Breathless

by Beverly Jenkins

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Dear Readers

  About the Author

  By Beverly Jenkins

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Virginia City, Nevada

  Autumn 1870

  “Portia! Wake up!”

  Twelve-year-old Portia Carmichael slowly awakened to her Aunt Eddy roughly shaking her shoulder. “I need you to get dressed! Quickly!”

  Portia sat up and through groggy eyes saw that it was still dark. Aunt Eddy was now waking Portia’s ten-year-old sister, Regan.

  “Come on, girls! We have to leave the house!”

  Portia heard what sounded like shouting off in the distance outside. “What’s happening?”

  “I’ll explain later. Put your shoes on!”

  There was a fear in her aunt’s voice she’d never heard before and that alone made Portia throw off her nightgown and pull on the shirt and denims she’d left on the chair before going to bed.

  Uncle Rhine rushed in. The moonlight streaming in through the windows showed the tense set of his ivory face and the rifle in his hand. “They’re almost here!”

  The shouting sounded closer, echoing like rumbling thunder.

  Eddy was still helping the half-asleep Regan into her clothes. Once that was accomplished, Eddy took Portia and Regan by the hand. “We have to run!”

  They flew down the stairs behind Uncle Rhine and out into the night. A wagon with two horses waited. Jim Dade, Uncle Rhine’s business partner, held the reins. Mounted on horseback beside it was Kent Randolph, Uncle Rhine’s eighteen-year-old bartender.

  “Eddy, you and the girls get in and lie down!” Rhine ordered. “Kent, get to a safe place!”

  Kent rode away, and Portia and Regan scrambled into the bed of the wagon. Aunt Eddy followed and gathered them tightly to her side. Rhine tossed a tarp over them. Portia felt the wagon dip as he took the seat beside his friend. “Go, Jim!”

  The wagon took flight and because she wanted to know what this all meant, Portia rose up and looked back. A crowd of men carrying torches surrounded the house. Windows were broken and the interior began glowing.

  A male voice yelled. “They’re getting away!”

  Bullets hit the wagon and Eddy snatched Portia down. Only when the horses had put ample distance between themselves and the scene did Eddy raise the tarp. Portia and Regan watched the scene with wide eyes. Their home was fully engulfed. Flames shot out of the roof. Stunned, Portia asked, “Why did they do this?”

  It took Eddy so long to answer, Portia didn’t think she would respond. “They’re angry because Uncle Rhine pretended to be White.”

  Icy fear grabbed her. “Will they follow us? Will they lynch Uncle Rhine?” Portia read the newspapers. Men of the race were being lynched daily.

  “We’re far enough away that I don’t think they’ll follow us.”

  “Are we ever going to go back?” Regan asked.

  Eddy replied grimly, “No, we’re going forward.”

  Portia wanted to ask if she was sure the mob wouldn’t come after them, and where the wagon was going, but her aunt said, “Lie down. Try to sleep. We’ve a long journey ahead.”

  Still afraid, Portia settled in next to her little sister and tried to be as brave as she knew Aunt Eddy needed them to be, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the house afire, heard the roar of the angry mob, and thought about Uncle Rhine hanging from the end of a rope.

  Chapter One

  Santa Catalina Mountains,

  Arizona Territory

  Spring 1885

  “I wonder how it feels to be that much in love.”

  In response to the question, Portia Carmichael glanced up from the ledger she was working on to look over at her sister, Regan, standing at the window. “I’ve no idea,” she replied as she refocused on the column of numbers she was adding. Regan was gazing cow-eyed out at what Portia assumed were their aunt Eddy and uncle Rhine Fontaine. The sisters were in the business office of the Fontaine Hotel and although the twenty-five-year-old Regan longed for love and children, Portia, two years older, wanted neither. Being the manager of the family’s successful hotel was more than enough to make Portia’s life complete.

  “To have someone look at you that way and know you are their entire world—oh my.”

  “Please don’t swoon, or at least do it elsewhere,” Portia teased. She didn’t have to look up to know Regan responded with a shake of her head that held equal parts amusement and pity.

  “Numbers won’t keep you warm at night, sister mine.”

  “That’s what quilts are for.”

  “One of these days, Cupid’s going to hit you with an arrow right between the eyes. I just hope I’m around to see it.”

  Smiling, Portia ignored the prediction only to hear Regan gush, “Oh my, they’re sharing a kiss.”

  Portia sighed audibly. “Why don’t you step away from the window and let them have their privacy.”

  “They’re having a picnic by the gazebo. If they wanted privacy they’d be in their suite behind closed doors.”

  She supposed Regan was right. The couple’s love was legendary and they didn’t keep their mutual affection a secret. At any moment of the day one could round a corner and find them stealing a kiss, holding hands as if still courting, or drowning in each other’s eyes. Not that Portia found their affection unseemly; she was glad they were in love and that it extended to their nieces.

  Regan vowed, “When I find someone to marry I want that type of love.”

