Tomorrow's Dreams (25 page)

Penelope stifled a moan and looked away. She had to gather her wits before she said something completely disastrous. With that mission foremost in her mind, she stalked back to the wardrobe and stared at the clothing within.

“Where do the Skolfields live?” Seth repeated, this time more forcefully.

Penelope pulled out a beautifully tailored coat in a rich shade of claret and pretended to study it. “Not far. Just north of town,” she lied.

When he didn't comment, she began to relax. Apparently he was going to let the matter of the Skolfields drop. With her poise slowly trickling back, she selected a pair of gray, black, and claret striped trousers to go with the coat. As she began to thumb through his rainbow-hued collection of waistcoats, he said, “About your proposed visit with the Skolfields.”

Penelope's heart plunged to the pit of her stomach. He was going to forbid her to go, or worse, insist on accompanying her. When she refused, he would see to it that she stayed in town and she would miss her darling son's birthday. Her throat tight with dread, she croaked, “What about the Skolfields?”

There was a splash, as if he'd dropped the soap into the water. “Just make sure you're back in town before dark.”

Penelope almost keeled over with relief. “Yes.”

“Good” was all he said before the sounds of his bathing resumed. After a moment he began to sing … the quintet from act one of
The Magic Flute
to be exact. In German. All five parts.

In a comic falsetto he sang the two soprano roles of the Night Queen's ladies, dropping a wobbly octave when it came time to screech out the part of the mezzo-soprano third lady. While he did well enough as the tenor Tamino, his baritone Papageno bore an uncanny resemblance to a foghorn. What he lacked in voice quality, however, he more than made up for in enthusiasm.

As he bellowed out the final stanza, he rose from the bathwater, flailing his arms for dramatic effect.

Clapping with delight, Penelope turned from the wardrobe, cheering, “Bravo, Seth! Oh, bravo! Well done!”

Seth grinned and sketched an extravagant bow, completely disregarding the fact that he was buck naked and standing calf-deep in water. It was the naked part that made Penelope flush and turn back to the wardrobe.

All to conscious of Seth's unclothed state and eager to remedy the situation, she made quick work of assembling the rest of his garments. As she pulled the final article of his attire from the shelf, a silky-soft pair of linen drawers, she heard him hobble to the dressing table behind her. There was a scraping sound, followed by a heavy sigh. Then silence.

Her arms laden with clothes, Penelope turned. The sight that met her eyes almost made her drop her soft burden. Seth was bent over the table, awkwardly trying to rub the salve he'd purchased from the pharmacy on his backside.

Her heart went out to him when she saw the open blisters dotting the chafed flesh of his inner thighs and lower buttocks. Poor man. No wonder he was so miserable. How could she have been so blind as to not have noticed his damaged state earlier?

With tenderness outstripping prudence, she dropped the clothing into a nearby chair and went to him. “Whatever have you been doing, Seth? You're horribly raw back here,” she murmured standing directly behind him.

He tossed her a sheepish look over his shoulder. “I was up at Silver Plume last week looking at a new invention, a power drill. Stupid me, I let myself be talked into riding back to Denver instead of taking the stagecoach.” Pulling a wry face, he mimicked, “Purtiest scenery this side of heaven, Mr. Tyler. Mile-high aspen trees everywhere, and rivers as clear as diamonds.” His voice resumed its normal tone. “The guide didn't tell me that it took three days of hard riding to get down the mountain.”

“By the look of those blisters, that ride must have been positively grueling,” Penelope commiserated.

“If you think it looks awful, you should try how it feels.”

“I'll pass,” she replied, edging forward for a closer look. Grimacing with sympathy, she pointed out, “You should keep the area covered with salve. Otherwise, it might get infected.”

“I'm trying. But I can't reach back there.” He gave her a look forlorn enough to melt a heart of stone.

It worked like a charm. Before Penelope could think, she heard herself saying, “Poor man. Of course you can't apply the salve by yourself. Here. Let me help you.”

“Would you?” He looked as pathetic as a lost puppy.

She sighed. What could she say to such a pitiful appeal but, “Hand me the jar.”

