by Janet Dailey
“Yes.”
A frown creased his forehead as he half-turned from the desk, running a hand through the streaked gold of his hair. “If you knew, then why did you invite him to stay the night? Blackjack Stuart supposedly funneled information to Dalton on gold shipments and the like. Maybe he’s doing it for someone else now.”
“Ann invited him. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t very well turn him away and risk offending him. The Daltons may be gone, but Stuart still has friends. And we don’t have enough men at this time of year to mount a night guard on the cattle if he decided to retaliate for some imagined slight.”
Chris couldn’t argue with that logic. For years there’d been a gentlemen’s agreement of sorts between the locals and the marauding element. Asylum was offered in return for protection. In theory, it worked. In practice, banks were still robbed, travelers were still waylaid, and cattle were still rustled, not always by outlaws taking refuge in the area. The general lawlessness of the area contributed to the current agitation to have the land of the Creeks brought solely under the jurisdiction of the United States government, and bring an end to the current system of dual authority.
“Do you think you should say something to Ann? It may be more than a coincidence that his horse went lame so close to Morgan’s Walk.”
“Maybe,” Kell conceded. “But he isn’t the first man with a questionable past to stop here. We’ve even had some work for us. I don’t see any point in saying anything and causing her needless worry. Stuart will be gone in the morning.” He returned the pen to its desk holder and nodded at the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down and tell me how the meeting went today.”
Chris paused, drawing in a deep breath and making the mental switch in topics, then took a seat in the leather-upholstered armchair. “About the way we expected. The Creeks aren’t changing their position. They refuse to have any discussions with representatives from the Dawes Commission. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, the Dawes Act that was signed into law last March calls for negotiations with the Five Tribes to reach an agreement for the extinction of their communal titles to the land and the allotment of one-hundred-and-sixty-acre parcels to individual heads of families. The Creeks aren’t going to negotiate. Like the others, they’re going to fight it.”
“Where does that leave us and Morgan’s Walk?”
“In the middle,” Chris said, lifting his hand in a helpless gesture. “We both know it’s inevitable that the tribal lands will be broken up. The way they swarmed over the Strip shows just how land hungry people are. And for all the thousands who made the Run, there are that many and more who missed out. Now they’re looking in this direction. The government has already said that all the excess land will be sold to settlers.”
“I intend to keep this valley, Chris.” It wasn’t so much a statement as a vow.
“I know.” Sometimes Chris had the feeling that Morgan’s Walk meant more to his brother than life itself. “We’ll just have to make certain we’re first in line—and that we have a lot of friends in high places.”
When Christopher Morgan remained absent midway through the third piece, Jackson Stuart wandered over to the piano and lounged against it, still absently nursing the brandy in his glass. Ann found his nearness most disconcerting, especially the sensation of his gaze examining every detail about her, from the ornate tortoiseshell comb in her hair to the bengaline front of her corsage. She stumbled briefly over a particularly difficult passage, then completed the piece without another error.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Conscious that his gaze had never left her, Ann had the very warm feeling that he wasn’t referring to the music. She drew her hands away from the keys and forced them to lay serenely together on her lap. “I’m glad my playing pleases you.” She lifted her glance, a breathlessness attacking her throat when she encountered the full force of his gaze.
“It’s more than your playing that pleases me.” The smoothness of his voice was like the caressing stroke of a hand. “The first time I saw you outside that hotel in Guthrie—amidst all that coarse mob of settlers—I sensed instantly that you were out of your element. This is the setting for you—a richly furnished drawing room, surrounded by a host of admirers.” He paused, his glance making an idle sweep of the room before coming back to her, humor glinting in the blue of his eyes. “At the moment, I’m afraid it’s a host of one.”
“I should be angry with you for saying such things,” she declared, showing a hint of a smile. “But I find it quite impossible.”
“That’s because I speak the truth. You were not born to this wild, uncouth land, Mrs. Morgan. Your manner of dress, your taste in music, your air of refinement, all speak of a more cultured environ.”
