It was Ward’s turn to get serious. “Maybe both. I’ve, uh, been meaning to tell you that I’m grateful for the way you’ve taken care of Jenn. I was a fool. I’ve always been too stubborn for my own good. If there were any way I could make it up to her, I would do it,” he said, meaning it.
Chane nodded and they were silent for a while, watching the dancers. “Use your judgment with the rest of Powers’s hired hands. If they’re following Powers’s and Younger’s orders, scare hell out of them and let ’em run. If they’re likely to hang around making trouble…” His words trailed off. He was remembering how hard life was for a range-riding cowpuncher. Sometimes a man got tired of moving from range to range looking for an honest man to work for. He’d personally known some good men who put up with a crooked spread for a while. A man could do that as long as they didn’t ask too much from him personally. He should have known that Cantrell, of all men, would think of that angle.
“Consider it done,” Ward said quietly.
Ward found his hostess and thanked her. He located Blueberry in the welter of horses and carriages in the front yard. Mounted, he turned the horse toward the house on Barton Street, sorry he had gone to the social.
The wind was cool and dry against his skin. Seeing Leslie with a man who could offer her all the things she needed and deserved had forced him to face some hard truths about himself and her. She was strong, fiercely loyal to the man of her choice, and accustomed to life’s better offerings. She was not a woman who would settle for a man living under a cloud, even if she were physically attracted to him. Bright, vibrant, passionate, she could and would walk in the sunshine.
The horse snorted. The lighter outline of the Kincaids’ stable loomed before him. He stabled the animal, unsaddled him, and did the chores he hated doing in the rotten mood he was in. After he changed clothes he would walk to the offices of the Texas and Pacific and continue the task of going through the books, in hopes of finding some clue.
There was a light in the library—a bright yellow line beneath the door, shining into the hallway. He opened the door slowly. Trinket and the blue-eyed girl whose interruption had infuriated Leslie were sitting on the sofa, smiling at him as if he should have been expecting them.
Scowling, he pulled his coat off and tossed it over a chair. Blond Trinket was standing in front of the fire that Yoshio, the Kincaids’ houseboy, had laid. Ward walked to the buffet along the wall and poured himself a drink. He tossed it down, felt the hot jolt of the whiskey, but beyond that—nothing. The mood that had started when Leslie turned him down for Summers was still in him. “Ladies.” He inclined his head. “What’s going on here?”
“We wanted to see you,” Sandra said.
Ward had visions of a posse breaking down the door to rescue the two of them and shook his head. “See me in the daytime. Are you crazy?”
Sandra stood up and walked toward him. “We wanted to be with you.”
Normally he would have appreciated all the trouble they had probably gone to so they could come here to surprise him. “Does your father know where you are?” he demanded.
“We sneaked out. Please, Ward, don’t be angry. I need you tonight,” she said, stepping against him. “I was miserable at the dance. You didn’t pay any attention to me.” She slipped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest. “Ward, darling, I belong to you. Please let me stay.”
Ward glanced at the other girl, and she shrugged and looked embarrassed, not sure what part she was supposed to play. He disengaged himself and walked back to the sideboard, smelled the decanters, and then poured himself another drink, stalling for time. He tossed down half of it, enjoying the heat that spread out inside him. “Do either of you want a drink?”
“No.” There was something in the way she said it that brought his head around. Sandra had wiggled out of her gown and stepped away from it, leaving it in a heap behind her. She looked like a sleepwalker, and the other girl, instead of looking shocked because her friend was naked except for her jewelry, looked equally dazed. She was barely breathing. He had the wild impulse to walk out of that house and never return. How had she managed to undress so fast? What happened to the usual accouterments that women wore?
She slipped into his arms, and his impulse to flee vanished. Warm body with the feel and smell of female always worked. His body knew what to do—even when his head was completely confused. She lifted her lips and dragged his head down to meet them, and the dark knowledge of the body took over.
