by Denise Eagan
He had half a mind to let her catch him.
The other half, though, the smarter half, had glued itself to honor. She was Lee’s sister and Ward’s daughter. In addition, for the next three weeks she’d be sleeping under his roof, entrusted to his care with the expectation that he’d treat her with the greatest respect. He would not abuse that trust, would not defile his friend’s sister or daughter, no matter how much those eyes asked for it. That invitation was a lie, anyhow, because she was a lady and “catching him” could never lead to the mad passion those eyes promised.
“How you holding up, Nick? Not quite your style, I imagine.”
Monty—Lee Montgomery—appeared out of nowhere. Or at least so it seemed to Nick, whose mind had been focused on his sister.
Forcing a wry grin to rest on his face, Nick glanced around the hotel ballroom, decorated in white and red, with enough flash and gilt to blind a blind man. Even with the short notice, a couple dozen of the Montgomerys’ closest friends had traveled from the East and West Coasts for the wedding, along with Jess’s actress troupe, currently playing in Denver. The women were decked out in lace, satin, silk, and velvet, and men in starched black and white, with stiff collars high enough to cut off a man’s head if he moved too quick. Nick reached up to pull at his own, digging into his neck. “Nothin’ that a bowie knife wouldn’t fix.”
Tall, Montgomery-handsome with green-grey eyes, Monty smirked. “A good tailor can make clothing appear fashionable while sparing the vocal cords.”
“It’d be a helluva lot cheaper not to wear the collars.”
“Which is why I came West. Unfortunately, I didn’t take the bulls into account.”
Nick barked a laugh. “Wasn’t the bull that got you, Monty. It was the horns, and it would’ve let you be if you hadn’t been mooin’.”
“I wouldn’t have been, mooing,” Monty said dryly, “if my employer hadn’t encouraged me to do so.”
Nick grinned as his gaze settled on Miz Montgomery again. “’Spose so,” he said. Now she was flirting with Del Huntington, who was a handsome fella, tall, dark-haired and as nattily dressed as Lee in a form-fitting black tuxedo suit. Huntington was a life-long friend of the Montgomerys’, the son of English nobility and as rich as Midas with all the grand manners to match. The kind of man Ward would choose as a husband for his equally noble-born daughter.
Another reason to steer clear of the woman.
“He’s got a crush on her,” Monty said abruptly. “Del does. He was Star’s first fiancé, but we don’t generally count him because they were only twelve at the time.”
“First fiancé?” Nick asked, turning. “How many has she had?”
“Six, and never intended to marry one of them. She toys with them, rather like a cat with a mouse right before it goes in for the kill. And,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re her next mouse, old man.”
Six? “Yeah, I know, you told me already,” Nick said, muscles tensing. “Married to her woman’s movement and all that. I’m a mite bigger than a mouse, Monty.”
Monty grinned. “True, but . . . you understand, it’s merely that I value your friendship.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Miz Montgomery grab Huntington’s arm and then sink into a chair behind her. Her face turned ghost white. “Damn,” Nick swore and, ignoring caution, strode across the room.
***
For a short spell, Star felt like she’d fallen into one of her nightmares, the ones that had haunted her for months after Minnie’s death. They’d returned of late, nightmares of demons lurking in attics and basements and locked rooms, threatening to break free and come after her. Instead, it had found Bella. A shiver ran down her spine and into her belly.
“What,” Star said, holding tightly to Del’s wrist, “what happened to her?”
“It was an accident, sugar. An overturned coach, returning from a ball one night.”
“An overturned coach? But how—surely a broken arm or—oh no, it’s not possible. She can’t be dead. Del, not—not after Minnie,” she said dropping her hand.
Minnie was Bella’s older sister. After she’d recovered from the pain of Minnie’s death, Bella had been almost insane with rage. Star had done her best to direct that rage into the movement, Horatio Burke’s abuse being outside of legal prosecution. She’d had mixed results—Bella had joined the movement, and her energy and oratory skills had made her something of a rising star. Still, she’d never quite given up on revenge and she’d harangued Burke from time to time.
