The street they were on was lined with a shallow fringe of two-and three-story buildings. There was a depressing conformity of style in the way the gaunt, squarish buildings each had a door and two windows and a porch roof or awning that jutted out like bulky eyelashes demurely lowered.
The brougham swayed around a corner, and Leslie got a glimpse of the road ahead of them. It was a ribbon of glistening dust-colored sugar flowing between the clapboard false-fronted buildings whose weathered wood was fading even as they passed.
The desert seemed more hospitable than this town. She imagined people staring at the sleek Kincaid carriage, thinking angry, accusing thoughts about her. She unconsciously pulled her veil down, straightening it protectively. She even hated the thought that they had occasion to think about her.
In passing all this hodgepodge of shabby buildings, only the Bricewood West, with its French Second Empire version of the palazzo style, showed a very unPhoenixlike dignity. There was something so incongruous about the way it sat so smugly, as if it knew something about this town that no one else knew. Gazing at it now, as the carriage rocked past, she had the feeling she had never really seen it before. Maybe she hadn’t seen any of Phoenix before.
They reached the church a few minutes before ten. Mrs. Kincaid walked with Mrs. Lillian and Annette, while Chane escorted Leslie to the gravesite, where the clean, precise pine box already waited beside the open grave. By now, Leslie knew about making arrangements, having been forced to cope with her mother’s death, but she was grateful to Chane for taking care of these for her. He had arranged for the church sexton to dig the grave, the local carpenter to build the box, and the livery stable owner to deliver the body in a horse-drawn glass-sided hearse. On the whole, the arrangements were far more primitive than her mother’s, but embalming had not spread to the West on a large-scale basis yet.
She saw faces she recognized: Tim Summers, Winslow Breakenridge, some riders from the Lazy P, Dallas Younger, some cattlemen whose names she did not remember, and a few merchants.
Mr. Kincaid had engaged Reverend Abercrombie from the First Presbyterian Church to officiate at the burial. He had paid a formal call on Leslie the day before. He came forward and greeted her warmly, with ceremonial solicitousness that made her grateful now for the black veil that covered her face.
The words spoken were few, and it was apparent that Reverend Abercrombie had never met Mark Powers. The last time she went to a funeral, it was her mother’s; it had been followed closely by another death, her father’s. Was this funeral again only a prelude to another disaster?
Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock, only six hours after Mark Powers’s funeral, four riders from Happy Slocum’s Sleepy S found a stranger hanging from an oak tree on their land. There was a fire nearby and a running iron still hot. They cut the man down and found a note stuffed in his vest pocket. It was a warning to all rustlers to clear out of the territory, that Ward Cantrell was taking over the rustling of cattle in the Salt River Valley and that there wasn’t room for competition. It was signed tersely: Cantrell.
Word reached town by five o’clock, and rumors were flying. Cattlemen feared that rustling was being organized like crime had been in large eastern cities for years. Men were coming in singly and in groups to ask the governor to deputize a special posse to hunt Cantrell down. Losses to rustlers had instantaneously doubled, at least in their minds.
Sandra McCormick, missing and presumed kidnapped, only added fuel to the fires that were burning. She had been gone since no telling when; the maid had found her bed unslept in on Monday morning. A thorough search of the town turned up nothing. Sam McCormick was convinced Ward Cantrell had taken her. He announced a reward for her return and the capture of the person or persons who had taken her. The town buzzed with excitement.
Elizabeth Cartright made a special trip to see Leslie on Wednesday while Debbie was visiting. Elizabeth, with her penchant for gossip, could talk of nothing else.
Brightly gowned and stylishly coiffed, the three girls made a striking picture to Chane as he strode past the library, looking for Jennie.
“Well, frankly, darlings,” Elizabeth said, smiling knowingly, archly, “I think I was wrong about one thing in this whole little episode.”
Debbie shot Leslie a weighted look. When Elizabeth Cartright admitted she’d been wrong about something it was a red-letter day.
“I think Ward’s little flirtation with Jennifer was a trick to make Sandra jealous.”
