Wyoming Woman (8 page)

She groped for the last vestige of her self-control, then let it go. Sweet heaven, what was happening to her? Kissing boys at school had been an amusing game. She had always been the one in charge, the one who made and enforced the rules and never went too far. But she had never kissed a man like Luke Vincente.

Rachel's legs had gone liquid beneath her. Her loins seethed with molten, shimmering heat. Moisture slicked her thighs. She moaned out loud as his hands found the curve of her hips, pressing her lightly against him but stopping just short of the exquisite pressure that her body craved. The man was playing her, she suddenly realized. He was teasing her, tantalizing her with the skill of an experienced lover who knew exactly what he was doing.

He was making an utter fool of her!

Suddenly furious, Rachel wrenched herself away from him. She stumbled backward, half falling against the edge of the table before she caught her balance.

Luke's mocking eyes glittered down at her. He had won their battle of nerves, and he knew it. It had taken just one kiss to shatter her pride and reduce her to a panting, quivering mess.

The anger that welled up in Rachel was white-hot, volcanic in its fury. Her hand swung in a wild arc to strike his face. The force of the slap wrenched her
sore shoulder and left a stinging red handprint on his cheek.

Luke's features did not even twitch, but when he spoke his voice was as flat and thin as a razor. “Go to bed, Rachel. The sheets are clean and you'll find everything you need in the room.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “There's a bolt on the inside of the door. See that you lock it.”

Rachel half expected him to turn on his heel and walk away, but he stood his ground, forcing her to turn tail and retreat. Her spine was ramrod-stiff as she stalked down the hall to Luke's bedroom, but her legs had turned to jelly by the time she stepped across the threshold, closed the door behind her and slid the metal bolt into place with a resounding click.

The room was simply furnished. A double bed covered by a faded woolen blanket took up most of the space. Against the far wall, a wardrobe stood beside a washstand with a cracked mirror and a tin basin. Next to the bed, a small side table held a guttering candle and a stack of books.

Rachel blew out the candle. Then, surrounded by warm, dark stillness, she sank onto the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands.

 

He opened his eyes to find her leaning over him, clad in nothing but a gossamer shift that skimmed her naked body like moonlight. The fabric strained against her jutting nipples, outlining the ripe, ivory globes of her breasts. Her red-gold curls framed her face like a glowing halo. But she was no angel. Lord,
no. He had known that from the instant he'd held her in his arms and tasted the sweet, wild honey of her mouth.

Her scent was earth and musk, the odor of a female animal in heat. The erotic fragrance swam through his senses, awakening every cell in his body to sensations he had long since sworn to forget. Beneath the Navajo blanket, he was painfully aroused, with a need as keen as the honed edge of a knife blade.

“Rachel…” His feverish lips whispered her name as he pushed the blanket aside and drew her down beside him. Her shift vaporized beneath the heat of his hands, leaving her body naked against his aching flesh.

She was as bold as a she-cat, moaning with unbridled pleasure as he stroked her skin, exploring every curve and hollow of her. Her body rippled against him, molten, seeking as he cupped her breasts, tasting the swollen buds of her nipples, licking, sucking. Every whimper, every explosive, frantic breath begged him to take her and end the torment that threatened to turn them both to living torches.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, gripping and clawing as he nibbled his way down her soft belly to the silken nest where her pleasure lay. She opened her thighs, arching against him as his tongue found the silken folds and the swollen nub between them. The first taste of her sent a shuddering explosion through her body. She cradled his head between her thighs, moaning softly as the storm subsided. “I want you,” she whispered. “Now…please.”

Unable to wait any longer, he shifted his weight and rose above her. For the space of a breath he gazed down into her beautiful, wanton face. Her wet lips parted, expectantly. Then, with a little gasp, she arched to meet him. He thrust into her hard and deep with a force that was almost brutal, taking her, filling her, again, again and again….

