by Linda Howard
“I’ll be working with the mare tomorrow morning, ma’am, and you need to be there.”
She’d gotten only two steps away; she stopped and turned back. “Why is that?”
“If I do all the work with her, ma’am, she’s going to think she’s my horse. Don’t reckon you want that, do you?”
Victoria stared at him. Common sense told her that all she required was a good horse for riding; what difference would it make if the mare was fonder of Jake than of her? Then anger roiled in her, not lessened at all by the knowledge that she was reacting exactly as he wanted. It was her horse and she didn’t want just a mount; she wanted the mare to give her the equine version of friendship. It would forever eat at her if the horse went more willingly to Roper than to her, and if that was small of her, then so be it.
She looked away. “What time?” She kept her voice calm, as if it didn’t matter.
“Ten. That’ll give you time to sleep late, get rested up.”
He knew she was tired. The knowledge softened something inside her, something that she couldn’t allow to soften. She tried not to let his casual solicitude touch her, but it did. For whatever reason, Jake was protective of her and she was forced to acknowledge that it did matter. She wanted to go into his arms and let her head rest on his shoulder, just for a moment.
Her face was flushed as she walked into the house, but thankfully that could be put down to the hot sun. Emma was standing in the entrance foyer removing her bonnet and gloves. From the back of the house came the Major’s muffled shouts as he discovered something that displeased him. Celia ran down the stairs with a quick drumming of her heels and would have dashed past had Emma not stepped in front of her.
“Goodness, where are you off to in such a hurry?” Victoria asked as she began removing her own bonnet.
“To the stables. Jake said he’d teach me how to curry Gypsy.”
Emma’s mouth curved in amusement. “Don’t you think you should change out of that dress into something more suitable?”
Celia shrugged. “A dress is a dress.”
“There are old dresses and new dresses; old dresses are better for currying horses.”
Celia looked down at her dress, then said, “All right,” and darted back up the stairs.
Victoria laughed. “She’ll never appreciate the difference.”
“She missed so much, didn’t she?” Emma mused. “The parties, the dances, the flirting. Can’t you just see how all the boys would be clustered around her?”
The smile faded from Victoria’s face as she placed her bonnet and gloves on the table. “What will happen to her, I wonder? She’s so trusting. I want her to find someone wonderful to love, a man who’s gentle and will cherish her as much as she deserves.” She continued in a low voice. “I worry, because I haven’t seen a man like that out here.”
Emma said, “For any of us.” She had loved Jon, and grieved for him, but her fiancé had been dead a long time now and she was still young. She, too, wanted to find love, marry, and have a family. She admitted to herself that she’d come out here with high hopes, for Victoria’s marriage had signaled an end to hunger and poverty, and she had dreamed … vague, romantic dreams of handsome cowboys, virile, adventurous men who had taken on this wild country and won. Instead, they were isolated on the ranch, which seemed to hide a layer of ugliness and hatred beneath the beauty. With few exceptions, the men were hostile and leering.
Nor was Victoria’s situation better; if anything, it was worse. Emma shuddered at the thought of being married to the Major, of having to submit to him in bed if he chose to visit her. The idea would have been unthinkable if they’d still been back in Augusta, but now Emma wouldn’t think one whit less of Victoria if she took what comfort she could from Jake Roper. He was a man, not a loathsome slug like the Major. He was too much man for Emma’s taste, but Victoria was stronger than she, perhaps even strong enough for someone like Roper.
McLain stomped to the front of the house. Both women moved out of his path, and he passed them without a word, his face dark with a scowl as he climbed the stairs. Neither of them dared ask him what was wrong.
McLain slammed the door to his bedroom and kicked a chair across the room. He’d asked about Angelina’s whereabouts first thing, and Lola, with a smug look, had told him that Angelina had gone off with one of the hands that morning and wasn’t back yet. He was enraged; not only was she not there when he wanted her, but he knew damn sure the cowhand wouldn’t be doing any of the work he was supposed to be doing. The goddamn whore! He’d teach her a lesson when he got his hands on her.
