Branded (4 page)

Had Grady been lying just to impress her? He'd boasted more than once about his big spread in Colorado. Was it possible Slade Dalton had taken control of the ranch? Judging by the lawless looking bunch he'd just strode in with, it didn't seem an unlikely prospect. There were obviously hard feelings between the two brothers. She'd already begun dreading Grady's arrival. Now there loomed the possibility of an all out war between the Dalton brothers once he returned.

Dix snorted. "Damn, Slade. You think eight thousand acres is enough to feed all those cattle? Sounds kinda meager to me."

The table jolted. "Christ. What'd you do that for?" Dix asked, his accusing eyes on Slade. His brow wrinkled in pain as he rubbed his aching shin. "Oww...."

Slade threw him a look that instantly put an end to his whining.

Dora gave Slade a good-natured tap on his head. "What will our guest think?"

Lacey swallowed hard as her eyes drifted around the men crowding the kitchen. With the exception of Tait, they were without a doubt, the roughest group she'd ever seen. It was certainly like no afternoon tea she'd ever attended. She clutched the cup, hoping to stop her hand from trembling. What the devil had she gotten herself into this time?

"Dora, since when did you take up running a lodge?" Slade asked, his hard eyes not leaving Lacey's face.

She couldn't possibly live in the same house with Slade Dalton. It was clear, he quite hated her. And, for reasons she couldn't fathom, it bothered her plenty. "He's right. You don't need me underfoot, Mrs. Dalton. I passed an inn not far from here that would suit me perfectly," she lied.

"Dear, he only looks like he bites," Dora said delivering another affectionate swat to Slade's head. "You're staying with us, and I won't hear another word of it."

"Christ, Dora, you keep hitting him on the head like that, he'll have trouble counting the few cattle he does have." Dix had the good sense to scoot his chair back out of kicking range.

Lacey managed a weak smile and rose from her chair. "You're very kind, but ... Tait, do you think you could take me to town?" She felt unwelcome and unwanted. She may as well have been in her father's home.

"Woman," Slade said, "sit down."

Although the words were uttered in a calm, deliberate manner, there was something in their tone that made her obey.

He spoke to her now, as though there was no one else in the room. "I won't allow you to stay alone in town. It isn't safe. You'll stay on here, but this is a working ranch. So don't expect to be waited on."

Lacey's voice croaked with anger when she finally had the wits to answer him. "You won't allow!"

He leaned back in his chair, a pleased look on his face. "That's right."

"Enough of this ridiculous discussion. Of course she'll be staying with us. Go fetch her bags off the porch, Tait," Dora said.

"Tait, what are you waiting for? Get your lazy self out there. Those bags must've been sitting in the sun for hours," Slade said.

Tait jumped out of his seat so fast, his chair clattered to the floor. He raced out of the kitchen to do his brother's bidding.

Dora picked the chair up. "Slade, go easy on your brother. Miss Jarrell has only been here a short while."

"Really?" Slade said, eyeing her suspiciously.

She'd traded her brooch for a few extra hours of riding the rough roads, explaining that she wanted to familiarize herself with her new surroundings. Finally, when her mouth had been dry with dust, she’d allowed the weary driver to drop her at the Lazy Heart Ranch.

She responded to Slade's question with a sly, little smile. It was none of his bloody business why she'd taken so long getting here. She wished it would be that easy hiding the truth from herself. The closer she'd gotten to Grady's home, the more apprehensive she'd become. Soon, she'd be marrying a man she didn't love and perhaps would never love. With startling clarity, she realized, that facing her future would have been far easier, if she'd never laid eyes on Slade Dalton.

"Where do you want them?" Tait asked Dora as he deposited a heap of bags on the floor of the kitchen.

Slade took a swallow of his steaming coffee and rose from his seat. "I'll show her to her room. The loft, right?" he asked as he loaded himself down with the valises.

"Miss Jarrell wouldn't be comfortable in that dusty, cramped room. The lavender room," Dora said.

Slade looked perplexed. "And which room would that be?"

Dora gave a frustrated sigh. "Maybe if you visited more often, you'd know your own home. Slade, there are only four bedrooms."

Slade raised an eyebrow. "The lavender room. You're sure?"

