“I think so, too. Was there something you needed, Margaret?”
Charles’s voice interrupted her gaping perusal of Buck’s legs. She quickly fabricated a reason for interrupting them. “Ah, two things, Charles. First, when are you leaving on your chores?”
Charles checked the clock on the mantel. “I have some other errands along the way, so I’ll leave here around one o’clock.” He studied her. “You’re sure you don’t want to ride along?”
With nervous fingers, she smoothed back her hair. “No. But thank you anyway. There’s still more work to do on the piano, and I want to finish the job before dinner.”
He shook his head. “And here I thought I was merely getting a wife. At the time, I had no idea you were so … so accomplished.” He gave her a humor filled smile. “And the other thing?”
“Other thing? Oh. Oh … yes. Well, I need a … a stumpferdoodle.” She winced at the sound of the inane word she’d just invented.
“A what?”
She waved her arm in a dismissive manner. “Oh, it … it’s this German tool I use when I’m … when I’m raising the damper pedals.” It was a stupid thing to say, but because of the dreadful condition of the piano, she was sure Charles didn’t know anything about it anyway.
Buck turned away and coughed. Molly knew he was covering a laugh.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a … a stumpferdoodle lying around, Margaret,” Charles answered around a chuckle.
He was humoring her, and though she deserved it, she didn’t like it. “Well, it’s very much like a simple pliers, Charles. You do have a pliers, don’t you?”
“Darned if I know. Randall? There must be a pliers out in the shed. Would you mind—”
“Oh, really,” she interrupted. “It isn’t necessary for him to get them for me. I’m perfectly capable—”
“Oh, I’m beginning to realize that, my dear.” He laughed again, obviously pleased with his wit. “But let Mr. Randall get it for you, just the same.”
She’d climbed out on a limb and was forced to either back right into the enemy or fall to the ground. “Well, if you insist.”
“I insist,” he answered, still smiling. “Randall, would you show Miss Lindquist where the tools are? If she’s determined to be so blasted resourceful, she might as well know her way around the toolshed.”
Buck picked up his Stetson and cleared his throat. “My pleasure, Mr. Campion.” He ambled to the door and held it open for her. He gave her a wide-eyed innocent look, but deep in his dark depths, she saw amusement. “Miss Lindquist?”
Molly clenched her teeth, tossed him a look she hoped would melt rock, and sailed through the doorway ahead of him.
It wasn’t until they were outside that she dared speak. “Just point me in the right direction. You probably don’t know what I’m looking for, anyway.”
His low, whiskey-laugh plagued her. “No doubt you’re right. I wouldn’t know a … a stumpferdoodle, is it?”
She gave him a curt nod, acutely aware that he was making fun of her.
“I wouldn’t know a stumpferdoodle if it jumped up and bit me on the ass.”
“I only wish it had the ability,” she snapped, her voice low enough so no one else would overhear.
He continued to chuckle quietly as they crossed the yard toward the barn.
Walking slightly behind him, she muttered, “This isn’t the way to the toolshed.”
“There’s a pair of pliers in the toolbox, which is on the wagon. Since we can’t find you a stumpferdoodle, a pair of pliers will have to do, isn’t that what you said?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Buck. I don’t need a pair of pliers, and you know it.”
He slowed his steps until she was beside him. Then, touching her elbow lightly, he guided her toward the barn. The skin beneath her sleeve tingled. The shiver traveled to all the newly found places his kiss had probed weeks earlier.
“I know it, and you know it,” he answered, his voice low. “But if Campion is watching from the window, you’d better damned well leave the barn with a pair of pliers.”
Her heart jumped. He was right, of course.
“Watch your step, brat.”
She knew he didn’t mean her footing. “I’ll watch mine if you’ll watch yours.”
“Meaning what?” he answered as they stopped at the barn door.
“Meaning, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to tell Charles my secret. I’ll tell him myself, very soon.”
