Breathless

by Beverly Jenkins

  “I was with him earlier,” she replied, doing her best not to remember her reaction to his warm voice. “He was in need of a shave.”

  “Did he say what he’d been doing all this time?”

  “No.” And she told herself she wasn’t interested, even though a small part of her was curious.

  “Did he mention how long he’d be staying?”

  “No, but you can quiz him as much as you care to when you see him.” It never occurred to her that he might be staying. If he did, she hoped it would only be for a short time. She didn’t want to have to spend her days battling her reactions to those male eyes of his, but then again, maybe she’d build up an immunity to them, the way children built up an immunity to the pox.

  “He’s in one of the guest rooms down the hall.”

  Portia almost dropped the gown. That close! Recovering, she replied as disinterestedly as she could manage, “I had no idea.”

  Regan shrugged and took one last primping look in the mirror. “I suppose because he’s family of sorts. Are you choosing that gown or not?”

  “No.” She put it back and took down one that was dove gray and had a high neck trimmed in lace. Something inside her deemed the gown safer.

  “That one’s lovely, too, but not as nice as the other.”

  “One of Uncle Rhine’s associates may have a business question and I want their eyes on my face, not my neckline.”

  “You really aren’t any fun, sister,” Regan replied, smiling.

  “You have enough fun for the both of us.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  Portia chuckled. “We need to find you a husband. Maybe you should answer one of those mail-order-bride advertisements in the newspapers.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  Portia was appalled that her sister appeared to be mulling it over. “I was just pulling your leg, Regan. I wasn’t serious.”

  “But just think, somewhere there might be a man who needs a wife to help him work his homestead and have his children. He’d be strapping, strong, and handsome. We’d fall madly in love. It would be an adventure and you know how much I crave adventure.”

  Portia walked over and placed her palm against Regan’s forehead. “I think you’re coming down with something. You may need to see Doc Finney.”

  Regan laughed and moved the hand away. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

  “What, your coming down with a brain fever?”

  “No, silly. My becoming a mail-order bride.”

  “As I said, it was a joke. Don’t even consider doing something so harebrained.”

  “Women become mail-order brides all the time and besides, everyone thought my wanting to deliver the mail was harebrained, too.”

  “Some of us still do.” Portia sat on the vanity’s purple tufted bench and pulled on her stockings then anchored them with the frilly green garters Regan had talked her into buying last fall.

  “Delivering the mail is another form of adventure. I enjoy getting to see new places and people.”

  The sisters were very different in that respect. Portia was content to sit at her desk, poring over ledgers and contracts while Regan always wanted to see what was over the next hill. “I don’t like the idea of your being robbed or losing a wheel or being attacked by a puma or a bear, or Apaches. You’re a pest sometimes but you’re my pest and I love you.”

  “I appreciate your concern and I love you, too, but I can shoot just as well as you, and besides, everyone knows I only deliver letters and packages. Uncle Rhine won’t let me carry gold or payrolls and neither will the mine owners.”

  “And that’s a good thing.”

  “I know. I may be unconventional but I’m not irrational. Carrying gold dust can be extremely dangerous.”

  A few months ago, there’d been a gang preying on mail carriers. They were finally apprehended and jailed but not before they’d shot a man to death for the mine payroll he’d had on his wagon. Portia brushed out her hair and pinned it low on her neck. After removing her lightweight wrapper, she stepped into her gown and pulled it up over her flowered corset and shift. Once Regan helped fasten the line of small buttons on the back, Portia slipped silver hoops in her ear lobes and assessed herself in the mirror. “I’ll do, I suppose.”

  “You’ll more than do, sister mine. We Carmichael women are beauties, and when I find my mail-order husband, I’ll ask if he has a brother.”

  Laughing, Portia playfully pushed her towards the door. “Let’s go you silly goose.”

  They were still laughing when they stepped into the hallway, but then fell silent when Kent Randolph stepped out of his door at the same time.

