Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  "Damn him!" Rick cri­ed.

  "Send him away!" Vic­to­ria cri­ed.

  "Eno­ugh!" Rick stro­de past her. "He's my he­ir, he's the ol­dest. That's not chan­ging. But if it's a fight he wan­ts-well, then that's what he's gon­na get. Be­ca­use we're not tur­ning the ran­c­ho in­to a farm-at le­ast, not un­til I'm de­ad!"

  Vic­to­ria wat­c­hed him. "Whe­re are you go­ing?"

  "I ne­ed anot­her drink." He left.

  When he was go­ne, her ex­p­res­si­on chan­ged. She la­ug­hed, exul­tant. Her day was get­ting bet­ter and bet­ter!

  Sla­de had stu­pidly told his fat­her his in­ten­ti­ons, and now the­re was a new wed­ge bet­we­en them, one that wo­uld be fa­tal for the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip and fa­tal for Sla­de's fu­tu­re at Mi­ra­mar. Vic­to­ria wo­uld see to it. He had gi­ven her an op­por­tu­nity and she wo­uld uti­li­ze it the best way that she co­uld.

  And on­ce Sla­de was go­ne, Ed­ward wo­uld be the only one left, Ed­ward wo­uld in­he­rit ever­y­t­hing.

  And it didn't mat­ter, eit­her, that Sla­de was mar­rying the girl on Sun­day. Vic­to­ria la­ug­hed aga­in.

  Be­ca­use the girl wasn't Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir was in San Lu­is Obis­po. Not only was she in her ho­me­town, last fall she had ne­ver left it to go back to her scho­ol in Lon­don. She had be­en in San Lu­is Obis­po this en­ti­re ye­ar. Vic­to­ria knew, be­ca­use she had vi­si­ted her and they had had a long chat.

  Eli­za­beth had ne­ver in­ten­ded to co­me to Mi­ra­mar to marry James. She had re­ce­ived a te­leg­ram from Rick, but hadn't bot­he­red to an­s­wer it. Vic­to­ria, ha­ving met her, un­der­s­to­od it all so cle­arly now. Eli­za­beth was li­ving in the fancy ho­use she had bo­ught her­self, with a bevy of ser­vants, in­dul­ging her­self left and right as if she we­re a qu­e­en. She had be­en we­aring di­amond ear-bobs, a di­amond nec­k­la­ce, and a di­amond ring in the mid­dle of the mor­ning whi­le still clad in her dres­sing gown-and the di­amonds we­re re­al. She had told Vic­to­ria that she had no in­ten­ti­on of le­aving the city. She was not abo­ut to marry a ran­c­her, li­ve on an iso­la­ted ranch, and gi­ve up all of her mo­ney.

  Vic­to­ria did a lit­tle jig aro­und the ro­om, tri­um­p­hant.

  The girl, who­ever she was, was not­hing mo­re than a for­tu­ne-hun­ting im­pos­ter. And Vic­to­ria knew now why she ne­ver to­ok off the pe­arls she wo­re, not out of fe­ar that they wo­uld be sto­len, but be­ca­use they we­re fa­kes and she didn't want an­yo­ne to ta­ke too clo­se a lo­ok at them. Vic­to­ria had lo­oked clo­sely at the jewelry in her trunk and had tho­ught that they we­re re­al, but now she knew that ever­y­t­hing had to be fa­kes. Go­od fa­kes, but fa­kes, just li­ke the girl her­self.

  The bot­tom li­ne was that the girl was a fra­ud and a li­ar, an im­pos­ter, and not­hing mo­re. Sla­de wasn't mar­rying an he­iress, so he wo­uldn't ha­ve an in­he­ri­tan­ce and he co­uldn't sa­ve Mi­ra­mar. He wasn't go­ing to con­t­rol any pur­se strings at all.

  And Rick was go­ing to be fu­ri­o­us when he fo­und out how he'd be­en de­ce­ived and that the­re wasn't any in­he­ri­tan­ce. Sla­de wo­uld be use­less to him wit­ho­ut the mo­ney they ne­eded to sa­ve Mi­ra­mar.

  So­on Sla­de wo­uld be out on his ass, pen­ni­less and po­wer­less, fo­re­ver fal­len from Rick's gra­ce. So­on Ed­ward wo­uld ta­ke his pla­ce as Rick's he­ir. Vic­to­ria was go­ing to find him an he­iress to­ute de su­ite, and it wo­uld be Ed­ward who wo­uld be Mi­ra­mar's sa­vi­or. Not Sla­de.

