Impulsively Martay snatched her hat back up and moved across to sit beside the handsome major, never realizing just how much the simple act delighted the nervous young soldier. Or the general.
Depositing her hat upon the major’s left knee, she told him a humorous anecdote about her father. Blushing, he laughed, casting nervous glances at his commanding officer. The general had thrown back his silver head and was laughing heartily, not minding that he was the butt of the joke.
But it was Martay’s sweet bubbling laughter that carried on the high, thin air. And it was her gilt-blond hair that glistened so brightly in the warm Colorado sunshine.
Standing on the street outside the terminal, a man’s attention was drawn by the sound of a girl’s infectious laughter. Squinting, he looked toward the coach with its military escort. His black eyes lifted and went at once to a glorious mane of shimmering golden hair.
He raked long, dark fingers through his own raven locks, stepped into a waiting carriage, and said, “The Centennial Hotel.”
Martay found Denver to be a charming city. Though not as large as Chicago, it was, in many ways, even more exciting. And best of all, her father spent a great deal of time with her, much more than she had hoped for. The first three days she was in the city, he, too, stayed at the Emersons’ Larimer Street home.
It was wonderful.
The Emersons, such thoughtful, sensitive people, allowed the Kidds to spend their long summer afternoons alone together on the back terrace of the estate, just being lazy. Sipping cool drinks and enjoying the spectacular scenery, father and daughter made up for lost time.
On the evening before General Kidd was to return to his post, Major Berton came for dinner. The meal was superb, the dinner conversation pleasant, and the handsome Major Berton kept stealing covert glances at Martay. She was well aware of the warm brown eyes on her, though she pretended not to notice, acting as though she were paying very close attention to her father as he spoke.
“At last,” said the general, setting his coffee cup back in its fragile Ceralene china saucer, “this part of the country is a fine place to live, since we’ve about rid it of hostile savages.”
Colonel Dolph Emerson smiled and said, “We’ve not completely solved the problem, Bill. There’s always handfuls off the reservations, causing trouble. And there’s still a few diehard Sioux and Crow renegade bands who refuse to give up and come on in.”
“Ignorant heathens!” said William Kidd. “Mindless, less than human creatures! They should all be shot down like mad dogs!”
Martay was not shocked by her father’s outburst. She’d heard it many times before. For as long as she could remember, he’d preached about the worthless, worrisome redskins and he’d bravely fought in many an Indian battle; he had the scars to prove it.
She shared his views on the redskins and thought it outrageous that for years they’d roamed wherever they pleased, terrifying the brave white settlers who peacefully traveled west. She’d reacted with horror to the countless stories of the massacres, the ungodly atrocities the wild savages had committed against the whites.
“Is that old bastard—ah, beg pardon, ladies,” said General Kidd, “is Sitting Bull still hiding out up in Canada, the sneaky coward?”
“The last I heard he—”
“Goddamn him!” said General William Kidd. “When Grant was president he said that since we couldn’t kill all of them, we’d starve them into submission. My thought then, as now, is, Why the hell couldn’t we kill them? It’s taking too damned long to starve the parasites.”
Martay was growing bored with the subject. When her father got wound up, he could talk for hours about the “vile redmen.” Letting her eyes drift casually over to Major Berton, she caught him staring at her. And she impudently winked at him. He blushed to the roots of his light hair. She continued to hold his flustered gaze while politely waiting for Colonel Emerson to finish the long-winded reply he was making to her father’s last statement.
When finally he did, Martay seized the opportunity to say, “If you will kindly excuse us, Major Berton and I will go out on the front veranda and catch the evening breeze.” She paused, and smiled prettily at the officer. “There’s a full moon rising, I think.”
“Why, yes, yes. You young folks go on out and enjoy yourselves,” said General Kidd, magnanimously.
“Thank you, sir.” Lawrence Berton rose and hurried to pull out Martay’s chair. Helping her to her feet, he looked at his hostess. “Mrs. Emerson, I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a meal more.”
Betty Jane Emerson smiled warmly at the big blond man. “Major, you’re welcome at our table anytime. You’ve a standing invitation.”
When the handsome couple had stepped out onto the broad, flowerscented veranda, General Kidd said, “He’s a fine boy, don’t you think, Dolph?”
“By all means,” answered his host, then grinned and added, “and the fact he’s the only son of a man who has very close ties to President Hayes’s White House doesn’t hurt, now, does it?”
