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.
