Corbin's Fancy (18 page)

Jewel knew that he was mocking her and she was respectably angry. “Jeff’s—well, Jeff is real special, that’s all. I don’t want you to hurt him.”

Temple shrugged and bent to fetch his roundbrimmed hat from the grass. “I see no reason to lie to you, dearest. When I find Jeff Corbin, I’m going to make him wish he’d been stillborn.”

Jewel gnawed at her lower lip, plucked at the dew-moistened grass with the fingers of one hand. “I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have been with you, if I’d known.”

“The fact that I wanted to shoot him and his damned balloon right out of the air should have given you a clue, sweetness,” replied Temple, shaking out his suitjacket and shrugging into it.

“This was where they slept,” Jewel announced distractedly, frowning at the blankets. “Jeff and that woman, I mean.”

Suddenly Temple’s smooth manner was gone. “Here?” he rasped.

His agitation clearly pleased Jewel; it was balm to her wounded pride. “Here,” she confirmed, with a broad smile. “You want her, too, don’t you? You want Fancy.”

“What makes you say that?” snapped Temple, uncomfortable and annoyed. He didn’t “want” Fancy; he had to shut her up, that was all.

“You called me by her name last night, that’s what. Twice.”

Temple cursed. Fancy Jordan had been a diversion to him, an amusement. Trying to seduce her had been a
pleasant game and nothing more. If he’d suffered after she disappeared—and he had—it was only because he hated losing. Now, he looked at the blankets on the ground and seethed.

Defeat was bitter, but defeat at the hands of Jeff Corbin was intolerable. “Jesus,” he muttered. And then he turned away, his determination to finish the chase and close in for the kill renewed. He’d been a fool to stay here, indulging with the likes of Jewel Stroble, letting his quarry quite literally fly away.

“He can make her beg for it!” Jewel hurled after him, with crude relish. “Ask anybody.”

Temple paused, caught in the clutches of a hot, squeezing fury. “Shut up,” he breathed.

“Jeff could make any woman do that,” persisted Jewel, blithely unruffled by Temple’s rising wrath. “He’s all man, that one.”

Temple turned and doffed his hat in a manner that was meant to be insulting. His smile was deliberately cruel. “I’m sure you know what you’re talking about, Jewel. How does he compare to the rest of the men in the territory, now that you’ve tried us all?”

Jewel uttered a cry of outrage and scrambled to her feet, her round face red, her teeth bared. She shrieked an Anglo-Saxon epithet and Temple laughed as he strode through the trees.

The small carnival was just coming to life, and his men were gathered into a tight little group, more than ready to get on with the business at hand. They had even saddled his horse.

Grinning, Temple mounted, realigned his hat, and took up the reins. At peace with his body, thanks to the tender attentions of Miss Jewel Stroble, he could now
turn his thoughts to the exquisite misery he planned for Jeff Corbin.

*   *   *

Fancy rose, yawning, from the bare, dusty floor. Because Jeff was still sleeping, she helped herself to his shirt, put it on quickly, and crept outside. Her dress and underthings, hastily rinsed out in the stream just after dawn, were draped over a blackberry bush a few yards from the mill’s entrance.

The garments were still damp, but Fancy was resigned to wearing them anyway, having no other choice. She smiled wryly as she hurried back into the mill and put them on. When she was fully dressed, she nudged Jeff with the toe of one shoe.

He stirred, grumbling, and then sat up. “What—”

“Get dressed, you waster,” Fancy ordered good-naturedly. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Jeff gave her a look and then fetched his trousers and boots, his shirt and his wits. “You’re right about that,” he conceded, rather grudgingly. “God, I’m hungry. Do we have time to fry Hershel?”

Fancy giggled, tossing her unbound, tangled hair back over her shoulders, grooming it as best she could with her fingers. Her hairpins were lost now and she had no hair brush, having left the carnival camp in such haste. “Sorry,” she sang.

“I’d like to know what the hell good it does me to be rich,” grumbled Jeff, making his way out of the mill and into the bright morning sunshine. Fancy followed, smiling.

He stopped so suddenly that she collided, hard, with his back. Her heart leaped into her throat and she peered around his right arm, fully expecting to see
Temple Royce. Instead, she was met with the annoyed glare of a grizzled old farmer.

There was a shotgun resting easily across his thick, meaty arms. “I hope you folks got a real good reason for mashin’ down my wheat with that contraption yonder,” he imparted.

