Ryan's Hand (7 page)

She was managing to hang onto her seat and the scarf until Bill turned off the highway across the open plains. “Shortcut!” he yelled, driving the jeep at full speed. Cara glanced back in alarm at the boxes jostling around on the backseat. If Bill hit a bump, they could easily be bounced over the side of the jeep onto the hard ground, and already they seemed to have had all the abuse they could stand. One look at the grim satisfaction on the young cowboy's face, the malicious delight he was taking in her discomfort, and the whole picture became clear.

“Stop this jeep this instant!” she shouted, and when he ignored her, she simply reached for the keys and jerked them out of the ignition. The jeep ground to a halt, and Bill turned to her in stupefaction. “Now you listen to me, you ill-mannered smart aleck!” Cara exploded. “You need reminding of a fact you seem to have forgotten. I own half of La Tierra Conquistada, and you will drive this jeep at a sane speed and get us to wherever we're going in one piece, or I may have to exercise a prerogative of my position that I'd just as soon not. Do I make myself clear?”

Bill looked across at her uncertainly, trying to decide if she was bluffing. The furious brilliance of the violet-blue eyes convinced him she was not. “Yes, ma'am,” he conceded gruffly, and held out his hands for the keys.

Ultimately, out of the vast ocean of nothingness, there appeared in the far distance a white sprawling structure that momentarily gave the young Bostonian an impression of the Taj Mahal planted in the middle of the Sahara. The suddenness of its appearance was relieved by the beginning of a fence, made not of wood but of white steel pipe, which suggested that civilization was not far off. The white fence contrasted peaceably with the green winter pastures it bordered. In them here and there, groups of healthy-looking russet-colored cattle grazed placidly.

As all of this came into Cara's awed view, the jeep reached a well-paved road that ran beside the fence, and Bill turned left, heading, Cara supposed, to a drive that had access to the shining edifice sitting in the middle of the plains.

“Is this where the ranch begins?” she asked.

The young cowboy shot her a disgusted glance. “You been on La Tierra since we left the airport,” he stated scornfully, but he could not conceal the note of pride Cara heard in his voice. She recalled that Ryan had spoken of the loyalty and devotion of the cowhands to the ranch. Many of them, she remembered, represented the fourth generation to work at La Tierra. Cara wondered if Bill was one. If so, she could understand the contempt that he was trying hard to show her.

They drove for several more miles before they reached the massive wrought-iron gate flanked by equally imposing limestone posts. The gate was heavily scrolled, but the intricate metalwork did not interfere with the brand of La Tierra, which had been worked into the two joining centers of the gate. When the gate opened, the brand was divided. Bill pointed this out to her, adding meaningfully, “The boss had it designed that way on purpose. He wanted everybody to understand that half was his and half was his brother's.”

His words brought home to her what for a short while she had forgotten in the curiosity of her new surroundings: Jeth Langston. Sometime this day she would see him, and the thought chilled her blood. She wished that she could appreciate the beauty of the wide paved drive that was leading her closer to a man who detested her, who already had begun his vengeance upon her. Nonetheless, she noted that the drive had been lined with tree after tree of fuschia oleanders just beginning to bloom. Apparently they did not take their cue from the mesquite. She imagined, once they were in bloom, the profusion of blossoms that would greet the visitor through that exalted gate, bowing and swaying in the wind like a receiving line of plumed courtiers welcoming guests to the throne of a king.

The drive led uncompromisingly to the broad, wide-porticoed entrance of the house. The impeccable white stucco finish and sloping red tile roof did not surprise her. She was somewhat knowledgeable about Spanish architecture and recognized the style as that of the Spanish grandees who had settled in this area. This one, however, rather than having the usual low, long lines with thick walls to preserve the maximum temperature comfort, was two-storied. A scrolled, black wrought-iron terrace ran the circumference of the top floor with French doors opening to it. Interesting, thought Cara, and very impressive, but somehow unseasoned. She recalled that Ryan's parents had died before they had occupied the house.

