The Rustler's Bride (6 page)

Fait accompli
, as the French said.

A deed that was done and could not be undone.

There was an easy way to take care of that, Victoria told herself, blushing at the thought. And yet, as she settled down in the library with a cup of coffee in front of her and set about perfecting the details of her plan, a good dose of apprehension mixed with the excitement and anticipation that knotted in her belly.

Chapter Four

Victoria knelt by the huge traveling trunk in the corner of her bedroom and rummaged in the pile of fabric inside. There it was. She pulled out a length of cotton. All right, so lemon yellow might not the best color for a man, and the fabric was too delicate, but she itched to get started with her project. Instead of wasting time on a trip to the mercantile, she’d make do with the material she had to hand.

She found one her father’s shirts in the laundry hamper outside his room. In the library, she hunted up a pair of scissors and spread the length of yellow cotton on top of the big oak desk. Frowning, she dug in her memory for the measurements. Was it thirty-one inches around the waist? And forty-two around the chest? Or thirty-two and forty-four?

Her shoulders rose and fell in an impatient shrug. Declan was nearly as tall as her father but a bit broader in the chest, more powerfully built. She smoothed her father’s shirt on top of the yellow fabric and started cutting, adding another inch all around.

There. That shape looked pretty good for a sleeve, and the front and back were nothing but big squares, really. It was going to turn out fine. She gathered up the bits of fabric and returned upstairs, where she settled in a chair by the window, threaded a needle, and started sewing.

****

It was almost lunchtime when Declan finished mucking out the stables. Hank Smith, the big and steady ranch hand that Declan suspected had not always gone by the name of Smith, stood smoking by the entrance, leaning against the wall in the shade of the eaves.

“You looking for me?” Declan asked.

Hank nodded and drew another lungful from his cheroot.

Declan waited in silence. He was gradually getting to know the men. The two black cowboys liked to spend time with the blacksmith who was a good storyteller. The Mexican
vaqueros
preferred to speak Spanish and mostly talked to each other. Lenny, the good looking young rascal talked to anyone who would listen. Cookie mostly talked to himself. Stan, the oldest of the lot, was full of good humor and laughed as much as he talked. Hank, on the other hand, hoarded his words like gold nuggets and only spoke when he had something to say, or when good manners required it.

A few more drags, and Hank was ready to speak. He tossed away the end of his cheroot and ground out the sparks with the sole of his boot. “The boss wants you to join him for dinner tonight.” The message relayed, he’d said everything he had to say. He turned on his heels and strode off toward the cookhouse.

Declan followed, frowning. It would be no use trying to get more information out of Hank. He would just have to wait and see.  Damn it. He felt his body tighten as the sensations he’d almost managed to banish from his memory stirred again.

Foolish, foolish Victoria. Didn’t she understand how dangerous it was to tempt a man? Her lips had been soft and yielding, her body warm and supple. His control had come to within an inch of snapping. A few more seconds, and he might have tumbled her down to the hard cement floor and peeled off those tight canvas overalls she’d taken to wearing.

Declan gritted his teeth. He had to forget that kind of thoughts. He had to make sure it would never happen again. He owed it to Victoria. And it would be unwise to give Andrew Sinclair an excuse to come out and empty both barrels of a scattergun at him. The man would like to do just that, given half a reason, he’d left no doubt of it.

In fact, Declan told himself, best if he ignored the summons to join them for dinner.

And that’s what he did. Tense with foreboding, he finished his chores. At sunset, he washed at the cold pump in the yard. On his way in, he paused by the kitchen and asked Mrs. Flynn for dinner on a tray. As he ate, brooding and alone in his room, he half expected Sinclair to come out and shoot him, but the evening passed without an incident.

****

The next day, when Declan finished his chores at dusk and went to fetch a towel from his room, Mrs. Flynn peeked into the kitchen corridor and called out to him, “Mr. Sinclair wants you to join him and Miss Victoria for dinner. I’ve put hot water in your room to wash.” She hesitated a moment. “Mr. Sinclair said…” She dropped her voice to imitate a masculine timber. “…Tell that thieving bastard it’s an order, not an invitation.”

