Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  Stevie bid Blue a hurried farewell, thanking her for watching after the children in her absence. Satisfied that Heath was on his way to Delgado’s, she made the short walk to the Silver Dollar and boarded a hired carriage.

  A newly married couple sat across from her. The thin young man tapped on the roof of the carriage and the conveyance lurched forward. Stevie leaned out the small square window and watched Adobe Wells until it was a mere speck on the horizon.

  The ride to Delgado’s was far from comfortable, but Stevie was unaware. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears and emotions that threatened her composure. One by one she mourned the family members she left behind. Doubts and fears assailed her, but through it all the single thought burning in her mind was that Judge Jack was responsible for her brother’s death.

  On the backs of her lids she saw her brother Jeff, smiling back at her, mischief shining in his black eyes. She rubbed her closed lids, trying to banish the vision. She had to stop torturing herself like this. He was gone. All she could do now was avenge his death.

  But they had never found his body, a hopeful voice reminded her. Shaking her head against that futile hope, hope that would only tear her apart, she whispered good-bye to him in her heart just one more time.

  Then she renewed her vow to find Judge Jack and make him pay. If it was the last thing she ever did . . .

  As she told Blue, Stevie had thought to hire a horse at Delgado’s and ride along behind the stagecoach upon which Heath traveled—at a discreet distance of course. But there were no horses for hire at Delgado’s.

  She needed to catch a different stage from Heath. There were two stages per day, morning and night. But she couldn’t let Heath get too far ahead of her. Traveling alone would be too dangerous. So how was she going to take the same stage without him recognizing her? She couldn’t imagine. Tired and disheartened, she took a room for the night.

  She spent an almost sleepless night, fearing that the ruffians downstairs would burst through her door at any moment. Or worse, that Heath would discover her presence, discern what she was about.

  But the night passed with Heath unaware of her presence . . . and her person mercifully unmolested by strangers. The coach rolled in just before sunrise. She stood at the side of the main building, waiting for Heath to emerge.

  She had yet to formulate a plan, when a group of women floated out the front door. Her eyes widened into ebony moons. They were nuns. Apparently, on their way to the outhouse. For some reason, it never occurred to her that nuns used the outhouse.

  Shaking herself free of the inane thought, a plan formed in her mind. A quick glance through the swinging doors reassured her that Heath and the other men were still occupied with their breakfasts. She hurried down the path behind the building, close on the sisters’ heels.

  As good nuns are wont to do, they were waiting their turn single file outside the small wooden building patiently, three outside, one inside. Stevie approached them at a dead run, dressed in her buckskins, her hair tucked beneath a pert Stetson.

  Seeing her, the nuns cloistered together for protection, supposing that she was a marauding male with libidinous designs on their chaste persons.

  Stevie skidded to a halt, casting a harried glance over her shoulder. “Could I have a word with you?”

  The sister Stevie supposed was the head nun spread her hands and addressed her companions en masse. “There’s no need for concern, Sisters. It’s a girl.”

  Stevie was insulted. “Well, of course I’m a girl.” She tried valiantly to ignore her wounded pride. “And I’m in terrible trouble.” She affected her best poor, pitiful, frightened orphan look. “I have to take the stage. But I’m all alone.” She dredged up a crocodile tear and silently asked God’s forgiveness for manipulating these brides of the church. “I’m scared of all those men.”

  That set them in motion. As a unit they swarmed over her, clucking and cooing like soothing winged creatures. They all spoke at once.

  “Poor dear.”

  “There, there.”

  “We’ll help you.”

  Even the sister relieving herself had miraculously appeared at Stevie’s side.

  Fast talking and fifteen minutes later, the party of four nuns had swelled to five. But none of the men, least of all Heath, noticed the newest addition. Men didn’t regard nuns very closely. It was almost as if they feared giving offense by just touching the Lord’s vessels with their worldly eyes.

  Had they paid scant attention to the fifth nun, a painfully shy child, they would have seen that she was quite small. Her headpiece rode low on her forehead.

