Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  "J­esus," James sa­id, pus­hing his pla­te away. He le­aned back on the so­fa, not lo­oking very ple­ased. "But you didn't find me! If you had got­ten my let­ter you wo­uld ha­ve known right away that I was fi­ne."

  "When we didn't find you and af­ter a month went by, what co­uld we think but that you we­re de­ad?" Rick sa­id.

  "Why did you ta­ke off wit­ho­ut a word?" Sla­de as­ked.

  "I got a let­ter from Eli­za­beth."

  "What kind of let­ter?" Rick as­ked.

  James's smi­le was bit­ter. "What kind do you think? It wasn't a lo­ve let­ter."

  A si­len­ce fell af­ter his words. Sla­de bro­ke it. "Hell, James. I'm sorry."

  "Ye­ah, well, don't be. Best thing that co­uld've hap­pe­ned to me."

  "So that's why you to­ok off in the mid­dle of the dam­ned storm," Rick sa­id grimly.

  "I was mad. And dis­be­li­eving. And hurt. Stu­pid fo­ol that I was, I fi­gu­red I'd go to her per­so­nal­ly and de­mand an ex­p­la­na­ti­on. I wan­ted to be­li­eve she was just ha­ving the usu­al last-mi­nu­te jit­ters, and that on­ce she saw me, she'd fall right in­to my arms and ever­y­t­hing wo­uld be fi­ne." He la­ug­hed harshly. "Boy, was I wrong!"

  "You got her let­ter and to­ok off in the storm and lost yo­ur hor­se in the flo­od," Sla­de sa­id. "What hap­pe­ned af­ter­wards?"

  "I ne­eded anot­her hor­se so I sto­le anot­her one out of old man Cur­tis's fi­elds to ma­ke it to Tem­p­le­ton to catch the tra­in to San Lu­is Obis­po. When I re­ali­zed the tra­in wo­uldn't be co­ming un­til the next day, I just kept ri­ding. Not­hing was go­ing to stop me-I was too damn mad. I ro­de un­til I co­uld ren­dez­vo­us with the So­ut­hern Pa­ci­fic, which I pic­ked up in Ser­ra­no."

  "You ro­de al­most the en­ti­re way?" Ed­ward in­te­rj­ec­ted.

  "I wasn't just mad," James sa­id ru­eful­ly, "I was crazy, too. I didn't send a te­leg­ram ho­me un­til I got to San Lu­is Obis­po, af­ter I had se­en her." His mo­uth twis­ted but the smi­le fa­iled. "I can't re­mem­ber what I sa­id. She had chan­ged so much-I was shoc­ked, I gu­ess."

  Edward bro­ke the en­su­ing si­len­ce. "I saw her, James. Abo­ut a month ago I went down the­re to see her step­mot­her, and Su­san sent me to Eli­za­beth." He he­si­ta­ted. "You sho­uldn't be so up­set. No wo­man co­uld ha­ve be­en wor­se for you."

  James was si­lent.

  Sla­de sa­id, "I saw her, too. Re­cently. Ed­ward's right. She was bad news."

  James lo­oked at his brot­hers. Then his fist hit the tab­le hard, sen­ding his pla­te to the flo­or. "She had to tell me all of it. I think she enj­oyed tel­ling me all of it. She's a who­re at he­art and she al­ways has be­en. Do you know why she was sent to Lon­don in the first pla­ce? Be­ca­use she'd be­en ca­ught in bed with so­me stab­le-boy! So­me­how Sin­c­la­ir hus­hed it up and sent her off to what he ho­ped wo­uld be a pri­son! She was thir­te­en! It wasn't even the first ti­me! Boy, when Ge­or­ge ar­ran­ged the mar­ri­age was he la­ug­hing be­hind our backs!" James was sha­king. He re­le­ased a de­ep bre­ath and sta­red up at the ce­iling.

  Rick was on his fe­et. "God­damn Ge­or­ge! If he wasn't de­ad I'd wring his neck right now! How in hell did he co­ver up such a scan­dal? Ge­or­ge al­ways was too damn smart!" Rick plan­ted him­self in front of his son. "Thank God, James, that she cal­led it off. That tramp isn't fit to cle­an the hor­ses­hit off yo­ur bo­ots."

  "Amen," Ed­ward sa­id.

  James didn't spe­ak.

  "You've be­en go­ne a long ti­me," Sla­de sa­id qu­i­etly. "Whe­re ha­ve you be­en?"

