The Lady and the Outlaw

by Joyce Brandon

  “Please accept it, Leslie. Ward is a very dear friend,” Jennifer pleaded, her purple eyes filled with warmth. “It is important to me. Really, it is.”

  Leslie finally shrugged helplessly. “How could anyone refuse you?”

  Jennifer laughed and pressed the money into her reluctant hand. “Now, let’s go shopping. You’re feeling much better, and I’ve planned a small dinner party for tonight. Let’s buy ourselves new outfits—top to bottom!”

  Jennifer’s enthusiasm was infectious. They shopped all morning. Leslie found a lime-green satin gown, cut quite low in front with gathered sleeves that fell in smooth fullness toward the elbow. The skirt started just under her breasts and fell in graceful gathers all the way to the floor in front and trailed after her in back. Very Grecian in its long clean lines. The skirt was decorated with gold embroidery, very delicate and intricate. No need for corset or bustle under this creation!

  Annette put her hair up in a Grecian style, like a beehive, with heavy ringlets falling down the back, tiny ringlets around her face.

  Leslie found herself seated next to Chane’s business associate, Tim Summers, and wondered if Jennifer had taken up matchmaking also.

  “You are absolutely ravishing, Miss Powers,” he whispered, his black eyes warm with admiration.

  A week of Jennifer’s support and Dr. Wright’s medicines and salves had restored much of Leslie’s confidence and vitality. She had managed to retain her dazzling smile, but the weeks of uncertainty had left their mark, at least inside, and she regarded Tim Summers speculatively. She had seen him on two other occasions, deeply engrossed in conversations with Chane, and now the thought came to her: Was he, since he was Chane’s valued friend, privy to all the details of her story? Did he perhaps think, as her uncle had, that once the loaf is sliced, anyone can have a piece?

  Everyone in Phoenix knew Leslie had been kidnapped by a man who had held her captive almost a week. Only Jennifer’s subtle but nonetheless powerful influence over the female population had stopped overt displays like the one in front of the hotel, but she still, even in recall, smarted from the sting of that deliberate affront, and kept her voice cool as she answered him…

  “Thank you, Mr. Summers.”

  His smile was magnetic. He was an attractive man with lustrous black hair, fair skin, and black eyes that reflected perfect self-confidence. A man serene in the sure knowledge of his own worth, from the excellent cut of his custom-tailored suit to the deep cleft in his firm chin.

  Leslie noticed that she was receiving covert but envious attention from at least two of the young female guests, and her natural female competitiveness asserted itself. The next time he leaned close to whisper a compliment, she giggled and was rewarded by more begrudging smiles. Tim Summers was, apparently, a desirable catch. She could understand why—his coloring was striking, and he did have good strong features and beautiful manners. Jennifer had said only the day before how hard he labored and how much Chane depended on him. In five years he had worked his way to the top of the Texas and Pacific Railroad Company.

  Tim was attentive throughout dinner, barely taking his eyes off Leslie, keeping her wineglass full, and with very little prompting, telling her interesting tidbits about life in the Wild West. He was a transplant also, having been born in Newark, New Jersey.

  Jennifer watched her guests with growing relief. She had taken great pains with this party to introduce Leslie to Phoenix. She had imported a ten-piece orchestra from Chicago, ordered cases of French champagne, and stolen Chane’s head chef and three of his assistants from the Bricewood West. They spent the day preparing trays of delicacies from the shipment of special foods. This party was proof that the railroad was more than a minor convenience to her. Chane’s wonderful refrigerated boxcars carried shrimp from New Orleans, oysters from Boston, caviar from New York.

  The Texas and Pacific had changed the face of the American continent. Phoenix was a burgeoning metropolis compared to what it was before the railroad. Now citizens who could afford it had all the necessities and many of the luxuries that were available in the most sophisticated eastern cities.

