Smoketree

CHAPTER Seven



The tennis game, even from a distance, sounded competitive. I very nearly went over to watch Brandon and Lenore slamming balls back and forth, then decided to stay right where I was on the porch. Cass had left, so I sat down on the porch swing and lost myself in contemplation of nothing in particular. And then Elliot Fitch’s companion appeared from the direction of the cabins.

She wore a clinging knit sweater and linen trousers that matched the beige of her fingernails. She had innate elegance and style; that much I could tell at once from my experience in the fashion industry. She was a strikingly attractive woman; Italian, I thought, with her dusky olive skin, black hair and eyes, and husky, accented voice.

She gestured toward an orange sling chair to the right of the door. “Do you mind? I will go in for breakfast in a moment, but first I hope you didn’t think me rude last night.”

A delicate gold chain glittered faintly against her throat. Matching earrings gleamed in her shoulder-length hair; she wore a wafer-thin gold watch on her left wrist. I shook my head. “I can use the company.”

“You are kind.” She arranged herself comfortably in the canvas sling. Her faint smile was rueful. “You must excuse me for last night. It was a long flight, and Elliot’s exuberance can be tiring at times.”

She said it with the fondness of a long-time friend, or a lover who is more than a bed-partner. It made the pairing even more incongruous, somehow.

I still sprawled in the swing, moving it idly with one foot pressed against the wooden floorboards. “He seems like a very nice man.”

“Elliot?” She smiled with the same fondness. “Of course. He is sweet. And very good to me.” She laughed softly. “He is exceptionally good company, but then so many people do not realize it. They judge him by what he seems, not by what he is.” Her gaze was level. “Women especially, who overlook his genuine goodness for other considerations.”

“A common enough failing,” I agreed, knowing I had done it often enough.

“I am Francesca,” she said in her husky voice. “Francesca Vanetti. And you, of course, are Kelly Clayton.”

I looked at her sharply. Her tone had been perfectly bland, almost inflectionless, but something flirted with the distracting accent. “I am,” I agreed neutrally.

“We have met,” she said. “In Europe, at least once.” She smiled. “Rome, it was, at the Palazzo San Giorgio. But you would not recall, I know. ” So easily she diffused the apology I had started to make. “One meets so many people under such circumstances… I remember you because of the man you were with.” She made a moue of apology. “You see? I am not different than others. But you were not looking at women either, with him at your side, and I made it my business to acquaint myself with you briefly so I could meet him.” Her smile widened. “All women wanted to meet Tucker Pierce, you know. And you, because you had caught him.”

I recalled the magnificent palazzo and the odd little man who had been such a charming host to a multitude of people. European aristocrats, political exiles, artists, actors, even models. Tucker and I had been there and so, apparently, had Francesca Vanetti.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “I know, of course… and I will say nothing more of it. ”

It wasn’t pity I saw, merely an understanding of my position. In that moment I realized she was far more than she pretended to be, and not at all the type to overlook a man like Elliot Fitch with his warmth and genuine enthusiasm.

“He has volunteered your services as a tennis player,” I warned her. “Would you care to meet your prospective opponent?”

Francesca laughed. “Already he keeps me busy while he rides his horses. Ah well, I do enjoy it. And I will meet this opponent after I have eaten. I am starving. ” She rose like a cat unwinding from a relaxing nap, all sinew and grace even in getting up from an awkward position in a canvas sling. “I will see you later, perhaps.”



I spent the rest of the day in delightful indolence, sprawled on a lounge next to the pool with oil spread over my too-pale body, soaking up the sun. Nathan wandered by once and commented it seemed a little cool for sunbathing; his idea of cool and mine were poles apart, since May in Arizona seemed more than adequately warm for such activity. I baked comfortably, drowsing much of the time; the rest of the time I paged through the latest issues of fashion magazines I’d brought with me. Old habits, as they say… even on vacation.

