Running Wild (3 page)

His words fanned the embers of a fire never fully
extinguished, and she turned, lifting her chin in preparation for battle.
Battle she understood; her reaction to Nicholas she did not. “It’s not for you,
Port, to—”

“Belay that, Star,” Father interrupted. “You shall not
bicker in front of our host. It has been a long journey and we are all fatigued.
No doubt, that is where this want of conduct arises. Port, if your sister
wishes for a small glass of brandy, she may have it. She is a full-grown woman
and capable of making her own decisions. I am confident that she fully
understands this is an especial occasion?” Posing the statement as a question,
he raised his eyebrows at Star.

“Of course, Father,” she said, and took the glass from
Remarkably Intriguing But Sadly Married Nicholas. His hand brushed hers and
their eyes met again as a shudder of anticipation ran down her spine. Then
Melinda The Wife entered the room with a tray, followed by a boy of about
ten—his son, no doubt—equally burdened. Her spirits fell, for one could not,
with any conscience, allow oneself to lust after a married man.

“Here you go,” Melinda said. “It’s not much, just
sandwiches, but given the late hour I thought it best not to eat anything too
heavy.”

“It looks marvelous. Thank you,” Father said, taking a
plate.

The boy stood, staring wide-eyed at Nicholas. After a
moment, he asked timidly, “Uncle Nick?”

Uncle?

“Sorry, Dickie. Just offer a sandwich to Mr. and Miz
Montgomery, than put what’s left on the table there.”

“I’m sorry,” Melinda said as she sat on the sofa, “that my
husband isn’t here to greet you, but Jim’s gone on ahead with Lee and Jess to
the Rockin’ R. Dickie, it’s late, run along to bed now.”

Husband
Jim
? Oh, Melinda the Marvelous! The
Beautiful! The Entirely
Not
Married to Nicholas! Her stomach flipped and
her heart jumped in jubilation.

“Yes,” Father said. “Nick explained that. I cannot fully
express my gratitude at the splendid care you offered my son.”

Nicholas shrugged. “Didn’t do much, sir. He and Jess steered
clear of the posse until they arrived here. Jim and I just moved them on to
Texas until the dust settles. From what you told me, tho,’ you’ve pretty much
handled it yourself.”

“Oh, have you?” Melinda asked, her eyes bright as she sat
down on the sofa. “Then they’re safe? What did you do?”

“As to that . . .” Father started and then while they ate
their sandwiches, proceeded to explain how he had saved the day. Father was
quite competent at saving his family from hangmen, starting with his wife
thirty years earlier. In this case Lee and his “friend” Jess were accused of
murdering her stage manager for money—as if Lee needed money!—when the killer
had been, in fact, the father of the victim’s one-time lover. During the short
story, Melinda emitted a gasp or two, her eyes widening. She glanced now and
again toward Nicholas, but refrained from making inquiries. Nicholas, lounging
in a leather chair in front of the fire, stared steadily at Melinda, a frown
between his eyebrows as if she were a child in need of guidance. It would have
vexed Star if Melinda didn’t at times resemble just that—and if Star hadn’t met
so many women determined to
be
childlike in deference to men. The
women’s movement didn’t just battle men. Sometimes women were their own worst
enemy.

“Well, that is quite a story,” Melinda said, at last. “And
now you’ll be moving on to the Rocking R to explain it to them in person? Nick
mentioned that we might travel together.”

Together? Star thought. Oh no, but she didn’t want to join
Marvelous Melinda! She wanted to stay here with Melinda’s brother-in-law and
learn what lurked behind the devilry in those lovely blue eyes. Perhaps they
could telegraph Lee and ask him to join them here. No, Father would never agree
to that. Foisting themselves upon perfect strangers would be indescribably
rude, and, drat the man, he never did anything rude.

“Yes, ma’am,” Father said. “Nick and I discussed it and we
would be honored to join you, if you’re quite certain we won’t be an
inconvenience?”

“Oh no, I’d love the company! It would be best to let us
guide you anyway, so as not to get lost.”

Port let out a low, defeated sigh. “Is it rough travel,
ma’am?”

“Not so very much,” she answered a trifle warily, and
Nicholas grinned behind his drink. Mischief danced in his eyes again, flashing
across the room when he caught Star’s gaze. “A little more difficult then I
expect you’re used to,” Melinda soothed, “but we’ll take it slowly enough that
you won’t suffer too terribly.”

