Stormy Hawkins (Prairie Hearts Series Book 1)

by Ana Morgan

  “Ah.” Sam nodded knowingly. “I’ll talk to your mother.”

  “Good,” Blade and Jared said simultaneously. They glanced at each other and laughed like they used to do years ago, when they weren’t fighting.

  “Blade, when’s your meeting?” their father asked.

  “At two.”

  Sam pulled out his pocket watch. “We have a few minutes. I’d like to hear your thoughts on the telephone proposal. Jared, you’ve studied the prospectus. Why don’t you give Blade an overview?” He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on his chest and closed his eyes like a weary tutor. “Proceed.”

  Chapter 25

  Blade left his father’s office with his head full of facts and possibilities. The 1880 household census was woefully outdated. Competing gas companies owned their streetlamp posts, but it made sense to string telephone wire along existing poles, and then appropriate them when electrification made gas lamps obsolete.

  He’d listened to Jared’s presentation knowing full well his father was trying to lure him into staying in St. Louis. Sam still didn’t understand how much he enjoyed working out of doors, laboring with his back and hands. Maybe he never would.

  If he teamed again with his father and brother, his goal would be telephone service to every town up the Missouri River, with a special line running north from Yankton so he could conduct business from the Hawkins’ front porch. He’d visit St. Louis two or three times a year with Stormy and their children. Zed, Brownie, and Running Bear, too, if they wanted.

  His plan firm, he stood for a moment and listened to the routine of office typewriters and clerks. Suddenly, a voice he detested pierced the tedious din.

  Candy.

  Forcing himself to breathe normally, he crept down the stairs to the landing, where, thanks to a meld of art and architecture, he could look down at the marble-floored lobby and study his ex-fiancée without being noticed.

  Blond curls piled high on her head, she stood in front of a strapping young security guard. The décolletage of her rose-accented, mint green dress plunged far lower than any well-bred lady would wear in public. Her waist was cinched so tight, he felt sorry for the maid who had to lace her corset.

  “You must get very tense,” Candy said to the guard.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her hands flew to her chest. “There are remedies.”

  An acrid ball formed in the pit of Blade’s stomach. Candy had fluttered her fingers against her breasts when she’d approached him in the Crazy Lady Saloon years ago. Then, she’d pounced on him like a cougar on a newborn lamb.

  Not this time. He wasn’t a homesick runaway anymore.

  He strode down the last flight of steps. “You haven’t changed, Candy.”

  Her well-preserved body stiffened. “Do I look a fright, Blade? This morning my maid announced she had a better offer and quit.”

  “With no notice?” He shook his head with mock sympathy and stepped close. “That’s outrageous.”

  “You always understood my needs, Blade. That was something I loved about you.” She kissed the air near his cheeks. “My, my. Don’t you look good enough to eat.”

  “She’s a widow spider,” he said to the foot-shuffling guard. “Remember that.”

  “You never complained,” she retorted.

  “She’s also old enough to be your mother.”

  The young man mumbled something about ‘rounds’ and vanished.

  “If I weren’t so surprised to see you, Blade, I’d scold you for interrupting my innocent fun.” Candy stroked his lapel. “I heard you became a cowboy. Why on God’s green earth are you back here?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  She gasped. “To whom?”

  “No one you know. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” His smile was genuine. Stormy was his perfect match, and he loved her.

  “There’s more.” He crooked his finger until Candy leaned close. The heavy floral scent of her perfume repulsed him, but he wanted to appear ready to burst with secret news. “Sam wants me to come back.”

  Her eyes narrowed, furrowing crinkles that had been artfully concealed. “Ranching was your dream. You wouldn’t give it up.”

  “I would for love.”

  “Wh-What do you mean?”

  “I can’t say any more, not until Sam breaks the news to Jared, and all the details are worked out.”

  Candy wobbled on her high-heeled slippers. Her mouth opened and closed like a channel catfish caught in a net.

