Surrendered (Intrique Under Western Skies Book 2)

by Elaine Manders

  She couldn’t explain it and didn’t try. “One thing I’d really like to do is go rowing. I haven’t had the chance since coming here. I know they say the river is down, but if possible, I’d like to go with just you…and maybe Rachel and Becky.” She’d almost forgotten herself and suggested they go alone, which was what she really preferred. But how would that look?

  She’d gone off with Rhyan and hadn’t given it a thought. No wonder people talked.

  Colt smiled. No doubt he’d read her as easily as a first grade primer. “I suppose we could find a stretch of river deep enough to float a boat, but how about we just go to the river beach?”

  “Is there one?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Cason…that is, Rhyan’s grandfather, had it dug out about a half mile from the bridge. They’ve hauled in new sand, so it’s nice and clean. A real popular place, too crowded on Saturdays and Sundays, so we could go Wednesday afternoon. We’ll have it all to ourselves. I can ask Rachel today. Her place is on the way home.”

  “A beach? Maybe we could wade around. I have a swimming dress, but I don‘t know how to swim.”

  “I’d to glad to teach you how to swim. Be forewarned, the water’s cold.”

  Good. A dunk in cold water sounded just like what she needed. It might clear her head.

  Chill her heart.

  Chapter 7

  Rhyan dodged the smart carriages in front of the capitol building and climbed wide steps, weaving between women demonstrators. Signs for temperance and women’s suffrage bobbed above their heads.

  Men of all stripes scurried about. Some with grand hopes. Some carrying the zeal of patriotic fervor. Some pure evil.

  Inside, power pulsed with an energy of its own. No one stopped him since the authorities knew him from past lobbying visits. He passed by military guards and entered Congressman Walcott’s office.

  Walcott had one of the best offices available. Rhyan wasn’t surprised to find the outer room filled with well-dressed men, vying with each other for attention. He walked passed them with confidence, until finally stopped by a uniformed man holding a leather bound book of record.

  The official raised a head covered with thinning grey hair that matched a neatly trimmed mustache. “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Cason? I don’t find your name listed.”

  “I don’t have an appointment, but the congressman will see me.”

  “There are two gentlemen inside at the moment. When they come out—”

  “This can’t wait. It’s urgent.”

  The man looked perplexed, grappling for some rule that he might find to cover the situation. Rhyan pressed forward, and the official made a decision. “Very well.” He turned and opened the door a short span. Voices sounded from within. “Pardon, sir, Mr. Cason has very urgent business.”

  This was met with a heavy pause followed by the sound of squeaking chairs. “Rhyan Cason, well, show him in. Gentlemen, if you’ll indulge me, I’m sure this won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  Rhyan stood aside as the men exited, some casting wary glances his way. He went in to face Walcott, the door closing firmly behind.

  The congressman, who stood in the middle of the room, started back to his desk. “Have a seat. Abby sent me a telegram she was going to bring you.”

  Rhyan took the heavy, intricately-carved hardback chair. Abby had always been sure of herself, but that’s what it took to be a power broker in politics. “She said they’re awarding the beef contracts this week.”

  Walcott hunched over his desk. “That’s right. All I have to do is give my recommendation.” His smile said there was no doubt his recommendation would be accepted.

  “You do know there was an anthrax epidemic on my ranch?”

  Walcott’s smile faded by only a degree. “I did hear something to that effect, but I assume you can find enough healthy cattle to make the first shipment. No one will care where they came from. They’re just going to reservations. Most of the deliveries are scheduled for the next several years, anyway, for cows not even born yet.”

  Something about the congressman’s flippant attitude jarred Rhyan, The government had never been much concerned with food for Indians, so he shouldn’t be surprised. But tying himself to a government contract for years didn’t sit well with him.

  What choice did he have? At least his cattle would be the best eating the Indians ever had. “I’ll get you a proposal in a couple of hours.”

