Cinnamon and Roses

by Heidi Betts

  Holbrook shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “What else should I know about?"

  "Well, I left them alone together during the picnic. I went for a walk and got all those pine cones and leaves and things I showed you. They seemed to be getting along well enough when I returned. Then Rebecca had to come all the way home with us because she'd forgotten her sewing basket."

  Megan lowered her head, pulling at the lace trim of the tablecloth. “All right, she didn't forget it,” she said quietly. “She put it in the back of the wagon, and I tossed it out when she wasn't looking."

  "Good Lord, deliver me,” Holbrook muttered, raising his eyes heavenward.

  "I know it was deceitful of me, but it worked. Rebecca had to come back for her basket, and then Caleb drove her home, since he had to go into town anyway. I'm just dying to know what happened on the ride.” Megan bounced on her chair in excitement.

  "If Caleb knew what you were doing, he would tan your hide."

  "Oh, Papa, you mustn't tell him. Besides, it's not as if I'm doing anything wrong. Caleb and Rebecca are bound to get together. I'm simply helping things along."

  "Yes, I'm sure you think so."

  Holbrook and Megan returned to their meal. After several moments of heavy silence, Megan tilted her head and said softly, “Papa?"

  "Yes?"

  "Are you feeling better? I haven't heard you cough once all evening."

  Holbrook instantly went into convulsions, hacking until his chest heaved. When the fit passed, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and turned a hard eye toward Megan. “I'm still not well."

  "No, but you're getting better. I'm so glad. Caleb will be, too."

  "Hush, child,” Holbrook said sternly. “Not a word.” Megan smiled at her father's well-planned farce. “Yes, Papa."

  Sabrina ignored the delivery boy's outstretched hand, grabbing the brown-paper-wrapped package from him. The door slammed closed as she crossed to the large canopy bed. She tore the strings and wrapping away, revealing thick folds of bright material.

  She quickly shed her robe and nightgown, changing into the newest addition to her wardrobe. It was exquisite, she admitted—grudgingly, and only to herself—as she stared at her image in the cheval glass. The scallop-edged bodice covered the better part of her bosom. Much too much for Sabrina's liking. But the waistline and full, voluptuous skirts were quite beautiful. Silver threads sparkled, intricately woven into a rich shade of rose gossamer. Beneath the layers of whisper-thin material lay thick, textured red velvet.

  The gown was truly a work of art. But it needed a little something. Sabrina shed the dress, tossing it onto the bed while she went to the bureau for a needle, thread, and some shears.

  An hour later, Sabrina once again admired her figure in the full-length mirror. Her alterations were perfect. The scooped neckline now left nothing to the imagination, stitched so low that the blushed tips of her breasts nearly popped from their confines.

  And the skirt ... why, the angled edging up the side of the skirt had been pure genius. Not just a line cut in the fabric to reveal a glimpse of feminine ankle and calf when she walked, but a long slit from floor to waist. Her knee was left bare at all times, her entire thigh visible with each step.

  It was time to put her plan into action. A plan she'd been concocting since she saw Caleb kiss that little trollop of a seamstress. It had taken all her will not to scratch the bitch's eyes out when she'd gone to order this dress.

  But now she would show Caleb just what he was missing. And what a mistake it would be to become involved with that other woman. She would show him the gown and, with a few female waterworks, blame its disgraceful design on Rebecca. Caleb would, of course, be furious and have the seamstress run out of town in the blink of an eye, her reputation tarnished beyond repair.

  Then Sabrina would be the only woman in his life again. And he would never leave her side again.

  With a wicked smile on her lips, she wrapped a heavy black cloak about her shoulders and left the hotel room.

  "All right, all right. I'm coming,” Caleb growled, slamming down his pencil as he rose from the desk. His footsteps echoed through the empty hall as he headed for the front door. He didn't know where everyone was, but he would have to speak to somebody about answering the damn door when he was closeted in the study with paperwork.