There was nothing he could do about it now, however, and that made him even angrier. Maybe that girl Juana… naw, hell, he’d had her once, and she hadn’t been any better than his fist. Not as good, because she’d just lain there and sniffled. He didn’t even consider taking his wife to bed; his mind shied away from that possibility to the extent that the thought never formed. He was bothered enough with his haunting fears of the Sarratts; in fact, his nightmares and jumpiness seemed to be getting worse lately, as if the ghosts were closing in for the kill. He sure as hell didn’t need his stiff lady wife reminding him of Elena. The sound of Victoria entering the adjoining bedroom unnerved him to the extent that he left his room as quickly as he’d entered it.
He stood in the hallway, red-faced with anger and looking for a scapegoat. The cheerful sound of humming at first made him even angrier, and then he noticed that it was coming from Celia’s room, where the door had been left slightly ajar. Now there was a beauty, prettier even than Angelina. And she wasn’t as all-fired proper and straitlaced as her sister. She just might like having a man if she tried it. The more the Major thought about it, the more he liked it. Celia was a Waverly, too, after all; she just wasn’t a lady in the same way that her sister was. He knew Victoria would be busy for at least five minutes changing out of her traveling clothes. He balanced caution and temptation by tiptoeing down the hall until he could see through the narrow crack between door and jamb.
Celia was in her petticoats and chemise, still humming as she selected one of her older dresses from the armoir and slipped it on over her head. It had the advantage of buttoning down the front, which was why she had chosen it, and she bent her head to the task.
McLain watched her, struck by the golden creaminess of her bare shoulders and arms. She had nice big tits, too, with the dark centers plain under the thin cotton chemise. The sunlight streaming through the window illuminated her hair, and he had the uncharacteristically fanciful thought that she looked like an angel. God, she was a beauty! And a little hoyden, not like Victoria at all. Certainly nothing like Elena. The ache in his loins had intensified while he stood watching her, and he thought about what it would be like to have her. He’d have to keep it secret from Victoria, but he thought he knew a way to accomplish that.
He glanced furtively down the hall, then back at Celia. She was nearly finished dressing, so he slipped away as carefully as he had approached. His heart was pounding with anticipation.
He went downstairs to the library and took an opened bottle of bourbon from the desk drawer. There was a glass in the drawer, too, but he ignored it and tipped the bottle to his mouth. The liquor burned down his throat, a pleasant warmth that matched the one in his gut. By God, here was something to look forward to! He drank once more in celebration of his own cleverness. The only thing was, he’d have to make sure Victoria didn’t find out. She was high-nosed enough that she’d pack up and leave if she found out he was diddling her little sister, and the humiliation would be unbearable after all the strutting and bragging he’d done in Santa Fe about his patrician wife. He could always lie about it, of course, but there were so many people on the ranch that someone would blab and the truth would get out.
But he was confident he could bed Celia all he wanted, and the girl would never tell. She was a simpleminded little idiot. All he had to do was threaten her somehow. … He mused about it for a minute, trying to thin
k of something that would scare her. Finally his face split into a grin. That was it, by God! He’d tell Celia that if she ever told, he’d hurt Victoria. He thought about saying he’d kill Victoria, but thought that might be pushing too hard. The girl might panic. The beauty of the plan was that it was a lie, but she was so simple she’d believe anything he told her.
He’d have plenty of time to put his plan into action, too. Buying those horses for the women had been a stroke of genius. Since they didn’t know their way around, they wouldn’t go far by themselves, but he could always tell Roper to go with them, give him orders to show them the ranch or take them to someplace far enough away that he knew they’d be gone a couple of hours. From what he’d gathered, Celia didn’t ride well enough to make that kind of trip, so she’d have to stay behind. Then she’d be his.
