Chapter Three

At first the men in the saloon could not figure where the shot had come from, and they stood, stupified, as one of the men who had been playing poker at a corner table clutched a large red stain on his right arm. Finally, someone shouted, “A sleeve gun! He had a gun up his sleeve!” and pointed to Jason Vance, another of the poker players, who held in his hand a derringer.

“Slickest thing I ever saw,” muttered one man.

“Heard of it, but never saw it,” another said.

Jason Vance lay the gun on the table and sat back, awaiting the inevitable, cursing to himself that he had been involved in trouble on his very first night in town.

It only took the sheriff a few moments to arrive, and Jason Vance groaned inwardly when he saw Sheriff Winslow. He knew the type well. A middle-aged man who had grown up fighting the Mexicans and the Indians and the Yankees with equal fervor, he was an official who would insist on upholding the letter of the law and had the tenacity to make it stick. Winslow’s gray hair and slight paunch did not fool Vance for a moment. He knew he was in for it.

“What happened here?” the sheriff asked in general after surveying the scene.

“I saw the whole thing, Sheriff,” offered the portly bartender. “Rogers, there, insisted on playin’ poker with the stranger. We all know he cain’t play worth a damn, ‘specially when he’s drinkin’, which he usually is. He’s losin’ heavy and the stranger keeps tryin’ to quit, but Rogers just gets ugly, demandin’ a chance to get his money back. Then he starts yellin’ how the stranger is cheatin’ him. You know how he gets. Threatens to draw on the stranger who ain’t carryin’ no gun. The stranger tries to tell him he ain’t packin’, but Rogers starts to pull out his gun where he’s got it hid in his belt, under his coat. Then we hear a shot an’ Rogers is hit. Stranger shot him with a sleeve gun.”

“This it?” asked the sheriff, picking up the derringer. Vance nodded. The sheriff examined the gun with great interest and then looked over at Rogers who sat, still clutching his arm. “Somebody go fetch the Doc. You all right, Rogers?” The man sat with a dazed expression. He nodded vaguely. “Sleeve gun, huh?” The sheriff seemed fascinated. “Professional gambler’s trick. You a gambler?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Vance replied, no hint of emotion in his voice.

“Don’t see your kind around here much. Watcha doin’ in Rainbow?” the sheriff asked with deceptive mildness. Vance could see that those eyes did not miss a thing.

“Actually, Sheriff, I came here looking for a little peace and quiet.” He smiled at his own irony. “I had hoped to settle down around here and do a little ranching, if I could find a suitable place.”

The sheriff obviously did not believe this story, but did not comment. The doctor arrived and began to examine Rogers’s wound.

“I reckon I better take you in,” said the sheriff with a sigh of resignation, as if he knew his duty but regretted having to fulfill it, at least in this instance.

“Look Winslow”—it was the bartender—“the gambler weren’t doin’ nothin’ wrong. Fact is, he done everything he could to avoid a fight. Rogers just wouldn’t let up. Forced him to shoot. At that he just winged him.”

“How d’we know he didn’t try to kill him and just missed?” asked the sheriff with dogged logic.

Jason Vance stood up solemnly. Shuffling through the cards still spread on the table, he pulled out the three of hearts. “Sheriff, if you will permit me a small demonstration?” he asked.

“Go ahead, mister,” said the sheriff, frankly curious. Vance walked over to the window and stuck the edge of the card into the crack where the window frame met the wall. Walking back to the sheriff, he took his derringer and, turning quickly, fired the remaining shot through the middle of the three hearts on the card. Gasps and murmurs from spectators filled the room. “You see, Sheriff,” said Vance, returning the gun to the lawman, “if I had wished to kill Mr. Rogers, I could just as easily have shot him through the heart. I tried to avoid trouble, but when I could not, I tried only to disable my opponent.” He turned to the doctor. “I trust he is not seriously injured.”

Hie medical man looked up, gave a disgusted snort, and said, “No bones broke. He’ll be hurtin’ some, but he’ll be fine.”

“Mighty impressive shootin’,” the sheriff decided reluctantly. “Mighty impressive talkin’, too, Anybody see anything different here?” he asked of the crowd. When no one responded, he turned back to Vance. “Guess I won’t need to arrest you, but we’ll take it kindly if you’ll just leave town on the stage tomorra.” It was a mildly worded request, but Vance knew he dared not ignore it.

