WHEN Amy regained her senses, she realized she was being rude not to make her own goodbyes. She rushed inside and found Al and Edna Jones, then wished them fifty more happy years together. Then she shrugged out of Beau’s coat and wordlessly handed it to him, tugging her own parka from his hand. She had no intention of allowing him to help her with it. She’d had enough fake gallantry for one evening.
Once they were loaded in the sleigh and bundled up, Beau headed away from the barn and out of the valley. Music resonated through the night for a long time after they left: happy, bright, spirited music, much like the rugged, hardworking people she’d met since coming to Wyoming. She’d become fond of the people very quickly, which only strengthened her original plans to make a good life for herself out here with Ira.
The only flaw in her plan was the fact that after her marriage she’d be related to Beau Diablo. The idea of seeing him, even on an occasional basis, was disturbing. His kiss had been a well-crafted act of sabotage. She didn’t know why he’d bothered, since his relationship with his father wasn’t close. Why should he care how many times his father got married? Maybe he just wanted to prove to himself that he was right, or demonstrate very graphically to her that she was no more honorable than Ira’s other wives. So he’d used his subtle male expertise to catch her off guard and make her slip helplessly into his arms.
She glared in his direction as he lead the team along a moonlit trail that mocked her with its romantic beauty. Beau was very good at seduction. With every muscle, every fiber of her being, she wanted to leap up and shout that he had been ruthlessly unfair, kissing her the way he had. A few very select, very skillful men knew how to turn cold marble into molten lava with their kisses. That didn’t mean the marble had been scheming to erupt into a fountain of sparks, ash and liquid rock, did it? So what if Beau Diablo was sexy. So what if he knew how to make a woman want him. That didn’t mean she wasn’t completely honest about her desire to make a good marriage to Ira.
She had an almost overpowering urge to scream, “There should be a law against kissing like that! You should wear a warning label!” She wondered how many poor, unsuspecting women had been led astray by those clever lips. Well, she didn’t intend to be one of them. Her life’s plan was made. She wouldn’t be put on the defensive by his cold-blooded ploy; she wouldn’t be made to feel guilty or wrong, darn him!
“Say, Amy, hon?” Cookie piped up, drawing her from her mental struggles.
“Yes?” Silently, she blessed the housekeeper for speaking. Any subject would be better than dwelling on Beau’s kisses.
“You never said where your folks are. Do they live in Chicago, too?”
Sadness pricked her heart. “My parents passed away.” She shifted to face Archie and Cookie, careful not to brush against Beau as she did. Their expressions were clear in the moonglow and she watched their smiles fade with her news. “A plane crash five years ago,” she explained somberly. “I’d just graduated from high school and had been accepted at Northwestern on a scholarship. We were taking a trip to Florida as a combination celebration-vacation.” She cleared her throat, surprised that after all these years it was still hard to talk about. “I was lucky. I just broke a leg. My sister—” She cut herself off. She hadn’t meant to say anything about Mary.
“Oh, Lordy!” Cookie clutched her gloved hands to her breasts. “Please don’t tell me you lost a sister in the crash, too.”
Realizing it was too late to take back the admission, she shook her head, peeking at Beau. He was staring ahead, apparently disinterested in her chatter. “Mary’s my sister’s name. She was hurt badly, but the doctors think this last operation might finally help her walk again.”
“How old is she?” Archie asked, his beefy face troubled.
“Sixteen.” Amy smiled, thinking of her sister. “She’s a great kid. Never complains. I know she’ll walk again.”
“Must be pretty expensive, those operations,” Cookie said. “What about your schooling?”
Amy dropped her gaze to the hand she had draped along the back of the seat. She was clinching it into a fist and forced herself to relax, though the subject was difficult to deal with. “Well, naturally, I couldn’t afford to go to college after my folks—died. But their insurance helped pay for Mary’s operations. At least up until this last one. It’s pretty much gone now.”
