Firestorm (3 page)

Storm eyed them angrily and watched them mutter and back off, finally disappearing down the street. She sheathed the knife, and just in time, too, for her father appeared with his long, deceptively easy stride, his handsome face smiling. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said as she handed him the reins.

Storm grabbed her stallion's mane and vaulted on, Apache-style. “Did you find out where Paul lives?”

“Sure did. Not far from here.” His topaz eyes were warm. “It won't be long now.”

His words echoed, making her tense, until the new sights of the city captured her attention. As they rode gingerly through the muddy streets of San Francisco, Storm was wide-eyed. Never had she seen a city this big, not even San Antonio, which was completely different—so old and so Spanish.

San Francisco was made up of a conglomeration of ramshackle huts, sturdier wooden Victorian-style buildings, and brick and stone edifices with strange pediments and cornices. There were mansions with elaborate façades enclosed by wrought-iron fences. There were saloons and stores and eating places. Many of the streets had board-walks and were cobbled, and she saw why—no one could walk through the foot-deep mud on the shoddier side streets. And there was activity everywhere.

Men and women elegantly dressed in the latest fashions mingled with roughly clad men in flannel shirts and denim pants. Short, slim Chinese men with braids mingled with black men and Mexicans in serapes and sombreros. There were sailors and Dutchmen. Wagons drawn by mules vied for the right of way down thoroughfares crowded with elegant carriages carrying chaperoned young ladies. Noticing one such barouche—and inside it, the two parasoled, bonneted young women dressed in frilly white dresses, their blond curls carefully escaping to cling to white necks, and the matron in green beside them—Storm felt a rush of fear. She could never, ever dress or look like that. She would be a complete laughingstock! Both horrified and mesmerized, she continued to stare at the two girls. The barouche had stopped and they were laughing coyly with a gentleman on a palomino who appeared elegant in a brown suit and top hat. Her father followed her glance.

“Pretty, aren't they?”

Storm couldn't speak. Surely no one was going to get her up like that. With her height and funny looks, it would be ridiculous. Besides, she hadn't worn a dress in so long she wondered if she'd trip trying to walk in one.

The urge to flee intensified. “Pa? Please, let's turn around and go home.”

He reached out and took her hand as they walked their horses side by side down Market Street. “Honey, it's natural for you to be nervous. But after a few weeks you'll outshine every woman in this town. I know it.” His golden eyes were shining.

Storm looked away. He was prejudiced. He had always been prejudiced about her. Her father thought she was beautiful and perfect.

They passed through very different parts of the city as they rode toward Rincon Hill, where her cousin's house was located. The hill was less densely developed, and Paul's house had been described to them, so they spotted
it instantly, set almost at the top of the hill. It was a huge brick mansion with white pillars and a white pediment, with balconies on the second and third floors and towers on the roof. The surrounding gardens were just starting to bloom with azaleas and bougainvillea and wisteria. A brick wall topped with a curtain of wrought iron surrounded the grounds. The front gates stood open, and they rode through them.

“Pa,” Storm whispered as they walked their mounts up the muddy drive. “It's so big.”

“Langdon's done well for himself,” Derek agreed. “When he wrote and said he'd made some investments that paid off and built himself a home, I had no idea.”

To Storm, the mansion looked like one of the castles in England that her mother had described to her.

They tied their horses at a hitching post shaped like a black jockey, one hand outstretched with a ring to hold the reins. Storm hung back behind her father, her heart thumping, torn between the desire to stay and experience something new and exciting, and the fear of being left alone, away from her family and everything that was familiar to her.

The man who opened the front door looked like an English butler or majordomo. He ushered them inside, not even batting an eye at their appearance, and Storm found herself standing in a black and white marble-floored foyer. A huge curved staircase on their right wound up to the second story, and all around them were doors. The manservant stepped to a pair of splendid mahogany doors and knocked. Both Storm and Derek could hear from within the hushed sounds of men conversing.

“Sir,” the man said. “Derek Bragg and your cousin are here.”

“Good God!” Paul exclaimed, jumping up. In several strides he had crossed the room, leaving two men seated within. Derek strode across the foyer to meet him, and
they clasped hands warmly in the doorway of the library. “Derek! I didn't expect you and Storm for another few weeks!”

