“Treacherous little trifle, aren’t you?” he asked huskily, using banter to hide the clutch around his heart. “What shall I tell the servants when they discover us like this? That you couldn’t keep your hands off me? That I tried, but you were too strong for me?”
“Liar! I daresay one of us is a mess,” she said, becoming aware of the warm moisture between her legs. She didn’t relish the thought of explaining to Malcomb what the new stain on the sofa might be.
“I love you, Jennie,” he whispered, the teasing banter completely gone. “I love you so much it scares hell out of me…”
Jennie pulled his head down to hers, sighing with the happiness she felt. “I love you, Chane. I have never loved you as freely as I do this minute. It’s so wonderful, I feel free to really love you now that Peter is back with us. And safe…”
Something must have flickered in Chane’s eyes. Alarm showed in her wide violet eyes, and a small frown puckered her usually smooth brow. “He will be safe? You wouldn’t lie to me about that, would you?”
“He will be safe,” he said with far more certainty than he felt. She sighed and held him close. Chane closed his eyes, listening to the beat of her heart against his ear. There were times during the last eight years when he had actively resented Peter’s intrusion into their happiness. Now, by her own words, Jennie admitted that if anything happened to Peter, it would sabotage their happiness. Chane couldn’t help but be resentful.
Chiding himself for his selfishness, he sat up, retrieved the nightshirt from the floor, and pressed it between her legs, enjoying the way she dragged in a ragged breath and closed her eyes as if expecting more. “If you are trying to tempt me, it’s working,” he said softly.
“Oh! You…you…man! You are tempting me!” she said, slipping the gown under her hips.
Thus freed, he put on his robe and stood up. He was feeling a pressure to walk downtown and see just how bad things were.
“Is everything all right?” she demanded.
He cursed the closeness of the bond between them at times like this; it was too hard for him to fool her. He reverted to a ploy that always worked. He turned her over and slapped her on the bottom. “Listen, wench, if you don’t stop trying to seduce me, I’m going to call Malcomb in here. Now get dressed.” He fled the room before she could recover and figure out his real motives for leaving the house.
Tim rushed to Leslie’s side as soon as he heard the news about her uncle. He was loving and solicitous. Common sense dictated that Tim was by far the more suitable choice for a husband. She enjoyed his company; he was a thoughtful person and a good conversationalist. Later that afternoon he came by again to take her riding.
“You need to get out of the house. It’ll do you good, darling.”
“Thank you, Tim. I feel a bit confused. I don’t remember Uncle Mark from my childhood. And we didn’t get along very well when I was staying at the ranch.”
“Don’t feel guilty, darling. Relatives are like historical monuments—it’s nice to know they’re in place, but they’re best enjoyed from a distance.”
They rode out in Tim’s elegant little surrey, Leslie admiring the scarlet and gold of the early-November landscape. Orchards on either side of the road were alive with color. The afternoon air was cool. Soon winter and snow would mantle those northern mountains.
They passed the last farm, and the landscape grew rougher, the thickets beside the rutted road more dense and impenetrable. Clouds, like fat cottonballs, scudded across the blue sky, threatening to bring rain. Except that she had learned they practically never did. Trees in an orchard on their right were tipped with vibrant red and other bright touches of color, proving that even though it was warm during the day, the nights were cold enough to slow the sap in the trees.
“You look beautiful, Leslie,” he said, glancing at her as he held the reins loosely in his capable hands.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You look exceptionally lovely for a girl with a headache,” he smiled.
“I don’t still have a headache,” she said, looking at him coolly, not liking his insinuating tone.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Very well, thank you.”
He tilted her chin up and kissed her lightly, ignoring her instinctive withdrawal. “It shows, darling.”
Leslie thought she must have imagined that momentary change of tone. The rest of the afternoon Tim was charming and entertaining. She enjoyed his anecdotes, laughing frequently. It felt good to be so carefree.
