Robin Lee Hatcher (24 page)

She stared at the bank draft. “This is why you went into Weiser. To send a telegram to my father.”

“Yes, but—”

“And then you asked me to marry you. Why? Why bother with more pretense?”

“It wasn’t pretense. I love you.” Remington stepped forward, took the bank draft from her hand, and ripped it in two. “I don’t want your father’s money, and I didn’t tell him I found you. I couldn’t do it. He’s lying to you.”

Northrop laughed, a sound without humor. “Do you take Olivia for a fool? Why else would I be here? I haven’t known where she was all these years. If not for your telegram, I still wouldn’t know. And if you thought you could get more money out of me by marrying her, you were mistaken. My lawyers would have seen to a quick annulment.” He took hold of Libby’s arm, drawing her gaze. “You haven’t married him already, have you?”

She shook her head.

“Libby,” Remington said softly. “Please listen to me. I didn’t betray you. Please believe me.”

I can’t.
Tears welled in her eyes.
I can’t believe you. You
lied to me. All this time, you were lying to me. Father
wouldn’t have found me if not for you. I was safe until you
came to the Blue Springs.

“Your father can’t take you against your will.”

She supposed Remington was right. He couldn’t take her against her will. But what did it matter now? Everything she’d wanted, all she’d held dear, all her hopes for the future, had been shattered in minutes. And now that he’d found her, her father would destroy this ranch and the lives of all who lived here if she resisted him. She would never be free of him now. Perhaps, with Remington by her side, she could have fought her father. But Remington wouldn’t be by her side. Remington had betrayed her.

Her father’s hold on her arm tightened. “Your mother is anxious to see you, Olivia. Her heart’s been broken by your absence. Don’t make her wait any longer. Let’s go.”

“Mama,” Libby whispered. A desperate longing to be held in her mother’s arms welled in her chest, and she allowed her father to draw her toward the buggy.

“Libby, what about Sawyer?” Remington demanded.

When she hesitated, her father leaned close to her ear. “Give me no more trouble, Olivia, and I’ll see that the orphan boy is well taken care of.”

She’d lost. She’d lost her bid for freedom from her father’s control and she’d lost her ability to protect and care for Sawyer and she’d lost her dreams of love and a happy marriage. Worse still, she’d lost hope.

Without looking behind her, she answered Remington, “Tell McGregor I’ll send him the deed to the ranch. He’ll take care of Sawyer.” She choked back a sob as she stepped into the buggy. “Tell them I said good-bye.”

“Let’s go, O’Reilly,” her father barked to the driver.

A blessed numbness spread icy tentacles throughout Libby’s body as the buggy sped away from the Blue Springs.

Twenty-Five

September 1890
New York City

THE VAST DRAWING ROOM OF the Alexander Harrison home on Fifth Avenue was crowded and stuffy. From one end of the room to the other, the cream of New York society gossiped and pontificated, their individual conversations merging into one noisy hum of voices. Across the hall, in the music room, a small orchestra played the “Blue Danube” waltz, the sweet strains of the violins drifting above the general din.

Remington stood near the fireplace with three other men, acquaintances from his private club. Like them, he was dressed in evening attire—a white shirt with a high stiff collar and cuffs, a black bow tie, a white waistcoat with a shawl collar and two pockets, and a gold watch and chain. His jacket and trousers were the color of soot, his cotton gloves a contrasting white. And like the men around him, he was welcome in the Harrison home because he had the proper resources, breeding, and connections to make him suitable company for the unmarried women present this evening.

But Remington came to see only one woman. He waited for Libby Blue.

The story of the disappearance of Northrop’s daughter had been whispered in parlors and drawing rooms for a number of years. It was no secret that the shipping magnate had hired detectives to find her, although none of this was discussed in Northrop’s presence. Now everyone accepted—or pretended to accept—the trumped-up story that Olivia Vanderhoff had been selflessly nursing an ailing friend all these years.

The ability of power and wealth to alter the truth never ceased to amaze Remington. Facts and memories, even history itself, could be changed in the blink of an eye—or at the will of a man like Vanderhoff.

Charlton Bernard brought his personal take on the story of Olivia Vanderhoff to a close. “I’ve heard she was overcome by the death of her friend and hasn’t left Rosegate since her return.”

George Webster glanced toward the host and hostess on the far side of the room. “Penelope Harrison must be beside herself with joy that Miss Vanderhoff chose this soiree for her first public appearance. Mother is pea-green with envy. She’ll take to her bed with a headache for the next three days.”

The other men laughed. All but Remington.

“I hear Miss Vanderhoff is a real beauty,” Michael Worthington commented.

As Charlton and George gave their hearty concurrence, Remington thought of Libby as she’d looked the morning he’d last seen her, over two months before. He remembered the sparkle in her green eyes, the inviting curve of her mouth, the luster of her hair, the softness of her creamy white skin.

Charlton chuckled. “You can be sure plenty of suitors will leave their cards at Rosegate after this night. Now that she’s returned to good society, Miss Vanderhoff will have no lack of men seeking her hand in marriage.”

Remington’s fingers tightened around his glass.

“And do you plan to be one of them?” George elbowed Charlton in the ribs.

“If I want to make my parents happy, I will. Have you any idea how much Vanderhoff is worth? And his daughter is his only legitimate heir.”

