by Nancy Bush
“Lexie, what’s wrong?” Eliza asked with concern.
Lexie picked up her fork and stabbed her now cold meat. “Nothing.” she choked out. “Not a single damn thing.”
¤ ¤ ¤
Fortune’s bridle jingled as he tossed his dark head and whinnied at the sight of other horses standing at the Rock Springs hitching posts. As if in tandem with his dark thoughts, the weather had dropped thirty degrees overnight. No more Chinook wind. Now the wind whistled off the mountains to the east, wickedly cold. Tremaine’s hands were raw and red as he snapped the reins. He’d been riding around so long and so aimlessly that it took him by surprise that he’d reached the town.
With a muttered curse he pulled the buggy up in front of the nearest hitching post. He wanted the company of a woman. He wanted to wipe out Lexie’s memory. He wanted to drink himself into a stupor and forget who he was.
He stalked blindly through the frigid darkness, toward the lights and flickering tinsel glinting through the steamed windows of the Half Moon Saloon. A light dusting of corn snow fell on his shoulders, peppering his face.
Conrad Templeton greeted him with the indulgent pleasure of a man who’d already imbibed too much spirit. He clapped Tremaine on the back and said in a happy, unsteady slur, “Good tidings to you, my man. Lemme pour you a draft.”
Tremaine was in no mood for beer; he wanted a bottle of whiskey — maybe two. But he let the happy barkeep bring him a foaming draft nonetheless. He sat with it at a small table, staring into space.
Doc Meechum stumbled up to the bar, attempting three times to pull some coins from his dirt-crusted pants before they spilled out, pinging against the floorboards, falling into the cracks. Swearing, he bent to pick them up, spied Tremaine, and said, “How’s that their mare you got? She won’t have no problem. Gotta stop by tonight. Told your dad I would.”
Tremaine didn’t enlighten him that he was a day late and dead wrong on his professional diagnosis.
The door opened and Jace Garrett strode in, a white bandage covering his temple. Tremaine’s black mood was somewhat improved by the sight of Garrett’s injury. He lifted his draft in an unspoken salute to Lexie.
Garrett’s gaze fell on him in that moment. His face flushed dark red and he strode to Tremaine’s table. “You won this round,” he said flatly. “And you can have her.”
A spasm of pain crossed Tremaine’s face before he could hide it, and Garrett looked at him with new interest. “Something wrong in paradise?”
“Get the hell out of my sight,” Tremaine muttered.
Looking immensely cheered, Garrett met up with Conrad Templeton, who fell all over himself to please his boss. Tremaine stared bleakly into his mug.
One of the Rock Springs whores moved over to his table and rested an inviting palm on his shoulder, sliding him a look from knowing eyes. Lifting her brows, she waited for his answer. She was small and dark-haired, her small breasts pushed up over a rustling black sateen bodice.
Tremaine, very deliberately, stuffed several bills down the front of her dress. She smiled and he saw her teeth were brown and broken. Lexie’s beautiful white smile, sneaking past soft pink lips, crossed his vision.
He left without another word.
Chapter Fourteen
Spring, 1883
“Which do you think I should wear?” Lexie asked, holding up a royal blue velvet waist and skirt in one hand, and a rich chocolate brown lawn dress in the other.
Ella, lounging against Miss Everly’s meager feather pillows, squinted over the top of her English literature book and asked, “Whatever happened to that gorgeous green dress? The one you said you wore to the Winter Ball?”
“I don’t like it much.” Lexie turned her back to Ella, hiding her expression. Deliberately, she hung the chocolate gown in the closet, hoping Ella wouldn’t pursue the subject.
Ella’s book snapped shut and Lexie inwardly sighed. “What you mean you don’t like it? It’s the best dress you own.”
Lexie’s gaze automatically sought out the lovely jade taffeta, but she stared distantly beyond. She couldn’t explain how that dress reminded her poignantly of her feelings for Tremaine.
“Well, then I’d pick the blue,” Ella said. “It’s kind of matronly, but it’s a pretty color.”
