Jane Goodger (2 page)

“You were formally engaged?”

“Not
formally
. Nothing written down, if that’s what you mean,” he said, yanking on his boot angrily. “What the
hell
is she doing here?”

“I think she’s here to get married.”

“Well, she’s dead wrong about that. We’ll just send her on her way.”

Boone knocked his hat against his thigh, unable to believe that even Carson could ask a girl to marry him just to bed her. Then again, he wondered what
he’d
do for that privilege. She was simply the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Just thinking about touching her was enough to make him weak in the knees.

They ignored George as they walked through the saloon and broke out into the glaring heat of the midday sun. Carson took two steps before he stopped, his skin clammy and bathed with sweat. “Oh, God, I think I’m gonna puke,” he said, hanging his head down and bracing a hand on each thigh. He swallowed heavily three times, straightened, then puked all over Small Fork’s only main thoroughfare. “I can’t do it. You go tell her I’m gone. You tell her you couldn’t find me. I can’t do it, Boone. You saw her. You saw how she can look at you and drive you crazy. Oh, God, I can’t do it.”

Boone heaved up his brother as if he were a child, instead of a grown man who was almost as tall as he was. He shook him hard, clutching his shirt and driving his fists against his shoulders. “You got to face this, Carson. You’ve got to tell her to her face.”

“She thinks I’m some sort of hero. She thinks I’m Carson Kitteridge, former Texas Ranger, some-goddamn-body. She thinks…” He began swallowing heavily again, and let out a couple of dry heaves before gaining control of himself. “She thinks I have a goddamn ranch. Hell, you wouldn’t believe the shit I was telling that girl just to get up her skirts. I would have told her I was the president of the United States if I thought that would work. You seen her.”

Boone let out a sigh. In a small way, a
very
small way, Boone almost understood. “That doesn’t excuse what you did and you know it. You’ve got to face this, Carson. I’m not bailing you out again. I’m not.”

Carson gave him a belligerent look that was tinged with enough guilt that Boone knew he understood. All his life, Boone had been covering for Carson, taking his pain. Not this time.

“Hell. Let’s get this over with,” Carson said. He started walking toward the mercantile when Boone put out an arm to stop him.

“Go ’round back and clean up. You smell like a whore and you look like hell.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Carson said, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him, which it obviously hadn’t.

Boone went back into the store, something tugging at him hard when she whirled around to see who’d entered. Her disappointment was painfully obvious. “He’ll be right here.”

“Did he…Was he…” She stopped, her porcelain cheeks turning a vivid red. He’d never before seen a girl with skin so pale. “Thank you,” she said, finally. “Do you work here alone?”

“Yes.” He started finishing the work she’d interrupted, setting up cans of corn so that the labels all faced precisely the same way.

She nodded as if interested in his one-word response. “And are you in charge of keeping this all neat and clean? You do a marvelous job.”

He stopped for a moment and narrowed his eyes. She was talking to him as if he were a child who’d finished all his dinner.

“Carson must be so proud of you,” she said to fill the silence.

Boone should have said something, but he was too busy mulling over why she was talking to him like a child.

“You have to be very smart to take care of a store all by yourself.”

He finally turned, overcome with curiosity. “Miss.”

“Yes, Boone.”

“Are you somehow under the impression that I’m not right in the head?”

Her cheeks turned scarlet once more, two painful blotches of red. “Oh, no, Boone. I would never think that. You’re very smart. Your head is perfectly…”

“Because I’m not stupid.”

“I know,” she said, as if he was a simpleton.

He set his jaw, knowing that short of producing his degree from Tulane University, she was going to continue to talk to him as if he were a dunce. He glared toward the back of the store where Carson was no doubt trying to clean himself by the fountain, because he had a feeling he knew where she’d gotten the idea he was short of brains.

Spotting a fingerprint on his gleaming counter, he took out his cloth and wiped it down. He was bending down to be certain the smudge was gone when the front door opened and in walked Carson, bigger than life, a smile on his face, as if he hadn’t just been puking in the middle of the street.

