Chapter Ten

It was dawn when the men returned. Stella and her Mexican woman, Maria, had prepared a hearty breakfast for them, since Aunt Sally had gone along to administer justice. The men smiled grimly as they rode up, silently telling Stella everything had gone well. She did not ask what had happened. She trusted her men to do what was right.

As they dismounted, Dusty inquired, for all of them, “How’s she doin’?”

“She’s just fine,” Stella replied. “She cried some, but not as much as you’d think. That girl has sand. Maybe we’ll make a Texan out of her, yet.”

Ben told all the men to sleep until dinner, which they were glad to do. Priscilla woke up late in the morning and when she had dressed and eaten, she sat down in the parlor with Stella.

“Might help if you talked about what happened,” Stella suggested. “Thing like that might not seem so bad, talking it over with a friend in the light of day.”

Priscilla agreed gratefully. Already it seemed like a bad dream, and she was eager to exorcise the demons that had plagued her all night.

“And then I found the bell rope,” she finished. “I had mentioned to Dusty just a few days before that I’d ring the bell if I had trouble. It was a joke then. It seemed so long while I was ringing it, like hours and hours, before he finally came.”

“Couldn’t have been five minutes from the time I first heard it ‘til it stopped. I reckon that’s when Dusty showed up.”

“Yes, and I never was so glad to see anyone in my entire... Oh, no!” Priscilla’s hand went to her mouth and her face turned scarlet, remembering how she had thrown herself into his arms. It was hardly the way to behave with a man who had scorned her just a day earlier.

“What is it, honey?” Stella asked, alarmed.

Priscilla’s blush deepened. How could she explain her embarrassment? “Oh, I... when he got there, I threw my arms around him and held on to him like, like, I don’t know what! What must he think?” she asked, deciding the truth was explanation enough.

“He prob’ly thought you was glad to see him, which I expect you were,” Stella assured her.

“How can I ever face him?” she murmured thoughtfully. It had been difficult enough before.

“Honey, what you do when you’re upset don’t count for much. I doubt he’ll ever mention it,” Stella said.

Perhaps not, Priscilla thought, but he would think about it, and that was almost as bad. What conclusion would he reach when he asked himself why she had clung to him? Would he realize that she loved him or would he, as Stella had suggested, simply decide that she had been overwrought? Perhaps she could influence his conclusion by the manner in which she treated him now, but then, which conclusion did she wish him to reach? Pride and common sense decreed that she conceal her love from him. No good could come of exposing herself until she understood him better, but then she need not be completely aloof, either. No, a lukewarm approach would be best. She would treat him as a friend, express her gratitude for his help, but not let him see the depths of her feelings. Her feelings, she had to admit, did run deep when she remembered how kind he had been that night, how gentle with her, how protective. Even when he had rebuked her, it had only been when she had tried to take some of the blame on herself, and unless she was very much mistaken, he had experienced some measure of guilt about his own treatment of her, too. Yes, a mildly friendly, polite acknowledgement of her gratitude would keep him guessing and salvage her pride at the same time. With that in mind, she watched for her opportunity.

It came a little later, when the men had arisen and eaten their dinner. They were saddling up, preparing for what work they had the energy for, and Dusty, being the first one mounted, took the opportunity to lope over to the house and inquire after Priscilla’s welfare, a subject that he had discovered concerned him very deeply. To his surprise, Priscilla herself stepped out onto the porch to greet him. She looked, he thought with amazement, strangely untouched and pure, as if she had already risen above the ugliness of the night before and perhaps even forgotten what had passed between them, as well.

“You’re lookin’ some better this mornin’,” he said, a little uncertain of whether he should make any reference to what had happened.

“I feel fine, thank you.” And she looked it, too, although he could not know that the color in her cheeks was from vigorous pinching and not from health. “I wanted to thank you for coming to my rescue last night.” That had been easy enough, she thought, clasping her hands tightly together. She didn’t want to fidget in front of him, make him think she was nervous. She felt perfectly capable of controlling the conversation as long as he did not ask any pointed questions about her behavior. She would almost rather face Judd Slaughter again than try to explain herself. She took a deep breath and awaited his reply.

