Running Wild

by Denise Eagan

  She regarded him for a moment. Even in this borrowed coach, sitting in the middle of the Colorado wilderness, Port represented Civilization, from his black-striped suit to his lightly pomaded hair, combed just so. She suspected that she, even richly dressed in brown velvet with a matching hat and tan kid gloves, appeared far less polished than he. Some days it seemed like the Lord had passed the feminine traits of neatness and comportment to Port, skipping her entirely.

  She sighed. Perhaps today it was just as well. If Mr. McGraw offered them a night’s lodging as they hoped—Heaven knew she had no wish to travel back across the valley in this bone-rattling contraption!—their host would be gratified to see that at least one of them was not so fussy. Star hadn’t a fussy bone in her too-tall body.

  The door to the carriage opened and her father leaned in. “It’s as we expected. Lee was here but jumped ship two days ago for a friend’s home in Texas.”

  “Texas!” Port exclaimed. “Good God, don’t tell me that we must travel to Texas as well.”

  “Not tonight,” Father answered mildly. “Mr. McGraw has graciously offered us accommodation for two nights and the use of a carriage to transport us to Texas. If you would kindly step out, I shall introduce you to our host.” Port let out a low, frustrated growl and then reluctantly nodded at his father. Leaving Port to follow, Father lent Star his hand to help her down and led her to Mr. McGraw, who stood in the yellow glow of two lamps burning from the porch beyond. As Port had noted, the house was constructed entirely of logs, but stood two stories tall and was much larger than any of the houses they’d seen in their travels. Not fashionable, of course, but inviting all the same.

  They came to a halt four paces from Mr. McGraw. Shadows blurred the planes of his face as his eyes locked with hers.

  And the urge to kiss him slammed into her.

  She almost jumped. The night hid a sudden flush, which, thankfully the November air quickly cooled. It did nothing, however, for the hot shudder running down her spine or the excitement that flashed like lightning over her nerves, leaving her tingling and dizzy. Gracious, what was this? Love at first sight?

  Lust at first sight.

  “Mr. McGraw, if you will allow me, sir, I should like to present my daughter, Star Montgomery, and my son Porthos,” Father said as Port came to a halt beside her.

  Star ran her eyes over Mr. McGraw’s person. He was casually clothed in a tan leather jacket, shiny from wear, and blue jean pants. Two or three inches taller than her formidable five feet nine inches, he had a whipcord build and radiated masculinity. He was bareheaded and a chilling breeze ruffled his un-pomaded hair, as black as the sky.

  He nodded. “A pleasure, ma’am,” he said. “Sir. Welcome to the Bar M.”

  His smooth voice soothed her still-tingling skin, spreading a sort of glowing warmth through her veins. She swallowed and managed a smile. “You are very obliging to house us, Mr. McGraw. We’ve traveled many miles to find my errant brother.” Somehow she compelled her voice to sound as it always did, marbled with merriment and low—too low for a woman. In her youth she’d spent countless hours laboring to correct for it. Foolish waste of time, for she could no more change her voice than conform her body to a respectable female height. She’d long since learned to use flattery, flirtation and laughter to turn Society’s critical eye away from her physical faults—and to conceal her independent spirit.

  Mr. McGraw’s mouth twitched. “A man on the dodge moves along, that’s a fact. Most likely, tho,’ if Monty knew you were chasing him, he’d have been more considerate.”

  “Monty?” Star repeated with a gurgle of amusement. “Is that what he calls himself these days?”

  “No, ma’am, that’s what we call him.”

  “Nonetheless,” Port said acerbically, “Lee is rarely considerate of his family.”

  “O.K.,” Mr. McGraw answered doubtfully. After a short pause, he said, “If you’ll follow me, we’ve got a good fire to warm you, and Melinda’ll whip you up some supper. Bet you’re hungry.”

  Melinda? Star thought, spirits sinking. Oh no, he had a wife?

  “A warm bed, sir,” Father said, as Mr. McGraw turned and lead them to the house, “is more than enough. Thank you.”

