Secrets

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Secrets Page 4

by Brenda Joyce


  Her me­mory was still blank, but she re­ali­zed the ef­fort hadn't be­en en­ti­rely in va­in. She had just le­ar­ned an im­por­tant fact abo­ut her­self. All of the clot­hes in that trunk be­lon­ged to a we­althy yo­ung wo­man. A very we­althy yo­ung wo­man. Sla­de hadn't told her that Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir was rich. It se­emed li­ke a gla­ring omis­si­on.

  Do­zens of qu­es­ti­ons we­re sud­denly bub­bling up in her, qu­es­ti­ons that she had to ha­ve an­s­we­red. Was she rich? Who was her fa­mily and whe­re was she from? And what abo­ut James? Had she be­en gri­eving be­fo­re the tra­in rob­bery? When she re­ga­ined her me­mory, wo­uld she be de­vas­ta­ted by his de­ath? If only she co­uld, at le­ast, re­call him!

  Gu­ilt pric­ked her and she co­ve­red her fa­ce with her hands. She was awa­re of wa­iting for Sla­de to re­turn, of be­ing eager for his re­turn. Yet his brot­her, her fi­ancй, was de­ad. Even tho­ugh she co­uld not sum­mon up the slig­h­test fe­eling for him, she sho­uld be dwel­ling upon that, not upon the brot­her who had res­cu­ed her. She told her­self that in the sta­te she was in, it was only na­tu­ral to ne­ed the one and only per­son she knew, to be lo­oking to Sla­de for the com­fort and strength he so re­adily of­fe­red her.

  She bit her lip. She co­uld not deny her­self in the­se cir­cum­s­tan­ces. Sla­de was the only per­son that tem­pe­red her fe­ars. If she did not ha­ve him to rely on she wo­uld be so alo­ne. No, she co­uld not deny her­self.

  He did not lo­ok li­ke a he­ro. She smi­led slightly, her first smi­le in many ho­urs. He­ro­es wo­re twe­ed hac­king co­ats and do­es­kin bre­ec­hes and ro­de gle­aming black stal­li­ons. He­ro­es wo­re jet-black ta­il­co­ats and bril­li­ant whi­te shirts and gold sig­net rings with fa­mily crests and pre­ci­o­us sto­nes. He­ro­es did not we­ar de­nim pants so worn they we­re clo­se to rip­ping, with swe­aty cot­ton work shirts and dirty, over­si­zed belt buc­k­les. He was just a flesh-and-blo­od man, al­be­it an at­trac­ti­ve one, and ap­pa­rently one who might be a bit down on his luck, too. But he had res­cu­ed her. Gra­ti­tu­de swel­led her he­art on­ce aga­in, as it had do­ne many ti­mes be­fo­re in the past few ho­urs.

  Her warm tho­ughts we­re in­ter­rup­ted by a knock upon her do­or. For an in­s­tant Re­gi­na tho­ught it was Sla­de. She eagerly rus­hed to the do­or, un­bol­ted it, and swung it open. But Sla­de wasn't on the ot­her si­de. And the mo­ment Re­gi­na saw the ot­her man she knew who he was. He was big­ger and fa­irer than Sla­de, and his fa­ce was ro­ug­her and not as han­d­so­me, but the­ir eyes we­re exactly the sa­me. Bur­ning mid­night eyes. In­ten­se, pas­si­ona­te eyes. Re­len­t­les­sly alert, in­tel­li­gent eyes. This man was Sla­de's fat­her, Rick De­lan­za.

  His eyes lit up at the sight of her. He held out his arms. He sa­id, "Eli­za­beth! Thank God you're all right!"

  Sla­de le­aned back in the har­d­wo­od cha­ir, his he­ad aga­inst the ro­ugh wall. He had a ci­gar in one hand, the tip lit and glo­wing, and a glass of whis­key in the ot­her. Yet the­re was not­hing re­la­xed or in­dul­gent abo­ut his pos­tu­re. His legs we­re bent at the knee and his fe­et bra­ced hard aga­inst the bro­ken ti­les of the flo­or. He lo­oked as if he might erupt from the small cha­ir at any mo­ment.

  An open bot­tle sat on the small, ric­kety tab­le in front of him. Sla­de was fa­cing the do­or. Des­pi­te the he­avy smo­ke which hung in the air, he saw his brot­her Ed­ward the mo­ment he pa­used in the do­or­less en­t­ran­ce of the shabby can­ti­na which was in an al­ley well off of Tem­p­le­ton's ma­in tho­ro­ug­h­fa­re.