“Sheriff, the gentleman said he wanted to settle in Rainbow, and now you’re gonna run him out because Rogers is stupid?” It was a female voice and all eyes, including Jason Vance’s, turned to Rita Jordan who had just made her first appearance of the evening. Vance had to agree with Ol’ Zeke. She sure wasn’t hard to look at. She was tall for a woman, about five and a half feet, Vance judged. Ignoring the fashion of the day which called for curls and crimping around the face, she wore her jet black hair pulled severely back from her face in a simple chignon, a style that served to accentuate her large green eyes with their unnaturally thick, black eyelashes. Those eyes were now holding Sheriff Winslow in thrall, much to that gentleman’s discomfort, and her full, red lips were quirked into a knowing smile.

She was not really beautiful, Vance thought. Her lips were too full, too sensuous, her nose a bit too long and straight, her chin too pointed, but the creamy white skin that covered it all and curved so enticingly down her long neck and disappeared into the daringly low-cut bodice of her green silk gown made a man willing to overlook her imperfections. What that green silk covered was very enticing, too. Needing no corset to lift her high, pointed breasts or to cinch a naturally slender waist, she allowed her natural charms freedom under the thin material, a freedom that made a man’s imagination run wild and his breath come hard and fast.

“He a friend of yourn, Miss Rita?” asked the sheriff uncertainly.

Rita’s emerald eyes shifted over to Vance, taking him in from head to foot in one quick glance; then she looked back to the sheriff. “I’ll vouch for him.”

“I don’t know,” said the sheriff, visibly reluctant to shirk his duty. “Man like that, just naturally causes trouble. Like tonight. He might not start it, but it happens ‘cause he’s here.”

“What if I said he works for me and I need him here?” Rita asked, stepping closer to the sheriff, who was obviously becoming unnerved by her nearness.

The sheriff swallowed loudly. “Well, if you’ll take the responsibility, I guess he can stay, but first sign of trouble, out he goes,” he added with determination.

“Of course, Sheriff. Won’t you stay and have a drink?” she offered, with a slow, suggestive smile.

“Not while I’m on duty, thank you anyway,” said the lawman, anxiously backing away from Rita. When he reached the door, he turned back to Vance. “One sign of trouble, and you’re out. Don’t forget.” Vance did not miss the warning glint in his eye.

“I won’t,” replied Vance. Completely baffled, he turned back to Rita who was disappearing behind a door on the back wall of the saloon.

“Drinks for everybody, courtesy of Miss Rita,” called the bartender, as the doctor and some others escorted Rogers out.

Vance sat back down at his table and began to pick up the cards, as he tried to figure out what had happened and more importantly, why. He had come into the saloon earlier, more to get a feel of the place and meet the important people there than anything else. It was a little fancier than he had expected, with wooden floors instead of the usual straw-covered dirt, and with a genuine mahogany bar. A third-rate painting of a voluptuous nude hung behind the bar, a luxury seldom seen in such a hick town. Several tables with miss-matched chairs were scattered about the room, completing the sparse but adequate furnishings.

He had made conversation with the bartender and bought a bottle, which he planned to share with anyone who seemed so inclined, since he never drank himself. He saw no sign of Rita Jordan but did notice the door behind the bar. It had a fancy screened design on it, and from the way the bartender kept glancing at it, Vance had decided that Rita Jordan must be behind it, able to see without being seen. He had passed a few pleasant hours, giving drinks to some of the locals, learning more about the town and the area, and then Rogers had come in, already drunk. He had joined Vance’s group and recognizing that Vance was a gambler, demanded a game. Vance had been reluctant, not wanting to win from the townspeople his first day there, but rather unable to lose very much, either. He had looked to the bartender, hoping for some disapproval, but after checking with whoever was behind the door, he had nodded to Vance, so they had played. At first, several others had joined in, but they soon dropped out, seeing how surly Rogers was becoming. Vance tried to let him win, even passing him good cards, but he was either too drunk or too stupid to play well, and Vance consistently out-bluffed him without making the slightest effort to do so. Finally, in a rage, Rogers had gone for his gun.

Vance shook his head. Why had Rita stood up for him, a total stranger? Had she been serious about the job? He sat alone until closing time asking these questions of himself. When everyone else was gone, he rose to remove the card he had shot from the window frame when a female voice stopped him.

“Leave it there,” she ordered. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, a disturbing presence in the empty room. “What’s your name, mister?”

“Vance. Jason Vance. And you are Mrs. Jordan?” he asked.

She laughed at this, a deep, throaty laugh. She eyed him again, not quickly this time. “You want a job?”

“I’m willing to consider any offers you may make, Mrs. Jordan,” he replied, his voice carefully expressionless.

