Ryan's Hand (6 page)

Why would Ryan have demanded something from her that would place her in such a light? He knew she loathed freeloading. He had often become exasperated with her because she would accept nothing from him that she could not return in kind. And she was nothing if not a hard worker. She had not wanted to give up her job, leaving unpaid for yet another year the final debts that clouded her family's name. Ryan, whom she had trusted, whom she had loved—why had he extracted a promise that would compromise her very soul in the eyes of others?

Inwardly she sighed. Now there would be another name to add to her list of debtors. She would pay Jeth Langston back for the cost of her room and board if it was the last thing she ever did!

“You mentioned a third reason,” she reminded him.

“Yes,” Jeth said slowly. Without hurry, he pulled toward him a bronze ashtray on the desk. The sensuous leather of his coat sleeve defined the hard, virile line of his arm. Cara sensed a sudden and dangerous change in him that made her look at him warily. When Jeth gave her his attention once again, her skin tingled with an ominous chill.

“I think that somewhere in that scheming little head of yours, you actually entertained the idea that I may be induced to pick up where Ryan left off—two halves are better than one, so to speak—”

Cara was horrified. “No!” she gasped. “What an insane idea!”

“Is it, Miss Martin?” Jeth returned with icy calm. “Unlike my brother, who preferred tall, statuesque women, I have always had an inclination toward the Dresden type, the kind who are all cool fragility without but fire and passion within—like the kind of woman I suspect you are, Miss Martin. But then you were aware of that. You probably pumped Ryan plenty before he died.”

At the mention of Ryan's death, a sudden shadow flitted across Jeth's sun-browned face. For a brief moment Cara saw naked pain etched there and remembered what she had forgotten in their bitter interview—that Jeth was suffering, too. Nonetheless, she jumped to her feet, small fists clenched, instinctively knowing that she must make clear her position on this vital point or lose a foothold that she could never regain. “I knew nothing of the sort about you! I couldn't care less about your preferences in women! You are reading far too much into why I want to come to La Tierra. I can understand how you must feel about my living in—in your home, and I don't blame you, but I promise you that I will sell back to you my share—”

“
Ryan's
share,” the man across from her corrected softly, the gray eyes very still.

“Ryan's share,” Cara allowed. “And for a fair price.”

“And what do you consider fair?”

“That will have to be discussed when the estate is settled. You have my word, though—however little it means to you—that the sum will be reasonable. In exchange—” She faltered and bit at the soft flesh of her lip, feeling herself blush.

“Yes?” Jeth pressed, with unnerving patience.

Cara drew a deep breath. “In exchange for the guarantee that I will sell to no one but you, I must have your guarantee that no harm will come to me while I am living at La Tierra.”

There was a short silence, broken when Jeth instructed, “Do sit down, Miss Martin. Your height is inadequate to provide you much advantage. Besides, you look tired enough to drop.” She did, too. He had just noticed the delicate blue tinges of fatigue beneath the startling eyes. “Now tell me, why do you think you'll need my protection?”

“Mr. Langston!” Cara regarded him coldly as she sat down. “I may look a fool, but I assure you I'm not! Neither do I think I am addressing one. You know perfectly well why I would want such a guarantee. I could be—I could be—” Desperately she searched for a word that was less graphic than the one that sprang to mind.

“Molested in some way?” he suggested politely, a small smile playing about his strong mouth.

“Yes!” she said in angry embarrassment. “That, or—or beaten and starved—”

“My dear Miss Martin!” Jeth could not suppress his laughter. It had a nice, hearty ring to it, and had he not been laughing at her, she might have enjoyed it. She seethed while, still amused, he blew a final stream of smoke and tamped out the cigar in the ashtray. “You've been seeing too many Italian Westerns,” he chuckled.