  Their mother, Corinne, had been in love, and when her intended demanded she cast her daughters aside because they weren’t his progeny, Corinne put the then twelve-year-old Portia and ten-year-old Regan on a train to their aunt Eddy in Virginia City and never looked back. In the fifteen years since, they’d not heard a word. Portia wanted no part of something that could cause such irreparable harm. She planned to remain unmarried and immerse herself in work. Work didn’t break hearts.

  “Don’t you want to marry, Portia?”

  “Not particularly, but if I do, he’ll have to be an exceptional fellow who loves me for my intelligence and business acumen, not for how I perform on my knees. I’m not Mama.”

  Regan turned from the window, her voice thoughtful. “Do you ever wonder where she is?”

  “Sometimes.” Portia would never admit how much her heart still ached from being abandoned so callously or how often she thought about her.

  “Do you think she wonders about us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Corinne had been a whore, and the hardship of their life with her still held a pain they rarely discussed. Thanks to Aunt Eddy and Uncle Rhine they’d survived though and were still together.

  Regan’s attention returned to the scene outside the window. “I would love to be as happy as they are.”

  “I added this column wrong,” Portia muttered, and began searching for her mistake. She blamed the error on being distracted by her sister’s chatter.

  “Thoughts of being in love can do that.”

  “No, your going on
and on about love can do that,” she replied, humor in her voice.

  “Don’t you want a man you can sneak off into a corner with and who will kiss you so passionately you don’t care if the whole territory is watching?”

  Portia shook her head with amusement. Regan changed beaus as frequently as some women changed their gloves but never stayed with any of them very long. “You’re so shameless.”

  “I know, but somewhere there’s a man who’ll appreciate that part of me. I have no intentions of relying on quilts to keep me warm at night and neither should you, sister.”

  “Don’t you have mail to deliver or something?” In addition to his vast business holdings, their uncle Rhine owned the government mail contract, and the unconventional Regan had talked him into letting her take charge of delivery. Twice a week she and her mule, Josephine, drove the five miles to Tucson to see to its distribution. As far as Portia knew there’d been no complaints about Regan’s race or gender; folks just wanted their mail.

  “Not until the day after tomorrow, which you’d remember if you weren’t so focused on your duties.”

  “I take my position very seriously.”

  “I know.”

  The tone made Portia look up.

  Regan said sincerely, “I don’t claim to know a lot about life but there has to be more to it than work. When was the last time you spent the day sitting in the meadow listening to bird songs or riding out to the canyon to take in the waterfalls?”

  “I don’t have time for that, Regan. A lot goes into keeping this hotel running. There’s staff to manage and menus to approve, guests to oversee . . .”

  “Which is why you have a staff. This place won’t fall to pieces if you left your desk every now and again.”

  “You sound like Aunt Eddy.”

  “Good. She loves you, too, and we worry about you.”

  “No need. I’m fine.”

  Regan showed her exasperation and moved away from the window. “Am I to assume you don’t need my help for the anniversary dinner this evening?”

  “You’re correct. Everything is in order.” They’d be celebrating their aunt and uncle’s fifteen years of marriage in the hotel’s main ballroom.

  “Okay. Then I’m going over to Old Man Blanchard’s. He has a package for me to take to his daughter in Tucson.”

  “Okay.” Mr. Blanchard lived on a ranch a short distance west of the hotel. “Make sure he’s coming tonight. Aunt Eddy will be disappointed if he chooses to stay home and play checkers with Farley and Buck.” Farley and Buck were his ranch hands.

  “Will do,” Regan promised, and she left the office.

  Sitting alone, Portia knew her sister’s gentle chastisement about the long hours she put in at her desk came from her heart, but there were those who thought the Fontaines mad for placing their niece in charge of their hotel—thoughts that never would have risen had Portia been a nephew. She wanted to prove she was as capable of the job as any man and so kept her nose to the grindstone. They were now living in the Arizona Territory in a beautiful, temperate area at the base of the Catalina Mountains a few miles north and east of the town of Tucson. Rhine and Eddy built the hotel from the ground up in ’73 upon a large open swath of land originally owned by a mine president. When the mine went dry, his funds did, too, and her uncle Rhine and aunt Eddy were able to buy it and the hundreds of acres of open range surrounding it from the bank for a pittance. Over the years, the Fontaine Hotel became famous for its fine food and luxurious accommodations. Lately it also served as magnet for well-to-do Europeans and Easterners wanting a taste of the Wild West; a new phenomenon Uncle Rhine called Dude Ranch Fever. Ranchers from the Rockies to the Mexican border were opening their doors to wealthy guests who wanted to hunt, fish, and ride the open ranges to take in the meadows, lakes, and canyon waterfalls. Some came strictly to view the myriad species of birds while others wanted to tour old silver mines or pretend to pan for gold. The Fontaine Hotel, in partnership with Mr. Blanchard’s ranch, also offered guests the opportunity to watch cattle being branded, take roping lessons, and in the evening gather around a roaring campfire to eat and listen to Buck and Farley tell exaggerated stories of ghost towns, deadly outlaws, and dangerous Indians. The guests could then ride back to the hotel for the night or remain at the Blanchard place to sleep in tents or on bedrolls under the stars. It was a lucrative trade for both establishments, so much so that it was necessary for guests to make reservations a year in advance if they wanted to be accommodated. Coordinating all the details took a clear head and a steady hand, and with so much to do, there was no time for Portia to take leisurely trips to view waterfalls.