If that didn’t work, he’d manage something else. Bribe her with a promise to ride Rubio, maybe, and get her away from the house. He was in a fever of anticipation, thinking of it. Celia wasn’t a whore like Angelina; she’d be all tight and fresh …
He squirmed in the chair and took another swig of bourbon. Roper would have to hurry up and get those damn horses trained.
Another sip emptied the bottle. With a disgusted curse, he shoved the empty bottle across the top of the desk, dislodging some papers, and a silver glint caught his eye.
He froze, his insides clenching. When he finally managed to move, his hand was snaking. With a jerk he pushed the papers completely to the side, uncovering what he’d only glimpsed.
A knife. The blade was sharpened to a razor edge.
It wasn’t his. He hadn’t left it there.
His eyes darted left and right. He was afraid to move, afraid to look behind him. He strained his ears for any sound that would indicate someone was in the room with him. And then his mind went over the edge.
Sarratt!
The bastard boys weren’t dead, or their ghosts had come back to get him. He had to watch out for them now.
He didn’t pick up the knife. He couldn’t. His thighs clenched together protectively.
Maybe he wouldn’t understand what the knife meant. Juana stared at the closed door, her eyes burning with hate. It didn’t matter if he knew; she knew, and she meant it. If he ever touched her again, she would kill him. The hate had festered inside her since the night he had raped her, and she hadn’t forgotten. She would never forget.
“Why did your sister marry McLain?”
Jake hadn’t meant to ask the question, and he was furious with himself for letting it slip out. But it had been nagging at him; he needed to know. Celia looked at him over Gypsy’s back as she continued to stroke the curry brush over the horse’s shoulder and sides. For a moment there was a very old look in her dark blue eyes. “So we wouldn’t be hungry,” she said after a moment.
Of all the answers he might have anticipated, that wasn’t one of them. He narrowed his eyes at the girl. “Hungry?”
“We didn’t have any food or money. The Major said he’d give a lot of money to Mama and Papa if Victoria would marry him. So she did.”
The simple explanation hit Jake hard. Victoria had practically been sold; she hadn’t married McLain to help herself, but to help her family.
He didn’t ask anything else, and Celia brushed in silence for several minutes before she looked at him again and asked, “When can I start riding Gypsy?”
“In another week, about.”
“Why so long?”
“I want to make certain she understands how she’s supposed to act when her rider is sitting sidesaddle.”
“Why do I have to have a sidesaddle? Why can’t I have a saddle like yours?”
“Because ladies don’t ride astride.” He personally thought sidesaddles were stupid and dangerous, but if he told her that then he’d have to explain why she had to use one anyway and he didn’t want to get involved in that kind of discussion with her.
If he’d known Celia better, he’d have realized that she didn’t drop a subject until she understood it.
“Why don’t ladies ride astride?”
He pulled his hat lower over his eyes. “Because their skirts would be pulled up and show their legs.”
“Then why don’t women just wear pants like men do?”
“Because that would show their legs, too.”
Her head popped up over Gypsy’s back. “No more than it shows men’s legs,” she said indignantly. “How are women’s legs different from men’s legs?”
Jake reflected on how easy it was to get backed into a corner. He thought of a lot of answers he could give her, but settled on a literal one. “They’re prettier.”
Her head bent as she evidently surveyed her own legs, hidden though they were by her blue skirt. “But if they’re prettier, why hide them?” she asked, now totally perplexed. “It seems to me that men should wear skirts to hide their legs if they’re ugly, and women should wear pants.”
His lips twitched again, but he controlled his laughter. “Men have to do a lot of heavy work,” he pointed out. “They couldn’t do it if they were hampered by skirts, now could they? Can you imagine the Major wearing a dress and branding steers? He’d catch his petticoat on fire.”
Celia giggled. Another thought occurred and she narrowed her eyes at him, which made her look like a ferocious kitten. “Women wear skirts while they’re cooking.”
