Wyoming Woman (15 page)

For a moment, Rachel allowed herself to think of Luke, riding home in the storm, the rain soaking his clothes and streaming off his hair. Luke. Safe and free. For now.

But morning would bring the same dangers, the same gut-wrenching worries. In his effort to find Miguel's killers, Luke had flung down the gauntlet. Men like Lem Carmody would not rest until they had broken him for good.

As for herself—if she truly loved Luke, she would stay away from him. Their being together would only fan the flames of hatred and turn even her stubbornly neutral father against him. If Morgan turned against the sheep man, every rancher in the county would follow his lead. Morgan commanded that kind of respect. That was why Lem had tried so hard to win him over.

The tension reminded Rachel of a keg of black powder, ready to explode at the touch of a match. She and Luke could not be the ones to provide that match. If full-scale violence broke out people would die—and some of them, she knew, would be people she loved.

The rain had turned leaden, trickling down Rachel's back and between her breasts, chilling her to the bone. She huddled against the cold, shrinking into herself as she imagined the days of her life without Luke. She imagined those days passing into months, the months into years. She imagined finding someone
else and trying to love him as she had loved Luke, knowing it would never be the same.

For Luke's sake and for her own, she would have to forget him. But every day that followed would be like the cold, dreary rain that drizzled from the sky. And the first days would be the worst of all.

Forcing Luke's image to the back of her mind, she nudged the horse to a trot and pressed forward to catch up with her father. It was time for the forgetting to begin.

 

Rachel awoke to the blinding glare of morning sunlight through her bedroom window. For a moment she lay still, her eyes closed against the harsh yellow brightness as she forced her mind to remember that this was the day she had resolved to stop thinking about Luke.

The trouble was, the very intention of forgetting brought a flood of remembered sensations—the aching contraction of her loins when he touched her breast, the taste of his mouth on hers, the way his hair curled and clung to her fingers when she reached up to pull him close. It was as if Luke was burned into every part of her, and her senses refused to let him go.

From the direction of the corral, the sound of hammering reached Rachel's ears. Yawning, she rubbed her eyes and forced herself to sit up. She had spent most of the night tossing in her bed or staring up at the dark ceiling, her emotions churning. Only as the
sky had begun to gray had she finally slipped into an exhausted slumber.

She was grateful that her family had let her sleep this morning; but the extra hours in bed had only put off the inevitable. Much as she'd dreaded the moment, it was time to get up and face them all.

Her gown and petticoat lay sodden on the floor, where she had stripped them off in the dead of night. Once the frothy yellow voile had been one of her favorites, but no amount of washing would remove the mud stains from the skirt, and no seamstress's skill could mend the rip where Bart had torn it off her shoulder. It was good for nothing but the rag box now.

Rachel felt like a candidate for the rag box herself as she staggered to the washstand and splashed her face with cool water. A glance in the mirror revealed bloodshot eyes, matted hair and chapped lips. Her head ached dully, and her body was damp and clammy beneath the thin muslin nightgown.

She frowned sternly at her reflection in the mirror. No, by heaven, she wasn't going to be sick! The last thing she wanted was to spend the day lying in bed and feeling sorry for herself. That would be a surefire recipe for misery. Today she needed the distraction of hard work, like mending the pasture fence, oiling harness or mucking out the stable.

Setting her jaw, Rachel jerked on her denims and boots and shrugged into a clean cotton work shirt. A dozen hard brush strokes slicked back her hair to the point where she could tie it with a bandana at the
nape of her neck. An accidental glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror confirmed that she looked tired, sad and uncaring. Never mind. It didn't matter. No one who gave a fig about her appearance was going to see her today.

She was walking toward the door when everything caved in on her like an avalanche—the danger, the loneliness, the gut-grinding fear that would not leave her until she knew he was safe—or dead.

Oh, Luke.
It came like physical pain, so real and intense that she doubled over, clutching the door frame with white-knuckled fingers.

Luke…my love…my dearest, only love.

