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  He tos­sed his pon­c­ho and bed­roll at her. She ca­ught them ref­le­xi­vely. He wo­uld not lo­ok at her. His ex­p­res­si­on was stra­ined. "Let's get out of he­re be­fo­re you do get pne­umo­nia."

  Re­gi­na did not ha­ve the strength or the will to ar­gue. Trem­b­ling, she wrap­ped the blan­ket aro­und her and aw­k­wardly slip­ped on his pon­c­ho. The slic­ker was li­ned and to­as­ty-warm. It smel­led strongly of him. She hug­ged it and the blan­ket to her body.

  When Re­gi­na step­ped for­ward, her kne­es ga­ve way and she fell aga­inst Sla­de with a whim­per. Her fe­et we­re raw from the en­d­less wal­king she had en­du­red. In­s­tantly Sla­de was kne­eling be­fo­re her and yan­king off her sho­es. Re­gi­na cri­ed out.

  "J­esus," he sa­id tightly. "You must ha­te me a hell of a lot to ke­ep on go­ing with blis­ters li­ke the­se."

  "No," she whis­pe­red, very clo­se to te­ars. She spo­ke to the top of his he­ad. "I don't ha­te you."

  If he he­ard her he ga­ve no sign. He ho­is­ted her in­to his arms and stro­de in­to the night. The ra­in whip­ped them fi­er­cely, the wind how­led, and the tre­es dan­ced in a hel­p­less frenzy aro­und them. Sla­de de­po­si­ted her on his mo­unt and jum­ped up in­to the sad­dle be­hind her.

  Abruptly he lif­ted her cros­sways on­to his lap and pus­hed her fa­ce in­to his sho­ul­der. "Hold on," he sa­id, sho­uting to ma­ke him­self he­ard over the wind, one arm firmly aro­und her wa­ist.

  He didn't ha­ve to re­pe­at him­self. She bu­ri­ed her che­ek aga­inst his ba­re chest, wrap­ping her arms aro­und him, won­de­ring if the night wo­uld ever end. She tri­ed not to think abo­ut what had hap­pe­ned-and what had not hap­pe­ned. She tri­ed not to be awa­re of the warm, strong man grip­ping her as tightly as she grip­ped him. It was im­pos­sib­le. He spur­red his hor­se in­to a can­ter and then they gal­lo­ped in­to the storm, back to Mi­ra­mar.

  Sla­de car­ri­ed Re­gi­na thro­ugh the co­ur­t­yard in the po­uring ra­in. She was pro­tec­ted by his slic­ker, he was not. Now he was dren­c­hed, his ha­ir stic­king to his he­ad, wa­ter run­ning in ri­vu­lets down his arms and chest, his vest he­avy and sod­den, his pants plas­te­red to his legs.

  Rick ap­pe­ared at the do­or that led from the di­ning ro­om. "You fo­und her!" he cri­ed in re­li­ef.

  Sla­de didn't stop. "I fo­und her," he sa­id. He mo­ved with ag­gres­si­ve stri­des to­ward her ro­om, min­d­less of the ra­in, which was co­ming down now har­der than be­fo­re.

  Vic­to­ria ca­me to stand by her hus­band. "Is she all right?"

  "So­aked. Ha­ve Lu­cin­da draw a bath and bring her so­me hot fo­od."

  "Sla­de!" Vic­to­ria cal­led. "You can't go in­to her ro­om with her!"

  Sla­de didn't ac­k­now­led­ge her com­ment. He di­sap­pe­ared in­to Re­gi­na's bed­ro­om car­rying her in his arms.

  Vic­to­ria star­ted to go af­ter them.

  "Don't you da­re," Rick sa­id, grip­ping her arm.

  "Ow! You're hur­ting me!"

  Rick did not re­le­ase her. "Why did you do it? Why did you in­ter­fe­re?"

  Her eyes wi­de­ned in­no­cently. "Do what?"

  "Cut it out!" He sho­ok her. "Sla­de told me it was you. You told Eli­za­beth of my plans." “You're hur­ting me," Vic­to­ria sa­id calmly.

  "Let her go, Fat­her," Ed­ward sa­id. He mo­ved out of the sha­dows of the hal­lway.

  Rick re­le­ased his wi­fe. “Yo­ur mot­her's med­dling in my af­fa­irs aga­in."

