Wildblossom

by Wright, Cynthia

  Shelby had begun to pout by the time she accepted her rifle. Even her older brother, Byron, hadn't been able to beat her at shooting. She reloaded, then took aim and fired. The first bottle broke and flew into the air; Geoff applauded.

  "I've never known a woman with so many talents!"

  Shelby gave him a sidelong glance before taking aim again. She felt patronized, particularly since he'd lowered the level of difficulty for her by increasing the distance between her targets. When she squeezed off her next shot, the bullet only grazed the side of the bottle, which dutifully fell off the fence and landed in the dirt with a thud. Little hairs bristled at the nape of her neck, and she struck her remaining targets at dead center.

  "Well done! But I don't think the light's as favorable as it was a few minutes ago. No doubt that's why—"

  Shelby interrupted. "You needn't make excuses for me, or apologize for besting me with my own rifle." Turning toward the house, she set her chin and added, "I suppose I must have underestimated you because you're English—again. I keep forgetting that I lost the ranch that way."

  "Is that your stew I smell?" Geoff wondered as he fell into step with her. Casually, he reached out to lightly cup her elbow with his long fingers and she didn't pull away. "I'm ravenous suddenly—and I'd kill for a good cup of tea."

  "I'll make a pot." Shelby allowed him to hold the screen door open for her, adding over her shoulder, "But I'm having whiskey."

  By the time the kettle had begun to boil on the stove and Shelby had poured boiling water into the teapot, Geoff had a fire going and the clouds outside had turned ominous.

  "I believe we're going to have a storm," he remarked.

  Through her kitchen window Shelby saw a white flash of lightning, followed by the boom-boooom of serious thunder. "I hope that the boys have sense enough to take cover rather than ride back here in a lightning storm."

  "I wonder what Manypenny is doing? I haven't seen him all day," Geoff mused as he stirred milk into his tea. "Perhaps he's reading."

  Shelby couldn't resist. "Trollope? The Eustace Diamonds'?"

  He gave her a faintly quizzical look before heading toward Manypenny's little room at the back of the house. A tap at the door brought a muffled "Hmm? What?" which made Geoff's expression even more puzzled. He opened the door.

  "What are you up to in here, old man? Did you have your tea whilst I was off roping horses?" His tone was light, but he was brought up short by the sight of Manypenny in bed. The manservant was clad in Oriental-style silk pajamas and a nightcap, and was bundled under several quilts. "Are you ill?"

  "I fear so, my lord." The old man's expression was pained. "I believe it's the... ague."

  "Good God, this is horrible!" Geoff came over for a closer look. "I've never known you to be ill before, old reliable!"

  "I can only surmise that—" Manypenny covered his mouth with a fine handkerchief, then coughed deeply. "It's this ghastly place, I imagine. There must be an abundance of exotic germs."

  "But what can we do for you? Shall we summon the physician? Are you hungry? Let me bring you a cup of hot tea with lemon and whiskey, all right?"

  Manypenny looked sleepy. "I'll just have a nap, my lord."

  Frowning, Geoff went back into the living area of the house. Thunder continued to rumble outside, raindrops spattered against the glass windows, and the fire he'd built was blazing and popping merrily.

  "Your tea is getting cold," Shelby informed him as she stirred the stew. The aroma of beef stew filled the house. "As soon as the corn bread is ready, we can eat. Gosh, I wonder if the others will make it back for supper!"

  Geoff watched her mix cornmeal, eggs, and buttermilk, wondering what in the world corn bread was. When she'd slid the two pans into the oven, he said, "Do you have a moment to spare now? I'm afraid that Manypenny is ill. He believes it's the ague. "

  "You mean, a cold?" There was a furrow in her brow. "Why hasn't he said something?" Wiping her hands on her apron, Shelby went into her little pantry.

  He followed her. "He's very old fashioned; dead against complaints of any nature, particularly outside his class. I suppose Manypenny might let on to another servant, but never to me."

  "That's ridiculous!" Shelby was sorting through her shelf of medicines. She threw Geoff a censorious glance, and he shrugged helplessly in reply. "You British are really the limit."

  "You won't get an argument from me. Why do you think I came to Wyoming?"

