Your brother,
Peter
He reread the letter, put the key inside, and sealed the envelope. Then he fished a small leather pouch out of his trousers pocket. He painstakingly opened the drawstrings and pulled out a tiny blue sock that was soiled and misshapen. His fingers smoothed it out so that the extra bulge almost didn’t show. The yarn was gritty with age and wear. Beneath that, in the bottom of the pouch, there was a delicate gold locket. He opened the locket and Jenn’s smiling image stared out at him. Clasping the two objects, the small sock that Simone had struggled and despaired over so long ago and the locket he had taken without Jenn’s knowledge, he slowly walked to the bunk, and lay down to wait for Arizona’s justice.
When the two deputies, neither of whom he had seen before, came for him, he carefully concealed the locket and the tiny sock in the pouch and gave it and the letter to Tatum’s night guard. He asked the man to deliver them to Mrs. Kincaid.
“I’m going that direction about ten this morning. That be soon enough?” the man asked.
“Sure. Ten is fine.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Malcomb stopped before Mrs. Kincaid and bowed slightly, proffering his tray. His expression clearly said, “Who could be sending anything as disreputable as this?” Jennifer looked from his haughty eyes to the cheap envelope and stained leather pouch, then raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment of his unspoken question.
Though he considered it a dreadful imposition, Malcomb was accustomed to delivering pleas for help from women less fortunate than his mistress. Many times she ordered him to saddle a horse so she could ride to some adobe hut and console a woman who had lost a child or a husband. As much as he disliked it, he dared not refuse to bring her anything that was sent to her, for fear of incurring her quick wrath. Her husband’s employees and their families were her family.
She lifted the envelope off the tray. “Where did this come from?”
“I know not, madame. The deputy said nothing except that it was for you.”
“Deputy?” Her four young guests were talking freely. Jennie walked to her desk, picked up a letter opener, slit the long edge of the envelope, and a key dropped out. She stooped to pick it up, then sat down at the desk, her skirts flowing out around her in graceful sweeps of shimmering silk.
She unfolded the letter and her heart leaped with excitement and joy as she recognized the bold script—it was Peter’s handwriting. She would know it anywhere. She read the letter quickly, and the glad light faded to be replaced by disbelief and then anguish.
Sensing something out of the ordinary, the young women fell silent, watching her. They saw Jennifer’s cheeks pale, saw the letter crumple in her fingers, and heard Jennie’s low moan. Leslie rushed forward and knelt in front of the stricken woman, her eyes beseeching her.
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “My brother is dead.” She clutched the letter, her wide, purple eyes filling with such pain that Leslie could feel tears welling in her own eyes.
There was pandemonium as the others rushed to Jennie’s side, two of them bursting into sympathetic tears. Details were forgotten as they helped Jennifer up to her bedroom.
Chane came in at eleven o’clock, content with the way things had gone with Cantrell. The young man wasn’t going to forgive him soon, but he had accepted the governor’s alternative and agreed to recruit and lead a special force of rangers to catch the rustlers who were preying on the ranchers’ stock. They had leveled with him about the dangers involved, and Chane had recognized the same traits in Cantrell that he knew so well in his brother, Lance. Tell him it was a job that couldn’t be done, that good men had died trying it, and his blue eyes filled with dancing lights. His husky drawl had been like hearing Lance. “I’m sure you’re right, Kincaid, but since my choices seem to be temporarily limited, I guess I’ll try it.”
Ed Stanton had been tickled. “I should have known you could pull it off. You gave him a challenge he couldn’t resist.”
“I may have also signed that young man’s death warrant.”
“God! I feel a hundred years old when you say ‘young man’ like that. I’m going to have to see Kate to find out if I’m still young enough.”
“Do that.”
Chane was still smiling when he handed Malcomb a stack of mail. “Where is Mrs. Kincaid?”
“Upstairs, sir. She is being seen by the doctor.”
“Matt is seeing Jennie? For what?” he demanded, alarm flooding into him. Jennie was not prone to sudden illnesses. “Has she been hurt?”
“Her brother died. She became quite upset. We thought Dr. Wright could help…”
Chane could see the question in Malcomb’s eyes. “That’s fine,” he said. “You did well.” Chane took the stairs three at a time. Leslie and three young women he knew only casually were clustered in a sympathetic knot, whispering in front of Jennie’s door. Dr. Matt came out, spotted Chane, and came forward, meeting him at the top of the stairs.
“She’ll be all right. She’s in shock. She wanted you, and now that you’re here, she’ll be fine.”
Chane brushed past him. Jennifer was on the bed, tears slipping silently down her cheeks into the silvery blond tresses at her temples. He knelt beside her.
“Jennie, love, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, gathering her gently into his arms. She pressed close to him, new sobs racking her body. He moved onto the bed, and she huddled against him, crying silently, her body jerking with the force of her convulsions. He stroked her hair, kissing her face and aching with the need to take this burden of pain off her slender shoulders. He barely remembered Peter; the young man had avoided him because of their misunderstanding, but he knew Jennie had loved him far out of proportion to his apparent worth.
