Fires of Paradise (8 page)

"Strong as a mule," Jones said cheerfully. "Reminds me of you fifty years ago. How about some laudanum before I do some fancy needlework?"

Shoz jerked when he realized Jones had abruptly changed the direction of his comments and was addressing him. "No," he said. "Just do it."

     "It's your skin," Jones said cheerfully.

Shoz gritted as the doctor gave him three neat, small stitches just above his right eye while the old man watched. "There," Jones said. "You can breathe."

"Didn't stop," Shoz said. It was a blatant lie. He was sweating like a pig.

"See you, Doc," the old man said as he left. "See you, Derek," Jones called to the swinging front door. "Give my best to Miranda."

"Who was that?" Shoz demanded sharply. "Derek Bragg, who else?"

"Who else," Shoz muttered. And then he straightened, as a thought pierced him like lightning. He had the solution to his dilemma.

     He needed a cover to stay in town. Derek Bragg had surprised him, proving himself to be a fair man without apparent prejudice. After all, he had sent the two teamsters packing, when Shoz had expected to be thrown in jail, if not strung up with a rope around his neck. He could not loiter in Paradise doing nothing except guarding his guns for the next month.

     But he could remain in Paradise if he was working for Derek Bragg.

Chapter 11

Dr. Jones had instructed Shoz to remain in bed for a few days. Despite his aching head, eye, and jaw, Shoz had smiled. "Get me the right woman, Doc—and I'll stay in bed a week."

"I want you to rest," Jones said, unamused. "You took a serious blow to your skull, young man, with the butt of Jake's pistol."

     Shoz decided one day in bed couldn't hurt, even without a woman. The next day he felt fine, with only a slight headache that came and went. His left eye was closed completely, however, mostly black and a bit blue. It was a helluva shiner. His jaw was sore and swollen, also mottled purple, but at least he hadn't lost any teeth.

He traded in his two mules for a small bay gelding that didn't look like much but would have a lot of grit and stamina if the Arabian ancestry he saw in the horse's head and lines proved true. He reached the DM around noon.

Asking for Derek Bragg, he was directed to the main house, which was set slightly above the other buildings on a shady hill. He noticed everything. Every building was whitewashed and maintained to look fresh, clean, and new. The stock Bragg kept was excellent, especially the racing blood for sale back East. Shoz's one weakness was horses. The house itself was inviting and homey despite its size, with flowers everywhere and curtains peeking from all the windows. His gut constricted. Although the DM was much larger and more modern, it reminded him of his father's ranch in southern California—it reminded him of home.

And it had been a long time since he'd been there.

Too long, but that was his own fault, because he had put off returning again and again. Not because he didn't miss his family, but because he didn't want his parents to know the truth about his life, about him, and be so very disappointed.

Better to let Jack and Candice think he was someone else, someone better.

He dismounted, resting against his bay for a moment, and he wondered where she was. The thought was irritating, mostly because he couldn't pretend indifference even to himself, and also because right now his head hurt, his stomach was upset, he felt weak and not at all like a man. He didn't want her to see him like this.

He walked up the porch steps and used the brass knocker. Derek Bragg himself answered, his surprise brief. "I have the feeling you're looking for me," he said, his mouth almost curved into a smile.

"I am," Shoz said. "Shoz Cooper. I'm looking for work."

Derek's brow lifted, then he gestured at Shoz to go inside. "We'll talk in my study." Shoz followed him into a grand foyer with high ceilings and a curving oak staircase. The floors were pine, waxed to a high shine. The walls were fresh and white. He caught a glimpse of himself in a big, ornate silver mirror and hastily removed his battered Stetson.

"Sit down," Derek said, once he'd closed the double doors behind them.

Shoz sat, hiding his relief.

"Drink?"

There was a mug of coffee steaming on the large mahogany desk. "You have something stronger than coffee

around here?"

Derek poured them both whiskeys. "Doc tell you to take

a ride in the heat today?"

"I'm fine," Shoz said. "You look like you can always use more men around here."

"You know cattle? Horses?"

"Yeah."

"You don't look up to work to me."

Shoz hesitated. "I need the job," he said stiffly. It was a lie. But even the lie was hard to say because of his pride, and if it were the truth, he'd never, ever say so.

Derek studied him. "Where are you from?"

Shoz was startled. "Southern California."

"I've been out to the West Coast. My daughter Storm and her kids and their kids live in the San Francisco area. Your family from around there?"

