Angel Creek (29 page)

“So I won't need to pack all of my clothes right now?”

He grinned. “Well, I guess I can safely say that you won't need any nightgowns.”

No, she wouldn't. She smiled as she watched him dress. She would have Luis to keep her warm. It was the most delicious future she had ever imagined.

She was calm when she went downstairs to breakfast the next morning. “Luis is coming for me at ten,” she said. “We'll be married this afternoon.”

Tears welled in Honora's eyes, and she hastily
blotted them away. “There's no need to be so hasty, dear. Won't you think this over for a little while longer?”

Olivia put her arms around her mother. “I have thought it over. I love him, and that isn't going to change. The only reason to wait would be if you and Papa wanted to give me a wedding.”

Wilson sighed heavily and got up from the table. “You can't expect us to celebrate your marriage to a man like Fronteras.”

“I wish you would, but no, I didn't expect it.”

He bent his head, staring unhappily at the floor. Most of his objection was based on how unsuitable Fronteras was for Olivia, but part of it was an unwillingness to lose his daughter. He would have missed her at any time, but the parting would have been easier if he had been assured he was giving her safekeeping into reliable hands. Olivia deserved better than a life of insecurity.

She had always been the perfect daughter, adorable as a child, sweet and loving. She had never shown any wildness, had instead been precociously responsible and levelheaded. He knew doting parents never thought anyone good enough for their children, but it was painfully obvious that Olivia was marrying far beneath herself.

She was his only child, the light of his life. She would inherit his money. Was that why Fronteras was marrying her? Did he expect to be supported by his father-in-law? Olivia certainly deserved better than that. But she tended to see the best in people, and it wouldn't occur to her to be suspicious of Fronteras's motives. Wilson hadn't accumulated his wealth by
being a fool. He knew a lot of men who had married because of money; he didn't want that to happen to Olivia.

He hadn't wanted to meet the man at all, but now he decided to delay his departure to the bank; he had a few things he wanted to say to Luis Fronteras.

Luis arrived promptly at ten, driving a buggy he had rented from the livery stable. Olivia, watching eagerly for him, felt her heart swell when she saw that he hadn't made any effort to impress; he wore his customary pants and shirt, a bandanna knotted at his neck, his gun belt buckled low on his lean waist and tied to his thigh. He looked exactly like what he was, and she loved him for not trying to put on a false front. Luis didn't need to impress anyone.

She opened the door and stood waiting for him, her face radiant with happiness. Luis smiled as he walked toward her, his dark eyes alight. The memory of their lovemaking shimmered between them, and Olivia's breath caught.

“I'm ready,” she said, indicating the two cases behind her.

As Luis bent to pick them up Wilson opened the door of his study and cleared his throat. “I'd like to speak to you, if I may.”

Honora came down the stairs, wringing her hands at the sight of the cases. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

Luis straightened, his dark face calm. “Of course.”

Wilson stood aside and indicated his study. “In private.”

“Papa,” Olivia said, her tone alarmed.

“Hush. This is between us.”

“No, it isn't!” she cried, stepping forward. “I'm involved, too.”

Luis touched her arm, smiling down at her. “It'll be all right,” he softly assured her. Then he walked into the study, and Wilson closed the door behind them.

He turned to face the banker. Perhaps Olivia had expected to leave without this confrontation, but Luis had known better. The man was concerned about his daughter; hell, Luis wouldn't have thought much of him if he hadn't been. If he could settle any worries, he was willing to try—it would make Olivia happier, and he would do anything to accomplish that.

Wilson drew himself up. “I'll give you five thousand dollars to leave here and never see my daughter again.”

Luis's eyes narrowed, and a dangerous gleam entered them. “No” was all he said.

“If you think that marriage to my daughter will make you rich—”

“Stop right there. Don't even say it.” His dark eyes were cold with anger. “I'm marrying Olivia because I love her. If you're worried about your money, then keep it. I don't want it or need it.” Without another word he walked past the banker and left the room.

