Desert Storm

by Ryan, Nan

  Mounted at that huge imposing gate, white-haired Barrett McClain, flanked by his two most trusted bodyguards, sat nervously awaiting the arrival of his bride-to-be. Out of the storm came the sounds of the merry, tinkling laughter of a woman. Deep male laughter accompanied it. Barrett McClain clenched his teeth and his brown eyes narrowed. The two mounted men on either side of him glanced at each other over his head.

  Blowing blond hair was the first thing Barrett McClain saw. The second was a pair of boyish brown arms wrapped around Angie’s slender body. A muscle jumped in his sun-weathered jaw. The carriage came to an abrupt halt in front of the three mounted horsemen and Jose Rodriguez swiftly moved away from the laughing Angie. Not soon enough.

  Swallowing back the biting words of rebuke he longed to hurl at the brazen Mexican youth, Barrett put up his right hand and gestured for Pedro to follow him up to the hacienda. Taking one last quick glance at the lovely, pale beauty, Barrett reined his horse around and put the spurs to him. Excitement warring with displeasure, he squinted in the thick sand and told himself he’d handle both young people in his own time. Angie Webster, he would marry and bed. Jose Rodriguez, he would have stripped and beaten for his outrageous behavior. The prospects of what he would do to the girl and the boy filled him with a tingling pleasure. He’d gain great satisfaction from both. As though they were reading his thoughts, the two giant men riding beside him, Asa Granger on his right and Punch Dobson on his left, had identical misgivings. The young woman they had caught a glimpse of was going to make their duties twice as hard as they’d been in the past. Already the old man would want young Jose punished because he’d been caught with his arm around the girl. If such an innocent gesture could merit retaliation, what would they be called upon to do when some vaquero made a real pass at her.

  Under his breath, the oldest and biggest of the pair, Asa Granger, forty-two years old, six foot six and two hundred eighty pounds, said, “Goddamn it to hell.” His words were carried away into the winds, and absently Asa wondered why the girl’s happy laughter couldn’t have been carried away the same way. A chill shot up his broad back and Asa had the nagging feeling that life at Tierra del Sol would never be the same again.

  THE CARRIAGE HAD BARELY rolled to a stop outside the yard when Jose was off the seat and on the ground. Thinking the sweet boy would surely help her down, Angie put out her arms to. him. A pair of possessive hands did clasp her narrow waist, but they were not the slender brown ones of the young Mexican. They were the blunt and sunburned hands of Barrett McClain. Whisking her down out of the carriage, he pulled her up against his solidness for a moment. Angie looked straight into his brown eyes, which were almost on the same level as hers.

  The stocky, white-haired man shouted against the wind, “Welcome, Angie, I’m Barrett McClain.”

  Before she could respond, Barrett had her by the arm, propelling her through the yard and into the huge adobe hacienda. In seconds they were inside in a wide, brick-floored entryway and Barrett McClain was slamming the heavy carved door against the raging sandstorm.

  Angie was still clutching Jose’s white handkerchief and his blue bandanna was tied around her neck. Raising the handkerchief she began to dab at her dirty face. “That’s all right, child,” Barrett McClain said. He had removed his hat and was at her side. “You’ll be wanting a nice hot bath and you shall have it.” He looked at her intently, studying her, and Angie felt nervous, shy, terribly out of place.

  “I … yes, sir, that would be so nice.” She lowered her eyes from his penetrating gaze. Waiting for him to make the next move, she stood looking at the floor while Barrett McClain quietly, hungrily let his eager eyes roam from her golden hair down to the tiny feet peeking from under her faded blue and white dress. His heart raced at what he saw.

  Even having come through a west Texas sandstorm, she was breathtaking. The golden hair, wound tightly upon her head, had come loose in the winds, and silky wisps of it curled around her small lovely face and down her back. Her eyes were a brilliant green, like deep seas of dark emerald. A cute turned-up nose made him want to give it a playful bite and the generous, soft pink lips made the muscles in his stomach tighten. The sensible, frayed dress she wore couldn’t hide the soft, feminine curves underneath, and Barrett McClain’s eyes came to rest on her full breasts.

  Reluctantly, he tore his heated gaze from that rounded bosom and asked with concern, “Child, where is Jeremiah, your dear father?”

