Samantha and Nicholas took their morning ride as usual, but this time they rode along the railroad tracks.
“Mama, what are you smiling about?”
“Nothing, Nicholas.”
“You keep doing it, though.”
“It’s nothing. Really.”
They rode back to the ranch a little early, and she sent Nicholas to the kitchen for a bite to eat, washed her face and arms to cool them, splashed peppermint water over them to refresh herself, then walked into the parlor to look at what her son had written about the marmot they’d found on the desert. Tristera sat on the sofa, reading David Copperfield.
Samantha sat down at the desk. Juana padded into the parlor, her sandals making a shuffle-slap sound on the bare wood floor, then a softer sound on the carpet. “Cavalry’s coming! I see from kitchen window.”
The muffled clatter of horses’ hooves sounded on the slope leading up to the house. Tristera put aside her book and ran to the mirror on the parlor wall to push tendrils of her long auburn hair away from her face. Samantha had suggested she continue to wear it loose to emphasize the difference between herself and Hopi Indian girls, who wore their hair in maiden whorls over their ears. It worked. Tristera looked more Mexican than Indian. And she acted more Mexican.
Seeing Tristera at the mirror, her cheeks flushed with new color, her hands fluttering over her hair, Samantha realized she might not have to worry about Rathwick any longer.
“Tristera, could you greet them? I need to finish reading Nicholas’s school work.”
Tristera let out a soft, excited groan. “Sí, señora.”
Rathwick halted his ragged column of men and waited for someone to invite him down. Tristera Rodriguez stepped out of the open door. Her sweet face satisfied something in him.
“Good day, Miss Tristera.”
“Good day, Capitán Rathwick,” she replied, affecting Juana’s accented English. Tristera had a natural ability with languages. She spoke English, Spanish, and her native Hopi language. She could mimic almost any accent.
“I’m surprised to see you, Capitán. It is a long ride from the fort.” The sight of him caused a slight sinking feeling around her heart. He wasn’t here to see her but to court the señora. That thought made her more irritable than she’d felt canning tomatoes at the school—and she hated canning tomatoes.
“Chasing a band of renegades who left the reservation without permission,” he said gruffly. “Thought for a minute we’d caught them when I spotted that band camped by the creek.”
“Renegades?” Tristera hooted softly. “Or starving Indios, Capitán?” It pleased her to irritate the handsome captain, to see the pained expression on his ruddy face. “That particular family of renegades works for Señora Forrester,” she continued. “You harry them, she’ll not take it kindly.”
He spread his hands in surrender and smiled, revealing deep dimples on either side of his mouth and good teeth beneath a neatly trimmed mustache.
“Well, maybe you could put in a good word for me, Miss Tristera,” he said. “I’m just a poor, tired old soldier, trying to do my job.”
“I would invite you in, Capitán, but Señora Forrester allows nothing in her house that is not useful or beautiful.”
Rathwick laughed. “I’ve been in there before.”
“It’s a new rule.” Tristera tossed her hair. Sunlight glinted off the shining auburn mass. Her dark, challenging eyes sparkled with amusement.
Rathwick laughed again. Tristera’s heckling invigorated him, dispelled his tiredness. “If you’re not careful, Miss Tristera, I’m going to hire you away from Mrs. Forrester and take you home with me, so you’ll have to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“Don’t waste your money,” she said, snorting. She looked haughty and untouchable, but her cheeks took on color.
“I lie wounded at your pretty feet, Miss Tristera.”
Tristera rolled her eyes. “Another mess to clean,” she said, flashing him an arch smile. “I’ll get a broom and tell the señora you’re here.”
Samantha took that as her cue to appear at the door.
Rathwick bowed low, sweeping the porch with his black felt campaign hat. “I hope I did not catch you at an inopportune time, Mrs. Forrester.” His voice, which had been playful with Tristera, sounded formal now.
“Good afternoon, Captain. Please get down and come in.”
Rathwick complied. His men dismounted with much creaking of saddles. They walked toward the barn to water their horses from the trough.
“What brings you here so early in the day?”
“Chasing renegade Indians who left the papagueria last night, probably drunk on mescal. I thought I’d found them when I saw the Indians camped by your creek. Miss Tristera tells me they work for you…?”
“Yes, they do.”
“That’s too bad.” Rathwick scowled. “The only safe place for an Indian is on the reservations they agreed to stay on. According to my orders, if a full-blooded Indian is on the reservation, he’s a friendly Indian. If he’s off the reservation, he’s hostile.”
Tristera made a small strangled sound.
“Are you all right, Miss Tristera?”
Tristera lifted her chin. Her brown eyes flashed with fire. Rathwick thought it a shame for the girl to side with the Indians. She was blessed with the prettiness of a young Spanish aristocrata. Any Indian blood in her had not hurt her. Her brother, Ramon, was a different story. Rathwick had arrested Ramon once for fighting with three drunken soldiers. He was so difficult and stubborn he might not be a full-blooded brother to Tristera. Rathwick wouldn’t be surprised to learn the boy was part Apache.
Rathwick’s response thrilled Samantha. She saw his attraction to the girl and felt a rush of warmth for him.
“We’d love to have you stay for dinner, Captain.”
“I wish I could, but General Ashland is waiting for my report. I only stopped to pay my respects and to tell you that we secured your palace car and train before any hostiles found it. A Texas and Pacific crew took it back to Phoenix.”
“Oh! Thank you so much.”
Rathwick glanced from Samantha to Tristera. “There’ll be games and dancing at the Picket Post camp a week from next Saturday. I was wondering if I might be so fortunate as to escort you ladies and your party into town?”
“Thank you for asking us, Captain. The last time I was in town I got the distinct impression they didn’t want us there anymore.”
Rathwick nodded. “I heard about that. Perhaps that’s all the more reason you shouldn’t let them keep you away.”
Samantha frowned. “I’ve toyed with that approach.”
“It’s a sound one. I hope you can both go,” he said, glancing quickly at Tristera. “Every man will be the loser if the two loveliest women in the territory don’t attend.”
Samantha had not missed a single dance since she’d come to Picket Post. Social events were infrequent and looked forward to with anticipation. Everyone who could go did so. Men outnumbered the women three to one, so any woman who attended would dance until her feet were sore, and generally with a different man each time. So it wouldn’t matter who she officially went with, but he had caught her off-guard. She liked Rathwick, and she realized it would be awkward for him to take Tristera alone. Also Samantha knew it would be good for her to continue being seen with him. It might forestall any gossip about herself and Steve Sheridan.
Samantha glanced quickly at Tristera. “Why, yes, Captain. We’d be happy to accompany you.”
Rathwick bent forward in a slight bow. “I’ll be here Saturday morning about nine o’clock to escort you ladies into town.”
