Felicia Andrews Read online

  Hers was the last on the left, and the most noticeable simply because she kept its outside clean. Only the week before she had had it whitewashed, had hung lace curtains in the single front window, and had one of her, as she called them, admirers repatch the roof.

  He knocked furtively on the door. He heard someone hustling about inside and winced when a lantern in the window was lighted.

  "Who?" came a whisper.

  "Me," he said.

  The door opened, and he slipped inside.

  On the left was a screen of white cotton that masked the single bed; on the right a table and four chairs. He walked immediately to the latter and sat, his hands folded in front of him while Carla, clutching a rustling green robe to her throat, lifted a coffeepot from the Franklin stove in the far comer and poured him a cup. He sipped at it gingerly, smiling when she sat opposite him and let her robe fall open .

  "I heard," she said.

  He nodded. "Pretty wicked stuff, " he said. "You know that girl? Diane?"

  She glared at him. "What do you think I am? I don't know these women."

  "You came in on the same train with her. "

  She blinked, and he laughed . "I was there, remember? You tripped on the steps and nearly broke your neck. Diane was right behind you, and she stepped over you like you were dirt."

  "I don't remember, " she said stiffly.

  He shrugged. "Makes no difference. Tonight was the easy part. Tomorrow I have to ride out to Four Aces. "

  "The man worked for Mrs. Munroe?" Her eyes widened in sympathy.

  "No one else," he said glumly. "I sure don't look forward to that. "

  She grinned, then , in the lantern's dim light and came around the table to sit in his lap. Her lips found their favorite spot behind his ear, and he squirmed.

  "You don't like that woman, do you?" she said into his hair.

  "Amanda? She's all right, I guess. "

  Carla laughed, an almost cruel sound that startled him. "You are lying to me, Sheriff. I think you may be in love with her.

  He scowled into his coffee and jerked his head away from her lips. She tugged at his hair playfully and slipped a cool hand into his shirt. "I don't mind," she said softly. "It's me you come to, you know. At times like this, I'm the one who takes care of you."

  "Leave it, Carla," he said .

  She did, for a moment. "Doug?"

  He had given up trying to finish the drink, had slipped a hand around her waist and looked closely at her. "What now?"

  "I think I would like to buy a million acres of the best land in the territory. You think Mrs. Munroe would sell to me?"

  He stared at her for a long second before the laughter that had been building in his chest exploded and tears sprang to his eyes. "What?"

  "The land she wants to sell," she said, almost pouting.

  "You?"

  "I am not poor, you know. I save my money. I am going to be somebody someday."

  He laughed louder, harder, did not move when she flounced out of his lap and stalked across the room to the screen. And he knew he shouldn't have done it and should control himself now before she threw him out, but he couldn't help it. It wasn't her ambition that tickled him. He had known from the first day they had talked that she was determined to be something more than a waitress for the rest of her life . . . and he had to admit that the rock-hard look that settled her otherwise delicate features sometimes unnerved him whenever she talked about it.

  No, it wasn't the ambition-it was her thinking she would be able to pick up parcels from Amanda Munroe.

  "God," he said, swallowing hard and wiping his hands over his face. "God, Carla, you're going to be the death of me yet."

  "I don't think it's funny," she said coldly.

  "But, Carla--"

  "Is she or isn't she going to sell off that eastern section of her high and mighty ranch?"

  He looked at her steadily, realizing he would never be able to touch her tonight if he didn't give her at least the semblance of a straight answer. "I don't know, " he said truthfully.

  She frowned. "What?"

  "I mean it. I don't know. Before she left for San Francisco, it was all she talked about. Now I hear from her men when they come into town that she's changing her mind. She may be thinking of giving it to Alex when he marries that Longstreet girl. "

  "Damn!"

  The sudden explosion of venom in her tone startled him, and he found himself wondering just exactly what her interest was in Four Aces. It was rather sudden, he thought, though he knew she didn't tell him everything by any means. Still it was curious, and he could not help a searching look that she caught and seemed abruptly uncomfortable under.

  "What's the matter?"

  He told her.

  She drew herself up, stalked to the door, and dropped the bar into its cradle. "I can have a private life, you know. "

  "I know that, Carla. I'm sorry if I was prying. "

  "It's all right. But . . . that man. The one I told you about who comes into the place all the time and looks at me like I was naked?"

  He nodded. She had complained to him about the stranger several times, but he had never seen the man and knew no one else who had.

  "Well, he said to me that he wanted to buy some land here.

