He'd been young, handsome and devil-may-care. She'd known he'd never be a rich man. Why had it mattered? Because, although her eyes looked old, she'd been young in years, weary and desperate for an escape. She'd wanted someone who could support her.
Of all the men who'd visited her, Deuce pleased her most. He'd taken his time, entertaining her as much as she did him. A gentle touch, dazzling kisses and soft words, that was Deuce. What had happened to him all those years ago? Where had he gone? Why hadn't he told her he was leaving? Had he been angry with her for not choosing to go with him? If only he'd waited, given her a chance to change her mind.
Now that she thought about it, Mortimer was the one who'd kept telling her Deuce would never return. She'd spoken to few others about him. How had Mortimer known?
The big question, the one she couldn't answer, was why she hadn't recognized him instantly that day at the Wildcat Ridge train depot?
They had both aged, of course. Twenty years. He'd lost his devil-may-care wildness along with his beard. Better clothing helped. And the scar on his forehead—that was new. How had he gotten it? What all had he done and experienced since Creede? Had he married? Had some other woman known that gentle touch and felt the passion he could arouse in her?
Leaning over, she ran her finger lightly over the bullet scar on his midriff that he'd obtained in shielding her. A whiskey-crazed cowhand had wearied of waiting his turn. He demanded her attention and when she refused and told him to go to one of the other girls, he went berserk. Drawing his gun he threatened to shoot her. She hadn't thought he'd really pull the trigger, but she'd been wrong. Deuce stepped in front of her and took the bullet instead.
Her hero who she'd turned away after he'd laid bare his heart and risked his life for her. Her hero who had disappeared before she could retract her foolish rejection. She couldn’t believe back then that he wouldn't come to regret marrying a whore. Traveling with him on the gambler's circuit, they would have been bound to run into old customers and she couldn't bear to think what such confrontations might do to him eventually. The thought of him turning against her over time had been unbearable.
So she'd done her best to forget him, marrying Mortimer instead.
She thought—hoped—she'd come to love him. The early years of their marriage were good, especially when the babies came. Then, one day, the inevitable happened. They ran into a man she'd known in Creede. By that time, Mortimer had become wealthy and accepted in high circles. Because of her past, that had been ruined. He'd been humiliated, and life suddenly turned ugly.
He'd bought her the lovely house in Salt Lake City and gone off to his mines, coming home only once a month or less. He sent money. She'd wanted for nothing. In many ways, his absence had been a relief. It had also left her lonely.
Not for the first time during her vigil over Brody, she shook her head, still finding it difficult to believe she hadn't known him, despite the differences in appearance, despite the circumstances. Of the hundreds of places she might have expected to find him, managing a hotel in a small town like Wildcat Ridge would never have made the list.
Now she knew why he'd seemed familiar. The odd little flashes of memories that had haunted her of late made sense. The strange, disturbing notions that had entered her head at times when she looked at him. Urges. Needs. Brody Duvall had roused something in her she'd thought dead forever.
All fathomable now.
He stirred in the bed and she held her breath, expecting his eyes to open. Should she flee before he saw her? She wasn't sure she'd be able to face him once he knew she'd remembered him.
Had he found it amusing when she failed to identify him?
He moaned. She took up a cool, wet cloth and wiped his forehead, worried he might be coming down with a fever.
“Queenie,” he mumbled, and she froze.
His Queenie, he'd called her in those long-ago days.
Once more he stirred. His lashes fluttered.
Ophelia fled.
Memories of an old life battled for attention in Brody's head, making him toss and turn in his bed. None of the thoughts swirling through his brain made sense. He ached all over as if someone had taken a club to him. His eyes seemed stuck shut.
Sensations flowed around him. Warmth, caring, softness, fingers tenderly brushing his face, an inviting scent he knew too well, though years had passed since last he'd inhaled it.
Queenie?
His eyes blinked open. He was alone.