“This coming Saturday…?”
“No, Saturday next.”
Rathwick turned smartly on his heel and clumped down the steps. He mounted his horse with a dashing clank of saber and creak of saddle and raised his black felt hat to them. The soldiers led their horses toward his and mounted.
A frown darkened Rathwick’s face. “Oh, by the way…”
“Yes?”
“I’m still looking for that Indian woman. You haven’t seen her by any chance?”
“Why, no. Is she still supposed to be wandering around in the desert alone? I can’t imagine such a thing.”
“Could be.”
“You didn’t say in town. What did she do?”
Rathwick hesitated. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to be sharing information he’d been told so grudgingly by Ashland. But he liked Samantha Forrester, and it would be unfortunate if anything happened to her because she didn’t realize how dangerous the Indian woman was. “She killed five men,” Rathwick said, repeating what he’d finally been told.
“Heavens! Are you sure?”
“Yes. And from what the general’s investigators found, it was an act of coldly calculated murder.”
“If I see her I will definitely send for you.”
“Thank you. Don’t leave yourselves unguarded. Keep men around at all times. The woman is extremely dangerous.” He placed his hat on his head. “Good day.”
Rathwick motioned to his lieutenant, who yelled, “Company ho!”
The column snaked back on itself and turned north. Samantha knew they would follow her valley north, then cut east toward Camp San Carlos.
Tristera looked stunned. “I killed no one!” she whispered. “Señor Steve knows!”
“There must be a horrible mistake. We’ll send for Steve. He’ll know what to do.”
Abruptly Tristera turned, jerked open the door, and stalked through the house. Seconds later, the back door slammed.
Samantha started after her. Nicholas came out of the kitchen. “Mama, can I go out and play?”
“No. It’s your nap time.”
“Mama! I’m not sleepy.”
“You haven’t even tried to sleep.”
“I can tell!”
“You know what the doctor said. Lie on your bed for however long it takes. Sleep will come, young man.”
Groaning, he turned toward his bedroom.
Samantha hurried to find Tristera. The back screen door hung half off its hinges. Tristera sat on the ground, her back against the house, her face buried in her hands.
Samantha sat down beside her and waited.
Finally the young woman uncovered her pale face. “I did not mean to break the back door,” she said, her words choked with fury. “But I am so angry.”
“You have every right to be angry. Steve will know what to do. If they catch you, he will testify on your behalf. Surely, once they know the truth…”
“With white justice, nothing is sure.”
Samantha had no answer. Her own life had never depended on the mercy of the government. She’d always had money, prestige, and the protection those afforded. It was hard to imagine being alone in the world, poor, and dependent upon the questionable justice of a race who had, according to its own newspaper accounts, taken everything from her people.
“Do you have family somewhere, E—Tristera?”
“I can’t go back there,” she whispered.
“May I ask why?”
Tristera looked like a child, her face pinched with outrage and bitter fury. “Tuvi trusted me. He chose me to go with the delegation to Washington, and they were all killed.”
“But you couldn’t have saved them. Surely your people could not expect you to save the delegation from armed men?”
“They wouldn’t have died if I had been good enough. If I hadn’t let Yellow Fox shame me,” she whispered.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Reluctantly, Tristera told Samantha about falling in love with Yellow Fox, his betrayal, and the attack on the delegation. The betrayal seemed insignificant now, in light of Tuvi’s death.
“Tuvi is dead,” she ended bitterly, “and my people are doomed. Without Tuvi to protect them, the whites will take away their land—and they will starve. I am labeled as a murderer and a loose woman. So I can’t even help them. They wouldn’t listen to me now.” Her voice failed her. She covered her face and gritted her teeth so hard her cheeks ached.
They sat in silence for a moment. Samantha’s heart went out to her. She wanted to pull Tristera into her arms and hold her, but the young woman looked rigid with grief.
“Now it will never rain again,” Tristera whispered.
“Rain?” Samantha thought she’d heard wrong. “What has rain to do with it?”
Tristera’s eyes filled with shame and guilt. “I was the rainmaker for my village. It has not rained since I lay with Yellow Fox. If it doesn’t rain, they will all die.”
“But it wasn’t deliberate.”
“It matters not. Only purity matters.”
“I don’t know anything about your Indian way of life or your religion, but Steve said that nothing can happen without the Great Mystery’s approval or permission. Is it possible the Great Mystery wanted you to experience this for some reason?”
Tristera rolled her eyes. “What reason? If so, then I hate Him, too. Even more than Yellow Fox! What kind of God is He, to let Tuvi die?” Her voice was choked with fury. “What kind of God would let the soldiers shoot a holy man down like a dog?”
Samantha turned away from the harsh, angry light in the younger woman’s eyes. She could not defend God. He had taken her parents. He had let Angie Logan steal her beloved away from her. Painful emotion quivered within.
“If you were an outcast, what were you doing with the Indians who were killed?”
“I think they were trying to bring me back into the circle of the tribe. It had not rained in a long time.”
“I’ve never believed in rainmakers,” Samantha whispered. “I guess I have a very limited view of the world.”
“One day when I was five, my grandmother saw me watching the clouds and she asked me to make them give up their rain because we had been in a drought for so long. To please my grandmother I held up my arms. My grandmother tells people I said, ‘It is time to stop being bad little clouds. Give me your rain.’ Within seconds the first raindrops fell. It rained for three days.”
Samantha didn’t know what to say. Obviously Tristera believed she had caused the rain. “I’ll send for Steve. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”
A column of black smoke moved steadily along the southern horizon, creeping north toward Samantha Forrester’s house. Steve watched until he confirmed that the train carried freight. This could be Ian. If so, he was right on time. Steve ordered men to hitch horses to the buckboards.
Men tired of the hard work of leveling the roadbed without proper tools, rushed to comply. Steve saddled Calico. Every available buckboard rapidly filled with the men needed to unload the supplies, and they followed him down the hill.
About halfway, Steve saw Ramon coming up.
“Looking for you, señor,” he said, lifting his floppy brimmed hat and wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve. His wet thatch of hair was plastered to his head.
“We saw the train,” Steve explained.
“Don’t know anything about a train. The señora asked me to fetch you back pronto.”
That had an ominous sound to it. Steve kicked his horse into a gallop.
Jennifer Kincaid looked up from the limp, feverish form of her daughter and out the window, trying to gauge by the cactus formations how far they still were from Phoenix. They had just come from Los Angeles yesterday and should reach Phoenix by noon—if they were on schedule.
Amy was asleep now, but if she woke and they were still on the train she might start vomiting again.
