Secrets (3 page)

She looked at the patient buckskin. It had not occurred to her earlier that they would have to share a mount, caught up as she was in her dilemma. Now was not the time to insist upon propriety and she was sensible enough to realize it. He lifted her into the saddle. To her surprise, he did not leap up behind her. Instead, he led the horse forward.

Regina quickly became distressed. She had not thought that he would walk. His narrow-toed boots looked very uncomfortable. And it was unbearably hot. While she did not know the time of day, she guessed it was mid-afternoon and that it would be hours before the sun even began to set. “How far is the town?”

“Ten, twelve miles.”

She was aghast.

And he was resolute. He led the horse, his strides long and lithe, the muscles playing in his back, clearly visible beneath his thin, damp shirt, for he had removed his vest.

“Mr. Delanza,” she said immediately, unable to call him by his first name. He turned slightly to look at her without stopping. “Please. I can't let you walk. It's much too far.”

He squinted at her. “You—a fine lady—are inviting me to share that saddle with you?”

“You have saved my life.”

“You're exaggerating a bit, don't you think?”

“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “I am grateful. I can't ride if you're walking. Not such a distance. Please.” Her color had deepened but she did not care. She meant every word she had said. He had rescued her; undoubtedly he had saved her life. She could not repay him with callous insensitivity. He was all she had and she was acutely aware of it. A feeling of dependency was blossoming and becoming urgent. And she was even more grateful now for his interest in her sensibilities. He did not appear to be the kind of man who would be sensitive to a lady's distress, yet he obviously was.

He studied her with his too-sharp gaze before making a decision and jumping into the saddle behind her.
Regina's instant pleasure vanished at the feel of him behind her. She had not really considered the intimacy of such a position, and briefly, she was stunned by it. Abruptly she told herself that she did not care and that under these circumstances, rules were made to be broken. Yet she could feel the tension in his body, a tension as great as hers. Because he was a gentleman regardless of his appearance, he would ignore it—as she would. And she did not regret offering to share his mount with him. It seemed the least she could do after all that he had done.

They rode in silence. Regina was consumed with thoughts of her dilemma and peripherally aware that he was involved in his own brooding. The seed of panic in her breast, which had abated slightly, took its hint from the silence and rose up quickly to fill the void. It soon verged on fresh hysteria. No matter how often she told herself that she was Elizabeth Sinclair and that all would soon be well, the vacuum of ignorance she existed in unraveled the web of optimism she tried to spin. She had to regain her memory—she
had
to. How could she continue like this? She knew nothing about herself or her family, nothing about the train robbery which had brought her to these dire straits.

“Try and relax,” he said gruffly. “Let it go for now.”

She gripped the pommel, wondering at his sensitivity, his words a welcome distraction. She must remain calm and sensible whenever these bouts of hysteria threatened. Abruptly she shifted in the saddle so she could peer up at his face. “Please tell me what happened. Tell me about the train robbery. And tell me about James.”

He was silent for a long moment, and Regina thought he wasn't going to speak. When he did, his tone was matter-of-fact. “You were on your way to Miramar, to your wedding. My brother Edward and I were sent by Rick to meet you at Templeton. The train arrived late—without you on it. We learned from the other passengers that you jumped off of the train during the robbery. My brother rode back to Miramar to tell Rick what
happened. I set out to find you. It wasn't hard to do. I just followed the railroad tracks.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. For a moment she thought she had remembered, for a moment she thought the images were there and she could almost see them: frightened people, a gun, running, falling. But the moment was gone before she could grasp it and make sense of the jumbled, formless shapes and ideas. She didn't remember, but the mere notion of being involved in a train robbery was shattering. A shudder swept through her.

He had been riding with his free hand on his thigh, now he touched her arm briefly. “Don't dwell on it,” he told her. “It's not going to help to get yourself more frightened.”

“I
am
frightened,” she said. She twisted to look into his eyes. Their gazes collided. Neither one looked away.

“There's no reason to be frightened. You'll rest at Miramar until you remember.”

She did not relax. “What if I never remember?”

For a moment he did not answer. “You
will
remember. It just may take some time.”

“And what about those thieves? What happened to them?” she cried.

“They escaped.”

Regina moaned.

“They'll be caught,” Slade said firmly. “Don't even worry about them. They're the least of your concerns. Elizabeth, we protect our own. We always have. We always will. Trust me.”

