Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance Page 15

  He was simply looking at her now, a sappy smile plastered across his lips.

  “You don’t act like a husband,” she hissed.

  “I don’t know what a husband acts like,” he countered, “but from what I can see of the ones here, you’re right, I don’t.”

  “What does that mean?” She opened her fan and hid her smile behind it as she leaned forward.

  “They seem to be talking with other husbands instead of their wives.”

  “Maybe you’d better do that,” Raven suggested, leaning even closer.

  “Not when you’re dressed like this.” He put his hand on her arm and slid it behind her neck, her closeness allowing him to glance down the top of her blouse. “They must all be blind.”

  This time Raven blushed and moved the fan to cover her breasts. “Are you always so honest?”

  He shook his head. “I rarely say what I think. Especially with a woman. That gets you into hot water.” He moved his chair closer to her so that he could whisper in her ear.

  “But tonight I’ll be honest. You’re the most beautiful woman here.”

  “Stop that, Tucker!”

  He brushed his lips against her cheek and moved down to her neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, “but the music is so loud I can’t hear you.”

  He pulled one of the flowers from her hair, kissed it, and tucked it between her breasts. He didn’t have to say that he wished his lips could be there instead. It was like being in a waking dream, except this was no dream. She felt as if every eye in the courtyard were on her. She couldn’t be still.

  “The bride is lovely,” she said, trying to force his attention elsewhere.

  “Not as lovely as you.”

  “Tucker, don’t do this. I can hardly breathe.”

  “It’s your fault for wearing that dress. You’re laced up like a Christmas goose. Every man here is practically overheating. Didn’t you know what would happen?”

  She hadn’t known. Not until he looked at her. He’d been practically devouring her with his eyes ever since. Nervously she tugged at the top, pulling it higher, only to take a breath and see it slide down again.

  “Please, don’t talk like that. I don’t know what to say. You’re making me feel so strange.” She fanned herself. “I’m getting very warm. Would you get me something cool to drink, a cup of punch perhaps?”

  “Of course. But that won’t cool you, Mrs. Farrell.” Lazily, as if he knew she was watching every move, he came to his feet and started across to the refreshment table.

  All eyes shifted from Raven to Tucker, all except one man’s. Raven spotted him again, the stranger she’d seen before. And he was looking at her as if she had two heads. He was leaning awkwardly against one of the posts supporting the balcony outside Raven’s room, looking very uncomfortable.

  She studied him, trying to remember where she’d seen him before. The stranger talked with the future bridegroom for a moment. Then, as if he knew that he was being watched, he turned his gaze back to Raven.

  He smiled and started toward her.

  “Excuse me, Señora,” he said, “but you seem very familiar. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so,” she began. Then, suddenly, she remembered. He was the journalist she’d shared the stage with on leaving Denver. What on earth was he doing here? And would he be able to place her on that stage? If so, he’d certainly remember her changing into her Indian buckskin and leaving the stage. Frantically she searched for Tucker.

  Behind the cover of her fan, she tugged at the neckline of her blouse and frowned. “I’m certain I’d remember.”

  “Larry—no, Lawrence Small.” He held out his hand in introduction.

  “And this is my husband,” she said as Tucker appeared by her side, carrying two ornate glasses of wine.

  He placed them on the table, then leaned forward just at the right moment to intercept the journalist’s hand. “I’m Tucker Farrell.”

  But the reporter wasn’t about to be pushed aside. He continued studying Raven.

  “Señora Farrell? No, I don’t know that name. But I’m certain that we’ve crossed paths.”

  “What are you doing here in New Mexico?” Tucker smoothly slid into the chair beside Raven and pushed her glass toward her.

  “Looking for stories about the West for my newspaper.” He was like an eager child, trying to make his case. “Easterners are frantic to read about outlaws, bandits, Indians.… Indians—”

  Then he stopped, and she knew he recognized her. “Please,” Raven whispered. “Don’t.”