Dusty could not help but admire her courage. It could not be easy for her to talk about it. He shrugged. “It sure wasn’t much of a rescue. In fact, Miss Bedford, I’d appreciate it if you’d do something for me,” he said, leaning forward in his saddle.

“What’s that?” Priscilla asked warily.

“Well, ma’am, twice now, I come rushin’ down to the schoolhouse when I thought you needed help, an’ both times you already took care of the situation yourself. I’d be much obliged if, next time, you’d send for me a little sooner. I’m sorry to say it, ma’am, but you got a way of makin’ a man feel plumb useless!” He twisted his face into a comic mask of despair and was rewarded with a small smile.

Priscilla would not have believed that he had the ability to make her smile over what had happened, and yet he had. Not accidentally, either, she realized with small surprise. He had deliberately set out to cheer her. The knowledge warmed her. “You may rest assured, Mr. Rhoades, that I will endeavor to do just that,” she told him. “I had no idea that I had hurt your masculine pride. Please forgive me.”

Dusty tipped his hat and bowed slightly, pleased to see her behaving more normally. Her tongue was not quite as sharp as usual, but her spirit was unbroken, he noticed with relief. He had just started to turn his horse to go, when he recalled something, a question that had been nagging at the back of his mind all night. He should, he knew, simply ride away and forget it, but something compelled him to rein his horse back again.

Priscilla had just released the breath she had been holding in a sigh of relief as she watched him turn to leave but caught her breath again as she saw him turn back as if he had just thought of something.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he began, trying to keep his voice light, “but I been wonderin’ if, let’s say, Aunt Sally or one of the other boys had been the first one down to the school last night, would you have hugged them the way you hugged me?”

Priscilla refused to blush. The fury that rose up in her lifted her chin, and her hands twisted together until the knuckles turned white. Just a moment ago she had been convinced that her instincts about him had been correct, that he really wasn’t so bad after all, but now she knew she had been wrong. He was rude and cruel, trying to embarrass her and get her to admit she cared for him in spite of the horrible way he had used her. “Of course I would have,” she replied with a haughty toss of her head. “And if it had been anyone else but you, I would have kissed him, too!” she added indignantly. With that, she turned on her heel and slammed back into the house, leaving Dusty sitting dumbfounded.

Well, what did he expect, he asked himself, a declaration of undying love? He already knew how she felt about him, and he’d given her no reason to change her mind. Yet, for that one moment last night, he had felt so close to her. He had been so sure that she... Well, he had been wrong, he told himself sternly. No use making a fool of himself over it. It didn’t change anything anyway. They were still the same people they had been on Sunday when he had decided they would never suit. With a savage jerk on the reins, he turned his horse away from the porch and joined the other men.

Stella had both hands over her mouth when Priscilla returned, trying not to laugh out loud, but her shoulders were shaking. Priscilla was too angry to notice and began pacing furiously around the room.

When Stella recovered herself, she said, “Reckon that’ll make him tuck in his tail and run.”

“Of all the rude, conceited,” Priscilla stammered. “How could he be so... so ...?” Words failed her.

“Maybe he just wanted to know did you like him better’n the other boys,” Stella suggested.

Priscilla doubted this. “Then why didn’t he just ask me instead of trying to embarrass me?” she demanded, knowing the answer already. He had wanted to trick her into revealing herself. She was certain of it.

Stella was thoughtful. “Honey, there ain’t a man alive brave enough to ask a question like that, ‘specially if the answer is important to him.”

“How could it possibly be important to him?” she snapped, certain that the only reason it could be important was to feed his enormous conceit.

“Maybe ‘cause he’s so crazy in love with you,” Stella suggested mildly.

