To Jessica Wayden Clark.
And that was just fine.
It was the way she wanted things arranged.
The hard, grim expression had utterly wiped away any vestige of beauty Jessie might have possessed. Anyone seeing her now, in this mood, with this look, would have wondered what had happened to the genteel Miss Clark to make her almost unidentifiable.
Jessica swished her full-blown skirts aside and rose.
Her eyes, full of malice, glittered balefully.
An unlit fire of small fresh logs had already been laid behind the hearth screen, in readiness for upcoming cool nights. All it needed to burn was a nice long match.
And a small mass of crumpled up paper.
* * * * *
Vickie’s mood, since the stunning announcement of Sam’s betrothal to another woman, had vibrated between an even keel and the lowest depths, despair and resignation, tears (in private) and false smiles (in public).
Since her aunt wanted to get her away from the ranch and separate her from her sister, as much as possible, Sophie had suggested a Sunday trip to church. A good rousing sermon, and some socializing after, would be beneficial for their souls, she had opined.
Vickie didn’t care one way or the other. Nothing seemed to matter much these days. Even the appearance of cheery Val, sliding into the Heavenly Light of God pew beside her to beam his smile and everlasting good will, had no real effect.
He had asked, standing outside after the service, while the crowd dispersed, whether the lovely Miss Clark would be amenable to seeing a visitor later today.
“Of course she would,” asserted Sophie, pleased. “Would you like to follow us home?”
“Don’t prevaricate, you rascal,” the girl mustered up enough energy to retort. “You’re only hoping to cadge a free meal. Just because you know what a great cook Aunt Sophie is.”
“Really?” His ears literally perked up. “In that case, what exactly were you plannin’ to serve today, dear lady?”
Sophie, much appreciating this little byplay, chuckled. “Why, I do seem to remember putting a pot roast into the oven before we came to the Creek. Would that do?”
“Oh, ma’am, you’d better believe it. I have a great fondness for pot roast. Would that happen to come with a lot of vegetables, and plenty of gravy?”
“It might just,” replied Sophie, amused.
“Oh, very well, come on, then, Mr. DeMarco.” With a slightly irritated flounce of her skirts, Vickie turned away. “It must be a slow news day in Whistle Creek, for you to come visiting out to the ranch.”
Thus, some time later, when the unstable situation at home devolved into utter and nasty chaos, Valentine was present to witness it. And commiserate with the injured party.
Bennie Cooper greeted them upon their return, to put away the surrey and unhitch the mare, with Shep capering at his heels. Of course Vickie must pause to make over the dog, as she always did. Then, as if to delay her entrance into the house, she sneaked out to the barn to check on Daisy and her kittens.
By this time Riley was settled in the parlor and making noises about his belated dinner.
“Oh, hush, I know very well you’re not starving to death,” Sophie, who took no guff from anyone, reprimanded him while she removed her hat. “I left Lydia in the kitchen while I was gone, and I see she’s brought you a tray of coffee and scones. Just settle for a bit, and entertain Val.”
Intent upon changing her Sunday best for more appropriate work attire, she turned to the stairs.
Riley looked up from under heavy brows. “Val, huh. Come out here courtin’ my daughter?”
If the visitor was startled by such bluntness, he gave no indication. Taking one of the more comfortable chairs he stretched out his long legs, apparently very much at ease, and smiled. “Come out here to partake of Miss Sophie’s fine cookin’, sir. Invited myself, actually.”
“Right good at doin’ that, ain’tcha?”
Val shrugged. “Well, I try to take advantage whenever I can, Mr. Clark. Vickie tells me you’ve got yourself moved from upstairs to the first floor. Keepin’ your finger more on the pulse of the ranch doin’s, eh?”
By the time Sophie, freshly changed, returned to her place in the kitchen, Lydia had most of the noon meal prepared and dished up, and Vickie had come in from her animal haunts to set the dining room table.
“You did wash those hands, didn’t you, child?” Sophie, carrying a platter of meat and trimmings, gave her niece a critical glance.
“I almost had to, Auntie. They’re attached to the rest of me.”
After Lydia, nodding and smiling with Sophie’s thanks for all the help, had departed for her own dinner and her husband’s company, the men were called to come and eat.
“And just where exactly has Jessica gotten to?” Sophie sounded exasperated. Couldn’t the girl read time on a clock?
“Here I am.” She drifted through the hallway and into the dining room like thistledown, dressed in her Sunday finery, for some reason.
