Cactus Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (22 page)

      
“What do you want of me?” She hated the plaintive wail in her voice and forced herself to meet his eyes.

      
“First of all, I apologize for my conduct tonight. I had no right to say what I did inside, or to grab you just like Bainbridge did in the garden.” He released her wrist now and stood very still. His eyes left her face and fixed on a point high over her right shoulder.

      
She stood frozen in surprise. The last thing she expected from Jim Slade was an apology! Before her dry throat would allow her to speak, he began to pace and to talk in low, intense tones, running his hands in agitation through his hair.

      
“Look, whatever it is that happens between us...it's pretty damn explosive. But I guess you know that as well as me.” He shrugged in rueful bewilderment. “I don't think it's love, but it's nothing as uncomplicated as lust either. Hell, I don't know what it is!” He threw up his hands in frustration, then looked at her, his golden eyes reflecting confusion and pain to match her own.

      
“I don't understand what came over me in the garden either,” she said breathlessly, feeling the heat of a flush steal up her throat and face.

      
“I guess what I'm trying to say is that we both should take some time to think out our feelings.” Slade paused and looked expectantly at her.

      
“You already made yours crystal clear to me last month, as I recall.” Her voice was ice cold now, each word a whiplash of condemnation. What did he want—to make her his mistress? “You're going to marry Tomasina Carver.”

      
“Dammit, I don't know what I'm going to do!” he exploded.

      
“Shh, you'll wake half the boardinghouse with your yelling!” she whispered fiercely, her heart beginning to drum furiously in her breast. What did he mean? Would he break his engagement? “As I asked before, Jim, what do you want from me?” She would never again make the mistake of presuming anything with this complex stranger whom she loved.

      
“Just accept my apology for now and stay out of harm's way. For God's sake, keep away from Bainbridge and the rest of those clumsy schoolboys who'll maul you every chance they get.” Damnation, that sounded too much like jealousy to his own ears! The slow smile spreading across her piquant little face made him wince. She had interpreted it just that way, obviously.

      
“I'll try my level best to retain what small measure of virtue I still possess,” she said primly. With that she vanished into the shadows on the veranda, leaving him standing alone in the moonlight, feeling a complete fool.

* * * *

      
Charlee spent a restless night, tossing in her lonely bed, furiously angry at the ruin of her debut as a lady, but breathlessly excited at Slade's parting words and actions. Upon rising, she once more reviewed their tempestuous interchanges that preceding evening. Though he was unsure he loved her, he was undeniably attracted to her and certainly jealous. At least that much had been established. She debated confessing to Deborah what had happened. Her older friend might be able to coach her on how to act around Jim the next time she saw him. Of course, it would be a considerable embarrassment to tell Deborah everything.

      
Charlee's debate was quite unnecessary, as it turned out. By the time she had dressed and gone downstairs, she was late for church. The Methodist circuit minister was in San Antonio for a rare visit, and all Protestants of various denominations flocked to hear him preach that Sabbath. Being raised Presbyterian, she had planned to attend the service with Deborah, a lapsed Episcopalian. It was to be held on the lawn of the Chalmers place, just off Dolores Street.

      
Deborah was waiting with Adam, who looked for all the world like a small, dark cherub. Charlee glanced from Deborah to her son and wondered for the hundredth time how such a blond woman could give birth to the chocolate-eyed, black-haired little boy. Once, she had asked Deborah about Adam's father and had received such a poignant, crestfallen refusal to discuss him that she had never again presumed to pry.

      
“I’d almost given you up, Charlee. Come on. Reverend McGiver won't wait to begin, even if I am giving him free room and board for the week he's here.” Deborah noted the circles beneath Charlee's eyes. Well, she must have had a full evening of fun and dancing all right. Why was she so quiet then?

      
Smoothing her pale lavender skirts and straightening her straw bonnet, Deborah quickly inspected Charlee's outfit as they left the house. The deep yellow cotton gown she wore set off her hair and made her look as fresh and bright as a spring buttercup. Charlee had naturally good taste in styles and an eye for color as well. Her social graces were coming along, too. She could dance, pour tea, and converse without using profane or vulgar expressions—well, at least most of the time, Deborah amended to herself with a small chuckle.

