Susan Johnson (12 page)

“Just like your mother!” he said, exasperated, and took a neat bite of his toast. “You don’t understand a thing about money.”

“Actually … I’m just like you, Daddy. Poor Mama thought money was sent in the mail on some regular schedule. I know better. I know how you make your money. The question is, since you’re in this sharp-set mood this morning, did one of
your business transactions with the Indian agents go awry?” And the lovely young woman with dark ringlets artfully arranged atop her perfectly shaped head scrutinized her father with baby-blue eyes, predator’s eyes, as cool as ice. When he gave that level of attention to buttering his toast, he was irritated. She smiled then and soothingly coaxed, “Tell me. Is there someone who could be pleasantly—er—talked into something?”

“No, dammit,” her father grumbled. “I wish it were that easy. They’re talking about another investigation in Washington. Hell and damnation, a few Indians die
⁴
and you’d think it was everyone’s favorite grandmother.”

“Daddy, don’t take it so hard. You know very well, the hue and cry will die down in no time. A few headlines in the papers always gets the do-gooders motivated, but never for long. By the time the investigation gets sifted down all the bureaucratic levels, no one will care anymore.” Even before her mother had died, Valerie had already stepped into the role of confidante to her father. Priscilla Wyndham Stewart had never understood her dashing, volatile husband. But he was one of the youngest colonels ever to be commissioned in the Civil War, and he’d swept her off her feet when he’d come back to Ohio on leave. It was the uniform, she’d always fondly recalled. Her father, Judge Wyndham, had never quite approved, but he’d continued to send money to his only daughter until her death three years ago. Her health had always been frail, the doctor had said. Personally, Valerie thought the laudanum her mother took for her genteel “nerves” had finally done her in after twenty years.

Duncan Stewart wasn’t wasteful with his wife’s money, and in truth, he had amassed a modest fortune in his business transactions. The problem was, he always wanted more. He sat in occasionally on the poker games at the Montana Club. But he wasn’t comfortable writing a check for six figures every night of the week, and if you couldn’t, you didn’t get invited into the inner circle.

Helena, Montana, had more millionaires per capita than any other city in the world. Over fifty millionaires lived in the small mountain capital. And some of the millionaires were bringing in a million a month from a single one of their
mines. Hundreds of English remittance men, younger sons in some form of disgrace, had also settled in Helena until such a time as the scandal died down and their families called them home. Society was very blue and very extravagant. It was also fluid.

One society hostess remarked, she was always cautiously polite to her servants, for one never knew if they might be a member of society a week hence. There were still overnight fortunes to be made in mining gold, silver, copper, and coal. In timber. In railway construction. In land development. Across the world, it was the time of the robber-baron philosophy. J. P. Morgan had just cornered control of the steel industry and eastern railroads. It was a time of open, brash manipulation.

Duncan Stewart and his daughter, Valerie, were on track, in good company, and infinitely sure in the logical assessment of things that their personal gain was all that mattered.

“And as far as a husband, I’ve already picked one out.”

Her father stopped his grumbling and glanced up in surprise. Setting aside his fork, he curiously asked, “Anyone I know—or care to know?” he added, well aware of his daughter’s inclination toward transient liaisons with unsuitable men. His choice had been the Duke of Sutherland’s youngest son, but Valerie said he was fat and wouldn’t be civil to him.

“Trey,” she replied sweetly. “Does that sound eligible enough to you?” Her smile was a slow upcurving of her lush mouth.

“He won’t,” Duncan retorted bluntly. “There’s bets at the club that boy will never marry. That young stud shares his special skill freely, but not his name.”

“I intend to have him.”

Duncan Stewart thought, not for the first time, that his daughter was bold as brass tacks. But competent as hell, too, he admitted. “How?” he asked, eminently curious.

“He’ll marry me when I tell him I’m carrying his child.”

“No he won’t.”

“He’ll marry me when you tell him that.”

