Reckless Desire Read online

  "I don't believe you," he said bluntly. "Get up."

  She made a show of trying. "I can't."

  "Kalida." The tone brooked no argument.

  "I can't." Her own voice was gritty with impatience.

  "I wonder why I'm not convinced," he said, swinging his rangy body upright.

  She panicked as he began to walk away. "Don't leave me here! Deuce!"

  He ignored her and went for his horse, untethering him and leading him carefully over the crosspieces into the corral.

  "I'll take you back to Papa," he said stonily. With one swoop, he lifted her up in his arms. And stopped in mid-motion. They were face to face, her beguiling blue eyes battering against his glittering gray ones. Her expression for the first time seemed unguarded, but he didn't trust that. It was the way she was looking at him, without the barrier of her hatred, her lips parted invitingly and nothing between them —nothing but the strength of his desire.

  The moment hung, suspended by his fascination with the possibilities of a future moment like this and by her own enveloping sense of him holding her, that again she was at his mercy. Only this time his face was not so forbidding; his eyes were still wary,"but his mouth had softened and there was a wry curve to his lips that dented his lean left cheek. That bare hint of a smile alleviated the raw cast of his features, made the dark, thick drawn brows look less menacing.

  But he didn't trust her. The self-mockery of that brief smile was evident to her. In an instant, he pressed his lips

  into their usual inflexible line and his eyes darkened to charcoal as they slid down to rest his gaze on her lips.

  There was another beat of a tense moment and she thought he might kiss her again, but instead he suddenly heaved her up and slung her across his saddle; and then, to her dismay, he mounted up behind her, leaving her with her head hanging over one side and her feet dangling from the other.

  "Deuce Cavender, you let me down from here!" Her anger and frustration positively grated through her voice. She certainly hadn't expected him to ride; she could have borne the humiliation of being returned home like a sack of wheat if he weren't so casually riding up there behind her.

  "If you can't stand up, how can you possibly sit?" he asked reasonably, somewhat entertained by the sight of her wriggling rump and flailing arms. He absolutely admired the fact that she carried out the effect by con­sciously not moving her legs.

  "I am not pretending," she hissed through clenched teeth.

  "Of course not. I really am taking this as seriously as you are," he said conciliatingly as he urged his horse over the crosspieces of the fence and into the pasture. "You need to get home as fast and as expediently as possible. And this is what we are doing." He spurred his mount into a brisk trot and waited for her next protest.

  But none came. She knew when she was licked, and she knew that in order to carry forward with her plan every­thing had to appear as legitimate as possible. Her body went limp, one hand grasping the calf of his leg and the other the saddle riggings, and she didn't say another word until he reined in at the Ryland house where, as she could have predicted, her father was waiting for her to return with the news he expected.

  His handsome face was a study as he leapt down the

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  steps and confronted Deuce. "What happened?"

  "She had an accident," Deuce said briefly, his expres­sion mirroring the same disbelief as Hal Ryland's. He dismounted and impersonally lifted Kalida into his arms. Her eyes were glazed with loathing.

  "My God," her father muttered as he followed Deuce into the house. "My God." He motioned Deuce to a small room behind the living area of the rough two-story ranch house. There was a bed, a washstand, and a wardrobe in there, all plainly made of unvarnished, unadorned oak. Deuce unceremoniously dumped Kalida onto the bed and stood looking at her with that same skeptical expression, while she directed her now frustrated, tear-filled gaze at her obviously discomposed father.

  "All right now, what happened?" he growled, at a loss himself to account for the stubbornness of his daughter and this new wrinkle that did not bode well for his plans.

  "She had an accident," Deuce repeated expressionlessly, folding his arms across his chest and waiting.

  Like some bird of prey, Kalida thought venomously.

  "So?" Ryland asked hoarsely.

  "She collapsed," Deuce amplified unhelpfully.

  "Papa . . ."

  "This is crazy," her father exploded. "She's never had a riding accident in her life." He turned to the pitiful figure of his daughter cowering in the bed. "Never! Kalida, what on earth is going on here?"

