Heartbreak Ranch: Amy's StoryJosie's StoryHarmony's StoryArabella's Story

by Chelley Kitzmiller

  William’s eyes dipped to their two tightly joined hands. He propped his fists on his hips. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ben stiffened his back, and only Harmony could sense the roiling tension inside him.

  “I’ve asked your daughter to be my wife.”

  “She said yes,” Harmony filled in eagerly.

  Josie said nothing at all.

  “You want to marry her?” William demanded. “Why?”

  “Why?” Ben appeared momentarily nonplussed. It took only seconds to regain his composure. “I love her,” he said simply. “I’ll work harder than ever. I’ll prove I’m worthy of her. If you’ll give your blessing, I swear to honor her always.”

  Josie smiled then, an ancient, womanly expression that spoke directly to Harmony. “You’ve always been in love with her,” she accused Ben gently.

  He nodded once. “Yes.”

  A long moment passed, during which no one said anything.

  Harmony couldn’t stand even one minute of uncertainty. “You don’t mind, do you? I know you expected me to marry, uh...somebody else.”

  William and Josie exchanged glances.

  At last Josie stepped forward and took Harmony’s hand. She drew her daughter off a step or two and looked deeply into her eyes. “It’s not who a man’s parents are or under what circumstances he was born—as your father and I learned more than twenty years ago—but what the man makes of himself that matters. We’ve known Ben since he was born, and we’ve always liked him. It won’t be easy for you, but if you truly love and want him, you’ll weather the storms together.”

  Eyes brimming with glad tears, Harmony threw her arms around her mother and hugged her hard. “Sometime soon,” she said, “I need to tell you about the Wilkersons’ visit. It wasn’t exactly...perfect.”

  “Oh, dear.” Josie smiled. “They weren’t too awful, were they?”

  “Let’s discuss it later,” Harmony suggested prudently. She hugged her father, who grinned and patted her back awkwardly.

  “Maybe I’ll get some grandbabies now,” he said, then pumped Ben’s hand.

  At last Harmony turned to Ben. “Harmony Heart Panau,” she breathed, gazing with love into her betrothed’s gleaming eyes. “French, white, Hawaiian and Indian. What a mix. I wonder what our children will look like?”

  “They’ll be beautiful,” he assured her gruffly, taking her into his arms under the indulgent eyes of William and Josie. “They’ll never want for love.”

  * * * * *

  Arabella’s Story

  Fern Michaels

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The present...

  LIGHT FILTERED through the vertical blinds, casting golden stripes across the champagne-colored spread. Arabella could tell it was still early by the color of the lines crisscrossing the satin coverlet.

  Should she get up or not?

  For some reason, she didn’t want to face the day and couldn’t recall why not. Then she groaned when it suddenly all came flooding back.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, a headache pounding at the back of her skull. Coffee and a bottle of aspirin might help, but chances were slim. Her gaze fell to the silky mess on the floor. The four-hundred-dollar designer chemise was nothing more than a thin black piece of material and two straps. Her glittery, sequined stiletto shoes sparkled in the corner of the room. She’d paid three hundred for them. She glared at the bare heel of the left shoe. Somewhere during the course of a long night of gambling, she’d lost the sequins.

  If only a few paltry sequins were all she had to worry about now.

  Arabella Collins was a professional gambler, a hired gun, earning her living by playing games of chance with other people’s money. Mr. Sandusky wasn’t going to appreciate her poor decision to bet the two hundred thousand. Not only that, she lost her percentage. She’d walked away from the game at four in the morning a loser; Sandusky didn’t like losers.

  One more big loss like last night and she’d be drummed out of Vegas. When she thought of her credit card bills, maxed to the limits, she groaned again. She couldn’t even charge a tube of toothpaste today.

  What she ought to do was pack in this crazy life and take up a different profession. Something staid and calm. Secretarial work, perhaps. Or she could become a florist. Or an accountant. Anything but earn her living by remembering cards and bluffing others and maintaining cool composure in the face of tremendous pressure. It was just that she was so good at it.

  Usually.

