Branded (9 page)

Embarrassed by the intimate turn the conversation had taken, she brought up Thorpe's name again.

He leaned over the arm of his chair and pressed his finger against her lips. "I think I've heard enough about your chat with my leaky-mouthed ranch hand. He pulled away his finger but not before running it teasingly across her bottom lip. The heat lingered.

"How did Grady get this lucky?"

Sure he was taunting, she frowned slightly and then her newly loquacious tongue was off and running again. "Two words." She was having surprising trouble holding up two fingers. "Two names actually--first and last--Arthur Widstaff." Saying the man's name left a bitter taste in her mouth. "My original intended. My father's pick. Twenty years my senior. I could have lived with that, but he was the most horrid man."

"What did he do?"

She fiddled with the thread, arranging the skeins to form letters. She could not bring herself to look into those intense eyes. She swallowed hard. "He took his horsewhip to my ... m-my dog."

"He took a horsewhip to you?" he asked, easily seeing through her fumbling words.

She hesitated, for only a moment, before blurting out, "Yes."

He raised a single brow in question. Somehow it was enough to convince her to continue.

"Arthur had come for a visit. As he was leaving, my dog frightened his horse. He leapt out of the saddle, prepared to beat him. I tried to protect Oliver. At first, when I felt the whip at my back, I thought it purely an accident--that he'd meant to strike Oliver. But then he hit me over and over again. I believe he wanted to train me. To show me that he'd only tolerate obedience." Nervously, she twisted a piece of thread around her finger. Slade Dalton was the last man she would have ever expected to tell her most shameful secret to. Yet here she was, confessing the whole ugly incident.

"Actually, I think cruelty gave him much pleasure," she added in a tremulous voice. She recalled the humiliation and the sting of the whip against her back. Out of habit, her finger traced the mark that lay at the nape of her neck. She would have suffered more scars, if she hadn’t managed to wrestle the whip from his hands. He’d promised her a worse punishment as she’d fled from him.

She chanced a glance in Slade’s direction. He had a white-knuckled grip on the arm of the rocker. He looked ready to snap it off. "And your father? Where the hell was he?"

She swallowed hard, remembering her father's furious reaction when she merely suggested that Arthur might not be the right match for her. She'd known that even if she'd told him of Arthur's viciousness, it wouldn't have mattered. He was too eager to be rid of her. "I never mentioned the incident to my father. He was at his wit’s end with me. I didn't want to cause him anymore trouble."

"How did Grady get into the picture?"

"I attended some assemblies and flirted with a few single men. London businessmen with good reputations. Men who appeared harmless. Your brother was amongst them. In fact, my father and he had had some business dealings. Surprisingly, considering how artless my flirting was, they offered for me." Her admission made her wince. "I’m making myself quite ill. You must think your brother is engaged to a conniving witch. It sounds horribly calculating on my part, but I could think of no other way out."

"You did what you had to," he said matter-of-factly. He offered her another drink, which she waved away. "Tell me the rest."

For a moment, she lifted her gaze to his. His jaw was set in a hard line. She forced a weak smile that he didn’t return. "Widstaff suddenly held less appeal to my father when Grady showed up as a willing suitor. He presented a ring and a tidy little real estate offer. I think my father rather liked the idea that his unmanageable daughter would be on another continent." She blinked hard, refusing to cry. To her father, she was just another business deal. "It didn't matter to me where I lived, as long as I was out of Arthur Widstaff's reach."

"Perhaps you ought to reconsider this betrothal based as it is on such a flimsy connection."

Clearly, Slade Dalton still wished her gone. He probably hated her even more now, knowing that she’d tricked his brother into the betrothal. But she couldn’t blame him. At the time, her deceitfulness had shocked even her. She’d felt so guilty she’d offered Grady a way out. "I’d given him the opportunity to call off the engagement," she said in her defense.

"Hell, there isn’t a right-minded man who would call it off." Before Lacey had a chance to interpret Slade’s curious response, he spoke again. "So you’re marrying a man you don’t care a lick for."

