Fire Brand (17 page)

“Of course I'm worried about you,” she said coldly. “You could get yourself shot over a few acres of land!”

“A few thousand,” he corrected.

“Whatever! It isn't worth your life!”

“Anything worth having is worth fighting for, Gaby,” he replied. “If I didn't feel that way, I'd have let you run back to Phoenix the day after you got here, because you wanted to run.”

She felt the ground giving way under her. She couldn't meet that level, intent stare. “Maybe I did,” she said. “But staying here hasn't been much more sensible.” She drew in a slow breath. “Bowie, can we be friends?”

“Friends and nothing more?” he said for her, without a smile. “That's what you mean, I gather?”

She leaned against the car beside him, staring at his light suit jacket. “I watched Aggie kissing Mr. Courtland Sunday,” she said slowly, choosing her words. “It... I don't know, it shook me a little, I think. You see, Bowie,” she said in a weary breath, “I've never felt that kind of emotion. I don't know if I
can
feel it. I only know that passion is as alien to me as the lack of it would be to you.” She looked up at him, searching his narrowed eyes. “I don't want to know the kind of pain Aggie's feeling right now. I think it might be that bad for me if we...if we grew any closer, and it fell apart.”

“You don't want the risk.”

She shifted. “No.”

“And if I could teach you passion?”

The deep, frank note in his voice ruffled her nerves. She looked up at him with curiosity and fear mingling in her soft eyes. “Can it be taught?”

“Stick around and let's find out,” he returned. He didn't make a move toward her. He smiled. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, honey.”

“There must be dozens of women who'd jump at the chance,” she murmured, her eyes delighting in his extraordinary good looks.

“Dozens who'd love my money,” he returned with faint cynicism. “Not many who'd want me without it.”

“I've got to get you a good mirror,” she said, shaking her head, “and maybe some glasses. Have you really taken a good look at me?” she asked with a short laugh.

His black eyes narrowed and he took a draw from his cigarette before he answered her. “You're soft-hearted. You like animals and sunsets and romantic music. You daydream. You stick to your guns when you think you're right, and you're loyal to the people you love. You're generous, hard-working, and a good companion.” He leaned closer. “And you're just pure sweet heaven to kiss. Yes. I've taken a good look at you. I like what I see.”

She blushed at the way he said it. Her eyes slid to his stubborn chin and lingered there. “Aggie said that you liked poetry,” she said absently.

He traced one of her dark eyebrows. “Did she? Do you?”

“Oh, yes, very much,” she whispered.

His lean finger moved down to her lips and touched them with lazy delicacy. “‘...Desire still on stilts of fear doth go. And yet amid all fears a hope there is...'”

Her heart jumped at the softness in his slow, deep voice. It was perfect for reading poetry, she thought, even as she tried to fit the sonnet with its elusive author.

“Sidney,” he said, smiling down at her. “Sir Philip Sidney, a sixteenth-century Elizabethan gentleman. Sidney died with utmost chivalry on the field of Zutphen, and Spenser was sufficiently moved to dedicate his own work,
The Faerie Queene,
to him.”

“I never thought of you as a student of literature,” she said softly.

“But then, you don't know me, do you?” he asked, his voice deep in the stillness. His finger traced her upper lip with an intensity that made it tremble.

Her instinct was to catch his strong wrist and pull his hand away, but she fought with it. She liked the sensations he was causing. Her eyes sought his in the growing darkness, and when he dropped his cigarette and moved closer, she lifted her mouth without protest.

He brought his hands up to frame her face and held it firmly as he bent slowly toward her hungry mouth. His breath rustled against her parted lips and she could feel the heat from his big body. It would be rough this time, she thought while she could, and for the first time, the threat of it didn't frighten her. She wanted him to be rough, just once—to kiss her with the same hard passion she'd seen when Ned Courtland had kissed Aggie...

