Wyoming Woman (7 page)

Groping in the shadows, she found the wood box. It was less than half full, but there were enough good sticks to rekindle a blaze. There was a lamp on the table and a tin of Arbuckle Coffee on the counter. With luck, once she got the fire going, she might even be able to find some bacon and eggs to cook.

Twisting back her hair and rolling up her sleeves, Rachel set to work.

 

There was no clock in the small bedroom, but to Luke, it was as if he could hear the seconds ticking in a slow, grim progression. They sat, the three of them, on the rough-hewn kitchen chairs at the foot of Miguel's bed, each one lost in his own private grief. Sebastian, the older and gentler of Miguel's sons, seemed most upset that his father had died without a priest to give him last rites. Ignacio, despite Luke's promise of justice, had talked of nothing except revenge and family honor.

They sat frozen in silence now, Sebastian fingering his rosary, Ignacio stirring restlessly. From where Luke sat, with his chair back against the wall, the scene appeared as a grim tableau—the narrow iron bed with its faded quilt, the rigid figure of the father, the two sons flanking the bed like figures in an old
engraving from the
Lives of the Saints
book his mother had used to teach him reading.

Guilt gnawed at Luke like a living thing, boring its way into his soul. This whole tragedy was his fault. He should have realized something like this would happen and done a better job of protecting his herders. After the attack, he should have loaded Miguel on the wagon and hauled him to Sheridan, or ridden for a doctor and brought one back at gunpoint, if necessary. At the very least he should have stayed at the ranch instead of going off to get the sheep. He had thought the old man was on the mend, but given Miguel's age, he should have known better. He should never have left the boys to deal with their father's injuries alone.

Luke's thoughts scattered as a tantalizing aroma pricked his senses. Ignacio raised his head, then Sebastian. They smelled it, too. Coffee, fresh and hot, wafting from the kitchen.

Only then did Luke remember that he had left Rachel in the barn.

Muttering under his breath, Luke strode up the hallway. He stepped into the kitchen to be greeted by a flood of warmth, and the sight of Rachel standing at the counter, slicing bacon into thin strips with a butcher knife. She had lit a lamp, and hung it from the hook above the table. Its light gleamed like burnished gold on the tight, wet curls of her hair. Her mud-soaked clothes clung to her trim little body, arousing a reaction in Luke that he was in no mood to welcome.

She glanced around at him, her aquamarine eyes glinting with a rancor that caused his gaze to flicker to the knife in her hand.

“The coffee is almost ready,” she said in a guarded voice. “I hope you and your friends like it black. I couldn't find cream or sugar.”

“Black is the way we always have it,” Luke said. “And I'm sorry for making you wait in the barn. I meant to get back to you sooner.”

“You had more pressing things on your mind than a wet, tired, cranky woman.” She laid the cold bacon slices in the big iron skillet and slid it onto the hot surface of the stove. “Besides, I've never waited for a man in my life. Why should I start now?”

Her eyes glittered dangerously, throwing out a challenge that intrigued him. Under different circumstances he might be interested in pursuing that challenge, Luke thought. But not tonight. And not with Morgan Tolliver's daughter.

She had set the table with the motley collection of chipped plates, mugs and cutlery she'd found on the counter. A heavenly aroma drifted from the oven. In spite of his reservations about Rachel, Luke's mouth had begun to water. Praise be, the woman had made biscuits!

Ignacio and Sebastian had come into the kitchen and were staring openly at her. Sebastian had met her briefly outside, but this was Ignacio's first sight of her. The handsome youth looked thunderstruck as he took in her sea-colored eyes, voluptuous little body and rich amber hair. For a woman who'd endured
hours of mud, wind and rain, she looked damned good, Luke groused. Too good. And from what he knew of Rachel Tolliver, he would bet this meal wasn't just a neighborly gesture.

