A door opened to Talbot’s right and a stout, raven-haired woman in a violet dress appeared looking harried.
Suzanne said, “Mark, I’d like you to meet my mother. Mother, Mark Talbot.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Talbot,” Mrs. Magnusson said with an air of distraction, automatically offering her hand, which Talbot shook very gently. The hand was small and plump, with papery skin and several large rings, including a diamond, reflecting the light from the fire.
The woman’s breath smelled of booze, and a fine sweat glistened above her bright red lips and on her forehead. Her eyes resembled Suzanne’s, but with an additional jaded cast, an oblique pessimism. She appeared both haunted and harried.
Turning to her daughter, Mrs. Magnusson arched her plucked eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware there would be another guest.”
Suzanne frowned. “Didn’t Papa tell you?”
King shrugged guiltily. “I’m sorry, Kendra—I plum forgot.”
Admonishing her father with a look, Suzanne said, “Fortunately I reminded Minnie to set another place.”
Talbot said, “If there’s a problem—”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Mr. Talbot,” Mrs. Magnusson said, breathing heavily and tossing her own reproachful look at King. “The more the merrier! Have a seat.” Turning to the others, she said, “I apologize for the delay with the meat, but Minnie and the girls are utterly baffled by the wine sauce King simply cannot live without.”
Magnusson said, “They’ll make do, Kendra; no point in getting riled.”
Her voice grew as stiff as her smile. “They’re going to burn it, King. I don’t see why we couldn’t—”
King raised his eyebrows and opened his hands palm down. “Easy, easy, my dear. Let’s not bore the guests with our squabbles. Why don’t you take a seat and finish your soup before it gets cold?”
Mrs. Magnusson gave her husband a sneering grin, then took a seat at the other end of the table. The guests slurped soup from their spoons, consciously ignoring the tiff.
Suzanne put a hand on her mother’s wrist. “Really, Mother, none of us expect a New York meal in Dakota.”
Bernard Troutman, the Big Draw banker, said, “Beggars can’t be choosers, Kendra. Whatever you put on our plates will be quite sufficient, or we’ll go to bed hungry!”
He lowered his chin for emphasis, then looked pompously around for corroboration. The other guests vehemently agreed.
Drunkenly, Harrison said with a theatrical twang, “Give me a ham bone and a bottle o’ red-eyed Jim!”
“Oh, Harrison,” Suzanne scolded.
“And a bunkhouse full of cowboys,” Randall mumbled, dipping his spoon.
Suzanne looked at him angrily. “Randall, I heard that!”
“Not to worry, dear girl,” Harrison said. “I think your brother is still struggling with his own … feelings, shall we say?”
King grinned over his wineglass. Randall aimed his blunt nose at the doctor and opened his mouth to speak.
Mr. Wingate cut him off with a vociferous throat clearing. “So, Mr. Talbot, where do you hail from, may I ask?”
Shrugging, Talbot sipped his soup—cream of onion with butter pooling in the thick, slightly curdled cream. “Here and there. I was raised on the Bench.”
“The Bench?”
“My homeplace is about twenty miles northwest of here.”
“Oh, I see.” Wingate cut his eyes to Troutman, then to Magnusson. The other businessmen did likewise. The women looked only at each other, growing tense.
King kept his own gaze on his soup. Heartily changing the subject, he said, “I read in the paper just today that Nordstrom and Fontaine bought out McAdams.”
There was a ponderous silence. Then King raised his eyebrows at Wingate and the other businessmen.
“No!” one of the Big Draw men exclaimed, catching on.
“Lock, stock, and barrel.”
“Well, what on earth will that do to the price of rail shipments?”
“God knows. I’m sending a cable to Stephen Vandemark first thing tomorrow.”
The conversation continued similarly throughout the next three courses. No one from King’s circle so much as glanced at Talbot. No one, that is, but Randall Magnusson.
