Arizona Embrace (2 page)

But curiosity about this man overrode caution. Shielded by branches heavy with purple lilac, Victoria drew closer.

Trinity Smith rode with all his senses alert. He had no reason to expect trouble, but in the territories a man learned to be cautious.

Or he died.

He allowed his horse to pick its way through the shallows of the wide, meandering stream that ran though the center of the valley. Occasionally he would move into deeper water to avoid rock outcroppings or the overhanging limbs of trees which lined the banks, grew in clusters in the valley, and climbed the hillsides in thinning ranks.

The plop of his horse’s hooves as they struck the water, the soft swish as they pulled free of the heavy gravel in the bottom of the stream, barely intruded on the sound of water rushing over rocks and swirling in eddies. Patches of unmelted snow on distant mountain peaks still fed this ice-cold stream, but he could feel the promise of summer’s heat in the afternoon air.

Trinity pulled up when the ranch buildings came in sight. He saw only two, a ranch house and a bunkhouse, each large and well-made, each built of unpainted wood turned grey with age. Their builder had positioned the buildings to allow the defenders to cover an attack from any direction. They had also leveled the ground and cleared all the rocks for a hundred yards around the enclave.

The occupants had come to stay.

He counted two corrals. The still-peeling wood of one indicated its recent construction, as did the pristine carpet of grass it enclosed. The older corral showed well-worn paths among the trees and bare spots around the feeding shed and water trough. Deep chewed spots in the smooth wood and a tangle of heavy-scented honeysuckle covering the poles gave additional testimony to its age.

A faint plume of smoke issued from the ranch house chimney. Someone was cooking. Trinity could almost smell the aroma of baking bread. His stomach growled in anticipation. Most likely just wishful thinking, he warned himself.

Of course he noticed the flowers. They were everywhere. Roses, lilacs, wisteria, mock orange, spirea, weigela, tulips, lupines, delphiniums, iris, and many other flowers he knew didn’t grow naturally in Arizona. It must have taken a lot of planning and work to nurse them through the cold mountain winters—and a lot of love to coax them into such lavish bloom.

A feeling of tranquility gradually settled over Trinity, but bitter experience caused that illusion to fade. No world could be built on the rustle of leaves, the murmur of a stream, the tranquility of a lonely mountain setting, or his own weariness with the trail. People determined the character of their setting. He had never found any place where the character of the people matched the beauty, purity, or majesty so abundant in Nature.

Trinity saw a cowboy ride out of the pines and up to the bunkhouse.

Buc Stringer, foreman.

Trinity had spent hours watching Buc through the binoculars, watching him interact with each person on the ranch. He liked to know everything he could before he exposed himself to danger. He had discovered that sometimes watching people could be almost as good as talking to them.

He could tell Buc considered himself to have as much authority as the owner. And everyone else seemed to feel the same way. Buc slept in the bunkhouse, but the rest of the time he treated the ranch house as his own.

Buc towered over the hands. Trinity guessed he stood at least six feet three inches. Judging from the size of his biceps and the breadth of his shoulders, he would be at least twice as strong as the average range rider. A bull of a man. And handsome enough to turn any young woman’s head.

He couldn’t underestimate this young man. Sheriff Wylie Sprague believed he had been the one to engineer the woman’s escape. It was well done. They were gone long before anyone knew.

Buc dismounted but didn’t enter the bunkhouse. He turned and looked down the creek toward Trinity. And waited. With a gentle nudge of his heel, Trinity started his horse forward again.

Trinity could tell from his aggressive stance that Buc had taken a dislike to him. Leaning against the corral fence, Buc began to roll a cigarette. About the time he spread the tobacco over the cigarette paper, he got a good look at Trinity, and Buc’s body stiffened like a starched shirt drying in a high wind. He stopped in the middle of moistening the cigarette paper, and his tongue stuck to the paper. It tore when he pulled his tongue away. With a gesture of disgust, he tossed the ruined cigarette away.

