Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  Her last sight of Myra seated on the boulder surrounded by Utes forced her to answer, “I can’t wait at all. Do you have any references?”

  “None. Aside from Willie here.”

  “Oh, he’s Rory Burnett all right,” Willie volunteered as he felt along the part that split his hair down the middle.

  “And I’m definitely strong,” Rory added.

  Jessica ignored Rory and turned back to the storekeep. “Can he be trusted?”

  “He sure can,” Willie assured her.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about me like I wasn’t even here.” Burnett moved closer.

  Jess took a step back and looked from one to the other. Perhaps the casually dressed, albeit dusty, rancher was down on his luck. Besides, judging by appearances, she didn’t look much better. What choice did she have? Two hours ago she had been willing to hire the Utes. At least this man could understand her when she gave him instructions, even if he didn’t seem the type to take direction well.

  Half hoping he would decline, she told him, “Mr. Burnett, if you’re willing to start right now, I’ll agree to hire you on. I can pay you half a dollar a day, plus meals.”

  “Why such high stakes?”

  “Because the museum’s benefactor wants results. Do you have access to any more help, should I need it?” She felt oddly disappointed when he leaned against the counter, dropped his dark gaze, and began the irritating habit of spinning his hat on his finger.

  “That depends on what kind of help you’re talking about,” he said quietly.

  When he looked her directly in the eyes again, she realized he had a very disturbing way of seeing right past her spectacles as if he knew they were unnecessary. Indeed, they were no more than thick, clear glass. It was hard enough being a woman in a field of men without having been born with uncommon good looks. As the rancher continued to stare Jess reached up to make certain her jacket was still closed at the throat. It was, but somehow Rory Burnett made her feel as if all the buttons had just melted off.

  “If . . . when I make the discovery I expect to make, we’ll need men to help unearth the fossilized skeleton of the largest Jurassic saurian uncovered to date.”

  “Giant reptile bones, right?”

  Surprised he knew that much, she nodded. “Exactly.”

  “And that’s all you’re looking for?”

  “That’s what our benefactor is funding this expedition for. Why do you ask?”

  His stance was nonchalant, his expression carefully blank, but she couldn’t help but feel he knew more than he was letting on. She watched him straighten to his full height and calculated that he was well over six feet tall.

  The hat continued to spin, but slower now. “If all you want is bones, then you wouldn’t be interested in seeing some tracks, would you?”

  “Tracks?” Her cool, authoritative demeanor fled. Jessica clasped her hands in order to keep from grabbing him by the shirt front and shaking information out him. “Fossilized saurian tracks? More than one? What type of stone are they preserved in?” Her glasses slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up and waited impatiently for him to respond.

  “About half a dozen. In sandstone.”

  Excitement bubbled inside her, so much so that she wanted to bolt from the store dragging Rory Burnett behind her. She was headed for the door before she realized he was not following her. Jessica paused in a patch of sunlight that spilled in through the opening and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Well, Mr. Burnett? Shall we go?”

  RORY WATCHED the haughty twitch of Miss Jessica Stanbridge’s beige-skirted backside as she hurried through the doorway. Once outside, he shoved on his hat to shade his eyes from the intensity of the noonday sun. So far, so good, he thought as he tried to remember exactly where it was he had seen the huge, birdlike tracks. As he recalled, they were in the sandstone floor of a wash that ran across the southwest corner of the Silver Sage.

  He found her waiting for him beside her horse with a knapsack slung over her shoulder. Her helmet shaded her eyes as well as the spattering of freckles across the bridge of her upturned nose. He tried to guess her age and wondered how far past twenty she might be.

  “Exactly where are these tracks, Mr. Burnett, and how long will it take us to get there?”

  “You can call me Rory, Miss Stanbridge. They’re about a two-hour ride from here. Did you say you’re camped on Ute land?”

  She paused, the reins of her chestnut gelding looped about one hand. “I didn’t say, but we are. Is that anywhere near the tracks?”

  “That depends on where you’re camped.”

  She put her hands on her hips and sighed. “I’ve set up a field camp on the mesa near McElmo Canyon.” When her mount tossed its head, she calmed it expertly.

  “You’ll have to move,” he informed her bluntly.

  “Why?” she demanded, focusing on him again.

  He shook his head. “Too far away. If you’re going to do more than look at the tracks, you’ll need to move to the area.” Before he was through, he saw her stiffen stubbornly and added, “But maybe a quick look-see is all you want.”

  She started scraping her thumbnail with her teeth, caught him watching, and stopped. “I’ll need more than a ‘quick look-see,’ as you so colorfully put it. I’ll need to make plaster impressions, measure them, and make note of the exact location and land formations. Then, of course, I’ll study the surrounding area for fossilized skeletons.”

  “Then we’d best get going and collect your things.”

  Refusing a hand up, she used the wooden porch in front of the store as a mounting block. Once he was certain she was at home in the saddle, Rory rode slightly ahead and mentally reviewed his plan in detail. He’d see that the women were moved off Ute land as quickly as possible, get them settled on the plateau, and then have his men occasionally keep an eye on them while he got back to running things at the ranch. If Miss Stanbridge needed more help, he could spare Whitey, the young wrangler, but none of the more seasoned hands.

