Til Death Do Us Part (4 page)

 

A
FTER HE'D SPENT
several hours tossing and turning, J.T. gave up trying to get any sleep and got out of bed. His grandfather's bed. Old John Thomas Blackwood. The meanest, orneriest son of a bitch who'd ever lived. The man his father had named him for. The man who had forbidden his only son to marry a dirty Indian. The man who hadn't acknowledged J.T.'s existence until J.T.'s father had died and left the old reprobate without an heir. The man who'd come to the reservation when J.T. was five and taken him from his mother.

J.T., naked as the day he was born, threw open the double doors leading from his bedroom to the attached patio. The cool night air caressed his bronze skin. He ran his hand through his thick hair—hair he hadn't worn long since his first haircut at the age of five.

“Can't have you looking like one of those damned
savages,” old John Thomas had said. “Bad enough you've got that woman's coloring. But from now on, boy, you're a Blackwood. And that means you're a cowboy, not an Indian.”

And that was exactly what J.T. had become—a cowboy. He'd learned to rope and ride and herd cattle. Although there had never been any real love lost between him and his grandfather, he had come to love the ranch.

He supposed that was why—even though he couldn't live in New Mexico, couldn't face being torn between his two heritages—he always returned to the ranch. He loved this land, this wild, untamed wilderness, as much as the old man had loved it; as much as his Blackwood ancestors, who had fought and died to claim the countless acres that now comprised one of the largest ranches in northern New Mexico, had loved it.

And he loved the land as much as his mother's people did. The Navajo. A people he did not know, except through his half sister. A people and a heritage his grandfather had taught him to deny.

From the side patio, J.T. could see the back of the old bunkhouse. Joanna Beaumont's home. How long would it take for a society girl to tire of the West, to tire of painting the natives and return to Virginia where she belonged?

What had ever prompted a woman, whose mother was a Virginia senator and deceased father a renowned trial lawyer, to seek adventure in New Mexico? Had she fled from an unhappy love affair? Had she rebelled against her wealthy family? Elena had told him Joanna had come to Trinidad to paint, that she had chosen the town because her great-grandparents had once lived here for a whole summer while on an archaeological dig.

J.T. caught the glow of a light in his peripheral vision as he gazed out at the night, the land hushed and still. He
focused his gaze on the light coming from a long, narrow window in the old bunkhouse. Joanna Beaumont stood in that window, looking up at the main house. What was she doing awake this time of night? Had she been as restless as he? As aroused and needy? Maybe she was thinking of him, and hating herself for wanting him, and yet was powerless to control that desire.

If he went to her now, would she accept him into her home? Into her bed? Into her body? J.T. shuddered with the force of his longing. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, drawing the fresh night air into his lungs. Opening his eyes, he took a last look at Joanna's silhouette in the window, then he closed the double doors, turned around and walked across the room.

He fell into the bed. Lying on top of the covers, he stared up at the dark ceiling. Only the faint moonlight illuminated his room.

He had to stop thinking about Joanna. He had to stop wanting her. He'd come home for a good, long vacation, the first in years. He wasn't going to allow some debutante to ruin his stay at the ranch. He would steer clear of her and she'd steer clear of him. And he'd make sure Elena didn't interfere.

 

J
OANNA AND
E
LENA
sat in cane-seated rockers on the front porch of the bunkhouse. Numerous potted geraniums lined the edge of the wooden porch and a trailing ivy vine sat nestled on a rough-hewn table between the two women. Elena downed the last drops of tea, then set the tall crystal glass on the table.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened between you and J.T. yesterday?” Elena asked.

Joanna smiled at her friend. She had met Elena and Alex at an art exhibit in Albuquerque. Alex was a sculp
tor, whose finest work was exquisite pieces of his beautiful young Navajo wife. The three had become instant friends and they had been thrilled to learn that Joanna had only recently moved to Trinidad.

