"Meaning me," Hazard echoed softly.
It was what she most adored in him, his wildness and unorthodoxy. Her eyes, holding his, were passionate, full of need. "Damn the dress," she whispered.
His smile, warm and rakish, was celebrated. "Your servant, ma'am."
So Hazard had the Chief Justice's wife despite petticoats, mousseline de soie, lace-trimmed drawers; and, he noticed later, her silk-slippered feet left only slight marks on his black evening jacket.
When Lucy left to join her husband at the ball, Hazard adjusted his clothes in a haze of contentment, and poured himself another brandy. He'd give Lucy time to make her excuses before he arrived. A half-hour later, he gently closed the door on the strewn, damp-carpeted room, stepped out onto Main Street, and set out for the Chief Justice's Territorial Ball.
AN OPEN carriage arrived for the Braddocks and they were driven the short distance to the large stone building serving as temporary quarters for the legislature. It was the only structure in Virginia City with a space suitable for a ballroom.
Their driver proudly pointed out the more resplendent dwellings and businesses. "That there is McBundy's Emporium; brought the stone three hundred mile on ox cars. Purty, ain't it? Past those willows is Forsyth's. See the one with the tower? And over yonder, on that rise, is Chessman's place. Took him a full two years to build."
While Millicent sniffed disdainfully at the Gothic three-story jumble of gingerbread, Blaze politely said, "It's lovely, like a white palace."
"Ain't that jus' so. A palace, sure 'nuf."
And Chessman's mansion was very like a palace, gleaming pale in the sunset glow, an example of the curious juxtaposition of wealth and squalor so prevalent in the mining boomtowns. Side by side existed log cabins, shanties, tents, prosperous business blocks, and elegant homes. With the strike-it-rich possibilities of gold mining, an impoverished miner could find himself wealthy overnight. And when that happened, many spent their new riches in lavish extravagance.
Virginia City offered anything money could buy, from ice-packed oysters to couturier gowns. All merchandise was brought overland or up the Missouri, and though the freight charges forced prices high, there was always someone willing to pay. It wasn't like farming, where one worked and waited and finally eked out a modest living. Gold mining cast its lure out to people who craved instant fortunes. And it obliged many a gambling-minded man. Fortunes were made and lost and made again and money was spent on a princely scale. Virginia City may have been only three years old, but it offered opulence and luxurious living to anyone who could afford it.
"Really, how can anyone actually live out here? Everything is so… tasteless," Millicent complained. "And dusty, now that the mud has dried," she irritably went on.
"Can't expect a settled town right away. Takes time," the Colonel replied, smiling his apology at the driver, who'd turned his head around at Millicent's rude comments.
"There's no excuse, William, for that sort of thing, no matter how unsettled," and she lifted her silk fan a scant inch in the direction of a nearby tent with a roughly painted sign proclaiming Montana Belle its occupant. A line of men standing outside the gunny sack door flap were joking and passing a bottle of whiskey around while waiting their turn.
The Colonel cleared his throat gruffly. There's so few white women, he wanted to say, but thought better of it in front of Blaze. "They're a long way from home," he replied instead.
"It's one of the main thoroughfares. You'd think at least," Millicent peevishly continued, "they'd find someplace—"
"Have you heard how large an orchestra will be playing tonight?" Blaze interjected, stepping in as she had so many times over the years when her parent's conversation turned discordant.
"They're from Chicago, I hear," her father quickly answered, relieved to change the subject. "Remember to save me a dance, sweetie. I know how fast your dance card fills up."
"Take care with your skirt, Venetia. They'll probably all wear their spurs," her mother cuttingly decreed.
"Yes, Mother," Blaze obligingly replied. The driver was stopping to let them down, and it was too fine an evening to argue about anything.
Colonel William Braddock, Mrs. Braddock, and Miss Braddock were graciously greeted by the territorial chief justice and his young wife who were acting as hosts for the evening at the governor's request. Lucy Attenbor-ough was looking remarkably attractive tonight, as everyone who knew her would agree. Flushed, vivacious, she smiled warmly at everyone, including the elderly man at her side, her husband. It must be the summer air, several guests remarked; a night like this would bring a glow to anyone's cheek.
"Next thing you know," one elderly matron remarked to her companion of equal years, seated beside her on the perimeter of the dance floor, "we'll be hearing of a blessed event in the Attenborough family. That young bride of his was smiling up at George with something like adoration. Now when I was eighteen, mind, no one could have talked me into marrying a sixty-year-old man. I don't care how much gold he had."
Small towns being what they are, with everyone's business being everyone's business, her companion remarked with a smug, insinuating air, "One can only pray if she has a child, its skin won't be too dark."
Having gained the full and undivided attention—in addition to a wide-eyed look of astonishment—from the matron beside her, the smirking woman observed, "But the child would be gorgeous, undoubtedly gorgeous. Lucy visits the oddest places in the course of the day." But no amount of cajoling would wring another word from her.
Unsubstantial as these facts were, the perfume of sin was irresistible and before an hour passed, a current of intrigue had passed like wild fire throughout the room.
Leaving Millicent in a small parlor to sip sherry and gossip with the other wives traveling west with their husbands, Colonel Braddock escorted Blaze into the ballroom to claim her first dance. The music was a gay mazurka, lilting and merry, and those dancing threw themselves into the energetic steps with a high-spirited pleasure. Even in the midst of a room, crowded with guests, Blaze stood apart, her skin glowing warmly, her opulent pearl-studded gown a silken foil to her beauty. She was immediately besieged with suitors and dance partners, drawn to her startling loveliness with a certain predictability. The Colonel graciously gave way to his daughter's cavaliers, and she swung off in the arms of a tall, fair-haired gentleman who'd introduced himself with the soft drawl of a Texan. He danced well, told her she was more beautiful than the bluebells back home, and suggested they get married in the morning with a sincerity she found momentarily disconcerting. She smiled a polite refusal and was saved from further explanation by her next partner importuning for his turn.