He did. Working as fast as she could without causing him further discomfort, she spread a thick layer of the greasy blue unguent over the affected areas. Aside from wincing once when she tended the chafed underside of his masculine sac, he remained stoically motionless.

When her nursing duty was completed to her satisfaction, she handed him the linen drawers. “Here. These are soft. They will protect your skin from your wool trousers.”

Smiling his thanks, he quickly donned the garment. She released a heavy sigh and tossed him his trousers. Leave it to Seth to look as alluring in his unmentionables as he did nude.

Pinning her gaze on his face while he slipped on his pants, she asked, “Do you want me to shave you now?”

Seth rubbed his fingertips over his gold-speckled cheeks as if considering her offer, then shook his head. “I think I'll skip the shave today. I doubt if anyone at the Shakespeare will faint at the sight of a few whiskers.”

After that neither spoke beyond a few monosyllabic questions and commands. Article by article Penelope handed Seth his clothes, her pounding heart resuming its normal cadence as his beautiful body was gradually covered by stark white linen and fine worsted wool. By the time he was fully dressed with his fair hair brushed, she had regained her full composure.

With a reminder to ring the bell three times before she left, Seth swept a thick sheaf of papers from the desk and departed.

Alone now, Penelope tidied up the room. A neat man, Seth wasn't. As she paused at the tub to fish his bar of soap from the still-warm water, she was reminded that she had yet to take her own bath. She made a face as she contemplated the backbreaking work of hauling and heating bucketfuls of water. That prospect was enough to make her view Seth's tub with new eyes.

Why not take a bath before she left? The water was still clean and warm. And she wasn't likely to be disturbed. Seth had seen to that.

Why not indeed? she asked herself, reaching back to unbutton her smock.

It seemed she'd just found the silver lining of the dark cloud of being Seth's valet.

Chapter 15

It was a beautiful day, one made perfect by the autumn-kissed wind's soft tempering of the incalescent midday sun. Not a cloud marred the azure splendor of the sky, and the violet-gray vapor that had draped the horizon earlier had lifted, revealing the splendor of Longs Peak and her sister summits with breathtaking clarity. The air was fresh, sweet with the aromatic balm of sagebrush, as invigorating as Colorado itself. It was a day custom-made by God in honor of the joyous occasion at hand.

Penelope's heart soared like the magpie overhead; her spirits were buoyed with euphoria. She'd soon be reunited with Tommy, and together they would celebrate his second birthday.

Smiling gently with maternal adoration, she envisioned the pleasure on her son's face when she presented him with his gifts: a rattle to replace the one lost in a move two months earlier, and a cuddly gray plush toy rabbit, both purchased from a peddlar's wagon in Cheyenne. True, the rattle had cost her almost a full week's pay, but the moment she'd set eyes on it, she'd known her son would love it and had gladly paid the exorbitant price.

Of heavy silver, the rattle was an exquisite creation fancifully wrought to resemble a storybook court jester. He was a droll little fellow, that jester, with a cheery smile and a comically bulbous nose. Around his neck he wore a collar of six golden bells, which tinkled in gay accompaniment to the rolling clatter of the pellets within his roly-poly belly. His pointed hat doubled as a whistle, and he was perched on his tiptoes atop a smooth coral handle that doubled as a teething stick.

Not that Tommy could actually grasp the handle. Penelope's smile faltered a bit as she guided her mare, courtesy of the Summers and Dorsett Livery Stable, across the planked Platte River bridge. Her poor darling couldn't hold anything, and according to that quack in Philadelphia, he never would.

“We'll stop here,” grumbled Miles, who'd remained silent since they had left the Shakespeare a half hour earlier. By his unkempt clothes and surly disposition, it was obvious that he was suffering from one of his frequent hangovers.

Without bothering to reply, Penelope reined her horse to a standstill and dismounted. She knew the routine by heart. First Miles would exchange her mare's bridle for the halter he carried in his saddlebag; then he'd secure a lead rope from the halter to the saddle horn of his sturdy chestnut gelding. That task completed, they would double-mount the gelding, at which point she would be blindfolded. With her practically sitting on his lap, they would ride the rest of the distance to the Skolfields'. It was an elaborate subterfuge, but one insisted on by Adele.

