Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  And now, fi­nal­ly, it had co­me to this, the de­ath of his first son, James, who was as dif­fe­rent from Sla­de as whi­te was from black. James hadn't had a de­fi­ant bo­ne in his body. They had ra­rely ar­gu­ed. No son co­uld ha­ve be­en mo­re du­ti­ful and mo­re lo­yal. No man co­uld ha­ve be­en mo­re ho­nest or mo­re sin­ce­re.

  He co­uldn't be­ar thin­king abo­ut James, not even now, so he for­ced his tho­ughts back to the girl.

  He had known her re­al iden­tity be­fo­re Sla­de had fo­und her by the tra­in tracks and bro­ught her to Tem­p­le­ton. Rick had sent Sla­de and Ed­ward to town to me­et the tra­in, ex­pec­ting Eli­za­beth. Rick had not in­for­med her of James's de­ath yet. He was not in­ten­ding to do so un­til she was at Mi­ra­mar, be­ca­use he wan­ted to con­vin­ce her qu­ickly to marry Sla­de, and he was cer­ta­in he co­uld do it in per­son. The we­ek be­fo­re she was due to ar­ri­ve- two we­eks be­fo­re she and James wo­uld ha­ve be­en mar­ri­ed-he had wi­red her at her ho­me in San Lu­is Obis­po. The te­leg­ram had be­en a sim­p­le wel­co­me. He hadn't ex­pec­ted a reply, and he hadn't got­ten one, but he most cer­ta­inly had ex­pec­ted her to be on the tra­in at the pre­ar­ran­ged da­te.

  Yet the tra­in had lim­ped in­to Tem­p­le­ton af­ter the hol­dup, wit­ho­ut Eli­za­beth. It was de­ta­ined by the she­riff as he at­tem­p­ted to in­ter­vi­ew the over­w­ro­ught pas­sen­gers. A do­zen gen­t­le­men we­re qu­ick to po­int out that a very be­a­uti­ful, ele­gant yo­ung lady had fled the club car du­ring the hol­dup. Hot on her he­els had be­en one of the thi­eves. So Sla­de and Ed­ward had split up. Sla­de had rid­den out to find her whi­le Ed­ward had gal­lo­ped back to Mi­ra­mar to in­form Rick of the di­sas­t­ro­us events.

  Rick hadn't he­si­ta­ted. He and Ed­ward had re­tur­ned to Tem­p­le­ton im­me­di­ately. The nor­mal­ly sle­epy town had be­en in an un­c­ha­rac­te­ris­tic frenzy and the tra­in had not yet be­en al­lo­wed to le­ave. One of the pas­sen­gers who had be­en se­ri­o­usly wo­un­ded was the cha­pe­ro­ne of the yo­ung lady who had fled the tra­in. From eye­wit­nes­ses it had be­en le­ar­ned that she had at­tem­p­ted to block the thi­ef cha­sing her char­ge and he had shot her, per­haps pur­po­se­ful­ly, per­haps ac­ci­den­tal­ly. It had be­en hard to tell. The cha­pe­ro­ne had be­en un­con­s­ci­o­us sin­ce the tra­in had ar­ri­ved in Tem­p­le­ton, so no one had spo­ken with her.

  Rick was the first and only per­son to spe­ak with her when she re­ga­ined her sen­ses. Sla­de had yet to re­turn with the wo­man ever­yo­ne as­su­med to be Eli­za­beth. Rick was af­ra­id that Eli­za­beth had be­en hurt.

  The cha­pe­ro­ne was dying. Rick was sorry for that, but the­re was not­hing they co­uld do to stop her from me­eting her ma­ker. Doc Brown had left the ro­om to see if Fat­her Joseph had ar­ri­ved, ha­ving do­ne all that he co­uld for her. Rick knelt be­si­de her, ta­king her hand.

  "What can I do for you, ma'am? What can I get you?" Rick sa­id kindly. De­ath was fi­nal, and Rick had se­en it too of­ten to be cal­lo­us abo­ut it. He was no fo­ol, he knew the­re was no glory wa­iting for an­yo­ne, no ever-af­ter, just not­hin­g­ness, dirt, and dust.

  The wo­man sho­ok her he­ad, unab­le to spe­ak at first. She was we­ak from ha­ving lost so much blo­od. "Ha­rold," she sa­id.

  "Ha­rold?"

  "I'm fi­nal­ly go­ing to be with Ha­rold aga­in." She smi­led fa­intly. Her vo­ice was re­ed-thin. "My hus­band."

