Desert Storm

By Nan Ryan

Married off to a Texas landowner, a young woman fights temptation when her husband’s son moves home
Her whole life, Angie Webster has been raised to heed her father. Since her mother died—a fallen woman, and a disgrace to the family name—Jeremiah has kept Angie away from friends, from society, and, most of all, from boys. But as Jeremiah nears death, he realizes it is time for her to settle down. He chooses Barrett McClain, a wealthy rancher whose isolated mansion might provide Angie with a haven from the temptations of the world. But for this frightened young bride, temptation is just the beginning. Although her new husband seems to be a kindly old widower, his smile hides inconceivable viciousness. And then there is his son, Pecos, who appears to hate his father’s new bride, but secretly lusts for her. Alone on the ranch, Angie will learn that to become a woman, she must learn to fight like a man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Oct 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781453282427

Nan Ryan

Nan Ryan (1936–2017) was an award-winning historical romance author. She was born in Graham, Texas, to Glen Henderson, a rancher postmaster, and Roxy Bost. She began writing when she was inspired by a Newsweek article about women who traded corporate careers for the craft of romantic fiction. She immediately wrote a first draft that she refused to let see the light of day, and was off and running with the success of her second novel Kathleen’s Surrender (1983), a story about a Southern belle’s passionate affair with a mysterious gambler. Her husband, Joe Ryan, was a television executive, and his career took them all over the country, with each new town providing fodder for Ryan’s stories. A USA Today bestseller, she enjoyed critical success the Literary Guild called “incomparable.” When she wasn’t writing, she was an avid sports handicapper, and a supporter and contributor to the Shriners Hospitals for Children and Juvenile Diabetes since the 1980s. Ryan passed away peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by her proud and loving family.  

Book preview

Chapter One

GO TO TEXAS!

That’s what I said!

Please, Papa, Angie pleaded, her emerald eyes filled with horror, you can’t be seriously suggesting that I marry a man I’ve never seen, one older than you, and live with him in Texas.

Hush, girl, Jeremiah Webster said coldly. I’m doing this for your own good. You should be grateful that a man as prosperous and as holy as Barrett McClain would agree to make you his wife.

The slender man rose from his rocker and shuffled to the stone fireplace. Angie, her hands twisting nervously in her lap, watched as he stirred the fire in the too-warm room, his thin lips stretched into a pleased smile.

Why, it’s out of his love for the Lord and his close friendship with me that Barrett agreed to this marriage, he continued. I’ve raised you up properly and I expect you to be a warm and loving wife to my good friend. Turning slowly, he pulled the old woolen sweater closer around his thin chest and looked down at her. It is the will of God, Angie. I’m a dying man, and I’ve prayed night after night for your safety when I leave this earth. Barrett’s most gracious letter offering to make you his bride was heaven-sent, I assure you.

Grimacing, she looked up at him. Rarely did Angie dare to contradict or question Jeremiah Webster. Long ago the very will had been almost beaten out of her. Often she’d felt his heavy hand bring his leather belt down on her backside for disobeying. Finally, stubborn though Angie was, she had learned it was much easier to agree to anything he said. To disagree, she had painfully learned, meant swift, sure punishment.

Angie didn’t hate her father. She realized that he loved her in his own strange way. If he’d made her pay for her mother’s sins, it was understandable. Angie had seen a yellowing picture of her mother and the strong resemblance was unmistakable. She had taken her mother’s coloring: her fair, pale complexion and her flaxen-blond hair were very much like those of the smiling woman in the photograph. Her mother’s sparkling eyes, her father had assured her, were as emerald-green as her own, and he had added, distastefully, that those eyes had been used to flirt and cajole and send men’s souls straight to the devil. Carefully Angie had kept her own wide, green eyes from flirting with the young men around her. She had no desire to send a man’s soul to Satan, nor did she want her father accusing her of such vile deeds.

Angie had grown up under her father’s close scrutiny and she had learned to accept her life with little complaint. She was curious at times about all the things she had missed, but she hid her curiosity effectively. At eighteen she was almost ashamed of her full, woman’s body and had no idea that the young gentlemen she saw at church every Sunday in the little congregation gathered on upper Canal Street, found it difficult to keep their minds on the minister’s fiery sermons when her modestly gowned young bosom swelled as she lifted her sweet voice in song and her long golden hair glittered in the sun-dappled room.

