A Lady of the West

by Linda Howard

  No, she wouldn’t make it easy for him by running away. She wanted to be right under his nose so he could see every inch she grew as her belly expanded with his child. She wanted him to count the days, and sweat. She wanted remorse to eat him alive, the same way his precious hatred had consumed him. Let him sleep with guilt as he had slept with vengeance and mistrust.

  If she hadn’t loved him so much, she would never have felt so betrayed by his lack of trust in her word, in her very integrity. He wasn’t the only one who craved vengeance. She realized that she might not feel the same way in a few days, but right now she wanted to hurt him as he had hurt her. She couldn’t take her revenge with a bullet, but he wouldn’t walk away unscathed. She swore it.

  The next morning after he’d left the house, she went into their bedroom and moved her things to the spare room. She made up the bed, carried in both chamberpot and washbasin, made certain the lamp was filled and that there was a supply of fresh candles if she needed them.

  The injured side of her face was more stiff than actually painful. Her cut lip and the knot on the side of her head where she had slammed into the wall were more painful than her face.

  Emma opened the door as she sat on the floor, putting her underwear away in a dresser drawer. “Victoria, what on earth are you doing?”

  “Moving my things into this room,” she replied calmly.

  “So I see, but why?”

  Victoria turned to look at Emma, inadvertently revealing the bruised side of her face. Emma gasped and rushed forward. “Your face! What happened?”

  “I fell,” Victoria said flatly.

  Concern darkened Emma’s eyes, then her gaze narrowed as she put two and two together.

  “I don’t want the household upset,” Victoria said, her voice steady. “As far as everyone is concerned, I slipped and fell and hit my face.”

  “Yes, of course,” Emma agreed blankly.

  “Jake and I have quarreled.”

  Emma thought Victoria was understating that obvious fact. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Victoria looked down at the soft cotton chemises folded in her lap and didn’t answer the question. Instead she said, “I’m going to have a baby.”

  Emma gasped. “But that’s wonderful!”

  “I thought so, yes.”

  “Jake … doesn’t?”

  “He doesn’t think he’s the father. He accused me of trying to pass the Major’s child off as his.”

  “Dear God.” Emma sank down beside Victoria. It was so ridiculous she found it hard to believe. “Didn’t you tell him that the Major couldn’t… do that?”

  “Yes. He didn’t believe me about that, either. We both know that the Major still visited Angelina, and evidently he was incapable only with me.” Thank God, she mentally added.

  “But why would he assume that the baby isn’t his?” Emma was horrified at Jake’s conclusion.

  “Because we’ve only been married for three weeks. He says I couldn’t possibly know I’m pregnant in such a short time if it were his. You know how regular my monthlies have always been,” she said bitterly. “I’m a week late. What else could it be? I was so excited that I wanted him to know right away, so I told him. It’s always been so convenient, knowing exactly what day my time of the month would start, but now I wish I had been so irregular that it would have been two months before I noticed!”

  Emma put her hand on Victoria’s arm. “I’m sorry,” she said helplessly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s nothing left to be said.” Jake had said it all.

  “Perhaps if I talked to him—”

  “No.” She managed a smile and hugged Emma. “I know you’re willing and I appreciate it, but he won’t believe you, either.”

  “We won’t know unless I try,” Emma said gently.

  “Even if he changes his mind, it won’t change the fact that he thought me capable of such a despicable trick.”

  “But I want to do something!”

  “You can. Try not to let this upset Celia too much, and carry on just as you normally would have. We have to live in this house; I don’t want to embroil everyone in our argument.”

  “Do you think that’s possible?”

  Victoria managed a tired smile. “Probably not, but I’m going to try.”

  Jake hadn’t chased after Victoria the night before because he’d still been so enraged himself. He’d slept very little, lying on top of the bed without even bothering to remove his boots, and was up before dawn. He pushed himself hard all day, doing the most physical work he could find, hoping to tire himself so much that it would take the edge off his anger. When he finally rode toward home, every muscle in him was protesting. He welcomed the discomfort.

  He didn’t see Victoria downstairs, though Emma was whisking about making certain the table was set for supper. Things looked normal enough, though he knew they weren’t. He slowly climbed the stairs to their bedroom, his heart thudding in his chest. He’d have to apologize to her for hitting her; it had been tormenting him all day. It would never happen again, but he knew he would have to work hard to earn her trust again so that she could believe that. He opened the door, braced for his first sight of her since their fight, but the room was empty.

  The reprieve left him feeling a little flat. He tossed his hat aside and stripped off his dirty shirt, then poured water into the basin and leaned over to wash his face. As he straightened, he realized that the room seemed different, not just empty.

  His spine slowly stiffened as he looked around. His gaze lit on the dressing table, and he examined its bare surface. With two quick strides he reached the armoire and flung the doors open. His clothes remained, but there was only an empty space where Victoria’s dresses had hung. He searched the dresser where she had kept her underwear, and wasn’t surprised to find them gone. Now he knew why the room had seemed so empty; it wasn’t missing just Victoria herself, but every sign of her occupancy. She had moved out of their bedroom.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Will Garnet had run fast, but he hadn’t run far. He didn’t go to Santa Fe; it was too likely he’d eventually run into one of the Sarratts, damn their black souls to hell. He’d gone to Albuquerque with the handful of men who had run with him, and hunkered down there to think things over.