“That’s true.” Ann didn’t attempt to deny it as she rose from the piano bench, the damasklike fabric of her dinner gown settling about her in a whisper of richness. “Kansas City is my home.”
“You must miss it very much.”
“At times, yes.” Pride wouldn’t allow her to admit how unhappy she often was here. “The parties, the theater…Have you ever been to Coates Opera House? Oh, it’s magnificent,” she declared without giving him a chance to answer. “I do hope a production will be staged while Kell and I are there in December. I so dearly long to see one.”
“You…and your husband are going to Kansas City?”
“Yes, in December for a monthlong visit.” She swung to face him, all her joy at going bubbling through. “We shall be spending the holidays with my father.”
“You must be very excited.”
“Oh, I am. I haven’t been home in more than four years—although at times it has seemed much longer than that.”
“When do you leave?” He absently swirled the brandy in his glass, watching her with contemplative interest, his mind already scheming.
“The third,” she answered blithely.
Chris returned to the drawing room, and Jackson Stuart immediately begged to be excused. “It’s late and I have imposed on your good company long enough. It’s time I turned in before I wear out my welcome.”
“You could never do that, Mr. Stuart,” Ann assured him, quite sincerely.
“I hope not.” He took her hand and, for a moment, lightly held her fingers. “I will be off early in the morning, long before you arise, so I will pay my thanks to you now, Mrs. Morgan. This has been an evening I will long treasure. Thank you.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kept it there an instant longer than was proper.
There went her heart again, fluttering madly against her breast at the pervading warmth of his lips and the boldness of actions in front of Chris. “Your company has been most welcome, Mr. Stuart,” she replied, fighting the breathy quality in her voice.
With a nod to Chris, he left the room. Ann listened to the sound of his footsteps moving toward the staircase, then turned, feeling Chris’s eyes on her. Their look was much too penetrating.
“He’s such a polite man, isn’t he?” she remarked, striving to sound offhand.
“He’s a stranger, Ann,” he reminded her.
“But a very charming stranger.”
True to his word, Jackson Stuart was away before Ann finished her morning toilette. From her bedroom window, she watched him ride away from Morgan’s Walk on one of their sturdy brown cow ponies. She tried to tell herself it was foolish to feel such a sense of loss at his leaving. But foolish or not, she did.
Four days later, Jackson Stuart returned to pick up his stallion. Ann was in the dining room, helping Cora Mae polish the silver. A loathsome task, but it was the only way to insure the lazy woman removed every trace of tarnish. When she heard the uneven tattoo of a horse’s hooves drumming on the lane’s hard clay, Ann frowned and crossed to a front window, certain it was much too early for Kell to be returning.
She caught back a breath at the sight of the black stallion coming up the lane, lunging at the bit in an attempt
to break out of a trot. Jackson Stuart sat astride the horse, a dark figure in his black waistcoat and hat, the silver brocade of his vest flashing in the sunlight. Again she was struck by the handsome, dashing figure he made as she watched him rein the restless stallion in and dismount at the foot of the front steps.
He was coming to the door! She swung from the window and took one eager step toward the entry, then stopped abruptly, looking down in horror at the work apron tied over her house dress of striped brown wool—and the gloves on her hands, blackened by tarnish. From the foyer came the rapping thud of the brass knocker rising and falling against the front door.
“Cora Mae, answer the door—quickly!” she snapped to the black maid as she hastily stripped the gloves from her hands, silently praying the grime hadn’t penetrated the cloth.
“Yes’m.” The slim black woman hurried from the dining room, glad to leave the hated task.
Ann pulled off the apron and tossed it, along with the gloves, onto the table, then ran to the doorway, stopping short of its carved oak frame to smoothly pat the upswept sides of her hair and make certain no strands had escaped. When she heard Cora Mae open the door, she pinched her cheeks to put color into them. Although she wasn’t sure it was necessary, as flushed with excitement as she felt. Then, straining to appear serenely composed, she glided into the reception hall.
