Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  Uncle Chantry finally gave up, but Sam had stayed in Phoenix trying to win Lance. In spite of her efforts he had fallen in love with Angie Logan, a girl Samantha had gone to school with. Samantha had almost died. But in the end she had forgiven him, because she couldn’t help herself. She loved him more than life itself.

  Brokenhearted, Samantha returned to New York and allowed Elizabeth to send her to Europe for her grand tour. Every Regier had taken one, and every Kincaid as well. It had been unthinkable to Elizabeth and Chantry that Samantha, the last of the Regier line, would not go.

  Samantha had upheld tradition, but she was certain her grand tour had been the most miserable in history. She’d tried to keep up appearances, but she had almost no memory of the more than a dozen European cities she and her companions had “seen.” She’d alternated between crying and trying desperately to forget that Lance had betrayed her by marrying another.

  She had returned home just days before Lance brought his wife East to meet the family. Seeing them together, so obviously in love, Samantha had been driven half out of her mind with grief. Her first reaction was to look around for a man to make Lance jealous, as if that were possible.

  About that time, Lance’s cousin, Jared Forrester, fresh from ten years in North Carolina, arrived for a visit. With his shiny black hair falling across his handsome face, he’d looked like a younger version of Lance, which by itself intrigued Samantha. When Lance expressed disapproval about the focus of her attention, Jared became irresistible.

  Unfortunately Jared wasn’t Lance, and when Lance and his wife returned to Arizona, she was left married to the wrong man. Jared was tender and sensual, but almost completely worthless in every other way. He’d been raised a gentleman farmer, but he no longer had a farm to keep him busy, so he entertained himself by spending her generous inheritance. He probably would have bankrupted her if he hadn’t died in a yachting accident when Nicholas was three.

  Still, Jared’s champagne tastes had been infectious and fun. He’d taught her that money was to be enjoyed. Without him she’d probably have turned into a tightwad stay-at-home. With him she’d traveled extensively and cultivated an interesting set of eccentric friends with whom she still corresponded regularly.

  Once she’d gotten over her grief, she’d seen Jared’s dying as a reprieve—and a sign from God that she was supposed to be with Lance. Before her western experience, that love had been like a flame at the very core of her that shimmered and danced within, tantalizing her until her desire for him had become like a consuming fever.

  Now, after more than three years in Arizona Territory, Lance was no longer her whole life. She had gotten so busy managing a huge ranch, trying to save her son, dealing with a thousand and one problems—everything from drought and cattle rustlers to mundane household chores and serious injuries and illnesses among her hired help—that her dream of one day having Lance for her own became something she only thought about in the privacy of her bedroom at night. There, unbidden, the dreams came to haunt her, stirring emotions and needs she tried to deny. This morning’s dream had told her that she still longed for Lance with the same passion and intensity as before his marriage to Angie.

  Lance had looked wonderful in Phoenix. It was always a shock to see him in the flesh. Part of her dreaded it, and part trembled at the thought of it. He had beautiful eyes, and his finely chiseled features were so expressive that all he had to do was look at her…and she could feel herself falling apart inside.

  Lance, more than anyone else, knew what was in her heart. Perhaps he had sent the dream because he wanted her. Lately he seemed to look at her longer and more frequently than ever before. Had she imagined it? Or had he looked lonely?

  “How far do you live from Camp Picket Post?” Steve Sheridan’s voice, so close to her face, jolted her back to the desert heat.

  “How far?” she repeated, disoriented for a moment. “Uh…about ten miles east.”

  The horse paused, then lunged forward, climbing up the side of a sand dune. Stifling a cry, Samantha grabbed Sheridan and held on tight.

  At the top of the dune, Sheridan reined in the horse. As he turned in the saddle to look back over the desert, his shoulder brushed her breast. A warm, excited tingle reached down into her belly and burned there. She became aware of her thighs, opened by the width of the horse’s broad flanks.

