Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  Tomorrow she’d examine the tracks, if there were any, and Rory Burnett would go back to his ranch house, if his word was good. Then, if the man he sent out wouldn’t help her when it was time to break camp, she’d simply return to Cortez and hire another guide. In fact, she thought as she relaxed onto her back again, this time she would be willing to ride all the way to Durango to find someone more suited to the task.

  “Jessica?” This time hesitant, Myra’s voice summoned her back from the edge of sleep.

  “Yes?”

  “I hope you aren’t upset with me. I know how much your privacy means to you. I didn’t mean to pry. I have nothing but admiration for what you’ve set out to do. It’s a monumental task.”

  “It’s an opportunity for me to finally prove myself, Myra. But not monumental. All I have to do is locate as complete a skeleton as possible before the museum loses confidence in me and sends someone else to fulfill Beckworth’s wishes.”

  “But you’re the most qualified.”

  “I’m a woman.” Jess said the word as if it were a curse.

  “You’re Uriah Stanbridge’s daughter. He was renowned in the field.”

  “That didn’t seem to matter to museum director Ramsey. It took every argument and far more research than anyone else would have had to come up with just to convince him I could do the job. I had to show him extensive notes, report on nearly nonexistent geological surveys of the area, give a detailed plan of study, and if Wilson and Hedges hadn’t already been busy in the field in Montana, he would still have sent them instead of me.”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense. Why would a millionaire like Henry Beckworth want to grant money to a museum with a director foolish enough to send a woman out to locate what he wants?”

  “Because you’re the best.”

  “That may be, but I haven’t been able to prove it yet. As far as Ramsey is concerned, all I’ve done is spend three years working in the museum basement gluing together thousands of fragments of fossilized bone, some no bigger than a thumbnail. If it hadn’t been for Father, I’d never even have been accepted on staff.”

  “But now is your chance to shine, my dear. Everything is going to work out, I can feel it. Fate has sent you Mr. Burnett and his saurian tracks. Success is in the air!”

  She knew that if she didn’t douse Myra’s spirits quickly, her friend would be up marching around the tent. Jessica yawned out loud, pulled the blanket over her to guard against the night’s chill, and murmured, “I hope so.”

  AS HE LAY ON the rough wagon bed partially covered by a blanket that was far too small for his frame, Rory heard the hushed sounds of the women’s voices but couldn’t make out their words. The hard wood didn’t give under the weight of his shoulder, so he shifted to his other side and tried to find a more comfortable position. Lord, but he felt ancient.

  Only thirty and already he felt like an old man. Life had flown by on swift wings of late, an endless round of work on the good-sized spread. Ever since Wilner Burnett had died and left him the Silver Sage, he had been trying to live up to his adoptive father’s name. It was a big pair of boots to fill. Wilner had made running the Silver Sage seem easy; he was always on top of the men, the accounts, the cattle, and the hundred other jobs that had to be done. Rory credited himself with keeping up with it all, but the task had left him no time for anything else.

  It had been months since he had any time to himself and now he was wasting precious hours hauling the little bone hunter and her ridiculous wagonload of rubbish about, listening to her high-handed talk and putting up with her contempt.

  Rolling onto his back, he folded his arms across his chest and crossed his ankles. Tomorrow, first thing, he’d show her the cursed tracks and head back to the ranch house, then he’d send Whitey to watch over the women until they were ready to pull up stakes again. As low man at the ranch, the wrangler usually preferred any job to his own. Sixteen-year-old Whitey might like nothing more than having the responsibility that Rory couldn’t wait to shed.

  Welcome to it, Rory thought. With any luck at all, his own experiences with Miss Jessica Stanbridge would be few and far between.

  Jessica Stanbridge.

  Damned if he could figure her out. What was she hiding behind her tightly controlled emotions and thick glasses? What was it he’d seen lurking behind her confident facade? Fear? If so, of what?

  Surely she still wasn’t afraid of him?

