Fireblossom (18 page)

Maddie's face flamed. At last he lifted his head to kiss her again and his knee nudged her thighs apart. He pulled her closer so that the most intimate part of her was flush against the hardness that strained inside his trousers. Tears spilled onto her cheeks and she began to struggle in earnest.

Fox tasted salt on his tongue. Dimly it came to him through a haze of raging passion that she was resisting him, crying out. Her delicate fists struck at him blindly, and he drew back.

"What the hell—?" Shame spread through him like a dark stain, but he could not let her know.

Hair spilling down and cheeks tear-streaked, she clambered to her feet, tripping once over the hem of her skirt.

"You
forced
yourself on me!" she sobbed. "How dare you? I thought you were a man of honor!"

"Don't go blaming me for what just happened. You all but asked for it with a signed document." Fox rose, too, and had to restrain himself from reaching out to help when he saw her fumbling with her chemise in an effort to cover herself. This accomplished, Maddie straightened her shoulders, lifted her delicate chin, and presented her back to him.

"You'll have to repair your damage," she said stiffly. "I cannot reach the fastenings."

They were silent as he worked, his fingertips grazing her skin occasionally. Fox wished it didn't have to be like this, but there didn't seem to be any other way to scare her off. This unequivocal rupture would be best in the long run, for both of them.

Her clothing restored, Maddie smoothed back her hair with shaking fingers and pinned it into a loose chignon. Then, without looking back, she walked to the door and opened it.

"The basket—" Fox said hoarsely.

She turned at length, haloed in the radiant sunlight that filled the doorway. "The muffins are for you and Titus," she said quietly. "I should tell you that in spite of what has transpired between us, I know what sort of man you truly are. I cannot guess what has happened to wound you so deeply, but I do know that I am too strong to be scared off so easily."

His eyebrows flew up in astonishment at this speech, and an instant later Madeleine disappeared from the doorway. Fox stood as if paralyzed, then strode across the cabin. Reaching the door, he shouted after her slim departing figure," Miss Avery, I don't give a damn about you!"

Maddie continued walking as if she hadn't heard.

* * *

The next day Stephen Avery returned home. He didn't say much about where he'd been and in fact seemed much more interested in sleeping than talking, but his homecoming kept Maddie busy and distracted—or so Fox hoped. For his own part, he avoided the house next door. When the last muffin had been devoured by Titus, he ordered the older man to return the basket. Happy to comply, Pym feasted on chicken stew at the Avery house and returned with a whole, aromatic plum cobbler.

"Stop bringing food from the Averys into this house!" Fox burst out, pacing as if Titus had committed a capital offense.

The Cornish miner was taken aback. "Eh? What's amiss, sir?"

"I'm tired of having their dishes and baskets and plates cluttering up
my
house, that's all." He directed a menacing glare at the cobbler pan.

"Never mind, then, I'll see to it." Titus reached protectively for the pan, which sat on the makeshift table. "You don't have to go within touching distance of Miss Avery, if that's what's got your back up."

"Why the devil should you say a thing like that?" A muscle twitched in Fox's jaw.

"Were you supposing I'm an idiot? I have eyes, son."

It was unsettling for Fox to face the fact that he didn't seem to be fooling anyone—including, it seemed, Maddie herself. No one believed him when he said he didn't want her. Since the truth was impossible, he resolved to try different tactics. Tomorrow he would go down to Main Street in search of Graham Horatio Winslow III.

* * *

Stephen Avery, lounging in his bed, looked up from his breakfast tray when Madeleine peeked into the bedroom.

"Hello, darling." He smiled weakly and patted the quilt, which had been painstakingly stitched by his late wife. "Sit with me for a bit."

It was late, nearly eleven o'clock, and Maddie searched his face with worried eyes as she drew near. Her father had been sleeping more and more of the time since his return to Deadwood. Something wasn't right. To make matters worse, he wouldn't tell them where he had been or why. At first Maddie had accepted his stories about business dealings in Custer or Hill City, but now she was beset with doubts and worries. Gramma Susan didn't say much, but her eyes were keen and watchful behind her gold spectacles.

This morning, observing her father's curiously flushed face, Maddie decided it didn't matter where he had been or what his secrets were. He had a right to privacy, and she was beginning to think that secrets were normal. She had a few of her own....

