The passing years had laid a kind and gentle hand upon all the brothers, touching black shaggy hair with silver, adding an extra sun line or two across already sun-lined features, padding waists with another inch or so of flesh. But those tall, rugged frames had kept their muscular tone, despite more desk time than horse time, and their footsteps remained lithe and vigorous.
As fetching and statesmanlike as the males of this Yancey clan had grown, their wives had become even more so. There was something to be said for reaching maturity, when corset laces could be somewhat loosened to accommodate fuller figures; and comfortable, if not to say affluent, circumstances could provide adequate household help. Every one of Rob’s aunts could show a beautiful, spirited self to her family and to the world.
The strands of auburn, platinum and blonde, sorrel brown and crow’s-wing black, had acquired their own range of softened hues, as had the brilliance of blue or green or brown wifely eyes also been mellowed by time.
But some things never change.
As Rob discovered when his aunt Cecelia turned with a smile almost as wide and beaming as her husband’s. “Rob, dear, welcome home!”
“Uh.”
Flinching, he took a quick step backward, away from the enormous girth of her belly. Pregnant again! He would never get used to the steady, relentless generative capacity of this clan. Just because Genesis had adjured Adam and Eve to “be fruitful and multiply,” did that mean every Yancey on earth must take the command literally?
“I see congratulations are in order,” he mumbled, red-faced.
“Surely are,” agreed his uncle, moving sideways to enfold Cecelia, like the precious helpmeet she was. “Due in the next coupla weeks, aren’tcha, sweetheart?”
“Huh. Let’s see, that’ll make—what, number six?”
“Good memory, Rob, seein’ as how you rarely have contact with your cousins.”
“Sam and Susan—the twins—Clayton, Brian, and Bethania Louise.”
“Call her that,” murmured John, shaking his head, “and you’ll likely end up with a fist in your gut. She prefers Lou. The child is only four, but, Lord! Out of all of ’em, she’s the biggest handful.”
“You feeling okay, Aunt Cecie?”
Patting him on the arm, in the manner of a surrogate mother, she smiled up at this first-born of all the Yancey next generation whom she loved so dearly. “I am, Rob, and thank you for asking.”
John shot her a disgusted look. “She’s tired as all get-out and cranky as a wounded mountain lion. Time t’ get her off her feet and int’ a chair, son, so we’ll just shunt you off t’ the next group wantin’ t’ palaver.”
That proved to be James, the former CSA Lt. Colonel and Union POW, who shambled forward to intercept his nephew before he could get away. Beside him strolled his spirited, red-haired wife, Molly, with one hand decorously tucked into the crook of his elbow. Lovely as always, she was wearing a lightweight turquoise dress with cascading ruffles around the skirt and a short tight jacket that barely concealed her burgeoning pregnancy.
Another one. So the family numbers were about to be increased by two more, very shortly. With an inward sigh that held no understanding of how these elderly people could still be so active in the bedroom, Rob accepted their greeting and good wishes. For a few minutes they made small talk, discussing the boy’s four-year tenure at Columbia, his grades, and his commencement “into real life,” as James put it.
“You were limping when you came over here,” Rob noticed eventually. “Anything wrong, Uncle Jim?”
Molly giggled. “I kicked him.”
“She did that,” asserted her husband, with a sidelong glance half-disbelieving, half-lascivious. “Last night. Claimed I was snorin’ so loud she couldn’t sleep and she had t’ wake me up so’s she could get some sleep. Can you beat that? Now, just whose slumber is more important here?”
Rob wasn’t the least bit surprised. She was a feisty one, this Mrs. Yancey. Although, come to think of it, every darned one of his aunts was feisty. How had that come to be? Enough independence and character to match their chosen males?
“And what’s going on with your three little angels—Lenora, and Cooper and young William?” he asked now politely.
“Why, Robert, fancy your remembering their names,” marveled Molly, pleased.
I should remember, was Rob’s rather smug silent observation. I spent the whole damn train ride from New York listing every one of the kids in the Yancey free-for-all. Never had a doubt in mind this very subject would come up, at this exact sort of gathering.
“Well, I reckon they’re somewheres nearby,” James said, casting about. Racketin’ from one place t’ another with all the cousins t’gether. The little hellions,” he added fondly.