“I see no Italian Westerns, Mr. Langston. I do not care for them. I am merely stating the obvious vindictive approach you and the people who work for you might take toward me for what you suppose I did to Ryan—”

“Suppose? Did you say
suppose
, Miss Martin?” He was out of his chair before she could blink, all humor vanished, the arctic coldness back in his eyes. “Let's get a few facts straight,” he said very clearly, bending down to imprison her in the chair by clasping each of its arms. “I don't like dealing in suppositions.”

Cara shrank back from him, the closeness of the granite features and the unaccustomed male scents of cologne and leather and tobacco sending her senses spinning. “Now these are the facts as I see them. I am sure you will correct me if I'm wrong.”

“Given the opportunity,” Cara managed, pressing back against the chair.

“You prevented my brother from coming home to die. Oh, he came back for a last token visit, but he never mentioned he was dying. If I had known his illness was terminal, I would have kept him there, and that would have meant curtains for you. I would have found out about the altered will.”

“That's not true!”

“Isn't it, Miss Martin? Then why didn't he tell me about you, the woman he loved? Why didn't he tell me about the change in the will? Ryan would have known that I would have accepted any decision he made concerning his half of La Tierra. It was his to do with as he chose.”

“Mr. Langston, I honestly don't know the answers to those questions—” He was so close. If she moved, they would touch.

“Then try this one. Why didn't
you
tell me he was dying? You had to have known that I didn't know. You were the woman who answered the phone a few weeks ago when I called, weren't you? Why didn't you tell me?”

Cara could not answer. Helplessly, she stared into the suddenly bleak eyes. No wonder Jeth Langston despised her. It was not the loss of the land that sharpened the edge of his hate against her, but the belief that she had denied him the last days of his brother's life.

“What power you had over him, Cara!” Jeth said in soft anguish. “A man doesn't need much imagination to know how you made sure he returned to Boston. I'm sure you had your ways of convincing him that your arms were better for holding him in his final days than mine would have been.”

A stab of pity for him brought the shine of tears to her eyes. She would not, could not, add to this man's grief by telling him that Ryan himself had refused to return home to die. Without meaning to, she looked longingly at the broad set of shoulders encased in the buttery soft leather. She was so desperately tired. How pleasant it would be to slip her arms around that strong neck and rest her cheek against the leather's yielding softness. Instead, she closed her eyes and lowered her head wearily, feeling a strand of hair brush Jeth's chin.

“I—I can well understand how all this must look to you, but—but—”

“But I'm wrong, is that it?” Jeth finished for her, his tone almost gentle.

She shook her head.

“Oh, Miss Martin—” He straightened up, an impotent rage filling his soul. Long ago he had dispensed with dreams, especially those about women. But occasionally, when he felt especially lonely and the long evening hours in the study stretched out before him, he wondered what it would be like to know, like his father, the love of a devoted woman. Sometimes his thoughts wandered further, and he envisioned what she would look like, this woman of his dreams. A small, shapely figure, eyes that could melt the needles from a cactus, honey-gold hair, and a mouth so sweet and passionate that it was like drinking ambrosia to kiss her—that was the description of the woman he yearned to give his heart and soul. A woman who looked like Cara Martin.

“Let's see if I'm wrong about this, too, Miss Martin,” Jeth said, his voice dangerously soft. He reached down and slipped an arm around her waist. Cara was in the leather enclosure of his embrace before she could close her astonished mouth.

“Let me go!” she demanded, aware of the sudden intimate pressure of his chest against hers. His move had been so sudden, he was pressing her so close that her arms dangled uselessly. They had nowhere to go but to his shoulders, and she must not put them there.

“This is your chance to prove me wrong about you, Miss Martin, that you are not what I think you are, that you were never Ryan's—”

“Don't say it!” Cara said desperately. “I can't bear to hear you say it.”

“Then prove to me how wrong I am.”

“Don't—” The word was just forming when Jeth's lips closed over her mouth.