“No he won’t. Even Carl Morse’s shotgun wouldn’t budge him. Or Blair Williard’s. The Braddock-Blacks don’t step back when they’re pushed. They stand firm and reach for
their own guns. Rumor had it, anyway, he wasn’t the first with Carl’s daughter or any of them. Prefers it that way, I hear. Less complications. They paid off Carl Morse and Blair Williard, and God knows who else. Talk’s been rampant since that young Turk’s been back from school for good. He’s out to set records, some say. So think of a better angle than that, darling, if you want a wedding band from Trey Braddock-Black.”

“How about …” She paused, then slowly went on, a touch of affectation for effect and a small smug smile on her face. “Perhaps he’ll marry me when you tell his father that Gray Eagle and Buffalo Hunter are going to hang for raping me.”

Duncan hesitated, but a moment later he shook his head. “Not good enough. Not with Hazard.
Are
you having his child?” he asked as the realization finally dawned on him.

“No.”

“Thank God.”

“Not his.”

“Jesus! Whose?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

Her father slammed both palms on the table and exploded. “How can you be so damned unconcerned!”

“Because I intend to marry Trey,” she replied confidently. “With your help, of course,” she added softly.

“It might take a helluva lot more than just my help,” her father muttered. “Hazard Black doesn’t negotiate to lose.”

“Daddy, he wouldn’t be losing,” she answered with a complacent smile. “He’d be gaining a loving daughter-in-law, he’ll be saving the necks of two of his nephews from the hangman’s noose, and he’ll be a proud grandfather in the bargain.”

“You may have forgotten one small item in this ideal scene of yours. What if Trey doesn’t survive his wounds?”

“The reports are gratifying, Daddy. He’s on the mend. And really, now, don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to be related to that fortune. Much as you hate the thought of an Indian like Hazard Black having millions, you’d be a fool to ignore that. And the political power—they say Hazard knows half the
congressmen in Washington. We can do it, Daddy. Don’t be so negative.”

When Duncan considered it, Valerie’s plan had its merits. Yes, decidedly it did. And she was right about Hazard’s concern for his tribesmen. He’d been their advocate in numerous controversies over the years, often single-handedly stepping in, paying their way out if necessary. Additionally, Duncan had influential friends in two of the local judgeships. If they could get an indictment against the two Indians, or even have the jurisdiction transferred to Judge Clancy’s court, hell, it just might be possible. “When,” he asked with the faintest of smiles, “does this all begin to develop?”

“There’s no rush, Daddy. Let’s give Trey another week or so to recuperate; the legislative session begins next week, anyway. Maybe when Hazard comes in to lobby, you’ll have an opportunity to talk to him. It wouldn’t hurt to approach Livingstone at
The Mountain Daily
, either. You know his attitude toward Indians. Why don’t I plan on stopping by to see him.”

“And when I’m having lunch with Judge Clancy, I can broach the subject with him. Since Hazard saw that his son was dismissed from his post as Indian Agent, Joe Clancy’s been out for blood, preferably Hazard Black’s.” And Duncan began twirling the fob on his watch chain like he did when he was contemplating some new scheme.

“Be discreet, Father,” Valerie cautioned, that familiar habit prompting a touch of anxiety, for Duncan’s intrigues occasionally outstripped his intelligence. “We don’t want any warning to reach Hazard.”

Her father’s fingers stilled, resting on the ample proportions of his embroidered waistcoat, and he sighed, suddenly struck by the enormity of the task. “With or without warning, this idea of yours may not succeed.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Valerie replied mildly, plotting being second nature to her. “By the time we engage Livingstone’s blatant prejudice and see that Judge Clancy knows he has an opportunity to humble Hazard Black, we have every chance of succeeding.”

Duncan snorted like he always did when at a loss for words. “What if you’re wrong?” he grumbled. “What do you intend to do about the child?”

“Marry someone else”—she lowered her dark lashes slightly—“perhaps. More likely, take an extended vacation to Europe. For a trifling sum a child can be sent out to be cared for in the French countryside … or the English. More coffee, Daddy?”

