Bride of the Wolf (4 page)

Once he’d unsaddled the gelding, brushed him and given him a bag of oats, his thoughts quickly turned back to Mrs. McCarrick.

Rachel
. He didn’t know what to make of her. He’d known a few females in his life, but she wasn’t much like any of them. Not like Polly or Frankie, hardened by a life of catering to the lusts of men. She talked like she had plenty of book learnin’, all fancy and proper with her words, looking down her nose at him. But she wasn’t soft, like the ladies in San Antonio with their fine airs and frilly dresses.

And she’d taken the baby right away. She’d held it like she cared about its welfare.

Because she didn’t know what it really was. And she never would. It didn’t really matter if she was lying about being Jed’s wife, or what would happen when she found out she never would be. For now, he had a use for Rachel Lyndon. The baby needed her. And as long as that was true, Heath had to try to forget how much he hated her.

S
EAN DROVE HIS
spurs into Ulysses’s heaving sides. His rage had gone beyond shock into a low-burning anger that only strengthened his determination.

“
I am Mrs. McCarrick
.” When the woman had spoken the words, Sean had believed at first that he’d heard her wrong. “Miss Rachel Lyndon,” Sweet had said when he’d introduced her. According to the drifter, who had fled as soon as he’d reported his failure to Sean, she had answered to that name in town.

It was a flat-out lie. “As soon as we’re married,” Jed had said. He wouldn’t have phrased it that way if they had already been wed. He’d wanted to make Sean suffer, so he wouldn’t have hesitated to announce that the deed was done and his worldly goods would be going to his wife upon his passing.

So Rachel Lyndon was a fraud. Sean could think of several reasons why she might prevaricate, among them her desire to go to Dog Creek in spite of Jed’s unexpected absence. She might see it as a way to protect her reputation in a strange place and assert her authority until Jed returned. Clearly she did not believe that he would resent her pretense.

Ulysses stumbled, and Sean sawed on the reins to bring the horse up again. Renshaw might have known that Jed intended to be married, but Sean was certain he hadn’t realized that Jed’s fiancée was on her way, or he wouldn’t have been gone when the stage was due. Renshaw had assumed that Sean hadn’t known, either, undoubtedly believing that Sean’s meeting with “Mrs. McCarrick” had been the merest chance.

It had been a blessing that Renshaw hadn’t believed Sean when he’d made the mistake of saying he’d expected Rachel’s arrival. If anyone ever found out
what he’d told the drifter to do, or what Jed had said just before he died…

Sean laid his quirt to Ulysses’s flank, letting the wind burn his eyes. At least Renshaw didn’t know that Jed had intended to disinherit his nephew, or he would surely have rubbed it in Sean’s face long since.

But he
had
known Sean would be angry. As barbaric and uncouth as he was, he was not without a certain low animal cunning, and few in the county were inclined to cross him. Sean could still feel Renshaw’s hands clutching the lapels of his coat, feel that almost inhuman strength that could put even the most superior of men at a disadvantage.

The bastard would pay for that, of course. And that payment had been a long time coming. Too long. Renshaw had claimed Sean’s rightful place as Jed’s right hand and confidant. If Jed had done his duty and atoned for his brother’s sin of abandonment, it would have been different. But the money and education and petty privileges he had given his brother’s cast-off son had never been enough. They hadn’t filled the hole Sean had worked so hard to ignore.

If only Jed had loved—

Sean hit Ulysses again, pleased by the stallion’s grunt of pain. Those pitiful desires and the weakness that came with them were as dead as Jedediah McCarrick. Sean had set his own path, and it was as clear as daylight.

Renshaw’s bizarre rescue of an apparently abandoned infant might play into Sean’s hands in ways he couldn’t yet predict. Renshaw’s open hostility toward the Lyndon woman would certainly work to Sean’s benefit. And her apparent belief that Renshaw had tried
to bribe her to leave, along with his brutish behavior, made it unlikely that she would ever regard Renshaw with any favor, no matter what she might think about the infant. Sean hadn’t lied when he’d told her that Renshaw would hate any woman who set foot on Dog Creek, and not even a brute would be tempted by her dubious charms.

Sean didn’t hate her. She was simply an obstacle to be removed. A woman who lied about her marital state must have secrets, and he intended to find them. He could beguile any woman he set his sights on, beautiful or ugly, old or young. Charm her into revealing
her
greatest weakness.

