by Shirl Henke
"Someone! You mean Lissa," she replied angrily.
"Yes, Lissa, my daughter," he said levelly, his eyes the color of a frozen lake.
"You are a fool, Marcus. She is not the proper lady your wife was. She and that Indian—"
"That will be quite enough, Germaine," he interrupted sharply. "You've made these wildly inaccurate, insanely jealous accusations before. I refuse to listen to such errant nonsense again." He stood up, towering over her even though she was tall for a woman.
"You refuse everything! After all I have given you, you should know I would not lie—"
"All you've given me," he mocked with an ugly sneer. "You made your sexual favors available when I met you in St. Louis, then when I was alone and desperate for a woman after Mellisande died. You would lie, my dear. You would do anything to discredit my only child."
"She is not—"
"Silence! Don't say it again. I know where this conversation is leading, and I refuse to hear it one more time."
"You treat me badly, Marcus."
"I treat you admirably and you damn well know it," he snapped. "I've given you a hefty bequest in my will and a position here running my household for as long as I live."
"And made me swear an oath by the Blessed Virgin that I would never reveal our relationship on pain of losing everything!" she said in a scathingly bitter tone.
He smiled a cold, nasty smile. "The oath is bound only by your own papist superstitions. Break it," he dared.
She seemed to crumple in on herself for a moment, then straightened and faced him with that same old black fire in her eyes. "No, I will not break it as you well know. Unlike you, I keep to my loyalties. You and your daughter are alike—faithless. She will bring you low, Marcus. I will have to do nothing. Nothing at all but sit back and wait."
She turned and walked from the room, leaving Marcus Jacobson to ruminate on his own folly, ruing the day he had ever been desperate enough to take Germaine Channault as his mistress.
Their liaison had ended long before Lissa returned from St. Louis, of course. He would never have permitted his gently reared child to learn about his sordid arrangement with a common woman like Germaine.
No woman could ever replace his beloved Mellisande. He had never considered remarrying, and if he had, it would not be to an impoverished French Canadian who was homely and possessed of morals that would bear no close inspection.
In the early days there were so few women in Wyoming, he temporized for the hundredth time. Yet he cursed the fate that had ever kept him in Germaine's bed.
She was irrationally jealous of Lissa, which was understandable, and the two had been at odds ever since his daughter was a child. When she returned home permanently last year, the feud had worsened. Now it had become so virulent as to include Germaine's ridiculous accusations about Lissa having an affair with that half-breed gunman. Of course Lissa had shown an interest in the exotic stranger, but he knew that Robbins was too smart to try and touch her. Even more important, Lissa's morals were of the same caliber as those of her mother.
"Damn Germaine, always stirring up trouble," he said aloud as he took a swallow of the coffee. There was a bitter edge to the thick, sweet liquid and it grated on his teeth as he set down the cup and resumed working on his books.
* * * *
When Jess arrived in Cheyenne, he went straight to the telegraph office. Pardee's wire was waiting for him. The gunman would arrive on the Monday train along with a dozen well-chosen companions. As soon as he had the backup he needed, the trap could be sprung on the rustlers. He had watched Sligo's trips to the line shack and checked all the messages he had left. Rather than tip off the rustlers, he had let them take several small bunches of cattle on isolated ranges and merely doubled the hands who guarded the larger herds closer to the J Bar big house. That had held down losses, but it was not a long-term answer to the problem.
After the fall roundup, when the four-year-olds were shipped for sale, the remaining cattle would spread out across the vast rangelands. Winter snows would isolate them, and hands would be fewer since many quit after roundup, using their warm-weather earnings to live in town during the bitter blizzard season. By spring, before another roundup crew could be organized, the scattered cattle would again fall prey to the rustlers who only waited for the weather to break before swooping down.
But why did such a carefully coordinated bunch, of thieves single out J Bar? Diamond E and Empire Land and Cattle were almost as big, yet Evers and MacFerson had barely been touched, and the beeves they did lose were taken from herds adjacent to J Bar. Someone was squeezing Marcus Jacobson. Who? Why?
