by Kari Bovee
Holding her hands in front of her in the darkness, she walked toward the bedroom door. Fumbling with the knob, she turned it and stepped forward, opening it, and ran headlong into a wall of skin and muscle. She screamed, and a hand clamped down on her mouth. Grace blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and saw Chet standing bare chested in front of her. He released her mouth and placed his hands on her arms, the heat of his palms burning her skin through the thin nightgown.
“Sorry.” He let go of her. “I didn’t want you to wake the other passengers. Are you okay?”
He stood so close she could feel his breath on her cheek and his chin brushing against her hair. “I was just going— You scared me.” Grace clutched at her stomach.
“I can see that. I’m sorry. Ladies first.” He motioned toward the bathroom.
“Thank you.”
She scurried into the bathroom, shut the door, and pulled the chain on the lamp. Grace stared at herself in the mirror and tried to steady the furious pounding of her heart. Leaning over the sink, she turned on the water, closed her eyes, and splashed her face, trying to cool her senses.
As frightened as she had been, Grace couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to kiss Chet. He’d been so close. The smell of him still lingered—musk and cinnamon. She had felt the weight of his hands on her body, his warm, masculine breath on her face and hair. She shook her head. A kiss could not happen.
Easing the door open, she saw Chet standing in the parlor, now clothed. She trembled as his gaze moved down her face, to her breasts, hips, legs, and then back up again. His gaze might as well have been his hands exploring her for the sensation it had produced. She had left the bathroom light on behind her and suddenly realized that the sheerness of her white gown had illuminated everything beneath it. She crossed her arms over herself and moved out of the light toward the bedroom door. As she opened it, she looked back over her shoulder and saw his eyes still lingering on her. There was a hunger in them that frightened and thrilled her at the same time.
For the first time, Grace fully understood men and women’s attraction for one another, the burning desire that consumed hearts and minds. For the first time, Grace was consumed by the desire to know a man.
Chet wet his face with the coldest water he could get from the little trickle of the tap and tried to forget the feel of Grace’s warm, soft body beneath her cotton shift. This cohabitation was agony. The smallness of her waist, the silkiness of her hair, and the realization that she hadn’t pulled away from him stirred his desire even more. How he had wanted to draw her fragile body into his arms and cover her with his mouth—taste her, smell her, touch her.
And he’d felt her desire, too. Before, he had doubted her interest because of her aloof behavior, but now he knew for certain the interest existed; she just feared it. Perhaps the petite Miss Michelle had never experienced the power of longing before. He, on the other hand, knew all too well the allure of lust.
He turned off the water and toweled his face. By early morning they would be in Albuquerque. That publicist buffoon, taking his job a little too seriously, had arranged a jam-packed day for Grace tomorrow. The memory of Grace wrapped in Green’s arms sent Chet’s blood pressure soaring. He’d seen her pull away from the man’s groping hands but hadn’t wanted to distress her by making any kind of a scene. Had she pulled away out of embarrassment, or had she thwarted Green’s advances? He hoped the latter. The greedy, womanizing bastard would simply use her and throw her away.
But Chet couldn’t get involved in her emotional life. How could he do his job objectively if his mind and heart became enmeshed with hers? He wouldn’t be able to see clearly, react quickly. His senses would be clouded by the distraction of her. He had to keep his wits about him at all times. For her safety, she would have to be off-limits. He’d have to forget any physical attraction or emotional connection, and keep things strictly business.
He ran a hand through his hair, remembering Marciano’s whelps who he’d seen on the train. His association with Marciano put Grace in even more danger, and he hated that fact. He had to make sure nothing happened to her.
Chet went back to the sofa, discarded his blankets, and attempted to sleep.
ALBUQUERQUE, NM
The next morning, Grace woke to a rapping at her door.
Seconds later, Lucile burst in. “What are you doing child? It’s nearly nine o’clock. They’re waiting for you.”
“I couldn’t sleep last night.” Grace tried to shake the fog of sleep from her head.
