“Lucinda, don’t be an old fool!”
Lucinda’s eyes glittered with a sudden ferocity that belied her age. “I think it’s safe to say,” she drawled, “that no one has ever considered me a fool, old or otherwise.” And lived to tell it, was the unspoken message in her tone. Eighty-three or not, dying or not, Lucinda still knew the full range of her power as matriarch of the Davenport fortune, and she wasn’t shy about letting other folks know it, too.
Gloria backed down and turned on Roanna, the easier target. “You can’t mean to do it. Tell her it’s crazy.”
“I agree with her.”
Fury sparked in Gloria’s eyes at the murmured statement. “You would!” she snapped. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you were crawling into bed with him when—”
“Stop it!” Lucinda said fiercely, half rising from her chair as if she would physically attack her sister. “Booley explained what really happened between them, and I won’t let it be blown out of proportion. I won’t let you badger Roanna either. She’s only doing what I asked her to do.”
“But why would you even think of bringing him back?” Gloria moaned, dropping her aggressiveness, and Lucinda sank back into her chair.
“Because we need him. It takes both Roanna and me to handle things now, and when I die, she’ll be buried in work.”
“Oh, pish tosh, Luanda, you’re going to outlive—”
“No,” Lucinda said briskly, cutting through the statement she’d heard so many times before. “I am not going to outlive all of you. I don’t want to even if I could. We need Webb. Roanna’s going to get him and bring him home, and that’s that.”
The next night, Roanna sat in the shadows of a small, dingy cantina, her back to the wall as she silently watched a man lounging on one of the stools around the bar. She had been watching him for so long and so hard that her eyes ached from the strain of peering through the dim, smoky interior. For the most part anything she might have heard him say was drowned out by the ancient jukebox in the corner, the clatter of billiard balls striking together, the hum of curses and conversation, but every so often she could discern a certain tone, a drawl, that she knew beyond doubt was his as he made some casual comment to either the man beside him or to the bartender.
Webb. It had been ten years since she’d seen him, ten years since she had felt alive. She had known, accepted, that she still loved him, was still vulnerable to him, but somehow the dreary procession of ten years’ worth of days had dulled her memory of how sharp her response to him had always been. All it had taken was that first glimpse of him to remind her. The flood of sensation was so intense that it bordered on pain, as if the cells of her body had been jolted back to life. Nothing had changed. She still reacted just the way she had before, her heart beating faster and excitement zinging through every nerve ending. Her skin felt tight and hot, the flesh beneath it pulsing, aching. The hunger to touch him, to be close enough that she could smell the unique, never-forgotten male muskinees of his scent, was so strong that she was almost paralyzed with need.
But for all her longing, she couldn’t work up the courage to walk to his side and get his attention. Despite Lucinda’s determined confidence that she could convince him to come home, Roanna didn’t expect to see anything in that green gaze except dislike—and dismissal. The anticipation of pain kept her in her chair. She had lived with the pain of his loss every day for the past ten years, but that ache was familiar, and she had learned to live with it. She wasn’t certain she had the endurance to bear up under any new pain, however. A new blow would crush her, perhaps beyond recovery.
She wasn’t the only woman in the bar, but there were enough curious male glances her way to make her nervous. Webb’s wasn’t one of them; he was oblivious to her presence. It was only because she deliberately didn’t attract attention that she had so far been left alone. She had dressed plainly, conservatively, in dark green slacks and a cream camp shirt, hardly the costume of a woman out on the town and looking for trouble. She didn’t look anyone in the eye and didn’t gaze around with interest. Over the years she had developed the knack of being as unobtrusive as possible, and it had stood her in good stead tonight. Sooner or later, though, some cowboy was going to work up enough nerve to ignore her “stay away” signals and approach her.
