Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  Jessica sighed, uneasy knowing she would be under scrutiny again. She tried to assume the cool demeanor that was meant to keep men at bay. The riders’ mounts thundered up to within a few feet of the camp and both men swung down easily, ground-hitched their horses, and ambled up to the awning.

  They tipped their hats, first to Myra and then Jessica, obviously awkward in the presence of ladies. The tall one, Fred, whose hat had served to cover a high, bald pate, turned to Whitey. “We were in the neighborhood, so we thought we’d ride by and see if there was anything you needed.”

  Woody, better known as Wheelbarrow, merely stared dumbstruck from one woman to the other and smiled. He sported a thick gray mustache that covered his upper lip.

  Whitey’s deep complexion darkened further as, forced into a show of manners, he said, “We’re fine. And since you’re here, this”—he indicated Jessica with a wave of his hand—“is Miss Stanbridge, and this”—he nodded to Myra—“is Miss Thornton.” He sat down again and picked up his teacup with a challenge in his eyes, daring them to say anything about the delicate piece of china he lifted to his lips.

  Myra broke the tense silence. “Gentlemen, we were about to have tea and scones. If you’ll pull up a barrel, I’d be happy to fix you some.”

  Wheelbarrow’s mustache twitched and his face was wreathed with smiles. “Don’t believe I’ve ever had either one, but there’s a first time to everything.” He moved off to collect his seat. Fred thanked her for the invitation and did the same. Whitey rolled his eyes.

  Jessica resumed her chair and vowed to get through the ordeal. When she left Boston, she had no notion that she would ever be sitting at a table in the middle of the high plateau sipping tea with three cowmen wearing guns strapped to their thighs. She wondered if a journal article could possibly come out of the experience.

  In no time at all, Myra had served their two new guests. The men, cowed by the formality of the little ceremony, ate and drank in virtual silence. By the second cup of tea, though, they were regaling Myra with their feats of daring on the open range.

  Finally, out of breath but not stories, Woody Barrows noted the book lying beside Myra’s cup and asked, “What are you reading, ma’am?”

  Jessica and Whitey exchanged a smile. Myra’s favorite topic of late was the Corelli book. They sat in companionable silence and let her go on about the novel until Fred interrupted. “It’s been a long time since I heard a good tale, Miss Thornton. I don’t suppose you’d like to read to all of us a bit, would you?”

  Myra puffed up like an orator asked to speak on his favorite subject, smoothed a hand over the straining bodice of her blouse, and took up her book. “It’s a long story, far longer than we could read in many days, but perhaps, since I’ve filled you in on so much, I should just pick up where I left off?”

  The men nodded. Woody, who was nearly as well rounded as Myra, set his cup down. Balancing his hat on his knee, he leaned forward with an elbow on the table. Fred straightened and crossed his legs while Whitey sat with his arms folded across his chest.

  Jessica silently began planning a letter to the museum director.

  Myra read on and on, the sound of her voice soothing and pleasant until she started to cough and took a sip of tea. If the three men were bored, it was not evident in their expressions. In fact, Jessica thought they looked very disappointed when Myra stopped.

  “Would you mind?” Myra asked her.

  Glancing at the encouraging faces around the table, Jessica would have been hard pressed to say no. She nodded in agreement and Myra passed the book to Fred, who handed it reverently to Jessica.

  Lonely’s a word I don’t often use,

  ’Cause I know I’m livin’ the life that I choose.

  But more often than not, at the end of the ride

  I find myself wonderin’—if I took a bride—

  Would cold nights seem shorter?

  Would days fill with song?

  Would she keep to herself or come ride along?

  Would I ever get weary of husbandly dues?

  Or is this lonely feeling all that I’d lose?

  Rory hummed to himself as he tried to rearrange line and meter to match the motion of his horse’s gait. The sun was lower in the afternoon sky—it would be sunset in two hours—but he was determined to see Jessica Stanbridge again before the day was through. He couldn’t account for his need, no more than any man can account for wanting to be in the presence of a beautiful woman, but the fact that his thoughts had strayed to the subject of loneliness was enough to make him wary.

  As he galloped over a low rise he saw the camp outlined in the distance. The tent was still standing, but now a second, open-sided structure stood not far away. A colorful piece of scarf fluttered in the wind, a whimsical, feminine touch that instantly brought a smile to his lips. It didn’t seem like something Jessica would do, so he guessed Myra must have added the festive touch. When he looked closer, he noticed quite a few people huddled around a table beneath the awning.

  Rory frowned. Who in the hell . . . ?

  As he drew closer he recognized two of the horses on the near side of the camp as Barrows’s and Hench’s. No wonder he hadn’t come across his men all afternoon. He quickly headed Domino toward the far tent and slowed to a walk so that the group seated around the table couldn’t see him directly. When he was in shouting distance, he dismounted and led the big Appaloosa as close as he dared before he ground-hitched the horse and silently slipped up on the others.

