Anna thought the meal would never end.
It was nearing three-thirty when finally Buck Shanahan swallowed the last bite of his second piece of apple pie and drank the last drop of his coffee.
He sighed loudly, shoved back from the table, patted his full stomach and said, “Well, I guess that’ll hold me ’til suppertime.” He winked at Sally, who giggled.
“An excellent meal,” commented Brit, pushing back his chair. “It’s getting late and I—”
“Naw, now, don’t be running away,” Buck objected. “You said yourself you were taking the afternoon off. I thought we might all go over to Sally’s house and—”
“No, I can’t,” Anna and Brit protested in unison.
“I really must get home,” Anna said. “I’m sure Roberto, my driver, is waiting for me out front.”
“I have some things to take care of,” said Brit.
“Well, if you both have to go…” Sally’s face brightened. “But today’s been such fun, I’ve a great idea! A traveling opera troop out of Fort Worth is going to be in Regentville next week. Why don’t the four of us get together and go see—”
“I won’t be here,” Anna said, thinking quickly.
“You won’t?” Sally was puzzled.
“No, I—I’m going to San Antonio for a visit with cousins—Justin and Olivia Box. They’ve been after me to come and—” she smiled coquettishly, adding solely for Brit’s benefit “—they’re most anxious to introduce me to some of the city’s eligible bachelors.”
“You didn’t tell me you were going to San Antonio,” Sally said, frowning.
“Didn’t I? Well, I am.” Anna laid her napkin on the table. “I really enjoyed lunch. Thank you for inviting me.” She smiled at Buck and Sally, then nodded when Brit rose to pull out her chair.
Holding hands and whispering, Buck and Sally led the way out of the empty dining room. Walking side by side, not looking at each other, not talking, Brit and Anna followed. The foursome exited the dining hall, crossed the marble-floored lobby and stepped out into the blistering August sunshine.
A Regent carriage and driver waited at the curb.
Shading her eyes from the sun’s glare, Anna said a hasty goodbye to everyone. Buck and Sally turned and walked away, strolling down the sidewalk hand in hand. Left alone with Brit, Anna anxiously brushed past him to get into the carriage.
Before she could climb up onto the leather seat, his strong fingers encircled her waist. He effortlessly lifted her up into the carriage, and his hands remained on her for a heartbeat too long as his dark, fathomless eyes snared hers.
Aware that passersby were watching, Anna knew she had to be civil. Under her breath, she hissed, “Get your hands off me.” Then she smiled at him, placed her hands atop his and gently removed them from her, saying sweetly, “Thank you so much, Brit. I’ll see you back at home. Bye, now.”
Brit gave no reply. He closed the carriage door and stepped back. He was still there where she’d left him when the gleaming black brougham turned the corner of the plaza and Anna glanced back.
He stood unmoving in the sunlight, his raven hair glistening, his distinctive profile etched against the cloudless Texas sky. A sudden, hot breeze blew up and pressed his blue shirt against his chest, his beige trousers against his long, lean legs.
Anna didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Brit abruptly turned and walked away. She released her held breath, relieved that she was leaving him behind, that this trying afternoon was finally over.
She leaned back against the plush, tufted leather and closed her eyes. Her head was throbbing. Her stomach was on fire. She was miserable and she was angry, as well. Angry with Brit. While she had suffered through the endless, strained meal, struggling to maintain her self-control and hide her discomfort, he had been totally unruffled and at ease. It maddened her to know that his mere presence could so upset her, while her presence bothered him not at all.
As the carriage rolled down the dusty street leading out of Regentville, Anna sighed, opened her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. She set her jaw and silently told the insensitive man responsible for her despair that he wouldn’t be so infuriatingly calm when she was finished with him.
He had better enjoy his days on The Regent, because they were numbered.
Brit went straight to the Red Rose Saloon.
Unsmiling, he pushed through the slatted, batwing doors and made his way to the long wooden bar at the back of the saloon.