Several times Talbot looked up from his venison tenderloin and parsnips, and from his chocolate soufflé with cherries, to see the cherubic-faced young scoundrel considering him darkly. Talbot met the gaze head-on, as if to say, “You murdered my brother, didn’t you, you son of a bitch?”
And young Magnusson blinked his eyes coldly, as if to say, “So what if I did?”
Sensing Talbot’s agitation, Suzanne put her hand on his thigh. Her flesh warmed him through his trousers, and he suddenly became aroused. It was an obtuse feeling under the circumstances, only vaguely pleasant. Feeling his pants tightening beneath her hand, she looked at him coyly and gave a giggle.
When the dessert was eaten and the maids began clearing the dishes, Magnusson suggested that the men adjourn to the sitting room for sherry and cigars.
Suzanne said, “Oh, Papa, do excuse Mark, please? I want to show him around the house.” Turning to Dr. Long, she said, “Would you like to join us, Harry?”
Feeding a scrap to the Siamese in his lap, Harrison shook his head. “No, you two run along. I’ll help the girls and Minnie with the dishes. They enjoy my company, don’t you, dears?”
Twenty minutes later, when the tour was over, Suzanne led Talbot into a paneled upstairs reading room. There were two deep armchairs covered in floral damask, a mahogany tea table between them, and a brass cuspidor. Against a wall was a serpentine-back sofa with scrolled armrests.
Nearly everywhere Talbot looked were game trophies and marble busts and expensively bound books that appeared to have never been cracked. He wondered how in hell Magnusson had gotten the busts out here without breaking them, and he imagined the poor mule skinners who’d had to haul them from the boat landing at Bismarck. They’d no doubt sweated every gorge and coulee—every knoll!—and kicked up their heels when they’d gotten them on their pedestals in one piece.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Suzanne said, lightly poking Talbot in the ribs.
“Oh … sorry,” he said.
“You’ve been very quiet. What were you thinking during dinner?”
“Nothing important.”
“Liar. You were thinking something dark; I could see it in your eyes.”
Silently, she lit two cut-glass lamps, then turned to him with a serious expression. Her long neck—butter colored in the flickering lamplight—looked especially delicate above the low-cut dress that generously exposed the cleft in her opulent bosom.
“I’m sorry about the men who attacked you,” she said. “The fault is really mine, not Papa’s. I delayed telling him about your coming because … well”—her eyes flitted nervously about the room—“because I’m absent-minded.” Her eyes came to rest on his and she smiled, perfect lips rising slightly at the corners.
Talbot raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you were worried he wouldn’t allow it.”
Her cheeks colored slightly. “That’s silly.”
“Is it? Those men tried to ambush me, and I don’t think it was a case of mistaken identity.”
“Mark, please. Why are you being so hostile?”
He looked at her dully. “Someone killed my brother.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “That’s awful! When?”
He told her.
She got up and walked to the window but did not look out. “And you think it was Papa?”
He considered telling her about Gordon seeing Randall heading toward the Circle T that day, but decided the water was muddy enough for now. “I don’t think he pulled the trigger, but one of his riders did. Amounts to the same thing. He was trying to clean out the Bench for his own herds.”
She wheeled around and confronted him, face taut with anger. Gradually her features softened
. She raised her eyebrows beseechingly. “Mark, let’s please talk about something else.”
He tried a smile. There would be little point in torturing her with all this. Besides, it was hard not to acquiesce to a woman like Suzanne Magnusson. She was as willful as she was beautiful. She was also spoiled. It was her least attractive quality, but it somehow added to her power.
Talbot could see how young men could be utterly swept away by her, like a hundred-foot rogue wave flooding the deck while you’re hanging in the crow’s nest. Young men whose brother had not been murdered by her father, that is.
“Okay,” he said.
She wheeled gracefully and collapsed on the sofa, patted the cushion beside her. “Come. Sit with me.”
He did as he was told.