Priscilla stopped in mid-stride, almost stumbling, and fell into a chair. She sat there for a moment, trying to make sense out of what Stella had said. “That’s impossible,” she finally decided.

“Is it?” asked Stella, unconcernedly picking up her sewing. “Think about it. He let you ride his horse, the one he’s savin’ special to breed, the one he never let I no other grown-up person ride, just the children a time or two. An’ did you notice he was the one took you out to the Rogers’ place?”

Priscilla remembered how strange she had thought that, considering how strained their relationship was. “I thought you had ordered him to,” she offered.

“Ordered?” Stella sniffed. “Nobody ever ordered Dusty Rhoades to do anything in his life. I asked him to get one of the boys to take you out, an’ it ain’t like every one of them boys wouldn’t give a month’s pay to be alone with you for five minutes. He just couldn’t stand the thought of it, so he took you his own self. And what about him comin’ back to pick you up?” Stella added. “We all tried to stop him, tell him he wasn’t supposed to, but he wouldn’t listen, insisted on goin’ anyway.” Priscilla stared at her stupidly, recalling how Dusty had pretended to think he was supposed to return for her. Had he simply wanted another opportunity to seduce her? Had he planned it all along, right from the beginning? she wondered, a hot flush pouring over her. No, that couldn’t have been it, she realized. The picnic had been Stella’s idea, and he had been just as embarrassed as she had about it, and they had been leaving—at his suggestion—when she had fallen and then they had... And when he had come back for her, he had acted so strangely, almost deliberately taking offense at something she had said, leaving her sitting in the wagon so he wouldn’t be tempted to murder her, or so he had said. Had he really been afraid of doing something else? She had been the one to follow, to continue to provoke him, and in the final analysis, she had demanded that he kiss her. She had been so certain then that he loved her, but afterward he had turned so cold. She had not been able to figure it out, but perhaps Stella had a clue. “If he really... I mean, if what you said were true, why is he always so, well, the way he always is with me?” she asked.

“I been ponderin’ on that myself,” Stella said. “Ever since you come here, Dusty Rhoades’s been walkin’ around here like he’s got an itch an’ don’t know where to scratch. Near as I can figure, there’s a fly in the ointment somewheres.”

Priscilla leaned forward eagerly. “What do you mean?”

Stella smiled a little at Priscilla’s obvious concern. “Well, I’m positive he loves you, but there’s somethin’ holding him back, somethin’ stuck in his craw, else he would’ve been on your doorstep with his hat in his hand long before this.”

Priscilla had reached the same conclusion, of course. “What do you think it is?” She didn’t realize that she was betraying herself to Stella.

Stella paused a moment to study Priscilla. “The way I figure it, it’s one of two things. Either he don’t think he’s good enough for you—”

“I doubt that,” Priscilla exclaimed, unable to imagine such a thing.

“Or else he thinks that you think he ain’t good enough.”

That was it, of course! She had been so horrid to him, insulting him. How deeply she had cut him with her remark about reading a book. She forgot all the things he | had said and done to earn her barbs. Guilt flooded over her. Then she saw Stella’s knowing look and realized what Stella was thinking. Instantly she recovered herself. Coolly, she said, “Stella, this is all so... so preposterous. I can’t believe a word of it.”

“You could test him, see if it’s true,” Stella offered.

“How?” Priscilla’s eagerness betrayed her again, but this time she did not care.

“Let me ask you this, first. You interested in encouraging him or discouraging him?”

Priscilla smiled mysteriously. “Let’s just say I’m interested, shall we?”

Stella laughed. “All right, honey, you wanna know fer shore how a man feels about you, try to make him jealous.”

What a perfect idea! Why had she not thought of it herself. “With whom?” she asked delightedly.

“That’s a question, all right,” Stella agreed, “but it could be anybody. If he’s as far gone as I think, he’d be loco if you smiled at Aunt Sally. Keep your eyes open for an opportunity.”