Angie had long ago stopped pleading for new dresses and settled for the hand-me-downs that came from the kind ladies of the congregation. She was expected to wear them, even if she was not built anything like the generous giver. Some Sundays she was clad in a shapeless, loose billowing dress she could barely keep from slipping off her narrow shoulders. Her father never seemed to notice that the clothes didn’t fit her. If he did notice, he thought such things were trivial and made no difference. Angie hid her despair and took great tucks in the larger dresses. Ones that were too small were more of a problem; there was little she could do but wiggle into the revealing frocks, her face crimson, her heart heavy.

From childhood, when the mother she couldn’t remember had left her, Angie’s life had been one of loneliness and quiet acquiescence to her religious and misguided father. She accepted loneliness as her lot in life and dutifully fixed his meals, mended his clothes, cleaned their small house and listened while he read to her from the worn leather Bible, hour upon weary hour.

That other young women her age were attending gay parties and taking carriage rides through the cobblestoned streets of New Orleans, rarely occurred to Angie. She knew such behavior was out of the question for her, and besides, she could not imagine a young man being interested in calling on her. Her father’s reputation as a Bible-spouting, stern disciplinarian was widespread, and although more than one young man’s heart leaped at the very sight of the lovely Angie, not one dared to ask for the pleasure of her company.

When she had first begun to blossom into womanhood, a brash boy had made the mistake of snatching up one of her small hands after evening church service and leading her around the small building into the shadows. Whispering brazenly that he was going to kiss her, he was leaning toward her when suddenly he was lifted away from her with great force. He looked up at his assailant with terrified eyes. Angie’s father shoved the boy roughly aside; the lad turned and ran as fast as he could around the corner of the building. Angie was not so lucky. Accusing her of behaving like a harlot, her father dragged her home and soundly punished her for her sins. Word of the incident quickly spread and Angie’s social life ended.

As time dragged by, Angie learned to put aside her girlish dreams of pretty clothes and lawn parties and kisses in the moonlight. To yearn for such frivolous things was sinful, she’d been told over and over. She knew her chances of enjoying such worldly pleasures were remote. She quietly accepted the fact that her life was to be little more than looking after her frail, protective father, and that the only outings she’d be allowed were the frequent church services they attended. Even there, she was segregated from the other young people. Explaining that he had heard the young ladies chattering and giggling, Angie’s father told her she could no longer sit with them; she would take her place beside him at the very front of the church. Longing only for peace, she’d agreed, and nodding to the twittering group of girls in their new frocks, she had sadly marched to the front pew, to sit painfully still throughout the service.

It was puzzling to Jeremiah Webster that the daughter who had finally become the dutiful child he’d taught her to be, was now questioning his decision to marry her to the fine friend he’d known for so many years. It wasn’t like her to dispute his word and he was disappointed that those wide, green eyes were on him, accusing him of not considering her feelings when all he wanted was her secure future. He was shocked when she rose and came to stand defiantly before him, her gaze unwavering.

Papa, I’ve tried to be a respectful daughter, but you are asking too much this time. I will not marry some old man of your choosing, who is a total stranger to me. Surely you would not make me marry against my wishes!

His narrow face growing red with anger, Jeremiah shouted, You will do exactly as I tell you to do! My patience with you is wearing thin, young lady. I am a dying man, and I deserve some semblance of peace. I am responsible for you being on this earth, and it is my duty to see that you are taken care of. I can’t go to my grave knowing that you will wind up like … like your … I won’t let you turn into a fallen woman after all my patient years of caring for you. Do you hear me, Angie? You’ll not be allowed to live like your mother! His watery blue eyes were filled with wrath.

