Lorraine Heath (5 page)

“Your brother has a strange sense of humor,” Dallas said quietly as he turned his attention back to the perusal of his new bride. She had brown eyes that reminded him of a fawn he’d once seen. They were shaped like almonds, large … frightened.

He hated the fear reflected there and decided if he could make her relax, could fill those eyes with happiness, they would be her most striking feature.

Dallas smiled. “Let’s see if your brother likes my sense of humor.”

He’d planned all along to give her a quick kiss and be done with it, but he understood that sometimes the circumstances demanded that he change the plans. He decided a long, slow, enjoyable kiss was in order, might even make her brothers squirm.

He cradled her face in his large hands, lowered his mouth the short distance to hers, and discovered what he should have known: she’d never been kissed. She’d puckered her lips as though she’d just bitten into a lemon.

He drew back because he had no desire to initiate her into the proper way to kiss in front of the whole town.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Reverend Tucker’s voice boomed. “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Dallas Leigh.”

She was married.

Cordelia stared at the wide band of filigreed silver on her finger. She wasn’t surprised to discover that it didn’t fit properly. Bending her finger to keep the ring from slipping off, she feared nothing in her life would ever feel right again.

People she had never met introduced themselves, the men smiling broadly as though their happiness for her husband knew no bounds, the few women wiping tears from their eyes as though they knew she was doomed to unhappiness. All called her Mrs. Leigh. She wasn’t comfortable with the name, but she couldn’t dredge up the courage to ask them to call her Cordelia.

Pumping Dallas’s hand, men congratulated him. While women kissed his cheek, he never let his eyes stray from her. Her mind had turned into a freshly painted blackboard, erased clean of all previous thoughts and shared knowledge. She seemed unable to remember the simplest of statements. He was her husband, and she had no idea how to uphold her end of the vows they had exchanged—how to honor him.

When her mother had become incapacitated, Cordelia’s world had shrunk until it encompassed little more than her mother’s bedroom, her family, and works of fiction. Until this moment, she didn’t realize how ill-prepared she was to become a wife.

Like vultures anticipating their prey’s final breath, her brothers stood on the other side of the unfurnished parlor, their arms folded over their chests, their gazes locked on to Dallas as though they were waiting for him to make a mistake. She prayed that he wouldn’t.

Music began to slowly drift across the room. People shuffled back, leaving an empty space in the center of the floor. At the far edge of the circle, a white-haired man played a fiddle.

Dallas extended his hand toward her. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

She lifted her gaze to his and quickly lowered it. “No. I mean … I don’t know how to dance.”

“It’s not hard. I’ll guide you.”

She shook her head briskly. “Please, not in front of all these people.”

“Give me your hand.”

Wishing the floor would suddenly crack open and swallow her, she curled her fingers until her nails dug into her palms.

“Trust me,” he said quietly.

She thought she heard an edge of desperation in his voice, and only then did she realize how he must appear to his friends, his family—holding his hand toward her while she blatantly ignored it. Since no one else was dancing, she assumed everyone expected that the bride and groom would dance first, no doubt alone, the center of attention. Without looking at him, she took a deep ragged breath and slipped her trembling hand into his. Strong and coarse, his fingers closed around hers.

“We’re going to step outside for some fresh air,” he announced in an authoritative voice as he addressed the gathering. “Enjoy the music.”

Cordelia feared she might weep with relief as he guided her through the doors. As soon as she stepped onto the veranda, she released his hand and walked to the far corner. “Thank you.”

The music floated through the open door, laughter and voices mingling with the soft strains. Her husband’s footsteps echoed around her as he neared. Her husband. Dear God, what had she done?

“I suppose your father told you that I was a mean-hearted bastard.”

Cordelia spun around, her eyes wide. Dallas Leigh studied her, his face grim.

“Yes, as a matter of fact he did.”

“What else has he called me?”

“A thief.”

He raised a dark brow as though amused, and she was unable to stop herself from throwing the rest at him. “And a cheat.”

“Yet he gave his blessing for your marriage.”

