Velvet Thunder (29 page)

She stepped into the foyer and her smile froze. She halted abruptly, as if she ran headlong into a brick wall.

“It won't be long now. It's almost over,” Heath had said.

Her heart plummeted. He would be leaving soon. Dizzy, she clutched the entrance hall table. How would she ever let him go? Now that the time was drawing near, she couldn't imagine life without him.

“Stevie, I've put the baby down,” Pilar told her, but Stevie was unaware.

She moved in a daze. Through the foyer, up the stairway, into her bedchamber, she floated like a wraith. Once inside, she didn't bother to light the lamp.

An hour later Blue found her, sitting in the dark, in a rocker beside Summer's cradle, staring blankly at the infant, holding a strange leather pouch in her lap. The baby slept soundly. Stevie cried softly.

Blue crossed over to Stevie on silent feet. She lit the lamp at her side. “What's wrong, honey?”

Quickly, Stevie hid the evidence of her weakness, brushing her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “He'll be leaving soon.” The words were torn from the depths of her heart.

There was no doubt in Blue's mind to whom she referred. She pulled the velvet-tufted vanity chair close beside Stevie and took a seat. “And you're just gonna let him go? Just like that.”

“What else can I do?”

“You can fight for him.”

Stevie turned wild eyes on her new friend. She stretched her hands out at her sides. “Fight who? His family? Society? The whole world?”

“No, sweetie.” Blue's demeanor was calm in light of Stevie's outburst. “Yourself. Your own insecurity.” She paused and lowered her voice for emphasis. “And maybe even your own prejudice.”

Stevie was stunned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Blue patted Stevie's shoulder gently. “You're a smart girl. You figure it out.”

Stevie was deep in thought when Blue left the room. Was it possible that she was a bigot? she wondered. Was she reluctant to pledge her life to Heath not because she was Indian, but because he was white? Did she harbor so much hatred and bitterness against the whites who had caused her mother's death that she was unable to give herself freely to one of their race? The possibility tortured her.

Later, when Blue returned to check on Summer, Stevie was pacing the room frantically. “I've got to find out,” Stevie said.

“Find out what?”

Stevie halted in front of the window, absently pulling the shade. She turned and narrowed her eyes on Blue. “Don't play innocent with me.”

Blue feigned horror. “Me, innocent? Have you forgotten where we met?”

Stevie giggled. It was good that Blue could tease about her past. The children had healed her emotions more quickly than anything else could have. Pushing the thought aside, Stevie returned to the matter at hand. “I've got to find out if I'm a . . . a bigot.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

Stevie's brow furrowed. “I don't know. Any suggestions?”

“Well, there's the barn dance. You could attend just like the other single ladies in town. Then, when Heath asks you to dance, accept. Act natural. And let nature take its course.”

Stevie considered the suggestion and decided it was perfect. She ran across the room, tossed the package she had been holding on to the bed, and threw her arms around Blue's shoulders. “You're brilliant.”

Blue was taken aback by Stevie's display of affection. She returned Stevie's hug, reluctant to let her go. “I've been called many things, honey, but brilliant wasn't one of them.”

Stevie chuckled. The thought of dancing in Heath's arms lightened her heart. She threw her head back on her shoulders, whirled about the room in a waltz. Moonlight illumined her willowy frame. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she stopped mid-twirl. She moved to within inches of the swivel mirror. “A boy.” She met Blue's gaze in the mirror, clearly horror-stricken. “I look like a boy.”

For the first time since her mother's death, she wanted to look feminine, desirable—God help her—like the finely dressed ladies in town who crossed to the other side of the street to avoid her and whispered behind their lace-gloved hands when she passed.

“That can be remedied,” Blue soothed.

Doubt dulled Stevie's eyes. Dreams of dancing with Heath, of having everyone recognize that she was his woman, died in the reality of the tomboy who stared back at her from the looking glass. How could anyone transform that creature into a femme fatale? Unable to bear the sight of herself, she lowered her eyes. Her gaze fell to the package on the bed. She moved to the bed and picked up the pouch. Untying the rawhide strings, she dumped the contents onto the eyelet comforter.

Both women gasped at the beautiful garments. Stevie ran her hand beneath Gentle Fawn's wedding dress and lifted it to her cheek. Like melted butter, the platinum doeskin slid down her fingers. The only hint of color atop the bed was provided by the blue-white glass beads decorating the neckline, fringed sleeves, hemline, moccasins, and headband.

“Try it on,” Blue suggested.

