17
Murdock Ranch
FRIDAY, AUGUST 10, 1906
It was growing late and Jake’s still-sweltering office hosted the only light on downstairs. Contemplating the level of whiskey left in his bottle, he sat tilted back in his chair, his damp shirt stuck to his skin and his bare feet propped up on the desk. He knew he’d been knocking back too much liquor the past couple of days. Shrugging, he poured himself another shot.
He’d already drunk more than he should, but it was the only way to guarantee himself a reasonable night’s sleep. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone was around to see or care if he got a little drunk. Cook always withdrew to her room behind the kitchen shortly after the dinner dishes were washed and put away. And Hattie had already retired.
At least he assumed she had; she’d disappeared upstairs earlier in the evening and he hadn’t heard a peep from her since. Which was just as well. He was on the verge of losing control and he sure didn’t need her to see him like that. On the other hand, if she’d stayed for their nightly conversation, it might have staved off this god-awful loneliness. He had discovered his best defense against the bleak night hours was a heated debate or quiet conversation with Hattie.
During the day he handled things reasonably well. Not even death excused ranchers from tending their spreads, and the nonstop demands of the Murdock spread kept Jake occupied mind and body for ten to twelve hours at a stretch. Not that he didn’t have a perfectly competent foreman willing to take the burden of running the ranch off his shoulders. But Jake needed to work, to burn off the restless energy, the seething emotions.
In contrast to his rigid daytime control, the early hours after midnight were a nightmare. Sleep was all but impossible unless he drank himself stupid. He tossed and turned until the sheets were a damp jumble more constrictive than a spider’s web with a fresh fly. His mind refused to rest. For the past two nights, his brain had spun with relentless feverishness, battling unrelated emotions. Anger at God for taking his wife and child in such a terrible manner, unbearable grief, unspecified rage at the unfairness of life. And most horrifying of all, now that the first shock of Jane-Ellen’s death had worn off . . . a niggling sense of reprieve.
Jake’s feet hit the floor with a thump and, swearing roundly, he staggered slightly as he pushed away from his desk. He hated himself for those fleeting moments of a sense of freedom. Swaying slightly and eyeing the whiskey with a caustic look, however, he acknowledged booze wasn’t the answer. It helped dull the edges, but it didn’t begin to address the problem. Thinking it did was a sure road to ruin. He’d wind up like old Doc Baker if he wasn’t careful. Putting the bottle back in the bottom drawer of his desk, he turned off the light and left the office.
He had nearly reached the top of the stairs after securing the house for the night when the bathroom door down the darkened upstairs hallway suddenly opened and flooded the surrounding area with light. His breath caught in his throat as Hattie stepped out into the hall.
Clearly, she’d been bathing and washing her hair, for she was briskly rubbing her wet hair with the towel draped around her neck. To Jake’s mind, the activity was too little, too late. She sure as hell hadn’t been quick enough to prevent her hair from dripping onto her thin wrapper. A wrapper that currently clung damply to her skin in several places.
He couldn’t tear his gaze from the silky material plastered to the upper curve of her right breast. His body responded with an erection, hard, painful, and immediate. Infuriated, with drunken logic he laid the blame on Hattie. What was she thinking, running around the house half-naked? That her room was only steps away from the bathroom and she had obviously not expected to encounter anyone never occurred to him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Hattie jerked to a halt mid-stride, slapping a hand over her heart. She peered into the darkness at the top of the stairs. “Jacob Murdock, you scared me to death!”
Jake pushed away from the newel-post that had been supporting him and advanced on her. Even as he loomed over her, however, he was very careful that they didn’t touch. “Get in your room and put some clothes on!”
Hattie’s eyes widened and hot color washed up into her cheeks. The hand still resting over her heart gathered the lapels of her wrapper together, clutching the two sides closed near her throat. “That’s where I was headed,” she said coolly. Then her nostrils flared, clearly catching the scent of whiskey Jake imagined pumped off him with all the subtlety of Bigger’s Saloon’s floor on a Saturday night. “You’re drunk!” she snapped.
He grabbed her wrist and hauled her the few feet to her door. He kicked it open with a force that caused it to slam against the bedroom wall. “I said, get in your room.”
