The entire scope of the conversation had been carried on in whispers, some heated, some disquieted, some conciliatory. It was a credit to their knowledge of the mission that at least neither Yancey had stood up yet to shout or stomp his hat into the dirt. Although Travis was coming close.
“You’re right, Coch,” conceded the Marshal. “You’re always the voice of reason. All right, let’s see if we can figure out what the hell she’s up to and how the hell we get her back without a mark.”
“Ssssst!” hissed their guide in warning. “There she is again, on the front porch.”
“Leavin’?”
All three peered cautiously around and through their prickly camouflage. “Ouch!” swore Thomas at one point, after being stuck. “Like a goddamned cactus. Who the hell plants these things, anyway?”
“Shut your fool mouth,” ordered Travis, without a shred of sympathy. “Tryin’ t’ hear what’s bein’ said up there.”
“I’d be more happy if I could hear what’s bein’ said at the back of the house,” grumbled his twin, “where you sent my wife. She should be here with me, by my side, so’s I can be—”
“Shovin’ your hands down her corset and up under her skirts, knowin’ you. As if that—”
“No different from your behavior a while ago, big brother. If I recall, you and sweet Rose—”
“You said you weren’t gonna talk about it anymore, you dumb jackass. Just like I figured, there ain’t no—”
“Be. Quiet.” Cochinay had no recourse to the white man’s god, but he was rapidly nearing the time when he would need to call upon any sky being available for help. These two were like a couple of rutting stags, knocking their antlers together in the forest. Hotheads, both of them, and needing a break from each other. As did everyone else in their party. “Listen. Stars in the heaven, listen!”
“Well, of course I was interested,” Rosamond was replying now to her companion’s question, in her clear sweet voice. Loud enough that anyone might hear her words; no doubt deliberately so.
Swaying slightly back and forth, like some southern belle in a hoop ball gown instead of this hoyden-ish ranch gal in a split riding skirt, her behavior was that of easy familiarity, without a care in the world. Candlelight and animated conversation spilled out from every open window, as did the soft strains of classical music played rather badly by a string quartet.
The man beside her made a comment. Quiet. Indistinct. Slurred?
“Oh, I was devastated, truly devastated, by Father’s death, Reuben. You knew that. And you were such a comfort to me during that sad, sad time. Yes, indeed you were, don’t argue with me.”
If she’d been carrying a fan, Cochinay decided, watching with awe and new respect, she’d have lightly swatted the man with it. Where had she learned these tricks?
“And then, of course, you disappeared during the night, just like that, Reuben. I don’t see how you could just go off and leave me behind, when I’ve discovered that I—well, I’ve been simply pining for you.”
“Pining?” That came through, sharp and disbelieving.
By the light of several outdoor lanterns on the porch, and by some gleam of the silver moon, the San Juan men could see Rosamond move closer to Harwood, see her lift one hand to run a slow finger down the side of his face. They could even see the pallid, thin-haired man swallow hard and take a nervous step backward.
“I might have shown you more how I feel,” continued the new-made siren in something close to a purr, “if you’d stayed around longer. Now that I’ve tracked you down, you might at least pretend you’re interested in me.” As she affected a pout, Travis just about dropped the revolver in his hand.
“Uh—yes, speaking of that…how did you track me down?”
“I followed you, silly. Wasn’t that clever of little ol’ me? Well, it took me a mite longer than I expected, but…here we are.”
“To be sure—here we are.” The man’s voice sounded as sickly as the expression on his pudding face.
“You know, Reuben,” The busy fingers had moved downward, over the spanking-white long-sleeved shirt, to fiddle with its buttons, “we’re all alone in that big house now, with Father gone. Just us three women. By ourselves. No men anywhere. All—alone—” Rosamond repeated tragically.
Her fingers had unfastened enough, from buttonhole to buttonhole, to slip inside onto clammy bare flesh. At the unexpected touch, Harwood started as violently as if the weapon Travis Yancey was clutching so furiously had suddenly discharged.
“Miss Waring!” the secretary squawked.