Cara stiffened against him, tightened her lips in rigid protest against such a violation of her privacy. Small fists pummeled his shoulders with powerless blows that drained her remaining strength. Jeth, his hand a gentle vise under the silken fall of her hair, felt the tension suddenly leave and released her mouth. Cara's lids fluttered open, the depths of her eyes starry and deeply violet. Jeth stared down into them, and she was conscious of a strange, frightening desire asserting itself deep within her. “Please let me go,” she pleaded, her mouth so close to him that her lips stroked his when she spoke.

“No,” he murmured and kissed her eyes. She whimpered—to Jeth's ears like a kitten lost in a storm—but he could not afford to be merciful. He pressed her closer and she gasped and tensed as his lips closed over hers again. He might have let her go then, but she did not pull away. Against her mouth Jeth groaned in gratitude, for he could not have borne the sudden release of her from his arms, the denial of her lips, the feel of her body. The fragrance of her filled his nostrils and drifted down into the hollow of his heart where he had conceived the image of her likeness. Exultantly, hungrily, tasting and devouring her, he led her deeper into a world of sexuality where he could not have known that she had never been before.

And Cara, the sudden, unexpected need of him destroying her defenses, could not prevent the ardor with which her flesh responded.

Long after her body had helped Jeth to prove his point, she stayed within his embrace. Finally, he pushed her from him. Shame would not let her meet his eyes. To finish her humiliation, tears began to run down her cheeks.

“Believe it or not,” he said quietly, “I wish I'd been wrong. It would be comforting to know that Ryan had loved a woman who could have remained faithful until his body was cold.”

Jeth brought out a folded white lawn handkerchief and tossed it to her. “Now let's do a little reconsidering, shall we? I'm sure that you realize that it's out of the question for you to live on the ranch.”

Cara dabbed at her eyes. “I have to come, Jeth,” she said. “I have to. I don't expect you to understand, but be assured I won't ask a thing from you. I won't be in your way. What happened just now will not happen again—”

Jeth asked in astonishment, “You mean you
still
intend to go through with this? What the hell for? What can you possibly hope to gain? I'll pay you now for Ryan's share of the ranch!”

“It—it's not for sale until the estate is settled, which will take approximately a year, or so I'm told. I'd like to arrive March twentieth, two days from now. Probably by this time next year, the paperwork will have already been drawn up to restore Ryan's portion to you. You have my word that I will ask no more than a fair price for it. And you have to promise—”

“Yes, I know,” Jeth grated. “My protection from physical abuse. Okay, lady, you have a deal, but I hope your psychological health is in good shape. You'll need it where you're going.” He turned to pick up the Stetson. “By the way,” he asked, “just how do you expect to get to the ranch?”

“I intend flying to Midland Air Terminal. I'd like for you to have someone pick me up when I arrive. I'd rent a car, but I would have no way to return it.”

“Suppose I say no.”

Cara had to moisten dry lips, but she stood her ground. “Jeth, you have to cooperate with my inconsequential requests if you want that land back.”

He came back to all but gape at her, his strong brown fingers curved around the brim of the Stetson. Cara found herself gazing at them in fascination. “I won't bore you with the results of the last attempt to coerce me, Miss Martin, but let it suffice to say that the individual regretted his impulse. You will hand over that land no later than next March twentieth with or without my cooperation to your
inconsequential
requests, do you understand? And another thing: you have lapsed twice and called me Jeth. Don't do so again.”

Without another look at her, he strode from the room and closed the door behind him with the finality of an exclamation mark. Cara stood staring at it with a strange sense of loss, raising to her lips the monogrammed handkerchief he had forgotten.

H
e wouldn't see me, you know,” said Harold St. Clair after he and Cara had been seated in the dining room of the Dallas Hilton where he had reserved rooms for them.

“Mr. Langston considers you a traitor,” Cara said regretfully, practicing the form of his name that she'd been ordered to use. “But even so, I'd think he would want to hear about his brother from one who had been his colleague and friend.”

