by Shirl Henke
When she left the shop with a stern admonition from Mrs. Grummond to eat dinner that night, she was too tired to focus her eyes. In her dazed state she was not watching where she was going and she stepped from the rough wooden planking of the steps onto the street. She collided with a tall, thickset man with dense, iron-gray hair. His large, expressive eyes were at first surprised, then amused as he supported her slim form, apologizing for the accident.
“My dear lady, a thousand pardons. So sorry I am that one so broad as I should injure one so slight and lovely as you.” His speech was educated but foreign.
He was Karl Krueger, Noah's rival, the one who brought Lola to the ball! Tired, shaken, and wanting only to forget that disastrous evening, Carrie rubbed her temples and moved away from his solicitous hands. ‘‘That's quite all right. I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going.”
He raked her fiery hair and slim, elegant body with a rapacious stare. A very handsome young woman. No wonder Noah was glad to be shut of Lola! “You are too gracious, Mrs. Sinclair. I am—”
“Karl Krueger of the K Bar Ranch, I know. We were introduced at the ball here some months ago,” she replied breathlessly, nervous over the predatory way he was looking at her. Were all these cattle kings as ruthless and unappealing as Noah? “If you will excuse me, I have to meet Mr. Lowery for supper at the hotel, and I'm already frightfully late.”
“I shall look forward to our next encounter, my enchanting flame.” His smile was gracious, but his eyes looked at her as if she were a ten-course banquet and he a starving giant.
As he watched her retreating form, Krueger considered how very much he would enjoy stealing her away from his old enemy. He had considered taking Lola before she married Ernst, but then had rejected the idea, because Noah no longer valued her. However, this one, so young and dazzling with that unusual coloring and those jade eyes, yes, she would be a most delectable way to crush Noah Sinclair's vanity. A deep, rumbling chuckle welled up from his massive chest.
* * * *
Carrie sat disconsolately staring at a plate of huevos rancheros, soft fried eggs swimming in spicy red sauce. One of Feliz's specialties, the breakfast had always been Carrie favorite from the first time she tasted it. Despite her loss of appetite when dining with Noah, she used to make up for it in the mornings with a hearty breakfast. When Hawk left two months ago, she was so depressed that her eating suffered even more. Then, prompted by the dressmaker's advice, she tried to eat. Nothing seemed to agree with her lately, especially breakfast.
“What's the matter, chica, not hungry again?” Feliz's voice was laced with concern. She had spent the past several weeks baking and cooking special dishes, all in the feckless hope of enticing the wan young woman before her to eat.
Suddenly, after she had forced a forkful of the rich eggs into her mouth, Carrie bolted for the washbasin. Quickly Feliz came over and supported her weight while she leaned against the counter and heaved painfully. Wetting a clean cloth, Feliz bathed Carrie's brow until the unnatural flush retreated, then helped her to a chair. “I will brew some herbal tea. It will settle your stomach.”
“I don't know what's come over me lately. Hot and cold, shaky, queasy, tired all the time.” Carrie sighed, unconsciously rubbing her tender breasts with one hand to ease a twinge she had from leaning over the sink.
Feliz watched Carrie as she methodically brewed the tea. Then, sitting down with her, she made her young charge drink the pale concoction and eat a piece of plain dry bread. “You are tired and do not want to eat, yet your clothes grow tight here.” She indicated the straining buttons on Carrie's blouse.
Self-consciously, Carrie looked down at the unbecoming gap in her blouse and sighed. “I can just hear Mrs. Grummond now. First take it in, then let it out! Honestly, I wish I'd just feel better.”
Hesitantly, for Feliz was not at all sure how Carrie would accept the idea, she asked, “Do you think you might be with child? How long since your last time of bleeding?”
Carrie sat as if struck by lightning. Could it be! Incensed that she did not conceive, Noah had always hounded her about her periods. But since he had been so busy with his new stock detective, he had scarcely talked to her. Now, when he entered her room late at night, he bedded her in grim silence and mercifully it was over quickly. Both of them had been too preoccupied to think about pregnancy.