Priscilla vowed she would.

Priscilla insisted on holding school the next day, as usual. She wanted things to get back to normal. The door to her room had been mysteriously repaired and strengthened, and a bar had been added. Stella sent Dusty to town on an errand. By now, she knew, the story of Judd Slaughter’s attack would be all over and she wanted to be sure the story was told in such a way that Priscilla’s virtue would not be in question. That was Dusty’s errand, and he handled it well. Eating his noon meal at the hotel dining room, he told the story to a group of interested businessmen. While buying a few supplies at the store, he told it to some wide-eyed ladies and a few loafers. Smoking on the sidewalk, he held forth for some out-of-work cowhands and a few drifters.

On his way to the Post Office, he encountered a man who called him by name. Dusty thought he looked familiar but could not place him. Dusty recognized the type though. He had seen that type in every cattle town from here to Dodge.

“You’re the foreman at the Steele place, aren’t you?” the stranger asked.

“That’s right,” Dusty replied cautiously.

“I heard what happened out there. I hope Miss Bedford was not injured.” The stranger seemed genuinely concerned.

“No, he never even got near her,” said Dusty suspiciously. “You a friend of hers?”

The man smiled an embarrassed smile. “An acquaintance, you might say. She and I arrived here on the same stage. Jason Vance is my name.” He put out his hand and Dusty shook it. It was surprisingly soft.

Of course, he remembered Vance now. He had seen him at the stage. But the name was familiar, too. Then he remembered that Jason Vance was the gambler who worked at the Yellow Rose. They studied each other carefully for a moment. Both men knew that Jason Vance had no right to be inquiring about a decent woman. It was practically an insult for him to even know her. Men like Vance had been horsewhipped for less. Dusty stiffened a little.

Vance hastened to explain. “I hope you won’t mention that I asked about her. It’s just that”—Vance gestured helplessly—”a man in my line of work rarely meets a lady like Miss Bedford. I’m afraid my admiration for her colored my good judgment. I meant no slander to her.”

Dusty saw he was sincere and could not really blame the man. Priscilla did have a way of exciting admiration, as Dusty knew to his sorrow. He had been discreet, too, approaching when Dusty was alone. “Don’t worry, Vance. I won’t say nothin’,” he assured the gambler.

“Say, can I buy you a drink?” Vance offered, and he was shocked by the strange look that passed over the cowboy’s face. It was not exactly fear. Alarm? Not that either—more like a sudden wariness, like an animal sensing danger.

Dusty studied Vance’s face and decided that the gambler did not know. But then why should he? There had been gossip about Vance’s living in the saloon with Rita, but even if it were true, that did not mean that she would have told him anything. And there were probably a i lot of other cowboys who never went to the saloon, although he could not name one just then. He hesitated before replying. It was a grave insult to refuse a man’s offer of a drink, and Dusty knew the story of how Vance had shot Rogers. Dusty wasn’t wearing his gunbelt, in deference to the sheriff who frowned on such things within the city limits, and Vance didn’t appear to be wearing a gun either, although that could be a false impression. Of course, those details wouldn’t prevent a showdown if Vance took offense. They would merely delay it, and Dusty wasn’t a man to flee from trouble, if he couldn’t avoid it. Having nothing personal against Vance, however, he felt inclined to avoid it this time, and when he considered the source of his dilemma, he decided he was damned if he’d have a shoot out because of that woman.

Remembering something he’d read once about discretion being the better part of valor, he flashed Vance a conciliatory grin. “That’s mighty friendly of you, Vance,” he said cheerfully. “Hope you won’t take this personal, ‘cause I got nothin’ against you, but let’s just say it’s a mite early in the day for me. Another time, maybe.”

Vance lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Far from being offended, he was amused, having interpreted Dusty’s strange reaction as embarrassment and believing that he had guessed the problem. Vance had met many men who could not hold their liquor but few with the courage to stay out of saloons, and he had to admire Rhoades for that. “Of course, I understand,” Vance assured him, remembering how magnanimous Rhoades had been in telling him about Miss Bedford. “I’m not a drinking man, myself.”