“Now, Jim, you should realize we mothers wouldn’t let those youngsters run wild here at the hotel,” Molly chastised with a little slap on her husband’s forearm. “We’ve set aside a separate room for them, with several members of the hotel staff to supervise. They have games to play, books to read, and a whole table full of food to gorge on.”
“Huh.” Again he cast about, this man still occasionally beset by dark moods that needed the vast silence of open spaces for resolution. Akin to lancing a purulent wound. “And when you figure they can’t stand bein’ shut up any longer, you’ll open the door and set ’em free on all of us?”
“James Yancey, these are not savage animals locked behind bars in a zoo,” scolded Molly.
The expression on her face, piquant with a smattering of golden freckles across the nose, showed that she was ready to kick him again. In a different, more vulnerable place.
“Couldn’t prove it by me.”
“However many there are—and I haven’t done a head count recently—the children—three of which are yours, I might mention—are well-mannered enough to join us directly and say hello to everyone.”
His fascinated attention bouncing back and forth from one to the other, Rob was beginning to enjoy himself. There was nothing more he’d liked doing, over the years, than playing spectator to some of the mock—and genuine—disagreements between a strong-willed uncle and a strong-willed aunt. Better than a boxing match, in his opinion.
“Are these two goin’ at it again?” interrupted a third party: Travis, shoving between husband and wife to drape a friendly arm over the shoulders of each. “Jesus, Molly, ain’t that always what gets you int’ the pickle you’re in right now?”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Marshal Yancey. How many offspring are you claiming as of today?” The sharp point of her elbow caught him in the ribs.
Wheezing, Travis subsided, to count off on his fingers: “Christopher, Annabel, Clara, and Gilbert. Only four, honeybun. You’re tryin’ to catch up?”
“No. I’ve been standing too long, I’m tired, and I want to sit down. Rob, it’s lovely having you home again. We’ll talk more later. James, your arm, if you please.”
They wandered away through the crowd, he still limping, she still waddling, both still wrangling over some vitally important point. Watching, Rob could only shake his head. Drama. More drama than he knew what to do with.
Travis was chuckling as he stood hipshot beside his nephew. “A couplea bad asses,” he proclaimed proudly.
“Ahuh. You’ve just described the whole goldarned family. So, Uncle Travis, what’s this I hear about your running for Congress?”
“Oh, hell, son.” A nonchalant slap against one thigh of immaculate pin-striped trousers, as if to brush away imagined dust. Or the question. “You know how much I hate politics. But things’re in such a mess at D.C. that I figure I can’t make ’em any worse. And maybe I can even make ’em better. So here’s my plan.”
The enormous banquet hall, dressed in its formal best with Persian carpets spread upon marble floors, beeswax candles burning by the hundreds, and gilt-foiled walls reflecting back a myriad of sociality and frivolity, seemed to periodically expand its horizons to accommodate the crowd. Like some sort o
f magical apparition. Debates began and ended; conversation ebbed and flowed; spurts of laughter erupted, died down, erupted again.
With the easy stream of expensive liquor, several of the usually temperate Yancey males grew more excitable, more voluble. And, for once, their long-suffering spouses didn’t even attempt to keep them in line. This was a celebration, after all; let them celebrate. Tomorrow’s hangover could remind them of tonight’s overindulgence, and that would be punishment enough.
“So you’ve started your campaign already?” Rob wanted to know. “Count me in, Uncle Travis. I’d like to be a part of that.”
“You got it, son. I’ll let you know. Meanwhile,” he stepped aside, after having been poked in the back for the last several minutes, “looks t’ me as if I’ve monopolized things too long, and I’m bein’ reminded of that fact. Yes, dear?” He assumed a smile of such simpering sweetness that Rob had to choke back a snicker over it.
“Hi, Aunt Rosie,” he chirped.
“Hi, yourself, Mr. Graduate.” Behind her spectacles, Rosamond’s gemstone-green eyes twinkled. “It’s hard to find a few free minutes to chat with you, when people like your Uncle Travis take up all your time.”
