by Carole Howey
He faced her with a fierceness on his stark features that was lion like. Magnificent. His eyes, aquamarine in the golden light, sent waves of sweet anticipation washing through her, cleansing her, it seemed, of every doubt and insecurity she'd ever had about her ability to captivate such a man. She longed to say something light and witty, something that would put them both at ease, but she knew she was not the sophisticate that Flynn's lovely young niece was. All she could do was hold her heart in her hands and her breath in her throat and wait for him to reveal his soul to her.
''I have a letter of debt," he whispered, holding on to her arms, "signed by your late uncle. It makes me half owner of your ranch."
Chapter Five
Missy, who had never before this day fainted in her life, did so for the second time.
"Damn it all to hell!"
Flynn caught her as she slumped forward, and discovered that Missy Cannon was quite a bit more woman than he was prepared for. The weight of her ample figure made his knees buckle and he needed all of his will to prevent himself from falling, or from dropping her. Part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity he had visited upon himself by his blunt revelation: it was as if an armload of purple velvet and the woman it clothed went along with the piece of paper in his pocket, its implications and responsibilities. And he most certainly did not want any of them.
"Missy!"
A woman in green swept through the door Flynn had lately secured. She hurried to Missy Cannon's side and helped him lower her, gently, to a nearby horsehair settee. The woman treated him to an appraising green-eyed glance that made him feel inadequate in a way no one else ever had.
"May I assume that you are Flynn Muldaur?" she inquired of him coolly, patting Missy's pale cheeks with gentle urgency.
"Y-yes," he stammered, to his own annoyance. He knelt by Missy's side and held her arm to prevent her from falling off the seat. "And you are . . .?"
"Outraged that you would presume to subject a respectable lady to the kind of gossip that is sure to ensue after your having pointedly removed her from the company," the woman retorted, pushing his hand away from Missy's arm with a deliberate, proprietary gesture. "This is a most reprehensible demonstration. You are not a gentleman, Mr. Muldaur, and you have already lived down to everything my husband has told me about you."
This had to be Allyn Cameron Manners, Missy Cannon's outspoken counterpart. Annoyance pushed embarrassment aside and Flynn made shift to answer her.
"I assure you, Mrs. Manners, this is not at all what it seems. I had business of the most urgent sort to discuss with Miss Cannon, having to do with her . . . uh, the ranch, and this was the first opportunity to present itself."
"Business meetings can be arranged," she told him frostily, with another pointed look that was no doubt intended to put him in his place, "in situations far more appropriate than a deserted hallway behind a crowded ballroom. Or was it your 'business' to ruin Miss Cannon's reputation?"
"She seems more than capable of doing that without my help." Flynn could not resist the retort. This woman defending Missy Cannon had more sharpness to her wit than a case of new silver carving knives, and he found himself wishing Joshua Manners joy of her. "Did she or your husband trouble to tell you the circumstances under which we"
"She did," Mrs. Manners interrupted in a low, dangerous tone, although except for the fire in her eyes she looked anything but dangerous. "Miss Cannon, if you ever have the good fortune to discover, is a woman of irreproachable integrity. And as you obviously know my husband, I'm sure I have no need to certify his honesty to you."
"Oh, I assure you, madam, I am well acquainted with your husband. And while I've been at odds with him on many subjects, I have never contested his character. Have you no smelling salts for her?" Flynn was disconcerted that Missy was still indisposed.
Mrs. Manners glared at him down the bridge of her patrician nose.
"I do not carry smelling salts, Mr. Muldaur, having never had need for them. Perhaps you have a feather, or a cigar, or a bit of paper we might burn to revive her with the smoke?"
Flynn looked down and saw the paper in his hand, the clerk's copy of the letter of debt he had shown to Missy. He envisioned the hornet's nest he'd surely disturb by sharing it with Missy's bosom friend. He slipped it into his pocket, where he found a matchbox.
"Here; let's try one of these."
"I'll do it." She took the object from his hand with authority and extracted a wooden matchstick. "You go and fetch her a glass of water, or punch. But no champagne. And try not to look as if the world has ended," she added, giving him a queer look, almost a smile, that made him feel strangely clumsy. "She has only fainted. It won't do to alarm the rest of the party with so grim a countenance. And if you see my husband, please send him to me."
A new thought alarmed him, and he could not prevent himself from looking at her slightly rounded abdomen.
"Are you are you well?"
"Of course I am," she replied, looking so amused at the question that he found himself blushing, to his annoyance. "Go."
What a tangle, he thought gloomily, wearing an empty smile as he edged through the crowd in the ballroom to find a punchbowl. How could he have so misread Missy Cannon's constitution as to believe such news about her ranch would not shock her to the point of fainting? Of course, the mere fact that she was present at the party despite her injury gave testament to her fortitude, if not her good sense. Still, it was not his way to misread women. Not since Madeleine, at any event.
"Have you told her?"
The voice at his ear might have been Satan tempting him.
"Stay out of my affairs, Antoinette," he seethed through his unwavering smile. "You'll find I work far more effectively on my own."