L
ike a knitter picking up stitches from an unraveling shawl, Rachel groped for the ragged edges of her self-control. Gripping the door frame, she forced herself to take long, deep breaths, filling her lungs with the sunlit morning air and the aromas of bacon, biscuits and eggs from the kitchen below. She would be all right, she told herself. She would make herself be all right.

She would go downstairs, eat, smile and make pleasant conversation, she resolved. She would behave as if everything was fine—as if last night's encounter with Luke had meant nothing, and she had no concern for what became of him.

Coldhearted? Yes. But it was her only hope of protecting Luke and her family from the hatred that threatened to destroy them all.

Squaring her shoulders, Rachel strode across the landing. She had just reached the top of the stairs when a gunshot, muted by distance, rang out from the ridge above the ranch.

For an instant her heart clenched with dread. Then, as two more shots followed in quick succession, she recognized the familiar signal—one that had always brought a surge of joy whenever she heard it.

Breakfast forgotten, she flew down the stairs and out onto the porch. She was scanning the ridge, one hand shading her eyes against the glare, when her mother hurried out onto the porch.

“Can you see anything?” she asked, a little out of breath. “Your eyes are better than mine.”

Rachel squinted into the yellow sunlight, searching the high trail that emerged from the aspens to wind downward along the ridge to the foothills. At first she could see nothing. Then her eyes caught a flicker of movement that slowly became two riders moving single file, trailing a pack mule behind them.

“There—just above the rocks! See them?”

Cassandra stretched on tiptoe, straining upward as if the extra inches would give her a better view of the trail. “I see something! Is it—?”

“Yes!” Rachel had begun to wave frantically. “Look, they've seen us! They're waving back! It's Ryan and Molly!”

While her mother bustled off to the kitchen to arrange for more breakfast, Rachel dashed out into the yard to join her father, who had just come out of the barn. “There!” Rachel pointed to the moving spot along the distant thread of trail. Morgan nodded, his careworn face relaxing into a smile. Ryan's presence would be a blessing to them all, especially today.

Rachel had adored Morgan's younger half brother
from the time she was old enough to toddle behind his long-legged stride. In the twenty years since his marriage and his move to a mountain ranch on the Canadian border, her family had seen far too little of him. Ryan's visits were always joyous occasions, especially when he brought along his wife Molly and their two adopted Cheyenne children. Mary Bright Wing and John Dark Eagle would be grown by now, Rachel realized, counting the years. They would be pursuing their own lives, leaving Ryan and his beautiful Molly to make this visit alone.

Cassandra had returned from the kitchen by the time the two riders cantered their mounts in through the gate. As they reined in the horses, Rachel broke away from her parents and bounded across the yard like a ten-year-old. At the sight of her, Ryan whooped like an Indian and flung himself out of the saddle. Her welcoming embrace almost knocked him off his feet.

Laughing, he pried her away from him, holding her at arm's length for inspection. “Rachel! Lord, girl, what happened to my little fishing partner? It's a grown woman that's come back from that fancy eastern school!”

She grinned up at him, grateful beyond words that he had come. Ryan had aged in the three years since she had last seen him. The creases had deepened at the corners of his twinkling blue eyes, and his dark blond hair was lightly silvered at the temples. A leg broken in a hunting accident had left him with a slight
limp. Otherwise he appeared as lean and athletic and handsome as ever.

Glancing past his shoulder, Rachel saw Ryan's wife laughing down at them from the back of her horse. She, too, had been touched by the years. But even with her suntanned face etched by laugh lines and her waist-length golden braids streaked with platinum, Molly Ivins Tolliver was still the most stunning woman Rachel had ever seen. Raised by the Cheyenne, she had spent her life outdoors, and she moved with the grace of a powerful golden cat. Perhaps if time allowed, Rachel thought, she would ask Molly to pose for some sketches, or even a portrait. She would make a spectacular model.

