York, the Renegade: A Loveswept Classic Romance

  “Sit back down.” His voice cracked like a whip. “You don’t look like you can hold your head up, much less hike in mud and slush. I’ll phone one of the men to drive the two of you back to your trucks.” He opened the door, then looked back over his shoulder. “Is Brady really running an honest show these days?”

  She nodded. “There’s never been any trouble as long as I’ve been with the troupe.” She made a face. “Other than with creditors and local magistrates wanting their license money.”

  “Whom you obligingly ‘softened’ for your kindly employer.”

  She met his gaze steadily. “Sometimes.”

  He cursed beneath his breath and strode from the room.

  Ten minutes later Chester was bustling her solicitously out the front door and into the back of a Jeep driven by a brawny miner who introduced himself as Jake Bowdin. The Jeep started with a jerk and spewed mud in all directions as it sped out of town and down the mountain.

  “You get right to bed when you get back to your trailer,” Chester said. “And sleep late tomorrow. We can do without you until afternoon.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “You can?”

  “We wouldn’t want Delaney to think we were misusing you. He told me in no uncertain terms I should take you home and see you were properly cared for.” His smile deepened with satisfaction. “Right after he gave me permission for a three-day run in Hell’s Bluff. You did a good night’s work, Sierra.”

  “I had nothing to do with it.” She was stunned. She had been sure when Delaney had stalked out of the kitchen, the issue was closed. “No one could persuade York Delaney to do anything he didn’t want to do. He must have believed you when you told him the episode two years ago was a mistake.”

  “Perhaps. However, we’d better cover all our bases. I’ll get Myra to fix you a hot toddy when we get back tonight, and you stay in bed tomorrow morning and nurse your cold.”

  “I don’t need a hot toddy. I’ve already had something.” Steaming hot lemon juice his mother had made for him when he was a boy. What had he been like when he was little? It was strange to think of that fantastically beautiful man being coerced by anyone to do anything. There was a restlessness, a recklessness, seething just beneath the surface, and she sensed it could be ignited by a breath of a spark.

  Still, there had been a rough kindness in his attitude toward her tonight. Or had it been pity? She stiffened in automatic defensiveness, then relaxed. No, not pity, thank heavens. There had been too much anger and leashed tension for him to have entertained an emotion as gentle as pity. She felt an intense surge of relief. Lord knows, she’d had enough of that particular commodity in her life. She rested her head wearily against the Plastine window of the Jeep and closed her eyes. She was too tired now to worry about what Delaney had felt or not felt toward her.

  It didn’t matter anyway. Splendid peacocks had no place in her life. She would mark this interview down as the new experience of the day and forget about it. But at least this experience had one good outcome. She had a little time now to rest and get rid of this blasted cough.

  Deuce came back into the library and shut the door. “Well, they’re off. Big eyes is tucked cozily into the Jeep and on her way to a safe warm bed.” He lifted a brow. “Though the way you took over and rushed her out of here, I wasn’t sure you didn’t mean her to occupy yours tonight.”

  York didn’t look up from the game of solitaire he was playing. “Why should you think that? You were right, she was more like a drowned puppy than a femme fatale.” He slapped a ten on a jack with the faintest hint of violence. “And she looks about fifteen. I would have felt like a child molester.”

  “Did you find out how old she is?”

  “Twenty-one.” He slapped another card down. “A bank clerk who threw up her nice safe job and succumbed to the lure of the footlights. Incredible.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Hell, yes, I believe her. It’s too bizarre a story to be anything but the truth. She’s too bizarre to be anything but authentic.”

  “A fact that appears to irritate you a tad.” Deuce sat down across the table from him. “I’m curious to know why.”

  “Why should it irritate me? I’ve never had a passion for strays. It was always Rafe who brought home the wounded birds and motherless calves.”

  An expression of gentleness flickered across Deuce’s face. “Oh, I don’t know. You brought me home. If I remember correctly, I was something of a wounded animal myself at the time.”