“Where’s my darlin’ girl,” he shouted, and opened his arms.

The relief on Miss Wellesley’s face was almost painful to see. She ran into his brother’s arms, and Carson embraced her like a man who was actually happy to see her, something that only made Boone even angrier.

“I wasn’t certain you wanted me to come,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. “You didn’t write.”

“’Course I did. An’ here you are.” Carson looked up at Boone and gave a little shrug, as if to say “See? I can’t help myself.” Boone’s heart tugged for the girl, because he knew Carson would leave at the first opportunity. Hopefully, he’d tell the girl first. Boone would make certain of it.

“I knew you had, I just knew it. My brother wanted me to wait, but the post isn’t always reliable and no doubt dozens of letters get lost when they’re going across the ocean.” She looked so happy it hurt.

“Amelia, this here’s my brother Boone. The one I told you about.”

“Yes, we’ve met,” Amelia said, beaming a smile at Boone. God, that girl could make a man weep with that smile, it was so beautiful. Her whole face lit up with it, shining like a happy light.

“You mind telling your fiancée that I’m not a moron?”

Amelia began to object, but stopped when Carson began to laugh, doubling over in his mirth. “Oh, Lordy, I forgot I said that about you,” he said, wiping his eyes. Boone never even cracked a smile.

“He isn’t dumb. He’s about the smartest person I know. He’s a pure genius.”

Amelia looked initially shocked, then swatted Carson playfully, laughing. “Is there anything you told the truth about?” she asked in mock exasperation. “I can tell you one thing, Small Fork looks nothing like what you described.”

Carson didn’t even pretend to look sheepish. “If I told you what it looked like, would you have come?”

Boone watched in pure dismay as Carson charmed the seemingly intelligent woman standing before him. He truly was an artist. Boone had never had that ability with women, or with anyone, if he were honest. But Carson, he could spin a tale and, even if someone didn’t believe a word out of his mouth, they’d been so entertained they ended up forgiving him for the lies.

Boone watched and grew more and more angry. Because within minutes Carson had that girl believing he was glad to see her. He was making her feel like the most desired woman on the planet. Hell, he could almost fall for it, and he knew what a liar his brother was. If he hadn’t watched him vomit in the street in pure panic, he would never know how Carson really felt.

“When can I see the ranch?” Amelia asked, and Boone looked up, curious as to what his brother would say.

“Well, the ranch. That’s…”

“Another lie.” Amelia smiled, and for the first time Boone thought he saw a brittle edge to that smile, and he found himself reconsidering the girl. She wasn’t fooled for one second, he realized. Not one.

“Lie is such a harsh word, darlin’,” he said, looking hurt.

Amelia didn’t believe a word out of his beautiful mouth. Carson had lied about everything. Everything. And she almost willed him to lie about the ranch. “Well, is there a ranch?”

Carson looked over at his brother, almost the way a naughty child looks at a parent. “Why don’t we talk outside. More privacy.”

Before she walked out the door, she looked back at Boone. He stared at her impassively for perhaps three beats, before tearing his eyes away. He knew, she thought. He knew what a liar his brother was. And he pitied her. She wanted to slap that pity from his face. No one was going to pity Amelia Wellesley. No one.

“I can tell you’re upset.”

“Why would I be upset?” Amelia asked calmly. The strange thing was, she did feel calm, as if a part of her wasn’t surprised by a single thing that had happened since she’d left Meremont. “Is it because everything you told me was a lie? Why would that upset me?”

“You’re upset,” Carson said in a long, beleaguered sigh, as if he were the injured party.

“Take me to your ranch,” Amelia said, tapping her foot and crossing her arms. “And on the way you can tell me what happened to the grass and gazebo and roses and white picket fences that are supposed to be in this town. I haven’t seen a tree in hours, never mind a rosebush.”