The front door opened and Bowie's hands contracted. “Oh, God, no, not now!” he bit off, his lips almost touching Gaby's.

“Señor, gracias a Dios. Lo Siento, pero su madre
...!” Tía Elena was rattling off her perfect Spanish, gaily oblivious to the explosive kiss she'd just prevented.

Bowie stamped out the cigarette burning in the dust with a violence Gaby had rarely seen him display.
“Yo sé,
Tía Elena,” he said shortly.
“¿Donde esta mi madre?”

Tía Elena answered him, holding the gate while he and Gaby walked into the courtyard and up the steps. Bowie put his cases down in the hall for Montoya to deal with and went into the living room, where Aggie was waiting. He didn't look at Gaby. He couldn't, just yet. He was all but shaking from the fever of so nearly having her in his arms again.

“Go ahead,” Aggie said through her teeth. “Laugh.”

“I'm not laughing, Aggie,” he replied. He sat down beside her, his black eyes searching her wan face. “I'm sorry.”

“Are you?” she demanded. “You wanted to break us up.”

“I wanted you to be happy,” he returned. “Maybe I went a little overboard.” He shrugged. “And maybe I forgot that you're still human, even if you have got a few gray hairs,” he added with an amused, knowing smile.

Aggie actually flushed, and then she laughed. She started to touch Bowie and suddenly drew back.

“What's wrong?” he queried with pursed lips. “Are you afraid you'll get warts if you hug me?”

Aggie flushed again and laughed, and abruptly reached out toward him. With a deep laugh of his own, he gathered her into his arms and rocked her, because she was crying again.

To Gaby, it looked very much like a milestone in their relationship. It delighted her to see mother and son so close, probably for the first time in Bowie's adult life.

She went to get coffee, and by the time she and Montoya got back, things were back to normal—on the surface, at least. Bowie was telling Aggie about his trip to Phoenix. Gaby noticed that he said nothing at all about going to Texas as well, and she didn't give him away.

They settled down to watch television while they sipped coffee, but the news was the only thing interesting, and it dealt with a subject guaranteed to curl Gaby's hair—an assault on a local woman.

She got up as soon as she decently could and announced that she was going to have an early night, hoping against hope that Bowie wouldn't offer to walk her up. She didn't want to have to explain her nervousness.

He seemed to know, all the same. He wished her a pleasant good night, along with Aggie, and watched her retreat with quiet, curious eyes.

She pulled on her soft cotton gown and climbed into bed, hoping that the news story wouldn't affect her sleep. Of course, inevitably, it brought the nightmares back.

With her body bathed in sweat, she relived those frantic minutes in the Kentucky stable, the brief terror that had colored her life, steeled her to living as a solitary woman. Not even a woman—a neutered thing, a shadow of her true self.

She felt again the hands tearing at her clothing, smelled the whiskey, heard the drunken laughter. She knew the helpless revulsion of hands on her skin, of a heavy, hurting body bearing down on hers. And then, to add to that horror, there was the sudden curse and the hard blow and blood everywhere. Blood...!

“Gaby!”

She fought the hands that were holding her arms, struggling, her teeth clenched. “I'll...kill you...” she panted. “I'll kill you! Let me go!” she cried piteously.

Suddenly she was jerked upright and shaken with tender ferocity. Her eyes flew open and Bowie's hard, concerned face was there. She was awake. It had only been a dream, after all—a nightmare.

Tears streamed down her cheeks and she was breathing in shaky gasps, her face white, her eyes enormous. She shook helplessly.

Bowie didn't know what to do. He was afraid to upset her any more by taking her in his arms, because it was quite obviously memories of a big man that had left her this way to begin with. But he couldn't walk away, either.

“I want to hold you,” he said gently. “That's all. Just until you stop shaking. Come here, Gaby. I won't let anything hurt you, not ever again.”

She lifted her arms. “Bowie,” she whispered through her tears.

