by Nan Ryan
Edmund Curtin had failed to tell him the number of the Curtins’ suite, so West hurried downstairs to inquire. He was directed right back up the stairs to the apartment next to his own.
His room was number twelve. The Curtins were in suite eleven. When he stood before number eleven’s main door, an alarming warmth suddenly crept up the length of his body. He shook his head, waited until it had passed, then raised his hand and knocked.
Inside, Elizabeth, busily checking to make sure everything was ready and waiting, called to her brother-in-law through the closed door of his bedroom.
“I’ll get it, Edmund. Take your time.”
Crossing the suite’s burgundy-carpeted sitting room, she gave the low-dipping bodice of her pale peach silk gown one last tug, patted at her upswept red hair, and paused directly before the heavy carved door. She summoned up an engaging smile for the waiting desert guide whom she envisioned as a rough-hewn buckskin-clad bear of a man, ill-at-ease in civilization and woefully shy and uncomfortable around women.
Smiling warmly, Elizabeth opened the door.
And found her vision filled with a tall, strikingly handsome man who appeared totally relaxed as he stood with one long arm raised and propped against the doorframe.
Elizabeth stood paralyzed, the foolish patronizing smile frozen on her face. Her first impression blurred into one mesmerizing essence, then separated into each individual aspect of his compelling good looks.
Thick, well trimmed hair of midnight black. A smooth, tanned complexion, clear of any blemish. Heavily lashed, low-lidded eyes of smoky gray. High, prominent cheekbones. A straight, princely nose. A finely sculpted jaw. Wide, sensual lips that were turned up into a hint of a grin.
The suit he wore was the exact color of his eyes. The gray linen fabric stretched across broad, powerful shoulders, and with his long arm raised, the jacket hung open to reveal that he wore no waistcoat. Beneath a shirt of pristine white, the thick black hair of his chest was a shadowy testimony to his rugged maleness.
Forcing her gaze up to the silver and turquoise adornment at his brown throat, Elizabeth finally found her tongue.
“Ah … Mr. … Mr. Quarternight?”
“You can call me West,” he said, lowering his arm and thrusting out his right hand, his gray eyes glinting with an amusement she did not understand or share.
“I’m Mrs. Dane Curtin, Mr. Quarternight.” She frowned and withheld her hand. “You may call me Mrs. Curtin.” She stepped back. “Won’t you come in?”
Still grinning, West stepped leisurely past her, so close she caught the faint scent of shaving soap. Unhurriedly, he walked across the large sitting room. Expecting him to turn any minute and catch her watching him, Elizabeth, a hand at her throat, stared at his back and watched the muscles of his wide shoulders pulling beneath the well-fitted gray linen suit coat.
Wondering why this dark man made her feel uncomfortable, and praying that Edmund would soon join them, Elizabeth drew a shallow, nervous breath and moved forward to make their guest feel welcome.
Pretending to fuss with a perfectly arranged bouquet of wildflowers atop the damask-draped table at the room’s center, she glanced hurriedly at West Quarternight and said, “Please, Mr. Quarternight, have a seat.”
“Why, miss,” said West, continuing to stand, “I wouldn’t think of sitting down until you’re free to join me.”
“You called me miss, Mr. Quarternight.”
“Did I? Forgive me, Mrs. Curtin.” He smiled, and added, “Won’t you come over here?”
Trapped, Elizabeth told herself she was acting impolite and foolish and there was no excuse for either. This man had been invited here and had done nothing to warrant her bad manners. Should Mr. Quarternight have to pay for the fact that he was not the wild, woolly-looking creature she had expected?
From the table’s colorful centerpiece, Elizabeth plucked a purple columbine and, turning, smiled graciously at the tall man standing with his back to the brightly burning fireplace.
“I’ll be happy to join you, Mr. Quarternight,” she said, and walked toward him. When she was no more than three feet away, she held out the purple flower. “This would make the perfect boutonniere for your lapel.”
“Yes,” he said, “it would.” But his eyes were on her face, and he made no effort to take the flower from her.