Jennifer glanced from the window to her husband’s tall form, sprawled comfortably in one of the Pullman coach’s upholstered chairs. His eyes were closed, but under her scrutiny, he opened them and caught her glance.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Not good. The fever seems to be rising.”
“It’s probably measles,” he said quietly.
“Oh, God, I hope not.” Every year children died from measles. Little Chane hadn’t had them, either. Jennifer glanced at her sleeping son. He wasn’t sick yet, but…
“Hey, don’t cry,” Chane said, getting up to come feel his daughter’s forehead. “We’ll get them through this. We all got through it.”
“I was just thinking how awful it must be for Samantha, with no husband to support her through these crises.”
“Yeah, it’s rough on her.”
Jennifer took Chane’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s a lot easier when you have someone to be scared with.”
They pulled into the Texas and Pacific Railroad Company’s Phoenix station at 11:55 A.M., right on schedule. Even worried about his daughter, Chane looked at his watch and said, “More of my trains arrive on schedule than any other company’s.”
Jennifer smiled. Her husband took a great deal of pride in his work. Chane carried his sleeping son, and Jennifer carried Amy, who was awake now and groggy and fretful. Jennifer covered Amy’s head with a light blanket, but the girl pushed it aside and cried. “Shhhh,” Jennifer whispered, “you need to keep this over your head.”
As they stepped out onto the platform, Bill Penney, the stationmaster, hurried toward them. Penney was a tall, thin man who looked more like a town doctor. His hair had all been worn off, probably from worrying over schedules and wearing a green eyeshade eighteen hours a day. He lived alone and rarely went home except to change clothes and eat.
“Got some news for you, Mr. Kincaid,” Penney said, pushing his eyeshade up on his forehead.
“Oh?”
“It’s about your sister, Mrs. Forrester.”
Chane led the group into the shade of the covered platform. “What about her?”
“We got her palace car back a week or so ago all shot up. The brakeman had been killed and Lars was shot bad. He’s still laid up in Camp Picket Post.”
“Oh, no!” Jennifer whispered.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Amy whined.
“Nothing, sweet,” she murmured. “We’re just worried about Samantha.”
“Have you heard any word from her?” Chane asked Bill Penney.
“Well, no, not directly. But we got a wire that there’s a crazy Indian woman killing folks all over that area. And we got a bunch of workmen and a big shipment of building materials for Mrs. Forrester. Looks like she may have been burned out or something. There’re enough men and enough stuff on those flatcars down there to build a couple of houses.”
Chane scowled. Amy whined, and Jennifer bounced her to quiet her. “You’d better go see about Samantha,” she said.
“I can’t leave you now.”
“You’ll be back by tomorrow, latest, won’t you?”
“I suppose so.” He turned to Bill Penney. “Put together a train for me with my palace car and the flatcars of building materials. I’ll take Mrs. Kincaid home and be right back.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Penney said, following them toward the Kincaids’ heavily sprung brougham carriage that had just rolled up to the station platform. “Mr. Lance Kincaid has requested a special train to take him to Mrs. Forrester’s house, too. I just got the request this morning and was going to act on it favorably, but I realized you’d be here by the time I could anyway…”
“Thanks, Bill, you did well. Route my train through Durango and I’ll pick Lance up. Wire him and tell him what time to expect me.”
Bill Penney grinned. “It’s as good as done, sir.” There was only a narrow gauge track to Durango, installed to service Lance’s mine and the copper mine, but Penney knew how to handle the transfers.
Two hours later, Chane knocked on the open door of the L & K Silver Mine in Durango. Logan was a silent partner. Lance made all the daily operating decisions. The part of the building visible to Chane was empty, and no one answered. Chane glanced around the deserted work site.
A man strolled up the slope from town, saw him, and angled over to greet him. “Looking for Mr. Kincaid?” he asked, pulling a toothpick out from between his front teeth.
“Yes.”
“He’s in the mine. We sprung a leak this morning, and he’s working with the engineers to try to stop it before it puts us out of business.”
“Can you show me where I might find him?”
Just as he asked the question Lance strode out of the mine shaft with three other men.
Chane waved, saw Lance wave back, then walked over to meet him. Lance didn’t look happy, but that was to be expected. No man wanted water instead of silver.
Lance wiped heavy beads of sweat off his forehead. His shirt was sweated through, his face streaked and dirty. “I guess Yoshio couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” he growled.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Chane said, surprised at his brother’s truculent mood. “You requested a special train to Samantha’s house. Since I’m going that way, too, I decided, if you don’t object,” he said, squinting at his brother’s obvious hostility, “that we could share the same train.”
Lance turned to the men who had followed him out of the mine. “You know what to do. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
Without another word to Chane, Lance strode down the slight incline toward town. Chane scowled and followed. Something was amiss.
“How’s Angie?” he asked of his brother’s broad back.
“How the hell should I know!”
That answer explained a lot. “Something happened?”
“She moved to San Francisco and filed for divorce.”
“Why?”
“I guess she found someone else.”
Chane lengthened his stride to walk beside Lance. “I’m not the smartest man in the world when it comes to women, but I’d have bet all my stock in the Texas and Pacific that Angie was and still is deeply in love with you.”
“Well, you’d be looking for work now, wouldn’t you?” The bitterness in Lance’s husky voice evoked an ache of compassion in Chane.
“So, what now?” he asked.
“Now?” Lance repeated, squinting through narrowed eyes. “Now I guess I just pick up the pieces and go on. Unless I’ve missed something…”
“You’re bitter now…”
“No!” said Lance, his tone sardonic.
“Angie loves you, and you love her. I expect this’ll work out, if you give it a chance.”
“Talking to Angie lately has been about as easy as kicking a mule up a ladder.” Lance stopped abruptly. “If you didn’t know, what brought you to Durango?”
Chane told him about Samantha’s train and the crazy Indian woman who was killing people. “You want to go with me? If not I’ll wire Bill Penney to send another train whenever you say.”
“I don’t mind going with you, but I have to change first. You can wait at the train if you want.”
“I’ll walk with you. It’ll do me good. I’ve been cooped up on trains for the last two days.”
They skirted the small town’s main street in favor of one less traveled. The houses looked deserted. Sleepy dogs lay on porches or under trees. Occasionally one got up enough energy to bark at them.
Walking beside his brother, matching his long strides in silence, Chane realized he had felt uncomfortable ever since he’d seen his brother coming toward him earlier. Now his mind was giving form to that feeling. He realized Lance looked exactly the way he’d looked and sounded after Lucinda died—like a wounded animal gathering its energy to do destruction.
Chane did a quick calculation. Lance was thirty-five now. He had fallen in love with Lucinda when he was seventeen. Lucinda had been twenty, three years older than Lance, and that had been enough of a difference to incur the Kincaid family disapproval. In spite of that, Lance and Lucinda had planned to marry when he graduated from Harvard Law School. Three weeks after his graduation, she’d been murdered.