“I appreciate that, Mrs. McGraw,” Father answered. “And now,
I’m certain you’ll understand that it has been quite a long day. . .”

“Oh of course!” Melinda said jumping up. “Right this way.”

Port rose, and Father graciously held his hand out to
Nicholas. “Again, I cannot properly express my appreciation. It’s a great
relief to know that my son is safe and that we shall see him at last.”

“Our pleasure, sir. Lee is—” Nicholas’s lips twitched
slightly, as his eyes flicked over hers in silent, amused communication,
“entertaining.”

Star laughed. “Yes, he is that, isn’t he?” she said. “And
Miss Sullivan? Is she entertaining as well?”

She felt Father stiffen. He had developed a hearty dislike
of Jess, whom he’d determined had seduced his son and then led him on a merry
goose chase.

“Oh, she’s wonderful,” Melinda said, her eyes sparkling with
excitement. “She is an actress you know!”

“Yes,” Father said dryly, “we know.”

It hardly recommended Jess to Father.

“And now,” Star said hastily, “if you would lead the way?”

“Yes! Follow me, up the stairs. You might not expect it out
West, but we have a bathroom for you to freshen up in and plenty of room for
guests. . . .” Melinda chatted as she climbed the stairs. Father and Port
ushered Star on ahead, and followed behind. Right before reaching the top
stair, Star looked down to see Nicholas’s eyes upon her. Her heart took another
leap, she flashed him her most enticing smile, and then followed Melinda down a
corridor.

Shakespeare, King Henry IV

Aristophanes, Thesmophoriazusae

Nick, drink tight in his fist, watched Miz Montgomery climb
the stairs. His blood raced through his veins and his male regions fought to
come to life. Damn, but he hadn’t felt like this in a long, long time. Ah hell,
he’d never felt like this. But he’d never met a woman like her, all cool,
poised lady on the outside, but all simmering fire underneath. The sleek,
graceful way she moved reminded him of a wildcat, an amber-eyed mountain lion.

Her father reminded him of Pa.

Nick’s heart clenched and he ground his teeth against a
sudden stabbing.

At the top of the stairs, she halted to look down at him.
She gave him her slow, bewitching smile, and her eyes shone with more promise
than any “lady” ought to give: of touch and taste and whispers in the dark. He
lost the fight on the fire down below.

She turned and moved down the hall.

Nick fell back into his favorite chair and rubbed his neck.
Promise and beauty, combined with an amused-but-sensual unspoken communication
passing back and forth between them, which was as implausible as it was
undeniable.

False
promise, he cautioned himself. Ladies did not
deliver on such things, not outside of marriage, anyhow. Those meaningful
glances, those unspoken words were just the tools of a practiced flirt. He’d
never fallen for one himself, but too many times he’d seen men who had, who’d
gotten tangled up in pleasing a lady, certain that this time she’d come
through, only to be kicked into the dust. Seen men so twisted up in love and
lust that it ended in shootin’, sometimes in killin’, but no matter what, it
never ended good. No sir, he thought, and took a long pull on his drink, no
sir, he would not buy into that.

He looked into the glass. The brandy was a few shades darker
than Miz Montgomery’s eyes, and he recollected her looking at the decanter. In
spite of himself, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He oughtn’t to have
offered her a glass, but he couldn’t resist the wistfulness in her gaze. Her
answering smile and the mutiny in her eyes when her brother argued had made it
worth it. Star Montgomery was sure enough a lady and a flirt, but under all the
fancy clothes and gentility and come-hither looks lurked a strong, stubborn
woman who was used to getting her way. The kinda woman who’d mess up a man but
good, the kind Ma would have warned him about if she’d lived.

Closing his eyes, Nick leaned back in his chair and rubbed
his chin as a worn out memory of his father and mother rose in front of his
eyes. Fifteen years dead and he still missed ’em.

Like Ward Montgomery, Pa’d been a Yank, born and bred. He’d
had the same, “if you please” manner of negotiation, which was just a tactful
way of saying, “do it, or I’ll tan your hide.” Even with Ward’s highfalutin’
back-East ways, Nick reckoned not much could ruffle his feathers. Again, like
Pa, who, upon learning Ma had developed a lung complaint, up and moved the
whole family to Colorado, hoping the dry mountain air might cure her. Wasted no
time in griping, just closed down his printing press, packed up his family and
vamoosed, even though he had no notion of how to run a ranch beyond what he’d
read in books. Because that’s what a man did, he took care of family.

