Forever in My Heart Page 16

  "It is over between us," she said. She undid another button. The lace that edged her camisole was visible now. "You're going back to Colorado and we'll probably never see each other again. This is about goodbye, Connor."

  "I don't want you, Beryl."

  "Do you expect me to believe you want her?" she demanded. Beryl's short laugh was hollow and spiteful. "Don't talk to me about morals, you sanctimonious hypocrite. If I married Rushton for money then what the hell was it you did yesterday? I suppose when Jay Mac pulled you into his library he didn't give you a deed worth twelve thousand dollars and thank you for marrying his insipid, green-as-grass, too-smart-for-her-own-good daughter?" Beryl's fingers worked over the buttons until her scarlet bodice was completely open. Her corset pushed her breasts up and forward and she flaunted the invitation. "Dammit, Connor, do you think I'm going to make a stink if you take her to bed? That would be the pot calling the kettle black, don't you think, since I have Rushton and enjoy making love to him? I've never sought to deny you your pleasures. I only asked you to share them with me. What's the harm? We're both married. We'll share the sin."

  Connor deliberately finished folding his shirt before he answered. "Share the sin?" he asked. "I don't think that's the way it works, Beryl. I believe they compound that sort of thing in heaven, not divide it equally among the black sheep."

  She gave her head a furious little toss. "Don't make fun of me."

  He turned on her angrily. "It's either that or hurt you."

  Beryl Holiday stood on tiptoe and slipped her arms around Connor's neck. She pressed herself against him and buried her face in the curve of his neck. "Then hurt me," she whispered against his flesh. "I don't mind."

  One of Connor's hands was placed on her waist, the other curled roughly in her hair. When he tried to pry her away her head was tilted back and her lips, slightly parted now, damp, hinting of secret pleasures, invited his mouth. She looked up at him, daring him and drawing him in with the darkening centers of her pale blue eyes.

  "Damn you," he said through clenched teeth.

  Beryl closed the distance between them. Her mouth worked over his lips, her tongue probed. Her fingers threaded in his hair, securing him for her eager and hungry touch. Her breasts swelled against his chest and she stretched trying to expose them above the line of her corset and camisole. His fingers bit into her waist and the coil of hair at her nape. She felt captured by his bruising embrace, vulnerable even as she was the aggressor. His skin was warm, his mouth hot. She welcomed the pressure, the hardness, and against her thighs she felt his need.

  Maggie didn't realize she had done anything to draw their attention. Connor could have told her that she only had to be in the same room to command his. She didn't ask what made him look toward the doorway, and he wasn't given the opportunity to explain. By the time he extricated himself from Beryl's grasp Maggie was gone.

  Connor found Beryl's bonnet and thrust it at her. "Take this and get out," he said roughly.

  Dazed, Beryl dropped down on the bed. She glimpsed herself in the mirror. Her hair was disheveled and her lips swollen. There was heightened color in her fashionably pale face and her eyes were dark and languid. "What's wrong with you?"

  Connor grabbed his valise and left.

  Beryl heard the door slam. She lay back on the bed, stretched slowly, arching her spine in a movement that was peculiarly feline. She turned her head toward the mirror again. The bedroom doorway was entirely visible to her. Beryl's smile shifted from shrewd to satisfied.

  * * *

  Maggie wasn't in their suite when Connor got there. Her bags were also gone. Cursing, he chose to take the stairs rather than wait interminably for the vertical steam lift. Slightly out of breath by the time he reached the lobby, Connor was relieved to find her calmly waiting for him in one of the areas partially secluded by its arrangement of chairs and greenery.

  He dropped his bag beside hers and sat in the chair opposite her, then pulled it closer for privacy. Maggie was studying the hands folded neatly in her lap as if they were not her own.

  "Look at me, Maggie," he said. His tone, while not quite a demand, fell far short of coaxing. "Do you think I don't know why you chose to come down here?"

  She raised her eyes. There was a dullness in them that was at odds with her fixed, bright smile. "I'm glad you're so perceptive, Connor. It saves explaining."

  "Then I wish you were as perceptive," he said. "Because you require an explanation. What you saw back there was—"

  Maggie shook her head. "I don't want anything from you," she said quietly. "Especially not an explanation."

