The Coming Storm

by Tracie Peterson

  “Ned would be happy to help me,” Trenton reasoned aloud. “After all, I’ll tell him the same thing happened to me.” The idea took wings. “I’ll tell him I was robbed and they shot me as I escaped.” He smiled. It was perfect. Ned would take him in and treat him to a fine meal and a good bed. And with any luck at all, maybe even a round of poker or two, which Ned, of course, would stake . . . and lose.

  CHAPTER 19

  “I’M SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS,” DR. WADSWORTH STATED AS Mary Brady’s coffin was lowered into a plot on the sanitarium grounds.

  Portia looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. The wispy black veil blew gently in the unseasonably warm breeze. “Thank you.”

  “I know this is a most difficult time, but you might want to consider creating a memorial in your mother’s name. Perhaps a nice statue or a new garden for the grounds. Many of our patients leave endowments to the hospital.”

  Portia hated the man for his greed. After all, her mother wasn’t even cold in the ground and here he was with his hand out for all he could get. “I’ll think about it,” she said, reaching under the veil to dab her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Sorry about your mother, Mrs. McGuire,” the pastor who’d been notified by Dr. Wadsworth said in mock sincerity. He was playing a part, nothing more. Portia had seen it a hundred times.

  “Thank you, Reverend. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I’d like to go back to my hotel to rest. This day has been most trying.”

  “You will come back for your mother’s things?” Dr. Wadsworth asked. The man’s beady eyes almost glowed in anticipation of having another chance to work Portia over for funds.

  “Yes,” she replied, shifting her open umbrella to block the man from view. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” She told the lie without regret. She had no intention of ever laying eyes on the institution again—much less Dr. Wadsworth.

  Stupid man, she thought as she allowed her driver to assist her into the closed carriage. It would be unmercifully hot inside, she knew, but it was better than being viewed by those simpering ninnies who only wanted her money.

  She’d worked hard for her fortune, and she wasn’t about to turn it over to the likes of greedy men like Wadsworth and Reverend What’s-His-Name. She strained for a moment to put a name with the rotund, hairy man, but her memory failed.

  Settling back in her finely upholstered leather coach, Portia began to relax, allowing her tears to fall. The only person she had ever truly loved was dead. Her mother had been her confidante and friend—her only real friend. Portia could tell her mother anything without fear of judgment or condemnation. Her mother never criticized Portia’s choices—never called her unreasonable in her spending.

  Thoughts of Angus McGuire’s ugly sentiments regarding Portia’s spending came to mind. The penny-pinching Scotsman had been ruthless in his disregard of her feelings. Never mind that Portia had to live in that awful dank, cold country. Scotland held no appeal for Portia, except that her husband owned a healthy portion of it, and because of this ownership, he was quite wealthy.

  Was wealthy.

  Now she was the wealthy one.

  Angus’s death in January had been unexpected by everyone. The man had been as healthy and robust as a man could be one day, and the next he was dead. Dead as dead could be. His passing had brought great wails of sorrow from the household staff, but surely those outcries didn’t begin to equal the caterwauling that took place when the widowed Mrs. McGuire announced that everything Angus owned was being sold at an auction.

  The housekeeper, Odara Grant, had been particularly nasty about the entire matter. Odara had been with Angus since he was a lad, and she thought him sorely abused by his young wife. She didn’t care at all that Portia hated the country and its cold. She felt that Portia owed it to Angus to see that his estate continued to grow, especially since Portia was carrying Angus’s child.

  Portia frowned. Losing the baby wasn’t something she liked to think about. The miscarriage had come shortly after Mrs. Grant’s harshest dressing down, and Portia hadn’t bothered to restrain herself from pointing out to the angry old woman that the miscarriage was entirely her fault. Mrs. Grant had been aghast at Portia’s accusations, but amazingly enough, the doctor had agreed with the young widow, and the old woman had been devastated. Portia could hear her wailing throughout the massive estate. It actually rivaled the wind blowing down from the hills.

