Texas Blonde

by Victoria Thompson

  She filled both their glasses. "Another toast," she announced with false gaiety. "To Buffalo Bill and the wild West." She clinked Richard's glass and emptied her own. Maybe if she drank enough of this stuff, her memories would fade and the bed upstairs would not seem so empty.

  This time it was Richard who forgot to drink. He studied her face, the strained smile and the pain-filled eyes. For one instant he actually hated Logan for leaving her, for causing her such anguish. But only for an instant. She needed comfort now, and he was the person to give it. He removed the glass from her unresisting fingers and set it and his still-full one back on the cabinet.

  "Felicity, I think it's time I went home," he said softly, capturing her puzzled gaze with his own.

  She wanted to protest, to ask him to stay, but something in his eyes stopped her. His eyes were brown, the color of the sweet chocolate some thoughtful servant placed on her pillow every night. So engrossed was she in this thought that she hardly noticed when he took her hands in his.

  "Sleep well, lovely one," he whispered, and before she knew what was happening, he bent and touched his mouth to hers.

  His lips were soft, and warm, and sweet from the sherry, sweet but not chocolate, she noted distractedly in the moment before sanity returned and she jerked away from him.

  "Richard!" she cried, lifting the back of her hand to cover her mouth.

  She looked aghast, but Richard had expected just such a reaction. He gave her an amazed little laugh, as if he were surprised she had taken offense. "It was just a friendly kiss between cousins. I told you, we're kissing cousins. You remember that, don't you?"

  "You mustn't ever do that again, Richard," she said, horrified because for just the barest second she had found the kiss a pleasant comfort against her terrible sense of loss.

  He managed to look abashed. "I certainly won't if it disturbs you so much," he promised. "I only thought you might be feeling neglected because Joshua left you and…" He stopped at the sound of her anguished cry, genuinely sorry to have caused her more pain, but knowing he would have to cause her more still if he was to succeed.

  "Please, Richard, I… I think you'd better go now," she said, alarmed to discover she was trembling. But she was far too upset to decide whether the trembling was caused by Richard's kiss or by his reminder of Joshua's hasty departure.

  "Yes, yes, of course," Richard quickly agreed, but when he tried to take her hand again, she shrank from his touch. He settled for a formal bow as he took his leave.

  Felicity allowed herself one more glass of sherry before summoning a maid to help her undress. At least she would not have to enter the bedroom alone, she reasoned. But the girl was much too quick in her ministrations, and too soon Felicity found herself alone in the dark, curled up under the covers of the big bed.

  Her heart still seemed to beat too quickly, and she shivered against the silken sheets, every nerve quivering with the need to be touched. How could Richard's kiss have caused such a reaction? she wondered miserably. The very thought was wicked and sinful, especially when it wasn't Richard's touch she longed for at all.

  No, she realized sadly, it was Joshua's touch she wanted. Her reaction to Richard was simply a result of her last night with her husband. She shivered again and surrendered at last to the relief of tears. She would have to be very careful. Richard was an attractive man, and he cared for her very much. If she gave him any encouragement at all, something terrible might happen, something terrible that they would both regret.

  "Oh, Joshua," she sobbed, "why did you do this to me?"

  Josh raised his hand in greeting when he caught sight ol Grady waiting for him in the ranch yard. He kicked his rented mount into a trot to cover more quickly the final distance to his home. He hadn't notified anyone of his arrival, just in case some of Ortega's spies were waiting for that information. When the stage had left him at Prospect this morning, he had gotten a horse from the livery stable and headed home.

  Home. Josh glanced around the ranch with a practiced eye, looking for any sign that something was out of the ordinary, but he saw nothing unusual. Nothing, that is, except for the sling on Grady's arm. And the fact that Felicity would not be there to greet him.

  "Welcome home, boss," Grady said when Josh reined up beside him. "I'm sorry I had to send for you. I hated like hell to ruin your visit and all…"

  "That's all right," Josh reassured him, swinging down from his horse. "Just tell me what's been happening."