  Edward stro­de for­ward. He was slightly tal­ler than Sla­de, an inch or so over six fe­et, yet much big­ger in bu­ild. Sla­de was whip­cord-le­an, Ed­ward was abun­dantly mus­cu­lar. Li­ke Sla­de, he had mid­nig­ht-black ha­ir that fra­med a fa­ce that co­uld only be des­c­ri­bed as han­d­so­me. But that was whe­re all re­sem­b­lan­ce bet­we­en the brot­hers en­ded. Ed­ward was much fa­irer than Sla­de and his eyes we­re lig­ht-blue. His jaw was bro­ader, his no­se lar­ger and slightly ho­oked. He was well-dres­sed in a dark su­it and a whi­te shirt, a sil­ver wa­is­t­co­at and a silk tie. Un­li­ke most big men, he wo­re his clot­hes well and gra­ce­ful­ly. Of co­ur­se, they had be­en cus­tom-ma­de for hurt. His black bo­ots we­re po­lis­hed to a high she­en and he wo­re a dark Stet­son, which he tos­sed on­to the tab­le be­si­de his brot­her. "God­dam­mit, Sla­de. Co­uldn't you find a wor­se pla­ce?"

  "Hel­lo, brot­her."

  Edward pul­led up a cha­ir and gri­ma­ced as he lo­oked at it be­fo­re sit­ting down. "You ac­tu­al­ly li­ke this kind of hel­lho­le? Two blocks over Re­nee's got the best whis­key in town, and the sof­test girls."

  "I fe­el at ho­me he­re," Sla­de sa­id moc­kingly.

  Edward sta­red at him. "Bull. In Fris­co you wo­uldn't be ca­ught de­ad in a rat ho­le li­ke this."

  Sla­de sa­id not­hing. He tur­ned and sig­na­led a fat sa­lo­on girl for anot­her glass for his brot­her.

  "You gon­na drink that who­le bot­tle?" Ed­ward as­ked.

  "May­be."

  Edward sig­hed. He to­ok Sla­de's glass and drank half of it, then pus­hed it back at him. "I miss him, too."

  "Don't start."

  "Why not?" Ed­ward's fa­ce tig­h­te­ned, and his be­a­uti­ful blue eyes gla­zed. "I'm not go­ing to ever get over it, not ever. The­re was no one li­ke James. But I'm not drin­king myself to de­ath."

  "You're only scre­wing yo­ur­self to de­ath," Sla­de sa­id calmly. "If you don't watch out you'll catch so­met­hing you'll reg­ret."

  Edward was angry. "You sho­uld talk! You're no damn cho­ir­boy! I've met Xan­d­ria."

  "The­re's not­hing bet­we­en us and the­re ne­ver was," Sla­de sa­id flatly.

  "Then you're a fo­ol," Ed­ward sa­id just as flatly.

  A mo­ment pas­sed. Sla­de smi­led. It was a sad smi­le, but a smi­le no­net­he­less. Ed­ward smi­led, too, his ex­p­res­si­on al­most iden­ti­cal ex­cept that his was dim­p­led. The wa­it­ress ca­me with a glass. Sla­de was abo­ut to po­ur his brot­her a drink, but Ed­ward stop­ped him. He to­ok a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef from his bre­ast poc­ket and cle­aned the glass, hol­ding the cloth up af­ter­ward to show Sla­de that the li­nen was now gray. Sla­de shrug­ged, re­fil­ling both of the­ir drinks. "A lit­tle dust ne­ver hurt an­y­body."

  Edward sig­hed and drank. "So what hap­pe­ned? The who­le town's buz­zing. You fo­und her."

  "I fo­und her." Sla­de's mo­uth tig­h­te­ned. "She do­esn't re­mem­ber who she is. She do­esn't re­mem­ber an­y­t­hing." An ima­ge of her lo­oking at him with ne­ar-wor­s­hip­ful eyes as­sa­iled him. An­g­rily he shrug­ged it off. But it was an ima­ge that had be­en ha­un­ting him ever sin­ce he had left her at the ho­tel.

  Edward blin­ked. Then he sa­id, "Well, may­be that's for the best."