"Effectively, perhaps," Antoinette conceded in a murmur full of doubt, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. "But not nearly swiftly enough for Grand-mere or Mama. Or me. Tell me, uncle, has it always been thus?"
Flynn closed his eyes and struggled mightily against the urge to administer to Antoinette the spanking she so desperately needed, the one her mother had probably never even considered. Hell, Madeleine would have raised the girl to be just like her, and Madeleine, thanks to her own mother, had been indulged in every way possible. Probably even in a few ways no one else had thought of yet. "Don't think you can manage me," he warned, keeping his voice low, not looking at her. "Your mother has always gotten what she wanted from me, one way or the other. She knows that. But on my time. Surely she's told you."
"Mama told me very little about you. Except for what she deemed important."
"Like where the money for the bills came from?" Flynn could not keep a note of bitterness from his voice, and he was angry that she had provoked him to revealing that much of himself.
"Don't be disagreeable. You are furrowing your brow. People will wonder why."
"You are your mother's daughter, Antoinette," he muttered.
"Thank you for the compliment."
"It was intended as an insult."
"I know." She laughed, and the sound was like the tinkle of a thousand tiny crystal teardrops on a chandelier swaying in a light breeze. "Oh, she did tell me something about you." She added that last as if it were an afterthought.
"I'm almost afraid to ask what."
"She said you are tediously predictable. Just like your brother."
Flynn wanted to shake the condescending little brat until her teeth rattled in her pretty little head. He clenched his fists and slowly counted to ten. He felt a cold shudder of wind, as if a ghost had been let into the room, and he knew Antoinette was gone from his side. The little bitch! If she had made one more insulting remark about Seamus, he would have made her regret it.
You are tediously predictable, she had said, in Madeleine's own voice. So of course she would have known the emptiness of any threat he might have tendered. Whatever her faults, and they were epic, Madeleine had always known him and Seamus, through and through. She had always known
just how to play the Muldaur brothers. And apparently she had schooled her only daughter well in the art.
"Beg pardon, suh."
A waiter bearing a tray of full glasses of punch knocked into his shoulder, reminding him of his mission.
" . . . can't believe she fainted. Missy never faints."
Allyn's voice sounded as if it were coming from the other side of the world. Missy floated toward the sound.
"She did a passable imitation of it this morning at the stable." Joshua was laconic, but not unkind.
"Oh, lord. Here comes Mrs. Foster. Try to get rid of her, Joshua. You know what a gossip she is. If she sees Missy like this and knows that Muldaur left the room with her . . ."
Muldaur. The name brought Missy to nauseating awareness. A moan of pain wove its way into the fabric of noises about her, and she felt the full weight of her consciousness.
"Oh, thank heaven. You've come around." Allyn's whispered relief was measurable. "Do try to sit up, Missy. Tell me what happened. Quickly. Joshua will be back at any second. And Muldaur, as well."
Missy tried to speak, but she heard herself moan again. She felt the warmth of Allyn's hand gentle against her cheek.
"Oh, Missy, do try," Allyn coaxed with quiet urgency. "We haven't much time to avert a scandal. Apparently more than one person saw you come here with Muldaur. What is it? What did he say? What did he do?"
Muldaur again. Missy struggled to open her eyes. It was such a comfort to lie there and listen to Allyn's voice; she wanted to wish herself back at the hotel as if
this evening had never been. She was hurt. Wounded. Flynn Muldaur had set her on the summit of a gleaming pedestal; then he had willfully knocked it from beneath her with one smart, well-placed blow.
She tried to tell Allyn the story, but only one word came forth, softly, from her sluggish lips.
"Ranch."
"Ranch? Whose ranch? The C-Bar-C?"
Missy nodded twice. Her head felt heavy, but she struggled to hold it up.
"That's it," Allyn encouraged, supporting Missy's back with her hand. "Sit up, if you can. And try to open your eyes. Now what about the C-Bar-C?"
Missy obeyed Allyn's request. The golden light, which had seemed so pale and seductive before, was bright as polished brass, as if to highlight her folly. After several fluttering attempts, Missy managed to focus on Allyn's face in time to see the latter smile with relief.
"That's better. And I see Joshua has headed off the Fosters. Good. Now if only Muldaur would return with that punch, I'm sure we could have you perky again in no time."
If only it were that simple! Missy groaned, and once again her eyelids became too heavy for her will alone to support them.
"It's the ranch, Allyn," she breathed. "He thought he"
No. As dear a friend as Allyn was, Missy could not bring herself to confess her shame, that she had misinterpreted Flynn Muldaur's actions as being inspired by a romantic motivation.
"He has a paper. He claims it makes him half-owner of my ranch."
"I assure you it's quite legal, Mrs. Manners."
Missy closed her eyes, not trusting herself to look upon the man who had thrust such shame upon her. Her
fists balled themselves, and she longed to pummel him.
"That may be, Mr. Muldaur," Allyn replied, in what Missy recognized as a falsely sweet tone that always prefaced trouble. "Nevertheless, your timing in this matter has been deplorable. I thank you for bringing the punch. Now you really must go, or there'll be a scandal."
