Nan Ryan (12 page)

Mollie laughed aloud now, thinking how perplexed the professor would be if he knew she was racing the mighty gray stallion up into the rugged foothills.

The professor had not approved of her choice of a horse. When he had taken her out to the big Willard ranch to buy her a saddlehorse, she had immediately fallen in love with the big gray. The professor and the leathery ranch owner, L. J. Willard, had tried to talk her out of it. Willard cautioned that the big stud was tricky and dangerous. Frowning then, Willard went on to say that he had lost Billy Joe Frazier, his best horse trainer, and didn’t know what he was going to do.

“Why, I’ve even placed ads in newspapers as far away as California and New Mexico,” said the big rancher. “I’ve got to find—”

Interrupting, Mollie said, “Mr. Willard, although I’m from back East, I began riding lessons when I was four years old. I’m an experienced horsewoman.” She then looked hopefully at the professor. “Please say I can have him.”

She got the stallion.

Now, as she rode Nickel into the cool uplands, Mollie was confident, relaxed, totally in charge. A new sun was bathing the sandstone cliffs with bright pink light and creeping down into the grassy canyons.

Mollie and Nickel soon entered the mouth of a narrow arroyo and rode toward the sound of a small creek that poured down through the U-shaped canyon. Nickel headed for the gurgling water, snorting and whickering.

Mollie leaned forward, raked her gloved fingers through the thick shiny mane and murmured into a pricked ear, “Yes, Nickel, I am going to wade in the water, but I’ll thank you to keep it to yourself.”

As Mollie laughingly slipped from the stallion’s back, a lone rider topped an overhang of rock atop the shallow zigzag canyon walls and abruptly pulled up on the reins. His lathered black gelding responded instantly, halting inches from the canyon rim, making not one sound.

The rider scratched absently at his full, dark beard. Squinting against the brilliant sunlight, he watched a willowy woman slide off a big gray stallion and sit down on a rock. Impatiently she removed her black gloves, shoving them into the wide waistband of her riding skirt. She then tugged off her tall black boots and stockings and, without using her hands for leverage, sprang to her bare feet.

Eyes narrowed, the rider stared unblinkingly as the woman raised her skirts high above her knees and waded into the icy stream. Squealing from the shock of the cold water, the woman—whose flat-brimmed hat completely concealed her face—surged bravely into the frigid creek, splashing about, playfully kicking up a spritz of water at the gray stallion on the banks.

Mollie played in the water, thinking how outraged the professor and Louise would be if they could see her with her skirts hiked up to her thighs, sloshing about in an icy canyon stream.

Watching every move she made, the rider hunched his wide shoulders, and his dark, bearded face broke into a slow, widening grin.

He had put off the unpleasant task as long as
possible.

Lew Hatton knew that if he was going to meet—and draw into his trust—the revolting Mollie Rogers, it was time to do it.

It was his third day in Maya, Arizona. The morning he arrived, trail-weary and saddle sore, he had checked into the Nueva Sol Hotel and, using his mother’s maiden name, signed the guest register
Lew Taylor
. Then he’d gone upstairs and slept the day away.

The second day, yesterday, he had ridden out to the big Willard ranch where, come next Monday, he would begin work. The prospect brought a groan. It had been a long time since the days when he and Dan Nighthorse had reveled in breaking the wildest broncs on Plano Pacifica. Then it had been great sport. Now he was thirty-one years old, and Lew dreaded the hard, bone-jarring work.

But not as much as he dreaded the prospect of romancing a plain-faced, sunburned tomboy who in all likelihood smelled to high heaven, cursed like a cowboy, and perhaps even smoked cigars. A shudder of distaste rippling through him, Lew envisioned the rough-hewn Rogers woman, and wondered if there wasn’t some way he could get her buckskin breeches down to look for the birthmark without ever having to kiss her.

His stomach turning at the thought of making love to such a repulsive creature, Lew shook his dark head and told himself to get on with it. This was as good a time as any to shave off his itchy beard, clean up, and visit the Maya Emporium.

