Christie

by Veronica Sattler

  Cousin Melissa! Christie would know those honeyed, simpering tones anywhere! Then she recognized Beau Richardson's low, youthful baritone.

  "Melissa, honey, this is different. I love you. Please, honey." The voice was thick and husky.

  "No, Beau, I just couldn't. Besides, I don't really believe you love me. .. . If I let you, would you marry me?"

  "Anything, darling, only just let me—"

  "No, I don't think so. You're just leading me on. Take me back to the ball now. I'm afraid Mamma will miss me."

  As Melissa began to move down the ladder, Christie quickly stole behind a barrel of oats which was placed conveniently near to Thunder's stall, and took advantage of the shadows to hide her movements. This was done none too soon, for now down came Beau, storming down past Melissa as she reached the ground level, and quickly passing to the outer door. His voice was angry.

  "All right, Melissa Stanhope, Miss Tease, you go ahead and keep your virtuous little body to yourself. I'm leaving, and don't go figuring I'm going to be around, begging your virginal little favors any longer. There are other fish in the sea!"

  "Beau, wait—don't leave me. I was only fooling. Honest, honey, come back!"

  "No, I don't think so, Melissa"—the anger softened a bit—"You'll just never consent to part with that virginally chaste body you prize so highly, and I'm through pleading!"

  With this, he moved through the stable door, slamming it behind him.

  "Beau, honey, please come back!" called Melissa, running after him, and when no answer came, she added, "And besides . . . who said I was a virgin?"

  Only seconds passed when the stable door opened and Beau stepped back inside. Christie could see him grinning as he swept her cousin in a tight embrace. Breathing heavily, he led her back up the ladder, to the loft.

  "But do you really love me?"

  "Of course I do, Melissa sweet, of course I do."

  "And you'll marry me?"

  "Mmm, sure I will, darling."

  These were the last words a shaken Christie heard as she made her way, quickly and softly, from the dark stable with the rustling noises in its even darker loft.

  Chapter Eight

  Christie rose with a start from what had been a restless sleep. Sitting up in the bed, she looked around at the familiar chamber and shivered, though-the air was warm. She began to recall the details of her nightmare as she sat there, eyes wide with fright.

  In the dream she was walking through a dark wood, moving toward a sunny clearing she could see far ahead, where Thunder stood, neighing for her to hurry; but as she approached, a tall figure stepped out of the darkness and barred the way. She sidestepped as if to move around him, but as she did so, his arms reached out and enfolded her. While she struggled in the embrace, she caught sight of his face. It was Garrett Randall! Managing to wrest free, she began to run toward the clearing, but just as she reached it, Thunder turned into Randall! Opening her mouth to scream, she woke up.

  Just then, a soft knocking came at the door, accompanied by Almeira's voice.

  "Miss Christie, are you awake?"

  The door opened.

  "It's nine o'clock and Mr. Charles is asking for you downstairs. Some of the guests are beginning to stir, and when I told him you were sleeping late, he asked that I see if you're feeling well and if so, bids you join him for breakfast."

  She went toward the windows and drew open the drapes, flooding the room with sunlight.

  "Nine o'clock! Meirie, how could I have slept so late?"

  "I don't know myself. It's not like you, child. Are you feeling all right? The headache that sent you to bed so early from your own ball—it must have been bad to do that. . . . You weren't drinking the champagne, were you, Miss Christie?"

  "No, Meirie—only punch. But I feel fine now. I hope I can make the proper apologies to the guests when I see them today."

  She decided not to mention her nightmare and jumped briskly out of bed, feeling restored now, by the cheery warmth of the sunny room.

  "Please tell Father I'll be down soon. Oh, Meirie, I think I'll wear that yellow morning gown you and Aunt Celia have been trying to get me into. It's too late for me to go riding now, and Father might enjoy it if I dressed to breakfast with him."

  As Almeira left, Christie moved rapidly through her morning bath, humming a soft tune to herself as she worked to dispel any lingering ghosts of the difficult night.

