Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance) (24 page)

“Pa, you can’t force me to marry a man of your choosing. I won’t marry someone I don’t love.”

He slugged back the dregs of his drink and plopped the empty glass down on the bar. “I don’t intend to force you to do anything. I’m just askin’ you to keep an open mind.”

She was tempted to ask if he’d already had this same conversation with Will, but she was afraid she already knew the answer. Hardheaded old coot. The plain fact was, he’d summoned her home because he’d found someone he deemed suitable who was willing to marry her.

“I’m turnin’ in,” he said.

“Yes, I think you should,” she murmured. “You’ve done quite enough meddling for one day.”

Chapter Fifteen

Angel’s middle finger throbbed. A blistered welt circled the skin just beneath the first knuckle. Grimacing, she bore down with the thimble, forced the needle through the thick denim a final time, and then lifted the repaired pant leg to her mouth and bit off the thread.

With a sigh, she sat back and tossed the pants onto the dining table. Finished. All of it, the entire pile of clothing with rent seams, tears, and missing buttons she’d found cast aside in her father’s bedroom. She pulled the thimble from her finger, returned it to its niche in the sewing basket and then closed the top.

Outside the window, darkness had settled. She’d lost track of time. So engrossed in the mending and her thoughts, she hadn’t even noticed the last time the Regulator in the hallway chimed the hour.
Busy hands make a happy heart.
If that were true, she’d have gone through the past five days skipping with pure glee.

She’d never realized what a pig her father was, but now she saw him with new eyes. He didn’t pick up after himself. He flicked cigar ashes into any receptacle near at hand or simply dropped them to the floor if nothing was within reach. He never carried a soiled dish or cup to the wreck pan in the kitchen. That was servant’s work. But since they no longer had any servants, it all now fell to her.

Turning a blind eye, like he did, would have been the wisest course, but she couldn’t live like that. Not any more. He’d seen to that by sending her to that high-flown finishing school. Unfortunately, she’d now dug a huge hole for herself by doing his work for him. So long as her father ate regular meals, finding replacements for the cook and housekeeper had fallen low on his list of priorities. Well, she had news for him. She hadn’t spent the past two years learning to be a proper lady just to return home and take over the roles of charwoman and cook.

Her rebellious thoughts scattered when her father burst in from the kitchen. He stalked right past her without a word and continued into the parlor. Since sundown, he’d prowled the first floor of the house like a corralled bull.

Had there been a new development with the fence war he hadn’t told her about? She stood and followed him, determined to find out.

A knock at the front door halted Angel halfway between the dining room and parlor. The last thing she wanted was to endure another of Will Keegan’s nightly visits. To be subjected to his cold, speculative gaze while he and her father indulged in their ritual nightcap and rehash of the day’s events.

Thinking about Will tired her. He was a puzzle she had yet to solve. After her homecoming conversation with her father, she knew why Will came to the house every night. Yet, he rarely tried to draw her into the conversation. Not once had he asked her to step onto the porch for a breath of air or take a walk. Rather than making his suit, he seemed more like a man who was biding his time. Was he so certain of her father’s favor he felt it unnecessary to even court her?

Tonight she would escape up the back stairs to her bedroom.

She forgot about leaving when the murmured voices moved into the hallway. Not Will Keegan. She held her breath, listening, while tingles raced over her rigid back. Even though the visitor’s voice was so low-pitched his words were indistinct, she’d recognize him anywhere.

Rane
.

Angel clutched the door facing to keep from charging into the hallway. With her heart tripping, she glanced down and self-consciously brushed scraps of thread from the front of her skirt. She’d stopped dressing in anything other than her common, everyday garments since that disappointing first night when she’d tried to impress her father by wearing a silk gown and setting his table with linen and china. Now, she wished she’d worn something nicer than the drab gray skirt and unadorned cotton shirtwaist. With her hair pinned in a severe chignon, she must look like a no-nonsense schoolmarm.

