Nan Ryan (30 page)

Her knees had gone so weak she could hardly stand, and the only thought running through her mind was that she couldn’t wait to have his arms around her again. All her earlier reserve had vanished the instant he turned around.

“Eva, my dear,” Virgil drawled, acknowledging her.

“Captain,” she managed, wondering if the room really was stifling, or if it was her.

Virgil raised his leaded-bottom liquor glass in salute, then drained the contents, his hooded gaze never leaving her.

The minute he had turned to see her, he knew that he couldn’t leave her alone. He
had
to make love to her again. Never had she been more beautiful, more alluring. In the youthful dress she now wore, she looked incredibly fresh and appealingly innocent. She could have been eighteen, so flawless was her face, so perfect her skin, so girlishly slender her body. A wide white lace ruffle, topping the gown’s tight bodice, encircled her creamy shoulders, leaving them appealingly bare. That same ruffle dipped low at the center in front. But not low enough. The pale rise of her breasts when she breathed made his own breath catch in his chest. He had to consciously steel himself to remain calm, to refrain from behaving outlandishly.

His teeth were tightly clenched, his jaw ridged. It was with superhuman effort that Virgil Black kept himself from hurriedly crossing to her, yanking that lace bodice down, and burying his lips in the warm shadowy sweetness between her pale perfect breasts.

As the two of them stood across the lamp-lighted
sala
from each other, a silent, urgent message passed between them. It was simply this:
Let’s hurry and have dinner so we can make love.

The don, chattering companionably, never noticed that they only nodded or mumbled acknowledgments to his questions and statements. Don Amondo Rivas was a man who enjoyed talking, so he didn’t mind if those to whom he spoke were satisfied just to listen.

“Shall we go in to dinner?” the don finally invited in the same cheerful, conversational tone he’d been using.

“Yes!” Virgil and the princess said in unison.

“Good, good. You are both hungry, no?”

“Oh, yes,” said the princess, “quite hungry.”

His heavy lidded gaze never leaving her, Virgil said, “Famished.”

But once inside the candlelit dining room, the portly don was the only one who ate with gusto. The princess, seated across the table from Virgil, had little appetite for food. She sipped the chilled wine from a stemmed crystal wineglass and pushed the food around her plate with a sterling silver fork. And looked with barely disguised longing at the darkly handsome man across the table.

His carefully brushed hair shone like shimmering black satin in the candlelight, and his lazy-lidded eyes gleamed with a silent sexual promise. The princess had to quickly lower her gaze from his, afraid she might actually swoon. It was then that she noticed, and not for the first time, Virgil’s hands. There was both strength and grace in those beautiful hands of his. Such exquisite hands. Lean, tanned hands with long tapered fingers and clean square-cut nails. Deft, dexterous hands. Skilled masculine hands that could ignite incredible heat with the lightest of touches.

Tingling, the princess quickly shifted her attention from Virgil, lest she make a complete fool of herself.

The many-coursed meal moved at a leisurely pace. Throughout, the don did most of the talking. The princess found she was interested in his narrative, because most of his lengthy tales involved Virgil Black, a man with whom she had been intimate but knew little about. Clearly the sunny-dispositioned Mexican knew Virgil well and was fond of the stone-faced Ranger.

His silverware poised above his china plate, the don pointed his knife at Virgil and said, “If not for this big brave
Americano
, my precious baby boy would not be here.”

Virgil cleared his throat loudly and quickly changed the subject. “So, Amondo, how many new colts did the ranch—”

“
Con permiso, Capitán
,” the don interrupted. “I know you too well. You have never told the
señorita
about saving my son.” He turned to her. “Has he?”

“No. No, he hasn’t.” The princess glanced at Virgil, then back at the don, curious. “Please, you tell me.”

The don smiled at the stern-faced Virgil. “You are too modest,
amigo.
” To the princess he said, “Doña Soledad, my beautiful wife, says
el capitán
is the bravest man she has ever known.”

