One Heart to Win

by Johanna Lindsey

  She didn’t have to see his smile to know it was there when he said that. She felt a little bad for deceiving him tonight. Not that she hadn’t been frightened—for her brother. Sam should have made his escape by now. It was time to get up and go back to her room.

  “I guess it will just take a little while to get over being jittery at every noise or unexpected light in the house,” she said with a smile, leaning away from him.

  That was probably her biggest mistake because now she could see just how attractive he was, and she wasn’t hurrying to get off his lap. She gazed in fascination at his bare, muscular chest and arms, his strong, wide shoulders, the thick cords of his neck, and his handsome face. His blue eyes captured hers and wouldn’t let go. Was that the heat of desire in his eyes or a reflection of the lantern light? It was a breathless moment. She reminded herself that he didn’t know who she was and that he wouldn’t like her if he did. But he liked Jennifer. Why couldn’t she be the real Jennifer for just a little while tonight?

  “Jenny,” he said softly.

  It was as if he’d just answered her question, given her permission to do as she pleased. She didn’t stop him from drawing her closer to him again; no, she threaded her fingers through his long, dark hair and held on tight as his mouth claimed hers.

  His kiss was gentle at first, then turned strong and probing as his tongue pressed against her lips until they parted. Passion exploded for both of them. For long moments it engulfed them and neither of them seemed able to get enough of the other. Hunter ran his hands up and down her back as he deepened the kiss. Her hands clutched his shoulders as every nerve in her body sizzled with each thrust of his tongue. He was the one who finally tempered it, probably because he didn’t want to frighten her. He didn’t know she was beyond that point. But she was too inexperienced to do anything other than let him be her guide.

  He pushed back her jacket and the straps of her chemise with it, then put his mouth on her bare shoulder, kissing her and leaving a mark before he moved his lips to her neck. She was trembling inside as Hunter continued to kiss her and softly stroke and caress her. He excited her in ways she’d never dreamed of. He was so big, so strong, more handsome than any other man she’d ever encountered—and he wanted her.

  She felt him pulling the ties to her chemise, loosening it, and then his large hand was cupping one of her breasts. She gasped. His fingers moved to her nipple, gently circling it, igniting hot sensations that skittered through her body and made her gasp even more loudly. They both heard the footsteps at the same time. She inhaled sharply and started to get up, but he pulled her closer to him to cover her bare breasts as the guard passed by the kitchen windows.

  Her heart was pounding. She was still panting as the footsteps faded and she leaned back again.

  Hunter gave her a regretful smile. “Probably just as well. I was getting a little carried away.”

  What an understatement—that’s what she wanted to say but she couldn’t get any words out. She simply clutched the edges of her chemise closed and hurried out of the room and back upstairs. Now she was assailed with a double dose of guilt, for asking Sam to keep her secret and for giving Hunter the wrong impression. For God’s sake, she’d only met the man three days ago! And she had no intention of marrying him. How could she give in to forbidden urges? She’d even talked herself into allowing it! What was wrong with her? She was playing with fire.

  This had to end, and sooner than fifty-seven days from now. She was going to write another letter to her mother tomorrow. This time she’d tell her everything, all the horrors she’d witnessed, the fear she’d suffered, and what she was having to endure, dishwashing and all, just to avoid Frank Warren and find a way to end the feud without marriage. She’d tried to spare her mother additional worry, but it was too much for her to bear alone anymore. If Rose heard it all, she would release Tiffany from her promise. Before she left, she’d set these people down at a table and get them to resolve what should never have become a feud in the first place. Then she’d go home without a single regret. . . .

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  TIFFANY’S SECOND LETTER TO her mother was long and had to be worded just right. She couldn’t finish it all in one sitting because she had to prepare her first breakfast for the entire household. She served eggs, fresh-baked bread that came out perfect this time, and beef that Andrew offered to grill in the backyard so they wouldn’t have to overheat the kitchen by lighting the fireplace. It turned out so well that not even Hunter’s risqué remark that the eggs weren’t the best thing he’d ever tasted in the kitchen, a reference to what she’d foolishly let happen last night, didn’t ruin her good mood.