Puzzled, Elizabeth moved one step closer and lifted the purple columbine up toward his face. “Well, then … here … don’t you want it?”
“More than you know,” he said. Still his arms remained at his sides.
Elizabeth exhaled in exasperation. “Then take it.”
“No,” he said, his voice suddenly low and soft. “You give it to me.” Elizabeth’s lips fell open; anger flashed in her eyes. She lowered the flower and started to back away. With a swiftness that startled her, West Quarternight reached out, wrapped dark fingers around her fragile wrist, and held her fast. “I’m only asking you to place the blossom in my lapel,” he said, his gaze holding hers. “Since I’m all thumbs, won’t you do it for me?”
Knowing instinctively that this tall, dark man was not “all thumbs,” Elizabeth said commandingly, “Let go of me, Mr. Quarternight.”
West released her immediately and for a long moment they stood there, not moving, not speaking, silently sizing each other up. Never a woman to allow anyone to get the better of her, Elizabeth consciously willed her tensed body to relax. There was, she reminded herself, absolutely no logical reason to be ill-at-ease and jittery.
Lifting her chin and throwing back her bare shoulders, Elizabeth said, “I’ll be happy to help you with the boutonniere.” She smiled and added, “Come a bit closer, won’t you, Mr. Quarternight?”
West stepped closer. Stood so close she would have to tip her head back to look up at his tanned face. But Elizabeth didn’t look at his face, didn’t want to be snared again by that compelling gray gaze. She kept her head bent, her attention on the stubborn buttonhole of his gray linen lapel. She painstakingly attempted to tuck the small purple flower with fingers that had become unfamiliarly clumsy.
“Thanks, Mrs. Curtin,” West said, when at last the vivid blossom was secure in his lapel.
Elizabeth’s head turned and came up just as his turned and bent forward. Their noses bumped slightly and their lips were less than an inch apart. Elizabeth felt his warm, fresh breath on her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and automatically clasped her bare shoulders with strong brown hands. His lips moving against her cheek, he asked, “Have I hurt you?”
Elizabeth went hot from head to foot, then icy cold. She pushed on his solid chest as if he had violently attacked her. “No, no, of course not,” she said, backing away, quickly putting space between them. “And you won’t!” she added inanely.
“He won’t what?” said Edmund, smiling as he entered from his connecting bedroom.
“I won’t disappoint her,” said West smoothly. “Your sister-in-law was gracious enough to say she’s heard I’m the best guide in the New Mexico Territory. I said I hope she won’t be disappointed.” He looked at Elizabeth, smiled, and waited for her to stammer or deny it.
Calmly, she said, “And I told Mr. Quarternight he is surely too modest. I’m certain we won’t be disappointed in his services, will we, Edmund?” She turned and smiled at West. He alone saw the fiery snapping of her sparkling blue eyes.
“From all I’ve heard,” said Edmund, crossing to properly greet West, “we’re in the best of hands.”
“I’ll try to live up to my reputation,” replied West.
Suggesting they relax and get better acquainted, Edmund went to the well-stocked drink trolley. While Elizabeth took a seat on the leather sofa, Edmund poured ruby-red Madeira into stemmed wineglasses from a cut-crystal decanter. West Quarternight remained standing.
After handing a glass of wine to Elizabeth, Edmund held out a glass to West and said, “Sit down, sit down. We’ve a good hour before dinner.”
Elizabeth
suddenly wanted to kick herself. She had thoughtlessly sat down right in the middle of the sofa and now it was too late to move. West Quarternight would sit down beside her, there was no doubt in her mind. West moved and Elizabeth braced herself. Her fingers tightened on the delicate stem of her wineglass.
West took one of the matching wingback chairs directly opposite the sofa, folding his lanky frame into it, stretching his long legs out before him and leaning back. Surprised, Elizabeth glanced at him. For a moment his silver gray eyes penetrated hers, sending a shiver of excitement and alarm racing through her.
Edmund joined them. He sat down on the sofa beside Elizabeth. Balancing the wineglass on a knee, he said, “West, we’re both glad you could have dinner with us this evening. There’s so much to discuss, so many plans to be made.”
