Cowboys 08 - Luke Page 2

  Her maid held the door as Valeria swept into the room, only to be brought up short by the sight of a roughlooking man sitting in a deep, leather-covered chair by the window. Valeria stifled a frisson of fear, a gasp of surprise, then replaced them with a hiss of anger. Except for being absurdly handsome in a rough, unkempt sort of American way, he was exactly the kind of person Valeria was sure would kill her for anyone willing to pay his price.

  Valeria had met half the rulers of Europe, danced and dined with villains who stole countries, emptied treasuries, caused whole populations to be destroyed. From the coldness of his ice-blue eyes, the frigid feel of his gaze, Valeria knew this man could be just as ruthless. She turned to Otto. "Who is he?"

  "I don't know," Otto replied, looking nearly as uneasy as she felt.

  "Who are you, and how did you get into this room?" His gaze might be icy enough to chill her blood, but she was a princess. A hundred generations of warriors stood behind her. She would not cower before this American intruder.

  "I'm Luke Attmore."

  Just that. No explanation of what he was doing there, no apology for unnerving her, no excuse for invading her privacy.

  "I've never heard of you."

  He didn't reply, just continued to sit, looking as if he'd come straight in off the desert. His boots might once have been black, but time and use had rendered them a creased brown even a peasant in her country would have been ashamed to wear. His pants hugged his body like a second skin. She didn't know how he managed to sit down without ripping a seam.

  His shirt was of the same brown as the adobe, unadorned, and open at the throat. He wore his hat low over his eyes-wearing a hat inside was a breech of etiquette no European would have ever committed!-but not so low she couldn't see his eyes. He had a square jaw and wide, full, sensual lips. Bits of moonlight-blond hair hung down the back of his neck.

  Cleaned up and wearing decent clothes, he would be devastatingly handsome. But even in his deplorable condition he projected a sensual aura that reached out and enveloped her like a cloud of warm air in a cold room. Valeria had known many handsome men, but none had ever affected her so strongly by merely being in her presence. She couldn't understand it. She disliked it, and it made her angry.

  "Make him leave," she said, turning back to Otto. "And if the hotel can't keep strangers from wandering into my room, we'll have to go to another hotel."

  "This is the only hotel in Bonner," Mr. Attmore said. "At least, it's the only one suitable for you."

  "You call this suitable?" Valeria said, rounding on him, angry he hadn't left, angry he still appeared to feel more comfortable in her presence than she in his, angry her attraction to the man continued to grow. She couldn't figure out what could possibly be wrong with her, unless the heat had caused her to go mad. There was absolutely nothing about this man that should inspire her interest or admiration. He was a commoner, an uncivilized man ... an American!

  "It's what passes for luxury in Bonner," he said.

  Valeria realized she was still standing in the doorway, flanked by Otto and her maid, her entire entourage backed up behind her-all because of this man. "Otto, have someone remove him from my room at once. And tell the owner of this hotel that I wish to speak to him immediately. These accommodations are not satisfactory.

  "They're the best you'll find unless you go to Tucson," Mr. Attmore said. He still didn't move. "You probably ought to keep going until you reach San Francisco. I doubt you'll find anything between here and there that'll satisfy your exacting demands."

  He said it as if he thought she was a spoiled brat, whining because she hadn't gotten what she wanted. Well, she hadn't gotten what she wanted. This room was a disgrace. The floors were plain wood, worn from use, and covered in places by rugs that appeared to be made from randomly chosen rags. A Spanish armor plate, a couple of religious paintings, and a drawing that showed a bear being lassoed and killed by some men dressed very much like Mr. Attmore hung on the walls. Someone had painted designs in bright, primary colors on the ceiling. She had never seen anything like them and had no idea what they represented.

  The furniture seemed substantial-the wardrobe commodious, the bed covered in a brightly colored blanket made up of unfamiliar geometric designs, the chairs and tables numerous-but everything had been constructed of nearly black wood and covered in dark brown leather. She was used to spacious rooms decorated in white and gold, elegant chairs covered in embroidered silk or wo

  ven tapestry, furniture designed to delight the eye as well as offer comfort.

  "Why are you here?" she demanded.

  "Because Hans Demel hired me to escort you to your new home. I thought it would be polite to introduce myself."

  Valeria could tell from the look in his eyes that whatever he might have thought before she entered the room, he didn't think it any longer. He was looking at her with disdain. The idea that he was her escort was so shocking, so unbelievable, she couldn't speak for a moment.

  "I don't want you to escort me anywhere," she said. "Otto will find someone else. You are free to go back to ... where do you come from?" she demanded, startled to realize that, though she knew nothing about him, she was certain he didn't come from around here.

  "All over," he replied.

  "Why do you stay here?"

  "Some of us like it."

  He smiled at her in a self-satisfied, superior sort of way as though he knew something she didn't and he wasn't going to tell her what it was. Well, that was just fine. She didn't want to know anything he knew. It couldn't possibly be of interest to her. She had every intention of convincing Rudolf to move to a more civilized part of the country the moment she reached him.

  "Why are you still here?" she demanded when he didn't move.

