“I don’t think it can be the same people,” he murmured.
“No.” She sounded a bit breathless. “I don’t either. It has to be someone else playing a joke. It just took me by surprise.”
“Everyone in Salvage knows Milton is looking for bones,” he said. “Someone’s getting a good laugh out of this. Someone with a distorted sense of humor.”
“You always did know the right thing to say.”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know what to say before I left, so I didn’t say anything.”
She reached up and touched his cheek, a feather-light stroke. “Before that. Before you left. You were always my Galahad.”
“Maybe once. Maybe to the little girl you used to be. It’s easy being a knight in shining armor to a kid. Especially a lonely little kid like you were.”
“I wasn’t lonely. Not when you were around.”
What the hell was he doing? He tried to pull back, but he just didn’t have the strength of will. Her body was firm and warm and molded to his own.
“I’m no Galahad, Venice.” His words were a warning.
“No. But then, I’m no Guinevere.”
“More like Morgana,” he whispered.
“Wasn’t she the witch?” Her fingertips danced along his jaw. Hunger erupted in him at her touch.
“Aye. A witch. She besotted that poor English ass Arthur until he couldn’t see straight.”
“What do you see, Noble?” She tilted her head back. Each breath she drew lifted her breasts, pushing them softly against his chest. Each exhalation took away that sweet contact. Breathe in. Out. A long heartbeat and he was lost in her eyes, luminous, lovely.
Should he taste her? Aye, taste her.
“I can’t see a bloody thing,” he murmured and lowered his head.
“Wal now, what have we here?”
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Noble wheeled around, pulling Venice behind him.
Harry Grundy sauntered into the station house, looking as pleased as a toad in a sinkhole, his pale eyes lighting on the crates littering the floor.
“What do you want?” Noble’s voice sounded harsh to his own ears, but Harry didn’t appear to notice anything amiss.
“Afternoon, Miz Leiland,” Harry said, doffing his oversized top hat before clamping it firmly down over his ears. “Jes’ come to find out if’n you’ll be needing them supplies you mentioned. Looks like yore stuff got here, though.” Grundy wandered around the crates, peering curiously into each box.
“Yes, they’re for the party, Mr. Grundy,” Venice said shyly as she stepped forward to Noble’s side.
She was hastily resecuring the loose strands of her hair into a tight, severe arrangement on the nape of her neck. Noble wanted to pull it free, to see it rippling in sinuous coils down her back. He wanted . . . He made himself stop. That was the problem: he wanted.
“Ah-hem.” Harry halted before the crate containing the horned coyote skeleton. He bent over and let out a long, low whistle of appreciation. “Wow! That sure is some sorta fossil, ma’am! Where’d you ever discover such a rare, wondrous thang as that?”
“I didn’t,” Venice said tightly. “Someone sent it to me.”
“Really?” Harry’s eyes widened. “Who’d ever give away a precious, sci-intific thang like that? Wonder where they done found somethin’ like that?” He chewed his lower lip.
Noble looked over at Venice, certain she would share his amusement, but she was watching Harry Grundy as intensely as Harry was staring at the coyote bones.
“What do you think, Mr. Grundy?” Noble heard the suspicion in her voice. Could Harry Grundy be her sardonic, black-humored practical joker? Noble didn’t think so. Cow pies on the school marm’s chair were probably the pinnacle of Harry Grundy’s comedic endeavors.
“Me?” asked Harry. Without pausing to ponder his answer, he blurted out, “I think it come from around here, ma’am. I think some sci-intific-minded in-di-vidula done sent it to you as an example of all the wonderful fossils jes’ waitin’ to be discovered in these here Sawatch mountains.”
“Wonderful fossils?” Venice asked in astonishment. “This thing?”
“Sure,” Harry countered, his tone as mystified as Venice’s.
Noble felt his mouth start to twitch. Obviously, Harry Grundy viewed the coyote skeleton as a great discovery. Just as obviously, Venice couldn’t quite believe anyone ambulating on two legs could be stupid enough to mistake the grotesque skeleton for a fossil. Venice hadn’t reckoned on the Grundys.