Leslie shook her head wearily. Debbie’s lips curled into a patient smile, and she glanced at Leslie. No sense trying to stop her. When Elizabeth wanted to say something she would say it. Arguing with her would only give her more opportunities to snipe and speculate.
“Apparently it was Sandra he was after all along. The thing with Jennifer”—she whispered her name, looking at the door guiltily—“was just to upset Sandra, to remind her she had serious competition.”
“Serious compet—?” Debbie couldn’t help herself.
“Of course, darlings, don’t you realize? A married woman is the most serious competition a single girl can have. Why, heavens, I thought everyone knew that! She’s older, experienced, and best of all, she’s safe. Even if he gets her in trouble, she has a way out—she’s already married! What could be better than that? All fun—no fear!”
“I’m sure there must be some drawback—else why would a man ever chase an unattached female? They do, you know,” Leslie reminded her dryly.
“Of course, darlings, of course they do. When they decide to settle down. Maybe, just maybe, Sandra and Ward have eloped—no—no—not likely. More likely he has taken her into the hills to continue their affair without interruption. Can you imagine that? Mistress to the chief of a rustler gang! Think of the experience she is having! If it all weren’t so sordid, I would probably envy her. After all, he is a very attractive outlaw.”
“Are you disappointed that he didn’t take you?” Debbie asked.
“Heavens! What a question! I’m as outraged as anyone over the whole sordid mess! I simply find it fascinating, that’s all! It is one of the most exciting things that has happened since Leslie was kidnapped and ra—” Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. “Oh, Leslie, darling! I’m sorry! I would rather bite my tongue off than remind you of your unfortunate experience!”
“I’m sure you would,” Leslie said smoothly. I would rather you had, too. Had Ward really carried Sandra off?
Tim came over after dinner with his own ideas about Sandra’s abduction.
“I don’t think she went with Cantrell.”
“You don’t?” Somehow that surprised her. She hadn’t expected Tim to rush to Cantrell’s aid again.
“No, not really. But you saw what an impact he had on her. She changed overnight.” He laughed. “I mean overnight.” He grinned admiringly. “I wouldn’t mind having that kind of an impact on a woman.”
Leslie stiffened.
“Can you imagine what he does to cause all these girls to fling themselves at him the way they do?” Tim asked, smiling warmly, leaning forward to brush a kiss on her cheek. When his black eyes were lighted with warmth it was hard to tell what might be going on behind them…
Tim lifted her chin, brushed a kiss on her parted lips. “I’m glad you aren’t one of his Trinkets,” he said, his black eyes still narrowed with smile crinkles. Did she only imagine it, or had the sable warmth of a second ago been replaced by cool impervious ebony?
Feigning pique, Leslie lowered long silky lashes and lifted her chin provocatively. “Why, Mr. Summers, I do believe you are beginning to take me for granted. Was that a left-handed compliment or an outright insult?”
Tim grinned and the warmth was back as if she had imagined that tiny flicker of emotion. “I could just be counting my blessings, couldn’t I? After all, I didn’t lose my girl. It wasn’t you he carried off.”
Smiles were getting harder to come by. This one took its toll. Thank goodness he pulled her
close to kiss her. Too bad she couldn’t stop thinking. Respond. Don’t think. But she did.
“Tim, please, people are still dropping in to pay their respects. The funeral was only yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” he said contritely. “I forgot you’re still in mourning.”
Any excuse, even a phony one, was better than nothing. She accepted her reprieve gratefully.
Sandra McCormick waited two days in Powers’ fortress for Dallas Younger—two of the longest days of her young life. The Mexican women who still ran the place as if Mark Powers would walk in any moment were cordial and accepting, having become accustomed to Younger’s and Powers’ women. To them this one was no different, except younger and fresher-looking. Most of the white women who came to the ranch were plump, brassy, and laughed too loudly. This one still had the bloom of youth and the nervousness.
