Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  In New York, where the Kincaids maintained a part-time residence, many wealthy people, especially holders of railroad stock, owned their own Pullman coaches. The Kincaid children had each been presented with their own palace car if they showed any interest in railroad travel at all.

  Chantry III, the oldest Kincaid child, had gotten his when he graduated from Harvard. Lance had declined in advance, saying he had no need for anything bigger than a horse.

  Nicholas turned from the broken window as they entered. Samantha motioned him over. “This is my son, Nicholas.”

  Glass crunching underfoot, Nicholas stepped forward and looked up at Sheridan calmly. Nicholas met all people as equals. He had no awareness of himself as a child, and in many ways he wasn’t and never had been. From birth he had demonstrated amazing dignity and presence. Samantha had known instantly how special he was and treated him accordingly. Some claimed she was spoiling him and would live to regret it, but she paid them no mind.

  Sheridan nodded at Nicholas’s grave, assessing look, but neither spoke. Seeing her son through the stranger’s eyes, Samantha realized Nicholas was more beautiful than handsome. Dressed in a white shirt and knee-length knickers, with a bow at his throat, he looked every inch the rich woman’s pampered son. His straight black hair was cut short and combed straight down from the crown of his head in bangs that curled under slightly at midforehead. Juana cooked her fingers raw trying to tempt him with special dishes, and still he stayed painfully thin. Since his father’s death it had been a struggle just to keep Nicholas alive.

  The doctor in Boston, supposedly the best in the United States, had said that consumptive children rarely survived, that Nicholas would probably die before the age of ten. Samantha had been so filled with rage at the prospect that she’d moved West that very week. Her son was going to live, no matter what she had to do to save him. I’ve heard it helps to move to a dry, bracing climate, but I wouldn’t count on it, the doctor had told her, shrugging.

  And yet, Nicholas had improved. His fevers did not burn as high now, but the weakness lingered. He still coughed when he exerted himself, but she hoped, with time, even that would go away. Samantha took heart from the fact there were two types of consumption. Galloping consumption was almost instantly fatal; victims died within weeks of contracting the disease. Chronic consumptives, on the other hand, occasionally survived. Nicholas had been sick for almost three years now—longer, if she counted the time before he’d been diagnosed.

  Nicholas straightened, as if sensing in Steve Sheridan a power to be respected. Apparently Sheridan saw this, too, for a spark of amusement twinkled in his eyes.

  Elunami walked out of the lavatory carrying her clothes in a bundle. She had unbraided and finger combed her amazing auburn hair, and with her peasant blouse slipping off one slender shoulder she looked entirely different.

  “Well, you were right,” Sheridan said, nodding his satisfaction at Samantha. “Bury your other clothes in the sand,” he told Elunami.

  “Have Ramon do that for you,” Samantha said, countering his commands. Elunami nodded, and Sheridan shrugged.

  Elunami slipped past them, stepped outside, and spoke to Ramon, who jumped up and took the clothes.

  “Didn’t take her long to figure out who’s boss here,” Sheridan said dryly, grinning and kicking glass aside to reach the built-in bar. He ran his hand over the smooth satinwood top, the Carrara marble fixtures, the silk brocade portieres, and the heavy satin brocade draperies separating the dining area from the sleeping compartments. Samantha expected him to say something complimentary. Instead he shook his head. “I ’spect this’ll burn like dry straw.”

  “The Papago wouldn’t burn this, would they?”

  “With you in it, if they can arrange it.”

  “Please, Mr. Sheridan, you’re frightening Nicholas.” Nicholas looked askance at her, but he did not correct her.

  Samantha picked up a valise and began stuffing clothes into it. She moved with grace and competence—a woman who apparently had no trouble making decisions. She wasted few motions, and soon the bag was filled. Steve decided he liked what he saw. And heard. The calm, rich timbre of her voice reminded him of a Philadelphia society matron for whom he’d built a house two years ago. Except he was certain the woman back East wouldn’t sound calm in these circumstances. Samantha Forrester was certainly unusual. And she had the appearance of a woman who’d just been made love to—a flushed and slightly disoriented look he particularly liked on a woman, especially one with such a lush figure and soft blond hair.

