by Donna Cooner
Flowers, even in winter, grew in abundance around the wide porch and the length of the house. Far to the left of it she could see endless fields, and those fields seemed to be in different shades, as if they provided for different crops. It was simply magnificent, and she found herself staring at it, wondering how it could exist in a land that had hitherto appeared to be nothing more than swamp and jungle.
“Cimarron,” Jarrett said, suddenly at her side.
“Cimarron?”
“It’s what we call it.”
“Cimarron,” she murmured, repeating the name once again. It seemed to roll on her tongue, as beautiful as the house. Then she remembered he had once told her the word was Spanish for renegade or runaway.
And white men had twisted it into the word Seminole.
Jarrett McKenzie, she was certain, had never run from anything. But she had. She had come to this house, a startling Eden within the savage land. Perhaps she belonged. She was definitely a runaway herself.
“Making your arrival as mistress of the place in your nightgown?”
She spun around at her husband’s question. He was well dressed himself this morning in a white shirt, crimson waistcoat, and ebony frock coat and breeches. His black hair was slicked back—his black eyes appeared almost diabolical as he gazed at her, challenging her once again.
“Surely Lisa would never have done so!” she heard herself say, and she was stunned and horrified by her own words, but it seemed he had mocked her, and though she had not wanted to do so, she had lashed back in return. It happened all too easily. She wished that she had not spoken. She couldn’t take back the words that seemed to linger painfully on the air.
“No,” he said softly. “She would not have done so.”
“If you loved her so much,” Tara said, very softly now, ruing her words again even as she spoke, “why did you marry me?”
He swore, a muttering beneath his breath that she didn’t quite catch. His eyes seemed darker than ever, obsidian, and as black as stone. “Well, we had barely met, my pet, so I can hardly claim great devotion. We both know why we married.”
“But if you loved her so much—”
“For the love of God! What is this foolish argument now? Indeed I loved her. She is gone. And the entire household is about to meet the new mistress of Cimarron clad in a nightgown!”
“No, McKenzie,” she said coolly, “they’ll not meet me so. And you’ll never have cause to bemoan my appearance or manner, I do assure you.”
“Then, madam, I stand assured!”
He’d find no more reason to taunt or mock her, she swore, hurt and seething inwardly.
She swiftly spun on a heel and turned back into the master’s cabin, slamming the door. She thought that he would throw the door back open and follow her just to inform her that she was not allowed to do such things, but he did not. She heard his soft, husky laughter as he walked away from the door, and though it stung her, she also thought that there was a sound of bitterness to that laughter, and her heart began to ache.
She dressed quickly, sorry that she had not finished with any of her own creations and that she must come to the house clad in clothing that had belonged to the mistress who had once reigned here. She found that her fingers trembled as she dressed. She had to forget those words, had to cease thinking about Lisa!
That didn’t help. She still was trembling. She had realized that Jarrett was affluent, but she had not imagined anything quite as magnificent as her new home.
What a pity it lay so deep in the heartland of so savage a territory!
Her heart suddenly pounded fiercely. And yet, it was a place to run to. And she had done so. And she could only pray that she had run far enough, deep enough, and that the savage land she so feared could protect her.
And the man. The man who loved Lisa. She closed her eyes. The man who had married her. Taken her here.
If he should learn the truth?
Don’t think! she warned herself again. She had sworn to be perfect in appearance and manner. She musn’t fall prey to her thoughts.
Dressed, she quickly brushed her hair and swept it into a neat knot, determined that she wouldn’t falter a second in coming to Jarrett’s household.
When she stepped out of the cabin again, she was elegant in a golden day dress with a mustard underskirt and parasol to match. Her hands were gloved in white, and her feet were covered in the elegant little mustard shoes that matched the dress. They were a touch short and more than a touch tight, but Tara was not going to think about it at the moment.
Jarrett stood upon the dock. As she hurried along the ship’s length to the steps and plank, he was in deep conversation with a very tall, slim man with nearly white hair and very blue eyes. Behind him, in stark contrast, was one of the darkest men she had ever seen, equally tall, regal looking. She wondered if he was a slave—if Jarrett owned slaves—and somehow she doubted that this man could be any other man’s property.
“Ah, gentlemen! My wife!” Jarrett said, striding back to the plank and steps to help her up onto the dock. “Tara, Jeeves,” he said, introducing the black man first. “He runs the house, while Rutger is in charge of many holdings.”
“How do you do?” Tara murmured, inclining her head to each man. She gazed up to find them both studying her with curiosity and interest. Neither one, it seemed, meant to pretend that her arrival was anything but a surprise.
“Mrs. McKenzie!” Rutger said, her name slightly accented. He bowed very stiffly, but Jeeves lowered his head and bowed, too, the movement much more fluid.
“Jeeves will take you to the house,” Jarrett told her, dismissing her cleanly with his words. Perhaps he realized how curt they sounded, and yet Tara wondered why he should feel obliged to make any pretense concerning her. Still, he added, “I have business with Rutger, and will be along shortly. Jeeves, see that Molly gives Mrs. McKenzie tea or coffee, and I would prefer you wait until I return to show Tara around the house.”