  Even if they had been inclined to view her closely, the other sisters kept her all but hidden from their sight. Stevie appreciated the nuns’ help, but they were almost suffocating her. Everyone aboard would have been scandalized to hear the irreverent oaths the little nun uttered to herself, cursing what she called these infernal holy clothes. A nun’s habit might be comfortable if one were born on the sun, she decided. Otherwise, it was damned hot, a tool of torture. Long before she reached Kansas City, she told the good Lord that these kind women deserved his richest rewards if for no other reason than wearing such horrendous uniforms without complaint.

  She was not as self-sacrificing, however. When they reached Kansas City, she thanked the women profusely and assured them that she would be quite safe now. She donned her buckskin outfit in the depot outhouse, passed the black wool habit through the door to Sister Mary Christopher, and bid her saviors a muffled farewell.

  Once alone, she followed Heath to the Kansas City Hotel. He stood looking cool as a cucumber in the lobby of the elegant building, much to her irritation. From her vantage point behind a large potted palm, she studied her environs and declared the room a thing of beauty. Black marble floors covered with exquisite Oriental rugs. A chandelier overhead sparkled with hundreds of tiny gas jets, casting flirtatious lightning bolts down upon the elegantly clad ladies who perched lightly on the deep wine brocade settees and matching wing chairs.

  Unconsciously, she brushed the worst of the dirt from the seat of her trousers as one person in particular caught her eye. He was a middle-aged gent who carried himself as if he were royalty—or at least in the employ of royalty. She decided that he was the cleanest man she had ever seen. From carefully coiffured hair to glossy slippers, he looked like he’d been spit-shined and polished. Totally out of place in the West.

  His knee-length frock coat was of the finest cloth, as ebony as Summer’s eyes. His blinding-white shirt and elaborately tied neckcloth rested against creamy pale skin that had never been kissed by so much as a ray of sunlight. He glided across the carpeted floor as if he floated on air, heading Heath’s way.

  When he reached Heath, he bowed at the waist. “Master Heath. May I say, you’re looking well.” He spoke with a decidedly British accent, just loud enough for Stevie to overhear his greeting.

  Heath glanced down at his worn jeans, leather vest, and scuffed boots. He grinned and slapped the man on the back. “If you say so.” He didn’t dare offer to shake his valet’s hand. Poor Jeevers would die of heart seizure if his employer behaved so familiarly. “It’s damn good to see you, Jeevers.”

  “And you, sir. Dr. Turner received your telegram. I arrived this morning. You’ll find everything is in order.” The report was crisp, concise, yet not totally impersonal.

  “Good man.”

  Something flickered across Heath’s face that Stevie read as anxiety. Her heart warmed.

  “My father?”

  Jeevers’s expression never changed. “General Turner is much improved.”

  “Really?” Heath could scarcely believe the welcome news.

  “Certainly, sir. He told both Drs. Turner that he would make a full recovery. Of course, they did not dispute him.”

  Heath’s face broke into a grin. He uttered something that might have been a curse or a prayer.

  “He asked me to convey a message to you, sir.”

 
When Jeevers reddened slightly, Stevie suspected that the show of emotion was unlike him.

  He cleared his throat. “He said to tell his wayward son to get his sorry a—” Uncomfortably, he halted and glanced at the ladies milling about them.

  “You needn’t finish the message, Jeevers. Knowing the general, I can imagine the rest.” Heath’s grin widened. “I’m hungry as a bear.”

  “I anticipated your needs, sir. Regretfully, your usual suite was unavailable”—Jeevers sniffed disdainfully—“but I’ve engaged comparable accommodations. Room 202.” He handed Heath the room key. “A bath and a light repast have been ordered.”

  “Whatever you ordered to eat, double it.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Stevie studied Heath intently. This was a side of him she had not seen. To have a servant anticipating his every whim . . . and to watch him accept . . . no, expect, the fawning attention was disconcerting. It occurred to her then that this was his real life, not the hard existence in the West. Obviously, he had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. The difference in their upbringing was even more diverse than she had thought. She felt very sad.