  Portia smiled in satisfaction. Yes, the doctor had made a convincing argument, and the old woman was never the same. It was fascinating what could be had for a little gold. Portia often wondered what was said in the wake of the doctor’s sudden departure for Spain.

  But even with that satisfying memory, Portia felt overwhelmed by her mother’s passing. Troubled, too, by the promise she’d made to deliver the news to her father in the Montana Territory. She could lie to anyone else—break promises without concern—but she wouldn’t lie to her mother. She couldn’t. If she even dared to do such a thing, she feared her mother might well come back from the grave and haunt her.

  She sighed and sniffed back a new onslaught of tears. Why did Mother have to get sick? Why now? Portia had come back to the United States with the sole intent of finding her mother. She had planned to whisk her away on a trip to Europe. Her mother deserved a good time. She had never been abroad—never owned more than three dresses at a time. No, Mary Brady had lived from post to post following the husband she promised to love and obey till death.

  Now death had taken her from the world—from Portia.

  Portia stared out the carriage window at the passing city. The people here thought themselves quite metropolitan, but the idea was laughable. Portia had lived in the really great cities—London, Paris, Vienna. Married at sixteen to a man whose most desperate desire, second only to having Portia, was to avoid the War Between the States, Portia had been taken abroad to live.

  William Travers had been only four years his bride’s senior, but to Portia he seemed decades older and wiser. He had been handsome—almost too handsome. He was the kind of man that made everyone take notice. His honey-gold curls and welldefined features had brought looks of approval from both men and women. Only those close to him ever came to realize that his beauty ran only skin deep.

  Billy hadn’t been a man given to searches for knowledge or intellectual feasts. He hadn’t any desire for college or an education that could prove useful in matters of real life. Billy wanted to have fun, and he wanted to have it with his beautiful Portia.

  At sixteen, Portia had been completely overwhelmed by his courtship. They had met while her father had been briefly stationed near Kansas City. Their engagement was quick to follow, despite her father’s protests. Billy’s family thought Portia witty and gracious. They enjoyed having an intelligent daughter-inlaw and honestly believed that Portia’s ambitious nature could help motivate their son to greater things.

  But Portia had never aspired to be Billy’s inspiration. She laughed now, even thinking of it. Billy was a simpleton. He’d sleep until noon if I’d let him. The only thing that drove him was the promise of a good time.

  Well, she’d certainly proven to be that, and more. Right up until the day that freight wagon had run Billy over in the street.

  The carriage hit the same hole it always hit when approaching the Bradbury Hotel, and Portia forced herself back into the reality of the moment. She dabbed her eyes one last time before the driver opened her door.

  He helped her down with a gentleness reserved for old ladies and babies. “Thank you, Dougal.” The man had been with her only a few days, but already she thought him a first-class servant. “I won’t be going out again. Feel free to retire for the evening.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, tipping his top hat.

  Portia smoothed her black bombazine skirt, sweltering from the sheer weight of the material. She could hardly wait to reach her suite, where she’d have the liberty of disrobing and slipping into something light and breezy.

  “Mou
rning is for the ancient,” she muttered. “The ancient and the hopeless. Neither of which I am.”

  It hadn’t been hard to find Ned Langford. Most everyone knew where he was residing from the newspaper article. Trenton, however, had already known the Bradbury was Ned’s favorite hotel in Denver. He knew, too, that the man had a permanent arrangement with the hotel and had rented out the largest suite the hotel could offer.

  “I’m glad you came to me,” Ned had said when Trenton showed up at his hotel door. “Now I have the chance to return the favor you did me—although you are far from death’s door. However, under my poor care, you just might get there yet.”

  Trenton had laughed. He enjoyed Ned’s sense of humor and banter. Time under Ned’s care had already done Trenton good. It had also given the bearded stubble on his face a couple days to grow out. It altered his appearance nicely—so, too, the expensive clothes Ned had bought him. Trenton wasn’t sure there would be any decent Wanted posters of him—the only ones he’d seen were poorly drawn after his escape from Missouri, but he didn’t want to take any risk of being noticed or recognized.