  He yanked the door open none too gently. Then wished he hadn't answered the summons at all when he saw Sabrina standing on the porch. Her brassy blond hair was piled high atop her head, a long red feather adorning it. As for the rest, she'd covered her entire form with a long black velvet cape—one he had undoubtedly paid for. He could honestly say he didn't miss seeing her hourglass shape. Wouldn't have missed it even if Sabrina were in New York, where he'd supposedly sent her.

  "What are you doing here?” he asked.

  "Visiting you, you ninny,” she said in a high, overly friendly voice. She slipped past him, moving down the hall until she came to the parlor. Without invitation, she strutted across the room and perched upon the nearest wing chair.

  "What do you want, Sabrina?” Caleb asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He stood in the doorway, hoping to convince her of her unwelcomeness. “I thought I told you to go back to New York."

  "Well, now, what kind of mistress would I be if I didn't know your moods?” she asked rhetorically. “I knew you didn't mean a word of that nonsense. You were simply upset."

  "I may have been upset, Sabrina, but I also meant what I said. It's time for you to return to New York."

  She apparently missed his order—or pretended not to hear—as she looked around the richly decorated room. “Caleb, darling, I have a terrible dilemma,” she said, her gaze moving back to his. “I do hope you'll help me."

  He released a breath. He could just imagine her “dilemma.” Tardy service at the hotel, perhaps. Or, God forbid, a broken fingernail.

  Sabrina pulled a tissue from somewhere beneath the voluminous cape to dab at her heavily made-up eyes. “I'm so mortified, Caleb. You cannot imagine the horror I have suffered at that woman's hands."

  His brow creased. “What woman?” he asked. And then he wondered why he even bothered, for he didn't really care to hear her answer.

  "That woman!” she said vehemently, coming to her feet. “That ... that ... heathen dressmaker.” She flung the cloak from her shoulders, revealing the gown beneath. “Just look what she's done to me!"

  For a moment, Caleb stared in stunned silence. Then he promptly burst into uncontrolled laughter. He laughed until his sides hurt, until every breath became a struggle. And then he laughed some more.

  When his vision once again cleared, he noticed that Sabrina's face was at least three shades darker than the red of her dress. He supposed his reaction wasn't quite what she'd expected.

  "How can you laugh?” she asked bitterly. “How could she think I would wear such an abhorrent piece?"

  "Looks like Rebecca knows you better than you thought,” he said, fighting back a chuckle. He admitted that the bodice was cut a tad low, even for Sabrina. But something about Rebecca's choice in showing that much skin, not only at the chest but also at the leg, struck him as funny. And extremely interesting. Maybe Rebecca wasn't as much of a stodgy old maid as he'd first thought. After all, any woman who would design such a revealing dress had to possess some small depth of sensuality.

  Or, in this case, perhaps simply a desire to show Sabrina in her true light.

  "I cannot believe you find this amusing!” Sabrina railed, breaking into his thoughts. “That woman is trying to ruin me. I'll be a laughingstock in town if anyone sees me in this atrocity."

  "Then don't wear it until you get back to New York,” he suggested. “I'm sure your acquaintances there will find it quite attractive."

  "New York?” she gasped. “Why, you don't truly mean to send me back, do you? Oh, Caleb,” she cried, hurrying to his side. “I can't return without you."

  "On the contrary, Sabrina.” His tone hardened as he st
raightened, moving away from her clawing fingertips. “I still expect you to be on the next train East. I thought I made that clear the last time we spoke. In fact, my only question is why you're still in Leavenworth at all. You should be as far as St. Louis by now."

  "You can't tell me to go back,” she stated.

  "I believe I just did.” He walked to the door, opening it in a sweeping gesture. “Good-bye, Sabrina."

  He didn't bother making sure she left. Once he saw her onto the front porch and locked the door for good measure, he made his way back to the study, Sabrina's “dilemma” already forgotten.

  Rebecca's antics were not, however. He found himself chuckling again as he scooped up the pile of correspondence resting on the corner of his father's desk.

  What gall it took to do such a thing. To sew a dress that no woman, including Sabrina Leslie, could wear outside the bedroom. Rebecca must sleep on a mattress filled with brass tacks, he thought as he opened the top envelope. No woman could be so bold otherwise, he was sure.

