Rivals (34 page)

I had no opportunity to do anything about my wardrobe today because…we had a visitor. And you will never guess who it was. I could not believe my eyes when I saw him. After Johnny had awakened from his nap, I took him outside to play. It was such a warm and bright afternoon—the finest autumn weather—that I thought the fresh air would be good for him. Heaven knows, in another month that dreadful north wind will come howling across this country, bringing along those dreary gray clouds filled with ice and snow—and it will be much too cold to venture out
.

Anyway, by pure happenstance, while Johnny was frolicking with the puppies of one of Kell's hunting dogs, I wandered onto the front lawn. Why? I don't know. It's as if I was drawn there by some mysterious force. When I glanced down the lane, I saw a man leading a lame horse. From his manner of dress, I knew instantly it was not one of our cowboys or a neighbor. And I also knew, even though at that distance I couldn't see his face, that the man was Jackson Stuart. How often I have thought of him these past weeks and wondered how he had fared that day of the great Run. The newspapers were filled with accounts of those murdered in apparent disputes over land claims. Some were “sooners” and deserved no better fate, but others were legitimate settlers like Mr. Stuart. So many times, I had hoped he was alive and well—and there he was
.

Mr. Stuart was on his way to Tulsa when his beautiful stallion went lame. Fortunately, he remembered he was near Morgan's Walk. Considering the lateness of the hour, I knew he wouldn't reach Tulsa before dark and suggested to Kell that Mr. Stuart spend the night with us and continue his journey in the morning on one of our horses. Naturally, Kell agreed with me….

Dinner that evening was easily one of the most enjoyable—if not
the
most enjoyable—Ann had experienced since her arrival at Morgan's Walk. Rushed as she'd been trying to prepare everything for their unexpected, but much welcomed, guest, she hadn't been able to spend as much time at her toilette as she would have liked. But judging from the frequent, appreciative glances Jackson Stuart sent her way, he obviously found a great deal about her appearance to admire. She felt like a flower blossoming under the sun of his attention.

Naturally, the topic of conversation at the table centered around the great land Run into the Cherokee Strip, an experience they had all shared in, either as a participant or observer. For the first time, Ann felt free to chatter away, recounting her many and varied impressions of the start of the race.

“The din was quite deafening,” she said. “I have heard that others likened it to a mighty artillery barrage. I really couldn't say if that was so or not, but I do know that the noise was so great that one felt completely consumed by it. I cannot imagine how it must have sounded to be in the middle of it. Was the start of the race truly as dangerous as it looked? You were there in the midst of all that chaos, Mr. Stuart. Tell us what it was like.”

“Insanity. Everyone on that line was of one mind—to get in front quickly and escape the crush. But in those first few jumps after the gun went off, wheels locked, horses bolted, wagons overturned, riders collided.”

She remembered that scene of horror, and shuddered expressively. “All for the dream of owning a piece of land. I can't imagine risking your life for a dream.”

“What is life without a dream?” Jackson Stuart challenged lightly. “Mere existence, Mrs. Morgan, with no hope for anything more. And there has to be more. Otherwise, why go on?”

“What is your dream, Mr. Stuart?” Chris inquired.

Jackson Stuart leaned back in his chair and looked around the dining room with its long cherrywood table and glittering chandelier overhead. “To own a house as fine as Morgan's Walk someday, to travel and see the sights.”

“That's a tall order,” Kell observed.

“Why dream small, Mr. Morgan?” Stuart reasoned. “You didn't.”

Dinner that evening ended much too soon for Ann. She wished she could linger at the table another hour and enjoy more of Jackson Stuart's stimulating company, but when Kell rose, she had no choice but to follow his lead. Hardly had she made the first movement to rise, but Jackson Stuart was there to pull out her chair. She acknowledged his assistance with a faint nod of her head, conscious of those black lashes screening a look that was much too bold in its admiration, screening not from her but from her husband. Trying to control the sudden pitter-patter skip of her pulse, she turned to Chris and walked with him from the dining room, the lampas skirt of her golden brown bengaline gown whispering softly with the gliding movement.