“Where is everyone?” she asked Bill, for there was no sign or sound of any human activity. The young man was struggling with her big boxes impatiently. He set them down on the limestone porch and rang the doorbell. “At the roundup of the remuda in the high country,” he told her, his tone implying that that was where he should be.

Cara shaded her eyes to better see the low range of mountains toward the north, far beyond the oasis of the ranch.

“By high country, I suppose you mean over there?” She pointed. Bill followed her finger with derisive amusement.

“Yes, ma'am. You're sure a greenhorn, ain't ya?”

“I'm afraid so.” She smiled, determined not to be nettled.

Before she could inquire about the whereabouts of Bill's employer, the wide double doors opened. A weathered, stern-faced Mexican woman of indeterminate age, smaller in stature even than Cara, stood surveying her with cold dispassion.

“She's here, Fiona!” Bill announced grimly, as if she were some dreaded tornado they had been watching for on the horizon. Cara stared at the little woman. So this was Fiona, the housekeeper that Ryan had spoken of with such affection.

“So I see,” the woman said abruptly, turning her glance from Cara. “Bring her things in, Señor Bill, and take them up to the first bedroom on the left. Then you better go on up to Diablo Canyon where the trap is. He caught Devil's Own, but that son of Satan slipped his noose and got away again. He is not in a good mood.”

Which did not bode well for her, Cara thought, whatever it was that they were talking about. “He” must be Jeth Langston. She did not know whether to be happy or dismayed that she had been reprieved from an immediate meeting with the ruler of this isolated empire. Maybe the initial confrontation was better over as soon as possible so they could go their separate ways. The house looked big enough to allow that arrangement.

The woman called Fiona returned her inhospitable gaze to Cara as Bill brushed by carrying her things. “You can come in,” she said.

“Thank you,” Cara responded pleasantly, and walked into the manor house of La Tierra Conquistada.

She was shocked immediately by its monastic severity. A tomb, Ryan had called it, and Cara felt obliged to agree with him. Immense and silent, the house had an almost menacing sterility about it, like a sanitarium. Furniture was sparse and utilitarian. No paintings or portraits enlivened the stark white walls. And everywhere, in all the rooms open to her view from the spacious entrance hall, she could see the gleaming gray terrazzo, creating an impression of cold, obsessive cleanliness.

“Come,” said Fiona, waiting for her at the foot of the wide staircase.

The bedroom the housekeeper led her to, however, surprised her in another way, for it was obvious that feminine considerations had gone into its decor. Gray and yellow had been used, which Cara now assumed must be the colors of La Tierra. The inevitable gray tile was on the floor, but it had been covered with a large yellow area rug. Draperies and a bedspread in a sprigged print of the ranch's colors matched the window seats of the two small deep-set windows that flanked a slender French door. The big four-poster bed and other furniture—a dressing table, writing desk, chairs for both, armoire, and chest of drawers—were of mellow oak. Two upholstered yellow wingback chairs sat on either side of the fireplace, which had already been laid with a supply of wood—scrub oak, Cara supposed, and remembered her comment on the day she had met Ryan at the airport.

He had known then that she would be in Texas now.

The memory sobered her surprised pleasure in the room and made her eyes reflective. Fiona had nearly slipped away before Cara realized she was leaving. “Oh—I—thank you,” she said quickly to the unsmiling woman. “The room is quite lovely, very cozy and feminine. Is it someone's special room?”

Fiona's hand was on the doorknob. “You've missed lunch,” she said with undisguised hostility, and was gone before Cara could reply.

The young woman was left facing the closed door, and in the silence, like bugs scampering out in a house when the occupants leave, all of her fears crawled out from the woodwork to assail her. She looked about her at the luggage and boxes that needed unpacking but was reluctant to begin the task. Reaching inside the neck of her sweater, she fingered the small seagull. A whole year in the remote silence of this monastery? Would there be no one who would talk with her, nowhere to go for relief from loneliness, from the animosity of the man in whose cold eyes she was condemned beyond any reclamation of her innocence?