  York looked up and smiled faintly. “The only wounded animal you resembled was a tiger with a sore paw. Roaring ferociously at the temporary indignity, but always knowing he’d be king of the jungle again once he’d healed.”

  Deuce shook his head. “You persist in equating my prowess with your own. I may roar, but I don’t bounce back quite so readily. I needed help and you gave it.” He saw York frown with discomfort, and immediately switched back to his usual mocking lightness. “Not that anyone wouldn’t have done the same. Charming ne’er-do-wells such as myself are almost an extinct breed and should be treasured accordingly.” He watched York play for a minute. “You’re not concentrating. You missed placing the seven of spades on the—”

  York growled something definitely obscene, tossed the deck of cards on the table, and pushed back his chair. “That’s it. It’s not enough you cheat me blind, now you criticize my solitaire game.”

  “I detest carelessness in any game of chance. Even the most casual contest should be handled with grace and dexterity, every move like the cape work of a great matador.”

  York fought a smile as he stood. “I can appreciate the comparison. There are certainly elements of deception in both your game and that of a matador.”

  “You’re going to turn in?”

  He nodded. “I’m in no mood to play bull to your matador tonight.” He walked to the door. “I may call Josephson at the Pino mine tomorrow morning and get a progress report. The last I heard, they were moving slower than I’d like.”

  “Everyone moves slower than you like. You were born two steps ahead of the rest of us.”

  “No, I was born two steps behind everyone else.” York grinned. “Now I have to go faster to make up for everything I’ve missed.”

  “Well, you certainly do that.” Deuce stared speculatively at York. “Why are you letting Brady bring his show into town?”

  Something flared then faded in York’s eyes. “The men will like it. You know how boring it can get up here at Hell’s Bluff. If there’s any gambling, you can keep your eagle eye on him to make sure it’s an honest game.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “What other reason could I have?” As Deuce continued to gaze at him without answering, he shrugged with barely concealed exasperation. “How the hell do I know why I did it? It was an impulse. Maybe I was just bored enough to welcome a little trouble in my life.”

  “Could be.” Deuce started gathering up the cards. “Brady will toe the mark. I’ll see to it. Good night, York.”

  “Good night.”

  Why had he decided to let Brady come into town? The question was like a thorn prodding York as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. He’d had no intention of giving in when he’d walked out of the kitchen tonight. He’d been as surprised as Deuce when he’d told Brady he could start moving his troupe and sets in at dawn tomorrow. It must have been an impulse that had provoked such a weird—

  Rising Star.

  He had turned the corner of the landing and the portrait was suddenly there on the wall before him. He stopped short as shock rippled through him. Why hadn’t he connected the two before? Probably because the portrait was such an integral part of his life and he had always taken it for granted. Yet the great dark eyes looking out of the portrait were undoubtedly Sierra Smith’s eyes. The Apache woman’s body was not quite as slender, her bone structure not as delicate, but the spirit was exactly the same. Strength and resilience mated with a poigna
nt loneliness and terrible isolation.

  It was crazy. The painting had been done in another century of a woman from a different world and culture. There was no real similarity. Yet as he tore his gaze from Rising Star’s portrait and resumed climbing the steps, he knew he was lying to himself. And he knew why he’d given Brady’s troupe permission to come to Hell’s Bluff.

  Three

  “It’s about time you got here, Sierra,” Chester said when he walked backstage. He’d just introduced the first act of the evening, and the Great Marinos were swinging into action. The spotlight was on Gino, poised on the seesaw. His brother, Roberto, was standing on Papa Marino’s shoulders. “Where have you been? I sent Snooks for you more than thirty minutes ago.”

  “I was in the wardrobe room mending Zelda’s costume,” Sierra said. “I came as soon as I could.” The audience roared with approval as Gino did a double somersault and landed on his brother’s shoulders. Sierra had never seen a more enthusiastic audience than the miners of Hell’s Bluff. For the past two days they had packed the theater each afternoon and evening and gave every evidence of enjoying themselves tremendously.

