Alex folded her hands in her lap and studied Freddy’s hot face. “I would rather that you didn’t air personal grievances when we know the household staff is listening.”
“Why are you addressing these remarks to me? Was I talking to myself?” For as long as Freddy could remember, it had always been: Take care of the baby. Long after Les ceased to be a baby, that had still been the refrain. Take care of Les. Protect Les. She was sick of it.
“You start these things, Freddy,” Les said, her chin coming up. “You’re not happy unless everything is stirred up around you!”
“Do you suppose the two of you could stop bickering long enough to discuss the problem we’re facing?” Alex rolled to the tea table Señora Calvos had laid for them and poured herself another cup of tea from the silver service that had belonged to her mother.
Suddenly Freddy’s anger seemed overblown and petulant, a reversion to childhood. But they were no longer children. Observing her sister, Freddy tried to imagine what it would be like to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. To know you would never dance again or spin around in a new gown. She watched Alex place her cup and saucer in her lap and roll the chair toward them, trying not to spill her tea. Even the smallest tasks that Freddy took for granted were now challenges for Alex.
Freddy drew a breath and struggled to be more sympathetic. “How can you even consider undertaking the ordeal of a cattle drive,” she asked curiously.
Alex glanced at her. “I’m entitled to a third of Father’s fortune. And I’ll do whatever I have to do to make certain that Lola doesn’t get her hands on Father’s money.”
“Are you saying that Payton didn’t provide for you?”
“Not at all.” Alex’s neck stiffened. “I have my home and a modest income.”
Freddy guessed that Alex would rather have endured torture than admit her life in Boston was less than the image of perfection she had painted in her infrequent letters home. She also guessed that “a modest income” would not support the life Alex had led before Payton’s death. But Alex would never admit to anything as vulgar as a lack of funds.
“It’s my understanding that Father paid the expenses on the house you rented in Klees after he married Lola. He paid for your clothing and food, paid the salary of your housekeeper.”
“If you’re suggesting that I need Pa’s money, you’re absolutely correct.” Freddy lifted her chin. “I hated living off of Pa, but I didn’t have a choice.” At age twenty-seven, she had given up hoping that she could rise above the six months she had spent with the theater troupe. No decent man was ever going to propose marriage to her, and she had no way to support herself.
For a brief while she had thought that maybe Jack Caldwell… but no, she would never tell her sisters that Lola’s latest escort was a man whom Freddy had been seeing on the sly. Jack was a humiliation she did not want to share.
“It’s your own fault,” Les commented sharply. “You should have considered your future before you ran off with those actors. But you never think about consequences.”
“Believe me, I’d rather be a spinster than settle for someone like Ward Hamm!”
Les jumped to her feet, crimson pulsing in her face. “You can’t stand it that I’ll have a husband and you never will. You’ve always been jealous of me!”
Freddy’s mouth dropped. “Jealous of you? Whatever for?”
“Because I’m going to be married, and you never will be. You were always resentful that my mother lived while your mother and Alex’s died. And you hate it that Pa liked me best!”
“Pa didn’t like any of us! You’re deluding yourself if you think differently. He wanted sons, not us. He ignored us, tolerated us when he had to, and tried to control us like we were part of his herd!” Freddy came to her feet, anger shaking her hands. “As for being jealous of you and Ward Hamm, that makes me laugh. He’s a shopkeeper, for God’s sake. And a petty tyrant in the bargain. And”—her eyes narrowed—“isn’t it interesting that he didn’t come courting until Pa got sick? One could almost think he’s more interested in Pa’s money than in you!”
“You… you…” Sputtering in fury, Les gathered her skirts in both hands. Scarlet flooded her face. “I hate you!” Spinning in a swirl of black skirts, she ran toward the staircase.
Freddy poured the last of the tea into a cup and raised it to her lips with shaking hands. The day she was jealous on account of Ward Hamm was the day she had sunk to depths beyond redemption. Even Jack Caldwell—gambler, womanizer, reprobate—was better than Ward Hamm.
“You owe her an apology,” Alex said quietly.
