Surrendered (Intrique Under Western Skies Book 2)

by Elaine Manders

  “Sure.” Colt slapped his arm. “I’ll be on my way. Sorry about Smitty…and everything. If you need me, you know where I am.”

  Colt hadn’t even got to the door when Maria poked her head in. “Rhyan, Mrs. Sinclair is calling.” A hint of censure tinged her voice.

  With a frown, Rhyan followed Colt to the foyer, where a blonde woman sat on the sage colored brocade armchair beside the entrance door. She stood, a practiced smile curving her pink lips.

  There was a time when the sight of her would’ve shot desire through his veins. He’d sought out the Washington socialite only to gain introductions to the powerful men he hoped to influence. She’d introduced him to so much more.

  They’d had what the French call an Affaire de Coeur. But that was over two years ago. He was finished with Abby Sinclair, though he didn’t regret their relationship.

  When he arrived in Washington to lobby for Standing Bear, she’d opened her considerable political influence and her arms to him. She’d been the first to call him the Casanova Cowboy, and he became a draw to her parties, where men of power made decisions that affected millions.

  Colt touched his hat as he passed the woman. “Ma’am.”

  Rhyan waited until his friend closed the door behind him before focusing on the woman. “What are you doing here, Abby?”

  She came to him in slow, hip-swaying steps. “Darling, that isn’t a very warm greeting, especially since I went out of my way to see you.”

  He managed a lazy smile. “Let me start over. I’m pleased to see you, as always. Would you like to join me in the living room?”

  She lifted her perfect features to him. No one could deny Abby her beauty, but it jarred him for some reason. Maybe it was the mucilage on her lashes, the rouge on her cheeks, powder on her nose, but it showed false. Still, he counted her a friend.

  “We don’t have time for chit-chat.” She laid a gloved hand on his arm. “They’re going to let those contracts to provide beef for the reservations next week.”

  “Oh, I had no idea it was so soon.” Why would she think he cared?

  “Walcott is going to make the final decision. He owes you, remember?”

  He got the connection. Maybe the federal government wouldn’t care if the beef they sent the Indians was tainted with anthrax. But how did she know about his troubles? “I’m flattered you keep up with my affairs and look out for my interests, but you didn’t have to rush out here. You could’ve sent a telegram.”

  She laughed, a high-pitched, tinkling sound. “I came with my husband to Denver. He wanted to do some…western things. I got bored and caught the train home. There was talk on the train about your dilemma. I’d overheard George talking about the beef contract, so I got off in Westerfield to offer you a solution. It’s as simple as that.”

  Why not? He shoved his hands in his pockets and quirked a half-hearted grin. “Thanks for looking out for me. It’s worth a chance. I’m holding a dozen contracts I’ll have to break at great cost. And, as it happens, I need an excuse to leave town before I’m handed a summons. Any delay at all is to my benefit.”

  Abby’s glance passed him to the wall clock. “The train leaves in two hours. We could get a bite at the boardinghouse and be on our way.”

  “Should we be seen together? There will be reporters in town.”

  She smiled. “Since when have I shied away from reporters?”

  He answered her smile by widening his grin. If he were seen with Abby, talk would shift from Carianne to Abby.

  Carianne had to understand he wasn’t good enough for her. Abby would be the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. Carianne would come to her senses and leave town. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 6

  With every intention of shaking off her malaise and getting out of the house, Carianne donned her favorite dress, a periwinkle blue, summer cotton. She set a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head and tied the streamers at the neck. Her reflection revealed a serious young woman, so unlike her usual smiling self. But for the first time in days, her eyes didn’t appear blood-shot. At least she was presentable enough to go out among the townspeople and drum up support for a library.

  Rapping knuckles brought her out of her reverie.

  A smiling Colt, hat in hand, stood on the other side of the door. Had Rachel told him?

  Before she could speak, he thrust out a bunch of lilies. “I got them from Ma’s flower patch. Heard you needed cheering up.”

  Rachel had told him.

