Running Wild

by Denise Eagan

  Not just pretty, she told herself, but prettier than everyone else. Since he had no knowledge of which women would attend the tea, he really thought her prettier than all the women in Newport. Could he, she wondered with a leap of her heart, be falling in love with her at last? Oh, but what good could come of that, when he would, by and by, return to Colorado?

  It might make him open to seduction: hot, wild memories to sustain her after the bitterness of his departure.

  She didn’t recover her poise until she’d seated herself. Only through force of habit was she able to make the proper introductions and exchange pleasantries.

  Presently, the Thompson’s servants brought in the tea trays. The men began to rise to retrieve refreshments for the women, except for Nicholas, dressed in his midnight blue checked suit and seated on a red satin upholstered chair next to her. Gold painted, with delicately scrolled arms, the chair contrasted sharply with Nicholas’s hard-muscled form. Weeks into his stay, he was still all pine-and-gunpowder, lurking danger and hidden strength. While the other men sat in their chairs easily, he seemed uncomfortable, for the furniture was distinctly feminine and Nicholas was all male.

  She leaned toward him. “Nicholas,” she said in a low voice, “you’re expected to bring me refreshments.”

  He lifted his eyebrows in challenge. “Why? You too weak to fetch them yourself?”

  Biting her lip, she restrained a laugh. “It’s a courtesy.”

  His eyes gleamed. “That so? Out West women wait on men.”

  “Perhaps so, but you are in civilized company, now.”

  His lips twitched. “Well, ma’am, if this is the way civilization is heading, reckon I’m buildin’ myself a machine to take me back in time.”

  Her smothered laughter erupted as an undignified giggle. Nicholas grinned, drawing a little flutter from her heart. On her left, she felt Samantha Peabody’s shoulders shake, as she did a poor job of feigning interest in Julia Kirk’s conversation.

  “Why, what a reprehensible thing to say to a reformer!” Star scolded. “I confess, however, that I cannot wholly blame you, for what oppressor has ever given up his victims without a fight? At any event, you have no such machine here. When in Rome one must do as the Romans do.”

  “Now, ma’am,” Nicholas said, rising, his eyes sparkling, “that’s just not playin’ fair. You know I can’t resist literature. So what can I fetch you?”

  She smiled up at him. “A cup of tea would be divine, and whatever pastry strikes your fancy.”

  “Sure thing,” he said and crossed the room to the sideboard.

  As soon as he was out of hearing, Samantha and Julia turned to her, both grinning. “He’s very stubborn, isn’t he?” Samantha asked.

  Star nodded. “And quite certain that our customs are absurd.”

  “Oh,” Julia exclaimed, leaning forward, “but he is ever so handsome.”

  “I suppose so,” Samantha replied, eyeing Nicholas speculatively as he reached the sideboard. “He’s well-mannered too. One wouldn’t expect it of a rancher. I should have thought him coarse.”

  Star watched as Nicholas surveyed the assortment of pastries, a perplexed expression on his face. He leaned toward Jasper Gardner and uttered a low-voiced comment. Jasper’s shoulders shook, and he almost dropped the load of plates and cups he was attempting to balance.

  “Not coarse,” Star replied slowly, for she disliked the predatory interest in Samantha’s voice. “But rough.”

  “And rich?” Julia asked a trifle breathlessly.

  Nicholas started moving things around at the sideboard. Oh, he was taking one of the trays! Star clenched her jaw against the laughter threatening to burst forth. Smart man!

  “Why as to that, Julia,” she said turning to them, for if she continued watching Nicholas, she would lose control over her composure. “I know nothing about his bank or stock accounts, but his ranch is large, as is his house.” With, she thought, a huge stone fireplace, leather-upholstered furniture and his office, lined with leather bound books, all smelling quintessentially male. She missed it, she thought as a sudden wave of longing passed over her. Missed the quiet, periodically interrupted by the laughter of children, the comfort of those chairs and that fire on a cold winter’s day. “It’s constructed of logs, mind you,” she added, “but possesses enough modern amenities as not to feel too primitive.”

  “Oh,” Julia said disappointed as Simon Price, balancing two plates, approached them. “Do you suppose he would require his wife to move to Colorado? Now that he’s seen us, surely he would not wish to live in The Wilderness.”

