Dorothy Garlock (25 page)

After a pause he said, “Don’t come here alone again. I’ll see to it that water is brought up to the house.”

They walked on toward the spring.
Is that all he’s going to say?
Johanna thought.
Isn’t he going to make the most of an opportunity to chastise me for being stupid?

Burr filled the bucket with cool water, then tilted it up and drank deeply. He offered to hold it for her to drink, but she shook her head and drank from her cupped hands. He took off his hat, wetted his neckcloth, and used it to wipe the dust and sweat from his face and neck. Johanna glanced at him furtively. Lately his mood had been quiet; he only half-heartedly responded to the old man’s baiting. Perhaps he was as sorry as she that they were being forced to marry. She decided to speak of it.

“Burr.” She said his name quickly, and his head turned sharply toward her. “This is an awkward situation we’re in. People shouldn’t be forced to marry. I’m sure that you’re not any happier about it than I am. I’ve been wondering if . . . if there is some way we could—”

“No!” He put his hands on his hips and gazed down at her, his dust-reddened eyes squinting at her, his brows drawn together. His opposition to what she proposed was obvious, and she felt impelled to speak rapidly before she lost her nerve.

“Why should we give up our future happiness so an old man can achieve his ambition? From what I’ve heard about him, he’s never done a decent thing for anyone in his life.” She pleaded for understanding with her eyes. Sweat glistened on her upper lip and her soft breasts rose and fell with her breathing. The look in his eyes told her his answer before he said it.

“When the
padre
comes we’ll be married under the sanction of the church, Johanna. It’s arranged and nothing you say or do can change it. You struck a bargain and, by God, you’ll keep it. You’ll be my wife. If you’re planning to leave me after Mack is gone, I advise you to forget it. I’ll come for you wherever you go. I don’t easily give up what’s mine.” There was a note of cold finality in his voice that made her shudder. Still, a part of her rebelled.

“You’ll . . . not own me as if I were a horse!” she sputtered. “A marriage is not a bill of sale! And . . . I’ll not be . . . your wife! Why do you insist on marrying me? You’ve got Isabella. If you force me to marry you I’ll not have that . . . your . . . that woman in my house, and I’ll not . . . not . . .”

“Sleep with me,” he finished for her. His hand flashed out, closed around her wrist, and he jerked her to him. “Do you think I’m the kind of man that lets a woman tell him what to do? Or what
not
to do? When you’re my wife, you’ll share my bed. You didn’t mind it the other night . . . you didn’t need much persuading, either,” he said softly and smiled. “And you liked it, Johanna. You’ll sleep with me all right. As for Isabella, she’s no concern of yours.” At his words her body went cold inside. She strove to pull back, but his grip was too strong, too painful.

She stood glaring at him, her head tilted proudly, her eyes like bits of blue glass. Something about the way she looked at him made him hesitate, and it brought to mind again the proud little fox he had captured and had wanted so badly to have like him and stay with him. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts, even though the shirt she wore was loose. He remembered the sweet softness he had felt when he held her. Suddenly he ached to hold her again with her soft arms about his neck. His eyes searched hers, and he wondered why this woman, of all women, aroused him whenever he was near her.

Johanna seemed to lose her will as they stood with eyes locked, the powerful attraction he held for her drawing her to him. He was less frightening now, but she trembled all the same when she felt his hand at the small of her back bringing her closer. Abruptly he folded her into his arms, his face so close she felt the scrape of his whiskers on her cheek.

“No,” she whispered.

“Why not?” he asked against her lips. The puff of warm breath that came from her when he squeezed her warmed his mouth as he lowered his head to take hers in a deep, twisting kiss. His arms pinned the length of her against his body, and he kissed her hungrily, savagely, his tongue playing over her tightly compressed lips. She thought she would swoon; a strange, feverish pounding in her temples spread to her stomach and lower.

His hand went slowly up her back to the knot of silky hair, and he threaded his fingers beneath its neat coil. It tumbled down her back as his mouth broke from hers and made a burning path across her cheek to her ear lobe, then hungry lips unerringly sought hers again, taking possession of them, stifling her words of protest when his warm fingers crept up under her loose shirt and closed about her warm, bare breast. His callused palm against her nipple sent a warning message to her brain. She struggled, but then she felt her desire to struggle slipping away from her to be replaced by something else—a ravening urge that flowed swiftly through her, spreading a burning flush over her whole body and an aching wetness between her thighs. She was drained of thought and will. He must have sensed her sudden surrender, for his fingers bit into her shoulders and he moved her away from him.

