Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  Samantha nodded, wondering why Chila looked a little distraught. “We just got back from Phoenix.”

  “And how is Nicholas? Ah hope the rigors of travel haven’t aggravated his consumption.”

  “Nicholas is fine, thank you.”

  “Oh, Ah’m so very glad to hear it. Ah just hate to think of that poor sweet child suffering from the pestilence of that horrid disease.”

  “Chila, people are cutting us on the street. Someone even shot at us. Do you have any idea what started this?”

  At that moment Claire Colson stepped into the store, closed the door behind her, and looked from Chila to Samantha. From the indignant look in her eyes, Samantha thought she had found the source of her trouble.

  Ever since Claire had learned that Nicholas had consumption, she had been offering advice. Last month Claire had been convinced that consumption could be cured by purging all melancholy from the mind. She had assured Samantha that a happy frame of mind was the way to health. Now, however, she looked at Samantha as if she had brought a trainload of lepers into town.

  “Afternoon, Claire. I wanted to thank you. I read the inspirational article you gave me a few weeks ago. It was quite refreshing. You do still have faith in it, don’t you?”

  Claire Colson cleared her throat. “If consumption is a mystic visitation from the Almighty, as I strongly suspect, then one should keep a jovial mood throughout. Anything the Lord visits upon us should be received with good grace. But that is not to say we should spread disease willy-nilly. I firmly believe that all consumptives should be isolated in sanitoriums to protect innocent citizens.”

  “I doubt you would think so if your son suffered from it.”

  “I should subscribe to that remedy no matter who had it,” said Claire, huffily, “any right-thinking citizen would do no less. It is unconscionable to knowingly spread a fatal disease. I would seek out the most knowledgeable physicians in the country and follow their advice to the letter, which I am quite sure would include a lengthy stay in a sanitorium.”

  “I did—and discovered there aren’t three knowledgeable physicians in the country who agree on any one regimen of treatment. There aren’t even three who agree if the disease is contagious or not. My physician assured me that if we took certain precautions, there was no danger. And, as you can see, I have not been infected. And no one could be closer to Nicholas than I. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my son.”

  Samantha paid for her purchases and left. There was so much she wanted to say to the woman, but she knew nothing would be gained by arguing. Too little was known about consumption. People believed whatever they chose.

  Chila waited until the store was empty. Then she approached the gun counter.

  “Decided on something?” the clerk asked.

  “Ah’d like a .45, darlin’,” she said.

  “This for you, Chila?”

  “Are you still bald, darlin’?” He laughed so hard he couldn’t continue for a moment.

  “Well, that’s a pretty big gun for a little bitty woman like yourself. It might kick you back against the wall.”

  Chila smiled archly. “Ah’m not going to be shooting at mice, darlin’. Ah want to stop what Ah hit.”

  “Well, this .45’ll do it,” he said, taking a gun out of the case. “Make a hole big enough to walk a dog through.”

  “Ah’ll need a box of bullets, too, darlin’.”

  Samantha stripped down to her undergarments and washed with a small bar of peppermint castile soap she took from her valise. She dressed her hair as best she could, given the heat, then put on the clean undergarments and gown she’d just bought.

  Downstairs, she checked the register and saw that Steve Sheridan had not taken a room. She walked to the hotel dining room and looked in. He was seated at a table by the window.

  Samantha was torn. She wanted to talk with Sheridan, but she had the feeling that if she sat down to eat Mary Francis would not have another customer until she left. The clock over the registration counter said it was only four-thirty—early enough that Mary Francis could recover with the late crowd.

  Samantha walked into the dining room and angled toward Steve Sheridan’s table. He looked sleek and clean and richly masculine in a black frock coat and faultlessly tailored trousers. His shirt and cravat were silk, she noticed. That must have been his satchel behind Tristera’s horse.

