Tender Is the Storm (2 page)

“Well, dammitall, I don’t know how we got on this subject, anyway,” Billy said gruffly, and turned away from those light green eyes. “Seems to me we ought to be discussing what you aim to do with these horses. If you’re leaving in the morning, well…”

Slade’s gaze moved over the thirty-odd mares. He’d captured most of them in the last three years, a slow process of tracking a stallion’s harem, living with them day after day, blending with the land, becoming nearly invisible, and finally singling out one and stalking it. He’d long ago learned not even to try for the stallion, and he had to wait until the male was otherwise occupied before he approached a female. But it was an enjoyable task, even though it required patience,
patience Billy had helped teach him, patience that came naturally after three years.

“They’re yours now, Billy,” Slade said.

Billy’s eyes widened. “Damn it! Damn it! I knew you just went on the raid last week to please me. I knew it!”

“Nonsense,” Slade scoffed. “I enjoyed the challenge of taking that rancher’s stock right from under his nose. His spread was big enough that he won’t miss them. And I hadn’t been that far east in a good many years. It gave me a chance to see what new towns were springing up. And it gave me an adventure to remember for when I become…civilized.”

“But all of them, Slade?” Billy protested. “You can use the money they’ll bring.”

“I have enough money for what I have to do.”

Billy didn’t express his thanks except with a nod of acceptance. “So where will you begin your search?”

“Where it began.”

“You really think Sloan will still be in Tucson? Hell, that’s the territorial capital. Characters like Sloan don’t find it easy in big towns anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Slade said offhandedly. “There or somewhere else, if he’s still alive, I’ll find him.”

“And after you kill him?”

“I’ll have the name of the man who hired him.” There was a cold edge in his voice now.

“And after you kill that one?”

Slade turned away before answering. “I’ll then be free to find my brother.”

Billy changed the subject quickly. “What about your father’s gold?”

“What about it?”

“It’s still there, ain’t it? You said your father and his partner rigged it so there was a worthless mine visible to anyone who wanted to look while the real mine was hidden up the mountainside where no one could find it.”

A rare show of anger crossed Slade’s handsome features. “That gold killed my father, separated me from my twin, and forced me to live like a wild animal. I want no part of it.” Then he said, “What good are riches, anyway? The land offers all a man could want.”

Billy grunted, deciding not to point out that Slade was thinking like an Indian. Was that a good thing or not?

Billy Wolf looked hard at the young man he loved like a brother. “Well, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” Then he grinned, trying to make light of the moment. “I’ll be the rich scout with the pretty wife—it shouldn’t tax you too hard to find me. I just hope I don’t run into your large cougar friend any time you’re not around.”

Slade laughed.

By early evening the Whiskers Saloon was crowded. It looked no different from all the other saloons Slade had walked into during the last year. By now he was immune to the reaction his appearance caused. Everything always quieted down until he ordered his first drink. Men sometimes moved
away from him. Once it had been his quiet manner that made people wary. Now it was the savage look about him.

Slade never appeased the curious or volunteered his name without reason. His name had become a curse, inspiring fear beyond that caused by a stranger who carried a gun like he knew how to use it. The name had become an obstacle only a month after he began his search, and all because some fool cowboy in a small mining settlement had challenged him. Many witnesses saw Slade’s gun clear his holster before the other man had touched his. That was all it took. In the next town he came to, they knew about him. Too late he learned about rumors. A man who had never drawn his weapon could be reported to have ten to fifteen notches on his gun. But if he let his speed be observed, he’d be counted as one of the bad guys.

Slade had yet to kill anyone, yet he was a known killer! He had only reappeared in the white man’s civilization a year ago, but rumor had it that he’d come up from Texas five years before, after killing his first man. All his killings had been fair and square, it was said, the assumption being that a fast gun didn’t have to fight dirty. Yet marshals quickly asked him to leave their towns, and Slade found it impossible to get information out of anyone once they knew his name.

