Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  She re­ali­zed that she was al­so mis­sing her tro­us­se­au.

  Re­gi­na did not even bre­at­he. Did that me­an that two trunks we­re mis­sing? For a bri­de's dress wo­uld be pac­ked so ca­re­ful­ly that it wo­uld ta­ke up an en­ti­re trunk by it­self. But the­re was no re­ason for a tro­us­se­au to ha­ve be­en ship­ped se­pa­ra­tely. Her tro­us­se­au wo­uld ha­ve be­en pre­pa­red well in ad­van­ce of her de­par­tu­re da­te.

  But didn't the very sa­me lo­gic apply to her wed­ding gown? Her he­art be­gan to thud he­avily. She had be­en en­ga­ged for fi­ve ye­ars. She had known the da­te of her wed­ding for fi­ve ye­ars. One did not wa­it un­til the last mi­nu­te to ha­ve a wed­ding gown ma­de when one had such a long en­ga­ge­ment. Of co­ur­se the gown wo­uld ha­ve be­en re­ady. The­re wo­uld ha­ve be­en ab­so­lu­tely no re­ason to ship it se­pa­ra­tely.

  Then why was it not among her things?

  Be­ca­use, she told her­self with fla­ring pa­nic, it was still at the tra­in sta­ti­on in Tem­p­le­ton. Re­gi­na co­ve­red her fa­ce with her hands, trem­b­ling. She did not want to lis­ten to the ghostly vo­ice in­si­de her he­ad that was in­sis­ting upon anot­her pos­si­bi­lity, one she did not want to en­ter­ta­in.

  What if she we­re not Eli­za­beth?

  She jum­ped to her fe­et and be­gan pa­cing wildly. Of co­ur­se she was Eli­za­beth! What a fo­olish idea! Rick had met her on­ce fi­ve ye­ars ago, and aga­in at her fat­her's fu­ne­ral. He knew her! But… pe­op­le chan­ge in fi­ve ye­ars. And at her fat­her's fu­ne­ral she wo­uld ha­ve be­en ve­iled. If she bo­re a su­per­fi­ci­al re­sem­b­lan­ce to Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, then he might ha­ve mis­ta­ken who she was.

  She grip­ped the bu­re­au and sta­red at her shoc­ked ex­p­res­si­on in the mir­ror. If she we­re not Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir it wo­uld ex­p­la­in why she had no tro­us­se­au and no wed­ding gown among her pos­ses­si­ons. It wo­uld ex­p­la­in the loc­ket with the ini­ti­als RS upon it. It wasn't pos­sib­le, was it? Co­uld such a mis­ta­ke ha­ve be­en ma­de the­se past few days?

  "No!" She sho­ok her he­ad in de­ni­al. "I am Eli­za­beth- I ha­ve to be! Sla­de and I are get­ting mar­ri­ed in three days!"

  But the tho­ught had be­en plan­ted in her mind. It frig­h­te­ned her. For if she we­ren't Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, then who was she?

  Very ca­uti­o­usly Re­gi­na ap­pro­ac­hed Ed­ward. She was cer­ta­in that he wo­uld help her. The­re was no one el­se she wo­uld even think of tur­ning to, not even Sla­de- es­pe­ci­al­ly not Sla­de. She had wa­ited un­til all of the fa­mily had left the ho­use. Vic­to­ria was go­ne for the day. And Sla­de and Rick had rid­den out be­fo­re bre­ak­fast; Re­gi­na had not even glim­p­sed them. She was re­li­eved for that. Sla­de wo­uld ta­ke one lo­ok at her and know that she was dis­t­ra­ught. He was too sen­si­ti­ve, des­pi­te his wan­ting the world to think ot­her­wi­se. Un­til Re­gi­na sol­ved the rid­dle of her wed­ding dress her­self, she did not want to see him. Even mo­re im­por­tant than the is­sue of her mis­sing gown was her own do­ubts, her very sec­ret-but fo­olish, she told her­self-an­xi­ety that she might not be Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. She did not want Sla­de to even gu­ess that she had such tho­ughts. And it was no lon­ger im­por­tant for her to tell him abo­ut the theft of her loc­ket the night be­fo­re.

