When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  Leaving Guy to Stephen’s ministrations, his scraped palms having to be cleaned and salved, Leigh allowed Jolie to hustle her into her room, knowing that she would not be able to lie to Jolie about what had happened, and she didn’t want to. Jolie was the only person who would understand.

  “Now, missy, you goin’ to tell me without me havin’ to pry each little detail out of you as if I was pullin’ teeth?” she demanded, arms folded across her chest as she leaned against the door.

  Leigh nodded, but the hot tears hadn’t even started to fall before Jolie had her in her arms and was hushing her deep sobs as the terror of the afternoon came tumbling out. An hour later, Jolie was still bristling. The truth this time had caught her by surprise, even though she’d been having her feelings since hearing that thunder last night. But to have had one of her loved ones so close to death. Her long, thin fingers shook as she held the torn pieces of Leigh’s linen blouse and thought of the savage hands that had torn the material apart—and what would have happened if Leigh hadn’t been protected by the spirits.

  If she hadn’t been so angry, and scared still, she would have been smiling from ear to ear, for the spirits were watching over little Miss Leigh, Jolie thought, glancing to where Leigh was soaking in a tub of hot, soapy water, her hands furiously rubbing the dust and degradation from her tired body.

  Next to her, on the small nightstand, was the leather pouch. Jolie nodded thoughtfully, firmly believing now that what had happened five years ago, that summer when Leigh had first had in her possession the pouch—and had first crossed paths with Neil Braedon—had been destined from the beginning of time. She shook her head, vowing she’d never question the signs again.

  Leigh bent her head, dipping it beneath the water, then soaping the wet length of hair cascading over her slender shoulder. Jolie’s lips tightened ominously as she saw the dark red welt circling the back of Leigh’s neck, where the rawhide cord had been ruthlessly cut, leaving a painful abrasion against her soft skin.

  “Honey, I’m goin’ to fetch you a tray. You’re goin’ to bed early tonight. I already told Miss Camilla not to expect you for dinner, ’cause you’re so tired, an’ she understands. They’ve been sittin’ in the hall drinkin’ whiskey an’ sippin’ sherry, an’ talkin’ ’bout the war endin’ an’ what’s goin’ on back there in Washin’ton. So, you finish your soakin’ an’ I’ll bring you somethin’ nice an’ hot to eat. But first, I’m goin’ to burn this,” she promised, wadding up the offending piece of linen and stuffing it beneath her arm.

  Leigh nodded, opening her eyes and watching as Jolie left the room, and not for the first time did a member of the Travers family wonder what they would ever have done without Jolie watching over them.

  Jolie’s steps didn’t carry her far along the corridor before she came to a sudden halt. Walking along the hall directly in front of her, and carrying a tray loaded down with dinner, was the object of her thoughts—and even up until an hour ago, not very pleasant ones.

  Neil eyed the mulattress assessingly, as if a tigress had somehow found its way between him and the place he wished to be. And he wondered somewhat wryly if he was going to have a fight on his hands to bridge the distance.

  But he had misjudged his enemy—onetime enemy—because Jolie startled him when she stomped forward, her yellow eyes looking like molten gold as they brimmed with scalding tears, her lips quivering as she tried to speak, then, to his uneasiness, she reached out a clawlike hand and grabbed hold of his arm, and Neil was surprised to discover his flesh hadn’t been shredded. Staring intently into his face, the mulattress reached up and touched his chest, then his shoulder, then lightly touched his hard cheek with just her fingertips, the gesture of affection leaving him disbelieving.

  She said something in a tongue that he recognized as Indian, but it wasn’t Comanche or Kiowa, two tongues he knew, and then she nodded, rubbing her palm along his arm as if in some ceremonial gesture. Then she was gone, leaving the door to Leigh’s room unguarded.

  Shaking off his disquiet, Neil smiled. Half the battle had been won, he found himself thinking as he reached the door of his room—the room Leigh had chosen to sleep in. Balancing the tray, he opened the door and entered.