Carson grinned, but Amelia noticed that much of the bravado he’d always had was gone. It was so wonderful to see him, but he’d changed in the months they’d been apart. He looked tired and beaten, older than he’d been in England, far older than his brother. She had no idea how old he was, in fact, because she assumed he had lied about that, too. His hair was not the gleaming, golden mass it had been, but hung in a tangle down his back, tied with a long string of rawhide. His mustache was too full, and the rest of his face looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in days. His clothes were, well they were filthy. Maybe it was all this dust, she thought, glancing around this poor excuse of a town.

He led her behind the store, and Amelia was surprised how large it was. From the front, it looked like a tiny building, but it stretched back, much farther than any of its neighbors. It was made from a hodgepodge of materials, and had obviously been built at different times. By the time they’d reached the back, Amelia found herself in a tiny little oasis, a courtyard that was filled with flowers and grass and a whimsical little fountain. Benches were set neatly around the perimeter of the courtyard, which was surprisingly cool away from the glaring heat of the sun. Just the sight of it made Amelia feel cooler.

“This is lovely,” Amelia said, nearly overcome with happiness to find a bit of color in this brown world. The back of the building was far more lovely than the storefront.

“My brother has his offices there,” he said, nodding toward the left side of the U-shaped building. “And we live there.”

“Oh.” As lovely as it was compared to its surroundings, it was far smaller and simpler than any home she’d ever been in. Her brother’s estate, Meremont, with its twenty rooms, was a castle compared to this. Even her childhood home, which was far more modest than Meremont, could fit this entire building twice over.

Carson turned her to face him, putting his hands gently on her upper arms and looking down at her. “All right. I lied. About everything. What was I supposed to do with you lookin’ at me like the sun rose and set across my shoulders? You saw Carson Kitteridge, American hero—not me.”

“But you
are
Carson Kitteridge,” Amelia pointed out, even though she knew what he meant. Finally.

Carson let out a sigh and gazed toward the mountains in the distance. “I’m nothing,” he said quietly. “I’m an actor. I’ve never been a Texas Ranger. Hell, I’d hardly been on a horse until I signed up for the Wild West show. Turns out, I’m pretty good at it, and the manager made me the star of the show. I fit the part. And the costume,” he added with a wry smile. “Might even sign up for the cattle drive over at the Three J’s ranch.” He shrugged and looked down at her.

“I know you lied, Carson. Part of me knew you were lying the whole time. But I don’t understand why. Didn’t you know I’d find all this out when I got here?”

He looked about to say something, but let out another sigh. “I figured I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. Guess I got to be crossing the bridge now, hmmm?” He grinned and Amelia’s heart squeezed in her chest. No matter that he wasn’t wearing the white fringed outfit she’d first seen him in, he still had a way of reaching her heart. He laid a hand on one cheek, and Amelia closed her eyes.

“I don’t care, Carson. I don’t care if you’re not a hero.” She sounded desperate, even to her own ears.

He let out a bitter sounding laugh.

“I don’t care,” she insisted.

“Yeah, well, maybe I do.”

She laid a hand against his and squeezed it. “I knew half of what you said was made up, anyway. Didn’t you know that?”

He looked momentarily surprised, then shook his head as if vastly amused by her. “And here was I thinking I was fooling you completely.”

“I’d have to be completely daft to think you rode with Custer. You’re not old enough to have done that. Are you?”

“Then why’d you come all this way if you knew I was lyin’ about near everything?”

She looked up at him and smiled at his confusion. “I love you,” she said simply.

He looked momentarily stunned, then drew her against him, tucking her head beneath his head. “Oh, darlin’,” he said, sounding almost sad. “That’s what I figured.”

Amelia let him hold her, loving the familiar feel of his big body even as her stomach gave a worried twist. She’d so wanted everything to be just as Carson had described. She’d pictured herself the mistress of a large rambling Texas ranch house filled with children and happiness. And servants. Yes, she’d imagined a neat little maid, a gruff housekeeper, an efficient butler. She’d pictured her life exactly as it had been, but in Texas and with Carson. If he’d prepared her in even the smallest way that he didn’t even have a proper house, she wouldn’t be looking with such dismay at where she was to live. But he’d drawn a picture of perfection for her, as if every fantasy she had about living in Texas were a reality.

