Angel Creek (7 page)

He was on his second whiskey, savoring both the biting, smoky taste of the liquor and his mental image of marrying Olivia Millican, when Tillie sauntered over to him. He leaned back against the bar and enjoyed the sight, because Tillie had a walk that could make a man's privates stand at attention even if he had a lot more than two whiskeys in him.

Tillie was something, all right. He'd met her for the first time about ten years back, in New Orleans. She'd been all of fifteen then, he guessed, remembering how fresh and wild she'd looked. He grinned, thinking that he was probably the only person in town who knew that her name was Mathilde. He called her that sometimes, when they were in bed together, always earning a long warning look from those heavy-lidded eyes of hers. It was all right with him if she chose to be Tillie the saloon girl; he just didn't want her to forget that he knew where she came from.

Of course, she knew more about him than anyone else, too, but he didn't worry about it. Tillie had never tried to use the information to get money out of him. She was oddly accepting of her life in a two-bit saloon in a small town, her rich brown eyes full of a half-weary, half-accepting worldliness. A man never felt as if Tillie was judging him; she simply took him as he was and expected nothing else.

A lot of the men in Prosper, including the married ones, had found their way into Tillie's embrace. She
was generous even when her time was paid for, giving at least the appearance of affection and sometimes even her passion.

Kyle never expected anything less than full participation from her and never let her give less. Sometimes she wanted to hold back from him, but he'd known her a long time, knew exactly how to make her squirm and buck beneath him, and in the end she would always give him what he wanted.

She looked more like twenty than twenty-five, he thought, admiring her creamy skin and dark mahogany hair. She was still slim, still supple, her breasts full and upright.

She leaned against the bar, her mouth voluptuous with invitation. “Kyle,” she murmured in greeting.

He didn't need much encouragement. His name in that soft drawl was enough. He set his glass down and took her arm. “Upstairs.”

She blinked at him in mocking surprise. “Well, hello to you, too. Nice day, isn't it?”

He ignored her light sarcasm and continued propelling her toward the stairs. He gave an abrupt flick of his hand to Pierce and Fronteras, letting them know that he'd be a while and they could do whatever they wanted.

Luis Fronteras watched Bellamy disappear up the stairs with his arm around Tillie's waist before returning his attention to the beer in front of him. Pierce sat down at a table with him, silently nursing his own beer. That was normal for Pierce, who seldom said more than three words in a row.

Luis was irritated by the small pang of jealousy he'd felt watching Bellamy and Tillie go upstairs together.
Not because of Tillie, though God knows she was a head-turning woman, but just because of the simple fact there was a bond between the two of them, even if it was comprised mainly of plain sex. It had been a long time since he had felt kinship of any sort with anyone. Ten years, in fact. Ten years of drifting, of occasionally relieving his sexual urges with a willing woman but never giving her any more of himself than the use of his body. At first he had needed the mental and emotional solitude, then it had become habit, and now it felt impossible to change even though he sometimes wanted more. More . . . what?

More women? He could have a woman anytime he wanted. Luis had a gift for pleasing women, and he knew it. Mainly it was that he liked everything about women, even their tempers and jealousies and plain contrariness, and what woman could resist being so frankly appreciated? To Luis it was simple: He was a man, therefore he loved the ladies. They were the most delicious creatures he could imagine. Women had flocked to him from the time his voice first began to deepen.

But he wasn't interested in a multitude of women. Right now he was interested in one woman: the blonde Bellamy had spoken to outside the bank. Miss Millican, the banker's daughter. Olivia. He had liked her quiet composure and pretty face as well as the shape of her bosom beneath the prim cut of her riding habit.

He hadn't liked the idea of Bellamy courting her, using her just to get his hands on her father's money. A woman deserved more than that, especially one who looked as sweet as Olivia. It wouldn't bother
Bellamy at all to use her, but Luis had unerring instincts when it came to women, and something told him that such callousness would destroy her.