  He was amazed anew at the transformation of his room. When entering it earlier in the day, when he’d first arrived at Royal Rivers, he had been astonished by the change, little realizing how much a woman’s presence could alter the atmosphere of a room. Everything about the room, from the cheerful quilt across the daybed, to the small, feminine desk near the window, to the pair of lacy pantalettes thrown across the rocking chair, reminded him of Leigh. Opening one of the drawers in the dressing chest, the fragrance of lavender and roses had drifted to him and he had ached to see her again—the pleasure and promise of that thought keeping him alive through the last year of the war.

  Now, she was here. And she was his wife. There was nothing and no one to keep them apart now. He stared at her bare shoulders, bent slightly as she rubbed the foaming soap through her hair, the herbal fragrance drifting to him. As he watched, she rose slightly from the tub, the soapy waters falling away from her body and revealing the slim contours of her back and waist as she tried to reach the pitcher of clean water to rinse her hair.

  Setting the tray down on the dressing chest, he reached the pitcher first. Seeing the masculine hand taking hold of the pitcher, Leigh jerked her head and shoulders around, forgetting she half stood, and allowing Neil a generous view of her tip-tilted breasts, the rounded crests soft and pink, but before he could act on his amorous thoughts, she had sunk back into the soapy water. With a hand placed firmly on her wet shoulder, stiffening with outraged dignity, he poured the fresh water over the top of her head, grinning as she spluttered her protest of his rough treatment, although he doubted Jolie, in her finest moments of dealing with Travers pride, had been any gentler than he. There was a limit to a person’s patience.

  He stared down into her flushed face, the pulse beating rapidly in her arched throat fascinating him, but suddenly he stiffened, his gaze catching sight of the leather pouch as he set the pitcher back on the nightstand. Following his gaze, Leigh’s hand moved quickly, automatically to grab hold of it, to keep it safe. Then, as if she realized she hadn’t the right, she dropped her hand, lowering her head so she wouldn’t have to see the expression on his face, not knowing whether he would be pleased or angry that she had chosen to wear it.

  Neil picked up the pouch, which was so much a part of him. He glanced over at Leigh, his expression changing as he saw the angry welt marring the softness of her neck. Frowning, he noticed the frayed edges of the rawhide that had been retied into a knot—the width of the rawhide strap matching the irritated skin around her neck.

  She had worn it. He had left it with her, hoping…but never knowing if she would care enough to wear it, if she would even believe. He reached up and touched the braid of gold. A piece of soft leather, tightly laced with a blue ribbon had been woven around it—his talisman, he thought as he remembered the day he had claimed the blue ribbon as his prize. Never realizing how fateful that encounter with a beautiful young woman, her unbound chestnut hair flowing behind her as she rode bareback across a summer meadow, would change forever his life.

  “What happened?” he asked suddenly.

  The harshness of his voice startled Leigh, who was already suffering from the guilt of her lies. And she wouldn’t be able to assuage her conscience any—because she wouldn’t be able to tell Neil the truth.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your neck. It’s raw. You’ve been wearing this, haven’t you?”

  Leigh watched as he felt the leather pouch, holding it caressingly in his palm.

  “Yes, I have.” She admitted that much of the truth. “It caught on a branch while I was trying to catch the lamb. I didn’t lose it,” she said, a defiant note in her voice. “I’ve kept it safe. It wasn’t mine, even though you did forget it when you left Travers Hill that morning,” Lei
gh said, watching him carefully.

  “I knew exactly where I left it,” he answered. “In your hand, tucked beneath your pillow.”

  Leigh glanced up in surprise.

  “You left it with me on purpose? You hadn’t forgotten it in your haste, then?” she asked, uncertainly.

  “No, I knew you and your family had a long, perhaps dangerous, journey ahead of you. I thought you could use all of the good luck you could find.”

  “Oh,” Leigh said, stung, for his explanation sounded so impersonal, “then you have Jolie to thank for our safe arrival, because she believes in your Indian superstitions, and she saw that I didn’t throw it away,” Leigh added, turning a haughty shoulder to him as she began to squeeze the water from her dripping hair.

  Neil smiled patiently at her smooth back, wishing he could reach out and run a finger along that stiff backbone of hers. His smile widened, for they had all the time in the world to get to know one another. Turning away from the tub, he noticed the cradle. Walking over to it, he leaned down and carefully picked up the wide-eyed baby, holding her close in his arms as he stared into the rosy-cheeked face, the big dark eyes staring up at him so trustingly.

