Nevada Nights (17 page)

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The funeral was simple. A mere handful of people stood on the hill beside the house. Most of them were strangers to Cameron, old men and women who had known William Lampton and his wife in younger, happier times.

While a priest uttered the words of final parting, Rose wept openly. Hearing the old woman’s sobs, Cameron and Quenton clasped hands as if to offer each other strength and comfort.

As the dirt was being shoveled over the plain wood box, Cameron’s gaze drifted to the windswept hill that stood facing this land. Even in death, Big John McCormick and William Lampton staked out their claims. Each man rested now in the land that divided them. Each man lay beside a brooding house meant to show the other how much wealth and power he possessed. And despite their bitter struggle, each man shared a special place in her heart.

Quenton kept his arm about her shoulder as he accepted the condolences of his neighbors. When they were alone, his words interrupted her sad reverie.

"Come, Cameron. Rose has prepared a lunch."

For the first time they ate in the once lavish dining room. An ornate table of cherry wood surrounded by a dozen matching chairs dominated the room.

At Cameron’s admiring look, Quenton explained, "My father had it shipped from England. It traveled by rail and by stage, clear across the country from Boston. All of our furniture came from the East, or from Europe. As well as our clothes. There was a time, my dear, when your grandfather was the wealthiest landowner in all of Nevada."

"What happened?" she asked as he held her chair.

"I suppose it all began to crumble when my mother died. My father began drinking heavily. He started going to town and staying away for days at a time. We weren’t aware of his gambling losses until he lost to John McCormick. That was when he seemed to lose heart. From then on, my father lost all interest in everything, except revenge."

As Rose served the lunch, Cameron studied Quenton’s haggard features.

"You’ve been through so much. Yet you have so much love and compassion for everyone—your sister, her lover. You don’t seem to harbor any hatred for the rejection by your father or for his less than admirable life."

"Cameron," he said softly, "I’ve seen what bitterness can do to a person. It destroyed my father. I learned years ago to channel my energy into other things. There’s no room for hatred in my life."

To change the subject he brightened and pointed to the wall over the fireplace.

"I think I’ll hang your portrait here, Cameron. It will bring warmth and light to this room. And I’ll put Elizabeth’s in the living room. What do you think?"

"I’d like that."

The fireplace, she noted, was handcrafted of native rock, each piece perfectly fitted to the next. The hearth was a solid slab of white granite.

The wood moldings at the ceiling and walls were intricately carved, bearing the marks of fine woodworkers. The hardwood floor, now dull with age, was covered with a beautiful woven rug.

She tried to imagine this room as it had once been, with a fire crackling in the fireplace, the floor and furniture polished to a rich luster. The table covered by fine linen and gleaming crystal. And most of all, the people, laughing, smiling, loving. How fine it must have all seemed to Elizabeth and Quenton in their innocence.

Sipping her tea, Cameron waited until Rose left the room, then lowered her voice. "Quenton, we must talk about something important."

"All right." He smiled gently.

"I overheard my stepbrothers and Colt last night in my father’s study. They’re plotting to steal your inheritance."

"Really. And just how do they propose to do that?"

"By—getting you drunk and luring you into a card game."

Quenton patted her hand, as if dealing with a child’s bad dream. "Come now, Cameron. Do I really appear so easy to dupe?"

"But they’re scheming—"

Rose entered carrying a plate of tea cakes. She refilled their teacups before once more leaving the room.

In exasperation Cameron hissed, "You’re not taking this seriously enough, Quenton. Don’t you understand? My stepbrothers are evil men. For some reason they’ve decided to continue the vendetta between our families. And they’ve enlisted the aid of a gunfighter. Now you must be careful."

Quenton studied her grim expression. Taking her hand in his, he smiled gently. "All right, little niece. Now you’ve seen that I’m properly warned. And I will be careful."

Cameron let out a long sigh. "Do you know how to shoot a gun, Quenton?"

His smile grew. Laughing, he said, "No self-respecting Texas Ranger would admit to not being able to handle a gun."

