Sophie had deliberately delayed passing on her niece’s regrets about her nonattendance at this all-important dinner until an hour or so prior to the event. Not wanting to deal with the expected blowup any sooner than necessary, she had taken the coward’s way out.
“I mean that Vickie has given me her excuses and asked your pardon, but she had other plans.”
“Other plans? What other plans could she make, when she knew she’d be expected to be here for her sister’s espousal get-together?”
She recognized all the danger signs of an order laid down by paternal decree, now thwarted: the narrowed eyes, the tightened mouth, the pulse beginning to pound in his temple. In another moment, she fancied, the steam would start snorting from his nostrils like that of an angry buffalo.
Riley had been sitting in his parlor chair, fastening and unfastening and re-fastening his navy blue silk cravat without the aid of a mirror. Briskly she moved forward to fuss just enough that the fabric could be re-tied. Then she kissed the top of his head. “There. All better.”
Not so easily resolved. “I asked you, Sophie, what other plans did the girl have made?”
“She told me that nice young man from town—Valentine DeMarco—had engaged the day with her, and she was unable to make a change in arrangements. In fact, Val—”
“That namby-pamby,” grunted Riley, deeply displeased.
“—has already been to call on her, in a surrey, and they’re gone.”
“Gol darn it, Sophie, I told everybody—everybody!—specifically, that I wanted the whole family here today. Why can’t you make that girl listen to me?”
“Why can’t you?” she neatly retaliated. “Both your daughters are as stubborn as you are, Riley Clark, you old fool you. Now, our company will be here shortly. Would you like a cup of coffee, meanwhile?”
Buckley Marsden was as arrogant, as irritating, and as obnoxious in small groups as he was in a large crowd. Before ten minutes had passed, everyone in the house was heartily sick of him and ready to toss him out on his ear. Jessica was prepared to become his daughter-in-law?
“So there we were,” he was saying now, “everybody dancin’ up a storm, and Jake Lundquist broke the string on his fiddle. Well, that brought things to a screechin’ halt, I can tell you. Had to send some kid out lookin’ for a replacement myself. Cost an arm and a leg, but well worth it.”
Neither his wife nor his two sons had any comment to add to this. The scowl on Matthew’s weather-roughened face darkened, and the expression on Mariah’s face grew even more blank. The muscle clenching along the side of Sam’s smoothly-shaven jaw indicated that something else might be going on, Sophie observed with curiosity, but she was left to wonder.
“I’m sorry you were forced to go to such expense,” she slipped that in smoothly, as befit the hostess of ill-assorted guests.
“Actually, it came from Sam’s wallet,” Mariah decided to speak up and reveal the truth. “As did all the other costs for that—party…”
Ah. An unpleasant codicil, which drew a grimace from her bombastic husband. That must be part of the problem for the young man’s reticence. Other than that he seemed pleasant enough, if slightly distant. As if he were still revolving somewhere, on some other plane, and the world had not yet caught up to him.
They were seated around the formal dining table, all seven of them, Clarks and Marsdens together, and Riley had provided an excellent cherry cordial with which to toast the happy couple. Mariah had taken only a sip before discreetly setting aside her glass; Buckley finished his portion and hers, then asked for another.
Forestalling any reaction—other than a not surprising raised brow from Riley—Lydia entered carrying a huge tureen of soup as the first course.
“Oh, you got servants, do you?” said Buckley, happy to help himself. “Never could abide ’em, myself. Too quick to snoop into their boss’s business.”
Sam was too polite to add an eye-roll to this astonishing statement, though Sophie thought he might very well like to under other circumstances. But he was doing his best to ignore both his father’s speech and his father’s behavior.
He seemed suitable enough as a prospective son-in-law, dressed somberly in a soft blue cotton shirt, woolen trousers, and a black frock coat several years out of style and a size or two too large. He was neat, he was clean, and certainly any young woman might be carried off with vapors simply from the effect of his rakish good looks. But was there more to Sam Marsden than outer appearance?
Clearly he was showing the impact of a long incarceration under harrowing circumstances, thought Sophie, watching with a mother’s care, showing in his thinness, his silences, and that air he had of being here but not really being here.
“Sam, do tell us about your experiences during the war,” Jessie, almost as if she had read her aunt’s mind, piped up. Either as a way of changing an unpleasant subject or of bringing attention to herself.
The reaction was swift and expected. Mariah’s hand lifted from her lap to drift above the table in protest; Sam’s whole gaunt frame seemed to harden and tighten; Sophie sucked in a sharp breath and shot the girl a look of disbelief.
“I don’t think so,” Riley stepped firmly into the breach. “None of what Sam went through is good tellin’ at a dinner table. And, for sure, not for female ears.”
