He did not wait for her to reply but took the roan’s bridle and began to turn the horse about. “You’re going up a boxed-in canyon,” he explained as he led her back the way she had come, then up a slight ravine hedged by ironwood. Fifty yards away stood the gotch-eared sorrel he rode and a burro loaded with picks and shovels.
“Have you been prospecting?” she asked.
He released the bridle. “Trying to. Not much luck. But then I’m not the superstitious sort.” He grinned—not a mocking but a friendly, teasing smile. “Been out wading in any creeks lately?”
So, he had not forgotten that night. She had hoped the aguardiente he had consumed had wiped out the memory. “No,” she said quietly. “Nor have I been out picking night-blooming flowers.”
“Then it’s time you did something impractical again.” And before she could protest, his hands clasped her waist and lifted her from the saddle.
“Oh, no. Law Davalos,” she said as he pulled her along with him, “I’m not about to go traipsing the hills for some mysterious flower.”
“It’s not a flower this time. It's a tree.”
“It’s far too hot to be—”
“There,” he said, pulling her up before him.
She stared at the tree—a type she occasionally had seen in her rides. The largest of the yucca cactus, it had grotesque branches all pointing in the same direction. And yet there was something weirdly beautiful about the tree.
“It’s a Joshua tree,” he said behind her. “The Mormons named it so because it looks as if it’s lifting its arms to heaven in supplication. The Yaquis and Mexicans tell superstitious lore about it.”
She turned her head to the side so that she could see his face. “Like what?”
He shrugged and smiled. “The usual things. Like making wishes.”
“Then if I make a wish, will that satisfy you? Can we go back?” She pursed her lips and squinted her eyes, as though concentrating. “I am wishing that you won’t drag me off to look at any more desert plant life.”
He laughed. “Oh, no. That won’t do. Miss Howard. You can’t tell a wish or it won’t come true. Try again.”
She sighed and turned around to face him. “All right. Let me think a minute.” And with her eyes closed there suddenly seemed only one important wish. It overrode even the desire for the return of her mother’s health. Love—and marriage—with a man like Sherrod.
Law took her shoulders. “You’re a foolish woman. Miss Howard,” he said grimly. “The kind of man my stepbrother is would never make you happy.”
Her eyes snapped open. So, it had been Law out in the compound the night she talked with Sherrod. “And do you think you would?” she gritted.
For an answer Law jerked her to him. His mouth ground down on hers. It was nothing like the kiss he had given her the first time. She tried to twist away, but he held her fast. When he forced her lips apart, his tongue first teasing, then ravishing, she was shocked. She felt sullied. But out of that revulsion there sprouted a seed of desire to take root in her loins, and it seemed that too soon he released her.
“No,” he said, still holding her wrists, “I’m not that man. But then I don’t think you’ll give any man a chance at laying claim as long as you got Sherrod sitting on that mountaintop. ” Anger shot through her, but before she could deliver a verbal blast, he held up his hands. “Wait! Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always admired my stepbrother. Sherrod is every inch the gentleman. What every woman wants. And he's too much the gentleman to violate civilization’s code of ethics. Excepting . . .” Law paused, his eyes studying her pale face. “Excepting, Cate, if I wanted something bad enough, you can damn well bet civilization’s code wouldn't stand in my way of taking it.”
And he took her in his arms again, holding her, bending her so that she could not move—one hand behind her head, the other gripping her waist. His mouth clamped over hers in a long, thorough kiss. At first Catherine, constrained by his arms, remained passive. All she could think of was how cool, how refreshing, his mouth was on hers as the sun beat down mercilessly on them.
Then that ember of passion that her Victorian morals would have denied flared into a flame. Slowly her conscious thought ebbed so that she was aware of Law and Law only . . . his masculine strength, his smell of leather and sweat and tobacco, and the solid thud of his heart that seemed to drum in time to her own.
Beneath her palms his sun-heated back rippled with sinewy muscles. His mustache abraded her lips, and his mouth tasted salty over hers. He was all male, and he was making her very much aware of herself as a female, aware of what her body was meant for.
