“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Besides”—Billy leaned into Dillon’s face and again lowered his voice to that hoarse whisper—“I think she likes you.”
That statement elicited another snort from Dillon. “If she likes me, I’d hate to see how she treats the folks she doesn’t like.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” Billy said. “If Miss Grace don’t like to be touched, the very idea of climbing into a bed with one of those strange women must have been just awful. And this place ain’t none too clean, especially for a lady like Miss Grace.”
Dillon leaned his head back against the carriage door. Billy had a point, damn his hide. He asked himself again what he was going to do with a lady like Grace on a working ranch. She didn’t fit in, and she never would. Abigail was a gentle lady herself, but she’d lived in Texas all her life. And besides, she was…necessary.
In spite of his reluctance to share his reservations with Billy, he found himself doing just that. He had to talk to somebody, he reasoned with what little reason he had left, and Billy was a good listener.
“She doesn’t belong here, Billy. She’s stubborn and disagreeable, and she’s got no stamina or patience. I’ll bet there’s not one sensible dress in all of those trunks.” He pointed a finger to the sky and the mountain of baggage on top of the carriage. “Every time she opens her mouth she complains. And what kind of woman pulls a stunt like the one she pulled tonight?”
“Which time?” Billy asked with more than a hint of humor in his voice.
Dillon turned a scowling face to the man. “Does it matter?”
Billy made himself more comfortable against the wheel, shifting his large body and resettling the rifle in his lap. “Well, you shouldn’ta called her a high-priced whore.”
“I didn’t—”
Billy lifted a hand to still Dillon’s protests. “And you shoulda listened to her when she came down to talk to you about the room.”
“I had a full house.” The excuse sounded lame as it came out of his mouth.
“I was standin’ just outside the door when she come outta that room like the devil was on her tail, and she didn’t stop to talk to me. She didn’t tell me what was wrong. She went down them stairs in a flash and went lookin’ for you, boss.”
Dillon felt the first flashes of guilt, and willed them away. He didn’t have time for this nonsense. “She’d better not come to depend on me to listen to all her complaints. I ain’t got the time or the patience for it. What does she think I am? Her—”
“Guardian?” Billy finished for him.
Dillon closed his eyes. He cursed Colonel Cavanaugh’s soul, and then retracted it quickly. The man had saved his life, after all. “I’m going to have to find her a husband, Billy, and fast.”
Billy grunted in obvious disgust. “Why don’t you sell her to the highest bidder. She’s right good-lookin’, and oughta bring in a pretty penny. Maybe even enough to pay off the loan. Maybe even enough so you won’t have to marry Miss Abigail.” The old man’s voice was gruff.
It had been clear to Dillon for some time now how Billy felt about his plan to marry Abigail if the cattle drive didn’t bring in enough money to pay off the loan. Billy was the only one Dillon had confided in, and he’d been regretting letting even Billy in on his plan.
He and Abigail were already a couple, of sorts, in Plummerton. Abigail had been trying to get him to the altar for five years, and it looked as if she might finally succeed. Theirs was a comfortable relationship, and he could be assured that Abigail would never appear in public in a red dress that was slashed damn near to her navel. Of course, she would never appear in private in anything so daring, either, he imagined. She was a right prim and proper lady, but not quite so delicate as Grace. Abigail would make a good wife.
The only problem was, every time Dillon thought about actually marrying her he broke out in a cold sweat.
They both heard Grace stir in the confines of the carriage and rose to their feet together. One look told Dillon that she hadn’t moved much. She had repositioned herself a little, and had pulled the collar of his buckskin jacket closer to her face. She looked amazingly contented, given her cramped position and the stunts she had pulled just that night, and Dillon had a sudden urge to climb into the carriage with her. To hold her the way he’d held her on board the train. He fought back a sudden lump in his throat.
“She’s stubborn, and disagreeable, and nothing but trouble for me, Billy.”
