Smoketree

by Jennifer Roberson

  “No. I’m a guest.” I approached, not particularly offended by his mistake. “That’s the Lodge”—a wave of my hand—“someone up there can check you in.”

  Before he could say anything further his passenger swung open her door and stepped out. My mind registered vague surprise as she uncoiled herself from the Porsche. She wasn’t even remotely the type of woman I’d associate with the man.

  She was a black-haired, black-eyed beauty, perhaps in her early thirties. She moved with exquisite grace as she paused by the sleek dark hood of the Porsche, and I saw the calm confidence associated with affluence and influence reflected in her eyes as she observed me. I smiled at her, totally aware of what she was doing as she made a smooth, professional assessment of me. The time-honored female ritual had been played out.

  “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll fetch Harper.” I could just as easily excuse myself, but I was curious as to how the cowboy would react when he set eyes on her.

  I went back toward the pens where I had last seen him, and found him doling out coffee-can portions of grain to each horse feeder. I leaned against the rails of one pen, waiting as he finished, and finally he came over.

  “You down here to accuse me of all sorts of things again?” In the dark, thank God, he couldn’t see the instantaneous blush. But I had no doubts he could hear the defensiveness in my tone. “That was a joke, you know. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  I scowled at his irritatingly serene face. “You have guests. Up there, by the Lodge.”

  “You could have sent them in to Nathan.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “But maybe I just wanted to see if you were sabotaging anything else.”

  It wiped the amusement out of his eyes. “So much for your joke. Well, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not your villain.”

  He was serious. I stared at him, astonished by the note in his voice and the expression in his eyes. I had been kidding when I painted my picture for Brandon, but suddenly I wondered if I had unwittingly stumbled onto something. Why else would Harper treat it all so deadly seriously?

  “I just—I just came down to tell you about the new guests,” I said lamely, turning to make a quick exit. But he slipped through the rails and fell into step with me.

  “Why are you so intent on finding me out?” he asked.

  That jerked my head around. “You mean—you’re admitting it?”

  The moustache quivered. “No. But why would you care one way or another?”

  I shook my head in exasperation. “Just idle curiosity.”

  “Something like that, as I recall, killed the cat.”

  “You can’t be serious—” I began, laughing, and then said nothing more.

  Harper stopped as I did, turning to face me squarely. His posture was without aggression of any sort, but a coiled readiness was evident. His face was mostly shadowed, but I sensed the cool perusal in his too-direct eyes.

  Finally I found my voice. “You can’t be serious! Was that a threat?”

  I felt rather than heard his silent laughter. "A warning, merely. ”

  I shivered suddenly. “Should I be afraid of you?”

  His face tightened. “Be whatever you like.”

  I watched him walk up to the Porsche and greet the new guests. Then, shivering again and wondering if I should be amused or frightened, I went on to my cabin.

  Everyone was present at breakfast save the dark beauty. Her companion was as cherubic in daylight as he had been the night before, and he smiled in recognition and hurried over as I came in.

  “Thank you for your assistance last night. I’m Elliott Fitch, New York City. ” He extended a pudgy hand, gray eyes alight behind the steel-framed glasses.

  I took his hand and introduced myself. “Also New York City. ”

  He beamed at me. “Have you ever heard of Richelieu?”

  I stared at him in surprise. “The finest French restaurant in New York? Of course!”

  He nodded, very pleased. “Then be my guest there sometime. The Count will see to it you are seated at the best table. ” I was startled at his casual mention of Richelieu maitre d’, one of the most exquisitely polite of the breed and elegantly fierce. “You know the Count?”

  His eyes twinkled. “I’m his employer. I’m Richelieu.” He paused, enjoying my embarrassed confusion. “Actually, Richelieu is just the name I chose because it sounded so French. Fitch's Place just wouldn’t have struck the proper tone, I’m afraid.”

  There was something warmly likeable about the pudgy little man, and I revised my initial reaction to the incongruity he and his lovely lady-friend presented. He was immensely pleased when I told him I patronized his restaurant frequently.