Stevie shed her leather attire. Silently, reverently, she slipped into the exquisite clothes. The doeskin sheathed her naked body like a lover's caress. The floor-length dress fit her like a second skin. She slipped the moccasins on her slender feet, slid the finely beaded headband over her head. It was impossible to determine where her waist-length hair left off and the velvety buckskin began, so identical was their color.

“Oh, Stevie. look at you.”

This time, when Stevie studied her reflection in the mirror, she didn't see a tomboy. She saw a slender yet voluptuous woman, a fair-haired Indian princess.

“You have to wear that to the dance.”

A short, sharp burst of laughter escaped Stevie's lips. She covered her mouth with her hand, happiness and mischief darkening her eyes. “Can you see old Mr. Mac when I walk in dressed like this? He'll curse a blue streak, rail against the godless savages, and warn everybody to mind their scalps.”

She pretended to hitch nonexistent trousers beneath her armpits. With her tongue in her cheek, mascarading as a plug of tobacco, she effected a western twang. “Galldern heatherns.” She limped around the room, aping Mr. Mac. “Steal the silver dollars off'n a dead man's eyes. Oughta hemp the lot of ‘em. Galldern murderin' redskins.”

Blue laughed heartily. “Every man there will give his right arm for a dance with you. Including old Mr. Mac.”

“That I've gotta see.”

Blue came up behind her and placed her hands on Stevie's shoulders. Gently, she turned her until she was once again facing the mirror. Her voice was a heartfelt whisper when she declared, “But Heath won't let another man near you.” Blue left then, taking Summer down to the kitchen for her bottle.

Stevie's moccasined feet moved of their own volition. The beaded fringe made a musical swish with each step. Slowly, she removed Gentle Fawn's precious clothes, laid them aside as if they were a prize of great price, and dressed in a voluminous white nightgown.

She moved to the window. With a gentle tug she raised the window shade halfway. Heath was on her mind and in her heart. “Good night, sweetheart” was her heartfelt whisper.

He couldn't hear her hushed good-night. But leaning a broad shoulder against the cottonwood beneath her window, he released a deep sigh into the darkness.

The morning of August 9 found Adobe Wells bursting with barely contained excitement.

Layard Shackelford was coming to town to inspect the mine, and tomorrow the governor would arrive in time for a barn dance to be held at sundown. Men, women, and children packed the sleepy little town.

Judge Jack watched the activities from his courthouse chamber overlooking Main Street. Buckboards, wagons, carriages, and saddle horses jammed the streets and lined the tie rails. Literally hundreds of miners, cowpunchers, reporters, businessmen, and gunslicks joined the townsfolk. Rowdy ruffians and stalwart citizens alike came from throughout the territory, anticipating the public announcement of the biggest diamond strike in the country.

The judge had informed the miners that their jobs depended upon Shackelford's report. That they would be rich, if the mine were judged genuine. And they believed him.

Everything was going as planned, down to the venders and hawkers who filled the plaza, selling coffee, food, and souvenirs. The saloons had opened early to accommodate the merrymakers. The gambling tables and brothels were doing a booming business. And though it was still early in the day, he could see that many of the revelers were already drunk or well on the way.

All according to plan . . .

Out of the judge's line of vision, Heath stood beside the hitching rail in front of the Silver Dollar Saloon. When the judge took a step back and dropped heavy curtains in place, Heath turned his attention to several old codgers sitting on a bench fronting the saloon. They had formed a musical group—fiddles, juice harps, and base jugs. In anticipation of the following days barn dance, they were practicing exuberantly. The musicians weren't exactly the New York Philharmonic, but the carefree music was mildly distracting.

Ted Reno had been replaced by Jerky McGahee—a gutless wonder who made even Reno seem brave—as marshal of Adobe Wells by Judge Jack. There was no one to stop the sporadic scuffles that kept breaking out along the streets and boardwalks. Nobody seemed to worry about the violence, Heath noted, tensing as the fistfights grew in intensity and frequency. And he couldn't intervene without revealing that he was a marshal. All he could do was watch with growing disgust.

Just after sunrise he had attended a duel between two attorneys. The best he could figure, they'd fought over a woman. What else? Seems the lady in question couldn't decide which man she wanted, said she would take the one left alive.

Scores of onlookers had lounged on the grassy knoll down by the creek to witness the grisly proceedings. When the smoke cleared, one man was shot clean through the heart, the other gravely wounded. Again, nobody cared. The crowd just melted away, in search of other mischief. Heath could hardly understand such apathy, but was powerless to do anything about it.