  She stepped close to slip into the corridor that led to the back of the coach, and his body reacted strongly to her.

  To hide his momentary agitation, Steve touched his hat and squinted through the gaping hole in the window on the north side of the coach as if scanning the desert.

  Samantha walked to the small kitchen in the back of the car, opened the icebox, and poured the water.

  She picked her way back through the glass and stopped before Sheridan, deliberately holding his gaze. Before she left the apparent safety and comfort of her parlor car, she needed to know if she could trust this man. In the intense light streaming in the broken windows, his eyes were clear and frank in the way they watched her. She saw a spark of admiration or amusement, but nothing alarming. He took the glass she offered and raised it in a small salute. Then he downed the cool liquid in a series of long swallows and set the glass back on the tray.

  Samantha served Nicholas, the others, and herself. Elunami took a cautious sip, held the liquid in her mouth for a second, and finally swallowed.

  Sheridan skimmed down the steps and checked the knots holding the blanket in place. Then he and Silas carried Lars from the locomotive and laid him gently on the travois, its leading ends tied to the back of Sheridan’s saddle.

  Steve lifted the boy, whose bones felt delicate, his weight light, onto the pony in front of Elunami. Astride the front of the saddle, Nicholas looked warily at his mother, who smiled her approval and reassurance. Steve liked the way her eyes softened when she looked at her son, the warmth in her voice as she leaned forward to say, “Race you to Picket Post.”

  Steve mounted Calico, kicked his foot out of the stirrup, and waited until Samantha had wedged her slender, high-topped, patent leather shoe into it. He reached down for her hand and pulled her up behind him. She was lighter than he had expected. She bumped his shoulder and withdrew as quickly as she could. He heard her arranging her skirts and could almost feel her resistance. She wasn’t about to touch him.

  Steve kicked his horse’s sides; the big horse stepped forward smartly. To keep from falling off, Samantha Forrester grabbed him with her right arm. Smiling, Steve pretended not to notice her warm hand on his stomach.

  Samantha wasn’t accustomed to riding astride or bareback. Heat radiated from the horse’s flanks. And she had forgotten how magnetic a man’s flesh could feel. Steve Sheridan’s flat stomach was warm and damp beneath her fingers. They twitched as she thought of Lance seeing her like this.

  Samantha could remember everything about Lance, even the day she fell in love with him two years after her parents abandoned her.

  She didn’t want to think about it, but now that the memories had started to unroll, she couldn’t stop them. She closed her eyes and remembered the last time she’d seen her parents. She’d been lying on a small cot in their stateroom, as her mother and father cuddled on their own bed, talking quietly. She was four then, and they were on their way to England. She remembered the way her parents lay with her father’s back against the cabin wall, knees bent so her mother could lie with her legs over his. They looked happy.

  The sound of their voices and the waves slapping against the side of the ship made her feel content and sleepy. She may have slept. She opened her eyes and looked over at their empty bed. Then a voice she didn’t recognize said, She’s awake, Cap’n.

  The captain, a big man with curly white hair and beard, stomped across the room and pee
red over his big belly at her.

  I want my mommy.

  Your mother and father won’t be back, child. His voice rumbled out of his chest. They went for a walk on the deck, and your mother was knocked overboard by a swinging boom. Your father tried to catch her, and…His voice thickened. He swallowed. Your father…jumped after her, child. We put down a boat and searched for an hour or more but couldn’t find either one of them.

  I want my mommy and my daddy. The captain shook his head. Please, she begged. The captain had tried to soothe her, but she cried more violently. Her parents did not come back.

  Days later the ship docked in a strange town. Samantha listened to the voices coming from the wharf and decided she must be in England. The captain questioned her, rifled through the papers in her parents’ trunks, and finally called the authorities and turned her over to them.