Lance had tracked down two of the three men who’d done it and had killed them with his bare hands. Afterward, he’d been so horrified at what he’d done that he hadn’t pursued the third. At their father’s suggestion, Chane had taken his brother off to France for a holiday. Unfortunately Lance had done anything but rest. He had broken hearts and savaged women’s lives all over Paris. It had taken the experience with Colette, Chane’s fiancée, to finally stop him.
Chane had heard the truth about what had happened between Lance and Colette only after it was over. Colette was tawny skinned, tawny haired, and lithe as a young kitten, and Chane had loved her. Lance and Colette had known each other without his knowledge. Apparently she had flirted with Lance every day as he walked by the small dress shop where she worked. Lance had warned her that she couldn’t get away with that forever, but she had only smiled her seductive smile at him and continued to tease him.
Finally Lance had kidnapped her and kept her for three days, making love to her repeatedly, even though he would not tell her his name or allow her to tell him hers. He told her he didn’t want to know anything about her except the smell of her flesh as he made love to her. When the three days were over he took her back to her shop and did not ask her to keep the secret, even from the police. But of course she did. By then she was madly in love with him and would have done anything for him.
A month went by, and Lance did not come back for her. She almost died of a broken heart. Then he showed up at the shop and spirited her off for another three days. Same rules. Same disappointment when he returned her.
Finally Colette came to Chane and told him she needed to break their engagement to marry. She admitted she was in love with a mystery man whose name she did not even know.
Shortly after that Chane started following Colette and saw the mystery man who had enchanted his fiancée. Then he confronted his brother. Lance was devastated to learn that Colette was Chane’s fiancée and that he had ruined Chane’s relationship. Lance had gotten staggering drunk that night and sailed for America on the next available ship.
In New York he had quit his job at his father’s firm and taken a train to the Arizona Territory. When their mother had asked why he was leaving, he’d said, Maybe if I stay away from civilized people I won’t do any more damage than absolutely necessary.
Then, much to his family’s chagrin, Lance had taken one of the most dangerous jobs on the frontier—Arizona Ranger. Their father, Chantry Two, had been furious but impotent to do anything about it.
And now that same bitterness and hardness were back in Lance’s blue eyes. It did not bode well for any woman he singled out.
Lance changed clothes at the house. They walked back to the mine and boarded the narrow gauge train that had brought Chane on this leg of his journey. When they had transferred to the palace car and were finally headed toward Samantha’s ranch, Chane broached the subject again.
“So what now?” he asked cautiously.
Lance shrugged. “Maybe I’ll court Samantha.”
Chane scowled his displeasure.
Lance quirked an eyebrow. “You have some objection to that?”
“I guess not. As long as you remember your manners.”
“And what if I don’t?” he asked grimly.
“If you hurt her the way you hurt Colette…”
“Is that a threat?” Lance asked, his eyes narrowed.
“A concern.”
“Sam’s a big girl now.”
“You’re my brother, and I don’t intend to meddle in your affairs, but I feel the need to speak my mind.” He paused. “Where you’re concerned,” he said carefully, “Samantha is completely vulnerable. You have the ability to deal her a killing blow.”
“Or to make all her dreams about me come true.”
“If I trusted that—”
“So why the hell don’t you?” Lance snapped.
“When you’re in your right mind, you wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially not Samantha. But you’re…confused right now. You might do something in bitterness that you’ll regret.”
“And I might not.”
“So, big brother,” Chane said, “butt out.”
“Good advice,” Lance growled.
An hour after Samantha had sent Ramon to fetch Steve, a train pushed its load up the last grade to the house and chuffed to a stop. Recognizing Chane through an open window of the palace car, she picked up her skirts and ran down the porch steps and across the yard.
“Chane!” she cried.
His black hair rumpled by the wind, Chane skimmed down the steps of the observation deck, caught her in midflight, and spun her around. “We thought you’d been killed,” he growled. “We came back from a trip to Los Angeles today and found out from Bill Penney your palace car had been all shot up. If Amy hadn’t been sick, Jennie would have come with me.”
“I’m sorry. I…”
“Are you all right? Jennie was worried sick.”
“I meant to send a wire, but—How is Amy?”
“Running a fever. Measles are going around. You’re all right? And Nicholas?”
“Yes. Yes, we’re fine.”
Lance stepped out onto the observation platform, leapt down, and strode toward them.
“Lance!” Samantha cried, her heart flipping over at the sight of his grim, handsome face relaxing into a smile at the sight of her.
Chane scrutinized his brother carefully. The smile was a good sign. Maybe, just maybe, Lance would behave himself.
As Chane watched, men swarmed out of the lead boxcar and walked past them toward Samantha’s water trough. “What the hell are you doing to need all this?” he asked.
Samantha laughed. “Building a house. Thanks for bringing them. Can you stay for a while?”
Chane’s green eyes narrowed against the sun. “Who’s building it for you?”
“I hired a man by the name of Steve Sheridan.”
“Never heard of him.”
Samantha glanced from Lance to Chane. Lance shrugged. Chane’s wide jaws clamped in consternation. He pinned her with a look that clearly said that his never hearing of Steve was final condemnation. Every year, Chane looked more like Uncle Chantry, one of the handsomest older men she’d ever seen.
“Well, I think he’s very good,” she said defensively.
Lance scowled, too, and it was clear he also didn’t think she should be making decisions like that all by herself.
“I’m a big girl now,” she said.
Chane gave a condescending grin and walked back to the train to tell the engineer to shut down the engine and relax while the men unloaded the freight cars. Samantha led Lance into the house.
“Can you stay awhile?” she asked hopefully. “Come say hello to Nicholas. He’ll be upset if you don’t.”
“It’s up to Chane.”
They found Nicholas asleep on his bed. Lance leaned down and kissed his forehead.
“I’d better wake him,” Samantha whispered.
“No.”
Chane joined them. He, too, bent to kiss Nicholas’s forehead. Lance led them out of Nicholas’s room.
“Jennie wants you to come back to Phoenix with me,” Chane said, glancing around the parlor.
“Why?” Samantha asked, puzzled.
“In addition to getting your palace car back with bullet holes in it, and one dead and one wounded employee, we heard there’s a crazed Indian woman murdering people. Jennie wants you to stay with us until they catch her.”
“That is such a lie!” Samantha said indignantly. Glad that Tristera was outside, she told Chane and Lance what Steve and Tristera had told her. “The cavalry made up the story,” she said, ending.
Chane asked a few questions, then nodded his understanding. “Well, that should relieve Jennie’s mind. But I’m still worried about your building another house.”