  The gown she had chosen was a buttercup yellow of the softest muslin, sprigged with tiny blue forget-me-nots. Its neckline was unusually low for a morning dress—another of Madame Celeste's inspirations—with only the narrowest strip of ruffled

  lace to shield the high roundness of her breasts as they curved sensuously above the bodice. Matching lace fell elaborately from tight sleeves ending at the elbows. The long skirt billowed out from the panniers, separating in front to reveal a blue- and white-striped underskirt. She donned matching yellow kid slippers and waited as Almeira tied her hair back simply with a narrow blue ribbon, allowing one shiny curl to lie enticingly over the left shoulder while the rest cascaded heavily down her back.

  A quick glance in the mirror assured her of the charming appearance she would present to her pleased father, and with a smile she tripped lightly downstairs to breakfast.

  Langston told her she could find Charles on the terrace, but as she approached, she could hear more than one male voice in conversation there.

  "The gray's untried as well, sir." It was Timothy Ryan's brogue.

  "Don't I know that, Tim?" Charles retorted. "But Mr. Randall's aware of that. It's the question of my daughter's . . . Christie! My dear, what a vision you are this morning! I trust you're recovered from your headache? Come, sit and join us. Here, sit down next to me," he said, indicating a chair. "It'll do my old eyes good to feast on your beauty beside me, darlin'."

  Christie stiffened slightly as she moved to her seat. Of course, he would still be here! He had said their business could wait until today. Damn! She should have gone riding!

  "Good morning, Father . . . gentlemen!"

  Old Ryan smiled a broad, gap-toothed greeting at

  her. She had been a favorite of his since she was old enough for her first pony, and he was clearly delighted to be present at table with the young lass.

  Garrett rose to help her to her chair, and as he began to speak, she couldn't help noticing how his eyes swept over her, lingering somewhat longer than necessary on the full, ripe curves of her breasts.

  "Once again I have the rare pleasure of your company, Christie. Would that all my business meetings could be so enhanced." The corners of his mouth turned up in the familiar mocking curve.

  "You've arrived just in time, my dear," said Charles. "As you know, Garrett's made his selection of mares, and we've already arranged their transport to his plantation near Charleston, but the current question has to do with the all-important selection of a new stud," he explained. "The need, as he sees it, is to find one with a good bit of Arabian blood, and, as I told him, I'm afraid we can't help him out with such an animal at this time because the only blooded stallion with heavy Arabian parentage at Windreach is—"

  "Thunder," she said flatly.

  "Yes, Thunder," said Charles. "But as Tim and I have been explaining to Garrett, the gray is not only not for sale, but your pleasure horse, and an untried stallion, to boot. Now he's come up with the notion of leasing him from us for a short term, so the question of his not being for sale would not apply, but that still leaves the other obstacles, Garrett, and I don't see a way around them."

  "The question of his being untried is one I'm prepared to take my chances with. I've seen the horse.

  His lines are excellent, and to have the opportunity to incorporate them into my breeding plan, I'd be willing to take the necessary risks. I'll pay well, as you already know, for any leasing arrangement you and Christie would care to draw up; you can name the terms."

  As he spoke, he leaned back in his chair, stretching
his long muscular legs out in front of him, and lit a cheroot, letting the smoke drift lazily over his head.

  "Then that leaves the question of his being Christie's pleasure horse, and it's here I'm afraid the barrier becomes insurmountable," said Charles. "There's no telling how using Thunder for breeding might change him."

  "Aye," said Tim, "I've seen many a tame enough stallion become an unmanageable beast once he's had a go at the mares, sir."

  Charles was silent for a moment. Then, looking toward Christie as he spoke, he said, "Garrett, Christie is my only child, and the love I bear her cannot be described in words. She loves the gray, and will ride no other. To jeopardize their relationship is something I couldn't bring myself to do, and that's what it would come to, should studding the horse make him too wild for her. Furthermore, knowing my daughter, there's an added danger. Say that we agreed to the arrangement, and Thunder came back to us unridable. Christie would never accept such a pronouncement—"

  "Father, please let—"

  "Nay, daughter, let me finish. As I was saying, Garrett, Christie, being the willful creature she is, would never take our word for it that the horse was not to be ridden, and the first thing we'd know, she'd

  be out to' prove us wrong, looking to break her sweet neck in the bargain! Her very life would then be in jeopardy, and that, sir, is a risk I'll never take. No, Garrett, I must decline the offer. I'm sorry."

