Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  “We forget those things that are too painful to remember.”

  Angie gulped back a sob. Hot tears welled up and spilled over. Her body shook with silent sobs. March held her and crooned. Angie realized this was the gaping maw she’d tried to avoid all those years with Lance. This was what she hadn’t wanted to be reminded of. She cried for her little brother, for herself, and for what she’d done to her husband.

  Finally her tears subsided; she felt better, cleansed somehow. “Thank you…for listening to me,” she said shakily.

  “Does it change anything? Now I mean?”

  Angie knew her friend was asking her, does it change anything in relation to the husband you’ve rejected. “No. I think too much water has gone under that particular bridge.”

  Steve saw Tristera coming back from the old house leading Samantha’s horse. He put down his notes and walked to meet her.

  “Where’s Samantha?”

  Tristera’s eyes filled with misery. He could tell she didn’t want to answer him. “She went with Señor Kincaid.”

  “Where?”

  “Denver, I think.”

  “For how long?”

  Tristera shrugged miserably. “A few days.”

  Steve felt as if a hole had opened in his chest and someone had filled it with snow. The following week was the most miserable of his life. He felt like a man waiting to hear if a loved one had died in a terrible accident. He longed to see her, and at the same time, he dreaded it, because he feared that it would be blatantly apparent that he was a thing of the past and Lando was her true love.

  Steve watched the horizon. Barely five minutes went by without his looking up to scan for the sight of a locomotive chugging up the grade toward the old house. Seven days went by. On the eighth, he finally saw a feathery plume of coal smoke inching northward.

  His heart lurched suddenly, as if it would stop under the weight of the load he carried. He wanted to drop everything and gallop down the hill to meet her, but he forced himself to remain busy. Fortunately, with two hundred men swarming over a nearly completed house, that was not a problem.

  Two hours later, Samantha rode up to the front door on one of the horses they’d left at the old house for the cowhands to use. A packhorse carried boxes and bundles and hatboxes. Steve took one look at her and knew that his fears had been justified. He put down his clipboard and plunged up the mountainside as if he were walking on level ground.

  He hoped Samantha would follow. When it became clear that she wasn’t going to, he knew his worst fears were confirmed.

  Samantha had not seen the new house from a distance in a long time. Riding toward it on the locomotive, she was stunned by its beauty. The hexagonal tower room surrounded by the two balconies was regal and distinctive. The house fit perfectly on its site, dominating it and complementing it. Steve had chosen well, in all respects.

  She refused to think about Steve, though. She had made her choice, and now there could be no looking back. She arrived in a daze and worked in a daze, because she knew there was nothing she could say to Steve that would lessen the impact of what she’d done to him.

  She saw him only from a distance, but she could feel his pain evoking an answering response in her. He had vowed not to love her, but she knew now that he had, at least a little. She felt terrible for him, and for that part of herself that had fallen in love with him, but she couldn’t think of anything to say to him that wouldn’t make it harder. On both of them.

  One night after she put Nicholas to bed Tristera asked her what had happened.

  “Tristera, you are like a sister to me. I love you and I would trust you with my life, but…I just don’t want to talk about this yet,” she whispered.

  “I thought it might help to talk about it.”

  “No, it won’t. Nothing will help. I’ve dealt Steve a terrible blow. I can see it from a hundred yards away.”

  “Sí, that is true,” Tristera said, sympathy for Steve making her eyes soft.

  “Take care of him for me, will you?”

  “When a man is in love, only one person can take care of his heart, and that is the woman he loves.”

  “Oh, God,” Samantha said, groaning, her own heart aching.

  “You do not look happy, señora. Are you sure this is the right path for you?”

  A stubborn light flashed in Samantha’s blue eyes; Tristera knew the answer even before she heard the words. “How could I hurt Steve and feel good about it? But I’ve waited for Lance all these years. I love him. We’ll be very happy together.”

