Sahara Splendor

by Charlotte Hubbard

  His grin infuriated her, and he was crossing his arms as though he knew quite well what havoc his broad, bare shoulders and chest were wreaking on her. “Surely I deserve the favor of a goodbye. You don’t impress me as a young lady who’d leave her man without a few fond words and a kiss.”

  “I left you a note in the ledger,” she said, and then she vaulted up onto the front of the wagon. The longer he talked, the more chance he’d weasel the wrong answers from her and cause them both a lot of pain and heartache. “Besides,” she added as she took up the reins, “I thought you were Miss Jenny’s man, part of the ranch she inherited. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to—”

  He was on the seat beside her in an instant, and just as quickly Sahara sprang off in the other direction into the musty, rustling haystack. She landed with a whump on her stomach, and before she could get her footing, Madigan was sprawling on top of her. Sahara struggled; but he was far stronger than she, and he soon had her turned right-side up beneath him, with his leg wrapped around hers so that she couldn’t kick.

  “How can you think I have any feelings for a whiny, hysterical brat like Jennifer Spade?” he demanded in a ragged whisper. “After the way I loved you—after you insisted I take you—”

  “Let me see,” Sahara cut in, her voice equally terse. “There was that time in the study, when Dulaney was reading the will, when Jenny flat-out declared you two were getting married. And instead of denying it, you started caressing her—called her ‘my love,’ and—”

  “And if I hadn’t, we’d still be there squabbling,” Dan protested. “You have to tell Jenny what she wants to hear before she’ll listen to reason, Sahara. Our conference with Ezra was no time to inform her how I really feel.”

  “And how do you feel?”

  Dan snorted, wishing the young woman beneath him wasn’t always so direct. “If I’d wanted her, and the empire she represents, I’d have married her long before now. But maybe I’ve been waiting to see if—”

  “And how do you feel about me?” she asked more softly. He wasn’t making any obvious moves, yet his warm weight and that lingering scent of cedar, and the tawny, earnest face so close to her own were eroding her intentions. It was best for both of them if she made a clean break. She would not beg for him again, like she’d done on her wedding night!

  Madigan studied her wide-eyed expression. Dozens of times he’d dodged such a question with kisses and a quick retreat, but Sahara deserved better—even if he had to disappoint her. “I like you, honey. A lot,” he said quietly. “But our loving the other night was one of those crazy, unexplainable things—”

  “There it is again,” she said bitterly. “You make awfully loose use of that word ‘love,’ Mr. Madigan, but it’s plain enough you don’t apply it to me. And that’s all right,” she added with a sigh, “because I’ll be gone quite awhile. Things have happened way too fast, and I figure a trip west to meet my station keepers will give me time to decide what I want to do from here on out.”

  Dan had to admire her: few women would care about, much less undertake, the arduous journey she was embarking upon. Yet he sensed there was more to her sudden departure than she was admitting. He gently tugged a wisp of hay from her hair. “Did you find what you were looking for in the records?”

  “Yes. And Spade was more crooked than a cat’s back legs.”

  He scowled. “What do you mean? Or are you implying I may be involved?”

  Sahara was in a poor position to accuse him of wrongdoing, pinned as she was. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I—I need to find out—for myself—when I get to Atchison. And I hope I’m not disappointed.”

  Her lack of faith in him was disheartening, but she had a right to be wary and confused after all that had happened this past week. Dan could feel her independent streak surfacing again, so he set aside his ulterior reasons for following her in here. It would be wonderful to love her, safe in the shadows, to take his time with her so that they could explore their new awareness of each other, but her rebellious mood would spoil it. Sighing, he kissed her gently. Then he eased off her and offered her his hand.

  Sahara stood and brushed herself off, not wanting to face the dejection she’d seen in his deep brown eyes. “Sorry I had to leave you with a bad taste in your mouth. You should’ve stayed in bed.”

  He lifted her chin and gazed down at her. “You tasted fine, Sahara. You be careful out there. Gunslingers and Indians won’t care that you’re the new owner of that stagecoach you’re riding in. And when you get back, you’ll know I’ve been straight with you—that I can be trusted to watch over your holdings…and maybe even your heart.”

