by Linda Howard
But that wasn’t true anymore. His greatest fear had been realized. He couldn’t get an erection.
She was so dainty and pristine, so untouchable. Frank McLain sat in the darkness of his room and tried to work things out in his mind, find some sort of explanation for the humiliating failure of his flesh. Goddammit, he’d never had any trouble humping a woman before, once he’d recovered from the knife wound. Only this one.
So it had to be her fault. It wasn’t him; it was something about her. Maybe ladies weren’t for screwing. He had his lady for ruling over his house, his lady to dress in fancy gowns and show off in Santa Fe. With her culture and background, there was no limit to how high he could rise in the territory. That was why he’d married her. Hell, he didn’t care if he got any brats on her; he didn’t give a damn about leaving all of this to some snot-nosed kid who probably wouldn’t have half of his own strength. This was his, won with his guns and brains and guts. He was undisputed king in this part of the territory, and now he had his queen. He had what he wanted. Let her keep her knees locked; women like her were made to be treated like dolls, cosseted and protected, showcased in all their finery and jewels.
That was what was wrong. He just hadn’t understood before. He’d take care of her like she was royalty given into his protection, untouchable and untouched. When he wanted to hump somebody, he’d go to the kind of women he was comfortable with, women who squirmed and squealed and liked it.
Like Angelina Garcia. She was just a whore, but she liked it any way a man could give it to her. McLain thought of the times he’d plowed her himself and to his enormous relief felt his manhood begin to stir. Yeah, that was what it had been all along. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, it had been his wife.
He jerked off his nightshirt and hurriedly dressed. He had to have a woman, a real woman.
Angelina had a room in the small building where the houseservants once lived, back when the damn Sarratts had kept enough servants to button up their britches. Most of the building was used for storage now; Carmita, Lola, and Juana used two rooms just off the kitchen. Angelina wasn’t much on keeping her room neat; it was always strewn with clothing and food, and stank of sex. She was greedy; she wanted several men a day, and if they didn’t come to her she went to them. She was flamboyantly beautiful, with a lush body, long black hair, and flashing dark eyes. As he hurried across the dark ground, McLain thought of what he was going to do to her and grew fully hard.
He could barely wait. A thin line of light showed beneath her door. He pushed it open and Angelina turned her head sharply at the intrusion. She was naked, lying under a patched, yellow sheet, and she wasn’t alone. One of the cowpunchers lay naked and groggy beside her.
Angelina was at first astonished to see him; after all, he’d only gotten married the night before. Then a slow, self-satisfied smile curled her lips.
“Get out,” McLain said to the cowboy.
The man stumbled to his feet and awkwardly got into his britches and boots. He too was astounded that the Major was there. The tale would be all over the ranch by morning.
Angelina lolled against her pillows, letting the sheet fall to the side so that her large breasts were revealed. “So,” she said in a purring voice. “Your grand lady can’t satisfy you?” It wouldn’t take much, as she knew from experience. The Major was too fast, but she always praised him as if he were the biggest and best stud she’d ever had. Angelina was shrewd enough to know she had a good thing here, and the best way to keep it was to butter up the boss.
McLain grunted as he unbuttoned his pants. “She couldn’t even get it hard,” he muttered, and from that, and his haste, Angelina understood exactly what had happened. She wanted to laugh, but knew she had too much to lose if she shared the joke with others, even later. She stifled her smile and instead stretched out her arms toward him.
“She must be a cold fish, then,” she purred.
McLain freed his erection and lowered himself. “Bend over,” he panted, already near climax at the thought. “I want to do it that way.”
CHAPTER THREE
The dull, endless chores of domesticity had a settling effect, Victoria mused. It had been a week since her marriage, a week in which she had thrown herself into the duties of running the household in an effort to make herself too busy to think. She admitted that the larger portion of her growing serenity was due to the Major’s continued absence from her bedroom, but mending had its own soporific effect. She stifled a yawn.
Emma chuckled. “Here we are, about to doze in the sun like two doddering old tabbies.” She took two more tiny stitches, then smothered her own yawn.
“It’s so pleasant here,” Victoria said. She was coming to appreciate more and more both the weather and the landscape of her new home. It was June; the sun could be quite hot at noon, but the air was dry. The result was wonderful, after the humidity of the South. The nights were chilly and crisp, perfect for snuggling under blankets.
“Especially here, in the courtyard. I don’t believe I care if this hem is mended.” Emma replaced the skirt in her basket, looking enormously satisfied with the decision. She yawned again. “But I do believe a nap is necessary.”
“Siesta must be contagious.”
“It seems to be. Not that they’re totally foreign to us. Remember when we used to take naps before evening dances?”
“A long time ago.” Victoria looked down the past five years.
“Yes.” They said no more about the days past. Neither of them liked to discuss it. The changes brought by war had been too violent, the difference in their lives too complete. Too many people had died.
Emma got to her feet and Victoria did also, her brows knit as she realized she hadn’t seen her sister in at least an hour. “I think I’ll look for Celia,” she said. “She didn’t tell me where she was going.”