They stopped beside the river to walk. He took her hand. She glanced at him but didn’t take her hand back. She was still under the influence of Ward’s lovemaking and hadn’t decided what role to play with Tim. Could they be friends? Or would he want her to declare her feelings for Cantrell? She almost laughed. She would be glad to do that, if she knew what they were.
Undecided, she did nothing. Tim was possessive and loving, and while he let her know that he loved her and wanted her, he exerted no pressure on her. He was so unlike Ward in that regard. At times Ward’s mere presence was an almost unendurable pressure. She felt disloyal riding and chatting with Tim, but Ward hadn’t made any commitments to her or asked for any from her. They walked to a grassy knoll under a tree and paused. Tim smiled into her eyes, his pale face handsome. “So here you are again, in the center of a maelstrom.”
“What?”
“Your name is on every tongue in town. Surely you knew.”
“No, I didn’t know. What are they saying about me?”
Tim closed his eyes in remorse. “Kincaid is protecting his womenfolk, isn’t he? And I…Oh, Jesus!”
“You might just as well tell me. Otherwise I will have you take me home so they can tell me.”
Tim looked miserable. “They are saying that you and Cantrell are lovers. That he killed your uncle so that the two of you will be full owners of the Lazy P.”
The color drained out of Leslie’s cheeks. “Do you believe that?”
“Of course not! If I thought for a second that you have a lover who kills everyone who gets in either of your ways, would I be standing here?”
“Why are they trying to blame this on Cantrell?”
“Because your uncle’s throat was cut. That is Cantrell’s trademark, my love. That’s the way he killed a number of Younger’s men.”
“He’s also a gunfighter. Does that mean that every man who is shot was killed by him?”
Tim laughed. “You don’t need to convince me, love. I am convinced he’s innocent, just as I am equally convinced that he is not your lover. I happen to know that Sandra McCormick spent the night with him last night. And I told the sheriff as much this morning when this whole thing got started. God knows I have done all I can to help the man.”
Tim took her home at five o’clock, and his kiss was short but ardent.
“I have to go to Tucson on business tomorrow morning, but I’ll be back Tuesday, latest. I’ll miss you dreadfully, my love. Try to think of me,” he said, kissing her again.
Too bad she couldn’t respond. It would certainly have simplified her life if she could have felt the tumult of passion when Tim kissed her instead of Ward.
It wasn’t Tim’s fault that by the time he arrived at any stage in their relationship, Ward Cantrell had already ruined it for him. Comparing Ward to Tim was ludicrous. Like comparing a race horse with a plow horse, a Renoir to a child’s drawing, a lying, cheating bastard to a decent and honorable man!
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Monday morning, when John Loving reached the feedlot, the sharp, heavy smell of cattle assailed his nostrils. There was a crowd—actually two distinct crowds—facing one another in grim silence, waiting for him. He was reminded of the adage that the mob has many heads but no brain. All John Loving could see for sure about the men waiting on the edge of the maze of pens and cattle runs was that they were armed to the teeth and potentially explosive.
The feedlot foreman, Will Wenton, w
as lined up with Simon Beasley, opposing a cattleman by the name of Hank Morrissey. They were standing at the entrance to the loading chutes, below the ramps that climbed up to railroad car level. A train was waiting, chuffing its black smoke into the air. Cattle lowed and bawled.
John walked into that fearsome crowd like Daniel going into the lion’s den. There was no way he could win this. The messenger’s words still rang in his ears.
“Mr. Loving, you’d better come quick! There’s trouble down at the feedlot! Hank Morrissey’s been waiting ten days, and he says his steers’d better move out today or else.”
“So why don’t we accommodate him?” John asked quietly.
“Because Mr. Beasley bought Aaron Wellman’s herd, and he wants to ship today.”
“Wellman’s cattle have been in the feedlot four days, haven’t they?” John said. It wasn’t really a question. He knew they had. He also knew that Beasley from Consolidated Can Company was a snake, but that Summers had ordered him days ago to allow Beasley to ship his herds on a priority basis.
