Texas Standoff. Ruth Smith Alana

door.

      Hesitantly Colin climbed the steps and walked inside. He paused once more in the entryway, partly because of the sheer enormity of the hall, partly because he became conscious of the trail of water he was depositing on the polished parquet floor. He just stood there, drip-drying and gazing up at the hundreds of crystal teardrops dangling from the chandelier above his head. He never noticed the approach of the small, brownskinned man until he spoke to the Winston woman, and even then he hadn’t the vaguest idea what the fellow was saying, since the exchange was conducted in rapid-fire Spanish.

      “I know, I know, Andele.” Her tone was conciliatory. “This here is Mr. Majors. I picked him up along the way. He’s wet and tired and I want you to make him comfortable.”

      In the space of a sentence, both the lady’s tone and attitude changed. She behaved like a person comfortable with authority. But why? Surely she wasn’t in charge around here. Judging from her age, it was safe to assume she was the coddled daughter of the real owner of Cheyenne Moon. His mind jumped from one puzzle to another. He’d been so flabbergasted when first glimpsing his temporary quarters he’d missed an opportunity to see his hostess in a revealing light. Turning about to face her, he found himself staring into empty space where only a second ago she’d been standing. She was already on the porch and heading toward the pickup. He advanced an involuntary step or two toward the doorway.

      She turned to him, mistaking his curiosity for apprehensiveness. “Sorry, I can’t stick around to see that you get settled in myself. Don’t worry. Andele understands English. He just doesn’t speak it very well. My hands nicknamed him Andele because he gets things done lickety-split. His real name is Miguel, but he doesn’t answer to it much anymore.” She seemed oblivious to the storm still raging about her. She just stood with a booted foot braced on the running board of the truck, carrying on a casual conversation in the midst of the whipping wind, drenching rain and staccato flashes of lightning.

      “You shouldn’t go out in this again. It’s not safe,” he heard himself responding. What the hell was the matter with him? He wasn’t her mother. He wasn’t anything to her, or she to him.

      His concern seemed to amuse her. “Get a good night’s sleep, Mr. Majors,” she said before climbing into the truck.

      The Mexican houseboy tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow him up the freestanding winding staircase. Wordlessly Colin trailed behind, his long legs stretching to keep pace with Andele’s shorter but quicker strides. The fellow did, in fact, move like a roadrunner. The upstairs balcony circled in a hub with maybe twelve different rooms branching off like spokes on a wheel.

      Halfway around the hub, Andele stopped and thrust open one of the huge doors, then stood aside so that Colin could pass.

      “Gracias.” Colin’s politeness was not so much the result of good manners as the fact that he could fluently speak three words of Spanish, the other two being “si” and “bueno.” As he stepped across the threshold into the interior, it was as if he’d entered a time warp and been magically transported to old Santa Fe-sturdy pine furniture, rough cedar beams overhead, the window coverings, bed quilt and accent rugs all coordinated in what he thought of as Indian tapestry but what the top designers called the Southwestern look.

      Andele breezed by him and opened a second door leading to an adjoining bathroom, giving him a glimpse of turquoise and white Spanish tiles, plus rust-colored towels and a whiff of eucalyptus. The sound of running water reclaimed his attention. Andele was preparing his bath. With amazing efficiency he flitted about, laying out towels, a sponge, toiletries and a turquoiseand-white-striped terry robe all in two minutes flat, while Colin stood rooted to the floor, observing the scene in fascination. Jeez! If he didn’t show some sign of independence, the little guy would probably strip and scrub him on the spot.

      He strode to the bathroom doorway and placed a staying hand on Andele’s arm. “I appreciate the assistance, but I can take it from here. Gracias.” A pattern was quickly establishing itself. Thanking him was becoming a habit. Andele smiled broadly, revealing but one front tooth and a noticeable gap as he did so.

      “Good night,” Colin said, diplomatically dismissing him, or so he believed, anyway.

      “Buenos noches.” With a curt bow of his head, Andele started to withdraw.

      A telephone. He’d forgotten to ask. “Phone,” he blurted, postponing Andele’s speedy exit and trying to communicate in mime his urgent need to make a call.

      Andele understood his meaning without the theatrics. He pointed to the telephone located on a table under a window, then shook his head, indicating a communication problem of a different sort. “Ees broke,” he explained.

      Colin crossed to the phone, snatched up the receiver and checked it out for himself. It was dead all right. Frustrated, he clicked the receiver a couple of times but to no avail. It wasn’t just a faulty connection. The storm must have knocked out service. With a sigh, he hung up the receiver.

      Andele offered him an apologetic shrug. “Maybe manana,” he said by way of consolation.

      “I suppose mañana will have to do.”

      Andele patiently waited to see if the tall gringo desired anything further.

      “Gmcias,” Colin said a third and final time, hoping Andele would take the hint. He did, disappearing from the bedroom like a puff of smoke on a strong wind.

      Once certain he was alone, Colin returned to the bathroom. Peeling out of his wet clothes, he threw them in a heap on the tiled floor, removed his watch, placed it on the sink top and then eased his body into the deep tub filled with hot water and a splash of spicy scent. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, letting the steamy, pungent vapors seep into every pore. What a day it had been. He leaned his head back against the cool porcelain and closed his eyes. Suddenly the form of the Winston woman took shape on the dark side of his inner lids, the way she had looked in the rain-lean and firm, fresh and wet, moving in slow, sensuous motion toward him.

      His eyes blinked open and he sat straight up in the tub. What the hell was he doing? What would make him conjure up a fantasy about her? Then, just as suddenly, another thought struck him. This was the first time in nearly four years he’d almost made it through an entire day without thinking about his ex-wife, not even once, which was as weird as daydreaming about a total stranger. He wondered if there was a connection. Recently he’d heard the rumor that his former wife was contemplating marrying again. He’d been told that his replacement was older, wealthier and in the wings before Gwen and he had even separated. At the time he’d pretended to discount the gossip about Gwen’s infidelity, but he wondered now if it might have been true, since there had been hints of it during the final months of their marriage. So, maybe, she’d been cheating on him. What difference did it make now? It was all water under the bridge, so the saying went. The flood rapids at the creek’s crossing came to mind; the urgency of traveling such a short distance over a rickety wooden bridge, the blind trust he’d placed in a woman whose driving skills had been as big a question mark as the outcome of their escape attempt. Past and present circumstances kept trading places in his brain. Water under the bridge. Water over the bridge.

      Colin soaped up the sponge and began lathering his limbs, using more energy and pressure than necessary. As he considered the prospect of Gwen marrying again, a possibility he hadn’t considered about Easy Winston popped into his head. The more he thought about it, the more logical a conclusion it seemed. He’d be willing to bet the bank that she was married to some older, wealthier cattle baron. It would explain a lot. “My place” was more than likely “our place,” and actually “his place” before the “I do’s.”

      He let the logic sink in as he slid under the water for a final rinse and a deserved dunking. He felt like enough of an idiot for thinking about having sex with a woman he’d known all of an hour. Now to realize he was lusting after another man’s wife. A Texan from the Hill Country might shoot you for a lesser crime.

      Weighing the notion of a night of fabulous sex with the sultry Mrs. Winston against