  “Heath darling!”

  Heath, Jeevers, and Stevie turned toward the enthusiastic voice as if their heads were connected by a string. Bearing down upon Heath was an exquisite creature dressed in emerald-green tulle. Stevie wanted to cut her into little pieces and feed her to Sweetums. Heath just wanted the woman to disappear. Jeevers discreetly moved away.

  When Stevie turned back toward Heath, she saw that he was standing stock-still, a strained smile on his face. The beauty walked right up to him and kissed him full on the lips. He pulled away, but not as quickly as Stevie thought he could have.

  He held the woman at arm’s length. “Christina, what are you doing here?”

  Blood coursed through Stevie’s ears. She failed to hear the displeasure in Heath’s voice.

  “I was visiting your mama when Chap sent Jeevers after you. It’s been so long . . . I couldn’t wait to see you. I thought you might like some company on the trip home.”

  Stevie almost choked on jealousy and rage. Had Heath really pined for her all the way to Kansas City, all the way to his floozy? One look at the woman wrapping herself around him, and Stevie sincerely doubted Heath ever meant to return to Adobe Wells. Had all those sweet professions of love been a lie? Even what he told Winter? A small voice deep in her heart said that she was being ridiculous. That she should trust Heath. And she almost had her jealousy under control so that she could think rationally when Christina launched herself into Heath’s arms again.

  Unable to bear more of the touching reunion, she turned to flee. Her boot caught the rim of the planter, upsetting the shiny hunk of brass, dumping dirt, greenery, and herself on the marble floor. The sound reverberating through the room sounded as if the roof were caving in.

  Along with everyone else in the lobby, Heath and Christina turned toward the noise. “Stevie,” Heath breathed, a myriad of emotions coursing through him: elation, rage, anticipation, confusion, suspicion.

  Stevie scrambled to her feet. Just as she tried to burst through the front door, a strong hand circled her arm, pulling her against a chest as hard and wide as a brick wall.

  “Let me go!” she snarled.

  “Unless you want me to tan your hide in front of all these people, you had best keep your mouth shut and come with me.”

  Without responding, she allowed Heath to guide her through the lobby, up the carpeted stairs, Christina’s irate voice ringing in their ears. When they reached Room 202, he unlocked the door, shoved her into the suite, and slammed the door behind them.

  Stevie refused to look in Heath’s direction. Instead, her gaze wandered throughout the room. She noted with disgust that the place was fit for a princess.

  It was certainly too grand for her—a half-breed hellion who had been raised on a cattle ranch with no one save a rough-cut pa, a Comanche orphan, a half-breed brother, a crotchety old cook, and a host of malcontent and ne’er-do-well cowboys to call family. She engaged in a full thirty seconds of self-pity before she mentally pulled herself up by her bootstraps and turned and faced Heath head-on.

  He was leaning against the wide oak door, arms crossed over his chest. He looked as impenetrable as Sherman’s front line. “You have some tall explaining to do.”

  “Drop dead” was all she said.

  Forty-five

  He noted her courage in the face of discovery. Didn’t like it a hell of a lot, but he noted it. Just as he noted her jealousy. He could hardly blame her. If he had seen a man kiss Stevie the way Christina—damn her soul—had kissed him, he would shoot first and ask questions later.

  Just the thought of a man kissing Stevie sharpened Heath’s voice. “Before we discuss why you’re so mad at me, I demand an explanation. Why did you refuse to travel with me, then show up here in Kansas City?” His tone softened. “Dare I hope you changed your mind?”

  “You can hope all you want. Far as I know, it’s not against the law. But some of us have learned there’s not much benefit to it.”

  Heath winced. The air was thick with her unspoken accusation. She had hoped that he would return for her. It was painfully obvious that due to Christina’s untimely arrival, Stevie now considered her hopes for a future with him futile. Guilt warred with indignation. If she had wanted him so badly, all she had to do was accept his invitation to New York. She really had no right to be angry at him about Christina. Just as he was about to reassure her on that score, she pulled a snub-nosed derringer on him.

