Thunder on the Plains

by Rosanne Bittner

  Sunny could not help a rather embarrassed smile. “Well, thank you, I guess. I will expect you this evening, then, at eight.”

  “My pleasure, I’m sure,” he answered.

  Sunny nodded and walked away, talking to a few more men before leaving the room. O’Brien watched after her, breathing deeply with the pleasure of knowing she had accepted his invitation. For years he had been looking for just the right woman to share his wealth. This one could even add to that wealth, and she was pretty enough to make a man want to beg. By God, he thought, I believe I’ve just met the future Mrs. Blaine O’Brien. All I have to do is break down that brick wall she’s built around herself.

  Chapter 11

  I had to laugh when you said in your letter that you hoped I wasn’t in too much danger, Sunny read. She smiled, turning her new velvet chair around so that its back was to her large oak desk, on which sat a vase of fresh flowers. I had to take off on a routine run when I got your letter, so I couldn’t read it right away. During my ride I was attacked by outlaws—killed two of them, took the other three in to be arrested. When they shot at me, they got my horse instead, and when he fell, I went down with him and cracked three ribs, but didn’t take a bullet, so I’m okay. Got the mail through just fine.

  Sunny laughed then, shaking her head. “I’ll bet you did,” she said softly. Only Colt Travis would write about such a thing as though it were nothing. So when I opened your letter, which was before I would even let them wrap my ribs, and read your first comment, I couldn’t help laughing, which, I might add, didn’t help the pain in my ribs.

  I’m so glad you wrote back, Sunny. Something about that letter made me feel kind of special, like somebody in this whole big world knows about Colt Travis and actually gives a damn. My best and only real friend up to this point, who is still alive I should say, is a Cheyenne Indian called White Buffalo, but I haven’t seen him for quite some time. I lived with him for a few months last winter. I feel sorry for him and his people, with all the settlement going on out here now. The Indians’ way of life is changing, and it’s killing them. Because of that I probably shouldn’t hope that your railroad gets built, but I can’t help rooting for you anyway.

  You should come back for a visit, at least to Omaha. I bet you’d be surprised how things have changed. They say the telegraph will be finished by this fall. I don’t know what I’ll do then. I need something to keep me busy, keep my mind off things that hurt too much to think about.

  You asked about my wife, how she died. It was Pawnee Indians. I was off hunting, and I don’t think I will ever forgive myself for leaving her and our baby son alone.

  “Baby son!” she murmured aloud. He had not mentioned a child in the first letter.

  It is still hard for me to talk about. Or to even write about it. Picture the most awful thing you can picture. I don’t know how else to put it. My son’s name was Ethan. He was only four months old. By the time I got there, it was too late. I took an arrow in my side and would have died if not for White Buffalo and his people finding me and nursing me back from death, although I really didn’t want to live anyway.

  “Oh, Colt,” she muttered. “Dear God!”

  Maybe if we ever get to visit in person again I can tell you more. For now, I would rather tell you how beautiful the weather is here today, except that it’s very hot. My ribs are mending just fine, and I will get back to riding my route again soon. They get copies of the Omaha paper here about once a week, and I look through every page to see if there is any news about you. I saw an article that said you had traveled to New York and Washington to lobby for the railroad, and that you were even going to see the president. I can’t get over the fact that you took the time to answer my letter in the middle of your busy schedule. It must not be easy for you.

  I have to hurry and finish this. Another rider will be by anytime to take it on to Omaha. I just wanted to thank you for your letter. Please don’t feel obligated to answer every time I write you.

  An old friend, Colt.

  Sunny refolded the letter, turning back around and putting it in the top right drawer of her desk, where she had placed the first letter. She liked keeping them where she could reread them once in a while. She would answer his letter, whether he expected it or not. To think of the tragedy he had suffered, the horror with which he had to live, brought pain to her own heart. To lose not only a young wife, but a baby son too…how dreadful! She could almost feel his anguish. It seemed everyone in his life who loved him and was close to him ended up dying. It had to be very lonely for him.