“Now, Rosie, I do not do any such—”
“But, of course, he’s practicing to become an actual Congressman—perhaps you’ve heard?” Her head, with an intricate style of sorrel-colored coils wound in and around and through, tilted slightly to one side, as if the weight of it had suddenly become too great for balance. “Which explains his being so long-winded when it comes to his oldest nephew.”
“Not a’tall, Rosie, we were just talkin’ about—”
“Blowhard, would be more like it.” With an unmatronly giggle, she stood on tiptoes to press a quick kiss to her husband’s clean-shaven cheek. “Oh, stop, Trav, you know I’m just teasing.” Flashing a glance at Rob, who was looking on with interest, she murmured, “Although it’s all true.”
“That does it.” The future legislator slung an imperious arm around Rosamond’s waist, pulled her close, and took her mouth with his to return the kiss full measure. In front of God and everyone. Finally finished, he released her only enough to peer down with eyes slightly glazed and loins under the formal trousers already stirring. “Whaddya say we slip off somewheres, Mrs. Yancey, and start workin’ on Kid Number Five?”
Flustered, Rosamond tried to hide her becoming blushes behind both gloved hands. “Why, Mr. Yancey, I do declare, I—”
“Ahuh. See you later, son.” Travis winked. “Go mingle, kid. See what trouble you can get into.”
Taking his uncle’s advice, Rob first made his way to the refreshment table. So many social demands needed sustenance, and he had spied a plate of sliced roast beef just waiting to be made into a sandwich. With that and a glass of nice cool lemonade against the heat of the room, he’d be in fine shape.
“You look t’ be in fine shape,” a voice echoed his thought before, unfortunately, he had a chance to act upon it.
“Trying my best, sir. H’lo, Uncle Ben. You’re looking to be pretty fit yourself.”
“Oh, I try, I try.” Dr. Benton Yancey smacked himself lightly across the middle, as if to prove his point. “Keeping up with my rounds every day is good exercise, and Jess watches over what I eat and drink. Usually. Except—not t’night.”
Another wink from another uncle. Apparently entering the realm of adulthood had opened the door to all sorts of knowledge and experience that Rob was ready to gain.
“T’night, I am, by God, free to get myself gloriously and obscenely drunk. It ain’t every day a Yancey boy graduates college and comes home with a diploma.”
“No, sir. First and only, so far. Where’s Aunt Jessie?”
Ben peered around the room, searching. He seemed well on the way to his goal, since both eyes were operating independently of one another, which caused some difficulty with focus. “Ah. There’s my beloved, right over there. Takin’ a breather, I see.”
She was, indeed, taking a breather. She needed it. The bulge of her pregnancy preceded her, grandly and grotesquely, with every step.
Another one! Rob almost exploded in disbelief. Good God! Did his slew of kinsmen do nothing but breed like muskrats?
Catching her husband’s glance, Jessamine looked up, smiled her usual warm and lovely smile, and waggled a few fingers in his direction. But the easy chair she had spied held considerably more importance at the moment than a prodigal nephew, and she sank into it with an obvious sigh of relief.
“And when is this baby due?” Rob asked between his teeth.
“Huh. Got a month or so t’ go yet. She’s carryin’ twins,” Ben said proudly, after a slurp from the glass of bourbon that was playing sidekick for the nonce.
“Well, you’re certainly due for more. Morgan just turned nine, right? And Josiah is all of four? Wouldn’t want any grass to grow under your feet.”
In the blaze of candlelight, the doctor squinted at his nephew, taller by an inch or two, with a salacious smirk. “You do know about the birds and the bees, doncha, son? And how babies are made? So…got some kinda burr under your saddle?”
“Yeah. And no.” Faint color washed up into Rob’s suntanned cheeks. “Just that—oh, hell, I spend a year in the East and come home to find kids sprouting all over the place, like weeds. I have so many cousins now that I can’t keep up with ’em. Where does it end, anyway?”
Dark eyes twinkling, Ben offered a crooked grin that had nothing to do with the liquor and everything to do with his amiable nature. “It ends when we get you married and settled down with a family of your own. All right, Rob, I saw you eyein’ up that food table. C’mon, let’s go get somethin’ in our bellies before I can’t walk for sloshin’.”