With a disarmingly tender smile on her face, she walked toward the two young men. “I'm Rachel,” she said, holding out her hand, “and I want you to know how sorry I am about your father.”

Stricken by shyness, Sebastian muttered a polite response in Spanish and dropped his gaze to his muddy boots. Ignacio, his handsome young face alight, caught Rachel's hand and, with a sweeping bow, pressed it to his lips. The gesture was so melodramatic that, under different circumstances, Luke might have allowed himself an amused smile. But this was not a night for amusement.

“Mucho gusto, señorita.”
Ignacio's long-lashed eyes were like sweet brown molasses.
“Y muchas gracias por la comida.”

His clasp on her hand lingered. Rachel shot Luke a flustered glance, as if pleading to be disentangled from a sticky situation. What would the boy do if he knew she was the daughter of the most powerful cattle baron in three counties? Luke wondered. With all Ignacio's talk of revenge, this probably wouldn't be a good time to tell him.

“Basta, hombre,”
Luke muttered in Spanish.
“La señorita tiene demasiados años para tí.”

Ignacio released her hand with a polite smile. Rachel spun away and bustled to the stove to tend the sizzling bacon. As she glanced toward Luke, her eyes
met his. He was startled by the fear that glimmered in their blue-green depths. Only then did he realize how much grit it had taken for her to come into the house on her own.

“What did you tell him?” she whispered anxiously.

Luke took his time, studying her while the rain drummed against the windows of the house. “I said you were too old for him. I didn't think you'd mind. The boy's only eighteen.”

“Then I pity the girls when he's twenty-one!” Visibly relieved, she bent to the task of turning the bacon strips and moving them to one side of the pan. Her hands worked with surprising skill, breaking the eggs on the side of the big iron skillet and slipping them into the bubbling fat so gently that not one yolk was broken. Miguel had done most of the cooking on the ranch. Since the old man's beating, no one had felt up to preparing a meal. Rachel Tolliver was giving them a greater gift than she realized.

Seizing a towel, she opened the oven door and lifted out the pan of golden biscuits. “Almost ready,” she said. “You don't seem to have any butter or jam, so we'll have to eat them plain, but at least they'll be fresh.”

Luke inhaled the warm aroma. “Thank you, Rachel,” he said, meaning it. “I know the boys will appreciate this meal.”

She glanced up, her cheeks glowing with heat from the stove. “As my mother always says, when there's
trouble and there's nothing else you can do, start cooking.”

“If those biscuits taste as good as they smell, I'd say your mother must be a good teacher.”

“She is.” Rachel turned the eggs deftly, one by one. “But I learned to cook from Chang. He's been a part of the ranch since my grandfather hired him away from the railroad, more than forty years ago. He—” She broke off, her face suddenly pale, as if she'd said too much. “Do your two young friends speak any English?”

“Only a few words. They wouldn't have understood what you just said, if that's what you're asking.”

She glanced nervously toward the table. Ignacio and Sebastian had brought the chairs from the back bedroom and were seated at the table, their hands and faces freshly washed, like two expectant children. Again he felt a surge of gratitude toward her—gratitude he was swift to mask.

“What have you told them about me?” A lock of hair tumbled into her face as she bent to scoop the bacon and eggs onto a tin plate.

“Nothing.”

“But they're bound to ask.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “What will you tell them?”

“That depends.”

Luke saw her body stiffen as his words struck home. When she turned to face him, her eyes were wide with alarm. “What's that supposed to mean?”
She mouthed the words, her back toward the two boys at the table.

“It depends on how honest you are with me, Rachel,” he said, keeping his voice low and pleasant. “I think you're hiding something. After supper, when we have time to talk, I want to know what it is.”

R
achel turned away from him, her heart clenching spasmodically. The warmth she'd felt when he thanked her for the meal had fled, leaving nothing but fear and distrust in its place.

Be honest with me, Rachel,
he had demanded. But how could she tell him what she had glimpsed today? How could she put the people she loved at risk when she herself knew so little of the truth?

