Chapter One

Priscilla looked down the barrel of the rifle. It seemed to stare at her like one large, black eye. She knew little about guns, but she knew enough to sit very still on the settee. Of course, a gun was only as dangerous as the person holding it. Cautiously, Priscilla looked up into the face of the man behind the rifle. Two cold gray eyes stared down at her. Cold, yes, she had always thought so. The eyes of a gambler. But were they dangerous? Few men would shoot a woman. Fewer still a woman who was...

Instinctively, her hand went to her still-flat tummy. No, he would have no way of knowing that. Afraid he might have read her thoughts, she glanced up at him again, but he had turned to watch the woman who stalked catlike to and fro, across the room, from the front door to the window and back, eyes searching the empty road.

The woman turned fierce eyes on Priscilla. With certainty, Priscilla decided the danger lay not with the man, though he was dangerous enough, but with the woman. She could see quite plainly that this woman hated her, and Priscilla had to admit that she had good reason.

“Where is he?” the woman demanded.

“I don’t know,” answered Priscilla. That much was true.

“When’s he comin’ back?”

“I don’t know that either,” Priscilla said, although she had a pretty good idea that it would not be long.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” said the man. “He won’t be gone long.”

“What makes you so sure?” snapped the woman, her green eyes flashing.

“Because,” he replied, turning his gaze on Priscilla, and looking at her in a way that made her turn away, “he won’t stay away from her too long.”

The woman cursed violently. Priscilla was shocked but did not show it. After a long, awkward silence, she decided to speak.

“Please, if you will just tell me what it is you want. Whatever it is, simply tell me. It’s yours. Take it and go.”

The woman laughed scornfully and resumed her vigil at the window. The man simply smiled sardonically. “If only it were that easy, my dear lady, but alas, I am afraid we must wait. He”—he gestured toward the empty road—”is the only one who knows where it is.”

“That’s right,” agreed the woman. “We’ll wait for him. I been waitin’ for him for a long time.” The tone in her voice sent a cold chill over Priscilla.

The man stared at the green-eyed woman, a look of frank wonder on his face. “I’d almost give my share to know why it is that you hate him so much,” he murmured.

When the woman did not reply, he turned curious eyes to Priscilla. “You know, don’t you, ma’am?”

Priscilla simply met his gaze with unblinking eyes. He sighed in defeat. All of them turned once more to look out the open window at the still-empty road.

Priscilla looked again at the rifle, no longer pointed directly at her but certainly close enough. Well, she had come west for adventure. For a while she had been afraid that she would find the West just as tame as the Philadelphia of her youth. That fear seemed ludicrous now. She suddenly longed for her peaceful classroom, and for once, as she looked again at the winding road, she had no desire to see the man she loved. What would he say, what would he do, when he saw her captors? Odd, too, that the four of them—four people whose paths had crossed in such unusual ways—should soon all come together. In the deadly silence that remained, she thought back to the very beginning.

Priscilla’s first view of Rainbow, Texas, had been through a cloud of dust outside the tiny window of a jolting stagecoach. The town seemed to spring from nowhere, a single street of unsightly buildings with a few houses scattered along the outskirts. That long street was virtually deserted in the early afternoon hour, and in place of the curious crowd of welcomers she had expected stood one lone cowboy.

The cowboy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The new schoolteacher was not quite what he had expected. Not that he could see too much of her. He had caught a glimpse of a face when she had stepped off the stage but she was wearing one of those bonnets that stuck out in front and now she had turned away from him. What he had seen was all right, though. She wasn’t quite pretty, but then few women really looked good after fifty miles on that stagecoach. Maybe she would clean up to look better. She was a little on the small side, too—maybe not even up to his chin—and she was wearing one of those consarn dusters that covered her from neck to knees and effectively concealed whatever feminine charms she might possess. But still, he liked what he saw, even if there was something about her that didn’t sit quite right with him. Stella had said, “Meet the stage this afternoon and look for the new schoolma’am. Look for a young woman, says she’s twenty-four. Now she’ll be real scared and nervous just comin’ into town, so you mind yourself and be real kind to her.”

That was the part that didn’t fit. She did not look twenty-four, but then maybe women didn’t dry up as fast back East as they did in Texas. But it was more than that. She did not look one bit scared or nervous, either. In fact, she looked downright confident, standing there with those little shoulders squared, looking up and down the street to see who was going to meet her, just like she was some kind of queen come to pay a royal visit or something. Confident, that was it. Too damn confident, he decided, leaning back against the front of the hotel and taking a deep drag from the cigarette he had rolled a short while ago. He liked a woman to be a little off guard, a little vulnerable. Suppose he waited a minute or two, let her think no one had come to meet her, that she was all alone in a strange town in the middle of Texas. She would get a little worried. Those big, dark eyes—he could see they were dark now that she’d turned this way again—would get all soft and misty. Then he would come to her rescue. He liked that idea. How grateful she would be. He smiled slightly at the thought, crossed his arms over his chest, and shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other, to wait.

Priscilla Bedford looked around for someone who might be Ben Steele, come to meet her. She saw no one who looked like a successful, middle-aged rancher. No one, in fact, who seemed to be looking for her at all. The only person around was that cowboy. She had seen him as the stage had driven up. Leaning indolently against the front wall of the hotel, he presented a striking picture in the western clothes she had not yet become accustomed to. He was tall, over six feet she guessed, in those high-heeled boots, and whipcord lean, although he had a pair of shoulders that any man would envy. He was wearing the usual plaid shirt with a red silk bandana knotted at his throat, and a pair of the faded blue Levis, that seemed to be de rigueur for men in this part of the world, covered the impossible length of his slender legs. Bench-made boots, Priscilla noted, adorned his feet, and on his head he wore a large Stetson that had once been white pushed carelessly back to reveal a shock of hair that was the strangest color she had ever seen. Not exactly red or blond, or any other color she could name, it waved gently across his broad forehead in an untameable tangle. All this she had noticed in the time it took for the stage to draw up and stop before the Rainbow Hotel. She had managed only a glance at his face, hastily averting her eyes when she found him staring back, and was left with the impression that he possessed the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He was clean shaven. That much she had noticed and it was noteworthy, since almost every man she had met sported either a beard, long side whiskers, or at the very least, a mustache. That hair, she thought, would make a remarkable beard. What color was it? Just about the color, she decided, of the Texas dust she had been living with for the past two days on the stage. She hazarded another glance in his direction, and found he was still watching her, so she kept her eyes moving, scanning the sidewalk in both directions for someone coming to meet her. Still no one in sight, except the cowboy, and he was obviously not looking for her, just at her, so she deliberately avoided looking back at him.

