When The Heart Beckons (17 page)

“The hell he will. I’m going to kill him
first—soon as I’ve finished off Brett McCallum,” he bragged.
“Steele may have been good in his prime, but he’s not as fast as I
am, not anymore. His days are numbered, Lily, and so are yours,
unless you tell me exactly what I want to know. So start
talking.”

A
nnabel felt better
after supper. When she’d taken the last bite of roasted rabbit meat
and drained the final drops of delicious black coffee from her mug,
she gave a little sigh of satisfaction. There was something about
the cabin that inspired peacefulness. The setting was idyllic, and
the little frame building made of rough-hewn mesquite logs was
sturdy and snug. Glancing around, she imagined how delightfully
homey the place could be with a little care and imagination—perhaps
with crisp white and yellow gingham curtains, and a big colorfully
woven rug on the floor.
If I lived here, I’d arrange some nice
plump embroidered cushions on the sofa and perhaps set some flowers
in a pretty vase on the mantel and I’d have books and china dishes,
and maybe some watercolors or handsome lithographs on the wall
...

She wondered how Roy Steele had found this
place, and who it really belonged to. But Steele didn’t seem to be
in the mood for any questions, so as they worked side by side
cleaning up the dishes and wiping the table till it shone, she was
silent, though she did steal several glances at him when she
thought he wasn’t looking.

He was being remarkably kind to her. Not in
what he said—oh, no—he had barely spoken to her during the meal,
either—but in what he did. He was helping her with the clean-up
chores—something she’d never seen any man do back at the house on
Maplegrove Street or at Mrs. Stoller’s boardinghouse, and she knew
he wanted to make sure she didn’t do anything to aggravate her
wound. He glanced her way now and then, and she suspected he was
trying to see if her shoulder was hurting. Thankfully, it was
better, and she had a feeling that by tomorrow she would be able to
ride more easily.

Sunset was fast approaching as in silence
Annabel set the last of the utensils in the rough cupboard near the
stove, then paused to gaze in wonder at the brilliant scene beyond
the window.

Silken ribbons of color—magnificent pinks
and oranges and golds—twirled across the sky, but the colors were
slowly changing to lavender and peach and a rich pale amber that
glowed from butte to foothill to distant prairie. Shadows were
deepening over the mountaintops beyond the valley as hazy purple
dusk drew inexorably near.

The beauty of the scene touched her and she
turned impulsively toward Steele. “You’ve obviously been here many
times before. How did you come to know about this lovely
place?”

“I built it.”

“You did?” She glanced around with fresh
curiosity, noting again how well made and sturdy were the walls and
the roof, how smoothly carved even the pine table was. “All of
it?”

He met her astonished look with a sudden
grin. “Except the sofa and the stove,” he drawled. He hesitated,
then held his hand out to her. “Come on. I want to show you
something.”

She slipped her hand in his and let him lead
her outside. Her fingers curled inside his warm, strong hand,
feeling oddly comfortable there. But what was going on inside of
her was not comfortable in the least. Her heart had begun to drum
madly in her chest. She felt suddenly warm and flushed, and little
agitated quivers darted through her stomach and down into the lower
recesses of her belly.

But it wasn’t a sick feeling, she
acknowledged, as they strolled across the thick wild grass toward a
rise a short distance away. It was a tingly, excited feeling. A
feeling she’d never experienced before, but which came entirely
from the solid pressure of Roy Steele’s large, powerful hand around
hers.

Together they climbed the gentle slope of
the rise, and Annabel caught her breath at the view. Below, and as
far as the eye could see, the pretty winding brook gleamed like
polished silver. Rising up as if to guard the picturesque charm of
the valley, were gray cliff peaks, and jutting red mesas,
forbidding yet magnificent against the glowing sunset sky. Antelope
and deer moved among the rocks, and eagles cried harshly as they
spread their wings wide and circled overhead.

To the north and west stretched the desert,
but nearer at hand gleamed the tall forms of stately oaks and
fragrant pines on the hillsides overlooking the meadow. How
entrancing was that meadow, she thought, gasping with pleasure at
the sight of it below. A sea of dark green brightened with vivid
flowers—Annabel felt she could gaze upon it forever and wish for
nothing more.

