Wyoming Woman (14 page)

The instant her feet touched the ground she pushed away from him. She stumbled toward the spare horse they'd brought, as if she meant to leave. Then, suddenly, she spun back to face him, the wind fanning her hair around her face like a moonlit flame.

“Don't you realize what you've done to me?” She hurled the words at him. “I came home because I wanted to build a life here on the ranch with my family. I wanted to pass my days in simple contentment, to have a family of my own when the time came, knowing that everything I needed was close at hand. But you—you've made that impossible, Luke Vincente! You've ruined everything!”

Luke gazed at her, drinking in her beauty and wishing passionately that the two of them had never met. His circumstances had been difficult enough before she arrived. Now everything he'd worked so hard to build was at risk.

“All my life, I've managed to get whatever I wanted,” she said. “A new dress, a trip to town, a new pony, art school—nothing was out of my reach. Until I met you.”

Luke felt his chest jerk as if he'd been lassoed by an invisible noose. He cleared his throat, but no words emerged. He could only stand there gazing at her like staked bait while she tore at his heart.

“Don't you know why I was with Bart tonight? It was because I knew I could never have
you,
and it hurt. All the way through me, it hurt. I wanted that hurt to stop, Luke. I wanted to forget that I'd ever met you. And Bart was there, saying the pretty words
I'd longed to hear for half my life. Everyone was so happy, seeing the two of us together. I wanted to keep them happy. I willed myself to make it work…but I couldn't do it. As soon as he put his arms around me, you were there, between us, and I couldn't…I can't. And I don't know what to do!”

Defiant and vulnerable, she faced him in the moon light. Luke gazed back at her, knowing she had just said the worst thing she could possibly say to him. If she had cursed him, shrieking her hatred to the sky, it would have made things easy compared to the torture she was inflicting on him now.

He tore his eyes away from her and glared at the ground, fighting for self-control. “Get on that horse, Rachel,” he said. “Climb into that saddle now, and ride hell-for-leather back to your family. They'll be worried sick about you.”

She made a little sound of protest and took a tentative step toward him, but he shook his head, stopping her. “There's no law that says you have to marry a jackass like Bart Carmody,” he said, aching to hold her. “There are good men out there, and sooner or later the right one will come along and give you all the things you deserve. But that's in the future. Right now, you've got to go home and forget every word you just said to me. It's the only way, girl. The only way you'll be safe.”

“Safe!” She flung the word back at him like an epithet. “I've been safe all my life, Luke! There are better things than safe!” Once again she took a step
toward him, and Luke felt his will begin to crack. He bit back a groan of need.

“Stop it!” he growled in a fury of desperation. “Do you think you can have your little adventure with me, then just wipe the dirt off your boots and go on as if it had never happened? It doesn't work that way. Damn it, Rachel,
life
doesn't work that way. The dirt stays on you—for good!”

Her head went up like a wild mare's. “I know you killed a man, and that you went to prison for manslaughter,” she said in a low, taut voice. “You're the gentlest man I've ever known, Luke. If you took a life, you must have been sorely driven to it. But that's behind you now. You've paid your debt, and it no longer matters. Not to me!”

“Then sit down and listen.” Luke's voice had dropped to a growl. She stared at him with large, bewildered eyes. “Do it!” he barked. “You're going to hear the whole ugly story, and when I get to the end of it, you're going to leap onto that horse, ride down that hill at a mad gallop and count yourself lucky to be rid of me!”

Rachel glanced around her, then walked to a flat-topped rock and sat down, gazing at him with expectant eyes, as if she had already pardoned him for what he was about to tell her.

She would change her mind when she heard the story, he thought.

She had left room for him on the rock, but Luke did not trust himself to sit beside her. Thrusting his fists into his pockets, he stared up into the vast, dark
bowl of the sky, where the stars shone like glittering handfuls of sand. If he went to her now and took her in his arms, there would be no more talk. But that would only put off the inevitable hurt. He would tell her now, before he sent her home to the family who loved her. That way, he knew, she would not come back.

“I'm waiting,” she said softly. “Tell me.”

Turning around, he forced himself to meet her luminous eyes. “It started with a woman,” he said, watching her flinch with the impact of each word. “Her name was Cynthia.”

 

Rachel would have chosen to hear Luke's story with his arms around her, strong and reassuring. In stead she willed herself to remain seated while he stood before her like a schoolboy, moving in and out of moonlight so that his face was alternately hidden and revealed. His expression was a granite mask, his voice so flat as to be almost a drone. But the twitching of a muscle in his cheek and the subtle clenching of his left hand gave mute evidence that he was in torment.

