Smoketree

CHAPTER Six



I jerked my head around and stared at him, stunned. He climbed the pen bars like rungs of a ladder, stepped over the top one and dropped down. The horse left off investigating me and wandered over to inspect Harper; he patted the dark neck and approached. His face was expressionless.

“You heard,” I said lamely.

“It was hard not to, seeing as how I was so close.”

“Were you listening?”

He grinned and paused at our end of the pen. “I came down to finish my evening chores. I overheard my name. Wouldn’t you have listened?”

I swallowed. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” The grin faded, but the amusement remained in his eyes. “You tell a mighty tall tale, ma’am. But I got to admit you do it well.”

I opened my mouth to explain it had been nothing more than a moment’s diversion, but Harper was extending a hand to Brandon and introducing himself. So I had to content myself with making a mental note to explain things later.

Harper did not stick around. Once he and Brandon had exchanged amenities he was gone, intent on finishing his chores. I considered beating a hasty retreat to my cabin, but Brandon’s hand settled on my shoulder and stopped me. “He’s your villain?”

“Well, he seemed like the type,” I muttered.

Brandon grinned. “He wears a white hat—or almost. I think he’s a good guy. ”

I shot him a scowl. “Never mind. I’m already embarrassed enough; can we forget the whole thing?”

“Sure. Why don’t you come with me to get a nightcap while I settle my things in my cabin?”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. You go on.”

We parted at the porch. Brandon wished me a good night’s sleep, kissed me briefly and chastely on the forehead near the scar, and went into the Lodge. Surprised, yet also gratified for his understanding, I headed toward my cabin.

As I walked, smiling to myself over Brandon’s welcome arrival, I heard the roar of a powerful engine. It approached rapidly, inexorably, and as I turned I was struck full across the face by a set of blinding headlights.

Suddenly I was taken back six months, frozen behind the steering wheel of Tucker’s sleek European sports car as the approaching vehicle veered into our lane. I recalled shouting something to Tucker, but he was slumped, asleep, against the door I had carefully locked.

I did not shout this time. My throat locked up and all I could do was stand very, very still, one hand thrust out against the headlights, the other wadding the fabric of my sweater into a twisted lump against my flesh.

The car stopped. The headlights were shut off. The engine died. I saw a burgundy Porsche 924 parked before me. Illumination from the Lodge lent a muted glow to the area, encompassing the car, but I was still half-blinded by the headlights. As the door swung open I saw a middle-aged, rotund, balding man wearing glasses climb out.

“Is this Smoketree?” he asked.

I felt ill. My muscles ached with the sudden release of tension. Automatically I tugged my sweater back into shape and tried to recover my composure. My hands were shaking.

“Yes—yes, it’s Smoketree.”

He didn’t seem to notice the quiver in my voice. “Oh good! I was afraid I’d taken the wrong turning.” He grinned impishly, adding to the overall impression of a slightly over-the-hill cherub. “I’m not terribly good at remembering directions, and I’m afraid the map got left behind at the restaurant. ” He paused, losing a little of his ebullience as I said nothing. “Do you work here?”

“No. I’m a guest.” I approached, not particularly offended by his mistake. “That’s the Lodge”—a wave of my hand—“someone up there can check you in.”

Before he could say anything further his passenger swung open her door and stepped out. My mind registered vague surprise as she uncoiled herself from the Porsche. She wasn’t even remotely the type of woman I’d associate with the man.

She was a black-haired, black-eyed beauty, perhaps in her early thirties. She moved with exquisite grace as she paused by the sleek dark hood of the Porsche, and I saw the calm confidence associated with affluence and influence reflected in her eyes as she observed me. I smiled at her, totally aware of what she was doing as she made a smooth, professional assessment of me. The time-honored female ritual had been played out.

“If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll fetch Harper.” I could just as easily excuse myself, but I was curious as to how the cowboy would react when he set eyes on her.

I went back toward the pens where I had last seen him, and found him doling out coffee-can portions of grain to each horse feeder. I leaned against the rails of one pen, waiting as he finished, and finally he came over.

“You down here to accuse me of all sorts of things again?” In the dark, thank God, he couldn’t see the instantaneous blush. But I had no doubts he could hear the defensiveness in my tone. “That was a joke, you know. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I scowled at his irritatingly serene face. “You have guests. Up there, by the Lodge.”

“You could have sent them in to Nathan.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But maybe I just wanted to see if you were sabotaging anything else.”

It wiped the amusement out of his eyes. “So much for your joke. Well, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not your villain.”

