Wildblossom

by Wright, Cynthia

  * * *

  "What a magnificent evening it's been, don't you agree, Sandhurst?"

  Geoff could scarcely hear his friend, Sir Charles Lipton-Lyons, above the din at the Cafe Royal. The after-theater crowd was lively, fueled by champagne and flirtations. Geoff and Charles were not alone, but their female companions had gone off to the powder room and seemed to have gotten lost.

  For his own part, he wished he were home in bed, but since that was not an option, he drained a glass of champagne and signaled the waiter for yet another bottle.

  "Honestly, Charles, I am mystified by your standards for amusement. What, exactly, has happened this evening to inspire an adjective like 'magnificent'?"

  Lipton-Lyons, a stocky, pink-cheeked young man with a mustache that curled up at the ends, whacked Sandhurst on the shoulder. "Egad but you are sardonic, old chap! Cheer up! What's happened to sink you this much further into your mire of disaffection?"

  "You ought not ask." A small, grudging smile worked at Geoff's mouth.

  Charles was one of the few people he actually liked and trusted, for they had known each other since Oxford and had made their grand tour of Europe together, extending it to a three-year revel that nearly ended with the two of them marrying sisters on an island off the coast of Spain. Geoff valued their friendship, even though they had recently passed into their thirties and ought to be drifting apart.

  "Very well, I'll tell you." His eyes hardened as he stared off into the distance. "My dear mother informed me this morning that I've run out of reprieves. She and Father mean to announce tomorrow that their son—that's me, I fear—is betrothed to Lady Clementine Beech. I don't need to remind you that this marriage has been planned for me since the day of Clemmie's birth, when I was nine years old. You'd think that such wheezy traditions as arranged marriages would be extinct by now, wouldn't you? Probably are, except for this one. My esteemed father, the duke, insists that the Westons and the Beeches have been longing to join their massive land holdings in Yorkshire for eons, but there was never a suitable match until now...."

  Charles Lipton-Lyons had drawn his gilt chair next to Geoff's and turned his ear close enough to make out his friend's speech over the clamor that filled the Cafe Royal. Charles's brain was quite fuzzy from consuming too much champagne too quickly, but most of what Geoff was saying was hardly news.

  They had first spoken of this unofficial betrothal one long ago night when they'd drunk too much ale at The Bear in Oxford. Since Charles's parents were relentlessly modern, he'd found it hard to imagine such a situation could be serious.

  He knew Clementine. She was a definite English type—raised on horseback and looking rather like a well-bred mare herself: angular, toothy, and cursed with straight hair unsuited to the upswept Gibson Girl style that was all the rage.

  "Clemmie's a good sort," Charles offered now. "And it's not as if you're prone to falling in love in any case... You could leave Lady Clem in the country with her horses."

  "Someone would have to get Clemmie with child, and logic dictates that it would have to be me, though I really cannot imagine..." Geoff's tone was chilly, then bemused as he turned his expressive brown eyes to meet Charles's.

  "I could get you a riding crop to pack for your honeymoon. It might be just the thing."

  He arched an eyebrow and gave him a dark look. "Don't misunderstand, though, I do see the sense in it. Father and I may not be close, but I'm aware that his health is failing, and I am not so selfish that I wouldn't like to please him. And, as you pointed out, I don't care much for love, so why not have a marriage of convenience? I could go on dallying with actresses and we'd live separate lives..."

  Nodding slowly, Charles waited for the other shoe to drop. "There certainly are positive aspects, no doubt about it...."

  "Oh, shut up, coward. Such a life only sounds tolerable because because I'm bored to the back teeth with my present existence. What would it matter?" He gave a harsh sigh. "Still, I'd like one last fling before I do the manly thing before half of London in Westminster Abbey." Geoff gazed into the distance, thinking. "I find myself longing for a great adventure."

  "I take it you aren't referring to a few months spent immersed in debauchery, carrying a bottle and gambling wildly and keeping at least one woman in your bed at all times."

  "Didn't we wallow in that trough a decade ago, old boy? No, I mean a creative adventure. Perhaps I ought to go and live among the bedouins or sail off to Tahiti like Paul Gauguin."

  "Paul who?"

  "Never mind. D'you think I might have a talent for art? My ancestor, the one I resemble, was quite an accomplished painter."