Her only fellow passenger had gotten his bag and was ready to go on his way. He approached her and asked, “Anything more I can do for you, Miss Bedford?” Priscilla looked up into a well-chiseled face. He was definitely handsome, she had long since decided, almost aristocratic with his aquiline nose and molded chin. The thin, well-trimmed black mustache and his carefully oiled and combed hair completed the well-ordered impression created by his black frock coat and white silk shirt. The only thing that prevented her from thinking he was a traveling minister was the brightly flowered vest he wore. New to the West, Priscilla could not know that the gaudy vest was a trademark for a certain type of man, but she did know that he wasn’t a preacher by the vest... and by his eyes. What was it about those eyes? So light gray as to be almost colorless, they stared back at her like two mirrors, reflecting her own image but allowing her no glimpse of the person behind them. Ignoring the small shiver that danced up her spine, she smiled politely at the man who had shared the stage with her for the last thirty miles. He had been a pleasant companion since a lame horse had forced him to flag down the stage, entertaining her with talk of literature and poetry. Pleasant, yes, but cold, and Priscilla wondered idly if anything ever cracked that cool, emotionless veneer.

“Thank you, Mr. Vance, but no. Someone will be meeting me very soon, I’m sure. I would not think of detaining you,” she said. He returned her courteous smile, or at least the corners of his mouth turned up, as he expressed his pleasure at having met her. Raising one long, slender, and very white hand, he tipped his hat to her and disappeared into the hotel.

“Miss, what’ll I do with your trunk?” It was the driver.

“Just set it there for now. Someone will be meeting me,” she replied. From the corner of her eye she could see the cowboy staring at her with a smirk on his face. It wasn’t the first time a young man had stared at her, and she could ordinarily handle it with aplomb, but this particular young man unaccountably annoyed her. She had half a mind to turn around and ask him what he thought he was staring at, but fearing that such an approach might only encourage someone so ill-mannered, she decided to ignore him.

Still no one to meet her. Well, perhaps the stage was early, she speculated. Deciding she would like to get a better look at the town, she walked a short distance down the wooden sidewalk in the opposite direction from where the cowboy was standing, passed the stagecoach, and looked across the street.

The street itself was more like a field than the tree-lined boulevards she was used to, large enough for four wagons to ride abreast. On the other side of the street was a row of unpainted buildings, sporting pretentious false fronts. Beginning at one end, she identified among others a Sheriff’s office, a lawyers’ office, a telegraph office, a saddle shop, and dwarfing them all was the only truly two-storied building in town, which even to Priscilla’s inexperienced eye, appeared to be a saloon. A large, ornate sign graced the front of the second story, on which was painted the word “Rita’s.” Intertwined in the letters was the stem of a yellow rose. “Rita’s Yellow Rose,” Priscilla said to herself. She smiled because it reminded her of the pubs in England whose signs were pictures because the populace could not read. “Well,” she thought, “that’s why I’m here.”

Was the cowboy still there? The question came unbidden to her mind, and she realized with a slight shock that she would be gravely disappointed if he had given up so easily. But no, she would not be disappointed. A funny little prickle along the back of her neck told her he was still keeping his vigil. Slowly, she turned toward where he was standing. He was indeed still watching, a look of admiration plain across his face, a small smirk twisting his well-formed mouth. He had just made a move to straighten up from his casual posture and for one awful moment Priscilla thought he would actually approach her. She forced her face into its most haughty expression, raising her eyebrows in a way that could only be described as disdainful, ignoring the strange impact those startlingly blue eyes seemed to be having on her senses. Their eyes locked in a silent struggle and slowly the cowboy’s smirk disappeared.

Yes, the cowboy liked what he had seen of the new schoolteacher so far. The way she walked, head up, looking around as if she owned the place, like a queen. Yes, regal was the word for her, all right. She did not look worried, though, and she didn’t look like the kind of woman who was likely to become distressed, now or at any other time. And that won his respect, however it might have ruined his plans. He found himself thinking how neatly she would tuck in just under his chin, just how cozy it would be to have her there. He was trying to decide if those huge brown eyes would be shy or bold in such an instance, when suddenly those huge brown eyes turned on him full force in all their frosty splendor. A joke was a joke, but Dusty suddenly realized that he had let this one drag out just a little too long. This was his last chance to speak up and explain himself, but as he roused himself to do just that, she gave him a look that could have stopped an elephant dead in its tracks. The words of explanation died on his lips.

A sudden noise across the street jarred her attention away and she saw a man coming out of the law office and hurrying across the street toward her, pulling on his suitcoat as he came. He was too young to be Ben Steele, but from the way he was approaching, she felt certain she was about to be met at last.

“Miss Bedford?” he inquired breathlessly. He was what was called a fine looking man, about thirty, medium height, with light brown hair and a matching mustache, and friendly eyes that seemed would always hold a smile. He had no particularly striking feature, but everything came together very nicely, right down to his tailored suit which, she noted with approval, lacked the telltale crease that said “store-bought.”

Priscilla put on her best “new schoolteacher” smile. “Yes,” she replied.

“How do you do, ma’am, I am George Wilson, Ben Steele’s son-in-law. He was unable to meet you personally. His health makes it difficult for him to get into town.” Priscilla murmured something sympathetic, and he continued, “I was instructed to meet you and here I’ve left you standing in the street. I hope you can forgive me.”

Priscilla was smiling for real, now. All the warnings she had received about the uncouth men she would have to endure out here seemed humorous as she looked at George Wilson, so obviously a man of good breeding. “Of course, Mr. Wilson. I haven’t been here more than a moment, at any rate.”

“You are very kind. We certainly don’t want you to get a bad impression on your first day here. My wife, Stella, is Mr. Steele’s eldest. She thought that you’d prefer to go directly to your room at the schoolhouse and freshen up a bit before being presented to the entire family.”

“Oh, how very kind. That sounds like a wonderful idea to me,” Priscilla said happily. She was going to like Stella Steele Wilson.

“Good,” George Wilson said. “My wife was going to send someone with a wagon out from the ranch to take you in. Let’s see.” He was looking past her for that someone. “Yes, there’s our foreman now.”

A sixth sense and a tiny little flutter in her stomach told Priscilla that she was about to meet her cowboy face to face. Turning expectantly, she watched her admirer sheepishly step forward. Well, she thought with an irritation way out of proportion to the event, maybe he had his reasons for letting me stand here on the sidewalk like a fool, gawking at me, but they cannot be very good ones. Ignoring the small voice that urged caution and following the demon who encouraged revenge, she turned back to George Wilson and asked in a very loud whisper behind her hand, “Can he speak?”

Puzzled, George Wilson looked at his foreman, at her, and then at his foreman again. Now George Wilson was a clever man, clever enough to know when he had come in in the middle of a game, and from his friend’s bleak expression and the twinkle in the schoolteacher’s eye, he knew who was holding the high card. Never liking to pick a loser, he chose to back the little lady. “Why, of course he can speak,” he replied innocently.

“I only ask,” she continued in her stage whisper, “because he’s been standing there ever since I got off the stage, and he never gave any indication he was here to meet me. I thought perhaps he was deaf and dumb.” She lowered her hand and smiled guilelessly at the cowboy.

His bleak expression was turning thunderous now. The worst part was not being embarrassed in front of George, but the fact that he had decided to play a game with her, and she had beaten him at it. It did not sit well, not well at all.