Luke awoke in darkness, damp, sticky and cursing like a muleskinner. Damn the dream! Damn the woman and what that searing kiss had done to him! It was a good thing he had told her to bolt the bedroom door. Otherwise he would be sorely tempted to stride down the hall and make the dream a reality.

Aching in every joint, he rolled onto his back and lay on the hard floor, staring up into the darkness. Oh, he knew why Rachel had kissed him, the little witch. He had backed her into a corner, forcing the issue of the four riders, and she had evaded him with tactics as old as Mother Eve.

He could only hope his response had startled her as much as it had him.

For a long moment he lay still, remembering the feel of her in his arms, the satiny heat of her lips and the seductive forays of her mischievous little tongue. Lord, how he had wanted her. He had deserved that slap for what he was thinking.

But her ploy was not going to work, he vowed. As soon as Rachel awoke, they would have it out. Something about her behavior wasn't right, and he could not let her go without finding out what it was.

But did he have the legal and moral right to keep
Rachel from leaving? Seething with uncertainty, Luke sat up and raked the hair out of his eyes. One brush with the law was enough. He didn't need the kind of trouble that holding her by force would bring. As an ex-convict, he wouldn't stand a chance against the law.

But he had promised Miguel's boys he would find the men who'd beaten their father to death. All his instincts told him that Rachel Tolliver was the key to keeping that promise.

But why should she help him? She was a Tolliver, a woman whose hatred of sheep and the men who raised them was bred into the very marrow of her bones. If it came to choosing sides there was no question where her loyalties would lie.

A glance toward the window showed him that the darkness was beginning to fade. It was time he woke the boys and started their painful day. He had a coffin to build. They had a grave to dig.

As for Rachel, he realized, the only hope lay in appealing to her sense of justice—if the woman had one. Only if he could convince her she was doing the right thing would she agree to help him find Miguel's killers. If he failed in that, she would lie and evade his questions until doomsday.

Sore, gritty-eyed and still damp from that cursed dream, Luke rolled out of his makeshift bed, staggered to his feet and shook himself fully awake. He was just reaching for his boots when the realization struck him.

Yesterday, when the four riders had passed close
to Rachel, she must have recognized someone from her own family—one of her brothers, most likely; maybe even both of them, or even her father.

Thunderstruck, he sank onto the edge of a chair and began the reflexive task of pulling on his boots. That would explain everything—the look of shocked disbelief on her face, the evasive answers to his questions, even the desperation with which she had kissed him. She was protecting her own flesh and blood. What a fool he'd been not to have guessed it sooner!

Now what? Luke stood up, unfastened his belt and tucked in his sleep-rumpled shirt. Appealing to her sense of justice would not be enough, he knew. Neither would a show of anger or force. He would simply have to walk into the bedroom and confront her with what he knew to be the truth. And he would have to do it now, before the boys came inside for their morning coffee and ended any chance of a private talk.

Had she bolted the bedroom door? Never mind, he would pound on the planks until she opened it. Rachel Tolliver was a stubborn woman. But she was not getting out of that room until she had told him everything he knew.

He strode down the dim hallway to find the door closed. No surprise there. Not wanting to startle her, he rapped lightly with his knuckles.

There was no answer.

He rapped harder. “Rachel, wake up! We need to talk! Now!”

When there was no reply, he tried the latch. The door yielded and swung open at his touch.

Inside the bedroom there was only silence. Through the window, a finger of gray morning light fell on the neatly made-up bed.

Rachel was gone.

R
achel yelped as her blistered toe struck a sharp rock. She'd been walking for hours, navigating by the stars as her father had taught her. The night sky had kept her from wandering in circles, but it could not protect her from badger holes, cactus spines, twisting roots, boulders and mysterious, scurrying creatures. She was bruised, scratched, bone-tired and as miserable as she had ever been in her life.

