Thunder on the Plains (30 page)

“
You're
sorry!” He turned to face her, a fire still in his eyes. “Sunny, I had no right doing what I just did. No damn right!
I'm
the one who's sorry! The state I'm in right now, I probably shouldn't have come here. You're beautiful and sweet and understanding, and for a man in my emotional condition, that's dangerous. God knows there couldn't be a much worse match than the two of us, or a worse time in our lives to be getting all mixed up like this.”

He leaned down and picked up the blanket, shaking out the sand and folding it. He threw it over Dancer's rump and rolled it up to tie it.

“I know what you're saying, Colt, but please don't let this end our friendship. I shouldn't have come down here. I shouldn't have let you—”

“It was my responsibility to know what was right and wrong to do, Sunny. And it's Blaine O'Brien who should be down here with you, not the likes of me. My God, we're totally wrong for each other. Besides that, I don't know what the hell I want right now. I'm just reaching out, trying to find answers, trying to stop thinking about LeeAnn. It isn't fair to use someone as sweet and innocent as you for something like that.” He tied the blanket with hard, jerking movements, then turned to face her.

“Let's face facts, Sunny. We've always had an attraction for each other that goes beyond friendship, and it's dangerous, for both of us.” He pointed to the bluffs above. “Up there.
That's
where you belong. That's your world. Like the man said earlier tonight, Sunny, together you and Blaine could buy all of Chicago. He understands your world, shares your dream of a railroad. He loves that life and he
belongs
in your world. I not only don't belong in it, I don't even
want
it! You have a railroad to build, an empire to run, and even if you wanted to, you could never walk away from any of it. It's in your
blood
. It's what you live for. You don't belong down here on the beach with a lonely drifter who right now would enjoy the feel of
any
woman in his arms, whether she was proper or a—” He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of disgust. “Damn!” He turned away. “Sunny, right now is not the time for me to be around somebody as pure and untouchable as you.”

“I'm not untouchable. You know that now.” Her eyes misted and she struggled with a mixture of glorious ecstasy and deep shame.

“Don't say that. You
are
, in all ways, not just…just physically.” He turned and kicked sand over the fire to put it out. “I was way out of line.”

“Colt, don't leave this way. We
are
still friends, aren't we? I don't want to lose that friendship. I want you to write me, please. Just write me here in Chicago, and wherever I am they'll see that I get the letters. I'll worry about you so. You've got to write and let me know you're all right.”

He knew by her voice that she was close to crying. God, he hated himself! He put his head back and sighed deeply, wondering if she knew what agony it had been for him to move away from her, knowing that he could have had his way with her if he had kept feeding her need. He wanted her so badly that he was in pain, but common sense told him it was completely wrong, the timing, the place, most of all the woman.

“I'll see about it.” He turned and stepped closer. “Sunny, I don't know if it's possible for us to be just friends. We both know that anything more than friendship is impossible. We would end up hating each other, and I would never want that to happen.” He touched her face lightly. “We both have to get on with our lives and cope with our problems as best we can, but we can't
use
each other to solve those problems. We wrote those letters at a time when both of us needed the diversion and the companionship. We were both lonely, both wanting something to take us away from reality. But the reality is still there, and the reality is you're Sunny Landers, one of the richest women in the country, a woman who belongs with a man of equal wealth and power, a woman who is entering into one of the biggest and probably most historic events this country will ever know. You have a railroad to build, Sunny, so go build it. You don't need any more complications in your life right now.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she grasped his wrist. “I need you, Colt.”

“No. You just
think
you need me. You're a Landers, Sunny. You'll be just fine, and so will I, after a time. They say time heals a lot of things. Maybe after the war I'll know more about what I want to do with my life, and you'll be married to a proper man by then. Just go up there where you belong, making deals with senators, entertaining foreign dignitaries, getting people to invest in your railroad. Go on with your life as though I don't exist, Sunny, because in a way I don't. I'm just someone who helped you get through a bad time, and that's what you did for me. We don't dare let it grow into anything more than that.”

She let go of his wrist and choked in a sob, turning away and wiping her eyes. “You aren't going to write, are you? You aren't ever going to write or see me again, and I'll never know what happened to you.”

“It's probably better that way, Sunny. At least I know someone really cares. I appreciate that more than you can know. I honestly intended to let the friendship and the letters continue, but it just isn't right. We both know that now. We know it could lead to more, and that to let that happen would be the biggest mistake of our lives. You know I'm right, don't you?”

