“Do you think I was…”
“I do. I think you still are. Look how you’re dressed. You’re flaunting wealth to the point of snobbery. You’re obviously out to make him feel like an impoverished backwoods hick. You’re angry with your father, with the medical profession, with men in general, and you want to take it out on Shane. I’m here to tell you he doesn’t deserve it.” She bit her lip. Her uncle was right on the money.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Richard.” She felt like a chastened ten-year-old.
“And I am only going to say this once. You’re wrong about Shane. He’s a gracious gentleman, as educated as you are. He’s had some trouble lately, and we need to give him the benefit of the doubt. Well, come down soon. Dinner is ready.” He rose and exited the room, leaving it up to her whether she would comply with his request.
Within a few minutes she glided down the stairs. She had changed into a more simple forest green wool skirt and a plain cream pongee self-tied blouse adorned only with her gold pendant watch, and had gathered her damp hair into an elaborate chignon at the back of her head. She kept her eyes demurely down and pointedly ignored Shane; nevertheless, he looked awestruck as he rose from his chair. He made as if to set his empty tea mug on the piecrust table next to the wing chair, but missed and dropped it on his toe. Momentarily ignored, it rolled off onto the carpet. She could not restrain a giggle as he bent to retrieve it.
“Ready for supper?” Richard asked, standing back to let her precede him into the assembly room. She took the Blue Willow mug from Shane’s hand as she passed him.
“Here. Let me wash that for you,” she said unctuously, her dark eyes flashing. Shane’s cheeks flushed.
“Merci beaucoup, Mam’selle,” he said stiffly, his Johnny-come-lately English having deserted him in his hour of need.
“De rien, Sergeant,” she responded, her cultured Parisian French obvious against his rough Québécois. Richard cut his eyes at Shane, too, and he reddened even more. Pointedly she washed the cup and dried it, then leaned over to place it above his plate.
Richard said grace, seated Jenny, and Mavis served their food. Jenny sat primly across from Richard, as remote as the Snow Queen, ignoring Shane and paying attention to her meal.
“So, Richard, about the Balkan situation? Do you really think it means war? And if so, how soon?” Shane asked. It might have been inappropriate table conversation in some polite homes, but at table in the Weston household any topic was fair game, including very frank medical discussions. It did set them off and lasted nicely until their meal was finished, although Jenny spoke only when she was directly addressed, and for his part, Shane ignored her.
“Shane, you’re staying the night?” Mavis asked.
“I have to. I can’t ride Midnight just yet.”
“Well, the bunks are made up fresh. I’ll get you an extra blanket, too. It’s going to turn cold tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“If I may be excused, the night’s young, and I can get in a good hour or two of work before bedtime,” Richard said.
“Of course. And I can always stand study time.” Jenny rose a fraction after he did.
“Good night, Richard. Miss Weston,” Shane said. Finally she looked directly at him.
“Good night, Sergeant.” She gave him a remote nod worthy of her self-imposed role as Snow Queen and followed Richard upstairs.
The letters still lay on the cooling railroad stove. She picked them up and examined the first one. It bore the return address of the family home in New York. Richard’s name was on the front in the elaborately curlicued cursive she recognized as belonging to her Aunt Eleanor. She set it aside, turned the other over, and her heart stopped at the sight of a Northtown imprimatur. Resisting the temptation to savage the envelope then and there, she sat down at her desk, took out the delicate filigreed letter opener that had belonged to her late Aunt Alix, and slit the flap. With shaking hands she drew out the single sheet of stationery within. Unlike her other letter from Northtown, this one was handwritten, and when her eyes skipped down to the signature, it read simply, “Stuart.” Her mind conjured up an image of her father’s superior, the Chief of Surgery, a tall, stocky man with greying dishwater-blond hair, sprightly blue eyes, and one of the keenest minds she had ever known. She had always been fond of Stuart Hoffman. He had been one of the few men who had never patronized her or treated her like a simpleton just because she happened to be female. Her eyes skipped back to the top.
