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  But as William told a story she already knew, Hetta absentmindedly massaged her arms and wondered what Owen Wheeler was doing in Pinto Junction. Was he telling the truth about Mr. diViere? And why could she still feel the imprint of his hands where he'd touched her?

  Owen walked to the dark end of Ida's porch. He forced himself to take one deep breath after another until his insides stopped churning. Why couldn't he forget Rachelle Ginter? She was like a poisoned cloud hanging over him. He'd tried to pay for his crime. The last year of the war he'd fought like a fool, taken insane risks, volunteered for any mission, no matter how dangerous. He'd had three horses shot from under him, but not once had a bullet so much as ripped his clothing.

  He'd sworn he'd never flirt with a decent woman again, yet here he was flirting with a woman who wasn't even beautiful. It was in his blood. He'd tried like hell to stop going from one woman to another, but it was bred into him. He couldn't do anything else. He couldn't be anything else.

  Damn you, Ma! I hope you burn in hell!

  "He just wanted some company while he drank his coffee," Hetta told Ida for the tenth time. Even though they'd discussed the whole evening in detail, Ida wouldn't let it drop. "Men that handsome and good with a gun aren't used to being left alone."

  "That's exactly what you must do," Ida said, her expression serious. "I never expected I'd come home to find you in the arms of a stranger."

  "I wasn't in his arms," Hetta said, her temper becoming frayed by this endless interrogation.

  She was feeling increasingly claustrophobic in Ida's house, increasingly angered by the need to explain her actions, by the expectation that she would mold her behavior to fit Ida's ideas of decorum. She appreciated Ida's friendship, her effort to encourage William's attentions, but being a servant, no matter how it was dressed up, was still being a servant. It grated on her sense of independence, her sense of who she was. She needed to get back to the only kind of life she knew, the only kind she'd ever wanted. She needed to get back to her ranch. She was also tired of Ida acting like her mother. Hetta was only two years younger than her friend. "It felt more like I was in his clutches," she said.

  "Which is all the more reason for you to stay away from him."

  "I intend to, but I refuse to let any man think I'm afraid of him. He wasn't threatening me."

  "I should hope not," Ida said, giving Hetta a look she didn't like, "but I wouldn't trust him."

  "I don't. I don't even like him."

  "Good."

  But she was attracted to him. It would have been one thing if it were just that he was attractive. Women always liked pretty things, from china to lace to jewelry, but Hetta had always been immune to attractive men. She'd sometimes wondered if her universal dislike of men wasn't a prejudice that was as blind as it was rigid.

  She couldn't say that any longer. For whatever reason, she was strongly attracted to Owen Wheeler. And if she gave herself half a chance, she might even start to like him. Though why she should be so perverse, she was hard pressed to say. Her heart was generally a very dependable organ. Up to this point, it had been in complete agreement with her mind, and her mind said William Tidwell would be the best possible husband for her.

  "Do you think he's going to stay in Pinto Junction very long?" Ida asked.

  "He said he was thinking about buying a ranch, but he doesn't look like a rancher to me."

  "Not the way he dresses. You can't get clothes like that anywhere in Texas except San Antonio."

  "He said he came from Virginia. Maybe he got them there."

  "I met a Virginian in New Orleans last spring. We were on the same river boat for a week. No, those clothes came from Texas."

  "Then maybe he does want to buy a ranch. He was asking me about the arrangement I have with Mr. diViere. He says people are saying the bandits don't bother my cows."

  "I don't think that's a suitable subject for a woman," Ida said, "but I do know that being alone with Mr. Wheeler is not good for a woman's reputation. It certainly won't make William happy."

  "There wasn't much I could do, with you spending the evening with your uncle."

  "Well, I won't be spending evenings there again soon. Aunt Agatha is in another one of her moods, and I refuse to be in the same house with her until she recovers herself."

  Hetta knew that saying Aunt Agatha was in another one of her moods meant the woman was a harridan, and no one could stand her when she went on a tirade.

  "I'll ask him to leave as soon as he comes down," Ida said.

