Connal Page 4

  "Negative talk never stopped C.C," she said, chuck­ling.

  "True enough, but he thinks like I do about it. If im­plants cut back beef consumption because people are afraid of the hormones, that cuts our profits."

  "I give up," she said, holding up both hands. "Put away your shooting irons."

  'Sorry," he murmured, and smiled back.

  "Actually I agree with you," she confessed. "I just like to hear you hold forth. I'm going dancing with Brandon on Friday night. Okay?"

  He looked reluctant, but he didn't argue. "Okay, as long as you remember that my birthday's Saturday night and you're going out with me."

  "Yes, sir. As if I could forget. Thirty-nine, isn't it. . .?"

  "Shut up and carve that apple pie," he said, gesturing toward it,

  "Whatever you say."

  She tried not to think about C.C. for the rest of the week, but it was impossible not to catch an occasional glimpse of him in the saddle, going from one corral to the next. He let the herd representatives ride in the Jeep— representatives from other ranches in the area checking brands to make sure that none of their cattle had crossed into Mathews territory. It was a common courtesy lo­cally, because of the vast territory the ranches in south Texas covered. Her father ran over two thousand head of cattle, and when they threw calves, it took some effort to get them all branded, tattooed, ear-tagged and vaccin­ated each spring and fall. It was a dirty, hot, thankless chore that caused occasional would-be cowboys to quit and go back to working in textile plants and furniture shops. Cowboying, while romantic and glamorous to the unknowing, was low paying, backbreaking and prema­turely aging as a profession. It meant living with the smell of cow chips, burning hide, leather and dirt—long hours in the .saddle, long hours of fixing machinery and water pumps and vehicles and doctoring sick cattle. There was a television in the bunkhouse, but hardly ever any time to watch it except late on summer evenings. Ranch work was year-round with few lazy periods, because there was always something that needed doing.

  The advantages of the job were freedom, freedom, and freedom. A man lived close to the earth. He had time to watch the skies and feel the urgent rhythm of life all around him. He lived as man perhaps was meant to live, without technology strangling his mind, without the smells and pressures of civilization to cripple his spirit. He was one with nature, with life itself. He didn't an­swer to an alarm clock or some corporation's image of what a businessman should be. He might not make a lot of money, he might risk life and limb daily, but he was as free as a modern man could get. If he did his job well and carefully, he had job security for all his life.

  Pepi thought about that, and decided that it might not be such a bad thing after all, being a cowboy. But the ti­tle and job description, while it might fit C.C, sat oddly on his broad shoulders. He was much too sophisticated to look at home in dirty denims. It was easier now to picture him in a dinner jacket. All the same, he did look fantastic in the saddle, riding a horse as easily as if he'd been born on one. He was long and lean and graceful, even in a full gallop, and she'd seen him break a horse to saddle more than once. It was a treat to watch. He never hurt the horse's spirit in the process, but once he was on its back, there was never any doubt about who the mas­ter was. He stuck like glue, his hard face taut with strain, his eyes glittering, his thin lips smiling savagely with the effort as he rode the animal to submission.

  The picture stuck in Pepi's mind, and brought with it disturbing sensations of another kind of conquest. She was no prude, and despite her innocence, she knew what men and woman did together in bed. But the sensation, the actual feelings they shared were alien to her. She wondered if C.C. would be like that in bed, if he'd have that same glittery look in his eyes, that same savage smile on his thin lips as he brought a woman to ecstasy under the driving force of his hard, sweat-glistened body. . .

  She went scarlet. Fortunately there was nobody nearby to see her. She darted into the house and up the staircase to get dressed for her dinner date with Brandon.

  They went to a restaurant in downtown El Paso, one famous in the area for the size of its steaks and for its view of the city at night from its fourteenth-floor loca­tion in a well-known hotel.

