“Your home is wonderful,
signore,
full of many fine things.” She crossed the room and stood before the mantel above the massive stone fireplace. A collection of cloisonné vases and covered dishes lined the black walnut mantel. The delicate objects bespoke a woman’s touch.
“I really haven’t done much to it since my wife died.”
Quentin mentioned his wife infrequently. All Rosa really knew of the woman was that she had borne Quentin a son who was currently traveling in Europe. Fearing his silence came from pain, Rosa decided not to question him further.
Drawn to a wicker rocking chair padded with crazy-quilt cushions, Rosa touched its high back and set it rocking.
“Have a seat,” Quentin invited. “I thought you might like a little sherry before dinner. My housekeeper, Mrs. Benton, said the meal won’t be ready for a while yet.”
“Grazie.”
Rosa sat down to wait while he crossed the room to pour the drinks.
Quentin sat across from her and began to regale her with tales of the years he had spent as a cowhand driving cattle along the Chisholm Trail. For some inexplicable reason, Rosa thought she sensed a new nervousness about the usually confident man. As she watched him talk, seated as he was on the edge of the sofa, she prayed silently that he was not about to propose marriage to her again. Not now. Not with her heart still in turmoil over Kase Storm.
“Damn,” he mumbled as he stood and walked to the window, “it’s starting to sleet.”
“Sleet?” She was unfamiliar with the word.
“Frozen rain. Like ice.” Quentin pantomimed falling rain, then shrugged.
“I am thankful it is not the falling ice balls,” Rosa said, relieved.
Quentin tried to look serious, but Rosa could see his lips twitching. “Ice balls?” He arched a brow.
“
Sì
,” she nodded. “When they fall, you must cross the keys against bad luck.”
“Ahh,” he said seriously. Then, despite his efforts, he laughed aloud and shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Rosa.”
Rosa began to explain, then thought better of it. “It is just a custom of my country, to keep away the
male,
the evil.”
The tall clock in the hallway chimed the half-hour and Quentin’s smile changed to a frown. He exhaled deeply and excused himself. “I need to talk to Mrs. Benton.”
Quentin returned in a few moments and offered her another glass of sherry. “It will be a while before dinner is ready,” he explained offhandedly.
He reached for a large wooden box that contained a stereopticon and carefully removed it with a stack of double-sided pictures that he said had recently arrived from Paris where his son, Quentin Junior, was staying. They viewed each of the pictures twice. Imagining some disaster in the kitchen, Rosa began to wonder whether she should ask if the cook needed her help.
Before she could decide, booted feet sounded on the veranda followed by the sound of a determined knock at the door. Quentin was on his feet at the first footfall. From the rocking chair before the fire, Rosa could not see the newcomer, nor could she hear what Quentin said in low muffled tones. Curious, she stood and shook out her skirt. Just then Quentin walked back into the room followed by a tall man covered by an oilcloth slicker. His dark hat was pulled low enough to shield his face from both the weather and her perusal. Water slowly dripped from his slicker onto Quentin’s Oriental carpet.
“Get out of that coat and I’ll hang it by the fire,” Quentin advised.
Rosa watched as the visitor removed his gloves. At the sight of deep brown skin and well-shaped hands, the strong fingers with their evenly trimmed nails, she blanched. Kase Storm removed his hat and brushed water from its crown. When his eyes met hers across the room, he arched a finely tapered brow and nodded a silent greeting.
“Let me have your coat.” Quentin studiously avoided Rosa’s eyes as he hung the wet slicker over the back of a chair near the fireplace.
At first she was too stunned to speak as she stared at the imposing figure in a starched white shirt, black dress pants, and matching coat. Then Rosa’s simmering anger began to boil. She had been tricked, duped by a man she had considered her good friend. “I must go,” she announced.
“Rosa, please, we haven’t even had dinner yet,” Quentin said.
“No. I must go.” She looked straight at Kase. “Now.”
Quentin looked at Kase, who merely shrugged. “I told you she’d be mad,” Quentin said. “Listen, Rosa, this whole thing was his idea. When Kase told me—”
Rosa’s gaze swung back to Kase. “You
told
him?” she asked, disbelieving.
“I told him we had an argument,” Kase explained.