  She took out a piece of paper and a pen and began writing, unable to put it off for one minute in spite of the mountains of other work that needed to be done. This was a quiet time of the day, late afternoon. The grandfather clock still ticked away in one corner of the huge room, but it was about all that was left of her father’s original decor. All furniture was now oak and velvet instead of mahogany and leather. The carpeting and draperies were mauve instead of dark green. Paintings of mountains and flowers hung on the walls. Potted plants were placed strategically about, and a bird cage hung near a window in which a canary flitted about, lifting her heart and spirits with its singing.

  The wallpaper had also been changed to a mauve and beige flower design, and the picture of herself behind the desk had been removed. Soon it would be replaced by the painting she had originally decided she wanted—of a locomotive. She had hired a professional artist to paint it for her, instructing him that she wanted a background of the Great Plains. Since the artist had never been west of Chicago, she had made an appointment with him so that she could describe the land she loved. She decided she would bring along her journal and read to him some of her fresh descriptions of the Plains. She couldn’t wait until the picture was finished, and already planned to frame it in gold.

  The refurbishing had been done while she was gone so that she would not have to come back and be hit again with the agony of her father’s death. She could still smell the wallpaper glue, and she thought how much easier it was to breathe that smell than the lingering odor of her father’s cigars. If she was ever going to get over this painful loss, she had to stop looking for things that reminded her of Bo Landers.

  Someone knocked at the door, and she looked up, closing the desk drawer that held the letters. “Who is it?”

  “Vince.”

  Oh, how she had grown to hate even his voice! What did he want now? “Come in,” she said.

  To her surprise, her brother entered carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. He stopped and looked around, and Sunny knew this was the first time he had seen the office since she made the changes. She waited for the expected blow-up, perhaps a speech about how she had no business changing his father’s office this way; but whatever he wanted to say, he managed to force it back, putting on a pleasant face.

  “I was on my way up to see you when these were delivered downstairs,” he told her. “I said I’d bring them up. Are they from the person I think they’re from?”

  Sunny took the flowers and laid them on her desk, all defenses alert, since Vince almost never came to see her casually. “And who, pray tell, do you think that might be?” She took the card from the flowers.

  “Blaine O’Brien, one of the wealthiest men in the country.”

  Sunny looked at him in surprise, amazed to see a smile on his face. “How do you know about Blaine?”

  “Hell, everybody knows, Sunny. It was in the society column of the Tribune before you got back from Washington.”

  Sunny frowned in exasperation, realizing now why Mae had been so mysteriously giggly that morning when she helped her dress. “I just got back yesterday. I hadn’t heard,” she said, staring at the card.

  For the most beautiful woman in Chicago or New York or anyplace else, it read. I am coming to Chicago soon. I must see you again. Always, Blaine.

  Sunny could f
eel the color coming to her cheeks. “Yes, they’re from Blaine.”

  “So, are you going to tell me about it?”

  She rolled her eyes. “There is nothing to tell. I don’t know why or how it got into the newspaper. I had one chaperoned dinner date with the man, and that was because he owed me an apology. It meant nothing.” She folded her arms authoritatively. “And why do you, of all people, care, Vince? What did you come up here for in the first place?”

  He grinned almost nervously. “Well, for this.” He indicated the flowers. “I wanted to find out about the rumors, and lo and behold, the man is sending you flowers. You must have made quite an impression on him. I’ve heard he’s quite handsome and very eligible.” His eyes moved over her appreciatively. “You aren’t going to let somebody like that get away, are you?”

  Sunny’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Vince, you couldn’t care less about my love life, except how it might affect you and Landers Enterprises. Don’t be so eager to marry me off. Even if I were to marry, I would draw up some kind of legal papers that would leave me in control of what I have. I am not about to let some man who never even knew Father take over all my holdings. Is that what you’re worried about? Or are you wishing I would marry, maybe settle and have babies and drop out of my job here?”