  "I do love the view from up here," Pepi told Bran­don, smiling at him as they were shown to a seat by the huge windows overlooking the Franklin Mountains. The Franklins, in fact, were responsible for the city's name, because the pass that separated the Franklins from the Juarez Mountains to the south was called El Paso del Norte—the path of the north. Part of the mountain chain was located in the city of El Paso itself. The only major desert city in Texas, El Paso shared much history with Mexico's Juarez, across the border. Pancho Villa lived in

  EI Paso after his exile from his own country, and histor­ically the Texas city, which sat on the Butterfield Over­land stage route in the late nineteenth century had been the site of Indian attacks and a replica of old Fort Bliss marked the former home of the cavalry that once fought the Apaches, including the famous Chief Victorio. Mod­ern day Fort Bliss was the home of the largest air de­fense center of the free world. Not far from the restaurant where Pepi and Brandon were eating was the Acme Sa­loon, where gunfighter John Wesley Hardin was shot in the back and killed.

  On a less grim note, there was an aerial tramway up to Ranger Peak, giving tourists a view of seven thousand square miles of mountain and desert. There were one hundred parks in El Paso, not to mention museums, old missions, and plenty of attractions across the border in Mexico's largest border city, Juarez. -

  Pepi had lived near El Paso ail her life, and she had the love of the desert that comes from living near it. Tour­ists might see an expanse of open land nestled between mountain ranges with no-apparent life. Pepi saw flower­ing agave and prickly pear cactus, stately organ pipe cactus and creosote bushes, graceful mesquite trees and the wonder of the mountain ranges at sunset. She loved the desert surrounding the city. Of course, she loved her own home more. The land down near Fort Hancock where the ranch was located was just a bit more hospit­able than this, and her roots were there.

  "The view from up here is pretty great," Brandon agreed, drawing her out of her reveries. "But you suit me better than the desert and the mountains," he added, his gaze approving her simple mauve dress with its crystal pleats and cap sleeves. Her hair, in an elegant bun, drew attention to the exquisite lines of her face and the size of her pale brown eyes. She'd used more makeup than usual and she looked honestly pretty, freckles and all. But it was her figure that held Brandon's attention. When she dressed up, she was dynamite.

  "What will you have to drink?" the waitress asked with a smile, diverting both of them.

  "Just white wine for me," Pepi replied.

  "I'll have the same," her escort added.

  The waitress left and Brandon, resplendent in a dark suit, leaned his forearms on the spotless white tablecloth and stared at her warmly. "Why won't you marry me?" he asked. "Does it have something to do with the fact that I hang out with animals?"

  She laughed. "I love animals. But I'm not quite ready for marriage yet." Then she remembered that she was married, and her heart dropped. She shifted back in her chair, feeling vaguely guilty at being out with Brandon when she was legally another man's wife. Of course, the man she was married to didn't know it. That made her feel a little better, at least.

  "You're an old lady of twenty-two," he persisted. "You'll be over the hill before you know it."

  "No, I won't. I haven't even decided what I want to do with my life yet." That was true. She'd never gone to college. Somehow, after she'd graduated from high school, there had been too much to demand her time at home. "I like figures," she murmured absently. "I thought I might take an accounting course or some­thing."

  "You could come and work for me. I need a book­keeper," he said instantly.

  "Sorry, but so does Dad. Jack Berry, our present bookkeeper, is hopeless. So is Dad. If I decide to take on bookkeeping, you'd better believe that
Dad will scoop me up first. He hates having to redo Jack's figuring."

  "I guess. . . Well, well, look at that dress!"

  It was unusual for Brandon to be so wickedly inter­ested in what any woman wore. Pepi turned her head slightly to follow his gaze and her heart froze in her chest.

  Edie was just coming in the door, wearing a red dress that was cut to the waist in back and dipped in a faintly low V in front. Despite its length, it was an advertise­ment for her blond beauty, and she drew eyes. Just be­hind her stood a bored-looking C.C. in a dark vested suit, his hard face showing lines of tiredness from the two weeks of work he'd just put in. Pepi could hardly bear to look at him.

  He must have felt her stare because his head turned and even across the room she registered the impact of that level look. She averted her eyes and smiled at Brandon.

  "You might as well keep your leering looks to your­self," she said more pleasantly than she wanted to. "C.C.'s pretty possessive of her."

  "He's giving you a hard glare. Were you supposed to stay home tonight or something?"