. “Stop, thief!” A call rang out, drawing Heath's attention. In front of Bret Dowling's general store, a man was making for his horse, carrying a bag close to his chest. Heath rounded the railing, but before he could cross the street, Bret's son, William, appeared on the portal, leveled his shotgun, and virtually blew the bandit's head off.

“Damn!” Heath exclaimed, halting in mid-stride.

Two passersby carried the bloody corpse to Radner Banks, who stood in the doorway of his mortuary, rubbing his hands together. Two men dead since sunrise, with the prospects of more before nightfall. After that, it was anybody's game. The greedy mortician looked as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine.

Revolted, Heath turned away, centering his attention on the boardinghouse. He caught sight of Stevie and relaxed instinctively. She, Pilar, Pridgen, and Sandy were watching the bedlam from the hotel portal.

Pridgen's face was beet red and darkening. The hustling, bustling town bore little resemblance to the lifelong home the old man knew and loved, and the change was taking its toll on him.

“Mr. Pridgen, wouldn't you like to sit down?”

He ignored Stevie's offer. “The whole town's gone crazy. Shackelford'll probably be trampled by a mob of drunks when he gets off the stage. If he knows what's good for him, he'll just keep right on going.” He slammed his fist against the wall.

“Might as well,” Sandy interjected. “There's nothing but bats, rocks, and dirt in that mine!” No one responded, as he had declared this sentiment nearly every waking hour since Judge Jack had run him off his ranch.

“Now, Sandy,” Pilar soothed. “Don't get so excited. You know what Sully said. You have to take it easy. You mustn't tax yourself.”

Sandy calmed instantly at his ladylove's touch. He glanced at Stevie, who was watching Heath on the boardwalk watching her. Satisfied that he wouldn't be overheard, Sandy leaned close to Pilar's ear. “I don't recall you warning me about overdoing last night.”

Pilar's face flushed. Her lecture to Sandy on the propriety of teasing one's lover within earshot of one's daughter was forestalled when the stage rumbled into town.

The jehu cracked the whip sharply to attract the crowd's attention. The mob roared when they saw the shiny Abbot-Downing Concord coach and stampeded the express station. Drunks and malcontents cursed and elbowed their way to the front. Several more fights broke out.

Henry Sims and Carlos Garcia exited the courthouse and began clearing a path to the stage for Judge Jack and Rachel. They elbowed what they considered the scum and riffraff out of their boss's way.

Judge Jack wore his best black suit and Stetson. With his black eye patch and blond hair, he cut a dashing figure.

Rachel was dressed in a lemon and ebony striped silk gown, complimented with jet pendant, bracelet, and ring. Her brilliantly colored red hair bulged from beneath a black leghorn straw bonnet that was tied at her throat with lemon grosgrain ribbons.

Against the backdrop of the tattered townsfolk and ragged miners, the exquisitely attired couple looked like they'd dressed to effect a striking picture. They had.

His best politician's smile in place, Judge Jack grasped the newcomer's hand when he stepped off the stage and gave it a hearty shake. “Mr. Shackelford, welcome to Adobe Wells.”

Shackelford returned Jack's greetings, then cut his eyes to Rachel.

“I'll introduce Mrs. Smyth when we get out of this crowd,” the judge said close to Shackelford's ear. “But I must make a brief announcement before we retire to my quarters.”

Shackelford smiled, nodding his agreement.

The judge climbed to the box of the stage, held up both black-gloved hands, and waited for the unruly mob to quiet. His knee-length frock coat flared open, revealing a double brace of pearl-handled pistols tied low on his thighs. The picture Judge Elias Colt Jack presented was one of unequaled power and uncompromising menace. It was a daunting combination.

His sophisticated northern tone coupled with the fire burning in his pale eye completed the image. “Friends and fair citizens of Adobe Wells, we all know the importance of Mr. Shackelford's visit here today. He will inspect the mine and—I fully expect—will confirm its genuineness.”

At that, the crowd went wild. The alcohol-crazed men fired their weapons in celebration, setting horses to bucking, asses to braying, babies to crying, and mamas to shushing. Fights broke out like bursts of popcorn, but were quickly broken up by Sims, Garcia, and their underlings.

When a semblance of order was restored, the judge continued. “I'm taking Mr. Shackelford inside to allow him a few minutes to recover from his arduous trip from Santa Fe. At one o'clock we'll all go to the cave, permit Mr. Shackelford to examine the mine, and then hear his report.”

