Cowboys 08 - Luke (2 page)

"I hope the hotel is cool," she said, fanning her bosom. "I've never been so hot in my life."

"It is warm here," Otto agreed. "I had been informed America experienced cool weather in the spring."

"If you'd taken the trouble to consult a map, you'd have noticed that America is a big country. I imagine the northern part is cool. You brought me across the south. That's why we used to go to Monte Carlo in the winter, Otto, because it's warm in the south."

"I'm only following your uncle's instructions, your highness."

He always said that because he knew it left her nothing to say. He had to follow her uncle's instructions-or Rudolf's. It didn't matter that neither of them knew what they were doing. Surely New York would have been sufficiently far from the tiny principality of Ergonia for Rudolf to escape his enemies. But he had wanted to be assured of his safety, and having seen the American West, she had to agree it was the best place for Rudolf. No sane European would attempt to penetrate this endless wasteland.

A vehicle pulled to a halt next to the train. "Your carriage is ready, your highness," Otto said.

"It looks dirty," Valeria's maid, Elvira, said. "I'm sure the seats are hard."

"It's the only carriage in this town," Otto said. "If your highness would prefer to walk. .."

He knew she wouldn't walk. She'd be soaked through with perspiration in minutes and stared at by everyone she passed. "I'll ride."

Valeria wondered for a moment what was being done with her horses, the carloads of furniture and household furnishings, and her personal belongings, but the heat drove all thoughts of her possessions out of her mind. "Where is Hans?" she asked Otto.

"Waiting for you at the hotel."

It was almost too hot to breathe inside the carriage, but the trip was mercifully short. Bonner was incredibly small. She couldn't imagine why anyone would want to live here. What good was it to have a fortune if you had to live in a mud house?

Leaving Elvira to see to her personal luggage, Valeria entered the hotel. She was pleasantly surprised by the interior. Though it didn't approach the luxury and style of even an ordinary European hotel, it was more than she'd expected when her train stopped in this small, remote town. The lobby rose two floors in height, the ceiling supported by wood columns that had been carved at the top like the stone columns of ancient Greece. The wooden beams that supported the ceiling had carvings she didn't recognize. The walls were made of a plain brown material. Stone floors helped keep the interior cool. A wide, divided staircase rose against the far wall. Gas-lighted globes suspended from the ceiling illuminated the room. A group of leather-covered sofas and chairs were arranged around a low, slate-topped table covered with magazines and newspapers.

Rather than bow or avert their eyes, the people in the hotel lobby gaped at her as though she were some sort of exhibit. Their unblinking stares made her uncomfortable, and that angered her.
She
was the one whose presence was supposed to make
them
uncomfortable, make them aware of their lowly position in life. She didn't know how they managed to look so happy and healthy in this desert.

"Take me to my suite immediately," she said to Otto.

"They don't have suites, just rooms."

She always had a suite, but a few weeks in the American West had taught her that not even European royalty could have what they wanted when it didn't exist.

"I hope it's on the ground floor."

"I've asked for the best room on the second floor," Otto said. "We can't take the chance that someone might break in through the windows."

She didn't bother pointing out that a ladder would make the second floor as accessible as the first. She'd tried to reason with Otto before, to no avail. She just wanted to get off her feet, to relax before she had to dress for dinner.

The hallway, with its wood floors, stucco walls, and exposed beams, was nothing like the marble halls of her home, its walls covered with silk, tapestries, or handpainted wallpaper from France or China; its ceilings painted with pastoral scenes and highlighted with plaster or gold leaf. The beams here were so low she felt they might crash down on her head. She was certain she saw a cobweb dangling from one.

The stairs were so narrow her dress caught on a splinter. She paused while her maid pulled it loose. The floor didn't appear to have been swept recently. She'd been told towns like Leadville, Colorado, or Virginia City, Nevada, had grown up around rich gold mines. She'd been assured the wealthy mine owners lived in great houses with electric lights, steam heat, hot water, and many other conveniences. She wondered where the rich people in Bonner stayed. Obviously not at this hotel.