  His eyes scanned the paper in his hand. He blinked, then read the figures again.

  Damn! Brass tacks was right. And she must battle grizzly bears for fun to have that much gall. The thin stationery floated to the floor as Caleb moved to write a scathing reply to Rebecca's latest bill.

  When Rebecca finally looked up from her stitching, it was well past ten o'clock. She took off her spectacles and set them on the table beside her rocking chair, then pulled the pins from her straggling hair. Brushing her fingers through it, she let her nails scratch at her tired scalp while rotating her head, trying to loosen the stiff muscles of her neck.

  She stood up slowly, giving her body time to acclimate itself to movement. Picking up her teacup, she walked across the room to the kitchen. On the round wooden table lay the newest book of fashions she had picked up at the Pony Express office early that morning. She'd come home and tossed it onto the table, needing to get right to work on the dress Megan was to pick up at noon the next day.

  Rebecca lifted the magazine by its corner, thinking to flip through the pages and get a quick look at the newest patterns. Anabelle Archer would surely pick one, if not more, the next time she came in.

  Just as she started to open the book, something floated to the floor. Rebecca stooped down and picked up the square, off-white envelope. She slid her thumb under the triangular flap and worked it loose, sliding the crisp, perfectly folded, paper out. She opened the letter and read the short, scrawled note.

  Rebecca,

  I have no intention of paying for such an expensive gown, especially now that Miss Leslie and I are no longer associated. If you want your money, I suggest you meet her at the Express office, as she is leaving town in the morning.

  There was no signature, but Rebecca knew darn good and well who had sent it. Her hand clenched into a fist, the envelope crackling between her fingers. Of all the nerve, she thought. Mr. Adams and his not-so-attractively aging mistress have a falling out, and I'm the one to suffer. Well, she needed that money. Rebecca had put all of her own into her business—except what she used for food, of course—and she couldn't afford not to be reimbursed for what she'd spent on that last elaborate gown.

  Rebecca threw the book of fashions across the table. Her foot tapped angrily, the beat echoing through the small house. She had fought with Caleb once about Sabrina's bill and won. She would just have to go back and fight with him again. How dare he refuse to pay her!

  Completely forgetting her earlier fatigue, Rebecca marched to the door, slamming it behind her as she ran down the porch steps and stalked across town. The street was empty except for a few horses tethered in front of the saloon. She headed directly for the Adams Express, hoping Caleb was working late.

  All was dark when she reached the office, upping Rebecca's rage yet another notch. She studied the week's stage schedule that always occupied the lower right corner of the window glass. The last stage had pulled in at nine-thirty. Which probably meant Mr. Adams was staying at the hotel. The problem was, which Mr. Adams had worked this evening?

  Rebecca made her way to the Wilkes Hotel, quieting her footsteps the closer she got to the main doors. She opened one and poked her head in, thankful no one was about. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes were most likely asleep and would only awaken if someone rang the bell on the counter.

  Rebecca slipped into the lobby and went to the hotel's register. She knew Mrs. Wilkes required everyone to sign in, no matter how frequently they stayed. Rebecca quickly scanned the signatures. At the very bottom of the page was the name she had been hoping to find. Caleb Z. Adams. Room E.

  Looking around one last time to make sure she remained unseen, Rebecca smiled secretly and started up the stairs to the second floor. She would give that insufferable man a piece of her mind and get her money if it killed her!

  Her breath caught when she came to the room marked E. A thread of doubt niggled at her mind, but her anger quickly pushed it aside. She rapped her fist on the door three times in agitated succession.

  "Come in."

  The words were muffled, drowsy-sounding, but plainly masculine. With a slight pang of guilt, Rebecca became aware of the fact that Caleb Adams might have already gone to sleep. Well, too bad. He's awake now. Go in and give him what for!

  Rebecca turned the silver handle and entered the room, shutting the door behind her. She'd expected the Wilkes Hotel to be nice, but not this nice. She'd had no idea there were sitting rooms between hall and bedroom. What an extravagance for a little town like Leavenworth.

