Authors: Alice Duncan
“McTeague’s
books contain some pretty exciting adventures, if you ask me,” ventured
Jedediah.
Claire
felt illogically gratified by his words. She said, “Thank you, Mr.
Silver.”
“You’re
more than welcome.”
Jedediah
looked surprised, and Claire realized she’d almost made a monumental
blunder. “I—I mean, I don’t like to think I’m the only one who
likes a rousing dime novel set in the Americas every now and then.”
She hoped the new lighting wasn’t so bright that her heated cheeks
would show and give her away. “After all,” she added with what she
thought was admirable logic, “the American frontier is exotic to most
of us.”
“Hmm.
You might be right there,” said Tom judiciously, drawing attention
away from her. “I can’t say that I object to McTeague’s writing.
In fact, I think he had quite a way with words. It’s just that he
chose me to idealize, and it was embarrassing. I guess if I wasn’t
the brunt of those ridiculous books, I might even like them. He was
better than Buntline, anyway.”
“Buntline
is a hack,” Claire declared flatly.
Tom
laughed. “Now, Miss Montague. I know you were very fond of my uncle,
but you needn’t belittle Ned Buntline for Uncle Gordon’s sake. They
were both pretty good.”
Claire
sat up straighter. She had very firm opinions on some issues, and Ned
Buntline was one of them. “I believe that if you were to judge Buntline
and McTeague solely on the merits of their literary talent, you would
find McTeague’s work offers infinitely more real value for your dime.”
With
a sigh, Tom said, “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Poor
old Uncle Gordon’s gone to his reward.” He lifted his wineglass.
“How about a toast to him? He must have been a fine man to have earned
your approbation, Miss Montague.”
His
smile could melt a heart of ice. If Claire hadn’t already fallen in
love with him years before when Gordon had begun reading to her about
his thrilling exploits and noble deeds, his smile alone might have sent
her over the edge.
“He
was a fine man,” Jedediah agreed. He lifted his glass, too.
Claire
and Dianthe followed suit.
“He
was a saint,” Dianthe whispered.
Claire
saw tears sparkle on Dianthe’s lashes and felt a twist of uncharacteristic
disbelief. She told herself to stop it. Dianthe was a good friend, and
possessed a sympathetic heart. She couldn’t help it is she was perfect
in every respect and wept at all the appropriate moments.
“He
took me under his wing and treated me as a daughter,” she said softly.
“I loved him very much.”
“No
man could ask for a finer tribute.”
Claire
looked at Tom quickly to see if he was joking and was astonished to
discover he wasn’t.
They
drank to the late Gordon Partington.
“At
least I won’t have to endure any more of those books of his. I expect
this
Tuscaloosa
Tom and the River of Raging Death
will
be the last.”
Claire,
who knew very well it wouldn’t be the last because she had one more
book to write in order to fulfill her contract, choked on her wine.
“I’m
not so sure about that.”
Unable
to speak, holding a napkin to her lips to prevent her from coughing,
her eyes watering, Claire gaped at Jedediah. Could salvation come from
that quarter?
“Why
not?” Tom demanded. “Uncle Gordon’s dead, for heaven’s sake.
He couldn’t write any more of those stupid books if he wanted to.”
With
a shrug, Jedediah said, “Well, you know, Tom, publishers will often
hire other writers to carry on a series if the original writer becomes
unavailable for some reason. If the books are doing well—and I expect
they are—then you might have to face more of them.”
“Oh,
Lord.” Tom propped his elbows on the table and ran his fingers through
his hair. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I
wish I could.”
Claire
finally managed to catch her breath. Watching Tom’s genuine despair,
she felt a terrible mixture of unhappiness and exhilaration. She’d
never expected to get a reprieve such as the one Jedediah had just handed
her. On the other hand, she was mortified to have caused Tom such misery.
She knew herself to be beyond redemption when elation overrode compunction
and she thought with a thrill that maybe she’d never have to confess!
She
caught Dianthe’s eye and almost forgave Dianthe for being perfect
when she winked at her.
“I
believe Mr. Silver is correct, Mr. Partington,” Dianthe said in her
angel’s voice. “I understand that to be a common practice among
successful publishers.”
“Why,
it may be that even Mr. Buntline’s output is augmented by hired writers.
I understand he does drink to excess.” Claire was appalled when her
venomous words sailed into the air. Good grief, she truly must be evil!
Not only was she grasping at excuses to continue her deception, but
she had now taken to maligning her competition.
“Oh,
Lord,” Tom moaned again.
“Cheer
up,” advised Jedediah with a laugh. “All the money from those books
must be ending up in Gordon’s estate somewhere, and that only benefits
you and your plans for the horse ranch. We’ll figure out the bookkeeping
one of these days. If all else fails, I can always write to the publisher.”
Claire
stared at him, wondering how, in the space of seconds, her savior could
have turned traitor.
Chapter 8
Tom
had never been attracted to proper females. He was at a loss, therefore,
to understand why Claire Montague appealed to him so much. Maybe it
was because he sensed something hidden in her; something that, if he
could tap it, would make her blossom. Even though she’d never given
him so much as a hint, he had a feeling she wasn’t as prim as she
wanted the world to believe.
She’d
sure got mad at him yesterday. And she’d been really peeved when he’d
told her he liked Ouida’s novels, too. He grinned as he looked out
over the meadow now being fenced for horse pastures. Shoot, any woman
with a temper and a taste for those idiotic dime novels must harbor
passion in her soul somewhere.