The world cleared, along with the events of the previous evening and the beating he'd suffered.
Marzda. Was she all right? Had the men found her?
He had to know. Thrusting a foot out from under the covers, he attempted to sit up. Fighting for balance, he knocked a basin of water off the bedside table, along with bandages, salves and medicines. The tin basin clattered as it tumbled across the floor. He half expected Mrs. Dobbs to rush inside to see what the ruckus was about.
No one came.
He'd been cleaned up, dressed in his nightshirt—the damnable thing. He much preferred sleeping naked. His middle hurt badly, and he found it bandaged. Carefully, he eased from the bed and stood wobbling in front of the mirror over his washstand. Pulling off the nightshirt proved to be no easy matter. When he managed to free himself from it, he saw a mass of bruises and scrapes stretching from his forehead to as far down his body as he could see in the inadequate silvered glass.
Those three hellraisers had done a bang-up job of teaching him a lesson. Too bad they didn't know Brody Duvall had a habit of ignoring lessons. At least, the younger Brody had. Back then, everyone called him Deuce because he'd once won two-thousand dollars with a single pair of them.
Those days were gone. He still gambled. Hell, he'd die gambling. Wasn't that what life amounted to, a gamble? He'd made plenty of money, enough that he no longer needed to play cards to eat. Working simply gave him something to do.
Right now, he had something more important to do than dwell on memories—check on Marzda.
To pull on his trousers required bending over which he found extremely painful. That accomplishment left him panting and he had to wait for a measure of energy to return before donning his shirt. Finished at last, he staggered from the room into the kitchen.
The clock on the wall read eight o'clock. Light from the window said morning rather than night. Where was Mrs. Dobbs? Where was Ophelia?
Didn't matter. He had to see to Marzda. He'd find Ophelia later.
Reaching the back stairs, he dragged himself up, clinging to the railing while monsters pranced inside his head beating his brain with a club.
No sooner had he finally made it to the landing than Ophelia's door next to the stairwell opened and she stepped out.
“Brody! What are you doing up here?”
“Have to check on Marzda, make sure she's all right.”
“She's fine. Now, let's get you back to your bed.” She wrapped an arm around his waist, and the warmth of her, that unmistakable, flowery scent that was hers alone, almost made him melt. The world threatened to spin around him again.
“I'd rather use yours,” he mumbled.
“No, you wouldn't.” She urged him slowly down each step, keeping hold of him all the way until they stepped into the kitchen.
Minutes later found him ensconced in bed once more, with Queenie fussing over him. Surely he'd died and gone to heaven.
No, it wasn't Queenie. Ophelia. He had to remember that. Ophelia didn't know him, didn't care. Closing his eyes, he gave in to exhaustion.
The next time he awoke, Angie Dobbs leaned over him checking his wounds. When he stirred, she smiled at him.
“Good to see you awake, Mr. Duvall. You've been asleep now for almost two days.”
“Two days? Where's Que—” he cut himself off. “Where's Ophelia?”
“Upstairs, helping to arrange the furniture in the new servant's quarters. She wore herself out tending to you that first day. How are you feeling?” She replaced the band
age over the cut where he'd been sliced with a knife across his midriff and straightened.
“Battered.” He hoisted himself higher in the bed to lean against the headboard. “And hungry.”
“That's a good sign. I'll get you something.” She left, closing the door behind her.
Brody closed his eyes and remembered the delicious feel of Ophelia's hands on him as she'd bathed his face, neck and chest. He couldn't say exactly when that had happened. Had he dreamed it? Images and sensations flashed in and out of his head, memories from when he was unconscious? Or fantasies?
He'd had plenty of fantasies about Ophelia in the last twenty years, but some of these seemed fresh. New.
Angie woke him from a doze when she brought him a bowl of porridge with toasted slices of bread spread with butter. Simple fare that tasted like ambrosia.
