Betina Krahn Read online

  Vassar finished his brandy and set his glass aside on the nearby humidor.

  “The three of them descending on her at once.” Vassar shook his head. “No wonder she fainted.” He cast a speculative eye over Bear as he rose. “And you to the rescue again. Dammit, McQuaid, if you haven’t already earned your blessed loan!”

  As Vassar left the library, Bear sat staring into his dwindling brandy and felt an irrational burst of relief that those three vultures were doomed to merely circle her. Laying a hand on his midsection, he came alert and began searching for other worrisome feelings and reactions connected to his intended investor. They weren’t hard to find.

  Whenever she was near, he found himself staring at the lights in her hair and her Montana-sky eyes. The mounds bared by her daring neckline and the prominent curves of her waist and hips made his palms itch. And he felt an alarming compulsion to intervene between her and lunatic inventors, pushy suitors, and even the damnable local gossips.

  This preoccupation with her was exactly what he had been dead set on avoiding. What the hell difference did it make to him whether she was being hounded and pursued by money-hungry men or not? She was an investor, nothing more. A signature on a dotted line. A letter of credit on the hoof. A bank account with a bustle.

  Bounding from the chair, he paced back and forth, then reached into the closest humidor for one of Vassar’s fancy cigars.

  In the midst of lighting it, he paused to stare at the rolled tobacco.

  He hated cigars.

  What the hell was the matter with him?

  The noise from the dockside tavern was loud as Bear climbed the rickety rear stairs leading to the room they had rented. He could usually count on the snores of the lodgers on the other side of the partitioning blanket, as well as Halt’s own “night music,” to drown out the din from downstairs. But tonight as he paused to let his eyes adjust to the moonlight coming through the crusty window, the snoring and tavern noise only seemed to amplify each other. Determined not to be the only one who got no sleep tonight, he shook Halt, who bolted upright in an instant and jammed a revolver to his middle.

  Bear froze.

  “It’s me!” When the Irishman blinked and focused and finally withdrew the gun, Bear felt a flash of heat rush through him. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded as Halt swung his legs gingerly over the side of the cot. “Pulling a gun on—”

  Then he caught a glimpse of Halt’s face in the dim light and sucked in a breath. It looked like someone had broken a board over his head. One eye was swollen nearly shut and his jaw and lips were puffy and discolored on one side.

  “What happened?” Bear dropped to one knee beside him.

  “I was comin’ back from a bite o’ supper … that place on Alehouse Street.” Halt’s voice sounded strained, almost hoarse. “I heard somebody comin’ up behind me, but didn’t think nothin’ of it. City livin’s made me careless, I guess. They clouted me on the head, dragged me down an alley, and pounded me like I was a tough cut o’ bully beef.”

  “They?” Bear lit the tallow lamp and held it up to inspect Halt’s injuries.

  “It takes more’n one set of fists to do this much damage to a hardheaded Irishman.” Halt grinned and then groaned at the pain it caused. “Can’t say if there was more than two of ’em. I was a bit too busy for countin’.”

  “Damnation.” Bear noticed the way Halt was holding his side, and pushed Halt’s hand away to feel for broken ribs.

  “Naw, nothing broken,” Halt declared, inhaling sharply when Bear touched a bruised spot. “I’ll mend quick enough. Th’ worst is”—his voice lowered to a pained hush—“they got our money, lad. Ever’ last cent we had.”

  “Every last cent?” The news hit Bear hard. He sat back on his heel. “Did you get a look at them? Any idea who they were?”

  “Street toughs, most likely. Never seen ’em before.”

  Bear drew a bottle of brandy from his pocket and thrust it into Halt’s hand. “Here. Use some of this to dull the pain. Compliments of our favorite banker.” He watched Halt work the cork free, put the bottle to his nose, and breathe deeply of the rich vapors.

  “Yer a good man, Bear McQuaid,” Halt said, flashing Bear a pained grin that widened with astonishment when Bear produced a handful of fancy Cuban cigars from his other pocket. Halt passed one of the cigars under his nose, inhaling the rich tobacco, then took a drink of the brandy. The sigh of pleasure that issued from his battered form sent a sliver of guilt through Bear.