This also amused her. Her lush mouth quirked into a suggestive smile. “I need a man,” she purred. He raised his eyebrows and her smile widened. ‘To help Will here,” she added with amusement, indicating the bartender. “The trail drives’ll be startin’ soon and a lotta new cowboys’ll be comin’ through town. Sometimes things get wild, and Will ain’t as young as he used to be. You can gamble whenever you find some suckers. I’ll pay you fifty a month, and you keep all your winnings.” It was a generous offer. Most places demanded a percentage of winnings and didn’t pay wages. Of course, in such a small town, the winnings would necessarily be small. He could not bleed them dry. Not if he wanted to stay around for a while, and he might need to do that.

“You’re very generous. I accept your offer with gratitude, Mrs. Jordan.” He bowed gallantly. This pleased her.

“You got a room?” she asked, toying idly with the low neckline of her dress.

“Yes, I’m staying at the hotel,” he replied, his eyes naturally drawn to the swell of her bosom but managing to remain expressionless.

“Tomorrow, you move your stuff over here. I got a room upstairs for you.” Her green eyes glowed mysteriously, her lashes fluttering down to cover them. “Right next to mine.” It was Jason Vance’s turn to smile.

Stella Wilson stood at her bedroom window, staring out into the darkness.

“You can’t keep him here, Stella,” said George, who was sitting on the bed, watching her.

“What are you talking about, George Wilson?” she snapped, but without rancor.

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, my dear,” he explained patiently. “You can’t keep Dusty from leaving if he wants to.”

Stella looked at him in feigned amazement. “What makes you think he wants to leave here?”

“The same thing that makes you think it,” he informed her with satisfaction. “Look, Stella, the man’s not getting any younger. He wants a home, a place of his own. There’s nothing here for him,” George argued.

“There’re a lot of people here who love him,” Stella argued back.

“If you love him, then you have to let him go. He may seem like one of the family, but he’s still just a hired hand. No amount of love can change that fact, and it’s eating away at him. I’ve seen it; you’ve seen it. Dusty Rhoades wasn’t born to work for another man. He’s done well here because he felt he owed Ben something, but he can’t pay him back forever. Stella, be realistic,” George pleaded.

Stella sighed. “I just want him to be happy.”

“And you think the only way the people you love can be happy is under your watchful eye,” he accused.

‘That’s not true, George, and you know it. Why, it was me encouraged my own sisters to get married to the men they loved, even though it meant they’d have to leave here,” she pointed out.

George smiled in the darkness. “You’re right, of course, but that was only because you were sure they’d be happy if they did. Tell me, my dear, are you afraid that if Dusty leaves, he’ll never be happy, or are you afraid he’ll be happy and you won’t know it?”

“Why are you always tryin’ to figure me out, anyways?” snapped Stella. “I’ll tell you one thing. Dusty Rhoades’ll never be happy outside Texas.”

“Then maybe he’ll find some land to homestead out in the Panhandle. People say there’s good land out there. God knows he’ll never be able to afford land around here.”

Stella didn’t answer. After some thought, George said, “That’s it, isn’t it? You have it all planned out that some day Dusty will get back the old Rhoades place. You’re dreaming, Stella. It’ll never happen. You have to face reality.”

Stella sighed again. “It has to happen. I’ve prayed for it enough times. God couldn’t be that unfair.”

“Stella, I think...”

“You think too much,” she interrupted. “You ought to trust your feelings, George.” She looked out the window and said in a faraway voice, “I have a feeling that Dusty isn’t going anywhere, now or ever.”

“Does this feeling have anything to do with that new schoolteacher?” asked George suspiciously.

“Whatever makes you think that?” Stella asked with false innocence.

“Seems that I recall your saying something about matching Dusty up with her unless she turned out to be absolutely hopeless,” said George.

“I never said no such thing,” she denied indignantly.

“Not in so many words, but your intentions were crystal clear, at least to me. Even down to instructing me to stay in town this afternoon so they’d have the ride out here alone to get acquainted. Well, I’m afraid your little scheme backfired.” With great amusement he told her about what had happened with Dusty and Priscilla at the stage. “Didn’t you note the tension, not to say hostility, between them?”

“Yes, I did!” said Stella with great excitement. “This is better than I could have hoped for!”

Puzzled, George asked, “You think it’s good that they don’t get along?”

“It’s very good. You just wait. You’ll see.” She rubbed her hands with glee.

George scowled at his wife. “Whatever made you think they’d get along in the first place? Before you’d even met her, I mean, and don’t bother to deny that you planned this match before she even left Philadelphia.”

Stella gave her husband a pitying look. “Men!” She sniffed. “I don’t know how you could have missed it. You read all her letters to Daddy, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but...”

“But you only read the words, I guess. That’s a man for you. I read between the lines. Anybody could see she had a sense of humor and was pretty clever into the bargain. Just the kind of girl Dusty usually steers clear of. Ever wonder why?” Stella did not bother to wait for an answer. “Of course you didn’t. Men never think about things like that. Prob’ly Dusty never thought about it either. It’s because he likes that kind of girl best, and he’s scared to death of gettin’ caught!” she concluded triumphantly.