Her shoulders shook with sobs. “I suppose. But it doesn't change anything. I'll go back and do what I have to do, but I won't ever, ever forget you or stop caring, no matter if I never hear from you again.” She turned to face him. “I might even marry and all, but it won't change what's in my heart, Colt. If things were different—”

He put his fingers to her lips. “Don't say it, Sunny. It's like that day I held you after the buffalo stampede. Some things are better left untouched, some words better left unspoken.” He leaned down and gently kissed her forehead, then turned away to mount up. “Seems like we're always saying good-bye, doesn't it? I'll try to stay out of your life after this so we never have to say good-bye again.”

“I don't mind, because each good-bye means I've seen you again,” she answered, shivering with tears. “Good-bye, Colt.”

“Bye, Sunny. Give your brother hell. Give
all
of them hell. Be strong, like your pa was. Do whatever you have to do to get your railroad built. When I come back from the war I want to hear that the Union Pacific is well under way. I'll be coming back out west to see for myself.”

How wonderful he still looked on a horse, how handsome in the moonlight, tall and dangerous and wonderful. She walked over to him, reaching up and putting her hand over his. “I'll pray for you.”

God, you're beautiful
, he thought. How he hated himself for ruining everything by letting himself get carried away. “And I'll pray for you. I don't think you realize how strong you are, Sunny. And you're going to get stronger and more sure as time goes on. Your father chose well.” Their eyes held a moment longer. He took his hat from where it hung over his saddle horn and raised it in the air. “Here's to the Union Pacific! Good luck, Sunny.” He put the hat on his head and turned Dancer, riding off down the beach.

“Good-bye, Colt,” Sunny whispered. She watched him until she could no longer make out his shadowy form, then touched her lips again, convinced that for the rest of her life, even if she never saw him again, she would not forget that fiery kiss or the feel of his warm lips at her breast, his hands exploring her most secret places. Colt Travis had wanted her, and she realized that if he had not stopped himself when he did…

She put a hand to her stomach, feeling the ache deep inside, sure no other man, not even Blaine, could make her feel like this again. She went to her knees, gazing out at the softly rolling waves that made little rushing noises when they washed up on the beach. “I love you, Colt Travis,” she whispered, the tears coming again. “I'll always, always love you.”

Spring 1864

Colt knelt in the underbrush and pulled a wormy biscuit from the leather bag tied over his shoulder. He stared at it a moment, then angrily tossed it aside, deciding he would rather try to survive on edible plant life and bark than to have to pick the bugs out of one more rock-hard biscuit. If he could get back to his regiment, he could resupply himself, but in this tangled mess that was crawling with Confederates, he couldn't walk just anywhere he pleased.

General Grant called this place the Wilderness. Colt decided
wilderness
was not fitting enough.
Hell
was more like it. He would take the wide open spaces of the West any day to this tangled, buggy, thorny jungle. He had had his fill of thick woods, and vines that gave a man the itch. The big hardwood trees of Virginia were beautiful, but he hated places where a man couldn't see more than ten feet in front of him for all the undergrowth; and when someone behind the next bush could be the enemy, it just made matters that much worse.

He groped through his supplies, ignoring his growling stomach and longing for a cigarette. He found his tobacco pouch, but there was barely enough tobacco in it to roll one cigarette. He put it back, deciding to save it for later, wondering when he would get the chance for another smoke once this last one was gone. Tobacco was hard to come by now, and his guess was that the camp supply was already gone. He could go for a long time without food. He had done it before once when he was stranded in a snowstorm in the mountains. But he wasn't sure how long he could go without a smoke.

He leaned against a tree trunk, contemplating his next move. He had worked as a scout for the Union Army for nearly two years now. Sunny had been right when she tried to explain how ugly this war was, and even she didn't realize the half of it. He thought he had seen it all when he first got into this mess, but nothing he had seen to that point compared to the bloody savagery of this war.

He had early on learned not to become too friendly with any man, because in the next instant that man could be dead or horribly wounded. Once he had been ordered to aid the company medic, an experience he would never forget. He could still hear the screams of one soldier he had to lean over and hold down while a doctor sawed off his leg above the knee, with nothing more than a little whiskey to dull the pain. He could still see that man's face, see the horror in his eyes; he could remember how badly his ear rang afterward from the man's screams.

He wondered if most of these men knew why they were fighting. It seemed things had gotten to the point where there was no cause anymore. It was simply a matter of winning, of not being the last man down. It was Yankees against Rebels, each side determined to show the other they could not be beat. He wondered what was happening in Washington, who was making the decisions that sent men against each other in bloody, pointless slaughter, who would decide that it was finally time to end all of this, and how many would be dead by then?