When they parted, Dusty stood and watched Vance walk across the wide street toward the saloon, and he thought he caught a flicker of movement at an upstairs window. He could almost picture those hate-filled green eyes boring into him, and a chill passed over him. Calling himself a fool, he shrugged off the feeling and went on about his business, while upstairs, over the saloon, a shadowy figure moved to another window to better observe his disappearing figure.

“Vance!” Rita called sharply when she heard his footsteps in the hall. Vance came to her door.

“Yes?”

“What were you talking to him about?” she demanded.

“Him, who?” asked Vance, knowing very well whom she meant, but trying to put some things together in his head.

“Don’t play your gambler’s games with me. You know who—Rhoades. What were you talking to him about?” Her eyes were flashing now, glittering like green glass. With anger? No, it was hatred.

“There was some trouble over at the Steele place yesterday. A boy attacked the schoolteacher. I was inquiring after Miss Bedford’s welfare,” he explained blandly.

“Miss Bedford’s welfare,” Rita mocked. “Well, aren’t you the gallant one? What happened?”

Vance told her the story as he had heard it on the street, and then what Rhoades had told him. Rita had heard the story of the events of the dance and the arrival of the desk. She had begun to suspect Dusty’s interest in Priscilla, and now he had been the first to rush to her rescue. It gave her joy, but there was pain in it, too. Here, at last, was a way to get to him, but the thought that he might love another woman... She turned her face away from Vance who was watching her curiously, trying to determine her emotions.

“Did he say anything else?” she asked with forced indifference.

Vance considered, realizing it was important. He had offered Rhoades a drink as a conciliatory gesture and in doing so had struck a nerve. What would it strike with Rita? “I offered to buy him a drink.”

Rita’s head turned sharply around. “What did he say?” she asked eagerly.

“He said it was too early in the day for him.”

She laughed a long time. It was an evil laugh, a satisfied laugh. Then she turned to Vance. “He’s a coward. Oh, he looks strong, so tall and handsome, but he’s afraid. He’s afraid all right. Afraid of a woman.” She laughed again, a laugh that sent chills down Jason Vance’s spine.

He tried to make sense of it. Rita Jordan hated Dusty Rhoades. For some reason, he would not come into her saloon. For a cowboy to deny himself use of the only saloon for miles around was unthinkable, and to risk insulting a known gunman by refusing to drink with him was foolishness, but Rhoades had done both, so he must have good reason. Watching her now, he was consumed with curiosity about what could make a woman hate like this. He had no answers, but he was sure of one thing: Rita Jordan would be a bad enemy to have.

Rita saw the puzzled expression on his face. He would be curious now, prying. He was smart, too. He would figure things out. Of course, he could never know the whole story but he could figure out enough of it to be dangerous. Jason Vance was a man, and men liked Dusty Rhoades. Vance might take up for him, even feel it was his duty to warn Rhoades. That would never do. She would give Jason Vance something else to think about. Something that would put him on her side permanently. Yes, that was it. It was time for it, anyway.

That night when Jason Vance rolled over on his side to go to sleep, he was grinning. Now he knew why old Sam Jordan had died with a smile on his face. Vance had known many women, women for whom sex had been a profession, but never had he known a woman like Rita Jordan. He considered himself a man for whom life held few surprises, but she had surprised him and amazed him. Now, he thought, he would not mind if the business that had brought him to Rainbow took a long time to complete. Rita Jordan had a way of making time pass pleasantly.

Thinking back, he wondered if he should feel somehow offended or insulted by Rita’s attention. That evening, after Will and Vance had closed the saloon, Will had informed him that Rita wanted to see him in her room. Her wanting to see him was not unusual since she spoke to him almost every night after closing about something or other, but she usually did it in the saloon with Will present. Tonight she had retired earlier than usual, a fact Vance had noticed but dismissed as unimportant. Now she wanted him to come to her room. Remembering what had occurred the first and only other time he had been in there, Vance took a moment to brace himself before knocking on her door. He was glad that he had.