Why are you always so certain I’ll go bad? Angie put her small hands to her hips and stepped closer to him. I can’t help what my mother was; it’s not fair to blame it on me. Besides, I’m part of you, too, Papa. I’m not sinful; I have no intention of being a loose woman, but surely there is some other solution than marrying some old man I don’t know. I’ll hire out as domestic help in a good home here in the Garden District. Or I’ll … I’m smart, I could be a governess to someone’s—

You’ll do nothing of the kind. You will marry Barrett McClain and the sooner the better! We leave within the week, so start packing your things. You will be Mrs. Barrett McClain before I claim my rightful home above. Now, leave me, get out of my sight; you’ve made my strength drain away, I must rest. He stumbled to his chair and fell tiredly into it. Pale and listless, he let his head fall back against the worn fabric and Angie, as she had so many times before, scolded herself silently for upsetting her well-meaning, sickly father.

Contrite, Angie bit her lip and wished she’d kept silent. Longing, as she always had, for her father’s approval, she edged shyly nearer to his chair. Dropping to her knees beside him, she said earnestly, Papa, I’m sorry I’ve upset you. It is not what I meant to do. I’m selfish and ungrateful and I most humbly beg your forgiveness. Holding her breath, she lifted her hand to the thin, bony one on the chair’s arm. Tentatively resting hers atop his, she gently squeezed and said hopefully, You know what is best for me, Papa. I shall try to be a good and decent wife to your friend, Mr. McClain.

Lifeless eyes slitted open and he looked at her, sighing. I try, Angie, I do try. It’s of you I am thinking, girl.

I know, Papa. She smiled up at him. Thank you for arranging the marriage. I do hope I will be deserving of the kindness Mr. McClain has so generously offered.

Jeremiah Webster retrieved his hand from beneath hers. It’s late and I’m very tired. Lurching forward, he was no more than to the chair’s edge before Angie was on her feet, cupping his elbow in her hand.

Yes, Papa, you need rest. I’ll help you to your room. Together they made slow, steady progress down the narrow center hall to the small bedroom at the back of the house. Straining to support his weight, Angie struggled with the brass doorknob, pushing open the warped door, while the hand under her father’s elbow remained firmly in place. It remained there until he lowered himself to a sitting position on his bed by the window.

Jeremiah Webster yawned while Angie removed his shoes and stockings. Rising in front of him, she pivoted, crossed the room and, pausing at the door, asked, Will you be all right, Papa? May I get you a glass of warm milk, or read to you, or …

With a dismissive wave of his hand he said, I want only sleep. No Good night. No Thank you for asking. No I love you, Angie. But then, there never had been.

Night, Papa, Angie said and quietly closed his door. She moved back down the hall, turning right at the kitchen. Efficiently clearing away the supper dishes, Angie washed, dried and put them away in the cupboard. She swept the crumbs from the floor, moved the tall-backed chairs to their proper places on each side of the small eating table and put the broom away. Turning around in a circle, she checked to be certain that everything was in its place. Satisfied that it was, she went to her own small room next to her father’s.

The fading April sunset shone through the open window beside her narrow bed. The red sphere had already slipped out of sight below the horizon, but its glorious reflection painted the puffy clouds her favorite hues of pink and purple. She hugged her arms around her rib cage and inhaled deeply, her green eyes drinking in the changing kaleidoscope bathing her world with loveliness. The beauty caused a deep sweet ache in her chest.

Angie stood transfixed, not wanting to miss one second of nature’s exhibit. When night sounds filled the quiet air and no hint of color was left in the west, she reluctantly turned from the window and slowly undressed for bed, not one bit sleepy. She would have liked to slip out onto the front porch and sit and enjoy the cooling spring air for a time, but her father had cautioned her often about such foolish pastimes, reminding her that it wouldn’t look proper for a young lady to be seated out-of-doors alone for all passersby to see as though she were advertising something. Failing to see the harm in sitting on one’s own porch to spin girlish dreams, Angie nonetheless avoided the inviting gallery, except when her father felt well enough to sit there with her.

There had also been the repeated reminders that the use of lamp oil for anything other than reading the Good Book was a waste and would not be tolerated. With the porch off-limits and nothing to read save the Bible, Angie was left with little choice but to retire. Hanging her clean, well-worn dress on a hook on the door, she modestly pulled the curtains together over her window and finished undressing. A threadbare petticoat and muslin pantalets were her only undergarments. Naturally slender, Angie needed no corset, but she would have liked to have a nice lacy camisole or chemise. Yet how could she tell her father that she was becoming a woman and she needed ladies’ undergarments?

