Rexanne Becnel (38 page)

There were no words as they collapsed, utterly exhausted. They only lay as they were, Dillon above her, enveloping her with his big body as if to reinforce what she already knew in her heart: his imprint would forever be on her. Like a brand, he had marked her as his, both her heart and her flesh. No, there was no need for words, she thought in profound sorrow, for as complete as his victory was—he’d proven her a liar and a thief—he could surely not mistake his other triumph over her. She’d succumbed to his physical caress despite everything. She had even gone so far as to plead for his love. She’d pleaded for him to love her, knowing even as she had spoken the words that he never would. Love was not the emotion she inspired in him. She was a challenge to him, a woman he desired. But love was not a part of the question.

When Dillon rolled to his side, he slipped one arm beneath her, then pulled her securely against him. He was still breathing hard, still damp from his exertion, but he would not loosen his hold. Then he pushed a tangle of her hair back from her cheek and whispered in her ear.

“You don’t have to fight me anymore, Lacie. It’s over.”

It was over. Yes, that was true, she thought forlornly. When she did not answer, he pressed a soft kiss against the back of her neck. “You’ll stay with me now,” he murmured against her hair. Then he sighed, and she felt his body relax against her.

For a long time she lay there, conscious of the pattern of his breathing, the rhythm of his heartbeat, the warm strength of him stretched out next to her in sleep. It was clear that he expected her to stay. After all, he knew better than anyone that she had nowhere else to go. She had no one and nothing, and since he thought her a liar and a thief—little better than a
whore—he had no reason to believe she would not stay as his mistress. She would do it for the security, for the money, the clothes, and the other comforts he could afford for her.

But Lacie knew that was the one thing she could never do. For love she would stay with him. For his love she would be lover or wife to him, whichever he asked. Social convention would have no bearing on it.

But he did not love her, and that was the one thing she could not bear. To have him with her every day and yet not have his heart would destroy her.

She rolled over carefully, excruciatingly aware of his arm under her, of his hand resting heavily on her hip. But his warmth, his intimate, possessive touch, seemed only to stiffen her determination. She did not consciously plan her movements as she slipped from the bed on quiet careful feet. She did not think out exactly what she must do and where she must go. She only knew she must get away.

Far, far away.

E
VEN THE TRAIN REMINDED
her of Dillon. Everything did.

He owned a lumber mill that provided millions of board feet for the construction of railroad lines. He owned the rights to build spur lines out of Denver, Leadville, and Castle Rock. His carriage works would probably expand soon to include construction of railroad cars as well. No matter where she looked or what she did, memories of him overwhelmed her. He had consumed her thoughts during the long trip she had made from Kimbell to Denver. It seemed only fitting that he consume them again on the return journey as she sat staring blankly at the flat, unchanging horizon.

It was over, he’d said so and it was true. But that knowledge did nothing to ease her pain. It was over, but she would never stop hurting. It was over, but his face would not stop haunting her. Through two long sleepless nights he’d tortured her. For three endless, arduous days he had tormented her. Her head ached, her stomach knotted queasily, and her shoulders were stiff from the strain. Yet still her thoughts turned constantly to him, and once more she ran everything over in her mind.

She had dressed hastily that morning, not caring what she wore, as long as she escaped before he awoke. Her hair had been uncombed, only hurriedly twisted into a knot with a hat pinned haphazardly upon it. Her mourning suit had been the easiest to don, and she had slipped into her stockings and shoes with desperate speed. She had started to shove her other clothes into her trunk until she realized she could not possibly get the trunk out of the room without waking Dillon. In a panic she had stuffed the gray suit and the teal dress into her traveling bag along with a few intimate items. The rest she left behind. Then with her bag in one hand and her small purse in the other, she had tiptoed to the door.

She had wanted to leave without looking back. She would not torture herself with regrets, for she knew she had no real choice. To stay with him as he wanted was to ensure a desperate unhappiness. She would always want more of him than he could give, and eventually he would tire of her and move on to a more challenging woman. What was it he’d said so long ago? Docile women did not particularly appeal to him.