In reply to Feliz's query she said, “I missed last month.” Calculating in her mind, she couldn't believe her lethargic depression over Hawk's desertion had caused her to overlook something so obvious. Feliz's next question cut into her thoughts, scattering them.
“When was your last time before that?”
“About two weeks before...” she started to say, before Hawk left. Before Hawk made love to me. Could it be? She would be almost three months along then.
Feliz watched the varying play of emotions cross Carrie's lovely, pale face. “Before what, niña?''
Carrie shook herself. “I mean, I missed two times, I guess. Oh, Feliz do you really think it's true? The nausea, the weight gain, the missed courses.”
“Do you want it to be true, Carrie?” Feliz's lined brown face was a study in kindly concern.
“Yes, oh, yes.” Really, she did want it to be. Even though it was Noah's child, it would mean that he would leave her alone. If she gave him a son, he would probably never put his hands on her again. That would be reward enough. But what if—against all likelihood—it was Hawk's child? The thought at first thrilled her. Then she reconsidered. If so, would it look like him, bear the unmistakable stamp of Cheyenne blood? Noah would kill her, and probably the child, too.
“What is wrong, Carrie?” Feliz watched Carrie clutch at her heart and grow pale.
Looking up at her friend's face, Carrie sat mute while Feliz clucked over her. I can tell no one such a secret, not even Feliz. Besides, it was a very thin chance that the baby would be her love's.
Perhaps the child would resemble her, with red hair and green eyes. Then Noah would never know he had been betrayed. However, she would not know who the father was either. But if the baby was dark with black hair and eyes, everyone would be shocked. Even though she knew it spelled disaster, Carrie hugged the idea to her heart. She desperately wanted this baby to be Hawk's.
Hawk, where are you? Come home to me.
* * * *
Carrie sat at the dining-room table across from Noah. The magnificent emerald necklace and earrings she wore lay ice cold against her skin, a gift from her delighted husband when she told him of her pregnancy. It was March, and she was showing quite a bit, making her feel uncomfortable dressed formally for dinner. However, Noah insisted, just as he insisted she have a dozen elaborate high-waisted gowns sewn by Mrs. Grummond and that she wear the expensive jewels tonight.
She felt suffocated despite the cold. Winter held the landscape outside in its snowy thrall, but the room seemed unaccountably warm. Guilt. That's why I'm always so uncomfortable around him now. At least he had mercifully abandoned her bed once Dr. Lark confirmed her quickening. Recalling the doctor's degrading examination, she shuddered in revulsion. He had even acted surprised that she was with child, after he himself had pronounced her physically sound, Carrie thought in disgust.
“Something wrong, my dear? Is it too cold in here? I'll have Feliz bring you some hot tea.” Now that she had done her duty and was breeding, Noah was all solicitude, lavishing unwanted gifts on her and treating her with unusual concern.
The only thing Carrie wanted from him was that he never put his hands on her again. Please, God, let it be a boy. It was her nightly litany. She suppressed the question of the child's paternity since nothing could change that. After so many nights with Noah and only one with Hawk, it was most likely that the baby was her husband's. It would be a yellow-haired, fair-skinned Sinclair. But what if it is Cheyenne? The thought terrified yet tantalized her. She wanted it to be born of love and joy, not of hate and ugliness. There was no answer. Carrie lived from day to day, waitin
g.
Noah came around the table and pulled out her chair. Awkwardly she rose. At nearly six months, she was not overly big, but she felt exceedingly self-conscious in Noah's proprietary presence. The hypocrite. She grew to hate his solicitude more than she had his sneers.
“I'm very tired, Noah. If you don't mind, I'll take my tea with Feliz and then retire for the night.” She could not bear another evening in the parlor with him drinking and brooding while he schemed with that hateful gunman Caleb Rider. She felt “range detective” was just a euphemism for their late-evening visitor. Carrie hated his veiled, lascivious eyes. There was also the matter of their business dealings. They spoke of cattle sales, of moving stock to the east and selling it quickly. She understood little of Circle S operations, but it sounded suspicious to her, as if they were handling stolen livestock. But that surely must be absurd.