  It did embarrass her, though. A little. What had embarrassed her even more was her first sight of Hunter that morning and realizing how eager she’d been for it. She’d played with fire last night, and that flame would burn out of control if she couldn’t tamp down these inappropriate feelings he kept stirring in her.

  But her day was full enough to keep those thoughts away. After breakfast she had to get dinner started early, since she was going to make a roast. Just to make sure it didn’t turn into another disaster, she visited Mary again.

  Tiffany was still trying to avoid telling Hunter’s mother that she couldn’t cook, but she’d figured out a way to get some help from her without directly asking for it.

  “I’m going to make a roast tonight. There are many ways to do so, but I wondered if you had a favorite recipe of your own that I could try out?”

  “I have many, but it’d be hard to explain them unless I was right there with you in the kitchen. I didn’t actually cook for my family, you know. Zachary’s father, Elijah, had his own cook, and she made the trip here with us. When she retired, I thought I might start cooking for the family. My mother did teach me how. But Zachary went and hired another cook, and, well—I’d actually rather be out on the range, anyway.”

  “You—work with cattle?” Tiffany asked incredulously.

  Mary smiled. “Herding isn’t hard work, dear. Lets me spend more time with Zach, and I love the outdoors. I don’t get involved with the spring branding, but roping stray calves to bring them back to their mothers is fun. You should have one of the boys show you how sometime.”

  Tiffany decided this ludicrous idea didn’t merit a comment, and she’d gotten sidetracked. She needed recipes, not tips on roping cattle. That cookbook she’d bought just gave her bare basics or too many choices to vary a dish by adding this, or this, or that, but never saying just how much of those ingredients to add. Of course the book did sort of stress up front the value of experimenting, but she didn’t have time for experimenting. She wanted her dishes to come out right the first time around, not five ruined meals later.

  “So you don’t actually have any suggestions for the roast tonight?”

  “My mother preferred to prepare her roasts in a Dutch oven, with just a bay leaf, garlic . . . oh, and she always poured in some red wine, about half a cup.”

  So that’s why there was wine in the pantry! But Mary suddenly frowned thoughtfully, adding, “Old Ed had his own Dutch oven, but he probably took it with him. The one my mother left me is in the attic. You might want to fetch it, unless you traveled with your own?”

  Tiffany stared at her blankly. Travel with an oven? Would she even know what a Dutch oven was if she saw it? Andrew might. She could send him up to the attic for it. But while she had a sort-of-recipe for tonight, that wasn’t going to help her tomorrow.

  So she shook her head in regard to having her own oven and said, “I’ll try adding the wine tonight. Do you have any other recipes you’d care to share?”

  “As I said, my mother taught me and she was a damn fine cook, but it’s all up here.” Mary pointed at her head.

  “Perhaps you could write a few down for me?”

  Mary chuckled. “It’s hard to describe a pinch of this and a dash of that when it comes to spices. And it’s all in the measurements, you know. Put in too much and
you ruin a dish, put in too little and you also ruin it. But I’ll be back on my feet before the wedding. I can show you then.”

  The damn wedding. And that wasn’t going to help Tiffany now. Actually . . . “You might consider trying to sort out those dashes and pinches on paper,” she remarked with a smile. “Imagine what a wonderful gift it would make for your future daughters-in-law.”

  She’d managed to surprise Mary. “I’ll be damned, gal, that is a right fine idea. I’ll see what I can figure out and then you can make copies for yourself, too.”

  Tiffany stood up to leave, pleased she was going to get what she came for—hopefully soon. But then she remembered the letter to her mother that she’d started. If it got her the desired result, which was permission to go home, Mary here was probably the only one who could make her trip home guilt-free.

  To that end she impulsively said, “There’s another gift that would be even better, Mary, at least for the daughter-in-law you’re expecting soon. Well, if it was me, I’d certainly think so.”