“You poor kid.” Cookie shook her head, tugging her wool cap more tightly over her ears. “You’ve been supporting yourself and your little sis all this timeby yourself?”
Amy’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She’d never gotten used to the sound of pity in people’s voices, no matter how well-meaning they were. “I found a job with pretty good tips.” She shrugged it off. “We’ve done okay.”
“Where’s your sister now?” Archie asked.
“A convalescent home in Chicago. As soon as she’s better, Ira said she can join us.”
“That’s dandy.” Cookie’s smile returned. “I always said, there’s nothin’ like fresh air to heal a person. She’ll cure up fine once she gets out of that big, dirty town.”
Amy had to grin at Cookie’s description of Chicago. Obviously, she didn’t think much of city life. “I hope you’re right.”
“The operation was a success?” Archie asked.
“The doctors thought the prognosis was good when I left.”
“Miss Vale,” Beau interrupted brusquely, “don’t you care how your sister is doing now?”
She veered his way, breathing fire. “How dare you ask me such a question?”
“Then why haven’t you called her?”
Furious that he would suggest that she didn’t care about Mary, she had difficulty keeping her rage under control. “Since I’m obviously a burden to you, I didn’t want to trespass on your hospitality any more than I already have.”
His jaw tightened. “Call your sister, dammit. Why would you think you couldn’t?”
She heaved a groan. “You have the most irritating talent for making me feel wrong when I’m not!”
The stillness became oppressive, and Amy was mortified she’d let Cookie and Archie see the antagonism that simmered between her and their employer. She turned away, depressed. This Valentine’s Day would go into her diary as one of her very worstdead opposite from anything she’d imagined.
Hunching down in her blanket, she tried to absorb every ounce of warmth it had to offer. Though she would never admit it, she was uncomfortably cold. She didn’t think she was freezing to death, for she’d read somewhere that freezing people started to feel nice and warm and drowsy. She was neither warm nor sleepy. She was cold and mad. Unfortunately, she was also quivering like a striptease dancer.
“Slide over, Miss Vale.”
She glanced his way, then slid to the edge of the sleigh. “Far enough?”
“I meant toward me,” he corrected, impatience in his tone. “Slip the blanket over my legs so my body heat can warm you.”
She was so hostile to the idea, she found herself hesitating even as another bone-jarring tremor shook her body. “I—I find the brisk air invigorating.”
“If you like shaking, you’ll love pneumonia.” He grasped her wrist, drawing her close. “I told my father I’d keep you from freezing to death. I keep my promises.”
The next thing she knew, she was snuggled hip to thigh against him, aggravated that their close proximity was so foolishly welcome in some primal, womanly part of her—the same foolish womanly place that refused to let her forget his kiss.
The stillness was punctuated only by jingling bells and the mingled snores of the couple in the back of the sleigh, who apparently were able to drop off to sleep at the speed of light. Amy would have preferred that they remained awake and all joined in singing one hundred rousing choruses of “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall”. She hated the grinding repetitiveness of the ditty and had heard it in the cowboy bar more times than she cared to recall. But this forced confinement beneath a shared blanket, wrapped in Beau’s warmth, brought unfamiliar senses to life inside her that were as disturbing as the touch of his lips.
His arm slid around her shoulders, hugging her against him, and she jumped in surprise.
“Getting warmer?” he queried softly, so as not to awaken their sleeping passengers.
His chest was solid and inviting, his scent hypnotic. If she were to tell him the whole, ugly truth, she’d have to say she was sizzling, but she had a feeling he was referring to the environment, not her libido. “Yes—thank you,” she mumbled, deciding there was no point in arguing. It would serve no purpose except to wake Archie and Cookie. She might as well accept his warmth humbly and remember to keep her distance from now on.
“Sleepy?”
“No.”
“Go ahead and sleep, if you want. It’ll be another half hour before we get home.”