For a full moment, Venice and Harry stared at each other. Finally, it must have dawned on Harry that he’d been made a fool by someone’s idea of a practical joke. A frown slackened his lips and his skin rivaled his hair for brilliance. He kicked mightily at the crate containing the coyote skeleton.
“What a stupid waste of time!” he spat, and, giving the box one last vicious kick, he turned and stomped from the rail station.
Venice, a laugh bubbling in her voice, said, “For one minute I thought Harry Grundy might be my prankster.”
Noble returned her smile. Smiling with Venice. This was dangerous. Made a man want—there it was again. Clearing his throat, Noble stepped backward, groping for the door. The uncomfortable suspicion that he was running away stuck in his mind.
“Where the hell did that Blaine get to?” he mumbled. “I’ll just see if I can find out who sent this crate. If I do, I’ll let you know.” He stepped backward through the door. Her fragrance followed him.
“Noble?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “No problem.”
“And Noble?”
“Yeah?” Christ. Any longer alone with her and they were going to be right back where they were before Harry Grundy walked in. And what the bloody hell good was that going to do either of them? None. Venice wasn’t for him. Could never be for him.
“Won’t you come to the party tonight?”
“Ah, I don’t know.”
“Please?”
“Maybe.”
Damn, but she had a wonderful smile.
He’d better remind himself at every opportunity that Venice Leiland thought of him as another charity case to sponsor. And he’d better remind himself that Venice Leiland was a shameless flirt who’d whistled at him. That she was a woman with an oily Lothario trailing after her and a reputation to make a mother weep.
But even if he reminded himself of all this till doomsday, he still wouldn’t believe it.
Chapter 10
“If I didn’t respect your horse sense, I’d be real worried about you right now, Venice,” Katie said.
“Worried? Whatever for?” Venice asked.
Katie gathered a fistful of dark hair and started shoving hairpins into the elaborate coiffure she was building on top of Venice’s head. “The way you look at McCaneaghy puts me in mind of a wolf watching a lamb,” Katie said. “You all but lick your lips, gal.”
Venice felt her face burn. “I most certainly do not—”
“Yes, you most certainly do,” Katie interrupted. “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with it, long as you keep your sights clear. McCaneaghy might be an interesting night, but he ain’t no future.”
“I really don’t—”
“I ‘spect that Cassius is more the sorta feller you oughta be checking the teeth on.”
Venice knew she shouldn’t encourage Katie’s incredible outburst, but she couldn’t help herself. “Check his teeth?”
“Yeah. You know. Like you check a horse’s teeth to see if it’s gonna go the long haul. I’m talking about marriage, Venice.”
Venice felt her back stiffen. She didn’t want to marry Cassius Reed and she certainly didn’t want to discuss him. “For someone who hasn’t seen her husband in seven years, you certainly have some rather emphatic opinions on that hallowed estate,” Venice said tartly
Katie grunted and thrust the last hairpin into place. She came around to Venice’s side and
sat on the edge of the bed next to her. “Listen, Venice. Marrying Josiah Jones was the biggest mistake I ever made.”
“Why did you marry him, then?” Venice asked.
“ ‘Cause he had me all worked up just the way McCaneaghy has you in a lather. He was a trapper. He brought his furs down out of the mountains to this bit of a town where I was dancing. Lord, was he a sight! Tall and big and . . .” Katie sighed.
“It sounds like you loved him very much,” Venice said.
Katie blinked in surprise. “I loved his body very much. Don’t you go mixing up the two like I did!”
“There had to have been more to it than that,” Venice insisted.
“Well, I’ll allow he knew how to have a good time.” Katie’s tone was caustic.
“What happened?”
Katie lifted her hands. “We got married, spent two weeks in bed, and then he dragged me up to this little poke-ass shanty clinging to some godawful rock in the middle of nowhere and left. The bastard.”
