Cowboy Crescendo (Dynasties: The Danforths Book 7)

by Cathleen Galitz

  “Don’t,” he warned.

  The band ended a slow song and paused a moment before playing their next selection. Beneath his hand, Heather’s pulse was beating out a much wilder number. Shuddering, she nevertheless kept her eyes level with his.

  A lively Cajun tune started up complete with twin fiddles, a zydeco and an accordion. Like the man who held her captive, it was exciting and dangerous on many levels. Her teachers and parents had done their best to keep her from such “coarse and sensual” music, but alone at night with her radio turned down low, Heather allowed herself to dream her own dreams while her foot tapped out the rhythm of such common, joyful tunes. As far from her classical background as the rambunctious Danforths were from her dispassionate family, such music stirred the imagination. And her blood.

  Heather watched his gaze drop to her lips. She refrained from darting a tongue out to moisten them, licking them in an act of nervousness left over from junior high school days.

  “Don’t,” he warned again. “Don’t go playing with fire in the midst of dry timber.”

  Heather opened her mouth to protest but discovered that her voice had abandoned her. A more aggressive woman might have attempted wrenching her hand free—or maybe even landing a slap upon the features that looked at her with such arrogance. Struck mute, Heather could only watch helplessly as he drew her hand to his mouth and rubbed his lips across the center of her palm. To a curious bystander, it might appear to be a gentlemanly gesture. Heather knew better as she struggled to keep her knees from buckling. His mustache tickled her skin and ignited the very fire which he warned her about.

  Nothing but a torrential downpour could extinguish it. Since the day she’d brushed crumbs away from that mustache, Heather had been intrigued by it. Having never kissed a man with a mustache, she couldn’t help wondering just what it might feel like.

  Up until now, Heather believed it was impossible for a person to forget how to breathe. Her involuntary shallow gasp was so evident of her bewilderment that it caused a smile of masculine awareness to spread beneath that intriguing mustache of his. It was almost as if Toby knew she was considering the effect of such kisses were they to be scattered at random all over her naked body.

  Somewhere between the cold shivers and hot flashes that put her body into a state of utter confusion, a sultry Southern voice rang out.

  “Why, Tobias Danforth, you rambling, contrary man. I was under the impression that you had fallen completely off the face of the planet.”

  Heather snatched her hand away and hid it behind her back like a child. A cloud of sweet perfume and taffeta stepped between them. A pretty thing, the woman had the distinct advantage of feeling completely at ease among the Danforth clan. She exuded the perkiness of a cheerleader. Heather bet she was the team captain.

  Toby fell into the same antiquated pattern of speech used to address him. “Well, I declare. If it isn’t Marcie Mae Webster, all grown up into a sophisticated femme fatale.”

  Marcie Mae’s laughter tinkled like wind chimes. Heather envied her the ability to blush on cue. She imagined the woman would be just as at home in a hoop skirt as the designer original that she wore.

  “I dare say I’ve changed a good deal since the days we used to go skinny-dipping down in the old sinkhole.”

  Unable to endure another sugar-cured syllable, Heather excused herself with the kind of euphemism a woman like Marcie Mae was sure to appreciate.

  “I think I’ll go powder my nose, if you don’t mind.”

  Clearly Marcie Mae didn’t mind at all. Her smile stretched her lips over a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. Taking Toby by the arm, she led him toward a group of old friends she claimed were just dying to see him again.

  Heather tried not to smirk as Toby tossed her a helpless glance over his shoulder. That his apparent misery gave Heather a measure of satisfaction made her feel small.

  The feeling was only intensified by stepping into a huge bathroom that reflected the sumptuousness of the rest of the hotel. Potted plants and cut flowers decorated sinks gleaming with gold-plated fixtures. The bathroom boasted high ceilings, a chandelier and several white wicker chairs positioned welcomingly around the room. Staring into one of the many gilded mirrors, Heather recognized the same panic-stricken expression she used to wear before becoming sick to her stomach before a performance.

  Heather had never felt completely comfortable performing before a live audience. Few people could appreciate the cutthroat nature of her training. Even though it merely underscored the training she had received at home from her parents, such constant pressure had wounded her sensitive spirit so deeply that she had forsaken her musical gifts altogether.

  Turning the cold-water spigot, she ducked down to splash her face.

  Heather suddenly realized she wasn’t alone in the bathroom. There were two women in a darkened corner of the room, and one of them was sobbing so brokenheartedly, it made her stomach cramp in empathy. Not inclined to meddle in other people’s affairs, Heather intended to make a quick exit without getting involved. She would have made it, too, had not the other woman, obviously trying to comfort her companion, cast a desperate glance in her direction and mouthed a request for a tissue.

  Heather took one from a hand-painted porcelain container and walked it over to them. The woman who took it looked to be about her same age. Wearing a beautiful white satin gown that accentuated a petite figure, she looked like a guardian angel. The woman shrugged her shoulders and gestured to the slightly open tall door.

  “I stumbled upon the poor thing crying like this,” the lady in white explained. She spoke with a slight European accent of some sort. “I didn’t feel right leaving her alone in such a state. You wouldn’t by any chance be an acquaintance of hers?”