“I met her at a party in Baton Rouge.” His words came awkwardly at first, then moved into a flow that was almost hypnotic. “A mutual friend introduced us. She was a true Southern belle, with long black hair, eyes the color of spring violets and a way of laughing that drew men to her like moths to a lantern.”

Rachel's gaze fell as he paused to gather his
thoughts. She had never had any trouble attracting men, but she knew that her carrot-colored hair, freckled nose and tomboy manners were no match for the dazzling beauty that haunted Luke's memory.

“She lived in a huge fortress of a house with a widowed father who was as rich as Midas, and when she chose me from a score of beaux, I couldn't believe my luck—me, a wild ruffian from the bayou, with no money, no education and no more family pedigree than a mongrel dog. I was too giddy to wonder why. Through one long, delicious summer, we rode together, danced together, picnicked together—I felt like I'd stumbled into the Garden of Eden.” He paused, his breath jerking out in a long, bitter sigh. “But what would any Eden be without its serpent?”

“Her father?”

Rachel had spoken on impulse. He flashed her a startled glance, as if he had sunk so deeply into memory that he'd forgotten her presence. “He was dead set against me, of course,” he said, ignoring Rachel's question. “What father wouldn't be? After he forbade Cynthia to see me, we started meeting in secret—that was a new game, with its own excitement because we had to spend our time alone. I was as hot-blooded as any young fool, and it wasn't long before I started demanding more than kisses from her.”

He paused and looked directly at Rachel, as if he were studying her reaction, measuring the depth to which he'd hurt her. She forced her back to stay ramrod-straight, her face to remain impassive as she met his eyes. They glittered in the moonlight, like the cold
eyes of a wolf, challenging her to stay and hear the rest of the story.

“Go on,” she said, knowing he intended to spare her nothing.

He answered with a sharp intake of breath, then began speaking again. “The first time I tried to touch her—touch her intimately—she cried out and shrank away from me. At first I didn't know what to make of it—she'd been telling me that she loved me, that she wanted me.

“Finally, after hours of talking and crying, the story came out. Her father, she said, had been getting drunk and forcing himself on her for years, threatening her with ruin if she tried to leave.”

Rachel stared at him, shocked speechless, not only by the unthinkable crime, but by the fact that Luke could speak of it with such dispassionate frankness, especially to her.

“I was hard put to believe her at first,” he said. “Her father was one of the most respected men in the state, active in politics, known for his generosity to good causes. But then she showed me the bruises, on her legs, her arms, her breasts…” He shook his head. “I had no choice except to believe her then.”

A bank of clouds had drifted across the moon. Luke stood in darkness now, his face unreadable, his black hair fluttering in the night wind. From somewhere off in the darkness, a coyote yipped its melancholy song to the sky. Rachel felt as if her heart had crawled into her throat to form a hard knot that kept her from speaking. If she'd been capable of words, she would
have begged him to stop this heart-wrenching tale that was as painful for him as it was for her. But like a man bent on self-destruction, Luke sighed and continued.

“I begged her to elope with me. But she was afraid her father would hunt us down, destroy me, and treat her worse than ever. Only when she felt completely safe from him, she insisted, would she be capable of the kind of love she wanted to give me.”

“Things came to a head the morning I decided to confront her father. He'd banned me from the house weeks before, but, fool that I was, I pushed the old butler aside and stormed up the stairs into his study. He was seated at his desk, a big, red-faced bull of a man, still in his dressing gown. At the sight of him, and the thought of what he'd done to his daughter, I went wild with loathing. If I'd had a weapon on me, I'd have been sorely tempted to use it.

“I told him what I knew and threatened to go to his political enemies if he didn't let Cynthia go. The man seemed…thunderstruck. He denied everything I'd said, called me a liar and some other names I won't repeat, and said he'd see his daughter in her grave before he saw her married to me.”

He paused, his eyes searching Rachel's face in the darkness. She remained on the rock where she was seated. To move closer, she sensed, would only feed the demons that tore at every part of him. He needed to tell this story, and she needed to listen.

A flicker of moonlight cast his eyes into black pits of shadow as he took a long breath and continued.

“I told him he had no choice. I was taking his daughter with me now, and I would see him ruined before the day was out. With that I turned on my heel and strode out of the room.