“This is my favorite place in the house,” she said. “I like to sit here alone and read and dream of faraway places.”
“What places?”
“No place in particular. Just anywhere far away—anywhere I haven’t been, that is, because when you’ve been there the romance is gone, don’t you think?”
“Dakota’s a nice place, in spite of the winter. At least it was.”
Suddenly playful, Suzanne sat up and tucked a leg beneath her, then turned to him, folding her hands in her lap.
“Let’s play a game.” She wrinkled her nose, giggling, and leaned toward him, clasping his hand. “Are you game for a game, Mr. Talbot?”
He shrugged, observing her with puzzled amusement. His murdered brother was the farthest thing from her mind. “Why not?”
“I’ll say a noun and you say the first verb that pops into your head.”
“Why do you get the nouns and I get the verbs?” he asked, playing along.
“Why, because you’re a man of action, of course!”
“Oh.”
“Ready?”
He rested his head against the sofa back and nodded.
“Close your eyes. Okay. Stone. Hurry! You have to say the first verb that pops into your head.”
“Okay … throw!”
“Snake.”
“Uh—slither!”
“Horse.”
“Ride.”
“Cards.”
“Gamble.”
“Ships.”
“Sail.”
“Knife.”
“Cut.”
“Girls.”
He opened his eyes. “Girls?”
“Don’t think!”
“All right … girls … uh … kiss.”
“Kiss?”
He opened his eyes again and gave a laugh. She was looking at him with an expression of wry expectance. “You said to say the first thing that came into my head, and kissing was the first thing that came into my head.”
Her eyes flashed slyly. “Have you kissed Jacy Kincaid?”
He laughed again. “What?”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“Have you wanted to?”
He thought for a few seconds. “No.” It was a lie, but he knew it was what she wanted to hear.
Her expression becoming grave, she lowered her eyes. She spoke quietly, in a throaty, silky voice that reminded him of a gentle breeze combing woods. “Have you wanted to kiss me?”
He stared at her seriously for a moment. “Yes.” It was not a lie.
“Why don’t you, then?”
He smiled. Unable to help himself, he gently took her face in his hands and kissed her. Her lips were silky. They parted for him slightly.
After a while, she pulled away. “Mark, let’s not let any of this trouble my father’s involved in come between us, okay?”
“Suzanne—”
“Okay?”
He sighed, gave a nod.
She smiled, said in a throaty, lusty voice, her sweet breath warm on his face, “All right, then, take it away, Mr. Talbot.”
His eyes widened. “What? Here?”
“It’ll be our secret.”
“Suzanne—”
He tried to rise, but she pushed him back against the couch, flattening her breasts against his chest and pressing her full lips to his.
“Suzanne …” he said again. But he couldn’t help being aroused by her. The feel of her hands in his hair, on his shoulders, on his arms … the beguiling taste of her tongue probing his … her thighs on his … was too much to deny.
She gently bit his upper lip, pushing away. She lowered her head, unbuttoned his shirt, and kissed his chest, murmuring, “You cut a fine manly figure, Mark Talbot. It’s been so long since …”
He reached into her hair, ran the strands through his fingers. Her head went lower. Her fingers were on his fly.
She whispered, “My God, Mr. Talbot.”
“Suzanne …”
It wasn’t long before he was arching his back and tearing at the sofa with his fists.
It took all his power not to yell.
Somewhere in another realm, boots pounded, shaking the floor. It took Talbot several seconds to realize that someone was climbing the stairs.
“Suzanne!” It was King Magnusson.
Talbot could tell by the increased volume of the pounding boots that the man was within twenty feet and closing.
Talbot tried to push her off him but could not unclench his hands from the cushions. Finally, at the last second, she lifted her head, ran the back of her hand across her mouth, and smiled with devilish delight.
“Now you’re in trouble, buster!” she laughed.