  Angie raised shy eyes to his. “Papa died in Galveston, Mr. McClain. I had to bury him there.”

  Seizing the unexpected opportunity, Barrett McClain said, “Oh, my child, I’m so terribly sorry,” and drew her into his close embrace. Angie stood stiffly against him, longing to pull away, noticing the iciness of his big hands. One of those blunt hands slid around to spread out upon her back, drawing her nearer. Angie’s frightened face was pressed for a moment to his cheek, and she didn’t see the look of pure pleasure on his sun-creased face; nor did he see the look of distaste on hers. Wishing he could hold her forever, Barrett abruptly released her and said firmly, “You’ve been through so much, Angie, my dear. You’re safe now; you’re home. We’ll take good care of you here at Tierra del Sol. All of your worries are finally over, child.”

  Wide-eyed she looked at him. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured and felt herself relaxing just a bit. His brown eyes were warm and kind, though the hand still on her arm was cold as ice. He seemed ancient to Angie, but perhaps that would make their relationship one of pleasing closeness. Maybe this short, white-haired gentleman would be the kind, affectionate father she’d always longed for and had never had. Perhaps he would protect her and spoil her like a daughter, and she would depend upon him, read to him in the quiet evenings and respect him, and, even grow to care for him, as though he were her father.

  Barrett shook her from her thoughts by taking her hand in his. “You must meet my sister-in-law, Angie. She’s waiting for us.” He pulled her hand up into the crook of his arm and Angie had the almost uncontrollable urge to yank it back. Instead, her fingers closed on his arm and she let him lead her through a high arched doorway into a big opulent room. So heavy were the adobe walls of the hacienda, and so tightly fitted the closed, shuttered windows and doors that Angie could no longer hear the wind. Impressed with the eye-pleasing, high-ceilinged room with its heavy, comfortable-looking furniture, Angie gaped openmouthed, and for the first time the notion popped into her head that this Barrett McClain who led her into the drawing room of his mansion was very rich indeed.

  “Angie, my dear.” A woman’s soft voice startled her. A petite dark-haired woman wearing a long-sleeved, white lace blouse with a stylish long skirt of fine navy linen was coming toward her. The woman’s smile was friendly and her eyes glowed with the warmth and kindness that were her nature. Emily York looked young enough to be Barrett McClain’s daughter. Her small, attractive face was unlined and her hair, though tinged with a few strands of silver, was very black. Her striking light blue eyes were rimmed with dark lashes. “I’m Emily York, Angie.” The smiling woman reached for Angie’s hand.

  Liking the regal-looking Emily on sight, Angie smiled shyly at her and took the offered hand. “I’m very happy to meet you, Miss York.”

  “Miss York, indeed.” Emily laughed and gave the young, mannerly girl a hug while Barrett looked on admiringly. “You’ll call me Aunt Emily; I shan’t answer to any other name.” She held Angie in a loose embrace. Angie was several inches taller than the tiny brunette. While Angie stood letting the older woman hug her, her eyes were drawn across the spacious room.

  Lounging against a carved doorframe, hands laced upon his flat stomach, one long leg crossed over the other, a tall slim man stood looking directly at her. His thick hair was midnight-black, his eyes the color of smoke. His nose was straight and aristocratic, his mouth full to the point of sensuality. A chill ran up Angie’s spine. The man was looking at her as though he could see beneath her faded dress, as though he knew exactly ho
w she looked without her clothes. Her face grew warm and she felt her knees tremble ever so slightly.

  “… so you just make yourself at home.” Emily York was speaking and Angie realized that the short pleasant woman had released her.

  “I … yes, ma’am.” Angie struggled to tear her eyes from the tall imposing man across the room, but found it impossible. Never in all her wildest imaginings had Angie conjured up a male as physically beautiful as the darkly handsome stranger. When he effortlessly pushed away from the doorframe and started toward her, Angie began to shiver.

  “Why, child, you’re exhausted,” Barrett McClain said, noticing the tremor of her slender body. “I’m going to ring for a servant and get you to your room and into the bath.”

  “Surely she has enough stamina left to meet her future son.” The dark man was nearing her. Angie did not see the scowl on Barrett McClain’s face. Her wide emerald eyes were riveted to the tall dark man as though no one else were present in the room.