Judge Jack, Rachel, and Shackelford started for the courthouse. Again, the judge's ruffians cleared a path through the riotous crowd. When the door to the courthouse was firmly closed behind him, the judge turned to the man masquerading as Layard Shackelford. “James, permit me to introduce my partner, Rachel Smyth. Rachel, this is James Filmore.”

Filmore bowed politely over Rachel's outstretched hand. He was a tall, handsome man who looked to be in his early forties. A large dimple in his chin caught Rachel's eye. She smiled seductively at him.

When he saw Rachel's smile, Filmore winked at her. “Judge, I didn't know you had such a lovely associate. It must be a pleasure doing business with one as beautiful as she. I confess that I envy you.”

Before Jack could speak, Rachel seized the conversation. “Why, thank you, Mr. Filmore. We're fortunate to have an actor of your stature.” She batted her long eyelashes at the performer.

It occurred to Jack that Filmore wasn't the only actor in the room. In fact, he would pit Rachel's theatrical abilities against Filmore's any day. He shrugged mentally, more interested in his scheme than Rachel and Filmore's dubious fascination with each other.

“We'll leave for the mine in an hour. I'll blindfold you in front of the crowd. I trust you have your speech prepared?”

“Yes, sir, indeed.” Filmore tapped his breast pocket. “When I get through with my announcement, the whole world will believe that your mine is unimpeachably genuine.”

“That's what I'm paying you for,” Judge Jack finished dryly.

 

 

An hour later the three conspirators descended the stairs to a covered carriage awaiting them in front of the courthouse. The judge's carriage led a long procession of conveyances—wagons, buckboards, horses, even dog drawn carts—to the mine.

Many of the liquor-crazed miners stumbled behind on foot, arm in arm, singing as they went. They were oblivious of the relentless summer sun beating down upon their bare heads, oblivious of the fool's errand they were on.

Riding Warrior, Heath was situated about halfway in the procession. From his high perch, he was provided an encompassing view. The festive air reminded him of a Fourth of July picnic in New York. The vendors and hawkers, who accompanied the crowd, continued to peddle their food and merchandise, lending a holiday spirit to the throng.

Most of the rough westerners clutched a bottle of rotgut in their hands. He suspected correctly that some had spent their last pennies for the mind-altering libations. And those who had money remaining in their pockets were easy targets for the thieves and tricksters working their way through the throng.

Uneasy, he scanned the crowd for Stevie. He didn't find her.

When the parade arrived at the mine, Judge Jack went through the ceremony of blindfolding Filmore. “This is to protect all of our interests in the mine,” he explained to the unnaturally quiet crowd. “No one knows where the mother lode is located but me. And for your sake, I intend to keep it that way.”

Spontaneously, the deluded believers began to chant, “Judge Jack, Judge Jack . . .”

One big miner boomed, “Judge Jack for governor.” Another close beside Heath threw an empty bottle of Red Eye in the air and shouted, “Judge Jack for president.”

Heath almost laughed. He shook his head, amazed at how desperate these people were for a hero. Just human nature, he guessed absently, searching the crowd for a sight of black leather and platinum braids. He hoped to God that Stevie'd had the good sense to remain behind at the boardinghouse. Even as the thought occurred, he discounted it. She was close by, he could sense it.

With ostentatious pageantry the judge led the blindfolded inspector into the cave. They returned thirty minutes later. The judge stood on a flat-bed wagon and signaled for attention.

Standing in the shade of a nearby cottonwood, Heath awaited the judge's report, though he knew what it would be. For the third time he made a visual search for Stevie. Predictably, he came up empty. She was so tiny, there was no way she would stand out in this gathering of rough and tumble miners. He sighed his frustration and listened to the judge's announcement.

“Friends and citizens of Adobe Wells”—the judge began formally—“ our mine has now been inspected by an official representative of Governor Ned Casson.” The judge smiled benignly at the representative. “Mr. Shackelford comes to us with impeccable credentials. As both a geologist and a mining engineer from the California Department of Mines.” Every second that passed excitement mounted, just as the judge intended. “He is one of the greatest diamond experts in the world. So it is with great pleasure and personal pride that I present him to you.”

The onlookers roared in expectation. Judge Jack allowed several minutes for an ensuing celebration before attempting to quiet the mob again. Finally, he motioned Shackelford forward.

Heath's sapphire eyes were as cold and hard as a blue diamond when Shackelford replaced Judge Jack at the front of the wagon bed. He could hardly wait to arrest the impostor—the man who was a co-conspirator in fraud, murder, and God only knew what else.

But he would have to bide his time.