“Yeah,” Billy said in an easy drawl. “I like her, too, boss.”
Grace woke slowly, as she usually did, but there was something strangely comforting about rising this morning. She buried her nose into the softness that brushed her face. It smelled of Dillon Becket, and she liked that. It made her feel contented and warm and—
She rose swiftly, sitting up on the carriage seat and pushing the buckskin away from her face. Dillon Becket! She had no intention of allowing herself to feel anything for the man. Certainly nothing as comforting as she’d felt upon waking. The remnants of a dream, she decided, had made her feel momentarily safe. That was all it could be.
“Good morning.”
Her head snapped up, and she saw the offensive man leaning against the carriage and peering into the window, looking at her as if he knew something she didn’t.
“Good morning, Becket,” she snapped, brushing the hair away from her face with a swift swipe of her hand.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” he said calmly. “It seems we’ll need to unload another trunk so you can choose a more…suitable traveling outfit.” He chose his words carefully, maintaining his emotionless expression. “Problem is, there are so many trunks I don’t know where to begin.”
Grace gathered the buckskin jacket close around her, and stepped from the carriage. There was nothing to be done for it. Dillon Becket offered her his hand, and she took it. He was watching her too closely, as if he were gauging her reaction as their palms met. She held on to his hand for no longer than necessary, then turned to look up at the top of the conveyance.
“That trunk there,” she said, pointing to a large piece of baggage near the edge.
Becket climbed atop and loosened the ropes, then handed the trunk to Billy. Grace opened the trunk and pulled out the dress that was on top, a plain yellow muslin gown. She held it up and turned a stoic face to Dillon.
“Will this do, Becket?” she snapped. “Is this suitable enough for you?”
Dillon felt a rush of contentment as he looked at the dress. It was plain, to be sure, and had a high neck and long sleeves. He wondered if yellow would do to Grace what it did to Abigail. Turn her skin all sallow and sickly looking. He certainly hoped so.
“Perfect,” he said as she lowered the dress. “Get changed as quick as you can. We’ve got to get on the road.”
Grace marched back to the roadside stop with her head held high, Dillon’s too-large buckskin jacket wrapped around her, and red silk flowing around her legs. Billy was right behind her, a faithful watchdog. Dillon knew he wouldn’t have to worry about Grace with Billy beside her.
Not that he had any intention of worrying about her.
When they emerged, what seemed like a long time later, he had already returned the large trunk to the roof, and was ready to pull out. He watched Grace approach the carriage with a neatly folded red dress in one hand, and his buckskin jacket held away from her body with the other. As if she’d really rather not be touching it.
“Thank you,” she said, returning the coat to him with a wrinkling of her nose that showed her distaste for the object of clothing. “It is quite warm.”
Dillon didn’t say anything. The dress that had been plain in her hands was striking on her body. It fit her perfectly, from the swell of her breasts to that tiny waist, over her hips, draping softly and covering all but the tips of her dainty white boots.
And, damn it, her face wasn’t sallow against the yellow muslin. It was warm and rosy, and her lips seemed even darker, more
tempting. And how many women could wear their hair like that and get away with it? It was pulled back severely, with no curls to soften her face. Still, she was the most beautiful—
“What’s the matter, Becket?” she asked crisply. “Are you ill? You look absolutely green.”
He ignored her as best he could. “Help her into the carriage, Billy,” he ordered. He didn’t even want to take her hand at the moment.
It was going to be a very long trip home.
Chapter Four
They traveled quickly for the first three days of their journey, and Grace saw Becket infrequently. She remained in the carriage day and night, leaving her sanctuary only for the necessary stops. Becket seemed driven to reach his home as quickly as possible, and resented halting their tedious journey for even a short time.
Becket and Billy shared the driving duties. When Becket was guiding the horses, Billy sometimes joined her, though she was certain the driver’s seat was more comfortable and a bit cooler than the confining coach. The air inside the conveyance was stifling, overly warm and stale, and she thought once or twice about asking Becket if she could ride up front with him. But she didn’t. She was certain that he would refuse, in any case.
