by several degrees. “Looks like you got that burr outta your saddle. How’d you make out with the government folks?”
Priscilla leveled her matching pair of blue eyes on his, realizing this was the first time in memory hers had ever lied to this man, whom she loved and admired above all other people.
“Sure did, Pa. We’re to drive the steers to Fort Stanton soon as possible.”
“Fort Stanton. Hell, that means you’ll have to go with ’em, Jake. Without one of us along, Victorio’s braves’ll raid ’em sure as shootin’.”
With a bit of a shock, Priscilla realized that she wasn’t all that anxious to go on a cattle drive. She wasn’t even anxious to return to Spanish Creek. Not with Will’s kisses so fresh and sweet, not with the promises his embrace had awakened inside her.
“Uncle Crockett can go,” she suggested. “Victorio’s braves know him. I ran into Clem Holbert. He’s bringing three or four cowboys out in the morning. They’ll be at the ranch ready to ride by first light.”
Pa’s eyes flashed. Dismally, she wondered why she ever tried to fool him. He was smarter than just about anybody she had ever known. And had more common sense, too. But leaving on a trail drive right now was out of the question, so she continued her argument.
“I wouldn’t feel right going off until Joaquín is free, Pa. How was he?”
“Wouldn’t talk to me. Except to say he wanted no help from me or mine.”
“What about the horse he stole?”
“I asked him about that. He said it was none of my affair, that…” He looked off toward the plaza. His words drifted on the piñon scented air.
“That what, Pa?”
“Never mind. There’s nothing more we can do here. If things don’t change, we’ll have to ride out to the ranchería an’ tell his mama.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Why would he listen to you? You two don’t get along; haven’t ever since you grew up.”
“I know, Pa, but—”
“Did you convince my client to talk to me, McCain?” Will’s voice boomed from behind Priscilla, cold and harsh, as far from the seductive tones he had murmured against her skin only minutes before as snow was from a warm summer rain.
She turned, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead he glowered at her pa. She glanced back in time to see Pa’s eyes flash in a way she knew well.
“You’re the one claimin’ to be a lawyer, Radnor. Get him to talk on your own.” Charlie turned to Priscilla. “Help me over to that wagon, Miss Pr—”
“Pa.” Her warning stopped him. But Will still ignored her, or was trying to. He seemed to be focusing too intently on her pa. As if he was afraid to take his eyes off Pa, lest they stray to her.
And what would she see if they did? Would he glare at her with that same menacing expression? “How can Will, uh, Mr. Radnor defend Joaquín, if Joaquín won’t talk to him?”
“Humph! That’s none of my affair.”
Exasperated, Priscilla decided she’d have to take control. “What about the horse Joaquín’s accused of stealing?” she asked Will. “Whose is it?”
“That’s plural, Miss McCain.” Will’s coldness confused her. Pa, she understood. He’d made his feelings about Will kissing her perfectly clear. Besides that, Will worked for the Haskels, which would have been reason enough in itself. But Will had no reason to hate her pa.
“Horses,” Will explained.
“How many? And whose?”
Will shrugged. His coldness was almost more than she could bear. Although she couldn’t recall the last time she’d cried, she felt like crying now. And that made her mad. Fighting mad. What right did these two bullheaded men have charging at each other and putting her in the middle?
“Horses carry brands, Mr. Radnor.” She spat his name, hoping to give him a taste of his own medicine. “Whose brand was on the horses Joaquín is accused of stealing?”
“I haven’t seen them,” Will admitted. Although he had turned her way, he still refused to meet her eyes. “My information says there’re six horses. From what I understand, they don’t carry brands—”
“No brands?” Priscilla rolled her eyes. “I told you not to say stupid things, greenhorn. A horse with no brand has no owner. And if a horse has no owner, it can’t be stolen.”
“These horses have an owner. Some fellow outside town claimed them. I’m not, however, stupid or green enough to take the sheriff’s word for it.”
“THE SHERIFF!” Charlie spat. “That dadburnt Newt Haskel. He’d tell a lie if the truth served him better.”
“I intend to ride out and take a look, McCain,” Will assured him. “The horse Joaquín was riding is a different matter. According to the sheriff, that horse carries the Spanish Creek brand.”
“Well, he damned well didn’t steal it,” Charlie barked. “Leave it to a Haskel to make something out of that.”
“I understand your position with the Haskels, sir—”
“You don’t understand coyote cookies, Radnor.”
“Pa!”
