Texas Proud (Vincente 2) (20 page)

He handed the glass to Delia and she drank it
down without taking a breath. Then she held the
glass out for more.

"No more, my pretty one. You're forming a bad
habit."

"You introduced me to it." She tossed her
golden mane and laughed with amusement. "I
have come to depend on brandy to get me through
the day."

"Would you believe me if I told you I wanted
you to stop drinking?"

"No, I wouldn't believe you. You like me drunk.
I don't know why."

He ran his finger along her delicate jawline and
then traced her lips. "Why did you marry me?"

Again she laughed. "Because you asked me. You
never saw me as a woman, but a possession to
flaunt before your friends."

He pressed his cheek against hers, inhaling her
soft perfume. "You are probably right." His teeth
nibbled at the lobe of her ear. "But you stir my
blood as no other woman ever can, and you desire
me, too, don't deny it."

His lips smothered hers so she couldn't breathe.

Delia's arms slid around Whit's shoulders and
he led her to the bed. As he undressed her, another face flashed through her mind. Dark eyes
Spanish eyes Noble's eyes, which pulled and
tore at her heart, even after all this time. She kept
repeating to herself while her husband made love
to her, Noble is touching me. Nobles lips are on
mine. Noble. Noble. Noble.

"We should be getting ready for the dance," she whispered, pretending it was Noble's hands caressing her, and not Whit's.

"There's time," he whispered thickly in her ear.
"It's been too long, Delia. I've missed you."

She blinked in astonishment, and looked into
his eyes, seeing what appeared to be sincerity reflected there. Did Whit really love her? She would
never know, because it was a game they played.
In public they were the loving couple that everyone envied, but in their bedroom they were two
bodies seeking and finding only pleasure and fulfillment.

Delia gave in to the passion that he stirred
within her. Slowly the image of Noble faded and
she saw only her husband.

He gripped her hips and rammed into her with
such force it almost sent her off the bed.

Whit had such anger in him, such passion, that
it made him a good lover. The heat of him reached
deep inside her, and she answered each of his animal thrusts with her own.

At one point he slipped off the bed and pulled
her on top of him. Positioning her just right, he
eased her upward, and she wanted to scream with
pleasure when he opened her up and slid inside
of her, pounding and thrusting against her.

"This isn't love," she whispered as her body climaxed with his.

"No," he agreed in a breathless tone. "More than
love animal lust much better than love."

"How long before we burn out, Whit?" she asked
as his tongue swirled around a nipple.

"When we are both in hell, and maybe not then,"
he answered.

The gleeful sounds of music and laughter blended
to welcome the people of Madragon County to the
Harvest Dance, the social event of the year. The
dance was a tradition that had sprung forth the
first year the town had been established in 1844.
Of course, there had been no dance during the war
years because it had been considered unpatriotic
to celebrate while young men were dying in a confrontation so far away from home.

The dance was held in the old town hall, and
the joyous sounds drifted down the empty streets
of Tascosa Springs. There was hardly a man,
woman or child in the whole county who was not
attending the festivities tonight.

Many of the women had saved all year to buy a new frock for the occasion. Young, unmarried females waited with anticipation for this night so
they could flirt and dance with the gentlemen of
their choice. Gentlemen in suits mingled easily
with cowboys wearing boots and Western finery.

Rachel arrived with her sister and brother-inlaw in their town carriage. The minute Whit's feet
touched the ground his mouth thinned into a
smile and he merged with the crowd, shaking
hands, slapping backs, inquiring about family
members campaigning.

Delia dutifully followed, looking bored and unhappy. She'd always hated this affair and she still
did, much preferring the elegant balls and soirees
of Austin society.

Whit's hand clamped on Delia's arm, steering
her forward, while his eyes were riveted on Rachel. He made Rachel feel uneasy. Why did he
keep staring at her? she wondered, hanging back,
hugging the shadows. She was suddenly overwhelmed by melancholy and was reluctant to enter the hall. She thought about all the men who
had been killed in the war. Those absent had faces
and names-they had been her friends and neighbors. She prayed there would be no Yankees present, no blue uniforms, no enemies.

Glancing in the window at her sister, she could
read boredom etched on Delia's face. Rachel
threw off her sadness, knowing that her sister
needed her. Rachel noticed that the hall had been skillfully decorated with streamers, colorful lanterns and lace hangings. The ladies' quilting circle
had done themselves proud. She'd probably belong to the quilting circle when she was an old
spinster, she thought whimsically.

For a moment, as Rachel's gaze swept over the
crowd, she paused at the top of the three short
steps that would take her into the room. She had
no way of knowing that her entrance had drawn
every eye in her direction and that she had
eclipsed every other female in the building. Her
off-the-shoulder blue velvet gown flared over a
wide hoop, accenting her tiny waist. Her red-gold
hair spilled down her back, making her skin appear creamy and smooth. She moved down the
steps and walked toward her sister, still unaware
that every eye followed her.

Greeting friends as she passed, Rachel went directly to Delia. "Smile," she whispered. "You are
always preaching to me about helping Whit's image. Shouldn't you take your own advice?"

Delia looked at her archly. "These events have
always been tedious, and I doubt they have
changed." But she managed a tight, sparing smile.

Rachel said with just a hint of humor, "Don't
think of it as a dance, Delia think of it as a room
filled with potential voters."

Delia grinned at her sister's comment. "Look at
my husband; he's certainly making himself popular tonight. See how he mingles with the locals,
trying to make them believe that he's still one of them? Everything he does is carefully thought
through and calculated beforehand. Tonight he
wants to be perceived as a successful hometown
boy who's come home to visit with his old
friends." She continued, her tone now laced with
disgust, "My husband is such a hypocrite."

