Alli tilted her head. “Well, there is a bit of the rogue in the boy, no question about that, but you have nothing to worry about, I assure you. He and Patricia Hamilton have been very cozy lately, and she’ll be here tonight. I hope you don’t mind, but my best friend Lydia Hamilton is sweet on Blake, so I invited her as well as her sister Patricia.” Her nose bunched. “Not all that crazy about Trish as she tends to monopolize Jamie, but Senator Hamilton has this crazy rule—you invite Liddy, you invite her sister. So you see—you should be able to relax and make new friends without fear of anyone ‘sparking’ you.” Alli bobbled the pillow with a smirk before aiming it back. “That is . . . if you still know how after keeping company with horses and pigs.”
“Leave Mark out of this,” Cassie said with an evil grin. Alli’s pillow pelted the side of her head and she giggled, memories of pillow fights and slumber parties thickening the walls of her throat. Her cousins McClare were the only family she’d ever really known except for Mama and Daddy, and goodness, Alli, Meg, and Maddie were far more like sisters. Ostracized by the snooty Humble elite for her eccentric ways, Cassie had lived for summers in San Francisco or trips to Europe, precious moments with family that always made her feel like she’d come home.
Home. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away. The perfect place to heal.
“Wait—are you crying?” All jest faded from Alli’s face as she hurried to where Cassie sat on the bed. Sidling in, she tucked her head to Cassie’s, an arm cradling her back. “Gosh, I’m sorry about Theodore, but I was just jealous ’cause Peter Rutherford liked you better than me.”
Cassie’s smile swerved. “I had sore feet and a sick stomach for days, not to mention a head cold after Norman Godfrey cornered me in the billiard room.”
“Oops. But I apologized, remember?” Alli said with a sincere dip of brows.
“Only after Peter Rutherford invited you to visit his parents’ Napa vineyard.”
“Oh, double boo, that’s right.” She grated her lip, then glanced up with a conciliatory smile. “But actually, Cass, I did you a favor. Peter gave me a personal tour of the wine cellar, and trust me, it left a sour taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the grapes.”
Cassie’s jaw dropped. “You never told me that!”
Alli bumped her shoulder with a sheepish smile. “Couldn’t—I was too embarrassed.”
“Well, serves you right, you little brat.” Cassie pinched her waist. “But so help me, Al, if either of these two clowns corner me in the billiard room tonight, I’ll be showing you ‘sour.’ ”
Allison lunged away, giggles bouncing off the walls as she sashayed to the door. She turned in a dramatic pose, hand on the knob. “Or thank me,” she said with a dance of her brows. “Because trust me—these two make Mark Chancellor look like the rump of your prize filly.”
A deep-down chuckle rolled from Cassie’s lips, the first real laugh she’d had in way too long. Alli winked and closed the door, leaving Cassie with an image of Mark she could live with.
That of a horse’s behind.
3
Studying herself in the mirror, Cassie sighed. Or tried to—the confounded corset wasn’t making it easy. She tugged up on the filmy off-shoulder sleeves of the taffeta gown and wished it didn’t expose so much of her pale skin. Especially given the hint of tan on her face from working outdoors on the ranch, dusting her nose and cheeks with too many freckles to count. But it couldn’t be helped, she supposed, especially since Alli had piled her hair loosely on her head in a full chignon that accentuated the long curve of her neck. Another sigh attempted escape. At least Alli’s face powder worked wonders in toning Cassie’s freckles and tan. She had to admit the wispy flaxen curls feathering her head and throat lent an ethereal air that made her feel graceful and beautiful for the first time since Mark had broken their engagement. From that night, Cassie refused to pretty up for anyone, wearing nothing but jeans and buckskin skirts except for the tailored suits and skirts she was forced to wear to church. But as her mother had so painfully pointed out, her cousins’ Nob Hill home in the big city was not some cattle ranch in East Texas, and the comfort of leather and denim would no longer suffice.
“Just forget about Mark and enjoy being a girl again,” Virginia McClare had begged, ever worried that her only daughter would end up an embittered tomboy. Cassie smoothed shaky hands down a full bodice to her tightly cinched waist, palms gliding over slim hips that spilled into a trumpet-shaped gown. Enjoy herself? In a corset? Her full lips twitched. May as well be a noose. She peeked at the clock on the vanity, then blew out a gust of air that fluttered the delicate tendrils at the side of her face. “Thunderation, I’m late!” she muttered to the Gibson Girl in the mirror. “Sweet mother of pearl, why did I take a nap?”