He had changed his appearance. He had let his hair grow again and wore kneehigh moccasins instead of boots. It helped a great deal. He didn’t have to lie and say he was a half-breed, but he
gave that impression, and people thought he was. So after a year of searching, he had finally found Feral Sloan.

He found him in Newcomb, a town of less than two hundred even if you counted the surrounding ranches and their hands. It galled the hell out of Slade when he learned that Sloan had settled in this town seven years ago, soon after it was founded. It galled him most because Sloan was foreman on the ranch nearby that he and Billy Wolf had raided that last time. He had been that close to his father’s killer and hadn’t even known it. And he was closer now, for Feral Sloan was in the saloon, sitting at one of the card tables with two other men, his back to the wall.

Slade had spotted him immediately. His image had never left Slade’s mind. The gunslinger was about thirty now, with slicked-back hair and a chin that jutted aggressively. But the lanky body had gone soft, and his hairline had receded. There were lines of dissipation on his face. But if those years had not been kind to his appearance, they had obviously been profitable years. He dressed in an ostentatious display of silver conchas and diamond jewelry and fancy duds.

Slade concluded that Feral Sloan was either one of the town’s main guns or the only one. The latter was likely. There were many cowboys from the nearby ranches in the room, it being Saturday night. Slade had learned to judge a man in the first instant the other fellow looked at him. He could dismiss all the men in the room except Sloan.

It was only a waiting game now, and Slade Holt
had become good at waiting. He knew Sloan would come to him, would have to, for the sake of his reputation. Approaching a menacing stranger was a task that always fell to the town gun. The people expected it, demanded he ask questions to appease their curiosity. When the town toughs didn’t get the answers they wanted, they either commenced a show of friendliness or walked away grumbling loudly, praying the stranger wouldn’t take offense and start a fight.

Slade had only twenty minutes to wait before Feral Sloan joined him at the bar. Those men who had moved to the ends of the bar to give Slade plenty of room now moved over to the tables. If there was to be any shooting between these two dangerous men, the tables offered cover.

“Where you headin’, mister?”

He remembered the voice all too well.
Easiest hundred dollars I ever earned
. His head began to ache with the memory, but nothing marred his expression, even as he faced this hated man.

“You talking to me, Sloan?”

Feral was surprised and suspicious. “You know me?”

“Sure. I heard of you a long time back. But that was years ago. Thought you were dead.”

Slade was playing his man perfectly. Men like Sloan loved their reputations, and Sloan was quick to defend his absence from the public eye.

“I got such a nice little setup here, I couldn’t resist settlin’ down,” Feral bragged. “But you know how it is. A man’s name sometimes gets so big, people just won’t leave him alone.”

“I know.” Slade nodded solemnly. “I hear you’re a foreman now on the biggest spread in these parts. Must be a nice job.”

Feral chuckled. Here was a man who could appreciate his cleverness. “The nicest—seein’ as how I work only when I feel like it.”

Slade lifted a dark brow, pretending interest. “You mean you get paid for doing nothing? How is that?”

“I work for Samuel Newcomb, and you might say I know somethin’ about him that he don’t want to become public knowledge.”

Slade whistled softly. “He’s rich then, Newcomb?”

“Let’s just say he owns half the town and his bank holds mortgages on the other half.”

“I guess he can afford to keep you on his payroll then, rather than—”

“—pay someone to get rid of me?” Feral finished, finding this quite amusing. “That might be his style, but he don’t dare. I left a confession with a friend, you see. If anythin’ happens to me…well, you get my drift.”

Slade looked down at his drink. “A man that rich must have a lot of enemies.”

“Oh, he’s well liked around here, but with his past he can’t take no chances. He’s got himself a small army of men to protect him. And get this,” Feral chuckled again and leaned forward as if imparting a secret. “He’s even got a special attachment to his will that if he dies by malice, a hundred thousand goes to the man who gets his killer! That’s common knowledge, see? Smart, real smart. The man who kills him wouldn’t live out
the day, and that’s a fact. Hell, the only way you could hurt that bastard would be to ruin him financially. But it would take a powerfully rich and clever man to do that.”