At straight-up noon Lew, freshly shaven and impeccably dressed, stepped off the hotel’s broad stone porch, crossed the dusty street, and strolled unhurriedly across the plaza with its splashing fountain, stone benches, shade trees and groups of gentlemen loitering about, talking. Halfway across the square, he met a couple of young, pretty women who stared openly at him, then burst into girlish giggles after he’d passed.

Lew never broke stride. He had a job to do, and the only female in Maya he had any interest in was Mollie Rogers.

After crossing the plaza, he paused. Directly across the street stood the two-story adobe-fronted building on which
Maya Emporium
was painted in bold black letters. Lew saw a young, plainly dressed mother come out of the store, a freckle-faced boy of four or five clinging to her hand and licking a stick of hard candy. On the wooden sidewalk, a portly, bald cowboy removed his sweat-stained Stetson, tipped it to the woman, and went inside. A towheaded youth came out, broom in hand, and looked up the street, then down.

Lew stepped down from the curb and headed for the Emporium. Once inside the cool, dim building, he paused to lounge against a big square table piled high with china dishes. Looking around speculatively, he heard voices at the back of the store. The bald cowboy he’d seen come in was trying on hats. His back was to Lew. He was talking to a clerk who was hidden from Lew’s view.

Lew wondered. Was the clerk Mollie Rogers?

Lew moved a little closer, but the pair remained unaware of his presence. The portly cowboy abruptly stepped over to a freestanding mirror to admire the brand-new Stetson on his head.

“The hat looks real nice, Mr. Patterson,” came a clear feminine voice and squinting, Lew focused on its owner as a slender young girl stepped out of the shadow and into a shaft of sunlight streaming in through a high back window.

If there had been a chorus of heavenly voices accompanying her emergence, Lew would have known that an angel of the Lord had miraculously descended to earth. She stood there in the shaft of sunlight, a fair-skinned beauty with a face that was perfect in every way. Large, luminous eyes, a small retroussé nose, and soft, luscious lips that were turned up into an incredibly enchanting smile.

Her hair, held back off her flawless face with a wide lilac ribbon, tumbled down her gracefully curved neck, shimmering like spun gold in the sunshine. Tall and long-waisted with gently rounded curves evident beneath her cotton shirtdress, she had that innocent and overpowering beauty that made Lew long to gently enfold her in his arms. He was overcome with the strong desire to hold her and keep her safe and protected and unspoiled.

He felt his heart thump heavily as he stared, transfixed, at the feminine vision in violet. So compelling, so stirring was the experience it took on a dreamlike quality. He was so moved by the beautiful girl that he shook his head and shut his eyes, as if by doing so the ethereal image would evaporate into mid-air.

It did not.

When he opened his eyes, she still stood there, smiling sweetly, looking angelic, and Lew realized that not since that day so long ago when he had first seen the beautiful Teresa Castillo in the Albuquerque stage station had he been so affected by the mere presence of a woman.

Gripped by an emotion as powerful as it was unfamiliar, Lew watched and listened as she convinced the overweight cowhand that the gray Stetson suited him far better than the black. Carefully avoiding attracting her attention, Lew wondered miserably why his luck was so abominable. Here was the most beautiful woman he’d seen in years, and as fate would have it, not only was she in the tiny town of Maya, Arizona, but she was employed at the very same store where Mollie Rogers worked.

He ground his teeth and muttered oaths under his breath. Damn it to hell! Damn Mollie Rogers to hell!

Lew abruptly turned away, so upset and angry he never knew when the brawny cowboy in his new gray Stetson left the store. Fairly vibrating with frustration, Lew stood, arms crossed over his chest, the long, hard muscles of his thighs brushing the table’s edge, praying that the loathsome Mollie Rogers was either in the storeroom or at the boardinghouse eating lunch.

Maybe she wouldn’t return for another half hour or more and he’d be allowed to spend a few precious minutes talking to the willowy blond beauty. Lew’s dark face hardened, and he cursed himself for being weak and easily distracted. He had come to Maya for Mollie Rogers. He had better get his mind off the angel-faced girl and wait patiently for Mollie Rogers to show up.

