"Today. Before we went swimmin'. Lane took me around behind the saloon and I got to hold the horse while he stepped in for a minute and then his friend came out and he told her he was living at Chase and Eva's ranch and she could get ahold of him there if she ever needed him."
"I see." Rachel did see. What she saw was red. She had an overwhelming desire to get her hands on Lane Cassidy's throat.
"Mama?"
"What?"
"You look funny with your face all red like that. Maybe you better have some water."
"I will. I'm going downstairs to have some right now."
She stood up, prepared to risk walking through the house in the dark. She was so upset she didn't know if she could hold the lamp without spilling kerosene all over and setting the place on fire.
"Are you going to get one?" Ty called out as she stepped into the hall.
"Do you want a drink of water?"
"No. I meant are you going to get one of those fancy little corsets?"
"No. Definitely not. But I'm going to ask Mr. Cassidy all about it the next time I see him. You can bet on that."
Even the angry storm clouds that gathered the following day could not match the storm brewing inside Rachel. She moved through her morning tasks alternately mumbling to herself and silently rehearsing what she intended to tell Lane Cassidy before she sent him on his way. How dare he expose her son to a whore with a fancy little corset that displayed her bosoms?
Hoping for some time alone, Rachel sent Delphie off with Ty just after breakfast. The housekeeper was to drop him off at one of his friend's to play while she did the daily shopping, and then for a treat the two of them were going to have the noon meal at the cafe in the Wellington Hotel lobby. Rachel didn't want either of them around if Lane showed up, because she intended to give him a talking-to that he wouldn't soon forget.
She tried to read the paper, scanning the headlines and the first few paragraphs of a story that detailed another train robbery staged by the infamous Gentleman Bandit. Unable to keep her mind focused on the details, she gave up and was in the parlor snapping dead leaves off the plants she had arranged around the fireplace when a knock sounded on the door.
Rachel scooped the leaves into a pile and shoved them into the nearest pot, then straightened and glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair was gathered in a tight twist and for once every hair was in place. Despite the heat, her cream-colored blouse was buttoned up to her throat, and her sleeves were rolled down and fastened at the cuffs. She smoothed the fabric around the waistband of her black skirt.
Her cheeks were so bright with color that they appeared rouged. Rachel licked her lips and headed for the door. Ready to do battle, she whipped open the door and found herself face-to-face with Loretta and her sister Mary Margaret. They stood side by side, clothed entirely in black like two giant birds of prey. Loretta, herself a formidable height, appeared dwarfed by her younger sister. Statuesque was not a word Rachel often used to describe Mary Margaret. Overly ripe was more appropriate. At thirty-two, Mary Margaret was considered a spinster, a rare condition in a population so heavily male. She was not only overweight, but she had allowed Loretta to run roughshod over her for so long that she seemed to have become quite content with the arrangement. The docile strawberry-blonde spent her days writing music and poetry, more than willing to entertain the captive audiences at the McKennas' social gatherings.
"Are you going to invite us in, Rachel, or leave us standing out here in the heat?" Draped in black from head to toe, Loretta frowned pointedly at Rachel's cream blouse and then took a step toward the threshold.
Rachel stepped aside with a curt, "I'm sorry, Mother McKenna, but I wasn't expecting you."
As Loretta marched past, gliding on toward the parlor, Mary Margaret stepped inside. She smiled apologetically at Rachel and then, with mincing steps that were quite incongruous with her size, followed her sister through the parlor door.
"Who were you expecting?" Loretta asked as Rachel entered behind them. "Not that Cassidy fellow?"
"I─"
"There's no use denying it. Word is all over town that you were seen conversing with him at great length right in the middle of Main Street yesterday. Not only that, but you let Tyson go off alone with him."
Word travels fast, Rachel thought. It hadn't taken Millie Carberry and the other town gossips long to get word of her run-in with Lane out to the McKenna ranch. If she wasn't so upset with him herself, Rachel would have informed Loretta that he had shared supper with them two nights ago.
