Nora (7 page)

He was surprised by her perception. His pale eyes narrowed as he searched her earnest face. “It's something I'll never speak about,” he said tautly. “Least of all to a woman.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Am I made of glass, sir?”

His gaze went down her body in the slim skirt and white embroidered blouse. “I wonder, considering the blazing path of some of your contemporaries through saloons with axes.”

She giggled softly at the reference to the zealous temperance leagues. “Wouldn't I look at home with an ax in my hand?”

He shook his head. “It wouldn't suit you.” He frowned at her. “You've been subdued since your arrival. You ride well, and Chester mentioned that you can even handle a fowling piece. Yet I've not seen you indulge your fondness for it.”

She could shoot, but not well. She had missed her shot in England and blown out a priceless stained-glass window that dated to the Tudor period. Her host had taken the loss of his prize window with stiff-lipped good grace, but Nora hadn't been invited back. She hadn't handled a gun since then, either. “It's too hot to shoot,” she said evasively.

“It has been unseasonably cold lately.”

She searched desperately for a reply.

He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for it.

She cleared her throat. “Very well, if you must know, I do not like guns and I find most of them too heavy for my arms,” she said proudly. “I miss.”

He chuckled softly. “You fraud.”

“But I
can
shoot, after a fashion,” she said curtly. “It is only that I have difficulty with the weight of a rifle.”

“And what of the safari in Africa?” he persisted.

She paled and averted her eyes. “I do not like to speak of Africa. It is a…tarnished memory.”

He wondered at her wording and the expression on her face. What a puzzle she was becoming.

“There is a Women's Club social at the courthouse on Saturday evening,” he recalled. “I have been appropriated for it, by one of the organizers. Would you partner me?”

Her heart stopped and then ran away. Her mind whirled through her wardrobe and she looked up at him with barely subdued excitement. “Partner…you?”

“I dance rather well for a cowboy,” he told her amusedly. “And I promise to wear my best boots and plenty of cologne. You may trust me to be discreet.”

She colored, because her aunt Helen had repeatedly made her aware of the social distance between them. To be seen with a ranch foreman in public would embarrass not only her, but her family.

He saw her conflicting expressions and his face closed up. “Perhaps one of the town girls would be a
better choice after all,” he said tautly. “One of them would not be so far above me on the social scale.”

Before Nora had time to react, he knocked curtly on the door and was admitted. When he left, he didn't even look her way. He was fuming. Back in West Texas, women had vied for his attentions. The best families from back East had invited him to stay, in hopes of making a match between him and one of their daughters. He was as accustomed to wealth and position as Nora herself, but he was in the position of a man at a masquerade. He could not tell her the truth.

And the more he considered it, the angrier he became. It was a good thing that he saw her as she actually was, he told himself. Had she met him under normal circumstances, he might never have known what an appalling snob she really was.

 

T
HE SOCIAL EVENING
was hosted by the local Women's Club, of which Aunt Helen was secretary, and the club's colors of green and white were used in the decorations. Nora wore a simple black silk gown trimmed in duchesse lace and diamonds. Melly wore white organdy, and Aunt Helen wore black taffeta, but their jewelry was made of rhinestones. They were elegant, in their way. But none of the women could hold a candle to Nora, who was so fashionable that she drew most of the attention.

Cal Barton escorted a pretty young girl who was a daughter of one of the organizers of the event. He was attentive to the girl, and once, while he danced with
his partner, he gave Nora a look that made her feel two inches high. Her dignity and social position were not enough to compensate for the contempt she saw in his pale eyes. He wouldn't know that Aunt Helen had been very firm about Nora's conduct, and felt a working man would not be a suitable escort for such a lady of quality. Even if Nora had been willing to defy convention on her own, she couldn't shame her aunt and uncle or spoil Melly's chances of marrying well. She resigned herself to losing Cal Barton's company, but very reluctantly.