“Jake!” Hattie protested indignantly and twisted her arm free of his grip with one strong yank. Planting her hands on her hips, she snarled, “Keep your stinkin’ hands to yourself. What’s the matter with you, anyway?” Her movement loosened her wrapper. Now gaping, what had been a respectable if slightly damp covering exposed a generous expanse of lightly freckled cleavage.
Jake saw red. “What’s the matter?” he sneered, staring at her. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter! You running around out here with your tits hanging out for all the world to see.”
Hattie didn’t know what tits were, but following the direction of his hot-eyed gaze, she could make a darn good guess. Blushing with furious embarrassment, she tugged the parted sides of her wrapper back into place and tightened the sash at her waist. “How dare you,” she spat, glaring up at him. “What world? I thought I was alone, and I sure as heck wasn’t expecting to see you! And what do you mean, running around? I was going from the bathroom to my bedroom.”
“Y’like flashing it and getting the men all excited, Hattie?” he demanded insolently. “Y’like seein’ how many of the poor suckers you can give a straight shooter to?”
“Maybe I do,” she yelled, incensed beyond reason. “You tell me what any of this has to do with giving guns to men and I’ll let you know.”
Jake barked an abbreviated laugh. “I’m not talking about guns, damn you.” He grabbed her hand and yanked her forward, pressing her palm against his erection. “I’m talking about this straight shooter. This, Big-eyes.”
“Jacob!” Hattie whispered, shocked down to her bare toes curling into the thin runner on the hardwood floor. But she didn’t attempt to pull her hand away. She was too eaten up with curiosity. Lashes lowering, she looked down, staring at her hand and what it covered. Even through the material separating them, it was extremely hard and warm against her palm, and her fingertips pressed into something soft and shifting at its base. Her palm was imprinted by a thick, rigid length she’d swear wasn’t there before.
It wasn’t her habit to look at men’s private places, of course, but surely she couldn’t have missed seeing an appendage of such size had there been one to see. Maybe it was like the stallion she’d once seen covering a mare. She looked back into Jake’s glittering dark gaze. “How do you do that?” she whispered in awe. “Does it grow?”
“Ah, Jesus, Hattie,” he muttered, pressing hard against her hand before gaining control of himself and snatching it away. He swayed a bit as he stared at her. “You’re supposed to run screaming from me.” He reached out gentle fingers to trail down her smooth cheek. “But you never have done the expected, have you? You’ve always had such big, curious eyes.” He bent his head and pressed a kiss against each of her eyelids. Then he pulled back a bit to look at her.
God. He was drunk, and he shouldn’t be here. He needed to get the hell out before he did something he’d regret.
But her cheeks were flushed and her lips were lush, a pearly sheen of white teeth showing behind them. The uppermost layer of her hair had begun to dry, curling crazily about her pale skin. And, groaning, he leaned into her, slipping a hand around her neck at the base of her skull and tipping her face up to his descending mouth. Just one kiss; then he’d go.
It didn’t enter Hattie’s mind that what they were doing was improper. Jake’s mouth was warm and gentle; then it was hot and a little rough. And when he indicated by deed she should part her lips, she did so unquestioningly. His tongue tasted not unpleasantly of whiskey, and it was aggressive and mobile against hers, demanding a response.
Flooded with new sensations, Hattie responded with a vengeance, using her own tongue to imitate Jake’s actions, standing on tiptoe and holding his face between her splayed fingers. She pressed her body into the hard warmth of his.
Jake lost what little control he’d managed to exert upon his reeling mind. He backed her fully into her bedroom until the backs of her thighs bumped against the high mattress and they overbalanced to sprawl across the bed. Rolling on top of her, he pushed up on his left forearm while his right hand slid between their bodies to wrestle with the knot of her sash. His kiss was harsh and out of control, pressing Hattie’s head into the pile of small satin pillows. Her doll, Lillian, tumbled from its place atop its decorative perch, rolling to the edge of the mattress.
