Texas Standoff

Little did he know that the notion of not assisting him was an option she would never have contemplated, not even if he was the source of a long-standing feud and the object of intense hatred. Of course, if he was a bitter enemy rather than a complete stranger, she’d have no compunction about leaving him high and dry and on foot the minute they reached safe ground. Though such reasoning would be baffling to the outsider, it made perfect sense to her.

Once across the bridge, they exchanged only a few casual words. It was obvious the woman wished to concentrate on maneuvering the truck through the ever-rising waters. He was wet, tired and disgusted, and more than a little leery about their final destination.

“So where’re you from?” she asked.

“Dallas,” he supplied:

Elise didn’t follow up with, “What brings you to the Hill Country?” Local custom dictated that it was not proper to delve into a person’s private business. Asking a bunch of personal questions was labeled “being nosy” and considered impolite.

They rode another mile or so before turning off the main road onto another. Between the darkness and the nonstop rain, Colin could make out little of his surroundings.

“We’re almost there, Mr. Majors. The main gate is just up ahead.”

He was sure his notion of a main gate was something entirely different from hers. He thought in terms of elaborate metalwork, electronic codes and surveillance. She was probably talking about some barbed wire stretched from one wooden fence post to another and secured with a padlock.

“Great,” he said less than enthusiastically.

With some fancy footwork and a hand brake, she managed to bring the truck to a halt, ordering, “Wait here,” before jumping out.

He wasn’t sure if she meant him or the dog. Unfamiliar with the ways of ranching folk, he had no basis for knowing it was a long-standing practice for the owner of a spread to always open the gate for a visitor. It was considered the hospitable thing to do. He felt foolish sitting high and dry as she trounced through the waters, daring a snake bite while wrestling with the heavy gates. Moving forward in his seat, he peered at the entrance spotlighted in the high beams.

Feeling foolish did not even begin to describe his next reaction. Though the main gates were obviously not electronic, they were made of wrought iron-not ornate, just simple vertical metal spears stretched between two twelve-foot-high limestone pillars. Above the massive gates was an arch of lacy grillwork with a symbol or logo of sorts etched between two words. “Cheyenne Moon,” he read aloud.

The hound raised his head and assessed the stranger. Ever so easily, Colin eased back in the seat and engaged in a little assessing of his own. The headlights shone on his traveling companion, and for the first time he got a good look at her from behind. Her hair was the color of mahogany, long and pulled straight back into a single thick braid that fell halfway to her waist. The ground was higher at the gates, and as she swung them open, he studied the firm outline of her valentineshaped buttocks beneath the wet, clinging jeans. Not bad, he thought, glancing over to be certain the hound couldn’t read his mind. It was a debatable point. The dog was watching his every move.

When he returned his eyes to the woman, she was wading her way back to the truck. His pulse quickened and an instinctive stirring occurred in his loins as he took advantage of a full frontal view. His eyes fell first on the drenched white cotton covering her breasts. The material was practically transparent in the bright beam of the headlights. But oddly enough, it was when his gaze came level with her face that he experienced a fleeting instant of oxygen deprivation. Even the comical wet-mop hairstyle did not detract from her beauty. Though he couldn’t make out every detail of her face, the overall effect was literally stunning. Suddenly before him appeared a curious cross between his favorite screen sirens, a woman who simultaneously possessed the soft sensuousness of Julia Roberts and the sultry hardness of Sharon Stone, albeit a brunette version, He knew he was letting his imagination run away with him. She was not glamorous in any sense of the word. Yet she was undoubtedly the sexiest-looking woman he’d ever seen. How had he missed noticing this before now?

The creak of the truck door opening jarred him to his senses. Well, somewhat. He offered her a stupid stare.

“Is something wrong?” Her words penetrated the fog blocking his normal brain-wave activity.

“Uh, no,” he lied poorly. Unable to meet her gaze, he focused on the hound. “I was just wondering when Hombre last ate and if he ever craved human flesh.” Better. More like his smooth self.

She laughed at his remark. It was a husky, pleasurable sound. A deep-throated, silky turn-on that-Jeez, Majors! Get your mind off full lips and tight buns. A phone call is all you need to make tonight.