“Come on, Jo. J.T. isn't talking.” Elena crossed her arms over her chest and grunted in disgust. “Sometimes that brother of mine makes me so angry.”

“I have a feeling that your brother makes a lot of people angry.”

“I thought you two were friends now. That is what you said when you called last night and told me he had come by and apologized.”

“We're on friendly terms,” Joanna said. “I'm afraid we got off to a bad start when we met. We offended each other.”

“How?”

“How?” Joanna stared at Elena, whose big brown eyes had widened with her question.

“Yes, how did you and J.T. offend each other?”

“Well…I misunderstood something he said and did. I thought he was… But he wasn't.”

“He came on to you, huh?” Elena laughed, creating soft lines around her full lips. “J.T.'s pretty irresistible to the ladies, and he knows it. What did you do, slap his face?”

“No, I pulled my gun on him.”

Elena's laughter filled the air. She doubled over in the rocker as she covered her mouth with her hand. “I love it. I absolutely love it. You pulled your gun on J. T. Blackwood, who is a private security agent, a former Secret Service agent and an ex-soldier. Good grief, Jo, I'd give a million dollars to have seen the look on his face.”

“He was surprised.” A hint of a smile played at the corners of Joanna's mouth.

“Okay, so he came on to you and you put him in his
place. That's how he offended you. How did you offend him? Did you tell him you didn't find him the least bit interesting and were totally immune to his masculine charms?”

“No. Not exactly.” Joanna sipped on her tea, running her fingers up and down the side of the cold, sweating glass. “Despite the fact that I don't like Mr. Blackwood and am not interested in him, I can't say I'm completely immune to him.”

“I knew it!” Elena slapped her hands together exuberantly. “You do find him irresistible, don't you?”

“Don't go jumping to conclusions. I just admit that he's very…well, he's very masculine. But I don't like his type, Elena, and I told him so.”

“Hey, I can't believe J.T.'s ego is so fragile he couldn't take a rejection. Come on. Give. There has to be more to it than that.”

“He said you wanted to find him a wife and I said I wasn't available. He took it the wrong way. He thought I was prejudiced, that I wasn't interested because he was part Navajo.” Joanna looked down at her lap, uncertain she could face her friend. “I tried to explain, but he wouldn't listen. He said it didn't make any difference.”

“That idiot! He's my brother and I love him dearly, but sometimes…” Elena laid her small hand on Joanna's shoulder. “J.T.'s all mixed up about a lot of things concerning his heritage. He's not really a white man and he's not really a Navajo. I think that's one of the reasons he left Trinidad and the ranch when he was eighteen and joined the army. No matter how hard his grandfather tried to erase everything Navajo from J.T.'s life and from his memories, that part of him still existed.”

“Perhaps there's more to it than that.” Joanna caught Elena's hand and squeezed. “Maybe some woman he loved
broke his heart by refusing to marry him because he was part Native American.”

“I can assure you that no one has ever broken J.T.'s heart. He's never been in love.” Elena sighed. “I'm not sure J.T. knows how to love. His grandfather gave him everything money could buy, but he never gave him any love and warmth or genuine caring.”

“He must have been a very sad, lonely little boy growing up with such a stern old man.” Joanna did not want to think of J.T. as a child—an unloved, emotionally neglected little boy.

“Our childhoods were so different,” Elena said. “I grew up on the reservation. My father farmed and raised a few sheep. We never had much money, but we were happy and I was loved by my parents. And I was taught a fierce pride in my Navajo heritage.”

“And your brother grew up here, on his grandfather's ranch. Wealthy and unhappy.”

“The only unhappiness in our lives, before my father died, was Mother's sadness in having lost her son.”

“Elena?”

“Yes?”

“I noticed Mr. Bl—your brother wears a silver-and-turquoise ring. Do you know where he got that ring?”

“I wondered how long it would take you to ask about the ring,” Elena said.

“You noticed, too, didn't you, that his ring is identical to mine?” Joanna held up her right hand; afternoon sunshine glinted off the ring's surface.