  Las Vegas, with its brilliant, neon-lit streets, cosmopolitan crowd and exciting nightlife, appealed to her now just as much as it had when she’d moved here a decade ago. Or at least, almost as much. And she adored her penthouse apartment perched atop one of the most glamorous casinos.

  She was a modern woman and proud of it. And in her profession, she was a pro. On a normal night, few could match her skill with cards. Her natural talent had been honed years ago by rousing bunkhouse poker games with the men on the ranch, and she had thoroughly enjoyed fleecing the guys every chance she’d gotten.

  For her, Vegas was a natural place to be.

  At least, it had been.

  Reminded of the disastrous night before, she felt her headache worsen.

  In the kitchenette of her hotel apartment, Arabella stumbled toward the coffeemaker. It was a feat, measuring ground beans into the filter with half-closed eyes, but she managed. Leaning on the tiled countertop, she stood impatiently before the machine until it dripped out a full mug. Before she could get a gulp, the shrill ringing of the telephone jarred her sensitive ears.

  “What is it?” she demanded belligerently into the receiver. She was always belligerent before her first cup.

  An old man’s gravelly voice thundered in her ear. “Arabella Heart Collins, tell me you have read the reports I’ve sent you.” Old Walt, the foreman, caretaker and general man-in-charge of Heartbreak Ranch.

  She sighed and darted a guilty glance at the stack of unopened envelopes beside the telephone. “Hello, Walt. Of course I’ve read them. They’re very...informative.”

  “I knew it!” he accused. “You haven’t even looked at them.”

  She could easily picture him—an aging, bushy-gray-haired curmudgeon barking into the phone. He always held it awkwardly. If it were the reins of a difficult colt or the steering wheel of a combine, his grip would be far more expert.

  “Arabella, it might not be my place—”

  “It isn’t—”

  “But I don’t think I’d be out of line to tell you how disappointed your parents would be if they knew how you’ve ignored the ranch—”

  “Give it a rest, Walt. I’m not coming back. I live in Nevada now. I don’t want to come back to California.”

  “The cows are starting to drop their new calves and the roundup will be—”

  She cut him off ruthlessly. “It’s all in the reports, isn’t it? I’ll read them, okay?” She had to cut him off—he reminded her of everything she fought so hard to forget.

  There was a short silence. Then, “You belong here, Arabella. You know that. All Heart women belong here.”

  She stared at the ceiling. “All right, all right. At sixty-five, maybe I’ll retire there. Will that satisfy you? Now, I’ve got to go.”

  With that she hung up, but as she walked into the small living room with her coffee, she felt like a heel. Old Walt was doing his best. He was a fine foreman and was only trying to include her in ranch decisions and events. She shouldn’t have been so short with him. Blame it on the headache.

  Dropping onto the ivory-patterned sofa, she stared up at the large gilt-framed painting hanging over the whitewashed fireplace mantel. Madam Bella Duprey lounged in all her naked glory, and the sight of the decadent pose always gave Arabella a lift. That woman had had guts, by God, and gu
ts Arabella admired.

  But going back was out of the question. After the dreadful nightmare that had occurred at Heartbreak Ranch ten years ago, she couldn’t. Even after so much time, she still couldn’t deal with thoughts of the fire and the toll it had taken on her life. When she’d run away from the ranch and all its horrific memories, she’d had Walt send her some clothes, the deed to the property and the heirloom painting. The scandalous piece of art had always been her favorite.

  Bella gazed down upon her now with ancient feminine allure.

  The old madam must have really known her stuff, Arabella reflected moodily. She’d spawned a dynasty. Vaguely, Arabella recalled tales her mother had told, tales that had been passed down from her mother, of how Bella had cleverly bamboozled Sam Heart, the original owner of the deed, and then had him conveniently shanghaied.

  Into Arabella’s mind came an image of her lovely mother and her soft voice recounting the delicious stories. Her beautiful blue-violet eyes, Arabella remembered well. But the vision was almost instantly clouded by sounds of her mother’s frantic screams and images of destruction, and death.