She had forgotten Alex. “I’m so sick of Les always defending Pa! He ran off every suitor she had, just like he did to you and me. Given enough time, Pa would have run Ward off, too.”
“Les loves him.”
“Really?” Fresh anger infused her cheeks. “Does it ever occur to you that you could be wrong about something?”
“You’re going to attack me, now?” Alex inquired, raising an eyebrow.
“Les was prepared to spend the rest of her life running Pa’s house, serving as his hostess, hoping to be his companion, then Pa trailed a herd to Sante Fe and brought Lola back with him and suddenly he didn’t need Les anymore. That’s when Ward Hamm appeared. Les used him to punish Pa. Love isn’t part of it; Les picked a man she knew damned well that Pa would detest!”
“Then why hasn’t she broken off the engagement now that Father is gone?”
“I don’t know.” Freddy spread her hands. “It’s a mystery.”
“Is it?” Alex rolled her wheelchair toward the door. “Or is it possible that you could be wrong about something?”
The heat of anger lingered in the room after her sisters had gone. Fuming, Freddy walked to the window, letting the chilly air leaking around the panes cool her face.
They hadn’t liked each other even as children. They had been competitive and combative, arguing over which of their mothers Joe had loved most or best, fighting over who got to sit next to him at supper. As they grew into adolescence, they had struggled to assert their individuality and distance themselves from each other. Alex tried to reject the responsibilities foisted on her by her stepmothers. Freddy had loathed being the recipient of Alex’s hand-me-down gowns, and she felt forgotten, the attention focused on the oldest or the youngest, seldom on her. Les wanted to be taken seriously instead of having her opinions rejected as trivial because she was the youngest. They had always seen each other as rivals blocking access to Pa, or as obstacles standing in the way of getting what they wanted.
Was it any wonder that they hadn’t acted in unison against Joe’s iron fist of control? They had each rebelled alone. Alex had eloped with a man after hearing two of the lectures he gave during his tour of the South. Freddy had joined an acting troupe that came through Klees. Les had agreed to marry a man with all of Pa’s worst traits and none of his good qualities.
Well, why should she care who Les married or for what reason? She didn’t.
She had her own troubles. Les would have Ward Hamm to take care of her, and Alex had a home and modest income. But Freddy had nothing. Without Pa’s financial support, there was a very real and horrifying possibility that she would have to beg for charity simply to live.
Pressing her forehead against the windowpane, she gazed out at the range and watched the King’s Walk punchers herding strays back toward the barn and corrals. It was a scene she had witnessed all of her life, but hadn’t paid any attention. Now she did, and her heart sank.
She knew nothing about longhorns except that they stank and had vicious-looking horns that terrified her. It was inconceivable that she could take an active role in a cattle drive.
But unless she rode into Abilene, Kansas, alongside two thousand bad-tempered cattle, she would be penniless. With no place to live, no place to go. Panic choked her.
When her breathing steadied, she let herself think about Jack Caldwell. Even before Pa died, Jack and Lola were
driving out together, scandalizing the county, not that either of them cared. But Freddy had cared. Being rejected in favor of her hated stepmother had shocked her.
At least no one knew. In retrospect, she thanked heaven that her relationship with Jack had been discreet. She’d felt ashamed of herself for refusing to appear in public with a gambler, and she had intended to change that. Before she did, he’d gotten impatient and started seeing Lola.
Well to hell with him. She didn’t need Jack or any other man. All she had ever needed was herself.
Chapter 2
“Mr. Moreland, ladies, I’ve listened to this damned fool proposal and there ain’t no way I’d boss this drive. Women got no place on a cattle drive, ‘specially a woman in a wheelchair.”
“Mr. Connity, we don’t have a choice. We can’t wink at the rules as you put it and simply go along for the ride,” Freddy repeated. She nodded at Luther Moreland, the Roark family attorney. “Mr. Moreland will accompany the drive to see that all conditions are met, and our stepmother is entitled to send along a representative to observe on her behalf. People will be watching. My sisters and I must be active participants, or we lose our inheritance.”