She was tired. It was ten o’clock at night, and her plane had left Huntsville at six o’clock that morning. From Huntsville she had flown to Birmingham, then from Birmingham to Dallas—with a stop at Jackson, Mississippi. In Dallas, she had endured a four-hour layover. She had arrived in Tucson at four twenty-seven, mountain time, rented a car, and driven south on Interstate 19 to Tumacacori, where Lucinda’s private detective said Webb now lived. According to the information in the file, he owned a small but prosperous cattle ranch in the area.
She hadn’t been able to find him. Directions notwithstanding, she had wandered around looking for the correct road, returning time and again to the interstate to get her bearings. She had almost been in tears when she had finally run across a local who not only knew Webb personally, but had directed Roanna to this seedy little bar just outside Nogales, where Webb was in the habit of stopping whenever he had to go to town, which he’d done this particular day.
The desert night had fallen with color and drama on the drive to Nogales, and when the kaleidoscope of hues had faded, it had left behind a black velvet sky full of the biggest, brightest stars she’d ever seen. The starkly beautiful desolation had calmed her, so that by the time she managed to find the bar, her usual remote expression was firmly in place.
Webb had been there when she’d walked in; he was the first person she’d seen. The shock had almost felled her. His head was turned away from her and he hadn’t so much as glanced around, but she knew it was him, because every cell in her body screamed in recognition. She had gone quietly to one of the few empty tables, automatically choosing the one in the darkest corner, and here she still sat. The waitress, a tired-looking Hispanic woman in her late thirties, came by every so often. Roanna had ordered a beer the first time, nursed it until it was warm, then ordered another. She didn’t like beer, didn’t normally drink at all, but thought she should probably order or she’d be asked to leave the table to make room for customers who did.
She looked down at the scarred surface of the table, where numerous knife blades had carved a multitude of initials and designs as well as random scratches and gouges. Waiting wasn’t going to make it any easier. She should just get up and walk over to him and get it over with.
But still she didn’t move. Hungrily her gaze moved back to him, drinking in the changes ten years had made.
He’d been twenty-four when he’d left Tuscumbia, a young man, mature for his age and burdened with responsibilities that would have felled a lesser person, but still young. At twenty-four he hadn’t yet learned the full range of his own strengths, his personality had still been a bit malleable. Jessie’s death and the ensuing investigation, and the way he’d been ostracized by both family and friends, had hardened him. The ten years since had hardened him even more. It was evident in the grim line of his mouth and the cool, level way he surveyed the world around him, marking him as a man who was prepared to take on the world and bend it to his will. Whatever challenges he had faced, he had been the victor.
Roanna knew some of those challenges, because the file on him was thorough. When rustlers had been decimating his herd of cattle and the local law enforcement hadn’t been able to stop it, Webb had single-handedly tracked the four rustlers and followed them into Mexico. The rustlers had spotted him and started shooting. Webb had shot back. They had kept each other pinned down for two days. At the end of those two days, one rustler had been dead, one severely injured, and another suffered a concussion after falling off a rock. Webb had been slightly wounded, a crease that burned along his thigh, and suffered from dehydration. But the rustlers had decided to cut their losses and get away the best they could, and Webb had grimly herded his stolen cattle b
ack across the border. He hadn’t been bothered by rustlers since.
There was an air of danger about him now that hadn’t been there before, the look of a man who meant what he said and was willing to back it up with action. His character had been honed down to its steel core. Webb had no weaknesses now, certainly not any leftover ones for the silly, careless cousin who had caused him so much trouble.
He wasn’t the man she had known before. He was harder, rougher, perhaps even brutal. She realized that ten years had wrought a lot of changes, in both of them, but one thing had remained constant, and that was her love for him.
Physically, he looked tougher and bigger than he had before. He’d always had the muscular build of a natural athlete, but years of grueling physical work had toughened him to whipcord leanness, coiled steel waiting to spring. His shoulders had broadened and his chest deepened. His forearms, exposed by his turned-back cuffs, were thick with muscle and roped with veins.
