“By all means. Although I must warn you, this is the wallflower section.”
“Oh, good. That means your dance card is still empty, just waitin’ to be filled up.” Giving her the grin that lit up his homely face, he pulled out a chair, back to front, and straddled its seat. Much more manly. Plus, he could prop his chin on folded arms and feast his gaze on her. “So.”
He glanced around the large room, from the long tables set up to hold bowls and platters of refreshments to a stage opposite, where stood a small band consisting of a pianist, two guitarists, a trumpeter, and some old geezer with a wicked bow being sawed across his fiddle. The place had been decorated within an inch of its life. A huge handmade banner welcomed Sam Marsden back to town, red-white-and-blue bunting was hung in abundance, and every vacant spot had been filled with a vase of fresh flowers.
“Huh. They sure went all out, didn’t they? Figure most of the town is here?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. And anyone within traveling distance, besides. A free meal and free booze, how much better can a party get?”
Studying her downturned morose face, he cast about for a friendlier subject, since this one didn’t seem to be making her very happy. “All such extravagance just to acknowledge a soldier’s return, eh?”
“It seems that way.”
“You the only one here from the ranch?”
Finally recognizing that dear Val, of all these people milling about, had only her best interests at heart, Vickie looked up with the smile that brought several small dimples into play.
“No. I saw the notice posted a few days ago, when I rode into town. Papa wasn’t able to attend, so it’s just me and Jessie and Aunt Sophie. The house of women, traveling about in their well-used surrey. You should have seen the three of us, trying to climb aboard while stuffing our hoops in place. It must have been like watching some side show at the county fair.”
“Yeah? And where have the other two ladies gotten to?”
“Oh, fortunately Aunt Sophie doesn’t seem to feel that I need a chaperone any longer, at the mature age I’ve reached. So she’s opposite, swapping recipes with a couple of other women from the Creek. Either that, or seeking information on how to keep me in my place at home, doing ladylike things in ladylike gear.”
He laughed. “If that’s the case, I do believe she’ll be out of luck. Ain’t nobody ever gonna change who you really are, sweetie. And how about Jess?”
Vickie slightly tilted her head to indicate a small knot of enraptured males, near the Hall’s entrance, in the center of which could be glimpsed just the edge of a lavender taffeta gown. “Need you ask?”
“Huh. Figures. Prima donna, huh? Thought I caught sight of Tom and Lydia Prentiss, too. Ain’t that the Yellowstar’s foreman, and his wife?”
“Oh, yes, I thought they might attend. Most of the ranch people showed up. It’s to honor a—a returned hero, after all…”
The slight catch of her voice grabbed his attention and wouldn’t let go. While he puzzled over this, Valentine commented that he really didn’t think much of her.
The abrupt change of topic had her floundering. “You don’t think much of who?”
“Of whom, you little dullard. Of whom. Your sister, that’s who.”
“Oh. That’s whom. You’ve hardly ever even talked to her, Val.”
“Don’t need to. I can spot that type a mile off. Leads a feller on, breaks his heart, then walks away laughin’ about it.”
She stared at him. “You mean that you and Jess—”
“No, of course not. She’s just a prime example. Don’t be so literal.” Grinning, he reached over with one finger to re-align her jaws and close her mouth. “Jessie just doesn’t have your depth, that’s all. Your commitment. Your forty-seven cats and thirteen dogs and Lord knows what other wildlife rescues left safely under your wing at that ranch.” Then he smoothly complimented her upon her pretty self.
Again the smile, this time with a beam to rival afternoon sunshine. “Thank you, Val,” she said gratefully. “Trust you to hand out a sweet compliment.”
It wasn’t her best, or even her second best, outfit. But it was close.
She had reluctantly donned a set of the detested hoops (albeit simple ones, made of canvas instead of flexible sprung steel, and filled in by crinolines) and was now attired in white organdie, with a square neckline and puffed sleeves reaching to the elbows. Trimmings of blue ribbon edged with lace looped themselves from waist to hem, in a decorative chain that swirled around the full skirt like the rim of a bell.
Upon the table, close by in case any were required, lay a lacy blue fan, nicely folded; her wide summer straw hat, embellished with live flowers from the garden; a parasol, also lacy; the pair of white gloves she had removed and put aside; and her satin reticule.
“Why, yes, I give out compliments as they’re needed. Girl, you’ve even combed your hair.”
Some childish gesture, like sticking out her tongue at him, would probably have been called for, but she refrained. In a return of the same, he might just flip her over his knee for a paddle or two on her backside. If he could find it, under the miles of fabric.