After breakfast, he sat on the side of the bed and tested his muscles. Exercise would strengthen them, get them back to normal. It took what felt like forever to get dressed but it went a little smoother this time. At last, he left his room to find Ophelia helping Marzda with her reading at the kitchen table.
“Brody!” Marzda jumped up and rushed over to him. He barely stopped her from throwing herself in his arms.
“Whoa, girl. You trying to put me back in bed?”
“I'm sorry. I forgot you were hurt. You look awful.”
He chuckled. “Thank you for the compliment.”
Ophelia rose and laid her palm against his forehead. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Duvall? No fever?”
Mr. Duvall? Had he done something to fall so far in her estimation that she'd revert to calling him mister? “No, and I reckon I'm better than in the past day or two.”
Her gaze drifted over his face. “I see both your eyes are blackened. I wasn't sure if it would be one or two. Marzda, continue reading, please.”
She walked out to the parlor and he followed.
“You do know, don't you, that I was asleep when those men attacked?” he asked. “There were three of them and one of me.”
“Yes,” she answered without looking at him. “I know. I'm sorry you had to go through that. I hope you recover soon. At least you're up and about. That's the best way to get back to normal. Tell me, where did you work before this?”
“I thought you understood that. This is the first hotel I've worked at. Slept in plenty of them, never worked in one before.”
Her face took on an expression of overtried patience. “Where did you live before this?”
“I've lived all over, Mrs. Crane. California, Wyoming, Colorado, Nevada, Kansas, New Mexico, Missouri.”
She held up a hand. “I get the picture.”
He could have sworn he heard a touch of annoyance in her voice. “Why did you ask?”
Glancing away, she straightened a lampshade. “I wondered if you'd ever lived in Colorado. Now, I know you did.”
So, was she beginning to remember him?
Marzda came from the kitchen. “I finished, Ophelia. Should I dust now?”
“Yes. Start in here and when you finish this floor, you may stop.”
“Okay. The girl glanced at Brody. “Looks to me like they nearly killed you, Brody. I'm glad they didn't. Were they the ones who cornered me in the alley?”
He considered his answer. She should be wary of the men, but he didn't want her feeling guilty for what they'd done do him. The thrashing wasn't her fault. “I can't say for sure, Marzda. It happened so fast.”
“I hope the marshal finds them this time and arrests them.”
“I do too.” He'd reported the girl's near-rape to the marshal. Had the attack on him been reported? He didn't want to ask in front of Marzda.
“I'll tell you what, Marzda,” Ophelia said. “I'm going up to see how the work on the servants' wing is coming along. Alex should have the wallpaper done by now. Want to forego the dusting for now and come with me?”
“Yay!” the girl had shouted.
Assuming he'd been dismissed, Brody stood there and watched them climb the stairs. With each step, Ophelia's skirt lifted in back, exposing a slender stocking-clad ankle. She never looked back once.
He felt a keen sense of change. Something had happened since Sunday night which had widened the distance between them. He tried to think what. Had she finally recognized him? Why wouldn't she have said so, if she had? Embarrassment because he knew of her past? Was she afraid he'd tell someone? She didn't know him very well if that was the case. His Queenie should know Deuce Duvall never gossiped.
Maybe she feared he might have changed in twenty years. He would have to show her he hadn't. First, though, he had to determine for sure if she'd remembered him.
“I wanted to talk to Brody some more,” Marzda said as she climbed the stairs beside Ophelia. “I want to know what it was like to get beat up like that.”
“It was painful, I assure you.”
“Yes, but I wanted to hear him describe it.”
“Don’t be ghoulish. I thought you wanted to see the wallpaper.” She opened the door to Mortimer's old suite and walked inside. “Here we are.”
“I do want to see it.”
In what would be Marzda's new room, Alex Terry was gathering up his supplies, his job done. “Well, ladies, what do you think? Do you like the wallpaper?”
