Running Wild (2 page)

Port reseated himself as Father perused the words.

“I see,” Father said after reading it twice. His voice was
rough as always, but his tone calm. “Have either of you any notion of whom Jess
or Miss Dubois is?” His eyes pierced first Port, then Star—sharp eyes, which
had a way of weeding the secrets out of one’s heart and mind.

“I’m not certain,” Port said, “but the murder of the stage
manager suggests that Lee has become entangled with the theatre.” Port
shuddered and continued. “I have postulated to Star that this Jess creature is
the woman Lee brought to Hathaway’s ball in San Francisco.”

Father’s face darkened. “The woman McAllister spoke of. No
doubt you are correct.” He folded the piece of paper. “Has your mother heard of
this?”

“She’s at Aunt Fran’s consoling Aunt Amelia.”

“Ah yes, she and Edward have been quarreling again, haven’t
they? Odd. They usually confine their rows to spring-time,” he said, reaching
for the telephone. “We’ll hold this from your mother until the arrangements are
made. Yes, operator, if you would be so kind, I should like to ring Montgomery
Enterprises . . . thank you . . . . Arthur? Yes, it’s Montgomery. It seems I
could use your assistance after all . . . . Yes, here, as soon as possible.” He
rang off and turned.

Star raised an eyebrow. “Arrangements, father?” she asked as
a blast of excitement hit her belly. “If it requires Arthur’s help, I presume
we
are
going to Colorado.”

“Don’t be daft, Star,” Port spat. “Father shall merely write
a letter or two, and Lee will be free.”

“As always, Port, I am gratified by your faith in me.
However,” he said, staring off into space as he slapped the telegram against
his palm, “I doubt I’ve got the capability to fight a murder charge from across
the country. Moreover, I should like to learn more of these people with whom
Lee has taken to associating.” People, whom Star could see, Father already
disliked. Star, on the other hand, thought Jess sounded intriguing. “It’s even
possible,” Father continued, focusing on Star, “that should you join me, Star,
we may persuade Lee to return East for a spell. Your mother would appreciate
that.”

Colorado was deep in the West, where women’s suffrage had
made some impact. Wyoming and Utah had granted women complete voting rights,
and Colorado itself had come close in ’76. Surely western men must be freer and
have more open minds than their eastern counterparts. “Why yes, I am quite
certain we could, Father. It is a capital idea.”

Port shook his head. “Father, you must know that I cannot
leave Meredith in her condition.”

Father’s face softened, and he reached down to give Port’s
shoulder a squeeze. “I should never ask you to do so. Your sister and I shall
be fine.”

“No!” Port snapped, his face creased. “It is impossible. You
cannot bring Star and Lee together for such an occasion. You know them. They
are bound to worsen it merely for the pure joy of watching everyone squirm. . .
.”

Star sat back, ignoring Port’s continuing pleading and her
father’s replies. In the end Port would join them, for although he’d never
admit it, Port was a Montgomery and deep down inside he craved adventure.
Mother would care for Meredith.

Freedom and adventure. Oh yes, it was just what she wanted!

Marlowe, Hero and Leander

Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

As the carriage rolled to a halt, Father looked back and
forth between Star and Port, his countenance severe in the lamp-lit interior.
“You two shall kindly oblige me by waiting here. I suspect this will pass
easier if only one of us talks to this McGraw fellow. Port, I trust you to mind
your manners, regardless of your feelings.” Before Port could answer, Father
descended from the wagon, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

Port peered out the window for a short spell, and then sat
back with a sigh of disgust. “The house is made of logs. I
cannot
comprehend why Lee would leave the comfort of Boston to reside here. Outside of
Denver, Colorado is a virtual vacuum of civility.”

Star drew the horsy-smelling blanket tighter around her
chilled body and gazed out the window. Even with the light shining from the
ranch house beyond, she could not make out much more than the shape of a large
house in the background and two shadowy figures talking in the foreground: the
wide-shouldered bulk of her father and a tall, lankier figure. They spoke too
quietly for her to understand their words.