Dear Jenny, I wanted to give you time to make it to Canada and get settled before writing to you. I know that the rejection of your application to Northtown was arbitrary and abrupt, and I apologize. However, it was something over which I had no control. I only hope you did not take it badly.
I wanted to tell you that I fought for you. I waged the greatest battle I have dared since I was appointed to the Board of Directors, and I was not successful in budging those old fuddy-duddies from their viewpoint. But I did wring a concession or two from them. One is that if you will find an active practice to join, then reapply in a year with references from any physicians with whom you are associated, the Board will reconsider your application. I think (optimist that I am) that at that point I can prevail. Your credentials are absolutely the best I have ever seen, and I know that you would be a great asset to Northtown’s staff. Keep up the faith, Jenny. Do your best and I will do mine. In the meantime, write to me and let me know how you are doing. Sincerely, Stuart.
Her heart surged up into her throat and nearly choked her. So all along she’d had a very influential champion without realizing it. She had been close to giving up, but now that a door opened to her, if only a crack, she vowed she would make the best of it. If she had to write to every single doctor in the whole United States, she would find a place for herself, do her best, and hang onto her dream.
Considerably cheered, she took her favorite Modern Obstetrical Procedures to bed with her. She opened it at random and absorbed herself in the section dealing with manual podality. She read until her eyes grew irresistibly heavy, then blew out the hurricane lamp.
She immediately sank into such a deep sleep that when she next opened her eyes she was unaware that any time had passed. Enough moonlight shone in through her window that she could read her watch. It was nearly six o’clock, and not a sound disturbed the old farmhouse. She lay in the luxurious soft warmth of the bed until she woke completely, then she rose, stoked the little railroad stove, and dived back into the warmth of her bed. Not until the room warmed up did she rise and dress, taking her time, watching false dawn light the sky. When she heard her uncle stirring in the next room, she knocked softly on his door.
“Uncle Richard?”
“You’re up, I take it?”
“I have been for almost an hour. Do you think it’s safe to go downstairs?”
“Mavis is probably up already, but do you want me to go make sure the coast is clear?”
“I’d appreciate it. I don’t want to intrude on your guest’s privacy.”
“Tell you what. Just come downstairs with me, and if there are no lights on you can go back up until I wake everyone.” She trailed Richard down the stairs but need not have worried. Shane sat at the table with a mug of tea, and Mavis had already started breakfast.
“…to make your bed,” she was saying. “I’d just have to unmake it later to send the sheets to the laundress. Oh, good morning, Mr. Weston. Jenny.”
“Good morning, Mavis,” Richard replied.
“I’ll set the table,” Jenny volunteered, mostly so she would not have to acknowledge Shane.
“Did your work go well last night, Richard?” Shane asked.
“Very well. I squeezed in an extra hour before I went to bed. That explains the late morning. I apologize if I’m getting you off to a bad start.”
“No. I’m just going up to North Village. In this weather that’s only an hour from here, give or take. Now if I were getting started from town this late, it would be a different
story.”
Jenny, standing with her back to the telephone, nearly jumped out of her skin when it rang. She turned and picked up the earpiece. “Richard Weston’s residence. Jenny Weston speaking,” she said.
“Miss Weston, this is Corporal Paul Weller, Royal Northwest Mounted Police.” His voice came through the crackling static on the line.
“Oh, yes, Corporal Weller. I remember you.”
“By any chance is Sergeant Adair there?”
“Yes, he is.”
“What a relief!”
“Would you like to speak with him?”
“If I may, please.” Jenny turned to Shane.
“It’s Corporal Weller,” she said, holding the earpiece out to him.
“I knew I should have telephoned them. Thank you.” He stepped to the phone and tipped the mouthpiece up.