  His last words, spoken with that low timbre that always made her knees give a little, almost had her wrapping her arms around him. But she smiled tightly and climbed up to the wagon seat instead. “Take care, Madigan. Do what you have to.”

  She clucked to the dappled Morgan to wake him from his doze, and they were off. Sahara felt empty and small, knowing Dan was standing back there, watching her leave, thinking she had no heart. And maybe she didn’t. She’d told him he didn’t know the meaning of the word “love,” a cruel thing to say to a man whose mother had left him and whose fathers had ignored him.

  But she had to make this trip, and she had to make it alone. She hoped he would understand.

  Madigan watched the wagon shrink in the darkness, clutching himself against a sudden chill. He wanted to be mad at her, but he couldn’t. He wanted to run out and vault onto that wagon, kissing her into submission so that she’d know just what sort of splendor she was running away from, a splendor only the two of them could share. But she’d hate him for it. Sahara Caldwell Spade had more grit than any woman he knew…maybe more grit than he did, now that he had to get by without her.

  So here he was, alone on the ranch with Jennifer. The thought filled his mouth with a sour taste, and on an impulse he spat and started toward his horse. He didn’t have to stay here! Nowhere was it stipulated that the estate’s accountant had to be in residence, and with Spade dead, Miss Jenny had no say about—

  Something fluttered when he passed the haystack, so he leaned down to pick it up. Two pieces of paper were folded together, and when he opened them he caught the haunting reminder of Sahara’s wildflower essence—and a small, dark square fell out.

  Dan retrieved it from the floor and then stared. It was a likeness of his mother.

  Where the hell had Sahara found—he scowled out the barn door and then hastily scanned the larger page, from the Riverside Sanitorium. Was the moonlight dimming, or were his eyes failing him? Surely this brief message from some unknown doctor was written in a foreign language—

  But then he opened the other page, so worn at the creases it nearly fell apart in his trembling hands. There was no denying his mother’s elaborate script…and as her words from half a lifetime ago became achingly clear, he staggered backward into the haystack as though a horse had kicked the wind out of him.

  No wonder George Madigan had become a drunk and then shot himself. He hadn’t been a genius, but he’d been nobody’s fool, either.

  No wonder Horatio Spade had never had an encouraging word for his father—or the man he’d thought was his father—and had never showed anything but thinly masked contempt for him, either. That fat bastard had forced his mother to—sent her away the second time her body betrayed her, and never had the decency to even hint that—

  And Sahara knew.

  Madigan was sweating desperately, so enraged he could hardly breathe, much less think. Even after reading these personal papers, she’d insinuated that he and Jenny were a pair—as though he could stand any further contact with something spawned by Horatio Spade! That two-faced son of a bitch had succumbed to Miss Caldwell’s sweet talk and signed her name to Spade Express in a heartbeat, yet had denied him so much as one moment of truth—or one dollar of the millions he’d kept track of over the years!

  What else had Sahara discovered in his secret files? Wh
at other dealings shed such a dubious light on him that she’d tried to sneak off in the night?

  But maybe that didn’t matter. As Dan stumbled to his feet, he recalled how desperately Sahara had loathed Spade. Now that she knew he was Horatio’s son, it was guilt by association—disgust and contempt she’d passed from father to son. He couldn’t blame her for running out on him, but by God, she wouldn’t get far! Not on a stagecoach that rightfully belonged to him!

  What were her last words? Take care, Madigan. Do what you have to. Dan laughed humorlessly and strode toward his cabin. He would indeed take care—of the life and fine possessions he’d been denied for the past twenty-five years. He would do what he had to—

  And maybe, for the first time ever, he’d be doing the right thing.

  Chapter 10

  Sahara strode into the Lewis General Store moments after its proprietor unlocked the front door. She’d parked in a livery barn and dozed for an hour or so on the wagon bed, and then she’d watched from across Commercial Street, awaiting this moment with nervous anticipation. The shopkeepers sweeping their walks, and the rose-colored sunrise, and the other signs of life in Atchison held no interest for her: she wanted to state her business with Lewis, notify Underwood he was no longer employed, and find another mercantile to supply her way stations—all before the Spade coach left at eight. Not a moment to waste!

