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.”
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 swiftly as possible.
“You’ve been very kind to me, Bayard,” she. murmured, staring down at the tablecloth. “But it’s far too soon. John has barely been gone four months. Out of respect for him, if nothing else, I should wait.”
“The man who was your husband and my best friend died last summer when that horse bucked him out of the saddle onto his head.” Bayard spoke sharply, making no effort to hide his impatience. “It was his body you tended for those last months, but it wasn’t the man we knew and loved, Rose. It wasn’t John.”
“Your breakfast is getting cold,” she said.
“Forget breakfast!” The chair legs grated across the tiles as he slid away from the table and strode around it to stand behind her. Rose stiffened as his warm hands settled onto her shoulders. “Dash it, but you’re tense,” he murmured, his strong, blunt fingers working her knotted muscles. “What’s the matter? You aren’t afraid of me, are you?”
Rose shook her head in denial.
“Then what—?”
She forced a tired smile. “Forgive me, Bayard. You just didn’t pick a good time to propose, that’s all. I’ve had a long night, and I’m not thinking very well.”
His hands continued to knead her shoulders, their motion slowing to a sensual caress. “You’re a beautiful woman, Rose,” he murmured, “too beautiful to be alone, without a man. Just say yes.” He bent close to her ear, his lips skimming her tousled hair. “You’ll never be sorry, I promise.”
Rose shivered, imagining Latigo behind the kitchen door, his sharp Apache ears hearing every