George shook his head. “Stella, I think...”

“Don’t start doin’ that! You’ll ruin everything!” Stella cried in mock horror. “Just think for a minute, though, what might happen if there was a girl, just the perfect girl for him, and she was in a place, right under his nose, where he couldn’t ignore her or stay away from her. Just think what might happen.”

George heaved a gusty sigh. “Stella, I think...”

“Oh, no,” Stella laughed. “Forget I said to do that! I told you, you think too much. You gotta go by your feelings.”

George chuckled. “All right, you win. I’ll strike a bargain with you. If you’ll come to bed, I’ll stop thinking and start feeling.”

Stella laughed softly. “You got a deal, mister.”

The next day, Stella waited for her chance with Dusty. After the noon meal, for which Priscilla did not appear, she watched for Dusty to go into the barn as he often did to check on his mare. She followed him there and found him currying the horse.

“She sure is pretty,” Stella remarked after Dusty had acknowledged her presence. “Gentle, too. I swear, you’ve done a job on that horse. Why, I’ll bet Matthew could ride that mare.”

Dusty looked at her skeptically. “Matthew has ridden this mare and you know it. What’re you after, Stella?”

“Me? Nothin’!” she said in amazement. “It’s just that Daddy, well, he suggested that...” she trailed off uncertainly.

“That what?” he asked suspiciously.

“Well, Priscilla—you remember, the schoolteacher?”

“I remember,” said Dusty dryly.

“She can ride.”

“Oh, I’ll bet she can!” he replied sarcastically.

“That’s my opinion, too,” said Stella confidentially. “But you know Daddy. She said she can ride and Daddy thinks she should have a horse to use. And with her bein’ a city girl and all, why, we can’t have her ride one of them wild mustang ponies. She’d get kilt!”

“Why you tellin’ me all this?” he asked, the suspicion back in his voice.

“Well, you done such a good job gentlin’ that mare, we thought maybe you could gentle a horse for her, too,” Stella said hopefully.

Dusty snorted in disgust. “Stella, I got more important things to do than pamperin’ a tenderfoot.”

“I know that,” said Stella defensively, “but you know Daddy, once he gets an idea in his head.” She thought a moment. “‘Course there’s always your mare...” she suggested tentatively.

“Oh, no, she ain’t gettin’ my horse!”

Stella nodded agreement. “She prob’ly won’t want to ride your horse anyway. It was a bad idea.”

“Whadda ya mean, she wouldn’t want to?” he asked, a scowl marking his forehead.

“Well, she’s prob’ly used to riding fancy, eastern horses. You know, thoroughbreds and the like.”

“I’ll match this horse against any thoroughbred anywhere,” he declared belligerently.

“The horse could use the exercise. You don’t get much chance to ride her,” Stella suggested.

“I never said I’d let her,” he insisted.

“‘Course, I can understand you not wantin’ her to make unfavorable comparisons to your horse. Why you’d even be ashamed...”

“Tell her she can ride the mare!” Dusty said in disgust.

“Why, Dusty, that’s mighty generous of you. You’re a real gentleman,” said Stella with admiration. She turned to go and then turned back as an afterthought. “I’m goin’ down there right now and take her some dinner. Why don’t you saddle up and bring her down so Priscilla can get a look at her? That’d be a right friendly gesture. Yes, sir, a real gentleman.”

She walked out into the sunlight, smiling as she heard Dusty call after her, “Stella, someday you’re gonna go too far!”

A few minutes later, Stella arrived at the schoolhouse with a plate of food covered by a napkin. “Anybody home?” she called.

Priscilla appeared at the back door, dressed in a simple, black cotton skirt and white shirtwaist, wearing an apron, with a scarf tied around her head. “Hello! I’ve just been unpacking,” she called gaily. Priscilla had intended to lie awake for a while the night before and analyze her feelings for Dusty Rhoades and hopefully to determine why she had permitted him to kiss her. Even more important, she had wanted to determine why she had kissed him back, a fact she had been reluctant to admit, even to herself, but which was quite true, nevertheless.

Her body, however, had not been nearly as concerned with the problem as her mind and had promptly fallen asleep as soon as it was stretched out on the bed. Morning had given an air of unreality to all the events of the previous day, and Priscilla had decided that the kiss had probably not been as important as she had previously thought. In fact, she felt quite certain that she could forget it, and its giver, with equal ease once she set her mind to it, a task she meant to undertake as soon as she was unpacked.

