A Fire in the Blood

by Shirl Henke

  Chapter Twelve

  "You are the most beautiful woman west of the Mississippi, Princess. Lemuel will be enchanted." Marcus inspected Lissa as she descended the stairs at the front of the hallway.

  It was not Lemuel she had dressed to please, although he would be her escort that night. She smiled her thanks to her father, but just as her eyes swept the decorations for the gala, she caught a look of unguarded murderous hatred on Germaine Channault's face. Only for an instant, then it was gone. With uneasiness, she remembered the other times she had caught the sour older woman glaring at her with malice. Why does she hate me?

  "The house looks positively breathtaking, Germaine," she said as she touched a Sevres vase containing a huge spray of fresh wood lilies and larkspur.

  "Germaine has outdone herself this year," Marcus said in a self-congratulating voice. The unsmiling housekeeper nodded curtly and stalked down the hall, ignoring Lissa entirely.

  The whole entryway was filled with flowers. In the large front parlor, the furniture had been moved and the carpets rolled up. The hardwood floors were polished to a high luster, ready for dancing. The dining room table was arranged with snowy damask and high stacks of plates, while the kitchen staff worked overtime preparing the lavish buffet.

  Heavenly aromas wafted from the rear of the big house.

  Marcus took his daughter's hand as she reached the bottom of the stairs. "You look more like your mother every day, child." His ice-blue eyes grew warm, and a smile softened his austere features.

  The full-length mirror across the hallway attested to the truth of his statement. She could see herself in comparison to the long-dead Mellisande. Her wide golden eyes and the dark fire of her hair were certainly inherited from her mother, but the straight nose and the determined line of her jaw were her father's features, cut in a delicate feminine version.

  "I guess I don't want to know what that gown cost me, but whatever, it's worth it," he said as he looked at the bronze satin and yards of cream- colored lace. "Lemuel's eyes will pop out of their sockets," he added with a chuckle.

  "The dress was extravagant," she replied, not wanting yet another lecture about accepting Mathis's proposal. Just the prospect of spending the night with him was dreary enough. How she longed to dance with Jess instead of Lemuel Mathis. If only there were a way . . .

  Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of horses' hooves on the dry, dusty ground out front. The first guests had arrived. From a distance she recognized Cridellia Evers's high-pitched giggle and old Cy's low answering chuckle.

  Dellia came fluttering in, preening in a periwinkle-blue satin gown that made her pale complexion and mousy brown hair seem even more faded than normal. Her eyes flashed over Lissa with dismay, but she quickly smiled as her hostess approached.

  "My, what an unusual color, Lissa. Whoever thought of wearing a brown ball gown," she cooed.

  "Wal, it shore looks good ta me," Cy answered. "Both yew gals is pretty as a pair of puppies settin' in a new red wagon."

  "Thank you, Cy," Lissa replied, noting the way Dellia was squinting out the open front door at the road. Always a bit nearsighted, she refused to wear glasses. Lissa knew Dellia was dying to see if Yancy Brewster was among the riders converging on the J Bar big house.

  After all the social amenities had been dispensed with, Lissa whispered in Dellia's ear, "Yancy should be here." The arrogant ramrod had been invited, although Lissa certainly did not look forward to seeing him after the debacle at the horse race. "I'm surprised he didn't ride over with you and your father."

  Dellia feigned indifference. "Oh, I suppose he'll be along. He and Pa have been on the outs since that silly ole bet Yancy lost to that nasty gunman of yours." Her eyes narrowed. "Do you still fancy him?"

  Lissa laughed. "Who? Yancy or Jesse Robbins?"

  The brunette stiffened angrily. "I've half a mind to tell your pa about the way you've been swishin' around a dirty Indian."

  Lissa shrugged. "Germaine already has. He thinks the idea is ridiculous. He almost fired her for bringing it up." Her pulse was pounding as she turned away to greet more arriving guests. "If you'll excuse me, Dellia?"

  Lemuel strode over to her and took her hand, standing far too close to her, as was his habit. His broad chest and thick, compactly built body seemed to fill the crowded entry hall. She could smell the expensive cologne he always wore and fought the urge to sneeze as he raised her hand and kissed it with a flourish.