The sight of his face made Olivia's heart skip a beat, and she rushed to him, catching his arms in a grip so tight her nails dug into his flesh. “Luis?” she whispered, frightened.

His expression softened as he looked down at her. “Don't worry,” he said. “We can leave now.”

Behind them they could hear the study door open again. Honora took a quick step forward as if she
could keep them from walking out the door. Then she stopped, her anguished gaze locked on the man who was taking her beloved daughter away. Luis glanced up at her, his usual warmth toward women entering his eyes. He could understand Honora's distress and would willingly have done anything he could to alleviate it, except for leaving Olivia behind.

He crossed to the stairs and took Honora's hand. “I promise you I'll take good care of her,” he said.

Even through her pain Honora responded to him, her fingers tightening around his; she clung to him as if for comfort. “But where will you live?” she wailed.

He shrugged. “Wherever Olivia wants,” he said simply. “But wherever we are, I promise we'll bring the grandbabies to see you once a year, without fail.”

Grandbabies! Honora's mouth opened and closed without making a sound. Her chest swelled with emotion. Grandbabies! Her own beloved Olivia's children.

And this man loved Olivia, truly loved her. Honora had been so worried, but now she could see it in those deep eyes. Well, of course, she thought suddenly. How could anyone not love Olivia? He might not be a stalwart pillar of the community, but he was a strong man, and sometimes that was better security than an uneventful life. More than anything she wanted Olivia to be happy, and, looking at this man, she was suddenly certain that he would make that happen.

“Do you think you could wait for me to arrange a wedding?” she asked.

“Honora!” Wilson said, shocked.

Luis gave her a devilish grin, one that made Honora's heart beat a little faster. “I'd rather not,” he
said. “But I'd be honored if you would stand up with us this afternoon.”

“I . . . why, yes,” she said, flustered. She gave Wilson a beseeching look. “Of course we'll be there. I wouldn't miss Olivia's wedding for anything.”

“Honora!” Wilson said again.

She turned toward her husband. She seldom gainsaid him in anything, but what did men know about other men? It took a woman to know what another woman needed. “Don't 'Honora' me! Can't you see that he loves her?”

“Of course he does,” Olivia said confidently. She smiled at her parents, her eyes shiny with tears. “What more could you want for me?”

Only the moon, Wilson thought, his chest painfully tight. But more than anything he didn't want to lose his beloved daughter, didn't want her to feel unwelcome in his home. Olivia had always been levelheaded, so why didn't he trust her judgment? It looked like the only thing he
could
do. His own eyes felt suspiciously moist, and he cleared his throat. “You're right. You have what's important. We'll be at your wedding, darling. Like your mother said, we wouldn't miss it for anything.”

He and Luis shook hands, and though the look he gave Luis was hard, there was understanding between them. Honora began crying again, but this time her tears were much happier. Though she would miss Olivia dreadfully, she had always looked forward to this day.

And, of course, she always cried at weddings.

D
EE GOT CAREFULLY OUT OF BED AND WALKED TO THE
window. Sometimes she felt a dreadful sense of unreality and needed that view to reinforce in her mind where she was. There was a large block of time she couldn't remember; her last vivid memory was of crouching on the floor of the cabin and holding the rifle to her shoulder. After that there were only snippets of impressions until about a week ago, when she had awakened one morning and felt truly awake, though horribly weak, and the contrast between her last memory and her present situation was so sharp as to make her feel lost.

She hadn't asked questions, so she still didn't know exactly what had happened. She needed to know, but the need wasn't urgent. She would find out later, when she felt stronger. It was as if the immense weakness of her body had sapped her mind's energy, too; she didn't want to talk, didn't want company, she wanted
only to sleep, She emerged briefly from the cocoon of sleep whenever the demands of her body grew too great, and as soon as the problem was solved—be it thirst or hunger or a need for the chamber pot—she drifted off to sleep again.

