Chapter Seven
Leigh opened her eyes the next morning and her first thought was she wished Malcolm was there next to her. Stroking, licking, kissing, groping, and everything in between. It had been so long since she’d even had a hug, much less sex. Malcolm’s talented mouth had unleashed a monster named Insatiable Leigh.
No use wishing. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. She forced herself to get out of bed. She’d shared that bed for ten years with Sean. Now two years later, it was as lonely as a coyote’s howl and just as annoying.
The old cotton nightgown was the only thing she wore to bed. Pulling it off, she walked naked to the washstand in the corner. Splashing some cool water into the basin, she soaped up a washrag and got to work. As she cleaned herself, she tried not to remember Malcolm’s hands or his mouth. Her nipples certainly remembered. They were begging for him. She was acting like a love-struck fool.
Love struck?
Leigh hadn’t realized she said that out loud until she heard her voice echoing back. Snorting, she finished washing and dried off. She slipped on a clean pair of drawers, a chemise, jeans and a cotton shirt.
After pulling on her boots, she tucked her jeans in and grabbed her black hat. She was surprised Malcolm hadn’t recognized that damn hat since it had belonged to him before he’d disappeared. Leigh had found it under his bed at Rancho Zarza and had taken very good care of the treasured hat since then. The black brim had some wear and tear, but overall was a good hat. And up until two days ago, her only tangible link to Malcolm.
She went downstairs and found Mrs. Hanson drinking coffee and eating a biscuit. Her look could have frozen the Rio Grande. In July.
“Morning.” Leigh tried to be civil.
A grunt was her only response.
“I’m going over to see Alex Zarza this afternoon. Can you bake up a pie to take?”
Mrs. Hanson turned on like a sunrise on the prairie. Blinding.
“Of course. I still have some of those dried apples. I’ll bake up one of the sweetest pies. Perhaps Damasco might be there.”
Her attempt at a subtle hint was more like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil and almost as loud.
Grabbing a mug of coffee and a biscuit, Leigh made her escape out the back door before Mrs. Hanson started picking her wedding bouquet.
———
That afternoon, Leigh headed for the barn with a basket, Mrs. Hanson’s apple pie snugly tucked inside. She had to admit it smelled delicious even if was made by a conniving, witchy housekeeper.
She entered the barn to saddle Ghost and went straight to his stall only to find Malcolm waiting for her. He was petting Ghost’s long equine neck and murmuring to him. The gelding looked well pleased. She would too if Malcolm were petting her.
Stop mooning over him. He made it clear what he wants and it isn’t you.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
He turned his head to look at her. His gaze traveled from the black hat to her dusty brown boots and back to her eyes. The shiver that danced across her skin was not from cold. Rather, she felt hot. Very hot.
“Do you ever wear a woman’s clothes, amante?”
The hackles on her neck rose like an army regiment. She refused to listen to that kind of shit from him, too.
“These are clothes. I am a woman. I seem to repeat myself a lot around you, Mal. What are you doing here?”
He patted Ghost’s neck one more time, then grabbed a blanket on the stall door and started saddling him.
Leigh realized all her tack was there already. Malcolm must have been waiting for her. To help her. The thought struck her as almost funny. No one had ever offered to help an Amazon daughter of a blacksmith, widow of a rancher more than twice her age. She guessed people figured with her size and strength, she could take care of herself. That she didn’t need help. However, it didn’t mean she didn’t want help. And here was Mal, doing for her without asking. It seemed like a simple thing, but God knows it wasn’t. The gesture was so huge, it almost overwhelmed her. The lump in her throat was a testament to how deeply Malcolm’s consideration affected her.
She gripped the handle of the basket so tightly, little bits of straw lodged in her fingers.
“Thank you,” she murmured as he took the basket and tied it to her saddle with a bit of rope.
“I will ride with you.” He handed her the reins.
“Do you know where I’m going?”
Malcolm pulled his horse, already saddled, out of the next stall. As he led the horse out of the barn into the sun, he turned to her.
“You are going to see my father.”