  “Is this your first visit to a dude ranch?” he asked, then went on before I could answer. “It is for me. I’ve really been looking forward to this trip. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for forty years, ever since I was a boy.” He smiled ruefully, shaking his head with its short fringe of brown hair. “Francesca thinks all of this is very silly, and I suppose she’s right, but I decided to treat myself. And Francesca, of course.” His round, shiny face took on a decidedly puckish expression. “My wife and children are on vacation in Europe, you see-and now, have I offended you completely?”

  “No,” I said truthfully, although I did think them an odd pair. I’m sure he knew it.

  He sighed and glanced around, soaking up the ambience. “Well, I’m hoping to get some riding in today. That’s the main reason I came out here, you know—I wanted to see what a dude ranch was like, and spend most of my days riding.”

  “I’m sure Harper will fix you up with a good mount.” As good as Sunny, I wondered, or did he reserve the sorrel’s rump for helpless-seeming models?

  Elliot Fitch patted his rounded belly. “Well, I must go stoke up the engine. Don’t want to miss my first genuine Western meal.” He grinned at me, eyes bright behind his glasses. “And no, I’m not quite expecting cornbread, beans and coffee. Not yet.”

  I laughed with him and turned to seek out my own seat, and Brandon was suddenly beside me. “Morning,” he said, leaning down to kiss me briefly on the forehead. “Hungry?”

  “Let’s eat,” I affirmed, and we adjoined to a private table just as the others arrived.

  Nathan appeared tired when he came in with Cass and Harper. At our first meeting I’d put him in his late fifties, even with the gray hair; now I added at least ten years to my estimate. He didn’t look less healthy, just not as vitally active. Cass also appeared concerned about something, but Harper’s face, with its masking moustache, was calm as ever.

  Lenore Oliver, seated at another table with her husband, challenged Brandon to a tennis match after breakfast, even suggesting they make it worth money. Brandon declined, pleading a poor game, but gave in when Lenore prodded him to accept the challenge. Having seen him on the courts before, however briefly, I knew there was no such thing as a poor game in his repertoire.

  Elliot Fitch, buttering his toast, was off-handedly interested. “Francesca plays tennis, you know. Maybe sometime you can go against her. ”

  Lenore riveted him with a stare. “Who plays tennis?”

  “Francesca,” he repeated. He smiled faintly, as if amused by the reception he’d no doubt get. “My companion.”

  Lenore leaned forward on her bench. “Is she here? I’ve been languishing for an opponent since John and I arrived.”

  “She’s sleeping in this morning,” Elliot told her. “Tired from the flight, you know. But I’m quite sure she’ll be interested. I came for the horses; she didn’t, but she plays a mean game of tennis.” He set his toast down carefully. “Shall I tell her to plan on it, then?”

  “Do,” Lenore urged. “I’d be delighted to meet her, on the court or off.”

  “Speaking of horses,” Elliot said in Harper’s general direction, “I’d sure like to meet one today. Can it be arranged?” Harper nodded over his scrambled eggs. “I’ll set you up right after breakfast, if that sounds
good. ”

  “It does,” Elliot agreed. “How long can we ride?”

  Harper smiled, but it lacked the ironic amusement I’d seen him display with me. “Just about as long as you think you can stand it.” The smile widened almost imperceptibly. “But I think we’d better play it safe today and keep you to an hour. You’ll thank me… in the morning. ”

  Elliot grinned. “No doubt I will. Well, perhaps you’ll manage to make me into a decent rider before I go back to New York.”

  Harper’s expression was noncommittal, but I spied laughter lurking deep in his eyes. No doubt he was accustomed to Eastern dudes who wanted to play cowboy for a week or two. And no doubt it always amused him.