A middle-aged visiting politician asked her for a dance, and she accepted with grace, smiling up at him with all her charm as they circled the floor. He seemed to be fascinated by her, because he monopolized her through three more dances until her befuddled aunt pleaded with her not to allow one man so much familiarity with her. Embarrassed, Nora retired to the party table. It seemed that she could do nothing to please her aunt.

“Is our Mr. Barton mad at you?” Melly asked when they were standing around the hors d'oeuvres table, where a huge candelabra lit the silver coffee service and savories on silver trays.

“It seems to be my lot in life to be the recipient of his ire, when I am not accidentally creating scandals,” Nora said resignedly.

“You mustn't mind Mama,” Melly said gently, with understanding. “She means well, but it has been hard for her out here. Like your mother, she was a lady of
quality, and now she feels her loss of status keenly. It is only that she wants a better life for me than she and Father have to endure. That's why she's so concerned about convention.” She touched Nora's arm lightly. “She doesn't know that you have a…a feeling for Mr. Barton. And I would not dare tell her. But I am sorry for you.”

“It is of no consequence,” Nora said stiffly. “I could hardly expect anything to come of it, considering the difference in our positions.” She tried not to feel the wounding of the quiet words. But how she wished stuffy social convention to damnation! If only she were an ordinary woman, or Cal Barton a gentleman of wealth. She sighed more wistfully than she knew, and Melly heard her. To divert her cousin, she glanced around and said quickly, “Isn't that Mr. Langhorn?”

Melly's hand shook, almost upsetting her cup of coffee. Nora quickly steadied it. “Careful,” she cautioned under her breath, “lest Aunt Helen suspect and say something to you as well.”

“Thank you,” Melly said sincerely. She laughed unsteadily. “I daresay, we are both in danger from Mama this evening. And from the look of things, you seem to be on Mr. Barton's list of preoccupations.”

“That is unlikely now, since I have been forced to snub him,” Nora said carelessly, refusing to look as she saw Cal making his way steadily toward them. “I fear that he finds me totally forgettable.”

“Really? Would you look at that scowl!” she mused as he came closer.

Nora's own hands were none too steady, but she had poise and composure that young Melly lacked. She looked up at Cal indifferently, feeling the distance in their social stations keenly as she took in his slightly out-of-fashion suit and the scuffs on his black dress boots. She couldn't know that he'd dug them out of the bottom of his trunk deliberately for the occasion, to reinforce his status as a lowly ranch hand.

“You look very nice, Mr. Barton,” Melly said with a grin.

“Thank you, Miss Tremayne,” he replied politely. “So do you.”

Nora tried not to look at him. She sipped her coffee. “Are you having a good time, Mr. Barton?” she asked. “I take it that social functions aren't your usual sort of entertainment.”

She could certainly rub it in, he thought irritably. He smiled coolly. “Well, Miss Marlowe, I have to admit that I prefer a hot game of poker to a cold woman.”

Her breath caught just slightly, but he wasn't listening. He held out his hand to Melly, smiling at her so charmingly that she didn't even think of Nora as she let him lead her onto the dance floor.

They moved well together, to Nora's fury. She didn't seem to be the only one who was irritated by them, though. Mr. Langhorn was standing with two other men, and the look he was giving Melly, unseen by her, would have scalded milk. He was quite obviously jealous; but apparently he wasn't going to let Melly know. His reasoning escaped Nora, until she realized
that his divorced status put him out of Melly's reach as effectively as her wealth put Cal out of her own. She felt an odd kinship with him, an ache for what she could never have.

She sipped her coffee and smiled as the middle-aged politician came to stand by the refreshment table with her.

“Quite a gathering,” he remarked. “I sure am happy I got to come. I've been over to Galveston to look at the situation. I don't know what Washington can do to help, but those poor people aren't going to be able to do much without money. There's talk of building a seawall, you know, to prevent this sort of thing from ever happening again.”

“That would be a wonderful project,” Nora said. “I would be happy to contribute toward it. Surely others would as well.”

His face brightened. “Why, I never thought of it that way. Perhaps I might approach wealthy families and businessmen for pledges.”

“An excellent idea.” She hesitated. “Have they…identified all the dead?”