  Connor glanced around. Maggie had chosen her setting wisely. He couldn't very well make a scene in the lobby of the St. Mark. "Sooner or later you're going to have to listen to me," he said.

  "Then I choose later."

  He didn't like it, but he was beginning to recognize the stubborn, unyielding thrust of her jaw. "Very well," he said, coming to his feet. "I'll see about getting a hansom to the station."

  The manager quickly arranged everything. Their bags were taken out to the street and the hansom appeared within minutes. Connor offered his arm, but Maggie pretended she didn't see and preceded him out of the hotel. She let the cab driver assist her into the hansom and seated herself in the far corner. She didn't believe Connor would impose himself by sitting beside her. He knew she wanted nothing to do with him.

  The ride to the station was accomplished in silence. Maggie concentrated on how she would behave in front of her family and Connor's. By the time they reached the train, Maggie had convinced herself she could touch her new husband without losing her breakfast or her dignity.

  Events of the morning had caused them to arrive earlier than planned. Two of Northeast Rail's private passenger cars had just been coupled to No. 454, and railroad men were adding the freight cars from a sidetrack. An amiable porter began loading their baggage along with the trunks that had arrived the night before.

  Connor pointed to the pyramid of satchels, valises, and trunks. "All of that's yours?" he asked Maggie. He knew the answer, of course, but he couldn't credit her with that much foolishness.

  "Mama and Skye packed for me. I told them it was too much but no one listened."

  Connor got the impression it was a state of affairs she was used to. "Dancer Tubbs won't have room for everything you own."

  Maggie sat on one of her trunks, making herself comfortable. Her gown was tailor-made, cut with a masculine bias from the dark gray color to the bodice that resembled a man's waistcoat and jacket. "I'll leave some of the things with Mary Michael in Denver. If we see Rennie I'll give some things to her. You don't have to worry about carting my belongings all over Colorado. I'm not going to be a burden to you."

  "Where do you get these ideas?" he asked. "I only said that Dancer couldn't accommodate your things. The train's going to take us as far as Queen's Point and we'll use wagons and horses from there. Traveling isn't the problem. Dancer's cabin is."

  "I'm sorry," she replied. "I misunderstood." Maggie turned her face away from him and watched the station traffic instead. The platforms and ticket counters were beginning to crowd with passengers and well-wishers. The available benches were already taken by people who enjoyed nothing so much as watching the trains come and go, sometimes placing a friendly wager on which arrival would be late and which engine would come thundering in under the clock. Seasoned travelers dressed for it, ignoring spring and summer fashion and wearing darker colors that could hide the offending smoke, soot, and cinders. Women herded their children together, counting brown, black, and towheads as they hurried along the platform. Husbands distanced themselves from the flock to keep an eye on the baggage handlers and the occasional unescorted and attractive female. Salesmen held onto their cases of product with white-knuckled intensity, protecting the life's blood of their work. A sketch artist went by, carrying his pad and easel, looking for customers who might pay a few pennies for a farewell portrait.

  Con
nor didn't like the station. It was everything he disliked about New York: too crowded, too noisy, too hurried. It reminded him again how much he was his mother's son, not his father's. Had things been different, the Colorado ranch wouldn't have interested him as anything but a source of capital, just as it was to Rushton.

  He glanced at Maggie, watched her take in the sights, welcoming the very same things he detested, absorbing the nervous pulse of the station, breathing in the crowd and the confusion as if it were vital to her very existence. She wouldn't last two weeks on the Double H and probably less than that at Dancer's—if he let her stay there at all. Connor was relieved Maggie had proposed divorce, otherwise the onerous task of bringing it up would have been left to him. She had given him back his ranch but she'd never survive there.

  She felt his eyes on her and she turned. It unnerved her when he watched her so intently and gave nothing away of what he was thinking. "Why are you staring?"

  At that moment he was looking at her throat. Beneath the jacket-bodice of her gown she was wearing a starched white shirt with a pleated front, pearl buttons, and a black silk bow tie at the collar. Somehow she managed to look entirely feminine wearing an outfit that should have given her a mannish appearance. He pointed to the bow tie. "That's mine," he said, his voice indicating something close to astonishment. "I wondered what happened to it."