He gathered her up with breathless tenderness, amazed to find himself bristling with protective instincts. If only he could find the man who'd done this to her, and beat him into pulp!

“It's all right, baby,” he whispered in her ear. “I've got you. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

He stood up, his powerful muscles rippling as he took her weight, and walked the floor with her. Holding her close against his heart, he whispered soft endearments as she cried out the pain and fear of the last few minutes, clinging to his neck.

“I've soaked your shirt,” she whispered brokenly when she was calmer, her fingers touching the sodden collar of his blue striped shirt. He'd worn that with his suit, but now his tie and jacket were off, and the shirt was completely unbuttoned down his broad, hair-roughened chest. Her eyes went down to it, fascinated. She hadn't paid much attention at first, but now she was mesmerized by the expanse of tanned skin and the pure maleness of him. Odd, she thought dazedly, that she wasn't afraid of him this way, especially after the nightmare she'd been having.

“It'll dry,” he murmured. He saw where her eyes had fallen and guessed, mistakenly, that the sight of his bare chest was frightening her. “Here, I'll button it,” he murmured, and set her back on her feet.

“It's all right, Bowie,” she said, her voice soft and husky. “I'm not afraid of you.” She lifted her eyes to show him that she wasn't, and surprised an indescribable look on his face.

“I don't suppose it would do any good to ask what you were dreaming about?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “I can't talk about it.”

He took a slow breath. “Well, I hope you realize I can't leave you here alone like this.” He searched around the room until he found her robe and eased her into it without looking too pointedly at the way her cotton gown clung to her body. He belted the robe and bent, lifting her into his arms again.

“Where are we going?” she asked, because he was headed for the open balcony window, from where he'd obviously come.

“Your bed's too short for me,” he said without looking at her. “So it'll have to be mine.”

Her heart stopped beating. “Bowie...?”

“I won't leave you in there alone in the dark,” he said curtly. “And if you have to ask about my intentions, I'm going to stand on the balcony railing and jump off.”

She hid a smile at that threat, because at the moment he looked capable of it. She sighed and laid her cheek against his hard shoulder, which would probably tell him all he needed to know.

It did. It made him feel as if he'd grown an inch, and aroused him until he wanted to throw back his head and scream, but he didn't let her know it. She was going to get comfort and protection and nothing else. He had to have her, trust before they went any further.

She'd only been in his room once or twice, and never when he was in it. It was huge, like he was, and decorated in browns and tans and greens—earth colors that suited his personality. His bed was king-sized, a four-poster, with an Indian print comforter carelessly thrown back to reveal tan and cream sheets already turned down.

“I was just about to turn in myself when I heard you,” he said. He laid her down, pulled the sheets over her, robe and all, and leaned over her with his arms catching his weight. “You're going to sleep with me—just sleep—and I'm going to wear pajamas, so you needn't look at me with those huge, shocked eyes. There's no need, anyway—I don't have anything you haven't already seen,” he mused dryly as he got up and went to search through his dresser for the one pair of pajama bottoms he owned.

She remembered very well what he looked like without clothes, but she wouldn't have dared mention it under the circumstances.

“What will Aggie say?” she asked nervously.

“We'll cross that bridge if we ever come to it. I expect to be awake and get you out of here by daylight.” He found what he was looking for, closed the drawer, and paused to look down at her on his way to the bathroom to change. “Are you afraid of me?”

She searched his hard face. “No, Bowie,” she said softly.

“That's something, I guess,” he said ruefully, and went off into the bathroom.

CHAPTER TWELVE

G
ABY
CURLED
UP
next to Bowie with her head pillowed on his bare shoulder, and noticed with secret delight that he was outside the covers with a serape pulled over him in the air-conditioned room.

“Won't you be cold?”

“With you next to me?” he asked, smiling. “I hope you don't snore.”