T
hat morning Empress overslept, waking finally to the low resonance of conversation coming from Trey’s bedroom. She was sleeping in the dressing room now that the crisis was over, still adjacent to his room if needed, but more comfortable on the soft couch than on the cot. The room was small, mirrored, a narrow, elongated area like a widened passageway between his bedroom and the modern bathroom with the luxurious bliss of hot and cold running water. It was a stark contrast to her home in the mountains. The huge gas generator running the electric plant that serviced the ranch could be heard in the early-morning quiet, droning away on the mountainside behind the stables.

With a sinking feeling she recalled that this was the day visitors were going to be allowed upstairs. Would it be possible simply to stay in this cozy room, out of sight, away from curious eyes? Her appearance with Chu that night at Lily’s may have seemed brazen, but instead, it was an act of desperation, totally out of character. And while Trey may have led a life immune to opinion, having perfected stone walling to a
fine art, she had not. Having to face inquisitive visitors was going to be painful.

Maybe tomorrow, she cowardly decided, and burrowed deeper under the blankets. But she couldn’t sleep anymore, she decided long minutes later and, glancing at the clock, saw that it was only nine. It was still too early for the voices outside the door to be company. Trey must be visiting with his family. In that case she could dress, see to Trey, and be back hidden in this room by the time the first visitor arrived.

When she rose to dress, she noticed several gowns laid out on the window seat, simple day dresses in wool and velvet. She walked by them first like a poor child might walk by a candy store, wistfully, but not stopping. The colors glowed at her, enticing her, and she slowly walked back and touched the richness of a green velvet gown. She stroked it gently, the sensation of luxury touching her senses. Temptation was too irresistible, and a moment later she was holding it up to her body while she looked at herself in the mirror. The deep green set off the shimmering paleness of her hair, accented the golden tones of her skin, flowed in luscious folds over her bare feet. Facing her image in the mirror, she recalled childhood days when playing dress-up held this same kind of tantalizing allure. The opulent dress reminded her of the same winsome pleasure, the same strange delight she was feeling today, where one could become a fantasy person for a fleeting time. It wouldn’t be playing grown-up anymore, though perhaps the reverse to a young woman forced to be grown-up too soon. The dress was offering her a chance to be young and frivolous again.

Empress hesitated, conscious that she wasn’t a child anymore, conscious of a saner side to her feelings that reminded her it didn’t matter what one wore but what a person was inside. But then she smiled, a bright, buoyant light in her eyes, and decided to discard saner emotions temporarily. How would she look in an extravagant gown? It had been so long.

Tossing her borrowed nightgown aside, she slipped the gown over her head, the heavy fabric sliding over her nude body, silk on silk. The material smelled faintly of rose scent, like Trey’s mother. Slipping her arms into the long sleeves, she adjusted the skirt on her hips and began buttoning the numerous covered buttons that ran from hip to neck. It buttoned
easily over her trim hips and slender waist, but the fullness of her breasts resisted attempts to close the buttons further, no matter how she tugged. The bodice was made for a smaller woman; in length, too, the dress was designed for lesser height. In bare feet, however, it would serve. The revealing bodice, open halfway down to her waist, on the other hand, wouldn’t do at all. Perhaps another dress in another style less fitted would suit. She was in the process of deciding whether to try on the Prussian-blue wool or the mauve faille when Trey shouted, “Empress!
Empress!
Come here!” His voice was agitated, and a stab of panic pierced her stomach. Had everything gone too easily? she thought nervously. Should he
not
have gotten up yesterday, was the appearance of healing masking some poisonous infection … dear God, was he
hemorrhaging
?

In a flurry of rippling velvet she ran toward the door, stumbled in the abundant fabric twisting around her legs, swore softly, and gathered up the skirt in one hand even as she reached for the doorknob with the other. Wrenching the door open, she rushed into Trey’s bedroom.