Downstairs in the kitchen, the servants paused in their morning duties as the sound of deep, masculine laughter drifted through the house to them. Pipps smiled slightly and lifted his coffee mug to Cook in a mock toast.
“I would say the young mistress is going to make Master Taggart a very happy man,” he observed.
Cook dusted flour from her hands, picked up her coffee mug, and clicked its edge against the butler’s. “I do believe you’re right, Pipps, and the way I see it, he’s overdue. A fine man, our Master Taggart. Many’s the time I’ve wiped a tear from my eye, watching him ramble about, always so alone in this big old house.”
With a loud harrumph, Mrs. Whitmire, who sat at the work table, lifted her gaze from the menu she was compiling for the upcoming week and frowned at both of them. “Let’s just hope he isn’t laughing at her expense,” she said with a sniff. “You go ahead and waste your tears on the master,” she told Cook sourly. “I’ll save mine for that poor wee lass. Break her heart, he will, a thousand times if he does it once. Sow’s ears don’t become silk purses, no matter who they marry. A year from now, we’ll be watching her scurry to do his bidding, leaping at her own shadow, all the sparkle gone from her pretty smile. Mark my words, it’ll come to pass.”
Pipps drew his bushy gray eyebrows together. “I do say, Mrs. Whitmire, I don’t believe you have a very high opinion of marriage.”
“Or of men,” she said succinctly. “In my estimation, the entire lot of you isn’t worth the powder it would take to blast you to kingdom come.” She laid down her pencil, then picked it back up, clearly distracted and more than a little distraught. “I’m only surprised he married her. We all know he had less than honorable intentions when he brought her here. God only knows what made him change his mind. I can only say, with all confidence, that it had nothing to do with his moral bent or his having her best interests in mind.”
Pipps assumed the austere expression that had always served him so well in dealing with subordinates. “The voice of experience?”
“Twenty years of marriage to a heavy-fisted skirt chaser who placed more importance on having his corn whiskey than supporting his wife and children,” she replied grimly and bent back over her menu. “The day I buried Harold Whitmire was the happiest day of my life.”
“Master Taggart’s no drunkard,” Cook pointed out, “nor heavy-fisted, either. I’m pleased as can be that he’s found a measure of happiness.”
“It’s a free country. Think however you like,” Mrs. Whitmire retorted. “Just don’t expect me to celebrate with you. I’m surprised we didn’t hear a ruckus last night, him being the kind of man he is, and her so young and unsuspecting. I did my best to prepare her, but even at that, he probably gave her a rough time of it.”
Pipps shot the housekeeper a startled look. “You did your best to prepare her? For what?”
She narrowed an eye at him over her wire-rimmed spectacles. “For the pain and misery she was about to face. There’s nothing worse than to walk into it blind, a starry-eyed bride trusting a man to be gentle. Nothing worse, I tell you.”
Pipps settled a concerned gaze on her. “My dear Mrs. Whitmire, not all new husbands are unkind toward their brides. If you believe that, you’ve been ill advised.”
She gave a disgusted snort. “There’s a wise old saying, crass but true: ‘A stiff prick has no conscience.’”
“Well, I never!” Cook turned back to her dough, kneading it with a vengeance. “I’m shocked to hear you talk so plain, Mrs. Whitmire. Shocked, I tell you.” She punched the dough with a plump fist, the impact making her broad posterior shake under her skirts. “And in mixed company, no less!”
Pipps, who was still standing near the counter, set down his coffee mug. As he crossed the kitchen on his way to the foyer, he settled a saddened gaze on Martha Whitmire’s bent head. Despite her age, she was still a fine figure of a woman. In the years since they’d begun working together for Master Taggart, Pipps had oft wondered why she seldom smiled and always seemed reluctant to look him directly in the eye. Now the mystery was solved.
As he moved past her, Pipps slowed his stride and reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder—just a light touch, nothing more. She leaped as though he’d pinched her fanny, color flooding her face. At precisely that moment, laughter rang through the house again, a clear, lilting laughter that was unmistakably feminine. Martha Whitmire cocked her head, her eyes reflecting her disbelief.