“Miss Bedford”—it was Wilson remembering his manners and enjoying his friend’s discomfort—”this is our foreman, Dusty Rhoades.”

Priscilla almost laughed out loud. She had never heard a name like that before. Surely, it must be a joke. But no, neither man was laughing, least of all Dusty Rhoades. And a more perfect name she could not have chosen for him. “How do you do, Mr. Rhoades?” she said and smiled a smile that she hoped made her look very attractive.

It did, and that made Dusty even madder, if that were possible. “Howdy, ma’am,” he mumbled, and tipped his hat slightly. To Wilson he said, “I got a wagon down at the livery. I’ll load up her trunk.”

“Fine, thank you, Dusty. We’ll be waiting inside,” Wilson said, but Dusty had already gone to get the wagon. With a small shrug and an amused smile, he turned to Priscilla. “Perhaps you would like some refreshment before you continue your journey. It’s a long, thirsty drive to the Steele place.”

“Thank you. I’d love a cup of tea at least,” she agreed.

“There’s a very nice restaurant here at the hotel, if you will allow me,” George Wilson said, offering his arm. With a short backward glance to where her cowboy had disappeared, she took Wilson’s arm and entered the hotel.

Priscilla’s private opinion was that the hotel would have been more correctly described as a restaurant that rented rooms. In any case, they could not have had more than four or five rooms down the short hall that led off the lobby, and no one could be seen manning the desk. The restaurant, however, which opened off the lobby, obviously did a brisk business during mealtimes. Even though the large room was deserted now, most of the tables bore evidence of having been used for the noon meal. Wilson’s call brought a large, officious-looking woman bustling from the kitchen. In spite of her plain clothes and stained apron, she proved to be the owner of the Rainbow Hotel, and she made Priscilla welcome in a distracted way.

“You’ll want to wash up, I expect,” Mrs. Siddons said, and without bothering to wait for an answer, propelled Priscilla through the kitchen to an enclosed porch where she found a pump and a wooden bench on which were such items as were deemed necessary for personal hygiene: a dingy tin basin and a bar of homemade soap so covered with dirt as to be barely recognizable. Above the bench hanging from a string was a comb with most of its teeth missing and a roller towel which Priscilla estimated had not been laundered in her lifetime.

Seeing Priscilla’s dismay, Mrs. Siddons erupted into a fit of laughter that shook her ample frame from top to bottom. “S-sorry, miss,” she managed at last, wiping her streaming eyes with the corner of her apron. “We don’t get many ladies here. I reckon I’m just so used to the place, I don’t see it the way a stranger does. Just wait right here. I’ll fix you right up.” As good as her word, she returned shortly with a porcelain basin, a brand new bar of soap and a spanking white towel, for which Priscilla expressed undying gratitude.

With her face and hands washed and most of the loose dirt brushed out of her duster, Priscilla made her way back to the dining room, where she found George Wilson seated at one of the tables. In another moment, Mrs. Siddons, who was not only the owner of the restaurant but also the cook and waitress, served them a pot of tea and a plate of donuts, which Wilson assured Priscilla were the specialty of the house. Specialty or not, Priscilla found them delicious after the beef and beans regimen of the stage stops for the past two days, and she ate two greedily.

Surprisingly, at least to Priscilla, George Wilson made no mention of the scene outside with Dusty Rhoades, although she could tell by the twinkle in his eyes that he was remembering it with amusement. Instead he made polite inquiries about her trip, and told her a little about the town. Priscilla could not help glancing up from time to time to see if Dusty Rhoades would come in to join them, and she was aware of a vague sense of disappointment when he did not appear.

When she had finished her second cup of tea, Wilson asked, “Are you ready to go? I’m sure Dusty has your trunk loaded up by now.”

“Yes, I’m ready,” she replied, rising from the table.

The flutter in her stomach, she told herself sternly, was excitement over starting a new life and quite definitely not over the prospect of seeing Dusty Rhoades again.

They encountered the cowboy in the lobby where he sat sprawled on one of the horsehair sofas, apparently engrossed in a rather yellowed newspaper. When he heard their footsteps, Dusty allowed himself to steal a glance over the top of the paper. Why, she was no bigger than a minute, he told himself. For sure, nothing to be scared of. Not that he was scared. It was just that, well, she put a man off balance. Nothing he couldn’t handle, though. Never met a woman yet who couldn’t be handled, if you were just careful, he mused. Dusty heaved a weary sigh. Something told him this one would need a lot of care, though. He put down the paper and rose to his feet with elaborate casualness, his face expressionless, careful to avoid looking at the new schoolteacher. “All set to go?” he asked George, as if Priscilla were not able to speak for herself.

More courteous, George cast an inquiring look at Priscilla before replying in the affirmative.

“Wagon’s out front,” Dusty informed them and stood aside as George escorted her outside and helped her up onto the wagon seat.

Priscilla was still adjusting her skirts when Dusty Rhoades levered his long form up onto the seat beside her. Only then did the truth begin to dawn on her, and as she turned back to where George still stood beside the wagon, some of her dismay must have shown on her face, because George had the grace to look a little sympathetic as he confirmed her worst fears. “Dusty will take you out to the ranch. I have some business here in town, but I’ll see you at supper later. You’ll be quite safe in Dusty’s capable hands, I assure you,” he added as if in answer to her silent plea. She could not be certain, but she thought his lip twitched under his mustache. Priscilla thanked him prettily for his kindness while her eyes condemned him for his betrayal, and as he backed away, he was openly chuckling at her dilemma.

Determined to make the best of an unpleasant situation, Priscilla pulled her lips into a polite little smile and turned to Dusty Rhoades to make a conciliatory remark, but just as she opened her mouth, he slapped the reins and let loose a resounding “Gee-up,” and the wagon lurched into motion so quickly she was forced to grab hold of the seat to keep from falling over, all friendly overtures forgotten.

Unknown to either of them, from across the street, two green eyes watched their departure from a window above the painted yellow rose—two green eyes in which the hint of malice was unmistakable.

Rita Jordan watched Dusty and Priscilla from her window above the saloon with great personal interest. “Dusty with a woman,” she said to herself and the thought gave her great pleasure. And great pain. For years she had waited for her chance. She had been very patient, like a spider spinning a web. It had taken courage and ingenuity to even get to the place where she could spin it, and that had been accomplished long ago. Then she had had to wait because although the web was ready she had no bait for it, nothing with which to attract her victim to his destruction, and for so very long not even a hope of any. Now for the first time, she had seen Dusty with a woman. Perhaps this woman could be the bait. Who was she? No matter. By sundown tonight, Rita would know all there was to know about her and if she could possibly be useful.

As she thought about these things, she saw someone else come out of the hotel who interested her. A stranger, a man, very handsome and from her perspective at least, he seemed well-dressed. Who was he? That information Rita would also know by this evening and probably would also have met the man himself. Not many men came to town without visiting Rita’s Yellow Rose.