Ruffling the fur on Hombre’s head, she set his mind at ease. “He won’t take a chunk out of you unless I tell him to.”

He forced a smile. “That’s reassuring.”

She released the hand brake. Again the pickup moved forward through the muddy water and again they lapsed into silence. It seemed an interminable amount of time before she announced, “There’s headquarters. We made it, Mr. Majors.”

Headquarters? That was a word applied to an army post or a police station. What was she talking about? “Headquarters?” he repeated, wondering if he’d misunderstood.

She realized his confusion. “Out here, that’s how we refer to the actual home of a rancher. Sometimes we call it the main house or the big house,” she schooled him. “That’s as good a way as any to make a distinction between the chuckhouse or the bunkhouse or the smaller houses located on the four-corner sections of the ranch.”

“Very innovative,” he said dryly.

She wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic again or whether he was simply embarrassed at having made a dudelike inquiry.

A last yank on the hand brake and they had arrived. Colin eased himself out of the truck, then stood transfixed in the pouring rain before the awesome, two-story stone structure. The place was a far cry from the shack he’d envisioned. It was impressive in size and authentic Old West in style. Eight thousand square feet at least. He wondered if the egg on his face was visible.

Noticing his vegetative state, Elise whistled for Hombre, sauntered up the wide stone steps to the covered porch and proceeded into the foyer through the front double doors. The doors alone were enough to make him gape-a handcrafted patchwork of multicolored glass and pewter, hemmed in richly glossed wood and measuring at least twelve feet in height. “Come in out of the weather, Mr. Majors,” came the invitation from beyond the yawning portal.

Hombre knew better than to enter via the door reserved for guests and neighbors. Those who lived and worked at Cheyenne Moon always came and went through the kitchen door.

Hesitantly Colin climbed the steps and walked inside. He paused once more in the entryway, partly because of the sheer enormity of the hall, partly because he became conscious of the trail of water he was depositing on the polished parquet floor. He just stood there, drip-drying and gazing up at the hundreds of crystal teardrops dangling from the chandelier above his head. He never noticed the approach of the small, brownskinned man until he spoke to the Winston woman, and even then he hadn’t the vaguest idea what the fellow was saying, since the exchange was conducted in rapid-fire Spanish.

“I know, I know, Andele.” Her tone was conciliatory. “This here is Mr. Majors. I picked him up along the way. He’s wet and tired and I want you to make him comfortable.”

In the space of a sentence, both the lady’s tone and attitude changed. She behaved like a person comfortable with authority. But why? Surely she wasn’t in charge around here. Judging from her age, it was safe to assume she was the coddled daughter of the real owner of Cheyenne Moon. His mind jumped from one puzzle to another. He’d been so flabbergasted when first glimpsing his temporary quarters he’d missed an opportunity to see his hostess in a revealing light. Turning about to face her, he found himself staring into empty space where only a second ago she’d been standing. She was already on the porch and heading toward the pickup. He advanced an involuntary step or two toward the doorway.

She turned to him, mistaking his curiosity for apprehensiveness. “Sorry, I can’t stick around to see that you get settled in myself. Don’t worry. Andele understands English. He just doesn’t speak it very well. My hands nicknamed him Andele because he gets things done lickety-split. His real name is Miguel, but he doesn’t answer to it much anymore.” She seemed oblivious to the storm still raging about her. She just stood with a booted foot braced on the running board of the truck, carrying on a casual conversation in the midst of the whipping wind, drenching rain and staccato flashes of lightning.

“You shouldn’t go out in this again. It’s not safe,” he heard himself responding. What the hell was the matter with him? He wasn’t her mother. He wasn’t anything to her, or she to him.

His concern seemed to amuse her. “Get a good night’s sleep, Mr. Majors,” she said before climbing into the truck.

The Mexican houseboy tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow him up the freestanding winding staircase. Wordlessly Colin trailed behind, his long legs stretching to keep pace with Andele’s shorter but quicker strides. The fellow did, in fact, move like a roadrunner. The upstairs balcony circled in a hub with maybe twelve different rooms branching off like spokes on a wheel.

