by Len Levinson
Cassandra wasn’t comfortable in the world of business, the domain of men. She didn’t know much about it, felt inferior to its professional practitioners, and always was certain they were robbing her. But she’d had to enter that world, because she couldn’t expect Gideon to deal with these people. That would be too much to ask of a man who’d already given so much to his country.
Mr. Dohenney said, “Here it is—I believe I found it. There are four drafts, twenty-five hundred dollars each, made out to the Sundust Investors Syndicate of Denver, Colorado, signed by the colonel.”
“Are you sure?” She asked, leaning forward, wanting to see the proof.
He turned the books around and showed them to her. “These are our official bank records, and I can get confirmation from the Syndicate’s bank in Denver, if you like.”
She looked at the ledger and saw her husband’s name beside the sums of money. “Could someone have forged his handwriting?”
He smiled indulgently. “We know the colonel here. He comes and goes all the time. Is anything wrong, Mrs. Whiteside?”
“Comes and goes all the time?”
“He frequently writes drafts. But of course you know that. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Whiteside, because I have rather a lot of work to do, and …”
Cassandra found herself on the sidewalk in front of the bank, and thought she was going to pass out. Buildings swam around her, and she reached to a post for support. It had happened, there could be no backing away from it. They were in debt, and might have to sell the ranch, unless they could get that herd on the trail.
What had Gideon done, and why? She wanted to return to the ranch immediately, to tell Truscott to take whatever herd he’d formed to Abilene as soon as he could get them moving. Then, when the creditors came, she could tell them they’d get paid as soon as the herd reached the railhead, but if they came while the herd was there, they’d simply take, on the hoof, what they were owed. The herd must get moving as soon as possible.
Where was John Stone? She’d said she’d meet him at three, after the leisurely lunch she’d planned, but now she was sick to her stomach, and it wasn’t just the money that did it.
Gideon had lied to her, and that hurt the most. It was almost impossible for her to comprehend, because he was a god to her, and could do no wrong.
Wait a minute, she said to herself, did he ever tell me about this? She wracked her brain and tried to remember the Sundust Syndicate among the many investment ideas he’d discussed with her over the years, but it didn’t ring a bell, and she certainly didn’t remember authorizing him to invest ten thousand dollars of her inheritance.
Surely there must be a mistake. A man like Gideon couldn’t’ve done such a thing. He was naive when it came to business, so maybe one of his drinking cronies had put him up to it, or used his signature in a fraudulent way. She’d have to discuss it with him immediately.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and she had no idea where John Stone was, but suspected the town’s innumerable saloons. Perhaps she could hire a boy to look for him, but first she thought her outlook might improve if she had a little brandy.
Holding her skirts in her hands, she crossed the street and climbed the sidewalk on the far side. Then she walked swiftly to the Barlowe House, entered the lobby, and made her way to the restaurant overlooking the street. Perhaps, while she was having refreshments, she could see John Stone pass by.
She sat at a table near one of the front windows, ordered brandy and coffee. The sinking feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away. The Triangle Spur, her great dream, was a bust. How much could she salvage?
Everything would be all right, if she could just get that herd moving to Abilene. Then she’d have a fighting chance, although she’d be depending ort the most problematic and useless crew of cowboys ever to go up the trail. She was confident, or wanted to be confident, that Truscott could wring the necessary efficiency out of them.
It occurred to her that in the past she’d often found sums of money missing in her calculations, a hundred here, three hundred there, but she’d always thought it was her erroneous arithmetic. Had Gideon been doing this all along? It was impossible. Unthinkable. She was ashamed for even thinking such a thing.
The waiter placed her brandy and coffee on the table, bowed, and backed away. She hoisted the glass of brandy and drank a good healthy gulp to clear her head. Then she sipped some coffee.
Far down the sidewalk, on the other side of the street, she saw a tall, familiar figure wearing two six-guns in crisscrossed belts. Although she couldn’t see his face clearly yet, she knew it was him by his smooth rolling swagger.
