Rivals

by Janet Dailey

  “All you needed was a man to show you.”

  She sighed an agreement to that, recognizing that her husband certainly never had. By nature, Kell wasn’t a demonstrative man, his feelings invariably contained behind that hard wall of reserve. She thought back to the times she’d lain with him, remembering the tender restraint of his kisses and his touch. Never once had he attempted to take her out of herself—not the way Jackson Stuart had. In fact, she’d always had the impression that Kell never expected her to enjoy any of it—that he got it over with quickly out of deference to her.

  But was that her fault? she wondered, recalling their wedding night and how rigid with fear she’d been. Kell had showered her with ardent kisses that night; the caress of his hands had been eager and bold, but she’d been stiff and completely unresponsive. Too many of her married friends had hinted at how awful it was. Even her father had lectured her on her wifely duty to submit to her husband’s demands, implying that his exercise of conjugal rights was something to be endured. And that terrible, ripping pain had confirmed everything they’d said. Afterward, she had cried and cried, resisting all of Kell’s attempts to console her, hating to feel even the touch of his hands, let alone to be taken in his arms.

  Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that her husband had become something less than an ardent lover. It was what she’d wanted. She didn’t want to think about Kell—not now. But she had to. He’d be arriving this afternoon.

  Suddenly she was assailed by a whole hosts of doubts and uncertainties. “Jackson, will I—will I see you, again?” The possibility that she wouldn’t seemed unbearable.

  He tucked a hand under her chin and lifted her head from his shoulder, his gaze warmly possessive as it moved over her face. “Do you think I could stay away from you now—after this?”

  The tension left her in a faint tremor of relief. “I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure,” she admitted, smiling at her doubts. But the smile faded as a new thought occurred to her. “But how? With Kell here—”

  “Not here. Not Kansas City.” His fingers moved caressingly over her face, stroking her cheek and her lips, tracing their curves and hollows in loving detail. “When your husband arrives this afternoon, I want you to convince him that you’re tired of the city, that you miss the peace and serenity of Morgan’s Walk—that you’re eager to go home.”

  “He’d never believe me.” She turned from his hand, loathing the thought of going back there, but Jackson wouldn’t let her pull away.

  “He’ll believe you,” he stated confidently. “He’ll believe you because it’s the very thing he desires.”

  “How can you ask me to go back there when you know how much I hate it?”

  He smiled at the shimmer of resentment in her eyes. Not once had she suggested leaving her husband for him. If the thought had crossed her mind, Jackson Stuart was certain she would have instantly dismissed it. It was something her pride wouldn’t allow. She was a doctor’s daughter who had married above herself. No matter how miserable or wretchedly unhappy she was, Ann Morgan wasn’t about to give up her newfound wealth and status—not for love, especially when he’d told her that he had nothing else to offer her. In her own way, Ann Morgan was just as greedy as he was.

  “I want you to go back, my darling, because it’s the safest place for us to meet,” he said.

  Confusion darkened her eyes. “The safest? How? If you start coming to the house—”

  “Not the house. We’ll meet in Tulsa. You make trips into town twice a month for mail and supplies, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you’re there, don’t you usually take a room at the hotel so you have a place to rest and freshen up?” He already knew the answer to that. In fact, he was certain he knew her habits better than she did.

  “Yes.”

  “Then, we’ll meet there in your room—where we can be alone.”

  “But—what if we’re discovered?”

  “We won’t be. The desk clerk’s a friend of mine. He’ll warn us if anyone comes. And don’t worry, my love. We won’t have to meet in secret for long…just until I can find a way for us to have the kind of life we want,” he said against her lips, then claimed them in another long, drugging kiss. He was already sure of the way, but until he was sure of her, he wouldn’t take the final steps.

  Ann was at the train station to meet Kell when he arrived that afternoon. And, just as Jackson Stuart had predicted, she had no difficulty convincing her husband that she was homesick. Three days later, the entire Morgan entourage boarded the train to return to Morgan’s Walk.

