Blackwood's Woman (10 page)

But Joanna's trip to the reservation had been canceled. J.T. had said it was best to postpone any and all excursions for the time being. She knew he meant until Lenny Plott had been apprehended.

Slumping down in the overstuffed tan, green and apricot plaid chair, Joanna picked up her sketch pad from the hand-carved pine table to her right. In the early-dawn hours these past five mornings, when she'd been unable to sleep, she had told herself she should be painting, should be accomplishing something. Instead, she'd retreated to her sketch pad, using her charcoal pencils to fill page after page with hastily rendered images of J.T. Blackwood. In some sketches he wore his Stetson, in others his head was bare. Many were half-finished profiles, most from his right side, but several from the left, depicting his sinister-looking eye patch.

Flipping through the pad, she stopped and glared at the sketch she'd done this morning. This charcoal rendering was different from all the others. This was John F:/…/Beverly Barton - Blackwood's Wo…

39/137

morn

10/31/2009 ing. This charcoal rendering was different f Blackwood's Woman rom all the others. This was John Thomas Blackwood, rugged, hard, unsmiling. Neither white man nor Native American. Only primitive male.

She slapped the pad closed, then threw it on the floor at her feet. Whatever had possessed her to fill half the sketch pad with drawings of J.T.? What would he think if he saw them? He might get the wrong idea and assume she— No! She did not feel anything for J.T., except maybe gratitude. She was exceedingly thankful that he was in charge of keeping her safe; that if necessary, he would become her personal bodyguard. She prayed the necessity would never arise, that the authorities would arrest Lenny Plott and return him to prison before he was able to find her. Or Claire.

Or Libby.

The second week of J.T.'s vacation would end soon, but he had promised to stay on at the ranch. Even though she had seen him only at a distance the past few days, she felt reassured by his presence. She knew that he was keeping close tabs on her and taking every precaution for her safety.

But there seemed to be no immediate danger. No one knew where Lenny Plott was.

He could still be in Virginia. Or he could already be in New Mexico. Or he could have gone to Missouri to hunt down Claire Andrews. Or he could somehow have discovered Libby Felton's whereabouts. Only God knew what slimy rock that monster had crawled under.

No, there was no immediate danger from Lenny Plott, a man the authorities couldn't find. Joanna's only immediate danger came from her ridiculous thoughts of J.T. Blackwood. She was confused and overly emotional, her nerves strung to the breaking point. That's why I'm thinking the way I am, she decided. All right, so he'd been tender and understanding about the rape. And he had made a promise her heart wanted to believe he would keep—that he would protect her from all harm.

Still, that was no reason for her to start thinking of him as some knight in shining armor, as a man equal to his great-grandfather, a man capable of fulfilling her romantic dreams.

The loud knock on the front door startled her. She jumped, then her body stiffened. Don't react this way, she told herself. She had to stop thinking every bump, every creak, every unexpected sound might be Lenny Plott. The man would hardly come to her door and knock, would he?

The knocking continued, then ceased abruptly. "Joanna? Are you all right?" J.T.

called to her.

She opened her mouth to answer, but only a quivering squeak came out. Her mind issued orders, but her body didn't respond.

"Joanna!"

By the time she had convinced herself she could move, that her legs could actually hold her weight and walk across the living room, J.T. had used the spare key she'd given him to unlock her door. He stormed into her house, scanning the huge expanse of combined living and dining areas. She met him in the middle of the room. He glared at her, then reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders. She knew he wanted to shake her, and realized how much control he was exerting to keep from doing just that.

"Why the hell didn't you answer me?" He squeezed her shoulders, then released her.

"I'm sorry. I—"

"Are you all right?"

F:/…/Beverly Barton - Blackwood's Wo…

40/137

"A

10/31/2009re you all right?"

Blackwood's Woman

"I'm okay. What do you want? Why did you stop by?"

"I came by to see if you'd like to take a ride with me," he said. "You haven't been off the ranch in five days. I thought maybe you'd enjoy an outing."

"Oh, I see. Was this Elena's idea? Did she tell you that I've been complaining about feeling hemmed in?"

