Delilah's Flame (14 page)

Relaxing more, he closed his eyes and got a vision of a blaze of red hair. He could almost smell that exotic scent Delilah wore, something from the East, Oriental and exciting. He remembered how much he had liked that perfume and the way it had seemed to grow more potent as she responded to his touch. The memory almost overshadowed that of her deceit.

Delilah was some woman, a she-cat if ever California had one. The lady didn’t like losing any better than he did—but she had lost the bet they made. She owed him, and her debt was more than the return of the stallion. She owed him a week of bowing to his will. He aimed to collect.

The answering wire from Sarah arrived the following morning. With money from the bank draw she authorized, Tabor bought himself a suit of clothes and hired a saddle horse for the day. Tracking down Clement Damon wasn’t nearly as baffling as tracking Delilah. It seemed half the storefronts in San Francisco bore the Damon name. He bypassed the Damon Lumber Company and Damon Dry Goods Store, concluding the best chance of finding the man would be behind a desk in the Damon Bank on Montgomery Street.

Tabor considered himself correct when he saw Damon’s name listed on the dedication stone as bank president. He entered the building and approached the only teller who wasn’t occupied with a customer.

“Is that Clement Damon?” Tabor asked, observing a prominently displayed portrait of a man around fifty with silver-touched temples and a face that showed strength and character.

The teller looked up from a line of numbers he had been figuring. “Yes. And a fine man too,” he responded. “May I help you, sir?”

“Maybe,” Tabor answered, bending down to look into the teller’s cage. “I’d like to see Mr. Damon.”

The teller shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Damon comes in only once a week, on Friday.”

Tabor frowned and straightened to his full six feet, two inches. “That’s three days. I don’t plan on being in town that long,” he said. “Do you think there’s a way I could get a message to Mr. Damon to ride in and see me tomorrow?”

“I’m sure you could send a message,” the teller answered. “Mr. Fenton, our vice president, goes out to Damon House twice weekly to report on the bank’s business. He generally carries personal messages for Mr. Damon as well. He’ll be going tonight. You could have a reply in the morning.”

“Any chance I might find Damon at the lumber company or at the store today?”

“That’s unlikely. Mr. Damon rarely comes into town more than once a week.”

Mouth set in annoyance at another delay, Tabor accepted the loan of the teller’s pencil and wrote out a message on a piece of notepaper. He didn’t want to waste time on Damon when he had more critical things to do. On the other hand, he was anxious to be done with delivering his father’s letter. He wondered, as he folded the notepaper and returned it to the teller, what link his father could have had with Clement Damon. Clearly Damon was a person of wealth and importance. It stretched Tabor’s imagination that his father and that distinguished man in the portrait could ever have been friends.

Tabor spent the afternoon visiting theatrical companies and dance halls, people he figured might know Delilah. Several theater proprietors were almost as anxious as he was to find the Flame of the West, having calculated what a draw she would be for their establishments. Hearing half a dozen other men tout her beauty and talent didn’t sit well in Tabor’s craw. By evening, when he joined in a poker game, his mounting temper made him a brutal adversary. A pocketful of winnings helped to cool him down and by morning he was ready to turn his attention in another direction. He returned to the Damon Bank.

The same teller he had spoken with the day before presented him with an envelope closed with a gold foil seal. Tabor took a seat on the customers’ bench in the bank lobby and read Clement Damon’s response. The note expressed Damon’s regret he could not meet Tabor at his hotel; however, if it was agreeable, he requested Tabor come to his home at three the same afternoon.

Tabor got directions to Damon House from the teller. At exactly five minutes until three he rode up in front of the Damon mansion. A Chinese boy ran out to meet him and to take his horse. Another Chinese boy, dressed in pajamalike clothing, like the first one, led him up a low ramp to the front door. The boy pulled a rope and Tabor heard the sound of a chime from inside the house.

Again it was a Chinese servant who greeted him. With a sharp eye Tabor spotted numerous Chinese men about the grounds. Knowing something of Oriental ways, his guess was that the unimposing Chinese were guards, guards who required no more than their hands for weapons.

“You are Mr. Stanton?” the man answering the door asked. Tabor nodded and the Chinese did the same. “My name is Wan. Please come in, Mr. Stanton. Mr. Damon is in his library. He expects you.”