He stepped inside, returning with a toolbox, which he lifted onto a tree stump near the door. “And if I don’t believe your?”
She pushed away the feeling of dread. “If you don’t believe me, then stick around. I’ll make sure you get a front row seat.”
He turned, handing her the pliers, his gaze narrowing as he looked at her. “You can count on my being there, brat. I wouldn’t miss this for all the money in your beloved fiancé’s wall safe.”
She pulled her gaze away and blinked furiously. As always, each time she talked with Buck, the germ of fear he’d so deftly planted weeks ago had a spurt of growth. The roots fanned out a little farther beneath the surface of her consciousness. She tried to ignore it. “Why can’t you just accept the fact that I’m not afraid, and that he won’t care when I tell him?”
“Because I know him better than you do.”
As she massaged her neck, she realized that he seemed determined to fight with her. “It’s hard work fighting with you all the time. I don’t see why we can’t get along.”
“Oh, we could get along if you weren’t so damned stubborn.”
Her frustration with him blossomed. “Why is it always my fault? As far as I can see, you’re the one who has always been there to upset my plans.”
He shoved his hands into his back pockets and stared at her. “As long as you keep thinking of it that way, I guess things will never change.”
Her shoulders sagged. He was right. They were on a collision course and both were too stubborn to avoid the crash. “Just try to be happy for me, Buck. Don’t spoil it by going to Charles before I have a chance to.”
He snorted a laugh. “Is that why you were listening at the door? To see if I was spilling my guts about your silly, shallow plans?”
“I wasn’t.” Yes, she was, and he knew it. “All right, I was.” She gave him a skeptical look. “How do I know I can trust you not to give me away until I’m ready to do it myself?”
“You don’t.” He gave her an infuriating smirk, turned and walked toward the bunkhouse.
With the pliers clutched in her fist like a weapon, she stared after him, wishing she had the nerve—and the desire—to plunge them into his back.
It had taken her hours to make the piano sound even remotely as it should. She had tools for minor tuning, but this had been beyond that. She’d done the best she could, given the circumstances.
Wiping her hands on a cloth, she strolled to the salon window and gazed outside. Without warning, her pulse raced, sending her fingers to the base of her throat.
Buck was hauling water from the well. She watched him cross easily to the back of the house where Angelita held the kitchen door for him. She beamed as he approached and gave his arm a familiar squeeze as he entered the house.
Molly continued to stare outside, unconsciously waiting for him to leave. So she could … watch him? In a way, yes. Oh, not because she wanted to watch him, in the carnal sense. No, certainly not. Only because she needed to keep track of him.
He came out, returned to the well and effortlessly brought Angelita two more pails of water. He had such strength. She looked at him, trying to see him as others did. He was tall and well muscled, but not massively so, like Mr. Reno. Buck was sleeker, like a slightly hungry jungle cat.
Back home, Buck, Jason and Nicolas had stood tall over their people. Most of the breeds did. She wondered if other women thought Buck handsome. To her, he was. Maybe she saw something others
didn’t. Or maybe the type of man he was—rugged, earthy and sexy—just appealed to her. But when she compared him to Charles … Well, Charles was handsome, too. Unfortunately, her pulse didn’t thrum wildly when Charles entered a room. She truly wished it did.
She tensed at the window as Buck stood by the back door and talked with the housekeeper. Frowning, Molly felt the now familiar bite of jealousy as he threw back his head and laughed at something Angelita said. She wished feelings could be controlled and tamed, like wild horses. She hated this feeling of yearning that hollowed out her stomach every time she saw Buck with someone else.
Buck and Angelita glanced toward the salon window, and Molly jumped backward, embarrassed that they might have seen her standing there.
Staying a few paces back, she craned her neck, trying to see if they were still there. Suddenly, Buck strolled past the window, looked straight at her, tipped his Stetson and gave her that infuriating smirk.