That’s the way Denton found them: Ward still in his black suit, Sandra McCormick naked and breathless in his arms. A beautiful dark-haired girl on the sofa watching them. Denton stopped in the doorway, his mouth gaping like a catfish.
Dusty Denton, born Robert Buckmeister Denton, had been on this wild frontier for seven years, almost as long as Ward. He knew that in the Territories the standards of morality had relaxed to a remarkable degree, but there were limits, and these looked like daughters of respectable residents. He had seen the females who weren’t. He also knew that in any group of people, females included, there would be a certain percentage who did not obey the rules—even when they were from good families and knew them all by heart. He’d met his share of women like that. It had never mattered whether they were from rich families or poor. Morals didn’t seem to understand class boundaries.
In large eastern cities the netherworld of the criminal elements who lived off the scraps of society were tucked away in distant parts of the city. Nice women were not exposed to that sort of thing. Here, saloons, dance halls, churches, and brothels existed side by side—each influencing the other. Sharp lines of demarcation between good and bad got blurred. Cattlemen branded mavericks, gunmen shot men in the streets, prostitutes got married and went to church regularly.
Frontier natives did not have time for lengthy courtships. Men lived and died with surprising suddenness. Alive one second, dead the next. Frontier towns did not breed gentility—in its men or in its women.
He had no guarantees either. He could be dead tomorrow. Or the next day. Kincaid and the governor had carefully explained the risks and rewards. He decided to follow Cantrell’s example, whatever the risk.
There was a moment of stunned silence before Ward spoke, his husky voice smooth as velvet in the stillness. “Which one do you want?”
Nobody breathed. The muted ache that had begun when Ward had kissed her spread downward, turning her knees to rubber.
Dusty Denton almost strangled in his attempt to remain as calm as Ward looked. A beautiful naked girl, in a room with two fully clothed men, turned his blood into steam. His voice sounded hoarse. “The blonde.”
Sandra turned back to Ward. “Are you serious?” she whispered, her eyes enormous in her face. She was tingling in spite of the sudden fear that turned her heartbeat into a heavy thumping in her chest. She was on fire—all over. She knew by the quiet knowledge in his blue eyes that Ward could tell. Something relaxed in her, secure in the knowledge that she didn’t have to pretend with him.
Ward shrugged. “Do you want me to be?”
Something was born in Sandra’s eyes, something primitive and vibrantly alive. “Yes,” she said softly. “I belong to you. You can give me away if you want to.”
Ward leaned down and kissed her, but he could tell she had already transferred her passion to the other man. She turned obediently and walked into the young man’s arms.
Denton looked like he might double over with the sudden ache her solemn, wide-eyed compliance caused in him. He shot a look at Ward, who picked up his glass and was draining it. A cry for help, but the girl took his hand. He followed her out of the room.
Ward turned to Blue-Eyed Trinket. Excitement and fear mingled in her eyes. He could see the pulse in her throat. He took her hand. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“No,” she said, the sound small and frightened, but defiant as well.
He hesitated. Leslie was in Tim Summers’s bed. He had known by the defiant look in her angr
y green eyes. He might as well enjoy himself. He damned sure wasn’t going to become a monk because she rejected him, but even as he said it, a part of him recoiled. He definitely would not become a monk, but he also could not make love to another woman tonight. Not with the pain of Leslie’s rejection so fresh.
His grip tightened on the girl’s arm.
“Yeah,” he said, forcing a grin. “I knew you were teasing.”
Frowning, she allowed herself to be led away.
“Where’s your coat?” he asked.
“I didn’t remember it. We left in sort of a hurry.”
Ward took one of Lance Kincaid’s out of the closet and put it around her shoulders. “This should keep you warm till I get you safely home.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Just before noon on Saturday Tim Summers stopped beside John Loving’s desk. Loving stood up quickly.
“Yes, sir?”