  Whitey and Myra were seated with their backs to him. Barrows and Hench stared in rapt attention at Jessica as she read from a book lying open on the tabletop. From where he stood, Rory had a clear view of her. With forearms resting on the table, she bowed her head and concentrated on the words. She read in a clear, melodious voice filled with emotion. Cautiously he stayed beside the tent but moved closer until he could hear her clearly.

  “Her beautiful face, turned upwards to the angry sky, was half in light and half in shade; a smile parted her lips, and her eyes were bright with a look of interest and expectancy. Another sudden glare, and the clouds were again broken asunder; but this time in a jagged and hasty manner, as though a naked sword had been thrust through them and immediately withdrawn.

  ‘“That was a nasty flash,’ said Colonel Everard, with an observant glance at the lovely Juliet-like figure on the balcony. ‘Mademoiselle, had you not better come in?’”

  One of the oldest cowhands, Wheelbarrow, held a floral teacup loosely between thumb and forefinger; his eyes never left Jessica’s face. His foreman, Fred Hench, rested his elbows on the table and his head between his hands as he listened without moving. Rory was certain that if he could see Whitey Higgins’s face, it would reflect the same dazed expression, and he knew immediately that Jessica had lost herself in the reading, for she would never sit still and intentionally weave such a spell around his men. No, he thought, if she knew how she affected them, she would slam the book shut and dismiss them all.

  He turned his attention back to the words.

  “‘Besides, I love the storm.’ A tumultuous crash of thunder, tremendous for its uproar and the length of time it was prolonged, made us look at each other again with anxious faces.

  “‘What are we waiting for? Oh my heart!’”

  He saw her face slowly pinken as she began to read the tender words of a love poem.

  “Kiss me straight on the brows and part!

  Again! again, my heart, my heart!”

  He watched Jessica glance quickly at Myra as if to say, “How could you do this to me?” Then he heard Myra’s encouragement. “Go on. At least read to the end of the poem.” This time he listened intently to the words and felt an overwhelming longing to touch her.

  “What are we waiting for, you and I?

  A pleading look—a stifled cry!�
��

  At that Jessica slammed the book shut and set it down. The red glow of the western sky could not account for the color that suffused her face and neck.

  “I’m afraid that’s all for today, gentlemen,” she said as she abruptly stood up, just as he knew she would, to dismiss the men.

  It was impossible to forget the words she had just read as he stepped away from the tent.

  “That is all for today, gentlemen,” he said.

  Five pairs of eyes turned swiftly in his direction. Whitey, Hench, and Barrows jumped to their feet. Barrows’s hat flopped to the ground. Jessica’s mouth opened and then quickly snapped shut. Myra was the only one who looked genuinely happy to see him.

  Rory crossed the short distance to the table and stood beside Myra. He didn’t take his eyes off of Jessica. He knew she hated his stare, but he couldn’t look away. She was more beautiful than he remembered; her face was alive with color from exposure to the sun and embarrassment. She fairly glowed. It didn’t matter that her full lips were pursed into a narrow line or that her huge owl eyes stared unblinkingly from behind her round glasses. It didn’t matter that her clothing was dirty and rumpled. What did matter was that for the first time he was fully aware of what being near her did to him. Stunned by the overwhelming reaction, he wondered what to do next.

  What did a man do when he was on fire?

  Chapter Seven

  “HAVE A CUP OF tea, Mr. Burnett,” Myra urged.

  He nodded. It might be as good a cure as any. Afraid to let Jessica see the heat in his gaze, he kept his eyes on the men. Mistaking his intense look for anger, they shifted, as nervous as ants on a crowded boardwalk.

  “A little far of field, aren’t you, boys?” he asked.

  Barrows and Hench glanced at each other. Barrows shrugged. Hench cleared his throat and said, “We thought we’d check out this end of the range before we headed back.”

  When Rory didn’t say anything in response, Barrows shifted. “We did round up about fifteen head and ran them back to the ranch before we rode out again.”

  “What about Gathers and Tinsley?” Rory asked, referring to his other two cowhands.

  Fred Hench looked to Wheelbarrow to speak. “They got in an argument over an orejana Gathers found up the draw.”

  None too pleased at the news, Rory drew off his hat, wiped his forehead, and jammed the hat on again. All he needed now was to have one or the other of his best hands up and quit because of a fight over an unmarked bull. Tradition on the range was that any cowhand who was first to rope an unbranded bull could claim ownership and all monies the animal brought at market.

  “They settle it?”

  “Tinsley ain’t happy, but Gathers was there first, fair and square.”

  Fully aware that Jessica, Myra, and Whitey were listening patiently to the exchange, Rory excused the men. “You two head on back and I’ll talk to both of them when I get in.”

  Myra left the table and quickly came back with a clean cup. “Here’s your tea, Mr. Burnett.”

  As his men bid the ladies a hasty good-bye and Whitey hurried off to water the mules and horses, Rory reached down, picked up the lukewarm tea, and unceremoniously tossed it back in one gulp. The liquid did little to douse the heat in his veins. He purposely kept from looking at Jessica until he had gathered his wits about him. When he did, he found her studying him closely.

  “Won’t you at least sit down?” she offered.

  “I have to talk to you alone. Now.”