“And wherever Celia is, Mr. Garnet will be close by,” Emma said grimly.
Victoria wondered how Garnet attended to his job when he seemed to spend so much of his day lurking around Celia. He hadn’t made any untoward moves, but his constant hovering made Victoria uneasy. If she found him near Celia again, she would inform the Major of his foreman’s behavior, although she grimly suspected he was fully aware of it.
“Shall I come with you?” Emma asked.
It was tempting to accept her offer. Victoria often felt as if she needed support, and she knew Emma would stand unflinchingly by her side to face anything. But Emma, for all her willingness, was sensitive enough that conflict could upset her to the point of nausea. So Victoria smiled and shook her head. “No. She’ll be in the stable, as usual. I’ll just tell her we need help with the mending.”
“If only she understood,” Emma said.
“If she did, she wouldn’t be Celia.”
Rather than go through the house, Victoria left the courtyard by the rear gate. The ranch buildings were spread in a semicircle about the house, with the smithy to the right, the springhouse far in the rear, a couple of storage buildings, and two bunkhouses, the stable, an enormous barn, and various corrals extending to the left. It was almost a hundred yards to the stable; by the time she reached it, she wished she had put on a bonnet. The sun was deceptively hot on her bare head.
The stable, in contrast, was cool and dark, and redolent with the earthy scents of horses, oiled leather, and hay. Temporarily blind, she stood for a moment just inside the door, letting her eyes readjust to the dim light. When she could see again she quickly spied Celia at the far end of the barn. Celia had climbed halfway up the door of a huge corner stall and was leaning over it with her hand outheld.
Victoria recognized the horse. It was Rubio, the Major’s prize stallion. He had boasted about the horse at length, taking delight in the tales of its kicks and bites as if they were admirable. The stallion had killed the Mexican who had been taking care of him the year before. Seeing Celia like that, so close to the big animal, made Victoria’s heart stop. She took a step forward but didn’t call
out, not wanting to startle the horse.
A man came through the open doors at the other end, a black silhouette painted against the bright sunshine. Even without seeing his features, Victoria recognized Garnet. She hurried her step.
Rubio neighed warningly as Garnet approached. The horse withdrew to the back of the stall, stamping his feet and snorting.
Celia turned to the man and said, “You’ve scared him! He was just about to take this sugar from my hand.”
Garnet hadn’t seen Victoria even though she was no more than twenty feet away when he put his hand on Celia’s leg, then slid it up to her hip. “Let me help you down.”
Celia laughed, a silvery sound. “I can get down by myself.”
Angered almost beyond control, Victoria still managed to keep her voice even. “Of course you can. Let’s go back to the house; I need help with the mending.”
Always amenable, Celia gathered her skirts and jumped to the hay-strewn floor. “I forgot about the mending,” she said apologetically. “I was just talking to Rubio.” She turned back to the stall. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
He was beautiful, and savage. He was a big horse, superbly muscled, dark red in color. Victoria would have been as enthralled as Celia if it hadn’t been for his eyes; they held not just spirit, but a viciousness that chilled her. The horse was a killer, but Celia saw only beauty.
“Yes, he’s beautiful,” Victoria agreed. “Why don’t you run ahead and wash your hands before we start the mending?”
“All right.” Celia happily left the barn, humming to herself.
Victoria turned back to Garnet, and inwardly braced herself against the hostility in his expression. She kept her voice cool. “Mr. Garnet, I shall tell you this only once: stay away from my sister. Don’t touch her again.”
He sneered and took a step toward her. “Or you’ll do what?”
“I’ll tell Mr. McLain you’ve been neglecting your duties and pestering Celia.”
Garnet laughed, a brutal sound. His eyes were dark pits. “Now, that really scares me. He’ll tell you to mind your own business, Miz McLain. I run this ranch, and the Major knows it. He can’t get along without me.”
“I can.” The emotionless voice came from the open double doors behind Garnet. “I can get along without you just fine, Garnet. In fact, I like the idea.”
Garnet whirled, and a spasm of hate twisted his features. If he had been angry before, now he was furious. “This is none of your business, Roper.”
“It is if I make it my business.” He hadn’t moved from the doorway. With the light behind him it was impossible to see his face, but Victoria found that it wasn’t necessary; his voice, flat and cold as it was, stated his intent. “Leave the girl alone.”
“So you can have her?”
“No. I don’t want her. But you’re not going to have her, either.”
Garnet’s right hand moved, but Roper moved faster. The big revolver was in his hand before Garnet touched the butt of his. Victoria hadn’t even seen Roper’s hand move. Garnet froze, and even in the coolness of the stable a sheen of sweat covered his face.
“Pass the word,” Roper said flatly. “Everyone leaves the girl alone.”
Just for a second Garnet froze, unwilling to retreat. Watching him, Victoria saw the exact moment when he realized he didn’t have any choice, if he wanted to live. He turned and stalked off. Victoria quietly exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She forced herself to look at Roper as he stepped farther into the stable, though she wanted to flee like Garnet. “Thank you.”
He said, “You made an enemy.”