"Yes," she responded with a disapproving frown.

Feeling a bit foolish, carrying only her dainty reticule, Lacey followed him into an odd, nearly vacant room. A weak, smoky light drifted through the single, window set high in the log wall. Oliver, having already made himself at home, stretched out on the rough plank floor. He was trying to shake off a wooly collie pup tugging at his ear. Lacey surveyed the dimly lit room, noting the oilcloth coats dangling from hooks and a lethal saber resting on notched pegs in the wall. A huge, jaw-like trap tethered to a hook caught Lacey's eye, and she shuddered to think what size beast that was meant to snare. Her attention riveted to the barbaric implements on display, she failed to notice the gun cabinet directly in her path. She caught her thigh on the edge, setting the cabinet rocking.

"Careful, woman. You'll set one off."

"You keep them loaded?"

"Tait's a mite careless about emptying them. I wonder sometimes, if it isn't on purpose. He's a tad fearful of an Indian raid."

"Indian raid?" Her hand caught at the back of his vest. He peered at her over his shoulder, a smug smile on his lips. She had a suspicion that he'd made mention of Indians just to scare her. Instantly, she released her hold on him, but not before her fingers had registered the heat of his body through the wool vest.

With a chuckle, he turned back to the door, managing to lift the latch with his one free thumb. They stepped into a quaint, pretty parlor with a mint green settee and unmatched china cups displayed in a delicate cherry wood cupboard. In the hall, they passed a ladder and Lacey peered up into the dark recess of the ceiling. She scowled at his back. If Dora hadn't overruled him, she would have been relegated to that confining, windowless place.

She followed him into a small room that felt positively tiny with him in it. The man was simply too big. She couldn't help noting how his build differed from Grady's spare frame. Though Slade was narrow through the waist and hips, his shirt seemed stretched to the limit across his broad, muscular back and shoulders. Burdened with luggage, his flexed arms seemed enormous. Unbidden, a picture of her cradled in those rock-hard arms flashed in her mind. She pulled her eyes away and attempted to focus on the room.

"'Tis lovely," she said.

He deposited her cases by the canopied bed. "The lavender room," he muttered under his breath as he gave the room a cursory glance.

Lacey smiled to herself. The only claim the room had to the color was a worn purple coverlet, the quilt squares trimmed with ivory ribbon, and a tall vase of violet sage on the chiffonier.

Removing her second glove, she deposited both atop a small writing desk. He picked one up and rubbed the black lace between his fingers, casting a sideways glance at her. "Do you liken marriage to my brother to a funeral?"

"Don't be absurd," she said with vehemence.

"Right," he said with a short harsh laugh. "I'll leave you to settle in." He proceeded to open a rather low, narrow door located on the side wall that Lacey hadn't noticed. Stooping, he exited through the doorway.

Lacey peeked her head in after him. "And what's this?" she asked, only able to make out the outline of clutter in the near-dark room.

"Dora's sewing room. Only, she doesn't have a talent for stitching, so it's become a place to store old furniture. Dora doesn't take to throwing things away."

She watched him leave through an identically narrow door on the opposite wall. Then she shut her door to the sewing room and turned her attention to unpacking.

Dora may not be a seamstress, but she was an impeccable housekeeper. There was not a speck of dust to be seen. The only indication that the room had not been used recently was the way the window stuck. She was able to force it open only a few inches.

She pulled the pins from her hair, and it tumbled soft and black to her waist. She threw herself back on the bed and ran her hands over the soft quilt, wishing it was night already, so she could crawl under its warmth. It had been a jarring, exhausting journey.

She smoothed her hand over the quilt. It was so meticulously sewn, she guessed Dora hadn’t had a hand in making it. She traced a square of ribbon and was reminded of her mother's fine needlework. Her chest tightened as she remembered how frail her mother had looked that final month in her sickbed. As ill as she’d been, she'd managed to help finish their last shared embroidery piece. Lacey doubted she would be in this miserable situation if her mother had lived.

Rolling her head to the side, she eyed the peculiar, little door. She assumed the other door to the sewing room lead outside, since Mr. Dalton had exited through it. Even with the window opened, she couldn't seem to take a deep breath. She tried to convince herself to stop panicking, but she felt almost as though she were suffocating in this new place. She decided a dose of fresh air would help.

