Conall's Legacy (8 page)

The laugh lines around her eyes crinkled. She obviously thought that had been a great adventure. “Weren’t you frightened?” Drake asked.

“At the time I was, but Dad was right. I had a ball being in the stock tank, not to mention the attention I got from the hands who came to help.” She shook her head. “I thought I was pretty special that day.”

“What else did you do?”

“You don’t want to get me started. I could go on all evening.”

Genuine interest pushed him. “That’s okay. Give. Just one more.”

She shook her head and rose, carrying her plate to the sink. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Please?” His voice sounded warm, pleading almost. Drake frowned. What was the matter with him? He should keep his distance, not encourage her.

“Well, I could tell you about the time Cindy--she’s my best friend--dared me to jump out of the third story hayloft into a big pile of hay.”

The hell with it, Drake thought. He wanted to know more about Luisa, so he threw caution out the window. “If she was a best friend, what did your enemies do to you?”

Luisa shared more stories and kept them laughing, something that Drake had missed for the past year. A picture of Conall, his unquenchable laughter bringing a flush to his light complexion and tears to his eyes, came to Drake. There had been many good times over the years of their friendship. It felt good, Drake realized, to let go for even a short time.

Luisa glanced toward the window. “Yikes. It’s late. I have to go feed so I can work the horses later.”

“Thanks for the cake,” he said, getting to his feet. “And the conversation. I enjoyed it.” He tried to hand her the cake plate, but she shook her head. “That’s for you.”

“Thanks. I won’t even argue the point. It’s delicious.”

She backed toward the kitchen door, knocking into a chair on the way. “Um, I’ll see you later.” Obviously nervous, she bolted from the room, her boots thumping on the worn boards of the porch, and then silence returned.

Drake wondered at her sudden discomfort, but let it go. He inhaled and pulled her lingering scent into his lungs. Slowly he raised a hand and rubbed it over his chest. As much as he hated the desert southwest, he was fascinated by some aspects of it, including Luisa Montoya. Returning to Los Angeles and Rebecca might not be as easy as he’d expected.

#

That evening Drake stroked a razor across his cheek one last time and splashed water on his face to wash away the remaining menthol lather. While he dabbed his dripping face with a fresh towel, he pictured Luisa in his mind. Warmth flooded the pit of his stomach. He imagined again her understated laughter, more often than not laughing at herself as they had talked about her ranch life.

A very real sound overrode that memory. A lively melody drifted in through the open window and tugged at him. It came from the barn. He wondered if Luisa was working there.

He wanted to stay away. He needed to be close.

Drake pried her image from his mind. In spite of his heart’s request, he couldn’t begin to think of a relationship until his own issues with Conall were resolved. Drake knew that was going to take time. He had a responsibility to Rebecca and the children to consider, too. The promise made to his dying friend was carved on Drake’s heart. Regret tapped him on the shoulder. He’d forever see Conall’s last minutes on this earth. Forever know Drake had caused them by making a rookie mistake. Despair threatened to take him down to his knees, but he locked them, holding himself rigid.

Night was coming on and that meant the nightmares would be close behind. He’d kill for a loud, smoky bar and a bottle about now. Anything to keep his thoughts and feelings at bay. Booze had taken over his life when Conall died.

Disgusted, he threw the towel into a heap on the chipped porcelain sink and went out on the porch. Dark circled the place except for bright lights along the sides of a large pen. A tune carried to him on the sage-scented breeze. It was fast--a real toe-tapper. When he recognized “Syncopated Clock,” he smiled. Not only was she listening to Leroy Anderson’s music from the 50s, she played the same song repeatedly. He wondered if it was a favorite of hers. When it started over for the fourth time, he thought it odd. Surely, she had more than one favorite tune.

Curiosity moved him toward the barn. When he caught sight of her riding in the arena, he veered in that direction, stopping under the spreading arms of a cottonwood. What he saw astounded him. The woman and horse flowed across the sandy surface, liquid in their movements.