Hearing
footsteps, Tom turned to discover Jedediah Silver loping up the grassy
slope toward him. He lifted his hand in salute. “Morning, Jed.”
“Good
morning, Tom. These plans for the paddocks and barns were just delivered
from the carpenter’s shop.” He waved a roll of papers in Tom’s
face.
“Great.
Let’s look ‘em over.”
“Do
you want to discuss these with Miss Montague? She’ll probably have
some useful input on the size and placement of the feed storage areas,
accesses and so forth.”
“Good
idea, Jed. I’d like to keep her informed of my plans, anyway, and
let her know when the work will begin. Maybe she’ll even agree to
help me word a letter to the breeder. She seems to be so sensible about
things. And she’s apparently quite fond of the written word.”
Jedediah
gave Tom an approving grin. “I’m glad you think so. Your uncle thought
the world of her and it’s been my experience that, while she is only
a woman, her advice is invariably well-considered and helpful.”
“I’ve
noticed that, too.”
Which
completely contradicted everything Tom knew about women. His own mother
had been even less useful than his father. He expected Dianthe St. Sauvre,
to whom Jedediah seemed to have taken quite a shine, was cut of the
same cloth as his mother. Most of the females he’d known in his life
were like that, in fact, except a couple of the scarlet women who’d
followed the railroad, and he didn’t think they counted.
In
his experience, respectable women were decorative and totally useless
on a practical level—well, unless you married one of them. Even then
they were good for only one thing that Tom could think of, and marriage
carried burdens he didn’t care to contemplate at the moment. Those
burdens more than outweighed the brief pleasures the marriage bed assured
a man. Actually, from what he’d heard from his married cronies, those
pleasures weren’t even assured by marriage.
No.
Until he’d met Claire Montague, respectable women had held no allure
at all. He supposed most proper females’ relative helplessness had
more to do with the world’s expectations of them than from anything
Nature had intended, but it didn’t make much difference. The result
was the same.
As
he scuffed along beside Jedediah, eyeing his new kingdom with satisfaction,
Tom decided it was undoubtedly his odd lifestyle that made him appreciate
useful people so much. Anybody who wasn’t proficient in Tom’s line
of work didn’t stay alive very long. If the elements didn’t get
you, the Indians or outlaws would. Male or female, old or young, if
you weren’t alert and capable, you were coyote fodder in short order.
But
Claire Montague. Well, Claire was another matter entirely. She was alert,
capable, and cute as a button when she wasn’t watching herself. It
was fun catching her off-guard.
“What’s
so funny, Tom?”
Tom
hadn’t realized he’d started grinning. “Oh, nothing, Jed. Nothing
at all.”
# # #
His
heart swelling with admiration, Tuscaloosa Tom declared,
“Then come with me, Miss Faithgood.
I shall lead you to safety.”
Actually,
Claire reflected sourly, his heart had probably swelled with relief
when she didn’t seem to be opening up to shriek again.
Admonishing
herself not allow circumstances to make her bitter, Claire continued.
Miss
Abigail Faithgood took the hand Tom held out.
A thrill shot through her at his touch.
She swore she would be strong. These villains would not wrest her ranch
away from her and make her give up her sheep.
She owed it to her beloved father’s
sainted memory
[here Claire allowed herself a brief snort]
not to waver in pursuit of her goal.
With Tom Pardee on her side, how could she fail?
The
canyon echoed with hoof beats as Miss Abigail Faithgood and the gallant
Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee rode away from the scene of their ambush.
Tom’s golden hair shimmered in the sunlight.
His posture was straight, his eye keen, and his—his—his—
Patting
one of her braids in thought, Claire chewed the end of her pen and scowled
at the page. She’d been scowling, in fact, since she’d arisen this
morning.
Somehow
or other, she had to ensure that Jedediah Silver didn’t write to her
publisher. But how?
She
commanded herself to stop thinking about that awful problem and to concentrate
on one disaster at a time. Right now, she had to wrench the idiot Abigail’s
sheep ranch back from the evil men who were trying to snatch it away
from her.
.
. . his very bearing proclaiming him a hero.
Claire
paused to consider if one’s bearing could do such a thing. Had Tom
Partington’s bearing proclaimed him a hero when she’d seen him standing
at the foot of the stairs on the night of his arrival?
Yes.
She remembered it well. In fact, she remembered everything about that
fateful night. She stared dreamily out the window at her winter-bare
garden, recalling the momentous occasion of Tom’s arrival into her
life. He’d certainly lived up to her expectations.
Heavy
footsteps in the hallway outside her office jerked her to attention.
In a flurry, she stuffed her manuscript into her desk drawer and slammed
it shut. Leaping to her feet, she patted her coils madly as the door
swung open after a short tap.
The
sight of Claire Montague nervously whacking at her rattlesnakes made
a warm, slushy emotion puddle up in Tom’s innards. He certainly couldn’t
have told anybody, least of all himself, why that should be. He’d
always thought he favored shorter, more voluptuous, more overtly feminine
females—Dianthe St. Sauvre, for example.
But
Dianthe made him yawn. Even the thought of her in his bed didn’t do
much more than faintly titillate. But Claire—well, he sensed depths
to Claire that he’d like to tap. In fact, if he had to choose between
Claire and Dianthe, there would be no contest. He’d snap Claire up
in an instant.
Fortunately
for him, there was no reason to make such a choice. He couldn’t think
of any reason Claire shouldn’t wish to stay on indefinitely as his
housekeeper. That would keep her close at hand without entangling him
in any kind of commitment.