“Bourbon, Sam,” he said, when the beefy bartender appeared.
“Coming right up,” Sam replied, nodding.
The barkeep set a shot glass before Brit and filled it to the brim from a full bottle of Kentucky bourbon. When he started to move away, Brit reached out, clasped his forearm and said, “Leave the bottle.”
“Whatever you say.”
Brit stood at the polished bar in the hot, airless Red Rose Saloon for the rest of the afternoon, drinking whiskey straight and frowning darkly at anybody who jostled him or got too close.
The regulars murmured among themselves, wondering what was bothering Brit Caruth. He wasn’t himself today. He was mean-looking and short-tempered and in no mood for fun and high jinks.
“If you ask me,” said one old-timer under his breath, “Brit’s itchin’ for a fight.”
“Well, I wish to hell he’d find one,” said a poker player at a table nearby. “I’m tired of looking at that ugly scowl on his face.”
The old-timer chuckled and challenged, “Then why don’t you fight him?”
“Not me,” said the man, picking up the cards just dealt him. “I’ve seen him fight. He’d make mincemeat out of me.”
Brit continued to sullenly drink his bourbon, mindless of the talk going on around him. He stood at the bar looking neither left nor right, having nothing to do with anyone, determined to drink himself senseless.
At shortly after seven on that hot Saturday evening, the saloon’s doors swung open and Jackson “Tiny” Crandall, a troublemaker from Carlsbad, New Mexico, strode inside, puffing a fat cigar and sporting a brace of pistols.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Most all of the Red Rose patrons were admittedly afraid of the muscular, six-foot-four ruffian, who enjoyed browbeating and harassing people.
The crowd held its collective breath when Tiny, thumbs stuck into his low-riding gun belt, teeth chomping on his fat cigar, sauntered toward the bar, his beady eyes fixed on Brit’s back.
The insults started immediately.
“Well, lookie here, what have we got? I do believe it’s Pretty Boy Caruth,” said the ugly, grinning Tiny. “Is that you, pretty boy? Old Lady Regent let you come to town all by yourself?”
There was no response from Brit. He didn’t turn around, didn’t say a word, just continued to drink his whiskey and stare into space.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, Caruth.” Tiny’s voice grew louder. “You hear me? You afraid to turn around and face me?” He laughed and looked about the crowded saloon, clearly enjoying his attempts to humiliate Brit. “You know, I keep hearing how fast you are with your fists, but I ain’t never seen any sign of it.”
Stony silence filled the room.
Tiny pressed on. “Know what I think, Caruth? I think you’re a yellow-bellied coward. I think you’re afraid to fight a real man, that’s what I think.” Tiny crushed his cigar out on the bar at Brit’s elbow and said, loudly enough for everyone in the saloon to hear, “Maybe you ought to shimmy down them fancy pants you’re wearing and let us all have a look. I got a feeling there’s lace sewed on your underdrawers.”
There were loud guffaws from Tiny.
Gasps from the crowd of men.
No response from Brit.
Big Tiny Crandall continued to needle Brit for the next half hour, doing his best to get a rise out of him. It didn’t work. Brit didn’t take the bait. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn what Tiny Crandall said about him.
At last Tiny gave up on antagonizing Brit.
Only then did he finally get Brit’s attention. Tiny made the mistake of turning his goading and tormenting on a slightly built young cowboy who had lived and worked on The Regent all his life. The youth had been left mute after a fall from a mustang when he was just five years old. His name was Gilberto Baca and he was a hard worker, intelligent, likable and dependable.
“Hey, Barkeep,” Tiny bellowed, lowering his face to within inches of Gilberto’s, “I see you’re still letting this dummy drink in here like he was as good as anybody.” Tiny spat on the floor and said to Gilberto, “Get out of here, dummy. I don’t like lookin’ at your stupid brown face when I—”
“Excuse me, Tiny.” The deep, resonant voice was accompanied by a firm tap on Tiny’s beefy shoulder.