Derek was smiling in pleasure as well. “We left a week early to take advantage of the weather. After all,” he added, grinning, “I do have a ranch to get back to.”

“Indeed, you do,” Paul said, a merry light in his eyes. He turned to Storm and gaped.

Storm had met Paul only once before, ten years ago, when he and her grandfather had appeared unexpectedly at the ranch. Paul, a younger son of an English baron, had been on his way to the California gold fields, and her grandfather, the earl of Dragmore, had visited his daughter's family and the grandchildren he had never seen. She stepped forward, flushing, acutely aware of how she must look in this elegant castle. At least she had had the presence of mind to take off her hat at the front door when her father had done so. “Hello, Cousin Paul.”

“My God! You're even more beautiful than your mother!” He hugged her.

The instant she had stepped into view, both men sitting in the background had jumped to their feet, staring. Storm, already flushed, noticed Paul's guests, looking so elegant and urbane, and wanted to die. She wasn't beautiful, and already she was being made to feel a fool. If
only
she were a bit shorter.

Paul released her, his eyes warm and admiring. Then, like the confident host he was, he turned slightly, and the two men came forward. “Brett, Grant, I want you to meet Derek Bragg, my cousin Miranda's husband, and their daughter Storm.”

Storm glanced at the two men, apprehension mingling with indifference. Men meant nothing to her except as amusing comrades—with the exception of Lennie Willis, who had tried to kiss her and feel her breasts one day when they were fishing. She'd blackened one of his eyes for that.
But…these men were a bit frightening, just like San Francisco. They were dressed like her cousin, one in a brown suit, the other in black, their sophisticated elegance making her feel out of place and ugly and dreadfully inappropriate. She watched as her father shook hands with both men.

“Grant Farlane,” said the man in brown, smiling warmly, amusement seeming to dance in his eyes.

Storm grasped the hand he held out and pumped it vigorously. “Nice to meet you,” she said, noting the man's surprise, which he gracefully covered.

She turned to the other man and was instantly stunned. He was staring. She wasn't sure what his piercing look meant. It was blazing in its intensity. Did he think she was a freak? She'd had many hot glances in her short lifetime, but none like this. Even the sailors hadn't looked at her like this. She met his gaze and saw that it was almost black. She had never seen such a dark man, as dark as her father was golden. She felt the rushing of her blood, the racing of her heart. Her stomach tightened with a stabbing jolt. He was still staring, but now his gaze swept her slowly, caressingly, and she had the ridiculous idea that he could see right through her clothes. She flushed, holding out her hand.

A small smile curved his mouth, and she found herself staring at his lips, which were surprisingly full in the hard face. “Brett D'Archand,” he said, and then, before she knew what was happening, he brought her hand upward and kissed it right above her knuckles. She froze.

His lips were warm, soft, and the skin he kissed tingled. She was suddenly acutely aware that her hands were chapped and callused and dusty.

He released her hand. “A pleasure,” he said, his voice deep and rich, his mouth still curved with that slight, predatory smile.

Storm stepped closer to her father, wanting to fall
through the floor. That or slap this stranger. Was he making fun of her? And he was still staring, making her feel both oddly uncomfortable and strangely elated.

Derek was smiling. “We need baths,” he told Paul. “And I need a drink or two.”

“Of course,” Paul said. “You both must be exhausted.”

“Paul,” Grant said, “Brett and I will leave. Why don't we finish this discussion tomorrow morning over breakfast?”

“Wonderful,” Paul said. “Would eight o'clock be convenient?”

The men agreed quickly. “Don't bother seeing us out,” Brett said, and found himself looking again at Storm. “
Enchanté
,” he murmured with a negligent tilt of his head. Then he and Grant Farlane were gone.

Derek turned to his daughter, who was gnawing her lower lip. “Looks like you've already got an admirer, Storm.”

She was aghast. “What? Who? I don't want any admirers!”

“Brett D'Archand has an eye for the ladies,” Paul told Derek. “So did Grant, until he married Marcy.” He turned to Storm. “You'll like Marcy. She knows you're coming. I'm hoping the two of you will be friends. She's volunteered to help you with your wardrobe.”

“Do I really need a wardrobe?” Storm said in dismay.

