Carole Howey - Sheik's Glory

by Carole Howey

  "Mi said I was too ham-handed," he dismissed, sauntering toward her with his hands jammed in the back pockets of his overalls.

  "Well, then perhaps you'd better watch him do it so you'll know how next time."

  "Why? Are there goin' to be any more babies around here?"

  His question was utterly guileless, but Missy blushed all the same.

  "Not as I know of," she muttered, shortening her rein.

  "Shoot, you and Flynn might have one next year," he observed, standing by the mare's left shoulder. "That is, if you still aim to marry him tomorrow."

  Missy stared at the boy. Gideon was stroking her mare's muzzle as fondly as if the animal were Glory herself. He was trying very hard to seem grown-up and matter-of-fact, Missy realized, but the flicker in his unsmiling eyes gave him away.

  "Whatever Flynn and I decide regarding tomorrow does not affect your place here with me, Gideon," she told him, wanting to touch him, feeling as if she didn't dare. "You needn't worry on that score. Ever."

  "I ain't worried," he grumbled, fiddling with the mare's bridle. "And even if I was, it wouldn't be about that, exactly."

  "Well what, then, exactly?"

  Gideon stole a look at her from under a stray lock of sable hair. She made a mental note of the fact that he needed to have his hair cut.

  "I heard the same things you did yesterday, outside the room."

  A knot tightened in Missy's breast. Of course he had.

  How could she have been so foolish, and so preoccupied, as to ignore that fact?

  She looked away.

  "Eavesdropping is a bad habit," she murmured, unable to muster much conviction. She was, after all, as guilty of the misdemeanor as he.

  "What are you gonna do, Miss?" Gideon ignored her halfhearted reprimand. "You still gonna marry him?"

  "Do you think I should?"

  Asking his opinion enabled her to delay voicing her own, which was fine with her, because just now she was miserably uncertain of what her true feelings were. Gideon was entitled to an opinion, of course, and she was certain he had one Gideon always seemed to have an opinion about everything but Missy was under no obligation to abide by it, whatever it might be. That the boy did not reply right away intrigued her, and she looked at him again. His expression was thoughtful and wise beyond his years.

  "I don't know, Miss. I truly don't." He looked down at his hands, examining the black crescents under his fingernails. "I like Flynn, sure enough. Even though he did let hisself get beat up pretty bad yesterday."

  On my account, Missy thought with a renewed pang of guilt. She wished, suddenly, that she had gone in to see Flynn last night, or this morning, while he was awake. It had been nearly 24 hours, and she missed him.

  " . . . don't you?"

  Gideon had asked her a question, and she hadn't heard him. Her cheeks heated.

  "I'm sorry; what was that, Gideon?"

  Gideon gave a little smirk, an expression Missy found to be not at all comforting.

  "Never mind; I guess I know the answer after all. You're sure you don't want me ridin' into town with you? I might be a help, you know. Like that time in Louisville when Flynn came to call. Remember?"

  Missy did. She stared at Gideon with the uneasy sense that he knew precisely what she intended to do in Rapid City this afternoon. She tried to shake the feeling, but it stuck to her like a voracious tick.

  "No, thank you." She made an attempt to smile, but she knew it fell short. "I can't be sure Tobias Horton won't be in town too, and I can't risk you coming up against him twice in the same week. You only have one good eye left."

  Gideon's grin was more successful than her own.

  "I guess you're the only one of us ain't been in a fight yet this week," he observed. "You aim to remedy that today?"

  Missy considered him. To her chagrin, she realized she had not yet thought about the variety of outcomes of her mission. She was not a violent person in the physical sense, but she was forced to conclude that fisticuffs were a possibility she hadn't considered. True, Gideon's presence, if he accompanied her, would temper any inclination she might have in that direction, but it would also hamper a frank exchange of words, and Missy intended to be as direct as ever she had been in her life. Pursuing her aims alone, she decided, was the lesser of two evils.

  "I have no intention of fighting with anyone about anything," she said, trying to sound decorous but stopping short of wagging a finger at him. "And I hope you're not suggesting that you'd be the person to prevent me from doing so, even if I did have such a thing in mind. I don't suppose you've ever heard the expression 'Physician, heal thyself'?"

  He frowned and shook his head.

  "Never mind. Let's speak no more about it. Flynn's brother is here, as you probably already know"

  "I took Reliable around to the barn," Gideon interrupted with an innocent look that did not for one instant deceive Missy. "Maybe I'll just go on up and set with them a while."

  "You're not to eavesdrop on them."

  "No, ma'am."

  "Promise me, Gideon."

  "Aw, bleedin' Jee" Gideon scrunched his face up like a cast-off wrapper from a mail-order package. "I mean, all right. Then will you promise me something, too?"

  Missy guessed he'd added his codicil to preempt her scolding about his swearing, so, thinking he meant to extort nothing more than a sweet from the general store from her, she nodded her consent.

  "Promise me you won't get into any trouble yourself."

