Nan Ryan (28 page)

Nevada stood alone at the iron lace-trimmed balcony of her luxuriant Pontalba Building apartment and stared fixedly across St. Ann Street at the gallant general. In the week she had been in New Orleans she had seen hardly anyone but the general. She enjoyed his company because, with Andy, she didn’t have to make small talk and smile and be charming and pretend that she was gay.

Located in the very center of the square, across St Ann Street from her red apartment building, the huge green statue expected nothing from her, wanted nothing of her. She liked it that way. She liked the mute general. If she felt like talking to him, she did. If not, he didn’t mind. He was there for her at any hour of the day or night.

It was well past midnight, a chill winter wind caused Nevada to hug her arms to her side and shiver. General Jackson never noticed the cold. Not for the first time, she wished that she could be more like the indomitable statue. How convenient it would be to feel nothing.

Nevada sighed and let her gaze drift from the dauntless monument to St. Louis Cathedral, its tall white spires rising to the dark sky. Next to the church the old Cibaldo was silent. Across the square the usually bustling French markets were empty, the long wooden tables and bins bare.

At last the wistful young woman looked to her right, toward the calm Mississippi, its muddy waters shimmering silver in the winter moonlight. A solitary steamer, far in the distance, blew its whistle and the mournful sound seemed to pierce right through Nevada’s lonely heart.

For as long as she could remember, a steamer’s whistle had been part of her life, had made her squeal with delight when she was a happy river child, had made her heartbeat quicken as she grew older.

The faraway blast brought back fond memories of a huge sandy-haired man with twinkling blue eyes and thunderous laughter and a heart as big as the river. They’d spent many a happy day together on the winding Mississippi, she and her papa.

But the whistle brought memories of another man as well. A dark, raven-haired man with smoldering black eyes and a devilish grin and no heart at all. She’d spent one passion-filled night with him on the river and her life would never again be the same, while his had changed none at all.

Tears started to spill from Nevada’s sad eyes. She let them fall. There was no one to see her cry except old Andrew Jackson and he wouldn’t tell. So she stood alone in the night on the cold New Orleans balcony and wept openly for the uncaring man across the ocean who was as much a man of stone as the carefully sculpted general.

She cried for a long time. Cried until her head was aching and her eyes were swollen and puffy. Cried because she missed Johnny so much, loved him so desperately that her days and her nights were filled with an agony of a kind she’d never known existed. Cried because she would have to make it on her own and she wasn’t sure she could do it.

And finally, when she was all cried out, Nevada lifted her tired head, looked toward the mounted general and told him, “That’s it, Andy. The last time. After tonight, November 20, 1876, there’ll be no more tears wasted over Mr. Johnny Roulette!”

Staring out at the rain-dampened city, Johnny Roulette smoked a thin brown cigar in the darkness. It was well past midnight but he wasn’t sleepy. It was the day of the game. The big game. The game for which he had traveled to London.

Johnny drew on his cigar, pulled the hot smoke deep down into his lungs, then slowly released it, forming perfect circular smoke rings with his rounded mouth.

His thoughts were on the upcoming game. And Nevada Marie Hamilton. He had counted on her being at his side, had brought her across an ocean as his Lady Luck. He wondered if could win without her.

Johnny blew another smoke ring and leaned his dark head on the deeply cushioned back of the oyster-and-gold brocade chair, one of a matching set that graced the elegant upstairs drawing room of Lady Ashley’s Mayfair townhouse.

The hell with Nevada Hamilton. He’d been gambling since he turned fourteen and he had won plenty of money since then. Long before he knew there was a Nevada Hamilton. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anyone, he never had.

Johnny came agilely to his feet. He crossed to the big bay window. The cigar stuck firmly between his teeth, he stood naked in the night, squinting out at the well-manicured lawns and the rain dripping rhythmically from the mansion’s steep roof.

He drew a long, deep breath, crossed his arms over his bare chest, and told himself it was perfectly natural to be edgy and restless the night before the big game. That’s all it was. Maybe a glass of brandy and a hot tub would make him sleep.

Johnny continued to stay as he was, standing there looking out at the rain, tired but not sleepy, lonely but glad he was alone. At least he thought he was alone.

“Darling?” Lady Ashley spoke his name from the doorway.

“Mm?” He never turned around.

