Felicia Andrews Page 20

  Definitely possible, she told herself, and whistled her way out of the hotel and down to the stables where her wagon had been kept for her.

  And once on the road outside of town, she decided that she would give him a party on Saturday night, one that would both serve to introduce him properly to her family and announce her son's engagement.

  She laughed aloud, then, at the look on Fae's face when she told her there would only be two days for the preparation.

  Marvelous, she thought; at last it's all marvelous.

  SEVENTEEN

  By midafternoon on Saturday Amanda was so nervous she did not think she would be able to contain herself before the first guest arrived. Nothing at all was working as she had planned it. And nothing, it seemed, would bend to her will no matter how hard she concentrated, no matter how hard she demanded.

  Her first problem arose from a totally unexpected quarter. On Friday morning Carl Davis, amid a storm of protests from Fae and Doc Manley, got out of bed. He was gaunt, his graying hair even more streaked than when he had been shot, and his face was covered with a scraggly beard he had decided he liked and would let no one touch.

  "Can't do it anymore, " he told her when she raced into his room and found him struggling into his trousers. "If I don't get up today, ''I'm goin' to die. "

  "You'll die if you do, fool," she said, though she could see immediately there was no sense in arguing with him. "But as long as you insist-"

  "I do."

  "-then you've got to promise you won't try any riding. "

  The little man, barely reaching her neck, scratched vigorously at his chest before nodding. ''I'll want to talk with Booth, though," he said. "Got to see about replacin' Webber. "

  "Carl," she said in a deep warning tone.

  "Missus, I can talk, can't I? What the hell's that goin' to hurt?"

  She'd looked helplessly to Manley who had ridden out for a simple checkup, and the white-maned doctor had only shrugged as if to say there was nothing more he could do if his patient was going to insist on committing suicide. So she had him ensconced on the front porch where, with Alex's help, he began a long and tiring series of interviews with Bob Booth and the other principal hands to see what was happening where. When she'd left him, he was berating Booth not only for some of the errors he had made but also for steering Webber to Sophie's in the first place.

  And before Manley left, he gave Amanda a note from Trevor.

  "I don't believe it," she whispered when she had read it. But Manley had already left, a little too swiftly for her to believe he had not already taken a peek at the contents.

  Trevor, shortly after she had left him the evening before, was about to climb into bed when he had a visitor. Apparently Ephraim Wilder had seen him on the streets and wanted to meet him. Trevor was impressed and told her he would be spending the day with the Kansan because "I think, odd as it sounds, Amanda, that I may be able to do business with the man . "

  "Really, " she muttered t o the living room hearth. "Do you really?"

  Fae, as expected, had rebelled at the idea of conjuring up a full dinner party on such short notice, but Amanda placated her with promises of all the help she needed, then hurried away to find Bess and Grace Bums. Grace was Abe's wife, and had been Bess's nursemaid and the family's housekeeper since the day the little girl had been born. They were out in back, watching Sam working with a recalcitrant mare who was late in foaling and refused all efforts by anyone to make her more comfortable.

  "Mother, " Bess said excitedly, leaping down from the fence to run into her arms. "Mother, you should see what Sam is doing!"

  "Probably making your brother look silly," she said, planting a long, deep kiss on the eight-year-old's cheek. She glanced around the corral and saw Grace talking quietly with her husband. They were a contrast in types: Abe was broad shouldered and deep chested, thick of arm and thigh, hairless like Sam, though his face was pocked and scarred with years of touches by flying embers and hot iron. Grace, on the other hand, was tall and slender, her features somewhat harsh, her hair inevitably pulled back in a loose, accommodating bun. She never wore anything but high-necked blue-print dresses without a single hint of lace or bright colors, but the severity of her appearance was consistently offset by a wide and constant smile.

  Amanda, with Bess still in her arms and struggling to be released, told Grace about the proposed party and made her promise she would both stay out of Fae's way and do all that she could to help her.

  "Be in two places at once," Grace said, nodding. "With that child workin' on me all the time, I've plenty of practice. You just leave the fixin' s and the shoppin' to me, missus. "

  At that moment the mare decided she'd had enough of Sam's quiet ministrations and lashed out at him with a hoof, catching him a glancing blow on the arm. For the next hour or so, then, Amanda was busy tending to the swelling and trying to keep the mare from throwing her foal.

  Friday's finale was less physical than it was emotional.

  Unable to stand the sprawl of the ranch any longer, or the growing bickering that drifted in from the kitchen, or Carl's groans as he lay abed trying to fight off the pains that laced through his shoulder, she'd taken Wind from the stable and had ridden into town. Most of the hands were scattered between the two saloons, and their raucous, vibrant laughter filled the night air with its weekly celebration of escape from chores . The hitching posts along the main street were crowded with horses and buckboards; here and there she could see in the shadows the still form of a man who had drunk too much too early and was waiting for his friends to pour him into the saddle for the lurching ride home.

