Breathless

by Beverly Jenkins

  He kissed the top of her head. “I know.”

  Portia thought back on her mother’s plan to sell her virginity, and the horror of who she might have become as a result made her eyes sting with tears. She almost told Kent about it but decided to keep it to herself; she was horrified enough for them both.

  “While you and the other women were plotting to take over the world, I got you something.”

  Corinne was momentarily forgotten. “What?”

  “Hold out your hand and close your eyes.”

  She did so and heard a small rustling and then felt him lightly take her outstretched hand. What felt like a ring was gently pushed onto her finger and excitement grabbed her.

  “Open your eyes, please.”

  When she complied, the thin gold band on her finger sparkled in the light of the lamp. “This is beautiful, Kent.”

  “Do you like it?”

  She turned her hand this way and that. “I do.” Wedding rings were becoming more and more popular with married couples. “But I don’t have one for you.”

  “You can fix that when Carmichael Bookkeeping makes its first million dollars.”

  She laughed and threw her arms around him. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you so much, too.”

  When they arrived home, they were met at the door by a solemn Sylvie, and Kent sensed bad news. “How is he?” he asked.

  “Almost gone but I think he’s been holding on until he can see you.”

  Inside his father’s quiet room, Kent slowly approached the bed. Oliver was lying so still that for a moment Kent thought Sylvie was wrong and that he’d already slipped away, but his eyes slowly opened and a small smile followed. “Hello, Kenton.” His voice was a whisper. “How was San Francisco?”

  “It was fine.”

  “Good to see you.”

  Heart tight, Kent replied, “Good to see you, too.”

  “I’m getting ready to leave here. Glad you won’t be alone, now that you have your duchess. Glad we settled our differences, too.”

  Kent knelt by the bed. “So am I.”

  “You’ll take care of my Sylvie?”

  “Of course.”

  The eyes drifted closed and Kent panicked, but when the eyes fluttered open again, he let out a pent-up breath. “I saw your mother a bit ago. She’s still beautiful,” Oliver said.

  Tears wet Kent’s cheeks.

  “Hoping St. Peter will let me in the gates so she and I can talk.”

  “I hope so, too,” Kent whispered.

  His father studied his face. “You shedding tears for your old man?”

  Kent nodded.

  “I love you, too, son. More than I ever let on. Don’t make that same mistake with your own son. Let him know.”

  “I will.”

  “I knew you’d make it back for me to talk with you one last time.”

  Kent was pleased that he had.

  “Will you get Sylvie for me? I need to say good-bye.”

  Kent stood.

  “Good-bye, Kenton.”

  “Good-bye, father.”

  Dr. Oliver Randolph left the world a short while later. He wanted to be cremated, a relatively new movement touted by Queen Victoria’s surgeon, Sir Henry Thompson, so a grieving Sylvie, Kent, and Portia accompanied the casket by train to a crematorium in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, only the second such facility in the nation. At the end of the cremation process, Kent was presented with a small wooden box.

  “What is this?” Kent asked.

  “Your father’s remains. Some families like to spread the ashes in their loved one’s favorite place or disperse them into the wind.”

  Kent didn’t know whether to be moved or repulsed. He passed the box to Sylvia. “You can decide.”

  Kent was solemn for the rest of the way home. Sylvia returned to the territory with them, saying that with Oliver gone, she had no one to return to in Virginia City and would figure out what she wanted to do with her life once the sharpness of her grief softened. Kent wasn’t sure when or if his would ever soften. For a man whom he’d battled seemingly his entire life, Oliver’s death broke his heart.

  Portia would remember the month of June 1885 as a time of loss. Her heart ached for her grieving husband, her still unfound mother, and for Regan. Standing with Regan and the family at the train station as she prepared to travel to her new life in Wyoming, Portia didn’t want her to go.

  “Please don’t cry,” Regan said, holding Portia tight as the tears ran freely down both their cheeks.