  Steve and his crews finished the house a week before the date of the party. There was still a month’s work to finish the rest of the house site, but that could go on while they moved furniture into the house.

  With the interior complete at last, Samantha worked harder than ever, supervising the men who had been assigned to uncrating and carrying in her new furniture, and staying out of the way of the women Juana had hired to help with the cooking and cleaning and furniture arranging. Samantha stayed busy from dawn until dark every day.

  Finally everything was in readiness. And not a minute too soon. She looked up from admiring the perfect shine on the mahogany bed frame in the last guest bedroom and saw train smoke etching a line toward the old house. That was either the musical group she’d hired from Phoenix or the family—or perhaps both. Jennie had written that the family would gather in Phoenix and take one train.

  Samantha sent a guide down to lead them up the mountain. At three o’clock, she saw sunlight glint off the polished paneling of a carriage—Chane, Lance, or Uncle Chantry’s, no doubt. Few carriages gleamed with such richness. Not one to trust to fate, Uncle Chantry and his sons generally brought their own carriages. That was another benefit of owning railroads. Nothing was too much trouble or expense. That way my old butt doesn’t end up bouncing on a bare board, Uncle Chantry had growled.

  Another carriage followed far enough behind to escape the dust cloud raised by the first.

  Samantha looked in the hall mirror to check her hair and saw that she was still wearing her afternoon gown. She squealed in horror.

  Tristera ran out of the next room. “What?”

  “My gown! I have to change! It might be him!”

  Tristera rolled her eyes and followed her fleeing mistress up the stairs.

  The first carriage rolled to a stop in front of the porch. Samantha glanced at herself one last time in the mirror and ran down the stairs.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man had already stepped out and was leaning into the carriage. From the back it was almost impossible to tell Chane from Lance. Let it be Lance, please…

  At the sound of her step on the porch, the man turned. For one second Samantha thought her heart would stop. Chane! Disappointment was rapidly followed by joy at the sight of the second-most loved man in her life. Third-most, a small voice said, reminding her of Steve.

  Chane turned, held out his arms to her, and she flew into them. “Chane! How wonderful you look!”

  He leaned down and hugged her, then held her at arm’s length. His warm green eyes smiled into hers. “Hello, Samantha.”

  From behind Chane came Jennifer’s familiar voice. “Look at you! You’re absolutely glowing,” she said, pausing on the carriage step.

  “Jennie!” Samantha laughed and held out her hand to her sister-in-law. Dressed in a purple faille traveling gown, Jennifer looked a little wan from the long, hot trip, but her violet eyes flashed with warmth and humor as she took Samantha’s hand and stepped down to hug her.

  “You look so beautiful, Sam! I can’t imagine why you want to hide yourself in this desert.”

  Samantha felt lucky to have a family in which everyone liked everyone else. Lance, Chane, Stuart, Maggie, Buffy, and herself had all fought as children. But Aunt Elizabeth and Mrs. Lillian had handled their rivalries in such a way that they didn’t escalate into real hatred.

  Samantha hugged Jennie. A boy and girl followed her out of the carriage. “Where
’s Nicholas?” the boy asked.

  “My, how you’ve grown! I can’t call you little Chane any longer,” Samantha said.

  At six and a half years old, Chantry Kincaid IV looked like a smaller version of his father. Amy did not look like either of her parents. She had a sweet, shy expression, and her body was soft and round. Her toes pointed inward.

  Nicholas came around the side of the house. Chane and Amy ran toward him, then stopped short in sudden shyness. Samantha turned back to Chane and Jennie.

  “Come in out of this heat,” Samantha said, steeling herself to incorporate the right amount of sisterly interest in her next question. “I thought Lance might ride with you.”

  “Too smart,” Chane said. “My brother isn’t going to spend an hour cooped up with squirming children if he can help it.”

  That told her nothing. Either Chane didn’t know that Lance had gone to San Francisco, or he was afraid she didn’t know and he didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

  On their way back from Denver Lance had told her that he was going to San Francisco to testify against himself in the divorce action, assuring her he would return the minute he was finished there. He would be a free man at last, and nothing would stand in the way of their marriage.

