The silence lengthened. Mr. Patch continued to cough until Samantha took pity on him and closed the shade. In the ensuing quiet, she grew uncomfortable. Jeannette had closed her eyes in boredom, as had Mr. Patch, but Samantha could not. She had to know whether the stranger was watching her or not.
Annoyance gathered until, finally, she asked bluntly, “Do you never take your hat off?”
Adrien gasped at her rudeness, and she blushed. The stranger grinned and, removing his hat, smoothed his wavy black hair.
“Your pardon, señorita.”
She found herself staring into slate-gray eyes that crinkled at the corners. Laughing eyes, Samantha thought. His eyes actually seemed to be laughing at her!
“You speak Spanish, señor,” Samantha said impulsively. “Yet you do not look pure Spanish. I would guess…half American?”
“You are very observant.”
“Samantha, really,” Adrien interrupted in a scornful voice.
She turned her green eyes on him, and her brows rose slightly. “Oh! You are speaking to me again, Adrien?”
“I really shouldn’t,” he answered peevishly. Then, turning to the stranger, he said, “You must forgive my companion’s rudeness, Mr.…ah…?”
“Chavez. Hank Chavez.” He nodded at Adrien. “But there is nothing to forgive such a lovely lady.”
Samantha smiled at his gallantry. “You are kind, señor. But I really was rude—and I wasn’t even right. Your name is Mexican.”
“Sí, I have Indian blood, as well.”
“But not much,” she surmised.
“You are correct again, señorita.”
Adrien quickly broke in with introductions, before Samantha could embarrass him further with her bluntness. She settled back then, and listened to Adrien make small talk, explaining why he was going to New Mexico. She closed her eyes and let his voice, and then the deeper voice of Hank Chavez, lull her to sleep.
A jarring bounce woke her, and she opened her eyes to find Hank Chavez’s gray ones on her. Or, more exactly, on the deep V she had made at the top of her blouse.
Samantha glanced down. Her breasts were revealed, just a little. She had never exposed so much of herself before. And it hadn’t even worked. After all that time, Adrien still hadn’t noticed. But Hank Chavez had.
Her eyes met his. He was smiling. She wanted to die. A flush spread up her neck and turned her face bright pink. She didn’t know why she should be so embarrassed, but she was. Perhaps it was because he was such an attractive man, or maybe it was the way his eyes assessed her. Whatever the reason, she was utterly mortified. And she couldn’t do anything about it. If she quickly buttoned up her blouse, that would only make things worse.
Adrien was still talking, oblivious, and finally Hank Chavez turned to him. Samantha wasn’t listening. She raised her fan to cover the front of her blouse and surreptitiously fastened one button. But she got only as far as that before those gray eyes fell on her again. She lowered her hands to her lap. Only he knew what had happened, and his gaze moved to where her cleavage had been, then back up to her eyes. He seemed to be chiding her for denying him the view he had so admired.
Samantha grew warm under his continuing gaze and closed her eyes. She would sleep, or she would pretend to sleep, but she wouldn’t look at Hank Chavez again, no matter what.
Chapter 6
DUSK was gathering, but the coach rambled on, the next stop still several miles away. Hank leaned his head back on the seat. Adrien Allston had finally stopped talking. Hank’s ankle throbbed, and he ached to take his boots off, but he would have to wait until they stopped for the night.
He had had to limp more than a mile, toting his saddle, in order to reach the stage line. Another ten minutes and he would have missed it. He wondered whether he should go all the way to Elizabethtown and give his ankle a chance to mend, or try to buy a horse in the next town. As he looked at the woman across the aisle from him, he decided to wait.
What a fascinating woman she was, even in sleep. The blond was undeniably beautiful, but the dark-haired one was a vision of loveliness. She reminded him of the girl in Denver, the one with the gun. The hair, a dark reddish-brown, the slender form, the pert nose, all seemed familiar. But he had seen that girl only at a side view and from a distance. This one was much more mature, her hair elegantly coiffed, and she looked older. He guessed she was twenty—a woman full grown.
