Only in My Arms (7 page)

Jay Mac's sandy brows arched this time and he lowered his chin, looking hard at his wife over the gold-wire rims of his spectacles. In thirty-one years of knowing and deeply loving Moira, this was a side he had never seen. It was not like her to be so closed or intractable. She was subtler about her wishes than this exchange would lead one to believe. And she was never cruel. "Moira, to twist your phrasing, you're being thoughtless."

"Mama," Mary entreated, breaking in. "I
did
pray. This wasn't a decision quickly come to."

Moira shook her head. "I don't believe it."

"I can't be responsible for what you believe," Mary said tonelessly. "But it's the truth that I've been struggling to just this point for years."

"Years?" Jay Mac asked, surprised himself. "Mary, you've never let on, never told anyone."

The corners of Moira's eyes creased deeply and she gave Mary a narrow glance. "Not your sisters? Did you tell them and swear them to secrecy?"

"No. I didn't do that. I told them today, by individual letter. I wouldn't mock you and Jay Mac by sharing with them and not with you. If any of the Marys suspect it would be Maggie and Skye, and that's only because they've been close to home until recently. They saw me more often, and perhaps there were hints that I didn't know I was giving."

Moira was not mollified, but she didn't comment.

"Mama, what would I have said?" Mary went on. "And when would I have said it? My decision's made now, and I can hardly find the right words to explain. Most of the time the conflict is grappling with uncertainty. One hardly knows whether to reach for a light or snuff one out. When I went to our summer home in July, it was to be alone with my thoughts and my prayers and find answers to the questions I could hardly express." She paused and reached forward to touch her mother's arm, stopping short of Moira's satin sleeve when her mother did not lean into her. Mary's hand hovered for a moment before she withdrew it. "Can you understand any of this, Mama?" When Moira didn't answer, Mary looked helplessly to her father.

"It's a lot for her to accept," he said quietly. "There's been no warning. It's a shock, I confess, even to me."

Mary nodded. It had gone as badly as she had feared, and her world seemed shifted for it. The only thing that hadn't been changed was her mind. "Perhaps it would be better if I didn't spend the night here."

"Don't be absurd," Jay Mac said brusquely. "Of course you'll stay here. This is still your home. God knows your room hasn't been changed in thirteen years, and it's certainly ready for you now." He looked sideways at Moira. "Almost as if someone's been expecting you."

"I wouldn't put that construction on it," Mary said, coming to her feet. In spite of her best intentions her tone was caustic. "It's more likely that Mama wanted to remind herself of the sacrifice she made."

"Sacrifice?" asked Jay Mac.

Moira stared at her oldest daughter. "What sacrifice?"

Before Mary could help herself she said, "Me, Mama. I'm the sacrifice. You offered me up to the Church to atone for
your
sins."

Jay Mac stayed Moira's hand, keeping her from striking Mary. "I think you'd better go to your room, Mary. Enough's been said here this evening."

For once Mary Francis Dennehy had no argument with her father.

* * *

Fort Union, Arizona Territory

The ball was in full swing. The officers' wives wore a brilliant array of colors, taking this occasion to show off their finest gowns from back East, or at least something they'd been able to order from San Francisco. The fabrics were satin and silk and taffeta, and their hues covered the spectrum. The wives looked especially bright against the solid blue dress uniforms of their husbands. Gold braid, white gloves, and polished black boots, all of it so distinguished on the parade ground, was now a mere background complement to a dizzying display of crimson and sapphire, emerald and jade.

Not every officer had a wife, and not every woman at the ball was married. Several of the women were mere girls, still fresh-faced from the schoolroom. Others were in their early twenties and of a single mind to leave the arid drabness of Fort Union. They were the daughters of commissioned and noncommissioned officers alike, and their dance cards were eagerly sought by the eligible bachelors. It would have been unthinkable to allow any one of them to go unaccompanied through a single dance, especially when their fathers were taking notice. Even eighty-year-old Florence Gardner did not want for partners. The interest shown her was in part because she was shockingly free with her opinions and always engaged in lively conversation, and in part because she was the widowed mother of Fort Union's commander.