“You don’t sound as if you like your benefactor.”

Feral shrugged. “Comes from knowin’ a man too well too long. We rub each other the wrong way these days.”

“You’ve been with Samuel Newcomb a long time, have you? He wouldn’t have been the man you worked for over in Tucson back in ’66, would he?”

Feral’s expression changed abruptly. “How the hell did you—? No one around here knows that. Who are you, mister?”

“Is he the one, Sloan?” Slade persisted in a calm voice.

Feral began to sweat. This tall kid had shocked him, and he wished he were anywhere but where he was. Still, he couldn’t resist a chance to boast. “I did a few jobs for Sam in Tucson, killed a couple of fellows he wanted out of the way. No big deal, just a couple of nameless prospectors.” He shrugged modestly. “Now you tell me how you knew.”

“I happened to be there,” Slade replied in a low voice. “I saw your work firsthand.”

“Did you?” Feral perked up. “But hell, you must have been just a kid then.”

“True, but what I witnessed I’ll never forget.”

Feral mistook Slade’s meaning. “You saw me get
Hoggs? Yeah, that was a close one. The bastard got what he deserved for daring to challenge me.”

“No,” Slade said slowly, ominously. “It was the nameless prospector I saw you shoot, the one Newcomb paid you to kill.” His conscience needed that confirmation.

Feral turned wary again. “That fight wasn’t worth remembering. There was no challenge to it.”

“I know.”

Feral swallowed. “You never said who you are, mister.”

“Name’s Holt, Slade Holt.”

As he said it, his voice carried to a nearby table. His voice spread in a matter of seconds until the room buzzed with the name.

“You’re pullin’ my leg, mister.” Feral mustered enough bravado to sound almost belligerent. “Slade Holt ain’t no half-breed.”

“That’s right.”

The eyes that had seemed light green before now burned with yellow fire. Feral’s hands were sweating, and that wasn’t good. Couldn’t handle a gun well with sweaty hands.

“Didn’t mean to offend you none, Mr. Holt.”

“You didn’t.” A single muscle ticked along Slade’s smooth jaw, the only sign of the turmoil inside him. “Your offense was committed nine years ago when you killed that nameless prospector. And your mistake was in not killing me when you had the chance.”

Feral’s eyes widened in sudden understanding, but understanding came too late. He smelled death, his own. Automatically he reached for his gun, but
the ball slammed into his chest just as the gun cleared his holster. He was thrown backward with the impact, landing on his back several feet away. Slade’s soft moccasins made no noise as he walked over and stood by Sloan’s head.

Sloan was looking up into a face that showed no emotion, not even triumph. He was dying, and the man who had killed him was taking it in stride.

“Lousy bastard,” Feral managed in a whisper. “I hope you go after him now.” His words weren’t coming out as clearly as he heard them in his mind. “Then you’ll be a dead man. Damn kid. Dead like you should’ve been…you were supposed…”

Feral Sloan’s eyes glazed over. Slade stared at the dead man for a moment. Though he had meant to kill him and didn’t regret it, his stomach churned. Bile rose in his throat. But his expression remained impassive, and the onlookers thought him a cold-blooded killer, unaffected by death. The legend of Slade Holt was being confirmed there in the saloon.

Slade wasn’t thinking of that. He was remembering two ten-year-old boys racing desperately away from Tucson with a murderer after them. He was seeing it all again, and this time his head didn’t ache with the memory. Feral Sloan had shot him and assumed he was dead. He hadn’t bothered to climb down the rocky gorge to make sure. Now, finally, Slade remembered all of it. He knew now how to start looking for his brother.

He left Newcomb without a backward glance.

1882, New York City

Not too far north of the hectic business district, Fifth Avenue became a quiet residential area. Trees grew at curbside between handsome street lamps. Elegant mansions lined Fifth Avenue. Brownstones could be found next to houses with mansard roofs in the French Second-Empire style. A Gothic Revival mansion stood next to an Italianate-style mansion with pediments over the windows and a balustrade atop the cornice.