  If she be­li­eved in an ever-af­ter, it was bet­ter for her. He pat­ted her hand. "Can you tell me abo­ut Eli­za­beth? Is she all right?"

  The wo­man didn't se­em to he­ar him. "R-Re-Re­gi­na?"

  Rick le­aned clo­ser. "Is Eli­za­beth all right?"

  Te­ars fil­led the wo­man's eyes. "R-Re­gi­na? W-whe­re… is she?"

  "Who is Re­gi­na?"

  It to­ok all of her strength, but fi­ve mi­nu­tes la­ter, she had ex­p­la­ined qu­ite a bit. Mrs. Schro­ener was not the cha­pe­ro­ne of Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. Her char­ge was Re­gi­na Shel­ton, the da­ug­h­ter of a Bri­tish nob­le­man. She had be­en hi­red by the girl's gran­d­fat­her in Te­xas, and he was no­ne ot­her than the very rich, all-po­wer­ful De­rek Bragg. In fact, her char­ge was a very gre­at he­iress, and the wo­man was dis­t­ra­ught at ha­ving fa­iled in her duty to see her sa­fely to her des­ti­na­ti­on.

  Rick was ne­arly in shock. But he re­co­ve­red. Ap­pa­rently Eli­za­beth was not on the tra­in-he co­uld only as­su­me that she wo­uld ar­ri­ve on a la­ter one. At le­ast he co­uld rest as­su­red that she was all right, al­t­ho­ugh he wan­ted to know why in hell she wasn't on the So­ut­hern Pa­ci­fic when she was sup­po­sed to be on it.

  The wo­man slip­ped back in­to un­con­s­ci­o­us­ness, but for­tu­na­tely Fat­her Joseph ar­ri­ved then, whi­le she was still bre­at­hing. Ten mi­nu­tes la­ter she di­ed.

  And then Sla­de ar­ri­ved in town and told Rick that Eli­za­beth had lost her me­mory.

  Rick co­uld not help se­e­ing the op­por­tu­nity that so­me aw­ful­ly mighty God was hand-de­li­ve­ring to him. In fact, it se­emed li­ke a mi­rac­le. And if he hadn't qu­ite be­li­eved in God be­fo­re, he did now.

  Re­gi­na Shel­ton was a much gre­ater he­iress than Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. What if he co­uld ar­ran­ge a mar­ri­age bet­we­en her and Sla­de as he'd in­ten­ded to do bet­we­en Eli­za­beth and Sla­de?

  It se­emed that was what fa­te had in­ten­ded. Her am­ne­sia ga­ve him the per­fect op­por­tu­nity to fos­ter just such an al­li­an­ce. She was alo­ne and vul­ne­rab­le, and whi­le he didn't li­ke pre­ying on her con­di­ti­on, she co­uldn't be left to go her own way. Ob­vi­o­usly he wo­uld bring her to Mi­ra­mar, so she co­uld rest and re­co­ver whi­le be­ing ca­red for. In that in­te­rim, she wo­uld be con­vin­ced to marry Sla­de, whet­her her me­mory re­tur­ned or not.

  Unfor­tu­na­tely Rick co­uld still not re­ve­al to her her re­al iden­tity, not yet, be­ca­use she wo­uld be whis­ked away by her re­la­ti­ves, and this gol­den God-gi­ven op­por­tu­nity wo­uld be des­t­ro­yed. So what if he just hap­pe­ned to mis­ta­ke her for Eli­za­beth? He had only met Eli­za­beth twi­ce-fi­ve ye­ars ago when she was thir­te­en, and then last sum­mer at her daddy's fu­ne­ral-but then she had be­en swat­hed in a dark ve­il. No one wo­uld ever know that the mis­ta­ke was cal­cu­la­ted. If ever­yo­ne be­li­eved her to be Eli­za­beth, she wo­uld con­ti­nue on her way to Mi­ra­mar, as plan­ned, des­pi­te her con­di­ti­on.

  Altho­ugh ever­y­t­hing was go­ing to work out per­fec­t­ly-and Rick was cer­ta­in of it, des­pi­te his har­d­he­aded son's de­ter­mi­na­ti­on to op­po­se him-he did not ha­ve ti­me on his si­de. Right now he knew the­re we­re Braggs lo­oking for Re­gi­na, wor­ri­ed abo­ut her. He was no fo­ol, and he'd fi­gu­red out right away that she wo­uld be mis­sed when she did not show up at wha­te­ver des­ti­na­ti­on she had be­en tra­ve­ling to. As so­on as he had le­ar­ned from Sla­de that she had am­ne­sia, and as so­on as he had bri­efly spo­ken with her, he had wi­red the Pin­ker­ton agency to send one of the­ir men. He wan­ted to know who was lo­oking for her, whe­re she had be­en go­ing, and mo­re abo­ut her bac­k­g­ro­und.