Younger rode in on Tuesday night about ten o’clock. Sandra’s heart began to pound wildly. What would she do if he sent her away again? She’d been secretly infatuated with him since she had seen him in town three years before. She had pursued him in the same fashion she had Ward Cantrell, except she’d only been sixteen then, and Dallas Younger had laughed at her and sent her away. “No, dice, sweetface. I know a hanging tree when I see one. Your daddy’s too big, and you’re too little. Come back when you’re all growed up,” he had drawled, his slate gray eyes mocking her.
Well, here she was. Would he think her grown-up enough now? Had he told Tim he wanted her, or had Tim only told her that so he could misuse her? She still carried bruises from Tim’s lovemaking. He had said terrible things to her and worse things about her. At the time it had heightened her excitement, but she hadn’t been able to look at him afterward. She had almost refused to go to Younger after that. What if Ward was right about Dallas?
She could see him at the foot of the steps, hear his men greeting him, hear his heavy step on the porch, feel the flush of embarrassment. Her bravado, that dazed sort of mindlessness that allowed her to function, almost failed her completely. What if he laughed at her and sent her away? After all she had done to get here. She hadn’t left a note for her father, hadn’t told anyone. She must have been insane to let Tim drag her off that way.
The yearning and dreaming over Dallas Younger’s dark, handsome, virile image all those years must have made her crazy. Damn Ward anyway! If he hadn’t disappointed her…
Younger—tall, broad-shouldered, almost as lean-hipped as Ward, but harder-looking—stopped just inside the door when he saw her standing there. His dark brows formed a heavy ledge of disapproval over his bold eyes and hawklike features. His sensual lips quirked up at one corner, as if he were chewing a toothpick.
“Hi, Sweetface. What y’all doing here?” he asked gruffly.
Sandra thought her heart was going to stop. It lurched crazily, then thundered on. She couldn’t think of anything to say. “I came to see if I’m all grown-up,” she said thickly, her lips trembling so she had to bite them.
“You alone?” he asked, looking around suspiciously, his eyes narrowed now, watching her intently.
“I’ve been here two days, waiting,” she said expectantly.
“I thought you were Cantrell’s girl,” he said harshly. “He bring you here?” He had heard the rumors about Cantrell’s kidnapping her. He’d gone to Powers’ funeral and, being a practical man, he knew he wouldn’t be working for the new owner. He had stopped to pack some things, take any cash Powers had left lying around, and head up into the hills to take over the rustling operation firsthand. Since he couldn’t use Powers’ backing and the ranch as a base, he expected he’d be moving on soon anyway. Talk in town was that rustling, with Cantrell making his brags and the furor that caused among the honest ranchers, wouldn’t be easy work anymore. He and Cedar Longley had talked about that on the trip out.
He stamped his feet as a matter of habit and began to take off his gloves. She looked terrified, but he had to admit that she was a pretty little doll, nervous as hell, but determined. He’d recognized her type years ago. She wanted a big daddy. Well, he thought, smiling, she’d come to the right place, if she was on the level.
He walked into the center of the room, took off his Stetson, his gloves, his coat, and threw them at the sofa.
“Come here,” he growled.
She walked into his arms blindly, her blood a deafening roar in her ears. She was on fire even before his harsh mouth found hers. His powerful arms crushed her against his hard chest, and after a few seconds of measuring what he thought of as her sincerity, his hands found her breasts and began teasing and tormenting them while he kissed her.
When he finally lifted his dark head, she was limp and shuddering with ecstasy, her blouse gaping open, pulled down at the shoulders, exposing her full, round, thrusting breasts. He lowered his head and buried his face between the silky globes.
“I reckon you’ll do,” he growled, picking her up to carry her into his bedroom.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Wednesday morning Kincaid saw John Loving in the tobacco store. The store reeked with the roguish smell of fine tawny tobaccos artfully blended. John was leaving as Chane paused, momentarily blocking the narrow doorway.
“John! How are you?” Chane asked, smiling warmly.
Loving looked at him with uncustomary coolness in his intent gray eyes. “Fine, thank you.”