  They said they could find no living relatives in England. She learned later she had been declared a temporary ward of the court and placed with a family. She would never forget the cold lump in her stomach when she first saw the pitiful, sparsely furnished, rough stone house. Nor was there any welcome from the cold-eyed woman, or the crowd of thin, silent children dressed in tattered clothing not nearly warm enough for the chill house.

  Samantha was given a cot in a closet under the stairs. She had no clear remembrance of how long she remained in that house. The only thing she knew was that every night she cried, and every night the woman beat her for it.

  During the day Samantha could contain herself, because the woman kept them all busy. Every morning when the older children went to school, the younger children, Samantha included, were taken out to the financial district to beg. In the afternoon they cleaned the house and the crude wooden furniture, which left Samantha’s hands full of splinters.

  But at night, even though she held the rough ticking of her smelly chicken-feather pillow over her face and prayed for sleep, the tears would come. At first they streamed silently down her temples and into her ears. But before long she would gulp or sob, and the woman would yell as if she had sensed a terrible crime in progress, stomp into the closet, jerk Samantha off the cot, and whip her with a wide belt until her legs were covered with welts.

  Samantha screamed and screamed, but her parents did not come for her. After a while she realized they were never coming. They had abandoned her to this nightmare.

  She learned later that six months had gone by before Chantry Kincaid II and his wife, Elizabeth—in America—learned that her parents had drowned at sea. Although Samantha called Elizabeth and Chantry Two aunt and uncle out of respect, in fact they were not related to her.

  Chantry Two was fond of saying that he had hired one of the best firms in England to track her down. They came as soon as they received word Samantha was alive. According to Chantry’s detective, a mix-up had occurred between placing Samantha in the home and notifying the remaining family, a lone Regier cousin. Somehow, and it was never clear how, her mother’s cousin was told that all three had died at sea. It was only by happenstance that one of the detectives found paperwork showing that a Regier child had been made a ward of the court.

  The Kincaids said that when they came to the house to get Samantha, they barely recognized her. You looked like a little guttersnipe—dirty, ragged, and thin, with great staring eyes filled with fear and distrust.

  To her, the Kincaids in their rich clothes had looked like the ones she had come to hate—wealthy, thoughtless people who resented the sight of her intruding into their busy, happy, pampered lives.

  Samantha! Child! My God, what have they done to you? Elizabeth had cried.

  Done to ’er? Wal, my fine lady, I’ll tell yew what I done to ’er. Kept ’er alive, I ’ave. Which is a far sight more than some would a done, what with ’er bloody screaming and carrying on all the time.

  The Kincaids paid the woman for her “care” and took Samantha back to their hotel, where she was bathed and fed and clothed. Buffy, the youngest Kincaid daughter, had been less than pleased about her parents taking in a new child, especially one almost the same age as her. Can’t we get rid of her? Buffy had insisted angrily.

  Samantha had heard her through the thin wall of the hotel, while Mrs. Lillian, the Kincaids’ housekeeper, was dressing her in the clothes Elizabeth had just bought. With tears of rage stinging her eyes, she wriggled away from Mrs. Lillian, grabbed her old clothes, and started for the door.

  Elizabeth walked in at that moment.

  Where are you going, child?

  Away!

  Mrs. Lillian flashed Elizabeth a look and whispered, She heard Buffy. She’s a proud one, she is.

  Samantha wanted to run, but something in their eyes held her there, perhaps the confusion and sympathy. She clamped her jaws, fighting back tears. Elizabeth looked frantically at Mrs. Lillian.

  I could spank Buffy, Elizabeth whispered back.

  Mrs. Lillian caught Samantha by the wrist and pulled her gently into her arms. Come here, child. There are some things you need to understand.

  Mrs. Lillian smelled of lavender. Samantha felt paralyzed by the heady smell, which reminded her of her mother.

