Virgin Fire

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Travis wished she wouldn't take her motherly duty so much to heart; it made him uneasy, although Jess didn't seem to mind. She probably appreciated the attention after years of being ignored or viewed with suspicion by her father.

  Penelope expected her to attend a tea that afternoon, but Jessica doubted that she'd make it home in time. Frannie's note was the first direct communication she'd had from the family except for a trunk of clothing sent by Anne, and although she had never seen such rain in September, Jessica intended to meet her sister.

  Tucking the precious letter into a pocket, Jessica ran upstairs, changed her sweeping taffeta skirt for one so short it brushed the tops of her oldest high-buttoned boots, snatched up a shawl and umbrella, and sped back down. As she slipped through the hall, she could hear Penelope screaming, “What do you mean, Mr. Gresham said we can't afford my favorite English tea? I demand..."

  Jessica drew the front door softly shut behind her and hurried across the street toward town. It was no day to be out on foot, but she hadn't dared ask for the carriage. Penelope's carriage could only be used with Penelope's permission, and Jessica was on a secret errand.

  "It's closed,” lamented Frannie as Jessica entered the first floor of the Wheat Building, dripping water, her feet and skirt hem wet. They had planned to meet at the Roof Garden with its potted rubber plants, spindly tables and chairs, and delicious offerings of lemonade and sarsaparilla concocted under the gaily striped canopy of the soda fountain.

  "They could hardly keep it open in this kind of weather,” said Jessica, giving her sister a consoling hug.

  "Why don't we go back to your mother's?"

  Jessica could see how curious Frannie was about both Penelope and her house, but she dared not take her sister home. She hated to think how Penelope might treat Justin and Anne's daughter, since she made no bones about hating both of them. On the other hand, how could Jessica explain her new mother's difficult temperament without seeming disloyal?

  "I guess she wouldn't want me in her house,” said Frannie. “Mother warned me. Well, we can go back to my hotel room."

  "Who's with you?” asked Jessica eagerly, knowing that her sister would not have come to Fort Worth unchaperoned.

  "Papa was, but he had to go to Galveston.” The two young women launched themselves out into the storm again. “They've had a terrible hurricane there. Mr. Barnett said probably thousands of people were drowned and much property lost. You know Papa owns something or other in Galveston, so he's gone to see about it.” Frannie giggled. “I'm to move to Mr. Barnett's house this evening as soon as he gets out of court and then take the train back to Weatherford tomorrow."

  "I wish I could invite you to stay with me,” said Jessica sadly.

  "Send tea and cakes up to my room,” Frannie called to the desk clerk at the Worth as they trailed water through the lobby and toward the stairs. “Mama was so happy to get your letter. She gave me the money to take you to tea, but I thought the Roof Garden would be more fun. Isn't it lovely? I'll bet you go there all the time now that you're married and live in Fort Worth."

  "Actually, I haven't been at all,” said Jessica absently. “Was Mama very upset when she found we'd eloped?"

  "She was sad. So was Papa.” Frannie opened the door to her room, saying, “When they really got upset was when they heard that you'd gone to stay with your real mother.” She hung her wet cape over a chair and reached for Jessica's. “Goodness, it's all so romantic!” Frannie exclaimed, grinning. “When Mama heard you'd gone to Mrs. Gresham's, she became frantic. Papa too. You'd think they expected Mrs. Gresham to murder you in your sleep or something, Is she really as mean as they say?"

  "They said she's mean?” asked Jessica slowly.

  "Well...” Frannie looked embarrassed. “Well, it seemed that way to me."

  "She's been ... she's been very ... generous to me,” said Jessica, choosing her words carefully. She still didn't know what to make of her mother; perhaps Penelope's illness, whatever it was, caused her uncertain disposition.

  "Anyway—oh, here's our tea.” Frannie admitted the waiter with his tray and, when he had gone, set about sloshing tea into the cups and plopping cakes onto Jessica's plate. “Anyway, Mama says to tell you she loves you, and you can come home anytime you want."

  "What does Papa say?” asked Jessica.

  "He just goes around looking gloomy. Do you want to come home?” asked Frannie.

  Jessica shook her head and then bent over her cup so that her sister could not see the wistfulness in her eyes.

  "Are you madly in love with Travis?"