Deep in thought, Jess folded the telegram, tucked it into his vest pocket, and strolled out of the Western Union office into the busy street. He nearly collided with Camella Alvarez. She was sporting a frothy concoction of ruffles and bows that was supposed to be a parasol.
"Watch that damn thing, Cammie. You almost put out my eye," he said, directing the point away from his face.
She turned from the distraction of the medicine show drawing a crowd in the center of the street. A rumpled man in a stovepipe hat proclaimed the miraculous curative powers of Dr. Hamlin's Wizard Oil, Blood Pills and Cough Balsam. "What are you doing in town, Jess?"
Her liquid black eyes danced mischievously as she twirled her parasol on her shoulder and studied him. She was a confection in a bright pink taffeta dress sporting a poufed bustle in the back. The color flattered her olive skin and ebony hair. A big white smile played across her generous mouth. "I've missed you, querido," she said, running her hand up his arm proprietarily.
For reasons he preferred not to examine, he felt uncomfortable with her, knowing where their conversations always led. The last place he wanted to be now was in Cammie's bed. "You're out early in the day. Some special reason?" he hedged.
She shrugged. "A woman gets bored rehearsing all day, performing for that pack of slavering drunks every night. I just wanted some air. What are your plans? I have the afternoon free."
"Sorry, Cammie. I don't. I just came to check on a wire I sent. I have to ride back to J Bar before nightfall."
"If you walk me back to the theater, I can tell you about Sligo . . . and some of his friends." She let the bait dangle.
He fell into step beside her. "So tell me about Sligo."
"He was in the audience three nights ago. Got mean drunk. Talked like he was planning to leave Wyoming soon."
He digested that. Things had not been going well for the thieves. "Maybe the rustlers are displeased with their inside man."
She shrugged. "The barmen were ready to evict him when a couple of Diamond E hands came over and quieted him down."
He stopped in midstride. "Who were they?"
"An older fellow—Kirk, I think is his name. And Yancy Brewster."
"I'll be damned. You ever see them together before?" he asked as he opened the back door to the music hall stage. They stepped into the gloomy silence. The place was deserted so early in the day.
"I heard both men rode together in Colorado before Brewster became the Diamond E foreman."
Jess whistled low. "Cammie, I owe you."
"Oh, I can think of lots of ways to make you pay, Jess," she said with dancing eyes. "Come upstairs with me now. You have plenty of time to ride back to J Bar before dark."
He shook his head. "Not today."
She studied him, feeling the tension coiled in him when she stroked his arm. "There is more than your job involved in this, isn't there, querido? I could tell when I first touched you. You feel different. Who is the woman?"
He muttered an oath beneath his breath. "Look, Cammie, I can't explain now. Maybe never."
Her expression was troubled. "Whoever she is, she has hurt you."
"More like I've hurt her," he replied grimly.
"Old Marcus's daughter! Yes, it must be." Now her eyes were wide with concern. "Jacobson will kill you if you so much as look at her—or did she do the looking first?"
> He ignored the question. "I know it won't work, Cammie. As soon as this job is done, I'm leaving Wyoming." He gave her trembling lips a light kiss, then reached for the stage door. "If you hear anything more, leave a message at the telegraph office for me. And thanks, Cammie."
"I would say stay away from her, but I will bet my newest hat you will not listen. Just be careful, querido. And remember, I am always here."
* * * *
"But Lissa, you must realize what a perfect opportunity the dance would present." Lemuel's smile was indulgent as he sat holding her hand in the ranch parlor. He and Marcus had just concluded some business transactions in the library. Her father then excused himself, leaving his associate and his daughter alone until dinner. Lemuel was staying the night.
"I've already explained that I need more time to consider your proposal, Lemuel. Announcing our engagement at the dance is simply out of the question." There, she had said it. She met Mathis's piercing gaze head-on.
His face was faintly flushed, as if he were at the end of his patience. "You know how dearly your father wishes us to be wed," he wheedled.
"Nothing could be clearer, believe me. And I don't want to hurt Papa. . . ." Her words trailed away as she compared the stodgy older businessman sitting next to her with Jesse Robbins.