“The first time I met you, I saw your ring. I wondered about it, but didn't ask. I thought perhaps you'd bought it somewhere out here in New Mexico, and several times, after we became friends, I wanted to say something to you about the ring.” Elena reached over and traced cir
cles around the three turquoise stones adorning the ring. “I thought it was an odd coincidence. I've never seen another ring identical to the ones you and J.T. wear.”

“Where did he get his ring?”

“Where did you get yours?” Elena asked. “Did you buy it after you came to New Mexico?”

“No. The ring has been in my family for years.”

“Ah. I see. And J.T.'s ring has been in our family for years.”

Joanna's wildly beating heart soared. J.T. was related to Benjamin Greymountain. Somehow she'd already known. But how was it possible that two men, related by blood, could be so very different?

“Whose ring does J.T. wear?” The moment she'd said his name, she wished she could call it back. Calling him J.T. seemed far too intimate. By referring to him as Mr. Blackwood, she could keep an emotional distance.

“When my mother grew very sick and we knew she was dying, J.T. came to the reservation to see her. I was fifteen and had never met my brother. But the moment I saw him, I knew him.” Elena's eyes glazed with tears. “I hadn't seen the ring before that day, but my mother had kept it—saved it—for her son. The ring had belonged to her father and his father before him. Her grandfather was a silversmith.”

“What was your mother's name before she married?” Joanna asked.

“Mary Greymountain from the Bitter Water clan.”

“Greymountain?”

Elena nodded. “You have heard this name before…before you came to New Mexico?”

“Yes. My great-grandparents knew a Navajo silversmith named Benjamin Greymountain—”

“My great-grandfather!”

“Yes. Your great-grandfather—J.T.'s great-grandfather—made this ring.” Joanna lifted her right hand with her left and stared at the silver-and-turquoise band. “This ring belonged to my great-grandmother.”

“Ah. That's why you came to New Mexico, to Trinidad, to paint. You came in search of the ring's mate, didn't you? You knew Benjamin Greymountain had made an identical ring for himself. There was love between my great-grandfather and the woman he made the ring for. Isn't that true?”

“Yes. I have her diary. My great-grandmother. Annabelle Beaumont. She wore this ring until the day she died. I found it in a leather pouch when I found the diary.”

“You wear Annabelle Beaumont's ring and J.T. wears Benjamin Greymountain's ring,” Elena said. “It is a sign, is it not? I knew, somehow, when I saw your ring, that you were the woman for my brother.”

“But I'm not, Elena,” Joanna protested. “Your brother is cold and hard and cynical. He's filled with a rage that frightens me. I'm not the woman for him. I want—I need—a gentle, kind man. A man who wouldn't try to control me, to possess me, to exert power over me.”

“J.T. needs a sweet, tender woman to teach him how to love.” Elena smiled at Joanna. “You could be that woman, if you're brave enough to try to tame the devil.”

“I'm not that brave.”

Elena turned her head at the sound of horse hooves. Joanna looked up just as J.T. rode by on his big Appaloosa. He glanced at the two women, nodded and tipped his hat. For one brief moment, his golden brown eye met Joanna's green glare. Heat suffused her body. Tremors racked her stomach.

He rode on, not looking back. Joanna jumped up out of the rocker and walked inside her house. Elena glanced from her brother's retreating back to the open front door through which Joanna had disappeared.

J. T. B
LACKWOOD
had been home exactly one week when Elena finally persuaded Joanna to come to dinner. Joanna had known it was a mistake from the moment she'd agreed, but she also knew that Elena wouldn't leave her in peace until she accepted. Although she and J.T. had done everything possible to avoid each other, an occasional encounter had been unavoidable. And Elena, more convinced now than ever that Joanna was
the woman
for her brother, had taken every opportunity to throw the two of them together.