The arena lights bounced off red highlights in her hair and turned the coat of the horse golden-red. Brilliant white legs and a white stripe down his face reflected in the glow and added a fancy touch like chrome on a hot rod. Luisa and Royal Knight danced the length of the arena, so closely bound in body and spirit they might have been one creature. Drake couldn’t separate woman from horse.

Knight moved in perfect rhythm on each distinct count of four, moving effortlessly into another maneuver, another direction. His hooves hovered inches above the sand, appearing never to connect to earth.

Drake shook his head in wonder. He couldn’t see Luisa move--not a muscle. How on earth was she cueing the horse? The ride appeared effortless, yet he knew it must be difficult to manage such a huge animal. Knight’s movements and rhythm were perfect for the music. Drake could practically see his old metronome from his piano lesson days clicking back and forth in time to the notes. He could easily see why she had chosen this particular piece of music to dance with her horse.

The performance consumed her. If Drake were a two-headed dragon, she’d take no more notice of him than she was now. This was a private moment--intimate somehow.

He started to turn away, to leave her to her peaceful interlude. She rounded the corner of the arena nearest him. Her look of pure pleasure and freedom drew his attention to her face--to sparkling eyes and curved lips. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, and the breeze kissed her cheeks.

His gaze skidded across the jagged scar traveling across her right cheek, blending into her hairline. Agony hit him between the eyes. Not guilt. Not self-pity. God knew he’d been wallowing in both lately. This raw pain was for someone else. He hardly knew her, so why did it hit him like the kick of one of her horses? What the hell had happened to hurt her so?

Realization hit him. Her loosened hair wasn’t vanity as he’d thought that first day. It was protection from prying eyes-- eyes she obviously didn’t expect at this moment or her long, dark waves would be swinging against her cheeks. Protection from pity, too, he’d bet. Drake knew instinctively, she’d never accept that from anyone, even herself.

With the ease born of practice, he melted into the night shadows, wondering what secrets
La Puerta de Paraíso
held that explained the wounding of Luisa Montoya.

#

The harsh clanging of a bell jarred Drake’s nerves. He set the opened can of chili he’d planned for dinner on the Formica counter and went to the front door wondering if the place was on fire.

Mesquite trees rimmed the yard and where night met light, Luisa stood with what looked like an old-fashioned cowbell in her hand. At her feet sat several buckets. Curiosity dragged Drake across the porch. Luisa set the bell on the ground and lifted the buckets one by one to pour their contents into ancient wooden troughs.

Apparently finished, she backed away and sat on an old stump, keeping one bucket in front of her. He heard the brush crunching and his gaze swung to the scrubby trees. A dark javelina broke cover. The sight of a wild pig running at her brought terror to his soul. He stepped off the porch automatically reaching where his weapon should have been on his belt, but stopped and rocked on his heels. Eight tiny babies scurried out of the brush to beat the sow to the feed. They made snuffling, excited noises. A bewildered smile lifted the corners of Drake’s mouth.

The brush shook again, but this time an odd pair of creatures waddled out that Drake didn’t recognize. Similar in size to raccoons, they had masks but no ringed tails. Hmm, have to look that one up, he thought.

His gaze slid back to Luisa’s features dimly lit from the barn lights. The woman’s a regular Dr. Doolittle, he thought, a smile spreading across his face. Did she do this every evening? Had he slept through it?

Then the most beautiful of all, half a dozen small deer came into view. Five of them went to one of the troughs, but one went straight to her. It nuzzled her cheek, allowed her to slide a gentle hand down its neck, and then it began to eat from a bucket in her arms.

Contentment radiated from Luisa. He might not be able to see it, but he felt it. She remained quiet, soaking up the peace that surrounded the creatures. He’d been wrong. This was not a woman he’d call lonely. She was more content here with her creatures than he’d ever been in the midst of Los Angeles chaos. Would he ever know contentment at this level?