  He looked up, saw her, and for one instant a light she’d seen in the eyes of other men shone in his eyes. It was quickly masked, but she had seen it. Satisfaction quickened her heartbeat.

  “Good evening.”

  He stood up and she caught the faint scent of bay rum. “Mrs. Forrester…”

  “I was wondering if I might join you for dinner?” It was bold of her, she knew, but Samantha had no patience with rules that served only to place obstacles in her path.

  His eyes gleamed with curiosity and amusement, but he pulled out a chair for her. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  Samantha picked up the menu and glanced over it. She chose the fried chicken, potatoes, and gravy. Mary Francis raised her own chickens and browned her gravy perfectly.

  “What are you doing in Arizona, Mr. Sheridan?”

  “Leaving as fast as I can.”

  “You must be a very bad carpenter.”

  Sheridan chuckled. “You have an interesting mind, Mrs. Forrester.”

  “You must have come here for some reason.”

  “Passing through.” Sheridan lifted his cup. Mary Francis walked over with the coffeepot.

  “How’s the coffee?” she asked.

  “A mite puny,” Sheridan said, grinning. “I like my coffee to kick up in the middle.”

  Mary Francis poured coffee into his cup. “A blamed Texan.” She walked away shaking her head.

  Sheridan’s grin caused an odd sensation in Samantha’s body. A sudden wave of heat warmed her belly, low down. Ignoring it as best she could, Samantha smiled and asked, “Headed for?”

  Sheridan lifted an eyebrow at her persistence. “Waco.”

  Samantha was fascinated by the almost sinister masculinity she sensed in him. His forehead was broad and high, his hair so black it looked blue in the light. Even Lance’s hair, which was considered black, had reddish highlights.

  Except for Lance and Chane, her two favorites in the world, she’d never seen another man quite like Steve Sheridan, so contained and direct—and yet somehow mocking and amused—as if he didn’t quite believe life was worth working up a sweat over. Yet when confronted he would engage and fight; he’d proven that this afternoon.

  She’d never seen a man with a cowlick in an eyebrow before, either. The hair swirled in the middle as if a dust devil had set down there.

  “Where did you come from?”

  His eyes filled with that slightly mocking gleam of light, as if he might not answer. Again she felt that odd sensation in her stomach. “San Francisco originally. I took Calico—my horse—off the train in Phoenix a few days ago to visit…ah…someone.”

  “I was in Phoenix last week. We just came from there.”

  “It’s a big town.”

  “What does Waco have that we don’t?”

  “Didn’t make the decision to go there on quite that basis,” he said, grinning and leaning back in his chair.

  “You’re a cynic, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “I allow myself that privilege. I’ve spent most of my twenty-eight years keeping myself safe from women and their intentions. I’m not willing to give up that habit.”

  “A bit melodramatic.” Samantha’s laughter turned to a frown. “Is this just to keep from answering my question?”

  “I’m going to Waco to build a house for a man threatening to pay me a lot of money.”

  “You really are a builder?”

  “You didn’t believe me?”

  “What kind of houses do you build?”

  “Generally, expensive houses for men with no taste. The one in Waco is different. He wants a limeston
e castle.”

  “Italian?” Samantha asked, thinking of the beautiful Italian castles she’d seen on her grand tour.

  Sheridan grinned; pure joy twinkled out of his silky khaki eyes. “German. A German Rhineland castle with a round turret.” He began to describe the floor plan.

  Samantha was thrilled by his enthusiasm. Speaking about the work he did, he became more animated. His ardor reminded her that it had been a long time since she’d had a conversation with a man excited by anything. Farmers and ranchers seemed to become one with the land they worked. They were more like stones than men. Steve Sheridan was dark and intense. She found him compelling…and a little frightening.

  “How wonderful that you like your work.”

  “He let me design it. Gave me carte blanche.”

  “So where did you learn to be a house builder?”

  “I served an apprenticeship with Frederick Allen Hughes.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Of course. Hughes designed some of the finest buildings in New York. We were introduced at a party at the Astor house. Why did you leave him?”