The object of Rita’s curiosity was Jason Vance, Priscilla’s fellow passenger. Having obtained a room for the night, Vance made his way to the livery stable, the one place in town where he was sure to obtain the only two other things he needed: a horse and some information. A man of the world, Vance knew that the livery was usually kept by a nondescript character whom everyone knew and to whom no one paid any attention. Consequently, this character was likely to overhear many conversations in the course of his job and to know everything of importance going on in the town, and quite a bit of unimportance.

In Rainbow the character was an old man, probably not as old as he looked, but too old to punch cows anymore. He sat dozing in a chair leaning back against the wall of the stable.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Vance, waking the old man with a start. “I am new in town and in great need of a horse. Would you possibly know of one I might purchase?”

Not used to being addressed as “sir” or treated with any sort of respect, the man sat blinking for a moment, as if not quite certain he was awake. At last he said, “Sure, mister. I think I kin hep ya out.”

“I would appreciate it very much. Jason Vance is my name.” Vance extended his hand for the old man to shake. For a moment he just stared at it in disbelief and then finally, he wiped his own hand on his dirty jeans and shook hands with Vance.

“Potter’s my name. Zeke Potter. Folks jist call me Ol’ Zeke,” he sputtered.

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Potter. Perhaps you would do me the favor of advising me about the horses you have for sale here.” Naturally Ol’ Zeke was only too happy to oblige his new friend and for a long time they discussed the merits of the horses whose owners Zeke was sure would be willing to strike a bargain with Vance. Vance listened respectfully, asking questions, allowing Potter to show off his knowledge of horse flesh. Finally, he allowed himself to be persuaded to buy the horse he had long since decided on, a black gelding with white stockings. Not a fine horse, but it would serve his purpose. Vance asked Potter to serve as his agent in the sale, giving him his commission in advance.

Having won the old man’s confidence, Vance proceeded to his next order of business. “You wouldn’t have anything to drink around here, would you?” he asked conspiratorially.

“Shore do,” he chortled and produced a bottle of whisky and a tin cup. Pouring for Vance, he drank straight from the bottle.

“Nice little town you got here,” Vance ventured, seating himself on a three-legged stool.

“Yep, it shore is,” Potter agreed and launched into a history of Rainbow and how it had been settled by a few big ranchers: Steele, Old Man Rhoades who was dead now, and a few others.

“I notice you’ve only got one saloon. That the only place a man can get a drink—besides the Livery Stable?” Vance asked, winking.

Potter chuckled. “Well, thar’s a barroom at the hotel, but that’s jist fer a select few who don’t wanna be seen cavortin’ over at Rita’s.”

“Rita’s,” Vance mused. “You don’t see many saloons owned by women.”

“Nope,” Potter agreed. “Don’t see many women like Rita Jordan, neither.”

“I guess her husband helps run the place,” Vance suggested.

“No, Rita’s a widow woman. That’s a right funny story in itself.” Potter chuckled again. The whisky and the audience were making him very talkative. Vance leaned forward with interest to encourage him.

“Seems about five, six years back, Rita, she was workin’ the Kansas cattle towns. One day this ol’ miner, Sam Jordan was his name, comes inta this town where she was, claims he struck it rich and has the gold to prove it. Says he’s got a secret strike somewheres and it’s worth millions. He feels like celebratin’ and claims he’s gonna marry him the prettiest whore in town and build her a castle. Well, he commences to tryin’ out every cat house in town to pick him a bride an’ he finally settles when he gets to Rita. He shore nuff married her—lasted three days ‘til they found him dead in his bed. Doc said his heart give out, but folks all reckoned that Rita was jist too much woman fer him. Anyhow, it took the undertaker two days to git the smile off his face!” Potter dissolved in drunken laughter at his own joke.

Vance smiled politely. He had heard the story before, but like the careful man he was, he was checking his facts. “So she got the mine,” he suggested.

“Hell, no,” said Potter when he recovered himself.

“Prob’ly weren’t no mine at all, prob’ly jist stole the gold offin some pore old soul. But she did git what gold he had left an’ that was a heap.”

“Set her up for life, I guess. Strange she’d choose a one-horse town like this when she could have gone anywhere,” Vance said.

“Yeah, even funnier, when she come here, there’s already a saloon here. She wants to buy it, but Ol’ Franklin, he won’t sell. So she waits around. Then, one day, Franklin up an’ dies. Doc says it was his heart. Me, I always figured old Rita give him a dose of what killed Sam Jordan.” He chuckled again.

“She must be a dried up old woman by now,” Vance sighed.

“Well, she ain’t as young as she once was but she ain’t so old neither. An’ she ain’t too hard to look at, if ya know what I mean.” Potter’s eyes were a little glazed now, thinking of the lovely Rita through a whisky fog.

“My friend, I thank you for a very enjoyable afternoon, but I am afraid I must be going as I have other business to attend to.” Vance rose to leave, setting his untouched cup of whisky on the floor.

Potter leaned his chair back against the wall again. “You’re a gambler,” he said. It was not a question. Vance stopped. “Be kerful. Miss Rita’s mighty particular who gambles in her place.” Potter’s eyes were closed now and the next moment he was snoring. Vance smiled to himself and moved on. He would be careful. A gambler had to be.

While Vance was horsetrading, Dusty’s wagon made its way slowly to the Steele ranch. When they had been gone but five minutes from town, Priscilla began to seriously regret her earlier cleverness. It was one thing to put a man in his place if you never had to see him again, and quite another if you were going to quite soon be thrust into his company for a considerable length of time. If she had known, she would have been more careful. Well, that had always been her trouble, never thinking of the consequences. This was not the first time she had had to get herself out of a sticky situation and she guessed she should know how by now. The first thing she had to do was break the oppressive silence that lay between them. She darted a quick glance at her companion. Something about the tight set of his jaw told her she would get little help from him. She had to think of some safe, neutral topic with which to begin a conversation. At that moment, the breeze caught her bonnet, and as she made the necessary adjustments, she decided. The weather is always a safe topic.

Feeling Priscilla’s eyes on him, Dusty looked over just as she looked away. Now what does she think she’s looking at? he wondered, taking an extra second to examine her profile. Funny, he hadn’t noticed before how her nose turned up on the end. Kind of pert. Yeah, that was it, he thought, with a flash of annoyance. Pert. Described her perfectly. His glance slid over and touched her again briefly. A piece of her hair had come loose from under her bonnet and was hanging down her back. He had thought her hair was dark, brown or black or something like that, but in the sunlight that one piece looked almost red. It sort of glittered. He shifted uneasily on the seat, fighting the urge to reach over and tuck that stray lock of hair back where it belonged. Or better still, have a look at what the rest of her hair was like. Reminding himself of the way she had injured his pride—in front of George, no less—he brought himself up short. You owe her, pardner, he told himself, stifling any more tender feelings, and smiled grimly.

Readjusting her bonnet against the onslaught of the Texas breeze, Priscilla inquired quite sincerely, “Does the wind blow this way all the time?”

Dusty only hesitated for a moment before answering in his best deadpan, “No, ma’am, it blows the other way about half the time.”