The facade of Hammond House was a mixture of brownstone and white marble, with a high stoop on the first floor and three more stories above the first. Marcus Hammond lived here with his two daughters. A self-made man who was well on the way to wealth long before his first daughter was born, he permitted no obstacles. Few challenged his will, so he was generally good-natured and generous, especially with his daughters.

One of those daughters, the older one, was at the moment readying herself for an outing with her fiancé, a man chosen for her by her father. Sharisse Hammond didn’t mind the choice. The day Marcus had told her she would marry Joel Parrington during the summer, she’d just nodded. A year before she might have questioned his choice, might even have protested, but that was before she returned from a tour of Europe and a disastrous love affair so humiliating that she welcomed a safe, loveless marriage.

She had nothing to complain about. She and Joel Parrington had been friends since childhood. They shared the same interests, and she found him terribly handsome. They would have a good marriage, and if they were fortunate, love would come later. It would have been hypocritical for either of them to speak of it now, though, for Joel also was abiding by a father’s dictates. But they liked each other well enough, and Sharisse knew she was envied by her friends. That went a long way toward keeping her pleasant if not overly enthusiastic. It never hurt to be envied by a crowd of women who were forever trying to outdo one another. With her wealth on a par with theirs and her looks rarely commented on, her fiancé was the only thing Sharisse was envied.

Her thoughts were not on Joel just then, however. Sharisse was wondering where in a house of so many rooms she would find Charley. She had decided to take him along on today’s outing. He would keep her company if Joel turned absentminded, as he had been doing lately.

She left her maid, Jenny, to put away the outfits she’d been trying on before she’d decided on the basque top with a skirt trimmed in velvet, a French style of plain green satin combined with wide moiré-striped green satin. She carried her Saxe gloves and plumed poke bonnet to put on just before she left.

She stopped first at her sister’s room down the hall to see if Charley might be with her.

Sharisse knocked once and didn’t wait to be invited in before opening the door. She took her younger sister by surprise, and Stephanie gave a start and quickly stuffed some papers into her desk drawer. She glared at her sister accusingly.

“You might have knocked,” Stephanie pointed out sharply.

“I did,” Sharisse replied calmly, a twinkle in her amethyst eyes. “Writing love letters, Steph? You don’t have to hide them from me, you know.”

Stephanie’s lovely pale complexion was suffused with color. “I wasn’t,” she said defensively. “But it’s none of your concern, anyway.”

Sharisse was taken aback. She didn’t know what to make of her little sister anymore. Ever since Stephanie had turned seventeen at the start of the year, her whole disposition had changed. It was as if she suddenly harbored resentments against everyone, and all for no reason. Sharisse, particularly, became the brunt of unexpected temper tantrums ending in bursts of tears and followed by no explanation at all. She had given up trying to find out what was bothering her sister.

What was so perplexing about it was that Stephanie had finally come into her own over this last year, turning into a stunning beauty who had beaux at her beck and call. With her full breasts and trim waist, her very petite build, and the added bonus of lovely blonde hair and blue eyes, hers was the beauty that happened to be at the height of fashion. She was envied by every woman who lacked even one of those attributes—including Sharisse, who lacked them all. She couldn’t help it, but she did so wish she looked like her sister. Sharisse hid her disappointment well, though, hid it under a guise of self-assuredness that fooled the most discerning. Some even thought her haughty.

Stephanie’s perplexing behavior was enough to try a saint. The only one she didn’t snap at was their father. But both girls knew better than to show a fit of temper in his presence. Their mother, who had died two years after Stephanie was born, had been the only one who’d dared to argue with Marcus Hammond. She’d had a fierce will, and their fights had been frequent and heated. When they were not fighting, they had loved just as fiercely.

Neither girl seemed like her parents. Their father believed both were biddable and sweet-natured. They were excellent performers.

“What do you want?” Stephanie asked peevishly.

“I was looking for Charley.”