Her father ushered their visitor into the parlor and frowned when he saw her standing there. Angel lifted an unsteady hand to the base of her throat. Beneath her fingertips, her pulse fluttered.

Hat in hand, Rane stepped into the room and stole her breath with his dark perfection. He was clean-shaven. Lamplight gleamed against his long ebony hair, finger-combed back from his forehead in furrowed waves. Tailored black trousers hugged his legs while the familiar gunbelt rode low against his right hip. Inside the open collar of an immaculate white shirt, a loosely knotted black silk scarf covered his throat.

She drank in the sight of him. Composed, controlled, his stony expression betrayed none of his thoughts.

Why was he here?

Roy stepped behind the bar. The moment her father turned his back, Rane’s façade slipped. He winked at her. Pleasure bloomed in Angel’s breast, along with spots of heat in her cheeks. She started to smile at him and then caught herself when she recalled his parting words to her father.

“What’s your poison?” her father asked.

Angel expelled a long-held breath when Rane shifted toward the bar and laid his hat on the stained wood. He cleared his throat. “Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

Roy snatched a bottle of his best, aged whiskey from the shelf and palmed two tumblers in his other hand. He righted the glasses on the bar and poured each one half full. Without preamble, he lifted his glass. “Here’s mud’n your eye.”

Rane reached for the other glass and held it aloft. “
¡Salud!
”

Her father drank half of his whiskey and then swiped a cuff across his mustache. “Angel, I’ve got some business to discuss with Mantorres.”

Her glow instantly died. He was dismissing her, sending her to her room like a child. Stiffening her spine, she pushed away from the doorframe and took a step forward. “If it’s all the same to you, I prefer to stay.”

Grim distaste settled on Roy’s face. He pulled in a noisy breath. If he ordered her from the room, what then? “Fine. Stay,” he said. He lifted the glass to his mouth and quickly downed the rest of his drink.

Her father’s grudging permission gave Angel no room to relax.

Rane took another sip of his drink and returned it to the bar, but kept his hand cupped loosely around the glass. “You sent word you wanted to see me.”

Angel’s attention jumped back to her father. He’d sent for Rane? Alarm churned like a tainted meal in her stomach. Her thoughts splintered. Had she given something away, with a look or an unguarded word, about the true nature of her connection with Rane?

Roy lifted a hand to his neck and scratched. “I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said the other night?”

Rane tilted his glass and appeared to watch the dark contents slosh from one side to the other at the bottom. He looked so detached. Angel only wished she could feel as calm as the front he put forth.

“I said many things that night. Which statement in particular stuck in your mind?”

“The part about not havin’ enough men to guard the house.”

Rane quirked one brow and slowly nodded. “I see.”

“You said you could get me all the men I need.”

Rane’s glass settled to the bar with a thump. “You said you don’t want villagers.”

“Right now, I’m not so particular.”

Angel held her breath and waited for Rane’s reaction to her father’s careless words.

If Rane took offense, he kept it carefully disguised. “How many do you need?”

“Half a dozen ought to do it.”

“And how much will you pay them?”

“Twenty a month and board.”

Rane had been looking at his glass, but now his narrowed gaze lifted to her father’s face. “That’s little more than half what you pay your regular hands.” He shook his head. “It’s not enough.”

Roy straightened. “Just how much would you consider enough?” His voice held a sharper edge.

“Thirty,” Rane replied.

Roy chuckled without an ounce of real mirth. “And you think they’re worth it?”

Angel’s heart sped another beat when Rane angled his dark gaze in her direction. “Riding shotgun on your daughter is risky business. You can’t expect them to stake their lives for anything less than regular wages.”

Angel recognized the working of her father’s jaw muscles as pure stubbornness rather than anger. It galled him to meet the price Rane demanded. She knew Rane was fearless, but to watch him beard her father this way filled her with a great deal of satisfaction.

Roy exhaled a long breath. “All right,” he finally conceded. “Thirty a month. But they supply their own guns.”