  Sla­de lo­oked at him, un­der­s­tan­ding him. "Did she lo­ve James?" If so, it was bet­ter that she didn't re­mem­ber, that she was spa­red, at le­ast tem­po­ra­rily, so­me of the gri­ef.

  "How in hell wo­uld I know? You're the one he wro­te tho­se let­ters to. I got sick of he­aring how god­damn be­a­uti­ful and per­fect she was and told him to shut up ye­ars ago." He win­ced, then eyed his brot­her. "Is she God's gift to man?"

  "Ye­ah."

  "I don't re­call you and James ha­ving the sa­me tas­te in wo­men."

  "She's be­a­uti­ful," Sla­de sa­id brus­qu­ely. He didn't bot­her tel­ling his brot­her that she was mo­re than be­a­uti­ful. She was sexy. Very sexy. It wasn't even that knoc­ko­ut body of hers, which he had in­s­pec­ted too clo­sely and too ca­re­ful­ly. It was her fa­ce. The­re was so­met­hing abo­ut that fa­ce that wo­uld ma­ke a man crazy and ma­ke him think of sex. He shut
off his tho­ughts with a ven­ge­an­ce. She was ob­vi­o­usly a lady, but his body didn't se­em ca­pab­le of res­pec­ting that.

  "So may­be it's not such a bad idea af­ter all. May­be you and Rick can work things out and…"

  "No!" Sla­de slam­med his fist down hard and the glas­ses jum­ped and fell to the flo­or, bre­aking. Ed­ward ca­ught the bot­tle be­fo­re it tip­ped over. Sla­de co­uldn't be­li­eve him­self. Lus­ting af­ter Eli­za­beth, his brot­her's fi­an­c­йe.

  "That su­re was smart," Ed­ward sa­id.

  "This town hasn't chan­ged," Sla­de sa­id. "Not­hing chan­ges aro­und he­re, do­es it? She ne­eds to be exa­mi­ned and I fo­und Doc up­s­ta­irs with a two-bit who­re, pas­sed out cold."

  "You see Rick? We got to town ho­urs ago. Rick's be­en go­ing crazy wa­iting for you to get back. He'll re­al­ly bust lo­ose when he he­ars she lost her mind. That su­re puts a kink or two in his plans."

  "She lost her me­mory," Sla­de cor­rec­ted. "And I saw him just af­ter I bro­ught her to the ho­tel. I told him she didn't know who she was. He was very sur­p­ri­sed. Last I know, he was go­ing over the­re."

  Edward lo­oked at him. "So­met­hing's bot­he­ring you. What?"

  Sla­de shif­ted. "Not­hing." He wasn't a li­ar and he ne­ver had be­en. "It's be­en a bitch of a day."

  But Ed­ward was a cle­ver man. He co­uldn't pos­sibly be so in tu­ne with Sla­de's tho­ughts, but when he spo­ke, it was as if he was re­ading his brot­her's mind. "You know, you've ne­ver met Eli­za­beth. Ne­it­her ha­ve I, for that mat­ter. Rick's the only one who has, and I gu­ess he's with her now. What if the lady is so­me­one el­se?"

  "Eli­za­beth was sche­du­led to ar­ri­ve on that tra­in," Sla­de po­in­ted out. "She was on her way to Mi­ra­mar to marry James. The wed­ding was sup­po­sed to be in two we­eks. The­se plans we­re ma­de a long ti­me ago. If for so­me re­ason she didn't bo­ard, if the­re had be­en an emer­gency, she wo­uld ha­ve wi­red us. Only one pas­sen­ger-one wo­man-was mis­sing." Sla­de shrug­ged in­dif­fe­rently. "Be­si­des, she lo­oks exactly the way James des­c­ri­bed her." Small and stun­ning, he ad­ded si­lently. And yes, per­fect.

  Yet his in­dif­fe­ren­ce was all show and he knew it. No mat­ter how hard he tri­ed to tell him­self that he didn't ca­re, he did. He was a tra­itor to him­self and to his brot­her and the fact shoc­ked him. Be­ca­use he was ho­ping that she wasn't James's fi­an­c­йe. It was ri­di­cu­lo­us, it de­fi­ed lo­gic, and, mo­re im­por­tantly, he had no right to ho­pe li­ke that at all.

  Even if she didn't be­long to James-and tho­se odds we­re a mil­li­on to one-she was ob­vi­o­usly a lady, and la­di­es did not lo­ok twi­ce at a man li­ke him. He wo­uld re­in in his tra­ito­ro­us mind if it kil­led him.

