Desert Angel (11 page)

The roof extended out enough to create a wide porch on the two connecting sides of the L-shaped structure. Windows, with heavy wooden shutters, opened out onto what must have once been an inviting patio.

The ornately carved wooden door opened easily, and feeling only a little guilty, March entered its inviting tranquility. She shivered at the delicious chill of the room. After being in the heat of the morning sun, the temperature change was a welcome relief. The eighteen-inch adobe walls seemed to have captured the coolness of the night and held it for its own.

March had expected the room to be empty, and was surprised to discover that it was well furnished. Except for a heavy coating of dust lying undisturbed on tabletops and the cobwebs draped in lacy intricacy in the corners, it was easy to believe that the owner had just stepped out for the day.

Exploring curiously, March wandered from one room to the next. There was a contiguous sequence of rooms in single file, one room opening directly into another. The main room led into the kitchen, the kitchen into a bedroom where the connecting leg of the L-structure led into the other two bedrooms. Each was fully furnished, including the spreads on the beds and curtains at the windows.

The house felt welcoming, an old friend delighted by her return. It was as different from the other house as night was from day, and it suited March’s tastes more comfortably than the house she still considered to be a castle. In this house she already felt at home, while she knew she’d always be only a visitor in the other one.

“What do you think, Jamie boy?” she asked the baby who had begun to squirm as hunger brought him awake. “All I’d need is a dust rag and a broom to knock down the spiderwebs, and it would make a great place for us to spend our time.”

She stood in the open doorway and looked out at the patio. A rosebush climbed lazily up the far wall, its dark green leaves not yet burned by the sun as they would be by late summer. That it had survived without attention was a miracle, but March was too drawn to it to consider that blessing. Living too long without beauty in her life, she was struck by the enchantment of the single bloom that gleamed blood red against the adobe brick. Gently stroking its petals, she leaned over and inhaled its sweet fragrance.

“Ah, Jamie, this is home,” she murmured softly.

When the baby wiggled and squirmed, mew-

ing against her breast, March reluctantly turned and headed back toward the homestead. She patted the mound of his bottom, grimacing at the wetness that met her hand.

“Next time we come, we’ll bring some of your towels and then we can stay awhile.” The baby rooted against her breast, searching in vain for his source of nourishment.

Reluctant to climb the hill again, March chose to walk around it and considered opening her dress to let the baby nurse. She had done it before when they had been out of sight of the house, but as she began to open the top button she rounded the hill and discovered that the other ranch buildings were much closer to the old house than the new. In fact, they were barely hidden by the incline.

The two old men, Woods and Hank, sat in their usual place on the porch of the bunkhouse. They looked up and nodded as March walked past. With Jamie’s frustrated complaints to be fed growing louder, she didn’t stop to talk, simply nodding in greeting and hurrying toward the house.

As March nursed Jamie, she thought about the adobe house. She knew that it must belong to Jim, and wondered why he had ever built this place. Oh, it was grand, filled with lovely treasures, but it wasn’t a home. It didn’t invite you to kick off your shoes and relax.

Placing Jamie in his crib for a nap, March stretched out on her own bed, her tired sigh drifted through the silence. Tomorrow, she decided, she’d take a rag and a broom over to the adobe house, and chase away some of the cobwebs and dust. Her eyes closed as she thought of the many things she’d have to do to get the house livable; beat the dust out of the furniture and curtains, wash the bedding, mop the brick floors …

Jim totaled the figures one final time, then nodded with satisfaction. The head count on the cattle was better than he had hoped for, and he’d easily make his quota with the federal government. With this shipment the ranch would finally start paying its own way.

For the last three years he’d been supplying beef to the forts, now with most of the Indians settled on reservations, his contract had increased to include not only the forts but also the reservations. There were whispers at the monthly Ranchers’ Association meetings that some of the forts were to be closed, now that the hostilities between red man and white had ceased to exist.

As far as Jim was concerned, until Geronimo was captured — and held so that he couldn’t escape again — hostilities were far from over. He had a grudging respect for the wily Chiricahua Apache medicine man. It amazed him how one man could constantly evade an entire army. He had been apprehended several times, but Jim wondered if Geronimo had ever truly been cap-

tured or if he had willingly let himself be found. He always managed to escape, sometimes with no more effort than simply walking off of the reservation with his small band of followers.

Even if the forts did close, Jim didn’t worry about finding buyers for his beef, there was a big market back East. The local ranchers had recently gotten together to form a consortium to find not only a demand for their cattle, but the most economic way to handle shipping.

Jim held a firm belief that the smaller ranchers needed to work together, if they were to survive. Already some of the larger spreads up north had been sold out to conglomerates, even some foreign investors, who never set foot on the ranch and yet ran it with iron-fisted control.

Money was one worry Jim didn’t have, having inherited a healthy sum from both his parents and grandparents, but he knew that most ranches survived from one roundup to the next, scrabbling to hold their own at the best of times, suffering deeply at the worst.

“Coffee?”

Jim looked up with surprise to find March holding a cup of steaming coffee out to him.

“Thanks.” He took the cup from her and sipped cautiously. It was still weak, but a considerable improvement over her previous efforts. He bit back a grin when he remembered taking a big swallow of the first pot of coffee she had made for him a couple of mornings earlier. Not only was it so weak that he could see the bottom of the cup, but he’d had the unpleasant experience of biting down on a coffee bean. After he’d rinsed the acid taste from his mouth, he’d shown her how to grind the beans and add them to the boiling water. He still got an occasional mouthful of grounds, but even that was improving.

“Stay around long enough, and you’ll make a decent cup of coffee yet,” he teased.