  Ten days later, she went to town and took a room at the Tulsa House as usual. She barely had time to remove her dust cloak and hat when she heard a furtive tap on the door. With heart pounding, she hurried to open it. Less than a minute later, it was once again closed and locked and she was in Jackson Stuart’s arms.

  25

  March 27, 1894

  I fear Chris has found out about us. I shouldn’t have gone into town when I was there only last week, but another seven days seemed such a long time to wait before seeing Jackson again that I had to go. Rarely can we spend more than an hour together, but those stolen hours are what have made my life bearable these last few months. What a wanton woman I have become, yet I feel no shame—only guilt at the way I must deceive Kell.

  And now fear as well that Chris may convey his suspicions to Kell. I know he must suspect something. He looked at me so strangely when I opened the door to admit him. And well he should have, for my clothes and hair were all disarranged from my haste in dressing, and my chin was reddened by the sharp stubble on Jackson’s face. Next time I must insist that he shaves immediately before he meets me. Next time. I pray there will be one, and that all my fears are foolish imaginings and that Chris’s odd silence during the ride home meant nothing. Yet I’m certain that, as quickly as Chris arrived after Jackson had left, he must have passed him in the hall. Did he see him leave my room as well?

  He said nothing to me. He didn’t even comment on my state of disarray. Naturally I explained away my appearance by claiming that I had been weary from the long ride into town and had lain down to rest. I’m not sure he believed that.

  Whatever he thinks or suspects, I know he has had no opportunity to speak to Kell, as Chris didn’t dine with us this evening. After he had escorted me safely back to Morgan’s Walk, Chris left again almost immediately—to go to one of the neighbors, he said. Kell seemed to know about it, so perhaps that truly is where he went.

  What a long, trying evening this has been for me. As usual, Kell shut himself in the library with his precious account books shortly after dinner concluded, and I have been alone with my thoughts.

  I sit here by the window of our bedroom and look at the rising moon and the first glitter of stars. Somewhere I know that Jackson sees them, too. I wonder if he thinks of me as I think of him.

  —How odd? I see a horse and rider approaching the house through the trees in the back. Who could be coming to call at such a late hour? And why doesn’t he ride up the lane? It can’t be Chris. He was astride his palomino when he left, and this horse looks black, as black as

  The sentence was left unfinished. Curious, Flame turned the page, but it was blank—as were all the rest of the pages in the diary. She looked up and found Ben Canon watching her with speculative interest. That bright gleam in his eyes seemed to gauge her reaction, trying to determine the extent of her curiosity. She felt a ripple of irritation at the way she had been maneuvered into caring. But that was immaterial now. She had to find out the rest of it.

  Yet she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how thoroughly she was hooked. With false calm, Flame closed the diary and laid it on the cherrywood table next to the plate of cold sandwiches.

  Flame avoided stating the obvious, aware that Ben Canon had to know precisely where Ann Morgan’s diary left off. “I assume the rider she saw was Jackson Stuart.”

  “It was.” With
one hand, he removed his reading glasses and slipped them inside the breast pocket of his jacket, drawing her attention to the thick booklet held open in his other hand.

  “What happened then?” She studied the age-yellowed pages, fairly certain the booklet wasn’t another diary yet unable to make out what it was.

  Unhurried, the attorney wandered over to her chair. “I think it would be best if you learned the answer to that by reading a transcript of your great-grandfather’s testimony at the trial.”

  “What trial?” Frowning, she hesitantly took it from him.

  “The trial of Jackson Stuart for the attempted murder of Kell Morgan.”

  Inwardly she faltered at his announcement as her glance raced to the portrait above the mantelpiece. Maybe she should have expected something of the sort, but she hadn’t. Attempted murder, Ben Canon had said. That meant Stuart hadn’t succeeded. Had it been a deliberate attempt on Kell Morgan’s life or had it been the result of an accidental confrontation? From Ann Morgan’s diary, Flame assumed that she had recognized her lover and slipped out to meet him. Looking at the hard, proud man in the painting, she could easily imagine the rage, the humiliation, and the hurt he would have felt if he’d caught his beloved wife in the arms of another man. Honor would have demanded a challenge. Was that what had happened?