“I hope you don't, too,” she mused. She watched him turn to snap off the lamp by the bed. He was so handsome, and the feel and smell of him made her giddy, like lying beside him in bed. She'd never have dreamed anything could be as sweet. Even on the heels of the nightmare, she couldn't be afraid of Bowie. That should have struck her as unusual, but she was too shaken to think.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice subdued, deep, and a little tired.

“Very. Are you?”

“I'll do.”

She sighed, searching for someplace to put her free hand. Finally, she settled for curling it up on his shoulder. He laughed.

“You can put it on my chest if you want to,” he said in a whisper. “As long as you don't start rubbing your hands over it and smothering me in open-mouthed kisses, it won't bother me.”

“Bowie!” she gasped, stiffening.

“I thought it might reassure you,” he said with evident amusement. “You don't have to be that careful, honey. I'm so tired. I've been halfway across the country, and I didn't get much sleep last night. You're perfectly safe—tonight, at least.”

“Okay. I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable,” she said, letting her hand slowly go to the serape over his chest and flatten there, very still.

His big hand pressed over hers. “You won't have any more nightmares tonight,” he said quietly. “I'll hold you while you sleep. Close your eyes,
adorada.”

“What did you call me?” she asked drowsily.

“Never mind. Go to sleep.”

She drifted off with the soft Spanish word echoing in her tired, worn brain. Adored one—wasn't that what it meant? She smiled against his shoulder, savoring his unfamiliar tenderness. She'd always thought that he had that capacity, but she'd never really seen him use it, except with children or young animals. Now she knew that he could feel it with her, and it was reassuring. If only she could count on it at that most basic of moments—when he was aroused. But men seemed to be uncontrollable at that stage, and it was the one time when she was the most afraid of strength and violence.

She slept finally, lulled by the deep thunder of Bowie's heartbeat and the slow sound of his breathing. Something woke her at dawn—a soft rasp, followed by running feet and voices. Like insects, she thought drowsily, humming...

“Oh, hell!”

She heard the deep, sleepy curse and opened her eyes. The ceiling was there. She looked down and felt her body go very still. Bowie's arm was around her—she could feel its warm strength—and one of his long legs seemed to be thrown over both of hers. They were curled together, under the covers, both of them. Bowie's head was raised, and he was glowering at someone. There, at the foot of the bed, stood Mrs. Agatha McCayde.

Behind her and beside her were Tía Elena and Montoya. Gaby knew her face was scarlet as she sat up, still in her robe. “Bowie?” she asked, her voice wavering.

“I know. I had hoped they were just a bad dream,” he mused, dragging himself up against the headboard. “Go ahead, say it,” he invited his mother.

“Say what?” Aggie sighed. “If it was anyone except Gaby, I could seethe and rage and spout platitudes. But if you're in bed with Gaby, it's because she had a nightmare and you didn't want to leave her alone.” She threw up her hands. “Damn it, there's no excitement around here anymore—no parties, no surprises in the coat room, no drunks with guns... Montoya, you'd better bring them some coffee so they can wake up. I'll have mine out on the patio. No hose fights on the lawn...” she was muttering as she left with a softly laughing Montoya and a giggling Tía Elena at her heels.

“Well, I like that,” Gaby muttered, glaring after them. “They find me in bed with you, and nobody even shakes a finger.”

He threw off the covers and stretched lazily. “They know you too well.”

She turned, her hair disheveled, and looked down at him. “Bowie...”

“What?”

“Did Aggie ever really find you in bed with a girl?”

He chuckled. “Not at Casa Río,” he murmured dryly. “I had too much sense to bring any of my women here.” His black eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And there weren't that many, Gaby. I've spent a lot more time making money than I have spending it.”

“I know. You work terribly hard,” she agreed. Her soft eyes ran over his hard, bare chest, lingering on the thick hair that ran down over his lean stomach and into the low band of his pajama bottoms. It shouldn't have affected her, because it hadn't before—not to any real extent. But she looked at him and wanted suddenly to touch him.