  "So I gat­her," Ed­ward sa­id, un­s­mi­ling. His glan­ce was on Vic­to­ria. "Why, Mot­her? Why are you trying to ob­s­t­ruct Fat­her?"

  "I'm not trying to sa­bo­ta­ge yo­ur fat­her!" Vic­to­ria cri­ed. "I'm only trying to lo­ok out for all of our best in­te­rests!"

  Rick la­ug­hed.

  Edward gri­ma­ced. "Mot­her, I know you are do­ing what you think is best, but it's ti­me we spo­ke fre­ely. I am not go­ing to ta­ke Mi­ra­mar away from Sla­de. I don't even want it. Sla­de is now Fat­her's he­ir. Sla­de is go­ing to marry Eli­za­beth and in­he­rit the ran­c­ho. Not me."

  "Why not?" Vic­to­ria cri­ed fu­ri­o­usly. "Why the hell not? You're he­re. You've be­en he­re yo­ur en­ti­re li­fe, wor­king alon­g­si­de Rick and James. Why sho­uld Sla­de be the cho­sen one! Why him? He left his ho­me ten ye­ars ago, tur­ned his back on all of us. He hasn't even bot­he­red to co­me ho­me mo­re than three or fo­ur ti­mes in all tho­se ye­ars. Do you know it's be­en two ye­ars sin­ce he was last ho­me? And if James hadn't di­ed, God knows, may­be he wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver co­me ho­me aga­in!"

  "He wo­uld ha­ve co­me ho­me," Ed­ward sa­id.

  "What's the po­int of all this spe­cu­la­ti­on?" Rick as­ked. "He's ho­me now, ain't he? He's the ol­dest. He's the ol­dest li­ke I was the ol­dest. It’s our way, Vic­to­ria, and you knew it when you mar­ri­ed me."

  "He do­esn't want to marry her," Vic­to­ria grit­ted. "He only wants to get in­to her dra­wers-and that's cer­ta­inly con­ti­nu­ing one fa­mily tra­di­ti­on!"

  Edward smi­led slightly. "Who the hell wants to get mar­ri­ed an­y­way? You can't bla­me Sla­de for that. You can't bla­me him, but may­be if you ga­ve him so­me ti­me he'd co­me aro­und. I think he wo­uld."

  "We don't ha­ve ti­me," Rick grow­led.

  "Even if he ne­ver mar­ri­es her, he's still the ol­dest," Ed­ward po­in­ted out. "Mi­ra­mar wo­uld still rig­h­t­ful­ly be his. My vo­te is in, Mot­her." With that, he tur­ned and wal­ked away.

  Vic­to­ria was spe­ec­h­less.

  "Ed­ward's right, at le­ast on the last po­int. I don't want you but­ting in," Rick sa­id coldly.

  "Do you re­al­ly think I sho­uld just stand by and watch whi­le you gi­ve that in­g­ra­te ever­y­t­hing you've wor­ked so hard for? When you ha­ve anot­her son, a worthy one, one who didn't run away and turn his back on all of us? On you?"

  "If I find out you've in­ter­fe­red aga­in, I'm go­ing to toss you out on yo­ur ass, Vic­to­ria."

  She lo­oked at him for a long mo­ment, as­ses­sing his in­ten­ti­ons, then she smi­led. "You won't."

  "Oh, no? You think yo­ur ac­ro­ba­tics in bed are go­ing to stop me?"

  For a mo­ment Vic­to­ria ap­pe­ared un­cer­ta­in. Then she sa­id, smi­ling, "You won't throw me out, Rick. You may des­pi­se me, but you ne­ed me. No­body un­der­s­tands you the way that I do, and cer­ta­inly not anot­her wo­man. And I am not re­fer­ring to our sex li­fe."

  "May­be that's the prob­lem," Rick sa­id, his smi­le thre­ate­ning. "May­be that's the re­al crux of it, Vic­to­ria."

  She sta­red.

  Rick grin­ned, enj­oying his po­wer.

  But Vic­to­ria re­co­ve­red qu­ickly. "Edward is al­so yo­ur son. Ed­ward did not turn his back on you. Ed­ward, if you as­ked him, wo­uld do ever­y­t­hing you want. Sla­de will ne­ver, ever do an­y­t­hing if you want him to, as you damn well know."

