Running Wild (5 page)

He had half a mind to let her catch him.

The other half, though, the smarter half, had glued itself
to honor. She was Lee’s sister and Ward’s daughter. In addition, for the next
three weeks she’d be sleeping under his roof, entrusted to his care with the
expectation that he’d treat her with the greatest respect. He would not abuse
that trust, would not defile his friend’s sister or daughter, no matter how
much those eyes asked for it. That invitation was a lie, anyhow, because she
was a lady and “catching him” could never lead to the mad passion those eyes
promised.

“How you holding up, Nick? Not quite your style, I imagine.”

Monty—Lee Montgomery—appeared out of nowhere. Or at least so
it seemed to Nick, whose mind had been focused on his sister.

Forcing a wry grin to rest on his face, Nick glanced around
the hotel ballroom, decorated in white and red, with enough flash and gilt to
blind a blind man. Even with the short notice, a couple dozen of the
Montgomerys’ closest friends had traveled from the East and West Coasts for the
wedding, along with Jess’s actress troupe, currently playing in Denver. The
women were decked out in lace, satin, silk, and velvet, and men in starched
black and white, with stiff collars high enough to cut off a man’s head if he
moved too quick. Nick reached up to pull at his own, digging into his neck.
“Nothin’ that a bowie knife wouldn’t fix.”

Tall, Montgomery-handsome with green-grey eyes, Monty
smirked. “A good tailor can make clothing appear fashionable while sparing the
vocal cords.”

“It’d be a helluva lot cheaper not to wear the collars.”

“Which is why I came West. Unfortunately, I didn’t take the
bulls into account.”

Nick barked a laugh. “Wasn’t the bull that got you, Monty.
It was the horns, and it would’ve let you be if you hadn’t been mooin’.”

“I wouldn’t have been, mooing,” Monty said dryly, “if my
employer hadn’t encouraged me to do so.”

Nick grinned as his gaze settled on Miz Montgomery again.
“’Spose so,” he said. Now she was flirting with Del Huntington, who was a
handsome fella, tall, dark-haired and as nattily dressed as Lee in a form-fitting
black tuxedo suit. Huntington was a life-long friend of the Montgomerys’, the
son of English nobility and as rich as Midas with all the grand manners to
match. The kind of man Ward would choose as a husband for his equally
noble-born daughter.

Another reason to steer clear of the woman.

“He’s got a crush on her,” Monty said abruptly. “Del does.
He was Star’s first fiancé, but we don’t generally count him because they were
only twelve at the time.”

“First fiancé?” Nick asked, turning. “How many has she had?”

“Six, and never intended to marry one of them. She toys with
them, rather like a cat with a mouse right before it goes in for the kill.
And,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re her next mouse, old man.”

Six
? “Yeah, I know, you told me already,” Nick said,
muscles tensing. “Married to her woman’s movement and all that. I’m a mite
bigger than a mouse, Monty.”

Monty grinned. “True, but . . . you understand, it’s merely
that I value your friendship.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Miz Montgomery grab
Huntington’s arm and then sink into a chair behind her. Her face turned ghost
white. “Damn,” Nick swore and, ignoring caution, strode across the room.

***

For a short spell, Star felt like she’d fallen into one of
her nightmares, the ones that had haunted her for months after Minnie’s death.
They’d returned of late, nightmares of demons lurking in attics and basements
and locked rooms, threatening to break free and come after her. Instead, it had
found Bella. A shiver ran down her spine and into her belly.

“What,” Star said, holding tightly to Del’s wrist, “what
happened to her?”

“It was an accident, sugar. An overturned coach, returning
from a ball one night.”

“An overturned coach? But how—surely a broken arm or—oh no,
it’s not possible. She can’t be
dead
. Del, not—not after Minnie,” she
said dropping her hand.

Minnie was Bella’s older sister. After she’d recovered from
the pain of Minnie’s death, Bella had been almost insane with rage. Star had
done her best to direct that rage into the movement, Horatio Burke’s abuse
being outside of legal prosecution. She’d had mixed results—Bella had joined
the movement, and her energy and oratory skills had made her something of a
rising star. Still, she’d never quite given up on revenge and she’d harangued
Burke from time to time.