For reasons that had made perfect sense at the time, Rachel had decided against taking one of Luke's horses from the barn. The sound of a horse might have awakened Luke or his young herders, leaving her with some tall explaining to do. And she had not wanted to give Luke an excuse to track her, or to incur any further obligation to a man who was her family's sworn enemy.

All the same, Rachel had regretted her decision a hundred times over. Her dainty kidskin boots had not been made for trekking across the prairie. Already soaked by the storm, they had come unsewn and un
glued as she walked. By now, every step on her bruised and blistered feet was agony. Only the fading darkness gave her the courage to keep moving. Soon it would be dawn. She would be able to see the Big Horn Mountains in the west, calculate her exact position and make a beeline for home.

As the sky lightened from pewter to opal, she forced herself to keep moving, step by painful step. When her resolve threatened to crumble, she used anger to fuel her waning strength. Luke Vincente's response to her kiss had turned her into a simpering, jelly-kneed little fool, and he had known exactly what he was doing. How had he learned to kiss like that, to touch a woman in a way that all but melted her flesh beneath his hands? How had he learned to use his lips, his tongue, like weapons of war, leaving her collapsed in defeat after the first charge? The wretched rascal must have had some expert teachers—and plenty of practice!

How far would he have gone if she hadn't pulled away? Would he have made a ruined woman of her, or would he have flung her aside and walked away laughing? The latter, more likely, she reckoned. Either way, she hated the sheep man to the depths of her burning, humiliated soul. If she never saw him again, that would suit her just fine!

The dawn sky had faded to a gleaming silver. Now, to the west, she could see the jagged outline of her beloved Big Horn Mountains. Holding up a forefinger, she took a visual measurement of the angle between two peaks—a trick she had learned years ago
from Johnny Chang, the Tolliver Ranch's Chinese foreman. Her spirits lightened as she realized the ranch house was even closer than she'd hoped. If she didn't collapse on the way, she would be home in an hour.

Rachel's feet were swollen nubs of pain. Limping miserably, she forced herself to take one step, then another. She
would
make it home, she vowed, even if she had to crawl the rest of the way on her hands and knees. She had come too far to give up now. To keep up her courage, she began to sing.

“There is a tavern in the town, in the town, And there my true love sits him down, sits him down, sits him down…”

Tottering bravely ahead, she swung her arms in rhythm with the old tune. But even singing was an effort. Rachel's throat was as dry as a summer tumbleweed, and her vision had begun to blur in the morning light. Steeling herself against the pain, she broke into the chorus.

“Fare-thee-well, for I must leave thee, do not let the parting grieve thee, but remember that…”

The words died in her throat as a dark, mounted figure, still distant, emerged as a bobbing dot through the haze of her vision. Her pulse leaped as the thought flashed through her mind that it was Luke, that he'd been worried enough to come after her. But no, as the figure bobbed closer, she saw that she was wrong. The rider was approaching from the direction of the ranch. He was short and wiry, the broad-brimmed
Stetson on his head appearing almost comically large in proportion to his compact body.

Elation and relief swept over Rachel as she recognized him. “Johnny!” She waved her arms as she shouted. “Johnny Chang! Over here!”

The figure swung toward her. Johnny Chang, the son of the ranch's elderly Chinese cook, had been Morgan Tolliver's foreman for the past nineteen years; and anyone who derided him for his size or his race soon learned better. Johnny could outride, out-rope and outshoot any cowhand in the state. There was no horse he couldn't break and nothing he didn't know about running the ranch. Tough, taciturn and fair, he commanded the respect of every man who knew him.

“Miss Rachel?” His homely face registered disbelief as he reined in his tall blue roan and squinted down at her. “What are you doing here?”

Rachel accepted the canteen he thrust toward her and took a long, blessed swallow of cool water. Johnny had aged since she'd last set eyes on him. The creases that marked his sun-weathered face had deepened, and his hair had begun to gray. But his narrow brown eyes were as sharp and alert as ever.