Shoz shifted. "No, Bakersfield."

Derek leaned back in his chair. "Rancher?"

"I was raised on a ranch," Shoz said. "If that's what you're getting at."

"Your family still there?"

"Yeah."

Derek smiled. "You don't give much, do you, son? Tell me about them."

Shoz stood, angry. "What is this? Do I have the job or not?"

"I want to know what kind of man I'm hiring." Derek was unruffled.

      "My father's name is Jack. He built the Gold Lady with his own two hands, starting right after the Civil War. I have a half-sister, Christina, about my age, and three half-brothers. She married some Russian prince or something and lives in Saint Petersburg. My brothers, last I heard, are still at the ranch." The words came out hard and fast like rapid gunfire.

       "Your mother?"

That did it. "My mother is an Apache squaw and I don't know where the hell she is, maybe behind some pretty stockade fence, maybe dead. You about through?"

To Shoz's amazement, Derek chuckled. "Guess we have something in common, son. My ma was an Apache squaw, too, Mescalero."

Shoz blinked, but quickly recovered. "I was raised by my stepmother, Candice.
She
is my real mother," he said, stiffly, not understanding why the hell he was volunteering more information to the nosy bastard.

"Okay." Derek smiled, rising. "I can always use a good hand around here." He grabbed Shoz's hand and shook it. "Wages are at the end of the month, fifteen dollars to start, all you can eat. Find yourself a bunk in one of the bunk-houses. Ask for Jim. He's ramrod around here."

Shoz nodded. He had his cover. But he didn't feel relief, more like he'd been worked over with brass knuckles. His head throbbed.

"Glad to have you at the DM." Derek smiled.

Shoz found the foreman in the broodmares' barn after some searching, finally being directed by one of the stable boys. Jim instructed him to set his gear in the cabin with the red door, which was only half-full. He was given a generous lunch by Wally, one of the two cooks, and then set to fixing a loose section of fence in one of the paddocks.

He didn't protest. He'd come too late to ride out with the other hands; it was already midafternoon. He began inspecting the section of fence, then took out the three split rails. It was hot. Sweat poured down his body, even interfering with his vision, poor as it now was. He removed the standing post, which was loose, and set about digging a new hole.

After ten minutes he was acutely dizzy and his head hurt like the devil. Maybe Jones had been right. He paused to strip off his soaking shirt and dunk his head in the trough of water between two blooded mares. It was clean and cool. He paused to croon to the pretty little chestnut and scratch her ears. Then he started digging again.

He heard her laughing, first. He hadn't heard her laugh before, but he knew it was her, and every nerve in his body stiffened. He froze, spade jammed hard into the ground. Her laughter stopped abruptly.

He straightened and turned.

Lucy, almost a virginal vision in lacy white cotton, faltered beside her grandfather.

Their gazes locked. He clung to the spade. Shit, he thought. She would have to appear now, just in time to witness his weakness.

He would not, he vowed, reveal any.

So he stood even straighter.

It was a shock.

Seeing him standing there was a terrible shock. Lucy had returned from Paradise yesterday confident of her victory, confident that she had chased him from town. Her victory hadn't come cheaply, but her secret was more important than money. She knew she should be ecstatic.

But she wasn't. Her mood was restless. That night she could not sleep. Reading did not help. She kept seeing him as she'd last seen him in the Governor's Suite, his face handsome even when enraged, his body with its sheen of sweat as carefully and perfectly sculpted as a Michelangelo statue. She began to eat imported chocolates from Switzerland, but they failed to satisfy her, too, and she gave them to the tiger-striped cat. The next morning, exhausted, she went to help Miranda in the kitchen.

At home in her parents' New York mansion, there was a head chef and many assistants who would be shocked if she ever entered their domain. Here her grandmother liked to cook, even though she had plenty of help. Lucy hadn't set foot in the kitchen at Paradise since she was thirteen or so. When she was a child, they had baked cookies and cakes together. Her mother did not cook, being too busy with . politics and social work, but she had joined them, too, and it had been a merry trio. Those days had passed, of course, but Lucy found herself wishing today could be spent in just the same way.

She ignored her grandmother's surprise and offered to help. Fetching items from the icebox and mixing bowls of ingredients gave her something to do. Anything to keep busy.

