Nan Ryan (16 page)

“We are going to ride all the way down there?”

He nodded. “By sunset we should be almost down to the desert floor.”

For a long moment he said nothing more, nor did she. They stood side by side on the high, stark rimrock as a golden eagle left its perch in the stony battlements above and wheeled gracefully on a rising current of air. They watched until the eagle disappeared in the clear blue sky. Then Virgil, smiling, pointed to a jutting rock ledge a few hundred feet down the mountain. An old tawny mountain lion lay sunning himself on the warm sandstone. As if the lion felt their eyes on him, he lazily rose, yawned, stretched languidly, then slowly padded away.

Enchanted, the princess watched until the big beautiful cat had gone completely out of sight. She sighed and took a deep breath of the clear, crystalline air. In the quiet she could hear the whisper of the wind in the trees and the bubbling of the stream rushing down its rocky bed. She could smell the fresh fragrance of the pines and the clean, unique scent of the tall, rugged Texan beside her.

The pair continued to stand there together on that rocky, windswept summit as Virgil pointed out well-known landmarks. Listening, nodding, the princess automatically swayed closer to him, her gaze following his pointing finger.

“… and up to the north, Tres Rios. Three Rivers. The little village of La Luz down the mountainside. San Nicolas Pass across the valley to the south. Chalk Hill over there at the eastern edge of the White Sands and …”

As the princess listened to his deep-timbred voice, a rare feeling of contentment washed over her. She had completely forgotten, for the moment, who she was, who he was, where they were, and why.

Then she caught herself.

She snapped out of the rosy glow and was instantly upset and angry with herself for so foolishly falling under his spell. Naturally she took that anger out on him. She turned, glared up at Virgil, and interrupting him in midsentence, said, “You cruel, insensitive bastard! You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

Astonished by her quick change of mood, Virgil squinted in puzzlement. “Did what? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Brought me up here!” She flung out her arm and made a wide sweeping arc. “Led my mare out onto the very edge of this dangerous cliff! You wanted to scare me! I know you did!” Her teeth gritted, she doubled up her fist, and, before Virgil discerned her intention, hit him squarely in the stomach.

“Owwww,” he groaned, and his breath came out in a
whosh
as he bent over slightly from the waist, a hand gripping his midsection.

Realizing immediately that she had actually hurt him, the princess attempted to dance out of his reach. She wasn’t quite quick enough. He managed to grab the tail of her borrowed blue shirt. She screeched as he reeled her in.

“Ohhh!” she cried out in pain, when he slammed her roughly against his tall frame. “You’re hurting me!” she shouted.

She struck out at him in a fury, and heard him yelp when the tip of a slender finger somehow connected with his right eye. His hand automatically shot up to cover his stinging, watering eye, and he cursed under his breath. But he didn’t let go of her. Momentarily blinded in one eye, he kept the other eye open and on her. With one firm hand he held her to him and let her continue to flail away before finally crushing her in his big arms.

“I’m hurting you?” he said, incredulous, holding her tight, refusing to let her go, his burning eye still closed and watering. “Christ, I’ve been with you less than twenty-four hours and you’ve scratched my jaw, bloodied my ear, punched me in the belly, and almost put my eye out.”

Struggling against him, she said, “My, my, so the big bad Ranger’s afraid of a helpless little female.” She again tried to pull away.

“No,” he drawled. “I’m afraid of crazy people.”

It was as if he had thrown kerosene on fire. Highly insulted, she blazed with new anger. “I’m glad I hurt you!” she exploded. “That’s nothing compared to what you deserve! If I get half a chance, I’ll … I’ll …”

“You won’t,” he cut in, continuing to hold her in a viselike grip as she thrashed about.

“Don’t bet on it, Ranger!”

“Let’s ride,” he said, abruptly loosening his hold, turning and heading for the horses, pulling her along by her shirt front. “I’d like to get you to El Paso while I’m still in one piece.”

17

She stood alone on the wide stone balcony.

The summer sun had not yet risen, but the dim gray light preceding it now seeped over the sleeping city. A steadily brightening glow of pale pink streaked the eastern sky. Within minutes the huge orange disk would climb above the earth’s curve and cast its blinding radiance over the old river city of San Antonio.

And over the elegantly gowned young woman who was on the hotel balcony.

A gentle breeze off the San Antonio River lifted loosened tendrils of ginger-red hair and softly rustled the many flounces of shimmering feuille-morte taffeta. The woman lifted a pale hand, gently swept a raised flounce back down into place, off her bare ivory shoulder. But she did not immediately release the ruffle. She ran her fingers over the satiny silver-white fabric and sighed.

Montillion had told her that the exquisite silver-white gown—one of the finest of the Princess’s many ceremonial gowns—was a Doucet, delivered straight from the rue de la Paix to the Hartz-Coburg castle. When she had looked blankly at him, he had said kindly, “The dress came from Paris, my dear. You’d do well to remember in case one of the wealthy Texas ladies should ask.”

The Queen of the Silver Dollar was glad he had told her because at that night’s gala, not one, but a half-dozen ladies had admired the silver-white ball gown and inquired about its designer. With total ease and confidence she had replied, “Why, it’s a Doucet. He’s simply my favorite French designer. So talented, knows instinctively which fabrics and colors best enhance one’s looks.”

“Do you suppose he would consider designing some dazzling ball gowns for me?” asked Mrs. Maggie Travis, a plump, pink-cheeked matron who was among San Antonio’s Old Guard.

“Now, Maggie, I was planning to engage the noted French designer,” said a dark-haired, statuesque woman in black lace who was reportedly one of Texas’s richest young widows.

And so it went.

While the ladies had twittered over renowned dress designers, the gentlemen had eagerly gathered around her like bees around a sweetly pollinating spring flower. She was, as she had been at every event in Fort Worth, Dallas, and here in San Antonio, the undisputed center of attention.

