Saturday's Child (3 page)

❧

"Maybe I shouldn't have come home." Tobias MacNamara looked up from the chessboard, focusing faded but still shrewd eyes on his grandson. Quentin was staring out the window at another foggy winter day. It had been almost a week since San Francisco had gotten more than a glimpse of the sun and Quentin had been getting more restless with every day that passed. But Tobias didn't think it was the gloomy weather that had his grandson as jumpy as a cat on coals.

"Why did you come home, boy?"

Quentin stirred restlessly, pretending not to notice when his grandfather moved an ivory knight in a manner that was unconventional, to say the least. One of the old man's chief pleasures was in seeing if he could sneak a few "unusual" moves past his opponent.

Why had he come home?

"I don't know." He moved a bishop, glowering at the ivory and ebony pieces as if his restlessness were their fault.

"Must've had a reason, boy. You didn't come home for this shindig of your mother's." Tobias's contempt for the wedding preparations was dear. "If you had any sense, you'd have stayed away until Ann tied the knot and she and that weak-chinned nincompoop she's caught have sailed off on their honeymoon."

Quentin smiled at the old man's disgust. "Jonathan is hardly a nincompoop, Grandfather. Ann tells me that he holds a responsible position in his father's shipping firm."

"Hah! Jonathan Drake was born a nincompoop and he'll die a nincompoop. I knew his grandfather— had a claim near mine in 'forty-nine. Good man, a little too soft, but a good man. He started that business, made a good beginning and then got drunk one night, tripped getting out of his carriage and broke his fool neck. The son inherited and he's done fair enough with the business. Shipped around the Horn with them a time or two myself.

"Went with a shipment of cowhides myself back in 'fifty-eight or so. Now that was a voyage." The old man's eyes grew distant with memories. "Caught us a storm just off the Horn. Captain thought we were done for but we made it out without losing a hand and I made a tidy profit on those hides. Now I hear they're talking about building some kind of Canal across Panama. That Frenchman tried and couldn't do it but maybe Roosevelt can figure out a way."

"I don't think the president is actually planning on designing the thing himself, Grandfather."

"Of course not. But none of this has anything to do with why you came home." Tobias waved his hand impatiently, returning to the original subject.

"I thought the least I could do was return for my sister's wedding," Quentin said. "Besides, winter in Wyoming can be a bit harrowing. I decided I could use a break."

"A break, is it? Or did you want a taste of your old life again? That sniveling wimp of a cousin of yours couldn't wait to tell your mother all about your return to your wicked ways."

Quentin's smile held an unpleasant edge. "It was quite a surprise to find Joseph across the table from me.

"He seemed to think it an unpleasant one."

"A man who plays as badly as he does shouldn't play at all."

"Do you still blame him for young Alice's death?" Tobias asked gruffly.

Quentin's fingers tightened over the captured rook he'd been toying with. The look he shot the old man would have been enough to set a lesser man back on his heels.

"I do not wish to discuss Alice."

"No, I know you don't. You haven't discussed her in eight years, not since she died. Well, time is supposed to heal all wounds and I think it's time you took a look at that one. You may find it's healed more than you think.

"And though I think Joseph Landers is a liar and a cheat and probably not above murder, the girl's death wasn't his doing."

"Why are you bringing this up? And why are you defending Landers? As I recall, you've threatened more than once to forbid him to ever set foot in this house again."

"That I have. And if it hadn't been for your mother's weeping and carrying on, I'd have stuck by that. How a daughter of mine could be so fond of such an irritating little twerp..." He broke off shaking his head over the vagaries of females. "But that should be enough to convince you Alice's death wasn't his fault. You know how your mother felt about Alice, how she felt about your engagement. The fact is, boy, there was nothing anyone could have done but what Landers did."

"He left her there alone," Quentin said, his jaw tight.

"He went for help," Tobias corrected. "When she fell through the ice, he couldn't pull her up himself. That damned gown must have weighed fifty pounds and the ice was rotten. You couldn't have done anything but what he did."

Quentin stood up, the memories roiling inside him. He couldn't argue with his grandfather's words, but neither could he bring himself to agree with them. For so many years he'd focused his anger on Joseph Landers and heaven knew the man deserved it on a hundred other counts. He'd simply never let himself accept that, in this one instance, he might be innocent of wrongdoing.

Because, if Joseph wasn't to blame, he might have to accept some of the responsibility for Alice's death himself. If he hadn't gone away... If they'd married as everyone had expected...

Quentin stared out at the wispy fog that draped Nob Hill in a gossamer blanket, but his eyes were on the past. He'd been in the Yukon, on the tail end of the great gold rush when word of his fiancee's death had reached him. By the time he received the letter, she'd been dead and buried nearly a month.

She'd gone to New York with his family for the New Year celebrations, gone to see in the last year of the old century. She'd been ice-skating with several of her friends, including his sister Ann, hardly more than a child then. When she'd skated too near the center of the lake, the ice—not yet solid enough to bear her weight—had given way.

Joseph had gone for help, but by the time they were able to pull Alice from the water, she was half-frozen. The chill turned into pneumonia and she'd died within a week. There'd been nothing anyone could do, everyone had agreed on that. It was a terrible tragedy.

Quentin had known Alice Mason since they were children. And he'd known they were going to marry since he was fifteen and she was twelve. They might have been wed already but for the restlessness that stirred in him, an urge to see more of the world. And Alice had understood that restlessness. She'd be waiting, she told him.

So he'd gone to Alaska. Less than a year before, word had come of a great gold strike on the Klondike. The reports were that nearly two tons of gold had been unloaded on the Seattle docks. Some said it was the richest gold strike in the world, with nuggets just lying on the ground waiting to be picked up by any enterprising young man.

