Felicia Andrews
Page 17
"Little Cat thinks I'm an invalid. Being midway to forty gives me the right to spend the rest of my life in a rocking chair on the porch. So he thinks."
Sam grunted.
"Besides, I had things to think about. I can't think when everybody is fussing over me. " She twitched the reins in her hand, and the mare started, taking several paces forward before Sam grabbed her bridle.
"You should sleep. "
She shook her head. "I . . . I can't."
"Little Cat spoke to me this night of the girl, Hope. "
She nodded.
"It is a good thing, I think. "
Again she nodded.
"You will come home now. "
She did not move. He walked to the front wheel and grabbed hold of the brake staff , hauled himself onto the plank seat, and took the reins gently from her hands. Then he clucked to the mare and led her in a tight circle. There was no need for further direction, the mare knew what was expected of her and she moved quickly down the road.
"Sam?" Her voice rose in the dark air, sounding very much like the child she had borne, the child she had named after Elizabeth Loutreau.
He glanced at her, his chiseled features swept with shadows growing from the black ebony forest around them.
"He's going to be married, Sam," she said, her hands twisting mindlessly in her lap. "That woman, Carla Menoz, told me tonight. He didn't even have the courage to tell me himself. She had to do it, and she loved every second of it."
Her fingers clenched into hapless fists and she pounded her lap monotonously. "Every second, knowing what there is . . .was between us. She gloated, Sam. She actually gloated. "
" I know her," he said. " I have seen her," he amended.
"I don't like her. "
He did not respond.
She stared at the passing scenery, noting that the stone wall that rose on the left marked the beginning of the Circle B' s property. "I mean, there's something about her that I don't trust. And it's crazy, Sam, because she hasn't given me any reason not to trust her. We don't have any business with each other, I've never eaten in Daniels's when she was there . . .It's crazy. "
"You read her," he said.
She considered. "Maybe. But I'm not very good at that, even after all this time . " She uttered a short, not quite bitter laugh. "Some I can read very well. Others, though . . . it's like they're flowers that close when I look at them. I know what they are, but I can't tell their color."
They rode on, and when she felt the streaks of moisture staining her cheeks, she admitted to herself at last the pain Carla had caused her.
"I . . . " She flung a handful of hair back over her shoulder. "I want to help him. But he's just as bad as you are, you know. He's got so much pride it would choke a horse. If I said something to him, he'd only get mad. He'd think I was jealous. "
"And you do not care," he said.
She glanced at him sharply, wondering if the sarcasm in his tone was real or imagined. She did not think Sam was capable of such a white man's attitude, yet the statement lingered in front of her like a noxious cloud. And no matter how hard she tried, she could not wave it away.
"No," she said.
The resulting silence, deafening in its implications, lasted until Sam whistled a command and the mare turned in at the gate. They passed the house without incident, stopping at the corral where Sam jumped lightly from the seat and reached out a hand to guide Amanda to the ground. She held it once she was down and stared through the near-total darkness at his eyes.
"Sam, am I really as stubborn as Little Cat says?"
He touched a finger to her chest, then pointed at his own. ''There are wounds," he said . .. The blood stops and the flesh covers over, but the wounds are there. You are not stubborn. You are afraid. "
She almost believed him, because believing would make her course of action clear-a swallowing of pride and a running to Doug to give him what she knew, without speaking, he really wanted. But the idea that she was prone to such a common weakness as fear, fear that he would not take her now that he had Carla, was on the face of it ridiculous. She had faced too many tribulations in her lifetime, had been disappointed too many times without dying, to think that she was no better than other women in this regard. She had proved the contrary too often. Sam, for once, was wrong.
That night she slept fitfully.
At dawn she rose with a head that felt as though it had been crammed with cotton. Standing at the window that looked over the back, she watched Sam and Alexander bringing grain and water to the horses and saw Abe Bums, the farrier, striding from one of the distant barns with a large iron pincher in his left hand. Storm pranced around the corral. Wind stood calmly in a far comer and stretched his neck for a taste of willow leaves.
She felt disappointed, then, though she did not really know what to expect. Ranch life continued without a sign that her son was about to leave her, that she herself had driven her mind into a maze of confusion, that the month was already halfway over and still she had not heard a word from Trevor.
She stretched, sighed loudly, and dressed as slowly as she could. Then she made her way down the paneled corridor to the front, crossed the living room, and walked into the kitchen where Fae had already set a place for her at the table.
"Alexander told me," the thin woman said, her bloodless lips quivering in a smile. "I suppose that means I got to get ready for a party. "
In spite of her mood Amanda grinned. "Not for a week or so, Fae. I have to get used to the idea first. "
Fae chuckled and stood at the great, black iron stove, feeding it kindling to keep the cooking fire working. "You goin' to town?"
