by Jill Gregory
But when the time came, he knew he would marry someone like Luanne. Someone sweet and easygoing, someone who’d make his life as comfortable, convenient, and pleasant as a day out fishing.
He sure as hell was never going to fall in love. He’d rather crawl on his belly through a snake pit than that. Wade had watched Reese suffer and grieve for Lydia, watched the man’s heart bleed and his soul ache for years, and he’d made up his mind way back when he was fourteen that he’d never give any woman that kind of power over him.
He was never going to love anyone that much, need anyone that much. Miss anyone that much.
Because Lydia Summers had been more than a beauty who’d flitted in and out of Reese’s life—she’d owned his heart. Even though she’d left him, run off while he was away on that trail drive and taken their daughter with her—Reese had never stopped loving her. He’d never married again, never even courted another woman, unless you counted squiring Winnifred Dale now and then to a barbecue or the May Day dance, or spending an occasional night with a saloon girl upstairs in the Silver Star Saloon.
No, Reese had never gotten over Lydia, and had ached for her until the day he died.
But Wade wasn’t going to make that same mistake.
Think about Luanne.
He tried to picture her face then, but it was a bit fuzzy. Must be the whiskey.
He went to bed, remembering the taste of Luanne’s kisses well enough—but not before wondering if Caitlin Summers’s kisses would taste like violets.
Another man was thinking of Caitlin Summers at that very moment. Dreaming of her kisses. And of her moans.
In his three-story brick mansion in Philadelphia, Dominic Trent paced up and down the huge front drawing room, wincing with every step.
Finally he sank upon the green velvet settee and leaned his powerful shoulders back against the cushions. The drawing room was in darkness, only a faint light from the chandelier in the hall filtering into the magnificent and ornately furnished room. Trent poured himself another brandy from the half-empty decanter on the table and downed the burning red liquid in a long gulp.
He closed his eyes, leaned back against the cushions once more, and pictured the exquisite face of the gold-haired woman he could not forget.
The pain swirled through his head just like the brandy had swirled in the goblet. The bandage had long since come off, the goose egg she’d left on his skull had long since dwindled to the smallest of lumps, but the pain—the pain had not gone completely away.
And it wouldn’t, Dominic reminded himself, not until the woman who had caused it was completely under his power.
He’d wanted Caitlin Summers since the moment he saw her at the opera the season of her coming-out. He’d tried to court her in the usual way and had been rebuffed, but not before learning she was more steel than spun sugar, no matter how delectable she looked.
That, of course, only made her more desirable. Which no doubt was part of her plan. Deep down, she had wanted to torment him, wanted to bewitch him. She knew that her very coldness toward him only made her more exciting, her very elusiveness was the most potent of lures. Trent was an avid hunter—in his younger days he had traveled west and hunted elk and black bear and buffalo with some of the finest hunting guides that side of the Missouri. Though he’d dutifully returned to civilization to assume the mantle of his family’s shipping empire upon his father’s death, he had never lost his fascination with the primitive—or his love of the hunt. And Caitlin Summers, from that first moment he had seen her, had seemed like the most wonderful creature ever to be hunted.
She was the ideal prey—beautiful, independent, elegant—a woman as graceful as any antelope he had ever seen upon the plains, a prize to be tracked, stalked—and captured.
He hadn’t planned on his lovely prey actually hurting him though. That night when he’d thought he had her trapped, when she was here in this very drawing room, exactly where he wanted her, completely vulnerable and without a soul in the world to help her, he’d never dreamed she would strike out at him as she had.
She’d violated the rules. Struck him over the head, nearly killed him, and left him with this wretched ringing pain that came and went, but always returned.
The doctors said it might never go away.
She would pay for that. Dearly.
Perhaps she’d imagined she’d escaped, but she would soon learn that there was no escape. From him.
That was only one of the things he would teach her when he finally tracked her down.