“I do occasionally clean up, to go out in public,” she retorted dryly. “How is the world treating you, Val?”
“Fair to middlin’, I’d say. Got my interview with the mighty Sam Marsden himself, y’ know. Well…not really a full interview. Just a few words. He wasn’t lookin’ too well. But he promised me more time soon.”
“I believe I told you that was a bad idea.”
Valentine shrugged. “Always gotta try, honey child. What good would my job be if I hung back insteada pressin’ forward? Might just as well close the doors of that newspaper office.”
For a few minutes they sat in silence, watching guests moving about the room, enjoying festivity and hospitality. Community affairs, such as this one, took place regularly and were well-attended by townsfolk; not so much by those owning the outlying ranches. Still, everyone loved a good party: to eat, drink, and be merry; catch up on local gossip; play hail-fellow-well-met; strike business deals, and so on.
Males had forsaken their usual work clothes for spiffier attire; females were dressed for the occasion, with a couple wearing elaborate gowns whose skirts were so wide that passersby must carefully navigate the floor in between.
“How’s a man s’posed to dance with a gal he can’t even get close to?” grumbled Val, giving those outfits a look of disdain.
“I do believe that’s the whole idea,” Vickie replied with a twinkle. She might be reserved and retiring, preferring a safe quiet corner to the blandishments of outgoing society, but she was also a realist. Easy enough to ponder the frailties of her own sex, when it came to feminine adornments; easy enough to occasionally poke fun.
Besides, she felt comfortable and completely at her ease in Valentine’s presence; he had that sort of effect upon her. Just like wearing a pair of old shoes, so the saying went.
“Hmmph. Defeats the purpose of courtin’ and committin’ to any lady that catches your eye, as far as I’m concerned. Got a chance to talk some with the other three soldiers that came back, did I tell you?”
“No, you certainly didn’t.” Drawn out of what seemed to be a downcast mood, Vickie leaned forward with interest. The change in pose showed more to advantage the creamy-white skin Val had probably only dared to dream of, and it seemed he was about to swallow his tongue. “Tell me what happened. And what happened to them, where are they?”
He drew in a breath and shifted position. As if to ease a sudden constriction somewhere. “Well. Carey Kincaid, he lives farther west. So, after a couple days’ catchin’ his breath, he bought himself a horse and saddle and headed on out. Reckon that was a tough leave-takin’, amongst the four. They been through a lot together.”
“And the others? Silas, I believe someone mentioned.”
“Silas Whittington. Older feller, not much to say. Headin’ southwest, somewhere, over to New Mexico Terr
itory. Had no family to concern himself with, so he’s a lone wolf. As for Beauregard Draper, I’m not rightly sure where he’s from, but he decided to hang around this area for a while, see what he can conjure up by way of a job.”
Nodding, she brushed back a tendril of pale sunlit hair. “I hope he can find one. I hope all of those poor boys can get settled. They’ve lost enough of their lives.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Val sighed. “I heard some stories from a couple that would curl your toes. What they went through. How they suffered. The deprivations, the disease…well. Not great topics for a party, huh? But let me tell you, Vic, not all the wounds suffered by these soldiers are visible. Some of ’em may recover. Some may never get well. They’ve got a lot of heavy burdens to haul around.”
Vickie took that in with only a long, slow blink of acknowledgement. Ever the realist, she had probably already realized that fact.
Shifting again, he cast another survey around the room with its noise and laughter and loud twanging music, to which no one was as of yet dancing. “Speakin’ of, have you seen the hero of the hour anywhere yet?”
She swallowed, then said in a small voice, “No. I’m sure he’s here. But—no.”
“Huh.” Suddenly he rose to his feet, and, with a little bow, apologized for his appalling lack of manners. “I see you have nothin’ to drink, Miss Clark. Might I fetch you a glass of punch?”
A giggle. Leave it to Valentine, good friend, to always do his best to lift her spirits. “Master DeMarco, I would dearly love a glass of punch. Thank you.”
“And perhaps a cookie or two?”
“Absolutely. I am positively perishing for something sweet.”
“Then pray excuse me for leavin’ you alone, even briefly.” Another little bow, and he was gone.
She was sitting quietly, with a smile pasted on her face, as if she were really having a good time even if she had been abandoned by kith and kin, when someone approached. “Miss Clark, I believe.”
Vickie gave a little shiver. In more than two years of absence, she could not have forgotten hearing that slightly rough timbre, that soft drawl. It could belong only to—
“Sam Marsden,” she whispered, looking up.
“Yes, ma’am. Been makin’ the rounds, sayin’ hello to people nice enough to attend this—” he paused, his mouth twisting slightly “—this (circus, was he about to say?) foofarah. Might I join you for a bit?”
