Sunset Embrace (38 page)

Long afterward, she had lain like a beautiful ragdoll draped over his chest. He had smiled up at the sky, breathing in the scent of clover, of her, of him, of a summer evening, and realized that he had never known such peace and fulfillment and happiness in his life. His arms had folded over her back and he held her close. He had this woman to thank for that happiness.

So when the Langston girls mentioned their taking a walk, Ross's pulse quickened and his body reacted in the most profound way,

Lydia squelched both the suggestion and his rising desire with a terse "I don't want anyone watching Lee but me." They looked at her with peculiar expressions. "He's been cross all day. I think he might have a stomachache."

That night, she went to bed before Ross came in. He knew she wasn't asleep, though she pretended to be. He cursed women in general as he lay down beside her. What the hell was the matter with her?

Then he knew a moment of guilt. Her monthlies. By God, he had almost forgotten that Victoria would go to bed for several days at that time and here Lydia had been driving the wagon all day, taking care of Lee, cooking over a hot fire.

He turned to her. "Lydia?"

She lay facing away from him, mentally reliving her encounter with Clancey and trying to suppress the fear that was twisting her insides. "Yes?" She wasn't fit to be his wife, She had been Clancey's whore. Not willingly, but his whore just the same. A sob escaped her lips.

Ross heard it and turned her to him, not heeding her momentary resistance. He pressed her face into his chest and smoothed her hair. "Go to sleep," he whispered, touching a soft kiss to her temple. He no longer resented the tenderness she inspired in him. Its source was a part of himself he didn't know. He couldn't control it, so he gave in to it. He still loved Victoria and always would, but she was dead and he was alive and a civilized man needed a companion. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Ross was the first to fall asleep. Lydia lay there, loving him, listening to the steady beating of his heart, and wondering how she was going to escape Clancey this time.

* * *

She began to relax somewhat after the third day when he didn't appear again. Maybe he had only been toying with her to frighten her. Maybe something had happened to him. Maybe—

She searched the wagon just the same.

"I'm still not feeling too well," she lied to Ross that next morning after Clancey's appearance. "Do you think Bubba would mind driving for me today? I think I'll stay in the back with Lee."

Ross peered at her closely, but she wouldn't meet his ryes. Was she truly ill and wouldn't tell him? He hadn't made love to her, guessing correctly it wouldn't be wel-comed. Was she about to run away from him? A million possibilities paraded through his mind and he couldn't tolerate any of them. "Fine," he said tightly and stalked away.

Lydia knew she was testing his temper, but she couldn't help it. She was fighting for her life, and for his and Lee's.

That day she looked through every packing crate, every drawer in the chest, any place where Ross or Victoria could have hidden jewelry. She didn't think Ross knew anything about it, though he had hidden money in the wagon. She uncovered it in a china sugar bowl that had been packed away in a nest of newspaper. But no jewelry.

Clancey must be wrong. But if she couldn't produce what he was determined to have, then what? What would he do? Turn Ross in? Harm Lee? Tell Ross that she was his common-law wife?

She found out soon enough.

On the fourth day, while she was bending over their cookfire, she looked up to see him standing inches from her. She didn't know where he had come from. He had simply materialized out of nowhere.

"Find it?" he asked.

"No. There's nothing. I looked."

"Don't go feedin' me that cock-and-bull story. It's there, I tell ya."

"It isn't, Clancey," she stressed, glancing around nervously. What if anyone saw her talking to him? Everyone was going about their business as though this were any other evening and not the one when her world was going to come to an end—again. "I tell you I looked,"

"Everywhere?"

"Yes," she said earnestly.

He scratched his crotch. "Well, then, I reckon I'll have to mosey into the next town and alert the sheriff that this here wagon trains shelterin' a wanted man. It'll create quite a stir, I magine." He took two ambling steps away before she stopped him with a sharp "No, wait!" He turned around and nailed her to the ground with the twin beads of his eyes.

She wrung her hands and licked her lips. "I .
..
Maybe there are places I haven't looked. It's not easy."

"I didn't say it was gonna be easy. I just told you to do it or else."

"Give me a few more days, Clancey, please."