Del shoved a stray lock of hair from his dark eyes. “It
seems rather a lot of misery for one family to suffer. But she
is
dead,
sugar. We went to her funeral.”

“When?” she asked, holding his gaze, only partly aware of
two other people moving into place on either side of her. Lee—and Nicholas.

“Two weeks ago. We thought to telegraph you, but decided we
ought to deliver such news in person. We didn’t, however, expect to drop such a
weight upon Lee’s wedding,” Del said, turning to Lee. “I apologize, old man, we
held off as long as we could, but apparently Bella made a bit of a stir out
here at a rally she attended last spring. The
Rocky Mountain News
picked
up the story of her death just this morning and I wanted Star to hear the news
from a friend instead of reading it.”

“Understood,” Lee said, as Star lifted her head to him.

“You knew,” Star said.

“Del informed me yesterday. I’m sorry, Sis. I know you loved
Bella.”

Loved Bella? No. She had respected Bella, however, and the
movement could not really afford to lose good speakers. Moreover, Bella was—had
been—a Kingston, a name that opened more doors in New York than Montgomery ever
would. Still, for all their same interests, she and Bella had never had more
than a working relationship. They’d never shared confidences like Star had with
Minnie.

As always, recollections of Minnie stabbed at her heart, and
then sent guilt, like acid, flowing through her veins, mixing with the shaking
in her belly to form nausea.

“Who’s Bella?” Nicholas asked.

Star turned to look at him. Dressed in a borrowed tuxedo
suit, the object of her obsession looked as comfortable as a fish out of water.
The suit fit poorly—too loose here, too tight there and he’d pulled at the
collar so much it was hopelessly wrinkled. Yet he seemed unaware of his
disheveled state as he squatted down next to her. He touched her arm briefly
and looked into her eyes as if he had every right to care for her, as if he
were one of her beaus. Or a knight in shining armor, come to rescue a damsel in
distress. Any other man would have irritated her with such a gesture, for she
was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She despised the wisdom of
male superiority that subscribed women as too delicate to stand on their own.
From Nicholas, however, the rescue felt . . . different. He’d put himself at
eye level and his creased brow told of genuine concern. It wriggled its way
into her chest, and then flowed like warm honey over her nerves, vanquishing
guilt, easing the shaking.

“Isabella Kingston,” she answered him. “A friend of mine.
Del says she died in a coach accident.”

His lovely blue eyes, long lashed and compassionate, held
hers without a trace of arrogance. “I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “Can I fetch
you a glass of water? Maybe take you outside for some fresh air?”

She managed a smile. “I have some champagne, but something
stronger would be more fortifying.”

He nodded and straightened. “Brandy it is, ma’am. Back in a
jiff.” He turned and walked through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Her eyes followed him, enjoying the way he moved—confidence without pretension.

“Brandy?” Del said. “A trifle excessive, isn’t it, Star?”

Nicholas was the only man she’d ever met who thought her
strong enough to consume hard liquor.
Too
strong, perhaps? For all this
attention, since they’d returned from Texas his response to her attempts at
flirtation had been muted at best. Perhaps her strength and too-tall body
repelled him.

What did that matter when Bella was dead?

“Better than whisky, I suppose,” Lee said with a sigh.

It didn’t, not much at any rate, but too much thought in
Bella’s direction would bring about sadness and rage, emotions that good
manners forbade expressing in public. With a deep breath, she buried the fear,
pain and guilt, and focused instead on Nicholas. Flirtation was not only
acceptable in social situations, it was expected.

 “Ah, he’s returning,” Del said. “If you don’t mind, I
should like to join my wife.” The last came our harshly and Star switched her
regard from Nicholas to catch Jane, across the room, smiling too brightly at
one of Jess’s former acting troupe. “And you, Lee,” Del continued, “might wish
to see to your own wife.”

Lee scowled. “She seems well occupied,” he said, his eyes
moving from Nicholas, who’d dragged a chair over to Star, to Jess standing next
to Jane and laughing with the improbably-blond Michelle Dubois.

“Trust me, old man,” Del said, his voice traced with anger
and long-suppressed suffering. “It’s folly to leave your bride alone for too
long. Come.”

Nicholas nodded at Lee as he sat down. “Waiter’ll bring back
a snifter in just a few minutes. She’s looking a little less peaked now, tho’.
Go see to Jess.”

