Nan Ryan (19 page)

The lightning flashed closer. The thunder grew louder. And Lew Hatton, his body responding to remembered scents and sensations, grew uncomfortably warm in the darkened bunkhouse. Perspiration dotting his face and bare chest, Lew climbed out of his bunk, drew on a pair of Levi’s, and went outside.

Walking barefoot on the rain-slicked porch, he tossed his cigar into a stream of swirling water, leaned a muscular shoulder against a post, and drew a deep, slow breath. He stood there in the violent rainstorm allowing the deluge to hit him full in the face. He welcomed the rain that plastered his hair to his head, peppered his upturned face, drenched his bare shoulders, and saturated his Levi’s.

And temporarily cooled the heat in his blood.

Two hours later Lew sat polishing his boots. The storm had passed, and bright summer sunshine streamed in the open windows of the bunkhouse. The cowboys, back from a quick breakfast at the cookshack, were busy getting ready for the daylong celebration.

At the table where Lew sat, a young wrangler straddled a chair and bragged how he planned to dance with every girl in Maya and to take the prettiest one home. A bewhiskered old-timer looked up from his game of solitaire, shot the kid a snaggletoothed grin, and taunted, “Reckon that’d be Mary Beth McCalister. Think you’d be man enough for her once you got her home?”

The wrangler’s face turned scarlet. “I could handle her all right, if I got the chance.” The old cowpoke snorted while Lew smiled. “Well, I could!” Frowning, the boy rose and walked away, muttering, “I sure could.”

The old man laughed and laughed. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and was wiping his eyes when he heard Puma’s distinct voice. Lew heard it too. It came from the porch. Lew’s head snapped around when he heard Fontaine Gayerre’s name.

“She’s a mighty pretty thing,” said Puma, “but I don’t think Lew’s the only one that’s getting some of that.”

“What do you mean?” asked one of the cowhands.

The snaggletoothed old cowpoke lowered his handkerchief, his eyes on Lew. He saw the muscles tense in Lew’s shoulders, saw the hardening of his jaw.

“Hell, she goes around with that tall Indian kid,” Puma continued. “Eight to five says she’s enjoying some dark cock out behind the blacksmith’s shop these hot afternoons.”

His face a mask of rage, Lew shot to his feet. Ignoring the old man’s admonition to let it alone, he charged out the door like a crazed animal and swung a hard-driving fist into Puma’s ugly face. Lew tagged the bigger, heavier man full in the mouth, sending a spray of bright red blood across Puma’s face. Stunned, Puma raised a hand to wipe his eyes. Lew gave him a quick one-two punch to the belly, putting all his weight behind the blows.

Puma grunted loudly, sucked for air, and threw a big fist. He missed by inches, and Lew promptly stung him with a swift left cross. Puma’s next blow connected with Lew’s left eye. It sounded like an explosion inside his head, but Lew felt nothing. He was far too angry to feel any pain. His eyes wild, he stood toe-to-toe with the longer armed man and fought with superhuman strength fueled by a wrath so fierce Puma feared for his life.

For a short time the other cowhands enjoyed the fight, shouting and egging on the participants. But as the hard-fought battle continued, they began to fear someone might get badly hurt or even killed. They stepped in and stopped the fight, pulling the bloodied men apart.

“What the hell’s got into you, Taylor?” shouted Puma, as two men pinned his arms behind his back.

Lew, struggling to be freed, was being dragged away by a trio of cowboys. His murderous blue eyes never leaving Puma, he said in a low, deadly voice, “I
ever
hear you say anything like that again, I’ll kill you.”

“Hell, how was I to know you’re loco over the girl?”

Lew spit out a mouthful of blood. “The girl has nothing to do with it.”

“No? Then what’s eating you?” Puma asked.

“John Distant Star is a fine boy. I won’t hold still for you or anybody else insulting him!”

Lew told himself it was the truth. That his anger had flared because Puma had spoken disrespectfully about a decent Indian kid who didn’t deserve it. John Distant Star reminded him of the young Dan Nighthorse and of all the fights he had gotten into because ignorant, unfeeling people had insulted Dan. This was the same thing. Nothing more.