Jake finally managed to untie her sash, and he brushed the silky material aside until it pooled beneath her. Dragging his mouth away from hers, he kissed the smooth, soft skin of her cheek. Kissed beneath her ear, then worked his way down the warm column of her neck before raising onto his elbow again to stare down at her. His breath whistled harshly through his teeth. “Pretty,” he said in a low, gravelly tone. “Lovely, beautiful . . . Jesus, God, you’re perfect.”
He liked that, although Hattie trembled, she let him look at her. His eyes made a thorough survey, not missing a single voluptuous inch. Starting at her shoulders and rounded arms, his gaze slid down to where her long fingers clutched the bedspread. He started counting the freckles on her chest but kept losing track and gave up to trace the rising slope of her breasts. They were full and round and set high on her chest, capped with ruddy, puffy aureoles and tiny jutting nipples. Even while she lay flat on her back, her breasts remained arrogantly upright.
“Uppity,” Jake murmured and flashed her a smile when he tore his attention away long enough to glance briefly into Hattie’s smoldering eyes. “Why am I not surprised?” He was dying to touch them but feared once he did he’d never get around to the rest of his visual inspection.
And he wanted to see everything. Now. All summer long, he had tried not to imagine her naked. He’d tried hard, without success. Neither, however, had his imagination conjured anything remotely as spectacular as the bounty sprawled out in front of him. Beneath her pretty breasts, Hattie’s rib cage was narrow, then dipped into a slim waist before flaring into full, round hips. Her legs were surprisingly long, given her less-than-impressive stature, and holy shit they were shapely—all firm muscle beneath smooth, creamy skin. They culminated in feet small and high arched.
Bringing his gaze back up her legs, Jake’s inspection ground to an abrupt halt. For there, at the apex, where plump, firm thighs joined her torso, was a triangle of fiery ginger-copper curls. God help him, she was just luscious all over.
After impatiently unbuttoning and removing his shirt, he rolled back to gather Hattie in his arms, his chest flattening her breasts as he held her tight. Heart pounding faster than it had as a teenager smooching his first girl, Jake kissed her with escalating passion. And his breath grew more ragged with every enthusiastic, generous response she returned.
Pulling his fingers from Hattie’s tangled, drying curls, Jake smoothed his hand down her throat, trailed his fingers over her collarbone, and lightly rubbed them down her satin-sleek chest before cupping her breast. The feel of its full resilience made him expel an abrupt breath into her mouth, and he broke the kiss to slide down her body. Cupping both breasts in his hands, he pushed them together, his thumbs reaching to stroke her velvety nipples into fine points as he licked the deep valley he’d created between them.
Moaning, Hattie arched her back. “Oh, Jake,” she whispered. “Oh my, oh, Jake, oh my!” She’d never dreamed such sensations existed. As his mouth surrounded one tight nipple and sucked it into the hot furnace of his mouth, she clamped her thighs together, trying to subdue the flood of feeling causing a riot deep inside her private place. It didn’t help. To distract herself, she asked, “Are my bosoms what you were talking about when you said ‘tits’?”
Jake froze in shock, suddenly feeling stone-cold sober. Hearing that word he never should have exposed her to, inquired about with innocent curiosity, was like being thrust into the icehouse on a steamy summer day. Goose bumps broke out over his flesh and shame shot through him. He rolled away from her and sat on the side of the bed. Hunched over the elbows he’d braced on his knees, cradling his head in his hands, and rocking in misery, he fought to regain control. His body raged with unspent needs even as guilt scorched his mind. Dear God, what had he nearly done to her? His wife hadn’t been dead two full days, Hattie was an innocent virgin left in his care, and this was how he behaved?
Even now he wasn’t above finishing what he’d started, he discovered when Hattie sat up and touched his shoulder with a soft hand. “Jake?”
His body throbbing with needy awareness, he shook her off with a near-violent shrug. “Don’t touch me! Jesus, Hattie, if you value your virginity, don’t touch me. Get your robe on.”
Hattie pulled her wrapper tightly around her and fumbled with the tie. “Did I do something wrong, Jake? I’m sorry. Tell me what I did wrong and I’ll try to make it better.”