  “Hel—heck no. Melinda’ll jump through hoops for you no matter what I say. We don’t get too many visitors out this way. And the name’s Nicholas—Nick—Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Why then, Nick, I shall thank you again. And I am Ward.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in a well-lit, masculine-decorated parlor with brown leather furniture and a huge stone fireplace, filled with an equally huge, crackling fire. Melinda McGraw, a pretty, dark-haired woman, was in the kitchen “whipping up” some supper. In the meantime, Nicholas offered Port and Father brandy. No offer to Star, of course, for unless a woman suffered from mortal wounds, no gentleman would offend a woman’s sensibilities by offering her a glass of hard liquor, and perhaps not even then. Many of Star’s fellow women’s rights advocates were also attached to temperance societies and would give great credit to such opinions. They irritated Star. The women they tried to protect could very much use the occasional drink. Minnie could have—

  She shoved the thought away.

  Leaning against the sofa back, she followed Married Nicholas with her eyes as he poured the brandy from a decanter into cut crystal glasses and passed them to Port and Father. In the brightness of the gas lighting—unexpected luxury here in the Wild West—she noted nothing particularly remarkable about Nicholas. Granted, he possessed a strong physique, all sinew and muscle, and when he moved his rough, white shirt and black leather vest pulled tightly over a pair of wide shoulders and a flat belly. He had a lean, even-featured face bereft of either beard or mustache. It was dark, however, with a day’s growth, making him appear . . . dangerous. She must certainly concede that he was handsome, but that did not explain her sudden heart-pounding reaction to him. She’d known many handsome men in her life; she’d been engaged to six.

  She’d never intended to marry one of them.

  One could scarcely fight dominance when one was legally bound to obey the dominant. Nevertheless, she had no intention of forever forfeiting the sexual aspects of the married state, even if she’d yet to find a man to follow through on that intention, not even as her fiancé, drat it all. They had all been gentlemen to the bitter end and wary of her family name as well boot, leaving her at twenty-seven as virginal as her irritating first name implied.

  Nicholas turned to her. “Melinda’s most likely brewing a pot of tea for you, Miz Montgomery.”

  Once more, he captured her gaze. He had lovely eyes, long-lashed and midnight blue. They held hers steadily, reflecting easy male admiration without any of the condescension that men had always before directed toward her. Her heart did a cheerful little dance as she shifted her gaze to the decanter in his hand.

  “It’s powerful cold out there tonight,” he said after a moment. “Maybe you’d appreciate something stronger than tea?”

  Her eyes flew up to meet his. Amusement gleamed in his eyes, and a little bubble of merriment played in her stomach. “I should love a small glass of brandy, if you please.”

  “You shall not!” Port exclaimed, jerking out of the mellow state provided by the wood fire and several gulps of alcohol.

  “I will if I want,” she replied, continuing to hold that divine blue gaze. Nicholas’s lips twitched and far from turning to dark-eyed censure, the gleam became a wicked sparkle. Her heart took a joyful leap, eager to join his in mischief.

  “It is—”Port started.

  “Perfectly acceptable,” Father interrupted smoothly. “We’re in the company of friends and as Nicholas suggested, it is quite cold. Brandy does a fine job of warming the blood.”

  So did watching handsome men, Star thought, her eyes riveted to Inconveniently Married Nicholas as he strode to the side table to retrieve a glass for her.

  “I will not countenance it!” Port sputtered. �
��Father, her partiality to port wine—”

  His words fanned the embers of a fire never fully extinguished, and she turned, lifting her chin in preparation for battle. Battle she understood; her reaction to Nicholas she did not. “It’s not for you, Port, to—”

  “Belay that, Star,” Father interrupted. “You shall not bicker in front of our host. It has been a long journey and we are all fatigued. No doubt, that is where this want of conduct arises. Port, if your sister wishes for a small glass of brandy, she may have it. She is a full-grown woman and capable of making her own decisions. I am confident that she fully understands this is an especial occasion?” Posing the statement as a question, he raised his eyebrows at Star.

  “Of course, Father,” she said, and took the glass from Remarkably Intriguing But Sadly Married Nicholas. His hand brushed hers and their eyes met again as a shudder of anticipation ran down her spine. Then Melinda The Wife entered the room with a tray, followed by a boy of about ten—his son, no doubt—equally burdened. Her spirits fell, for one could not, with any conscience, allow oneself to lust after a married man.

