"Truth is"—it was a lie. A small lie—"I could use the job. I'm running low on funds. So, is the offer still open or not?"
"I thought you were headed someplace," she argued.
"I was," he answered, shuttering any emotion from his face. "It can wait."
His eyes told her what his expression did not. They were bleak, stark, disillusioned slashes of green. They were the eyes of a man who'd seen too much of life... more, she imagined, than a man should be allowed to witness.
Yes, she'd seen it last night, but she'd been too preoccupied to recognize the hurt and pain he struggled to hide. Someone or something had wounded him grievously in the past and she knew it went much deeper than the limp that hitched his walk.
Could it be that he needed her, needed a place to settle for a while as much as she needed him?
"Well?"
Chase's deep voice invaded her thoughts. He was waiting for an answer.
"Yes. The offer is still open, if you want it."
"Good."
"But before you decide to stay on, let's be sure we understand each other, Mr. Whitlaw. I'm the boss, and those who work here work for me. Nobody tells me what I should and shouldn't be doing, and if that doesn't sit well with you, you might just as well mount up on that big gray of yours and head out."
A muscle flicked in Chase's jaw, but his face remained impassive.
"Pay's too little and the days are too long," she continued. "I can't offer as much as some of the other spreads around. Not nearly as much as Harper pays his men. But he runs longhorns, not horses."
"There's a clean bed in the bunkhouse, three solid meals a day and as much work as you can handle. I don't allow drinking anywhere near my horses, and I insist you keep it confined to your free time. If you don't, I'll fire you. Same goes if I catch you gambling on my time. Does that suit you?"
He arched one dark brow. "Right down to the ground." He wondered briefly how much of her little speech Bodine had heard when she'd hired him. Then again, maybe she'd inherited the little bastard along with the rest of her problems when Honeycutt's father died.
Chase let a long moment tick by while he studied her face. Her eyes were like quicksilver, her golden skin now flushed to a tawny, appealing pink. Her lips, pursed with stubbornness, sent a sudden flood of desire coursing through him.
Silently he cursed his lack of control over his wayward thoughts. He damn well needed a woman to stem the tide of need rising him, but it wasn't this woman. Not by a long shot.
Libby steepled her fingertips together before her. "Well, then—"
"Just two things," Chase amended. "First, if I'm going to work here, I answer to Chase, not Mr. Whitlaw."
"All right."
"And second, I'll sleep in the loft. If," he added, echoing her earlier words with a hint of a smile, "that suits you."
It was infuriating that he made her want to scream and smile at the same time. She fought the answering grin that crept to her lips and thought again how handsome he was when he smiled. "That suits me fine... Chase. When can you start?"
He glanced at the half-finished tree. "I guess I already have." He thought of Elliot waiting for him back in Santa Fe. Damn. Why hadn't El listened to him back in Baltimore and stayed where he belonged?
He didn't look forward to the argument he was sure to get from him about staying here. "I have to tie up a few loose ends in Santa Fe. It shouldn't take long." Dragging his gaze back to her, his eyes roamed briefly over the wisps of hair escaping from last night's braid. His fingers itched to touch it. He backed up a step. "You need anything?"
She shook her head in answer. Need? There were a hundred things she needed, but would never get: she needed her husband, Lee, beside her—guiding her, making her strong. She needed time she couldn't have and a loan that the bankers of Santa Fe weren't willing to give to her. Most of all, though, she needed Chase Whitlaw to stop looking at her and making her want things she hadn't wanted in a long, long time. "I..."
The sound of Patch's barking brought Libby's head around toward the narrow dirt lane that led to her house. An elegant black fringed surrey pulled by a matched pair of ebony Morgans were heading toward them. "Oh, no," she cried. "What time is it?"
Chase frowned and looked up at the sun cresting the tops of the Sangre de Cristos to the east. "Seven... seven-thirty, I'd guess."
Libby's expression sank into panic as she cast a disparaging glance at her appearance and swept a hand over the unruly wisps of hair flying out every which way. "And look at me.... With everything that's happened, I completely forgot!"
"Forgot what? Who is that?"