  Jessica sighed. She was madly in love with Travis, but she hoped her sister wouldn't ask if he was madly in love with her. In truth, he never said. How did a man madly in love act? Jessica wondered.

  "Also, Mama said you were to have all your clothes and books and such. She's already sent some, and there'll be more coming. Mama said she didn't want any daughter of hers dependent on Penelope Gresham—isn't that funny, because really you're Mrs. Gresham's daughter, not Mama's—but Mama said you were to have your own clothes and to tell you she'd send them."

  Jessica nodded. In a way it made her feel that she was being cut off from them, although she knew that her mother—stepmother—had meant it kindly.

  "Oh, Jessie, it's so good to see you.” Frannie threw her arms around Jessica. “I miss you so. I thought once you got back from Washington, you'd be home forever and ever, and we'd be such good friends, now that I'm grown up too, and then you had to go fall in love with Travis—although he's very handsome. If I were old enough, I'd have fallen in love with him too, but I'm never going to fall in love with anyone.” She scraped frosting from one of the cakes and popped it into her mouth, blissfully unaware of the contradictions she had just uttered.

  "And guess what I did to dumb old Gavrell Pickering? If he'd found you for that last dance, you wouldn't have been out there kissing Travis, and then—well, anyway, I got even with Gavrell. I baked up these cookies with Mama's loosening tonic in them when I heard he was coming to call, and then I fluttered my eyelashes at him every chance I got till he didn't know what to do. He ate every single cookie.” Frannie burst into more giggles. “I'll bet he hasn't left the outhouse yet. They don't have a commode, you know, so he has to..."

  Jessica smiled fondly at her sister. This was the girl who was all grown up? Dear Frannie.

  "What is that garment you're wearing?” demanded Penelope.

  "It's called a rainy-day skirt,” mumbled Jessica.

  "It's disgusting. Your boots show."

  "It's English,” said Jessica. “English ladies wear them on rainy days, so their skirts aren't ruined."

  "Yours is. It's soaking and muddy. So are your boots. And how dare you fail to appear at my tea? Where were you?"

  Jessica had hoped to return in time for at least part of the tea but, in her delight at seeing Frannie, had forgotten. Then she'd hoped to slip into the house unnoticed, but Penelope had been waiting for her in a rage. Well, there was nothing for it; she confessed to meeting Frannie.

  "Your sister? Anne Harte's daughter? I forbid you to associate with those people."

  "But, Penelope—"

  "You're not to see Justin Harte or any of his family. Do you understand me? Do you realize how much taking you in has cost me? The wedding, the trousseau. Then the bank. Oh, no one's told you about that? Your father—” her voice dripped venom “—was so furious with you that he threatened to cause a run on the bank unless we threw you out in the street—out in the street, young lady. We'll have to buy him out to keep him from ruining Cattleman's. So I think you might show a little gratitude. And don't you tell him who's buying those shares either. And do something about your appearance, for heaven's sake. You look like some common little seamstress in your muddy boots and skinned-back hair. How any daughter of mine could have so little sense of style..."

  Chapter Nine

  "Jess, wake up, honey."

  Jessica dragged herself o
ut of the frightening coils of her dream. Penelope had been pursuing her, face twisted with rage and hate.

  "Jess, what is it?” Travis lit the bedside lamp. “You were crying."

  Because Travis had awakened her so abruptly, Jessica could remember her dream in all its ugly detail, and she knew what had caused it—the afternoon confrontation with Penelope, when her mother's contempt and dislike had been so disturbingly evident. But how could she tell Travis about it when he had gone to so much trouble to find Penelope for her? How could she admit that her own mother hated her?

  "I must have had a bad dream,” said Jessica vaguely. “Too much excitement, I suppose."

  "At Penelope's tea?” he asked, astonished that a woman of Jessica's intelligence could enjoy such a stultifying afternoon.

  "Actually, I didn't go. Frannie was in town, and we had tea at the Worth.” Her face warmed at the memory. “She gave me all the news. Papa's gone to Galveston because of the hurricane, and Mama sent her love. She's having my things sent to me—books and clothes and so forth. We had a wonderful time.” Jessica felt more cheerful already. “Frannie's so funny. You wouldn't believe what she did to Gavrell Pickering."

