“She needs you,” Jessie was saying. “More than she needs Charlie.” Jessie patted Kate’s arm. “Men aren’t always good at understanding broken hearts. Oh, they suffer them, same as women, but they tend to go out and kick a fence post a few times or chop some wood. After they work out the rawness, they put the rest of their pain into some locked corner of their brains. Women are different. Priscilla will carry her hurt over Will Radnor to her grave. You know that, Kate.”
Kate’s eyes at last focused on the woman across the table.
“You know that,” Jessie repeated directly to Kate’s face. “So do I. Priscilla needs you. Now, because you’re both scared to death for Charlie. Later, because she will have been denied the love of her life.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“No one could have prevented this,” Jessie was saying. “No one. But now it’s done, and you alone can hold her and console her and show her that regardless of how life treats her, she can go on. You’ll be her example, Kate. An example she’s going to need. But you can’t be anything to her until you tell her the truth.”
Kate held Jessie’s piercing gaze. She allowed Jessie’s words to take form and meaning. Jessie was right. Priscilla needed and deserved the truth. Her tears began to flow. She made no attempt to halt them. They poured down her face, dripped onto the table. She watched one splash into her cup of tea. Deep inside Kate, truth and shame squared off, and the winner was her fear for her beloved daughter.
“Come, Kate. Let me help you to bed. Then I’ll find Priscilla.”
Kate squared her shoulders against an overpowering weight. She stared at the far wall, seeing nothing but a mesmerizing gray haze. And her own mother.
Her own mother who could never talk, never share, so Kate had never been allowed to heal. Not until Charlie. Memories rushed back to her, displayed in vivid color against that misty gray haze. It had happened not long after her mother married Bart’s father. A few months, maybe. She’d been fifteen, Bart eighteen. And on a lazy summer day while their parents were in town, Bart Ellisor…Bart Ellisor lured her…into the barn…
Kate dropped her head to the table. Tears poured forth…into the barn and…raped her.
“I’ll bring Priscilla to your room,” Jessie was saying.
Kate looked up. She tried to focus on Jessie, but all she could see was a fuzzy, undulating form. Arms tingling with weakness, she struggled to free herself from Jessie’s hold.
“Come, Kate.”
“NO!” She was as out of breath as if she had climbed Wheeler Peak. “No. I can’t…please. I can’t.”
Jessie’s grip relaxed. She felt Jessie’s hand, soothing on her head. Inside her, everything turned black. At last, she knew how her own mother had felt. Weak, not from lack of love or understanding, but weak, sick and weak, from fear, not for herself, but for her daughter.
Will found Priscilla in the barn, hunkered in a corner of Sargeant’s stall, sobbing into her drawn-up knees.
His heart stopped beating. They’d told her. Kate had told her…about him.
Stiff with apprehension, he managed to kneel before her. Threading fingers through her hair on either side of her head, he lifted her face to his. Gently, he kissed her, first her forehead, then her lips, expecting her to withdraw in disgust at any moment.
“Pa? Did you…Did they listen?”
“I gave Oscar until noon tomorrow to release him.”
Her eyes searched his for answers he didn’t have. “Don’t ask me if they’ll do it, Miss Priss. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
When tears brimmed in her eyes again, he pulled her to his chest. “Come here, cowboy.” Lifting her until they were both on their knees, he snugged her against him. “I haven’t had a hug in way too long.” He felt her chest rise and fall, tremulously. “Try not to worry so much, love. If this doesn’t work, we’ll find another way.”
“I know, but Mama…”
“How is she?”
“Terrible. I think she’s losing her mind. She…she told me…she believes…”
Damnation! Kate had told her. For a minute Will had thought otherwise. Fear worked its debilitating havoc inside him. He felt physically sick and sick at heart. He sat on his heels and held Priscilla. His heart thrashed so violently, it choked in his throat, and he had trouble speaking. When he managed to, they were the hardest words he’d ever tried to utter. “I’m sorry, Priscilla. I’m…so sorry. I wanted…no, that’s wrong. I didn’t want to, but since you had to find out, I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“You? How did you know?”