      
“How was your debut as belle of the ball, Charlee? Did Paul step on your toes much?” she queried brightly as they were helped into the carriage by the handyman Chester.

      
“Well,” Charlee said carefully, “let's just say it was eventful and the least I had to worry about from Paul Bainbridge was his stepping on my toes!”

      
Deborah gave her a quizzical glance, but said no more, as Adam began to chatter excitedly while they rode through the streets of the awakening city.

      
When they arrived near the Chalmers' big rolling front lawn, a kaleidoscope of thronging men, women, children, mules, horses, and dogs greeted them. Color and noise were chaotic. Calico skirts swirled and ruffled parasols twirled as the women and girls giggled and gossiped. Farmers, stiff and uncomfortable in starched shirts and suit coats, sweated in the hot mid-morning sun. A small spotted dog darted in and out between skirts and boots, chasing a boy whose irate mother caught both by an ear, eliciting similar yelps from child and canine alike.

      
A teamster, obviously suffering under the burden of the Sabbath, was forced to move a pair of recalcitrant mules without benefit of swearing. A group of would-be choir singers, woefully out of practice, were braying an off-key version of “Shall We Gather by the River?” It was joyous pandemonium, a typical Texas excuse for socializing, significantly more respectable than a horse race, but only slightly more subdued.

      
“Thank heaven we aren't late. Before he left the house, Reverend McGiver lectured me on the importance of punctuality and decorum in all things,” Deborah said mischievously. “His congregation may be on time, but I can't imagine anything anyone can do to a Texas crowd to make it ‘decorous.’ ”

      
Charlee joined her in laughter, then sobered when she caught the murderous glare in Suzannah Wilcox's eyes. The pretty brunette had been the belle of San Antonio's Yankee community until Charlee had come upon the scene. Suzannah's brother Billy was one of many swains who flocked to pay court to the new girl in town. Last night, Suzannah had watched Charlee dance with a succession of men, unconcealed hate in her pale blue eyes.

      
“Let us down here, Chester, and then good luck finding a place to tie up the team. Oh, there's Hannah Wilcox and her daughter, Charlee. You know Suzannah, don't you?” Deborah asked.

      
Charlee saw no help for it but to endure the pouting little schemer as she stepped down from the carriage with a graceful flourish. Sally Butler and Nesta Tilden were clustering around Suzannah.

      
Faint threads of their conversation caught Charlee's attention as she approached. “She danced indecently close with him and then they had a fight in a secluded alcove. The next thing, she was outside with Paul,” Sally hissed conspiratorially.

      
“You should have seen the way he was beaten up. That Jim Slade is nothing but a half-breed Mexican bandit,” Suzannah added spitefully. “It's understandable that he seeks out his own kind—those
Tejanas
—but to be engaged to Tomasina Carver and then dally with that McAllister tramp, well!”

      
If Charlee was cringing inwardly, her outward show of coolness would have done a Boston librarian proud. “Good morning, Mrs. Wilcox, Suzannah, Sally, Nesta. Lovely morning for a prayer meeting.”

      
The frosty silence was complete in the small circle of women. Deborah cast a sympathetic look at Charlee. “It is a lovely day, isn't it? Charlee, I think Adam is off pestering Mr. Soames. We'd better go rescue the poor man before our amateur teamster talks his ear off about those horses.” With a brief nod, she departed with Charlee in tow.

      
“Well, I told you it was an eventful evening, didn't I?” Charlee said with a rueful sigh. She should have realized leaving the dance with her former employer after said individual had flattened her escort would create a slight stir in polite society.

      
“Perhaps you'd better fill me in after the service,” Deborah replied dryly.

      
“I will if the multitude doesn't stone me first,” Charlee agreed bleakly. First, she was humiliated in front of all the men at the ranch, now all the women in San Antonio. Damn Jim Slade!