  "What is it?" Ed­ward as­ked aga­in.

  "Not­hing," Sla­de gro­und out. He might be ab­le to turn off his tho­ughts whe­ne­ver they da­red to in­t­ru­de, but it was much har­der not to be angry. The an­ger co­iled thick and hot in­si­de him. Rick had bet­ter not say one damn word abo­ut his la­test sche­me. Sla­de wo­uld erupt if he did.

  "May­be we sho­uld go over to the ho­tel and find Rick."

  Sla­de didn't mo­ve. Swe­at be­aded his brow. "No." He knew she was Eli­za­beth. Which was why he did not mo­ve. Right now, Rick was un­do­ub­tedly the­re, with her. Re­mo­ving the last do­ubt wo­uld be crus­hing when he was far too cyni­cal and wi­se to be crus­hed.

  "I see," Ed­ward sa­id. He fol­ded his arms and wat­c­hed Sla­de dra­in the glass. "You've ma­de up yo­ur mind, ha­ven't you? You're not go­ing to stay. You're Rick's he­ir now, but you're not go­ing to stay. You're go­ing to go back up north."

  "That’s right."

  Edward was mad. He lun­ged to his fe­et and pla­ced his palms down hard on the tab­le, ca­using the bot­tle to roll off and spill all over the flo­or. Ne­it­her brot­her no­ti­ced. "Why the hell don't you stay?" Ed­ward de­man­ded. "You're go­ing back the­re to work li­ke a frig­ging ma­j­or­do­mo for Char­les Mann, when you sho­uld be he­re!"

  Sla­de kic­ked back his cha­ir. For a mo­ment he was an inch from ta­king his fist and blac­king out one of his brot­her's eyes. But he con­t­rol­led him­self. "Be­ca­use I li­ke wor­king for Char­les," he sa­id. "Be­ca­use I don't li­ke wor­king for Rick. And be­ca­use I don't li­ke be­ing blac­k­ma­iled."

  "You're a god­damn fo­ol!" Ed­ward sho­uted. "Be ho­nest. You're do­ing this to get back at him, right? You think you're get­ting back at Rick. You know what? You're do­ing this for all the ye­ars he lo­ved James mo­re than you!"

  Sla­de was whi­te. "Wrong," he sa­id. "Wrong. I'm do­ing what I want to do for me!"

  "You're cho­osing them over us!" Ed­ward sho­uted. "They're not yo­ur fa­mily-we are!"

  "That has not­hing to do with it!"

  "You be­long he­re! Now mo­re than ever. James is de­ad. Rick ne­eds you! We ne­ed you!"

  "No." Sla­de sho­ok his he­ad, en­ra­ged. His fa­ce was flus­hed with fury. "Rick ne­eds an he­iress, not me. And I am not go­ing to marry her in or­der to in­he­rit Mi­ra­mar. I am not go­ing to marry the wo­man James lo­ved-not for you, not for Rick, not even for Mi­ra­mar."

  Chapter 3

  Edward left ab­ruptly af­ter the­ir sho­uting match. Sla­de ma­de no mo­ve to fol­low. He drank the aw­ful gut-wren­c­hing whis­key, trying not to think abo­ut what Ed­ward had sa­id and trying not to think abo­ut the wo­man he'd left at the ho­tel. He wat­c­hed as sha­dows fi­nal­ly ap­pe­ared on the hard-pac­ked dirt out­si­de, wat­c­hed as they gra­du­al­ly len­g­t­he­ned. Dusk set­tled over Tem­p­le­ton with fi­na­lity.

  It wasn't true. It was ri­di­cu­lo­us. He wasn't trying to get back at Rick for fa­vo­ring James. He had lo­ved James, too. Ever­yo­ne who had known James had lo­ved him; James had pos­ses­sed a ra­re kind of ma­gic, the ma­gic of cha­ris­ma and kin­d­ness, a ma­gic very few men had. Ed­ward had so­me of that ma­gic, too. He, Sla­de, was the only brot­her who had not be­en to­uc­hed by that spe­ci­al ma­gic wand.