Looking at the small portion of the building that Carson said was the living quarters, she doubted even a single servant lived there. She’d imagined being ushered into her own suite of rustic rooms by an apple-cheeked maid, as men carried her luggage into her room. In her imaginings, Carson happily introduced her to everyone. The sound of cows mingling with the familiar sound of crickets would have lulled her to sleep.

“Where shall I stay?” she asked, eyeing the house doubtfully.

Her question seemed to baffle Carson. “I don’t know. I suppose you could stay at the hotel.” A queer expression passed over his features, almost as if he’d eaten something awful. “No. Maybe not such a good idea. You could stay here. We have an extra room.”

Amelia looked shocked. “With two single men? My maid isn’t with me. I should have mentioned that. She came with me as far as New York, but she fell in love with one of the ship’s crewman and asked if she could stay in New York. Of course, I said yes.” Amelia, in the throes of adventure and love, had practically begged her maid to take a chance with the young sailor. It had been so romantic to watch the two of them fall in love. She’d been so happy, she wanted everyone to be in love as much as she was.

“You brought a maid with you?”

Amelia looked at him as if he were mad. Everyone knew a proper unmarried girl traveled with a maid—at the very least. It had been quite adventurous and quite improper of her to come all the way from New York on her own. “Of course, I did. How else was I to get dressed? As it is, I only have two gowns that don’t require assistance to get in and out of. And they are sorely in need of replacement.”

He grinned at her with the devil in his eyes. “I can help you now that you’re here,” he said.

Amelia laughed. “I’m sure you wish I’d let you. But no. Until we are married, it wouldn’t be proper.”

“As I recall, darlin’, I almost had you undressed that once.”

Amelia blushed, recalling that time during his visit to Meremont that she’d actually had the nerve to invite him into her room. She’d only done so when he’d promised not to touch her, a promise she knew—and was secretly glad—he’d been unable to keep. Just thinking about the things they’d done made her entire body flush. “Yes, it was quite improper,” she said, but she was completely unable to retain her spinster demeanor for more than a second before laughter bubbled up again.

He pulled her against him so she was aware of his arousal, and he bent to kiss her. “I’ve missed you sorely,” he said against her lips. With a groan, he deepened the kiss, and Amelia, sighing in relief and pleasure, felt herself falling into a pool of lust just as she had so many times before when Carson had stolen kisses.

They separated quickly when a door opened behind them.

“Carson, your brother says to get a room ready for the girl.” Standing before her was an older woman with dark hair sprinkled with gray, and sharp brown eyes that at the moment seemed to be shooting daggers at Carson.

“Amelia, this here’s Agatha. She’s our housekeeper, and she helps Boone out in his office and the store sometimes. Agatha, this is Miss Wellesley.”

“Lady Amelia, actually, though I suppose I shall have to get used to informalities. I am Carson’s intended,” Amelia said, slightly baffled by the familiarity between the two. No matter how much she adored her servants back home, none would have ever called her by her given name. It was almost unthinkable.

Agatha’s deeply wrinkled face split into a grin. “Ain’t you fancy,” she said, as if delighted by the discovery. “Your brother wanted to know if that is a good idea. I suppose the hotel won’t do for
Lady
Amelia. Not with your…”

“Thanks, Aggie,” Carson said, interrupting the older woman.

Amelia smiled, as it dawned on her that perhaps she could stretch propriety a bit since she was in the Wild West. If the Kitteridges had a housekeeper, she could certainly act as a chaperone. “This is perfect. Why didn’t you tell me you had a housekeeper? Agatha will serve as a chaperone, won’t you, Agatha?”

“Chaperone?” she asked haltingly, as if she’d never heard the word before.

“You shall make certain that Carson takes no more liberties with me,” she said, giving Carson a stern look.