  "No. He's probably just tired," she emphasized, trying not to remember the last face-to-face confrontation she'd had with her father's foreman. It made her pulse leap and catch fire just to think about the way he'd talked to her, the things he'd said. She loved everything about him, but if his attentiveness to Edie was anything to go by, the feeling was hardly mutual. She carefully avoided glanc­ing at him again, oblivious to his angry scowl and preoc­cupied manner while he ate his own supper.

  Chapter Four

  If Pepi had hoped that C.C. and his girlfriend would leave without saying anything, she was doomed to dis­appointment. After he and Edie had finished dessert, he went straight to Pepi's table, dragging the unwilling blonde along with him.

  "Well, hello," Brandon said, smiling at them. "How does it feel to finally be through with roundup, C.C? I'm royally sick of it myself, and I've still got two herds to examine tomorrow."

  "It's nice to have a little free time," the older man said quietly. His black eyes were carving up Pepi's face. "I haven't laid eyes on you for two weeks," he told her curtly. "I wondered if you've been avoiding me."

  Pepi was shocked by the sudden attack, as well as by the venom in his deep voice. She wasn't the only one. Brandon and Edie exchanged questioning glances, too.

  "I haven't been avoiding you," Pepi said, but she couldn't quite meet those eyes with the memory of their last confrontation between them. "You've been out with the men all day and most of the night, just like Dad. I've had things of my own to do, keeping up with the cook­ing and helping Wiley organize supplies for the chuck wagon."

  The Bar M was one of the few ranches that still oper­ated a chuck wagon. The ranch was so big that it wasn't practical to have two dozen men trucking back and forth to the bunkhouse kitchen to be fed. Wiley, one of the older hands, cooked and Pepi helped him keep supplies in.

  "You usually come out and watch us work," C.C. persisted, his eyes narrowing.

  It was a question, and Pepi didn't want to answer it. She tangled her fingers in her napkin, vaguely aware of Edie's frown as she watched the byplay.

  "I'm overweight," Pepi told him belligerently, glar­ing up at him. "All right? I find it hard to get in the sad­dle these days. Now are you satisfied!"

  "You're not overweight," C.C. said shortly.

  "She is, a bit," Edie murmured apologetically, taking C.C.'s arm possessively. "We girls are sensitive about those extra pounds, aren't we, Penelope?" she added with a dry laugh. "Especially when it lands around our hips."

  What hips? Pepi wanted to ask, because Edie looked more like a bean pole than a woman with her exagger­ated thinness. The older woman's comments had hurt, and Pepi wished she knew why she'd ever brought the subject up in the first place. It had been clumsy and stu­pid; her usual condition when C.C. came close these days.

  "I think Pepi's just right," Brandon murmured, smil­ing reassuringly at her. "She suits me."

  "You angel," Pepi said, smiling at him.

  "Why isn't your father with you?" C.C. asked sud­denly, his face gone hard at the way Pepi was smiling at the redheaded vet.

  Pepi started, her big eyes gaping up at him as if she feared for his sanity. "I don't usually take my father on dates, C.C," she said.

  "Tomorrow is his birthday," he reminded her with faint sarcasm, bristling with bad humor. He hated seeing her with Hale, hated having her avoid him. He felt that it was probably the things he'd said to her that had sent her running, but deeper still was resentment that she was more than likely sleeping with that clown next to her. The thought of Pepi in another man's bed drove him out of his mind. He'd been short-tempered and unapproacha­ble almost the whole time he was working roundup be­cause of the casual way she'd denied being innocent. God knew how many dreams he'd had about relieving her of that condition, and in the most tender way. Now his il­lusions were shattered, and he wanted to make her as miserable as she'd made him.

  "I know tomorrow is his birthday." Pepi faltered. "Brandon and I are taking him to the Diez Y Seis de Septiembre parade in the morning. Aren't we, Bran­don?" she added, almost frantic. They weren't taking her father anywhere, but she couldn't bear to tell C.C. that all she'd planned was a birthday cake and a nice supper. Not when he was looking at her as if she were public en­emy number one and the most ungrateful daughter on earth.

  "That's right," Brandon agreed immediately.