  After breakfast, Brandon—as well as Elliot and Lenore for different reasons—excused himself to change clothes; I wandered out on the porch and dawdled, liking the fresh air and morning sunlight. Cass came out a moment later with both dogs, one a fluffy bluish shepherd type and the other a smooth, sleek, lop-eared male with a long tail and the look of a dingo in his face. They loped off toward the tack room without her, as if knowing where she was bound, but she didn’t follow immediately.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” she said abruptly. “I was pretty rude.”

  I smiled. “No harm done. I understood.”

  She raked one hand through her loose, long hair. “Did you?” Then she sighed. “There I go again. Look—” She stopped a moment, leaning one hip against the porch roof upright. “It’s just that I’m not even in your league. Things are hard enough with him… oh, hell.” She gave up in disgust.

  “He’s always thought of you as a little sister,” I said calmly.

  “You got that right.” She sighed and grinned ruefully. “It’s wishful thinking, I know, but I can’t help it.”

  “Don’t give up,” I told her. “Maybe he’s like a mule—you’ve got to hit him between the ears before he’ll pay attention.”

  “He got hit between the ears, all right,” Cass sighed. “But it wasn’t me who hit him. ”

  “Wait a minute—” But she cut me off with her next question. “Brandon Walkerton’s rich, isn’t he? I mean—he has more to recommend him, doesn’t he?”

  “It depends on what sort of references you’re looking for.” I perched myself on the porch railing after making certain it would support my weight. “Cass, Brandon is very rich. There’s no denying that. Is that so important to you?”

  Color rose in her face. Her chin thrust upward defensively. “What’s wrong with that? It isn’t so bad to want more money than you have.”

  “No, of course not. Is that what you want so much, then—to be rich?”

  Her smile was more of a grimace. “I wouldn’t mind it. Who would? But no—it’s not all I want out of life.” She lifted her hands expressively and slapped them down against her hips. “Look at me! I already turned down a small fortune.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, there’s some people interested in buying Smoketree.” She said it off-handedly enough, for what I thought was supposed to be a secret. “They said they’d give me money for school and the rodeo circuit if the deal went through. ”

  “Give you money?”

  “Not for free,” she said wryly. “I’m not stupid, you know. I know all about free lunches.” She grinned briefly. “No. They wanted me to talk Uncle Nathan into selling the ranch.”

  I took a careful breath. “But you didn’t accept the offer—”

  “Of course not,” she said in irritation. “For one thing, Smoketree isn’t mine to dispose of in any way, shape or form. For another, Uncle Nathan would never sell this place. Not to anyone. ”

  Not even to Harper? So, she didn’t know. Or did she? “Well,” I said, “do what you want, just be careful in doing it. I respect your uncle enough to want him happy.”

  She looked at me oddly a moment, then nodded. “I want him happy, too. But I also want me happy.”

  “And Harper?” I kept my tone neutral. “What does he want?”

  “Money,” she said flatly. “But don’t we all?”

  Chapter Seven

  The tennis game, even from a distance, sounded competitive. I very nearly went over to watch Brandon and Lenore slamming balls back and forth, then decided to stay right where I was on the porch. Cass had left, so I sat down on the porch swing and lost myself in contemplation of nothing in particular. And then Elliot Fitch’s companion appeared from the direction of the cabins.

  She wore a clinging knit sweater and linen trousers that matched the beige of her fingernails. She had innate elegance and style; that much I could tell at once from my experience in the fashion industry. She was a strikingly attractive woman; Italian, I thought, with her dusky olive skin, black hair and eyes, and husky, accented voice.

  She gestured toward an orange sling chair to the right of the door. “Do you mind? I will go in for breakfast in a moment, but first I hope you didn’t think me rude last night.”

  A delicate gold chain glittered faintly against her throat. Matching earrings gleamed in her shoulder-length hair; she wore a wafer-thin gold watch on her left wrist. I shook my head. “I can use the company.”

  “You are kind.” She arranged herself comfortably in the canvas sling. Her faint smile was rueful. “You must excuse me for last night. It was a long flight, and Elliot’s exuberance can be tiring at times.”

  She said it with the fondness of a long-time friend, or a lover who is more than a bed-partner. It made the pairing even more incongruous, somehow.