Her creamy white skin made him think she might be from the East. Or perhaps she just didn’t like the sun. Yet she knew something of Mexico, having guessed right about his bloodlines. His mother, an American, had had ancestors in England. It was she who had named him Hank, his father later changing it to Enrique and adding considerably to the name. His father had been a Mexican Spaniard, though very little of Mexico had run in his veins. Hank’s great-grandfather had been half mestizo, had married a Spanish doña, and their son Victoriano had married into the Vega family, newly arrived from Spain.
Hank didn’t dwell much anymore on his ancestry: everyone who mattered was dead except for his older sister. But Samantha Blackstone had brought his family to mind. What a curious lady she was! The talkative Adrien Allston had certainly been shocked. Hank did not mind, though. He admired a woman who was not afraid to speak her mind or satisfy her curiosity.
He couldn’t take his eyes from her. Long brown lashes fanned her cheeks, and, as she slept, a short stray curl fell on her temple, shining red in the lamplight. He recalled with relish her embarrassment when she caught him admiring her full breasts. He had enjoyed her embarrassment, and liked making her blush. She was not indifferent to him if he could make her blush.
He was certainly not indifferent to her. In a way, she reminded him of Angela, though there was no physical resemblance except perhaps for the shade of hair. He had made Angela blush easily, too. He remembered her face turning bright crimson when, robbing her stagecoach, he had searched inside her bodice for valuables. She had slapped him soundly, and he had been compelled to respond to the slap with a kiss he had wanted never to end.
For the first time in his life, Hank truly wanted to rob a stage—this one, just so he could search the dark-haired woman across from him. Just looking at her made him want her, and he had to place his hat over his lap to hide the stirring there.
What was wrong with him? He had never before reacted so strongly, so physically to a woman without even touching her. Not even Angela had aroused him so quickly. And the woman was only sleeping. She wasn’t even influencing him with her eyes!
Hank shut his own from the sight of her, hoping to cool his blood. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t stop dreaming about her.
It was going to be a long way to Elizabethtown.
Samantha was the last one out of the stage. Jeannette had had to wake her, chiding that she wouldn’t get any sleep that night. Samantha didn’t care. The journey was so boring, and there was nothing to do but sleep. And then she remembered Señor Chavez and was instantly wide awake.
But he had gone with the other men. They were at a dismal coach stop, the only building for miles around. There was a barn where extra horses were kept, and a house, really just one large room. There, passengers could get a hot meal and bed down on benches for a few hours’ sleep.
Samantha followed Jeannette inside. She wouldn’t sit down. Her backside was numb. The food wasn’t ready yet. It was late at night, and the old man had to be wakened to fix them something.
Only Jeannette, Mr. Patch, and the old timer were in the large room. The others had gone out back to wash up. Samantha walked, stretching as much as possible without being unladylike. Jeannette sat down in the only high-backed chair near the fireplace. She was tired and looked it.
The driver and Adrien came in the back door, but Hank Chavez was not with them. Samantha wished he would hurry so she could wash at the well. It wouldn’t be proper for her to go outside while he was still there.
Adrien saw to his sister’s comfort, and when the food was ready he broug
ht her a plate. Samantha bristled. He was still ignoring her. The old timer offered her a plate, but she declined, wanting to wash first. She felt grime from the stage all over her. She would have changed clothes, but the luggage was not unloaded for this short stop, and she didn’t feel like asking anyone’s help in getting one of her cases down.
When, at last, Hank Chavez came into the room, Samantha couldn’t help but stare at the remarkable change. He had shaved and was even more handsome without the beard. He had changed into a dark gray shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, which matched his eyes.
As soon as those slate-gray eyes fell on her, Samantha looked away. She walked past him without a word, picked up the lantern he had set down, and went out into the back yard. By the well was a stone ledge on which sat an empty bucket and a large tin pan of dirty water from the others who had washed there. Samantha put the lantern down there and emptied the dirty water, then poured in fresh cold water from the well. Using the handkerchief from her purse, she bent to wash her face and hands, her throat and neck, and between her breasts.