Declan merely nodded, and the housekeeper hurried back to her pots and pans. Resigned to the prospect of a difficult evening, Declan washed and shaved, seeking comfort in the luxury of warm water instead of the cold pump in the yard. He would have liked to change into clean clothes but he only had the set he wore.

He hadn’t seen Victoria since he’d kissed her at the barn. Where was she? Had her father found out, locked her in her room? Was he being summoned to hear Andrew Sinclair repeat his warnings about touching his daughter? Speculation rattled around Declan’s mind as he got ready. He’d become used to seeing Victoria dart in and out of the stable yard while he worked there, and he missed those brief glimpses of her.

Raised voices from the kitchen caught Declan’s attention as he walked past. “Mutton,” Mrs. Flynn was saying. “I ask for beef and you bring me mutton!”

Declan paused at the door to look in. Mrs. Flynn, dressed in black as usual, was wobbling like a volcano about to erupt. Next to her, the wizened Cookie looked like a schoolboy cowering in front of a formidable teacher.

Cookie squinted up, apology stamped on his crinkled face. “Mr. Sinclair told me not to slaughter another head of beef.”

“He did no such thing.” Mrs. Flynn waved a wooden spoon at Cookie, like a witch about to turn him into a toad, but there was a sparkle in her green eyes. “It’s you. I know it’s you. You like to keep the best cuts of meat for yourself.”

“I don’t. I don’t.” Cookie was pleading in earnest now, shaking his head side to side. “Mr. Sinclair told me. Honest he did.”

If Declan’s guess was right, those two had a soft spot for each other. He left the pair sparring and headed toward the dining room. So, that was how bad things were getting now. They could no longer afford to waste a single head of cattle, not even for the dinner table. Perhaps it was time to pay another visit to Howard Patterson at the United Savings Bank.

In the dining room, he found Victoria and her father already waiting. Only two lamps burned on the table, and two more along the wall. So, lamp oil might be short too. Declan could see there were paintings on the wall, and ornaments on top of the low cupboard that ran the length of one wall, but the shadows hid the details.

Sinclair was seated at the head of the long banquet table of some dark wood. Victoria sat on his right. Declan settled opposite her, guided by the unoccupied place setting. Sinclair had on a formal black suit. Victoria was wearing a kingfisher blue gown with a scalloped neckline. Her hair was piled up on her head, and pearls dangled from her earlobes.

For a moment, Declan could only stare. It was the first time he’d seen her dressed like a lady. A fierce bolt of jealousy gripped him. So, this is how her rich suitors in Boston saw her. This is how she dressed when they took her to the theater, or a concert, or a dance. It dawned upon him there was an aspect of her life that he knew nothing about. Declan sat down, even more aware of his tattered clothing now than he’d been before.

“So, you’ve consented to grace us with your presence tonight,” Sinclair barked. “Or did Hank not relay my invitation last night?”

“I had a prior engagement,” Declan replied. If he admitted the truth, part of the reason for postponing the occasion had been to ride out to his hideaway in the small box canyon on the southern edge of the property, and fetch money so he could by a decent outfit to wear for dinner. He had decided the risk was not worth taking. Now he regretted the choice.

Mrs. Flynn bustled into the room and slammed a heavy tray on the table. On it, Declan could see a rack of lamb surrounded by potatoes and root vegetables. “It’s mutton,” the housekeeper declared. “Mr. Norris tells me beef is off the menu.”

Sinclair leaned back in his seat, picked up a wine glass and twirled it casually in his fingers. “That’s true,” he said. “We got a late order for beef. I don’t want any more slaughtering until we’ve gathered the heard and counted how many head we have left.” Not altering his relaxed pose, he narrowed his eyes at Declan. “How about it, son? Are those misfits you employ still out there, raiding my livestock?”

