A Stranger's Wife

by Maggie Osborne

  An enthusiastic pounding of applause startled her and she looked up to see her counterpart, the wife of Quinn’s opponent, rising to her feet. The speeches had ended. Hastily Lily stood, clapping and pasting a smile on her face. One of the party minions arrived to assist her off the dais and was kind enough to bring her a chair.

  Folding her hands in her lap, she sat near the exit, watching the audience crowding the dais, and took pleasure in noticing that more men seemed to rush toward Quinn than toward his opponent.

  When a man halted before her, blocking her view, she waited impatiently for him to move along, remembering to demurely lower her eyes to the floor.

  Her gaze settled on brown boots beneath dark trousers. And her breath hitched when she noticed an odd-shaped white stain on the left boot. Her head snapped up, and her heart stopped.

  Ephram Callihan curled his lip in what passed for a smile. “Well, well, if it ain’t Lily Dale, all gussied up and looking better than I ever imagined was possible.”

  Shaking and white-faced, Lily sprang up on trembling legs, clutching the back of the chair to support herself. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. For one terrible confused moment, she thought he was here to take her back to prison.

  “Looks like you got yourself a sweet deal,” Callihan commented, sliding a slow look from the tip of her hat down her rust-colored cashmere suit. “Diamond earrings and tassels on your boots. Yes sir, you sure have come up in the world. Got yourself a new name and a rich husband. This is some game you’re working.”

  “You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Lily whispered.

  “That’s what I thought.” He laughed. “I been looking at you for two hours and telling myself, no sir, that can’t be Lily Dale. Can’t be. Lily Dale ain’t no lady and Lily never looked that good in her life.” His eyes narrowed down on her. “But it’s you all right. The eyes, the voice.” Lifting a hand, he stroked one of the long blond curls lying on her shoulder. “I ain’t got your game figured out just yet, but I think I see the outline.” His gaze settled on the diamonds in her ears. “And there’s money here. I can smell it.”

  “Take your hand off my wife’s shoulder.”

  Quinn stepped between them, tucking Lily behind him. Rage simmered in his slate eyes. Any man but Ephram Callihan would have backed away from Quinn’s expression and would have apologized profusely.

  Callihan’s smile was more of a smirk. “Just talking a little bidness with your—wife.”

  “Whatever you have to say to Mrs. Westin, you can say to me.” The words were as sharp as a cold blade.

  At once Lily understood that Quinn didn’t recognize Callihan, didn’t know who he was. He had no idea he was staring at the death of his dreams. Feeling sick inside, Lily gripped his arm. “Not here,” she said in a low voice. If others heard what Callihan might say . . .

  She was too shaken to notice where Paul came from, but he suddenly appeared beside them, his eyes as hard as dark stones. Clasping Callihan’s arm, he smoothly turned him aside and two burly men fell in behind them. In less than a minute, the four men were out the door.

  Quinn clasped her arms and frowned down at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Her knees gave out and she collapsed onto the chair. “I don’t know.”

  “Who in the hell was that?”

  She gazed up at him, her heart in her eyes. It would destroy her if something or someone from her past was the cause of his downfall. They had worried that someone would realize she was not Miriam. They hadn’t worried that anyone would recognize she was Lily Dale.

  Whatever Quinn read in her expression, it was enough that he didn’t press for an answer. Taking her arm, he escorted her out of Turner Hall, pausing to shake hands and accept congratulations for his speech. Lily’s smile was wooden and her eyes dazed. The short journey from the hall to their carriage seemed endless.

  Once they were inside the carriage and Quinn had covered her with the lap robe, he took her hand and studied her white face. “He’s someone you know,” he said flatly. After she revealed Callihan’s identity, Quinn closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the upholstery. He swore softly.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lily whispered. Her teeth chattered, and she couldn’t get warm. Even the tears hanging in the corners of her eyes felt like droplets of ice.

  “I forget who you are and where you came from,” Quinn said after a minute. “Who are you, and what was your life like, Lily Dale?”