“Yes, Reuben?” With a coquettish laugh, she and the full weight of her extraordinary bosom pressed against him. Then, stretching to reach, she managed to locate and brush deliberate fingertips back and forth across his nipple.
“Miss Waring!” This time it was a squawk of outrage as he jerked away. “Behave yourself!”
In the bushes, Travis gathered his muscles together for the one giant leap that would take him within killing distance of Rosamond’s timid prey. Until he was halted in mid-movement by the iron clamp of his brother’s hand around his wrist and a strenuous shake of his guide’s dark head.
Another pout from the seductive young lady. “But, Reuben, I thought you liked me. I thought you might be interested in—in managing our Riata household, just as you managed Father’s business affairs. Wouldn’t that be fun?” Her voice lowered slightly in pitch, to a sultry undertone. “You know, Reuben, I’m sure my father left me quite well off financially. If you were with me, why—think! Just think what we could do with all that money!”
The vision of green banknotes and multi-colored currency danced before Harwood’s enchanted bloodshot eyes. “Uh—well. Now that you mention it…I suppose…”
“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking,” approved Rosamond, nodding happily. Reflected light winked off the silver frame of her spectacles with every movement. “Because I certainly do—need—a man to help me, m’h’m.”
His shiver of anticipation would have been visible to the front gate and back.
“It’s so nice we could have this private little chat out here, Reuben. Even if I did have to pull you away from all these people at your party. Or—not your party?”
Still dazed by thought of what might still be accomplished by a union with the spirited and beauteous Miss Waring, the secretary took his time to answer. “No. Not mine. The Chief—I mean, Mr. Hayes invited some local politicians here to discuss the future of the country. Most important, you must realize.”
“Oh, just local? I thought I recognized Congressman Farraday.” She spoke as if she were showing off her knowledge, in some vain hope of impressing the poor sap. “Senator Riley, too, I believe. Important men, to be out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Important, yes, but I have a role to play with them,” Harwood said sharply. “As you’ll find out. Now, we really should return to the guests, Miss Waring. I need to speak to a few people.”
“Why, certainly, Reuben, dear. Whatever you say.” Smiling graciously in the lamplight, she took his arm as they turned to re-enter the hallway. And then giggled in an empty-headed way, “But, don’t forget, we have our own plans to make for the future.”
From their garden shrub hideaway, Travis re-holstered his Colt with a trembling hand. If Rosamond’s Andalusian had just kicked him in the gut, he couldn’t have felt more broken or nauseated. In fact, his face had gone cold with an oily sweat, and his breathing was hitched and labored.
Bad enough the girl could betray him so quickly and easily, when he had just shown her how he felt. But to betray her family, besides? To align herself with a possible killer, she must be damned anxious to cast her sister and stepmother aside in order to inherit the whole estate. How could he have so misjudged Rosamond Waring? How could he have been so wrong?
“Don’t do it, son,” warned Thomas, uneasily regarding his brother.
Travis raised eyes heavy with sickness and dread. “Don’t do—wha
t—?” he managed over the lump in his throat.
“What you’re thinkin’ right now,” Cochinay quietly chimed in. “That’s not her, Trav. That’s her, actin’ just like she did earlier, doin’ her job.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. An expert at her craft, that one. She should be on stage.”
“Smart, too,” added Thomas, reassuring. “Lookit how she handled lettin’ us know what was goin’ on inside that house.”
“You think Hayes or any of his hired gang will figure out she ain’t here alone?”
“Doubt it. For one thing, he’s got too much other stuff goin’ on with these political bigwigs t’ worry about one lone female showin’ up. For another, she as much as told Harwood she come here on her own, just a-lookin’ for him.”
Encouraged and cheered by the never-ending support of both brothers in combat, Travis nodded. “Got it. Thanks for gettin’ me back on track, boys.”
“Nothin’ you wouldn’t do for either of us. Hey, big brother, you got yourself one damn fine package in that girl.”
