An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book

by Lorelei Brogan

  Sophie’s slight frown showed distress. “Oh, Vic, dear, that doesn’t sound like you at all. It was almost—mean…”

  “Huh. If the shoe fits…”

  For a few minutes, Vickie was absorbed in dragging a long stem of timothy through the grass with which Daisy, who had not at all lost her kittenish ways just because she was now a sedate mother of six, could play. Sophie smiled down at the comfortable domestic scene, then surveyed that of the back yard and its scenic environs. A dozen years ago she had given up her own life in Boston to transplant her being to these Texas hills, and she had never regretted the decision for a minute. She loved both nieces as if they were her own daughters; they, her brother, and the life she lived here now were all she needed to eke out a perfectly happy existence.

  That, and possibly being able to pry a few buried facts from the girl who was still ignoring her earlier entreaty.

  “So, Valentine brought you home in his own surrey?”

  “He doesn’t have a surrey of his own, Auntie. As you know, he rents a room at Mrs. MacHale’s boarding house. No, he left me alone long enough to rent a horse and buggy at Glendale’s Livery Stable.”

  “And—uh—tell me again why you left early?”

  Vickie sighed. “Well, I could lie and tell you I had a headache. The truth is I was bored with the whole affair. So I flung myself upon Val’s mercy, and he very kindly offered to do a gentleman’s duty.”

  “And did he?”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Why, Aunt Sophie! To just what kind of indiscretion might you be referring?”

  Sophie was not too old to feel embarrassment, to feel the heat creeping up in her cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t at all trying—”

  “Of course you were. Well, let me reassure you. Val is my dear good friend; I think he would try to do anything to make me happy. But he is not romantically inclined toward me, or I toward him. There. Does that make you feel better?”

  She pursed her lips. “Well, you were alone together, unchaperoned, for quite some time. And all, I might add, without my knowledge or permission. Had your father any comment to make when you arrived home?”

  “Papa was dead to the world, and I didn’t disturb him. The whole ranch was practically deserted, other than a couple of the fellows who stayed behind in case Papa needed them. Trust me, Aunt Sophie, I landed on ranch property without a wrinkle to my party dress, as chaste and pure as the moment I had left it earlier.”

  “I am delighted to hear so,” said Sophie tartly. “And it behooves you not to belittle the concern and the customs that keep a girl’s maidenhood safe. What plans have you for today?”

  Vickie ignored the disappointed bleat of the cat to pull herself upright and brush off dirt and twigs from her soft brown skirt. “Actually, I think I’ll go for a walk. I need some fresh air and exercise. And I’d like to have a little chat with my sister.”

  “Oh, that would be a fine idea. If you discover anything pertinent about this whole unlikely engagement proposition, please do let me know.”

  * * * * *

  She was wandering out in a wooded area, one which she rarely frequented. In one hand she swung her sun hat by its ribbons (instead of wearing it on her head, like any good southern girl saving her complexion); in the other she held a couple of wildflowers she had plucked along the way.

  Interestingly, she was dressed to the nines in a fuchsia gown more suited to some formal occasion than a quiet day at home. Or was she still laboring under the delusion that yesterday’s celebration should carry over, indefinitely, into the future, for her loyal subjects to ooh and ah over?

  In fact, it was that bright flame of color that caught Vickie’s attention and pointed out just how far her sister had gotten.

  “Scheming about how fast you can drag my Sam to the altar?”

  Taken by surprise, Jessie whirled. Oh, such a drama queen; she ought to be treading the boards of some cheap stage somewhere, flirting with male members of the audience between whiffs of cigar smoke and homemade brandy. At least, in Vickie’s opinion.

  “Did you follow me here?” She scowled. “What are you doing in this area, anyway?”

  “I might ask you the same thing, sister dear. And be careful about too much facial expression. You don’t want to end up with permanent frown lines, do you?”

  Jessie lifted one bare, elegant shoulder in dismissal. “I’m simply taking a walk. Dreaming a little about yesterday, and what a wonderfully unexpected occasion it turned out to be.”

  “Oh, I’ll give you that,” said Vickie grimly.

  “Remember, Aunt Sophie had to persuade me even to attend. I would have much preferred to stay home. I told you that. Just imagine if I hadn’t gone. Why, then, I wouldn’t be on Cloud Nine right now, thinking about my marriage in the near future. Just imagine.”

  “Yes, just imagine,” Vickie’s voice had intensified its grim tone.

  In fact, as she moved closer to the sister whose countenance radiated a smug complacency, like one favored cat lapping cream while another, less favored, received only a bowl of water, her whole position seemed to have undergone a transformation. Tension, stress, hurt, burgeoning anger: all combined to change her from shy, retiring younger sibling to one ready to fight for what was hers.

