by Jill Gregory
Her temper snapped. “You—you disgusting, selfish, arrogant cur!” she shouted, and threw the candlestick across the room. It crashed into the door, then hurtled to the floor and rolled under a chair.
Cal lifted the hat off his face, regarding her in reproachful silence.
“There is no way you are going to take a nap! You’re loco if you think I’m going to let you off that easily,” she shrieked. “I said I want answers, and you’re not going to get a moment’s rest until you give them to me!”
She snatched his hat from him and threw it onto the floor, glaring defiantly into his startled eyes. Then, when he said nothing, she lost control of the last thin shreds of her temper and leaped onto the hat, stomping it into the floor with her boots as if it were a prairie fire that needed squelching.
“There, Cal, that’s what I think of you and your hat,” Melora panted as she stamped and squashed. “And that’s what I think of your plan. And that’s what I think of—ohhh!”
Too late did she notice his green eyes narrow, making him look like a tiger about to pounce. Too late did she try to jump out of reach. With one long, sinewy arm, Cal grabbed her and yanked her down on the bed, and the next moment she was pinned beneath him, trapped by his size and weight.
“That was my best hat, Melora.”
“I don’t care. I don’t give a damn. I want answers. I want to know why I can’t go home!”
“Because I said so.”
“Who the hell cares what you say? My sister needs me. My fiancé needs me. And my ranch needs me.”
Her words tore at him. The furious, agonized expression on her face pierced him like a knife gutting through to his soul.
When he’d kidnapped her, he’d thought Melora’s father was still alive; he’d thought that Craig Deane was there, hearty and healthy to run the ranch, to take care of his family and land. He hadn’t counted on Wyatt Holden’s bride-to-be being solely responsible for it all or on there being a young sister at the Weeping Willow who was left all alone when Melora was kidnapped.
I didn’t count on a lot of things, he realized ruefully as he studied the slenderly beautiful, very enraged woman squirming furiously beneath him. She was helpless on the mattress, caught and pinned like a mouse in the paws of a tiger, and she knew it, yet she glared up at him with that striking combination of defiance, raw nerve, and silent vulnerability that touched him more fiercely than any tears or pleas.
Cal raked a hand through his hair. He had to suppress the urge to soothe her flushed face and trembling lips with another long, sweet kiss.
Instead he suddenly shifted his weight and let her up. “Melora,” he said tensely, as she sprang up to a sitting position beside him, “you win. This time.”
He eased off the bed because to linger there any longer would invite disaster. Instead he prowled to the window, pulled the burlap aside, and stared bleakly out at the wild night.
She remained frozen where she was, panting, waiting. Listening. Alert as a huntress, her head cocked to one side.
“Your fiancé did me a bad turn some time ago,” he said at last. “A real bad turn. And I’m aiming to repay him.” He scowled at the streaming windows. Rain ran down in flowing gray rivulets. Like unending tears, he thought with a stab of bitterness.
“So I’ve set a trap, and you’re the bait. It’s not the way I’d have picked to right this wrong,” he added, spinning around to meet her gaze with a level look. “But it’s the only way I could think of. That’s all there is to it.”
Stunned, Melora could only shake her head. “Wyatt is a good man. He wouldn’t have—he couldn’t have done anything wrong.”
The cold laugh that broke from him echoed through the tiny room. “You may be a courageous woman, Princess, but you’re a hell of a poor judge of character.” Suddenly he strode over to his pack and removed a canteen.
“Whiskey,” he said shortly. “Want some?”
She shook her head, and then, for the first time since she’d met him, she saw Cal take a long swig of liquor. “You know nothing about the hombre you were going to throw your life away on. Not one damn thing. You should be thanking me, Princess, for saving you from him.”
Confusion settled over Melora like a fuzzy woolen afghan. She could picture Wyatt in her mind’s eye: tall, black-haired, handsome. Charming, smart, even-tempered Wyatt, who played with Jinx’s kittens, who bought candy for the children who stopped in at Petey’s General Store whenever he happened to be there. Wyatt always had a ready smile for everyone, he was always a gentleman—as Pop had been—and he was always prepared to offer a helping hand to anyone who needed it.