“Since you didn’t make it for dinner, thought I’d bring you a little something,” Stella was saying.

“That’s so thoughtful of you. Come on in.” They went inside and sat down at the table. Priscilla uncovered the plate of food and flashed Stella a grateful smile. “I opened a can of peaches for breakfast, but I think this was what I really needed,” she said as she began to devour the beefsteak and flaky biscuits Stella had brought. “Truthfully, I just woke up a little while ago. I’m afraid I slept half the day. It’s so quiet here and I guess I was really tired.”

Stella was looking around. Priscilla had filled the bookshelf and set around some pictures and a few knickknacks. “Shore startin’ to look homey here.”

“I already feel like it’s home. You’ve certainly helped by making me feel so comfortable.”

They chatted for a few minutes until they heard a horse approaching. “Who could that be?” asked Priscilla as she heard the gate swing open.

“It’s Dusty,” said Stella without looking, and she smiled as Priscilla jumped up, tore the scarf from her head, and pulled off her apron as she dashed to the mirror. Dipping the corner of her apron in the water pitcher, she wiped imaginary smudges from her face and hurriedly straightened her hair.

“Hello, the house,” Dusty called.

“Come on in,” Stella called back and by the time he appeared in the doorway, Priscilla was standing demurely in the center of the room, completely composed.

“Well, hello, Mr. Rhoades,” she said coolly. “How nice of you to stop by.” She had not expected to see him again so soon, at least not until she had succeeded in putting him out of her mind, but she was pleased to note that she could greet him without betraying any embarrassing emotion. Betraying, of course, being the key word, since she was certainly feeling such emotions. How could his mere presence disturb her so? she wondered, putting a casual hand over the place where butterflies were struggling in her stomach. Why, he was hardly even looking at her.

Dusty risked one brief glance at Priscilla, just long enough to determine that she did not seem the least bit upset by what had happened. Maybe she was used to having men grab her and kiss her. It was no wonder, the way she flirted so shamelessly. Not that she’d flirted with him, of course. No, he didn’t have that excuse. Didn’t really have any excuse except that she was so damn... He forced himself to touch the brim of his hat and nod politely in her direction before turning an expectant look at Stella.

Stella appeared not to notice. “Well, Priscilla,” she said looking around, “while we have possession of a big, strong man, is there any rearranging you’d like done in the furnishings?”

From the way Dusty was glaring, Priscilla guessed that this was not why he had come and that Stella knew it perfectly well, but since she did have a job to be done, she decided to risk it.

“Yes, I surely would love to have my trunk moved over here by the wardrobe. The wardrobe will have to be moved over a little, though,” she suggested with more confidence than Dusty’s look inspired.

Dusty stared at Stella in stony silence for a moment and then wordlessly went about the task outlined for him. When he was finished, he went back to the doorway, put his hands on his hips, and again looked at Stella as if expecting her to say something. She could hardly suppress a smile as she asked, “Is there something you wanted to tell Miss Bedford?”

Priscilla saw his eyes narrow and his jaw muscles twitch as if he were quite angry. Then reluctantly, he turned his icy blue eyes to her and said, “Stella says you can ride.”

What was all this about? she wondered, glancing at Stella who was looking out the window, completely unconcerned. Left on her own, she decided to play along with the role Stella had obviously assigned her. She looked back at Dusty and answered, “Yes, I can.”

“Well, I got a horse—a mare—you can ride when you want to. She’s real gentle. Won’t give you no trouble.” Remembering how certain George and Ben had been last night that Dusty would never allow her to use his horse, Priscilla wondered how Stella had managed to accomplish this miracle. Had Dusty developed some tender feelings for her overnight, after their kiss? Had he volunteered the mare? No, judging from his expression, Stella had coerced him in some way, but Priscilla was appreciative enough of her efforts not to refuse the offer. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“She’s outside if you want to take a look at her,” he told her grudgingly and stomped out the door. Priscilla turned a puzzled face to Stella who ignored her and followed Dusty outside. Left with no choice, Priscilla joined them and when she saw the mare, she forgot everything else.

“Oh, she’s wonderful!” Priscilla exclaimed, examining the mare very carefully, stroking her. The mare, she noted irrelevantly, was the same chestnut brown as her own hair, with a white star on her forehead and white stockings on her front feet.

“Dusty raised her from a foal,” offered Stella.

Priscilla had ridden since childhood and recognized the clean lines that marked the quality of the animal. The fact that Dusty was responsible for her lifted him considerably in her estimation. A man who could raise a horse like this couldn’t be all bad. “What’s her name?” she asked.