  To distract herself, she turned to look at Lars, who appeared to be asleep on the travois. “Is anyone following us?” she asked. Sheridan turned his head. Samantha could feel the pressure of his gaze on her, but she resisted looking into his eyes.

  “Not yet.” He turned his attention back to the horse. Samantha rubbed her hands against her skirt, trying to get the feel of him off her flesh.

  It didn’t seem right that she could love and long for Lance and still respond in this fashion to a stranger.

  On Elunami’s pony, slightly ahead of them now, Nicholas laughed. “Isn’t this exciting, Mama?” he called out, his gaze on Steve Sheridan. Starved for male companionship, Nicholas was nevertheless picky about the men he admired and trusted. So it surprised her that he seemed so willing and ready to like this man whom he barely knew.

  Sheridan smiled back at Nicholas. Samantha noticed that his dark brows were finely drawn, except for the left one, which had a cowlick at midbrow. There, the silky black hairs fanned upward into a spiky point.

  “Yes, Nicholas,” Samantha said, “This is…much better than walking.”

  Grinning, Sheridan urged the horse over a small sand dune, forcing Samantha to grab hold of him again. And again she felt the heat radiating into her hand from his hard, flat belly.

  Off in the distance a coyote barked—a short yip, yip, followed by a long wail. Samantha prayed they reached Picket Post before Nicholas started to cough or Lars awoke—or the Papago caught up to them.

  “Captain.”

  Rathwick turned at the sound of General Ashland’s voice. “Sir!” He saluted with the ease acquired in West Point and practiced daily for the last twenty years. The commanding officer of Fort Thomas had returned from Washington, D.C., that morning, several days ahead of schedule. Rathwick wondered why.

  “May I have a moment with you, Captain?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Ashland’s smooth voice sounded polite, but Rathwick distrusted his politeness. Ashland was dishonest in small ways that made him undependable. The general assumed that all men had larceny in their hearts and justified his own as if it were an asset in dealing with other crooks.

  Every officer under Ashland’s command knew that if the general got in a bad spot, someone other than Ashland would be sacrificed. They all resented him for it, Rathwick more than most. He felt distaste for any man who couldn’t accept the consequences of his actions. But Rathwick didn’t let his feelings show. He needed Ashland’s recommendation to be promoted to major.

  Rathwick followed the general into his office. Ashland closed the door and seated himself on the chair behind the walnut desk. Rathwick took the chair facing him.

  “Would you like a drink, Captain?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Down to business, then. What I’m about to tell you is confidential. Top secret. For your ears only, Captain.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “A most regrettable incident has taken place. Captain Lawson bungled an assignment this morning. An Indian woman escaped. She is armed and dangerous. Your job is to find and kill her.”

  Rathwick frowned. He was a captain in the United States Cavalry, not a hired assassin. “If I may ask, sir, what did she do?”

  “You may not ask. I’ve told you all I can at this time. Suffice it to say that the secretary will be very grateful to the man who corrects Lawson’s mistake.” Ashland emphasized the words, “the secretary.” He liked to give the impression he had a close relationship with the Secretary of the War Department.

  Ashland scowled at Rathwick. “You’ve killed your share of Indians, Captain. Are you going
soft on me?”

  “The Indians are at peace now, sir. They’re living on the reservations.”

  Ashland’s lips thinned and his jaw seemed clenched, as if he resented every word he had to utter in this regard. “This woman was at least a hundred miles from the nearest reservation, Captain.”

  Rathwick stared down at the polished perfection of his boots. There was no law against an Indian being off the reservation, and Ashland knew that. Rathwick tried not to seem resistant, but he was having difficulty seeing why he should ride out and kill an Indian woman. A brave was one thing; they occasionally left the reservation to steal cattle and horses, and some would not be taken alive. But a woman…

  “I’m not trying to be difficult, sir.”

  “Good, because your future depends upon your doing this job. Take as many scouts as you need to track her. Lawson will tell you where he saw her last. Report to me as soon as you’ve completed your assignment.” Ashland stood up in dismissal.