J.T. grinned—a half smile, really, not showing any teeth. "She mentioned you were used to coming and going as you pleased, to taking off for hours at a time to sketch or paint."

Joanna nodded.

"Elena fixed a picnic basket," J.T. said. "Sandwiches. A thermos of iced tea. That sort of stuff." He glanced at Joanna, taking note of her appearance. "Have you been in your gown all day?"

"I'll go change." She whirled around, then saw her sketch pad on the floor. "Where are we going?" She walked by the plaid chair, stuck out her foot and kicked the pad under the chair.

"I thought you might want to go out past Trinidad to the old archaeological dig where your great-grandparents worked the summer they lived here."

Halting in the doorway to her bedroom, Joanna swung around and faced J.T.

"What? I tried to get permission from the man who owns the land, to go out to the old site, but I could never get anywhere with him. He said he had enough trespassers traipsing around on his property, stealing artifacts and—"

"That old man was my grandfather's worst enemy. It seems Hezekiah Mahoney married the woman my grandfather had picked out for himself and John Thomas never forgave either of them. I think it pleased Hezekiah to see my grandfather taken down a peg or two when he had to claim a half-breed as his heir."

"Are you saying—"

"I'm saying Hezekiah and I have always understood each other." J.T. walked over and sat down in the plaid chair. "I've done him a few favors over the years, and he owes me one or two. He isn't unreasonable. He allows archaeologists and archaeology students to work out at the old dig."

"And he gave us permission to visit the site?"

"Yep. So hurry up and change clothes."

"Can we stay out there for the rest of the day?" she asked. "Do you have the time?

I'd love to take a sketch pad and do some work while we're there. I need some fresh ideas for the paintings I've been commissioned to do."

"We can stay until the sun goes down, if that's what you want," J.T. said. "You can look the place over. We can eat Elena's lunch. And you can draw to your heart's content."

"Thanks, J.T."

He liked her smile. Real. Honest. Warm. "Jo, while we're out there, we need to talk. Okay?"

Her smile disappeared, and J.T. wished he'd waited to mention anything about their needing to talk. But he wanted to prepare her, get her ready for what he had to tell her. No matter what happened in the days and weeks ahead, he was not going to lie to her. Not about anything.

"Okay," she said, then hurried into her bedroom.

J.T. laid his Stetson on the hand-carved table to his right. Leaning over, resting his elbows on his thighs, he let his hands dangle between his spread legs.

F:/…/Beverly Barton - Blackwood's Wo…

41/137

elbow

10/31/2009 s on his thighs, he let his hands dangle betwe Blackwood's Woman en his spread legs.

Today's excursion out to the old archaeological dig on Mahoney's ranch
had
been Elena's idea. She'd been after him for two days to call old Hezekiah and arrange to take Joanna on this special outing. After his talk with Lieutenant Milton George and his telephone calls—one to Sam Dundee, and another to an FBI friend, Dane Carmichael—J.T. had decided it might be easier for him to discuss hard, cold facts with Joanna while she was relaxed and enjoying herself.

In the five days since he'd accepted responsibility for her safekeeping, J.T. had taken precautions to keep Joanna Beaumont as safe as possible without actually placing a twenty-four-hour-a-day guard at her door. He had suggested she should move into the main house. After all, they had more than enough room. But she hadn't wanted to leave her own home. He supposed he understood how she felt. But if Plott did make a move, J.T. would have no choice but to insist she stay with him.

Or—and he really didn't want to think about his other choice—he would have to move into the renovated bunkhouse with her.

He had lived in close confines with a beautiful woman more than once and been able to remain completely professional and emotionally uninvolved. But Joanna Beaumont was more than just a client. She was someone he desired. That could pose a major problem for him—wanting a woman he had sworn to protect. A woman who, by her own admission, didn't completely trust him.

