The Coming Storm (26 page)

Portia frowned. Losing the baby wasn’t something she liked to think about. The miscarriage had come shortly after Mrs. Grant’s harshest dressing down, and Portia hadn’t bothered to restrain herself from pointing out to the angry old woman that the miscarriage was entirely her fault. Mrs. Grant had been aghast at Portia’s accusations, but amazingly enough, the doctor had agreed with the young widow, and the old woman had been devastated. Portia could hear her wailing throughout the massive estate. It actually rivaled the wind blowing down from the hills.

Portia smiled in satisfaction. Yes, the doctor had made a convincing argument, and the old woman was never the same. It was fascinating what could be had for a little gold. Portia often wondered what was said in the wake of the doctor’s sudden departure for Spain.

But even with that satisfying memory, Portia felt overwhelmed by her mother’s passing. Troubled, too, by the promise she’d made to deliver the news to her father in the Montana Territory. She could lie to anyone else—break promises without concern—but she wouldn’t lie to her mother. She couldn’t. If she even dared to do such a thing, she feared her mother might well come back from the grave and haunt her.

She sighed and sniffed back a new onslaught of tears.
Why
did Mother have to get sick? Why now?
Portia had come back to the United States with the sole intent of finding her mother. She had planned to whisk her away on a trip to Europe. Her mother deserved a good time. She had never been abroad—never owned more than three dresses at a time. No, Mary Brady had lived from post to post following the husband she promised to love and obey till death.

Now death had taken her from the world—from Portia.

Portia stared out the carriage window at the passing city. The people here thought themselves quite metropolitan, but the idea was laughable. Portia had lived in the really great cities—London, Paris, Vienna. Married at sixteen to a man whose most desperate desire, second only to having Portia, was to avoid the War Between the States, Portia had been taken abroad to live.

William Travers had been only four years his bride’s senior, but to Portia he seemed decades older and wiser. He had been handsome—almost too handsome. He was the kind of man that made everyone take notice. His honey-gold curls and welldefined features had brought looks of approval from both men and women. Only those close to him ever came to realize that his beauty ran only skin deep.

Billy hadn’t been a man given to searches for knowledge or intellectual feasts. He hadn’t any desire for college or an education that could prove useful in matters of real life. Billy wanted to have fun, and he wanted to have it with his beautiful Portia.

At sixteen, Portia had been completely overwhelmed by his courtship. They had met while her father had been briefly stationed near Kansas City. Their engagement was quick to follow, despite her father’s protests. Billy’s family thought Portia witty and gracious. They enjoyed having an intelligent daughter-inlaw and honestly believed that Portia’s ambitious nature could help motivate their son to greater things.

But Portia had never aspired to be Billy’s inspiration. She laughed now, even thinking of it.
Billy was a simpleton. He’d sleep until noon if I’d let him. The only thing that drove him was the promise of a good time
.

Well, she’d certainly proven to be that, and more. Right up until the day that freight wagon had run Billy over in the street.

The carriage hit the same hole it always hit when approaching the Bradbury Hotel, and Portia forced herself back into the reality of the moment. She dabbed her eyes one last time before the driver opened her door.

He helped her down with a gentleness reserved for old ladies and babies. “Thank you, Dougal.” The man had been with her only a few days, but already she thought him a first-class servant. “I won’t be going out again. Feel free to retire for the evening.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, tipping his top hat.

Portia smoothed her black bombazine skirt, sweltering from the sheer weight of the material. She could hardly wait to reach her suite, where she’d have the liberty of disrobing and slipping into something light and breezy.

“Mourning is for the ancient,” she muttered. “The ancient and the hopeless. Neither of which I am.”

It hadn’t been hard to find Ned Langford. Most everyone knew where he was residing from the newspaper article. Trenton, however, had already known the Bradbury was Ned’s favorite hotel in Denver. He knew, too, that the man had a permanent arrangement with the hotel and had rented out the largest suite the hotel could offer.

“I’m glad you came to me,” Ned had said when Trenton showed up at his hotel door. “Now I have the chance to return the favor you did me—although you are far from death’s door. However, under my poor care, you just might get there yet.”

Trenton had laughed. He enjoyed Ned’s sense of humor and banter. Time under Ned’s care had already done Trenton good. It had also given the bearded stubble on his face a couple days to grow out. It altered his appearance nicely—so, too, the expensive clothes Ned had bought him. Trenton wasn’t sure there would be any decent
Wanted
posters of him—the only ones he’d seen were poorly drawn after his escape from Missouri, but he didn’t want to take any risk of being noticed or recognized.

Now sitting across from Ned and enjoying a wealth of fabulous food for lunch, Trenton tried to forget the past and look to his future.

“Pity those fellows shooting you. Probably same old boys that took me down.”

Trenton nodded. “I’m sure they had something to do with it.” That much was true. Trenton was trying hard to turn over a new leaf. He figured the fact that he’d managed to elude the posse was proof enough that God truly hadn’t forgotten him. Nevertheless, his relationship with the Almighty was on rocky footing, and Trenton wasn’t entirely convinced that the relationship could be salvaged. Mainly because he wasn’t certain God could forgive a man with a past as horrible as his.