"My neighbors. Patch! Come!" she shouted. Obediently the dog raced to Libby with tongue lolling. With one hand on its head, she raised the other to wave at the two who had pulled into the yard. At the carriage's helm sat a solidly built figure of a man, beside him a dark-haired young woman who looked to be close to Elizabeth Honeycutt's age.
"Elizabeth," the man called, reining in the team near the hitching rail. He frowned down at Libby's appearance and didn't try to hide the disappointment in his deep voice. "You're not ready. Don't tell me you've forgotten your promise to join us for services in town this morning."
"Actually, until you drove up, I had," she admitted. "I'm truly sorry, Jonas."
Jonas. Jonas Harper. Chase's gut tightened at the sight of the man who would one day marry Libby Honeycutt. Harper had the solid, barrel-chested body of a younger man, though his graying hair and sun-lined face hinted he was pushing forty. From the expensive cut of his black wool frock coat and fawn-colored trousers to the polished tips of his leather boots, every thing about the man spoke of money and power.
Harper's gaze flicked momentarily to Chase before he climbed agilely from the surrey and dropped a kiss on Libby's cheek.
"No matter," he replied in a clipped drawl that Chase knew had its origins not in the West but in the deep South. "If you hurry, we can still make it."
A frown darkened Chase's expression as he watched Libby stiffen under the familiar kiss. Either Mrs. Honeycutt didn't like being kissed with an audience, he thought, or she didn't like being kissed by Jonas Harper. Chase tipped the brim of his hat down lower and folded his arms across his chest. For reasons he chose not to explore, he preferred to believe the second.
Harper's gaze turned unerringly to Chase, and one gray-flecked eyebrow arched up. "And who's this?"
Libby half turned, remembering Chase, who was leaning with one shoulder against the cool adobe house, watching Harper with obvious interest. When she caught his eye, he blanked his face of all expression. "This is Chase Whitlaw, my new wrangler. Mr. Whitlaw, Jonas Harper and his sister, Nora."
Nora greeted Chase with a smile, but, curiously, Jonas Harper looked as if he'd swallowed a fish. Whole.
"New wrangler?" The line that bisected his brows furrowed deeper.
Chase pushed away from the wall, touched the brim of his hat to Nora, and extended a hand to Harper. "I've just hired on."
"Ah-ha." Harper's appraising gaze slowly traveled the length of Chase before he accepted his hand. "I didn't think I remembered seeing you on Miss Honeycutt's place before." His eyebrows flicked expressively.
Harper turned back to Libby. "I wasn't aware that you were looking for new hired hands, Elizabeth. Though I have heard you've had a spate of bad luck lately."
Libby stopped and her expression grew serious. Just how far had the rumors flown? she wondered. "Exactly what have you heard?"
"Jonas." Nora's dark brown eyes flashed an apology to Libby. "Those who listen to rumors are no better than those who start them."
Harper frowned at his younger sister. "You know I'm no rumormonger, Nora. And I doubt Elizabeth will mistake my concern for that. She knows she need only to say yes to my marriage proposal"—he snapped his fingers for emphasis—"and she can be shed of this albatross in a minute."
Beside Libby, Chase shouldered the wall again and folded his arms across his chest, narrowing a glar
e at Jonas Harper.
"Please, Jonas, we've been over this ground before, and I hardly think," she added, glancing at Chase, "that this is the time to discuss such things."
Chase watched the color rise in her cheeks, saw the firm line her lips took. He'd told her nearly the same thing only minutes ago, yet hearing Harper belittle her chances sent a ripple of anger through him. He suddenly regretted having added to her already full burden.
"Oh, please, Libby," Nora pleaded, "Say you'll come with us today." Sweeping aside the mud-dappled splatter blanket covering her lap, she hopped down gracefully beside her brother. "I've been so looking forward to your company."
Nora's lilac, shot-silk taffeta gown flowed like a cloud around her and fit her slender body to perfection. Libby had nothing to compare with it.
"Come on," Nora prodded again gently. "I made up a picnic basket for after church. I thought we could take it along the river and make an afternoon of it."
"I'm afraid you'll have to go without me today," Libby answered. "As you can see, I'm nowhere near ready and to tell you the truth, I have too much to do."