  Rick lo­oked at her. "For the last ti­me, you stay out of this. Sla­de is go­ing to marry Eli­za­beth, and he is go­ing to in­he­rit Mi­ra­mar. Sla­de will bend. This ti­me, he is go­ing to do what I want, you wa­it and see."

  Chapter 8

  Sla­de de­po­si­ted Re­gi­na ab­ruptly on the bed.

  She bo­un­ced on­ce on the soft mat­tress and set­tled in­to its thic­k­ness and warmth. She lay un­mo­ving, sta­ring up at him.

  His ex­p­res­si­on was blank. She sat up, then re­mem­be­red her sta­te of un­d­ress, and she qu­ickly pul­led the co­ver­let over her. The cold, wet, wild ri­de had cha­sed away the in­sa­nity which had pos­ses­sed her. She was still too awa­re of him, and she co­uld not for­get what had al­most hap­pe­ned, but she was in con­t­rol of her fa­cul­ti­es on­ce mo­re. "I don't think you sho­uld
be in he­re."

  "You're right. This is the last pla­ce I sho­uld be." He did not mo­ve.

  She lo­oked at the wa­ter run­ning down his fa­ce, his vest, his na­ked chest and per­fectly flat sto­mach. His dark skin had a she­en to it. She lif­ted her ga­ze. She was in con­t­rol of her­self, but his pre­sen­ce was too po­tent and too un­ner­ving. Es­pe­ci­al­ly he­re in her bed­ro­om. "Now you'll catch pne­umo­nia." She la­ug­hed une­asily.

  "I'm to­ugh. I've sur­vi­ved a hell of a lot wor­se." Ab­ruptly he flic­ked the ends of the co­ver­let off her fe­et. "That wasn't smart," he sa­id tightly. "You've got a do­zen blis­ters all bro­ken and ble­eding. Don't you ha­ve any com­mon sen­se? Af­ter yo­ur bath ta­ke so­me ga­uze and an­ti­sep­tic and wrap yo­ur fe­et up. Stay off of them."

  "All right." She lo­oked at the do­or, which was clo­sed. "I think you sho­uld le­ave, be­fo­re I'm com­p­ro­mi­sed."

  His glan­ce was hard. "I'm not go­ing to com­p­ro­mi­se you, Eli­za­beth. If that we­re my in­ten­ti­on, we'd still be down-val­ley. To­mor­row I'll ta­ke you to the So­ut­hern Pa­ci­fic. If I'd known how de­ter­mi­ned you we­re to le­ave, I wo­uld ha­ve ag­re­ed to yo­ur le­aving when you spo­ke of it ear­li­er."

  His last words ma­de her fe­el gu­ilty, non­sen­si­cal­ly so. He was in­ter­p­re­ting her at­tempt to run away as a per­so­nal in­dic­t­ment of him. But wasn't he right? Hadn't it be­en a very per­so­nal in­dic­t­ment? And why sho­uld she be up­set that his fe­elings might be hurt? He did not act hurt. In fact, he ac­ted as if not­hing un­to­ward had hap­pe­ned bet­we­en them. "To­mor­row you'll ta­ke me to town?" she as­ked un­cer­ta­inly.

  "Un­less you'd rat­her so­me­one el­se ta­ke you. Li­ke Ed­ward-my gen­t­le­manly brot­her."

  She blus­hed. Sla­de hadn't be­en a gen­t­le­man half an ho­ur ago, but he had res­cu­ed her-aga­in. And she se­emed to ha­ve a we­ak spot for him, re­gar­d­less of what he sa­id and did. She al­so did not li­ke it when he moc­ked him­self. "I un­der­s­tand what you we­re trying to do," she sa­id softly. "I was just… shoc­ked… at the ti­me."

  "Why are you trying to spa­re me? You we­re right. Don't min­ce words now. I'm no gen­t­le­man and I ne­ver will be. I don't even as­pi­re to be­ing one. And you are ob­vi­o­usly a lady. To tell you the truth, I don't ha­ve the fog­gi­est no­ti­on of how to act aro­und you." He flus­hed.

  "No."

  "You're not a lady?" His mo­uth cur­ved slightly.

  It was the very first sign of a sen­se of hu­mor that she had wit­nes­sed in him and she smi­led. "Of co­ur­se I'm a lady." Her smi­le fa­ded. "Sla­de, I'm sorry I sa­id that. It's not true. You ha­ve a ro­ugh ap­pe­aran­ce, but you are very much a gen­t­le­man, and the­re is not­hing wrong with yo­ur be­ha­vi­or aro­und me."