  “I’d learned all I could there.”

  “I need a house built.”

  Steve grinned. “Sure you do.”

  “I do. You should see what I’m living in.”

  “Well, this should only take a year or two, five at the most. If you still need one built when I’m done…”

  “So long?”

  “It’s a castle.”

  “I’m serious about hiring you.” Suddenly her need to build was overwhelming. “I hate the house I live in. It’s cold in the winter, hot in the summer, sand blows through the walls. Please reconsider?”

  “What kind of house?”

  “It needs to be cool in the summer.”

  “You’d need adobe. Thick adobe.”

  “And pretty on the inside…”

  “Oak walls, floors, and ceilings.”

  “And open so I can see the beautiful desert…”

  “With wide, deep-set windows.”

  “You’d do a wonderful job!”

  “You have a house,” he reminded her, grinning.

  “A terrible house. Nothing like what I need.”

  Steve didn’t think she was serious. She looked like a young woman flushed with the excitement of having someone to talk to. When the initial thrill wore off, she’d remember she couldn’t afford it and didn’t really need it.

  “I’m curious, Mr. Sheridan. May I ask what you charge to build a house?”

  “A thousand a month for me, plus a bonus on completion of ten percent of the cost of the building materials and laborers, which for a house like the Waco castle, if we take the limestone from the surrounding land, will come to between a quarter- and a half-million dollars.”

  “You’re hired.” Samantha said, decisively.

  “Better be careful. I might take you seriously.”

  “You look like you know women better than that, Mr. Sheridan. Are you afraid of me?” she asked, with unnerving directness.

  Her look sent a chill of foreboding down Steve’s spine. He was more accustomed to young women who fluttered their lashes and looked away demurely. “I was given a rule book as a young man. Rule number seven says there’re two things a man is supposed to be afraid of—a decent woman and being left afoot. I respect both.”

  Her dinner came. She ate slowly. Steve drank his coffee and toyed with the thought of wiring his partner in Waco and telling him to proceed without him. Then he dismissed it as fantasy. It felt good being pursued by a woman of Samantha Forrester’s beauty and intelligence. Her eyes were the color of a clear mountain lake, the prettiest he’d ever seen. He couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to honor him with her attention, but he couldn’t accept her proposal, no matter how tempting.

  “You’ve asked me questions. Now it’s my turn,” he said. “I’m surprised a respectable woman like yourself would be willing to protect an Indian girl wanted by the military. Why are you taking such a risk, a woman alone?”

  Samantha put down her fork and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I feel sorry for her. And I need help raising my son. Nicholas and I like her. I have certain resources. I don’t mind sharing them. And…I’m not exactly alone. I have a few employees.”

  “A few?”

  “A hundred and three.”

  Steve laughed. “You must have quite a spread.”

  “Fifty thousand acres. Most of the men are housed some distance away, but two dozen or so are near the ranch house, which is impossible to keep clean.”

  She stopped. She had just realized that perhaps the house was contributing to her son’s illness. Suddenly she felt certain that if they had a decent house, he’d get well.

  “You run cattle?”

  “Ten thousand head, most of them in the foothills. We’ve installed a few windmills, but if we’re going to survive, we need canals. I’m building them now, while labor costs are so low. But I think this recession will end in a few months and labor prices will skyrocket.”

  “You’re running it yourself?” he said, with obvious doubt in his expression.

  “I try not to interfere with Mr. Bush when it comes to handling the livestock, but I make the other decisions.”

  “Were you trained to take this on?”

  “I was raised in West Texas, but I went to school for three years in the East. I was lucky enough to have a teacher who realized that women might go West and that they needed to know more than how to embroider. I was a good student actually…” Except for mooning over Lance, who had no idea how crazed I was for him, it had been one of the happiest times of my life, poised on the edge of maturity, and yet still safe.

