Angel Creek (32 page)

Lucas stirred and reached for her, tucking her in close against him. “I'm going home today,” she said quietly.

He stiffened beside her, then got up and lit the lamp. His beard-roughened face looked harsh in the mellow light. “Why?”

“Because it's my home. I can't stay here forever. People are already talking, not without good reason.”

“You could marry me.”

She looked both rueful and sad. “You don't have to offer. Kyle Bellamy's sense of timing couldn't have been worse. I had just decided to let you graze your cattle in the valley, to get you through the drought. From what I've seen, though, you're still in good condition. You don't need Angel Creek.”

“You don't either,” he said roughly, stricken by her offer. Damn her generosity; she made him feel doubly guilty. “If you hadn't lived out there, none of that would have happened.”

“It doesn't matter now. I just wanted you to know that you don't have to marry me to have access to the valley.”

“Marry me anyway.” His eyes were fierce. “You know it isn't just Angel Creek I want.”

“I know.” She thought of his ambitious plans, his fine house, and knew that she was out of place. “You want the Double C to be an empire. I can't be part of that, Lucas. I couldn't bear it in Denver, not even temporarily. I would make you miserable. People would ridicule you because of me. I'm not very good in social situations,” she said with a wry smile that did nothing to ease his expression. She tried another way to make him understand. “When—when my parents died I was terrified. All of a sudden I had no one, and I thought I might die, too, because I had no reason not to. But I had the land. Somehow, living there, making things grow—it helped. It isn't just that I love it, but that I need it. Angel Creek valley doesn't belong to me nearly as much as I belong to it.”

“Damn the valley!” His outburst was violent. He thrust his fingers through his dark hair, wishing it could have been put off for another week. “There's nothing out there now. I diverted the creek.”

Dee blinked at him, not certain she understood. “What?”

“I diverted the creek. Angel Creek is dry now. Your valley isn't worth a hill of beans without water.”

Dee got out of bed, her face blank with shock, her mind reeling from the enormity of what he'd done. She reached for her clothes.

“I'd do it again,” he said harshly. “I would have eventually done it anyway, to keep the ranch going. Come hell or high water, I'll do what I have to do to protect the Double C. But that damn valley was going to get you killed, and you're too stubborn to admit it. Without it you'll be safe, you can sleep without having to keep one eye open. I did what was necessary.”

She didn't look at him as she finished dressing. She spoke slowly, still feeling numb from the shock. “Then you should understand that I'll do whatever's necessary to keep my garden.”

He lost control of his temper in the face of her obstinacy. “Forget the damn garden!” he yelled. “You don't need it. I'll give you the money you would have earned from it.”

She straightened and faced him. Her eyes were terrible in their glittering clarity. “Keep your money, Cochran. I told you the day I met you that I wouldn't make a good whore, and nothing's changed.”

It was worse than a nightmare, because she could wake up from a nightmare. She had imagined the
garden overrun with weeds, the vegetables overripe. She could have salvaged something from that, put by enough to get her through the winter even if there wasn't enough to sell at the general store.

What she saw was the complete opposite of the overripe bounty she had expected. The vegetables had literally withered on the vine, seared by the heat, deprived of the water that had nourished the earth. The ears of corn hadn't filled out. When she examined the stunted ears she felt only a few dried kernels beneath the husks.

Angel Creek was dry, and the valley was turning brown. She walked out into the meadow, the one that had been full of wildflowers that glorious dawn when Lucas had made love to her lying on the soft meadow grasses. There were no flowers now, no sweet, rich scents to delight her.

Without the rushing whisper of water the valley was eerily quiet. She walked up the creek bed. She could see it was dry, but somehow she had to verify it. How could she mourn unless she truly understood the depth of what had happened there?

And Lucas had done this to her, deliberately destroyed her home.

She wanted to feel the energizing rush of anger, clean and hard, but this went beyond anger. She felt numb, as if a part of her had ceased to live.

She went back to the cabin and stared at the boarded-over windows. That would also be Lucas's doing, she guessed. She supposed she should be glad he had made the effort.

The cabin was in ruins, but remembering the barrage of bullets that had assaulted it, she hadn't expected
anything else. She had been prepared for that. It was the death of the valley that shook her to the base of her soul.

Work had always soothed her, so it was a good thing she was facing such a mammoth chore. She hardly knew where to begin in the cabin. So much had been damaged, and little of it could be salvaged. She swept out all of the broken glass, then drew up a bucket of water and spent an hour on her knees trying to scrub the bloodstains from the floor.

It took an hour before it registered. Water. She sat back on her heels and looked at the water bucket. The well was still good.

Hope ran wild, making her giddy. Dropping the scrub brush, she dashed out to the garden and walked down the rows, examining each plant.

The corn was totally lost; it was too dependent on water during the growing stages. But what about the beans and tomatoes, the onions and squash? Some of the plants had been sturdier than the others and still had life in them.

She ran back to the well and dropped the windlass, listening for the life-giving splash as it hit water.

All of her determination centered on the well. It took more strength than she had ever realized to draw up a bucket of water, and she was trembling after she had done it three times. Three buckets of water, at half a bucketful to each plant that looked as if it had a chance at survival, equaled only six plants. The intensely dry heat seemed to suck it out of the ground almost as fast as she poured it on, but she was careful to pour at the base of the plants so the root systems could get as much as possible.

The sun was too hot. She paused and looked up at it,
wiping her face on her sleeve. It was wasting water to pour it out in this kind of heat. Nighttime would be better; the plants would get more of it that way, and she would be able to work more comfortably in the cooler hours.

With that decision made she returned to the cabin and the work there. The results were discouraging. There was so little left that didn't have a bullet hole in it, even the pots and pans. Her iron skillet had survived, of course, but other than that she found only two pots that were usable. Even her biscuit pan was a casualty, and the coffeepot had so many holes in it that it resembled a sieve.