  Eddy, crying, too, stood beside a stoic Rhine. They’d resigned themselves to the choice Regan had made but were still saddened by it. Portia was, too, but knew it was necessary to let her go.

  As the train pulled into the station, Eddy hugged her niece one last time. “Make sure you wire us just as soon as you arrive.”

  “I will.”

  Rhine held her next. “I love you, little girl. Take care of yourself. If Kent and I need to ride up and shoot this man, let us know.”

  “You have my word.”

  When the time came to board, she turned her ungodly amount of luggage over to the conductor, threw the family a kiss, and disappeared inside.

  Grieving for her sister, Portia took solace in watching her and Kent’s house rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the old Blanchard homestead. She visited every day and savored each day’s progress no matter how big or small.

  A week after receiving the wire that Regan had indeed arrived in Wyoming, Portia was working in her office at the hotel when Eddy knocked on the opened door.

  “Hey, Eddy. What can I do for you?”

  “This came today.”

  She handed Portia an envelope. “It’s from Corinne. The Pinkerton detective I hired found her.”

  Portia beat down her trembling. “Do I want to read it?”

  “No, but you should.”

  Filled with dread, Portia slipped the single sheet of vellum from the envelope and read. E. Do not contact me again. Have a good life now. No desire for the old. Make this clear to Portia and Regan. I repeat. Do not contact me again. C.

  “I guess that’s that,” Portia said softly.

  “I’m sorry, honey.”

  Portia nodded. “Thank you, Eddy. I’ll move on with my life.”

  “As will we all.”

  After her aunt’s departure, Portia walked over and closed the door. With her back against it, she surrendered to the emotion and silently wept.

  Chapter Eighteen

  While June would be remembered for its sadness, July brought joy. Mr. Nogales finished the house and she and Kent moved in on the first day of the month.

  As they marveled at how beautiful and spacious the new house was, Kent said, “I think we should christen the place by making love in every room.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m serious, and once the rooms are marked we start with all the flat surfaces. I think I’d like to have you laid out on the kitchen counter wearing nothing but your garters while I lap you up.”

  Having gone to paradise and back with him so many times, she thought she’d lost the ability to blush, but she hadn’t.

  “So . . .” He walked over to her and loosely laced his arms around her waist. He brushed his lips over her neck. “Where shall we start?”

  They started right there in the parlor where they were standing. Her clothes were slowly removed, piece by piece, and in the end he laid her down on his shirt and took her in the center of the room on the newly installed and polished pine floor.

  “This is a two-for-one romp,” he said, pulling her atop him. “We’re in the parlor and on a flat surface.”

  She looked down into his face. “Whatever am I going to do with you?”

  “Not sure,” he said, “but how about you start by riding this?” She complied, and as he slipped inside, she rode him until he roared.

  Over the next few days, they’d christened nearly every room in the house and topped it off in the wa
shroom, where he took her first against the wall and then in the large claw-foot tub. He’d loved her so thoroughly she vaguely remembered being dried off and carried to the bed, but nothing more.

  Portia had never been treated to breakfast in bed—she’d always been too busy making sure the hotel’s guests were the ones to enjoy that treat. So when she was awakened by his entering the bedroom, tray in hand, she was delighted. On the tray was an omelet spiced with peppers along with bacon, grits, and toast. “I think I may keep you,” she said, showing him a smile.

  “After all the lovemaking we’ve been doing, I know I’m keeping you. Though I still have to have you in the kitchen and in your office.”

  “We’re not making love in my office.”

  He laughed. “I ordered that desk for you to work at and for me to bend you over, so expect to be ambushed when you least expect it. We’ll call it The Bookkeeper and the Naughty Cowboy Husband.”

  She dropped her head. He was unbelievable, and yes, all hers.

  He kissed her softly. “You agreed to be my wife. This is part of the benefits. I’m going to see to the horses.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He tossed her a wink, put on his hat, and left.

