A Lady of the West (19 page)

“Do I have any choice? He's the only protection we have.” She could have trusted him if she thought he was doing it out of regard for her or even out of a sense of right and wrong, but she still had the uneasy feeling that he was doing it for his own reasons, and that they had nothing to do with justice or herself at all.

McLain was sweating profusely, his eyeballs moving swiftly back and forth beneath his closed lids. In his dreams he had just withdrawn from Elena's limp body when a hideous figure leaped at him from the black shadows in a corner of the room. It was the Sarratt whelp, with a wolf's head and glowing yellow eyes; instead of hands he had long, white, curving claws. He swiped at the Major's exposed genitals with those claws again and again, and in his dream McLain
was screaming and rolling all over the room, but his body lay heavy and still in the bed, with only his hands twitching. The boy was tearing at his throat with dripping fangs, and the yellow eyes were glaring at him so close that McLain could see his own reflection in them. The claws finally reached his groin, and he screamed madly as his manhood was torn from his body—

He came awake with a jerk, his eyes flying open as he stared in terror around the dark room, expecting the hellish figure to leap on him from the corners. The shadows were expanding, pressing down on the bed. He couldn't move. He could only lie there, sweating, waiting for his own horrible death. His heart raced and the stench of his fear-sweat filled the room. The silence was unbroken by anything except his own labored breathing.

He was still after him. The bastard hadn't died. He was still out there, with his flashing knife, waiting for his chance, waiting to catch him alone, waiting…

Finally McLain summoned enough courage to stumble from the bed and light a candle. The frail, solitary flame illuminated only himself and cast the remainder of the room into even deeper shadows. He needed more candles, more light. An oil lamp—yes, that was what he needed. A couple of oil lamps.

His hands shaking, he found three more candles and lit them, putting them around the room to diminish the shadows. He wanted more, but he couldn't make himself open his bedroom door to go downstairs and get them. What if the Sarratt whelp was waiting, crouched, on the other side of the door? He'd just wait until daylight and make sure he had lamps in here before another night fell. If he just had enough light, there wouldn't be any shadows for the whelp to hide in and he would be safe.

Jake patted Sophie's rump as he walked behind her to let her know he was there, but he was still ready to
leap out of the way of a well-placed kick. He didn't trust her manners that far. He noticed that she was showing signs of coming into season, and he decided not to ride his own horse on today's outing with Victoria. It would be safer if he rode another mare, for both Victoria and himself.

“You got that damn mare settled down yet?” McLain asked, walking up behind him.

Jake glanced at the man, noting his red-rimmed eyes and unshaven jaws. He looked as if he'd been drunk all night. The cold hatred that lived inside Jake hardened more, as it did every time he looked at McLain. “She'll do,” he said. He didn't add that he doubted she would ever be docile; Sophie's spirit would always burn too hot for that. She would always be contrary and arrogant, and love to run. “She's coming in heat.”

McLain grunted. “Try her out with another stallion tomorrow morning. If she's ready, put Rubio with her.”

Jake gave a short nod. McLain shifted his feet. “You taking Victoria for a ride this morning?”

“I don't know.” Every muscle tensed. He didn't want to talk about Victoria with McLain. He hated hearing her name come from the man's filthy mouth, hated knowing that she bore the McLain name.

“Show her around the ranch,” McLain said abruptly. His eyes were glittering.

Jake shrugged. “Sure.” McLain's insistence was a bit strange, but it was too convenient for Jake to worry about it.

“I'll send her out. Why don't you show her North Rock? She'd like that.”

“The Rock's about a two-hour ride.”

“You said she's a good rider; she can make it.” McLain turned and hurried to the house. Jake's eyes narrowed as he watched him leave. This
was
strange. It was almost as if McLain were throwing Victoria at him, but for what reason?

Maybe that episode in Santa Fe with Pledger had made him suspicious; maybe McLain thought he could catch Jake being too familiar with his wife, and give him a reason to put a bullet through his head. No one would say a word about it; a man had a right to protect his family. The whole idea sounded just like something Garnet would think up.