  “Are you taking Jared out for lunch?” he asked cheerfully.

  “What? No. I have a fitting at Madame Zarov’s, and then social calls all afternoon.” She reassumed a dignified pose. “I’m here on behalf of a friend in need.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  “Normally I’d talk to Jared, but he’s been out of sorts lately.”

  “Let’s talk to Sam. He’s in a much better mood.” He put a supportive hand on her elbow. Ignoring how his skin crawled, he steered her toward the stairs. “Tell me about your poor friend.”

  As they ascended, she described a gentle, well-bred young lady who’d been set adrift after the death of her mother and the gambling debts of an alcoholic father. The poor girl needed a decent wardrobe to secure a position as a governess, thus sparing her from a life as a streetwalker. An act of charity, worthy of the hardest heart.

  Blade didn’t believe a word of it. Candy didn’t have a charitable bone in her body. She wanted the money for something else, and he intended to find out what it was.

  His father had promised to help in any undercover investigation. Sam wouldn’t like the idea of gifting his daughter-in-law another penny of his money, but with a few well-placed prompts, he’d play along.

  Eager to set his trap, Blade ushered Candy into his father’s office.

  ~ ~ ~

  Half an hour later, Candy blew Blade a kiss from the top of the stairs. He waited impatiently for her to descend out of sight, and then shut his office door firmly behind him.

  She didn’t know that, when he’d stepped out during the negotiation with Sam, he’d instructed a bank clerk to take his time opening the vault, counting out five hundred dollars, and processing the paperwork for accounting. He’d also guaranteed the loyal man dangerous duty pay. The poor man was about to suffer Mrs. Masters’ impatient and bellicose temper.

  Blade opened the tall armoire that dominated one wall of his office. He lifted a bundle from the overhead shelf, tore the now-brittle wrapping paper, and unwrapped clothes from his roustabout days, cleaned and pressed. Hoping they still fit, he took off his expensive suit jacket and trousers. Where he was going, he needed to blend in.

  When Candy’s shrill complaint about the incompetence of all bank employees seeped under his door, Blade stole down the fire escape on the back side of the building. Tugging his soft, black leather cap low on his forehead, he walked around to the front, crossed the busy street, and waited.

  She emerged and waved her hand to hail a hansom.

  The tiny reticule dangling from her wrist bulged, though she could have tucked some of the twenty-dollar notes under her garter, like she used to do. How she carried the bank’s money didn’t matter. He intended to follow her and see what she did with it.

  Down the street, a thin, muddy-haired man wearing a dark blue suit, and holding a brass-knobbed walking stick, jerked to attention.

  Waving again, Candy walked in his direction. When she was ten steps behind him, the man turned and rounded the corner. Candy followed.

  Blade broke into a run, weaving around pedestrians and narrowly avoiding a full body crash with a uniformed messenger wearing a red pillbox cap. He darted around the corner and exhaled with relief. Candy still followed the blue-suited man. />
  Over the course of three city blocks into the seedier section of downtown, the man looked repeatedly over his shoulder. He seemed to be checking that Candy followed. Nothing in his demeanor suggested that he knew Blade tailed them.

  The man suddenly veered out of sight. Candy disappeared right after him.

  Cursing his panic, Blade froze. He couldn’t tell if they’d stepped into an enclosed doorstep or slunk into a narrow space between two buildings. He had to assume the man knew how to use the walking stick as a weapon. One sudden whack on the head, and he’d be unconscious. Or, worse.

  As he debated how he could move closer, a ragtag beggar rattling a battered tin cup crossed the street. “Spare some change, suh?”

  Blade tried to step around him, but the man danced in front of him like a boxer.

  “Spare some change, suh!”

  Eyes watering from the beggar’s foul odor, Blade dug in his pocket for a coin.

  “Mr. M, it’s me.”

  “Mouse? How did you—?”

  “Traded clothes with the hustler who works this street.”

  “The man in the blue suit and the pretty lady. Did you see where they went?”

