Felicia Andrews Read online

  Dozois moved to stand beside her, redolent of a cologne she found cloying, almost choking. It was from Germany, he had told her during dinner, and she wondered just how the German men ever managed to keep hold of their women.

  "I know what you mean," he said, lighting a cigar and tossing the match carelessly over his shoulder. For a minute that was suddenly filled with the sweet voices of a violin trio, they gazed over the extensive lawn and shrubbery of the estate, over the brick wall and iron gates, to the sprawl that was San Francisco.

  Then: "I was talking to your friend in there, Mr. Peterson."

  Amanda nodded.

  "He says you'll be leaving us soon."

  Amanda placed a hand lightly on his thick wrist, a friendly gesture and nothing more. "I must, I'm afraid," she said. "As much as I like to think my son can take care of himself without me, I worry."

  "About him or the ranch? " Dozois asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

  Amanda laughed. "Both," she admitted. "There's a great deal to be done when I return. And I want to be there when it happens."

  "So I understand," he said judiciously. "Something about selling parcels, I gather."

  Amanda's frown was short-lived. Harley, she thought, talks too damned much sometimes. Though this time she did not mind; there was nothing to fear from someone like Carlton.

  "Land?" he said, prompting.

  "Land," she said, nodding. "There's a ... well, there's far too much competition in the beef business these days, and with the country growing as fast as it has been, I can't really keep up with the demand. The Colorado ranchers do much better. Them, and others. I'm pulling back, so to speak, to concentrate on lumber and a little bit of silver. People," she added, "still have to build their homes, you know, and there's not many trees in Kansas and Nebraska."

  "Are you ... well, are you looking for outside investors? " he said off handedly.

  "No," she said bluntly.

  "Good," he said with a quick guffaw. 'Then I don't have to worry about being left out in the cold."

  She joined him in his laughter, took his arm, and hugged it.

  "If it does get cold, Carlton, you'll be the first to know."

  "I'll count on it," he said. Then he bowed to her and moved off to join a small group of men standing at the foot of the long stretch of steps leading to the walk that arrowed for the gates. She could see a number of carriages being drawn up to the curbing, and she guessed that some of the guests would be leaving, those whose homes were either higher in the hills or on the far side of the city. The distances were not all that great, but the slopes of the hills themselves made traveling sometimes far longer than it might have been otherwise.

  She considered, then, returning inside to look for Harley and Olivia, and was about to approach the doors when Harley himself stepped outside. He was alone. And there was a worried look on his face.

  When he saw Amanda, he took her arm with a silencing shake of his head and led her down the steps and past the muttering men to a marble fountain set in the middle of the grass. There were redwood benches on the sides, and he motioned Amanda to sit for a moment. She obeyed, only because she could not imagine at all what was bothering him so mightily. As it was, he looked ill at ease enough in the snug-fitting evening clothes and silk-stitched waistcoat; like a fish out of water, she thought. He belongs on a horse, not on Nob Hill.

  Smiling she took hold of his arm and pulled him down to her side, wishing not for the first time that she dared take the bearlike rancher in her arms and hug him for reassurance. Had they been home, the gesture would have been accepted and understood; here, however, tongues would be wagging before first light.

  "Where' s Olivia?" she asked, glancing back toward the huge three-story house.

  "Talkin' with that piano lady," he said morosely. "I think I'm goin' to end up cratin' one back to the Circle B . "

  "It could be worse, Harley," she laughed, poking his arm playfully. "She could have taken a liking to a sailing ship."

  He groaned, and she laughed louder, shook her head in delight, and sobered immediately she saw he had not joined her. "All right, Harl, what's the problem?''

  He licked at his lips nervously. "Amanda, you know you be one of the prettiest ladies whatever come down the pike, you know that."

  She said nothing. No one, not even Guy, could compliment her without making her feel uneasy. She knew she was attractive-knew it without conceit-but beyond that she could not see. She did admit readily, however, that she did not mind at all when men turned their gaze in her direction whenever she passed, as happened tonight when she arrived with the Petersons. She was wearing a deep green gown with pale gold trim at hem and scooped bodice, snug at the waist, flaring slightly at the hips, and accenting the swell of her full breasts just enough so that the dusky flesh would catch the light and round them even more, creating shadows that shifted whenever she turned her head. Around her neck was a simple strand of pearls that seemed all the more brilliant against her Indian hue, and her long black hair was bundled into a myriad of loose curls that fell tantalizingly to her back and were entwined with gold ribbon studded with diamond chips.

  All of it was elegant, not the least bit gaudy, and served-as she had planned-to highlight the dark green of her slightly slanted eyes, the one incongruous feature of her otherwise softly sculpted face. None of the jewels were hers; they belonged to Sarah Wilcox, the wife of Harley's friend, William, with whom they were staying during their sojourn in the city. Amanda, however, saw no need to tell anyone, no need to say that back home in Wyoming the most valuable possession she owned was the land upon which she walked, and loved. So, to Harley's compliment, she only nodded, telling him to get on with it.