  By the time she reached the hotel, she was scolding herself for her distrust, and her anxiety. More and more she was beginning to resent the reaction Eagleton promoted in her, the loss of her jealously guarded will. But was it so unreasonable, she asked of herself, was it really so unreasonable to expect that, after so long a separation she should want to spend as much time with him as possible? And was it really illogical to feel hurt because he had passed up hours with her for the slim chance of scouring up some business?

  But she did not slide down off Wind's back.

  The windows of his second-floor room were dark.

  Gone. Or asleep. And she did not have the courage to go inside and find out.

  "Goodness, missus," Grace said with a quick laugh, "you'd think it was the weddin' you was attendin', not just the nonsense before times. "

  Amanda stood in front of her bedroom mirror and ran her hands carefully down her sides. Her dress was one Grace had made from a line drawing she had seen in a New York catalog and was supposedly based upon current London fashion. That fabric, a mill-soft cotton threaded with a silk-like material, gave off highlights and lances whenever the light shifted. The neckline was throat high and edged with cream lace, and runners of ruffled lace ran from her shoulders down across her breasts to gather at the waist. A series of pale gold frogs and false silver buttons added a military look, both at the bodice and on the sleeves that ran down to her wrists snugly. Again she had refused the artifice of a bustle, and so wore an extra-stiff underskirt to accent the flare of her hips.

  "That green, " Grace said with a slow shake of her head. "It's too dark. It looks black."

  Amanda did not hear her. She took a brush to her hair and followed the midnight black carefully, gently, until all the snags were out. Then she gathered it in both hands and arranged it behind her shoulders.

  Paradoxically, without her headband and center part, she looked even more like an Indian, an effect deliberately cultivated.

  "Is Alex ready?" she asked.

  "He's dressed and in front," Grace said with a patience born of experience. "Harley arrived with the ladies almost half an hour ago." She moved to stand beside Amanda and put a finger to her cheek as she examined her critically. Then she tugged once at a shoulder, again at a fold that did not fall properly from the small of Amanda's back. "This Mr. Eagleton, " she said, trying to ma
ke it seem a s though she really did not care, "I assume he's worth this?"

  "It's a party for Alex and Hope, Grace, " she said.

  "Of course," Grace said. "And you didn't answer my question."

  Amanda did not know how to answer. She had deliberately slept late that morning, to lessen the time between her waking and the dinner. She had ridden hard most of the afternoon to the rangeland and the western reaches, thinking that time, thus spurred, would be fleeting.

  As it turned out, she had had more than enough time to think.

  Pride. It had to be simply a matter of pride. It was the only safe explanation she could think of. Otherwise she was faced with the notion that Eagleton had very little interest in her at all beyond the physical; and if that were true, she did not think she would be able to refrain from slitting his throat. What had begun, then, as a double celebration was rapidly transforming itself into a celebration for her son, and a test for herself. And she felt horrid about it, as though she were involved in a duel of complicity in which only one of the combatants knew of the game.

  Yet she also knew there was ample justification for her sudden dose of caution. At this time in her life it was more important than ever to protect that which was hers. More: whatever decisions she made now would be of such consequence that no matter how things turned out, her home would never be the same again.

  Alex was leaving, was taking himself a wife. That he would still be living on the ranch made no difference; she was determined that his life would be what he made of it, not what she thought it should be.

  Not selling the land and the cattle had been an impulsive thing, and unless she and her agents became more active in that phase of the business, the drain on Four Aces would eventually be debilitating. Home. Such a small word, she thought, for such a vast meaning.

  She set the brush on the dresser and slowly turned in front of the mirror. Pleased at what she saw, she did not notice Grace's slight frown of concern, nor the way the woman's hands fluttered at her sides as though wanting to reach out, and not daring to for fear of rejection. Instead she smiled brightly for the effect and swept from the room, Grace trailing and babbling down the corridor, the only stop being at Bess's room where the girl was engrossed in a carton of books delivered from Omaha earlier that day. As she held up her cheek for Amanda to kiss, she also brandished a volume bound in dark blue.

  "This man is silly, Mother," she said, giggling.

  Amanda, heedless of the damage that might be done to her dress, knelt beside her and leafed through the pages. "I wouldn't be too harsh on him, darling. He was a pilot once, just like me. "

  "On the Mississippi?"

  "That's right. "

  "He's still silly."

  "Mr. Clemens is not silly, Bess, he's clever."

  Bess frowned intently and stared at the binding. "Clemens?

  But it says here, Mark Twain ."

  "That's what the French call a nom de plume . It's a false name. A pen name."

  "But why? Doesn't he like his real name?"

  "I'm sure he likes it very much."

  "Then why did he change it?"

