Teresa Bodwell (13 page)
Authors: Loving Miranda
“She either did, or she didn’t.”
Miranda laced her fingers together on the table. Forcing herself to remain calm wasn’t easy. “What she told me was that the money was lost in the fire. Most of the greenbacks burned. Mercy didn’t have time to save the cash. Instead, she chose to risk her life to save your nephew.”
Ben stared at her. “So she paid Arthur, but the money was lost when the house burned.”
Miranda looked at Ben, the light from the tallow candle dancing in his dark eyes. “I reckon you deserve to hear the whole story.” She worried her lip for a minute before plunging ahead. “We can only guess how that money came to be in Arthur’s house. It was stolen from Mercy.”
“You’re saying she saw money in Arthur’s house and assumed that was the cash that was stolen from her.”
“She didn’t assume, she knew.”
“It had her name on it, I suppose?”
“Something like that.” Miranda rubbed one hand over the other, trying to find the right words to tell him. “She was carrying the money in the lining of her jacket when she was shot. The money was stained with her blood.”
“That could be a coincidence,” Ben said, though he knew that was an unlikely explanation.
“Might be, except that before he died, Arthur admitted he’d hired the men who attacked her.” Miranda locked eyes with Ben, knowing how it must hurt for him to hear these things about his brother. “He tried to get the land legally, but when he knew she had the money to pay the loan, he sent those men to rob her. Luther and Jed were his hired hands.”
Ben watched Miranda ball her hands into a fist. She looked ready to fight someone, maybe him. “I don’t know what to say. He was my brother . . .” The wonderful supper he’d eaten suddenly felt like lead in his stomach as he considered his brother’s role in this. If it came to a choice of believing O’Reilly or Miranda . . . “O’Reilly is a liar,” he muttered.
“How do you know that name?”
“I . . . I heard he was involved, too.”
Miranda nodded. “Yes, the three of them got away—lucky for them. They show their face around here again, Thad’ll likely kill ’em with his bare hands.”
Ben’s head was beginning to throb. “There was no money left, then? That’s why Thad and Mercy sold the cattle, including his bulls.”
Miranda nodded.
“Can you prove any of this?”
“The cows you can see for yourself. Other than that, you’ll have to take our word. You should be able to see by now that Mercy wants Jonathan to have his legacy when he’s grown.”
“I’m going to have to think about everything you’ve told me. And, I would like to see the cattle for myself.”
“You’re entitled to that, I think.”
“Thank you.” Ben turned to Miranda.
She felt his eyes on her lips. And damned if that didn’t send a shot of heat right down to her knees. She didn’t dare try to stand at that moment for fear she just might swoon herself.
It was a long night. Ben stared up at the angled roof above him as he lay on Jonathan’s small bed. Thad had apologized for putting him in the cramped quarters, but Ben was pretty sure the big man took pleasure in thinking Ben would be uncomfortable all night. He had to admire the man’s loyalty to his wife, and he was beginning to think Thad’s affection extended to Jonathan, too. Both Thad and Mercy really cared for the boy, or they were the best actors Ben had ever seen outside a theater.
Ben curled onto his side. Little did Thad understand that the small bed and low ceiling were the least of Ben’s worries. The knowledge that his bed was directly above Miranda contributed far more to his discomfort.
He cursed his impulsiveness once again. What the hell had driven him to seek her out, and what insanity had caused him to kiss her? He swallowed, remembering the delightful torture of holding her close, of indulging his desire only to the point where he needed her and wanted her more. If she’d played upon his thoughts before, now she would haunt him. He would not be satisfied until he joined with her. But that he could never do.
It wasn’t only for her sake, though that should be enough to force him to take the gentleman’s path. No, he must keep away from the young vixen for his own sake as well. Involvement with her would only complicate his investigation. Mercy and Thad were suspicious enough of him. If he were to prey on an innocent young girl in their family, they would be within their rights to demand that he stay away. So far away he might never find out the truth about what had happened to his brother’s money. He had to find the answer to that question, for his nephew’s sake as well as his own. If he found proof the Buchanans had stolen money or cattle from the boy, he would know that all of the tenderness they were showing him was an act. In time, they would no longer feel it necessary to pretend to care about Jonathan, and that would break the child’s heart.