“Jeth Langston is a hard man, Cara. Apparently he feels that I am partly responsible for this unpleasantness since I knew about the will and didn't tell him in time for him to exert his influence. I plead innocent of knowing that Ryan's illness was terminal.” He looked across at Cara with a despondent smile. She was ravishing in a red dinner dress that heightened the translucent glow of her skin. Under the flattering lights of the chandeliers, her eyes and hair were dazzling. Harold was aware that glances from other diners kept returning to their table. He only wished Cara's admirers could have the pleasure of seeing her smile. The lovely heirloom pearls encircling her throat were nothing to the pearl perfection of her smile.

Gently, Harold covered the small hand toying with the stem of a wineglass. “If he had agreed to see me, I could have told him that he is mistaken about you.”

“How can you be sure of that, Harold?” The lawyer's first name sounded unfamiliar to her still. This afternoon he had asked her to use it. “You know no more about me than he does.”

“I know that when I first read to you the contents of the will, your face lost all color, and you immediately wanted to give—not sell—the land back to Jeth. Your specific words were ‘Ryan would never have done that to his brother.' Remember? You only changed your mind after I left you alone with Ryan's envelope. What was in it, Cara? What was in it that made you change your mind about the inheritance and decide to wait out the settlement of the estate at La Tierra?”

Cara drew her hand away and clutched the napkin in her lap. She was becoming adept at hiding her thoughts, and now a curtain seemed to descend over her features. If Harold probed any further, he might guess at the promise she had made to Ryan. Warmth remained in her eyes, however, and Harold was rewarded with a faint smile. “I'll have to tell you what I told Mr. Langston, Harold. My reasons are personal. A year will go fast and then I'll have to impose upon you again by asking that you arrange the sale agreement.”

“Do you…know what you'll be asking?” Harold inquired blandly, studying her covertly over the rim of his martini glass.

“A reasonable price,” was her evasive answer. “Now tell me, when are you going back to Boston?” The question made her heart move strangely. Harold was her last link with home, with what was familiar and safe. He had been a steady and comforting presence at her side throughout the strain of the last few weeks. To be suddenly without his counsel and support, his easy companionship, would be especially hard after the tragedy of Ryan's death and the fear of the ordeal ahead.

“Tomorrow morning,” Harold told her reluctantly, reading her thoughts. “Cara. I want you to consider me your friend. You have my card. If for any reason you need me, you've only to call. I could not bear to think of your needing help and having no one to turn to. I'm only a return flight away.” He looked at the girl as gravely as he dared. Heaven knew, she was frightened enough for all the composure she was trying to show. “And my dear—” He took her hand into his smooth, comforting one. “If I may offer some advice?”

“Please do,” Cara invited quietly, but her heart fluttered sickeningly at his tone. Into her mind leaped the image of Jeth and the hatred and repugnance that had been in his eyes in the last few moments of their interview. She did not fear anything he could do to her if only he did not prey on the weakness he had discovered, the weakness she had not even known she possessed.

“Then it is this, Cara. Do not love anything while you are out there. No man, woman, or child. No horse or dog—not even an armadillo—” His attempt at humor failed. The beautiful eyes darkened with anxiety, but he pressed on. “Care for nothing or no one through which he can hurt you—” Harold broke off as a waiter appeared to present them with menus.

“You don't have to go, you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

Harold sighed. “I have transferred a sum of money to your account on orders from Ryan. No, don't protest, Cara, and don't be foolish, either. You're broke. I know it, and Ryan knew it. You will have no income while you're in Texas, so don't let that New England pride of yours prevent you from spending it for the things you need.”

Cara opened the menu. Ryan had thought of everything. Everything but an explanation for why she was here. “I don't think I'll have anything but a salad. I seem to have lost my appetite,” she said.

The next morning Cara saw Harold St. Clair off on his return trip to Boston from the huge, modern Metroplex airport that sprawled between Dallas and Fort Worth. As the aircraft lifted off, a bleak depression settled over her, and she clutched even tighter the small box she held. It contained a gold charm in the design of a seagull that Harold had given her just before boarding.