  James had be­en Sla­de's he­ro even tho­ugh he was only a ye­ar ol­der. They had both grown up with the ho­use­ke­eper and co­ok, Josep­hi­ne, ac­ting as the­ir mot­her, even af­ter Rick had mar­ri­ed Vic­to­ria; her only in­te­rest was her own son, Ed­ward. James's mot­her Cat­he­ri­ne had di­ed in chil­d­birth, and Sla­de's mot­her had run away when he was only a few months old and too yo­ung to know what had hap­pe­ned. He had tho­ught the Neg­ress

  Josep­hi­ne his re­al mot­her un­til James had ex­p­la­ined to him the facts of li­fe when he was three ye­ars old.

  James and Sla­de had be­en as in­se­pa­rab­le as twins, with Ed­ward, three ye­ars yo­un­ger, tag­ging along be­hind them. The brot­hers we­re per­ce­ived as be­ing as dif­fe­rent from each ot­her as night and day, James al­ways sun­ny-tem­pe­red and qu­ick to la­ugh, Sla­de hot-tem­pe­red and grim. Yet con­t­rary to po­pu­lar be­li­ef, James had had a mis­c­hi­evo­us stre­ak in him too, al­t­ho­ugh he wasn't the de­ter­mi­ned re­bel that Sla­de was. But it was James who had the com­mon sen­se to de­ter Sla­de from so­me of his wil­der ide­as, just as it was James who was al­ways stan­ding up for Sla­de when he was ca­ught for a mis­de­ed, ho­ping to dis­t­ract the adults or ta­ke the bla­me him­self. No one ever be­li­eved James, be­ca­use ever­yo­ne knew Sla­de too well.

  But Sla­de co­uld ac­cept that now. It had be­en har­der when he was a boy. As a boy he had tho­ught it grossly un­fa­ir to be the one in­s­tantly bla­med for every mis­de­ed, even if he had be­en the one res­pon­sib­le for most of the pranks, so­me kind, so­me me­an, that he and his brot­hers pul­led. Un­qu­es­ti­onably he had be­en the le­ader of the hell-ra­ising pa­ir, which had be­co­me a trio on­ce Ed­ward was a bit o
l­der.

  To­day, as an adult, he co­uld lo­ok back at that boy and smi­le sadly, for it was so ob­vi­o­us why he had be­en an un­re­pen­tant mis­c­hi­ef-ma­ker. He had des­pe­ra­tely wan­ted at­ten­ti­on. The only way he had known how to get it was to ca­use tro­ub­le. And tro­ub­le be­gat tro­ub­le. He had be­en pu­nis­hed co­un­t­less ti­mes, but con­fi­ne­ment or an oc­ca­si­onal slap we­re not eno­ugh to re­de­em him.

  Yet he hadn't be­en the one to get fif­te­en-ye­ar-old Janey Doy­le preg­nant. That still ran­k­led. It still hurt. Even when Ed­ward had co­me for­ward to cla­im res­pon­si­bi­lity for the de­ed, no one had be­li­eved him, be­ca­use Ed­ward was only twel­ve. Of co­ur­se, no one had tho­ught James wo­uld ever ra­vish the­ir in­no­cent ne­ig­h­bor, but ever­yo­ne had be­li­eved he, Sla­de, who had in fact still be­en a vir­gin, to be the cul­p­rit.

  The­re had be­en no mi­nor slap for that in­ci­dent. Sla­de had ce­ased pro­tes­ting his in­no­cen­ce way be­fo­re the pu­nis­h­ment be­gan. Ed­ward wo­uld not stop proc­la­iming his gu­ilt and had fi­nal­ly be­en loc­ked in his ro­om. Rick had whip­ped Sla­de. But Sla­de had re­fu­sed to cry. Rick had be­en so angry Sla­de had truly be­en af­ra­id, too af­ra­id then to un­der­s­tand what his fat­her had be­en sa­ying. Rick had be­en be­ra­ting him for be­ing exactly li­ke his mot­her. In ret­ros­pect it was iro­nic, be­ca­use he was ac­tu­al­ly as dif­fe­rent from his mot­her as a son co­uld be.

  Now he was wi­se eno­ugh and de­tac­hed eno­ugh to know that the whip­ping had be­en the trig­ger for his run­ning away, not the ca­use. The is­sue of Janey Doy­le's preg­nancy had me­rely be­en the last and fi­nal straw in a ne­ver-en­ding and bit­ter bat­tle he'd wa­ged for his fat­her's at­ten­ti­on. The whip­ping had be­en a crus­hing de­fe­at, not of his body, but of his so­ul. Rick had not tri­ed to stop him from le­aving. Rick had let him go.

 

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