Tabor followed past a spiral staircase and into a wide hall. He stopped when the Chinese did and waited for a response to the man’s knock on the library door. Tabor had a mental picture of Clement Damon as a strong and powerful person. The luxury of the mansion confirmed it. He was unprepared for the man in the invalid’s chair with his legs covered by a wool lap rug.

“Mr. Damon?”

“Clement Damon,” the man responded, rolling his chair forward. “Your message said you were Stan’s son.” His eyes were strangely pain-filled as he searched Tabor’s face. “I knew he had a boy. I never knew what became of him.”

They met and shook hands in the center of the room. Out of the corner of his eye Tabor saw another Chinese man almost in the shadows at one side of the room. His eyes too lingered on Tabor’s face, but unlike Damon’s, held a warning.

Damon rolled himself behind his desk and offered Tabor the chair in front of it.

“Were you a friend of my father’s?” Tabor sat, acutely aware the Chinese man had silently moved to a position behind him. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about him. He and my mother parted company almost fifteen years ago. I grew up south of here. Never saw my father all that time until last year.”

“I see,” Damon said, not bothering to answer as he exchanged a glance with the Chinese man. “I believe your message said you wished to give me a letter from your father.”

“That’s right,” Tabor responded, withdrawing a creased and soiled envelope from his coat pocket. “He requested I deliver this to you. Here it is.”

Tabor placed the envelope in Damon’s hands. He sensed the tension strung among the three of them in the room, and though he had no idea of the reason, his muscles tightened with anticipation.

Clement held the envelope a few minutes without opening it. “You asked if your father and I were friends. We were once. But that changed a long time ago. I have to admit I’m surprised to be hearing from him.”

Tabor’s eyes narrowed. He had the feeling his visit was opening old wounds. “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Damon,” Tabor said, his voice flat. “My father died a few months ago. He wanted that envelope delivered to you. I don’t know what’s in it and I can’t say I care. It’s a hard thing to admit to a stranger, but I had no use for my father. He let my mother down and she never got over it. I’m honoring his dying request to deliver that letter, but it’s more for her sake than for his.”

Clement’s face went blank. He tore open the envelope and slowly read the contents, then looked up. “This isn’t a letter. It’s a mining claim to a piece of ground east of here. Your father signed it over to me. Is it worth anything?”

Tabor shrugged. “My guess is no,” he said bitterly. “Not much my father had anything to do with was. But whether that claim is or isn’t is your business. I brought it to you. That’s all I have to do with it.”

Clement laid the claim and the torn envelope on his desk. He thought he understood what had happened to the older Stanton’s life. A man could lose many things and survive. But when he lost his self-respect, he wasn’t much good to himself or his family. Stan had been that way. He had participated in an act of violence his conscience couldn’t bear.

“You didn’t think much of your father, you say.”

“I didn’t have much reason to,” Tabor answered. “He deserted us, wound up a drunk. He was no account to anybody, including himself. I can’t find a thing to admire about him. If he was indebted to you and paid up, that’s probably the only honest thing he ever did.”

Clement stared at Tabor. The younger Stanton resembled his father. Looking at him, it was difficult not to remember the betrayal he had felt learning that a man he called friend was among his attackers. He and Stan had agreed to work some claims together until they had differed over the treatment of the Chinese laborers. Even now Clement couldn’t believe Stan would have joined the attack if he hadn’t been pressured by Hoke Newell and his cohorts. Stan hadn’t really hated the Chinese, he had just been afraid to take a stand. Clement shrugged. The memories hurt. He wanted to stop remembering.

“I guess Stan thought he owed me something,” he said, still staring at Tabor. “We had a business agreement once. Things happened. I wouldn’t have held him to it. You may be right that this property is worth nothing. In any event, I don’t need it. I think it ought to go to you.” He pushed the papers toward Tabor.

Tabor refused them. “My mother would never let me say a word against my father. I had to watch her die slowly, of grieving for him, always thinking tomorrow he’d ride up or there’d be a letter. It would have hurt her if I hadn’t done what he asked. That’s the only reason I’m here. Worthless or not, the property’s yours. Keep it.”