Jeff spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture, and Fancy stepped up beside him, seeing in a sidelong glance that he was grinning. “Don’t you remember me, Eustis?”

The farmer squinted, bending forward, loosening his hold on the shotgun just a little. “Jeff? Jeff Corbin? Jesus and Mary, it
is
you!”

There followed an exchange of jovial greetings and blustered cusswords.

“Why, last time I seen you,” raved Eustis, “you was no higher than your daddy’s belt buckle! I heared the youngest feller got religion!”

Jeff was solemn for just the merest flicker of time, and Fancy couldn’t tell whether it was the mention of his father or Keith’s ordination as a minister that had dampened his good spirits.

“How’s Daniel?” Eustis rushed on, with gruff good humor. “Is your mama still the same pretty little spitfire she used’ta be?”

“Papa died,” Jeff answered quietly.

“Daniel?” Eustis’s weathered farmer’s face contorted a little. “That’s right bad news. I’m sorry to hear it.”

A muscle leaped in Jeff’s jawline, but was visibly subdued. “You look good, Eustis,” he said, and it was clear that his cordial manner required an effort. “Is Isabella well?”

“Fat as a hen and got all her teeth yet!” chortled Eustis. “Who’s this little gal?”

Jeff stiffened and Fancy knew that he’d forgotten her presence until that moment. He glanced at her and the guarded warning she read in his eyes stung even more than the knowledge that she could slip his mind so easily. Was he ashamed to present her, with her mussed hair and damp, star-spangled dress, as his wife?

“Eustis, this is Frances. My wife.”

Frances. What was wrong with ‘Fancy’? She extended her hand to Eustis and smiled warmly. “Everyone calls me Fancy,” she said.

Eustis returned her smile, took the offered hand in a strong grip. “I’m real pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he replied. “Come along now, and I’ll have Isabella rustle up some breakfast for you.”

Jeff nodded gratefully, but when Eustis turned to lead the way to his house, his gaze sliced three inches into Fancy’s heart.

Certain now that he was ashamed of her, even ashamed of her name, Fancy glared up at him in silent defiance.

“Everyone calls me Fancy!” he mimicked in a brutal undertone as they followed the unsuspecting Eustis along the creek bank and into an ocean of wheat.

“Perhaps you’d like me to change my name to Jewel,” Fancy hissed in furious response. “Or maybe Banner!”

Jeff paled and his jaw was clamped steely hard. Indigo sparks flared in his eyes and then dimmed to cold disgust. He pressed one hand into the small of Fancy’s back and propelled her onward.

It wasn’t until they reached Eustis’s weathered frame house that he pretended to like her again. Fancy wasn’t
fooled by the warm smiles, the loving gestures, the careful introductions. Despite all those amenities, the cool disdain still glittered in his eyes.

Fancy smiled and ate the hearty breakfast Eustis’s Isabella provided, but inside she was broken and bruised. She would have liked nothing better than to throw herself down on the nearest bed and sob her heart out, but that luxury would have to wait.

When Jeff and Eustis went out to look at the balloon, however, she relaxed a little. Isabella Ponder was a warm, plain-featured woman, easy to be with.

“I never!” exulted the older woman, standing at the window over her iron sink. From there, the slightly limp balloon was clearly visible. “Trust one of Daniel Corbin’s boys to carry his bride away in a blamed contraption like that!”

Fancy might have smiled if she hadn’t felt so much like crying. Isabella would probably talk about Jeff and the balloon for months, maybe even years. “Did you know the Corbin family well?” Fancy asked, mostly to make conversation.

“Well as could be expected. They weren’t at the Wenatchee place much, ‘cept in the early years.”

“What are they like?” Fancy was surprised at the smallness of her voice.

Isabella turned, her broad face gentle. “Why, child, don’t tell me you haven’t met them?”

“Just Keith,” replied Fancy, her coffee cup shaking in her fingers. She set it down with brisk awkwardness.

“That Jeff! What was he thinkin’ of, marryin’ without his kin there to celebrate with him?”

Fancy lowered her eyes. She couldn’t very well tell Isabella that he probably had no wish to show off such a bride. Like as not, his family would be furious when
they learned of the marriage. “I—It was sudden,” she managed, covering her left hand with her right in an effort to hide the finger where a wedding band should have been.

There was a short, poignant silence; Fancy could almost hear Isabella going over the reasons for a marriage to be sudden and settling on the most scandalous one.

