Trilby (6 page)

“What are the tall, thin ones?”

“Ocotillo,” he said. “Mexicans use it to build thorny fences.”

“We have prickly pear cactus in Louisiana,” she said.

“Do you?”

“Not in Baton Rouge,” she said, grinning.

He stopped walking and turned to look at her. “Do you speak any French?”

“Just a little,” she said. “Mama is fluent.” She searched his dark eyes. “Do you?”

“I speak Spanish fluently,” he said. “And a smattering of German.”

He didn’t look away, and neither did she. For mo
ments that stretched with sweet tension, he looked down at her. Her lips parted as her heart began to race. He had the most decadent effect on her, she thought.

His dark eyes dropped, as no gentleman’s would, to her bosom. She caught her breath.

“Limits,” he murmured. “You Eastern women can’t live without them. Out here, a man sees something he wants and he just takes it.”

“Including women?” she asked huskily.

“It depends on the woman,” he replied. “My wife was like you, Trilby,” he added bitterly. “A hothouse orchid transplanted into hot, sandy soil. She hated it, hated me. She should never have married me. She wouldn’t have,” he added, with a cynical smile, “but she did like my money.”

The thought irritated him. He didn’t like remembering Sally. Trilby brought it all back.

“You…loved her?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said harshly. “I loved her. But she wanted poetry and roses every morning and maids to wait on her. She wanted a gentleman to escort her to social functions. She hated my roughness, hated the loneliness. She grew to hate me. Everything about me,” he added, averting his eyes. “I don’t need telling that I’m a savage. Sally told me twice a day.”

Incredible that she should pity him, she thought, watching his rigid features grow even harder. How terrible, to love someone who hated you…

He looked down and caught her compassionate stare. It made him furious that she should feel sorry for him. It made him more furious that he’d begun to like her, to enjoy her company. She was a tramp, and he was letting himself be drawn into her sticky web. He was a fool!

He threw the cigarette down in the dirt and reached for her.

“I don’t need your pity,” he said curtly, staring at her mouth. “Not when you’re more contemptible than I’ll ever be!”

His mouth bit into hers, twisting, hurting her. She gasped and tried to fight him, but he was much too strong. His arms were like vises, his mouth tasting of tobacco and pure man. He used his body like a weapon to humiliate her. His lean hands slid quickly to her hips and ground them against his thighs.

The intimacy was staggering to a woman who’d barely been kissed before. Her body seemed to flush all over at the shock of feeling the changed contours of his body against her stomach. She cried out, furiously outraged and embarrassed by the unspeakable liberties he was taking, beating at him with her fists and trying to kick him.

Surprised at her show of fury, he let her go. She stood glaring at him with a red face, her hair escaping from its tidy bun, her gray eyes blazing. She reached up and struck him across the mouth as hard as she could.

“You savage!” she cried, shaking all over. “I knew…you were…no gentleman!” she raged.

“And you’re no lady, you Louisiana tramp,” he said, without flinching from the blow. His eyes were like death as he looked at her. “If I were a little less civilized than I am, I’d throw you down in the dusty road and ravish you where you lay.”

Her face went even redder. Her mouth trembled, tears formed in her eyes at the blatant insult. To think that dear, courtly Richard had never done more than touch her hand, and this savage had—had…

“You lay one hand…on me…and I’ll hit you with a tree limb! How…dare you?” she choked, almost sobbing with rage. “I shall…tell my father!”

“Do that,” he replied calmly, “and I’ll tell him about the affair you’re having with my married cousin!”

She stared at him as if he’d gone mad. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s too late to lie about it,” he told her, his voice cold with contempt. “Sally saw you and Curt kissing each other. She told me, several weeks before she died.”

Her face went from red to deathly white. She faltered and almost fell. His hand shot out to steady her, but she threw it off, hating him.

“That is a lie,” she whispered, shaking. “It is a vicious, unfounded lie!”