Patrick Rafferty was also out by the pool, though across the water from me. He did not sunbathe, being fully clothed; instead he seemed immersed in manuscript pages. He held a clipboard and a pen, wrestling from time to time with the breeze that threatened to snatch his pages away. He wore sunglasses; prescription, I assumed, since I’d always seen him with his horn-rims on. I couldn’t tell if he noticed me or not. He did not appear to, which was just as well. I was still self-conscious about the purplish scars on my forearms, especially set against skin considered too pale for attractiveness.

But it was a lovely way to spend the afternoon, and by dinnertime I felt baked to the bone. I showered, got dressed and went up to the Lodge to eat. Mexican food tonight: tacos, tostadas, enchiladas and other treats from across the border.

Stuffed full, I sat a while on the porch with Brandon in the swing next to me, and then we went for a walk. It was cool now that the sun had dropped below the horizon, but I wore my tweed jacket and a comfortable sweater. And with Brandon’s left arm draped around my shoulders, I wasn’t cold at all.

We walked up behind the Lodge, following the trail the moonlight illuminated for us. It was a companionable silence we shared, unbroken by small talk or great deliberation; we walked because we wished to, both lost in contemplation, and it wasn’t until I stopped to pull the cuff of one pantleg from my shoe that Brandon spoke at all.

“You will be all right.”

I nodded, steadying myself with a hand against his hip. “I will be. It was tough—it still is—but I will be.” I straightened. In the moonlight his face was oddly bare of all pretension. “You miss him too, don’t you?”

His mouth tightened. “Of course I miss him. Tucker and I were good friends, close friends—even if we hadn’t seen so much of each other the last couple of years. He was usually on a picture, or visiting you in New York; I was generally off somewhere gallivanting around.” He smiled a trifle ruefully. “We didn’t really work at the friendship. I think we both took it for granted. Only now he’s gone—” He stopped. “I’m sorry. You don’t need reminding. ”

“Sure I do. ” I tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and urged him onward again. “We’ll both remember him the way we knew him, and it’ll keep him alive.”

His sigh was deep and ragged. “Hell, Kelly—I didn’t even make it to the funeral.”

“Neither did I,” I said grimly, feeling the familiar twinge of guilt.

He made a dismissive sound. “You were in the hospital.”

“So I was.” We walked on, me aware of the scars on my arms and head and Brandon aware of me. I could feel it radiating from him. And yet I could say nothing to him. There was too much space between us. There was Tucker also, and I had no wish to replace him as yet. Brandon, at times, I hardly knew.

At last he walked me to my cabin. His face was pensive and solemn, and yet as I lifted my head to thank him for the company, he smiled. His hands came down on my shoulders, holding me in one place, and I could feel the warmth and nearness of his big, comforting body.

“There is all the time in the world, Kelly. I understand what you feel. Don’t try to sort everything out at once just for me; it’ll only confuse you further.” One finger slipped up beneath my bangs, tracing the line of the scar. “Just give everything some time, okay? I will.”

“There are a whole lot of people out there who don’t understand that,” I told him. “Men especially.”

“You’ll always be chased,” he promised. “But then, you know that.”

“And I’ll be caught when I want to be,” I agreed. “Not before. Certainly not now.”

He smiled. “You’re not the sort of woman a man likes to see spending time in her own company. Not that I blame them.” His smile broadened into a boyish grin. “I just know how to wait better.”

“And if the waiting comes to nothing?” I wasn’t about to lie to him, lead him on. I could promise Brandon nothing.

“It’s your decision,” he said gently. “You’ll get no pressure from me. And now—I think it’s time for me to go.”

It was a gentle, tender kiss. Not the sort to set bells to ringing or skyrockets exploding. Just something done in friendship and warmth, and it nearly undid me.

It would have been easy to forget he was Brandon, if only for a moment. Darkness had fallen long since; the shadows from the pine copse were secretive and seductive, and he even wore the cologne Tucker had favored. For a moment I pressed myself against him, longing to banish the ghosts once and for all.