“Done.” As if to seal the bargain, Rane lifted his glass and swallowed the last draught of liquor he’d been toying with.

Roy picked up the bottle and splashed more whiskey into each of their glasses. “How soon can you arrange it?”

“They’ll be here before noon tomorrow.”

Roy opened his mouth to say more, but the sound of the front door opening eclipsed his words. Ponderous footsteps echoed in the hallway. Angel’s heart matched their heavy rhythm. Will Keegan’s appearance at the parlor door snapped every nerve in her body as taut as a bowstring.

Roy hurried from behind the bar. “Will!”

Evidently, her father hadn’t expected to see his fair-haired boy this evening.

Will said nothing, but raked each of them with an assessing glare. Then his ice pale gaze settled on Rane and bored in with undisguised fury. The man needed to practice his poker face. Even Angel could read his intent.

“You two know each other?” Roy asked.

“Only by reputation,” Will said.

Roy mumbled a quick introduction.

Neither man moved to shake hands. Not even by a dip of a head did they acknowledge each other. But, if looks could kill, both Rane and Will would have been lying on the worn carpet, oozing blood. The sudden animosity chilling the room raised goosebumps on Angel’s arms.

Rane couldn’t have been more unsettled if he’d been staring down the business end of a loaded gun. Will Keegan looked like a powder keg just waiting for a spark. Rane didn’t intend to supply the flint. Evidently, old man Clayton had given this hothead Keegan free run of the Flying C. The house, too, judging from the way the man had come barging in, and that could only mean one thing. Roy Clayton had given Keegan his blessing. In all things. Including his daughter.

Hot anger poured over Rane, and he hoped his skin didn’t betray the burn he felt. He had to get out of there. Quick. Before he said or did something stupid. “Guess I’ll be going now.” He plucked his hat from the bar. “Thanks for the drink.”

No one said a word, and that angered him more. Deliberately, he settled his hat on his head and turned for one final look at Angel. “It was good to see you again, Miss Clayton.”

High color stained her cheeks, and her wide eyes held the frightened look of a cornered rabbit. Her belated smile looked strained. He realized his parting words were the only ones spoken between them since his arrival, and she still hadn’t said anything at all. Not to him, anyway.

When he turned to leave, Will Keegan stepped aside, clearing the way. He’d made it halfway through the parlor door when Keegan said, “I’ll see you to the door.”

Feeling sucker punched, Rane walked the length of the hall, aware of the big blond man hot on his heels. As badly as he wanted to rip Will Keegan’s head from his shoulders, he couldn’t stop thinking about Angel. He knew where she stood. They’d made that much plain between them in Mexico. No strings and no promises. He’d said his goodbyes a week ago. That should have been the end of it. But Roy Clayton had sent word, summoning him. And he’d jumped at the chance to see her again.

That tense excuse for a smile she’d given him reminded him of a wild mustang with its head snubbed down so tight it hurt. Fastened down and starchy didn’t suit her. She looked out of place. Most of all, she looked unhappy.

The thought brought him to a mental halt. Angel’s happiness wasn’t his concern, nor would it ever be. Fate had thrown them together for a short while, but that was the end of it. He shouldn’t give a damn if Roy Clayton had given Keegan his blessing with his daughter.

Trouble was, the way his nerves popped to the surface back there and the gnawing in his gut mocked his unconcern. Despite all his best-laid intentions, he did give a damn.

Rane opened the door and stepped onto the porch, into cooler air and darkness. The chirp of crickets playing night music sounded from the yard. He kept going, hearing the door latch click behind him as he descended the steps. Keegan was still with him.

Tied to the porch rail in the wan moonlight, Pago stamped a restive hoof. Rane stepped to the horse’s side and hooked a stirrup over the saddle horn. He reached down and tugged on a strap. Tension hung like a dark fog in the dry air. Without turning he said, “I’m sure you followed me out here for a reason, Keegan. So, what do you want?”