Texas Born (19 page)

Startled, he spun around. As he watched, two
long, spiderlike hands parted a pale-green curtain behind one of
the counters.

The woman was tall and patrician. Her
gleaming jet- black hair was pulled back into a tapering braid
which was tightly coiled into a nautilus-shaped bun. She was
dressed entirely in black, but the gold-and-ivory cameo brooch at
her throat softened her otherwise funereal appearance and gave her
an elegance he had never known anyone to possess. He felt her sharp
gray eyes regarding him shrewdly.

Zaccheus gestured nervously toward the
display window at one side of the door. 'That charm?' He cleared
his throat. 'The one in the little window? How much does it
cost?'

The woman cocked her thin eyebrows. Her
appraisal of him took no longer than a split second. Bensey's
Jewelers was St. Louis' purveyor to the carriage trade; the young
man standing before her had obviously stumbled in here by mistake.
That happened on occasion, and over the years she had perfected her
routine of tactfully showing those who did not belong here to the
door. She did it so proficiently that those who were shown out
never really knew quite what had happened. She was prepared to
dispense with Zaccheus in just this manner when something about
him— something so vulnerable, so painfully awkward, but deadly
earnest—changed her mind. Just this once, she decided, she would be
genuinely helpful. She smiled thinly, clasping her elongated hands
in front of her. 'The pressed-pansy charm?'

Zaccheus nodded wordlessly.

The woman took a key ring out of her pocket,
strode over to the built-in display case, and unlocked it. She
reached inside and lifted out the gold chain and held it looped
between two extended fingers, the pansy charm dangling at the end.
'It's beautiful, isn't it?' She lowered her voice confidentially.
'It's imported. Eighteen-karat gold and Venetian glass.'

Zaccheus looked at her. 'Is that good?'

'Good?' The woman laughed softly. 'Heavens!
Eighteen karat is as pure as you can wear. Anything purer is too
malleable. It would bend or break.'

'How much is it?' Zaccheus managed to
whisper. He reached out, gingerly touching the fragile charm with
the tips of his fingers. The glass felt glossy and cool.

'Ten dollars.'

'Oh.' Zaccheus' face fell and he let go of
the charm. 'It's . . . I'm sorry . . . it's too much.' He turned
away.

The woman nodded. 'If you are interested, we
also have them in sterling silver. For four dollars.'

Zaccheus perked up. 'Could I see one?'

'Of course.' The woman replaced the chain on
the velvet neck, closed the display case, and locked it. Then she
selected another key from her ring. 'I'll be just a moment.' She
went back behind a counter, parted the curtains, and disappeared
again. Through a crack between the curtains, he could see her
bending down in front of a big iron safe.

Zaccheus leaned over the counter to wait.
Placing his elbows on it, he stared down. Displayed beneath the
thick glass top were gold rings with tiny rubies, sapphires, and
diamonds. He peered closer, trying to make out the minuscule price
tags tied to them. The cheapest ring he saw was forty dollars.

He let out a soft, impressed whistle. And
then he saw something that really made him blink. One ring, a
diamond surrounded by ruby baguettes, had a label that read . . .
Could it be? Two thousand dollars? Was it possible? He had no idea
that jewelry could be that expensive.

'Here we are.' The woman was back with a tiny
purple velvet box. She set it down in front of Zaccheus and lifted
the lid.

The charm was identical to the one in the
window. The only difference was the chain and filigree casing. They
were sterling silver, not gold.

Zaccheus dug into his pocket and came up with
four damp one-dollar bills. He parted with them easily. So he
wouldn't eat until the next day. So what? Hunger was nothing new to
him. And besides, the pansy charm was far more important than a few
meals.

Reverend Flatts frowned at his pocket watch
and then clicked the brass cover shut. He stared down the length of
the platform. 'The train's late,' he said.

Phoebe did not answer. She remained seated on
the bench, her expression taut and pained. She hadn't wanted to
come along to meet Zaccheus' train, but when the telegram from the
college came with the time of his scheduled arrival, her uncle had
insisted she be there. 'It's a bad time for Zaccheus, his mother
having taken so ill. He'll need to be among friends, Phoebe.
Besides, it's quite a long drive from the station out to the Howe
farm. I'm sure he'll be grateful for the company.'