“Let's eat.” She set the plate of bacon and eggs and the pan of biscuits on the table, avoiding his eyes as she filled the four mugs with steaming black coffee. No, she thought, there was no way she could tell Luke she had seen one of her brothers today. To do so would only heighten the danger to everyone involved—her brothers, her father, herself, Luke and the two young men at the table. Rachel had always prided herself on being honest and open, but there were times when truth was better off wrapped in silence. This was one of those times.

Ignacio sprang up to pull out her chair as she took
her seat on the side of the table nearest the stove. There was a moment of awkward hesitation. Then Sebastian bowed his head and murmured a brief grace. When he had finished, Rachel picked up the plate of bacon and eggs and passed it to Ignacio, who promptly thrust it back toward her, indicating with words and dramatic gestures that she was to help herself first. He was an engaging youth, handsome almost to the point of beauty, with a reckless gleam in his liquid brown eyes. Trouble on the hoof, Rachel's mother would have said of him. But Rachel could not help liking the boy. Given the chance, she might have chosen to paint him as a fiery young cavalier with a ruffled shirt and a drawn rapier, standing on the deck of a ship with his ebony curls whipping in the wind.

And Sebastian…her gaze flickered toward him as he took a biscuit from the pan and cradled its warmth between his strong, blunt hands. Plain, shy and gentle, she would have chosen to paint him as Francis of Assisi, cradling a lamb in his arms, or maybe as Sancho Panza astride his patient little donkey.

And Luke…Rachel cast him a furtive glance over the rim of her coffee mug. She could not think of any way to portray him except as himself—a proud, stubborn man who leaned on no one. A man who had set himself apart from anything that might be read as softness or weakness, including love.

He ate with careful restraint, leaving most of the food for the two boys. Rachel studied him through the veil of her eyelashes, searching for clues about his past and the forces that had hardened his rawhide
soul. There must have been a woman, she thought. A woman who had hurt him so badly that he never wanted to feel again. And she knew there were other scars as well—secrets mentioned in passing or glimpsed in the flash of his hooded eyes. Luke Vincente had the look of a man whose life had been shaped by tragedy and betrayal. A man who trusted no one.

But none of that mattered, Rachel reminded herself. She could not allow herself to care about these people, or involve herself in their lives. She was in the camp of the enemy. And she was here as a spy.

The food on her plate was getting cold. Half an hour ago she had been ravenous. Now she had to force herself to chew and swallow each bite. She should have taken the spotted horse and escaped into the storm while she had the chance. Now it was too late to run away.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked, feeling his eyes on her.

“Do?” He lifted one sardonic eyebrow.

“About the old man. About the men who beat him.”
About me.

“We'll be burying the old man in the morning.” He spoke in a conversational tone that was clearly meant not to draw the attention of the two youths. “As for the rest—” He feigned a shrug. “I promised the boys that I'd find the men who murdered their father and see them brought to justice.” Granite flecks glinted in his eyes. “That's where you come in.”

Rachel's throat jerked so abruptly that she almost
choked on her coffee. She faked an apologetic smile for the sake of the two young men, but she knew Luke was not fooled. “Don't ask me to help you,” she said. “You know I can't be part of this. And you know why.”

His eyes narrowed, darkening with a hint of menace. “You do know something, don't you? Earlier I wasn't sure. Now I am.”

“I know nothing about your friend's death.” She forced herself to meet his gaze as she spoke. That much, at least, was true. As for the rest, no power on earth could make her admit she had seen her own brother today.

The tension between them had become almost palpable. Ignacio and Sebastian had stopped eating and were glancing from Luke to Rachel with puzzled eyes.

“Who do they think I am?” she asked softly.

“As far as they're concerned, you're just a woman I rescued from her buggy in a flood. My hot-blooded young friend would more likely have spat on your hand than kissed it if he'd known who your family was. Would you like me to tell him?”