He came around the fire and started toward her with predatory footsteps. "And for me being kindhearted, what're you aimin' to give me? Hmm?"

She backed away from him. He stalked her. "Ain't had time to get into a town. Understand? I've had a powerful itch for a woman for days and—"

"You'd better have a goddamn good reason for backing my wife into that wagon, mister."

The deadly voice came from within two feet of them as Ross stepped around the end of the wagon. Clancey reacting with an animal instinct, reached for the scabbard at his belt where the bowie knife was sheathed.

"I wouldn't," was all Ross said. It was enough. Before Clancey's hand was halfway to the scabbard, Ross's pistol had been drawn from its holster and the barrel of it was resting on the bridge of Clancey's wide, flat nose, directly between his eyes. Clancey raised his arms wide to extend out from his sides.

"Now, unless you want me to blast your brains to kingdom come, I suggest you move away from my wife."

It was the first time in her life Lydia had seen Clancel obey anyone. He had never paid any attention to Otis Russell's drunken orders. He was pale now and sweating profusely as he shuffled backward away from her.

"Easy with that Colt, mister," Clancey stuttered, striving for a chuckle. "Your woman here is as jumpy as a pony. All I done was ask her where you was at and she went all a-tremble."

Ross didn't believe him for a moment. Lydia looked like she had seen a ghost. "Well, you got me. What do you want?"

"A job. You're Coleman, ain'tcha?"

Lydia fixed her disbelieving eyes on Clancey. What wss he up to?

Ross was immediately wary. Lydia saw his eyes flicker and his lips thin beneath the moustache. "Who wants to know?"

"Name's Russell." He paused, watching for some reaction from Coleman. There was none. So the gal hadn't told him about her past. He wished he had the courage to gloat that it was him who had swelled her belly up with a baby. "I heard you had a fine string of horses."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Can't rightly recollect," he said, screwing up his face as though trying to remember. "I'm good with horses, ya see, and figured ya might hire me on to help ya take care of 'em."

Ross eased down the hammer of his pistol and reholstered it. "I don't need any help," he said tersely.

"Sure must be a handful, all them fine horses. Can't ya give a poor man down on his luck a break?"

"I said I don't need any help," Ross repeated in a voice that would have sliced through a brave man's veins and made them bleed. "I've already hired on a young man to help me."

Clancey made a regretful, smacking sound with his mouth. "Well, now, that's a real shame, ain't it? Story of my life. Day late and dollar short."

"You can get on your way now, Russell," Ross said.

Lydia saw the momentary flash of hatred on Clancey's face. He didn't like being told what to do and Ross had already bested him once. "All righty. Sorry to have bothered you." He tipped his hat toward Lydia. "Sorry to have frightened you, ma'am. I avoid trouble whenever I can." He put his hand on his shirtfront and she heard the crackle of paper. He was reminding her of the wanted poster. "I always give folks the benefit of the doubt." He would be back to see if she had found the jewelry.

"Get going, Russell." Ross's lips didn't even move as he pushed the words past them.

Clancey glared at him hatefully before he grinned foxily and sauntered away toward a mangy horse tied up not far from the wagon. They watched until he had ridden out of sight.

Ross turned to her and took her gently by the shoulders, bending his knees to better see into her face. "Did he hurt you? What did he say? Are you all right?"

Her teeth were chattering and she stuttered as she answered. "Yes, I'm fine."

"You were scared out of your wits. I saw the expression on your face."

"I was silly to be so afraid. He was uncouth, but harmless, I think."

"Well, I don't think. I'm going to follow him—"

"No!" she cried, catching his sleeves in her fists. "No, Ross. He ... he might be dangerous."

She didn't seem to notice that she had contradicted herself. Ross regretted not shooting the man when he had had a chance, for no other reason than for terrorizing Lydia He had never seen her so discomposed. Placing his palm along her cheek he said gently, "Just until he's well on his way. I'll send Bubba to stay with you here."

Ross was anxious to make sure this Russell fellow was only a drifter. It bothered him that the man had known as much about him. Did he know more than that Ross Coleman owned a string of breed horses? Did he know about Sonny Clark? It bore checking out.

