His eyes were closed again, and it surprised her when he picked up the conversation. “When I was a boy, I was enthralled with Poe. Ben used to rile me about reading such ‘rubbish,’ as he called it. ‘If you want to hear ghost stories, have Thorn tell you some.’ Thorn’s were pretty good, too.” He laughed. “He used to raise the hair on my neck telling me about Indian legends, taboos, and secret rites.” He stared reflectively into the fire, the flames dancing in his amber eyes. Putting his thumb and middle finger against his lids, he rubbed them in fatigue. “I don’t have time to read anymore.”
She hesitated only a moment before asking gently, “Was your trip a taxing one?”
He sighed heavily. “Yes. Some of the men in public office are frighteningly stupid. I’m sick to death of having to pander to them. I want…”
When he didn’t continue, she urged him softly. “Yes. You want…?”
It was the only prodding he needed to voice his innermost thoughts. “I want the railroad because it’s the only way we can operate a successful, profitable ranch in the twentieth century. Ben wanted it so bad he could taste it, but I hate having to go through so much red tape and catering to idiots in order to get it.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees.
Lauren remained quiet. This was a time for listening.
“I want to live on Keypoint and ride the fences like any other vaquero and let someone else do all of this politicking.”
Lauren swallowed her caution, stood, and went to him timorously. She placed her hands lightly on his shoulders and massaged the knotted, tense muscles. “Maybe when the railroad is finished, you can do that, Jared. I hope so, for your sake.”
He leaned back in the chair again, noticeably relaxing under the magic touch of her fingers. After a few moments, she said, “Thank you for the scarf. It’s lovely.”
He looked up at her standing behind him. His eyes were tired and bloodshot, but he read the encouragement and compassion in hers as she smiled down at him. He covered one small hand on his shoulder with his, then grasped it and squeezed tightly. He brought it up to his face and pressed her palm against his hard cheek.
“Your hands are beautiful, Lauren. I noticed—” He broke off, feeling that he was probably making a fool of himself, but then went on, “I noticed them that first night we were at dinner together.” His fingers smoothed down her slender counterparts.
“If they are, it’s from hours at the piano, I suppose. My father once told me my hands were like my mother’s. She played, too.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Yes,” she admitted readily. “I suppose my music is for me what riding the line is for you.”
He studied the hand in his with the appreciation of an art connoisseur for a masterpiece. Bringing it back to his mouth his tongue brushed each fingertip. Lauren’s eyes closed.
His lips moved to her wrist, and when her ruffled cuff obstructed him, his thumb slipped between the buttons and buttonholes and laid bare her translucent skin.
“You’re so soft,” he murmured as his lips caressed her wrist. “You make everything seem so uncomplicated, so…” His words trailed off as he buried his lips in the soft cushion of her palm. Her heart fluttered erratically when she felt the moist warmth of his tongue sliding sensuously over her flesh.
He raised his hand and trailed a finger down her cheek as his eyes traveled her face beseechingly. “Lauren, I—”
“Jared.” Whatever he was going to say was arrested by Olivia’s imperious interruption. “Carson is waiting to go over that last group of figures before we call it a night. Lauren, dear, there’s no need for you to wait up.”
Jared’s mouth tensed into a thin, hard line and the muscles of his face became rigid as he pushed himself out of the chair and strode from the room.
Lauren retrieved her shoes and her book and, after turning off the lamp, faced the door. Olivia’s tall figure was still silhouetted in the doorway. As Lauren came closer, she saw that one of Olivia’s black eyebrows was raised speculatively.
“Goodnight, Lauren,” she said coldly.
“Goodnight.” As she mounted the stairs, Lauren could feel her mother-in-law’s piercing eyes boring into he
r back.
* * *
Lauren went down to the kitchen the following morning to ask if she could help Rosa with her preparations for the Thanksgiving meal. She was assured that things were well underway. Elena was sorting laundry at a work table. When Lauren was about to leave the kitchen, she offered to take her things upstairs and save the girl the steps.
“I’ll take Jared’s things, too,” she offered as Elena piled her arms with fresh-smelling clothes. The stiff, starched white dress shirts and the soft-colored ones Jared wore on the trail were added to Lauren’s load.
She went up the stairs quickly and tapped on Jared’s door. There was no response. She was about to call out to him, when she heard splashing sounds coming from one of the bathrooms down the hallway. To her knowledge, he had never used the bathroom that connected their rooms.
Indecisively she stood outside his slightly opened door. What could it hurt? she asked herself as she eased the door ajar far enough for her to slip inside.
The room was simply furnished. A bed with a tall oak headboard occupied one wall. A massive wardrobe filled another. A bureau, complete with shaving mirror, washbowl, and pitcher, stood in the corner. The only other piece of furniture was a tall wing chair.