She couldn’t. And the good ladies of the church who supplied her with every stitch of clothing she owned, certainly didn’t pass on their underwear to her. It was the same with nightclothes. Angie had none. She crawled into her narrow bed each night as naked as the day she was born. She knew it must be terribly sinful to sleep that way, but she had little choice. She simply had no nighties.

Her dress hanging on the door, her petticoat and pantalets draped over a straight-backed chair, Angie turned back the covers of her bed and knelt beside it. Bringing her hands together directly underneath her chin, she closed her eyes and said her prayers, hoping the good Lord would hear her even though she was shamefully nude.

Dear Lord, she softly entreated, help me to be a better person so that I’ll not continue to disappoint Papa. Give me the strength to face what lies ahead, and God … if you possibly can … will you free me from an approaching marriage to a stranger? I shall never ask for anything else. Angie paused, then hurried on. Forgive my sins; bless Papa, in Jesus’ name, amen.

Rising, Angie opened the curtains before sliding into her bed. A cool, spring breeze wafted the worn lace and tempted Angie to leave her top sheet at the foot of the bed; but she did not. Hastily she snatched it up to her chin, protecting herself from any gentle night breezes that might sinfully tease her young body.

Many nights, slumber would no more than overcome her when Angie would begin to dream, and in those dreams a man she’d never met was there with her. He sat beside her, his dark handsome face just above hers, his eyes warm and loving. And he was stroking her, his fingers sliding intimately, slowly, tenderly up and down over her, from the slender left arm thrown up over her head, to the smooth, warm underarm, across her left breast, over her ribs, tickling, teasing, while her body strained to be closer to that fiery hand. The dark man was smiling at her while those sure, lean fingers caressed her slender waist, circled her navel and moved lower and lower.…

With a start, Angie would awaken, guilt gnawing at her for having a mind so evil that her dreams would be of such forbidden and base fantasies.

On this early April evening, Angie lay awake and thought of the life ahead of her. A great weariness seemed to crush down on her chest. Weariness and fear.

The thought of marrying any man filled the young, naive girl with terror. In her eighteen years, Angie had never been courted, never held hands in the porch swing, never been kissed in the back of a buggy and never shared girlish gossip about what takes place on a wedding night.

Angie bit the tender inside of her cheek. Within months she was to become the bride of a man ten years older than her father. That would make Barrett McClain fifty-eight years old! Did people that old still … would he expect her to share his bed? Surely not! Her papa would never hand her over to a man like that. No. Barrett McClain, she was certain, was a devout, God-fearing man, just like her papa. Mr. McClain was going to marry her only so that she might have a home after her papa’s passing. Barrett McClain was a kind, good man; he had no intention of exercising his rights as her legal husband. She was foolish to harbor such unfounded fears.

Angie relaxed a bit. Life with Barrett McClain would probably not be that different from her life here with her papa. She would probably be expected to keep his home clean, mend his clothes, fix his meals and accompany him to church. Perhaps in time she would grow fond of Mr. McClain, and he would help to fill the void in her life that would surely be there when her papa was gone.

Tears welled up in Angie’s emerald eyes. Poor Papa. Poor, poor Papa. What a selfish, coldhearted girl I am. I lie here thinking only of myself when my dear, sick Papa is dying.

Poor Papa.

Chapter Two

BARRETT MCCLAIN SAT ALONE on the south patio at Tierra del Sol. A silent Mexican servant, standing near the table, was waved away by the high-spirited, white-haired gentleman. Coffee is all I want this morning, Delores. You may go inside until Miss Emily joins me.

"Sí," A grin on her brown face, Delores backed away with a bobbing bow and disappeared inside the hacienda.

The sun was barely up. Barrett McClain rose each morning before sunup. He had since childhood, he would for as long as he lived. Long years of hard work, rising early and retiring early, had become the pattern of his life. It was hard to change. A wealthy, powerful man, Barrett McClain no longer worked as hard as he once had, but he still ran the vast southwest Texas ranch with an iron hand and nothing escaped his scrutiny. Five hundred thousand acres of land, forty thousand purebred cattle, seven hundred horses, one hundred hired vaqueros and cowboys, fifteen house servants and gardeners and the red-tiled roofed hacienda sprawling impressively on the desert floor made up an empire that was one of the largest in all Texas.

