Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  “Your party is already a big success,” Chane said, grinning down at her, twirling her to the waltz being played by the band from Chicago that had arrived barely an hour before the party was supposed to start.

  Chane wore a black frock coat, black trousers, and a white linen shirt. The black half mask covered his face from nose to forehead. But no one could mistake his wide, angular jaw, or determined mouth.

  Mrs. Lillian always said that Chane would be a hard man to change. Wherever he sits, that is the head of the table. Chane wasn’t belligerent the way some stubborn men were, but he was quietly and guilelessly immovable. He did not adjust to the family. The family adjusted to him.

  Relaxing in his arms, Samantha scanned the ballroom for Steve Sheridan. Dozens of couples danced around them. Leslie and Peter; the governor and his wife; dozens of her neighbors. She saw Captain Rathwick and ex-Captain Lawson, now working as assistant manager of the Cowdry Mine Company. Each danced with women Samantha knew. Outside, Steve’s workmen and their families were dancing beneath hanging lanterns to another musical quartet from Phoenix. Maybe Steve was outside.

  Just as she’d given up hope, she saw him in the black devil’s suit, dancing with Jennifer Kincaid.

  “Who’s the devil?” Chane asked, spotting him at the same time and turning her, so she could get a better look at him.

  “Devil?” Samantha flushed. So that’s what she’d designed. A devil mask. “Oh, it’s Steve. You know him.”

  Chane waltzed her closer to them. “If he keeps dancing with my wife, I expect shortly I’ll know him a lot better.”

  Samantha laughed. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “Have you looked at Jennie lately?” he asked gruffly. “She becomes more beautiful every day.”

  They danced in silence for a moment. Chane held Sam away from him and looked her over critically to be sure he hadn’t hurt her feelings, but her eyes sparkled with merriment. She was holding her own. And she was still one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, except for Jennie. Sam looked thinner than he’d remembered. Chane didn’t like to think he was too much like his father, but he could hear his father’s voice in his own head. I don’t see why the hell a beautiful woman like Samantha can’t settle for one of the fifty thousand or so eligible bachelors who’d give their left testicle for a chance to marry her.

  Jennifer thought she liked the man behind the mask, but she couldn’t be sure without seeing his eyes. She always judged men by their eyes, and this sturdy young devil was extremely well hidden back there. The light from Samantha’s enormous crystal chandelier gleamed off the shiny surface of the ceramic devil’s mask, further frustrating her efforts to pierce it.

  “Did you attend school in the East, Mr. Sheridan?”

  With her mask in place, Steve couldn’t tell if she was one of those Eastern snobs who thought a man had to graduate from one of those Episcopalian church schools, room on the Gold Coast, and be accepted by Boston society to be respectable.

  Jennifer felt the resistance in him. Nothing overt, just the tensing of muscles in his strong arms. “Forgive me if I sound like a snob, Mr. Sheridan…It’s just that this is such a magnificent house. I just assumed you did.”

  “No, ma’am. I served an apprenticeship.”

  “Well, you certainly learned your trade. The house is grand. I speak from a certain authority, as my husband is also a builder. He said it’s first rate. Coming from him, that’s quite a compliment.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kincaid.”

  His voice had a weighty timbre she liked—a rich, dark undertone that hinted at depth and masculine savagery. She had no idea how Samantha had resisted him, if she had.

  “How long have you been here? Building this house, I mean?”

  “Eight months.”

  “Heavens! That’s very fast.”

  He chuckled. “Mrs. Forrester was in a hurry.”

  Chane tapped Steve on the shoulder. “May I cut in?”

  Samantha’s feet ached from dancing. Steve had barely paid any attention to her. He’d danced with almost every woman at least once, Jennifer as many times as he could get her away from Chane, and herself not at all.

  She shouldn’t care what Steve Sheridan did, but her gaze followed his lithe form everywhere. He danced gracefully, and didn’t seem to know she existed.

  Finally she could stand it no longer. She intercepted him on his way to the punch bowl. Jennie, Chane, Leslie, and Peter all converged there at the same time.