“For luck,” he explained, looking down at the golden head bent in surprised pleasure over the trinket. “You can attach it to that thin gold chain you wear around your neck. If you have any bad moments, just reach up and touch it. I hope it reminds you that you have a friend.”

“Harold—” Words failed her, and so she reached up and kissed his smooth-shaven cheek. Blinking at the tears that threatened, she stammered, “You've been so kind. I can never repay—”

“Shh.” He stopped her gently by touching a finger to her lips. “Take care of yourself now, and let me hear from you.”

Once he had gone, Cara found a secluded seat in a vacant passenger lounge and cried out the grief and despair that had needed release for weeks. She felt better afterward and resolutely drew a breath. That will have to do me, she thought. No way can I afford to do that once I'm on The Conquered Land!

The next morning she was wide awake long before the desk called to awaken her. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling and tried to calm herself by mentally lining up the defenses she could call on to protect herself from Jeth Langston's expected vengeance. There was the matter of the land, which would be hers by law within the year. She must not be squeamish when it came to holding that over his arrogant head in case he decided to get rough with her. Also, she would watch her decorum carefully and in no way give anyone reason to call her—she could hardly bear to think of it—Ryan's whore! She would stay out of everyone's way, but if allowed, she would certainly pitch in and help with whatever needed doing.

But for all the practical advice she gave herself, the knot remained tied in her stomach. Not even the elegant suit she chose for her flight helped to soothe her anxieties. She had come to take pleasure and comfort in the large assortment of beautiful clothes that soon would be hanging in her closet on La Tierra. They reminded her of Ryan and brought him close to her in memory. She wore them proudly, knowing that he would have wanted her to.

Cara preferred time to drag, but it did not. By the time she had finished packing and forced herself to eat several bites of melon for breakfast, she had to leave for the airport. She dressed warmly in the sable-lined raincoat, for spring was late arriving in Texas, and in no time at all she was deposited before the flight desk and her bags were being checked.

A flurry of worrisome questions besieged her as the airliner winged its way over the vast reaches of Texas. Were the two big boxes containing her clothes and the belongings she had sent by air freight waiting for her in the small airport where she'd be landing? Would there be someone there to meet her? Cara cringed at the thought that it might be Jeth Langston. She shrugged off that worry immediately, thinking it unlikely that the owner of La Tierra Conquistada performed such menial chores. How would she get to the ranch if no one was there? She could rent a car, but how could she return it? Finally, already exhausted from the burden of her anxieties and a sleepless night, she laid her head back, closed heavy lids over troubled eyes, and slept.

The steward woke her, it seemed to Cara, just a few minutes later, and yet she felt a surge of fresh strength and well-being. The young man smiled down at her, enjoying her beauty. “I thought you'd like to be awake before we land,” he said, “especially if this is your first trip to West Texas.”

Cara thanked him, and the steward remained at her seat to get her reaction when she looked out of her window. The sight below made her gasp. The handsome young steward smiled. “That's something, isn't it? Everybody has that reaction the first time they see West Texas from the air. Someone once said this part of the state can best be described as ‘miles and miles of miles and miles.' ”

An accurate statement, Cara agreed, as she gaped down at the vast, seemingly endless desert that surrounded two oasis-looking patches of green. Cara assumed they were the only towns of any size in the area. In between them was the airport, but beyond and around them was nothing—no trees, lakes, or highways—to break the sweeping brown panorama of the West Texas plains. A tough, rugged land, she decided—like the man who had conquered it.

The thought of Jeth Langston brought shadows to her eyes, and the steward, who had already summed her up as some rich man's toy, ventured curiously, “Somehow you don't look like you belong out here. Are you just visiting?”

“Yes,” Cara replied, giving him a brief smile before turning back to her window. The steward took the hint and moved off down the aisle, wondering about the man rich enough to afford something like that.