“Naw, he ain’t even told any of us yet.” Buckley sounded almost disappointed by the lack. “All buttoned up. You’d think he’d wanna brag about them medals he won. But he called ’em—what was it, son?”
“Blood money,” said Matthew quietly, before his brother could answer.
“Yeah, that was it. Got some recompense for the two boys I lost, but Sam, here, he won’t even put out them ribbony things for display. Acts like he’s ashamed of ’em.”
That might be true even now, reflected Sophie, considering the young man’s downcast look and utter, compelling stillness.
“Y’ mean you actually wanted to hear how Sam felt?” asked Matthew with what came close to a disrespectful sneer. “You been too busy hoistin’ the bottle and railin’ at all and sundry to even recognize he’s home. Other’n what you can get outa him.”
Buckley laughed out a loud har-har-har to downplay the effect of his eldest son’s recriminations. “Now, now, Matthew, boy, no need to bring family troubles into this nice meal. Say there, Miss Sophie, we gonna move on from that there potato soup? Not that it ain’t real tasty, but I got a hankerin’ for somethin’ a mite more solid.”
Mariah’s hiss at her husband sounded like the scolding of an outraged goose and had just about as much effect.
Over the heat that flushed into her face for such unbelievable effrontery, Sophie gracefully rose. “I’ll just step into the kitchen, and—oh, there you are, Lydia. Thank you so much.”
“I do apologize, Sophie.” The foreman’s wife came in, struggling so much with the weight of a large and heavy platter holding a nicely crisped roast of beef that Sophie instantly moved to share the burden. “We were lookin’ to young Edward for some help today, but he didn’t show up. Here, let me just clear away the bowls and so on.”
“It’s no problem at all, Lydia. I thank you for taking charge. One moment, and I shall help with whatever needs to be done. Riley, I briefly hand over my hostessing duties to you.”
Jessica, who might have added the assistance of her own white hands, didn’t. This was a dinner in her honor, after all; she certainly shouldn’t have to pitch in with charwoman chores.
At the other end of the table, Mariah also rose. “Is there something I can do?”
“Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Marsden. But you’re a guest. We’ll continue on, and no harm done.” With her usual aplomb, Sophie sent a smile around the table and disappeared.
“Well, now.” Buckley never saw a void that he didn’t want to fill with himself and his own opinions. “Whaddya think of these two younguns gettin’ hitched, Riley?”
The lips of the Yellowstar’s owner thinned. “I do bel
ieve it’s a matter that must be carefully considered and discussed before any decision is made.”
“Oh, Papa!” Jessie immediately dissented. “Oh, you can’t possibly be having second thoughts now? Why, I’m already working out a design for my wedding dress!”
“Are you now? Well, let’s g’wan and sink into this wonderful dinner that Lydia has fixed for us, and we can talk things over later this afternoon.”
With that much Jessie must be content. Pouting, she slipped one hand sideways to curl invitingly into the open palm of her affianced, as if to prove what she had attained. For a moment he merely stared down, as if he weren’t quite sure of what was happening, or why.
That bothered Sophie, who had returned to slip into her seat. It bothered her a lot. What was wrong with the boy? Had he lost his senses out there in the vast distance of the war? Had he gone soft-headed?
With so many complications, she was beginning to dread the initial confrontation between this former soldier and an apparently discarded Vickie, whenever that might take place. Anything could happen, especially if Jessica happened to be in the area at the time. Sophie wanted to stave off that meeting as long as possible.
She wondered if heart palpitations might do her in, after all.
Once the meal was finished and everyone had eaten their fill—other than that lank, gaunt shadow of his former self, Sam Marsden—Sophie suggested they enjoy tea and a dessert in the parlor. Hoping she might get Sam’s father away from the table before he asked to take home leftovers of the feast Lydia had put together.
“Might Sam and I be excused, Aunt Sophie?” asked Jess in her sweetest mealy-mouth voice. “I’d like to take him for a walk around the ranch, and get reacquainted.”
Since Buckley was eyeing the most comfortable chair with an acquisitive glance, Riley made his halting way toward it. That chair was his, gol darn it. Guest or no guest, he wasn’t about to let some blustering upstart usurp his own favorite seat!
“No, you may not,” tautly answered her father, as he sank carefully into the upholstered confines. “We’re sittin’ here, all of us, on your behalf, to see what we’re doin’. So get yourself settled and let’s have a talk. Sophie, I’d surely be grateful for that tea you promised. With somethin’ a little stronger added.”
* * * * *
Vickie was enjoying no more a pleasant time than the motley group assembled in the Yellowstar parlor.
Upon hearing a few days ago of the proposed Sunday dinner party, she had immediately taken herself to the Creek that she might throw herself upon Valentine’s mercy.