  “Well, what about your evenin’? Our old Miss Wingate?” Halt slid to one side to make room for Bear on the cot beside him. “What did she say? Did ye get her to agree to a loan?”

  “I … couldn’t get her alone to ask about it. But I did manage to meet her. They say she makes a lot of loans to new businesses … some with a helluva lot less potential than the Montana Central and Mountain.”

  Halt deflated. “Ye didn’t even get to ask ’er?”

  “She always had people hangin’ around. And she’s not exactly how we pictured her,” Bear said, taking a drink from the bottle when Halt offered it.

  “What do you mean ’not how we pictured ’er’?”

  “Kindly. Like your old grandma. A real soft touch.”

  Halt took the bottle back and drank again. “So, what’s she like, then?”

  “Younger.” Bear squirmed inside, deciding how much to reveal. “A damned tough nut. Knows railroads front to back and left to right. And she’s not one to be fooled by fancy manners or to go all goosey over a handsome face.”

  “That’s good.” Halt gave a muted chuckle and took another drink. “ ‘Cause right now, the best o’ both of us put together wouldn’t make a decent curtsy or a handsome face.” Bear scowled until he saw the flash of teeth in Halt’s battered visage. He began to relax at the realization that Halt’s humor was back, and he grinned.

  “We wouldn’t at that.”

  After the bottle had passed back and forth a few more times, the seriousness of their situation surfaced again, counteracting the effects of the brandy to sober them both.

  “No loan. No way to exercise them land options. Plum out o’ money. And runnin’ out o’ time,” Halt mused. “It don’t look good for us, Bear, me lad.”

  They sat in silence for a few more minutes, each considering the ramifications of their latest loss. Then as their hopes sounded the depths of despair, their determination only had one way to go.

  “Not good. But not impossible,” Bear said, glancing overhead and around them, at their meager lodgings. “At least we got a roof over our heads.”

  “True enough. Th’ rent’s paid three more days.”

  “We each got two strong arms and willing hands.” Bear sat straighter.

  “We can find work enough to keep our bellies filled.” Halt squared his aching shoulders. “And we still got old Miss Wingate. She’s a right old gal. Tough, but fair. She’ll do right by us.”

  Bear’s rising spirits were momentarily hobbled by Halt’s enthusiasm for Diamond Wingate … until her words came back to him. “I’ll make it worth your while.” He seized and held on to that promise, while stubbornly blocking the rest of his memories of her.

  “I’ll pay her a visit, first thing Monday morning,” Bear declared. “I’ll take the maps and charts and lay it all out in front of her … make her a straight-up business proposition. No pussyfootin’ around.”

  Halt grinned, affirming his faith in Bear’s powers of persuasion.

  “She’ll write ye out a bank draft, and our worries’ll be over.”

  SEVEN

  The sun stood high overhead by the time Bear McQuaid drove his rented buggy down the road leading to Diamond Wingate’s home. He was already hours behind his self-appointed schedule of “first thing Monday morning” … the result of having to haggle over unpaid buggy rental fees at the livery stable. Worse still, he had been forced to use his very last resource, his lucky twenty-dollar gold piece, to settle the mo
unting debt and couldn’t help feeling that it was a bad omen for the day’s business.

  He spotted the sprawling estate—“Gracemont,” the stableman had said—as he crested a gentle rise and had a fleeting urge to turn the horse around and head straight back to the city. Only the memory of Halt’s stubborn cheerfulness as he wolfed down a couple of stale biscuits and headed off in search of manual labor to put food in their bellies, kept him from calling the whole thing off.

  He had spent the last two nights tossing and turning on his narrow cot, plagued by the tactile memory of Diamond Wingate’s voluptuous body lying limp and pliant in his arms. Worse, with the slightest bend of thought he was revisited by certain untenable urges toward her … a sort of emptiness in the middle of him, a gripping desire to step in front of her and …

  And what? Take on all comers? Her problems were none of his concern, he had told himself so often that it now droned like a chant in his head.