  He went back over the day’s events. Sure, he’d given her a good once-over, no more than any other red-blooded man would have done, and she’d reacted as if he intended to throw her down and toss her skirts up over her head. Which, if she knew him well, would prove to be a ridiculous notion. Sometimes it took him half an hour to work up the courage to ask a woman to dance.

  She was a damn pretty woman. A beauty really. He reckoned she would have to be a fool to be unaware of her good looks. Maybe she didn’t want to draw attention to it, but why try to hide it all together?

  Even with her modest, drab outfit and those ridiculous glasses, Jessica Stanbridge was still an eyeful—slim-waisted, rounded hips with a hypnotic sway that she would have surely corrected if she knew it existed, straight shoulders, and a proud carriage. Beneath the jacket were breasts that were just the right size for her frame, not too big, not too small. Probably a very good handful.

  Staring up at the star-spattered sky, Rory felt a swift tightening in his crotch and knew he had better change the direction of his thoughts. He forced himself to think of the job facing him tomorrow, but somehow it didn’t hold a candle to the memory of a day spent with his new employer.

  He closed his eyes, only to see her as she had appeared at the table highlighted against the golden firelight. Seated on a cane chair in the dirt, using sterling silver to fork beans into her mouth off of a china plate, she had made eating in the open a sophisticated ritual. He remembered the smallest details of the way she’d appeared in the tent when he had caught her unaware—her face glistening with water droplets, her sky-blue eyes wide with shock—his own surprise when he discovered that instead of the mud-brown hair he expected, she had thick, golden blond hair that hung all the way to her hips.

  She hadn’t been buttoned up to the hilt then. She had been natural, spontaneous, and all too inviting.

  Rory stifled a groan and rolled onto his other shoulder.

  Hopefully, dawn would come early.

  JESSICA AWOKE when daylight crept in with the early-morning chill and Myra was still snoring. She sat up slowly and pushed her hair out of her eyes. It was a hopeless tangle. She found pins scattered across her pillow and on the floor beside the cot. Her ecru blouse was wrinkled beyond hope, her skirt twisted up around her thighs. Now that the light of day was upon her, she wished she had taken the time to change into her nightgown.

  As she rose stiffly from the narrow cot, moving silently so as not to awaken Myra, she heard the soft sound of a melodious whistle. Carefully opening the tent flap a mere fraction of an inch, she peered out and spied Rory Burnett hunkered down over a low fire. He whistled a cheerful tune as he concentrated on his task. Not more than four yards away, he was dressed in the same outfit he had worn yesterday, faded denims and a plaid shirt. He, too, must have slept in his clothes, but instead of looking like the bottom of a laundry basket like she did, he didn’t appear any worse for wear. His inky hair was carefully combed, still damp from a morning wash and as shiny blue-black as a crow’s wing.

  She watched a moment longer while he deftly moved a Dutch oven closer to the fire and then flipped open the lid of the enamel coffeepot to look inside. He was definitely at home around a campfire.

  At the sound of a magpie, he looked up and whistled an echo to its call. When she saw his dark eyes flash toward her, Jess snapped the tent flap shut before he saw her and stood perfectly still. Wi
th her hands still clutching the edges of the opening, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Today, she promised herself, I will not let Rory Burnett upset me. I will remain calm and in control. I will not lose my temper. I will try to be civil—no, friendly—toward him.

  Jess stopped in the middle of making vows to herself and opened the flap just the tiniest bit. Maybe friendly was taking it a bit too far. She would start with civil, and see how the day progressed.

  In no time at all she had changed into clean clothes, identical to the ones she had on yesterday. Fresh cotton stockings and a change of petticoat and chemise were wonderfully refreshing after removing the bedraggled, limp underclothing she had worn for three days.

  As she pinned on her brooch Jessica noted that it was just a little past six. Certain it was still early enough to take a few extra minutes, she brushed out her hair until it crackled and shone and then plaited it into a long braid that she left hanging free. As thick as a man’s fist, it almost reached her hips.