“Hello, Paul… Yes, I’m all right. I’m fine. There was a little incident with Midnight yesterday afternoon, and I had to stay here at Richard Weston’s place. If Midnight isn’t lame, I’m going up to North Village, and then I’ll come back to town.” He listened a moment. “That’s fine with me. I’d actually prefer that you and Laurence do the short patrol together so he learns the beat the way I set it up. I’ll see you this evening, or if I can’t make it back I’ll let you know… No, Paul. Midnight didn’t throw me, and we didn’t fall. I was dismounted when he was frightened by a bear and ran away. He got tangled and fell, or he’d have run full gallop into a barbed-wire fence. He has a few little cuts, but nothing major… All right. I’ll see you this evening, or I’ll telephone you and have one of you bring me another horse.” He said goodbye and rang off. “Poor Paul. I did give him a turn, I’m afraid. I was just so…absorbed with what was going on that it totally escaped me that he and Laurence would worry when I went missing without a word.”
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I have a telephone,” Richard said, then pronounced the blessing and seated Jenny before taking his own chair. Mavis came to the table with a plate of bacon and eggs and another of pancakes.
“I’d have made oatmeal, because I know how much you like it, Shane, but it takes so long. There simply wasn’t time this morning,” she said.
“This is wonderful. Thank you.” He let Mavis serve him, politely waiting for Jenny to begin before touching his own food. Backwoods or not, at least he has some manners, she allowed grudgingly.
Chapter Four
A few minutes later Shane was on his way. He reined in his racing mind and paid attention to the trail that went abruptly uphill through the mixed conifer and hardwood forest. However, he was so familiar with the path after riding it at least twice a week for the last six years that his mind was soon off on its own rabbit trail again. No matter how many times he drew himself back to the present, he could not push Jenny out of his thoughts.
His artist’s eyes had seen and his memory copied down a thousand small details about her, including the stubborn whorls of dark blonde hair at the nape of her neck and the little dimple below the right corner of her mouth. He wanted more than anything to loosen that hair, twine his hands into it, and kiss that tiny dimple. He knew her skin, innocent of powder or paint, would be soft, with the slight tackiness of finely woven silk, and he could immerse himself in the dark, sweet fragrance that clung about her. It intrigued him; he had never encountered it before and could not place it. He also knew how warm and yielding her body would feel against him and how her lips would meet his with only a slight hesitance as she returned his kiss. Perhaps she would be brave enough to touch his cheek or slide a hand behind his neck, and perhaps he would catch and kiss those same scented fingertips… And suddenly, in spite of the cool day, he found himself needing to take off his clothes and roll naked in the nearest snowbank.
A lot of girls have affected you that way, and you know what came of all of it, he told himself. The moment they find out you’re a half-breed, you are instantly lower than the dirt beneath their feet. Then, as they tended to do in moments like this, his thoughts went back to his university days, the six torturous years he spent in Ottawa. He had gone to college not knowing what to expect, but talent and intelligence could take him only so far. His popularity with his professors did not extend to popularity with his peers. Even though he had tried to keep his background a secret, his Irish name, his backwoods manners and provincial French, and his Indian-black hair eventually gave him away. After that he heard it all: Métis, dirty Indian, half-breed, Mick, filthy shanty bastard…and the list went on. All that kept him at Royal Dominion had been his promise to Angus MacBride to complete the education Angus financed. That is, until he discovered hockey. His athletic skill was his ticket into acceptable society and a fraternity, and after that life at Royal Dominion at least became marginally bearable.
Then there was Claudine. Beautiful Claudine, dark and mysterious. At the time they met, his naiveté kept him from realizing her real nature. By the time he had figured out that he gave up almost ten years to her while she lived the life of a demi-mondaine and a kept woman for every one of those years, he had been so in love—or so in rut, he corrected himself—that he could barely see straight. She had originally contracted with him to paint her portrait. At first she had desired a simple study, sitting, clothed in sumptuous forest green velvet, but gradually she changed her mind until the portrait became a study of her posed as an odalisque, reclining nude on a pillowed chaise longue. From there to her bed turned out to be a very short distance. When she found his style of lovemaking, a product of his Iroquois upbringing, to be superb, unique, and fulfilling even to one of her jaded tastes, she took it upon herself to make a gentleman of her little diamond in the rough.
