Comanche Rose (24 page)

"She took them home to try. When I told her you'd paid a dollar for the tin, she didn't want to see it go to waste."

"I don't know, Annie," he murmured, shaking his head. "That may be the last you ever see of 'em. You may be plowing that field by yourself."

"I warned her, Hap, I swear I did. She seemed to think she could doctor it up enough that they could eat it."

The light from the lantern was casting a moving halo over her hair, giving her an almost otherworldly beauty. As he looked at her, he forgot Amanda Ross, Clay McAlester, and just about everything else. She was still too young, too pretty, to let herself just wither up. No matter how bad it had been, no matter what had happened to her, she couldn't be dead inside. There still had to be life in her. And right now he wished more than anything he could be the man to find it for her.

"Is something the matter, Hap?"

"Huh? No."

"You had an odd look on your face."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"I guess I was thinking what a nice place you've got here. That's the way it's supposed to be, you know. A man, a woman—a house, a couple of kids," he mused.

"Yes. But sometimes it doesn't work out that way—at least not like it ought to."

"I guess I'll always wonder what I missed out on. At least you had it for a little while, you know."

"Not nearly long enough." To change the subject, she said abruptly, "Day after tomorrow, it's Christmas."

"I know. Christmas doesn't mean all that much to me, Annie."

"No."

"It was different when Claude and my other brothers were around. We had a lot of good times. Then after the war Ma died, and there didn't seem to be much sense in it." He fell silent for a moment, then added soberly. " 'Course, when I found Clay, he was still a kid, but he was about as heathen as a body could get. Hard to celebrate the birth of Jesus with a kid that believes in wolves that talk to him.'

"Even now?"

"Oh, not now. I reckon they'll have a real celebration down at the Ybarra. Nothing like a wife and a kid coming along to make a believer out of you." His mouth twisted wryly. "Hell, he even turned Catholic for her."

"She must be quite a woman."

"Yeah. She is."

Deciding the water must surely be hot, Annie rose and took the kettle from the cookstove. Carrying it to the table, she poured the steaming water into the teapot, then closed the lid. As she put the kettle back, she heard him say, "You're quite a woman yourself, Annie." She froze, then told herself he didn't mean anything by it. All he was doing was comparing her to Clay McAlester's wife, and she'd brought that on herself.

Picking up the teapot, she poured a small amount into one of the cups to check the color. "It's pretty weak," she decided.

"That's all right. I aim to doctor it up."

"You'll just have sugared water," she warned him.

"Maybe not. Just fill it halfway."

"That's all?"

"Yeah. That's enough," he said, stopping her. Leaning across the table, he retrieved the sugar bowl and dipped out two spoons. "Ought to be enough," he decided.

"I'd think so, anyway—for no more than that."

"Yeah." He picked up the bottle, then added enough whiskey to bring the mixture to within a half inch of the brim. "I'll let you know if I like it." Taking a sip, he held it in his mouth, savoring it. "Not half-bad. Want to try it?"

"No."

"Suit yourself."

"I will."

"You're a hard woman to understand—you know that, don't you?"

She felt a measure of relief. "I expect I am. Most of us are.

"Here..." He poured part of her tea back into the pot, then before she could stop him, he'd splashed whiskey into the cup. "Live before you die, Annie. Go on, it won't hurt you." As she tried to push it away, he covered her hand, holding it. "It'll make you sleep, Annie. It'll make you forget." Releasing her, he leaned back. "What do you have to lose? If you don't like it, throw it out."

It seemed almost reasonable. Finally, she nodded. Carrying it to her lips, she took a tiny sip, then made a face "Ugh!"

"Here." Leaning forward again, he handed her the sugar. "Put some of this in it."

Sweetened, it wasn't bad. And it was warm, almost comforting once it hit her stomach. By the time she'd finished the cup, the atmosphere in the kitchen was pleasant, mellow, with the smell of steam, the heat from the stove.

He was feeling it, too. He'd done it only to help her, he told himself, and yet as he watched the tension ebb from her body, as he saw the wariness leave her eyes, he was intensely aware of his own desire. And yet he knew he had no right to touch her, to push her into something she didn't want. She'd hate him for it.