  Alone, she chuckled softly and began eating. The image of herself bent over the desk with him behind her crept into her mind. As it continued, her senses flared, and she decided she might enjoy being ambushed by the naughty cowboy husband.

  And she did. Two days later, reaching for the Nogaleses’ ledger, she accidentally knocked over the tin cup holding her pencils. It slid off the front edge of the desk spilling the pencils all over the floor. Momentarily irritated by her clumsiness, and because she had to get out of the chair to retrieve them, she walked around, picked up the cup, filled it with the pencils again and set it back in its spot. Standing in front of the desk, she was about to walk back to her chair when she spotted a lone pencil that had not made it to the floor. As she reached over to grab it, she heard, “Good afternoon, Miss Bookkeeper, and don’t you dare move.”

  She dropped her head and laughed softly. Ambushed.

  He came up behind her and whispered, “Perfect timing.”

  While Kent vividly described all the naughty things the cowboy planned to do, her skirt was slowly raised and her drawers slowly lowered and taken. Then his hands began a slow dance of arousal. He reached around and undid the buttons on her blouse and soon her breasts came out to play. “I should visit you in here every day.”

  Portia whimpered with pleasure.

  He filled her, coaxed her into the age-old rhythm, and as the pace increased she bent forward to grab the edges of the desk. “Yes, just like that,” he rasped.

  Soon pencils spilled to the floor along with ledgers and books, and she didn’t care as long as he didn’t stop. Her pleasure climbed, his strokes became stronger, and the sounds of mutual desire grew louder. Portia lost track of time, her name, and everything else that seemed to matter before he’d entered a few moments ago. Her naughty cowboy was so very wicked, she shattered on a scream and he followed her off the edge of the world with a roar.

  When she could see again, she turned and looked at him over her shoulder. He asked, “Ever taken a bath in the middle of the day with a naughty cowboy?”

  She laughed, “No.”

  He picked her up. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

  As he carried her out, Portia looked back, saw the mess they’d made of her desk, and didn’t care.

  It was now the end of July. They’d settled into the house, her business was going well, and Kent was in contract negotiations with the army to supply them with horses starting after the New Year.

  Portia decided to surprise Kent by making breakfast. He’d done all of the cooking since they’d moved in and she thought it time she share the load. She grabbed eggs from the hens, took some bacon out of the cold box, sliced bread, and began.

  In the bedroom, a tired and sleepy Kent awakened to the smell of something burning. At first he thought it might be a dream but when it persisted he sat up and noted that, one, Portia wasn’t in bed and, two, yes, something was definitely burning.

  Hurrying out of the room, he saw tendrils of smoke curling out of the kitchen. Inside he found his wife using a small towel to bat at flames rising from what had once been toast. Swallowing his smile, he cleared his throat, “Good morning, Mrs. Randolph.”

  She shot him a peeved look. “I wanted to surprise you with breakfast, but thought I’d try to burn the house down instead.”

  The kitchen looked like a cyclone had visited. There were eggs shells and little puddles of spilled milk on the floor, pieces of what appeared to be a broken plate and a saucer on the counter, and something black and foul-smelling stuck to the surface of the cast-iron skillet on the stove.

  “I’m a woman,” she said angrily. “I’m supposed to be able to cook. If something happens to you, I’ll starve to death.”

  Knowing she’d probably gut him if he laughed, he instead held out his arms. “Come here.”

  She walked to him and he eased her close. Above her head he grinned widely, which prompted her to say, “I know you’re secretly laughing, Kent Randolph.”

  “Laughing with you, Duchess, not at you.”

  She made the sound women make when they know their men are lying.

  He kissed her hair. “Tell you what, if you want to learn to cook, I’ll teach you.” He leaned back so he could see her face. She was still mad. “You have talents a lot of other women don’t have. I married you for your fierceness, your toughness, and that bear-trap mind of yours. Your lack of skill in the kitchen doesn’t make me love you any less.”

