Nevada Nights (10 page)

Cameron could hardly contain her excitement at the chance to sit again for Quenton. She was curious about his house that faced the McCormick house across the hills. And even more curious about the two men who shared that home.

As she saddled her horse, she felt the dark, brooding gaze of Alex fixed on her. They rarely spoke. She forced herself to show no emotions, neither fear nor anger, in his presence. She lifted her head in a challenge, mounted, and rode away without a backward glance.

Behind her, Alex stood with fists clenched at his sides. The thought of her gnawed at his mind. She had already begun to act as if all of this were really hers.

Patience, he cautioned himself. The lust for revenge that was growing like a cancer inside him would be all the sweeter, knowing he had to go slowly, until the time was right. Cameron McCormick would serve a useful purpose in his plot. And she would taste the bitter gall of defeat.

As Cameron approached the Lampton land, its disuse was evident. All around her she noted the rotting fenceposts, the shabby outbuildings.

The house was even worse than she had imagined from a distance. The porch was sagging. The roof showed patches and holes.

Quenton was watching for her.

"Cameron." He took her hand as she mounted the steps. "I’ve told my father about you. He’s eager to meet you."

As she stepped inside, a cheery parlor greeted her. The furniture, though old, had once been obviously expensive and well kept. Heavy drapes were tied back to allow a cool breeze to sweep through the room.

Quenton took her shawl, then led her toward the stairs.

"Would you mind taking your meal upstairs with my father and me?"

"I’d like that." She smiled at an elderly woman who stood at the top of the stairs, studying her closely.

"Rose. This is Cameron McCormick." Quenton kept his hand beneath her elbow as he assisted her up the stairs.

"Hello, Rose." Cameron stopped and offered her hand.

The old woman grasped her hand in both of hers and peered so closely Cameron felt as if she were staring through the very pores of her skin.

"Cameron. Oh, you’re as lovely as Quenton said."

"Thank you." Cameron glanced at Quenton. Why this great curiosity about her?

He was watching them both. "Come on. My father is probably growing impatient."

They entered a corner bedroom. In a large, oak, four-poster bed lay the compelling figure of an old man. Several down pillows had been placed beneath his head, propping him in a half-sitting position. His hair, steel gray, still showed strands of black. The eyes were alert, jet black, like the eyes of a crow, watching her as she crossed the room.

"Cameron, this is my father, William Lampton. Father, this is Cameron McCormick."

His gaze moved slowly over her, as if memorizing her features. His eyes narrowed as she removed her bonnet, revealing a cloud of rich, red gold.

"Hello, Mr. Lampton." She took his gnarled hand, noting the blue veins that stood out against the pale skin.

"I invited Cameron to take her meal up here with us."

The old man continued to stare at her. His eyes glittered with a brightness that animated his features. Still he didn’t speak.

Two chairs had been pulled up beside the bed. Between them stood a small, round table. Quenton indicated the chair nearest the bed.

"Here, Cameron. Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you."

She sat, all the while smiling at the older man. He reached out his hand, and she again took it in hers.

While Quenton and Rose set up a tray of hot soup and bread still warm from the oven, along with a pot of tea and hot biscuits with jelly, Cameron continued to sit quietly, the old man’s hand resting in hers.

"Cameron grew up in a convent, Father."

Rose poured the tea and studied the young visitor’s face.

"Would you like to hear about it?"

The old man nodded to his son, while continuing to look at Cameron.

She smiled. "Well, I’m afraid it isn’t a very exciting story, Mr. Lampton. I grew up in the Convent of the Sisters of Divine Charity, on Allumette Island. That’s in Canada." The old man nodded when she paused. "And I lived there until recently, when my father, John McCormick, sent for me."

She saw the look of fury that crossed the older man’s face at the mention of her father’s name. Ignoring it, she continued. "That’s about all I know. My father died just after I arrived. I had hoped he would tell me about myself, who my mother was. After his sudden death, I thought about returning to the convent, but I was left some of the McCormick property in his will. I decided to stay a while longer."

She felt the old man’s grip tighten.

"Which part of the land is yours?"

She was surprised at the deep, resonant voice. It wasn’t at all the voice of a frail old man.

"The two hundred fifty acres that adjoin your land."

She felt his grip gradually relax. She thought she detected a slight tremor.

Rose and Quenton stood on either side of the bed and together lifted the old man to a full sitting position. Quickly tucking the pillows behind him, Rose tied a napkin around his neck and handed him a steaming cup of tea.

Staring at her over the rim of the cup, he said, "I bear a lifelong grudge against Big John McCormick. I’ve never permitted his name to be mentioned in my house."

Cameron glanced at Quenton. His gaze was riveted on his father’s face.

Cameron stood. Her sudden, blazing anger was reflected in her eyes. "Then I’ll leave you to feed your hatred, Mr. Lampton. I am my father’s daughter. And a grudge against him is against me as well."

The old man’s hand shot out, clutching her sleeve. For long moments they faced each other.

At last, he broke the silence.

"Forgive me, Miss McCormick. Please stay."

Her gaze didn’t soften. "I can’t promise not to mention my father, Mr. Lampton."

"I won’t ask that of you."

She nodded slightly, satisfied. Quenton and the ancient housekeeper seemed to heave a sigh of relief.

While they ate, Rose hovered, filling their cups, pouring fresh water in glasses. When she wasn’t busy, she sat across the room staring at Cameron as if she, too, had a need to memorize her features.

"I think it’s wonderful that your son is an artist, Mr. Lampton." Cameron cast a warm smile at Quenton.

