Child Bride (9 page)

“I’ve only got one thing to say to you, Annie—” His voice broke roughly, then hardened. “I’m not the white knight you’ve been dreaming about with those sky-blue eyes of yours. A man would have to be blind not to see all the wanting in you, all the yearning, but I’m not the one to satisfy it.”

Dull red stained her cheeks, and Chase knew he had found the wellspring of her hope, and her pain. He turned back to the icy night sky, gripping the doorframe above him with one hand. “I’m not the hero you’ve been remembering, so get that straight. I’m not polite, and I don’t ask nice. Especially when it comes to women. I see something I want, I help myself.”

With a hard crack of his palm against the wood, he emphasized his words, then strode out to the porch and stood at the railing, his back to her. “So be warned, Annie Wells,” he said, his harshness shattering the serenity of the mountain night. “Don’t make me want you too much. You might not like what you get.”

Annie’s mouth filled with a bitter taste as she stared at his back. She felt betrayed, violated. How did he know she’d thought of him as the white knight, the rescuing hero? And why did he want so badly to hurt her? It made her feel foolish and debased to think she had imagined his strength, his gentleness. She’d convinced herself that she would treasure both qualities when she and Chase were finally reunited. But it would never be like that with Chase Beaudine, she realized. His soul
was
as dark as his eyes.

A chill gust of night air swept her bare legs as she forced herself to rise from the chair and walk out to the porch where he stood. His back was to her, and the physical power implicit in his neck and shoulders was enough to ward off any but the foolhardy. But Annie couldn’t be warded off. She had nothing left to lose. “I’ll leave then,” she said. “That’s what you want.”

“No, Annie, that’s not what I want.”

His husky answer sparked a dying ember of hope, but she couldn’t let herself respond to it. He would only take it away. He knew how to hurt her now.

“I want this matter of your identity cleared up,” he said. “And until it is, I want you to do exactly as I say.”

“What does that mean?” She waited, thinking he was going to turn around. He didn’t.

“You and I aren’t getting together, Annie—in any way. You can stay on here until Johnny or Geoff shows up, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Johnny or Geoff? Your partners?” Annie reached out in surprise, then checked herself before touching his shirtsleeve. “Did you talk to them?”

“I couldn’t reach them, but I left messages. They’ll come.”

“And if they verify my story?”

“I’ll worry about that if it happens. In the meantime you just sit tight in this cabin, mind your own business, and don’t speak to anyone. I’m a private man. If people knew I had a woman up here, they’d start talking, snooping in my personal life.”

Annie thought it unlikely she would run into anyone to talk with, isolated as they were, but she was curious as to why he was so protective of his privacy. “Why would anyone care so much about your personal life?”

He whipped around and caught hold of her by the arm, yanking her close. “You got a problem with your hearing, woman? I said mind your own business.”

His eyes were so ungodly black that Annie felt a moment of true terror. She’d seen him in action in

Costa Brava. He’d killed a man without flinching. Now he seemed more than capable, and perfectly willing, to use force to persuade her if necessary. “All right,” she said. “Whatever you say.”

Chase Beaudine was as good as his word in the days that followed. He
was
a bastard. Annie decided that if awards were given for making animal noises, he would win by a landslide. He grunted, growled, and snarled under his breath, letting his clothes lie wherever they dropped and slamming noisily around the cabin. If she made any mention of his surliness, he glared at her and told her to stop running her mouth.

His outrageous behavior infuriated her at times, but it also helped her put things in perspective. It reminded her that she’d faced far worse in Costa Brava. Grim despair and death were daily occurrences there. Everyone in the convent had been tested beyond the limits of most human endurance, and in comparison, Chase Beaudine’s bad manners seemed about as painful as sitting on a hard pew in church.

Her promise to follow his rules was a different matter, however. It wasn’t that he made impossible demands on her, it was more what he forbade her to do that chafed. Minding her own business, as he’d so succinctly put it, covered a lot of territory. She was eager to clean up the cabin, but he didn’t even want her to dust. He was obsessive about her not “messing with his things.” And when she offered to cook, he grudgingly gave his permission, so long as it was “meat and potatoes.” He wasn’t even willing to discuss getting special ingredients so she could try to adapt recipes for exotic Indian dishes she’d learned to make in the jungle.