  Lewis, a gangly man, looked up from arranging his cluttered counter. “How may I help you, sir—er, miss?

  I—”

  “I’m Sahara Spade, Horatio’s widow. We need to have a serious chat, Mr. Lewis.” Behind her she heard the tinkling of the bell as other customers entered the large store, but she paid them no mind. Ira Lewis was looking her over as though he wasn’t impressed by her introduction, and maybe didn’t believe it.

  “It’s about the monthly shipment of supplies to the Spade Express way stations,” she prompted. And when he merely raised an eyebrow, she added, “I’ve studied the ledgers my accountant, Mr. Madigan, keeps, and compared them to your monthly receipts in Mr. Spade’s personal files, and I won’t allow such piracy to continue!”

  Lewis glanced at his other customers as though he hoped they were listening—and it was fine by her if everyone heard her accusations! “Perhaps you should explain,” he said dryly. “Rumor has it you tried to shoot your husband of less than a day—if you are indeed Spade’s widow—and I want no such violence in my store. Nor do I take well to being called a pirate!”

  Her derringer was tucked into her boot, but she wouldn’t brandish it unless in her own defense…which didn’t seem like such a far-fetched notion when a shady-looking character in black sat back against the counter edge to give her a thorough looking-over. His agate eyes shone hard beneath the brim of his ebony hat, and his thick mustache was moving in a slow, regular rhythm, until he turned to spit at a cuspidor on the floor behind him. He was obviously Ira Lewis’s henchman, not a fellow she’d care to tangle with, so she looked at the storekeeper again.

  “According to my records—a note signed and dated by you, sir,” she said in a low but ringing voice, “half the supplies charged to the stage company are being delivered to the army! If that’s not piracy, what is it?”

  “It was your husband’s way of turning another buck,” the man in black said gruffly. “You got questions or complaints, you see me and let Ira here tend to his store.”

  “And who are you?”

  He extended a broad, dark hand, grinning almost maliciously. “Thomas Underwood at your service, Mrs. Spade.”

  Sahara disliked his cavalier attitude and trusted him even less when he held her hand a moment too long. “Fine. You’ve saved me the trouble of looking for you,” she said tersely, “because I shall not tolerate such irregularities any longer. So I have no further need of your services.”

  The lines around his mouth deepened. “I don’t think you understand. Lewis and I are doing jobs that Horatio contracted for nearly three years ago—”

  “And you should understand that you’re fired! And that from here on out, some other mercantile will supply my way stations—with all the supplies I order for them! Is that clear?”

  Underwood grunted. “Yes, ma’am, I believe everyone in town is now fully informed. But I’m telling you—”

  “I have a stage to catch. Good day, gentlemen.”

  How she detested men who looked down at her, laughing to themselves when she tried to carry on a serious conversation! Her boots clattered on the plank floor as she headed outside, ignoring the whisperings of Lewis’s customers. She’d seen another dry goods establishment down the block, and she knew how many sacks of each commodity to order, so it was a matter of—

  “Sahara, you’d better cool your heels and speak to me, young lady!” a voice behind her called out.

  She turned and saw Zerelda Roberts watching her from the doorway in front of Lewis’s, her porcelain face carved with disapproval. “Miss Zerelda! Sorry I can’t chat, but—”

  With a grace as startling as a lightning bolt, the madam came forward and grabbed her arm. “Less than a week at Spade’s and already you’ve forgotten all I taught you!” she whispered.

  Sahara was too confused to reply, because she was being escorted to the nearest alley as though she were an errant pupil being corrected by the school marm. “But—but I had to let those men know I don’t intend to continue Horatio’s crooked ways!”

  “And how did you go about it? You clomped in like some backwoods renegade and all but spat in their faces!” Miss Roberts let go of her elbow now that they were in the alley, and took a deep breath to compose herself. She wore a billowing silk dress of light, shiny blue and a hat of a deeper shade, which gave her an icy appearance as she looked pointedly at Sahara. “You’ve heard that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar?”