  A soft knock on the open door broke her reverie and she looked up to see her aunt Eddy standing on the threshold. Like her nieces, Eddy Carmichael Fontaine was a dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauty and she wore her forty-plus years well.

  Portia asked, “So are you ready for your grand affair?”

  “I suppose. You know how much I dislike all this fuss. I would’ve been content to celebrate with a nice quiet supper, maybe a few musicians and a cake, but your uncle loves fanfare.”

  “So you tolerate it.”

  “Barely, but only because I love him so much.”

  “Regan was spying on you two in the gazebo. Says she wants the kind of love you and Uncle Rhine share.”

  “That’s not a bad goal. Although it took me a while to see it.”

  Portia knew that when Aunt Eddy and Uncle Rhine first met, he’d still been passing as a White man. Eddy hadn’t wanted to fall in love with him because of the societal dangers tied to such unions. “But you did.”

  “Yes, and sometimes, like with this anniversary business, I have to remind myself of that because only for him would I endure the torture of being fitted for a new gown.”

  Portia never failed to be amused by her aunt’s aversion to dressmakers. “You have armoires stuffed with gowns yet you always say that.”

  “Because it’s the truth. All the pin sticks, measurements, and having to stand still.” She waved a hand dismissively. “A woman should be able to go into a dress shop, find something to her liking and leave with it.”

  “You can.” Ready-to-wear gowns were becoming quite popular.

  “But they all seem to be made for someone taller and they’re never the right color. It’s as maddening as the fittings.” She sighed with exasperation and asked, “Is everything ready for the dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, so no harassing the staff about what’s being done or not being done.” Her aunt and uncle had run the hotel as a team since its founding, but now Portia mostly held the reins. Although Eddy refused to relinquish control of the hotel’s kitchen, Portia had relieved her of all duties related to the preparation of the anniversary dinner. She’d initially balked of course, then reluctantly agreed.

  “Is Janie still baking the cake? Does she have enough eggs, flour?”

  “Aunt Eddy,” Portia chided. “Everything is being taken care of.”

  “But I feel so useless.”

  “I understand, but you aren’t allowed to do anything except get gussied up and enjoy the party.”

  Eddy didn’t like it and it showed on her face. She finally sighed audibly in surrender. “Okay, I suppose.”

  Portia almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Her aunt was the hardest-working woman she’d ever met and one of the reasons for the hotel’s great success. Not being able to direct this event was threatening to send her around the bend. “If you want to do something, you can go over to the Wilson place and check on your centerpieces.”

  “I get to pick the flowers? Oh, be still my heart.”

  Portia laughed. “Or I could send Regan.”

  “Lord, no. She’d stick a bunch of saguaro on a plate and call it done. I’ll go.”

  “Good.”

  There was silence for a moment as they viewed each other, and then Eddy asked, “Have I told you how proud I am of all you’ve grown up to be?”

  Emotion f
illed Portia’s throat. “Numerous times.”

  “I’m glad Corinne sent you and Regan to me.”

  “As are we.” Had she not, both Portia and Regan would’ve had their virginity sold for a pittance and grown to adulthood with little knowledge of the world beyond the walls of their mother’s shack. They most certainly wouldn’t have attended Oberlin to complete their education, nor would Portia have been given the opportunity to hone her bookkeeping skills at the San Francisco bank owned by Uncle Rhine’s half-brother, Andrew. Portia was grateful every day for being given a home by Eddy and Rhine.

  “I’ll ride over and check on the flowers in a bit,” her aunt said.

  “Okay, and no worrying allowed.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Aunt Eddy departed.

  By late afternoon, Portia was done with her ledgers. Realizing she’d missed lunch, she pushed her chair back from the desk and left the office for the kitchen. The hotel was spread out over five, white adobe, one-story buildings with red tiled roofs. One housed staff and the business offices. The others held guest rooms, the family quarters, dining spaces, and kitchens. All the buildings were connected by covered breezeways. As she stepped out into the sunshine to walk to the kitchen she was brought up short by the unexpected sight of a brown-skinned cowboy seated on the broad back of a beautiful blue roan stallion. She couldn’t make out the man’s features beneath the black felt hat, so shading her eyes against the bright sunlight, she asked, “May I help you?”

  He pushed back the hat. “Is this the Fontaine place?”

  “It is.”

  For a moment he didn’t say anything else, simply stared down at her from his perch before fluidly dismounting to stand facing her. “Hello, Duchess.”

  Portia froze. She scanned the unshaven features, trying to place him. Duchess? Only one person had ever called her that. Suddenly recognition solved the mystery. “Kent Randolph?”

  He nodded and a glint of amusement lit his eyes. “How’ve you been?”

  She found herself slightly mesmerized by his handsome face and teasing gaze. “I’ve been well. You?”

  “Can’t complain. Good seeing you again.”