He was serious. I stared at him, astonished by the note in his voice and the expression in his eyes. I had been kidding when I painted my picture for Brandon, but suddenly I wondered if I had unwittingly stumbled onto something. Why else would Harper treat it all so deadly seriously?

“I just—I just came down to tell you about the new guests,” I said lamely, turning to make a quick exit. But he slipped through the rails and fell into step with me.

“Why are you so intent on finding me out?” he asked.

That jerked my head around. “You mean—you’re admitting it?”

The moustache quivered. “No. But why would you care one way or another?”

I shook my head in exasperation. “Just idle curiosity.”

“Something like that, as I recall, killed the cat.”

“You can’t be serious—” I began, laughing, and then said nothing more.

Harper stopped as I did, turning to face me squarely. His posture was without aggression of any sort, but a coiled readiness was evident. His face was mostly shadowed, but I sensed the cool perusal in his too-direct eyes.

Finally I found my voice. “You can’t be serious! Was that a threat?”

I felt rather than heard his silent laughter. "A warning, merely. ”

I shivered suddenly. “Should I be afraid of you?”

His face tightened. “Be whatever you like.”

I watched him walk up to the Porsche and greet the new guests. Then, shivering again and wondering if I should be amused or frightened, I went on to my cabin.



Everyone was present at breakfast save the dark beauty. Her companion was as cherubic in daylight as he had been the night before, and he smiled in recognition and hurried over as I came in.



“Thank you for your assistance last night. I’m Elliott Fitch, New York City. ” He extended a pudgy hand, gray eyes alight behind the steel-framed glasses.

I took his hand and introduced myself. “Also New York City. ”

He beamed at me. “Have you ever heard of Richelieu?”

I stared at him in surprise. “The finest French restaurant in New York? Of course!”

He nodded, very pleased. “Then be my guest there sometime. The Count will see to it you are seated at the best table. ” I was startled at his casual mention of Richelieu maitre d’, one of the most exquisitely polite of the breed and elegantly fierce. “You know the Count?”

His eyes twinkled. “I’m his employer. I’m Richelieu.” He paused, enjoying my embarrassed confusion. “Actually, Richelieu is just the name I chose because it sounded so French. Fitch's Place just wouldn’t have struck the proper tone, I’m afraid.”

There was something warmly likeable about the pudgy little man, and I revised my initial reaction to the incongruity he and his lovely lady-friend presented. He was immensely pleased when I told him I patronized his restaurant frequently.

“Is this your first visit to a dude ranch?” he asked, then went on before I could answer. “It is for me. I’ve really been looking forward to this trip. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for forty years, ever since I was a boy.” He smiled ruefully, shaking his head with its short fringe of brown hair. “Francesca thinks all of this is very silly, and I suppose she’s right, but I decided to treat myself. And Francesca, of course.” His round, shiny face took on a decidedly puckish expression. “My wife and children are on vacation in Europe, you see-and now, have I offended you completely?”

“No,” I said truthfully, although I did think them an odd pair. I’m sure he knew it.

He sighed and glanced around, soaking up the ambience. “Well, I’m hoping to get some riding in today. That’s the main reason I came out here, you know—I wanted to see what a dude ranch was like, and spend most of my days riding.”

“I’m sure Harper will fix you up with a good mount.” As good as Sunny, I wondered, or did he reserve the sorrel’s rump for helpless-seeming models?

Elliot Fitch patted his rounded belly. “Well, I must go stoke up the engine. Don’t want to miss my first genuine Western meal.” He grinned at me, eyes bright behind his glasses. “And no, I’m not quite expecting cornbread, beans and coffee. Not yet.”

I laughed with him and turned to seek out my own seat, and Brandon was suddenly beside me. “Morning,” he said, leaning down to kiss me briefly on the forehead. “Hungry?”

“Let’s eat,” I affirmed, and we adjoined to a private table just as the others arrived.

Nathan appeared tired when he came in with Cass and Harper. At our first meeting I’d put him in his late fifties, even with the gray hair; now I added at least ten years to my estimate. He didn’t look less healthy, just not as vitally active. Cass also appeared concerned about something, but Harper’s face, with its masking moustache, was calm as ever.

Lenore Oliver, seated at another table with her husband, challenged Brandon to a tennis match after breakfast, even suggesting they make it worth money. Brandon declined, pleading a poor game, but gave in when Lenore prodded him to accept the challenge. Having seen him on the courts before, however briefly, I knew there was no such thing as a poor game in his repertoire.

