Susan Johnson (17 page)

Valerie dropped by to see Hiriam Livingstone that morning on the pretext of placing an ad in his paper for the church
auxiliary’s annual bazaar. Knowing his interest in women and his disinterest in his wife, she dressed in a violet velvet walking suit trimmed in ermine. The violet brought out the best in her eyes, and she’d always felt the ermine encouraged the impulse to touch the soft fur.

Hiriam was suitably taken with Valerie’s judgment in clothes and told her so as he ushered her into his office. “That ermine makes you look like a queen, my dear,” he said in lieu of his more lecherous thoughts, which gravitated toward Valerie’s perception of touching.

With a flirtatious smile she thanked him in a little-girl voice that worked every time with these old roués. Over tea that a clerk brought in they discussed the church-bazaar ad. But when Valerie said, “I’d love one,” to his offer of a tea cake, and held his eyes a moment longer than necessary, Hiriam Livingstone began to consider other than business with the ravishing Miss Stewart. Although well over sixty, Hiriam was sturdily built and, like his father before him, intended to live until ninety. And like his father before him, who’d sired children with a third wife well into his seventies, the editor and owner of
The Mountain Daily
enjoyed a healthy sexual appetite. Luckily Lily’s was available because his wife of forty years hadn’t held any attraction to him in decades. Abigail was fat, prone to discussions of a spiritual nature, and zealously doctored her various ailments, which left little time for anything else. They had four maids, a housekeeper, two gardeners, and three grooms; she was well taken care of. And his leisure time was his own.

“You were saying, my dear, that you lacked any culinary talents to make pretty tea cakes like these. Frankly I find it extraordinary you should feel you need them.”

“Why, sir, doesn’t every young woman have to be able to care for her future husband?” Valerie’s eyes lifted on the word
care
, exuding a visible sensuality.

Leaning forward across the small tea table, Hiriam patted her hand, lying like an open invitation on the Portuguese lace cloth. “Miss Stewart,” he said, innuendo evident beneath the gravel of his voice, “I’m sure there’s not a man alive who intends your care of him to include domestic skills.”

Sliding her hand out from under his with a lingering slowness, Valerie settled back in her chair and smiled demurely.
“How sweet of you to say that, Mr. Livingstone.” Her voice dropped into a low, breathy hush. “But Mama always taught me that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Hiriam had to swallow once before his breathing returned to normal, since the visual image that came to mind at her breathy words was far removed from allusions to food. “Mamas don’t always understand, my dear,” he replied gruffly, “what men want.”

“And what is that, Mr. Livingstone?” Valerie asked coyly.

He cleared his throat before he answered. “Why don’t we discuss it at the box social.” And although an elder at the Presbyterian church, he smiled a lecher’s smile, promising to outbid everyone for her box lunch at the bazaar auction.

“I’ll look forward to that, Mr. Livingstone,” Valerie cooed, “although I do declare, what will Mrs. Livingstone say?”

“It’s for a good cause, my dear,” he assured her with avuncular heartiness, but his glance was perversely nonavuncular. “And Abigail’s been feeling poorly lately, so won’t be attending.”

“How Christian of you, sir, to represent the family at the bazaar.”

“We try, young lady, to perform our Presbyterian duty.”

“How unselfish,” Valerie purred.

“Consider me completely and unselfishly at your disposal, my dear.” Hopefully very soon, he thought.

“How splendidly chivalrous, Mr. Livingstone, and it brings to mind a
small
problem I recently encountered. Perhaps you could advise me on the proper course of action … I mean, to whom I might refer the complaint.” She lowered her eyes shyly and said, “I’m afraid it’s slightly embarrassing.” But then her chin came up, and her mouth trembled faintly in what she hoped was touching apprehension. “Although it was very frightening, too, sir.”

“What it is, my child?” Livingstone immediately responded. “If I can be of any help …”

“Well, you see, sir,” and she touched the top button of her suit jacket as though checking to see that she was fully protected, “I was walking past the livery stable on Syracuse when an Indian stepped out in front of me; he seemed to appear from nowhere—out of the alley running between the livery and Bonner’s Mortuary … and … and he accosted me,”
she went on in a trembling tone. “He touched my breast …” And she faltered then, to let the full impact of the shocking attack be absorbed.