“Matronly?” Lexie stepped into the skirt, then fastened the woven silk frogs that marched up her left shoulder of the shirtwaist, ending at an ecru lace cambric collar. She lifted her chin. “I defy you to call this matronly!”
Ella’s mouth curved. “Okay, on me it would be matronly. On you, it’s rather nice.”
Lexie picked up her mother-of-pearl brush and quickly brought her hair to a crackling shine. “The truth is, I wish I didn’t have to go to this party.
“Are you kidding? Having Celeste invite you to the Monteith home is an honor. The other girls are practically apoplectic with envy.”
“But you aren’t.”
Ella sighed in contentment, stretching backward, her red hair a mass of short unruly curls. “Celeste can’t stand me and the feeling’s mutual. She wouldn’t dare invite me. I’d embarrass her somehow.”
“Oh, you would not.” Lexie started to braid her hair, then gave up in disgust. She didn’t have time. Celeste’s driver would be at the school any minute.
“Yes, I would. I’d do something absolutely horrid on purpose.” Ella grinned with sly satisfaction. “I understand there’s a duck pond on their property. Wouldn’t you just die to see Celeste floundering in the water with the honkers and the quackers?”
Lexie collected her black velvet cape, her eyes laughing at Ella in spite of the misery that clouded them most of the time. “I’ll keep it in mind,” she said dryly. “Why in God’s name did she invite me?”
“Because since you came back from Christmas vacation, you knocked all the men who want a ‘Miss Everly Lady’ off their feet. There isn’t one dandy among them who wouldn’t give a wing of Daddy’s mansion to make you his wife. Where did you ever learn to flirt like that?”
Lexie stopped short, her hand on the knob. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen you at some of the dances — or when someone else’s date comes to call. You’ve got that cool little smile and that way of talking. It drives men crazy.” Ella looked thoughtful. “As a matter fact, I could use a lesson. I haven’t found that wealthy husband yet and I’m running out of time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lexie was growing uncomfortable. She thought back to her attitude over the past few months. Had Tremaine changed her so drastically? She tried so very hard to put him out of her mind.
“Celeste likes having you around. You draw men like honey to a bee.”
Lexie ran down the stairs and waited on the front stoop. Celeste had gone home for the weekend and had promised to send a carriage around to pick Lexie up for the party her father, Silas Monteith, was throwing in honor of Celeste’s eighteenth birthday. Lexie’s birthday had come and gone without much fanfare. Her parents had sent gifts and love; Jesse, Samuel, and Harrison — from Denver — cards. If Lexie had needed further proof that Tremaine wished to forget their night together, his lack of acknowledgment on her birthday had been the crowning blow.
The carriage driver helped Lexie to her seat, and she sat with her hands folded tautly in her lap as they jerked forward and began rumbling down the street. She wasn’t going to think about Tremaine. She wasn’t. It didn’t matter to her that their night together had only meant a few tawdry hours of pleasure to him.
She looked out the side window, distantly watching the passing Nob Hill homes as the carriage driver headed west. The Monteiths’ home was on the farthest edge of the fashionable residential district, its sloping grounds surrounded by towering firs and the rolling, mountainous hills of Portland’s western rim. But her thoughts were on Tremaine — always Tremaine.
He’d shut her out of his life and gone back to Jenny McBride. That was the fact she couldn’t ignore. He might be embarra
ssed, she realized, over deflowering a woman he’d once thought of as his sister, but that was a paltry excuse for leaving her without so much as a word of goodbye!
Gritting her teeth, she hardened her heart — as she’d hardened it a thousand times already. It was God’s own miracle that she wasn’t pregnant, but for all Tremaine cared, she could be living in shame, forced to bear it alone.
It takes two, you blackhearted bastard! her heart cried out in pain. She ought to hate him. But she ought to strangle him with her bare hands the next time she saw him. But why, oh why, did the thought of seeing him again bring a flutter to her heart, and the throbbing ache in the region of her lower limbs?
Drawing a long, shuddering breath, she folded her painful memories into that secret corner of her heart — the corner reserved for Tremaine alone — and with a visible snap of her head and squaring of shoulders, she pushed him out of her mind for the rest of the ride.