"But what about Miss Cannon?" Muldaur, to his credit, sounded contrite. Missy squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to hold back tears. "Will she be"
"Miss Cannon will fare much better when you are far away," Allyn interrupted him tartly, her pitch and volume rising. "Call upon us at our hotel tomorrow, if you must. I'm sure you know where we're staying."
With a rush of velvet, Allyn got to her feet and placed herself between Missy and Muldaur like a barricade.
"With all due respect, Mrs. Manners, the business between Miss Cannon and myself is not your concern, and you would be well advised to stay out of it."
"Indeed." Allyn was arch.
"How kind of you to be so solicitous of my welfare, Mr. Muldaur," Allyn purred, and Missy was able to imagine the look of challenge on her face, having seen it before on many occasions. "Sadly for you, however, I am utterly incapable of taking such advice seriously, particularly when tendered by a stranger whose motives, if not his methods, are highly suspect. It is now I who advise you to withdraw."
"Be very careful, Mrs. Manners," Muldaur warned, his voice a notch lower. "I'm not afraid of you, or your husband."
"Nor should you be." Allyn's apparent concurrence sounded more like a warning. "We are not at all menacing. Are we, Missy?"
Missy got to her feet slowly, pushing aside her own shame and fear. Allyn's words and tone alarmed her. While she knew her friend wanted to protect her from the scandal of being the center of a deplorable spectacle, Missy also was certain that Allyn had no compunction whatever about landing herself in such a position. She could all too easily envision Allyn, who was infamous for dousing her adversaries with various foods and beverages, bestowing such a dubious baptism upon the sartorially splendid but blithely ignorant Flynn Muldaur. . . .
Actually, the thought rather amused her. Still, she could not allow Allyn to create such a diversion just to spare her from further embarrassment. She avoided Muldaur's speculative gaze.
"Allyn, perhaps I should talk with Mr. Muldaur alone."
"You've had a bad fright, Missy, and you're by no means strong enough. I'm sure Mr. Muldaur does not expect you to strain yourself on his behalf. Do you, Mr. Muldaur?"
Muldaur felt like an idiot standing there with each hand wrapped about a prissy little cup of ruby red punch. How had he gotten himself into such a predicament? Two women stood before him: one glaring and ready, he guessed, to disembowel him for a perceived crime, the other, fragile, agonizingly polite, utterly crestfallen, on the verge of tears. Both made him feel deficient in manners, sensitivity, and, yes, fortitude. He wanted to escape, to reevaluate his rapidly failing strategy, but he was trapped by the glasses of punch he held out as surely as if he were restrained by a pair of handcuffs and leg shackles.
Meeting the gaze of each woman in turn, he knew, with a sense of dread heretofore unknown in his vast experience with the female of the species, that neither of them intended to release the locks.
Gideon awoke from a troubling dream with a start, and sat up on his cot. He was shaking, and the clean nightshirt he'd put on after his long bath well, it had been more like a swim was soaked with his sweat. He felt bad. Sick, as if he'd eaten far too much of the heavenly supper he'd wolfed down under the disapproving eye of that old nursemaid, Miss Hammond. Yet he felt hungry again, too.
The dream was forgotten. He sucked in a shuddering breath.
Damn, this place was too quiet. The baby and the nursemaid slept like the dead in the far corner of the room, both of them on beds, both quiet as corpses. Gideon had lain awake earlier and listened to the sounds of their falling asleep. He was amazed at how quickly they'd done it, and how thoroughly. He'd seldom slept long in one place. He'd never felt safe enough for such a luxury.
But he was safe, here in this fancy hotel room. He was surrounded by pure, white sheets and a down comforter, besides. The feather pillow let his head sink like a stone, and he didn't know which he liked more, the warmth, the softness, or the smell, a smell like fresh air and soap and the inside of a cedar closet.
He crossed his legs and scratched his head, figuring: he'd had a scrubbing, a hot meal hell, as much food as he could eat and a clean, quiet, safe place to sleep that was almost a bed. More like a bed, in fact, than anything he could ever remember sleeping on. The fact that he was sharing the room with a woman and a baby didn't fret him much. The woman, Miss Hammond, looked at him as if he might steal something, and the baby was a pest, but asleep they weren't any bother
. He'd shared quarters with lots noisier and dirtier folks, that was sure.
So why couldn't he sleep?
Glory.
The name formed in his head as if someone had spoken it aloud to him in the dark, quiet room. For the past two months, since he'd broken into that stable and found Glory, he hadn't left her side. He'd gotten to know all of her smells and humors and he'd even gotten used to her snoring.
Hell, he missed her.
What if she missed him, too? She probably did. After all, who was it who changed her straw? Drew her fresh water? Who was it who saw to it she got her feed all proper? Who was it who curried her, and knew just what spot along her flank she liked having special attention paid to?
And who was it who left her quicker than a bee after honey at the thought of a hot meal and a good bed?