“I believe I understand,” she ventured. “These Westerner’s
manners are rough, true, but I find many admirable attributes hidden beneath.
Strength, for one and indifference toward pretension, including Miss Sullivan’s
acting troupe if you think on it. I suspect that’s most attractive to Lee, for
he never did appreciate ostentation.” Nor did Star, but she accepted it as part
of Society, against which Lee had openly rebelled. Of course a
man
could
rebel. Society required women to walk a narrower line.

“I shall
not
consider her troupe if I can avoid it,”
Port answered. He’d been appalled by them, worst of all by Miss Michelle
Dubois, who’d flirted with him outrageously and had only become more wicked
when he mentioned his married state. Star had liked her. “And not all our
associates,” Port continued, “are ostentatious. One may display wealth
tastefully.”

She regarded him for a moment. Even in this borrowed coach,
sitting in the middle of the Colorado wilderness, Port represented
Civilization, from his black-striped suit to his lightly pomaded hair, combed
just so. She suspected that she, even richly dressed in brown velvet with a
matching hat and tan kid gloves, appeared far less polished than he. Some days
it seemed like the Lord had passed the feminine traits of neatness and
comportment to Port, skipping her entirely.

She sighed. Perhaps today it was just as well. If Mr. McGraw
offered them a night’s lodging as they hoped—Heaven knew she had no wish to
travel
back
across the valley in this bone-rattling contraption!—their
host would be gratified to see that at least one of them was not so fussy. Star
hadn’t a fussy bone in her too-tall body.

The door to the carriage opened and her father leaned in.
“It’s as we expected. Lee was here but jumped ship two days ago for a friend’s
home in Texas.”

“Texas!” Port exclaimed. “Good God, don’t tell me that we
must travel to Texas as well.”

“Not tonight,” Father answered mildly. “Mr. McGraw has
graciously offered us accommodation for two nights and the use of a carriage to
transport us to Texas. If you would kindly step out, I shall introduce you to
our host.” Port let out a low, frustrated growl and then reluctantly nodded at
his father. Leaving Port to follow, Father lent Star his hand to help her down
and led her to Mr. McGraw, who stood in the yellow glow of two lamps burning
from the porch beyond. As Port had noted, the house was constructed entirely of
logs, but stood two stories tall and was much larger than any of the houses
they’d seen in their travels. Not fashionable, of course, but inviting all the
same.

They came to a halt four paces from Mr. McGraw. Shadows
blurred the planes of his face as his eyes locked with hers.

And the urge to kiss him slammed into her.

She almost jumped. The night hid a sudden flush, which,
thankfully the November air quickly cooled. It did nothing, however, for the
hot shudder running down her spine or the excitement that flashed like
lightning over her nerves, leaving her tingling and dizzy. Gracious, what was
this? Love at first sight?

Lust
at first sight.

“Mr. McGraw, if you will allow me, sir, I should like to
present my daughter, Star Montgomery, and my son Porthos,” Father said as Port
came to a halt beside her.

Star ran her eyes over Mr. McGraw’s person. He was casually
clothed in a tan leather jacket, shiny from wear, and blue jean pants. Two or
three inches taller than her formidable five feet nine inches, he had a
whipcord build and radiated masculinity. He was bareheaded and a chilling
breeze ruffled his un-pomaded hair, as black as the sky.

He nodded. “A pleasure, ma’am,” he said. “Sir. Welcome to
the Bar M.”

His smooth voice soothed her still-tingling skin, spreading
a sort of glowing warmth through her veins. She swallowed and managed a smile.
“You are very obliging to house us, Mr. McGraw. We’ve traveled many miles to
find my errant brother.” Somehow she compelled her voice to sound as it always
did, marbled with merriment and low—too low for a woman. In her youth she’d
spent countless hours laboring to correct for it. Foolish waste of time, for
she could no more change her voice than conform her body to a respectable
female height. She’d long since learned to use flattery, flirtation and
laughter to turn Society’s critical eye away from her physical faults—and to
conceal her independent spirit.

Mr. McGraw’s mouth twitched. “A man on the dodge moves
along, that’s a fact. Most likely, tho,’ if Monty knew you were chasing him,
he’d have been more considerate.”

“Monty?” Star repeated with a gurgle of amusement. “Is that
what he calls himself these days?”