Trinity couldn’t decide whether to curse or laugh. He shrugged instead.

“What do you want?” Buc asked when Trinity dismounted. Victoria continued to spy on the confrontation.
He was making no attempt to be polite; he wanted the stranger gone as fast as possible. She hoped he would at least stay for supper. His nonchalance intrigued her
.

“Just riding through,” Trinity replied, keeping his voice casual. It would be fatal to respond to Buc’s dislike. He removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “It’s a bit warm today. Thought I might drop in for a drink. The name’s Trinity Smith.”

Buc didn’t introduce himself or take Trinity’s extended hand. “Pump’s next to the trough. Water’s scarce out here, so don’t waste it.”

Trinity knew most Easterners thought of Arizona as a desert, but here in the snow- and tree-covered mountains, the range stayed green. In a good year, the streams would run all summer. There was no need for Buc to be stingy with water unless he wanted to get rid of the man with the thirst.

Trinity led his horse to a trough set half-in, half-out of the well-used corral. Buc followed. A little water remained in the bottom of the trough. Trinity scooped it out with his hat.

“I told you not to waste water,” Buc said. “There was plenty for your horse.”

“It was warm,” Trinity said. “Spangler hates warm water.” Trinity primed the pump and began to run fresh water into the trough.

Victoria couldn’t help but smile to see this Mr. Smith twist Buc’s tail so easily.
Buc shouldn’t be so bossy
.

“Cold water’s not good for a horse when it’s hot. It’ll give him colic.”

“Spangler knows that,” Trinity replied, still pumping. “He’ll drink real slow, but he sure does like cold water.” Trinity doubted his horse cared what kind of water he drank. He just wanted to nettle Buc, to see what he was made of.

“Get your water and get going,” Buc said irritably. “I got things to do.”

“You don’t have to watch over me. I don’t expect to come to any harm.”

“I’m watching to make sure you don’t
do
any harm,” Buc replied. “I don’t like strangers nosing about the place.”

“Surely you can’t be getting into a dither over one lone cowboy looking for a drink of water,” Trinity said as innocently as he could. He shook his head like he was feeling sorry for Buc. “It sure must make you feel awful skittish knowing there’s Apaches in them hills.”

Buc had no excuse to be so rude to a stranger, even on account of her safety
. Victoria stepped forward to make her presence known. But just as she started to speak, Trinity’s gaze turned toward the house.

An older man came out of the ranch house and started toward the two men. He was a nice-looking man, tall, thin, greying at the temples but in good physical shape.

Grant Davidge, the owner of Mountain Valley Ranch. He acted like a man in control of his destiny, not someone who needed to depend on Buc Stringer to do his work for him. But he did. Why?

“We don’t have trouble with Apaches anymore,” Grant said. “They know we can kill too many of their braves.”

“I never noticed that stopping an Apache,” Trinity replied. “Seems it only makes them more determined.”

“That’s something I never could understand,” Grant said, his hand extended in welcome. “I’m Grant Davidge, and this surly young man is Buc Stringer, my foreman. I own Mountain Valley Ranch. You come far?”

“You might say that,” Trinity answered, taking Grant’s firm handshake. “My last stopping place was Texas. Don’t have any particular place in mind for the next, but I got a hankering to see California.”

A shadow of suspicion flitted across Buc’s face at the mention of Texas, but it didn’t impair Grant Davidge’s good humor.

“You looking for work?”

“Nothing permanent. I figured on punching a few cows until I got a grubstake together. I’ll probably move on after that. Can’t seem to stay in one place too long.”

Victoria felt a twinge of regret. She liked Trinity’s sense of humor. It had been a long time since she had felt so much like laughing.

“You can move on now” Buc said. “We don’t want your kind around here.”

“Take it easy, Buc,” Grant said. “You don’t have to treat every stranger like a bounty hunter.”

“It’s not that,” Buc replied. “I just don’t like him.”