Humiliation swamped her as tears sprang to her eyes. “Because you offered him something that he valued more than he valued me.” She turned away, squeezing her eyes shut, fighting back the burning river of shame. “I’m not certain I can forgive you for that.”

“I don’t need your forgiveness. You can hate me, for all I care, but it won’t change the fact that you are now my wife.”

She flinched at the cold, ruthless reminder. He cursed harshly, and she wondered if he might strike her. With his large, powerful hands, he would be able to inflict a great deal of damage in a very short time.

“I don’t imagine you ever expected your wedding to go exactly as it did today,” he said, his resonant voice enveloping her like a mist at dawn. “I’m sorry for that.”

She dared to look at him. “Sorry enough to let me leave?”

“No.”

She wouldn’t beg, but dear God she wanted to fall to her knees and plead with this man for mercy and freedom.

His gaze dropped to her lips, his brown eyes smoldering with an emotion she couldn’t identify. She didn’t think he was angry, but her wariness increased.

“Where did you learn to kiss?” he asked.

She ran her tongue over her tingling lips, and his eyes darkened further. “Books. I read a lot of books.”

He nodded slightly. “I reckon the women in those books always pucker up to kiss.”

“Yes, they do,” she answered, wondering how he had drawn that conclusion from her simple statement, only one answer quickly coming to her mind. “Perhaps we’ve read the same books.”

“I doubt it,” he said, his voice low. He cradled her cheek. “Don’t pucker.”

Before she could protest, he covered her mouth with his. She’d barely noticed when he’d kissed her before, but now she realized his lips were warm, pliant. She hadn’t expected that of a man as hard as he was rumored to be.

His mustache was soft, reminding her of the fur of a puppy she had once owned, a puppy Boyd had killed.

Dallas slowly rubbed his thumb along the tender flesh beneath her chin. “Relax your jaw,” he whispered against her mouth, his breath strangely sweet and warm as it fanned over her cheek. Another thing about him that she had not expected.

“Wh—” She learned the answer before she’d fully formed the question.

His questing tongue slipped between her parted lips and waltzed in rhythm to the lilting music she still heard in the background.

Bold. Strong. Like the wind before a storm, a tempest sweeping across the horizon—

“You couldn’t even wait until your guests left to taste her again,” Boyd said, his voice rife with disgust.

Dallas drew away from the kiss. Mortified, Cordelia would have stepped away from him but his hand tightened on her neck.

With anger blazing within his eyes, Dallas looked at Boyd. “I don’t think anyone would find fault with a husband stealing a kiss from his new bride.”

“Well now, you’d be the one to know about stealing, wouldn’t you?” Boyd asked.

Cordelia was close enough to see Dallas’s nostrils flare. He reminded her of a raging bull. For a moment, when his lips had touched hers, she’d almost forgotten that he was the man her family hated, the man who had broken Boyd’s arm, the man who had revealed exactly what she was worth to her father. She started shaking, suddenly feeling cold where she had only moments before felt warmth.

“Please let me go,” she whispered, wishing she didn’t sound like a starving beggar willing to settle for crumbs.

Dallas looked at her, no anger shining in his eyes, and she wondered how he changed his emotions so quickly. His callused hand slid away from her neck.

When he returned his attention to Boyd, the anger accompanied him. “Because your sister deserves fonder memories of her wedding day than we’ve given her so far, I’ll overlook that remark. You wanted something?”

“A private moment with my sister.”

Dallas shifted his gaze between the two of them as though he trusted neither of them. Cordelia didn’t know why that knowledge hurt.

“I need to tell our guests to move the celebration outside so they can enjoy the beef my men prepared. If your sister isn’t standing in this spot when I get back, my fence will remain where it is.”

“Then you’d be going back on your word.”

Dallas took a menacing step toward Boyd. Boyd flinched.

“Man to man,” Dallas said, his voice low, “you know I want more than words exchanged before I’ll pull my fence back. Don’t try to cheat me out of what is now mine by right.”

He shouldered his way past Boyd and disappeared into the house. Cordelia wrapped her arms around herself and pressed her back against the cool adobe wall. “I can’t stay here, Boyd,” she whispered.