Although all the women were sought as partners, one particular woman enjoyed a surfeit of attention and accepted it as her due. Her presence was suffered by the officers' wives and despised by the officers' daughters. Florence Gardner was the only one who found amusement from her presence at the fort, though she kept it to herself.

Anna Leigh Hamilton bore the stamp of Eastern sophistication that none of the other women in the room could rival, except perhaps the general's mother who didn't care to. It was not that the wives and daughters hadn't once enjoyed the same well-mannered polish Miss Hamilton wore as regally as elbow-length gloves, it was simply that the heat and hardships of the Arizona Territory, the daily threats of raids and uprisings, had worn away the pretenses and conventions. Practicalities were more important considerations in this harsh environment than polish.

Anna Leigh Hamilton didn't expect to stay at the desert fort long enough to lose the radiance and refinement that drew so many covert glances in her direction. She looked forward to returning to San Francisco, then to Washington, with her widowed father. She would play hostess for him again, attend the theater and the opera, and choose from among the most advantageous of the invitations for dinner parties and carriage rides. She would entertain congressmen and judges and generals, sometimes in the parlor or dining room of their grand Washington home, sometimes in the even more intimate surroundings of her grand bed.

* * *

Ryder McKay casually flicked a cigarette into the dirt when he heard someone approaching. Turning, he leaned negligently against the wagon wheel he had been inspecting moments earlier. The woman's silhouette was outlined by the bright candlelight coming from the officers' hall behind her. Ryder recognized her immediately and his wary, guarded features faded. The posture that had looked relaxed now actually became so.

"Don't you have enough partners in there?" he asked. His raised chin indicated the hall. "You're not going to insist on making me do a two-step with you?"

Florence Gardner laughed gleefully. "And get my toes trampled in three different places? I don't think I'll risk that." She leaned a little heavily on her ebony cane as she came closer to the wagon and didn't offer any resistance when Ryder picked her up by the waist and set her on the back of the wagon bed. It was very like him to notice her discomfort and act to relieve it. Looking at him carefully, his strong features handsomely carved by star shine and firelight, Florence was moved to sigh. She tapped him on the chest with the curved handle of her cane. "If I were forty years younger..."

Ryder smiled at that. "You'd still be old enough to be my big sister."

"Ill-mannered lout," she said pleasantly. She made it sound like a term of endearment. "Why aren't you inside filling dance cards?"

He didn't answer, turning to his inspection of the wagon again. It was a bone of contention between them, and Florence Gardner knew precisely how he felt. He wasn't an officer. That covered his end of the argument as far as he was concerned. Given the opportunity, the general's mother would have pointed out that neither was Ryder regular Army. He had never been an enlisted man. Though he preferred to think of himself as a scout, he was much more of a special agent, contracted by the Army for very particular assignments. He had as much right to be in that room as the senator from Massachusetts, the prospectors from the Holland Mines, or the surveyors from the Office of Land Management.

"Humph," Florence snorted when she couldn't get a rise out of him. She smoothed the edges of her thick white hair where it had come loose from its combs. Her pale blue eyes sparkled a bit mischievously as she said nonchalantly, "I thought you might be encouraged to take one turn on the floor with the hussy."

Ryder's lean fingers paused on the axle. "I don't think I heard you correctly."

Florence rapped the cane on the wagon bed several times. The harsh tattoo made the wood vibrate. "You know you heard very well. There's nothing wrong with your ears. I'm the one who's older than dirt here."