He was darkly tanned, with lines bracketing his mouth and radiating out from the corners of his eyes. His hair was longer, shaggier, the hair of a man who didn’t get into town for a haircut on a regular basis. That was another difference: it was no longer “styled,” it was simply cut. His face was darkened by a shadow of beard, but it couldn’t hide a newly healed cut that ran along the underside of his right jaw, from ear to chin. Roanna swallowed hard, wondering what had happened to him, if the injury had been dangerous.
The investigator’s file said that Webb had not only bought the small ranch and quickly turned it into a profit-making enterprise, but that he had been systematically buying other parcels of land, not, as it turned out, to expand his ranch, but for mining. Arizona was rich in minerals, and Webb was investing in those minerals. Leaving Davencourt hadn’t impoverished him; he’d had some money of his own, and he’d used it wisely. As Lucinda had pointed out, Webb had a rare talent for business and finance, and he’d been using it.
As prosperous as he was, though, you couldn’t tell it from his clothes. His boots were worn and scuffed, his jeans faded, and his thin chambray shirt had been washed so many times it was almost white. He was wearing a hat, a dark brown, dusty one. Nogales had a reputation for toughness, but all in all, he fit right in with the rough crowd here in this dingy bar in the small desert border town that was as different from Tuscumbia as the Amazon was from the Arctic.
He had the power to destroy her. With a few cold, cutting words he could annihilate her. She felt sick at the risk she would be taking in approaching him, but she kept seeing the hope that had been in Lucinda’s eyes when she’d kissed Roanna good-bye that morning. Lucinda, shrunken with age, diminished by grief and regrets, indomitable but no longer invincible. The end, perhaps, was closer than she wanted them to know. This might be her last chance to heal the rift with Webb.
Roanna knew exactly what she was risking, financially, if she could talk Webb into coming home. As Lucinda’s will stood now, she was the major heir of Davencourt and the family financial empire, with some modest bequests going to Gloria and her offspring, some to Yvonne and Sandra, and pensions as well as lump sum amounts settled on the long-time domestic staff: Loyal, Tansy, and Bessie. But Webb had been groomed to be the heir, and if he returned, it would be his again.
She would lose Davencourt. She had blocked her emotions, hadn’t let Lucinda see the pain and panic that had threatened to break through her protective barrier. She was human; she would regret losing the money. But Davencourt was worth more to her than any fortune. Davencourt was home, sanctuary, dearly beloved, and every inch familiar. It would tear her heart out to lose Davencourt, but she had no illusion that she would be welcome there if Webb inherited. He would want all of them out, including her.
But he could better care for it than she could. He had been raised with the understanding that, through his alliance with Jessie, Davencourt would be his. He had spent his youth and his young manhood training himself to be the best custodian possible for it, and it was Roanna’s fault that he’d lost it.
What price atonement?
She knew the price, knew exactly what it would cost her.
But there was Lucinda, desperately wanting to see him before she died. And there was Webb himself, the exiled prince. Davencourt was his rightful place, his legacy. She owed him a debt she could never repay. She would give up Davencourt to get him to return. She would give up anything she had.
Somehow, her body moving without conscious will, she found herself on her feet and walking through the swirling smoke. She stopped behind him and to the right, her gaze fevered and hungry as she stared at the hard line of his cheekbone, his jaw. Hesitantly, both yearning for the contact but dreading it, she lifted her hand to touch his shoulder and draw his attention. Before she could, however, he sensed her presence and turned his head toward her.
Green eyes, narrowed and cool, looking her up and down. One dark eyebrow lifted in silent question. It was the look of a man on the prowl assessing a woman for availability, and desirability.
He didn’t recognize her.
Her breath was rapid and shallow, but she felt as if she wasn’t drawing in enough air. She dropped her hand, and ached because the brief contact she had so dreaded had been denied her. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to go into his arms the way she had when she was little, lay her head on his broad shoulder, and find refuge from the world. Instead she reached for her hard-won composure and said quietly, “Hello, Webb. May I talk to you?”