“I haven’t seen him all day.”

Sharisse started to leave, but her curiosity was piqued. “What were you doing when I came in,
Steph? We never used to keep secrets from each other.”

Stephanie looked hesitant, and, for a second, Sharisse thought she was weakening. But then she stared down at her hands and said childishly, “Maybe I was writing a love letter. Maybe I have a special beau.” Looking up, she said defiantly, “And maybe I’ll be getting married soon, too.”

Sharisse dismissed all of it as sulky nonsense. “I wish you would tell me what’s bothering you, Steph. I really would like to help.”

But Stephanie ignored her. “I see you’re dressed to go out.”

Sharisse sighed, giving up. “Joel suggested a ride through Central Park if the day turned out to be nice.”

“Oh.” Pain flashed through Stephanie’s eyes, but only for a second. Then she said airily, “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

“Would you care to come along?” Sharisse asked on a sudden impulse.

“No! I mean, I wouldn’t dream of intruding. And I have a letter to finish writing.”

Sharisse shrugged. “Suit yourself then. Well, I do want to find Charley before I leave. I’ll see you this evening.”

The moment the door closed, Stephanie’s face fell, and her eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t at all fair! Sharisse always got everything. Nothing but roses came her sister’s way. She had been the one to get their mother’s glorious copper hair and her unusual eyes that could be a deep, dark violet or a soft, sensuous amethyst. She was
the one with poise and self-confidence, always their father’s favorite. Their governess, their tutors, even the servants looked to Sharisse for approval. Their Aunt Sophie preferred Sharisse because she reminded her of her dear departed sister. She was not fashionable, not at five feet seven with that vivid coloring, but she was the one to stand out in a crowd, fashionable or not, and she did it regally, as if it were her right to be the center of attention.

Stephanie had never begrudged Sharisse any of her good fortune. She loved Sharisse dearly. But now Sharisse would be getting what Stephanie wanted more than anything in the world—Joel Parrington. She ached with wanting him. She ached knowing she couldn’t have him. Her sister would have him, and it hurt more because Sharisse didn’t care one way or the other.

That was the bitterness she had to bear. Her sister didn’t love Joel. And he never looked at Sharisse the way he looked at Stephanie, with an admiration he couldn’t always hide. If he were given a choice, she had no doubt whom he would choose. But he had never had any choice. Neither had Sharisse. If only their father weren’t so heavy-handed when it came to controlling everyone.

If only Sharisse had married sooner! If only she weren’t already twenty and could be given more time to choose. If only she would fall in love with someone else. Sharisse could fight for herself if she had to. She could face Father and argue for her happiness. Hadn’t she fought to have Charley stay?

But what was the use of hoping for a miracle when the wedding was only two months away? Her heart was breaking, and there was no help for it. And if she was suffering so terribly now, before the event became an actuality, how would it be afterward? After the wedding, they planned to move into a house just down the street. How could she bear to see them so often, to know that they…She wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Stephanie opened the drawer in her desk and took out the papers she had stuffed inside. She had torn the strip of newspaper out of
The New York Times
’s advertisements for mail-order brides. If she couldn’t have Joel, she would marry someone who lived far away, where she would never have to see Joel again. She had written three different letters, two to men who had placed the notices themselves and one to an agency that handled such things.

Stephanie looked the letters over now. They were attempts to bolster herself by embellishing her good qualities and accomplishments. Why had she lied? There was nothing wrong with her. She would make some man a wonderful wife. Why shouldn’t she send at least one of the letters? To stay in New York would be to let her heart go on breaking.

Stephanie picked up the newspaper clipping again. There was a notice from a rancher in Arizona. She tried to remember her studies. Yes, the Arizona Territory was far away. And a rancher would do nicely. Maybe he was one of those cattle barons she had heard of.