But they wouldn’t quite go.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispered, and walked away.

I watched him leave, bemused by my feelings. I knew he was right. I couldn’t spend my life mourning Tucker, and I didn’t want to be alone. Not forever. But at the moment Tucker was irreplaceable.

I shook my head briefly, then opened my door and went in. I slapped at the wall on my right to locate the light switch, found it, and flicked it on to illuminate the cabin. I shoved the door closed with one foot and stripped awkwardly out of my blazer, moving into the bedroom automatically. And I promptly stepped on one of the paperbacks I’d brought with me for bedtime company.

I retrieved it from the middle of the floor, blowing grains of dust from the pages. The cover was bent at one corner as if someone had dropped it; I hadn’t. It had been brand new, unblemished the night before, and I had left it sitting squarely on the bedside table with bookmark in place.

The book fell open easily to the spot marked by the bookmark. Nothing remarkable in that, save I hadn’t gotten that far yet. Someone had stuck it in the wrong place.

Frowning, I dropped it on the bed and began a systematic check of my things. I was usually never one for noting exactly where and how I placed things, but after a thorough examination of the cabin I had no choice but to believe someone had been there after I had left with Brandon. Nothing was missing, but someone had searched my belongings carefully.

Without further thought I grabbed my key and hastened out of the cabin, intent on reporting the incident to Nathan. The cleaning staff would have no reason to search my things; besides, the maid had finished with my cabin earlier, much earlier. I was halfway to the Lodge when I heard a voice behind me. I whirled in surprise, nearly stumbled over my own feet, and found Harper approaching.

I waited, breathing heavily in the cold air. My exhalation plumed the darkness.

“What’s your rush?” he asked in his characteristic drawl.

“I have to speak with Nathan.”

He came upon me in the moonlight, carrying a flashlight. One eyebrow cocked quizzically beneath his hat. “What’s so important that you have to go charging outside without a coat? It’s forty-five degrees. Aren’t you cold?” He paused. “Or are you Eastern girls unaware of temperature and suchlike?”

“Nothing of the kind,” I retorted, and started coughing as the air knifed into my lungs.

His slow smile widened. “No, I can see you’re not. Here.” He stripped out of his quilted goose-down vest and made me put it on. “Now, tell me what your problem is. Maybe I can help and we won’t have to bother Nathan. He needs his rest.”

I felt slightly ridiculous in the vest. The armholes hit me mid-ribcage, but the down was already warming me. I decided I didn’t mind the appearance so much. It was an immensely comfortable garment, softly cozy as I folded my arms against it. “He’s not in bed yet, is he?” I asked. “It’s not that late. ”

“I said he needs his rest. What’s your trouble?”

“Someone has been in my cabin.”

He shrugged. “Could have been Cassie, cleaning up some.”

“I thought you had maid service for that.”

“We do. But we all help out with whatever we can.” His eyes didn’t waver. “Smoketree doesn’t quite have the resources it once did, if you catch my drift.”

So, business was that bad. No wonder they wanted to keep every guest they could find. Still, I didn’t like the idea of someone searching my room. Not at all. “How many of you have keys?”

Harper sighed and tugged at his hat in resignation. “We’ve all got keys to every lock on the place.”

“And the maid?”

“She gets the master key from one of us when she comes.” His brows were pulled down in a considering scowl. “What do you plan to do—sue us?”

“No, no, of course not.” I scowled back a moment. “Look, you must admit I have grounds for a complaint. Wouldn’t Nathan want to know?”

“I don’t doubt that,” Harper agreed, “but just now he’s a little tired out. Why don’t we keep this between ourselves for the time being, okay? I’ll see to it something’s done.”

“What?”

“I’ll think of something.” He stared back at me a long moment, seemed to realize I wanted more than vague assurances, and gestured toward the Lodge. “Why don’t we go in and talk about it?”