Barrett McClain liked to sit on the south patio in the quiet morning and let his eyes sweep over the vast expanse of land that was his. His thin lips, below the white mustache he kept carefully clipped and trimmed, always turned up into a pleased smile at the realization it all belonged to him. Every bit of it. From the distant property lines miles beyond his sight, to the finest, fattest steer, to the strongest, toughest vaquero, to the last piece of heavy carved furniture, to the most delicate cut of crystal. Everything and everyone belonged to him.

And now he would have another prized possession to add to his sizable collection. Barrett McClain took a drink of coffee and looked about to make certain he was alone. Smiling, he set his cup aside and reached into his breast pocket. Two blunt fingers drew out a small photograph. Almost tenderly, Barrett laid the picture before him on the white linen cloth. Smiling up at him was one of the most temptingly beautiful young women he had ever seen in his life. Her hair was pulled demurely into a tight knot behind her head in a manner that would have made most women’s facial features appear too sharp. Not this child’s. The severe hairstyle only showed how delicately lovely she was; how perfect the big, brilliant eyes, the small turned-up nose, the prettily pointed chin, the full, generous mouth, the long, swanlike neck. She sat with her hands in her lap, her skirts covering what he was sure were small feet. Her shoulders were narrow, her waist incredibly tiny and her breasts rounded and full.

Grinning foolishly, Barrett McClain ran a forefinger over the tiny picture, saying in a low, impassioned voice, Ah, my dear, sweet child. I wonder if you know how lovely you are? I can hardly wait to taste the delights of your sweet little body. It must surely be God’s will that I remained friends with your father all these years. Now, in his hour of need, I can be of help to him and to you. Barrett chuckled low in his throat, then added, And oh, my sweet, do I intend to help you! If I know my friend, Jeremiah Webster, you’ve been raised up right; you’re as pure as a babe and as innocent. Fear not, fair Angie, I’m more than willing to make you into a woman.

The thought was so pleasant, a small twinge of guilt shot through Barrett McClain’s broad chest. It quickly vanished and to the air he said testily, There will be no sin to it! The girl will be my wife; ’twill be my duty to keep her satisfied so that she will not be tempted to do anything that might endanger her immortal soul. Barrett nodded his white head up and down and his eyes twinkled merrily. As always, he convinced himself that he was doing the right thing, the holy thing. If that right and holy thing happened also to bring earthly pleasures, so be it.

Good morning, Barrett. He was shaken from his reveries by the soft voice of his sister-in-law. Guiltily snatching up the worn photograph from the table, Barrett thrust it back into his pocket as he rose.

Good morning, Emily. He smiled engagingly and pulled out her chair, seating her, before once again taking his own.

Was there someone else out here, Barrett? I thought I heard voices, Emily York said as she lifted a silver bell from the table and gently summoned a servant.

Ah, no … no. Barrett needlessly cleared his throat. Delores was out here a minute ago. He hoped his face wasn’t coloring.

I guess that’s what it was, Emily said, nodding. Delores, her colorful skirt swaying around thick hips, sashayed across the stone floor, in one brown hand a crystal platter of artfully arranged fresh fruit. Good morning, Delores, Emily said graciously. I believe I’ll have hot cereal this morning, if I may.

Placing the platter of fruit at the table’s center, Delores poured coffee from a silver pot and handed the cup to her mistress. "Sí. With honey and raisins?"

Emily lifted the steaming cup to pursed lips. No, thick cream and one spoonful of sugar, nothing more.

When the flash of Delores’s skirt had disappeared inside, Emily turned to her brother-in-law. Barrett, is there any further word on the Websters’ arrival?

Barrett McClain had told his dead wife’s sister that he had been called upon to help out a friend in distress. Over the years, he had spoken often of Jeremiah Webster, though he’d not seen the man, whose home was in New Orleans, for more than twenty years, not since the end of the War between the States.