  Shaking her head, Heather edged toward the door. Just then the injured party raised her head from where it had been hidden behind her hands to reveal twin rivulets of mascara streaming down a face that was too young and pretty to be so angst-ridden. Not old enough to qualify as a woman or young enough to warrant still being called a girl, she was caught in that terrible in-between stage in which one fluctuates miserably between maturity and juvenile behavior. Heather guessed her to be the traditional age when Southern girls had coming-out parties.

  The teen’s voice quavered pathetically as she offered two convenient strangers an unnecessary explanation. “It might seem funny to you, but nothing I do is ever good enough to satisfy my father. Absolutely nothing.”

  “It doesn’t sound funny at all,” Heather assured her in a gentle, understanding tone. “In fact, I can relate to that all too well myself.”

  “As can I,” added the lady in white.

  Surprised to discover a common thread holding them together, the women studied each other. In addition to being approximately the same age, the two older women were of similar height and build. And behind their initial wariness was an inability to abandon someone in need.

  Rather than watering down the girl’s drawl, her tears had the exact opposite effect. Heather strained to understand the words that slipped out between sobs.

  “Can you believe that my daddy actually expects me to throw myself at some old man in the other room in hopes of landing some big business contract? Have you ever heard of anything so vulgar?”

  Heather wondered if by “old” she was referring to someone in his midtwenties.

  “It absolutely makes me feel like a whore!”

  The young lady’s choice of words required yet another tissue to stem the flow of tears that started all over again. Feeling like she was caught in some Victorian time warp, Heather wondered what kind of father would deliberately use a child as a sexual pawn to advance his own ambitions. The answer came to her in a flashback of the day her own parents hustled her across a crowded room to introduce her to Josef Sengele, the master pianist famous for grooming young prodigies for stardom.

  “I know how you feel.”

  It was not Heather’s voice but tha
t of the beautiful woman standing next to her. She made note of the flicker of pain that creased the perfect beauty of that face. Her voice held a sad ring of resignation. Eyes as brilliant as the emeralds on her ears softened as she put a hand upon the young lady’s shoulder.

  “Sometimes you just have to do what has to be done. No matter how unpalatable it might be, business is business and family is family. Come what may, you only have one father in this lifetime.”

  The teenager’s sniffles stopped as she paused to consider the free advice.

  “I thought I’d stay just long enough to appease Daddy without having to actually compromise myself.”

  Having attended innumerable stuffy functions on behalf of her parents, often as the featured attraction of the evening, Heather could certainly understand the desire to please someone whose respect could never be earned. She could not remain quiet on this point.

  “Or…” Heather put a hand on the girl’s other shoulder and finished her thought. “Rather than putting off the inevitable for years to come, years that wear away your sense of worth, you could take a stand right now and claim your life for yourself. Trust me. It’s better to risk being disowned by your family than to disown yourself.”

  Though her words were intended for the girl sitting between them, the woman in white turned as pale as her gown. She seemed genuinely moved. And oddly wounded by her words.

  “You’ll have to make up your own mind,” the woman in white told the teenage girl. “Whatever you decide, just don’t torture yourself with doubts afterward.”

  Heather nodded in agreement. Why she felt such a strong affinity to these two strangers was a mystery. She knew only that a delicate cord connected them for this brief moment.

  When the bathroom door opened unexpectedly, admitting a pair of elegantly attired matrons, it jolted them all into remembering that they were not sharing confidences in the privacy of a home.

  Sighing, the girl admitted, “I’m tempted to just run away and avoid making any decision at all.”

  Heather’s life had been comprised of snapshots of so many fleeting encounters that she longed for a continued friendship, if only for this one strained evening.

  “I really want to know how the evening works out for you,” Heather told the distraught teen. “Maybe we could decide on a time to meet and find a good spot to watch the fireworks later.”

  The girl gave her head an apologetic shake, and the lady in white choked on a dry, painful laugh as she reached first for her silver handbag and then for the doorknob.

  “I doubt anyone will be able to miss them,” she said cryptically before disappearing into the waiting throng outside.

  Heather wished she had thought to ask for her name.

  Six

  Surrounded by a bevy of single women doused in warring fragrances, Toby studied his son’s nanny from a distance. His worries that the shy little thing might not fit in at such an ostentatious gathering were proving completely needless. Heather looked so cool and sexy in that stunning dress that one might be inclined to think she was born to rule over these kinds of parties. The kinds of parties that his ex-wife had lived for. And ultimately left him for.

  Toby washed away the bile that rose in his throat with a second glass of champagne. It lacked the bite of good, old-fashioned whiskey. But he doubted that even Johnnie Walker would make the sight of Heather laughing at something one of his old classmates murmured in her ear go down any smoother. Freddie Prowell was from old money, and though his childhood acquaintance had always been a bit of a prig, Toby had never felt any kind of hatred toward him before tonight. The sight of Freddie leading Heather onto the dance floor caused his shoulders to bunch beneath his suit jacket.

  Where had she gotten that dress? Toby wondered. It certainly didn’t look like something one would pick up off the rack for a special occasion. As Freddie’s hand dropped to the small of her back, Toby’s fingers tightened on the stem of his champagne flute. He imagined it would be as easy to snap the other man’s neck as the glassware in his hands.