Their affair dragged on for a full three years. Pleased with one portrait after another, she kept him well. He had money and clothes, and under her tutelage he acquired a polish of sophisticated manners. Then, abruptly, she told him it was over, for she had found a lover who wanted to marry her and keep her in the style to which she had aspired all her life. When he protested and declared his undying love, she laughed at his youth, mocked his poverty, and sent him away, bruised, heart-sore, and very much the wiser for the experience.
I wasn’t even good enough to be dirt under the feet of an old whore, he said to himself. What on God’s green earth am I doing raising my eyes to a genuine lady like Jenny Weston? I do know what I’m doing. I’m riding for another fall, only the latest of many. And Claudine, wherever you are, I know you’re laughing at me. Still.
So why do you keep trying to deny what you are, Shane Patrick Adair? Own up to the fact that your grandfather was an ignorant squaw-man, your father was an illiterate, impoverished shanty Irish immigrant who followed the railroad, and you’re related to half of North Village in one way or another and probably a bastard to boot. Not only are you not good enough for a real lady like Jenny, you could also damage her reputation past mending. Everything about her says stay away, keep your distance. Get a horse for her because Richard asked you to, bring it to him at the ranch, and then get the hell away from Jenny Weston and stay there.
His mental soliloquy proved oddly cathartic and left him with at least some sort of peace, as though he had faced the worst in himself and managed to live through it. He let the soothing rhythm of Midnight’s powerful gait lull him, and by the time he could see the clearing around North Village, he was in harmony with himself again.
To his relief, everything was quiet in the settlement. When he had satisfied himself that all was well, he mounted, drew up the right rein, and touched his heel against the gelding’s flank.
“All right, big man. At least that’s what I heard her call you. We have an important errand,” he said aloud. Midnight twitched a polite ear backward and stepped out.
Thomas Wise Hand’s horse ranch lay somewhat east of North Village, down a well-defined trail that Shane had traveled often. He always stopped there when he rode territorial rounds. Thomas is a genius where horses are concerned, as though he can read their minds, S
hane thought.
He emerged from the woods and skirted the mossy split rail fence that bounded Thomas’s snow-pocked pastureland. He turned down a lane toward the rude log house where Thomas, his wife, and their two youngest children lived. His thirteen-year-old daughter, Esther, poked her head shyly out the door, giving Shane a tentative smile.
“I would speak with my uncle,” he said. She gestured to the rough barn as she came to open the gate for him. He guided Midnight through, then glanced up and saw Thomas on a big red gelding, flying around the edge of the pasture fence. He bolted up to Shane and brought the gelding to a plowing stop despite the fact he was riding bareback.
“Ho, Grey Eyes,” he said by way of greeting.
“Uncle,” Shane replied respectfully.
“I would ride against you, but this one is no match.” Tactfully he gestured to his gelding. Shane knew Thomas was letting him off because of his shoulder.
“You told me Midnight was fast, when you chose him for me.” The older man grinned at the oblique compliment, his eyes almost disappearing in the weathered folds of his skin.
“He is the issue of the Grandfather of Horses, after all. He has carried you well. But what happened?” He gestured to the marks on Midnight’s forelegs.
“He was frightened by a bear and stepped into barbed wire. It’s not bad.”
“No. He is a brave horse. A horse for a warrior, Grey Eyes.” Obliquely he referred to the fact that Shane had not yet requested induction into the Warrior Society even though he was eligible.
“You chose well. And one I know needs a horse. Would you choose again?” He’d waited until there was a polite way to work his business into the conversation. It was the Iroquois way. Coming directly to the point would have been rude.
“Maybe I will choose. If I have the right horse.”
“A woman. A woman very wise and very skilled with horses.”
“A Stone Dreamer,” Thomas said. “A healing shaman.” It was on the tip of Shane’s tongue to tell Thomas he was wrong, but he had known the old man all his life. Thomas lived half in and half out of the spirit world, and there were times when he simply knew things that were beyond everyone else’s ken. Yet again, Shane himself had observed an air of self-assurance and competence about Jenny that clashed with her society background. He remembered her cleaning Midnight’s cuts and entertained the possibility his great-uncle might be right.
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