A Tradition of Pride (5 page)

As she entered the hallway, a door opened and closed in the direction of her father's study. Lara glanced over her shoulder and paused politely at the sight of Rans MacQuade.

"Are you leaving, Mr. MacQuade?" She watched the tall, muscular frame approaching. A shiver of apprehension danced along her arms.

"Yes, I don't want to overstay my welcome," he answered in a low, courteous voice.

"I know how much father enjoyed discussing his book with you, so I'm sure you couldn't do that," Lara murmured with cool good manners.

His brown gaze flicked from her to the staircase, her obvious destination. "Were you retiring for the night?"

"I was going to my room to read for a while." She stifffened, uncertain why he had asked. A smile played at the edges of his mouth as if he was amused by the No Trespassing sign he saw in her green eyes.

"Then I'm glad to have this opportunity to thank you for an excellent dinner," Rans offered.

"We should thank you for the quail." This polite conversation was beginning to grate on Lara's nerves. She wished he would say goodnight and leave.

"Would it be possible for me to leave through the courtyard?" He glanced over a broad shoulder at the exit door on the opposite end of the hallway. "It's a closer walk to my cottage from there."

"You walked here?" A delicately arched brow lifted slightly. It was nearly a mile from the main house to the cottage through the pine woods.

"Yes," the wicked light in his eyes appeared to mock her surprise. "I enjoy the fresh air and exercise."

Lara chose not to comment further, but it was rare in this era of modern transportation for anyone to walk even a short distance. Instead she turned away.

"The gate is locked. I'll get the key," Lara stated.

"I don't mean to inconvenience you."

"It's no trouble," she assured him coolly.

The hall closet was concealed beneath the staircase. Pushing the latch hidden in the panel, Lara opened the door and reached for the ring of keys hanging in a far corner.

After a second's hesitation, she removed a tightly woven, black wool shawl from its hook. The night air would be cool even in February. She turned as she draped the shawl over the shimmering red gold of her hair and around her shoulders, encountering the bemused look on Rans MacQuade's chiseled face.

The tilt of her head was defiantly regal, the keys jangling in her hand. "Is something wrong, Mr. MacQuade?" Ice chilled her voice.

"Seeing you like that reminds me of the chatelaine of a castle." He seemed to lazily draw himself up another, inch taller and half-turn toward the opposite end of the hallway. "Shall we go?"

With an unconscious sweep of her skirt, Lara preceded him down the hallway to the far door leading into the miniature courtyard. The Spanish-styled house was built in the shape of a blunted u, forming a small courtyard enclosed on three sides by the house. The fourth side was a towering brick wall to ensure privacy. The only access, except through the house, was a sturdy wrought-iron gate in an arched opening of the wall. It was kept locked at all times.

The front lawn of the house was bare of any flowering shrubbery or landscaped foliage. Loblolly and longleaf pine trees shaded the green grass with the aid of two wild magnolias. The courtyard, however, was rampant with leafy foliage that soon would be bursting into bloom. It was a cool and colorful retreat when the summer sun blazed overhead.

At night, without the benefit of light from the courtyard lanterns, it was a dark, shadowy place. The pale moonlight illuminated only the small, circular fountain in the center. Lara disliked the aura of intimacy the night created by seemingly shutting off the rest of the world. Alone she enjoyed the quiet solitude, but not with Rans MacQuade at her side.

"You have a very beautiful home, Mrs. Cochran," he observed his step to gaze about him.

"Thank you." Lara was forced by politeness to check her desire to hurry him on his way and reduce her stride to his idly strolling pace.

"It isn't often that a girl marries and doesn't have to leave home."

Warily she glanced at him. Had she detected an undertone of cynical mockery in his comment? The shadows concealed his expression and she couldn't be certain.

"As large as the house is, neither Trevor nor I thought it was practical to set up another residence," Lara found herself defending their decision. "And daddy didn't look forward to rambling about the house alone."

"I wouldn't have thought a newly married couple would consider things in the terms of practicality."

Although she couldn't see his face, she could feel his speculative gaze studying her. It was an uncomfortable sensation, like being under a microscope.

"I think you are mistaken, Mr. MacQuade. Every married couple has to find a place to, live. Our choice was here."

They were near the center fountain. Moonlight streamed over his shoulder to gild her creamy white complexion with its silvery glow. The black shawl framed her oval face in a medieval fashion, highlighting her delicate bone structure and the royal carriage of her head.

"I know your father is happy with the choice." His tone became impersonal, losing its inquisitive note. "When I first came here, I was curious why a man as young and fit as your father would need a manager for the farm. He is entirely capable of running it himself. Now that I've learned about his plans for a book, I understand his heights. But don't you find it boring, or are you saying that you are content being a housewife, keeping the home-fires burning for whenever your husband comes home?"

Her frosty green eyes sliced sharply to his face in time to see the sardonic curl of his mouth as he openly mocked her. She detested his arrogance more at that moment than she had ever done before.

"My life is fulfilling," was the only reply Lara gave to his taunting question. She knew their dislike of each other was mutual.

The black grillwork of the gate was in front of them. Lara paused while inserting the key into the padlock. It turned grudgingly, then finally clicked. Loosely grasping one of the iron bars, she started to swing the gate open. It unexpectedly didn't budge and her hand slipped free of the bar as her impetus carried her a stumbling step backward.

A pair of large hands closed around her waist to steady Lara for the instant necessary to regain her balance. Then the firm support was removed and Rans MacQuade stepped around her. There was a protesting screech of the hinges before the gate allowed itself to be pulled open by him.

