The Lady and the Outlaw

by Joyce Brandon

  “Did he say anything to hurt you?” he demanded, anger rising in him instantly and hotly.

  “No, no,” she sighed. “I almost wish he had…”

  “Why?”

  “I was a stranger to him…He was polite. He tried to do everything exactly right so as not to hurt my feelings. But he felt nothing for me except perhaps guilt. If he loved me, it was in the abstract.”

  Scowling, Chane dropped down beside her and picked up one of the tintypes. It had mellowed into pinkish brown tones. A younger Jennie stood beside a handsome young man—blond, dapper, open of visage, with good humor smiling out of his bland eyes. She was right. There was little of Peter Van Vleet left in Ward Cantrell, a man who projected pure animal power and prescience. A man whose narrowed blue eyes could bristle the hair on a man’s neck at twenty paces. A man who could lead an outlaw band, kidnap a woman, and kill ten men in cold blood.

  “It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize him,” he muttered.

  “Nor I…” Jennie whispered.

  Chane was stunned. He searched her face. Under his scrutiny the beautiful, coolly composed face he carried in his heart began to quiver in anguish. Pierced to the quick, he pulled her into his arms. “Jennie, love,” he whispered, breathing in the sweet feminine fragrance of her silky hair. He had mistakenly thought her the happiest of women since Peter’s—Ward’s—return.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  She shook her head. “Not unless you can turn back the clock. Trade a cynical man, purposely brash and aloof, for a warmhearted, playful young man who isn’t afraid to love…”

  Chane frowned his puzzlement. To his eye, Cantrell had done what any man confronted with a startled, stunned, and then weeping woman would have done. He had held her tenderly and with obvious consideration. He started to say as much, but Jennie stopped him with a frown.

  “I know…I know. It meant nothing! Because he felt nothing more for me than he feels for any woman in distress. I wasn’t real to him!”

  Chane chuckled, his green eyes filled with a mixture of sardonic amusement, love, and desire to understand. “There’s nothing particularly unusual about that among men of Cantrell’s ilk…”

  “That is exactly my point. Peter is Ward Cantrell. He has become a man of that ilk. I admire him tremendously, but I also hate it. I admire the strength that allowed him to survive, but I hate the barriers he has erected, the cold calculation I can see in his eyes on occasion. He weighs everything, risks, rewards…It is too easy to see the roots of his military experience—his easy military carriage, his ability to take a necessary action, as they say. At some point a man like that stops being a man and becomes something else. I don’t want Peter to be that way. In one sense, though, it was as if we had never been apart, but in the most important sense he was accommodating me…”

  “So?” he asked, frowning. That seemed acceptable to him. Why shouldn’t Cantrell accommodate his sister? It was the least he could do after all these years.

  Anger flared in her violet eyes. “So how would you like to be accommodated? What if we made love and you were fully involved and I was being accommodating?…” she said, making the word sound like an insult.

  Chane chuckled. “I’ve always been able to find ways to get your full attention,” he said, his eyes darkening.

  “But what if you couldn’t?”

  He frowned. “I guess I’d be concerned. So what do we do now? What do you want?”

  “I don’t know! I…I guess. I want him to feel his own joy or pain, his own homecoming.”

  Chane took her hand and kissed it, groping for words to comfort her. He was remembering the way Ward Cantrell’s husky voice had thickened, finally failed, when he related the events leading up to Simone’s death, how his eyes had hardened into arctic chips as he told the story of the Mendoza family. There was no doubt in Chane’s mind that Ward had been through holy hell since he had last seen his sister. While Jennie had grown in her ability to love, nurturing two bright children, Ward was struggling to survive, had been forced to put love aside. Maybe he should explain those incidents to Jennie, but he wanted to spare her…

  He kissed her palm and then her lips. “He’ll come around…It’ll take time…Unfortunately, I don’t want him any different yet—he’s got a job ahead of him that will require all his nerve and skill.”