"Why you’ve got that part all wrong, Mr. Dalton. He’s become everything to me." She wasn’t really lying. Grady was her only hope for a future. And she was determined to make him a good wife. "He’s hardworking, handsome, upstanding--" she searched her mind for another of Grady’s virtues "--handsome--"

"You’ve mentioned that already," he commented dryly.

"I assume he took care of Widstaff?"

She gave her head a violent shake. "I never told him about Widstaff. I was too ashamed."

"You're telling me."

She worked up the nerve to really look at him. She knew in that instant why she'd chosen to confide in Slade alone. This hardened cowboy inspired trust in her. "True, but you're--"

"Not anything to you." He completed the sentence for her and punctuated it with a surly smile.

Of course, he'd gotten it all wrong. She'd meant to say--you're different than any man I've ever met.

"There really was no point in telling your brother," she said, skipping back to his question about Grady. "I mean, what could he have done?"

"Killed the son-of-a-bitch."

He meant every word he said, she thought, as she looked at his ice-blue eyes devoid, it seemed, of everything but cold, hard anger.

Slade flicked a gnat that had gotten stuck on the moist rim of the glass and poured himself another. He lifted his glass in a toast. "To my future sister-in-law." Clearly, the whiskey was taking its toll on her reason, because she imagined he said the words through gritted teeth. As though they were as hard for him to say as they were for her to hear. She warned herself not to think it significant that he hadn't followed up the toast with a drink.

He settled back in his chair, pulled out a cigarette and cupped his hand around the match as he lit it. Lacey picked up her work and made some clumsy stabs at the canvas, knowing she was making a mess of it and that tomorrow she'd be pulling the stitches out. The silence was suddenly so thick between them, even the cheerful cricket sounds were jarring.

"I had the notion this would be the perfect place to do my stitching, but I'm finding the rocking too distracting."

He quirked his brow. "Sweetheart, your chair's not even moving."

She gathered up her bag and rose unsteadily to her feet. "It was very kind of you to share your prize," she said quite formally.

"Anytime."

She stopped with her hand on the door latch. He was looking exactly as he had when she had exited the house; facing forward with his boots stacked atop the railing.

"Mr. Dalton, when I first came onto the porch. How did you guess it was me?"

"Hell Duchess, I'd have to be dead not to sense you were nearby," he replied.

Alone again on the porch, Slade poured himself another shot. He planned on getting good and drunk tonight. She’d managed to penetrate all his usual defenses and to go straight for his heart.

Despite having been both a soldier and a bounty hunter, he never really considered himself a violent man. But if he had the opportunity to face the man who had put that kind of fear in Lacey’s eyes, he would choke the life out of him.

The tub was so cramped that Lacey's knees were bent under her chin. She marveled at Dora's resilience, living as she did with no amenities. She reached for the sponge she'd dropped on the floor and nearly toppled herself over.

Through the adjoining closet, she could hear Slade's footsteps. The man, she was certain, would be far too tired to attend any dance. As she rubbed her hair dry with the bathsheet, the familiar scent of his tobacco drifted to her from beneath the door. She thought of his crooked smile and experienced an unfamiliar emotion, one akin to homesickness. How, she wondered, could a person miss something they'd never had. And she would never have Slade Dalton. That was a given. The man needed no one, especially not her. He'd made it clear that he was counting the days until Grady took her off his hands.

She frowned at the plain calico dresses hanging in her wardrobe and chose instead an outfit she'd worn to a London theatre, a brown velvet skirt and fitted satin jacket with military style buttons. The understated golden shade of the jacket nearly matched the color of her eyes. She knotted her hair at the nape of her neck and topped it all with a slouch hat made from the same fabric as the jacket.

Lacey could barely move her arms, squeezed as she was between Tait and Dora on the wagon's box seat. "Will Slade be putting in an appearance this evening?" she asked, fiddling with her reticule, trying to appear nonchalant.

Tait peered over her head to meet Dora's eyes, and they both laughed.

"No, honey. Slade finds these dances a bit dull," Dora said.

Tait flicked the reins. "And we men are all thankful for that. You can't even get a girl's attention when Slade is around."