¤ ¤ ¤
Victor Flynne swirled his brandy in the crystal snifter Silas Monteith had grudgingly offered him. He gazed out the window of Silas’ opulent office, watching carriages turn into the torch-lit drive and pull up to the front steps of his home.
“You’re going to have to get out of here, you bastard,” Silas hissed through his teeth. “I don’t want anyone seeing you.” He slammed the strongbox lid shut; the door to the safe followed with a hollow thud.
Victor smiled to himself and sipped his brandy. “Don’t worry.”
“Here’s your goddamn five thousand.” Silas slapped a thick pile of bills on the windowsill and glared furiously down at him. “Don’t come back again.”
“That wasn’t our arrangement, Silas,” Victor reminded him. “What do you think these people would say if they knew you’d shot a man in cold blood? Maybe they’re not for unions, but murder is murder. You’d be cut out of Portland society quicker than lightning.”
“It was self-defense!”
“My information says it was murder — and my information just happens to be the truth. That man was a unionizer and you were afraid your shipbuilders would listen to him. So you killed him.”
Monteith was purple with suppressed rage. “I’d rather be a dock worker than pay you another filthy dime,” he snarled.
“Ahh, Silas…” Victor shook his head. “Your reputation is far too precious for you to take such a stand. The pillars of Portland society are a puritanical lot. You’d be cast out like yesterday’s garbage. I’d venture to say…”
Victor trailed off at the vision of pure loveliness stepping from the running board of the latest arriving carriage. Blond hair the color of corn silk, high cheekbones, a wide, sensually curving mouth. “By God,” he murmured. “Lexington Danner.”
“I’ll not pay another cent!” Silas roared, working himself into a fit. “Keep after me, and you might find yourself hanging from a rope tied to some lonely tree!”
Victor was unruffled by Silas’ threats; he’d heard them all a hundred times before. For all his bluster, Monteith was wary of Victor’s incredible informants and connections. Victor Flynne was almost as accepted as Silas amongst Portland’s wealthy class. Only a handful knew of his underhanded business dealings — and most of them, like Silas, had found out the hard way.
“Do you know anything about that girl?” Victor asked with deceptive casualness.
Monteith glowered through the mullioned windows, his eyes assessing the beautiful blond who was now gathering her skirts to walk up the porch steps. “No.”
“That’s Lexington Danner. One of your daughter’s classmates, I believe. She has an interesting history. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve uncovered.”
Victor’s inner smile widened, but then he remembered his meeting with Lexington’s stepbrother. Tremaine Danner had caught up with him in the lobby of one of Portland’s finer hotels and coldly demanded to know what Victor wanted from one Joseph Danner.
Victor had been instantly wary of Dr. Tremaine Danner — the same Dr. Danner who had tried to save the man Silas Monteith had shot. Unlike his father, however, Tremaine didn’t skirt the issue at all. He wanted to know who had contacted his father and why. Luckily, Victor had lied convincingly, telling him a woman from Kentucky had lost her cousin’s trail in Portland; the reasons were no more sinister than that. Whether Tremaine believed him or not, Victor still didn’t know. Whatever the case, Victor needed to get the rest of the facts on the Danner secret and fast.
Silas Monteith broke into his thoughts with a harsh, “Get the hell out of here, Flynne.”
Victor sighed, handed Monteith his glass. “I might need a favor from you soon.”
“I won’t help you in any way!”
“Yes, you will.” His voice was steel. “You’re friendly with some Portland bankers. I want to know about the Danner finances.” His gaze narrowed. “Eliza Danner has money somewhere.”
“Eliza Smythe Danner?”
“You know her?” Victor asked eagerly.
“Hell, yes. She’s one of the biggest investors in my shipbuilding business.”
Victor was ecstatic. What a piece of luck! “I want to know all about the Danner family. Everything you can learn. Silas,” Victor added, sensing he’d pushed the man to the end of his tether, “there are more ways of paying blackmail than just by money.”
Monteith closed his mouth and eyed his wily tormentor shrewdly. His businessman’s mind saw the possibilities in this new option, but all he said was, “Goodnight, Victor.”