“You’re probably still upset about this one.”
Chane nodded.
“The new house will be nothing like this.” Samantha showed Chane a line drawing of the house Steve was building.
“Pretty fancy,” Chane said. “Are you sure he can actually build this? It would take quite a builder to make a project like this come out right.”
“He’s built them before.”
Chane shook his head. “I’ll do some checking. If he’s any good at all, someone will have heard of him.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I know you don’t, but humor me, okay?”
Samantha sighed. “Okay.”
Juana waddled into the room. “Señor Steve is here.”
“Here?” Samantha asked, horrified.
“Sí, señora.”
Samantha couldn’t imagine worse timing. Chane was in a perfect mood to take Steve on. And for some reason she couldn’t articulate, she didn’t want Lance and Chane picking on Steve.
“I’ll be right out.” Samantha turned to Lance and Chane, who were both looking at her.
“You wait here,” she ordered firmly.
Steve rode up just as Samantha stepped out onto the porch. With an odd sinking feeling around his heart, he realized that his time away from her had not dimmed his attraction to her one iota.
“Afternoon,” he said glumly.
She looked up at him, and he knew she had a serious problem of some sort, but a smile started in her beautiful blue eyes and spread over her face until it completely erased the tension he’d seen there. In that moment, with her happiness to see him radiating out of her lovely face, he forgave her anything and everything she might ever do to him. An answering smile took over his own face. They just stood there, smiling at each other.
Finally Steve said, “You sent for me, remember?”
“Oh, I forgot! I had something else on my mind.”
“So do I,” he said, smiling so widely he exposed the gleam of gold in his canine tooth.
Even confused as she was, Samantha was inordinately pleased by Steve’s teasing, but before she could think of a witty rejoinder, a short white-haired man strode around the corner of the house, stopped at the sight of her, and lifted his battered black derby.
“Call me a bloody Jacobite!” he murmured. His Scottish burr and the tartan of his vest labeled him a Scot. Merry blue gnome’s eyes looked out of a round, smiling face framed by frizzy sideburns that grew in wispy white arcs from his ears to the corners of his mouth. His chin and the rest of his face were clean-shaven.
“Would you look at the lass!” he growled. “’Tis no wonder we’re riding trains through a Godforsaken desert to build a house not even on the schedule.”
Steve grinned. “I see your sight hasn’t failed you.”
“A beautay!” Macready said loudly, waving at Samantha. “Why, son, she’s a miracle, that she is. A lass with eyes the color of a Highland lake…set in one of the sweetest faces on God’s green Earth.”
“She is indeed,” Steve said, smiling at Samantha. “Macready has been in America for twenty years, but he drops into an impressive Scottish burr at will. I think he heard from someone that women find it exotic.”
Samantha laughed, and Steve felt her laughter all the way to his toes. “Actually my partner, Frank Jakovich, says Ian’s half Scot, half Irish, and all son of a gun when crossed.”
“Don’t you go believin’ a smidgen o’ that,” Macready said, protesting. “Me beautiful bride’s a bit o’ a nag, so I spend me time at one work site or anither. Thanks to me careful planning, lass, we’ve been ’appily married now for nigh onto twenty-seven years.” Ian Macready slapped his thigh with a meaty hand. “Leastways now,” he said to Steve, “I dinna nee’ to check if ye’ve lost yer senses, lad.”
“Samantha Forrester, Ian Macready. Ian’s one of the best building supers on either coast.”
“You must be hot and thirsty, Mr. Macready.”
“Aye, and she’s as smart as a whip, too!” Macready said, smiling at Steve. “How air ye, lad?”
“Couldn’t be better now that you’re here. We’ve been working with hoes and scraper boards.”
“Well, lad, yer days of hardship air over, or they’re just beginning, one or t’other. We’ve brought tools enough for every man in the county.”
Ian Macready turned away to answer a question from one of the men he’d brought with him. Samantha wanted to warn Steve before he was confronted by Chane and Lance.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
“Give me a minute with Ian.”
Steve spoke briefly with Macready, who then left to oversee the unloading of the equipment and supplies into the wagons Steve had led down the mountainside. Steve took Samantha by the elbow and steered her toward the barn.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, laughing even as she checked to be sure Lance and Chane were not watching.
“Privacy.” When they were deep in the barn and well away from prying eyes, he stopped and faced her. “What’s up?”
Dust motes gleamed in the sunlight slanting in the window near the stall where he’d stopped. Steve had sprouted a growth of beard on his usually smooth-shaven cheeks. Somehow that changed him, made her even more aware of his masculinity and the way his eyes softened when he looked at her.
“Rathwick was here,” she said. “He claimed the Indian girl he’s looking for is wanted for murder. He says she killed a whole party of Indians. And Chane and Lance are here.”
“Lance? The one you’re—”
“Yes. They came because Chane got my palace car back all shot up. He said they’d heard in Phoenix about a crazy Indian woman murdering people all over this area. Tristera was furious at that—and I haven’t even told her all of it.”
“Don’t blame her.”
“What should we do?”
“I know Tristera didn’t kill anyone, but if the army is determined to say she did, it’ll be her word against theirs. I know she wants her name cleared, but I got there after the men were dead. I’m a fugitive of sorts myself. I lived with the Indians long enough to know better than to advise her to turn herself in, even with my testimony. I’m sure Tristera’s learned that lesson, too. She won’t volunteer for trouble.”
“So we just continue to hide her here?”
“Unless you’re no longer willing.”
Samantha looked startled. “Why wouldn’t I be willing? You mean, do I think she killed them? Of course not.”
Steve peered into her eyes, searching for she knew not what. His gaze seemed to see inside her, as if this had taken on some special significance for him. Finally he nodded.
“Then I’ll talk to her.”
“Thank you, Steve. She respects you so much.”
He grinned. “And what about you? Do you respect me?”
Samantha smiled. “Of course.”
Steve leaned close to her; his nearness ignited such warmth in her belly she felt the smile on her face wavering. Steve closed his eyes and touched his warm lips to hers. A spear of heat impaled her; a tiny moan escaped.
Steve took that as encouragement. His tongue teased her sensitive lips, seeking entry into her mouth, and his arms came around her, pulling her closer against him. His kiss turned devouring, and much to her surprise and chagrin, Samantha realized she was as hungry for his touch as he seemed for hers.
Her mind still struggled for some way to explain this amazing behavior of hers, with Lance in the house waiting for her. But she could not will her arms to push Steve away. To her further astonishment, they twined themselves around Steve’s warm neck and pulled him closer. Her mouth, her traitorous mouth, opened to his devouring kiss, and the weakness grew more debilitating and intense.