"It needs offing," he said, swinging it experimentally a few times. "I'll send someone up in the morning to see to it."

"Thank you," Lara accepted his offer with cool indifference.

He stepped through the gateway, closing it behind him. "Good night, Mrs. Cochran." There was a faintly mocking inclination of his golden brown head.

"Good night."

While she snapped the lock securely closed, Lara watched the long, lazy strides that carried him into the cobwebby shadows of the pine trees. She paused, trying to analyze that moment when his large hands had nearly spanned her slender waist. She could still feel their warm imprint. His steadying touch had been automatic and impersonal.

Her own reaction had been just as bland. She had felt nothing then, and now there was only the lingering impression of his grip. An absent smile quirked the corners of her mouth as Lara turned away from the gate.

She must remember to mention the incident in her next letter to Angie. After their visit nearly a month ago, this provided proof of her assertion that she was indifferent to a man's touch. The warmth of his hands had neither aroused her nor repulsed her. Angie had not been convinced of Lara's indifference to a man's attention. This should help change her thinking.

A breeze whispered through the pines, dancing into the courtyard to tease at the shawl around her head, Lara clutched the knitted cloth tighter around her throat and hurried toward the house before the night's chill penetrated her slight covering.

Chapter Three

THE BLAZE-FACED BAY snorted and tossed his head, sidestepping spiritedly amid the straight rows of pecan trees. The barren branches almost formed an arch above the horse and rider. Green, thick grass muffled the horse's high stepping strides.

Lara soothingly stroked the silken curve of his neck before lifting the hand to her hair. The gallop had loosened a few red gold tendrils from the French pleat. She tucked them back in place.

"There's nothing like a brisk gallop to chase away the tensions, is there, Pasha?" She laughed throatily in satisfaction as she patted the hunter's neck again. "And the weather is perfect. It feels like spring is here already, and it's only the end of February."

The sky was a brilliant blue with not a cloud or jet trail in sight. The temperature, too, was that of a balmy spring morning. The ribbed, knit of her black turtleneck sweater was, ample coverage, even during the cooling gallop that had carried Lara deep into the pecan orchard.

Reining the horse at a right angle, she turned him toward the distant fence and the connecting gate to the next field. Her gaze studied the outstretched branches. Although the dogwood trees growing wild in the pines had begun to show signs of budding, the pecan trees remained dormant. They generally waited until around the first official day of spring to begin budding. Yet always it was an event for Lara when the first shoot was seen.

As she neared the adjoining field, the decreasing rows of trees enabled her to catch a glimpse of the fence. A telltale, patch of brown black contrasted with the green, rye grass in, this orchard, pasture land for the cattle, until the autumn harvest when the nuts began falling from the trees. The furrows of brown in the next field answered the question that Lara had been wondering about since she had started out.

Touching the riding crop to the hunter's flanks, she urged him into a rocking canter. Plowing had started in the next orchard to prepare the field for the hay crop to be planted. All the orchards served dual purposes, first to grow pecans, and second as grazing land or cropland.

Where there were freshly furrowed rows of dirt on Alexander land, Cato could not be far away. With a quick smile, Lara corrected the silent thought — Cato and his mules couldn't be faraway. It was one of the traditions that hadn't been cast aside. No matter how many tractors and modern farm machinery there were in the sheds, the plowing was always done by Cato and his mules.

As a child Lara had not questioned the custom, spending many hours tagging along beside the tall, spare man as he walked behind his mules, always talking to them as if they could understand every word he said. Officially the mules were Alexander property. Unofficially they belonged to Cato. For sixty-seven of his eighty-two years, he had taken care of the mules and walked behind them as they plowed the fields.

Despite his advanced years, his body was not encumbered by age. He could still walk as long and as far as he had when he was thirty. With a smile, Lara remembered that last fall Cato had planted a strawberry bed for his ninety-eight-year old mother, grumbling that the cranky old hen would probably live to see it bear fruit.

Not until Lara was sixteen did she question the wisdom of letting Cato plow the fields when tractors would be so much faster. The occasion had been brought about by the discovery that the seemingly ageless man was in fact seventy-four. She had argued with her father that surely something else could be found for Cato to do. To this day, she could vividly recall her father's response.

"Cato doesn't know anything else, pet," her father had explained patiently. "His mules are his life, and his work is his prides. After the loyalty he has shown us, surely we can return it by letting him keep his job for as long as he's capable of holding it."

"But he's worked all these years. Why don't you give him a pension and let him retire? He's certainly earned that right, too," Lara had pointed out.

"To take away Cato's mules and his pride?" He had shaken his head. "I might as well give him a gun to shoot himself with, because he wouldn't have anything else to live for."

The white boards of the fence gate glistened in front of Lara. Without dismounting, she unlatched the gate and rode through closing it behind her. The bay's hooves ground deeply into the freshly turned soil.

A frown creased Lara's forehead. It was not the jangle of harness she heard on the other side of the knoll, but the steady hum of a tractor motor. She couldn't believe it, and turned the bay hunter down one of the straight furrows; urging him into a slow canter with a click of her tongue and a touch of the riding crop.

As she crested the small ridge, there was the tractor and plow moving steadily through the row of trees. She recognized the driver and called, meaning to find out why Cato wasn't there, but he couldn't hear her over the din of the motor.

The uneven ground made the going too difficult for the bay and Lara reined him over to the unplowed section. When they had passed the tractor, she cut across halting the horse directly in its path and forcing the tractor to stop. The bay did not like the noisy machine and tossed its head in vigorous protest when Lara guided him alongside of it.

"Where's Cato?" she shouted to the driver.