  It had be­en a very clo­se call. Just yes­ter­day her un­c­le, Brett D'Archand, a San Fran­cis­co mil­li­ona­ire, had be­en in Tem­p­le­ton, se­ar­c­hing for her. He had in­ter­vi­ewed She­riff Wil­low, who, for­tu­na­tely, was not the smar­test of men. She­riff Wil­low hadn't be­en ab­le to tell him an­y­t­hing abo­ut Re­gi­na Shel­ton, for the she­riff didn't know an­y­t­hing abo­ut her. Ever­yo­ne in Tem­p­le­ton as­su­med that Re­gi­na was Eli­za­beth. D'Archand had be­en very wor­ri­ed, and he had left for Lom­poc, de­ter­mi­ned to find out
if his ni­ece had be­en on the sta­ge, ap­pa­rently un­cer­ta­in whet­her she had be­en on the tra­in or not be­ca­use of her fa­ilu­re to ar­ri­ve in Pa­so Rob­les as sche­du­led. Rick knew all of this be­ca­use the Pin­ker­ton agent had sent a ri­der with his first re­port last night. It an­s­we­red most of Rick's qu­es­ti­ons, and he was im­p­res­sed with the agent's ef­fi­ci­ency.

  Rick shud­de­red to think what wo­uld ha­ve hap­pe­ned if Re­gi­na had ma­de it to Tem­p­le­ton yes­ter­day. D'Archand had just mis­sed cros­sing paths with his ni­ece by a ha­ir.

  Rick had al­so as­ked the agent to find out what the hell was go­ing on with the re­al Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. The last thing he ne­eded now was for her to show up at Mi­ra­mar.

  Rick didn't re­al­ly fe­el gu­ilty. Back in Tem­p­le­ton three days ago, when the cha­pe­ro­ne had di­ed and he had ma­de the de­ci­si­on to "mis­ta­ke" Re­gi­na for Eli­za­beth, the­re had be­en gu­ilt, but des­pe­ra­ti­on had be­en dri­ving him. He just co­uld not lo­se Mi­ra­mar. Then he had told him­self that even if she we­re pro­mi­sed to so­me­one el­se, she wo­uld be­co­me the mis­t­ress of Mi­ra­mar. The­re was not­hing ter­rib­le abo­ut that. And she wo­uld be mar­rying his son Sla­de. Al­t­ho­ugh Sla­de was a cal­lo­us wo­ma­ni­zer, Rick knew that all wo­men mo­oned over him madly. In this in­s­tan­ce he was ho­ping it wo­uld be the sa­me.

  And it was. That was why he no lon­ger felt gu­ilty. It had ta­ken him abo­ut two se­conds af­ter se­e­ing them to­get­her to le­arn that Re­gi­na Shel­ton was fal­ling hard for his son, and fast, too. She co­uld ba­rely ta­ke her eyes off of Sla­de and the in­vi­ta­ti­on she was is­su­ing was ob­vi­o­us. He didn't think he'd had to re­al­ly per­su­ade her to stay a few mi­nu­tes ago. In fact, he'd bet a sub­s­tan­ti­al amo­unt that she'd wan­ted to stay, and that she was re­li­eved he'd sup­po­sedly had to talk her in­to it.

  As for Sla­de, he be­lon­ged at Mi­ra­mar. He al­ways had, and he al­ways wo­uld-even if James we­re still ali­ve. Des­pi­te his re­bel ways. The boy lo­ved the land, with pas­si­on, and in that one way he was li­ke Rick. And he was twen­ty-fi­ve, old eno­ugh to set­tle down. A lady li­ke Re­gi­na Shel­ton was just what he ne­eded. She wo­uld set him the kind of exam­p­le he, Rick, had ne­ver be­en ab­le to. In the end, she might even ha­ve him fal­ling in lo­ve with her. Rick had se­en the way Sla­de lo­oked at her, too. And every man ne­eded a go­od wo­man. His son was no ex­cep­ti­on.