Long before she wanted him to, Steve relinquished her lips and buried his face in her throat. “Samantha,” he groaned huskily.
The main barn door creaked, and a man yelled, “Samantha!”
Despite her bedazzled state, Samantha recognized Lance’s voice and flinched. Fortunately Lance could not see them from there, but ever mindful of her reputation, Steve groaned softly and stepped away from her. Luckily she was still leaning against the stall, so her feeble legs didn’t actually collapse as she feared they might.
“Yes?” Samantha called out.
“Where are you?” Lance demanded, irritated.
“Get rid of him,” Steve whispered.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “Be right there,” she yelled, rushing forward with pounding heart. Steve followed. She looked back at him, willing him to stop or disappear, but he just kept coming.
“Wait here,” she whispered loudly over her shoulder.
Something about her expression must have alerted him.
“Why? Who is it?” he asked.
Too late. Lance was upon them. She almost bumped into his broad chest. “Sam!” he said, steadying her.
“Lance!” she gasped, as breathless as if she’d run a mile.
“What’s going on?” Lance asked.
“On?” Samantha repeated, stalling for time. “Nothing. Steve was just…”
“Is this Sheridan?” Lance asked, his eyes meeting Steve’s.
Steve knew instantly this was going to end badly. The man was at least two inches taller than he was. His finely chiseled features fit together into a thoroughly masculine face dominated by heavy black brows and piercing blue eyes. His smile was one women would like—it could mask anything or promise the world. Steve would have preferred that Kincaid be more obviously flawed. Like maybe an extra hand coming out of his forehead.
With a sinking heart Steve stuck out his right hand. “Yes, it is, and you must be…”
“Kincaid, Lance Kincaid,” the man said, slowly extending his right hand.
Steve shook his hand, a little more forcefully than he needed to. Then both of them turned in unison to look at Samantha, whose cheeks flushed becomingly.
“Let’s get out of this barn. It’s hot in here,” she said, leading them toward the barn door.
Just as they reached the door, Chane opened it and peered inside.
“Chane!” Samantha said, again showing a little too much excitement.
“What’s everyone doing in the barn?” he asked, glancing from Samantha, to Steve, to Lance.
“I just needed to ask Steve a question,” she began lamely.
“In the barn?” Chane asked, looking at her, then at Steve.
“It was a structural question,” Steve explained smoothly.
A milk cow walked toward Chane as if to step around him and go outside. “I hear you’re a builder, Mr. Sheridan,” Chane said pointedly as he pulled the barn door closed behind him to thwart the escape. He elbowed the cow aside and pushed her back toward the stall she had somehow escaped.
Chane Kincaid was an inch taller than his tall brother. He was also broader of shoulder and with an even more commanding presence, if that were possible. He looked like a captain of industry. Steve could imagine him at the helm of a large corporation. Lance was impressive as well, but he looked like a loner. However, side by side, the brothers were undeniably a formidable team.
“Yes,” Steve drawled. “I guess Sa—Mrs. Forrester told you I’m building her a new house.”
“We brought a lot of men and building materials with us, but I failed to see any activity to justify it,” Chane said, scowling. Lance watched Steve as if he expected him to crumble under the pressure of two Kincaid males glowering at him.
“I’d have to be a fool to recommend that Mrs. Forrester build near here. This is hardly an appropriate site for anything, much less a private residence.”
“So, you’re recommending another site?”
“I consider that one of the least of my responsibilities,” Steve said curtly.
“I see,” Chane said, squinting suspiciously.
Samantha couldn’t believe Chane was acting so pompous and brotherly. “Steve picked a beautiful site, actually.”
“Mind if I ask where?” Chane asked, still pinning Steve with his most penetrating look.
“About a mile from here, on the side of the mountain,” Steve said. “I’ll be happy to take you up there to see it, if you like.”
Chane nodded. “Thanks. That’ll do for starters.”
Samantha realized that Chane, who was also a builder of some repute, fully intended to inspect every inch of the work site and second-guess every decision Steve had made. If Chane found any flaws at all, he might just insist that she turn the project over to someone else. The thought of his humiliating Steve in that fashion frustrated and irritated her. Suddenly she felt sixteen years old.
Before she could think of any way to stop Chane, he took Steve by the arm and led him outside. Samantha started to follow them, but Lance caught her arm and held her back. “What is this?” she demanded, suddenly angry.
“For your own good,” Lance rasped. “If he’s a shyster, better you find out now, before you’ve dumped any more money into this—” He paused.
“Boondoggle?” she demanded. “Is that what you were going to say?”
Lance shrugged.
“You think I’m not perfectly capable of choosing a builder and…”
Lance pointed at her house, visible through the barn window, as if that were all the proof he needed.
Samantha frowned. “That’s not a fair comparison. This house was built by an Eastern builder before I got here. He had no idea what he was doing.”
Lance laughed. “I rest my case,” he said, grinning. Samantha expelled a frustrated breath.
“Relax,” he said. “If this guy’s any good, Chane will know that, too.”
“I just don’t like the idea of my brother storming in and taking over. As if—”
“As if you don’t have perfectly good sense yourself,” he finished for her.
“Right.”
“Is this builder someone special to you?”
“No.” Her quick response didn’t ring quite true, but fortunately Lance didn’t seem to notice. “Chane could have checked up on me by himself. What brings you here?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.
Lance shrugged. “I just wanted to see you.”
“You did?” she asked, surprised.
“Yeah. Something wrong with that?”
“Not wrong. But unusual. Is everything okay?”
“No,” he rasped, scowling suddenly. “Angie left me. She’s filed for divorce.”
“Oh, no!”
Pain clouded his usually clear blue eyes. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Hell…I don’t know.”
Samantha wanted to press for information, but it was apparent he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.
Steve’s men loaded the supplies onto wagons. Steve introduced Chane Kincaid to Ian Macready, dealt with Ian’s questions, and then excused himself. While Kincaid was grilling Ian, Steve tracked Tristera to the kitchen. He found her talking to Juana, who was stirring a pot on the stove and nodding occasionally in sympathy as she listened.
“Señor Steve!” Tristera cried out at the sight of him.
“Rathwick made you mad, huh?”
Tristera told Steve the same story he’d already heard from Samantha. “What can I do?” she ended.
“Stay here. Apparently you’re safe here.” Steve thought of a question he’d wanted to ask before but hadn’t. “Where were you coming from when they attacked your party?”
“We left the train at Globe and were going home.”
“Why were you on the Globe train?”
“We had been to see the Great White Leader of the American people. We got on the wrong train somewhere.”
“You saw President Cleveland? Why?”
“He wanted to give us a new treaty that would guarantee each person in our tribe forty acres of land. But I explained that this would not work for the Hopi. I told him that we must live on the mesa—where it is safe—and only go down on the plain to farm in the daytime when the men can protect one another from the Navaho.”