It was during that bloody four-year tragedy that the two men had met and grown close. Barrett, ten years Jeremiah’s senior, was the commanding officer of the younger man in the brave, renowned Third Louisiana regiment, and together they had seen raging battles, shared dreams and talked of God. It was to Jeremiah that Barrett had admitted that the beautiful, blue-eyed, dark-haired wife waiting for him back in Texas was not as religious as she should be, that there were times when she was too lazy to go to Sunday services, and that their only son, Pecos, was a willful child. It seemed the boy had taken his mother’s worst traits and that it was necessary to punish him severely for his disrespectful ways.

Commiserating with his friend, Jeremiah Webster had shaken his head in complete understanding. Stating vehemently that he, Jeremiah, could think of nothing worse than falling victim to a woman of less than flawless morals, he had told his suffering friend that perhaps it would be better if Barrett left the unholy woman.

Ah, that’s just what I’d like to do, Barrett McClain had said, looking into Jeremiah’s kind, blue eyes, but I can’t. There’s the child, you know. Barrett had failed to mention at the time that there was another reason he wasn’t about to leave his wife. It so happened that the Texas ranch he’d spoken of to his friend Jeremiah was owned solely by his headstrong wife. Upon her father’s early death some thirteen years before, the lovely Kathryn York had become one of the richest women in Texas. Barrett McClain had been courting the pretty Kathryn at the time, and within a month of John York’s death, Barrett and Kathryn were man and wife.

You’re a good man, Barrett McClain, Jeremiah Webster said in honest admiration. I shall pray for you and for your rebellious wife and child.

Thank you, Jeremiah. Barrett was touched. And I shall pray that when you fall in love, it will be with a woman as pure in heart and as devout as you.

That’s the only kind I shall consider, Jeremiah stated emphatically, unaware that the woman whom destiny had chosen for him to take as his wife in the near future would make the wife of Barrett McClain look like a saint.

Barrett, Emily asked again, is there further word from the Websters?

Yes, I received a wire yesterday. Barrett toyed with the left side of his white mustache and tried to keep the excitement from his voice. Jeremiah informs me that he and his daughter will board a riverboat on Thursday next, travel along the Gulf down to Galveston and from Galveston take the train overland to Marfa. If fate is kind, the Websters should arrive safely by the first of May.

Sipping daintily from her china cup, Emily asked, Barrett, just how old is the daughter? Is she about Pecos’s age, or older? She looked him straight in the eye.

Barrett fished in his pocket for a cigar. Do you mind, Emily? he asked, waving it before him.

Certainly riot, go right ahead. She smiled sweetly. I’ve heard you mention her over the years, but somehow I never got it clear in my mind as to her age. She continued to face him down.

Miss Webster is very young, unfortunately. That can hardly be helped, can it? She needs my help and I shall provide it.

How old?

Eighteen! He felt his temper rising and longed to shout that it was none of her business, but he did not. Emily and he had lived for years under a somewhat shaky, needed truce. He had needed her to take care of the young, motherless Pecos after Kathryn’s death, and Emily, a maiden lady with no money, had needed a home and security. That they had never really liked each other was an unspoken truth. In all the years Emily and Barrett had lived together, she had quietly, deeply hated him. To her the home she lived in was more hers than his. She had been born in the big front bedroom upstairs forty-three years ago and had never lived anywhere else. Ten years younger than her sister, Kathryn, Emily was only fourteen when their father died; the girls’ mother having expired giving birth to her. Emily presumed her young age had been the reason that everything was left to the older Kathryn. Emily got nothing in her father’s will, but the will required Kathryn to provide for Emily. John York had also stated in the will that upon Emily’s coming of age, he was certain that Kathryn would do the right thing regarding her sister’s inheritance.

Perhaps she would have, had she not married Barrett McClain. By the time Emily was old enough to ask about her share of their father’s wealth, Barrett McClain was in charge. Emily found he always skirted her questions about her inheritance, assuring her that anything she wanted or needed was hers for the asking. She was not to worry, surely she trusted him. Why, everyone in southwest Texas knew what kind of man Barrett McClain was! Didn’t he go to church every Sunday? Didn’t he pray unceasingly? Didn’t he plead with his wife and son, and with Emily, too, to accompany him to services, to read from the Bible, to be upright and pure in heart?