  She looked startled by his curt demand but quickly regained her composure. “Fine.” She led him a short distance away to a spot where they were out of sight of the others. He could smell the light, clean fragrance of scented soap about her and suddenly realized he wanted to reach out and brush aside the stray lock of hair that played across her forehead.

  Instead he kept his hands jammed in his pockets. “I’ll be leaving day after tomorrow on a cattle drive to Durango. Until then I expect you to stay put.”

  She stiffened immediately. Her intense blue eyes snapped as she stared up at him from behind the lenses. “Have you forgotten, Mr. Burnett, that it was I who hired you? You have no right to tell me when to stay or where to go.”

  He shook his head. “No, I haven’t forgotten, but for your own good, I’d like you to stay here and forget about the mesa.”

  She studied him closely. “Exactly what is it you’re hiding up there?”

  Much too quickly he responded. “Nothing.”

  “Why is it I don’t believe you?”

  Rory realized uncomfortably that they were close enough to embrace, so close in fact that he could see the light sheen of perspiration glowing across the bridge of her nose.

  He tried to change the subject. “Are you finished with the tracks already?”

  She nodded. “Whitey has led me to an exposed section of petrified bone in a dry creek bed not far from here. They’re all fragments, but there may be something deeper—”

  “That ought to keep you busy.”

  Jessica shook her head. “Although I sense you’d like nothing better than to keep me well occupied, I still intend to look around before I choose a definite excavation site. Luck has been with me so far.”

  “If you go up on the mesa before I get back, your luck just might run out,” he warned.

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Burnett, because if you are . . . ”

  He took off his hat again and this time made a study of the brim. With a glance back at the camp, he sighed. “I’ve been warned to keep you off the mesa by Piah Jackson, one of the Ute leaders.”

  She wrinkled her nose and he watched her freckles hide beneath the creases. “When did he tell you this?”

  “Before I met you.”

  “Then you schemed to bring me here all along?”

  He could see she was beginning to get all steamed up. If he didn’t act fast, Miss Jessica Stanbridge would likely bolt and head right back to the mesa. Rory slammed his hat back on and reached out for her. Shocked, she looked down at his fingers as they squeezed her upper arms.

  Her frigid stare forced him to let go. “Yes, I did. But it was for your own good,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “Mr. Burnett, for a long time now I’ve been the one to decide what was good for me. When were you going to tell me the truth? Or were you?”

  “That’s why I rode out here today.”

  “You had ample opportunity to tell me before now. Why should I believe you?”

  “I didn’t know if you had sense enough to listen to reason.”

  “And now?” She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  “Now that I do know you, I think you might just be pigheaded enough to go back up there just because I’m asking you not to.” He shifted his weight and shoved his hat farther back on his head. “I don’t have time to give you a history lesson, Miss Stanbridge, but not too long ago an ancient village site was found not far from here in the cliff at Mesa Verde. Since then there have been all sorts of people digging through the ruins. The scoundrels have no regard for Indian ways or for the fact that a burial site, no matter how old, is as sacred to Indian people as a graveyard is to us.”

  She cut him off. “I don’t intend—”

  “I don’t intend to let you, either,” he said. “There are graves hidden all over this area. The Utes don’t want to see them desecrated.”

  “Nor do I. You know I’m only after saurian bones.”

  “And what if you find a grave site instead? What would you do if you discovered a place filled with ancient relics and primitive remains? You’re telling me that as a scientist you could just turn your back on it all?”

  “I’m telling you that right now such finds are not my objective, but if I do come across any such thing, I’ll notify the proper auth
orities. Besides, what you don’t realize is that my father was one of the foremost scholars on antiquities as well as paleontology. He was very well known for his care and consideration of human remains.”

  “What you’re saying is that he was careful when he packed them up for the museum. If you found anything new, word would get out one way or another, and I’m not dealing with your father now, Miss Stanbridge, I’m dealing with you—”

  “Just as I, unfortunately, am dealing with you,” she told him bluntly. “I assure you, I don’t intend to ravage any grave sites.”

  “I have no idea if you’ll keep your word.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  “No.” He lowered his voice when he realized he was shouting. “Because you’re so hell-bent on success. I think you’d be willing to do whatever it takes to make a name for yourself. If that means you have to destroy sacred ground or disturb a few Indian graves in the bargain, so be it.”

  “What gives you the right to play self-appointed guardian of those people’s bones?”

  He squinted off at sun that now lazed just above the horizon. “Because my father taught me to stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.”

  The canvas tent flap rustled with the force of the same breeze that pressed her skirt against her legs. He could see by the cocky tilt of her chin and the fierce determination shining in her eyes that no matter what he said, no matter what case he pleaded, she was still set on exploring the mesa.

  Sensing defeat, he tried one last tack. “Have you ever heard of the Ghost Dance, Miss Stanbridge?”

  She nervously smoothed her skirt over her slim waist and shook her head. “No.”

  “It’s a religious movement that’s sweeping through the Indian reservations. A wrong move could stir the Utes to rebellion.”

  Certain he was only trying to frighten her, she folded her arms beneath her breasts and said, “Oh, please! This is 1890.”