  Her stomach rumbled and her mouth watered when the smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafted into the tent She quickly put on her helmet then took it off again and set it on the bed while she hunted for her knapsack, hidden beneath the pile of rumpled clothing. From a small trunk at the end of her cot she took a notebook, pen and ink, a neatly rolled measuring tape in a brass case, pencils, and her maps. She packed them into her boxy leather knapsack that already contained the tools and binoculars she had inherited from her father, and buckled it closed.

  Shrugging the strap of her knapsack over her shoulder, Jess put on her helmet and took one last look in the oval standing mirror on her makeshift washstand and considered herself ready to greet the day—and Mr. Rory Burnett, rancher turned guide.

  You can ask anybody,

  What time they love best,

  And they’ll all answer different,

  North, south, east, or west.

  But the time of the day,

  That I love best of all,

  Is mornin’—be it summer, winter, or fall.

  OR SPRING. HOW am I gonna work in spring?

  “Good morning, Mr. Burnett.”

  Rory nearly spilled coffee all over his thigh at the sound of her voice. He glanced up from the crate of books he’d pressed into service as a seat and found Jessica Stanbridge standing over him. How or when she had crept up on him he didn’t know, but he did wonder why in the hell his heart bolted at the sound of her voice. He was starting to act as jumpy as she was and he wasn’t the sort to get riled over nothing.

  With his legs spread wide, he let the coffee slosh over the edge of his cup and drip onto the ground between his boots. He looked at her from beneath the brim of his black Stetson.

  “How are you this morning?”

  He didn’t know what to make of her chipper greeting, so he answered slowly, suspiciously, “I’m doing just fine, Miss Stanbridge, how about you?”

  “Much better, thank you. In fact”—she took a deep breath and looked up at the brilliant cerulean sky and then off toward the high mesa, the sight of her previous camp—“I feel quite rested.”

  “That’s good, ma’am.” He waited to see if her good humor would dissipate. She stood waiting expectantly, looking down at his tin coffee cup.

  He stared up at her, his steaming coffee forgotten, wondering how anyone had the right to such clear, glowing skin or such vibrant blue eyes, eyes that mirrored the expansive sky above them. More freckles than he had noticed yesterday peppered the bridge of her nose. Her lips formed a dainty pout. Her lashes were thick and dark, a sharp contrast to her light eyes. Deeply appreciative of the sight, he watched as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth and stared back at him.

  Rory shook himself into action. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thank you, yes. May I ask where you got that tin cup?” She was digging through the dishes they had carefully stacked inside a barrel, trying to locate a cup and saucer.

  When she returned to the fire, he lifted the pot and poured while she held her fragile, flowered cup beneath the spout. “I carry it tied in my bedroll.”

  “What a good idea. It’s probably very useful.”

  He lifted the lid of the Dutch oven and grabbed a warm biscuit. Tossing it back and forth in his hands, he blew on it and then set it on his knee. “Want a hot rock?”

  “A hot rock?”

  “A biscuit.”

  When she actually smiled, the first smile he’d ever seen on her lips, he forgot what he’d even asked her.

  “I would love one. I see you found the cooking supplies.”

  “That I did. Scratchy’d be proud of me.”

  “Scratchy?”

  “He’s the biscuit shooter at the Silver Sage. Been there longer than anyone can remember.”

  “Biscuit shooter?”

  “The cook. Orneriest old cuss you ever saw.” He lifted his coffee cup up off the ground and took a long swig. “He doesn’t make the greatest housekeeper, if you’re at all particular about dirt, but we have to eat and there’s nobody else around to do it.”

  “You seem quite at home around a campfire.”

  “Spent a lot of time on the range. I’m afraid you’ve sampled everything on my menu—thunderberries, bacon, and biscuits.”

  “Thunderberries?”

  He cleared his throat, embarrassed about having to explain. “Beans.”

  “Oh.” She looked around for one of the bentwood chairs and dragged it over before he could get it for her.