As if reading her thoughts, Mathis asked, "Is there someone else, Lissa? That Brewster fellow, perhaps?"
"No," she answered almost too quickly, then realizing that Yancy's suit was perhaps the safest camouflage she could devise, she added, "That is, Yancy is one of the men who has courted me. I'm only nineteen, Lemuel. I just want some time for myself." Some time with Jess.
Mathis's broad forehead creased in a frown. "Nineteen is past the age when most women are married, Lissa. And marriage won't be the end of parties and gaiety if you marry me. Then you could live in Cheyenne. Preside over my splendid brick residence and attend all of the city's social events. Quite a bit different from what young Brewster could offer. He's nothing but a cowhand who's worked his way into Cy Evers's good graces," he added righteously.
Lemuel was insufferably pompous and stuffy. What would he think if she told him she fancied marrying a man like Jess? He would have a seizure, she was certain.
"A penny for your thoughts, my dear?" he said, leaning close to her, preparing to steal a clumsy kiss.
"Oh, nothing really, Lemuel," she said, as she quickly stood up and paced over to the big front window.
Mathis followed, irritated by her jumpiness. He stood behind her, letting his hands rest lightly on her shoulders. "I've been a patient man, Lissa. So has your father, but you're a woman grown now and you have serious responsibilities as Marcus's only heir."
His touch felt leaden to her. "I'm daily reminded of that, Lemuel," she said somberly.
Just as she was about to twist away from beneath his hands, Jess rode past, headed toward the bunk- house. Her pulse raced, and her blood thrummed crazily through her whole body just watching the graceful way he swung his long leg over Blaze's back and dismounted. Would Lemuel notice?
"Well, I see that breed gunman made it back from Cheyenne after his little assignation," he said with annoyance.
"Assignation?" Her voice was too sharp.
Mathis colored and coughed discreetly. "I—er, I only meant that I saw the ruffian dallying with one of the scarlet poppies at the Royale Music Hall this afternoon as I left town to come here. For the handsome sum your father pays him, the least he could do is restrict his leisure activities to the time after he's dealt with these rustlers," he added.
For a hysterical instant Lissa almost blurted out that Jesse Robbins's leisure activity yesterday had been with her! "Who was the entertainer? Perhaps he was pursuing information about the rustling." Her words sounded hollow even to her ears.
"I doubt that pretty little Mexican tart Camella Alvarez has anything to do with the rustlers," he said drily.
"If you'll excuse me, Lemuel, I must see if Germaine needs any assistance in the kitchen." She did not wait for his reply but turned away from him before he could see the tears threatening to overflow. She walked with a stiff spine from the room, trying her damnedest to be sedate and regal, a lady, just as they had taught her at Miss Jefferson's Academy.
Dinner that evening was a wretched affair for Lissa, sitting between Lemuel and her father, listening to their conversation and making appropriate comments, attempting to hide her misery behind a facade of smiles. When they discussed Jesse Robbins and the rustling, she wanted to run from the room but knew she must sit and endure it.
"Tomorrow I'm riding to the roundup over on Evers's east range, Princess. Would you like to go with me?" Marcus asked as Germaine served him a flaky slice of freshly baked gooseberry pie.
Lissa shoved her pie about on her plate, forcing down a few bites lest her lack of appetite be further remarked upon. "Yes, Papa, that would be fine."
"Good. We'll set out early. Take that worthless hound with us. Let him eat Vinegar out of supplies. I'm afraid Germaine is out of patience with him."
Lissa survived the rest of the meal, then pleaded that her headache was growing worse and asked to be excused. A huffy, disappointed Lemuel Mathis bade her good night and reminded her rather pointedly that he would be her escort for the gala dance on Saturday, which would be held at J Bar.
After Lissa retired, she kept waking up with the sheets bunched around her legs where she had tangled them in her restless thrashing. The night was warm and sultry, with barely any breeze stirring. Visions of Jess with that Mexican harlot Camella filled her dreams—Jess's lean, dark body entwined with the raven-haired woman's, doing to Camella the same exquisite, breathtaking things he had done to her.