“Why would my wife lie to me?” he drawled. “And she’s dead now. How convenient for you. She can hardly contradict you, can she?”

She swallowed, and then swallowed again. She thought she might faint. She knew there wasn’t a drop of blood in her face. His expression told her that arguing with him wasn’t going to change his mind. He’d decided that his wife’s lie was gospel. Nothing she said was going to convince him that she’d done no more than talk to his cousin Curt.

She lifted her hobble skirt with trembling cold hands and started unsteadily back toward the car.

He followed her, opening her door with overblown courtesy.

She didn’t look at him as she got in. She couldn’t bear to. She sat like a statue as he cranked the car and turned it back toward home.

It wasn’t until he pulled up in her front yard that he
spoke again. “There’s no use playing the martyr with me,” he said carelessly. “I know what you are.”

“If I were a man, I would shoot you through the heart,” she said, choking. She was shaking with outrage and temper. “When I tell my father what you’ve accused me of,
he
probably will shoot you! I hope he does!”

He raised both eyebrows. “You can’t possibly mean to actually confess to him?” he asked insolently. “You’ll destroy his illusions.”

She controlled her urge to slap him again, but barely. “Mr. Vance,” she said, with cold indignation, “in order to conduct a clandestine relationship with your cousin, I should be obliged to leave the house after dark.”

“That would be no problem. You have an automobile,” he reminded her.

“I can neither drive nor ride a horse,” she said stiffly.

He hesitated. “Then someone could have driven you.”

She nodded. “Oh, of course. My parents would understand that I wanted to leave the house at night, alone, something I’ve never done in my life!”

She was blowing holes in his theory. He frowned. He didn’t like the cold facts she was putting to him.

“The incident Sally told me about was at a party that your parents attended,” he said, averting his eyes with growing unease.

“I see. I’ve been prejudged, without even the chance to defend myself.” She stared straight ahead, shivering as a distasteful thought came to her. Her hands gripped her purse. “I suppose…your wife didn’t confine her confession to you.”

“She told Lou, Curt’s wife,” he replied.

Her eyes closed. So that explained why Curt’s wife
had been glaring at her so furiously. Probably the vicious gossip had gone the rounds of the entire community. And all because she’d liked Curt and enjoyed talking to him. It had been perfectly innocent.

“Why don’t you ask your cousin if I’ve been having an affair with him?” she asked weakly.

“And have him lie to save your good name?” He laughed. “That would be intelligent, wouldn’t it?”

“Mr. Vance, I should never think to accuse you of any intelligent act,” she said in a harsh tone. “As for your disgusting slander, it is unfounded and grossly unfair. Yes, I shall tell my parents.” She turned and looked at him fully. “The truth is the best weapon I know. And you, sir, will live to regret having accepted a lie without question—even from your late wife.”

Her indignation registered then, and later. She got out of the car, avoiding his assistance, and marched toward the house. He went after her.

Her parents and Teddy were not inside, so there was no necessity for him to explain Trilby’s hostility. Trilby went straight into her bedroom and slammed and locked the door with an audible click, without a single word to Thorn.

He stood outside the closed door and his tall body went rigid. Why had she acted as if he’d done something unspeakable to her, when he was only telling the truth?

“Oh, damn women!” he cursed violently, and went back out the door.

When Jack and Mary came back, Trilby had just bathed her face and hands in cold water. But her eyes were obviously red, and so was her pert nose.

“Why, my dear,” Mary exclaimed, “what’s happened?”

“Your hero has shown his true colors,” Trilby told her father, with trembling dignity. “His wife told him that she saw me kissing his married cousin Curt. He believes that I am involved in a clandestine affair with the man.”

Mary gasped. Jack’s face went hard with contained rage. “How dare he!” he raged. “How dare he make such an accusation to you!”