  Wife? Nicholas had never displayed any more interest in marriage than she. “True,” she answered, “he’s enjoying himself here, but I’m quite certain that Mr. McGraw prefers his home.” Actually, he’d shown less interest in marriage than she, for at thirty-five Nicholas had never once been engaged, which ought not to disturb her, but did nonetheless.

  “Ladies, I trust I’ve provided well enough for your sweet tooths,” Simon said, passing plates to Samantha and Julia.

  On the other side of her Nicholas placed his tray on a marble-topped table situated between the sofa and his chair. On the tray were cups filled with tea, sugar, an additional cup of cream and one of sugar cubes, along with four plates positively loaded with pastries. Nicholas knew full well the impropriety of taking so much, but he didn’t seem to care. “There,” he said triumphantly. “Couldn’t figure which you’d want so I brought you and me two of everything. Decided you’d best fix the tea, though.”

  “Why, that is a fair enough trade. How do you take it?”

  “Don’t know, never had tea,” he said, seating himself.

  She arched an eyebrow, swallowing several times to control a laugh. “Never? Doesn’t Melinda drink it?”

  “She does, but I’m for the java.”

  “Well then, how do you like your ‘java’?”

  “Black as sin and thick as mud.”

  “Mud?” Hannah asked, as she sat down on the sofa across from them, next to Jasper, who offered her a plate. “I do hope my tea is better than that.”

  Nick flashed her a smile. “I’m sure your tea’s just fine, ma’am. Why don’t you fix mine for like yours, Miz Montgomery.”

  She obliged him and handed him a cup. He took a sip. When he made no comment, she asked, “Well, how is it?”

  “Not sure. How’s it supposed to taste?”

  “Well, not like mud.”

  “No ma’am. It’s a lot weaker than mud.”

  Jasper guffawed as Hannah let out a peal of laughter. “Mr. McGraw,” Jasper said, “you are certainly a breath of fresh air. Not much of a tea man myself, but I doubt I’d like coffee that’s as thick as mud.”

  Nick grinned back at him. “No, sir, most wouldn’t until they’ve been on a cattle drive. Kinda get used to it then and after that you get to liking it.”

  “A cattle drive,” Hannah said breathlessly. “You mean you’ve actually lassoed cows and branded them?”

  “Yes’m. Not on a drive, though. At that point a body’s mostly just trying to move ’em slow enough so they don’t lose too much fat, but fast enough to beat other ranchers to market and get the best price per head.”

  “Indeed?” Jasper asked. “Have you been to Dodge City, then?”

  “Sure, a few times—” Nicholas said. For several minutes, he answered Hannah and Jasper’s questions about The Wild West. As always, he started by telling it honestly, but they would have none of it. Soon enough he was spinning wildly improbable yarns and, smiling, Star turned her attention back to Julia, Samantha and Simon.

  “It was a most elegant party, as one always expects of the Astors,” Julia was saying.

  Star suppressed a yawn. Caroline Astor’s parties were quite elegant. And dull as dirt.

  “But a bit sad, I should suppose,” Simon replied.

  “Why yes, of course,” Julia said with a feigned sigh. Julia was a social climber and cared nothing for sentiment oth
er than to express that which Society expected.

  “Sad? Why?” Samantha asked, finishing a bite of pound cake and taking a genteel sip of tea. To wash down the cake, Star assumed with a twitch of her lips. It was rather dry, the Thompsons being known for strict adherence to custom and tradition, not for their choice of cooks.

  “Due to the fact that the Kingstons were not in attendance, of course,” Julia said.

  Star’s muscles tensed as Minnie’s face flashed across her mind. “How unusual,” Star said. “The Kingstons never miss an Astor party.” The New York City branch of the family at any rate. Minnie’s family, though, lived further up the Hudson—

  “Why, they couldn’t attend, could they? Not after The Announcement. They’ve all, the whole family, removed themselves from Society for several weeks. It’s only to be expected, what with words like Murder linked to their name.”

  Murder? Star’s skin prickled as sleepy nerves jumped to horrified attention.