  “Here you go,” Melinda said. “It’s not much, just sandwiches, but given the late hour I thought it best not to eat anything too heavy.”

  “It looks marvelous. Thank you,” Father said, taking a plate.

  The boy stood, staring wide-eyed at Nicholas. After a moment, he asked timidly, “Uncle Nick?”

  Uncle?

  “Sorry, Dickie. Just offer a sandwich to Mr. and Miz Montgomery, than put what’s left on the table there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Melinda said as she sat on the sofa, “that my husband isn’t here to greet you, but Jim’s gone on ahead with Lee and Jess to the Rockin’ R. Dickie, it’s late, run along to bed now.”

  Husband Jim? Oh, Melinda the Marvelous! The Beautiful! The Entirely Not Married to Nicholas! Her stomach flipped and her heart jumped in jubilation.

  “Yes,” Father said. “Nick explained that. I cannot fully express my gratitude at the splendid care you offered my son.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “Didn’t do much, sir. He and Jess steered clear of the posse until they arrived here. Jim and I just moved them on to Texas until the dust settles. From what you told me, tho,’ you’ve pretty much handled it yourself.”

  “Oh, have you?” Melinda asked, her eyes bright as she sat down on the sofa. “Then they’re safe? What did you do?”

  “As to that . . .” Father started and then while they ate their sandwiches, proceeded to explain how he had saved the day. Father was quite competent at saving his family from hangmen, starting with his wife thirty years earlier. In this case Lee and his “friend” Jess were accused of murdering her stage manager for money—as if Lee needed money!—when the killer had been, in fact, the father of the victim’s one-time lover. During the short story, Melinda emitted a gasp or two, her eyes widening. She glanced now and again toward Nicholas, but refrained from making inquiries. Nicholas, lounging in a leather chair in front of the fire, stared steadily at Melinda, a frown between his eyebrows as if she were a child in need of guidance. It would have vexed Star if Melinda didn’t at times resemble just that—and if Star hadn’t met so many women determined to be childlike in deference to men. The women’s movement didn’t just battle men. Sometimes women were their own worst enemy.

  “Well, that is quite a story,” Melinda said, at last. “And now you’ll be moving on to the Rocking R to explain it to them in person? Nick mentioned that we might travel together.”

  Together? Star thought. Oh no, but she didn’t want to join Marvelous Melinda! She wanted to stay here with Melinda’s brother-in-law and learn what lurked behind the devilry in those lovely blue eyes. Perhaps they could telegraph Lee and ask him to join them here. No, Father would never agree to that. Foisting themselves upon perfect strangers would be indescribably rude, and, drat the man, he never did anything rude.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Father said. “Nick and I discussed it and we would be honored to join you, if you’re quite certain we won’t be an inconvenience?”

  “Oh no, I’d love the company! It would be best to let us guide you anyway, so as not to get lost.”

  Port let out a low, defeated sigh. “Is it rough travel, ma’am?”

  “Not so very much,” she answered a trifle warily, and Nicholas grinned behind his drink. Mischief danced in his eyes again, flashing across the room when he caught Star’s gaze. “A little more difficult then I expect you’re used to,” Melinda soothed, “but we’ll take it slowly enough that you won’t suffer too terribly.”

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. McGraw,” Father answered. “And now, I’m certain you’ll understand that it has been quite a long day. . .”

  “Oh of course!” Melinda said jumping up. “Right this way.”

  Port rose, and Father graciously held his hand out to Nicholas. “Again, I cannot properly express my appreciation. It’s a great relief to know that my son is safe and that we shall see him at last.”

  “Our pleasure, sir. Lee is—” Nicholas’s lips twitched slightly, as his eyes flicked over hers in silent, amused communication, “entertaining.”

  Star laughed. “Yes, he is that, isn’t he?” she said. “And Miss Sullivan? Is she entertaining as well?”

  She felt Father stiffen. He had developed a hearty dislike of Jess, whom he’d determined had seduced his son and then led him on a merry goose chase.

  “Oh, she’s wonderful,” Melinda said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “She is an actress you know!”

  “Yes,” Father said dryly, “we know.”