  “Now, get out of my way,” she ordered, pointing the patently unimpressive weapon at his chest.

  “Take care, sugar.” He chuckled, enraging her further. “If you shoot me with that and I find out about it, I might get mad.”

  That he would make fun of her made her even angrier. “Move,” she spat out through clenched teeth.

  He stood there for a moment. “Oh, hell!” With two strides he was in front of her. “Give me that damn thing before you hurt yourself.” He grabbed the gun and tossed it on the bed. Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her hard. At length, she relaxed against him. He raised his head. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, or not?”

  She stiffened. “I’m on my way to New York.”

  “Care to tell me why you turned me down, then struck out on your own?” He had a pretty good idea what she was after. It was the same thing she had been after since the first moment they met. Judge Jack. When she remained mute, he prodded her, “You didn’t eavesdrop on a conversation between Jay and me, did you?”

  She considered confessing all and asking his help. Now that he had discovered her, there was little need for secrecy.

  A sharp rap came on the door. Heath crossed over and admitted Jeevers. A string of hotel employees filed into the room behind him, some carrying buckets of hot water, some platters of food. He instructed the water bearers to fill the tub in the other room, the food bearers to set the table in front of a pair of partially open French doors.

  “Our train leaves within the hour. Do you want to bathe or eat first?”

  Stevie was put off that Heath assumed she was traveling with him. All the while she was pleased that he didn’t press her for further explanation.

  When she didn’t answer, he said, “I have a matter to attend to. Feel free to use the bath. We can eat when I return.”

  Stevie knew good and well the matter had to do with Christina. Indignant, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the other room.

  Refreshed and replete, Stevie still not speaking, they piled into a carriage shortly before sunset for the ride to the depot. When they arrived, it took conscious effort for Stevie not to gape at the spectacle before her. The sight was even more awe-inspiring—and intimidating—than the elegant hotel.

  What a country bumpkin she was! She had never seen such a mass of people. It seemed as though everyone west of the Mississippi were c
atching the train to St. Louis. Despite her pique, she stepped closer to Heath’s side as he made his way through the crowd with ease, guiding her the length of the train, arriving finally at the most exquisite Pullman rail car Kansas City had ever seen.

  Stevie lost the fight for nonchalance then. There was no way she could appear unimpressed when they broke through the crowd ringing the exquisite mode of travel. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, her first word to Heath in an hour.

  “Wonder whose it is?” a heavyset woman behind them asked her pencil-thin husband.

  Stevie wondered the same. Pictures of European royalty dining inside flashed upon the stained glass windows in her mind. A richly clad lady smiling across a candlelit table at her lover was another of her fanciful musings.

  She was drawn to the car by her whimsical flights of fantasy. That’s when she noticed the ornate gilt initials painted on the side of the car. H.H.T. She jerked her head in Heath’s direction. Surely not.

  Jeevers directed the carriage driver to load their luggage inside the Pullman, keeping his own luggage by his side.

  Stevie stared at Heath’s profile, wide-eyed. She felt a sense of betrayal. The hotel and Jeevers were one thing, but this . . .

  She had known that he was well-to-do; financially comfortable was the way he had explained his family’s economic status. But he must be a flaming millionaire to own a rail car such as this. Once again the impossibility of their union loomed in her mind, large and threatening. In one instant of painful honesty she had to admit that she was afraid.

  Afraid? She was terrified. She had faced a striking rattler with nothing more than a garden hoe for defense and not felt the depth of fear that was clawing at her now. This was too much. She was out of her element, in over her head. Mentally, she searched for further clichés even as she entertained the notion of running as far and as fast as her fancy tooled boots would carry her.

  Just as she would have made her cowardly getaway, Heath’s unborn child chose that moment to keep her rooted in place. A twenty-foot tidal wave of nausea flowed over her, drenching her in misery from top to bottom. “Ohhh,” she moaned as the sky above her head and the platform beneath her feet changed places. She bent at the waist and fought desperately for breath.