Heiress (27 page)

“Stay? Here? But what about—”

“Dawn is here, of course. And Francine—our cook. You won’t be abandoned to two crabby bachelors.”

“Your father is hardly crabby.”

He smiled at that. “He found you quite fetching. I am sorry he couldn’t eat with us.”

“How is he feeling?”

“Much better once we settled him back in his bed. He becomes overzealous, believes he can do more than he should, with his heart condition. But he wanted to meet the beauty in the house.”

Oh. She closed the paper, smoothed it on her lap. “I fear our meeting taxed him too greatly.”

Daughtry’s smile vanished. “He won’t be with us long. I wish I’d known sooner how serious his condition had become, but he only released Dawn to write to me a month ago. Perhaps he didn’t want me to relive the nightmares.”

Nightmares. She presumed from the accident.

He got up, moved her ankle to the settee. “You should keep it elevated.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I grew up with a mother who knew everything. When she passed, it took us years to figure out how to live on our own. I should never have left. And, I could see immediately, that I should have returned much sooner. And not just for the mine, but for him. He missed me desperately. And I, him.”

“You two sound close.”

“As close as two grieving men can be, I suppose. I believe it was a relief for him when I moved away, however.”

The journalist inside her wanted to prod.

The former deb knew to offer a conciliatory silence.

“When I received Dawn’s letter, I feared I wouldn’t return before his passing. I couldn’t bear not to say good-bye, to have him go without hearing his final words to me.”

His quiet words, the urgency in them, pulsed inside her. She knew exactly his sentiments. Please, her father couldn’t pass away until she had the strength to return. Until she could personally bring her
Copper Valley
Times
to the
Chronicle’s
door.

“Esme?” Oh. She’d been caught in time, seeing her father again—broken and distraught—as she walked out of the Chronicle Building. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about—”

“People you left behind?”

She drew herself up. “What do you mean by that?”

He sat on the divan, lifted a shoulder. “I remember hearing about your arrival in town. My father said you simply appeared one day, like a fresh wind. Bought the building and the paper with a couple of drop pearl earrings.”

He raised an eyebrow at that.

“They were a gift.”

“I didn’t assume otherwise.”

Oh, she had sounded too defensive. “I just needed a place to start over. To do things my way.”

“And you certainly have.”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow.

He held up a hand of surrender. “No offense intended. The
Copper Valley Times
is a solid newspaper. I have it sent to me every week.”

He did?

“I’m just saying that there is more to you than meets the eye, Esme, and if you would permit me, I’d like to find out what it might be.”

She didn’t let his words show on her face and instead found her society smile. But what if he did find out who she was? It might change the way the miners saw her, they might stop letting her into their lives, might see her as—how did Abel put it in his song—a greedy parasite?

No.

Still, the way he put it, softly, nudged under her skin. What might it be like to become Esme Price, debutante, courted again?

She closed the paper, rose to her foot, balancing herself on the arm of the divan. “I really shouldn’t stay.”

He stared at her. “Why not? Would it be so terrible to ask for help? To have someone take care of you?”

“I am perfectly capable of—”

“I know—taking care of yourself.”

He stood up and wrapped his hand around her waist.

“The sunrise is beautiful from the breakfast verandah.”

* * * * *

It frightened Esme how quickly she could become accustomed to luxury. Two days of pampering by Dawn as her ankle healed had revived all the memories of having Bette greet her with her morning tea and toast on a tray. Of being tucked into bed at night with a crackling fire in the hearth. Of proper dinners with white-gloved waiters to clear her plate. Of listening to music in the parlor after dinner.

She might be able to stay forever in the copper tub, steam rising from the surface like a Montana lake in the middle of winter.

Fine, she would admit it—she missed her Fifth Avenue life. Missed the sound of horses’ hooves upon the street, the golden lamplights spilling out into the night, the smell of Cook’s rich French concoctions rising from the basement. Missed her glorious clothes, the diamond tiara, the pearl chokers, the bowers of roses.

Her mother.

Her father.