She cried and it was a terrible thing to watch—there was such fierceness and rage in her crying—as if Peter had betrayed her by dying while they were still estranged. She was convulsed with fury and violation, crying raggedly, like a stricken wounded creature, unable to speak, like a mother who had lost a dear child, wailing her pain. He held her as best he could until the worst of it had passed, and she collapsed in his arms, silent tears still slipping down her cheeks. He kissed them away and brushed the soft damp hair off her swollen, reddened face.
“How did he die?”
Jennie sighed, exhausted. “I don’t know. It said that by the time I received the letter he would be dead. Oh, Chane, you don’t suppose he…committed suicide, do you?”
“When did the letter come?” he asked, puzzled, since he had personally picked up their mail.
“One of the deputies brought it.”
“Oh.” He subsided, accepting that explanation.
“Hold me, Chane,” she whispered, her silky voice husky and trembling.
He moved to comply, pulling her closer against him, as responsive to her now as he had been eight years ago when she had walked into his well-ordered life, captured his heart, married him, and then smashed his life down around his shoulders. Only days after they had married, her brother had been beaten, and she was carried off by one of Chane’s enemies. He had searched madly for her, and found her only when Commodore Laurey, who hated him, was ready for him to find her. Only after photographs of Jennie, naked and flawlessly beautiful in the arms of another man, were delivered to the Bricewood East in New York City. Heartbroken and betrayed, he went to the address given to retrieve his wife. But once there, he found she was not the same woman he had loved and married. She was holding a gun, which she fully intended to use to end his life.
“Do you remember the day I found you, after you were kidnapped by Laurey?” he asked, his lips against her ear.
Jennie shuddered. She remembered opening the door eight years before and finding Chane there, unshaven and disheveled, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of pain and the lingering hunger he wasn’t altogether able to hide. She had still been so thoroughly under Laurey’s spell, so filled with his lies and his drugs, that she had almost killed Chane. As if
it were only yesterday, she could see his narrowed hazel eyes, hear his strained voice.
“How many ways can you kill a man, princess?” Then his voice hardened. “Either shoot that thing or put it down.”
As she thought of what she believed he had done to Peter, how his hired thugs had almost killed her brother, her finger trembled on the trigger, aching for the strength to do what needed to be done. Chane reached up and tapped the center of his chest, where she could remember laying her head, listening to the reassuring thud of his heart. His husky voice was deliberately cold and taunting. “Too low, Jennie. Raise the barrel and point it a little more to the left. The large arteries are here.”
He was giving her information as unemotionally as any physician. If she pulled the trigger the way his forest-dark eyes were daring her to, he would never use that tall, lean, clean-muscled body to lure another girl to her death. One tug of her trembling finger, and she would avenge her mother, her father, and Peter with one swift bullet.
She and Peter truly believed that Chane had been the cause of their parents’ deaths. Peter had come home from Harvard before the end of the school year, expelled for cheating, the president’s letter said. And only weeks after his homecoming, Reginald Van Vleet had killed his wife and then himself, leaving a note that said he had lost everything because of proxies Vivian Van Vleet had signed over to Chantry Kincaid III. She had found their bodies in the study, read the note, and hidden it from the police. Then she and Peter had set out to avenge their parents by bringing Kincaid to his knees. It might have worked, except that she had fallen in love with him, become pregnant, and allowed herself to be married to him. She had been so ashamed of her weakness for Chane that she hadn’t been able to tell Peter. Then, before she could correct that terrible omission, Peter had been beaten by men who purported to be working for Chane, she had been kidnapped, and Laurey had spent days drugging her and telling her lies so she would kill Chane when he came for her. She hadn’t known until later that they had taken photographs of her with another man and given them to Chane so he would hate her as much as she seemed to hate him.
She didn’t know Peter had found out about her marriage to Kincaid until after he had disappeared. By then it was too late. They searched for him, but they did not find him.
It was no wonder she almost killed Chane that day. Facing him, believing all those lies, she knew she had to pull that trigger…His bronze chest, warm and sturdy, swam before her eyes, and she imagined his blood pumping out of torn arteries and felt a wave of nausea sweep over her. She flung the gun away from her and turned away, covering her face with her hands.
“What’s the matter, Jennie? No guts? You can’t do anything in a straightforward manner? Would it help if I turned my back?”
She turned on him then, her eyes flashing purple fire, all hint of velvet smoothness gone—she was a tigress, poised for attack. “You dare mock me! The man who never, ever takes care of his own dirty work!”
“I’m not going to ask what you mean by that. Your actions defy my understanding. But I don’t want to understand what makes you tick. I only want to be insulated from your treachery. You’ll understand if I have Steve take care of you, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes!” she screamed. “That’s your way! The Kincaid way. You certainly wouldn’t handle these nasty little details yourself.” For just a second she was tempted to give him the gun and make him do it himself, but not even anger could carry her further against the scorn she could clearly read in his eyes. She actually believed he had come there to kill her.
What a twisted, painful time that had been! Only their love had kept them coming back together, searching for the kernel of truth they both knew existed in their emotions for each other. Her love for Peter should have saved him as well…Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. Peter had never had a chance, not really. Everything he believed in, his whole world, had been ripped away from him. Even she had abandoned him…
“Jennie, love, please don’t cry. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories,” he whispered, tightening his embrace. He felt her pain keenly, but he could not forget that he had a great deal to be thankful for.