  In fact, in her mind’s eye she could even picture the confrontation, in which she would fling herself upon Jessie in a screaming rage, to tear at hair and clothing like some mindless virago.

  Jessie, sensing something untoward, even a trifle dangerous, in her sister’s narrowed eyes and clenched fists, managed a step backwards. She took refuge in bravado. “What exactly seems to be your problem?” she demanded with delicate brows arched.

  “Don’t play ignorant with me. You know what my problem is. I want to know how you intend to fix it.”

  “You’re all grown up, or so you keep telling me. Fix it on your own.” After a look down her nose, Jessie turned away, as if this girl and her (rightful?) anger were beneath notice.

  But she wasn’t quick enough. With a swift, silent movement, Vickie hurtled forward to grab her sister’s forearm in a savage grip. Jessie gasped out a muffled yowl of pain and attempted to wrench free. To no avail. For all her slender frame, Vickie’s muscular strength was nothing to be sniffed at, and far surpassed many of her age, weight, and gender.

  “I told you,” she hissed, her face mere inches away from the older girl’s annoyed face. “Just after Sam arrived back home, I told you—I told only you!—about the plighting of our troth. I had waited all those terrible months for him, not knowing if he were alive or dead, keeping our arrangement secret because that had been what he wished.”

  “Well, wonderful for you,” sneered Jessie. “Aren’t you one to give the rest of us poor silly mortals moral guidance? Saint Victoria, as I live and breathe!”

  “You hush such nonsense. I stood aside yesterday, so as not to embarrass you or both our families, hoping you would make things right and retract your supposed engagement. But you didn’t. You didn’t, Jess! How could you? How could you treat me that way, when you knew—you knew—”

  “Oh, stop, for the love of heaven!” With a final jerk, Jessica freed herself and took a moment to straighten her rumpled attire. “How you do run on! He’s only a man, Vic. Just like all these other men. You can easily find someone else.”

  Vickie’s fingers had actually, instinctively, curled into claws. “That’s your line. That’s the way you live. Not me. There is no someone else. Sam is mine. He loves me, and I love him.”

  “Then why hasn’t he said that?” Furious, Jessie pounced. “Well? If he’s so much in love with you, and he planned on the two of you being married when he came home, why didn’t he speak up? Why did he let his father announcement an affiance with me?”

  To this, Vickie had no answer. A thousand times, in a maddening circle of speculation that went round and round without ending, she had wondered the same thing. Why? What was wrong? Had he been plagued by second thoughts,
all during his absence and imprisonment, about that impromptu proposal? Did he consider her a clinging vine, one not to be dealt with? Had he found this the easiest way to get rid of her, once and for all?

  She had spent most of last night, having returned from the celebration where her fiancé had replaced her with another, in her room. Door locked against any intruder. Windows closed against the inadvertent release of any sounds. From there on, she had alternated between pacing and weeping, weeping and pacing.

  When she had finally fallen asleep, dropped like a giant starfish in the middle of her bed, it was due to utter exhaustion. Not to mention heartbreak. Every muscle had ached, as if with some terrible ague; every bone seemed to have splintered and shattered. Her swollen eyes had glued themselves shut, and her head hurt with a fierce pounding that echoed to the rhythm of her pulse.

  “So, then!” said her sister, now, recalling her to the unbearable present with wicked triumph. “You see how little your pre-war plans meant. Sam Marsden is fair game, sweet sister. It’s open season, and he has a target on his back. He’s the best thing in trousers I’ve seen around this area, so I’ve laid claim to him. You may as well just get used to the fact.”

  “Were you corresponding with Sam, the whole time he was away?”

  Jessie bunched her nails together, admiring a most recent manicure. “Of course not. I had better things to do.”

  “I don’t understand,” Vickie said slowly. “I simply don’t understand.”

  “I don’t, either. This whole betrothal idea yesterday caught me off balance, but the more I consider it, the more I like it. Sam is a little rough around the edges, but I have no doubt I can make him over into the kind of man I’m looking for. Why, we can even live here on the ranch in wedded bliss!”

  Vickie’s heart seemed to leap into her throat and stay stuck there, rendering her momentarily speechless.

  “Yes, indeed.” China-doll blue eyes glanced up from beneath golden lashes to survey, with some self-satisfaction, her sister’s stricken face. “Wouldn’t that be just perfect? But, then—oh, dear. I suppose you might want to live elsewhere, you being so enamored of poor Sam, and all. It would probably be too hard, wouldn’t it, seeing him every day, and knowing he belongs to someone else.”

  Sill silent, still stricken. Could she have moved she would have lashed out with a slap, right across Jessie’s perfect cheekbone, to knock her right off her feet. But Vickie couldn’t even lift a hand.

