Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance) (34 page)

He let the curtain fall into place and staggered back. The closed-in room felt stuffy, suffocating. On the unmade bed, rumpled linens bore evidence of spilled food and drink.
¡Mierda!
How long had he been holed up here?

The stagnant air threatened to choke him. He felt for the top button on his skirt and yanked, sending it flying, and then the next one. It wasn’t enough. Still keeping his hold on the neck of the whiskey bottle, he crossed to the door, wrenched at the handle and lurched through the opening.

Outside, cool dampness washed over his fevered flesh. Runnels of rainwater poured from the tiles overhanging the edge of the roof. Beyond, rain slanted down at a hard angle and danced against the onslaught of a fretful wind. Rane braced against the rough adobe wall and leaned out. The deluge streamed over his uplifted face, drenching him down to his trousers in a matter of seconds.

Nature’s cold dash was a shock, but at least he felt it. He’d lost count of the number of days and nights he’d numbed himself with whiskey and felt nothing at all. Now, the violence of the storm awakened him from his prolonged apathy, stirred to life the dormant wildness in his soul. Like a drunken demon, he threw back his head and laughed, taunting nature’s fury.

A spectacular series of forked lightning licked through the blackness, throwing his surroundings into vivid relief. His rented room opened onto the plaza of the tiny border town, the name of which he’d forgotten. Before him yawned the emptiness of a deserted circular road. At its center stood a fountain, a shallow aboveground pool made of mortar and stone. An angel, spectral in the flickering light, her slender arms uplifted to the Heavens, stood to her ankles in the watery basin. The sight startled him.

He braced his back against the wall and waited. The next flash was closer and hung on with a deafening crackle as it ripped through the sky. He had eyes only for the angel. She seemed to mock him with her cold, marble stare. The angel of mercy, her delicate wings glistened with a sheeting cascade of wetness...an angel in the rain.

Rane clutched at the rough wall behind him, feeling the bite of the grainy clay beneath his nails, and surrendered to memory. The winged angel dimmed before his bleary eyes as he envisioned another. His Angel, standing in the pouring rain. His nostrils flared as he again smelled the fire and brimstone of that long ago stormy night. Like a dim echo, he heard her calling his name. An ephemeral sense of her arms around him, the taste of her rain-washed skin, sweeter than creation’s finest nectar... he remembered.

God help him, would he never forget!

A strangled sound of raw torment slipped from his throat. The lightning flashed again with a stuttered cracking that might have been the sound of his own heart ripping from his chest. The angel, remote, unmoving, stared with her indifferent eyes.

Rane shoved away from the wall and staggered into the downpour.
“¡Vaya infierno!”
he shouted at the lifeless statue. He drew back his arm and flung the bottle in his hand with strength bordering on madness. The vessel sailed into darkness and shattered explosively when it struck stone.

He waited, half expecting the wrath of God to strike him down in the mud and streaming water. But there was nothing, only the soft rushing sound of the rain falling around him.

“Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it.”

Slowly, he turned toward the voice. Benito stood in an open doorway, a dark figure silhouetted by wavering lamplight. Rane dashed the water from his eyes and shook his head at the irony of having his own words thrown back at him.

“I can’t,” he said.

“So, what will you do if you do not try?” Benito asked. He lifted his hand. “It’s cold. It’s raining. And you are a sorry sight,
amigo
.”

When Benito faded back inside his room and closed the door, Rane hung his head. Battering rain pounded the back of his skull and streamed from his face. If only it could run through his burning heart and cleanse his soul with such ease.

He turned and lifted his eyes to the angel once more.
Mercy
, he silently cried. But the lifeless seraph would not be moved to grant him any boons. There was only one living, breathing angel who could help him now. She was far away and tonight he was more undeserving of her than ever.

Being acknowledged by his father hadn’t given him the satisfaction he’d thought it would. Instead, it had made him aware that there was something even more vital missing from his life. His own feelings of self-worth, perhaps. He’d wasted so much time chasing after vengeance, he’d lost sight of many other paths where he might have found happiness, or contentment, or at least some sense of peace. Now, he’d strayed so far, he didn’t know if he could ever claw his way back again.

What will you do if you do not try?

Too late, he realized he’d turned his back on the one thing that had given his life meaning—Angel’s love.

Chapter Twenty-two

The land was ripe and heavy with summer. Tall, slender stalks of yucca stood top-heavy with bushel-sized clusters of opulent white blooms. Vivid splashes of yellow and scarlet dotted scattered clumps of mustard and paintbrush. Strung out over the open range, cattle grazed on tall, waving grass the color of golden ochre beneath a sky so blue and flawless it brought a sweet ache to Angel’s heart.

The skies over New York had never been this crisp. The air never so clear and clean. Thoughts of returning to the city, of turning to her Aunt Nelda for help made every moment in this place she loved seem even more precious.

Would she be forced to leave it?

She glanced at her father, relaxed against the worn leather of the carriage seat opposite her. Only his gray gaze moved with a restless sweep as he scanned the lay of the land. Pride softened his weathered face. They were on Flying C range, his domain. She knew he viewed everything around him through the eyes of a cattleman. Grass conditions, soil erosion, even to the number of strays grazing his land. If only he could see her with the same clear vision.

The carriage veered into the lane, tossing up the earthy smell of sun-baked sand from the barren track. In the distance, the two-story white house and its supporting structures stood as a man-made oasis in the midst of some of nature’s most unforgiving landscape. Angel sat up straighter. Home at last.