"Think you could sleep now?" he asked in a voice not his own.

"I don't know—maybe."

"Want a little more?"

Not wanting to return to the loneliness of her bedroom, she hesitated. "Just a little," she finally decided.

He poured it for her, added the whiskey, then leaned back to watch her, his expression lazy. "We're a real pair, Annie—a real pair."

"How's that?" she asked, her gaze meeting his over the cup.

"We're both crippled. Only you can see it on me."

"But you're getting better. You're getting well."

"Am I? If I am, I sure as hell can't tell it."

The way the light hit his face, he didn't look anything like his thirty-seven years. With that tousled hair and almost sleepy blue eyes, he seemed more like a little boy in need of comforting. Her heart went out to him.

"You've got a lot of living left in you, Hap," she said softly. "You're not done yet. You haven't made half your mark on this world."

His mouth was dry as he watched her, and he wanted to see her move, to take in the grace of her slender body. "You're running out of tea. Would you like some more hot water?"

"I can get it." She rose unsteadily, and the effect of the whiskey hit her as she turned toward the stove. She caught the edge of the table as the room tilted, then waited. "Whoo," she managed. "It's the liquor, isn't it?"

"Probably. Making you giddy?"

"Yes." Seeing the humor of being tipsy in her own kitchen, she giggled. "I feel downright silly, Hap— downright silly."

"Anybody ever tell you how pretty you are when you laugh?" Even as he said it, it sounded stupid to his ears, but he couldn't help himself. She
was
about as lovely a woman as he'd ever seen. And he was feeling the effect of her even more than that of the whiskey. "You ought to laugh more." With every inch of his body acutely aware of what he wanted, he stood up behind her. "Annie," he said thickly, "you're not dead, and neither am I."

She turned around at that, and as she looked up, her breath caught in her chest. He was too close, and with the hot stove at her back, there was nowhere to go. She stood there, almost paralyzed, as his finger traced the edge of the flannel ruffle at her neck. The sleepiness was gone from his blue eyes, replaced by open desire. As he bent his head to hers, she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek.

"You're beautiful, Annie," he murmured huskily.

Her throat constricting, she closed her eyes at the warmth of his lips touching hers. His arms slid around her shoulders, drawing her brittle body against his. She felt a wave of panic rising within her, possessing her even as he kissed her, his tongue teasing her lips, seeking the depths of her mouth. For an awful moment she was drowning, but as her hands came up to fight him, he left her mouth to whisper hungrily against her ear, "Let me take the pain away, Annie. Let me make you whole. I can make you forget, Annie."

A wrenching sob broke free, sending a convulsive shudder through her, as she returned his embrace for a moment. Then she pulled away, leaving him bewildered. "No!" she cried, ducking beneath his arm. "Don't touch me—don't touch me!"

Before he could stop her, she'd run from the kitchen. He stood there, trying to master his still raging desire, then went after her. By the time he reached her bedroom door, he could hear her weeping hysterically. Disappointment warred with shame, and shame won as he listened to her. Subdued now, he felt an intense need to comfort her.

"Annie... he said gently, approaching her bed.

She way lying facedown, her head buried in her pillow, her shoulders shaking so hard the whole bed shook. Feeling lost, helpless, he sat on the edge of the feather mattress and leaned over her.

"Annie... Annie..." His hand smoothed her tangled hair over the flannel wrapper. "I'm sorry."

The apology had no effect on her. It was as though she hadn't even heard it, as though she didn't realize he was touching her. She was somewhere he couldn't reach, and yet he had to try. He sat there, stroking her shoulder without passion, as though she were a child. His desire gone, he was completely sober.

"I guess I had too much to drink, Annie. Believe me, I never intended to scare you. I wanted to love you, Annie, not to hurt you."

It seemed like forever, but the crying finally stopped, and she lay quietly beneath his hand. Now there was a dead, empty silence within the room, broken only when he sighed.

"Look, I don't blame you for not wanting me," he said finally. "If I'd had any sense, I'd have known it was too soon. Hell, I did know, but I was looking at you, wanting to think you could look twice at me." Unable to put his own loneliness into words, he straightened up, then stood. "Well, I just want you to know it won't happen again— that's all."