  She rested her head against his shoulder and battled the tears clogging her throat. “I’m just someone who has spent a lifetime doing things I didn’t want to do. Doing what other people said I should.”

  “And it’s still happening,” he said. Putting his arms around her, he dropped his face to her hair. “This time I’m the man forcing you to do something you don’t want to do.”

  But she was where she wanted to be. Loving him, wanting him to have his dream, had changed so many things. She no longer thought about the circumstances that had placed her in his life, the days of seething resentment were far behind her.

  “Who are you, Quinn Westin, and what has your life been like?” she asked in a choked whisper.

  “I used to know who I was and what I stood for, but that’s not true anymore. My life isn’t that different from yours. First it was my father, now it’s men like Paul insisting that I do things I don’t want to do.” He fell silent. “It starts with one compromise or maybe one small lie, and it builds like a snowball. Then one day you look in the mirror and ask, how is it possible that I’ve done the things I’ve done? How did this happen?”

  “I used to ask myself over and over if shooting Mr. Small really was an accident or something I intended to do. I don’t know. I don’t know how I got to a place where shooting a man was even possible.”

  She felt him nod, and his arms tightened around her. “Then one day a face steps out of the crowd and you’re confronted with what you’ve done and what you’ve become,” he said, speaking more to himself than her.

  “What will happen next?” Right now, with his arms around her and his steady heartbeat beneath her cheek, it was difficult to believe their house of cards was about to fall. Her thoughts were too frozen to move beyond that image.

  “I’ll meet with Paul. We’ll assess the threat. Discuss possible solutions.” He shrugged and turned his face to the window. “We’ll do whatever has to be done.”

  Lily nodded, but asked no questions.

  * * *

  Their lovemaking was tender and slow, as if tonight were the last night they would have together and every caress, every kiss and touch must be deliberate and cherished before being committed to memory.

  Lily closed her eyes and arched her throat to the kisses moving toward her breasts like slow fingers of flame. Her hands moved through Quinn’s silky thick hair, and she whispered his name over and over.

  If there were no mansion, no beautiful clothes or jewelry, this would be enough. To lie in the arms of a man whose hands were magic, whose mouth was alternately hard and demanding, then sweet and tender. A man who knew her body more intimately than she did. A man who trembled when she touched him, who took her to heights she had never experienced.

  For the rest of her life she would remember these deep snowy nights and the bliss she had found in this bed in Quinn’s arms. No other man could ever make her feel as beautiful, as desirable, as necessary.

  She wanted to tell him that he had awakened her body to joy and wonder, that he had taught her that lovemaking needn’t be a hasty affair conducted in the dark. She wanted to tell him that a look from those smoldering grey eyes ignited fires in her stomach, that his hoarse whisper made her ache with wanting him. She wanted to tell him that his skin beneath her palm felt like warm satin, his kisses were like fiery nectar. He tasted like smoke and snow and whiskey and sometimes like apples. She wanted to tell him that she loved him and needed him like the air she breathed.

  But she said nothing.

&
nbsp; Chapter 17

  Paul suggested his home as a secure location to discuss the Callihan problem. As he lived alone, there was no danger of servants or law clerks overhearing damaging information. He led Quinn and Lily into his library, where a low fire burned in the grate and a whiskey decanter waited on the long library table he used as a desk. After pouring a drink for himself and Quinn, he frowned at Lily.

  “I didn’t expect you. There’s tea in the pantry if you don’t mind fixing it yourself.”

  Lifting her chin, Lily helped herself to a whiskey and took a long, defiant swallow. Since she hadn’t accepted anything stronger than wine in two months, tossing back a whiskey told Quinn how upset she was. And the face she made when the whiskey hit the back of her throat told him how much she had changed.

  “I insisted on coming because I caused this problem.”