  Wonderful, Burnett. She’s making an attempt to be friendly and you can’t get up off your ass in time to get her a chair.

  If she was put out, Jessica didn’t let on. He watched her seat herself, arrange the hem of her skirt until it covered her ankles, and then pick up the dainty cup and saucer. She took a sip and looked over the gold-edged rim of the cup and acted as if his poor show of manners didn’t matter to her in the least.

  Rory wiped his hands on his pant legs, took another biscuit out of the cast-iron pot, tossed it back and forth, and then passed it over to Jessica, who dropped it onto her lap to let it cool.

  They sipped and ate without talking while the magpie scolded them from a twisted juniper nearby. Rory found himself at a loss with this new Jessica Stanbridge. Somehow it had been much easier to deal with the quick-tempered woman she’d been yesterday. He had known just how to act and what to say.

  Today she seemed softer, more vulnerable—maybe, he reckoned, it was the fact that she’d braided her hair instead of shoving it all up out of sight beneath her silly veiled helmet. Or it could just as easily be because she was no longer acting so waspish. Maybe it was the open way she met his gaze and looked at him instead of through him with her big blue—

  “You’re not wearing your spectacles!” The realization burst from him without warning.

  She stood up so fast that the second biscuit he’d handed her catapulted off her lap and arced into the air before it landed with a soft thud in the sandy soil. The teacup rattled in the saucer as she banged it down on the seat of the chair and hurried off toward the tent with what sounded like a mumbled, “Excuse me.”

  He watched her feet fly across the ground, whipping her skirt and petticoats around her ankles. Rory hid a smile behind his tin cup and chuckled to himself, fairly certain his guess had been right; if she had forgotten to don the spectacles, perhaps she didn’t need them at all.

  When she returned, he couldn’t help but notice the way her cheeks were two bright red spots against a field of white. Jessica cleared her throat, looked around for the biscuit he’d already tossed away, and picked up her cup again.

  Aware of her discomfort, Rory made no more mention of the spectacles. Instead he nodded at her knapsack hanging over the back of the chair and said, “I see you’re ready to go look at th
e tracks.”

  “I am, if indeed they exist.”

  “They’re about five hundred yards away. We can walk, or ride if you prefer.”

  “I think walking would be best. That way I can study the outcroppings along the way and make notations. I must tell you I’m quite surprised that there is anything down here at all. Given the geological makeup of the land on the high mesa behind us, I’m fairly certain that is where I’ll make a major find. But it will be interesting to see what you call saurian footprints.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the mesa before he offered her more coffee and another biscuit Red and pink in the early-morning light the mesa rose like an impregnable castle wall in the distance. Rory frowned down into his empty cup and stared at the loose coffee grounds stuck to the bottom. From the little she had already told him, he knew that finding a set of saurian bones was of utmost importance. His problem, he decided, was not only the fact that he was wasting valuable time away from the ranch, but that he was also leading her away from the very thing she needed to find—and because of Wilner Burnett’s promise, there was nothing else he could do. He was bound to his promise to keep the cave secret.

  Rory stood up and tried to flick the moist coffee grounds out of his cup. He walked to the water barrel strapped to the side of the wagon and poured half a dipper into his cup, swirled it around, and chucked the water out onto the thirsty soil.

  He watched Jessica walk toward him. With the knapsack slung over one shoulder and her gloves on, she was ready to go. “I’ll just tell Myra we’re leaving,” she said as she walked past him toward the tent.

  The fresh, powdery scent of her soap flavored the air around her and he breathed it in as she passed. It was a welcome experience; it had been a long time since he’d had the pleasure of a woman’s company.

  By the time he had tied his cup back in his bedroll and was leaning against the wagon wheel, Jessica walked out of the tent and crossed the open ground toward him. She was holding a folded page in her hand.

  “Myra is awake, but she’s reading. She said she’ll go with me later to see the tracks.” Jessica reached down and began to unfold the page. “Before we start out. I’d like you to point to our exact location on this map.”