“Why not right here?”

“I’m cold,” he said flatly. “You have my vest. And no—I don’t want it back so you can freeze. Come on… I’ll buy you a drink.”

He did look cold. And grim. Also impatient. So I went. The fire was blazing in the big living room, and I planted myself before the fireplace to toast my bones. Harper went straight to a mahogany liquor counter in a corner of the room. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

I shrugged, comfortable in the down vest. “Bourbon and water is fine. Whatever you have. On the rocks, please.”

He fixed my drink, then poured a shot of Wild Turkey into a glass for himself and brought mine over. I thanked him and took a swallow, then gestured toward his glass.

“You like your whiskey straight?”

“Why spoil good booze with water?”

I laughed. “Real cowboy stuff, I guess—a shot of rye.”

He smiled slowly and regarded me across his drink. “It would be, I reckon—if this were rye. I think you’ve seen too many Westerns.”

“I loved John Wayne,” I said defensively. “I saw almost all of his movies, plus a bunch of others by all the good, old actors.”

“Still Hollywood,” he said in a derisive tone of voice. He turned away and stripped his hat from his head, hanging it on the antlers of a four-point antelope head mounted on the wall.

“But then I reckon we wouldn’t be in business if it weren’t for the Westerns they made, so I shouldn’t complain. Folks like Elliot Fitch come out and pay good money to act like John Wayne and assorted cowboys.” He turned back, smiling faintly.

Warmed at last, I shed the vest and draped it over the back of a chair, taking a seat on the sofa before the flagstone fireplace. The upholstery was coarse saddle blankets stitched together, grown soft and faded with use. The hardwood floor was scarred and stained, older than myself, and a lush buffalo rug lay on the floor before the fire. Nathan had taken care to keep the Lodge rustic and functional, and had succeeded in making it comfortable as well.

Harper moved to stand on the buffalo rug, boots flattening the tight brown kinks. The flickering flames threw his angular, high-planed face into relief, etching shadows beneath prominent cheekbones. I couldn’t help but reflect how ideal a model he would make for a Western painting or sculpture.

And then I grinned. Modeling, again. I could never leave it behind.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Nothing, really. Just thinking about you in New York City, doing what I do.” I saw the lowering of his brows into a scowl of wary bafflement. “Male models earn a good wage.”

“I’m a cowboy,” he said flatly.

“But poor.” I grinned and sipped my drink. “Aren’t you?” A mask dropped over his face.

But his eyes were alight with something close to anger. “Maybe to your way of thinking,” he snapped out from under the moustache. “I’ve got what I need right here.”

I recoiled instantly, wondering what I had said to set him off. “Fine,” I agreed. “Now, what are you going to do about my room being searched?”

“I’ll have the locks changed tomorrow.”

“That wouldn’t do much to prevent another break-in,” I pointed out. “Particularly if whoever it was has access to the keys.”

“I don’t want your damn key,” he scowled. “Now, if you’ve finished your drink, I’ll escort you back to your cabin.”

I wasn’t finished with my drink, but I didn’t seem to have much choice. I set it down on the table before the couch and rose, catching the vest as he tossed it to me. I put it on silently and zipped it closed, thrusting my fists into the pockets as I headed toward the door. Then I halted and turned back, withdrawing a round, flat-topped cardboard container from one of the pockets. “What’s this?”

“My dip.” His smile was back as I stared at him blankly. “My chew. Tobacco. Here, take a look.” He took the round box from me, tapped it and popped the lid, tilting it a little so I could see the brown, powdery contents.

I drew back in distaste. “You chew that stuff?”

“Not exactly. You just keep a pinch tucked into your cheek or lip.” He observed the expression on my face. “How else do you think tobacco spitting got started?”

“You spit that stuff?”