Ben had many good, logical reasons to forget about Miranda. Even as the thought entered his mind, a more persistent thought forced it out. Those eyes, those lips, and the tear that had drifted down her cheek when he’d kissed her. He couldn’t be certain what she’d been thinking, of course, but he would wager that tear was not caused by unhappiness. In fact, he felt sure it was the opposite. He’d given her an unexpected pleasure.
All the more reason to keep his distance. If she’d enjoyed that and wanted more, hell, he wasn’t gentleman enough to resist her twice.
Chapter 11
Ben dragged into town after a sleepless night in the loft above Miranda. He went directly to return Lightning to the livery. Once again, the young boy greeted him.
“Keep him for me, will you, George?” Ben said as he handed the reins over to the lad. “I may need him again tomorrow.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Lansing.” George grinned up at him. Ben took the hint and gave the lad a coin.
He headed back to his room, his head churning through ideas for raising more money. Ben reached under his bed for the leather roll that held his canvases. If anyone in this town had the cash to pay for these, it would be the Wyatts. Or maybe they’d sell the paintings on his behalf.
He took a few moments to brush the trail dust from his coat and wash his face and hands. He pulled his jacket back on and checked his image in the mirror, making sure his collar and tie were straight. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw, but he looked respectable enough. He examined the dull brown eyes looking back at him. It wasn’t only the color—they had no life, no light sparking in them. He was twenty-seven years old with the eyes of an old man. Or perhaps simply a man with no idea of what to do with his life.
He knew only what he didn’t want—a life working in his father’s bank. He’d searched Europe, hoping to work with the art he loved. Even if he couldn’t paint, he’d hoped to make a living trading art. He might have succeeded if he hadn’t spent all his money on wine.
He ran a comb through his hair and judged himself to be presentable. Tucking the leather roll under his arm, he stepped quickly down the front stairs that led through the saloon. He’d failed as a businessman before he’d even begun. His only talent had been rendered useless when his hand was smashed. Luckily, he had only himself to support, and he could live simply. All he needed was enough for passage on a ship and a little cash to set himself up in a quiet life. If Arthur had lost the money, so be it. Ben would find another source of funds.
It was too early in the day for a large crowd, but the place never seemed to be empty. Rita leaned across the bar, serving a glass of beer to a customer and laughing. The proprietress had a delicate laugh that matched her lithe body. She was beautiful. There was a time when he would have wanted to paint her. If nothing else, that would have given him a chance to spend time alone with her, watching her body, studying each curve as only an artist is allowed to do without appearing indecent. He smiled as he went out the door. Knowing that he’d never paint again didn’t keep him from looking, but he looked for different reasons.
A certain blonde with cornflower blue eyes came to mind. He pictured her full pink lips and the way her tongue darted over them in innocent seduction. He most certainly wanted to paint her. Knowing it wasn’t possible didn’t seem to matter. He wanted to touch her. To kiss her again. To bury himself inside her womanly places.
But he also wanted to take her image with him, preserved in oils. Something to remember the look in her eyes after he’d kissed her—that expression of surprise and joy. He wondered if he could begin to depict all that life on a flat piece of canvas even if his hand were whole again.
Growing up in Boston, he’d admired the work of John Singleton Copley. As he traveled in Europe, he’d discovered a whole world of art, including the great masters of the past—Da Vinci and Michelangelo.
Painting technique had changed over the centuries, but one thing remained true—art was not simply a matter of reproducing an image. Many people had the talent to capture a likeness in a drawing or a painting, but few had the ability to capture the life, the being of the person.
It was perhaps vain for him to think he would have developed that ability. What did he have to show for his efforts? Only a few simple paintings he’d done when he was studying—landscapes and seascapes that captured the image well enough, but nothing more. They were beautiful, and he’d sold each of them for a good price to help him fund further studies. Then he’d done the paintings he carried now. They were his attempts to capture the pain and fury of war, as Goya had done so vividly in the work Ben had seen when he was in Spain.
During the war, Ben’s memories of battles were alive and fresh. And if his own memory failed him, he merely had to look into the eyes of the men around him to bring the battle back to life.