Livingstone’s face flushed red. “We’ll hang him!” he thundered. “Would you recognize him again?” Hiriam Livingstone’s Christian charity didn’t extend to Indians, Negroes, or Orientals, although it did include the female minority, encompassing, among others, Miss Rogers, the choir director who met him Wednesday afternoons at the apartment he kept downtown.

Valerie sighed softly and delicately stroked the appliqué work on the linen napkin arranged on her lap. “I’m afraid not, sir. It all happened so swiftly … I mean, I screamed and ran. I think my scream frightened him off … and I didn’t stop running until I reached home.”

“Your father must find out the dastardly culprit’s name, and justice will be done!”
The Mountain Daily
was only one of many Western papers advocating the “final” solution to the Indian problem in blaring headlines and flaming editorials.

“Oh, no, sir, please, I haven’t mentioned the incident to Papa. He’s quite opposed to Indians outside the reservation.”

“With justification, the dirty savages!” Livingstone exclaimed, his expression livid with rage. “He must be punished. Hung! If these savages aren’t taught a lesson, they’ll continue to threaten innocent white women with impunity!”

“Oh, sir, I didn’t mean to bring the scandal out in public view. Please, Hiriam,” and her deliberate use of his Christian name suggested an intimacy he could almost taste, “I would be so terribly embarrassed to have the story racketed about town. Please … it was
my
breast he touched, Hiriam …” She left the sentence hanging between them, suggestive and inviting.

“The scoundrel must pay,” he growled. “This is not the time for tender hearts; the damn savages have to be taught their place,” he went on heatedly. “Filthy heathens!”

“I beg of you, Hiriam,” Valerie pleaded prettily, adding a little catch to her breath, “you must promise not to allow this to become public.” She allowed a single tear to slide down her cheek. “I’m … I’m sorry I confided in you … only, you see, I thought perhaps you might know some authority I could discreetly lodge a complaint with.” Wiping away the tear with
her knuckles like a small child might, she ran the tip of her tongue hesitantly over her upper lip. “Please …” she murmured.

Livingstone responded to that sensual innocence like a wolf to the fold. “Of course, Valerie”—he took the liberty of using her Christian name, as she had with his—“if you wish this to remain confidential, it shall.” Reaching into his pocket, he took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Your servant, my dear.”

“You’re so understanding,” Valerie replied softly, dabbing her eyes with his handkerchief. Smiling perkily a moment later, she said, “I feel so much better having spoken of this sordid affair. With your gracious kindness,” she went on, deliberately placing his handkerchief into her reticule as though she were offering a future assignation to return it, “you must be inundated with women beseeching your gentle counsel.”

“None as lovely as you, my dear,” Livingstone replied gallantly, mentally counting the days until the church bazaar. “Consider me your champion in all things.” And what a satisfying combination of events, he thought: Having Miss Stewart in his bed and hanging a worthless savage in the bargain.

“How very sweet,” Valerie returned, rising in a flurry of scented velvet. “And I hold you to your promise to bid for my lunch at the box social,” she finished with a dazzling smile.

“You can be assured of that, my dear.”

She allowed him to guide her out through the offices to the main door, his hand on her elbow, and when she turned to bid him good-bye at the door, she made certain her breast brushed his hand.

Later that afternoon over sherry, Valerie and her father compared the success of their initial interviews.

“Hiriam Livingstone is suitably primed,” Valerie said with a trilling laugh. “Good God, Papa, he was practically salivating … not only over me but at the prospect of hanging an Indian. In fact,” she went on, one dark brow arching drolly, “I don’t know if he was obliged to make a choice between my pleasant company and the spectacle of hanging a savage that he wouldn’t choose the latter.”

Duncan lifted his glass in salute to his daughter, feeling more confident about the success of their venture for the first time since Valerie had broached the startling proposal, entertaining the possibility they might just pull it off. Hazard’s millions glittered like a gold strike. “My compliments. He’s on our side, then.”

“Not only on our side but anxious to take the initiative and lead the way. I only restrained him from immediately printing screaming headlines about ravished white women with a tearful reminder of the embarrassment it would cause me. But …”

Duncan relaxed against the sofa. “But …?” he prompted with a smile.