  But then, she reminded herself, some people could afford the luxury. Men like Caleb Adams. If he could afford to rent this room for the night when his house was no more than three miles from town, then he could most certainly afford the bill she'd sent.

  She took a deep breath and steeled herself to confront him, moving farther into the room. Her steps made a board squeak beneath the carpeting.

  "I'm in here,” she heard him call. “Just close the door behind you."

  Well, surely if he was inviting her in, he couldn't be abed already. He was probably reading or working on some figures for the Express.

  She stepped into the adjacent room, her eyes coming to rest on a large mahogany roll-top desk stacked with papers and leather-bound volumes. Low, flickering lamplight emanated from the desk, casting the surroundings into pools of luminous yellow or shadowy gray.

  A lump rose in her throat when her eyes fell upon the large four-poster bed in the center of the room. She had never been in a man's room before and wasn't sure she should be now. But she needed that money. Without it, her business would go under faster than a sinking steamship. If need be, she would walk through the fires of hell to exact payment.

  She turned her gaze to the other side of the room, where her prey was no doubt sitting up with a good book.

  My God! Rebecca's mouth dropped open as she stood stock-still, staring with wide eyes at Caleb Adams—naked. His long body was folded into a tub filled with steaming water, clear but for a thin layer of soap suds.

  In an instant, Rebecca took in every detail of the sensual picture he created dozing in the porcelain bath, his head lolling comfortably on one shoulder. She knew it was shameful, but of their own accord her eyes traveled from the damp hair of Caleb's head to that of his chest, glistening with delicate drops of water.

  She whirled around—mortified clear down to her toes—and reached for the doorknob. If she didn't get out of here now, her mind would end up where it had no business wandering. She could wait until tomorrow to confront him. At the moment, that certainly seemed the smartest thing to do.

  "Just set the towels down over here.” With his eyes still closed, Caleb reached out an arm and patted the seat of a nearby chair, freezing Rebecca's blood in her veins. “Hand me the washcloth, please."

  If only he would keep his eyes closed until she escaped. Rebecca started to gently pull at the door, grimacing when it squeaked in protest.

  At the low moan of ungreased
hinges, Caleb's eyes popped open, searching through the dim light for the source of the noise. Startled to find a stranger in his room—and not the young man in charge of his bath—he quickly looked around for something to cover himself, finding nothing within reach. His clothes lay crumpled at the foot of the four-poster bed, and the towels he'd requested apparently had yet to be delivered.

  Caleb's gaze returned to the petite girl trying unsuccessfully to sneak out, wondering what the little vagrant had pocketed. Her dress was worn and faded, its hem a bit frayed. Funny, he hadn't noticed any beggars in town before. The only person he'd seen with clothes even resembling those on this young woman was ... Rebecca.

  Caleb's eyes narrowed, traveling up the frail form to light brown hair piled high in a loose bun. Little of her face was visible, only a fraction of her profile, but enough for Caleb to note the smoothness of her skin, cheeks flushed a handsome hue, and her entire person devoid of even a smudge of dirt.

  What the hell was Rebecca doing in his room? Come to steal him blind, had she? Or maybe she'd just wanted to get a glimpse of a gentleman sitting stark naked in the middle of a porcelain tub.

  Caleb's lips curled in a salacious smile. Right now he was feeling more man than gentle, as was usually the case when he regarded Rebecca.

  "Well, well, if it isn't Miss Rebecca. Looking for something, my dear?” he asked with obvious innuendo.

  Rebecca kept her back turned, head down, eyes focused on what seemed to be a particularly interesting design in the carpeting. “I wished to discuss Miss Leslie's bill with you, but it can wait until a more appropriate time."

  "This is as appropriate a time as any. Let's discuss the matter, shall we? Then we can get on to what you really came for."

  Rebecca's head snapped up. She forgot all about modesty and whipped around to face him. “Excuse me?"

  "There's only one reason a lady comes to a man's room this late at night. So first we'll talk, then we'll go to bed. Unless you'd like to go to bed now and talk later.” Caleb lifted an eyebrow and cocked his head in the direction of the four-poster.