  The answers to her questions were in the opened transcript she held. She forced her gaze away from the portrait and brought it down to the nearly hundred-year-old document in her hands.

  Q. Please state your name for the record.

  A. Christopher Morgan.

  Q. You are the brother of the intended victim, is that correct, Mr. Morgan?

  A. Yes, sir.

  Q. And you reside at the ranch known as Morgan’s Walk along with your brother, is that correct?

  A. Yes, it is.

  Q. Will you please tell the court where you were on the evening of March 27th of this year?

  A. In the early part of the evening, I was at a neighboring ranch—the Bitterman place. It was late when I got back to Morgan’s Walk. Probably between ten and eleven o’clock.

  Q. Will you describe to the court what happened when you returned to Morgan’s Walk? And may I remind you that you are under oath.

  A. Yes, sir. As I said, it was somewhere between ten and eleven. I’d unsaddled and turned my horse into the corral. I was on my way to the house. I noticed there were lights still burning in the library. I realized Kell—my brother—was still up working on the account books. So I came the back way to the house—through the trees. The library’s located on that side of the house. I thought I’d check in with him since I hadn’t talked to him all day.

  I was probably a hundred and fifty feet from the house when I saw somebody prowling around outside. It was close to payday, and I knew we had more cash on hand than we usually keep at the ranch. The thought crossed my mind to raise the alarm, but I couldn’t be sure there wasn’t someone inside holding a gun to Kell, so I slipped closer….

  With gun drawn, Chris moved through the trees, then froze against the trunk of an oak as a large patch of white floated across the ground toward the dark figure of a man: It was Ann, a dark shawl thrown over the top of her nightgown. He felt sick inside. All the fight went out of him as he lowered his gun and slumped against the tree.

  A hundred times he’d told himself that he was wrong about that afternoon—that Ann was too fine and too good to get mixed up in some illicit affair. She’d been so anxious to go to town that day. There was some lace that she absolutely had to order right away, she’d said. Then when they got there, she hadn’t gone to the mercantile store; she’d gone straight to the hotel “to freshen up.” When she hadn’t come out an hour later, he’d gone to see what was keeping her. He wanted to get back to the ranch and over to the Bittermans’.

  He hadn’t been surprised to see Blackjack Stuart in the hall. The gambler had hung around Tulsa all winter. When they passed each other, Chris had caught the smell of some flowery fragrance and had smiled, guessing that Stuart had just passed a pleasant hour or two in the company of a woman.

  When Ann had opened the door to him, he’d smelled the exact same perfume on her. And she’d had the disheveled look of a woman who had just stepped out of some man’s arms. She said she’d been resting, but her eyes had been overly bright, her face glowing with the look of a woman who had just been thoroughly satisfied. And he’d seen what a man’s whiskers could do to a woman’s delicate skin.

  He hadn’t wanted to believe. He’d fought against it, but there she was, running into Stuart’s arms. Somewhere back in the trees, a horse snorted in alarm and moved skittishly, rustling the remains of last year’s fallen leaves.

  Chris looked toward the house, his gaze drawn to the lights shining through the glass-paned doors to the library. Kell was there. How could he tell him about his wife? How could he possibly keep it from him? His gut felt all twisted inside, an anger clawing at his throat. He wished he’d never found out. He wished he’d never gone to that hotel room. He wished anything that would mean he didn’t have to face Kell with Ann’s betrayal.

  Jackson Stuart heard the whisper of movement a second before his stallion snorted the alarm. In a half crouch, he whirled to face it, leveling the long muzzle of his revolver at it, then cursed his luck when he saw Ann running across the grass to him. In another minute, he would have had the angle that would have made her a widow, a very rich widow.

  He lowered his gun, but didn’t holster it, catching her with his free arm as she flung herself at him. “My darling, I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered, pressing a hundred kisses over his neck and jaw as he drew her deeper into the shadows, keeping one eye on the library all the while. “How could you take such a risk? But I’m glad you did. I needed to see you. I’ve been so worried.”