“I talked to Jennie about that dinner we discussed; can you come on Saturday? She’s looking forward to seeing you. You know how Jennie loves to talk about New York.” While it was true he and Jennie had discussed John’s coming to dinner, Jennie had not agreed that it should be this Saturday. She was taking Ward’s new troubles hard. It was his idea, upon seeing John, that it would do Jennie good to entertain someone who would get her talking about New York, take her out of herself.
A muscle bunched and writhed in Loving’s jaw. He couldn’t believe Kincaid was so out of touch with what was going on in his own town. “No, sorry,” he said politely. “Give my regards to Mrs. Kincaid, though.” Loving nodded coolly and stepped around his former employer.
Frowning, Chane watched him walk stiffly away. A cloud of dust at the south end of town caught his eye. It looked like a dozen or so riders in a big hurry. Other men stopped to watch. Within minutes the center of the wide, dusty road was filled with rearing, milling horses and shouting men.
“We’ve found Cantrell! We’ve found that bastard, and he’s got the girl!”
Chane pulled one of the men aside. “What’s happening?”
Red Barnett wiped his sleeve across his face and spat into the dust beside his horse’s feet. “Cantrell and about six, seven men are in Buckeye. Beasley is offering a reward for any man who rides in there and takes Cantrell.”
“Beasley?” Chane demanded. “What the hell does the Consolidated Can Company care about Cantrell?”
“Don’t know,” he said, spitting a long arcing stream of tobacco into the dust. “But you add his reward to McCormick’s and they’ve got my full attention,” he drawled.
“Did you actually see the girl?”
“No, but Beasley did.”
“If he said he saw Cantrell with Sandra McCormick, he’s lying!” Chane shouted, trying to be heard over the din. “Cantrell is a sworn officer of the law.”
“A lawman! Bullshit!” a man beside him interjected. “That’s like leaving a grizzly to guard honey! Stanton fell for that un, he’s gettin’ senile!”
Others joined in the laughter. Chane spent an hour going from man to man, making sure they knew that Cantrell was a sworn officer of the law and that there would be penalties for interfering with him, but there were too many hot heads, too many men who shouted him down, repeating the cant that had been bandied about ever since Powers’s death, Sandra’s disappearance, and Cantrell’s unfortunate departure.
Jennie and the children were waiting lunch for him. He kissed Jennie and knelt to hug the children. Jennie was distracted. Worry clouded her lov
ely eyes. He had kept as much from her as he dared.
He was agitated about the events of the morning, but only one seemed acceptable to discuss with Jennie. The coolness and strangeness of that encounter with John Loving was too unusual to ignore. “I ran into John Loving at the tobacco store this morning. He refused my invitation for dinner Saturday.”
Jennifer frowned. “He did? Did he seem all right otherwise?” she asked, taking her place at the table.
“No,” he said, seating her and then the children.
“Do you suppose things aren’t working out for him at the office?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been near the place to speak of in weeks. I’m concentrating on the revisions to the blueprints for the hotel we’re building in San Diego. You know how I am when I have an opportunity to be creative. I’ve been so engrossed with that project…”
“Chane, I think you should talk to John. Find out what’s wrong.”
He scowled. “I guess I’d better.”
“Have you heard anything about Ward?”
“Nothing from him directly. Just the usual rumors started by people who don’t have anything better to do.”
Leslie joined them at that point, and Chane was grateful for the diversion. In another moment, Jennie would have begun to question him.
To Leslie, looking at them around Mrs. Lillian’s charmingly set table, all seemed serene. The fragrance of fresh flowers, grown with painstaking care by the Kincaid gardener in a small greenhouse beside the stable, mingled with the rich smells of warm bread, ham, and coffee. China and crystal gleamed. Jennifer was cool and lovely in a crisp yellow batiste morning gown. Her usually warm smile was subdued.
The children greeted Leslie gaily; she hugged them and then sat down.
“Good morning.” She smiled, taking her seat at the table. Leslie wore dark blue in deference to her uncle. Chane sat at the head of the table. Jennie had once said laughingly that wherever he sat, that was the head of the table. Jennifer sat on his right, Leslie on his left, nontraditional but very “Kincaid” seating arrangements; Amy sat next to her mother, and young Chane next to Leslie.
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 36