“Come in,” Rita’s husky voice had called.

Vance opened the door and entered the room cautiously, allowing himself a full minute before trusting himself to close the door, so astounded was he by what he saw. Rita sat in her bed, propped up on several pillows, wearing a green ribbon in her hair and, quite obviously, nothing else. She was smiling in that way she had that made her look vulnerable and was absently curling a lock of her long, raven hair around one finger. The hair cascaded down her pearl-white shoulders, just touching the sheet that she had pulled up barely far enough to cover her breasts. Not that the sheet concealed very much. It was so sheer that he could actually see the dark triangle between her legs, legs that were long and slender and slightly parted under the cover, as if in invitation.

Most men would have found the situation self-explanatory and would not have hesitated for a moment taking what Rita so obviously offered, but Vance was not like most men. He stood patiently, his carefully schooled expression void of emotion, waiting for a sign from her.

Suddenly, Rita laughed her smoky laugh. “Well, don’t stand there like you don’t know what you’re supposed to do,” she ordered.

At last, Vance allowed himself a small smile. It was not a smile of satisfaction. That would come later, if he were indeed satisfied. Nor was it a smirk or a leer. It was simple amusement at the way she had so arrogantly changed their relationship, without even so much as hinting at her intentions until this very moment.

Vance walked slowly over to a straight-backed chair which sat near the bed and removed his coat, hanging it carefully on the chair back. “Am I correct,” he asked, as he removed his shirt and laid it likewise on the chair, “in hoping that this will now become one of my regular duties?”

Rita considered, twirling her hair thoughtfully as she watched him remove his shoes, socks, and pants. “I reckon that depends on how well you do the job, Vance,” she replied with a guileless smile.

Clad only in his drawers, Vance made his way to her bed, watching her all the time, cautiously, as the prey watches the predator. He reached over and took hold of the sheet where it lay across her breasts and drew it back slowly, deliberately, studiously examining each inch of flesh as he uncovered it. Rita lay completely still under his observation, her lazy smile changing to a questioning look.

“You’re a very beautiful woman, Mrs. Jordan,” Vance concluded coolly, the only evidence of his own arousal a vein that beat rhythmically in his temple.

Rita smiled again, a slow, feline grin, as she moved toward him. Her fingers deftly disposed of the buttons at his waist and she slipped her silken hands inside to peel the cotton drawers down over his hips. A sharp intake of breath was his only response to her touch, and he stood stoically as she observed his swollen manhood.

“And you, Mr. Vance,” she concluded, “are a very beautiful man.”

Vance groaned as she lowered her face and began to caress the object of her admiration, but he suffered her tribute, as pleasant as it was, for only a few moments before pushing her away. She was, he realized, a woman who knew many ways to pleasure a man, but as tempting as it was to discover them, he felt an overwhelming need to control, to dominate, and yes, to subdue her.

His hands cupping the satin of her shoulders, he bore her backward onto the bed. Looming over her for a long moment, he watched her expression change from mild surprise to curiosity to excitement, unaware that her excitement only mirrored what she saw in his own eyes.

Rita stared up at Vance’s expressionless face, intrigued that even now he managed to control it. Only his eyes, smoky with desire, gave away his arousal, and for the first time in many years she felt a small stirring in her own body, a tightening in her loins that spread a warmth over her whole body. It was odd, she thought, that a woman could live without a man for years and never miss it, and yet...