  “I don’t mind his toughness. But he’s so unreachable. I don’t think he expects to survive this…”

  Chane laughed. “There, my love, you are wrong. There is a finely honed survival instinct beneath that nonchalant, devil-may-care facade. What you see is Ward’s bone-deep belief in his own ability. Some call that arrogance. I call it self-confidence. All he lacks now is the strength he lost when he was wounded. I’ve ordered him to rest for a minimum of two weeks. By the time he leaves Phoenix, he’ll be in top form. Even now he’s like a cat—lean, wiry, and indestructible—but there’s no depth to it yet. He needs a little more time. I know men. I’ll know when he’s ready…”

  “Do you think he still loves me?” she asked, her bottom lip quivering.

  “I know he does. If he hasn’t shown it to your satisfaction, I can only assume he can’t peel back eight years of reserve in a day or two. Give him time. If it came easily, you wouldn’t give a damn for it anyway, if I know you…”

  Jennie sniffed, but a smile broke through the forlorn look. “Humph. A lot you know…”

  Relieved, he kissed her. Jennie hadn’t changed much in the almost nine years he had known and loved her. If anything, she had become more exacting, but in the direction of personal relationships, not in material matters. She was still blithely unconcerned in that regard. Possessions were not essential to her, but the happiness of her close circle of loved ones was singularly important. He gave daily thanks that so far their life together had not been marred by any significant loss.

  Fortunately, Chane had always been able to give Jennie everything she needed. Now he frowned. In the future he could give her almost everything…except her brother’s safety…and her brother’s love…

  Annette and Jennifer clustered around the mirror in Leslie’s bedroom, admiring Leslie as she posed.

  The new red satin gown was far more sophisticated than anything she had worn before. It had a plunging Parisian-style neckline, a chiffon vestee that hugged her breasts, tiny cap sleeves, and saucy flounces over a pert tournure that nipped the waistline. The fabric, which was a very fine silk, fell into a short train in back, emphasizing the slenderness of Leslie’s waist and hips. What would Tim think, Leslie wondered, seeing me in such a provocative style?

  Annette had created a confection of a hairstyle to complement the cosmopolitan gown—masses of curls twisted into a smooth, high-crowned coiffure that exposed her slender swanlike neck. With the elbow-length gloves that were de rigueur for evening wear, Jennie knew there was not a man alive who would not yearn to press his lips at the base of that graceful alabaster column. Leslie looked totally self-confident, as if she could face anything, whether it be the matrons of Phoenix or Ward Cantrell…

  Jennie, a hopeless romantic, believed with or without provocation that Leslie was meant for her brother. She did not spend hours plotting ways to get the two of them together, but her creative mind, so keenly focused on Peter’s welfare, gave bonuses. This second event was for the express though covert purpose of introducing Ward to “society,” in effect bestowing upon him any protection and benefit that her and Chane’s considerable influence could afford him.

  Ward, upon hearing about it, was skeptical. Chane shrugged. “It can’t hurt anything, and it might help.” With Chane’s endorsement and backing, Ward reluctantly agreed to attend. Should she tell Leslie that Ward would be there? Or should she allow her house guest to discover him for herself?

  “Do you think it is wise, with my tattered reputation, to wear such a flamboyant color among strangers?”

  The gown in question was Jennie’s. Her laughter was a typically throaty, well-mod
ulated, sultry release of notes that routinely caused women’s mouths to tighten with disapproval and envy. “Why not nail our colors to the mast? If people don’t like it, we don’t need them. As a danseuse and later as an opera diva, I found that people respect you more if you are not wishy-washy. That dress is smashing on you! It would be a crime if you didn’t wear it!”

  Even Leslie’s dainty kid slippers, low-heeled for dancing, were bright carmine red. Black hair, black gloves, and that shamelessly red gown…Even if she were not vain, the look in Jennie’s and Annette’s eyes would have satisfied her completely.

  “No one else could wear that particular shade of red so well, mademoiselle!” Annette said frankly; then, upon realizing her faux pas, she blushed and stammered an apology to Jennie, who brushed it off with a forgiving smile.