In the meantime, he would assign one of the hands to keep an eye on the woman—and on Renshaw. And he had to find and get rid of the will before he arranged for Jed’s body to be found. Jed had used a lawyer in Heywood once or twice to draw up contracts, and such a man might very well have handled the will, as well. Sean would send his most loyal sheep to look for the man. Then he would consider how to approach the lawyer without betraying an untoward interest in Jed’s posthumous intentions.

Plenty of ifs, and no guarantees. But Sean had never doubted his destiny. It was as inevitable as the sunrise.

He pulled Ulysses to a sharp stop before the Blackwells’ fine two-story house. He would not tell them the entire truth about his eviction from Dog Creek. Amy was very close to dropping from the vine into his waiting hand, and her parents were not far behind. A little finesse and he would simply increase their resentment of the man they believed had persuaded Jed to refuse their generous offer for Dog Creek, thwarting
their ambition for undisputed dominance of Pecos County.

They didn’t know what ambition was.

Sean dismounted in an almost cheerful mood. As he ran up the steps to the wide, shaded veranda, the door opened and Amy walked out, dressed in a tight pink gown that must have come all the way from Paris.

“Sean!” she said. “I didn’t expect you this morning!”

He removed his hat. “Something has happened, Amy. I don’t like to trouble you, but—”

“What is it?” She hurried to meet him, gazing anxiously into his face. “Come inside and tell me at once.” She took his hand, and as she led him into the hall, Sean knew that he need have no more worries. When he had Dog Creek, he would have this woman. And when he had
her
, he would have this house and all the country from Dog Creek to the Pecos.

And when he was governor, Jed wouldn’t be the only one he left lying in the dry West Texas dirt.

I
F IT HADN’T
been for the infant, Rachel wasn’t sure she could have done anything but stare and bawl like a child.

At first all she had noticed was the primitive look of the place—the ramshackle unpainted buildings, the piles of unrecognizable metal objects heaped around them, the barren earth beyond the single tree by the house and the meager stretch of green that marked the creek. Jedediah’s descriptions had always been vague, but she had pictured something very different. The house itself was far smaller than she had expected here in the West, where everything seemed so vast. There was no garden that she could see, no whitewashed fences, no evidence that anyone had ever attempted to make the house a home.

That is why I am here
, she’d told herself. But then she’d seen the grim-faced man standing in front of the house, and she knew even before she had been introduced who he must be. When she had first looked into his lean, predatory face, she had known that this was a man capable of doing exactly what Sean McCarrick had suggested. His eyes—as much golden-green as gray etched steel that reflected light like those of an animal—emanated hostility as hot as the stark Texas sun.

Eyes that weighed her with a single glance and found her unworthy. A rival. A threat to his power. He had claimed he didn’t know about her imminent arrival, but of course he would have no compunction about lying to her if he had already tried to buy her off.

When he had said “So you’re Jed’s wife?” in such a sneering voice, she’d been almost certain that he meant to accuse
her
of deception. She had, after all, answered to Rachel Lyndon when the wagon driver had approached her in Javelina. Perhaps he hadn’t persisted in his challenge because he feared being exposed himself.

You are no less a liar just because he’s a liar, too
, she told herself. But she had lied only because she had needed a reason for coming to Dog Creek after she’d learned that Jedediah was away. If her worst, most irrational fears were realized and he no longer wanted her, she would compel him to tell her so to her face. Unless and until that happened, turning back, even staying in Javelina, was not an acceptable option.

And if Jedediah had simply been detained on business, as Sean had said, he would surely understand her reasons for claiming a privilege she did not yet possess.

Rachel opened the door to the house, easing the infant into the crook of her arm as she pushed. She had no reason to disbelieve anything Sean had said; his interest in her seemed strictly and benevolently impersonal, and he had accurately predicted Renshaw’s reaction. If not for the baby, she would have deemed Holden Renshaw a thoroughgoing and unredeemable villain.

Yet when he’d held the child out to her and demanded that she help in that rough, deep voice, she’d
been struck dumb as a lamppost. What sort of villain would bring a foundling home with him and express such concern about its well-being?

Glancing around the rustic parlor immediately inside the door, she saw that the chairs, like the table they surrounded, were handmade, simple and roughhewn. She went to the nearest and sat, gently unwrapping the infant as soon as she was settled. Its skin was gray, its face far too thin.

It could not have been more than two months old. She cooed to it, waiting for it to open its eyes. Afraid, though she could see it breathing, that it might die in her arms.

A precious life. Small and fragile in body, just as she felt in her soul.

She lifted the baby so that its downy head rested against her cheek. A curled fist flailed, bumping her mouth. Alive. Wanting to live. Giving her the courage she so sadly lacked.