  It was iro­nic, but he was ac­tu­al­ly pla­ying mat­c­h­ma­ker. He lo­oked for­ward to ha­ving an ob­vi­o­usly well-bred, classy lady li­ke Re­gi­na as his da­ug­h­ter-in-law. Be­ca­use he was a go­od jud­ge of cha­rac­ter, from the mo­ment he'd la­id eyes on her, he'd known she was mo­re than a blue-blo­oded aris­toc­rat. She was ho­nest and ge­nu­ine and soft. She was as dif­fe­rent from Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir as was pos­sib­le, ex­cept for the fact that they we­re both stun­ningly at­trac­ti­ve.

  Even fi­ve ye­ars ago Rick had se­en right away that Eli­za­beth was a very spo­iled co­qu­et­te. She was sel­fish and ma­ni­pu­la­ti­ve. Rick knew the type too well, be­ca­use Pa­uli­ne had be­en that way, and Vic­to­ria had it in her too, when she cho­se to play the ga­me. James, of co­ur­se, hadn't se­en that; he'd be­en mes­me­ri­zed by Eli­za­beth's blin­ding blon­de be­a­uty and he'd fal­len for her lim­pid ga­ze and qu­ick, pretty smi­les in­s­tantly. The one thing that had be­en bot­he­ring Rick when he'd re­ali­zed that Sla­de wo­uld now ha­ve to wed Eli­za­beth was that he knew Sla­de wo­uld des­pi­se Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir on sight.

  For­tu­na­tely, he no lon­ger had to worry abo­ut that.

  James had be­en ho­nest, kind, and go­od, too. May­be it wo­uld al­ways be an at­trac­ti­on of op­po­si­tes in this world. God knew, with James go­ne, his fa­mily ne­eded so­me­one li­ke Re­gi­na Shel­ton in the­ir mid­st-and Sla­de ne­eded her most of all.

  No, he re­al­ly didn't fe­el gu­ilty, not at all.

  Trap­ped. It was a very de­fi­ni­te, dis­tinct fe­eling, and it had be­en gro­wing ever sin­ce he'd fo­und Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir not far from the ra­il­ro­ad tracks a do­zen mi­les from Tem­p­le­ton. Last night Sla­de had be­gun to fe­el as if his col­lar we­re too tig­ht-or as if the­re we­re a no­ose aro­und his neck.

  She co­uld not stay. The at­trac­ti­on that had be­en the­re bet­we­en them from the first was ra­pidly gro­wing to un­con­t­rol­lab­le pro­por­ti­ons. Last night had pro­ved that. Last night had be­en dan­ge­ro­us. She was James's fi­an­c­йe, but Sla­de had for­got­ten that and just abo­ut ever­y­t­hing el­se. He had be­en ob­li­vi­o­us of the­ir cir­cum­s­tan­ces, who she was, and her sta­te of am­ne­sia. She was ob­vi­o­usly a well-bred lady and a vir­gin if he had ever se­en one. Yet he had for­got­ten that too. He co­uld no lon­ger trust him­self aro­und her. Last night he had be­en con­su­med with de­si­re. To this mo­ment, he did not know how he had be­en ab­le to con­t­rol him­self and ta­ke her ho­me wit­ho­ut se­du­cing her.

  He sup­po­sed that the re­al irony of it was that she was ever­y­t­hing James had des­c­ri­bed. Not just blin­dingly be­a­uti­ful, but a re­al lady, a lady from the top of her he­ad to the tip of her to­es, a lady from the ele­gant clot­hing she wo­re right down to the too-ge­ne­ro­us and for­gi­ving ten­den­ci­es of her he­art. She was gra­ci­o­us and kind and go­od. He was not very fa­mi­li­ar with tho­se tra­its, but he co­uld re­cog­ni­ze them in her easily eno­ugh. Last night when he had con­fes­sed that he had be­en so ne­ar to ac­ting out his fan­ta­si­es, she had sa­id it was ac­ti­ons that co­un­ted, not tho­ughts. He al­most smi­led, but co­uldn't. She was such a damn lady she had be­en trying to ma­ke him fe­el bet­ter, she had be­en trying to re­li­eve his gu­ilt, when she was the one ex­ha­us­ted and suf­fe­ring from am­ne­sia, when she was the one who had be­en frig­h­te­ned eno­ugh to run away from him.

  God, she wo­uld ha­ve be­en per­fect for James. How they had su­ited each ot­her. But she didn't su­it him, Sla­de, not at all, and she ne­ver wo­uld.

