Trilby. Diana Palmer

of herbs he uses on cuts. I’ll let him doctor me.”

      “Are you sure he won’t poison you?” she asked, with faint humor.

      “He’s my friend,” he said simply. “Friends don’t poison each other. If you’re sure you’re all right, I’ll be on my way.”

      “Thank you for looking after my father,” she said, with stiff pride.

      “He needed looking after,” he said shortly. “My God, he’ll lose everything if he doesn’t toughen up.”

      “It’s so brutal out here,” she said suddenly, her wide eyes expressive.

      “Of course it is. It’s no place for lilies.”

      She blanched. Her hands dovetailed on her waist as she lay there looking up at him from her pillow. She felt vulnerable with a man in her bedroom. He seemed to fill it, dominate it. He looked at her as if she were hopeless. Perhaps she was.

      His dark eyes slid down her body to her slim ankles and back up again. She was slender and well made, and he ached thinking about how her mouth felt under his.

      But she was looking at him as if he frightened her. Probably he did, he thought bitterly. He’d been antagonistic toward her from the very beginning; he’d insulted her, been roughly physical with her, and then he’d savaged her reputation. How could he expect her to trust him?

      That was a pity, when she’d begun to appeal to him in a totally new way, he thought ironically. She’d been scared to death and sick while he fought the Mexican, but she was game! White in the face and shaking, she’d still had the nerve to doctor his wounds. He admired her. He’d admired her when she fought with him verbally, and she’d done that from the first time they’d met. He couldn’t remember one time when he’d ever admired his late wife—except in the very beginning of their relationship.

      “I won’t let anything happen to your father, Trilby,” he said quietly. “To any of you.”

      She swallowed down a bout of nausea and closed her eyes. “This terrible country,” she whispered. “I wish we’d never come.”

      He hated the way she said that. “Listen, it’s not as bad as you’re making it out. Trilby, I’d like to show you my desert….”

      Her eyes flew open and began to glitter with feeling. “The way you showed me last time?” she asked accusingly.

      He muttered under his breath and stood up. He swept off his hat and wiped the sweat from under it with the long sleeve of his shirt. “You won’t see my side of it, will you?” he asked quietly. “I acted on what I believed to be the truth.”

      “God sitting in judgment? Your opinion of me makes me sicker than your wounds, Mr. Vance,” she said huskily, her gray eyes wide and unblinking in a face like paper. “I have no use for a man who can jump to a conclusion and refuse to let go of it, even when all the evidence contradicts it.”

      “Sally lied to me,” he repeated.

      “Yes.”

      “I didn’t know you,” he persisted. “I had no idea what kind of person you really were.”

      “You might have given me the benefit of the doubt,” she said coldly. “As it happens, my father was able to undo the damage you did to my reputation. That is fortunate, because a beau of mine is coming out to stay very shortly. I should hate him to get a bad opinion of me from local gossip.”

      He went very still. “A beau?” he asked.

      She smiled haughtily. “Apparently you think my lack of beauty precludes me from having gentleman callers. It might interest you to know that not all men judge a woman by her face or form. Richard admires me for my intellect.”

      “Richard who?” he shot at her.

      “Richard Bates. We grew up together in Baton Rouge. His family and mine would very much like for us to marry,” she added deliberately. “And so would I. I’ve loved Richard half my life!”

      He felt tight as a drawn cord. Her dislike and contempt for him were as tangible as his had once been for her. He felt small and mean, and because his guilt made him raw inside, he lashed out.

      “He’s a city boy, I gather? One of those dandies with no brain or guts?”

      “Richard is a gentleman, Mr. Vance,” she said, with faint hauteur. “Which is something no woman could ever accuse you of being. Certainly not if she’d ever had the misfortune to be alone with you!”

      He flushed. His hand crushed the brim of his hat and his wounded face went livid. “You don’t pull your punches, do you?”

      “I wish I could punch you, Mr. Vance,” she said fervently. “I wish I were a man for just five minutes. I’d do you more damage than that Mexican managed!”

      He drew himself up to his full height. “I’ve apologized,” he said shortly.

      “And you think that wipes out months of harsh treatment and contempt and insults.” She nodded.

      Put that way, no, he didn’t. He let his eyes wander over her face for one long moment as he began to realize just how much he’d made her hate him. He was going to lose her and her father’s water rights in one fell swoop, and this Eastern dude she loved was going to waltz in and scoop her right out of his life. He felt sick right where he lived.

      He didn’t say another word. He turned abruptly, slammed his hat back on his head, and walked out of the room.

      Trilby closed her eyes. Let him go, she thought angrily. She certainly didn’t want him. She never had! She thought about Richard instead, and the tenseness left her face all at once. Richard was coming, at last! For once, her dreams seemed to be coming true. When Richard arrived, the vicious Mr. Vance would become nothing more than a bad memory.

      Bad, like the events of the day. Trilby refused to think of the danger her father had been in. She wanted nothing to spoil the joyous time ahead.

      Chapter Five

      When Trilby got up, minutes later, Mary Lang was still sick and faint from what she’d seen outside her window. The whole unpleasant episode had pointed out what was worst about their new home.

      “I had no idea men fought like that,” Mary told her daughter later when they were sitting quietly together after putting out a meal for Jack. “I’d never seen men fight.”

      “Neither had I. The Mexican said something about me. Mr. Vance wouldn’t tell me what it was, but it was why he hit him.”

      “Thank you for taking care of his wounds, Trilby,” Mary said. “I just couldn’t!”

      For the first time, Trilby felt older than her mother. It was not to be the last time she felt that way.

      The idea of Thorn fighting for her was surprising. Of course, he had sworn that he’d changed his mind about her. But it didn’t wipe away the damaging things he’d said.

      He came visiting late one afternoon at the end of the week, after Jack Lang had come in from checking his line riders. The sun was going down and the sunset, always spectacular, had brought Trilby onto the darkened front porch steps to watch. She was sitting there, alone, while her family talked around the kitchen table, when Thorn rode up.

      Her heart raced as he swung lithely out of the saddle and tied his mount to the post. Fear, she supposed, had to be responsible for that reaction. Or anger, perhaps. She noticed that he was still wearing working garb.

      Her innate sense of courtesy wouldn’t let her be deliberately rude to a visitor, in spite of the hostility he kindled in her. “You usually ride a horse when you come to visit, Mr. Vance,” she commented politely from her perch on the top step. “I thought you liked automobiles.”

      “I don’t. Not particularly.” He sat down beside her, a lighted cigarette in his hand, and