"You don't need to worry. I would never put my son in jeopardy. You'll be happy to know I won't be seeing Lane Cassidy again," Rachel said, fighting to keep the irritation out of her tone.
"I wondered how long it would take for you to come to your senses."
Rachel was tempted to tell Loretta that it was Lane's clandestine meeting with a saloon floozy and not any absence of longings on her part that had forced her hand. Instead, she excused herself long enough to hurry out to the kitchen and prepare a tray of cold tea and cookies. When she came back, she was feeling a bit more collected.
Loretta was beside the center table staring down at the display of family photographs. Her gaze flashed from frame to frame, and then her brow beetled. She turned accusing eyes on Rachel.
"Where are my son's pictures?"
Rachel handed a glass of tea to Mary Margaret and then the plate of lemon sugar cookies. "I decided that under the circumstances, it would be better to let Ty keep them in his room."
"I don't understand your attitude, Rachel. My poor Stuart was a good husband to you all those years, and yet because of one little indiscretion—"
"Please, Loretta. I'd rather not go over this again. Although I appreciate the way you and Stuart Senior have tried to help, it's past time I stood on my own two feet again." She took a deep breath and forced herself to smile. "Now, why don't we talk of something pleasant."
Mary Margaret was perched on the edge of a wing chair, her bodice already coated with crumbs as she stuffed a second cookie into her mouth. She had been listening intently to the exchange. Coming to Rachel's aid, she swallowed and then said, "Robert will be home tomorrow and the day after we're having a dinner party in his honor. With chocolate cake."
"That sounds delightful," Rachel said. After Loretta picked up her glass of tea, Rachel asked her, "What time would you like us to be there?"
"Why don't you come out that morning and plan on spending the night with us afterward. It's just too far to drive all the way back to town at night."
"We'll see…" Rachel said, in the tone she often used to deal with Ty.
"Where is my grandson?" Loretta sank down on the settee and looked around as if she suddenly recalled that she had not seen the boy. Rachel took a seat at the opposite end of the upholstered piece. Mary Margaret had another cookie.
Thankful not to have Ty underfoot, since he would no doubt have talked constantly about Lane and their outing yesterday, Rachel told Loretta that her son was at a friend's for the morning.
"It's too bad there isn't anyone decent for him to associate with here in town," Loretta began. "Heaven knows I've so longed for acceptable companionship, but there's really no one of our social equal anywhere in the county." She sighed dramatically. "I would love to start a Ladies' League, but I'm afraid I'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who would qualify."
Rachel pressed her lips together and merely nodded in response, telling herself that she should feel sorry for Loretta. As far as her mother-in-law was concerned, she was living in a social wasteland in Montana. Subscriptions to monthly women's periodicals kept her in touch with the latest trends and fashions. Loretta read them religiously, passing on all she gleaned to Rachel. In her own mind she was a pillar, more than willing to uphold society in Montana, but there were only a few wealthy, cultured souls worthy of the honor, and most of them lived far away, like in Helena.
"How is Robert?" Rachel inquired, trying to keep her mind from strayi
ng to Lane and her decision to end their relationship.
"Very well, of course," Loretta said. "His letter indicated that the import business is going well for him in New Orleans. I hope Tyson has inherited a knack for business. Lord knows, his poor father never had one."
"He made a fine sheriff." That much Rachel was willing to admit, no matter how badly her husband had betrayed her.
"Oh, bother. He only became a sheriff to irritate his father. As our eldest, his place was on the ranch, learning to run the business end of things." Loretta sniffled and fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief. When she pulled out a large, black cotton square edged in equally black lace and shook it out, Rachel was forced to look away.
Loretta swiped at the corner of her eye. "Almost from the day he was born my poor dear Stuart and his father were at loggerheads. Too much alike, I always said."
"Don't upset yourself," Mary Margaret warned.