  Walcott jumped to attention. Fumbling through his papers, he took a printed sheet in hand and laid it in front of Rhyan. A proposal had already been prepared, just waiting for his signature. He knew without even asking that the quoted price was just shy of the lowest offer. Ridiculously low, compared to what he’d normally get, but enough to keep Sollano going for awhile.

  Walcott reared back against the leather cushions of his chair. “Now that’s taken care of, let’s discuss another matter. We’re in serious trouble this election. You’re needed, Mr. Cason. The country needs you.”

  Rhyan held the pen poised over the document. He glanced up and set the pen down. “If you’re asking me to do stump speeches for your candidates, I’ve already obligated my help to Hodges.” That would probably set Walcott on his ear. Hodges was in the opposing party.

  Walcott laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Naturally, we’ll want to steal you away from Hodges for a while. But I’m talking about long term, getting you ready to run for office.”

  Rhyan started to protest, but Walcott stopped him. “Hear me out. You’re too young for the Senate, but there are several states with opportunities to run for the House.”

  Now it was beginning to dawn on Rhyan. No one ever received a favor without being called upon to give something in return. “You know I live in Nebraska.”

  “Nebraska can’t help us.” Walcott pulled out another paper and flipped it around. “Here’s a list of possibilities. States we’re going to have to win. Those I’ve circled will be up for the Senate in four years. You’ll be ready for that by then. Of course you’ll have to get married, but that should be no problem. A couple of terms as Senator and, who knows, you could run for President.” He rolled his lips to moisten them like he’d just set down to a tempting meal.

  This wasn’t the first time Rhyan had heard these plans, and he’d even considered them, but not now. “My ranch is in Nebraska.”

  “Oh, balderdash man, who cares where your ranch is? You’re the only cattle baron I know who lives on his own ranch. You can easily set up residence in one of these states.” Walcott pointed to the paper.

  Rhyan paused to let that sink in. Maybe it was best to move. Prevent the possibility of running into Carianne and let the affection die a natural death. “What makes you think I’d have a chance in one of these states?”

  “For one, you have wonderful oratory skills. Your passion and humor keep people listening. That’s the mark of a politician. You’ll have to agree a speaker who can keep the audience awake has an advantage.”

  A humorless chuckle escaped Rhyan. “You’re right about that, but you have to do more than just make them listen.”

  “Perhaps…but remember, it was Lincoln’s oratory skill that launched his career.”

  “You’re not comparing me to Lincoln.”

  “Why not? And you have something Lincoln didn’t have—good looks. You attract women. Believe me, Mr. Cason, that’s an advantage few of us have.” Walcott cocked a brow. “Women may not have the vote, but they have a lot more influence than they’re given credit for.”

  That was something Rhyan had often thought himself. He nodded.

  Walcott leaned forward, arms laying on the desk. “You have the one thing a successful politician must have.” He lifted his hands to steeple his fingers. “Recognition. Everyone knows who the Casanova Cowboy is. You draw females like a picnic draws ants, and they’ll drag their husbands to hear you speak.”

  Rhyan didn’t need to hear any more. He stood. “You’ve given me a lot to think
about.”

  “Yes, I have. Oh, don’t forget to sign your proposal.”

  Rhyan looked down at the paper, then he leveled a stare at Walcott. “I’m never going to be a Lincoln, Mr. Walcott, but I do have some principles. I’ve spent five years railing against cronyism. If I signed this, I’d be a hypocrite, wouldn’t I? So no, I’m going to pass on the contract, and if I ever run for office, I won’t be offering any favors.”

  Like a deflating balloon, Walcott’s enthusiasm shriveled. “You will think about…the rest of it?” He slowly got to his feet.

  “Of course. What you say makes sense.” Rhyan held out his hand and smiled.

  Walcott pounced on that like a drowning man on a floating log. He shook Rhyan’s hand vigorously. “Good, good, and I’ll be sending correspondence with details. I admire your fortitude, Mr. Cason.”

  “I hope you’re right, and maybe I can help the party gain one of those other states. I may have to sell the ranch anyway, and I’ll need a new place to move to.”