He crossed the small distance separating them, his eyes hard. “You’ve got no choice, Cordelia.”

She longed for someone to put his arms around her, to hold her close, to comfort her, but her family consisted of men who never expressed themselves with anything but their voices.

Boyd clamped his fingers around the veranda railing instead of holding her trembling hand. “Believe it or not, I did come out here to talk to you.”

He appeared to be on the verge of delivering bad tidings, and she wondered if her father was more ill than she realized. “Is it Father?” she asked.

“No, but since he’s not here and Mother is dead, the chore falls to me, and I don’t want you going to Leigh’s bed not knowing what to expect.”

A scalding heat rushed through her body, her heart thundering. “Boyd—”

“It’s gotta be said, Cordelia, for your sake. It’ll go a lot easier on you if you don’t fight him. Just crawl into his bed, lift up your nightgown, and lie as still as you can.”

She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the images his words brought to mind. “I can’t do this,” she whispered hoarsely.

“If you don’t, you’ll kill Father’s dream, and probably him along with it. Is that what you want?”

She opened her eyes. “We’ve moved before. Why not find land that has more water?”

“Goddammit! We thought we had the land and water when we moved here, but that bastard you married stole it from us. Now we have a chance to get it back if you do your duty.”

Her duty. She forced herself to nod and wondered where she would find the strength.

Dallas decided that today was quickly becoming a day in his life that he’d prefer to forget.

Nothing had gone as he’d hoped.

Clutching his arm, his wife spoke only when spoken to. She never offered her opinion on anything, and he couldn’t figure out how to make the fear leave her eyes. Everything he said only seemed to deepen it.

He cursed Boyd McQueen for whatever he had told his sister to terrify her.

She seldom raised her gaze to his, but preferred to stare at a button on his shirt. He’d considered yanking it off, but figured she’d just find another button to stare at. He didn’t think it would be seemly for a man of his position to greet his neighbors with no buttons on his shirt.

People had wandered outside. He could hear their laughter and the drone of their voices as they ambled to the cookhouse he’d built near the bunkhouse.

Plenty of food and drink awaited them on the planked tables inside. Cookie continued to play his fiddle. The half-dozen women who lived in the area were going to wear out their shoes by the end of the evening.

He watched Amelia waltz with Houston, remembering the first time he’d seen her dance. She hadn’t feared him, but then considering the hell she’d gone through to get to him, he didn’t think she’d ever feared anything.

He glanced over at his present wife. She looked more nervous than a cat in a room filled with rocking chairs.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asked. Her gaze darted to him briefly. “No, thank you.”

“Something to drink?”

“No.”

“Well, just standing here is about to drive me crazy. Let me show you around.”

She nodded. “All right.”

Turning away from the people who were dancing, Dallas pointed. “That’s the house.”

Cordelia wondered if perhaps he was teasing her. It had never occurred to her that he would have a sense of humor. She could think of nothing significant to say. “It’s big.”

“I designed it myself. Hired a fella from Austin to come build it for me when Amelia … uh, a few years back.”

He began to walk away before she could respond. She tightened her grip on his arm so she could keep up with his long strides.

“It reminds me of a castle,” she said, searching for anything to distract her from Boyd’s earlier words.

He shortened his strides. “It’s supposed to. When I moved here, there was nothing. I wanted something—” he held out his hands as though he thought the words might appear in them—“something glorious.”

He shifted his gaze away from her as though embarrassed by his words. “That’s the cookhouse.”

He pointed to a small stone building. Smoke, carrying the scent of mesquite, spiraled from the chimney.

“During roundup, the cook takes the chuck wagon out to the men. Other times, he just stays here. They either take something with them or come back in to eat. Cookie brings our meals to the house.”

She remembered the name “Cookie.” He was the gentleman playing the fiddle.

“The bunkhouse. I’ve got twelve men hired on right now. Come roundup, I’ll hire twelve more.”

She wished she knew what to say. She didn’t know if twelve was a lot. She had no idea how many men worked for her father.