Until she'd just spoken up, Rachel had nearly forgotten she was in the room. She glanced over at Mary Margaret in time to see her deposit the empty cookie plate on a side table near the wing chair.
Loretta sniffed. "It's just that I don't think I'll ever get over the loss of my son." Suddenly she sat up straight, balled her black hankie up in her hand and leaned toward her daughter-in-law. "I must beg of you, Rachel. Do you think you could see fit to wear something appropriate to dinner on Thursday? By that I mean something… black? I just don't think I could bear it if everyone asked me over and over why you have chosen to come out of mourning so soon and—"
Rachel held up her hand to stem the flow. "To keep the peace, I'll agree because it's Robert's homecoming. But after that, you'll have to understand my position."
"But about that Cassidy creature—"
"Don't worry yourself about him," Rachel told her. "As I've said, he is merely a former student who is only passing through. He told me as much himself."
"I've heard he's quite dashing," Mary Margaret said, instantly gaining Rachel's complete attention. The woman was seated on the edge of the chair, her cheeks flushed. The only other thing she had ever shown this much interest in was her poetry.
"He's one of those tall, dark, dangerous types, isn't he?" Mary Margaret persisted. "Is it true he's killed over a hundred men in shoot-outs?"
Rachel rolled her eyes. "I doubt it."
"I've heard he's never without his gun."
"That must be common knowledge," Rachel mumbled.
"Rachel, you're so very daring to have him right here in your home. Why, a rogue like that must be so unpredictable. Who knows what he might have done to you, now that you're so vulnerable and alone."
When Rachel didn't respond, Mary Margaret shivered from head to toe. "I get chills just thinking of it. Why, I'm tempted to write a poem featuring just such a character."
Loretta stood up. "It's time we were going. Up, Mary Margaret. We have a list as long as my arm of supplies we'll need if Jacques is going to do Robert's dinner justice."
Rachel had often wondered if Loretta's genuine French chef was actually French or if he was merely using a fairly passable accent to bilk the McKennas out of a formidable salary. Relieved to see the sisters preparing to leave, she stood up and followed Loretta to the door.
"I'm so glad we've had this little talk." Loretta stepped onto the piazza. "Stuart Senior was very concerned when he heard about Ty being alone with that scoundrel, and lately you've shown such a wild streak. I told him nonsense, that it must be the heat and that you would soon have your wits about you again and that Cassidy fellow was nothing to be concerned about, and it seems I was right. We'll see you on Thursday. Dinner is at seven."
"Thank you for a lovely visit," Mary Margaret said, crushing Rachel in a bear hug. "Do be careful. I just can't imagine having the nerve to actually speak to someone as horrifically menacing as Lane Cassidy—"
"Mary Margaret. Come!" Loretta was at the end of the walk, standing beside the gate, her lips set, her hand resting atop a picket point. "Do you want me to die of the heat?"
After they disappeared down the walk, Rachel went inside, closed the door and leaned against it. She let out a sigh, wondering how long it would be before her in-laws realized her newfound independence was here to stay and that she was refusing to see Lane not because of their requests, but because she was in very real danger of losing her good name along with her heart.
* * *
Chapter Eight
Long shadows and streaks of sunlight inched across the floor of Rachel's porch as Lane stood there two days later, hat in hand, waiting impatiently for a response to his second knock. None came. He reached out, tried the knob and found it unlocked. Glancing over his shoulder, he scanned the street and then pushed the door open and stepped into the entry hall.
When he closed the front door, taking no pains to do so silently, he heard Rachel call out from the second floor, "I'm up here, Delphie."
Lane smiled and took the steps two at a time. When he reached the top he paused in the open doorway of the large bedroom at the front of the house. Rachel's room was exactly the way he had pictured it—softly feminine, beautiful: just like her. As throughout the rest of the house, here she had used creams and yellows, but added bright touches of rose and deep green. Cut flowers decorated the dressing table, which stood near wide windows draped with lace. The breeze sucked at the sheer curtains and tickled the petals of the blossoms in a crystal vase.