Lifting the long, whispering skirts of her dressing gown, Lady Ashley hurried to him. Standing just behind him, she laid a hand on his bare back and said, “Darling, is something wrong? I woke up, you were gone. I grew worried.”

“Just not sleepy,” he said and drew on the cigar.

“It’s the rain,” said Lady Ashley. “You Yanks tire of our frequent rains.”

He didn’t answer.

Laughing softly, sure she knew just how to calm his jitters, Lady Ashley quickly took off her gown. She stepped up behind Johnny put her arms around him, and pressed her naked body to his. “Love,” she whispered, her hands sweeping teasingly over his broad chest, “you’re chilled.”

Johnny made no reply. He just stood there smoking his cigar, looking out at the rain while his accomplished lover stroked his chest and pressed kisses to his back and murmured endearments in a husky, breathless voice. Her skillful hands moved down to his flat belly and she began to rock her pelvis forward against his hard buttocks.

“Forget your silly old card game, love,” she said as her hands slipped lower. “Think about this.” And her right hand encircled him and began the gentle sliding caresses, up and down and up again. She smiled when she heard his sharp intake of air. And when he made a move to turn to her, she said, “No. Not yet. Let me touch you this way until neither of us can stand it any longer.”

Johnny shrugged negligently. And stood there in the darkened room, his feet apart, arms at his sides, the cigar still clamped between his teeth, while the naughtily determined Lady Ashley touched and stroked and molded his responsive body into a beautifully formed rock-hard erection.

At last her hands dropped away. Johnny turned to face her. She jerked the cigar from his lips, stabbed it out in a crystal ashtray, and beckoned to him with her hands.

“Come to bed, Roulette,” said she, and he did.

“Stryker, have the carriage out front at precisely eight-thirty this evening. You’ll be driving Miss Annabelle and me to the Wilsons’ party in the Garden District.”

The big man nodded. “Will you be needing me to run any errands this afternoon?”

Nevada pondered for a moment. “I think not. We did our shopping this morning. We’ll likely rest all afternoon so we’ll be fresh for the party.”

“Good enough, Miss Marie.”

“Oh, and Stryker, the party is a buffet supper, so we won’t be having the evening meal here. Think you can manage?”

“Don’t worry about a thing. Now, if that’s all, I’ll be back here this evening at eight-thirty.”

“Thanks, Stryker.”

The big man left and Nevada smiled at his disappearing back. He was a good man, nothing at all like his physical appearance. His countenance was almost frightening—a nose many times broken, a wide slash of a mouth, and eyes that were often narrowed in defiance. His shoulders were immense, his chest deep and powerful, his hands huge.

But he was truly a gentle giant. At least with her. And Miss Annabelle. And that was all that mattered.

When she and Miss Annabelle had returned from London, Miss Annabelle said that it was neither proper nor safe for the two of them to live in the French Quarter with no man around for protection. Stryker had come immediately to mind. She had sent a message to him on the next steamer upriver, and five days later she answered the bell to see the
Moonlight Gambler’s
big bouncer standing before her.

“You needed me, here I am,” was his simple greeting.

She and Miss Annabelle were amazed to learn that Stryker’s talents were many and varied. He could cook as well as the best Creole chef, ride like a pony expressman, sing like a baritone opera star, shoot like a marksman, fight like a pugilist, and spin tales with the best of imaginative storytellers.

Stryker also got around.

Within twenty-four hours of his arrival in New Orleans, every river rat on the levee and every moneyed swain in the city knew that the formidable Stryker, his suit jacket concealing a pistol stuck in the waistband of his trousers, was keeping a watchful eye on the beautiful dark-haired Miss Marie Hamilton and her companion, Miss Annabelle Delaney.

And everyone in New Orleans knew that Miss Annabelle Delaney was of the Old Guard, a respected member of Louisiana’s true upper crust.

So invitations to teas and soirees and wine suppers and dances began arriving at the exclusive Pontalba address as soon as the gentry heard that Miss Annabelle Delaney was in New Orleans. And after that first long, lonely week that Nevada spent in sorrowful solitude, the two of them attended galas almost nightly.

Determined she’d keep her vow to old Andy’s statue, Nevada hadn’t allowed herself to cry since. She was going to do exactly what Johnny told her to do. What he had groomed her for, educated her for.

She was going to find a rich, handsome gentleman who would be kind and thoughtful and loving. And when she found him, when he proposed, she was going to say yes!