"Do you?" The old man finished his soup and waited until Rose took the bowl from him.

"Don’t you?" There was ice in her words. She seemed to be issuing a challenge.

He glanced at his son. "I suppose I’m resigned to it now. It’s obvious that he’ll never work this land."

"But he has a wonderful gift. I think you should be proud."

"Do you?" The bright, birdlike stare fixed upon Cameron. "And are you proud of your family?"

She flushed. Immediately his hand reached out for hers.

"Excuse an old fool’s outburst. I’ll—contain myself."

Quenton, silently watching, now interrupted. He wanted to distract these two from growing hostility.

"Cameron, would you like to try on the gown now?"

She smiled, as if aware of his clumsy attempts to assuage her temper.

"All right."

He turned to Rose. "I’d like Cameron to pose in the green satin gown. You know the one."

The old woman led Cameron to another room. A hand-stitched quilt of embroidered roses covered the canopy bed. Sheer curtains hung at windows shut tightly against the cool breeze. The room had the musty smell of age and disuse.

"Whose room is this?"

The old woman sighed. "This was Elizabeth’s room. William Lampton’s daughter."

"Quenton said she has gone. Where did she go?"

The old woman’s face seemed to crumple. "Elizabeth is dead."

"How long has she been dead?"

The old woman turned. "Eighteen years."

Eighteen years. And still Quenton couldn’t speak of her death.

Going to a closet, Rose brought out a beautiful gown of green satin. Setting it on the bed, she opened a jewelry box and removed a black velvet ribbon on which was pinned an exquisite emerald broach.

"Shall I help you into the dress?" she asked.

Cameron nodded. Slipping out of the prim cotton gown, she raised her arms and felt Rose slide the satin gown over her head. Behind her, the old woman’s stiff fingers fumbled with the hooks that ran from her shoulders to below the waist.

Next Rose fastened the velvet ribbon, while Cameron lifted her heavy mane of hair.

"Oh, look at you." Rose’s voice was hushed, almost reverent.

Cameron turned to study her reflection in the dressing mirror. The woman staring back at her was a stranger.

The dress was cut very low in front, dipping to reveal the swell of her breasts. The gown was fitted to show off her tiny waist. The skirt fell in soft folds to the floor.

The emerald at her throat caught the sun’s rays, gleaming vividly, perfectly matching her eyes.

If Cameron believed in magic, she would believe it was in this dress. It transformed her. She found herself standing taller, her chin thrust proudly. She tossed her head, sending the cloud of hair dancing about her face and shoulders.

Never had she worn anything so fine. Studying her reflection, she could almost believe she was the elegant woman in the mirror.

As if in a dream, Cameron turned and followed the old woman back to William Lampton’s bedroom.

Quenton was standing beside the bed. He turned expectantly. She gave him a brilliant smile, then walked toward the bed. The old man’s face seemed chiseled from granite. He stared, unblinking, for long moments. Cameron felt a sense of his shared pain. This was his daughter’s dress. And he, too, had never accepted her death.

"I’d like you to pose in the sun parlor. The light is best there." Quenton held out his hand, and Cameron accepted it.

She knew without turning around that the old man was still studying her. She could feel his steady gaze boring into her back.

Quenton led Cameron to a sunny, spacious room filled with plants. In front of the window he positioned her on a low chair and fussed over her hair and the skirt of the gown until everything was as he wanted it.

Today he worked quickly, as though driven to paint the woman before him as soon as possible.

Sensing his impatience, Cameron remained quiet, allowing him to concentrate completely on his work. She didn’t speak, and she avoided asking him any questions about himself. She was content to watch his hands at the easel and to study the intense expression on his face.

A shadow darkened the doorway, and Cameron’s gaze followed it. A moment later, Colt filled the room with his presence.

Her eyes rounded in surprise. Seeing her expression, Quenton followed her stare.

"Well. Back from your ride?"

Colt nodded.

"What are you doing here?" Cameron’s tone hardened.

"I might ask you the same thing."

She glowered at his impudence.

Quenton, seeing the sparks between them, interrupted. "Colt is boarding here, Cameron."

"Boarding?"

He paused. "He pays us well."

She was instantly sorry for her outburst. She should have realized their financial circumstances.

"I see. I hope you lock up your valuables."

"Cameron!"

She bit her lip.

A hint of a smile curled Colt’s lips.

Quenton turned to him. "Cameron has agreed to pose for me. What do you think?"

"Why are you allowing him to look at the portrait when you won’t let me see it?"

"Because it’s bad luck to let the model see it until it’s finished."

She watched in silence as Colt walked closer and studied the canvas.

His gaze slid from the picture to her. As he silently studied her, she felt her skin begin to burn. The look was as intimate as a touch. With his eyes, he was undressing her, one by one unfastening the hooks at her back, slipping the satin gown from her shoulders, over her hips, and dropping it with a whisper to the floor.

Quenton had studied her just as carefully, but she had never felt this embarrassment at his look. He had studied her as an artist would, seeking out the contours of her face, the lift of an eyebrow. But Colt’s look was intimate, as if already knowing every line and curve of her as well as he knew his own body.

Quenton began once more to work, ignoring Colt, who stood beside him devouring her with his eyes. While he worked, Quenton saw the change in Cameron’s expression. Before, she had been simply a beautiful woman. Now, watching Colt beside him, her eyes softened to a dreamy expression. Her lips parted slightly, not in a smile, but in an invitation. The artist saw so much more than others could see. While he painted, he continued to search her expressive face, knowing what she herself might be still denying—that she was in love with the man standing beside him.