Determinedly putting those questions from her mind, she shed her coat and took a penknife from her purse. Cutting the tape of one of the boxes, she began to search for the three items her mood dictated she unpack first.

When Cara found the bag of sea glass, she held it up to the gentle March sunlight, which had come into her room to play. The pieces of glass glowed softly like a cache of dull gems recovered from the sea. She found another bag, this one filled with the broken pieces of the lobster traps that she and Ryan had collected on their last visit to Devereux Beach. Glancing at the fireplace, she thought how comforting the fire would be with these reminders from home added to the flames. Lastly, she found the enlarged snapshot that had belonged to Ryan. She gently touched the glass that covered his face, swallowing at the ache that filled her throat. How hard to believe that he was gone, that she would never see that boyish smile again or hear his laughter or feel his friendly arm around her shoulder. “Do you trust me, Cara?” he had asked. “Remember always that I had only at heart the interests of those I loved.”

That's you and me, Jeth, she said silently to the other man in the picture. I intend to carry out your brother's wish no matter how hard you make it for me to do so.

A strange rumble that gave her the sensation the earth was shaking brought Cara's head up, and she held still a moment, listening. Placing the picture on the mantel, she went out on the terrace that faced the mountains, and an awesome and unforgettable sight met her eyes.

A great herd of horses, their manes and tails flowing behind them, had come from the mountains to begin a thundering, dusty trek across the plains toward the ranch. Dozens of whooping, hollering cowboys on their own galloping mounts rode at their sides, keeping them maneuvered into a V-shaped formation by waving hats and coiled ropes. Cara looked for the objective toward which horses and men seemed to be headed, but her vantage point told her nothing. Compelled by the rough, masculine drama she was witnessing, she followed the terrace past other French doors until she had a view of the maze of corrals that had been erected beyond the grounds of the house.

So that's their destination, she thought, feeling suddenly sorry for the animals, whose life of freedom in the mountains would soon be at an end. As the horses drew abreast of the series of lanes that would feed them into the corrals, sounds that she had never imagined filled the air along with the dust. Leather saddles and chaps popped, ropes slapped, men cursed and yelled orders, horses whinnied and screamed.

Cara was so fascinated with the unusual scene that she was unaware of having been spotted on the terrace. First one man and then another jerked a head in her direction, but several minutes went by before she realized she was the cause of the gradual decline in activity. None of the men looking at her nodded or tipped his hat. They merely stared, and even from that distance Cara could read the stony unfriendliness on their weathered faces.

A rider on a huge bay, whose back had been to her, turned his mount swiftly to see what had distracted the men, and Cara saw with a sharp intake of breath that the man was Jeth Langston. He sat immobile for a few seconds, staring straight at her from beneath the brim of his black hat, and Cara cursed herself for not having recognized that imperious back. Suddenly one of the horses, sensing an opportunity for freedom, reared and bolted from the orderly line. Other horses quickly followed suit, sending the men scrambling after them. Shouting an order, Jeth wheeled his horse sharply, at the same time uncoiling a rope from the saddle horn. With held breath she watched him streak after the escaping ringleader, his rope twirling above his head until he was close enough to the animal to throw a noose cleanly over its head. Jeth led the horse back to the line without looking in her direction again, and Cara saw that the men had resumed their work with even more fervor than before.

She turned quickly and sought the sanctuary of her room, wondering if there was to be no end to the trouble she caused Jeth Langston. A strange sensation had begun to play in the pit of her stomach, one that had nothing to do with the fear that she would be blamed for the mishap. The sunlight was chilly, but she was suffused with warmth, and her cheeks felt hot. She began to unpack with furious energy, trying to keep from her mind the sight of that dominant figure on horseback whose hatred she had felt even across the distance that lay between them.

T
he sun was gone, the rough voices of the cowboys were silent, and her clothes hung neatly in her closet when a sharp rap came at her door. “Yes?” Cara called.