Ross was still worried hours later when he returned to camp, having lost Russell's tracks after nightfall. He went around the camp, asking if anyone had seen or talked to him. He was relieved a bit when Mr. Lawson told his Russell had been at the corral that afternoon as they were making camp.

"He asked me whose horses they were. I told him your name. I even pointed out your wagon to him. Sorry, Ross." "It's all right. I think he was just a drifter looking for work. But I don't think he's anyone we'd want joining us." "I agree," Lawson said. "Ugly varmint." Ross went back to his own wagon, resolved that he had let his imagination run away with him. It had been more than three years since he had gotten shot up and left for dead. Sonny Clark had died as far as Ross Coleman was concerned. But there would be bounty hunters and lawmen who would love to know that he lived under a new Identity. He couldn't be too careful.

Bubba was sitting on the steps of the wagon, staring into the dying embers of the fire. He jumped to his feet and reached for the rifle propped against the tailgate when he heard Ross approach.

"Careful. It's me," Ross said. "Where's Lydia?"

"Already asleep," Bubba said with the same moodiness that he had shown since Luke's death.

"Lee all right?"

Yep.

"Anything happen while I was gone?"

"Nope." He couldn't tell Ross that Priscilla Watkins had sneaked up on him, begging to talk. She had come up behind him on the far side of the wagon as soon as Lydia had gone inside and turned out the lantern.

"Bubba," she had whispered from the cloak of darkness.

He had spun around and, seeing who had startled him out of his depression, glowered at her. "Go away," he had muttered, resuming his seat on the steps of the wagon. "I want to talk to you, Bubba," she whined. "You've been avoiding me since . . . since . . . since the day Luke was killed."

"That's right. Get the message?"

She mashed her fingertips against quivering lips. "Why are you treating me so mean, Bubba? I let you do it to me, didn't I? I was nice to you and now you're acting so hateful. Just like a man, begging and pleading to satisfy his own lust, and then turning on the poor girl who let him use her."

Bubba felt miserable enough without her harping at him. He knew he was treating her badly, but every time he looked in her direction, he was reminded of Luke's body, draped lifelessly over Moses's arms.

If he hadn't been diddlin' Priscilla that afternoon. If he hadn't had his hands all over her. If her breasts . . . and her mouth . . .

In spite of himself he had felt his passions taking over again. They commanded his body, not his heart or his brain. How could he want to do
that
again, even while he grieved for his brother? He must be wicked. He hated, too, that Priscilla knew his misery. She had sidled up to him, put her hand on the front of his pants and rubbed kittenishly.

"Don't you like me anymore, Bubba?"

Even in the darkness he could see that she wasn't wearing anything underneath her calico dress. He had hardened beneath the manipulation of her fingers, and a groan of self-loathing issued out of his throat.

He shoved her away. "Leave me alone."

Furiously, she had tossed back her hair and stamped her foot, fists clenching at her sides. "All right. But I'm warning you, if you put a baby in me, you'll regret it. My pall kill you."

With that dismal, though ludicrous, threat, she had stamped away in the darkness, leaving Bubba more miserable than ever. He had thought that would be impossible. Now he roused himself out of his disturbing reverie to ask Ross to repeat his question. "I asked if there was any coffee left. Never mind. I think there is." Ross poured himself the last of the brew and took the pot off the fire.

"Lydia said to tell you there are beans left if you want 'em."

Ross shook his head. "This is fine. Thanks for keeping an eye on things. You can go on to your wagon now. I'll bank the fire."

Bubba hesitated and Ross, sensing that the boy's distraction came from his distress over Luke, waited as he casually sipped his coffee. He wouldn't press the boy to tell him what was bothering him. But if Bubba wanted to get it off his chest, Ross was willing to listen.

"I remember this bull our neighbors in Tennessee had. We borrowed him for our cow," Bubba began without preamble. He cleared his throat and ran his hands down his pants leg before idly picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt. "And anyway, each time they ... uh ... you know, every time he mounted her, she calved."

"Yeah," Ross said, taking another sip of coffee and staring into the shimmering coals.

"I was wonderin'"—he coughed—"if that's the way it is with us. Humans, I mean."