He knew too much about women to mistake the look. It fascinated him, and aroused him helplessly. His jaw tautened as he stared down at her, aware that she was seeing that vulnerability, and for the first time, understanding it.

Her soft eyes levered back up to his while her heart ran away with her. She didn't say anything because she couldn't think of anything that would suit the occasion and spare her modesty. She simply looked at him.

“And now you know something more about men, don't you?” he asked softly. “Don't be embarrassed. Men have these crosses to bear.” He sighed heavily, lifting his cigarette to his mouth. “It was easier around puberty, before girls started getting so knowledgeable about why boys walked bent over double from time to time.”

She laughed. It was unexpected and amazing to her, but his droll humor always had the power to bring her out of nervousness or awkwardness.

“Aggie looks less miserable, at least,” she remarked when he grew silent.

“Why shouldn't she?” he sighed. “She's found plenty of diversion in here this morning. The way we wound up didn't help the situation, either.”

She remembered how they'd been wrapped together. Her shy eyes sought his. “I guess you're sort of used to sleeping with someone,” she said hesitantly.

“Not all night, honey,” he replied. “In that respect, you were my first,” he added with a dry smile.

She felt outrageously pleased. “Anyway, thanks for letting me stay with you,” she said with averted eyes. “I was pretty scared.”

“So I noticed.” He got up lazily, stretching again. He couldn't remember when he'd had a better night's sleep. He'd awakened early to find Gaby curled up against him, and the pleasure of it had made him feel warm and tender. She was getting under his skin already, even if he did have some less than obvious motives for his active pursuit of her in recent days. Aggie was out to get him for his part in the Teton man's exit, and he could almost read her mind. He'd have bet ten to one she was going to give Gaby controlling interest in Casa Río to get back at him. Well, if Gaby was his, that would backfire—at least, that's what he was telling himself. The new and fragile tenderness he felt for Gaby was something he tried to push into the back of his mind, for the time being, anyway. “I can't remember when I've slept better. What do you have planned for today?”

She couldn't remember what she had planned, because the sight of him like that—powerful muscles rippling as he reached toward the ceiling—knocked the breath out of her.

He glanced down and lifted an eyebrow at her rapt stare.

“I'm sorry, what did you say?” she asked dimly.

He laughed. “Never mind.” He reached down and caught her under the arms, swinging her out of the bed. His hands linked behind her back and he studied her flushed face. “You look pretty first thing in the morning,” he remarked. “Very virginal and sweet.”

“You don't look bad, either,” she said softly. He was smiling at her, and she felt as if she had the world in her pocket. She smiled back. And for one long, exquisite minute there wasn't anyone else in the world.

“Ah, ah,” Montoya broke the silence, making clicking sounds with his tongue as he brought in a tray with a pot of coffee, two cups, cream and sugar. “If you continue to look at each other that way, the shotgun behind the door may be loaded for you, Bowie.”

He pursed his lips, still staring down at Gaby. “Suppose we tell them what really happened last night?” he asked speculatively.

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean, what really happened?”

“Montoya's not unsophisticated,” he mused. “Are you, Montoya?”

“No, and I'm not stupid, either.” Montoya grinned. “Pull the other one, Bowie.”

Bowie glared at him. “If you'd cooperate, I might browbeat her into an engagement.”

“Oh! Excuse me!” Montoya looked at a stunned Gaby and cleared his throat, putting a lean, dark hand over his heart. “Señorita, I am shocked at your behavior. How could you corrupt so worthy a gentleman as Señor Bowie?”

“Corrupt?” Aggie was at the door again, obviously going past it. “Did you say corrupt?!”

“She took shameless advantage of me,” Bowie accused, staring at Gaby. “I think it's only right that she make an honest man of me. Don't you?” he asked Aggie.

“What a lovely idea, dear,” Aggie murmured, glaring at him. She smiled wickedly. “And I'll give you all the help you gave me.”

