York, the Renegade: A Loveswept Classic Romance Read online

  “I thought I’d been quite eloquent on the subject.” He got to his feet. “Never mind. We’ll forget about it. I promise not to harass you while you’re here recuperating.” He strolled toward the door. “Just relax and concentrate on getting well.”

  “Mr. Delaney.”

  He stopped with his hand on the knob and looked back. “It’s customary to call would-be seducers by their first names. You wouldn’t want to give us undue illusions of our respectability.”

  “But that isn’t the case this time, is it?” Her voice was clear and challenging, though her expression was still uncertain. “You just pulled this feint to catch me off-guard and get me to resign myself to living off your charity for the next few weeks.”

  “Did I?” His gaze was suddenly warmly intent as it moved over her. “I suppose you’ll have to decide that for yourself. Did I sound as if I was kidding?”

  “No,” she whispered. Her eyes were enormous in her thin face.

  “Then don’t count on it, Sierra. Not for a minute.” The door closed behind him.

  She drew a deep quivering breath and tried to relax. She felt as if she’d been picked up and tossed about by a cyclone. The curious fluttering in her stomach and the tightness in her chest had nothing to do with bronchitis. York’s words had jolted her into an awareness of herself that completely stunned her.

  She had known she wasn’t actually ugly, but hadn’t considered the possibility there was anything about her to foster a strong attraction. She had always evoked protective feelings in men. She had been the kid sister, the daughter, the pal. Now, with frightening suddenness, she was being looked upon as a desirable woman.

  She hadn’t experienced the slightest self-consciousness around York Delaney because she had never considered he would feel different from any other man she had encountered. He had been like a beautiful statue or an exquisite but remote figure on a movie screen, someone with no real connection to her life.

  Now she was shaken and electrified and so aware, it was painful. She mustn’t feel like this, she told herself. Men of York Delaney’s ilk didn’t develop sudden passionate obsessions for mouse-like creatures like Sierra Smith. He was merely tossing her something else to think about to divert her from making plans to leave. Deuce had said York was very determined when his protective instincts were aroused.

  No, York’s proposition had definitely been a trick, she decided. A well-meant trick, but deceit nevertheless. She mustn’t think anything else. She had to block out her sexual awareness of him. She would concentrate instead on how to bail herself out of this humiliatingly dependent situation. She picked up her fork and began to eat slowly and with determination. She wasn’t hungry, but whatever plan she decided upon would require all her strength.

  York paused outside the door, releasing his breath slowly in a little explosion of tension. She hadn’t believed him. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or indignant. For that matter he didn’t know what the hell he would have done if she had taken him up on his proposition. She had been so upset about her precious independence being compromised that he had spoken on impulse. He had succeeded in distracting her with his offer, but the price might be higher than he wanted to pay. Sierra was capable of touching his emotions in any number of bewildering and tempestuous ways, evoking tenderness, possessiveness, even anger.

  Dear Lord, the tenderness was incredible. There had been moments in the past few days when he had ached with it. Of course, that wasn’t the only ache he’d known since he had met Sierra. How could raw lust and this exquisite gentleness exist side by side?

  He didn’t want either one, dammit. He had lived his entire adult life doing exactly what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it. He had no desire for ties or restrictions of any kind. Hell, he should be thanking his lucky stars that Sierra hadn’t believed him. If his erotic fantasy had suddenly become reality, who knows if he would ever have rid himself of this obsession? Now at least he had breathing space to try to regain his sanity.

  He started down the stairs. The sensible thing to do, he told himself, was to see as little of Sierra as possible until she was well enough to leave Hell’s Bluff. Avoiding her shouldn’t be too difficult. He would keep himself busy during the day and spend his evenings at the Soiled Dove, and with any luck …

  He was so intent on formulating his plans, he didn’t notice that all the way down the stairs he never once looked away from the hauntingly poignant portrait of Rising Star.