“Open your mouth, Cate,” he said, his voice husky with his want of her.
She knew that a proper lady would never do what she was doing. And yet was not that why she was out there—to live her life to its fullest? Slowly, with great misgivings, her lips voluntarily parted.
Law boldly tasted of her mouth. His teeth nibbled at her lips. Dimly she wondered if he had made love to many women and suspected that his women had been innumerable. Any other thoughts she had wavered like the shimmering heat rising off the caked and crinkled earth as his tongue plundered the hollow of her ear. His sure hands traveled down her spine and pressed her against him so she could feel the hard knot at the apex of his long legs. Her knees buckled with the thirst for something more that raged through her, parching her, leaving her depleted.
When his hand cupped one her derriere, anchoring her against him she was jolted by the unexpected act of intimacy, unprepared. “No!” she rasped, swiveling her face away.
He paused, lifted his head, and said in a sardonic tone, “Seems I misjudged you.” A crooked grin eased the angled face. “Or perhaps you are one of that kind, Cate—the kind that leads a man on?”
She blinked. “What?” Suddenly the meaning behind his words dawned on her. “You insufferable clod!” She stepped away and coolly surveyed the young man. “You are a good-for-nothing reprobate. Law Davalos! A parasite. Feeding off the labor of Don Francisco and your stepbrother!”
“Yes’m. That I am.” The man was obviously enjoying himself. He rested his hands on his hips and settled his weight on one leg. “Anything else?”
The infectious amusement softened her anger. “Yes, there’s more.” She bit her lip. “I’m trying to be honest, and I find it rather painful . . . but the fact of the matter is I—I liked what you did. The kiss.”
Law nodded his head slowly, and she saw that he was striving to keep from smiling again and losing. “I admit my naiveté—my inexperience— but I didn’t know what to expect until it was almost too late.”
His grin faded, and he looked at her as if he was trying to understand. “Too late for what?”
She colored. It was really ridiculous standing there under the scorching sun, trying to explain herself to him. “To make it blunt,” she said, crossing her arms defensively, “I want a husband.”
His eyes narrowed, and she hurried on. “Oh, I’m not after you. Law Davalos. You’d be a poor excuse for a husband.”
He smiled broadly and reached for her, saying, “I knew I liked you, Cate Howard. Not only are you a fetching woman, but you’re plain-spoken. Now that we both agree that marriage is not in the book for us . . .” He drew her close, and she put her hands up against his chest in an attempt to distance herself from his irresistible allure.
“You still don’t understand, you nitwit! I want a real husband. A real marriage. I don’t want to go to my husband . . . tainted.”
The comers of his lips twitched. “You just want us to go on—kissing, is that it?”
She glared at the tall man. “No! I’m not that insipid. I’m trying to tell you that though I like the way you make me feel—and I know it is quite shocking to admit it, but you did indicate you appreciate honesty—even though I—your kisses are . . . nice, well, you mustn’t ever do it again.”
His laughter was uproarious. It echoed throughout the small canyons about them. The more he l
aughed, the angrier she became. Her fist doubled up, and she socked him below his ribs in the muscled flatness of his stomach.
Law grunted. A surprised look flashed across his face. He jerked her up against him, and her booted toes swung free of the ground. “I ought to whip you for that!”
Then he bent his head, and he began to kiss her with a ruthlessness that frightened her worse than his threat of whipping her. Physical punishment would only make her angrier. But this, the slow devouring of herself, left her weak and helpless, without any volition of her own. Even now her hands crept up to entwine in the riotous sun-bleached locks, to pull him closer.
He released her abruptly, and she almost fell. “And I'll warn you about something else,” he said softly, his gaze scalding her. "You can’t help what you feel, Cate. You’re a hot-blooded woman, whether you know it or not. And you want me.”
Her breasts rose and fell in seething contempt. “You’re wrong! I don’t want you. I'd have any type of man before I’d have you!”
The mouth eased into a smile, but the eyes were the shade of burnt umber. “No, you’re wrong, Cate. As sure as you’re standing under this Joshua tree, you want me. And you know where to find me. I'll be out here waiting for you. I’ll wait—and you’ll come.”