“I don’t think so,” she grumbled. Why did the Wyoming winter night have to be so wildly beautiful and the sleigh ride such an idyllic setting, with bells jangling and sturdy horses prancing through snow luminescent in the moonlight? Why did a bizarre feeling of having come home niggle at her brain?
“A nap would do you good.” The statement came quietly, hardly discernible over the tinkling of the bells. “If you’re worried, I don’t attack unconscious women.”
She shot him a sharp look and was sorry she did. His eyes glowed strangely in the dimness, and her throat constricted. After several ponderous seconds, she found her voice, rasping, “Now you tell me the rules!”
His lips quirked. “If you’d rather drive the sleigh, I’ll sleep.”
“Fine!” she retorted. “I just hope these horses are half bloodhound or we might end up in Japan.”
He handed her the reins. “Good night, Miss Vale.”
She stared, incredulous. “You can’t mean it!”
“Hush. I’m trying to sleep.” He leaned back, tugging his Stetson brim down over his eyes.
She held the reins warily, muttering under her breath, “I hate you.”
He smiled, but otherwise didn’t move. “I gave you your chance to sleep.”
“I hope we do end up in Japan. I assume these horses are good swimmers, because sooner or later-”
“Just one question,” he interrupted, prodding his hat brim up with a thumb and eyeing her speculatively. “Do you attack unconscious men?”
She stared openmouthed. How dare he goad her so unmercifully? The egotistical bum! She thrust the reins into his lap. “You know—the idea is appealing. It’s just a shame I forgot my ax!”
His low chuckle warmed the chilly night.
Amy awoke at dawn to bad news. Snow was spinning and swirling outside her window. It wasn’t a blizzard, but it was coming down hard enough to spell the end to her hopes of getting to Diablo Butte today.
Pushing up to sit, she brushed her hair back, dejection flooding through her. She shook her head in a physical effort to throw off her depression. “Getting upset about it won’t help, Amy. Work will take your mind off—everything. So get up and get busy.”
Ten minutes later, she was hanging her parka on a peg in the cook house, ready to help Archie and Cookie make breakfast. For a change, Archie was nowhere to be found and Cookie was measuring out flour for biscuits.
Amy plucked a dish towel from a drawer and tied a makeshift apron around her middle. “What do I do?” she asked. “I’m getting pretty good at coffee and bacon. Maybe I ought to start there.” She grinned at the older woman and headed to the nearest industrial-size refrigerator without waiting for a reply.
“Sounds good, hon,” Cookie called over her shoulder as she worked at the room’s center island work space. “We’re startin’ to make a pretty fair team.”
Amy laughed and grabbed the plastic container of thick-sliced bacon. “Sure. You and Archie do the cooking and I do the burning.”
Cookie chortled. “Now, that was jes’ that one batch of biscuits. You’re doing better’n Archie does most days, truth told.”
Amy started bacon frying, then measured out the coffee. “Speaking of Archie…” She came over to Cookie’s side. “Is he sleeping in this morning?”
Cookie grimaced and shook her head. “Bursitis has got him movin’ slow, poor darlin’.”
That reminded Amy of something. “By the way, how many years have you and Archie been married? Did you ever figure it out?”
Cookie smirked. “Been married thirty-three years, but I got the old fool convinced it’s thirty-five. So, next week about now, he’s givin’ me one of them relaxo-lounge chairs. You know, the kind that sits up or lays back.”
Amy nodded, having seen the commercials on TV. “So the thirty-fifth anniversary is the ‘relax-o-lounge’ anniversary?”
Cookie guffawed as she stirred the biscuit makings. “Heck if I know. But that’s what I want, so that’s what I told him.”
Amy had begun cracking eggs into a bowl but stopped to grin at her companion. “What a sneak you are.”
Cookie winked. “Hon, when you’ve been married as long as me, you’ll know these men don’t know a thing about shoppin’, so you give ‘em any good reason not to and they won’t have to shop. They just buy what you say.’’