  Mary perked up. “What?”

  “End the feud with her family before the wedding. That would be a magnanimous gesture, don’t you think?”

  Mary slumped back against her pillows. “Indeed it would. It’s such a shame. My boys should’ve been best of friends with Frank’s. Heck, we practically live within shouting distance of each other.”

  “Then why depend on a marriage to end it? Why not just end it?”

  “You think I haven’t tried? Rose wanted the hostilities ended, too. We both did. It just ain’t right, us carrying on something we had no part of starting.”

  “Rose?” Tiffany fought hard to keep the blush down, for asking something she already knew.

  “Frank Warren’s wife. I’d talk to her whenever we crossed paths in town. She was such a friendly young girl, never put on airs, coming from the big city like she did. She fit right in because she wanted to, but then she and Frank seemed so happy together, always touching, laughing”—and in a whisper—“even kissing in public. Then I heard she turned high-strung and started complaining about ranch life after Frank got shot. She just up and left one day, taking their little girl with her. Never understood that. To this day, I still don’t. But at least the truce lasted, even with her gone.”

  “Perhaps—perhaps she missed city life too much.”

  Mary actually snorted. “No, that gal loved it here, really loved it, and her man. I wasn’t surprised when she arranged the betrothal, and the truce, demanded it actually.” Another whisper: “I think she scared Zach a little that night she came over here by herself. She was in such a rage she was crying. Least, she definitely confused him. But I seen it coming, her doing something like that. She wasn’t afraid to butt heads with the menfolk over the water access. I knew it infuriated her that they couldn’t just share it. Did me, too. I just never had the nerve to put my foot down the way she did that night. She had fire and gumption, that girl. Must’ve been that red hair . . . ,” Mary said, gazing at Tiffany’s long hair.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “DO YOU NEVER STAY in your pen anymore?” Tiffany asked when she felt the nudge on her shoes and glanced down to find the piglet on the porch with her again.

  It stood still, staring up at her. She leaned down to pet it, but it continued to stare. She finally gave in with a roll of her eyes, picked it up, flipped it over on her lap, and began to rub its belly while she got back to watching the sunset.

  No summer storm had showed up today to ruin the glorious details of this one, such bright streaks of pink and yellow. The trees along the skyline looked as if they were aflame, with so much red behind them. She had time to enjoy it while the bread baked.

  “Don’t mind me, gal,” Zachary said as he stepped out of the house and headed down the porch to his favorite chair for his evening smoke.

  He didn’t comment on the piglet in her lap, which meant he hadn’t really looked at her. She was just another servant to him. Invisible. Actually, he did vaguely know she was there, so she probably shouldn’t tar him with her own brush. Her mother’s house was full of servants, but how often did she actually notice any of them other than Anna? This role she was playing was giving her insight into herself that she wasn’t all that comfortable with. But she could ignore Zachary as he, apparently, intended to ignore her. And she didn’t mind sharing the porch with him. With the breeze blowing his way, she wouldn’t notice the smoke either.

  “Something smells damn good, coming from the kitchen,” he yelled her way before he lit up his cigar and enjoyed the sunset, too.

  Tiffany smiled. Dinner tonight was going to be a cause for celebration . . . well, for her, anyway. Mary’s cast-iron Dutch oven turned out to be an amazing covered roasting dish. It was shallow enough to fit on the stove’s baking shelf. It had handles so Tiffany could simply bring it to the table and serve from it. It even came with a platform it could rest on, so it could be used over a fire, too. It was on the kitchen table right now, the roast inside it simmering in its gravy while the bread baked.

  She’d left a note on the lid that simply read, Don’t touch. It was going to be her surprise, her first good meal, and she wanted to be the one who revealed it. Of course the aroma that had filled the kitchen for most of the afternoon was a good indication. Still, presentation was everything, and she’d arranged the vegetables that Andrew had brought in and washed for her just right, circling them around the huge roast. And timed them perfectly, not adding them too soon.