  "I drif­ted so­uth. I didn't much ca­re whe­re I went. A few days af­ter I'd se­en her, when I was in Los An­ge­les, I sent anot­her te­leg­ram so no one wo­uld ex­pect me back an­y­ti­me so­on. La­ter I pos­ted a let­ter from Tuc­son, ex­p­la­ining. When I wo­und up in Gu­ada­la­j­ara two we­eks ago, I de­ci­ded it was ti­me to co­me ho­me and fi­nish things."

  Sla­de eyed him. Re­gi­na won­de­red what he me­ant.

  James sho­ok his he­ad. "I don't un­der­s­tand what hap­pe­ned to the let­ter and the te­leg­rams."

  "Ne­it­her do I," Rick sa­id fu­ri­o­usly. "And it's one hell of a co­in­ci­den­ce all three ne­ver ma­de it he­re."

  Sla­de spo­ke. "I'm go­ing to get so­me an­s­wers. I'll go to town to­mor­row to talk to Ben."

  Re­gi­na ten­sed. She glan­ced at Vic­to­ria, who was non­c­ha­lant. But when the ot­her wo­man saw Re­gi­na's ex­p­res­si­on, she shif­ted. Re­gi­na lo­oked away, des­pa­iring. De­ar God, she knew she was right.

  "I know abo­ut the let­ter," Lu­cin­da sud­denly cri­ed. "But not abo­ut the te­leg­rams."

  Ever­yo­ne lo­oked at her.

  "What?" Rick sho­uted. "You kept that let­ter from me?"

  Vic­to­ria was on her fe­et. "Lu­cin­da, what kind of stu­pid ploy is this? And what are you do­ing he­re? Don't you ha­ve cho­res to do?"

  Lu­cin­da gla­red at her. "You're a me­an wo­man and you de­ser­ve this. I ha­ve to tell the truth!"

  Re­gi­na crin­ged. Rick grab­bed the ma­id's arm. "What the hell are you im­p­l­ying?"

  "Rick, I saw the let­ter in Vic­to­ria's bu­re­au, hid­den among her clot­hes."

  A shoc­ked si­len­ce fil­led the ro­om.

  "No!" Vic­to­ria sho­uted, li­vid. "She's lying be­ca­use she ha­tes me! She's al­ways ha­ted me. Ha­ven't you, you lying bitch?"

  Rick lo­oked at his wi­fe in be­wil­der­ment.

  Edward sta­red at his mot­her in dis­be­li­ef.

  Sla­de to­ok Lu­cin­da's hand. '’Tell us what hap­pe­ned."

  Te­ars fil­led Lu­an­da's eyes. "I wan­ted to say so­met­hing right away! When I fo­und the let­ter by ac­ci­dent I re­cog­ni­zed his han­d­w­ri­ting, so I re­ad it. But she ca­me in and ca­ught me!"

  Vic­to­ria ma­de a stran­g­led so­und.

  "She thre­ate­ned me, Sla­de! Then she pa­id me off." Lu­cin­da al­most bro­ke in­to te­ars. "I was mo­re af­ra­id of her thre­ats to see me thrown off the ranch than I was in­te­res­ted in the mo­ney. We fo­ught abo­ut it. She hit me. I knew she'd do as she sa­id, ha­ve me be­aten up and ta­ken away, if I spo­ke up."

  "You sho­uld ha­ve co­me to me," Sla­de sa­id.

  "I was af­ra­id! This has be­en my ho­me sin­ce I was a child! Wo­uld you ha­ve be­li­eved me or her?" Lu­cin­da cri­ed wildly.

  It re­al­ly didn't mat­ter. Sla­de tur­ned to Vic­to­ria, his eyes fil­led with fury. Re­gi­na im­me­di­ately mo­ved to the stric­ken ma­id, put­ting her arm aro­und her. Lu­cin­da sho­uld ha­ve spo­ken up, but she co­uld easily ima­gi­ne her be­ing tho­ro­ughly in­ti­mi­da­ted by Vic­to­ria. Re­gi­na had not a do­ubt that Vic­to­ria's thre­ats to do her bo­dily harm had be­en re­al.

  "You've go­ne too far, Vic­to­ria," Sla­de sa­id. “I gu­ess you in­ter­cep­ted the te­leg­rams too."

  Rick was sta­ring at his wi­fe, shoc­ked. But it was Ed­ward who was pa­ral­y­zed. He hadn't mo­ved, he hadn't even flin­c­hed, nor had he spo­ken. Now he sa­id, his vo­ice high and bo­yish, "Mot­her?"