  “They’re beautiful.” As she took the bouquet, their hands brushed, and she noted the lack of any tingles. Good. She shouldn’t expect to transfer feelings from one man to another so quickly. Anyone like that would be fickle or wanton or both. “Let me put them in water, and I’ll be right out.”

  When she joined him, he was sitting on the steps, inspecting the wooden banister. She dropped beside him and made a fuss over adjusting her skirt.

  He shook a wooden spindle on the other side of him. “The railing’s loose. You should tell Mr. Amerson it needs repair.”

  “Actually, it’s my responsibility. I bought the house last month.” She’d used part of the money Rhyan had insisted on paying her for cataloging his library. “I now own a part of Westerfield.”

  “Yeah?” He gave her a curious glance. “Rachel was afraid you might leave. Glad to hear you’re sticking around.” He laced his fingers between his knees. “I’ll fix it for you.”

  She didn’t want to become beholden to him. “I could do it, I guess. If you’d tell me what to do.”

  “No need. It won’t take long.” He rubbed his palms together. “So you intend to reopen the library?”

  “Actually I want to build a library. A large public library with a lecture hall. My grandmother’s trust requires me to use the money to build libraries, operas and theaters all over the west.” Saying it out loud helped to strengthen her resolve. Maybe.

  His smile teased. “That’s a big job for a warm day. Would you like to go with me to the drug store for a sarsaparilla before you get started?”

  She managed a grin. “That sounds good.”

  He sprang to his feet and offered a hand to pull her up. His grasp, strong and warm, evoked no tingles. Just comfortable. Right now all she wanted was comfort.

  “Let’s walk. You can tell me more about the residents. A librarian should know the town’s residents, and I’ve spent so much of my time at Sollano, I haven’t had the chance to get to know the townspeople.”

  They passed through the Amerson’s back yard and came out to a tree-lined street. The surroundings were familiar. She’d used this way to walk to the mercantile many times before. Some of the houses were in a state of disrepair, but most were prosperous looking with trees and flower bordered yards, some with white picket fences. The street resembled the outlying Philadelphia neighborhoods.

  “That’s Dr. Ulrich’s house.” Colt pointed out a large L-shaped house. “It’s one of two brick buildings in town.”

  “Could we go in and check on Clay?” As far as she knew, Clay was the only cowboy who’d contracted anthrax to survive.

  Colt shook his head. “He’s asleep. I dropped in on my way to your house. Doc says he can go home Friday, but not to the bunkhouse. Carlos said they were fixing a room for Clay in the house, so Maria could look after him.”

  That was good to hear. He could have Carianne’s old bedroom at Sollano. It was across the hall from Carlos and Maria’s.

  They passed by the house with a doctor’s sign hanging on the front porch. “Rhyan had the house built for the doctor’s home and infirmary. Sollano gives the doc most of his business, so I guess Rhyan thought it was his responsibility. It’s a blessing to the whole town though. The wing jutting out is really a little hospital with four beds. Dr. Ulrich’s daughter serves as his nurse, and her husband is studying medicine under the doc. When he finishes, they’ll move on to another town, and Dr. Ulrich will have to bring in someone else.”

  “T
hat’s the banker’s house, isn’t it?” Carianne asked as they passed the largest house, a white structure set well off the street with large bushy cedars guarding the front corners. Fancy scroll-work adorned the house, carriage house, even the fence. She supposed it was inviting idle chatter, but she wanted to know. “The inhabitants must not get along well. Even I can sometimes hear them screaming at each other from my place.”

  “He’s constantly having rows with his son who gambles too much. His wife takes the son’s side and…yes, they scream at each other.”

  Colt continued to point out the buildings as they made their way into the business area, finally stepping up to the board sidewalk and into the drug store. Dan Landry stood behind the counter mixing substances in a glass vial.

  He glanced up, hiking his waxed moustache. “I’ll be with you folks in a minute.”

  They sat at a little corner table covered with red and white checkered oilcloth. It was a weekday, and Carianne wasn’t surprised they were the only patrons in the store.