The coffee was warm, the biscuits streaming with fresh melted butter. Bacon spattered in a skillet, eggs snapped in its center.
"I thought about it. Got to see Mr. Ryan sooner or later. "
"Shifty man, h e is," Fae judged as she slid the breakfast onto a warming platter. "Don't trust anyone from the East. Especially bankers. "
"He's a good man," she said. "Not very imaginative, but he knows his money. "
"You goin' to sell?''
Amanda glanced at her with a half smile. What the woman was doing was fishing for gossip, and Amanda wondered just how much of what she planned she should mention. None of it had occurred to her the night before; it had come while she had watched her son and Sam working, full-blown, as though it were an inspiration instead of the culmination of several months half thinking.
"No," she said then, around a forkful of bacon. "I want to see how I got about ceding the western reach to Alex and Hope. "
Fae' s eyebrows, as shot through with gray as her tightly bunned hair, rose quickly. "Really?''
"Really."
"That's mighty generous of you."
"He's my son."
And she said the same to Ryan when she took the large leather chair he offered her in his office. He was tall, his dark hair slightly curled and never quite set into place. He looked, she thought, as if he had just come out of a moderately strong wind. And despite the fact that he had been in Goreville for just over five years, he still affected Eastern dress whenever he could-which was often. The snug pinstriped suit, the contrasting dark waistcoat with a gold watch chain, delicately linked, the fluffy tie that always seemed ready to come undone, and the stiff cuffs and collar that she was positive were cutting into his skin; a penance, she thought wryly, for his abandoning his New York home for the wilds of the untamed, and lucrative, West.
"How many acres?" His voice was moderate, seldom rising to anything louder than a stage whisper.
"It's all there," she said, pointing at the papers she had dropped on his desk. "I just want you to make the arrangements. "
Ryan, in addition to being the major banker in town, was also the lawyer for Four Aces and most of the other ranchers. There had been, to this point, no charges of conflict of interest, and Amanda had never a cause to doubt his honesty, only the glances he kept shooting at her chest.
She nodded and was about to leave when a clearing of his throat made her take her seat again.
"Mrs. Munroe, I . . . it seems that, in light of this instruction, I'd better tell you that you've had a rather generous offer fOr that rangeland of yours."
"Is that so? Well, obviously, Mr. Ryan, I'm not going to sell it now. "
"Oh . " His disappointment was comical, and she looked quickly to the wall of bookcases fronted in leaded glass. "Well, then I'd better tell Mr. Wilder-"
"Wilder?" Her attention sharpened. "Ephraim Wilder?''
"You know him, Mrs. Munroe?"
She shook her head, leaned back in the chair, and crossed her legs. For a moment she was sorry she had not worn a dress, because the look Ryan gave her then was one of absolute and lustful longing. She smiled softly, holding her breath to keep from laughing when he returned her smile with one of his own. Obviously meant to be seductive, it managed only to appear as if he were suffering from stomach wind.
''I've heard of him," she said then. "Apparently he's interested in buying land around here."
"Indeed," Ryan said, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. "He's already made a substantial-well, perhaps I oughtn't tell you this . . . but since you're such a good customer, and friend, I suppose there's no harm in it-he's made a substantial sealed offer for the Longstreet ranch."
Poor Harley, she thought instantly.
"Is he a rancher?"
Ryan shrugged. "To hear him talk, no. I think he just wants to get away from things. I expect he'll want to keep the present management and just . . . " He shrugged. "I guess just live there. I don't know. " And he shook his head to mark his lack of understanding the mind of a man who would buy land and then just sit there.
Amanda rose and offered her hand, drew it back before Ryan had a chance to find his courage, and walked with him through the lobby recently refurbished in cool white marble. The tellers ignored them, the guard tipped his cap and opened the front glass door. Ryan again shook her hand, and as she walked down the street toward the center of town, she could feel his eyes stroking her back.
Amanda, she thought, one of these days you're going to get yourself in real trouble.
Across the street she saw Doug's office and studiously avoided looking at it, staring instead at the multicolored glass windows of the Wooden Dollar until she had passed it. Then, not really wanting to head back to Four Aces right away, she stepped off the boardwalk into the street and made her way toward the broad avenue that led directly toward the depot. Manley's office was here, and she considered stopping in to pass some time when, quite without warning, she had to leap to one side to avoid being run down by the Cheyenne stage. It plummeted around the corner in a swirl of pale yellow dust, its horses snorting loudly with the effort, its rider shouting encouragement as it swept past the saloons and headed for the open road beyond town.