"You look prettier each time I see you," Stephen said, gazing at her proudly. Madeleine's violet-and-cream-striped taffeta gown, with its heart-shaped neckline and fitted bodice, was proper yet provocative at the same time, and her bright curls were charmingly caught up in a series of loops that curved partway down her back. She was a breath of fresh air to him and his eyes shone with the depth of his love.

"Thank you, Father." Smiling, she perched on the bed and clasped his hand. "You haven't eaten very much of your breakfast. How are you feeling?"

"Oh, I suppose I may have picked up a touch of the ague while I was away. It's no use pretending I'm not ill; you can see for yourself."

She sighed with relief. "Well, then, I shall send for Dr. Sick—"

"The most ironic name," Stephen interrupted, laughing and then coughing. At length he added, "Who knows what sort of outdated potions they try to pass off as medicine around these parts? The redoubtable Dr. Sick might kill me with his cure."

"But, Father—"

"Just wait a bit, my dear. You may summon him if I take a turn for the worse." Attempting to allay her concern, Avery took a bite of coddled egg. "There, you see? I'm just a bit weak; nothing serious. Now then, tell me what's been happening in my darling daughter's life? How have you and Fox been getting on? His cabin looks amazingly impressive from the window."

"Why do you link my fortunes with his?" she asked, coloring immediately.

"No reason, really. Perhaps it was wishful thinking on my part. I know that there aren't many men to choose from in Deadwood, but Fox seemed different. Sometimes while I was away, I would think about you before falling asleep, and I confess to imagining tender scenes between you two."

Maddie stiffened. "Wishful thinking indeed, Father. That man hasn't a drop of tenderness in his body as far as I know. However, his house is very fine, just as you observed, and he has been indulgent regarding Benjamin. He gives him simple chores to do which allow him to feel important." She hesitated, then continued, "As I have told you several times since your return, I'm adjusting well, I think. My garden is healthy and some of my flowers have buds on them. I have no personal life to speak of, but that's not a source of concern to me."

It was clear to Stephen that his daughter was holding back all that truly mattered, but he saw that her pride would resist any attempt he might make to pry. A silence fell between them, then suddenly Maddie straightened.

"I almost forgot!" She withdrew a creamy envelope from the pocket of her skirt. "Look at this—a little Chinese boy brought it to the door about an hour ago. Go ahead and read the note inside. Perhaps it will make some sense to
you."

Stephen looked at the envelope. On the outside, in a flowing hand, was written "Miss Madeleine Avery."
The paper
was expensive, all but unheard of in brawling Deadwood. Frowning, he took out the neatly folded note and read aloud, "Greetings to Miss Avery. My name is Graham Horatio Winslow the Third, of the New Haven Winslows, and I am newly arrived in Deadwood. I have been given to understand that you share this rather awkward condition, and also that we may come from similar backgrounds and share similar characters. I beg that you will forgive my abrupt address, but I perceive no other way. I ask that you receive me today at noon so that I may introduce myself. I expect nothing; I hope for friendship. Yours respectfully, Graham Horatio Winslow the Third."

"Do you know this man?" Maddie inquired, clearly flustered after hearing the missive read aloud.

He shook his head slowly. "No... and I am inclined to think that I would remember someone so singular to these environs."

"Well, I suppose I shall have to meet Mr. Winslow," she replied, with a sigh. "I can hardly turn him away. Noon is fast approaching, so I'll find Gramma Susan, warn her, and see what refreshments we have to offer this unsolicited visitor."

She took Stephen's nearly untouched tray with her. When she paused in the doorway to glance back, she saw that her father was already asleep again.

When Maddie joined her grandmother in the kitchen, Susan was experimenting with a new recipe for small Cornish pasties shaped like turnovers. The fragrance of the diced steak, potatoes, onions, and pastry all baking together was heavenly.

Susan O'Hara took Maddie's news with typical good humor. Of course any newcomer was always welcome, as far as Susan was concerned, but she agreed with her granddaughter that in this case, something besides pasties ought to be served. Bustling about happily, she prepared tiny triangular sandwiches filled with thin-sliced chicken and cucumber and arranged them on a tray, with plates of orange segments and oatmeal cookies. Tea was brewing, and Maddie had just assembled little cups and saucers that matched the exquisite Canton teapot when a polite knock sounded at the front door.