Noah nodded in irritation at her request to be excused, but said nothing. He would humor the chit. Soon she would have his heir, a son worthy of the Sinclair name. Scowling at her fondness for socializing with servants, he bade her good night. ‘For all she can't abide Mrs. Thorndyke, she sure is fond of that greaser cook,” he muttered in vexation, then swore and went into the parlor to await Caleb. The hell with his wife and her idiosyncrasies.
Every time Caleb Rider came up to the big house, he concealed his awe behind a facade of nonchalance. He had never seen anything like the gleaming furniture and crystal, the gold and silver appointments, the thick carpets, and French wallpaper. Damnation, the old man had money!
Then there was the matter of his wife. Succulent piece of womanflesh. Of course, swelled up now, she had temporarily lost her appeal, but Rider remembered how her tall, slim form had looked when he first met her. Shame, a beautiful young woman married to such an old geezer. But then, all the more reason for her to appreciate Caleb Rider when he decided to make a move on her. He could wait.
“Whiskey or brandy?” Noah inquired almost genially.
“Whiskey,” Rider replied. Looking around to be certain they were alone, he said, “I got that small herd out of the basin and sold them yesterday. Neat profit.”
“Next time, we'll go after bigger fish. I understand Herr Krueger has brought some fine-blooded breeding stock from Oregon, at least a dozen stud bulls. Ought to be worth a bundle if your contacts on K Bar can get them away.” Noah looked at Rider as he handed him the glass.
Rider accepted it and took a sip, then said, “We may have us a problem, boss.”
Noah looked up, his face wary now. “What?”
“Your foreman, Lowery, he's been doing some snooping, I think. Caught him up by Krueger's property line, looking over the mixed herds there, where I cut all the K Bar stock out last month after that storm.”
“So you think he's suspicious?” Noah's eyes were cold. He and Frank Lowery went back a lot of years. The man was a top ramrod. He was also a shrewd son of a bitch who just might create some really serious trouble. Noah swore. Damn the fool! He had always known that his foreman had been in love with Marah. Why Frank stayed on after she died, he never understood, but until now he had been glad of it. However, if Frank tried to expose Noah Sinclair as a rustler, he would die for his trouble.
* * * *
Frank Lowery let out a sharp volley of oaths as he stood up and brushed the dust from the knee of his pants. Clear sign, all right. There was no doubt about it. That sharpie range detective—Frank snorted in disgust at the title—was stealing Karl Krueger blind. At least one hundred head of prime K Bar stock had been taken off this range in the past couple of days, run in with Circle S cattle and driven east, probably to meet with some Dakota buyer who wasn't particular about previous ownership and who quickly drove them to the railhead for sale.
Frank had followed Rider's comings and goings for over a month now and knew his horse's prints. No doubt about who led the strange riders to the herd and helped them drive it off. These tracks were damning evidence. Caleb was guilty, but was he working for·himself or for Noah? Much as Frank would have liked to believe otherwise for Carrie's sake, he strongly suspected Noah had ordered the thievery. Too many times this spring he had watched his employer ride out with the gunman. Noah had not been present at this operation, but doubtless he knew about it.
As he mounted and headed slowly back toward Circle S, the old foreman mulled over what he should do. Lay a trap for Rider and catch him red-handed? If he did that, Rider might implicate his boss and then Carrie would face the humiliation of seeing the father of her unborn child hang for rustling. Much as she might be better off with Noah dead, that was not the way to handle it! Circle S was her child's inheritance, and Frank would not jeopardize it. He wished Noah would show as much concern. If Sinclair continued this war with Krueger, one of them would destroy the other. He cursed roundly. If innocent people weren't their victims, they could fight to the death for all he cared and the devil take all the cattle and land in Montana Territory.
Lowery thought back over the years he had worked for Noah Sinclair. The man had more than any one human ever deserved—a fabulously successful ranch, a position of prestige and power in the territory. Most importantly of all, he had been gifted with two lovely, spirited wives, a splendid son, and another child on the way. Why was nothing ever enough for some men?
