by Nan Ryan
Frowning, Natalie said, "But what about… ah… Susannah, was it?"
"I didn't tell you about her?"
"You mentioned her name, but you didn't say what became of her. I assume he tired of her and set her back on the shelf."
"Hardly." Shelby's smile fled. "Kane was deeply in love with Susannah. She was the daughter of a fellow Mississippi planter and Kane had known her since the day she was born. Susannah Hamilton was tiny, dark-eyed, dark-haired, and beautiful, but several years younger than Kane, promised her daddy they would wait to marry until Susannah turned eighteen. The war got in the way. Susannah was sixteen when Kane left; he had just turned twenty-three. He carried a small ambrotype of her beneath his uniform blouse, next to his heart. He used to take it out and study it fondly. He'd proudly show it to the other men and I couldn't blame him. She was just as pretty as an angel. Kane said she was as sweet as she was pretty."
"Then I don't understand. Why didn't he—"
"I'm coming to that. While Kane was away, the Yankees occupied the Hamilton mansion. The Hamiltons didn't move out; they remained in their quarters and… well, it seems Kane's little Susannah was not quite as sweet as he'd thought. Within weeks the pretty child Kane loved was… hmmm… sharing her girlish charms with a Federal officer."
Natalie was astonished. "But how did Kane find out? I mean…" Her words trailed away.
"The Federal officer was to be only the first in a long line. Eventually Susannah went north with a middle-aged naval captain whose family had vast real estate holdings and prosperous banking interests in Illinois. The bride dropped Kane a short letter saying she was dreadfully sorry, but she could not 'bear the thought of being poor.'"
"That's terrible," Natalie said, stunned. "Why, he must have… Kane surely—"
"Suffered. Kane suffered. He loved that little girl and thought she loved him. It changed him, I'll tell you that."
"Yes…" she mused. "I would imagine he doesn't much like women."
Shelby grinned suddenly and the sparkle crept back into his expressive gray eyes. "Kane? Why, he's crazy about women."
"I don't see how he could—"
"Honey, there's a big difference between liking women and respecting them. To Kane, women are merely a source of amusement… physical pleasure, One is pretty much like the next to Kant, long as she's good-looking and likes to—" Shelby cleared his throat. "He has no problem replacing one female with another and does so often."
"I'm sure he does," snapped Natalie.
"I'm afraid the boy will never again fall in love," offered Shelby thoughtfully. "The girl he believed to be every inch the lady turned out to be a mercenary little tramp. Since then, well, Kane's had lots of women… too many, and every last one of them fall right into bed with him the moment he snaps his fingers." Shelby scratched his chin and added, "Is it any wonder his opinion of the fair sex is less than it should be?" He brightened once more and stated, "I believe if Kane Covington could just once meet a female that behaved like a lady, he'd be smitten!"
Later on that same day, a tall, thin man quietly stole through the frozen, terraced backyard behind the hilltop Blackmore mansion shortly after dusk. Hurriedly climbing the steps to the rear verandah, the man knocked lightly upon the door and turned his back against the bitter, chilling winds swirling under the eaves of the house.
Old William opened the door, peering questioningly up at the chilled, light-haired man standing on the porch. Recognizing the caller, he stepped back, almost cowering, as the man swept past him and said, "Tell your master I'm here. I'll be in the study." He took off his worn coat and shoved it at the old man.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Leatherwood." William backed away, anxious to leave the presence of this cold, threatening man. In moments the servant was back, and Burl Leatherwood, pouring his second glass of bourbon from a heavy leaded decanter, heard the little man say, "Lord Blackmore has a bad cold, sir, but if you feel you must see him this evening, you may go up."
Burl Leatherwood downed the whiskey without a grimace, handed William the empty glass and headed for the stairway.
Not bothering to knock, he went into Ashlin Blackmore's large bedchamber.
"What in God's name do you mean coming here?" Ashlin asked. He was propped up in bed glaring at the tall, pallid man. "Relax, boss," said Burl Leatherwood, "no one saw me. I came down through foothills in back. The moon's not yet up." Ashlin blew his nose. "I don't give a damn. I've told you before, you are never to come here, it's far too risky."