Dusty was just able to suppress a smile as the irony of the situation occurred to him, and he said with studied nonchalance, “Well, like I said, she’s real gentle, won’t give anybody any trouble, knows how to act right. So I call her ‘Lady.’” He looked up just in time to catch Priscilla’s wince.

“It suits her,” Priscilla said, also with creditable nonchalance, although she was inwardly smarting. Obviously, she did not meet his qualifications for being a lady. Not that she cared. And if he ever tried to treat her as if she weren’t... again... well, she’d show him. “May I ride her?” she asked. “Now?”

Dusty was reluctant. He still wasn’t quite used to the idea. “She ain’t broke for no sidesaddle,” he protested.

Priscilla gave him a disgusted look. “Neither am I,” she said, and without waiting for a helping hand, nimbly straddled the horse. Thanks to Dusty’s long legs, the stirrups were within easy reach of the ground, but she found that once astride, she could not reach them. Having ridden bareback as a child, she found this no deterrent. After adjusting her skirts as modestly as she could, she gripped tightly with her knees and kicked the horse into motion. “I won’t be gone long,” she called over her shoulder as they trotted away. Dusty had left the schoolyard gate open and once over the hill and out of sight, Priscilla kicked the mare again.

Dusty and Stella, watching from the schoolyard, stood dumbfounded as a cloud of dust proved she had broken into a run.

“Damn fool, she’ll break her neck!” predicted Dusty.

“Don’t count on it,” said Stella.

Dusty ignored her and sat down on the step to roll a smoke. “Hope she don’t get lost. I got work to do.”

Stella watched as he kept pausing in the task of building a cigarette to scan the horizon with anxious eyes. When he had finally managed to get it rolled and lighted, Stella said, “Well, I got things to do. Tell Priscilla I’ll see her later.”

As she trudged off, Dusty rose swiftly to his feet and opened his mouth to lodge a protest. Fortunately, he caught himself in time, though, and closed his mouth with a snap. What was he going to do, beg Stella not to leave him alone with her? He wasn’t afraid to be alone with her. Or at least, not much. Of course, if he had his druthers, he’d druther not. She might say something about last night. Or he might. He had no intention of it, but then he’d had no intention of kissing her either, and that hadn’t stopped him. Somehow things just happened around Priscilla Bedford, like a man just wasn’t in control any more. With an exasperated sigh, he plumped down on the stoop again and took a deep drag of his cigarette.

He had finished that one, rolled another, and almost finished it before his apprehensive vigilance was rewarded with the sight of Priscilla returning. Rising swiftly, he took one final drag, flicked the butt to the ground, and attacked it savagely with his boot heel. Where in the hell had she been, anyway? She could’ve gotten lost or fallen off and been hurt. Lady had obviously enjoyed her run. She was stepping high, fairly dancing, as she trotted into the yard. Even more irritating was the sight of Priscilla’s face and the realization that the brilliant smile she was wearing had nothing to do with his presence.

He’d never seen her look lovelier, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed, her hair coming loose, blowing every which way. Comes from riding without a hat. Wasn’t safe to ride without a hat. Person could get sunstroke. Well, maybe not in March, but it was a bad habit to develop. She could get sunburned, though. Maybe that red on her cheeks was sunburn; maybe she’d even get freckles, he thought maliciously. A highfalutin lady like her would probably faint if she got a freckle. It would serve her right.

Priscilla had seldom enjoyed a ride more. Used to city life where she had been confined to promenades in the park, she found the freedom of the Steele ranch intoxicating. She was even willing to forgive Dusty Rhoades his boorishness in return for the great service he had done her in lending her Lady. “She’s marvelous,” Priscilla reported when she got within earshot of Dusty.

So happy was she that she failed to notice he did not share her good humor. The mare had a soft mouth, and it took only a slight pull on the reins to halt her a few feet from where Dusty stood. Priscilla reached down and gave Lady’s neck an affectionate pat. “She may be gentle, but such spirit!” she announced to no one in particular, and leaning closer to the horse’s ear, she crooned, “Yes, a lady should have spirit.”

Ignoring her provocative remark, he strode up to her, hands on hips, and demanded tersely, “Where have you been?”

Priscilla stared at him in astonishment. He was actually angry. “I don’t think I left the state,” she replied with disarming sweetness.

Fighting down an urge to do her bodily harm, he barked, “You could’ve gotten lost.”

“I stayed on the road,” Priscilla informed him loftily. “I’m not a fool.” The sooner this conversation ended, the better, she decided. She had best get off the horse and send him on his way before... well, before anything untoward happened. Or anything at all. But, as she considered the problem of dismounting, she suddenly realized her dilemma. Getting up was one thing, but getting down, without the aid of a stirrup, wearing a skirt and with Dusty Rhoades watching, presented an insurmountable obstacle. Before she had a chance to think any further on the subject, however, two large hands reached up, clasped her rather rudely around the waist, and plucked her from the saddle.