“And that was all right with him?”
“Sí.”
“Do you think the old men were killed on purpose?”
“I don’t know. Why would they be?”
“Was anyone else with you?”
“The Indian agent went to Washington with us, but he didn’t come back with us. He entrusted us to a guide.”
“Was this guide killed?”
“No.”
“What happened to him?”
“I had forgotten that. He said he was going ahead to scout.”
“He was in on it then. You were set up.” Steve pondered for a moment. “I’m not doubting what you say, but it’s a little hard to believe that the Hopi elders would take along a female to an important meeting like that,” he said, frowning.
“They didn’t want to take me, but Tuvi convinced them to do it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why, but I know how.”
“How?”
“He asked them to search their hearts for reasons why I should not go, and they went inside and then came out and they were silent.”
Steve frowned his puzzlement. “I don’t get it.”
“Disputes,” Tristera explained, “among the Hopi elders, are settled by the priest with the highest spiritual attainments.”
“So, Tuvi won on that score, and they invited you, in spite of…” Steve stopped.
But Tristera finished it for him. “Yes, even in spite of being a female who had been publicly shamed. The Hopi care less about those things than they do about the Great Mystery.”
Steve remained silent, remembering.
“Someday,” Tristera said softly, “the capitán will figure out that I’m the girl he’s looking for.”
“Not as long as you keep making eyes at him. You’ll keep him so off-balance, he’ll be lucky to walk upright.”
“Thank you, Señor Steve.”
“Be careful, little one.”
Steve went back outside to supervise the unloading of the train and the loading of the wagons. In less than two hours, the men had filled the wagons and were ready to head up the hill. Unfortunately Chane Kincaid was still determined to go with them.
Steve looked for a chance to say good-bye to Samantha in private, but it didn’t come. Her lover had spirited her to the far corner of the porch and was keeping her to himself. Steve had never felt lower in his life. He was going to be chaperoned by the big brother while Samantha was courted by a man who looked like nothing but trouble to Steve.
As they set off for the work site Chane and Ian were talking like old friends. And Samantha was standing on the porch beside her lover looking sweetly confused by the attention he was showering on her. It was a dark moment for Steve.
Lance remained quiet through dinner and putting Nicholas to bed. Then, instead of the usual awkwardness between them, he took her hand and asked her to walk with him out on the desert.
Samantha was so aware of his warm hand on hers that she felt jumpy all over. They walked out a-ways and stopped by the rock-strewn creek bed south of the Indian camp. Lance let go of her hand and leaned against one of the boulders. She leaned on the other side of it.
“I’ve decided to sell my cattle. My herds are being ravaged by the drought and rustlers. Steve and Eagle Thornton, my ramrod, are urging me in that direction.”
“Sounds like good advice to me. If you’re going to do that you might want to do it soon and get a jump on the market. Prices are still good right now.”
“I have five hundred head of my special breeding stock and I thought I had ten thousand head of range cattle, but my foreman says I’ll be lucky if they find three thousand head.”
“You’re missing seven thousand head of stock?”
“I guess so.”
“That’s highly unusual, even if you lost them over the entire three years you’ve been here. I’ve chased a lot of rustlers in my day. They were small operations, though.”
“I’ve decided to sell the rest, before they all starve to death or get stolen.”
“You know…we did have a large-scale rustling operation near Phoenix in ’88. Peter was instrumental in breaking up that gang.”
Peter was Jennie’s brother, who had been missing for seven years. He had turned up in Phoenix last year alive and well, long after Jennifer had given him up for dead. She learned he had been forced into outlawry following the murder of his wife and unborn child. Only last year, with Chane and Jennie’s help, he had finally cleared his name and paid his debt to society by breaking up Dallas Younger’s rustling operation, one of the biggest in the territory. This had earned him a pardon and the right to re-enter society as a respected citizen.
Peter was currently working for the Texas and Pacific as head of their security network. His reputation alone was almost enough to assure the safety of the railroad’s cargoes.
Lance scowled and narrowed his eyes in chagrin. “But some of them may have resettled here. I’ll talk to Peter about that possibility, and I’ll start looking for a buyer for you as soon as I get back to Durango.”
“Thanks.” They stood in silence a moment, then Samantha ventured gently, “It might help to talk about what’s bothering you.”
“I was just wondering why no one ever mentions that loving someone isn’t enough to make a marriage work?” he asked, shaking his dark head and looking past her toward the horizon, where the luminous gray of the sky was turning purple.
“What happened?” she prompted, studying his face in the moonlight. She remembered how he had looked at every age. Even as a youth he had been tall and beautifully proportioned. He had never gone through a gangly, awkward stage. Most boys grew in spurts, with one feature leading the way. But Lance had grown with steady grace, elegance, and masculine proportion. Now he had matured into an even handsomer man than he’d been at twenty-eight when he’d married Angie. At thirty-five, he seemed to have become even more solid, more confident, more magnetic. Tonight he looked like a man in torment. Compassion twisted her insides.
“We had a fight. Angie walked out.”
“But why?”
“It doesn’t make any sense, so quit asking me that.”
“What did you fight about?” Samantha persisted.
“Damned if I know,” he growled. “A friend of Sarah’s died in childbirth, leaving a baby boy behind. I suggested Angie go help with the baby…” Muscles in his square jaw bunched beneath his smooth skin. His eyes were bleak and filled with despair, but no tears came. Some men could cry, but Lance wasn’t one of them. He cried on the inside, where it hurt more. Samantha ached for him.
After a moment, he continued. “I…uh…mentioned…” he said, his husky voice a low rasp of suppressed pain. “The woman’s husband had died a few months ago, after a fall from a horse. I suggested to Angie…that maybe we could adopt the baby. Angie got so furious with me that she packed and left. I got a letter a few days ago from San Francisco saying she wouldn’t be coming back. That she’s filing for divorce.”
Samantha was confused. “I thought she wanted a baby.”
“It’s not the baby she doesn’t want. It’s me.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. Angie loves you.”
“I always knew she’d leave. Maybe she used this thing to get done what she wanted to do all along.”
“No, I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I know her better than that.”
“She’s changed, Sam. Something in her has hardened against me. Everything I do is wrong now.”
“Maybe you just don’t understand her.”
“Well, you’ve got me there,” he growled. “I sure as hell don’t.”
“I can’t believe it,” Samantha whispered.
“Then you weren’t married long enough before Jared died. You probably didn’t have time to fight. I don’t think we fought much either in the first three years.”
Samantha laughed softly. “You’re wrong. We had our things to fight about.”
Lance scowled. “Like what?”
