Fancy sat on the little brocade bench in front of the dressing table, and thought about the long road they'd traveled together. Chance was still the man she wanted; there must be something she could do to give them another shot at happiness. He wasn't the only one who'd made mistakes... Men needed their egos massaged and she'd done precious little of that lately. Now they were home and she would recapture the magic; maybe it was a blessing in disguise that he was on the outs with the pols. It would give them more time to be together.
She'd be exquisite for Chance tonight, and seductive as hell.
She'd mend whatever hurt he felt about his political failures and start all over again with the ball they'd planned for two days hence. We did it before, we can do it again, she thought spiritedly. Fancy slipped her most beautiful satin nightgown over her head and prepared for Chance's arrival home.
The minutes, filled with such anticipation, became hours... and the hours ticked by so slowly, Fancy thought the clock itself would drive her mad, as the evening vanished, became night arid then morning.
It took a very long time before Fancy McAllister admitted to herself that her husband wasn't coming home at all.
Fancy thundered into the Crown looking for Jewel, but Rufus, seeing the expression on her face, pointed wordlessly toward the kitchen.
The slamming door alerted Jewel to her visitor's presence; she looked up from the cupboard she was fishing in for a sauce pan, and knew before Fancy spoke what she was there for.
"I want the truth, Jewel. What the hell is going on with my husband since we've come back here? He never made it home at all last night!"
Jewel stopped and took a deep breath. "You sure you want the answer to that question, kid?"
"Who is she?"
"Her name's Sam Southern. She's got the fanciest new parlour house in Leadville. Scuttlebutt says she's financed by some mogul back East, nobody knows for sure who."
Jewel watched Fancy digest the news before she spoke again. "I'm real sorry, Fancy. I know how hurt you must feel, but I got to tell you, in my business you learn a lot about men, and about the only monogamous male animals I ever heard of were fur-bearing."
Fancy raised her hand in an imperious gesture that said she needed no pep talk. "I'm not here for advice, Jewel, just truth." She turned and left before Jewel had time to offer her a cup of coffee.
Fancy had kept the knowledge of Chance's infidelities bottled up long ago, because she'd felt responsible. But this time, he was to blame. She'd forgiven him many things over the years because she always believed he loved her, wanted her. Now she knew she didn't even have that much of him to call her own.
Chance let himself into the house and found Fancy in the study, working on a deskful of paper. His head pounded and he was furious with himself for staying out all night; he must have drunk considerably more than he thought to have passed out like that.
She could barely speak, she was so angry; she didn't wait for the excuse she knew was coming. "I deluded myself that this party would change things and now we're stuck with it, Chance, but I was a just a fool about that, like I've been about a lot of other things. We don't have a marriage anymore, just a sham. I intend to go back to work full-time and make a life for myself, with or without you."
How like her to attack, rather than simply say she was mad about his not coming home, he thought with the righteousness of a guilty conscience. "I thought we settled that question years ago, Fancy. Why do you always have to go straight for the jugular?"
Oh, you great insufferable bastard, she raged internally. You great, lying, hypocritical, two-timing bastard.
"I have a right to protect myself."
"Don't you know how it makes me feel when every man in Leadville knows my wife is back running a saloon, with a whorehouse attached? I can't afford to look like a horse's ass at the moment, Fancy, and we've been through this a thousand times... right now, I've got other problems that are pressing on me.... Can't you just give me a little maneuvering room 'til I get the rest of life straightened out? Don't you want to be married to me?"
"I do want to be married to you! But I don't feel safe with you, Chance... you squander what's precious and you don't even know what you've done. I need to feel safe and I need to work."
"And if you can't have me and work too? Which one would you choose?"
Fancy stared at him in fury; she was not the one who'd spoiled everything. "I don't have you anyway, do I, Chance? Someone I've never even laid eyes on has that singular privilege."
Shock registered on the handsome features; he'd gotten away with so much for so long, he'd thought his indiscretions were sacrosanct. "What the hell are you talking about, Fancy?"
"I'm talking about my precious husband with such delicate sensibilities about his reputation that he can't withstand a working wife who runs a whorehouse, but he has no trouble whatsoever with having a whore for a mistress. I'm talking about the fact that I'm tired of playing second fiddle to your infidelities as well as your career... and just for the record, perhaps you should know that I knew about Jen in her time, and I would have known about all the others over the years, if I'd let myself. So don't even bother denying your relationship with that Southern woman. Your denial demeans both of us."
Chance looked at her in consternation.
"And while we're on the subject, Chance, let me tell you that I'm tired of a few other things too. I'm tired of being a political wife... I'm tired of watching you invest our money in insane projects... I'm tired of your careless arrogance about what's important in life. And I'm damn well tired—"
He broke in before she finished the sentence.
"Of me? Isn't that what you really mean, Fancy? Isn't that what this is all about. Who is it you really want? Jason Madigan? Odds are he'll never run out of the fortune it takes to keep you happy."
"I'm not the one who's broken our vows, Chance... you are."
"None of those women ever meant anything to me, Fancy. I've wanted to tell you that for a very long time... you're the only woman I've ever truly loved."