Her sister looked, Vickie, taking the empty seat beside her guest, thought suspiciously, as sweet and smug as a cat who had just inhaled a whole jug of cream.
“Praise to God,” said their aunt, with just a trace of sarcasm. “It’s a miracle you’ve recovered so quickly from that cold.”
“Huh. Be nice,” said Riley, settling carefully into his own chair at the table’s head, “if you was you to show up early once in a while and help out with the meal.”
“Sorry, Papa. I had things to do.” She sent him an airy smile.
Oddly enough, tension sat heavily in the room, an uninvited visitor. Val, clearly sensitive to the mood but also clearly unaware what was causing it, interceded with some cheery comment about asking grace.
“Don’t exactly haveta remind me of my duties, young man,” said Riley in a severe tone.
The meal progressed on that slightly surly note. At first it might have been considered a tossup as to whether the quality of the food was equal to the aura of unease with which everyone must contend, but Val seemed to be making a gallant effort to improve the overall disposition.
He spoke of town news, that which he had gathered up in his roamings: a brand spanking new surrey installed at Glendale’s Livery, all shiny red as the Crossroads Bar owner’s nose. There was the political campaign for mayor, run between current Mayor, old fuddy-duddy Henry Thompkins, and, surprisingly, the newcomer Beauregard Draper, who had decided to throw his hat into the ring. Looked to be a down-and-dirty affair.
“Beau Draper, that friend of Sam Marsden?” wondered Aunt Sophie from her position at the foot of the table, as she passed along a large bowl of creamed turnips.
“The very one. Got him some revolutionary ideas for Whistle Creek that will make for terrific newspaper articles,” said Val cheerfully. “I can see the headlines now: Mayoral Candidate Decrees Town To Be A Filthy Mess, Calls For New Sanitation Department To Clean City Streets.”
“And just what would be wrong with that?” Vickie wanted to know. “Whistle Creek would be much more welcome a place for female visitors and shoppers, should they not have to worry about splatters of horse dung on the hems of their skirts.”
Sophie winced. “Language, dear girl. Language.”
The slight jar of knife and fork striking against china interrupted. “And next, I suppose,” said the master of the house, “you’ll be tellin’ us how the ladies are demandin’ the vote, like the ones up north in that there Wyomin’ Territory.”
“Well, not yet, anyway,” Val replied comfortably. “Though that may come. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, women have just as much right as men to elect crooks and criminals to public office.” He sent a sideways wink to Vickie, beside him.
Dinner was finally finished and Vickie, with a sigh of relief, rose to help clear the table. She sent Val to keep her father company in the parlor as a way of paying for his meal. Or as punishment for some unknown sin.
Jessica, after one pass to the
kitchen with an armful of plates, happily joined them. Was it possible, Vic wondered, that her sister expected housework to be completed magically, through the wave of some fairy wand? That maids and servants existed somewhere upon the grounds, simply to do her bidding? That, when eventually taking possession of half her father’s estate, she would never need to lift a finger again at any chore?
Feeling a sudden compulsion to reconnect with her past dreams, she asked Sophie if she could be excused from the kitchen for a few minutes.
“Of course, dear.” Turning away from the sink, with its sudsy hot water, allowed a concerned glance. “Anything wrong?”
“I just—I just need to be somewhere else—for a bit.”
Fortunately, she was able to bypass the parlor and its occupants to slip upstairs. The door to her bedroom was open, as most usually were, to allow for the passage of fresh air from one end of the hall to the other. Once inside, however, she closed the door, drew a deep breath, and knelt on the rug beside her bed.
Not in prayer. Goodness gracious no. Or maybe just a little, as she shut her eyes while slipping one arm between mattress and springs to reach for her cherished packet of Sam Marsden letters.
For some reason, feeling so unloved and rejected, she desperately needed to re-read what he had written, take a few minutes to bask in those golden fantasies she had been forced to surrender. His words grounded her; the love and yearning with which those pages had been imbued gave her hope that, despite all that had recently taken place, things might work out for her after all.
Her eyes flew open, and she frowned.
Reaching, stretching as far as possible, her extended fingers encountered only empty space.
Had the packet somehow been moved farther, top to bottom, or side to side, last time she had changed the sheets?
Hastily she scrambled around, shifting what she could. Nothing. Nothing!
Skirts swirling around her, Vickie sank back on her heels, overcome by panic, trying to think.
Think! Had she put her precious bundle elsewhere, and forgotten?
No. She couldn’t possibly have done such a thing. Those letters had resided here, just beneath her warm beating heart, since the arrival of Sam’s very first missive two years ago.