And track you down I will, sweet Caitlin, Dominic thought, rising from the settee, striding through the darkness into his velvet-papered hall.
“Thomas!” he called in a silken voice that for all its softness held the menace of a flicked whip.
“The housemaid who cleaned my bedroom today is to be dismissed,” he told the butler who hurried into the hall in response to the summons. “She broke a goblet and spilled champagne upon the carpet.”
“Yes, sir. A clumsy mistake, to be sure. But she is new—”
“Dismiss her.”
“Yes, Mr. Trent.” The butler bowed his head. “Will there be anything else?”
“Have Forbes bring the carriage around at precisely eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Trent.”
“Tell him that I shall expect him to know the directions to my destination.”
“Of course, sir. And where is it you wish to go?”
Dominic Trent strode toward the stairs, his brow creased with pain. Yet he took pleasure in speaking each word. “Someplace of utmost importance to my future. The Davenport Academy for Young Ladies.”
Chapter 7
In the end, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t fire a single one of the ranch hands. Not Rooster with his silly blushes and bow-kneed walk; not Jake Young, whose big brown eyes and clean-cut handsome features reminded Caitlin of a drawing of Billy the Kid she’d once seen on the front of a dime-store novel; not Miguel with his white-toothed smile and faultlessly polite manners; not Dirk Watkins, whose thin black mustache, elegant black clothes, and intricately tied black silk neckerchief were almost as memorable as his low, gravelly voice.
And certainly not old Baldy, whose leathery skin, rheumy eyes, and gnarled, callused hands showed evidence of years of hard work out in the sun, years of having worked, he told her, for Reese Summers “right from the very beginning when this place was nothing but a pile of mud.”
She couldn’t do it.
But on her way into town later that day, with Rooster driving the wagon this time, and a plain muslin-tied bonnet protecting her from the brilliant Wyoming sun, she devised a far better plan.
And she couldn’t wait to see the expression on Wade Barclay’s face when she instituted it.
In the meantime she opened an account at the bank, deposited her two months’ stipend, and arranged to wire money to Philadelphia. That done, she visited Hicks Mercantile and made the acquaintance of Nell Hicks and her father, who owned the establishment.
She also had a pleasant little chat with Miss Dale, whom she found sorting mail at the post office counter.
Winnifred peered at the envelope Caitlin handed her, and her gentle gaze settled on Caitlin’s face. “Miss Rebecca Tamarlane at the Davenport Academy for Young Ladies? A friend of yours, Miss Summers, I presume? How nice.”
“Not a friend. My sister. My half sister.” Caitlin watched as Miss Dale set the envelope in a bulging mail sack. She hoped Becky wouldn’t be too upset when she learned Caitlin wouldn’t be returning quite as soon as she’d first hoped, but she’d assured her that the delay would not be long.
“Oh, perhaps she will come and visit you at Cloud Ranch,” Miss Dale suggested with a smile.
“No. She won’t be doing that. I’d never ask Becky to travel all the way out here to such an uncivilized . . . I mean, to a place so far from home,” she amended quickly. “Besides, I won’t be staying long enough to entertain any visitors.”
/> “Really?” Miss Dale looked distressed. “But . . . the will? Surely by now, you are well aware—”
“Yes, and it seems everyone else in Hope is aware as well.” Caitlin tried to contain her irritation. “Why is it, Miss Dale, that everyone seems to know my business?” she asked with a sigh.
Winnifred’s dainty cheeks had turned pink, but she struggled to explain. “This is a small town, dear. Word travels fast and there are few secrets. Especially among friends.” She pushed her spectacles up her nose and met Caitlin’s gaze squarely. “Your father told me you would be coming here, for example.”
“He did?”
“Oh, yes. I visited him in his last days. He told me he had left you a share of the ranch—that he had done all in his power to encourage you to make Cloud Ranch your home. He asked me,” she added, her chin trembling a little, “to do all I could to make you welcome.”