  “That isn’t true,” Quinn disagreed, holding a chair for her. His fingers brushed the silky coil of hair knotted beneath her hat, and the scent of roses drifted through his senses. “What have you found out?” he asked Paul, wrenching his thoughts from Lily and focusing on the problem at hand.

  The snowy glow from the library window didn’t reach this end of the long, narrow room, but light cast by the wall sconces exaggerated the fatigue deepening the lines on Paul’s forehead. Silently, Quinn studied his friend’s face and vowed to remember that the campaign was equally exhausting and wearing on those who labored behind the scenes. As the election drew nearer, pressure mounted, and Paul’s role had become more demanding.

  “First,” Paul said, watching Lily shake her head, sigh, then set her whiskey glass on the table and fold her hands in her lap. “Quinn’s right. You aren’t to blame for the current situation.” A shrug shifted the shoulders of his dark jacket. “Ephram Callihan’s father died shortly after the new year. He’s in Denver to settle details of the estate. He’s been staying with his sister’s family.”

  Lily stared, her eyes cold. “It’s hard to imagine that bastard having a family.”

  “It was sheer happenstance that he attended the speeches. Boredom, an interest in the politics of a neighboring territory, who knows? But it’s clear he did not go to Turner Hall expecting to find you on the dais.”

  “So it was merely coincidence,” Quinn said, thrusting a hand through his hair. Exposure had always been a threat, he’d known that, but he hadn’t anticipated it would occur as a result of coincidence. He swore softly.

  “Callihan’s wandered close to the truth,” Paul continued. “Once he convinced himself that it was indeed Lily on the dais, he set about constructing an explanation to account for her being introduced by another name and as the leading candidate’s wife. He decided I found you a wife in the Yuma Women’s Prison, then I invented a history for her and for you. In Callihan’s guess, I created a made-to-order background for my candidate.”

  “By now, he will have identified the holes in that theory,” Quinn said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “A fictitious background wouldn’t survive the intense scrutiny of a campaign. And if you’d wanted a wife for a candidate, you would have selected a woman with impeccable credentials.”

  “Exactly.” Paul nodded. “You’re wealthy, social, and can offer a wife a position as first lady of the new state. If any woman would serve, finding a bride would not be difficult. There’s no reason to choose a woman with a distasteful and damaging past.”

  Quinn frowned. “Must you be so blunt?”

  “He’s right,” Lily said softly. “You’re also correct to assume that Callihan is shrewd enough to conclude he doesn’t have all the pieces and to set about assembling them.”

  “I intend no offense, I’m merely stating the truth as Callihan will see it.”

  “No offense taken,” she said with a shrug. But circles of crimson burned on her cheeks.

  Paul removed his jacket and leaned back in his chair. “It won’t take long for Callihan to discover this is not a recent marriage, and a little more investigation will produce a description of Miriam Westin. If he checks the newspaper archives, he’ll learn about the fire and Miriam’s departure for the New Mexico Territory. At that point, he’ll begin to put it together. He’ll resist the idea of Lily being a twin for Miriam, but eventually he’ll arrive at that conclusion as the only answer that fits what he knows.”

  Lily looked at them both. “And the next question will be, where is the real Miriam? Why was it necessary or desirable to use me to impersonate her?”

  As these were questions neither he nor Paul could address, Quinn didn’t pick up the questions she left dangling. He tossed back his whiskey and poured another. “Callihan wants money, of course.”

  Paul nodded. “The price of silence will go up when he works out more of the truth.” Paul’s hand curled into a fist on the tabletop and he swore. “I keep telling myself we’ve solved the Miriam problem, then here it comes again. Damn it!”

  Walking to the window, Quinn thrust his hands in his pockets and stared out at the slushy street. “What happens if we don’t submit to Callihan’s blackmail? In your opinion, will anyone believe his story?”

  “He’s the warden of the prison where Lily was incarcerated. That will lend credibility. He can produce documents from her trial and from her time in prison, plus he can bring forth other people who knew Lily. A determined journalist could find the places we stayed in route to Denver. Lily will be remembered.

