by Lind Howard
He’d been back at Davencourt a little over twenty-four hours, and he’d had a hard-on for what seemed like most of that time, certainly for the hours he’d spent in her company. If she’d seemed even the least inclined to flirt with him, in any way signal that she wanted him, too, he probably couldn’t have withstood the temptation. But Roanna seemed totally unaware of him as a man, despite the hours they had spent in bed together. The idea was infuriating, but it seemed likely that she had indeed slept with him just to get him to come back to Davencourt.
Even that thought, instead of dampening his ardor, only intensified it. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder and carry her away for some hot, lazy sex on a sun-drenched bed, prove to her that she wanted him, that Davencourt and Lucinda had nothing to do with it. The fact was, where Roanna was concerned, his sexual instincts were so damn primitive he expected to start grunting and swinging clubs any minute now.
And that was after only one day.
The grudge he’d held against her all those years was gone. Maybe it had been destroyed during the night they’d spent together, and he just hadn’t noticed it at the time. Habit was a powerful thing; you got so used to something that you expected it to be there even when it wasn’t. If any vestige had been left, she had demolished it the next morning with her quiet dignity and the utter defenselessness with which she had said, “All you had to do was snap your fingers, and I’d have come running.” Not many women would have laid themselves on the line like that; none that he knew, in fact, except for Roanna. He’d been staggered by the courage it had taken for her to say that, knowing what a weapon she had put in his hands if he’d been inclined to use it
He wasn’t. He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, watching the motion. Like that. He could have her just like that. He wanted her, God knows he wanted her so much he ached. But what he wanted more than anything, even more than he wanted to make love to her, was to see her smile again.
By the time she drove home late that afternoon, Roanna was aching with fatigue. She usually found organizational meetings deadly dull anyway, and this one had dragged on with hours of debate on insignificant details. As usual, she had sat quietly, though this time she had been concentrating more on holding her head upright and her eyes open than she had been on what people were saying.
By the time she turned south onto Highway 43, the sun and heat were almost more than she could fight. She blinked drowsily, glad that she was so close to home. It was almost time for supper, but she planned to lie down for a nap instead. She could eat whenever she chose, but sleep was a lot harder to achieve and far more precious.
She made a right turn off the highway onto a secondary road, and a mile or so after that she turned left onto Davencourt’s private road. If she hadn’t been so sleepy, she would have been driving faster, and she might have missed the blur of motion in her peripheral vision. She slowed even more, turning her head to see what had caught her attention.
At first she saw only the horse, plunging and rearing, and her first thought was that it had lost its rider and bolted, and now the trailing reins were caught on some underbrush. She forgot her tiredness as urgency flooded her muscles. She slammed on the brakes, shoved the gear shift into park, and jumped out of the car, leaving the motor running and the door open. She could hear the horse’s squeals of fear and pain as it reared again
Roanna didn’t think about her expensive shoes or her silk dress. She didn’t think of anything except reaching the horse before it hurt itself. She leaped the shallow ditch on the opposite side of the road, then ran awkwardly across the small field toward the trees, her high heels sinking into the earth with each step. She plunged through knee-high weeds that stung her legs, snagged her hosiery on some green briers, turned her ankle when she stepped in a hole. She ignored all of that as she ran as fast as she could, intent only on getting to the horse.
Then the horse sidled sideways, and she saw the man.
She hadn’t noticed him before because he’d been on the other side of the horse, and the undergrowth had partially blocked her view.
The horse’s reins weren’t caught on anything. The man was holding them in one fist, and in the other fist he held a small tree limb that he was using to beat the horse.
Fury roared through her, pumping strength into her muscles. She heard herself yell, saw the man look in her direction with a startled expression on his face, then she surged through the undergrowth and threw her weight against him, knocking him to the side. She couldn’t have done it if he’d been expecting it and braced himself, but she caught him by surprise. “Stop it!” she stormed, placing herself between him and the frightened horse. “Don’t you dare hit this animal again!”
He regained his balance and swung toward her, gripping the limb as if he would use it on her. Roanna registered the danger in his face, the venomous anger in his eyes, but she stood her ground. Her detachment didn’t include standing by and watching any animal in general, but horses in particular, being abused. She braced herself, waiting for him to swing at her. If she charged him, she could get inside the blow and maybe knock him off balance again. If she could, she wouldn’t waste any more time but get on the horse and get away from him as fast as she could.
His eyes were a hot electric blue as he advanced a step toward her, his arm drawn back ready to strike. His face was dark, red, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a snarl. “You damn little bitch—”
“Who are you?” Roanna demanded, taking a half step toward him herself to show that she wasn’t afraid. It was a bluff-she was suddenly very much afraid—but the anger inside her was still so strong she stood her ground. “What are you doing on our land?”
Maybe he thought better of hitting her. For whatever reason, he halted, though he was slow to let his arm drop. He stood a few feet away, breathing hard and glaring at her.