Venice had never heard Katie sound so dispassionate.
“Said he was going to run his traps. I spent five months living on beans and hardtack and jerky. He never did come back.”
“My heavens!” Venice exclaimed. “Did he die?”
“Josiah? Don’t you believe it, honey. Mink and beaver got all trapped out so he moved farther north, or west, or who the hell cares? Lucky for me some trappers came by in the spring. Seems they were accustomed to using Josiah’s shack as a way station.” Her lips flattened into a thin line. “They even had a message from him. He was sorry. That’s all. Sorry.”
“What did you do?”
“They took me down to town and I took the first stage out. Ended up here and there and wherever.”
“How sad,” Venice said.
“Sad?” Katie didn’t even consider the word. “What woulda been sad is if I hadn’t woke up to the fact that I was just plain in-fat-u-ated with a broad back and a . . . well, never you mind. ‘Nuff to say that what I learned, you oughta take to heart: a cat don’t go pining after cougar.”
Venice was silent, staring at her hands.
“You understand what I’m saying, Venice?” Katie asked gently.
“Oh, yes.” Venice said softly. “I’ve heard it many, many times before. ‘Wealth like ours precludes any vague romantic notions, Venice. We have a duty. The foundation’s philanthropic pursuits are more important than our personal whims.’”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know. It’s the second part of the speech.”
Katie scowled. “It’s just better to stick to your own kind, is all.”
“Wasn’t anything about your marriage worth the risk? Do you still . . . dislike your husband?”
Katie sank back, her face set in cold, hard lines. “Dislike is too tame a word, honey. I despise him.”
Venice bit her lip.
Katie reached over and took her hand, giving it a little squeeze. “But that don’t mean you can’t enjoy some of the more, ah, earthly pleasures before you do hitch up with one of your own sort. If you want I can—”
A knock interrupted Katie’s proposal and Venice’s shoulders slumped in relief.
“Miz Leiland?” a young male voice called from the other side of the door. “It’s me, Blaine Farley.”
“Yes?”
“Noble McCaneaghy says you’re to come down to Grundy’s pronto. There’s a couple Utes there what got a letter what got to do with your uncle.”
Venice jumped up. “I’ll be right there!” she called, grabbing a shawl. “What does the note say? Is he all right?” she asked, scooting out the door past Blaine.
“I don’t rightly know, ma’am,” he said, hurrying to catch up with her as she half ran down the stairs, out of the saloon, and into the street. “Never learnt to read. Got the impression he was fine. The Utes wouldn’t come down like this just to announce some feller was dead.”
Blaine leapt ahead of her onto the porch of the mercantile and held out his hand. “Only reason they’d come was if’n someone paid ‘em to come and that someone would have to be alive.” He hauled her up and, with a debonair flourish, kicked open the door.
Though Noble was farthest away, she saw him first. It was as though every one of her senses had been anticipating him. Everything else faded into insignificance when he was around. She turned, hoping she wasn’t making a spectacle of herself with her open stare.
She needn’t have worried. He wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was slouched against a table, his hat tipped back on his head, speaking in an unfamiliar language to a pair of Indians.
The first Indian was tall. His nose was beaky, his close-set eyes intelligent and thoughtful in his dark copper face. The shorter of the pair seemed more relaxed. His broad face and wide mouth looked as though they were fashioned for laughter.
Noble glanced up. His eyes warmed with welcome and Venice’s heart beat a staccato path to her throat. His gaze lingered before fixing on something behind her.
It was as if someone had shut a door. His expression froze.
“My dear!” Venice whirled toward the sound of the panting voice behind her. Cassius stood just inside the doorway, a hand clutched to his side as he tried to catch his breath.
“I saw you . . . running in here . . . and concerned lest something be . . . endangering you . . . I hurried after you.” He limped forward.
Endangered by what? Venice wondered. Had Cassius thought she was here to do battle with the Grundy’s rice barrel?
She found herself staring at him critically. This was the sort of man—possibly the man—her father expected her to marry. This overdressed, wheezing . . .