Yet for all her resolve, she’d not been able to prevent herself from looking back, just one last time. He’d been sprawled on the bed, tangled within the top sheet, completely relaxed in slumber. Against the pale ivory of the delicate bed dressings, he’d appeared so dark and masculine, so powerful despite his repose. She’d had to fight the overwhelming urge to fling down her bags and return to his side.

But she had not run back to him, and now, as she sat motionless on the thinly upholstered seat, she tried to reassure herself that she had been right. As the miles of prairie went by in a constant rhythmic clacking of steel wheels against steel rails, she told herself over and over again that she was right to leave. Sparrow Hill would hardly offer her a respite—indeed, Dillon must surely suspect that was where she was going. Still, she had no other choice. If only to lick her wounds and contemplate her future, she would go back to Sparrow Hill. Then she would leave and move on to another place and another life that would not include Dillon Lockwood.

Yet even as the landscape outside her window changed from the golden green of the late summer prairie to the lush green of east Texas and Louisiana, the life she had to look forward to was bleak indeed. Dillon’s presence—or rather, his absence—would always be with her. He would be that empty part of her, the hole she felt so piercingly in her heart. It was a physical ache, as real as any wound could be. Only it went far deeper than merely the flesh—it went to her very soul.

Lacie sat small and stiff at the open window when the train slowed in anticipation of the stop at Kimbell. She watched as scrub willows and spindly pines gave way to fenced yards and hard-packed streets. As if she were seeing it for the first time, she stared at the small town, noticing the woodshake roofs above the neatly painted wood-siding walls. It was the town listed as her home. Any correspondence to her came via the Kimbell post office, although there was little enough mail for her. She had lived here for many years, yet Kimbell was hardly her home.

As she stepped off the train, accustoming herself again to solid ground, she felt even more alone than before. Sparrow Hill had kept her isolated from the town. Although she was well recognized and known to most people, she was still not a part of the townsfolk. She looked up and down the short station walk, then sighed in resignation. She would not really be missed in Kimbell—not for very long, anyway.

On that morose thought she sought out the station-master, who quickly found a farm boy to deliver her to the school. She was hardly aware of the late afternoon heat or the hard wooden seat of the buckboard that carried her. She was too busy staring around her, seeing anew all the sights she would soon be leaving. Off to her left, hidden by lush summer growth, Brush Bayou meandered. He’d ridden with her there. He’d been a terrible bully that day, ordering her around, scooping her up on his horse, then taking her on a long ride against her will. They had stopped at that little house, the tiny place he’d grown up in. That was the first time she had sensed any vulnerability in him, the first time she had felt a pang of sympathy and understanding.

But he had hidden that part of himself well since then. She frowned as the driver turned the farm wagon into the long drive up to the school. Off to the right, up a gentle hill, was the Allen-Kimbell graveyard. Oh, Frederick! she silently grieved. I failed you this time. I tried to keep your school going—as much for me as for you. But I failed.

“Here y’are, Miz Lacie,” the wiry farm boy said with a shy grin. “Back home again.”

“Thanks, Vincent. I appreciate you going out of your way for me.”

“It wasn’t really out of my way, Miz Lacie. It wasn’t any trouble ’tall.” Then he jumped down from the wagon and pulled his hat from his head. “I’d be happy to drive you again if you’ve a need,” he added as his face turned a heated red.

He waved away the coins she offered after he deposited her bag on the porch, and Lacie was unable to mistake his painful interest in her. But instead of restoring her spirits, it only depressed her further. When he finally left, she was enormously relieved.

Once inside, she peered around the shadowed rooms. No one seemed to be home, although the doors and windows were all opened to catch the late afternoon breezes. She walked slowly through the big parlor and the dining room, removing her hat as she went. The huge house was still and solemn, as if it were waiting for something. For the girls to return, she thought sadly. Only they would not be coming this year. They would never come back again.

Whatever would become of this house now? What would Dillon do with it?