  But he didn’t listen, wishing to hell she’d shut up so he could think how to salvage this. Yet over and over, he kept thinking that he should have known his luck had changed—he should have known last night when he lost four straight hands at blackjack. He would have lost the fifth if he hadn’t palmed an ace. Then he’d nearly got caught. He’d walked away from the table, unwilling to push what was left of his luck any farther.

  He should have made his move against Morgan sooner, but he’d wanted to make sure they had the ranch payroll on hand. He could have killed Morgan a dozen times from ambush, but he’d wanted to make it look like a robbery. He didn’t want any suspicion thrown on him when he later married Morgan’s widow.

  The money was there in the library, according to Ann, locked in a cashbox Morgan kept in the bottom drawer of his big mahogany desk. And Morgan was in there, too. Dammit, he’d come so close to making it all work, he couldn’t give up now. Tomorrow. He had no choice but to wait until then now that Ann had seen him. Damn her.

  Suddenly he tensed, catching a movement in the library. Then Morgan appeared at the set of doors, his tall, broad frame nearly filling them. He opened one of them and stepped outside. Alerted by the scrape of his boot on the brick walk, Ann looked over her shoulder and emitted a faint, strangled cry of alarm, briefly pressing closer to Jackson. For an instant Jackson stared at the perfect target Morgan made, silhouetted by the lights from inside. His luck hadn’t changed, he realized, as he raised his gun, thumbing back the hammer.

  When Chris saw Kell step outside, his glance immediately raced to the embracing lovers. Not even the depth of the night’s shadows could conceal the white of her gown. Sick with dread, he knew Kell was bound to notice it. Then he caught the gleam of moonlight on the barrel of a gun. Cold fear shafted through him. Kell wasn’t armed. He always unbuckled his gun belt the minute he walked into the house.

  “Is that you, Chris?” Kell called out, followed by a questioning, “Ann?”

  Thrown into action by the sound of his brother’s voice, Chris brought his gun up and yelled, “Look out, Kell! He’s got a gun!”

  Stuart squeezed the trigger just as the full-throated cry
of warning shattered the night’s stillness, the explosive report drowning out most of it. Ann’s scream barely registered as his glance stayed long enough to watch Morgan go down, lost in the dark shadows close to the ground. Then Stuart swung toward that voice out of the night, blood pumping high and hot through him, a steely calm guiding his every move. Morgan’s brother stepped out from a tree into the full light of the moon, his gun leveled, looking for a clear shot. Exultant at the thought that he could eliminate both Morgans, he pushed Ann from him, not wanting her endangered by a stray bullet, and simultaneously snapped off two quick shots.

  He pulled back the hammer on the third and caught Morgan’s gun flash. He heard its barking report as the bullet slammed into his right shoulder, the impact spinning him to the side and sending his own shot wild. There was no pain, only a hot, burning sensation. He tried to come around and bring his gun to bear on the younger Morgan again, but Ann came out of the shadows, crying his name and throwing herself at him amid the sound of more gunshots and shouts of alarm. Off-balance, he couldn’t absorb the sudden weight of her against him, her momentum driving them both to the ground, the fall jarring the revolver from his hand. Swearing viciously he tried to push her off him and grope for the gun, pain knifing through his shoulder.

  A boot came down hard on his wrist, pinning it to the ground. Stuart looked up—into the muzzle of a gun. A handful of half-dressed cowboys stood around him, some with suspenders drooping around their pants and others with belts and holsters buckled around their red flannels. He let his head fall back against the earth’s hard pillow. His bid for Morgan’s Walk was finished. He’d lost.

  In a kind of dazed shock, Chris walked over to them and stared at the dark wet stain that spread slowly from the small hole in the back of Ann’s white nightgown. He looked at the gun in his hand. The bullet that had made that hole had come from it. Repulsed by the cold feel of it, Chris let go of the gun, letting it fall to the ground, then crouched down next to Ann. She lay slumped and motionless—like a rag doll partially draped over the man whose life she had tried to save.