The door opened and Fiona stood in the doorway. She had changed from her faded jeans and flannel shirt into a neat cotton dress worn under a starched yellow apron. The unsmiling face, however, was the same. She announced with cold disdain, “El Patrón will see you now.”

“I'll only be a few minutes,” Cara said evenly, hoping the woman could not hear the rapid beating of her heart. El Patrón?
El Patrón?

The woman said warningly, “It would not be wise to keep him waiting, señorita,” and closed the door with a sharp click.

He can wait long enough for me to freshen up, declared Cara to herself. She was not going to face him from the disadvantage of a pale face. In the adjoining bathroom, she brushed her teeth and applied fresh makeup. She was still wearing the suit skirt and cowl-neck sweater from her flight and saw no need to change. She brushed her hair, letting it fall into the easy, natural style that she had come to enjoy. “There,” she said aloud in satisfaction to her reflection in the mirror when she was ready, then added tremulously, “Go with me, Ryan.”

Fiona was waiting for her at the foot of the gray-tiled stairs. The housekeeper's face registered nothing as she watched Cara descend. “He's in there,” she said, indicating with a stern jerk of her silver-threaded head two double doors off the living room.

Cara pondered Fiona uncertainly. Was Fiona to announce her? When the housekeeper moved off to other regions, with only a last disapproving glance over her shoulder, Cara decided she was on her own. Approaching the heavy, forbidding doors, she knocked decisively on one of them.

“Come in,” came the deep voice that Cara remembered, and the young woman took one last steadying breath before entering Jeth Langston's inner sanctum.

She did not see him at first in the darkly paneled room. Besides the light cast from the fireplace, the only other illumination in the large room came from a lamp on a massive desk to the right of the door. The leather chair behind it was empty.

Jeth was standing at the fireplace, in the process of lighting a cigar with a glowing piece of kindling. He drew on it, and the smoke wafted across to her, its aroma recalling to Cara the memory of his arms around her and the demands of his lips. “Good evening,” she said.

Jeth turned to her, the gray eyes beneath the dark brows steady and assessing as she stood in the center of the room with her arms calmly at her sides. He looked as formidable as she had feared. The light from the fireplace cast its shadows over the granite face, throwing in relief the high cheekbones and the cold, metallic brilliance of his eyes. He had changed from the black range wear of the afternoon to casual slacks and shirt in a deep blue. Black boots of superb leather caught the flames in their sheen and added inches to his already intimidating height.

The rancher removed the cigar from his mouth and reached on the mantel for a glass of heavy cut crystal. “Welcome to La Tierra Conquistada,” he said, without meaning it, and lifted his glass in a mock toast. The amber liquor glowed like liquid fire.

“Thank you,” Cara returned in a neutral tone.

Jeth's lip curled mirthlessly. “I see you survived Bill's jeep ride.”

“Yes. It was…typical of the welcome I expected.”

“Then I'm glad we didn't disappoint you, Miss Martin.”

“I doubt that you could do that, Mr. Langston.”

Their gazes struck and sparked, like the opening parry of swords in battle. Finally Jeth walked to his desk and said amiably, “Sit down, Miss Martin, sit down. This is likely to be a long conversation.”

“I hope not,” Cara rejoined briskly. “I'm very tired.”

“In that case a glass of wine would be in order. I'm aware that you do not drink hard liquor.” Ignoring her faint look of surprise, he pressed a button on his desk and indicated with a motion of his cigar that she was to take a leather chair opposite his desk. Cara sat down on the edge of it. Her nerve endings were beginning to quiver. The subtly patronizing tone of his voice sent unpleasant tingles down her spine. Perhaps the wine would ease the tension gripping her neck and shoulders.

Jeth sat down and leaned indolently back in his sumptuous chair, the cigar in one hand, the fingers of his other toying with the glass on his desk. The diamonds in the black-faced ring winked derisively at her.

“Well, Miss Martin, how do you like your room? Adequate in size, I hope?”