  "I'm studying you."

  Nobody studied her. At least, not anybody like this scruffy cowboy. She thought that was the correct term. She'd heard somebody use it in connection with a man dressed like Mr. Attmore.

  "What do you see for all your studying?" she asked, her chin tilted upward. Her maid had stopped standing like a statue and begun to unpack some of the cases that contained her lotions, ointments, and other beauty aids.

  "I see a woman who appears to be far too young to consider herself of such consequence, pretty enough, though not a great beauty."

  Valeria heard gasps from her maid and Otto. No one spoke to a member of the royal house like this. She knew she wasn't a great beauty, but everyone said she was, because to say anything else to a princess would have been an insult.

  "And you appear to be remarkably foolish," he continued, "willing to judge by outward appearances. But I guess I can't blame you for that. You've been judged the same way your whole life. You've probably been so busy getting your hair fixed or going for a dress fitting you never had time to develop your mind or character. I doubt there's anything of substance behind all that powder and those ridiculous clothes."

  Ordinarily Valeria would have been angry at such a brutal appraisal of her character, but how could an illbred American be expected to understand royalty? However, she took exception to his remark about her clothes.

  "This dress is from Paris," she said, unable to believe even an American would call clothes designed by Worth of Paris ridiculous.

  "Then you should have saved it for Paris. You'll ruin it in a single day out here. You should also have left your carloads of belongings behind."

  "It's impossible to leave everything behind. How could I live?" She knew she'd brought too much, but as long as she was surrounded by reminders of home, she felt a little less frightened, a little less lost.

  "You'll soon find that living well has to do with a person's character, not a trainload of belongings." "Leave my room this instant," Valeria said with all the regal outrage she could summon. When he didn't move, she practically shouted, "I'd walk through the desert by myself before I'd go so much as one foot with you. Did you hear me?"

  "I imagine half of Bonner heard you," he said, finall
y rising to his feet. "The rest of them will know by dinnertime."

  Then he turned and walked out. He didn't bow, nod his head, doff his hat, or take verbal leave of her. He just walked out as if she, Otto, and her maid didn't exist.

  She whirled on Otto. "Who hired that man?"

  "Hans."

  "He couldn't have met him, or he wouldn't have hired him."

  "I imagine it was done through an agent."

  "Make certain we never use their services again. Now I'd better change for dinner. I hope you've informed the hotel that I have my own chef and my own food. The kitchen must be put at his disposal."

  "I instructed Hans to attend to that." "Good. I'll dine at half past eight." "Very good."

  Otto didn't move.

  "Is there something else?" she asked.

  "Did you really mean that man wasn't to serve as our guide?"

  "I most certainly did."

  "We can't possibly find Duke Rudolf's ranch without him."

  "Find another guide. There must be dozens like him."

  Chapter Two

  Luke leaned back in his chair and allowed his eyelids to droop, but he watched Hans closely to gauge the extent of his sincerity.

  "You can't quit," Hans was saying. "The princess is in great danger."

  "You keep telling me that, but you can't give me any proof," Luke said.

  Otto had followed Luke from Valeria's room, confirmed that he really had been fired, but said he could keep the money he'd already been paid. Less than twenty minutes later Hans tracked Luke down and begged him to stay.

  "I'm certain they're only waiting until we leave Bonner. Once we're in your wilderness, there won't be anyone to stop them," Hans said.

  "Who are you afraid of?" Luke asked.

  Hans looked around with the nervous glance of a man fearful he would be attacked from behind at any moment. Luke could have told him the Crystal Palace was the safest and most orderly saloon in town. It was patronized primarily by the solid citizens of the town, along with some mine- and land-owners; the conversation was muted, the alcohol of good quality. Several years earlier the town fathers had hired Luke to clean out a gang of rustlers and gold thieves. People still remembered burying the gang one by one in the local boot hill. Luke's liking for a quiet place to drink his brandy ensured that the boisterous miners would seek their beer and whiskey elsewhere while he was in town.

  "I can't be entirely sure who's behind it," Hans admitted. "Otherwise Prince Matthais would have caught the unprincipled cowards. He was not easily persuaded to let the princess travel to this country. For more than a year he insisted Duke Rudolf return to Europe. But such a trip would endanger the duke's life."

  Why?"

  "A revolution in Ergonia deposed his father ten years ago. Those in power now would try to kill the duke if he should attempt to return. He's depending on the princess's inheritance. So you see, he, too, is most anxious to see she reaches him safely."

  "Still, I don't see who can be behind this danger you are certain hangs over the princess."

  Luke told himself he shouldn't be wasting his time. Hans had spent his entire life in the confines of a dull, orderly, protocol-driven European court where being fifteen minutes late for lunch could put a person before the firing squad. Just being in the Arizona Territory was probably enough to start him seeing bandits behind every bush.

  "I have lived at court my whole life," Hans said. "I can sense these things."

  Luke refrained from pointing out that in the West people liked facts, that all this sensing things could get you killed. Being right wasn't always enough. You had to be smart and fast with a gun. Most people weren't smart enough or fast enough. That's where Luke came in. "It doesn't matter," Luke said. "The princess has fired me."