He checked his carbine, slowly standing up and looking around. For the first time in all his years of scouting and traveling, he was totally lost. He had come to scout ahead for Rebels, but these confusing wild woods had become a nightmare. He never knew if the next man he saw would be wearing gray or blue. Something bad was brewing; he could feel it in his bones. He had not been able to get back to his regiment, and all morning he had heard voices from every direction, occasional gunshots. He brushed at dried blood on the front of his own uniform, Rebel blood. Only two hours earlier he had surprised two Confederate soldiers, shooting one on sight and going hand-to-hand with the other. It had been easy for him, for he had fought many an Indian that way, and an Indian was much more vicious and skilled than any of these men. He had easily landed a knife into the man, then quietly lowered him to the ground. It was then he realized that man had not been a man at all. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, just another soldier fighting for what he thought was a just cause.

At that moment the war suddenly seemed ridiculous, a horrible waste of young men. In the beginning he had almost hoped he would be one of the casualties, but deeper instincts had caused him to fight back and protect himself. He supposed he simply was not the suicidal type, no matter how much he sometimes thought he would welcome death. Time was slowly healing his own wounds, and now he longed for this to be over so he could go home—home to the gentle prairie, home to the vast Plains in spite of all the danger there, home to the cool, magnificent mountains.

He couldn't help wondering what was happening with the Union Pacific, and with Sunny. He knew he would never forget the taste of her, the sweetness of her lips. He wished he could forget that night on the beach. He knew only moments after touching her that he had been a fool to allow his loneliness to overcome his better judgment. All he had done was stir up feelings better left alone.

Had he awakened the woman in her enough to cause her to turn to Blaine? Even though he knew Blaine was the best man for a woman like Sunny, the thought of the man taking enjoyment in that body, Blaine laying claim to Sunny Landers…it ate at his gut sometimes, but he supposed he would have to live with that.

A gunshot exploded nearby, and at the same instant Colt felt a fierce jolt. He saw the ground coming up to meet him, and his first thought was how strange it was that he felt no pain in spite of the fact that he was certain a bullet had just slammed across the left side of his neck, just under his ear. He wondered why he couldn't feel anything, why he wasn't even afraid. All he could think of was what an idiot he had been to allow himself to become so lost in thought that he had let himself be caught off guard. This was the result of his careless daydreaming.

Now it seemed that gunfire was exploding from every direction. Men were giving out Rebel yells, and were crashing through the underbrush surrounding him, yet he couldn't move, couldn't tell if they wore gray or blue. He felt a warm trickle at his shoulder, and he knew it was his own blood. He wondered if he was belatedly going to get his wish to die, and he thought how odd that it should happen now, when he had begun to want to live again.

He closed his eyes, realizing he must be stunned. In a few minutes he would be able to move, to think more clearly. He imagined himself riding free on the Plains, Dancer's mane flying in the wind. Would the man back in Chicago who had promised to keep Dancer still have him, or had he sold his beloved horse by now? Two years was a long time to wait for a man to come back and get his horse.

Gradually, the gunfire faded, and he thought the fighting must be over. He had no idea that the battle was actually growing more intense all around him, that the conflict between Grant's and Lee's men went on for the next several hours in the tangled maze of vines and trees and bushes, or that by nightfall hot sparks from the heavy barrage of gunfire had caused the underbrush to catch fire, trapping wounded but still-living soldiers. In the darkness their screams of horror could be heard as hundreds were burned alive. Colt heard none of it as he lay unconscious.

***

Sunny took rapid notes as Thomas Durant's right-hand man explained the situation at hand. She was aware that Blaine was watching her, and she wondered what he was thinking. She had not seen him in two years, since he left for Oregon shortly after the night of her party. They had had an intense argument before he left, over the fact that she had met with Colt Travis alone on the beach. Her meeting with Colt had left her shaken, unsure of how she felt about Blaine. She had never told Blaine about the kiss, or the intimacy she had shared with Colt. It was her special secret, a beautiful memory. Still, Blaine had been so angry. She had tried to explain that Colt was gone and would never be back, but Blaine simply would not believe her. Maybe now he would, as she had not heard a word from Colt since that one beautiful night.