“Jared was happy-go-lucky with everything, especially money, most of which was mine. We argued a lot actually.”
“It never showed.”
“I was too proud to let anyone suspect I’d made a bad bargain.”
“Did you?”
“It seemed so at times, but Jared taught me a lot of things I’m glad I know. And he gave me Nicholas. I’ll always be grateful for that.”
Lance’s eyes narrowed; she guessed what he was thinking. “Yes,” she whispered, “Even though Nicholas has been sick, I’ve loved having him. Even if he dies, which is unthinkable and will break my heart and probably kill me, I’ll never regret having him and loving him.”
Tears flooded her eyes. Lance pulled her into his arms. “You’re a brave little punchkin, Sam.”
“I’m no longer a punchkin,” she said, protesting his use of a pet name he’d made up years ago after taking her to a Punch-and-Judy show.
“You’ll always be a punchkin to me.” He kissed her temple and sighed. His warm breath on the side of her face filled her with happiness. She felt safe and secure for the first time in years.
“I don’t want to be a punchkin to you. I want…”
“What do you want, Sam?”
“I want you. I know it’s too soon and I have no right. But I want…to be anything you want me to be.” She felt odd, as if she were parroting words she’d heard in her own dream.
Before she could say anything more, he lowered his head and kissed her, and it was like the dream, only more unsettling. His touch disoriented her, made her want to cry. She couldn’t comprehend if it was love or relief or sadness—for what she didn’t know.
Sam’s lips were soft. Her mouth opened under his probing, and he felt her tremble and move herself to accommodate him—whatever he wanted. Once she had adjusted to his kissing her, he slid his hands up her sides and cupped her full breasts. She trembled again, and he had the awful feeling he could read her mind, just as he had when she was little. He felt her struggle to accept his more intimate touching.
He knew he was pushing her too fast. But, driven by his own demons, he slid his hand down and stroked her belly and thighs; she trembled violently, as if she could barely keep herself still under his touch.
She was like a child, trusting him, forcing herself further and further to please him. Her acceptance and acquiescence inflamed him, filled him with lust and exultation. He wanted to take her there. To lift her skirts and…
His mind flashed him a vision of himself driving into her, not caring who she was or what she meant to him. The image so horrified him that he dispelled it. He knew Chane had been right to warn him. This wasn’t love he felt. It welled up from the depths of him, and once loosed, would be no more controllable now than it had been with Colette.
He ended the kiss and hugged Sam. Her cheeks were wet with tears that scourged him. He knew Sam loved him, and that he had trampled on that love. He knew that when she gave herself to him, everything needed to be right between them. And…dammit…it wasn’t.
But his impulses were strong. Even her tears fed his lust. He wanted her on the ground, naked and crying, to receive his rage and lust and despair. But he still had control enough to realize that if he took her now, in the mood he was in, it would be an act of violation, not love.
But the demons urged him to ignore that. They urged him to take her, to make it right later. All he had to do was give in to them and pretend he didn’t know what was coming. Pretend that he fully expected himself to court and marry Sam. But in all honesty, he didn’t know what he might do. And until he did—if he were going to face himself in the mornings and shave without taking the blade to his own throat—he had to wait.
He took Sam by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “It’s late. We need to get some rest.”
“Why?” she whispered, searching his face, no doubt wondering if she’d done something wrong.
“Because if I don’t, I’ll do something unforgivable.”
“You can’t. Nothing you can do will be unforgivable.”
Lance gripped her shoulders and scowled down into her lovely face. “Then you don’t know me, Sam!” he growled in anger and despair. “I’ve done things…even I can’t live with.”
His fierceness sent a thrill of excitement and fear up her spine. “I know it’s too soon to say this, but I love you, Lance. I belong to you,” she whispered. “I’ve always belonged to you.”
Lance knew Sam was right about that. She had always belonged to him. She wanted him, but whether she realized it or not, everything had to happen in a certain order. Even for her.
With a supreme effort, he turned her with firm hands and walked her back to the house. At the front door of her ridiculous house he stopped her and turned her to face him. She tried to put her arms around him, but he took them and put them at her sides.
“Go upstairs and lock your bedroom door,” he growled.
“Lance, I trust you.”
“Don’t!” he said through clenched teeth. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Don’t trust me! And don’t let me into your room.”
Samantha stepped close to him and tried to put her arm around his neck. “Lance…”
She pressed against him, and lust was so strong in him he felt crazed by it. A voice within urged him to take her anyway. He took her hands and forced them down—and her away from him. “Dammit! I’m not fit to be trusted!” He turned and tramped down the steps.
“Lance, where are you going?”
“For a walk.”
Samantha ran after him. “Are you coming back?”
“I hope not.” Lance stalked across the yard and strode down the railroad tracks, walking fast. “If I do, shoot me.”
She wanted to follow him, but she stopped. She knew Lance well enough to know that once he made up his mind, only a loaded shotgun would stop him. And only then if she used it.
Samantha lay awake half the night, burning from the first real kiss he’d ever given her, tinglingly alive with emotions and dreams.
Lance wanted her. His kiss had shown her how much, though he was too honorable to take her until after his divorce from Angie. But he had told her, or at least implied, that he might not be able to wait. She knew, with a certainty that amazed her, that he would be back. Probably unannounced and unexpected, but he wouldn’t be able to wait any more than she would. Next time things would be right between them. And then they would be married. She’d be safely home again, where she belonged. After long years of insecurity and struggle all her dreams were about to come true.
She slept lightly and heard him come in just as the sky was turning pink. The hostess in her felt a strong need to rush downstairs to see that he found his room and everything he needed to be comfortable. But she had grown up with him and knew that he was perfectly capable of making himself comfortable. She might love him to distraction, but she had lived with him in the same house long enough to know that men, at least Kincaid men, could take care of themselves when they had to. And Lance had ordered her to stay away from him.
That thought caused her to smile. Lance wanted her. He wanted her so much that he had to walk the desert all night just to behave himself. A sense of power and euphoria fused into something very near ecstasy within her.
She burrowed down under the covers and smiled into her pillow. Then her mind flashed on a picture of Steve, his expression grim, his eyes flashing with anger. Her smile turned into a grimace. Chane may have made Steve so angry he’d quit. When he got into his protective-brother mood, he could be very annoying.
She might get up to find Steve on her doorstep, resignation in hand. That thought caused a sinking feeling somewhere deep inside.
Usually, if she awakened before her alarm clock went off, she savored the warmth of her bed and the early dawn sounds of birds chirping, roosters crowing, hens clucking, and horses neighing.
As a rule she could easily and deliciously slip back into sleep, but this morning slumber evaded her. The longer she lay there, the more tense she became. Finally she threw off her covers and sat up.