He grinned down wickedly into her white face. “Not now, sweet thing,” he said lightly. “I don’t have the time.”

His voice came from somewhere far away, but it was his words, the endearment he used when calling Isabella, that brought her to her senses. She pushed away and stood free of him, trembling with shame and indignation.

“I never thought it possible to despise a person as I despise you.” She sank to her knees, fumbling for the hairpins he had so carelessly discarded when he loosened her hair. She found them and knelt there, twisting her hair hastily into a knot atop her head. Her breath was still catching in her tight throat, and when her trembling hands touched her burning cheeks, they left streaks of red dirt on her white skin. “You’re a low-quality, despicable, completely unscrupulous man, without a speck of decency in your whole body,” she said calmly. “I realize that some of these hateful characteristics you possess are hereditary. Nevertheless, I find it hard to excuse your behavior for that reason, and I shall hate you until the day I die.”

He jerked her to her feet and turned her toward him. She stood calmly, refusing to struggle.

“Take your hands off me. You’ve no right to touch me.”

“Not
yet
! But I will! Then, don’t ever tell me not to touch you. I will touch you when and where I please. And I don’t give a damn if you hate me. Love or hate—what the hell’s the difference under the blanket?”

She was jolted by his crude remark, but pulled together the shreds of her pride and dignity and said calmly, “I’ll never agree to that part of the marriage.”

“You think not.” He laughed. “I could have had you right here in the dirt if I’d wanted too.”

“You make it easy to hate you.”

“I’m used to hate,” he said harshly. “I’m not used to a woman who wraps her arms about my neck, moves her soft breasts against me, opens her mouth and her legs to me, then tells me she despises me.”

Shame and anger seared through her. How could he be so vile as to remind her of her shameful behavior? For days now she had been torn between two desires. One was to reach out and touch him, feel, once again, the firmness of his skin beneath her fingertips, surrender to the ecstasy of lying close to him; the other was the desire to run, to put as much distance between them as possible before she became completely captivated by his animal magnetism.

“Oh!” She took a step backward, and the color drained from her face. “Is there nothing too low for you to say?”

“Is there a code of behavior for bastards, teacher?” He said the last word scathingly, as if it were something to be ashamed of.

“That’s what bothers you, doesn’t it?” she shouted. “You can’t live with the fact you’re a bastard. Well . . . you are one! You’ll always be one, and marrying a thousand times won’t change that fact. You use that as an excuse for everything! For begetting bastards of your own, for forcing me to marry you. You use the fact you’re a bastard to be vulgar, brutish, and domineering! I will marry you to keep my sister safe and happy, and you may have access to my body, but you’ll never have my respect. I’ll detest you . . . if I live to be a hundred in this godforsaken place!”

At that moment Luis stepped out onto the path in front of them, seeming not to have heard Johanna’s words.

“Buenos dias.”

Johanna collected herself sufficiently to acknowledge his greeting, picked up the half-empty bucket, and walked up the path toward the house.

Luis watched her go.

Burr turned his back, picked up his hat, and slapped it against his leg before slamming it down on his head. The bitch didn’t care a damn about the raw feelings tearing up his insides. Of course, he couldn’t blame anyone but himself for the position in which he now found himself. He
was
forcing her to marry him. With a sneer of self-disgust tinged by self-pity, he turned to Luis and said gruffly, “What’er you doin’ here afoot?”

Luis knelt and drank long from the spring. He had seen the frustration on his brother’s face. Something was eating at him, something he’d have to work out for himself.

“Apache, brother Burr. An Apache who wanted that white hair to dangle from his belt. He’s back in the bush. We can bury him now.”

*  *  *

The weeks of hard work had taken a toll upon Johanna’s strength, and with the tension at meal times she had been eating less and less. The brown work dress hanging loosely on her frame was evidence of her weight loss. In her despair she often felt tears in the backs of her eyes and found herself constantly thinking of the past, of the happy times spent with her mama and papa.