  He is from Kansas and he says he likes the mountains better. "

  "Anything, " Doug muttered, "is better than Kansas. " He was getting tired, almost as though the coffee had been drugged, and his vision began to blur in the lantern's feeble glow. He put his palms to the table and pushed himself to his feet.

  "And Mrs. Munroe, she is not selling now?"

  He waved away the question and looked around for his hat.

  "Ah well," she said lightly, "I guess I will have to go somewhere else to be a queen. "

  "Queen? Carla, what are you talking about?" His head began to throb, and he realized with a wrench that it was a reaction to what he had seen tonight. Manley, he thought, may be used to mangled bodies and gallons of blood, but he didn't know how the man slept at night. He held himself rigid for a few moments, taking deep breaths he hoped would settle the sudden acid lurching in his stomach. But the image of Frank Webber lying with eyes staring widely and blindly at the ceiling drifted across the room, and he could only turn away quickly, his head down and his mouth open.

  Carla did not seem to notice.

  "That woman," she said. "I think I am jealous of her. "

  He swallowed several times and closed his eyes, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly the blood was drained from his knuckles. He felt dizzy, then a brief surge of nausea. And finally, just as it seemed that his legs would give way and he would collapse to the floor, it passed. Slowly he brushed a hand through his hair, picked up the coffee, and drank it deeply. It was ridiculous, he thought; he had never reacted to a death this way, never. Something was wrong. Something . . . he set the cup down and turned around.

  Carla had pushed the hanging screen to one side and was lying on the bed. The white sheeting was pulled to her waist, her hair pulled in waves over her shoulders. The lantern was on the floor beside the bed frame, and the shadows it cast gave her a regal, almost stone-like appearance. She reached out a hand, and he stared at it stupidly.

  "You need holding," she said to him then.

  "I don't think I--"

  "Don't be silly," she said. "I am not a fool, Douglas. I know what can be done and what cannot. Tonight you need holding and sleep. Tomorrow ... " and she shrugged elaborately.

  The sheet fell.

  He grinned and decided that if she wanted some of Amanda's land, he would do what he could to help her get it.

  THIRTEEN

  Less than a fortnight after Amanda saw to Webber's burial in the town's cemetery beside the railroad tracks, she stood on the crescent-shaped front porch of what was still known as the Longstreet house and listened to the exuberant voices of violins and trumpets slice through the humid twilight air. The building was a low and rambling struc
ture of stone and brick, not much larger than her own yet seeming twice the size because of its sprawl. A low platform had been erected just in front of it, and there the band played for the dozens of men and women dancing lightly on the grass. Long tables of food and drink had been set up parallel to the bandstand, and from the hickory and birch that shaded the party were strung lanterns blazing merrily enough to turn back the coming night.

  She smiled and shook her head slowly, thinking of those parties she had attended in San Francisco and their restrained gaiety that passed for effervescence. There the laughter was carefully meted out; here it was unbridled, as wild and magnificent as the land it covered. There the music was of an almost stately, otherworldly sort; here it sparked and soared, never resting, never slowing until the musicians themselves were forced to pause in sheer joyful exhaustion. There were no restrictions to the clapping of one's hands, the shouts of enthusiasm, the darting in and out of the younger children. It was, in every sense of the word, a celebration, and something she thought the rest of the world could easily benefit from had it not been so intent on being so serious.

  She looked down at her feet and realized she had been tapping a toe unconsciously to the tune being played. She grinned, looked up, and watched Olivia being swung about in Harley's arms as they pranced through a reel as though there were no one with them. It was their wedding anniversary, and the party had been Olivia's idea. She had taken to calling her husband one of the "landed gentry" and had wanted to shore up the phrase by giving the impression that Harley, too, believed himself to be special. It was, Amanda thought, almost pathetic. Harley, she knew, wanted no part of ostentation and theatrics, yet there was little he could do about it unless he wanted to wound his wife deeply. He tolerated it, then, and tried desperately not to treat her as though she were a pampered child.

  Olivia never mentioned the fact that Hope Longstreet had, only two days before, made the first public announcement of her intention to sell.

  Suddenly a hand gripped Amanda's arm. Nathaniel Kurtz, his wizened face beaming and his collar undone, tugged her laughing down the steps.

  "My, Mayor, " she said in mock protest, "do you treat all widow ladies this way?"

  His laugh was a great, explosive wheezing. "Only those who own half the valley," he said, slipping an arm around her waist, and insinuated them into the line.

  When the reel ended, with Amanda wondering how the elderly man managed to hang onto his stamina, she was whirled around to be taken by Doc Manley. He said nothing as they moved over the beaten grass, but the glint in his eyes marked the number of times he had been to the punch bowl.