“Yes, indeed. It's a lovely room, very feminine. I—it seems to have been decorated for someone special. Was it?”

“No one in particular, Miss Martin. It's for female guests.”

In any other household, the statement would have been innocuous, but Jeth's meaning did not escape her, and he had not meant it to. He took a draw on the cigar, hooding his eyes against the smoke and observing with cold amusement the two bright spots Cara felt flare to her cheeks.
Devil!
she thought, acknowledging in spite of herself that many women would find his type of rugged virility and wolfish lean looks irresistible. No doubt the guest room she occupied was seldom vacant. “How kind of you to let me have it, Mr. Langston,” she returned with equanimity. “I hope I won't be inconveniencing any of your women guests.”

“You won't be, Miss Martin. I'll have no trouble finding a room to their liking when they visit.”

Her cheeks glowed brighter at this rejoinder, and she was relieved that Fiona entered just then with a tray bearing her glass of wine. “
Gracias
, Fiona,” said Jeth as the housekeeper bent down to let Cara take it from the tray.

“
De nada
, Patrón,” murmured Fiona and she left the room on silent feet.

Jeth sipped his drink while he waited for Cara to try the wine. She knew vintages, and this one was excellent. The bouquet tingled her nostrils pleasurably, and she said, “How very nice,” in honest appreciation after she had taken a generous sip.

“I'm glad you like it, Miss Martin. I've ordered a case for your enjoyment while you are here, knowing you to be quite a connoisseur of wines.”

Cara showed her surprise. That was thoughtful of him, she granted. “But how could you possibly know that if, as you say, Ryan never mentioned me to you?”

“Well, now, Miss Martin,” drawled Jeth, reaching for a brown folder that had been in evidence all the while on his desk, “one of the advantages of wealth is that it provides the means to find out about one's enemies.”

A detective! He had hired a detective!

Cara placed the wineglass carefully on the slate portion of the desk's gleaming surface before standing up. The fury mounting within her did not affect the crystal clarity of her next words. “How dare you, Mr. Langston! How dare you pry into my private life!”

“I will dare anything I choose when it comes to you, Miss Martin. When I say anything, you'd better believe it, so sit down like a good girl before I prove that, too, is an open book for my enjoyment and…perusal.”

Cara sat down, violet eyes flooded with anger and dismay. They shot daggers at him while, unperturbed, Jeth opened the folder and glanced at several pages before enlightening her of their contents. “I understand that your parents died within the same year when you were still in college, Miss Martin. Is that right?”

Cara did not reply. She picked up the wineglass and defiantly pushed herself back into the supple comfort of the leather chair. Why should she care what he knew about her background? There was nothing in it to incriminate her further.

“I don't blame you for not responding, Miss Martin,” Jeth said understandingly. “I can appreciate their loss must be painful to you. Let's push on to other areas. Your family incurred a large number of debts, which were left to you upon their deaths. Your father, it would appear, thought working for a living far too common a responsibility for the blue-blooded aesthete that he was. He preferred to live off the fortune made by his forebears, and when that ran out, to live on credit.” Here Jeth paused but did not lift his eyes from the file. Cara interpreted the lull as an opportunity to defend her family and refute what he was reading. She had been right guessing that he would hold her parents in contempt. She chose to remain silent.

“Since your father did not take the precaution of providing life insurance, you were left virtually penniless. You took it upon yourself,” Jeth went on, “to clear your family's financial name rather than declare bankruptcy—very noble of you—and you worked very hard for several years as a librarian, which I understand is your second choice of vocations. Gradually the mountain of debts began to be whittled down. In that time you lived frugally, allowing yourself few luxuries—” Here Jeth glanced up at Cara and let his gaze linger pointedly on her expensive attire. “And then,” he continued smoothly, “you met my brother…” He contemplated her again, the affable manner gone, the pupils contracting into two deadly omens of danger.

Cara stiffened in her chair. “What are you implying?”

