A Fire in the Blood (35 page)

      
He gave her a look of scathing anger, then walked stiffly to the door. "When you're so far in debt that you'll need a loan to keep J Bar, come see me. Perhaps by then you'll be ready to listen to reason." He walked out and slammed the door.

      
Lissa wished that Cormac had eaten him for breakfast.

* * * *

      
Germaine Channault inspected the selection of ready-made dresses with disdain. "Cheap factory-sewn junk," she murmured beneath her breath. Beside the dresses a display of straw bonnets added a touch of bright color to the otherwise drab emporium, which was cluttered with everything from bolts of fabric to stacks of tinned meats and rolls of the controversial new barbed wire. The smell of tobacco, musty cloth, and stale coffee hung in the dust-filled air.

      
Pretending to be absorbed in shopping, she watched the flow of traffic through the busy mercantile, searching for the man she had summoned. Finally she spotted him in the section reserved for cook pots and tin dishes. She walked casually over to inspect a heavy iron skillet, then slipped into the cluttered alcove where she could speak with him and not be observed.

      
"Where have you been?
Merde
! I have been waiting forever," she whispered, feeling a distinct urge to cosh him with the heavy implement.

      
"In case you haven't noticed, I have a long way to ride. And keep your voice down. I've poisoned the water just as we planned. I figure the J Bar ramrod will move the cattle within the week, and we'll be ready to take them. It'll be real easy."

      
"You think so,
hein
?" She looked around them, but no one was anywhere near. "I have some news for you. That
batard
Robbins has come back." At his muttered curses, she smiled bitterly. "Now things are no longer so simple. He could ruin our plans."

      
"No. I can handle a dirty Injun. Shit, he's even part greaser. Couldn't be more worthless."

      
"That is precisely what Conyers and those fools with him thought! They're all dead now. You will do nothing rash, do you understand me?" She placed one reddened bony hand on his forearm with surprising strength.

      
"I understand," he said irritably.

      
"
Bien.
I will consider how to handle this Jesse Robbins. For now, be very careful when you take those cattle. He came to town yesterday to wire for more of his kind."

      
"It'd be easier if we disposed of him before they arrive," he said.

      
She made a curt dismissive gesture with her hand. "Let me consider it. I will think of a way to put down the cur."

      
He grinned wolfishly. "Then Lissa 'n that boy are ours."

* * * *

      
Jess arrived at the ranch house late that afternoon and headed straight to the stables where he encountered Tate grooming his horse.

      
The big man's smile was blinding in the dim light. "You look like hell," he said cheerfully, noting Jess's bloodshot eyes and exhausted expression. "While you were in town, Miz Lissa had a caller."

      
Jess pulled his saddle off Blaze and slung it across the wooden rail. "Who was it?"

      
"None other than Lemuel Mathis. Rooster-crow early this morning, he come ridin' up like his tail feathers was on fire. Now what do you make of that?"

      
"I saw him yesterday. He left his fancy club and came to the Royale just to talk to me. I wonder what the hell he's up to," Jess mused.

      
Shannon's expression sobered. "You see Cammie?"

      
Jess gave him an irritated glance, then began rubbing Blaze down.

      
"Mathis is still pesterin' her to divorce you and marry him," Tate said when Jess remained silent.

      
"Maybe she ought to do it. I'll know one way or the other if he's mixed up in the rustling in a few weeks. If he's not. . ." The image of Mathis touching Lissa made his guts knot, but he forced the thought aside.

      
"You're dumb as dirt, Jess, you know that? That hard-eyed old galoot ain't fit to raise your son. Why, no tellin' what he'd—"

      
"Lissa will protect the boy," Jess interrupted in a tight voice.

      
"The boy's got a name. Your daddy's name. He's entitled to have a daddy just the same as you did, if you ask me."

      
"Well, I sure as hell didn't ask you, now did I, Tate?" Jess said furiously, throwing down the body brush and walking the big black into his stall.