  “Ladies,” he said.

  Regan, never shy, walked up and said, “Hello. I’m Regan Carmichael. Are you Kent?”

  “I am. Pleased to see you again, Regan. It’s been a long time.”

  “It has indeed.”

  Portia’s eyes gave a tiny roll and when they were horizontal again, they were caught by his.

  “Duchess.”

  “Kent.”

  He was wearing a blue, long sleeved, double-breasted shirt that showed his muscular lines with a pair of dark trousers. Both had seen better days but were clean and pressed. His string tie was anchored by a lovely green agate. There was a thin silver bracelet around his wrist and his black leather boots were shined. He’d shaved but enough of a shadow remained to give him the look of a handsome and probably dangerous outlaw.

  The silence grew as they assessed each other. Regan raised an eyebrow but Portia ignored it.

  Still focused on Portia, he said, “I was hoping somebody would come along and show me the way to dinner.”

  “And here we are, right on time,” Regan quipped.

  “Much appreciated.” He extended his arm. “Shall we?”

  A smiling Regan obliged.

  Portia knew instinctively that touching him, no matter how innocently, would not be a good idea. Even though he stood a slight distance away his heady presence was already playing havoc with her self-control. For some reason all she wanted to do was stare at him. Maybe I need to see Doc Finney, too. “We should go. We don’t want to keep the others waiting.”

  As if aware he’d rattled her, a slight smile played at the corners of his lips. She ignored that, too, and led the way.

  When they entered the ballroom it was filled with the sounds of the musicians and a large number of guests conversing and milling about holding drinks and small china plates piled with food from the large sumptuous buffet. Tonight’s invitation had been extended to just about everyone the Fontaines knew. Portia spotted her aunt and uncle across the room speaking with three people she didn’t know. Most of the other faces were familiar, however: neighbors like Old Man Blanchard and his ranch hands Farley and Buck, some of the local businessmen and their wives. She and Regan nodded greetings to those they knew and made their way with Kent over to Eddy and Rhine.

  Upon reaching them and before Portia could apologize for their tardy arrival, Kent said, “Sorry we’re late. The ladies were waiting on me.”

  When he flashed Portia a quick conspiratorial wink, she hid her grin. And he’s charming.

  Their uncle waved off the apology. “You’re fine.” The strangers were introduced as Albert and Hattie Salt, and their adult son, Edward.

  Hattie, a tall skinny woman with thinning, dyed-red hair said, “My, aren’t you girls lovely.”

  “Thank you,” they murmured, passing a look between them and waiting to make a graceful exit. Aunt Eddy, dressed in a lovely cream-colored gown, was viewing the Salts with a plastered-on smile. Portia got the impression the Salts had done or said something she’d found displeasing.

  Over the musicians and noisy crowd, Rhine added, “Kent Randolph used to work for me when we lived in Virginia City.”

  Albert, whose large girth seemed ready to burst the buttons on the black vest beneath his suit coat, asked, “And what do you do now, Randolph?”


  “This and that. Ranch work mostly.”

  Portia saw the son, Edward, sneer. Ranches couldn’t survive without workers and there was nothing wrong with a man making his livelihood that way. Although she’d just been introduced to Edward Salt, she didn’t care for him. The cold look in her aunt’s eyes seemed to mirror her assessment.

  “And what do you do, Edward?” Regan asked pointedly. Apparently she’d seen the sneer, too.

  “I’m a teacher,” he replied, his attention moving between the sisters. “Howard educated. I’m thinking of starting a school here.”

  If invoking Howard was meant to impress her, it didn’t. Neither did his heavily pomaded hair and soft-looking hands, which appeared to have never done a hard day’s work. She wondered if he rode or preferred travel by carriage. She’d put her money on the latter. “It was nice meeting you,” she lied, and then she and Regan and Kent drifted away. Regan waved at a friend across the ballroom and said to Portia, “I’m going over to speak to Damaris. I’ll see you two later.”