  Mr. Landry started to their table, but Colt stopped him. “Just sarsaparillas.” He glanced to Carianne. “Unless you want something else.”

  “No, sarsaparilla’s fine with me.”

  Mr. Landry nodded and returned to the counter.

  “Is that you, Carianne?” A tall, brown-haired, fortyish woman came from the back, holding a ball of gray yarn that trailed a thread several yards behind her.

  Carianne always enjoyed Myra’s company. She possessed a wonderful sense of humor, along with the fine art of gossip without being malicious. Carianne propped her elbows on the tabletop and rested her chin in hand. “It’s me.”

  “I’d heard you were at home. Rachel said we’d meet at the library tomorrow.”

  “I hope to see you there.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “How are you doing, Colt?” Myra sent a smile his way. “Is Emma back yet?”

  “No ma’am.” She won’t be back for another month.”

  “Won’t you sit a spell?” Carianne asked.

  “Well, thanks, but no. Colt would rather spend time with you, not some old woman.” Myra winked at her. “I was just rolling up some of my left over yarn.” She laughed, hiking the ball of yarn in front of them. “See. I’ll just go back to that.”

  Mr. Landry brought over the drinks. “Myra, you should make some more cookies. “Those youngsters will be here in a little while.”

  “I already have…just keeping ‘em warm.” She shifted her glance to Colt and Carianne. “Even though school’s out, the town children come in here the same time every day…for ice cream mostly. If I keep the cookies warm, the smell just about kills those young’uns so they have to have a cookie with their ice cream.”

  For someone who didn’t want to linger, she seemed inclined to do just that. “That’s how I get my pocket money, you know, sellin’ ice cream and baked goods. Saturdays are my best days though.” She threw a quick glance toward her husband. “I could sell more if we’d stay open later in the evenings on weekdays. What would it hurt?”

  “We’re not staying open late, Myra.” Mr. Landry stalked away like that was his usual way to dismiss his wife.

  “My lord and master has spoken.” Myra threw the yarn ball at her husband’s retreating figure. It hit him in the middle of his back.

  Myra rushed away to get her yarn that had unrolled across the floor. “You two come back often, now.”

  Colt took a long swig of his drink and swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s good to see a couple so playful after so many years of marriage.”

  Carianne pursed her lips. Why must everyone keep bringing up marriage? Yes, she liked Colt as a friend, but she couldn’t envision being married to him or anyone. She would stay on the road to spinsterhood. And that didn’t look too bad. She lifted her glass. “I agree.”

  Silence cloaked the room except for the tinkling of glass vials as Mr. Landry mixed medicines. What was the matter with her? All she could contribute to the conversation was fine, yes, of course, I agree. For the life of her she couldn’t think of anything interesting, so she sipped sarsaparilla and let Colt carry on a one-way conversation about the ranch, the weather, and town happenings.

  She enjoyed listening to Colt, though his voice wasn’t quite as deep as Rhyan’s, not as riveting. Rhyan had the voice of a public speaker, while Colt’s was calm. Slow. Comforting.

  But he didn’t challenge her. She needed someone to provoke her—excite her. She’d promised herself not to compare the two men, and here she was doing just that.

  Colt had many fine attributes. Dependability for one.

  They finished their drinks and left as a small group of children burst in full of laughter and high jinx.

  Following the same path back to Carianne’s house, they encountered the banker, Mr. Lane, on his way home. He waved from a low slung buggy pulled by a prancing horse. “Ho, Mr. Holliman, have you found me a new trotter yet?” he shouted as they passed.

  “No, I’m stilling looking. They’re hard to find,” Colt called back, then lowered his voice, “at the price he’s willing to pay.”

  Considering his son’s gambling, the poor man probably had to watch his expenses. “I’ve heard Mr. Lane likes racing.”

  “He’s obsessed with the notion of beating Night Dasher, but Rhyan won’t be competing during the Fourth.”

  Night Dasher was Rhyan’s racehorse. “Why is that?”

  “He’ll probably have to sell the jumper along with a lot of the other horses.”