  She nodded, puzzled.

  “Well, horse manure attracts flies, too, but it makes a poor impression—and it’s exactly what you smell like! Now, you’re going to my place for a bath and a change of clothes, and then you’re returning to apologize to Ira and Tom.”

  “But I’ve got proof they’ve been diverting supplies from—”

  “At whose insistence?” The madam’s gray eyes challenged her to think carefully about her response.

  “I…found a note Mr. Lewis wrote to Spade, detailing the monthly split. And other receipts show that Spade Express horses are being sold to the forts along the stage road.”

  “I repeat: who gave the orders?” she demanded with quiet dignity. “Who pocketed the profit, Sahara?”

  Comprehension hit her like a bucket of cold water, and Sahara felt extremely stupid. “I was so determined to find something crooked…so excited that no one else knew about it, that I assumed Lewis and Underwood were making extra money at the expense of my business. Wrong move, huh?”

  The madam smiled wryly. “A mistake worth correcting. When word got around that Spade was dead and you were caught with the smoking gun in your hand—not to mention the fact that Horatio handed nearly all of his wealth over to you—people realized you were an unusual young woman. You’ll need public approval much more than your late husband ever did, in order to keep your businesses afloat, Mrs. Spade. Insisting upon

  honest transactions is the right start, so let’s just polish up your lines a bit and try it again, shall we?”

  Sahara smiled, because the woman beside her was absolutely right. “I’ll drive my trunk over and see you in a few minutes. I didn’t come totally unprepared to play my new role.”

  She started across the street, but then turned to give Zerelda a pointed smile. “I thought you said I’d be firing blanks at Spade. Had I hit him, I’d be a murderer.”

  The madam widened her gray eyes. “I said the box contained blanks. And I said the derringer was my gift in case you needed to scare the daylights out of him,” she replied slyly. “You did, and all is well, Sahara. I couldn’t be happier for you.”

  A few hours later, she was
walking sedately along the sidewalk, smiling at people from beneath her lacy white parasol and basking in their admiring glances. Sahara felt like a queen! Blondella had freshened a blue gown from her trunk, and after a heavenly soak in the madam’s tub she’d been treated to one of Fanny’s elaborate hairstyles. She could feel her skin glowing, and her confidence bubbled within her after a strategy session with Zerelda provided the tactics she’d need to win the approval—and hopefully the admiration—of Ira Lewis and Tom Underwood. They’d done their jobs for Spade without much supervision, and they deserved her respect.

  Thundering hoofbeats made her turn and stare. The Spade Express wagon was making its grand entrance into town, its six gray Morgans surging as one while the red-jacketed driver called out to them. The coach was a grand spectacle, with its crimson sides shining in the sunlight, and gold lettering and stenciled outlines that made as majestic a decoration as she could imagine. The wheels creaked merrily, the passengers smiled out the side windows, and Sahara’s heart was racing along with the team and its coach. Such a fine sight, and it belonged to her!

  As she opened the door at Lewis’s, a tall, dark figure grabbed the jamb to keep from plowing into her. “Excuse me, ma’am! I wasn’t paying any attention—”

  Sahara gave Thomas Underwood her prettiest smile. “You have a way of showing up at all the right times, sir! I was just coming to speak with Mr. Lewis again, and I’d be pleased if you’d join us for a moment.”

  He was removing his hat from a tangle of dark, lustrous waves, but his black eyes narrowed when he realized who she was. “Not sure I’m inclined to chat with a woman who—”

  “It’ll be worth your time, Mr. Underwood,” she replied demurely. “My husband spoke highly of you, but I knew I’d have to test my employees’ loyalty before I could take over his businesses. You passed splendidly— displayed admirable control yet understandable indignation when I accosted you earlier. If you’re still interested in driving for me, at increased wages, why don’t we find Mr. Lewis? We’ll need to be loading the wagons if we’re to leave on time for the monthly supply run tomorrow.”