“The second floor of the house had an open landing with an iron balustrade that overlooked the marble foyer below. He caught up with me there and laid into me with his ivory-handled walking stick. I knocked it away from him and we started to grapple. I was younger and quicker, but he had the advantage of weight and bulk. When he started pushing me toward the balustrade, it struck me that he meant to shove me over the rail. That, and the thought of what the man had done to his daughter, gave me the strength to keep fighting….”

His jaw tightened as the words trailed off. Rachel made a futile attempt to clear the tightness from her throat. If Luke heard the little strangled noise she made, he gave no sign of it. He was lost in the memory of the woman he had adored—the woman he had killed for.

Rachel blinked back the tears she was too proud to let him see. How could she have been so naive as to think Luke might return her feelings? His heart was buried in the past, with the raven-haired beauty who would hold it forever.

All that remained now, Rachel told herself, was to endure to the end of this bitter tale. Then she would mount the spare horse, jab her heels into its flanks, and gallop down the trail without a backward glance.

As if drawn by the thought, her gaze flickered back
the way she and Luke had come, across the rolling plain that spread beyond the foot of the bluff. Clouds drifted across the face of the moon, casting shadows that moved, making the stark landscape seem to undulate and flow.

It was only by chance that her eye caught a flicker of movement along the road that cut across the hills like a long, pale scratch mark. At first glance, Rachel dismissed it as a shadow—the thin, dark shape that followed the road, breaking into dots, then coming together to form a single line, like a company of galloping riders.

Only when they paused, and she saw the flicker of torches being lit, did she realize what was happening.

Her father and the other ranchers had not waited for Luke to let her go. They were coming after her, moving closer by the second.

R
achel felt Luke move up behind her. His chest brushed her shoulder as he studied the column of riders that moved along the moonlit road. Even in this anxious moment, his closeness made her ache.

“They're coming fast,” he muttered. “It won't be long before they pass the place where we turned off the road.”

“And if they pick up our trail?”

He shot Rachel a dark glance, his silence allowing her to draw her own conclusion. If the riders followed the path they'd taken, it might still be possible for him to pick his way down the steep, rocky face of the bluff or to hide in the honeycomb of buttresses and hollows until they had taken her away. But that was not Luke's concern, she realized with a lurch of her heart. A mile beyond the bluff, a rutted wagon trail branched off the road, cutting south through clumps of sage and stands of juniper. It was the trail that led to Luke's ranch.

A nightmare vision flashed through Rachel's
mind—haystacks and buildings in flames, the screams of dying animals, and two terrified youths, battling to hold off a band of ruthless marauders. Would her father and brothers be among them? A shudder passed through her body. She fought to control her horror, to think, to act.

Her hand seized Luke's wrist, fingertips digging into hard bone and tendon. “I've got to stop them! You need to let me go, Luke!”

“Let you go?” A muscle twitched at the corner of his grim mouth. “You were never my prisoner, Rachel. You don't need my permission to leave.”

“I know that.” Her grip tightened on his wrist. If she was to reach the main road ahead of the riders there was no time to lose. But it tore at her to go with so much unsaid between them. With an all-out range war about to erupt, it was possible—even likely—that they would never meet again.

“I'll do my best to turn them back,” she said, “or at least try to stall them for a few minutes.”

His head jerked in a brusque nod. “I know a shortcut back to my ranch. With luck, I can get there ahead of them.”

Rachel nodded, fighting back a flood of unspoken questions. What would he do when he reached the ranch? Would he scatter the sheep? Would he send his young herders and the dogs off with them and stay to face his enemies alone? Would he live through this terrible night?

Turning toward her, he caught her chin and cupped
it with his free hand, tilting her face into full view. His hooded eyes lay in shadow.

“I'm sorry, Rachel.” His voice was like crushed granite, sharp-edged and gritty. “Under different circumstances, I might have gone to your father and asked his permission…” The words trailed off as if he'd thought the better of what he was about to say. “This isn't your fight. I should never have involved you in it. Go on, now, back to your family. Live your life and be happy. I can take care of my own problems.”

Rachel gazed up at his stoic features, knowing he was wrong. Whether Luke liked it or not, this was her fight as well as his. If she'd had the sense to put Bart in his place before he forced her behind the granary, Luke would have gotten away clean and no one would have been the wiser. Now everything he held dear was in danger, and she had only herself to blame.

As for his taking care of his own problems, that was a lie as well. Luke could not stand alone against an armed mob. He needed her—needed her badly.

The truncated story he'd told her flashed through her mind—the raven-haired belle from Baton Rouge, her father's unspeakable crime and Luke's tragic love. It was, as he had said, an ugly story, but it was easy enough to surmise the ending. Luke had killed a profoundly evil man in self-defense and paid with his freedom. How could anyone hold that against him?