Her words, her apologetic tone, were red-hot nails skewering his self-esteem to the wall—and he cracked. “Shut up!” he snarled. “Dammit, Hattie, just shut up! Don’t you see what was happening here? I was about to fuck you right through the mattress!” Oh, nice, Murdock; that’s just great. You’ve added a slew of obscenities and two vulgar expressions to her vocabulary tonight. When you do something, you really do it up right. Big improvement, now you’ve found the honor not to violate her body, to violate her mind instead. He picked up his shirt and surged to his feet.
Careful to keep a distance between them, he turned and looked down at her. Seeing her full bottom lip wobbling and tears magnifying those sun-shot whiskey-brown eyes as she met his gaze in miserable confusion was a knife to the gut. “I’m sorry,” he said through a throat that felt lined with broken glass. “This never should have happened. It’s all my fault—none of yours—and I’m sorry. Lock your door, girl, and don’t let me back in, you hear?” Even now, he wasn’t positive he could trust himself to stay away from her. “Tomorrow evening, you’ll go stay at Roger Lord’s house.”
“What?” She launched herself from the bed, horror in her eyes. “No!”
Jake hurriedly backed away to maintain a safe expanse between them. “I’m not arguing this tonight, Hattie. Just lock the damn door behind me!”
“I won’t go to Roger Lord’s! I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
She didn’t like the way Roger looked at her? “Dammit, girl, don’t you get it?” he snarled. “Looks can’t hurt you. What I’d do to you, given half a chance, is what you need to worry about. I can’t be trusted to keep my hands off you!”
“You would never force yourself on me, Jake,” Hattie whispered with utter confidence. “Never.” She wasn’t so sure about Roger Lord, but since she didn’t have a shred of evidence to back up her suspicions, she didn’t say so aloud.
Wanting nothing so much as to throw Hattie back down on the bed and finish what he’d begun, Jake found her statement nearly laughable—or he would have, had he been in the slightest mood to find amusement in anything. “Just lock the door now.” He stepped out into the hall and pulled her door closed behind him.
He didn’t relax the rigid restraints he’d imposed upon himself until he heard the click of the bolt sliding home.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1906
Hattie stayed in her room the next day. She was mortified by her active encouragement of the liberties Jake had taken the night before. At the same time, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d made her feel. What is the matter with me? A nice girl would be horrified to be caught in her nightclothes. But not only have I flaunted myself the next best thing to naked in front of two men; I have—
Hattie felt herself blushing all over and dared not recall the depth of her disappointment when Jake called a halt to things last night. But, Lord, it had felt amazing before he did! Was she every bit as wicked as the gossips in town declared? Surely, no moral woman would think the things she thought. She feared her boldness was responsible for the new distance in her friendship with Moses. And now Jake was threatening to send her away. Hattie shuddered at the thought of being subjected to Roger Lord’s hospitality. Augusta was due home tomorrow. Surely, if she kept out of Jake’s way, they could manage one more day.
Jake grimly ignored the pain of his hangover and spent the day driving himself to the point of exhaustion. He, too, tried to convince himself one more night couldn’t possibly make a difference. But . . . no. The memory of Hattie’s wholehearted response to his advances kept interfering with his vow to keep his distance.
He’d ignited something last night that never should have been lit. All summer long, he’d told himself he wasn’t really attracted to her. Knowing in his gut it was a lie, he at least thought he had enough self-control not to do anything about it. Then to get drunk and force her to touch his cock?
Jake knew he couldn’t be trusted to spend another night in the same house with her. His actions and language in the deep dark of the early morning were an outrage. Yet Hattie hadn’t been scared or offended. He knew damn well he’d shocked her, but curiosity and eagerness overruled even that.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her reaction. It was too close to what he’d expected of Jane-Ellen on their wedding night for his peace of mind. And every time he thought of Hattie’s big eyes looking down at her hand on him, then lifting her gaze to stare at him with such awe—
He had to get her out of the house. A locked door wasn’t a sufficient deterrent to prevent him from taking what he wanted. He knew he could tempt her, and the excitement the knowledge created appalled him. No matter how far he had diverged from the man he’d always believed he’d be, he drew the line at seducing a trusting young virgin left in his care.
Still, it didn’t have to be Lord; maybe he could find someone Hattie would be happier going to. He placed a couple of calls, but his onetime golden luck had turned to shit.