Elizabeth was silent while the two men spoke of the upcoming mission, of her husband’s missing expedition, of what might have happened. She caught herself leaning forward as West Quarternight spoke dispassionately of her husband’s fate.
“I wouldn’t worry about the various legends surrounding the Grayson Gold. You’ll soon learn that the Mexicans and the Indians are highly superstitious people. They believe in ghosts and evil spirits and they spread tales about ‘winged creatures of the night.’”
He took a drink of Madeira. His lips gleamed as he continued, “I’m familiar with every rock, every tree, every butte, every stream of the route the Curtin-Lancaster expedition was to take.” He paused, then said, “The Spaniards didn’t call it jornada del muerto for no good reason. Very inhospitable country.” His eyes came to rest on Elizabeth. “You might want to consider staying here in Santa Fe, Mrs. Curtin.”
“We’ve been through that already, West,” Edmund answered for her. “Both Martin Exley and I have tried to persuade her to stay here, but she is determined.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Aren’t you, my dear?”
“I am,” she said, with far less fervor than before, half wishing she could back out.
“Well, it’s up to you,” said West. “But let me make it clear to you both, if you back out once we’re on the trail and don’t go all the way, we still get paid. The full amount.”
“Why, certainly,” said Edmund.
A uniformed hotel steward arrived with dinner. While the three of them sat down at the table draped with beige damask and set with orange-toned pottery and heavy silver, the white-jacketed steward pushed a serving table on wheels into the suite.
First came the cold consommé, followed with roast rib of beef, sautéed potatoes, string beans, and hot bread.
The meal was superb, but Elizabeth couldn’t enjoy it for stealing glances at the man who seemed so strangely familiar. His presence was unsettling. Something about the man made her feel both excited and guilty.
And nervous, terribly nervous. The nervousness showed. She accidentally dropped her fork. It clattered loudly onto her stoneware plate, then landed on the burgundy carpet.
West Quarternight’s dark head swung around, and he fixed her with those silver-gray eyes and smiled. Not five minutes later she spilled a drop of the ruby-red wine on the bodice of her pale peach silk dress and those bothersome silver eyes were on her again. They quickly came to rest on the telltale spot directly atop her left breast.
She wanted to die.
Coffee and dessert were served. But Elizabeth was afraid to touch the delicious-looking apple suet pudding with hot syrup cream sauce. Her hands folded in her lap, she waited for the long, miserable meal to end. Long after both men had finished and had lingered over their brandy and coffee, West Quarternight finally suggested it was time he leave. Elizabeth was relieved.
She dropped her napkin on the table and rose so rapidly, her full cup of now-cold coffee overturned and spilled. But not on her. The coffee spread directly toward West Quarternight. He saw it coming, but not in time to get out of the way. He was half out of his chair when the dark brown liquid splashed the lower part of his white shirt front and dribbled down his gray linen trousers.
Crimson with embarrassment, Elizabeth, apologizing for her clumsiness, grabbed up her napkin and started blotting at the stains, moving the napkin hastily down his body, until she realized with horror that she was frantically patting at his crotch.
She jerked her hand away and, refusing to meet his eyes, said, “I’m sorry … I … never meant to … I …”
“Think nothing of it, Mrs. Curtin,” he said evenly and rose fully from his chair.
Her face and ears were burning. She was vaguely aware that the two men stood and talked for a few minutes longer, Edmund totally taken with West Quarternight, while she felt that if he didn’t hurry up and leave she would explode.
Finally they all moved toward the door. West opened it, then turned to face them. His manner was maddeningly calm. He seemed totally unperturbed and in charge. Elizabeth wondered how any man could stand with coffee dripping down his belly and onto his crotch and appear to be so annoyingly cocksure!
At last he said goodnight, turned and walked out, and Elizabeth felt like shouting for joy.
But before Edmund could close the door, Quarternight paused, turned, and came back.
Turning teasing gray eyes directly on her, he said, “Tell me, Mrs. Curtin, have you ever spent any time in Shreveport, Louisiana?”