It had been impossible to argue.

Phoebe clutched her shawl tighter around her
shoulders and hunched forward, her chin resting on her clenched
fist. The sun had already gone down, and a sliver of moon floated
like a white gondola in the twilight sky. It was turning decidedly
chilly. Besides her and her uncle, only three other people were
waiting on the train. She glanced toward them. A young man was
standing with his arm coiled around his wife, who was holding their
baby.

Phoebe flinched and quickly turned away. Her
head had been pounding all day, but now seeing the baby, she felt
an acid pain gnawing into the pit of her stomach. She took a series
of deep breaths, but the pain in her stomach refused to go away and
her head continued to throb, had hardly ceased to for more than two
months now.

She squeezed her eyes shut.
Why did I let
it happen?
she hissed soundlessly to herself.

She had asked herself that same tormenting
question over and over despite the fact that she knew the answer
perfectly well:
Because Chester Savage is so irresistibly
handsome, so irresistibly rich, and so very, very virile. Because
he is everything and anything a woman could possibly want, all
rolled up into one stunning package
.

She had discovered, in fact, that there was
only one thing lacking in Chester Savage. Decency.

Phoebe sighed to herself.

It had begun so innocently on a fine autumn
afternoon. The trees had been a romantic cornucopia of golds and
rusts, and the breezes had been caressing with summer's afterglow.
Birds had swooped and chirped, bees had hovered over late blooms,
and butterflies had fluttered quietly across the fields. Strange,
how time seemed to have come to a stop that afternoon.

How she could still conjure it up without
consciously meaning to! How the sweetest song of a bird or the buzz
of a bee could transport her straight back to that fateful
afternoon when it had begun. That afternoon that had seemed so very
perfect.

It had been the perfect day for a picnic. She
had packed a lunch, placed it in the straw basket between the
handlebars of her bicycle, and then was off, pedaling through Muddy
Lake and down the dusty country road, a cool breeze against her
face. She had not even planned to ride far, and had no destination
in mind. But the afternoon had been so enticing, so superbly
entrancing, that she had ridden nearly six miles before she pulled
over to the side of the road and pushed the bicycle to the stream
which flowed smoothly along the edge of the fields. She sat down to
rest and eat lunch, and had then dozed off.

She had felt something tickling her nose. She
twitched it and continued sleeping, but the fly, attracted by the
remains of the picnic, buzzed angrily around her. She opened one
eye and waved it lazily away. Then she sat up straight. She didn't
know how long she had been asleep, but the sun was already
beginning to weaken. Soon it would set. She rubbed the sleep out of
her eyes and slowly turned her head around. She had a distinct,
queer prickling feeling— the feeling that she was being
watched.

There was a copse of old trees on the other
side of the road, no more than ten yards behind her. And he was
standing there, one hand holding the reins of a beautiful gray
gelding, the other on his hip, one shiny boot resting on a felled
tree. She had never seen him before, but his ruggedly handsome
face, thick black hair, and trim physique—not to mention the
boldness of his stare—both appealed to her and repelled her in a
way no man ever had before. She glared at him, but he remained
standing there, a cocky smile on his lips.

Quickly she gathered up her things and hopped
indignantly to her feet. By the time she stuffed the picnic
leftovers into the handlebar basket and pushed the bicycle to the
road, he and the horse had moved.

They stood squarely in the middle of the
single-lane road, blocking her way.

'Do you mind?' she asked icily.

He grinned, his teeth white and strong, his
eyes filled with masculine sureness. 'A lady would say 'please,' '
he reminded her in a soft, cultured voice.

Her face reddened. 'And a gentleman would
take it for granted that a lady doesn't need to be taught her
manners.' She tossed her head. 'Now, will you please let me
pass?'

He remained frozen. 'Ah, so you're
strong-spirited . . . as well as no lady.'