She waited until he was nearly out of the room before she turned over. "No," she said, her voice breaking, "it isn't you—it's me." As he turned back to face her, she swallowed, then nodded. "You're not a cripple," she whispered. "I am."

"Yeah, I know."

"I don't want to be like this, Hap."

"You got a long time to be alone."

"I don't want that, either. I'd give anything to start over."

"Yeah." He squared his shoulders, then exhaled heavily. "Good night, Annie. If I'm not here when you get up, I reckon I'll be on my way to the Ybarra."

"You don't have to go. You can still stay for Christmas."

"No. You aren't the first woman I've made a damned fool of myself over, but at least I've got a rule about it— it's never the same woman twice."

The door closed behind him, shutting her in darkness. As she lay down again, she felt utterly lost. And when he left, she was going to be utterly alone. All she'd have left would be her dream of finding Susannah, and she wasn't sure that was enough to sustain her. But it had to be.

It was a long time before she slept, and just as she was about to leave the conscious world, she felt tiny steps coming across the covers. And in the silence of night a small, furry body settled against her shoulder, purring loudly. Her hand crept to stroke the long, silky fur, gaining the reward of a sandpaper tongue on her neck. Telling herself it was enough, she gathered the animal close. And yet when her mind wandered again in the netherworld before sleep, it was Hap Walker's voice that haunted her.

Let me take the fain away, Annie. Let me make you whole.

If only it was that easy. If only she could have let him. But that part of her life was over. For now. Forever.

CHAPTER 17

Spring came early at the Ybarra-Ross Ranch, with temperatures reaching well over eighty by mid-March. That was one of the things about Texas—if a man didn't like the weather in one part, he could travel a hundred miles and find something different. And Hap was about as restless as he'd ever been in his life. He was more than ready to travel. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Right now it was looking like it'd either be Blanco or maybe Karnes County. Both places had offered him a sheriff's job, Blanco at forty dollars a month, with a place to live behind the jail, Karnes at sixty-five, but he'd have to find his own lodging. Blanco County lay in the hill country—with hot weather, rough ground, and big stock ranches. Karnes had Helena, a tough town situated near the Chihuahua Trail and the San Antonio-Indianola Road, filled with cowboys, drifters, gamblers, and gun-fighters. For a lot of them life in Helena was short and cheap. He knew that firsthand—he'd been there.

As soon as Amanda had the baby, he'd feel that he could leave Clay and get on with his own life. Clay wouldn't much like it, but Hap was thinking about taking a long, hard look at Helen's offer. His last letter from the town council there had indicated they might be willing to go another ten dollars a month "to engage someone of your reputation." It wasn't much pay for a man's life, but he didn't need the money. What he needed was the action.

It'd be different being a county sheriff, with just a county seat and a little land to police. Facing rowdies in streets and saloons required different skills than tracking Indians and outlaws through canyons and deserts. But he hadn't seen anybody he couldn't face down yet, and when he did, he figured then it'd be time to retire. Not now, not while he still had his nerve.

It'd be a little out of his way, but he was going to stop at San Saba just to see how Annie Bryce fared, nothing more than that. It was funny—she'd been on his mind a lot lately, more than he'd expected. He guessed he wanted to know if she was making it on the farm, if Willett was getting her corn planted as he'd promised. No, he was lying to himself again. He wanted to see if she was as pretty as he remembered, if she still had the same effect on him. Or if it'd be like Amanda.

He was over Amanda now, had been ever since he got back to the Ybarra. He'd come in between Christmas and New Year's, expecting to feel like the odd man out, but he hadn't. He'd looked at her, admired her for what she was—Clay's wife—and felt nothing other than relief. That was the way it ought to be, and it was. Maybe he'd look at Annie, and he wouldn't feel anything there, either.

"You've turned awful sober on me, Hap."

"Huh?"

"You're not yourself."

He looked up, seeing Clay. "Man can't raise hell all the time," he responded noncommittally.

"Something's eating on you."

"No."

"You haven't had a bottle in weeks."