  "Well, there's this fella, " he said, "sittin' in there and braggin' about how he's goin' to make you the belle of the city before the season's out. Whatever that means. "

  "So?" she said. "What's the harm, Harley? Does he deal in white slaves for Araby?"

  "No, " he said, his anger at the man finding voice at last. "It's just the way he says it, Amanda. Like you're goin' to throw yourself at his feet like one of them painted women down to the wharves there. "

  "Good Lord," she said, not sure whether to laugh or scold, "haven't you known me long enough to know that I can take care of myself?"

  "Yeah, but what if word gets back to Doug, huh? What if Doug hears about this guy cattin' on 'bout you?"

  A chill suddenly descended over her bare shoulders and she shivered. "Harley, unless Douglas Mitchell has ears the size of a ponderosa and is standing right behind us at this moment, I do not know how he would hear that some braggart is setting himself up to be challenged by one of those men in there. "

  "Well . .. "

  She placed a hand over his and squeezed, gently. "For heaven's sake, Harley Peterson, you're acting like a nursemaid. This, " and she waved toward the house, the guests, the music drifting over the lawn, "was all your idea, remember? I'm supposed to have fun, enjoy myself, meet new people--"

  "But not this guy. "

  She took a deep breath and held it. Releasing it, she turned to him with a stem expression hardening her face. "Harley, Douglas Mitchell and I are friends. We are not, I repeat, we are not married, engaged, or otherwise spoken for to each other. If I want to dine with a gentleman from California, I shall do so. If I wish to visit a museum with a gentleman from Los Angeles, I shall do so."

  "You already done all that, " he muttered.

  "Indeed I have," she said, ignoring the interruption. "And I shall do more, if it pleases me."

  "Now, Amanda," he said placatingly.

  "Now yourself," she snapped. She rose and began walking back toward the house, Harley following her like a reprimanded child.

  At the steps the group parted and bowed as she swept through, another group by the door stepped hastily aside as she crossed the threshold and stood imperiously in the cavernous foyer.

  "Harley, " she said, "where is this man who thinks he wi
ll take over my life?"

  "Amanda," Harley pleaded then, lowering his voice so others would not hear him. "Now damn it, you're doin' this just to spite me, ain't you?"

  She grinned and looked up at him. "What do you think?"

  "I think," he said glumly, "I should have kept my big mouth shut."

  So you should have, she thought; especially about damn Douglas Mitchell.

  TWO

  It had happened quite without premeditation. Douglas Mitchell had taken over as sheriff of Coreville immediately after the old lawman, Svenson, had been killed. Mitchell was a proud man, and a laconic one, not bothering to display his own part-Indian heritage as Amanda did hers, but neither did he deny it if anyone dared ask. He was, for the most part, one of the most effective peace-keepers the small but growing Wyoming community had known, and it had been his stalwart support of her during the crisis that led eventually to Guy's death that had attracted her to him.

  They had kissed, once, while Guy was still alive.

  They had enjoyed a frenzied lovemaking after her mourning was done, and she had permitted herself to feel again without shame or guilt. And he had been there when she'd unmasked Howard Longstreet's complicity in the attempts to drive her from the ranch. It had been assumed, especially by her, that they would marry as soon as they could. But ...

  "It's his temper," she said to Harley one afternoon. "His temper and the fact that he's so damned sure of himself that it's maddening! I thought we'd ..." She shook her head in frustration, and not a little pain.

  "Thought you was goin' to get hitched," Harley'd said quietly. There was no mistaking his loyalty, but neither was there room for doubt that he wanted Amanda married again, and to Douglas Mitchell.

  "I thought so too," she'd replied.

  There was a pause.

  "Y'know," Harley said slowly as if he were not positive he wasn't speaking out of turn, "he's not the only one with a temper."

  "Yes, well ..."

  "And," he continued, emboldened, "I sure don't mind sayin' that there ain't too many folks on this earth, Amanda, who are more stubborn than you."

  "Are you saying that this is all my fault?"

  "No. I think m'be you two are awfully much alike, though."

  And she'd known then what she knew now, that he was thinking they were too much alike. Two people who had definite ideas about their lives and other people's places in them, definite ideas about what had to be done to survive. Each of them had managed well, to the moment, and it was then that she began wondering if perhaps she had been too successful, had filled her life with too much clutter so that there was no room for anything else, or anyone, no matter how much she wanted it.

  No, she'd thought then; it was more than that. As time passed and they appeared no closer to the altar than they had when first they'd tacitly pledged themselves to each other, Amanda thought she understood that one of the stumbling blocks, aside from their rather volatile personalities, was Four Aces. She was mistress of one of the largest concerns in the territory, not to mention the land bordering the eastern Rockies, and he ... he was a small-town sheriff who, no matter what was said, would always live under the gossipy shadow of having married the rich widow. He had his pride. It stifled him at times, but there was his pride. Just as Guy had had his-a gambler all his life, he had learned too late that ranching was not the way he was meant to live out his days, especially when it was abundantly clear that Amanda was more capable in that regard than he.