J.T. had shown up on the trail Joanna took for her morning horseback ride. They'd both gotten a good laugh over the fact that Elena had been the one to suggest the trail to J.T., saying he hadn't ridden over that part of the ranch in years. But J.T. had decided to finish his ride by taking another trail, and Joanna had been greatly relieved.

Elena had tried to turn a routine trip into town for groceries into a foursome luncheon date. When Joanna realized J.T. had been included in their plans, she'd apologized for changing her mind at the last minute and stayed at home. She'd driven into Trinidad by herself the following day to pick up her art supplies.

J.T. had only one more week of vacation. Surely she could survive another week. If she could live through tonight's dinner, all she had to do was continue avoiding the man. Maybe now would be a good time to take another
trip. She'd been thinking about going back to the reservation to work. One of Elena's cousins, Joseph Ornelas, had promised to introduce her to the old shaman, James Bonito, who, people claimed, was a hundred and ten years old. She'd give anything to paint the man. She could leave tomorrow and stay away until J.T. had returned to Atlanta.

Tonight was the first time she and J.T. had agreed, beforehand, to see each other. Joanna berated herself for taking so long to get ready for a simple dinner with friends. She didn't want to admit that what J. T. Blackwood thought about her actually mattered to her. But it did.

Had Annabelle Beaumont worried so about her appearance when she had sneaked off for her clandestine meetings with Benjamin Greymountain? Had her heart drummed so fiercely? Had her nerves rioted in fear and anticipation?

What had it been like, Joanna wondered, to have Benjamin as a secret lover?

What would it be like to have J.T. as a lover?

Joanna shook her head, loosening her French twist. Damn, what a thought! She didn't want J.T. to be her lover. When she took a lover, he would be kind, understanding and tender. He would be the exact opposite of J. T. Blackwood. She wanted and needed a man who would allow her to set the pace, to be in control, to take charge. J.T. would possess her without loving her. He would take her with fury and passion, but without his heart ever being involved. He would always be the one with the power. Joanna could never allow a man to have power over her, to bend her to his will.

Busily she adjusted her hair, curling the loose tendrils about her face, softening the severity of the French twist. She checked her appearance in the mirror one last time,
and approved of the image she saw reflected. She'd chosen to wear a thin chambray skirt with a ruffle around the ankle-length hem, and matched it with a simple short-sleeved white blouse. She picked up the silver-and-turquoise belt she'd bought from a Navajo silversmith and slipped it around her waist.

She took her time walking from the bunkhouse to the main house, humming to herself—something she'd done since childhood to shore up her courage. For the first time since she'd arrived in Trinidad, Joanna Beaumont regretted coming to New Mexico.

She had found a peace here she'd thought she would never know again, and she'd built a successful career doing something she loved. Her life had been content. Why hadn't J. T. Blackwood stayed in Atlanta for the rest of his life, or at least continued to avoid her as he'd done the past few years?

When Joanna neared the main house, a typical Spanish-style stucco with a red tile roof, she glanced up and saw J.T. standing on the wide porch.

Elena had told her that J.T. had gotten his coloring from their mother, but his size was pure Blackwood. Tall and rugged, every muscle well-developed to a whipcord leanness. This evening he had discarded his tan Stetson and had dressed in black jeans and a white shirt. A silver-and-turquoise jewel clasped his black bolo tie. His blue-black hair gleamed with a healthy vitality. Joanna visually traced the thin black band that held his eye patch in place.

“Cheer up, Jo, you're coming to dinner, not going to your own hanging,” J.T. said.

She bristled at the use of his sister's nickname for her. No one except Elena had ever called her Jo. Somehow, on J.T.'s lips, it sounded far too intimate. But she wouldn't
rise to the bait; she knew he'd called her Jo to see how she'd react.

“I feel like this is the condemned person's last meal and I'm that condemned person.” She hesitated momentarily, then stepped onto the porch. “I am sorry that a week of your vacation has been ruined. Elena can't seem to let go of the notion you and I belong together. I know it's made your stay here at the ranch very unpleasant.”