Jennie was one of a kind. There could not be another woman anywhere who could inspire as much love as she did despair. Now she was in pain, and there was nothing he could do except hold her and encourage her to remember her brother with love and let him go.
“You were so close to Peter…” he whispered.
Jennie nodded against his chest. “He was much more than a brother. He was my best friend. I could tell just by the look in his eyes that he was so proud of me—of everything I did. I loved him so much. He had beautiful eyes—very expressive. I always knew exactly what he was thinking. When he smiled he could light up a room. When he glowered, as he often did, he could blot out the sun. He was like a young princeling—girls were crazy for him—but he was cautious. He had a good mind, a good sense of humor.” She sighed. “I always compared him to Alexander the Great because he was wonderfully competent. He could do anything: sailing, fencing, languages, dancing, riding, shooting. Everywhere men needed to be good, he excelled. He could have been anything he wanted to be.” New tears welled up, and he kissed them away.
“Oh, Chane, darling,” she said, faltering, “I would give anything if I could have seen him, talked to him…”
Chane nodded. “I know, darling.”
They were silent for several moments. “Did you know he graduated from St. Cyr with honors?” she asked.
“St. Cyr in France?”
“Yes…It was the West Point of France, attended by some of the most brilliant young men on the Continent. He was outstanding in the classroom and on the field. He quickly became a champion with a broadsword, an épée, even a pistol.”
“How long was he there?”
“Two years. Then he joined the French cavalry. They sent him to Saumur.”
Chane whistled. “I’m impressed,” he said softly. “That is the finest cavalry school in the world. I rode two hundred miles fourteen years ago to watch a demonstration of their drill practice.”
“They are very impressive on horseback. They start with the best horsemen and make them into something really special to watch. They turn away ten men for every one they accept. They only bother with the crème de la crème.”
“Why did he come back to the States?”
“We were still doing things as a family. I had a chance to star in Aida, so Father talked him into hiring a replacement to complete his commitment to the French cavalry so he could graduate from Harvard. That was highly unusual, but Harvard accepted the transfer conditionally, to be based on their testing of his academic skills. Of course, they wanted to do it for Father because he was one of their most generous supporters, but even stuffy old Harvard was impressed after they tested him.” The smile faded and Chane could tell that another dark memory had encroached.
“What’s wrong?”
“That was strange, that last six months he spent in New York. Something was wrong, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Then our parents died, and neither of us seemed to be able to cope with all that was happening to us. By the time I met you we had grown so far apart we almost never talked. He was like a stranger.” She sighed. “And I guess my tumbling into your bed didn’t help matters—”
“That reminds me,” Chane interrupted. “I know this won’t help a lot, but Cantrell accepted Stanton’s offer of a pardon in exchange for catching the rustlers…”
“Ohhh.” Jennie sighed. “I’m so glad. Leslie will be so pleased.”
“She knows. She was up this morning. I would have told you as well, but you were sound asleep…” A knock at the door brought Chane’s head up. He kissed Jennie and strode to the door. Malcomb’s stern face was puckered into a frown.
“There’s a young man downstairs who says he needs to see Madame. He was quite insistent.”
“Did you get his name?”
“No, sir. He asked if Madame had rece
ived a letter earlier. When I told him she had and was very upset he said he had to see her.”
Chane glanced at Jennie, who had curled into a tight shivering ball without him to hold her. She has been through far too much already, he thought grimly. “I’ll come down.”
The young women had departed. The house was quiet. Ward Cantrell was standing in the entry hall, his tan Stetson in his hand. When he saw Kincaid his blue eyes narrowed into flinty chips.
Chane stopped in front of the younger man. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to talk to Jenn.”
“Jenn?” Chane could feel his eyebrows crowding his narrowed eyes. He didn’t like this familiarity.
“Mrs. Kincaid, then,” Cantrell said, flushing but stubbornly determined that he would not be sent away.
“She’s not able to see anyone. She just lost someone who was very dear to her.”
“I know,” Cantrell said grimly. “I wrote that letter.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Leslie Powers succumbed to the many entreaties of her new friends and decided not to run like a scared rabbit back to Massachusetts. Mr. Kincaid hired attorney Winslow Breakenridge to represent her, and he convinced her that with a little time they could force a settlement of her father’s estate. So Leslie accepted the Kincaids’ offer of hospitality and prayed for a speedy resolution to her difficulties.
Jennifer seemed to recover rapidly from the loss of her brother, saying they hadn’t been close in a long time—it was just such a terrible shock. Life went on as usual. The Kincaids moved in the diamond glitter of a Phoenix Leslie had never seen before.
The fifth night she was there the Kincaids had a dinner party to launch Leslie into the mainstream.
Mr. Kincaid had insisted on paying Leslie the reward for Cantrell’s capture. They had ignored her protests, refusing to listen to her disclaimers. Jennifer finally prevailed by telling her that Ward Cantrell was an old friend of hers and that the reward was actually for saving his life when Younger tried to hang him.
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 21