When Penelope had once suggested that she and Miles ride the entire distance on one horse, thus eliminating the time-consuming switch, Adele had coolly pointed out the questionableness of two competent adults riding double like a couple of Georgia crackers. As the woman was quick to remind her, suspicions must remain unaroused at all costs. And so their charade continued.

While Miles coaxed the well-worn halter over the mare's head, cursing darkly when the skittish animal whinnied and balked in protest, Penelope mentally marked their location.

On either side of her, as far as the eye could see, were freshly harvested fields dotted with sheaves of sun-ripened wheat. A quarter mile behind her was the cottonwood-edged Platte River, and before her reared the irregular pyramid of Longs Peak. It appeared they were headed west, but, of course, Miles would probably change directions once she was blindfolded.

“You know, I could fix it so you could see your brat anytime you wanted,” Miles said, pausing from his task to squint at her with drink-reddened eyes.

Please Lord. Not this conversation again
, Penelope prayed, gazing toward the heavens in beleaguered appeal.

Apparently God was busy elsewhere. “I don't see why you won't marry me,” Miles whined for the hundredth time. “I've already promised to get your baby back for you if you do.” He shot her a crafty look over the lead rope he was hitching to the halter. “And we all know that you'll do anything to protect him.”

He was right; she would do anything to protect Tommy. She'd even have married him, sorry excuse for a man that he was, if she truly believed that by doing so she would secure her son's safety. But she knew better, even if Miles didn't.

While Miles chose to ignore his mother's treacherous nature, blindly viewing her as a benevolent cross between Clara Barton and Queen Victoria, Penelope saw her clearly for the venomous she-devil she was. Knowing Adele, she would probably murder her own son rather than relinquish her primary source of income. And Penelope had enough guilt on her conscience without adding the responsibility for Miles's death to the dispiriting list.

Knowing that to voice her misgivings would be an exercise in futility, she settled on what had become her stock reply: “You're already married. Besides, I don't love you.” Then she buried her fingers into the time-softened folds of her split skirt and braced herself for his predictable rebuttal: a heated pledge to secure a divorce, followed by an impassioned vow to win her love.

For the first time since she'd begun her western odyssey, he surprised her. “It's because of Seth Tyler, isn't it?” he demanded, his tone growing sullen. “You're in love with him.”

“In love? With Seth Tyler?” Penelope echoed, shaken by his uncharacteristically sharp perception. Good heavens! Were her feelings for Seth really that transparent? Or …

Sudden fear clutched at her belly as another, more ominous possibility assailed her thoughts. Had he somehow found out about her early-morning visit to Seth's hotel room?

Dreading the answer, yet knowing that she'd go mad if she didn't ask, she forced herself to say lightly, “Me and Seth Tyler? Really, Miles! Wherever did you get such an absurd notion?”

He gave her a long, knowing look, one that spoke eloquently of an intellect far greater than he normally displayed. That look completely unnerved her.

“You know, Lorelei, you'll never be a truly great actress.”

“Oh?” she intoned, struggling to hide her uneasiness. This wasn't the way their dialogue was supposed to go.

With deliberate leisure Miles tied the rope to the saddle horn, leaving her question dangling in the air while he checked his knot not once, but thrice.

Just when Penelope was about to lose her patience and demand an explanation, he replied, “You'll never be a great actress, because you can't control your face. Everything you think or feel is right there for the whole world to see. Take last night, for example. You were eyeing Tyler like a bitch in heat. I half expected you to rip off his trousers and jump on his cock for a quick ride.”

Penelope gasped, too outraged by his crudity to do more than stammer, “H-how dare you s-say such a vulgar thing!”

Miles released a nasty, high-pitched laugh. “Oh, come on, Lorelei. Do you think I can't see what a hot-blooded little slut you are beneath that frigid, I'm-too-good-for-the-rest-of-the-world act of yours? Why, I'd bet my American Horologe watch that when you take your snooty nose out of the air and stick it”—he let his hand slide suggestively to his groin—“someplace useful, that you're no more of a lady than Hell-cat Helga.”