  Now sitting across from Ned and enjoying a wealth of fabulous food for lunch, Trenton tried to forget the past and look to his future.

  “Pity those fellows shooting you. Probably same old boys that took me down.”

  Trenton nodded. “I’m sure they had something to do with it.” That much was true. Trenton was trying hard to turn over a new leaf. He figured the fact that he’d managed to elude the posse was proof enough that God truly hadn’t forgotten him. Nevertheless, his relationship with the Almighty was on rocky footing, and Trenton wasn’t entirely convinced that the relationship could be salvaged. Mainly because he wasn’t certain God could forgive a man with a past as horrible as his.

  “Well, I want to help you in whatever way I can. Of course you may stay with me as long as you like. I have the two bedrooms in the suite, so there’s no sense in the one going to waste. I thought perhaps my father would venture west when we struck the mother lode, but he wired to say he’s unable to leave Baltimore.”

  “I’m just grateful for the help, Ned. I’ve got absolutely nothing to my name—except my horse and saddle—and gun.”

  “Well, don’t give it a second thought, old man. I certainly can afford to see to us both—especially while you recover. Say, after that arm mends, what do you think about coming to work for me?”

  Trenton was rather stunned by the offer. He knew it would probably be wise to lay low for a while and then get out of the territory altogether. “I kind of figured to go to Montana after I recovered. My sister lives there and she’s been after me to come for a visit.”

  “You could always visit her later,” Ned said, stabbing a large piece of iced melon.

  “Well, the thing is, I’ve been rather bad about keeping her informed of my whereabouts. I haven’t written her in several years.”

  “Goodness—years? Why would you let so much time pass by?”

  Trenton pushed at the concoction of vegetables on his plate. “I guess I’m just inconsiderate. Time got away from me. One day it was 1865 and the war was finally over, and the next thing I knew it was April 1871. What can I say? I’m a thoughtless man.”

  Ned laughed as though Trenton had told a great joke. “My mother writes me off as dead if I don’t send her a note at least twice a month. I once asked her how in the world I was supposed to get anything accomplished at the mine or here in Denver when I had to constantly stop business in order to drop her a line. She told me she didn’t care—that it was my duty as the only son to keep my mother informed of my health and general circumstances. So my secretary jots off a note every two weeks like clockwork, and when Mother’s missives arrive, I give them a quick perusal and pass them on for his crafty answer.”

  “And she doesn’t realize it’s not your handwriting in the letter?” Trenton asked. He always managed to get caught up in Ned’s stories, in spite of himself.

  “Mother’s eyesight is poor and she’s much too vain to wear reading glasses. She just has one of the house girls read her the letter. It works out quite well and everyone is happy,” Ned said, bobbing his head a bit from side to side. “It’s all a matter of properly running one’s affairs. Otherwise, your affairs will run you.”

  Trenton knew that to be true. It seemed his affairs had always been running him in one way or another.

  “Say, there’s a gentlemen’s game tonight; would you care to play a few hands?” Ned questioned. “I know you could no doubt make back more than you lost in that robbery. I’ll stake you fifty dollars, and I’ll bet before midnight you’ll have tripled it.”

  Trenton laughed. “By midnight, I could have ten times that—if I’m playing with the right gentlemen.”

  Ned leaned forward. “These are very wealthy gold and silver barons—rivals in the business, don’t you know. I’d love to see them taken for all they’re worth. Say, if you’ll split the earnings with me, I’ll spot you five hundred dollars.”

  Trenton leaned back and grinned, a lock of sandy-colored hair falling across his left brow. “I think I could probably accommodate you. Of course, I’ll have to get better clothes than these to wear.”

  Ned laughed and crooked his head toward the door of his bedroom. “You’re about my size, I’d say. Take what you need.”

