“She’s right, boss,” added Pyke unnecessarily.

“Really? That’s fucking observant of you two.” Whitehead took a drink. “Pyke, go keep an eye on him.”

Pyke quickly scrambled out of the room as Sally crossed behind Whitehead, running her hands through his hair. “I mean it. There’s no tellin’ when he’s gonna turn on you, George. Where did you find him, anyway?”

Whitehead allowed Sally’s ministrations to soothe his rage. “I met Denny in a barroom in Fort Worth, where I went to lick my wounds after Darcy ran me off Pemberley. Can you believe my bad luck? There was nothing for me back in Illinois, with my father dying during the war, and I had to go to this godforsaken place to make my fortune. I worked my ass off to get a political appointment from the Texas governor, and he sends me to the hometown of one of my prisoners from the war. I didn’t realize he was the same Darcy till he came riding up as I was paying court to Miss Gabrielle after her father died. Damn, she was ripe for a seduction! Another week or so, and there would have been nothing Darcy could have done about it but call me brother.

“I knew I needed a new plan to get what I want, and I needed men to back me up. Don’t get me wrong, my dear,” he smiled. “My investment in your establishment has been profitable, but I have bigger plans than being the owner of a whorehouse.

“Denny and his boys seemed a good candidate, and a couple of drinks later he agreed to throw in with me. It didn’t take much to get Mrs. Burroughs to agree to use him on the B&R.”

“Was that the same time you met that Elton fella?”

“No, that was later. Hah, Fort Worth’s been pretty good to me.”

Sally frowned. “I don’t trust Denny. Why don’t you get rid of him?”

Whitehead shook his head, interrupting Sally’s massage. “I can’t; I need him for now—him and his gang. That’s my army against Darcy. But don’t worry. Kid Denny’s days are numbered. He just doesn’t know it yet.” He took another drink. “He needs to get his mind off things. Go send him a girl—a young one, I think. He likes the young ones.”

Sally dropped her hands. “George, no. Don’t ask me that. He’s an animal—he hurts the girls.”

“Did I ask your opinion?” Whitehead abruptly stood up and grabbed one of her arms. “Don’t forget, my dear, who is the senior in our partnership. If I hadn’t come along and bailed you out when I first got to Rosings, you would have lost the saloon and been forced to trade your wares on the street.” He sneered as he ran his free hand over her cheek. “And such lovely wares they are.”

Sally was desperate to stay on Whitehead’s good side. She drew close, pressing herself against him hungrily. She put her lips to his ear. “Don’t be mad, sugar… Let’s go to bed. I’ll give you a good time, you’ll see.”

He laughed. “Still trying to set your brand on me? Don’t fool yourself in believing that I’ll choose you over Miss Darcy or Miss Burroughs. I haven’t given up on that part of the plan. True, they lack your… expertise,” he said as he groped her, “but thousands of acres of land makes up for much. I’ll get one of them once this is all over, one way or the other—it doesn’t matter which one.”

“I know that, sugar, but you won’t forget your Sally.” She tried to kiss him, but he pushed her away instead.

“Do as I said—go get a girl for Denny.” He sat down and continued, “I suppose it ought to be Camille. She should be able to handle him.”

Sally nodded, relieved that he had suggested the one whore in her stable who seemed to enjoy the rougher types, rather than one of the more delicate girls. She turned to leave.

“And bring back a bottle with you—the good stuff. Not that rotgut shit you serve the cowpokes.”

She turned, but Whitehead was already back to his ledgers. “Sure, George, sure. Nothin’ but the best for you.”

George Whitehead didn’t answer as he continued to work.

May

Summer came on fast in Central Texas. It was the middle of May, and the temperature was already reaching the ninety-degree mark. It made riding the range hot work for man and beast, as Darcy was experiencing.

Caesar walked along the ridgeline, head hanging low, as a sweaty Darcy watched his cattle. With half the workforce riding north along the Chisholm Trail with the herd heading for market, Pemberley needed every hand it had to do the everyday chores. So it was that Darcy fell back into his old job of supervising the herd as he had done before and after the war, before his father’s passing. The work was long and hot, but Darcy paid it no mind—it was what he was born to do. Besides, it gave a man the time to think.

Darcy’s thoughts, as much as he tried to steer them elsewhere, kept coming back to the mystery that was Beth Bennet. She was a mystery to him, at least.

It was midday, and the sun beat unmercifully upon Caesar, so Darcy moved towards the river, intending to wash his face in the cool water. He found himself a bit upriver of Thompson Crossing, which brought Beth back into his thoughts. He worked his way south along the trees and brush that lined the riverbank, making his way to the ford.

He would later have no idea why he stopped well short of his goal. He would recall no particular sight or sound, just a feeling. He looked around, but only saw dense bushes near a large oak, its branches hanging low. Darcy dismounted, tying Caesar’s reins to a branch, and began to make his way through the brush. He could make out the faint sounds of splashing, so he half-crouched, removing his hat in the shade and cover. A couple of feet from the bank, he sat back on his heels and carefully peered through the undergrowth.

It was a vision right out of his most intense dreams. A brown-haired nymph was playing in the water just off the opposite bank. She was swimming in what best could be described as a small cove shielded on three sides by trees hanging right over the water. Darcy realized that he was in the one perfect spot to observe her; a few feet to the left or right and the leaves from the overhanging limbs would conceal the cove completely. It took him a moment to realize that the nymph was Beth Bennet.

The next thing Darcy knew he was sitting down in his little spot, an audience of one for the erotic show. He couldn’t see all that much, as Beth’s head was the only portion of her body above the water, her long hair trailing behind. But even ignoring the bundle lying carefully on the opposite bank, the river was clear enough for him to know, with an electric charge racing through his body, that the lovely lady was without a stitch of clothes on.

Decency, honor, a lifetime of training—all fled in an instant. Darcy could not tear his eyes from what he now realized was his one desire. Trembling, he breathed as slowly as he could, so as not to reveal himself. Darcy existed in a world of agony and ecstasy; he knew he should turn away, but could not. He wanted to jump in the river, swim over to her, and take her—love her— again and again. Instead, he sat as still as he could, sweat dripping down his face, his jeans becoming as tight as his breathing.

Beth dropped beneath the surface. At this, Darcy became alarmed, but before he could move a muscle, she came up again, only to lie back and float in the lazy current. Darcy froze; her breasts were exposed, their perky perfection kissed by the dappled sunlight through the canopy. Time stood still, all sound ceased, as Darcy was frozen by the siren song of desire, a real-life Calypso unknowingly taunting Odysseus. Lust and passion roared through his veins, and he felt he was going to explode.

By the time Beth dipped underwater again, Darcy found himself on one knee, beginning to move to the riverbank. He stopped himself and pulled back, just as she rose again, this time for good. She moved to the shallows and stood up, her back to him, water cascading from her shoulders and hair, running down her pale form, caressing her lovely buttocks, before dripping back into the river. Mesmerized, he watched her reach for a towel and had a glimpse of her dark treasure as she dried herself. Then she was gone—a bush hid her from view as she dressed herself.

Darcy sat back, panting as if he had run a great distance, feeling both great discomfort and intense guilt. He knew that spying on the girl was wrong, terribly wrong. And he shook from the realization that he had been mere moments from revealing himself, to her almost certain horror and his assured everlasting shame. And yet his traitorous body cared not a bit—it only craved release between her soft, warm thighs.