“I see.” She studied the woman. “You must have been quite close to him.”
“Yes, we were very dear friends.” Winnifred’s eyes misted. “Of course, it wasn’t anything romantic or anything of that sort,” she hurried to add, her cheeks growing even pinker. “All of Silver Valley—and Hope, for that matter—knew there was never any other woman for Reese besides your mother.” She turned and began sorting through a basket of letters. “I do believe he loved her with all his heart up until the very day that he died.”
A small shock ran through Caitlin. Perhaps all of Silver Valley knew that, but she hadn’t. Reese had still loved her mother, even after she’d abandoned him and married another man?
“But that’s neither here nor there,” Miss Dale continued quietly. “It’s all in the past, isn’t it? Today, I’m just pleased to see you getting settled in. That would have made your father very happy.”
“I can’t imagine why it would matter to him.” Bitterly, Caitlin wondered why her father had tried to convince everyone in Hope that he did have some feeling for her. She was baffled that he’d bothered with the charade.
“I’m only staying here right now because I must. But I don’t intend to remain in Wyoming for long.”
“I do hope that perhaps you’ll change your mind.” Miss Dale paused in her sorting to offer a shy smile. “I know of course that Hope can’t compare to Philadelphia, but we are becoming a fair-sized town—for Wyoming—and we have a good many businesses here now, including stores which boast fine goods,” she said. “Hicks is particularly well stocked, thanks to Nell. She’s been running the place for years. And ever since the trouble cleared up last year, new businesses and citizens have been settling in Hope quite briskly. We have a shooting gallery now, and a land office, and . . .”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
Winnifred Dale pushed her spectacles higher and gave a small shudder. “Why, the Campbell gang. They terrorized this town some time back—killed poor Sheriff Owen and almost ran off with Nell Hicks—!”
She broke off as Edna Weaver strode in, carrying a basket full of letters to be mailed. She greeted Caitlin warmly, and when Winnifred explained that she was telling the girl how much the town had grown since the recent trouble, the banker’s wife nodded vigorously.
“Oh, yes, Hope is a far safer and more pleasant town now, thanks to Quinn Lassiter and the other men, including my husband, Seth. They all joined together and got rid of the Campbells for good. If they hadn’t, who knows what would have happened. Hope might have become a ghost town. As it was, lots of folks left during all the trouble. Even Winnifred left for a number of months—she went to stay with her sister in Iowa until the trouble died down.”
“It was most frightening.” Winnifred nodded. “And since my sister’s husband had fallen ill and she needed help running their farm, it was a good time for me to go away—but what a relief when the gang was wiped out. And when I returned I found that our little town was booming again. Why, we even have a library now!” she exclaimed with pride.
But Caitlin was scarcely listening—she was thinking about the Campbell gang, and all the terrible things she’d just heard about. Never, never could she consider bringing Becky to a place where such things could happen.
Edna’s next words convinced her even further. “Yes, and though there’s still a little problem with rustlers raiding some of the larger ranches right now, it’s really nothing at all compared to the troubles with the Campbells.”
“Rustlers?” Caitlin stared from one to the other. She’d heard stories about cattle rustlers during her journey west. “My father insisted that I live in a place being terrorized by rustlers?”
“Oh, heavens, no, it’s not that bad.” Edna waved a hand in the air. “They work mostly at night and only shoot at someone who comes upon them, dear. You’re in no danger, I’m sure—but didn’t Wade warn you about venturing out after dark?”
“Wade Barclay would be thrilled if I got myself shot by rustlers!” she rejoined.
“Oh, good heavens, no—he wouldn’t!” Edna declared staunchly and Winnifred looked aghast.
“You misjudge him, dear. Wade is one of the finest men in this entire territory. In any territory, I’d say. And he was a devoted son to Reese.” Gently, Winnifred shook her head. “He’d never ever wish you harm.”
