As soon as she could, Elizabeth excused herself and followed the youngsters outside. When Amy and Chane left to climb the hill behind the house, Nicholas came and sat beside her. Elizabeth noticed he looked sturdier than last year. Something about the way he carried himself and the expression in his eyes.
In February, when she had last seen Nicholas, he’d had the fragile look of a boy groping his way toward manhood—with no idea how he was going to get there. Now, less than a year later, he had the sturdy look of a healthy boy. Somehow he had found that solid masculine base that every man had to find one way or another. Little Chane had always had it. Now Nicholas had it, too.
Thank God. The overwhelming relief she felt took her by surprise. She needed to search out whoever had brought about this change and thank him.
Elizabeth realized with consternation that she seemed to love her grandchildren more than she had her children. Or at least she was more aware of loving them. She couldn’t be sure which.
She had blithely thought herself a good mother at the time. But the older she became, the more she realized she’d been anything but. With her busy social calendar of afternoon teas and evening parties, she’d seen very little of them. If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Lillian, her children would have been strangers to her.
Chantry had tried to assuage her guilt a number of times over the years. All women in your social set hire other women to raise their children. That’s what servants are for, he’d told her. But now, seeing how little satisfaction she’d derived from her social life and how much she enjoyed the company of her grandchildren, she rejected his easy salve.
“How do you like the new house?” Elizabeth asked.
“It’s great,” Nicholas said softly. “I helped build it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, Steve showed me how to do things.”
“Who’s Steve?”
“He’s the builder. You want to meet him?”
“Of course I do.”
Exhilarated, Nicholas leapt to his feet. “I’ll go find him. You wait here.”
A moment later Nicholas returned, followed by a man who was not as tall as her sons, but the way he carried himself, the level gaze of his hazel eyes, brought Elizabeth to her feet in admiration.
“Please, don’t get up on my account,” he said, his deep bronze voice sending a chill of recognition down her spine. This was the man for Samantha. Broad, powerful shoulders tapered to a lean waist and straight, manly legs. When he smiled down at Nicholas, his eyes twinkled with warmth. If Samantha didn’t have the good sense to fall in love with this man, there was no hope at all for her.
“You’re very kind, but I’ve been sitting in that coach for an hour. It feels good to stand.”
“This is Mr. Sheridan, Grandmother. We call him Steve.”
“As I shall. Tell me, Steve. Where did you learn your craft so thoroughly to build such a magnificent house?”
Steve chuckled. “I’m not sure I did.”
“Well, it certainly looks like you did. And what will you be doing now that you’re almost finished here?”
“My partner is in Waco building a limestone castle. That’ll probably take a few years. The limestone has to be cut from the hills around the house. I’ll probably join him.”
“Well, that’s a shame.”
If she was not mistaken, he seemed to think so, too. A flicker of something very close to despair flashed in his handsome eyes, and then he excused himself, saying, “I think I hear Ian calling me. It was nice meeting you, ma’am.”
“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again before we leave.”
“’Bye, Steve.” Nicholas watched him walk away, then took his seat beside his grandmother again.
“You still miss your dad, don’t you?” she asked.
Nicholas looked into her eyes. He had the wisest eyes she had ever seen on a child. She loved Chane and Amy, but Nicholas was the one whose pain and joy she felt most keenly.
“Yeah. But not so bad anymore.”
“Your dad was a nice man.”
They sat in silence. Amy and Chane laughed and yelled and charged up the hill.
“You may play with your cousins if you like.”
Moments passed. “If Grandfather died, would you feel bad for a long time?”
“Yes, I would.”
“If a whole lot of people you knew died, would you feel bad forever?”
“I guess that depends on who they were, but probably not. We grieve for a while and somehow get over it. Why, did someone die?”
“A whole family.”