  As Josh unsaddled, Grady filled him in on the events that had occurred since his own ambush.

  "… and then yesterday we found ten calves with their throats cut," Grady finished, reluctantly giving Josh the last in a long list of atrocities.

  Josh swore. "That just doesn't sound like Ortega. The man has never been vicious," he protested.

  But Grady shook his head. "We've been hearing all kinds of rumors. Seems like he almost died last spring when you shot him, and he's out for revenge. From the things he's been doing around here, he must be plumb loco."

  Josh had to agree, if it was indeed Ortega who was responsible for these acts. Unfortunately, he also had another enemy who might well hate him enough to destroy his property in such a cruel manner. "Has anybody seen that Jeremiah fellow around?" he asked.

  "No, but…" Grady hesitated a moment, reluctant to mention something that might be painful to Josh. "Candace finally told me that he came to see her. She said you already knew about it."

  "Yeah, Blanche put it in the letter," Josh reported as the two men started toward the house, where Josh knew he would find Candace.

  Candace was waiting for him, and Josh stopped short at the sight of her. How could she possibly have aged so much in the few short weeks he had been gone? The face he had seen every day of his life had gone from ageless to old in a month's time.

  "Oh, Mr. Josh," she cried, tears spilling down her ebony cheeks. "I'm so sorry!"

  "There, now, it's not your fault," he murmured, taking her trembling body in his arms. Had she always been this thin? he wondered as he led her over to the settee and made her sit down. He motioned to Grady to leave them alone, and then, sitting beside her, he put his arm over her shoulders and soothed her as best he could until at last she quieted.

  "I should never have made you promise," she said, wiping the tears from her face with the sleeve of her dress. "If you'd killed him then-"

  "Hush, you don't mean that," he chastened. "He's your son! And besides, we don't know that he's involved in what's been happening."

  "But he's evil, Mr. Josh, all filled up with hate. You should have heard the things he said about you and Miss Felicity. Mrs. Delano thought maybe he was only trying to scare me, but she didn't see his eyes. He hates you so…" Candace drew a shuddering breath. "And he told me he was going to join up with Ortega again and help him ruin you. And it's all my fault."

  "Candace, it is not your fault," Josh insisted.

  "Yes, it is," she insisted right back. "If I'd gone home with your mother like she wanted me to, this never would have happened…"

  "We don't know that," Josh said in exasperation, fighting an urge to try to shake some sense into her. Why was she so determined to take all the blame for something that was clearly not her fault? "What's done is done. We can't go back and change it now, anyway. I don't want to hear another word about it. Do you understand?"

  She nodded miserably. "And I'm sorry you had to leave Miss Felicity back there…"

  "She's having the time of her life," Josh assured her, although the words almost stuck in his throat.

  "But she'll miss you…" Candace tried.

  "She'll be fine," Josh said, knowing only too well how true his words were. "Now, how about rustling me up something to eat? My stomach is starting to gnaw on my backbone," he added with a forced smile.

  "Right away," she sniffed, rising from the settee.

  Josh watched her go with a frown, noticing for the first time the way her proud shoulders had begun to stoop. When had th
at started? And why had he never noticed it until now?

  The next day Josh insisted on going out to see the murdered calves, although Grady and the men strongly objected. They argued that Ortega would love an opportunity to take a potshot at Josh, but Josh ignored their warnings. As it turned out, no one took a potshot at him, on that day or on any of the days that followed. In fact, all the previous harassment ceased abruptly.

  Too abruptly, everyone agreed as the tension mounted hourly. Something big was about to happen, and the strain of waiting began to take its toll on all the men. They went about their duties with every sense alert for trouble, but still nothing happened. The days dragged into weeks, and the weeks became a month. The bluebonnets turned the grass into an indigo carpet, heralding the formal beginning of summer. And still no sign of Ortega. Or Jeremiah Logan.

