Secret Hearts (25 page)

      
“I
met a friend of yours, my dear, on the train outside of Omaha. A Mr.
Oliphant. Remember him?”

      
Claire’s
insides began to twist painfully. She gave him one brief nod.

      
“We
got to chatting over a bottle of brandy one night. He told me a most
amusing tale.”

      
Dear
heaven. If poor Mr. Oliphant had allowed himself to drink with her father,
Claire already knew why Claude had come to Pyrite Springs. She breathed
deeply several times. The two words, “tangled web,” danced through
her head again, mocking her.

      
In
the space of seconds, she weighed her options and came to the only possible
conclusion. As she had no gun handy, she would have to pay her father
blackmail to keep him from telling Tom Partington she was the author
of those wretched books.

      
“How
much money do you want to keep quiet?”

      
The
wily Claude smiled. “Well, now, my dear, I understand you’ve managed
to create a virtually limitless supply of funds with those dime novels
of yours. You always were a clever little minx. I knew you’d do me
proud one day.”

      
“Stop
slinging rubbish and get on with it!”

      
Claude
wisely ignored his daughter’s outburst. “And since it was I who
saw to your upbringing and education for all those years, it seems only
fair that you provide for your poor old father in his old age. Don’t
you think so?”

      
Furious,
Claire exclaimed, “No, I certainly do not! Why, you unscrupulous old
fraud, you never cared a thing about me! You never saw to anything but
your own welfare. If it wasn’t for those poor deluded women who used
to think they were in love with you, I’d never even have learned to
read and write!”

      
Disconcerted
at having his past flung so candidly into his face, Claude muttered,
“Now, Claire, that’s not true.”

      
“It
is so! Oh, you make me sick!”

      
Claude
frowned mightily. Since, however, he was a shrewd man and knew better
than to argue with his clever, sharp-tongued daughter, he said, “Two
thousand dollars, and I’ll never darken your door again.”

      
“Two
thousand dollars? Why you miserable old charlatan! I ought to go to
Sheriff Grant right this minute!”

      
“Ah,
but you won’t, will you, Claire, because your high-and-mighty Mr.
Tom Partington wouldn’t like it.” Claude looked quite smug as he
twirled his mustache and smirked. “Anyway, from what Oliphant said,
two grand is peanuts to you. I should think you’d consider it a small
price to pay to get rid of me.”

      
Staring
at the man who had fathered her, Claire couldn’t help but feel sorry
for her own mother. Undoubtedly, she’d been one of Claude’s long
list of victims. She’d probably died just to get away from the awful
man. And now Claire was to be added to the list.

      
Well,
so be it. Claude was right. Two thousand dollars was a small price to
pay to get rid of him.

      
Poking
him hard with her forefinger, Claire said coldly, “Stay right here
and don’t move. If you go out into the street, I’ll pretend I don’t
know you.”

      
Without
waiting for him to reply she stormed off, leaving him there in the alleyway.
She deliberately scuffed her shoes in the dirt so that dust would puff
up into Claude’s face. Even his sneeze did not mitigate her fury.

      
When
she made her withdrawal at the Pyrite Springs Bank her expression must
have been black because Mr. Twitchell, the teller, didn’t even try
to make small talk. Stuffing the money into a large envelope, Claire
stalked back to the alley where Claude lounged, smoking a fat cigar.
He greeted her with a bland smile, as though they were mere acquaintances
and not mortal adversaries.

      
Slapping
him in his paunch with the envelope, Claire snarled, “There. Now get
out of my life and stay out.”

      
“Tut,
tut, child. I really think you should treat your old father with more
respect than this.”

      
“Just
be grateful I don’t walk around town armed.”

      
Claire
had the satisfaction of seeing Claude’s eyebrows arch in genuine surprise
right before he snatched the envelope from her fingers and marched away,
striving for a dignity she knew he didn’t possess. She watched him
until he turned down the street and out of her sight, a hand pressed
to her forehead, her heart a raging cauldron of despair. The stagecoach
rattled past, and Claire had a mad impulse to scramble onto it and go
wherever it would take her.