Jinx. Especially Jinx. She’d poured over the entirety of Page Six of the
Chronicle
for any other mention of Foster and Jinx and finally resigned herself to her imagination. Jinx would have blossomed into a regal beauty on Foster’s arm, the mother of his child, and by now they would have built their own house, hosted their own parties. Jinx had inherited the world meant for Esme.

But Esme had inherited the rest. The pewter blue sky flowing over foothills and beyond the frosted mountains to the north. The frothy rivers, the pale pink bitterroot flower peeking from the earth, the tang of the pine in the air. She sat now astride her mare, following Daughtry across his land. He’d given her one of his boots to wear and one of his mother’s split riding skirts, something she’d read about but never worn. Indeed, if the set in New York knew she rode a horse like a man…

She’d inherited freedom, perhaps also.

“Are you cold?” Daughtry looked over at her. “We could stop, if you’d like.”

“It’s the end of April, and I’m dressed for a trip to Butte and back at the height of January. I’ll be fine.” He’d had Dawn dig out a worn buffalo jacket for the ride out to a remote section of their land. But his protectiveness didn’t seem condescending—rather, he seemed thoughtful. She didn’t expect a gentleman out on the frontier.

She urged her mare up behind his horse—he rode the glorious Arabian he’d shipped back to Montana. “Where are we going?”

“I want to show you something.” He glanced back, gave her a wink. “Something you don’t see in Silver City.” He paused. “Or New York.”

She met his gaze. He’d winked. He hadn’t asked—or suggested—anything about her interest in the social set of Mr. Astor’s 400 since that first night, confining their conversation over the past two days to Silver City, the newspaper, his father’s health, and the war of the Copper Kings for control of the mines in the region.

Perhaps he simply meant the wink as a friendly gesture.

She said nothing as they topped the ridge. He reached out, reined in her mount. “Shh.”

Below them, thirty or so giant shaggy-shouldered boulders lounged on the greening pasture, corralled on three sides by canyon walls. A soapy river blocked escape to the south. The animals, impressive even at this distance, wore horns and heavy beards, their massive bodies twice the size of her mare. “Are those buffalo?”

She glanced at Daughtry, the way he rode easily in his stirrups, gloved hands leaning on his saddle horn, his reins loose, but firm in his grip. He looked like a Charlie—she remembered his comment in the barn, the name Dawn called him by. He too wore a buffalo jacket, dark, with a fur collar turned up against the wind, a buckskin cowboy hat, his hair curling from the back, and leather breeches with fringes that made him appear a working cowboy instead of a silver-spoon heir.

“My mother started the herd with just three we rescued. The Crow depended on the buffalo for their livelihood, and when they were hunted to near extinction, my mother hoped to help restore them to plenty. Her dream was to see them roaming the ranch like they did when she was a child. My father told her it was impossible—they were just too few, but she refused to believe it. She knew in her heart they could be rebuilt. She would ride down here, especially after calving, and shoot the cougars that hunted them. In the winter, she dragged hay out here with the ranch hands, cut holes in the river ice. She believed she could grow them into a powerful herd. They’re magnificent, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are. I’ve read about them—I even heard that President Roosevelt is starting a national herd. But you’re right, Silver City has very few buffalo, unless you include the fellas at the Nickel after their shift.”

He laughed at that. “The men do have a way of winding down that might be less than tame.”

“I’ve awakened to men sleeping on the boardwalk all the way to the
Times
office, even in February.”

She watched the herd, singling out a calf as it moved away from its mother. “I’d love to write an article about the herd.”

He drew in a breath. “I don’t think so. If things get difficult down at the mine, the union boys just might decide on payback. Buffalo fetch a hefty price and still make good eating.” He turned his horse around. “Let’s go.”

His shift in demeanor rattled her more than she would have liked. Probably just because he’d been such a kind host. “I’m sorry, Daughtry. Of course I’ll keep your secret.” She caught up to him.

He rode in silence, as if contemplating her words. “And I’ll keep yours.”

She stared at him, her breath tight. “I—I don’t understand.”

“Where are you from, really, Esme?” The question in his voice, as if he didn’t already know, untied the knot in her chest.