  Until he had time to sit Miss Jessica Stanbridge down and explain the ramifications of prowling around Ute land and sticking her nose under every rock for bones that might unfortunately prove to be human, he was bound and determined to keep her and her friend busy. And until he knew for certain that his warning might not send her after the very thing he didn’t want her to find, he intended to keep quiet.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Burnett?”

  “Miss Stanbridge, I’d appreciate it if you called me Rory.”

  He waited while she hesitated, obviously mulling over her response.

  “I would prefer you call me Miss Stanbridge and I will continue to address you as Mr. Burnett. I feel it’s important to keep this an employer-employee relationship.”

  He slowed up until their horses were side by side. “No sense in being so formal out here.” Rory couldn’t help but notice her immediate discomfort. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. He couldn’t help dropping his eyes to her lips, her breasts, the hem of a petticoat that was no more than a froth of lace against the top of her dusty boots.

  He knew instantly that she hated his perusal. Fear flashed behind her eyes when he looked in the blue depths. He watched her glance around the open countryside as if realizing for the first time she had put herself into a vulnerable position with a complete stranger. When she put her hand to her throat to feel her top button, he could feel her fright, and it galled him that she thought he was the kind of man who’d be capable of hurting a woman.

  “You’ve read one too many dime novels, Miss Stanbridge, if you think I aim to carry you off and outrage your person,” he assured her coldly.

  Her cheeks flamed. Her hands clenched the reins. “What gives you any reason to think that I think any such thing, Mister—”
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br />   “It’s Rory,” he corrected again. “And I could tell by the look on your face.”

  When she picked up her reins as if to ride off and leave him, Rory reached out and put his hand over both of hers. “Hold up, little lady. I couldn’t help but notice the high-handed way you dealt with Willie back there, but don’t ever try it on me.”

  “Please, sir, I demand you let go immediately.”

  “Do you ever let down your guard, Miss Stanbridge?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Is this just some act to impress a no-account rancher with your stuffed-up, pompous ways, or are you really the tight-assed priss you pretend to be?”

  Her lips pruned. She blinked twice. “You’re fired.”

  “Fire me and you’ll never see those tracks you were so hell-bent on seeing.”

  “Why should I even believe there are any tracks after this display of uncalled-for vulgarity, Mister Burnett?”

  “Since when is being honest vulgar?”

  “If I were a man, would you speak to me like this?”

  “Hell yes. I like to think I deal the same hand to everyone.”

  “How’s that? With insults?”

  “No. With honesty.”

  Rory kicked his big Appaloosa into a canter, hoping he hadn’t ruined everything with his big mouth. He hadn’t meant to get her so riled up that she’d fire him—at least not until he had convinced her to move off the reservation. Up ahead, he saw the flash of the whitish tail patch of a rock wren and heard the songster trill. Not until he finally heard Jessica’s mount pounding to catch up did he relax and start another poem.

  AS SHE BLINKED back tears Jess tried to tell herself Burnett’s crude accusation didn’t matter. Why should she care what some ill-mannered rancher thought if he had nothing better to do than torment her? More than his taunt, she hated the tears that escaped from that fragile part of herself she tried to hide from the world. There was no room in her life for vulnerability, or softness, or tears.

  Damn Rory Burnett. Damn him for making me feel this way. Jessica turned her head and brushed her cheek against her shoulder before a telltale tear made its way any closer to her jawline.

  A year ago when her father died, she hadn’t even cried. But since then she had struggled through each and every day. Very often she still had to remind herself that he would not be waiting when she ran up the stairs to the two-bedroom flat they had shared in Cambridge.

  Crying, he believed, was a waste of energy, so she drowned her sorrow in other pursuits like rearranging the furniture so that his overstuffed chair was no longer the focal point of the parlor. It helped ease the pain not to see the ruby-red chair standing in the bay window facing the boulevard and the park beyond. Cataloguing Uriah Stanbridge’s books and charts, organizing his notes, and reading through his journals had kept her occupied during long, cold winter evenings. Had he lived, they would still be spending quiet hours in front of the fire discussing the latest finds in the field. Despite all the work she had surrounded herself with, her time alone in the all-too-silent apartment had been filled with aching loneliness.

  Uriah Stanbridge had been her father, her mentor, her friend. And now he was gone.

  Instead of giving in to the yawning void in her life, she often reminded herself that her father’s knowledge lived on through her. That knowledge was his legacy, the talisman she carried as she continued his work at the museum. No other woman could claim such an opportunity; his name alone had opened doors to her that would otherwise remain closed.

  But her entrance into the scientific field had claimed its own price; in a field of men, she was always afraid to let her feminine, emotional side show. Nor did she want anyone to take her less seriously because—to be perfectly honest with herself—she possessed more than passing fair looks. She considered it a disadvantage she would have gladly traded away, but since that was impossible, Jessica worked hard to camouflage her appearance. But now this man, this Rory Burnett, seemed able to strip away her disguise with a mere glance.