  Beginning to wonder why her presence was even thought necessary in the first place, Christie's temper began to rise. She had been sitting, dutifully quiet for some time now, letting them talk as if she weren't even there, so when, at last, the opportunity came to speak, she jumped in impetuously.

  "Father, I thought you wanted my opinion in this decision, but you haven't even asked me how I feel."

  "Christie, that was before I fully recognized the danger you might be placed in—"

  "Fiddlesticks!" Christie rose from her chair. "You know I'm the best rider around—man or woman. There isn't a horse born I can't ride! How can you sit there and doubt my ability to handle a horse?"

  Her eyes glittered with green fire.

  "And when I think that it's not just any horse you're talking about, but Thunder! Why, I've been riding him for six years! And didn't people say, before you bought him for me, that I'd never be able to manage a stallion? So how can you be doubting my horsemanship now?"

  Garrett's eyes moved appreciatively over her slender figure as she spoke. "What a little wildcat," he thought "She's more than ever in need of taming. I wonder what color her eyes would take on in passion—lying willingly in bed—" He deliberately shut off this thought with a sharp self-reprimand. "Fool! Remember, the last thing you need right now is a romantic involvement with a fire-spitting virgin! That could only spell trouble, old man."

  Aloud, he said, "You puzzle me, Christie. I wouldn't have thought you'd even be for the arrangement, and yet, here you are, arguing against the only objection your father has to it. What's your interest in the matter?"

  "My reasons, Garrett, are two. First, there's curiosity about the exciting possibilities that exist if a horse with Thunder's qualities were to be properly used in the right breeding program. I know the other horses you've purchased. Those mares in the east pasture represent the best that years of carefully controlled breeding could produce. You have a good eye. But you're right. All the finely blooded mares in the world won't be worth an English farthing without the right stud to service them. And I believe Thunder could be that stud.

  "Secondly,"—here she took a deep breath, causing her breasts to rise slowly; and the effect was not lost on Garrett—"there's the offense I take at having my equestrian abilities doubted. Father, how can you question my competence? Don't you have any faith in what I can do?"

  But Charles was not to be persuaded. Although it had been easy for Christie to cajole and plead successfully many times in the past, almost always maneuvering him into acceptance of her wishes, this time she was destined to fail. It was one thing for him to capitulate in the unobserved quiet of their private discussions. But here they were in the company of two men whose opinions he valued, and Charles was stubborn. He could not afford to have his parental authority questioned under such circumstances! Adamantly, he cleared his throat and spoke. "Daughter, you know I love you and have rarely denied you

  anything, but on this matter I must insist you bow to my wishes—"

  "But—"

  "My mind's made up. I will hear no more on the matter. Your safety means more to me than all the breeding programs in this world or the next! The discussion is over."

  Now, Christie had had differences with her father before, but there had seldom been the tone in his voice she recognized now. It was to her credit that she knew when she was beaten and, wisely, she decided to hold her tongue. Flushing with controlled anger, she spoke in the softest whisper, with only the barest quiver of her lower lip giving evidence of the helpless frustration she felt.

  "Very well, Father. Then I must ask to be excused. Good day, gentlemen."

  And turning sharply on her heel, she lifted her skirts and sailed into the house.

  Garrett was thoughtful as he rode quietly down the trail that led from the main drive of Windreach. All in all, it had been a successful trip. He would have liked to make contact on the gray, but the mares were excellent and, he felt sure, there would still be time, before they were transported to Riverlea, for him to find a satisfactory stud with strong Arabian bloodlines. He must speak to Jesse about the black upriver he'd heard about.