  “That’s Edward Peabody.”

  “Peabody?” The air suddenly felt cold and malignant. Candy knew Peabody. She also knew how to mix business with pleasure.

  “Stairwell leads to his basement office. Who’s the lady?”

  “My brother’s wife. She’s carrying five hundred dollars. I have to know if she gives it to him.”

  “Leave it to me.” Mouse darted back to the basement stairwell and stopped. He made a show of taking off layers of filthy outer garments, twisting and turning as he put them back on. If Peabody’s office had a window, Mouse orchestrated several good chances to peer inside.

  Blade crouched behind a parked carriage. A shout reached his ears.

  Peabody sprang out and butted Mouse’s back hard with the knob of his walking stick. “I told you not to stop here.”

  His friend stumbled forward, howling in pain.

  Blade’s body shook with rage. If Mouse was hurt . . . He forced himself to stay still and out of sight.

  “I’s sorry, suh,” Mouse screeched. “I go away. Stay away. Three hundred’s paid away. Stay away.” Sing-songing like a madman, he shuffled past Blade’s hiding place.

  Candy stepped into view, put two fingers to her lips, and whistled. The reticule dangling from her wrist was flat.

  Based on Mouse’s song, she’d paid Peabody at least three hundred dollars, but for what?

  A snap cracked the air, reins across a horse’s back. The cab idling in front of a bar half a block away pulled out onto the bumpy cobblestone street.

  “I’ll expect you on Tuesday.” Candy’s hand lingered on Peabody’s arm.

  The cabbie reined his nag, and Peabody opened the thin tin door. “Ten in the morning.”

  “Mid-afternoon, sugar. I need my beauty sleep.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Blade found Mouse in front of a greengrocer’s sidewalk display.

  The roustabout had shed the ratty beggar’s covering and stood in his union suit and socks. He plucked two rose-orange nectarines out of a wooden lug and held them up for the hovering proprietor to see. “Paid for them already, Mr. M. One’s for you. They’re good.”

  “Are you hurt?" Mouse’s casual demeanor was a good sign, but Blade wanted to be sure.

  “Maybe a bruise. Nothing more.” The big man sniffed his forearm and wrinkled his nose. “I don’t smell so good.”

  Blade hailed a cab. His father had charge accounts at the downtown department stores. He also owned a big stake in one of the downtown hotels. Mouse needed a bath before they went shopping.

  In the cab, Mouse tapped his arm. “You know, Mr. M., your brother’s lady is sure to come to your house. She might recognize my voice. It might be best if I stay away.”

  An option swirling in Blade’s head fell into place. Mouse was right. “Have you ever been to Chicago?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like you to escort my sister back to school on the train, and then stay and guard her until I figure out what Peabody’s up to.”

  Mouse looked uncertain. “Miss Stormy’s real anxious to go home.”

  “As soon as I’m sure my family is safe, I’ll send word.”

  “And, I’s still coming with you?”

  “If you want to.”

  “Oh, I do. Miss Stormy wants me to plant fruit trees.”

  Chapter 26

  Stormy could not find a comfortable position on the backless Neo-Greek chair in Lady Epriam Doom’s newly refurbished drawing room. She’d been assigned the seat next to her ladyship, who was taking notes for her weekly Society column in the St. Louis Telegraph-Dispatch.

  “And, where did you go to finish?” Lady Dooms asked in her imperial British accent.

  “Finish what?” Stormy asked blankly.

  “Your education, my dear.”

  “I studied mostly at home.”

  “I see.” The tip of Lady Doom’s plume pen danced over her journal. “You had tutors. Field of study?”

  “Have you read a book?” Mary Masters whispered.

  Grateful for the translation, Stormy nodded. “Shakespeare, Homer, Voltaire, Hugo, Dickens, and Aristotle.”

  “Notable.” Lady Dooms studied her again over the half-moon of her reading glasses. “Few girls revere the classics these days. Other interests?”