Jake saddled Sophie and another mare; in less than half an hour Victoria appeared wearing her riding habit. She looked pale, but bright spots of color burned in her cheeks. She didn't look at him as he lifted her into the saddle.

“Where are we going?” she asked once they were away from the house.

“No place in particular. Just riding.” The last place he was going was to North Rock.

“I didn't want to ride today.”

He eyed her consideringly. She seemed more upset now than she had the day before. Damn her lady's conscience; whenever she had time to think, it undid whatever progress he'd made with her. Anger, still close to the surface after his meeting with McLain, roiled inside him. He'd be damned if he'd let her back away from him again. “Because of what happened between us yesterday?” he asked in a hard voice.

“Nothing happened!” She bit her lip, ashamed of her swift disclaimer because it wasn't true. Hiding from what she felt wouldn't make it go away.

“The hell it didn't, lady,” he snapped, reining the mare he was riding closer to Sophie.

She finally cast him a quick, desperate glance. His green eyes were glittering dangerously under the shadow from his hat brim. “I know,” she said, and swallowed. “I'm sorry. It's just—” She swallowed again. “I asked him last night who owned the ranch before him. He wouldn't answer, and when Juana said the Sarratts had owned it he became violent and hit her.” The words were jerky, her voice strained. “It's true, what you said, or he wouldn't have acted like
that. I can't stand being here, living in the same house with him. How much longer will it be, Jake? Are you going to take us away from here? I'll go anywhere you want if we can just leave.”

She stopped her tumbling flow of words, waiting for him to tell her that they would leave soon. But he was glaring at her and the silence was filled only by the sound of the horses' hooves and breathing, the jingling of bits and creak of leather. She floundered in a sea of agonized embarrassment. Had she so completely misread him? Had he not meant, after all, that he'd take them away?

“Don't mention the Sarratts to him again.” Jake's voice was as hard and dry as an empty riverbed.

Victoria went even whiter. She lifted her reins and nudged Sophie with her heel, urging her to greater speed. With Sophie, it didn't take much urging. She leaped forward as if propelled by a spring, and Victoria was glad of the mare's excess of spirit. She wanted nothing more than to get away from Jake Roper, from having to look into his face and see her own stupidity.

Jake cursed and spurred his horse after her. If the mare he was riding hadn't been a quarterhorse bred for speed over the short distance, he wouldn't have overtaken her as quickly as he did. When he drew even with Victoria, he leaned over and snatched the reins from her hands, easing Sophie to a slower pace.

“Don't try that again,” he snapped, angered by the risk she had just taken. She didn't know the speed of which Sophie was capable, or how headstrong the mare was.

“Or you'll do what?” she shouted, shoving at his arm. “Let go!”

He gritted his teeth. “Victoria, settle down,” he said with sorely strained patience, trying to hold on to his temper.

Even through his anger, he was a little amazed at her defiance. From the first, she had dared him when
even armed men walked softly around him. The lady might be straitlaced, but she wasn't a coward.

She dropped her hand and turned her face away from him. “I apologize.” Dear heaven, how many times was she going to have to apologize to him today? As mortifying as it was, she might as well face it. “I misinterpreted your words yesterday. I thought you meant that we—” She stumbled to a halt, unable to find a phrase that left her any dignity.

All he could see was the pale curve of her cheek. “You didn't misinterpret a goddamn thing,” he said low.

The look she gave him was so uneasy that he wanted to take her in his arms right then, but they were still too close to the house. He'd be a fool to take that kind of a risk, especially now with Ben on the way. If he just remained patient, he'd have both her and the ranch, but the strain was so intense that his powerful hands were knotted into fists. “Let's get farther from the house,” he muttered. “I know a place we can go.”

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs, but she followed him. He was as much an enigma to her now as he had been the first day she'd met him, and she was terrified that she was putting not just her life but also Emma's and Celia's in his hands. He was a gunfighter, a man who made a living by dispensing death. She couldn't read his thoughts, couldn't feel that she knew him as anything other than unpredictable. But she would rather be with him and in danger than live a safe life without him.