  Chapter 14

  Sla­de had be­en wat­c­hing her thro­ug­ho­ut the me­al. Re­gi­na was une­asy. She had be­en une­asy all day, al­t­ho­ugh Ed­ward had do­ne his best to dis­t­ract her and ke­ep her smi­ling. They had fo­und a dress and pa­id the se­am­s­t­ress well, and it wo­uld be re­ady the night be­fo­re her wed­ding. Not on­ce had they aga­in spo­ken of the fact that they we­re ke­eping the­ir day's er­rand a sec­ret from Sla­de and ever­yo­ne el­se; they had not dis­cus­sed how odd it was that she did not ha­ve a wed­ding gown; they had not even al­lu­ded to what this cir­cum­s­tan­ce co­uld sig­nify. Ed­ward was so witty and char­ming that she co­uld only pray that she had be­en wrong ear­li­er to think that he was a par­t­ner to her sus­pi­ci­ons abo­ut her iden­tity.

  So­met­hing was on Sla­de's mind. It was ob­vi­o­us. His glan­ces we­re long and enig­ma­tic. Re­gi­na grew mo­re dis­t­ra­ught as the me­al prog­res­sed. She wor­ri­ed that he had so­me­how be­gun to ha­ve do­ubts of his own abo­ut her. She was af­ra­id that he was go­ing to se­ek her out af­ter the me­al and con­f­ront her. She wo­uld avo­id be­ing alo­ne with him to­nig­ht-and to­mor­row, and un­til the wed­ding-at all costs.

  She ex­cu­sed her­self from the tab­le im­me­di­ately af­ter des­sert, which she re­fu­sed. To her dis­may, Sla­de le­aped up and fell in­to step be­si­de her.

  "What’s the hurry?" he as­ked as they strol­led in­fo the co­ur­t­yard. The night air was co­ol, the bre­eze whis­per-soft. The first fin­gers of fog we­re re­ac­hing out to them.

  "I'm-I'm very ti­red. It's be­en a long day."

  "I gu­ess so. Whe­re we­re you?"

  She fro­ze up in­si­de. She was af­ra­id to tell him that they had go­ne to Pa­so Rob­les. She did not want to an­s­wer any qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut how she had spent her day. She did not want to lie, but she was not go­ing to tell him the truth. For if Sla­de hadn't be­gun to ha­ve do­ubts, he su­rely wo­uld if he knew abo­ut her mis­sing wed­ding gown. She ma­na­ged a fal­se smi­le, pa­using out­si­de her do­or. "I ne­eded a few things, to­ilet items."

  He cros­sed his arms, le­aning one sho­ul­der aga­inst the ado­be wall. His pos­tu­re was too neg­li­gent; it be­li­ed the gle­am in his eyes. "You and Ed­ward ha­ve a ni­ce day?"

  "Well-" She smi­led too brightly, "-it was hot and dusty in town. But we had a very ni­ce lunch at the ho­tel."

  Sla­de's jaw tig­h­te­ned. "I see. He ta­ke you to the bat­h­ho­use, too?"

  Re­gi­na he­si­ta­ted. She did not want to lie. "No."

  "You su­re had to think abo­ut it, didn't you?"

  She blin­ked at him, dre­ad kic­king up in her he­art.

  "What was so im­por­tant that you had to go all the way to town to­day?"

  "J­ust a few things. You know. So­ap-for my ha­ir. So­me pow­der. Tho­se kind of things."

  "Tho­se kind of things co­uld ha­ve wa­ited."

  Re­gi­na was un­ner­ved. He knew she was lying. She co­uld not res­pond.

  "Co­uldn't they?" he de­man­ded.

  "I'm very ti­red," she cri­ed.

  "You and Ed­ward must ha­ve had qu­ite an outing if you're that ti­red."

  "What?"

  He was grim. "He wi­ne you and di­ne you in that fancy res­ta­urant over at the ho­tel? He flash his pretty smi­le at you? Did you smi­le back at him? The two of you spend the day flir­ting? Did he swe­et-talk you? Kiss you?"

  Re­gi­na was spe­ec­h­less.

  "Well?" He was no lon­ger bra­ced aga­inst the wall. "He chan­ge yo­ur mind?"