She couldn’t help smiling, because he really was nothing more than a big brat. Stone needed a momma, or a good strong woman to keep him on the straight and narrow, and then maybe he could make something out of himself.
He crossed the street, heading for the Barlowe House, and she thought maybe he’d heard she was there. She arose and moved toward the lobby, to intercept him, but when she reached the dining-room exit, she saw something that made her stop cold in her tracks.
It was her husband, Colonel Gideon Whiteside, accompanying a young woman across the lobby. Cassandra nearly fell on her face, but caught herself, held tightly, and moved into the shadows. Her husband and the young woman headed toward the front door, and her husband touched his hand to the small of her back, to guide her, just as he did with Cassandra.
Forgotten now was John Stone. What did her husband think he was doing? She ran to her table, tossed down the rest of the brandy, sipped some coffee, threw a few coins on the table, and ran toward the lobby. A few men raised their eyebrows as she passed, and figured she was just another hysterical woman with some petty concern on her little mind.
At the front of the hotel, John Stone climbed the steps to the wide planked veranda, where men and women sat in the open air, sipping beverages, when suddenly he saw, emerging from the lobby, Colonel Whiteside.
Both of them looked at each other, and Stone recognized the young woman on his arm as one of the chorus girls from the Last Chance Saloon.
Stone didn’t know what to do, and pretended he hadn’t seen Whiteside. He crossed the veranda, passed Whiteside without a murmur, and entered the lobby of the hotel.
Was Whiteside running with a chorus girl behind Cassandra’s back? What did women see in that old windbag anyway?
He climbed the stairs, and Cassandra waited until he was out of sight, then moved across the lobby and out onto the sidewalk, turning to her right and left, seeing her husband and the woman, and moving after them, staying in the shadows near the storefronts, her heart beating so furiously she thought she was having a heart attack.
Ahead of her, Rosalie said to Whiteside, “I ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, and there’s nothing wrong with you takin’ a walk with me. Let me tell you—there’s lots of men who wish they was you right now.”
“But I’m known in this town,” he said. “My wife might find out.”
“Who do you love best, Gideon—yer wife or me?”
“You of course, my dear. Didn’t I buy you a house? Don’t I give you everything you want?”
“You ain’t gave me no ring, Gideon. Till then, I’m still a free woman.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting …”
“If you won’t marry me, there’s plenny who will. Like Mr. Shannon. You know who Mr. Shannon is, don’tcha Gideon? The feller what owns the Bar XT?”
“But Shannon was a war profiteer! Never even put on a uniform in five years of war!”
“The only war I care about, Gideon, is my own war to put food on the table.”
“I’ve bought you a house, but nothing’s ever enough. You’re insatiable.”
“When you sell cattle, you try to get the best price. I got to get my best price too.”
Gideon ground his teeth in barely suppressed anger. Somehow he was unable to put this one under his thumb, perhaps because she was even more des
perate than he. And he couldn’t take the house back; he’d signed it over to her back in the days when they were more cuddly.
It’d been a shock when he’d seen John Stone at the Barlowe House, but Stone hadn’t appeared to notice him. Whiteside hoped Stone wouldn’t tell Cassandra, because that could cause dangerous complications at a bad time. He’d known he shouldn’t walk in broad daylight with Rosalie, but she’d insisted. She had him wrapped around her little finger, because she was beautiful and young, only seventeen, and he was fifty, flabby, and had a double chin.
Cassandra was losing her figure, whereas Rosalie was firm and ripe. Gideon always felt a need for young women, but it was more difficult to get them now that he was fifty.
If a man had sufficient monies, he could have anything he wanted, even Rosalie, and it wouldn’t matter if he were ninety. The main thing was gold coins.