“I’m not pregnant!” she blurted out, before she could stop herself.

Isabella chuckled warmly and patted Fancy’s hands. Before she could say anything, however, Jeff spoke from the doorway.

“Only a matter of time,” he said, with a roguish grin. Startled, both Isabella and Fancy jumped in their chairs.

“Land, I thought you went with Eustis!” trilled Isabella fondly. “Did you come back to take your pretty bride away before we could even have our chat?”

Jeff was looking at Fancy with fondness, though that subtle rancor still chilled his eyes. “I’m afraid we’ll have to leave as soon as possible. I just came back to tell you that it will be a few minutes before the balloon is ready.”

Fresh despair filled Fancy; she’d forgotten about the balloon. “I—I’ll have to fetch Hershel—” she stammered, unwilling to voice her fear of flying in that awful vessel again.

Jeff shook his head. “I’ll get him,” he said. And then he was gone again and Fancy dissolved in tears.

Isabella was all motherly concern. She fussed and patted and commiserated, but she didn’t question, and Fancy was grateful for that.

Half an hour later, Fancy had recovered. She was sipping hot coffee and listening to Isabella’s chatter when Jeff strode back into the farmhouse kitchen, looking frustrated and annoyed.

He muttered a swearword and Fancy looked up at him with puffy, questioning eyes. A flame of fear leaped in a secret part of her heart. “Temple?” she whispered.

There was a scathing reprimand in Jeff’s gaze. “Nothing so dramatic,” he snapped, now making no effort at all to portray the devoted husband. “The hydrogen tank is empty. The balloon is deflating now and Eustis and I are going to put it in the barn.”

Fancy felt a degree of relief, though she didn’t dare show it. “Oh,” she said, distractedly.

“We’ll spend the night here—” He paused, sparing a deferential nod for the lady of the house before continuing. “If that’s all right with you, Isabella.”

“You know it is!” beamed Eustis’s wife, delighted at the prospect of company. Living in relative isolation as she did, she was probably lonely. “My goodness, of course it is!”

“Thank you,” Jeff said, and then he went out again.

Isabella was instantly out of her chair, her face alight. “We’ll just fix you a nice bath, Fancy, and then we’ll wash and iron that dress of yours, proper-like.” She paused and gave a sympathetic chortle. “For that matter, I reckon you’d like to curl up in the spare room and have a nap. The shadows under your eyes tell me that man doesn’t let you rest much!”

Fancy colored and averted her eyes. Actually, her lack of rest, where the previous night was concerned anyway, was strictly her own fault. She couldn’t very well point that out, of course.

While Fancy bathed, hidden away in the cinnamon-and coffee-scented pantry, Isabella laundered her clothes. A warm wrapper, much too large, was provided, along with a towel and a brush for her hair.

Finally, groomed and scrubbed, Fancy padded gratefully into the spare room and collapsed onto the bed. She remembered the wicked, wonderful things she had done with and to Jeff on the floor of Eustis Ponder’s mill house and ached. He had been so beautifully vulnerable then, submitting to her love, reveling in it.

Why couldn’t he return it?

Tears pricked Fancy’s eyes and slid down her cheeks. She curled up in a tight little ball and stifled the hurting sobs that kept rising into her throat.

Beyond the open doorway, Isabella sang happily as she worked. There was a certain comfort in her presence and Fancy gradually stopped crying. After all, she’d had a bath and a good breakfast and now she was going to have a badly needed nap. It had been a long, long time since she’d felt so pampered and safe.

After one muffled sniffle, Fancy closed her eyes and let sleep overtake her.

*   *   *

“Don’t you bother her!” scolded Isabella in a hushed voice as Jeff lingered in the doorway.

Lying there on the spare room bed, Fancy looked like an angelic child, her spun-honey hair trailing out over the pillows. She was practically lost in the flannel wrapper Isabella had loaned her, but the luscious tip of one breast peeked invitingly from its folds.

Jeff considered closing the door and sampling the sweet morsel, but immediately dismissed the whim. After all, that would lead to other things, things Eustis and Isabella wouldn’t be able to help hearing.

“Come on back here and have some pie with Eustis,” Isabella insisted, still keeping her voice low. “That child is plumb wore out.”

A reluctant grin curved Jeff’s lips. Considering the night that “child” had had, Isabella was very likely right. He stepped back and closed the door carefully.