A second later her feet were planted on the ground, so suddenly that she staggered, clutching his forearms for support, as the rough hands at her waist steadied her. She brought her wide-eyed glance up to his face, marveling at his apparent rage. The muscles under her clutching fingers were bunched with fury, and those sky-blue eyes were sending out storm warnings.

“Not a fool?” he raged, fighting an irrational desire to shake her. “You could’ve fallen off, broken your neck!”

“I’ve never fallen off a horse in my life,” she lied, matching his angry tone. “Would it matter to you if I did?”

An indignant denial rose to his lips but got no further as he suddenly realized that it would matter—it would matter a great deal. And that was part of the reason he was so angry. He had gotten mad that she had endangered herself and then gotten madder because he had cared. Of all the damn-fool situations, he mused as his grip on her waist lightened into a caress. She felt so soft today, he thought, as he fingered her uncorseted figure and looked down into those great, dark eyes, marveling at the way the fire was burning out in them and they were growing even larger, the closer he got to them.

Priscilla had watched his face in amazement as the wrath had evaporated right before her very eyes, to be replaced by a curious play of emotions she could not read. She felt her own anger die as the muscles under her hands relaxed and his clutching fingers began to embrace. A strange new light was shining out of those blue eyes, a light whose danger she recognized. Well, if he tried to kiss her again, she thought, as his face came toward hers, she would... let him, she realized in the last instant before his lips touched hers.

His mouth closed over hers, gently at first, but before she had time to savor the sweetness, his arms closed around her, crushing her to him, the heat of his desire melting her resistance, molding her softness against the lean length of him. An answering heat rose in her own body, turning her blood to a molten fire that scorched through her, burning away all thought, all inhibition. Her hands were on his back, clinging, searching out the warmth of him, the strength of him, drawing him ever nearer.

One of his hands still held her tightly against him while the other found the mass of her hair. As his long fingers tangled into her fallen locks, she barely noticed the sharp stabs of stray hairpins. Instead, she was only aware of the sensation of his tongue as it traced the contour of her bottom lip. The thrill she felt made her gasp, inviting his further invasion. Mindlessly, she reveled in this strange intimacy, an intimacy no one had ever dared before, as his rough tongue explored the tender skin inside her lip, flicked over the surface of her teeth, and then plunged into the warm depths of her mouth. The shock of his assault sent waves of response singing along her nerve ends, out and out until her fingers and toes curled in reaction and she arched against him, instinctively inviting his caress. He did not fail her. The hand buried in her hair slipped out and around, skimming the heated skin of her throat, following that satin trail down the V of her blouse until the well-worn button holes surrendered to his insistence, freeing her sweet treasure for his exploration. Brushing aside the silken barrier of her chemise, he captured that treasure in a worshipful embrace that stopped her breath. A moment later she released that breath in a shuddering sigh as his thumb found one pebble-hard, peak and began a sensuous torment that weakened her knees, forcing her hips to lock with his, demanding a closeness, a unity that she did not understand but could only crave with the force of a primal need.

How could mere flesh and bone cause such pure pleasure, she wondered dazedly, or feel it either? If only she could make him touch more of her... The thought jolted her, and her consciousness, which had been soaring heedlessly, came thumping rudely back to reality. What was she doing, behaving like a wanton, and with a man who had already made it clear he thought she was no lady! Jerking her face away, she began to struggle against him.

For a moment Dusty did not comprehend her movements. Robbed of her mouth, his lips tried to settle on the satin of her neck until the violence of her struggle broke through to his besotted brain. Just as he released her, she managed to land a glancing blow on his shoulder with her ineffectually tiny fist.

Staggering backward a few steps, Priscilla regained her balance and clutching frantically at the edges of her blouse, drew herself up to her full height. “Take your hands off me,” she demanded breathlessly and totally unnecessarily, since his hands were no longer anywhere near her.

Dusty stared at her dumbly, one of those hands moving absently to rub the spot where she had struck him. What on earth had happened? He had been certain that she was responding, kissing him back for all she was worth, and then... He watched fascinated as she took a deep breath, pulling the light cotton of her shirtwaist taut across her erect nipples. No, he hadn’t been mistaken. She had responded. Then why had she pulled away?

Priscilla took a calming breath and raised her free hand to restore some order to her hairstyle, a futile gesture since her neat chignon now hung in a hopeless tangle down her back. “Thank you for allowing me to ride your mare, Mr. Rhoades,” she said with as much breathless dignity as she could muster. She would never let him know how he had shaken her. “Good day to you, sir,” she added, turning on her heel and heading for the safety of the schoolhouse.