  “You were on the stage out of Denver. Weren’t you? Until—”

  “Until I left it and rode out alone,” she admitted, her voice filled with misery.

  “You understand,” Tucker interrupted. “My wife would prefer to keep that information private. May we count on your discretion?”

  The reporter smiled and slowly nodded his head. “Of course. I’m very interested in feature stories about unusual people and events for my newspaper back East. Names are unimportant. If you’ll let me interview you, I’ll be glad to keep your identity secret.”

  “In other words,” Tucker growled, “if we give you a story, you’ll forget that you saw Raven on the stage?”

  “I will.”

  “Then this is the story.” he said. “We are running away from—”

  “Oh, Tucker, don’t do it. No more tall tales. He’s no bandit and he couldn’t be tied in with Swift Hand. He already knows too much. We might as well tell him the truth.”

  Tucker couldn’t decide whether she was being sincere, or whether she had a different objective in mind. For the moment he’d go along. “How do we know what this man is really doing here?”

  Lawrence moved closer. “I heard a story in town about a man, a big American in a poker game.”

  “There are about as many famous poker games as there are tales of lost treasure in the area.”

  “Then you do know about the treasure,” Raven said.

  Tucker swore. “There’s always treasure down here. There’s the Lost Devil Mine, the Friars’ Cave, even the Holy Mother’s Hole in the Desert. Treasures have been lost and found since the time of the Spanish invasion.”

  “I don’t think that’s what the villagers are talking about,” Lawrence insisted. “I’m referring to an old miner who came into the cantina several nights ago. He bet two gold nuggets the size of hen eggs and a ruby-set watch fob. Said he’d found a lost treasure.”

  “How’d you hear about that?” Raven asked, suddenly concerned for Tucker’s safety. What happened to her was up to the spirits, but she’d been lulled into a false sense of security about Tucker. She mustn’t make that mistake again. She flipped open her fan and leaned closer. “And what happened?”

  “It seems that the American managed to create a diversion while the old man got away. Then the American was captured by the Mexican bandits. He was about to be strung up when a flock of giant ravens assaulted the courtyard, helping him to escape.”

  The newspaperman took a long, pointed look at Tucker. “A big golden man, an American,” he said slowly. “And your name is Raven. Coincidence?”

  “All right,” Tucker agreed. “So I was in the game. I’ll give you the story, but not here and not now. Can I ask you to give me your word that you won’t let this go any further than the three of us?”

  “What’s to tell? Everybody at the fiesta knows about the birds.”

  “Then you’ll keep my secret?” Tucker asked.

  “I could be persuaded. But I need to know what’s in it for me.”

  “The story of a lifetime,” Raven answered, “and maybe more.”

  Lawrence pulled a thin black cigar from his pocket and lit it from the candle on the table. “I agree. You cannot know how important this story is for me. My future depends on it. I give you my word.”

  Hidalgo approached them. “Ah, Señor Small, I see you’ve met Señora Farrell and her husband. They’re lo
oking to buy land in our area, to raise cattle.”

  “Really?” Lawrence said. “My readers would be very interested in such a project. Have you already picked out the section you wish to settle?”

  “Yes,” Raven said.

  “No,” Tucker said at the same time.

  “What we mean,” Raven explained, “is that we want to buy land along the Rio Grande, probably north, toward Santa Fe.”

  “But we haven’t settled definitely on the piece,” Tucker added.

  “Perhaps you’d let me tag along as you look,” Lawrence said enthusiastically.

  “I think that is a splendid idea,” Señor Hildalgo agreed. “Just think of what it would do for the village of San Felipe. Your article would attract a great deal of interest.”

  Attracting interest was the last thing Tucker wanted. But short of being rude or calling attention to themselves even more, he could see no way out. “All right, Mr. Small. Let us drink a toast to our new partnership. We’ll take you along, provided you can ride a horse and take care of yourself.”

  “I’ll manage,” the slightly built young man pledged. “I won’t be a problem, I assure you.”