"Keep your gown on, Blackmore, I said no one saw me." Leatherwood pulled up a ladder-back chair, turned it about, and straddled it. "I thought you'd want to hear what happened last night."
"I'm sure I'm going to, so if you'll kindly say it and leave."
"The Rebel horned in on the judge's little party last night, boss."
"God damn it, spit it out. What the hell are you saying?"
"I am saying that I was in Gaiety's Gaming Hall and saw Judge Vallance, the judge's old gray-hatred uncle, and that blond opera singer arrive. Your fiancée was wearing a revealing gown that left very little to the imagination. Every man in the place was panting by the time she crossed the floor." An evil light flickered in his light eyes. "And who do you suppose they bumped into? Covington."
"Go on."
"The cozy little foursome went upstairs to one of those private salons. Later, when they came back down and got their coats, I followed them outside. The uncle took the singer to the hotel or somewhere and the judge… she and Covington left town together in your carnage."
Before the last words were out of Burl Leatherwood's mouth, Ashlin Blackmore was shouting at the top of his lungs. "William! William, get up here at once!"
Trembling, the old servant stood, head bowed, while his master questioned him. "Where did you drive Mrs. Vallance and her companion? How long did it take for you to reach Cloud West? How long did you remain there?"
William had seen the dark side of Ashlin Blackmore's nature before. He had been with his master since Blackmore had been a youth and would remain with him until one of them died. He loved the spoiled Blackmore, despite the nobleman's shortcomings. He would have laid down his life for the earl, but on this cold night, he lied to him. Not by commission; but by omission.
If William's eyesight was not what it once had been, his hearing was perfect. And he had heard the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking inside the Blackmore coach the evening past. Too old to be shocked, too compassionate to judge, William had sat atop the box and silently told himself—and the handsome pair inside the carnage—that their secret was safe with him.
William knew and admired Judge Natalie Vallance. And he surmised that unless he was mightily mistaken, the brave and beautiful lady would set things right on her own. He hoped it was so. For her sake, not for his master's. Because William also knew—and would take with him to his grave—the tormenting knowledge of Ashlin Blackmore's shocking sexual secrets.
"I drove Mrs. Vallance and her escort directly to Cloud West, Sir. Less than ten minutes after we got there, her uncle and his companion arrived in another carnage."
"Did you see anything that might suggest improper behavior on the part of Natalie's escort?"
"Nothing, sir. Mrs. Vallance invited me inside when we reached Cloud West. I drank hot coffee at the table with Mr. Covington while Mrs. Vallance changed her clothes. When she came back down the stairs, her uncle and the singer were there. Will that be all, sir?"
"Yes, Yes. Get out of here!" thundered Ashlin Blackmore. "And William, next time you drive my fiancée anywhere in my carnage, you are come to me the moment you get back and tell me who was with her."
"I didn't wish to disturb you, sir. It was late and you—"
"You've had all day today to tell me!"
"I didn't think it important, milord."
"All my possessions are important, old man. I catch you holding things back from me, you'll wish you had stayed in England!"
The servant scurried away
and Ashlin turned his attention back to Burl Leatherwood. "We can't do anything now, not with the uncle in town, but soon as he's out of the way..."
Burl Leatherwood grinned. "Yes?"
Ashlin's brown eyes narrowed. "I want that Covington bastard taken care of once and for all. I need to get at that gold soon; I've borrowed all I can in Denver." His perfectly arched brows came together as he frowned thoughtfully. "We take care of him; I marry Natalie immediately and…"He paused, and as an afterthought said, "That Indian must be done away with as well; the old savage tries to poison Natalie's mind against me."
Burl Leatherwood, shaking his light head negatively, rose slowly from his chair. He stepped close to the bed. "Boss, you pay us, we'll be happy to kill Covington. But not the Indian."
"Leatherwood, you work for met I give the orders here. I want Tahomah dead."
"You want him dead, you kill him."
Ashlin snorted derisively. "Are you afraid of an ignorant Ute chief?"