Something had changed inside her after Colt left, his kiss still burning her lips, the fire in his touch leaving her shaken. She almost hated him for what he had done, awakening such exotic passion in her soul, bringing her such joy and yet such sorrow. She had lost two men that night. Perhaps in both cases it was her own fault, but the ordeal had left her harder, even more determined to guard her emotions, to turn to her business world and ignore her own needs. Need only led to dependency, and dependency to heartache. She was Sunny Landers, and she was expected to run an empire. Her position was the reason she could never love someone like Colt. She understood that more fully now. She had considered what it might be like to give up all that she had, and she knew she couldn't. It would be an insult to her father's memory and would go against all that she had learned and been trained for. She had something to prove now, to her father, to Vince, to Blaine, most of all to herself. She would spend her passions on Landers Enterprises and on the Union Pacific. She would make damn sure people stood up and took notice, that no one took her for granted because she was a woman.

That was the crux of it. Men like Blaine and Vince and so many others considered only her womanly side, tried to play on her emotions. She would show all of them that she could be as strong and formidable as the next man. Everyone kept dictating the role she must play in life, even Colt, and so she would play that role to the hilt.

Blaine spoke up, telling the others how lucrative the lumbering business was going to be when the railroad was completed. Sunny watched him. He was thirty-two now, and the trip west had apparently been good for him. He looked more handsome. He was tanned darker from the western sun, and he had put on a little weight in all the right places. As she listened to him speak, she realized he was after all the kind of man she should consider as a mate. She didn't particularly “need” Blaine, and that was good. She knew of several couples in her own circle whose marriages had been more for convenience and proper social standing than for love and passion. Maybe that was the way marriage was supposed to be.

At any rate, she doubted if Blaine was interested in her anymore. Since he first left, she focused her passions and energies on matters at hand. Over the last two years she worked tirelessly for the railroad, traveling back and forth between Omaha and Chicago, Chicago and New York, New York and Washington. She had grown stronger, had stood her ground against Vince until he seldom bothered rising up against her. She had a home and offices in Omaha, was received among the richest of the rich with honor and respect. When she spoke, important people listened. Perhaps most women of her age were already married and having children, but she had no time for such things. They were closer than ever to beginning construction on the U.P., and that was all that mattered now. She had dated a few male acquaintances, but only on a strictly social basis, nothing serious or intimate.

“So, gentlemen,” Durant's man was saying. He turned to Sunny. “And gentleladies,” he added with a grin, “we can only profit handsomely from the Doctor's plan. The Pennsylvania Fiscal Agency will come under control of the Union Pacific Railroad Company and will be called Crédit Mobilier of America, a construction company for our own railroad. When Crédit Mobilier contracts with the U.P., we will make sure our costs are padded high enough to use up all government grants. As I have already explained, we are working on getting the railroad act revised to increase the land grants and the amount of money the government will pay per mile. If that amount of money is more than is really needed, Crédit Mobilier will make sure its construction costs make up the difference. Excess government money, my dear friends, will go into our pockets and make up for the money we have all personally put out for the railroad.”

Grins and nods of satisfaction went around the table, a secret meeting of some of the country's wealthiest, discussing their latest scheme to begin making grand profits from their transcontinental railroad even before it was finished. Sunny had only the slightest qualm about the plan to build that railroad using their own construction company. She had fought too long and hard for the railroad to care whether or not the U.P. milked the government a little. Plenty of congressmen had milked her and the others at this table.

It was payback time, and in her world, ruthlessness and bribery and secret pacts were the name of the game. Besides that, an enormous profit would only prove to Vince that she and their father had been right all along to stick their necks out for this project. She had made sure over the last two years that there was no room in her life for anything but the U.P. and her growing interests in Omaha. Her almost constant traveling had kept her busy to the point of collapse, and after the miserable way she had handled her personal feelings, that was just what she wanted—little time for a personal social life, only for parties and meetings and fund-raising events—take a train to Chicago, sit in on a board meeting; take another train on to New York, still a dangerous venture in these times of war. She had made the trip so many times she knew the landscape by heart. In two days it would be on to Washington for some more palm-greasing.

It was imperative that a revised railroad act be passed, one that would allow Congress to release more funds up front so that serious construction could begin. Under the old act, a certain amount of construction had to be completed before the government would release any money, but it simply could not be done, and time was wasting. They had a huge project ahead of them, and the U.P. was still barely out of Omaha.

She watched Blaine scribble some figures, giving everyone an example of how much profit could be made through Crédit Mobilier in the price of rails alone. Yes, she supposed, everyone else was right after all about Blaine. Even Vince had been right that someone like Blaine was a perfect match for her. Here was a man who understood this world, a man who discussed millions as though it were mere pennies, a man who could be totally ruthless in his dealings when it meant lining his own pockets. In many ways he was a lot like her own father. Men like that could love and be loved in spite of the tactics they used in boardrooms and secret meetings like this one. Maybe she had been wrong to hurt Blaine the way she had.