Elliot Fitch, buttering his toast, was off-handedly interested. “Francesca plays tennis, you know. Maybe sometime you can go against her. ”

Lenore riveted him with a stare. “Who plays tennis?”

“Francesca,” he repeated. He smiled faintly, as if amused by the reception he’d no doubt get. “My companion.”

Lenore leaned forward on her bench. “Is she here? I’ve been languishing for an opponent since John and I arrived.”

“She’s sleeping in this morning,” Elliot told her. “Tired from the flight, you know. But I’m quite sure she’ll be interested. I came for the horses; she didn’t, but she plays a mean game of tennis.” He set his toast down carefully. “Shall I tell her to plan on it, then?”

“Do,” Lenore urged. “I’d be delighted to meet her, on the court or off.”

“Speaking of horses,” Elliot said in Harper’s general direction, “I’d sure like to meet one today. Can it be arranged?” Harper nodded over his scrambled eggs. “I’ll set you up right after breakfast, if that sounds good. ”

“It does,” Elliot agreed. “How long can we ride?”

Harper smiled, but it lacked the ironic amusement I’d seen him display with me. “Just about as long as you think you can stand it.” The smile widened almost imperceptibly. “But I think we’d better play it safe today and keep you to an hour. You’ll thank me… in the morning. ”

Elliot grinned. “No doubt I will. Well, perhaps you’ll manage to make me into a decent rider before I go back to New York.”

Harper’s expression was noncommittal, but I spied laughter lurking deep in his eyes. No doubt he was accustomed to Eastern dudes who wanted to play cowboy for a week or two. And no doubt it always amused him.

After breakfast, Brandon—as well as Elliot and Lenore for different reasons—excused himself to change clothes; I wandered out on the porch and dawdled, liking the fresh air and morning sunlight. Cass came out a moment later with both dogs, one a fluffy bluish shepherd type and the other a smooth, sleek, lop-eared male with a long tail and the look of a dingo in his face. They loped off toward the tack room without her, as if knowing where she was bound, but she didn’t follow immediately.

“I’m sorry about last night,” she said abruptly. “I was pretty rude.”

I smiled. “No harm done. I understood.”

She raked one hand through her loose, long hair. “Did you?” Then she sighed. “There I go again. Look—” She stopped a moment, leaning one hip against the porch roof upright. “It’s just that I’m not even in your league. Things are hard enough with him… oh, hell.” She gave up in disgust.

“He’s always thought of you as a little sister,” I said calmly.

“You got that right.” She sighed and grinned ruefully. “It’s wishful thinking, I know, but I can’t help it.”

“Don’t give up,” I told her. “Maybe he’s like a mule—you’ve got to hit him between the ears before he’ll pay attention.”

“He got hit between the ears, all right,” Cass sighed. “But it wasn’t me who hit him. ”

“Wait a minute—” But she cut me off with her next question. “Brandon Walkerton’s rich, isn’t he? I mean—he has more to recommend him, doesn’t he?”

“It depends on what sort of references you’re looking for.” I perched myself on the porch railing after making certain it would support my weight. “Cass, Brandon is very rich. There’s no denying that. Is that so important to you?”

Color rose in her face. Her chin thrust upward defensively. “What’s wrong with that? It isn’t so bad to want more money than you have.”

“No, of course not. Is that what you want so much, then—to be rich?”

Her smile was more of a grimace. “I wouldn’t mind it. Who would? But no—it’s not all I want out of life.” She lifted her hands expressively and slapped them down against her hips. “Look at me! I already turned down a small fortune.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, there’s some people interested in buying Smoketree.” She said it off-handedly enough, for what I thought was supposed to be a secret. “They said they’d give me money for school and the rodeo circuit if the deal went through. ”

“Give you money?”

“Not for free,” she said wryly. “I’m not stupid, you know. I know all about free lunches.” She grinned briefly. “No. They wanted me to talk Uncle Nathan into selling the ranch.”

I took a careful breath. “But you didn’t accept the offer—”

“Of course not,” she said in irritation. “For one thing, Smoketree isn’t mine to dispose of in any way, shape or form. For another, Uncle Nathan would never sell this place. Not to anyone. ”

Not even to Harper? So, she didn’t know. Or did she? “Well,” I said, “do what you want, just be careful in doing it. I respect your uncle enough to want him happy.”

She looked at me oddly a moment, then nodded. “I want him happy, too. But I also want me happy.”

“And Harper?” I kept my tone neutral. “What does he want?”

“Money,” she said flatly. “But don’t we all?”