“No, ma’am, that’s what we call him.”

“Nonetheless,” Port said acerbically, “Lee is rarely
considerate of his family.”

“O.K.,” Mr. McGraw answered doubtfully. After a short pause,
he said, “If you’ll follow me, we’ve got a good fire to warm you, and
Melinda’ll whip you up some supper. Bet you’re hungry.”

Melinda? Star thought, spirits sinking. Oh no, he had a
wife
?

“A warm bed, sir,” Father said, as Mr. McGraw turned and
lead them to the house, “is more than enough. Thank you.”

“Hel—heck no. Melinda’ll jump through hoops for you no
matter what I say. We don’t get too many visitors out this way. And the name’s
Nicholas—Nick—Mr. Montgomery.”

“Why then, Nick, I shall thank you again. And I am Ward.”

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in a well-lit,
masculine-decorated parlor with brown leather furniture and a huge stone
fireplace, filled with an equally huge, crackling fire. Melinda McGraw, a
pretty, dark-haired woman, was in the kitchen “whipping up” some supper. In the
meantime, Nicholas offered Port and Father brandy. No offer to Star, of course,
for unless a woman suffered from mortal wounds, no gentleman would offend a
woman’s sensibilities by offering her a glass of hard liquor, and perhaps not
even then. Many of Star’s fellow women’s rights advocates were also attached to
temperance societies and would give great credit to such opinions. They
irritated Star. The women they tried to protect could very much use the
occasional drink. Minnie could have—

She shoved the thought away.

Leaning against the sofa back, she followed Married Nicholas
with her eyes as he poured the brandy from a decanter into cut crystal glasses
and passed them to Port and Father. In the brightness of the gas
lighting—unexpected luxury here in the Wild West—she noted nothing particularly
remarkable about Nicholas. Granted, he possessed a strong physique, all sinew
and muscle, and when he moved his rough, white shirt and black leather vest
pulled tightly over a pair of wide shoulders and a flat belly. He had a lean,
even-featured face bereft of either beard or mustache. It was dark, however,
with a day’s growth, making him appear . . . dangerous. She must certainly
concede that he was handsome, but that did not explain her sudden
heart-pounding reaction to him. She’d known many handsome men in her life;
she’d been engaged to six.

She’d never intended to marry one of them.

One could scarcely fight dominance when one was legally
bound to obey the dominant. Nevertheless, she had no intention of forever
forfeiting the sexual aspects of the married state, even if she’d yet to find a
man to follow through on that intention, not even as her fiancé, drat it all.
They had all been gentlemen to the bitter end and wary of her family name as
well boot, leaving her at twenty-seven as virginal as her irritating first name
implied.

Nicholas turned to her. “Melinda’s most likely brewing a pot
of tea for you, Miz Montgomery.”

Once more, he captured her gaze. He had lovely eyes,
long-lashed and midnight blue. They held hers steadily, reflecting easy male
admiration without any of the condescension that men had always before directed
toward her. Her heart did a cheerful little dance as she shifted her gaze to
the decanter in his hand.

“It’s powerful cold out there tonight,” he said after a
moment. “Maybe you’d appreciate something stronger than tea?”

Her eyes flew up to meet his. Amusement gleamed in his eyes,
and a little bubble of merriment played in her stomach. “I should love a small
glass of brandy, if you please.”

“You shall not!” Port exclaimed, jerking out of the mellow
state provided by the wood fire and several gulps of alcohol.

“I will if I want,” she replied, continuing to hold that
divine blue gaze. Nicholas’s lips twitched and far from turning to dark-eyed
censure, the gleam became a wicked sparkle. Her heart took a joyful leap, eager
to join his in mischief.

“It is—”Port started.

“Perfectly acceptable,” Father interrupted smoothly. “We’re
in the company of friends and as Nicholas suggested, it is quite cold. Brandy
does a fine job of warming the blood.”

So did watching handsome men, Star thought, her eyes riveted
to Inconveniently Married Nicholas as he strode to the side table to retrieve a
glass for her.

“I will not countenance it!” Port sputtered. “Father, her
partiality to port wine—”