  A waltz, then, for the conservation of energy, and it was Amos Trowbridge's tum. He was a full head shorter than she and puffed with every step. She could not help giggling, and when he glared at her, she burst into a full and deep laugh.

  "I ain't dead yet, y'know," he growled, his lips continuing soundlessly as he counted out the steps.

  ''I'm . . . , " She laughed again. ''I'm sorry, Amos. "

  " 'Sail right," he said. "Emily thinks I should retire. "

  "Your daughter is concerned. "

  "She's dumb."

  Another turn, and a hand tapped at the editor's shoulder. He bowed, Amanda curtsied, and nearly stumbled when Doug took her into his arms and led her slowly but inexorably to the outside of the dancing couples.

  "How's Carl?" he asked, his eyes carefully measuring something over the top of her head.

  "His fever has broken, thank you," she said stiffly, trying not to squirm under the familiar, and disturbing, touch of his hand. "He sits up and complains, for the most part. But it'll be some time before he can even think about working again. "

  "He's a fine man," Doug said, smiling slightly. "He doesn't like to be tied down."

  "Like you?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

  He brought her slightly closer to him, and she had to strain to keep her cheek from resting on his shoulder. "I know my own mind," he said quietly. "That's not much different than you, is it?"

  She did not respond.

  "There's a man named Ephraim Wilder," he said after a few moments. "Staying at the hotel. He's been asking around about land to buy." He paused. There was nothing. "Are you still planning on parceling the range?"

  She shrugged. "I haven't made up my mind. Why? Are you this . . . Wilder's agent?"

  "Nope. Just told him I'd ask, that's all. "

  "What is it? I s h e afraid of me?"

  His smile became a quick, knowing grin. "He just don't want to bother you, that's all, Amanda. He's in no hurry."

  "Well, then. "

  The music stopped and the air filled with applause. She felt dollops of perspiration dotting her forehead and running down the back of her pale cream dress. The neck was high, but the faintly glittering material was snug across her breasts and waist, and to Fae's consternation she had refused to even consider wearing padding or a bustle. As such, then, she was well aware of the male glances covertly sent in her direction--secure, too, in the knowledge that none of them would amount to anything more than a polite smile or a laughing word. Though she did not bother to hide the fact of her beauty and her self-assurance, neither did she give fuel to any speculation that she could be had for the asking.

  They stood in front of a linen-covered table, and Mitchell handed her a glass of a sweet red punch. She sipped at it gratefully and scanned the crowd over the scalloped lip of the cup. And when the sheriff did not leave her side, she felt at the same time helpless and enticed.

  "I see you brought your lady friend," she said at last, not wanting to say it but being unable to find whatever words she needed.

  Carla was in the middle of a crowd of young men, most of them cowhands and clerks. She was wearing a subdued red and gold dress with a slightly scooped neckline and layers of multicolored skirts. Around her slender waist was a satin sash uncomfortably close to blood red. Her hair had been brushed to sharpen its highlights of deep red, and it fell to her shoulders in a cascade of waves that even in repose seemed to have a life of their own.

  "She likes to dance," he said simply.

  "I can see that," she said, cursing herself inwardly for the tightness in her voice. "Does she like you?"

  "We get along. "

  Her free hand fisted. "I suppose she works in one of the--"

  "She waits tables," he said, maddeningly calm. "Until last week, that is, when she bought half of Lonny's place. Now she thinks she owns half the town. "

  She looked up at him, startled. "What? But . . . but where would she . . . I mean-"

  He chuckled, which only served to infuriate her and turn her away. "You were going to say, where did a woman like that get enough money to buy anything, right?" He waited for an answer, his tone implying that he knew he would not get one. "Well, to be honest, I don't know. And I didn't ask. What she does with her money is her business. "

  Amanda stared openly now at the tan-skinned woman, who glanced up, caught the gaze, and smiled. She brushed a quick hand over one young man's chest and broke away from -the circle, crossing the grass lightly, as though dancing were something she never stopped doing.

  "Mrs. Munroe, " she said. "I am very pleased to meet you. "

  Amanda accepted the outstretched hand but did not accept the blatant sensuality in the other woman's eyes as she included Mitchell in the greeting.

  ''The sheriff, " Amanda said, "has just told me about your new partnership. Congratulations . "

  Carla waved her hand a s though buying into restaurants was something she did on her days off. "I will try to do right by Mr. Daniels, " she said.

  ''I'm sure you will," Amanda murmured and felt Mitchell go rigid at her side. Carla, however, did not seem to take the remark as offensive. Instead she placed a proprietary hand on the sheriffs arm. "Doug, I haven't eaten yet. Do you mind?"