Of their own accord, her hands came up, fingers trailing lightly across the smooth wall of his chest, teasing his hardening nipples for a moment before moving up, over his shoulders and around his neck. She tugged gently, but he held himself stiff, aloof, making no move or gesture. Irritated, Rita shifted restlessly, seductively. He would not refuse her, could not. No man could, she reasoned. The tightness between her legs became an ache, a moist emptiness. Her breath came quickly now as the longing washed over her. Her arms tightened urgently around his neck, her fingers twining into his thick, dark hair. “Vance,” she breathed his name, imploring him for they both knew what.

Still he did not move, allowing himself one last look at her, a small smile of triumph tugging at his lips, and then he lowered himself, almost reluctantly, onto her willing body. Her eager mouth found his, but he gave her no satisfaction. Pausing only briefly at her parted lips, he moved on, brushing feather-light kisses over her face, her eyelids, her ears, and then the hollow below her ear, and down the sensitive cord of her neck to the now-throbbing pulse at the base of her throat. His hands had found the soft fullness of her breasts and now his lips sought out their hardened tips, sucking, tasting, nipping, until she cried out with pleasure, arching herself toward him. His hand splayed across her abdomen and then tangled in the silken hair below. Lower still he found her wet and ready, too ready to long withstand his searching fingers.

“Vance!” Her cry was halfway between entreaty and command, and at last Vance moved to answer her. He entered her carefully, savoring his possession, and when he moved, it was with deliberate slowness. He stroked her leisurely, almost indolently, in defiance of her restless hands that urged him on.

Rita hated him then. She had not intended, or even expected, to feel anything. Her purpose had been to gain control over Vance in the most basic way she knew. Never did she dream that he might have the same objective. Whether he had or not was irrelevant now, she realized, as she felt the ecstasy building, building, growing larger and larger with each plunge. She clung to him now with legs and arms and hands and lips— touching, feeling, tasting every part of him she could reach—and still he held her back, until, in desperation, she cried out his name again, begging for her release. Like a benevolent despot, he granted her supplication. Slipping his hand between their bodies, he found the nub of her desire and fondled it as he increased his pace.

Rita met him stroke for stroke, faster and faster, her breath coining now in tiny moans. She wanted only for it to go on and on and only for it to end. Not another minute. She could not stand another second. She would scream, and scream she did as the world exploded, and i her body shuddered again and again with the shock waves.

Vance smothered her outcry with his mouth and lay still for a long time until the last of her spasms had died away. He had intended to withdraw, regain control, and take her again, but her limp body came suddenly to life as he began to move away. She was much stronger than he would have imagined and she wrapped her legs around him. He could still have broken loose, but now her hands were on his buttocks, doing things that made him forget his intentions. She was moving too, squeezing and undulating. In his last rational moment, he realized she was punishing him for making her lose control, but he no longer cared as he plunged into the abyss of sensation. Rita clung to him when he cried out as the shudders of release shook his entire body, a small smile curling her lips. When at last he was still, a dead weight on her slender body, and she felt him go limp within her, she allowed herself a small chuckle. “Looks like you’re human, after all, Vance,” she announced with satisfaction.

Vance levered himself up onto his elbows and looked at her thoughtfully. “I still haven’t decided about you, Mrs. Jordan,” he said as he slid down her damp body until his mouth could fasten on one of her still-erect nipples. His caress was none too gentle as he used teeth and tongue to bring her breasts to stiff peaks. Once again she was arching to him, in spite of her voiced protests.

“No, Vance, stop it,” she was saying without much force, but Vance knew she meant it. Ignoring her, he began to work his way downward, biting, nipping, licking, until he reached her most vulnerable spot. “Damn you, Vance,” she moaned, making a feeble effort to push him away, but he had slipped his hands beneath her hips, and between his fingers in back and his mouth in front, Rita was lost. Again and again he brought her to the brink, and again and again, he let her slip back. Each time she cursed him and begged him and cursed him again, until at last he was able to enter her once more. This time, as if it were a contest of wills, they both held back, each testing the other’s control to its limits, and this time it was Rita who slipped her hands in between them, forcing Vance over the edge with delicate fingers and at last allowing herself to follow.