"This is the room, your highness." Otto pointed to a door with the number 8 on it. The quality of the roughhewn wood didn't encourage Valeria to expect much. Dark brown paint served merely as a relief to the redbrown walls. It was almost dark as night inside the room, where a single oil lamp provided the only light.

Her maid held the door as Valeria swept into the room, only to be brought up short by the sight of a roughlooking man sitting in a deep, leather-covered chair by the window. Valeria stifled a frisson of fear, a gasp of surprise, then replaced them with a hiss of anger. Except for being absurdly handsome in a rough, unkempt sort of American way, he was exactly the kind of person Valeria was sure would kill her for anyone willing to pay his price.

Valeria had met half the rulers of Europe, danced and dined with villains who stole countries, emptied treasuries, caused whole populations to be destroyed. From the coldness of his ice-blue eyes, the frigid feel of his gaze, Valeria knew this man could be just as ruthless. She turned to Otto. "Who is he?"

"I don't know," Otto replied, looking nearly as uneasy as she felt.

"Who are you, and how did you get into this room?" His gaze might be icy enough to chill her blood, but she was a princess. A hundred generations of warriors stood behind her. She would not cower before this American intruder.

"I'm Luke Attmore."

Just that. No explanation of what he was doing there, no apology for unnerving her, no excuse for invading her privacy.

"I've never heard of you."

He didn't reply, just continued to sit, looking as if he'd come straight in off the desert. His boots might once have been black, but time and use had rendered them a creased brown even a peasant in her country would have been ashamed to wear. His pants hugged his body like a second skin. She didn't know how he managed to sit down without ripping a seam.

His shirt was of the same brown as the adobe, unadorned, and open at the throat. He wore his hat low over his eyes-wearing a hat inside was a breech of etiquette no European would have ever committed!-but not so low she couldn't see his eyes. He had a square jaw and wide, full, sensual lips. Bits of moonlight-blond hair hung down the back of his neck.

Cleaned up and wearing decent clothes, he would be devastatingly handsome. But even in his deplorable condition he projected a sensual aura that reached out and enveloped her like a cloud of warm air in a cold room. Valeria had known many handsome men, but none had ever affected her so strongly by merely being in her presence. She couldn't understand it. She disliked it, and it made her angry.

"Make him leave," she said, turning back to Otto. "And if the hotel can't keep strangers from wandering into my room, we'll have to go to another hotel."

"This is the only hotel in Bonner," Mr. Attmore said. "At least, it's the only one suitable for you."

"You call this suitable?" Valeria said, rounding on him, angry he hadn't left, angry he still appeared to feel more comfortable in her presence than she in his, angry her attraction to the man continued to grow. She couldn't figure out what could possibly be wrong with her, unless the heat had caused her to go mad. There was absolutely nothing about this man that should inspire her interest or admiration. He was a commoner, an uncivilized man ... an American!

"It's what passes for luxury in Bonner," he said.

Valeria realized she was still standing in the doorway, flanked by Otto and her maid, her entire entourage backed up behind her-all because of this man. "Otto, have someone remove him from my room at once. And tell the owner of this hotel that I wish to speak to him immediately. These accommodations are not satisfactory.

"They're the best you'll find unless you go to Tucson," Mr. Attmore said. He still didn't move. "You probably ought to keep going until you reach San Francisco. I doubt you'll find anything between here and there that'll satisfy your exacting demands."

He said it as if he thought she was a spoiled brat, whining because she hadn't gotten what she wanted. Well, she
hadn't
gotten what she wanted. This room was a disgrace. The floors were plain wood, worn from use, and covered in places by rugs that appeared to be made from randomly chosen rags. A Spanish armor plate, a couple of religious paintings, and a drawing that showed a bear being lassoed and killed by some men dressed very much like Mr. Attmore hung on the walls. Someone had painted designs in bright, primary colors on the ceiling. She had never seen anything like them and had no idea what they represented.