“I do not want to see Mr. Vance again,” she said pointedly, folding her hands tightly in front of her. “I told you from the beginning that I considered him an uncivilized savage. Perhaps now you’ll understand why.”

“I’m shocked,” Mary said heavily. She took Trilby’s hand and tugged her into the living room, to pull her down gently on the sofa. “Thank goodness Teddy is still mending harnesses with Mr. Torrance. I would hate for him to hear this.”

“Yes,” Jack said, his voice curt. “He idolizes Thorn.”

“Mr. Vance is a good businessman,” Trilby said, choking. “He’s very wealthy and you cannot afford to antagonize him. But now, will you both please stop pushing me at him? He believed that I am—that I am a woman of easy virtue, and when he was alone with me, he behaved in a very…ungentlemanly fashion.” She gripped her hands tightly together. It was painful to have to say these things to her parents. “I do not wish to be forced into his company again.”

“And certainly you will not be!” Mary said shortly, daring her husband to argue.

“Indeed not,” Jack murmured. He sighed heavily and
ran a hand through his gray-sprinkled hair. “Trilby, I misjudged the man. I’m very sorry.”

“So am I, Father, because you admire him.”

“How can he believe such a thing of you?” Mary groaned. “And why did his wife tell such an obvious lie? It makes no sense.”

“It makes a great deal of sense if she told the lie to avert suspicion from herself,” Jack said tautly. “That’s something we can never repeat outside this house,” he cautioned the women. “I do not want an action for slander against us when we’re already in financial woe.”

“I don’t want to make any trouble for Mr. Vance,” Trilby said, with dignity. “I only want him kept away from me.”

“You can be certain of that,” Jack assured her. “If any business crops up that requires his presence here, I’ll give you ample warning, my dear. I’m very sorry to have placed you in such an awkward position.”

“You weren’t to know how he dislikes me,” she told her father bitterly. “Oh, I do wish we’d never left Louisiana! Richard will be home soon…”

“And you want to see him?” Mary said. She smiled and patted Trilby’s hand. “Well, he can come out to us for a visit. Would you like that? He can stay as long as he likes.”

“Do you mean it?” Trilby asked enthusiastically. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Mary laughed and hugged her daughter. “It will make a nice change to have young male company in the house.”

“Could he bring Sissy and Ben with him?” she asked, mentioning his sister and brother. “And perhaps his cousin Julie?”

“Certainly.”

“Just a minute.” Jack laughed. “How am I to feed these pilgrims?”

“We can butcher a steer, of course,” Mary replied. “And there are plenty of vegetables.”

“I give up. Go ahead, have him out.”

“You’re a dear, Father,” Trilby said, her harsh experience of the morning already forgotten in the joy of having her heart’s dearest wish granted. She would see Richard again! It was almost worth the anguish of the day.

T
RILBY SENT A
letter to Richard’s sister, Sissy Bates, inviting the four of them out to the ranch. Then she went home with her father and went on with her everyday chores while the days passed and she waited impatiently for a reply.

Thorn Vance had been pushed firmly to the back of her mind. She no longer cared about his opinion, and her father had called on Curt and Lou Vance the day after Thorn’s insulting behavior toward his daughter.

He came home furious. He and Lou had exchanged harsh words until Curt came in and asked what the fuss was about. When Jack told the man what Thorn had said, Curt was appalled.

Although to Jack, Curt had looked frankly guilty, he had denied immediately any involvement whatsoever with Trilby. He apologized for his cousin Thorn’s suspicions and for any embarrassment Trilby might have suffered. He gave his wife a vicious tongue-lashing and promised to speak to his cousin and correct the undeserved blemish on Trilby’s name with anyone who might have been misled by the gossip. Jack left somewhat placated but still seething about the insult to his daughter’s good name. It was beyond him why a man like Thorn Vance should have so easily accepted Trilby’s guilt. Most men, himself included, had instincts
about women. Trilby kept close to home and she was never blatant in her dress or speech. Of all the things he prized, his good name and that of his family was his greatest treasure. He hoped that the damage could be corrected. In Baton Rouge, no one who knew the Lang family would ever question the good name of his daughter or his wife. But here in Arizona, that was not the case.