"That's such a lame excuse, you know. As if it's supposed to make me feel better that you left my bed for just passersby, not real commitments. I think that's even more insulting than if you'd fallen madly in love with somebody, Chance. But no. You just make love to other women to stay in practice."
He stared at her in anger and confusion. He couldn't tell her why he'd started seeing Sam, couldn't explain the fear of failure, or the loneliness.
"Please don't do this to us, Fancy. I'll make it all up to you, I swear I will. Just cut me a little slack right now, and I swear to you I'll make everything right." He reached out to touch her, but she thrust his hand away angrily.
"No!" she snapped. "Not that. Not this time." She turned abruptly and left him standing alone in the elaborate library he'd built especially for her, a very long time ago.
Fancy slammed the door to her bedroom and leaned heavily against it. When had she really lost Chance? she wondered... or had he ever belonged to her at all? Loss overwhelmed her and she sank down on the bed and sobbed for the stupidity of life and all the dreams it didn't fulfill. And for her own foolishness in never stopping dreaming, when she was damned well old enough to know better.
Chapter 105
Chance felt the cold air snap at his face, grateful for its bite. It had always been a curse that fights between them exploded instantly into flames; he'd brooded all day about what had been said and gone up to the old cabin to clear his head and figure out what to do. She wasn't entirely in the right, but it was true that he'd betrayed her trust with Sam. Why the hell women put so much importance on a tumble in the hay was beyond him but still... she'd been hurt and he couldn't really blame her for fighting back. He hadn't been a perfect husband, and she'd always been vulnerable; all that bravado covered up a lot of frailty, and a lot of courage.
Odds were Fancy didn't really want a divorce, she just wanted him back as a full-time husband; it was strange how marriages
seemed not to be destroyed in some great conflagration... rather, they just died a little, year after year, of insidious attrition. Perhaps it wasn't too late yet to turn the tide. Her temper was fierce, but like Hart's it tended to be fleeting.
He could live without Sam—he was getting too old for tomcat-ting anyway, it was beginning to seem more bother than it was worth. He'd turn over a new leaf and start again with Fancy, like she wanted him to. Chance was surprised at how much the thought of losing her unnerved him. The only thing to do was to brave her wrath and find some way to soothe her hurt; he'd done it before and could again.
It was late at night by the time Chance made his way back home; he stopped in the dressing room beside their bedroom, hung his coat over the corner chair, tossed his hat and gloves onto the dresser, his apology already on his lips. He turned the handle of the bedroom door.
It was locked. He jiggled the knob noisily to make sure it wasn't merely jammed, then knocked, but there was no answer, so he knocked again, louder.
"Fancy," he called. "Open the door, please. I really need to talk to you."
"Well, I don't need to talk to you," a determined voice snapped back from the other side; it didn't sound a bit sleepy.
Chance stared unhappily at the locked door as if he'd never seen one before. "Damn it, Fancy. At least let me tell you how sorry I am about all this. It's not as simple as you think and I never meant to hurt you. If you'll just open the goddamned door and listen to what I have to say, maybe you'll understand."
"Why should I? You'll only lie and make excuses for yourself."
Chance stared at the lock for a long moment, disappointment and frustration mingling; it was just this kind of miscommunication that kept them star-crossed. Whenever she wanted to be reasonable, he didn't; whenever he chose to try, she locked him out of her life. He'd be damned if he'd let her screw things up this time without a fight. He stepped back, turned his shoulder to the door, and crashed through it to the room beyond, splintering the hinges from the wall. The double-paneled door crashed noisily onto the bedroom floor.
Fancy sat up in bed and stared, astonished, at her husband.
"I won't be kept out of my wife's bedroom if I choose to be in it, Fancy. And I damned well intend to say what's on my mind."
"I don't want to hear it, Chance. I want you out of my life once and for all."
"Oh, no, you don't," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
He crossed the room in two great strides, and Fancy drew back instinctively, unsure of his intent. She scrambled from the bed, to elude this stranger to whom she'd been married so long. She ran out the door and into the hallway toward the stairs, but Chance came after her and caught her at the landing. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him, clutching her so hard against his body that she thought he'd lose his balance and crash them both down the spiral staircase. He swung Fancy up into his arms and started back with her toward the bedroom; she struggled in his grip, but he crushed her head against his chest so roughly that she screamed. And then Chance's mouth was on her own, choking off all sound, and the kiss was unlike any there'd been for a long time... what lunacy was it in her that made her kiss him back with equal abandon? Chance sensed the exhilaration in this impossible, exasperating woman who had plagued his life forever, and thinking there had never been any way to communicate with her but one, he threw her onto the bed and ripped the nightgown she wore from neck to hem.
Fancy saw him tear at his own clothes, saw the look of wildness in his eyes. Never had she understood the strength in that taut body, the fierce burning strength that was bridled under urbanity and a gambler's charm. He could have killed her with his hands; the thought excited her.
He was pulling her body in to meet his thrust; she tightened and sucked in the power of him greedily, angry as he, wild as he. Chance pushed her bewildered loins past anything civilized; bullying her, swirling her out beyond space and time and sanity, he tortured the exquisite spasms from her. Fancy felt the explosion of Chance's own fulfillment crescendo with her own...
