Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (32 page)

      
“You've been sent by Houston to investigate the whiskey-running to the Comanche?” she whispered. “I've always heard he was concerned about the Indians.”

      
Lawrence frowned. “Yes, he is, but there are those who'd jump for joy to see every Indian in Texas dead.”

      
Melanie followed his line of vision until she saw the squat, bull-necked frame of Laban Greer. She shuddered in the young ranger's arms.

      
“What is it, Melanie? You know Greer? Oh, that story....” His voice trailed off.

      
“Yes,
my
story. I watched him kill an injured woman—a frail old woman lying helpless on the ground. He shot her in cold blood.” She could feel Greer's cold eyes on her, almost as if he were penetrating her disguise as Moses French. Forcing herself to block from her mind the scene of carnage she had witnessed, Melanie returned Greer's piercing, rude stare boldly. “Just let him have the nerve to ask for a dance.”

      
Jeremy laughed softly. “Somehow I don't think he's got the nerve for it.”

      
“Oh, yes he does. Here he comes,” she said levelly. Feeling Jeremy stiffen protectively, she placed a hand on his arm placatingly. “It's all right. He doesn't frighten me, and I won't back down from him and hide behind your badge, Jeremy.”

      
When Greer bowed quite politely to the young ranger, Lawrence unwillingly relinquished his partner. “Why do you do me this honor, Mr. Greer? Surely a big rancher such as yourself isn't interested in a mere gossip columnist for the
Star
, especially since I'm an old married woman now,” she added with a silent curse for her absent husband.

      
Greer's thick, blunt features did not conceal his keen intelligence. He smiled coldly. “I was merely wondering if you've ever met this Moses French fellow. After all, you do work for the paper, after a fashion.”

      
The condescending male arrogance of his last statement infuriated Melanie but also indicated to her that he did not believe she was Moses French.

      
“Surely Pemberton is too old, and that nigger of his would scarce have the nerve. Who might that leave?” Greer continued, prompting her.

      
Gritting her teeth, she replied, “Yes, Mr. Pemberton is too old for such active undercover reporting; and, no, it certainly isn't Mr. Johnston, although there's nothing lacking in his nerve.”

      
Greer laughed nastily. “I forget myself. You are a Boston abolitionist, aren't you? Just keep out of Indian affairs, lady. Texians don't like women meddling in things that don't concern them.”

      
“Things such as decency and justice, Mr. Greer?” she replied curtly. “If you'll pardon me, I see some old friends I need to greet.”
Was he fishing to see if I'd get so rattled I’d tell him who our reporter is? Or does he suspect me?

      
As she quit the floor and headed over to where Larena Sandoval and her mother stood, Melanie forced a smile for her rival. Even amenities with Lee's old flames were preferable to one more minute of that odious man's oily and intimidating presence.

      
She talked briefly with the Sandovals and then danced with several other men before Jeremy once again claimed her hand. “What did Greer have to say?” he asked worriedly. “He doesn't know you wrote that article?”

      
“No, of course not. I'm just a meddlesome, addle pated female to him. He did try to find out if I knew who Moses was, though. Fat chance!”

      
Jeremy laughed. “Just you be careful, Melanie. And for God's sake, don't mention my connection to the senator to a soul. When this investigation is over and we've cleaned up the corruption here and in Washington, you'll have a whale of a story, I promise you. But in the meanwhile, it could be very dangerous for you to get any further involved.”

      
“Now you sound like Lee,” she rejoined hotly. “Stay out of harm's way, little girl.”

      
“Well, I wouldn't call such an elegant lady a ‘little girl,’ for certain,” he replied with a gallant smile as his gaze swept over her hairdo and gown.

      
She blushed.

      
Sitting off on the sidelines, Lee observed his beautiful wife dancing and flirting with a succession of admirers as the evening wore on. All seemed enamored of her, but none infuriated him half so much as the handsome young ranger who was her most frequent partner, even escorting her over to the buffet tables and filling a plate for her.