Wryly, she answered, “So did you.”
He watched the way the small amusement tilted the corners of her lips upward. “That was nothing new between me and Garnet. One of us will kill the other before it’s over.”
“So you did it just to annoy him?” For some reason that angered her. She thought of leaving, but didn’t. She didn’t even step back when Roper walked so close by her that his legs brushed her skirt.
“What difference does it make, as long as it keeps him away from your simpleminded sister?”
Her fists knotted. “She’s not!” she hissed. “Celia reads and writes; she’s as intelligent as most. She’s just… different.” Temper burned in her cheeks. “Don’t you dare call her simpleminded.”
“Different, how?”
How, indeed? How did you explain a near adult who still had the innocence and glee of a child without using the label of simplicity? Celia was as fey and otherwordly as a wood nymph. It was as if she was so sensitive to everything that she had to block out the darkness of life in order to survive, leaving her with only sunlight. Victoria sought for the words. “She … doesn’t see ugliness, or evil. She expects everyone to be as open and good-natured as she is.”
He snorted as he swung a saddle down from the railing. “That’s worse than simplemindedness. That’s plain stupid, and out here it’ll get you killed.” He towered over her, and as Victoria refused to step back in retreat she was forced to tilt her head back to look at him. Their eyes met and a strange little frisson of fear raced down her spine. His eyes glittered under the low brim of his hat, and she saw that they were a clear, dark hazel green. He was so close to her that she could see the black specks in his irises, so close that she could smell the sweat on his skin, and feel the heat emanating from him. Her skirts were brushing his dusty boots, and she didn’t care. She felt paralyzed as she stared up at him, held immobile by a strange, frightening excitement that knotted her stomach and set her heart to pounding. All of her life she had associated the scents of shaving soap and cologne with men, very civilized smells that she had thought pleasant and nothing more. Yet now the hot, primal smell of Roper’s sweaty skin was making her weak, making her think she might have to have support just to stand.
He shouldn’t be that close to her. She knew it, yet she couldn’t retreat.
“Get on back to the house,” he said. His lips barely moved. “You don’t belong out here.”
She didn’t know if he meant the stable or the entire territory, but she suspected he meant the latter. She squared her shoulders and said, “Thank you again, Mr. Roper.” She left with as much dignity as she could summon. Had he sensed her shameful, illogical response to his closeness? He angered her and frightened her, but something about him touched a primitive part of her that she hadn’t known existed, a part that she knew she must suppress.
She shaded her eyes with her hand as she emerged into the bright sunlight again, and paused when a flash of color caught her attention. To her left lounged a voluptuous young woman, with a thick mass of black hair spilling down her back. She had large dark eyes, lush red lips, and she was brazenly displaying the deep cleft of her full breasts under a white blouse worn off her shoulders. She obviously wore no petticoats beneath her skirt. The young woman met her gaze insolently, her dark eyes raking down Victoria’s neatly coiled hair, starched long-sleeved, high-necked shirtwaist, and prim blue skirt.
This was the woman Victoria had seen on her arrival, whom she had taken for Carmita’s daughter. What had Carmita said was her name? Victoria had an excellent memory for names, and she produced it after only a short moment. The woman was Angelina Garcia, a remarkably lovely name for a woman whose own beauty was as vivid as that of an overblown rose.
Since she obviously didn’t work in the house, Victoria assumed that she must be married to one of the men. She wondered where they lived. She approached the young woman with a smile, determined to be friendly even though Angelina’s manner wasn’t welcoming.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Victoria Wav—McLain.” She wondered if she would ever be accustomed to her married name.
The woman regarded Victoria for a moment longer in sullen silence, then tossed back her long black hair. “I’m Angelina.”
“I saw you the day I arrived. I apologize for not speaking to you before now. Which one of the men is your husband?”
Angelina laughed, a sound of deep satisfaction. “None of them. Why should I marry?”
Not married? That was confusing … unless she lived with someone without benefit of marriage? Victoria felt her cheeks heat at her mistake. The poor girl, what an unstable, humiliating existence. But Angelina didn’t act humiliated; she seemed positively gloating. Her eyes were alive with it.
In that instant Victoria knew she should walk away and return to the house where she was insulated from these people who were so very different from her. A lady would never dream of talking with a woman of ill-repute, which Angelina obviously was or she would never live with a man not her husband. Nor would a lady have confronted one of her husband’s employees in the stables, as she had just done. But perhaps she was less of a lady than she’d thought, because she didn’t walk away from Angelina.
Instead she said, “You have a man?” It was an inelegant question, but she didn’t know how else to phrase it.
Angelina laughed again, a gloating sound that grated. “I have many men. All of them are my men. They all come to me—including your husband.” Again the laugh, and the dark eyes glittered with spite. “He came back to me the night after your wedding! We all thought that was very interesting, no?”
White-faced, Victoria at last turned and walked away, but it was too late. The woman had scored her victory. Humiliation blinded her, and she didn’t see the man until she walked into him. His hard hands grasped her shoulders to steady her, holding her soft body so close to him that her breasts were against his ridged abdomen.