His eyes widened a little, and he swiveled on the bar stool so that he faced her. There was a brief flare of recognition, then incredulity, in his expression. Then it was gone, and his gaze hardened. He looked her over again, this time with slow deliberation.
He didn’t say anything, just kept staring at her. Roanna’s heart pounded against her ribs with sickening force. “Please,” she said.
He shrugged, the movement straining his powerful shoulders against his shirt. He pulled a few bills from his pocket and tossed them on the bar, then stood, towering over her, forcing her to step back. Without a word he took her arm and steered her toward the entrance, his long fingers wrapped around her elbow like iron laces. Roanna braced herself against the tingle of delight caused by even that impersonal contact, and she wished she had worn a sleeveless blouse so she could feel his hand on her bare skin.
The door of the squat building slammed shut behind them. The lighting inside had been dim, but still she had to blink her eyes to accustom them to the darkness. Haphazardly parked vehicles crouched in the darkness, bumpers and windshields reflecting the blinking red neon of the BAR sign in the window. After the close, smoky atmosphere of the bar, the clear night air felt cold and thin. Roanna shivered with a sudden chill. He didn’t release her but pulled her across the grit and sand of the parking lot to a pickup truck. Taking his keys out of his pocket, he unlocked the driver’s side door, opened it, and thrust her forward. “Get in.”
She obeyed, sliding across the seat until she was on the passenger side. Webb got in beside her, folding his long legs beneath the steering wheel and pulling the door shut.
Every time the sign blinked, she could see the iron set of his jaw. In the enclosed cab she could smell the fresh, hard odor of the tequila he’d been drinking. He sat silently, staring out the windshield. Hugging her arms against the chill, she too was silent.
“Well?” he snapped after a long moment when it became evident she wasn’t exactly rushing into speech.
She thought of all the things she could say, all the excuses and apologies, all the reasons why Lucinda had sent her, but everything boiled down into two simple words, and she said, “Come home.”
He gave a harsh crack of laughter and turned so that his shoulders were comfortably wedged against the door and the seat. “I am home, or near enough.”
Roanna was silent again, as she often was. The stronger her feelings, the more silent she became, as if her inner shell tightened against any outbreak that would leave her vulnerable. His nearness
, just hearing his voice again, made her feel as if she would shatter inside. She wasn’t even able to return his gaze. Instead she looked down at her lap, fighting to control her shivering.
He muttered a curse, then shoved the key into the ignition and turned it. The motor caught immediately and settled into a powerful, well-tuned hum. He pushed the temperature control lever all the way over into the heat zone, then twisted his torso to reach behind the seat. He pulled out a denim jacket and tossed it into her lap. “Put that around you before you turn blue.”
The jacket smelled of dust and sweat and horses and ineffably of Webb. Roanna wanted to bury her face in the fabric; instead she pulled it around her shoulders, grateful for the protection.
“How did you find me?” he finally asked. “Did Mother tell you?”
She shook her head.
“Aunt Sandra?”
She shook her head again.
“Damn it, I’m not in the mood for guessing games,” he snapped. “Either talk or get out of the truck.”
Roanna’s hands tightened on the edges of the jacket. “Lucinda hired a private detective to find you. Then she sent me out here.” She could feel his hostility radiating from him, a palpable force that seared her skin. She’d known she didn’t have much chance of convincing him to return, but she hadn’t realized how violently he disliked her now. Her stomach twisted sickeningly, and her chest felt hollow, as if her heart no longer lived there.
“So you didn’t come on your own?” he asked sharply.
“No.”
Unexpectedly he reached out and caught her jaw, his fingers biting into the softness of her skin as he wrenched her head around. A purr of soft menace entered his voice. “Look at me when you’re talking to me.”
Helplessly she did so, her eyes eating him, tracing every beloved outline and committing it to memory. This might be the last time she ever saw him, and when he sent her away, another piece of her would die.