  All in all, he didn’t much like his position. He could keep on drifting, change his name, and that didn’t matter much to him if he thought the Sarratts would let the matter drop. Hell, they had their damned ranch back, didn’t they? But he’d met up with Floyd Hibbs in one of the saloons; Floyd had been out in one of the upper ranges when all the fighting had gone on, but he hadn’t much liked the way things had changed and had packed up his gear and left. What really worried Garnet was that Floyd said Jake Roper and Jacob Sarratt were one and the same, and that his brother was one mean-lookin’ son of a bitch, too.

  So, both of the Sarratts had lived, and the older one had been right under his nose for months. He’d always known there was a reason why he didn’t like the bastard. The Major was dead, and damned if Roper—Sarratt—hadn’t married McLain’s high-nosed widow. Garnet remembered Jake Sarratt’s cold green eyes, and he didn’t think there was a snowball’s chance in hell that he and his brother wouldn’t be coming after him.

  He could run, but he didn’t think they would give up until they got him. He had put lead in both of them, something they weren’t likely to let pass.

  It didn’t set right with him, letting Sarratt hunt him like he was a rabbit. So the thing to do was something they wouldn’t expect.

  He still wanted that little gal, Celia, more now than before. He dreamed about her at night, dreamed how close he’d been to getting her. He’d about been ready to put a bullet in McLain himself when the Sarratts had rode in, and if he’d just done it a day sooner, nothing would have kept him from having her.

  He still wanted that ranch, too. It should’ve been his. McLain hadn’t done nothing but shoot the Sarratt woman after hump
ing her; it had been he, Garnet, who had put a bullet in Duncan Sarratt’s head, and who’d shot up the two boys. The little bastards should’ve died. Hell, McLain had been right all along when he’d been yapping about not finding the bodies, that the Sarratts were coming back. He’d been crazy, but he’d been right.

  Garnet thought about it a lot. He didn’t want to rush into nothing; he wanted everything planned out real careful. But he wanted that ranch, and more than anything he wanted the girl. If he could get together enough men, he just might consider turning the table on the Sarratts one last time.

  The situation between them had stretched into two miserable weeks before Jake sought her out. “Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?” he asked curtly.

  She didn’t look up from the button she was sewing on to one of his shirts. “What has?”

  “This situation.”

  “Actually, no. I expect it to go on for some months.”

  He clenched his teeth. He’d set his mind to apologize several times, but she always froze him out. Whenever he came near her, that patrician little nose would go in the air and she would leave the room. If she had to speak to him, she did it in tones so frosty that no one was left in doubt that the boss wasn’t on good terms with his missus. And it went without saying that she never looked at him anymore.

  His temper was frayed from the strain. He’d been infuriated when she had moved out of their bedroom, but at the time he’d decided it was better if they slept apart. His own rage had still been too close to the surface. But he was in control now and decided they should make the best of the situation. It would be easier on everyone in the house if they declared a truce.

  “I want you to move back into our bedroom.”

  “Thank you, no.”

  With that cool dismissal she put the shirt in her sewing basket and got to her feet. Knowing that she was about to leave him talking to an empty room, Jake grabbed her arms.

  “You’re staying right here until I’m finished,” he snapped.

  She didn’t bother to struggle. “You’re hurting my arms.”

  He eased the pressure, but didn’t release her. This close he could see the velvety texture of her skin, reminding him of the swelling and bruising that had so recently faded from her face. Every time he’d looked at her, the knowledge that he’d struck her that hard had burned like acid in his soul. “I won’t ever hit you again, Victoria,” he said in a low voice. “I give you my word.”

  She didn’t respond; she was like stone, staring straight ahead. Her faint sweet scent teased him. He fought the urge to lean down and press his face to her neck in pursuit of that elusive fragrance. He began to grow hard but wasn’t surprised. Hell, not even knowing that she was carrying McLain’s brat could stop him from burning for her. He didn’t know how far along she was, but her waist was still slender and she still walked with that provocative grace that drew him like a lodestone. That walk might turn into a pregnant waddle soon, but for now it made his heart pound.

  He wanted her back in his bed, while there was still time. After the baby became obvious, it would drive him crazy to lie beside her and know it wasn’t his, to be reminded every time he looked at her that she had belonged to McLain. Damn the bastard, even from the grave he had reached out to destroy his life.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked.

  Victoria looked straight ahead. “Yes, I heard you. Believing you is something entirely different.”

  His hands clenched again. “I give you my word.”

  “I put as much faith in your word as you do in mine.”

  Jake released her, dropping his hands as if she had burned him. He was fed up with the situation. It was time for it to end. “Move back into our bedroom. Tonight.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll do it for you if I have to.”

  “Are you going to kick down my door?” she asked without interest. “Drag me screaming into your room? Because you’ll have to do that, Jake. I won’t walk back into that room as if nothing has happened.”