  Kalida shrank against the pillows. She had known his reaction would be strong, but she never thought he would have no sympathy for her whatsoever, that his scheme would be more important than her health. She knew at that instant she would have to play the moment to the hilt and play it only to her father, for Deuce would never believe it.

  It didn't matter. She only needed her father's credulity; if he would just send Deuce away, she could convince him

  of the rest, she knew she could.

  "It's my legs," she said piteously. "My foot caught and I fell off of Malca. I landed wrong, and when I tried to stand, I couldn't; my legs felt boneless, Papa. I felt like • . . I couldn't walk." She lifted her overflowing eyes to her father. "Papa, I don't think I can walk!"

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  Chapter Three

  "Papa, Deuce Cavender is insane to insist on marrying someone who might never be able to fulfill her wifely duties!"

  Hal Ryland shrugged and pulled a chair over to Kali-da's bedside. "I put it to him as plainly as possible," he said reasonably. "He doesn't seem to see any obstacle to his marrying you."

  Kalida slammed her fist into her blanket in frustration. "You told him what the doctor said?"

  "As well as I understood it, yes. And believe me, it did not seem to worry him." Ryland leaned forward in his chair. "I've been thinking a lot about this, Kalida. I want you to promise me this isn't some trick on your part to get out of accepting Deuce's proposal."

  "Papa!" She put just the right amount of indignation in her tone, she thought; amazing how well one could act when one was up against threatening circumstances. She hadn't known she had it in her. Her father, however, seemed convinced.

  He went on. "I've been worried ever since you swore you would find a way to circumvent him."

  "Well, I'd hardly choose to do something that might immobilize me for life, would I?" Kalida asked. And

  indeed, the perfection of the plan, it had seemed to her when she conceived it, was that it was so unlikely. "You told him the doctor was convinced my mind was playing some trick my body accepted and that he couldn't be sure when or if I would regain the use of my legs?"

  "Exactly. It didn't seem to faze him."

  "He's a fool," she muttered. And so damned deter­mined. He would never stand to lose something once he set his sights on obtaining it.

  "He hasn't withdrawn his proposal," her father went on, watching her pale face and the cobalt eyes blazing so unnaturally navy. "And I don't need him any less than I did yesterday, my dear Kalida. I won't go back on my promise. And that should be the end of it."

  "That is not the end of it," Kalida threw back obsti­nately, crossing her arms over her heaving chest in irrita­tion. Why her father would not consider her wishes was beyond her. "I do not see what Deuce stands to gain from your 'deal' anyway. He doesn't need Ryland ranch. He doesn't need you. He surely doesn't need me."

  "He wants the deal," Hal Ryland said, as if that put the final period on it. "And I want the deal."

  "You want the damned Santa Linaria," Kalida contra­dicted boldly, "and it's just possible you want to get rid of me." And hadn't they been over this same ground for a week or more? And he had done nothing, since the doctor had come, but repeat that everything was still the same and she had no choice: She must help him, she must marry Deuce Cavender, and she could do worse. She had the distinct fe
eling there was something more to it, but all her incisive questioning of her father brought her to nothing. The fact remained her father would go bankrupt if she didn't marry Deuce because she was his passport into the syndicate that would save his herd and his own consortium. If she didn't, he would be in court with his backers for the rest of his life.

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  And every time she insisted he must want to be rid of her she felt a small pang of satisfaction that he had no answer for that: It stopped him cold, but it did not ultimately lessen his insistence that Deuce wanted the whole package — Kalida Ryland and her father, in ex­change for a share in the Sweetland syndicate.

  It made no sense any way she attacked it. Deuce seemingly gained nothing: rangeland he didn't need, a wife he didn't love, another partner he couldn't possibly want.

  She turned her head toward the window as her father sat silent once again. The window overlooked the rear garden, which she herself tended lovingly every spring and summer, the huge barn and corrals, the cow pens beyond that, and the mountains looming far in the distance. Spring was approaching now and the turf was exploding into fresh green tufts all over the fields; it made her happy just to look at it.