  It had been a busy day, but it had gone smoothly—well, mostly. That unease she’d felt after leaving Mary’s room was long gone now. She’d been foolish to think even for a moment that Mary had somehow guessed who she really was when she’d mentioned Rose’s red hair and had stared at Tiffany’s—red hair. But the shades weren’t similar! It was absurd to think the woman might have made the connection. Even if it did occur to her, she would quickly have scoffed at the notion. Which is what Tiffany should have done sooner, instead of letting it make her uneasy for half the day. What really bothered her was what Mary had said about Tiffany’s parents. . . .

  Happy, so in love, and yet Rose just up and left. Why? Was no one ever going to answer that question for her? But this was the first she’d heard about how happy Rose had been here, which just made it all the more confusing. And made her realize for the first time, too, that she’d be a different person if Rose hadn’t taken her away from here. Tiffany would have grown up knowing Hunter and would probably be looking forward to marrying him, would probably be head over heels in love with him by now. It wasn’t such a horrible thought anymore; it was a bit sad because it hadn’t been destined to happen.

  “I’d like to see you hold him like that six months from now. Didn’t hear my warning about size, did you?”

  Thinking of the devil, she gave Hunter a smile. He was leaning in the doorway, a book in hand and freshly washed, by the look of his damp hair. He’d spoken quietly enough that Zachary hadn’t noticed him yet.

  “I don’t fetch him,” she said in her defense. “He seems to find me whenever a door is opened or I step outside.”

  “I know just how he feels.”

  She blushed and glanced back at the sunset. She should go back inside. He’d probably come out to talk to his father; he just wasn’t moving in that direction yet. And she didn’t move yet either.

  She even delayed him by nodding at the book he was holding. “Where did you get your schooling—or did you get any?”

  “Thinking I’m not up to your standards, Red?”

  “No, I just wondered.” Her talk with Sam last night had got her curious about the boys from both families growing up together, but she couldn’t mention that. “Where I come from, schools are plentiful. It occurred to me that isn’t the case out here.”

  “Ma taught us boys. She was going to be a teacher herself, but got married instead. But Nashart did finally get a schoolroom. And I brought this out for you.” He put the book down on the swing next to h
er. “Figured you might enjoy some fiction set west of the Rockies—if you find time to read.”

  She probably would since she didn’t expect every day to be as busy as today, but her curiosity wasn’t satisfied yet. “A single schoolroom implies you had to attend with your hated neighbors. Did you ever pick on them? Were you a bully growing up, Hunter Callahan?”

  He chuckled. “If I’m going to fight someone, he needs to be my size or bigger. I don’t mind bigger. The Warren boys never fit the bill. Even with Sam full grown now, I’ve still got a lot of weight on him.”

  Yes, he was definitely bigger, more muscular, broader in the shoulders, stronger in the legs . . . she got her eyes off him fast and shot to her feet. She started back into the house, but stopped when she remembered the piglet in her arms. She turned to take him back to his mama.

  Hunter held out his hands. “I’ll take him. I’m sure you’ve got a table to set or other things to finish up before dinner.”

  She nodded and handed the animal over. She was just inside the door when she heard Zachary say, “What the hell is that doing here? Jakes needs to be more careful with the food stocks.”

  Tiffany yelled as she marched down the hall, “He is not going to be dinner! Ever!”

  “Did I hear her right? She can’t—”

  She missed the rest of what Zachary said because his voice was drowned out by Hunter’s laughter.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  HUNTER CONTINUED TO WATCH Jennifer as she marched down the hall, her bustle swaying, her copper hair tied at the neck, but still so thick it spread across her back all the way to her waist. Those emerald eyes were probably flashing right now, proving she’d do battle for a pig. She would, too. He didn’t doubt it, and it kept the grin on his lips even after she’d disappeared into the kitchen.

  He’d laughed when he’d read the note she’d left on top of the Dutch oven. She didn’t even have to be in the room and she could make him laugh. . . .