  Steve ignored her and spoke with Jennie. And every time he did, Samantha’s heart ached as though there were a cold weight in her chest.

  In spite of the imploring look in Samantha’s eyes, he nodded his good-bye to her and her friends and strode across the room to leave. At the door he paused to let a couple pass in front of him.

  “Dance with me, Steve.”

  He turned at the sound of Tristera’s voice. In a white low-cut gown and with her auburn hair arranged artfully on top of her head, she looked older, more sophisticated, and definitely worth whatever trouble a man had to go to to win her. He looked around for Rathwick.

  “I thought you’d be dancing with your capitán.”

  “Humph!”

  He wanted to leave, but Tristera looked like she needed a friend. “You sure you can keep up with me?”

  “You dance all right, but you have a beeg head, Señor Sheridan.”

  He laughed. When Tristera acted Spanish, she acted very Spanish. “I like generosity in a woman.”

  Steve danced her past Captain Rathwick, in full military dress, dancing with Samantha, who flashed Steve a brooding glance that started his heart pounding.

  “He’s too old for her,” Tristera grumbled, tossing her head so hard Juana’s pins barely held her shiny curls in place. Her eyes followed the captain’s tall, military figure.

  Steve didn’t point out that Samantha was older than Tristera. He’d accepted sometime back that love was truly irrational.

  “Seems to me you’ve already made the conquest,” Steve said. “Rathwick hasn’t noticed anyone else tonight. He just hasn’t surrendered to it yet.”

  “He never will.”

  “I wouldn’t put money on it.”

  “Don’t try to give me hope, Steve. He would never fall in love with a woman not of his race.”

  The music stopped. Rathwick tried to concentrate on what Samantha Forrester was saying as he led her toward the punch bowl, but Steve Sheridan led Tristera Rodriguez to within a few feet of where he and Samantha stopped to sample the champagne. Tristera looked like a princess in her white silk gown, cut low in front and lower in back. Her dusky skin gleamed golden in the light of the sparkling chandelier. Her small, perfect breasts swelled above the gathered fabric, which seemed to cup them like two silky white hands. The light picked up the red glints in her hair. He’d never seen hair so shiny or so rich.

  “Well,” Rathwick said, glancing awkwardly from Tristera to Steve, “I have to say, I admire the job you did on this house.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tristera dipped a glass of punch and held it out to Sheridan. Then she dipped another and looked uncertainly at Rathwick. “Would you like…?”

  “I’d be delighted,” he blurted out, “if he’s not going to…”

  Sheridan’s lips twitched in a wry half smile. “Oh, no, thanks. One’s plenty for me,” he said, lifting his glass.

  Rathwick flushed with embarrassment. He’d thought Tristera was asking him to dance.

  “Excuse me. I thought…would you like to dance?” he asked, feeling like a fool.

  “Sí. Why not?” Tristera said, shrugging.

  The band struck up a waltz. Rathwick held out his arms; Tristera stepped into his embrace. The lights seemed brighter suddenly, the music more melodious. Her black patent slippers barely touched the floor.

  “You dance as lightly as a feather,” he said.

  Tristera leaned her head back and smiled up at him. He seemed taller up
close. His uniform smelled new. Her head only reached up to the top of his mouth. If she tilted her head up just so…

  Matthew Rathwick felt light-headed. Tristera’s closeness filled his body with energy. Her slim, wiry back under his hand felt sensuous and alive. Sweat broke out on his forehead; an ache started in his loins. Generally he was proud of his ability to discuss any subject and acquit himself with the best, but suddenly, with this wisp of a girl, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Slaughtered any wicked Indians lately?” she asked.

  Her derision saved him. “You might not think that’s so funny if they go back on the warpath. If Wovoka has his way, and his Ghost Dances make them any crazier than they already are…”

  “Not likely. Starving Indians don’t fight very long.”

  “Our government is far more generous with them than they would have been with us if the tables were turned. They are not starving.”