  "What?"

  "Ha­ve you de­ci­ded you'd rat­her marry him now? Are you sud­denly han­ke­ring af­ter my brot­her, Eli­za­beth?"

  "No!"

  He sta­red coldly, his eyes glit­te­ring.

  "Are you je­alo­us?" Re­gi­na was shoc­ked. She had tho­ught he was af­ter the truth, that he had so­me­how gu­es­sed what she was up to, but he was je­alo­us of Ed­ward!

  He did not an­s­wer.

  Her he­art be­gan to spe­ed. He was je­alo­us that she had spent the day with his brot­her! She was thril­led. No mat­ter what Sla­de sa­id, no mat­ter how he ac­ted, he ca­red abo­ut her or he wo­uld not be je­alo­us.
But she did not want him to be je­alo­us. She did not want to see dark hurt in his eyes. "I ne­eded a few things. That's all. Re­al­ly, Sla­de." She to­uc­hed his ba­re fo­re­arm. It was ten­se with co­iled mus­c­le, so ten­se she won­de­red if the ten­dons the­re wo­uld snap. "Edward was only hel­ping me out."

  "I'll bet." His glan­ce drop­ped to her hand, pa­le and whi­te aga­inst his darkly tan­ned skin, small and fra­gi­le next to the si­ne­wed strength of him.

  He lo­oked up. The­ir glan­ces held. "You're lying to me," he sa­id very softly. "I don't li­ke it. I don't li­ke this." ^No! I'm not!"

  "Tell me the truth." Be­fo­re she co­uld re­act, he slip­ped his hands aro­und her wa­ist, ma­nac­ling her. "Did he kiss you? Be­ca­use if he did, I might kill him. Eit­her that or be re­al nob­le, and let the two of you ha­ve each ot­her."

  She re­eled un­der the im­pact of his ga­ze. "Sla­de, we're en­ga­ged." Her to­ne grew in­ten­se, des­pe­ra­te, mat­c­hing niS- "I do not ta­ke that cir­cum­s­tan­ce lightly. I do not ta­ke my vows lightly. I wo­uld not kiss anot­her man. | Ne­ver. I wo­uld ne­ver bet­ray you."

  He sta­red at her. "But do you want to?"

  She had to press her lips to­get­her so that the words which we­re on the very tip of her ton­gue wo­uld not slip out. She wan­ted to tell him the truth, all of it. She wan­ted to tell him that she was af­ra­id, ter­ribly af­ra­id, | that she was not who she was sup­po­sed to be, and that she did not ha­ve a wed­ding gown, and that she had go­ne to town to buy one for the­ir wed­ding. And she wan­ted to tell him mo­re, so much mo­re. She wan­ted to tell him that she was in lo­ve with him, not Ed­ward.

  "No, Sla­de," she sa­id, very softly. She was acu­tely awa­re of his lar­ge hands span­ning her wa­ist, of his j strength and po­wer. Very bra­vely, she lif­ted her palms, and cup­ped his fa­ce. "I don't want Ed­ward, I ne­ver ha­ve. I only want you."

  A si­len­ce des­cen­ded. His che­eks we­re warm be­ne­ath her hands. His eyes we­re wi­de. She co­uld he­ar her own he­art be­ating, she tho­ught she co­uld he­ar his. Ne­it­her i one of them was re­la­xed. If ever he wo­uld kiss her, it ] wo­uld be now. She co­uld ba­rely stand the sus­pen­se, i And then he re­le­ased her, ex­pel­ling a shaky, drawn-out bre­ath, flin­c­hing away from her. "I'm a bas­tard. I'm f sorry. I was je­alo­us."

  Re­li­ef flo­oded her. But so did di­sap­po­in­t­ment. Her fa­ce he­ated. She had thrown her­self at him, but he had «not res­pon­ded. "Sla­de?"

  "I'm sorry." He was grim. "I al­re­ady ha­ve yo­ur lo­yalty, don't I?"

  "Yes!" she cri­ed. "Yes!"

  So­met­hing flic­ke­red in his ex­p­res­si­on. "I can't fi­gu­re out how in hell I ear­ned it." He sho­ved his hands in the poc­kets of his pants as if not trus­ting them. "I can't fi­gu­re you out."