  Before her guests arrived, Jennifer had appraised the accommodations with the critical eye of a woman raised in Paris, London, Vienna, and New York City, and she was pleased. As a Van Vleet, she had moved in the highest circles of society with the Astors, the Belmonts, the Vanderbilts, the Waldorfs, and hundreds of minor luminaries who revolved around them. Now, as the wife of one of the most powerful men in the Arizona Territory, she had deliberately forced the matrons of Phoenix into a corner where they either had to snub the Kincaid family or accept Leslie. If attendance at the dinner party was any indication, Leslie would not suffer at the hands of narrow-minded hypocrites any longer.

  This party pleased Jennifer tremendously. In New York City there were any number of arenas for launching a debutante and carrying on the usual mating rituals: the Academy of Music, Delmonico’s, or the Patriarch’s Balls held at various mansions, but here in Phoenix the most useful tool was still either a dinner party, a dance, or a combination of both.

  Caroline Astor might bank a room the size of the Coliseum in roses and orchids and invite the famous “Eight Hundred” to introduce one of her daughters to society. The first families of New York City did not scrimp on their own. Jennifer could remember when her friend Carrie Astor married Orme Wilson. That had been a wedding celebration to remember. The gifts had been valued at over one million dollars at a time when factory workers earned twelve dollars a week. It should have dismayed her, but she had always been part of that world. She took their extravagances and their social rivalries in stride.

  In Phoenix, Jennifer had raised a few eyebrows herself. Her own attempts to create a civilized home for herself and Chane had caused a minor uproar in the town—not on a scale like the first families of New York—but it had been controversial. There were at least two dozen families in town who were wealthy, and five of the women were extremely competitive. They had screamed the loudest of all. When Chane built their home, new homes had sprouted overnight. If Jennie gave a party, she could count on at least five other women trying to outdo her.

  Now, with Leslie’s future at stake, she was looking forward to some lively competition, because if the rumor mill ground accurately, her predictable peers had already launched into their rivalry.

  Five parties were scheduled for the coming two weeks.

  Jennifer watched impatiently for her brother. She saw Tim’s determined interest in Leslie Powers and enjoyed it on one level. Partly because it would point out to Peter—oops, she corrected herself, to Ward—that Leslie was a very desirable young lady.

  Tim Summers leaned close to Leslie, whispered in her ear, and Leslie smiled. What were they talking about? Jennie sighed, wondering if she had made a mistake inviting Summers. What if Leslie fell in love with him instead of Ward? Where was Ward anyway?

  “Grew up around railroads,” Tim was saying. “Newark lies in the path of most direct routes to New York City. Nearly all the trunk lines have terminals in Jersey City, which is only a few miles from Newark, so it was natural that I would become interested in railroads. There are fortunes to be made in railroads, and a smart man who knows how can beat out the competition. You have to get in first, get a stranglehold on the territory, then keep out competition.”

  “Sounds very dog-eat-dog,” Leslie said.

  “It is. You have to get them before they get you,” he said, his black eyes shining with missionary zeal.

  “Are you good at getting them?” she asked politely.

  “Good enough,” he said with satisfaction.

  When the gaily chattering group moved into the library for after-dinner liqueur and coffee, Tim stopped her abruptly.

  “May I call you Leslie?”

  She nodded, transfixed by his eyes. He had the most opaque eyes she had ever seen—like black sponges—light and images obviously went in, but nothing came out. The pupils were not distinguishable fr
om the dark irises. Somehow that made her uncomfortable.

  “I would like to ask Mr. Kincaid for the privilege of calling on you, if you do not object.”

  How formal he was! Leslie had the wild urge to laugh. She had been kidnapped, held prisoner for days, maligned on the streets by hateful women, and because of the Kincaids’ influence, he was treating her as if nothing had changed, as if she were the same lady with the same impeccable reputation she had enjoyed before.

  “Mr. Summers, I am not exactly…” She stopped, struggling for words.

  “Please call me Tim.”

  I am no longer a child, she thought angrily. As a woman who has lost the magical power of her virginity, I am not someone you could be seriously interested in, and since I am not in the mood for an amorous affair at this time and may never be again, I advise you to look elsewhere for your entertainment.