  For a brief moment, Arabella squeezed her eyes shut, and at the same time, shut out the memories. “Please,” she whispered as the unwanted images came to her. “Please, no.” Shuddering, she forced herself to put the thoughts aside. She would do as she had for years—turn her mind away, think of something else. She had enough to deal with without tearing herself apart over the past.

  A big game was set for Friday evening—two days away. In spite of last night’s loss, she didn’t doubt that Sandusky would still want her to play for him. According to her calculations, he was still way ahead. Nevertheless, she was certain he would have a few choice remarks about her strategy. She’d just have to grin and bear it; when Sandusky made choice remarks, you listened.

  Back in the kitchen for more coffee, she caught sight of her reflection on the shiny black refrigerator door. She might as well face it, she looked like hell. Her normally sleek blond hair was tangled beyond hope. Her eyes were bloodshot, the lids puffy. She gazed at the reflection of her expensive aqua silk nightgown and matching wrap and wondered how much she could get for them at the consignment shop off the Strip.

  Blowing a strand of hair off her face, she knew she had to get her act together. Winning the big game was even more vital to her than the money she hoped to earn on her percentage. Whether or not she would ever again play in Vegas depended upon her performance.

  * * *

  IN THE PLUSH CASINO, the ka-ching of one-armed bandits could be heard over muted conversation, punctuated by occasional yelps of joy and groans of dismay from the craps tables. Scantily clad cocktail waitresses juggling loaded trays canvassed the floor, faithfully dispensing alcohol twenty-four hours a day. Up high, in the vaulted ceiling, a cloud of cigarette smoke hung near two-way mirrors, from which sharp unblinking eyes observed everything.

  To Arabella the place felt, if not like home, then at least familiar. She’d showered and changed into a lavender cashmere sweater and matching slacks, and she felt a little better.

  Now, placing herself behind an enormous potted palm near the lobby, she waited to see who her competition would be. She knew many of them would arrive this morning. The game would draw some of the most elite professionals from gambling hot spots all over the world: from the Costa del Sol, Atlantic City and Monte Carlo.

  Monte Carlo.

  She didn’t want to think about the two months she’d spent there last year. At the time, combining work and a vacation seemed like a good idea. But her heart was still aching from memories of him—the man she couldn’t get her mind off—and the fiasco of their relationship. If only things could have turned out differently.

  Lost in thought, Arabella was taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of Lily Lake. Lily was like Arabella—a career girl who played with money from backers.

  “Darling, you’re here?” the elegant beauty inquired of Arabella in cultured tones.

  “Hello, Lily.” Arabella returned the greeting in tones as dry as the Nevada desert. She braced herself as the tall, leggy female glided closer. Lily glittered with oversize diamonds and something furry wrapped around her neck.

  She looked lovely enough, but Arabella had learned by hard experience that one had to be on one’s guard around Lily.

  “Who are you playing for?” Lily asked in her sickly sweet manner. “Raleigh? Or that Texas oil tycoon you were working for in Atlantic City?”

  Arabella shook her head. “Neither. I have a new client. He’s a local here. Into hotels and casinos.”

  “Sandusky?” Lily asked shrewdly, her obvious shock irritating Arabella.

  “The very same.”

  “Well, that should make the game...interesting. For once you’ll have a backer who actually has some real money.” With that, she glided away, and Arabella realized the furry thing around the other woman’s neck was an ermine stole.

  A stole. Arabella rolled her eyes. As if anyone wore those things anymore. The frustrating thing was, on the stunning Lily Lake the fur collar looked great.

  All at once Arabella’s lavender outfit seemed plain. She grimaced. Next to Lily she always felt dowdy.

  Arabella watched Lily slink toward the reception desk and observed the predictable gaping of the clerk. She scoffed. Men were such idiots, falling for every pretty face and impressive bust measurement.

  Lily wielded her beauty like a club. Always in a dress cut to there, always perfectly coiffed and made up, always with a bold eye, Lily had won games by literally distracting her male opponents with her overblown physical charms. But Arabella was immune to such wiles, and knew that when it came to skill she was better than Lily and could outplay her at the table. She had before; she could do it again.