'Get out of my way!' she said angrily. She
made a pretense of pushing the bicycle into him, but the ploy did
not work. He neither batted an eyelash nor moved an inch.

'You've been trespassing,' he said
quietly.

She glared at him, her eyes glowering. 'If
I'm trespassing, then so are you.'

His eyes flashed with amusement and he waved
a languid hand all around. 'That stream. Those fields. In case you
didn't know it, the properties on both sides of the road are part
of the Savage holdings.'

'And so is the flour mill.' With her chin she
gestured to the complex of buildings far across the fields; then
she eyed him closely. 'So what? Who are you to complain?' It was
her turn to be amused.

'I'm Chester Savage.' He grinned.

She stood there frozen with embarrassment,
unable to speak. It was a moment before she finally found her
voice. 'Well, I'm sorry to have trespassed,' she said with testy
defiance. 'Now, are you satisfied?' She leered at him and put her
right foot on the pedal of her bicycle.

He led his gelding aside to let her pass, but
in her nervousness she got off to too slow a start. The bicycle,
with her on it, toppled over with a clatter.

She let out a cry. 'Now look what you made me
do!' she wailed accusingly, more hurt by her loss of poise than any
real physical damage suffered.

'Here, let me help you.' He let go of the
horse and bent down, lifting the bicycle off her. He held out a
hand to help her up.

For a moment she stared up at him. Almost
reluctantly she extended her arm.

With one swift movement he pulled her to her
feet and she stumbled awkwardly against him. Despite herself, her
heart thumped wildly.

'Are you hurt?' He seemed genuinely
concerned.

She pushed herself away from him and bent
over to brush off her skirt with the back of one hand, strangely
disturbed that he was still holding on to her arm. She was at once
aware of dark, smoldering eyes burning with intensity. She felt
curiously weak, and the beating of her heart seemed to grow louder
and louder, until it reached a thundering crescendo.

That was how it began. The initial meeting.
The mutual attraction. The passion. The fire. The love on her side
and the lovemaking on his.

The deceit.

Phoebe Flatts had always harbored a weak spot
in her heart for the Bronte sisters. The lonely moors, the empty
countryside, the wind whistling through the tors or whipping
through tall meadow grass while an attractive, tall, dark, brooding
man hiding some terrible secret swept an innocent but strong-willed
heroine off her feet—that was what she spent her idle hours reading
and rereading and dreaming about. In the stories, the hero was
always strong and powerful, and romance fraught with danger, but in
the end, true love would triumph. And the heroine, no matter how
spirited, was ripe for the picking.

As was she.

The Savages were one of the richest, most
powerful and influential families around, and Chester Savage was an
only son. Heir to thousands of acres of prime farmland, a flour
mill, and grain-storage facilities, he was a dream come true.
Everything about him fitted Phoebe's romantic notions to a tee.

They met again and again. She lied to the
Flattses, cunningly contriving one excuse after another for her
absences while she wove a web of charm to trap Chester Savage.

Only, she never realized that
he
was
the spider and
she
was the fly.

They rendezvoused at discreet places where no
one would see them. In a clearing in the woods while the weather
held. In a deserted shed after the first frost set in.

At first, she tried to resist temptation, but
her resistance was weak, and her romantic naiveté held sway. She
had visions of Chester Savage pulling up in front of the Flatts
home, hat in hand. Wooing her. Begging Reverend Flatts for her hand
in marriage.

That was the way it was supposed to
happen.

Instead, the secret rendezvous continued. She
cajoled Reverend Flatts into buying her a mare, and horseback
riding proved the perfect cover. She could come and go as she
pleased, no questions asked.

The trysts, for die time being, at least,
were enough. Phoebe would have done anything to feel Chester
Savage's powerful arms around her, his moist kisses on her
lips.

One thing led to another.

It was not long before the kisses progressed
to more serious matters. His lips sought not her lips, but her
breasts. Then his hands sought her smooth, round buttocks and the
mound between her thighs. Ultimately, of course, he had mounted
her, entered her, and ridden her to peaks of ecstasy she had never
quite imagined could exist.