He’d done a damned fine job, too. Even got along with the
Injuns, who took his measure and never gave him a lick of trouble. Eight years
into it, though, a wagon accident had killed both of ’em, leaving Nick, at
eighteen, to run a ranch and raise his brother. Which Nick had done without a
second thought, like Ward, a Boston aristocrat who’d traveled fifteen hundred
miles by train and coach to help his son, because that’s what a man did, took
care of family.

Yup, Nick thought, polishing off his drink, he liked Ward.
He liked Ward’s daughter. And he was damned glad they were both ridin’ out of
his life in a couple days, ’cause he reckoned having the two of ’em at the Bar
M was more than an ol’ cowpoke like him could handle.

***

Crossing the dirt yard, Star watched Nicholas, dressed in a
black Stetson, jean pants, a scratched tan leather coat and leather gloves,
climb the corral fence and lean over the top. “Harley, you lazy bastard, get
your ass back up on that sonuvabitch, and show it who’s boss. Don’chu let it
push you ’round, boy, or I’ll kick your ass from June to Jericho.” After that,
he spouted a string of delightfully obscene language, which Star had never
heard before. Had she been a proper lady, she would have colored up and run.
She wasn’t, however, and the obscene language made her smile.

Inside the corral, two men boxed a dun-colored horse,
foaming at the mouth, into a corner. Harley pulled himself off the ground and
slapped the dust out of his pants, mumbling under his breath.

Nicholas jumped off the rail and turned to look at Star. In
the cold morning sunlight, his eyes were no longer a deep blue, but a lovely
shade between midnight and sky blue and as clear as crystal, startling in his
lightly tanned face.

“That is
very
interesting language, Nicholas,” Star
said, as that heady sensual pull between them from the previous evening battled
with amusement for control of her voice.

He stared for a spell, and then a slow smile spread across
his face. “Yes, ma’am. Reckon if you spend much time ’round a horse-breakin’
you’ll hear a deal of ‘intr’esting’ language.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Shall I?” she asked. His smile acted
like a tonic on her blood, turning it bright and bubbly. “You know it’s the
custom back East for men to apologize should they accidentally utter such
language in front of a lady.” She waited for him to blush and make excuses.

He didn’t.

Instead he turned full upon her, propped his shoulder
against the top rail of the fence, and pushed his hat back in an insolent
manner that belied the mirth gleaming in his eyes. Out of the corner of her
eye, Star saw Harley climb the fence, as two men brought the horse toward him
for another go.

“That so?” Nicholas asked. “Well I reckon it’s the custom
out West for women who don’t like cussin’ to stay away from places where she’ll
most likely hear it.”

He held her gaze boldly, challengingly. How, she thought
shakily, how would a man who so easily thwarted convention kiss? Hard—harsh—a
man’s
kiss. Her lips tingled.

“I suspect that many of the customs in the West are
different,” she said, a trifle breathlessly. “I suspect that Western men do
some things
much
better.”

His eyes flashed. “Well, we sure cuss better,” he said. “But
as for much else, that’s not somethin’ I can tell for sure.”

Her heart jerked and heat rushed through her body, bringing
her nerves to sparkling attention. Oh, she’d been right about Western men. They
were just as quick-witted as their Eastern counterparts, but freer and
uninhibited enough to enjoy toying with sexual innuendos.

“Perhaps,” she answered, tilting her head, “those are
matters that you and I might consider exploring. I do so enjoy investigative
work, and I find that I am developing a particular fondness for Colorado.”

“I’m sure it’d be a pleasure, ma’am, but much as it grieves
me, you’re cutting dirt tomorrow, ridin’ for Texas. Doesn’t leave much time for
explorin’.”

“Are you entirely certain about that? Some explorations
require energy more than time,” she said, stepping toward him.

He stood his ground, neither intimidated at her brashness as
her Eastern beaus would be, nor so ill-mannered as to take advantage of her.
His only reaction was a slight jump in his cheek, proof of a tightening jaw. “I
reckon,” he said, lowering his voice, “that’s not the case with all men. Some
men want plenty of time, too.”