Apache Fire. Elizabeth Lane
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your husband and my best friend died last summer when that horse bucked him out of the saddle onto his head.” Bayard spoke sharply, making no effort to hide his impatience. “It was his body you tended for those last months, but it wasn’t the man we knew and loved, Rose. It wasn’t John.”
“Your breakfast is getting cold,” she said.
“Forget breakfast!” The chair legs grated across the tiles as he slid away from the table and strode around it to stand behind her. Rose stiffened as his warm hands settled onto her shoulders. “Dash it, but you’re tense,” he murmured, his strong, blunt fingers working her knotted muscles. “What’s the matter? You aren’t afraid of me, are you?”
Rose shook her head in denial.
“Then what—?”
She forced a tired smile. “Forgive me, Bayard. You just didn’t pick a good time to propose, that’s all. I’ve had a long night, and I’m not thinking very well.”
His hands continued to knead her shoulders, their motion slowing to a sensual caress. “You’re a beautiful woman, Rose,” he murmured, “too beautiful to be alone, without a man. Just say yes.” He bent close to her ear, his lips skimming her tousled hair. “You’ll never be sorry, I promise.”
Rose shivered, imagining Latigo behind the kitchen door, his sharp Apache ears hearing every intimate word.
“Rose, darling…” Bayard’s voice had deepened to a breathy rasp. His mouth nibbled a damp trail down the side of her neck as his fingers nudged aside the collar of her robe to expose the naked slope of her shoulder. “Do you know how long I envied your husband? How long I’ve wanted to—”
“No!” Rose spun away from him, toppling her chair in a spurt of nervous panic. The crash resounded like a gunshot through the empty house, freezing her in midmotion.
Bayard righted the chair, his expression as bewildered as a slapped child’s. Silence lay leaden between them, broken only by the ponderous tick of the grandfather clock in the entry. Little by little Rose began to breathe again.
“You are afraid of me,” Bayard said. “Rose, I swear I would never hurt you.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t.” Wanting only to have him gone, she molded her features into a conciliatory smile. “You’ve caught me off guard, that’s all. I’m honored by your proposal, Bayard, but I truly need some time to think about it.”
“I’ve waited a lot of years for you, Rose, and I’m not a patient man. All the nights I’ve lain awake, imagining you in my bed, in my arms…” He made a move toward her, then hesitated, realizing, perhaps, that he had said too much. “So when do I get my answer?” he demanded. “In a day? A week?”
Rose’s gaze flashed toward the kitchen door. It was open a crack, and she realized Latigo was not only listening but watching. She groped for a reply, anything that would placate Bayard and send him on his way.
“I was thinking of longer,” she hedged, already knowing what her answer would be but desperate for him to leave.
“A month, then. But don’t expect me to take it in good grace. I’m anxious, girl. Anxious to make you mine.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your posse?” She edged toward the front hallway, praying he would follow her.
Still, maddeningly, he lingered. “I don’t like leaving you here with that half-breed Apache murderer on the loose,” he said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll be fine!” Rose punctuated the words with a toss of her head. “A lone desperado would never take on a ranch this size.”
“Maybe not” He exhaled like an agitated bull. “But keep John’s big pistol handy—I know you can use it. If you see a stranger, don’t take any chances. Shoot to kill.”
“I hardly think that will be necessary.” Her eyes flickered toward the kitchen door.
“Is something wrong, Rose?”
Her heart convulsed for an instant. “No—no,” she answered much too quickly. “You caught me unprepared, that’s all. I prefer to look my best when people come calling, and I haven’t even combed my hair.” The laugh she attempted came out sounding like a nervous hiccup. “Off with you, now, I need to get dressed and start my day!”
Bayard stood his ground, his thumb absently rubbing the butt of his pistol. “Not until you kiss me goodbye,” he declared.
Rose struggled to ignore the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Right now, she reminded herself, the only thing that mattered was getting the man out of here before he discovered Latigo and someone wound up dead.
“I’m waiting, Rose.”
“You’ll go if I kiss you?”
“I’m a man of my word, sweetheart.”
Rose forced herself to stop thinking as she strode back across the room. She had meant to give Bayard a light peck, but his arms closed around her like the jaws of a trap. His full, wet lips captured hers with a force that pressed her spine into an arch, jamming his belt buckle hard against her belly.
“Rose…” He was panting like a stallion. Frightened now, she began to struggle, but he was a large, powerful man, and her twisting movements only served to heighten his ardor. “Rose…dash it, girl, if you only knew how long I’ve wanted you.” He kissed her again, his hands groping downward toward her buttocks. Rose could sense Latigo’s mocking black eyes watching everything from the kitchen doorway. She knew he could not help her.
For an instant she went rigid in Bayard’s arms. Then, as his hot palms slid lower, she gathered all her strength into one desperate, wrenching shove.
“No!” she gasped, twisting away from him and spinning free. “I’m not ready for this.”
“You were married to an old man, Rose.” He reached for her again, his face flushed, his lips damp and red. “It’s time you found out what having a younger fellow is like.”
“No!” Dizzy with rage and fear, she clutched the back of a chair, keeping it between them. “You have no right to touch me! You’ve insulted me, dishonored my husband’s memory. I want you gone!”
He took a step backward, startled by her vehemence. “Now, Rose, honey, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Get out, Bayard.” Her voice was flat and cold, her body drained of its emotional energy. “I’m sorry if I misled you, but I have no desire to marry you or anyone else. This ranch was John’s, and it belongs to John’s son. I intend to raise the boy here—by myself.”
His eyes bulged with the outrage of a man accustomed to getting his own way. “You’ll change your mind. I can make you change your mind. You’ll see.”
Rose tightened her lips, her silent glare saying more than any words she might have uttered. His voice faded, then rallied once more.
“You’ll find I don’t give up that easily,” he declared, retreating toward the entry hall. “Mark my words, Rose. One day you’ll come to me on your knees. You’ll kiss my boots, and you’ll beg me to marry you!”
When she did not answer, he turned and strode out the front door, closing it behind him with a bang.
Rose stood poker-spined, listening to the snort of his horse as he mounted and rode away. Only when the galloping hoofbeats had faded into silence did she slump, trembling, onto the chair.
“That was quite a performance, Mrs. Colby.”
Latigo had opened the kitchen door. He was on his feet, leaning unsteadily against the frame. His face was as gray as river mud. His right hand clutched the long, sharp kitchen knife she had used to slice the bread.
Rose glared at him, too unstrung to be frightened. “You can put that