  “Murder?” Samantha asked, lowering her voice. “Oh my, I have heard nothing of that! Was someone killed?”

  Oh no, not again. Not another death in that family—

  “Not precisely,” Simon replied. “For Isabella was already dead.”

  “Isabella?” Star blurt out. Her throat closed up. It wasn’t possible—

  Did it matter how she died?

  Star started to shake. Oh God, oh God, oh God!

  “Yes,” Julia answered. “You must know that Edwin has not recovered from his daughter’s death. He’s insisted these last months that Isabella did not die in that accident. Until now everyone thought him mad with grief.”

  Samantha glanced at Star, then turned away as if noticing nothing, which was scarcely possible. Star’s face felt frozen and drained of blood. Samantha’s hand crept silently across the sofa to take hers in a light squeeze. Star blinked back tears. She and Samantha had been archrivals since childhood. They heartily disliked each other, yet shared a bond that few understood.

  “Not so mad in the end,” Simon was saying. His countenance reflected calm detachment, but when his eyes met hers briefly, she fancied she spied hidden compassion in them. He would know of her attachment to Bella, as much as he was in Jane’s company these days.

  “No,” Julia said, face alight with the joy of gossip, “for he persuaded the coroner to conduct an autopsy and what should they discover but arsenic!”

  “Arsenic?” Star said, her voice sounding unnaturally calm. Samantha gave her hand another squeeze before releasing it.

  “Yes! It appears she was poisoned! But by whom one can only guess.”

  “Horatio Burke.” The words emerged from Star’s mouth, bypassing conscious thought. Julia’s eyes widened, warning Star of her mistake. She oughtn’t to have said it; such comments only fueled the gossip. She was shocked and hurt, however, and could barely think. She ought to leave, escape before she made matters worse. . .

  “That,” Simon replied, “was precisely what Edwin said.”

  “One must make exceptions however to that, for Edwin has always hated Horatio,” Julia said.

  “Not in the beginning,” Star replied softly. “He hated losing Minnie at so young an age, but felt the match was a good one.” Isabella had hated Horatio as well, and her work in the movement, wonderful thought it was, had always been tinged with revenge. She’d made many harsh and very public comments on his character over the years, partly, she asserted, to warn women against him. No doubt Horatio, who remained unmarried, hated that.

  “Why, so he did,” Julia replied slowly. “As I now recall, when—”

  “Miz Montgomery?” Nicholas interrupted

  Star looked up. Nicholas stood above her, his face grim.

  “Yes?”

  “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ve got an appointment with Lee in half an hour. Forgot to mention it earlier.”

  He was lying. He’d agreed to accompany her after tea for the daily afternoon promenade down Bellevue Avenue. “Why, that is very bad of you, Nicholas. I suppose it is unalterable?”

  “Sailing ma’am. Supposed to meet at the dock. Reckon he’s on his way, so we can’t even telephone him.”

  Nicholas hated sailing. She’s taken him on The Princess once, and he’d been seasick before they’d made it out of the bay. His dislike of swimming only made it less appealing.

  Star rose shakily and managed a sigh of well-feigned disgust. “Julia, Samantha, Mr. Price, I shall take my leave of you. As always, it has been a pleasure. Julia, I meant to express my admiration for your new hairstyle. You must tell me. . . .”

  It took a quarter of an hour before they’d made their excuses and were in the carriage on the way home. After several minutes of silence, Nicholas ventured hesitantly, “You O.K.?”

  Her mind whirled with unanswered questions and painful recollection. “I shall be in time. You heard about Bella, then?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry for it, if that’s any help.”

  She stared out the window and bit her lip to hold back tears as a pounding headache formed. “It is, some. Thank you for helping me escape. Much more . . .” Her voice trailed off as she tried to swallow a sob. Images of Minnie surfaced, of her silly joyful laugh before Horatio. Of the changes her death had wrought upon her once-dreamy little sister—the bitterness and anger and fierce determination in Bella’s eyes, and the look of pain and fear in her father’s eyes. He’d lost both—

  “Here,” Nicholas said, handing her a handkerchief. Sucking in a breath, she took it and pressed it to her eyes to stem the flow. Impossible. Another sob lodged in her throat, tried to break free, and came out in a gasping whimper.