There was already sadness in those pretty blue eyes. He had caught only a glimpse of it, but it had been there. Something was making her unhappy. Bellamy would only make her even more unhappy.

He'd like to kiss those sad shadows out of her eyes, hold her and pet her and tell her how very lovely she was. A woman always needed to know that she was appreciated.

He smiled cynically to himself. He was a drifter and a Mexican, too handy with a gun for his own good. She was the banker's daughter, and it looked like she would have her choice between the two richest ranchers in the area. There wasn't much chance Miss Olivia Millican would ever even know his name, let alone let him hold her.

S
OMEHOW
D
EE WASN'T SURPRISED TO SEE
L
UCAS
Cochran riding toward her three days later. It was still early in the morning; she was outside with a pan of chicken feed, scattering it to the clucking fowl grouped around her skirts. “Mr. Cochran,” she said in greeting when he was close enough to hear her.

He didn't dismount but leaned down to prop his forearm on the saddle horn as he watched her strew the feed. “Good morning,” he said. “I was on my way into town and thought I'd ride over to check on you.”

Her eyes were bright in the strong morning sun, and greener than any he'd ever seen before. “I don't remember saying anything that would give you the impression I needed to be checked on, Mr. Cochran,” she said with more than a little sharpness. She had painstakingly taught herself how to be independent and resented his implication that she wasn't capable of taking care of herself.

“Call me Lucas,” he said. “Or Luke.”

“Why?”

“Because I'd like for us to be friends.”

“Not likely.”

He grinned, enjoying her starchiness. It was refreshing to be around a woman who didn't cater to him and defer to his every opinion. “Why not? Looks to me like we could both use a friend.”

“I like being alone,” she replied, tilting the pan upside down and slapping it lightly on the sides to knock loose the last few grains of feed. She crossed to the small back stoop and hung the pan on a nail driven into the wall. Lucas walked his horse behind her as she strode swiftly to the barn, her skirts kicking up with each step. She wore only one petticoat, he decided, eyeing the brisk sway of that blue skirt. And a thin one at that.

He ducked his head down to enter the barn, automatically closing his eyes for a second so they could adjust to the dimness, and watched as she efficiently ladled feed to the single horse and two cows.

She was damn good at ignoring him, he saw, and he began to get a little irate at her manner. Then he remembered that it was her farm, and she hadn't invited him. His horse stamped a hoof restively as she fetched a stool and positioned a milk bucket under one of the cows. Lucas sighed and dismounted, looping his reins over a rail. The other cow needed milking, too. “Got another bucket?” he asked.

Streams of milk were already hissing into the bucket in time with the motions of her hands as she turned her head to him. Those green eyes had a dangerous look to them now. “I don't need any help.”

“I can see that.” His irritation was growing, and it echoed in his voice. “But did you ever think about accepting an offer of help, not because you couldn't handle it just fine yourself but because the chore would get done faster with two people working at it instead of just one?”

She considered that, then gave a brief nod. “All right. There's another clean bucket in the tack room there, to the right. But I don't have another stool. You'll have to squat.”

He fetched the bucket and patted the cow on her fat sides, letting her know he was there before he slid the bucket under her. He squatted down and wrapped his strong fingers around the long teats, then pulled with the rhythmic motion that, once learned, was never forgotten. Hot milk splashed into the bucket. His mouth moved in a wry grin as he thought how glad he was none of his men could see him now.

“Have you always been such a hedgehog?” he asked in a tone of casual interest.

“I reckon,” she replied in the same manner, and he grinned again.

“Any particular reason for it?”

“Men.”

He snorted. “Yeah, we can be real bastards.”

He wasn't certain, but he thought he heard a chuckle. “I wouldn't dream of disagreeing.”

“Those lovesick swains of yours must have been persistent,” he said, hazarding a guess.

“Some of them. But it wasn't love they had on their minds, and we both know it. It seems like men just naturally see a woman alone as fair game.”