  If only she could stay here and nurse her garden and her ponies, she surely would be content.

  She turned to her father once again. "Well, you can mumbo jumbo all you want about Deuce's overwhelming desire to marry me and make you one of his partners, but I tell you, Papa, he will not like supporting a disabled wife and that should be the end of it."

  "That's his lookout," her father said in a deceptively bland tone of voice.

  Kalida looked at her father sharply.

  "The doctor said your legs felt fine, my dear, and that there was no reason you couldn't walk. I believe you will when you want to. So there's no reason to keep Deuce waiting. None whatsoever." He stood up abruptly. "And he thinks so too."

  She was so tired from talking with her father that she

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  found it was easy to settle in for a brief rest before dinner. His words had chilled her; she was beginning to feel as penned in as one of his steers. She didn't want to think about it any more. The only consolation she had was that Deuce had not come around for the past week. Thank God. Another day's respite. Just another day.

  She hovered on the edge of consciousness. Her plan would work —she'd make it work; she wouldn't think about it. Just' this minute she didn't have to . . . she didn't . . .

  She heard the door of the room open and a light footfall enter and stop at her bedside.

  A cool hand touched her brow and smoothed back the tangle of hair against her temples. And then a low voice murmured, "Kalida? Kalida dear?"

  She knew that voice! Ellie Dean! What was she doing here? Kalida tensed beneath her light blanket.

  "Are you sleeping, I wonder?" Ellie's disembodied voice whispered. "Oh, Kalida, I had to come when your father sent for me. Yes, my dear, I'm here to help you. And I'm here to congratulate you; that was very well done, Kalida. Very well done indeed. We'll see where it gets you though, won't we? We'll just see. You don't know how determined your father is. As am I. I hope you're awake, my dear. I hope you know how I admire you and the flair with which you pulled this off. But now you need my help and care again; so we're one big happy family once more, my dear. I'll be staying for a while to help with . . . things. With you. I wish you sweet dreams, my dear. You really are quite unexpected. But you'll give in to your father's wishes eventually. I really think you will. . . ." The foot­steps receded suddenly, and the door closed softly.

  Kalida lay still, holding herself tightly. For all she knew, Ellie was still in the room; she was that devious.

  She could picture Ellie in her mind's eye. A figure always dressed in unrelieved black, moving silently, spare

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  and unadorned. She was brittle, but she had been kind to Kalida that year in Bozeman, setting aside her own problems to provide a family atmosphere for her. She had a young woman's face surrounded by an old woman's dress and hair, and she was a woman, Kalida always sensed, playing a waiting game, as if she had hoped to win Hal Ryland's appreciation and indebtedness to her, if not his love.

  Ellie Dean had come to the Ryland ranch that summer to be housekeeper and companion to Kalida, thinking she would run the house, the child, and the bereaved husband and finding instead that they all were in direct opposition to everything she wanted. The child, she found, could manage everything deftly by herself and had no need of Ellie's well-meaning but rigid interference. They were instant enemies, once they reached the ranch, both after Hal Ryland's affection, chained by his expressed desire to have both of them there and happy. Ellie had stayed for a long time, living on hope and gritted teeth, but at last, in the winter '76, she gave up and left.

  Kalida was eighteen and the situation had degenerated into two women clashing for power. Ellie had no desire to be a parent. And it had become obvious that Hal Ryland would never see her as more than a substitute mother for Kalida.

  But now . . .

  More complications. Kalida heaved a sigh. How could it matter when she was in so deep already? Ellie Dean's presence could not change matters. Except, from what she had said, she was on Papa's side. Kalida closed her eyes, contemplating this new wrinkle. Did her father really think Ellie could influence her? How desperate was Papa anyway? So frantic to save the ranch he would use

  any means to convince her?

  * * *

  A hard thumping at her door startled her into wakeful­ness. It was dark out. There was no light except the thin rim she could see just slipping through the crack above the door. It took her a, moment to acclimate herself; she must have fallen asleep. "Who is it?" she finally called, pulling her cover tightly around her.