A dry, stiff wind lifted Cara's blond hair when she stepped off the departure ramp at Midland Air Terminal. There was no amenity of a covered ramp from plane to terminal, and she pulled the warm fur at her neck closer. Quickly she scanned the assembled group of relatives and friends for anyone who might be from La Tierra Conquistada. Subconsciously, Cara realized, she was looking for Jeth. No one nearly that tall or dominating was among the group who waited inside the terminal building. She looked searchingly around, but her gaze was met only by those arrested by her striking appearance.

He hasn't sent anyone!
she thought in dismay. So this was to be her first taste of what she could expect as Ryan's whore.

She went into the small restaurant for a cup of coffee and to plan her next move. There was a car rental service here. Perhaps she would have to rent a car and simply hope that she could prevail upon someone from the ranch to return it. Oh, for her trusty old Volkswagen, she was thinking, just as someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Cara looked up in surprise. A tall, rangy young man about her age, wearing low-slung jeans, scuffed boots, a sleeveless fleece-lined jacket, and a frowning expression, was regarding her uncertainly. He had a dusty cowboy hat pushed back on his curly blond head. “Yes?” she inquired.

“You Miss Martin?”

“Yes, I am. Are you from La Tierra?”

“Yeah. The boss sent me to pick ya up.”

“Well, that's wonderful!” Cara exclaimed, a brilliant smile of relief lighting her eyes.

The young man looked away, momentarily disconcerted. Cara suspected that the tough-guy pose did not come naturally and was being worn for her benefit. Orders from headquarters, she surmised with a flash of temper.

“Let's go, then,” he said gruffly.

“There are a couple of things that I must do first—”

The young man dug his heels into the carpet, thrust fingertips into tight jean pockets, and surveyed her with disapproval. “Like whut?”

“Paying my check for one thing,” she said pleasantly. “And then I have to pick up my luggage. After that, I have to go to the air freight office to collect the boxes that I sent from Boston.”

“That take long?”

“No-o-o.” Cara's eyes rounded innocently. “Not nearly as long as it would take to make a return trip here and back.”

“Well…” The young cowboy thought this over. “I guess it's all right. But I have strict orders from the boss to pick ya up and head right on back to the ranch. This is roundup time, ya know.”

“No, I didn't know,” Cara said congenially, fishing in her bag for money. She indicated her bags. “Would you mind getting those while I pay the check?”

The young man picked up Cara's weekender and cosmetic case. “My name is Cara,” she said, taking the cosmetic case from him as they were heading for the luggage pickup.

“Mine's Bill, but I don't think we oughta get too friendly, miss. Let's just get what ya got to get and quit the jawin'.”

Stung, Cara remained silent while the luggage was collected. Bill's only words were, “The jeep is out here.”

“Jeep?” she cried, following him out to an immaculately painted light-gray jeep with the name of the ranch in small yellow letters on its side. The wind was beginning to pick up. Cara's ears already felt cold, and she did not relish a ride in an open vehicle. She was glad that she'd remembered to tuck a light wool scarf into her handbag.

All his attention on the road, Bill drove the jeep to the freight office where to her relief the two big boxes from Boston were awaiting her. Without a word, Bill loaded them into the back of the jeep with her other luggage, then looked impatiently at her standing beside the vehicle tying on her head scarf. “Let's go, miss. We're late enough already.”

With Cara clutching the side of the jeep with one hand and her scarf with the other, they tore off down the road leading out of the airport. They headed west on a wide modern interstate for a few miles until Bill turned left onto a two-lane highway. The wind tore at Cara's scarf, stung her eyes and cheeks, and carried away all attempts at conversation. Finally, receiving no response, she fell silent, trying to make as much as possible of the terrain they were passing through. Still in its wintry pall, it was indeed a bleak-looking landscape. Little vegetation grew from the hard, sandy ground, and what there was appeared stunted and sparse. She recognized the gnarled mesquite trees that Ryan had described to her. “They won't bud until the last freeze is over,” she remembered his telling her. “Everything else out there can be fooled by Mother Nature, but not the mesquite.” Cara had no idea what mesquite looked like when in bloom, but since there was not a single speck of color on the barren landscape, she deduced that winter was not yet over.