  Oh, hell. She didn't mean to, of course, but trouble, lately, had a way of finding her even when she wasn't looking for it. And today, like it or not, she knew she was definitely looking for it. Damn Gideon for wording his request in such a way that there was no dissembling! She found herself frowning at the pommel of her saddle.

  "All right."

  "You promise?"

  "I said all right, didn't I? If that was good enough for me, it had darned well better be good enough for you, young man. I'll not have my word called into question!"

  His farewell grin could only be called smug.

  There were two hotels in town and a third one, thanks to the new railroad spur line, on the way to being finished. Assessing each of the three establishments on Rapid City's main street, Missy decided that Seamus Muldaur would have chosen the newest and largest of these, not to mention the one that was completed. He did not seem a man to suffer inconveniences if comfort was an alternative. And whoever this Madeleine might be, Missy was sure she was of the same ilk.

  The desk clerk was a man she'd never seen before, which was a boon Missy had not expected. Having lived in the area for the past ten years, she found herself in the unenviable position of recognizing, and being recognized by, nearly every person she passed on the street.

  "May I be of service, madam?"

  He looked and talked like a fancy easterner, just naturally chilly and disapproving. Missy was intimidated by his formal manner, and the name she dragged from her memory did not immediately come forth.

  "M-Madeleine," she stammered after a time, forcing herself to meet the man's stern gaze. "Deauville. Miss . . . us." She was not sure which, if either, title the mysterious woman owned, or might have employed. Or even if she had registered by that name at all.

  "Ah, yes." The clerk's disapproving mien was transformed, to Missy's amazement, into a mask of rapture, which quickly blended to pity. "They are not receiving callers at this time."

  Missy was intrigued by the clerk's employment of the plural they, but she looked down at her hands, hoping to conceal that fact from him.

  "But I have come a great distance." She felt only a little guilty about the lie; it wasn't more than five miles from the C-Bar-C. Quite a walk, true, but not at all arduous with a good horse. "Perhaps if you let them know they have a visitor?"

  The clerk shook his head with a gentle indulgence Missy found infuriating. "I'm afraid not, madam. They were most specific as to whom they would accept as callers. And” he eyed her up
and down, his blank expression sufficient censure of her attire” the brief list includes no females. I am very sorry." Missy understood his feeling precisely; she was sorry enough herself to wring the man's scrawny, stiff-collared neck. To have come all this distance, physically and emotionally, to be turned away!

  "You're quite sure? If you'd only tell them"

  "Quite sure, madam. Now if there is nothing else, I am very busy."

  Missy sniffed. He hadn't been doing anything when she walked in, and she was sure he only flipped through the slim register now to try to get her to leave. She was determined not to be gotten rid of so easily, but she remembered her promise to Gideon. She turned to depart, but had a last-minute inspiration.

  "May I at least leave them a note to let them know I've called?"

  The clerk arched an eyebrow. "You have no calling card?"

  This is Rapid City, not New York, you pompous horse's ass, she wanted to retort. Instead, she approximated a demure smile, like those she'd seen Allyn demonstrate in similar situations.

  "I'm afraid that, in my haste, I left them at home," she lamented. "If I might beg a piece of paper and the use of your pen?"

  The clerk appeared to begrudge her both, but he could hardly refuse. With a shaking hand, she scribbled a brief missive and hastily folded it, not caring about the resulting smear of wet ink. It wouldn't matter, anyway. She handed the message to the clerk, trying very hard to maintain her guileless smile, then watched as he turned away from her to slip it into the room box.

  Number 12.

  She felt a thrill of triumph. Without hesitation, she toppled the open bottle of ink on the desk. It spilled over the register with a rich spray of jet-black liquid and rolled off and onto the floor. "Oh, my, I'm dreadfully sorry!" she exclaimed as the clerk faced her again. His brow creased with annoyance as he regarded the result of her "accident."

  "Not at all, madam," he groaned, as if he meant anything but. He disappeared behind the counter.

  It was the advantage she had been waiting for. Oddly breathless, shaking with guilty terror, Missy raced up the stairs.

  Her boots made a thunderous racket. Her legs felt like lead. She was certain someone was going to stop her. The very interdiction against her activity made her feel wicked and alive, excited and terrified. She had never done anything quite like this, anything so expressly forbidden, before. Missy Cannon was someone who performed according to the rules, according to expectation. Never on caprice. And certainly never without sanction.

  It was quite an extraordinary feeling. No wonder some people did it with such frequency.

  "Stop! You can't . . ." The clerk's shouted admonition from below rang empty in her ears and chased her feet faster up the staircase.

  In moments she stood in the hall before the door that proclaimed Number 12 in polished brass numerals. She balled her fist to knock, then dropped her hand to her side. Having gotten this far, she had no intention of allowing herself to be turned away, not even by the inhabitants of the room. And as she was certain that the clerk downstairs would not simply shrug and allow her to make an ass of him, she knew she had only one course of action open to her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Missy had heard very little French in her life, but she was able to recognize the language in the chaos of sound that assailed her as she hastily admitted herself, uninvited, to number 12. She did not comprehend it, of course, but there could be no mistaking the meaning behind it. Her back flat against the door, Missy stared in mute wonder first at one woman, then the second, as they bore down on her from opposite sides of the room like voracious twin birds of prey on a lone brown mouse.