  Leigh watched as Neil touched one of Lucinda’s dark curls, his hand so gentle against the tender curve of her head, his arms holding Adam’s and Blythe’s child, the creation of their love, as if she were as precious as his own daughter. And in Neil’s eyes, she was, for Lucinda was special because of the sacrifice others had made for her—and, because of her existence, he had been given the woman he loved.

  Had Neil glanced up, he would have seen Leigh’s eyes full of love as she gazed at him, watching him press his lips against Lucinda’s soft brow, then placing her back in her cradle, rocking it for a moment until she stilled, but when he turned around, she was busy rinsing soap from her shoulders.

  “I’ve brought dinner,” he said conversationally as he selected a warm plate from the tray and made himself comfortable on the daybed.

  “Jolie is bringing my dinner.”

  “I met her in the hall, and, if I understood her correctly, she told us to enjoy our dinner.”

  Leigh couldn’t hide her dismay at Jolie’s defection. “I haven’t finished bathing yet,” Leigh told him, glancing over her shoulder in growing irritation as she saw him biting into a thick slice of beef, the tantalizing aroma drifting to her and causing her stomach to protest embarrassingly.

  “Fine, you finish. Your dinner will keep warm for a while,” he responded, apparently unconcerned. “But don’t linger too long, or you might catch a chill in that cold water,” he advised, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin to hide his grin.

  But still shy before him, Leigh remained in the water, ever aware of his warning as the water turned colder by the minute, until she was shivering noticeably and finally had to climb from the tub. Drawing on her pride, she stood, reaching for the towel on the back of the rocking chair. Wrapping it snugly around her, with stiff-necked dignity, her back straightened into haughtiness, her shoulders tilted at a lofty angle, her buttocks tight as if clad in buckram, Leigh stepped from the tub.

  Turning around, she stopped in amazement. Neil was sound asleep. Stretched out comfortably on the daybed, his tall, broad-shouldered body almost too long for it, with one of his moccasin-clad feet dangling close above his empty plate set on the floor, he slept, looking as innocent as a child.

  Sighing, for it had been a long day, Leigh unfolded the quilt and placed it over his sleeping form, tucking it around his shoulders, her hand lightly brushing his unshaven chin, feeling the obstinacy and strength that emanated from the man even while he slept.

  Quickly Leigh pulled on her nightdress, and perched on the edge of her bed, she ate her dinner, but her appetite had fled, and she left most untouched as disturbing images and sounds filled her mind until she sought release in sleep. Climbing into her cold bed, shivering still from her bath, Leigh huddled beneath the blankets.

  But the peace of slumber did not come quickly or easily for Leigh that night, and for hours she laid awake, tossing and turning as she sought something elusive that had been troubling her, tormenting her, until finally she fell into a deep, restless sleep, a pair of brilliant, sky blue eyes haunting her, hounding her into the deepest recesses of her mind.

  When she awoke the next morning, Neil was already gone. Bleary-eyed, Leigh dressed, eyeing Jolie suspiciously as she hovered around the room, looking too smug for anyone’s peace of mind.

  “Now you get down the hall an’ into the dinin’ room, missy,” Jolie told Leigh, eyeing her approvingly, for she’d chosen one of her prettier gowns today, a lavender-blue, floral-printed muslin. “I saw your dinner plate last night, an’ you didn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. If you’re goin’ to keep that handsome husband of yours interested, you’re goin’ to have to have a lil’ more flesh on those bones,” she added slyly, smiling when Leigh turned a cool shoulder to her and left the room, but her smile would have faded had she known that Leigh never reached the dining room.

  Passing by Nathaniel Braedon’s study, Leigh heard a crashing noise from behind the closed door, followed by a frightened whimper of fear. Remembering the incident the day before in Guy’s room, Leigh hurried into the room, thinking Guy might have somehow stumbled into Nathaniel’s study. Entering the quiet room, Leigh stood looking around, but the room was empty. Shrugging, Leigh was leaving when a scratching noise sounded behind her, and she turned to see one of Guy’s hounds shoot past her, his feet spinning against the wood floor as he tried to make his escape.