  "Gave him the commode tour?” asked Travis, grinning.

  "Worse,” said Jessica and told him about Frannie's cookie recipe.

  "Serves him right,” said Travis, “cutting in on me when I was dancing with my future wife. Seriously, though, Jess, I'm glad you had such a fine visit with Frannie. I know how you've missed them."

  He's so kind, thought Jessica. He'd never believe how awful Penelope could be, especially since Penelope inevitably behaved better in Travis's presence. Oh, Jessica realized that her mother was ill, but sometimes the mood changes were hard to tolerate. Jessica had lived so many years doubting her father's love, and now to discover that her mother didn't like her either! Even at her sweetest, Penelope was critical. Why did Travis never notice that?

  "Why are you still wearing nightshirts to bed?” Travis asked teasingly as he captured her attention by untying the pale blue ribbons at the throat of the garment and moving his lips to the tempting valley between her breasts.

  Jessica didn't feel like making love. With her heart as heavy as lead in her breast, she wanted to sleep and escape the ugly memories of that appalling scene with her mother. “Travis, I don't—"

  "Hush,” he cut her off, already lifting the long skirt of the nightdress.

  "Travis.” Jessica had never asked him to leave her alone and couldn't believe that he was ignoring her. “Travis!” He had pushed the soft batiste gown up around her waist and moved above her. “Don't!” she said sharply. “You're hurting me!"

  Shocked, he drew back. She had never refused him, and he didn't like it. One of the wonderful things about their marriage was her responsiveness, but perhaps she had a point. He hadn't prepared her. Angry with himself, Travis sat up to blow out the lamp, the conviction growing in his mind that Jessica's wonderful afternoon with her sister couldn't be at the root of her bad dream and subsequent depression.

  No, more likely it was Penelope. Now, that made sense. Jessica had skipped Penelope's tea to spend the afternoon with her sister, and Penelope hated to be thwarted every bit as much as she hated the Hartes. Given the combination of events, it stood to reason that she'd said something hurtful to Jess and precipitated all this.

  "Sweetheart, did your mother have anything to do with that bad dream you had?"

  "What would m-make you think that?” Jessica stammered.

  What a poor liar she was, he thought. Penelope had to be at the bottom of this, and if he backed off now, he'd be ceding a round to his mother-in-law, the bitch; Travis was beginning to feel a great deal of sympathy for Justin Harte, who'd actually been married to the woman.

  In the meantime his wife had pulled her nightshirt back into place, which wouldn't do at all. “Let's try something new,” he murmured, promising himself that this time she'd be eager. She might be in shock, but she'd be eager. He smiled into the darkness as he removed the garment entirely.

  "Travis, I really don't—” She stopped because he had put his lips against her breast, which was something she loved, even if her own reaction embarrassed her. Then as he continued to kiss her breasts, he rubbed the palm of his hand in circles on her stomach, very lightly, wider and wider circles until he was brushing her thighs and the soft triangle of down at their apex. Trembling, Jessica's mind skipped to the times he had touched her between the legs, causing a wonderful rush of heat and the overpowering drumbeat of passion inside her. As if he could read her mind, he stroked her thighs until her whole body craved a more intimate touch, until her legs weakened and parted of their own accord and his hand stroked higher, rewarding her, but not high enough.

  Now she ached for the touch, and, little by little, stroking her legs, kissing her now around the waist and navel, Travis enticed her into the invitation he wanted, which, when she had opened to him sufficiently, he took with his mouth rather than his fingers.

  She cried, “No!” and tried to heave him away, clutched his thick black hair to drag his head from her, but even as her fingers clenched, her protest changed to dazed, electrified passion. She writhed against the sheets as the intimacy of what he was doing overtook her.

  She had once seen a man, sprinting beside a streetcar through standing water, grasp the hand rail to board. He had gone rigid with electric shock. That happened to her. First, shudders wracked her body and she cried out. Then the wonderful, unbearable tension peaked, and her body arced like lightning across a midnight sky until she collapsed, spent and trembling. Travis covered her, fitted himself to her, and his easy movement within felt almost like peace after a cataclysm.

  "Not hurting anymore?” he murmured against her throat.