  Four

  “What are you doing?” Deuce asked when he entered the bedroom. Sierra was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Get back under the covers. I thought it was too good to be true when York told me our little problem was settled for the moment.”

  “I was just going to take the tray downstairs.” York’s “problem” was indeed taken care of, she thought ironically, but not the way he’d figured. “I can’t seem to make my legs work right. I’m as weak as an infant.” She swung her legs back on the bed and pulled the sheet up. “I’ll have to try again later.”

  “I’m glad something is managing to influence you into behaving sensibly.” Deuce stooped to pick up the tray from where she had set it on the floor. “I’ll take the tray back to the kitchen.” He nodded approvingly. “You’ve cleaned your plate quite nicely. York will be pleased.”

  “I didn’t do it for York. I did it for me,” she said quietly. “You and York seem to be under the misconception that I’m a scatterbrained child. I ate because I need strength to do what I have to do. I need information to do that as well. Will you come back and talk to me after you’ve taken the tray downstairs?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully, then nodded. “I’ll be back. You’re proving to be a very interesting houseguest, Sierra.”

  He was true to his word and sauntered back into the room fifteen minutes later, carrying a tea tray. He set it on the bedside table and proceeded to pour two cups of tea from the earthenware pot. He grinned as he handed her one of the cups. “Have you ever noticed how we return to the simple comforts of childhood when we’re under pressure? I haven’t felt the need for a nice cup of tea for months.”

  She smiled. “I don’t intend to pressure you. I just want to know my options. If I ask any questions you don’t want to answer, just tell me to go soak my head.”

  “And risk throwing you into pneumonia? York would assassinate me. I’d be safer answering the questions.” He waved his hand. “Go ahead and interrogate me.”

  “I need to know the setup here. I have responsibilities and I don’t have any money. I’ll have to get a job. Chester said this was a company town, and mining was the only industry. Is that right?”

  Deuce nodded. “Delaney Enterprises owns the whole kit and caboodle.”

  Sierra nibbled on her lower lip. “There has to be some other service-affiliated companies here. What about a restaurant or a diner?”

  He shook his head. “York built a dining hall down by the mine. It’s open twenty-four hours a day. He hired a first-class cook and staff, and the food is better than most of the restaurants in Tucson.” He paused. “And the food is free. He provides it as a company benefit. No private restaurant could compete with such a sweet setup.”

  “I can see that.” She frowned. “Entertainment?”

  “There’s the theater, which is used only on rare occasions, and a satellite dish brings in all the cable TV shows. There’s a giant screen in the dining hall, and York has the latest video cassette movie releases flown in every week.”

  “The doctor?”

  “Is hired by the company and so are his assistants.”

  “Why do I feel I’ve wandered into a minor monarchy?” she asked gloomily. “There has to be something.” She looked up suddenly. “Chester mentioned some place.… What was that name?” Her face brightened. “The Soiled Dove.”

  Deuce suddenly looked wary. “And just what did he mention about that particular establishment?”

  “I don’t quite remember. I was pretty much out
of it that night. I think I was running a fever.” She made a face. “Don’t tell me York owns that too?”

  “No, he leased the building to Melanie Dolan. He has nothing to do with the running of the Dove.”

  “Is it a bar? That’s a very interesting name.”

  He inclined his head mockingly. “Thank you. I suggested it myself to Melanie. I thought it fitting.”

  “Fitting?”

  “The name has a certain colorful historical significance.”

  “Do you think I could get a job there?”

  He looked a little startled. “I don’t think York would like that. In fact, I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

  “Too bad,” she said coolly. “If this is the only show in town that doesn’t have the Delaney name on it, then I can’t be choosy. There has to be something I can do. I learned to be very adaptable working for Brady’s troupe.”

  “Well, adaptability is certainly a quality Melanie insists on in her help,” he said, clearly amused. “Forget it, Sierra. It won’t do at all.”