Her teeth, tongue, and lips felt suddenly almost too dry to respond, so she patted the chair seat beside her instead.
“Thank you,” he acknowledged gratefully, as he accepted her invitation. “I’m afraid I ain’t as strong as I thought I was, and all this standin’ about is kinda makin’ me weak in the knees.”
Talk about weak in the knees! Her gaze devoured him, this tall quiet man who had lost breadth and brawn during his imprisonment, who seemed to have lost something of himself. Being shorn of the old familiar beard was revealing a new thinness that had sharpened the planes of his cheekbones and jaw; and his dark brown eyes, shadowed above and beneath as if encircled by the smoky edge of a burnt cork, held a haunted look.
Oh, how she remembered those magical days and evenings when the only thing that had mattered in all of life was their being together was their occasional embrace, their infrequent kiss. Had he missed her, and their meetings, as much as she had missed him? Had he given up on ever being freed again from the captivity that trapped him a thousand miles away, on ever seeing her again, just as she had almost given up on his return?
Sitting there in silence, while merriment went on around her, Vickie yearned over the man she loved. She wanted to straighten his unruly hair with her fingers; she wanted to clasp his dear lonely face between both her palms and rest his head against her breast.
She wanted all the prerogatives granted to a wife, thus far denied. Would she be able to discover the truth behind his avoidance of her, until today? Would she ever be able to make right what was wrong?
“You look—you look—” she began. Then stopped.
“Not so good, huh?” His crooked smile shone upon her with so much sadness, so much weariness, that her heart began to split clean across. “Well, I reckon I’ll get my looks back in time. At least Ma seems to think so. Hard to be a dashin’ young man about town when you’re dealin’ with a few skeletons in the closet.”
The mild teasing sounded almost like his old self. A good sign.
“How is your mother?” She had to ask; the question seemed a just part of the conversation.
“Oh, she’s peart, now I’m home. Still gettin’ used to the idea of two sons gone forever, o’ course. You’re a mighty pretty addition to all that’s goin’ on here, Miss Clark,” he finished up on an admiring note, his gaze taking in the finery she had put on just in his honor.
Vickie. My name is Vickie! Remember, in our more tender moments you called me Tory. A pet name, you said. And we are betrothed to be married. And I would be one with you now, my dear, dear Sam, had I not been too shy and worried to take that huge step into womanhood before you departed and left me behind!
Why haven’t you come to see me? Why haven’t you made a visit to our ranch your highest priority, to let me fall into your arms, to reassure me that all is well and we can continue with the plans we had made for our future?
He was studying her with that bemused expression he had sometimes assumed in her presence. That much, then, had not changed. What had?
“Is somethin’ wrong?”
“Wrong. Not for me. Is there for you?”
Like a great shaggy dog, he gave himself a small shake. “Changes, I reckon. Life is full of changes.”
“Were you hurt, Sam? In that terrible place, so far away, were you hurt?”
“Hurt—before.” Unconsciously he lifted one hand, with the fine, long fingers she recalled so well, to touch a bandage at his temple, halfway into the mop of his hair. “Not doin’ so well, still, but Ma has been puttin’ her doctorin’ skills to work.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Time to shelve that, before she got bogged down in tears. Leaning forward, in the provocative pose that had so guaranteed Val’s attention and might be equally effective at this time, as well, Vickie asked quietly but meaningfully, “Were all my letters lost somewhere en-route to you, then?”
The bemusement deepened into real puzzlement. “Letters? What letters?”
She wanted to weep. “I sent—a number…that first year. Then, after that, none of us had heard anything, and we thought—everyone assumed—”
“I was a goner? Yeah. I almost was,” he told her flatly. “But I still don’t understand. Why wouldja have been writin’ to me? Just another flat-footed cowboy roundabout the Creek…nothin’ special…”
“Oh, don’t say such a—”
“Here we go, a whole plateful of biscuits and confections to warm the cockles of your—oh. Sorry. H’lo, Sam.”
A look of confusion crossed the man’s face as he rose stiffly from his chair. “I apologize, sir; you seem to have the advantage of me.”
Surprised, Valentine shifted his gaze from the soldier to the girl who appeared just as confused and surprised. “Uh, sure.” And introduced himself, after setting down the platter and two cups in order to shake hands. “I run the Whistle Creek Clarion. You must’ve forgot I wanted to interview you, for the paper, right after you got back. But that didn’t work out too good.”
“Reckon not. But we could make it another day, if you still wanna talk to me.”
“Sure do. I could come on out to your ranch, if you—”
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 6