Native Silver Read online

  She nodded. She couldn’t help but hear the affection in his voice. She hesitated, then decided to ask what she wanted to know, even knowing she was making a mistake before the words were out. But she couldn’t stop herself with anything short of a gag across the mouth. “Is that in the offing?”

  He turned back as though surprised. “What?”

  Now she would have to go on with this transparent question. “Having children. Are you planning on anything soon?”

  It had occurred to her that men like David seldom wandered around without a female somewhere in the wings. Lisa said he’d never married, but that didn’t mean he never would. And it didn’t mean there wasn’t someone special right now.

  “Not that I know of.” He started toward her, his steps slow and deliberate, his eyes gleaming. “Are you offering … . any suggestions?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say something scathing, but as he came towards her, she lost the words. He looked so handsome in the dim light, his dark hair falling in a casual wave across his forehead, his eyes bright and bold. He belonged in this gallery of Spanish conquerors. Was he going to claim victory over her, too? Her heart beat like a caged bird at the thought of it.

  He stopped before her and took her chin in his hand, tilting it up as though he wanted to search for something in her face. “I’m going to kiss you right in front of all my ancestors,” he announced gravely, then proceeded to do what he’d warned her of.

  She closed her eyes as the tingle began, the smooth magic that his lips worked on hers, and she kissed him back, enjoying him as he was enjoying her. But somewhere deep inside she knew that all this kissing was going to have to stop. There just wasn’t any future in it.

  This was the man who held Rancho Verde, the man who was threatening to evict her grandfather from his home again. But this was also the man whose laughing eyes warmed her heart and whose gentle touch lit fire where none had ever blazed before. She knew her reactions to him were confused and dangerous, but she wasn’t ready to sort them out just yet.

  His hand cupped her cheek, moving slowly, sensuously across her skin, while his kiss deepened, reminding her of the peril that lay implicit in the excitement he was creating. She opened her eyes a little and found herself staring into Dan Santiago’s disapproving frown.

  David might be ready to kiss her in front of his ancestors, but his ancestors weren’t ready at all. She pulled away, putting up both hands to ward David off.

  “Your people don’t like me,” she said, turning to look at the rest of them, one by one. Then a thought came flashing through her mind. “But where are my people?”

  “Your people?” David looked annoyed, but she couldn’t tell if that was because she’d resisted his embrace, or because he didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “My people. The Carringtons. Where are their portraits?”

  David’s face hardened. “I don’t know. I suppose your grandfather took them with him when he left.”

  “No.” She shook her head with certainty, moving around the room as though looking for a secret hiding-place. “No, he told me about them, where each one was hung. And I know they aren’t with him now.” She glanced about the room. “They must still be here somewhere.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What would we want with your family’s pictures?” He seemed to think she was accusing him of stealing them.

  But Shawnee was hardly paying attention. “Do you have a storage room around here somewhere?” she asked, completely caught up in the excitement of the search. “Maybe an attic where you keep the paintings you don’t hang?”

  “There’s a store room upstairs,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “Let’s go!” Her eyes shone with hope. She reached out and took David’s hand in her own. “Let’s look. Please? It would be so much fun to find them.”

  Annoyance dimmed and resignation filled his eyes. “What makes you think you’ll find them here?”

  She shrugged grandly. “Where else could they be?” She backed towards the door, almost dancing, and pulling him along with her. “Come on, let’s hurry!”

  He looked down at her, shaking his head, a crooked smile trying to turn the corners of his mouth. “I think I liked you better when you were naked and wet,” he said with a touch of irony. “At least then I felt that I had some control.”

  But he led her up the huge, curving staircase, to the first floor. As they reached the top, something small and furry caught her eye.

  “What is that?” she asked, looking down the hall to where the champagne-colored hair spread out across the burgundy carpet.

  David chuckled. “That is Hank,” he said. “Come on over and meet him.”

  She followed him up to the mound of fur which didn’t move at their approach. “Is Hank alive?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He leaned down and stroked one end of the fur and suddenly a little black nose rose towards him, and then two small, bugged eyes opened sleepily. Hank seemed to be a very furry Pekingese. “Hank is alive, but just barely. His main ambition in life is to get into my bedroom. He loves to sleep on my bed.” He grinned. “And Allison hates him to. So they have a running battle, and he spends most of his days curled up outside my bedroom door.”

  Shawnee petted Hank, but he was back to sleep by then and made no move to react to the stranger in his domain. It seemed odd seeing David with this small, eccentric creature. The more she knew of David, the more she had to admit she liked him.

  They left Hank to his waiting sleep and went down the hall to a high-ceilinged storeroom. The only light came in through two small high windows giving the room a ghostly look. Cardboard boxes were piled beside cast-off furniture and cabin trunks, but along the side of the room, Shawnee saw the paintings stacked like pieces of firewood.

  “Here we go, these have got to be them.” She pushed her way happily through the accumulated junk of the years and began rummaging through the paintings, picking each up and setting it against the wall in its turn.