  Still, he couldn’t help thinking about her reaction to those three local fortune hunters. She knew what they wanted from her and wasn’t having any part of it. On one level he had to respect that. And on another level … he had to pray she’d forget all about those scruples when it came to his need for cash.

  He reined up, pulled off his hat, and wiped his damp forehead as he stared at the huge set of iron gates that marked the entrance to Gracemont. There were at least a score of people milling about in front of those brick pillars and that iron scrollwork. Uneasy at the prospect of stepping into the middle of something he knew nothing about, he scowled, flicked the reins, and drove on.

  The people outside her gates were nothing short of destitute, he realized as he drove into the stares of ragged men, women, and children. They carried their possessions with them in worn satchels and old gunny sacks, and he could see that down the road, they had built fires and made a crude camp.

  As he looked past them, through the gates, he spotted a fellow sitting in a chair that was tilted against the side of a stone gatehouse. The man’s hat was propped over his face; he appeared to be having a nap. Bear called to him, but succeeded only in rousing the attention of the people waiting outside the gates. They collected around him, watching keenly for the gatekeeper’s response. From their comments and behavior, he realized that these people were waiting for something from Diamond Wingate. A handout.

  He climbed down from the buggy and made his way through the expectant crowd. “Hey! Gatekeeper!” he called.

  The man looked up, gave the gate a passing glance, and lowered his chair as he spotted Bear in the forefront of the crowd. He rose and sauntered over.

  “I’m here to see Miss Wingate,” Bear said uncomfortably.

  “Yeah—us, too!” came a voice from the crowd, touching off a din of shouted demands and pleas.

  “You got an appointment?” the gatekeeper demanded, ignoring the others.

  “No,” Bear said, humiliated by the realization that no matter how much better clothed he was, he was truly just one of the needy throng at her gates.

  “I am a social acquaintance of Miss Wingate’s.” He glanced at the others pressing around him. “I had no idea I would have to ask for an appointment to call upon her at home.”

  The gatekeeper appraised Bear’s gentlemanly clothes and craned his neck to inspect his buggy, then nodded. “A’right. Ye can come in.” He addressed the others, who began clamoring for admittance, too. “Only him, ye hear? I’m only openin’ the gates for him. You lot—stand back. They’ll bring out yer dinner soon enough.”

  Being admitted to the place was almost as unsettling as being denied admittance. Leaving the other supplicants to her good graces behind, he felt like a damned fraud. So much for his determination to make this visit professional and purely business.

  The house at the center of the sweeping circular drive was a sprawling brick Georgian Revival structure that centered around a large white portico and a formidable pair of black lacquered doors. The road leading to those doors was lined with beautifully groomed lawn and arcs of neatly trimmed hedges. Every part of the place, from beds of tulips and newly planted roses to the shining brass work of the coaching lamps on either side of the door, was lovingly tended. It was an estate, an heiress’s home, a place wrapped in an aura of money and privilege. It brought back such a wave of memories that he had to summon every ounce of his nerve in order to climb out of the buggy.

  The door swung open before him as if by magic, and he was welcomed into a spacious entry hall appointed in black-and-white marble and richly polished mahogany. He had just given his name to the butler, when a voice hailed him from the top of the stairs. “McQuaid? Is: that you?” He looked up and recognized Diamond’s guardian, Hardwell Humphrey.

  “Why, it is McQuaid! As I live and breathe.” Humphrey and the genteel-looking older lady at his side hurried down the steps toward Bear. “My dear”—he patted the hand nestled in the crook of his arm—“this is the fellow I told you about from the Vassars’ party. The one who rescued Diamond. McQuaid, this is my wife, Hannah.”

