Running Wild (16 page)

He looked a trifle chagrined. “I didn’t bring you anything.
I didn’t know—”

“Why, you brought yourself,” she interrupted, employing a
lightly flirtatious tone to set him—and her—at ease. “The pleasure is all ours,
Nicholas.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mother exchange looks
with Father.

Nicholas studied her, and then shook his head, bemused. “If
you don’t beat all, ma’am. Well then, let’s see what we have.” He sat on the
edge of the sofa, tore off the paper and opened the box. With a perplexed
expression on his countenance, he withdrew a black cane, nestled in tissue
paper. “Well thank you kindly ma’am,” he said, and ran his hand over the wooden
handle. “I don’t have a cane. Fashionable, are they? Hadn’t reckoned on that.”

“They are on occasion,” Father said as strolled forward to
peer down at it.

“It is more than a cane, however,” Star said with a smile.
“It’s a gun.”

Nicholas looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. “A gun?” A
slow smile spread across his face, lighting his eyes, which made her fluttering
heart jerk. “A Remington Rifle Cane.”

“I thought you might miss your gun belt.”

“A mite, maybe,” he said, running an appreciative hand over
the shiny wood. “I’ve read about ’em. Never saw one though. Mighty thoughtful
of you, ma’am.” He flashed her a mischievous grin and added, “Reckon you wanted
one for yourself, too.”

She laughed. “If only I were a man.”

“Now that’d be a pity,” he said. His eyes gleamed up at her.
And then, as if suddenly remembering where he was, he regarded the weapon
again. “So how do you use it? Do you have one, Ward?”

“No, sir,” Father said, his eyes watching them with amusement.
“I confess I’m not much of a marksman. I suspect Star can show you how it
works.”

“The shopkeeper showed me everything,” she said
enthusiastically. She pulled a chair over. After drawing in one lovely
pine-and-leather breath, she said, “Allow me to demonstrate. It’s quite
inventive, actually. . .” For the next several minutes, she went over the
details as Father watched in interest. Even Mother peeked at it, although she
cared little about guns.

“So it takes a 32 rimfire cartridge,” Nicholas observed, as
the parlor door opened and Herman entered. “The original was a percussion
rifle.”

“Dinner is served,” Herman said.

“Thank you,” Mother replied. “We’ll be in presently.”

“Percussion?” Star asked, ignoring the interchange. “Is a 32
more dangerous?”

He shrugged. “Both’ll do the trick. Just interesting is
all.”

“I’m sure it is,” Mother said, traces of irony in her voice.
“Lee expects to visit tomorrow. He’s been staying in Marblehead with Jess. No
doubt he’ll know where you may shoot it. And now, if you would be so kind as to
take my arm into dinner, Nicholas?”

“I’d be honored, Morgan,” he said, reluctantly returning the
gun to the box. Rising, he gave Star a large, genuine, smile. “Thanks again.
It’s a great present.”

Her heart lurched. A great present. And dangerous, like its
new owner. Ah, but there was far more danger in that smile than in any gun.

Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

Dressed in plain rose-printed muslin and her hair tied in a
simple ribbon, Star approached the dining room. When she detected her father’s
voice, she stopped in her tracks. To whom was he talking? Mother never rose
before mid-morning, and Lee was not due until the afternoon. Port was in New
York. Nicholas? Surely he would be sleeping after the exhaustion of his
travels. Laughter rumbled through the door. Her heart danced in joyful
anticipation as she turned the knob.

“And that,” a voice said—a delicious shudder ran down her
spine, the kind only a certain male voice had ever created—“is how Monty Lost
His Moo.”

Father sat at the head of the breakfast table with Nicholas
to his right. The morning sun shone through two long, green-draped windows,
creating rectangular patterns on the white table cloth and half-full china plates.
Both men chuckled as she crossed a rose and green carpet.

“It was the first, I expect, of many much-needed lessons
that the West taught my ne’er-do-well son,” Father said.

“Leastways it taught him to steer clear of the business end
of a bull. He never did go back to ranchin’ after that. Figured card playing
was less dangerous.”

“Unless, of course, one of the players should find occasion
to show him the ‘business end’ of a gun. Ah, Star, good morning, my dear,” her
father said.

“Oh, I reckon Monty could diffuse that kinda situation with
a couple jokes. Got himself a wicked sense of humor, and that’s a fact. Mornin’
ma’am,” Nicholas said, raising his head to nod a greeting. His eyes caught hers
and her stomach leapt.