  To­day Ed­ward was not im­pec­cably dres­sed. He wo­re de­nim pants and a fa­ded pa­le-blue flan­nel work shirt. Even in a wor­king cow­boy's at­ti­re, tho­ugh, he was stri­king. Re­gi­na saw him le­aving the ho­use. She ran af­ter him, cal­ling out his na­me.

  He tur­ned with that de­vas­ta­ting smi­le of his, one she was su­re had ca­used many he­arts to flut­ter and bre­ak, even tho­ugh, she had le­ar­ned, he was only twen­ty-two ye­ars old.

  "Go­od mor­ning," he sa­id, his glan­ce sli­ding over her ap­pre­ci­ati­vely. "You know what? I think I co­uld be­co­me je­alo­us of my brot­her."

  Re­gi­na did not blush, yet she sen­sed that he was be­ing sin­ce­re. "You are very flat­te­ring, Ed­ward."

  He smi­led. "The­re are few wo­men who co­uld de­ser­ve flat­tery mo­re, Eli­za­beth. I ho­pe Sla­de ap­pre­ci­ates his go­od for­tu­ne."

  Re­gi­na ho­ped so, too. Very much.

  "Is so­met­hing on yo­ur mind?"

  "Yes, the­re is." She smi­led back. "Edward, I ne­ed yo­ur help. I ha­ve a prob­lem. But-" She to­uc­hed his arm. "I re­al­ly don't want to worry Sla­de."

  He smi­led aga­in, but it did not re­ach his eyes this ti­me. He was gal­lant, but Re­gi­na al­most felt as if he un­der­s­to­od they we­re for­ming a sec­ret pact. "I wo­uld ne­ver worry my brot­her ne­ed­les­sly, es­pe­ci­al­ly now, a few days be­fo­re his wed­ding. How can I help you?"

  She to­ok a bre­ath. "I've go­ne thro­ugh all my things and my wed­ding gown is mis­sing."

  He ra­ised a brow. His glan­ce was un­re­adab­le. "Ah. A de­fi­ni­te prob­lem."

  She ope­ned her mo­uth to tell him that not only didn't she ha­ve a dress, she didn't ha­ve a tro­us­se­au, eit­her. In­s­tinct stop­ped her. She did not want Ed­ward, or an­yo­ne, to know of tho­se un­set­tling cir­cum­s­tan­ces. She was af­ra­id that if she had be­co­me sus­pi­ci­o­us of tho­se facts, if she had be­co­me sus­pi­ci­o­us of her own iden­tity, so wo­uld ever­yo­ne el­se. In­de­ed, Ed­ward's smi­le and un­fat­ho­mab­le ex­p­res­si­on we­re al­most wor­ri­so­me. He did not ap­pe­ar ruf­fled by her re­ve­la­ti­on. "The dress must ha­ve be­en ship­ped se­pa­ra­tely, of co­ur­se," she sa­id in­s­te­ad, "and ob­vi­o­usly it has be­en lost."

  "Yes, that wo­uld se­em to be the ca­se." Ed­ward to­ok out a ci­ga­ret­te and lit it slowly.

  "Or co­uld I ha­ve mo­re trunks in Tem­p­le­ton?" Re­gi­na as­ked ca­su­al­ly. "Per­haps a bag has be­en over­lo­oked."

  Edward la­zily blew out a stre­am of smo­ke. "You don't ha­ve any lug­ga­ge in town. The­re was a lot of con­fu­si­on, but af­ter all the pas­sen­gers had re­bo­ar­ded and cla­imed the­ir bags, yo­urs and yo­ur cha­pe­ro­ne's we­re all that we­re left."

  "Oh, de­ar." Re­gi­na was pa­le. She had be­en pra­ying that one of her trunks was mis­sing-and that it wo­uld be fo­und in Tem­p­le­ton. "Edward?" She for­ced a smi­le. "Did my lug­ga­ge ha­ve na­me tags?"

  "No, it didn't." His glan­ce was ke­en as it met hers. "But that's not so odd, you know."

  Re­gi­na fro­ze. Ed­ward gu­es­sed. She was cer­ta­in of it.

  But how co­uld he be sus­pi­ci­o­us of who she was? And if he was, then why hadn't he sa­id so­met­hing, not to her, but to Rick, or Sla­de? She sta­red at him, but he wasn't lo­oking at her now; he was blo­wing a se­ri­es of play­ful smo­ke rings in­to the air and wat­c­hing them drift apart.