He saw no sign of her, but heard her moving around behind a screen covered in sheer cabbage rose material. Rachel's rich brown hair showed over the top. He watched as she reached up, extending a long, finely tapered arm as she dressed. When he took another step into the room, a floorboard creaked. He froze.
"Delphie, would you please hand me my wrapper? It's on the bed."
Lane noticed a long, fussy-looking satin garment lying across the bed. He tossed his hat down beside it and picked up the dressing gown, only to discover he was clutching a pile of ruffles. Holding it at arm's length, he shook out the fabric, then held the robe up against himself for a second before he walked as softly as he could over to the dressing screen.
He ducked so Rachel couldn't see him over the top of the screen and handed the wrapper to her.
"How was your walk?" she asked, and then, without waiting for a reply, added, "I hope Ty isn't downstairs getting all dirty. You didn't give him anything to eat, did you?"
Silently, Lane leaned one hip against the dressing table and crossed his arms. Rachel walked around the end of the screen, stopped short and gasped when she saw him. Before she yanked the edges of her wrapper closed, he was treated to the sight of her shapely figure displayed in a black corset and black pantalettes and stockings. Even the frilly lace garters that held up her silk stockings were black.
She stood in her stockinged feet, clutching the wrapper closed at her throat and waist. But it offered scant protection from his stare. Lane laughed, pushed off the vanity and began to walk toward her.
"Get out." She was clutching the wrapper so tight her knuckles were white.
He tried smiling. "This isn't exactly the welcome I expected." He took a step toward her.
She took a step back. "You're not welcome at all. Please leave before Ty and Delphie get home from their walk."
"What in the hell are you so all-fired mad about?"
"I think you know."
"You're still upset about me getting Ty back so late, are you?"
"No."
"Am I supposed to guess what's wrong with you?"
"I think you know very well why I'm upset." Still gripping her robe, she marched past him and sat on the upholstered stool in front of the vanity.
Lane frowned, watching her reflection in the mirror, figuring she was probably just piqued about something that he could sweet-talk her out of in no time. "You found out I let Ty shoot my gun."
"I found out more than that."
"Come on, Rachel."
She reached down and picked up a simple jet earri
ng. "I want you to leave. Now."
He walked up behind her. When he put his hands on her shoulders, she stiffened and tried to shrug him off. Their gazes met and locked in the looking glass.
She stood up, forcing him to step back. The wrapper gaped, revealing a flash of black satin. She snapped the flounced wrap closed again and spun around. "Ty told me all about the 'lady' at the saloon, about her 'pretty little corset' and the way it showed her off to perfection."
"It's not what you think—"
"I'm trying to change my life, Lane. I've finally come out of the fog of hurt and guilt and the shock of what Stuart did and taking control of my life again. I refuse to let the McKennas dictate to me anymore, and I certainly don't intend to let you make a fool of me."
"If you would just settle down a minute and listen to me, I'll explain."
Confusion and shock filled her eyes. She whirled around and walked back to the vanity, where she retrieved her other earring. The force of her trembling only became noticeable when she tried to thread the wire into her pierced ear. She kept her back to Lane, but her reflection in the mirror was in full view. He could see her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and silently cursed himself.
He walked up to her and held out his hand.
She turned and looked at his palm, then his face, and dropped the jet bead into his hand. Without a word, Lane carefully reached out for her earlobe. It was warm and soft, pliant beneath his fingertips. He found the minute hole in her lobe and gently, slowly, threaded the hoop through it. Then he stepped back.
Rachel whirled around to the mirror again. When she spoke, her voice didn't waver. "You kissed me and then you walked out of here and went straight to her."
"I'm not Stuart—"
"Did you laugh all the way to the saloon?" Her reflection revealed eyes filled with betrayal. "Did it feel good to know you were able to get Miss Rachel all hot and bothered? I suppose you and the corset-lady had a good laugh over it in bed."
Last Chance Page 11