How could she?

His eyes devoured her face, as if hungry to find some sign of understanding. “Go, Rachel,” he whis
pered. “Our time's run out. If I don't make it through the night—”

Her kiss stopped his words—a wild, sensual, clinging kiss that held all of her heart. The earth seemed to pulse beneath them as he moaned and caught her close. His strong, sweet mouth took her, roused her, dizzied her with need. She could die kissing him like this, Rachel thought. The feel of his arms, the smoky taste of his mouth as his tongue set her body on fire…it was heaven, weighted with the hell of knowing she would have to let him go.

“I love you, Luke,” she whispered against his searching lips. “I don't care what you may have done—it's past and gone. And whatever happens tonight, or tomorrow, it won't change anything for me. I'll never stop loving you.”

“Don't, Rachel,” he groaned, but even then his hands were moving over her body, skimming her breasts, cupping her hips to pull her in against his straining shaft. “Lord…don't, girl. I want you so much I can hardly stand it. But there isn't time, and I'd only hurt you. You've got to get out of here, before it's too late.”

Rachel clung to him, burning with need, but knowing that every second she spent in his arms made his situation more dangerous. Luke was right. Their time had run out. She had to let him go.

Facing back a sob, she tore herself away from him. Luke's hands dropped to his side, making no move to hold her or to thrust her away. His eyes were dark hollows in his tired face.

“Go,” he murmured.
“Vaya con diós, amor de mi vida.”

Only much later would she realize that he had said,
Go with God, love of my life.

Blinded by tears, she plunged toward the spare horse Luke had brought along. The animal snorted and danced skittishly, but she managed to seize the reins and scramble into the saddle. Seconds later she was flying toward the long sloping side of the bluff, the night breeze buffeting her skirts and raking her hair. She knew that if she were to look back, she would see him standing in the moonlight, watching her. She did not look back. If she did, Rachel knew she would not be able to go on.

She took the zigzag trail with reckless haste, trusting to the instincts of the horse. If she failed to reach the road ahead of the mounted searchers, and if they missed the trail that led onto the bluff, she would be riding behind them, galloping frantically to catch up. If they left the road for the trail, and she met them while she was coming down the bluff, they would know that Luke was somewhere above her, and they would go after him.

Her best hope lay in meeting the searchers on the road at a point where they could not see which way she'd come. Only then would she have a chance of turning them back, or at least stalling them long enough for Luke to get away.

The breeze had quickened to a gusty wind. Ragged streamers of cloud swept across the sky, hiding the moon and darkening the path. When she dared to look
down, Rachel could see the road below. It wove through the scrub like a discarded ribbon, bare and desolate, with no sign of the riders. Were they still approaching, or had they passed the cutoff and gone ahead? Rachel clung to the horse's neck, her lips moving in silent prayer as they plunged downward through the darkness.

The lurch of the horse as they hit level ground flung her backward in the saddle. She fought her way upright, jerking the reins to stop the animal's momentum. They had reached the road at last.

A frantic glance in both directions confirmed that no one else was in sight. But were the riders ahead of her or behind her?

Stroking the horse's neck to calm it, she strained her eyes and ears. It was too dark to look for tracks, but the air held no unsettled dust from the dry road. Did that mean the riders hadn't yet come this far, or that their passing had given the dust time to settle back to earth? Lives could depend on the answer to that question.

Rachel hesitated, weighing the odds. Then, praying that she'd guessed right, she wheeled the horse to the left and dug her heels into its flanks. The animal exploded into a gallop, bearing her back the way she and Luke had come, in the direction of the Carmody ranch.

Behind her, in the west, inky clouds were spilling over the horizon. Sheet lightning danced in the distance, followed seconds later by a growl of thunder. But Rachel paid no heed to the weather. All her at
tention was fixed on the pale stretch of road that wound its way into the darkness.

Where were they?

Suddenly, far ahead, she saw the flicker of torches held high. Giddy with relief, she urged the horse to a sprint. As they drew nearer, dark shapes materialized out of the night. The shapes became a half-dozen mounted men, each of them taking on his own form and features. The flickering light fell on the long, hawkish face of the lead rider. A little sob caught in Rachel's throat as she recognized her father.

Catching sight of his daughter, Morgan spurred the tall buckskin toward her. They met in a swirl of dust and plunging, snorting horses. He held up his torch as if to inspect her, his black eyes worried, probing.