“As you say, sir!” Jeeves told him, and, with a brilliant smile, touched Tara’s shoulder and led her over the stone path that went down the sloping lawn from the house to the dock.
Tara was silent as she approached the house, gazing up at it. It grew bigger as she approached it, a truly beautiful creation with the elegant length of the balcony stretching across the rear of the house. An abundance of green vines curled up the columns and trailed around the wrought iron of the balcony.
“It’s the most magnificent manor in all the territory!” Jeeves said with soft-spoken and very dignified pride.
“I can well imagine,” she murmured.
“Mr. McKenzie spent over a decade building it. Indeed, ma’am, he is always at work on the place.”
She arched a brow to him and smiled. “Were you here with Mr. McKenzie as the house was built?”
Jeeves smiled. “Indeed, ma’am, I was.”
His diction was perfect, as if he had been educated in the finest schools.
“There are twenty-three rooms, Mrs. McKenzie,” Jeeves informed her. “Much to manage, and I am delighted that Mr. McKenzie has brought us home a bride to do so.”
“Thank you,” Tara murmured, and she found herself staring at Jeeves and his fathomless eyes and wondering if he was speaking the truth.
“The house,” Jeeves said.
She walked up the back steps to the sweeping porch. Jeeves quickly preceded her to double doors that led to a large breezeway when he opened them. The house had been built in a style that was common to their time, one that easily adapted to the changes in the weather, with massive doors at front and rear to open to the cool breezes that could sweep away summer’s heat, or close to keep out winter’s chill.
The hallway was beautifully furnished with brocaded chairs, settees, planters, and small cherrywood tables on either side. Six doors opened from it, three on each side. Jeeves explained quickly that they led to the parlor, the main dining room, the breakfast room, the library, the office, and the ladies’ s
itting room. The kitchen was the first of the outbuildings. The second floor held the master bedroom and sitting room, three children’s rooms, a nursery, and three guest rooms. The servants’ quarters were on the floor above. Jeeves told her about the house, but showed her nothing except for the breakfast room, bringing her there where she was quickly introduced to Molly, a young Irish girl who was a downstairs maid. Molly brought Tara coffee and soda bread. Once Tara had been served, Molly bobbed her way out, and Jeeves politely bowed and assured her that Mr. McKenzie would be back soon, and if she needed anything before then, she had only to ask.
Tara drank her coffee but found she had little appetite. She prowled the room restlessly, admiring the many beautiful pieces in it. It was a pretty place, filled with light, with windows that opened to the front of the house, showing a great deal of lawn and sunshine.
An hour passed. Tara knew how much time had been going by because she had been staring at the handsome clock on the sideboard as the minutes ticked away.
She fought the rise of her temper. She wasn’t angry that he had things to do that he deemed more important than showing her around. She was thoroughly irritated that he had not allowed someone else to do so and had left her to merely sit for so long.
Still, she waited. But when another hour had passed, she leapt up quite suddenly and exited the breakfast room. She hesitated a moment. She didn’t want to get Jeeves in trouble, so she determined not to explore the house. She stepped out the front and walked around to the side of the house, noting that a huge stable lay just off toward the fields. She longed to see what kind of horses her husband kept, and she hurried toward it.
She started into the building and then nearly leapt a foot when someone appeared out of its shadows. She heard a confused and strangled “Ma’am?” and shaded her eyes from the sun to study the person. He seemed to be about fifteen, and the sight of him made her heart pound like thunder. She was certain he had Indian blood in him.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“I—” she began, fighting for words. His English was fine; he didn’t look as if he was about to hurt her. “I—I’m Mrs. McKenzie,” she said rather lamely at last.
It was the boy’s turn to look frightened. “Mrs. McKenzie is dead,” he told her.
“I’m the new Mrs. McKenzie,” she said. And after a moment, “And you are—?”
The boy hesitated just a moment. “Peter, ma’am. I feed the horses.”
“Well, Peter, may I see them?”
“Of course, of course!” The boy scrambled ahead of her. There were numerous stalls, well tended. The smell of clean fresh hay permeated the place, stronger than the natural animal smells. The hard earth floor was clean-swept as well, and Tara thought that her husband managed to run his plantation very competently—especially for a man who also seemed to sail at whim.
She managed to forget her husband in a few minutes, for Peter knew the horses, loved them, and eagerly told her about each. Inside the house she had been watching the time crawl. Out here she forgot it entirely, as well as her initial fright at Peter’s Indian blood.
Indeed, even her fright at the entire concept of her new home.
She didn’t know how much time passed, but she should have realized that it was a great deal, for the sun was waning when she heard her name shouted. At a distance first, then closer.
“Mr. McKenzie!” Peter said, his dark eyes growing wide.
Tara instinctively came running out of the stables. It was all but dark, she realized with dismay.
And there was Jarrett, his frock coat shed, his hands on his hips, his eyes as black as coal and wild as they fell upon her.