But something about Molly suddenly struck Rachel as strange. The Molly she remembered would have been out of the saddle in a flash, striding across the yard to embrace Cassandra and Morgan. Instead she sat patiently on the horse, as Ryan disentangled himself from Rachel and walked back to help her dismount. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he swung her to the ground so gently that she might have been made of porcelain.

Only as the morning breeze blew Molly's loose flannel shirt against her body did Rachel see the reason for his care. Molly, at the age of forty-four, was well along with her first child.

“Oh!” Cassandra's hands went to her mouth. “Oh, my dearest Molly!” Darting across the yard, she flung her arms around her tall sister-in-law. “What a surprise! Why on earth didn't you let us know?”

“But we did!” Molly exclaimed. “Ryan wrote two months ago to say we'd be coming! You mean to tell me—?” Her words ended in a sigh of resignation. Lost mail was a fact of life in the remote country where they lived.

“I've talked Molly into having the baby here,” Ryan said. “Given her age, and this being her first time…”

There was no need for him to say more. The worry was there, in his eyes and in his voice. For this precious birth, he wanted his Molly where she would have the support of other women, and where a doctor could be summoned if anything went wrong.

“But how wonderful!” Cassandra's radiant smile swept away the uncertain shadow that had fallen over them all. “You'll be staying for a while, and it will be so much fun, having a sweet little baby to hold. Wait till I tell Mei Li! She'll be thrilled!”

Linking her arm with Molly's she guided her toward the house, chatting excitedly all the way. Rachel fell into step with Ryan and her father, but her eyes were on the two women. What would it be like, she wondered, to be a part of that secret society of women who had made love with their men and carried babies inside their bodies? The things that came so naturally to them were couched in discreet terms when
she
was present. Now Rachel found herself aching to be part of that intimacy, a sharer of those dark, wonderful woman-secrets.

Would it ever happen to her? Would she ever pass the initiation and join the club? Having grown up on
a ranch, she was not unfamiliar with the facts of life. But seeing the herd bull mount a fertile cow was one thing. Lying in Luke's arms with his body thrusting deep and hot into hers would be quite another, almost beyond imagining…

Rachel gulped back a groan as she realized where her thoughts had taken her. Every path her mind wandered seemed to lead back to Luke. His face was there when she closed her eyes; his voice whispered to her on the prairie wind. Every part of her held some memory of him, with a yearning so raw that she wanted to curse. She had been happy before she knew him. Why couldn't she be happy again now that they were apart?

“Where are your boys, Morgan?” Ryan's question broke into her reverie.

“Riding fence with the neighbor boy on the north pasture. I promised they could take a lunch and go fishing if they finished before noon.”

“They're with Slade?” Rachel's heart sank. “After what happened last night?”

Morgan shot her a cautionary glance. “Lem came by this morning, before you were up, to make peace,” he said. “Slade came with him. When the boy offered to help Jacob and Josh with the fence, I couldn't very well turn him down without offending Lem and starting last night's trouble all over again. It's past and done with, Rachel. I won't war with my neighbors.”

“What's all this?” Ryan's brows shot upward. “Is something wrong between you and Lem?”

“I said it's past and done with,” Morgan growled. “No reason you even need to know about it.”

Ryan's eyes flashed to meet Rachel's. Both of them knew that the more something was bothering Morgan, the less inclined he was to talk about it. Clearly, last night was still bothering him a great deal.

Sooner or later, Rachel knew, the truth would emerge. Ryan would insist on knowing everything. But how much should she tell him?

In her growing-up years, Ryan had always been her confessor, the one who heard her little sins and granted her absolution with a smile and a hug. If she did not guard her words now, he would pry the whole story out of her, including her relationship with Luke. She needed a few minutes alone to think about what she would say.

“You two go on inside and visit,” she offered. “I'll turn out your horses and mule and fetch one of Thomas's boys to carry your things upstairs.”

When Ryan hesitated, she forced herself to grin at him. “Go on! I haven't become so fancified that I can't get a little mule sweat on my hands!”