  Re­gi­na tri­ed tel­ling her­self that she was wrong, that she was over­w­ro­ught, and that Ed­ward did not even fat­hom the pos­si­bi­lity that she might not be Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. She had a po­un­ding he­adac­he now. She tri­ed to think thro­ugh the stab­bing pa­in abo­ut the lack of na­me tags on her bags. It co­uld me­an so­met­hing, or it co­uld not. Many pe­op­le tra­ve­led with tag­ged bag­ga­ge, many did not. I am Eli­za­beth, she told her­self fi­er­cely. I'm get­ting myself up­set for no re­ason! Ob­vi­o­usly the gown was sent ahe­ad, ahe­ad, and it got lost!

  "Are you all right, Eli­za­beth?"

  She jum­ped, pra­ying her eyes we­re not as wild as her ner­ves. "What am I go­ing to do?"

  "Re­lax," Ed­ward sa­id, re­gar­ding her. "What do you want to do?"

  She won­de­red if the­re was a do­ub­le me­aning to his qu­es­ti­on. It was im­pos­sib­le to gu­ess at Ed­ward's tho­ughts, hid­den as they we­re be­hind his han­d­so­m
e fa­ce and easy smi­le. "I ne­ed a dress."

  His smi­le bro­ade­ned. "Don't fret. I was sup­po­sed to put in my ti­me and mend fen­ces with Rick and Sla­de to­day, but I think we'll ma­ke a trip in­to Pa­so Rob­les in­s­te­ad."

  "And?"

  "We're go­ing hun­ting," he told her evenly. "Hun­ting for a wed­ding gown."

  "But I'm get­ting mar­ri­ed this Sun­day!"

  "I'm su­re we can find so­met­hing new and whi­te and pretty. And by of­fe­ring a slight bit of en­co­ura­ge­ment- in dol­lars, of co­ur­se-we can ha­ve that dress al­te­red and re­ady by no­on on Sun­day."

  "I ho­pe you're right," Re­gi­na bre­at­hed. And she firmly sho­ved all her do­ubts from her mind-un­til Ed­ward's next words.

  He sa­id, lo­oking at her, "And we don't ha­ve to tell an­y­body."

  "Whe­re the hell is ever­y­body?" Rick de­man­ded.

  Sla­de shrug­ged. The two men we­re alo­ne in the den as the sup­per ho­ur ap­pro­ac­hed. Rick was po­uring them both drinks. Af­ter be­ing out on the ran­ge all day, both men had bat­hed and put on cle­an, com­for­tab­le clot­hes. Sla­de's ha­ir was still wet. He wan­ted to know whe­re ever­yo­ne was too; he par­ti­cu­larly wan­ted to know whe­re Eli­za­beth was. It hadn't es­ca­ped his at­ten­ti­on that Ed­ward was al­so mis­sing.

  Lu­cin­da ap­pe­ared, car­rying a pla­te of cut-up me­lons, all ho­meg­rown, which Sla­de had re­qu­es­ted. She set it down on a big en­g­ra­ved chest which ser­ved as a cof­fee tab­le, ga­ve him a smi­le, and wal­ked out. Sla­de was re­min­ded of last night. He sank on­to the co­uch and be­gan eating, ig­no­ring the drink Rick of­fe­red.

  "You bet­ter stop fo­oling with her," Rick war­ned. "Yo­ur lit­tle bri­de won't be too happy if she gets wind of it."

  Sla­de didn't lo­ok up, lic­king the ju­ice from his hands. It wasn't easy to re­ma­in calm. An­ger bo­iled up in him. He wasn't sle­eping with Lu­cin­da and he ne­ver had. Last night had be­en she­er hell. Last night he co­uld ha­ve fo­und a cold kind of com­fort in her arms, and he hadn't. He was not in the mo­od to ta­ke this kind of cri­ti­cism from Rick, not to­day, not when he was wa­ging a con­s­tant bat­tle with him­self, and co­ming so clo­se to lo­sing. "Drop it," he war­ned.

  But Rick wo­uldn't. "Eli­za­beth's a re­al lady, and re­al la­di­es are sen­si­ti­ve. She's not go­ing to put up with phi­lan­de­ring. For on­ce, be smart. You don't know how lucky you are."