"I am," Burl Leatherwood admitted. "That old Indian sees things, knows things. He has a power."
"My God, you sound like my foolish fiancée," Ashlin ground out scornfully. "I'll pay you double what I give you to get rid of Covington."
"Not for any amount, boss."
"I'll kill him myself," stated Ashlin Blackmore, and blew his red nose on a soft linen handkerchief.
Chapter Twenty-Two
On Sunday evening a pale but Byronically beautiful Lord Ashlin Blackmore assured one and all he was fully recovered from his nasty cold as he hosted a sunset buffet in his palatial mansion. The honored pest was, of course, Colonel Shelby Sutton.
An assortment of Cloudcastle's citizens gleefully attended the sumptuous affair. Nabobs and dandies, decked out in their finest, mingled with merchants and miners, cowhands and farmers. Paris-gowned wives of silver barons and professional men mingled freely with excited, simply clad rancher's daughters and miner's shy, mannerly wives. Powerful, aging matrons and lonely, respected widows braved the bitter cold to attend the important event.
Most had been to previous parties at the Blackmore mansion, so they knew to expect a grand time with plenty of good food. They were not disappointed. Inside the candle-lit dining room, on the long, linen-draped table, a feast fit for kings was laid out.
A pine apple-glazed ham, a brown, crisp roasted turkey, a tender, pink-centered roast of beef were expertly sliced with rapier-sharp carving knives and placed upon fine china dinner plates. There were partridges, mutton chops, and rainbow trout as well. Oyster pie and cold chicken. Spinach and cauliflower and carrots and string beans. Chicken salad, ham salad, potato salad. Mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, scalloped potatoes. Jellies, custards, cakes, blancmange, sweetmeats. Pyramids of grapes and oranges and apples. Sugared almonds and glazed pecans.
Champagne and port and sherry. Kentucky bourbon and aged cognac for the gentlemen. Cherry, peach, and raspberry brandy for the ladies. A typical Blackmore buffet!
The tempting foods and fine wines were not, on this occasion, the foremost reason Cloudcastle's mixed gentry filled the Blackmore mansion. They had come to welcome back Colonel Shelby Sutton, the tall, silver-haired Texan all agreed had stayed away from Cloudcastle far too long.
From the first time Colonel Shelby had ridden into the little mountain town years before to spend a summer with his pretty young niece, Natalie Vallance, he had been taken instantly to their hearts. A gentle, understanding man with a flair for the dramatic, a talent for putting people at their ease, and a warm, witty sense of humor, his very presence insured any gathering's success.
Loved by men and women alike, Shelby, possessor of a remarkable memory, called everyone by their given names when they stepped up to shake his firm hand. And, often as not, he brought up some amusing anecdote from a long-forgotten conversation out of the past. Flattered and astonished, the charmed, happy guests would sweep on into the drawing room, lighthearted and pleased, feeling very special.
Natalie, wearing a pretty ivory wool frock with long sleeves and a high collar, stood between her uncle and Ashlin, greeting the many callers. She was grateful that Kane Covington had declined Ashlin's invitation to join in the festivities.
Kane had told her uncle, as well as Ashlin, that this particular Sunday was to be his moving day. His alpine cabin was completed. So Natalie stood, the personification of primness, smiling, nodding, and feeling like the worst kind of hypocrite. Her tormented thoughts were never far from the absent man who aroused dark, shameful passions in her.
From this night forward, he would be living on Promontory Point. Less than three miles around the mountain from her home. Less than three thousand feet below the hallowed Cliff Palace.
A fierce alpine sun came out at midweek and burned away the misty fog. Wet, deep snows melted and rushing mountain streams, filled with bobbing ice blocks, flowed swiftly downhill. On a bright, vision-blinding day of unfiltered sunlight, Kane walked among the snow-laden pines surrounding his cabin. His breathing was labored and his buckskin shirt was unbuttoned.
Trekking steadily up and eastward, he traversed the high, craggy peaks of Promontory Point. Savoring the solitude, the sunny day, and the clear, crisp mountain air, Kane had tramped several miles when he caught a glimpse of something glinting in the strong sunlight. Sucking in deep, long breaths, he continued to climb, his curiosity piqued. He drew closer, paused, squinted. Again the object winked at him, and intrigued, Kane made his way up to the massive monolith looming against the clear blue sky.