  The door opened a crack and a dark silhouette ap­peared at the door. "You're awake, my dear?"

  Papa. "Yes,fyou did a thorough job of that. Can I have a light?"

  "Deuce is here," her father announced, putting into his voice a kind of benign approval of this unexpected ap­pearance.

  "No," she said flatly.

  "Oh, Kalida," her father said reproachfully. "If you are going to be bedridden for any length of time, you'll have to receive him exactly as you look tonight."

  "I don't want to see him."

  "Of course you will."

  "I am not ready to receive him."

  "But he's ready to see you," her father said unyield­ingly.

  "How condescending of him," Kalida snapped. And how nice of her father. Not only had she just awakened, but she hadn't eaten for hours and she wouldn't have a chance to wash, put on a wrapper, or comb her hair. She did not like her father very much at that moment.

  But as Deuce stalked in with a kerosene lamp in his hand, she doubted very much whether her father could have deterred him at all.

  The lamp went down on the washstand with a danger­ous thump and the door swung shut behind her father with a savage shove. It was obvious what kind of mood Deuce Cavender was in. For some reason, the thought calmed her rather than upset her.

  "Good evening, Deuce," she said in her most serene

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  voice. Thank heaven he hadn't been looking at her! The forbidding face he turned to her might have compelled her to jump out the window rather than face his wrath.

  And he hadn't even dressed to pay her this informal call; he looked as if he had just come in from the pasture, with his wrinkled plaid flannel shirt that looked like it would tear if he flexed one muscle and his lean, trail-dusty denims that were tucked into equally grimy, well-worn boots. He was sliding out of a decrepit leather jacket with his usual brisk, impatient movements, throw­ing it across the narrow expanse of the room, in a barely controlled, violent movement, onto a small chair that stood next to the wardrobe.

  "What the hell are you trying to pull?" he demanded suddenly. He loomed over her threateningly, and she knew in that moment she had to face him down. She could not allow him to scare
her or to bully her.

  "How can I pull anything while I'm confined to bed?" she retorted tartly.

  He shot her a cynical look. "You're up to something."

  "You know everything," she rejoined cryptically.

  His face visibly hardened. "I know nothing," he contra­dicted roughly. "But I do know this"—he pointed a sweeping hand to her prone figure —"is meaningless."

  "Not to me."

  "It makes no difference to us."

  "God, you're crazy. I won't listen to you," she burst out in frustration. "There is no 'us.' "

  "You obviously weren't listening that day. There is an 'us,' Kalida. Make no mistake about that."

  He loomed over her bed suddenly and leaned his body over hers, placing one work-roughened hand on either side of her body, effectively trapping her so that she couldn't move. "There is an 'us,' Kalida," he reiterated softly, "because I want there to be. Your father needs me, yes, and you'll be his obedient daughter and rescue him, yes. But it's only possible because / want you."

  "You'll never have me," she spat at his passion-dark­ened gray eyes. "Never!"

  He pushed himself away from her abruptly and wheeled to look at her in that uncomfortable, speculative male way she so despised. "That's good, Kalida. You said that with real venom in your voice, and I believe you really mean t. But I want you to believe that I mean what I'm telling you, too. I want you, and this so-called disability makes no difference to me."

  "I don't see how it can't," Kalida retorted. "After all, you want the perfect consort for the 'king' of Sweetland, do you not? Unless you intend to wheel me down the aisle in my bed?"

  "It's you who doesn't understand," Deuce retaliated with that barely controlled impatience. With a sudden movement, he whipped the skimpy cover down over the low footboard of the bed, exposing her legs, which were partially sheathed in her equally thin nightgown.

  His eyes glittered as they followed the slightly splayed line of her limbs from her bare feet up to the thin crush of material at the juncture of her thighs. His hand reached out, enfolded her ankle, and then moved up, slowly and tensely, from the back of her calf to the edge of her nightgown. The tension of keeping her legs limp and ignoring the heated sense of his huge hand on her body almost made her scream hysterically.