Rachel willed herself to look calm and confident. In all her years at school, she had never yearned for home as desperately as she did now, with her family just a two-hour ride away.

“Tell them or not, that's your choice,” she said, glancing away from him with pretended indifference. “It can't ease their grief or bring their father back. It
can only make things worse for them, knowing a cattleman's daughter is sharing their table.”

Luke's silence told Rachel she had made her point. But she knew he was only biding his time. He would not let her off so easily.

The two youths had finished their meal and were waiting for her to rise before leaving the table. Someone, at least, had taught them proper manners. Had it been their father? Rachel caught herself wishing she'd known more about the old sheepherder.

Grateful for any excuse to move, she rose and began to clear away the dishes. Ignacio and Sebastian both sprang to help her, but she waved them away. The hour was late and both of them looked exhausted.

“Tell them, please, to get some rest,” she said, glancing back at Luke. “They've had a terrible day. It's no trouble for me to finish up here.”

Luke spoke a few words of Spanish, and the two young men, thanking her profusely, opened the front door and walked out onto the porch. Rising and stretching, the four dogs trotted after them, down the steps. The fast-moving storm had swept out onto the prairie, leaving patches of stars in its wake. Clouds drifted over the face of a wan crescent moon.

Luke walked to the door and bolted it shut behind them. When he turned back to face her, Rachel had the feeling she had tumbled out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“Where…do they sleep?” Her voice emerged as a nervous squeak.

“There's a bunkhouse out back. This house only
has two bedrooms, and…” he hesitated slightly. “Miguel's laid out in one of them.”

He walked to the table and began clearing away the plates. “I'll take some blankets and sleep in here,” he said. “You can have my bed for the night.”

The color rose in her face. “Oh, but I wouldn't dream of—”

“Don't be a proper little fool, Rachel.” His voice rasped with irritation. “The boys and I will be up before dawn. If you're sprawled out on the floor asleep—”

“You don't need to draw me a picture. I'll take your bed.” Rachel poured heated water from the kettle into the dishpan and added some lye soap shavings, then filled a second pan with rinse water. She was too tired to be civil, but he clearly did not intend to leave her alone. Maybe she could at least steer their conversation onto safer ground.

Her gaze darted around the large room which served as kitchen, dining room and parlor. The house was small but sturdily built, with touches that showed a loving attention to detail—the log walls that had been oiled to bring out their natural golden color; the built-in shelves that flanked the fireplace, filled with dozens of well-thumbed classics; the matching leather wing chairs, worn but of good quality, that faced the unlit fireplace. On one chair a faded Navajo blanket had been flung over an arm. Its fringed corner spilled over the bare, oiled planks of the floor.

“Did you build this house?” Rachel knew her
neighborly tone would not fool him, but she had to make some effort at conversation.

“The house and most of the furniture. My grandfather was a carpenter. What little I know, he taught me.” Luke set the stacked plates and mugs on the counter next to the dishpan. Relieved that he was playing along, Rachel willed herself to relax.

“I didn't just want a ranch, I wanted a home,” Luke bent to take a clean flour sack towel from a basket under the counter. Picking up the first plate Rachel had washed, he began wiping it dry. “In the beginning, I didn't have much to work with, but what little I had got me this far. I always planned to build onto the place, add a wing, maybe even an upper floor, but now…” The words trailed off into a shrug, as if to say,
what for?

“That sounds like the way my grandfather built our house—he started with a couple of good, solid rooms and added on. It's become quite a grand place.” Rachel was chattering now, something she tended to do when she was nervous. “You really should go ahead with your plans. You'll need the extra space when it comes time to start a family.” Turning to hand him another plate, she was struck by the smoldering frustration in his eyes. Startled, she drew back. “Did I say something wrong?”