  “She’s right, you know. I ordered the gown and never wore it for that reason.” Jennie smoothed the skirt over Leslie’s hip. “This gown does marvelous things for your complexion. With your green eyes…” Jennie sighed. “I hope the other young ladies will not be too badly injured by your presence tonight.”

  “I, for one, hope they are devastated!” Leslie said, her eyes lighted with mischief.

  The unexpected reply delighted them. “Bravo!” Jennie cried as the three women burst into peals of wicked laughter.

  When they were alone, Leslie turned to Jennifer.

  “I’m really grateful to you and Chane for all you’ve done for me. I…I’m not good at saying things, but I just wanted to let you know that if you ever need me, it will give me great pleasure to assist you in any way I can…”

  Pleased and flattered by the genuine sincerity she saw in Leslie’s lovely green eyes, Jennie smiled and took her hand. “We’ve loved having you. I…we both…hope you will consider staying here…making our home yours on a permanent basis. Both Chane and I want you to know that we consider you family. If you have any needs at all, we will be hurt if you do not let us know. If we can help you in any way…it is our wish to do so.”

  Leslie flushed with a sudden urge to cry. “I can’t tell you how much your support means to me…”

  Jennie squeezed her hand. “It’s not necessary that you do so. To us it is only necessary that you are happy.”

  Something hard stirred in her chest. “Thank you so much.”

  To change the subject Jennie said what had been on her mind for a long time. “I’m amazed daily by your resilience and strength. I say this because I have been through a similar experience and know some of its consequences. You’ve been through so much these last weeks and months. Perhaps when you are ready I will share some of it with you. Remember that I, too, have been through a great deal.

  “But now I will give you the advice my agent gave me on my first professional appearance. When you face the harridans of Phoenix in your red gown, there is only one thing you must remember—don’t let them hear your knees knocking.”

  Leslie laughed. “This reminds me of my mother’s adage for preparing me for my modest debut into society: ‘Social courage is a contradiction in terms: it means a strong desire to be accepted taking the form of elegant indifference.’”

  “What a singular analysis! Had I champagne at hand, I would toast your mother’s wit and her beautiful daughter!” She lifted an imaginary glass. “To Leslie Powers, who is living proof that a woman is exactly as happy as she decides to be.”

  “Hear, hear!” Leslie cried, getting into the spirit, even as she wished, contrarily, that she were either a better actress or truly happy.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Debbie Denning had an unruly mass of reddish brown hair that curled like a short, woolly cap around her pert face. Her skin was a healthy, tawny color, made vibrant with rosy cheeks and large, lively brown eyes that sparkled with intelligence and vitality. Jennifer had invited Debbie to meet Leslie the day before the ball, so the young women were no longer strangers to each other.

  Jennie’s orchestra played rousing waltzes and brisk polkas. So much so that no woman could dance every dance. Leslie and Debbie were temporarily alone, Tim and Winslow having gone to the heavily laden banquet tables along the south wall of the sala grande.

  “Are you beginning to like Arizona now?” Debbie asked, pausing to cast a critical eye at the enthusiastic couples dancing past.

  “Not Arizona, no. But perhaps this house, these people. I love this house. It’s a house that a person can feel safe in…”

  “There is something so special about this house,” Leslie said, “It’s exactly like they are. Don’t you feel it?”

  “You like the Kincaids, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. Mrs. Kincaid, Jennifer,” she corrected herself, “is like my mother. Independent, interested in a great many things, and very energetic. She glows with an inner delight, as if she understands everything around her and likes it anyway.”

  Debbie nodded appreciatively. “That’s very good! You’ve caught the essence of her. And Mr. Kincaid?”

  “The rock of Gibraltar, solid, warm, protective, and endlessly reliable.”

  Debbie was silent, awed by the picture Leslie painted with her words. Then—

  “You are an artist. You see with an instinctive, undistorted clarity and passion…Is it always this easy for you to reach to the heart of people?”