Her confinement gave her time to think. Too much time to think, actually. After a couple of days it occurred to her that she had actively avoided contemplating her life for the past five years. She’d simply flitted from one place to another with little or no thought to where she might find herself next.
A far-off rumble of thunder interrupted her speculation, and reminded her of where she’d landed this time. She never would have thought to find herself in Texas.
Grace had never been particularly philosophical about her life, but she wasn’t a mindless fool. She had learned to be on her guard at all times, and there was no one in the world she trusted completely, no person she would think of telling her secrets to.
The first night on the trail, she had slept fitfully. The carriage was simply pulled to the side of the road for a few quiet hours, and Grace couldn’t allow herself to relax. Every noise she heard was an imagined Indian, or a wild beast.
She’d tried to sleep, but it was useless. It was impossible to get comfortable, and her mind was spinning as she speculated on the possible dangers that surrounded her. After what had to be several long hours, she’d practically jumped from her seat, startled by a faraway and indistinct sound. A howl. Or was it a scream? In the complete dark of early morning, she had been able to feel her own pounding heartbeat.
And then she’d leaned her head out of the carriage window. Billy had been sleeping on the ground not five feet from the carriage. He was snoring, facing the sky as he slept on the hard ground with nothing but a thin blanket between his back and the dirt.
Without making a sound, she’d scooted across the seat and peered out of the opposite window. Dillon Becket slept as peacefully as Billy, but without the older man’s slack-jawed snore. Grace had a feeling—no, she knew—that if she so much as sneezed they would both be there.
She felt surprisingly safe, there between the two men she barely knew, and she hadn’t had any trouble sleeping since that night.
Another rumble of thunder, closer this time, drew her to the window again as they rolled down the road. They were on a smooth stretch of road for once, and she wasn’t at all jarred as they sped over the dusty trail. Dark clouds, a wall of gray, were bearing down on them at an astounding speed. The wind picked up, and reddish brown dust clouds danced across the horizon, hiding whatever awaited down the road and across the flatlands.
The carriage slowed and left the road as the winds picked up again. How could even this seemingly sturdy coach weather a storm? They would all surely be flung about in that dark cloud that was descending on them.
She leaned her head out of the window. Billy was talking to the horses and tethering the reins to the sturdiest-looking tree in the area. It appeared awfully scrawny to Grace. Much too fragile to weather the storm that was coming. Becket set the brake and brought out a large tarp to cover the baggage on the roof.
It took both men to secure the tarp, and before they’d finished large raindrops had begun to fall. The wind did indeed shake the carriage, and Grace grabbed at the seat with both hands.
Billy joined her first, giving her a reassuring smile as he settled himself on the seat across from her. “Looks like a gully-washer’s comin’.”
Grace had no idea what a gully-washer was, but she got the general idea and agreed. If nothing else, Billy’s great weight should help to stabilize the coach, she reasoned.
Becket flung himself into the coach and plopped down beside her. He shuttered the windows, taking away all the light but a few slices of gray that filtered through.
Grace scooted across the seat so she was sitting at the very corner, as far away from Dillon Becket as was physically possible. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw that he was looking at her, staring very impolitely, to be exact.
“You don’t have to be afraid, Grace,” he finally said as he settled himself into the opposite corner. He didn’t want to get any closer to her than she did to him, evidently. “The storm will pass over pretty quick. The worst of it, anyway.”
“I’m not afraid of storms, Becket,” Grace answered in a firm voice.
Becket was silent, but he didn’t take his eyes from her. Even in the dimly lit carriage, she could see the tension in his face, in the set of his jaw, in his eyes. It was as if he were on the verge of explosion all the time, as if his exterior calm were all an act.
