“Shut up, sit still, and listen to me!” Cleveland commanded, his voice rising like thunder. “Or would you rather talk about being disinherited?”
Cleve sank back in his chair, glowering like a tiger on a circus stool. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Father. What is it you want?”
“I want you to be more circumspect; your wild ways are being talked about among my business associates.”
“If you’re talking about Maureen—”
“I am. I’ll take care of that for you as I’ve always cleaned up your scandals, but you must change.”
“What’s the point of being rich if you can’t enjoy it?”
“A gentleman enjoys himself discreetly,” Cleveland said and reached into the humidor on his desk for a fine imported cigar. “Most of all, he thinks about his heritage and his son’s future.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Balderdash! Shut up and listen to me. You are engaged to a lovely young woman, whom I understand is of a highborn family; she will be perfect as the mother of my grandchildren.”
“Wannie is beautiful,” Cleve agreed with a grin, causing the cleft in his chin to deepen. It was one of his most attractive features. Cleveland tried to remember who among his forebearers had had that distinctive feature. Maybe it had come from Bertha’s side of the family.
“Father?”
“What?” Cleveland came out of his thoughts with a start. Abruptly, he realized his son was staring at him. “I—I was merely thinking,” he said crisply and stood, then paced up and down. “Now, my boy, here is what you will do. You will be more discreet with your wenching and everything else you’ve been doing, lest the young lady break the engagement. After you’re legally married, I don’t care whether it’s happy or not, as long as you maintain appearances.”
As your mother and I have done, he thought. He despised Bertha, but he persevered to build an empire for his son.
Cleve ducked his head. “Whatever you say, Father.”
“Good. Now that we understand each other, you may return to your card game, but cut back on your gambling.”
“Yes, Father.” Cleve left the library, closing the door behind him.
Cleveland tossed his cigar into the brass spittoon and sat back down at his desk, listening to the holiday crowd out on the lawn and in the house. He had ledgers to look at—no matter it was a holiday. Business and his son were the only interests he had. Once, he had had a taste for expensive whores, but that passion had burned out with advancing age. At least he had been discreet and Bertha never suspected a thing. They had not shared a bed since she had become pregnant with Cleve and Cleveland neither knew nor cared what Bertha thought or felt about anything.
He stared at the row of portraits of his ancestors on his library wall. Blue-blooded aristocrats dating back to the Mayflower, he thought with satisfaction. Blood counts in both men and horses, so eventually, young Cleve would reach his potential, fulfill his heritage. His son’s existence made this loveless marriage worth the price Cleveland had paid for it.
It was growing dark when Keso went up the mansion’s stairs and knocked on Wannie’s door. “Wannie, it’s me.”
“Go away! With all the laughter and noise out on the lawn, I expect the dancing and fireworks are about to start.”
Instead, he came in. “They are. I thought maybe I could carry you downstairs so you could watch.”
“Watch you having a great time dancing and flirting? Must you rub it in?”
She wore a sheer pink nightdress as she sat in bed propped up by pillows, her long, black hair hanging loose over her shoulders. She had never looked so desirable to him. Once, when she was about fourteen or fifteen, he had accidently seen her swimming nude in a mountain brook and had been ashamed at how his body had reacted to the sight.
“Wannie, you ought to put on some kind of a wrap if you’re going to entertain company.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She waved him in to sit on her bed. “You’re not company, you’re just my brother.”
He didn’t feel like her brother, but he couldn’t resist the invitation to cross the room and sit on the edge of her bed. Through the sheer, pale, pink fabric, he could see her breasts. He kept his hands clenched on the coverlet to keep them from coming up to cover those dark-tipped mounds.
“Is everyone outside?” She sighed and the lace of the gown slid off one shoulder. Keso stared at that bare flesh. He wanted to kiss along that shoulder until he reached the swell of that breast, then pull it down so he could taste that nipple. He took several deep breaths, trying to control his body’s urgent throbbing.
“What’s wrong with you, Keso? Are you choking on something?”
“No, I-I’m just hot, that’s all; it’s a hot night.”