  “Against that, we have Miriam’s friends, who will swear that Lily is Miriam. Pride won’t permit them to admit the possibility of being deceived by a woman who was in prison a few short months ago.” Paul looked up. “My best guess? Our defense is weak. More people will believe Callihan. He can destroy us.”

  Lily looked down at her lap. “I’ve made mistakes. Small errors that Miriam’s acquaintances will remember if my identity is questioned.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Quinn.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, turning from the window. He could no longer remember the gaunt, suspicious woman he had first met. She had changed, softened, had become a caring, lovely woman.

  And he loved her.

  “You’ve done everything we’ve asked of you, learned what you had to,” he said, staring at her. “You’ve succeeded better than I dreamed possible. Everyone who sees you believes you’re Miriam.”

  Raising her head, she met his eyes in a long look, and he understood she wondered if he, too, saw Miriam when he looked at her. God help him, the answer was occasionally yes. Sometimes, when he was tired or distracted, he saw Miriam’s fluttery gestures, Miriam’s eyes and sad half smile, and for a moment she was Miriam.

  But never in bed. And never when they could speak freely or when they were alone. Then she sat like Lily, talked like Lily, moved like Lily. And that’s when he loved her most.

  “The bottom line is that we can’t permit Callihan to talk,” Paul said flatly. “A scandal at this critical point would take you out of the race. Until we decide on a long-term solution, we’ll have to pay whatever he demands.”

  “A long-term solution?” Lily repeated, turning back to Paul.

  “After the election we’ll be in a better position to handle the problem. We can apply pressure to the newspapers not to print any inflammatory tales. We can have Callihan run out of the state.” He shrugged. “By then you’ll be in Europe, and everyone here will believe Miriam is dead. If Callihan comes forward at that time, he’ll be despised for attempting to sully the governor’s late wife. His story will appear to be politically motivated.” Paul thought for a moment then gazed at Quinn. “In fact, if Callihan goes public after Miriam’s funeral, we can probably work his story for some political mileage. We tie him to the opposition and disgrace them for attacking a man who just buried his wife.”

  One of the talents that made Paul so effective and so valuable was his ability to consider several possible outcomes at once and develop tactics for all feasibilities.

  Lily stared at them. “It always s
hocks me when the two of you discuss Miriam’s funeral so casually. I detest that in both of you.”

  “She’s never coming back, Lily.” There were times when Quinn wished he could tell her why he knew this with absolute certainty.

  “It’s business,” Paul said coolly.

  Knowing Lily was upset, he briefly touched her shoulder before he sat beside her and drained his whiskey glass. “The obvious solution for the present is to meet Callihan’s demands.”

  “Who pays the bastard?” she asked sharply. “You? Or the party?”

  “Ordinarily the party leaders would be aware of every detail concerning their candidate.”

  “But not this time,” Lily said softly.

  “Quinn and I have been friends for many years. I know how he thinks, I know who he is. I believe Quinn is the best man to be our first governor. I’ve chosen to handle the Miriam problem privately to spare the party undue anxiety.” What Paul didn’t say was that the party might very well have selected another candidate had they been aware of the difficulties with Miriam.

  That’s where it had begun, with one man’s ambition and another man’s belief.

  Quinn stared across the library table. “Do you still believe I’m the best choice? After all our disagreements?”

  Paul returned his gaze. “Yes.”

  “And you two believe that only the people in this room know the truth about Miriam,” Lily stated, frowning at them. “And now Ephram Callihan, God rot his soul.”

  Turning his face toward the window at the end of the room, Quinn wondered if anyone ever knew the truth about another person. Each of them believed he knew the truth about Miriam, but their truths were different.

  Paul’s truth was that Miriam was a bomb waiting to explode, a problem that wouldn’t remain solved. Lily’s truth was that Miriam had been a lady and a bereaved mother, a woman who had become part of herself. And his truth? His jaw tightened. His truth haunted the attic of his mind.