Running Wild

by Denise Eagan

  RUNNING WILD

  BY DENISE EAGAN

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are strictly the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Denise Eagan

  Much thanks to Stephanie, my fount of wisdom and information,

  To Cathryn, for encouragement and trips to Salem,

  To Deb for always being just one e-mail away,

  And as always, Tom, husband, business manager and all around go-to guy

  And Sean and Nat, for years of sacrifice and love

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  And thus I clothe my naked villainy

  With odd old ends sol’n forth of holy write,

  And seem a saint when most I play the devil

  Shakespeare, King Henry III

  Enter Romeo

  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

  Boston, October, 1885

  Controlling the unladylike urge to whistle about her morning’s tennis victory over Samantha Peabody, Star Montgomery flipped through the day’s mail. She’d triumphed in four of five sets, in the final match of the year. A lovely way to—

  He gaze fixed upon a white envelope with a black charcoal rose drawn in the corner. Romeo. Her exuberance fled; her stomach clenched.

  Silly. Silly reaction she chided herself as she absentmindedly replaced the silver post tray on the entryway table. He was naught but a secret admirer and if Star were a natural female, she’d brag about him instead of dread his correspondence. Opening the letter, she started across the mahogany-paneled hall toward the parlor, the rubber of her tennis plimsolls silent on the black and white tile.

  My dearest Virginia,

  I cannot but confess how my pen shakes as I write you this letter, for the perfect joy of knowing that you shall shortly hold it in your beautiful hands.

  It was his usual opening, employing her irritating first name instead of addressing her by her middle name like friends and family did. She scanned that page and the next, filled with the usual rhetoric about her beauty: ridiculous exaggeration all of it, for she was too tall for beauty. What she had was charm.

  And then,

  Now my darling Virginia, I must once again exhort upon you, oh so gently, my dear, to cease and desist your continued association with the harridans of this ridiculous Women’s Movement. You must know that a woman’s place is beside a man, a husband if she be so lucky, with whom she consults on all matters, to whom she devotes her life and heart, a man for whom she cherishes and cares above all things.

  “Star? What is it?”

  Star looked up to see Port sitting on the parlor sofa, sipping tea and reading the newspaper. Her brother was meticulously dressed in morning clothes, the subtle yet elegant shades of grey and black in perfect balance with the blue and ivory appointed parlor. His dark hair was lightly oiled and neat as wax and his mustache perfectly trimmed. Port would not for a moment contemplate anything less than proper grooming, even during his monthly visit to his boyhood home.

  “Nothing, really,” she said, frowning at the letter as she crossed the room. “Just another letter from my secret admirer.”

  “Which one?” he asked dryly.

  “The secret one.”

  “Not that Romeo fellow? What, has he not yet regained his senses?” Port quipped, as she sank into her favorite blue upholstered balloon chair, situated near enough a window to read by the rays of the morning sun. “Star, by George, you aren’t going to sit in here in your tennis clothes, are you? You must change into a gown. This behavior is positively uncivilized.”

  “I wholly apprehend your feelings on that score, Port. I could not care less,” she retorted and continued to read.

  I am quite certain, my love, that you know in your heart of hearts that God made woman far too fragile to stand on her own. Yet you continue to be seduced by these unnatural creatures, who take advantage of your goodness. I have vigorously requested that you cut them from your acquaintance, but, thus far, you refuse my wise counsel. Please, my love, you must heed me on this my only demand. I do not wish to do so, but as I love you with my whole heart, I shall do all in my power to save you from the hands of evil.

  Save you from the hands of evil. Star’s teeth clenched. She knew too well the hands of evil; she’d lost her best friend, Minnie, to them years earlier. Lost her to a bubbling, boiling cauldron of physical and mental torture perpetrated by her husband. When Star closed her eyes, pictures of Minnie’s bruised face flashed across her vision, and an all-too-familiar cloud of despondency and guilt threatened to descend. One from which only action could ever rescue her, the very action against which Romeo railed.

  She stiffened her back, shoved the darkness away and opened her eyes just as a knock on the door rang through the room. Herman, the butler, entered, carrying a piece of paper. The elderly man’s face showed unusual strain as he fixed his gaze upon Port. “It’s a telegram, sir,” Herman said with a tiny bow. “Addressed to your father and marked urgent.”

  Port frowned. “You may send it directly to his office. I suppose it is business related.”

  “I could take it to him,” Star offered. She would pass Romeo’s letter by Father as well, who would, naturally, be no more concerned than Port, for they’d all agreed that a man so timid as to hide behind letters could not but be harmless.

  Except that, as usual, Romeo had closed the letter with “I shall be watching you,” and on more than one occasion he’d made mention of matters that confirmed his observation. It gave her the creeps.

  “I should, sir,” Herman said, “but it appears to be from Master Leland.”