“Who are you?” she demanded again. Something about him was eerily familiar, as if she’d seen that expression before. But she knew she’d never seen him before, and she thought she would remember if she had, because those vivid blue eyes and thick shock of gray hair were very distinctive. He was a thickly built man, probably in his fifties, whose wide shoulders and barrel chest gave the impression of an almost brutish strength. What disturbed her the most, though, was the sense almost of evil that emanated from him. No, not evil. It was more impersonal than that, a simple and total lack of conscience or morals. That was it. His eyes, for all their hot color, were cold and flat.
“Who I am ain’t none of your business,” he sneered. “And neither is what I’m doing.”
“When you do it on Davenport land, it is. Don’t you dare hit this horse again, do you hear?”
“It’s my horse, and I’ll do whatever I damn well please to it. The bastard threw me.”
“Then maybe you should learn how to ride better,” she retorted hotly. She turned to catch the dangling reins and murmur soothingly to the horse, then patted its neck. It snorted nervously but calmed down as she continued to gently stroke it. The horse wasn’t a valuable purebred like Lucinda’s babied darlings; it was of an indeterminate breed with indifferent formation, but Roanna couldn’t see any reason why it should be mistreated.
“Why don’t you just go about your own business, missy, and I’ll forget about teaching you some manners.”
The menacing voice made her whirl. He was closer, and there was a feral look in his expression now. Swiftly Roanna stepped back, maneuvering so that the horse was between her and the man.
“Get off our land,” she said coldly. “Or I’ll have you arrested.”
His heavily sensual mouth twisted in another sneer. “I guess you would. The sheriff’s an ass-licker, especially when it comes to a Davenport ass. It wouldn’t make any difference to you that I didn’t know I was on your precious property, would it?”
“Not when you’re beating your horse,” Roanna replied, her tone still cold. “Now leave.”
He smirked. “I can’t. You’re holding my hors
e.”
Roanna dropped the reins and took another cautious step back. “There. Now get off our property, and if I ever see you mistreating an animal again, I’ll have you brought up on charges of cruelty. Maybe I don’t know your name, but I can describe you, and probably not too many people look the way you do.” None that she knew of; his eyes were very distinctive.
He turned dark with temper again, and violence moved in those eyes, but he evidently thought better once more of what he had been about to do and merely reached for the reins. He swung himself into the saddle with the minimum of effort that revealed him to be an experienced rider. “I’ll see you again some day,” he mocked, and dug his heels into the horse’s sides. The startled animal leaped forward, brushing by her so closely that its massive shoulder would have knocked her down if she hadn’t jumped aside.
He rode in the direction of the highway, leaning down to avoid low-hanging branches. He was out of sight in only a moment, though it took longer than that for the thud of the horse’s hooves to fade from her hearing.
Roanna made her way over to a sturdy oak and leaned against it, closing her eyes and shaking.
That had been one of the most foolish, foolhardy things she’d ever done. She had been extremely lucky and she knew it. That man could have seriously hurt her, raped her, maybe even killed her—anything. She had charged headlong into a dangerous situation without stopping to think. Such impulsiveness had been the main cause of trouble in her childhood and had been the trigger for the tragedy of Jessie’s death and Webb’s leaving.
She had thought that the reckless streak had been destroyed forever, but now she found, to her distress, that it still lurked deep inside, ready to leap to the fore. She probably would have found it before, if anything had made her angry. But horses weren’t abused at Davencourt, and it had been a long time since she had allowed herself to care about much of anything at all. Webb had been gone, and the endless procession of days had all been flat and dreary.
She was still shaking in the aftermath of fear and rage, and her legs wobbled beneath her. She drew in deep breaths, trying to will herself to calmness. She couldn’t go home like this, with her self-control so paper-thin. Anyone who saw her would know that something had happened, and she didn’t want to rehash the whole thing and listen to the recriminations. She knew she’d been stupid, and lucky.
But more than that, she didn’t want anyone to see the break in her composure. She was embarrassed and terrified by this unexpected vulnerability. She had to protect herself better than that. She couldn’t do anything about her permanent weakness where Webb was concerned, but neither could her internal wall withstand any additional weaknesses.
When her legs felt steady enough, she left the woods and waded back across the field of weeds, this time taking care to avoid the briers. Her right ankle twinged with pain, reminding her that she had twisted it.
When she reached her car, she sat down sideways in the driver’s seat, with her legs outside. Bending down, she took off her shoes and shook the dirt out of them. After a quick look around assured her that there were no cars on the road, she swiftly reached under her skirt and peeled off her shredded panty hose. She used the ruined garment to wipe off her shoes as best she could, then slipped them back on her bare feet.
There were tissues in her purse. She got one, wet it with her tongue, and rubbed at the scratches on her legs until the tiny beads of blood were gone. That, and a passage of a brush through her hair, was the best she could do. To be on the safe side, however, she would use her old childhood trick of going up the outside stairs to the second floor and circling around to her room.
She didn’t know who that man was, but she hoped she never saw him again.