  How she wan­ted to sha­re her fe­elings with him! Her pri­de pre­ven­ted her from do­ing so, as did her fe­ar. She wo­uld set­tle for re­ve­aling that part of the truth which was in­na­tely sa­fe to re­ve­al. "You ha­ve my lo­yalty, Sla­de, now and fo­re­ver."

  He step­ped away from her. "But will I still ha­ve it when yo­ur me­mory co­mes back?"

  She cri­ed out. James lo­omed bet­we­en them, a sha­dowy ghost. For an in­s­tant she co­uld al­most see him, but it was her ima­gi­na­ti­on pla­ying with the in­co­ming mist.

  He smi­led bit­terly. His glan­ce skim­med her fe­atu­res, one by one. "I gu­ess we both know the an­s­wer to that."

  "May­be I won't re­mem­ber," she whis­pe­red, too la­te. He had al­re­ady wal­ked away, in­to the sha­dows of dusk.

  Edward was spying.

  He sto­od in the un­lit in­te­ri­or of the den, by the open win­dows, wat­c­hing them and lis­te­ning. He gri­ma­ced when the dis­cus­si­on in­vol­ved him.

  He wo­uld be ca­re­ful not to flirt with her aga­in. It was har­m­less, he didn't me­an an­y­t­hing by it, and Sla­de sho­uld ha­ve known that. Ed­ward had no idea that Sla­de was so far go­ne on the girl that he wo­uld be pea-gre­en with je­alo­usy over his spen­ding ti­me with her and ta­king her in­to town. Yet even if he had known, he wo­uld ha­ve still co­me to her res­cue.

  He wat­c­hed Sla­de le­ave her and sho­ok his he­ad. He'd he­ard every word. What was wrong with his brot­her? She sto­od sadly in the eve­ning's len­g­t­he­ning sha­dows, sta­ring af­ter Sla­de. Sla­de sho­uld ha­ve kis­sed her, ma­de lo­ve to her. She had be­en wa­iting for him to do so. She was in lo­ve with him; it was ob­vi­o­us. Ed­ward won­de­red if he da­red in­ter­fe­re, then de­ci­ded to let na­tu­re ta­ke its co­ur­se.

  She tur­ned and slip­ped in­si­de her own ro­om. Ed­ward to­ok a pac­ket of pa­pers from his bre­ast poc­ket, te­aring one off. Ad­ding to­bac­co, he deftly rol­led a smo­ke, lic­king both ends of the ci­ga­ret­te to glue them to­get­her. A mo­ment la­ter he had lit it and was in­ha­ling de­eply, still sta­ring out at the co­ur­t­yard, which was be­co­ming den­se with pat­c­hes of fog.

  It wo­uld ha­ve hel­ped if she had told him the truth. But she hadn't. She hadn't told Sla­de why they had go­ne to town. Not for the first ti­me, Ed­ward won­de­red

  if she knew all of the truth, if she re­al­ly had am­ne­sia. Up un­til to­day, he had be­en con­vin­ced that she was suf­fe­ring from the loss of her me­mory. Now he was no lon­ger su­re; in fact, it lo­oked to be just the op­po­si­te ca­se. But it did not mat­ter. Ed­ward's mind was ma­de up.

  He was cer­ta­in he was do­ing the right thing in ke­eping his si­len­ce. He was not go­ing to re­ve­al the fact that she was not Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. p He'd had his do­ubts from the be­gin­ning. James and Sla­de had ne­ver had the sa­me tas­te in wo­men. Yet he'd shrug­ged it off. And he'd wat­c­hed with gre­at in­te­rest the fi­re­works that Sla­de and the girl set off. The in­s­tant, spi­ra­ling at­trac­ti­on he­ig­h­te­ned his do­ubts.

  It was co­in­ci­den­ce that Ed­ward had be­en in Tem­p­le­ton two days af­ter the tra­in rob­bery, at the sa­me ti­me as Brett D'Archand. Tem­p­le­ton was a small town, so the very we­althy stran­ger who had clo­se­ted him­self with the she­riff was an in­s­tant obj­ect of spe­cu­la­ti­on. Ed­ward ba­rely pa­id at­ten­ti­on to what the very pretty Het­ta Lou was tel­ling him; he was much mo­re in­te­res­ted in ma­ne­uve­ring her to bed. It was only when she told him, gre­atly ex­ci­ted, that D'Archand was lo­oking for his mis­sing ni­ece and of­fe­ring a tho­usand-dol­lar re­ward for in­for­ma­ti­on that he jer­ked to at­ten­ti­on.