The Duryea was being fixed in town and would be ready later that day. Lucy was looking forward to having her automobile back; she and Joanna could drive about the ranch, or even into Paradise. After finishing in the kitchen, still feeling restless and vaguely dissatisfied, she dressed in something cool and white and wandered downstairs. Derek invited her to join him in inspecting the broodmares down at the foaling barn. Lucy agreed.

Halfway there she froze, thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her. It couldn't be. It was. It was him.

He nodded politely.

And then she saw his face. Lucy gasped. What had happened to him? He looked like a prizefighter! He looked terribly hurt!

Lucy realized that she was staring, but so was he. She looked away quickly, aware of her grandfather asking him if he was okay. The image of his terribly discolored eye and jaw remained. But there were other images, too, competing ones—his leanly sculpted chest, slick with sweat, his thighs braced in the snug, faded jeans as he leaned on the spade. Those thoughts were not welcome, and stubbornly she shoved them away. What was he doing here?

"You sure you're okay, Shoz?" Derek was asking.

"Fine."

"Why don't you take a break."

"I'm almost finished," Shoz said, lifting the spade. He lost his balance slightly but recovered it.

"Take a break," Derek said. "Go lie down in the bunk-house. You wind up with a fever and you're no good to anyone."

Shoz smiled sarcastically. "Yes—sir." One cool gray eye met Lucy's. She abruptly turned to her grandfather. Yet even as she asked, her mind was racing ahead. He shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be anywhere near Paradise. He had said he was leaving. "What happened to him?"

Shoz was slowly taking his shirt off the fence and putting it on. As he walked away, Lucy's gaze followed him. "Grandpa?"

"He was in a fight yesterday with two ironheaded louts. One of them took the butt of his six-shooter to the back of Shoz's head."

"Is he all right?"

"I don't think so," Derek said. "He looks mighty pale around the gills to me. I'll send Miranda down to check on him. Come on, honey."

Lucy followed her grandfather into the cool, stone-floored barn. She shouldn't be worried about him; his health was not her business. What should concern her was why he was still in the county—and why he was here at the ranch. She wanted to know just what Shoz was doing working at the DM, but she didn't dare ask. And if he was up and working, he couldn't be seriously hurt, and the look in his good eye had been unmistakable.

"Isn't she a beauty, Lucy?" Derek asked, eyeing a gray Anglo-Arab mare. "She's in foal to Thunder." There was pride in his voice. Thunder was his oldest and most prized— and proven—stud.

"Yes," Lucy said automatically. "Grandpa, who is that?"

"Who?"

"That—cowboy." "Just a new hand." "When did you hire him?" "Just today." "Why did you hire him?"

"He said he needed a job. I like him. You know the DM is the main source of employment in the county. What's your interest, Lucy?"

She flushed. "None, of course! It's just that—" she shuddered dramatically "—he looks so mean! He looks like a thief! Or worse!" It was hard to believe that for once, someone had pulled the wool over her grandfather's eyes.

      Derek laughed. "He's no thief. I'm a good judge of character, and I can tell you that. He's just a hothead is all, and a proud one. Don't you worry."

Lucy frowned. The situation was insufferable. She had paid him to leave town, but instead he was working at her grandparents' home. He must be fired, and immediately. "I don't know, Grandpa. Maybe this once you're wrong. Maybe you shouldn't have hired him."

He was amused. "Leave the running of the DM to me, sweetheart. Being as no one else in the family has shown any inclination to do so! Nick is running that earldom he inherited from Miranda in England, Rathe's built up Bragg Enterprises from New York to Hong Kong, Brett's got hotels across the country and shipping across the world. You want to run the DM, Lucy?"

Lucy squeezed her grandfather's hand. She heard the disappointment in his voice, even though he was trying to make light of it. Everyone in the Bragg family knew he'd built the DM for Miranda, and had one day intended to pass it on to their children. But none of them wanted it; they were all too involved in their own affairs. Likewise, Nick's eldest son would inherit his estate, his second son was studying the law, and his other children were girls, while Brett's two boys were already grown men running his shipping and hotel interests. Her own brothers were too young yet to really judge, except for Brian, the oldest, who seemed to be heading for medical school.

"Well," she said, slyly, "I'm a city girl myself, Grandpa, but I do have five brothers, and even though Daddy has more than enough of Bragg Enterprises to go around, I'm sure he wouldn't mind one of the boys taking over here."

"And I'll be a hundred," Derek said gruffly.