Amy lifted her brows, nodding sagely. “Sounds like a good plan.”
The two woman were silent for a few minutes while Cookie got her first batch of biscuits into the oven. Amy dumped the eggs and other ingredients into a frying pan and was dutifully tending both eggs and bacon when she was startled to find Cookie lurking at her elbow. She turned, curious. “Anything wrong?” The housekeeper’s normally jolly expression had gone somber. “Have I done something wrong?”
The housekeeper put a companionable hand on Amy’s shoulder. “Not a drop, hon.” She paused, appearing to vacillate about something. After a minute, she patted Amy’s shoulder again, her decision made. “It’s just that I figured you should know something, seeing how you’re gettin’ ready to marry into the Diablo family.”
Amy grew apprehensive and fumbled with her cooking fork. “What is it?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know.
Cookie heaved a deep breath and removed her hand from Amy’s shoulder to absently wipe it on her apron. “Well, it’s like this.” Her brows knit contemplatively. “I saw the way you and Mr. Beau was outa sorts with each other last night, and I figure it’s because of what his daddy done these last years. You may already know, but they ain’t real close.”
Amy nodded. “I gathered that.”
Cookie shrugged. “Now, I ain’t speaking bad of Mr. Ira. Every man’s gotta live his own life. It’s jes’ that when he divorced Beau’s ma, Mrs. Pamela, nine years ago, it tore her up pretty bad. Mrs. Pamela and Mr. Ira been married near thirty years. Poor Mrs. Pamela came to stay with her boy. Mr. Beau had to watch his mama waste away and die. She lived long enough to see her Ira cavort with one trashy woman after another, then marry that first one. That blow to her heart finished her, I figure.” She plucked a checkered handkerchief from her hip pocket and noisily wiped at her nose. “Mr. Beau ain’t never forgave his daddy for tossin’ his mama off that cold way.”
Cookie screwed up her face, clearly not wanting to say something else, but deciding she must. “This is nothin’ against you, Miss Amy. You’re a lady. I saw that the first day you worried “bout me carryin’ your bag for you. But Beau’s heart was beat down when his mama died, and I don’t figure he’s seeing Ira’s newest fiancee with such a clear eye as me. All them other women of Ira’s was nothin’ but a bunch of lowdown trash.”
As Cookie stuffed the handkerchief away, Amy winced. Maybe it had been kinder of Beau not to introduce her as Ira’s fiancee, if this was the reputation his previous wives had around here.
“No offense, hon. But that’s the way it is,”She took the cooking fork from Amy’s slack hand. It was the first time she noticed she’d gone still. How sad for Beau to have had to helplessly watch his mother die from grieving over her lost love. No wonder he didn’t care much for his father or his string of young wives.
Cookie absently poked at the bacon. “So, if Mr. Beau acts like he’s lookin’ for a hog to kick, I was hoping you’d give him a little rope. He’s a fair man. But if I say so myself, his papa’s foolin’ around made him miserable as a cowpoke ridin’ night herd in freezing rain.” With an encouraging grin, she added, “Jes’ keep being the nice person I see, and one of these days he’ll accept how different you are from them other gals. I swear he will.”
There was a banging sound behind them, indicating the first of the hungry cowboys were gathering to eat. Amy’s throat had closed, and she couldn’t speak around the lump that had formed there. After what Cookie had said, she could hardly blame Beau for having a chip on his shoulder. Nodding mutely at the housekeeper, she took back the fork. “Thanks for telling me,” she managed. As the older woman started to move away, Amy took her hand. “And, Cookie, I—I really believe Ira’s seen his mistake. It’ll work this time.”
The housekeeper’s eyes glimmered with compassion. Turning Amy’s hand into her own callused one, she squeezed. “You’re a fine person, hon. And for your sake, I’ll pray it’s true.”
“Coffee!” bellowed one of the wranglers.