  "I've a notion that you're drunk, Geoff," Charles decided, "but so am I. What about Wyoming?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Wy-o-ming," he enunciated. "It's a state in the western region of America."

  "Whatever possessed you to mention it?"

  "You said you wanted an original adventure, and I just happened to speak to my cousin, Trevor. He's friendly with Buffalo Bill Cody." Warming to the subject, Charles picked up the bottle of champagne just delivered by the waiter, got to his feet and cried, "Come on, then. Let's go outside and walk and discuss this subject properly. Those bits of fluff don't care for us!"

  Geoff stubbed out his cigar, rose, and linked arms with his friend. "Lead on to Wyoming!"

  Swaying slightly, they wove through the crush of tables, emerged onto foggy Glasshouse Street and leaned against a street lamp. Charles took a swig of cold champagne.

  "Now then, about Wyoming. Sandhurst, you surely haven't forgotten the performance of Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show that we attended in our youth—at age sixteen, I'd imagine. Remember? An amazing experience! I had such dreams of seeing the real West for myself one day—if it still exists."

  "Well, it's hardly a new concept, Charles. British greenhorns, or whatever they call us, have been stumbling about the West since the Indian wars ended." He pulled his friend upright and started off in the general direction of Lipton-Lyons's lodgings. "What about your cousin? Is he going there?"

  "No. Well, perhaps. But he had dinner with Cody himself when he was in New York last autumn. Cody's fortunes have improved so much that he now has his own town! My cousin was quite caught up in Cody's description of the place. You know—he's trying to persuade people to move there, or at least visit. Seems that the town is attracting a colorful assortment of citizens!"

  "What do they call it?"

  "Call it? Why, Cody, of course! The scenery, according to the old showman himself, is spectacular beyond belief. The town is growing, Buffalo Bill is constructing a hotel this year, and one can have a nearby ranch and spend one's days on horseback or fishing and generally enjoy paradise."

  Suddenly Geoff stopped on the walkway and gripped his friend's arms, his handsome features illumined by the fog-shrouded street lamp. "Let's go there."

  Charles could only goggle in response.

  "I mean it! What is life for, if not to seize adventure? I have a confession to make—I do remember attending the Wild West Show. Vividly. Afterward, there was a party for Cody and the stars of the show, and my family attended. Annie Oakley was there, and that fearsome Chief Red Shirt, and we were invited to visit the Indian village and the stables...." For a moment the Marquess of Sandhurst looked almost boyish. "The sort of life they portray in that show is hugely appealing. What a sense of freedom one could enjoy! No one would care what you were wearing or what you owned or whether you were producing an heir!" Filled with an enthusiasm he hadn't felt for years, Geoff talked on until they reached Mount Street and the steps leading to Charles's stylish flat. Again Geoff grasped his friend's arm, demanding, "When shall we leave? There's a ship Monday, I believe."

  Looking faintly ill, Charles replied, "See here, oughtn't you give this some serious, sober thought? It's not as if you're proposing a jaunt to Brighton for the weekend, after all!"

  "I didn't propose it—you did!"

  "Well, perhaps, but
shouldn't you speak to your parents first?"

  "I damned well don't need anyone's permission to go to Wyoming! I'm thirty-one years old and can come and go as I please. If I agree to marry Lady Clem upon my return, that should be enough for 'em." He waved an elegant hand in the mist while the bells of Grosvenor Chapel struck three. "It's all very simple."

  "Perhaps," Charles replied doubtfully.

  "I'll see you in Rotten Row tomorrow and we'll make firm plans. You aren't looking very well at the moment, Charles. Why don't you go inside to bed before you do something unseemly."

  Glad to obey, the young man turned back at his front door. "But Sandhurst, how'll you get home?"

  "I'll walk!" His grin flashed in the darkness. "I vow, I haven't felt like this in ages—quite possibly not since we attended the Wild West Show in 1887 and I was granted a hair-raising ride in that fabulous red Deadwood stagecoach. You're a genius, Charles!"

  Lipton-Lyons remained on the top step, watching his friend fairly swagger off into the night. It occurred to him that he might have created a monster, but there was nothing to be done about it now except go to bed.