  “From Lee?” Port asked, rising to take it. “But why on earth. . . .” he wondered aloud, and started reading. “Oh good God!” he exploded.

  Star raised an eyebrow. Although Port possessed a mild temperament, Lee had often brought out the worst in his younger brother. When he’d lived in Boston, he’d made a career of it. “What is it, Port?”

  Letting out an exasperated sigh, Port ran a hand through his hair. It stood on end. His face tightened into hard restraint. “Thank you, Herman. You were quite correct in bringing this to my attention. I’ll ring Father directly.”

  “Ring Father?” Star asked. Rising, she laid Romeo’s letter aside and reached for the telegram. “Whatever for? What has Lee to say?”

  Port held tightly to the paper until the door closed behind Herman. When they were alone, he released the telegram and strode to the telephone on the wall. “It’s not from Lee. It’s from one Michelle Dubois, who, if she is to be believed, says that our elder brother has gotten himself into another scrape,” he said bitterly. “This one involving a murder charge.”

  “Murder!” Star excla
imed.

  “Yes, hello,” Port said into the telephone. “If you would be so obliging, ma’am, as to connect me to Montgomery Enterprises please?”

  “Good gracious, how on earth has Lee become embroiled in murder?” Star asked distractedly.

  Port put his hand over the mouthpiece and hissed, “Keep your voice down, Star. Do you want the operator to hear of this?”

  “Why, no.”

  Mr. Montgomery,

  Lee and Jess accused murder, Grant, Colorado. Stop. Victim, stage manager Robert Madison. Stop. Trial and hanging imminent. Stop. Requests, money, Pinkertons, influence. Stop.

  Michelle Dubois

  “Yes, Father, it’s Port. . . . Of course you do. We have a telegram from Lee. . . . Why as to that, sir, I believe your return would better serve us all. . . . Yes, Father, now.” He rang off and turned to Star, who lifted her head.

  “He’s on his way, then?” she asked. “Who do you think this Jess is?”

  “How should I know? I’m not at all certain it isn’t a ruse to milk of us money. If you recall, Ward McAllister said that his brother met Lee in San—Oh good God, that’s who she is!”

  “Who who is? It might actually be a joke, don’t you think?” Star thought, her alarm quickly easing. Joke or not, Lee was a master at extricating himself from scrapes.

  Murder, though, could be different.

  “Who this Jess is that the Dubois woman mentions,” Port answered. “McAllister said Lee attended a ball with a woman whom he’d never met. He prattled on and on about her beauty, grace and charm. But what, by all that is holy, are they doing in Colorado?”

  “Stage manager—you don’t suppose she’s an actress, do you?” Star asked, amusement bubbling up inside of her. Only Lee would bring an actress to a ball! “She is, I’m certain of it. Lee brought an actress to a ball to tweak San Francisco! And they accepted her!”

  “No, he couldn’t have!” Port said, sinking into the sofa. “We shall never live it down.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Port,” Star said, reseating herself. “It is not for us to live down, but for Lee, and you know he doesn’t care a scrap for their opinions. Nor do you, if you reflect upon it, for when have you ever given credence to the opinions of San Franciscan Society? Not that it is signifies in the least, for it appears that Lee is about to be hanged for murder!”

  Port scowled at her. “He shan’t be hanged, and you know that full well. Father shall rescue him with just a few well-placed telegrams, and he will be free once more to disgrace us.”

  “Perhaps not,” she said holding back a gurgle of laughter. “Murder charges may require more than a few telegrams.” Perhaps even a train trip. Colorado was over a thousand miles from Boston. Over a thousand miles from Romeo and his watching eyes, as well. How long would such a trip take? Two, possibly three weeks? She has two articles for the Women’s Journal due in that time, but one could do quite a bit of writing on a train, and the mail could do the rest. “You know, we may even be required to travel to Colorado.”

  “Colorado? You can’t be serious. It is full of heathens and cows. Under no circumstances shall we go to Colorado, certainly not with Meredith in confinement and so near to her lying-in. I cannot leave her at such a time.”

  Star’s heart softened and she gave Port a comforting smile. “Of course you cannot. Not after her past difficulties. Fear not, Port, I’ll go alone or with Father.”

  “No!” Port snapped. “I can think of nothing more apt to exacerbate the scandal than sending you to join Lee. Good God, between the two of you we shall be the talk of not just the East Coast, but the entire country!”

  “I expect not,” a voice said from the doorway. Star looked up to see Father enter the room. “Although why Star should join Lee anywhere is beyond my comprehension.”

  “That,” Port said, grabbing the telegram and crossing the room, “is because you have not read the telegram.”

  Father, like Port, was a tall man, but possessed a wider, sometimes intimidating build. He had thick, black hair graying at the temples, with a few grey hairs scattered throughout the rest. For all his appearance of cool composure, lines of tension bracketed his eyes. Communication from Lee invariably caused tension in her father, who disapproved of his vagabond life.