Both men stared at her. “I want her to have the best,” Derek said firmly. “I want my girl to outshine every lady in town.”

“Then we're agreed,” Paul said with obvious relief. “You will be the toast of the city, Storm, you'll see.”

At that moment Storm wanted nothing more than to wake up and find this was all a dream. She didn't want to be the toast of this city or any other.

Brett didn't forget the unusual young woman after he left Paul Langdon's. But because the night was young, he went back to his mistress's, took her to Letoile for dinner and champagne, and then back to her lodgings for an intimate birthday celebration. Every now and then during the course of the evening, he had a flashing remembrance of a buckskin-clad woman with huge blue eyes.

The next morning, as he met Grant and they rode together up Rincon Hill, he had a strong visual memory of the young woman called Storm. And he felt an instant, lustful stirring of his body.

Never had he seen such an unusual yet magnificent creature. If he were her father, he would not let her wear those buckskins, which left nothing to a man's imagination. He had never seen such a compelling form on a woman. She was tall, probably five-ten in her boots. Her legs were long and strong, but sensuously curved—legs to wrap around a man as he drove himself into her. Her waist was tiny, a sharp contrast to her surprisingly broad shoulders. And she had full, large breasts that strained against her shirt.

And the way she walked. He had never seen a woman move like that before, as if she could run swiftly, effortlessly, as if she could jump easily from cliff to cliff like a big cat.

He remembered her face in perfect detail. And her
eyes—a vivid dark blue, the color of dark sapphires, almost purple. He knew he wanted to bed her. Of course, that was out of the question. He wasn't ready for marriage, not yet, and even if he was, some Texas hick wasn't his idea of a wife. When he married, it would be to a woman of impeccable breeding and birth—perhaps from a blue-blooded eastern family. A woman who could be a hostess for the many social functions they would hold in the house he had recently built. A woman to enhance his respectability and reputation.

“You're pensive this morning,” Grant said, shoving a lock of brown hair from his brown eyes. Like Brett, he was self-made, with various interests. Like Brett, too, he had come to California to strike it rich in the gold fields, and had instead made his fortune through hard work, only assisted by Lady Luck.

Brett smiled. “I was thinking about that little hoyden, Storm.”

“What a beauty,” Grant said admiringly. “And she's not exactly little.”

Brett laughed. “No, not quite.”

“She's never been out of West Texas before,” Grant told him.

“How do you know?”

Grant smiled. “I've known all about Miss Storm Bragg for quite a while now. Paul has recruited Marcy to take her under her wing and help turn her into an elegant lady. Marcy knows more about Storm than anyone except her family, and she's been looking forward to playing big sister for months now.”

Brett chuckled. It was just like Marcy to be excited at the awesome prospect of turning a wildcat Texan into a lady of refinement. Marcy's heart was too big—bless her for it. If Marcy weren't married to Grant, she would make Brett a perfect wife, beautiful and warm. If she weren't married to his good friend, Brett would probably be in
love with her. She was one of the few women he knew who was a lady but also sensual and responsive, not frigid. A rarity.

“Taming Storm might take some doing,” Brett said as they rode through the wrought-iron gates.

“Marcy is a winner,” Grant pointed out.

Brett laughed. “She does have the tenacity of a terrier,” he agreed. “So, Storm has never been out of West Texas? I wonder what she'll look like in a ballgown.” His smile broadened at the thought. Better yet, he had a disturbing image of her naked.

“Do you intend to court her?”

Brett laughed. “Hell, no! I'm not ready for a wife.”

“Too bad. Did you see your name in the paper the other day? On the second page, in the article about expanded shipping.”

“I saw it,” Brett said wryly, dismounting.

Grant laughed and quoted, “‘Brett D'Archand, one of the city's most prominent citizens and most eligible bachelors.'”

“Like I said, I'm not ready.”

“Could have fooled all the young ladies,” Grant teased. “Building that monstrosity on Folsom Street just for yourself…”

Brett glared. “That ‘monstrosity' is the height of good taste and refinement.”

Grant laughed, and Bart, Paul's valet, butler, and majordomo, ushered them in.