  “Oh, I know! Maybe you could take a room down the hall from Valentine DeMarco’s, in his dreary boarding house. You two would make a wonderful couple.”

  Vicious. There could be no other word for it but vicious. Like a snake, seeking out the best time, the best place, to strike a bloodless but lethal blow.

  “Jess…” whispered the girl, over insides bursting with agony.

  “Not so fine and dandy now, are you, Saint Victoria? No, for whatever reason, Sam wants nothing to do with you. Doesn’t even recognize you. I’m the one he wants. He’s mine.”

  Breaking out into a smile that seemed a twisted parody of anything good or gracious, Jessica fluttered her fingers.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to the house. Heavens above, I have all sorts of weddin’ plans to make. You surely won’t expect to be one of my bridesmaids, will you, Vic? No, I thought not. Dress, flowers, reception…and the ring. He didn’t by chance give you a ring, did he, for remembrance?”

  “No,” Vickie answered, in dull, dead tones. “No ring.”

  “Hmmph. I thought not. Well, he’ll pay through the nose when I choose the one I want. It will be big enough to make everybody in this town just sick with jealousy. Wait till you see it. I so enjoyed our chat, little sister. Ta-ta.”

  As Jessica wandered away, threading through the green light reflected by the grove of hardwoods, Vickie let go the support she could no longer call upon. Her spine drooped, and her knees bent, and, with a little moan of absolute despair, she sank in a heap of soft brown cotton onto the grass.

  * * * * *

  “Oh, there you are, dear. Were you able to track down Jessie, and confirm these plans we assume she’ll be making?”

  Aunt Sophie had not moved from the garden bench.

  Well, yes, apparently she had. An amateur painter, during the occasional few hours every week that she found free from household responsibilities, she had earlier gone inside to retrieve the materials she needed from what she laughingly called her studio, on the second floor.

  There she sat, with her easel in place and her palette board filled with varying dabs of paint, studying the nearby row of roses that held colors almost delicious enough to taste. Faint outlines in charcoal upon the canvas proved she had already begun her work, and Vickie’s reappearance was an interruption.

  Her family had always teased her that not only did she own a whole roomful of unsold masterpieces upstairs, but she was far from being the neatest, most careful craftswoman in the business. Usually, after one of her sessions, she ended up with her hair disarranged, her face daubed by pigment, and her skirt dribbled on by the turpentine of brushes accidentally bumped from their oily glass jar. Today was no exception. Fortunately, after too many years of messes, she had learned her lesson. She was now wearing an old apron.

  Vickie came to a slow halt and blinked.

  Surely at least a day and a night had passed since she had earlier left her aunt at this same place, under these same trees. Surely some cataclysmic event had taken place, shaking sun, moon, and stars from their orbit, opening huge cracks in the earth, sending tsunami waves crashing upon every seashore. Surely the world must be about to end, here and now, immediately, without anyone being able to lift a finger to stop it.

  “W-W-What—?” she managed, though her tongue felt double its normal size, and she might have been stricken by utter dumbness.

  Perturbed, Sophie put down her camel’s hair brush and peered at her niece over the top of the spectacles she hated to wear. “Vickie. Are you ill?”

  She might have been. She was burning up with fever, yet her hands and feet had gone numb with cold. Certainly her innards were existing in such a state of muddlement that she wasn’t sure if she would be able to make it to the house to collapse in her bedroom, or just faint dead away right here.

  “Victoria!”

  She heard a clump of something solid being thrust away, and the hasty swish of skirts, and the murmur of a soothing voice. Then, before she could tumble clumsily and painfully to the ground, she felt staunch arms being gathered around her, and the soft warmth of a motherly bosom beneath her cheek.

  “Here, Vickie. Come here, child, to the bench. There, that’s it. Sit down, and lean against me. There, there, sweetheart. Ssssh. Just rest for a few minutes. When you’re able, I’m here to listen, if you want to talk.”

  It took a while. Quite a while.

  First Vickie had to get her breathing in order, before the top of her head blew off. Knowing Aunt Sophie she was already mentally measuring the distance, to see whether they could make it to the house, where a good potion that she used for shock would be available. Or should they stay right where they were, and wait it out?

  Her aunt patted and coddled as if she were a child in desperate need of comforting.

  Gradually, the frenetic tempo of the girl’s blood flow began to lessen, and her stiff, ropey muscles began to relax. But she did not lift her head from Sophie’s supportive breast. And Sophie must have found the little mewling sounds emanating from her niece not reassuring at all.

  “Whatever has happened, Vic, you need to sit up now and tell me about it. Please, honey. I’ll do my best to help you. But I can’t work in the dark. And you will feel much better afterward, believe me. Like lancing a boil.”