She made a face at him. He and Angelita had been talking about her, she was certain of it. Molly wasn’t one to feel insecure about what others said of her, but now, with the muddle she was in, she wouldn’t put it past Buck to tell the housekeeper her secret. She felt a sudden jolt of anger. Angelita didn’t seem to care much for her in the first place. Buck had no right making it all worse. But surely he wouldn’t tell Angelita that he knew her … would he?
Biting her lip nervously, she moved slowly from the window—and came face-to-face with Angelita. A quick stab of fear rendered her uncommonly speechless.
“Senorita,” Angelita said crisply. “Perhaps you would like some lemonade?”
Molly gave her a calculated look. “Lemonade?”
“Si, after working so hard on the piano.”
Pulling in a deep breath, she nodded. “Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”
“Would you come into the kitchen, please?”
“The kitchen? Why …?” Shrugging, Molly sighed again. “Why not.” She followed the housekeeper into the spacious kitchen and sat at the long table they used to feed the ranch hands. A tall glass of lemonade waited for her. She sipped, unable to enjoy the sweet-tart drink. This wasn’t like Angelita. Despite the fact that they’d often worked together, they seldom exchanged pleasantries. She felt a yawning well of suspicion open inside her, but said nothing. It was probably just her conscience, guilty now because of that blasted Buck.
“You are happy here?” The housekeeper worked at the counter, rolling out piecrusts.
“Yes,” Molly answered, slowly moving the glass in small circles. “It’s a lovely home.”
Angelita nodded. “Nicolette, she is happy to have you here.”
“I enjoy her company, too.” Molly frowned, wondering where this was leading.
“And Senor Campion? You enjoy his company?”
Uh-ooh. She carefully formed her thoughts into words. “I … think Mr. Campion is a very nice, generous man. And the staff … all of you have been more than kind to me. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”
“What is your family like, senorita?”
“My … my family?” She took a nervous gulp of lemonade.
“Si. Your family.” Angelita pressed the pie dough into large round tins.
It seemed like an innocent question. Molly thought about the years she’d created her own little fantasy world to protect herself and her mother. How easy it had always been to pretend she was the daughter of Swedish immigrants from Oregon. “I … have an ordinary family, like everyone else,” she managed to say.
Angelita turned and stared at her. “You are not what you pretend to be, senorita.”
Molly’s heart nearly dropped into her lap. “I beg your pardon?”
With a shake of her head, the housekeeper rattled off what undoubtedly were a few sharply punctuated Spanish epithets. “You pretend to be white. You are not.”
Molly swallowed the lemonade that tried to slither back up her throat. Buck. How would she know this if Buck hadn’t told her? That’s what they were laughing about on the back porch. It had to be. The lemonade continued to form acid in her stomach.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied. Oh, she’d get even with that man if … if it was the last thing she ever did.
Angelita clucked her tongue. “I think you are asking for trouble, senorita. Senor Campion is not a very generous man.”
Molly’s stomach hurt and she pushed away the glass of lemonade. She wanted to ask Angelita how she knew, if Buck had told her, but that would be admitting her guilt. She couldn’t do that. She wasn’t prepared to ask the question, much less receive the answer. Instead, she sullied Buck’s character.
“Drunks are liars, Mrs. Alvarez, and if Mr. Randall said something about me, you can’t believe him. I’ve heard he’s a drunk.”
The housekeeper looked puzzled. “In that, you are mistaken, senorita. I know him well, and he has never been drunk while working here.”
Molly stood, angry and defeated, and steadied herself by clutching the back of the chair. If she wasn’t careful, she’d fall into a trap of her own making. Angelita Alvarez was a clever opponent, and Molly had almost been exposed. Now she would have to tell Charles the truth, or he might hear it from yet another source. With forced effort, she walked toward the door, amazed that her knees held her.
“You don’t have to worry, senorita.”
Molly stopped, but said nothing.
“I will not give you away. I will not tell Senor Campion.”
Turning, Molly stared at her. There was no reason to trust her. She’d made it clear from the beginning that she barely tolerated Molly’s presence.