T
RILBY HAD WORRIED
herself sick about public opinion. She wasn’t a coward, but Blackwater Springs was a small community. Doors closed when malicious gossip got around. She hated the gossip much more for her mother’s sake than for her own. She didn’t know how they could face their neighbors ever again.

They had to, however. Jack Lang insisted on taking his family to church the following Sunday. He set them down in a prominent pew, glancing around as if ready to do battle on his daughter’s behalf. Hiding at home, he told his family, was more or less tantamount to admitting guilt. Since Trilby had nothing to be guilty about, there was no reason not to let the neighbors see them holding their heads up.

It wasn’t until after the ceremony that two of the more socially prominent matrons came forward to pass the time of day with the Lang family. One of them mentioned that some malicious gossip about Trilby had been scotched by Curt Vance himself. They were certain that his wife had been instrumental in spreading it.

Trilby was somewhat placated. She noticed that Thorn Vance wasn’t among the worshipers. No, Mr. Vance didn’t come to church since his wife’s death, one
of the women offered. Pity, too, she added, when his little girl could certainly use the benefit of the gospel.

Trilby murmured suitably. But she was relieved that Curt had apparently made an attempt to put an end to the nasty gossip. She only hoped it would stop. She was certain that she’d never forgive Thorn Vance as long as she lived for what he’d said and done to her.

Days went by without Thorn stopping by, and she actually began to relax and try to put the incident into perspective. Best of all, a cable arrived from Louisiana. Richard and his brother and sister and cousin would leave the following week for Blackwater Springs. Trilby let out a whoop that could be heard halfway down the block and danced a jig on the way back to the runabout.

“Good news, I assume?” Her father chuckled.

“Yes! Oh, Father, he’s coming, he’s actually coming!”

“It’s good to see you smile again, daughter,” he said gently. He pressed her hand warmly. “It will be worth the trouble to have you happy.”

“I can hardly wait!”

“I am not surprised.”

He drove her back home. There was a celebration that night for Trilby’s good fortune. Then, just as they began to prepare for bed, loud gunshots echoed through the desert, accompanied by the sound of bellowing, stampeding cattle.

Jack and Teddy rushed into their clothing and out onto the front porch. Old Mosby Torrance was already there, tall and stiff-necked, his watery blue eyes blazing out of a face like honed leather.

“Ten of them,” he panted, having run from the bunk
house. “Vasquez and Moreno saw them. Mexicans, they think, after the cattle.”

“We’ll give chase,” Jack said coldly. “I’ll have Mary fetch some rations. Roust the men and I’ll break out some extra ammunition for the rifles.”

“No sooner said than done, boss. I’ll get my Winchester—”

“Oh, not you, Torrance,” Jack said abruptly, staring at him as if he thought the old Texas Ranger was off his bean. “No, you have to look after the women. You, too, Teddy,” he told his son, who looked shocked. “This isn’t a job for either of you. I’ll get my guns.”

Torrance looked violent. Teddy moved forward. “It’s okay, Mr. Torrance,” he said miserably. “I guess we’re both out of it.”

The old man swallowed. “Damnedest thing about getting old, boy,” he said huskily, “is that everybody thinks you’re no account anymore.”

“I think you’re magnificent, sir!”

Torrance felt the sting go out of Jack’s words as he looked down into the hero-worshiping face of the youngster. He had a son of his own somewhere. But his wife had died of pneumonia one winter while he was out chasing outlaws; he didn’t know where the boy had been sent. By the time he got home, it was all over and his only child had vanished without a trace. He’d searched, but to no avail. He looked at Teddy and hoped that his child was as sturdy and brave as this one.

“Can you shoot?” he asked Teddy.