When morning came, she had dark circles beneath her eyes and felt exhausted. "Damn if I'll let him see me this way, grieving with jealousy over his philandering." She splashed cool water on her face, then soaked a towel and made a compress to take away the puffiness and discoloration. She brushed her hair and plaited it, then used the small cask of cosmetics she kept hidden from her father and Germaine. After a faint touch of powder beneath her eyes, a daub of rouge on her lips, and a hint of kohl on her eyelids, she looked considerably better. She selected a yellow silk blouse to go with her tan riding skirt.
When she walked down to the stables with Cormac loping at her side, Jess was there talking with Marcus. Hearing her and her companion approach, he turned and tipped his hat politely. His warm, silvery gaze sent sparks tingling through her as she walked regally past him with a curt, "Good morning."
Luke Deevers came up to Marcus with a question just as they were mounting up, leaving Jess to assist her. Much as she did not want his hands on her, there was nothing she could do without causing a scene.
"Allow me, Miss Jacobson," he offered, holding her pinto steady. His movements were cool and proper, but a current of raw sexual energy charged the air as he stood so near her.
Hurt and anger flared in her eyes before she could mask her reaction when his hands touched her waist. He lifted her up onto the saddle, and she cursed his effect on her. All she had wanted to do was show him that she did not care a fig for him. Instead she was trembling, on the verge of tears. Gritting her teeth, she regained control of her roiling emotions before speaking. "Thank you, Mr. Robbins," she said stiffly, shrugging off his touch.
"You're welcome, Princess," he replied in a soft, insolent voice that no one else could hear. So, now that she had time to reconsider, her highness had decided that he was beneath her after all. He should have been relieved. Wasn't that what he had wanted? But instead he felt hurt and anger, oddly mixed with chilling desolation, as if something bright and precious had been taken from him.
Damn, I should've accepted Cammie's offer yesterday.
The ride to the roundup camp was brief and accomplished with little conversation. Marcus made a few passing remarks to her about the dance, and he and Jess exchanged thoughts about the plans to entrap the rustlers. Lissa stared straight ah
ead, watching Cormac's antics as he ran effortlessly across the flat, open grasslands.
As soon as the hound saw Vinegar Joe's chuck wagon on the horizon, he headed straight for it at a run. Remembering his penchant for trouble around food, she decided that this was as good an excuse as any to escape the disturbing presence of the gunman.
"I'm going to catch up with Cormac before he gets a barrel full of buckshot from Vinegar," she yelled at her father as she kneed Little Bit into a gallop.
Chapter Eleven
Lissa was too late. By the time she approached the roundup camp, pandemonium had already erupted. Vinegar's arthritic little body moved with surprising alacrity as he chased Cormac and another, smaller black-and-white mutt through the camp, swinging a big straw broom in the dogs' wake. He was enraged enough to chew the sight off a sixgun.
"Yew come back here with my quail, yew thievin' sons of bitches, afore I draw 'nough blood from yew ta paint a house!" The smaller culprit was in the lead, with the big wolfhound right on his tail.
Cormac lunged away from a mighty swipe of the broom and almost caught up to Pepper, Moss's dog, who was dragging a frayed rope with several braces of quail attached to it.
"I been aging them birds special fer two weeks. They's jist 'bout tender, gawddammit!"
One dead bird stuck out of the smaller dog's mouth, which was smeared with reddish-brown feathers. Just as they both careened around the corner of the chuck wagon, Vinegar's broom connected with Cormac's rump, causing him to break stride. One huge paw stepped on the rope Pepper was dragging. The shaggy mut whipped his head around, which caused the rope of quail to fly into a wire basket filled with eggs. The rope caught on the basket and it overturned, leaving a trail of broken shells and glistening yolks smeared across the dusty ground. The big wolfhound churned through the mess, enjoying the chase.
Vinegar slid in the broken eggs and threw down his broom. Seizing an iron skillet, he hurled it at the culprits. The skillet missed its mark and instead shattered a large crock of sorghum sitting on a shelf at the opposite side of the tarpaulin that shaded the cook's table. The sticky syrup flew in all directions, almost coating Pepper, Cormac, and the stolen quail.