Agatha smiled. “I could do that,” she said agreeably, ignoring Carson’s mock scowl, then looked instantly worried. “What about the night? I live down yonder with my husband.” She worried her hands in a blue and red apron she wore over her faded yellow dress. “My Dulce, my daughter, will do. She’s a widow and all she does is mope around the house doing nothing but complain that she has nothing to do.”

“No,” Carson said, and instantly, Agatha scowled.

“Why ever not?” Amelia asked. “I do need a maid. I didn’t realize how much until I let mine go.” She eyed Carson, who seemed adamantly opposed to the idea. “I suppose I’ll have to stay in the hotel.”

Carson and Agatha said “no” in unison.

“There is a
puta
there,” the housekeeper said darkly, glaring again at Carson.

“What’s a
puta?
” Amelia asked, and Carson nearly choked.

“It’s Spanish for a lady who is, um, free with her favors,” Carson said.

“Not free,” Agatha said.

Amelia felt her cheeks turn red. “I understand, Agatha. Don’t worry.” She turned to Carson, who looked pained. “What is wrong with Dulce?”

“Nothing’s wrong that a little hard work won’t cure. And I’m thinkin’ you’ll be a fine influence on her. Dulce could use a bit of polishin’ up,” Agatha said, letting out a sound that was decidedly cackly.

“I never said there was something wrong with Dulce,” Carson said in a placating tone. Then he spoke to Agatha in fluent Spanish, which Amelia found quite bothersome. However, it wasn’t difficult to tell that whatever it was he was saying, Agatha didn’t much like. After a few minutes of rapid-fire Spanish, Agatha looked smug and Carson looked decidedly dejected.

“I’ll go tell Dulce the good news,” Agatha said happily.

“What was that all about?” Amelia asked when Agatha had gone. “I hope you know it is terribly rude to speak in a foreign language in front of someone who knows no Spanish. I didn’t even know you could speak another language. You don’t know French or German, do you? Italian? I’m fairly proficient at each, but not Spanish.”

“I picked it up here and there. We had a bunch of those Spanish fellows in the Wild West show. Darn good cowboys. And Agatha’s married to a Spaniard.”

“What do you have against her daughter?”

“Do you know what Dulce means in Spanish?”

Amelia shook her head.

“It means ‘sweet.’ That girl is about as sweet as a lemon before it turns yellow.”

Soon after Agatha disappeared into the house, Boone came out looking unhappy. “Why don’t you go get Miss Wellesley’s bags,” he said to Carson, then turned to Amelia. “I hear your living arrangements have been resolved.”

“At least until the wedding,” Amelia said brightly.

Boone gave Carson a quick look, which Amelia saw but couldn’t quite interpret. “Right. Let me show you to your room. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do given the alternatives.”

Amelia began to follow Boone, then turned to Carson.

“Didn’t you think about this at all when you sent for me?”

“I just figured it’d work itself out,” he said, grinning.

For some reason that grin, that used to make her heart melt, was slightly grating. It was almost as if Carson thought he could grin everything away. If he murdered a man in cold blood, no doubt Carson would truly believe he could wink and smile at the jury and get off scot-free.

Boone led her into a cool hallway that seemed almost dark compared to the brightness outside. “The garden is lovely,” Amelia said.

“It’s a nice bit of color.”

They passed a door with frosted glass and the word “Office” stenciled in black on it. In the corner, in much smaller letters, were the words: Boone Kitteridge, M.D.

Amelia stopped dead.

“Mr. Kitteridge.”

“Yes, miss.”

“What is this here?” she asked, pointing to the door.

“My office,” he said, as if stating the obvious. Boone Kitteridge, unlike his brother, who could talk the paint off a wall, was a man of few words.

“Are you a medical doctor?”

He continued down the hallway. “I am.”

Carson’s lies about his older brother loomed even larger. He’d had her completely convinced that his brother was a simpleton who needed him. It was the reason, he’d repeated over and over, for his need to return home before they married. He could not wait, he’d said, because his brother needed him to help run their fictional ranch. His
dimwitted
brother.