  His smile faded, and the old familiar hostile look returned. “You do neglect your social life, Sunny. You should get married, behave like a woman is supposed to behave! And I do hope you will be careful to marry properly. There aren’t many men who are worthy of becoming part of this family, you know. Blaine O’Brien, I am told, is a man of impeccable taste, with a good reputation and as much or more money than we have. He would be a wonderful match for you. I hope you won’t fall for some worthless nobody and marry below yourself, like—” He reddened slightly.

  Sunny put her hands to her waist. “Like who?”

  Like our father, he wanted to tell her. Oh, how he longed to tell her the truth, to tell her the real reason he resented the thought of her inheriting so much! But he had promised his father, under the threat of losing what little he did still hold. Although Bo Landers was dead, he still couldn’t bring himself to break that promise. What was the sense in torturing Sunny with it when he had already lost his bid to his share of the fortune? It had been his father’s place to set things right, and he had not done so. The man had refused to admit that Lucille Madison was anything but sweet and wonderful and the love of his life, and Vince wondered if he would ever stop hating the man for it, or hating Sunny, even though she had had no control over events.

  “Well, like…like Andrew Hipple’s daughter. She married a no-good gambler, and look what happened. He gambled away everything she had inherited, then left her.”

  Sunny shook her head, picking up the flowers and carrying them over to a table and placing them into a Chinese vase. “I’m not going to marry any worthless gambler, Vince.”

  “Yes, but do you realize what it could mean for Landers Enterprises if you did marry badly? My God, we could lose everything! You need to marry a man who understands business and wealth. More important, you need to marry a man who has as much or more money than we do. You’ll know then that he loves you for you and isn’t after your money and the company.”

  She turned to face him, anger in her eyes. “Vince, stop pretending that you care about whether or not a man marries me for love. Why don’t you just admit that you’re worried only about losing the company to someone who doesn’t know how to run it? I told you I intend to stay in control and keep what is mine, no matter what, even if I have children. If a man can keep up his business life after children, so can a woman. That’s what nannies are for.” She frowned, studying him closely. “What brought this on? Is it something more than the rumors about me and Blaine O’Brien? Why did you feel you had to warn me about marrying a man with no money?”

  Vince ran a hand through his still-thick but graying hair, hesitating for a moment, then walking closer to her, using his old tactic of towering over her like a bully. “Stuart says Vi told him you’ve been corresponding with that scout you met when you went out west. Is that true?”

  Sunny just stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. She turned away and walked back behind her desk. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” she said, laughing again.

  “Well? Is it true?”

  Her smile faded. “Yes. But I can assure you, Vince, the last thing Colt Travis cares about is my money.”

  “Money is the only thing most men do care about, especially when they don’t have any of their own.”

  Anger began to move into Sunny’s eyes, replacing the humor. “You don’t know anything about Colt. He wrote me out of pure concern for my loss. He had read about it in an Omaha newspaper. He was sorry my brother had given me so many problems during my time of mourning!” She enjoyed the color that came into his face at the remark. “My letters are my business, Vince! Colt is nothing more than an old friend, who, I might add, saved my life more than once on that trip! He has suffered his own losses—a wife and baby son murdered by Indians! He has absolutely no one in this world who cares a whole lot what happens to him or if he’s lonely or hurt. He takes comfort in my letters and I take comfort in his, and do you want to know why? Because he represents a kind of peace and serenity I found out there, a world apart from the gossip and stares and hatred and decision-making and fighting I have to put up with here, mostly thanks to you!”