“Because you were exhausted from days on a train?”
Cassie spun around and grinned, the sight of her younger cousin Meg swelling her heart. “Meg!” She shot forward to give her a hug that made her giggle. “Let me look at you!” Cassie said, studying the shy and plump sixteen-year-old who’d always excelled in academics rather than social graces. A redhead like her mother, Meg had more of a pale strawberry blonde shade that washed out fair skin infused with freckles. A wide grin offered glints of gold in wire braces the dentist assured would work magic on Meg’s crooked smile. From early on, Allison had been the beauty and Meg the gentle wallflower who preferred to fade into the shadows where she could adore her older sister and cousin from afar. Cassie’s throat ached at the awful pranks and teasing Meg endured in school—just like Cassie—and she hugged her again. “You’re getting to be a lady, Miss Megan McClare, and soon to be a beauty like your sister.”
Megan ducked her head in a shy manner, a twinkle dancing in eyes more vibrant green than Cassie had ever seen, even behind gold wire-rimmed glasses. “Aw, Cass, you know I’ll never be pretty like Alli and you, but that’s okay—lawyers don’t have to be pretty, just smart.”
Tugging on a waist-long lock of her hair, Cassie pursed her lips in a parental manner. “There’s nothing wrong with being both smart and pretty, young lady, now is there?”
“I guess not,” Meg said with half-giggle, half-sigh, “but let’s not hold our breath, okay?” She fingered the sheer sleeve of Cassie’s dress with a look of awe. “You’ve grown up, too, Cass—you’re a vision in that dress.” Her smile went flat. “Which proves quite neatly that Mark Chancellor is an idiot.”
“That seems to be the general consensus,” Cassie said with a crooked smile. She tucked a hand to her cousin’s waist. “Are Aunt Cait and Alli downstairs?”
“They are, and Mother’s dying to see you since you were napping when we came home, but Uncle Logan waylaid her in the foyer, so she sent me up to fetch you instead.”
“Waylaid her?” Cassie grinned as the two made their way down the plush carpeted hall toward the curved staircase, arm in arm. “So Uncle Logan’s still smitten, is he?”
Meg giggled, skittering the gleaming mahogany steps that swept down the far side of the foyer. Color-rich oil paintings graced cream satin-style papered walls, descending along with rose-carpeted steps. “More than ever, but whenever Alli or I mention Uncle Logan’s obvious affection for her, she simply says he’s her brother-in-law and friend and nothing more. Claims Daddy was the love of her life and she’s found contentment as a widow.” Meg peeked at Cassie beneath thick lashes, a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes. “But you know Uncle Logan—he never gives up. Comes for dinner once a week and Mother lets him because she thinks we need a male influence in our lives.” All but hopping from the last step, Meg whirled around with a sparkle of tease. “Although I’m not sure Mother thinks Uncle Logan is the proper influence to have.”
Cassie chuckled. “Proper influence, no, but a doting uncle who loves his family?” She tweaked Meg’s waist. “He’s certainly got Aunt Cait there.”
Her smile softened when she entered the parlour, and for Cassie, it was a step back in time. A summer breeze dr
ifted through a tall bay window, carrying a distinct whiff of eucalyptus from Aunt Cait’s garden and the crisp scent of the sea. For a brief moment, Cassie paused to savor the pungent smell of lemon oil on cherrywood furniture buffed to a gleam and the familiar fragrance of Aunt Cait’s perfume—a calming mix of lavender with a tease of spicy clove. Floor-to-ceiling sheers fluttered against windows onto Powell Street where the clang of the trolley and the whir of the cables could be heard. True to her name, the family parrot, Miss Behave, would emit the occasional squawk or insult, tutored, no doubt, by Blake or Uncle Logan. The sights, the smells, the sounds of family flooded Cassie’s senses with wonderful memories of piano sing-alongs, Uncle Logan’s candlelight ghost stories, and games of hide-and-seek in a narrow three-story mansion on Nob Hill.
“Cassie!” Her five-year-old cousin Maddie hopped off Uncle Logan’s lap in front of the hearth where he and Aunt Cait playfully squabbled over cribbage. “I missed you!” she said, bounding forward, auburn curls springing while her giggles sprang off satin-striped walls of champagne-colored wallpaper.