“I sure can,” Teddy replied. He grimaced as he glanced after his father. “He doesn’t think so, though. Gosh, Mr. Torrance, nobody thinks we’re any good for a fight, do they?”

“I reckon not. Well, I’ll go get my gun anyway, in case they make a play for the house. You can help me keep watch outside.” He glared toward the hall. “I don’t guess he’ll mind that.”

“Not if we don’t tell him,” Teddy said, and grinned conspiratorially.

Torrance chuckled. Teddy really was one hell of a boy.

He went back to the bunkhouse and took out his nickle-plated, mother-of-pearl-handled .44 Colt revolver. The gun had been in a lot of battles with him over the years. It was still a respectable weapon, despite the .45 that most everyone carried these days. Like himself, the gun was out of place in a century that boasted machines that went as fast as a horse on the land and in the air. He was like a prehistoric man, he sometimes thought. Someone who’d lost the world he belonged in, and who couldn’t quite fit into the new one.

It was a different story just after the Civil War when he became a Texas Ranger and wrote his own history as he went. Along with men like Bigfoot Wallace, he was a legend among Texas peacemakers. He’d backed down outlaws and gunfighters; he’d once backed down a whole damned lynch mob after a prisoner. But none of that was known out here, and nobody cared what he’d been fifty years ago.

Maybe he should be grateful that he even had a job, he supposed. Not that Jack Lang had had much choice about hiring him. He was foreman until Lang had inherited the place. Now he was the cattle foreman. Lang was his own boss.

He stuck the gun in its gunbelt and picked up his Remington, checking the action before he strode back
out the door. He was tall and lithe. Except for his white hair, he looked much the same as he had when he was in his thirties, his step sure and firm on the wooden floor of the porch, his carriage erect and proud. What a hell of a shame, he thought, with faint amusement, that a man had to go and get old. There had been a time when he was sure he was going to be young forever.

Jack Lang came out the door buckling on his gun belt with fingers that just barely managed it. He was dressed in an exaggerated Western style, with woolly shotgun chaps and leather wristbands, new boots with heavy rowels on the spurs, and a pair of pearl-handled six-guns that looked like something out of a dime novel.

The Easterner always dressed like that when they went out to hunt rustlers. They never found any, because Lang didn’t trust the Apache boy who scouted for them, and he didn’t believe that anyone could track a man through a stream.

Torrance shook his head. Somebody ought to tell that dude that woolly shotgun chaps were suited to Northern winters and were worn by Montana and Wyoming cowboys, not Arizona ones. Those heavy rowels were Mexican—no self-respecting, civilized man would think of using them on his horse. The pistols were pretty, but they’d never been fired. And those wristbands would come in handy for a roper, but Jack Lang couldn’t throw a rope.

Torrance kept his thoughts to himself, though, and just nodded when the boss told him to watch the women. He could track as well as that Mexican, Vasquez, whom Lang had given scouting chores to. Better. And he could still outshoot any one of Lang’s other cowboys. He knew Mexicans because he’d trailed so many of them in his
Ranger days. But Lang would never know that, because he didn’t think a man Torrance’s age was fit for cowboy work.

He sighed more wistfully than he knew when the outfit rode off without him. Teddy came to stand beside him.

“It’s all right, Mr. Torrance,” Teddy said. “I know that you could do a better job of it than any one of Dad’s men. Even if he doesn’t.”

Torrance looked down at him with pure delight. “You’re a wonder, Teddy.”

“So are you, Mr. Torrance.”

Inside, Trilby watched the men ride away and worried. One of the hands had mentioned going by Los Santos to pick up Thorn Vance. Her father had argued with the man, and Trilby knew why he didn’t want Thorn involved. But then she’d heard the telephone being rung, and her father muttering because it took the operator so long to wake up and put his call through.

