Texas Proud (Vincente 2)

by Constance O'Banyon

  "And I'm sure there have been many women tramping through your life."

  With a quick smile he touched the brim of his hat and nudged his horse in the flanks. "Until next time, Green Eyes."

  As soon as he was out of sight, she retrieved the sunflower he'd put in her hair and held it to her heart. Why had he come back to Texas? If only he'd stayed away, she could have spent the rest of her life hating him.

  No, she had never hated him; she knew that now.

  The leather saddle creaked when Rachel shifted her weight. She nodded her head as she counted each maverick that was driven into the corral to be branded. Stray cattle had no brand and belonged to the ranch that put its brand on them. In years past there had been many head roaming the open range; now there were so few.

  Zeb was beside Rachel, absently helping her count. His expression told her what she already knew. "Not many, Miss Rachel."

  "Zeb, with Texas under the confining boot of military law, and taxes being high, cattle are the one thing that can save or ruin a ranch. In the East, the price of beef is at a premium."

  "Yep. The trick, Miss Rachel, is to get the cattle to a railhead to ship them to the East. We don't have enough cattle to make it worth our while."

  "I know."

  "Maybe next year," he said encouragingly.

  She fit her booted feet snugly into the stirrups. "I counted twenty-two, Zeb." She nodded for him to close the gate. "Not a bad roundup for this time of year."

  The old cowboy removed his hat and scratched his head. "I 'spect we found these 'cause it's so dry and they keep coming to the river to water."

  Rachel leaned forward in the saddle and watched her foreman, Tanner Gibbons, throw a rope over one of the mavericks while another man wrestled it to the ground and a third applied a redhot branding iron in the shape of a spur. The familiar smell of burning hide assaulted Rachel's nostrils. With the Broken Spur brand on their rumps, the cattle belonged to her.

  Tanner was tall and slender with light brown hair and honest gray eyes. He was born to the saddle and was a damned good foreman. He'd lived his life on the Broken Spur and had risen from cowhand to foreman. He climbed the fence and watched with his lady boss.

  "I thought I'd move them to the north pasture. There's some grass there, and it's near enough to the river." He raised his head and looked at the cloudless sky. "If it doesn't rain soon, we'll probably lose most of the herd."

  Rachel shaded her eyes with a gloved hand. "I know. We've got the Yankees, the drought and the weather to contend with. I don't know which is worse." She smiled down at Tanner. "Probably the Yankees. I expect to hear any day now that they're building a fort at Tascosa Springs."

  Tanner could hardly speak when Rachel looked at him with those beautiful green eyes. Everyone on the ranch, except her, knew that he was in love with her. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but he knew he wasn't good enough for someone like her. She was quality, and he saw himself as just a broken-down old cowboy. He had never admired a woman as much as he did his lady boss. She could ride neck and neck with any man, rope with the best of them, and never complain when she had to ride for hours in the rain. She was from prime Texas stock. Her pa had brought her up as he would have a son, and that was all right with Tanner, because underneath that toughness was a surefire woman, so beautiful it almost hurt his eyes to look at her.

  He settled deeper into his saddle. Rachel could have any man she wanted. And he could never tell her about his feelings for her. He took his courage in hand and asked, "You going to the dance, Miss Rachel?" He nervously rotated his hat in his hands. He wished his voice wouldn't always tremble when he spoke to her about personal matters.

  "Of course. Isn't everyone?" She nodded toward the house. "Even my brother-in-law arrived today from Austin to attend the event." She arched an eyebrow. "Let's hope he doesn't go into one of his speeches at the dance."

  Tanner nodded. "He's probably going to be the governor one day. That is if the damned Yankees-" His face reddened and he sought her eyes. "Sorry, ma'am, if I spoke out of turn. What I meant to say was, if the Yankees in Washington ever give us back the vote."

  She looked upward and watched buzzards circling toward the east. Probably another calf down, she thought. They had lost so many. She turned her attention back to her foreman. "If we are allowed the vote again, you can be sure my brotherin-law will get his share of votes he'll see to that."