They rode without speaking at an easy pace for half an hour. They were in a lovely, narrow valley, carpeted in yellow snakeweed. A crown of aspens stood on top of the hill, waving gently in a breeze they couldn't feel down in the valley. Jake led them toward the aspens.

When they were among the trees, he reined in and dismounted. “No one can see us in here,” he said,
reaching up to clasp her waist and lift her down. He didn't add that the high ground made it hard for anyone to approach unseen, either; no point in scaring her when his suspicions might be unfounded. His first urge, feeling her slim body in his hands, was to pull her close and take his fill of her. Her faint, sweet scent teased him. His loins hardened and grew heavy to the point where he almost didn't care that now wasn't the time or the place. It wouldn't take long to flip up her skirt if that was all he wanted, but he wanted more than a few minutes of rutting. He wanted all of her, he wanted to drown himself in her sweetness, wanted it too much to risk ruining his plans by pressing her too hard.

He carefully tied Sophie's reins to a tree limb, though he trusted his own mount to remain with just a ground tie, letting the reins drag on the ground. Victoria still avoided looking at him, at least until he reached out and took her hand, carrying it to his mouth for a brief kiss. Then she gave him a brief glance full of distress, and he wondered what she was thinking. He'd never before met a woman who had such a multitude of prickly morals, like a cactus. She was still living in a fantasy world ruled by courtly manners; what did it take to open her eyes and make her realize that life in the West was rough and the only rule was to stay alive by any means necessary?

“Let's sit down,” he suggested, and with his boot scraped together a mound of pine needles. She sank down on the pile, carefully arranging her skirt to cover her low, dainty boots. He sprawled beside her and propped himself on his left side so his right hand and arm were free.

“I'm making some plans,” he said after a minute. “I'll get you away from McLain, but it'll take a little time.”

She picked up a stick and drew it through the dirt. “What about Emma and Celia?”

“Them, too.” No problem at all, he thought. Of course, she didn't know that his plans were to replace McLain, not to leave.

“How long will it be?” she whispered. “I can't bear it much longer.”

“I don't know exactly. You'll have to be patient until it's time.” It was almost intolerable, letting her walk into that house as McLain's wife, and if it was that bad for him, how must Victoria feel? But she had to for now. He'd make it up to her afterward, when the ranch belonged to him and Ben again.

She turned her head away from him, wondering how he could ask that of her if he felt even half as strongly about her as she did about him. The hard answer to that question, she was afraid, was that he didn't. Pain squeezed her insides, but she kept her eyes dry and her chin steady; whining wouldn't do any good. If he didn't love her, then he didn't love her. At least he wanted her enough to be with her, which gave her the chance of eventually winning his love.

Jake caught her chin in his gloved fingers and turned her face toward him. “Don't pout,” he said with a hard edge in his tone. “I'm doing what I can and you'll just have to be patient.”

“I'm not pouting,” she said.

“Then stop turning your head away from me.”

She looked at him directly then, blue eyes steady under her level dark brows. “I don't know anything about you, or understand anything. I think I'm entitled to a certain amount of worry.”

His mouth tightened. “I don't rightly see how you can say that after yesterday. There's something between us, Victoria. Whether you ‘understand' it or not. Why the hell else would I put myself out to help you?”

“I don't know. That's what worries me.” She saw a flicker of expression in the dark green of his eyes, but it was gone before she could read it. “You keep so
much of yourself hidden, no one can get to know you. I feel as if I'm putting myself in your hands without knowing anything about you.”

“You know I want you.”

Her blue eyes looked bruised. “Yes,” she said. “I know that.”

He wanted to feel her skin and he impatiently pulled off his gloves, then touched her face again. His fingers delved into her hair, while his thumb stroked the velvety texture of her cheek. The sunlight filtering through the trees dappled her hair; he trailed a strand through his fingers, picking out shades ranging from palest gold to auburn to light brown. Her skin looked almost translucent, while her eyes were shadowed with secrets he couldn't fathom. A surge of lust heated him so fully that he broke out in a sweat. God, he had to have just a little of her, a taste, a feel, or he'd explode.