  Tucker wasn’t reassured. Inviting a newspaperman to accompany them on the journey he and Raven were about to take was plain folly. But leaving him behind might be worse.

  Now they’d have the bandits, the Indians, the banker, and the press in tow. He hoped that Raven’s spirit animals were short-tempered and liked their privacy. Maybe they’d intervene and clear out the intruders. Even if he didn’t believe, Tucker would welcome a little help from Mother Nature.

  But first they had to get through the fiesta. The dancing had broken out in earnest now, and the courtyard was packed with guests. He noticed Raven swaying to the music, and suddenly he wanted to dance. When the music turned soft and romantic, Tucker held out his hand. “Would you care to dance, Raven?”

  “But my ankle,” she protested, more nervous that she didn’t know how. The only dancing she’d ever done was around the campfire. Still, for just a moment she was tempted. She’d be in Tucker’s arms.

  “Don’t worry.” He stood and slid his arm around her waist so that he could support her weight. He led her to the edge of the garden, into the shadows beneath a flower-covered trellis. “You stand still and I’ll do the work.”

  As soon as he put his arm around her waist, he knew he’d made a mistake. There was no way in hell he could hold her, touch her, and not kiss her.

  “Just hold me, Tucker,” she whispered, concentrating on the music.

  He felt the very air around them becoming charged, like the afternoon at Luce’s pool. Though he was standing at a respectable distance, he could feel her body touching his, her bare body, with nothing between them. His clothes were gone. They were alone in the sweetly scented garden, swaying to the music of the night. He didn’t kiss her. Their lips never touched, but he felt her hot, urgent mouth pressed against his, her hand touching him, moving down to caress the most intimate part of him.

  “Raven, don’t to this.”

  “I do nothing, Tucker,” she whispered.

  And then he understood. They were caught in a “waking dream” so powerful that he was about to explode. At the same time he was touching her breast, he could see the dancers beyond the trellis, moving to the music as if nothing was happening. Then came showers of stars, and Tucker felt his body turn into a burst of light.

  The music ended and Lawrence Small’s voice came from out of the darkness. “Señora, your ankle is improved.”

  “No,” she said in a shaky voice, bringing herself and Tucker back to the present. “I’d thought it was, but I’m afraid that it is still too painful. Will you take me to my room, Tucker?”

  “Of course, darling,” he managed to say, and forced his own legs to move her slowly back to the table. Ignoring Lawrence, Tucker sought out their host and hostess and, using Raven’s ankle as their excuse, bade them good night.

  “My wife needs to rest for our land-buying journey in a few days,” he explained to Lawrence. “Her ankle is still too weak for immediate travel.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’d hoped that it was better.”

  “I’m afraid not. But if you’ll wait here for me, I’ll return and we’ll share another glass of wine in celebration of our new partnership.”

  “I’d be pleased to do so,” the eager journalist said and followed them inside the house, ignoring Tucker’s protests. He waited at the foot of the steps under the pretense of offering his help in assisting Mrs. Farrell upstairs, but Tucker wasn’t fooled. He simply wanted to know the location of their room, and Tucker had no means to conceal it. Sooner or later he’d learn the truth.

  They had too many people watching them, interested in what they were doing. Somebody was bound to follow them when they left. Now Lawrence Small was determined to accompany them. But that didn’t have to happen. Not if they left in the midst of the party, while everybody was still celebrating.

  Not if they left right away.

  Once inside the room, Tucker set Raven down, allowing himself a moment to hold her, to feel her against him, to remember the moment they’d shared when they danced.

  “What will you do about Mr. Small?” she asked.

  “I think I’ll introduce him to the artificial benefits of Dr. Tucker’s Feel Good Tonic. Do you have more of the red berries?”

  She smiled. “Of course, but only a small amount.”

  “I don’t need much.” He took the last of the berries, kissed her with sweet restraint, and started toward the door.

  “Will you be long?” she asked shyly.

  His answer was the one she wanted to hear, but she couldn’t know that his meaning was not the same as hers. “Not long at all.”