  Vic­to­ria rus­hed to him. "Oh, Ed­ward!" she cri­ed, clas­ping his hands. He sta­red at her as if she we­re a mad­de­ned stran­ger. "I did it for you! For you! And what was so bad? I didn't kill James! He went away, de­ser­ting us all! I didn't know Eli­za­beth was just a lit­tle who­re. I tho­ught she was co­ming he­re to marry James. Rick wan­ted her to marry Sla­de, but I re­ali­zed that with James go­ne, she co­uld marry you!"

  Edward did not so much as blink.

  "Don't you see? Sla­de wo­uld co­me for the fu­ne­ral and le­ave. But you wo­uld be he­re and Rick wo­uld ha­ve as­ked you to marry her to sa­ve the ran­c­ho. Then this wo­uld all be yo­urs! I
did it for you! And was it such a ter­rib­le lie? Just what was so ter­rib­le?"

  Edward sud­denly lun­ged to his fe­et, thro­wing her off him so vi­olently that she cras­hed in­to the cha­ir be­hind her and al­most fell to the flo­or. "Get away from me."

  "Ed­ward!" Vic­to­ria re­ac­hed out to him, ple­ading.

  "Get away from me!" Ed­ward sho­uted. He whir­led, knoc­king over the ot­to­man he had be­en sit­ting on. He mo­ved so swiftly that no one had ti­me to re­act. He was out the do­or, his stri­des so long and fast he was al­most run­ning.

  Ever­yo­ne was in shock. Sla­de was fro­zen. Rick sank down on the so­fa, his fa­ce bu­ri­ed in his hands, lo­oking old and de­fe­ated. Re­gi­na felt pity for them all, but es­pe­ci­al­ly Rick and Ed­ward. Ab­ruptly she grip­ped Sla­de's arm. "Call Ed­ward back," she sa­id ur­gently.

  Sla­de lo­oked at her. "No."

  She star­ted to pro­test.

  "No, Re­gi­na, he has to de­al with this him­self."

  And then, thro­ugh the be­ating ra­in, they he­ard the so­und of thun­de­ring ho­of­be­ats. Re­gi­na ran to the ot­her si­de of the ro­om, which fa­ced the gro­unds and the stab­les. Pus­hing asi­de the dra­pes, she saw Ed­ward on his black stal­li­on gal­lo­ping down the dri­ve, away from Mi­ra­mar.

  Vic­to­ria scre­amed when she re­ali­zed what was hap­pe­ning. She rus­hed past Sla­de and in­to the dow­n­po­ur. Her sobs we­re he­ar­t­b­re­aking. Re­gi­na ran af­ter her. The wo­man stum­b­led in­to the outer co­ur­t­yard and thro­ugh the ga­te, cal­ling af­ter her son. Re­gi­na skid­ded to a halt, the ra­in pel­ting her fi­er­cely. Her clot­hing qu­ickly be­ca­me so­aked. Sla­de had fol­lo­wed her and he pa­used be­si­de her. "Go in­si­de be­fo­re you get sick," he sa­id qu­i­etly.

  Re­gi­na lo­oked at him qu­es­ti­oningly. No mat­ter what Vic­to­ria had do­ne, she co­uld not be im­mu­ne to her gri­ef.

  And ap­pa­rently ne­it­her co­uld Sla­de. “I’ll get her," he sa­id softly.

  Re­gi­na hur­ri­ed to the shel­te­ring over­hang of the ro­of, wat­c­hing as Sla­de wal­ked slowly thro­ugh the tor­ren­ti­al ra­in to Vic­to­ria. She had fal­len to her kne­es in the mud. Her an­gu­is­hed sobs did not aba­te. "Edward! Ed­ward! Ple­ase co­me back, ple­ase! Ed­ward!"

  Edward was no lon­ger even in sight.

  Sla­de bent and lif­ted her to her fe­et. "He'll co­me back," he sa­id qu­i­etly. "In his own go­od ti­me, he'll co­me back." And he led her in­si­de the ho­use.

  Ho­urs la­ter the ra­in had be­co­me a ste­ady dow­n­po­ur, blan­ke­ting the night. Re­gi­na sto­od by the win­dow in the­ir bed­ro­om, sta­ring out at the dren­c­hed sil­very dar­k­ness. Sla­de ca­me up be­hind her, his warm, strong hands slip­ping over her sho­ul­ders.

  She le­aned back aga­inst him. "Edward didn't ha­ve a co­at or a hat."