“You better have two broke feet, Willie Stumpet, shoutin’ at me thata way,” Cookie bellowed back. “Maybe you just got one good eye, but I figure you can see we’re shorthanded here.”
The weathered cowhand hee-hawed and ambled to the shelf where the coffee mugs were housed. “Miss Amy.” He greeted her with a nod. “Don’t let that bossy old stretch o’ barbed wire teach you to be crusty and mean. You stay sweet and pretty like you are.”
Amy felt a blush rush up her face, but before she could respond, Cookie retorted, “I’d watch the namecallin’, you old slab of buzzard bait, or you’ll be sorry the next time you want your grubby clothes washed.”
Good-natured banter filled the room as more and more cowhands blew in with the frolicking snow. Amy busied herself filling plates. But as busy as she got, she couldn’t stop thinking about Beau’s mother and about Ira’s treatment of her.
Though outwardly happy, she was far from it. Inwardly, she was eaten up with anxiety. Ira had admitted he’d done some stupid things in his past. He’d assured her he’d changed and learned the hard way what was important in life.
Surely that was true.
The day had been long and cold for everyone. Amy was tired and hungry, but she stopped by the pen that held the new calves to visit with Desiree. Her little chats with the calf had become the most enjoyable part of her day.
Once in the cook house, Archie had dinner ready, and when Amy began to help serve, he shooed her away. “No, you don’t, Miss Amy. You work with them hands all day. I ain’t lettin’ you come back here and work in the kitchen, too. Have yourself a cup of coffee and relax there by the fire like the rest of them wranglers.”
Amy was too tired to argue. As she poured herself some of the strong stuff, she had to admit she could hardly lift the mug, let alone do much cooking. “Something smells good,” she said, taking a sip.
“That’s a world-famous recipe of mine cookin’.”
Amy nodded. “Smells like it must be famous.”
“Won first place ten years runnin’ at the State Fair,” Archie boasted, lifting the lid on a skillet to scan the contents. “Now, you go sit yourself down. Supper’s near done.”
She took a seat on the bench. Mysteriously, there’d been a spot left vacant in front of the fire. She knew that to be the most coveted location after a long, cold workday, and she had a feeling the men were being gallant, leaving it for her. Silently, she blessed every scraggly whisker on their faces. She was bone chilled, and the heat of that blaze meant more to her than a million-dollar diamond ever could.
The cowhands kept her laughing with hilarious ranching stories as their supper was served. Beau joined them late, taking a seat across from Amy just as she had her first taste of what she assumed to be chicken nuggets. It didn’t taste quite like chicken nuggets, however. Trying to avoid eye contact with her host, she turned toward Snapper, sitting on her right. “This doesn’t taste like chicken, but it’s good. What is it?”
Snapper had taken a mouthful of mashed potatoes, and tried spasmodically to swallow so be could respond.
“Mountain oysters,” Beau said before Snapper could speak.
Her gaze drifted to his face with reluctance. “Mountain oysters?” she repeated, not sure she’d heard right. “I’ve never heard of them.”
Beau’s lips twitched and Amy noticed the other cowhands had stopped eating. She looked around, wondering why they were all so intent on her comment about the dinner. “Do you like them?” he asked.
Amy didn’t trust the twinkle in his eyes. “They’re fine.” She started to worry. “Why do I have a feeling they’re not oysters at all?”
A couple of the cowboys snickered and a tremor went up her spine.
Suddenly feeling a little sick, she placed her fork on her plate and stared at Beau. “It’s something disgusting, isn’t it—like rattlesnake patties or possum tongues?”
“We learned long ago not to waste anything out here, Miss Vale,” Beau said, taking a bite.
She pulled her lips between her teeth, fairly sure she was turning green. “Oh, no—it’s worse than I thought.”