      
If
only she could be certain her father would keep his word and leave her
alone.

      
Silly
Claire. Of course, he wouldn’t keep his word. She knew that. Blackmailers
were never satisfied; it was a well-known fact. She’d read terrible
tales about blackmailers and the resultant despair they wreaked upon
unlucky souls who harbored black secrets.

      
For
heaven’s sake, blackmail was one of the novelist’s best friends;
she’d even used it herself once or twice in her books. Blackmailers
always came back for more. Especially this blackmailer. Her father was
the worst man she’d ever met in her life; she didn’t trust him an
inch.

      
“Dear
heaven,” she moaned softly. “Please, Lord. . . .”

      
But
she didn’t know what to ask. Even if she’d thought of something,
she didn’t expect God would look with much favor upon a woman who
was perpetrating a beastly deception on the man she loved. Claire sank
back against the wall of the Pyrite Springs Mercantile and Furniture
Emporium and fought the urge to shriek her frustration to the heavens.

# # #

      
Tom
had sent Jedediah Silver back to Partington Place earlier in the day,
since he had some inquiries to make of the farrier, Colin MacDougall.
Now, his business successfully concluded, he rode the placid Ebony down
Pyrite Springs’s main street, feeling grand. He’d opened an account
at the bank expressly for his horse enterprise, wired his breeder in
Montana, made arrangements with a builder to assess his mansion for
the laying of gas lines, and chatted with several people who just seemed
to want to offer friendly greetings.

      
Since
he’d become an adult, Tom hadn’t lived in any one spot long enough
to make friends. He did, of course, boast a flock of comrades who were
fellow scouts, but they hardly qualified as the types of settled associations
he seemed to be acquiring in Pyrite Springs. The idea of living here,
of having an abundance of casual friends and acquaintances, gave him
a gooey, warm feeling in his chest.

      
His
conversation with Miss Thelma this morning had gone even better than
he’d expected, too. She was on his side when it came to convincing
Claire Montague that she was an attractive, desirable woman.

      
He
pulled his horse up short when he saw a portly gentleman stride out
of an alleyway, twirling his waxed mustache and grinning like a cat
who’d just caught a big fat mouse.

      
Tom
didn’t care about the portly gent. What caught Tom’s eye was Claire
Montague, staring after the retreating man and looking as miserable
as he’d ever seen a human being look.

      
Her
expression tore at his heart strings and he found himself wanting to
kill the self-satisfied gentleman walking away from her. He leaped from
his horse just as the stagecoach rumbled down the road in front of him.
When it passed, Claire no longer stood in the alley and he had no idea
where she’d run off to. Nor was the mustachioed fellow anywhere to
be seen. Damn.

      
He
was troubled as his horse carried him down the road toward Partington
Place. Try as he might, he could think of no suitable way to approach
Claire with his worries. Her private life was not his concern; she’d
have every right to tell him to mind his own business if he asked, damn
it.

      
Worry
plagued him, though. He didn’t like his Claire to be so upset about
anything. Most particularly, oddly enough, he didn’t want her upset
about a man. And who could the fellow possibly have been? Resolving
to consult with Jedediah Silver on the matter, Tom made his way back
home.

# # #

      
Somehow,
Claire managed to walk with a fair semblance of calm into the Pyrite
Springs Mercantile and Furniture Emporium before she collapsed. Dianthe
St. Sauvre, who had been critically studying some delicate eyelet lace,
rushed over to where Claire had sunk, trembling like a leaf, onto a
cracker barrel.

      
“Claire!
Whatever is the matter? Are you ill?”

      
Even
Sylvester, who had been brooding over a particularly troublesome passage
in his book and ignoring Dianthe, put down his pencil, flipped open
the hinged counter-top and walked to her side. “What’s the matter,
Claire? You look like hell.”

      
Dianthe
scowled up at Sylvester, who shrugged.