  "She has no authority to do that," Hans said. "I hired you at the behest of her uncle. You are still our guide."

  Luke sank deeper into his chair. "She doesn't want me. Otto told me I could keep the money, to just go away."

  Hans didn't appear surprised, but he did appear disapproving. Or was it disappointed?

  "That's how we do it in my country, pay people to ignore injustice and fade away quietly. I was told men in your country were willing to die for their principles."

  "Meaning?" Luke didn't have any principles. Yet, once he accepted a job, he didn't consider his obligation fulfilled until he had completed the job. But he'd been fired. So why did Hans's disappointment prick a sensitivity he hadn't known he had?

  "You can't desert the princess."

  "I've been paid to go away."

  "I'll pay you more to stay."

  "Why?"

  "My family has served the princess's family for more than a hundred and fifty years. During that time we've managed to prevent any of them from being killed. I don't intend to be the first one to fail."

  "What's in it for you?"

  "Honor."

  "I'm talking about money," Luke said. "Nobody does something like this for nothing."

  "You consider honor nothing?"

  "It can be bought."

  "Service can be bought. Honor never."

  Hans's words stung. What right did he have to criticize Luke? He was short and unattractive, balding, on the shady side of fifty, his stomach threatening to burst the buttons on his waistcoat. He couldn't see without his thick glasses, and he was too slow and weak to defend himself. "You're mighty free with your criticism," Luke said.

  "I don't know your character well enough to criticize you," Hans said, looking more nervous and ill at ease than ever. "But people say once you take on a job, you don't back down, regardless of the danger. That's why I chose you."

  "This isn't a matter of backing down," Luke said. "I've been fired."

  "Not by me, and I'm the one who made the contract with you."

  Luke sat forward so quickly, Hans jumped back startled. "I'll honor our bargain on one condition."

  "I understood you never had conditions."

  "I do this time."

  "What is it?"

  How could a silly, defenseless man look so proud and regal? "The princess must ask me to go with her," Luke said.

  Hans collapsed like a punctured balloon. "She'll never do that."

  Luke settled back into his chair. "Then you'll have to find someone else. I won't take a commission against the wishes of the person I'm supposed to protect. I did that once"-to protect his brother, but Hans didn't have to know that "and I swore I'd never do it again."

  "But how do I get her to change her mind?" "Let her spend several days in this town." "She'll insist I hire someone else." "Then hire someone else."

  "They told me Americans were stiff-necked and proud, especially you."

  "Who told you?"

  "Jefferson Randolph. He's a very successful banker."

  "I know Mr. Randolph." Luke would have a few things to say to Jeff when they met again. Not that Jeff would care. He could be extremely foul-tempered when he wanted to. Luke rose. "My honor can't be bought, either. I'll escort the princess to the duke's ranch, but she must ask me herself."

  "She's much too proud," Hans said, perspiration the size of raindrops popping out on his forehead. "So am I," Luke replied.

  As he watched Hans walk away, Luke wondered why he'd agreed to reconsider. He'd never done that before. He didn't understand why the princess intrigued him. He despised royalty in principle and in practice. The aristocrats he'd encountered deserved to be dethroned, cast out, and forced to earn their living. They were little more than glorified leeches living off the labors of others.

  So what made him believe Valeria might be different? Had her dusky beauty hypnotized him? She had hair black as a raven's wing, thick and glistening, ebony brows, ruby lips. He'd never seen more perfect skin, not the pure white favored by most but almost an almond color. Could it be that the princess had a few drops of gypsy blood? The thought made him smile.

  Maybe she had cast a spell over him.

  He got to this feet,
disgusted with his foolish thoughts. She was a beautiful woman with a tall, slim body endowed with almost enough curves to be voluptuous. He reacted like other men when it came to beautiful women. But he differed from most men in that he never let his physical response influence his actions.

  Valeria couldn't sleep. The heat was nearly unbearable, but it was the noise outside that kept her awake. It seemed people in this town didn't go to sleep. For the last two hours they'd gone up and down the street, shouting to each other, shouting at each other, fighting, even singing drunken songs. She'd sent Otto to complain, but the miners were a rough lot who didn't appreciate restrictions. In her country, the army would have taken care of them immediately. She wondered why the American army didn't do something.

  Then she realized she hadn't seen any army. What kind of country was this that didn't have soldiers everywhere? How were people controlled, revolutions prevented?

  The army hadn't prevented a revolution in her country. Nor in Rudolf's. That was why she was in America trying to find her way across its trackless wastes. She wondered what Rudolf was doing on a ranch. He didn't know anything about working for a living.

  The noise level on the street below had been dropping over the last few minutes until near-silence reigned. She could still hear footsteps, so she knew not everyone had gone home. Why had the men stopped making so much noise? Curious, she got out of bed and went over to the window. The number of men about didn't seem to have decreased, but they weren't loud and raucous as they had been for the last few hours. They walked quickly, talking softly among themselves, glancing into the shadows as though wary of something they couldn't see.