She wouldn’t have moved them. Nor would anyone else, since she had vowed this secret would go with her to her grave. How could the tangible proof of Sam’s love have simply disappeared? How could—
“Jessie!” came abrupt realization, and a hiss of outrage.
Her sister. Her selfish, disgraceful, greedy witch of a sister! Only Jessica’s nasty hand could be visible in this desecration.
Clambering awkwardly to her feet, Vickie brushed aside the beginning of a tear. She would not cry. She knew she would need her wits about her in this upcoming confrontation, because it was sure to be ugly.
Head held high, emotions kept stiffly in check, she exited her room, closing the door carefully, and took step after measured step down the hall and upon each stair to the first floor. Aunt Sophie, cleanup chores finished, had joined the trio in the parlor. A soft hum of desultory conversation was taking place. Nothing of earth-shaking moment; nothing to get riled up about.
“Have you been in my room?” Vickie crossed the threshold and halted to direct the question, point-blank, toward her sister.
Either Jessica was truly as taken aback by the demand as she seemed, or she was the greatest actress this side of the Mississippi.
“I? In your room? Don’t be silly. What possible reason would I have for being in your room? I have my own, and it’s much nicer than yours.”
“You know exactly why I’m asking,” said Vickie, in a cold, tight voice. “Tell me the truth, for once in your life. Did you go into my room and take something that belongs to me?”
“Don’t you dare accuse me of anything, sister dear.”
Temper rising, Vickie took a couple paces forward. “You have that look about you, Jess. That guiltier-than-Satan look. When did you do it?”
The mask of indifference on Jessica’s smooth face was rapidly shifting into irritation, and she rose, with a deliberate swish of skirts, as if to meet an upcoming threat on equal terms. “And I tell you—”
“Girls,” Sophie, more curious than annoyed, intervened. “What is going on here?”
“She’s sneaked into my room, while you and I were gone to church, Auntie,” Vickie turned furiously toward a skeptical father, a startled friend, and the loyal woman who had watched over her since early childhood. “She stole something that belongs to me, and I want it back!”
“Well, that won’t happen soon!” burst out Jessica, involuntarily, on a sneer of utter contempt.
Vickie gaped. “What—what do you mean?”
“I just mean that what you had is no more.”
Another few paces forward, menacing paces, until she was practically nose to nose with her sister. “And I’m asking you just what you’re talking about.”
“All burned up.” Unconcerned, Jessica snapped her fingers. “In a puff of smoke, just like that.”
The sudden pallor of Vickie’s complexion might compare to candle wax, guttering once the flame had died. Or a stick of chalk, used to write upon a school boy’s slate. Or the bleached bone of an animal skeleton, left to dry in the desert.
Whatever, she actually fell back in shock. “You—what—?”
Feeling a sense of alarm, Sophie, too, came upright and approached the two. “What is it, Vic? What has happened?”
“My letters,” the girl could barely move stiffened lips to speak. “My letters from Sam. They were all I had left of him, and she—she just admitted…she’s put them—into—the fire…”
“What? What’s this kerfuffle about now?” demanded Riley, who, assuming this to be only one more upset between his daughters, had been only half-following the heated conversation.
Pointedly Sophie, almost too shocked to react, ignored her brother. “Oh, Jess, you didn’t! Whatever correspondence Vickie had from Sam was private property. Please tell me you honestly didn’t go into her room and steal away something that didn’t belong to you!”
“Yes, I did, Auntie, and I’m surprised that you are taking her side in this!” Jessica, temper at the ready, stamped her foot with frustration. “Sam is my betrothed now; she no longer has any claim on him, or the future. She ought to have destroyed those letters herself, ages ago. So I simply did what should have been done!”
The ashen color of Vickie’s countenance seemed alarming. So much so that Valentine, clearly worried about where things might lead, stood up. Prepared, just in case. The whiff of tension had drifted into the parlor, to lie thick and heavy as horsehair ropes across the atmosphere. Something was approaching. Something unpleasant, something dangerous.
Into the grayish-white of the girl’s cheeks crept two splotches of hectic red; her fists were clenched, her breath coming in fits and starts.
Suddenly she let out a banshee shriek to wake the dead and flung herself bodily upon her sister. They went down in a heap, fists flying, skirts in the air, hair tumbled, both yelling obscenities such as few women had ever even heard, let alone used.
Sophie cried out; Riley emitted a roar.
It took a split second of utter, stunned amazement before Val threw himself into the fray.
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 16
