Texas Blonde

by Victoria Thompson

  Jeremiah stood in the middle of the room, plainly visible in the brilliant light from the fire that now burned almost as brightly as day. He held a Colt.45 in his left hand, and it was pointed straight at Josh's heart. Josh glanced down to where his own rifle lay on the floor and calculated his chances of reaching it before Jeremiah's bullet stopped him.

  "Don't try it, Logan," Jeremiah warned.

  The tone of Jeremiah's voice pulled Josh's attention back to his half-brother. Something was not quite right, and when Josh had studied Jeremiah for another few seconds, he realized what it was. The man was trembling.

  "Don't move, Logan!" he ordered again, and Josh heard the edge of panic in his voice.

  But why should he be panicking? He had the gun and the upper hand. All he had to do was pull the trigger, and his revenge would be complete. Unless… unless he had suddenly realized he no longer wanted revenge.

  Gambling with what he knew might very well be his own and Candace's lives, he decided to play his hunch. "Setting the barn on fire, that was a clever plan. Was that your idea, Jeremiah?" Josh asked, making his voice sound as normal as possible under the circumstances.

  "Yeah, that's right, it was my idea," he replied warily. His Colt wavered slightly, but he righted it immediately.

  "You're a smart fellow," Josh admitted, "but then, all us Logans are smart."

  Jeremiah stiffened at that, but made no comment, so Josh went on.

  "I guess everything worked out just the way you wanted it, too. I'm here, and your mother," Josh said, his voice still unnaturally calm. "I'm only sorry my wife is still in Philadelphia. I understand you had some special plans for her," he added in a faintly accusing tone.

  Jeremiah's face twisted in rage. "The hell with her!" he snapped. "I wouldn't have any white woman, not on a bet!"

  Josh started at the vehemence of his tone. "That's not what I heard," he pressed, compelled to explore the truth of this statement. "The sheriff told me that you'd had a white woman back East-"

  "And you believed him," Jeremiah interrupted. This time when his gun wavered, pointing now toward the floor, he did not even notice. "Of course you did; they all believed her because why would a white woman lie about something like that? And do you know who she was, Logan?" he taunted. "She was your mother!"

  Seeing Josh stiffen in shock, Jeremiah laughed bitterly. "That's right, your mother. She made her father buy me when she got back home, and she kept me right in the house to fetch and carry for her. And sometimes when I brought her something, she'd pet me, and other times, she'd slap me, but I never knew which it would be. She was a mean little bitch, your mother. You're lucky she left you when she did, Logan. And she'd tell me things, too, things about my mother and our father, things nobody should ever have to know about his parents. And then, when I got old enough, she told the lie. She said I sneaked into her room one night and raped her."

  As if from a distance, Josh heard Candace's cry of anguish. "Dear God," he murmured, but Jeremiah did not even seem to hear either sound.

  "God only knows what they would have done if they'd caught me, but somebody warned me and I got away. The war had just started and there was a lot of confusion. I hooked up with some Yankee troops and went North. I've been a lot of places since then."

  In the silence that followed this speech, Josh could hear the sound of shots. Occasionally one would strike the house, but it seemed that the firing had slowed. What did that mean? He could take no time to decide, however, not with Jeremiah still to contend with. "What made you come here after all these years?" Josh asked.

  Jeremiah shrugged one shoulder. "I found myself in Texas one day and decided to look up my kinfolks," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "When I found out how you'd prospered, I decided to get a little for my own. Figured it was due me."

  "Why didn't you just ride in and tell us who you were?" Josh asked, meeting Jeremiah's gaze relentlessly. "We would have welcomed you."

  Jeremiah's lip curled in contempt at what he obviously considered a bold-faced lie, but his contempt withered as Josh continued to stare him down as if daring him to challenge the statement. "You would have welcomed your father's black bastard?" he asked. He was trying to sound skeptical, but Josh thought he heard an undercurrent of hope there,«too.

  "I would have welcomed Candace's son," he said, "and my brother."