  Hetta didn't understand why that made her feel slightly guilty. It was his behavior that was at fault, not hers. He had no one but himself to blame if he couldn't find an equally suitable place to stay.

  "You don't have to do it for me," Hetta said, not making eye contact with Ida.

  "He's a gunman."

  "We don't know that. We only know he's good with a gun. Besides, I'm glad someone had the gumption to stop Newt and his thugs from picking on poor Ben."

  "They say Ben can't hold a job, that he's in the saloons every night."

  "Nobody will give him a job. That's why he drinks."

  "I wouldn't know about that," Ida said as she handed Hetta her cup. "I'm not acquainted with his family." She was silent while Hetta washed and dried the cup and saucer. "Do you think Mr. Wheeler really wants to buy a ranch?"

  "I don't know, but I doubt we have anything fancy enough for him."

  "I don't know what brought him to Pinto Junction, but I don't think it's ranches."

  "Why do you say that?" Hetta asked.

  "Ranchers are dull, married, and have a bunch of kids."

  "Not all."

  "The others are young, foolish, and go broke inside a year. That man doesn't fit into either category. I think he's a spy."

  "Who could he be spying for in Pinto Junction?"

  "Mexico."

  Hetta had been forced to listen to Ida's conspiracy theories before. Ida believed that Cortina and his bandits were just an advance force to weaken Texas before the Mexican army invaded to recapture Texas.

  "William said Mr. Wheeler spent nearly half an hour talking to some vaqueros outside his hardware store."

  "If he's looking for a ranch, it makes sense to talk to cowhands."

  "He was talking to them in Spanish!"

  "Nearly everybody in Texas speaks some Spanish."

  "He's from Virginia. How would he know Spanish unless he's working for the Mexican army?"

  "I have no idea. Did you tell William your theory?"

  Ida's expression turned petulant. "He said he thought Mr. Wheeler was here for some other reason."

  "Did he have any idea what that reason might be?"

  "No."

  "Then maybe we ought to accept his explanation that he's here to buy a ranch."

  "We'll see," Ida said, turning to leave the kitchen. "But I think I won't ask him to leave, after all."

  "Why not?" Hetta asked, dismayed at the sudden quickening of her heartbeat.

  "If he's a spy, somebody's got to watch him. I'll organize a committee of women to watch his every move, but I can't ask just anybody. It wouldn't do if he got wind of our suspicions."

  "No, it wouldn't," Hetta said, certain he'd laugh rather than get angry. What could an ex-soldier have to fear from a phalanx of women?

  "I won't offer him a key. You'll have to open the door so we'll know what time he comes in."

  Hetta wasn't looking forward to having her sleep broken. "I don't see what good that will do if we don't know where he's been."

  "That'll be easy. A stranger can't do much of anything in Pinto Junction without half the town knowing. I expect he'll be out rather late. I doubt he'll be wanting breakfast any earlier than noon."

  Hetta was surprised when Owen returned before she locked the front door. She listened to his footsteps as he walked along the hall overhead. She could hear him as he moved about his room. Much to her dismay, she found herself imagining him as he undressed for bed. She tri
ed to drive the images from her head, but to no avail.

  She could easily see his broad shoulders and strong arms bare of clothing. She imagined him washing his upper body with meticulous care. First his hands. She liked his hands. They were strong without being thick and hairy, elegant without being unmanly. She knew they were powerful. She could still feel his hands around her wrists.

  They had felt rough. She had expected them to be soft and smooth. He didn't appear to be the kind of man to do hard work, though he had the body of one who did. He didn't have to be without a shirt for her to see the breadth of his shoulders or sense the power in his arms. She had become acutely aware of both when he gripped her arms and drew her close. She could feel the heat pouring off him, the magnetism that made it impossible for her to lump him with other men. He was different. He was--

  She was grateful for the knock on her door. She didn't know what Ida wanted, but anything that distracted her from her incredible preoccupation with Owen was welcome. She didn't put on her robe before she opened the door. The sight that met her eyes left her bereft of speech.