Paul greeted them in the dining room. The long table could seat fifty, but the three men clustered at one end, drinking coffee, eating omelets and potato pancakes, and discussing the prospects of taking on several new contracts with their shipping line as it was, or expanding to do so. Brett was in favor of expansion, and soon they all agreed. The three men hadn't made their individual fortunes by failing to take risks. As it was, Brett knew he was becom
ing dangerously overextended and cash short. The “monstrosity,” as Grant had referred to it, had been an incredibly expensive indulgence that probably should have waited.

Pushing aside his plate and leaning back in his chair, Brett asked casually, “Where are your guests?”

Paul accepted another cup of coffee from the serving maid. “They're out riding,” he said. “Storm wanted to see the ocean, and her father decided to take her. He's leaving tomorrow.”

“You say he's a rancher?” Brett asked.

“Yes. And before that, a Texas Ranger.”

Brett was surprised. Everyone had heard tall stories about that dauntless breed. He was disappointed, though. He had wanted another glimpse of Storm.

“Marcy will be over this afternoon, Paul,” Grant interjected. “I meant to tell you.”

“Good. Maybe she can take Storm to the seamstress right away. She has nothing to wear. It's such a shame.”

Brett raised his cup in silent agreement. At that precise moment, there was the sound of voices, and Storm's rich, clear laughter rang out. Brett looked toward the doorway with a quickening of interest and was rewarded by a view of Derek Bragg. His daughter appeared right behind him.

Brett had forgotten just how striking she was.

“How was your ride?” Paul asked as all three men stood.

“Just wonderful!” said Storm. “We saw the ocean. I've never seen so much water. And the beaches are beautiful. I hate to say it, but they're much nicer than our own coast.”

Derek laughed. “What's this? My little Texan is being disloyal?”

She grinned and accepted the chair Grant was holding out next to him. Derek sat down on her other side, and she found herself facing the dark, magnetic gaze of Brett
D'Archand. For a moment his eyes held hers, refusing to let her go. In that instant, which seemed to stretch forever, Storm lost touch with everything and everyone else in the room. She felt compelled to stare back at this strange man, helpless to look away. Her heartbeat quickened.

Grant was saying something.

Storm felt a flush come over her face as she tore her gaze away from Brett. “Excuse me?”

Grant laughed. “I know he's more handsome than I am, but I'm deeply wounded,” he teased.

Storm's face burned. Fortunately, the maid intervened to ask her if she wanted any breakfast. “Yes, please,” she cried, her heart thumping. God, she was making a fool out of herself! How could she have stared at him like that?

“My wife, Marcy, is coming over this afternoon to call on you,” Grant continued.

Storm was startled. “Why?”

“To welcome you to the city,” he said.

“You'll love her, Storm,” Paul added. “She's only a few years older than you. I'm hoping you two will be great friends.”

Storm smiled, somewhat wanly.

“She's going to take you to the dressmaker today, too,” Paul added, hoping to please her.

Storm looked stricken. “Today?”

“You do need clothes,” Paul pointed out.

Storm stared down at her plate. It was starting already. “Pa's leaving tomorrow,” she said firmly, “and I'd rather wait until after he's gone to do that.”

“That's okay,” Derek said, patting her hand. “As long as your afternoon's cut out for you, I'll take off today.”

She was stunned.

“Are you sure you don't want to stay?” Paul asked. “For a few days, anyway?”

“Not only do I have a ranch to run,” Derek said, “but I also have the most beautiful, loving woman in the world
waiting for me.” He grinned. “I guess I'm a besotted fool, but I miss her like hell.”

“Pa, please don't go today,” Storm whispered urgently, turning stricken blue eyes on him.

“I really have to get back, sweetheart,” he said easily. “Chin up, Storm. In a few weeks you'll be having such a good time you won't ever want to come home.” As an afterthought, he added, “But you will.”

Storm was no longer hungry. Pa was leaving today! Damn Marcy Farlane for her friendliness, and damn them all for making him go! She stared at her plate but didn't see the eggs. She was terrified. She, who had fought renegade Comanches, faced a grizzly alone, and been attacked once by outlaws. She hadn't been afraid then, but she was afraid now. All her life she had been secure in the warm, loving bosom of her family. Although Derek was gone sometimes on trail drives, there was always her mother and brothers. She had never been apart from her family.

