Susan Johnson (41 page)

Duncan was coy.

Irritating, Hazard thought, in a paunchy, middle-aged man. “I’m not going to take much of your time, Duncan,” Hazard said. “Why don’t you and your daughter decide what-all you need to, say, leave Montana. Run those numbers by our accountants and we’ll get back to you.”

The first rounds began.

Duncan and Valerie, greedily re-eyeing the Braddock-Black fortune, had decided they’d sold too cheaply the first time, and it never hurt to press a little. Hazard didn’t want problems with Belle, so he accommodated the Stewarts … to a point.

“Kill them,” Trey said one morning with disgust, and Hazard glanced up from the letter he’d been rereading; the letter suggesting Duncan be named legal guardian to Valerie’s child. “Wishful thinking,” Trey added with a sigh in response to his father’s startled look. “It appears the negotiations may drag out for a time.”

Leaning back in his leather chair, Hazard grimaced faintly. “I’m afraid so, but people like the Stewarts are for sale—it’s only a matter of agreeing on price. I sympathize, though. I hate this haggling. How’s Belle this morning?”

“Mother and I fought over who was going to feed her breakfast. I won,” he said with a teasing grin. “Belle enjoyed her applesauce, resisted her oatmeal”—he sketched a brief arc over his stained shirt with his slender hand—“and liked my hot chocolate better than nursing. She’s doing wonderfully.” No matter his dark mood, Belle was sure to bring a smile to his face.

“I’m glad to hear that our Sarah Bernhardt is keeping you both entertained,” Hazard replied, his own scowl replaced with a smile. “She’s good for your mother … there hasn’t been a baby around the house for a long time.”

“I don’t think we need the ballet slippers yet, though—or your mountain pony, for that matter,” Trey noted mischievously, his silver eyes sparkling.

“Humor us,” his father replied with a tranquil smile. “It’s been so many years since we had a child this small to fuss over. When Daisy came to live with us after …” He paused, thinking of the two young daughters they’d lost and how you
never really learned to live with the absence. His voice was softer when he continued. “She was almost grown-up.”

Familiar with the desolation his father felt, his own childhood mourning never forgotten, the memory of seeing his father cry for the first time indelible in his mind, Trey’s deep voice held a gentleness. “Mama’s in complete charge and I only take orders,” he said, “and I’m humoring her to the hilt, Papa, never fear. Although if it came to a knock-down drag-out fight,” he added with a flashing grin, “I wouldn’t bet on my chances of winning against Mama.”

“Your Mama’s willful spirit is one of her charming qualities,” Hazard replied affectionately, “and I agree with you … she’d take on an army single-handedly.”

“At least out of this turmoil and misery, having Belle has made it all worthwhile … not that I’d ever let Valerie know.” Trey stretched, relaxing the tenseness in the back of his neck, his frustration easing as his thoughts centered on Belle. “Valerie doesn’t realize she’s added an entire new list of accomplishments to my repertoire,” Trey said cheerfully, sliding comfortably low in the chair opposite his father. “Not only do I know how to change diapers and feed babies, but think of the expanded range of my polite conversation. Instead of simply saying, ‘How are the children’ and nodding at appropriate intervals, I’m now capable of comparing notes and offering advice.” He grinned suddenly. “What do you think the Arabella McGinnises of the world would say to that?”

“What they say to every topic of conversation,” Hazard said dryly. “ ‘How utterly fascinating. Do you like my new earrings?’ ”

“Or dress, or dressmaker, or hairdo … don’t forget that … not that I ever really listened.” He looked up at his father, seated behind his desk, from under the fringe of his lashes. “You and Mama really talk, don’t you?”

“Always.” Hazard’s voice took on a gentleness. “She’s my best friend.”

“Unlike my wife,” Trey returned sarcastically, “who understands friendship to mean a larger check and whose maternal feelings approach her father’s concern for the reservation tribes. Remember, I want complete custody,” he reminded his father, distaste prominent in his voice. “I don’t care how much it costs.”

“From the looks of it,” Hazard said, his words collected rather than hostile, “they might take the whole of the Lost Creek Mine.”

“A bullet would be cheaper,” Trey said with a smile.

“It’s a thought,” his father replied, his dark eyebrows lifting.