Remington excused himself,
unable to bear the conversation another minute. What would they think if he told them the truth? What would they think if he told them Libby shot him when he found her living on a sheep ranch?

He weaved through the crowd, offering a word here and there but avoiding any lengthy exchanges. Finally he chose a spot in a corner beside a giant porcelain vase overflowing with American Beauty roses. He fixed his eyes on the doorway and waited for a glimpse of Libby, just as he’d waited outside Rosegate, hoping for a glimpse of her. He’d taken up his post daily, without success, for almost an entire month. Tonight would be different.

Half an hour later, his wait was rewarded—but not by Libby Blue.

Olivia Vanderhoff stood framed in the doorway of the drawing room. Her hair was worn high on her head, exposing the length of her slender neck. Her throat and ears sparkled with brilliant diamonds. There wasn’t so much as a hint of a smile on her mouth, and her eyes seemed to stare with cool disregard, as if she didn’t see the people around her. She wore an elegant gown of dusty rose—draped, pleated, and bustled.

She looked exquisite, but Remington would have preferred to see her in a flannel shirt and denim trousers. He would have preferred to see Libby.

Penelope Harrison, Alexander’s second wife, had been a classmate of Olivia’s at finishing school. Though never especially close, no one would have guessed, given the welcome Penelope gave her.

“Olivia, dearest! I’m so delighted you came this evening.” Penelope clasped Olivia’s hands, then leaned forward and kissed both of her cheeks. She turned toward the gentleman at her right. “Olivia, this is my husband, Alexander Harrison. I don’t believe the two of you have been introduced. Mr. Harrison was in Europe when you . . . when you went away.”

Alexander, a handsome man in his midforties, bowed at the waist. “A pleasure, Miss Vanderhoff. My wife has been awaiting your arrival with great anticipation.”

Olivia inclined her head ever so slightly. “Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Her father stepped forward to shake Alexander’s hand, apologizing for their tardiness. “My wife took suddenly ill, and we were waiting for the doctor.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Penelope said with what sounded like genuine concern.

Northrop shook his head. “No. Nothing more than a cold, I suspect. My wife suffers from a rather delicate constitution.”

Olivia gritted her teeth. Her mother had neither a cold nor a delicate constitution. Northrop had forbidden his wife to come to the Harrison soiree.

“It’s bad enough, Anna, that I have a daughter who looks
as cheerful as a corpse,” he’d shouted earlier that evening, his
voice ringing through the house. “I’ll not have you dragging
about as if you’re in mourning. I’ll make your excuses.”

Poor Mama.

Penelope slipped her arm through Olivia’s. “You’ve been gone so very long. Let me introduce you to my guests. I’m sure your father won’t mind if I steal you away.”

It mattered little to Olivia whether she was stolen away from her father or whether she met any of the other guests. Nothing had mattered to her since the moment she’d stepped into that buggy and left—

With cool precision, she cut off the rest of that thought. She was all right, as long as she didn’t allow herself to remember. She could survive as long as she didn’t think about what had been. She’d become an expert at excising memories, at blacking them out, cutting them off before they took hold and hurt her again.

Because nothing mattered to her, she could be and do whatever her father wanted. And tonight he wanted her to come to the Harrisons’ soiree.

She wondered whom her father had in mind as her prospective bridegroom among the men here. Several years ago, Gregory James had found a different heiress to wed, but surely Northrop had his eye on another lucrative arrangement, the only possible reason her father would insist she attend the party. He did nothing without reason or purpose.

“Gentlemen, look whom I’ve brought to you,” Penelope said, drawing Olivia’s attention to the present. “Olivia, you remember Mr. Bernard and Mr. Webster.”

She gave them each a cool smile. Charlton Bernard’s grandfather had made his fortune in real estate. It was possible, but not likely, that he was her chosen suitor. George Webster’s family owned fabric mills in upstate New York. Probably not the right sort of money for her father. Northrop would prefer a son-in-law with the proper pedigree in addition to his other assets.

“And this is Michael Worthington. He moved to New York from Atlanta several years ago, and he’s taken us all with his southern charm.”

“A pleasure, Miss Vanderhoff.” Michael took her gloved hand and kissed her knuckles. “May I offer my condolences? I understand you recently lost someone close to you.”

A picture flashed in her head—rugged mountains, golden aspens, and green pines, pastures dotted with woolly sheep, black-and-white puppies tumbling in grassy fields, a log house, Sawyer, and—

She stiffened. “Thank you.”

“May I also say that word of your beauty failed to prepare me for the stunning reality?”

“You’re so beautiful, Libby. I love you.”

Olivia swallowed, refusing to envision the man who had spoken those words.

She pulled the cold, protective shell tight around her heart. “Thank you again, Mr. Worthington.”

“Behave yourself, Michael Worthington.” Penelope tapped his arm with her fan. “Mr. Vanderhoff might not approve of you speaking so boldly to his daughter on your first meeting.” Then, with a laugh, she drew Olivia away from the three bachelors.

Olivia moved like a doll, allowing her hand to be kissed without feeling touched, saying the proper words without hearing what was said to her, looking into people’s eyes without seeing anything. She forced a smile when she knew one was expected from her. She held herself straight and regal.

She performed perfectly, just as Northrop Vanderhoff’s daughter was expected to perform.

Remington watched the charade with an aching heart. He saw beneath the practiced facade, saw the brittle woman within, and knew that he was the cause of it.