Will bowed his neck; his eyes bore into Charlie’s. “Don’t push me, McCain. I gave you until—”
Priscilla stalked between the two men. She pushed them apart with a hand to each chest. “While you two tangle like a couple of mule skinners in an augurin’ match, I’m going to talk to Joaquín.”
“No, you’re not.” Charlie grabbed for her, lost his precarious balance, caught the crutch, but missed Priscilla.
“Yes, she is,” Will countered. His voice lowered. “She’s right, McCain. If you care anything at all for that man’s life, you’d better let your daughter have a try at what you failed.”
Priscilla spun to face Will. “Failed? My pa wasn’t undergoing a test, Mr. Radnor. He was visiting a friend. For a man to ride twenty miles over rough roads with two unhealed gunshot wounds, you’d think—”
“Whoa, there, Miss McCain. Don’t get all worked up.”
“Worked up?” She rolled her eyes. “You’re despicable.”
“And you’re…” A grin quirked Will’s mouth in a delicious way that reminded Priscilla of how his lips had felt on hers. For an instant, her anger dissipated. Pa interrupted.
“Get your eyes off my daughter, Radnor.”
Priscilla gasped. “Both of you are despicable.” She scowled from one to the other. “Entertain yourselves. If you think you can do it without bloodshed.”
Without further ado, she stormed into the jailhouse, where she came face to face with Newt Haskel, who refused her entrance, as he had done her father before her. “Radnor’s in charge of who his client sees, Jake. Cain’t go against his wishes.” His tone implied that he wouldn’t if he could.
Newt Haskel was as tall a man as Will, and bulky, although half the size of his older brother, Oscar. He sported a thin brown handlebar mustache, again a weak copy of the flourishing mustache his brother wore. Newt’s clothes were neat enough, considering the fact that he was a bachelor and lived alone. He always wore a black bolo tie with an ornate silver concho that matched the buckle on his belt. The silver conchos and his sheriff’s badge were always polished, showing pride in his profession, Priscilla had thought on other occasions when she tried to follow her parents’ dictate to find something good in everyone.
“Show the lady in, Newt.” Will’s voice startled her, for she thought he’d remained outside arguing with her pa.
She flinched at the sound of it, softer, respectful, even. Lady. The word sifted through her layers of anger and confusion like a sprinkling of Stardust. She’d never been
called a lady before. Of course, she’d never allowed it.
Strangely enough, it felt good. Not highfalutin and sticky-sweet, like she’d always thought, but sort of soothing after their recent confrontation. Her eyes sought Will’s, even as she accepted the fact that it was who had called her a lady that made the difference.
His brown eyes gleamed; he winked.
She smiled.
Winked? The nerve of him. The arrogant, dastardly nerve of him! “You aren’t as suited to this country as I’d thought, greenhorn.”
Will’s expression turned quizzical, arrogantly so, she thought.
“We don’t play games out here, Mr. Radnor. When we like someone, we like them. When we don’t, we don’t.” She turned quickly, lest he respond, hurried through the door Newt had unlocked, and stomped down the corridor to the back of the building, her march accompanied by the resounding jangle of her spurs.
Two cells were located on opposite sides of the narrow hallway. One was empty. Joaquín lounged against the far wall of the other, a cigarette between his lips. Smoke curled upward on a draft from the window above his head. Light from the window highlighted his glossy black hair.
He stared impassively at Priscilla. She stopped before the bars. For a moment they stood, each taking in the other. Priscilla broke the silence.
“I know you’re not a horse thief, Joaquín.”
His face showed no trace of emotion.
“I also know you don’t ride with Billy the Kid. So why are you in here?”
For another lengthy moment they stared at each other. Finally, Joaquín pushed his boot against the wall, shoved off, and ambled toward the bars. He stopped before Priscilla, grabbed a bar in each fist, and stooped to bring his eyes level with hers. Long straight hair swung to either side of his face, falling from the red flannel headband to well below shoulder length.
“You know why, Jake. Look me in the eyes and admit it, if you can.”
Joaquín wasn’t much taller than Priscilla, but he was often mistaken for a larger man. He was well proportioned, sleek, Priscilla had always thought, like the puma that ranged in the Sangre de Cristos. He was easily recognizable as an Apache—earth-toned complexion, broad nose, high cheekbones, squared chin—until he looked you in the eye. Those brilliant blue eyes gave away his parentage, and had caused him untold grief since he had reached an age to know the difference.
Reluctant Enemies Page 7