Amanda leaned against a nearby hitching post with one hand to her throat. She did not know where her mind had been, but she had never been quite that stupid before. When she saw several men and women staring at her, uncertain whether to ask after her condition, she smiled sheepishly at them and returned to the walk, striding as purposefully as she could past the greengrocers, the dress shop, the hardware and feed store. She crossed an alley mouth and stood in front of a single low building that housed, with particular gilt-lettered flourish, Amos Trowbridge's newspaper.
Again she considered stopping in for a chat, and again she changed her mind. She was restless.
There were any number of people she could have talked to that morning, aside from Ryan with his slightly condescending leers, but something cautioned her against it. Perhaps, she thought, it would be the inevitable gossip concerning her son. Though he and Hope had told only her last night, the word was already out and, if she knew Fae, all of Coreville was already in anticipation of Amanda's acknowledging what was surely an open secret.
And that would lead to talk of her and Douglas-or talk of Douglas and Carla Menoz.
She felt the warmth of the cloud-shrouded sun crawl over her back and hoped that the flush she felt on her cheeks was born of the same source. It had to be. There was nothing to be embarrassed about. And there was nothing to be ashamed of. After all, hadn't she told herself at least a hundred times that Mitchell was his own man and she had no claims on him?
True, she thought . . . and she almost believed it.
A moment later she found herself standing under the low slanting roof that covered the depot's platform. Behind her stood the tiny red brick building newly washed down, its window frames painted a blinding stark white. The panes had been cleaned, the platform swept, and the last time she remembered this happening was when the army had deactivated nearby Fort King, and its commander, Major Pautz, had left with a fanfare usually reserved for visiting governors and assistants to Presidents.
At the platform's far end was a pile of luggage waiting for pickup from the last train's departure. She wandered slowly toward it, then turned abruptly and stepped into the cool dimness of the waiting room. On the right was a barred door, and beside it a caged window behind which the stationmaster sold his tickets. There was a line there now, two men and two women, and she only glanced at them casually as she walked toward the rear door.
"Amanda?"
Her hesitation was almost too brief to notice. She spun around with eyes wide and mouth open.
"I was going to ask the master about directions," said Trevor Eagleton, "but I guess that's rather redundant now, isn't it?"
FIFTEEN
Confusion and delight vied equally for dominance as Trevor carefully placed a large, ornate carpetbag onto the floor and strode toward her eagerly. There was, of course, the unalterable delight at seeing him at last, after all these weeks of silent promises and not-so-silent dreams; and the confusion arose because the shock of seeing him without warning came close on the heels of reeling with a way to greet him without causing what she knew would be a major scandal.
As a result of this conflict, then, she simply stood there, grinning like a fool and watching as he stood in front of her, his smile flashing and his eyes roaming over her features hungrily, almost possessively. He put his hands on her arms and leaned down to kiss her cheek soundly, and when she hugged him in return, she thought she would never be able to release him. His physical presence was as overwhelming as she remembered, and the warm odors rising from his clothes told her of the miles he'd spent on the train, the heat he suffered, the rest he needed.
"Amanda," he said softly, making her aware of the others in the station house, "are you all right? Do you want to sit down?"
She shook her head quickly and stood back to get a better look at him. He wore a black frock coat, white ruffled shirt, black trousers, and highly polished boots, all covered with a light film of traveling dust. His hair was matted at its ends with perspiration, and his deep gray hat pushed high on his forehead gave his face a curious, open, and friendly look. He was not wearing a gun.
"I don't believe it," she said at last.
Puzzled, he looked down at his clothes. "What's the matter? Did I forget something?"
She laughed, then, clear and high, and grabbed for his hands which she held tightly, shaking them and her head. "No," she said. "No, you look . . . you look perfect. "
"Not quite," h e said, drawing her close again. "Perfect is what I'll feel only after I have a bath, a meal, and about ten hours straight sleep. " He took back his hands and placed them on the small of his back. "God, Amanda, does this place always get the worst trains? I feel like I've been riding on a sack of rocks for a year. "
She saw immediately the strain in his face, the small lines that formed tiny ridges at the comers of his eyes, and she clucked like a mother hen as she reached down for his bag.
"No," he said quickly
and snatched it from her grip. "I can carry my own things, Amanda. Just take me on the tour, if you don't mind. "
Her mind spinning, her tongue corkscrewed in its battle to sort out the words, she fastened her fingers around his left elbow and led him from the station, oblivious to the stares that followed her, seeing only the one face she knew would be able to sort out the turmoil her emotions had suffered. And the only cloud that marred her deep pleasure was his outright and uncompromising refusal to accept a room at Four Aces.
"Amanda, " he said as they turned left at the end of the platform and headed up the avenue toward the T-intersection with Main Street, "as much as I fairly tremble with the idea of being that close to you, you know as well as I that such an arrangement would be . . . shall we say extraordinary kindling for the fires of your friends' tongues?"