  Did Heather know that a backless gown could be even more intriguing to the male population than a plunging neckline. Toby’s imagination kicked into overdrive at the sight of all that creamy skin and the realization that she wasn’t wearing a bra. For all her aloofness toward him over the past few days, Heather didn’t appear to mind a stranger groping her in public. Not that it was any business of his. As a free woman, she was welcome to dance the night away with any number of drooling idiots lined up to ask for the pleasure of her company.

  For that matter, Heather could damn well return to Wyoming wearing another man’s engagement ring if that was what she wanted to do—just so long as she didn’t leave him…er…he meant Dylan, high and dry without any advance notice.

  Toby swore softly under his breath. He didn’t bother waiting for the song to end before breaking free of the circle of women holding court around him. He simply left them to speculate on his rudeness and the certain direction his steps took him.

  He tapped too firmly on Freddie’s shoulder to be ignored. “Mind if I cut in?”

  Considering that he managed to step between the two of them and wrap an arm around Heather’s waist in one fluid motion, the question was purely rhetorical. As such, it required no answer but for Freddie to step aside. He did so reluctantly.

  “My, but don’t you look lovely tonight,” Toby said, drawing Heather close and breathing her in. Her fragrance was a subtle mixture of daisies and the devil herself.

  Batting her eyes at him, Heather donned an exaggerated drawl that mimicked Marcie Mae’s. “I do declare, Mr. Danforth, such flattery could turn a girl’s head completely around.”

  A smile played with the corners of Toby’s mouth. Was it possible she was as bored with this party as he?

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” he remarked dryly, moving her toward the French doors lest anyone dare try cutting in on him like he had Freddie.

  Heather turned the conversation to a safer subject as the music switched to a slow, dreamy waltz. “The band is amazing.”

  Unable to take her eyes off the handsome man who held her, she wasn’t quite sure when they left the ballroom floor and began dancing beneath a canopy of stars. It was less crowded in the courtyard and far quieter than inside. Beneath a night sky redolent with magnolia blossoms, a tender melody was carried on a breeze that did absolutely nothing to cool Heather off. She was on fire in Toby’s arms. Overhead a meteor flashed across the sky reminding her of what happened to stars that burned too hot.

  As tempting as it was to think they were alone, Heather knew that eyes would always be upon the likes of Tobias Danforth. Whether he cared for it or not, no matter how far he roamed from his childhood home, family ties cast him in the light of celebrity. His sister, Genie, had already warned her about the paparazzi. Heather had little desire to be featured in some scandalous rag bent on pumping up its subscription with innuendo and compromising photos. For all she knew, the full moon might as well have been a spotlight cast upon them.

  Nevertheless, Heather turned her face up to Toby, and for a blissful moment allowed herself the luxury of floating away in the arms of a strong man. Toby defined his own life his own way, yet he was wise enough to preserve ties with a family that obviously loved him. She wished he would share his secret with her. Instead of asking outright how he managed such a complicated feat, she merely ventured an observation.

  “You prefer marching to the beat of your own drum, don’t you?”

  Sensuous lips twitched beneath his mustache. “I know it’s been a while, but I hate to think my dancing is so bad that I make you feel like you’re in the infantry.”

  Heather shook her head. He was a marvelous dancer, moving with a grace that defied time spent in the saddle. Her body fit nicely against his like a pair of nestled spoons. There was no need to think about her own feet as he swung her to the periphery of the concrete pad and steered her onto the grass. She supposed his mother had forced him
into dance lessons at an early age and imagined he had resisted mightily any attempts to mold a would-be cowboy into a proper gentleman.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “One could say the same for you,” he replied, searching her face in the moonlight for an explanation of how someone who moved so easily in high society would want a position as a nanny in the backwoods of Wyoming.

  He had no doubt that a woman like Heather would soon grow tired of the simple ranch life that he so loved. His ex-wife claimed the isolation made her crazy. Once Sheila realized that she would never be able to cajole or badger him into resuming his rightful place in society, she couldn’t renounce her wedding vows fast enough. One of the nasty rumors going around tonight’s little soiree was that she was off in Rio with some European playboy and the two of them were spending Toby’s generous alimony as if it were an endlessly renewable resource.

  When the music stopped, he paused to consider a tendril of Heather’s hair. Holding it between his thumb and fingertips, he studied each strand as if they were filaments of pure gold.

  When the back of his hand brushed against Heather’s cheek, the spark that had been teasing her imagination all night long burst into full flame. Although every instinct told her to pull away, to run away and not bother to look back, she remained rooted to her spot on the dewy grass. She fought to draw air into lungs that had forgotten how to breathe.

  The fact that she and Toby were no longer moving did not lessen the feeling that the world was spinning out of control. A deft twist of Toby’s wrist loosened the pin from her hair and sent it spilling around her shoulders in a shimmer of light that caught and held the moonlight. She might have protested against the injury done to her sophisticated hairstyle had it not been for a Roman candle exploding overhead, signaling the beginning of what was to prove a spectacular fireworks display.