He lay very still beside her, their heartbeats thundering in unison. He waited for her to say she loved him, no matter what. She waited, breathlessly, for him to apologize. Neither said a word.
"God damn you, Fancy," he said finally, a strange resignation in his voice. "Why is this the only way we ever understand each other?" He rose, and Fancy saw him pull his clothes on. Why wasn't he telling her that he loved her? Why wasn't he saying aloud all the things his body had said so eloquently? She lay fearing to breathe, as she watched him turn without a word and walk through the fractured bedroom door.
"Chance!" she called after him, terribly confused. She scrambled out of bed and ran to the doorway, still clutching the bed linen to her body, still feeling the ache of him within her. "Chance, come back here!" But the only answer was the crashing sound of footsteps on the stair and the finality of the front door slammed behind him.
Fancy fretted all the following day at Chance's absence and fussed at the servants and at the children. Where was he? Was it possible that what had happened between them had no meaning at all for him? She planned what she would say to him, altering her speech, as each hour ticked away and her remembered love turned gradually to anger.
Could it be that he didn't plan to attend this party she'd planned so laboriously for their triumphal return to Leadville?
Could it be he intended to shame her by not even showing up? If he did that, every important household in Leadville would know the truth about the McAllisters by morning.
Where had he stayed last night? With that woman, of course. Why had he not come back when she'd called him? Hadn't he understood how much she loved him in that primitive moment of absolute surrender? Hadn't that inexplicable fire they shared reminded him, as it had her, of how much they loved each other?
All preparations for the gala were completed by late afternoon, but still no sound had been heard from Chance. He'll send flowers, she let herself hope... or a note asking forgiveness. Oh, please, don't let him go all day without a word... not after last night. For a mad instant she even thought of sending a message to Sam Southern's Parlour House, asking her husband to come home, but her pride wouldn't let her make the gesture.
Fancy surveyed her reflection in the full-length glass beside the bed, and sighed. The candlelight-satin gown with its revealing decolletage and fashionable* puff sleeves set off her bosom to perfection. From her tiny waist, a crinolined skirt cascaded in three deep tiers, each edged with costly ecru lace and tiny seed pearls.
Fancy had lain impatiently on the chaise for hours, with wet tea compresses on her eyes and cucumber slices on her cheeks and nose to banish the telltale swelling and redness her crying had left behind. She couldn't bear to put her body into the bed they'd shared so explosively the night before, so she had lain glum and nervous on the chaise, and tried to calm herself, while rag curlers pinched her head. The resultant mass of dark ringlets now was set off at each ear by tortoiseshell combs, to which had been fastened an intricate network of tiny pearls.
A velvet ribbon held her dance card to her wrist and a single fresh-picked gardenia nestled between her breasts. If he had the starch to come for dinner, at least she'd have the satisfaction of making him eat his heart out.
Fancy fastened the diamond drop-earrings he'd given her as a wedding gift with trembling fingers; she could titillate any man she chose, she just had never chosen to do so since she'd married Chance. When he arrived—if he arrived—she would punish him for his cruelty. Her heart pounded frantically each time she thought of him, and she had to fight back the tears that threatened her carefully made-up face.
Fancy moved among her guests with the aplomb of a seasoned performer. She smiled at the men, talked of babies with the women, and hid her seething humiliation beneath a facade of graciousness. She parried the questions about Chance's whereabouts with just the level of exasperated-but-devoted wifeliness that everyone would expect from one whose husband had been detained a
t business beyond the start of so important a dinner party.
Jason watched Fancy with the same astute judgment that had made him rich; when he was certain of what he was seeing, he put down the tumbler of bourbon he'd been nursing and moved confidently to her side.
"It appears you've been left to your own devices this evening, Fancy," he said with an understanding smile, not in the least patronizing. Fancy began her automatic patter about how Chance had been unavoidably detained, but checked herself as she looked into Jason's amused eyes. She hesitated, slightly embarrassed, but he rescued her.
"Perhaps, if you wouldn't think me too bold in suggesting it, I could lend a hand here, just until Chance's business is finished, of course. I'm such a close associate of your husband's, no one would think ill of us."
She regarded him with a wry smile.
"Does anyone ever put anything over on you, Jason? Truth is, I'd kill for a little help with this disaster."
He chuckled at her forthrightness. "I think such measures won't be necessary, but I would like one small boon. Would you have room for me on your dance card, Fancy? You and I once danced together a great deal, as I recall."
She felt reckless and infinitely spunkier than she had just a moment before. As a matter of fact, she damned well hoped she'd be in another man's arms when Chance arrived... especially this man's. "I expect I would, Jason," she replied.
Madigan smiled a little and bowed, then walked off toward the knot of men who were standing near the fireplace talking politics. She heard him say something, as he joined them, about Chance having to deal with a problem at the mine; then the conversation switched to the question of the railroad's newest venture. Relaxing a little for the first time since the night before had ended in disaster, Fancy went about the business of being a hostess'.
Paint the Wind Page 72