  “Not starving? Did the Indian agent who was supposed to steal their allotments get lost in the desert?”

  “Arden Chandler’s a good man…and, from what I’ve heard, well off. He has no reason to steal anything. Though in all truth I can’t say that about Genner Long at the Apache reservation.”

  “All Indian agents get rich, sooner or later. It is too hot in here,” she said, fanning her face with her hand.

  Rathwick danced her to the French doors opening onto the veranda. Outside, the air was crisp and cool. Fiddle music wafted from behind the house. Sounds of people dancing, laughing, and shouting attested to the enjoyment of those who preferred to dance outside. Jupiter gleamed brightly. Stars were so bright they looked almost touchable. A new moon hung low in the southern sky, casting its soft light on her slim shoulders.

  “Aiyee, this was a good idea,” said Tristera, twirling into the middle of the veranda, slim and provocative as her skirts billowed out around her shapely calves.

  She spun twice around the open balcony and stopped beside Rathwick, whose profile against the starry sky was strong and appealing. He turned slightly and looked into her eyes. A shiver of sensation rippled through her. She ached to touch his face, to feel the roughness of his ruddy skin, the stiff bristle of his mustache. It amazed her that she could feel so much attraction for him when she had felt none for the men of her tribe, except for that jackal Yellow Fox.

  “Tristera…”

  The air between them seemed to shimmer with heat and tension. Then her hand did the unthinkable; it reached up and touched his cheek, warm and slightly damp with perspiration. A quiver shook her. She wanted to draw her hand back, to pretend it hadn’t happened, but he lowered his head until his lips were within inches of her own.

  “Tris…tera…”

  She lifted her lips slightly, brushed his, and felt the heat of his kiss the length of her body. It wasn’t fair…if the Great Mystery wanted her to behave herself, He shouldn’t make it so hard.

  Rathwick’s hands closed around her waist and pulled her tight against him. Weakness and strength got confused in her. She surged upward, kissing him, hugging him, forgetting everything except how good he felt in her arms.

  He kissed her face, her mask, her hair.

  “Take this thing off,” he growled. Tristera slipped the mask off and dropped it. The tinkle of it breaking on the adobe porch reminded her it had been ceramic.

  “Oh, no!”

  “I’ll buy you another.” Rathwick lowered his head. “The taste of your skin drives me wild.”

  Beside them, the door opened. A man stepped outside, eased the door shut behind him, and leaned against the banister. Tristera opened her eyes. The man, possibly blinded from the brightness of the lights inside, faced her as if he didn’t see her.

  Tristera thought how embarrassed he would be when he realized his lack of courtesy. She felt certain no man would purposely walk in on two lovers. Almost before that thought was through her mind, she recognized him.

  “Oh, sorry,” he muttered. Tristera found herself staring into a face terrifying in its familiarity. A ripple of fear gripped her.

  Lawson opened the door to leave. The light from inside spilled out, illuminating the couple he’d accidentally stumbled upon, and he recognized Rathwick. Etiquette demanded he leave without acknowledging his ex-colleague, caught in less than politic circumstances. But something caused him to stop and peer into the face of the woman in Rathwick’s arms.

  He didn’t know her, but unmistakable recognition and fear leapt in her eyes. Lawson tried to break eye contact with the girl, but her expression held him there.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Lawson,” Rathwick said gruffly.

  Mortified, Lawson bowed from the waist and turned. “Pardon me, Captain. Carry on.”

  The door closed behind him. “That was uncalled for,” Rathwick whispered, pulling her back into his arms.

  Trembling so hard her legs shook, Tristera pushed Rathwick’s arms aside and walked to the adobe railing that surrounded the veranda.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away,” she whispered. Before he could stop her, she slipped over the railing, jumped four feet to the ground below, and ran toward the barn.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No!” she called over her shoulder.

  He thought she would return, but moments passed, and then he heard the clatter of hoofbeats against the hard-packed Earth. In the moonlight, a horse galloped from the barn, a small, feminine figure clinging to its back.