“Who is it, Cora Mae?” she called cheerily.
The colored woman held the front door open, but remained squarely before it, denying admittance as she looked back at Ann. “It’s a Mister Jackson Stuart. He’s asking for Master Kell, but I told him he ain’t here just now.”
She moved quickly to the maid’s side and dismissed her with a curt nod, then turned a warm smile on the man standing outside the door, conscious of the heart thudding in her chest. Immediately he removed his hat in her presence, revealing the gleaming black of his hair.
“Mr. Stuart, what a pleasant surprise,” she declared. “Won’t you come in?” She swung the door open wider to admit him.
But he smiled and shook his head in refusal. “I think not, Mrs. Morgan.” Yet there was no mistaking the regret in his voice and his expression as his glance moved over her with that familiar covetous look. “Your housemaid informed me your husband isn’t at home, and I wouldn’t want to compromise your reputation if some neighbor should happen by and think you were entertaining an admirer in your husband’s absence.”
“You’re right, of course.” She felt hot all over, realizing that was exactly what she did want—not the neighbor part, but the other, the stimulation that came from entertaining a male admirer, the fending off of compliments in a way that encouraged more, the pretending that a hand hadn’t been held too long—that whole thrilling aura of anticipation. After four years of marriage, all that had gone from her relationship with Kell. In truth, her husband had never looked at her the way Jackson Stuart did—as if he longed to ravish her.
“Will you pass along my thanks to your husband for the loan of a horse and the care for my stallion?” Jackson Stuart asked.
“Of course,” she agreed, much too brightly.
“Then I’ll bid you adieu, Mrs. Morgan.”
As he started to bow over the hand she automatically extended to him, she felt a panic grip her throat. “Will I—we—ever see you again, Mr. Stuart?”
His lips barely brushed the back of her hand before he straightened. “I have the feeling our paths are destined to cross again, Mrs. Morgan—if Fortune is with me.”
As he rode down the lane, Ann fervently hoped he was right, realizing—quite shamelessly—that she wanted to see him again.
23
Kansas City—the noise, the gaiety, the bustle, the crowds—Ann couldn’t get enough of it. Horse-drawn carriages battled with cable cars and vendors in their pushcarts for the right-of-way on the paved streets. Wood and stone buildings—three, four and five stories high—towered on either side; stout and sturdy buildings, not the flimsy false-fronted kind they built in Tulsa. People crowded the sidewalks, hirsute men in top hats or bowlers and women in their fur-trimmed coats and muffs. And everywhere the clang of cable cars, the cries of boys hawking newspapers, the rattle of carriage wheels, and the clamor of a city on the move.
The first four days were one round after another of shopping, lunches, afternoon teas, dinners, private receptions, and parties. By the fourth day, Ann talked as knowledgeably as her friends about the fantastic electric light display at the Chicago Exposition, had memorized the words and music to “A Bicycle Built for Two,” and wondered how she had ever survived at Morgan’s Walk all this time without a telephone.
Garbed in a long dressing sacque to cover her combination, petticoat, vest, and her new evening corset elaborately trimmed with lace frills and rosettes, Ann stood beside the bed and studied the two gowns laid out for her inspection. She vacillated between the two, holding up first the ciel blue damask, then the Nile-green China crepe. Hearing the firm tread of footsteps in the hallway, she turned toward the door, her unbound hair swinging freely about her shoulders. Her look of heavy concentration lifted as Kell walked into their private suite of rooms in her father’s house.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she declared, turning away as he gave his hat a toss onto a swan chair and absently ran a hand through the waving red of his hair. “I need your help.” She stepped back to frown thoughtfully at the two gowns again. “Which do you think I should wear to the Halstons’ dinner tonight?”
“We aren’t going out for dinner again tonight, are we?” A frown sharply creased his forehead, drawing his auburn brows together in a thick, disapproving line.
“To the Halstons’, yes. I told you about the invitation this morning.” She picked up the damask gown and held it against her, then turned to look at her reflection in the freestanding full-length mirror. “The color of this one suits me, don’t you think?”