As it turned out, someone with less scruples than they put an end to Duncan Stewart’s ignominious life two weeks later. As an Indian contractor selling supplies to the agents for the reservations, he’d been accused along with his colleagues of vast, unscrupulous fraud, cheating white and Indian alike in reprehensible schemes. Fifty Indians had died of tainted food in July, and two hundred had starved to death the previous winter at the Black Earth Reserve for lack of adequate supplies, although government records indicated that the entire allotment of food had been paid for and delivered. It was a common practice to charge the government full price for supplies and to deliver only a small portion of the goods to the Indians, leaving the major share to be resold for a tidy profit. Various reversals of policy had been attempted over the years to insure less corruption. Grant had sent out Quakers; other administrations had tried military authorities or missionaries of other denominations. While various agents and supply contractors had succeeded one another, regardless of the style of man, the enormous profits were too beguiling, too easy to attain, the punitive penalties too insignificant to overcome that common human failing when faced with the metaphorical unguarded room filled with gold.

When Duncan was found, he’d been scalped, his mouth stuffed with putrid meat. While on the surface his murder was made to appear as an Indian killing, both Hazard and Trey noted the ineptitude of the scalping and followed the investigation with more than casual interest. After a rudimentary inquiry the sheriff gave up the pretense of searching for the murderer, for life was still notoriously expendable on the frontier, and Duncan Stewart had made many enemies in his lifetime. Duncan was the kind of man who would cast away his cohorts to save his own skin, and with the new accusations extending beyond local jurisdiction this time, someone apparently was afraid they might be implicated if he talked.

From the varied list of Duncan Stewart’s enemies, his killer
must have been someone he trusted, the sheriff decided, since he’d been shot in the back of the head at close range. Out in the open country where the body had been discovered, no one could have approached undetected, and Duncan would never have allowed an Indian within rifle shot without leveling his gun at him. If nothing else, Duncan was a realist. The powder burns and shot from behind suggested a companion riding slightly to the rear.

On the pretext of extending condolences, Arabella McGinnis called on Valerie one afternoon shortly after the funeral. They had never been friends but rather rivals, both wealthy young women proud of their beauty and in contention for the same prized matrimonial candidate. Trey’s renunciation of his marital duties only partially assuaged Arabella’s covetous jealousy of Valerie’s coup. To be Mrs. Trey Braddock-Black was something Arabella would quite willingly kill for, and she was over to apprise herself of what change, if any, Valerie’s father’s death made in the status quo of Trey’s marriage.

As Arabella advanced into the small back parlor that Valerie had with well-considered discourtesy chosen to receive her in, she cooed, “What a charming room, Valerie. Your stylish touch is so evident in the decor. Are those truly blackamoor sculptures? How darling.” She twirled theatrically in mock survey, the russet silk walking costume she wore swishing softly over the carpet. “But are you alone, dear, in your time of grief … without your husband by your side. I should think you’d want Trey for comfort with your dear father so recently departed.” Her malice was palpable.

Valerie was not noticeably in mourning, nor grief-stricken, nor was there any possibility that her husband would lend her comfort—all circumstances both women fully understood. The only unknown in the ensuing conversation was who would draw blood first, and how savage the wound.

“At least I
have
a husband, darling,” Valerie purred in reply. “Have you brought any of your suitors to the mark yet?”

“I’m much too young to think of marriage, Papa says,” and Arabella tossed her golden curls in pert response. “Do
you
find marriage satisfying?” she riposted cuttingly.

“I’ve discovered that marriage is delightfully”—Valerie paused for effect—“lucrative. Would you like tea, or would you prefer your usual bourbon,” she inquired maliciously, returning Arabella’s thrust with smiling spite.

“Some of
Trey
’s bourbon would be pleasant,” Arabella replied sweetly, when everyone in town knew Trey hadn’t spent more than twenty minutes with Valerie since the wedding.

“He drinks brandy.”

“He always drank bourbon with me.”

“Everyone drinks bourbon with you,” Valerie declared, ringing for a servant, “since that’s all you have.”

