A Lady of the West by Linda Howard

remembered image flashed in her mind again, tormenting her. Damn him! Why should she care what he did? “I
don’t”
she whispered into the darkness, and knew that she lied. God help her, she did care. She was horrified by the admittance. She was married; Jake Roper and every other man, except her husband, was forbidden to her. There were only two classes of women, good women and bad women. For a woman to consort with any man except her husband, in any way except socially, was for her to cross the line between good and bad. For her even to think of Jake Roper in such a manner was sinful.
    But propriety had given her a husband she despised, and sin or not she couldn’t rid her mind of the insidious weakness of thought that brought to the fore; again and again, Jake’s form and narrowed, glittering green eyes.
    She hated him. He made her lust, and she hated him for it. Lust was an ugly, shameful thing, but she was beginning to know its power. It made her feel hot and restless, her body heavy and aching; it kept her from sleep and tore at her conscience. Because she couldn’t handle it any other way, she took her desperation and formed it into resentment against the man who had, without even trying, brought her to this pass. How he would laugh, in that sneering way, if he knew!
    After leaving Victoria, McLain stood in his bedroom, swaying a little as he thought. He’d been drinking, so maybe that was why he’d had the thought that this time he’d be able to get hard if he tried it with her again. He shuddered, remembering the two times he
had
tried. By God, no way he’d risk that again.
    But he needed a woman, something to keep himfrom going to sleep and having that damn nightmare again. It was coming more and more often lately, robbing him of sleep and wearing him down.
    Angelina. He snickered at the thought of having to kick another cowhand out of her room. Hell, what did he care? He liked the idea of making another man crawl off of her so he could crawl on. Showed ’em who was boss.
    He quietly left his bedroom, taking exaggerated care that he didn’t slam the door. The house was dark and he held onto the banister to keep from stumbling over his own rather unsteady feet. Just as he reached the bottom step he saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye, and terror chilled him. He could feel his scalp prickling as his hair lifted. Sarratt was back! The flashing knife—maybe it was a ghost—
    Then the white moved again and he saw that it was a woman in a nightgown, moving past the doorway of the dining room, walking toward the kitchen. His terror changed immediately to anger against whoever had scared him like that, and Angelina was forgotten as he walked toward the dining room.
    â€œWho’s there?” he snapped. By God, he’d teach her to wander around like that at night, scaring him. It was one of those Mex women, probably Carmita; she was always poking her nose in every cranny of the house.
    The woman was already in the kitchen. She came back to the doorway just as he entered the dining room. “Señor?” she asked in a timid voice.
    Now that they were in the same room, he could see her well enough to identify her. It was Juana, the young one. Her long dark hair was streaming down her back. The plain white nightgown was long-sleeved and high-necked, but his eyes narrowed as he looked her over.
    He’d been intending to give her hell, but abruptly changed his mind. “What’re you up to, gal?” he askedin a smooth tone as he approached. “Walking around in the dark like this.”
    Juana took a step back. “I’m sorry, señor,” she blurted. Her dark eyes looked huge in the faint light. “I was going back to my room.”
    â€œWhat were you doin’?” he demanded. “Maybe slippin’ out to meet some cowhand?”
    She vigorously shook her head. “No, señor. I—I carried a book back