He didn’t expand on that. From the house, Elizabeth heard laughter and voices she recognized. She felt tired from the long train and coach ride, but it felt good to sit under the trees, listening to the whispering wind, watching her grandchildren play. The wind in the leaves sounded like rain on a wooden roof.
Nicholas stood up and scratched a piece of bark off the tree. He picked a small bug out of it and put it on the ground. He started breaking little pieces off the sides of the bark until it was all crumbled. Then he broke off another piece. His hands were strong, but he was too thin. Elizabeth knew it was uncharitable of her, but she blamed Samantha. If she’d get over her foolishness about Lance and provide the boy with a father…
“Tell me about this builder.”
“He’s nice. But Mom’s always making him mad.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah. He showed me how to make a reata, and grow a garden, and drive nails, and saw boards.” His face was filled with wonder at the male world he had glimpsed.
“Any chance your mom might marry him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe…”
Elizabeth doubted it. From what she’d seen, Samantha was as determined as ever to have Lance. She’d have him if she had to destroy Angie, Lance, and herself. Why, Elizabeth Kincaid, you are bitter! Well, why not? What is so unreasonable about expecting a beautiful young woman to do anything as sane as provide her son with a decent father?
While the others dressed for dinner, Elizabeth lay on the bed in the room they’d been given and wished she could skip dinner. Talking to Nicholas had left a bad feeling in her chest.
Chantry sat down on the side of the bed. “You going to wear that down to dinner?”
Elizabeth sighed. “I suppose that would be too much to ask, that I should wear something halfway comfortable.”
Chantry scowled down at her. She had that look on her face, the one she got when she was champing at the bit to tell him about something that was none of their business.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked, resigned.
“Nicholas.”
“He looked fine to me.”
“Well, if I’d seen him from fifty yards away, I’m sure he would have looked fine to me, too. There’s something wrong with that boy,” she said, stalking to the armoire and yanking it open. She jerked the gowns as if they were wood instead of silk.
“You want a new gown, go buy one,” Chantry drawled.
Elizabeth expelled a frustrated breath. “Did you see the way Samantha greeted me? She can be perfectly natural with Leslie, Jennie, and you, but with me she becomes stiff and formal, as if I’m a stranger.”
Chantry frowned. Before he figured out what she was talking about, she changed the subject. Or else he really was getting senile. Elizabeth slammed the armoire door and faced him, hands on hips. Riled up like that, she was as pretty as she’d ever been.
“She’s never really loved me or needed me—or even accepted my love. When I look at her, I want to reach out and slap her till she’s empty…” Surprise stopped her. “That’s it! She’s like a full cup. And I feel like I’ve stood at attention all her growing years, waiting with pitcher in hand for that one moment when she’ll need what I have to offer her.” Tears gave her eyes a glazed sheen.
“But she never wanted anything from me. All her life with us, I was the one trapped by her need, which I felt as painfully as I would have felt the need of any one o
f my own children, maybe more so because of my love for her mother. But I couldn’t fill her need no matter how hard I tried, because she didn’t need me. She was filled up with grief.”
Chantry didn’t know what to say. His wife was clearly agitated, but the situation was just as clearly out of his control. “Is this going somewhere?” he asked.
“God made idiots for practice, then he made husbands,” she snapped.
Relieved, Chantry threw back his head and laughed.
Despite his almost seventy years, her husband was a fine-looking man. His green eyes still snapped with humor or menace, depending upon the situation. Elizabeth picked up her hairbrush and threw it at him. He caught it in midflight, strode toward her, and pulled her into his arms. “You want me to use this on your pretty little bottom?”
“Any man who still thinks my bottom is either pretty or little is undoubtedly too senile to do it.”
“Is that right?” he asked, grinning with such good humor that Elizabeth put her arms around him and hugged him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just get so mad at Samantha. I know she can’t help it, but…”
“I know, I know,” he said soothingly, kissing her forehead. “You can walk away from anything except a child in need. You’ve always felt you didn’t do enough for these kids, but you’ve done far more than any woman I’ve ever known. You’ve managed to let every one of them know you love them, and that’s the most important gift you can give a child.”