Halfway around the hub, Andele stopped and thrust open one of the huge doors, then stood aside so that Colin could pass.

“Gracias.” Colin’s politeness was not so much the result of good manners as the fact that he could fluently speak three words of Spanish, the other two being “si” and “bueno.” As he stepped across the threshold into the interior, it was as if he’d entered a time warp and been magically transported to old Santa Fe-sturdy pine furniture, rough cedar beams overhead, the window coverings, bed quilt and accent rugs all coordinated in what he thought of as Indian tapestry but what the top designers called the Southwestern look.

Andele breezed by him and opened a second door leading to an adjoining bathroom, giving him a glimpse of turquoise and white Spanish tiles, plus rust-colored towels and a whiff of eucalyptus. The sound of running water reclaimed his attention. Andele was preparing his bath. With amazing efficiency he flitted about, laying out towels, a sponge, toiletries and a turquoiseand-white-striped terry robe all in two minutes flat, while Colin stood rooted to the floor, observing the scene in fascination. Jeez! If he didn’t show some sign of independence, the little guy would probably strip and scrub him on the spot.

He strode to the bathroom doorway and placed a staying hand on Andele’s arm. “I appreciate the assistance, but I can take it from here. Gracias.” A pattern was quickly establishing itself. Thanking him was becoming a habit. Andele smiled broadly, revealing but one front tooth and a noticeable gap as he did so.

“Good night,” Colin said, diplomatically dismissing him, or so he believed, anyway.

“Buenos noches.” With a curt bow of his head, Andele started to withdraw.

A telephone. He’d forgotten to ask. “Phone,” he blurted, postponing Andele’s speedy exit and trying to communicate in mime his urgent need to make a call.

Andele understood his meaning without the theatrics. He pointed to the telephone located on a table under a window, then shook his head, indicating a communication problem of a different sort. “Ees broke,” he explained.

Colin crossed to the phone, snatched up the receiver and checked it out for himself. It was dead all right. Frustrated, he clicked the receiver a couple of times but to no avail. It wasn’t just a faulty connection. The storm must have knocked out service. With a sigh, he hung up the receiver.

Andele offered him an apologetic shrug. “Maybe manana,” he said by way of consolation.

“I suppose mañana will have to do.”

Andele patiently waited to see if the tall gringo desired anything further.

“Gmcias,” Colin said a third and final time, hoping Andele would take the hint. He did, disappearing from the bedroom like a puff of smoke on a strong wind.

Once certain he was alone, Colin returned to the bathroom. Peeling out of his wet clothes, he threw them in a heap on the tiled floor, removed his watch, placed it on the sink top and then eased his body into the deep tub filled with hot water and a splash of spicy scent. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, letting the steamy, pungent vapors seep into every pore. What a day it had been. He leaned his head back against the cool porcelain and closed his eyes. Suddenly the form of the Winston woman took shape on the dark side of his inner lids, the way she had looked in the rain-lean and firm, fresh and wet, moving in slow, sensuous motion toward him.

His eyes blinked open and he sat straight up in the tub. What the hell was he doing? What would make him conjure up a fantasy about her? Then, just as suddenly, another thought struck him. This was the first time in nearly four years he’d almost made it through an entire day without thinking about his ex-wife, not even once, which was as weird as daydreaming about a total stranger. He wondered if there was a connection. Recently he’d heard the rumor that his former wife was contemplating marrying again. He’d been told that his replacement was older, wealthier and in the wings before Gwen and he had even separated. At the time he’d pretended to discount the gossip about Gwen’s infidelity, but he wondered now if it might have been true, since there had been hints of it during the final months of their marriage. So, maybe, she’d been cheating on him. What difference did it make now? It was all water under the bridge, so the saying went. The flood rapids at the creek’s crossing came to mind; the urgency of traveling such a short distance over a rickety wooden bridge, the blind trust he’d placed in a woman whose driving skills had been as big a question mark as the outcome of their escape attempt. Past and present circumstances kept trading places in his brain. Water under the bridge. Water over the bridge.