“What the…?” Tiny turned around, and his broad face immediately met with a hard driving blow from Brit’s right fist.
The surprise punch staggered Tiny, but he didn’t go down. Brit didn’t wait for him to recover, but shot a fast left hook up under Tiny’s whiskered chin. The big man flew backward and landed on his rear.
Shedding his beige linen suit jacket, Brit advanced on the downed man. “Get up,” he said through thinned lips, his fists raised.
“I’ll get up, all right. I’ll get up and kill you, Caruth,” threatened Tiny as he struggled to his feet and came at Brit.
The fight was on.
Card games stopped in midhand. The piano player quit playing. Everyone loved a good fistfight, and within seconds bets were being taken on who would be the victor.
Big Tiny Crandall was the taller of the two and his arms were longer, so he had the reach on Brit. But Brit had the edge, nonetheless. Each swing he took at Tiny’s ugly face released some of the pent-up tension that had been building inside him for weeks. For too long he had been like a tightly coiled spring, wound up, ready to break. The feel of his fist slamming into flesh was just what he’d been needing to relieve the pressure.
Brit fought like a madman, swinging, jabbing, landing punch after punch, grinning when he heard Tiny grunt and groan.
“Look at Brit,” shouted one of the raucous spectators. “He’s smilin’. He’s havin’ a good time!”
And he was.
Brit couldn’t avoid all of Tiny’s punches. He took some glancing blows to the jaw and a couple of haymakers to the belly. But he hardly felt the pain. Nor did he tire. He followed the retreating Tiny around the floor, knocking over chairs and tables, relentless in his pursuit. He connected with so many punishing blows that the bigger, taller man was soon swaying on his feet, his face battered and bloody.
Brit didn’t let up.
He continued to weave and dart and strike with well-aimed fists until his opponent was clearly beaten. One eye swollen shut, blood dripping from his nose and various cuts, Tiny tottered and tried futilely to finish Brit off.
Tiny was the one who got finished off.
Brit, suffering no more than a bruised cheek, a split lip and torn clothes, knew it was all over and was almost sorry that it was. He hadn’t felt so good in weeks. Advancing on his beaten opponent, Brit said, “You had enough, Tiny?”
Tiny, struggling to stand on rubbery legs, spit a glob of blood on the floor, raised his battered fists and said, “Go to hell, Caruth.”
Brit stepped in and easily landed a forceful blow that ended the fight. Tiny Crandall went down and lay unconscious on the floor. Patrons whistled and applauded. Men crowded around Brit, anxious to shake his hand and pat him on the back. Young Gilberto Baca couldn’t vocalize his gratitude, but his dark, flashing eyes thanked Brit, and Brit smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair. The beefy bartender shouted above the din that drinks were on the house.
Brit celebrated his lauded victory for the next half hour, then quietly slipped away.
Out on the wooden sidewalk, he inhaled deeply of the still night air. He felt good. Relaxed. In charge. Better than he’d felt in weeks. Like his old self.
Brit whistled a lively tune as he walked to the livery stable for his stallion. He rode out of the stable, but didn’t head home to the ranch. He was, he realized, finally thinking straight again instead of like some lovesick schoolboy.
All he needed was a woman. A beautiful, warm, willing woman, and one woman was just like the next. Always had been. Always would be.
In minutes Brit dismounted before a well-lit, pale yellow Victorian mansion on the outskirts of town, and knocked loudly. The red-haired widow, Beverly Harris, answered the door herself.
Her face reflecting her surprise, delight and concern, the negligee-clad Beverly threw her arms around Brit’s neck and exclaimed worriedly, “Brit, you’re hurt!”
Brit rubbed his bruised jaw. “Not really. I’m okay. I do need to wash up, though.”
“Oh, my love, come inside and I’ll give you a nice hot bath.”