  “Why not? A hard worker is always in demand. What I lack in experience, I’ll make up in enthusiasm.”

  The amusement turned to outright laughter. “Considering your determination, I think there’s every chance you would become the belle of the establishment.” He chuckled again. “I’d almost give my eyepatch for York to see you at Melanie’s.”

  “Good. Then will you introduce me to this Melanie and vouch for me? I know you can’t give me a reference but—” She broke off with a frown. “Why are you laughing? I’m very serious.”

  “That’s why I’m laughing.” He leaned back in his chair, his shoulders still shaking. “You’re obviously not a Regency scholar, Sierra. Would you like to know just how the term soiled dove was used?”

  She sighed. “I think I’m beginning to guess.”

  He nodded. “A lady of the evening, a cyprian, a light-skirt.”

  “It should have been obvious,” she said wistfully. “I guess I got a little excited. It’s not a bar?”

  “Oh, but it is. When Melanie leased the building, York insisted it be kept as authentic as the town. So Melanie decorated the lower floor as a saloon that would fit quite nicely back in the Old West. Melanie’s ‘ladies’ are dressed up as dance-hall girls, and they play the part beautifully. A man can go in and have a drink or a game of cards.” He paused. “Or anything else he wants.”

  “I gather the Soiled Dove is far more popular than the nightly movies in the dining hall?”

  “I believe that would be an accurate surmise.”

  “But Chester told me York was opposed to having women in Hell’s Bluff. He said York believed it caused trouble.”

  “Only a certain kind of woman—the kind a man becomes emotionally involved with,” Deuce said. “He’s right, you know. I’ve seen it in the mining camps in South America and Africa. Men get tied up in knots over a woman they want and can’t have. When a woman makes herself available to everyone, no jealousy exists and therefore no trouble.”

  “Rather simplistic.”

  “As I said, it appears to work.”

  Her brow knitted in a frown. “There might be some work I could do there besides the obvious,” she said thoughtfully.

  He straightened swiftly, the amusement abruptly gone. “No, Sierra. The Dove may be honest, but it’s rough as hell. It’s no place for you. York would—”

  She gestured impatiently to silence him. “I’ll have to think about it. I can’t do anything immediately anyway. I’ll have to recover a little first.”

  He began to relax. “Very sensible.”

  “But I’ll have to start paying York back for my medical treatment and my keep right away. I suppose he has all the domestic help he needs about the house?”

  “Sierra …” He shook his head. “Don’t you ever give up? No, as a matter of fact, he doesn’t have a housekeeper. There’s a contretemps regarding an old family servant who’s presently staying with his brother Rafe. He won’t have the woman here, but in order not to hurt her feelings he can’t replace her either. So instead of hiring someone, he has our meals sent up from the dining hall and Melanie’s maid comes in once a week to give the place a good cleaning. The rest of the time we do for ourselves.”

  “He can’t replace a housekeeper because it might hurt her feelings?” Sierra asked blankly. “And this is one of the flint-hard Delaneys I’ve heard so much about?”

  “This is York Delaney. He’s not a one-dimensional man. You’ll find that out, Sierra.”

  “I may not have time to discover anything about him.” A strange wistfulness flickered through her. “I’ve been far too much trouble already. I’ve got to get back on my feet and off his hands.”

  “We’ll have to see about that.” He stood up. “Now, finish your tea and see if you can take a nap. I’ll be back in another few hours to expose myself to another third degree. I’ll bring a deck of cards.” He didn’t look at her as he carefully set his cup on the tray and picked the-tray up. “By the way, do you play poker, Sierra?”

  “No, I’ve never learned.”

  He looked at her swiftly, and his smile shone with sudden sharklike brilliance in his triangular face. “No matter. I’ll teach you.”

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” York’s voice was laden with exasperation as he stood in the middle of the kitchen looking up at Sierra.