The furniture seemed substantial-the wardrobe commodious, the bed covered in a brightly colored blanket made up of unfamiliar geometric designs, the chairs and tables numerous-but everything had been constructed of nearly black wood and covered in dark brown leather. She was used to spacious rooms decorated in white and gold, elegant chairs covered in embroidered silk or wo

ven tapestry, furniture designed to delight the eye as well as offer comfort.

"Why are you here?" she demanded.

"Because Hans Demel hired me to escort you to your new home. I thought it would be polite to introduce myself."

Valeria could tell from the look in his eyes that whatever he might have thought before she entered the room, he didn't think it any longer. He was looking at her with disdain. The idea that he was her escort was so shocking, so unbelievable, she couldn't speak for a moment.

"I don't want you to escort me anywhere," she said. "Otto will find someone else. You are free to go back to ... where do you come from?" she demanded, startled to realize that, though she knew nothing about him, she was certain he didn't come from around here.

"All over," he replied.

"Why do you stay here?"

"Some of us like it."

He smiled at her in a self-satisfied, superior sort of way as though he knew something she didn't and he wasn't going to tell her what it was. Well, that was just fine. She didn't want to know anything he knew. It couldn't possibly be of interest to her. She had every intention of convincing Rudolf to move to a more civilized part of the country the moment she reached him.

"Why are you still here?" she demanded when he didn't move.

"I'm studying you."

Nobody studied her. At least, not anybody like this scruffy
cowboy.
She thought that was the correct term. She'd heard somebody use it in connection with a man dressed like Mr. Attmore.

"What do you see for all your studying?" she asked, her chin tilted upward. Her maid had stopped standing like a statue and begun to unpack some of the cases that contained her lotions, ointments, and other beauty aids.

"I see a woman who appears to be far too young to consider herself of such consequence, pretty enough, though not a great beauty."

Valeria heard gasps from her maid and Otto. No one spoke to a member of the royal house like this. She knew she wasn't a great beauty, but everyone said she was, because to say anything else to a princess would have been an insult.

"And you appear to be remarkably foolish," he continued, "willing to judge by outward appearances. But I guess I can't blame you for that. You've been judged the same way your whole life. You've probably been so busy getting your hair fixed or going for a dress fitting you never had time to develop your mind or character. I doubt there's anything of substance behind all that powder and those ridiculous clothes."

Ordinarily Valeria would have been angry at such a brutal appraisal of her character, but how could an illbred American be expected to understand royalty? However, she took exception to his remark about her clothes.

"This dress is from Paris," she said, unable to believe even an American would call clothes designed by Worth of Paris
ridiculous.

"Then you should have saved it for Paris. You'll ruin it in a single day out here. You should also have left your carloads of belongings behind."

"It's impossible to leave everything behind. How could I live?" She knew she'd brought too much, but as long as she was surrounded by reminders of home, she felt a little less frightened, a little less lost.

"You'll soon find that living well has to do with a person's character, not a trainload of belongings." "Leave my room this instant," Valeria said with all the regal outrage she could summon. When he didn't move, she practically shouted, "I'd walk through the desert by myself before I'd go so much as one foot with you. Did you hear me?"

"I imagine half of Bonner heard you," he said, finally rising to his feet. "The rest of them will know by dinnertime."

Then he turned and walked out. He didn't bow, nod his head, doff his hat, or take verbal leave of her. He just walked out as if she, Otto, and her maid didn't exist.

She whirled on Otto. "Who hired that man?"

"Hans."

"He couldn't have met him, or he wouldn't have hired him."

"I imagine it was done through an agent."

"Make certain we never use their services again. Now I'd better change for dinner. I hope you've informed the hotel that I have my own chef and my own food. The kitchen must be put at his disposal."

"I instructed Hans to attend to that." "Good. I'll dine at half past eight." "Very good."

Otto didn't move.

"Is there something else?" she asked.

"Did you really mean that man wasn't to serve as our guide?"

"I most certainly did."

"We can't possibly find Duke Rudolf's ranch without him."

"Find another guide. There must be dozens like him."