  After her departure, Kent asked, “Are the Salts family friends?”

  Portia smiled at an acquaintance and shook her head. “Never seen them before.”

  “You think he rides or drives?”

  She stopped. Unable to mask her amusement, she said, “You’re not supposed to be able to read my mind, Kent Randolph.”

  “Sorry, Duchess. I’ll try and remember that for the future.”

  The eyes were so potent she swore he had some kind of mystical power. Finally shaking herself free, she smiled. “You do that.”

  With her aunt and uncle still occupied with the Salts, she knew it would be rude to leave Kent alone in a gathering of strangers, so she’d have to play hostess. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

  “That would be fine.”

  On the way to the buffet table she stopped and introduced him to a group of ranchers and then to two of the mine owners. No one sneered when he described himself as a ranch hand. In fact, rancher Howard Lane said if Kent needed work to stop by.

  “Nice man,” Kent said as they continued on their way.

  “Most people here aren’t like the Salts. I saw the way their son sneered.”

  “I did, too. But a man like that doesn’t matter to me, unless he has a gun in his hand.”

  “How are you, Miss Portia?”

  Startled, she turned to the smiling face of the spectacles-wearing James Cordell. He was the son of the local reverend and a bookkeeper for one of the mines in the area. “I’m doing well, James. You?”

  “Just fine.” He was tall and so thin he always looked as if he was wearing his father’s suits.

  She saw him assessing Kent so she did the introductions. “I’d like you to meet a friend of the family. Kent Randolph. James Cordell.”

  Kent stuck out a hand and they shared a shake.

  “How long have you known the Fontaines?” James asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “I worked for Rhine fifteen years ago in Virginia City.”

  “I see. Miss Portia, I came to ask if you’d like to go riding with me tomorrow.”

  She pasted on a smile. “I’m sorry, James. I’m going to be busy.” He was really a nice fellow and she felt bad about turning down his offer, but he was hell-bent on courting her even after being gently told a few years ago that they didn’t suit. He’d make some young woman a very nice husband, so she dearly wished he’d set his sights on someone else. “And next week I’ll have guests to tend to, so . . .”

  “I—I understand.”

  “Thank you, James.”

  He didn’t move, seemingly content to stare at her.

  “Um, I have to introduce Kent around. Thanks for coming to the party.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They moved off and Kent said, “He’s sweet on you, I take it.”

  She sighed. “Yes. He’s very nice and I have gone riding with him on a few occasions, hoping that would be enough.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  She shook her head. “He’s painfully shy and never says more than a few words the entire time.” She couldn’t understand why he and a few others who kept coming around refused to take her refusals seriously. She supposed they assumed because she was female she didn’t know her own mind.

  “From some of the looks I’ve been getting, there are a number of men unhappy to see me with you.”

  “They can all shear sheep.”

  He laughed.

  A smile teased her lips.

  They finally made it to the buffet table. Among the many people there was Old Man Blanchard speaking with haberdashery owner, Darian Day, another of Portia’s frustrated suitors. But unlike James, she took great pleasure in refusing his company because he was such a condescending ass.

  Before she could introduce Kent to Mr. Blanchard, Day said, “You’re looking lovely, Portia.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Day.” As always, he was overdressed for the occasion, this time in a black long-tailed coat, white bow tie, and white wing-tipped shirt. Instead of the boots men like Mr. Blanchard and Kent were wearing, Day had on narrow-toed black shoes.

  “And who’s this?” he asked, staring Kent up and down.

  “Darian Day. Kent Randolph. Kent was an employee of my uncle’s when we lived in Virginia City.”

  “Welcome to Arizona Territory. I own a haberdashery in Tucson. When you get the extra funds, stop by and we can see about finding you something to wear that’s a bit more suitable for a gathering like this.”

  Kent gave him a wintry smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Day added, “And as the menfolk here will probably tell you, I’ve had my eye on this little filly for some time, but she’s being real prickly about accepting my saddle.”