“You know,” he said in a low voice as Grace continued to stare at him, “I really don’t care what you call me. Becket’s fine, if that makes you happy. But do you have to say it as if you’re spittin’ out a bit of rancid beef at the same time?”
Billy chuckled, and Grace was reminded of the older man’s presence. She wasn’t alone with Dillon Becket, and she had nothing to fear from the man.
“It certainly was not my intention to insult you, Becket.” She said his name more softly, without the harshness she knew was normally there.
“That’s better.” He seemed satisfied, and leaned back to close his eyes. A gust of wind rocked the carriage, and he didn’t even stir.
Grace soon decided that she was the only one concerned about the storm around them. The carriage was pelted with torrential rain, and still Becket didn’t move a muscle.
Before long Billy was taking advantage of the unplanned stop by taking a nap, sprawling across the seat and snoring softly. How could they be so calm? She cringed with every strong gust of wind that rocked the coach, and jumped with the cracks of thunder overhead.
She jumped again when she looked at Becket and found he was watching her. He hadn’t moved at all. He’d just opened his eyes.
“It’ll all be over soon,” he assured her.
All she could do was nod.
Billy’s soft snoring continued uninterrupted, a surprising comfort to Grace. She waited for Becket to close his eyes once again, but he continued to stare at her, even after she silently accepted his assurance.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” she began hesitantly. The crack of thunder that sounded was farther away, proving to her that the storm was, indeed, moving away from them, and the carriage had survived.
“Go right ahead,” Becket prompted when she faltered.
“Why?” Grace sat with her back ramrod straight, her hands folded primly in her lap. There was little enough light in the coach, but she knew she had Dillon Becket’s undivided attention. “Why you? My father never mentioned you in his letters.” She didn’t think it was necessary to tell him that her father’s letters had been few and far between.
“I owed your father a debt,” Becket answered in a low voice. Grace was not surprised. He seemed to be the kind of man who took his obligations seriously.
“Money?” Grace prompted. “He loaned you money for your ranch, and this is how he asked to be repaid?”
“No,” Becket said shortly. “Not that kind of a debt.”
She waited for an explanation to follow, but Becket was silent. The storm abated rather quickly, though fat raindrops continued to pelt the carriage. They echoed on the tarp and struck the shuttered window on Becket’s side of the coach. The only sound other than the steady rainfall was Billy’s soft snoring.
“Would you tell me?” she asked softly. “I’d…I’d like to know.”
Night had fallen, and the inside of the coach was completely dark. Grace wished, for once, that she could see Becket’s face. Maybe she would be able to tell what was going through his mind.
“He saved my life,” Becket said, just when Grace had decided that he wasn’t going to answer. “During the war.”
There was a moment of silence as Grace absorbed the information. She’d never thought of her father as the heroic type. “That…that doesn’t sound like my father.”
“We were running from the Yanks,” Becket said hoarsely. “Doesn’t sound very noble, but that’s the truth. It was sixty-two, and I hadn’t been in the army very long. It…it wasn’t what I expected.” He was quiet again, and Grace began to believe that he would say no more…and then he continued.
“Evidently I took a bullet in the back. I don’t remember. Last thing I recall is running across this little creek. But I’m told I was shot and fell, face first, into the water. They said Colonel Cavanaugh turned around and came back for me. Picked me up out of the water and carried me to safety.”
“That’s remarkable,” Grace whispered. Her father? He had never seemed, to her, a man for whom self-sacrifice was an option, and she couldn’t picture him as the heroic type. But he was if he had truly saved Dillon Becket’s life. “Was it very painful, getting shot?”
She thought she might have heard a small laugh escape his lips, but that was impossible. “Hurt like hell, but I knew I would survive. And I did. Of course, every eighteen-year-old thinks he’s invincible.”
Grace leaned forward just a little. She could have reached out and touched his leg, but she kept her hands to herself. “You were eighteen? That would make you twenty-eight now?”
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