  It hardly recommended Jess to Father.

  “And now,” Star said hastily, “if you would lead the way?”

  “Yes! Follow me, up the stairs. You might not expect it out West, but we have a bathroom for you to freshen up in and plenty of room for guests. . . .” Melinda chatted as she climbed the stairs. Father and Port ushered Star on ahead, and followed behind. Right before reaching the top stair, Star looked down to see Nicholas’s eyes upon her. Her heart took another leap, she flashed him her most enticing smile, and then followed Melinda down a corridor.

  CHAPTER THREE

  O! thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a saint.

  Shakespeare, King Henry IV

  There’s nothing worse in the world than shameless woman—save some other woman.

  Aristophanes, Thesmophoriazusae

  Nick, drink tight in his fist, watched Miz Montgomery climb the stairs. His blood raced through his veins and his male regions fought to come to life. Damn, but he hadn’t felt like this in a long, long time. Ah hell, he’d never felt like this. But he’d never met a woman like her, all cool, poised lady on the outside, but all simmering fire underneath. The sleek, graceful way she moved reminded him of a wildcat, an amber-eyed mountain lion.

  Her father reminded him of Pa.

  Nick’s heart clenched and he ground his teeth against a sudden stabbing.

  At the top of the stairs, she halted to look down at him. She gave him her slow, bewitching smile, and her eyes shone with more promise than any “lady” ought to give: of touch and taste and whispers in the dark. He lost the fight on the fire down below.

  She turned and moved down the hall.

  Nick fell back into his favorite chair and rubbed his neck. Promise and beauty, combined with an amused-but-sensual unspoken communication passing back and forth between them, which was as implausible as it was undeniable.

  False promise, he cautioned himself. Ladies did not deliver on such things, not outside of marriage, anyhow. Those meaningful glances, those unspoken words were just the tools of a practiced flirt. He’d never fallen for one himself, but too many times he’d seen men who had, who’d gotten tangled up in pleasing a lady, certain that this time she’d come through, only to be kicked into the dust. Seen men so twisted up in love and lust that it ended in shootin’, sometimes in killin’, but no matter what, it never ended good. No sir, he thought, and
took a long pull on his drink, no sir, he would not buy into that.

  He looked into the glass. The brandy was a few shades darker than Miz Montgomery’s eyes, and he recollected her looking at the decanter. In spite of himself, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He oughtn’t to have offered her a glass, but he couldn’t resist the wistfulness in her gaze. Her answering smile and the mutiny in her eyes when her brother argued had made it worth it. Star Montgomery was sure enough a lady and a flirt, but under all the fancy clothes and gentility and come-hither looks lurked a strong, stubborn woman who was used to getting her way. The kinda woman who’d mess up a man but good, the kind Ma would have warned him about if she’d lived.

  Closing his eyes, Nick leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin as a worn out memory of his father and mother rose in front of his eyes. Fifteen years dead and he still missed ’em.

  Like Ward Montgomery, Pa’d been a Yank, born and bred. He’d had the same, “if you please” manner of negotiation, which was just a tactful way of saying, “do it, or I’ll tan your hide.” Even with Ward’s highfalutin’ back-East ways, Nick reckoned not much could ruffle his feathers. Again, like Pa, who, upon learning Ma had developed a lung complaint, up and moved the whole family to Colorado, hoping the dry mountain air might cure her. Wasted no time in griping, just closed down his printing press, packed up his family and vamoosed, even though he had no notion of how to run a ranch beyond what he’d read in books. Because that’s what a man did, he took care of family.

  He’d done a damned fine job, too. Even got along with the Injuns, who took his measure and never gave him a lick of trouble. Eight years into it, though, a wagon accident had killed both of ’em, leaving Nick, at eighteen, to run a ranch and raise his brother. Which Nick had done without a second thought, like Ward, a Boston aristocrat who’d traveled fifteen hundred miles by train and coach to help his son, because that’s what a man did, took care of family.

  Yup, Nick thought, polishing off his drink, he liked Ward. He liked Ward’s daughter. And he was damned glad they were both ridin’ out of his life in a couple days, ’cause he reckoned having the two of ’em at the Bar M was more than an ol’ cowpoke like him could handle.