“Well, you must get up. We’ve arrived at the depot in Albuquerque. The hotel is right across the street. Your honorary brunch starts in one hour.” Lucile opened the wardrobe and rifled through it for Grace’s new outfit.
“It’s toward the far end,” Grace said, her mind beginning to clear. “I didn’t want it to get mussed.”
Lucile pulled the ensemble from the wardrobe and meticulously laid it out on the bed. Grace tried to focus, blinked several times, then yawned.
“I’ll fill the ewer with water so you can wash up,” Lucile said. “Quickly now.”
Lucile dashed for the ceramic basin and pitcher and fled to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she returned and set the items on the bureau. Grace climbed out of bed and began to wash. As the water refreshed her, she became more alert and alive, like a flower opening its petals. She reached for her chemise, took off her nightgown, and dressed while Lucile clucked around her like a mother hen.
“The outfit you envisioned is truly avant-garde,” she said, beaming. “I can’t remember the last time I wanted to stay up all night sewing. I felt young again. What a splendid idea! Once they see you in this, every woman will want to wear this very ensemble. It is so becoming on you.”
Grace trilled with pleasure. She could be a designer—and a good one—if only Flo wouldn’t push her into stardom.
“You are a genius, my girl, a genius!” Lucile stood back, admiring the garments. “Oh! Don’t forget the jacket. And here, look what I found to complement the look.” She scurried to a nearby trunk and pulled out a western-style hat and animal-print scarf. “Will Rogers loaned the hat to me for a fashion show once, and when I tried to return it, he told me to keep it. I thought it might come in handy, as we were heading to the west on this trip.”
“The scarf will lend a touch of the wild. You’ll be all the rage, darling.”
That will please Flo, Grace thought, frowning. She and the clothing would be looked at as objects, commodities. No one would know she was actually wearing her art, something she designed.
With a sigh, she braided her hair and let it fall down her back. After tipping the hat slightly askew on her head, she wrapped the scarf around her neck. She tied the ends with a loose slip knot.
Grace and Lucile emerged from the bedroom to be confronted by a tense wall of silence. Donovan Green sat on the sofa, and Chet stood near the doorway, both feigning ignorance of each other.
Donovan sprang to his feet, like a cat about to eat a goldfish, his face fresh and pink and full of awed excitement. “You look marvelous, my dear. Just perfect. They are going to love you.”
Grace glanced at Chet, whose face remained stony. The clandestine meeting last night in the hallway might as well have happened a hundred years ago. Grace stamped down the flutter in her stomach. She had to focus on what lay ahead of her today.
“Thank you, Mr. Green . . . Donovan. Shall we go?” She gently wrapped her fingers around Donovan’s arm, refusing to meet Chet’s eyes as the smug publicist escorted her to the cheering crowd.
Grace and her small troupe of people—Lucile, Nicole, Donovan, and Chet—entered the hotel to find it resplendent with the unusual decor and smells of the southwest. The dining room resembled an old Mexican cantina. The weathered, hand-laid brick floor, dotted with Navajo rugs woven to feature complicated angular designs, effused warmth. Electric lights fashioned into faux candles lit up the cowboy-rustic iron chandeliers, and the tables and chairs we
re made of tanned pigskin that was pulled tight over sinewy willow bark.
Waitresses bustled about in the famous white-on-black Harvey hotel uniforms. “Absolutely delightful,” Lucile said as the maître d’ led them to their table.
A portly man with a curved wax mustache and a monocle approached Grace. He held a cigar aloft in one hand. “Miss Michelle, so delighted you could join us. I’m Charles Wade, Mayor of Albuquerque.”
“Mayor Wade,” Donovan said, elbowing his way past Lucile and Chet. “The pleasure is ours.”
Grace gave him a look of disdain, beginning to understand Chet’s annoyance.
Mayor Wade nodded to Donovan but placed his hand at Grace’s elbow. “Please, come have a seat.” He led her to a chair and then motioned for the others to sit. Nicole deliberately chose a seat next to Chet, who pulled the chair out for her. Grace bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from looking sullen, but she graciously accepted the mayor’s assistance with her own chair.