  Once she was certain that she was not about to cry again and humiliate herself, she rode on, but held her horse back so that she wouldn’t be forced to ride beside Rory Burnett. From this vantage point she could study him without having to suffer his perusal of her. He was a tall, muscular man whose black, high-crowned hat gave the appearance of even greater height. She couldn’t help but notice his wide shoulders, narrow hips, and straight spine. She noted the way he confidently held the reins of his mount, the way his knees worked the beautiful black-and-white-spotted horse.

  Although his features were sharply chiseled, his skin tanned and weathered, he was still handsome. His eyes were black. Piercingly black. As deep and fathomless as a moonless night sky. There was no denying it; confidence and competence radiated from Rory Burnett.

  Jessica knew exactly what Myra would say when she saw him, for her companion’s aim in life—aside from trying to see the world and learn as much as she possibly could before she “made her transition to the other side”—was to see that Jessica made a romantic attachment. And if there was one subject over which she and Myra continually clashed, it was the fact that the farthest thing from Jessica’s mind was forming any sort of romantic entanglement. Ever. Her own path in life was clearly laid out for her—her one goal to establish a name for herself in the scientific community. It was hard enough being a woman in a man’s field without the additional stigma of being a wife and mother.

  To her chagrin, Jessica looked down and found Rory Burnett’s knee very near her own. Somehow they had drifted into riding side by side again. She looked up and met his gaze and was startled when his hand grazed her arm. He pointed to a spot somewhere in the distance.

  “What?” she said, squinting through her dusty glasses. She wished she could take the damned things off.

  “Tortoise. Over there by that sage.”

  There was sagebrush nearly everywhere she looked. “I don’t see anything.”

  He pointed again. “There. Beneath the big clump on the right. In the shade.”

  They drew nearer until he indicated to her that she should stop. Rory dismounted, walked over, and picked up a tortoise the size of a dinner plate and handed it up to Jessica.

  She took it in her gloved hands, held it at arm’s length, looked the aged creature in the eye, and smiled. “Hello, old thing.”

  “Since you’re in the reptile business, would you like to have it?”

  Striving to keep their relationship cool, she made no comment.

  “You want to keep him or not?”

  Jessica thought he might be making a peace offering, and in the interest of peace she accepted with a nod. “How shall I carry it?”

  Rory reached up and took the tortoise and walked with it under his arm to his own horse. He pulled a folded burlap sack out of his saddlebag, gently slipped the tortoise inside, and then held it on his lap in front of him once he remounted.

  When he spurred his horse on again without another word, Jessica decided she should make some effort to try to smooth the ruffled waters between them. Trying to avoid another argument over the use of his given name, she asked, “Have you lived here long?”

  “All my life.”

  “And your parents?”

  “I was orphaned when I was less than a year old. The Burnetts adopted me. They’re both dead now.” He didn’t offer any more information.

  Two questions into it and she’d reached a barrier. Jessica tried another tack. “I suppose ranching can be a very demanding business.”

  “It can.”

  “What do you raise?”

  “Cattle.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yep. That about sums it up.”

  She guided her horse across a gully, leaned forward as the gelding cantered up the other side. The
challenge was great, but she’d met stiffer. After all, she had convinced the museum board that she was capable of bringing back a find.

  Jessica forged on with her line of questioning. “Do you have any hobbies?”

  He was silent for so long that she wondered if he refused to answer or if silence simply was the answer. Finally she watched his shoulders shift beneath the plaid shirt and then heard him say, “Poetry.”

  She was as shocked as if he’d just said knitting. “Poetry?”

  “You’ve heard of it, haven’t you? Words that rhyme?”

  “I’m sorry if I sounded somewhat taken aback, Mr. Burnett, but you don’t seem at all the type to be interested in poetry.”

  “Why not?”

  Why not? “Well . . . I don’t know, I just never thought of anyone so . . . so . . . ”

  “Uncivilized?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Backward?”

  “I wasn’t thinking that either!”

  “So what, then?”

  She didn’t dare say what she thought. She glanced at the turquoise on his gun butt, his spurs, his worn hat. “So colorful, I suppose.”

  He smirked. “You’ll have to do better than that. Miss Stanbridge.”

  “All right. So rough, then.”

  “Rough?”

  Finally her temper snapped. “I just never thought of anyone who wears a gun belt and farms cattle as being interested in poetry, that’s all. I’m entitled to an opinion.”

  He reined up again. Her mare stopped immediately. With a look that would have withered anyone the least bit faint of heart he said, “You have a lot to learn then, Miss Stanbridge. And you ought to know I don’t farm cattle, I raise cattle.”

  With that he rode down another shallow wash and up the other side. Jessica stared off into the distance, watched the reddened sandstone mesa where she had left Myra grow larger on the horizon, and hoped, not only for the sake of Henry Beckworth, the museum’s impatient benefactor, but for herself, that her time with Rory Burnett would be short.