  When she looked up, the amused gleam in his eyes made her feel giddy and she couldn't help smiling. "All right, here's what we'll give him." Shelby held up a box featuring a picture of a mustachioed bandit wearing a large sombrero. "I find that this Mexican Headache Cure works well for fever as well, so we'll start with a dose of it."

  "How very... unique," Geoff remarked dryly.

  She ignored him. "Luckily, I also have the Twenty-Minute Cold Cure on hand. My mother ordered a lot of these things through the catalogue when she knew I was coming out here and, though I've never tried it myself, it does sound promising!"

  Geoff consulted the box, one eyebrow cocked. "I'm admittedly skeptical, but what do we have to lose?"

  "I'll take care of him, and he'll be good as new by morning." Returning to the kitchen, Shelby fixed a big cup of tea for Manypenny, adding lemon, honey, whiskey, and doses of the Mexican Headache Cure and the Twenty-Minute Cold Cure.

  "Have you tried any of these potions yourself?" Geoff wondered as they headed for the sickroom.

  "Heavens, no. I'm never sick."

  "From the smell of this, I'd guess that it should put him out of his misery one way or another...." he murmured dubiously.

  Manypenny, with his red-rimmed eyes and wheezing voice, tried to argue that he was merely a bit tired and not in need of assistance, but Shelby waved him off. Instructing Geoff to help the old gentleman sit up, she straightened his nightcap and held the steaming mug to his lips.

  Astonishingly, Manypenny drank the powerful concoction down, then smiled euphorically. "I say, that was frightfully good. Well done, Miss Matthews."

  "We're in Wyoming, Mr. Manypenny. Call me Shelby."

  He sank back on the pillows and replied woozily, "And I am Percy, my dear... only to you." His hand searched for hers, then squeezed. "Like to borrow my book? Do, please..."

  "That's very kind of you, Percy," she replied, smiling warmly. "I will."

  They watched as the elderly manservant drifted off to sleep, then Shelby plucked The Eustace Diamonds from the bedside table. Geoff was shaking his head in disbelief as they tiptoed out of the room and closed the door.

  "Percy?" he cried when they were back in the hallway. "In my entire life I've only heard one or two people dare to use Manypenny's given name of Percival, but the mere idea of anyone saying 'Percy' is beyond comprehension!"

  "It was his idea, not mine," she reminded him sweetly.

  Back in the kitchen, Shelby put plates, cutlery, and napkins into Geoff's arms and told him to set the table. The wind was rushing down their valley now, bringing sheets of rain with it. The fragile windowpanes had begun to rattle with the force of the storm as Shelby dished up the stew and cut the hot corn bread into squares that she served with a little pot of honey. A lantern lent a soft glow to the checkered tablecloth covered with dishes and food, and Shelby felt an odd sense of euphoria as she watched him arrange the silverware.

  For Geoff's part, he wondered what she would say if he told her he'd never set a table before tonight. The entire experience of watching her cook and helping to prepare for their meal was deeply satisfying to him. He held out her chair, made a little gesture to invite her near, and was rewarded by a radiant smile as they sat down together. Alone.

  "What's this?" Shelby asked, looking at the little pressed-glass goblets filled with deep ruby liquid beside each place.

  "You were threatening to drink whiskey earlier, so I thought a bit of wine might take the chill out of our bones. I brought a few bottles with me from London. This one i
s a fine cabernet."

  Shelby sipped appreciatively, thinking that it tasted like ambrosia. "I don't suppose you have food like this in England," she said, sounding rather apologetic.

  "No," Geoff agreed with an enigmatic smile.

  "What would you have for a usual supper?"

  "Oh... Scotch broth. Turbot with lobster sauce. Mutton cutlets. Cabbage and rice... stewed cucumbers... stewed pears." He drizzled honey over a wedge of corn bread, sampled a bite, then smiled with honest pleasure. "Nothing nearly this good."

  "You're making those up, aren't you?" Shelby couldn't help laughing. "To make me feel better, I mean! Who would eat such things?"

  "The English. We stew and pickle foods regularly. It's rather a point of pride."