  Sla­de kic­ked his fe­et up on the chest and put his hands be­hind his he­ad. Lucky? That was a la­ugh. He was the un­luc­ki­est man ali­ve, to be mar­rying a wo­man li­ke Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, a wo­man who be­lon­ged to his brot­her, a wo­man he co­uld ne­ver ha­ve. But if he co­uld ha­ve a re­al mar­ri­age with her, then he wo­uld be very lucky, and he was well awa­re of it.

  "You want her to find out and run, right?" Rick sa­id.

  Sla­de scow­led. "You know, you've be­en jud­ging me gu­ilty ever sin­ce I can re­mem­ber. And I'm get­ting sick and ti­red of it."

  "What am I sup­po­sed to do when I see you do­ing damn fo­ol things? Li­ke fo­olin' with Lu­cin­da? Le­ave the damn ma­id alo­ne. Eli­za­beth is the best thing that's ever hap­pe­ned to you, boy, I'm tel­ling you that now."

  Abruptly Sla­de's bo­ots hit the flo­or and he sat up. "You know what? You're the god­damn fo­ol."

  "Li­ke hell I am."

  He grit­ted his te­eth. "You won't be­li­eve this, but I ha­ve ne­ver to­uc­hed Lu­cin­da, and I do­ubt I ever will."

  Rick snor­ted, in­c­re­du­lo­us.

  Sla­de flus­hed, both angry and em­bar­ras­sed. Why in hell had he bot­he­red ex­p­la­ining an­y­t­hing? Rick wan­ted to be­li­eve the worst, he al­ways had, and Sla­de had stop­ped de­fen­ding him­self ten ye­ars ago-the night he had run away. "I want to talk."

  Rick set­tled back com­for­tably. "What's on yo­ur mind?"

  Sla­de got to his fe­et. "After Sun­day, I'm cal­ling the shots aro­und he­re."

  Rick blin­ked, and then he ho­oted. "Over my de­ad body!"

  "Oh, no," Sla­de sa­id very softly. He stal­ked aro­und the big Spa­nish chest and con­f­ron­ted Rick. "I'm mar­rying Eli­za­beth. I'm go­ing to con­t­rol her mo­ney. I'm hol­ding the pur­se strings aro­und he­re af­ter Sun­day, and we're gon­na do things my way."

  Rick's fa­ce was red. "Li­ke hell!" he sho­uted. "You're my he­ir-but I ain't de­ad yet and I'm a long way from it!"

  "Then you don't get a frig­ging penny!" Sla­de sho­uted, the ar­tery in his neck bul­ging.

  "You mi­se­rab­le son of a bitch!"

  "It ta­kes one to know one."

  "What the hell kind of ga­me is this?"

  "It's no ga­me," Sla­de sa­id firmly. "You sho­uldn't ha­ve shown me tho­se bo­oks, old man. They're the pro­of that I ne­ed to ta­ke over the re­ins from you. You've ma­de a mess of things. We can run this pla­ce to­get­her-but we do it my way."

  "And what’s yo­ur way?" Rick ra­ved, his fa­ce dar­ke­ning dan­ge­ro­usly. "What's yo­ur way that's so much bet­ter than my way? You think you're so smart-huh, boy? Well, let me tell you so­met­hing! You don't know shit abo­ut what it ta­kes to run Mi­ra­mar! You left he­re when you we­re fif­te­en, so don't you go tel­ling me that you can do a bet­ter job than I can!"

  "But I can, and I will," Sla­de sa­id. "First thing we're gon­na do is sell off two-thirds of our herds."

  Rick fro­ze. His eyes bul­ged.

  "We're over­s­toc­ked. The next thing we're gon­na do is cle­ar fi­ve hun­d­red ac­res. We've got three fer­ti­le val­leys per­fect for gro­wing whe­at and oats. By next spring, we're go­ing to be plan­ting every sin­g­le ava­ilab­le ac­re."

  Rick was now pur­p­le. "Sell off our herds? Turn fi­ve hun­d­red ac­res in­to far­m­land? You want us to be far­mers?"

  "In fi­ve ye­ars, bar­ring a dro­ught, Mi­ra­mar is go­ing to be in the black."

  "Far­mers?"

  "My way," Sla­de sa­id softly. "Or no di­ne­ro."