“But … I could, under extenuating circumstances, such as a brutal rape by two Indians,” she replied with a cheerful smile, “be convinced to set aside my personal embarrassment in the interest of saving future defenseless females from barbaric Indian assaults. And Hiriam would be in the vanguard, agitating for a lynch mob.”

“Hiriam?” Her father lifted his eyebrows speculatively.

“We’re on a first-name basis, Daddy.”

“He’s an old rogue,” he grumbled.

“But a useful old rogue … a useful old rogue with a hatred for Indians a mile wide and the means to broadcast that hatred for our benefit.”

“Do you ever think, daughter of mine,” Duncan mused contemplatively, “in counterpoint to the apparent ease with which Livingstone has been manipulated that Trey, even should your scheme come to fruition, might not docilely assume the role of husband?”

“Now
that
, Daddy, is my special department.” Valerie had every confidence in her ability to hold Trey’s interest, an overconfidence, perhaps, considering Trey’s child-of-fortune mentality. She’d always gotten what she wanted in the world and didn’t anticipate any problem once Trey was securely hers. That assurance was a mistake based on her vast empirical experience, which, however, had not to date run up against an adamant Trey Braddock-Black. “Don’t worry your head about Trey,” she said confidently. “Tell me about your lunch with Judge Clancy. Was it as productive as my interview?”

“Luckily for us, Joe has an abiding hatred for Indians in general, and Hazard Black in particular. In addition to his son’s loss of an extremely lucrative post, the judge’s decisions have been overruled a dozen times when Hazard’s appealed them to higher courts.”

“So he’ll be amenable then to an indictment should the need arise.”

Duncan patted the inside pocket of his suit coat. “He did one better; he wrote a warrant for their arrest, leaving the names blank so we just have to fill them in. Say those two men you’re thinking of naming hightail it for the mountains, well … two other names will do as easily.”

“How ingenious … like a lettre de cachet.”

“In a manner of speaking—except, of course, we can’t jail them indefinitely.”

“That’s not likely to transpire with two Indians jailed on rape charges, anyway, is it? The
indefinitely
, I mean.” Her smile was cool as she thought of the seven Indians recently hung with summary justice on the Musselshell. “I’d say,” Valerie went on contentedly, “we’re in a very good position.”

“Not bad,” her father replied, less certain than his daughter, but he’d dealt with Hazard before. And quite frankly he gave a thought to his life. Hazard, especially in his younger days, had a reputation for violence.

“Not bad! Daddy, we’re covered and protected and primed to move! Really, Daddy, all you have to do now is talk to Hazard.”

“It’s still a gamble.” And Duncan Stewart had a sudden vision of Hazard putting a bullet in his head in angry reply.

“Daddy, Daddy … Daddy,” Valerie chided softly. “it’s not a gamble
at all.
”

“He’s a killer, Valerie,” Duncan said in a low, flat voice, “and don’t you forget it.”

The following days alone were idyllic for Trey and Empress. Each day he became stronger and devoted himself with joy and energy to entertaining her.

On waking one morning, Empress found the bedroom awash in forsythia, as freshly scented as spring, pale golden blossoms that brought flooding back youthful memories of
Chantilly. Tears sprang to her eyes and to the beautiful man leaning on one elbow in bed smiling at her she whispered, “You remembered.”

“Do you like it?” he only said, used to remembering what women liked, familiar with lavish gestures, happy that she was happy.

“Oh, yes,” and she wished she could say how it reminded her of Mama’s grotto glade with the waterfall and warm spring afternoons in the sun. “It’s like a spring bower,” she happily declared, the phrasing general enough, yet very specific to her.

“There’s more in the dressing room.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked very young with white eyelet on her nightgown and a rosy blush to her cheeks. She swallowed very hard and said softly, “Thank you.” The gesture was thoughtful and extravagant, and no one had offered this sweet luxury to her—ever.

“I think the ones in the bathtub are going to sprout,” he declared teasingly.

And like the young child she so resembled that morning, she sprang from the bed and flew into the adjoining rooms. When she returned, he was lounging against the graceful headboard, all elegant bronzed skin and wildly handsome looks. “They’re beautiful!” she breathed.