Venice bit down on her aversion.
Cassius was exactly the sort of man she should marry: wealthy, shrewd, and business-minded. She would never be more than moderately fond of him. If he left her it would never hurt like when her mother had left or like Josiah’s abandonment had hurt Katie or like Noble’s . . . She pushed the thought away.
Cassius was perfectly suitable. She should be pleased he was interested enough to have followed her out West. Instead, she was annoyed because he was standing between her and Noble.
“Blaine said these gentlemen had news of my uncle, Noble,” she said.
Wordlessly, Noble pushed himself upright and crossed the room. One corner of his mouth curled as he looked Cassius over at the same time that he handed her a piece of paper.
Grundy Mercantile
Salvage, Colorado Territories
June 3, 1872
Mssrs. Grundy,
Enclosed please find banknotes in excess of four hundred dollars, U.S. currency. These moneys are for the purchase of the enclosed supply list and any pack animals necessary to transport. Please fill this order as quickly as possible and release it to my representatives Trees-Too-High and Crooked Hand to convey to my camp.
Also, it occurs to me that my extended absence might be causing concern amongst my colleagues or possibly the Leiland Foundation. Please reassure any inquirers that I am in perfect health and the best of spirits and inform them that by the end of this season I hope to return with exceptional news.
Sincerely,
Milton Xavier Leiland
“Oh, thank God he’s all right!”
“Didn’t know you were that worried,” Noble said, frowning.
“I . . . I wasn’t. It’s just that I’m happy he hasn’t met with some . . . unexpected difficulty. I really wasn’t worried, per se.”
“You don’t have to pretend, Venice,” Noble said softly. “It’s okay to care about your uncle.”
“She doesn’t need you to tell her that,” Cassius said.
“That’s right. She doesn’t need me at all, does she?” Noble returned in a curiously flat voice.
Venice scanned the note again, then looked up into Noble’s carefully bland face. “Do you suppose . . . ?”
“I don’t suppose anything,” Noble muttered, his eyes still fastened
on Cassius.
“Well,” Venice said to herself, “there’s only one thing for it. I’ll have to go up there myself.”
“You can’t!” three male voices exclaimed in unison. Blaine, embarrassed by his sudden outburst, turned a rich crimson. Cassius’s mustache quivered with indignation, and Noble bolted upright, his dark brows lowering over his golden eyes.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Venice said, “but I can. I shall simply accompany Uncle Milton’s cargo to his camp.”
“Now, Miz Leiland . . .” Blaine began.
“How can you even suggest an unchaperoned trip?” Cassius demanded.
“Of all the fool notions I have ever heard, this has got to be the most idiotic. If you haven’t a single care for yourself or your reputation, fine. But you can’t—I repeat, Venice—you cannot ask these men to haul your skinny rump up to Milton’s camp.”
Skinny rump?!
“And why not?” she demanded. “I’ve been on safari before!”
“Dammit. This isn’t a chaperoned picnic in an exotic locale. There isn’t going to be anyone fixing you tea and crumpets every afternoon. No cots with linen sheets.”
“I know that! I can . . .” She glanced at Blaine. “I can gruff it out.”
“Ah, that’s ‘tough it out,’ Miz Leiland,” Blaine suggested respectfully.
“Whatever! I can gruff it and tough it out!”
“Listen, Venice. This isn’t just a matter of whether or not you can put up with dirt under your fingernails. Think!”
She glowered at Noble.
“It’s a four-day trip! If any white man in the territory got wind of the fact that these men,” he gestured to where the Utes were calmly standing, “were taking a white woman up into the mountains—alone—they’d be as good as dead.”
Noble’s words cleared her thoughts, like a plunge into an icy bath. He was right, of course. But the possibility that her uncle had found something that would allow this dirty, squalid, and perversely endearing little community to survive and—she admitted—the idea that she might be the one to orchestrate it, had momentarily bedazzled her.
Connie Brockway Page 12