“You are so damned polite, Miss Beaumont.” J.T. stood with one booted foot resting back flat against the wall. “Do you ever stop being a lady and act like a woman?”

Joanna clenched her teeth to keep herself from lashing out at J.T. Maybe he was right; maybe her good-manners-at-any-cost upbringing was so inbred that she could never escape it. But if her succumbing to him for a one-night stand would make her a woman in his eyes, then she didn't want to be a woman. Not his woman. Not ever.

“I don't think I acted much like a lady the first day we met.” She tried to keep her voice even and calm, despite her anger. “If you recall, I pulled a gun on you.”

“Oh, I'll never forget our first meeting. But even in pulling a gun on me, you were being a true lady. You were defending your honor, weren't you? That's what a lady would do. Or so I'm told.”

Rushing out the front door, Elena glanced hurriedly from J.T. to Joanna. “Dinner will be delicious. Alex is barbecuing on the patio. Steaks this thick.” She curved her thumb and index finger to indicate a good three inches. “Come on, you two.”

Joanna helped Elena prepare the salads while J.T. assisted Alex with the barbecue. Within an hour the foursome settled around a black wrought-iron table in the right-hand corner of the patio located in the center of the stucco ranch house. The evening sun lay low on the
western horizon. A soft, bluesy tune drifted from the CD player on the porch that surrounded the house on all four sides and opened onto the patio.

Joanna cut into her medium-rare steak, lifted a piece on her fork and brought the meat to her mouth. She glanced across the table at J.T. He was looking directly at her lips. Swallowing hard, she laid her fork down on her plate and lifted her mug of iced tea, all the while staring at J.T. He moved his gaze from her lips upward, encountering her hard stare. He smiled, an almost smile, just barely curving the corners of his mouth.

He picked up his mug of cold beer, silently saluted Joanna with it and took a deep, hearty swallow. She averted her gaze, turning to look at Elena, who was busy feeding Alex a bite of steak. The act of feeding her husband seemed terribly intimate and sexual. The two smiled at each other as if no one else existed. They were cocooned in their mutual fascination with each other—the skinny, bespectacled, blond sculptor and his lovely, exotic, brown-eyed wife.

Maybe that's what it's like to be in love, Joanna thought. So absorbed in your lover that you are oblivious to anyone else's presence.

Joanna lifted her fork again, but before she could bring it to her mouth, J.T. leaned over and slipped his own fork into her open mouth. Her body jerked. Her heart hammered. She glared at him. The piece of meat in her mouth felt huge and hot and heavy. Her first impulse was to spit it out—to spit it out in his face. Instead she began to chew slowly, keeping her gaze riveted on his.

“I take my steak rare,” J.T. said. “I think this is medium-rare, don't you? Looks like we overcooked it a bit.”

Joanna forced herself to swallow the chewed meat. “It's medium-rare. No taste of blood at all.”

“Well, it's a good steak. I think I can finish it off.” He cut another piece, then ate, following his first bite with many more.

By the time the others had finished their meal, Joanna had forced down several bites of her steak and a small portion of her salad. Finally Elena and Alex started a discussion about New Mexico's history, trying desperately to engage J.T. and Joanna in the conversation. The effort failed miserably. Joanna could find no pleasure in discussing Billy the Kid and John Chisum, and J.T. didn't seem to care anything about the fact that Lew Wallace, the author of
Ben Hur,
had once been the territorial governor.

“Come on, Alex, let's dance.” Elena held out her hand to her husband, who quickly stood and lifted her into his arms.

J.T. and Joanna sat quietly at the table watching the couple slow dance in a sensual embrace.

“Every time I'm around those two I feel totally unnecessary,” J.T. said. “It's been like this ever since they got married five years ago. You'd think they'd be sick of each other by now.”

“They're in love,” Joanna said.

“They're in heat.” Grunting, J.T. shook his head. “I guess you don't know what that's like, do you?”