The princess wanted to hear the story.

The don wanted to tell it.

Virgil rolled his eyes and reached for his wineglass.

Don Amondo laid down his silverware. For a long moment he was totally silent. When he spoke, it was in a low, deep voice that commanded attention. A born orator, he began, “For as long as I live on this earth I will always remember that horrible, horrible day.” He leaned back in his chair, made himself comfortable. The princess leaned closer to the table, hanging on his every word.

“It was just a few months ago and I had given my youngest son, Ramon, a gentle mustang gelding for his fourth birthday. Ramon and I were out on the far southern reaches of Tierra del Encanto that cool March morning. I was teaching him to ride, and I knew if we stayed close to the corral, Ramon’s older brothers and sisters would come out to watch and they would tease him. You know how that goes.”

“Yes,” said the princess, thinking that she had no idea, since she had never had any siblings.

“Soledad was very angry with me that morning for not staying close to home. But she is a woman, so perhaps—you will forgive me for saying it—she does not fully understand how easily the pride of a man is wounded. I explained to her that Ramon’s pride would be badly hurt if he fell off the pony in front of his brothers and sisters and all the
vaqueros.
”

The princess nodded.

“But I digress,” said the don, waving a plump brown hand in the air. “Ramon and I were alone and far from ranch headquarters when a band of renegade Apaches ambushed us. I knew what they wanted the minute they surrounded us. My son. My precious son, Ramon.” The don shuddered, remembering. “Ramon was torn from my arms and lifted up onto a brave’s dancing paint. The warriors took his mustang and my stallion, leaving me afoot. They rode away toward the mountains with me frantically running after them, shouting for them to let my son go. To take me instead. I could see Ramon turned in the saddle, looking back at me, trying very hard not to cry.”

The don laughed suddenly and admitted, “My four-year-old son was more of a man that day than his father. He was not crying but his frightened
padre
was. I was sobbing and shouting, and I guess the Apaches found me to be too big a nuisance, because one of the braves turned back and knocked me unconscious with the butt of his rifle.”

The don spoke of how the kidnapped boy’s mother had had to be sedated, so upset was she. And he told the princess how it had been Ranger Virgil Black who alone rode into the Apache mountain stronghold and bargained for Ramon’s life.

Mesmerized, the princess hadn’t said a word throughout his fascinating story. She glanced often at Virgil. He was, she could tell, terribly uncomfortable, embarrassed. Which made him tremendously appealing. Most men would have bragged about such a daring feat of heroism.

“I will never,” concluded the sentimental Don Amondo, his dark eyes misting, “forget—after staring down that long front drive day after hopeless day—seeing
Capitán
Black come riding up it with my precious baby boy in his arms.”

Half-choked up herself, the princess was deeply touched by the revelation. She cast yet another glance at the charmingly ill-at-ease Virgil and tried to picture him with a child in his arms. She couldn’t do it. The vision would not come.

A vision that would come and did, was one with her in his strong arms. Instinctively, she knew that it was a shared vision. She knew that Virgil Black was just as eager to hold her in his arms as she was to be there.

“Ah, yes,” Don Amondo was saying as he picked up his knife and fork, “we have been through some bad times and some good times together, have we not,
mi amigo
?”

“Mostly good,” said Virgil, nodding yes when a servant poured more wine into his stemmed glass.

The don said, “I have the Spanish land grants to tens of thousands of acres contiguous to Tierra del Encanto atop secret aquifers, and El Paso banks have offered Virgil favorable terms to underwrite his own rancho. But he keeps turning me down.” He looked at Virgil. “Are we not good friends,
amigo
?”

Virgil nodded, but gave no reply.

“Ah, well, perhaps one day you will change your mind. You cannot be a Texas Ranger forever.”

Virgil shrugged.