  Taking seriously Gomez Hildalgo’s invitation to make himself at home, Tucker asked Lawrence Small to join him in the study for a glass of the señor’s special wine. The red berry he’d taken from Raven’s medicine bag was easily concealed in the glass he poured for the toast.

  “I have to tell you, Mr. Small, that I’ll help you with your story if I can, but I’m nobody’s partner.”

  “Of course. Why don’t you start by telling me how you really got away from those bandits.”

  “You don’t believe the ravens rescued me?” Tucker asked in amusement.

  “Of course not. They just made up that story to cover up your escape. But the story makes good copy, don’t you think?”

  “You’re probably right. But you promised to keep my identity a secret.”

  “So I did. I’ll respect your privacy if that’s what you wish.” The reporter nodded as he drank deeply of his wine. “But your wife promised me the story of a lifetime and maybe more.”

  “Well, as I mentioned before, my wife and I are going to buy land …”

  “Buy land? Mr. Farrell, that’s hardly the story of a lifetime. I think I ought to tell you I know that you and Miss Alexander deposited two gold nuggets and a ruby in Señor Hildalgo’s bank. Let’s not play games.”

  Tucker sipped his wine. So much for any hope of keeping the true purpose of their journey secret. Raven had been right to begin with. They’d be better off making the man think they were including him rather than letting him make wild speculations in the press.

  Tucker casually closed the open door, then went to the window and peered out. “All right, then. Suppose, just suppose, there is the possibility of a treasure. Are you up to the danger of the expedition?”

  The first trace of worry colored the reporter’s voice. “Danger?”

  Tucker put a concerned expression on his face. “Of course. The journey will be difficult. We must go into a mountainous area filled with peril.”

  “Peril?”

  “Yes. In addition to the wild animals—mountain lions, bears, snakes—those Mexican bandits from the cantina also seek the treasure. And the Indians who consider themselves the protectors of the sacred mountains where it is hidden.”
<
br />   “Indians? I didn’t know about them. Do you really think they’re a threat to us?”

  “Of course we have to search for the treasure. The old miner who knew the location has already been killed, and nobody else knows for sure where the treasure is hidden. Then there is the bronze dagger.”

  “What about the bronze dagger?”

  “According to the legend,” Tucker said in a low, serious voice, making up the story as he went, “any outsider must get past the bronze dagger. Even knowing about the dagger puts a person in danger. But the risk is worth it, don’t you agree?”

  “Risk?”

  “Yes. Just think, a mountain filled with Spanish gold and jewels. Now, you must swear on your mother’s grave to keep the secret, else you will die.”

  Lawrence Small seemed to shrink. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Look what happened to the miner when he told the secret of the treasure.”

  Suddenly the reporter yawned. “Yes, I … swear.”

  He could barely pronounce his words, and his eyes were glazing over.

  “I’m glad you’re coming along,” Tucker said conspiratorially. “We were worried with only two of us. It will be good to have another gun, someone we can trust who has as much at stake as us. The odds of survival aren’t much better, once you learn about the dagger, but three is still better than two.”

  But Tucker’s last statement came too late for a reply. Lawrence Small’s head lolled back against the sofa, and his glass of wine teetered wildly as Tucker grabbed it. He lifted the newspaperman, laying him out on the couch in the shadows, then blew out the lamp on the desk. With any luck the man would sleep until morning. Hopefully he’d be too scared to talk about the treasure. By that time he and Raven would be long gone.

  The only truthful thing he’d said was that having another gun along would have been an advantage. But one last look at the man belied that idea. Mr. Small was a writer, not a fighter. He wasn’t armed and Tucker doubted he’d ever fired anything more dangerous than a slingshot.

  Quickly Tucker closed the study door and started up the steps. But he hadn’t counted on Rosalita, whose voice he could hear beyond Raven’s door. She was insisting that Raven get undressed and into bed. Raven was arguing but Tucker could see that she’d have to comply. He only hoped that she didn’t take long.