It took Priscilla a full thirty seconds to realize she had been had. Her initial reaction was that the poor, ignorant cowboy had misunderstood her, but one glance at his face had convinced her otherwise. He was actually grinning! It was such an engaging grin, too, so boyish and innocent looking. How could a face like that cover such a black heart? Suddenly that face turned toward her, those improbably blue eyes, brimming with laughter, seeking out her reaction to his thrust. Those eyes clashed with hers for one brief instant before she lifted her chin and turned away to watch the Texas scenery go by.

Dusty had waited a full minute before turning to see if he had scored a hit, but when he glanced over, he almost forgot his triumph. Good Lord, her eyes were dark! So brown they were almost black and flashing fire, too, or he was damned. Then she’d poked that little chin out at him and turned away—snubbed him, or tried to, but it was no good. He knew he’d won that round. He stifled a chuckle as he stole another look at his adversary. Those smooth, white cheeks had turned mighty pink and he didn’t think it was from the sun, either. And the way her lips were thinned out and pressed together, she must be really fuming. Not that she could really thin that bottom lip. It was still pretty full. And soft looking. A man could catch it between his teeth and... he jerked himself back from such reflection, swearing under his breath. This woman had made a fool of him. He had to keep that in mind. Never mind how she looked. A rattler could be mighty pretty, too, until it bit you. With that in mind, he turned back to his driving.

Priscilla was fuming, but at the same time she was trying to be sensible. After all, she had made a fool of the man, and in front of George Wilson, too. That was a serious blow, and he had certainly been justified in striking back. It was only fair. Now they were even. And, she reminded herself, it behooved her to be generous since this man was someone she was bound to come in contact with day after day. Peace must be made, and she would be the one to do it. Show him there were no hard feelings. Begin again. She cast about in her mind for another safe topic with which to begin a conversation. What man does not like to talk about himself?

Priscilla let another mile fall behind them and then said, as pleasantly as she could, “Mr. Wilson said you were the foreman. Exactly what does a foreman do?”

Dusty had almost jumped when she had spoken, so shocked was he at the mildness of her voice. She sounded so sweet, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Looked sweet, too, he decided, turning wary eyes in her direction. Anyone would think she was really interested, but he knew better. Trying to get him to talk, was she? Looking for a weak spot where she could stick him. Well, she’d have to do a lot more than flutter those long eyelashes to get to Dusty Rhoades. He was immune to her charms. “Oh, a little bit of everything, ma’am,” he replied with a studied lack of enthusiasm.

Only slightly daunted—she had expected a little resistance—she continued. “Is it like a cowboy?” she inquired ignorantly with a small encouraging smile.

It was wasted on him because he chose not to look up. She’d get no encouragement from him. Determined was she? Well, he’d dealt with nosey easterners before. None of them were any match for a westerner determined not to talk. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied blandly, without even so much as a glance in her direction.

Priscilla fought down a wave of annoyance. Stubborn was he? Well, she could be just as stubborn as he. Fortunately, she had read enough about cattle ranching to know exactly what a ranch foreman was and did. She doubted very much whether he could long withstand the temptation to admit that he did indeed almost single-handedly run Ben Steele’s ranch with its thousands of cattle. Pretending she was unconcerned by his monosyllabic answers, she continued to question him, phrasing her queries in such a way that he could answer to show himself to advantage, but he foiled her. To each question she received either a “Yes, ma’am” or a “No, ma’am,” delivered in an extremely bored monotone, until at last she felt like screaming in frustration. Finally, in exasperation, she snapped, “You needn’t keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ I doubt that anyone over the age of twelve has ever called me ‘ma’am.’ “

Dusty pursed his lips a moment to keep from grinning at the opening she had given him at last and schooled his features into innocence. Turning to her with what might have passed for total sincerity, he informed her, “Well, ma’am”—he put great emphasis on the word—”I reckon you better get used to hearin’ it around her. See, folks in Texas are different from folks back east. Folks in Texas are polite.” He allowed himself the luxury of watching his words sink in, watching those large, dark eyes grow larger still and that pretty little Cupid’s bow of a mouth drop open, and those soft round cheeks turn pink and then pinker still, until that little jaw snapped shut, eyes flashing fire again, and the whole face turned away. She was the picture of outrage, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing right out.

Priscilla was so angry, she could scarcely breathe. She was afraid she might start puffing like an enraged old lady at any moment. Polite, indeed! A fine nerve he had, talking about “polite,” the rudest man in creation! She’d bent over backward trying to reconcile with him and this was her reward. Several miles rolled by before she could even think rationally and several more before she could be reasonable. No man had ever succeeded in making her this angry, and she had traded witticisms with many men. Educated men. Cultured men. Boring men. The thought startled her. Had they been boring? Of course they had, she told herself ruthlessly. Why else would she have fled the East when the opportunity presented itself? She had wanted excitement. Excitement, yes, but not this! she argued with herself. This cowboy was so, so, what was the word? Relentless! Yes, that was it. Relentless. With a small jolt, she suddenly realized that the same might have been said about her. Indeed, probably had been said about her by all those men who had surrendered so graciously to her in those battles of wit. No one had ever been able to best her. Until today. She had simply never met her match before. Her match! The thought was strangely disturbing. And exciting. She stole a sidelong glance at Dusty Rhoades.

He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, reins held loosely in his large, sun-darkened hands. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, so she could not see much of his face, but she noticed the way his jaw squared away before it curved up to meet his ear. and the way that ridiculous red-gold hair curled along the back of his neck. His shirt was pulled taut across his shoulders, and she watched the play of muscles under the material. She had thought him thin when she had first seen him standing by the hotel, with his long legs and narrow hips, but now she realized that she had been mistaken. While not one ounce of fat graced his large frame, he was well padded with a solid layer of muscle that molded his shoulders, his arms, his thighs, his whole body into a thing of beauty. Well, not beauty, exactly, Priscilla chided herself. After all, women were beautiful and men were... well, manly. Dusty Rhoades was certainly that. All bone and muscle, his body was probably rock hard to the touch. Priscilla felt a flutter in her stomach and looked quickly away. Such thoughts! A lady never considered how a man’s body would feel, for heaven’s sake. Still... she glanced over to him again. He was engrossed in driving the wagon, and she watched the way his brown hands worked the reins, holding them almost carelessly between his long, thin fingers. She compared her own small, smooth hands to his, dark, work-roughened, calloused, and hard. For a moment she imagined how those hands would feel moving across her bare skin. Horrified, she jerked her eyes and her thoughts away, blushing at her own boldness. What had gotten into her? A lady did not think such things. Especially about a man who had treated her so shabbily. Why, he had never even spoken a civil word to her and here she was thinking about... Her face burned even hotter as she tried to concentrate on watching the passing countryside. She tried to be reasonable. A man like that was hardly worthy of her attention. He was rude, uncultured, ill-bred, and probably already had a girl, anyway. Priscilla stiffened at the thought. Now where had that come from? No matter. It was probably true, she insisted. Why, he might even be married, for all she knew. Married! Of their own accord her eyes darted back to his hands. No wedding ring, of course. Men did not wear wedding rings. Well, he didn’t act married, but then how did married men act? Well, polite, like George Wilson. No, that wasn’t right. Single men acted polite like that, too, usually. But not Dusty Rhoades. Oh, no. That proved nothing. But was he married? Priscilla knew an irrational desire to find out. Later she would realize that she might have waited and found out from anyone in a very casual way, but that was later. At this moment she was only aware of a burning desire to know. Now how could she find out? She could certainly not simply ask, “Are you married?” She cringed at the thought of what his answer to that might be. No, it would have to be subtle. Discreet.