With his intent gaze never leaving the mysterious twinkling, Kane rapidly covered the distance and soon stood before the towering boulder. He reached out, wrapped his fingers around what appeared to be an arrow, and yanked. Loosened from a deep crevice in the rock by raging mountain winds, the arrow came unlodged with only the slightest pressure.
Pulling it free, Kane stared, unbelieving. The arrow in his hand was no ordinary one. The exquisitely carved tip gleamed brilliantly in the Colorado sunshine and Kane's lips curved upward into a grin as his fingers caressed the cold, shiny yellow.
The arrow was tipped in gold.
Kane felt his heart speed delightfully. The arrow was very, very old. Chances were it had been wedged in the boulder for many years. It could well have been there long before gold fever had caused eager prospectors to swarm up into the Shining Mountains.
Kane's smile broadened. The wood of the arrow was unmistakably native to the region and had undoubtedly been taken from this very mountain. Had the gold come from here as well?
Experiencing an almost childlike rush of hope and excitement, Kane broke off the weathered wood and studied once more the gleaming gold tip before shoving the arrowhead into the pocket of his buckskin trousers. Whistling happily, he continued exploring the rugged mountain he owned.
Shortly after noon, he discovered a dark, deep cave. It was on the frozen east side of Promontory Point, and the thick, hard ice that coated the fissure's walls never melted. And Kane wondered, might there be gold beneath the covering ice?
He spent an hour methodically chiseling at the ice just beyond the cave's mouth. Perspiring from the strenuous exertion, Kane paused to remove his buckskin shirt. Tossing it carelessly aside, he eagerly returned to his task.
Winded, arm and back muscles aching, he stopped an hour later to smoke. Rolling the cigarette with deft fingers, Kane made his way outside into the warm sunshine. Learning lazily against a tall, slanted boulder, he was cupping his hands to light his smoke when he heard the snort of a horse. His eyes slowly lifted to see three mounted Indians on a small, snow-covered rise above. Their dark, flat eyes were studying him.
Kane puffed his cigarette to life and slowly shook out the match. He drew smoke deep into his lungs and released it as the trio rode down the winding inelme. Two of the Indians, who were young and spirited, spoke excitedly in their native tongue. The third, an aging man with a broad, ugly face, long, graying hair, and a squat, powerful body, held up his hand for silence.
&nb
sp; The young, muscular braves stopped talking, but they lunged down from their ponies and ran straight toward Kane. Kane felt the hair on the back of his neck rising.
The old Indian gingerly dismounted and called brusquely to the eager pair. The lean, fierce braves halted two steps from Kane. Their gray-haired leader ordered them back. Clearly unhappy, they obeyed.
Ignoring their displeasure, the aged one came to stand directly before Kane. Blue eyes holding the Indian's black ones, Kane continued to smoke his cigarette leisurely. The Indian said nothing, he stared at Kane's brown face, at his wide, bare shoulders, at his sweet-drenched chest. Scratching a broad jaw, the Indian walked slowly around Kane, pausing to examine three white slashes cutting across his bare back.
Kane could feel the man's intense eyes upon him; still the old Indian did not speak. Kane was silent too, his eyes calmly going from one belligerent young brave to the other. Sullen and poised, they clearly were eager to have a go at him. Kane coolly plotted which of the two young warriors he would take out first. Or should be go for the old chief?
The aged Indian circled and once again stood facing Kane. Kane tossed his smoked-down cigarette away. The Indian finally spoke.
"My strong young braves want to kill you." His black eyes were somber.
"And you?" Kane's voice was low and calm.
"Maybe? I kill you myself."
"I'll take you with me, Chief," promised Kane.
"You have no weapon," the old Indian scoffed.
"My hands," said Kane, and pushed away from the boulder, coming into a relaxed, but ready, stance: feet apart, hands at his sides.
"You not afraid?"
"No," replied Kane. "I am not afraid."