It was a while before their breathing returned to normal and a while after that before Vance had the energy to roll off of Rita’s body. Without a word or a backward glance, he turned onto his side and allowed himself a small smile, a smile of satisfaction.

“Vance?”

He did not answer, feigning sleep, but she was not fooled.

“I know you’re awake.” She forced him to roll over on his back so she could see his face. “You know, I think I’m starting to like you, Vance.” Still he did not answer. This was not a subject he wished to discuss. “Don’t you want to know why?” she asked, suddenly seductive again.

“Nothing could interest me less, Mrs. Jordan,” he replied with utter boredom.

This amused her, as he had known it would. “Good. Then I’ll tell you.” Her face grew serious. “I like you, ‘cause I can’t figure you.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult. I am a simple man, nothing more than you see.” He was trying to end the conversation, but he knew it was a useless effort.

“Liar,” she said, not with malice. “You shoot Rogers, an’ never bat an eye, and then you give money to his wife to pay the doctor.” He was surprised that she knew that, but he should not have been. She had a way of knowing everything that happened in town, although she rarely left the saloon. “I seen you givin’ money to those kids that hang around in the street. An’ the way you let them suckers win at cards. It’s a disgrace, Vance. You could’ve bled this town dry in a week and gone on with a pretty nice stake.”

“But, Mrs. Jordan, why should I want to do that? I’ve told you, I plan to settle in Rainbow, maybe even take up ranching,” he replied.

Rita swore at him, but she was not angry. “That’s the story you give, so’s you can have an excuse to go ridin’ all over the country. But I know you’re lookin’ fer somethin’. Must be somethin’ worth lookin’ for, too, or else you’d never waste your time here, in a hick town like this,” she mused.

Anxious to turn the subject, Vance replied, “And why do you waste your time here, my dear?” She started at the question, and he could see the green eyes turning cold. “Surely, a woman with your, ah, talents, could make a fortune in, say, San Francisco or New Orleans. Even San Antonio would be better than this place.” He had angered her now, and he was relieved. She would ask him no more questions tonight.

But Rita Jordan was not fooled. “It appears we’ve both got secrets, Vance. Don’t worry, I won’t ask no more tonight, but I’ll find you out.” Before he could reply, she added, “Now get out. I don’t want you in my bed all night.”

Back in his own room, Vance lay awake for a long time in the dark. What kept Rita Jordan in this town? It was a question he had asked himself many times, but until today he had had no answers. It could not be love, since Rita had no other lovers. In fact, Will had mentioned that Vance was the only other man besides himself who had ever been upstairs in the saloon. There was so obviously nothing between Will and Rita that even the gossips had given up on that. If it was not love, only one other emotion could motivate a woman like Rita Jordan. He had seen hate in her eyes when she spoke of Dusty Rhoades. Could that be it? But what could the cowboy have done to make her hate him so? Could he have scorned her? The idea was inconceivable that a cowboy would have refused her. Why, most men would have killed for her. There had to be more to it than that. Suppose, just suppose, she had wanted more. Suppose she had wanted to marry Rhoades, and he had refused. Not that there weren’t many men who would have married her. A lot of prostitutes had married and become respectable. Come to think of it, Rita herself had married. As a wealthy widow, she could have made a new life somewhere back east, if she had wanted to. Instead, she was here. Was Rhoades one of those men with principles, too good for a girl who had worked the line? Vance considered. He knew little of Rhoades except what he had observed and heard. Obviously, he was well liked, a young man with ambition and a future—and a choice. He was not wealthy, but he would be welcomed into the home of any respectable family in the state. He could choose among any of the daughters of Texas for a wife if he wished. Vance pictured a certain woman’s face in his mind. If he had a choice between Rita and a woman like... like her, well, there would be no choice.

As he slept, Jason Vance dreamed he held a woman in his arms. Her body was Rita Jordan’s body, but when he saw her face, it was the face of Priscilla Bedford.