"Just pretend I'm the maid when I bring all this into the parlor," Gramma Susan hissed as Maddie prepared to greet her guest. "There will be time enough later to identify me if you and Mr. Winslow form an attachment." The whimsical smile she gave her granddaughter told her how much stock she put in that likelihood.

Looking every inch the decorous and gently bred young lady, Madeleine opened the door. Facing her was a man who could have been plucked from one of Philadelphia's excruciatingly refined dancing assemblies. He wore an immaculate gray cutaway coat, light trousers, a brocade vest with a rolled collar, and a stiff white shirt, celluloid collar, and a perfectly executed four-in-hand tie set off by a scarf pin. He carried a violet nosegay and doffed a bowler hat to reveal curly blond hair parted in the center.

"You must be Miss Avery," he said, awestruck. "Word of your beautiful hair has preceded you! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Graham Horatio Winslow the Third, of the-"

"New Haven Winslows?" Maddie couldn't resist exclaiming.

"Ah, I see that you are familiar with my line," Graham said. "I am not surprised. You hail from Philadelphia, after all, and it is my experience that the better families are acquainted all along the eastern seaboard."

Maddie was momentarily at a loss, then she put out her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Winslow. Won't you come in? I was just about to have tea and hoped you would join me. How kind of you to send a note in advance."

"I brought these for you." He presented the violets and sketched a bow. "Somehow I felt that you would be the sort of lady who would love flowers."

Maddie paused in the act of pressing her nose into the blooms to inhale their perfume. "It's most unexpected to meet a man like you in Deadwood, Mr. Winslow."

"And even more unexpected to encounter a true lady like yourself, Miss Avery," he replied earnestly. "It's as if I have discovered a treasure much more valuable than gold."

"You are... too kind, sir." Despite an occasional prick of amusement, Maddie could not help responding to his compliments and admiration. After the treatment she had received from Fox of late, Graham Horatio Winslow Ill's effusive kindness was almost soothing... for an hour or two, at least. Good will bubbled up in Maddie as she watched Gramma Susan darting in and out of the parlor to serve the tea, apparently delighting in her little masquerade. Mr. Winslow, though unfailingly polite, treated Gramma Susan with a condescending air that made Maddie want to giggle. Still, she was entertained. They discussed all the latest news from the East, sipped tea, exchanged opinions about Elizabeth and Robert Browning, Harriet Beecher Stowe, the movement for women's suffrage, Napoleon Ill's Second Empire in France, and Dickens's
A Tale of Two Cities,
which Graham had read on the train from New Haven to Chicago. Maddie was beginning to quite enjoy herself, feeling that she had found a friend who could help her to escape mentally from Deadwood when the need arose.

"Have another sandwich, Mr. Winslow," she invited warmly. "Let us speak of anything other than our arduous journeys West, Custer's massacre, and the current price of gold and land in Deadwood." She paused, then added, "I don't even want to know why you came here."

He laughed, perhaps a bit too loudly. "I know what you mean, Miss Avery, and I am happy to comply. I fear that I have made a mistake coming to the Black Hills, but it isn't one that can be rectified by wishing. It's such a long way back to New Haven...."

Desperate to steer the conversation away from reality, she said, "What poets do you enjoy? Longfellow?"

"Yes, I like Longfellow and Tennyson and Shelley most particularly. I find that I'm rather put off by some of the newer poets, like Whitman, who I know you'll agree is occasionally shocking in his approach."

Maddie stared at him as his last words sank in. A torrent of unwelcome questions surged up within her. How had Graham Winslow heard of her and how did he know so much about her? How did he know she was from Philadelphia? Only one person could have informed Winslow that she had used the word
shocking
to describe Walt Whitman's poems. It was too neat to be a coincidence.

"Pardon me, Mr. Winslow," she said, with her sunniest smile, "but have you met a gentleman called Fox? He's quite amiable—a tall, strong fellow with dark hair and blue eyes. He lives next to us, and if you haven't met him, I think you should. I am certain that the two of you would become friends."