———
Malcolm had decided he needed to protect her. He had talked with Andy Parker at length the night before. The tales that boy told about the bad luck on the Circle O were enough to make him clench his jaw so hard his head ached. He was certain now Sean’s death was no accident.
Someone was trying to sink her. Hard. So she’d never come up for air. The logical conclusion was that someone wanted the land very badly and the only thing stopping them was a stubborn Welsh girl who had a shadow at her back.
He intended to be with her as much as possible. Although he’d be hard pressed to admit it, he was very worried about her. Like a rusty wheel, his emotions were creaking to life. He blamed Roja and her damned happiness. If only he hadn’t gone to Wyoming. If only she hadn’t cared about him. If only he hadn’t returned to Texas.
Done was done. His feelings were dusty and, right now, making him feel like a dog at a cat party. Out of place, itchy, with an overwhelming urge to bay at the moon.
Whoever was behind the attacks would try to kill Leigh again. Soon. He was damn sure not going to let that happen. No one would get past him without a few more holes in their hide.
They mounted up and headed west toward Rancho Zarza. It was another beautiful day. A clear blue sky with scattered skinny white clouds and bright, shining sunlight.
“Are you going to come with me all the way?”
“Sí. I will wait in the stables until you are done.”
The very thought of the stables made his entire body tighten. Those frigging stables loaded with prime Zarza horseflesh.
“Are you sure?”
Hell, no. But he was going to do it anyway.
“Yes.”
His terse response wasn’t really fair to her. Her shoulders stiffened.
“Okay, I’m not sure I even want to go, but I am sure you are not going alone.”
She seemed to accept his answer without comment. Together they galloped across the miles to the Zarza hacienda. The closer they got, the more cramped his stomach got. A big knot of pain gripping harder and harder.
“Go back, Malcolm.”
She looked at him, concern in her hazel eyes.
“No. I’m not leaving you alone.”
“But you look like shit. In fact, I thought maybe you were going to bring up your lunch.”
If it hadn’t been Leigh, he would have been offended. As children, they had always told each other everything. Leigh must have still felt the need to be honest with him, even if it scraped like rusty nails.
“I have to come.”
She shrugged and threw one hand up in the air. “Why bother?”
Malcolm wasn’t about to answer.
———
Two armed sentries by the gate allowed Leigh and Malcolm to pass. Their sharp eyes followed them in, but Leigh was well known. Malcolm hid in his own skin.
Rancho Zarza hadn’t really changed. The sprawling adobe house was well kept. A fancy new fountain with a three-tiered birdbath of sorts sat in front of the house like a trophy. Beautiful flowers and vines bloomed, their scent and color thick in the air. Somewhere a dog barked and a few chickens squawked.
Inside, Malcolm was a frightened eighteen-year-old boy, seeing his only home for the last time.
He was unprepared for the sadness, the grief that snuck up on him seeing his home again. His lif
e had been shaped by everything here. The vaqueros, the horses, the wealth, and the vicious cold that permeated everything. It was always about money and power.
They reached the house and Leigh dismounted. She looked up at him and frowned. “Get down,” she mouthed.
He mentally slapped himself. What the hell was he doing? Calling undue attention to himself like an ass. He dismounted and took the reins of her gelding. She untied the basket and stepped back.
“Be careful,” he said under his breath.
“You too.” She turned to go into the house. He was momentarily captured by the sway of her hips in those trousers. Damn. He was never distracted by Nicky in her jeans. What the hell was it about Leigh?
Stomach jumping like tumbleweed in a windstorm, he stood with the horses in the sun. He knew he should go to the stables, give the horses some water, but he couldn’t move. Sensations, intense and paralyzing, gripped him tightly in their claws.
———
Leigh knocked on the door. It was huge, made of hickory with black strips running the full length of the six-foot width.
Lorena Martin opened the door. Lorena had been a fixture at Rancho Zarza ever since Leigh could remember. She was of Mexican descent, with wavy black hair in a bun, twinkling brown eyes and a plump, if short, matronly figure. Leigh had looked down at her since she was thirteen years old. But in truth, she looked up to Lorena. The housekeeper was a smart, kind, tolerant woman who tried to see the best in everyone. She had also been Malcolm’s mother’s best friend.
