The Rebel and the Lady. Kathryn Albright
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enthusiasm belied Juan’s words. “Are you joining with us also?”
Jake wondered who that “us” was. Did Diego include Anglos and Mexicans together? He hadn’t gotten that impression when talking to Travis. It seemed that the American immigrants wouldn’t turn away help, but they were in it for themselves either to protect the land they’d homesteaded over the years or to section off a parcel for themselves. He couldn’t blame them for that but it didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t fighting anyone. “I’ll shoot if I have to, to stay alive, but I’m not joining up.”
“Then why have you come here?” Victoria asked.
“To get my brother.”
“And he is here?” Victoria asked, looking around the room.
“He was. Bowie sent him to San Patricio a week ago. He’s supposed to be back soon but I think I’ll head that way and catch up to him. He’s just young enough and green enough to want to talk with this Santa Anna and strike a bargain.”
Juan raised a brow. “Negotiate? It has been tried before. Santa Anna will throw him in jail before he finishes his first sentence in Spanish. He does not negotiate with Anglos. Look what happened to Austin.”
“Exactly,” Jake said. “Brandon doesn’t stand a chance against such a man.”
“What will you do when you find him?” Victoria asked.
“Drag his bony butt back home to South Carolina. He has a fiancée waiting there for him. I promised her I’d bring him home.” In his opinion she wasn’t worth the paper Brandon had written his goodbye note on, but that was another matter he’d have to discuss with his brother. He looked up to find Victoria studying him.
“Why don’t you both stay? Stay and help us,” she urged.
“Victoria,” Juan said, a note of warning creeping into his voice. “Señor Dumont must do what he thinks right.”
Her eyes sparked. “But if he’s good with a rifle we could use him!”
“This is our fight, not his,” Juan said. “We need people who believe in what they’re fighting for.”
Irritation colored her face. “What do you believe in, then, Mr. Dumont? Or are you just as you seem—a shiftless drifter?”
He didn’t care for her appraisal of him but he did appreciate her passion. With her face flushed and her eyes flashing midnight fire, he appreciated it a whole lot. But the subject was getting more serious than he cared for, reminding him he had a mission to accomplish. Beautiful señorita or not, he couldn’t forget that.
“I resent being called a drifter on such short acquaintance,” he said. “You know nothing about my plans.”
“Plans?” She shrugged. “I too have those. But what is it you believe in?”
Jake stood, and moved his gaze to Juan, Diego and then back to rest on hers. “Señorita? I believe in staying alive. Other than that? Not a damn thing.”
She rose to her feet, her eyes shooting daggers. “Then you have no soul, Señor Dumont.”
His brother had said as much the day he took off. Jake met her angry gaze with a sardonic smile. “I know.”
Chapter Four
The next morning Victoria headed to the hospital, determined to put Jake Dumont out of her mind—not an easy task. Whenever she thought of him, she remembered the way her heart had raced while dancing and how safe she had felt in his strong arms. Never had she met a man so sure of himself, so sure of his ability to get what he wanted. And for a moment last night, it seemed he wanted her.
With a quick sign of the cross over her breast she thanked God she had found out his true character—selfish and arrogant. That she had even contemplated what his kiss would be like upset her now. She’d looked at his lips and heat raced up her cheeks. And he had known what she was thinking. That irked her all the more.
Today it was good there were more important needs to occupy her thoughts.
When she entered the hospital, Dr. Pollard was engrossed in a conversation with another man. He noticed her entrance and introduced her.
“This is Doctor Southerland, Miss Torrez. John, Miss Torrez is new in town. Her cousin, Juan, is in charge of the Tejano regiment.”
She murmured a greeting. “I am here to collect the soup kettle.”
“Of course. It’s there on the table. Thank you.” He turned back to his conversation as she walked across the room. “I’d like you to look at Bowie, John. I’m not sure if it’s pneumonia or maybe something else.”
“Be happy to. Where is he?”
“He has moved into the fort. I’ll take you to him.”
Victoria picked up the empty kettle and followed them down the stairs. Jim Bowie was sick? Too sick to lead? She wondered if Juan knew.
Once outside, she watched the doctors stride to the long row of barracks used by the men. The day was overcast, the cloud cover offering a scant measure of warmth as she started once more across the yard. Men were digging a well in the open plaza. Others worked on the north wall, adding materials to reinforce it. She was glad to see some preparation finally taking place.
She paused for a moment to watch, noting the few men who stood around the workers, offering their advice but not helping with the manual labor. How could they be so lazy when Santa Anna was on his way?
Not at all like the broad-shouldered man in the midst of them who worked twice as hard as the others. He had removed his shirt, and the sweat gleamed across his back despite the chill in the air. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged as he raised a heavy log and positioned it, holding it while others lashed it together with the other beams for support. He called orders to the men, coordinating the entire process until he could step away from the log.
Realizing suddenly that she stared, she gripped the kettle and prepared to leave. With one more glance, she saw the man lean over, hands on his knees, and drag in several deep breaths. Straightening, he swiped the dark lock of hair from his eyes and she recognized Jake Dumont.
At that exact moment he noticed her. Slowly, without taking his gaze from her, he reached for a shovel that leaned against a mound of dirt. His face—so closely shaved the night before, now had the dark stubble of a new beard on his square jaw. She took a deep, rather unsteady breath at the vision he created—the dark hair sprinkled across his chest tapered to a line that disappeared into his buckskin pants.
Her eyes snapped back to his cool blue ones. He regarded her silently as heat suffused her face. She readjusted the kettle on her hip. She’d seen men work before and knew they were more comfortable at times without their shirts. So why did seeing his bare chest do crazy things to her insides—things that had never happened before? She clenched her hands around the iron rim. Remember that he thinks only of himself, she told herself. You cannot trust him.
The corded muscles of his arms flexed as he dropped his shovel and started toward her. “Señorita Torrez. We need to talk.”
He stopped long enough to shrug into his shirt and slip on his hat before grasping her arm and leading her away from the others.
“Look at me that way again and everyone will know what you want.” His voice was low in her ear, nearly a growl.
She jerked from his strong grip. “You flatter yourself, señor. I was amazed to find an Anglo like you without a burn. That is all.”
“Right,” he said dryly.
“Well, you are so careful to protect yourself from the discomfort of a bullet. I imagined you would feel the same way about the sun.”
“Very