  Now, this may not make a great deal of sense to you, but Buffy is still smarting from the last child we brought into this family. Until her baby brother Stuart came along she was queen of the walk. But, in her mind, when he appeared, she disappeared. No one else saw it quite that way, but she took it hard. It’s not surprising she would be upset at the thought of another new youngster in the family.

  I won’t stay! said Samantha, through gritted teeth.

  Well, of course, we can’t make you.

  That’s when Lance Kincaid, a boy of fourteen but already a strapping youth, walked into the room. What’s wrong? he asked.

  She got her feelings injured and wants to leave, Elizabeth said.

  Lance grinned. In this family, someone is always getting their feelings injured. But if I were you I wouldn’t want to go back where you were, no matter how bad this seems.

  Elizabeth smiled at her son with love and admiration. Seeing that look, Samantha hated Lance. He belonged. His parents hadn’t abandoned him. She wished the Kincaids would die—and all the children would be driven naked through the streets to that witch’s house—where they could cry in their beds and be beaten every night.

  Did you see the look she just gave me? If looks could kill…Lance reached out to touch her. Her hand flashed out of its own accord and scratched him. Blood welled up on the back of his hand. Ow! Dammit!

  Young man! Watch your language!

  Sorry.

  Samantha was elated. She had hurt him and gotten him into trouble. That was almost as good as driving him out into the cold.

  She stayed with the Kincaids after all. But she spent the next year being more trouble than anyone could have imagined. She caused fights between the Kincaid children. She stole from them. She hid or broke their treasured toys.

  But no one whipped her when she cried at night. The day before Buffy’s sixth birthday, Samantha picked a fight with her and blacked both her eyes. Mrs. Lillian pulled Samantha off the bruised child and sent her to her room, where she listened to the family argue about what they were going to do with her. Samantha went to bed satisfied that even if they threw her out, she had given one of them what they deserved.

  That night, while she was lying in bed with tears streaming into her ears, Lance stepped into her bedroom. Hey…there, Sam.

  Shut up! Get out of here!

  Happy to, but first I think you need to hear something.

  Get out of my room!

  We didn’t kill your parents. They died at sea. It wasn’t our fault.

  So?

  So, if you keep this up you’re just going to make yourself more miserable than you already are.

  So? Who cares?

  I do. My folks love you. They loved your parents. They’d do anything for them or you, but you’re making it almost impossible for them, and for yourself.


  What do you know about anything?

  Maybe nothing, but I hate seeing you turn yourself inside out.

  So whip me!

  No one in this house will ever raise a hand to you, Sam, Lance said softly. Then he shook his head and turned to leave. For the first time in a year, Samantha was feeling something for another human being besides herself. A new emotion trembled within her.

  Wait.

  Lance stopped.

  Samantha didn’t know why she had stopped him. Tears flooded her mouth and eyes.

  Jesus, Lance said, you’ve got to be the most miserable little creature I’ve ever seen. She cried so hard her ribs ached, but she couldn’t stop. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the rocking chair, where he held her and whispered to her—and rocked her until she had cried out her bitterness and rage.

  The next morning she apologized to Buffy without being asked. From that day forward she made a real effort to fit into the Kincaid family. Lance became her protector, her confidant, her beloved. She would do anything for him.

  The horse stopped abruptly—and Samantha slammed forward into Steve Sheridan’s broad back. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Shhh. I want to listen.”

  They sat still for a moment, then he urged the horse forward again. Samantha lapsed back into her memories.

  The Kincaids had tried to raise her as one of their own children, but she’d never accepted Elizabeth and Chantry Two as her parents, or Lance as a brother. She had eventually accepted Chane, Stuart, Maggie, and even Buffy as her siblings—but not Lance. She loved him wildly and desperately, as only a heartsick child could, but he hadn’t noticed her as anything but a sisterly nuisance…until…

  Nine years ago, on March 11, 1880, Lance had been shot in a fight with a desperado, and Chantry Two had taken Samantha with him on a trip to the Arizona Territory to try to lure the headstrong Lance back into the family railroad business. He hated it that his middle son was risking his life as an Arizona Ranger.