“Kentucky bourbon is
excellent.
” Ross McGinnis was proud of his Kentucky roots, and equally proud of his family’s private-reserve bourbon.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Valerie countered disparagingly. “Papa always imported his liquor.” She then gestured to the footman who had come into the room. “Bourbon for Miss McGinnis and sherry for myself.” And while the servant poured their drinks, the two women sheathed their claws and spoke of trivialities concerning the weather, choir practice, the performance of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
put on by the Helena Thespians.

No sooner had the door shut on the footman’s back then Arabella, casting a sneaking glance at the closed door, said, “What a fine-looking young man you’ve found to
wait
on you.” The emphasis was unvarnished appraisal. “He doesn’t look familiar. Is he new and imported as well?”

“He
is
new, but my butler does all the hiring,” Valerie replied casually. “You’d have to ask him.”

But Arabella had seen Valerie’s glance slide slowly over the tall man’s well-developed physique as he bowed and took his leave, although seated where she was she’d missed the more interesting response to Valerie’s perusal. The handsome young auburn-haired footman who looked too tanned to have been a servant long had winked and smiled back. “What’s his name?” Arabella’s question was as casual as Valerie’s bland disclaimer.

“Thomas.”

“Does he have a last name?”

“I’m sure he must,” Valerie said with a small shrug. “He answers to Tom as well,” she added, her smile insinuating.

“He has beautiful large hands,” Arabella murmured assessingly.

“Yes, doesn’t he? I have to constantly remind him to be careful …” Valerie paused delicately. “With my china and crystal, I mean. Would you like me to call him back so you could—ah—have your drink refilled?”

“I’d like that,” Arabella returned instantly, and decided in future to take an interest in her mother’s selection of footmen.

When Thomas reentered the room, he performed his duties with a cheerful insolence; his smile bordered on impertinence, his bow was a touch elaborate, and when he said, “Ma’am,” it was with an arrogance that was surprisingly charming.

“He
is
a bit cheeky,” Arabella noted after he left.

“I prefer servants with a certain … vitality,” Valerie purred, “and Tom is beautifully vital.”

“How very convenient.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Valerie said with an arch smile.

And Arabella received enough information from that arch smile to dine out on for a month.

Tom’s entire name, by the way, was Thomas Kitredge Braddock; his tan had been acquired racing his yacht off Nantucket, Australia, Macao, and Cowes, and Blaze Braddock-Black had first met her unknown half-brother two weeks ago when he’d been announced by Timms, walked up to her, said, “Hi, Sis,” and threw his large arms around her. Born posthumously six months after Blaze’s father’s death, he’d only recently learned that he had a half-sister. Billy Braddock’s separate trust for his mistress had provided every luxury for the son he never saw, and it wasn’t until his mother met him in San Francisco a month ago that she’d told him the truth about his father.

“Call me Kit,” he’d said, kissing Blaze warmly on the cheek. “Everyone does.” And he put his hand out to Hazard. “I’ve never had a brother-in-law. I hope you don’t mind.” And his smile, when he turned back to Blaze, brought tears to her eyes; her father was smiling at her.

“You’re my first as well,” Hazard replied pleasantly. “Welcome to the family.”

And in the course of the hours-long get-acquainted conversation at the ranch that first evening, Kit had volunteered for spy duty at Valerie’s. “It’ll be a lark,” he’d said, this young
man out for adventure who had just returned from a leisurely three years sailing around the world.

“The gambling and women in Macao,” he told them, “held my interest the longest.” He’d stayed for six months. “You never knew if you were going to leave the card game alive with your winnings,” he explained. “Keeps one keen,” he added with a grin. “And pardon me, Sis,” he apologized, “but that living on the edge”—his brows lifted swiftly—“lends a certain piquancy to the later hours with the ladies.”

“You needn’t apologize to me,” Blaze replied with a smile, “after wondering all these years which irate father would be putting a bullet into Trey. I’m afraid he subscribes to your interest in reckless adventuring as well.” Catching the swift glance passing between Hazard and Trey, she sweetly added, “Surely you two didn’t think I believed all those expurgated stories.”

And Hazard and Trey both immediately wondered how much she actually knew.

“So what’s this wife of yours like?” Kit asked.

“If you like adventure …” Trey drawled.

“Sounds interesting. So all I have to do is keep an eye on her until these negotiations are over.”

“Don’t feel you have to,” Blaze interjected.