“What was the situation in the new territory when you left it, Mr. Stuart?” At the inquiry from Kell, Ann suppressed a sigh. Business. Sooner or later, the conversation always turned to cattle and crops or politics.

“There were still a large number of disputes over the ownership of various claims. It will probably be months before all that's settled. But the rest of the homesteaders are looking to spring. If you have more horses to sell, especially work animals, you'd find a ready market for them, Morgan. After the race, it's been hard to find a horse in the territory that isn't windbroke.”

“That might be a good idea, Kell,” Chris spoke up. “We probably have a dozen or so head we could spare from our haying teams. Maybe keep the younger stock and sell off the older animals.”

“It's something to consider,” Kell agreed, typically noncommittal.

At the drawing room arch, Ann paused and turned back, her glance automatically running to their handsome guest. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'll leave you to your brandy and cigars.”

For an instant, Jackson Stuart seemed taken aback by her announcement, but that brief flicker of surprise was quickly smoothed from his expression. “In all honesty, Mrs. Morgan, I wish you wouldn't. I noticed the piano earlier and had hopes you might play this evening. You do play, don't you?”

Modesty prevented her from admitting that she was a competent pianist. “A little, yes.”

“Then, may I impose on you to play for me? It's been a long time since I've heard anything other than someone pounding on a barroom piano.”

“I—” She glanced at Kell, but she could read no objection in his bland expression. “—I should be delighted to play for you, Mr. Stuart.”

“You do me honor, Mrs. Morgan.” He bowed slightly from the waist, the gleam in his eyes most stimulating.

Aflush with pleasure, Ann entered the drawing room and walked directly to the ornate piano of elaborately carved ebony. She sat down on its bench and arranged the fall of her skirt, then reached for the sheets of music propped on its stand.

Conscious of the crystal clink of the brandy decanter and the subdued murmur of voices behind her, Ann glanced over her shoulder. “Was there a particular selection you would like to hear, Mr. Stuart?”

“No,” he demurred, briefly lifting his brandy glass to her. “I'll leave the choice to you.”

“Perhaps something by Bach, then.” She chose a concerto filled with suppressed passions and began to play, all the while conscious of her audience and determined to acquit herself well.

Stuart applauded briefly when she finished. “Beautiful, Mrs. Morgan. Simply beautiful.” She glowed under the praise that was in both his voice and his look. “But I beg you not to stop now.”

“Yes, play some more, Ann,” Kell urged as he pushed out of his chair, rolling fluidly to his feet. “If you'll excuse me, Mr. Stuart, I'll leave you in my wife's capable care. I have considerable paperwork waiting for me in the library.” He turned briefly to Chris. “I'll need to talk to you before you turn in tonight.”

Ann started to protest his departure, then firmly pressed her lips together, recognizing that it would do no good. It never had. That's what was so vexing. He'd spend all day riding over his precious ranch, then most of the evening hunched over its ledgers and account books, leaving scant time for her.

She turned back to the piano and began to play, unconsciously choosing a particularly volatile piece. Halfway through it, she saw Chris leave the room, tossing a quick smile in her direction that promised he'd be back. She doubted it, not once Kell got his hands on him. But what did it matter? Jackson Stuart was here. She smiled, aware that at least she had his undivided attention.

Chris Morgan walked into the library. “I just realized who that is in there, Kell.” Unconsciously he lowered his voice to conspiratorial volume. “That's Blackjack Stuart. He's supposed to be connected with the Dalton gang.”

Kell showed no surprise at the news as he briefly looked up from his ledger, each entry made in a labored scrawl. “That connection was obviously broken last year when the Dalton gang was wiped out in Coffeyville.”

The Indian Territory had long been a haven for outlaws. Emmett, Grant, and Bob Dalton had lived in Tulsa most of their lives. The locals rarely commented on the presence of the notorious in their midst. Too much time and trouble was involved in reporting them to the nearest federal authorities in Fort Smith, Arkansas, one hundred miles away—three days by horseback or one by train. And usually by the time a U.S. marshal would arrive on the scene, the outlaws would have been warned and gone. Judge Parker, the so-called Hanging Judge, had done his best to bring law and order to the Territory, but he was only one man with seldom more than forty marshals at any one time to police an area that easily required twenty times that number to do the job adequately.