“It certainly is.” She fanned herself with her hand, looking absently toward the window. When she moved her arm, her breast moved beneath the sheer fabric.
The throb in him became an agonizing ache and Keso had to grit his teeth to contain a sound. Innocent that she was, she had no idea how she was affecting him. In his mind, he tumbled her into the covers, kissing her passionately, possessing her, protecting her. He felt sweat break out on his forehead. Underneath that sheer fabric, no doubt her body was shimmering with heat. He imagined the feel of it naked against him as he embraced her, slipped the silver ring on her finger, made her his in every sense of the word.
Laughter and music drifted through the open window.
Wannie frowned. “Alexa will come looking for you soon.”
“I know—I just thought I’d see how you were.” He found himself staring at her mouth. Wannie’s lips were full and soft, he thought.
She absently ran her pink tongue along those lips and it was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms and kissing her deeply, thoroughly.
Sounds of firecrackers and cheers echoed through the darkness, lit only by a single lamp.
Wannie craned her neck toward the window, and when she did, her face almost brushed his. “Sounds like the fireworks are starting.”
“Would you like me to carry you over to the window so you can watch?”
“I could walk—I’m okay.”
In answer, he swept her up in his big arms, marveling at how light she was. Her arms went around his neck and when he breathed, she smelled like wildflowers. He swallowed hard, carried her to the window, and stood where she could see out.
“Keso, I’m heavy—you could put me in a chair.”
“I could lift you with one arm, and you know it. Besides, brat, you can’t see as well from that chair.” The light reflected on her shining black locks and he wanted to stroke them, tangle his fingers in them. He could feel the heat of her breast through his shirt and her long, pretty legs were draped over his arm. He wondered if she could feel the pulse pounding through his aroused body.
She looked up at him and abruptly seemed upset and troubled.
Oh, damn—he was sure she sensed he wanted her past all reason. “Wannie, what’s the matter?”
“N-Nothing. Keso, put me back in bed, please.” She trembled in his arms. Wannie must have realized how he was reacting to her.
With a sigh, he carried her over and put her gently in the bed. She pulled the cover up over her breasts and he saw that her small fingers were clenched in the sheet tightly. He had unnerved her, he thought with regret. He took her small shoulders in his hands and kissed her forehead. “I love you, brat.”
“Thanks for what you did for me this morning; I suppose I acted badly.”
Keso shrugged, thinking how warm and silky her flesh was under his fingers. He wanted to pull her up to his mouth and kiss her thoroughly. She’d be horrified. “Part of a big brother’s job, I reckon.”
He forced himself to let go of her and step back, knowing he had no right even to think what he was thinking. All these years, Keso had cherished and protected her as she turned from annoying brat to gangly girl-child to grown-up beauty In a few months, young Cleve would take the v
irginity Keso had guarded so carefully all these years. Cleve, the rich, rotten heir who would cheat on Keso’s beloved, break her heart, and make her cry if she discovered the truth. “I’ll always be there for you, Wannie, if you need me. Remember that.”
“I know.”
Maybe if he finally told her how he felt about her, she’d change her mind about marrying Cleve. “Wannie, I—I want you to know that, well, I love you.”
“I love you, too, Keso,” she said absently and looked toward the window where the fireworks flashed. “You’ve been the best kind of brother a girl could want.”
He almost cursed aloud at that, realizing now that she had misunderstood his meaning. She loved him like a brother, nothing more, and thought he was saying the same. “No, what I meant to say was …”
She looked up at him expectantly and he felt like an idiot. He’d told her he loved her and she’d brushed it off. There was no need to say more—he’d only make a fool of himself and make her uncomfortable with his groveling. Her heart belonged to Cleve Brewster. Well, Keso had tried. He had to get out of here now before he reached out and took her in his embrace, whispered soft words of endearment. Wannie—sweet, sweet Wannie. He would die for her, or kill for her, but he would never have her. Tears came to his eyes and Keso blinked rapidly.
“What’s the matter, Keso?”