"Everybody needs to take a few hours off, now and then," Harper said, shaking his head. "You're going to wear yourself out if you keep on going the way you have since Malachi's death."
Libby sighed. "Well, I won't be starting today. I have at least one missing mare, a fence to be repaired, and a garden to weed." Rubbing her fingertips across her tired eyes, she added, "I'm sorry I forgot my promise to come today, Jonas, really I am. Can we make it another time?"
"Of course." Harper drew a finger across his jaw.
A sure sign of irritation, Libby thought. A chill took hold of her as his stone-colored eyes traveled the length of her trouser-clad legs and he shook his head again.
"Perhaps next time, I'll see you in a dress befitting a woman as beautiful as you."
If the prickly pear lose their spines, she thought wryly, imagining herself riding through the long spiked underbrush in a fashionable gown.
"We'll see," she answered. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine. Really."
Seeing the exhaustion written on her face, Chase wondered how many times in the past few months Elizabeth Honeycutt had been forced to put up an indefatigable front. Too often, he guessed.
Tad tumbled out of the house, tousled and sleepy eyed. "Hi, Miss Harper." And less enthusiastically, "Hullo, Mr. Harper."
"Tad!" Nora exclaimed. "I was just wondering what had become of you. Have you been practicing on that new slate I brought you?"
"Uh-huh. I mean, yes'm," he amended sheepishly.
"You're working wonders, Nora," Libby assured her. "He's been working hard on his sums."
"Good," Nora replied. "I'll see you on Thursday, then, as usual. The McGuffey Readers are due in any day now. I'll try to bring one when I come."
"Come along, Nora," Harper told her, taking her by the elbow. "Enough talk of this teaching nonsense. I could use a few more pies and a few less McGuffey Readers at my table, I can tell you. A schoolmarm, for God's sake."
Nora smiled patiently at this familiar argument. "'Knowledge is the mother of all virtue. All vice proceeds from ignorance,'" she answered, quoting a proverb. "Soo Ling and Maria keep plenty of pies on your table. There's no shame in teaching. It's perfectly proper. You keep on working, Tad. 'Bye, Libby." She glanced at Chase. "It was good to meet you, Mr. Whitlaw. Heaven knows, Libby needs all the help she can get here."
Chase nodded to her. "Pleasure, ma'am."
"I'll be seeing you soon, I hope, Elizabeth," Harper said, taking Libby's hand again and brushing it with a kiss.
"I'm sure you will."
Harper and Nora climbed into the carriage and waved their goodbyes as Trammel Bodine sauntered past them toward the corral. Saluting with one finger off the brim of his hat, Bodine casually acknowledged both the rancher and his sister as they drove off.
Chase's fists tightened at his sides as he watched Bodine. He disliked Jonas Harper, but his feeling for Trammel Bodine ran deeper than that. Chase couldn't give Libby back the husband she so desperately needed on this place, but he intended to make damn certain Bodine didn't ride roughshod over her anymore.
Chapter 6
From a distance, the silhouette of Santa Fe could hardly be distinguished from the land surrounding it. Many of the sun-baked adobe buildings—wrested from the heavy clay soil they stood on—had already outlived two generations of the cottonwoods that grew along its perimeter.
Chase rode beneath the high wooden archway that marked the town's entrance. He was struck by the sameness of the architecture and the poorness of the town. Squeals of delighted laughter erupted from a group of barefooted Mexican children who ran down the muddy avenida. Pursuing a rag-ball with a stick, they dodged in front of Chase's horse as he rode into the plaza. He hauled back on the reins to keep from running them down.
He laid a soothing hand on Blue who stomped his hooves against the muddy, rutted street. By some miracle the children managed not to be trampled by any of the dozens of vehicles or animals that crowded East San Francisco Street. Still, he couldn't help but smile at the children's utter preoccupation with such a simple pleasure as chasing a ball. Chase watched as they disappeared into the whitewashed gazebo that graced the star-shaped center of the square. For a moment, he could almost remember a time when stickball was as serious as life got.