“You saw what happened today. Even if I found a woman who could stand to live out here—and could stand
me—
” He glanced toward the back of the house, where the old man's body lay. “How could I
think of exposing a wife and children to this kind of hatred?”

“But surely it won't always be like this.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Earlier today you were telling me to leave.”

“I know.” She handed him another plate, struck, suddenly by the intimacy of the common task in the quiet, lamplit kitchen. He was standing very close to her, their fingers not quite touching as she handed him the clean dishes. His presence, so large and warm and fiercely gentle, sent a quiver of awareness through her body. “I did say you should leave.” Her throat felt raw and husky. “But that was before I saw this ranch and realized how much of your heart you'd put into it. For you, leaving isn't a choice. You'd die on this land before you let yourself be driven off it.”

The house was so silent that Rachel could hear the small brass clock ticking on the mantel. She could hear the deep rush of Luke's breathing beside her. She dared not look up at him. To do so would be an invitation for him to touch her; and she sensed that if his fingers so much as brushed her skin, she would burst into flame like an autumn leaf in a bonfire.

“Will you tell your people that?” His voice was gravelly, as if he needed to clear his throat.

Rachel's legs felt unsteady beneath her. A cup slipped from her fingers and tumbled into the soapy water. “Tell them what?” she whispered.

“That I won't leave. That I'm here to stay. That all I want is to be left in peace.”

She shook her head. “You know I can't tell my
family anything. If my father knew I'd spent the night here alone with you, he'd come riding over here with a rifle and shoot you himself.”

“Then tell me what you saw today.”

The saucer Rachel was holding fell from her fingers and shattered on the floor. She bent forward to snatch up the pieces, but Luke's hand caught her arm, jerking her upright. The motion whipped her against him, flattening her breasts against his chest. His eyes drilled into her like bullets.

“Tell me.” His voice was flat and cold.

“I…don't know what you're talking about!” she stammered, struggling against panic.

“Yes, you do, Rachel. When those four cowboys rode away, they passed right by the place where you were hiding. When you came out from behind those rocks, you looked as if you'd seen a ghost. At the time I thought you were just scared. But there's more to the story than that, isn't there?”

“Let me go, Luke,” she whispered.

“Isn't there?” His hand tightened on her arm. “You knew the bastards, didn't you?”

“They were masked. Please—”

“You knew them. And you can give me their names.”

“You're wrong!” She forced herself to meet his blazing eyes. “And even if you weren't, even if I could give you their names, you'd have no proof they had anything to do with your friend's death.”

“I'd have a lead. I'd have a trail to follow. That's a hell of a lot more than what I have now.” He forced
her upward, so that she was standing on tiptoe, her face a few perilous inches from his own. “Damn it, woman, we're not just talking about a few sheep here! We're talking about a man's life! We're talking about murder! If you have a spark of common decency in that self-centered little heart of yours—”

His words ended in a growl of frustration. Rachel's mind groped frantically for a way to end the standoff. She could swoon or pretend to be sick—but no, that would not fool him. It would only make him angrier, as would trying to fight him.

Only one thing came to mind, and before her courage had time to fail her, she did it.

“Rachel—”

Her mouth stopped his words. She kissed him hard, her free arm hooking the back of his neck so that he could not pull away. His body jerked and went rigid against her. His mouth was like carved marble, cold and resistant, but Rachel knew that breaking away now would be like jumping off the back of a tiger. Her pulse rocketed as she willed her lips to melt against his, willed her tongue to flick lightly against the taut ridge of his lower lip. He tasted of bacon and strong black coffee, and the stubble on his jaw was like rough velvet against her skin.

For the space of a long breath he stood like a wall against her. Then, with a groan, he released his arms to slide around her, molding her to him so tightly that she could feel his shirt buttons through her bodice. His response went through her like a hot blade through wax. Her heart slammed as his mouth took
control of their kiss. His tongue probed deftly between her lips, brushing her tingling flesh until she ached to draw him inside her, to taste him, to feel him.