      
While he watched, he drank and brooded, still confused about his ambivalent feelings toward his wife. After she had gone off to dance with Houston, Charlee had maneuvered him into dancing with Larena. Then, he had stayed near the table where drinks were dispensed. A number of the men were lacing the watered-down punch with a significantly stronger libation. Each time Fernando Rojas passed the whiskey bottle, Lee poured a generous slug into his glass. Temperance unions be damned! All Boston crusaders be damned!

      
Melanie felt Lee's eyes burning into her as she danced with Jeremy, but he made no move to approach her himself. He danced with his ex-fiancée but not his own wife. As if their scandalous marriage weren't fueling enough gossip already, his behavior tonight was the final straw.

      
Jeremy watched Velasquez working up to a mean and dangerous drunk, wondering if he would have to fight the man because of his wife. As much as he admired Melanie's wit and beauty, he knew she was a married woman and there was a strong if antagonistic attraction between her and her husband. At his afternoon meeting with Slade and Houston, Lawrence had discussed the situation in San Antonio and the role he was to play in trapping Blaine and Walkman. He could ill afford to become involved in a confrontation with Velasquez and jeopardize his assignment. But if Melanie remained this unhappy when the mission was completed, he vowed to do whatever was necessary to help her.

      
Around midnight, the guest of honor departed for Bluebonnet Ranch with Jim and Charlee Slade; but he urged the younger revelers to continue dancing. His war wounds were acting up, he said, and he required a good night's rest. Although surrounded by swains eagerly asking her to dance, Melanie felt frazzled and tense, more than eager to depart, as Houston had; but her husband was nowhere in sight.

      
When Jeremy cut in on one particularly obnoxious young cowhand whose maladroit dancing was as annoying as his roaming hands, she was relieved. Suddenly, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes and attempted to dash them back. “Would you see me to the hotel, Jeremy?” she whispered in a choked voice.

      
He put his fingertips lightly on her cheek. “Don't cry, Melanie. It's been a long night and I know you're tired, but think of the wonderful story you can write about the senator,” he said softly as he escorted her from the floor. He returned a moment later with her wrap, a soft white wool shawl to ward off the cool night air. Very carefully, as if she were breakable, he placed it around her shoulders and then took her hand and tucked it beneath his arm proprietarily.

      
The tender gestures were not lost on Lee, who stood behind the glass doors to the side porch, watching his wife and her escort. Jeremy and Melanie said their farewells to the Pearsons. Lee left the house, walking with ground-devouring, purposeful strides toward the hotel and the suite he would share with his wife that night.

Chapter Sixteen

      
Melanie and Jeremy walked slowly through the cool starry night. When she shivered and pulled her wrap closer, he offered her his suit coat.

      
“No, thank you, I'm not really cold. I just need to walk for a bit and clear my head.” She smiled tremulously at him and then looked up at the sky. “Ever since I came to Texas as a twelve-year-old girl, I've been astonished at the night skies here. It's as if you could reach up and touch the stars, as if they were diamonds sprinkled on a crumpled black velvet cloth.”

      
Lawrence smiled. “As an adopted son of Texas, I'd say there's no place on earth this special—big, open, free. There's so much waiting for people here.” He stopped walking and almost reluctantly she paused, too. “Melanie, look, I know it's none of my business—that I have no right to come between a husband and wife, but Velasquez was drunk and mean tonight. No telling where he's gone or if he'll come back to the hotel. I could take you to the Oakleys or even back to your ranch if you want.”

      
Melanie took a deep breath and swallowed the tears clogging her throat.
Why couldn't I have met someone like you ten years ago, Jeremy?
Aloud she replied, “It's all right. I do thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself. I may not be native-born, either, but I'm a real Texian, too.”

      
They resumed walking, heading toward the hotel, both full of silent misgivings they knew they dared not discuss.