It had been wonderful.

Every thrilling moment of it. Like a lovely dream from which she never wanted to awaken. These past two glorious weeks had shown her precious glimpses of the privileged life she had surely been meant to lead.

A splendid existence with all the royal trappings. Catered to and waited on hand and foot. Not expected, no, more than that, not even allowed to dress herself! For each and every bond rally or banquet, she was very carefully dressed by the capable lady-in-waiting, the baroness Richtoffen. And, no matter how late she returned from a lavish soirée, the baroness, dozing in a bedroom chair, awakened to undress her and tuck her into bed.

Montillion, dear resourceful Montillion, was constantly at her beck and call. Ever patient, ever kind, he consistently treated her as if she actually were a royal princess. With his encyclopedic knowledge regarding every facet of a sovereign’s life, he had never once made her feel stupid when she asked a foolish question. On the contrary, he encouraged her to quiz him on anything about which she might be unsure. And she loved listening when he described—in such fine detail she could actually picture it—the beautiful little mountain kingdom of Hartz-Coburg and the three-hundred-room castle perched on the cliffs.

Montillion and the baroness were both so solicitous and supportive, they had successfully imbued her with the confidence to convince anyone she met that she was Her Royal Highness, Princess Marlena of Hartz-Coburg.

So comfortable had she been playing the part, there had been occasions when she forgot—for an hour, sometimes longer—that she was not actually the princess. It seemed so real, so right. All the attention, the admiration, the adoration; it should have been hers.

Thinking back over the past two wonderful weeks, the Queen of the Silver Dollar smiled as she attempted to recall the number of marriage proposals she had received. It was impossible. She had lost count well before they reached San Antonio. Such, she supposed, was the glorious, everyday life of a princess.

She sighed wistfully.

It was over.

All over.

Last night’s sumptuous wine supper and the following midnight ball at the Alamo Hotel was to be her last official appearance. There were, of course, more rallies, banquets, and parties planned for the days ahead.

But she would not be attending.

Montillion had told her that today—early in the afternoon in plenty of time to make the four P.M. bond rally—the real princess, now recovered, was scheduled to arrive in San Antonio.

All at once, to her surprise and dismay, Robbie Ann felt her eyes misting with tears. She was shocked at herself. She’d never been the sentimental sort, had wasted little time yearning for what might have been. Now here she was standing on a Texas hotel balcony crying because she was destined to nothing better than a return to her post at the Silver Dollar Saloon and—sooner or later—a reunion of sorts with her neglectful lover, British Bob.

Lost in troubled thought, she started when Montillion’s well-modulated voice, coming from just behind, said, “Child, it’s daybreak, why aren’t you in bed?”

Not wanting him to see her tears, she didn’t turn around. She blinked anxiously and said, “I—I was just about to come inside.”

The concerned factotum joined her at the balcony’s stone railing as the rising sun cleared the horizon. “What are you doing out here alone?” he asked, placing a square hand atop hers on the railing. She smiled, but didn’t trust herself to speak, or even to look at him. Frowning with worry, Montillion reached up, gently cupped her chin in his hand, turned her face toward him, and saw the diamond drops of tears matting her long dark lashes.

“Oh, my dear, child,” he said, understanding immediately. “You’re sad, of course.”

“Sad? Why should I be sad?” she said, smiling ruefully, “Just because I’ve turned back into a pumpkin. That’s no reason to be sad.”

“This is all my fault,” he said, his brow creased with care.

“No. No, it’s not,” she said, taking the clean linen handkerchief he quickly offered and dabbing at her eyes. “The fault is mine.”

Silently remonstrating himself, Montillion shook his graying head and said, “None of the blame is yours, child. I should never have done this to you.”

She smiled bravely. “You should never have done what? Given me the best two weeks of my entire life? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m very glad that you did.” But even as she said it, fresh tears welled up in her eyes.

“No,” he was unconvinced, “it was a terrible mistake. It was wrong. I never considered your feelings when—”

“I was eager to play the part of the princess,” she cut in, “and I’m happy to have been given the opportunity. Really. After all,” she managed a weak smile despite her tears, “it was the best role of my career.”

Tenderhearted, Montillion was deeply touched. He placed a fatherly arm around her slender shoulders and said, “If it helps any, I want you to know, you are an exemplary princess.”

“
Was
an exemplary princess,” she corrected.

Patting her bare arm affectionately, he sighed wearily and said, “Child, at times we all question our lot in life. I, myself, have wondered why it couldn’t have been me who sat on the throne of the Hartz-Coburg kingdom instead of the old king.”

“You have?” she looked up at him, surprised that he would have ever entertained such a disloyal thought.

“I have,” he admitted with a self-mocking laugh. “But not often. Generally I am most content with my station in life. I am needed in my position and that is reward in itself. Besides, consider, if you will, all the duties a sovereign
must
perform. They have no choice. Think of the countless strictures placed on them. And the constant worry over the financial health of their kingdom. Their entire life is spent in service that surely must seem, at times, like a never-ending prison sentence. They have little freedom. Even when they choose a mate, it is generally done for the good of the crown. Love has little or nothing to do with royal marriages. A monarch listens not to his heart, but to his head.” Montillion fell silent, hoping what he’d said helped soothe her hurt a little.

Feeling better, her old spunk quickly resurfacing, Robbie Ann said, “Shoot, Monty, if I were the princess, I wouldn’t mind marrying some titled rich man to save the crown. And I wouldn’t even care if he was twice my age. I’ve always had a fondness for older men.” Thoughtfully she added, “Maybe it’s because I never knew my father.”

Montillion cleared his throat needlessly and quickly changed the subject.

18