“Well, I want to help you in whatever way I can. Of course you may stay with me as long as you like. I have the two bedrooms in the suite, so there’s no sense in the one going to waste. I thought perhaps my father would venture west when we struck the mother lode, but he wired to say he’s unable to leave Baltimore.”

“I’m just grateful for the help, Ned. I’ve got absolutely nothing to my name—except my horse and saddle—and gun.”

“Well, don’t give it a second thought, old man. I certainly can afford to see to us both—especially while you recover. Say, after that arm mends, what do you think about coming to work for me?”

Trenton was rather stunned by the offer. He knew it would probably be wise to lay low for a while and then get out of the territory altogether. “I kind of figured to go to Montana after I recovered. My sister lives there and she’s been after me to come for a visit.”

“You could always visit her later,” Ned said, stabbing a large piece of iced melon.

“Well, the thing is, I’ve been rather bad about keeping her informed of my whereabouts. I haven’t written her in several years.”

“Goodness—years? Why would you let so much time pass by?”

Trenton pushed at the concoction of vegetables on his plate. “I guess I’m just inconsiderate. Time got away from me. One day it was 1865 and the war was finally over, and the next thing I knew it was April 1871. What can I say? I’m a thoughtless man.”

Ned laughed as though Trenton had told a great joke. “My mother writes me off as dead if I don’t send her a note at least twice a month. I once asked her how in the world I was supposed to get anything accomplished at the mine or here in Denver when I had to constantly stop business in order to drop her a line. She told me she didn’t care—that it was my duty as the only son to keep my mother informed of my health and general circumstances. So my secretary jots off a note every two weeks like clockwork, and when Mother’s missives arrive, I give them a quick perusal and pass them on for his crafty answer.”

“And she doesn’t realize it’s not your handwriting in the letter?” Trenton asked. He always managed to get caught up in Ned’s stories, in spite of himself.

“Mother’s eyesight is poor and she’s much too vain to wear reading glasses. She just has one of the house girls read her the letter. It works out quite well and everyone is happy,” Ned said, bobbing his head a bit from side to side. “It’s all a matter of properly running one’s affairs. Otherwise, your affairs will run you.”

Trenton knew that to be true. It seemed his affairs had always been running him in one way or another.

“Say, there’s a gentlemen’s game tonight; would you care to play a few hands?” Ned questioned. “I know you could no doubt make back more than you lost in that robbery. I’ll stake you fifty dollars, and I’ll bet before midnight you’ll have tripled it.”

Trenton laughed. “By midnight, I could have ten times that—if I’m playing with the right gentlemen.”

Ned leaned forward. “These are very wealthy gold and silver barons—rivals in the business, don’t you know. I’d love to see them taken for all they’re worth. Say, if you’ll split the earnings with me, I’ll spot you five hundred dollars.”

Trenton leaned back and grinned, a lock of sandy-colored hair falling across his left brow. “I think I could probably accommodate you. Of course, I’ll have to get better clothes than these to wear.”

Ned laughed and crooked his head toward the door of his bedroom. “You’re about my size, I’d say. Take what you need.”

Portia McGuire watched Ned Langford from across the room. He seemed such a jovial man. The man who sat opposite him was quite handsome, but not nearly so gay. In fact, he seemed quite serious, almost stoic at times. He had smiled just a few moments ago, and Portia had thought him even more handsome than before. But Ned Langford was wealthy, and that was far more important than looks.

As Ned eased back in his chair, Portia got a better look at his features. He didn’t look much older than thirty—maybe thirtyfive. His mousy brown hair and mustache were unremarkable, just as was his face. His nose seemed a bit too small—his eyes too far apart. His lips were very full, so much so that Portia almost grimaced at the thought of kissing them.

Still, she was a woman of means and if she was to remain that way, she would need a constant source to feed the pot. Angus had been right that she was horrible with money. Money seemed to slip through her fingers without effort. But Portia liked the things money could buy. Gowns from Paris, furs and jewels. Trips abroad and fancy hotels and dinners. Those were the things that made life worth living.

Ned laughed again. It was rather a high-pitched braying sound, no doubt somehow related to his undersized nose. Portia noted again that his friend remained much more serious. She made a note to find out who Ned Langford’s companion might be. After all, it was possible the man was even more wealthy than Ned.

“Luncheon is served,” the waiter told her as he placed a silver-domed plate before her. He pulled back the lid to reveal a succulent slice of pork roast smothered in a currant sauce. Portia’s mouth watered. She’d skipped breakfast and now her hunger was catching up to her.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Cutting into the meat, she couldn’t help but continue her surveillance of Ned Langford. The man was worth millions—at least that’s what she’d learned. He was the only son of a millionaire father, and while there were two younger sisters to consider, it was rumored Ned would inherit the better portion of his father’s vast earnings.

The idea of owning silver mines appealed to Portia. Not as much as if they’d been gold, but if the one couldn’t be had, the other was certainly the next best thing.

Billy’s money had come from old stuffy lines of New England textile mill people, while Angus had built his fortune one bank note at a time. The miserly Scot had hoarded away his fortune, forcing Portia to use her remaining money from Billy in order to maintain her desired standard of living. But once Angus was gone, there was no one to stop Portia from doing as she pleased with his money. Still, she wasn’t about to be caught in another bad situation like before. She would use Angus’s money sparingly—at least until she had a sure source of income elsewhere.