  His mo­uth tig­h­te­ned. He was no lon­ger amu­sed. "I can swe­ar on the Bib­le that I didn't ha­ve a sin­g­le gen­t­le­manly tho­ught in my he­ad a few mi­nu­tes ago, and my be­ha­vi­or was just abo­ut bor­der­li­ne."

  She ope­ned her mo­uth to reply, and shut it. What co­uld she say? Her tho­ughts hadn't be­en exactly lad­y­li­ke, eit­her. In fact, they we­re be­co­ming less lad­y­li­ke by the se­cond. Had his be­ha­vi­or be­en bor­der­li­ne? Hers had cer­ta­inly be­en wor­se. Fi­nal­ly she whis­pe­red, "We can't al­ways stop our tho­ughts, but we can con­t­rol our ac­ti­ons. That is what's im­por­tant."

  He ga­ve her a dark lo­ok. It was chal­len­ging and skep­ti­cal.

  Re­gi­na re­gar­ded her hands ner­vo­usly. He had every right to do­ubt her. Still, she owed him an apo­logy. "I'm sorry for run­ning away. It was fo­olish. I was frig­h­te­ned, con­fu­sed."

  "No one wo­uld ever for­ce you to marry me," he sa­id ro­ughly.

  "I… I didn't even think that way."

  "You we­re up­set eno­ugh to ta­ke off on hor­se­back when you're a po­or ri­der. You we­re up­set eno­ugh to walk un­til you blo­odi­ed yo­ur fe­et. I'd say you we­ren't just up­set. I'd say you we­re damn de­ter­mi­ned."

  She co­uld not res­pond. She had be­en very de­ter­mi­ned. She co­uld no lon­ger fat­hom why.

  "Ha­ving a chan­ge of he­art?"

  "I don't know," she whis­pe­red.

  The­ir glan­ces held. His grew dark. "The so­ut­h­bo­und tra­in go­es thro­ugh Tem­p­le­ton twi­ce a day. You won't be ab­le to ma­ke the mor­ning stop, but you can catch her to­mor­row eve­ning. Rick has a sche­du­le, I'll check it now."

  She had the fe­eling that he was very in­tent on ta­king her to that tra­in. "M-may­be I sho­uld rest to­mor­row and le­ave the fol­lo­wing day."

  "I'll ta­ke you to­mor­row," he sa­id flatly. "Be­fo­re things re­al­ly get out of con­t­rol."

  She un­der­s­to­od. She un­der­s­to­od ever­y­t­hing too well. He knew as well as she that de­si­re had blo­omed bet­we­en them, dan­ge­ro­us de­si­re, and it was not go­ing to go away just be­ca­use they both wis­hed it wo­uld. They cer­ta­inly co­uld not re­si­de to­get­her un­der the sa­me ro­of wit­ho­ut tem­p­ting fa­te. He was de­ter­mi­ned that she le­ave his ho­me as qu­ickly as pos­sib­le. Ob­vi­o­usly he had de­ci­ded he didn't want to marry her af­ter all.

  She lo­we­red her eyes so he wo­uldn't see that she was ac­tu­al­ly hurt. The­re was no re­ason to be hurt, be­ca­use mar­ri­age was out of the qu­es­ti­on. Wasn't it? She did not lo­ok up as he cros­sed the ro­om, un­til he had shut the do­or firmly be­hind him.

  Re­gi­na fell back aga­inst the pil­lows. She was dis­t­ra­ught. Yet she sho­uld be re­li­eved that he was ta­king char­ge and com­pel­ling her to le­ave. But she wasn't re­li­eved. She was torn, con­fu­sed, dis­ma­yed. What if she did stay? What if they did marry? De­ar God, what was she thin­king?

  She had no ti­me to ref­lect upon this ghastly turn, for sud­denly the­re was a knock on her do­or. At Re­gi­na's re­qu­est, a wo­man en­te­red. She was fa­ir-skin­ned and dark-ha­ired and just a few ye­ars ol­der than Re­gi­na. Her sim­p­le skirt, shir­t­wa­ist, and ap­ron told Re­gi­na that she was a ser­vant. The ma­id set a tray down on the small wo­oden tab­le by the ter­ra­ce do­ors, then tur­ned slightly, re­gar­ding Re­gi­na.