And at three p.m. he left the ranch and rode over to Roger Lord’s house.
“No!” Hattie stared at him in horror when he informed her of his plans. “I won’t stay with that man.”
“You will.”
“No! If you insist I leave, then I’ll stay with Moses.”
Jake wasn’t prepared for the jealousy that engulfed his reason at Moses’ name. The memory of him and Hattie in the creek made him say with deliberate cruelty, “Moses hasn’t been beating a path to your door lately. What makes you think he’ll welcome you now?”
He hated himself when he watched pain flicker in her eyes.
Hattie’s chin tilted stubbornly. “I’ll stay with Doc, then.”
“Doc is out at the Whitfield place. I did call him, Hattie, but his receptionist said he’ll likely be there all night. And before you ask, I also called Aurelia Donaldson, but she’s shopping in Eugene for the next couple days.” Jake drew himself up, gave her an “I mean business” look, and made damn sure his tone was final when he said, “I have already made the arrangements with Lord, and that is where you’re going.”
“But Roger Lord’s wife is an invalid. That’s pretty much the same as him being a bachelor. It’s not proper.”
Jake snorted. “That’s rich, little girl. Since when have you worried about what’s proper?”
“I hate you,” she whispered. “If you make me go to Mr. Lord’s I will never forgive you.”
Jake’s stomach twisted in knots, but he replied coolly, “I’ll just have to learn to live without your forgiveness, then. Go upstairs and pack.”
The ride to town passed in tense silence. Stopping only once, at the dressmaker’s to pick up Hattie’s funeral apparel, they soon arrived at Roger Lord’s house. Hattie sat staring a moment at the ornate façade before she finally turned to face Jake. “Please, Jacob,” she begged. “Don’t do this.”
Steeling himself against her plea, he handed her the dressmaker’s box and her portmanteau. Hattie shuddered as she accepted them, and the look she gave Jake as she shunned his assistance from the buggy looked like full-out hatred.
Jake felt sick. Not even when she’d discovered he was unfaithful to Jane-Ellen had she looked at him with such loathing. He was ready to relent and take her back to the ranch. But following her up the walk, he noticed her dress. She was wearing one of three garments she’d dyed black, and its drab appearance reminded him his wife had died three days ago and already he was overpoweringly tempted to turn an eighteen-year-old innocent into his chippie.
God forgive him, for a moment he considered taking her home anyway. Then the front door was opened by Roger Lord himself, and it was too late for second thoughts.
Hattie watched Jake’s buggy depart and barely contained the desperate urge to run after him. He’d refused Roger’s offer of refreshments, retreating in an indecent rush, and Hattie was overwhelmed by a feeling of something horrid about to happen.
Later, at dinner with Roger, she silently admitted she was wrong. She could certainly think of more comfortable ways to spend this hour, but nothing untoward had occurred.
“I suppose after the funeral, you will spend your time searching for a husband,” Roger said out of the blue, looking up from his glass of wine.
Excuse me? Hattie’s ire rose, but she managed a polite, “No, sir. I’m leaving next month for the Seattle Normal School.”
He gave her one of those supercilious looks she despised. “What on earth for? You’re a young woman of consequence.” His gaze dropped to her breasts for a moment, making her long to cross her arms over them. “You have no need to work. You should be thinking about an advantageous marriage.”
“And yet I am looking forward to an education.”
“Preposter—” He broke off as an older woman entered the dining room. She stopped just inside the door until Roger snapped his fingers at her, then tapped his pointer finger twice against his temple. Shooting a nervous look in Hattie’s direction, the servant crossed the room. Roger cocked his head as the woman leaned to whisper in his ear.
Snapping his fingers again, he waved the servant away. Roger stood as she sidled out of the room. He turned to Hattie. “You’ll have to excuse me; my wife needs me.”
Then he turned and left the room. So, she was wrong. Nothing horrid going on here. Just the opposite, in fact. The man was upstairs devoting time to his invalid wife. Alone in Lord’s dining room, Hattie felt foolish for imagining melodrama where none existed.
Fine. She smiled. Perhaps she would forgive Jake after all. She had truly feared Roger would make improper advances and had been on guard from the moment she was dumped on the man’s doorstep. But while Lord spoke to her as though she had all the brain function of a stump, Hattie admitted he had been an acceptable, if condescending, host. While he made Hattie edgy as a cat stroked from tail to head rather than vice versa, the problem was clearly with her, not him.
But Hattie’s relief faded as she gazed at the dregs in her teacup, a bone-deep loneliness taking its place. She was accustomed to being surrounded by females. They talked to each other in her aunt’s house. The sheer silence of the Lord household unsettled her. Since her arrival, Hattie hadn’t heard a solitary laugh or so much as a snippet of chatter among the household staff.
Hearing the muffled clatter of dishes through the door at the far end of the dining room, Hattie collected her cup and saucer and rose. She crossed to the closed kitchen door but hesitated upon hearing faint murmurs on the now-quiet other side. Finally, along with a deep breath, she pushed the heavy swinging door open with her hip.
Two older women, one in a clean, worn dress covered by a splattered apron, the other dressed in dowdy but slightly more fashionable apparel, sat at a worn worktable, steaming cups atop its scrupulously scrubbed surface. The apron lady, whom Hattie surmised was the cook, scrambled to her feet.
“Miss!” She wrung her hands. “Be you needin’ more tea, dear? I’m so sorry, let me jes’ get you some!” She dashed over to remove the cup and saucer from Hattie’s hands. “Please,” the older woman added, “make yerself comfortable in the dining room. I’ll bring you a fresh cup right smart-like, along with a nice slice o’ cake.”
Returning to that large, empty dining room was the last thing Hattie wanted. “Might I stay here with you for a few moments?” she asked. “I’m used to having my evening tea with my aunt Augusta in the parlor, or with Mirabel in the kitchen. I barely know Mr. Lord, so it feels odd to be sitting in such solitary splendor in his big dining room.”
The women exchanged uneasy glances and Hattie braced for their refusal.
The aproned woman, however, merely said, “Whatever you like, miss.”
Hattie caught a flash of what looked suspiciously like fear crossing the other woman’s face. But that made no sense, and when Hattie blinked and reexamined the woman’s expression, she decided she must have been mistaken.
Her tea and cake were set before her. “I be Mrs. Morton, the cook,” the older woman said gruffly. She indicated the other lady. “This here be Mrs. Bryant, the housekeeper.”
“How very nice to meet you both,” Hattie replied sincerely. “I’m grateful for the company.”
Mrs. Bryant studied her. “It’s not my place to say, miss, but I’m rather surprised you weren’t taken to a more female-leaning household to spend this night.”
“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly,” Hattie admitted. “But my aunt and Mirabel are out of town and unfortunately so is Aurelia Donaldson, with whom I would ordinarily stay.”
Instead of prompting more conversation between them, her explanation seemed to grind it to a standstill. Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Bryant were perfectly polite and respectful, but Hattie could see her presence in their domain unsettled them. What conversation she could coax from them was stilted, and while they seemed to avoid looking directly at her, Hattie caught them exchanging worried glances.
Accepting that she was unwanted in the kitchen, she finished her tea and rose. “Thank you for the refreshment and your company. I’ll retire to my room now.”
She tried not to let their patent relief affect her.
Upstairs, Hattie undressed, neatly hung her gown and underclothes in the wardrobe, then donned her night rail and turned out the light. She climbed under the neatly folded-back counterpane and pulled the covers up around her shoulders. She had clearly discomfited the women in the kitchen and wondered if it was her reputation—if it had preceded her. Well, either that or her barging into their territory had affronted their sense of propriety. Hattie wouldn’t be surprised to learn Roger had strict rules about interaction between the classes. That would account for the . . . trepidation that seemed to encircle the two servants.
Trepidation. Hattie shivered, although the room was comfortably warm. It was an unnerving word, yet try as she might to tell herself she was too imaginative, she felt unsettled. Unease was an itch at the back of her neck. She could not relax, but rather tossed and turned, while continuously flipping her pillow in search of some soothing coolness. Finally, however, sheer exhaustion tugged her into agitated slumber.
She was twitching in restless sleep when her bedroom door silently opened.