“I'm all right!” Rachel exclaimed before he had a chance to ask. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Where's Vincente?” Morgan's voice was flinty with suppressed anger.

“Gone. He sent me back to you. Luke would never have harmed me. You have to believe that!”

Morgan gripped her arm. “Your mother's beside herself. We need to get back to her.”

Swinging his mount, he seized the bridle of her horse and led it back toward the milling riders. In the dancing light, Rachel could make out the faces of Lem Carmody, Slade, and three neighboring ranchers who were longtime friends of her family. Her brothers were not with them. Neither was Bart.

“Rachel says she's fine,” Morgan announced. “We've got what we came for. Let's go home!”

“The hell you say!” Lem Carmody bellowed from the darkness. “Vincente beat up my son and kidnapped your daughter, Morgan! In my book that's reason enough to burn the bastard's place to the ground and slaughter those damned filthy sheep—now, tonight, while we're all together!”

“No!” Rachel's voice rose in frantic protest. “Luke Vincente didn't kidnap me! He rescued me!”

“Sure he did!” Lem snorted and spat in the dust. “Come on, we're wasting time!”

“No!” Rachel swung her mount in front of him, blocking his way. “Listen to me, Mr. Carmody. Listen, all of you. Bart was behaving like a caveman! He'd torn my dress, and I was trying to fend him off when Luke came along! What you all saw was Luke fighting Bart to protect me, not the other way around!”

Lem Carmody started to grumble, but he was interrupted by one of the other ranchers.

“If Vincente was rescuin' you, why was he holdin' you at gunpoint? Answer that one, missy.”

Rachel's hands whitened on the saddle horn. She knew she would be judged for what she was about to say, but she squared her chin and answered with the truth.

“Things were getting ugly. Luke was worried about what might happen if he left me. Pretending to take me hostage was the only way to get us both safely out of there. The gun was part of the act. I went with him of my own free will.”

Behind her, Rachel heard the sharp intake of her
father's breath. All her life, Morgan had given her unconditional support and trust. Now she had betrayed that trust by falling in love with an enemy.

“I'm taking Rachel back to her mother,” he said in the cold, flat voice he used when he was furious. “The rest of you can do what you damned well please, but I won't be going along.”

“Come on, boys!” Lem Carmody pushed Rachel's horse aside and nudged his stocky piebald forward. “Just 'cause Morgan's got a weak stomach doesn't mean we can't do the job ourselves.”

Slade followed him, avoiding Rachel's eyes as he slunk past, but the other three men hung back. “You said you was with us, Morgan,” one of them quavered.

Morgan scowled, looking as proud and fierce as his Shoshone ancestors. “I came to find my daughter. As long as she's safe, and the sheep man didn't hurt her, I have no quarrel with him.”

“You're sayin' you believe her?” Lem's voice oozed contempt. “Hellfire, the bastard's probably had her more ways than—”

“That's enough, Lem!” Morgan's low voice belied his fury, but Rachel knew the signs, and the knot in her stomach tightened. “I've never had reason to doubt my daughter's word. Until I have proof that her story isn't true, I'll choose to believe her.” His blazing eyes flickered toward Rachel. “We've wasted enough time. Let's go.”

Turning his back on the five men, Morgan swung his horse toward the Carmody ranch where his wife
and sons waited for news. Rachel hesitated, her heart clenching like a fist as the drama continued behind him.

Lem swore at Morgan's back as the wind whipped around him. Then he turned his anger on the three ranchers who clustered together, heads bowed against the coming storm.

“Well, what'll it be, you lily-livered cowards?” Lem roared. “Which of you is man enough to come with me and take care of that stinking sheep ranch once and for all?”

The three exchanged glances, no doubt thinking of their worried families back at the ranch. As one, they turned and followed Morgan up the road.

Rachel did the same. She had upset her father enough for one night. She would be foolish to try his patience further.

“Cowards!” Lem howled at the three. “There's not a one of you fit to—”

The deafening boom of lightning, cracking across the sky like a giant whip, drowned out the rest of his words. Like a sudden, violent burst of tears, the rain began to fall, pelting down in torrents from the boiling black clouds. Lem swore loudly, then motioned to Slade. The two of them fell in at the rear of the procession, their torches doused by the rain.

Light-headed with relief, Rachel lifted her face to the storm, loving the water that streamed off her skin and soaked her hair and clothes. There would be no range war tonight, no shooting, no torching, no kill
ing. The rain had brought the gift of a peaceful reprieve.