The don then talked at length of life on the big rancho, telling the princess proudly that all his children were bright and industrious. Each had his assigned chores, and indolence was not tolerated. They were hard workers all, just like their
padre.

By the time dessert was served, the eager pair seated across from each other were beginning to wonder if the prolonged meal would ever end. Knowing that the golden flan was the last course, both the princess and Virgil devoured the rich pudding with genuine enthusiasm.

“You will have more flan?” asked Don Amondo when all had finished.

“Oh, no, thank you, Don Amondo,” said the princess. “Everything was so delicious, I’m afraid I’ve overeaten.”

“You,
Capitán
?” the don asked, smiling.

“No more for me,
gracias.
” Virgil raised a tanned hand, patted his stomach. “It was a superb meal.” He pushed back his chair.

“Ah, you both eat like birds,” said the don, lifted a silver bell, and shook it. “One helping of flan is never enough for me.” A serving girl appeared carrying a small silver tray atop which was a crystal pedestal dish of flan.

As the don enjoyed his second dish of the pudding, he stopped often to tell yet another story. The princess fidgeted nervously. Virgil sat perfectly still, but he kept glancing at a porcelain clock on the long walnut sideboard.

The meal finally ended. The trio left the dining room. In the hacienda’s wide entranceway, the princess turned to the stocky Mexican. “It was a lovely evening, Don Amondo. I hope you will not think me rude if I go up. I am so sleepy I can hardly hold my eyes open.” She smiled at him.

“But, of course.” The don was gracious. “It has been a long day for you. You go now and rest.”

The hallway clock chimed the hour of ten o’clock as the princess bade them both good night, lifted her skirts, and turned to the stairs.

“I’m a little sleepy myself,” Virgil said, practically holding his breath. “Think I’ll—”

“No, no,” the don said, frowning, shaking his head. “Not before we share at least one glass of brandy and a cigar.”

On the stairs, the princess heard their exchange and prayed that Virgil would turn down the don’s invitation. She felt as if she couldn’t possibly wait one minute more to be in his arms. She made a tortured face when she heard his calm reply.

Trapped, Virgil said, evenly, “Fine. But only one.”

32

At ten o’clock on that
same hot June night, a weary Hantz Landsfelt, Princess Marlena’s guilt-ridden bodyguard, stumbled into the El Paso telegraph office.

The clerk behind the counter, a neatly dressed round-faced man with thinning brown hair, looked up. He saw a burly giant with numerous bruises and scratches on his hands and face. The big man was wearing dirty, tattered clothes, and his hair was badly disheveled.

Smiling, the clerk said, “How does the other fellow look, friend?”

“There was no other fellow, and I’m not your friend,” yelled Hantz Landsfelt. “Give me a sheet of paper. I must send a wire at once.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” said the clerk, pushing a pad of yellow message paper through the barred window.

* * *

In San Antonio, it was just past eleven that night when Montillion, pacing worriedly in the elegant Menger Hotel suite, was startled by a loud knock on the suite’s door.

“Telegram,” called the delivery boy through the door.

All the blood drained from Montillion’s face, and he felt his heart stop beating, then speed out of control. He rushed across the room and yanked the door open.

The slender uniformed young man presented him with a yellow envelope, saying, “I’m supposed to wait for a response.”

Ignoring the boy, Montillion tore the envelope open with cold, trembling fingers and read:

M
ARLENA APPREHENDED BY
T
EXAS
R
ANGER
. S
OME KIND OF MIX-UP
. M
ISTAKEN IDENTITY
. M
ARLENA LIKELY SAFE AND UNHARMED
. R
ANGER BRINGING HER TO
E
L
P
ASO JAIL
. S
HOULD ARRIVE ANY
…

The wire went on to explain how it happened and why. And how he, Hantz, had just arrived in El Paso after a number of unlikely calamities had befallen him. He had, he said, been forced to walk most of the way. In conclusion, the shamed bodyguard asked what he should do next.