It was no use trying to frighten Rosalie into submission. All she had to do was wink and make a casual suggestion to some lovesick drunken cowboys, and Whiteside would be found shot dead on a lonely road, or maybe he’d never be found at all, disappearing unmourned into an unmarked grave on the prairie.
He craved her strong young body, those pert breasts, and couldn’t let her go, because if he did it’d mean he was just another foolish old man. Somehow he had to hold on to her.
“The ring will come in due time, my dear,” he said, draping his arm over her shoulder. “Haste makes waste. One step at a time.”
“What do you mean by due time, Gideon? A month? Six months? A year?”
“A year.”
“I ain’t got a year to wait, Gideon. Sorry.”
She wriggled out of his grasp and moved a short distance from him, and it hurt to be spurned on the street where people could see.
“You must give me some time,” he begged. “I just can’t walk away from my wife. We have to think of her feelings too. I’m in the middle of delicate business negotiations, which I must complete before I can do anything else. But you bear with me a while longer, and have faith in me, and we’ll be richer than your wildest dreams. You’ll buy whatever you want, and live like a queen.”
He saw the greed in her eyes, and knew he’d touched her most significant spot. What she didn’t know was his resources always would be limited, even if he ended up with every penny of Cassandra’s money. But he could have her for a while, and an old man only needed a while.
“Only three more months?” She asked.
“That’s all, and then you can have all the wonderful things you’ve always wanted, and so richly deserve. Surely you can give me three months, darling. Shannon may have more money than I, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get any. He’s a tight-fisted bastard, with no culture, sensitivity, or ideals.” Whiteside balled his fist and held it in front of her face. “He didn’t serve in the war! What kind of man could he be?”
“The Bar XT is the second-biggest spread around here, after the Diamond D. Yer spread is just a piddlin’ li’l thing, a few thousand cattle. I think you should talk more respectfully about Mr. Shannon, Gideon.”
She pointed her nose in the air and increased her pace as she walked swiftly over the planked sidewalk, catching the eyes of cowboys and loafers sitting on the benches, smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey, admiring the women flesh and talking horseflesh.
Farther back on the sidewalk, Cassandra felt as though she were choking to death. Her husband was rushing to catch up with the young woman, obviously pleading with her. Cassandra had to admit the obvious conclusion: Gideon was passionately involved with her.
Cassandra wanted to catch up with them and ask what was going on, but something held her back. She was afraid it would be too much for her, that close, in all its horror. Better to lag back and observe from a safe distance.
And in fact, she might be misinterpreting everything. There could be an innocent explanation, although it was hard to imagine what one would be.
The cowboys and loafers saw her pass, and a few made admiring comments, then returned to their discussions of horses, because horse traders in San Antone were thick as fiddlers in Hell.
John Stone climbed the stairs of the Barlowe House, amazed by what he’d seen. What was Gideon Whiteside doing with one of the dancing girls in Veronika’s act? A one-armed old lecher with a woman of shady implications. If Cassandra found out, there’d be hell to pay.
He came to the floor where Veronika lived, and wondered what he’d do if the count opened the door again. Maybe Stone would punch him in the mouth, because it felt like that kind of day.
Stone approached the door, and suddenly it opened. Veronika stepped out, wearing a long dress, carrying a parasol. Their eyes met, and hers clouded over as he came to a stop in front of her.
“I thought we had an appointment,” he said.
She looked up at him, and he was only a few inches taller than she. “I knew you vould be trupple the first moment I set eyes on you,” she mused. “You are a crazy cowboy, but unfortunately you haf a certain charm.” She looked back and forth in the hotel corridor, and no one was about. “I haf someplace to go,” she said, “but I can talk for a few minutes.”
She unlocked her door, and he followed her into her suite of rooms.
“Haf a seat,” she said. “Vould you like something to drink?”
“Whiskey.”
“Asking a cowboy if he vants something to drink is like asking a bird if it vants to fly,” she replied, walking to a cabinet and pouring a glass of whiskey.