Declan fingered the silverware by his plate. “No, sir. They’re gone. I let them go a few days before I was captured.”
Because I no longer needed them. Because you are buried in a hole so deep you’ll never climb out of it.

Across the table, Victoria sent her father a pleading look. “Father, please. Can we just have a civilized dinner? Can we forget the hate, even if just for tonight?”

Sinclair sneered, his gray eyes sharp on Declan. “Civilized?” he said. “It that a word that springs to mind when you look at this ragtag outlaw of yours?”

“Father!”

Sinclair threw his daughter a sullen glare. Then he lifted the wine glass to his mouth and downed the contents in a few quick gulps. He set the empty glass back on the table in a controlled, unhurried movement and said, “Let’s eat.” He sent the housekeeper a formal smile. “Thank you Mrs. Flynn. Victoria will serve.”

Mrs. Flynn, who had been hovering beside the table, left without a word. Sinclair handed his plate to Victoria. She filled it from the tray of food and passed it back. Sinclair nodded at Declan to follow suit. When Victoria reached to take his empty plate, Declan caught the faint scent of some floral perfume. He watched her serve. Her movements were graceful, ladylike, her face flawless, her manners impeccable.

A sense of bitterness settled over him.

He knew one kind of Victoria. The one who rode through a desert storm, her hair flowing in the wind, her spirit as free and wild as the elements that raged around her. But there was another Victoria—an educated gentlewoman who dressed in expensive clothing and took her place in the elegant surroundings a formal dining room as naturally as a precious jewel might fit into a setting of gold.

The gulf between him and that Victoria was wider than an ocean. He’d been crazy to kiss her. He’d been crazy to…Declan gave an angry shake of his head as he admitted what he had denied even to himself. From the moment they had said their wedding vows, some secret dreams had sprung into life deep within the hidden corners of his mind. If he didn’t take care, if he didn’t watch out, those dreams might set root and grow in his heart like weeds after rain.

He had no right to dream.

Even less, he had a right to kiss her.

Declan schooled his features into a mask of indifference as he accepted the full plate from Victoria. He picked up his fork, but halted when he heard Sinclair clear his throat. Declan looked up. Both Victoria and her father had lowered their heads.

Sinclair spoke. “Lord, bless this food and those who are about to eat it. Amen.” Short and to the point, in keeping with the man’s character.

“Amen,” Victoria said.

“Amen,” Declan mumbled.

They ate in silence. Mutton or not, the food was excellent, the meat succulent, the potatoes crisp, the vegetables tender, the gravy rich. In Declan’s view, Grizzly Norris had a few things to learn from Mrs. Flynn.

“So, you know how to hold a knife and fork.”

Declan looked up from his plate to see Sinclair’s dark eyes measure him. A rare sense of defensiveness stirred inside him. He recognized it as a need to prove that perhaps he wasn’t quite as far from their world—from Victoria’s world—as it might appear.

“Can read and write too,” he said gruffly.

“Where did you learn?” Sinclair asked.

“Went to school in Kansas.”

“So, you’ve had some schooling, eh?” Sinclair’s tone was full of disdain. “It’s not as if you were an orphan, or the son of a whore, or with a father in prison, and had no chance in life. You were born to decent folks and chose to throw your life away.”

“My folks were decent. I chose the life of an outlaw.”

“Father—”

Without looking in Victoria’s direction, Sinclair lifted a hand to silence her. “Let me finish, girl.” He contemplated Declan in silence. “So, you chose the life of an outlaw? Care to tell me why?”

“Father, please.”

Sinclair turned to his daughter. “What is it, girl?”

“I…I wanted to talk to you about Declan.” She darted a glance at him.

Alarm tightened in Declan’s belly. He had no idea what she was about to say, but he expected it would have the effect of a spark in a keg of gunpowder. He opened his mouth to interrupt her, but couldn’t think of anything suitable to say.