“Ties, hell,” said General Kidd. “Strings. And Senator Berton pulls the strings.” The two old friends laughed while Betty Jane, shaking her head good-naturedly, lifted a hand and signaled a servant for more fresh coffee.
Outside, a full white moon was indeed rising, its brilliance bathing the padded wicker settee where Martay and Lawrence sat. Looking up at the romantic moon, Martay said, “Isn’t it beautiful, Major?”
Lawrence Berton looked only at her. The most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen. Masses of golden curls were glowing silver in the moonlight. The wide-set emerald eyes, shaded by thick, long lashes, flashed with appealing mischief. Her small turned-up nose was adorably cute, and her mouth with those dewy, Cupid’s-bow lips made him ache to taste them.
“Yes,” he said, “so beautiful.”
Abruptly her eyes snared his and she said, “You must tell me about yourself, Major. I want to know everything!” And she stared right at him in a way that made the snug collar of his uniform blouse pinch his neck.
But, dutifully, he told her something of himself. He told her that he had been put in her father’s command only three months previously and that he had never met a finer man than the general. Told her he was an only child, that his home was Richmond, Virginia, that he had graduated at the top of his class from West Point ten years ago, and that, no, there was no girl waiting back in Virginia.
After speaking steadily for a good five minutes, he stopped, laughed, and said, “Forgive me. I’m not usually so talkative.” Shyly he reached for her hand. “Please, Miss Kidd, tell me of your life in Chicago.”
“Oh, gosh, there’s not much to know,” she said, allowing his broad hand to draw hers atop his knee. Then she proceeded, with no more coaxing, to tell him how her beautiful mother, Julie Kidd, had died when she was only four years old. She volunteered that she herself was a very wealthy woman, that her mother had owned a number of rich-veined gold mines in California and had passed them on to her. When Lawrence had respectfully interrupted to remind her that married women could not have separate property, Martay promptly set him straight.
“Ah, but you’re mistaken. In California all property owned before a woman’s marriage or acquired afterward by gift or inheritance remains hers and is not under her husband’s control. It’s part of the state constitution. My mother was from California. She married my father at the Presidio in San Francisco. The property fell to her lawfully, and she willed it to me before I was born, held in trust until my eighteenth birthday. And now it’s all mine.”
She spoke with such authority, he had no doubt she was right. Before he could comment, she shocked him so he was entirely speechless when she said, with frank straightforwardness, “Tell me, Major, would you like to kiss me?”
Lawrence Berton swallowed, then swallowed yet again. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. So the mute major gently pulled the beautiful, brazen golden-haired girl into his frightened arms and tenderly kissed her.
When their lips separated, he embraced her, his mouth and nose pressed into her glowing golden curls. Martay, her face against his broad shoulder, caught a glimpse of someone lurking in the shadows. She tensed, then began to tremble.
Pushing away, she said, “Major, someone is spying on us!”
“Where?” he said, pulled rudely back to reality.
“Out there, at the edge of the yard! I saw someone. I know I did.”
“Don’t worry, no one could get by the general’s guard,” said Lawrence Berton, rising, “but I’ll take a look around.” He hurried across the vast yard, ready to slay any dragon for the fair lady. He found no one. But the Emerson’s cat, a black panther-looking feline, flashed through the undergrowth when he approached the edge of the yard.
Laughing, he returned to tell Martay it was nothing more dangerous than a curious tabby. “See. Look to the left of that elm.” He pointed.
Peering out, Martay saw, at last, the gleaming cat eyes shining out of the darkness. She laughed and said, “So it is. Only Ebony out for his evening prowl.”
Still, that odd sense of being watched remained, and she said quickly, “We really should go back inside, Major.”
3
O
n June 11, a hot, still Wednesday afternoon, two well-dressed gentlemen sat in the deserted oak-paneled bar of the gleaming new Centennial Hotel on Denver’s downtown Tremont Street. The two were attorneys, as well as close, loyal friends, having spent years reading law together at Harvard. The pair, as different as summer and winter in both looks and temperament, nonetheless got along quite well. They were, on this lazy, warm afternoon, languorously passing the time talking cases.
Or had been. Until the subject turned to women.
Drew Kelley, a twenty-five-year-old strapping light-haired sunny-dispositioned Denver native, tipped his chair back on two legs and looked at the man across from him.