  Re­gi­na sat up. "You must be Lu­cin­da. Thank you. The fo­od smells de­li­ci­o­us."

  Lu­cin­da mur­mu­red a res­pon­se. Re­gi­na had the dis­tinct im­p­res­si­on that the ma­id was stud­ying her, but that ma­de no sen­se at all.

  "Do you ne­ed an­y­t­hing el­se?" Lu­cin­da as­ked. "I'll draw yo­ur bath now."

  Re­gi­na sho­ok her he­ad. The ma­id left qu­ickly. Re­gi­na slid from the bed. Her fe­et throb­bed pa­in­ful­ly now and wal­king was very dif­fi­cult. She hob­bled ac­ross the ro­om and sat down at the tab­le, but fo­od was the far­t­hest thing from her mind. Bro­odingly she won­de­red what she sho­uld do-and what she wan­ted to do.

  * * *

  Sla­de awo­ke her the next day. He wal­ked in­to her ro­om, thro­wing the do­ors to the bal­cony open so that the bril­li­ant sun­light sud­denly po­ured in­si­de. She stir­red. She was ex­ha­us­ted, she did not want to mo­ve, yet she knew the­re was a re­ason-an im­por­tant re­ason-for her to get up and fa­ce the day.

  "Eli­za­beth." Sla­de's vo­ice pe­net­ra­ted the thick mist of her fa­ti­gue. "Wa­ke up."

  It to­ok a gre­at ef­fort to for­ce her way up thro­ugh the he­avy clo­ak of sle­ep. As she did, she be­ca­me awa­re of Sla­de's vo­ice, ur­ging her aga­in to awa­ken. When she ope­ned her eyes, it only to­ok a mo­ment for her sle­epy sen­ses to dis­tin­gu­ish Sla­de stan­ding over her, re­gar­ding her.

  Re­gi­na be­ca­me fully awa­ke. She grip­ped the co­vers which we­re down by her wa­ist and pul­led them up to her chin. "What are you do­ing in h
e­re?"

  His ga­ze lif­ted to her fa­ce re­luc­tantly. "It's al­most no­on."

  She sat up, ma­king su­re not an inch of her per­son was re­ve­aled to his wan­de­ring eyes. "Why didn't you knock?"

  "I did knock. I've be­en po­un­ding on that do­or. You sle­ep li­ke a de­ad per­son, Eli­za­beth." His ga­ze fi­nal­ly met hers. His emo­ti­ons, wha­te­ver they might be, we­re very ca­re­ful­ly sha­do­wed. "The tra­in co­mes thro­ugh aro­und six to­night. It will ta­ke us three ho­urs to get back to town. I don't know much abo­ut wo­men, but I do know they ne­ed a lot of ti­me to dress and such. You had bet­ter get a mo­ve on."

  It was on the tip of her ton­gue to tell him that she was too ti­red and too so­re to le­ave to­day, which was the truth. Yet the­re was mo­re to the truth than her physi­cal con­di­ti­on. Last night she had spent many ho­urs con­si­de­ring her di­lem­ma, unab­le to con­vin­ce her­self with all of her he­art that Sla­de was right and she must le­ave. She was still not wel­co­me at her step­mot­her's; it wo­uld be a last re­sort. The idea of lin­ge­ring alo­ne at any ho­tel was equ­al­ly un­p­le­asant. So­li­tu­de was not what she cra­ved, not in her sta­te. Now that she knew what the De­lan­zas re­al­ly wan­ted from her, might she not be ab­le to de­al with it for­t­h­rightly? She might even be per­su­aded to con­si­der mar­rying Sla­de. Af­ter all, last night had pro­ved that the­re was po­ten­ti­al for the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip. But of co­ur­se, she wo­uld ne­ed ti­me, and if she did de­ci­de to marry him, it wo­uld ha­ve to be when she was in full pos­ses­si­on of her me­mory.

  But how co­uld she pos­sibly ex­p­la­in all of that to him now, when it was so pa­in­ful­ly ap­pa­rent that he was de­ter­mi­ned that she le­ave Mi­ra­mar? When it was cle­ar he had de­ci­ded not to marry her? Her pri­de ro­se qu­ickly to the oc­ca­si­on. "I can be re­ady in an ho­ur."