Dusty straightened to ease his back. He did not care much for wagons, but he was still smiling. Almost to the ranch and not a peep out of her for the last five miles. He guessed he knew how to put her in her place. She’d met her match in him, all right. He hazarded a glance in her direction. That chin was still sticking out a mile. It was a struggle not to laugh out loud when he remembered how her mouth had dropped right open. Well, a woman had to learn proper respect, and this one had been taught by a master. He savored the feeling of accomplishment. Yes, the schoolteacher had learned something today, and he was satisfied. And smug.

Suddenly, she spoke. “Will you have any children inthe school, Mr. Rhoades?”

“None that I know of.” The words were out before he could stop them. It had seemed so natural, and he hadn’t been thinking and now he’d done it. A little friendly banter was one thing, but he’d just made an off-color remark to a lady, and a total stranger at that. A man had to be mighty careful around a decent woman. Hell, he’d known women to faint, or at least pretend to, from just hearing the word “leg.” And wait ‘til Stella found out. She’d murder him. What a fool he was! He silently cursed himself, not daring to look at his companion while he tried to figure out what to do.

Priscilla was in shock. Well, that was what she deserved for lusting in her heart. Your sins will find you out, she remembered her grandmother warning her. She had thought him uncouth and ill-mannered and so he had proven himself. Heaven only knew to what depravity a man like that would stoop! Horrified, she realized he was stopping the wagon. All the veiled warnings she had received about the dangers of a woman traveling alone started ringing in her ears. What should she do? What could she do? She was alone in the middle of nowhere. She had no idea which way to run, if she could have outrun the long-legged cowboy, and this she doubted very much. Well, whatever happened, she would brazen it out. She would not betray fear, no matter what happened. Stiffening her spine along with her resolve, she turned her large and over-bright eyes toward Dusty Rhoades.

Dusty was sitting very still, studying the reins that he held with great care. He had quickly, very quickly indeed, considered all his options and come to the very discomforting conclusion that he must apologize. As much as it rankled, he knew he had no other choice if he ever wanted to show his face at the Steele ranch again. He could only hope that she would forgive him, because if she didn’t... well, it didn’t bear thinking of. Gathering his courage along with the strength of will it took to swallow his pride, he took a deep breath.

“Ma’am, I mean, Miss Bedford, you must think I’m the lowest, meanest polecat you ever met.” Priscilla blinked in astonishment. Could this be an apology? She had no idea what a “polecat” was, but the repentant tone in his voice was unmistakable. She listened raptly as he continued. “Fact is, you’re prob’ly right, but I’m not usually so low and mean to a lady as I have been to you. It ain’t no excuse, but I just got a burr under my saddle ‘cause of the way you treated me back in town. I’m mighty sorry for offendin’ you. If you could forgive me, I’d be much obliged.” He forced himself to meet her eyes, as much to judge her reaction as to let her see he was sincere.

Priscilla looked deep into those bluest-of-blue eyes, and saw no dancing devils. For whatever reason, he truly regretted having offended her. And well he should! she reasoned. There was no excuse... well, maybe there was an excuse, she admitted as her own conscience pricked her. She had not considered apologizing as a way of clearing the air between them, but since he had started it... “Mr. Rhoades, if you offended me, it was no more than I deserved. I was unspeakably rude to you, and I must beg your pardon for that.”

Dusty’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Well, now, that was a lot more than he’d bargained for. Maybe she wasn’t such a shrew after all. But he knew the rules. A gentleman never let a lady take the blame. Not if he really wanted to hear the end of it. He swallowed the last remnant of his pride and said, “You were right in that, though. I did leave you standin’ and for no good reason.” It had been a bad day all around, he decided.

He certainly was a stubborn man, Priscilla concluded with amusement. Now that he had decided to reconcile, he would not even let her share the burden of guilt. Well, she could be as magnanimous as he. “It seems we have both been entirely at fault,” she declared, letting her amusement show in her voice. “Perhaps we should call this a draw and declare a truce. Does that seem fair?” The surprise and uncertainty on his face made her smile. She had caught him off guard. Maybe she had managed to maintain some advantage after all.

She sure was a hard woman to figure, he decided, as he watched her lips shape themselves into a smile. Had mighty pretty teeth, too, he noticed. In fact, her whole face looked kind of pretty when she smiled. He smiled back. “More than fair, ma—Miss Bedford,” he agreed.

He looked so appealing when he smiled. Impulsively, Priscilla held out her hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

Dusty did not think he had ever shaken hands with a woman, but he surely did not want to offend her again, so he wiped his palm on his pant leg and took her hand. It felt awfully small and very soft and terribly fragile, except that she was gripping back, shaking hands the way a man would, only with that tiny little hand. It gave him the funniest feeling in the pit of his stomach, and a little lower...

His hand was so large and warm. It seemed to swallow hers as he gingerly took possession of it. Still, she could sense his strength, the power he was holding back, a force that could overwhelm her if he ever let it go. It gave her the funniest feeling in the pit of her stomach, and a little lower...

As blue eyes looked into brown ones, the large hand continued to hold the small one for long seconds after a normal handshake would have ceased, until they both realized the impropriety of just sitting there holding hands. Priscilla gave an embarrassed little laugh as she drew her hand away in the same instant that Dusty blinked and shook his head and released his grip. Both looked quickly away, Priscilla acutely aware of her heightened color, Dusty wondering why his collar felt so tight when he wasn’t even wearing one.

“How far...”

“We’re almost...”

They both looked up and began speaking at the same time, and this time they both laughed, each enjoying the other’s embarrassment.

“You first,” Dusty said, studying the way her eyes sparkled as if they had tiny little stars in them.

“I was just going to ask how far it was to the ranch,” she said, liking the way the corners of his eyes crinkled up when he smiled.

He chuckled. “I was just going to say we’re not too far from the ranch now. The road forks up ahead here a ways, and then you’ll see the ranch over to your left. The school’s about a half-mile further after that.”

Priscilla nodded her understanding, and after watching her with inordinate interest for another moment, Dusty took up the reins again and chucked the team into motion.

“There’ll be a gate before we get to the school. Ben— Mr. Steele—fenced it in with bobwire so the cows wouldn’t bother you none.” He cut his eyes in her direction to find she was listening raptly. For a moment he almost forgot what he had been saying. “They—the cows—might rub up against the house in the middle of the night,” he continued after a second’s hesitation. “Not bein’ used to it, it might scare you.”