  Felicity wrote faithfully, and although her letters arrived sporadically and sometimes two together, Josh received a clear picture of her life in Philadelphia. Richard took her to a concert. Richard took her to a play. Richard took her to see Buffalo Bill. Richard took her to the park. Her grandfather bought her more new clothes and gave her some jewelry that had belonged to her grandmother.

  Oh, she said she missed him and hoped the roundup was going well, too, but that was just common politeness. Although she signed herself "your loving wife," she never mentioned coming home. Josh tried not to torture himself about it at night when he lay alone in the big bed they had once shared. He told himself that as soon as this mess with Ortega straightened out, he would summon her home. If she refused, he would simply return to Philadelphia and fetch her. Then they would be able to pick up the pieces of their lives and start over.

  Meanwhile, he could not bring himself to reply to her letters. He sat down at least a dozen times to write, but there was nothing to say. He dared not mention the trouble with Ortega, and he had no other news. He also dared not mention how much he missed her and wanted her here with him for fear she might actually come. Although it was his fondest wish, he refused to put her in danger.

  The perils she faced in Philadelphia, while just as real, were far less hazardous than the ones awaiting her in Texas. And whatever Winthrop might plot, whatever Maxwell might scheme, Felicity was still Josh's wife. She belonged to him, and no amount of money would ever change that fact. But such thoughts were cold comfort to him as he waited day after day for Ortega's next move.

  Felicity looked up in surprise when Bellwood informed her that her grandfather wanted her to come to his room and meet someone. Normally she only visited her grandfather in the afternoon, when she either read to him or the two of them just talked. During those times, he had told her many things about her mother and himself, and she in turn had filled him in on the part of her life he had missed.

  As Felicity hurried up the stairs in response to this unusual summons, she reflected on how the afternoon visits with him and the activities that Richard planned for her had helped pass the lonely days without Joshua. Unfortunately, nothing could help her with the lonely nights. And both the days and nights seemed to be getting longer as each mail failed to bring her a letter from her husband. At first she had excused him, remembering how busy he would be with the roundup, but no excuse could explain why no letter had come after all these weeks.

  Sometimes she became angry and swore she would not write another line to him until he responded. Then she would decide it was better to torment him with tales of her glamorous life in Philadelphia, so she would write page after page. When these tales still brought no response, she would grow frightened. What if her earlier fears proved true? What if he really had decided he no longer wanted her as his wife? Had he left her here for good? Was this silence his way of telling her their marriage was over?

  Sighing over that thought, she stopped outside her grandfather's bedroom and knocked. "Come in, child."

  Maxwell called, and she did.

  Her grandfather's visitor was a man about her grandfather's age who still bore the air of authority Maxwell must surely have had before his illness.

  "Felicity, may I present my good friend, Alexander Evans?" Maxwell said. "Alex, this is my granddaughter, Mrs. Logan."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Logan," Evans said, taking the hand she offered. "I've been looking forward to this moment ever since I first saw your work."

  "My work?" Felicity echoed, giving her grandfather a puzzled look.

  "Yes, my dear," her grandfather confirmed. "You see, when I first saw your photographs, I was quite impressed, but since I am no expert, I asked the opinion of one who is. Alex here helped organize the Philadelphia Photographic Society. He's a photographer himself."

  Felicity smiled, delighted to discover a kindred soul, but before she could respond, Evans contradicted the assessment. "I'm only an amateur compared to you, Mrs. Logan. I know Henry didn't tell you, but he gave me your photographs to take to the last meeting of the Photographic Society. The gentlemen there were quite impressed."

  "Grandfather!" Felicity chastened him, not certain whether she was angry or not but certainly displeased that he had taken such a step without consulting her. "You shouldn't have done that."

  "My granddaughter is becomingly modest," Maxwell said by way of excuse for Felicity's reaction.