Quentin was not so foolish as to believe that, but it seemed as good a place as any to start seeing the world. And see it he had. He'd seen men gone mad with gold fever, unable to believe that their fortune wasn't just lying about. He'd found a little gold himself, barely enough to pay his expenses, and he'd counted himself lucky to find that much.

But the price he'd paid had been far too high. He'd come home only long enough to visit Alice's grave, needing to see it before he could make himself believe in the reality of her death. And then he'd left again. There was a war beginning with Spain and he'd joined a bunch of cowboys, college students and misfits, who'd come to be called the Rough Riders.

And when Cuba was safely free of Spain's domination, he'd left the service and traveled around the world, just as he'd planned before Alice's death. He'd gambled in every back alley in every port he'd visited. He'd worked his passage more often than purchased it and he'd spent what money he made. He'd been home a time or two to listen to his father tell him he was going to hell in a handbasket, to have his mother look at him with tears in her eyes and his grandfather with understanding.

He turned from the window abruptly. "Maybe Alice's death wasn't Joseph's fault, but it's no doubt the first time he's been blamed for something he wasn't guilty of."

"I'll not argue with that." Tobias leaned back in his chair, reaching for one of the cigars the doctor had forbidden him to smoke. When a man got to his age, there were few enough pleasures in life. He wasn't going to give up one of those left him.

He lit the cigar, puffing at the rich Cuban tobacco for a moment as he watched his grandson move restlessly around the room. Something was on the boy's mind, there was no doubt of that. Of all his family, Quentin was the only one worth a damn. His daughter was an empty-headed fool, who'd married a stodgy businessman with the imagination of a turnip. His granddaughter hadn't a thought in her head but fashion, and now her wedding.

But Quentin—Quentin was the son he'd never had, a true kindred spirit. Let the rest of them wring their hands and weep and wail over the boy wasting his life. He'd understood Quentin's anger, his pain and his need to work it out in his own way. Everything had turned out well enough.

Four years ago, he'd won title to a ranch in Wyoming, drawing to fill an inside straight at poker. Tobias smiled at the memory, remembering a time when he'd drawn to fill his own inside straights, though cards had never been his weakness. But there was more than one way to gamble and he'd done his share.

Maybe Quentin had always wanted a ranch, or maybe he was just tired of roaming the world, belonging nowhere. Whatever the reason, he hadn't gambled the ranch away sight unseen, nor had he sold it. He'd gone to take a look at it and there he'd stayed.

Until now.

"You still haven't told me why you came home."

Quentin looked up from the fist-sized piece of gold ore he'd been studying. The first chunk of ore his grandfather had ever mined, taken from the Sutter's Mill strike back in 'forty-nine, the strike that had founded the family fortune. How many times had he heard that story, sitting on a hassock at his grandfather's knee, listening wide-eyed to tales of days gone by?

He set the ore down, slipping his hand into the pocket of his neat gray trousers. If anyone would understand his purpose in coming back here, it was Tobias.

"I've decided to marry."

Tobias said nothing for a moment, puffing on his cigar, studying Quentin through the veil of smoke. "Well, you're of an age for it. A man should have a wife and children. It steadies him, gives him a purpose in life. Who's the girl?"

"I don't know yet. I've come home to find a wife."

"Have you mentioned this to your mother?"

"No. I thought I'd wait until after Ann's wedding. Once that's done, I thought maybe she'd like to throw a few parties or something, introduce me to some eligible females. I've met few enough of those in my wanderings," he said with a half smile.

Tobias studied the glowing end of his cigar for a moment before fixing his gaze on Quentin. "Don't do it, boy. Don't say a word to your mother about this. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm sure she'd be delighted to have a party or two. In fact, she'd probably throw a ball if you wanted. But you're not going to find a wife in this house."

Startled, Quentin crossed the room to lean his arms on the back of the richly upholstered wing chair. The chessboard lay forgotten between them.

"Why not? You're not going to try and tell me that Mother doesn't know any eligible females?"

"She knows plenty of eligible females, but it all depends on what you want them to be eligible for. The girls she'd introduce you to would know all about going to parties and running a big house with plenty of servants. They'll know just how many spoons to put beside each plate and what sort of crystal is the most fashionable in any given year. Are you planning on that sort of life?"

"No, I'm going back to the ranch as soon as I've found a wife. I need a girl who can run a home five miles from the nearest neighbor."

"Well, you're not going to find a girl like that at any party your mother gives," Tobias told him bluntly.

Quentin sat down, hearing the truth of his grandfather's words. It had all seemed so simple back in Wyoming. He'd get his mother to introduce him around. He'd find a girl he could imagine spending his life with—not a love match, God knows. He'd had that once and it was simply too painful to risk again. No, he wasn't looking to fall in love. He was looking for more of a partnership, someone to build a life with. They'd get married and he'd take her back to Wyoming, though he wasn't opposed to a short honeymoon if it was important to her.

It had never occurred to him that none of the daughters of his mother's friends were likely to be the sort of girl who'd know how to make a home in the primitive surroundings he could offer. Nor would they want to try. He stared at his grandfather in silence, seeing all his plans crumbling.

A soft tapping on the door interrupted his thoughts. Tobias glanced at the clock and his thick white brows hooked together.

"Nearly four o'clock and I always have my tea at three," he muttered. "I swear this household is falling to pieces. Come in," he barked.

Quentin paid little attention as the door was pushed open and a maid entered bearing a heavy tray.

"Your tea, sir."

"And only an hour late," Tobias said sharply. "Where have you been, girl, dallying in the butler's pantry with one of the stable boys?''

The tea hit the table with a little more force than was strictly necessary. "I'm sorry if your tea is late."