As she walked to the back gallery, Lacie saw Leland in the far pasture beyond the burned-out barn. A faint smell of bread baking told her that Mrs. Gunter was about. Then she heard a lighthearted laugh. There was a quiet murmur from a low male voice, then another giggle. At once Ada appeared around a huge gardenia bush. Her cheeks were flushed, and her face glowed with youthful happiness.

“Oh, Lacie!” She stopped abruptly, and almost at once Neal came up behind her.

“You’re back,” he said, almost as breathlessly as Ada.

“I’m back,” she replied, trying to smile at the two of them. Dillon had told her they planned to marry, and it was plain he’d spoken the truth. As Neal caught Ada by the waist and guided her up the steps to the gallery, Lacie was struck by the tenderness of his casual gesture.

Ada’s face was creased in a worried frown as she approached her friend, but Lacie was determined that they not discuss her predicament. It was not Ada’s problem, and Lacie wasn’t going to let it ruin her happiness.

“I hear that you two are to wed,” she began. “Is it a secret, or does everyone know?”

“We’ve announced it,” Neal answered, beaming at his bride-to-be. “We wired everyone about our intentions, but she’s keeping me up in the air over the date.” He gave Ada a mock frown.

“Why, Ada!” Lacie laughed, happy for her best friend. “How long can you expect to keep poor Neal in limbo this way?”

Ada smiled softly at Neal, then turned her gaze on Lacie. Her face grew more serious. “I wanted to speak to you before we selected a date for the wedding.”

“Me?” Lacie looked at her, puzzled at first. Then she realized that dear sweet Ada wanted to be sure her absence on a wedding trip would not disrupt the school.

“If you’re worried about not being here—” she halted, hardly able to speak the words although she knew she must. In desperation she looked at Neal. “Hasn’t Dillon wired you?”

His somber stare confirmed it, although the level of detail Dillon had conveyed was anybody’s guess. She took a shaky breath and nervously turned her hat around and around in her hands.

“If he wired, then you must know I lost. I gambled on the foolish hope that I could keep this school going.” She gave Neal a rueful smile, hoping he would understand her motives and that he would not judge her too harshly. Despite their rocky first meeting, she had grown to like him very much. “I gambled, and I lost. So you see”—her smile grew more brittle, and she moved her eyes to gaze blindly at the shell of the burned-out barn—“there’s no need to put off your wedding. The school won’t be opening this year—or ever again.”

It was out in all its dreadful truth, and the admission brought unanticipated tears to her eyes. She had thought she was resigned to it, but she could not prevent the terrible stinging behind her eyelids. As she blinked the tears back, she was unprepared for what Ada had to say next.

“Sparrow Hill may not have to close.”

Lacie glanced over at her friend and shook her head. “I’m afraid you don’t know Dillon very well, Ada. He’ll close it, all right. He won’t waste either his time or his money on a business that doesn’t turn a big profit. He’s going to close this school and probably sell the property.”

“Then
we’ll
buy it.”

Neal’s confident statement took Lacie completely aback. She stared at him dumbfounded, and it was a few moments before she could assimilate her thoughts enough to respond. “What—what do you mean?”

“Neal wants to buy it,” Ada answered in a voice filled with excitement. “He wants to buy it and keep the school open!”

“But—but how? And why?” Lacie asked, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“Here, let’s sit down while he explains everything,” Ada said. “Oh, Lacie, you won’t believe how well Neal has figured everything out!”

Indeed, as Neal began to outline his plan, it did seem well thought out.

“You’ve room for many more students. Ada told me that in its heyday, Sparrow Hill had nearly a hundred girls. If we could get that sort of enrollment again, we’d be back on a sound financial footing.”

“But this area has been depressed since the war. People haven’t the money to pay for private schools for their sons, let alone their daughters.”

“Maybe around here they don’t, but other parts of the country are booming. You saw Denver, Lacie. Tell me there aren’t people there able to afford school tuition.”

“But that’s Denver,” she argued. “Things aren’t the same here.”

“You’re right about that, but you’re forgetting one thing. There’s a special mystique about sending your children away to school. Think about your own circumstances. Weren’t there any schools in Natchez your father could have sent you to? Why did he send you to Sparrow Hill for Young Ladies?”