Feeling her way through the windowless sewing room, she barked her shin on something very solid. "Blasted," she muttered to herself as she rubbed her aching leg.

Closing her fingers on the latch to the second door, it clicked open. Her eyes took a moment to adjust from the dark to the light. When they did, she found herself blinking up at Slade Dalton. His shirttail pulled from his pants, he was in the process of undressing. His shirt gaped, revealing a smooth well-muscled chest. Clamped between his teeth was a cigarette. Half his mouth tilted into a far too sinister smile for her liking. Squinting, his pale eyes took her measure through a cloud of smoke.

Making no attempt to fix his attire, he removed the cigarette from his mouth. "Settled already?"

Her eyes scanned the room, picking out the masculine elements; a worn leather coat hanging from the bedpost, a shaving brush and razor, a utilitarian wooden comb, and in the corner, an unexpected pile of well-thumbed books.

She focused again on him. "Th-This is your room?" she managed to stutter out the obvious.

He'd shifted closer and now stood only inches from her. "Well, yeah." For the second time that day he touched her hair. He lifted a tress and brushed the ends against the ball of his thumb. Her scalp tingled with the sensation. "I like it down," he said.

"Do you think I bloody care what you like?" She yanked her hair from his grasp. "You'll have to move to another room."

"Not a chance, Duchess." He moved to the open window and flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Don't worry," he said with a sneer, "Grady and I have never shared anything in our lives." His gaze slid insolently over her.

His insult brought the sting of tears to her eyes. "Your brother warned me about you. I thought he'd exaggerated your shortcomings, but clearly, he did not." The tears beading up on her lashes were starting to spill onto her cheeks, but she made no effort to wipe them away.

He heaved a sigh and crossed the room to her. He reached out to her face.

Ducking to avoid his hand, she swivelled on her heels and yanked open the door, hoping it would smack him in the face. "You, bloody well, better keep your distance from me."

The door slammed in Slade’s face. His hair ruffled from the force. He bit down hard on the cigarette, the muscles in his jaw jumping. Keep his distance? How the devil was he supposed to do that? She should have asked him to simply stop breathing. It would have been a helluva a lot easier.

Just seeing her in his kitchen had set his blood on fire. She was the most delectable handful he’d ever encountered. Hell, he even appreciated the wild streak that seemed to run a mile wide in her. He wondered if he purposefully provoked her, just to see that obstinate thrust of her chin. She sassed him so fearlessly, the tears took him by surprise.

Damn Grady for sending her to Colorado and stirring things up.

Slade rubbed his hand over his face trying to get a hold of himself. He had a ranch to resurrect. He didn’t have time for a such a sweet distraction. And, he reminded himself, he didn’t deserve one either.

Slade waited for Dix’s reaction to the new branding iron.

"Yeah, this will do it," Dix said. "Your new mark is so damn complicated even Banyon won’t be able to figure out how to alter it."

"Let’s hope," Slade said as he turned back to his task. He applied vigorous pressure as he oiled the saddle in the tack room. Unfortunately, it didn’t do much to relieve his tension. Every time he thought about the bastards who stole his cattle and blotted the Dalton brand, he wanted to spit fire.

"I was working the railway stockyard, when Banyon drove in three hundred head of longhorn. After raising them by hand, it was easy to recognize your father’s superior stock. Imagine, he earned a sizeable profit shipping them east." Dix chuckled. "Course, with no outlay, it’s all profit. I suspect, Banyon kept the rest for breeding. I told Grady about it when he came back for one of his rare visits. But you know how the ranch was always his last priority."

Dix contemplated the iron in the palm of his hand. He frowned. "I wished I could have stayed on to prevent the rustling."

It was a rare thing to see Dix contrite.

"Dora couldn’t afford me any longer."

"Can’t expect a man to work for nothing," Slade responded.

Slade didn’t feel right broaching the subject with Dora, but he couldn’t understand where the earnings he’d sent home had gone. Surely, it had been enough to pay the crew’s wages. There was always the possibility that Grady had siphoned it off for one of his business ventures.