      
When Jeremy walked her to the top of the stairs and down the long corridor to her suite, he took the key from her hand and unlocked the door. Standing in the hall, he gave her one last, searching look. The pugnacious set of her little chin said it all. Firmly, she took the key back from him and stepped inside the sitting room. “I’ll be fine, Jeremy. Good luck with your mission. If Lame Deer or any of the children hear any more news, I'll be in touch. Thank you.”

      
Feeling as if he could drown in her luminous gold eyes, the ranger nodded. “Just give a holler if you need anything,” he reiterated, then turned and walked reluctantly down the hall.

      
As his footsteps faded, Melanie looked nervously around the room. There was no sign of Lee, she thought with relief. She walked over to the porcelain wash pitcher on the table and poured its contents into the matching basin. The maid had filled it and left it for her in the sitting room as she had instructed. Dispiritedly, she stripped off slippers and stockings, then the beautiful golden gown and all its underpinnings, tossing them carelessly over a horsehair chair in the corner.
All that trouble with fabric selections and fittings—for what?
she thought, trying to work up some rejuvenating anger over the shambles of the evening.

      
She returned to the pitcher and washed her face. Then, feeling the dull throb of a headache coming on, she began to pull the pins from her hair as she rummaged across the table in search of her brush.

      
“Looking for this?” a voice whispered from the bedroom door. Lee leaned indolently against the door frame with her ivory-handled hairbrush dangling from one hand. His eyes roamed over her bare shoulders and penetrated the sheer lace camisole and pantalets, all the remaining clothing on her body.

      
Almost as if protecting herself, she combed her fingers through her waist-length hair and pulled it across her breasts to cover herself. The gasp of fright and surprise that had escaped her at his panther like entry revealed her vulnerability. Standing barefoot in the center of the room, she knew she had nowhere to run, nothing to do but brazen this situation out as she had the night of the storm.

      
But this time Lee had been drinking. His slouched pose and heavily lidded eyes gave that away, although when he glided into the room, his step was surprisingly steady. He, too, was barefoot and mostly undressed, clad only in his black suit pants, as if her untimely arrival had caused him to stop in the act of disrobing for bed.

      
When he took several more steps near her, Melanie forced herself to stand her ground.
If I retreat, he'll corner me like a frightened deer,
she thought frantically as she stared into his eyes. They were as black as a starless night, yet they glowed with a strange dark fire. Without a word, he reached out a hand and pulled on a lock of her hair, drawing her nearer, then raised the brush and began to draw it through the thick ebony masses. He stroked down the heavy coils lying across her breasts, then turned her back to him and worked the brush through the rest, pulling it all down to the curve of her buttocks, massaging with the heavy brush until the tangles and curls of her coiffure were smoothed out and the whole length crackled in ebony splendor.

      
This gentle ministration was the last thing she had expected when she saw him standing in the doorway, scrutinizing her barely clad body. At a loss as to how to respond, she let him work the sensual magic of the brushing without protest, remaining bemused, almost relaxed. Then, he took a fistful of her hair and raised it to his face, inhaling the fragrance of it.

      
“Like the primroses, sweet as night flowers,” he whispered near her ear. When he stretched his arm around the front of her waist and pulled her against his body, he could feel her stiffen; yet she offered no resistance.

      
Lee held her immobilized for a moment, savoring the sweetness of her lush body. He had heard her murmured good night to Lawrence, listened to the rustle of her clothing being discarded, heard the splashing of water as she performed her toilette. Then, he had opened the bedroom door and seen her searching for the brush. Like a sleepwalker, he had picked it up from the bedside table by the door and made her aware of his presence. Did her quiescence mean she would accept what she had wanted that day on the hillside and had refused the night of the storm?

      
All evening, he had watched her, a glorious golden butterfly, flirting and dancing, laughing and talking with a succession of men, especially that bastard ranger. Lawrence seemed to single her out for his particular attentions, and she was more than receptive to them. “If this were Lawrence instead of me, his hands on you instead of mine, what then, princess?” he grated out in a low, tormented voice.