  Samantha had no idea how long this might take. She still hoped he might be back by now, though. It would be just like him to surprise her.

  Another carriage appeared on the trail, heading toward her porte cochere—Chantry Two’s. His matched team of six big-footed black shires with white leggings and white manes braided into jaunty upright pompoms were instantly recognizable, even from a distance. Lance might be with them.

  Samantha’s heart almost stopped.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The second carriage raised a dust cloud as it swayed around the last corner before it reached the carriage entry. Samantha felt like a woman with few chances left. The carriage finally rocked to a stop in front of the porch.

  “Samantha!” A woman’s face, vibrant with color, appeared at the window.

  “Leslie! You look wonderful!” Samantha said, trying to ignore the knot of disappointment in her throat.

  Peter flashed Samantha a look of proud agreement, opened the door, and turned to help his wife and baby out of the carriage.

  “So do you,” Leslie said, passing the baby to her husband and turning to hug Samantha.

  Peter Van Vleet was Jennie’s brother. Samantha had met him once or twice before. His story intrigued her. According to what Chane had told her last year, Peter had once been an outlaw named Ward Cantrell. Only months ago Leslie, Peter, Chane, and Jennie had returned to Dodge City, Kansas, where Peter had stood trial on the old charges that had originally sent him into the wilds. He’d been cleared of all counts of murder, and the men who’d killed his first wife had been identified. Most of them were dead, but the blame had been placed where it belonged at last.

  With a heavy dose of masculine energy, tawny blond hair, challenging eyes, and a sensual mouth, Peter was one of the most attractive men Samantha had ever seen, except for Lance of course. And, a small voice added, Steve. Life had matured Peter into glistening, steely control, evident even with a child on his arm.

  The boy’s blue eyes were softer and more childlike, but his features already showed signs of being duplicates of his father’s. The boy scowled intently at Samantha.

  “I’ve never seen a baby scowl before,” Samantha cried.

  Peter grinned proudly. Leslie smiled. “Yes, our son is quite remarkable,” she said. “Oh, what a marvelous house! I want a house like this,” she whispered to Peter.

  “It’s a lot of work getting to this point,” Samantha said, smiling with pride. “Please, come in out of the sun. You must be hot.”

  “This little guy’s hot,” Peter said, calling attention to his son, whose cheeks were flushed.

  “Poor baby.”

  “Easy there,” Peter growled. “He’s already three months old.”

  Samantha laughed. “He’s still a baby.”

  “Girls may be babies, but this little tyke’s a young man.”

  Samantha laughed. “Here, give him to me.” As she held out her hands for the baby, she glanced over Peter’s broad shoulder at the carriage they’d come in.

  Leslie saw her. “Lance isn’t back from San Francisco yet. He…was…supposed to be home by now.”

  “That’s what I expected. Really.”

  Leslie felt torn between her love and loyalty to Angie and her compassion for Samantha, whom she also loved and admired. She knew it wasn’t wise to encourage Samantha’s passion for Lance, but she couldn’t condemn her for it. She trusted Samantha to do the right thing, whatever that might be. “Maybe he’ll be along later,” she said, squeezing Samantha’s arm.

  The baby started to cry. “It was so hot in that carriage! Poor baby!” Leslie said, taking him back.

  Peter scowled his displeasure at his son’s being called a baby yet again. Leslie glanced up at her husband; her eyes softened. “Isn’t Peter something? A few months ago he had no use at all for babies. Now you’d think the sun rose and set in this one.”

  “This one’s mine.”

  “You certainly couldn’t tell it by looking at him,” Jennie said, stepping out onto the porch and slipping her arm around Peter’s waist as everyone laughed at the obvious joke.

  Elizabeth and Chantry arrived last. The other guests were upstairs changing or resting after the long ride. Samantha met them alone at the front door and hugged them.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Not as bad as we expected,” Chantry Two said jovially.