  "You're looking ravishing tonight, Lissa. That unusual color is striking on you, although I would have favored something a bit more conventional, say blue."

  She withdrew her hand. "I'm an unconventional woman, Lemuel—or hasn't Papa mentioned that fact?"

  He smiled indulgently. "Merely the fire of youthful high spirits, my dear. You need a more mature hand to guide you."

  Yancy Brewster, Moss Symington, and several small ranchers chose that time to arrive. She turned her most blinding St. Louis belle smile on them and was quickly surrounded with admirers. Even Yancy seemed to have forgotten the incident between her and Jess at the stable. As he charmed her with compliments, she could feel Dellia's piercing glare from across the room. Before he could ask her for the first dance of the evening, Mathis was at her side, taking her arm possessively.

  "Your father asked that you see when the buffet will be ready," he said smoothly, gliding her away from Brewster. As they crossed the rapidly crowding hall, he murmured low, "I don't understand why those barbarians are allowed to mix with polite society."

  "Moss has ramroded J Bar for twenty years. Foremen are always invited," she said, then could not resist adding, "Yancy Brewster runs a few head of his own. One of these days he'll be a substantial rancher himself. That's how lots of the richest men in Wyoming started out—as barbarians."

  "Some of them just married a rich rancher's daughter. Surely you aren't considering the ruffian, Lissa?"

  She gave him an innocent look. "Why, he has paid me court, but then so have most of the single men in the area. If you'll excuse me, Lemuel, I must check with Germaine."

  "The first dance, Lissa," he reminded her.

  She nodded and vanished down the hall toward the kitchen, passing two serving girls with laden trays. What a dreadful evening it would be. Usually such an affair would have delighted her and she would have danced all night. But that was before Jesse Robbins had held her in his arms. Now the prospect of dancing and making small talk with a bevy of admirers filled her with distaste.

  When she pushed open the kitchen door, Germaine was surreptitiously emptying the contents of a cordial glass in a swift, fortifying gulp.

  "More medicine for your nerves?" she asked sweetly.

  Madame Channault turned quickly, her posture defensive as she set the glass down behind her and advanced on Lissa like a war chief about to count coup. "What are you doing out here—spying on me?"

  "Papa wanted to know if the food will be ready to serve shortly."

  "Certainement," she replied in stiff affront. "The men are bringing in the roast pig right now."

  "Good." Lissa spun around and left the kitchen, thinking how loudly the drunken old sot would snore tonight.

  Lemuel was waiting for her when strains of the first dance wafted out on the warm evening air. All the doors and windows had been opened, and the sounds of fiddles and guitars carried down the hill to the bunkhouse. As she whirled around the room in Mathis's stiff embrace, her thoughts were of Jess.

  Lots of the hands walked up to the edge of the gardens surrounding the big house to glimpse the grandeur within and listen to the music. Jess sat on his bunk while Tate and Vinegar played a desultory game of five-card draw. He tried to write a letter to his brother, but gave it up after a few sentences when he found himself describing Lissa to Jonah. With a muttered oath he wadded up the paper and threw it into the corner.

  "Either of you have any whiskey?" he asked. Tate shoved the remnants of a bottle across the rickety plank table. Jess eyed the scant inch
remaining inside and said, "I had in mind enough for at least half a swallow."

  Vinegar, who had just been called, triumphantly displayed a pair of fours. Tate poured the last drop from the bottle and downed it as he laid out a pair of eights.

  "I think this means I win," he said innocently.

  "Damnation, beatin' yew's like tryin' ta scratch my ear with my elbow." The old cook threw down his cards and cussed a blue streak, then turned to Jess. "I got me a full bottle over in my kitchen. Helps my rheumatism, ya know. Think I'm feelin' an ache comin' on just 'bout now." He scooted back the rickety stool on which he had been sitting and stood up, affixing Shannon's guileless black face with his one good eye. "Keep them cards warm. I'll be right back."

  As they walked across to the cook shack, Jess looked up at the bright lights shining down from the big house on the hill. The mellow cadence of a waltz drifted on the warm summer breeze.