  “I need you to groom the dogs for Reva’s act,” Chester said, “and then fill in for Maureen with the snakes. She’s been throwing up all evening. She won’t be able to go on.” He frowned with disgust. “What lousy timing for her to get sick tonight.”

  “The snakes,” Sierra repeated vaguely. She was so tired, it was difficult to think.

  “What the devil is wrong with you? You’ve performed the snake act before.”

  “Right.” She turned away. “I’ll go now.”

  “No. The dogs first,” Chester said, exasperated. “Didn’t you hear me? Reva needs the dogs groomed. We’re all working ourselves into the ground to put on a decent show so Delaney will let us come back. You might give us a little cooperation, Sierra.”

  Anger flared within her. “I have been cooperating. I’ve worked from dawn until after midnight for the last two days. I’ve fed the animals, repaired costumes, sold refreshments, picked up trash, filled in with the acrobat act, collected tickets—”

  Chester held up his hand. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I guess we’re all under a bit of pressure.” He smiled. “Now, be a sweetheart and run and groom the dogs. In another four hours it will all be over, and we can relax.”

  She sighed, her rage dying as quickly as it had come. It was too much effort to maintain anger, when she needed all her strength just to keep going. “I’ll groom the dogs.”

  It took almost an hour to groom and beribbon Reva’s three poodles and four spaniels to perfection. Then Sierra hurried down the hall to the dressing rooms.

  “Good evening, Miss Smith.”

  The words were spoken in a familiar precise British accent, and Sierra turned to face Deuce Moran. He was leaning against the wall, dressed as the other men in the audience in uniform of boots, jeans, and bright colored shirt. However, he wore them with a matchless panache. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him since the show had opened three days ago. He had unobtrusively drifted around backstage, his one brown eye dagger-sharp in his expressionless face. He had smiled and bowed with the faintest hint of mockery whenever she had glanced at him, but hadn’t spoken to her until now.

  “Brady appears to be reaping a bonanza tonight,” he said.

  “Yes, we’re doing very well.” She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. Her forehead was damp with perspiration, and the fine dark wisps persisted in clinging to it. “Chester is very grateful to Mr. Delaney for giving us this opportunity. We all are.”

  “The troupe may be doing splendidly, but I’m not sure about you.” Deuce straightened and strolled toward her, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. “You have a smudge on your cheek.” He carefully wiped it away. “And I hate to be so rude, but a distinct doggy odor hangs about you.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. I’ve been grooming Reva’s dogs. I’m sorry I can’t stay and chat, but I have to change. I’ve got to go work the snakes.”

  “Now you’re grooming snakes?”

  “No, I’m filling in for Maureen, the snake charmer.”

  “You appear to do a good deal of filling in.” He gazed at her searchingly. “I believe you’re even paler than the night I first saw you. Are you quite well?”

  “Quite,” she said with a smile. “I’m only a little tired. We’ve all been pushing ourselves for the past few days.” She turned away and waved casually. “Perhaps I’ll see you later, Mr. Moran.”

  He watched her hurry down the hall. Her back was straight and as determined as her smile had been. His lips pursed in a low soundless whistle.

  “That was a very gallant gesture,” York drawled, looking at the handkerchief in Deuce’s hand. “For a moment I couldn’t believe it was you, Deuce.”

  Deuce turned to watch York’s approach. “I was having a few problems believing it myself. I’m not accustomed to avuncular emotions coursing through my cynical veins.” His smile was self-mocking. “It was a cumulative effect, I assure you, or I wouldn’t have acceded to it. She’s a very appealing child.”

  “Cumulative?”

  “I’ve been watching her tear around here for the last three days, wearing herself to a state of exhaustion.” His smile faded, then disappeared entirely. “It bothered me.”

  York frowned. “They’ve been overworking her? I told Brady to send her to bed.”