She read the whole advertisement. She was one year short of the age requirement, but she could fib just a little and say she was eighteen. “Must be strong and healthy.” She was healthy, but she had never had any reason to find out if she was strong. “Must be able to work hard.” Well, she could if she had to, but she would have to insist on servants, half a dozen at the least. “Send picture.” Ah ha! So the man wanted to know what he was getting, and he was hoping for something better than a plain girl.

Stephanie smiled to herself. She withdrew a clean sheet of paper and began her letter to Lucas Holt.

Downstairs, Sharisse entered her father’s study. A huge portrait of her mother graced the wall behind his desk. She knew he often turned in his overstuffed leather chair to gaze at that portrait. If ever a man grieved, Marcus Hammond did, refusing to marry again because he claimed no other woman could compare. His friends had long since given up trying to matchmake for him, leaving him to the memories he cherished.

He sat at his desk, going over some papers. Sharisse knew very little about his businesses, only that they were diversified, a rubber company, a brewery, a furniture company, an importing firm, dozens of warehouses and office buildings.

Her father had no intention of turning over the reins to her. She hadn’t been trained for it. That was the main reason her husband had to be of his
choosing. One day that man would control everything Marcus Hammond had built.

Marcus looked up, and Sharisse smiled. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Father. I was looking for Charley. You haven’t seen him around by any chance?”

Clear blue eyes sparkled under dark gold brows. “In here? You know he’s not welcome in here. He knows it, too.”

“I only asked if you had seen him, Father.”

“Well, I haven’t. And I hope never to again,” he replied gruffly. “Just keep him out of my way, Rissy.”

“Yes, Father.” Sharisse sighed. She left and headed for the kitchen.

A worthless moocher, her father called Charley. A no-good alley tramp. But Charley had come to mean more to Sharisse than she had ever guessed he would after she’d found him, battered and bruised, and nursed him back to health.

Sharisse chose an unfortunate time to enter the servants’ domain. She heard soft crying and then a loud wail. She opened the door to the kitchen, and the cook went back to her pots. Jenny, who had come down for a cup of tea, gulped the last of it and hurried past Sharisse to run back upstairs. The cook’s assistant began furiously peeling potatoes.

Two people stood near the table, Mrs. Etherton, the Hammond housekeeper, and a new downstairs maid Sharisse had seen only once before. It was this small creature who was crying so loudly. At their feet was a broken teacup from the cobalt-
blue collection Sharisse’s mother had brought with her from her home in France. She and her sister, Sophie, had grown up there. It was one of eight that Sharisse had ordered packed to be taken to her new home, a priceless treasure she’d intended to give to her own children one day. Sharisse loved the set with its intricate blue pattern and fine gold rims.

Sharisse bent over to pick up the pieces, sick at heart. The other seven cups were on the counter, a packing box next to them. She sighed. If she hadn’t decided to take them to her new house, they would all still be in the china cabinet in the dining room, safe and whole.

Seeing her expression, the poor maid began to wail again. “I didn’t mean to, miss. It were an accident, I swear. Don’t let her send me away.”

Sharisse looked at the stern-faced Mrs. Etherton. “I’ve dismissed her, Miss Hammond,” said Mrs. Etherton. “I should have done so sooner. If the girl’s not breaking things, she’s daydreaming and not getting a bit of work done.”

“If she is prone to breaking things, she should not have been told to pack my mother’s cups,” Sharisse said sharply.

Mrs. Etherton’s face turned a bright red, and the young maid spoke up quickly. “Oh, it were Molly who was to do the packing, miss, but she’s been sick these last three days and asked me if I’d help her out so she don’t get too far behind in her tasks.”

“So you took it upon yourself to…? My apologies, Mrs. Etherton,” Sharisse offered.

The housekeeper drew on her dignity and nodded to Sharisse.

The girl turned her woebegone face to the housekeeper and then to Sharisse. “Give me another chance, miss. I swear I’ll work harder. I can’t go back to Five Points. Please don’t let her send me back!”

“Five Points?” Mrs. Etherton was suddenly outraged. “You told me you came from a farm upstate. So you lied, did you?”

“You wouldn’t have hired me if you’d known I come from Five Points.”