“You’ll wait forever!” She turned on her heel and stalked back to her horse.
CHAPTER 10
"You must come to Tucson and make the paseo, Catrina,” the thirteen-year-old Atanacia said.
Looking at the beautiful young Mexican girl dressed in white flounces, it was difficult for Catherine to believe she was the bride of the big, red-headed Welshman sitting across from Don Francisco. Her husband, Sam Hughes, was thirty-three. Atanacia was a child bride indeed. And yet her black eyes sparkled with adoration for the giant of a man at her side. The couple was returning from a honeymoon in Santa Fe and had stopped over to visit with Sherrod, who occasionally bought whipsawed lumber from Sam. The sawmill in the Santa Rita Mountains was just one of the many businesses the Welshman had his hand in.
“A paseo is a stroll—-a promenade, isn’t it?” Catherine asked.
Sam laughed, and the after-dinner hot chocolate sloshed in the tiny cup held between his ham-hock hands. “It is. But in Tucson the paseo is special. Tell her about it, Sherrod.”
Sherrod’s eyes sought hers. “On Saturday night the men walk in one direction about the plaza, Catherine, and the unmarried women in another. When eye contact is made—and acknowledged—the couple drift apart from the others to walk together.”
“It’s Atanacia’s way of matchmaking," Sam interjected. “Now that she is married, she thinks every single female should also be.”
Atanacia said, “Oh, Catrina, mi esposo, he has not the tact. I think of the paseo because you are so hermosa and there are so many hombres in Tucson without esposas.
Catherine could have sworn she detected a smothered snort from Law, who sprawled at one end of the camelback sofa. A quick glance beneath her lowered lids showed him hastily sipping the chocolate.
“I’m afraid the children would be very unhappy to lose Catherine,” Sherrod put in with a smile, “even if it was to a local wife-hunter.”
From there the conversation turned to children, with Atanacia declaring she wanted fifteen. Lucy sat silently next to Sherrod. Her beautiful face was pinched, the lovely lips drawn tightly. Catherine wondered how the woman could be unhappy when she had everything that Catherine wanted—a home, children, a husband. But Lucy was clearly morose, and Catherine could not decide who looked the worse at the moment, Lucy or herself.
It had been almost a week since she had been riding, since that day beneath the Joshua tree, and she could tell the difference in how she felt. With the lack of outdoor exercise, her complexion had reverted to its lackluster hue, making her eyes too large for her small-boned face.
She was indeed the coward Law called her. She could endure the putrefying stench of the rotting limbs and festering wounds of the soldiers she tended, but the mocking eyes and teasing lips of Lorenzo Davalos were unbearable; and thus she was bound as surely as a chained prisoner to the Stronghold, afraid of meeting him on her rides, afraid of actually going to the Joshua tree.
For a week she had not seen him. For a week she had paced her bedroom, walked the small courtyard, and haunted the dim rooms, feeling as if her life were ebbing from her there in the Stronghold. She needed the sun and the wind!
And now Law was back, invading the Stronghold, to taunt her.
Even at that moment she could not ignore him. For the Stronghold’s other guest, her traveling companion Hiram Ogilvee, brought Law’s name into the conversation. “Yep, I could have sworn it was you I saw in San Francisco last month, Law.”
Don Francisco shot a disgusted glance at his stepson, “I doubt Law has that much get up and go to turn up in San Francisco, Hiram. But if you did see him. it was no doubt in one of the Barbary Coast’s gambling palaces.”
Law crooked a smile. "Now, you know Hiram would never be found in any of those notorious establishments, would you, Hiram?”
The surveyor general blustered, “I should say not! It’s the riffraff and deserters from the war drifting into places like San Francisco and Tucson that are encouraging such vices.”
“And the lawyers are the worst,” Sam said. “They’re coming to Tucson like bears that have smelled honey. They hope to make a killing representing the Mexican grandees in substantiating their grant claims before the Department of the Interior.”
“I'm just grateful that Cristo Rey’s deed has been cleared,” Elizabeth said. She picked up the chocolatera. “Mr. Ogilvee— Sam—more hot chocolate?”