“I had trouble on the Sheridan road,” Rachel said. “The buggy I'd rented wound up in a flooded wash, and I ended up walking home.” That much, at least, was true. The rest of the story would have to wait. She was glad it was Johnny who had found her first. He would not grill her or lecture her. He would simply take her home.

“What are you doing out here so early in the day?” She blinked up at him through an unexpected shimmer of tears.

“Lost cow. Come on.” A man of few words, as always, Johnny leaned down from the saddle and held out his hand. Rachel gripped it and, with the last of her strength, swung herself onto the horse behind him.

When she was securely seated, he nudged the smooth-gaited roan to a lope. With the sunrise behind them, they flew across the open prairie toward the heart of the Tolliver ranch. As fingers of sunlight stretched across the sage-dotted hills, Rachel felt her spirits lifting. She was home, and soon she would be with her family. That was all that mattered. Surely, given time, all the doubts and fears that had arisen yesterday would fade. Life would be as she remembered it, warm and safe, with the rhythms of the ranch, its seasons, its animals, its people, blending together like a happy song.

But no—Rachel brought herself up short. She was no longer a child, and life on the ranch had never been as idyllic as she remembered. There had been droughts, prairie fires and long, killing winters. There had been wolves and cattle rustlers, sick animals, sick people, accidents and stillborn babies. One of Johnny Chang's five sons had been killed by a runaway bull. Three years after Jacob and Josh were born, Rachel's mother had miscarried and nearly died. The doctor had told her there would be no more children.

Troubles and tragedies were part of life on the ranch. They went hand in hand with the joys. Ra
chel's family—the Tollivers, the Changs and the few other hardy souls who'd stayed around long enough to weave themselves into the fabric of the ranch—had endured the bad times because they cared for each other. They would endure this latest crisis as they had all the others, together. And it would take a lot more than one angry sheep man to tear them apart.

“How are things at home, Johnny?” she asked anxiously. “Is everyone all right?”

“Fine. Nobody said you were coming.”

“It was meant to be a…surprise.” Rachel's stomach flip-flopped as the roan sailed over a narrow wash. “I was coming down that long hill and almost ran into a herd of sheep.”

“Sheep.” The contempt that laced the foreman's voice left no need for more words.

“The mule bolted,” Rachel said. “The buggy wound up in a wash, and then there was a flood.”

“The mule?”

“It got away. The blasted animal's probably munching oats back in Sheridan by now.”

“And your baggage?”

“We—I was able to get most of my things out of the wash before the flood came. Somebody will need to go and fetch them.”

He was silent for a moment, and Rachel knew he had not missed her slip of the tongue. But it would not be like Johnny to probe deeper and cause her to lose face. “I will send the wagon,” was all he said.

Looking past his shoulder now, Rachel caught her first glimpse of the ranch buildings—the rambling
two-story log and stone house, the barn, the bunkhouse, and the neat maze of sheds and corrals, all rising out of the prairie with the mountains behind them. A lump rose in her throat as she saw the smoke curling out of the massive rock chimney. She was home. Right now, that was all that mattered.

As the distance lessened, she saw her mother come out onto the porch to shake the braided rag rug that lay at the foot of the stairs. The strip of bright color rippled in the morning sunlight, then abruptly dropped to the ground as Cassandra Tolliver caught sight of the horse carrying two riders. Shading her eyes, she plunged down the steps and raced across the yard.

“Mama!” Rachel was off the back of the horse almost before Johnny had reined the animal to a halt. Pain shot through her as her blistered feet landed on the ground, but she paid no heed as she plunged toward her mother.

“Rachel!” Cassandra's hand crept to her throat. At forty-three, she was still a pretty woman, petite and energetic, her dark red curls laced with more gray than Rachel remembered. Tears glimmered in her clear blue eyes as mother and daughter stumbled into each other's arms.

Cassandra gave Rachel a long, fiercely emotional hug, then drew back to inspect her at arm's length. “Merciful heaven, we weren't expecting you for another week! And look at you! We've got to get you into the house! What on earth happened?”

