Free Dorothy Garlock by Glorious Dawn Page B

Spanish moss behind the cookstove, and cobwebs floated from the ceiling beams. She felt a flicker of anger at the thought that the ashes in the hearth had probably been there for months.
    As she hesitated, hard footsteps, accompanied by the jingle of spurs, resounded on the stone floor outside the house, then into the hall. Seconds later came the murmur of male voices that escalated into a storm of angry words, unintelligible and rumbling. She could distinguish the cold, harsh voice of the old man, and a second, equally cold voice rising in argument. Johanna was gripped with curiosity. Who would dare raise his voice to the formidable old man?
    The hail of angry words grew louder until the antagonist and the old man were shouting at each other. The old man’s angry voice rose and his words reached the kitchen.
    “You’ll do as I say, you bastard, or you’ll not get one foot of this valley!”
    “I’ve already got the whole goddamn thing, you old fool! You’ve gone too far this time.”
    “You’ve got nothin’! Hear me! You got nothin’ but what I’ll let ya have!”
    “You’re dreamin’, you ornery old cuss. You got only what I’ll let
you
have!”
    “This valley is mine and I’ll do with it as I goddamn please. You ain’t runnin’ things yet, by God! Come back here, you bastard, I ain’t through—”
    The words were cut off by the sound of a door slammed so viciously that the walls of the house shuddered. Silence fell, and Johanna drew a long breath of relief for the end of the barely restrained violence.
    She moved to find the broom and a pail, then heard the hard steps and the soft jingling of spurs coming down the hall. She stood, apprehension holding her motionless, wishing desperately that she didn’t have to face another difficult Macklin. It was too soon. She needed time to adjust to this family, to their violent tempers, and to the drab, unfriendly atmosphere of the house.
    A huge man with hard blue eyes and white-blond hair filled the doorway. Speechless, Johanna stared, her startled eyes questioning his apparent anger at her for being there. His face was twisted with bitterness and a smoldering rage that was directed at her.
    Arrogantly her stare was returned. He stood with his feet apart, balancing on the high heels of his boots. His long legs seemed to stretch up forever before reaching his slim hips, about which was strapped a wide gunbelt. His shirt, opened at the neck, revealed a chest tanned toast-brown. A head of curly, wind-tossed flaxen hair reached almost to the top of the doorway. Piercing blue eyes gleamed diabolically over his blade of nose.
    His tightly compressed lips opened and he bit out, “So you’re the one that’s come to stud!”
    Johanna had no idea how many seconds went by while she stood and stared at him with open-mouthed astonishment, his words echoing through her mind.
    “What did you say?” The words came out of her as if someone else had said them.
    “With outraged virture, too!” he sneered. “A saloon girl with outraged virture! Well, I never thought I’d live to see
that
!”
    Johanna was so surprised by his attack that she felt faintly giddy. Her face paled.
    “Why are you talking to me like this?” She swallowed with difficulty. “Who are you?”
    He strode forward until she had to arch her neck to see his face. He searched her pale, distraught face for a hint of duplicity. Without softening his expression, he hit her with angry cutting words.
    “Is it possible the old man hasn’t told you about the bastards of Macklin Valley? I’m surprised!” he said angrily, sarcastically. “Let me introduce you to one of them. Burr Englebretson Macklin. My mother’s name was Englebretson, but I’ve taken the name Macklin, not for any love of the old bastard but because it sticks in his craw for me to do so. I’ve taken it from him, just as I’ll take this valley for my own by the right of having been unfortunate enough to be sired by that old man—and