  “My son thinks he’s the court jester, Angie.” Barrett possessively put an arm around her shoulder. “Pecos, this is Angie Webster. Angie, my only son, Pecos.” To his son, he said, “Pecos, I’m sure you recall me speaking of Angie’s arrival.”

  Pecos stepped directly in front of Angie, so close she automatically took a step backward. Unruffled, Pecos, looking only at her, said softly, “Yes, Dad, but you failed to mention that she looked like a fair angel.” When he said the word angel, his expression became sardonic, and Angie had the distinct impression this was directed at her. A lean brown hand came out and he said, “Won’t you shake my hand? Or will it cost me?”

  Totally confused by his strange behavior, Angie put her hand into his and was surprised by the warmth and strength she felt in his grasp. Pecos shook her hand, and when she tried to retrieve it, he chuckled and refused to release her. “Yes, sir, Dad, you sure got yourself a fine lil’ ol gal here.” His gray piercing eyes were mocking her. “She’s a true angel and she’ll take you right to heaven, eh, Dad?”

  Scarlet suffusing his sun-creased face, Barrett McClain said coldly, “Pay my rude son no attention, Angie, dear.” To Pecos he snapped furiously, “Let go of her hand, the child’s worn out.”

  “Hmm,” Pecos said and slowly released the small shaking hand. “I’ll just bet she is.” Without another word he turned on his heel and strolled leisurely back toward the doorway from which he’d first appeared. Angie watched him go and wondered to herself if the tall handsome son of her future husband always behaved so bizarrely. Watching the way his shoulder blades moved beneath the fine white silk of the shirt he wore, she was caught staring when Pecos abruptly turned at the door. “I shall count the minutes until dinnertime,” he said, a pleased smile on his dark face. “I’d planned on going into town for the evening, but I’ve changed my mind.”

  The three people watching the tall commanding figure all wore a different expression. Emily York, her small thin mouth curved into a wide grin, looked at her only nephew with love and approval, happy he would be home for dinner. Barrett McClain looked at his only son with barely disguised hatred, infuriated by his impolite behavior and disappointed that his wild, rebellious son had chosen to remain at home for the evening. Angie Webster looked at Pecos with awe and fear and puzzlement. Tiny bells of alarm were ringing inside her head. There was something darkly dangerous about the strikingly handsome man. She was wise enough to sense it, woman enough to be drawn to it.

  The man looking at the three easily read what was going on in their minds. His deep laughter filled the room as he turned and left them looking after him. He’d inspired exactly the reaction in each one that he wanted, and he’d done it effortlessly. Pecos jammed his hands into the pockets of his tight brown trousers and strode down the corridor to his bedroom.

  Inside his room he lazily flung his long frame atop his bed, cradled his head in his hands and said aloud, “So the sweet young girl my dear old daddy plans to marry is none other than my beautiful Border Angel. Ah, Angel, Angel. Are you in your room right now wondering if I’ll give you away before the evening is over?” Pecos grinned wolfishly, brought a brown hand from under his head and draped it over his hard belly. “I may never tell him, Angel. I sure won’t tell him for a while. At least not until you and I begin where we left off.”

  Pecos lay on the big bed laughing uproariously. Outside the thick sheltering walls of Tierra del Sol, the dust storm raged.

  Chapter Seven

  A MYRIAD OF EMOTIONS filled Angie’s young breast while she sat chin deep in a tall tub of yellow and blue Mexican tile. The spacious tub was wide enough for two, it seemed to Angie, and so long that she had to be very careful, lest she slide beneath the thick, sweet-smelling bubbles, dunking her face and hair. Clutching at one slippery side of the tiled tub, Angie drew her knees up, placing her feet flat on the tub’s bottom, the better to brace herself.

  Her eyes scanning the high-ceilinged bathroom, Angie was awed by the luxury, just as she was by everything and everyone in this remote Texas mansion. She felt miserably out of place in such a grand home and found it difficult to hide her astonishment that anyone lived so royally way out here in wild, untamed Texas. When Jeremiah Webster had told her his good friend Barrett McClain was wealthy, Angie had envisioned a big comfortable home of split planks, wooden floors and heavy masculine furniture suited to a rugged rancher.