Staring down at his booted feet, J.T. noticed the edge of some sort of book sticking out from underneath the chair. He reached down, pulled out the large notebook, and picked it up. Leaning back in the chair, he laid the sketch pad on his lap and opened it to the first page. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He turned the page, then sucked in a deep breath and let it out. Hurriedly, he flipped through the pages, and on each, he saw himself. They were rough, obviously hastily sketched likenesses, but there was no mistaking Joanna's chosen subject. When he looked at the last sketch, about halfway through the pad, he closed his eyes, blotting out what he saw. In that one drawing, she had come too close to capturing the real J.T. Blackwood. A man at odds with himself. Hard. Cold. Cynical. A man torn between two cultures—the one his grandfather had forced him to accept, and the one the old man had taught him to be ashamed of and to completely reject.

J.T. closed the pad and slipped it back under the chair. He wished he'd never seen the damned thing. if Joanna was sketching him, over and over again, seeing past the facade he presented to the world and getting too close to the angry, disillusioned man inside him, that meant she had allowed all the romantic nonsense concerning their great-grandparents to make her think— Hell! He had to put a stop to this before it started. He wasn't averse to the idea of having an affair with Joanna, now that he realized she wasn't just another spoiled rich girl out for kicks. But no way did he want her to think of him as some dream lover who could fulfill all her fantasies.

It would be better for both of them if he set her straight today. He didn't know a damn thing about romance or happily-ever-after or making love to a woman who needed the utmost tenderness.

He wondered if there had been a man in her life, someone she had trusted enough to take into her bed, since the night Lenny Plott had raped her. What did it do to a woman to be brutalized that way, to lose all sense of power and control? What would I have done if I'd been her fiancé? J.T. asked himself. He knew he would have wanted to hunt Plott down and kill him with his bare hands. And he knew he never would have deserted Joanna. If she'd been his woman, he would have—

F:/…/Beverly Barton - Blackwood's Wo…

42/137

woul

10/31/2009 d have deserted Joanna. If she'd been his wom Blackwood's Woman an, he would have—

But she hadn't been his woman, wasn't his woman now. And for both their sakes, he had to keep it that way.

* * *

"I don't know how to thank you, J.T." Joanna spread her arms open wide as if somehow she could embrace the land and the sky, and perhaps even grasp the moment and hold on to it forever. "It still looks so much like Annabelle described it and yet so very different, too. They lived in tents right here on the site, and went into Trinidad for supplies."

"Your great-grandfather was the archaeologist. Why did he bring his wife along with him? This is some pretty rugged country, even now. It could hardly have been a suitable place for a Virginia society matron." J.T. lifted the thermos from the picnic basket he had placed beside him when he'd sat down atop the huge, oddly shaped rock formation.

Joanna looked down into the valley below. Such a wide open space. Such an incredible view. Steep-walled canyons. Never-ending blue sky. And colors so sharp and vivid, they took her breath away.

"Annabelle was a lot more than a society matron. She was a site artist and photographer. She kept a detailed record of the artifacts her husband found, photographing or sketching every discovery. And, for your information, Ernest Beaumont wasn't just an archaeologist." She turned and smiled at J.T. "He was a world-renowned archaeologist, and he counted among his friends both Earl H.

Morris and Alfred V. Kidder. He took part in Kidder's Pecos conference in 1927."

Suddenly realizing she was babbling, Joanna hushed, shook her head and laughed.

"I admit that, after reading Annabelle's diary, I found out everything I could about my great-grandparents."

"Did you discover the reason your great-grandmother committed adultery?" J.T.

asked.

Her laughter died as quickly as it had been born. She sat down on the rock beside J.T. and watched while he poured iced tea into plastic cups. He handed her a cup.

She accepted it, being careful to neither touch him nor look at him.

"Ernest Beaumont had been a contemporary of Annabelle's father, who had arranged the marriage for Annabelle, his only child, shortly before his death."

Joanna sipped her tea. "She was eighteen when she married. Ernest was forty-two.

She was a dutiful wife, who gave him two sons, and often accompanied him on his archaeological digs, working with him. They had a contented marriage, but not a passionate one."

"So Annabelle met Benjamin and saw her chance to put a little passion into her life." J.T. unwrapped a ham-and-cheese sandwich. "She had a summer affair with a wild savage, then returned to her safe, secure life in Virginia and wrote beautiful prose about her 'great love.'" J.T. grunted, his cynicism obvious in both his words and the cold expression on his face.