He will after I execute my plan, Caitlin thought with grim satisfaction, but she couldn’t very well tell Edna and Winnifred what she had in mind for Cloud Ranch’s impossible foreman.
So she bid the ladies good day and turned to leave, but as she headed to the door, it opened and a pretty red-headed young woman in a pale yellow calico dress stepped in.
“Well, good morning, Luanne. How nice to see you.” Edna bustled over and took Caitlin’s arm before she could edge past the woman out the door. “Have you met Miss Summers yet?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Edna performed rapid introductions, explaining to Caitlin that Luanne Porter was the new schoolteacher in the valley and she hailed from Boston. “She was raised in the East just like you yourself. You two ladies ought to have a great deal in common.”
“How do you do?” Caitlin murmured. The schoolteacher was pretty, with her heart-shaped face, soft cloud of hair threaded with yellow ribbons, and a trim figure shown off to advantage by the calico gown.
“I’m so happy to meet you,” Luanne exclaimed warmly. “I’ve heard from Wade all about the plans for your arrival.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, Wade and I are close friends.” The schoolteacher blushed. “He told me you were expected and that everyone at Cloud Ranch was in quite a tizzy over your impending arrival.”
“I see.”
Luanne smiled, her brown eyes sparkling. “Perhaps you’d care to come to supper at my aunt and uncle’s home on Sunday? Wade’s already accepted the invitation—and perhaps”—her smile widened to include the other women—“we could make it a small party. I do miss the parties we used to have back east when people lived much closer together and weren’t separated by such great distances, don’t you?”
“I haven’t been here long enough to miss anything yet,” Caitlin murmured, wondering how in the world someone so sweet could tolerate a man as insufferable as Wade Barclay.
Luanne Porter was already turning hopefully to Edna and Winnifred. “Won’t you join us for supper? Mr. Weaver too, of course,” she told Edna.
Before Caitlin even realized it, the evening was all arranged. She left the post office a bit dazed, but shook off the feeling as she hurried up the street, reminding herself of the final, most important errand of her day. By the time Sunday rolled around, she might very well be unable to attend the supper party—she might be well on her way to Philadelphia, flush with money from her share of Cloud Ranch.
What she was about to do might solve all of her problems. If she did it right.
Moving with swift, determined steps she headed toward the saloon.
“What the hell?”
Caitlin had just finished buttoning the emerald
-green jacket of her riding habit the next morning when the ruckus began. Her heart beginning to pound with excitement, she rushed to her window and gazed down toward the corral.
A small knot of men were gathered there. Wade— who’d been in the process of saddling his horse—old Baldy, Jake Young—and five newcomers.
These were as disreputable-looking a bunch as any she’d seen along the route of her stagecoach journey. Her heart swelled with pride just looking at them. Several were in various stages of a hangover. All were unshaven, unkempt, their clothes filthy—none of them had likely known a bath in weeks—perhaps months. She’d found them all in the saloon in Hope—well, almost all of them. She’d had to walk clear across town and half a mile down to Opal’s Brothel to find the one-eyed drunk called Otter Jones. He had the meanest eye she’d ever seen—and she’d heard in the saloon that he’d shoot his own grandmother in exchange for a pint of red-eye whiskey.
Eager excitement filled her as she surveyed the motley group. And especially as she saw the thundercloud of anger descend upon Wade’s face.
She hurried downstairs and out to the corral, tingling with anticipation.
“Maybe you’d care to explain?” Wade growled as she approached.
“What is there to explain? I see you’ve met our new wranglers.”
She guessed that the look he gave her must have curdled the blood of more than one grown man. It did make her knees tremble, but she leaned against the corral post, assumed a casual pose, and smiled at him. “I figured extra hands would make the ranch run more smoothly and result in even greater profits. So, just tell these men what you need done and I’m sure—”
“Clear out.” Wade didn’t even wait for her to finish speaking before he confronted the unsavory bunch of men before him. “We’ve got all the wranglers we need on Cloud Ranch.”