She joined his laughter. "I’d forgotten. I still think of you as an artist instead of a Texas lawman. All right. I’ll feel better knowing you have some protection."

Quenton was relieved to hear her laugh. Her life, he realized, was becoming one long, grim experience. She deserved better. A woman like Cameron deserved to be pampered and cherished. If this nightmare ever ended, he would see to it.

As she was leaving, Cameron kissed his cheek and murmured, "Remember what I’ve told you, Quenton. Promise me you’ll be careful?"

"I promise." He squeezed her hand. "But I still think you’re imagining troubles where none exist."

As she rode away, Cameron turned back to stare at the two people on the crumbling porch. Her uncle, Quenton, the sweet, dreamy artist, and the old servant woman, Rose, who had carried her as an infant to distant shores. They looked so alone. So helpless. She pressed her lips together. Alex and Jarret were not going to be allowed to hurt her uncle. And not even a gunfighter like Colt would be strong enough to help them succeed in their evil undertaking. She would see to that.

Although the daylight was fading and twilight was drifting over the land, Cameron resisted the urge to go back to the McCormick house for what she knew would be another tense gathering at the dinner table. She felt a need to go to the crumbling cottage where she had first discovered her mother’s diary. There, she hoped, she would find the sense of love and peace for which her heart yearned. This day, more than ever, her spirit needed some special healing.

A crimson sky bled into the barren hills. The flaming disk of the sun sank behind the tallest peak, trailing ribbons of mauve and pink across the horizon. Behind a rose-tipped cloud, the pale amber light of day disappeared and the dusk of evening spread its cloak.

The door swung easily at her touch. Attached to the door frame by a loose hinge, it tilted at a lopsided angle.

She stared at the heap of straw covered by the faded quilt. Running her hand along the rough brick of the fireplace, she imagined her parents here, warm and happy. Touching the broken pitcher, she realized that her mother had probably brought this from her own house. She had noticed a similar pattern on several objects in Elizabeth’s room. It was a little thing, but it pleased Cameron to think that her mother had tried to make this vacant cottage a home.

Leaning her arms on the windowsill, she inhaled the rich fragrance of roses and stared at the twinkling stars that were just beginning to dot the heavens.

What is Your plan for me in all of this?
she prayed.
Should I have heeded Colt’s warning in the beginning and returned to the convent?

No sooner were the thoughts formed in her mind than the response sounded firmly on her lips.

"No. I have a right to be here. My father and grandfather nurtured a dream for this land. And I intend to stay and, if necessary, fight, for what is mine. I don’t know what my destiny is yet, but I believe it will be here in this wild, beautiful, savage place. I belong here. This land, and everything on it, is mine."

Her words echoed in the tiny room.

"It won’t be yours long if your stepbrothers have their way."

She whirled at the sound of Colt’s deep voice behind her.

"What are you doing here?"

Her eyes, he noted, were dark and stormy. "I followed you. I needed to find some place where we could be alone, to talk privately."

"I have nothing to say to you, Colt." She turned her back on him.

She jumped as his voice sounded closer. "But I have plenty to say to you, Cammy."

He saw her go rigid, the fists clenching suddenly at her sides.

With deliberate calm, he said, "I came here to warn you. As William Lampton’s newly proclaimed heir, you are now in the gravest danger."

"From you, Colt?"

He watched her head lift defiantly. In one step he was directly behind her.

"No, little fool. From your stepbrothers. Now that Alex knows about your latest inheritance, he is determined to have it."

"But I have no intention of giving it to him."

"Cammy." Colt touched her shoulder and felt her flinch. Swearing, he immediately dropped his hand to his side. His voice lowered. "You will only be hurt if you stay in that house."

She turned, her eyes blazing. "Thank you for that kind warning. And where would you have me go?"

He shrugged. "Go to Quenton. Now that you’ve established your kinship, he would welcome you. At least you’d be safer than you are now."

"You’d like to get me out of my house, wouldn’t you, Colt?"

His voice raised in anger. "Damn it, Cameron. Why can’t I make you understand? You can’t stay in that house. You’re marked for death."

"By you?"