Whoever you may be, she told it silently, wherever you have come from, I am here to protect you
.

Blue eyes opened. All babies had blue eyes at first, but this child’s were startling, as bright and intent as if they could focus on hers.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I see you.”

The baby—a boy, she saw, checking under his diaper—gave a gusty little sigh as if he understood. Nursery rhymes crowded into her head, pushing away her fear.

Once, she had sung such songs to the baby within her, certain he could hear her long before he was born. She had felt him move, kicking and punching as if to declare his coming independence.

Little Timothy had lived so short a time. Only long enough for her to sing a few verses of the song she loved most.

The door opened, and Renshaw walked in with a pail in one hand and saddlebags over his shoulder. He set down the pail and moved past her to lay the saddlebags over a chair. In the pail, the milk steamed, fresh and pungent.

Rachel found her composure again and hugged the baby as if it needed protection from the very person who had found him. No one, least of all
this
man, would see her vulnerable.

“We will need something to feed him with,” she said briskly.

Without a word, Renshaw rummaged in the saddlebags and produced a bottle and several squares of white cotton fabric.

“Where did you get the bottle?” she asked.

“It was left with the kid,” he said. He went to the pail to fill the bottle, but Rachel stopped him with a cry of protest.

“Your hands must be clean,” she said.

He glared at her, though his face remained expressionless. He strode into the adjoining kitchen. A moment later she heard the squeak of a pump handle working and a gush of water.

Her heart was beating fast when he walked back into the room, looking like nothing so much as a panther with his lowered head and silent feet. Muscles bunched
and flexed under his shirt and trousers, lending power to his grace.

He is handsome
, she thought, surprised. It wasn’t easy to see at first because of the harsh lines of his features, but she could not deny it.

Handsome, like Louis. And nothing like him. There was a leashed energy in him, a feral quality she couldn’t put a name to. It was more than a sense of danger, more than the gun at his hip or a question of dubious intentions. It felt almost as if he could look into her eyes and make her do anything.

Anything at all.

Renshaw startled her by holding his hands in front of her face. “Clean enough for you, Mrs. McCarrick?”

His voice was milder than she had expected, and all at once her certainty of his guilt seemed less secure than it had been only minutes before. She looked up at Renshaw with all the confidence a married woman should display.

“Thank you,” she said. “Would you kindly fill the bottle?”

He stared at her a moment longer, then removed the cork, tube and rubber nipple from the bottle, knelt beside the pail and pushed the bottle into the milk. When the bottle was full, he thrust it at her.

“Feed it,” he said.

Swallowing fresh resentment, she took the bottle and rested the nipple against the baby’s lips. His tiny nostrils flared, and his mouth opened a hairbreadth.

“Mr. Renshaw,” she said, fixing her gaze on the baby’s face, “I would like to make one thing perfectly clear. I am not an employee at Dog Creek. I am not under your command.”

She couldn’t see his reaction, but she heard the sudden intake of his breath, as if he was about to speak. She concentrated on the baby again…on the way the rosebud lips opened wider, the miniature fists flailed toward the bottle.

“There now,” she said. “That’s it.” She nudged the bottle into his mouth, and he took it.

Renshaw’s worn, dusty boots shuffled on the scratched wooden floor. “Is it goin’ to be all right?” he asked.

“It is not an ‘it,’” she said. “It is a ‘he.’”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“One would be hard-pressed to realize it.”

Rachel had not lived so sheltered a life that she hadn’t heard far worse profanity than he uttered now. “I will thank you not to speak so in front of the baby,” she snapped.

“You’re tellin’ me he can understand?”

Once again she lifted her gaze from the suckling infant, focusing on the dark, strong brows above Renshaw’s striking eyes. “What do you intend to do with the child when he’s better?” she asked.

For once Renshaw seemed to have nothing to say. If the child was a foundling, presumably abandoned, the chances of his parents coming forward to reclaim him were dubious at best. Wouldn’t a man like him be eager to be rid of such a burden, as he had so obviously been relieved to consign the child’s care to her?

A man like him
. Could she be wrong about him, too quick to base her judgment upon Sean McCarrick’s obvious dislike of his uncle’s foreman? Had her natural prejudice in favor of Jedediah’s nephew, so clearly a gentleman and so comfortingly respectful, colored her perception of this man?

Rachel bit her lip and watched him from the corner of her eye. “There is no need for you to remain,” she said. “The baby will rest after he is done feeding. You may return to your work.”

