Because of You: A Loveswept Contemporary Military Romance (34 page)

Patrick shook his head. “He grubstaked a couple of miners for a percentage of their claims, but they haven’t brought in more than a few sacks of dust yet.”
He shrugged. “There’s plenty of gold here in the Santa Catalinas all right. It’s probably only a question of time until Dom’s miners make a strike.”

Elspeth released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She still had something with which to bargain, then. “We’ve heard of your famous gold rushes at home. Hell’s Bluff must be a very interesting town. Do you have one of these claims, too, Mr. Delaney?”

He made a face. “I have all I can do on Killara. My gran-da keeps us all too busy to go prospecting.”

“Except your uncle Dominic?”

“I heard he shot two men in Carson City,” Andre Marzonoff broke in. “He faced them in the street and they both emptied their guns while he walked toward them. He didn’t fire a shot until he was within range and then gunned them both down. Is it true he’s being hunted by the Texas Rangers?”

Elspeth had almost forgotten the Russian was in the coach. Now she saw he had been drinking in Patrick Delaney’s words with an avid thirst that was faintly repulsive.

It was clearly repulsive to Patrick Delaney as well. “No, Dom’s not wanted by the law any longer. He was given a full pardon by the governor five months ago.” He lowered his voice to a dangerous softness. “And questions regarding a man’s past aren’t encouraged out here, Marzonoff. If you want to stay healthy, you’d better observe our primitive customs.”

For a moment Marzonoff actually appeared indignant. Then he smiled ingratiatingly. “I meant no offence. I admire you westerners very much. You bear a resemblance to the Cossacks of my own country. My cousin, Nicholas, is related on his mother’s side to Igor Dabol, the most powerful tribal leader in the steppes.”

“How interesting,” Delaney said politely. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.” He looked down and Elspeth noted a gleam of pure mischief in his hastily averted eyes. “We Delaneys have a few well-known relatives ourselves. Have you ever heard of the James brothers? Jesse and Frank?”

Marzonoff’s eyes widened. “Jesse James?”

“Cousins,” Delaney said. “On my mother’s side, of course.” He was scrupulously keeping his gaze from Marzonoff’s rapt face. “And then there’s old Joaquin Murrietta. You might say he’s the patriarch of the California branch of the Delaney clan. Of course, I guess Uncle Bill is probably more famous.”

“Bill?” Marzonoff was almost stammering with excitement.

“Bill Hickok. However, there are those who say he’s more infamous than famous. But not to his face. Uncle Bill is very careful of his good name.”

“Wild Bill Hickok,” the Russian repeated dazedly.

“And the Daltons and the Youngers are second cousins on my …” Delaney trailed off and Elspeth saw his shoulders begin to shake, though his expression was still bland. She was forced to smother a laugh herself.

Patrick Delaney’s voice was a little choked as he continued. “I think I’ll take a little snooze. All that walking has made me plumb weary.” He put on his stetson and tipped it over his eyes, ignoring Marzonoff’s obvious disappointment. “I’m afraid I’m not as rough and tough as my kinfolk.”

Elspeth didn’t know about his toughness but she was sure the young rascal could far outpace his “relatives” in sheer deviltry.

She settled back on the seat, shifting her gaze between the two young men opposite her. They were a strange blend of contrasts and similarities. The plump Russian was the older, she judged, close to her own age of twenty-two years. His fine city clothing should have given him the advantage of inner confidence over the auburn-haired cowboy, but such was not the case. Patrick’s tight denim trousers were shabby, his brown shirt and tan suede vest dusty, and his black stetson was sun-faded in spots. Yet his wide shoulders and narrow hips, the careless grace of his strong body, gave his attire an elegance Andre Marzonoff could never hope to bring to his clothing. Patrick’s speech was puzzling. His words sounded as
educated and cultured as any of her father’s students, and yet they were flavored by a lazy and quite unusual drawl. This young Delaney was something of an enigma, she thought.

She glanced out the window. The Santa Catalina mountains were very beautiful but as stark and rugged as the rest of this wild country. How different they were from the mist-shrouded mountains of her native land. She shifted restlessly, suddenly tired of the scenery. She felt as if she had traveled years instead of weeks since she had left Edinburgh. She was growing terribly impatient now that she was so close to her objective. Her gaze returned to Patrick Delaney, and a tiny smile lifted the corners of her lips. She closed her own eyes and tried to relax.

The young cowboy was a complete scoundrel. Her father would have disapproved of both his attitude and his background, yet she was delighted to have his assistance when she arrived in Hell’s Bluff. Her smile brodened. Yes, she was perfectly delighted.

ONE

Slowly the clouds moved across the bright face of the full moon. Mysterious shadows cloaked the building where Jamie Payton tried to paint. For an instant it was as though the stage was purposely being dimmed; the scene was being set. Jamie felt a chill walk across her skin. She had the strangest feeling that something was about to happen, something unexplainable, something unforeseen. Something …

The lights went out. One minute Jamie was staring at her half-finished painting, brush in hand, and the next … total darkness.

“Damn!” She felt her way over to the wall near the door and flicked the light switch once, twice. Nothing. What was going on? Moving cautiously, she walked around the
wall to the windows, covered with heavy oilcloth to keep out the distractions of the city while she painted. She slid a fingernail under the rim of a thumbtack, the cloth sprang up, and light poured in.

The street lamps were on outside and there were lights in the row of storefronts across the way. Jamie frowned. She opened the window, leaned out, and saw that lights were shining from the windows in her own building as well. Damn! Wouldn’t you know? Just when she thought she was finally getting somewhere with her painting, something bad had to happen. It was probably the wiring in her loft or a blown fuse. But why now? Why her?