There were rush lights set up around the perimeter of the wooden platform. Standing with Dora along the railing of the makeshift dance floor, Lacey turned as though on instinct. He rode past the music, weaving his horse deftly between the throngs of partygoers. He tipped his hat a couple of times in greeting. Her corset seemed suddenly too tight. She reminded herself to breathe. Clearly, he hadn't come to dance. He was still wearing his jeans and chaps. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears. What was it about this man that made her such a complete wreck? Her reactions to him were truly starting to worry her.

Slade hitched his horse in front of the two-story building across the way. A lone candle flickered in the window of the sheriff's office.

He wasn't in the office very long before he came out, slamming the door behind him. A tall, heavy man followed him out. Slade's anger was apparent even from a distance.

"Slade's wasting his time. Talbot's worse than useless," Lacey overheard Tait telling Dora.

"We’re here to enjoy ourselves." Dora tucked her arm in Lacey’s. "I'm parched. Let's fetch some refreshments." She led Lacey to the trestle table.

They ladled the pale pink punch into mason jars. Lacey took a sip and glanced around her. The band consisted of three fiddlers and the makeshift floor creaked with every step. Most of the conversations she'd overheard were about livestock. A few shades different than the soirees in London, she thought. And she found, to her amazement, she didn't even miss the marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and satin ball gowns.

A heavy finger tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned to face a man with his hair plastered back with grease. He scrunched his hat in hands and nodded politely.

"Good evenin', ma'am. I was noticin' you standin' here, and I thought maybe you'd like to dance."

"No, thank you. I've barely just arrived. Perhaps later."

"I look forward to it," he said with a tobacco-stained grin and immediately turned around and asked the woman standing beside her.

There was a sudden rustling of skirts and a chorus of tittering laughter. Lacey peered across the dance floor to find Slade Dalton slipping through the crowd. And didn't he maneuver smoothly, she thought with annoyance, offering up his crooked smile to his giggling admirers.

Determined not to fall prey to his masculine charm, she looked away as he approached.

"Dancin' tonight, Miss Jarrell?"

His deep voice seemed to hum through her blood. "I don't think so. This style of dance is a bit foreign to me."

"I suppose you danced some with my brother back in England?" He raised his eyebrows in a suggestive manner that made her want to slap his face.

"Yes. Grady is a splendid dancer. We took many turns around the dance floor," she lied. "Truth was, I was the envy of all the ladies at the parties we attended."

"'S that right?" His white teeth flashed in a big smile as he gave Tait a conspiratorial wink. She couldn't help noticing Tait's mouth hanging open.

"Gee, Grady must have learned quick. 'Round here we called him Lefty, on account of his two left feet," Tait said, looking truly bewildered.

Slade shook his head. "All I can say is, it must have been a damn miracle."

"I guess anything's possible when you are in love," she lied again, but not without a twinge of guilt.

One eyebrow quirked in disbelief. "Quite the little yarn spinner tonight, Lacey."

She felt herself blush. How was he able to read her so well? Or was it obvious to everyone that she had no deep feelings for Grady, yet.

Tait pushed between them and leaned over the railing. "Hey, Sheriff, how many of those wanted posters d'you think my brother's cleared off your board?"

The sheriff stopped in the road and spit a wad of tobacco into the dirt before approaching the platform. "Enough," he said, but you couldn't mistake it for a compliment.

"Bet you sent home plenty in a box, eh Slade?" Tait made a move to give Slade a congratulatory thump on the back, but stopped himself short when he saw the cold expression on his brother's face.

Lacey cringed as she watched the sheriff spit another disgusting wad of tobacco, just missing the tip of Tait's boot.

"Even sent your partner home in a box." The sheriff twisted an end of his drooping mustache. "Heard you were too busy flirting with the women to cover his back properly."

Even though Lacey wasn't understanding the whole gist of the conversation, she could tell by the way Tait's face went white that things were getting ugly. The sheriff's face blanched as well, and he suddenly took a few steps back before wheeling around on his heels and stalking off.

Lacey made the mistake of glancing back at Slade. The squint-eyed look he focused on the sheriff had a menacing formidable quality that made her shiver.