  “What a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McQuaid,” Hannah Humphrey said, offering him her hand. “Hardwell told me all about you and your heroic deeds. Unfortunately, we are just on our way out … a standing engagement …”

  “But Diamond is here,” Hardwell declared with a wave toward the rear of the house. “Out in the stables, givin’ Robbie his first ridin’ lesson. I’m sure she’d love to see you.” He turned to the butler, who stood close by waiting to receive Bear’s hat and the roll of maps under his arm. “Jeffreys, take Mr. McQuaid out to see Miss Diamond.” He turned back and extended his hand. “Good to see you again, McQuaid. You’ll have to come to dinner with us soon.”

  That was all there was to it? Bear thought incredulously, as he watched the pair exit and climb into a large, elegant coach. He just walked in, was recognized, and was shown straight into her presence? Relief rolled through him. Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult, after all.

  The butler took Bear’s big black Western hat and roll of maps, but then returned the hat to him, saying that he might wish to keep it if he were going out to the stables. Bear nodded, took it back, and handled it a bit awkwardly as he fell in behind the dapper little servant.

  On the way out, they passed through a series of rooms that surpassed what he had seen at the Vassars.’ The colors were richer and more subdued and the furnishings were mostly gracious mahogany pieces … a very restful and pleasing sort of environment that he sensed few were privileged to enter.

  The grounds and handsome brick stables were equally well appointed and kept in immaculate condition. They traversed the length of the stable alley, between rows of box stalls, in which he glimpsed a number of fine-looking horses. As they reached the doors at the far end, he heard Diamond’s voice.

  “No, no,” she was calling to someone. “Just stand there and let him get used to you. Keep your eye on where he is, but don’t move. Let him come to you. He’s just as curious about you as you are about him.”

  He paused in the stable door.

  Diamond Wingate, clad simply in a forest-green riding skirt, boots, and a white blouse, was standing on the bottom board of a whitewashed corral fence … looking as fresh as mountain laurel in morning dew. He forced his gaze to move along and observed that her ten-year-old cousin was standing in the enclosure with a small, untethered horse. The boy held an empty lead rope and looked as stiff as shirt board.

  “But what if he bites or kicks me?” Robbie’s voice was thin and anxious.

  “You’re not made of carrots or sugar,” Bear called out to him. “As long as you don’t make any wild or sudden moves, you’re plenty safe.”

  Diamond turned abruptly, grabbing the nearest fence post to steady herself. “Mr. McQuaid.”

  The sight of him in the doorway carried an all-too-predictable impact on Diamond. Her eyes widened, her cheeks reddened, and her breath stopped. For the past two nights she had tossed and turned and pounded down innocent p
illows, trying in vain to banish the sight of him from her mind and telling herself that her reaction to him on the night of the Vassars’ party was simply a result of her predicament and his unexpected chivalry.

  But gratitude, she knew all too well, did not account for the guilty excitement that seeped through her at the memory of his hand on her waist and the scandalous pleasure of being caught up in his powerful arms … held tight against his chest … his lushly muscled, hauntingly memorable chest. With the slightest slip of her vigilant sense of decency, the image of his naked torso crept into her thoughts.

  Even now her gaze had migrated and fixed on the front of his shirt.

  “Miss Wingate.” He tugged the brim of his hat and strolled over to her. “Mr. Humphreys said you were teaching Master Robert, there, to ride.”

  “I am.” Two words were all she could manage as she forced her gaze up.

  He leaned a shoulder against the fence post and glanced between the boards at the boy and horse. Why did he have to do that, she grumbled mentally … that insolent slouch that seemed to challenge the rest of the world to find something interesting enough to bring him upright?

  “Interesting approach … teaching him to ride by having him just stand there.”

  “He’s never been around horses.” She scowled, reminding herself that there was a good bit more inside those well-tailored garments than a naked chest and a scrap of chivalry. He was arrogant and abominably prone to— “I want him to get used to being around them before climbing aboard one.”

  Watching Robbie, he lowered his voice. “He might feel better if he had more control … say … if he put the lead on the horse and walked him around.”

  “I had planned to have him do that next,” she informed him shortly, then turned to her cousin. “Hook the lead on him, Robbie, and walk him around the fence. Go right up to him. Be businesslike and make sure he sees you coming.”