Mr. Connity hauled to his feet and stared at each of them in a way that made Freddy aware of their pale, sun-protected skin and smooth, callus-free hands. “Some damned fool might accept you three as full hands, but it ain’t going to be me. Afternoon, ladies. Mr. Moreland.” He nodded, then walked out of the parlor.
They had interviewed four trail bosses, and all four had turned them down the instant they learned that the conditions of the will could not be circumvented.
“They take one look at Alex’s wheelchair and that’s the end of it,” Les said in a discouraged voice. “Would you care for more coffee, Luther?”
“No thank you,” Luther said, rifling through the papers on his lap.
“You’re wrong if you think you and Freddy would have no difficulty engaging a trail boss if I withdrew!” Alex said hotly.
Freddy smiled. Alex so seldom lost control that it was a pleasure to watch when it happened.
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, I was merely stating an observation,” Les said, giving Luther a put-upon look. “No matter what I say, one of them jumps down my throat.”
Luther Moreland touched a dark bow tie and cleared his throat. “Ladies, Mr. Connity was our last acceptable candidate.”
“Surely there’s someone else.” When Luther didn’t answer, Freddy swallowed hard. “Luther, are you saying the cattle drive won’t happen? That it’s over right now, and we don’t have a chance to win our inheritance?”
Les sat down abruptly and Alex froze. They all fixed anxious eyes on Luther Moreland.
He was a tall man, too thin for his frame, with ears that protruded like handles from the sides of his slender face. Even so, Freddy thought, he would have been an attractive man if he hadn’t been so shy in the presence of women. Though Luther had known her and her sisters since they were children, their concentrated attention made him uncomfortable.
Dark color filled his cheeks, and he fumbled with the papers in his lap. “There’s one name remaining on the list of candidates, but I cannot recommend this man.”
Freddy spread her hands with an impatient gesture. “If there’s another trail boss who is willing to talk to us, then send for him. We can’t just give up.”
“Why can’t you recommend him?” Alex inquired, rolling her chair forward.
“Dal Frisco is a drunk,” Luther said with a frown. “He lost the last two herds he trailed, and consequently he hasn’t worked as a trail boss for two years.”
“I’ve heard that name,” Les said, tapping a finger against her lips.
“Frisco claims he’s been sober for eighteen months.” Luther spoke slowly, disapproval underscoring each word. “But he also said I could contact him at the Lone Star Saloon.”
“I remember now.” Les looked at Freddy and Alex. “Ward’s heard all about the disastrous drives that Luther just mentioned. He warned me that we shouldn’t even consider Mr. Frisco.”
Luther hesitated. “In fairness, I should mention that Dal Frisco was considered one of the best trail bosses in Texas before liquor ruined him.”
“He says he’s sober now?” Alex asked in a tight voice.
Les stared. “We can’t possibly hire a drunk. Ward would never agree.”
Freddy narrowed her eyes. “Ward doesn’t have a vote here.” Before Les could respond, she added angrily, “Maybe you don’t need Pa’s money, but I do. And I sure as hell am not willing to let Ward Hamm make my decisions for me!”
Les bit her lip. “I want my share of the inheritance as much as you do. But I don’t see why we have to make this decision today. We could print flyers soliciting more candidates.”
“Les, all of south Texas has known about your father’s will for at least a month,” Luther said gently. “The trail bosses who were interested in this drive have already contacted me. Those whom we interviewed today apparently believed they could get around actually using you three as full hands. There are no other candidates.”
Alex looked at Luther, and stated flatly. “Send for Mr. Frisco.”
“I agree,” Freddy said, annoyed that it was Alex who appeared to make the decision.
“What we’re deciding now is whether to abandon the cattle drive and forfeit your father’s estate to Mrs. Roark, or, before conceding defeat, at least talk to Mr. Frisco,” Luther said, still addressing Les. “I cannot recommend Mr. Frisco, but it’s my duty to mention that he’s offered himself as a candidate. The decision to interview or hire him is yours, not mine.”