  Owen stood before her, naked to the waist. "You forgot to leave me any soap."

  Chapter Four

  Hetta couldn't believe Owen Wheeler was standing outside her doorway naked to the waist. Nor could she believe she was staring at his chest. She tried to shift her gaze to her feet, the ceiling, Owen's face--anything!--but she couldn't move. A man's naked flesh was only inches away from her, and she was standing there as if she were hypnotized.

  His chest was broad, his stomach flat, and his shoulders well muscled. His skin was unblemished, the sprinkling of blond hair almost invisible. His nipples formed small, brown peaks on the swells of muscle. He looked perfect, as though created from some woman's imagination. Not hers. She'd never imagined what a man looked like naked.

  Hetta was shocked to find she wanted to reach out and touch Owen's body, to see if his skin was warm and soft, if the muscles would quiver under her touch, if the sudden warmth that filled her body like a burgeoning flame would grow hotter still. She felt the muscles in her arm tighten, her hand begin to lift.

  She was so shocked at her own reaction, she said the first thing that came to her mind. "You don't look dirty."

  The moment she realized what she'd said, she wanted to vanish into thin air.

  "I had a bath, but I like to wash up before I go to bed," Owen said, a faint smile on his lips. "Don't you?"

  Hetta didn't know why his harmless words should have formed a link in her mind between their bodies, but the jolt that went through her from head to toe was undeniable. She'd never had this kind of reaction to a man, and she didn't want it.

  "I'm sure I put soap in your room," she said, forcing herself to concentrate.

  "I guess I took it with me when I had my bath."

  They stood there, looking at each other, waiting.

  "You're not going to make me go outside to get a used cake of soap, are you?"

  "No." Her mind wasn't working well enough for her to require him to do anything.

  "Are you going to get me another cake of soap, or are you going to send me to bed unwashed?"

  "I'll get you another cake, but you'd better put some clothes on. If Ida sees you, she'll faint."

  "You didn't."

  "I wasn't raised like Ida, but I'm still not accustomed to men being so brazen."

  "You think I'm brazen?"

  Conversation had enabled her to gather what was left of her scattered wits. "You know you are. If you'll wait in the hall, I'll get your soap."

  "I'll go with you."

  "That's not necessary." She needed to get away from him.

  "I'm sure William wouldn't want you wandering about in the dark by yourself."

  "He'd want me wandering about with you even less."

  She'd almost forgotten what William had told her about the gunfight. Owen was a dangerous gunman, and she was wandering about a dark house with him completely unafraid. She wouldn't be surprised to wake tomorrow and discover she'd imagined half of it.

  But she hadn't imagined Owen, his bare chest, or its effect on her. She went back into her room to get her robe, but not even that enveloping garment made her feel protected from Owen's nakedness.

  "Please, wait for me in the hall."

  "You really don't like me, do you?"

  She ought to dislike him. She did disapprove of him, but she couldn't stop thinking about him. "I don't know you well enough to like or dislike you. Now, either wait for me in the hall or go outside and retrieve your soap from the bathhouse."

  "You're a hard woman, but I'll wait."

  She picked up her candle, lit it from his, and left her room. Owen followed close behind, his bare feet padding softly on the floorboards. She breathed a sigh of relief when she closed the kitchen door between them. So much tension left her body, she felt weak. It took only a moment to find the soap. It took a physical effort to make herself open the door and enter the hall. She wanted to stay where it was safe. She kept telling herself she'd be safer in her bedroom after Owen got his soap. She was still repeating that under her breath when she reached the front hall.

  "Here," she said, holding out the soap. "Do you need anything else?" Why had she asked that question?

  "No." He reached out and took the soap from her outstretched hand, his fingers brushing against her palm. "Sorry to be such a bother. I'll remember to bring my soap back next time."

  He flashed one of his brilliant smiles and started up the steps to his room. She stood there as he disappeared from sight, as she heard his steps down the hall. The closing of the door to his room brought her out of her trance. She hurried to her own room and slammed the door. Yet she still didn't feel safe. The attraction to Owen was just as strong as ever.