Luckily he didn’t seem to mind her whiling away the hours with Shadow, and occasionally he left the collie to keep her company while he investigated a cattle theft or rode fence on one of the ranches he provided security for.

So Annie entertained herself with throwing sticks for Shadow, and with taking long walks to pick wildflowers in the verdant meadows that bordered Chase’s property. She also spent considerable time fantasizing about the Chase Beaudine she remembered, and how she would have turned his cabin into a cozy home—complete with flowers and sunny yellow curtains—if he’d given her the chance.

On one of her many sojourns to the meadows, she came across some trees bearing apples that looked similar to a variety they’d made wine from at the convent. Excited, she picked as much of the ripe fruit as she could carry, and immediately set to work on a wine-making project. Hoping Chase wouldn’t notice it, she kept the glass jugs and siphon hose behind the toolshed.

She also added liberal amounts of Chase’s whiskey to the apples to speed up the fermenting process. She had plans to serve the wine one night soon, and she wanted a potent brew. Let him try being nasty after a swig or two of this, she thought, smiling, as she stirred the bubbling potion.

If black moods were money, Chase Beaudine would have been a wealthy man. He was in another of his legendary foul tempers as he drove the Bronco home from what promised to be the most frustrating investigation of his career. He’d been concentrating full time on the serious cattle thefts ever since he’d put Bad Luck Jack in jail. Jack had been a nuisance more than anything else, but Chase was damn glad to have the man out of his hair. Only now that Chase was ready and waiting for them, the rustlers were lying low, as though they knew he’d intensified his hunt.

As he pulled the Bronco onto the rutted road that led to his cabin, the car’s groaning springs summed up his state of mind and body perfectly. He was one big raw, aching nerve. Even the battle scar on his thigh was plaguing him. He hadn’t slept in days, and his digestion was off, though he suspected those ailments had more to do with a certain tiny, redheaded houseguest than with cattle thieves.

If he didn’t die of black moods, then Annie Wells was the next most likely candidate to put him in an early grave. To her credit, she’d been trying hard to stay out of his way. Maybe she couldn’t help it that her whispery voice stroked his imagination and filled his head with vivid, X-rated daydreams. Maybe she couldn’t help it that she was a soft, delectable, thoroughly frustrating female.

He’d made the mistake of unburdening himself about the rustlings one night after a couple beers too many. Annie had listened intently while he described how modern-day rustlers operated with moving vans and walkie-talkies, how they hit in the middle of the night and were gone without a trace.

“Did you ever try putting a radio beacon on a steer?” she’d suggested when he finished. “They did that in one of the western novels I read. Caught the rustler red-handed. He turned out to be the ranch’s own foreman. Can you imagine?”

Chase patiently explained that rustlers were “high tech” these days. They had scanning equipment and detection devices.

“Well, don’t let that discourage you,” she’d counseled, her expression utterly sincere. “Machinery can’t compete with the human spirit. The unconquerable soul, that’s what Sister Maria Innocentia always called it. She used to say that if it weren’t for perseverance, the snail wouldn’t have made it to the ark.”

Snail? Ark? Chase wanted to believe he’d heard her wrong. But no such luck. As it turned out, Annie had a proverb for every occasion, and Chase was to be the beneficiary of her storehouse of wisdom. Unfortunately one of her favorites was the Golden rule, which Chase loathed above all other proverbs. It brought back memories of his childhood, including the singsong voice of his third-grade teacher, who invariably recited it to him just before cracking his knuckles with a ruler.

He’d endured many such humiliations as a kid, both from his teachers and his parents, and he’d never forgotten their sting. Maybe his cocky attitude had provoked some of the punishment, but much of it was clearly abuse, meted out by alcoholic parents who hadn’t the time or the patience to deal with their difficult offspring, and by teachers who had come to expect bad behavior from a kid with his background.

“Bad stock,” a teacher had once whispered when Chase was summoned to the principal’s office for fighting on the playground. “What do you expect of a Beaudine?”