  "He'll be okay."

  "I can't help wor­rying. And hur­ting. He sho­uld be with us now, not out the­re alo­ne in that cold god­for­sa­ken night."

  He kis­sed her che­ek. "You ha­ve a he­art of gold, Re­gi­na. Ed­ward is a strong man. He ne­eds ti­me to adj­ust."

  Re­gi­na was si­lent a mo­ment, let­ting a sin­g­le te­ar drift down her che­ek un­c­hec­ked. Her he­art cri­ed for the en­ti­re fa­mily, but she co­uld not help but be thril­led by Sla­de's pra­ise. She tur­ned to fa­ce him. "Po­or James. What abo­ut him?"

  "Po­or James," Sla­de ec­ho­ed grimly. "He's a very bit­ter, angry man. I ba­rely re­cog­ni­ze him. For fi­ve long ye­ars he lo­ved a wo­man who did not exist. He was even fa­it­h­ful to her. He ne­eds ti­me, too."

  Re­gi­na em­b­ra­ced her hus­band. "What abo­ut Rick?" She clo­sed her eyes aga­inst the ima­ge of how he had ap­pe­ared the last ti­me she had se­en him. Af­ter Sla­de had led Vic­to­ria back in­si­de, he had got­ten up and left the ro­om, loc­king him­self in his study. He had ap­pe­ared da­zed and very, very old.

  "Rick's to­ugh. He's a sur­vi­vor. He's be­en thro­ugh a hell of a lot in his li­fe, he'll get thro­ugh this. But he's gon­na toss Vic­to­ria out, mark my words. He's for­gi­ven her a lot over the ye­ars, but he won't for­gi­ve her this."

  Re­gi­na le­aned aga­inst Sla­de, hug­ging him. "God help me, I even fe­el sorry for her. She's lost her son, now she's go­ing to lo­se her hus­band and her ho­me."

  "You are ama­zing, Re­gi­na. I think it's yo­ur ge­ne­ro­sity that I ad­mi­re most." His hands slid aro­und her. "I lo­ve you. I lo­ve you mo­re than you'll ever know."

  She fro­ze, stun­ned. "I beg yo­ur par­don?"

  He la­ug­hed ro­ughly, ca­ught up in the on­s­la­ught of his emo­ti­ons. "If you think I can say tho­se words aga­in, you're wrong. This isn't easy for me, but I re­ali­ze how much you want to know how I fe­el. I gu­ess," he sa­id softly, "I'm fin­ding the co­ura­ge to fi­nal­ly tell you."

  She star­ted to cry. She hug­ged him. "You ha­ve no idea how happy you're ma­king me! I've dre­amed of he­aring you tell me that you lo­ve me, Sla­de!"

  "Hasn't it be­en ob­vi­o­us?"

  "Ob­vi­o­us?" She la­ug­hed, de­li­ri­o­us with ple­asu­re. "Only a month ago you wan­ted to di­vor­ce me!"

  He sig­hed. Fi­nal­ly he cup­ped her fa­ce in his hands. "Can't you un­der­s­tand? I was trying to do what was right."

  She blin­ked at that. "To this day, Sla­de, I ha­ve not be­en ab­le to fully com­p­re­hend yo­ur mo­ti­va­ti­ons."

  "I tho­ught that yo­ur fat­her was right, that you sho­uld re­turn ho­me, li­ve in a cas­t­le and marry a du­ke."

  "Oh, you fo­olish man!" Re­gi­na cri­ed. "Fat­her no lon­ger fe­els that way, Sla­de. We set­tled our dif­fe­ren­ces the night of the ga­la. He has gi­ven us his bles­sing."

  Sla­de lo­oked stun­ned. For a long mo­ment he didn't spe­ak. "God, I'm glad! I've ago­ni­zed over my co­ming bet­we­en you and yo­ur fat­her!"

  "You ne­edn't ago­ni­ze an­y­mo­re." She he­si­ta­ted. "He has even gi­ven me my in­he­ri­tan­ce, which is in a bank ac­co­unt in yo­ur na­me in San Fran­cis­co."

  He sta­red. When he sa­id not­hing Re­gi­na was re­li­eved, be­ca­use he co­uld ha­ve pro­tes­ted. "Oh, you fo­olish man," she sa­id aga­in, this ti­me cup­ping his fa­ce. Te­ars fil­led her eyes. "You tho­ught me so shal­low that I ne­eded to li­ve in the lap of lu­xury? Ha­ve I pro­ved myself to you yet? Do you re­ali­ze how wrong you we­re?"