“My God, Jim, don’t you have enough women? Why this interest in a girl you’ve yet to meet?” he said, studying the friend whom he had never fully understood, despite their having shared quarters at Harvard for more than four years.
Jim Savin, twenty-four, a tall, spare man with coal-black hair and blacker eyes, was staring moodily into his glass of wine, idly rocking the stemmed glass in his long, dark fingers, watching the slow swirl of the pale rosé as it moved in a spinning vortex.
It was Jim Savin’s third day in Denver and he was bored. And impatient. Finally lifting his black eyes from the wine’s hypnotic dance, he smiled and said, “I’ve my reasons, Drew.”
Drew Kelley simply nodded. He knew it would do no good to question Jim further. He said, “How will you be introduced? She’s the daughter of the regiment. Surrounded by handsome young officers.”
“I’ll find a way,” answered Jim Savin calmly, picking up his glass and drinking the remainder of his wine. “Now … since you insist we visit Mattie Silks tonight, I think I’ll go up to my room and have a bath and a nap.”
Drew Kelley’s face brightened. “You won’t be disappointed, Jim. Mattie has only high-class, exotic women in her house.”
“Sounds great,” said Jim Savin, thinking it sounded just the opposite, agreeing to go only because his friend was so eager to show him Denver’s wild side, the famous red-light district. “Pick me up at nine.”
“Will do,” said Drew, shoved back his chair and stood up, tossing several bills onto the table.
Jim rose and they walked out into the Centennial’s impressive marblefloored lobby, shimmering now with varicolored light from a bright alpine sun coming through the stained-glass windows. A giant skylight six stories above the main lobby gave it a feeling of great height. A huge open fireplace of smooth, shiny white carrara marble stood cold on this hot June day.
As the two friends sauntered unhurriedly toward the gleaming glass front-doors, a sudden commotion caught their attention. A dozen chattering females swept out of the ladies’ parlor, where they had lunched. At once the vast lobby seemed engulfed in a cloud of stylish silk frocks and French perfumes and veiled hats and tossing curls and high, feminine laughter.
“Oh, no,” said Drew Kelley under his breath, and Jim turned to see a thin, raw-boned matron quickly bearing down on them. She had in tow a pretty, curvaceous young woman with flaming red curls peeking from under a ridiculous beige hat with feathers.
Jim smiled. “A hopeful mother trying to interest you in her charming daughter?”
“Hardly. The copper-haired beauty is the wife of a very jealous man, a Colonel Thomas Darlington. The stringy old gal is Bertie Gillespie, a widowed nosy friend of Mother’s who says whatever pops into her head.”
The ladies reached them, and before Drew could introduce Jim, Bertie Gillespie jutted out her rouged cheek for Drew to dutifully lean down and kiss. Then, as her snapping blue eyes landed on Jim Savin, she said, “Drew, who is this dark, good-looking stranger?” She poked a sharp elbow into the ribs of the redhead beside her and thrust a bony hand out to Jim. “I’m Bertie Gillespie, you handsome devil, and it’s a cryin’ shame I’m not twenty—even ten—years younger.”
Gallantly, Jim lifted the thin hand clinging tenaciously to his, brushed his lips to it, and responded, “My dear, I’m Jim Savin, and I’ve a feeling you can hold your own with women half your age.”
Bertie Gillespie hooted with laughter and, still gripping his dark hand, said, “Jim, you smooth-tongued rogue, this pretty thing with me is Regina Darlington. But don’t go getting any ideas. Her husband is a powerful military man.” At last she reluctantly released Jim’s hand.
Jim’s black eyes shifted to the redhead. She smiled, but did not extend her hand. “Mr. Savin,” she acknowledged, tipping her head and setting the feathers atop her hat to fluttering.
“Mrs. Darlington,” Jim returned, then fell silent while the talkative Bertie Gillespie, turning her attention to Drew, fired a host of questions at him, giving him no time to answer. As the elderly lady talked, Regina Darlington, though pretending interest, kept stealing glances at Jim’s dark impassive face.
With Bertie Gillespie’s one-sided conversation and Drew’s nodded replies, it was established that Jim Savin was an attorney, was visiting Denver for an indefinite stay, and was a guest at the Centennial. When finally the long-winded woman found all that out and more, she turned to Regina Darlington and said, “If you’re to drive me home, my dear, let’s go. That horrible steamed trout we had for lunch has given me a bad case of indigestion.” She patted Jim’s cheek, turned, and marched off.