Much as he enjoyed her company, he was understandably wary. Perhaps the fact that she had caught him in his office, setting type and preparing paper to be inked, had something to do with his distraction. Finally he had begged her to desist in her pacing from wall to window and sit down while he finished his job. And it would help if she’d kindly stop yapping at him like a snarly little dog.
“I do not,” she had protested on an outraged squeak, “yap.”
“Sure you do,” he asserted kindly. “All females do, at some point. Here, make yourself useful and do some proofreadin’ of my articles.”
A quiet half hour had passed before his time was free enough to pay attention. Wiping his inky hands on an old towel, he took a chair opposite hers and told her he was ready to listen. Whatever any other faults, Val was a good listener. A newspaper reporter / editor has to be.
“A Sunday engagement, huh?”
“Yes, please. You would need to be at the house by no later than ten o’clock, and I promise to be out on the front porch waiting for you. Then we can spend the day however you want.”
His eyes had narrowed skeptically. “Why am I not invited to your family dinner, then?”
“Because I don’t want to be there,” she answered frankly. “It’s one more celebration of Jessie’s—of Jessie’s secret betrothal, to talk over arrangements. And I have no desire to join in the—in the—subterfuge!”
“Why subterfuge?”
“Because the whole thing is a lie,” she burst out, jumping to her feet to resume pacing. “And she’s a liar. And I want nothing to do with any of it.”
“Vic—”
“That’s it, Val. That’s all I have to say. So, will you or won’t you?”
Feeling about her as he did, Val could deny her nothing. So, of course, he had dressed in his best this bright Sabbath morning, had rented the livery stable’s nice little surrey and a horse to pull it, and set out for the Yellowstar. Now here he was. She had raced down from her post on the veranda and climbed in beside him, without even waiting for him to lend her assistance. Very narrow hoops made the climb-in more easily manipulated.
“Begone, knave!” she had ordered breathlessly. “Quick, before someone sees me.”
He gave her a look. “Good day to you, too, Miss Clark.”
“Oh. Sorry, Val. I’m just anxious to be away.”
“By gum, I never woulda guessed. Where exactly are we goin’?”
Vickie turned slightly to stare at him as he slapped the reins to urge Mabel, the mare, into high gear. “What, don’t you have a plan?”
To attempt a bow while seated would have been beyond ludicrous; he didn’t even consider it. “Your Highness, pray forgive me. I didn’t realize, with all the orders you’ve been issuin’, that I was s’posed to be the one makin’ arrangements for this outing.”
Her mood already lightened by his whimsy, as so often happened, she laughed. “Oh, poor Val. Feeling a mite henpecked, are you?”
“The thought had crossed my mind. Pretty day; how about if we just go for a nice ride somewhere and then head into town later for some dinner? And then after that, my pretty, I shall have my way with you.” He waggled his brows at her like a cheap dime novel villain.
Bouncing a little upon the leather, she giggled. “One thing is sure, Valentine dear. You’re so honorable that I can trust you to the ends of the earth.”
“Can you?” he muttered in a low enough tone that she caught the words not at all.
Because her attention had already shifted elsewhere. “Why look, Val, I do believe that’s a fox up ahead, crossing the road. What a beauty!”
Sighing, he flapped the reins once again. “You’re right. It’s a fox. Yahoo and hooray. Don’tcha wanna stop and take it on home to rescue?”
“Don’t be silly, Val. Why would I do that? What a heavenly morning. Isn’t that air glorious?” She took a vigorous breath in, just to scent all the green growing things, the pine, and the gurgling water of a creek running nearby.
That deep breath didn’t, unfortunately, reveal as much creamy female flesh as he had hoped, because the bodice of her blue matelassé frock wasn’t dipped low enough for a good glimpse. Valentine might be honorable, but he was a healthy, red-blooded male who certainly appreciated the female form in all its glory. Another sigh.
“So how’s come you were so determined to miss this dinner with the families that you had to call on me for a rescue?”
She shrugged. “Boooooring.”
He gave her a speculative glance. “That may be part of it. ’Tain’t all, or I’ll eat my hat. What else is goin’ on with you, Vickie, girl? Feelin’ a little jealous t’ord your sister, and all the excitement of a weddin’ comin’ up?”
Vickie snorted. “Of course not. I don’t care if she is betrothed and married a hundred times. Simply not interested, that’s all. And I’ve just realized that I really don’t like my sister all that much. Turn here, Val. This lane takes us down to the creek.”
“Maybe later. We’re headin’ back to town so’s I can get somethin’ to eat. And I ain’t about to let you sidetrack me while I’m waitin’ for an answer.”
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 11
