Robin Lee Hatcher (22 page)

Vince Richards stepped into the brightly lit entry hall of the Worthington home. Every inch, every detail of the splendid mansion spoke of generations of wealth and influence.

“Senator,” their hostess said to his companion. “How wonderful to see you. We were afraid you wouldn’t make it up from Washington.”

“And miss your annual ball, Beatrice? Perish the thought.” Senator Wright bowed toward the woman, his long white mustache brushing her hand before his lips did the same. When he straightened, he motioned to Vince. “I’ve brought a friend with me. Vince Richards, may I present our hostess, Beatrice Worthington, and her husband, Harvard.”

Vince acknowledged the introductions while recalling bits of information the senator had told him about the Worthingtons. Despite Harvard’s unassuming looks and stature, the rotund man before him — known to one and all as Harvey — was esteemed by men in places of power. Vince hoped to be counted among his friends one day.

Following the senator, he moved into the house. The strains of a waltz floated to them from the ballroom. As they walked in that direction, the senator introduced Vince to other guests and, between introductions, filled in helpful details about those he met.

Half an hour later, the ballroom was a swirling mass of dancers. Vince was engaged in conversation with a Philadelphia banker, the two of them standing near the patio doors that had been opened to catch the evening breeze. When the music ended, he let his gaze wander toward the doorway of the ballroom.

It was then she appeared, gliding through the entrance like an angel. Bethany Silverton. Here. In Philadelphia. His stomach tightened in shock.

Surely it wasn’t her. She was back in Sweetwater . . . in the arms of . . . It must be someone who resembled her.

But no. There couldn’t be another young woman as beautiful as she. He knew that face, that hair. That figure. He’d coveted them for several long months.

“Please excuse me,” he said to the banker in midsentence. Leaving the other man speechless, he moved toward the ballroom entrance, all the while keeping her in his sight.

She wore a gown of glossy black, a color without relief save for the pale broach worn near her throat. But she was as beautiful in black as she’d been in the pastels she seemed to favor in Sweetwater.

Black. By George! Was she in mourning?

He couldn’t stop the smile that twisted his mouth. So Chandler was dead. Better news he couldn’t hear.

Hawk stood in the parlor of the Silverton home, the light in the room growing dim as the sun settled in the west. Sadness lurked in every corner. Sorrow tinged the silence.

The reverend and his wife dead. Bethany gone back to Philadelphia.

He stared at the toes of his boots and forced himself to breathe while his fingers traveled the brim of his hat, held between both hands.

If he’d pushed himself a little harder on his return from the Idaho border. If he’d slept one or two fewer hours each night. If his horse hadn’t pulled up lame outside of Butte. If he’d known about the cholera, he would have bought another horse. He would have done anything to get here as fast as he could. But he hadn’t known, and so he’d taken his time, giving his gelding lots of rest.

Why hadn’t he sensed there was trouble? Why hadn’t he known Bethany needed him? Why hadn’t God told him to hurry?

He was in Sweetwater now, but he was too late. Bethany was gone. He’d lost her. Because of his pride, he’d lost the woman he loved.

Bethany found it difficult to breathe. She’d thought coming down to join her cousin’s guests would distract her thoughts. Instead the merriment overwhelmed her. So many people crowded into one place. So many voices. So much laughter.

Nonetheless, she was determined to stay. At least for a short while.

She allowed her gaze to roam the massive ballroom. Opposite walls had gilded mirrors that reached from the glistening tile floor to the high ceiling above. The near wall — the one through which she’d entered — was painted with life-size figures of waltzing couples. The far wall had two sets of French doors that opened onto a stone patio surrounded on three sides with tall evergreens. Beyond those evergreens were the gardens of Worthington Manor.

“Bethany, dear. You came down after all. I’m so glad.” Beatrice, a sparkling tiara in her silver gray hair, stepped to Bethany’s side and hooked arms with her. “Look, Harvey. Bethany felt up to joining us.”

Her cousin’s welcome was so effusive that she couldn’t help but warm to her.

Beatrice drew her toward a cluster of guests. “Look, everyone. My young cousin has come down to join us. Peter, you remember Bethany, don’t you?”

For a brief time, Bethany forgot the loneliness that had driven her from her bedroom. For a time, she didn’t think about the loss of her parents. For a time, she forgot Hawk and the way she ached for him. But all too soon, the old feelings returned. The crush of people, the music, the bright conversation all overwhelmed her, and she longed for wide-open spaces and the vast blue skies of Montana. She wanted peace and simplicity and silence. She wanted a small house and a cozy bed and . . . Hawk.