  Her heart gave a little jerk, then started to pound in double time. She drew a deep steadying breath but didn’t turn around. “Putting down fresh shelf paper. There’s no use in scrubbing down kitchen cabinets and then putting back the old paper. Besides, this check design goes much better with the pine cabinets and looks much more ‘Old West’ than—”

  “Get down from that ladder.”

  “In a minute. This is the last shelf, and then I’ll be—York!” He had grabbed her from behind and was swinging her off the ladder. Then he plunked her down so she was sitting on the cabinet beside the sink.

  Their eyes were on the same level, and his were blazing. “Dammit, why were you crawling all over the place on that ladder? Don’t you have any sense?”

  “It’s precisely because I do have sense that I was using the ladder,” she said reasonably. “How do you expect me to reach those upper shelves without one? We all can’t be giants like you.”

  “I don’t expect you to use a ladder at all. I don’t expect you to be scrubbing shelves. I expect you to be lying in bed recuperating, dammit!”

  “I did lie in bed,” she said crossly. “For an entire week—which was four days longer than I intended. I would have been back on my feet last Wednesday if it hadn’t been for that poker game.”

  “Poker game?”

  She nodded. “Deuce taught me how to play poker and insisted no game was complete without proper stakes.”

  York’s anger was immediately arrested. “What kind of stakes?”

  “Well, I didn’t have any money so he suggested we play for hours.”

  “Hours?”

  “It got kind of complicated. We were betting the hours I’d stay in bed without complaining. Before I knew it, I’d lost a hundred and seventy-two hours.” She frowned. “You know, I think he cheats.”

  “Really?” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “That’s a very serious charge.”

  Sierra’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “He does cheat.”

  York nodded. “Superbly. He was a professional gambler before we came together in a little mining camp outside Barranquilla. Unfortunately he regards deception as one of the integral facets of the game. It’s made his career both interesting and extremely hazardous.”

  “Did you put him up to doing it this time?”

  “I knew nothing about it.” His smile faded. “Not that I wouldn’t have approved of any measure in this case.”

  “Like the one you used?” She hadn’t meant to ask that question, darn it. She had intended to ignore any mention of that last unnerving conversation with him. She had be
en right to take his words with a grain of salt, she told herself. She had seen nothing of him for the entire week of her stay, which certainly didn’t argue for his having a flaming passion for her. Probably the queer aching that knowledge had brought had caused her to blurt out the very question she had meant to avoid.

  “But I didn’t use any deceit,” he said quietly. “I only suggested and you refused.”

  His eyes were only inches from hers and she felt as if she were drowning in them. Such beautiful eyes, Sierra thought, clear and deep and all-encompassing. Perhaps she was drowning. She didn’t seem able to breathe, and her head was spinning dizzily. “You didn’t mean it,” she said.

  He became very still. “Would it have made any difference if I had?”

  Would it? she asked herself. It was hard to think with his body so close to her own. The top button of his blue shirt was open and she could glimpse the mat of springy hair on his chest. He smelled of soap and a pine-scented after-shave that was deliciously outdoorsy. She found herself leaning closer and breathing more deeply as if to take more of him within her. The vaguely erotic thought jarred her into a semblance of sanity. “No.” The word wasn’t as firm as she would have liked, and she cleared her throat to rid her voice of its huskiness. “Besides, I knew all the time that you weren’t sincere.”

  “And how did you know that?”

  She wished he’d move away. His body heat seemed to surround her and caused a tingling, throbbing sensation in the pit of her stomach, the palm of her hands, and the sensitive crests of her breasts. She moistened her lips. “Just look at me. I’m a plain brown hen to your peacock. There must be a hundred bird-of-paradise types you could nest with.”

  “Why do I feel we’ve been transplanted into a meeting of the Audubon Society?” He frowned. “What ever gave you the idea you were a little brown hen?”

  “I have a mirror.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter that I’m not pretty. I have intelligence and stamina, and that’s probably more important than being attractive.”