Rugged splendor and open simple beauty were
spread before her—and Roy Steele stood quietly by her side.

“It’s paradise,” she breathed.

“That’s why I picked it.” He gave her a
quick, piercing glance. “Struck me as the prettiest spot on
earth.”

“It is. Oh, it is.” Annabel bobbed her head
in agreement and stared in delight as two jackrabbits raced across
the dark grass and disappeared behind an aspen.

“You live here then?” she asked after a
moment, not wishing to pry but wanting to learn more about him,
even though she sensed he would close down if she appeared too
curious.

She actually held her breath, wondering if
he would refuse to answer at all, but to her relief, he did.

“No, Miss Brannigan, actually I don’t live
anywhere, except on the trail. But I like knowing I have this place
to come to every once in a while. It’s sort of like a home, I
guess, or at least the closest I’ll ever come to one.” Steele
watched the last shimmering rays of light gild her lively face,
which was so earnestly absorbed in his words. The amber rays turned
her riotous mass of curls into ripples of fire. He wanted to
stretch out his hand and touch the soft curls, but restrained
himself, wondering at the same time why he was telling her so much.
It was more than he’d ever told any other human being, but
something was pushing him, driving him to share this with her—not
only this place, which was so special to him, but also something of
what he always kept locked inside. “At one point I actually thought
of building a ranch here,” he continued, amazed to hear himself
speaking, “but ... I don’t think I’m meant to settle down in any
one place.”

“Why not?” she asked softly, and the concern
in her voice tore unexpectedly at his insides. Why did this woman
give a damn about him? He didn’t want her to. It was wrong. It was
futile. For both of them.

He straightened his shoulders and answered
her with his customary nonchalance. “It’s not in the cards.”

“Well,” Annabel said slowly, lifting one
graceful hand to encompass all of the spectacular scene surrounding
them, “if you were going to pick one spot to settle down, I can’t
think of anyplace more perfect.”

He said nothing more, and Annabel suspected
that whatever urge had prompted him to open up to her, even a tiny
bit, had been firmly quelled.

“When I was a little girl,” she ventured,
edging just a little closer to him, “I used to play in the McCallum
garden and at the time I thought it was the most beautiful spot on
earth. All the lovely flowers, the hedges trimmed so elegantly, the
lawn so perfect, like emerald green velvet.” She laughed. “I used
to pretend I was a princess and I’d sit on the carved stone bench
and survey my kingdom—the statues and the flowers and all the frogs
and fish in the pond were my subjects.”

“You played at the McCallum house when you
were a little girl?” His gaze was suddenly sharp on her face. “Were
you a neighbor?”

She shook her head, smiling, “My aunt was
the cook. I lived there with her—we shared a most cozy little room
in the servants’ wing.”

“Gertie was your aunt?”

“How do you know Gertie?” Annabel stared at
him. To her astonishment, Roy Steele, cool and collected
gunslinger, flushed like a schoolboy caught putting a toad in the
teacher’s desk.

“Brett mentioned her, I reckon,” he murmured
and kicked at a pebble with his boot.

“That’s rather strange. She passed away
several years ago—why would Brett bring up her name to a total
stranger?”

“He was telling me a story about some dinner
party or another when he was a kid ... look, this isn’t important,”
Steele told her roughly. “Saving Brett from Red Cobb is.”

Annabel nodded, but continued to ponder him
curiously, sensing his sudden tension as he deliberately changed
the subject. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Roy Steele was
hiding something. But what?

Nothing irked at Annabel more than
unanswered questions. Ever since she was a child, puzzles and
mysteries had fascinated her, and she couldn’t rest until she had
solved them, even if it drove Aunt Gertie and Brett crazy. But Roy
Steele was the biggest mystery she had ever encountered. One moment
he might kiss her, displaying a fierce tenderness no one would ever
suspect, but the next he’d shut her out of his thoughts and plans
completely.

She seated herself on a hump-shaped boulder
and thought over his explanation while Steele busied himself
rolling and lighting a cigarette. All the while she watched him
like a hawk. “How long ago did you see Brett and how long ago did
he do this favor for you?” she asked. “Was it recently, after he
ran away from home, or have you known him a long time? And what was
the favor? Why are you in his debt?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Miss
Brannigan,” he commented dryly. “If I didn’t know better I’d think
you were a Pinkerton detective.”