“I…What are you talking about?”
“How Mama feels about Bart.”
“Bart?” Will closed his eyes. A wave of relief washed over him. He kissed her softly, for reassurance—for himself as much as for her. Relief? Short-lived, at best. “What about Bart, love?”
“Oh, Will, it’s terrible. Mama thinks I’ve been…” In the dimly lit stall, Will watched splotches of red blossom on Priscilla’s cheeks. “…that we’ve, Bart and I…I mean, she thinks I’ve been with him…”
Embarrassed, she might be, but Will could tell she was even more distressed and confused. She stared him right in the eye, finishing with, “She thinks I’ve been with him, like…like us.”
“Damn!”
“Why would she think that?”
“I don’t know.”
“She says Bart isn’t my uncle. She said, ‘He can claim to be God, Priscilla, but he is not related to you.’”
“Your mother’s under a lot of stress.”
“I didn’t realize how much she would worry about me being in the mountains…” She shrugged. “With two men. I’m surprised she didn’t include Joaquín in it.”
Will nipped soft kisses over her face. He hadn’t intended to kiss her, not ever again. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t hold her, that he wouldn’t even touch her.
But she needed him now. And who would she have later? His guilty conscience needled him. Who? After you’ve finished destroying her world? But that was later, this was now.
She needed him now. He eased them down until they were lying face to face in the sweet-smelling hay. And he needed her. Lordy, how he needed her. “You weren’t with two men.”
She snuggled against him, disturbing and pleasing and arousing all at the same time. She was good at that. Better than anyone ever had been before or ever would be again. Priscilla was all things to him, lover, companion, partner, competitor, even. Priscilla was perfect, for him, anyway.
As if to confirm it, his lips angled over hers in perfect union; he snugged her softness into the hard contours of his frame. No one had ever felt as good against him. No one ever would. Yes, Priscilla was perfect in every way but one—she was Charlie McCain’s daughter.
When their kisses deepened and their need grew, he drew back. “Not here, love.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.” He nipped her nose with his lips, and grinned. “You live here, I don’t.”
“One day you will.”
The idea fit. Somehow, damnit, it fit. He feigned chagrin. “Is that so? You have my life all planned, huh?”
She smiled that damned smile. “All of it, greenhorn. We’ll start by convincing Pa that you’re…”
As his lips covered hers, halting her impossible dream, at least halting her expression of it, he realized that he’d done this before. It seemed to be the only way he had of keeping Priscilla quiet. And oh such a sweet, delicious way to quell the bitter, repulsive truth.
“RIDERS COMING!”
Bart’s alarm resounded from the guard post in the center cupola on the barn roof.
Priscilla and Will rose as one.
“Pa?”
Will raced to the adjoining stall, where he jerked his rifle from his saddle scabbard. “Wait and see.” He scrambled up the ladder leading to the loft. By the time he reached the second ladder, the one that led to the cupola where Bart was on duty, Priscilla had caught u
p with him. Bart apprised them of the situation in curt shouts.
“They aren’t friends, that much is certain. Three of ’em. Ridin’ wary. Comin’ from the north. Must have learned it from us heathens.”
Before Will could stop her, Priscilla tugged his rifle from his hand and scrambled up the ladder.
Gaining the cupola, she called down. “It’s Newt.”
“Is Charlie with him?” Will followed, wedging himself into the tight space between Priscilla and Bart. No sign of Charlie McCain.
Joaquín and Crockett stood at the foot of the ladder, while the three in the cupola watched three riders pick their way through the trees, emerging finally into the clearing behind the cluster of adobe outbuildings. They were headed for the house. When they were within earshot, Priscilla shouted to them.
“Where’s my pa, Newt Haskel?”
The sheriff drew rein. “Exactly where he’s gonna stay, Jake. In jail.”
“Oscar agreed to turn him loose.”
Newt hooted loudly. “We ain’t gonna turn no one loose, Jake. We’ve come to arrest us another outlaw.”