  Portia tossed back, “Probably because I abhor being referred to as a ‘little filly.’”

  Old Man Blanchard barked a laugh. “You tell him, Portia.”

  She loved the old man. “I need to check on things in the kitchen, Mr. Blanchard. May I leave Kent in your capable hands? My aunt and uncle are occupied.” They were still across the room with the Salts.

  He smiled. “Sure can. Grab a plate, Randolph, and let’s get acquainted.”

  She gave Kent a departing nod, shot Day a glare, and walked away.

  The kitchen was a beehive of activity. The head cook, a young Englishwoman named Sarah, was adding more sliced beef to a depleted tray while the other kitchen workers carried in empty platters needing to be refilled. Setting aside her irritation with Day, she asked, “How’re things in here, Sarah?”

  “Hectic but under control. We had to shoo your aunt out earlier, though.”

  “Why? What did she want?”

  “To make sure the pie slices were evenly cut. I told her she taught me everything I know and I would sic you on her if she didn’t go back out and enjoy herself. She pouted and left.”

  Portia shook her head in amazement and amusement. “Whatever are we going to do with her?”

  “You tell me, miss. She’s your aunt.”

  Smiling, Portia scanned the organized chaos. Satisfied her help wasn’t needed, she said, “If Aunt Eddy comes back, send someone for me. She’s a guest of honor. Not the caterer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  By the time the cake, ablaze with fifteen sparklers, was wheeled out, Portia was glad the evening was about to come to an end. Her feet were tired of being encased in the fancy heeled shoes, the corset beneath her dress pained her as it always did when propriety dictated she wear one, and she could feel a headache coming on from all the noise and the press of so many bodies. To escape the heat, some of the guests were enjoying their cake and ice cream outside at the trestle table. As she walked the area to make sure everyone was having a good time, she spied Regan seated with her beau du jour, a young army sergeant she’d met a week ago. Beside them sat Old Man Blanchard, apparently playing duenna, and Portia smiled at the unhappy look on her sister’s face. There’d be no sne
aking off for stolen kisses with Mr. Blanchard around. A laughing Eddy was seated on Rhine’s lap, however, and he was feeding her cake from a fork. The amused Portia hoped she wouldn’t have to send them to their suite to keep their ardor from getting out of hand.

  “Brought you some cake, Duchess.”

  Surprised, she turned and the closeness of Kent’s presence wafted dizzily over her again.

  “You do eat cake, don’t you?”

  She extricated herself from his silent spell and sputtered, “I do. Yes. Thank you.” Admittedly moved by his thoughtfulness, she took the plate from his hand.

  “Shall we find a seat?” he asked. “Or are you still on duty?”

  “I am but I would like to sit for a moment.” Usually her needs were secondary because of all that needed doing like making innumerable visits to the kitchen, saying “Thank you for coming” to the departing guests, and keeping an eye on the remaining amounts of food and drink.

  “Good cake,” he said.

  “Glad you like it.”

  “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself very much.”

  She paused and wondered how he knew. She shrugged. “Managing a party of this size doesn’t leave much time for enjoyment.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Do you ever get to have fun?”

  She thought about the conversation she’d had with Regan yesterday. “I have a lot to do.”

  “Not judging, Duchess. Just asking.”

  The sincerity in his manner and tone made his words believable. She wondered what kind of man he was. Their interactions in Virginia City had been minimal due to the difference in their ages and the fact that he worked in the saloon, a place she and her sister weren’t allowed to enter when it was open to clients. What would she learn about him now that their ages and his employment weren’t a factor?

  Edward Salt walked up. “Ah, Miss Carmichael. I finally find you seated. May I speak with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Privately,” he added.

  Kent rose to leave them alone, but Portia said, “No, Kent. Please stay. I’m sure whatever Mr. Salt has to say will be all right for you to overhear. Finish your cake.” She had no intentions of being spoken to privately by him.