She strained to look into his eyes again. There was nothing enigmatic about his regard. It was hard with determination, with promise. Regina believed him. And with the belief came absolute trust. He was James's brother and he was her rescuer, and now, now he was offering to protect her. She would eagerly accept his offer. “Thank you.”

He gave her a smile. It was tentative, a small form of encouragement. Very slightly, and just as tentatively, Regina smiled back. His arm slipped around her waist.
She stared at it. The masculinity of it—of him—struck her at once, as did the protectiveness of his gesture.

Then she wondered what would happen when she saw James, which would undoubtedly be in the very near future. He must be waiting for her in Templeton, distraught.

Panic swept through her again. She tried to summon up a recollection of her fiancé. To her dismay, to her horror, Slade's image was implanted irrevocably in her mind now, especially the image of his hard bare arm wrapped around her waist; James was nothing more than a vague, faceless shadow. She didn't even know what she herself looked like, she realized in shock.

“What is it?” Slade asked quickly.

His astuteness was unnerving. “I can't remember James no matter how hard I try. It doesn't seem right.”

Slade said nothing, but because they were in such an intimate position, she felt the tension overcome his body again. Abruptly his arm fell away from her.

“I don't even know what I look like,” she added.

A long pause followed her words. “Blonde,” Slade said roughly. “Your hair is long and blonde. Not pale or silver, but gold, with red in it.”

She twisted to look at him, surprised that he would volunteer such a detailed description of her hair. But he would not look at her again.

“Tell me about Miramar. Tell me about James,” she said into the awkward silence. She was aware of being pleased that he liked her hair. “Tell me everything I should know.”

“Miramar?” His voice softened. “You'll fall in love with it the moment you see it. There's no place on earth like Miramar. Our land lies between the Santa Rosa Creek in the north and the Villa Creek in the south. It butts right up to the Pacific Ocean. Once we had over fifty thousand acres; once our borders reached the land that's now the town of Templeton. We've only got a third of the original grant left, but what we do have is the heart of God's country.”

Regina was motionless. This man was in love, she realized, stunned, in love with this place called Miramar. It was almost as if he were talking about a woman.

“The rancho is mostly hills and small hidden valleys, but it's good grazing land. We mostly run beef,” Slade said in the same soft voice. “But we've put a few acres to oranges and lemons and we even have an almond orchard.” He smiled. “Best almonds around. We've also got a winery and damn if we don't make the best wine in the entire state. By the coast the hills are covered with pine and crawling with wildlife. We hunt venison and elk in the winter and catch freshwater trout in the summer. Not for sport, but to eat. From time to time you can see more than a few gold eagles, and even the occasional baldy. There's damn good fishing in the ocean, too, and all year long you can watch the sea lions there, except for May and June, when they're breeding. The coast at Miramar is probably the most beautiful you'll ever see. Up north it's wild and rough, hemmed in by cliffs, but on the cove where we swim the beaches are flat and smooth, the color of those pearl ear-bobs you're wearing. Even so, the ocean can be dangerous—people have drowned there. You don't swim unless you're strong and fit. We've been swimming there since we were boys.”

“We?”

“My brothers and me. Edward…and James.”

Regina was silent. She was completely caught up in his glowing description of his home. She had never seen a sea lion, and wondered what it was exactly. Miramar sounded too beautiful, too wonderful to be true. And she could imagine three young boys playing there, while the mythical sea lions watched.

“Tell me about him,” Regina urged suddenly, aware of the small piercing of guilt. James was her fiancé and she not only couldn't remember anything about him, she didn't even have the slightest feelings for him. She was determined to know all about him before she was reunited with him. She realized that Slade was silent
and that he had tensed behind her. “James,” she repeated. “Tell me about him.”

“Jesus. I don't even know where to start.” His voice was rough.

“What does he look like?”

“Big. Bigger than me. Lots bigger. And handsome. Real handsome. Women…” He stopped.

Regina could guess what he had been about to say, and she shifted to look up at him again. She was shocked to see his mouth drawn in a grim line, his eyes bleak. When he caught her regarding him he quickly looked away.

“He could always have any woman he wanted. Not just because of his looks. But because he was kind. James was a kind man. There's no one kinder. He was always helping others, even louses—even those he shouldn't have bothered with.”