  “Hey . . . hey.” He put an arm around her: gentle, reassuring. It broke her. She turned into him and buried her face in his chest. His other arm circled her, pulling her close. “O.K.,” he murmured over her head, as she sobbed out months, years, of sorrow and guilt and terrible, terrible loss. “O.K., O.K..”

  She missed Minnie so much. Missed the laughter and the silliness and a time when the world made sense, and their lives stretched out in front of them full of excitement and possibility. When boys were for fun and flirting, and perhaps for future husbands but were never the enemy. Missed when Bella was just an annoying little sister who kept interrupting secret conversations that weren’t about any secrets worth keeping. When admirers were real and didn’t hide behind letters and old, marked Bibles and cut-up clothes . . . As Nicholas’s broad chest and strong arms protected her from the world outside the carriage, she let it all go, in wracking sobs and torrential tears, soaking his waistcoat and shirt.

  The carriage halted; the door opened. His arms tightened around her as she tried to stop sobbing.

  “Sir?” Gus asked. “Miss Star?”

  “Thirty more minutes,” Nicholas said over her head. “Along the shore. Now.”

  His voice rumbled against one ear and rolled past the other: impatient, demanding. So unusual for her easygoing cowboy. The door closed. As the carriage started forward, the smell of pine and leather and gun smoke wafted under her nose, flowed through her body, and settled over her ragged nerves. Her tears started to subside. Marvelous, cleansing smell . . . strong arms, hard powerful chest. Protection without restriction, comfort without domination, what a man should be to a woman.

  What Horatio should have been to Minnie. The kind of man Isabella ought to have sought out, instead of seeking vengeance, instead of seeking murder. . .

  She started sobbing again.

  “Star . . . honey,” Nicholas murmured in a harsh voice. He took a breath, and pulled her tighter. “O.K. O.K., you go ahead and cry it out. God knows you deserve it.”

  His words brought the sobs harder, faster, but for a shorter time. At last the anguish eased and his arms relaxed. For a time, she just sat there quietly, listening to the beat of his heart, the roll of the carriage and the crash of the breakers in the distance. Nicholas’s scent mixed with warm salty air.

  Presently the carriage came t
o a halt. Opening her eyes, she saw the house. She sat up. Nicholas held her gaze, those deep blue depths hiding more knowledge and kindness than most could imagine. “Better?”

  She nodded and gave her eyes a quick wipe with his handkerchief, before holding it out. “Yes, thank you.”

  He flashed her a lopsided smile. “No, ma’am, you keep it, leastways ’til it dries. Don’t got no need for a wet kerchief,” he drawled.

  His thick cowboy twang tickled her weary heart and she bestowed a small smile upon him. “I’ll have it washed.”

  “You do that. See you in a bit for the drive?”

  The drive, Nicholas’s phrasing for the promenade, another aspect of their culture that he engaged in, but deemed ridiculous.

  “No, I think I’ll skip it today.” And the curious looks passing over her, most knowing of her association with Bella. “You’ll make my excuses, won’t you?”

  He hesitated, then nodded solemnly. “Sure thing, just as pretty as you please, too.”

  ***

  The cold morning sand slid through Star’s bare toes as she crossed the beach to the oceanfront. After carefully stepping over the line of seaweed, she settled down upon the hard wet sand of the lower beach, mindless of her gown. Her eyes found the horizon. It was early yet for sunrise, but a lightening of the sky told where the sun would appear. Soon its rays would paint the clouds pink, then red, and at last spread gold along the thin line between sky and water.

  Drawing a deep breath, she filled her lungs with ocean air. Best to visit the beach in the morning before the sun made the sand too hot to walk on. She loved the night as well, but when one was alone, the balmy evening air held a hint of wistfulness, as if mourning the absence of companionship. Morning, though, was all promise, pregnant with the potential of a new day.

  Especially after a long night haunted by demon-related nightmares.

  Star dropped her gaze from the horizon to the ocean waves, curling then crashing, white over blue, before rolling along the sand toward her. The clear water, veined with foam, playfully threatened her toes. She scooted closer and wiggled them in a silent taunt—