“I … I still don’t know what you mean,” she answered.
Angelita shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
Molly thanked her for the lemonade and left the kitchen, anxious to get away. As she walked through the rest of the house, her anger mushroomed. She had to find Buck. If everything exploded in her face, he was partly to blame for being unable to hold his tongue. But first, she had to make sure Charles had left on his chores.
After checking the study, she quickly took the stairs, then rapped gently on his bedroom door. When she got no answer, she opened the door and peeked inside. The room was lavishly furnished with heavy, dark, cherry wood furniture. The bed, an enormous four-poster, was covered with a bloodred velvet coverlet. Strangely, it was mussed and wrinkled, as though a child had taken to the bed and used it as a trampoline. A petite Mexican girl was attempting to straighten it.
“Maria, isn’t it?”
The maid nodded shyly and lowered her gaze, blushing beneath her dusky skin.
“Has … Senor Campion gone?”
Maria glanced nervously at the bed. “Si, he gone.” She rushed quickly past Molly down the stairs. Lord, even the mousy little maids were afraid of him.
Giving the shy girl no further thought, Molly went into her own room, took a quick bath and changed into her split suede riding skirt and a clean linen waist. In too much of a hurry to redo her hair, she brushed it, gathered it at the base of her neck and bound it with a ribbon.
She hurried out of her room and down the stairs, eager to find Buck before her anger dissipated. As she ran across the yard to the stable, she tried to formulate what she would say to him. The only thing she was sure of was her anger.
Jorge, the stable boy, grinned and stood quickly when he saw her coming.
“I must speak with Senor Randall, Jorge.”
His grin widened. “Ah, si, Buck.” He pointed into the distance. Molly saw a shed, and the figure of a man.
“He’s out there? That’s Buck out there?” She shaded her eyes, able to make out his hard, muscled form even from such a distance. “Can you saddle me a horse, Jorge? A regular saddle, like Miss Nicolette uses, please?”
The boy nodded eagerly, then disappeared into the stable. In a few minutes, he returned with Nicolette’s spotted mare.
She thank
ed him, allowed him to help her into the saddle and sped toward the lone figure, her anger growing. When she reached Buck, she didn’t rein in the horse until she was almost on top of him. Even so, he hadn’t moved or flinched.
Surprisingly, his face was like a thundercloud. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
She flung herself off her mount and lunged at him, furiously swinging her fists at his chest and shoulders. “You bastard!”
He gripped her wrists, pushed her away, then turned toward the shack. “Of course I am. So are you. I thought we’d settled that years ago.”
“Don’t turn away from me, you … you disgusting, dirt-eating worm.” She grabbed his arm and held on tightly.
“Dammit, Molly. What’s the matter with you? What if Campion sees us out here together?”
“Oh,” she yelled. “A lot you care.”
He swore again. “What are you talking about?”
“Thanks to you, he’ll undoubtedly know before I even have a chance to tell him.”
“What do you mean?” His black satanic brows were suddenly shoved down over his eyes.
She doubled up her fist again and punched him in the stomach. He barely flinched. “Innocence doesn’t become you, you … you weasel. I knew I couldn’t trust you. I just knew it.”
Suddenly he grabbed both of her arms. “Will you shut up? Do you want to bring every hand on the ranch running?”
She tried to twist free, all the while burning him with a look of hatred. “You told Angelita about me.”
“I what?”
She twisted again, but to no avail. “Oh, don’t play dumb. She knows, and you told her.”
Buck glanced around, dragged her toward the shack and shoved her inside. The interior was dusty and smelled of stale smoke.
“Now start again, and dammit, don’t shout. I’m not deaf.” He still gripped her arm.
Sucking in a breath, she said, “Angelita invited me into the kitchen for a glass of lemonade. She was about as subtle as a black widow beckoning a fly to her web. She tried to get me to tell her about my family, about my background. She was fishing for something.”
Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three Page 11