“The tyranny of need.” Elizabeth sighed, touched by his loyalty. “I’m still waiting to be a mother to that girl, and she isn’t even a girl any longer.”
“Maybe it’s time to give up.”
“No!” That renewed her anger. “She’s held me at arm’s length all these years. We opened our house to her. We opened our hearts to her. She lived in both like a stranger trying not to get contaminated by us. She poured all her love and hunger into Lance—at my expense and her own. I know she couldn’t help it then, but she’s a grown woman now. It’s time for her to let Lance be.”
“Is this all because that handsome young carpenter made eyes at you?” Chantry demanded. “I saw how he smiled at you. Not bad for a carpenter…”
Elizabeth doubled her fist and hit him in the shoulder.
“Ow! Dammit. I’ve got lumbago in that shoulder.”
“It’s breaking my heart,” said Elizabeth, with a heavy sigh. “Samantha looks so much like her mother now, she’s like another Reggie!”
Samantha dressed for the party. She’d thought her heart wouldn’t be in it because Lance hadn’t come. Everyone maintained he had meant to come—but he hadn’t. She’d finally given up hope. Even so, she felt excited and energized.
She dressed carefully, taking special pains with her hair and perfuming every part of her body before she slipped into the gown she’d had made for this night. The gown was red, to match the red-and-black mask that would cover her eyes and forehead and extend its white plume upward to sweep back over her golden hair.
Dressed, she gave herself one last look in the mirror and went to meet her fate, whatever it might be. In the second-floor parlor, she stopped by the door. Leslie and Jennie sat beside the window, dressed for dinner. Leslie wore a green silk gown that exposed a goodly portion of her milk-white breasts, enlarged now from nursing her son. Jennifer wore royal blue, which brought out the purple in her lovely eyes.
Leslie waved to Samantha and walked to the window. “I hate to be a tattletale, but the children are squatted down, digging in the dirt in their clean clothes.”
“Nicholas, too?” Samantha asked.
“At least that’ll make someone happy—Elizabeth,” Leslie said, smiling.
Jennie and Leslie laughed. Samantha scowled. The two women stopped laughing at the look on her face.
“What’s wrong, Samantha?” Jennie asked.
“I don’t think we should make fun of Aunt Elizabeth,” she said, unable to help herself, the words just spilled out.
Jennie looked quickly at Leslie, whose mouth had dropped open. “I would never make fun of her. I love Elizabeth,” Leslie said, protesting.
Jennifer’s eyes widened, but she remained silent. Embarrassment almost overwhelmed Samantha. “I’m sorry,” she said, flushing. “I know you do. I don’t know why I said that.”
In the hall, Elizabeth stepped back from the door and prayed they hadn’t heard the taffeta swish of her gown. She had almost followed Samantha into the room. Unfortunately, or fortunately, she’d heard every word. She had no idea why, but what Samantha had said caused an odd sensation within. As if…
Elizabeth shook her head. She was getting too sensitive. Now it even irritated her that Samantha defended her.
A knock sounded on the door. Steve yelled, “Come in.”
Tristera opened the door and stuck her head in. “It is me, señor.”
Steve stood up. “Sorry, I thought it would be Ian.”
“The señora sent this for you,” she said, walking into the room and unfolding a bundle.
“What is it?”
“The costume the señora bought for you.”
The shirt, frock coat, and trousers were black worsted—expensive and soft and finely made. The mask, which would cover his entire face, was baked red ceramic with short, spiked horns curving out of the sides of the mask’s glossy forehead. The wide mouth was represented by a jagged white line that stretched like rickrack all the way across the mask. The eyes were painted on—round black circles surrounding the openings where he could look out. Diagonal black lines slashed in from both sides and down from the top.