“Awk, awk, Cassie’s a brat, Cassie’s a brat.” Miss B.’s greeting, tutored by Blake long ago, coaxed a grin that took her back to better times. With an unladylike grunt that belied the dignity of her dress, she hefted the little girl in her arms, and the sweet smell of talcum powder and Pear’s soap tickled her nose. “Ohhhh, I missed you, too, Madeline McClare,” she said in a gravelly voice that made her cousin giggle. “Especially games of Marco Polo at Sutro Baths!”
“Cassie . . .” Aunt Cait rose in one graceful movement, eyes glimmering with moisture, and Cassie’s throat thickened at the sight of the woman who came nearly as close to a mother as Cassie’s own. She hurried over, face aglow with affection for her only niece, and Cassie marveled at the natural beauty of Caitlyn McClare. At the age of forty-three, her aunt could almost pass for Alli’s older sister. Deep auburn hair piled loosely atop her head like Cassie’s own displayed not a hint of gray, its soft and lustrous curls a perfect frame for a classic oval face with luminous aquamarine eyes. Full lips tilted into a welcome smile while a delicate blush accentuated the creamy skin of a woman who was aging well. Her lavender gauzy dress caressed her graceful five-foot-eight frame like a whisper, almost lending a floating effect as she glided into her niece’s arms. “Congratulations on your graduation—your parents must be so proud.” Her full lips pursed in a mock scowl. “But two summers in a row is entirely too long to stay away, young lady, so I demand you come every summer henceforth, do you hear?”
Cassie laughed, and the sound buoyed her with a swell of joy that even the corset couldn’t restrict. “I agree, Aunt Cait, and you have my word that all future summers will be spent in San Francisco.” She offered a sheepish grin as she shifted Maddie in her arms, pressing a kiss to her little cousin’s cheek. “And longer, if it’s not any trouble . . .”
“Oh, pshaw! As if my favorite niece could be any trouble—”
“Your only niece, Mrs. McClare.” Uncle Logan strolled forward with a rogue of a smile, distinguished in his white bow tie and black dinner jacket. He scooped both Cassie and Maddie in his arms at the same time, the lovely smell of lime shaving soap and a trace of wood spice from his occasional Turkish cigarette swooping her back to her childhood. At forty-five, he was a wealthy bachelor about town that many a society matron attempted to corral for their daughters, but to no avail. A lawyer who dabbled in politics, Logan McClare was a man who afforded himself the company of many women rather than just one, although Cassie suspected that would change at the mere consent of Aunt Cait. He set her back on her feet with that easy, fluid grin that wreaked havoc with the female pulse and cocked a dark brow that matched sable hair with a hint of silver. “But let’s not be hasty. Perhaps we should consider a few things before you agree. For instance, I don’t have to let you win at arm wrestling anymore, do I?”
Maddie giggled and hooked her uncle’s neck, scrambling from Cassie’s arms into his.
“Absolutely not!” Aunt Cait chuckled, looping Cassie’s waist to steal her away. “No more of your hooligan games, Logan McClare—these girls are sophisticated young women now.”
“Well, Cass is anyway.” Blake McClare tweaked Alli’s neck on his way to give Cassie a hug. A younger version of his uncle, Blake had the same clear gray eyes as Logan, bottomless pools of tease for those they loved, which could easily ice into anger if given just cause. And, like his uncle, a cleft in his chin that always darkened with beard by the end of the day. From there on, he was his mother’s son, deep auburn hair and a slight build, his height a head short of his uncle’s towering six two. He held Cassie at arm’s length and whistled. “Gosh, squirt, if this is how they grow ’em in Texas, you should have brought a friend.”
“Ahem.” With a pointed clear of her throat, Alli shot a warning glance at Blake before tugging the Hamilton sisters forward. She hooked an arm to the waist of a petite woman with a curly upsweep of chestnut hair and sparkling brown eyes. “Cass, this is my best friend, Lydia Hamilton . . .” Her smile dimmed. “And . . . of course . . . her sister, Patricia.”
Cassie blinked wide when Liddy overpowered her with a hug as warm as the girl’s smile while her sister—a tall, dark-haired beauty—stood behind, as cool as her ice-blue dress.