He put away the can, sliding it into the back hip pocket of his non-designer jeans. “You wouldn’t want to swallow it. Not if you wanted to keep your dinner where it belongs.”

I grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

He shrugged. “Some people smoke. I chew.”

“It’s not a very attractive habit in a man,” I proclaimed.

He did not appear persuaded, though somewhat amused. “What about in a female?”

“No woman would think of doing that!”

He retrieved his hat from the antlered head. “Just goes to show you don’t know cowgirls. Some of them can take as big a dip and spit it just as far. Not that I exactly approve of it.” He grinned disarmingly. “Sort of takes away from a girl’s femininity, I’d say.”

“Male chauvinist,” I remarked automatically, without heat, then frowned. “Cass wouldn’t do such a thing, would she?”

“She does do it. Generally when I’m not around. She knows I don’t like to see her do it.”

I arched my brows at him. “She’s half in love with you, you know. Or don’t you know?”

“Cassie’s still a kid.”

“Maybe. But how did you feel about it when you were her age?” I glanced at him over one shoulder as I preceded him down the steps.

I caught a startled expression on his face, an instant thoughtfulness that altered slowly into concern. “Damn,” he said morosely. “I was married when I was her age.”

It was the first concrete piece of information he’d offered about himself. I stared at him, walking more slowly in the dirt, and wondered just what it was that motivated the man. I knew he was different from most of the men I met in my life. He was worlds away from Tucker. From Brandon, even. I wasn’t certain I liked him, since he caught me so off-guard much of the time, but he did intrigue me.

“But you’re not married now,” I said.

That earned me a sidelong glance, and I knew I’d get nothing further from him on that count. He walked with his head bent slightly, hat pulled low over his face. He had pushed his fingers into his pockets, and for the first time I saw a slight limp.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” I asked. “Did Sunny do it to you?”

“Old Sun? No. This is old.” He shrugged. “I broke it a couple of years ago.”

“Wrangling?”

He shot me a dark glance. “Riding broncs.”

“Broncs.” I stopped dead. “You mean—wild horses?”

The moustache twitched. “Not the kind you’re thinking of. Rodeo broncs.”

Of course. I recalled again the rodeo I’d seen, where cowboys had tried to stay aboard bucking horses for a specified amount of time. “Why would you quit the rodeo to work on a dude ranch?”

Like me, he had stopped walking. Now he shifted from one foot to another, as if the topic bothered him. “I got hurt. Horse in Cheyenne reared in the chute and stomped the hell out of my right leg. Smashed it in three places.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I got pins holding it together.”

I winced empathetically. “I guess you’re lucky to be walking at all. ”

He smiled briefly, wryly, though there was a bittersweet edge to it. “So the doctors told me when I went out and rode my bull, soon as I could hammer the cast off.”

I gaped at him. “You did what?”

“Rode my bull.” He tugged his hat lower, and I realized he was uncomfortable talking about his past. A private man, was Harper Young. “I was up for the All-Around title. World Champion. God, I needed that bull. I needed to win.” He sighed and I saw the tight set of the muscles in his jaw. “I wanted that title.”

I looked at his shadowed face. It was quite, quite still. “Did you get it?”

“No.” The tone was flat, and he went right past me toward my cabin.

I caught up to him. “What happened?” I asked, needing to know. “Did he throw you off?”

“He broke my damn back.” He stopped again, brought up short, and his voice was harsh. He glared at me malignantly. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That I got hurt?”

His anger and pride staggered me. For a moment I just stared at him, stunned, and then I managed to shake my head. “Why would I want to hear that?”

“You seem so all-fired certain I’m up to no good,” he said between tight-shut teeth. “I thought maybe it would please you to have another weapon.”

“Good God!” I stared at him in amazement. “What do you think I am?”

“I know what you are,” he said grimly. “And it’s not going to work on me.”

“You’re out of your mind,” I said at last. “Certifiable. A genuine lunatic.” I turned and walked away, leaving him where he stood.