  "Only for the book, dear. Mark Twain isn't a real name at all; it's a way of measuring the depth of the river water. "

  Bess considered the information solemnly while Amanda watched her face contorting in the effort. It took all her will to keep from grabbing the girl and hugging her before the process was done.

  "Well," Bess decided firmly, with a sharp nod to Grace in the doorway. "that's what I meant when I said he was silly."

  Amanda had no retort, and Grace had stepped back into the corridor so the girl would not see her laughing.

  "You look very pretty, Mother," she said then. "I sure wish I could go to the party."

  "You," Amanda said, poking at her chest, "will be at the dinner, and that's all. We made a deal, remember?"

  "Yes, Mother. " A pause. "But, Mother?"

  "What?"

  "If this is going to be for Alex and Hope, will you tell him that I won't kick him under the table if he doesn't pull my hair?"

  Amanda nodded. "Another deal struck You'll make a fine lawyer some day, Bess."

  "I don't want to be a lawyer, " she said, "I want to be Bess."

  Immediately there were tears that Amanda had to swallow to keep from spilling, and she could only shake her head when she left the room, sending Grace in to dress her daughter.

  "I want to be Bess," she whispered. Damn, she thought; when will I learn to listen to my children?

  The social storm broke almost before she was ready. Seemingly simultaneously, her chosen guests had arrived and filled the front rooms with chatter and laughter, posturing comfortably at the fireplace or near the sideboard, so familiar with the house and each other that they did not have to waste time with the amenities of admiring the woven rugs on the walls, the furnishings, the arrangement of the dinner table. It was as if they had all been summoned from the same house and were merely continuing temporarily interrupted conversations.

  Amanda, however, could not keep herself away from the door. While she noted that a great deal of time was being spent speculating about Ephraim Wilder and his growing interest in the town-Nate Kurtz accepting it without reservation while Harley and Amos were more guarded, more drawn-she could not keep from stepping out onto the porch every two minutes, searching down the dark lane toward the road for a sign of Trevor.

  What if he doesn't come? Suppose he has another meeting with that Wilder?

  She flashed through moments of severe doubt and melancholy, of rage and self-confidence. As luck would have it, she was on the far side of the room when he walked in, his tan suit freshly cleaned and pressed, his hair softly curved to his shoulders like spun flax, his face flushed with the exertion of his ride and what seemed to her to be a trace of nervousness.

  Conversations continued, though they were continued subdued, and more eyes than she thought existed in the world followed her as she made her way to him and offered her cheek for his kiss.

  "I feel like a dummy in a store window," he whispered as he grinned over her shoulder.

  "1 was afraid you wouldn't come," she whispered back as she turned with a flourish to make the introductions.

  "Oh no," he said quietly, "you won't get rid of me that easily, Mrs. Munroe. "

  She almost frowned, but there was n o time as Eleanor and Olivia swept down on them like hawks.

  "You'll have plenty of time for him yourself later," Eleanor said archly as she took one of Trevor's arms.

  Amanda backed off graciously, aware that she was grinning intensely as she waited for their approval, all the while knowing that it would come--if it came at all--only after all of them had returned home and mulled over their impressions. It was only someone like Harley who vented his first impressions, and she noted with dismay that from the look on his face he had not changed his opinion since that evening in San Francisco. Desperately, then, she sought for something that Harley would gladly latch onto, could only manage to ask him when he had joined her if he had had word from William and Sarah.

  "Doin' fairly well, " he said, pulling at his stiff collar. "Soon as we left, they caught the guy what set the fire. Insurance paid right off. "

  "I'm glad," she said truthfully. "I hate to think we . . . I was a jinx on their good fortune. "

  "Dumb thing to say," he told her.

  "Well, I certainly didn't bring them all the best luck in the world, you know. For Sarah, especially. I think she had me packed in record time."

  Harley only shrugged and moved off to talk quietly with Bill and Helen Manley; and Amanda, after a moment's indecision, hurried into the dining room where she found Alex and Hope standing in a comer, flanked by Emily Trowbridge and a fawning Alan Ryan.

  "Amanda!" Emily greeted, her face already pinched a faint pink from the brandy she was drinking. "You didn't tell me Alex had grown into such a marvelous-looking young man."

  Alex smiled dutifully; Hope clasped his arm
more tightly.

  "A fine young man," Ryan said, his voice rasping and deep. "A credit to his--"

  "Amanda," Emily interjected quickly, "whatever did you do to keep him so healthy?"

  "I beat him twice a day with birch rods," she said as seriously as she could. Then she looked to Ryan. "It's an old Indian custom, " she explained. "My father used to do it to me often.

  "Really?" he said, turning away from the sudden rush of red that darkened Hope's face as she buried it in Alex's shoulder. "I didn't know he was . . . what are you again? Algonquin?"