After finishing the mouthful, he went on, “Every spring when we castrate the calves, we toss the testicles in a bucket and—”
Amy’s jaw dropped. “Oh—my—heaven!” She moaned, launching herself from the bench. “Oh— dear…” Nauseous, she lurched away from the table and grabbed her parka. She dashed out into the snow, hoping the slap of cold air would keep her from being sick.
She was leaning against the log wall, her eyes closed and inhaling deeply, when she heard the door open and close. Someone had come outside. She hoped it was Cookie checking on her, but she didn’t dare open her eyes to be sure. Instead she just inhaled again, fighting nausea.
“The best rancher’s wife in Wyoming wouldn’t be your shade of green.”
Her stomach reeled, but she held herself under control. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” she mumbled between clenched teeth.
“Miss Vale,” he said, sounding very close, “it’s a prank we play on city people. If it makes you feel any better, most folks new to ranching areas react the way you did.”
She opened one eye, feeling a little less like dying. “You people need to find some hobbies.”
He grinned, lounging against the wall. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t get a chuckle out of watching some hayseed trying to figure out how to eat his first lobster?”
She opened her other eye and lifted her chin. “It’s not the same thing at all.”
“How so?”
She wasn’t sure her argument was on solid ground, but she refused to admit it. “Because—because a lobster is not an obscene part of a cow, that’s how so!”
He chuckled. “I can’t argue that.”
She found herself smiling back and realized she didn’t feel sick any longer. As a matter of fact, she felt a bit too good. It amazed her how quickly Beau’s charisma could affect her. She didn’t like that about herself, and she quickly sobered. “I—I hope I didn’t hurt Archie’s feelings.”
“He’ll live.”
She eyed heaven, wanting to do the brave thing— go back in there and eat Archie’s prizewinning mountain oysters, but she was highly doubtful that she could.
“Did you call your sister today?” he asked, startling her with the change of subject.
Wanting to avoid the troubles that came with looking at his handsome face, she stared past him. Snow danced through a shaft of golden light from one of the cook-house windows. “I—I thought I should wait until the rates went down in the evening.”
“Go call her, Miss Vale,” he commanded quietly. “Now.”
She shifted her unwilling gaze to meet his. Several snowflakes had settled on his long black eyelashes. Melting with his body warmth, they sparkled like precious gems. Her heart skipped two consecutive beats at the sight, and the memory of his kiss came flooding back. Hurriedly, she moved away from his disconcerting nearness. “I think I will,” she whispered, making a brisk escape toward the ranch house.
“By the way…”
She didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to turn back, but she forced herself, though she kept her glance focused no higher than his feet. “Yes?”
“Ira’s been trying to call you on his shortwave radio.” He continued to lounge against the wall, lifting one boot to rest against the wood. “Apparently our radio’s been broken. I fixed it today.”
Amy frowned, skeptical at the nonchalant tone. Why did she have the sneaking suspicion he’d purposely pulled out a wire or loosened a tube to keep her from talking to his father? What could he hope to gain, except maybe an opportunity to work her so hard she’d run screaming back to Chicago before Ira could talk her out of it? It would be just like Beau Diablo to pull such a dirty trick. “How did you discover it was broken?” she asked, the tightness in her voice revealing her distrust.
He shrugged, and it was the first time she became aware that she’d lifted her gaze. “Al Jones told me last night that Ira radioed him and asked if we were all dead out here.”
A stinging accusation was on the tip of her tongue, and she wanted to shout, “Lucky there was a party or your trickery would never have been found out!” She didn’t know if it was prudence or cowardice, but she decided not to blurt her indictment. Instead she began to back away. “Lucky there was a party, then.”
“Lucky,” he agreed with a shrug.
Her anger building, she halted, eyeing him narrowly. “So, how do I use this radio?”
“If you’d like, after dinner I’ll radio Ira for you. You can speak to him then.”
“If I’d like?” she echoed, incredulous. Spinning away, she tromped off. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account, Mr. Diablo!”
“No trouble at all, Miss Vale,” he assured her with infuriating politeness.