Quentin cut in again. “He told me you were mad at him for shooting out your window, and he asked for my help.” He no longer sounded as sure as he had at the beginning of his statement.
Knowing his feelings about Kase’s desirability as a husband, Rosa was surprised that Quentin had agreed to become part of this scheme to get them together. Rosa took a deep breath, determined to make Quentin understand. “There is more wrong here than a broken window,
signore,
and the marshal, he knows this. I am surprised to find that you are a part of this ... this deception. Now I want my coat. I want to go.”
Mrs. Benton, the ranch foreman’s wife who worked as Quentin’s housekeeper and cook, chose just that moment to step into the parlor. “Dinner’s been sittin’ so long the roast elk’s gonna taste like jerky if somebody don’t come on and eat right quick.”
Quentin had the decency to look embarrassed as he shrugged. “For Mrs. Benton’s sake, do you think you could consider staying long enough to eat? I’m downright starving and I promise to take you home just as soon as we’re through.”
Ignoring Kase, who was occupied with pouring himself some sherry, Rosa watched the drizzling sleet and hesitated to answer. She did have to eat. It might as well be here. “
Va bene,”
she said. “I will eat. Then,
you
will take me back.”
Quentin bowed his acquiescence, and Rosa led the way to the dining room.
Kase had not looked directly at her since they left the parlor. It was good, Rosa decided, that he had not. She did not need his startlingly blue eyes boring into hers. Nor did she need to speak to him to know that he was as fully aware of her as she was of him.
Even though she was still furious at being duped, Rosa admitted to herself that she was enjoying both the meal and the conversation. During her self-imposed silence, she listened to the men talk about the future of Wyoming. Many nights after closing the restaurant, she had struggled to read the
Cheyenne Leader
to learn what was going on in this new country she had adopted as her own, but listening to them talk of the changes that would come with impending statehood made the news all that much clearer. She also became aware of how well educated Kase was.
“Why wouldn’t a rash of families move into Wyoming when we become a state?” Quentin asked, following a statement he’d made previously. “It will be the only state where women have the vote. The territorial government won’t agree to go into the union without the women’s vote. I can foresee trainloads of new folks moving in after that. Not that I’m happy about it. Most of them’ll be farmers, and you know what they’re doing to the open rangeland.”
Kase nodded, intent on cutting a slice of roast elk.
Rosa watched him from beneath half-lowered lashes.
Quentin finished and set his cutlery down. He pushed back his chair and stared at the two silent figures consciously ignoring each other. He shook his head. “So, Kase,” he said abruptly, “what have you heard of the rest of the Dawson gang?”
Rosa put down her fork as the image of Bert Dawson, sprawled dead on her sidewalk, came to mind.
Kase glanced hesitantly at Rosa. “Not much.”
Quentin persisted. “I hope to God we’ve seen the last of them. What happened after the shooting?”
“The usual, I guess. A reporter came out from the
Leader
and took the story. Brought along a photographer.”
“I always thought that was a particularly disgusting habit,” Quentin commented. “I don’t know why anyone would want to buy souvenir pictures of a dead bandit shot full of holes, but I’ve sure seen my share. First ones I ever saw were taken of some of the James gang after the shoot-out in Northfield, Minnesota, back in ‘seventy-six.”
Rosa put her napkin down alongside her plate.
Kase shifted in his seat. “Quentin,” he said softly.
Rawlins cleared his throat, suddenly aware of his lack of sensitivity. “So, everything else in town’s been quiet?”
“Real quiet,” Kase said. Finally he looked directly at Rose. “Too quiet.” His attention drifted to Quentin again. “Have you found someone to take my place yet?”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t had time to look. I was hoping you would consent to stay on until spring.”
Kase studied Rose, who kept her eyes on her empty plate. “I don’t know what my plans are for certain, but I want out.”
“Killing doesn’t sit well with you?”
“Not at all.”
Quentin changed the subject by asking for Kase’s advice on a land contract he was about to enter into, and Rosa saw a facet of Kase Storm’s life she had not known existed. It seemed he was well versed in the law and able to give Quentin advice on many matters.