“Uh, smoke from the lamp chimney.” He forced himself to stride to the door. Maybe if he could get her back to Colorado, he could buy some time to decide what to do about that rotten Cleve; maybe he could even change Wannie’s mind. How could he? Cleve was handsome, sophisticated, polished—everything Keso was not. Keso was rough and ill-mannered, and knew nothing of the life she aspired to. Against an elegant gentleman like Cleve Brewster, Keso couldn’t compete. He wished for a fleeting moment that he was back among the Cheyenne, attacking her train or stagecoach and taking her captive. As a savage brave, Keso would fight any man who tried to claim her, and Wannie would belong to the victor as a warrior’s prize.
“Keso, Cleve said he might consider asking you to be his best man.”
“What?” He’d been lost in the image of fighting the snooty heir with lance and knife, then claiming his bride, sweeping Wannie up in his arms and carrying her into his tipi to warm his blankets. If only it were that simple. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, brat. Besides, he’d probably really rather have one of his college friends.”
She seemed to relax now that he had moved away from the bed. “We’ve got lots of time to talk about it—fancy society weddings take a lot of planning.”
“Remember when Silver and Cherokee got married in that country preacher’s kitchen? I was the best man and you were the maid of honor.”
She laughed. “I remember. We were just children and it wasn’t much of a wedding.”
“Good enough—they’re still married.”
“Sweet memories.” She smiled, thinking. “Remember how I was such a silly kid who said I was going to marry you when I grew up and you could hardly stand me?”
He nodded. “I even remember little things you’ve forgotten, like how you played dress-up in Silver’s things. Looks like you’ll have all the jewels and clothes you want now.”
“I guess that’s a weakness of mine.” She looked down at her big diamond. “Once you made me a necklace, remember?”
He colored. “A daisy chain. I reckon it was a stupid thing to do.”
“I thought it was sweet.”
“Well, yeah, I reckon it’s the sort of thing a rough country bumpkin would do. I know I’ve embarrassed you in front of your fine friends, Wannie, and I’m truly sorry.”
Her eyes misted. “You can’t help it if you weren’t born to his life, Keso. I love you anyway.”
But not in the way I want. He choked back an impulse to scream the words at her, grab her and shake some sense into her. “We are planning on leaving in a few days, aren’t we? Back to Colorado?”
She nodded. “Good night. Have fun dancing with Alexa.”
“I’ll have a great time,” he lied. “ ’Night, Brat.” He left her room, but he didn’t go down to the dance. Instead, he went to his room and to bed, but he didn’t sleep. He lay there picturing Cleve Brewster stripping Wannie’s nightgown off on their wedding night and taking her.
Keso clenched and unclenched his fists, wanting to pound the young heir senseless. What should he do with his knowledge of Cleve’s unfaithfulness? Should he tell her what he had seen? Should he step back and let her marry the spoiled young dandy? Could he stop Wannie even if he tried? All Keso knew was that he loved her beyond all reason. It wasn’t enough; God help him, it wasn’t enough!
SEVEN
Cherokee untied his horse and looked anxiously toward Silver standing on the cabin steps in the mid-July heat. More than anything, he hated to leave her out here all alone. “You’re sure you’ll be all right ’til I get back?”
She nodded reassurance. “Drat it all, Cherokee, you worry about me like I was a child. It isn’t that many miles to the Ute Agency; you won’t be gone more than a few days.”
“Long enough,” he said. “I’ve half a mind not to go.”
“You’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t, dearest. If someone doesn’t do something to ease the tension, there’s liable to be another Indian war.”
“You’re right, as always, sweet darlin’.” He reached to hug her one more time. “I may not be on the best of terms with the Utes because of my friendship with the Cheyenne, but I reckon they respect me, so maybe I can cool things down.”
Silver stepped back. “I think it’s that agent, Meeker, who needs to learn some sense.”
He swung up on his horse. “You’re right about that. I don’t know why whites always think they’re right and the Indians are wrong. I won’t be gone but a few days.”