  At the hotel entrance, a group of robed men, some sporting beards and balancing exotic turbans, flowed inside like an Arabian tide of rich oil. They surrounded a man with a hawk nose and piercing eyes. Faroud. Well, well, Arabella thought as she watched the flunkies flow smoothly around Faroud. The high-stakes competition was certainly drawing in the very best.

  Faroud was one of the only pros she knew who actually gambled with his own money. For him, winning a few hundred thousand, or losing a few, was merely a diverting hobby. His wealth came from Egyptian oil fields.

  Suddenly, from the rows of glass doors that fronted the hotel, a lone man entered and paused just inside. His gray eyes flashed over the lobby with a mercury-colored gaze that missed nothing.

  Arabella gasped and shrank back behind a broad palm leaf.

  Zach.

  Arabella ran an unsteady hand across her eyes. Lordy, what would she do? That Zachary Richards should come to town and participate in the big game hadn’t occurred to her. After their time in Monte Carlo, she hadn’t seem him in a year.

  Eleven months, fourteen days, six hours, to be exact.

  She would never forget Zach Richards. The starry nights, the sunny days on the Riviera. It had been magic, a world of heady romance, of laughter and lovemaking. It was the first time she had ever let herself open up that way to a man. She hadn’t intended to let anything ever go that far, but Zach was so very caring, so seductive, so perfect, that she had begun to feel safe enough to open herself up. Safe enough to love and be loved in return.

  But whenever Zach had looked at her with those steel-gray eyes, she’d felt as if he were looking into her very soul. When things really heated up between them, she realized she was in jeopardy of falling apart. Rather than risk her heart and leave herself open to eventual loss, she had run like a frightened jackrabbit, left him without any explanation.

  She had walked out on Zach. But she hadn’t been able to forget him.

  Unable to help herself, Arabella peered through the palm leaves and saw him stride in his uniquely purposeful way to the reception desk. He gave a curt nod in Faroud’s direction, acknowledging him, and then flashed a brilliant smile at Lily Lake.

  That
grin. That devastating smile. Arabella remembered it so very well. He had smiled into her eyes in the aftermath of their lovemaking. What was the expression, actually? A simple lifting of his lips? An easy showing of his teeth? But what lips. What teeth. A memory of what he could do to a woman’s caress-warmed skin with those tools weakened her knees. Even from across a room he still had the power to make her feel as if thickened honey were spreading through her.

  Zach Richards. Oh, Lord, not here, not now. Not when the upcoming game was going to require all of her attention.

  Behind her, in a tiny alcove off the lobby was a small grouping of chairs. She groped her way to them and sank into the overstuffed leather. Her hand trembled as she tried to rub away the tension that settled in her nape. Like her, Zach always used a backer’s money, earning a percentage for himself; it was the way things were done. Naturally, his backer would want his best man to participate in the contest.

  “Still hiding behind the hotel plants?” a masculine voice inquired behind her. She jumped, but he went on. “I thought I’d find you here, checking out the competition for Friday’s game. You always did want to know who you were up against. You haven’t changed at all.” There was a note of disparagement in his voice.

  Getting swiftly to her feet, Arabella faced him warily. “Zach,” she said. “It’s nice to see you. You...haven’t changed, either.” She took in his tall, broad-shouldered frame, thick dark hair, sharp gray eyes that seemed to laser right through her. His ebony suit was of expensive wool, expertly tailored. His shoes, Italian leather.

  “No, I’m different now, Arabella,” he replied. “Real different. I’m not the gullible fool you used last year in Monte Carlo.”

  “Used?” she blustered, unsettled by his wording. “What do you mean, used?”

  “Don’t play innocent, sweetheart. When you ran away from me I figured—wrongly as it turns out—that you’d be back. When you never returned, I got the message.”

  She lifted her chin, trying to brazen out the difficult situation. But he advanced on her and she took a step back, so that the huge pot came flush behind her. She felt one of the fronds jabbing her spine. There was nowhere else to go. “It wasn’t like that,” she informed him stiffly.