She slipped away from those around her and worked her way through the crowd toward the French doors and the dark solitude of the August night. But the lights from the ballroom spilled through the doors onto the patio, and the noise spilled with it. Almost in flight now, she hurried down the steps, following the pathway into the gardens until she reached the fountain at its center. There she sank onto a stone bench and closed her eyes, breathing deeply until the rapid pace of her pulse began to slow. Feeling calmer, she raised her eyes toward the starry heavens.

Was Hawk looking up at this same sky?

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Forget him,” she scolded in a whisper. “It’s over. Put him behind you.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Chandler.”

She turned toward the sound of the male voice and felt her eyes widen. “Mr. Richards?” The last person she expected — or wanted — to see here in Philadelphia.

“You are surprised, I see. No more, I trust, than I was to see you.”

“I heard you were in Washington.”

“I was, but fate brought me here tonight.” Another waltz began to play inside the house. “Would you dance with me?” He motioned toward the ballroom.

She stood and stepped back, putting some distance between them. “I’m not dancing tonight, sir. As you can plainly see, I’m in mourning.”

“I do apologize. You look so beautiful, I didn’t notice you wore black, and I hadn’t heard of your loss. Tragic to be widowed so soon after your wedding.”

Bethany felt a tiny sting in her heart. “Hawk is alive and well — ”
to the best of my knowledge
— “It’s my parents who died. Along with many others in Sweetwater. There was an outbreak of cholera.”

“Cholera?” The information seemed to shake him. Apparently no one had sent him that news either.

“I couldn’t bear to remain in Sweetwater, so I came to stay with my cousin.”

He glanced toward the ballroom. “Do I know your cousin?”

“I’m sure you must. She’s your hostess.”

“Beatrice Worthington is your cousin?”

Sadness swept over with a suddenness that momentarily prevented speech. An unbearable weight of loss and despair. Perhaps it was seeing someone from Sweetwater, even someone she disliked. It brought back too many memories. More than she could bear. “If you’ll excuse me, I must say good night. I hope you have a pleasant trip back to Washington.”

Without waiting for his response, she turned and retreated to the safety of her bedroom.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Hawk stopped his horse and eased out of the saddle. Hunkering down, he ran his fingers over the ground. The man — a lone rider — had left a clear trail. Either he wasn’t smart or he was leading Hawk into a trap. Better to prepare for the latter and hope for the former.

He lifted his gaze and scanned the range to the east, then looked toward the mountainside to the west. He’d been losing cattle here and there all summer. Not many, but enough to concern him. Funny thing was, most rustlers didn’t stop with a few cows every now and then. This felt different, like it wasn’t about the cattle.

He and his men had tried to track down who was responsible without success. But this time the troublemaker had gone too far. He’d shot one of the Circle Blue cowboys. It was a miracle Westy hadn’t been killed. Hawk wasn’t letting him get away this time.

He stood and reached for his canteen. With several quick swallows, he slaked his thirst, then hung the canteen from the pommel and swung into the saddle again. He wiped an arm across his forehead before pulling his hat brim lower to shade his eyes from the glaring sun.

Don’t let me lose track of him, Lord. I want answers
.

Bethany had been staring out the sitting room window for over an hour. In her right hand, she held a fan that she waved in front of her face, trying to dispel the thick heat of the afternoon.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Chandler. There’s a Mr. Richards to see you.”

“I’m sorry.” Drawn from her reverie, she looked at the housemaid. “What did you say?”

“A Mr. Richards, ma’am. He says he’s a friend of yours from Montana.”

She was about to tell Chloris to send him away when he stepped into view behind the maid.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Bethany, but I wanted to see you before the senator and I return to Washington.”

She didn’t want to see Vince Richards, of all people, but she saw no polite way to be rid of him now. The maid, however, looked as if she would gladly toss him out on his ear.

“It’s all right, Chloris,” she said softly.

“Yes, ma’am.” The maid tossed a scowl in Vince’s direction before leaving the room.

Bethany closed her fan and motioned with it. “Do sit down, Mr. Richards.”

“Thank you.” He settled onto the chair nearest her. “You look beautiful, as always.”

She didn’t reply. Better to let him say whatever he wished — no matter how inappropriate — so she could be rid of him.

“I was stunned by the news about your parents, and I fear I failed to properly express my condolences. Your father was a fine man and an important member of the community. I came to respect him a great deal in the short while you were all in Sweetwater.”