  The sandstorm had kept her from getting a good look at the exterior of the hacienda, but she could see enough to know that it was gigantic, its massive walls made of heavy pinkish adobe. Inside there were brick floors and polished mahogany and the furniture was elegant and eye-pleasing. She’d not noticed anything more because the tall, dark man called Pecos had commanded her attention with his bold, burning gaze and strange, puzzling words.

  Angie had been delighted when Pecos finally left and the kind, thoughtful Barrett McClain said softly, “Child, I’ll have Delores show you to your room. She’ll draw a tub for you and unpack. Why don’t you rest until dinnertime?”

  A beaming Mexican woman had appeared and bowed to her, eager to serve. Nodding gratefully to Barrett McClain and Miss Emily, Angie let Delores lead her out of the room and down a cool corridor. A long wing of the house extended back behind the main rooms, and it was at the second heavy door that Delores stopped.

  “Aqui, señorita.” Delores threw open the door.

  Angie gasped and put a small hand up to her mouth. She walked into a room as large as her entire home in New Orleans. Never had she seen anything so invitingly beautiful. On the floor, the yellow-and-navy-blue-patterned carpet was so thick that her steps were completely silent. A lovely canopied bed with yellow organza frothily enveloping the soft, high sleeping chamber, made Angie long to run across the room and hop up on its softness. The rosewood furniture was polished to a high gleam and smelled of lemon oil, the clean, pleasant aroma mingling with the fragrance of dozens of yellow roses filling porcelain vases. Speechless, Angie stood shyly turning around and around, wondering if she were in a dream and if she would awake to find herself back in her tiny bedroom at home with the sounds of her father’s snores coming through the thin, peeling walls.

  “Señorita.” Delores’s voice came from beyond an interior door. “I am filling the tub. While you bathe, I will unpack.”

  “No,” Angie quickly protested and sped toward the room from which Delores’s voice came. “I … please, ma’am, if you do not mind, I would prefer to unpack my things.” Angie looked pleadingly at the servant. Delores lifted her shoulders in a shrug and smiled at the girl.

  “Ah, señorita, you are not used to servants, no?”

  “No, Delores, I am not.” Angie failed to add that she was ashamed that she had no nightclothes or chemises in her belongings and that the only way to keep her secret was to do her own unpacking.

  “We will spoil you soon enough, bonita,” Delores said as she came to Angie and gently touched her rosy cheek. “You do not want Delores to bathe you?”

 
; Horrified, Angie gulped and said, “No! I am not a baby!”

  Delores laughed merrily and impulsively hugged the slender flaxen-haired girl. “No, you are not. You are a very beautiful young woman and I will leave you to your privacy. Get into your bath before it cools. I will turn down your bed so that you may rest before it is time for dinner.” Delores swept past Angie and into the bedroom, singing cheerfully in Spanish. Eyeing the bubbly water with longing, Angie waited until she heard the heavy door close. When she peeked into the bedroom, she saw that the covers had been turned back and that Delores was gone. With a sigh of relief, Angie smiled to herself and stripped, letting her soiled, dusty clothes fall to a heap upon the floor.

  Giggling girlishly, she lowered her aching body into the hot soothing water and felt she’d found paradise. The elation was short-lived. As soon as some of the weariness had soaked from her limbs and her dirty face was clean and shining, she began to think of the approaching dinner hour. She dreaded it. She wished more than anything that she might be allowed to get into that big yellow bed and stay there until morning. It was not that she had no appetite; she was ravenously hungry, but she was terrified that the evening meal at Tierra del Sol would be a formal, strained affair and that she wouldn’t know how to behave. Angie shook her head, realizing that in all her eighteen years she had never before eaten a meal in someone else’s home. She bit the inside of her lower lip and considered feigning illness or exhaustion. The idea was dismissed in its embryonic state; she was much too hungry to seriously consider skipping supper.

  Angie scrubbed her long, slender arms with a yellow sponge and wondered if Pecos McClain would be at the supper table. A chill ran up her naked spine. He was scary, and the thought of him made gooseflesh pop up on her bare shoulders. Pecos was decidedly impudent, rude and insulting. His bad manners were surely a source of embarrassment to the elder McClain and to his Aunt Emily. Both were so kind and gentle, so eager to make her feel at home. It was hard to understand how Pecos could be so different. And it was almost impossible for Angie to believe that he was so disrespectful to his father. Angie assumed that everyone obeyed their father as she had done; apparently Pecos McClain obeyed no one.