Steve took the ceramic mask and held it away from him. It was a work of art—skillfully painted in red, black, and white.
“What is this?”
“A kachina hu mask.”
“Do you know where she copied it?”
“I know not. I have a kachina doll in my room, but it is not an ogre doll.”
“Well, you can take it back to her. I’m not going.”
“You are afraid?”
The implication irritated Steve. Samantha Forrester demanded too much of a man she only intended to abuse. “I’m too smart to go to a party so I can make a public fool of myself.”
“She will be there, wearing a very beautiful gown that she made especially for you.”
“What a little liar you are.”
Tristera shrugged. “She may not even know herself. In my vision, the gown was made and worn for you.”
Sweat broke out on Steve’s forehead. His whole body ached for the opportunity to be near Samantha. “You’ve got to be the most heartless little wench I’ve ever known.”
“Her heart will be broken if you do not come.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Tris.”
“It was a vision. How could I ignore it?”
Steve fingered the glossy mask and the fine worsted material of the costume. There was probably a message in it for him, if only he could figure out what it was. “Are you sure she meant this for me?” he asked.
“Yes. And in case you are not familiar with Hopi tradition, there is great power in a kachina hu mask. It is a chief mask.”
“If I show up in this and she throws me out because I’m wearing his costume, I’m going to look you up.”
“It is for you! She borrowed one of your suits to have it made to your measurements.”
He knew that Samantha would be wearing something sensational. He wouldn’t stay long, though, just long enough to torment himself with what he couldn’t have. In front of the bastard who could.
After dinner Samantha’s houseguests went upstairs to freshen themselves. As other guests arrived for the party, Samantha greeted them. Chila Dart arrived with Joe and Ham Russell. Chila wore an elaborate bell-shaped, ground-sweeping dress left over from the sixties. She carried a tiny matching parasol and an ornate ivory-handled fan, and she’d pulled her graying hair up onto her head in a spill of ringlets. Ham Russell looked ou
t of character in a black serge suit and shiny black shoes. He had combed and freshly braided his red beard for the occasion.
“Good to see you here, Chila,” Samantha said.
“Your house is smashing, darlin’. Ah wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
When the ballroom was filled with jubilant, milling people, Samantha slipped away, leaving Juana and Tristera to supervise the young women hired to keep the champagne glasses filled.
Samantha rushed up to her room and brought out the box of masks she’d made as gifts for her guests. She found the family in the ballroom a few paces from the stairway.
“What’s this?” Elizabeth asked, spying the box in Samantha’s arms.
“I made masks for everyone. They aren’t much, but I thought you might not have the time or opportunity to get any yourselves.”
For Jennie, who had been a ballerina before she married Chane, Samantha had crafted a mask painted to resemble the perfectly made-up face of a beautiful ballerina, with classic round eyes, rouged cheeks, and pouty mouth.
For Leslie, an artist, she had created a Madonna mask. “It’s exquisite!” Leslie said breathlessly, looking at Samantha with new respect.
Samantha lifted out Peter’s mask—fierce eyes above a bandanna painted over the bottom half.
Everyone laughed, including Peter, and Samantha relaxed. That had been her biggest risk. For Elizabeth and Chantry Two she had made Queen Guinevere and King Arthur masks and crowns.
“Why, they’re beautiful,” Elizabeth said in amazement.
For Chane she had made a simple half mask, because she knew he wouldn’t wear anything else.
Only Steve’s mask had gotten out of control. She’d known exactly what she was going to make for each of the others. But Steve’s mask had designed itself. She could not explain it. She dreaded to think what Steve’s reaction might be.
“I didn’t know you were so gifted,” Jennie exclaimed. The others echoed her. “I love it! You should have let us know you had such talent.”
“Dance with me, someone,” Samantha cried, her cheeks burning.
Chane held out his arms; Samantha smiled her gratitude as he whirled her toward the center of the enormous ballroom, where other couples already danced.
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