  “Bareback racing and roping steers.”

  Lady Dooms’ smile contorted with disbelief. “That is quite impossible. Your father would never give his permission. You’re a woman. And, his heir.”

  “It’s true,” Stormy said eagerly. “Until Zed had his heart attack, he raced against me. His stallion is fast, but my horse is half his age. Odin loves to run. Jump, too. He can clear a five-foot fence at a full gallop.”

  Mary, Emily Llewellyn, and Blade’s mother gasped audibly.

  “I’m going to write Natural Sciences and hope no one asks.” Shifting regally on her purple cushion, Lady Dooms dispatched her elderly butler for a fresh pot of Earl Grey tea. “Let us turn to more interesting subjects. Who is designing the wedding gown?”

  “We haven’t settled on a designer yet,” Olivia blurted.

  “I see.” Lady Dooms sniffed. “Have you set the date?”

  Stormy stiffened. After last night, she wasn’t sure where she stood with Blade. She’d waited for him to return, hoping to talk, until she fell into an exhausted sleep. When she woke, the coverlet on the other side of the bed hadn’t been mussed.

  She didn’t want to marry a man who wouldn’t trust her with his secrets, confide his dreams, or share his plans. All the great poets and philosophers said abiding love was built on sharing and honesty.

  And yet, she’d done more than her own share of mistrusting. She’d doubted him when he’d disarmed her in front of the Land & Loan, questioned his motives at the Founders Day dance, and rejected his marriage proposal. She needed to think, and this barrage of questions from Lady Dooms wasn’t helping.

  “Well?” Lady Dooms’ strained disapproval swept from face to face.

  There was a jostling outside the drawing room door, and then a crash of tray and china.

  A striking woman with curls piled high in a pin-studded chignon burst into the room. Sooted lashes framed her brown eyes, and red gloss glistened on perfectly-outlined lips. Rose accents on her tight gown highlighted her hourglass figure.

  “I heard what you asked as I was removing my gloves, Dorothea. You’re not viewing this correctly,” the woman chided. “Blade Masters’ wedding will be the gala event of the year. Hundreds of decisions need to be made. Flowers. Colors. Caterers. Guest list.” She wagg
ed her finger in front of Lady Dooms’ nose. “Details will set the date of this wedding, not the other way around.”

  The plume at the tip of the dowager’s pen quivered. “I suppose, Candace. Still, I need news for my column. Ophelia, where would you like to honeymoon?”

  Silently thanking her unfamiliar rescuer, Stormy said what was true. “At home.”

  “You’d better rethink that, sugar.” The woman glided to the seat opposite Stormy. “Blade’s an adventurer. He can’t stand being penned in. Dorothea, write that the honeymoon will be a wild buffalo hunt across the Colorado plains capped by a picnic at the top of Pike’s Peak. Blade will love that.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Blade flopped onto the rococo chaise longue that had been moved into Stormy’s room sometime during the day. The daybed was undoubtedly a plea for propriety from his gossip-fearing mother, but he had no intention of sleeping on it while Stormy occupied the big poster bed. His yearning to undress her had simmered ever since he’d stood on the bank’s stairs this morning and compared her to Candy.

  He turned onto his side and patted the brocade fabric in invitation. “Pike’s Peak? Candy has an over-active imagination.”

  Instead of responding, or getting up from the vanity and joining him, Stormy turned back toward the mirror. She reached up and fumbled with the tiny screw that clamped a dangly ear bob to her lobe.

  They were playing a cat and mouse game. He preferred being the hunter, but his aching johnson pleaded to be the prey.

  He crossed the room. As he set his hands on Stormy’s shoulders, his simmering desire burst into full boil. He wanted to finish this business in St. Louis, take her back to the ranch, and love her for the rest of his life.

  “Let me help.” He loosened the screw on the second ear bob and set it next to its mate in the cut crystal holder. “Thank you for going out with my mother and sister today. I know it wasn’t fun.”