When they neared the house, a woman moved beneath the shadows of the porch roof and stood at the top of the front steps, waiting. Time apart allowed Angel to see the changes that had taken place in Carmella since her arrival at the Flying C. She now wore her thick, lively hair in a coronet at the crown of her head. Her provocative peasant garments had been replaced by a concealing dress of plain calico. She looked every inch the proper matron.

When the carriage rolled to a stop, Carmella hurried down the steps to meet them. A beaming smile wreathed her face.

“Looks like somebody’s glad to see us,” Roy said as he climbed from the carriage.

“Welcome home,
Patron
,” Carmella called.

Roy grinned. “Did you miss us?”

“Very much,” Carmella replied. “It is good you are back.”

“We had a hell of a trip,” Roy told her.

Angel tapped her father on the shoulder, and he turned to hand her down the step. She stood a moment and reacquainted herself with solid ground.

Will descended from the driver’s seat and skirted to the rear of the rig. He lifted the cover on the boot, exposing their baggage. Roy walked back to help him.

Still wearing an almost giddy smile on her face, Carmella linked her arm with Angel’s and urged her toward the house. “I have much to tell you,” she said.

“I have a few things to tell you, too,” Angel replied.

On the steps, Carmella looked back at Roy and Will and called out, “I made a cake!”

Upstairs, Angel bustled Carmella into her bedroom, then closed and locked the door.

“What did the doctor say?” the housekeeper asked without preamble.

Angel sighed, relieved to be reunited with her friend and confidante. “He confirmed it. I’m going to have a baby.”

“When?”

“Barely more than six months from now.”

“And you are feeling all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Angel methodically pulled the pins from her hat and tossed them onto the dresser. “He told me to keep soda crackers by my bed for the morning sickness.” She removed her hat and laid it atop the pins. Restless, she crossed to the window and looked out. Below, her father and Will still struggled with the baggage. She turned to look at Carmella and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “But that’s not all. Will knows.”

Carmella gasped. “How?”

“He followed me and spoke to the doctor. The wretched little man told him everything.”

Apprehension clouded Carmella’s eyes. She shook her head. “This is very bad.”

“Worse than bad,” Angel amended. “It’s that much more ammunition for his blackmail scheme.”

“What do you mean?”

“He still wants me to marry him. He wants to claim the baby as his.”

Carmella’s eyes widened. “Señor Keegan
es muy loco
.”

“Evidently,” Angel agreed.

“What will you do?”

She shrugged and plopped down on the bed. “I wish I knew.”

“Someone needs to teach that
hombre
a lesson,” Carmella murmured.

“Well, it won’t be my father, or any of the men on the Flying C.” She knew only one man capable of standing toe to toe with Will Keegan, and he had deserted her.

Carmella took a seat on the bed next to her and captured her hand in a reassuring grip. “Do not give up. There may still be hope.” Mischief danced in the woman’s dark eyes.

Angel eyed her with suspicion. “Why do I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”

Carmella nodded enthusiastically. “
Sí
. I have much to tell you.” She sidled closer and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Señor Rane is at the Hacienda. He came back!”

Angel’s heart quickened a telling beat.

“I am told Benito is there, too. But why, I do not know, since he is such a worthless
perro
. I figured Señor Rane would kill him, but no, he takes him in and treats him with respect. If he thinks he will help him work, he should know by now—”

“Carmella, please!”

The woman must have realized she was rambling because she instantly ceased. She even managed to look contrite, which gave Angel an awkward moment of guilt for speaking so sharply.

She drew in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “Now. Tell me exactly what you’ve heard.”

Calmer, Carmella continued. “All I know is, Señor Rane is staying at the Hacienda, and Benito is there, too.” Again, she latched onto Angel’s hand. “You must tell him about the baby, Señorita. He is strong. He will know what to do.”

Angel’s jaw clenched. “I’m afraid even Rane doesn’t have all the answers. Not this time, anyway. He left me. If he’s come back, his return has nothing to do with me.”

“You must tell him,” Carmella insisted.

Angel shook her head. “No. I won’t spring a trap on him when he doesn’t wish to be caught.”

****

Angel stood on the doorstep of the Hacienda, fighting the anxiety that honed her nerves to a brittle edge. A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and the sky threatened rain. The house looked deserted, shrouded in gloom, as if the stone itself had faded to gray the night Horace died.

She shouldn’t have come. And she knew no wild impulse was to blame. Since the day she returned from El Paso more than a week ago and learned Rane had returned, she’d been as restless as a doomed prisoner on the eve of execution.

At her touch, the massive door swung inward with a high-pitched whine. She jerked her hand back from the brass handle. After another moment of hesitant uncertainty, she opened the door wider and ventured through.

Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous foyer. She stopped and listened. Unearthly silence sent shivers chasing over her skin. The air felt close and oppressive. A thick film of dust coated the terra-cotta tiles. Footprints, both old and new, trailed in all directions, intersecting like bird tracks at the silty edge of a waterhole.

In the center of the courtyard, now long untended, the marble cherub still hefted its urn, but no water issued forth with a pleasant tinkle. The pool surrounding the cherub’s pudgy feet had dried up. A gray mantle of bird droppings covered the statue’s head, arms, and wings. Wisteria ran riot and crawled across the stone portico, reaching out from the curved arches with long, unfettered tendrils. The cloying perfume of the lavender pods hung heavy in the still air. The rapid advance of neglect filled her with sadness.

An echoed sound, as though something heavy had been dropped, shattered the stillness. Angel sucked in a sharp breath.

She turned, looking for the origin of the disturbance. The door of Horace’s office, the room where he had died, stood open. With her heart beating wildly in her throat, she lifted on tiptoe to keep her heels from clicking on the tiles, and stepped quietly to the door.