  "I wouldn't have opened the door to him," Ida was telling Hetta.

  "I thought it was you. None of your other lodgers have ever done that."

  "What can you expect of a man who shoots people in the street?"

  "Defending Ben isn't exactly shooting people in the street."

  "Why are you defending him?" Ida flushed guiltily when Owen entered the dining room.

  "Do you have room for one more?" he asked.

  He wore a yellow shirt with thin red stripes under a black vest. His well-worn pants were a dull brown, made of some heavy material. His boots were worn and scuffed, the handkerchief around his neck a faded blue, and the hat in his hand flat-crowned with a wide brim. Except for being unbearably handsome and clean-shaven with neatly combed blond hair, he looked like a working cowhand.

  "What do you want for breakfast?" Hetta asked.

  "Just coffee."

  "You won't get much work done on an empty stomach," Ida said.

  "I'm just looking at ranches today," Owen said.

  "What kind are you looking for?" Hetta asked, hoping to ward off any questions Ida might have about spying for Mexico.

  "I don't know yet," Owen replied as he accepted a cup of coffee. "I'm planning to spend the next couple of weeks looking to see what appeals to me the most."

  "You could see three counties in that time," Ida said.

  "I want to know the area thoroughly."

  "There are a lot of people around here who speak only Spanish."

  "No problem. I picked up Spanish working for a friend of mine."

  Ida looked at Hetta with obvious triumph in her eyes. "And where in Mexico was his ranch?"

  "It's outside of San Antonio," Owen answered. "His wife's grandmother inherited it. Some sort of Spanish grant. You might have heard of the family. The name's diViere."

  Hetta felt her stomach cramp into a tight knot, but Owen's expression showed none of the anger of last night.

  "That's the name of the man who's renting Hetta's ranch," Ida said, "but he's French."

  "Laveau is French, Spanish, and English, but he'll fight for the side that offers him the most," Owen said. "He entered the war fighting for the South, then went over to t
he Union side. He's a traitor."

  "That can't have anything to do with us," Ida said.

  "It has everything to do with you if you're protecting him."

  Ida had started to look frightened. "My uncle said he has excellent credit."

  "He should have. He stole thousands of dollars from a man he fought with for three years."

  Hetta hadn't especially liked diViere when she'd first met him. He was too suave and good-looking for her comfort, but since everyone in town quickly accepted him, she decided she'd judged him unfairly. Her opinion had remained positive until months went by without his paying for the use of her ranch. She'd finally become so worried she'd had Ida's uncle write Mr. diViere to ask for her money.

  "People in Pinto Junction like Mr. diViere," Hetta said. "You won't make yourself popular by spreading rumors."

  Owen's expression remained cold and hard. "Laveau diViere is a traitor and a thief. Sooner or later, everybody in Pinto Junction is going to find that out. I just hope you don't have to pay too big a price for that information."

  "What do you mean?" Ida asked.

  "I'd bet my last dollar Laveau's stealing from this town."

  "That's impossible," Ida said. "Nobody fools my uncle."

  "He fooled men he ate with, slept next to, rode with, and fought alongside for three years. You'll keep believing him until it's too late. Is supper the same time every night?"

  "Dinner is served at seven o'clock," Ida said.

  "I'll be back." He turned to go.

  "Where are you going?" Hetta asked, appalled at the question the moment the words were out of her mouth.

  "I'll let Myrl decide. Once I've decided which ranches are the best, I'll look at them a second time."

  "You're mighty thorough," Ida said.

  "I don't like to make mistakes. Ladies," he said with a slight inclination of his head before he left the room.

  "Why should he make up such an outlandish story about Mr. diViere?" Ida asked. "I'll speak to my uncle about Mr. Wheeler."

  "Please, don't," Hetta said.

  "Why not?" Instant suspicion showed in Ida's face.

  Hetta didn't know why she was going out of her way to protect Owen Wheeler. He hadn't offered any proof to back up his accusations. He probably thought his word was enough, but it wouldn't be in Pinto Junction. People didn't like it when strangers caused trouble.