Shaking her head, March wrinkled her nose in distaste. “That stuff isn’t coffee. I’m sure it has many uses that we should investigate, such as killing the smell in the necessary on a warm summer afternoon, but it isn’t something a body would want to put in her mouth.”

Jim smiled at her quick mind. He had discovered that she usually had a humorous response when he teased her, and had found it a pleasant change from the whining he had become accustomed to from Melanie.

“Everything done?” Jim watched as she wandered over to the bookshelves and opened a door. Her fingers lovingly caressed the bindings, tracing the impressed titles with a longing that was visible.

“You’re welcome to read any of them,” he offered. “Pick one and join me. I’ve still got some paperwork to do, but I’d welcome your company.”

March carefully pulled a book from the shelf, holding it reverently and wondering what wonderful words the printed letters inside told. “Jamie will be awake soon wanting to be fed .. .”

“John,” Jim corrected, knowing that it was a battle he had already lost. The boy’s name would be Jamie, which he really didn’t oppose … except that he enjoyed arguing with his housekeeper.

“Whoever he is,” March continued, hiding a grin, “will be wanting to be fed, and I’ve got a dress started … there was so much fabric, I had trouble deciding which to use . . . “

“March, sit down, put your feet up, and rest a little. You’re always working, the house is spotless, my shirts have never been so well ironed, and your coffee is improving. You’ve earned some time to rest.”

“Well . . . “ She carried the book over to the wingback chair and sat down in its comfortable depths. Curling her feet beneath her, she opened the first page of the book.

Jim watched her for several minutes, liking her presence in the room. She looked so young and innocent, so enticing and sensual, as she turned the pages. A frown of concentration creased her brow, and he wondered what was troubling her to cause it.

“What are you reading?”

Feeling like a fraud, March raised her eyes from the circles and lines on the pages. “I’m not … I think I’m discovering that I can’t sit and relax, when I know I’ve got work to do,” she improvised. She couldn’t bring herself to admit that she couldn’t read. She was pleased when she recognized an occasional letter her mother had taught her long ago, before so many responsibilities had taken away the time necessary for lessons.

Jamie’s wail drifted down and March sighed with relief at the excuse to leave. Jim pulled out his pocket watch, noted the hour, and smiled broadly.

“Right on time,” he chuckled as he put the watch away and climbed to his feet. “It’s been a while since I’ve done it, now that you’re here, but I think I can remember how to change his towel.”

“I’ll do it, that’s what you pay me for.” March stood up and hastily replaced the book on the shelf.

“You fix his bottle, while I take care of him,” Jim stated as he left the room. “I haven’t seen much of him in the last few days. Hard to believe, but I’ve missed the boy. Guess he kinda grows on you.”

Fix his bottle, March thought, as she went into the kitchen and looked at the many cans on the shelves. She couldn’t begin to guess which one held the milk, in fact, wasn’t sure if there even was any. She’d nursed the baby since her arrival, and hadn’t worried about any other kind of feeding. She dug out a bottle and nipple from the cabinet and set them on the counter. Walking back to the office, she knew that the time had come to confess that she couldn’t read. Jim would have to find the milk, or she’d have to nurse the baby.

“You’d think this boy hadn’t eaten in a week, from all the noise he’s making,” Jim said as he carried the crying baby into the room. “Where’s his bottle?”

“I couldn’t find the milk,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Are we out? Why didn’t you say something sooner?” His large hand swamped the baby’s small back as he patted it soothingly. “We’ve got a starving youn’en here, and nothing to feed him. I know from experience that he can keep this up all night.”

“I’ll feed him.” March reached over and took the infant from his arms. “I’ll bring him back down when I’m finished, so you can hold him for a while.”

“What are you going to feed him, if we don’t have any milk?”

“I’ll … I’ll nurse him, like I’ve been doing.”

“What?” Jim grabbed her arm as she attempted to leave the room. “What do you mean, you’ll nurse him?”

March turned her perplexed gaze up to his. “I’ve been nursing him since the morning I first arrived here.”

“How can you — I mean, why do you — “ Jim shook his head. “I think you’ve got some talking to do, girl.”

“I don’t understand.” March tried to calm the baby who grew more frustrated as he rooted at her fabric-covered breast. “I thought that’s why you hired me, to take care of your son.”

“I did, but I think there’s something here I don’t know anything about.” He watched his son nuzzle against her breast and realized that the baby was familiar with it. “Sit down, you owe me an explanation.” He all but pushed her into the chair she had abandoned when Jamie began to cry.

“I need to go upstairs …” March’s cheeks flamed with color. “To feed him, that is …”

“You can do it here,” he stated gruffly.

“Here?”

“Do it!” Realizing the implications of the situation, he ran a hand through his hair as he leaned against his desk. If she could nurse his son, that meant she’d had a baby. Where was it? Had she deserted it to the care of her parents, when she’d come here? How could any mother leave her own child to care for someone else’s?

“How old are you?” He watched, unwittingly fascinated as she reluctantly opened her dress and freed her breast.

“I’ll be nineteen this summer.” March felt her face flame as she exposed enough of herself to let the baby nurse. She wished that she had a blanket to throw over her shoulder to hide her breast, but Jim had brought the baby down in only his gown.

Jim couldn’t tear his eyes away from her display. He’d never seen anything so lovely. Melanie had never allowed him to see her body, insisting that the lights be out and letting him raise her gown only to her hips when he made love to her.

He’d seen a few nudie pictures one of the cowhands had one time, and he’d visited one of the light women in town a few times, but he’d never seen a woman nursing a child.

March’s breast was firm and smooth, the skin showing tracings of blue veins. He’d only caught a momentary glimpse of her nipple, but he felt a familiar tightness in his own body when he thought of it. Walking around the desk before she could see the evidence of his sudden lust, Jim lowered himself into his chair.