She laid the handkerchief out on the ledge to dry, then briskly fastened her blouse. She wouldn’t repeat the mistake of leaving it unbuttoned! She grew uneasy all over again remembering the hot eyes on her.
A footstep made Samantha swing around, gasping. Hank Chavez stood a foot away. The back door to the house was closed, she saw, which meant that they were alone in the yard. Samantha could feel her heart pounding wildly, but she moved back a step and tilted her head, looking as calm and in charge of the situation as she could. His eyes weren’t laughing. The crinkles were gone, and that frightened her even more.
At last he spoke. “I forgot my hat.”
“Oh,” she sighed. “Well, you certainly gave me a start, coming up behind me so quietly.”
Lord! How long had they stood there looking at each other without speaking?
“I did not mean to frighten you, Señorita Blackstone, but you should not be out here alone.”
“Nonsense.” She laughed, her fear receding. “I am close enough to the house. Besides, the passengers from the stage are the only ones here. And I trust all of them.”
“But you should not, señorita. You do not even know me.”
He said it so seriously that she stepped back and reached for her purse, taking it from the ledge. She could easily get to her new double derringer if she had to. She had bought the Remington model soon after Tom Peesley had harassed her. A two-bullet gun was better than the old model.
“Are you saying I shouldn’t trust you, señor?” she asked smoothly.
“I am saying only that I am a stranger and you should not be so trusting of strangers. But let me assure you now that you can indeed trust me.”
She grinned at him. “Considering your advice, assurance from a stranger is no assurance at all.”
He laughed heartily, a deep, warm laugh. “Ah, la señorita is not only bella, but sabia, as well.”
Samantha tilted her head to the side, deciding to pretend ignorance. “And what does that mean?”
He reached out a hand as if to touch her cheek, but quickly thought better of the intimate gesture. “That you are wise as well as beautiful.”
“Well, thank you,” she answered, smiling to herself because he hadn’t lied. She knew Spanish very well.
It was a game she played with people who did not know she could speak the language fluently. It was a sure way to test a person’s honesty. Hank Chavez had passed the test.
She had admitted to herself some time before that she was drawn to him. His virile magnetism affected her strongly, but she wasn’t sure exactly why. He was handsome, of course, but she had known other handsome men, and his appearance was not the only attraction. There was something different about Hank, a dangerous quality. A touch of the forbidden, perhaps? For all his smiles and his laughing eyes, she had seen the other side of him. Wasn’t she a little afraid of what she saw?
“Will you allow me to walk you back, señorita?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m finished here.”
He put his hat on at that rakish angle and, picking up the lantern, took her arm. His hand on her elbow was warm. His shoulder was nearly touching hers, and the nearness of him was unnerving.
“El hombre Allston, what is he to you?” he asked abruptly. The bluntness of it stunned Samantha. She wasn’t really affronted, though. And, after all, hadn’t she questioned him as boldly in the coach? But she didn’t know how to answer. She didn’t want to tell him about her feelings for Adrien.
“He is my…escort, he and his sister. I went to school with Jeannette, and we became very close friends.”
Hank was too much aware of his desire at that moment to notice Samantha’s hesitation and the note of evasion in her voice. She had not answered him, not really, for a betrothed could also be an escort. A lover could be an escort. But he did not consider the fact. He could think only of how much he wanted this woman.
She was so close that he could smell her hair. It smelled of roses, and, if he leaned just a little closer, he could—
What was he thinking of? He had only just met her that day. She was a lady and would expect to be treated like one. Ah, if only she were not a lady, I would have her on the ground in two seconds, Hank thought devilishly.
Too soon, they were inside, and he had to let go of her arm. He could not even have that innocent touch anymore.