He’d spent weeks working until he felt he had not only one instant of terror frozen in time, but rather the whole war—the broken countryside, the confusion, the noise. The curious strength that worked inside the soldiers to keep them at their task when good sense might tell them to run.
It was quite a lot to put on one small, flat canvas. He hadn’t managed all of it, but he was proud of the attempt. There was substance to these paintings even if they were a poor imitation of the scene he had attempted to depict. Putting everything he could into the work had helped him to find some sense that there was life beyond the bounds of the battle, and he dared hope that one day he would capture those things with his paints as well. Beauty. Serenity. He saw things with a new eye—from the petals of a flower to the scarred jaw of a blond beauty.
It would take real talent to depict her hidden passion in paint. But he no longer possessed the primary tool he needed to try. Without control over his hand, it wasn’t possible to wield a paintbrush.
He had made a few attempts in Paris. He had even tried painting with his undamaged hand, but he could barely scrawl his name, let alone make delicate strokes with a brush. Whatever gift he had for art had died when he lost the fingers from his left hand. No use in being sentimental over his losses. He needed cash, and the only way to get it was to sell these paintings. Just as well. It wasn’t as though he needed reminders of his worst nightmares. Better to forget the battles along with the life he might have had if he’d survived with his hand and his talent.
Ben pushed open the door as he entered the mercantile.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lansing,” Clarisse greeted him. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
She leaned over the counter, speaking quietly to a woman with golden hair a few shades darker than Miranda’s. She was taller, too—a good two inches taller than Miranda.
Hell, Ben, that girl is not the measure of everything.
He moved toward the front of the store and feigned interest in some canned goods in order to get a look at the woman’s face. It was fair and angular. He couldn’t tell more looking from the side, except that her figure was pleasant enough.
Hell, Ben, that girl is not the measure of everything.
He moved toward the front of the store and feigned interest in some canned goods in order to get a look at the woman’s face. It was fair and angular. He couldn’t tell more looking from the side, except that her figure was pleasant enough.
“What do you think, Ingrid?”
“Ja,” Ingrid said. “That is, yes. I think you’re right. It will be goot to make these dresses.”
Several sketches covered the broad wooden counter. Ben couldn’t help himself; he moved in for a closer look. “Miranda’s drawings?” Ben lifted the top one. “This one is new, isn’t it?”
“You have an excellent memory, Mr. Lansing. Miranda has been busy and seems determined to keep us busy as well, doesn’t she, Ingrid?” Clarisse’s eyes twinkled with mirth.
“Ja.” Ingrid straightened, and Ben concluded she was a good deal taller than Miranda, though not nearly as tall as Mercy. “We will be very busy this winter, sewing dresses.” Ingrid’s eyes seemed to measure him. “You know ladies’ fashion?”
“No, I’m no fashion expert. I am . . . I was an artist though. I appreciate a skilled drawing.”
“You were an artist?” Clarisse asked. “Do you mean, professionally?”
“Yes, I’ve sold a few of my works. In fact, that’s what I’ve come to see you about.” He glanced at the other woman. “When you’re done here. I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“Pardon my poor manners, Mr. Lansing. Have you met Mrs. Hansen?”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t.” He bowed his head. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“I am most pleased, too,” Ingrid said. “I was so sorry for your brudder’s death. A tragic loss for your nephew.”
Ben inclined his head. “Yes, it’s a terrible thing for a young boy to lose his father.”
“My oldest was about the same age when her fadder died. She recovers with time.”
“As I’m certain Jonathan will,” Clarisse said. “Especially with a loving family taking care of him.”
“Yes, this is certain.” Ingrid smiled at Ben. “Now, I will go. Pleasant meeting you, Mr. Lansing. I hope you enjoy your stay in Fort Victory.”
“With so many lovely ladies here, I can’t imagine how my stay could be anything less than enjoyable.” Ben was pleased his words elicited a bright pink blush from the widow. He was out of practice in flirting. What he needed was a new start, to consider all the women around him as possible partners in fun. Widows could be especially amenable. He’d met several who were not interested in another marriage, but did miss certain of the delights a man could bring to them.
“I hope I will see you again before you leave.” Mrs. Hansen nodded at Ben, then turned and walked out the door.