"He's a prospective candidate," Rachel countered, throwing Delia's words back in her face.

The two sisters stood side by side, drawing
everyone's attention. Each sister's beauty was a
contrast to the other's. Delia looked poised and
elegant in her apricot satin gown with yards and
yards of expensive beaded lace at the hem. Rachel,
with her flaming hair spiraling about her face,
looked wild, unpredictable, breathtaking. She
drew and held everyone's attention in her blue velvet gown, which had little adornment and needed
none.

Whit looked less formally attired than usual because it suited him not to wear a tie and to leave
his shirt unbuttoned. He came back to stand between Delia and Rachel, smiling and exchanging
pleasantries with everyone and slipping his hand
about the waists of both women.

Rachel didn't think any less of Whit for what he
was doing. After all, she thought, suppressing an
amused smile, one lived by different rules when
one wanted to become governor of Texas.

Rachel's face lit up when she saw Sheriff Crenshaw striding toward her.

He nodded to Delia and Whit, then took Ra chel's hand. "I declare you to be the prettiest
woman here tonight, Miss Rachel. You surely
are.

She liked the sheriff. He smelled of leather and
spice and reminded her of her father. "Shall I tell
Matty Sue you said that?" she asked in a teasing
voice.

He chuckled. "My wife would agree with me."
He gallantly extended his arm to her. "Let me
fetch you a glass of punch so I can be the envy of
all those young fools who stand there gawking at
you, but are too afraid to ask you to dance."

She placed her gloved hand on his arm and accompanied him across the room. Rachel had the
strangest premonition that something was about
to happen. She didn't know what it might be; she
didn't even know if it was good or bad. She'd had
the same feeling when her father had been killed.
She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the
feeling. She was relieved when Sheriff Crenshaw
handed her a glass of punch.

Rachel's gaze moved searchingly over the
crowd, and her stomach tightened in knots. She
realized what she was feeling-she was hoping
Noble would come. Of course he wouldn't come,
but still...

The evening progressed, and Rachel danced
with so many different partners, she lost count.
Finally she stepped back into the shadows, hoping
to rest for a moment. Her feet hurt; she wasn't
accustomed to wearing satin shoes. She met the eyes of her foreman, Tanner, who watched her
from the edge of the dance floor, and she smiled
at him.

Tanner hadn't torn his eyes away from Rachel
all evening. He was sure that if an angel had come
down to earth, she would not be as beautiful as
Rachel. Her blue velvet gown billowed out about
her, swaying gently with each movement. Her red
hair glistened with golden highlights, and her skin
was creamy and smooth. The foreman knew he'd
never have the courage to ask her to dance
never.

Tanner stepped back as Rachel approached
him. He swallowed, wishing he could find something witty to say. He shifted from one foot to the
other and back again. Hell, he hoped he could
speak past the lump in his throat.

The angel spoke to him. "Are you having a good
time, Tanner?"

"Yes, ma'am." He silently cursed himself because his voice trembled for that matter his
whole body shook.

"Tanner," Rachel said, smiling gently at him.
"Remember, you promised me a dance?"

"I, uh, I did. Yes, I did." He gulped in air. "Will
you dance with me, Miss Rachel?"

She offered him her gloved hand. "It would be
my pleasure."

He took her hand, praying that he wouldn't
stumble over his own feet. He'd never been much
of a dancer, and he hoped he could keep time with the music. He almost pulled away when his hand
touched the soft velvet about her waist. Could she
see that he was falling apart inside? Did she think
he was a total lout?

Rachel gave Tanner an encouraging smile. He
was such a capable foreman, and there was nothing he didn't know about ranching. But he was shy
around women, and she wished he would find
someone nice and marry her. She didn't want to
lose him as a foreman, and if he was married he
would be more likely to settle permanently on the
Broken Spur.

"Tanner," Rachel said, hoping to encourage him
in a courtship, "I've noticed Sally Crenshaw
watching you. I believe she likes you. Have you
asked her to dance this evening?"

He had been counting steps so he wouldn't
make a mistake, but when Rachel spoke to him
he stumbled over her satin slipper. "I'm so sorry,
Miss Rachel," he stammered. "Did are you
hurt?"

She shook her head and offered him her hand.
"I was speaking to you of Sally."

Tanner had thought it would be heaven to
dance with Rachel, but it was hell. He couldn't
think clearly when he was this close to her. She
smelled of some sweet fragrance, and he wanted
so badly to touch her hair and see if it was as soft
as it looked. He gulped. "Sally, the sheriff's daughter?" he asked, wondering how any man would
notice another woman with Rachel in the room.

"Why don't you ask her to dance?"

"I... ain't much of a dancer."

"Nonsense. You are doing very well."

Was he? He suddenly felt as if he were floating
above the floor. "I'll ask her if you want me to."

Her laughter was musical. "I'm not your boss
tonight, Tanner. You ask a pretty girl to dance because you want to."

He glanced over at Sally Crenshaw and met her
soft gray eyes. He'd never thought of her as a
woman. She was past her prime, probably in her
thirties. But then, Tanner was forty. Sally was the
schoolmarm, and she looked the part with a tight
bun at the nape of her neck and a sensible gray
gown, trimmed with black braid. He supposed she
was pretty enough, but not to be compared with
the angel in his arms.

"Ill dance with her," he said at last. "If she's of
a mind to dance with me."

Rachel knew Noble was standing behind her before he spoke. A stir of excitement filled the air as
everyone stared and pointed, whispering and
speculating about what had brought mighty Noble Vincente to a dance with the local people. She
wondered too. Might he have come for her?