Dusty watched her haughty march with reluctant admiration. She sure was put together, he thought. Like a thoroughbred. If only she wasn’t so damn... Muttering another curse on all the female sex, he jerked his hat brim low over his eyes, wincing slightly as the schoolhouse door slammed shut, and mounting Lady, rode slowly back to the ranch.

It took Priscilla quite a while to calm down as she alternated between sitting and standing and pacing and then sitting again. The nerve of the man, she thought, mentally replaying the events of his visit. Maybe he considered that kiss as payment for doing her a favor. Well, if he expected any more payments, he was going to have a long wait. Was he always so highhanded, so forceful in his dealings with women? If so, she wondered that he was allowed to run around loose, and if not, then why had he forced himself on her, not once but twice? Flushing with shame, she realized that once might have been an accident but that twice would never have happened without her cooperation. She should at least have slapped his face last night, thereby saving herself the humiliation of her response to him today. Well, it would not happen again, she resolved, no matter what the circumstances. If he so much as made a move in her direction, she would freeze him out so fast, he’d think he’d been caught in a blizzard. Having decided that, she returned to her unpacking, the chore that Stella’s visit had interrupted.

Later in the afternoon, when she had finished arranging her room and the classroom to suit herself, Priscilla changed into a respectable dress of blue flowered calico and walked up the hill to the ranch. She found Stella enjoying an untroubled hour in the parlor while her two youngest children napped. Stella smiled when she saw Priscilla in the doorway. “Enjoy your ride?” she asked as Priscilla came in and sat down in a chair opposite her.

Priscilla fought down the wave of irritation she felt rising inside her and answered calmly, “Yes, it was very nice.”

Stella studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “Did Dusty give you any trouble?”

Priscilla could not control the blush that stained her cheeks. “Not about the horse... I mean... no,” she replied lamely, trying unsuccessfully to avoid Stella’s prying eyes. Finally, exasperated, she blurted, “Is he always so disagreeable?”

Stella considered the question for a moment. “Matter of fact,” she decided, “Dusty Rhoades is one of the most agreeable men I know.”

Priscilla almost gasped in her surprise. She found this impossible to believe and said so.

“It’s true,” Stella affirmed. “Why, I’ll bet there’s not a girl in five counties wouldn’t lay down and die for a chance with him.”

Priscilla shook her head in disbelief. He must only use his brute force on her. “Well, his charm escapes me,” she said with a little less than total honesty.

“That’s ‘cause he ain’t used it on you,” Stella asserted.

“What do you mean?” Priscilla asked suspiciously.

Stella thought a moment. “You may’ve noticed that Dusty’s different from the other cowboys.”

“I certainly have!” she said with spirit and more truth than Stella could have guessed.

Stella smiled. “No, what I mean is, most cowboys’re mighty bashful around women. Comes from not seein’ any for months on end, I reckon. Anyways, Dusty never did have that problem. I guess growin’ up around here with all us girls, he just had to learn to get around us to survive. So he learned to get around us. I ain’t hardly ever knowed him to meet a woman and not shine up to her. Young, old, pretty, ugly, it don’t matter. He charms ‘em all. Sometimes I think he does it just to keep in practice.” She paused so Priscilla could soak this all in. She could see Priscilla was intrigued by the whole idea, so she continued. “Yes, I’ve never known Dusty to fight shy of a pretty girl before, but maybe in your case, he’s got a reason.”

Priscilla turned guiltily away from Stella’s probing glance. He had not exactly been fighting shy of her, although he had been far from charming.

Misinterpreting Priscilla’s guilty look, Stella remarked, “I’ll bet he gave you back as good as he got, though.”

“Better,” Priscilla affirmed, trying to remember only his barbed comments and not his heated kisses. “He doesn’t show any sign of letting up either. Did you catch that ‘Lady’ remark?” she asked indignantly.

Stella laughed appreciatively. “With both hands! But don’t you let him get you riled,” she warned, much too late. “Tell you what. You just be as sweet as pie to him, no matter what, and before you know it, he’ll be eatin’ outta your hand.”

Priscilla shook her head. Those tactics had no place at all in her plans. “No, thanks. I’d probably lose a finger!”

Stella laughed again. “Well, don’t forget, he’s tendin’ you his horse. As a rule, cowboys don’t let nobody ride their horses and this one’s his special pet. He paid you a big compliment.”

“Oh, Stella, I know you made him do it,” Priscilla protested, remembering Dusty’s surly attitude.

Stella grew serious. “Honey, nobody, not even me, can make Dusty Rhoades do anything he don’t want to, and don’t you forget it.”