Annabel nearly slid off the boulder, but
braced her hands on the rock just in time.

“They’re innocent enough questions,” she
retorted, her eyes sparkling with defiance. “And as Brett’s
fiancée, it’s my right ...”

“Yeah, yeah, I reckon it is. But I don’t
much like ‘em.” His expression was grim in the advancing darkness.
Those words—
Brett’s fiancée
—summoned up an irritation he
couldn’t explain. Or control. “Can’t you just once keep quiet and
stop pestering me? Damnation, I never met a more tiresome
woman.”

Stung, Annabel gave a strangled cry.

“Tiresome?” she squeaked, jumping off the
boulder in fury. “Mr. Roy Steele, let me tell you about tiresome!”
She plucked the cigarette from between his lips, enraged by the
nonchalant way he was smoking it and regarding her from beneath the
brim of his hat. She threw the cigarette down on the ground and
stomped it with her foot. Only with great effort did she manage to
restrain herself from snatching the hat off his head and tossing it
down the slope. “I’ve dealt with some pretty high-handed, arrogant
men in my life,” she stormed, “but you are the worst. Worse even
than Mr. Ross McCallum—and that’s saying quite a bit,” she added
scathingly. She stomped the cigarette one more time, feeling
triumphantly satisfied as his eyes narrowed.

Anger made Annabel’s gray-green eyes glitter
like fairy lights in the gathering darkness. Steele was glaring at
her in astounded silence, as if he’d never seen a woman lose her
temper before. This goaded her even more. “You promised to talk to
me and give me some straight answers tonight, but as always you’re
weaseling out of it! Well, I won’t let you. Are you just a liar,
Mr. Steele? A liar and a killer? Maybe you just want to catch up
with Brett to kill him after all—maybe you’re hoping I’ll lead you
straight to him so that you can do your dirty little killing. But I
won’t. Damn you to hell, I won’t!”

Steele grasped her wrist as her voice rose
higher and higher.

“I won’t let you hurt him!” she cried,
trying to break free and failing. “And I won’t stop badgering you
until you tell me where we’re headed! Maybe you’re used to women
who keep their mouths closed and don’t argue or think or even
talk
. But I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect the
people I love, and if you think I’m going to fall for your plan to
track and kill Brett ...”

“That’s enough.” His face was like granite,
as cold as the cliff faces towering over the valley. His fingers
bit into her wrist. “If I were a killer, I reckon I would’ve left
you to fend for yourself with those gentlemen back there on the
rim,” he said in a low, hard tone. “But I didn’t, Miss Brannigan. I
didn’t. I came back and saved your hide. Or did you forget?”

His quiet, deadly voice pierced the fury
that had consumed her. She felt sanity rushing back. No, she hadn’t
forgotten. Well, maybe she had—just for a moment. But the truth
was, she owed him her life.

His eyes gleamed fiercely into hers, and
beneath that harsh gaze, her wild rage faded to burning
mortification. Annabel drew a deep, ragged breath.
Get control
of yourself
, she thought desperately. She struggled to calm
her roiling emotions.
That ridiculous outburst wasn’t very
professional
, she told herself, forcing back tears. And losing
her temper wasn’t going to get her anywhere. But oh, he had called
her tiresome. The word had cut her to the quick. Obviously, Roy
Steele didn’t feel an attraction for her after all—she had been
totally wrong about that. He detested her.

She fought back the urge to weep.
Don’t
you dare
, she admonished herself, and stiffened her back,
though her lips quivered.

“I’m sorry,” she managed, her voice only a
little shaky. To her horror, tears still burned behind her eyelids,
and frantically, she blinked them back, hoping he hadn’t noticed in
the encroaching darkness. “I haven’t forgotten what you did. You
saved me from those horrid men. Which makes me believe in you—at
least, I want to believe in you.” Her tone gathered strength. And a
kind of hushed softness. She lifted bright, wistful eyes to his
face, suddenly yearning with all her heart to understand more about
this contradictory and unfathomable man.