“I’m certain it would,” she agreed cheerfully, finding herself abnormally interested in the nocturnal habits of domesticated cattle.

“Also the kids ride horses to school and they can just turn them loose in the yard without having to worry about them strayin’,” he explained.

Priscilla agreed it was very sensible, and Dusty went on to explain the relative merits of barbed-wire fencing as opposed to the unreasonable prejudices ranchers had always had against it, and Priscilla discovered a hitherto unsuspected interest in the subject. She managed to agree and disagree at the appropriate times as he rattled on, and before she knew it, Dusty was jumping down to open the gate that led to the schoolyard. Soon, just as he had said, the school appeared, and standing in the yard was a plump fair-haired woman watching their approach: Stella Steele Wilson.

The schoolhouse sat sheltered on the north side by a small hill and the ground fell away gently on the south side to a small creek, a branch of the larger creek which ran over by the ranch house. The building itself was logs, tightly fitted and well chinked. The west side was the front door to the school, and Priscilla could see that the school even had a bell tower. Ancient oak trees grew along the creek bank and provided shade for the schoolyard.

Dusty pulled the wagon up and stopped. “Well, this is it,” he informed Priscilla, and she wondered if she had imagined the relief in his voice. She watched in admiration as he jumped lithely to the ground, and then Priscilla turned her attention to the woman standing in the yard while she waited for Dusty to come around and assist her down from the wagon.

Stella Wilson waited expectantly, resting one hand on her rather ample hip and using the other to shade her eyes from the afternoon sun. Silently, and in a very ladylike manner, she cursed the fashion of the day. Poke bonnets had their purpose, she supposed, and that was, of course, protecting delicate female complexions from the ravages of the sun, but they certainly could be a hindrance when you wanted to see what somebody looked like, and she certainly did want to see what the new arrival looked like. Not that she was nosy, but she had a vested interest in this young woman, an interest that might prove very interesting indeed if the girl was pretty. It would also help if she had a good figure, but that too, was impossible to know at the moment, what with that very practical duster covering her almost from head to toe. Why, a body would need a pretty vivid imagination just to guess that she was a female at all, from what was showing. Well, time will tell, she decided philosophically, her sharp blue eyes studying Dusty’s expression as he reached up to help Priscilla to the ground.

Priscilla actually needed no help in alighting from the wagon, but mindful of her new position, she very demurely accepted the large male hand that was offered. Once again she noted its strength as it briefly gripped her own. She glanced up with a small smile of gratitude and caught him looking strangely ill-at-ease. His gaze touched hers briefly and skittered nervously away toward Stella Wilson, and in that moment Priscilla understood, or thought she understood, that Dusty was worried about his employer finding out how he had treated her. Well, she had no intention of getting him into trouble, but neither had she any intention of reassuring him. Let him worry about it for a while. It served him right.

“Well, here she is, safe and sound,” Dusty announced a little too heartily, almost as if he thought Stella might have expected him to deliver the new schoolteacher in more than one piece. He realized that he had betrayed himself at once as he watched Stella’s finely arched eyebrows lift speculatively and her light blue eyes search his darker ones for a moment before turning to greet Miss Bedford.

“Welcome to Texas, Miss Bedford, I’m Stella Wilson.” Stella Wilson was, Priscilla judged, in her middle twenties. She had once been a very pretty girl with hair the color of cornsilk and eyes the color of cornflowers, but motherhood had filled in her previously generous curves, turning her into an attractive, if somewhat plump, matron. When she smiled, as she was doing now, a dimple peeped out of her smooth, round cheek, and her eyes turned warm and friendly. Comparing her with her husband George, Priscilla thought they made a perfect couple and decided that the Wilson household must be a happy one.

“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Wilson,” Priscilla said in perfect sincerity, extending her hand. “Your husband met me at the stage and was very kind to me. He told me it was your idea to bring me here first so I could freshen up before meeting Mr. Steele. I can’t thank you enough.”

She had carefully refrained from making any mention of how Dusty had treated her, an omission that Stella did not let pass.

“I hope Dusty kept you entertained on your way out here,” Stella said, grasping Priscilla’s hand warmly, the speculative gleam back in her eyes as she cast a mildly accusing glance at Dusty. Priscilla did not miss the way Stella’s lips twitched in amusement or the way Dusty took a deep breath as if bracing himself, and suddenly she realized the true relationship between these two. It wasn’t a relationship between employer and employee. Rather, they were friends, close friends, and if Stella even suspected what had passed between Dusty and Priscilla that day, she would have teased him unmercifully, a prospect he obviously found unpleasant. Stella was apparently already a little suspicious, and while Priscilla was no tale-bearer, she was a little too wicked to let him off the hook completely.

“Oh, yes,” Priscilla assured her, “he kept me very... entertained the entire way. I don’t know when I’ve had such an interesting or informative trip. Why, did you know that barbed wire is perfectly safe for use with cattle?” she added with just the proper degree of amazement.

Stella stared a moment in mild surprise at the strange topic Dusty had chosen for conversation before shifting her gaze to Dusty, who shrugged in such wide-eyed innocence that she was more suspicious than ever.

“Reckon I’ll unload her trunk,” he mumbled before Stella could think of any accusations to make, and he turned quickly for the rear of the wagon.

Stella watched his studied nonchalance for a long moment before turning back to Priscilla who was, finally, removing that accursed bonnet. Stella had decided that Priscilla was a more than passably attractive girl, and seeing her without the bonnet confirmed her opinion. The girl’s hair was the color of chestnuts, a deep, rich brown but with more than a hint of red glittering in the sunlight.

Priscilla put a hand to the remains of her coiffure. “I must look a fright,” she whispered to Stella.

“Why no, honey. You look as pretty as a picture. Ain’t that right, Dusty?” she added, casting a wicked grin in Dusty’s direction. She had not missed the way he had stopped his unloading to stare at Priscilla’s newly bared head. “What’s keepin’ that trunk?” she added innocently, as he suddenly got very busy again. Turning back to Priscilla who was grinning appreciatively, she said, “Come on inside and make yourself at home. We’ll soon have you feeling yourself again.” With that, she took Priscilla by the arm and led her around to the back of the schoolhouse where they found another, smaller door with a step built out from it to form a small porch. ‘This is your private entrance so you don’t have to traipse through the school every time,” Stella explained, leading her inside to her private quarters.

As the two disappeared, Dusty muttered a curse on all women. A woman didn’t have any right to look good with her hair all in a mess like that. It was irritating. And the way she’d let Stella think he’d done something to her. He had, of course, but a real lady would never have mentioned it. He was sure of that. Not that she had mentioned it, of course, but she’d said just enough to make Stella suspicious. If Stella ever really found out what had happened, she’d skin him alive. He’d never hear the end of it. Why had he ever let Stella talk him into going to town today anyway? Muttering another imprecation on the female sex, he shouldered Priscilla’s trunk and made his way reluctantly to the schoolhouse door.