  If Carianne didn’t take his advice and leave Westerfield, he’d have to move. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being so close when he couldn’t make her his wife.

  ***

  Later that evening, the head waiter at the hotel restaurant led Rhyan to a table where Abby waited. She smiled as he sat opposite. “Was your meeting with Walcott productive?”

  “Actually, yes, I learned something about myself I didn’t know before.”

  He took a sip of water, and the silence lingered until Abby tapped the table with her manicured fingers. “Are you going to share with me what that was?”

  “You remember what Shakespeare said, ‘To thine own self, be true’? I decided I’d rather do that than live with the other. I declined the contract.”

  Abby raised her chiseled brows. “Oh—you surprise me.” Too controlled to show her true feelings, she smiled in that knowing way he remembered so well. “But you’ll find another market. You have enough charm to sell a…a match to a burning man.”

  He laughed. “And I thought I was the master of exaggeration. I may not be able to hold onto the land or even the house.” He focused on the candle’s dancing light. “But there’ll be other opportunities.”

  A waiter interrupted them to take their orders. When he left, Rhyan gave Abby the penetrating look he knew she waited for. Candlelight softened her features and set the diamonds lying at her throat to twinkling. She was one of the most beautiful women in the Capitol and used that asset to advantage, never being pompous or snooty. Her charm attracted both men and women.

  Her lips curved into a smile. “George and I are going to divorce.” She said the words as casually as if she’d announced going to see the latest play.

  It took a second for Rhyan to digest the full impact. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Not that it would’ve surprised him if they had divorced years ago, even as hard as it was to get a divorce. George Sinclair was a womanizer and drunkard, and Abby had enough affairs to count out the fingers on both hands.

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m ecstatic. It will be very amicable, you see. George will leave me, and I’ll sue for abandonment.” She inclined her head. “The settlement is generous.”

  “Won’t that harm his career?” People would forgive politicians almost anything except divorce.

  “He isn’t going to run again. Doesn’t have to. His father died recently, and George inherited a fortune, which he’s generously sharing with me.” Her snigger was a little off key. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be free to remarry.”

  Rhyan froze as he had that time he’d hunted bear in the north woods, and the animal got too close. He dropped his gaze to the table setting. “So you will, but why would you want to remarry? You could remain free.”

  Her laughter was loud enough to draw the attention of the men at the next table. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Rhyan, you know women better than that. Women are never satisfied unless they’re married. Fortunately, society forces men to comply. Admit it, you’ll have to marry sometime.”

  He couldn’t think of a decent retort. For the first time, he realized he’d never loved Abby. What he’d felt for her during their liaison wasn’t love. Nothing more than lust, if even that. He’d loved the thrill of the game. Excitement. Intrigue. Danger. The satisfaction of not getting caught.

  Sin brings pleasure but for a season. That was somewhere in the Bible. Or something like that. Funny how fragments of scripture kept popping into his mind. He used to enjoy arguing with idiots who dared quote scripture to him. Enjoyed arguing with Carianne.

  Carianne rarely quoted scripture. She lived it.

  Abby’s mouth pinched. “Remember what fun we had? We understand each other.”

  Yes, he remembered but wanted to forget. He yearned to pack up those memories like old clothes he’d tired of and stored in the furthest reaches of the attic. Abby’s tone told him his hesitation annoyed her, so he reached for the only thing he could find. “Walcott wants me to run for the House. Marrying a divorced woman would be—impossible.”

  Forcing himself to meet her gaze, he found her studying him with an intensity he didn’t like.

  “No, that’s not the problem.” Abby tilted forward as if to get a better look. “You’re still in love with…the charming young lady who played hostess at the Sollano spring ball. What was her name? Carianne.”

  It galled him to have Carianne’s name on Abby’s lips. His jaw clenched.

  Abby didn’t seem to notice. “Why she turned you down, I can’t imagine, but don’t worry, you’ll get over her with time. Just don’t tarry long, darling. Life is very short, and youth even shorter.”