  "Miss Rachel ma'am." He tried to smile but his lips quivered and his face reddened.

  "Yes, Tanner?"

  When he could breathe, he asked, "Would you... er... could I...?"

  She smiled. "I'll be sure and save a dance for you, Tanner."

  "You will, ma'am?" he asked incredulously, pleasure spreading across every angle of his face.

  Whit looked out the window at the scenes of a working ranch. He could hear the lowing of cattle and the cowboys' voices as they went about their day-to-day chores. The Broken Spur was not a big ranch, but it was important because it backed up to the Brazos River. That made it important to Whit because it bordered Casa del Sol, the king of all Texas ranches. In the past, that great ranch had been responsible for bringing prosperity to Tascosa Springs. The stores had thrived selling supplies to the ranch. The bank had handled all Casa del Sol's transactions, and the Vincentes had hired hundreds of men to work the spread. He longed to stand in Noble Vincente's boots, rather than standing in his shadow. Every time he looked at Delia, he was reminded that Noble had been with her before him, and he hated him for it.

  "Whit." Delia twined a golden strand of hair about her head and secured it with a jeweled comb. "What are you staring at?"

  "A ranch that is run by a woman and thrives where others have failed. She can't win, though. She'll be in trouble before next spring."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The taxes." His eyes narrowed and he turned back to the window to watch Rachel walk toward the house. He could clearly see the way her shirt stretched tight across her breasts and the way the leather chaps didn't quite hide her soft curves. "Even with her frantic effort to round up stray longhorns and mavericks, Rachel will never raise enough money to pay the taxes on the Broken Spur."

  Delia looked perplexed. "For heaven's sake, Whit, don't bring up the subject of selling the ranch to Rachel tonight. She'll be mad all evening if you do."

  Whit moved away from the window and stood behind his wife. His voice was laced with sarcasm as he watched her artfully apply the merest bit of rouge to her cheeks. "The time-honored Harvest Dance. What a fine evening well have, conferring with old friends. What witty conversations we'll have with them. How will I endure it?"

  Delia grew annoyed. "Sometimes I think you forget where you come from, Whit. You grew up in West Texas, your father worked as line foreman at the Bar C, where you were born. These are your people. You just forget it when you are in Austin trying to impress your la-di-da friends there."

  Whit had pulled himself out of the mire he'd been born into. He had a fine house in Austin, a beautiful wife, and friends of influence. No, he did not like to be reminded that his father had been a lowly cowhand. Of course, it sometimes worked to his advantage when he was garnering votes from ranchers to remind them that he had once been part of their world. He had the happy ability to slip in and out of character to fit the situation or the people he was with at the time.

  His voice was silky smooth and layered with contempt. "My people are all the citizens of Texas," he said, settling his hands on her shoulders and looking at her in the mirror. "They love me, don't you know?"

  She held his gaze. "Do you love anyone or anything?"

  His hands slipped down to cup her full breasts. "I desire you, and that's much more powerful than love." He bent to kiss her neck, then pulled her up to fit her petticoat-clad body against his. "I chose well when I took you for my wife, Delia." A cruel light came into his eyes. "Yet your little sister is turning out to be the real beauty of the family."

  Delia pushed him away.
"You'll muss my hair."

  His voice became taunting when he said, "You don't like it when I talk about your sister, do you?" Then his voice became hostile. "You don't like it at all, do you, hmm?"

  Delia turned on him, her eyes blazing with animosity. "I'm aware of your indiscretions, Whit, and I don't care about your women as long as you don't flaunt them in my face. But if you go near my sister, I'll kill you."

  He pulled her back into his arms. "I wonder if your anger comes from wanting to protect Rachel, or from jealousy. Little Rachel has grown into a tasty morsel."

  "If you ever touch my sister, you'll die." Her eyes held his. "I mean it, Whit. Leave her alone. She's not like you and me. She's... special."

  His eyes shone with humor. He lifted a bottle of brandy and poured some into a glass. "What if I told you I wanted you to be jealous of me? Would you believe me if I told you I'd never look at another woman if you loved me?"