  “I don’t like doing things I can’t do well.”

  “I understand, so let me help you, okay?”

  Lips tight, she nodded.

  He eased her back against his chest. “I love you so much.”

  “Thanks for putting up with me.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  So for the next month, in between his dealing with the horses and her going back and forth between her clients in Flagstaff and in Oracle, Kent taught his wife the basics of cooking: how to fry eggs and make omelets, how to fry bacon so it remained recognizable. Her first attempts at biscuits were hard enough for the biblical David to have used in his slingshot against Goliath, but Kent slathered them with butter.

  Seated at the table, she looked his way. “They aren’t very good, are they?”

  Determined not to hurt her feelings, he bit into one, prayed he didn’t break a tooth, and mumbled, “They’re not that bad.”

  “You truly do love me, don’t you?”

  He nodded and hoped eating just the one was enough to prove it.

  “I’ll try again.”

  “Keep riding the bronc. You’ll get better.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kent glanced up at the clock. By all rights, Portia should’ve been home an hour ago. He didn’t want to start worrying just in case she’d stopped by to visit Rhine before coming home. Thirty minutes later and still no Portia, so he saddled up Blue and rode over to the hotel.

  Rhine and Eddy were eating dinner.

  “Evening, Kent,” Eddy said. “What brings you by?”

  “Was hoping Portia was here.”

  Rhine shook his head. “No,”

  Kent swallowed his worry. “She was taking the last train from Flagstaff. I wonder if it got held up for some reason?”

  “That line is pretty dependable.”

  Eddy asked, “Do you think she and Arizona ran into trouble?”

  “I don’t know but something’s not right. I can feel it. I’m going to ride into Tucson and see if the train came in or not. Maybe I’ll run into her on the way.”

  Rhine asked, “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No—”

  The bell rang and Kent sighed with relief. “Maybe that’s her now.”

  But it was Sheriff O’Hara. “Oh good, Kent, you’re here. T
his was delivered to my office earlier this evening.”

  Kent was confused.

  “You need to read it.”

  And what he read filled him with equal parts anguish and rage.

  Rhine asked, “What’s it say?”

  “Someone has Portia. They want ten thousand dollars in the next thirty-six hours or they’ll kill her.”

  “Where’s the money supposed to be taken?” Rhine asked.

  “Wired to the account of a John Brown in Boston.” Kent looked up at the sheriff. “You said it was delivered? By who?”

  “I don’t know. I have a mailbox out in front of my office for mail and wires from the telegraph office, and it was in there. Checked it last around four this afternoon and there was nothing inside. Left the office to take care of some things, had dinner with my wife, and when I returned I checked again and that was in there. It was addressed to you, which I thought odd, so I opened it.”

  Kent was glad he had. “Do you know if the train from Flagstaff got in on time?”

  “Haven’t heard that it didn’t. Why?”

  “She was due back on it this evening.”

  “The conductor lives in town. How about you ride back with me and see if he remembers her or saw anything.”

  “Good idea. I also want to check with the livery to see if she picked up her horse.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Rhine said. “Eddy will you be okay here?”

  “Yes. Go on. Find her please.”

  Kent’s fear hadn’t lessened, but his rising fury was keeping him from being consumed by it. How dare someone do this to her? But he would find her even if he had to ride into hell to do so, and when he got her back, someone was going to die.

  Portia felt pretty good about herself when she stepped off the train. She’d gone up to Flagstaff to meet a new client and the prospect looked good. Because there had been a cow on the tracks, the train from Flagstaff to Tucson had been late arriving and the sun was almost down. If she hurried to the livery, she and Arizona could make it home before full dark. There were very few people on the walks as she made her way. The livery was accessed off an alley and, as she entered, Edward Salt stepped out of the shadows. She would’ve swept by him had he not had a gun pointed at her, so she swallowed her fear and faced him bravely. “What do you want?”