Mayor Wade settled his bulk into the curve of his seat and leaned closer to her. He held the cigar in front of his face, inspecting it. “It’s not very often we receive a celebrity in our little town.”
Not sure what to say, Grace gave him a tight smile. Fortunately, four waitresses appeared at the table as if they’d been wished there by a magic wand. They held food-laden trays and began to serve the meal.
Mayor Wade held his arm out toward the food. “May I present Huevos Rancheros, refried beans, rice, and tortillas. Just some of the specialties of this part of the country.”
“It looks divine,” Lucile said, her eyes alight with eagerness. Grace glanced at Chet seated on the other side of Wade and then at Donovan at her elbow. Their animosity vibrated on either side of her, making her squirm.
“The cuisine is most unique.” Lucile grabbed for her glass. Her eyes watered, and she stifled a cough.
“You’ve noticed the green chili,” Donovan said. “The New Mexicans are quite liberal with the fruit. Most of it comes from the southern part of the state. The chilies are grown and cultivated with the greatest of care, and the spiciness of the chili is dependent upon the amount of rainfall per year. We’ve had a fairly good rainfall this year, so this chili is quite mild compared to the chili of other years. You are simply not used to it.”
Chet gave a great sigh as he wiped his mouth with one of the colorfully printed napkins. When Graced looked up and caught Nicole boldly staring at him, she clenched her jaw. The girl’s headaches apparently had abated.
“How is your meal?” Chet asked Nicole.
“Trés bon, merci. It’s not like food from my home. It creates a, um, how do you say—sensation in the mouth?” She laughed. “Do I say correctly?” the girl asked Chet in her pretty accent, accentuating it with a pout and batting her eyelashes. Grace’s stomach soured as Chet directed a gleaming smile back at Nicole.
A waiter brought a round of mimosas to the table. The delectable combination of orange juice and champagne tickled Grace’s nose, but unwilling to embarrass herself again, she pushed the drink away after two sips.
“Are you prepared for your speech?” Donovan whispered in her ear, laying a heavy hand on hers, its weight a bit too familiar for comfort.
In any other circumstance, she would have pulled away from his touch, but she decided to see if she could steer Chet from his isolated conversation with the French girl. She placed her other hand on top of Donovan’s. “I think so. You’ve been wonderful.”
His smile oozed over her like thick oil, making her feel like a Christmas goose.
Chet didn’t seem to notice their interplay, though, and before she could test the situation further, the mayor rose from his chair, announced Grace as their guest of honor, and introduced her to the other patrons. Polite applause broke out when she stood.
“Buenos dias! To the wonderful, warm people of New Mexico,” she said, raising her mimosa aloft.
After their meal, Mayor Wade led them outside to the dusty, bustling street. Another crowd awaited Grace there and cheered as she approached. A photographer and reporter stood nearby, as well. The loud pop of the camera flashes made her flinch, and her stomach fluttered as she looked out at the crowd that had gathered. A reporter, a small, skinny man who reminded her of a ferret, moved toward her.
“Miss Michelle, how do you do? I’m Spader, Sandy Spader.” He spoke rapidly, neglecting to wait for her response. “How has the trip been so far? Made many appearances? Had many marriage proposals? Ha, ha, ha! Tell me, what is it like coming out to this vast wasteland? A little different than New York, yes?”
“Well, I . . . um. . . .”
A man with a weathered face, dressed in loose-fitting suede pants, a cotton navy shirt, and gauzy headband wrapped thickly about his head, waved the reporter away. Despite the earthy hues of his clothing, he wore an elaborate silver necklace with large chunks of turquoise fashioned and smoothed into a blooming floral design.
Grace leaned toward Lucile. “Look at that necklace. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I understand that the Pueblo Indians are expert craftsmen and jewelers,” Lucile said. “It’s called a squash blossom.”
The man motioned to one of the young boys who lurked near the mercantile. He came out holding the reins of a beautiful golden horse. Tall, lean, and well-muscled, the horse had a rich, custard-colored hide and flowing, flaxen mane that glowed in the sun.