Grimly, he decided he would confront Noah as soon as he had enough evidence. If nothing else, he would blackmail the son of a bitch into stopping this madness.
As Frank crossed the stream, swollen with melted snow, he decided to stop for a cooling drink. It was an unseasonably warm May, and he was thirsty. Born in the dry country of southwest Texas, Frank had always loved the sweet abundant water of Montana. He drank deeply and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Ah, it was so good. It was the last sensation he ever felt. The rifle slug hit him cleanly in the back of the head, killing him instantly and propelling his lanky body face downward in the clean, rushing waters, now pink with his blood.
* * * *
Hank Allen found Frank the next afternoon, far over on a deserted stretch of the northeastern range adjoining Krueger's place. Noah stormed and swore vengeance, laying the blame on K Bar men. Of course, Krueger denied it and nothing could be proven.
Carrie grieved as if her own father had died. Kyle and Hawk were gone, and now Frank. Only Feliz remained as her friend in this hostile wilderness.
Living with gnawing guilt and fear about the baby's paternity, Carrie had been ill and depressed during most of her pregnancy. Dr. Lark had assured her last week that she had only another six weeks to go. She was huge now. Walking was tiring, and when as she lay down to rest, the baby moved and kept her awake. She could hardly wait until her child was born.
Considering her rounded belly, she thought to herself, Despite my guilt and even the fear of what Noah would do, I want you to be his, not my husband's. Am I really so wantonly wicked? She shook her head sadly. Realizing it was far more likely to be Noah's child, she vowed to love the baby anyway, regardless of how much she had grown to hate and mistrust the father.
Frank's death had thrown her into bleak depression, and Mrs. Thorndyke's hovering malevolence continued to cast a pall over the house. Carrie had finally concluded the old woman was deranged, imagining herself to be mistress of Circle S all the years since she had been hired as a housekeeper. If Mrs. Thorndyke wasn't so mean-spirited and filled with hate, Carrie would actually have felt pity for the woman who counted the silverware as conscientiously as if it were her own. She had accepted the news of Carrie's pregnancy resentfully and watched with stiffly repressed jealousy as the young woman's belly grew. The child cemented Carrie's position at Circle S. No matter how Carrie and Noah hated one another, if she gave him a white son, the boy would inherit everything and Carrie would live out her days as mistress of the Sinclair empire.
* * * *
Carrie sat in the flower garden, on the very bench where Hawk had found her weeping that night. Since the weather had become pleasant, she had come
there every afternoon to watch the spring flowers grow and to feel in some small way close to her lost love. She had never again gone into his old room. It would have been too painful and certainly would have aroused suspicions if she had been found there.
Until yesterday the room had been closed up without having been cleaned. Noah had announced at dinner last night that it would make a good room for the nurse he planned to hire for his son. Today Mrs. Thorndyke was in there sorting through Hawk's things, directing the maids in their task of scrubbing years' worth of dust and neglect.
Carrie's heart ached as she thought of Hawk's things being thrown away, displaced as carelessly as he had been. Circle S should belong to Noah's firstborn, and here she was, the very instrument of his disinheritance. How sadly ironic. Her pensive spell was shattered by Mrs. Thorndyke's clipped nasal voice.
“Mr. Noah wants to see you in his study, right now.” The feral gleam in her eyes brightened them from their, usual stone-gray flatness to an almost whitish-silver shine. Her whole face radiated triumphant hate. She stood over Carrie as if restraining an impulse to pounce and disembowel her prey.
Realizing the hateful woman was waiting until she did as ordered, Carrie got up. The hair on the back of her neck prickled in warning. What was going on to make the housekeeper so agitated and gloating? Why did Noah want to see her in midafternoon?
Slowly, feet dragging, she walked toward the house with a terrible foreboding filling her breast. Mrs. Thorndyke followed her like a shadow. When Carrie reached the door to Noah's office, she turned to dismiss her jailor, but something in the woman's facial expression stopped her. Stepping inside, she simply shut the door in the housekeeper's face.