There was nothing she could do to stop the flush from spreading over her cheeks and down her throat. She'd been cursed with a redhead's pale complexion and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and over her cheekbones. When she blushed, it showed plainly.

“I've embarrassed you.” He spoke the words in a tone of disbelief. “You can't be that naive. You're no teenager. You've got to be at least twenty-five or more. A woman your age is bound to have had several lovers.”

“I'm twenty-nine.” Joanna deliberately glanced away
from him and at the dancing couple. “And how many lovers I have or haven't had is none of your business.”

Elena waved at Joanna. “Why don't you two take advantage of this fabulous music and that glorious sunset—” she nodded to the western sky, which was afire with orange-red flames “—and dance?”

J.T. held out his hand. “Come on, Jo, let's dance. It'll make Elena happy, and that's what this night is all about, isn't it? Pacifying my little sister so she'll leave us in peace for a while?”

Joanna hesitated, then stood, walked around the edge of the table and placed her hand in J.T.'s. His grasp was light and nonthreatening. Stepping into his arms, she followed him into the dance. He held her loosely, his grip around her waist barely discernible. She breathed a sigh of relief when she realized that he intended to keep a reasonable distance between them. She'd been so sure he would haul her close to his big body and force her to endure the feel of him, hard and powerful, against her own body.

If she'd been a bit taller or had worn heels, she might have been able to glance over his shoulder. As it was, she had to stare directly at his wide, muscular chest. He was so tall. Too tall. Too big. Too manly.

Even though J.T. did nothing offensive, Joanna felt trapped. She wasn't in control of this situation. He was. If he chose to pull her against him in an intimate fashion, she wouldn't be able to stop him.

Dammit, that wasn't true. All she had to do was tell him to release her and she could walk away. Admit it, she told herself. You aren't afraid of J. T. Blackwood; you're afraid of yourself!

“Are you always so stiff when a man holds you in his arms?” J.T. asked.

“Stop goading me,” she told him. “You may find it amusing, but I don't.”

“Sorry about that, Jo, but you leave yourself open to my teasing.”

Just as she started to respond, the music ended. Joanna pulled away from J.T. He clasped her wrist, halting her escape. She turned abruptly and faced him.

“I'm tired. It's been a long day,” she said. “I think I'll head on home.”

“Oh, Jo, don't leave yet.” Elena, her arm around Alex's waist, strolled over to Joanna and J.T.

“The night's still young,” Alex said. “It's not dark yet. Hang around and we'll play a game of Rook.”

“Not tonight.” Joanna smiled at her friends, then glanced down at her wrist, still trapped in J.T.'s grasp. “Another time.”

“Tomorrow night?” Elena suggested, her smile eager. “Come over for dinner again. Tonight was nice, wasn't it?”

“Not tomorrow night.” Joanna wished Elena would just let her go home and stop trying so hard to push her into J.T.'s arms.

“The next night, then,” Alex said. “I'll whip up some of my world-famous chili.”

“I'm afraid dinner and cards will have to wait awhile. I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon to spend a week or so on the Navajo reservation.” Joanna kept her phony smile in place—just barely. She felt J.T.'s hard, cold stare boring into her. She wanted to scream, to tell him, yes, a thousand times yes, he
was
the reason she had to escape.

“But why tomorrow?” Whining, Elena stuck out her bottom lip in a childish pout. “The reservation will be there a week from now. Please, wait.”

“Leave her alone, Elena,” J.T. said, then released his hold on Joanna's wrist. “She's made her plans.”

“But she can go to the reservation anytime,” Elena said. “You're only going to be here another week and—”

“I'll stop by tomorrow afternoon and say goodbye before I leave.” Joanna's smile drooped. She sighed, bit her bottom lip, then reached out and hugged Elena. “Please, understand,” she whispered.

Joanna hurried off the patio, onto the inner porch and through the house. When she reached the front porch, she stopped suddenly, her vision blurred by a fine mist of tears. She sucked in a deep breath of crisp, clean air.