  David followed more slowly, as though he were reluctant to admit he was involved. He left the pictures to her while he picked up objects at random, anything that met his eye.

  “Look at this.” He placed a huge leghorn hat on her head. “You look good in any century, don’t you?”

  She couldn’t hold back a smile and she posed for a moment, making a silly pout. “I need one of those huge dresses that sweep the floor.” She made a turn as though to let her imaginary dress flow behind her, and as she came around, he twisted a dusty feather boa around her neck.

  “Now you’re ready for a night on the town,” he said, grinning at the picture she made.

  “Next time I need a Halloween costume, I’ll know where to come.” She shed the hat and boa and went back to looking through the paintings. “Seascapes, moonshadows, fruit on a table. There aren’t any people in here at all!”

  “Any lost Rembrandts?” he asked as he pulled out a big black box and began poking into the contents. “Any forgotten Picassos?”

  “Not in this bunch.” She put the last one against the wall and turned back to David with a disgusted moan. “They’re not here.”

  He nodded with no sympathy whatsoever. “I won’t say I told you so,” he announced smugly, “but I told you so.”

  She was too disappointed to pay any attention to his ribbing. She’d been so sure . . . Gazing quickly around the room, she lost all hope. There was no other place for the portraits to be hiding. They must have been thrown out when the place went to the Santiagos. Unless there was somewhere else they might be hiding.

  Suddenly she noticed David looking at something with a particularly idiotic smile on his face.

  Curiosity aroused, she came up behind him. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” He hastily pushed the objects he’d been looking at back into the black box. “Given up on your ancestors, have you?”

  “No.” She reached right by him and pulled the objects back again. In her hand she found three cart
oon characters cut from wood, the kind one often saw on the walls of children’s nurseries. They were chubby little pigs, each in a different colored hat.

  Forgetting her disappointment, she laughed out loud. “And who are these delightful creatures? Friends of yours?”

  To her glee, a rosy hue was beginning to creep across David’s cheeks. Could that possibly be a real, honest-to-goodness blush? She wanted to throw her arms around his neck.

  “They were in my room when I was a kid,” he mumbled, trying to get her to put them back in the box. “That’s all. No big deal”

  She could see him as a little boy, lying in his bed and gazing up at the pigs on his wall. The laugh bubbling up in her throat almost escaped again, but she managed to hold it back, “What are their names?” she coaxed. “Come on. You can tell me.”

  “Come on, Shawnee.” He tried to frown with adult authority, but when he looked back at the little pigs, he couldn’t keep it up. He hesitated, then said tentatively, “You really want to know?”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Okay.” He pointed to the pig in the green hat. “That’s Curly. See his tail? And the one in red is Sleepy.”

  That seemed appropriate. His little round eyes were tightly shut.

  “And this little guy—” David took the last one out in his hand and held it up to the light. From the look on his face, Shawnee guessed that this had been his favorite of all. The pig was round as a balloon. A little yellow hat sat on top of his head and a sad tear dropped from his eye. “This is Spitball.”

  The laughter died in her throat. “Spitball?” she asked incredulously. It hardly fitted with Curly and Sleepy. “Why Spitball?”

  He grinned with sly triumph as he handed it back to her. “Because I used him for target practice, that’s why. What a dumb question.”

  She searched his expressionless face, trying to decide if he’d been putting her on when he acted sentimental over old toys, or if he was putting her on now, pretending otherwise. He held her gaze, not giving an inch.

  “Spitball,” she murmured in disgust, and put the pigs away. And gazed around the room for more treasure.

  “Oh, David, look!” A stack of photographs in silver frames turned out to be all of David. David graduating from high school, David playing football, David riding a beautiful Palomino in the Founder’s Day Parade.

  “Handsome devil,” David noted admiringly.

  “Well, the devil part is accurate anyway,” she responded.

  “You think so?” Suddenly he was much too close again, his breath sweet against her skin, his hand tangling in her hair. “And here I thought I’d been so angelic today.”

  He had, too. She could feel that he was holding back, indulging her, and she felt a rush of gratitude. “It’s not what you do that brands you,” she said a bit breathlessly. “It’s what you’re thinking.”

  “What? Don’t tell me you can read minds?” He was going to kiss her again if she let him. His fingers tightened in her hair. “What’s going on in mine ought to be censored,” he murmured, moving closer.

  She stared up at him, knowing how easy it would be to respond in kind. But she’d vowed to cut this out. It was time to act on her convictions. Instead of staying in his power and waiting like a deer in a clearing, she gathered all her strength and pulled away.

  “We’ve got to look for my people!” she exclaimed as an excuse, turning away nervously. She walked into the far end of the room and found something promising. “Come here quick. Look what I’ve found!”

  He followed, smiling at her enthusiasm. “An old gramophone. I remember that from my grandmother’s house.”

  It was huge, with the big horn rising over the turntable.

  “And look at all these old 78s.” She began sifting through them, exclaiming over old singing stars. “Edith Piaf. I remember my grandfather listening to her sing when I was a kid.” She slipped the heavy record out of its torn jacket. “Here, start the crank and we’ll have a listen.”