      
As he left the stable, Shannon's low mutterings carried after him. "Damn fool's stubborn as a lantern-jawed jackass."

      
Lissa watched Jess approach the kitchen. Her hurt and anger had simmered until it was scalding. Before he reached the back door, she went to the library, where she knew he would eventually look for her. She sat down with the open ledger and tried again to read the columns of numbers, but her concentration was hopelessly broken just thinking about Lemuel's accusations.

      
Please let me be wrong, Jess.

      
The sound of his footfalls was low and quiet when he finally approached the library door. He knocked briefly, then opened the door when she murmured for him to enter.

      
"You must have had a lot of business in town. It sure couldn't have taken two days just to send a wire. I didn't see any new hands riding with you either," she added, knowing her voice had an accusing edge to it. She was suddenly very glad that Clare had taken Johnny upstairs.

      
His eyes swept over her bent head, noting the crumpled papers and scratched-out tallies littering the desk. Mathis's gossip must have scraped the bottom of the trough in spite of Cammie's bow to propriety. "I hired two men and sent them out to Moss. I had other things to take care of."

      
She stood up and looked at him, then walked around the desk. "You need a shave and a bath. She sniffed haughtily. "You reek of cheap perfume. Camella's fragrance?"

      
"I was too hung-over this morning to risk shaving," he replied coolly. "As to the perfume . . ." He shrugged. Cammie had hugged him good-bye the night before when she had poured him into a hotel room. "It lingers, I suppose. Old Lemuel Mathis must've broken a leg rushing out here to tattle."
The lying bastard.
He reached for a decanter of whiskey and poured a shot into one of Marcus's fancy cut-crystal tumblers.

      
She watched him toss down the drink, feeling something wither and die deep inside of her. "You bastard. How could you—and with
her
of all women."

      
He smiled coldly. "Just exactly how many women do you think a man like me can get in Wyoming?"

      
She slapped him in pure reflex. The sound was magnified in the evening stillness, like the crack of something breaking. Her heart.

      
He could see the spitting fury in her amber eyes and grabbed her wrist as her hands curved like claws. The suddenness of the movement threw her off balance and she fell against him, breathing rapidly. Her breasts pressed against his chest as she tried to push away, kicking at him with slippered feet.

      
"Let go of me, you miserable, whoring—"

      
When she raised her other hand, he grabbed it too in self-defense. "Calm down, Lissa. This is no time for a tantrum. I thought you were trying to convince me you're all grown up." He felt her go very still in his arms.

      
Lissa forced her chin up and looked into his eyes. They glowed like silver in the fading light, revealing the intensity of his emotions, emotions he was trying not to reveal.

      
He could smell orange blossoms and feel the old familiar pressure of those soft, luscious breasts, grown fuller now. Feeling himself losing control, he shoved her back and released her.

      
"What I do in town—and with whom—is none of your business, Lissa. I told you nothing could ever work out between us. As soon as the ranch is safe, I'll be gone. Next time you're in trouble, you'll have to get someone else to bail you out." He kept his voice level and low, feeling a stroke of anguish for every word he spoke.

      
His face was set in harsh, forbidding lines, yet she had felt him trembling when he pushed her away. "For a man who just spent the night with a lusty woman like Camella, you don't seem very well satisfied, Jess." She dared him boldly, moving closer. He stepped back. She smiled. He poured himself another drink.

      
"Like I said, you need a bath. I'll have Clare heat the water." She turned and swished from the room, then paused at the door and added, "Oh, the tub room is at the end of the hall opposite my bedroom."

      
He nodded curtly, wanting to refuse but too hot, achy, and generally miserable to resist the temptation, which he knew entailed a great deal more than soaking in a bathtub.

      
Later, when he heard the maid carrying water upstairs, he closed the tally book and walked into the hall. "I'll carry those buckets. They're too heavy for a woman your size," he said to Clare.