Del shoved a stray lock of hair from his dark eyes. “It seems rather a lot of misery for one family to suffer. But she is dead, sugar. We went to her funeral.”
“When?” she asked, holding his gaze, only partly aware of two other people moving into place on either side of her. Lee—and Nicholas.
“Two weeks ago. We thought to telegraph you, but decided we ought to deliver such news in person. We didn’t, however, expect to drop such a weight upon Lee’s wedding,” Del said, turning to Lee. “I apologize, old man, we held off as long as we could, but apparently Bella made a bit of a stir out here at a rally she attended last spring. The Rocky Mountain News picked up the story of her death just this morning and I wanted Star to hear the news from a friend instead of reading it.”
“Understood,” Lee said, as Star lifted her head to him.
“You knew,” Star said.
“Del informed me yesterday. I’m sorry, Sis. I know you loved Bella.”
Loved Bella? No. She had respected Bella, however, and the movement could not really afford to lose good speakers. Moreover, Bella was—had been—a Kingston, a name that opened more doors in New York than Montgomery ever would. Still, for all their same interests, she and Bella had never had more than a working relationship. They’d never shared confidences like Star had with Minnie.
As always, recollections of Minnie stabbed at her heart, and then sent guilt, like acid, flowing through her veins, mixing with the shaking in her belly to form nausea.
“Who’s Bella?” Nicholas asked.
Star turned to look at him. Dressed in a borrowed tuxedo suit, the object of her obsession looked as comfortable as a fish out of water. The suit fit poorly—too loose here, too tight there and he’d pulled at the collar so much it was hopelessly wrinkled. Yet he seemed unaware of his disheveled state as he squatted down next to her. He touched her arm briefly and looked into her eyes as if he had every right to care for her, as if he were one of her beaus. Or a knight in shining armor, come to rescue a damsel in distress. Any other man would have irritated her with such a gesture, for she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She despised the wisdom of male superiority that subscribed women as too delicate to stand on their own. From Nicholas, however, the rescue felt . . . different. He’d put himself at eye level and his creased brow told of genuine concern. It wriggled its way into her chest, and then flowed like warm honey over her nerves, vanquishing guilt, easing the shaking.
“Isabella Kingston,” she answered him. “A friend of mine. Del says she died in a coach accident.”
His lovely blue eyes, long lashed and compassionate, held hers without a trace of arrogance. “I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “Can I fetch you a glass of water? Maybe take you outside for some fresh air?”
She managed a smile. “I have some champagne, but something stronger would be more fortifying.”
He nodded and straightened. “Brandy it is, ma’am. Back in a jiff.” He turned and walked through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. Her eyes followed him, enjoying the way he moved—confidence without pretension.
“Brandy?” Del said. “A trifle excessive, isn’t it, Star?”
Nicholas was the only man she’d ever met who thought her strong enough to consume hard liquor. Too strong, perhaps? For all this attention, since they’d returned from Texas his response to her attempts at flirtation had been muted at best. Perhaps her strength and too-tall body repelled him.
What did that ma
tter when Bella was dead?
“Better than whisky, I suppose,” Lee said with a sigh.
It didn’t, not much at any rate, but too much thought in Bella’s direction would bring about sadness and rage, emotions that good manners forbade expressing in public. With a deep breath, she buried the fear, pain and guilt, and focused instead on Nicholas. Flirtation was not only acceptable in social situations, it was expected.
“Ah, he’s returning,” Del said. “If you don’t mind, I should like to join my wife.” The last came our harshly and Star switched her regard from Nicholas to catch Jane, across the room, smiling too brightly at one of Jess’s former acting troupe. “And you, Lee,” Del continued, “might wish to see to your own wife.”
Lee scowled. “She seems well occupied,” he said, his eyes moving from Nicholas, who’d dragged a chair over to Star, to Jess standing next to Jane and laughing with the improbably-blond Michelle Dubois.