Aggie adored him, and so did Mrs. Appleby, the doctor’s wife, and all the ranchers in the valley included him in their discussions at the cattlemen’s association meetings. They respected his judgment: they listened to him and heeded his advice about the rustlers.
And he was the one who’d come up with the idea of trying to find a special doctor in the East to cure Jinx’s lameness, of sending her to an exclusive hospital where she could get the best medical treatment available.
He was not capable of doing anyone “a bad turn,” whatever that was. The whole notion was ludicrous.
“You’ve made a mistake, Cal.” She spoke calmly and steadily now, for her anger was evaporating. From the little she knew of Cal, she’d come to believe he was not the monster she had first thought when she was dragged from her home. He had shown himself to be decent and intelligent and even, occasionally, understanding. Oh, there was anger in him, Melora conceded, but not cruelty. Not one speck of meanness. He could be unexpectedly kind, unexpectedly patient.
So now it became clear. There had been a misunderstanding. Cal apparently blamed Wyatt for something that was not his fault, and the moment she could make him understand that, he would let her go.
She tried to argue her case, forcing herself to concentrate on that and not on the storm raging beyond the window. But he cut her off, shoving the whiskey canteen back into the saddle pack, glaring at her from across the dim room, while flashes of golden lightning sliced the sky outside.
“You asked me, Melora,” Cal told her coolly. “And I told you. End of discussion. I know the truth about that slimy son of a bitch. And I’m sorry, but until this little matter between him and me is settled, you’re caught right in the middle of it.”
“But, Cal—” Thunder made her jump and lose her train of thought. Before she could continue, he interrupted her.
“I’m going downstairs to get us some supper we can eat in our room.” He picked up his battered hat, shot her a frown dark as midnight, and stalked to the door. “Stay put and don’t get into any trouble until I get back. And don’t try to escape,” he added, with a meaningful glance at the storm raging outside, “or to enlist anyone’s help. You won’t find much milk of human kindness in Devil’s Creek.”
“Cal, don’t go.”
But more thunder, black and deafening as cannon fire, drowned out the desperation in her words, and he was gone without hearing them or seeing the panic in her face.
Melora jumped up off the bed. She bit her lip and tried to stay calm. But as the windowpanes rattled and shook, and rain slashed ever harder upon the roof, she began to pace the room, her hands clenched at her sides.
She refused to look outside, but the zigzag flashes of lightning danced eerily across the dimness. Every peal of thunder knotted her stomach tighter. At one point it sounded as though the roof were going to cave in upon her.
It’s only a storm, she told herself, but her breath was now coming in short, hard gasps. It will pass.
Her breathing grew ever more ragged as the chilling, unreasoning terror poured through her.
She ran to his pack, dug out the whiskey canteen, and took a gulp. The liquor slid like amber fire down her throat. That’s better, much better. Melora wiped her lips with the back of a trembling hand. She took a second gulp.
Now calm down. You don’t want Cal to see you like this, do you? D
o you want him to think you’re a sniveling little coward?
She swallowed another long swig of whiskey, then took the canteen with her as she threw herself down on the bed and closed her eyes, trying frantically to close her ears to the thunder, to the rain, to the cold, whistling wind.
Cal found her huddled there when he returned. Huddled still and silent as a corpse.
* * *
“Melora?”
When he opened the door, he saw her curled up on the bed in a ball, her face turned away, and for an instant he thought she was asleep, but then he heard the sound of her breathing, quick and shallow and harsh, and he knew something was very wrong.
“Melora, what is it?” The tray clattered onto the table as he sprinted to her side and knelt beside her, fear scraping through him. “Are you sick?”
She only shook her head. There were no tears on her face; this was a dry, gripping terror, the kind that filled one with a soundless pain, that reverberated through the body.