  He handed the glass to Delia and she drank it down without taking a breath. Then she held the glass out for more.

  "No more, my pretty one. You're forming a bad habit."

  "You introduced me to it." She tossed her golden mane and laughed with amusement. "I have come to depend on brandy to get me through the day."

  "Would you believe me if I told you I wanted you to stop drinking?"

  "No, I wouldn't believe you. You like me drunk. I don't know why."

  He ran his finger along her delicate jawline and then traced her lips. "Why did you marry me?"

  Again she laughed. "Because you asked me. You never saw me as a woman, but a possession to flaunt before your friends."

  He pressed his cheek against hers, inhaling her soft perfume. "You are probably right." His teeth nibbled at the lobe of her ear. "But you stir my blood as no other woman ever can, and you desire me, too, don't deny it."

  His lips smothered hers so she couldn't breathe.

  Delia's arms slid around Whit's shoulders and he led her to the bed. As he undressed her, another face flashed through her mind. Dark eyes Spanish eyes Noble's eyes, which pulled and tore at her heart, even after all this time. She kept repeating to herself while her husband made love to her, Noble is touching me. Nobles lips are on mine. Noble. Noble. Noble.

  "We should be getting ready for the dance," she whispered, pretending it was Noble's hands caressing her, and not Whit's.

  "There's time," he whispered thickly in her ear. "It's been too long, Delia. I've missed you."

  She blinked in astonishment, and looked into his eyes, seeing what appeared to be sincerity reflected there. Did Whit really love her? She would never know, because it was a game they played. In public they were the loving couple that everyone envied, but in their bedroom they were two bodies seeking and finding only pleasure and fulfillment.

  Delia gave in to the passion that he stirred within her. Slowly the image of Noble faded and she saw only her husband.

  He gripped her hips and rammed into her with such force it almost sent her off the bed.

  Whit had such anger in him, such passion, that it made him a good lover. The heat of him reached deep inside her, and she answered each of his animal thrusts with her own.

  At one point he slipped off the bed and pulled her on top of him. Positioning her just right, he eased her upward, and she wanted to scream with pleasure when he opened her up and slid inside of her, pounding and thrusting against her.

  "This isn't love," she whispered as her body climaxed with his.

  "No," he agreed in a breathless tone. "More than love animal lust much better than love."

  "How long before we burn out, Whit?" she asked as his tongue swirled around a nipple.

  "When we are both in hell, and maybe not then," he answered.

  The gleeful sounds of music and laughter blended to welcome the people of Madragon County to the Harvest Dance, the social event of the year. The dance was a tradition that had sprung forth the first year the town had been established in 1844. Of course, there had been no dance during the war years because it had been considered unpatriotic to celebrate while young men were dying in a confrontation so far away from home.

  The dance was held in the old town hall, and the joyous sounds drifted down the empty streets of Tascosa Springs. There was hardly a man, woman or child in the whole county who was not attending the festivities tonight.

  Many of the women had saved all year to buy a new frock for the occasion. Young, unmarried females waited with anticipation for this night so they could flirt and dance with the gentlemen of their choice. Gentlemen in suits mingled easily with cowboys wearing boots and Western finery.

  Rachel arrived with her sister and brother-inlaw in their town carriage. The minute Whit's feet touched the ground his mouth thinned into a smile and he merged with the crowd, shaking hands, slapping backs, inquiring about family members campaigning.

  Delia dutifully followed, looking bored and unhappy. She'd always hated this affair and she still did, much preferring the elegant balls and soirees of Austin society.

  Whit's hand clamped on Delia's arm, steering her forward, while his eyes were riveted on Rachel. He made Rachel feel uneasy. Why did he keep staring at her? she wondered, hanging back, hugging the shadows. She was suddenly overwhelmed by melancholy and was reluctant to enter the hall. She thought about all the men who had been killed in the war. Those absent had faces and names-they had been her friends and neighbors. She prayed there would be no Yankees present, no blue uniforms, no enemies.