There was no pretense of his being a caring and tender husband as he strode toward her. “Where the damned hell have you been?” he roared. “I’ve been looking for you for hours!”
“Well, I waited for hours!” she cried back, hands on her hips as well, returning his stare. Her voice, however, wavered slightly. Suddenly the threat of the Indians seemed to fade a bit, and she wondered if she was to spend her life doing battle with her husband. But she lifted her chin a shade higher—she owed him no apologies. He had accused her of being timid—she would certainly not back down from any arguments with him.
Especially when she was right!
“You had me scared half out of my wits!” he lashed out.
She was painfully aware that anyone within the vicinity could hear them. Still, she couldn’t control her reply. “You were frightened? Of what? I am in no danger here, so you have assured me!”
His jaw clenched down hard. “Maybe,” he said very softly, “I was afraid you had decided to escape—and then, madam, you would have been in grave danger indeed.”
“That’s right—I’d have been away from your very strange immunity!” she countered.
“Don’t ever think of leaving the immediate grounds!” he warned her.
She started to reply, but she realized that Robert was now standing on the porch, with Jeeves beside him. “Jarrett!” Robert called out. “Jeeves has informed me that Hattie has made her venison stew. And that when the master is ready, it shall be served.”
Jarrett kept his eyes on his wife. “Then it shall be served!” he said softly, spun around, and started for the house. Humiliated, Tara lifted her head and followed him with quiet dignity, offering a beautiful smile to both Robert and Jeeves as she approached them.
Robert took her arm when she reached the porch. “You really must be more careful. Jarrett was beside himself as we searched for you.”
She glanced at Jarrett, but the dark, forbidding frown on his face seemed to assure her that he had been far more annoyed than concerned.
She decided to ignore him, speaking with Robert. She commented on the house as they went in to dinner. She asked Jeeves if she might meet Hattie, the cook, and she did so. Jeeves served wine in the huge dining room while Hattie and Molly served the meal: fresh greens—in the midst of winter—and Hattie’s famous venison stew.
“Robert, do you—stay here when you are all—home?” she asked. She didn’t realize how hopeful her words were going to sound until they were out. Surely she had managed to annoy her husband even more. But then, it seemed that since he had come so determinedly to her rescue in New Orleans, she hadn’t been able to do much to please him.
No, she admitted miserably. Things had really gone awry when he had realized that she would rather run from him than settle here.
“I’m so sorry, my love,” Jarrett replied for Robert. “Mr. Treat owns property just down the river.”
“Mine borders this one, so I am not so far!” Robert assured her. Jarrett was silent.
Hattie served a peach pie made from her special recipe, and coffee with rich cream.
“Will you gentlemen be taking brandy in the library, sir?” Jeeves asked, clearing his throat. “I’ve sherry, Mrs. McKenzie, in the ladies’ room.”
Sherry would do, but Tara really longed to take a huge swig straight from the whiskey bottle. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap.
It seemed that her husband didn’t intend her to enjoy any libation. He stood, offering her one of his black stares and an outstretched hand. “Robert, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I’ll join you in the library for brandy and cigars. Tara is surely exhausted. I’ll show her up.”
“But I thought I was to see the house.”
“Tomorrow,” he said curtly.
“I would really enjoy a sherry.”
“Jeeves will bring one up,” he told her.
She rose, her teeth gritting furiously. She managed to offer Robert another brilliant smile and blink back a sudden rush of threatened tears.
“Good night, Tara. You will love it here, in time,” Robert promised her.
She couldn’t reply. She kissed his cheek and turned quickly, fleeing the room. But her husband was right behind her, catching her arm. He led her to the grand and elegant staircase that curved its way to the shadows above. She walked
stiffly, not saying a word, until they reached a door on the second floor and he pushed it open.
A lamp flickered against the darkness to display a huge room with every luxury. The bed was massive, with a cherrywood headboard, side tables, and trunk. Wardrobes, his and hers, sat on either side of the room. A hearth ran half the length of it. Fine carpeting lay in the midst of the hardwood floors, adding warmth to the room.
Still, she hesitated. It was the master’s bedroom. There was nothing at all feminine about it at the moment. A ledger lay upon the desk that stood before the windows opening on one of the balconies. The knit covering upon the bed was dark. A razor and cup sat next to the deep washbowl and pitcher.
The room was warm. The man behind her still seemed like fire and ice, ready to throttle her one moment and walk dismissively away the next.
“There are numerous rooms in the house.…” she heard herself begin.
“Meaning?” he demanded sharply.
“Perhaps—perhaps I should have my own.”
She didn’t look at him, but she could still feel him close behind her, and it felt as if his temperature had suddenly soared. She hurried in ahead of him, spinning around quickly to accost him. “You didn’t really intend to marry me, and at the moment it does seem that we have a wretched relationship.”
“No matter what kind of relationship we have, you are my wife, and you will sleep in this room.”
“So you think that you will give me orders!” she charged him, dismally aware that her own temper was rising—and that her wretched jealousy was about to show. “Tell me where to sleep, while you—”