He lifted his hat off his head, swiped at the beads of sweat trickling down into his eyes, then fit the hat back on. His shirt stuck to his back and what he wanted most was a cool drink of water. The late morning sun had made the ride from the ranch seem long, though it had taken little more than two hours. Hot, hungry, and uneasy about what he had to do, he scanned the town square to get his bearings.
At the far end of the plaza was the long, low, adobe Palace of the Governors, a building that seemed to take up an entire block. Surrounding this on the east and west sides of the plaza were dozens of tiendas, or stores, run mostly by American merchants. He'd passed Gold's Mercantile and the Gamete Building's City Cabinet Shop. To his left, a freshly painted sign announced Frank MacDonald's Household Furnishings. According to the small print on the sign, MacDonald also served in the capacity of carpenter and undertaker.
Chase steered his horse through a malodorous flock of milling sheep and toward the cool shade of the cottonwoods which lined the irrigation ditch bordering the large plaza at the center of town. He'd heard the locals call the ditch an acequia. It meandered through the maze of streets in Santa Fe like an undecided snake. But along with the overhanging trees that sprang from the moisture-laden soil around it, the acequia offered a cool oasis where the heated morning breeze skimmed along its surface.
"Frijoles, senor?"
Chase glanced down into the face of the serape-clad vendor who'd spoken. The man smiled up at him, exposing a dubious set of teeth, his ancient face like a worn piece of shoe leather creased with age. Several caged chickens squawked in protest beside him.
Chase didn't need to speak the man's tongue to understand the tantalizing scent rising from his small cookfire. It teased Chase's appetite and set his empty stomach to growling.
"Tortillas?" the man asked, pointing to the flat rounds of cornmeal his wife was rolling atop a square, flat stone. "Muy deliciosas. You want, senor?"
Regretfully, Chase shook his head. He had business to finish before he could attend to his stomach.
On the southeast corner of the plaza, the sun glinted off the shiny glass windows of the Exchange Hotel. Real windows were a rarity and enough to drive men for miles just to catch a glimpse of them—which attested to the success of the hotel.
Like the crowded streets, the hotel portico was littered with a remarkable variety of men lounging in its shade: skin-clad trappers, well-dressed merchants, traders looking to barter their newly arrived goods to the highest bidder.
The same dove-colored adobe as the rest of Santa Fe, the Exchange stood out from the other buildings because of the American
ized, narrow, white picket railing that topped its flat roof. Chase tied Blue up outside the hotel, removed his saddlebags and rifle, and headed into the cool darkness of the lobby.
Resolve quickened his step. His booted heels clattered against the earthen tiles that paved the length of the corridor that led to the room he had taken yesterday with Elliot. He rattled the doorknob on the oak-slab door emblazoned with the number fourteen. It was locked.
"El?" Chase called into the door frame. "It's me. Open up." The only response from inside was a long, drawn-out moan which sent needles of fear shooting through Chase.
"Elliot?" Yanking the key from his pocket, he swore and jammed it into the lock. The door swung open and Chase stumbled to a stop at seeing his stepbrother.
Elliot was sprawled across the bed, one knee cocked and an arm thrown across his battered face. He raised the arm momentarily to cast a disparaging glare at Chase, then dropped it back down over his eyes. Beside him, his black medical bag sat propped open. Bloody clumps of lint and a bottle of whiskey were on the small side table beside the bed.
"Good God, El," Chase said, moving over to the bed. "Are you all right? What the hell happened to you?"
"I could ask you the same question," Elliot replied sourly.
Relieved to hear him talking, Chase dropped his hat onto the colorfully woven blanket that lay, neatly folded, at the foot of the iron bedstead. He ran his hand through his hair.
"I can't leave you alone for a minute." Chase gave a small disbelieving laugh and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Anything broken?"
"Hell, yes." Elliot's usually neat blond hair spiked out comically in several directions. "My nose undoubtedly, a rib, possibly, not to mention my pride." He fingered his split lip.
"Well, you came out here looking for adventure. Lucky for you there's a doctor nearby," Chase pointed out.
"Very funny," Elliot replied humorlessly, glaring at Chase with one sky blue eye. "What I could have used was an extra pair of fists."
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