While she was helping the cowboy find a hat, Mollie had noticed a customer standing up front beside the dish table. Perhaps he was still there. She’d best see if he needed help. Mollie lifted her skirts and hurried toward the table of the china and glassware and saw him.

His back was to her, but she noticed the shiny blackness of his hair and the way his blue cotton shirt pulled across his wide shoulders. She was a few short steps from him when he slowly turned to face her.

Mollie stopped short.

A pale hand lifted to her racing heart, and she felt she couldn’t get a breath. Before her stood a tall, dark, strikingly handsome man with high, slanted cheekbones, a straight, arrogant nose, a chiseled cleft in his strong chin, and a pair of summer blue eyes that were focused solely on her. His sculptured lips were widening into a slow, appealing grin that made her stomach do flipflops and her knees go weak. The tall stranger was handsomer by far than any man she had ever seen. More perfect than any image of virile manhood she’d conjured up in her wildest daydreams.

He was immaculate. A neatly pressed sky blue pullover shirt lay close to the steely muscles of his chest and hugged his wide shoulders. A pair of sharply creased hard-finish dark trousers clung to his slim hips and fell to just the right break atop his polished boots, a detail that bespoke custom tailoring.

His skin was smooth and suntanned, his teeth straight and white. His hair, so black that blue highlights glinted in it, was brushed back from his temples, but a thick unruly lock fell forward over his high forehead.

Transfixed, Mollie stared at him.

Lew stared right back at her.

There was, between them, an immediate heated atmosphere of extraordinary physical attraction and subtle erotic frustration. Lew knew exactly what it was. Mollie Rogers did not. She only knew that her mouth had gone so dry she couldn’t swallow and that this tall, good-looking stranger’s arresting blue gaze held her so that she couldn’t break away.

Her head was tilted back and her eyes were riveted to his ruggedly handsome face. The grin that had been there when he first looked at her was gone, and his mouth, unsmiling, was more appealing than ever. His wide, full lips had a sulky, brooding look that Mollie found heart-stoppingly seductive.

At last he spoke, breaking the spell.

“Are we both customers, or does one of us work here?” he said softly, the slow smile returning, the summer blue of his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Mollie laughed, relieved that the tension had eased. “I work here, sir,” she said, moving closer so that Lew caught the faint scent of her freshly shampooed hair. “Is there something special you are looking for?” She tilted her head to one side. Lew found the gesture charming.

“Umm,” Lew looked anxiously about, at a loss, searching for something he could buy. His gaze fell on a shelf of shaving cups. “A shaving mug,” he said decisively. “I need a new shaving mug.”

“Follow me,” said Mollie, turning away, and Lew, exhaling, thought to himself that he would like to follow her for the rest of her life. “We have these,” she pointed to the shelf behind a counter where he had spotted the rows of plain and fancy shaving mugs displayed. “See anything you like, sir?” She moved around behind the counter.

Looking only at her, Lew said, “You choose for me.”

Accustomed to helping customers make choices, Mollie turned about, looked at the many mugs, reached out and picked up one of robin’s-egg blue porcelain, thinking guiltily that it was the exact same shade as the tall stranger’s eyes.

“This one suits you,” she said, holding it out to him.

“I’ll take it,” Lew was agreeable.

“You’re too easy,” Mollie teased and then reddened when he replied, “For a girl like you, you’ve no idea how easy.”

As she carefully wrapped the mug in plain brown paper, he introduced himself, extending a lean brown hand. Mollie placed her palm atop his and said, “I’m Fontaine Gayerre, Mr. Taylor, and I’m very pleased to meet you. Welcome to Maya.”

“Fontaine,” he repeated, continuing to hold her hand in his, “such a lovely name. It suits you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Taylor,” she said, smiling. “Now, if you’ll kindly let go of my hand, I’ll finish wrapping your mug.”