“All right, I’m on my way.” The acres of pens where the cattle were held for fattening before shipment were two blocks south of the office—two long blocks.
When Hank Morrissey saw John Loving, he left the others and came forward. He was about thirty-five, wiry from hard work, with a clean-shaven, weather-beaten face. Beasley and Wenton exchanged smug looks, but they stayed where they were. They knew Loving had been carefully instructed by Summers.
“I’ve been waiting to ship for ten days, Mr. Loving. I got a hundred head here, and I’m losing money every day they stay here. A couple more days and I’ll have to give that herd to Beasley just to stay outta debt!”
John stopped, a light dawning slowly. It cost him something to keep his face impassive, but he managed it.
“Did Beasley make you an offer for your herd?”
“Sure! Two dollars a head cheaper than I can sell them for in Chicago, even with transportation and normal feedlot costs! The bastard!”
“I guess I’d better hear both sides,” John said uneasily. They walked to the edge of the two factions. Men grumbled low, threatening remarks, but they moved back to let him pass.
“What’s the trouble here?” John asked.
“No trouble. I have a reservation to ship a hundred and fifty steers today and Morrissey is protesting.”
“Is that right?” John asked Will Wenton, who was looking belligerently at Morrissey.
“That’s right,” he said smugly, rocking back on his heels. “Had that reservation a week, he did.”
Morrissey swore vehemently, and the men behind him began to mutter threateningly. “That’s a damned lie! He couldn’t’ve had a reservation, ’cause he just bought that herd yesterday.”
John considered that for a few seconds. “Can you explain that, Mr. Wenton?” he asked reasonably.
Wenton, a man with a protruding stomach that made him look more pregnant than fat, glanced uneasily at Beasley. Simon Beasley, a swarthy heavyset man with an expensive frockcoat and diamond-studded cravat, chewed on a half-eaten unlit cigar and grunted. His small eyes glittered at Loving.
“I can,” he said smoothly, mouthing the cigar. “I have a contract to ship a certain amount of beef on certain days of the month. I reserve my boxcars ahead of time like any good businessman would.”
“That right?” John asked Wenton.
“Yes,” he said smugly.
John turned to Morrissey. “You heard. It’s our policy to honor reservations. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do except guarantee you personally that you can ship tomorrow.”
Wenton and Beasley exchanged glowering looks.
“You can’t do that!” Wenton exclaimed.
“Why not?” John asked, his look reminding Wenton that he was still the boss.
“Why, because you cain’t! That ain’t your job, for one thing. And Mr. Beasley has those cars reserved for tomorrow, too.”
“What is he shipping?”
Morrissey spat angrily into the dirt at Beasley’s feet. “He thinks he’s shipping my herd! But I’ll starve before I’ll let him have ’em!”
Beasley motioned his men forward, and John saw the signal and faced Beasley squarely.
“You cause any trouble here, Beasley, and I’ll change my mind and see that Mr. Morrissey ships today—not tomorrow,” he said firmly.
Beasley’s swarthy face took on a dusky red hue. “You’re overstepping yourself now, Loving. Your boss ain’t gonna like it when he hears about this,” he said grimly.
John Loving knew Beasley was right about that. He’d had too many close calls with Summers already. This would cost him his job, but he didn’t care. It would be a relief to be rid of it. The Texas and Pacific wasn’t run like the rest of Kincaid’s operation. Maybe there was something about the political infighting that always accompanied railroads that had brought out a streak of greed. But that wasn’t his problem. Not after today or, more particularly, not after Tim Summers got back from Tucson tomorrow night. Morrissey would ship tomorrow if he had to personally load those cows across Wenton’s and Beasley’s fat carcasses.
“But that will be too late to help you, won’t it?” John Loving asked quietly, enjoying the incredulous look that came into both their eyes.