  Curious, he walked to the barn. Near the tack room, he found the beautiful white silk gown lying in the dirt. “I’ll be damned.”

  She was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Steve Sheridan relinquished his dance partner and headed for the door. Samantha picked up her skirts and ran after him.

  “Dance with me, Steve,” she said, trying to keep her tone light.

  His head turned slowly. The mask she’d made did not hide his anger or his disbelief. “Me?”

  “Yes…please.”

  She dazzled him so that nothing mattered suddenly but what she wanted. Reluctantly Steve offered her his arm. On the dance floor, she pressed her slim body against him, puzzling him even more. For weeks she had treated him like poison ivy, except for a few times when she needed something. Now in full view of her friends and family, she tried to seduce him.

  They danced in silence for a moment.

  “I thought Kincaid would be here tonight.”

  “So did I.”

  “So where is he?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He went to testify in his own divorce action. But I don’t know if he did or not. I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Are you happy now?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, lifting her chin.

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Well, of course I’m disappointed he couldn’t get here for the party…”

  “I didn’t just walk in the door, you know. I’ve been here awhile,” said Steve, his eyes sparkling with anger.

  “I am happy,” she insisted, amazed that her eyes would choose that unfortunate moment to mist with tears.

  Steve danced her close to the stairway and took her by the arm. “Where are you taking me?” she asked weakly.

  “I have to get out of this mask for a while.” He guided her forcefully up the stairs, onto the second-floor landing, and into the sun room. Then he closed the door behind her and ripped his mask aside.

  She reacted to his angry nearness with pounding heart. His dark hair gleamed in the shaft of light slanting into the room from outside, where strings of brightly colored lanterns hung between the trees. Her hands twitched with the urge to touch his handsome face, to feel the smoothness of his cheek and the small indentation where he’d been cut a long time ago.

  He looked into her eyes a moment, then sighed. “I guess this is as good a time as any to say good-bye,” he said, his voice gruff.

/>   “Good-bye?”

  “The house is finished. The party’s over. Unless you want me to just slip away without bothering you.”

  Anxiety caused pressure in her throat and around her heart. At times she realized she needed Steve, but she could never hold that thought, because needing him didn’t fit in her head just right. Her head still had room only for Lance. But her body…

  Suddenly Samantha felt weak and tired. She never should have had this party. It had been a terrible mistake.

  Steve looked past her, out the window, at the people who danced and laughed below. His firm, clenched jaw looked smooth in the pink glow of the lanterns. Samantha knew better than to touch him, but her hands seemed to do what they wanted tonight. With trembling fingers, she reached over, turned his face toward hers. His eyes flashed with anger.

  “What now? You want to seduce me, so your family can tell Lando and make him jealous?”

  “Do you have such a low opinion of me?” Her throat ached at the picture he painted of her. Bitterness swelled in her, and before she could even think, the hand that had ached to stroke his warm flesh drew back and hit him so hard the palm of her hand tingled.

  Steve captured her hands and pressed her back onto the window seat.

  “Let me go!”

  “Hush! Or you’ll have what you wanted, but with a bigger audience.”

  Samantha brought her knee up and opened her mouth to scream. Blocking her kick, Steve pinned her down and covered her mouth with his own. Samantha struggled, but Steve was heavier and stronger. Then because he couldn’t help himself, he kissed her until she stopped struggling.

  Finally he relinquished her lips and raised himself off her. In the dim light of the lanterns reflected off the ceiling, her face looked damp. Steve expected her to slap him, scratch him, or scream for help, but her hand slipped up and pulled his head down. Her warm, soft, wet mouth opened, amazing him with the strength and hunger he felt in her.

  Still furious, he caught her by the hair and twisted. Samantha’s body arched in protest, but her mouth only deepened the kiss. The swell of her breasts beckoned him. He slipped her gown off her shoulders and freed one round breast. Then he lowered his head and took its softness and sweetness into his mouth, groaning at the jolt of sensation that shot through him.