He hesitated, too. He could not speak of such things to a gentlewoman. “I am certain that they have,” he reassured her. He couldn't mention that it was not only impossible to identify the thousands of dead bodies, but that it was equally impossible to bury them. They were being cremated where they lay, and armed guards were having to force laborers to sift through the horror to extricate the remainder of the dead from the rubble.
Sharks had gathered in the waters around the shore. The worst of it, to him, was that the flood had come after daylight that Saturday morning. People would have seen it coming, that fierce, relentless, merciless wall of water….

“Sir, are you all right?” Nora asked suddenly. “You have gone very pale.”

He lifted his coffee to his mouth with a smile, ignoring the scalding nip of it against his tongue. “I was thinking about my return trip to Washington,” he lied. “Do tell me about your uncle's ranch, Miss Marlowe. I am fascinated by the cattle industry!”

 

M
ELLY DANCED
only once with Cal, enjoying his easy company and ready smile. She was, of course, aware of her mother's quiet disapproval, so she made sure that they parted as soon as the waltz was over. She left Cal and found herself face-to-face with an unsmiling Mr. Langhorn.

Her heart leaped as his dark eyes glittered down at her with an unspoken threat. She flushed at their unexpected hostility.

“Playing patty-cake with the foreman, Miss Tremayne?” he chided with a poisonous smile. “Your mother hardly approves, or did you not notice?”

“It was only one dance, and Mr. Barton is a good dancer,” she said airily, refusing to be intimidated.

“He's my age,” he reminded her. “Far too old for a child like you.”

She lifted her eyebrows and looked innocent. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

His lean jaw tautened. “There are boys your own age here,” he said angrily. “Why not dally with them instead?”

“You cannot choose my escorts for me,” she told him quietly. “I will dance with whom I please, Mr. Langhorn, and you can do your worst.” She smiled at him slyly. “It surprises me that you did not bring Mrs. Terrell along for company.”

“One of her children is ill,” he said.

She didn't dare show her jealousy. “I am sorry,” she said formally. “I hope the child will soon be well. Do excuse me…!”

She had started to turn away when his lean hand caught her upper arm and held her in place, unobtrusively. Melly looked around quickly, but no one had noticed his possessive hold.

“Mr. Langhorn!” she gasped.

He jerked her closer, and his eyes, at close range, were unnerving. “Do you do it deliberately?” he asked through his teeth. “I have no wish to become entangled, in any way, with you. I have told you so, and I have told you why. If her child were not ill, I would have brought Mrs. Terrell.”

“Why are you not with her?” she choked, tugging futilely against his strength.

“Because it was not her wish,” he replied. “I have told you before that I intend to marry her. She can
help me provide what Bruce needs, a stable and decent home.”

“Mrs. Terrell's boys are heathens,” she said coldly. “Bruce is not. He is only mischievous. But if you marry that woman, her vile children will make him into a mirror image of themselves—”

“How dare you speak of her sons in such a way!” he grated.

“I do not mean Ben, who is a kind boy. But how can you not know that his two older brothers are forever in trouble with the town constable?” she returned. “They have almost caused two buggy accidents playing shinny on the streets!”

“It is merely a boyish prank, throwing stones at buggy horses,” he began.

“When a buggy overturned in the process and a small child was almost killed?” she emphasized, her dark eyes flashing. “You consider that a boyish prank? Why do you not ask Bruce what he thinks of it? He does not like either the widow Terrell or her sons. And if you force such a relationship on him, you may lose him. What if he runs away?”

“You are very nosy for such a small woman,” he said, throwing her arm away. “I will decide what is best for my own son, without any interference from you!”

“Oh, Melly!” her mother called quickly, red-faced at the confrontation, which was being noticed as the two antagonists raised their voices in anger. “Dear, do come and help me serve, please!”

“At once, Mama,” she returned, flushing as she moved away from Mr. Langhorn.

Helen was angry and trying not to show it. “I have asked you not to associate with that man,” she hissed. “He is scandalous!”