“Trust me, old man,” Del said, his voice traced with anger and long-suppressed suffering. “It’s folly to leave your bride alone for too long. Come.”
Nicholas nodded at Lee as he sat down. “Waiter’ll bring back a snifter in just a few minutes. She’s looking a little less peaked now, tho’. Go see to Jess.”
Flashing a warning at Star, Lee joined Del, striding purposefully across the room toward Jane, Jess and her troupe.
***
What the devil was he doing? Nick wondered, as he kept an eye out for the waiter. He barely knew Star—Miz Montgomery. He had no right to come roaring to her rescue. That was Lee and Ward’s duty. Besides, of all the women he’d ever known, Miz Montgomery was the last one who’d ever need rescuing. She could likely take better care of herself than most men could. And to fetch her brandy? What kind of a fool gave a woman brandy?
What kind of a woman drank it?
He did. She did. They’d danced this waltz together at the Bar M. This, though, was in public, not in the privacy of his home. Women ought not to drink hard liquor in public. . .
Too late. The waiter was walking toward them with a full snifter of brandy on a silver tray. Nick turned back to Miz Montgomery and cleared his throat. “Feeling better? Waiter’s almost here.”
She smiled a little and nodded. She was still god-awful pale and his self-reproach hardened into anxiety.
“Sir, the brandy you requested,” the waiter said. Nick dragged his gaze away from Miz Montgomery and rose to take the glass.
“Thanks.”
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“No, that’ll do. Thanks.”
The man stared at him, and then nodded and slowly walked away. Very slowly, as if he’d suddenly developed a leg cramp. Frowning, Nick turned to hand the glass to Miz Montgomery. Her eyes, when she lifted her head to him, looked gold. Not possible. People didn’t have gold eyes. “He was expecting a tip, Nicholas,” she said with a throaty gurgle of amusement.
“A tip? What, for fetching a glass of booze?”
“Why yes, for that.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The waiter had slowed down to a creep. Nick shook his head and focused back on Miz Montgomery. “I thought it was his job.”
“His job is to pass around refreshments. Fetching something especial for someone is beyond his duties. He did it hoping for a little extra compensation.”
Scowling, Nick sat down again. “Well he can just keep hopin’. A man oughta help other people because it’s the right thing to do. Hel—heck if I got paid every time I lent a hand to somebody, I’d be rich.”
“You are rich. You forget, Nicholas, I’ve slept in your house.” She tilted her head to the side and played with her earring, a gesture meant to express guilelessness, but her eyes sparkled with intelligence and she hadn’t a naïve bone in her body. Her gaze was, as always, direct and honest, without so much as a flicker of doubt, making a lie of the gesture—making it wickedly sensual. As did her comment about sleeping in his house, which she damned well knew. It warmed his blood and pretty much all the other interesting areas, too.
Rescue her? Somebody oughta rescue him. Hell, he’d even tip ’em.
“How’s the brandy?” he asked abruptly, wishing he’d gotten himself a glass.
She looked down at the forgotten snifter. “Fortifying.”
She’d only taken a couple sips. It couldn’t have done a thing, not stop her trembling or return the color to her face, or ease her inhibitions enough to accept kissing and canoodling from an uncouth cow—“You’re a touch less peaked.”
“I feel fine, now. Just a trifle shocked, really.” Then the sparkle in her eyes sharpened to pain. She straightened and drew in a breath. “Thank you.”
His lust dimmed, overwhelmed by the urge to take her in his arms and tell her everything was gonna be O.K. Soothe the pain, ease her mourning, or do anything and everything to mend a wounded heart.
I don’t even know her.
But he wanted to know her, against all good sense, and he couldn’t explain it for all the world. Two people could not be more different. “Was she a good friend?” he asked.
“We weren’t particularly friendly,” she said, a frown between her eyebrows. “But we worked well together. In the women’s movement, you understand. We were both reformers.”
“All that voting stuff, right?” Nick asked.