  For one instant, total shock registered on Jeremiah's shadowed features, but then the sound of running footsteps on the front porch distracted them all.

  "Jeremiah?" an accented voice called.

  "In here," Jeremiah replied, and the front door burst open, allowing a wiry Mexican brandishing a pistol in each hand to enter. The bandito took in the scene in one glance.

  He asked a question in rapid-fire Spanish, waving one of his pistols to indicate Josh and Candace. Josh caught enough of the question to know the man was demanding why the two of them were still alive.

  Jeremiah replied in equally rapid Spanish, but from the look on the little man's face, he was not satisfied with the explanation. He made a grunting noise and lifted a pistol to take careful aim at Josh.

  Josh knew he could throw himself to the ground, perhaps dodge the bullet and even regain his rifle, but that would have left Candace directly in the line of fire. Instead, he took the extra second to shove her down before diving to the ground.

  As he fell, the blast of a gun filled the room, but Josh kept moving on instinct, picking up the rifle and raising it to his shoulder, vaguely aware of Candace's scream. Only when he had the little Mexican in his sights did he realize what was wrong. The man's face had gone crimson, and just as Josh's finger tightened on the trigger, the man slumped to the floor.

  Startled, Josh turned to Jeremiah, whose smoking gun told the story. He had killed the Mexican to save Josh and Candace.

  "Josh! Josh, are you all right? What's going on in there?" Grady's voice called from somewhere outside.

  Josh shook his head a bit to clear it, waiting to see what Jeremiah would do. Slowly, the black man turned back to where Josh crouched on the floor. After another moment, Jeremiah lowered his gun.

  "Josh! Josh, answer me!" Grady called again, sounding frantic.

  "I'm fine, Grady!" Josh hollered back. "And Candace is with me."

  "We routed them, Josh! They're on the run!" Grady's voice called.

  "Good! Go fight the fire. I'll be there in a minute," Josh shouted, and then he lowered his own gun. To Jeremiah he said, "Get out of here. If they see you, they'll kill you."

  For a moment, Jeremiah did not move, almost as if he had not heard the order.

  "Go on now. Hurry!" Josh urged.

  Jeremiah nodded and slowly holstered his gun. "I…" he began, but then stopped, as if he could not find the right words. At last he said, "Goodby, Mama."

  The words seemed to echo in the room long after he was gone.

  By dawn the next morning the ranch was crowded with neighbors who had seen the flames and come to help put out the fire. Although the barn was now only a pile of charred embers, they had at least managed to keep the fire from spreading. The women had fixed breakfast for the men, and while they were eating, Blanche finally found a minute to take Candace aside and get the whole story from her.

  "Who would have ever thought," Blanche murmured in wonder when Candace was finished. "I know Felicity will be glad to hear all this. She must have been worried sick all this time."

  Candace shook her head. "She don't know anything about this. Mr. Josh didn't tell her a thing."

  "What!" Blanche exclaimed. "What on earth did he tell her when he left her in Philadelphia, then?"

  "That we needed him to help with the roundup," Candace reported in disgust. "And that ain't the worst of it, Mrs. Delano. He hasn't written her one letter, not one line, since he's been back, neither."

  "Has she written to him?" Blanche asked in disbelief.

  Candace nodded. "She'd send two or three letters every week, or at least she did. Lately there hasn
't been any. Not for two or three weeks now."

  Blanche made a rude noise. "Well, of course there hasn't been. She's probably furious with him, and who could blame her? I'm furious myself. She thinks he just up and left her for no good reason and… Oh, Lord, Candace! When he didn't write, she must have thought he'd left her for good!"

  "I don't know what she thinks, but it can't be anything nice," Candace said. "I tried to talk some sense into him, but he won't talk about it, not at all. Mrs. Delano, we've got to do something about this."

  "You're absolutely right," Blanche replied. "And I think I know just what that something is. I'll write to her myself."

  "Do you think that will help?" Candace asked.

  "It got Josh home, didn't it?" Blanche replied with a conspiratorial smile.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Felicity paused in the parlor doorway, posing selfconsciously as she awaited Richard's reaction to her appearance. He rose slowly from his chair, a stunned expression on his face.