Colin soaped up the sponge and began lathering his limbs, using more energy and pressure than necessary. As he considered the prospect of Gwen marrying again, a possibility he hadn’t considered about Easy Winston popped into his head. The more he thought about it, the more logical a conclusion it seemed. He’d be willing to bet the bank that she was married to some older, wealthier cattle baron. It would explain a lot. “My place” was more than likely “our place,” and actually “his place” before the “I do’s.”

He let the logic sink in as he slid under the water for a final rinse and a deserved dunking. He felt like enough of an idiot for thinking about having sex with a woman he’d known all of an hour. Now to realize he was lusting after another man’s wife. A Texan from the Hill Country might shoot you for a lesser crime.

Weighing the notion of a night of fabulous sex with the sultry Mrs. Winston against the very real prospect of winding up on the wrong end of a shotgun blast tempered his libido. “I think I’ll pass,” he mumbled, stepping from the tub and briskly toweling off.

After shaving and making use of the cellophanewrapped toothbrush, he slipped on the striped robe and made a leisurely inspection of his quarters, ending the tour with a hand-press test of the bed’s mattress. It was then that he spied the tray on the night table containing a sandwich piled high with slices of chicken, a side dish of fresh melon and a glass of iced tea. There was also a decanter of imported brandy and a snifter, both etched with the distinctive logo he’d seen at the main gates. The food and drink were compliments of Andele, he was sure.

Colin was both hungry and grateful. Not a crumb was left by the time he stretched out his six-foot frame on the bed and drained the last drop of brandy from the snifter. Full and mellow, he pulled down the covers, switched off the light and slipped his naked length between the sheets. He thought no more about his ex-wife or the ranch woman. He merely listened to the sound of the rain beating against the windows and drifted off to sleep.

HE WAS JOLTED awake a few hours later by a different sound. It took him a moment to place himself in the unfamiliar surroundings. There were noises he didn’t recognize-an eerie howling off in the distance and something or other banging in the wind outside his window.

He sat up on the edge of the bed and raked a hand through his rumpled hair. His fingers moved over the coverlet, hunting for the sensation of terry cloth. After groping around a bit, he struck pay dirt, stood and rerobed himself. Hands stretched out in front of him, he worked his way to the door, let himself out into the upstairs hall, then followed the balcony’s handrail until he reached the staircase. A faint light from below made his descent of the winding steps less tricky.

The downstairs was quiet, not a soul about, and no howling or banging noises to be heard. He followed the source of the light until he entered a den area off the main foyer. Like everything else in the house, the room was overly large. The furnishings, though refined, were a curious blend of Victorian and American West, very personalized and oddly cozy. He supposed it was a custom of the household to leave a lamp burning at night. He walked about, noting the many lush plants in clay pots stretching toward the high-beamed ceiling. The tall windows were festooned with Navajo-print swags and a grandfather clock towered in the corner. Priceless Western bronzes by Dahlberg, Remington and Lago mixed with rare antiques and pottery inlaid with turquoise and silver. On the ivory walls, expensive artwork mingled with leather gunbelts, rustic rifles and iron horseshoes. A plush Persian rug the same ivory color as the walls was contrasted against the hardwood floor. Comfy, overstuffed couches, chairs and giant ottomans were arranged in such a way as to emphasize the focal point of the room-a fireplace grander than any Colin had ever seen, made of flagstone and running nearly the entire length of one wall. His eyes were drawn to the enormous painting suspended above the pine mantel. It was a portrait of a flaxen-haired woman in a strapless ivory evening gown, her throat and neck adorned in a silver, Aztec-like collar encrusted with turquoise and bloodstone gems. Even on canvas, the woman was a knockout.

He moved closer for a better look. It was then that he noticed the gold plate at the bottom of the portrait engraved with the words Lady Pamela Walford-Winston. Both the portrait and name intrigued him.

“Restless, huh?”

Startled by the sound of a human voice, he turned about to discover Easy Winston standing in the shadows. She, too, was in a robe, her dark hair loose and flowing around her shoulders.

“Yeah, a little,” he replied, hoping he sounded casual.

The grandfather clock bonged once.

“Me, too,” she said.