  Pride. It causes too much destruction, she thought; too ...much pain.

  And yet, were she any other kind of woman, she would not be Amanda; and not being herself was the worst fate she could think of, short of . . . no. There was nothing worse than not being yourself.

  At the back of the mansion there was a large room that had been set aside for dancing. Tall French doors led to the porch, and to an upward-sloping garden that was now in full bloom. Several tables with matching tufted chairs had been placed around the walls, below portraits of the families that had made San Francisco famous and infamous throughout the country. Couples bedecked in satins and silks, velvets and brushed cottons, drifted over the polished parquet floor as though on clouds, and the violinists who strolled unobtrusively around the dancers made each feel as though the serenade was provided solely for them.

  The doors that led in to the ballroom were clear, and Amanda stood on the threshold, one hand buried in the folds of her gown, the other placed lightly on her hip. She wished she had a fan to keep the warm air moving, but at the same time was glad she did not since it would give her too much the airs of a coquette. And that, she thought wryly, was a reputation she knew many of the women would be only too pleased to give her.

  She was about to turn to ask Harley a question when a man suddenly stepped in front of her. A head taller than she, his flaxen hair fell almost to his broad shoulders. His face was pale, and there was a faint sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his aquiline nose, spreading to high cheeks that were flushed red. His eyes were narrow, of a piercing sharp blue, and his mouth, set now in a smile, had a hint of cruelty about it that was at once distasteful and oddly compelling. He wore a deep brown suit tucked snug at the waist and edged with a glittering dark red that seemed almost black; his shirt was white and extensively ruffled, his cuffs of lace, his shoes silver buckled. A dandy, she thought, shifting to one side to see around him into the room. And when he shifted to again block her vision, she frowned and looked up at him.

  "Mrs. Munroe, I presume?" he said. He smiled. His voice was light, almost like a child's.

  She nodded.

  His smile broadened, and he took a step to one side, facing into the room as though he were her partner. "Trevor Eagleton," he said, lowering his voice, nodding to a couple who passed them on the way out to the buffet in the adjoining room. "I've been wanting to meet you."

  Amanda allowed herself a moment to relax. This, she knew suddenly, was the man Harley had warned her about. The temptation to dislike him was nearly overwhelming, but she steeled herself against it. Harley was too much like a parent, as she'd accused him, and short of Doug Mitchell there wasn't anyone in the world the rancher thought good enough for her.

  "Do you . . . dance?" he asked.

  "Occasionally. "

  "Is this an occasion?"

  She could not help it; she answered his smile and lifted her left hand. He took it seemingly without pressure and led her onto the floor. The violins had swung into a spritely waltz, and the other couples were whirling about the room. Amanda took a deep breath, raised an eyebrow, and Eagleton slipped a hand around her slender waist. A beat to listen to the music, and they slid into the current as if they had been partners for a dozen years.

  There was no conversation. Unlike most of the other men in the room, Eagleton did not attempt to whisper witty or endearing comments into her ear, nor did he try to engage her in what passed for sophisticated thrust and parry. Instead he fixed his gaze on her eyes and danced; nothing more. And within moments Amanda felt herself inexplicably drawn to the man, drawn to something beyond the physical handsomeness, beyond the self-assured smile that clung to his lips. Though she had no doubt what his designs were, she was more than willing to indulge him for the time being. He intrigued her. And she was determined to discover just what it was that he wanted from her, other than the obvious.

  When the dance ended, they did not move but waited instead for the next tune to begin.

  And the next.

  And a third.

  And when finally she shook her head to signal enough, he placed her hand on his wrist and led her to the porch, to the back comer where the railing opened to a series of stone steps that led into the garden. She stopped, and he did not protest. And when she leaned against the railing to feel the breeze cool her warm skin, he reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a thin cigar.

  "Do you mind?"

  "Of course not."

  "Not of course,'" he said. '"There are some ladie
s who find the stench of this thing too much to bear."

  "Then why do you smoke it?"

  "Because it pleases me," he said and added quickly, "and because there are some women who find the smoke too much to bear. I can be spared their company." Ordinarily the words would have been offensive, too smug for comfort, but he removed their sting with a laugh that was self-deprecating and mocking at the same time.

  Amanda liked him. She liked what she saw when the sulfur match flared and his eyes were caught unaware fur a split second, less hard, less filled with an apparent need to challenge.

  When the match was extinguished, she looked back to the garden and saw several couples winding their way into the deeper shrubs with their arms about each other, heads close together. It's a night for it, she thought and caught herself smiling. Easy, Amanda, she cautioned herself; don't let a good night steal your senses.