  Hale, again, C.C. thought furiously. He lifted his chin and looked down his straight nose at her. He spared Brandon a cold, barely civil glance. "I suppose he'll be grateful that you bothered about his birthday."

  "What in the world's come over you?" Pepi asked defensively. Was he trying to start a fight, for heaven's sake? She stiffened in her chair, aware of Edie's sur­prised scrutiny of her escort.

  "He's had a hard couple of weeks, that's what," Brandon said with a forced smile, trying to relieve the tension. "I ought to know. I've been out there most days."

  "Roundup makes everybody bad-tempered," Pepi agreed. She looked up at Edie. "How are you? I love your dress."

  "This old rag?" Edie chuckled. "Thanks. I thought it might cheer up my friend here, but it hasn't seemed to do much for him."

  "Oh, hasn't it?" C.C. murmured, diverted at last. He glanced briefly at Pepi before he slid a possessive arm around Edie's shoulders and pulled her close, his eyes warm, his voice deep and sensuous. "Come along, and I'll see if I can't convince you that it has."

  "Now there's an offer I won't refuse," Edie mur­mured huskily. "Good night, Penelope, Brandon."

  They murmured their farewells and Pepi refused to watch them walk away. He was her husband. She wanted to stand up and shout it, to drag Edie away from him. They were going off somewhere to be alone, and she knew what would happen; she could see it in her mind. She ground her teeth together.

  "Poor thing," Brandon said then, his blue eyes full of concern and sudden understanding. "So that's how it is."

  "I've been looking out for him for a long time," Pepi said defensively. "I'm overly protective. I have to stop it. He's not my chick, and I'm not his mother hen. Well, maybe once a year, but only then."

  Brandon wasn't buying it. He covered her hand on the table with his own. "If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, you can use mine," he said gently. "And if you ever get over him. . ."

  "Thanks," she said, forcing a smile.

  "I guess you know that I can't take you and your fa­ther to the parade in the morning?" he added.

  She nodded, smiling. "Sorry. I don't even know why I said it. He made me mad. I was going to bake my fa­ther a cake, that's all."

  "I wouldn't mind helping him eat it, but I'm going to be out all day tomorrow with old man Reynolds's herd," he said ruefully. "I won't be home until after midnight, more than likely."

  "I'll save you a piece of cake. Thanks for pulling my irons out of the fire."

  "You're welcome." He frowned. "It's not like C.C. to start fights wit
h you in public. Odd that he'd take you to task over your dad."

  She couldn't tell him that C.C. had been spoiling for a fight ever since she'd gone overboard and lied about her maidenly condition. Anyway, it didn't matter. C.C.'S opinion didn't bother her. Not one bit!

  "Maybe he's just frustrated because he's been away

  from Edie for two weeks," she said miserably and felt her heart breaking at the thought of how much lost time he could make up for tonight with his blond attach-

  ment.

  She felt sick. "It's ever so complicated, Brandon," she sighed. "I've managed to get us into a terrible mess, and, no, I can't talk about it. Can we go, please? I've got a headache."

  He took her home and she managed to get away with­out a good-night kiss. C.C.'s appearance had ruined the evening for her. She'd hoped to keep him out of her mind for a little while, but fate seemed to have other ideas.

  She hardly slept. She got up with a dull headache and it got worse when C.C. came in smiling and looking like a hungry cat with canary feathers sticking out both sides of his mouth. She didn't need a scorecard to know why he was so smug and content. He'd probably had a hell of a sweet night with Edie, but while she'd always sus­pected what his relationship with the blonde actually was, her feelings overwhelmed her. She glared at C.C. with eyes that almost hated him, her freckles standing out in a pale, haunted face.

  "What do you want?" she demanded testily.

  His eyebrows arched. "Coffee, for now. And a word with your father before you and the happy vet take him off to town."

  She'd told a bald-faced lie the night before, and now she was standing in the middle of it with nothing to say. Her face slowly flamed scarlet.

  His black eyes narrowed. He pushed back the brim of his Stetson and leaned against the kitchen counter, his blue striped Western shirt complementing the darkness of his face and hair and eyes, his powerful leg muscles rippling under tight denims as he shifted his position.