Ryder stood again and rested one elbow against the side of the wagon. He looked at her consideringly. She was a diminutive woman with pale skin and even whiter hair. Her mouth was too full and wide to ever be severe, but she made an effort to clamp it down hard when she wanted to appear disapproving. In confidence she had once told Ryder that she had seen too much in her lifetime to take anything too seriously. As a result, even at her most critical, most intolerant moments, Ryder saw through the grimly set mouth to the youthful laughter in her heart and in her eyes. Sometimes, when no one else was looking, she even dared a wink in his direction. It was their shared secret.

"Well?" she demanded with some asperity. "Why aren't you—" Florence broke off as the double doors to the hall opened and closed again. Over Ryder's shoulder she saw the subject of her question come into view. "Don't look now, Ryder, but—"

He nodded. "I know. I can smell her."

Florence knew Ryder was referring to Anna Leigh's expensive Paris fragrance, but the fact that he gave it no more due than smelling cattle droppings tickled her fancy. She laughed so hard tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

Ryder reached in his back pocket and extended his bandana. The older woman took it gratefully and dabbed at her eyes. She stuffed it back in his hand just as Anna Leigh came upon them.

"Help me down, Ryder," Florence said. "I'll go back to the ball. Even in this desert, three's a crowd." She smiled serenely at Anna Leigh as she was gently set down. Her parting smile for Ryder was a shade more coquettish. "Behave yourself."

Not certain for whom the admonishment was meant, both Ryder and Anna Leigh watched her go. When Anna Leigh turned to Ryder he was already engaged in his inspection of the wagon. "Doesn't the Army have people who do that sort of thing?" she asked.

"Yes," he said shortly. "Me."

Anna Leigh laughed lightly. It was a trilling sound, sweetly melodious. She couldn't know that it served to remind Ryder McKay of a heartier, healthier laugh. "I thought I would see you this evening," she said.

He didn't look at her, giving his full attention to his work. "You are."

She was more intrigued by his rudeness than offended by it. She followed him as he walked around the wagon. "My father thought you'd attend the ball. It's in his honor, you know."

"I know."

"You were invited, weren't you?"

"I was."

"Then why—"

"Personal." As far as Ryder was concerned the subject was closed. He had no need to explain his reasons to Anna Leigh Hamilton or her father for that matter.

Anna Leigh's bow mouth was pulled in an attractive pout. It was a practiced expression, one that she had mastered in front of her vanity mirror. One hundred strokes to her silky, butter yellow hair gave her ample time to rehearse the nuances of expression that ran the entire emotional gamut from melancholia to madness. She had a slender face with high cheekbones, a wide brow, and clear blue eyes that could be both winsome and worldly. Her complexion was creamy. The few freckles on the bridge of her slim nose were due to nightly applications of lemon juice and morning applications of rice powder. Among her other attributes she numbered an hourglass figure, slender well-turned ankles, dainty feet, and delicate bones.

The attention that Anna Leigh Hamilton accepted as her right was due in no small measure to the fact that she was a beautiful young woman. Most of the time she was skillful enough to conceal the fact that she knew it.

"Don't you think it's a bit insulting?" she asked. "Not to come inside?"

"You're not inside," he pointed out.

She smiled now and wished he would turn in her direction to see it. When he didn't, she made certain the smile could be heard in her voice. "Touché," she said. Anna Leigh ran her hand across the rough wooden edge of the wagon, following the path of Ryder's own fingers as he rounded another corner. "What exactly is it that you're doing?" she asked, curiosity quelling her impatience. "It's a wagon, isn't it? Four wheels? A solid bottom?"

More or less a solid bottom, he thought. "It's a wagon," he said.

"One of the ones you're escorting to the train station in the morning?"

At first he was surprised that she knew about it, then he reasoned she could have heard it anywhere. The trip was hardly a secret among the men. Still, he didn't deny or confirm her suspicions or ask her what she knew about it.

"I'm going along," she told him.

Ryder stopped his inspection and turned on her. The night air was dry and crisp. The harsh lay of the land was no harsher than the taut features of Ryder's face. "No, you're not."