Mrs. Hansen or the lovely Rita Diaz. Plenty of women who might satisfy his newly kindled desires. Yet, even as the thought came to him, he knew it was untrue. The only woman he desired was the one he must avoid at all cost. Best to take care of his business, get the hell out of Fort Victory, and forget about Miranda Chase. He’d find some exotic beauty on his island, and all memories of the pretty young blonde would soon be gone.
“How can I help you, Mr. Lansing?” Clarisse’s words brought Ben back to the present.
“I’ve come to see whether you might be willing to purchase these paintings.”
He unrolled the canvases over the counter so that Clarisse could view them. She gasped.
“Mr. Lansing, you
are
an artist.”
are
an artist.”
“Not any longer,” he said before he could stop himself.
“Why ever not?” Clarisse held the corners flat and bent to examine the top painting more carefully. “A man of your obvious talent—”
Ben laid the maimed hand on the counter for her to see. “It’s useless.”
Clarisse looked at his hand, then up to his face. “I’m sorry,” she said. And he was certain she meant it. She looked back at the canvas, then lifted it to see the one underneath. “The horses remind me of. . . Your brother had a painting of a foxhunt.”
“I gave that to him. It was a wedding present.”
“That was your work?”
Ben smiled. It wasn’t one of his better pieces, but he’d been proud of it at the time. And his sister-in-law had pronounced it lovely. “Yes, I did that when I was in school.”
“I can see some similarity. The way the animals seem so real, as though they could run right off the canvas.”
“Do you think you could sell them?”
Clarisse nodded. “I’ve no doubt of it. I’ll give you fifty dollars for the pair of them.”
Fifty dollars. It was more than he’d hoped to get here in the middle of nowhere. “They are yours, then.”
Clarisse smiled at him. “If you have any others—”
“No,” Ben said, “these are the last.” He thought for a moment. “I guess my foxhunt was lost in the fire.” That single blaze had taken everything he’d come to Fort Victory to find.
“Yes.” Clarisse met his gaze. “Mercy and Thad told me it was all they could do to escape before the building collapsed. No time to salvage anything.”
“I’m surprised the hired men didn’t help.”
“Hired men?”
“My brother’s letters mentioned several men working for him.”
Clarisse busied herself wrapping the paintings back into their leather cover. “He did have at one time. The last of them left more than a month before . . . the fire.”
Ben scowled.
“The rumor was he hadn’t paid them. As a matter of fact, he tried to borrow money from us to meet his payroll, but . . .” Clarisse looked up at Ben. “Thank you for these paintings. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen art as fine as this.”
“If you need help stretching and framing them—”
“Oh, no.” Clarisse grinned up at him. “I have plans for these.”
Ben concluded his business with Clarisse and strolled back to Rita’s with money in his pocket. At least he had accomplished something. He considered stopping for a celebratory drink, but thought better of it and ran up the back stairs instead. He shrugged out of his jacket and pulled off his tie and collar before slipping out of his boots.
His sleepless night had left him exhausted. The white sheets of the bed looked inviting, but Ben had work to do. He pulled out his journal and a pencil to finish compiling the facts he’d gathered. The puzzle was beginning to look quite clear now, and it was becoming difficult to imagine his brother as an innocent victim.
A quarter of an hour later, he studied his list.
Damn.
Not that he was surprised. The moment he’d learned O’Reilly claimed to be Arthur’s ally, he knew something was wrong. A light rap on the door startled Ben and he dropped the pencil. He bent to pick it up and set it next to the journal. There was another knock at the door.
Damn.
Not that he was surprised. The moment he’d learned O’Reilly claimed to be Arthur’s ally, he knew something was wrong. A light rap on the door startled Ben and he dropped the pencil. He bent to pick it up and set it next to the journal. There was another knock at the door.
He walked across the floor in his stockinged feet, hesitated for a moment, then opened the door. Miranda stood in the hall, looking up at him with her wide blue eyes. The sunlight streaming through the window behind her shone on her fair hair, making a glow over her like an angel in a Renaissance painting. Except that the view of an angel had never caused heat to radiate through Ben’s groin as it did now. He was grateful the door was between them, because he was certain his physical response would be apparent right through his trousers.
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