Emily would never, never know what Barrett McClain had done to persuade Kathryn to sign over everything to him in her will. But that was exactly what had happened. When Kathryn died at age thirty-seven, her twenty-seven-year-old sister was left penniless, as was her eleven-year-old son, Pecos. Barrett McClain inherited it all and had the audacity to act surprised when the will was read. Saying that it was God’s will, Barrett had assured Emily she had a home at Tierra del Sol for as long as she wanted it, and Emily, never greatly independent, without the skills to earn a living and loving her nephew as if he were her own son, stayed.

Over the years her bitterness about her lost inheritance had dimmed. It was enough to know that upon Barrett’s death, he had only one heir, her adored nephew, Pecos. It would allgo to him; that was all that mattered. But Barrett’s proposed remarriage after all these years had given Emily the uneasy feeling that Pecos’s inheritance might be endangered. To sit and hear of her brother-in-law’s intention to marry an eighteen-year-old girl was devastating. Emily felt the hair on the nape of her neck stand up, and she pictured Pecos’s rage when he heard the news of the upcoming wedding.

Calmly, she said, Barrett, I realize you’re only trying to be kind to an old and valued friend. However, I think marriage is taking your concern just one step too far. Eighteen, indeed! Why, she’s a child, Barrett. Surely you can’t marry a girl of eighteen.

Feeling the heat creeping up from his stiff collar, Barrett drew on his cigar and made a show of slowly exhaling the smoke as though he were not in the least upset. Emily, granted she is quite young, but Jeremiah tells me she is very capable; she’s been running his house all her life, as her mother ran off when the girl was only an infant. Jeremiah tells me that Angie … ah, the girl … is most adept at cooking, cleaning and—

Emily interrupted, her movements jerky and rapid as she pushed her cereal bowl away and leaned closer to the table. Cooking, cleaning? She snorted indignantly. What has that to do with it? You’ve a house full of servants, Barrett. She’ll hardly be called upon to perform domestic duties, will she?

Well, no, no … that is …

Barrett, why don’t you bring the child here and let her live on the ranch with us? There’s no need whatever for you to marry the poor—

I’m shocked at you, Emily York! He tried to sound as indignant as his accuser. Are you truly suggesting that a young single woman live here with me without benefit of clergy? Why, the church would be appalled, as well they should be!

That’s ridiculous and you know it. I live here; she’d be well chaperoned. There would be nothing wrong with the child living under your roof. No one would think—

The heat continuing to spread upward to his bronzed cheeks, Barrett jammed his cigar out in his half-empty coffee cup, and he, too, leaned closer to the table. What about Pecos!

What about Pecos? she asked, blinking at him.

He lives here part of the time, too. He might … he could be tempted to … well, people would talk!

Emily put her elbows on the table, lacing her delicate fingers together under her chin. Barrett, as you well know, Pecos is gone much more than he is here. Besides, he wouldn’t pay her any mind unless the girl were extraordinary, special … beautiful. She paused and rubbed her chin from side to side on the backs of her hands. Is she? Is she, Barrett? Pretty, I mean?

Leaning away from the table, he folded his arms over his chest and glared at her. How would I know if she is pretty! I’ve never seen her, you know I haven’t.

Hmm, she said, pondering his answer. I thought perhaps her father had described her in his letters, or … maybe even sent you a picture.

As he came close to losing his composure completely, his head snapped up and his first instinct was to lie. But he didn’t. As a matter of fact, Jeremiah did send a rather fuzzy photograph of his daughter. She looks healthy and quite fair.

Emily slowly lowered her hands to her lap. She could tell by what Barrett didn’t say that the girl was pretty and pleasing to the eye. Fear leaped through her breast. If the girl was lovely and she married Barrett, might the child not cajole the foolish, woman-starved Barrett into leaving her his wealth?

As determined as Barrett to keep her composure, Emily tried again, purposely making her voice modulated and as kind as possible. Barrett, I know you are truly a good man. I know, too, that you want to do the right thing. But please, don’t feel that you must marry this child. It’s quite enough for you to generously take her in and care for her. I’ll help you with her, I swear it. The people of Marfa know what kind of man you are, Barrett. No one would think anything amiss at your having the daughter of an old friend here after the death of her father. Don’t you see that? No one could possibly see any wrong in it. Won’t you reconsider? Will you at least let her come and live with us for six months before you marry her?