  She wouldn’t understand that Carianne hadn’t turned him down, or that religion would enter into his decision. To Abby, life was a game of chance. You took your opportunities and cut your losses. Faith didn’t enter into it. She’d laugh at the very idea.

  With a soft sigh, she reached across the table to clasp his hand. “Don’t concern yourself now. Go back home and take care of your ranch. Just remember…I’ll be waiting.”

  “I hate the thought of getting back on that train. After dinner I’m going straight to sleep.” He didn’t want her to have illusions he’d invite her to his room.

  But he didn’t go straight to sleep. He saw Abby off in her carriage and walked the streets. He relived every moment he’d spent with Carianne, her touch, her voice, her love, and that stricken look in her eyes when he’d sent her away.

  He’d reread Arabella’s diary, trying to convince himself his and Carianne’s relationship was nothing like his parents. Yes, Carianne was grounded in her faith, but traditions didn’t chain her to rules like they did his father. Nor were Rhyan’s beliefs or lack of beliefs like his mother.

  Arabella pretended. He refused to pretend.

  Maybe he’d been too hasty, thinking it best for both Carianne and him to part. End their love shifty, like yanking a tooth out fast instead of worrying it.

  Now he admitted the yearning within him had grown, and he dared to flatter himself she still loved him.

  He’d have to talk to her. Apologize. Decency demanded that much. No, he couldn’t offer her marriage with his financial situation as it was. But Emma was right. He could rebuild the ranch. He’d done it before. If love could survive that, it could survive a lifetime.

  Unless she’d taken his advice and left town.

  Urgency seized him, whirling him around in mid-stride. Why wait until tomorrow? He had to get on the first train for home.

  Chapter 8

  Carianne, with Colt beside her, rode their horses behind Rachel’s buckboard. Hugging the wagon’s seat, Becky was the picture of little girl cuteness in her swim dress and braided hair.

  They followed the river bank until they came to a bend.

  “There it is.” Becky pointed, and Carianne followed the direction of her small finger. She saw nothing except willows and
cottonwoods interspersed with elders and wild grapevines. The river couldn’t be far. Its pungent smell assaulted her nose.

  She couldn’t have ordered a day more perfect for swimming. Hot, sultry, little wind, and a blue sky with a few fluffy clouds overhead.

  They rounded the bend and Carianne reared in her saddle as a little bubble of real pleasure lifted the corners of her lips. Tucked inside the shady spot anchored on one side by the river and on the other by a barbed wire enclosed pasture, an oasis beckoned her. Weathered picnic tables and benches scattered about the periphery.

  A crescent of sand made up the beach, water lapping at the edges. Huge boulders separated the swim area from the river. It must have taken an ox team to bring them in here. She would’ve expected nothing less from Rhyan’s grandfather. Apparently, he did everything in grand style.

  The air pulsed with flying things, birds and insects chirping and buzzing over the elder blossoms. There was an air of privacy here, and sunlight filtered through the bushes and vines, while beams danced on the water in a dreamy sort of way.

  Even before Carianne and Colt got the horses tethered, Becky was running to the water.

  “Becky, take off your shoes.” Rachel jumped down from the buckboard. “Colt, would you take my watermelon and set it in the water to cool?”

  He retrieved a large melon from the buckboard. “Your watermelons already ripe?”

  Rachel laughed. “No, that one came from the Sollano greenhouse. Carlos brought us a couple the other day.”

  Why did everyone have to keep reminding Carianne of Sollano? While Colt was occupied, she slipped her outer skirt off. The swim dress’s skirt came just below the knees, and her stockings ended at the ankles. She tugged at the modest bodice to make sure it held everything in shape.

  By the time Carianne reached the water’s edge, Becky had already ducked under. She bobbed up and sent Carianne a wide smile, proudly displaying two large white teeth sprouting from her baby gums. “Are you really coming in, Miss Carianne, I’ve never seen a grown-up lady get in the water before.”