  Vinegar opened the door, then paused and studied Jess intently. "I like yew, Robbins, but I been on J Bar sincst thet leetle gal was birthed. She always wuz a handful, 'n I reckon I kin see how yew might take her fancy, but it ain't no good."

  Jess sighed. "You think I don't know that? That I haven't told her that?"

  Vinegar spat a lob of tobacco, which landed with a loud ping. Chuckling, he wiped his matted gray beard with the back of his hand and replied, "Miz Lissa ain't a female ta take no fer an answer." He sobered as he fished out a bottle of tangle-leg from a shelf by the door. Pulling the cork, he took a generous pull, then handed it to Jess. "She's young 'n full of fool female notions she got back East. Don't hurt her, Robbins. Hell, don't hurt yerself neither," he added with a kindly sigh.

  Jess took a long swallow from the whiskey bottle. It was cheap and strong and it burned going down, spreading fiery fingers deep into his gut. "Thanks," he said, handing the bottle back to the old man.

  Vinegar took another drink, then handed the bottle back to Jess with a crooked grin that revealed an uneven row of brown teeth punctuated by half-a-dozen gaping spaces. "Keep it. I gotta stay sober. I'm fixin' ta win a week's pay from thet black son of a bitch. Way yer hurtin', yew kin use it more 'n me. Jist don't tell no one I gave whiskey ta an' Injun."

  Jess saluted Vinegar's retreating back as the banty-legged little man hobbled to the bunkhouse. He strolled along the corral fence, then headed toward Jethro Bullis's blacksmith shop. A solitary place to get drunk held great appeal at the moment.

  "If I had any brains, I'd ride into Cheyenne and screw Cammie until we both collapsed," he muttered beneath his breath, then took another swallow of the tangle-leg. It was beginning to taste better. He found a quiet spot against the rough plank wall of the shop and sat down, unable to keep his eyes from traveling up the hill, following the sounds of music and laughter.

  She was surrounded by suitors, probably dancing with Lemuel Mathis. The idea of Mathis's big square hands touching her made his gut tighten. He took another drink and closed his eyes, willing the images of Lissa's fiery beauty to go away.

  Yancy Brewster watched Lissa Jacobson with narrowed eyes as she stood serenely laughing and chatting with a gaggle of suitors. He sauntered through the crowd just as the musicians were preparing to resume playing. Mathis, the pompous old fool, was deep in conversation with several other members of the Association. He reached for Lissa's elbow with a proprietary gesture and made a courtly bow.

  "You always give me the first waltz, Miss Lissa. I hope tonight's no exception." Without giving her an opportunity to refuse, he swept her into the dance just as the music started.

  "This isn't a waltz, and I've never favored you with the first of anything," she said tartly.

  "I lied," he answered glibly, the smile on his face predatory and mean. "As to being the first to receive your favors, well ... I reckon we both know you favor dark meat, don't we?"

  She tried to pull her hand free, intent on slapping the nasty sneer off his face, but he held it tight. "Let me go," she ground out, stopping at the edge of the dance floor.

  "Now, Miss Lissa," he said with exaggerated oily charm. "Don't go getting mad. After all, you wouldn't want to ruin your pa's fancy shindig."

  "Cy Evers will ruin your life if you don't release me this instant," she hissed, stomping on his foot with all her strength and grinding the pointed heel of her slipper into the toe of his dress boot. He released her. Lissa turned and walked from the floor, knowing several of the younger women had watched the altercation with avid curiosity, among them Cridellia Evers, whose narrowed eyes glittered with venom.

  Lissa paused by Dellia long enough to whisper, "If you have half the sense of a sun-baked brick, you'll keep clear of that snake."

  Dellia's pale lashes blinked rapidly and her pop eyes flew to Yancy's tall figure, glaring after Lissa. "I'll do as I please—just the same as you, Melissa Jacobson," she replied.

  When Brewster stalked over to Dellia and asked her to dance, she blushed and bobbed her head. As she whirled by in his arms a few moments later, she gave Lissa a preening smirk.

  The evening, off to such an inauspicious beginning, dragged on interminably. Lissa danced with old ranchers and young suitors, until she felt her tight smile was frozen onto her face. Her toes smarted from being stepped on by clumsy boots, and her head throbbed from a bit too much of the champagne Marcus had ordered specially from the Cheyenne Club's private stock for this gala. After the altercation with Yancy Brewster, she had felt in need of its restorative powers. Now she regretted it.