“You’ll get no one here.”
She watched Newt speak to the men on either side of him. They tugged at their reins and started to fan out.
“Stay where you are,” she ordered.
They pulled rein.
“Send out that half-breed outlaw and we’ll be on our way.”
“Joaquín is no outlaw, Newt. You’re the outlaws.” Her words hadn’t died away before she lifted Will’s rifle and fired a warning shot.
“Priscilla!” Will jerked on the rifle. She wrenched it, keeping control.
“Priscilla, damnit, don’t—”
“Turn loose, greenhorn.” She elbowed him in the ribs and raised the rifle to her face again.
He’d have to give Newt credit, Will thought, the man held his ground. “Send him out, Jake. We know he’s around here someplace. Send him out, or we’re comin’ in.”
Priscilla fired. Once, twice, three times. Will lost count. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He dared not look at Newt and his cohorts. Her expression was one he knew well, cocky. Surely—
The gunfire died away; the shrill neighs of frightened horses filled the air. Will chanced a look. All three riders fought to control their mounts and keep their seats while their horses reared and pitched. No reins. She’d shot the damned reins!
He looked back at her. With two fingers she tipped the brim of an imaginary Stetson. Cocky. The smile was there, too. That smile that won him over every time. Damn! Her world might be falling apart, but her pluck and spirit shone through. This time when he reached for the rifle, she let him take it.
“Party’s over, Newt,” he called down. “Next time’s for blood.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
“Tell Oscar I expect him to honor our agreement. Charlie McCain is to be sitting at his kitchen table by noon tomorrow. If he isn’t, we’re coming after you.” Will watched anger flush the face of the man below.
“You’ll pay hell comin’ after the law, Radnor.”
“You’ve had about all the chances the law allows,” Will returned. “Now get out of here.”
While those in the cupola watched, Newt and his cronies conferred, then, following the sheriff’s lead, they filed back up the hillside they had descended so confidently only a few short minutes before.
Priscilla broke the silence. “Let’s see, greenhorn, Stetsons are larger targets, so three sets of reins should count more than six Stetsons.”
At her teasing, Will turned to see that playful smile. Innocence personified, he thought. “I’ll consider it.”
“You aren’t ready to concede?”
“Not by a long shot. But you might be able to change my mind. What’s your best offer?”
“You two are crazy,” Bart broke in.
“Maybe.” Unable to resist, Will took Priscilla in his arms and kissed her. As his lips descended, he grinned, “But it sure beats the heck out of almost anything else for fun, doesn’t it, cowboy?”
“No sane man calls that fun,” Bart groused. “This thing’s far from over. There’s trouble ahead, Radnor, in case you forgot. What’re you planning to do about that?”
Will lifted his lips. His hands slipped from Priscilla’s back to her arms, which he gripped. He couldn’t turn her loose. It was as if by holding her, touching her, he could retain control, when he knew and Bart knew there was no chance for such a thing.
Finally he looked away from Priscilla’s blue eyes, off toward Santa Fé, where Charlie was in jail. Maybe he should go in now, today, and have it out.
Priscilla slipped an arm around his waist. It felt good, so good. He recalled her mother’s wild imagination. Jealousy speared through his gut. He couldn’t stand to think about Priscilla in another man’s arms—be it Bart or anyone else.
“Those fellows are out for blood,” Bart observed.
Will pushed Priscilla toward the ladder, knowing that was what Bart was after, separating him and Priscilla. Hell, whether he was a relation or not, he surely acted like one.
“They’re not out for blood, Bart.” Priscilla stepped onto the ladder. “They’re after land, and they can have it, if that’s what it takes to get Pa home safe and sound.”
Sixteen
“I could have told you they wouldn’t turn Pa loose.” Priscilla, along with everyone else at Spanish Creek, had spent the morning awaiting the arrival of Charlie McCain. Kate sat in a chair on the front veranda. She stared silently toward the far blue mountains, her lips pursed as if to stifle her numerous fears. Jessie scurried back and forth from the kitchen bringing coffee and prattling in an obvious attempt to keep spirits up.