“Ann, do you realize that we have been here four days, and not once have we had dinner with your father?”
“Of course we have,” she insisted, not taking her eyes from the mirror. “He was at the Taylors’ and the Danbys’.”
“That isn’t the same as having dinner here.”
“Perhaps, but Papa understands,” she retorted, aware that her husband had already tired of this constant round of social affairs. But she didn’t care. After four miserably lonely years on that ranch, she was entitled to one month of fun and she wasn’t going to let Kell spoil it for her.
“He would understand a great deal more if you spent an entire evening with him.”
Ann ignored that as she critically studied the style of the five-year-old gown. “The color’s fine, but the bustle—it protrudes much to far. I wish my new gown was ready,” she complained. “Everyone will take one look at me in this and know it was part of my bridal trousseau. If only there was some way to alter it—but I don’t dare take it to the seamstress. Her tongue’s as fast as her needle. In two days all of Kansas City will know it’s an old dress I’ve had restyled.” She chewed at her bottom lip, trying to think how the dilemma could be salvaged. Then she remembered her father’s housekeeper. “Mrs. Flanagan, of course. She’s excellent with a needle. I’ll have her look at the dress.”
With her problem solved, she tossed the damask gown onto the bed and picked up the China crepe. She heard the quick set of footsteps in the hall outside their door and started to turn, then decided, no, she’d speak to Mrs. Flanagan tomorrow. If it was to be the Nile-green gown, she needed to choose her accessories. Perhaps the feathered fan of rose and white, with the matching aigrette for her hair.
The bustling footsteps came to a quick stop outside their door and a sharp, demanding rap, rap, rap followed. Ann paused briefly in her silent debate as Kell walked to the door and opened it. The short, chubby Irish woman stood outside, a white ruffled cap covering red hair that the years had thoroughly shot with silver.
“’Tis sorry I am to be disturbing you, Mr. Morgan, but this wire just come for
you. And I be thinking yourself would want to be reading it straight away.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Flanagan.” Kell took the telegram from her.
“No trouble, Mr. Morgan. No trouble at all.” With a dismissing wave of her hand, she was off, scurrying away on some other urgent business.
“A telegram,” Ann repeated, mildly curious. “Who’s it from?” She glanced indifferently at Kell’s frown of concentration as he struggled to read the message.
“Chris,” he answered, then appeared to grow impatient with his own slowness in reading the words and handed it to her. “Read it for me.”
She was a bit startled by this rare admission that his reading skills were less than adequate. Usually he was too proud to acknowledge his lack of education—at least in front of her.
“‘HIT BY RAIDERS STOP HORSES STOLEN STOP LITTLE BILLY AND CHOCTAW DEAD STOP THREE WOUNDED STOP NEED HELP STOP.’…” Slowly Ann lowered the telegram, a dread filling her as she spoke the message’s last line: “‘CAN YOU COME STOP.’”
She had never seen his face so stony grim before or his eyes so hard. Even before he said it, she knew what was coming. “We’d better start packing.”
“No.” Her fingers curled around the telegram, crumpling it into her palm, but she wasn’t aware of it as she swung away from Kell, fighting the hot tears that stung her eyes. “I won’t go! You promised we’d stay a month. It’s only been four days.”
“Ann, someone has stolen our horses and murdered two of my men—and wounded three more. For all I know, Chris might be one of the wounded.”
That possibility gave her pause, but still she insisted: “I don’t care.”
“You don’t mean that. You can’t,” he snapped. “And you can’t expect me to stay here and go to your dinners and parties when I’m needed at Morgan’s Walk!”
“Then you go!” she hurled at him, then faltered, realizing that she had stumbled on the answer. Turning, she repeated it with less anger. “You go, Kell, and let me stay here.” She went to him, now all appeal, tears running unchecked down her cheeks, her fingers gripping the lapels of his frock coat in silent entreaty. “Please, Kell. Please let me stay. There’s nothing little Johnny or I could do there.”