      
She took one look at his battered face and nearly dropped the heavy buckets of steaming water before he could take them from her. "Yes, sir, Mr. Robbins." Bobbing her head, she rushed back toward the kitchen as if her skirts were on fire, calling out, "There's more hot water on the stove."

      
Once he had filled the big porcelain tub, Jess searched the commodious room's cabinets until he located what must have been Marcus's soap, a plain, unscented bar. Setting a big thirsty towel beside the tub, he walked over to the door and grimly turned the key in the lock. Lissa was the most incredibly determined female he had ever met.

      
For a while, he had had her believing that he had slept with Cammie, but she was becoming alarmingly perceptive—or he was becoming disgustingly transparent. With a muttered oath, he pulled off his boots, then hung up his guns and shed his clothes. Standing in the middle of the floor, he looked at the filled tub. It was sparkling white and oversized, probably custom-built for Jacobson's long legs. The old boy would be rolling in his grave now if he could see Jess climbing into the clean water, to pollute it with his dirty Indian and Mexican blood.

      
Blood literally. He winced as the hot water soaked into the cuts and abrasions on his hands. A damn good thing no one in town had started trouble. His gun hand would not be reliable for several days. He laid his head back and soaked, trying to keep his mind on the problem of the rustling and off Lissa and his son.

      
Finally he lathered up, starting with his head and proceeding down until he was well scrubbed. So busy was he, splashing and washing, that he did not hear a key turn from the other side of the lock. When the door opened, his head jerked up and water flew in every direction. He squinted through eyes burning with soap.

      
"You forgot to bring up rinse water," Lissa said matter-of-factly as she crossed the floor carrying a big bucket of cool water. She wore a thin, peach- colored robe, belted securely around her waist. The front of it split to her knees when she walked, revealing a delectable length of calf and slim ankle.
      
"Kneel in the tub and I'll pour it over your head."

      
"How the hell did you—"

      
"I have a master key to all the locks," she interrupted smugly.

      
"I'll remember that. Put the water down. I can rinse myself." He looked up at her, as out of sorts as a wet tomcat.

      
Lissa did not move, but her eyes did, devouring every soap-covered inch of his body, so familiar now. She took in the scar across his side, a neat, narrow ribbon of white against his bronzed skin. "You never did tell me how you got my stitches out," she said in a suddenly thickened voice.

      
"I cut them out with that." He gestured to the evil-looking Bowie knife attached to his gunbelt. "Will you get out of here before this soap hardens and I crack?" he said testily.

      
"And here I was going to offer to dry your back," she replied breathlessly. "Oh, well, suit yourself." She bent over and set the big bucket of water on the floor beside the tub. It was filled to the brim and some sloshed over the edge, wetting the front of her robe. The sheer fabric clung to her breasts, revealing that she wore nothing beneath it.

      
Lissa brushed at the offending droplets. Her nipples hardened beneath the silk. "How clumsy of me." She looked up at him and read the molten desire in his eyes. "Are you certain you wouldn't like me to rinse you off? The water's cool . . ." she added suggestively.

      
"Get out of here, Lissa," he said through clenched teeth, followed by a string of colorful epithets.

      
"Whatever you say, Jess." She stood up and walked primly from the room, a slow smile spreading across her face as she called over her shoulder, "Dinner will be ready about seven."

      
Although Lissa set out splendid beefsteaks to fry and cut up fancy string potatoes, along with a slow-simmered pot of snap beans, Jess did not eat supper at the house that evening. While she was busy in the kitchen, he slipped away and rode out as if the devil were chasing him.

      
Seeing him, Lissa muttered to herself, "You can use the steak for that shiner! Perverse man." She threw down the spoon with which she had been stirring the beans. As if to underscore her ire, Johnny planted one chubby fist in his mashed potatoes, sending them squishing all across the table and over poor Clare who was luckless enough to be holding the squirming boy. She turned a baleful eye on the baby, who gurgled innocently. "I'm sorry, Clare. I'll take him."