Stella had escorted Priscilla inside and was somewhat anxiously awaiting her reaction to her new quarters. About one third of the rather large building had been partitioned off to form a living area for the schoolteacher. On one side of the room was a small, round table with two straight-backed chairs for eating and beyond them in a corner by the window was a large, overstuffed chair for which someone had very lovingly made a flowered slipcover. Straight ahead was a small stove that could be used for heating or cooking, and above it, hanging on the wall, was a set of shelves, made from an old packing crate, that held an assortment of eating and cooking utensils of rather mixed heritage and some canned goods and staple foods. The other half of the room had been curtained off into a sleeping area and contained an iron bedstead, a washstand with a slightly chipped bowl and pitcher, and an enormous, and very ancient, wardrobe cabinet. Obviously, the furniture had been gleaned from people’s castoffs, but the “used” appearance only added to the room’s appeal, and Priscilla noted the care that had been put into making frilly curtains for the windows and a very cheerful quilt to cover the bed. The room seemed to radiate the warmth and good will of those who had prepared it for her, and Priscilla’s face reflected that warmth as she turned to Stella. “It’s beautiful,” she declared.

Stella could not help feeling a small measure of relief and a large measure of pride. “Some of the ladies helped me fix it up. You came so far, we wanted you to have a nice place to stay.”

“And I do,” Priscilla assured her. “I’m sure I’ll be very happy here.” She then noticed that a bathtub had been placed in the bedroom area and that Stella had a large kettle of water heating on the stove. “A bath!” she cried. “Mrs. Wilson, I shall be in your debt until my dying day. How can I ever repay you?”

Stella laughed an easy, throaty laugh. “Figured that’s the first thing you’d want. I been on that stage a time or two myself.”

At that moment Dusty entered with the trunk. He paused in the doorway, awaiting instructions, his face carefully expressionless so as not to arouse Stella’s interest. Priscilla could not help staring for a moment, marveling at how he held what she knew to be a tremendously heavy trunk with such ease. “Where do you want this?” he asked when it seemed neither of the women were going to volunteer anything. What were they staring at, anyway?

“Oh,” said Priscilla, jogged from her reverie, “put it down here by the bed for now,” she instructed him, conscious of the oddity of having a man enter her bedroom. Dusty carried the trunk in and swung it off his shoulder and onto the floor, a small grunt the only indication that he found the process at all difficult. He straightened up to find her staring at him again, a circumstance he found very disconcerting. Wondering if he might have done something wrong, he glanced around and asked, “That all right?” indicating where he had placed the trunk.

Priscilla blinked, thinking how big he looked in the small room, much larger than he had seemed outside. He seemed to fill the room. And he looked so blatantly masculine surrounded by the feminine decor. She gave an odd little laugh. “Yes, that’s fine,” she said in response to his question. “It’s just that, well, I thought that trunk was heavy,” she explained inanely.

Now what did that have to do with anything? he wondered. “It is,” he replied, frankly puzzled. He just wanted to get out of there before Stella could start asking him questions, and before he started wondering how Miss Bedford would look stretched out on that bed, with all that hair spread across the pillow. He waited a second, and when she did not seem inclined to reply to his last statement, he nodded politely to both women and made for the door.

He was through it before Priscilla realized his intent. Telling herself it was good manners and not a desire to get in the last word that prompted her, she stepped quickly to the door and called out, “Oh, Mr. Rhoades!” Something in her voice, an excess of cheerfulness, he thought, stopped him dead in his tracks, and he turned warily back to face her. “Thank you very much for looking after me,” she called brightly, her face wreathed in a totally mischievous smile.

Dusty studied her face for a moment. She wasn’t going to tell Stella anything, of that he was certain, but she wasn’t going to forget it, either. And he had been worried about Stella! Something told him the new schoolteacher had Stella completely outclassed when it came to causing trouble. Yes sir, he’d been right when he’d guessed that this one would take some mighty careful handling. He reached for the brim of his hat, raised it slightly, and said, “You’re welcome, ma’am.” Damn! He’d said it again. Had she laughed? Well, maybe just a small giggle. Frowning bleakly, he turned on his heel and headed for the wagon.

Stella had watched this exchange with marked interest. She had the distinct feeling that much was being left unsaid but nevertheless communicated between the two. It was a very interesting feeling. Maybe she should do some checking. “Honey,” she said to Priscilla, “you go ahead and start finding things. I’ll be back in a minute. Gotta tell Dusty something,” she lied as she moved quickly out the door. “Dusty, wait a minute,” she called, and noted with satisfaction the way his shoulders had hunched defensively at the sound of her voice.

Dusty winced. He should have known he wouldn’t get off that easily. Trying his best to look nonchalant, he turned back once again and waited for Stella’s approach.

She studied his face a moment. “Well, what do you think of her?” she asked.

He shrugged noncommittally. “She’ll do, I reckon,” he said and then looked away, just a little too unconcernedly.

Stella reached up and grabbed his chin, turning his face toward hers. “You didn’t do anything ornery to her, did you?” she demanded, her pale blue eyes suddenly fiercely accusing.

Dusty assumed his most outraged expression. “Stella! You know me better’n that!”

Indeed she did. A man had few secrets from a woman whose earliest childhood memory was being “scalped” by Wild Injun Dusty Rhoades. He had carried her yellow pigtails on his belt for years. He still had them packed away somewhere, probably saving them to show to her grandchildren. It would be just like him. She shook her head in disgust, and they both laughed. Stella let go of his chin, made a fist, and threw a playful punch, which He just as playfully dodged.

“George’ll be comin’ in for supper,” he reported, glad to be able to change the subject.

“Good. Send the wagon back for us in about two hours. That’ll give our new schoolteacher time to get prettied up.” Stella thought she would test the waters. “Although she don’t look like she needs much time to do that.”

Dusty was wise to her tricks and did not bite. “See you in two hours,” he called as he climbed up onto the wagon seat.

“My lands!” she exclaimed in mock surprise. “You comin’ back to fetch us your own self? Yes, I reckon she’ll do, all right.”

He cast one disapproving look back at her laughing face before calling a final farewell and slapping the team into motion. Only when he had closed the gate to the schoolyard behind him did he heave a sigh of relief. That had not been so bad. Stella would razz him for a few days but with no facts at her command, she would be easily distracted. Then all he’d have to worry about would be Miss Priscilla Bedford. All! He snorted at the thought. She would be a handful, all right. If only she wasn’t so consarn pretty. Well, maybe she’d be flat-chested and hippy underneath that coat. Yeah, he thought sarcastically, and maybe she’d be hunchbacked and have a third arm growing out of her chest, too. But a man could always hope, even if it was a lot to hope for that she’d be a little less than perfect in every way. No, not every way. Her manners could do with some improving. He entertained himself for the rest of the drive with possible ways he might teach her better manners. That way, he reasoned, he would not be thinking that right about now she would be stepping into that bathtub without a stitch on, and he would not be wondering how she looked.