  Neither woman was old, she realized, feeling oddly detached and calm, but one was clearly the elder of the two, and certainly several years Missy's senior. Neither was properly dressed, either. They were clad only in brightly colored silk wrappers and mules.

  Another woman entered the room from what appeared to be a dressing area. Dressed in gray, she was, besides being a stark contrast to the colorful predators flanking her, obviously a menial, probably a lady's maid. The two women turned to the newcomer and issued another stream of vituperative gibberish that might have been the squawking of indignant falcons. The maid cowered before them, giving Missy an opportunity to study them further.

  The elder woman, she noticed at once, was possessed of a full yet slender figure, poorly concealed by her scarlet wrapper. The softness of her form revealed that she had not yet donned her corset; Missy could only guess at what enhancements the garment would lend to an already superb shape. Her hair was curled but not yet dressed, and was a lovely hue that was neither red nor blond, but a seemingly endless spectrum of shades in between. Missy found herself wondering if the color was natural, for the woman's eyebrows appeared to be nothing more remarkable than a plain light brown. The powdered skin of her shoulders and bosom what Missy could see of it was so white that she might have been a corpse.

  Missy finally recognized the younger woman as Antoinette Deauville, who had been introduced to her in Louisville as Flynn's niece. Brat . . . That had been Seamus's word for her. Missy was not surprised that she had not identified the young woman at once; this afternoon, undressed, unmade, Antoinette looked less the dazzling goddess she had seemed on that night and more what she in reality apparently was: a schoolgirl just out of pinafores. A lovely child, but a child nonetheless.

  ''Ecoute!" Antoinette exclaimed, glaring at the older woman. The sound seemed to explode from the front of her face. Another stream of unintelligible words then, ending with "Veet! Veet!"

  Magically, the woman, whom Missy deduced to be the mysterious Madeleine, gave her one last imperious glare and disappeared with the maid into the dressing room. The door closed behind them with a dramatic bang. Antoinette turned to Missy again and drew herself up as if she wore the most regal attire, shaking her own sunset golden curls from her slight, round shoulders, shattering Missy's brittle poise.

  "Miss Cannon." Perfect, unaccented English now came forth from the pouting pink mouth. The voice belied its owner's appearance; it was by no means girlish or uncertain. Missy stared at the woman before her, who pushed her loose sleeves up her white arms before she crossed them at her breast. Antoinette needed no armor of the sort that she herself relied upon, Missy realized, or of the variety that the older woman had no doubt withdrawn to procure. Antoinette's devastating youth and lethally fresh beauty were both armor and weapon enough, and it was very apparent that she intended to use them. She indicated the brocade settee with a long glance, then aimed her hard, sapphire eyes Muldaur eyeing Missy's direction again.

  "My companion and I were not expecting you, but since you have” she seemed to search for a word, but her artifice was not so practiced as to make Missy believe the term she sought had not been waiting on her tongue all along” invited yourself into our parlor, please be seated."

  Missy eyed the settee. She longed to sit, for she feared her quaking legs would not support her much longer, but she remained standing. She was not really sure why. She guessed it was because she did not want to allow Antoinette to lead the interview, and standing gave her something of an advantage as she was taller than the girl.

  "No, thank you," Missy heard her own voice say, and she was both surprised and pleased at the calm even bold sound of it. Encouraged, she plunged on. "I

  suppose you know why I've come."

  At least, Missy hoped she did. Faced with a regal, beautiful, and distressingly self-possessed young woman, Missy herself was having a hard time remembering her motivation.

  A smirk fell upon Antoinette's lovely, porcelain-doll features.

  "Perhaps you should tell me."

  From a predatory bird to the purr of a cat. It was an extraordinary transition, enough to cause Missy to falter in her intention until she saw Antoinette's glance flicker briefly toward the closed door behind which the older woman and the maid had retreated. Antoinette, she realized, was playing for time until the older woman
her mother, the infamous Madeleine Deauville, Missy was now certain of it returned. Hope kindled within Missy: Antoinette was obviously not the threat she had first perceived her to be.

  Reality quickly doused the spark: what Antoinette lacked, Madeleine probably more than compensated for. And Madeleine, no doubt, was hurrying to dress herself in her shield and breastplate to come forth and do battle. What woman wouldn't, over a man like Flynn Muldaur? Missy felt herself redden, and she hoped Antoinette did not notice.

  "Who are you?" Missy asked quietly, glad of the oak door supporting her back. "And who is the woman in the dressing room?"

  Antoinette smiled, revealing dazzling teeth. Missy swore she could feel their sharpness tearing into her flesh.

  "I am Antoinette Deauville," she replied, sounding both haughty and amused. "We met in Louisville. Can you have forgotten?"