“Little Leigh. How good to see you, hija. What have you brought for us?”
Lorena embraced Leigh briefly. Leigh bent down, inhaling a unique scent that always floated around Lorena. A scent of home, of belonging.
Leigh held out the basket. “Apple pie. I heard Alex wasn’t feeling well so I thought I’d be neighborly.”
“You are so sweet, niña. Apple is his favorite.”
As Lorena reached for the basket, Leigh asked, “Lorena, do you know what happened to Leslie Ross?”
Lorena nearly lost her grip on the basket. Her normally olive skin flushed a sickly shade and her eyes widened.
“Leslie? Why would you ask me that after all these years?”
Lorena was scared. That much was obvious, but of what? Or who?
“Do we have a guest, Lorena?”
Isabella’s cold, sharp words behind Leigh were like a bramble bush raking bare skin. Her voice was just as painful and unwanted, leaving behind welts and scratches.
Leigh took off her hat and turned to greet Mrs. Zarza. Isabella’s was a classic beauty that had not faded an inch over time. Her straight black hair was swept into an elegant knot at the back of her delicate head. She regarded Leigh with liquid brown eyes framed by long, thick lashes, accented by prominent cheekbones and full, ruby lips. Isabella was perfect on the outside and as rotten as spoiled meat on the inside. Cold and vicious, she was known for treating anyone who wasn’t Spanish nobility as a peasant.
“Oh, it’s only Mrs. O’Reilly.” Her gaze raked Leigh’s appearance up and down. One perfect black eyebrow rose. “I see that dresses are still scarce on the Circle O.”
What was she supposed to say to that?
“I’ve come to see Alex.”
“She brought a pie,” Lorena interjected.
Isabella cut her gaze to her housekeeper. “You may bring that to the kitchen.”
Lorena nodded and darted away with her shoulders slightly bowed. Isabella’s icy stare returned to Leigh.
“He’s not feeling well so you can’t stay long.”
Isabella turned sharply and went down the hall. Leigh followed.
Alejandro Zarza had been a big man, not just in looks, but also in life. He took what he wanted without excuses or apologies and built his own little empire where he reigned as king. Until now. The king was dying slowly, by excruciating degrees. His was a wasting sickness that stole his strength, his breath, his thunder. Alex used to eat life in great, grasping bites; now life was eating him.
When Leigh walked into his room, she was hard-pressed not to let the shock show on her face.
His black hair, liberally sprinkled with silver, lay lax and flat on his head. The skin stretched taut across his gaunt cheeks, his dark eyes sunken in his face. His lips were bloodless and cracked. He was dressed in a loose white shirt that hung on his emaciated frame making him look like a little boy playing dress-up. Literally, he was half the man he used to be.
Alex rested in a large wingback chair by the window, a colorful red and yellow quilt tucked around his waist and legs. The sun shone on his sallow complexion, giving false life to his dying self. A nurse was busy setting a tray with a silver tea service on the small table next to him.
When he caught sight of Leigh, he managed to smile broadly, a twinkle of life shining from his tired eyes.
“Little Leigh Wynne.”
“You’re looking better, Alex,” Leigh said.
He cocked one eyebrow. “From you, I always expect the truth. I could always count on your father for that, too.”
Leigh sat in the chair next to him and looked Alex in the eye. She smiled. “Okay, then you look like you’ve been ridden hard and put up wet.”
He threw back his head and laughed. Leigh remembered the sound of his booming laugh. Alex had the kind of laugh that made everyone want to smile. This time, however, it ended with a wheezing, frantic cough that rattled his thin frame.
“You’d do better to guard your tongue, Mrs. O’Reilly. Alejandro must conserve his strength,” came Isabella’s sharp rebuke.
Leigh had forgotten she was there. Amazing. Too bad.
“Leave her alone, Bella. Leigh is a burst of fresh air for an old man.”