“Then I'm very lucky,” Regina said softly, but she still felt nothing at all except an extreme interest in how much Slade loved his brother. He didn't seem to hear her.

“No one's smarter than James,” Slade said. “With numbers and with words. Can he write! No one can write a prettier letter, I know that firsthand. And no one is a harder worker. And loyal. James was loyal, he'd never let you or anyone else down. When he made a promise, when he made a commitment, he kept it. No matter what.”

“He sounds like a paragon,” Regina said wistfully.

For a moment Slade was silent. “There was no one like James. No one. He was a paragon.”

It suddenly struck Regina that Slade was referring to her fiancé in the past tense. “Why do you keep saying he
was
this and he
was
that?” she asked.

Slade tensed. For a long time he could not speak, and Regina knew. “Because he
was
strong and he
was
smart,” he finally said. “But not anymore. James is dead.”

T
here was only one hotel in Templeton, right on Main Street, although the town's single saloon advertised that it also had rooms for rent. The hotel, a false-fronted, brand-new brick building, was adjacent to the saloon. Neither establishment had a name. The sign
HOTEL
and the sign
SALOON
were sufficient, apparently, for both the proprietors and the patrons of these establishments.

An occasional oak tree provided some shade at the southern end of town. There was a boardwalk instead of a paved sidewalk but no streetlights. Main Street was a wide dirt thoroughfare. The railroad ran parallel to it, one block over, on this side of the dry Salinas River.

On the other side of the hotel was a small bakery and cafe. There was also a general store, a meat market, an office of the West Coast Land Company, a barber shop, a blacksmith's, and several other retail establishments in the “business district,” which encompassed several blocks. Most of the buildings were wooden and very new; there were many plots of vacant land interspersed between them. The entire town probably had two dozen dwellings.

Slade told her that there had been a fire two years ago which had wiped out most of the town's center.
But by then Templeton had already seen its very brief heyday. It had been a railroad boomtown for just a few short years, founded in anticipation of the railroad's advent by shrewd speculators who had bought out and carved up the original Mexican ranchos. After the fire, many of these proprietors had gone elsewhere instead of rebuilding, leaving Templeton to doze quietly in the California sun, more ghostly than before.

Templeton's saving grace was its setting. It was surrounded by an endless line of sunburned hills and brilliant blue skies; occasionally a translucent silver-lined cloud puffed past them. No matter where one looked, there was beauty, majesty, and eternity in the California landscape.

Now Regina stood alone in the middle of the hotel room, unmoving. Slade had left her there just a moment ago, intent on finding the town's doctor.

Regina did not want to be alone. She trembled. Being alone was frightening. There had been so much comfort in Slade's presence; now there was a void. And anxiety was rushing in to fill the void created by her solitude. There was gaping loneliness in being alone in the hotel room, a stranger to herself.

How she yearned for Slade's presence, as if they were old and dear friends, not actual strangers. But they were really only that. In the hour or so that it had taken them to reach town, they had not furthered their acquaintance. After he had told her that James was dead, they had ridden in complete silence. She had been able to feel his grief. She would not intrude upon it, not knowingly. Her own heart had ached for him.

Suddenly Regina slid the dead bolt on the door. Her nerves, she realized, were shattered, but locking the door did little to soothe them. She turned, facing the room. There were five trunks stacked neatly in one corner. The top one was open. Had she had a maid, she would assume that someone had unpacked some of her things. But she did not have a maid, and she could only think the worst—that someone had been going through her belongings.

She trembled again. Why would someone invade her privacy like that? Those trunks belonged to her. Slade had said so. Even though she had not the faintest idea of what the trunks contained, she had a sense of being violated. But more importantly, would she recognize her things? Would her memory be jarred, and would she finally remember who she was?

Alone, she was desperate to know herself. But she was afraid, afraid that she would look in the trunks and be faced with another blank wall. She did not move.

Instead, her glance jerked over the room. It was small and shabby. The walls were papered in a pretty rosebud pattern, but they were stained and could use a good cleaning. There was a scarred bureau, a rickety armoire, and two upholstered chairs, but they did not match each other or the room. The bed was nothing more than a cot with a thin comforter and there was a hand-loomed rug underfoot which had seen too many trespassers. Regina reflected upon her setting. Although she didn't have her memory, she knew that this hotel room was not up to standard. Or—it was not up to
her
standard. So Elizabeth Sinclair was no stranger to travel, but she was used to somewhat better accommodations.