It was then that the full impact of the day’s business truly made an impression. If Dal Frisco turned them down as the other trail bosses had, they would lose everything. Lola would win Joe’s estate by default. Fear flooded Freddy’s throat. “What happens if Les won’t accept Frisco but Alex and I want to hire him?”
“The majority prevails. I should mention that any of you can withdraw at any time. Should that occur, the inheritance will be split equally between the sisters who complete the drive and sell two thousand head in Abilene.”
Freddy folded her arms over her breast and glared at Les. “Fine. If you don’t want to talk to Frisco, then withdraw, and Alex and I will split a larger fortune.”
“Don’t take that tone with me! You don’t want to suffer this ordeal any more than I do!” Les threw out her hands. “I just think it would be lunatic to trust our future to a man who has lost his last two herds. We should at least be able to trust the man we hire!”
“Shall we have lunch while we wait for Mr. Frisco to arrive?” Alex inquired tightly.
Freddy couldn’t help it. The stress of the morning’s proceedings released in a sudden laugh. “The perfect hostess. Alex, it should have been you who went on the stage instead of me.”
Alex’s response was cool. “I think Father would have preferred that none of his daughters ruin themselves on the stage.” Turning her chair toward the door, she paused to give Luther the opportunity to jump to his feet and push her into the dining room.
Freddy didn’t immediately follow. Walking to the window, she stood looking out, fighting the resentment that burned in her chest.
Surely Pa hadn’t intended that the dispersal of his estate would be decided by an ex-drunk, but that’s what was about to happen. If Dal Frisco accepted the job and the conditions that went with it, then Freddy and her sisters at least had a chance to win their inheritance. If Frisco walked out as the other trail bosses had, then Lola and Jack would celebrate tonight.
All saloons smelled the same. Strongest were the heavy odors of sweat and smoke, leather and tobacco juice. Wafting beneath the top layer were the scents of brandied peaches, sandwich fixings, pickles, pig’s feet in brine. Then came the tang of the wood shavings and a whiff of gaslight and grease. Floating over all, seducing the senses, was the fragrance of the gods, the fruity ambrosia of liquor.
Dal stood at the bar frowning at the rows and rows of bottles lit by gaslights that burned even during the day. Tall bottles, short bottles, fat bottles, slender bottles. Bottles filled with clear, brown, amber, or golden liquids. Whatever a man was looking for, he could find it in one of those bottles. At least temporarily.
Swallowing, he looked down at the shot glass he moved in wet circles on the surface of the bar. A few of these and he wouldn’t care about losing the Roark drive.
Every day for eighteen months, he had walked into a saloon indistinguishable from this one, and he’d ordered a shot from whatever bottle gleamed brightest under the lights. He’d fingered the glass, inhaled the fragrance, imagined the burn on the back of his tongue. He’d clenched his teeth and felt the sweat on his brow. Temptation whispered, and when he didn’t listen his stomach twisted.
But he hadn’t raised the shot glass to his lips. Not in eighteen long damned months.
“You gonna drink that?” the bartender asked curiously.
“Maybe.”
Lifting his head, he gazed into the mirror along the back bar and saw his face peering back at him above a row of gleaming bottles. The Klees barbershop was offering a special this week; a tub, shave, and haircut for two bits. A good soak with lots of hot steam might be just what he needed to clear his thoughts and decide where he went from here.
“Are you Dal Frisco?”
He glanced at a Mexican kid, then looked back at the shot glass. “Who wants to know?”
“Mr. Moreland say to tell you the Roark sisters want to talk to you. Out at the ranch.”
So Connity had turned them down, too. If they were finally coming to him, then they had no one else.
Staring into the whiskey, he remembered his last drive. Before he shook off the images, the shot glass was halfway to his lips, the hot whiskey scent fuming toward his brain. Christ. It was that easy to throw away eighteen hard months. He pushed the shot glass away.
A man had to be touched in the head to undertake a cattle drive with three ignorant women, and one of them in a wheelchair. He had to be desperate for a second chance.
The Best Man Page 2