A Lady of the West Read online

  “I’ll be working with the mare tomorrow morning, ma’am, and you need to be there.”

  She’d gotten only two steps away; she stopped and turned back. “Why is that?”

  “If I do all the work with her, ma’am, she’s going to think she’s my horse. Don’t reckon you want that, do you?”

  Victoria stared at him. Common sense told her that all she required was a good horse for riding; what difference would it make if the mare was fonder of Jake than of her? Then anger roiled in her, not lessened at all by the knowledge that she was reacting exactly as he wanted. It was her horse and she didn’t want just a mount; she wanted the mare to give her the equine version of friendship. It would forever eat at her if the horse went more willingly to Roper than to her, and if that was small of her, then so be it.

  She looked away. “What time?” She kept her voice calm, as if it didn’t matter.

  “Ten. That’ll give you time to sleep late, get rested up.”

  He knew she was tired. The knowledge softened something inside her, something that she couldn’t allow to soften. She tried not to let his casual solicitude touch her, but it did. For whatever reason, Jake was protective of her and she was forced to acknowledge that it did matter. She wanted to go into his arms and let her head rest on his shoulder, just for a moment.

  Her face was flushed as she walked into the house, but thankfully that could be put down to the hot sun. Emma was standing in the entrance foyer removing her bonnet and gloves. From the back of the house came the Major’s muffled shouts as he discovered something that displeased him. Celia ran down the stairs with a quick drumming of her heels and would have dashed past had Emma not stepped in front of her.

  “Goodness, where are you off to in such a hurry?” Victoria asked as she began removing her own bonnet.

  “To the stables. Jake said he’d teach me how to curry Gypsy.”

  Emma’s mouth curved in amusement. “Don’t you think you should change out of that dress into something more suitable?”

  Celia shrugged. “A dress is a dress.”

  “There are old dresses and new dresses; old dresses are better for currying horses.”

  Celia looked down at her dress, then said, “All right,” and darted back up the stairs.

  Victoria laughed. “She’ll never appreciate the difference.”

  “She missed so much, didn’t she?” Emma mused. “The parties, the dances, the flirting. Can’t you just see how all the boys would be clustered around her?”

  The smile faded from Victoria’s face as she placed her bonnet and gloves on the table. “What will happen to her, I wonder? She’s so trusting. I want her to find someone wonderful to love, a man who’s gentle and will cherish her as much as she deserves.” She continued in a low voice. “I worry, because I haven’t seen a man like that out here.”

  Emma said, “For any of us.” She had loved Jon, and grieved for him, but her fiancé had been dead a long time now and she was still young. She, too, wanted to find love, marry, and have a family. She admitted to herself that she’d come out here with high hopes, for Victoria’s marriage had signaled an end to hunger and poverty, and she had dreamed … vague, romantic dreams of handsome cowboys, virile, adventurous men who had taken on this wild country and won. Instead, they were isolated on the ranch, which seemed to hide a layer of ugliness and hatred beneath the beauty. With few exceptions, the men were hostile and leering.

  Nor was Victoria’s situation better; if anything, it was worse. Emma shuddered at the thought of being married to the Major, of having to submit to him in bed if he chose to visit her. The idea would have been unthinkable if they’d still been back in Augusta, but now Emma wouldn’t think one whit less of Victoria if she took what comfort she could from Jake Roper. He was a man, not a loathsome slug like the Major. He was too much man for Emma’s taste, but Victoria was stronger than she, perhaps even strong enough for someone like Roper.

  McLain stomped to the front of the house. Both women moved out of his path, and he passed them without a word, his face dark with a scowl as he climbed the stairs. Neither of them dared ask him what was wrong.

  McLain slammed the door to his bedroom and kicked a chair across the room. He’d asked about Angelina’s whereabouts first thing, and Lola, with a smug look, had told him that Angelina had gone off with one of the hands that morning and wasn’t back yet. He was enraged; not only was she not there when he wanted her, but he knew damn sure the cowhand wouldn’t be doing any of the work he was supposed to be doing. The goddamn whore! He’d teach her a lesson when he got his hands on her.

  There was nothing he could do about it now, however, and that made him even angrier. Maybe that girl Juana… naw, hell, he’d had her once, and she hadn’t been any better than his fist. Not as good, because she’d just lain there and sniffled. He didn’t even consider taking his wife to bed; his mind shied away from that possibility to the extent that the thought never formed. He was bothered enough with his haunting fears of the Sarratts; in fact, his nightmares and jumpiness seemed to be getting worse lately, as if the ghosts were closing in for the kill. He sure as hell didn’t need his stiff lady wife reminding him of Elena. The sound of Victoria entering the adjoining bedroom unnerved him to the extent that he left his room as quickly as he’d entered it.

  He stood in the hallway, red-faced with anger and looking for a scapegoat. The cheerful sound of humming at first made him even angrier, and then he noticed that it was coming from Celia’s room, where the door had been left slightly ajar. Now there was a beauty, prettier even than Angelina. And she wasn’t as all-fired proper and straitlaced as her sister. She just might like having a man if she tried it. The more the Major thought about it, the more he liked it. Celia was a Waverly, too, after all; she just wasn’t a lady in the same way that her sister was. He knew Victoria would be busy for at least five minutes changing out of her traveling clothes. He balanced caution and temptation by tiptoeing down the hall until he could see through the narrow crack between door and jamb.

  Celia was in her petticoats and chemise, still humming as she selected one of her older dresses from the armoir and slipped it on over her head. It had the advantage of buttoning down the front, which was why she had chosen it, and she bent her head to the task.

  McLain watched her, struck by the golden creaminess of her bare shoulders and arms. She had nice big tits, too, with the dark centers plain under the thin cotton chemise. The sunlight streaming through the window illuminated her hair, and he had the uncharacteristically fanciful thought that she looked like an angel. God, she was a beauty! And a little hoyden, not like Victoria at all. Certainly nothing like Elena. The ache in his loins had intensified while he stood watching her, and he thought about what it would be like to have her. He’d have to keep it secret from Victoria, but he thought he knew a way to accomplish that.

  He glanced furtively down the hall, then back at Celia. She was nearly finished dressing, so he slipped away as carefully as he had approached. His heart was pounding with anticipation.

  He went downstairs to the library and took an opened bottle of bourbon from the desk drawer. There was a glass in the drawer, too, but he ignored it and tipped the bottle to his mouth. The liquor burned down his throat, a pleasant warmth that matched the one in his gut. By God, here was something to look forward to! He drank once more in celebration of his own cleverness. The only thing was, he’d have to make sure Victoria didn’t find out. She was high-nosed enough that she’d pack up and leave if she found out he was diddling her little sister, and the humiliation would be unbearable after all the strutting and bragging he’d done in Santa Fe about his patrician wife. He could always lie about it, of course, but there were so many people on the ranch that someone would blab and the truth would get out.

  But he was confident he could bed Celia all he wanted, and the girl would never tell. She was a simpleminded little idiot. All he had to do was threaten her somehow. … He mused about it for a minute, trying to thin