She walked away from him to get a plate of food, and Hank quickly followed her, then sat across from her at an empty table. The others had eaten. Jeannette Allston was sleeping in a chair by the fire. Her brother and Mr. Patch were stretched out on benches, and the driver was in the front, seeing to the horses.
Hank was alone with Samantha Blackstone—yet not alone. He wanted to know about her. He wanted to know everything. Por Dios! What was the woman doing to him?
“I know why Señor Allston and his sister go to Elizabethtown,” Hank remarked as they ate. “But why do you go there?”
Samantha kept her eyes on her food, afraid that if she looked at him again, she wouldn’t look away. “I’m just going along, you might say. For their company. I don’t like to travel alone.”
“Will you stay in that gold town?”
“Not for long. And you?” she asked slowly.
“I have business farther south.”
He became aware of her evasive manner. Either she wasn’t used to talking very much or she did not want him to know where she was going. But he wanted to know.
“Where will you go when you leave the Allstons?” he asked directly.
“To Santa Fe. My father is sending some of his vaqueros to meet me there.”
“Vaqueros?” he asked in surprise.
She looked up at him then and grinned impishly. “Yes. My home is in Mexico, señor. Did you really think I was from the East?”
“Yes, I did.” He grinned back at her.
“Well, now you know better.”
“We have that in common, then. Yet you are certainly not Mexican.”
“No, I am American and English.”
“I have a sister in England.”
Her brows rose, and she laughed. “And I have a brother there. Another thing in common, eh?”
She was relaxing, and they talked of incidental matters. Now that she was over her nervousness in being near him, she found she liked Hank Chavez, liked him very much. She felt at ease with him. With Adrien, she had to be forever on guard, forever checking her temper, always behaving in a ladylike manner. With Hank she felt comfortable. He made her laugh. He was charming and witty, yet a gentleman at all times.
Why couldn’t Adrien be that way? Why couldn’t he sit there and talk to her, show such an interest in her? He hadn’t even told her good night or made sure she was all right before he went to sleep. Adrien didn’t care, that was the plain truth. But she cared about Adrien. That was the problem. She would have to do something to jolt him into caring.
And then it hit her again, th
e idea she had had earlier. She would make Adrien jealous. She had just the man for it—Hank Chavez. But did she dare use him in that way? He had shown an interest in her. She needed only to cultivate that interest.
The girls at school had taught her the techniques of flirtation, though she had yet to actually flirt with a man—Adrien had never given her the chance. She could practice on Hank. Only a little, however. She didn’t want to encourage him, just hold his interest…just show Adrien.
She was excited. It would work! It had to.
“Your eyes are sparkling,” Hank remarked softly, his gaze admiring.
She gave him a weak smile. “Are they? Oh dear, I’m so tired.” She pretended a yawn. “I don’t know how I’ll sleep on these benches. I would be too afraid of falling off to get any sleep.”
“I have a bedroll on top of the coach,” he offered. “Would you allow me to get it for you?”
“Would you? Oh, that would be so nice. I was considering sleeping in the coach.”
His eyes twinkled. “I could keep you company there.”
“No, no! The bedroll will do nicely,” she said hastily, a blush rising.
Was he a gentleman or not? She wondered, uneasy then. He had better be. She wouldn’t be able to do what she was planning if he wasn’t. A gentleman would have to concede gracefully to the better man. That was the way it had to end. She would make Adrien love her, and Hank Chavez would go on his way. That was what would happen.
He returned with the bedroll and gallantly kissed her hand, bidding her buenas noches. Then he moved off to a bench far away from her, and she relaxed once more. Yes, he was a gentleman. When her plan reached its conclusion, there would be no hard feelings. She was sure of it.
Chapter 7
FOR three days Samantha and Hank carried on the only conversation in the coach. Mr. Patch joined in occasionally, but Jeannette felt excluded unless they were talking of the East. And they did for a while, when Samantha told Hank about her experiences there.
They talked of many things. Samantha didn’t let Hank know who her father really was, or where she lived. She deftly avoided the particulars, and he didn’t press her.