“Melora, you’re shaking like a leaf. Tell me what’s wrong!”
Outside, thunder descended like great bells tolling death, and he saw her flinch, and her face grow ever paler. “Is it the storm?” he asked in disbelief.
She nodded and a hoarse whisper emerged. “Ever since I was a little girl—”
Lightning blazed then, and a shudder shook her. Cal’s arms closed around her, drawing her close against him, so close that Melora almost sobbed with relief as she buried her head in his shoulder.
Yet she braced herself for what he would say next, something along the lines of “So... fierce, brave Melora Deane is afraid of a little thunderstorm.”
But he didn’t say it.
“Louisa’s the same way,” he murmured, his breath ruffling her hair.
“Who’s Louisa?” she whispered.
“My little sister. She’s seven, and every time it storms she starts to shake and sob, and we all end up sprawled together on the sofa, drinking warm milk and singing songs to try to keep her mind off the thunder. Hey, there, Princess, it’s all right,” he added, as another boom sent a tremble across her shoulder blades. “A little thunder never hurt anyone.”
“But lightning can.”
His arms tightened around her, snug and strong. “You’re safe, Melora. You don’t have to be afraid.” His voice sounded oddly husky. “I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you.”
Strange words from her kidnapper, but she believed him. She had no idea why, but she believed him. The trembling lessened as he held her, stroking her hair, sliding his hands up and down her slender back. Even the glint of lightning that lit the room now and then didn’t seem as terrifying with Cal’s arms around her, with her head resting against his chest.
They sat like that for some time, until the tremors inside her ceased. “Better?”
She took a deep breath. “I think so, yes.”
“Then how about some supper? There’s steak and potatoes and sourdough bread, too. Also half of a pie. I thought you’d like it.”
She disengaged herself from him far enough to lean back in his arms. Her eyes searched his face in bewilderment.
“You’re being awfully nice to me.”
“Unless I miss my guess,” Cal drawled, “that’s a suspicious tone I hear in your voice.”
“What if it is?”
For answer, he chucked her gently under the chin, as if she were his sister, Louisa, Melora reflected wryly.
“I’ve got nothing against you, Princess. Nothing personal. Except for the fact that you’ve got real bad taste in the men you plan to marry. Otherwise this is just business for me. I’ll do what I have to do, see this through to the end, but I’m not out to cause you any suffering.”
“So you’ll feed me steak and pie and then leave me alone in some godforsaken cabin somewhere?”
He frowned and stood up from the bed and paced away from her. “It will only be for a little while. This won’t go on much longer. Only until—” He set his lips together. “Let’s eat. The food’s getting cold.”
By now she recognized that stubborn set to his jaw, and she knew he would say nothing more for the time being. And as he pulled out two chairs at the table in the corner of the room, she suddenly realized how hungry she was. Thankfully the worst of the lightning and thunder seemed to have moved beyond Devil’s Creek and out across the high country. During the meal a steady downpour did sheet against the window, but the dingy little hotel room somehow took on the aspect of an oasis. By the amber glow of the kerosene lamp on the bureau, Cal and Melora devoured thick steak and potatoes seasoned with onions and pepper. Even the sourdough bread was warm, fresh, and delicious, Melora noted in surprise, as she lavished it with butter. And there was coffee, which Cal generously laced with whiskey from his canteen. It filled Melora with a fiery warmth that went a long way toward keeping her mind off her troubles.
“This place might be uncivilized, but someone certainly knows how to cook,” she commented almost gaily, and savored another sip of the whiskey-laced coffee. She even was able to glance at the windswept blackness outside the window without her nerves jumping through her skin.