There wasn't another woman in town who would have said that to him, but then he had already realized at their first meeting that Dee was blunt in her speech and frank in her opinions. He felt a slow burn of anger at the thought of other men trying to seduce her, or maybe even just catch her alone when they wouldn't bother with pretense of seduction. The knowledge that he was determined to seduce her himself didn't moderate his temper. For one thing, he didn't intend to dishonor her; no one but the two of them would ever know what went on between them. He wasn't a raw kid who felt the need to boast about his women in order to impress others with his masculinity. For another thing, damn if he didn't respect her for what she had accomplished out there. It had taken a lot of hard work, but she hadn't flinched from it, rather had risen to the challenge and gloried in it. The pristine condition of the farm was a true measure of her fierce spirit.

His voice was tight with that possessive anger when he said, “If anyone else bothers you, let me know.”

“I appreciate the offer, but it's something I have to take care of for myself. You might not always be around; they have to know I can defend myself, that I don't need to rely on anyone else.”

Her logic was unassailable, but he didn't like it. “I can make certain they never come back.”

“The shotgun tends to be persuasive,” she said with humor in her voice. “There's nothing like buckshot in his backside to make a man reconsider an idea. Besides, I'm not sure I can afford to have you as a protector.”

He didn't pause in his milking, but his brows drew together and his head came up. “Why not?” he demanded sharply.

“Folks would think we were sleeping together.” When he didn't reply to that, Dee continued to explain. “The men around here pretty much leave me alone now because I've convinced them I don't want
any
man. But if they thought I'd let one man in my bed, then they would think I was available, and they'd take even less kindly to being turned down than they did before. It would get nasty, and I'd probably have to kill some of them.”

His strong hands had emptied the cow's udder, and he lifted the bucket away, rising to his feet just as Dee finished milking. Her cheeks were flushed with her exertions as she slid the bucket away and stood, stretching her back. Lucas leaned down, picked up the other bucket, and walked out of the barn toward the house, leaving her to follow. Her brows rose at the way he made himself so at home on her place. It was obvious he was used to being the boss. Then she shrugged; he was being helpful, so it would be petty of her to complain that he was too self-confident about it.

He waited on the back stoop for her to open the door. “What do you do with this much milk?”

“Most of it goes back to the animals in their feed,” she admitted. “I churn it for butter, drink some of it, use it in cooking.”

“One cow would do.”

“With two cows I get two calves a year that are butchered as yearlings. You had some of the beef in the soup you ate the other day. And this way, if one of
the cows dies, I still have milk.” She wrestled the churn out and tied the straining cloth over it. “I don't guess one cow more or less matters much to you.”

“Not when I have a couple thousand heads of beef on the range.” He tipped one of the buckets and slowly poured the milk through the straining cloth, then emptied the other bucket.

Dee picked up the coffeepot and shook it. “There's more coffee left. Would you like a cup?”

Lucas was too smart to push her this early in their acquaintance, but being around her was fraying his patience, and he decided not to linger. “Not today. I need to get on to town, then back to the ranch. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“You're welcome,” she replied gravely. “And thank you for your help. I promise not to tell anyone you milked my cow.”

He looked sharply at her, and though her expression was bland he could see a gleam of laughter in her eyes. “You'd better not.”

She actually smiled then, and his body responded immediately. Damn, she was something when she smiled!

She walked out on the porch with him and leaned against a post while he returned to the barn, then walked out leading his horse. She watched him mount, noting the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders and the way his pants pulled tight on his buttocks and thighs. The brim of his hat shadowed his face, but she could still see the intense blue of his eyes.

“See you,” he said, and he rode off without looking back.

She tried, but she couldn't stop thinking about him as she went about the rest of her morning chores. She knew plain enough why he'd come over the first time, since he'd been honest about wanting to buy the land, but why had he ridden so far out of his way this morning? At first she had been expecting him to make a grab for her, but he hadn't said or done anything the least suggestive, and she admitted to herself that she was just a tad disappointed.