  She smoothed the tie neatly. "You packed in a hurry last night," she said. "And this morning?" She shrugged, her smile indifferent. "This morning, I'm not surprised you didn't think of it. Do you want it back?"

  He shook his head. There was something oddly intimate about her wearing what belonged to him. It surprised him more that she had chosen to do it, and after what she witnessed with Beryl, that she kept it on.

  For once she was able to divine his thoughts as his glance became less impenetrable. "It looked better with my dress than any of the ribbons I owned," she said.

  "Then keep it."

  She suspected it wasn't simple generosity that prompted his gift. It occurred to her that once they were west of the Hudson River Connor never planned to wear a tie again. "Thank you," she said politely. Connor looked as if he were going to say something, but the arrival of the porter for the trunk she was sitting on interrupted him. Maggie stood and let her seat be taken away.

  Connor looked around for a bench where she could sit. There was none available.

  Because he looked as if he might enjoy clearing a few of the sightseers off their benches, Maggie laid a light restraining hand on his forearm. "It's not necessary," she said. She pointed to the far end of the platform where a small, noisy group of people was mounting the stairs. "Anyway, I think the family's arrived. That's Mary Francis laughing."

  Connor had recognized the unmistakable hearty laugh as well. He held out his arm for Maggie.

  "Don't worry," she said, her smile fixed in the direction of her approaching family. "Unless you or Beryl say something to Mary Francis, your secret and your kneecaps are safe."

  His reply was filled with soft menace. "You're very brave when your family's around."

  Maggie ignored him, although she knew it was true. She reached out for her mother, hugging Moira with only a fraction of the desperation she felt. Over her mother's shoulder she saw Rushton and Beryl arrive. Her touch went cold.

  Moira drew back, holding Maggie a few inches from her. "You look wonderful, dear."

  "Mother," Skye said, rolling her eyes. "You just saw her yesterday. And if you ask me, she looks a little peaked, though I like the bow tie." She kissed her sister on the cheek. "Where did you get it?"

  Happy for the diversion from her appearance, Maggie pointed to Connor. "Pilfered it, I'm afraid."

  Frankly astonished, Skye looked at her new brother-in-law. "You stole it?" she said.

  Connor laughed. "No, brat. Your sister stole it from me."

  Mary Francis poked her youngest sister in the ribs. "You don't have to act so stupid around him now, Skye. He's Maggie's husband, not a potential suitor."

  "Girls," Moira said in a maternal tone. She sighed. Neither of her daughters was particularly abashed by the reprimand. "Was the St. Mark as lovely as I remember?" she asked Maggie.

  "Quite lovely, Mama."

  Jay Mac clapped Connor heartily on the back. "You look as if you can't wait to be rid of the lot of us," he said.

  Connor wondered how much honesty Jay Mac would accept before he was insulted. He chose a tactfully truthful response. "I'm looking forward to seeing my ranch again," he said. "I miss the space and silence."

  Rushton joined them as Connor was speaking. His son's reply made him think of Edie, his wife who wouldn't be moved from her valley. His attention went to Maggie. She was lithe and delicate, with fine-boned features and a smooth complexion. He tried to imagine her on the Double H, riding the range beside Connor, cooking meals for the hired help, birthing children in the same bed where Edie had birthed Connor. None of it seemed possible to him. She was very different from Edie, Rushton thought, but in one important way she was exactly the same: she was a native flower, no more able to flourish in the harsh Colorado setting than Edie could have in the hostile New York air.

  Rushton took his son's hand and shook it, wondering all the while what Connor really thought of his new wife. He drew Connor aside, letting Beryl fend for herself, and held his son's gaze with his own. "Don't let her die out there," he said quietly.

  Connor's remote expression didn't change, though he felt a coldness seep through his skin to his bones. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Your wife," Rushton said. "She'll never survive the Double H. Let her go before it kills her."

  "You mean let her run out in the middle of the night the way you did?"

  Some of the color left Rushton's chiseled features. A frown creased his brow. "Is that the way you think it was?" he asked. "Did Edie let you believe that all these years?"

  "My mother never talked about you deserting her," Connor said coldly. "But Old Sam made sure I knew."