  She felt as if Colt had thrown a pail of cold water in her face. “Sell Dasher! He can’t.” She grabbed him by the arm, stopping him in his tracks. “You have to tell him so.”

  His brows crooked at her outburst. “There’s one thing I learned about Rhyan a long time ago. No one tells him what to do or what not to do.”

  That wasn’t true. She’d told him lots of times, and sometimes he’d listen, like when he’d built that chapel for the cowboys. That was when she’d had some influence over him, something she’d taken for granted. She dropped his arm. “Then I’ll buy Dasher.”

  “Carianne, you can’t buy Dasher.”

  Well, he’d finally challenged her. She walked ahead. “I have money. I’ll buy him at any price.”

  Now Colt took her by the arm, holding her back. “Dasher’s a race horse. You can’t just feed and stable him and ride him around town. He has to be exercised a lot, and you have to keep him stimulated. He’s intelligent and bores easily. Besides, how could you keep him and Barney? You want to get rid of Barney?”

  She considered Barney more a pet than a horse. Frustration took hold and her voice shook. “No, I want Barney too.”

  “It won’t work. It’s unreasonable to keep two horses.”

  Of course she was being unreasonable. Emotions she’d stomped down came rushing back. She still wanted to hold all of Sollano to her heart, including the racehorse, because Sollano, including the horse, belonged to Rhyan.

  As they neared her yard, she quickened her pace, then halted as a stranger rode up to the hitching post where Colt had left his horse.

  The short, slender man in business dress came toward them. “Howdy folks, I’m Andrew Donner, from the Chicago Tribune.”

  “You came a piece out of your way, didn’t you?” Colt shook the reporter’s hand.

  Mr. Donner threw back his head and laughed as if he’d just heard a great joke. Meant to flatter them, no doubt. “I’m here to get some details about the anthrax plague.”

  Colt sent Carianne a sidelong glance. “There was one. It’s over. That’s about all I know.”

  Mr. Donner, notebook and pencil in hand, scrutinized Carianne. “What about you, Miss Barlow?”

  She tilted her head back, trying to appear more nonchalant than she felt. “You know who I am?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. You’re becoming well-known in the society pages.”

  Heat flooded her face as it did every time she thoug
ht of those horrible newspaper articles. Before she could respond, Colt spoke up. “You’ll have to talk to Rhyan Cason about the anthrax situation. His ranch is south of here. You just take—”

  “Mr. Cason isn’t at home. He left on the train yesterday afternoon. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a word with him.”

  Carianne clenched her hands into fists at her sides. “Are you certain he left? He’d just returned.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I couldn’t mistake Rhyan Cason. Saw him as he stepped on the train with his lady friend, Abigail Sinclair.”

  She couldn’t help the startled look she gave Colt. So this was why Rhyan had discarded her. To renew his association with Abby. Nausea roiled. She clutched her stomach and tasted sarsaparilla bubbling in her throat.

  Colt’s worried eyes did nothing to assure her. “In that case, you’d better see Mr. Cason’s lawyer,” he told the reporter. “His name’s Walstein, and his office is on Front Street.”

  “Thank you, I think I’ll do that.” Donner doffed his hat to Carianne.

  When Donner cantered away, Carianne blinked away the burning behind her eyes and smiled.

  “Are you all right?” Colt asked.

  “I’m fine.” The words came out tight, so she cleared her throat. “I’m thinking I should get out and meet more people. Is there some event you could escort me to—other than church?” She’d never so blatantly asked a man for an invitation in her life, but a sudden desire to spend more time with Colt gripped her.

  They’d almost reached her porch steps. “Would you like to go to the barn dance Saturday night?”

  “At Sollano? No, I’d rather not.”

  “Rhyan won’t be there.”

  Of course he wouldn’t be there. He’d be off gallivanting somewhere with Abby Sinclair. “I just don’t feel like being around a lot of people right now.” She bit her bottom lip, realizing she’d just refuted her former statement. How could she explain that she wanted to meet people but, at the same time, didn’t want to be with a lot of happy people enjoying themselves?