Across the table, Brett was feeling sorry for her. She was really only a child. It was so clear she didn't want to stay in San Francisco and didn't want her father to leave her. She was a wild, beautiful child. Almost a woman.

Paul spoke. “Dear, I have some wonderful news for you.”

Storm managed to look up, trying to hide her dismay.

“The Farlanes are holding a small dinner party Friday in your honor.”

“What?” It was a gasp.

“To introduce you to some of the young people of town, and some bachelors.”

She couldn't believe it. Friday—five days away. Good God! She was going to have to mix with elegant men and women—she couldn't do it!

“That's very nice of you and your wife,” Derek said
easily to Grant, shooting his daughter a hard, uncompromising look.

“It's our pleasure,” Grant returned.

“Yes, thank you,” Storm managed stiffly, standing. “Excuse me, please,” and she turned and hurried from the room.

The four men stared after her, Paul and Grant in surprise, Brett with both surprise and admiration for the rear view of her form, and Derek with grim understanding. He turned to Grant. “Please forgive her,” he said softly, “but the truth is, she's never been in a situation like this, and she's nervous. It's my fault. I raised her with her brothers, as if she were a boy. I don't think she really knows she's a woman yet. She's at home in the saddle but not in the parlor.”

“It's all right,” Grant said, “I understand perfectly.”

 

Storm had brought one good outfit, which Miranda had altered at the last moment because it had been too tight in the chest and shoulders. It was a traveling suit in brown serge, with a short-waisted jacket, trimmed with black lace, and a matching skirt. Beneath it Storm wore a shirtwaist, white, frilled, and high-necked, and her only chemise, pantalets, and two petticoats. Storm felt strangled and ungainly in the outfit, which her father had insisted she wear to meet Marcy.

Storm had tried again, begging her father to take her back home, but Derek's tone had been hard and inflexible, and she had known he would not cater to her this time. Now he was gone. Just like that, abandoning her…She stared out the parlor window.

An elegant carriage pulled by a beautiful bay gelding and driven by the single occupant, who must be Marcy Farlane, rolled up the drive. Storm turned away as the vehicle approached the front entrance. Storm was alone in the house except for the servants, since Paul had gone to
his office at the bank, which he owned. Some crisis had arisen.

Storm was standing nervously in a corner of the parlor when Bart announced Marcy. Marcy bustled right past him, a beautiful woman with chestnut hair and blue-green eyes, shorter than Storm by several inches, a bit on the voluptuous side. She was wearing a blue gown that seemed to Storm scandalously low-cut. White lace gloves protected her hands, and a matching hat, trimmed with ribbons and lace, sat at a jaunty angle on her head. She moved forward with abundant energy. “You must be Storm. I have been looking forward to meeting you for months, ever since Paul first told me of your coming.”

The greeting seemed genuine. Marcy's face was a perfect heart shape, her lips red and full, her skin the color of creamy magnolia blossoms. In contrast Storm felt like a freak. Marcy was beaming and clasping her hands warmly. Storm managed a smile.

“How do you like San Francisco?” Marcy asked.

“Fine,” Storm managed.

“Miss, would you like some refreshments?” Bart inquired.

Storm was at a loss. Marcy said swiftly, “No, Bart, thank you. Storm and I have our day cut out for us. I'm going to take her to Madame Lamotte's and give her a tour of our fair city. It's such a beautiful day. Perfect for a carriage ride.”

If Marcy noticed that Storm was unusually quiet, she paid no mind. Before Storm knew it, they were ensconced in the carriage and driving through town. Marcy pointed out landmarks and gave a running commentary and history: “See that building? The brick one with the gargoyles. It was burned down fifteen times in the past eight years. See that house? The St. Clairs live there. He's in publishing.
She
is the biggest gossip in town—next to her daughter, Leanne. Don't worry. You'll get to meet them.

That's the Miner's Girl. Brett D'Archand used to own that saloon. That's where he got his start. You met him last night, I believe. Oh! There's my brother-in-law. Randolph! Randolph!”

Storm was staring at the Miner's Girl with interest. It was a typical saloon, and from the sight of two men clad in flannels and Levis, she guessed its clientele consisted of regular laborers. One of the windows was broken. The building needed paint, badly, and the letters in the sign were incomplete. What a squalid place, she thought, curious.