Elizabeth’s heart stopped beating. Her face drained of color as she watched his sensual lips turn up into a devilish smile.
“Never!” she said, her voice rising dangerously close to a shout. Then, more softly, her face mirroring her shock, “No, Mr. Quarternight,” she lied, “I’ve never been to Louisiana.”
17
“IMPRESSIVE, ISN’T HE?”
“Who?”
“Why, West Quarternight, of course,” said Edmund, closing the heavy carved door behind the departing West. “Elizabeth, aren’t you feeling well?”
“I feel just fine,” she said irritably and swept across the sitting room to stand before the fireplace. Staring into the flames, she added, “Why do you ask?”
Edmund came to her. “My dear, I asked because you obviously haven’t been yourself this evening.”
Elizabeth whirled to face him. “Edmund, let’s retain another guide. Someone older, more experienced.”
Taken aback, he stared at her, baffled. “But why, Elizabeth? Quarternight may be just thirty-one, but he comes highly recommended and he seems to—”
“Yes, yes, but there’s something about him that’s … I don’t know … I’ve the strongest feeling he’s not entirely trustworthy.”
His brow furrowing, Edmund said, “I can’t for the life of me imagine why you would feel that way.” A worried expression came into his green eyes. “Did something occur before I joined the two of you that—”
“No, no, nothing happened,” she said impatiently. “It’s his manner. He’s impolite and arrogant and … and … unfeeling. You heard the way he talks about Dane and the others as if finding them means nothing more to him than … than—”
“Than just another assignment?” Edmund finished her thought. “Elizabeth, we can’t expect West Quarternight to feel the way we do about Dane’s plight. West is a cool professional. He doesn’t know and love Dane the way we do.”
Elizabeth had trouble meeting Edmund’s eyes. “You’re right, of course, but I do wish Mr. Quarternight were a more gentle, sensitive man. I wish he were more like you, Edmund. Like you and Dane.”
Edmund smiled at his sister-in-law. “Granted Quarternight may not be the kind of man that sheltered, well-bred young ladies admire, but he is perfect for our needs. He strikes me as being totally fearless and imperturbable.”
“Cocky and uncaring fits him better.”
Edmund laughed. “Would it shock you to learn that I’d give anything to be a bit more like West Quarternight?”
“Edmund Curtin!”
“It’s true. There are times when every man wishes he was a bit more daring and dauntless.” Edmund suddenly turned wistful. Thinking alo
ud, he murmured, “My darling Louisa might have behaved differently if I … I …” He caught himself, and fell silent.
Elizabeth gently patted his shoulder. “You’re twice the man West Quarternight is, Edmund.”
“And you are a sensitive and remarkable young woman. How lucky Dane is to have you.” His melancholy abruptly disappeared and he smiled warmly. “I wouldn’t worry about Quarternight. You won’t have to be around him much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day and I’m rather tired. I think I’ll retire.”
“An excellent idea,” said Elizabeth. “Good night, Edmund.”
“Good night, my dear. Shall I turn out the lights here in the sitting room?”
“I’ll do it. You go on.”
He said goodnight again and went to his room, closing the door behind him. Elizabeth stood watching intently for several long minutes, waiting until she saw the spill of light beneath his door turn to darkness. Releasing an anxious breath, she flew about the spacious sitting room, putting out the lamps.
She rushed into her own bedroom, locked the door, and spent the next half hour pacing the floor and worrying. A million disjointed thoughts raced through her tortured brain as she restlessly paced.
How could this be happening? How could it possibly be true? Was it true? Was the bearded Yankee spy she had so urgently made love to four years ago in a Confederate death cell here in Santa Fe? Was the dark, thin man the Confederates had called Colonel Jim Underwood one and the same as the superbly built guide, West Quarternight?
Was West Quarternight the dark stranger she had seen on the hotel balcony her first night in Santa Fe? Was he, as well, the dark man she had caught Doña Hope leaving naked on the bed? During this evening’s dinner, he had casually mentioned that he was staying in the room just next to the Curtins’ suite. He was either in the room next to Edmund’s bedroom or the one next to hers.