He sure as hell didn’t care what anybody said about Mollie Rogers.

By that afternoon the heat had returned
.

At three o’clock the mercury hovered near the one hundred degree mark. Not a breeze stirred as the white-hot sun shone down from a cloudless sky.

Cardboard fans stirring the still dry air before their faces, the young ladies of Maya sat on quilts watching the men labor. Wives and sweethearts beamed proudly as their robust husbands and beaus sawed, hammered, and lifted as the raising of Maya’s First Methodist Church steadily progressed.

Laughing, singing, and shouting, the men worked tirelessly, very much aware of the ladies’ presence. Knowing that admiring eyes were constantly upon them, the men behaved accordingly. Bare-chested under the broiling Arizona sun, their strong backs and muscled arms glistening with perspiration, the laborers felt as though they were on stage. Performers in some grand pageant, admired by their worshiping audience.

And so they were.

Only the hale and heartiest of the men worked on in the intense heat. The older, less stalwart had given out before noon. They now dozed in the shade of porches or played dominoes, resting, waiting for the evening meal and dance.

It was the same with the ladies. Mothers and grandmothers, herding young children, slipped away to homes for siestas. Others gathered in the cool lobby of the Nueva Sol to relax and gossip.

Mollie was one of a group of young ladies who braved the punishing sun and heat to watch the men work. A silk parasol shading her face, she sat between Patricia and Madeline, chattering, laughing, looking only at Lew. When Patricia commented on Lew’s obvious reluctance to remove his soiled shirt, Mollie said sharply, “Perhaps he is too much a gentleman!”

“Pooh,” Patricia exclaimed. “That’s silly. He’s the only one who isn’t bare-chested. And look at his shirt; it’s drenched with sweat and sticking to his skin.”

Mollie made a face. It
was
curious that Lew had not taken off the shirt. Even the shy John Distant Star, working alongside Lew, had discarded his colorful red shirt hours ago. Why hadn’t Lew followed suit? Was he ashamed? Were his chest and shoulders and back covered with thick, ugly animal hair like the Texas Kid’s?

Mollie shuddered, then quickly scolded herself. Maybe Lew’s black eye wasn’t his only injury from the fight he refused to talk about. But surely that couldn’t be. He had worked all day, moving agilely, in no apparent discomfort.

Mollie was not the only one who was curious as to why Lew Taylor didn’t remove his shirt.

Mary Beth McCalister, gorgeously gowned in a fashionable summer frock, studied the disturbingly handsome man with barely disguised lust. Gazing at Lew, she wondered how he would look without his shirt. And without his trousers.

She fully intended to find out.

Loud cheers went up from the swelling crowd when the church’s frame was raised shortly after five o’clock. By six, the tired workers had put away their tools and were heading for the Nueva Sol. Professor Dixon had announced that any worker wishing to use one of the hotel’s many bathtubs was welcome to do so free of charge.

Lew, his swollen black eye throbbing, his bruised ribs aching, was relieved that the day’s hard work was behind him. He wanted nothing more than a hot, restorative bath and a change of clothes. Looking forward to a nice, long soak, he walked tiredly over to where Mollie sat on the grass with her girlfriends. Smiling easily, he crouched down on his heels beside her, nodding to Madeline and Patricia.

“No,” he cautioned when Mollie lifted a hand toward his blackened eye. “Don’t touch me. I’m too dirty to be touched.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mollie, longing to touch him.

“I’m on my way to the hotel to clean up,” he told her, a forearm draped across his thigh. “Meet me in the dining room in an hour and I’ll buy you an iced tea.”

“Yes, of course,” she said again, her heart misbehaving when he smiled disarmingly and affectionately touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger.

“Patricia, Madeline,” he said, but looked only at Mollie.

Slowly he rose to his feet and stood for a long moment looking down at her. Mollie trembled. This tall, looming specimen of virile masculinity was surely the most beautiful man the Almighty had ever created, and he had eyes only for her!

“One hour,” Lew said, turned, and walked away.