And then she saw the mirror.

For one second she stared. Then she rushed to it. Pain darted through her sore ankle but she ignored it. She came to a halt in front of the mirror and she blinked, staring at herself. Her hopes crashed. For she was looking not at a dear and familiar face, but at a pale and frightened stranger.

She choked on a sob, clutching the edge of the bureau to hold herself upright. Disappointment immobilized her. Shock made her dizzy. She had to fight to calm herself, taking deep, steadying breaths, until the floor ceased its eddying.

Finally the sensation of being on a moving ship passed. The dizziness disappeared. Still gripping the bureau tightly, she inspected herself as one woman might inspect another who was both a newcomer and a rival. There was a fine coating of dust on her face and
dirt stains on her bodice, but Regina barely saw them. Her hair was piled haphazardly on her head, and as Slade had said, it was a rich blonde tinged with red lights, a mass of shimmering honeys and golds. It was a very unusual color. She could understand how Slade would admire it, but the pleasure she had felt before over his apparent interest was gone.

She studied her face intensely. It was oval, high-cheekboned, delicate. Her mouth was full and rosy-red, her complexion pale but touched with gold beneath the dust. Her eyes were light-brown, amber. Her lashes were long and dark, as were her brows. It gave her a dramatic appearance.

Staring at the stranger in the mirror, she could only hope that she was dreaming. She touched her cheek to make sure that she was indeed staring at herself, to make sure that this awful and bizarre episode was real, and not a nightmare. It was real. Her fingertips were smooth on her skin, the floor beneath her feet was hard and solid, the room around three-dimensional, not one.

A rude, unwelcome thought intruded.
She had jumped off the train
. Regina's pulse accelerated. She still could not remember, and trying only caused an instant headache. Looking at herself now, she could understand why she had leaped off a speeding train. She was very beautiful, the kind of woman who could have been singled out by outlaws for more than robbery.

What had happened?
A terrible pain pierced the back of her head and a gunshot sounded. She clapped her hands over her ears. For a moment she stood frozen, frightened. Abruptly she turned and ran to the window, looking down at Main Street. It was deserted except for one overburdened dray pulled by two dusty mules. She lifted the window, which opened reluctantly. A warm breeze touched her damp face. She listened intently for another gunshot as a small boy slowly bicycled into view, a balloon tied to the back of his seat, but only heard a dog yapping, wind chimes, and some male laughter from the saloon below.

She knew that she hadn't heard a gunshot. It had been in her mind. Yet it had been so real. Had it been a memory?

Numb, Regina sank into the blue-and-white chair. For many minutes she did not think and she did not move. She did not dare. And when she did think, she found herself yearning for Slade.

Against her will, her gaze settled on the trunks. She made no move to go over to them. Yet she knew she must. She had just had a memory, she was certain of it. Had it been caused by the sight of her own reflection? If so, would her own possessions trigger an even greater recollection? Fear was almost immobilizing her. Sweat trickled down her cheekbones.

Like a somnambulist, Regina stood and moved slowly across the room. She leaned over the open trunk. Someone had indeed been there before her, rummaging among her clothes. They were rumpled, not folded neatly. She lifted out a day dress. The fabric was of the finest linen, and the garment was custom-made. She lifted out another dress. It was an expensive silk. She did not recognize either dress, and by the time she had reached the bottom of the trunk, she was breathing hard, as if she had run a great endurance race. She had been told that these were her possessions, but she had never seen them before. They had not revitalized her memory. And she was not hearing any more frightening gunshots in her mind, gunshots that sounded incredibly real.

She had only gone through one trunk, but she was exhausted. She did not have the strength to move it in order to open the one below, and she sank into a chair. She was perspiring. It was very hot out, but that wasn't why her shirtwaist was clinging to her skin.

Her memory was still blank, but she realized the effort hadn't been entirely in vain. She had just learned an important fact about herself. All of the clothes in that trunk belonged to a wealthy young woman. A very wealthy young woman. Slade hadn't told her that Elizabeth Sinclair was rich. It seemed like a glaring omission.