  But aloud she said, “I’m sure there are many women in Phoenix for you to choose from, Mr. Summers. You have been more than kind. I am truly honored at your interest. And I sorely regret misleading you, if I did, but I am not prepared…”

  For the first time she saw a reaction in the midnight pools. His black eyes flared with a starburst of crystallized heat. He turned abruptly and left her standing there while he made his excuses to Jennifer, then retrieved his greatcoat from Malcomb.

  Furious, Tim closed the door behind him. One of the cats that hung around the Kincaids’ stable meowed plaintively and he looked down. It brushed against his ankle. In a rage, he kicked it in the ribs as hard as he could. Howling in pain, the cat limped into the bushes.

  He was on the lawn, heading for his horse, when Leslie opened the front door.

  “Mr. Summers. Tim!” He stopped and waited for her in grim silence. Apparently his intensity extended into his personal life as well as his professional life. She stopped about three feet from him, feeling the chill night air, feeling slightly ridiculous. “Why are you leaving?”

  “Because you have prejudged me,” he said softly, vehemently. “Because I haven’t a chance with you. Maybe no one does—I don’t know—but I resent being placed among that group of people who have hurt you by their callous disregard for your feelings. I resent the fact that you assumed because of your unfortunate experience that I could only be interested in you either as a casual light of love or a charity case. I see no reason to stay under those circumstances.” There was anger and tension in every line and angle of his handsome face and lean form. He was furious, and somehow the intensity of his emotion finally stirred a response in her. He turned on his heel to leave.

  “Please don’t go,” she said to his back.

  He turned slowly and she could see him relax slightly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Please feel free to call on me if that is your wish.”

  He came back every night she allowed him to. Within a week he admitted that he was in love with her. There was no doubt about her recovery after that. She was still female, still effective. She bubbled with life and new happiness. She had survived a terrible ordeal and come out whole. She felt older but more capable. She was grateful to Tim for bringing her back.

  She let him kiss her a week later, then he proposed to her, and she refused, gently.

  “Leslie, darling, think about it.”

  “No. I don’t want to be married. I’m only nineteen, and I would be a dreadful wife. I would rather paint or manage an art gallery than run a house.”

  “We’ll have a housekeeper. I can afford it. I’m a rich man, darling. You won’t be a housekeeper. You’ll be my little jewel. My princess.”

  He was easy to manage, but she could feel the pressure building. He wanted her, and she was stalling him. She didn’t want to get that deeply involved, to risk pregnancy—or worse yet—marriage!

  Kincaid entered the comparative dimness of the Texas and Pacific offices with relief. It was hot as hell outside, especially for November. He had just left his brother-in-law. It had been three weeks since Ward Cantrell had admitted to being Peter Van Vleet. They had done a great deal of talking. Hearing Peter’s version of the events eight years before had amazed and vaguely horrified him. It was a miracle they had all survived. His mission today was a result of their talks. He was going to begin the process of helping Ward sort out all of his legal problems.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kincaid.”

  Chane’s eyes searched the large room, darting from desk to desk. The large office was well lit and seated four young men who worked under Summers, handling all of the administrative detail it took to operate a railroad. Kincaid did not involve himself with the daily operations. His interests were in creation, not maintenance; that was why Summers was such a godsend to him. He seemed to thrive on all that trivia. The men smiled and nodded.

  “Sorry, sir. Over here.”

  The sound must have reverberated. Chane turned, frowning. When he saw the young man who had stood up, a smile lighted his dark face.

  “Is that you, John?”

  “Yes, sir!” John Loving came forward with a broad smile making deep dimples in his chipmunk cheeks.

  Chane held out his hand. “Good to see you. I sure don’t get over here very often, do I? Are you liking your job?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

  “How do you like Arizona?”

  “Oh, well, it’s certainly not New York, but I’m learning to adjust.”

  “Did you come alone? No family?”

  “Yes, sir. My folks are still there. I really miss them.”