Chapter Nine

      
“Just remember, look everyone you meet squarely in the eye and disdain any rudeness from anyone.” On Monday morning, Deborah attempted to buoy up Charlee's faltering courage. “You'll find most people are fair-minded. If Paul Bainbridge got drunk and made improper advances, it was perfectly all right for Jim Slade to escort you home after rescuing you.”

      
“You know there's a whole lot more to it than that boiled-down version,” Charlee said crossly. She had confessed everything to her friend, including her disgraceful response to Slade's fierce kiss. As to their relationship at Bluebonnet, well, she guessed a woman as shrewd as Deborah Kensington could figure out the rest.

      
“I've carefully told that boiled-down, or at least rinsed-out, story to several people who accepted it readily enough. Just remember,” Deborah admonished, “not everyone has the spiteful mind of Hannah Wilcox. Anyway, Suzannah set her cap for Jim three years ago and failed to interest him. She's been hatefully jealous ever since. Disregard her and her friends.”

      
“What would I do without you?” Charlee's green eyes darkened as she confessed gravely, “I...I never had a real friend before...not a woman friend, that is—a real honest-to-goodness lady. I treasure our friendship, Deborah.”

      
Deeply touched by this lonely young woman's declaration, Deborah put her arms around Charlee and replied, “Believe it or not, my in-laws would give you quite an argument about my being a lady. I've done some pretty wild, unconventional things myself. Maybe someday I can tell you all about them. Now, young lady, you take your kitchen supply order to that general store and act as cool and proper as if you never laid eyes on either Jim Slade or Paul Bainbridge.”

      
“Even though his father owns the store?” Charlee questioned weakly.

      
“
Especially
because his father owns the store,” Deborah said stoutly.

      
Charlee walked straight into Bainbridge General Mercantile and up to Simon Bainbridge, who was behind the cash counter where the ledgers were kept. Thank heavens his son Paul was not in the store today! Dealing with old Simon would be difficult enough without facing a scorned suitor as well.

      
Although she was certain he saw her, old man Bainbridge did not look up from his books until she stood directly in front of him and cleared her throat. “Good morning, Mr. Bainbridge. I have a large order to be filled for the boarding house kitchen.” When he nodded a curt acknowledgement, she smiled primly and plunked the list down in front of his bespectacled eyes. “The wagon is outside, and Chester is there to load things. I need a few patterns and some trim, so I'll just take a stroll upstairs to the yard goods in the alcove. Call if you need me.” Again the silent, surly nod as he grasped the list and headed down one overcrowded aisle to begin filling her order.

      
Charlee wandered into the back corner of the store's second floor, entering a small, rather dingy addition where the bolts of fabric, dress patterns, and sewing accessories were kept. The place was virtually deserted so early on Monday morning. She picked up a big pattern book and carried it over to a dusty window ledge. Setting it down, she grimaced at the grime on the wide sash, found a bit of rag to wipe the worst of it off, and sat down for a good long browse.

      
Charlee lost track of time, vaguely hearing Mr. Bainbridge bark orders to Chester and his clerk now and then. The bright sunlight filtering in was warm, so she reached up and pried open the swollen casement window and was rewarded with a cool breeze. “I must remember to close it when I leave or all these bolts of cloth will be soaked first rain,” she said absently, then became immersed once more in the world of hoop skirts and lace fans.

      
Suddenly, her attention was brought back from the fashion book when she heard the crunch of boots on the loose stones in the alleyway behind the store. Someone was walking into the deserted narrow space between the big mercantile and a windowless office building across from it. Jutting out into the alley, the addition to the mercantile offered the only view of that area from its second-story window. Who would be back there at this hour and why?

      
As if in answer to her questions, a meticulously dressed man in a tan worsted suit and frilly silk shirt rounded the corner and stepped into the shadows below her. When he doffed his wide-brimmed hat, Charlee recognized the unmistakable white-blond hair of Ashley Markham. She sat very still, curious yet prickling with some premonition of danger. Another set of footsteps crunched on the rocks. Charlee leaned out expectantly, pressing her face near the dirty window sash to see who it was.