  What exactly did Brewster know about her relationship with Jess? He had seen her coming from the back door of the stable before the horse race. But as far as she could tell, that was all he had seen. He had no proof of what she had done with the gunman. But he was mean and did not like to lose. He could cause trouble.

  "I feel the most terrible headache, Lemuel," Lissa said, rubbing her temples as they walked from the dance floor.

  "Perhaps a bit of fresh air?" Mathis said solicitously.

  The very last thing Lissa wanted was to be alone outside with Lemuel.

  "I think the roast pork didn't agree with me. Better if I put some cool compresses on my head and lie down for a bit." She smiled weakly as she slipped her hands from his.

  A worried frown creased his face. "I'll call your father."

  "Nonsense. He'd only worry for nothing. Germaine has retired upstairs for the evening. She can help me. I'll return in a half hour or so. Please don't say anything to Papa."

  Lissa could feel his hard hazel eyes on her as she made her escape from the press. Her story was only half a lie. She did feel dreadful, but the encounter with Yancy and Lemuel's oppressive protectiveness were the reasons, not what she had eaten for supper.

  Lissa climbed the stairs and walked down the hall, pausing at Germaine's door long enough to hear the drunken snoring issuing from within. As soon as the buffet had been served, the housekeeper instructed the maids about cleaning up, then retired to her room, where she had secreted a bottle of Marcus's excellent brandy. Lissa continued on to her own room at the far end of the hall and entered.

  Pouring some tepid water into the basin, she soaked a kerchief in it, wrung it out and dabbed at her forehead, then walked over to her window to stare out toward the bunkhouse and other outbuildings. Her room was stifling. She threw up her window sash and felt a faint breeze brush by. Out in the distance, the faint glow of a cigarette bobbed in the shadows beside the smithy's shed. Most of the hands were up by the orchard across from the big house watching the party. No one else stirred around the work area, but for that solitary smoker.

  Lissa suddenly felt an acute need for more fresh air. She slipped from her room and opened the door to the back stairs. In moments she was clear of the house, halfway to the work sheds. No one would question her absence for another half hour. The music floated lazily on the soft breeze, and a coyote howled far in the distance beneath the big yellow moon. This was madness. Yet she felt her footsteps speeding up to match the racing of her pulse.
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  Jess sat with his back against the wall and one long leg sprawled out in front of him. The other was bent at the knee with his arm resting on it, a half-empty whiskey bottle dangling from one hand. He held a cigarette to his lips.

  She stood rooted to the ground, watching him sitting there in the moonlight, indolently blowing smoke that the breeze carried to her, spicy, masculine, alluring. Then he sensed her presence and cocked his head at her. He did not get up.

  "You're drunk," she accused.

  "You're right," he countered. "But you're crazy. What the hell are you doing here dressed like that? One of those men slavering after you will follow you—and I'll have to shoot him."

  Her lips curved into a wistful smile. "Before you do, would you dance with me?"

  The music seemed to reiterate her invitation, swelling in a sweet, old-fashioned ballad from the war.

  He took another pull from the bottle, then threw it into the weeds and uncurled himself from the ground with surprising grace. "I'm crazy, too, but I'm really not drunk. Not that I haven't tried my damnedest." He flipped his cigarette after the bottle, then stood facing her, motionless.

  "Well?" she coaxed, waiting.

  "What if I don't know how to dance?"

  "I'll risk my feet." She held up her satin skirt, revealing her matching bronze leather slippers and a bit of delicate ankle in the bargain. He smelled of whiskey and tobacco as he took her in his arms and began to move to the cadence of the music. He danced with the consummate grace of a stalking mountain lion.

  They glided across the small clearing, whirling in lazy circles. Her hair, piled high in an elaborate coiffure entwined with rosebuds, gave off a delicate fragrance. His fingers gently slipped into the silky curls, cradling her head against his chest. She snuggled her face to the soft abrasion of crisp black hair, remembering the enticing male smell from that first day when they had ridden through a rainstorm bundled together.

  "You never did tell me what a Tuareg is."