But no matter how useless it seemed she didn't let herself stop. If she stopped, she would think about Lucas, and she would break. She would sit down and howl like a lost child. If she could just stay busy and numb, she would be all right.

She had become soft during the past weeks. When the night finally cooled it was all she could do to force herself to move instead of collapsing in bed, as her body kept insisting she do. Everything was too dry for her to risk carrying a lamp out to the garden, so she worked by starlight.

She found that after a while she became so numb that she no longer felt her exhaustion. She hauled up bucket after bucket of water and trudged to the garden to empty it on what seemed like endless rows of plants.

It was some time after midnight when she realized she had been standing at the well in a stupor, holding an empty bucket in her hand. She didn't know how long she had been standing there.

Her legs felt as if they had lead weights attached,
and her hands had no feeling. She was so tired she couldn't lift her feet. She went back to the cabin, fell facedown on the bed, and didn't stir until noon.

That first day set the pattern for the days that followed. She tried to sleep as much as possible during the day, and at night she hauled water to the garden. She didn't think about it, didn't try to assess her progress, she just did it. She knew that if she ever stopped she would have no hope left.

Eight days after she had left, Lucas rode over to Angel Creek. It was late in the afternoon, but cooler than it had been in weeks. He figured eight days had been long enough for her to stew; now they could have a thunderous fight and clear the air.

Every day he had resisted the urge to check on her, to ride out there and see if he could talk sense into her. Damn, he missed her. He hadn't had nearly enough time with her. It would take a lifetime to satisfy him.

The first thing he saw when he rode up was Dee carrying a bucket of water out to the garden and carefully pouring it around the plants.

Anger seared him. That damn garden! He should have pulled the plants up by the roots and burned them. Why couldn't she see how useless it was?

He strode to meet her as she walked back to the well. She would have gone past him without even glancing at him, and his temper erupted. He jerked the bucket out of her hand and hurled it across the yard. “What in hell are you trying to do?” he yelled. “Kill yourself?”

She pulled her shoulders up very straight. “Thanks
to you,” she said softly, “I'm having to water my garden by hand.”

“Goddammit, Dee, it's too late!” He grabbed her arm and dragged her over to the garden. “Look at it!” he raged. “Open your eyes and look at it! You're pouring water on dying plants! Even if you could get some of them to bloom again, winter will be here before they can bear.”

“If I don't have a garden, then I don't eat,” she said. She tugged free of his grip and walked over to pick up the bucket.

He followed her and kicked it away from her outstretched hand. “Don't pick it up,” he said with clenched teeth. She had been almost back to normal when she had left him, now she was noticeably thinner, and dark circles lined her eyes. Her face was pallid and drawn. “You've lost,” he said. He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her. “Damn it, you've lost! It's over with. There's nothing left out here worth having. Get your clothes, and I'll take you home.”

She jerked away from him. “This is my home.”

“This is
nothing!”
he roared.

“Then
I'm
nothing!” she suddenly shrieked at him.

He tried to regain his control, but his voice was iron hard when he spoke. “You have two choices. You can take the money I offered you for the land and live in town, or you can marry me.”

She was taking deep breaths, searching for her own control. Carefully she said, “Why would you want to buy worthless land? I don't want your conscience money, and I won't take charity.”

“Then we're getting married.”

“Those are your choices, not mine.” Her hands were knotted into fists. “If I won't take your money to ease your conscience, you can bet I won't marry you for the same reason. My choice is to stay on my land, in my own home.”

“Damn it, you'll starve out here.”

“My choice, Cochran.”

They faced each other like gunfighters. In the silence that stretched between them they heard a deep rumble, and a cool wind played with her skirt.

Lucas lifted his head, a frozen expression on his face. He sniffed, catching the unmistakable scent of dust and rain.

Dee looked up at the bank of dark clouds advancing toward them. The sky had been clear for so long that she stared at them in stupefaction. Rain clouds. Those were actually rain clouds.

They saw it coming, a misty gray wall sweeping down the slope. Within a minute it had reached them, slapping at them with scattered raindrops so big that they stung when they hit and made little dust rings fly up from the earth.

Lucas took her arm and propelled her up on the porch; they reached it just as the rain became a deluge. Thunder boomed so loud that the ground shook.

They stood in silence on the porch and watched the rain blow in sheets. It became apparent that it wasn't going to be a brief summer thunderstorm as the rain settled down to a hard, steady downpour.

He had seen it before and knew it for what it was. It was a drought-buster, the signal of a change in the
weather, and just in time, too. None of the surrounding ranches had gone under, but another week would have seen cattle dying. Everyone had survived the drought.

Everyone but Dee.

The hard rain would replenish the ground water and refill the wells. It would save ranches and herds, bring grass springing back to life. Runoff from the mountain would fill Angel Creek again, but it would only be temporary. The valley would revive, but it would be too late for her, too late for the garden. When it was all said and done, everyone had made it through the drought except her.

She turned and walked into the cabin, quietly closing the door behind her.

She hadn't cried before, but now she did. She had kept herself under strict control, forcing herself to work automatically instead of thinking, but she could no longer keep the thoughts at bay.

Lucas could not have chosen anything designed to hurt her more. She had fought so hard for her independence, had carefully carved out a life for herself that she had loved, and he had destroyed it. If it had been Kyle Bellamy, she could have understood it; she could have been angry and hostile, she would have done what she could to prevent it, but she wouldn't have been so totally stunned by betrayal. It wouldn't have devastated her emotions if she hadn't loved Lucas, but she did. Even now she loved him. And he had demonstrated more clearly than she could ever have imagined that she meant nothing to him at all.