  She put the disc on the turntable, then looked up at David. “Well, if you won’t crank,” she said tartly, “I will.” She reached for the handle, but David’s hand on her arm stopped her,

  “I wouldn’t bother,” he said drily. “A little electricity works so much better.” He held out the plug before pushing it into the wall socket.

  He smirked, trying to turn it into a point for his side, but she wasn’t about to let him. “Now I know why women need men,” she said with a grin. “They’re just so logical.”

  David was about to make a retort, but the music began to fill the room and the sound of the extraordinary voice drew them both to stand, mesmerized, in front of the gramophone.

  The language of the song was French and Shawnee couldn’t understand a word of it, but she didn’t need a translation. It was all there in the voice, every tear, every heartache. Lovers torn or lured away, love unrequited, hope lost, war and death and longing for something one could never have. Shawnee felt a lump welling up in her throat.

  When David slipped his arms around her from behind, she leaned back against him, needing him while she listened. His lips were warm against her neck and she arched it, letting him explore at will. His arms tightened around her. But when the song was over and he turned her towards him, he found tears in her eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked with real concern. One finger traced the wet trail along her cheek. “What’s wrong?”

  She shrugged helplessly and tried to smile. “I don’t know,” she said, telling the truth and wishing she could control her emotions a little better. He was going to think she was an idiot. But there was something in that music and in that voice that sent her sentiments into a tailspin. The turmoil of her last few years, with her parents dying in a plane crash, her escape to Northern California pretty much bombing out, her fight to save Miki, her return to find her grandfather in such sad shape—it all seemed to be in the music. If she didn’t watch out, she would be crying buckets right here in front of the Santiagos, and that would be the last straw.

  “I ... I just don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  He laughed softly and pulled her against his chest. “No need to be sorry.” He kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. “I think I have a surprise that might bring the sparkle back into your eyes,” he said.

  She pulled back to look at him blearily, “What’s that?”

  He smiled at her, “I’ve had a thought. I may just know where your people are after all.”

  Tears were forgotten as she cried out in delight, “Where?” Impulsively, she threw her arms around his waist and hugged him tightly. “Oh, where? Let’s go, quickly.”

  “Can it wait?” He held her to him, reluctant to let her go, his eyes dark as he gazed down at her.

  She stared up at him, surprised by something trembling just behind his gaze, but she couldn’t tell just what it was.

  Don’t expect too much from me, David, she warned silently, wishing she had the nerve to say the words aloud. We’re still enemies, no matter how strong the pull between us gets. And enemies can’t let down the final barriers. Not if they want to survive the war.

  “No,” she whispered to him.

  A certain hardness came over his face, tightening his jaw. “Of course not,” he said shortly, letting her go. “Come on. I’ll show you what I mean.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LOVE IN THE AFTERNOON

  She followed him down the hall, around a corner, and down another hall, until they came to a heavy wooden door that seemed very far removed from the main area of the house. David swung open the door, glanced in and nodded. “I was right. Here they are.” He held the door to let her in.

  She entered the room slowly, gazing around carefully, wanting to take in every detail. Portraits hung on all sides, completely overwhelming the neat little bed and dresser. It looked like an Alice in Wonderland compression of a gallery, all towering presence, very little room to move. S
hawnee sighed with pure ecstasy.

  “This is a guest room that wasn’t used much,” David told her. “When I brought friends home from college they were often put in here, but other than that . . .” He leaned back against the wall and watched her, seemingly bemused by her emotional reaction to finding the portraits.

  “Andrew Barrett Carrington,” she read from the little brass plate attached to one portrait. “May Anne Spencer Carrington,” she read from another. “Gregory Hyde Spencer Carrington.” And there was her grandfather, James Andrew Carrington, young and cocky looking, his head held high and proud. He was the owner of Rancho Verde when the portrait was painted. No doubt he thought he always would be, that nothing could take it from him. How wrong he was.

  “Why are these hung here?” she asked, marveling. “Why would you want the reminder?”

  David shrugged. “Maybe my father thought they deserved a place in the ranch history, a place to be remembered,” he said softly.

  Shawnee frowned. That didn’t fit the picture she had of Dan Santiago, a fierce, scheming autocrat who took what he wanted with no regard for others. And yet, here were the portraits, well maintained after all these years. She could almost feel the lives of these men and women echoing across the land. She shuddered, pulling her arms tightly around herself.

  “There’s still at least an hour of light left,” she said, looking out of the window at the green hills of the ranch. “Let’s go out and explore.”

  His hand was on her shoulder and she wanted to turn into it, to feel it caress her cheek. Something in her hungered for the comfort she knew he could give her. She had to keep her gaze away from his so that he wouldn’t see what she felt. She looked down at the bed and suddenly a vision of two bodies entwined in passion flashed into her mind. She jerked back, stung, but the image stayed, and she felt her heart beating a wild dance in her chest.

  “Do you want to go out and explore?” he asked softly, his voice low and rumbling, “or do you want to stay here and . . . talk?”