His brief laugh was more of a bark than an indication of amusement. “Oh, so I have your permission, Mrs. McCarrick?”

She averted her face quickly. “You have set me a task, Mr. Renshaw, for which you are ill suited, as I am unsuited for yours.”

“There ain’t much food in the house. We ain’t fitted out for a lady.”

One might almost have taken it for an apology. “I will make do,” she said.

“I’ll send Maurice to find out what you need. What he don’t have in the cookhouse, he can get in Javelina.” He cleared his throat. “Do you need anythin’ else for the baby?”

“Yes. As many clean cloths as you can get. And—” She almost blushed. “It is better if the baby has mother’s milk. A wet nurse, a woman who has just had a child herself…”

“Is that all?”

His mockery had returned, tempered by something else she couldn’t quite name. “I will see that you know if there is anything else,” she said.

He lingered for a few heartbeats more, then opened the door and went outside. Rachel didn’t breathe again until she had counted all the way to ten.

“There now,” she said to the baby. “He’s gone. You don’t have to be afraid.”

The infant burbled, bringing up little milky bubbles. She set the bottle on the table, picked up one of the rags
Renshaw had taken from the saddlebags, laid it across her shoulder and gently positioned the infant over the cloth.

He did exactly what he ought to do, and promptly fell into a deep, contented sleep. Rachel almost imagined she could see the color coming back into his skin, the roundness of health returning to his thin body.

She sang to him for a while, afraid to disturb him, and then looked for a place to lay him down. There was no cradle, of course. She ventured cautiously into the short hall and looked into the two rooms that led off from it.

One, the smaller, was clearly the province of a man, though it was tidy enough. The bed, covered with an Indian blanket, was neatly made. The walls were bare save for a faded photograph of a pretty, dark-haired woman in a white dress. The air smelled faintly of horse, perspiration, leather…and
him
. He might be unpolished and blunt, rude and uncivilized, but these were not the quarters of an ignorant boor.

Who was the lady whose picture was placed across from his bed where he could see her every night before he went to sleep? A relative? An actress he admired? A former lover?

She backed away hastily and turned to the other room. It was as plain as the rest of the house, but somehow softer, with a quilted coverlet in muted tones and an empty vase on the table beside the bed. The house might not be “fitted out for a lady,” but some attempt had been made here, and the bedstead was wide enough to accommodate two sleepers side by side.

Jedediah got that bed for me
. No one had ever cared so much for her happiness. Unwanted tears seeped into
her eyes. When he returned, everything would be just as it should.

The bed was soft enough for a baby. She laid one of the spare cloths on top of the quilt and set the child down. He didn’t wake as she removed his diaper and carefully pinned on another. He would need a bath soon, but recuperative sleep, now that his stomach was full, was far more essential.

It felt strange, even wrong at first, to lie on the bed as if it belonged to her. She reminded herself that it was for the baby and settled him into the crook of her arm with a sigh she almost dared think of as contented. She tried to stay awake, certain that Holden Renshaw would soon come striding into the house with more questions and demands.

But her own body insisted on claiming its due, and she drifted into that half-world where anything was possible.

I will wait, Jedediah. I will not be afraid. I will make you happy
.

And no one, not even Holden Renshaw, would stop her.

I
T WAS DONE
. Heath had committed himself, and there was no going back. Much as he hated the situation, much as he wanted to get as far away from humans as he could, he was bound by the baby. And the baby was bound to the woman until it was healthy again.

Not “it,”
Heath reminded himself as he strode toward the bunkhouse.
Him
. Damn the woman.
Wash your hands. Fill the bottle. Get back to work
. She talked like a schoolmarm and gave orders like a cavalry sergeant.

Sure, the fear he’d smelled on her never completely went away. Most humans could feel that he wasn’t one
of them without knowing why. He could make just about anyone afraid by staring them down or showing his teeth, and Sean had probably said plenty bad about him. Heath hadn’t exactly tried to prove the bastard wrong.

But Rachel had stood up to him, even though she must have had other things than him to be scared of. Whatever her reasons, she’d come a long way to a strange place to marry a man she could hardly know and found him gone. She must feel mighty alone.

Like everyone was alone in the end. Heath had no sympathy for her. She’d come here of her own free will. She hadn’t said much about herself in the letter he’d read; maybe those details were in the rest of the correspondence Heath hadn’t looked at. The words she’d written in her fine hand hadn’t been at all poetical, the kind Heath reckoned you’d send to a lover, just talk about when she planned to arrive and how she was looking forward to making Jed a good wife, whatever that was.