  “Come out to the house for dinner. I’ll have Jennie fix your favorite dishes. She’d love to see you again.”

  “Thank you, sir. Any time you say.”

  “Good. I’ll have her set a date.”

  Kincaid passed on through, and Loving followed him with his eyes. It was plain to see that Loving held him in the highest regard.

  Tim Summers was in his shirt sleeves, up to his elbows in paperwork, when Kincaid leaned in the doorway.

  “Good morning. Got a second?”

  Tim looked up and smiled, coming to his feet. “Always. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

  “I need a complete list of all losses we’ve suffered that could be tied back to the Devil’s Canyon Gang.”

  Tim frowned. “Okay. I’ll put someone on it immediately. May I ask what’s up?”

  Chane hesitated only a second. Tim Summers had been with him for five years. He was a hard worker, competent, and bright. He decided to trust him.

  “The gang’s leader is making restitution.”

  “Cantrell? Where would he get that kind of money?”

  “He inherited it.”

  “So he pays us back. Does that end it? I mean—isn’t there still the problem of some broken laws?”

  “Yes, but Governor Stanton commuted his sentence and made a deal with him. I agreed, on behalf of the railroad, to drop all charges. Cantrell agreed to make restitution, and Stanton decided, based on all that, to take him back into the fold. In addition to that, Cantrell’s inheritance was quite substantial. He’s a millionaire now. That looks like a pretty solid guarantee that he won’t be robbing any more trains.”

  Tim frowned. “Maybe my Calvinist forefathers are still haunting me, but wrong is wrong—no matter how much money a man has. Some of the biggest crooks ever had millions.”

  Chane grinned. “You’re absolutely right, but Stanton isn’t going to give Cantrell something for nothing. Cantrell has agreed to clean out the rustlers that have been giving us so much trouble. It’s a fairly common practice.”

  “Hire a thief to catch a thief?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But—he has been an outlaw for a long time. He must be wanted other places.”

  “He’s not being actively hunted anymore. He dropped out of sight, as far as they are concerned, years ago. If nothing stirs them up, they aren’t going to push it. Later—when he’s squared away here—he can
see about settling with them.”

  “What’s he wanted for?” Tim asked casually.

  “He’s wanted in Dodge City for ten counts of murder.”

  Tim whistled.

  “No definite charge. He’s wanted for questioning. He fought on the winning side in one of their range wars. About a month after he rode away the other side got reinforcements and regained control. They owned the sheriff, and they had a grudge against Cantrell so they issued the warrant. If he got picked up and turned over to that faction, he’d never make it to the jail alive.”

  Tim grinned boyishly and shook his head, sighing. “Hard work does have its rewards. At least I don’t have a lynch mob dogging my heels.”

  “True.”

  “We’ll get that figure for you right away,” Tim said crisply.

  “Good.” Chane stood up. “Oh, and send notices to all our offices to cancel any rewards we posted for any members of the gang. And, Tim, this isn’t common knowledge.”

  “Yes, sir. You can count on me. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thanks.”

  His next stop was to see his wife.

  “Jennie…”

  “In here,” she called, loudly enough for Chane to hear her.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked, his frown changing to a smile at the sight of her on the floor of the unused guest bedroom, her voluminous skirts fanned out around her, surrounded by boxes of family portraits, tintypes, and small souvenirs.

  She glanced up and her eyes were unusually dark and solemn. “I don’t know exactly. Trying to validate a memory…or perhaps dispel a perception…”

  “About what or whom?”

  “Peter…”

  Chane closed the door to assure privacy. “What about him?”

  Jennie sighed. “He’s changed so much…I hardly know him…He’s so…so…aloof, so filled with resolute masculine purpose. He’s one of them…the way you were…Oh, how I hated that…when you wore a gun…Do you remember the first time I saw you in your western clothes…how horrified I was. You had the same look of competent masculine arrogance he has. The same spirit of lawlessness. He appears so uncompromising…so unreadable…with such deadly skill…”