  “We’ve brought you a housewarming gift,” Elizabeth said, motioning the driver to unload a big box. The driver struggled with the heavy box until he and Chantry got it onto the porch.

  “Shall I open it here?” Samantha asked, pulling at the lid, which was firmly nailed down.

  “If you like. I’ve had these paintings all these years, but they really belong to you.”

  “Paintings?”

  “Family portraits, a few photographs. I thought since you’ve built this grand house it was time to bring them to you.”

  Samantha’s hand dropped away from the box. She had no desire to open a box of family portraits, not now, and probably never.

  Watching her, Elizabeth realized she may have made a mistake. Samantha did not have a good relationship with family photographs. After Samantha had been with them a few weeks, Elizabeth had placed one of her favorite photographs of Samantha’s parents, Regina and Jonathan Regier, on the bedside table near Samantha’s bed. It had disappeared shortly after that. Mrs. Lillian missed it and asked Elizabeth if she’d taken it back. When asked, Samantha would not say what had happened to it. During spring cleaning, the maid found it at the bottom of Samantha’s dresser drawer. The faces had been scratched off, all the way to the back of the stiff cardboard.

  Elizabeth had had no idea why Samantha would do such a thing, but she hadn’t risked any more treasured photographs.

  Jennie and Chane stepped out the door.

  “Mom! Dad! How was your trip?”

  The men put the box down to wait for directions.

  “Bring it inside, please,” Samantha said. “We can put it in the pantry for now. I’ll unpack it later.”

  Chantry tried to shush Elizabeth with his fiercest Kincaid scowl, but she wouldn’t be stopped. “Your mother was my dearest friend in the world,” she said. “She loved you more than life itself. So I have to speak my piece. You are the spitting image of your mother, Samantha. I realized that with a start as you walked out the door. And I’ve never thought that before…”

  “My mother abandoned me!”

  “Abandoned you?” Elizabeth cried, shocked. “What a thing to say! Your mother drowned!”

  “She didn’t come back for me! They took me to a terrible place…” Samantha couldn’t continue.

  Elizabeth remembered the dirty little street urchin Samantha had b
een when they’d come for her. Struggling to control sudden tears that burned behind her eyes, she said, “We failed you then, not your mother. We didn’t hear about their drowning until six months after it happened. Then we found out what had happened to you through a solicitor. It was unthinkable that a child with so much family, here and in England, would end up begging in the streets. I still shudder to think what you went through.”

  Elizabeth dabbed her handkerchief at her damp face. She knew she was hot and tired from the trip and probably about to say something she shouldn’t, but the words fairly ached to get out. “I probably shouldn’t say any of this, but I won’t let you malign Reggie for drowning. No matter how hard you had it.”

  “You don’t understand,” Samantha whispered.

  “Yes, I do! I haven’t even been inside your new home, but I’d wager my life that there isn’t a portrait or a daguerrotype of your mother or your father in that house,” Elizabeth said angrily. “Not one! And they loved you so much. They idolized you. I have your mother’s diary, which she left in New York before their last trip. Sometime when you’re in New York, I’ll let you read it. Every entry mentions you. The words you spoke, the things you did, your every look, were lovingly and painstakingly recorded. I dare you to read that book and tell anyone that she didn’t love you.”

  Samantha trembled with emotion. “I…”

  Chantry glowered at Elizabeth. She remembered what he’d told her as they were packing them. Don’t worry if she doesn’t want the portraits now. At some point in the future, she will, and they’ll be there. So she shut her mouth.

  Elizabeth was happy to see everyone, but she was sixty-three years old now, and with age had come change. She no longer enjoyed socializing. Even family members she loved stressed her after a few minutes, but she enjoyed the children—when they were away from their parents. Even the best parents spent a great deal of time doing and saying things to their children that irritated Elizabeth. If left to their own devices, children were naturally wonderful.