Joaquín, Crockett, and Bart took turns watching from the cupola, while Will roamed from barn to house, house to barn. Jessie’s prattling heightened his jitters.
Priscilla paced. Her bootheels thudded against the tiled veranda; her spurs jangled incessantly.
It was well past noon, before any of them moved from their appointed posts. Then Priscilla stopped her pacing. That was the first indication Will had of her intentions.
The next thing he knew, she hurled her accusation at him, adding, “Only a greenhorn would try to reason with Oscar Haskel.” She bounded off the veranda and headed for the barn.
Will caught her by an arm, bringing her up short. She glared at his hand.
“Come with me, or not,” she spat.
“You aren’t going anywhere.”
“We tried it your way. I could have told you it wouldn’t work.”
“So, we try something else.”
When she pulled to free herself, he held on. “Something else,” he repeated. “Not something old, like riding into Santa Fé half-cocked. If you won’t believe me, listen to Bart. He told you that approach wouldn’t work, and he should know—”
“Turn me loose, greenhorn.”
Bart had arrived by now, followed by Joaquín and Crockett. Will struggled to think of a new angle, even while he acknowledged to himself that Priscilla was right. Yes, he’d known it all along, so why the hell hadn’t he come up with another plan?
Because there wasn’t any, he thought, certainly not another acceptable plan. His fight now was to keep Priscilla from riding into that pack of wolves. That’s what they were waiting for. He might have been wrong about them releasing Charlie, but he’d bet his life on the rest. Oscar Haskel was sitting out there waiting for Priscilla to ride into his snare.
Crockett spoke up. “Will made it clear as Wheeler Peak on a sunny day. If Charlie wasn’t sittin’ at his own kitchen table by dinnertime today, we’d ride in an’ get him.”
Jessie called for attention from the veranda. “No sense discussing it out here in full sight of Oscar’s guns. Come on in the kitchen.” She took Kate by the arm. “Let’s go feed these hungry men, Kate. Priscilla, I need your help.”
Tossing a final glare Will’s way, Priscilla followed Jessie and her mot
her into the kitchen.
Will sighed. He hadn’t won the battle, not by a long shot, but Jessie’s quick thinking had bought him time. Entering the kitchen, he hung back, allowing the others to take their places: Joaquín and Crockett sat at one end of the long oak table, Priscilla at the opposite, where she waited, stony-faced, biding her time, he knew, until she could saddle Sargeant and ride, heedless of her own welfare, after the men who had kidnaped her beloved Charlie.
He crossed and took the seat to her right. Bart remained standing. He lounged just inside the back door, as though awaiting an invitation to enter the house. Will was tempted, but stopped short. Whether Bart stood or sat was none of his concern. Not that Bart was being ignored. Jessie hovered over the old outlaw with a doting manner that gave Will cause for thought.
Kate McCain didn’t sit at the table, either. But once inside the kitchen, the familiarity of serving dinner seemed to relax her. She and Priscilla hadn’t spoken to each other all morning that Will had noticed. But Kate, seemingly in charge of her faculties, began dishing up the pozole she had warming on the back of the stove.
As much as could be expected for a woman whose husband was in jail, whose ranch was threatened, and whose daughter had fallen in love with the wrong man, Will thought.
Priscilla had told him about it the evening before when they sat on the veranda, listening to the wind in the cottonwoods, listening to their feelings; the latter were louder; they droned in Will’s ears like a hive full of angry honey bees.
“I told her we’re in love and there’s nothing she or Pa can do to change it.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“But it’s true, Will. And it’s growing as fast as Uncle Sog’s sourdough starter. Pretty soon, it’ll spill over, plain as day for everyone to see.”
“We can’t let that happen.” Will had paused. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, then finished lamely, “Not for a while.”
“Well, you’ll have to help suppress it,” she had countered. “Kissing me in front of Bart didn’t help.”
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