CHAPTER 19
THE TALL, BLOND, barrel-chested visage of King Magnusson burst through the open glass doors like a bull through a chute. He was puffing a stogie and holding a delicate sherry glass in each ham-sized hand.
Talbot was happy to see he didn’t have a pistol and wondered vaguely about his own.
Stentorian voice booming, Magnusson said, “Suzanne, your guests are starting to wonder where the birthday girl has drifted off to, and Dr. Long is growing tiresome. Maybe you should make an appearance?”
Suzanne scowled. She’d just thrown herself onto the sofa, a prudent, ladylike distance from her guest, and brushed the hair back from her face, on which she’d managed an impossible expression of cool innocence.
“But they’re all so dull compared to Mr. Talbot,” she protested, folding her arms like an overly indulged twelve-year-old.
“Suzanne,” King scolded.
“Oh, all right.” She gazed at Talbot and smiled. “We’ll continue this conversation a little later … all right, Mr. Talbot?”
He cleared the frog in his throat, gaining his tongue. “Of course.” He wondered if he’d gotten all his fly buttons closed.
Suzanne stood and kissed her father’s cheek. “Be good,” she whispered in King’s ear.
She turned a parting smile to Talbot, who’d risen from the couch, then left the room in a swish of skirts.
Magnusson watched her, smiling. When she was gone, he gave Talbot a sherry and closed the door. He gestured at the couch. Talbot sat down and regained his composure.
He didn’t say anything. He wanted Magnusson to make the first move.
Unbuttoning his coat, Magnusson sat across from him in one of the damask-covered chairs. He stretched his long legs across an ottoman and crossed his calfskin boots at the ankles. Rolling his shoulders and wiggling his butt to get comfortable, he spat into the cuspidor at his left, then rubbed his bushy mustaches down with his thumb and forefinger.
“That girl is my pride and joy.”
“I can see why,” Talbot said with more exuberance than intended. “She’s reason enough to have a man killed, I suppose. Was she the reason you tried to have me killed?”
Ignoring the question, Magnusson dug around in his coat for a cigarillo, offered it to Talbot. “Cigar?”
“No thanks.”
“Addicted to the damn things,” Magnusson said, staring at the coal of the one he was smoking. He lifted his chin and offered a stiff smile. “So we’re neighbors.”
“I gu
ess you could say that.”
“You won’t be offended if I ask what your intentions are, will you?”
“Regarding … ?”
“Let’s start with Suzanne.”
Talbot planted an elbow on the arm of the couch and rubbed his lower lip with his index finger, pondering. “What if I said they were serious?”
“Then I’d have to tell you that anything more than friendship is simply out of the question.”
“Why?”
Magnusson kept his eyes on Talbot, trying to be as direct as possible. As threatening as possible, too, Talbot thought, without actually drawing a pistol. “Because my daughter belongs to a certain … class, shall we say? She is accustomed to certain amenities, creature comforts a man of your station couldn’t possibly provide.” He grinned coldly and added without a trace of sincerity, “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but if you were a father, you’d understand.”
Talbot said nothing.
Magnusson surveyed him critically. At length he squinted and inclined his head, genuinely puzzled. “Have I misjudged you, Talbot?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone I run into wants something from me—my daughter, my money, or both. But in you I sense”—he scowled, shook his head—“I don’t know; I sense something else.”
Talbot stood, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked to the end of the room. He turned slowly around. He studied Magnusson coolly, then smiled sarcastically. “You’re right. I do want something else from you, Magnusson. I want to know who killed my brother.”
“Brother?”
Talbot nodded. “I went off to fight in the Apache wars about seven years ago, left my older brother, Dave, home to ranch by himself. About a year ago I decided to start making my way back to Dakota. Decided it was time to settle down, help out on the ranch. Well, I got back last week and learned my brother was dead.”
Magnusson dropped his eyes, studied his boots. “Sorry to hear that.”
“He was shot twice in the back of the head.”
Dakota Kill Page 17