The Cattle Baron. Margaret Way
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that so? How are you feeling now?” he added, shocked that he’d almost forgotten what she had endured.
“Light-headed.”
“When we reach town, you can get a good meal into you.”
“I could go for that,” she said, leaning her head back. “A nice dinner…”
“With Marley?” He couldn’t resist it.
Her eyes flew open. “I told you I’m not involved with him in any way other than professionally.”
“Okay.” His voice soothed. “So why are you tagging along with him?”
“I should have told you. Dr. Marley thinks highly of my persuasive powers.”
He gave a brief laugh that made her squirm. “Don’t kid yourself.”
“You’re not being very complimentary. You know what my accident means, don’t you? The fates have chosen to throw us together. I doubt if I’d have got back up the hill without you.”
“You’re dead right,” he said, sounding pretty final.
“Of course, I could have screamed for help.”
“Why do I have the feeling no one would have heard you? Though I suppose Marley would have noticed when you didn’t show up.”
She wished he’d accept that the situation with Marley was not as it obviously seemed. “Can’t we forget Dr. Marley for a minute?” Rosie asked wearily.
“No.” His answer was flat. “I had one conversation with the man. It could last me all my life.”
“Is there a reason you’re not being cooperative?” Rosie complained. “What I need from you—”
He chopped her off. “Do you honestly believe Three Moons was the site of an ancient Egyptian village?” he asked, exasperation in his tone.
Rosie had learned a long time ago to tell the truth. “I honestly don’t, but it would be one heck of a discovery if it was. As I see it, Marley’s not a fool. He’s a brilliant scholar, a renowned archaeologist. And he has something in his possession I think you should see.”
“Don’t tell me, a mummy.” A mocking smile touched his face.
Rosie shuddered. “I wouldn’t be too happy about a mummy. No, this is a scarab.”
His look clearly conveyed I could have told you that. “So where did he get it? One of his mates in Cairo?”
“Are you willing to be open-minded?” she implored.
“No.” He shook his head. “Plain enough, Rosie?”
“Something tells me you haven’t lost the spirit of inquiry, of adventure.” She turned to him earnestly. “Despite your stubbornness.”
“The answer is still no.”
Now she clicked her tongue, folded her arms across her chest. “You’re letting your dislike of the man overrule your intelligence.”
At that he laughed spontaneously. “You know I’m intelligent, do you?”
She patted his arm encouragingly. “I’m not one of those who thinks brawn can’t be matched by brain. Let him talk to you. No more than an hour. There’s only one pub in town, unless you’re staying with a friend. You have to have dinner. We’ll throw in dinner.”
His amusement was still evident. “That’s mighty generous of you, Miss Summers. I take it this dinner will be with Dr. Marley and you?”
She nodded. “And what you see might surprise you,” she said in warm inviting tones.
“What I’d like to see, Rosie, is you dressed up to dine. Not that you wouldn’t be eye-catching at any time.”
“Well, I couldn’t be beautiful, so I went for offbeat.”
“I think you managed a bit of both.”
“You’re being kind,” she said lightly, not considering her appearance a big issue.
“I hate women who push for compliments,” he teased.
“Not me!” Rosie shook her head. “My experiences have made me anything but frivolous. To get back to the subject, you’re saying you’ll have dinner with us?”
“Stop it. Too easy. You’re persuasive, all right. I can well imagine your getting all your interviewees to spill the beans, but guys like Marley and I don’t hang out together.”
“You’ve got to meet him all the same. I think he’s on to something with this theory of his. He’s obsessed with the whole idea.”
“A rich fantasy life, it’s called. I have an uncle just like him,” Chase scoffed.
“Actually, I’ve met him. Porter Banfield?” Rosie’s eyes studied his profile, seeing the family resemblance, but still not able to believe it. Could any two people be less alike?
Now she had surprised him. “Where?” he asked sharply. “Porter doesn’t get his kicks talking to young women, however scintillating. I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s one miserable bastard. A confirmed misogynist.”
“I think you’re right,” Rosie answered, nodding. “A misogynist may be misguided, emotionally bankrupt, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s stupid. He’s a Banfield, after all.”
He realized he was being thoroughly entertained. “Stop trying to butter me up, Miss Summers,” he warned. “Others have tried it before you.”
“Evidently without success.”
“You haven’t figured me out, either.”
“True, but I’m not defeated. Besides, I think you owe me something for saving my life.”
He laughed, a rich chuckle. “That kind of reasoning is beyond me. Anyway, someone would eventually have found you. I’m even coming around to thinking you could have saved yourself.”
She turned to him engagingly. “Just an hour. I swear you won’t regret it.”
Silence. “You’re doing this for Marley?” he asked finally.
“Hell, no,” Rosie crowed. “I’m doing this for myself. This is my baby. My big scoop.”
“In that case,” he told her. “I’ll come.”
BY SEVEN O’CLOCK Rosie was bathed and dressed. She hadn’t had a lot of time because Chase Banfield had insisted on dropping her at the local doctor’s to have her “checked out.” It was easier not to argue. And it was rather nice being cared for. She hadn’t had that kind of attention since she’d left home. As expected, the doctor confirmed her own evaluation of herself—she was tough, even if she didn’t look it.
Tonight she’d gone to a lot of trouble with her appearance. Banfield had wanted to see her dressed up, so dressed up she’d be. Within limits. This was a little frontier town, after all. No need for the basic black and pearls. Not that she ever wore such garb. Her mother, who was a classic dresser, always said she got her outlandish taste from Great-aunt Hester, distinguished spinster in the family, now in her ninetieth year and still painting her much-sought-after nudes. Rosie’s outfit for the evening was the best she could come up with on short notice. A hot-pink skirt and, wonder of wonders, it didn’t clash with her hair. The top, sleeveless with a V-neck that showed just a hint of cleavage, was dark-green satin. She needed something rich to go around the middle, finally settled for a Thai-silk turquoise sash that fortuitously matched the turquoise sandals she’d brought with her. She’d long ago decided not to play down her unusual looks. For most of her early life, she’d been the clumsy duckling to her mother’s elegant swan. Her height had always been a worry; her hair, a cheerful orange. Then there was the bird’s beak of a nose, the wide sweep of her jaw. Again, inherited