She handed it to him, then sat on a chair, her eyes roving his shoulders and arms, and the dark blond hair on his chest.
“I am sorry about last night,” she said, “but the count vas here, undt he, veil, you know how it is.”
Stone sipped his whiskey. “I think I do, but he’s not here now.”
“He is a very jealous man.”
“So’m I.”
“You haf nothing to be jealous of. You barely know me. Do you think I could afford to live like this if all I did vas shake my ass in the Last Chance Saloon?”
Stone gazed at her over the top of his glass, and felt a powerful eroticism. “I understand all that,” he said, “but we’re alone now.”
“I do not think you understand at all, schatzchen. The count is a proud man, and therefore a dangerous one. Yesterday I gave in to a momentary veakness, but now I am myself again. Finish your vhiskey undt leave like a good boy, all right?”
“You sure that’s what you want?”
“I vould not tell you if I was not sure.”
He saluted her with his glass, then drained its contents and placed the glass on the table beside him. He was about to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but remembered his manners. Standing, he adjusted his gunbelts, then headed for the door. She reached it a second before he, her hand touched the doorknob, and he was beside her, only inches away.
The vestibule was narrow and dark, and they looked into each other’s eyes. The fragrance of her body arose to his nostrils, and he felt an artery throb in his throat. She saw the flash in his eyes, and could feel his powerful physicality. Her hand faltered on the doorknob, and he swallowed hard. He hadn’t touched a woman for more than five years, and here was one of the most stunning he’d ever seen.
“Do not even think about it, schatzchen,” she said, but there was a tremble in her voice.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her closer to him. Their eyes met, and they saw the inferno. Stone thought of Marie, Cassandra, and every other woman he’d ever desired, and somehow they all accumulated in the woman before him, whose body was melting into his.
He held her tightly against him, felt her heart beating, and a gigantic dam burst inside him. She dug her fingernails into his back, and he pressed his lips against hers, as together they sank toward the floor.
Colonel Whiteside and Rosalie Cowper stopped at a neat two-storied house at the edge of town. Whiteside opened the white picket gate, and together they proceeded up the path
toward the front door. She opened the door with her key, he bowed and held out his hand, and she went in first.
Cassandra stared at the house from an alley farther down the street, and thought her mind would go into convulsions. This was her second major blow of the day, and she responded in the same way, she reached out for support.
Fortunately the side of a building was there, and it prevented her from falling. Her husband, who’d been a god to her, had become an untrustworthy and sneaky scoundrel.
For a few moments she didn’t know where she was. She thought of New Orleans, where she’d been a girl, so happy before the war. Life had seemed golden and radiant, and somehow this had happened. It seemed like a cruel joke perpetrated by a demon.
“Are you all right, lady?”
It was a boy of ten, dressed like a miniature cowboy, his face freckled, looking up at her.
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, trying to make a little smile.
She walked back toward the Barlowe House, dragging her feet. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, she thought. Everything might be quite innocent, and this only an attack of jealousy unsupported by fact, but it sure doesn’t seem that way.
One part of her wanted to go to the house and get some answers, and another told her to wait and question Gideon next time she saw him. In the meanwhile, maybe she could find out who owned that house.
She headed toward City Hall, and the men sitting on benches admired her slim waist, firm bosom, and bright golden hair.
“You know,” an old sourdough said, leaning drunkenly against a wall, “that one’s enuff to make a feller think about settlin’ down and havin’ kids.”
“You’re too old to have kids—you old varmint,” a young cowboy replied, a bottle of potent amber liquid in his hand.
“But I could try,” the sourdough told him, his eyes glassy as he stared at the figure of Cassandra receding into the traffic of the lazy San Antonio afternoon.
On the third floor of the Barlowe House, Stone buttoned his jeans while Veronika tied a black silk robe around her waist, the nipples of her breasts pressing against the thin material. Stone walked to the mirror and turned around, to take a look at his back.