And then she’d be so happy there would never be one day, one hour, one minute when she would think about Mr. Johnny Roulette!

Her resolve firm, a radiant, smiling Miss Marie Hamilton swept up the steps of the Darcy Wilson mansion that cold December evening, Miss Annabelle Delaney at her side. Among old and dear comrades, Miss Annabelle smiled and greeted friends and introduced Nevada as Marie Hamilton, one of the Tennessee Hamiltons.

The gay and glittering elite of New Orleans were captivated by Nevada’s youthful beauty and natural charm. The Honorable P. T. Beauregard, for whom the party was given, insisted on accompanying her to the buffet table. The revered talkative general, whose attack on Fort Sumter had opened the War between the States, clung tenaciously to her slender arm until a distant cousin, down from St. Louis, saw Nevada’s dilemma and came to her rescue.

“I’m sorry, Cousin Beauregard,” said the pert red-haired Denise Ledet, looping her arm through Nevada’s, “but I’ve promised the Cooper twins I’d introduce Miss Hamilton to them. May I borrow her? I knew you’d understand.”

“Well, I … she … I was about to … ah … tell her of …” Beauregard hemmed and hawed, then finally admitted, “I suppose Miss Hamilton would rather have supper with you youngsters.”

“Thanks, Cousin,” said Denise, and swiftly drew Nevada away, whispering, “You’ll have to forgive Cousin Beauregard. Mama says he’s in his second childhood already. But I say he thinks he’s still the dashing Confederate general. Poor thing lives in the glorious past and cannot resist a pretty girl.” Denise laughed and it was a warm, musical sound that Nevada found very pleasing.

“I understand you recently returned from a lengthy trip abroad. You were in London, presented to the Queen, I hear. Didn’t you just hate London? I did! Rained every day until I thought I’d go mad and, besides, Mama wouldn’t let me have any fun. I met the handsomest stage actor at a party, but nothing came of it because I was not allowed to see him! Is your life as boring as mine, Marie?” Denise’s warm brown eyes bore into Nevada’s.

It was instant friendship.

The two young women gossiped and laughed and spent the rest of the evening together. And when it was time for Nevada and Miss Annabelle to leave, Denise clasped Nevada’s hands in hers and asked anxiously, “You know where the statue of Andrew Jackson is, Marie? Will you meet me there in the morning at precisely ten o’clock? Will you help me pick a dress for next week’s reception at Whitington Hall? You are invited, aren’t you? Have you ever been to St. Louis? Will you—”

“Denise”—Nevada managed to interrupt, laughing and happily squeezing her new friend’s hands—“you don’t give me time to answer.”

“I know, I know,” admitted Denise. “Mama says I talk too much. Do you think so? I don’t mean to and I know it’s ever so rude, but I—”

“I have to go.”

“Meet me?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” Impulsively Nevada hugged the slender redhead, pressed her cheek to Denise’s and murmured, “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning!”

Nevada was still smiling as she settled back in the carriage for the ride to the Pontalba. She had never had a girlfriend, she realized suddenly. At least not one her own age. Miss Annabelle was her friend, of course, and the entertainers on the
Gambler
had been, but that was all. All her life had been spent among men.

She turned anxiously to Miss Annabelle. “May I meet Denise Ledet in Jackson Square tomorrow and go shopping with her and her mother?”

Miss Annabelle patted Nevada’s hand. “Of course you may, dear. The Ledets are fine people. Their recent move to St. Louis was New Orleans’s loss, I assure you.”

Nevada was so excited that night she could hardly sleep. Up the next morning with the sun, she dressed with care, choosing a dress of light blue wool. Studying herself in the free-standing mirror, she thought how perfectly the sapphire-and-diamond necklace would match her dress. And what fun it would be to nonchalantly let slip to her new friend that the expensive necklace was a gift from a lover. But of course that would be inappropriate. To wear the glittering jewelry in the daytime. And to admit she’d had a handsome lover. So she would wait until the Whitingtons’ gala to wear the necklace and then when Denise asked, she’d simply smile mysteriously and lower her lashes.

With Stryker conspicuously trailing her, a laughing, lighthearted Nevada dashed across St. Ann Street and into the square at five minutes to ten. Denise Ledet was waiting. Seated on a step directly below the mounted Jackson, she bounded up the minute she saw the tiny, dark-haired girl approaching. They met and embraced as though they were the dearest of friends. Which they soon would be.