  Rathwick wanted to ask for more clarification, but he realized that whatever the Indian woman had done had rattled cages all the way to Washington. Even the Secretary of War wanted her dead.

  Rathwick saluted and walked out. Either he was getting too finicky for the army, or this assignment was not the sort he expected in a properly run military organization. He’d give a lot to know exactly what the woman had done to deserve all this high-level attention. Maybe he could find out from Lawson.

  Rathwick found him in the officers’ mess. Lawson was out of uniform, his boots were dusty, and he looked drunk. No wonder Ashland was testy.

  Rathwick scanned the room, empty except for an enlisted man wielding a mop in the far corner of the bar. “You’re supposed to tell me where you saw the Indian woman last,” he said low enough so the man swabbing the floor couldn’t hear him.

  Lawson looked up and sneered. He had a perpetually cocky look on his thin face that seemed uncalled for.

  “I wondered which son of a bitch Ashland would send.” Lawson’s words slurred. Rathwick glanced at the clock on the wall to confirm what he already knew. Lawson was drunk on duty; probably the result of failing on an important mission.

  “Bucking for a promotion, huh, Rathwick?”

  “No more than you’re bucking for a court-martial.”

  “Did he tell you it was hush-hush?” Lawson leaned back to peer owlishly into Rathwick’s face.

  “As a matter of fact, he did.”

  Lawson made an exaggerated movement with his right hand, pointing his finger and shaking it close to Rathwick’s face. “Well, you do a good job now! I’m just glad to see he found a man who can handle the job. Damned shame about Lawson. Fine young man, but he just didn’t have it.”

  “If you’re through feeling sorry for yourself, you might tell me where you saw her last…and what she looks like.”

  Lawson snorted. “Last? I think she was leaning over her dead grandfather’s body,” he said, frowning. “No, maybe that was her great-grandfather. They were all so damned old and so full of carbine holes…I purely don’t know how the hell you expect me to tell one old man from another.”

  Rathwick scowled. “I meant the location.”

  “Ohhhh, the location. Sorry, old man. Location. Yes, I think they were in the riverbed due north of Pichaco Mountain.”

  “What did the girl look like?” Rathwick asked, suddenly feeling sorry for Lawson and wishing he didn’t.

  “Look like?” Lawson scratched his head and frowned. “All scared women look alike, don’t they?”

  “A description, please, Captain.”

  “Description. Yes, sir!” Lawson fell half off the stool, grabbed the bar, saluted, and did a caricature of a soldier standing at attention. He and Rathwick were of equal rank. The “sir” and the salute dripped with sarcasm.

  “Scared as a deer staked out in the middle of a train track with the locomotive bearing down on it, sir.”

  “Description, Captain,” Rathwick repeated.

  “Yes, sir!” Lawson said. “Looked like an Indian.” Once started, he just wanted to get it over with and be rid of Rathwick, so he could go back to his drinking. “Eyes…black. Height…short. Weight…a little on the thin side, sir!”

  “Wearing?”

  “Wearing…white. A white buckskin outfit with beads and fringe. White moccasins. A white headdress with lots of white feathers and streamers with beads on them. Fancy…real fancy. And not from around here. Maybe a Plains Indian, from the getup.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Rathwick said gently.

  “Welcome, sir!” Lawson said, bringing his hand up to his chin in a sloppy salute.

  Rathwick ignored the drunken attempt and strode out of the bar.

  Lawson turned back to his drink. “Earn yourself a big fat promotion, Rathwick, old man. I couldn’t do it, but maybe you can.” He took a big gulp of his whiskey, put the glass down, and banged it on the bar three times. “Gimme another. And make it a double. I’m not nearly drunk enough for military matters.” He groaned and lowered his face to the cool marble-topped bar. “I can still remember the look on her face. God forgive me.”

  Chapter Two

  Lance Kincaid dismounted and yelled for the stable boy, who came running and took the reins of his horse.