  “I’m not asking you to pretend nothing happened. I’d give a year of my life if I hadn’t hit you, and ten years if you weren’t carrying that little bastard—”

  She slapped him, the sound sharp in the room. It happened before she realized she was going to do it. She had never felt such blind rage before and she had put all of her strength into the blow. Part of her was aghast that she had done such a thing, but another more primitive part was dismayed that she had done so little damage. The blow whipped his head around, but he remained solidly on his feet.

  She was looking him in the eye now, as he’d wanted, but he didn’t see any love and forgiveness in her face. She was white and trembling with anger, her eyes like blue fire. She went up on tiptoe to thrust her face close to his.

  “Don’t you ever call my baby a bastard again.” The words were even and said through clenched teeth. She looked ready to kill him, or die trying.

  Desire hit him in the gut. He’d seen Victoria bravely facing down Garnet, gentle with Celia, wild and passionate as he made love to her, an icy queen disdaining even to look at him, but this was new, this was a tigress ready to claw him to pieces. His erection pushed painfully against his pants as lust fogged his brain. He was reaching for her, everything forgotten but the burning urge to mate, when she suddenly turned even whiter and stepped back.

  She clapped her hand over her mouth and swallowed convulsively. Astonishment wiped the rage from her face. She swallowed once more, then turned and ran.

  She prayed she would make it to the privacy of her bedroom and not disgrace herself by vomiting on the stairs. Cold sweat broke out on her, and she staggered a bit on the steps. She should have gone outside; even if someone saw her it would have been better than the mess she was about to make… .

  She made it to her bedroom, and the basin. Her insides felt as if they were coming up. She heard someone shouting, but she was heaving so convulsively that her ears were roaring. It had hit her with the force of a train, following immediately on the heels of that incredible, blinding anger, and she hadn’t been prepared for either.

  There was a strong arm around her waist and a hand on her forehead; without them she would have fallen. She was dimly aware of others rushing into the bedroom, of sympathetic murmurs. She sagged and was caught up in Jake’s powerful arms. She knew it was him, knew it was he who had held her upright over the basin, but right now she didn’t care.

  “Put her on the bed, Señor Jake,” Carmita instructed.

  He did as Carmita put a cloth into Emma’s hand. Victoria became aware of someone washing her face with a wonderfully cold, wet cloth. She saw it was Emma and was so relieved she murmured, “I’ve never been so sick before.”

  Emma murmured words of comfort as Carmita moved toward the door. “Keep washing her face, señorita, while I get her something to eat.”

  Jake stared at the housekeeper as if she had lost her mind. “She doesn’t need anything to eat,” he told her. “She’s sick.”

  Carmita patted his arm. “She is sick with the baby,” she explained as she left to go to the kitchen. “It will settle her stomach to have something in it. Trust me, I know.”

  Sick with the baby. He stared at his wife, lying limp and pale in the bed she didn’t want to share with him. He knew women were nauseated when they were pregnant, but from the information he’d heard tossed around in saloons it came real early in the pregnancy. Victoria should have felt it well before now, but she had sounded frightened by what had just happened to her. And if she’d been vomiting for the past month or so, he hadn’t known.

  He went to the bed where Emma was slowly wiping Victoria’s face with the cloth. Victoria’s breathing was slower now, but she was still deathly pale and her eyes were closed. “Shouldn’t she be getting over this by now?” he asked, his tone rougher than he’d intended.

  Emma didn’t look up. “It’s just beginning.”

  He stepped back. Either Emma was lying or Victoria
had duped her, too. Once he would never have believed Victoria capable of such deception, but then he would never have believed her capable of the killing rage he’d seen in her eyes just a short while ago, either. He couldn’t understand why she was so fiercely protective of the baby she carped, since she had hated its father, he felt as betrayed by that as he did by the fact that she had tried to give it his name. But a mother of any species was ten times more dangerous when protecting her young than a hungry male ever was. He had underestimated the strength of that instinct in Victoria. When he looked at it like that he could almost forgive her.

  Carmita rushed back into the room with a plain tortilla and a cup of water. She sat on the bed and tore off a small portion of the tortilla which she pushed between Victoria’s lips, despite her weak protest.

  “You must eat it, señora. It will settle your stomach, you’ll see.”

  Victoria didn’t much care; she was beyond caring. But she chewed the flat-tasting tortilla and swallowed. To her vague surprise her stomach didn’t revolt. Carmita fed her half of the tortilla, then gave her a small sip of water. “That’s enough for now, señora. Rest and soon you’ll feel much better.”

  Victoria willingly closed her eyes. She heard rustles of clothing and retreating footsteps, then the door closed and she inhaled once, deeply, and slept.

  It was a short nap, but when she woke half an hour later she felt so well that it was hard to believe she’d been so violently ill less than an hour before. She lay still for a moment just to be sure, but her stomach was blissfully steady. She opened her eyes, sat up, and found Jake watching her.

  She was shocked to realize he’d been sitting there the whole time. She saw a faint red mark on his tanned cheek. It was the only remaining evidence of her slap, and it astonished her anew. She’d never before in her life struck another human being.