  He wasn't nob­le li­ke James, and, as she had po­in­ted out, he wasn't a gen­t­le­man. Even tho­ugh he knew it, her sub­t­le slan­der had hurt. He was so un­gen­t­le­manly he had ne­arly ta­ken ad­van­ta­ge of her last night, and the mo­re they cros­sed paths, the har­der it was go­ing to be to re­sist her-to re­sist him­self. He wan­ted to con­demn her for her res­pon­si­ve­ness to him, but he co­uld not. It was the only earthy qu­ality she had. So­me­how, on her, it ma­de her even mo­re of a lady, per­haps be­ca­use it was in such con­t­rast to her ob­vi­o­us prop­ri­ety. He co­uld only reg­ret it pro­fu­sely, but for every sigh of reg­ret, the­re was a com­pe­ting and sec­ret bre­ath of ela­ti­on.

  He had be­en trying to push her away, ho­ping to push her away. If he was him­self, he was su­re she wo­uld be re­pul­sed. But she re­fu­sed to see him as a bas­tard, no mat­ter what he did; she saw only her res­cu­er, and may­be even her he­ro. How co­uld he fight her gra­ti­tu­de, co­up­led as it was with her in­c­re­dib­le fa­ce and too-ge­ne­ro­us he­art? How? He was trying so damn hard. But every ti­me she lo­oked at him with tho­se big brown eyes it was all he co­uld do not to ha­ul her in­to his em­b­ra­ce.

  May­be the re­al prob­lem was that the ne­ed to push her away was not as strong as the ur­ge to pro­tect her. She was an in­no­cent yo­ung wo­man. It was so very ob­vi­o­us that she had led a pro­per, gen­te­el, shel­te­red li­fe, an easy li­fe. Now her in­no­cen­ce and naп­vetй we­re com­po­un­ded by her loss of me­mory. How co­uld he not res­pond, how co­uld he not fe­el com­pel­led to lo­ok out for her? God knew, a wo­man li­ke that had not the fa­in­test idea how I to lo­ok af­ter her­self out­si­de of a g
il­ded sa­lon.

  The no­ose was the­re aro­und his neck. He was dam­ned if she left and dam­ned if she sta­yed even if for a whi­le. He co­uldn't for­get Mi­ra­mar. Rick had sa­id that if he didn't marry the lit­tle he­iress so­on, Mi­ra­mar was go­ing to be ta­ken from them. It was pos­sib­le that Rick was exag­ge­ra­ting. The old man had be­en known to do that from ti­me to ti­me, es­pe­ci­al­ly when the sta­kes de­man­ded it. In anot­her mi­nu­te he was go­ing to go over the bo­oks him­self.

  And if she did stay, he was go­ing to ha­ve to fight him­self very hard in or­der not to bet­ray James. And it wasn't just his fan­ta­si­es or his damn body that he was thin­king abo­ut. For he sus­pec­ted the­re was a small part of him that re­fu­sed to bend to his iron-clad will, that re­fu­sed to ac­cept the fact that she was off-li­mits, that might even con­si­der the no­ti­on of mar­ri­age to her.

  Sla­de was de­ter­mi­ned to do bat­tle with him­self un­til the end of ti­me, if ne­ed be, but he was not to­uc­hing her and he wasn't mar­rying her, and so­me­how, he wo­uld sort things out and sa­ve Mi­ra­mar-if Rick we­re tel­ling the truth.

  He no lon­ger con­si­de­red le­aving Mi­ra­mar and re­tur­ning to Char­les Mann in San Fran­cis­co, whe­re he was a cru­ci­al man in Char­les's far-flung em­pi­re. He co­uldn't le­ave now, not when his ho­me was in such fi­nan­ci­al je­opardy. Char­les had told him to ta­ke as much ti­me as he ne­eded in or­der to be with his fa­mily, but Sla­de wo­uld ha­ve to send him so­me word so­on abo­ut his plans. Of co­ur­se, he was not sta­ying fo­re­ver and he was not ta­king James's pla­ce. He was not. But he co­uld not aban­don Mi­ra­mar now. He wo­uld not le­ave un­til so­me kind of ar­ran­ge­ment had be­en ma­de with the bank, un­til Mi­ra­mar was on less shaky fo­oting. And, be­ing ho­me for this long, he co­uldn't es­ca­pe the truth. Eli­za­beth asi­de, he was glad to be sta­ying a lit­tle lon­ger. Mi­ra­mar was in his blo­od and al­ways wo­uld be. It oc­cur­red to him sud­denly that if James hadn't di­ed, may­be he wo­uldn't le­ave Mi­ra­mar at all.