But it wasn’t grade-school nightmares on Chase’s mind as he finally pulled the Bronco up in front of the cabin that night. It was rest for the wicked. He was dog-tired, ready for a hot shower and some sack time. He gathered up his equipment, grabbing his bullwhip as he piled out of the car.

A rich and spicy aroma greeted him as he shouldered open the cabin door and dropped his cargo on the table near the cot. “Doesn’t smell like meat and potatoes to me,” he said to Annie, who stood at the stove, hovering over a huge pot of something that was bubbling ferociously. She’d obviously been cooking up a storm.

“It’s a version of an Indian dish called
fiambre,”
she said, turning to him, a wooden spoon in her hand. “I thought we both needed a change, and I finally figured out how to make it with what you had here.” Her hopeful expression implored him to overlook her slight breach of the rules. “Want to try some of my apple wine?”

With a flick of the spoon she indicated a glass of pale amber liquid sitting on the countertop. She’d either been cooking with it or sipping it, Chase decided, noting the sparkle in her eyes. Probably a little of both. She had pinned up her hair as though to restrain it, but without much success. There were loose straggles and tendrils flying every which way. And she’d gone back to wearing her own clothes—the cardigan sweater and blue jeans—which fit her a whole lot better than his clothes did, he had to admit.

“Sure,” he said, too tired to argue. “Pour me a glass while I’m washing up.”

Annie’s Indian dish turned out to be a savory and delicious concoction, full of rice, chicken, and vegetables. Chase wolfed it down hungrily, realizing only after he’d finished most of it that it had the flashpoint of an atomic bomb. The cumulative effect was hotter than all the fires of hell combined, and it took him several glasses of apple wine to tamp down the blaze.

“What’s wrong?” Annie asked as he pushed back from the table and pounded his chest. You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s great. I love food that burns a hole in my esophagus and turns the lining of my stomach to ash.” He poured another glass of the wine and drank it down.

“Oh. Didn’t I mention that it was hot?” Annie forked up a morsel of chicken, chewing it with intent concern. “Well, at least you seem to like the wine,” she said. “I was afraid you might not. The nuns used to say it was an acquired taste.”

Chase emptied what was left of the pitcher into his glass and finished it off. “Love the stuff. Got any more?”

“Be careful.” She took a sip from her own glass and smiled at him. “It sneaks up on you.”

Like the food, Chase thought, gradually becoming aware of a perfumy resonance as the fire in his throat cooled down. Annie went to get him another glass of wine, and as they sat across from each other, sipping slowly, Chase felt a welcome relaxation begin to steal through him. “Actually this isn’t half-bad,” he said, setting the glass down. “How do you make it?”

She began to describe the process, and Chase settled back in his chair, kicking up his leg and resting a booted foot on his knee. The room was suffused with pink and gold light pouring in through the front windows, and he was absently aware of how beautiful it was, and how ethereal it made her look. Sun must be going down, he thought, fascinated with the way the rich light framed her hair, creating a halo effect.

Angel gone wild. The reference stole into his mind, but it didn’t seem appropriate in her present state. She looked soft and reflective, an angel more intent on wisdom than wildness. Little did he know that the question about to drop out of her mouth would be anything but angelic.

“Have you ever been seduced?” she asked, regarding him almost pensively.

“Seduced? As in sexually?”

“Is there any other way?”

“Yeah, lots of ways, why do you want to know?”

“Well—” Her brow knit, and she settled back in her chair with a faint sigh. “Because I can’t imagine how she managed it.”

Chase had to think about that one himself. Actually he had been seduced once, by a very ingenious girl in high school. She’d driven him nuts, flirting, and then acting as though she weren’t the slightest bit interested when he took the bait. Their mating dance had gone on for weeks until he’d finally cornered her in the gymnasium. It had been one of the hottest experiences of his young life.

“How did she do it?” Annie asked again.

He picked up the glass of wine, watching the rich pink rays of sunlight penetrate its amber depths before he looked up and met her waiting gaze. “She let me think I was seducing her.”

T
HE
A
PPALOOSA NICKERED SOFTLY
as Chase adjusted the cinch on his saddle. He slapped the big horse gently on the flank, caught hold of the reins, and was about to swing himself into the saddle when he heard Annie calling his name.