“I love it.” Marzda ran a finger over the panels of delicate violets that decorated the paper. “Can I have a coverlet for my bed the same color as the flowers, Ophelia?”
“We'll have to see if we can find fabric that shade of purple.”
“It's kind of between a purple and a blue,” Marzda said.
“Yes. That will make it difficult to match.” Ophelia turned to Alex. “You did an excellent job. Thank you.”
“Glad to help.” He picked up his things and carried them out and down the stairs.
“I have chores to do,” Ophelia said, once he was gone. “Are you staying here or coming with me.”
“Can I stay? I'm trying to imagine how it will look with the furniture in place.”
Her bed and dresser were there but in the center of the room covered with drop cloths.
“We'll be able to put things in place this afternoon after the wallpaper glue dries.”
“Oh, yay!”
“All right.” Ophelia moved toward the door. “I'll see you later then. Don't forget your homework from yesterday and the dusting.”
“I won't.”
Ophelia strolled down the hall to her room. She did have chores to tend to, but she wasn't ready yet to face Brody again. What if he could tell from her face that she knew who he was? What would she say to him? Hello, Deuce. You broke my heart twenty years ago.
Perhaps today would be a good time to visit Hester.
Brody searched for Ophelia everywhere. Part of him felt some trepidation about facing her, in case she'd remembered who he was. But he also wanted to see how she reacted. Would she reject him completely now? If he had the strength, he'd visit Owen to ask his opinion.
Should he simply clear out now? Why wait for her to reject him again? He had grave doubts about his ability to handle it if she did. If anything, he loved her more now than ever. Before, it had been her beauty and generosity that had stolen his heart. Now he had grown to respect her in a way he never had before. She'd done well with her life.
He wished he could meet her children and see what they were like. Hopefully, they resembled their mother more than their father, in looks and character.
“Brody,” Marzda stood in his doorway. “Have you seen my new room?”
“No, honey, not yet. Can we wait until I have more strength and don't hurt so much?”
“Sure.” She sat at the foot of his bed and wiggled his toes under the covers. “You have big feet.”
“Big feet, big heart,” he said.
“It that true?”
He laughed. “I don't know, but I kind of doubt it. I've never gone around measuring people's feet and hearts.”
Marzda
giggled. “That'd be silly. You can't measure a heart. It's inside your body.”
“That's right. You're a smart girl.”
“No, I'm not, but I'm learning. I can almost read now. Ophelia is a good teacher. She makes me want to learn.”
He reached over and pushed a loose curl behind her ear. “That's because she knows the value of such things. Being able to read and write is more important than peppermint sticks and chasing boys.”
“I don't chase boys.”
“Why not?”
“'Cause they're dirty. They say nasty things and are always trying to kiss me. I don't like boys.”
“You will. Pretty soon, one will walk by that catches you eye and your whole world will spin on its axis and turn upside down.”
“Oh, Brody, you're teasing me now. Nothing like that will ever happen to me.”
“We'll see. How about getting me some water? I'm dry as a dead stump.”
She jumped up with the agility and energy of the young, returning a few minutes later with a glass which she handed to him.
“I wish Ophelia would come back,” she said, looking out the window.
“How come?”
“She talks to me. Nobody else here does. I get bored.”
“I've been talking to you, haven't I?”
“Yes.” She toyed with the hem of her skirt where she'd spilled something on it. Ink, it looked like. “But you're my hero. You have to talk to me.”
He burst into laughter. “Careful. Laughing makes me ache.”
“I'm sorry. I don't know what I said that's so funny.”
She'd dropped her hem and wound a curl around her finger, a curl that Ophelia had carefully put into her hair with a hot rod, a long and tedious process. Brody had watched his sisters do their hair that way. They'd heat the rod in the stove or fire, wrap their hair around it and hold it for thirty counts before removing it and going through the whole procedure over again for the next curl. They were always burning their fingers and Brody never figured out why they bothered with it all. To him, they didn't look any prettier.
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