“Men are clumsier than women. Women can manage skirts; men would get their big feet tangled in all that cloth and fall down.”
“Sometimes I do, too. That’s why I think I should wear pants.”
He surrendered, and did the only thing a man could do. “Why don’t you ask Victoria about it?”
Celia sighed regretfully. “No, she’d never let me.”
She returned to brushing Gypsy, and Jake watched her with a little smile. She was delightful; he could see why Victoria was so fierce in protecting her. He could even see why she had let herself be married off to McLain; after all, she didn’t know what kind of bastard the man was, and she’d done the best she could to provide for her family. Privately Jake thought that their father must be a weak, lily-livered son of a bitch to sell his daughter to a man twice her age, but that didn’t make his daughter any less a lady.
Celia and Emma would become Jake’s responsibility when he married Victoria. He realized that he’d probably have a lot more of this kind of conversation with Celia and didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. At least he could always send her to Victoria when the topic got too much for him to handle. Maybe he could get her to ask Ben some of her questions. It had been a long time since he’d seen his brother discomfited; he looked forward to it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Victoria patted the mare’s neck and murmured to her. The horse liked all the attention and kept nudging Victoria with her head to encourage her to continue.
“What are you going to name her?” Jake asked as he worked the bridle on over the mare’s head and eased a light bit into her mouth. She didn’t mind either the bridle or the bit, and mouthed the metal without any trouble. It wasn’t until he put the saddle on her that she began acting up. He wondered what in hell she’d do when he climbed on her back.
“I don’t know.” She had thought about it, because they had always named their animals, but she hadn’t been able to think of a name that seemed suitable for the mare.
“Name her something that means ill-tempered, vicious, and contrary,” Jake muttered.
Victoria couldn’t help the sudden smile that lit her face. “She’s none of those things!”
“Just wait until she takes a nip out of your leg.” He looked down at her bright expression and felt his loins tighten. One way or another, this damn horse was a godsend, forcing Victoria to spend a lot of time with him. He intended to use every minute of that time making her aware of him. Lady or not, she was a woman beneath those clothes, and she liked it when he touched her.
“You’d better step out of the way, or you might get that ni
p now,” he warned. He waited until Victoria moved away before settling the saddle on the mare’s back. The horse whipped her head around, but he was too fast and her teeth snapped on air.
Victoria laughed, and the sound clutched at Jake’s chest.
“You might think it’s funny, but you’re not riding her until I can get her broken of all her bad habits,” he said. The mare sidestepped away as he tried to tighten the cinches, and he cursed her luridly, not bothering to apologize to Victoria for his language. She’d probably hear a lot worse by the time her precious horse was fit to be ridden.
“Why aren’t you putting a sidesaddle on her?” she asked.
“Because I’ve got to ride her, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to try it with one of those things.”
Victoria laughed again. It was funny, watching the mare shift away from him; if a horse could have expressions, then the mare was definitely enjoying what she was doing. Jake just kept at the task until he had the cinches as tight as he wanted. He called the mare names that Victoria had never heard mentioned in polite company, but he was never rough with her. When he finished he patted her neck, and contrarily she turned her head to nuzzle his chest.
“You damn contrary cayuse,” Jake murmured, then took the reins in his hand and said to Victoria, “Climb up on the fence. I’m going to try riding her, and I don’t think she’s going to like it.”
Victoria complied as the men who happened to be nearby all wandered over to prop their arms on the fence and call encouragement, insults, or advice to Jake.
“You won’t last ten seconds, Roper.”
“Stay in the saddle—”
“Give that hoss a ride—”
“Show these jackasses how it’s done—Pardon me, ma’am.”
“Hope you like dirt, Roper, ‘cause you’re about to get a mouthful of it.”
“I don’t doubt that none,” Jake replied, grinning at the razing “It wouldn’t be the first time.” He set his hat firmly on his head and fit his left boot into the stirrup, then swung into the saddle with one easy motion.