Tugging her fingers through her uncombed hair, she turned back to the darkness of her own room. For a moment she stood there immobilized by a childhood sense of dread, feeling the old ghosts closing in. But she shook them off and moved quickly through the loft, pulling open one drawer after another in search of candles. Her elbow hit the corner of a box, the vase on top teetered, and an entire still life crashed to the floor.

Jamie screamed. She didn’t mean to; it just happened before she could control herself.
Biting her lip, she bent and began picking glass shards off the worn wood floor. She was just reaching for another when there was a knock at the door.

“Now what?” she groaned. She was tempted to ignore it, but whoever was out there was very persistent. Setting the broken glass down in a neat pile, she walked over, checked the chain lock, and opened the door a few inches.

“Yes?” she said, peering out into the corridor. The guy standing there looked familiar, a neighbor most likely.

“Hi. I’m Kent. From next door,” he added, confirming her guess. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but I heard a crash, and a scream.…” He shrugged. “I just wanted to check that everything’s okay.”

Jamie gave him a thin smile. “I’m fine. Thanks. That was nice of you, but I’m okay.”

He stood there.

“Really,” she insisted. “My lights went out and I bumped into some things I’d left lying around. I’m a painter and—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “Abstracts. You told me a year ago when we first met. And I’m the actor from next door, the one who used to play his music too loud.”

“Oh yes, of course I remember,” she lied, feeling really embarrassed now. He
was
trying to be neighborly. “Well, perhaps sometime you could come over and we could talk about our work.”

He smiled. “You said that also. But you didn’t show up at my New Year’s Eve party. Or my St. Patrick’s Day bash … green beer and all. I was hurt.”

Jamie stiffened. “I must have been busy. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He smiled. “I just thought we could be friends.”

“Yes. That’s nice. And thanks again for being the good Samaritan.”

“No problem. Hey—just call if you need any help.”

“Yes, I will. Thanks. Good night.”

She shut the door and leaned back against it, feeling oddly shaken. The truth was, she could have used a little help right now. But it was just as true that she couldn’t ask. Ever. Before she could stop herself, she was always saying, “No, thank you, I’m fine; I don’t need anything.” It was just the way she was.

Pain squeezed her heart. She wanted to be different. She longed to be different, to be open, warm, and responsive, to be the kind of
person who was surrounded by friends. It would be wonderful to be the center of smiles and laughter, the giver and recipient of hugs.

Jamie’s throat tightened around forbidden tears. She pushed away from the door, away from her thoughts. “Now where the hell did I put those candles?”

Finally she had two lit and placed strategically in the dimness. Tomorrow she’d complain to her landlord. She’d have it out with him once and for all. He could either fix things so that she could paint without interruption or he could find himself another tenant. She’d move. She’d find another loft in Georgetown, or somewhere else in D.C. The classifieds probably had dozens of listings.

Reaching for an old newspaper, she knocked a week’s worth of mail onto the floor. When everything finally fluttered to a stop, there on top was a bill from the electric company,
FINAL NOTICE
typed across the envelope in bold print.

The electric company! Her hand flew to her mouth. The telephone company! Her rent! She’d forgotten to pay all her bills. She’d been so determined to finish this latest painting that she’d forgotten everything else. And for what? She still couldn’t get it right. She couldn’t achieve the power she wanted, the
dynamic tension of form and shadow. She couldn’t capture the light, that perfect but elusive light she saw in her imagination. But she was damned if she was going to give up. Hurrying to the easel, she picked up her brush, dipped it in paint.…

At that instant a gust of wind blew in through the open windows and snuffed out her candles.

It was too much; she couldn’t stand it anymore. Problems were piling on top of problems: the poor sales at her first one-woman show, then this painting, and now the lights—

She was going to cry. She knew it, hating herself for it, fighting against it. And even as the tears gathered she heard her father’s cold voice with its chill disapproval, its utter disdain: “Look at you. Out of control. Are you crying? Are those tears? What are you, a baby? A failure? A loser?”

His ghost chased her from the loft.

Jamie took the stairs two at a time, grabbing at the banister for balance. She ran out the front door and into the loud, impersonal noise of the street with its car radios, college students, and flood of tourists. Above her head, the sky was filled with strange, leaden clouds that seemed to catch the noise and
bounce it back down like an echo chamber. But even this was better than that voice.

Jamie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and walked on, head down. It started to drizzle. Every store light, every car light, every traffic light flashing green/yellow/red was reflected on the wet canvas of the sidewalks. The lights streaked and spread. They flowed in elongated, mystical shapes. They arched into rainbows at the edges of curbs where oil and grease had been laid like wax crayon on gray paper. Colors and light, light and color— Why couldn’t she paint like this, with such random beauty, such freedom?

Drawing a shaky breath, Jamie tilted her face up to the rain. It made it easier to hide the tears.

She wandered along, turning right or left without thought. Night fell over the city and the stores closed. As the rain picked up, the streets emptied. But Jamie was reluctant to go home, home to the darkness, the silence, her own thoughts … and that awful voice.

Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, she took a sharp left down a narrow, dark street she’d never seen before. Suddenly everything looked unfamiliar. Yet she almost felt, in her confusion and despair, as if her feet had led her surely to this place. But why?

One light shone up ahead, spilling a welcoming pool of yellow warmth out onto the sidewalk. The sign on the window was old and faded, the paint worn away:
MYST R UM
. The window was full of the strangest things: antique toys, rhinestone earrings, a feather boa and a silk top hat, cut-glass vases, a shawl with red silk thread and ten-inch fringes. They were odd, mismatched items but beautiful to an artist’s eye. Already Jamie was picturing how she could stand a vase on one end of the shawl, its fringe hanging down off the table’s edge as sunlight splintered through the glass. She could use layer upon layer of paint to create a jeweled, almost enameled effect.