  This time, Leigh looked around the room more carefully, searching for something broken. It was a comfortable room, with a large mahogany desk centered before the window, with a big leather armchair positioned behind it, and from where Nathaniel ran the everyday affairs of his ranch. Bookcases filled one wall, and a high-backed leather sofa and upholstered chair had been placed near the fireplace. A map of the United States shared space on one of the walls with a map of Virginia and one of the territories; another map, of a Spanish land grant, the land Royal Rivers had eventually been built on, hung between them, the focal point for all that Nathaniel had achieved in his life.

  Fortunately, Guy’s hound had only knocked over one of the brass fireplace tools. Picking up the poker, Leigh was replacing it when she glanced up at the portrait hanging on the wall over the fireplace.

  Leigh gazed at the portrait. She’d only seen it one other time, for she didn’t often enter Nathaniel’s study—nobody did—but she hadn’t forgotten the beauty of the woman and child.

  Neil’s mother and sister. She was one of the most beautiful women Leigh had ever seen, with her midnight-black hair curling over alabaster shoulders that sloped elegantly to the lace-edged silk of her burgundy gown. Her mouth was soft and full and sweetly curved, the hand holding her daughter’s slender and delicate. And the little girl sitting next to her in a pink gown layered with lace and tied with a burgundy silk sash, showing the beginnings of great beauty in the dimpled cheek, flushed with happiness, and the finely arched curve of a black eyebrow, her lashes long and thick.

  Suddenly Leigh felt a strange coldness spreading through her as she met the brilliant blue eyes of mother and daughter, eyes she’d seen just the day before. There could be no mistaking that rare shade of blue. Eyes so bright, it was like gazing into the heart of the heavens. And that slight indentation in the chin…where had she seen that before? Leigh swallowed against the dryness closing her throat. Forgetting the overturned brass tools, Leigh backed out of the room, her steps carrying her down the corridor and away from the dining room.

  Leigh paused uncertainly just outside the house, feeling the sun beating down on her and taking away the chill from the study. Without thinking further about what she was doing, except that she had to prove it wasn’t true, she found her steps carrying her across the grounds.

  Approaching Solange’s studio, it appeared nothing more than a very small, weathered adobe shed for storin
g farming implements or feed stores. But once inside, a startling transformation occurred before one’s eyes. The far side of the one-room shed was floor-to-ceiling windows with an expansive view of green pastureland, dominated by towering mountains, and, above, dazzling blue sky stretching away into the distant heavens, while the sunlight poured into the room like a golden stream of honey.

  Paintings, portfolios, and rolls of canvas were stacked all around the room, except for a wide space before the wall of windows, which had been cleared of clutter, and where a lone easel stood facing the light, a half-completed canvas propped against it. Leigh stepped inside, the strong odors of linseed oil and turpentine assailing her, especially from a long, rough-hewn table crowded with jars full of varying-sized bristle-haired paintbrushes, spatulas, and pens, the quilled tips of descending degree in size and thickness, wads of paint-stained cloth, and boards dotted with splotches of paint representing every shade imaginable. Thinking it trash, she would have cleared the table of the broken sticks and short, coiled rolls of paper, but Leigh knew Solange used the odd bits to mix her paints and sometimes to apply the paint to the canvas. Molded sticks of chalky pigment were scattered across the table in a rainbow of color, and the shelves over the table were packed solid with small jars and packets of powdery pigments.

  Slowly Leigh weaved her way through the jumble, careful not to brush against the fresco painted on one of the walls. Solange called it her trompe l’oeil because it “deceived the eye” into believing the room extended far beyond its dimensions. The imagery created a graceful arcade supported by fluted columns that led to a balustraded balcony overlooking the Tuscany countryside in its pastoral and mythical beauty, complete with a nude figure of a voluptuous woman reclining on a pillowed couch, a lute-strumming young pagan sitting at her feet in adoration, shepherds in the fields, and muscular gods in the clouds. Solange had created it from charcoal sketches and pen and ink drawings she’d made while on her honeymoon in Italy, and declared she’d felt inspired to create her own Renaissance fresco. Besides, Solange had added with a wicked wink, it brought back very fond memories of her honeymoon. But despite her apparent jest, her hand had lightly touched the silvery widow’s peak above her wide forehead, as if being marked by it had brought true the prophesy of early widowhood, for Solange wasn’t even thirty-five, the silver streak the only gray in her dark brown hair.