      
“Oh,
my God,” Claire whispered. “I’m doomed.”

      
Dianthe’s
eyes opened wide. “Whatever can the matter be? Please tell us, Claire!
Perhaps we can help you.”

      
Claire
dug into her pocket for her handkerchief. “Nobody can help me,”
she declared dramatically. “It’s too late.”

      
“Good
God, you’re not consumptive, are you?” Sylvester began backing away
from Claire, his expression one of absolute terror. “Don’t cough
on me, Claire, please.”

      
“For
heaven’s sake, Sylvester, don’t be absurd.”

      
Claire
had never heard Dianthe sound so resolute and cranky. Her friend’s
attitude gave her courage and she swallowed the tears she had begun
to shed. By Jupiter, if the fluffy Dianthe could be firm in a catastrophe,
so could Claire. Of course, Dianthe had no idea what the catastrophe
was, but that didn’t matter. Her friends cared; their solicitude gave
Claire strength.

      
Sitting
up straight and gathering her shredded composure around her, Claire
said, “It’s my father.”

      
“Your
father has consumption?” Sylvester began to look less terrified and
more puzzled.

      
“Did
something happen to your father, Claire?” Dianthe asked sympathetically.

      
“Yes.
He came to Pyrite Springs.”

      
As
her voice conveyed none of the joy generally associated with such a
family reunion, Dianthe merely blinked at her. Sylvester looked more
interested and he walked back to her side.

      
“Um.
. .” Dianthe began, obviously unsure of herself, “are you and your
father at odds, Claire dear?”

      
“At
odds
?” Claire uttered a brief, harsh laugh. “He’s the most
loathsome human being on the face of the earth, Dianthe! He’s a fraud
and a cheat and a vile, despicable villain! He’s a blackguard, a scoundrel,
a charlatan and a vile pretender!”

      
“My
goodness,” Dianthe murmured, stunned.

      
“Really?
Tell us more, Claire.” Sylvester pulled up another barrel and plopped
himself down on it, fascinated.

      
“I
couldn’t believe it when I heard his voice. I know God is punishing
me for deceiving Mr. Partington. I know it!”

      
“Nonsense!”
Sylvester said roundly. “Tell us more about your father. Maybe I can
use him in my book. Ow!” He glared at Dianthe, who had pinched his
arm.

      
“Can’t
you see that Claire is terribly upset, Sylvester? Forget your stupid
book for a minute, can’t you?”

      
“Forget
my book? My
stupid
book? Why, I like that!”

      
“Oh,
I didn’t mean anything and you know it,” Dianthe said crossly. “But
let’s see if we can’t help Claire before you use anybody’s father
in your book.”

      
“Yes,
please help me,” Claire begged. “I need your help. I don’t know
what to do. He’s threatened to expose me!”

      
Tapping
her delicate chin with an equally delicate finger, Dianthe murmured,
“Well, now, before he can do that, perhaps it’s time you told Mr.
Partington yourself, dear. I get the impression he’s quite taken with
you, you know.”

      
“Me?”
Claire cried, shocked.

      
“Claire?”
Sylvester cried, also shocked.

      
Dianthe
looked peeved. “Yes. Claire. I don’t know why you both seem so surprised.
It was obvious to me, and I should know.”

      
Claire
and Sylvester shared a glance. Dianthe’s idea was so absurd, Claire
almost forgot her miseries and laughed. Almost.

      
“You’re
very sweet, Dianthe, but I know Mr. Partington only cares about me as
a housekeeper. Perhaps,” she added, daring to dream, “he might even
think of me as a friend.” She couldn’t quite make herself admit
the truth aloud—that no man, least of all her hero, Tom Partington,
could possibly look at Claire when Dianthe was in the room.

      
“Well,
perhaps,” Dianthe conceded—rather too quickly, in Claire’s estimation.
“But I still think you should tell him yourself now, Claire. It would
spare you all this worry and anguish and then your father would have
no further hold over you.”