“I knew it,” Bowie sighed as she went past the door. “She isn't over the Teton man—not by a long shot.”

“That is obvious, since she cried most of the night,” Montoya said at the doorway. He glanced back at Bowie. “She puts on a brave act, but there is pain underneath it.”

“All the more reason for Gaby to marry me and give her something to occupy her mind,” Bowie agreed. “Get out and let me propose in peace.”

“My pleasure, señor.” Montoya grinned again, and carefully shut the door on his way out.

“You're joking,” Gaby stammered.

Bowie turned to face her. “No, I am not,” he replied.

“We'll buy a ring and take it one day at a time.” He pulled her back up again. “If you trust me enough to sleep in my arms, there's every hope that one day you'll trust me enough to give yourself to me. I can wait.”

“We'd be taking a terrible chance,” she whispered huskily, and all the while she was thinking of the future, of the sweetness of belonging to him and having him belong to her. She had slept with him, without protest. It might be possible, one day, to go all the way.

“I don't mind taking terrible chances,” he replied quietly. “Say yes.” His black eyes twinkled. “Your reputation is ruined, and so is mine, so you might as well. Tía Elena will have it all over the valley by dark, and most people don't know us as well as she does. Believe me, you'll be a scarlet woman by sunset.”

“That isn't a good reason to get married.”

He framed her face in his big, lean hands and bent to brush his mouth over her soft lips. “We get along well together most of the time, don't we?”

“We did, until we started taking sides on this agricultural thing,” she agreed.

“You'll change your mind.”

“No, I won't, Bowie,” she said. “I think they're right.”

His black eyes narrowed. “And I think they're wrong. But that's one issue. On most of the others we agree. You can keep on working, if you'll come home and work for Bob Chalmers, and when and if you like the idea, we'll make a baby together.”

Her face went scarlet and her breath caught at his wording. She buried her hot cheek against his chest, trembling at the knowledge of what they'd have to do to create one. But it was a new kind of trembling, and it wasn't from fear.

“You've got a natural maternal streak,” he said softly, “and I love kids. That's another thing we have in common. But I won't rush you. Just say yes, and let's go and tell Aggie. She'll have the time of her life plotting ways to break us up to get even with me for sending the Teton man packing.”

She lifted her head. “Bowie, you didn't,” she said.

He smiled. “I wish I could take credit for it, but I didn't do anything. He went home on his own, with a little help from Aggie herself. I told you she wouldn't want to milk cows.”

“Yes, I guess you did, but she's going to be terribly lonely.”

“She'll have us,” he replied. His eyes searched hers quietly. “Marry me, Gaby.”

She smoothed her hands over his bare chest gently, so that she didn't disturb him too much, even though he did stiffen. “Bowie, is it just that you want me? Or is it Casa Río?”

He hesitated, but only for a second or two. “I want you,” he said. “And I do feel that you're more likely to tone down your campaign to develop the land if you're married to me,” he added with complete honesty. “But there's something more. You feel it, just as I do. A tenderness between us—a kind of empathy. I touch you and I feel whole. I think you feel the same way, despite those scars in your mind.”

She looked up at him. “Yes,” she whispered, glorying in the newness of what they were sharing. “I feel it, too.”

“Then marry me. Give it a chance to grow.”

She reached up and touched his handsome face, trailing her fingers lovingly over his high cheekbone. “I could...love you, I think,” she whispered shakily.

His heart skipped and his hands on her upper arms contracted at the words. “Could you?”

“Oh, yes, I could,” she whispered, trembling a little when his blond head began to bend.

“Softly,
adorada,”
he breathed as his mouth met hers. His arms pulled her gently closer, wrapping her up. The kiss was like none they'd ever shared—tender and slow and ever so soft. She felt as if he'd wrapped her up in cotton, as if he were cherishing her. She relaxed completely and gave him her mouth with exquisite delight.