  I still sprawled in the swing, moving it idly with one foot pressed against the wooden floorboards. “He seems like a very nice man.”

  “Elliot?” She smiled with the same fondness. “Of course. He is sweet. And very good to me.” She laughed softly. “He is exceptionally good company, but then so many people do not realize it. They judge him by what he seems, not by what he is.” Her gaze was level. “Women especially, who overlook his genuine goodness for other considerations.”

  “A common enough failing,” I agreed, knowing I had done it often enough.

  “I am Francesca,” she said in her husky voice. “Francesca Vanetti. And you, of course, are Kelly Clayton.”

  I looked at her sharply. Her tone had been perfectly bland, almost inflectionless, but something flirted with the distracting accent. “I am,” I agreed neutrally.

  “We have met,” she said. “In Europe, at least once.” She smiled. “Rome, it was, at the Palazzo San Giorgio. But you would not recall, I know. ” So easily she diffused the apology I had started to make. “One meets so many people under such circumstances… I remember you because of the man you were with.” She made a moue of apology. “You see? I am not different than others. But you were not looking at women either, with him at your side, and I made it my business to acquaint myself with you briefly so I could meet him.” Her smile widened. “All women wanted to meet Tucker Pierce, you know. And you, because you had caught him.”

  I recalled the magnificent palazzo and the odd little man who had been such a charming host to a multitude of people. European aristocrats, political exiles, artists, actors, even models. Tucker and I had been there and so, apparently, had Francesca Vanetti.

  “I am sorry,” she said quietly. “I know, of course… and I will say nothing more of it. ”

  It wasn’t pity I saw, merely an understanding of my position. In that moment I realized she was far more than she pretended to be, and not at all the type to overlook a man like Elliot Fitch with his warmth and genuine enthusiasm.

  “He has volunteered your services as a tennis player,” I warned her. “Would you care to meet your prospective opponent?”

  Francesca laughed. “Already he keeps me busy while he rides his horses. Ah well, I do enjoy it. And I will meet this opponent after I have eaten. I am starving. ” She rose like a cat unwinding from a relaxing nap, all sinew and grace even in getting up from an awkward position in a canvas sling. “I will see you later, p
erhaps.”

  I spent the rest of the day in delightful indolence, sprawled on a lounge next to the pool with oil spread over my too-pale body, soaking up the sun. Nathan wandered by once and commented it seemed a little cool for sunbathing; his idea of cool and mine were poles apart, since May in Arizona seemed more than adequately warm for such activity. I baked comfortably, drowsing much of the time; the rest of the time I paged through the latest issues of fashion magazines I’d brought with me. Old habits, as they say… even on vacation.

  Patrick Rafferty was also out by the pool, though across the water from me. He did not sunbathe, being fully clothed; instead he seemed immersed in manuscript pages. He held a clipboard and a pen, wrestling from time to time with the breeze that threatened to snatch his pages away. He wore sunglasses; prescription, I assumed, since I’d always seen him with his horn-rims on. I couldn’t tell if he noticed me or not. He did not appear to, which was just as well. I was still self-conscious about the purplish scars on my forearms, especially set against skin considered too pale for attractiveness.

  But it was a lovely way to spend the afternoon, and by dinnertime I felt baked to the bone. I showered, got dressed and went up to the Lodge to eat. Mexican food tonight: tacos, tostadas, enchiladas and other treats from across the border.

  Stuffed full, I sat a while on the porch with Brandon in the swing next to me, and then we went for a walk. It was cool now that the sun had dropped below the horizon, but I wore my tweed jacket and a comfortable sweater. And with Brandon’s left arm draped around my shoulders, I wasn’t cold at all.

  We walked up behind the Lodge, following the trail the moonlight illuminated for us. It was a companionable silence we shared, unbroken by small talk or great deliberation; we walked because we wished to, both lost in contemplation, and it wasn’t until I stopped to pull the cuff of one pantleg from my shoe that Brandon spoke at all.