  They laughed together. The lightning and thunder had passed over the ranch, and Shelby relaxed slightly. Nibbling on a piece of red potato, she said, "I suppose the boys are safe and they'll come home when the storm has passed, hmm? I mean, they're used to such weather."

  "I'm sure you're right." He had eaten the last bit of stew on his plate, and said, "This is simply delicious. And it's odd that you have Blue Willow dishes; it's what we used for every day at our country house in Yorkshire when I was growing up. I was always much fonder of it than the gilt-edged china my mother favored."

  "I chose this pattern myself before I came back from college in Massachusetts," Shelby said. "I never was much of one for a hope chest or anything so nonsensical, but I do have definite tastes of my own, and I knew I'd be unlikely to satisfy them in Deadwood." Shelby watched Geoff refill her glass and smiled. "So, I forced myself to spend one tiresome day buying some of the things I liked: the Blue Willow, a lot of Belgian lace that I've stored away, fine bed linens, some Eastern riding gear that I rarely use, and books. I do treasure my books. Unfortunately, Uncle Ben made me leave most of them at home... and I agreed, because I was worried that they might be damaged somehow. I wasn't sure what to expect in this wilderness, or what sort of home awaited me."

  "I see. And what is all this about The Eustace Diamonds?" he asked softly, caught in the spell of the moment. The room was lit from the golden fires within, and by luminous rays of sunset piercing the thunder-heads outside. Shelby's radiance was brighter still. He looked down at her hand, resting near his on the tablecloth. "How did you know that Manypenny was reading Trollope? Have the two of you begun a private literary club?"

  "Hardly." She found herself warming more and more to Geoff. His dry wit appealed very much to her intellect and her own sense of whimsy. Also, she liked his way of remaining calm under almost any circumstances, unlike Uncle Ben, and certainly unlike her. And finally, there was something more in Geoff's brown eyes that lent substance to his other, cooler traits. He looked at her with an unspoken sense of understanding that made her trust him in spite of all her efforts to resist. Emboldened by the wine, Shelby blurted, "Percy told me about your trunk full of books!"

  He looked as if she'd slapped him. "For God's sake, do not call him Percy! I can assure you that he will not appreciate it when his senses are restored!"

  Shelby beamed. "I thought, by your expression, that you were angry that I knew your secret."

  "Secret? Nothing of the sort. Would you like to see the books? I'm afraid the trunk's very cumbersome, so we'll have to visit my bedchamber. Quite innocently, of course." He spoke lightly, pressed the napkin to his mouth, and pushed back his chair. "I'll help you with the dishes first."

  "No—let's just put them in the sink for now—to soak." She could scarcely contain her excitement. "I can't wait! Oh, you have no idea how I've dreamed about your trunk full of books ever since Mr. Manypenny mentioned them days ago. He was sitting on the veranda, reading Trollope, and I was so envious! When he told me that you had dozens more, I confess that I harbored mean thoughts toward you..."

  Geoff brought the bottle and both glasses as they walked toward his bedroom. "My dear Shelby, what are you talking about?"

  "I thought you were a greedy book hoarder!"

  He had a powerful longing to take her in his arms, but instead caressed her with his eyes. "I assure you that, had I been apprised of your passion for literature, I would have invited you into my chamber the night I arrived!"

  "And I would probably have been shameless enough to accept."

  They stood on the threshold of his bedroom, staring into each other's eyes, and an electric current seemed to pass between their bodies, like the bolts of lightning illuminating the evening sky. It was a feeling unlike anything either of them had ever experienced, and in that instant, they both stepped backward.

  "I don't know—" he murmured.

  "Maybe it's not..." Shelby whispered.

  Geoff reminded himself that he was a civilized man. What was he afraid of?

  Don't be a missish ninny! she scolded herself.

  "After you, Miss Matthews." He gestured gallantly for her to precede him.

  Heart pounding, Shelby walked into Geoffrey Weston's bedroom and listened as he came up behind her. The room smelled wonderfully of him, and the white iron bed seemed to fill her vision. It was covered with a frayed quilt, hand-stitched in the log cabin pattern, and one of Geoff's soft blue shirts lay casually across one side. There was an impression in the feather pillow from his head.

  Shelby suddenly felt very hot, in spite of the stormy night.