Shifting to remove his hat, with a thrust of agitated fingers through tumbled hair, Travis considered. “Dunno how intelligent any of us are, Tom. We’re stuck out here, and she’s in there, with that bunch of thugs. How’s she gonna get herself outa that mess?”
Sympathizing, Thomas cleared his throat. “She won’t, Trav. We’re gonna be helpin’ her. Now let’s go round up the rest of the crew, and decide where we’re goin’ from here. I’m missin’ my wife somethin’ fierce.”
VIII
“Well, well, aren’t you an attractive young lady,” said Micah Hayes. “Your father spoke very highly of you, Miss Waring, the few times we came in contact. I regret meeting you now under such sad circumstances.”
The party was winding down, after many hours during which dusty bottles of wine and costly French champagne had flowed freely to the politicians, their ladies (some respectable, some not), and the hangers-on. A great selection of lavish entrees, exotic aperitifs, and tasty tidbits had made the rounds all evening, offered on silver trays by black-clad servants. Nothing but the best for Micah Hayes and his guests.
Eventually, Reuben Harwood had managed to catch the attention of the great man himself. After a low-pitched discussion, he and Rosamond were invited into the library for a little private talk.
“Thank you, Mr. Hayes. I appreciate your sympathy. Father’s sudden death was a great loss to our family, and all of us are still reeling from it.”
“Understandable. Perfectly understandable.”
Seated behind his immense walnut desk, dominating a room quite similar in appearance to the one belonging to Henry Waring, Micah Hayes smiled and moved as a casual observer. One needed only to observe his eyes, however, black and snapping, buried in folds of flesh, to realize this man let very little escape him.
At the moment he was surveying her as if she were something he had purchased off some discounted merchandise rack, examining every detail of coloring, hairstyle (or lack of) and costume.
Rosamond was no slouch at observation herself.
“I do apologize for busting in here like this,” she offered from the comfortable upholstered chair in which he had placed her. “Really, I suppose I should have had more sense than to run off, chasing after this errant secretary of ours.” With a simpering look turned toward Harwood, seated beside her.
Hayes leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. He was not a prepossessing man, being built on the lines of a short squatty wooden rain barrel rather than a sleek racehorse. Occasionally, in thought, he brushed the flat of his hand over the top of his bald head, as if still expecting thick black hair to be growing there.
“Quite all right, Miss Waring. It’s true you’re not exactly dressed for a party, but, since you couldn’t possibly know I was entertaining tonight, and you weren’t invited, anyway…”
His voice trailed off, meaningfully, almost menacingly; and Rosamond did her best to hide a tiny frisson of fear. She had never needed an actor’s skill so much as now, in this man’s presence.
“It seems I must offer my own apologies,” he went on, after a brief silence. “Your family, and the Riata, have been deprived of the services of both your secretary and your manager, thanks to me.”
“To you?”
“Mr. Hayes asked that we join him in his endeavors at the Grizzly Bear,” Reuben, silently prodded by the Chief, stepped in to explain.
“I thought the boys had given you proper notice, Miss Harwood,” Hayes smoothly followed up. “And they thought they were invited here just temporarily, instead of on a permanent basis. So, you see, there was a misunderstanding all around.”
“Oh, well, no harm done. I’m sure we can put things right again. Don’t you think so, Mr. Hayes?” Rosamond appealed. An upward brush of the spectacles, a shy smile, an awkward twist of the spectacular body, and the crime boss was halfway hooked. Only halfway. She must be careful.
“By putting things right, you mean—?”
“I’d hoped Reuben—dear Reuben—” Another shy smile, sent in his direction, “—would have had a chance by now to recount my proposition. It makes perfect sense to me, you see, so I thought—well, just the most logical thing, so—” Deliberately she floundered, and then straggled away.
Unsteepled, his pudgy fingers had taken hold of a pen from the crystal inkwell. Turning it, tip over point, point over tip, to delay and distract. From under bushy brows, his globular eyes ran over her once again. Not a deferential gaze, nor a complimentary one. In fact, feeling its effects, Rosamond wanted nothing more than to fling herself into the nearest bathtub and scrub herself clean.