She gave him the ghost of a smile. “We wish for universal suffrage, yes, but it’s about more than that. It’s about ensuring that women have the same rights under the law that men have.”
“O.K.,” he said, although it was too many for him. He figured women mostly did have the same rights, and he never could figure why they cared so much about voting. He voted; it’d never made much difference to him. Not that he really understood why they couldn’t vote, either. The fact of the matter was, it’d never interested him a whole helluva lot.
She smiled. “You don’t sound at all certain of it,” she teased. “Don’t you believe that women deserve the right to vote?”
He turned to run his eyes blindly over the crowd as he calculated how best to answer. And spied Morgan Montgomery and Ward approaching, arms linked. As usual, Ward’s face was implacable, but Morgan was frowning. “Star,” she said, reaching them, “Lee told me that Del delivered the news. I’m sorry, dear.” She had the same deep-throated voice as her daughter, only hers came with an English accent.
Nick had liked Morgan from the moment he met her. Of medium height with reddish hair, she was every bit a lady in truth as well as appearance; her brother was a duke or earl or some such thing. Far from starched-up, though, she had an easy sense of humor and Star’s warm, welcoming manner. Morgan, though, had all the modesty that her daughter lacked. Leastways, she lacked it around him.
“I’m fine, Mother, just a shock.”
“It is as I told you, Morgan,” Ward said. “Nick has the situation well in hand, and you know that Star is not precisely the delicate type.”
Star laughed. “No, Father, I am not.”
Nick glanced at her. For all the gaiety in her voice, an entirely different emotion settled in her eyes. Regret.
“I never thought so, Ward,” Morgan said. “If you’ve recovered, Star, there are some matters I wish to discuss with you. I believe there’s a mix-up in the kitchen.”
Nick fixed on Morgan again. Although she felt badly for her daughter, that wasn’t the cause of the worry lines around her mouth. Morgan hadn’t crossed the room to ease Miz Montgomery’s pain or ask for her help. She’d come to take her away from Nick. No cattleman could be good enough her noble-blooded daughter.
“Why, Mother,” Miz Montgomery said carefully, “I expect you can handle it.”
“I should prefer to do so with your assistance, Star,” she answered, firmly. “After all, you made most of the arrangements.”
Star scowled at her mother. Then with a little sigh, she rose. Nick, suddenly mindful of his manners, did as well. Sonuvabitch, but he should’ve risen as soon as Morgan reached them. He had all gen
tility of a pregnant cow.
“If you insist, then,” Miz Montgomery said. “Nicholas, thank you so much for your assistance. I am much better, now.” She handed him back the brandy. “Perhaps we shall continue our conversation at another time. I should very much like to hear your views on women’s rights.”
He chuckled, which eased the growing tension in his shoulders. “Ma’am, that’d be an awful short conversation. I don’t have much in the way of views.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Why then, I shall most certainly help you to develop some. And my name is Star.”
His gaze flashed briefly over Morgan, who was hooking her arm in Star’s. “Yes ma’am. Reckon I know that.”
She tilted her head, speculation entering her eyes. “So you do. Perhaps someday you’ll employ it?”
“Not likely. I know my manners.”
“Do you? I suppose that is something I must discover for myself,” she said, and walked away with a swish of her hips—and guilty anticipation galloping in his chest.
CHAPTER FIVE
I would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction.
Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer; his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift.
Ibid
Bar M, One week later
Scanning the board, Nick calculated checkmate in three moves. Against him, fourth time that night. Miz Montgomery had proven to be a mighty fine chess player.
“So how shall we entertain the Montgomerys, Jim, now that Lee, Jess and the Winchesters are gone?” Melinda asked, walking into the parlor after putting the kids to bed. She seated herself on the sofa next to Jim, pulling his arm around her shoulders. Along with Ward and Morgan, the six of them had settled in Melinda’s richly decorated parlor, with its gold-scrolled wallpaper and crimson upholstered furniture. A coal stove heated the room.