  Leslie laughed. “No, sometimes I can’t see beyond the first layer of skin.” She was thinking now of Cantrell—for the first time—wondering suddenly what was beneath that iron reserve he hid behind. Man or only a clever imitation? But she stopped herself. This was no time to think about Ward Cantrell…

  The Kincaids’ ballroom glowed with the timeless elegance of classic design. It was awash with party colors, alive with talk and music, ablaze with candle glow, illuminating the vibrant energy of a hundred young women flirting with two hundred young men.

  The dance followed only days after the dinner party. Leslie was astonished by the amount of work the staff had accomplished in such short order. People began arriving on foot and in carriages, women in their carriage bonnets and wraps, the men in their claw-hammer tailcoats, frockcoats, and Stetsons. They filled the house by eight o’clock and threatened to overflow into the garden. The Kincaids greeted each guest by name, warmly, and made it plain to Leslie and probably them as well, that they were keeping track of who was treating Leslie Powers with the respect they had decided she deserved, and who was not.

  It was their intention to introduce Ward Cantrell with the same careful attention to detail. Unfortunately, Ward was either late or had decided to forgo society. Jennie fretted inside. Fortunately, her stage training assured that it was her secret. Not even Leslie suspected. There were times when Jennie felt terrible keeping their young house guest in the dark about Ward and his significance in their lives, but Chane assured her of the absolute necessity for secrecy. “The fewer people who know, the better. We cannot afford to have the name Peter Van Vleet bandied about. The authorities in Kansas would be only too happy to reissue those murder warrants.”

  The men were all in black, but the women burst forth like the colors of the rainbow. Champagne flowed, diamonds glittered, and Jennifer felt unaccountably proud of her small victory. No one dared snub Leslie! She had been accepted!

  Jennie searched for Chane in the festive crowd. She found him near the outer fringes of the dance floor, heading toward Tom Wilcox. Tom had worked for Chane for many years. He was the head of the security division of Chane’s various enterprises. A totally nondescript man who was loyal, hardworking and seemingly able to blend into any background without effort.

  “Good evening, Jennie,” said a familiar voice.

  “Ed! How nice you could come.” She gave him a chaste, ceremonial kiss befitting the governor of the territory, and he smiled. He was robust and jovial. A diamond ring sparkled on his hand, drawing attention to a glass of strangely tinted milk.

  “You couldn’t keep me away. Jennie, you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

  “Oh,
isn’t it lovely? I’m so proud of this town, these people.”

  “You did it.”

  “But they came!” They chatted amiably until the governor saw Kincaid and Wilcox part. He excused himself and caught Chane before he could disappear into the melee of dancers and revelers. They came together at the entry hall of the sala grande.

  “You treating your ulcer again?” Chane grinned, his green eyes twinkling.

  “Milk looks like hell at a party doesn’t it? Folks are going to lose confidence in me. What’s happening with our boy?”

  “He has a lead. He thinks there’s a definite possibility that the line we built to the new silver lode is being used at night to move stolen cattle.”

  “I’ll be damned! Now why didn’t we think of that?”

  “Too old-fashioned, I guess. I’m not used to the idea yet. I can’t adjust to the thought that my cattle are being rustled and moved in my trains.”

  Stanton shook his head. “Jesus, God! What will they think of next? Does he have a line on who’s behind it?”

  “No. That’s why he’s back in town. He wants to spend some time at night going through the railroad records to see if he can unravel it.”

  Stanton nodded, but at that moment was pulled away by a town matron eager to gossip with the governor.

  Chane expelled an angry breath. He didn’t like Cantrell’s latest report. This new possibility meant that someone he trusted, someone in a position of authority in his company, was stealing him and all the other cattlemen in the area blind. But the first report of Cantrell’s activities had pleased him. The young firebrand was running true to form. He had assembled the toughest cadre of rangers the Arizona Territory had ever seen and had managed to turn them into a team. Five men, all ex-bandits and outlaws themselves, two of them sworn enemies of Cantrell’s, and he had taken charge. Wilcox was still shaking his head over that.