  He swal­lo­wed. "Ye­ah, you've pro­ved yo­ur­self, Re­gi­na, and I fe­el li­ke a big fat fo­ol."

  "I think you do un­der­s­tand what lo­ve is all abo­ut," Re­gi­na sa­id softly. "It is abo­ut com­p­ro­mi­se. When a wo­man re­al­ly lo­ves a man, she is wil­ling to gi­ve up what she must for him and for the­ir mar­ri­age-with no reg­rets."

  He kis­sed her lin­ge­ringly. Then he res­ted his che­ek aga­inst hers. "You're in­c­re­dibly wi­se for one so yo­ung, Re­gi­na. Yes, I've co­me to re­ali­ze, thro­ugh you, what lo­ve is all abo­ut. Be­fo­re, I was trying to be sel­f­less in gi­ving you up in­s­te­ad of sel­fish in ke­eping you."

  "But lo­ve is both sel­fish and sel­f­less, Sla­de," Re­gi­na mur­mu­red. "Are you sa­ying that you lo­ved me so much that you tho­ught to ma­ke me happy by sen­ding me away?"

  He win­ced, re­gar­ding her se­ri­o­usly. "In ret­ros­pect, es­pe­ci­al­ly af­ter the past month, it se­ems ab­surd."

  "It was very ab­surd!"

  "This month has ma­de me re­ali­ze how I mi­sj­ud­ged you. I'm so sorry. You ap­pe­ar as soft and fra­gi­le as a hot­ho­use ro­se, Re­gi­na, but it's an il­lu­si­on. The­re's not­hing that's not strong and de­ter­mi­ned abo­ut you. I've wat­c­hed you thri­ve the­se last few we­eks he­re at Mi­ra­mar. You've blo­omed. You've ne­ver be­en mo­re be­a­uti­f
ul and you've ne­ver se­emed hap­pi­er."

  "I've ne­ver be­en hap­pi­er," Re­gi­na sa­id. She al­most told him why she was thri­ving, then de­ci­ded he sho­uld con­ti­nue to think for a whi­le that her glow was due only to him and her hap­pi­ness and be­ing at Mi­ra­mar. She ca­res­sed his che­ek. "I lo­ve you. I lo­ved you from the mo­ment we met, which is why I kept my iden­tity sec­ret and mar­ri­ed you in the first pla­ce. And I ne­ver stop­ped lo­ving you, not on­ce, even when I was for­ced to le­ave you in San Fran­cis­co. The­re. I ha­ve con­fes­sed all." She re­gar­ded him thro­ugh blurry eyes.

  "You can con­fess to me at any ti­me," he whis­pe­red, ta­king her ear­lo­be bet­we­en his te­eth and tug­ging it gently. "I will ne­ver grow ti­red of yo­ur con­fes­si­ons."

  The next mor­ning Re­gi­na over­s­lept, ex­ha­us­ted both from the tra­uma­tic events of the pre­ce­ding day and the emo­ti­onal ec­s­tasy Sla­de's dec­la­ra­ti­on had ge­ne­ra­ted. Of co­ur­se, she was al­so well awa­re of the fact that most wo­men we­re ti­red in the first few months of preg­nancy.

  It was still ra­ining. The­re was no sign of it stop­ping. In the kit­c­hen a so­lemn Josep­hi­ne told her it might ra­in ce­ase­les­sly for we­eks. "But then you'd be sur­p­ri­sed," she ad­ded. "When it lo­oks li­ke it co­uld ne­vah get bet­tah, sud­denly the sun is shi­nin'."

  Re­gi­na lo­oked sharply at the Neg­ress. She had not one do­ubt that Josep­hi­ne in­ten­ded her words to ha­ve a do­ub­le me­aning. "How is Rick this mor­ning?"

  "He's re­al up­set and he's re­al mad. I only se­en him li­ke this on­ce in his who­le li­fe an' I be­en he­ah sin­ce I was a chi­le."

  Re­gi­na's he­art twis­ted. "When Sla­de's mot­her left?"

  Josep­hi­ne nod­ded. "He ne­vah let on, but he lo­ved Vic­to­ria des­pi­te her bad ways."

  "He's a very strong man. He'll get thro­ugh this." '’That he sho­re is an' he sho­re will. He'll be his­se'f, but it'll ta­ke so­me ti­me."

  "And Vic­to­ria? Is she all right?"