  "I am justifiably modest," she corrected him, giving Mr. Evans an apologetic smile. "You are very kind to flatter me, but I know my work is only passable…"

  "Passable?" Evans repeated, obviously astounded. "Do you mean to tell me that you really don't know how much talent you have?"

  Felicity's face mirrored his astonishment. "Photography is a craft. It doesn't require talent, not the way painting and sculpture and things like that do," she said, repeating the theories she had heard her father recite.

  But Alex Evans was shaking his head. "That's what painters would have us think, but only because they're afraid of the competition. Of course, your statement is true of many photographers who fritter away their lives simply taking pictures, but for a select few-like you, Mrs. Logan-the theory simply does not hold true. Can't you see for yourself the difference between your own work and that of others?" he asked.

  Felicity started to protest, a natural reaction ingrained in her from birth. It was wrong to put herself forward or to exhibit any pride in her accomplishments. But the truth of Mr. Evans's words stopped her. She had already recognized that her work was good, even though her father had given her scant praise. She knew Caleb Storm had only been afraid she would grow proud. He often quoted the Scripture verse about pride going before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction as an admonition.

  But she did know her work was good, and here was someone well qualified to judge it who confirmed that opinion. She smiled gratefully. "As Grandfather said, I'm modest," she excused herself.

  "What a waste of energy," Evans said, smiling back. "The reason that I'm here today is to ask your permission to display your work in the Photography Pavilion at the Centennial Exposition."

  "What!" Felicity cried, incredulous. As confident as she was about her work, she had never dreamed it deserved such an honor. "Now you really are flattering me."

  "Not at all," Evans replied. "I am on the selection committee, and the other members agree that your work merits inclusion in the display."

  "Oh, Grandfather," Felicity said in frustration, turning to the old man. She knew he would understand her feelings, how all her training rebelled at such a public show of what was a very private pleasure for her.

  Maxwell understood, but he did not let that influence him. "It would be very selfish of you to refuse Alex's offer."

  "Selfish?" Felicity could not follow his logic.

  "Yes, just think how proud Josh will be of you. And think of the future. Your children and grandchildren can brag that your work appeared at the Exposition," Henry explained persuasively.

  Felicity stared at him in shock. Her children? How could he say such a thing? But then she remembered that he did not know the det
ails of her baby's death. All she had told him was that the baby was stillborn. Her grandfather would naturally assume that she would have other children. Even she herself had not yet given up hope completely. But what if Joshua's predictions were true? What if Caleb Joshua was the only child she would ever produce? What then would she leave behind her when her life came to an end? The answer was ridiculously simple: her pictures. For now, at least, they were her babies, the only thing she could produce of lasting value.

  Feeling an unfamiliar surge of determination, Felicity turned back to Mr. Evans, who seemed a little surprised at the sudden change in her. "Thank you for your offer, Mr. Evans. I would be honored to have my pictures displayed in the Photography Pavilion."

  Mr. Evans was absurdly grateful, at least to Felicity's mind. After he left, her grandfather was, too.

  "Thank you for humoring me, my dear," he said. "I know how difficult it was for you to agree."

  But she smiled reassuringly. "I simply decided you were right. Pride is a sin, but it's a sin to hide your light under a bushel, too."

  Maxwell thought it best not to comment on that remark. Instead he said, "I suppose this means you'll stay at least until the Exposition opens. You'll have to be here to receive your accolades."

  Her smile flickered only slightly. "If there are any accolades," she replied, but she was really thinking about the other part of his statement, the part about her staying until May. It was certainly a reasonable expectation. What disturbed her was the thought that if Joshua did not want her back, she would be staying long past May.

  How happy her grandfather would be if that was the case. He would gladly keep her here. He had often mentioned wistfully that he wished he could do so. And Richard, too, would be pleased. More than pleased, she realized sadly. Although he had not tried to kiss her again, he had managed to make his feelings for her obvious nonetheless. He would be delighted to take Joshua's place in her life.

  The problem was that no one could ever take Joshua's place.