  Port reseated himself as Father perused the words.

  “I see,” Father said after reading it twice. His voice was rough as always, but his tone calm. “Have either of you any notion of whom Jess or Miss Dubois is?” His eyes pierced first Port, then Star—sharp eyes, which had a way of weeding the secrets out of one’s heart and mind.

  “I’m not certain,” Port said, “but the murder of the stage manager suggests that Lee has become entangled with the theatre.” Port shuddered and continued. “I have postulated to Star that this Jess creature is the woman Lee brought to Hathaway’s ball in San Francisco.”

  Father’s face darkened. “The woman McAllister spoke of. No doubt you are correct.” He folded the piece of paper. “Has your mother heard of this?”

  “She’s at Aunt Fran’s consoling Aunt Amelia.”

  “Ah yes, she and Edward have been quarreling again, haven’t they? Odd. They usually confine their rows to spring-time,” he said, reaching for the telephone. “We’ll hold this from your mother until the arrangements are made. Yes, operator, if you would be so kind, I should like to ring Montgomery Enterprises . . . thank you . . . . Arthur? Yes, it’s Montgomery. It seems I could use your assistance after all . . . . Yes, here, as soon as possible.” He rang off and turned.

  Star raised an eyebrow. “Arrangements, father?” she asked as a blast of excitement hit her belly. “If it requires Arthur’s help, I presume we are going to Colorado.”

  “Don’t be daft, Star,” Port spat. “Father shall merely write a letter or two, and Lee will be free.”

  “As always, Port, I am gratified by your faith in me. However,” he said, staring off into space as he slapped the telegram against his palm, “I doubt I’ve got the capability to fight a murder charge from across the country. Moreover, I should like to learn more of these people with whom Lee has taken to associating.” People, whom Star could see, Father already disliked. Star, on the other hand, thought Jess sounded intriguing. “It’s even possible,” Father continued, focusing on Star, “that should you join me, Star, we may persuade Lee to return East for a spell. Your mother would appreciate that.”

  Colorado was deep in the West, where women’s suffrage had made some impact. Wyoming and Utah had granted women complete voting rights, and Colorado itself had come close in ’76. Surely western men must be freer and have more open minds than their eastern counterparts. “Why yes, I am quite certain we could, Father. It is a capital idea.”

  Port shook his head. “Father, you must know that I cannot leave Meredith in her condition.”

  Father’s face softened, and he reached down to give Port’s shoulder a squeeze. “I should never ask you to do so. Your sister and I shall be fine.”

  “No!” Port snapped, his face creased. “It is impossible. You cannot bring Star and Lee together for such an occasion. You know them. They are bound to worsen it merely for the pure joy of watching everyone squirm. . . .”

  Star sat back, ignoring Port’s continuing pleading and her father’s replies. In the end Port would join them, for although he’d never admit it, Port was a Montgomery and deep down inside he craved adventure. Mother would care for Meredith.

  Freedom and adventure. Oh yes, it was just what she wanted!

  CHAPTER TWO

  Whoever loved that loved not at first sight?

  Marlowe, Hero and Leander

  Don Predro: You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter.

  Leonato: Her mother hath many times told me so.

  Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

  Southern Colorado, November 1885

  As the carriage rolled to a halt, Father looked back and forth between Star and Port, his countenance severe
in the lamp-lit interior. “You two shall kindly oblige me by waiting here. I suspect this will pass easier if only one of us talks to this McGraw fellow. Port, I trust you to mind your manners, regardless of your feelings.” Before Port could answer, Father descended from the wagon, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

  Port peered out the window for a short spell, and then sat back with a sigh of disgust. “The house is made of logs. I cannot comprehend why Lee would leave the comfort of Boston to reside here. Outside of Denver, Colorado is a virtual vacuum of civility.”

  Star drew the horsy-smelling blanket tighter around her chilled body and gazed out the window. Even with the light shining from the ranch house beyond, she could not make out much more than the shape of a large house in the background and two shadowy figures talking in the foreground: the wide-shouldered bulk of her father and a tall, lankier figure. They spoke too quietly for her to understand their words.

  “I believe I understand,” she ventured. “These Westerner’s manners are rough, true, but I find many admirable attributes hidden beneath. Strength, for one and indifference toward pretension, including Miss Sullivan’s acting troupe if you think on it. I suspect that’s most attractive to Lee, for he never did appreciate ostentation.” Nor did Star, but she accepted it as part of Society, against which Lee had openly rebelled. Of course a man could rebel. Society required women to walk a narrower line.

  “I shall not consider her troupe if I can avoid it,” Port answered. He’d been appalled by them, worst of all by Miss Michelle Dubois, who’d flirted with him outrageously and had only become more wicked when he mentioned his married state. Star had liked her. “And not all our associates,” Port continued, “are ostentatious. One may display wealth tastefully.”