  * * *

  Queen Victoria had died early in 1901, and now her subjects were adjusting to a new king and queen. Change crept in from every direction. Fashions were different now that the moral climate set by Queen Victoria had softened. Great mansions were being sold and turned into clubs or blocks of flats, and new inventions like the motorcar and wireless telegraph were no longer so novel. Yet the British clung to their traditions and resisted change. This morning, as Geoffrey Weston rode his magnificent gelding, Thor, toward Hyde Park, he noticed how few motor cars were yet in evidence on the streets. Carriages and hansom cabs were still favored, with coachmen decked out in top boots and footmen in livery.

  Geoff rode through the Albert Gate into the park, which was crowded with riders and light carriages. On this mild and fragrant April morning, Rotten Row was thick with the fashionable set, and Geoff had to search for Charles. When he spotted him near Hyde Park Corner, he raised his hand.

  Sir Charles Lipton-Lyons, still a bit green around the gills, urged his horse into a lazy trot that brought him to the marquess's side. "Hello. Good thing I live so near; might not've made it otherwise. I b'lieve I'll swear off champagne."

  Geoff chuckled. "Old story. Do you ever think about the tedious routine we are all caught up in, simply by virtue of social class? Every day, except Sunday, it's the same. We men make our appearance in the Row, then hurry home to change into a frock coat for luncheon at one of our clubs. Then it's off to polo or pigeon shooting or cricket, followed by the ordeal of trussing oneself into evening clothes and tottering off for more endless entertainments and rich food. To me it is dull beyond description." His high spirits had gradually faded away as he spoke, now replaced by the shadowed look Charles was used to. "Not that I'm an ungrateful sort. On the contrary, I'm glad to be rich enough not to have to spend my life slaving in a button factory. And, I intend to put my wealth to good use by going to a place where there none of the pretentious rot that infects London society."

  "I can see that you feel very strongly about this, Sandhurst, and I sympathize."

  Brightening, Geoff plucked a twig of apple blossoms from a low-hanging branch. "I'm glad to hear you say that, Charles. I was beginning to worry that you might pull out."

  "Actually..."

  "I knew it!" Reining in Thor, Geoff fixed his old friend with a stormy scowl. "You have always been a coward! This really is beyond the pale, though—to regale me with tales of this far-off place, then be so fickle—"

  "See here, you're not being fair! I thought we were just indulging in a distraction from this business with Lady Clem! You could've knocked me over with a feather when you declared that you really wanted to do it!" Passing riders were staring at the pair, who had stopped dead in the middle of the Row. "By jove, there isn't much I wouldn't do for you. However, I have no real desire to traipse across the world to Cody, Wyoming. And... I happen to enjoy all these pastimes you find so tiresome!" Lipton-Lyons's face was flushed with emotion.

  A long moment passed, during which Geoff flicked a bit of dust from his sleeve before replying coolly, "No need for histrionics. A simple no would have done just as well."

  Charles went even redder, but managed to put out his hand and muster a smile. "I wish you well, Sandhurst."

  "Yes, I must go. There are countless arrangements to be made, not the least of which involves informing Manypenny that he will accompany me to Wyoming in your place. D'you suppose he'll be able to contain his joy?" A familiar sardonic smile played at the corners of his mouth. He shook his old schoolmate's hand and said lightly, "I'll see you in a year, and you may squire Lady Clem anyplace you like during my absence!"

  Sir Charles Lipton-Lyons felt his eyes moisten as he watched the Marquess of Sandhurst wheel Thor around and weave his way among the carriages and horses that thronged the Row. When Geoff paused at the corner near Albert Gate, he looked back and tipped his hat, hair agleam in the sunlight.

  Suddenly overcome with bittersweet regret, Charles put a hand to his mouth and called out, "Godspeed, Geoff! Don't forget to write!"

  Chapter 2

  Sunshine Ranch,

  near Cody, Wyoming

  April 1902

  Lying under plush down-filled quilts in her new brass bed, Shelby wriggled and stretched and considered the day that was spread before her like a wonderful treat. Dawn was edging closer; ice-blue and plum light seeped into the night sky outside her window. In a few more minutes she could jump out of bed, build up the fire, pull on her clothes, and start the fragrant breakfast that would feed six men and herself.