“Enough with the hugs—I want news from Texas.” Aunt Cait said in her ear, quickly steering her to a carved cherrywood couch while the others returned to their game of whist. “So . . . how are your parents?”
Cassie’s smile stiffened as she perched on the edge of the cream brocade sofa, but she quickly deflected it with a bright span of eyes. “Oh, just fine, Aunt Cait—Daddy’s run into a few dry holes, but he’s hoping that will change soon.”
“A few dry holes?” Logan said with a scrunch of brows. He set Maddie down, and she promptly bolted to where the others played cards. After shedding his jacket, Uncle Logan reached for his cribbage chair and swung it around, dropping his coat over the back. He straddled the chair and rested starched white sleeves on the back, studying Cassie with concern in his eyes. “How many?”
Cassie peeked up, a touch of warmth in her cheeks. Daddy had warned her not to say anything about their dire financial state to his brother, but Cassie was too worried to hide the quiver in her voice. Not when a Texas fever wiped out most of their cattle herd last year and the ranch was in jeopardy of auction. “Four,” she whispered, battling the prospect of tears.
“Four?” Shock was evident in his voice. “But Quinn said it was just a minor setback—”
A reedy breath floated from Cassie’s lips. A minor setback, indeed, one that bled their savings dry. “Yes, well, Daddy is still hoping to turn it around, Uncle Logan . . .”
He scowled, and the dark cleft in his formidable chin suddenly loomed ominous. “I told him he should have stuck with cattle ranching instead of drilling for oil. Blast it, Cass, if he needed help, he should have called me. What kind of idiot is he?”
Aunt Cait patted his arm with a patient smile. “A McClare idiot, Logan. He’s your brother, remember?” She lifted her chin enough to send him a message. “It’s Cassie’s first night in San Francisco. Don’t you think this conversation can wait?”
He eyed Cait with a gum of his lips before taking Cassie’s hands in his. “Sorry, Cass, I didn’t mean to spoil your arrival dinner—I’m just concerned.”
She nodded, lowering her voice. “I shouldn’t have said anything, Uncle Logan, because Daddy asked me not to, so you have to promise you won’t breathe a word to anyone—not Daddy, not my cousins, no one.” Her frantic gaze flitted from her uncle to her aunt, calming somewhat at the look of tender concern in their eyes. “But Aunt Cait, I just couldn’t not tell you because we need you to join us in prayer. Daddy, Mama, and I really do have faith it will all work out, but we could sure use the prayers of someone with a strong faith like you.”
“With four dry wells, it’s going to take more than—” He stopped, lips compressing at the jut of Aunt
Cait’s brow. “Sorry, Cait, but it’s true.”
Her aunt’s eyes softened, a trace of sadness in their depths. “For you, Logan, perhaps, but not for Quinn and Virginia, and not for Cassie or me. Faith in God can move mountains.”
One corner of Logan’s mouth edged up. “Is that so?” The gray eyes glinted with a dare. “Well, let’s see if it can ‘move’ you into the winner’s column, Cait, because when it comes to faith, you’re going to need a mountain to win at cribbage tonight.”
A serene smile settled on her aunt’s features as she laid a hand on Cassie’s arm. “As tempting as it may be to pit my faith against your vanity, Logan, I much prefer to chat with my niece.” She glanced up at the gold-plated clock on the mantel before offering him a calm smile. “But cheer up. As soon as Bram and Jamie arrive, you can go head-to-head with them.”
His slow grin was a perfect match for the gleam of challenge in his eyes. “But I’d rather go head-to-head with you, Cait,” he whispered, giving Cassie a wink.
A pretty shade of rose dusted her aunt’s cheeks. “You’re incorrigible, Logan McClare, and I have a mind to never play cribbage with you again.”
He laughed, the sound bold and confident as he returned the chair to the game table. “But you will, Cait, and we both know it.” Giving her a disarming grin, he reached for a neatly folded copy of The San Francisco Examiner from the coffee table and ambled toward the cordovan easy chair he claimed as his own. “Since I have a few moments before the other gentlemen arrive, I’ll let you ladies chat while I peruse my stocks.”
“The divil, you say!” Mrs. Rosie O’Brien stood at the door, her brogue as thick as her disdain. Aunt Cait’s notorious housekeeper and nanny scowled. “The only pa-rusin’ you’ll be doing, Mister ‘Beware’, is in that dining room for a welcome supper for your niece.”
Love at Any Cost Page 3