  D'Archand's ni­ece, Re­gi­na Bragg Shel­ton, was twenty, Bri­tish, small, blon­de, and very be­a­uti­ful. That des­c­rip­ti­on fit Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir exactly, right down to the ac­cent, which she'd be­en for­ced to ac­qu­ire at the pri­va­te scho­ol in Lon­don.

  It ma­de sen­se. It ma­de mo­re sen­se that the girl was Re­gi­na Shel­ton than that she was Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, whom James had lo­ved. It ma­de eno­ugh sen­se for Ed­ward to di­sap­pe­ar one day. San Lu­is Obis­po was an ho­ur away by tra­in. He was not sur­p­ri­sed to find Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir the­re, al­t­ho­ugh he was sur­p­ri­sed to find her in the cir­cum­s­tan­ces he did, and he was gre­atly sad­de­ned. For the first ti­me in his li­fe he ha­ted. He ha­ted Eli­za­beth, and was glad James did not know the truth, wo­uld ne­ver know the truth.

  His trip so­uth had be­en days ago. He won­de­red abo­ut his fat­her's ro­le in this mas­qu­era­de. Rick had ob­vi­o­usly stum­b­led upon the truth as well. He was too shrewd to mis­ta­ke a stran­ger for Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, whom he had met twi­ce. Ob­vi­o­usly an al­li­an­ce with the po­wer­ful, very we­althy Bragg fa­mily was his mo­ti­va­ti­on.

  Edward wo­uld not say an­y­t­hing. This girl who was po­sing as Eli­za­beth was the best thing that co
­uld hap­pen to his brot­her. His brot­her had be­en shaf­ted his en­ti­re li­fe. And his brot­her was the fi­nest man he knew. Sla­de and James had be­en so ali­ke. As al­ways when it ca­me to his brot­hers, Ed­ward felt left out. James and Sla­de had both be­en nob­le and sel­f­less. He knew he was sel­fish, not sel­f­less, and that ba­si­cal­ly he was a he­do­nist. He only wor­ked hard when he had to, whi­le James and Sla­de both thri­ved on hard work. Ed­ward tri­ed not to dwell upon it. He enj­oyed li­fe's ple­asu­res too much to want to gi­ve them up.

  To Ed­ward's way of thin­king, Sla­de did not de­ser­ve mi­sery, he de­ser­ved hap­pi­ness. But Sla­de was not a happy or con­ten­ted man. To this day, Ed­ward felt gu­ilt. To this day, Ed­ward re­mem­be­red the night Sla­de had run away. To this day, he co­uld see the welts on Sla­de's back from the whip­ping Rick had gi­ven him for get­ting that girl preg­nant. Sla­de hadn't even cri­ed. He had cri­ed. He still wan­ted to cry when he re­mem­be­red. Of co­ur­se, it was all his fa­ult. He had be­en ban­ging her, not Sla­de, he had got­ten her preg­nant. No one had be­li­eved him. It was his fa­ult that Sla­de had be­en whip­ped, and, mo­re im­por­tantly, it was his fa­ult that Sla­de had run away. Sla­de had left Mi­ra­mar and his fa­mily, tur­ning his back on both, be­ca­use of him. A day didn't pass that Ed­ward did not re­mem­ber it.

  Sha­kily, Ed­ward in­ha­led hard on the ci­ga­ret­te. It wasn't very manly of him, but even at the age of twen­ty-two, thin­king so hard abo­ut what he had do­ne to his brot­her bro­ught him to the ver­ge of te­ars. But now he was go­ing to ma­ke it up to him. Ed­ward had not one do­ubt that his brot­her was in lo­ve now. And Sla­de was not li­ke him. Sla­de was lo­yal. Li­ke James, he wo­uld lo­ve one wo­man fo­re­ver. Fi­nal­ly, af­ter all the­se ye­ars, Sla­de was go­ing to ta­ke his pla­ce at Mi­ra­mar with the wo­man he lo­ved, re­gar­d­less of who she was. Fi­nal­ly, af­ter all the­se ye­ars, Ed­ward was go­ing to ato­ne for his sins. Which was why he wasn't sa­ying a god­damn word abo­ut Eli­za­beth re­al­ly be­ing Re­gi­na Shel­ton.