  For a long moment Rushton didn't say anything, then he nodded slowly, resignation in the faint, tired movement of his head. "He would," he said, more to himself than to Connor.

  "Are you going to suggest it was somehow different? That you didn't leave in the middle of the night? That you didn't hate living on the ranch?"

  Rushton looked at his son, then across the way at his daughter-in-law. "No," Rushton said finally, staring at Maggie. "I'm not going to tell you different. You couldn't hear it from me." His attention came back to Connor. "I pray to God you don't have to learn it from your wife."

  Connor accepted his father's enigmatic reply because Beryl chose that moment to join them. "Rushton," she said, "you can't keep Connor all to yourself over here. Other people want to wish him well."

  Rushton Holiday smiled, patting Beryl's arm as she wound it around his. He thought he'd chosen his second wife well. She was a beautiful flower but not fragile, common without being coarse, a survivor because it was her nature. He never told her why he sometimes called her Daisy. "Come along, then," he said. "We'll join the others. Connor's heard all the paternal wisdom he's willing to tolerate." They moved away, leaving Connor standing by himself.

  "Are the cars to your liking?" Jay Mac was asking his daughter when Connor came up behind her. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders and her tensing was so slight that he was certain he was the only one who noticed it. There was a fragrance to Maggie's hair that teased his senses. Lavender, he thought. It was subtle, delicate. It suited her.

  "We haven't been inside yet," Maggie told Jay Mac. "I'm certain everything's fine." She tapped her father lightly on the chest, smiling. "I know you like comfort when you travel."

  Jay Mac's face took on a ruddy hue as Moira and his other daughters laughed. He took off his spectacles and made a show of cleaning them. John MacKenzie Worth was a wealthy man but he didn't surround himself with ostentatious reminders of it. His private railway cars were his only exception, and he
was still self-conscious enough about it to be embarrassed.

  "Not a word, Rush," he warned his business friend. "I've seen your carriages and your matched pair of cinnamon mares."

  "We all have our vices," Rushton said. Beside him Beryl's pale eyes rested on Connor.

  The boarding of No. 454 was announced up and down the platform. Moira drew closer to Jay Mac. "I can't believe it's happening," she said. "First Michael, then Rennie, now you." She twisted a handkerchief in her hands. "And so far away, all of you. I wish..." She bit her lower lip, a gesture so like Maggie's that Connor was taken back by it for a moment.

  "I'll write, Mama," Maggie said, stepping free of Connor. She took her mother's fidgeting hands in her own. "You know I will."

  "I'll hold her to it," Connor said.

  For the sake of everyone, Moira pretended to be relieved by the promise. She kissed Maggie on the cheek. "You can always come home," she whispered in her daughter's ear.

  Maggie's eyes closed briefly. Her heart ached. "I know, Mama. I know."

  The next few minutes passed in a blur as Maggie was handed from one person to the other. The farewells were personal, wrenching, but somehow she got through them. She knew she had because she was finally standing on the balcony platform at the rear of the second private car, Connor beside her, her family and his on the station platform below. She grabbed him instinctively to steady herself when the train began to move. He put an arm about her shoulders.

  They held that pose until they were out of the station and there was no one left to see them.

  Maggie opened the door to the private car and preceded Connor inside. She had rarely traveled in the car but her father used it extensively. Although Jay Mac had had a second car commissioned he seldom used both when he was traveling alone. The car that Maggie and Connor were in had been fitted for Jay Mac's comfort, but also for the practicalities of his business.

  Everything in the car was built in or secured in some fashion. A mahogany desk, polished to bring out the hint of red in the wood, took up a large area at the head of the car. A heavily padded burgundy leather chair accented the desk. A map of the United States, indicating all the rail lines, existing and proposed, extended between two windows. Bookshelves lined a portion of the wall behind the desk from floor to ceiling and two wing chairs were situated near the small wood stove. The work area of the car gradually gave way to other furnishings. A dining table, no larger than the width of the window under which it was secured, meant that Jay Mac could take his meals in privacy. An Oriental carpet kept the cold from seeping through the hardwood floor and added warmth with its patterned splash of colors. Drawers were built in under the berth-like bed and a trunk with extra blankets was against one wall.