  She shook her head. His persistent rocking felt wonderful, but she was floating, drowned after the storm he had subjected her to. She could only accept passively as the ripples spread and spread through her body and she murmured with pleasure, her head thrown back against the pillow, arms limp against the fine, smooth linen.

  Later when she lay asleep, Travis, smiled and thought, To hell with you, Penelope. You'll never come between me and mine again. Or would she? Travis suddenly had a picture of what would happen if Jessica ever found out why he had courted and married her. He turned on his side to look at his sleeping wife. She'd be heartbroken—sweet, sensitive Jessica, who couldn't even see the evil in Penelope. How would she feel if she found out that her husband was eaten up with hate and had used her to appease it? He turned onto his back again, staring bleakly into the darkness. Was he willing to risk hurting Jessica in order to avenge his father's death? He didn't know.

  Abraham Hartwig laid his slouch hat with its silver cords of office on the table of the private room they'd commandeered in the saloon. “Mr. Arleigh here's a Pinkerton agent, one of the best. He's tryin’ to head off Butch Cassidy an’ that bunch, catch ‘em next time they take on a train or bank."

  Travis studied Hamlet Arleigh, a small, slender fellow wearing an impeccable derby above a pinched face and round steel-rimmed spectacles. He looked more like a bookkeeper than a detective.

  "Ever since I looked into the Greshams for you, I been interested in your new father-in-law,” continued Lieutenant Hartwig. “An’ like I told you Labor Day, suddenly Hugh Gresham's got connections down in Hell's Half Acre with Cassidy, who's taken to callin’ himself Jim Lowe an’ hangin’ ‘round Fort Worth between jobs. Cassidy turned up here two years ago an’ spends his time over to Fannie Porter's when he's in town.” Hartwig stopped talking until their beers had been delivered and they were alone again.

  "They say his partner, the Sundance Kid, is in love with a new girl at Fannie's named Etta Place. Anyway, they're real popular fellas, do lots of hell raisin', an’ lots of outlaws visit them from time to time. Lotsa outlaws an’ your father-in-law—they've met three times in the last six weeks. Me an’ Arleigh here are real interested in what them two got in common."<
br />
  "Any ideas?” asked Travis, his own curiosity piqued.

  "On a big robbery, Cassidy and his gang sometimes pick up nonnegotiable securities,” said Hamlet Arleigh. “If that happens, they either have to throw them away or forge signatures—bank presidents’ and cashiers'. Then they have to find someone to take them. We figure that, for a price, someone like Gresham might be willing to let that sort of paper pass through his bank and into circulation. If he were desperate, he might even sign some himself.” Arleigh stared at Travis. “Is there any reason to think your father-in-law might be willing to participate in such a scheme?"

  "Perhaps,” said Travis, excitement beginning to bubble in his head. If Hamlet Arleigh was right, and with both Pinkerton's and the Fort Worth police on the alert, disaster was already stalking Hugh and the Cattleman's Bank. Travis could sit back and watch it happen, savor Gresham's downfall without lifting a hand, without risking any hurt to Jessica. “Yes, Hugh might be that desperate."

  "Why?"

  "Several reasons,” murmured Travis. “First, he's got a wife who spends money like she was coining it. Then just recently one of the bank's directors threatened to sell off his stock. Hugh panicked. He's trying to get enough money together to buy the shares himself so there'll be no loss of confidence among the depositors."

  "Then he's afraid of a run on the bank?"

  "Right,” Travis agreed. “So he's strapped for money and cutting back on expenses, which gets him a lot of recriminations from his wife."

  Hartwig grinned. “Good. Real good. In that case, we got a favor to collect from you, Travis."

  "Oh?” Travis shifted uneasily in his chair.

  "Yep. No one's going to invite me to dinner at Gresham's or give me a chance to look through his papers, but you—you're livin’ right in his house."

  "Look, Abe, I—"

  "Hear me out. ‘Sides that, I can't go down to Fannie Porter's an’ get friendly with Cassidy an’ them without causin’ comment, an’ if Hamlet here went an’ anyone at Fannie's found out he was with Pinkerton's—hell, they'd probably hustle him out back and shoot him. But you, Travis, you can go down there.” Hartwig grinned and slapped Travis on the shoulder. “Cassidy's bound to like you, amigo, a fine fellow like you. You can get us all kinds of information."