“Don’t worry about me; I’ve got a gun and I know how to use it.” She leaned against the porch railing. “The kids should be back by the time you return.”
“I’ve missed them,” he admitted with a grin. “Maybe now they’ll get married and raise some grandchildren for us.”
A shadow of worry crossed her beautiful, scarred face. “I wonder about that. After years in a big city, a cabin in the Rockies may seem pretty dull to Wannie.”
“I reckon we shouldn’t have given in and let her go off. There was a good enough school in Denver. Anything she wanted, Keso always talked us into letting her do—he spoiled her worse than we did. You reckon he’s serious about her?”
Silver nodded. “I think he is. Who knows? He’s such a private person. Never says much—the Indian in him, I guess.”
Cherokee reined his horse away from the hitching rail. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing them both. Now, you take care of yourself, sweet darlin’, while I’m gone.”
“I’ll be fine, Cherokee. You concentrate on keeping an Indian war from breaking out in northwestern Colorado.”
“I’ll do my best.” He waved and nudged his horse into a lope, leaving his beloved on the porch waving good-bye.
However, days later, seated in the Indian agent’s office across from the spare, elderly man, Cherokee wasn’t so sure. “You just don’t understand Indians, Meeker.”
The man’s piercing blue eyes glared back. “What’s to understand? I’m going to make a success of this agency. Everyone else has failed, but I don’t intend to.”
“What you don’t understand is that the Utes are like the Cheyenne—they aren’t farmers, they’re hunters. They consider plowing woman’s work, not jobs for proud warriors.”
“Proud warriors!” The man brushed back his iron-gray hair and stood up. “They’re on the public dole and taxpayers are tired of supporting them while they laze around, go on an occasional hunt, and mostly race ponies. They who will not work shall not eat.”
He must not lose his temper with this self-righteous government employee. “May I remind you that the Utes own millions of acres and have survived on their hunting skil
ls all this time without farming?”
“Those times are no more!” Meeker thundered. “There isn’t enough game to support them, they must learn to farm!”
“There was plenty of game before the whites began to trespass on Ute land.”
Meeker looked as annoyed as Cherokee felt. “Northwestern Colorado has rich minerals, vast forests, and good farmland. All that is presently going to waste.”
“The Utes don’t think so—they roam it all.”
“That’s precisely the point!” Meeker snapped. “They roam like Gypsies without putting a plow to the millions of acres Congress gave them—”
“Congress didn’t give them anything,” Cherokee said, trying to keep his voice level. If he lost his temper, he would never be able to reason with Nathan Meeker. “This is their land and has been for many generations.”
“Be that as it may,” this latest agent shrugged him off, “they aren’t putting it to good use. White taxpayers who are also voters are asking why they shouldn’t be given this wasted soil to farm, cut timber on, or mine all those minerals. They’re tired of supporting loafing redskins.”
“The immediate problem is white trespassers killing and driving off all the game the Utes need to survive.”
“They must change,” Meeker said, his blue eyes gleaming with determination. “The Cheyenne and the Sioux have had to change as the buffalo were killed off. Now it’s the Utes’ turn. I will teach them to farm.”
“Even if you could teach them and they were willing, which I doubt, much of northwestern Colorado is too arid.”
“That’s what everyone said about the area around Greeley, which I founded, but I showed them it could be done.” He got up from his desk and walked up and down the room.
“At what cost?” Cherokee rolled a cigarette. “I’ve heard you’ve put yourself in a lot of debt with that town you created.”
Meeker’s face turned a ruddy flush. “It—it’s true I’ve had financial difficulties and I have a family to support.” He came back to the desk and leaned on it with both hands, looking earnestly into Cherokee’s face. “I’ll be honest with you, Evans. I need this position and this income. I’ve worked for a newspaper and I write poetry, but that doesn’t buy food. The previous Indian agents here all failed and were fired. Don’t you see? If I can make the Utes farm successfully, I can keep this job and pay off those debts. I’m not a young man anymore.”
Warrior's Prize (Panorama of the Old West Book 15) Page 9