The periods of sleep were growing shorter, however, and for a few days she had been moving around the room with Betsy Acray's support. This was the first time she had gotten out of bed by herself, and though her legs were wobbly she was pleased that they supported her. It was a small milestone. If she had been presented with the task of walking down the stairs, she couldn't have done it, but as she felt not the slightest desire to go downstairs she didn't care.

She was in Lucas's house. She wasn't certain how she had come to be there. He visited her at least twice a day, in the morning and again at night. When he asked her a question she made an effort to answer, but the effort was apparent, and the answers were monosyllabic, so he didn't try to carry on a conversation. Sometimes when he looked at her she could see volcanic rage in his eyes and she wondered what was wrong, but the rage didn't seem to be directed at her, so she didn't feel it was worth the effort to find out.

It was the first time she had ever seen the Double C, and the contrast between the way Lucas lived and her own home was sharp. She had seen only this one room, but as it was a guest room the rest of the house was probably even grander. The bed was an immense four-poster, the linen sheets so smooth they felt like silk. The wood floor had been sanded to a satin finish and then polished, and a thick rug covered it to cushion her feet. There was an enormous wardrobe, a
chaise longue upholstered in silk, a graceful cherrywood desk and chair, and a mirrored dressing table with a small bench. A big, comfortably upholstered chair had also been brought in for Betsy.

She had never felt inferior before, but Lucas's house made her feel that way. He would be at ease with women who wore silk dresses and perfume and jewels, while she milked cows and plowed and got dirt under her nails. He must have wanted Angel Creek very much to have been willing to marry her to get it. What would he have done after the wedding? Bought her a house in some city and sent her away so she wouldn't embarrass him?

She felt ashamed of herself for even thinking that. Lucas had been kind, taking her into his home while she recovered. He had never said or done anything that indicated he thought he was better than she; it was her own depression that brought the thoughts to mind. But seeing the Double C—as much of it as she could see from her window—and this room had made her realize how wide the gulf was between them.

“Oh!” Betsy said sharply from the doorway. “Miss Dee, you got up by yourself!”

Dee turned from the window. Betsy was carrying a tray with her noon meal, which meant that she had slept several hours after eating a few bites for breakfast.

“I'm going to get fat,” she mused. “All I'm doing is sleeping and eating.”

It was the first unnecessary thing she had said in the time Betsy had been taking care of her, and the girl threw Dee a startled glance as she hurried to deposit
the tray on the desk and lend a supporting arm. “Miss Dee, you need to eat all you can. You're as thin as a stick.”

Well, that was comforting, Dee thought wryly. Betsy was leading her toward the bed, and she rebelled. The bed was wonderful for sleep, but she had had enough of both sleep and that bed.

“I want to sit up and eat,” she said. “The desk will do just fine.”

Betsy looked worried, but Dee refused all attempts to change her mind. By the time they had crossed the room to the desk she felt as if she had run ten miles; her legs were trembling as she sank down onto the chair. Still, it was an accomplishment, and she would have to push herself if she ever expected to regain her strength.

Her meal was simple, a bowl of broth and a biscuit. She wondered why people thought that starving a sick person would help her get well. She was even more disgusted when she realized she couldn't eat all of it.

Still, it was time to make a change. “Who does the cooking here?”

Betsy still hadn't adjusted to a patient who was talking after two weeks of almost total silence. Her eyes were huge as she said, “His name's Orris, ma'am.”

“Tell Orris that I appreciate his trouble, and that for dinner tonight I'd like to try just a little meat and potatoes in the broth. I won't be able to eat much, but it's time to start trying.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Betsy said.

“And are there any books in the house?”

“I don't know, ma'am. I ain't looked around.” She had been too terrified of Mr. Cochran to risk his ire if he'd found her snooping around his house.

“Well, ask Orris or someone else. I'd like to have something to read, and I don't care what it is.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Are any of my clothes here?”

“No, ma'am.”