Summer’s cold black eyes raked over him, making John squirm inside. This last month on the job was the most precarious in his career. His confidence in himself was badly shaken.
“Come into my office,” Summers said curtly.
He knew by the tone of Summers’s voice that he was in trouble. Loving followed quickly. Summers poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. John remained standing uncertainly. Summers didn’t usually allow him to sit.
“Sit down,” Summers said crossly. “I hate having to crane my neck to look at you.”
Flushing, John took the seat across from Summers’s desk. He resisted the urge to loosen his collar, forced himself to endure the cold stare of his boss, but he couldn’t control the reddening of his face.
“I saw that memo you wrote to Jack Frazier telling him to buy from Smith Mercantile instead of Bauer’s.” There was barely controlled fury in Summers’s black eyes. The angry set of his features stunned John Loving.
“But that’s what you told me to do,” he blurted.
“I don’t give a damn! When I tell you to do something, I want you to do it—not write memos about it covering your ass!”
Summers picked up a letter. “Mr. Summers has directed that in the future we purchase all uniforms from…” he quoted sarcastically from the memo; then he threw it savagely at Loving. “What the hell are you trying to do—set me up?”
“No, sir,” John said miserably.
Summers slammed his fist on his desk. “From now on, I want to see any correspondence you write before anyone else sees it—do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.” John’s face was dusky red all the way down to his collar.
“Wenton came to see me this morning. Apparently you are trying to mishandle the feedlot as well.”
“I am?” John asked, frowning.
“You are! We make a good part of our income there, but we won’t if you keep operating it the way you seem to want to.”
“What should I be doing?”
“You should be shipping the big herds first—the herds that are too big to hold in the pens.”
“But, sir.” John paused, frowning. “I mean, why?”
“Because, dammit,” Summers gritted, “we can hold the smaller herds in our feedlot and charge them twenty cents a day for feed per steer. The big herds always stay outside of town anyway until time to ship. We don’t have the capacity to handle them, except on a pass-through basis.”
“But in Dodge City, when I worked there, we made it a practice to hold all herds four or five days, regardless of size, to prepare them for the trip. It increases their chances of survival, improves their weight for sale, and it was fairer. We shipped them on a ‘first-in first-out’ basis…” His voice trailed off.
Summers’s black eyes were boring into him. “Mr. Loving, we are not here to play Santa Claus. We’re supposed to be making money,” he said flatly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do I need to repeat these instructions again?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think you can handle this without writing a memo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Do you know Simon Beasley?”
Loving flushed. Summers knew he did. Everyone knew Beasley. “Yes, sir. He’s the buyer for Consolidated Can Company.”
Summers nodded. “That’s right. Any herd he owns can be shipped immediately—no waiting.”
John swallowed. He knew better than to ask why. If Summers wanted to tell him, he would, but apparently his eyes gave him away.
“Why?” Summers asked for him. “Because Mr. Kincaid relies on me to see that the right people are taken care of. I don’t expect you to understand local politics, Mr. Loving. Just to do as you are told. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Is that all, sir?”
Summers stood up, giving the signal for Loving to do likewise. “If you have any trouble, you come to me and no one else. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
After taking Sandra home, Ward didn’t sleep until almost dawn. The combination of pain over Leslie’s rejection and frustration triggered by Sandra’s deliberate attempt to arouse him kept him tossing and turning until the sky paled into luminous gray. He slept an hour or so and went for a ride.
The fierce running of the powerful horse, its hooves skimming the levels, skirting the scrub and creosote, leaping narrow gullies, plunging headlong across the desert, brought Ward’s muscles into play and helped cool the fires that raged in him. He let the stallion run until a semblance of sanity returned and the sun was growing hot. Then, slowing the heaving bay, he wiped the perspiration off his forehead and turned the big horse back toward Phoenix.