Luisa pulled at her braid, tucked loosened strands of hair into it, and drew his attention back to her face. Drake wished she didn’t feel the need to hide from him. Didn’t she know how beautiful she was? As though feeling his thoughts, the corners of her lips lifted and curved into a smile. She again touched the deer that ate from the bucket she held.

Envy tugged at his heart. She had found true peace and inner strength here on the ranch she called her doorway to Paradise. Judging by the ranch name, he assumed it was a spiritual thing for her. He thought of Conall and Rebecca’s beliefs, of the faith they said would protect them, and of Conall’s funeral. How could Luisa find peace in believing in a deity who did such terrible things to good people? Drake doubted he’d ever get back his faith and the beliefs blown to hell by a maniac.

Suddenly uncomfortable watching her in this setting, Drake turned and moved silently into the house. He closed the door on the scene, on her, and on his desires.

Would he ever know peace? Would something--or someone--trust him as much as that deer trusted her? Perhaps Luisa would come to have faith in him and look at him with love in her eyes. Would he deserve that kind of blind trust again? Even he didn’t know the answer.

His gut twisted into knots at the idea of Luisa falling in love with him. No. As long as he kept to himself, he’d never hurt anyone, never let anyone down, and never again kill someone who meant so much to him.

Despair thickened the air trying to seep into his lungs. Pain thrummed through his body, pulsing like blood. He had to stay away from Luisa Montoya, to protect her.

There was only one problem with that theory. The essence of Luisa vibrated on this ranch. He couldn’t be here, couldn’t be alive, and not be aware of her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The mid-morning sun roasted Luisa through the glass walls of her sunroom. Even the drawn shades couldn’t keep it cool. She saved her file, turned off the monitor, and pushed back from the desk. Pulling off her glasses, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. The harsh sound of crashing metal drifted in through the open window.
He must have taken the padding off the mallet for some reason
. She absently wondered if perhaps it created a different effect on the metal.

Odd, she thought. Drake usually finishes by now. A smile spread across her face as she thought of the fun they’d had sharing stories over chocolate cake. She hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. Taking down two large glasses, she filled them with ice and tart liquid.

She added a few homemade cookies to a tray, knowing, but not caring, that they would only make the lemonade more sour. She hadn’t baked all summer and now she’d done so twice in two days. Domesticity apparently arrived at the ranch with Drake.

Luisa pushed the screen door open with her hip and let Rooster run out before letting it slap closed. She crossed the yard, cringing with each hammer-fall. She turned the corner of the shed where Drake worked and slid to a stop, glasses skidding precariously on the tray she carried.

Her hands trembled, and she fought to steady them. Drake was naked from the waist up, his shirt thrown in a heap on the dirt floor. Rivulets of sweat streamed down his chest finding their way through dark, curly hair to race toward the waist of his jeans. He continued to pound the metal, the muscles in his shoulders and arms glistening.

Thank God, he doesn’t know I’m here, she thought. His face drew her full attention. Unspeakable pain carved his features into a grotesque mask. He didn’t even look like himself, as he turned away to pick up another piece of metal.

As though sensing someone watching him, he stopped and slowly lowered the mallet, then let it drop to the ground. His head fell forward as his chin dropped to his bare chest. He pulled in a deep breath, lifted his head, and turned. His eyes were moist, his jaw set tight against the pain he must be feeling.

“I’m--I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just so hot. I thought you could use a break.” She looked past him at his sculpture, and gulped. It looked like a bombed-out building. Hatred and evil radiated from the twisted metal pieces. Nothing was recognizable. What terrible pain drove him to create such a piece as this? Her hands shook again, so she set the tray on a bale of hay before she dropped it.

Luisa watched as he struggled to regain control. A small muscle in his jaw jumped and twitched. His own hands shook slightly as he pulled off his gloves. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes.