Angel jerked awake. She sat straight up, staring across the lamp-lit stuffy room. And wondered how she had got here. Outside, lightning cracked, thunder boomed. With a start, Angel turned her head, seeking the sound. Looking out the narrow window across the room, she saw the storm that raged outside. The wind rattled the glass panes, as if demanding to be let in.
Jerking away from the sight, bracing herself with her palms flattened against the soft leather cushions she sat on, Angel again took in her surroundings. She knew this room. She looked around slowly, taking in the three-shelved lawyer’s bookcase to her left, and to her right, the big dusty desk with the worn padded chair behind it. This was Wallace Daltry’s office.
Why was she in here? Angel tried to recall how she came to be here … but the last thing she distinctly remembered was being out at the corral and saddling that roan. Her frown deepened. She’d been talking to Jack Daltry. She remembered that. She looked down at herself, at her bare legs, and gasped. She’d been fully dressed then, too. And not in this clean white shirt and nothing else.
Shifting her weight, wondering what the heck was going on, she put a hand to her face, only to cry out in pain. What the—? She pulled her hand away, wondering why her jaw hurt. Then, she remembered. Jack Daltry had hit her. With great gentleness, she probed the area, feeling the tender lump there that met her fingers. The man had knocked her out.
And then he’d obviously … well, he’d undressed her and brushed her hair and—all the things she’d done to him only a few days ago. Well, his doing it to her wasn’t exactly the same thing, she decided as she vowed revenge. Wait until she saw him again.
The room’s closed door suddenly thumped open, banging against the wall behind it and rattling the pictures hanging there. Gasping in surprise and jerking her legs up, digging her heels into the leather, Angel nearly flipped herself over the back of the sofa, so startled was she. With her arms outspread, she clutched at the Indian blanket draped over the sofa’s spine. In one neat swooping motion she dragged it off the cushions and threw it around her near naked self before straightening up to see—who else?—Jack Daltry entering the room. Butt first.
“Ah, I see you’re awake,” he said as he turned around to reveal his reason for entering the way he had. He clutched a food-laden tray in his hands. As if unsure of his reception, he just stood there, staring at her.
“Well, come on in,” Angel drawled. “You already woke the dead.” With that, she settled into a slumping posture and, with no small amount of malice in her heart, eyed the first man ever to see her naked. If she had any sense, she’d shoot him or cuff him upside the head or—she returned to being sensible—or leave it alone, not mention it, forget it happened.
He walked across the room, heading for a low table next to a wing chair. Angel’s gaze followed him. It was bad enough he’d feasted his eyes on her, she argued with herself, so why make it worse by talking about it with him? After all, he could throw it in her face that she’d done the same thing to him. And had done it first. So what good could come of taking him to task over it? He couldn’t take it back. Well, he could have the decency to gouge his own eyes out, Angel decided. But figured the odds of getting him actually to do that were awfully slim.
“You’re pretty quiet over there,” he remarked as he bent over the table.
Angel sniffed, now eyeing the man’s denim-covered butt and his muscled thighs as he did so. Her eyebrows arched. She exhaled a sharp little breath. Finally she remembered to answer him. “Nothing to say, I guess.”
He straightened up and turned around, barely giving Angel enough time to lift her gaze to his face. He stared at her, grinning, raking her up and down. Under the Indian blanket, Angel felt too warm. “You do nice things for that blanket,” he remarked.
“I guess you’d know,” Angel snapped before she could think better of her words, much less her moments-old decision not to bring up his having seen her naked. Instantly he sobered, but her face heated, afraid to hear what suggestive or downright dirty thing he might say. She’d heard such things all her childhood years when she’d lived at the saloon with her mother. And expected no less from him.
“I did only what I had to, what I felt needed to be done, Angel. Nothing more. I didn’t do anything to you that you didn’t do to me the other day.”
Just as she’d known he’d say. But other than that, the man’s comeback was a decent one. Angel lowered her gaze to her lap. How dare he be so nice as to make her feel ungrateful for his looking after her? Then she remembered. She wouldn’t have needed looking after if he hadn’t popped her in the jaw. Her head snapped up, she started to tell what-for, but—
He’d turned away, back to the tray he’d brought in, and was now ordering its contents to his liking. Angel caught herself again staring at his backside and exhaled another sharp breath, quickly forcing her gaze to the dishes from which an aromatic steam arose. The curling scent chased away the musty kerosene odor of the room. And made her stomach growl. Under cover of the blanket, she clutched at her belly, willing it to be quiet.
She flicked her gaze to Jack, fearing he’d heard it and would tease her. But he didn’t turn to her. So she took a moment to scrutinize the man’s appearance. And found herself wondering just how long she’d been out. Because he’d done plenty in the meantime. He too looked freshly washed and dressed. Just like her. But unlike her, he had on pants. And boots. His hair was wet and combed straight back off his high forehead. Angel’s hair wasn’t wet, but it was brushed back away from her face and secured at her nape.
As Jack began dragging the table over closer to her, Angel gave in to her curiosity, worming her hand out from under the blanket’s folds to feel for what fastened her hair. A piece of ribbon. It was made of a soft fabric, something she’d never owned before. It felt like the satin she remembered fingering at Jesse Chisholm’s trading post before he caught her and told her he knew she didn’t have any money, that she was to put it down … and to keep her dirty fingers off his merchandise.
Angel stored the memory, wondering only why Jack Daltry had such a piece of ribbon, as he sat down next to her on the sofa and held out a spoon to her. Angel looked at the spoon, then up at Jack’s face, saw the mocking challenge in his eyes. Huffing her breath out, and being careful to keep the blanket secured around her, she took the danged spoon—snatched it from him, was more like it—and directed her question to him. “What’s this for?”
“The soup.”
“The soup?” she repeated. He nodded. Warily, Angel looked from his face to the tray. Sure enough. Soup. And bread. Thick slices of it. She’d made this bread a couple days ago. But couldn’t account for the other. Still clutching the spoon, Angel looked again to Jack. “When did you make soup?”
He gave her a sheepish look and then shrugged, saying, “While you were, um, out. I was beginning to get worried, you were out so long.”
Angel’s eyebrow rose. “You were so worried that you cooked?”
He chuckled. “It’d seem so. Hell, I just threw everything together and set it on the stove. I thought it might taste good to you—” He cut himself off as if he’d realized what he’d said. Looking unsure of himself again, he ran his hand through his still damp hair and said, “I don’t know how good it is.”
He’d made this for her? To make her feel better? Angel stared at him, long enough to blink a few times before she thought to check out the soup. Meat chunks and sliced spring vegetables swam around in a nice brown broth. It looked okay to her. But she held her spoon out to him and said, “You first.”
He chuckled again. “That’s fair.” And took the spoon from her. Then he picked up the bowl and dipped himself some of his own handiwork. Then he eyed her as if she’d just ordered him to eat a writhing snake. Angel bit down on her bottom lip against the sudden bubble of laughter that welled up in her. Stop that, she scolded herself.
But evidently he’d seen the laughter in her eyes. Because he grinned wide and slurped up the spoon’s contents. “Hmmm,” he intoned, closing his eyes with a look of sensual delight on his face as he chewed and swallowed.
Delighted with his expression, Angel only belatedly realized her mouth was open … as if she’d taken the bite with him. She covered herself by asking, “That good, huh?”
He opened his eyes, his look baleful as he grimaced and put down the bowl. “No. It’s awful. Trust me, you don’t want to eat this.” Standing, he picked up the tray and held it out to her. “Grab the bread and eat that. I’ll go find something else—”
“No, Jack,” Angel said, stopping him, her hand on his bare arm … and every nerve ending in her body aware that it was. “Wait. Put the tray down and sit. Please.” Angel heard the new softness in her voice and hated it. She never said please. What was happening to her? Even worse, she had no idea why she’d asked him to stay. But she had, and now his gaze locked with hers. He studied her a moment. Angel willed herself not to look away.
Finally, he did as she asked. He put the tray down and sat down, bracing his forearms against his thighs and folding his hands together. Hanging his head between his shoulders, he angled a look over at her, obviously unsure of her intent but willing to wait until she told him. A defiant lock of his black hair slowly slid forward over his forehead.
Angel’s heartbeat leaped. He was purely the most handsome man she’d ever seen, as well as the first one she’d ever remarked on in such a way. She took a deep breath and tried not to stare at him, tried not to give away her tingling response to him. Her hands fisted around the blanket’s edges as she made a mental vow to herself that she would not have feelings for Jack Daltry. But just having to vow it told her it was already too late. I have feelings for Jack Daltry? She inhaled sharply, garnering a questioning frown from him.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, but no thanks to you,” she shot back. And liked that response. Comforting, it was. Even familiar in its harshness, in its standoffishness. This was more like her. Angel rode the crest of that emotional wave, finally telling him, “I ought to shoot you for hitting me.”
As if feeling guilty, he turned hurting blue eyes on her as the words poured out of him. “I figured you’d feel that way. I don’t blame you. But I didn’t have a choice. It was the only way I could get you to stay here.”
“You think so? You think I’m staying now?” Angel tried to scoot forward on the leather, but her bare skin stuck to the fabric, wouldn’t allow it. Nor would Jack’s hand on her arm. She tensed, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Hear me out, Angel. Please. If you still want to leave when I’m done … then, fine. I won’t try to stop you. Deal?”
What choice did she have? He still held her in place. He had a six-shooter strapped on. The storm still raged outside. She had no idea where she would get more clothes to cover herself. And even less of an idea where she’d go once she did leave. So, she was stuck here, as surely as her behind was stuck to the leather cushion under her. Given all that, she slumped back against the cushions and huffed out her breath, saying, “Deal.”
Looking relieved, but not releasing her, he said, “Good. First of all, I want to say I’m sorry I hit you. I’ve never hit a woman before in my life. And I can’t imagine ever doing it again.” He paused, looking into her eyes.
Did he want her forgiveness? Well, she had none for him. Maybe when her jaw quit hurting. Angel said nothing, gave him nothing.
“Okay.” He ran a hand through his hair and went on. “I just couldn’t let you leave. I have several reasons why not, but the most serious one is Seth.”
Feeling but otherwise ignoring the heated grip of his fingers still wrapped around her arm, Angel nodded, saying, “That’s some brother you have there.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “You have no idea. He—” Jack stopped and sprang suddenly to his feet, startling Angel into clutching at her blanket. Obviously agitated, he stalked back and forth in front of her. “What do you suppose is going on around here, Angel? I mean, where is everyone? Where’re the cattle? The men? Have I been robbed? If not, where’s the money? And where’s all the paperwork for the ranch? This stuff’s eating at me. It’s making me crazy.”
Without warning, he stopped right in front of her, his hands fisted at his waist. “And just what the hell did happen to my father? And why’d he tell you the Circle D is yours?” As if he didn’t expect a reply, he set off on another round of the room. “See? I don’t know what to make of any of this. I should be out looking for answers. But here I am—trying to shake them out of you.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you—”
“But you do.” None too gently, Jack scooted the tray aside and sat in its place on the heavy little table. To Angel’s further surprise, he pulled her hands away from the blanket and gripped them tightly, looking right into her eyes. “The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you, Angel. And yet I keep doing just that. So what kind of a sorry son of a bitch am I, anyway?”
“You’re not a—” Angel bit back her words, couldn’t believe she’d been about to defend him. Disconcerted, she looked down at his hands holding hers, suddenly aware of the strong, warm pressure of his fingers wrapped around hers. Finally, she found her voice, and tried again, raising her head until she met his sincere gaze. “All those questions eating at you are some of the same I ask myself.”
She paused, allowing that to sink in before going on. “But I don’t have the answers you seem to think I do. And that’s the truth. What’s happened here at the Circle D—meaning, everything and everyone that’s missing—was already done when I got here. I don’t know who did it, Jack. Or why.”
His hands squeezed hers as his breath came out on a heavily accented sigh. “I feared as much,” he said, speaking with almost no emotion as his somber gaze sought hers. Then he said, “Angel, I need to ask you something.”
A sudden wariness had her heart thudding against her ribs, had her pulling her hands away from his. “Ask away.”
He held her gaze a moment, then looked down at his empty hands. After a moment or two, he redirected his blue-eyed gaze to her face. “What’s your part in all this?”
She frowned, pulling back, stiffening. “My part? Beyond your father saying all this is mine, I don’t know as I have a part. What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Jack began, “exactly that. Your being here now, when all this is going on. Do you think it’s just luck, just bad timing for you … or maybe something more?”
“Something more?” Angel repeated, thinking of almost being lynched, of killing Jeb Kennedy, of her mother dying. “I can’t call it any kind of luck, except bad. But I never even heard tell of you or your father or this ranch until he came to my rescue and said he was bringing me here.”
Jack threw his hands wide in a gesture of exasperation, startling Angel. “That’s another thing. Why, Angel? Why did he bring you here? Why you? And not someone else? What’s behind him doing that? Do you know?”
Angel stilled, felt her temper rising. “I’ve already told you I don’t know why. I asked. He wouldn’t tell me. He just said the answers were here.”
Jack rubbed his hand over his jaw. “There’s not a damned thing here except for me and you. And we don’t know a blessed thing.” Then he stared at her, his heart in his eyes. “I wish my father was here so I could ask him the why of it.”
Caught off guard, Angel lowered her gaze, unable to look at him. This was the first time he had mentioned missing his father, grieving for him. She didn’t know what to say, what to do … other than to pick at her own fingers.
“Don’t you feel it?” he said suddenly into the quiet between them.
Angel looked over at him. His expression was no longer clouded with sadness. Relieved, although not understanding his question, she asked, “Feel what?”
“That there’s more than one thing going on here. There’s you. And my father going to get you. There’re the things that went on here. All the ransacking and the missing money and papers. And the men and the cattle. I hope like hell they’re just on the trail to Abilene. But my father being killed … all that. I have to wonder if any of those things—or all of them—are connected somehow.”
Angel hadn’t thought of the situation in those terms. But now she nodded thoughtfully and said, “You could be right. About a connection. Like maybe things were already set to happen, things your father didn’t even know about until he started back here with me. That makes some sense.”
“I agree. I just wonder what that connection is.”
Angel watched him rub at his jaw, watched him avoid the angry cut on his chin. When she began to warm up to him too much for her own liking, she blurted, “We probably won’t find it sitting here.”
He cut his gaze over to her, his expression sobering into sincerity. “No, we won’t. But whatever it is we’re going to find out, Angel … it’s going to mean something to both of us, I just know it. What I’m trying to say is we’re in this together. Me and you. You can’t leave.”
Angel huffed out her breath. “I expect you’re right,” she said barely above a whisper, as she stared into those blue Daltry eyes of his. What he said was true. She felt it, knew it. They were as tightly bound to each other as wet was to water. She’d been just plain silly earlier to think she could ride away.
“So you’ll be staying on? At least until we sort all this out?”
She raised her head a fraction. “I’ll be staying.” She meant for good, since Wallace Daltry had left the place to her. But she didn’t see any reason to go into all that now, especially considering the look of relief on Jack’s face. But still, this new partnership between them, no matter his need to keep her here, didn’t excuse what he’d done earlier. She couldn’t forgive that. So she added, “Now I have something I want to say.”
“All right. Go ahead. Say it. Anything.”
Watching his hands, fearing he’d take hold of hers again—and thereby turn her insides to butter—Angel tucked them up under the blanket. “Up until now,” she began, speaking with deliberation so that she would be sure to get her words right, “I’ve only made threats about what I’d do to you if you laid a hand on me—”
“Say no more,” he interrupted. “I won’t, Angel. I swear it. Jesus, I’m sorry. I’ve already told you I won’t ever do it again. And I mean it. At the time, I felt it was the only way—well, no. That’s no excuse, either.” He looked into her eyes, holding her gaze, speaking softly now. “I’m sorry.”
Angel swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and watched him lean forward to plant his elbows on his knees. He lowered his head, as if the fate of the world rested on his shoulders, and then covered his face with his hands. Angel didn’t know what to do, what to say. She only just barely stopped herself from reaching out to give a comforting pat to his shoulder.
And that—seeing her own hand stretched out to him—was when she knew she’d forgiven him. A first for her … with anyone. She usually held on to a grudge. Before now, hoarding hurts had been one of the things that kept her strong. So was she getting weak now? Weak or not, she decided he needed to know how she felt. Without asking herself why she cared if he felt better or not, Angel broke the silence with her simple words. “I believe you.”
Jack’s head came up. Wide blue eyes, full of guilt and hope, stared at her.
Uncomfortable in her role as forgiver, uncertain if he even understood what she’d meant, she tried again. “When you say you’re sorry … I believe you.” His expression didn’t change. Angel quirked her mouth and arched an eyebrow. “That’ll have to take, because I’m not about to say it again, cowboy.”
A tentative grin curved his wide mouth. “Cowboy, huh?” Then he chuckled. “Now I know you mean it.”
Then he stood up, acting as if none of this had happened, and offered her his hand. “Come on. It’s still early. We’ll go exchange that blanket for some better-fitting clothes and then see if we can scare up something decent to eat. After that, we’ll decide what our first move should be, what we can do with the rest of the day.”
Angel looked into his eyes, relieved to see, from his open expression, that he most likely didn’t mean … that, when he spoke of what they’d do with the rest of the day. Only then did she tug the blanket around her legs, holding it secure at her waist with one hand, and raise her free hand to meet his.
When she did, as their hands met again, as his fingers closed around hers, she looked into his eyes. He smiled sincerely, one that seemed to come from his heart. A sudden warmth spread through Angel. She felt her mouth begin to curve with a smile that wanted to answer his … for being heartfelt.
* * *
The late afternoon air, swept clean by the earlier thunderstorm, smelled cool and fresh, like wet laundry hanging on a clothesline. Angel breathed in deeply of its rich, earthy scent. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be outside, to feel the wind against her face, to smell the prairie. She supposed some would say the prairie had no scent to it. But Angel knew better. It was like … dried wood, like warm sand, but with a faint touch of flowery perfume to it.
What am I doing? Remarking on nature was something she’d never done until now. Before, each day had merely meant more long, hard hours of work at the hotel. So what could be different about this particular day that made her feel glad to be alive?
Perplexed, Angel tried to get to the bottom of her emotions, tried to capture the real question she wanted to ask herself. What, she finally came up with, did she have now, that gave her this feeling of being glad to be alive, that she hadn’t possessed before? There. That was what she wanted to know.
Suddenly, as if the answer lurked, waiting only for her to seize on it, it popped into her consciousness. It was this. Riding her own horse across the open prairie meadows. And what it represented. This was what was meant by belonging to the land. By owning a piece of it. By having something to call your own. She loved it. Loved the Circle D. Like she’d never loved anything before.
Thinking of the Circle D in such terms brought her riding companion into clear focus for her. Angel stole a glance to her left, her breath eclipsed by just the male and muscled sight of Jack Daltry. He paid her no mind, instead casting his sharp-eyed gaze this way and that, maybe looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might point them in the direction of the answers they sought. While the prairie held his attention, Angel found hers caught by the thoughtful expression on his face, by the air of quiet that enveloped him. By the way he sat his big brown horse, fitting his body’s movements to the animal’s natural gait.
Unexpectedly, Jack glanced over at her, caught her staring. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. Because a trace of a smile tugged at his lips and crinkled the skin at the outer edges of his blue eyes. Under that black Stetson of his, he nodded to her, acknowledging her. Angel shifted desperately, distractedly in her saddle, as if something besides her conscience pinched her. But giving no sign that he noticed her discomfiture, Jack looked away again, off to his left.
Relieved beyond measure, Angel jerked her own gaze away from the man, sighting instead on a nearby scraggly stand of blackjack oaks that heralded a creek’s watery course. Suddenly she wished Jack would talk. Why was he so danged quiet? came her question raised by irritation with him for affecting her so. Usually the man had plenty to say. But the one time she needed the distraction of his words, even if they did always come in the form of hard questions, he kept his own counsel.
Well, Angel consoled herself, maybe she didn’t much feel like talking, either. Because she’d already talked to him more in the past few days, she believed, than she had to everyone else she’d ever known, all combined. Besides that, her jaw hurt like hell and talking only made it worse. As if to punctuate her thought, her jaw throbbed, seemed to pulse.
She winced, welcoming the cool sanity of the pain. But she was still losing her battle to keep from thinking about what had happened this afternoon. It was after the soup in the office. Again she saw herself standing in the doorway to Jack Daltry’s bedroom and watching him sort through his clothes. Finally he’d come up with another pair of his outrageously big denims for her to wear.
Again, she saw him tossing her the pants in an offhand manner. Again she felt them hitting her in the chest. She’d had to catch them at the expense of loosing the blanket that covered her lower half. She’d fumbled to retrieve it but had lost. So there she’d stood, her feet and legs bared to his eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the hot look of wanting that Jack had sent her way as his gaze traveled the length of her and held her in its thrall. Angel remembered her breath catching, remembered expecting her usual response to such a look from a man.
But it hadn’t come. She hadn’t turned away, hadn’t stiffened in rejection. No, far from it. She’d stiffened, yes. But with a burst of desire. With a need to feel his hands, his mouth, on her. And now she was finding it hard to forgive herself for that. And hard to forgive him for awakening that need in her. She didn’t want to need anybody.
What she did want was to get through this life on her own. Angel waited, expecting a sense of well-being to flood her, to confirm that she was right to hold herself aloof, just as she always had. But it didn’t happen. Only a pervasive sense of loneliness greeted her. And frightened her.
With a catch in her breathing, Angel blinked, drawing herself back to the present moment, to her surroundings. To Jack. But again her defiant thoughts won out. Again she heard his earlier words that had made them both laugh, that had lightened the tension between them. He’d said something smart about the denims being so big on her, she could probably belt them around her neck and they’d still drag the ground. Angel now looked down at herself all but swimming in his folded-up, tucked-over trousers and admitted he hadn’t been too far off the mark.
And given all those feelings, and the laughter, and how she was warming up to him—and not particularly relishing the thought of being alone with him in the house all afternoon, considering the way they kept staring at each other—she’d readily agreed to take this ride over the Circle D to see if they could find any clues. Or answers. Anything was better than her own confusing thoughts.
Thoughts that centered on the man riding next to her. All her life she’d said she didn’t want anything to do with a man. And now, here was Jack Daltry catching her eye—the one man with the power, the blood right, to send her away, to deny her everything she’d ever wanted. Such as this grassy land they now rode over. And the ranch house, a place to call home, a place where she could belong. Two things she’d never had. A decent place where she could make her own way and live out her life however she saw fit. Lots of folks had all that. Why couldn’t she?
As if to answer that question for herself, as if she needed to prove to some unseen someone that it wasn’t so much to ask, she pictured herself happy and doing just that … running the house, doing the chores, buying provisions, overseeing ranch hands who tended to fat cattle, doing the books—something she’d learned a little bit about from Saul at the hotel—and riding out to inspect her own land. Like she was doing now.
You think Jack Daltry’s going to stand for all that nonsense you’ve built up in your head, Angel? she asked herself. What about him? What about the Circle D’s rightful owner, Jack Daltry? Where does he fit in to your plans, Angel? What’s he doing while you’re living out your dream life?
Poof. That put an end to her little daydream. And left her wide-eyed and wondering.