Dozens of questions were suddenly bubbling up in her, questions that she had to have answered. Was she rich? Who was her family and where was she from? And what about James? Had she been grieving before the train robbery? When she regained her memory, would she be devastated by his death? If only she could, at least, recall him!

Guilt pricked her and she covered her face with her hands. She was aware of waiting for Slade to return, of being eager for his return. Yet his brother, her fiancé, was dead. Even though she could not summon up the slightest feeling for him, she should be dwelling upon that, not upon the brother who had rescued her. She told herself that in the state she was in, it was only natural to need the one and only person she knew, to be looking to Slade for the comfort and strength he so readily offered her.

She bit her lip. She could not deny herself in these circumstances. Slade was the only person that tempered her fears. If she did not have him to rely on she would be so alone. No, she could not deny herself.

He did not look like a hero. She smiled slightly, her first smile in many hours. Heroes wore tweed hacking coats and doeskin breeches and rode gleaming black stallions. Heroes wore jet-black tailcoats and brilliant white shirts and gold signet rings with family crests and precious stones. Heroes did not wear denim pants so worn they were close to ripping, with sweaty cotton work shirts and dirty, oversized belt buckles. He was just a flesh-and-blood man, albeit an attractive one, and apparently one who might be a bit down on his luck, too. But he had rescued her. Gratitude swelled her heart once again, as it had done many times before in the past few hours.

Her warm thoughts were interrupted by a knock upon her door. For an instant Regina thought it was Slade. She eagerly rushed to the door, unbolted it, and swung it open. But Slade wasn't on the other side. And the moment Regina saw the other man she knew who
he was. He was bigger and fairer than Slade, and his face was rougher and not as handsome, but their eyes were exactly the same. Burning midnight eyes. Intense, passionate eyes. Relentlessly alert, intelligent eyes. This man was Slade's father, Rick Delanza.

His eyes lit up at the sight of her. He held out his arms. He said, “Elizabeth! Thank God you're all right!”

 

Slade leaned back in the hardwood chair, his head against the rough wall. He had a cigar in one hand, the tip lit and glowing, and a glass of whiskey in the other. Yet there was nothing relaxed or indulgent about his posture. His legs were bent at the knee and his feet braced hard against the broken tiles of the floor. He looked as if he might erupt from the small chair at any moment.

An open bottle sat on the small, rickety table in front of him. Slade was facing the door. Despite the heavy smoke which hung in the air, he saw his brother Edward the moment he paused in the doorless entrance of the shabby cantina which was in an alley well off of Templeton's main thoroughfare.

Edward strode forward. He was slightly taller than Slade, an inch or so over six feet, yet much bigger in build. Slade was whipcord-lean, Edward was abundantly muscular. Like Slade, he had midnight-black hair that framed a face that could only be described as handsome. But that was where all resemblance between the brothers ended. Edward was much fairer than Slade and his eyes were light-blue. His jaw was broader, his nose larger and slightly hooked. He was well-dressed in a dark suit and a white shirt, a silver waistcoat and a silk tie. Unlike most big men, he wore his clothes well and gracefully. Of course, they had been custom-made for him. His black boots were polished to a high sheen and he wore a dark Stetson, which he tossed onto the table beside his brother. “Goddammit, Slade. Couldn't you find a worse place?”

“Hello, brother.”

Edward pulled up a chair and grimaced as he looked at it before sitting down. “You actually like this kind of hellhole? Two blocks over Renee's got the best whiskey in town, and the softest girls.”

“I feel at home here,” Slade said mockingly.

Edward stared at him. “Bull. In Frisco you wouldn't be caught dead in a rat hole like this.”

Slade said nothing. He turned and signaled a fat saloon girl for another glass for his brother.

“You gonna drink that whole bottle?” Edward asked.

“Maybe.”

Edward sighed. He took Slade's glass and drank half of it, then pushed it back at him. “I miss him, too.”

“Don't start.”

“Why not?” Edward's face tightened, and his beautiful blue eyes glazed. “I'm not going to ever get over it, not ever. There was no one like James. But I'm not drinking myself to death.”

“You're only screwing yourself to death,” Slade said calmly. “If you don't watch out you'll catch something you'll regret.”

Edward was angry. “You should talk! You're no damn choirboy! I've met Xandria.”

“There's nothing between us and there never was,” Slade said flatly.