Clement opened a desk drawer and put the papers inside. “I’ll send someone to take a look at it someday. If you change your mind...”

“I won’t.”

“Papa!” The library door burst open. A girl in a light green dress swept in but stopped abruptly when she saw her father had a guest. “I’m sorry, Papa. I should have knocked.”

Clement found a smile for his daughter. “I remember telling you that several times, Dinah,” he said. “Can what you have to say wait?”

“Yes, Papa,” Dinah answered. She had gotten a good look at her father’s face just as she came in. His expression puzzled her, but she quickly forgot her dismay when her eyes came to rest on Tabor Stanton. Her father’s tall, handsome visitor was about the most virile-looking man she’d ever seen. He glanced back at her at the same moment, gave a half-smile, and nodded politely as she backed out of the room and eased the door shut.

Clement waited until he heard the latch click, then returned his attention to Tabor. The hard light that had shone in the older man’s eyes was gone. He had suffered because of Stanton, no doubt about it. Over the years he had come to the conclusion that suffering made a man stronger, though it didn’t sound like that had been the case with Stan.

Clement took a deep breath. He hadn’t gotten where he was easily. Accepting what had happened to him had taken as long as learning to live with his physical infirmities. Still, he had overcome what he had lost, though he had never forgotten the men who had harmed him.

The man before him apparently didn’t know what had changed his father from a decent, hard-working husband and father into an aimless drunk. Clement decided not to tell him.

Dinah’s unexpected appearance had reminded him of his blessings. He had two daughters he loved and who loved him in return. Suddenly it seemed clear to Clement that what he had lost had been much easier to live without than what Stan had lost. Seeing the hate and bitterness of that night spill over into another generation saddened Clement. Still, it surprised him to hear himself defending Stan.

“Most men have a little good in them, Stanton.” Both of Clement’s silver brows lifted. “Even a man like your father. Sometimes you have to look a little deeper to find it.”

Tabor found his thoughts thrown back to a time he didn’t want to remember. He stood quickly. “Mr. Damon,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stay so long. I thank you for taking the time to see me. I’m sure you have other appointments.” He extended a hand to Clement.

Clement waved it off. “Sit down, Stanton. I’m not nearly as busy a man as you seem to think. Truth is, I’d appreciate it if you’d have a drink with me. Ching,” he said, nodding to the Chinese. “Get the whiskey, will you?”

Ching moved in his silent way to the liquor cabinet and poured whiskey from a glass decanter. Tabor dropped back into his chair. He wasn’t opposed to having a drink. It was, in fact, exactly what he thought he needed.

*     *     *

Dinah raced up the stairs to Lilah’s sitting room, hoping her father wasn’t upset that she had interrupted him. If he was, he might not agree to allow her to spend Saturday and Sunday with Deirdre Kittring. The Kittrings’ house was only a few doors down from Barrett’s, and Dinah was sure she could arrange to bump into him while she was there. She probably should have waited until dinner to ask Papa anyway. Her other worry was having forgotten she was to join Lilah and Aunt Emily for tea. Dinah bit down on her lower lip. It wasn’t really her fault she kept forgetting things. She had a lot on her mind.

“Dinah, I wondered where you were,” Emily said as Dinah hurried into Lilah’s sitting room.

Lilah smiled but her eyes said all the accusing things Dinah knew were true. She had practically ignored Aunt Emily the last few days. She did hope she hadn’t actually been rude. She just hadn’t been in the mood for company.

“I’m sorry,” Dinah said sweetly, pausing to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “I was downstairs. I had to see Papa for a minute.”

“And did you?” Lilah asked.

“Yes.” Dinah plopped down on the settee beside Lilah. “He looked quite peculiar.”

Any indication her father wasn’t feeling well was cause for concern to Lilah. “Is he ill?” she asked, putting her teacup aside.

“Oh no. Nothing like that,” Dinah answered, helping herself to tea and cake. “Papa was talking to a man I’ve never seen and he had the most peculiar look on his face.”

“You’re sure he isn’t ill?” Lilah clutched her fingers tightly together in her lap.

“I told you he isn’t,” Dinah said. “Do you think he’ll agree to let me stay a few nights with Deirdre?”

Lilah’s voice dropped in volume. “I hardly think that would be polite while Aunt Emily is here.”