Mollie watched him cross the churchyard and step into the street. She was still watching when he paused on the busy sidewalk, turned as if called, and spoke to someone. Someone she couldn’t see. Someone hidden by the milling crowds. Mollie sprang to her feet, lifted a hand to shade her eyes, and squinted. The crowd suddenly dispersed, and Mollie’s heart stopped beating.

Lew was smiling down at Mary Beth McCalister, who was saying something to him. He shook his dark head and started to walk away. Mary Beth reached out, touched his arm, and moved a step closer. Head tilted back, she said something that made Lew’s smile broaden. Then she urged him to bend down as she cupped her hand to his ear and whispered something that made Lew laugh out loud.

“Better watch her, Fontaine,” Patricia said. “I’m warning you, she’s dangerous.”

Icy fear gripping her heart, Mollie responded with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “I’m not afraid of Mary Beth. If Lew wanted her kind of woman, he wouldn’t spend every evening with me.”

“Just the same, I’d watch her closely,” Madeline put in. “You saw that exchange. I’ll bet she was reminding Lew to dance with her tonight.”

Patricia, the experienced widow, shook her head scornfully. “You two are truly green as children.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve a notion that Mary Beth has more than dancing planned for Lew.”

Jealous, Mollie managed, “Lew is a big boy.”

Patricia made it worse. “That’s the trouble. Lew
is
a big boy and Mary Beth McCalister knows just how to please big boys.”

The hot desert sun had finally slipped below the distant mountains. A slight cooling breeze had come up from out of the east. Couples were making their way toward the open-air dance floor of the First Methodist Church’s newly built shell. A string orchestra was in place in the loft meant for a choir.

Lew and Mollie lingered alone in the large dining room of the Nueva Sol. At a table near the cold stone fireplace, they sat across from each other, Lew’s square hand covering hers on the white tablecloth.

“You’re teasing me,” he said when Mollie, eyes downcast, confessed she didn’t know how to dance.

“I’m not. I don’t know how. I never learned.” She lifted her eyes, met his gaze squarely.

His thumb rubbed the back of her hand. “A cultured young lady from back East who never learned to dance?” A heavy eyebrow lifted questioningly.

“I’ve told you, I attended a very strict girl’s school. I … we … were rarely around boys.” She knew her feeble explanation sounded far-fetched.

To her shocked delight, Lew squeezed her hand, and said, “I’m glad, sweetheart.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I’m flattered that I’ll be the one who teaches you to dance. It will be a pleasure.”

Mollie stared at him. The professor had been absolutely right. Relieved, she smiled and said, “I learn quickly, Lew.”

He laughed softly. “I know you do, Fontaine, I know.”

They remained in the deserted dining room for another half hour, talking, laughing, holding hands. Both looked up, startled, when Professor Dixon said from the wide arched doorway, “May I join you?”

Lew pushed back his chair and rose respectfully. “By all means, sir.”

A white-jacketed waiter appeared and placed a tall glass of iced tea before the professor. Then the three sat there and talked of the day’s work, of the big supper they’d eaten earlier, of the evening’s upcoming dance. The conversation turned to travel, and the professor mentioned that he was going to California the first week of August.

As casually as possible, Lew asked, “Will Fontaine be going with you?” He shot her a sideways glance.

“No, she’s needed at the Emporium,” said the professor. “Aren’t you, dear?” Eyes twinkling, he smiled conspiratorially at Mollie.

“Absolutely. Why, Mr. Stanfield couldn’t possibly get by without me for two whole weeks. I’d love to go along, but …”

Lew’s heart thumped against his ribs. His brain raced. Mollie’s watchful protector gone for two whole weeks? With the professor out of his way he could get this distasteful chore over with and go home.

“… and watch after her for me, won’t you, Lew?” the professor was saying.

Lew smiled easily, but felt like a first-rate heel when he said, “Be happy to, Professor.”

“I knew I could count on you,” said the professor. He drew the hunter-case watch from his vest pocket, flipped it open, and said, “It’s after nine. Shall we go to the dance?”