  Sheridan seemed to sense she had withdrawn into her own thoughts. He raised an eyebrow questioningly. Samantha noticed and smiled.

  “I told you all this, Mr. Sheridan, to convince you I’m serious about wanting you to build my house. I really do need a new one. And, I can easily afford to pay you.”

  “I’m curious. How did you get a fifty-thousand-acre ranch, one hundred and three cowboys,” he asked, his eyes lighting with amusement, “and the money for a new house—not just a house…a castle?”

  “My parents left me a great deal of money, more than I can spend in two or three lifetimes, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “Your father was a pirate?” he asked teasingly.

  His eyes seemed to caress her mouth. Samantha flushed. Heat stirred in her depths; it was a struggle to remember what he’d asked her. “My father,” she repeated, praying his question would be evoked by repeating the only words she remembered, “was the only son of an English duke. Along with the title, he inherited an estate and a fancy brothel and gambling establishment that catered to the very rich. I believe my grandfather, who drank too much port, died of syphilis contracted from too many visits to the family business.”

  Samantha couldn’t believe she was telling Steve these intimate family secrets, yet she couldn’t seem to stop. She was aware that her voice seemed lower and huskier, and she hoped he didn’t notice and think it had anything to do with him.

  “Though there was a family rumor that he was pushed out of a window by a serving maid who was tired of his sneaking into her bed every night. Or perhaps by his wife, who was probably even more tired of it.”

  Steve laughed.

  She asked questions about his childhood, and he found himself skirting the truth a little. He left out the part about being raised by Crows Walking and his sister, Uncheedah. Most white people, he’d discovered, feared and hated the Indians. They didn’t trust anyone who was too friendly with them—certainly not anyone raised by them.

  “So where did you go to school?”

  “San Francisco. I talked Hughes into taking me on as an apprentice. He didn’t want to. He said young men were ingrates, but he made me a deal. He said if I would do everything he asked me to do without question or complaint for one yea
r, he would teach me everything he could.” Steve shook his head ruefully. “Those were some of the hardest months of my life. I swept miles of floors, washed toilets three times a day, and walked in the rain to pick up and deliver packets of things I’m sure he had no use for whatsoever.”

  “A whole year he did this to you?”

  “Well, no…probably five months, but it seemed like a year. Once I convinced him that I meant business, he opened up to me and treated me like a son until he died.”

  Samantha smiled frequently as she listened to him. Silken lines etched long vertical dimples into her lovely cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with interest and open curiosity. Speaking in a soft, quick, cultured voice, she interjected whatever occurred to her without the least hesitation. If he weren’t already committed to building the house in Waco, Steve realized he would enjoy getting to know this woman. He might even give her many suitors a run for their money. Probably a good thing he couldn’t stay.

  They finished eating. Steve escorted her to the counter where Mary Francis waited, a smile on her face. Samantha opened her reticule.

  “Dinner’s on me,” Steve said, grinning.

  “No. You’ve done too much for us already.” She hesitated. “I’d love to take a walk, though. Would you walk with me?”

  “Sure. Where do you want to walk?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay.” Steve nodded and stepped out into the lobby as Mary Francis figured out what Samantha owed for the meals. Samantha added an extra twenty-dollar bill.

  “What’s this for?” Mary Francis asked, frowning.

  “You didn’t have another customer while I was here.”

  “Business gets slow at times,” Mary Francis said gruffly.

  “Well, I’ve seen this place full at the dinner hour. I don’t want you penalized for being my friend. Send up meals for Ramon, Nicholas, and Tristera, would you, please?”

  “I don’t feel right taking your money for something like that.”

  “Please don’t argue with me, Mary Francis. I’m a customer, remember?”

  “And a good one,” Mary Francis said, pocketing the twenty. “I’m so ashamed of this town. It’s a sorry thing when a sick young’un can’t ride in without grown men and women acting like horses’ behinds.”