Flynne gave a short bow and let himself into the hallway. The guests were gathered in the main ballroom and no one noticed him leave — until he nearly ran into the one woman he’d hoped to avoid.
Lexie, who had stepped into the nearest room to catch her breath before facing the lively crowd, almost collided with a man in a light brown suit as she reentered the foyer. “Excuse me. I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No harm done.” He smiled and would have gone around her, but the door opened again, and he had to wait for the newest guests to dispose of their cloaks and hats and find their way to the ballroom.
Those crucial moments gave Lexie a chance to really look at him. “Have we met?” she asked hesitantly. There was something distinctly familiar about him.
“I doubt it. You, I would remember.” He strode out the door and down the stone steps, raising a hand for his carriage.
Lexie was left to stare after him. She was certain she’d seen you somewhere before, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember where. He was not the kind of man to stand out in a crowd; indeed, he seemed to melt into the surroundings. But the cut of his suit was expensive, his overall air one of subtle wealth. She felt certain the’d met before.
“There you are, Lexie!” Celeste cried, appearing in a cloud of peach silk from the double doors at the end of the hall. Music followed after her and she grabbed onto Lexie’s arm, nearly dragging her toward the ballroom. “We’re desperate for young women here tonight. Most of Daddy’s friends are all warts with rotten teeth and oodles of money. Please, help me! I know you’ll think of something to say to them!”
The familiar-seeming man was forgotten as soon as Lexie was swept into the ballroom. The floor was black and white marble tile. Three chandeliers were suspended from the domed ceiling. Lexie couldn’t help marveling at the Monteiths’ ostentatious home.
“This is Sir Henry Simonson,” Celeste introduced breathlessly, wrapping Lexie’s hand through the man’s arm. “He’s been waiting for a dance partner all evening. Sir Henry, I’d like you to meet my friend, Lexington Danner.” Celeste left before Lexie could utter a word.
Embarrassed, Lexie eyed her companion. There were no warts and his teeth looked fine, but he was an emaciated old codger with a baggy chin and eyes that seemed wont to caress Lexie’s shape.
“Miss Danner,” he said, covering her hand with a papery dry palm. “Would you care to dance?”
Lexie would rather have eaten w
orms. She painted on a smile and nodded, swallowing as he led her onto the floor beneath the center chandelier, his lascivious gaze following the curve of her breasts beneath the blue velvet shirtwaist.
She was glad the damn thing buttoned all the way to her throat.
¤ ¤ ¤
Little Billy Greaves grinned wickedly at Tremaine and wiggled the fingers on his right hand. Two had been chopped off at the first knuckle; one at the second. The cleaver had just missed his thumb.
“They’s good, Doc. See?”
“You’re lucky to have anything left at all, Billy,” Tremaine remarked sternly. “I wouldn’t be stealing again anytime soon.”
Billy’s lack of response drew a sigh from Tremaine. The boy was probably already at it. He had no father, and his mother showed the same boredom toward her son’s welfare as she did to everything else in her world. Tremaine had never seen a more apathetic creature. She did nothing more useful than sit around their smelly tenement and eat whatever Billy could pilfer. The fact that an enraged butcher had chopped off his fingers didn’t seem to move her in the least.
Knowing it was a pathetic stopgap, Tremaine pressed two quarters into Billy’s palm. “Get a job,” he urged the nine-year-old boy.
“Ah will!” He bobbed his head enthusiastically, amazed at his good fortune. “Ah will!”
Tremaine walked to the door. From another room he heard the wet, racking coughs of the one friend Billy had — a young woman whose husband had left her when he’d learned she had consumption. Tremaine knocked softly on the door.
“Who is it?” came the rasped inquiry.
“It’s Dr. Danner, Grace. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
The door opened a crack. She was bent over, her young face lined and ravaged by disease that would surely take her before summer arrived.
“I’m better today,” she said, opening the door wider. Billy, who had been hovering behind Tremaine, now squeezed beneath his arm.
“Ah’m going to get some food,” he said matter-of-factly. “Ah’ll get you some, too.”