Grace pressed her gloved hands to her lips. “She’s magnificent.”
The Indian man bowed low to her. “She is my gift to you for the day.”
“I’ve never ridden a horse before.” Grace grew suddenly apprehensive, but she knew it would be rude to refuse, and she’d created her beautiful outfit for the occasion. “But I’d love to try.”
“She is a gentle mare.” The Indian man approached her, handing her the reins. “You must trust that she will take care of you, and she will. Just make sure no one comes up behind her. She startles easily.”
“Very well.” A shiver of fear rose up Grace’s spine, but the excitement was making her breathless. “What is her name?”
“Golden Ray of Light. I named her for her color; Palomino.”
“It’s perfect,” Grace said, stroking the nose and head of the mare.
“We have horses for all in your party,” the Indian said, addressing the rest of Grace’s entourage. “All who wish to go to the orphanage, I will serve as your guide. My name is Frank Deerhunter, but you can call me Deerhunter.”
The mayor and the guide motioned for the horses to be brought out to the group, and several young boys emerged with the animals and waited for Deerhunter to tell them which horses went with which people. Lucile declined the invitation to ride, stating that she and Nicole had much work to finish.
Deerhunter returned his attention to Grace once again. “Another gift for the day,” he said as a tall Indian youth walked toward them carrying a beautifully tooled Western saddle. “My other prized possession.” He tossed a colorful blanket over the horse’s back, and the youth placed the saddle on top of it. “Most of the young men still prefer to ride bareback, but my bones have grown too brittle. This saddle was made by a Mexican leather craftsman and silversmith—a friend of mine—and I use the saddle with pride.” He tightened the cinch around the horse’s girth.
Grace marveled at the ornate silver decorating the horn, stirrups, and the skirt of the saddle. “Thank you for the honor,” she said, awestruck at the man’s kindness.
“Are you ready?” Deerhunter asked.
Grace nodded, eager to climb astride, and accepted the man’s help mounting the golden-dappled mare. He held onto the horse’s reins and helped Grace place her foot into the silver decorated stirrup. Instinctively, she swung her other leg over the horse’s back. When her foot found the stirrup, she instantly sensed the feeling of power beneath her.
“Remember. Trust,” Deerhunter said.
Chet mounted a tall, dark brown horse with a jet-black mane an
d tail with ease. He looked natural in the saddle, as if he had been born to ride. She couldn’t help but admire his handsome frame atop the majestic horse. The two looked like something out of a fancy picture book.
Deerhunter offered Donovan a beautiful chestnut mare with a coat that shimmered copper in the late-morning sun, but he put a hand up in hesitation.
“You’re not going?” Grace asked.
He shook his head.
“Oh, come on, Donovan,” Chet said, a devilish grin on his face. “It’s good for publicity. Don’t worry, you won’t dirty your suit.”
Donovan turned red in the face and then covered his obvious embarrassment with a chuckle. “So it is, my friend. And that’s what I’m here for.”
“You keep forgetting—” Chet’s smile tightened “—I’m not your friend.”
Grace wanted to chide Chet for his rudeness but was too excited about riding to care.
Deerhunter approached Donovan with the chestnut mare. The publicist’s self-righteous smile faded, and his face clouded over like thunder before the rain.
The older man helped Donovan mount his horse. Once in the saddle, Donovan clutched the saddle horn. He looked stiff and tense, and ridiculously silly. Grace stifled a giggle as the horse pranced beneath him, draining Donovan’s face of color.
“You must relax,” Deerhunter said. “She senses your fear.”
With a look of concentration on his face, Donovan loosened his grip on the saddle horn and accepted the reins the Indian offered him.
“Ah, nothing to it,” Donovan said as if to assure himself.
The photographer and reporter loaded the camera into a small hitched wagon to follow behind.
Deerhunter mounted a regal, fiery, gray stallion and led the excited and anxious party down the dirt road and out into the colorful landscape of the New Mexican desert.
Chapter Sixteen