He found Jenn in the music room, singing as she played the elegant Steinway, her voice sultry and golden with a hint of thrush that was as pure as a bell, a mixture of perfect tone and vulnerability that was appealing and provocative. She was alone in the room. He leaned down and kissed her cheek while she smiled serenely and continued to sing to him. In a soft navy-blue morning gown she was so lovely, so shiningly cool, clean, and feminine, that he felt five years old again.
She ended the sonata and stood up. Ward didn’t think. He pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her soft hair. For the first time since they were reunited he felt the warm glow of love at full surge. It had worked in him like a tide, slowly and remorselessly building, only now to crest. It was as if he had not really seen her before. Had not connected this woman with the one he’d rejected. He hugged her as if he dared not let her go for fear of losing all that he lost before, losing it again, irrevocably.
His need was like a balm, drawing a barb out of her heart. A dam burst within her as well, releasing the tears she hadn’t cried when she could have, tears of joy, love, and long years of heartache streaming down her cheeks, tears held back because to shed them might increase her sense of loss, might somehow cement that loss or precipitate it. “Peter, Peter, Peter, I’m so glad you came back,” she whispered, trembling, holding him as tightly as her arms could hold him.
“So am I, Jenn. So am I.” His husky whisper was filled with pain as deep and wide as her own. She clung fiercely to him, soaking up the comfort, letting his nearness heal her wounds. She drifted in a daze of happiness. The two people she loved most in the world were becoming friends, and Peter was truly back—the way he had been before all the trouble.
Her voice was strained and husky with emotion. “When you left New York I blamed myself the way you are blaming yourself now. I know how awful it is to lose people you love…and to blame yourself for it. Please try to see that you…you can’t.” Muscles in his lean brown jaw bunched, and she reached out to touch his warm cheek, groping for the words to ease his pain. “If you had died instead of Simone, would you want her to blame herself? Or would you want her to make a new life? Find a new love?”
He turned his head away, but she had her answer. “Why are you so forgiving with the ones you love and so hard on yourself?” she whispered. “I love you,” she said fiercely. “I know you far better than anyone e
lse does—even you—and I know that you always did the best you could…You’re strong, and you love deeply…but you’re not God. You can’t save everyone you love. Someone deliberately killed each of them. If they hadn’t accomplished it then, they would have picked another time. You can’t stand guard over the ones you love.”
His eyes looked bleak, ravaged, before he closed them, clamping his jaws together the way she had seen him do from childhood on up, refusing to cry, trying to reject the comfort she offered him. Jennie put her arms around his waist and hugged him hard, burrowing her cheek into the crook of his neck. He was rigid. She felt the heavy pounding of his heart beneath the firm, warm muscles. “I would give anything to make you realize how special you are,” she murmured.
He laughed and it was a bitter sound. “Some men are blessed. Everything they touch turns to gold. Everything I touch dies…I’ve failed at everything it’s possible to fail at. Face it, Jenn. I’m not what you think. I walked in the house one afternoon only minutes after Mother and Father were killed. I led my friend into a trap and got him killed. Simone died because I was in town acting like a goddamned hero. Mama Mendoza, Isabel, Pedro, Grandpapa…I almost got Leslie killed…Everything I touch.” He sighed, as if too exhausted to continue.
“That’s the most outrageous piece of rationalization I’ve ever heard!” she said, suddenly angry at him. “Did you ever stop to think that in the last eight years thousands of people died without your help? How on earth do you suppose they managed it?”
Ward shrugged, looking sheepish. “Are you implying I could be less than perfect?” he asked, a touch of his usual humor returning.
“You are so stubborn,” she whispered, hugging him again. “And so powerful. I’m feeling sorry for those poor misguided souls who think God arranges these things. What should I tell them?”
She felt a shudder ripple through his lean body. He had changed in so many ways. He was broader of shoulder, harder, and more capable…and stubborn as ever. His eyes hid more from her. “Well, whatever you do, don’t fall in love with Elizabeth Cartright. We can’t afford to lose her—no one in Phoenix would ever know what anyone else was doing.”
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 28