CHAPTER 15
It was just like old times, trying to slip into her room without anyone seeing her. Back then, though, she had usually been trying to hide after committing some mischief or social faux pas. The confrontation with that unknown brute was far more serious. There was also the difference that now she was mature enough to admit her foolishness rather than tell whoppers to try to hide it. She wouldn’t lie if asked, but still she had no intention of blurting out what had happened.
Roanna made it into her room without incident. Quickly she stripped and stepped into the shower, wincing as the water stung the scratches on her legs. After thoroughly washing, the best protection against any possible encounter with poison ivy that might have been lurking in the weeds and among the trees, she dabbed the scratches with an antiseptic, then followed that with a soothing application of pure aloe gel. The stinging stopped almost immediately, and without that constant reminder of the unsettling encounter, her nerves began to calm.
A few flips of the brush restored her hair to order, and three minutes spent applying an array of cosmetics hid any lingering sign of upset. Roanna stared in the mirror at the sophisticated reflection; sometimes she was surprised by the image that looked back, as if it wasn’t really her. Thank God for her sorority sisters, she thought. Most of the passages of her life had been marked by loss: the death of her parents, Jessie’s murder, Webb’s departure. College had been one passage, however, that had been good, and the credit for that belonged solely to those drawling, sharp-eyed, and saber-tongued young women who had taken the misfit under their protection and used their expertise in things social and cosmetic to turn her into an acceptable debutante. Funny how the competent application of mascara had translated itself into a smidgen of self-confidence, how the mastering of a graceful dance step had somehow untied her tongue and allowed her to carry on a social conversation.
She slipped the wires of plain gold hoops into her pierced ears, turning her head to check her appearance. She liked the way they looked, the way the ends of her slightly, purposely tousled hair curled through the hoops, as if her hair had been specifically cut to do so. That was another thing the sorority sisters had taught her, how to appreciate certain things about her own appearance. The greatest gift they had given her was constructed out of the small accomplishments of learning to dance, to apply makeup, to dress well, to function socially. The foundation had taken shape so slowly that she hadn’t noticed it, a brick going into place every so often, but now it was suddenly large enough for her to see it, and she was puzzled by it.
Self-confidence.
How she had always envied people who had it! Webb and Lucinda both had dynamic, aggressive self-confidence, the type that founded nations and built empires. Gloria was frequently blind to anything but herself, but certain in any case that she knew better than anyone else. Jessie’s self-confidence had been monumental. Loyal was confident in his dealings with the animals in his care, and Tansy ruled the kitchen. Even the mechanics at the dealership where she’d bought her car were certain of their ability to fix any mechanical problem.
That slow-forming structure was her own self-confidence. The realization made her eyes widen with mild surprise. She was sure of herself when it came to horses; that had always been true. She’d had the self-confidence, or pure foolhardiness, to confront that awful man in the woods today and force him to stop mistreating that horse.
The sheer force of shock and anger had propelled her into action, a spirit she hadn’t realized still lived inside her. The horse had been the catalyst, of course; she loved the animals so much, and it had always sent her into pure rage to see any one of them mistreated. Even so, her own actions shocked her, bringing her face-to-face with a part of herself she had thought long dead, or at least safely dormant. She no longer threw temper tantrums or insisted on having her way about things, but she did make her opinions known when it suited her. She kept a great deal of herself private, but that was her own decision, her own way of dealing with heartbreak and keeping pain at bay. She protected herself by not letting herself care, or at least not letting anyone know that she cared, and most of the time the appearance of indifference was enough.
She continued staring into the mirror at the face she knew so well, and yet the things she
saw beyond it were new, as if she had just opened a door to a different outlook.
People in town treated her with respect, listening when she spoke, however seldom that was. There was even a group of young businesswomen in the Shoals area who regularly invited her for Saturday lunches at Callahan’s, not to talk business, but to laugh and joke and … be friends. Friends. They didn’t ask her to go with them because she was Lucinda’s stand-in, or because they wanted to pitch ideas or ask favors of her. They asked her simply because they liked her.
She hadn’t realized. Roanna’s lips parted in surprise. She was so accustomed to thinking of herself as Lucinda’s proxy that she hadn’t considered she could be invited somewhere on her own account.
When had this happened? She thought, but couldn’t pinpoint a time. The process had been so gradual that there was no single outstanding incident to mark the occasion.
A sense of peace began to glow deep inside. Webb was going to have Davencourt, just as Lucinda had always planned, but the deep-seated fear Roanna had felt at having to leave its sheltering confines began to fade. She would still leave; she loved him so much that she wasn’t sure of her own control where he was concerned. If she stayed, she would likely end up creeping into his bed some night and begging him to take her again.
She didn’t want that. She didn’t want to embarrass him, or herself. This newfound sense of worth was too new, too fragile, to survive another devastating rejection.
She began to think of where she would go, what she would do. She wanted to stay in the Shoals area, of course; her roots were generations deep, centuries strong. She had money of her own, inherited from her parents, and she would still inherit part of Lucinda’s estate even though the bulk of it would go to Webb. She could do anything she wanted. The thought was liberating.