  Then he found his thoughts taking a different path. Turquoise eyes spewing angry green sparks suddenly flashed before him. What was there about that blonde minx he couldn't so readily forget? Why, she wasn't even a woman yet. Half-child, half-wild

  thing, more likely. And untried females were something he could do without! Moreover, he had studiously avoided their kind whenever his adventures had cast him in contact with the softer sex. He'd have none of their weeping wiles, artfully ployed to trap an unsuspecting male into one thing—marriage! No, give him an experienced woman who didn't play games any time!

  He chuckled softly to himself as he remembered a certain young red-headed widow he'd known in Charleston. With a fair wind, the Marianne might make good time back to that port and he still remembered where the lady lived. ... He could use a day—or night—spent in such recreation before setting off on the serious business of—

  Once again his mind drifted. He would stop by the offices of Lewis and Carlisle while in Charleston. James Carlisle had been his father's attorney for years, and, subsequently, his and Jesse's. Perhaps the old man would have some news on the matter most important to him. Not that he'd been able to turn up much in recent years.

  Garrett knew the deed couldn't have been perpetrated by Indians. He and Jesse had spent their boyhoods in the company of the Indian boy named Laughing Bear, son of a Cherokee chief called Long Arrow. They had become good friends, and even now, the three spent time together, usually when the two white men could spare enough time away from the obligations of their plantation to hunt and fish for a while.

  He thought of the hunting trip, spent in Long Arrow's territory, that had kept him and Jesse away during the massacre. Following the funeral, he had gone to see Laughing Bear and his father to determine what light they might shed on the tragedy, and both Long Arrow and his son had dismissed the idea of Indian attackers immediately. Indians, even renegades, they had pointed out, would never have scattered the livestock the way these attackers had. They would have taken them with them—or at least some of them. Every last one of the Randall animals had been found, untouched. No, this had not been Indian work.

  Moreover, the chief had sent some of his own scouts to find out what news might be had of any renegade activity—from their own people or other tribes in the territory nearby—and the word had come back that there were no such raiding parties operating anywhere even remotely near their part of the country at that time. S
atisfied that his friends' assessment was accurate, Garrett had returned with a different plan for tracking down the guilty.

  He had gone directly from the Indian camp to James Carlisle, mindless of the fact that at the time he arrived, it was well after office hours and Carlisle would be taking supper at home. Leaving Jesse to tend to their horses, Garrett had stormed into Carlisle's house, demanding they talk, and the older man, after a reassuring word to Mistress Carlisle that the visitor, although young and impatient, was not unwelcome, had agreed. Thus it had been that Garrett had enlisted the attorney's help in delving into his search, beginning with a decision to look for possible motives.

  It had been quickly determined that Jeremy Randall had been well liked by all who knew him well, with not a personal enemy in the world, so that the possibilities of personal enmity being at the root of the bloodletting were remote. That had left business.

  Unfortunately, the beautiful mahogany Chippendale block-front desk Jeremy had had made and shipped from Philadelphia, and in which he had stored all his business papers, had been destroyed in the fire, and Carlisle could only account for some of the dealings those records might have told. But he had agreed to provide Garrett with the services of several men, handpicked and trustworthy, whom they would employ as detectives in the matter, hoping that somewhere they might come up with a clue, or better yet, hard evidence.

  And over the years, some information had come to light from these efforts. About a month prior to his death, Jeremy Randall had sold his entire tobacco crop—a particularly fine one that year—to one William Harper, a factor for a small company based in New York. There was nothing unusual in this, but upon being questioned by Carlisle's man, Harper had mentioned an unusual conversation he had had with Jeremy on the day the cargo was loaded and the final papers signed. Jeremy had told Harper, laughingly, that he was lucky to have had his bid accepted as early as it was, for if there had been any delay, a far more profitable deal could have been made, and that it had been his "damnable honor," as Jeremy had put it, which had gotten in the way. Harper's understanding of what Jeremy's words implied had been that someone else had offered a great deal more money for the same crop, but that Jeremy had given his word to Harper and their oral agreement had precluded his acceptance of the later, more generous offer.