He let out an exasperated sigh. His fists clenched at his sides. "You are the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met. You would try the patience of a saint."

"The saints!" Her eyes rounded. "Are you hinting that you’re one, Colt? I don’t think even you could have the nerve to put yourself in the same category as the saints."

She stood with her feet wide apart, her hands on her hips, her eyes flaming with fury.

He remembered the little wildcat who had once attacked him when he was trying to help. His blood began to pound in his temple. The surge of desire was so swift, it shocked him.

Colt’s eyes narrowed dangerously. One hand snaked out to grasp her by the shoulder. His hot breath fanned her temple, feathering little wisps of hair. "At least you understand that much, Cammy. I’m no saint. I’m a mere man." His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "With a man’s weakness. A man’s hunger. A man’s passions."

There was no time for fear. As her mouth opened to protest, his mouth covered hers. She felt the tension of the tightly leashed fury he sought to control. His hands gripped her shoulders, drawing her firmly to him.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out all feeling. With all her might she tried to steel herself against giving anything at all to the man whose punishing kiss was threatening to draw all the breath from her lungs.

His control was slipping. She could feel it in the painful way his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arms. His mouth moved over hers, his tongue plundering, demanding a response from her.

Her heartbeat was hammering in her temples. Her blood thundered in her veins.

"Colt, stop. Oh, stop this."

He lifted his head, and for a moment she thought he would heed her plea. His eyes were black in the dim light, with a shining brightness that signaled desire. As he studied her, his hands trailed along her arms, her shoulders, then moved up to grasp a tangle of hair. His eyes narrowed as he lifted a fiery handful and allowed the strands to sift through his fingers. Abruptly he crushed her to him, and again his lips covered hers.

The kiss was hot, searing her with its fire.

The rage that engulfed him swept her up as well, carrying them both along in a helpless tide.

He was no longer content with just her mouth. His lips began a journey across her cheek to her ear, then to her eyelid.

The touch of his lips on her skin brought on a new onslaught of feelings.

"I don’t want you, Colt," she said.

The words echoed in her mind.

He continued raining kisses on her lips, her ear, her throat. And always, his lips came back to claim hers, tasting deeply their sweetness. He couldn’t get enough of her. There would never be enough of her.

She was slowly becoming caught up in his passion. Her mind refused to function. Had she really spoken or only dreamed it?

As his lips covered hers, she whispered again. "I don’t love you, Colt. I won’t. I won’t."

The words were swallowed up in a kiss so passionate, she felt on fire.

What was there about this damnably independent little creature that drove him to the brink of insanity? She was like no other woman he’d ever known. His mouth moved over hers, drinking of her and wanting more. How many nights had he lain awake, tasting her on his lips, dreaming of lying under the stars with this bewitching woman in his arms. The need for her drove him. His hands, his kisses, could not be restrained. He knew he was acting like a savage, but his feelings were out of control.

He lifted his head. His hands roamed her tangle of hair. With his fingertip he traced her lips, moist and swollen from his kisses. Their eyes locked. He slipped a rough finger inside her lower lip, tracing it gently.

A thread of primitive longing took over her control. Damn him! What was he doing to her? He had to know the effect his touch had. She felt a violent tremor rock her.

"Oh God, Colt! I can’t stand it. Hold me. Hold me."

Her hands, which she had balled into fists and held firmly between them as a barrier, now clutched at his shirt. Feeling her trembling response, his hands roamed her sides, pulling her hips firmly against him.

Her hands slowly grasped his shoulders, needing to cling to his strength. She stood on tiptoe to reach his lips. She heard his slight intake of breath before he crushed her to him. As he deepened the kiss, she twined her arms about his neck, allowing her fingers to luxuriate in the dark silk of his hair that curled above the collar of his shirt.

He caught her face between his hands and slowly kissed her eyelids, her temple, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth. With a little moan, she opened her lips to his kiss, wanting more, wanting all.

Her arousal only enflamed him further.

"Cammy. Oh, Cammy," he breathed as he brought his lips to her throat.