Suppertime was the time she dreaded most of all. The old man now came to the kitchen often. Sometimes he came to watch her prepare the food and after the meal he would stay to watch her clean up. He seldom spoke to her, but his presence and the aura of evil that surrounded him unnerved her.

That night Johanna was especially tired. Her nerves were frayed from the confrontation with Burr. Old Mack had come early to the kitchen and had watched her with such a burning intensity that she wanted to scream. Ben, noting her nervousness, had tried to draw him into conversation to divert his attention, but he had refused to respond and sat watching her like a giant toad ready to spring. Burr and Bucko came in and sat down at the table.

Halfway through the meal, old Mack took a leather pouch from beneath his shirt and tossed it down the table. The bag landed beside Johanna’s plate with a thump, and the distinct clink of silver could be heard. Startled, she looked up.

“Your pay,” he growled.

Johanna lifted the bag. It was so heavy it slipped from her fingers, fell to the table, and sent a spoon skittering to the floor. She was dumbfounded for a moment and then she looked up into the unwavering eyes of the old man.

“There’s more than thirty-two dollars here.”

“I hope the hell there is!” he said rigorously. “There’s more than four hundred.”

“I contracted for thirty-two dollars a month. Why this?”

“Ain’t it enough?” he sneered.

“It’s more than enough. It’s almost a year’s pay. Why?” Her voice was sharp and cut into the sudden dead quiet of the room. Burr and Ben had stopped eating and all eyes were focused on her cold features.

Old Mack’s face lit up and his faded eyes blazed brightly. “Why? I told you you’d have money to do some fixin’. Don’t you want it? Are you weddin’ the bastard ’cause you want him? Haw! Haw! Haw!” The unaccustomed laughter came scratchily from his throat.

“You know why I’m doing it,” Johanna hissed angrily. “You promised not to sell the valley if I married him. That’s the pay I’m getting, not your . . . blasted money! Are you trying to pay me so you can crawfish out of your bargain?”

“I keep my word. I don’t crawfish!” he roared.

“No, you’re too low to crawfish,” she shouted. “You wiggle along on your belly like a . . . a snake!”

The old man leaned back in his chair and gazed with open admiration at her angry face. The look got through to her, and she realized she had been led into the shouting match for the old man’s enjoyment. Appalled at her lack of control, she forced herself to speak calmly.

“I’ll take thirty-two dollars for my pay and that is all.”

“It ain’t much for what you’ll have to put up with.” Old Mack’s eyes darted to Burr to make sure she understood the meaning of his words.

“That is none of your business.”

The old man laughed again, filling the room with the strange sound. Johanna gave him a searing glance and turned her attention to Bucko. The child was terrified. She reached out and pulled his trembling little body to her.

“It’s all right, darling. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she whispered.

“Humph!” old Mack snorted. He turned his beady eyes on Burr. “She ain’t no milksop. I don’t know as you’re man enough to handle her.” Burr helped himself to bread and ignored him. “She’s full’a piss and vinegar,” he stated belligerently, his overbright eyes going from Johanna to Burr and back again. “Ain’t you got it in ’er yet, you bastard?” he finally shouted to Burr. “Ain’t you man enough to get her on her back and take the starch outta her? Been me, I’d’a been between her legs before she got her hat off.”

“Shut your foul mouth!” Burr pounded his fist on the table so hard that the dishes fluttered and the lamp chimney swayed. “Damn your rotten soul!” he shouted.

The old man laughed nastily. “So you ain’t, and it’s put a burr in your blanket. I wouldn’t think a big man like you’d need help with a scrawny thing like her.”

Johanna got up from the table and pulled Bucko up with her. Her face was flaming and her heart felt as though it would leap from her breast. She didn’t dare look at Ben or Burr. With the child’s hand in hers she rounded the end of the table and grabbed up the sugared pie crust she had been saving for him. They had reached the hall and started up the steps when Burr’s voice reached them.

“You filthy old son of a bitch! Don’t you have any decency at all? You keep your foul thoughts to yourself, or, goddamn you, as old as you are, crippled as you are, I’ll break every bone in your rotten body.”