Flashing a warning at Star, Lee joined Del, striding
purposefully across the room toward Jane, Jess and her troupe.

***

What the devil was he doing? Nick wondered, as he kept an
eye out for the waiter. He barely knew Star—
Miz Montgomery
. He had no
right to come roaring to her rescue. That was Lee and Ward’s duty. Besides, of
all the women he’d ever known, Miz Montgomery was the last one who’d ever need
rescuing. She could likely take better care of herself than most men could. And
to fetch her
brandy
? What kind of a fool gave a woman brandy?

What kind of a woman drank it?

He did. She did. They’d danced this waltz together at the
Bar M. This, though, was in public, not in the privacy of his home. Women ought
not to drink hard liquor in public. . .

Too late. The waiter was walking toward them with a full
snifter of brandy on a silver tray. Nick turned back to Miz Montgomery and
cleared his throat. “Feeling better? Waiter’s almost here.”

She smiled a little and nodded. She was still god-awful pale
and his self-reproach hardened into anxiety.

“Sir, the brandy you requested,” the waiter said. Nick
dragged his gaze away from Miz Montgomery and rose to take the glass.

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“No, that’ll do. Thanks.”

The man stared at him, and then nodded and slowly walked
away. Very slowly, as if he’d suddenly developed a leg cramp. Frowning, Nick
turned to hand the glass to Miz Montgomery. Her eyes, when she lifted her head
to him, looked gold. Not possible. People didn’t have gold eyes. “He was
expecting a tip, Nicholas,” she said with a throaty gurgle of amusement.

“A tip? What, for fetching a glass of booze?”

“Why yes, for that.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The waiter had slowed down to
a creep. Nick shook his head and focused back on Miz Montgomery. “I thought it
was his job.”

“His job is to pass around refreshments. Fetching something
especial for someone is beyond his duties. He did it hoping for a little extra
compensation.”

Scowling, Nick sat down again. “Well he can just keep
hopin’. A man oughta help other people because it’s the right thing to do.
Hel—heck if I got paid every time I lent a hand to somebody, I’d be rich.”

“You
are
rich. You forget, Nicholas, I’ve slept in
your house.” She tilted her head to the side and played with her earring, a
gesture meant to express guilelessness, but her eyes sparkled with intelligence
and she hadn’t a naïve bone in her body. Her gaze was, as always, direct and
honest, without so much as a flicker of doubt, making a lie of the
gesture—making it wickedly sensual. As did her comment about sleeping in his
house, which she damned well knew. It warmed his blood and pretty much all the
other interesting areas, too.

Rescue her? Somebody oughta rescue
him
. Hell, he’d
even tip ’em.

“How’s the brandy?” he asked abruptly, wishing he’d gotten
himself a glass.

She looked down at the forgotten snifter. “Fortifying.”

She’d only taken a couple sips. It couldn’t have done a
thing, not stop her trembling or return the color to her face, or ease her
inhibitions enough to accept kissing and canoodling from an uncouth cow—“You’re
a touch less peaked.”

“I feel fine, now. Just a trifle shocked, really.” Then the
sparkle in her eyes sharpened to pain. She straightened and drew in a breath.
“Thank you.”

His lust dimmed, overwhelmed by the urge to take her in his
arms and tell her everything was gonna be O.K. Soothe the pain, ease her
mourning, or do anything and everything to mend a wounded heart.

I don’t even know her
.

But he wanted to know her, against all good sense, and he
couldn’t explain it for all the world. Two people could not be more different.
“Was she a good friend?” he asked.

“We weren’t particularly friendly,” she said, a frown
between her eyebrows. “But we worked well together. In the women’s movement,
you understand. We were both reformers.”

“All that voting stuff, right?” Nick asked.

She gave him the ghost of a smile. “We wish for universal
suffrage, yes, but it’s about more than that. It’s about ensuring that women
have the same rights under the law that men have.”

“O.K.,” he said, although it was too many for him. He
figured women mostly did have the same rights, and he never could figure why
they cared so much about voting. He voted; it’d never made much difference to
him. Not that he really understood why they couldn’t vote, either. The fact of
the matter was, it’d never interested him a whole helluva lot.