Apache Fire. Elizabeth Lane

her inhospitality would annoy him to the point of leaving. But Bayard Hudson only snorted his disgust.

      “Well, go and wake the lazy old hen! You’re too easy on the hired help, Rose. You need a man around the place to see that things are properly run.”

      “I’m raising a man for that very purpose. But until John’s son is old enough to take over, I’m the one in charge.” Rose arranged her features into a smiling mask. “Go and sit down in the dining room, Bayard. I’ll heat up some beans and fresh coffee and bring them in to you.”

      “Bacon and eggs would be nice, too, while you’re at it. But you needn’t go so fancy for me, Rose. I’ll eat in the kitchen, and we can visit while you cook. I like watching a woman work.”

      “No!” Rose scrambled for a way out. “The baby—he’s asleep, and you might wake him. Go on, sit down, this won’t take a minute.”

      “Fine. I like my eggs sunny-side up.”

      “Yes. I know.” Her knees went liquid as Bayard ambled into the dining room and slid one of the high-backed leather chairs away from the table. Only after he’d settled his broad frame onto its seat could she force herself to turn and walk back toward the kitchen. Heart pounding, she opened the door wide enough to slip through, then closed it carefully behind her.

      Latigo had awakened. He was sitting up on the floor, his back propped against the whitewashed wall next to the door frame. His face was haggard with pain.

      “What’s going on out there?” His mouth moved with effort.

      “It’s an old friend of John’s, and he’s expecting breakfast.” Rose gathered some kindling sticks from the wood box and thrust them into the stove. As she blew her breath on last night’s embers they began to glow.

      “He doesn’t know I’m here?”

      Rose shook her head.

      “Where’s the gun?”

      “You actually think I’d tell you?”

      A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips as he settled back against the wall, watching her cat-fashion through the half-closed slits between his eyelids as she filled the enameled coffeepot and set it over the fire. The beans Esperanza had cooked two days ago were in the pantry, cool in their thick earthenware jar, but the bacon, if she wanted it, would have to be brought from the smoke cellar, the eggs gathered from the backyard henhouse. She cared precious little about pleasing Bayard Hudson, but if she could turn such errands to her advantage…

      No, Rose concluded swiftly, the peril was too great. If Bayard were to get restless and wander into the kitchen at the wrong moment, anything could happen. She had to be here to keep him out.

      Rose ladled some beans into a shallow iron skillet and hurried back to place it on the stove. Latigo’s gaze followed her every move: His feverish black eyes seemed to burn through her flesh.

      “Maybe you’d better hide in there.” She jerked her head toward the open pantry door.

      He shook his head, and Rose realized that even now he didn’t trust her. The pantry, with its thick, windowless walls and heavy door, could too easily become a prison.

      “You could unlock that kitchen door and let me out,” he said.

      “You’re too weak to run. You’d pass out in the yard.” Rose scooped the half-warmed beans onto a plate, added two slices of brown bread and poured some coffee into a porcelain cup. Her shaking hand splattered the hot liquid onto the counter. Reflexively she reached for a dishcloth, then, realizing she was only wasting time, flung it down, piled the breakfast things onto a tray and, with a last frantic glance at Latigo, rushed out of the kitchen.

      Bayard was teetering backward on the rear legs of his chair, his fingers drumming impatiently on the tabletop. Rose bit back a surge of nervous irritation. Bayard Hudson was a good man, she reminded herself. Any sensible female would throw herself into his arms and beg him to protect her from the brooding stranger in the kitchen.

      Sensible?

      A grim smile tugged at Rose’s lips. No one, least of all John, had ever given her credit for having much sense. Before his accident, she had been a trophy, with little more expected of her than to adorn his home and produce the heirs he’d so stridently demanded. All that had changed, however, in the past six months. She ran the ranch now, and she would deal with the man named Latigo on her own terms.

      Bayard scowled as she arranged the simple breakfast on the cloth before him, but he did not complain. His warm gaze followed her as she pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table and settled uneasily into it.

      “You’re not going to join me?”

      “I’m more tired than hungry. Forgive me, Bayard.” Rose brushed a lock of hair out of her face, her heart sinking as she noticed the spark her gesture ignited in his hazel eyes. “Your visit can’t be a social call at this hour,” she said, feigning an air of cheerfulness. “What are you up to?”

      “Posse business.” He scooped a hunk of bread into the beans, took a hungry mouthful and washed it down with a swig of coffee. “We rode out of Tucson last night and made it as far as the hot springs. While the rest of the boys bedded down for a few hours, I decided to ride over this way and make sure you were all right.”

      “As you see, I’m fine. You could’ve saved yourself the trouble.” Rose laughed uneasily, her hands clenched into fists below the tabletop. “Posse business, you say?”

      “Uh-huh. Half-breed army scout named Latigo murdered two government agents on the San Carlos Reservation. The wire from Fort Grant said the bastard was headed south, maybe this way. When I got here this morning and saw that trail of blood across your porch, the idea that it could be yours—”

      Rose watched him gulp his coffee. She felt light-headed, as if a noose had been jerked around her throat, shutting off the blood supply to her brain.

      Was the wire from Fort Grant a mistake, or had Latigo lied to her? Was she protecting an innocent man or harboring a killer?

      “I don’t like the idea of your being alone out here,” Bayard was saying. “Those Mexicans of yours, hell, they’ve got no more loyalty than jackrabbits. They’ll turn tail and leave you at the first sign of trouble. You need someone strong, someone who cares about you. You need a man.”

      “What?” Rose had been staring down at the weave of the linen tablecloth. Preoccupied with her own thoughts, she had only half heard him. She glanced up to discover that he had stopped eating and was gazing at her with an intensity that raised goose prickles beneath her robe.

      “Bayard—”

      “It’s time,” he insisted. “John was my friend. He would want me to take care of you and the baby.” He paused long enough to take in her stunned expression. “Don’t look so surprised,” he said. “I’ve been in love with you for years, Rose. Now that you’re free, and you’ve had a few months’ time for mourning, I’m asking you to be my wife.”

       Chapter Three

      Rose stared at the man across the table, hoping she had misunderstood him but knowing she had not. His boldly stated words left her no room for evasion.

      “Well, Rose?” He was beaming at her as if she had already said yes. After all, what woman wouldn’t jump at the chance to marry Bayard Hudson? He was handsome, well-to-do, and one of the most respected men in Arizona.

      So why had her skin suddenly gone clammy beneath her robe?

      She sensed his impatience, sensed the tension in him as his body poised to spring out of the chair and sweep her into his embrace. Rose thought of the dark stranger in the kitchen. Lives could depend on her getting Bayard Hudson out of the house as