Beasley considered Loving’s ultimatum, finally shrugged. He could ship today, see Summers tonight, and ship tomorrow, too. This snot-nosed kid was just trying to placate Morrissey and save his own ass.
“All right,” he growled. “We’ll do it your way, for the time being.”
Morrissey’s riders were grumbling to themselves, not sure yet if they were going to back down or not.
“You guarantee we ship tomorrow?” Morrissey demanded.
“You have my word,” John said.
Morrissey dragged in a frustrated breath. “All right,” he said, signaling to his riders to disband.
Wenton gave the signal to start loading Beasley’s herd, then spat into the dirt at John’s feet. “You’re asking for it, ain’t you? Summers ain’t going to like this.”
“He won’t be back until tomorrow night. Shall we take the problem to Mr. Kincaid and let him settle it?”
Wenton paled and lowered his eyes, looking from side to side. “Naw, we’ll do it your way. You’re the boss,” he said grudgingly.
“Where’s Morrissey from?”
Wenton’s eyes narrowed. “He’s from Pleasant Valley.”
That figured, John thought. If he were local, he’d know enough to complain to Kincaid personally, but Wenton and Beasley were probably careful not to pull this guff on local ranchers. He had half a mind to go to Kincaid and tell him, but he knew he wouldn’t. He had to play it out now.
John Loving was at the feedlot before seven o’clock the next morning. Morrissey and all his hands were there, too—armed to the teeth—but it wasn’t necessary. Beasley didn’t show his swarthy face.
When all his cattle were loaded, Morrissey relaxed and turned to John, his clear gray eyes level. He stuck out his rough brown hand. John gripped it.
“Thank you, Mr. Loving.”
“You’re welcome,” John said, feeling slightly foolish. A man shouldn’t have to go through this kind of rot just to ship a herd, but his hands were tied. He’d spent a bitter night; he finally decided he didn’t want to work for Kincaid anymore. He was either crooked or blind, and either one was inexcusable. He’d written out his resignation before he’d gone to work. It was on Summers’ desk.
Morrissey frowned. “Are you going to lose your job over this?” he asked, squinting into the sun that was just coming up.
“No. I quit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I can work other places,” he said, meaning it.
“I’m sorry for the railroad—not you. You’ll do all right anywhere.”
“Thanks.”
Hank Morrissey went to the Bull Whiskey Saloon to wash some of the residue of frustration out of his system
. He had been in town almost two weeks, so he knew some of the faces by now.
“Howdy, Hank, name your pizun. I’m buying.” Sam Shibbel slapped the bar.
“Whiskey, Sam, and thanks.”
“Did you get rid of that herd, or should we have the biggest damned cookout this side of Austin?”
“I got rid of it, but it’s the last time I’m shipping Texas and Pacific,” Hank said grimly.
“They got you there. Ain’t another railroad till you get to El Paso.”
“How the hell can they get away with this?”
Shibbel shook his head. “I’ve known Kincaid, the feller that owns most of the T and P, for nigh onto six years, to speak to, and he didn’t seem like the type. Shoulda known better. All them hightone swells is crooked as the day is long. That’s how they got rich,” he said disgustedly.
Morrissey downed his drink and turned to leave. “Give him my regards—the bastard!”
Shibbel laughed. “We ain’t that close.”
Riding in the Kincaids’ heavily sprung brougham toward the church at the west end of Van Buren Street, she felt weighted down and hot. God! How she missed her Massachusetts. The town of Wellesley was spread on a carpet of green. Trees would be brilliant with autumn, and the wind would be cool with smells of wood smoke and burning leaves.
Sweltering at ten o’clock in the morning, on her way to a funeral, Leslie lifted the black veil and dabbed her perspiring face, hating the formality of mourning clothes. She felt like a hypocrite in the borrowed black gown, with its low bustle and its too-full skirt that ballooned out over her hips. She had left her acceptable mourning gown at home, never guessing she would need it again so soon.
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 35