“I don’t blame you,” Trinity volunteered. “No way to tell what I might be up to. As for bounty hunters, well, I never had much use for them myself. But I don’t think you got any call to worry. I’m sure Mr. Davidge won’t let no bounty hunter hurt you.”

Victoria came perilously close to laughing aloud. It amused her to see Buc needled. He always took himself so seriously. But it was his look of affronted manhood which nearly caused her to betray herself.

Trinity turned back to Grant Davidge. “I wouldn’t turn down a job if you was to offer me one.”

“We don’t need you,” Buc repeated, very much like a man used to having his opinion obeyed. “Now get on your horse and ride.”

Victoria decided she couldn’t in good conscience listen any longer without making her presence known. There was no longer any question of her safety, not with Buc and her uncle present. Besides, if she didn’t do something, Buc’s rudeness might cause Trinity to leave.

“We could use an extra rider” Victoria said as she stepped out of her garden.

The sound of the feminine voice caused Trinity to twist to his left. The sight of the young woman coming toward him from between great clumps of white daisies and purple lupine caused his heart to leap into his throat.

Victoria Davidge!
He had been told of her beauty, warned of its power. He had studied her in his binoculars, carefully accustoming himself to the perfection of her features, to the seductive curve of her breasts, the sinuous movement of her hips as she walked. But nothing had prepared him for Victoria Davidge up close.

Startlingly clear blue eyes, with only a hint of uneasiness in their depths, stared at him from under a wide-brimmed hat clearly chosen to protect her nearly pure white skin from the sun. Nearly, because Trinity could count at least three freckles on the bridge of her nose. He felt certain he would find more if he looked closely.

Her expression showed curiosity mixed with amusement, excitement dulled by caution. She seemed open and friendly, intelligent, willing to be entertained—maybe hoping came closer to the mark. Anticipation shone in her eyes.

Several strands of dark red hair had escaped from under her sun hat to curl at her temples and dangle in disorder around her ears. An uncertain smile hovered on her lips. Lips which seemed too full and moist. Lips which seemed to be made expressly for kissing.

Trinity could see nothing wrong with the rest of her. Neither the long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to her throat nor the divided skirt which barely overlapped the tops of her boots hid the curves of her body. But they didn’t accent them either. She had dressed for comfort, in the certain knowledge she didn’t need to draw attention to herself.

Trinity knew his astonishment showed in his face, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Only a dead man could have failed to respond pretty much as he had. In all his life, he’d only once seen a more beautiful woman.

Queenie
.

Yet Victoria Davidge had murdered her husband. And he meant to take her back to Texas to the gallows.

Trinity pulled himself together. He saw amusement in Grant Davidge’s eyes and knew it stemmed from his reaction to Victoria. He saw fury in Buc’s eyes and knew it came from the same source. He wasn’t sure what he saw in Victoria’s eyes, but he hoped it wasn’t amusement. He didn’t relish being laughed at by a woman, especially a woman who had just rocked him off his feet.

“You any good with a gun?” Grant asked.

“I usually hit what I aim at,” Trinity replied, wishing the brim of his hat covered his face, “but I don’t suppose you’d call me a gunhand.”

“That’s all the better,” Grant replied. “A man ought to know how to handle a gun, but he’s got no call to like using it.”

“But we still don’t know anything about him,” Buc said.

“Yes, we do,” Victoria contradicted. “He’s a man looking for a drink of water. I was in my garden when you rode up. I couldn’t help overhearing.” She flashed a friendly smile when Trinity sent her a questioning glance.

“You better on the trail or in a roundup?” Grant asked.

“I never had any need to decide.”

“You like to work alone or in pairs?”

“Never had any complaint either way.”

“Is there anything you do like to do?” Victoria asked.

“I like to move about, do different jobs, get to know new places.”

“Sounds to me like you’re trying to get the lay of the land so you can come back later,” Buc said, suspicious.