Rachel told her briefly about the sheep, the wrecked buggy and the flood, leaving out any men
tion of Luke Vincente. “I've been walking most of the night,” she said. “I was afraid that if I stopped to rest, I wouldn't get up again. If Johnny hadn't come along—”

“Hush!” Cassandra's arm tightened around her daughter's waist. “The rest of the story can wait until we get some breakfast in you. Then you'll want a hot bath and a good sleep.” She glanced up at the foreman. “Johnny, go find Morgan! Tell him—” She broke off as she caught sight of her husband coming out of the barn.

Morgan Tolliver had weathered the years well, although he walked with a slight limp from a leg that had been shattered by a bucking horse. Older than his wife by more than a decade, he was still proud and erect, with the aquiline features and fierce obsidian eyes of his Shoshone ancestors.

He strode awkwardly toward them across the open ground. He was not a demonstrative man, but Rachel knew how deeply he cared for her. She rarely thought about the fact that her real father had been Jake Logan, a handsome hell-raiser who'd died in a saloon brawl before she was born. Morgan had always been there for her. He was the only father she had ever known.

Morgan stopped cold as he took in Rachel's appearance. A curse escaped his lips before he could bite it back. “What the devil happened?” were his first words to her. “Blast it, Rachel, if you'd let us know you were coming—”

“Oh, leave her be, Morgan!” Cassandra remon
strated gently. “She wrecked the buggy when she ran into a herd of sheep at the bottom of that long hill. She's been walking all night!”

“Sheep!” Morgan's scowl deepened; his tone was even more contemptuous than Johnny Chang's had been.

“Johnny said he'd send someone for my things,” Rachel spoke up in an effort to change the subject. “And we'll need to get what's left of the buggy back to Sheridan. I'm afraid you may have to pay the livery stable for the damage.”

Morgan swore under his breath. “That damned sheep man ought to be the one to pay for that buggy and for all the other damage those filthy range maggots have done. If you could see the grass—”

“Now, Morgan.” Cassandra laid a gently restraining hand on his arm. “Rachel's only just arrived! She's been through a terrible night, and this is no time to be dumping our troubles at her feet!”

“Troubles?” Rachel met her father's stormy gaze, her interest suddenly piqued. “What troubles?”

“Never you mind, dear.” Her mother steered her firmly away from him, toward the porch. “It's just the usual sort of thing. Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about. And what luck, you're just in time for breakfast! Thomas was just headed out to ring the bell.”

“Thomas is doing the cooking now?” Rachel pounced on a chance to change the subject. If there was trouble with the sheep man, she would find out
soon enough. Meanwhile it might be best not to appear too curious.

“Most of it.” Cassandra chatted as she helped her daughter mount the steps on her throbbing feet. “Chang still does a little cooking, but the rheumatism in his bad leg has gotten so he can scarcely walk on it.” She gave a melancholy little sigh. “We're all getting older, dear. Just part of life, I suppose. Can you make it upstairs to your room? You'll feel better once you're out of those miserable clothes! You can eat in your old robe and slippers while Thomas's boys heat up your bath.”

“That sounds…heavenly.” Rachel leaned on the banister to ease the weight on her blistered feet. Her throat tightened as she forced herself to ask “Where are Jacob and Josh?”

“They've been up since before dawn irrigating the lower hayfields. But they'll be back here for break fast.” Cassandra's arm tightened around her daughter's waist. “I can't wait to see the look on their faces. They'll be so happy to see you!”

Rachel exhaled, forcing the tension from her body.
Everything's all right,
she told herself.
Forget what you saw. Leave it be.

But the questions sprang to her lips, burning to be heard. “How are the boys?” she asked, trying not to sound anxious. “Is everything all right with them?”

Cassandra's slight hesitation was more telling than any words. “Why…of course, dear. Is there something that would cause you to ask?”