  "Darling, you look ravishing," he exclaimed after a long moment of silence, and rushed forward to take her hands. "You'll be the most beautiful woman at the party."

  Felicity smiled graciously at his compliment, although his casual endearment made her uneasy. A married woman should not allow such intimacy from another man, but she decided to ignore her qualms. Richard had proven he was her very best friend during the difficult two months since Joshua's desertion. Her cousin had certainly earned the right to call her "darling."

  Then, with alarm, she realized he was closing in for a kiss. Even Richard had not yet earned that much intimacy, and she turned her head just in time, offering her cheek instead. The terrible part was that she had almost wanted him to kiss her mouth. Her pride had taken such a beating from Joshua's continued failure to contact her that she fairly ached for some reassurance that she was still attractive to someone. Richard would be only too willing to give her such assurance, she knew, and sometimes she was unbearably tempted to let him. But not this time.

  Richard stepped away again, giving her a teasing smile that reproved her for avoiding his kiss, but he wisely said nothing about it. To do so might provoke an argument, and he had no intention of upsetting her on this of all nights. Instead he stood back and admired the picture she made in her new ballgown.

  The dress was blue silk, the exact color of her eyes. Mademoiselle Fabian had designed it specifically for Felicity, to display her to perfection, and the woman had succeeded magnificently. The bodice and the edge of the skirt were adorned with crystal bugle beads that glittered dazzlingly and tinkled musically every time Felicity moved, giving the illusion that she was surrounded by some sort of shimmering aura. Richard thought she looked like a fairy princess.

  Her golden hair was swept up into an elaborate coiffure, leaving her long, lovely neck exposed. Richard fantasized for a moment about kissing that neck before he noticed the necklace fastened around it. Diamonds. New diamonds. He had never seen the piece before.

  "What a gorgeous necklace," he said. "Is it new?"

  Felicity's hand flew self-consciously to the jewels. "Yes," she said with an embarrassed laugh. "Grandfather gave them to me this morning. I tried to tell him they were too much, but you know how he is. He just wouldn't let me refuse them."

  "Yes, I know exactly how he is," Richard assured her, smiling. "And he's right to be like that. You should have beautiful things." His smile faded into earnestness. "You were born for this kind of life, my darling. Don't you realize that?"

  Felicity stared at him in renewed alarm. What did he mean? But before she could ask him, Bellwood tapped on the parlor door.

  "Excuse me, but I hear the guests beginning to arrive," he told them.

  "We'd better get upstairs, then," Richard said, taking her hand and tucking it into the curve of his arm. "We have to greet them in the ballroom."

  The ballroom was on the third floor of Maxwell's mansion, and as they made their way up the stairs toward it, Felicity did not know whether to blame her breathlessness on the climb or on the excitement over the coming party or on Richard's remark about how she was born for this kind of life. It was true that she could not help being tempted by all the luxuries her grandfather offered, but she loved Joshua and the life they had together. She would go back in a minute if she only thought Joshua wanted her to.

  The thought of her husband brought with it all the pain his departure and subsequent silence had caused her. She had tried not to grow bitter, but as each day passed without word from him, she began to feel more and more abandoned. Her last letter describing this very party had been meant to stir his jealousy, but he had not responded at all. He had even ignored the news about her photographs being displayed at the Exposition. She was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain her belief that Joshua still cared about her.

  "Why are you frowning?" Richard asked just as they reached the top floor of the townhouse.

  Felicity consciously forced her lips into a smile. "I was just wondering if my dress is all right," she lied, nervously smoothing down the fine fabric and telling herself she was foolish for thinking such awful thoughts on this, the night her grandfather had planned to honor her before all of Philadelphia. She would forget about Joshua Logan and all the hurt he had caused her. She would have a wonderful time and worry only about preventing her grandfather from mentioning her photographs.

  But what she saw when she entered the ballroom made all of that impossible. Her photographs were everywhere.