She arched herself in his arms, loving the feel of his lips on her skin. With fumbling fingers he unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons, then bent his lips lower still, to the soft swell of her breast.

There was no tenderness in his touch. The rage within him fueled his passion, and his arousal only fanned the flames in her as well.

She felt too weak to stand. Her legs could no longer support her. Weakly, she clung to him, needing to feel his strength. He sensed her vulnerability. Sweeping her into his arms, Colt deposited her on the faded quilt and lay beside her. His ragged breathing told her just how far they both had come.

"I don’t give a damn about land and family and right or wrong. I only know I want you, Cammy. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life."

His lips plundered hers. His hands roamed her body, feeling the softness of her, the delicate bones. His fingertips explored her narrow waist, the flare of her hips. She was so tiny, so helpless. He could break her in two if he chose, and she would be defenseless. His fingers circled her wrist. So fragile. It would snap like a twig if he bent it. Why was it, with her, feelings surfaced that he had never even known he possessed? He couldn’t bear to see her hurt. If anyone inflicted pain on her, he would kill. A fierce protectiveness welled inside him. And all the while the touch of her, the smell and taste of her, drove him further into insanity. He wanted to possess her. All of her.

With one last burst of reason, Cameron pushed herself from him and rolled away. For long moments she sat fighting for breath. On legs that felt as if they were part of a rag doll, she forced herself to stand. Her hands trembled as she sought to clutch the gaping bodice of her dress across her heaving breasts.

What was it in his touch that made her forget everything except the passion that raged between them, like a fire that could never be extinguished? A feeling of shame swept her as she recalled the scene she had witnessed between Colt and her stepbrothers in her father’s study. How could she have forgotten so easily what he really was?

"I know why you want me out of the McCormick house, Colt. And even this—this display of lust won’t make me forget what you really are."

With a strangled sound of rage, he turned away from her and took in deep gulps of air before sitting up. Pulling a thin cigar from his pocket, he made a bid for time by holding a match to it and inhaling deeply. She watched the sudden flare of light, the circle of smoke that curled above his head.

"And what is it you think I am?" The sound of that deep, honeyed voice slid over her, causing her to tremble.

"Not think. I know. You’re a gunfighter. A gambler. And worse, you’re a cheat. You don’t want me around because you don’t want any witnesses to what you’re going to do to Quenton."

His eyes narrowed. Through a blur of smoke he watched her closely. For long moments there was no sound in the cottage.

One hand reached out to catch her wrist. "What are you talking about?"

She snatched her hand away and backed up a step. "I know you’re helping Alex and Jarret. I know you’re planning to cheat Quenton out of his inheritance. I overheard everything the other night."

He let out a long sigh. "I wish you hadn’t."

"I bet you do." She backed up another step as he straightened and with catlike grace moved closer. "Don’t come near me, Colt. Don’t touch me again. I tried to warn Quenton. I don’t think he really believes me yet. He thinks I’m exaggerating the danger. But he will. I’ll make him believe me."

"Now, Cammy, you listen to me." As he took a step nearer, she felt herself backed up against the rough brick wall.

"I told you, Colt. Don’t touch me."

"You little fool."

Feeling trapped, she reached into the pocket of her gown and pulled out the Remington.

Colt’s lips thinned. "I think you’d better know the rules out here, Cammy. Don’t ever pull a gun on a man unless you intend to use it."

"Then be warned, Colt. I’ll use it on you if you take another step toward me."

In one swift motion the gun was knocked from her hand and swept across the dirt floor. Stunned, she could only stare at the man whose eyes had narrowed to tiny slits of fury.

"The second rule is, if you don’t succeed, be prepared to accept the consequences." He grasped her roughly by the shoulders and pulled her against him. With his face just inches from hers, his breath blew hot against her cheek.

Through gritted teeth he rasped, "I want you out of the McCormick house. Do you understand me?"

He saw the hard glitter of hatred before her lashes fluttered down to veil her eyes from his scrutiny. With a fury that astounded him, he pushed her from him, sending her reeling. He bent and picked up the gun. Emptying the chamber, he pocketed the bullets, then, with a mock bow, handed it back to her.