She enjoyed herself, for dancing was always a pleasure, the people were open and engaging, and the talk, when she could turn it away from compliments, was often about the mining which so fascinated her. In the normal course of events, it might have been some time before she noticed the tall, dark-haired man in elegant evening dress among the hundreds of animated guests. Tonight, however, the moment he entered the room—cool, slender, expensive, with that swift, easy walk which bespoke ease and self-confidence—all conversation stopped, heads swiveled, and an uneasy silence settled over the large ballroom.
Not privy to the night's succulent item of gossip, Blaze had no idea why everyone was staring at the striking man, other than the fact he was beautiful. Perhaps he never walked into a room without the talk dying around him, she mused. He was distinctly a man of the outdoors, even in diamond studs and evening dress, and a closer look revealed he was undoubtedly an Indian. With a jolt Blaze recognized her Indian. Her heart raced. But palpitations aside, his beauty and heritage aside, why did every guest in the room continue staring at him? Watching from the dance floor, for her partner had abruptly stopped in his tracks, Blaze watched the conspicuously attractive man pause for a moment, taking in the silence, the expectancy, the rising hum of whispered comment.
His extraordinary black eyes swept the room casually, rested on Lucy, then moved with perfect equanimity along the haphazard grouping of officials making up the receiving line. Walking over in a wink of diamond studs, he calmly greeted some minor bureaucrats first. "Good evening. Pleasant weather. Yes, unusually warm for June," he remarked with consummate social ease. The dignitaries, by contrast, seemed edgy. Pretty, dark-haired Lucy Attenborough, next in line, looked up with a flash of a smile, and the elderly man standing beside her, his bald head glistening with sweat, followed her glance with a murderous scowl.
Hazard smiled back, ignoring the scowl, and extended his hand to the Chief Justice's wife, who unexpectedly blushed. With smoothly turned compliments he took her fingers briefly in his, then, passing along, put his hand out to the Chief Justice. "Good evening," said Hazard pleasantly. "I hear the legislative session finally ended. A relief to you, I expect."
"Yes, I'll have more time to spend at home now," the Chief Justice replied with cold-eyed resentment.
"I'm sure, sir, your wife will be grateful." Hazard's eyes were calmly open.
For the space of a heartbeat, the older man hesitated while Hazard absorbed the shock of his anger. But this was the man, everyone had heard, including Judge Attenborough, who'd killed three men last month. One did not carelessly annoy a man reputedly able to draw and fire five times in three seconds. Having made the decision, Attenborough's hand reached out and gripped Hazard's slender bronzed hand. "Enjoy yourself, Mr. Black."
Hazard's voice was steady. "Thank you. I will."
Collective breaths were exhaled throughout the room in sufficient volume to cause a gentle sigh to waft about the vaulted ceiling. The musicians who had been playing an indistinguishable tune in an indistinguishable tempo, so softly as to be scarcely audible, promptly resumed their rhythm and volume. The guests resumed dancing. Conversation erupted, deliciously agitated over the barely averted public scandal.
The tall Absarokee with glossy black hair just brushing his neck exchanged a few more polite phrases with the judge, who, with justice, treated him with suspicious reserve. His young wife foolishly regarded Hazard with doting eyes, which be studiously avoided while he bade husband and wife a good evening.
From the receiving line he went directly to the gaming room. Hazard Black didn't return to the ballroom until shortly before midnight, and when he did, his brow was creased with a frown. A note interrupting his card game was cause of the brooding look. As if rumor wasn't damned near tinder point already tonight (and he had smoothly brushed off enough pointed allusions during his gambling to know what was consuming everyone's thoughts) Lucy, apparently having lost all discretion, had sent a note in with one of her servants. She was one of the most sexually aggressive women he'd ever known. No doubt being married to a sixty-year-old man influenced that disposition; but Hazard Black never knowingly looked for trouble, and the only reason he was meeting her on the veranda per her written request was to avoid the more daunting prospect of having her march into the gaming room in pursuit.
The large veranda extended around the entire two-story building and fortuitously was ill-lit beyond the ball-room doors. Shrubbery screened the porch, and if a rendezvous was imperative, as Lucy's note implied, at least the location was private. Hazard purposefully strode to the small alcove near the back entrance; he and Lucy had swung on the swing on that veranda, hidden behind the tall bushes, the night they first met.
He found her near the back door, her forehead pressed against the jamb, a lacy handkerchief held up to her tear-stained cheeks. As he came up behind her, his flaring temper over the callous indiscretion of her note diminished. She looked so sad, so forlorn, and he knew her life with Attenborough wasn't all she wished. Gently gripping her soft shoulders, he buried his face in the curls at the back of her neck, murmuring comfortingly into the perfume of her skin, feeling the tension ease from her strained shoulders. Turning in his grasp, she threw her arms around his neck and cried, "Jon, I can't bear to see you and not touch you."
Looking into moist eyes, he said, "I'm sorry I avoided you, sweet." His voice was low, level, friendly. "But you must have heard the gossip tonight. It's bold as hell, and if Attenborough is pushed enough, he might feel obliged to call me out." Judge Attenborough was from an old Georgia family and still felt honor was defended with dueling pistols. "I don't want that and you don't want that. He could get hurt, maybe killed. Please, Lucy," he cajoled, "be sensible."