  "Far­mers!" Rick sho­uted. "God­damn far­mers! You've lost yo­ur mind!"

  "Are we in­ter­rup­ting?" Ed­ward as­ked calmly from the do­or­way. Re­gi­na sto­od be­si­de him, her eyes hu­ge, her fa­ce whi­te.

  Sla­de's ga­ze pas­sed right over his brot­her and slam­med to a halt on her. She met his ga­ze bri­efly be­fo­re glan­cing away.

  "To the con­t­rary," Sla­de sa­id, ne­ver ta­king his ga­ze off her, his mo­uth cur­ling very slightly up­ward. "Yo­ur ti­ming has ne­ver be­en bet­ter."

  Rick pa­ced his bed­ro­om, en­ra­ged. When the do­or ope­ned he whir­led to see his wi­fe stan­ding the­re in her dusty tra­ve­ling su­it. "Whe­re the hell ha­ve you be­en all day?"

  Vic­to­ria smi­led and clo­sed the do­or be­hind her. "Shop­ping. Why are you sho­uting?"

  Rick didn't he­ar. "Do you know what that bas­tard in­tends? Ha­ve you any idea what he in­tends?"

  Vic­to­ria to­ok off her hat and glo­ves and tur­ned to fa­ce her agi­ta­ted hus­band. "You must be re­fer­ring to Sla­de."

  "Who the hell el­se has the po­wer to up­set me li­ke this? Not even you can up­set me li­ke this!"

  Vic­to­ria went to him, her hands go­ing to his sho­ul­ders, kne­ading them. "You had bet­ter calm down, Rick," she sa­id, me­aning it. "I ha­ven't se­en you this mad sin­ce he ran away at fif­te­en. You'll ha­ve a he­art at­tack."

  "You're right!" Rick shrug­ged free of her. "He'll be the ca­use of my de­ath and he'll dan­ce on my gra­ve. I won't gi­ve him the sa­tis­fac­ti­on."

  "What has he do­ne?"

  "It's not what he's do­ne, it's what he in­tends to do. Dam­mit, Vic­to­ria, he's gon­na try and ta­ke Mi­ra­mar from me, try and run it him­self-and turn it in­to a farm!"

  Vic­to­
ria's eyes went wi­de. "He told you that?"

  "He sa­id he's gon­na con­t­rol Eli­za­beth's mo­ney and run this pla­ce and the first thing he's do­ing is sel­ling off our herds and tur­ning fi­ve hun­d­red ac­res in­to far­m­land. Far­m­land! He wants us to be far­mers!"

  Vic­to­ria's eyes nar­ro­wed. "Kick him out. Now. Right now. And don't ever let him co­me back."

  Rick sta­red at her, thin­king abo­ut it.

  Vic­to­ria grip­ped his wrists. "Edward wo­uld ne­ver ta­ke over from you. Not ever. We both know that. Let him marry Eli­za­beth. He'll be mo­re than happy to let you con­t­rol her in­he­ri­tan­ce and run things he­re, as long as he has eno­ugh to li­ve on. You know it. We both know it."

  Rick wal­ked away from her. "Sla­de's the ol­dest. He's my he­ir."

  "Sla­de's tro­ub­le! He's be­en tro­ub­le from the day he was born!"

  Rick tur­ned and re­gar­ded her.

  "If Sla­de says he's go­ing to do so­met­hing, only a fre­ight tra­in can stop him," Vic­to­ria war­ned.

  "And may­be I'm that fre­ight tra­in," Rick sa­id.

  "And may­be you're too old to stop him! Kick him out! Di­sin­he­rit him!"

  "I can't bre­ak tra­di­ti­on. Mi­ra­mar is tra­di­ti­on. The ol­dest has al­ways in­he­ri­ted, al­ways. It's our way, and you knew it when you mar­ri­ed me, knew I al­re­ady had two sons."

  "And we've al­ways be­en ran­c­he­ros!" Vic­to­ria cri­ed pas­si­ona­tely. "Always! But if Sla­de in­he­rits, he's go­ing to bre­ak with tra­di­ti­on and be­co­me a far­mer. Isn't it bet­ter that you bre­ak tra­di­ti­on to pre­ser­ve it-rat­her than he bre­ak it to des­t­roy it?"