Chris stopped before the big mahogany desk. “You've known who he is all the time, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

A frown creased his forehead as he half-turned from the desk, running a hand through the streaked gold of his hair. “If you knew, then why did you invite him to stay the night? Blackjack Stuart supposedly funneled information to Dalton on gold shipments and the like. Maybe he's doing it for someone else now.”

“Ann invited him. Under the circumstances, I couldn't very well turn him away and risk offending him. The Daltons may be gone, but Stuart still has friends. And we don't have enough men at this time of year to mount a night guard on the cattle if he decided to retaliate for some imagined slight.”

Chris couldn't argue with that logic. For years there'd been a gentlemen's agreement of sorts between the locals and the marauding element. Asylum was offered in return for protection. In theory, it worked. In practice, banks were still robbed, travelers were still waylaid, and cattle were still rustled, not always by outlaws taking refuge in the area. The general lawlessness of the area contributed to the current agitation to have the land of the Creeks brought solely under the jurisdiction of the United States government, and bring an end to the current system of dual authority.

“Do you think you should say something to Ann? It may be more than a coincidence that his horse went lame so close to Morgan's Walk.”

“Maybe,” Kell conceded. “But he isn't the first man with a questionable past to stop here. We've even had some work for us. I don't see any point in saying anything and causing her needless worry. Stuart will be gone in the morning.” He returned the pen to its desk holder and nodded at the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down and tell me how the meeting went today.”

Chris paused, drawing in a deep breath and making the mental switch in topics, then took a seat in the leather-upholstered armchair. “About the way we expected. The Creeks aren't changing their position. They refuse to have any discussions with representatives from the Dawes Commission. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, the Dawes Act that was signed into law last March calls for
negotiations
with the Five Tribes to reach an agreement for the extinction of their communal titles to the land and the allotment of one-hundred-and-sixty-acre parcels to individual heads of families. The Creeks aren't going to negotiate. Like the others, they're going to fight it.”

“Where does that leave us and Morgan's Walk?”

“In the middle,” Chris said, lifting his hand in a helpless gesture. “We both know it's inevitable that the tribal lands will be broken up. The way they swarmed over the Strip shows just how land hungry people are. And for all the thousands who made the Run, there are that many and more who missed out. Now they're looking in this direction. The government has already said that all the excess land will be sold to settlers.”

“I intend to keep this valley, Chris.” It wasn't so much a statement as a vow.

“I know.” Sometimes Chris had the feeling that Morgan's Walk meant more to his brother than life itself. “We'll just have to make certain we're first in line—and that we have a lot of friends in high places.”

When Christopher Morgan remained absent midway through the third piece, Jackson Stuart wandered over to the piano and lounged against it, still absently nursing the brandy in his glass. Ann found his nearness most disconcerting, especially the sensation of his gaze examining every detail about her, from the ornate tortoiseshell comb in her hair to the bengaline front of her corsage. She stumbled briefly over a particularly difficult passage, then completed the piece without another error.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Conscious that his gaze had never left her, Ann had the very warm feeling that he wasn't referring to the music. She drew her hands away from the keys and forced them to lay serenely together on her lap. “I'm glad my playing pleases you.” She lifted her glance, a breathlessness attacking her throat when she encountered the full force of his gaze.

“It's more than your playing that pleases me.” The smoothness of his voice was like the caressing stroke of a hand. “The first time I saw you outside that hotel in Guthrie—amidst all that coarse mob of settlers—I sensed instantly that you were out of your element. This is the setting for you—a richly furnished drawing room, surrounded by a host of admirers.” He paused, his glance making an idle sweep of the room before coming back to her, humor glinting in the blue of his eyes. “At the moment, I'm afraid it's a host of one.”