  “If he did, she was out of it again by the time the show opened the first day.”

  York muttered a curse, his gaze on the dressing room into which Sierra had disappeared.

  Deuce shook his head. “Don’t be so fierce. If she’d been that much of a victim, I would have been tempted to step in myself. The girl was more than willing. She was running around helping everyone. It appears she’s a cross between a universal understudy and a maid of all work.” Deuce smiled. “She was even the target for Simon the knife thrower last night. They may be using her, but it’s with her full consent and cooperation. I’d say in this case she’s her own worst enemy.” He lifted a brow. “I’m surprised you haven’t shown up sooner than this to check on Brady and his menagerie.”

  “Why should I do that? I knew you would have everything under control.”

  “No reason. I just somehow thought you would. Instead, it seems almost as if you’ve been avoiding the place.”

  “You’re probing, Deuce. Cut the amateur psychology. I was busy, dammit. I don’t have time to go to a vaudeville show.”

  “No? It’s been my experience you make time for anything you want to do.” Deuce held up his hand. “All right, I’ll drop it. It’s only my damnable curiosity. You know I suffer from the affliction of an inquiring mind.”

  “Yes, I do know.” A smile tugged at York’s lips. “You have the reputation of being particularly inquisitive regarding other players’ hands.”

  “True. It’s been a constant source of trouble for me since early childhood.” Deuce stuffed the handkerchief into the back pocket of his jeans. “I think I’ll go sit down out front and keep an eye on our little waif. I didn’t like the way she looked a bit ago. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s running on pure stamina and guts at the moment. Would you care to come along? She’s evidently going to indulge in a little snake charming to amuse the audience.”

  “I might as well. I don’t have anything better to do. It might be interesting to watch you act as guardian angel.” York kept his tone deliberately offhand as he fell in step with Deuce.

  Snakes? he mused. What kind of snakes? If what Deuce said was true about her varied duties, she wouldn’t have had time to gain any significant amount of expertise. The act might even be dangerous. He smothered a quick leap of fear as deliberately as he’d smothered the nagging temptation to come to the theater for the past two days. Why should he be worried about Sierra Smith? he asked himself. The girl meant nothing to him. Her resemblance to Rising Star, as well as the courage and honesty she’d revealed, would natura
lly intrigue him, but not to this extent. Yet if he hadn’t known Deuce had been constantly on the spot, he wouldn’t have been able to resist coming himself to make sure she was all right. Now it seemed Deuce had been calmly standing by and letting the idiotic girl make a damn martyr of herself. The knowledge ignited an anger that effortlessly pierced the casual facade he was trying to maintain. His voice was suddenly sharp with irritation. “Why the hell didn’t you stop her if you were so concerned?”

  “Because it’s none of my business.” Deuce paused before adding softly, “Is it, York?”

  “No.” The word came out a little jerkily. “She’s old enough to take care of herself, even if she isn’t bright enough. You’re right; it’s none of our business.”

  Fifteen minutes later as he was sitting in his third-row seat watching Sierra begin her performance, York found that the avowal of lack of responsibility did nothing to diminish the turbulent emotions racing through him.

  She was thinner. He hadn’t thought she could get any thinner. The harsh spotlight made her skin appear parchment-pale, and her lips were pinched and strained even as she smiled at the audience. She was dressed in navy-blue satin harem pants and a filmy white long-sleeved blouse. A wide red sequined sash cinched her tiny waist. She looked like an Arab street urchin as she reached into the straw basket on the stage in front of her.

  “I want you to meet a friend of mine,” she said, lifting an enormous snake from the basket. “This is Bathsheba, a python who comes to us from Morocco.” She paused and moistened her lips. “She is over six and a half feet long and kills her prey by constricting her coils about it and squeezing it to death.” She draped the snake about her shoulders and it immediately wound itself around her. “At least she used to do that. Now she’s very docile and affectionate, as you can see.”