  Her grandfather greeted her and Richard as they entered the room. "Surprise, my dear," Maxwell said. He was clad in evening clothes that were only slightly loose. In the weeks since Dr. Strong's first visit, Henry had made a rapid recovery. Only the small amount of weight he had not yet regained indicated how ill he had been. He smiled at her stunned expression as she stared around the room. "Now you see why we could not allow you up here this morning," he added.

  Felicity nodded vaguely. She was too busy looking at her photographs to reply. Yes, they were all there, mounted and hung on the walls around the entire ballroom, silent reminders of the life she had determined to forget for this one evening. "Why on earth did you do this?" she asked at last, still numb from the shock and thinking inanely how the pictures looked out of place in the elegance of the room. She had an inexplicable urge to take them all down and hide them.

  "I told you I wanted to make the announcement about your photographs being displayed at the Exposition tonight," Henry explained.

  Felicity made an exasperated noise. "This," she said, making a gesture to indicate the pictures, "is not an 'announcement'!"

  Henry shrugged apologetically. "I wanted everyone to see what a clever girl you are."

  "Oh, far more than clever, Henry," a male voice said from the doorway. "The word 'genius' was bandied about rather freely at the last meeting of the Photographic Society."

  Felicity turned to see Alex Evans escorting a middle-aged woman into the room.

  "You remember Alex, don't you, Felicity?" Henry said.

  Felicity forced herself to maintain her composure. "Yes, of course," she replied with a polite smile, giving the gentleman her hand. "So nice to see you again."

  "And this is his wife, Elizabeth," Henry added.

  When everyone had greeted everyone else, Evans turned to Felicity. "I perceive that you do not approve of your grandfather's surprise."

  Felicity was not quite certain exactly what her feelings were on the matter. "I just wish he had consulted me," she said, giving Maxwell a sharp look, which he ignored. "This is really the first time my work has been shown publicly, and I just realized that I feel very uneasy about it."

  "But you agreed to let Alex show your pictures at the Exposition," Henry pointed out. "Many thousands of people will see them there."

  "But I won't be standing in the room with them," Felicity replied. She had also realized that she considered her work a very private matter, and she was beginning to feel somewhat exposed.

>   Henry patted her arm reassuringly. "I'm sorry to have upset you, my dear, but there's no need to be concerned. Everyone will love your pictures." There was no time for her to respond. More guests had arrived, and Isabel bustled into the room in a flurry of pink ruffles, looking as if she might faint for real. Felicity had to go to her rescue.

  As she stood in the receiving line, Felicity met and greeted the guests with only half of her attention. The rest of it was focused on the photographs hanging around the room and the memories those photographs conjured. Joshua and the men, posing stiffly. Joshua and the rambling house that she loved. Joshua overriding Candace's objections and forcing her to have her picture made. Joshua and Felicity in their wedding clothes, trying not to laugh as Cody made the exposure. And Joshua alone, with desire shining in his eyes. How could she stand having strangers gawking over these private mementos?

  And gawk they did. Everyone, it seemed, had come with no other purpose in mind but to examine her pictures. And one corner in particular was drawing more than usual attention. Finally, Felicity could stand the suspense no longer, and she left the receiving line to find out which picture had caused such a stir.

  The group clustered there parted as she approached, creating an aisle between herself and the photograph in question. The next moment, Felicity found herself face-to-face with Joshua Logan, the man she loved with every fiber of her being. The man who had broken her heart. Anger and pain surged through her even as she acknowledged that she would give ten years of her life if he would just walk into the room at that moment.

  "Oh, my," one woman was saying, "if any man ever looked at me like that, I'd simply die."

  "But think what you'd be missing," another woman chided wickedly, causing a ripple of laughter among the group.

  "Who on earth is he, my dear?" Elizabeth Evans asked Felicity.

  "He's my husband," Felicity said defiantly, unable to suppress her churning emotions. Yes, she would give ten years and more to be in his arms once again. Longing shafted through her with aching swiftness. All the hurt and anger she had felt melted down into an empty pool of loneliness in the heat of his paper gaze.