He had the operator ring Los Santos and presumably spoke to Thorn, quite curtly. There was a pause, and her father muttered his agreement to stop by Los Santos on his way after the bandits. She hoped Thorn wouldn’t lead her vulnerable father into any gunplay. Jack Lang posed very well, but he knew next to nothing about violent men….

W
HEN THE MAKESHIFT
posse got to Los Santos, Thorn was already waiting for them. His rifle was in its sheath and he was wearing a sidearm, a black-handled Colt .45 that had belonged to his great-uncle.

He’d had to browbeat Jack Lang into letting him join the party. The Easterner had been hell-bent on going alone with his few men, and Thorn had a sud
den mental image of the older man lying dead in the Arizona dust.

His conscience had burned him raw over his assumptions about Trilby. He’d done enough damage to her reputation that he hadn’t felt right about going back over to the Lang place. He knew Jack and the rest of the family despised him for what he’d said to Trilby, although, miraculously, she seemed not to have told anyone what really happened during that ride on the desert. It was better than he deserved, he admitted. Now at least he could help keep her father alive. Perhaps that would atone a little for his actions.

Samantha had been asleep, and he hadn’t woken her. The child was so withdrawn and quiet lately that he worried about her. She was thin and pale as well, not a healthy child in any way. He wished that his emotions weren’t locked in steel so that he could communicate with her on some level. But since Sally’s death, Samantha had drawn into her own mind. He didn’t know how to reach her anymore.

He watched Jack Lang ride up, his expression preoccupied.

Jack, in turn, studied the Westerner, feeling suddenly overdressed and out of place. Thorn looked grim, Jack thought, and even under the circumstances, he was able to appreciate how very Western and dangerous the other man looked in his jeans and blue-checked Western shirt and red bandanna. He had on wristbands, as Jack did, but Vance’s were scarred and worn dark with age. His boots had small rowels on the spurs and he was wearing wide, bat-wing leather chaps. His hat wasn’t a new one like Jack’s. It was weather-beaten and warped, but it suited him somehow. A rope was looped over his
saddle horn and he was carrying the usual saddle roll that most of his men’s gear sported. A colorful Mexican poncho was thrown over one broad shoulder and he was smoking a cigarette with lazy disinterest. For a man going to war, he looked magnificently unaffected.

Jack had to bite back angry words. He hadn’t really spoken to Thorn since his conversation with Curt Vance. It was difficult to have to deal with a man who’d been instrumental in very nearly ruining his daughter’s reputation.

“Ready to go?” Thorn drawled when Jack reached him. “I can add ten men to the party.”

“I’m sure we have enough,” Jack replied stiffly. “I brought six.”

Six men, plus himself and Vance, to hunt down a party of bandits. Thorn could have chuckled at the man’s innocence. The Mexican revolutionaries probably boasted fifty men. Fighting across the border was growing stronger by the day as the resistance to Díaz’s rule mounted. Several different small bands of insurrectionists were raiding local stock from the northern Sonoran province of Mexico—and they weren’t averse to taking local cattle over the border to sell as well as feed hungry men. Of course, they didn’t exactly pay for the local cattle they took. Things in Mexico were definitely building to war, Thorn thought privately, and he was worried more by the day about the grim possibility of American intervention if fighting migrated over the border. Intervention would mean war with Mexico, and no one wanted that.

“I’d feel more comfortable with my men along,” Thorn said. He looked straight at Jack as he spoke and he didn’t blink. The look was as vivid as a curse.

“As you wish, of course,” Jack said austerely. He hadn’t mentioned Trilby, and neither had Thorn. But both men were having trouble acting naturally.

Thorn had heard about Jack’s visit to his cousin and what had been said. He and Curt had argued for the first time in memory. But at last, Curt had convinced him that his shadowy paramour was not Trilby. The revelation had left Thorn confused and brutally ashamed. He’d savaged Trilby, all because Sally had accused her. But why had Sally lied? That was the only piece of the puzzle he couldn’t fit in.