He winked one bleary brown eye.
“How are you?”
Leigh shrugged. “I’m still alive.” She bit her tongue to keep from telling him Malcolm was back. The sharpness in Alex’s gaze had not faded, regardless of his physical condition.
“It hasn’t been going well, eh?”
She shook her head. “No. Last week someone poisoned the creek out by the south pasture. Lost about a dozen more head.”
Alex frowned. “You sure it was poison?”
She nodded. “No doubt about it. I don’t need to tell you what a longhorn’s belly looks like after it’s been drinking poisoned water.”
“I told you I would send some of my vaqueros over to help you.”
“And I told you no. I need to do this on my own, Alex.”
He reached out and patted her hand. “Sí, I know you do. But I worry like I am your tio, your uncle. If you need help, really need help, you will ask?”
Leigh didn’t want to say yes, but she knew he wouldn’t accept anything less. “Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He sipped at his tea, then shakily set the cup back in its saucer.
“Who do you think it is that is poisoning your cattle?”
“Someone local. Someone who knows where I keep my cattle to graze in the spring and summer. Someone who wants the Circle O to fail.”
Alex looked at her sharply. “It’s not just the poisoned cattle, is it?”
She squirmed a bit on the seat, unwilling to load her troubles onto his frail shoulders. Unaccountably, she was rescued by Isabella.
“You are tiring quickly, Alejandro,” she said as she appeared at Leigh’s elbow. “I think this visit is over.”
With brutal efficiency, Leigh was herded—no other word for it—out of the room in minutes. After a quick peck on Alex’s papery cheek and a whispered “I’ll be back soon”, she was suddenly standing by the front door, Isabella’s claws practically gouging her arm.
She stared down at the woman’s petite face, then glanced at her arm. “I haven’t needed help walking in about thirty years.”
Isabella’s teeth shone in a feral snarl. “I didn’t want you to lose your way to the door.”
>
Leigh couldn’t contain her snort. “Since I grew up not ten feet from this door, I don’t think I’d lose my way in the dark, blindfolded.”
The teeth appeared sharper. “Let us hope that situation never arises. Lorena.”
Lorena appeared with the now empty basket. She handed it to Leigh and gave her a quick hug.
“Vaya con Dios.”
“Y tú,” Leigh responded. Glancing back at Isabella, she could not suppress the shivers of dread that marched up her spine at the expression in her eyes. Isabella was the coldest person she’d ever known. She’d always treated both Leigh and her father, Big Lee, like commoners in a medieval castle. Before, she had only been haughty or dismissive. Now, this particular look was evil. It was the only word that fit. Leigh had to find Malcolm and get the hell out of here.
———
Malcolm had stared at the open stable door for at least five minutes. Ghost yanked on his reins, impatient for water and oats. Demon started chewing on Malcolm’s ass instead.
“Ouch! Caballo de Diablo. Stupid horse.”
He stepped out of reach of the horse’s big teeth, rubbing his sore butt. A snicker behind him brought his gun up, pointing straight at the heart of a boy.
He was about thirteen, with chunky brown hair, clear blue eyes and a lanky build that held the promise of filling out into a big man. He wore brown pants and suspenders and a formerly blue shirt; his bare feet were dirty. His eyes widened at the sight of the gun, but Malcolm saw no fear, only flatness. The boy leaned against a pitchfork, sweaty, with bits of hay stuck in his unruly hair.
Malcolm slowly put the gun away, silently promising his horse revenge. Before he realized what he was doing, he entered the stable and glared at the boy.
“You should do your job instead of laughing at strangers, hijo.”
Handing the boy the reins of the ornery horse, he carefully watched the boy’s expression.
“I ain’t no one’s son.”
He snatched the reins and led the horse deeper into the gloom. As Malcolm’s eyes adjusted, he found the boy rubbing Demon down, the horse’s big stupid head buried in a trough drinking noisily. Ghost pulled ahead, nostrils flaring at the scent of the water. Without missing a beat, the boy took the Appaloosa’s reins and led him to the next trough.
The Reward Page 6