  Glancing in the window at her sister, she could read boredom etched on Delia's face. Rachel threw off her sadness, knowing that her sister needed her. Rachel noticed that the hall had been skillfully decorated with streamers, colorful lanterns and lace hangings. The ladies' quilting circle had done themselves proud. She'd probably belong to the quilting circle when she was an old spinster, she thought whimsically.

  For a moment, as Rachel's gaze swept over the crowd, she paused at the top of the three short steps that would take her into the room. She had no way of knowing that her entrance had drawn every eye in her direction and that she had eclipsed every other female in the building. Her off-the-shoulder blue velvet gown flared over a wide hoop, accenting her tiny waist. Her red-gold hair spilled down her back, making her skin appear creamy and smooth. She moved down the steps and walked toward her sister, still unaware that every eye followed her.

  Greeting friends as she passed, Rachel went directly to Delia. "Smile," she whispered. "You are always preaching to me about helping Whit's image. Shouldn't you take your own advice?"

  Delia looked at her archly. "These events have always been tedious, and I doubt they have changed." But she managed a tight, sparing smile.

  Rachel said with just a hint of humor, "Don't think of it as a dance, Delia think of it as a room filled with potential voters."

  Delia grinned at her sister's comment. "Look at my husband; he's certainly making himself popular tonight. See how he mingles with the locals, trying to make them believe that he's still one of them? Everything he does is carefully thought through and calculated beforehand. Tonight he wants to be perceived as a successful hometown boy who's come home to visit with his old friends." She continued, her tone now laced with disgust, "My husband is such a hypocrite."

  "He's a prospective candidate," Rachel countered, throwing Delia's words back in her face.

  The two sisters stood side by side, drawing everyone's attention. Each sister's beauty was a contrast to the other's. Delia looked poised and elegant in her apricot satin gown with yards and yards of expensive beaded lace at the hem. Rachel, with her flaming hair spiraling about her face, looked wild, unpredictable, breathtaking. She drew and held everyone's attention in her blue velvet gown, which had little adornment and needed none.

  Whit looked less formally attired than usual because it suited him not to wear a tie and to leave his shirt unbuttoned. He came back to stand between Delia and Rachel, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with everyone and slipping his hand abo
ut the waists of both women.

  Rachel didn't think any less of Whit for what he was doing. After all, she thought, suppressing an amused smile, one lived by different rules when one wanted to become governor of Texas.

  Rachel's face lit up when she saw Sheriff Crenshaw striding toward her.

  He nodded to Delia and Whit, then took Ra chel's hand. "I declare you to be the prettiest woman here tonight, Miss Rachel. You surely are.

  She liked the sheriff. He smelled of leather and spice and reminded her of her father. "Shall I tell Matty Sue you said that?" she asked in a teasing voice.

  He chuckled. "My wife would agree with me." He gallantly extended his arm to her. "Let me fetch you a glass of punch so I can be the envy of all those young fools who stand there gawking at you, but are too afraid to ask you to dance."

  She placed her gloved hand on his arm and accompanied him across the room. Rachel had the strangest premonition that something was about to happen. She didn't know what it might be; she didn't even know if it was good or bad. She'd had the same feeling when her father had been killed. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the feeling. She was relieved when Sheriff Crenshaw handed her a glass of punch.

  Rachel's gaze moved searchingly over the crowd, and her stomach tightened in knots. She realized what she was feeling-she was hoping Noble would come. Of course he wouldn't come, but still...

  The evening progressed, and Rachel danced with so many different partners, she lost count. Finally she stepped back into the shadows, hoping to rest for a moment. Her feet hurt; she wasn't accustomed to wearing satin shoes. She met the eyes of her foreman, Tanner, who watched her from the edge of the dance floor, and she smiled at him.

  Tanner hadn't torn his eyes away from Rachel all evening. He was sure that if an angel had come down to earth, she would not be as beautiful as Rachel. Her blue velvet gown billowed out about her, swaying gently with each movement. Her red hair glistened with golden highlights, and her skin was creamy and smooth. The foreman knew he'd never have the courage to ask her to dance never.