Ryan laughed as he limped across the yard to rejoin Morgan, but Rachel had not missed the knowing flicker in his keen blue eyes. He would be back. It was only a question of how soon.

She had unsaddled Molly's horse and was starting on Ryan's when he walked into the barn. His long shadow fell across the straw as he limped over to the mule and began unlashing the bulky pack.

“I managed to convince Morgan you'd need my
help with the mule,” he said in his straightforward way, “but you know why I'm here. You look as if somebody's just died. Your old man's as testy as a buffalo bull with the mange, and your mother's so fluttery I can barely get near her. I don't think I'm just imagining that we came at a bad time. I'm only hoping it isn't my fault.”

This last was said with a wink, intended to put Rachel at ease. But she felt more like crying than laughing. She stared down at Ryan's boots, afraid that if she looked up into his face she might burst into tears.

When she did not speak, he cupped her chin and lifted it, forcing her to look up at him. “What is it, girl? We've always been able to trust each other. Even if there's nothing I can do to help, I need to understand what's going on.”

When he released her she turned back to the horse and began fumbling with the bridle. At first no words would come, but Ryan gave her time. As they unloaded the animals and rubbed them down, the story emerged—slowly at first, as each word was forced from her mouth, then suddenly surging like a flash flood down a dry gully.

She told him almost everything—how she'd come to be with Luke the day of the rain, how the masked riders had nearly driven the sheep to their deaths, and how she'd recognized one of them as her brother. She told him about the murder of Luke's elderly herds-man, and about the threats against Luke's dogs, his
sheep and his ranch. And finally, she told him what had happened last night at the party.

Ryan listened quietly, his fingers untangling the burrs from the mane of Molly's horse. His expressive blue eyes reflected, in turn, surprise, dismay, shock and compassion.

“And no one else knows you saw one of the twins with those masked riders? You haven't told your father?”

Rachel shook her head.

“And you haven't confronted Jacob and Josh? You haven't demanded to know if either of them was there when the old man was beaten?”

Again she shook her head, her lips forming a thin barrier to the words she could not speak. Anyone who was present at Miguel's beating would be an accessory to murder, or worse. The safest and most honest way she could protect her beloved brothers was simply not to know.

But the weight of uncertainty was crushing the life out of her.

Ryan put his hands on her shoulders. “Poor little girl,” he said, and at his simple words of kindness, Rachel felt herself crumbling around the edges. She began to shake uncontrollably, her breath coming in tightly constricted sobs.

“I don't know what to do,” she whispered. “What's right…what's wrong… When I try to see clearly, it's nothing but a blur. Why does life have to be such a mixed-up mess, Ryan? Why can't things be simple, the way they used to be?”

He made a move as if to gather her close, then checked himself. Years ago, a comforting embrace would have been a natural gesture. But Rachel was a woman now, and it was no longer the proper thing to do.

“Things are never as simple as they seem when we're young,” he said gently. “It takes growing up to understand that.”

“Then I'm not at all sure I like being grown up.”

He studied her for the space of a long silent breath. “Tell me about this sheep man of yours,” he said.

Rachel felt her heart lurch. She had avoided any mention of what had happened between her and Luke, but Ryan had missed nothing—his choice of words had made that clear.

But how could she begin to describe a man like Luke, who loved and hated with equal passion—Luke whose fierce gentleness had awakened needs she had not even known she possessed.

“He's…a very proud man,” she began awkwardly. “All he wants is to hold on to what's his. But people like Lem won't leave him in peace. If things don't change, sooner or later he'll have to start fighting back.” She inhaled sharply. “You'll find this out sooner or later. He served time in prison for killing a man—an evil man, in self-defense. He's bitter, but he's not a criminal.”

“And how do you know all this?”

She dropped her gaze to hide the color that flooded in her cheeks. That simple gesture, she realized, would be enough to confirm Ryan's suspicions. He
was experienced enough to recognize a woman in love.

“Little Rachel.” He shook his head as he caught the mule's halter to lead it out to the corral. “What are you going to do?”