  She pulled open the drawer where the letters were kept and whipped them out. “Here! Do you want to censor my mail? You’ll find the letters are perfectly respectable!” She slammed them down on the desk. “I have a right to my private life, Vince. And give me a little credit for common sense. Believe me, Colt Travis wouldn’t come here and take over Landers Enterprises for all the money in the world! Believe it or not, there are men in this world who don’t put money first! Besides that, the man has no romantic inclinations anyway. It’s obvious by his letters that he is still haunted by the deaths of his wife and son. I highly doubt he’s ready to fall in love again, especially with someone he hasn’t seen in four years and who is as far a cry from what he would want in a woman as she could get!”

  She turned away. “Get out, Vince. Every time you come around I get a headache. I might have known you didn’t come to see me just to offer your help or to try to start being a real brother.”

  He stared at her a moment, tempted to explain. “Sunny, I am just looking out for your welfare. For Christ’s sake, you’re only nineteen. What do you know about men?”

  She slowly turned proud eyes to meet his gaze. “I know when a man doesn’t respect my intelligence. I know when my own brother hates me. I know that most men put money above all things. I grew up around the most scheming kind of men there can be, remember? Father taught me better than you think. I know I have to be careful.” She looked away again. “Besides, I have far too much work ahead of me before I can devote my time to any kind of a relationship, whether it’s with someone like Blaine O’Brien or anyone else. I have a railroad to build.”

  She heard him sigh deeply. “A railroad that is never going to come to be. What will happen then, Sunny, to all the money you’re putting into it? It will be gone, lining the pockets of men like Thomas Durant.”

  “Mr. Durant has kept me totally informed every step of the way. If the railroad fails, he and a lot of others will have lost, not just me.” She faced him again. “But we aren’t going to lose, Vince.”

  “You’ll never raise the money you need, not while there is a war going on.”

  “Let me worry about that. You worry about Great Lakes Shipping and Landers Warehousing.”

  His mouth moved into a sneer. “When it comes to that goddamn railroad, you’re as much of a fool as Dad was! I hope you aren’t as foolish about the men you take to your bed!”

  Her eyes widened with indignation. “How d
are you say such a thing! I’ve never given one thought to going to bed with any man!”

  His gaze moved over her strangely. Was she still a virgin, or was she going to be like her mother? he wondered secretly. “Just remember my advice about Blaine O’Brien. Don’t waste a good thing, Sunny, and don’t be stupid enough to think that this Colt Travis, or whatever his name is, doesn’t see dollar signs every time he gets another letter from you!” He walked to the door, stopping to gaze around the room once more. “I see you didn’t waste any time getting rid of everything that speaks of our father.”

  “I changed this room because it hurt too much to leave it the way Father had it! Why in God’s name do you continue to reopen old wounds, Vince, to make life hell for me!”

  He stiffened and closed his eyes for a moment. How could he explain? “I’m sorry.”

  He turned and left, and Sunny stared after him, furious at how he always found a way to upset her. Why had he made the remark about taking men to her bed? She had never done anything more than let Ted Regis kiss her once, and that had been merely a kiss of friendship. She turned back to her desk, picking up Colt’s letters, realizing he was the only man about whom she had ever had any truly romantic thoughts, and that was when she was a daydreaming child. She scanned one of the letters again, refusing to believe Colt would write her for any reason other than out of true concern.

  She looked over at the magnificent spray of flowers Blaine had sent her. He was coming to Chicago soon to see her. She could not deny he was a charming man whom any woman would consider a perfect catch. She also could not deny that Vince was right in saying that she had to be careful who she allowed into her life, but the way he had said it left her somewhat stunned.

  She sat down and again picked up her pen. She was determined to keep writing to Colt no matter what anyone thought of it. I might not know much about men, Vince Landers, but I know of one man for certain who couldn’t care less if I was worth no more than the clothes on my back. She told herself she was not foolish enough to entertain romantic thoughts about Colt, for just as she had told Vince, it would be ridiculous, considering their different life-styles. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t continue to be friends, and it didn’t mean she couldn’t still daydream about a beautiful land and correspond with someone who was part of a lovely memory. She needed Colt’s letters, and she was sure that he needed hers.