“Nice. room,” he complimented.

“It’s my favorite.” She made no move to sit down.

He was uncomfortable in her presence. He wondered if she made it a practice to wander around the house while her husband slept. Was it chronic insomnia that caused her to walk the floors at night, or the fact that her husband was so much older and preferred his rest over sex? “I was admiring the portrait,” he said, stating the obvious. “I take it that it’s of the former Mrs. Winston.” Colin was fishing for an answer to the question plaguing him. He wished he could make eye contact with her, but the dim lighting thwarted his effort.

“Yes,” she supplied, her voice not betraying so much as a hint of jealousy.

In a word, his suspicion was confirmed. He looked away, amazed by the stab of disappointment he felt. “She’s very pretty, but then so are you. Your husband has good taste in women.” What an asinine thing to say. For God’s sake! He made his living by his wits and words, always knowing the perfect thing to say at a precise moment, and here he was, sticking his foot in his mouth in the middle of the night.

“My father fancied pretty ladies, Mr. Majors. Lucky for us he was a better judge of breeding stock than he was of women.” She moved out of the shadows into the light. Finally he got the chance to gaze directly into her eyes. They were the same turquoise shade as the gems in the portrait-a vibrant blue-green fringed by velvety black lashes. “My mother was his only wife, but he had plenty of lady friends in his day,” she went on to say.

He received a jolt, learning that the man under discussion was her father, not her husband, while daring the electricity behind her steady stare.

“I assumed. I mean, I thought you were the lady of the house.”

“Well, you’re partly right, Mr. Majors.” That husky laugh again. “I pretty much run everything around here, but the main house is more Andele’s territory than mine.”

Though her comeback was breezy, her mind had become weighted by a sudden and striking observation. Mr. Majors certainly cleaned up good. As a matter of fact, it hit her that he was downright croton, a word not in his vocabulary, she was sure, but one that carried a double meaning in her neck of the woods. Depending on how one said it, it could mean either pure poison or powerfully fine. In his case, it was the latter. He was tall, which she liked in a man. She could tell even without touching that he was built rock hard. Tanned skin, hair the color of caramel, rich, dark chocolate eyes-all nicely blended and looking good enough to eat.

He wasn’t handsome in the truest sense of the word. “Interesting” would be more like it. He had the sort of face a woman could study forever, never tire of and never thoroughly know. There was mystery and intelligence behind those dark eyes, and definite laugh lines at the corners. His nose was large and straight but not overbearing. Feature by feature, she supposed it was his mouth that intrigued her most. He had a great smilenot flashy or smirky or practiced, just sincere. When he smiled, that is, which he wasn’t doing at the moment. She found herself feeling uneasy, but not in an unpleasant way. What she was experiencing was purely physical, strangely intense, and bothersome on more than one level.

They became conscious of the roaring silence filling the gap in conversation. Colin cleared his throat as she stepped around him and walked to a window at the far end of the room. Her back was to him as she peered into the night. “It’s slacked up some,” she reported. “That’s a good sign.” She knew that, in typical Texas fashion, the high water would recede just as suddenly as it had swelled the creeks and swallowed up the roads. “The water ought to run off enough by midmorning to allow ya to leave. It seems you’ll only be trapped on Cheyenne Moon for the night, Mr. Majors.”

If he wasn’t careful, he knew he’d be trapped by a pair of blue green eyes and for much longer than a day. “I’ve been stuck in far less hospitable surroundings,” he said, referring to sticky cases and hostile courtroom environments.

She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by the remark except that it was intended as a compliment. Turning to face him, she offered him a smile, along with an invitation. “Well, since you’re stuck with nothing special to do, would you care to join me in the kitchen for a nightcap of Hot Schnapps? I guarantee it’ll ward off any lingering chill and make ya sleep like a baby.”

“On one condition.” He returned her smile.

“And what might that be?”

“That you drop the Mr. Majors and call me Colin.”

“I thought you weren’t keen on getting too personal too quick,” she reminded him in a teasing tone.

“I think we’re well on our way to becoming better acquainted.” Unlike her, there was not a trace of levity in his face or voice.