“Father, Nicholas,” she said. She strode to the sideboard,
helping herself to a rasher of bacon, eggs and a muffin. Would Nicholas think
her choices indelicate? A proper lady would eat a light breakfast, but she
required something far more substantial for her morning row on the Charles. “I had
not expected to see you this early in the morning, Nicholas.”

“Used to early hours, I reckon.”

“As a working man ought to be,” Father approved, for even
with all his aristocratic blood, her father was a true Bostonian, forever
lashed to work.

“Even after so many days of travel?” Star asked. She took a
seat across the table from Nicholas. He was dressed in a checkered navy blue
morning coat, unbuttoned and hanging open to sport a matching waistcoat and
white shirt. The blue brought out the color of his eyes, the white his
unfashionably tanned face and hands—breathtaking. “I should think that you’d be
exhausted.”

He watched her take a mouthful, a sparkle of appreciation
entering his eye. Apparently he didn’t consider a healthy appetite in a woman
cause for censure. Her shoulders lightened. “Doesn’t take a whole lot of effort
to sit on a train,” he answered.

“No, but most travelers sleep poorly.”

“Ai—” He hesitated. “It’s nothing compared to a cattle
drive, ma’am.”

“Ahh,” she said, smiling. “Why now that I reflect upon it,
the men whom I’ve heard complain about train travel have never made that
comparison. Do you think I ought to suggest it to them?”

“What, working a drive?” Nicholas asked, a smile playing on
his lips. “Just as long as you make sure I’m there when you do. I’d pay to see
the expression on their faces, tho’ I sure as hel—heck won’t invite ’em along
on one o’ mine.”

Father chuckled and, having finished his breakfast, sat back
in his chair to sip his coffee.

“How very disobliging of you, sir,” Star answered. “Are you
implying that my friends would be more hindrance than help? I must point out
that many of them are
very
hardworking men.”

“Many?” Father asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s a bit of
an exaggeration, Star, don’t you think?”

She tilted her head. “They are
your
friends as well,
Father.”

“They are,” he agreed, “but I’m not so deluded as to refer
to them as hardworking,” Placing his cup in its saucer, he rose. “And now, if
you would give me leave, Star, Nicholas, I
do
have work to attend.”

Alarmed, Star looked at her father. For the first time, she
noticed that he was dressed for the office—shirt, tie and grey suit. For rowing
he generally abandoned his collar, tie and waistcoat. “Oh no!” she exclaimed.
“But you promised to join me this morning!”

“I apologize, my dear, but something has arisen. Perhaps
Nick will agree to accompany you, if you ask nicely.” His eyes twinkled at her,
out of kindness or carefully planned deceit, she couldn’t tell. His countenance
was as cool as usual. Father, was, after all, the King of Deceit. He’d learned
it from his wife. “Nick,” he continued turning to Nicholas whose face had
settled into lines of wariness. “I suspect you would enjoy the exercise after
being cooped up on a train for so long.”

“Sure,” Nicholas said cautiously, “if you don’t mind me
tagging along, ma’am. Maybe, tho’ you’d like to have the boat to yourself?”

“Oh never fear, Nicholas!” she answered, controlling the
urge to jump up and hug her father. “We own several canoes. You’ll enjoy it,
for there are few better ways of starting your sightseeing of Boston and
Cambridge than from the Charles.”

***

“We share the boathouse with several other families,” Star
said as she opened one of the double doors to the boathouse. The smell of river
water and wet wood assailed her as she entered. Nicholas followed. It was dark
and cool, and she rubbed her arms, nodding to two canoes next to the door. “The
two green ones are ours.”

“You sure we don’t need just one?”

“I want to row as well.”

“Two it is, then,” he said, removing his top hat. Nicholas
handed it to her, and then moved forward to pick up the first of the canoes.
His expression was uncommonly tense, as it had been since Father first
mentioned rowing. He’d been reticent on the carriage ride over as well. Was
spending time alone with her so difficult? she wondered. They’d enjoyed
corresponding so much. . . .

A few minutes later Nicholas placed the second canoe on the
edge of the shore. “You really sure we need two?”

She smiled at him from under her straw hat. “Yes. We
generally travel upstream for about a mile or two. It’s more difficult rowing,
but allows for an easier return.”