For a moment, she longed to tell him. Longed to give him the truth, to ease back into the skin of Esme Price, the heiress. Or, former heiress. But then what? Would he stop seeing her as the frontier newspaperwoman? Would he start seeing her as a wealthy woman who could save the Silverthread from bankruptcy?

She couldn’t tell him and not lose this curl of delight that kept building in her chest. She wasn’t sure why, but she suddenly longed for him to enjoy the company of Esme Stewart, without the expectations and limitations of the Price name.

“You guessed right—I grew up out East. Close enough to New York to enjoy the society page. But I came west to leave that all behind, to start a new life.”

She ended there, let the wind emphasize her silence.

After awhile, she had to fill it. “Why does Dawn call you Charlie?”

He guided them down a ravine then took her reins in hand as they crossed a creek. “My mother called me Charlie, after an older brother she lost to Custer. I like it—it makes me remember who I am.”

“Who are you, Mr. Daughtry-Charlie Hoyt? Montana cowboy, or New York gent?”

He let her mare go, urged their mounts up an incline. “I’m both. And, neither.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not a society man, although I know how to behave. I simply don’t care about society’s nod. It’s a curse, I think, to trap yourself into living by the whims and opinions of others.”

Oh, she couldn’t agree more.

“But I’m not the half-breed whelp who got pummeled at school by the miners’ boys, either.”

“The miners’ kids hurt you?”

“My father thought it would be to my benefit to attend school with the kids from Silver City. It’s how I met Abel—his brother and I were friends. Orrin took up for me before I learned how to fend for myself.”

“I’m sorry for his death; it sounds like he meant a lot to you.”

“Listening to him call out my name as we tore into the rock separating us nearly undid me. My father sent me to Harvard just so he wouldn’t have to hear the nightmares as they woke me in the middle of the night. But they followed me and eventually drove me to recklessness. I started fighting on campus, boxing and then brawling. I got kicked out of school my second year.”

Abel had left out that part of the story. Or maybe no one knew it.

“After that, I sort of drifted until a friend took me under his wing—he’d attended Harvard also, and his family ran a shipping company. He introduced me to Wall Street and taught me how to buy and sell stocks. Soon I was managing the stocks for the Silverthread and watching them explode. We even managed to ride out the crash of the past three years.”

“So, you’re a speculator.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe I’m simply an optimist.” He caught her reins again, stopping them. He had strong arms, and sitting on his horse beside her seemed every bit a hero she might find in one of her hidden Old West dime novels. “And, I do believe in second chances.”

She stared at him, trying to place his words.

“The other night, before dinner. You asked me if there were another way to save the Silverthread, would I take it? I think the answer is yes. I do believe we can start over, if we want.” He seemed to hold something more in his gaze. “Because, even if I do sell, I’ll never truly leave the mistakes of my past behind.”

“You don’t believe in forgiveness?”

“Absolutely. I’ve made my peace with God. But like my scars”—he lifted his chin and pointed to a pucker of flesh along his jaw—“the effect of those mistakes won’t leave me. Still, I’m not the person I was back then. I’m not desperate for approval, wanting to make my own mark, wanting to atone for my crimes. I know who I am, know who I’m supposed to be now. And that man is ready to cut ties with the past.”

His words burrowed inside her, a coal against her bones. “Nobody can really break free from their past.”

He glanced at her. “Yes, they can. They can start over, become the people they were intended to be.”

“It seems to me that you are two different people. In New York, you’re Daughtry. Here, you’re Charlie. You can’t be both at the same time.”

“I disagree. It’s not about my name, Esme. It’s about my character. And about the fact that no matter where I go, what name I put on, I’m the same man. Redeemed.”

She’d never heard a man talk this way before. Well, once, but he was an evangelist.

He smiled. “I’m simply a man rescued from the wrath of God for a divine purpose. I’m no longer that poor, desperate sap needing to prove something. I know who I am, who I belong to, know my future. That’s the blessing of belonging to God. Security.”

She stared at him. “You sound like D.L. Moody.”