When they finished their meal, Quentin asked the cook to serve dessert and coffee immediately. He ate in silence, his mood mirroring the one shared by his two silent companions. He frowned down at his apple cobbler. The weak sunlight had faded into darkness, and now the room was aglow with lamplight. His expression thoughtful, Quentin glanced at the tall side window. He took a deep breath and sighed, then looked at Rosa.
“Rosa, it’s started to snow. There’s no way I’m letting any of the men take you back with the chance of a big storm hitting.”
“I will not go back with him,” she said, indicating Kase with a nod.
“I’m not letting him go, either,” Quentin said emphatically. “Nobody’s going out in this.” He waved a hand toward the window. “Have to be a fool to try it.”
“But—” Faced with the temptation of spending the night under the same roof with Kase, she could only protest. “But,
signore
—”
“No buts. I’ll have Mrs. Benton make up the guest room. Kase, you can have Quent’s room for tonight. I won’t hear anything else about it from either of you.”
Rosa stared at Quentin. Kase stared at Rosa. Quentin suddenly became intent on staring at the bottom of his cobbler bowl.
Rosa’s tone was soft, yet laced with accusation. “I thought you were my friend,
signore.”
Abruptly the rancher pushed his chair back and rounded the table to stand behind her. “Come with me,” he said.
Quentin walked her to the entry hall and opened the front door. A cold blast of air swept into the cheery warmth of the room. Rosa saw little beyond the lamplight that spilled out into the night, but she could see a thick curtain of snow falling just beyond the veranda, the flakes both thick and silent as they quickly piled up on the ground.
She stepped back and Quentin closed the door. “Satisfied?” he asked, before he added softly, “Rosa, I am your friend. If I wasn’t, I might think about letting you go out in that, but as it is, I want to see you safe. I’m sorry.”
“I am sorry, too. I am sorry you trick me.” Rosa sighed, resigned to her fate, and glanced toward Kase, who was still seated at the dining table. “I stay,” she said, “until tomorrow.”
Mrs. Benton, a kindly woman with weathered skin and a harried expression, ushered Rosa to a room that was warm and welcoming. A huge bed framed with rough-hewn logs, striped rugs, and simple furnishings presented a soothing contrast to the crowded parlor. The graying cook gave Rosa one of her own nightgowns and explained reassuringly that she had agreed to stay in a room near the kitchen on the first floor for the night. The woman lit the lamps and banked the fire before she left Rosa alone.
Nearly lost in the voluminous folds of Mrs. Benton’s prim muslin nightgown, Rosa perched on the side of the bed, her dark hair drawn over one shoulder as she rhythmically brushed the ebony skeins. The task occupied her hands, but not her mind, as she periodically glanced toward the door, alert to every sound in the hallway. Finally she heard the men’s heavily booted feet mount the stairs, listened as Quentin bid Kase good night, then heard the closing doors.
The house settled into silence, but Rosa could not sleep. She walked to the window and tried to see outside. The heat from within had frosted the panes, so she cleared a small circle in the condensation and tried to see out into the darkness. Her own golden eyes along with the flames in the lamps were mirrored in the windowpane. Snowflakes swirled past gracefully, the closest illuminated by the light behind her.
Though no sound alerted her, she felt a slight draft of cool air and stiffened, suddenly aware of a presence in the room. Before she turned toward the door, Rosa saw a flicker of movement reflected in the window beside her own image. She caught her breath and spun around.
Kase Storm was carefully closing the door behind him.
“Go away,” she whispered.
Bootless, he silently crossed the room on stockinged feet. Her terse command had no effect on him.
Rosa stared at him mutely and wondered how such a large man could move so gracefully without making a sound. Her heart was pounding, but not from fear—and that thought alone frightened her. She heard the soft whisper of his clothing just before he stepped up to her, a dark shadow in the lamplight. The fathomless depths of his eyes were lost in the semidarkness. She tried to swallow, but found her throat exceedingly dry. She licked her lips.
He reached out until he held her by the shoulders. His eyes searched hers intently before he drew her close.
“You’re as stubborn as I am, Rose,” he whispered.
With her cheek pressed against his shirtfront, she could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart and the sound of his voice as the words echoed through him.
“I’ve missed you, Rose.” He held her away and looked down into her eyes once more.