  Portia McGuire watched Ned Langford from across the room. He seemed such a jovial man. The man who sat opposite him was quite handsome, but not nearly so gay. In fact, he seemed quite serious, almost stoic at times. He had smiled just a few moments ago, and Portia had thought him even more handsome than before. But Ned Langford was wealthy, and that was far more important than looks.

  As Ned eased back in his chair, Portia got a better look at his features. He didn’t look much older than thirty—maybe thirtyfive. His mousy brown hair and mustache were unremarkable, just as was his face. His nose seemed a bit too small—his eyes too far apart. His lips were very full, so much so that Portia almost grimaced at the thought of kissing them.

  Still, she was a woman of means and if she was to remain that way, she would need a constant source to feed the pot. Angus had been right that she was horrible with money. Money seemed to slip through her fingers without effort. But Portia liked the things money could buy. Gowns from Paris, furs and jewels. Trips abroad and fancy hotels and dinners. Those were the things that made life worth living.

  Ned laughed again. It was rather a high-pitched braying sound, no doubt somehow related to his undersized nose. Portia noted again that his friend remained much more serious. She made a note to find out who Ned Langford’s companion might be. After all, it was possible the man was even more wealthy than Ned.

  “Luncheon is served,” the waiter told her as he placed a silver-domed plate before her. He pulled back the lid to reveal a succulent slice of pork roast smothered in a currant sauce. Portia’s mouth watered. She’d skipped breakfast and now her hunger was catching up to her.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Cutting into the meat, she couldn’t help but continue her surveillance of Ned Langford. The man was worth millions—at least that’s what she’d learned. He was the only son of a millionaire father, and while there were two younger sisters to consider, it was rumored Ned would inherit the better portion of his father’s vast earnings.

  The idea of owning silver mines appealed to Portia. Not as much as if they’d been gold, but if the one couldn’t be had, the other was certainly the next best thing.

  Billy’s money had come from old stuffy lines of New England textile mill people, while Angus had built his fortune one bank note at a time. The miserly Scot had hoarded away his fortune, forcing Portia to use her remaining money from Billy in order to maintain her desired standard of living. But once Angus was gone, there was no one to stop Portia from doing as she pleased with his money. Still, she wasn’t about to be caught in another bad situation like before. She would use Angus’s money sparingly—at least until she
had a sure source of income elsewhere.

  If she could somehow entice Mr. Langford, for instance, there would probably never be any reason to worry. Silver was a valuable commodity and Colorado seemed to be brimming with the stuff.

  Ned Langford laughed and held up his glass to his companion. Portia tried not to be too obvious in her observation, but she couldn’t help but wonder what the two men were toasting as the more serious man touched his glass to Ned’s.

  Perhaps they’ve struck some great financial arrangement— the marriage of two great fortunes. Perhaps Ned Langford has just found a way to further his ledger balance and he’s celebrating in grand style with a good friend.

  Portia’s imagination ran rampant. Whatever the occasion, she mused, I want to celebrate too.

  Dianne forced her left arm to extend. She did this small bit of exercise at least a hundred times a day. She could feel the arm stiffen up on her otherwise, and the thought that she might lose even a small amount of usage was more than she could tolerate.

  The arm was healing nicely. In fact, Koko figured the setting to be exact and that the bone was knitting perfectly.

  “I still don’t think you need to be planning on going to the roundup,” Koko said, her tone stern. “Besides, Faith’s baby is due almost any day. You don’t want to miss that.”

  Dianne was truly torn. She’d had her heart so set on going to the roundup that the birth of Faith’s child really hadn’t entered her mind. “I suppose you’re right, but I feel I should be there. It’s important. It’s the first roundup without Uncle Bram.”

  Koko sobered and nodded. “Yes, I know. I thought of that as well.”

  “I just want everything to go as best it can,” Dianne said, stretching her arm out again. “I want to do right by you and the children.”