Even at the quiet, out-of-the-way corner they found to set up shop for chow and some serious conversation, the interruptions continued, as well-wishers tracked down the lucky magnum opus of the evening. To wit:
Max and Bridget Finnegan Shaw, with her father, spritely Gabe Finnegan, and his current lady friend, in tow. Sheriff William Goddard and his wife, Sarah, accompanied by their first-born son, Randall. Gus and Sonsee-array Drayton, who had journeyed from the wilds of Arizona Territory and their Catamount Ranch with family members, including son Cochinay Drayton and his wife, Raquel. Ezra Ferguson, traveling west from Carson City; and Adam Zantner, northwest from Whitfield, California.
Delilah Trubody, now quite decorously dressed—although her salty language, such an intricate detail of her character, would never quite fall in line with her appearance—and happily married to Sheriff Carter Novak. Jordan Butler, out of Fremont, and his buxom wife of eight years, Annalisa Meierling, once located in Virginia City, now comfortably settled in Fremont, with a houseful of children as blonde and sturdy as their mother. And a host of other visitors, all friends, no foes.
“Holy Cow,” murmured Rob around a mouthful of sandwich. “How many people showed up for this shindig, anyway?”
“Oh, I’d say a few hundred or so,” answered Ben comfortably. “Ain’t nothin’ like a good party to draw folks in, and a lot of ’em are workin’ with or for our family business. Why, you don’t like bein’ the center of attention?”
A shrug of one suited shoulder. “No more than you would. It does beat all, though, how every one of your brothers once swore, in no uncertain terms, they’d never get married. And now look at ’em, with roots put down, begettin’ and begattin’ all over the place.”
His uncle looked across the table with that quirk of amusement so common to the Yancey clan. “You ever been serious about a girl yet, son?”
Rob blushed. “Uh. Well…there was Barbary Holcomb, years ago. Kind of went sweet on her. But when I shipped off to school, she hooked up with somebody else.”
“Ah, a woman’s fickle heart. Nobody since? Well, your turn is comin’, my boy. Just give it time.”
Just then Thomas stopped by, with beautiful Elizabeth on his arm, to chat about Rob’s scholastic accomplis
hments and his career choice with the Yancey Holdings hotel chain. And to brag about his children: the girls, Charlotte and Sophia; and the boys, Owen, Brett, and little Stephen, born just last year. Rob, rising in response to their greeting, was admittedly relieved not to see another expectant Yancey wife.
Next to emerge from the crowd were the Reverend Nathaniel and the love of his life, Carrie. Small talk between everyone in the group revealed that they had been blessed with two children, Mark and Cameron. With more hopes for a certain date about six months from now.
Rob’s insides creaked with a silent grumble. He should have known. No aspersions to cast, of course, but he’d bet that just the Yanceys alone could build and populate their own little metropolis.
Trailing along in their wake came Caroline’s two married sisters and their husbands, Portia and Andy Templeton, and Tina and Josh Lundquist. All with children, of course; several each. Rob had lost track of the names being listed. Did all the world have to show up in pairs? And propagate?
“And the Littlers?” he asked politely, still standing. “Emmie, and Lindsay, and Hollie. Rather—uh—energetic young ladies, if I recall correctly.”
“Energetic?” Nathaniel hooted. “Yeah, you could for sure say that, couldn’t you, Carrie? Hellcats of the ages, for a period of time, more like. To catch you up, though, Rob, Emmie owns a real swanky stable. Never lost her love for hawses. B’sides which, she’s engaged t’ be married this fall. The younger ones are both attendin’ the School for Fine Arts here in San Francisco, Lindsay with paintin’ classes, and Hollie for ballet.”
“It doesn’t seem possible they’re old enough to fly off on their own already,” murmured Caroline, with a touch of sadness in her voice. “We miss them dearly. Still, there seems to be enough going on around the parsonage to keep all of us busy.”
“Well, sure,” Ben put in his two cents’ worth. “Takes a heap of effort, ministerin’ to a pack of sinners every week. Still lookin’ for that peace and quiet you wanted, son?”
The Reverend exchanged an amused glance with his wife. “Oh, I look. And sometimes, with Carrie’s help, I even find.”
A Western Romance: Rob Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 10) (Western Mystery Romance Series Book 10) Page 2