“You want Reuben back.”
“Well—yes.” She tried to sound surprised at the questioning note. “I’ve already explained to him that he—well, he’s missed there. His work, of course; he knows more than anyone else about all those business things. Too much information for my little brain to hold, I assure you. So, if he could return, in the same position…more authority, of course…”
“More authority?” Harwood’s ears almost visibly perked up.
She nodded. “That would have to be, wouldn’t it? You should see that office of Father’s, Mr. Hayes. Such a mess!” Under cover of her russet twill riding skirt, Rosamond crossed her fingers and silently said a Mea Culpa to Elizabeth for her hard work. “Well, I can’t make head nor tail of things. And I decided that Reuben, with his experience, could surely take things in hand.”
The Chief and his lackey exchanged glances. “What do you think, Harwood?”
“Oh, I think that might suit me just fine. I could take over the responsibility, free up Miss Waring’s time for whatever else she might want to do…”
“Travel,” she interrupted, pouring on the excitement factor. “I want to travel. I want to see the world, leave all this tiresome cattle ranch trouble behind. And you, Reuben.” She reached out one hand to suggestively trail her fingers down his shirt sleeve. “Perhaps—um—you could come with me.”
At the sudden frown on Hayes’ rotund features, Rosamond felt a flicker of apprehension. Had she laid it on too thick? Would the horrible Grizzly Bear owner see through her subterfuge? Would he believe that she, one of the Riata heirs, might possibly be interested in this insipid, doughy-faced worm of a man content to take orders from everyone around?
“And, Reuben.” With another brush of fingers over the back of Harwood’s hand, Rosamond finished her cake in a pile of frosting. “With you managing Father’s papers, possibly you might—um—adjust the provisions of his will. Not cutting Martha and Livvie out completely, of course, but—well, making sure that a much bigger slice of the pie comes to me. And—you…”
Greed lit up the secretary’s dull eyes like a lighthouse beacon. “Oh, I do believe that could be arranged, Miss Waring,” he agreed eagerly.
“Rose,” she purred. “With our new—um—relationship, Reuben, please use my first name. Don’t you th
ink so, Mr. Hayes?”
He finally seemed convinced that the role she had been playing was authentic. Thank God! The effort to maintain such a charade was causing her teeth to ache.
“Well, then, Miss Waring, it seems that our business here tonight has been successfully concluded. It’s far too late to let your travel home tonight, so please allow me to see to sleeping arrangements for you.” He rose ponderously from behind his desk, indicating the interview was over.
The second floor bedroom to which an upstairs maid escorted Rosamond a few minutes later offered proof of the sumptuous lifestyle enjoyed by Micah Hayes and his ilk.
A plush carpet overlay the polished wooden floor, and paper designed in white cabbage roses covered the walls. Window sills, door trim, and double bed frame had been cut and carved from dark-grained oak, all of similar match, all of similar style. Dusty pink accessories, from the draped valances to toss pillows to upholstery and even to a vase of bright coral zinnias, completed the room and its sense of abiding comfort.
“Your bath is right next door, ma’am,” the maid informed her. “I’ve put out towels for you, and you’ll find nightwear in the chifferobe.”
“Thank you—uh, Moira, was it? Yes, Moira. Nightwear. But how would anyone—?”
“Mr. Hayes frequently has guests, ma’am. Ladies. So he likes to provide whatever they might need. Was there anything else?”
Rosamond flapped a hand in her direction. “No, not at all. You must be tired, Moira; it’s very late. Thank you again.”
A curtsey, and she slipped away. Leaving Rosamond in the middle of the room to survey her surroundings. It must pay well, this peddling influence to congressional office-holders, and killing those who stood in your way. Bitterly she wondered how many others besides her father had fallen victim to this unscrupulous individual.
The prospect of a nice long soak in the neighboring tub was appealing. Since it wouldn’t delay her plans, to wash away the dust and dirt of travel, why not take advantage of what was available?
A Western Romance: Travis Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking the High Road series Book 5) Page 8