Barrett cast flashing eyes at his sister-in-law. He reached out to toy with a silver spoon, as though intrigued with its shape. Have you heard from Pecos lately? he blurted out.

Taken aback, she said, No … no, I haven’t. Not in several weeks. You know Pecos, he’ll just show up one day.

Exactly! And before he does show up, I intend to marry Angie Webster. I don’t want Pecos—

Is someone calling me? came a deep, laughing voice from the edge of the patio.

Emily and Barrett turned at the same time. A tall, laughing man was coming toward them. His blue-black hair glinted in the glaring sun. His long, lean body moved catlike across the stone floor, his silver spurs clanking with his steps. The white, blousy shirt he wore was half-open down his brown chest, exposing a thatch of thick curling black hair. A gun belt of smooth black leather rode low on his slim hips. The shiny handle of his gun caught the sun’s rays, temporarily blinding a stunned Barrett McClain.

At the table, the lean, tall man, his white teeth flashing starkly in his swarthy face, continued to laugh a deep, low chuckle. He stopped directly behind Emily York’s chair, put his long, brown fingers gently around her cheeks and pulled her head back against his hard waist. Bending over her, he gave her smooth temple a kiss and said brightly, How’s my favorite girl?

Slender lace-covered arms came up out of Emily’s lap to clutch at his warm hands, while she smiled in happy welcome.

Pecos! You’ve come home!

Chapter Three

IT WAS WITH A GREAT DEAL of trepidation and melancholy that Angie Webster closed the door to the only home she’d ever known. The small, frame dwelling on Sycamore Street had been close to her entire universe since birth. Although she had often chafed at her imposed confinement within its aging walls, the thought of leaving it behind forever to travel to a strange and distant land to marry a man she had never met was terrifying.

Her hand on the doorknob, Angie hesitated, taking one last sweeping look around the now empty parlor. Tears stinging her eyes, she longed to fling the old warped door closed and hide inside, refusing to come out.

Angie, stop dawdling, it’s time we were going. Her father’s voice snapped her from her thoughts and she pulled the door shut, turned and hurried down the wooden steps of the porch.

Morning, Mr. Davis, Angie said, smiling sweetly to the portly neighbor from across the street who had so kindly consented to driving the Websters to the riverfront.

Morning, Angie. He nodded, offering his hand to the pretty young woman.

She took it and was helped up into the high carriage seat where her father was already settled. Angie cast one look over her shoulder at their two valises, hearing the plank seat groan as Bert Davis lumbered up onto it.

Ready? he asked clutching the reins in his fleshy hands.

Ready, Jeremiah confirmed.

You, Angie? Bert Davis looked down into the sad little face. His tone softening, he said, My dear, shall we be off?

Not trusting her voice, her ice-cold hands clutched tightly together within the folds of her faded navy-and-white gingham dress, Angie bit her trembling lip and bobbed her head violently up and down, her lungs feeling as though they would surely explode.

Understanding her despair, Bert Davis clicked his tongue to the trusted old mare harnessed to the small buggy. His chest hurt, too. Bert and his wife, Pearl, had lived across the street from the Websters for the past fifteen years. Bert could vividly recall the day he and his Pearl had moved to the little white house on Sycamore. He had hardly lifted Pearl from the carriage before the most beautiful, child he’d ever seen came flying across the street, her flaxen hair afire in the bright July sunshine. Three-year-old Angie Webster was laughing, a sweet, bubbly sound coming from her tiny mouth. Shouting happily, I’m Angie, who are you? the pretty child ran right into his arms, squealing with delight when he lifted her from the ground.

Childless, the Davises immediately fell in love with the pretty three-year-old. Unfortunately, the love they had for the little girl was mostly heaped on her from afar. On that long ago July day, Jeremiah Webster had stormed from the Webster home, hurrying across the street to the strangers oohing and aahing over the appreciative Angie. His face stern, he nodded coldly to the Davises and took his young daughter from Bert’s short, chubby arms. Crisply introducing himself, he whirled and recrossed the street.

While the Davises stood in front of their new home looking toward the small frame house where father