“I'm not implying anything, Miss Martin. I'm
stating
that you saw my brother as a way to pay off your debts. You were suddenly tired of living in a one-room apartment. You were tired of your old clothes and your old car and of trying to stretch each paycheck to make ends meet. You knew Ryan was dying when you met him. You learned how much he respected integrity. God knows he'd seen little of it in his lifetime, especially from women. How cunning of you to make him think that you were too highly principled to let him pay your debts while he lived, but you sure as hell made sure he would pay them after his death, didn't you?”

“No!” Cara denied, jumping up from the chair. “Those are terrible, unjust accusations! I didn't know Ryan was dying! I had no—” She had begun to say that she had no knowledge about the will, but she could not defend herself too strongly. She had to be careful in the heat of these confrontations not to blurt out why she was here. Cara moistened her lips. “Mr. Langston, I know it looks like that, but—”

“Where did you get that outfit you're wearing, Miss Martin?”

Cara looked askance at him. What did that have to do with anything? “I beg your pardon?”

“Ryan bought it for you, didn't he, as well as a”—he consulted a sheet in the dossier—“sable-lined raincoat that I believe you wore upon your arrival here. Isn't that correct?”

Cara stared at him, stricken speechless. How cleanly the noose slipped over her head, just like the one thrown over the head of the hapless horse this afternoon.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she declared at last. “You may believe what you like.” How could she convince him that Ryan had insisted on buying her the clothes? That she alone would continue to pay her family's debts with money she earned with her own hands? That she had no more intention of using La Tierra Conquistada to pay off what was her obligation than she could fly to the moon without a rocket. She would not waste her breath trying to tell this galling, overbearing, full-of-himself land baron
that
!

The wine on her empty stomach had made her tipsy, she realized, as she set the wineglass down. “Good night, Mr. Langston. This interview is over.”

“No, it isn't, Miss Martin, and if you don't sit down, I will come around this desk and make you sit down.”

“You do, and I will scream bloody murder, you rude, arrogant…jerk! How somebody like you could be related to Ryan Langston should be documented as another wonder of the world. Not that anyone would be in the least interested outside Texas, which, in case you do not know, is not the end-all, be-all universe!”

Was she reeling? She rather thought so, because the desk and the dreadful man behind it had begun to weave before her blurred vision. The big leather chair, even as she looked at it, was all at once empty, and she wondered where the awful man could have gone when suddenly there he was beside her, taking her arm rather gently and lowering her into the chair. “When did you eat last?” he demanded gruffly.

“Last night, I think.” She pursed her soft lips in complex thought. “No, I had a bite of melon this morning. Why do you ask?” She looked up in sudden suspicion at the tall form.

Was it her imagination, or were the gray eyes actually glinting with something related to humor? “Because you are drunk on a partial glass of wine. Finish it, Miss Martin, while we talk some more. Then you may go have your dinner. Fiona will bring a tray to your room.”

An urgent question occurred to her. “I won't be expected to stay in my room, will I? I will be allowed to come and go about the house?” Not to do so was a prospect even bleaker than any she had imagined about living at La Tierra.

Jeth sat down on the edge of his desk near her. His eyes roamed over her at will, taking in the clean-lined beauty of her features, the glowing hair, the round fullness of her breasts softly outlined by the cashmere sweater. Cara was concentrating on her wine. He had said to drink it. What was there about him that commanded and others did?

“You may come and go as you like, Miss Martin, but stay away from the working compound. That little exercise this afternoon should be proof to you that you invite disaster wherever you are.”

“I—I'm sorry about this afternoon.” Cara bit her lip, keeping her eyes on her glass. “I had no idea that I would be the cause of those horses bolting. I was so far away.”

“Not so far that you couldn't take the men's minds off their work, Miss Martin, something that I don't intend to allow while you're here. Cowboys suffer accidents when they're distracted; so do animals. I don't want you anywhere near the breaking corrals in the next few days, not even watching from the terrace.”

“Is that what you're going to do to those horses you brought in this afternoon—break them for riding?”