“O.K.,” he said. He set his back resolutely, took his hat
from her and tossed it into one canoe. Afterward he proceeded to remove his frock
coat and lay it in the canoe as well. She watched him, temporarily engrossed
with the way his shirt stretched across those wide shoulders.

He turned to her. Her mouth had gone dry, stealing speech.
She could only stare. He lifted his eyebrows. “What? Don’t tell me it’s
fashionable to row while wearing my coat.” He removed the links from his cuffs,
slipped them into his pocket and then rolled his sleeves up, exposing sinewy,
tanned forearms.

“Father always does,” she answered when she could speak.

He shrugged. “Reckon he’s got a reputation to maintain. Me,
well we’ll just lay it down as my crude Western ways.” He leaned over to push
her canoe deeper into the water, then holding onto the edge, nodded at the
bench across the middle. “Go ahead, get in. I’ll follow.”

She didn’t want to get in. She wanted to watch him remove
his waistcoat as well.

Star settled herself on the bench and picked up the oars. He
pushed her off, and she started forward, pulling the canoe thought the water
with slow circular motions. The muscles in her shoulders burned for several
strokes, before settling into the familiar exercise. Out of the corner of her
eye, she saw Nicholas slide in to her right, still wearing his waistcoat. As
they broke up the sun-patterned water with each dip and tug of their oars, the
tree-lined riverbanks glided by them. Star breathed deeply of the crisp morning
air, letting it flow through her lungs to feed her exercise-quickened heart.
They continued silently under the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge and continued
until they came to a bend in the river. Star released her oars, letting them
rest in the oarlocks.

“Taking a break?” Nicholas asked. He moved his canoe a
couple of feet from her and let his oars go, as well.

“This is where we turn around,” she said, a trifle
breathlessly. Perspiration tickled the back of her neck. In an effort to keep
up with Nicholas, she’d rowed faster than usual. He, on the other hand,
scarcely seemed winded. In fact, he raised his arms over his head, clasping his
hands together as he stretched his muscles. He looked for all the world as if
he’d just risen from bed instead of having rowed a mile up river. He lowered
his arms again and gave her a lazy smile. If not for that divine display of
masculinity, she’d have been vexed.

“Sure enough,” he said. He casually reached for his oars to
turn his canoe around. A singularly awkward turn, she noted triumphantly.
Perhaps she was a
trifle
irritated.

“Of course,” she said, turning
her
canoe around with
utmost grace, “if you require a few more minutes, I do understand.”

He lifted his dark eyebrows and flashed a wicked grin. “No,
ma’am, I’m fine.”

She scowled. “Yes, so it appears. You know, you might at
least feign fatigue.”

“Oh. Sorry,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I’m plumb
tuckered out, ma’am. Most likely I’ll need you to tow me back down river.”

“Oh stop it!” she laughed, and gave his canoe a hard shove
with her oar. The canoe rocked.

Smile evaporating, he dropped the oars and grasped both
sides of the canoe. “Easy there—you’ll tip me over!”

She tilted her head. “You appear fretful, Nicholas.”

He shrugged as the canoe slowed its rocking. “I’m not such a
good swimmer. Not much call for it in the mountains.”

She raised both her eyebrows. Not a good swimmer? Why then
that
was the reason for his wariness over this venture, not discomfort with her. Her
spirits lifted and bubbled in her chest. “You mean you aren’t invincible, sir?
Why, it’s about time I found a chink in your armor.”

“Gapin’ hole, more like.”

“Well I am a capital swimmer, so if you fall in, I shall
certainly save you.”

“If I don’t drown you with my thrashin’ about.”

“Fear not, my chinked-knight! I should first hit you over
the head with my paddle!”

He laughed. “I expect you’d enjoy that.”

“I would, very much! Now, if you’ve had enough time to rest,
we might start our return journey.”

He shrugged, and his eyes gleamed with devilry. “Didn’t need
any rest. But if you’re feeling better. . . .”

“Oh, that does it! I’m going to beat you back to the
boathouse, and you can drown in my wake!” she growled, yanking at her oars.
Before he could respond, she was moving swiftly downstream, pulling on her oars
as if her life depended upon it. Seconds later she heard the slap of his
paddles against the water—a dreadfully inefficient way of rowing. Perhaps, she
thought, working harder, she might beat him with form.