  “Evening, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Evening, Josiah.”

  The boy led the horse toward the stables. Lance glanced up at the house he shared with his wife, Angie, and their housekeeper, Yoshio. Angie’s plank sign announcing, ANGELA LOGAN, PHOTOGRAPHER, still irritated him. He’d told her a number of times that they could easily afford to have another sign lettered. She’d only laughed and said, “Why bother? Men don’t change the names of their businesses when they marry.”

  He hadn’t pushed it, but it still rankled.

  Lance opened the front door and stepped into the house. He had important and possibly disturbing news to share. Mentally girding himself, he sniffed, hoping to discern what Yoshio was cooking for dinner, as if that might tell him what kind of mood Angie would be in. But the sharp odor of developing fluid masked whatever it was.

  The hallway was lined with negatives hanging like small, dark diapers on a wire Angie had stretched there “temporarily” six years ago, just after they had built this house. It was big and imposing, and Angie’s studio and darkroom were spacious, but somehow she always managed to overflow into the rest of the house.

  “Angie! Are you home?”

  “In here,” his wife called from the library.

  Lance tossed his dusty tan hat at the mahogany hat tree beside the stairs. It sailed up and arced just enough to drop into place on the top center post, a good omen, he decided as he strode toward the library.

  The enormous mahogany book-lined room was lit by an electric overhead chandelier and two lamps beside two massive leather chairs.

  Durango was a hundred miles south of Phoenix. Even in February there was no need for a fire in the stone fireplace.

  Angie was seated at a rolltop oak desk, her wheat-colored hair pulled off her oval face and tied with a red ribbon. He walked to her side, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head. It, too, smelled of developing fluid.

  A photographer of growing reputation, she had probably spent the entire day in the darkroom. Her picture books featuring different frontier towns were reprinted year after year. She made as much money as he did—and she didn’t have to swing a pickax.

  She frowned up at him. Her intelligent, mobile face and large golden brown eyes were snappingly alert and almost too sensitive. “You’re early,” she said, with no hint of a smile.

  “Ran into a problem too big to tackle tonight. What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Who said anything was wrong?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “At least now we know it was me,” he said, grinning at the incongruity she didn’t seem to notice. “What’s going on?”

  “Just opening the m
ail.”

  That had an ominous sound to it. “Anything interesting?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t read my husband’s love letters.” Angie handed him a letter from Samantha and watched as he opened and read it.

  “It’s not a love letter.”

  “We just saw her in Phoenix,” Angie said, her tone accusatory.

  Lance turned the letter over and looked at the postmark. “Must have gotten stuck in the mail sack. It’s three weeks old.”

  Lance knew Angie hated his getting letters from Sam. The letters were nothing in themselves. Just expressions of Sam’s loneliness and fears about Nicholas. They shouldn’t have bothered Angie, but once she had realized they couldn’t have babies, she had become jealous of Sam. Over the years, that jealousy had grown. Now, just the mention of Sam’s name was enough to send Angie into a rage.

  “Nicholas looked a little stronger this trip, don’t you think?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. “I don’t believe I could stand it if anything happened to that kid.”

  “You don’t worry so about little Chane or Amy.”

  “I love my brother’s children, too, but they have their health and a father,” he reminded her.

  Angie didn’t answer, but the look on her face clearly revealed her misery.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll just write her a short letter to cheer her up.”

  “I thought the mine kept you busy from night until morning.”

  “That’s you,” he corrected, grinning. “The mine keeps me busy from morning until night.” Angie didn’t smile at his attempt to lighten her mood. “Well,” he said, shrugging, “it won’t take me long to write a letter.”

  “Then she’ll find something else for you to do—”

  Lance laughed.

  “It isn’t funny,” Angie insisted, her face suddenly clouded with frustration. “You always have time to do the things she wants you to do.”

  “I make time to do the things you want me to do, too,” he reminded her gently.

  “You’re supposed to. I’m your wife. But you still don’t do the important things.”