  Chapter 6

  "The trunk..." Geoff was dismayed to find that he sounded hoarse. This wasn't at all the self-assured figure he wanted to cut. But then... hadn't he fled London society in search of just this sort of shaky, heart-pounding reminder that he was alive?

  Wondering if he had condemned his tendency toward cool indifference a bit too hastily, he gestured toward the Louis Vuitton canvas-covered trunk. It was disconcerting to feel his gut tighten when Shelby looked into his eyes. What was it about her? Why hadn't he reacted this way in the presence of English females?

  "Is it unlocked?" she asked, kneeling in front of the trunk at the foot of the bed. Her face shone. "I am so excited!"

  "As am I," he murmured with a touch of irony.

  She watched as he crouched beside her and lifted the lid, gesturing at the contents with one handsome hand. "Have at it."

  "Oh. Oh! Look at these magnificent books!" They were all leather-bound, stamped in gold, and clearly cared for with love. It came to Shelby that it said a great deal about Geoff that he had needed his books so much that he was willing to risk damaging them by carting them all this way. When she picked up the first one and saw the title, her sense of wonder doubled. "Ivanhoe! I love this story! The scene when he returns from the Crusades and jousts, and they don't know who he is until he removes his helmet... !" She sighed, nearly giddy. "Oh, Geoff, even the paper is fine. You know, my parents have a beautiful library, but I don't think I've ever seen books as rich as these."

  "Compliment accepted." He watched as she pulled off her boots and sat down on the floor, cross-legged in her divided skirt and stockinged feet. His fingers itched to reach out and pull the tortoise-shell pins from her hair and let it spill free.

  "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde! Ooh!" Shelby pretended to shiver with horror. "Dare I read it? I adored Treasure Island, but my teachers thought this wasn't fit literature for a female, and then when I was in college I forgot about it."

  Geoff joined her on the rug and leaned against the open trunk so that he faced her. Drawing off his own boots, he flexed his toes and remarked with a shrug, "It's more disturbing than conventionally scary, in my opinion, and certainly isn't everyone's cup of tea. But you seem a brave sort, and insightful. It's a fable, you see, crammed with insights into human nature and the struggle to balance good and evil."

  "I'll read it, then." She set the book aside and took out others, exclaiming in delight either because she'd already read some books or because she'd been longing to. Moby Dick was at the top of her must-read list, Sherlock Holmes was a character she'd discovered the summer before, and Dickens had been a favorite of her girlhoo
d. "I always was entranced by the characters' names, and I would cry and cry when tragedy befell them. I read Great Expectations at twelve and it made a tremendous impression on me."

  Geoff tried to remember the last time he'd been entranced—until now—and forgot to speak until she remarked upon his silence. "I was just thinking... that you are unlike any woman I've known in the past."

  "Is that good?"

  "Quite." He smiled at her in a way that made her cheeks color. "And you like my books even though there's nothing by Jane Austen, or the Bronte sisters...."

  "I think I'll have more wine myself," Shelby said, and watched him reach for the bottle and pressed-glass cups. When they each held fresh portions, she offered a toast. "Here's to common interests and uncommon friendships." They were both lighthearted as their glasses clinked. Shelby savored her first sip, then reflected, "I will admit that I never would have imagined I could like someone like you. I know we agreed to leave your past in England, but I am curious. You're something noble, aren't you!" She wagged a finger at him in a faintly accusatory manner. "A duke?"

  "No, not a duke... but, yes, something. I'd really prefer that we not—"

  "All right, you don't have to say... but tell me this: What would you be doing if you were in London right now?"

  Caught off guard, Geoff stared out the window for the moment. Rain continued to batter the windows, slanting across the ranch house in blurry sheets of water. Old-fashioned oil lamps provided the light for his room, reminders of the days before gas lighting, and the air was decidedly chilly. The rag rug on which they sat was scant protection from the hard, roughly sawn boards of the floor. And yet, Geoff felt more content in this rustic environment than he had in his own town house on the Thames, with its priceless rugs from the Orient, crystal gas-lit chandeliers, modern marble bathrooms, plush feather beds, servants to attend to every need, and motorcars in a newly constructed garage.

  Shelby touched his arm. "Are you going to answer?"