  The ripening morning invariably brought more pleasure.

  Shelby usually put off her work with the ledgers and statements that were piled on her desk, instead saddling up with Titus, Ben, and their four young ranch hands, Jimmy, Marsh, Cal, and Lucius. In May they'd have their first big roundup and brand all the new cattle and calves, but for now there were other tasks to occupy the days. Fences remained unfinished, stray horses and cattle had to be coaxed out of the hills, and others who had wandered into treacherous mudholes in search of the water they'd craved all winter had to be rescued.

  Shelby made a rousing attempt at being one of the boys and was ecstatic to be outdoors on horseback, deep in the splendor of the Wyoming springtime. The Sunshine Ranch was located in the valley that traced the south fork of the Shoshone River. Snow-crowned mountains rose up behind the ranch and beyond lay the magnificent Yellowstone National Park.

  Rolling onto her back in bed, Shelby closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the day she and Uncle Ben had arrived at the railroad station a mile and a half away from the scrappy town of Cody.

  Faithful old Titus Pym had met them with the buckboard. Looking around as they lurched out of town, Shelby felt her sense of trepidation grow. How romantic Cody had sounded when Buffalo Bill had described it! This windswept settlement, built on a sagebrush-dotted shelf of land, was not what she had expected. The buildings were generally rough clapboard affairs, the streets were muddy and littered with tumbleweeds, and silent cowboys and blanket-wrapped Crow Indians paused beside hitching posts to stare at her. Shelby was dressed in a practical dark skirt, a white shirtwaist with a high lace-edged collar, and a coat, but she was aware that her looks were singular enough to attract attention. She'd have been happy to hide her luxuriant rusty curls under a wide-brimmed Stetson hat and her annoying curves under baggy shirts, pants, and chaps if it meant that people would stop looking at her.

  The road they followed southward was barely discernible; it came and went, generally following the Shoshone River. Even though the relentless bouncing nearly tossed her out more than once, Shelby found that the panorama unfolding before her awestruck gaze more than compensated for any discomfort. Homesteads and ranch houses appeared, tiny dots ringed by toy trees, dwarfed by the distant mountains that seemed to reach toward the edge of
heaven.

  The Sunshine Ranch, as it happened, was located nearly ten miles from Cody, and the going was slow. During the long ride, she found herself wondering what sort of house Titus and Uncle Ben had produced. Should she brace herself for disappointment? Her fears increased when she glimpsed a wretched-looking sod house in the distance, surrounded by sagebrush, a few half-starved cattle, and one weather-beaten old man on horseback.

  "My new neighbors?" she inquired sweetly.

  Ben Avery glanced toward the tiny sod house and savored the opportunity to tease her. Deadpan, he waved to the rancher and remarked, "Bart Croll isn't so bad for a fella missing half his teeth. He rolls cigarettes faster than anyone I've ever seen." Ben poked Titus in the back. "Titus, didn't Bart mention that he's been corresponding with one of those matrimonial clubs in the East—?"

  Titus Pym, a pink-cheeked little gnome who still retained hints of his Cornish accent, took pity on Shelby. He'd been working for Fox Matthews for nearly twenty-six years, before Fox and Maddie even knew they were in love. It was hard for Titus to think of Shelby as anything other than a little girl he was sworn to protect. Now he gave Ben a bewhiskered frown and scolded, "You always were the troublemaker, lad, ever since you was runnin' about Deadwood's badlands in short pants! Don't be foolin' our Shelby. Bart Croll isn't fit to shake her hand, even if he hadn't already found a wife. I heard that he brought a pretty little thing back from St. Louis a few weeks ago."

  "A mail-order bride, huh? Poor thing."

  Shelby felt her panic subside, replaced by outrage as she turned on her uncle. "How could you be so horrid to me at a time like this?"

  Ben laughed and stretched out his long legs, but refused to say more except to assure his niece that her new home would not have a mud roof.

  At last, in a lushly wooded glade near the blue sweep of the river, Shelby caught her first glimpse of the Sunshine Ranch. At the entrance to the lane that branched off the main road was a sort of archway consisting of two tall poles supporting a long wooden sign. The sign had been carved with the ranch's brand: a circle with eight lines radiating outward like a child's rendering of a shining sun.