“You ought to taste my special barbecued steak sometime,” Cal told her. She knew he was trying to keep her distracted from the storm. “It’s got a sauce that’ll wake up your innards, like old Cody used to say. He was the chuck wagon cook on my first cattle drive,” he explained, fondness softening the hard planes of his face. “Boy, oh, boy, did that steak ever disappear faster than you can slap a tick. Every Fourth of July we held a big barbecue at our ranch, and my ma would bake three of her special chocolate cakes, and Lord knows how many pies, and there’d be dancing in the big parlor. M brother Joe would play the fiddle and I’d play my harmonica—”
He stopped suddenly, frowning. “Do you know much about cooking, Princess?” he asked, the glint in his eyes indicating to her that he doubted Miss Melora Deane had ever spent much time in the kitchen.
“I’ll have you know I’ve been fixing grub for a bunkhouse full of cowhands since I was ten,” Melora informed him, setting her glass down on the table with a distinct clink. “Of course I had Aggie to help me.” Now it was her turn to explain. “Aggie’s been almost like a mother to me and Jinx. She’s lived with us and Pop and helped take care of the ranch house since our mother died. And of course, when I was away at school in Boston, she took over almost all the cooking and household work. But since I’ve come back, I’ve managed to feed quite a few hungry men on a daily basis. Although,” she added, her eyes darkening nearly to copper, “we only have a scant half dozen ranch hands left these days. The way the rustlers have cut into our stock, we don’t need as many hands and can’t afford them. Profits are down and—”
She broke off. Why was she telling Cal these personal things? She folded her napkin corner to corner and placed it beside her plate.
“None of that is important,” she finished quietly. “What’s important is that Wyatt is going to help me save the Weeping Willow. He’s head of a committee dedicated to stopping the rustlers. And he’s promised to invest money in the ranch too. Soon we’ll need to hire on more hands just to keep up with all our cattle.”
“Don’t count on it.”
She met his icy gaze as her chin angled up. “Don’t underestimate Wyatt.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “I’ll wager everything I own that Wyatt and I will have our honeymoon yet.”
“Don’t, Melora. You’d lose.”
What was the use? Gazing at the implacable harshness in his eyes, Melora shivered and wondered if she would ever find a way to reason with Cal about this. Still, she had to keep trying.
She couldn’t bear to think about what would happen if Wyatt somehow found them, if he and Cal suddenly found themselves confronting each other face-to-face.
If that happens, I’ll just have to make sure that they work things out peaceably, like reasonable men, and that no one gets hurt.
Strangely the idea of Cal’s getting hurt
was almost as disturbing to her as the notion that Wyatt might end up shot or injured.
She shook off the picture of either man coming to harm.
If it comes to that, I’ll stop it. No matter what it takes.
Cal watched her move about the room, setting to rights the candlestick she’d thrown earlier, rifling through her carpetbag, setting out her dainty silver-handled hairbrush. Strange to see that pretty silver hairbrush and the matching ornate hand mirror in this cheap, dingy room with its burlap curtain and chipped furnishings.
Melora Deane didn’t belong here. But she didn’t belong on a honeymoon with that black-haired snake either, Cal reflected savagely. The very notion sent tension rippling through his muscles, made his chest constrict, and his fingers itch to shoot someone. But not just anyone.
He itched to shoot the man Melora Deane loved.
“May I have some privacy?” Her low voice broke into his thoughts. “I’d like to change.”
He saw that she was holding one of the flannel shirts he’d given her to sleep in; it was warmer than that thin little nightdress she had, though not nearly as pretty to look at. Still, Cal thought dryly, that shirt looked much better on her than on him.
Then he groaned inwardly. He’d better stop thinking like that about her. It was loco. “I’ll be back in a while,” he said, walking to the door.
Melora couldn’t help being baffled by him as she stripped off her riding habit and readied herself for bed. Cal had so many sides to him that she didn’t know anything about and didn’t understand. A seven-year-old sister named Louisa? A family? A brother named Joe, who played the fiddle? A ranch?
Yet he was an outlaw. A kidnapper. A man bent on some ruthless revenge against Wyatt. A man she had to escape from, to thwart, and to stop.
A man who came back into the room silently and barely threw her a glance as he prepared to turn in for the night. She was already deep down under the sheets by that time, with the lamp turned down to only a thin, feeble arc of light.