Hiram held out his cup for the woman to refill, but Sam shook his head, saying, “No, we need to get on to bed. I mean to be on the road early tomorrow before Cochise and his gang hit the trail. You know, don’t you, that a band of his up in the Dos Cabezas Mountains butchered up that archaeologist-—what was his name?”
“Stridehope?” Catherine gasped. "Not Jonathan!”
"That's a shame!” Don Francisco said.
For a few moments the occupants of the parlor discussed the tragedy of the archaeologist’s death. Catherine could feel Law’s lazy, speculative gaze on her. Damn him! He alone had caught her disproportionate distress.
That night when everyone had retired, she lay in her bed, trying to will herself to sleep. Her thoughts churned around Jonathan Stridehope. He had been the kind of man with whom she would be content to spend her life. And yet she had never tried to imagine his lips kissing hers. She smiled wryly, thinking he would probably have gone down on one knee and requested permission to court her. Wasn’t that the kind of man she wanted for a husband?
Then why was she possessed by thoughts of Law Davalos? She was as possessed by the want of him as Lucy was by the want of opiates. Law’s rangy physique stalked her thoughts during the day and invaded her dreams at night.
Her drifting mind froze as she heard the jingle of spurs coming down the portico. Like everyone else in the Stronghold, she had begun to leave her door open to catch the hot night’s faint summer breeze. Now she could see the man silhouetted outside her door, a silhouette so tall that the bent head brushed the door’s lintel.
A scratching against the adobe brick reached her ears, then a match's phosphorescent flare illuminated the rugged face as a cigarette was lit. Law’s cat eyes looked at her. “Evening, Cate,” he said and strolled on off, leaving the horrid stench of his cigarette to remind her he was not some will-o’-the-wisp she had imagined.
Resolutely she turned her back to the door and fluffed her ticking pillow, determined to sleep. Yet Lucy’s faint crying reached her from the adjacent room, and a few minutes later Sherrod appeared at her door. “Catherine,” he said softly, urgently.
She sat up, clutching the covering before her. “It’s Lucy,” his shadowy voice said. “She wants you.”
“I’ll be right there. Let me get my robe.”
The yo
ung woman was drawn up in the rocking chair. Her bare toes stuck out from beneath her gown’s lace hem. The coal-oil lamp cast an unflattering light on her watery blue eyes and shiny red nose. Her flaxen yellow hair looked as dry and stiff as straw.
“I caught her taking this,” Sherrod said, passing Catherine a bottle. “Laudanum. I thought I had gotten rid of it.”
“Tell him I need it,” Lucy beseeched Catherine.
Running a hand through his rumpled hair, he said, “I’ve talked to her about the laudanum. I’ve told her how dangerous the habit can be. But she thinks I’m just being cruel to her.”
Lucy began to tremble violently, and Catherine said, “Come on to bed, Lucy. You’re tired.”
The woman rose and clung to her. “Will you stay with me?”
“As long as you want.” She tucked the muslin sheet over Lucy and sat on the bed's edge, holding the woman’s rigid hand. Sherrod went to sit in the rocker. His dark eyes were shadowed with fatigue.
When Lucy’s hand slackened, she said, “The laudanum is easily obtained through the mail-order houses, Sherrod. You must make certain you check all the supplies that are freighted in from Tucson each month.”
“But. dear God, why? Why does she need it?”
“Fear.”
“Fear,” he echoed. "Of what?”
"Of not being able to cope, maybe. And other things. There are lots of fears that men don’t understand.”
"Cope! She doesn’t have to worry about coping. Catherine! She has servants for herself, and a tutor for her children, and my mother carries all the responsibilities of running the house. Lucy has nothing to worry about!"
Catherine rose from the bed. "I think she'll sleep the rest of the night.” Before she reached the door, he was there, stopping her. "Why can’t she have your strength, Catherine?”
He took her hands, and she said, "Sherrod, no!”
“I’ve fallen in love with you,” he said in a tortured voice. "Oh, not like with Lucy—with her pretty facade.”
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