Pipps raised an eyebrow. Then the strangest thing happened. The butler’s face began to crinkle, deep creases appearing on either side of his mouth, tinier ones fanning from the corners of his eyes. The next instant, his stern mouth curved sharply upward in a smile.
“Ah, yes,” he said softly, for Martha’s ears alone. “The poor little miss. It’s a rough time he’s giving her, make no mistake. I think we should hang him by his balls from the highest yardarm.”
Happiness…it was a new experience for Luke. Oh, he’d felt occasional moments of elation, especially since striking it rich in the goldfields. But fleeting jubilation and an enduring sense of joy were two different things. Over the next few days, he got a taste of the latter.
Cassandra. Part angel, part imp. Except for the occasional long faces she pulled because she missed her papa and Ambrose, she filled up his life with sweetness and laughter, mischief and chaos. Luke never knew what to expect from one moment to the next.
Though he was reluctant to leave her, he did still have business matters to attend to at the office, and one afternoon when he came home, he found Pipps, Cook, Cassandra, and Khristos all out in the yard, trying to give Lycodomes a bath. Because they didn’t want to get the dog’s injured leg wet, they had him on a tether and were chasing him about with pots of water. Luke had never seen such a drippy, bedraggled foursome, and within the space of ten minutes, he was just as drenched as they were.
“How did I get roped into this?” he asked, shaking a pant leg that Khristos had just doused. “Blast it, Khristos, you got it in my boot.”
“I’m sorry, Luke.”
Luke relieved Pipps of the tether, taking a firm grip on both the dog and the situation. “All right, Lycodomes, enough of this nonsense. You’re going to stand still while we rinse you. Understand?”
With a wide swing of his splinted leg, the dog plopped down on his soapy side and fixed Luke with a baleful gaze. Luke hunkered down to lift the animal back onto his feet. Major problem. Lycodomes was as slick as snot. Luke couldn’t get a good enough hold on him to lift his considerable weight.
Someone snickered. He glanced up, trying to locate the culprit. Four sober faces peered back at him. “This is not funny. Whose brilliant idea was it to give him a bath in the first place?”
“Yours, sir,” Pipps reminded him.
“Yes, well.” Luke managed to slip an arm under the dog again. “That was before he got run over. I never would have suggested you try to give him a whore’s”—he broke off, glancing at Khristos and Cassandra—“I mean, a spot bath. Without being able to confine him to the tub, how did you hope to get him rinsed?”
“By dipping water over the soapy parts,” Cook inserted, her huge bosom heaving from the unaccustomed activity. “It seemed a sound idea…at the time, anyway.”
Luke strained to lift the dog. “All right, Lycodomes, up you go! Enough of this nonsense!”
At precisely the moment Luke put all his strength into trying to lift Lycodomes, the dog suddenly decided to push to his feet. Caught off guard, Luke’s upward momentum carried him over backward, and he landed on his ass in the flower bed. A very muddy flower bed. He lifted a hand covered with well-fertilized, wet soil.
“Son of a—a—a bitch!”
Snicker, snicker. He glanced up and saw that Cassandra had a hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes large and round, her cheeks going red.
“Are you laughing?” Luke demanded, scarcely able to believe she’d dare. His trousers were ruined. His jacket was saved only because he’d had the go
od sense to remove it. “Just what, exactly, strikes you as being so funny?”
She shook her head and pointed at him. A second later, Cook chuckled. Pipps snorted. Even Khristos finally joined in. Luke drew up his legs to rest his arms on his raised knees, filthy hands dangling. “You’re all crazy,” he observed drily. But even as he spoke, he felt a smile breaking out. “Stark-raving mad, every last one of you. A dog bath in September?” He held up a muddy finger to test the wind. “It’s colder than a well digger’s ass out here.”
An hour later, after Lycodomes was rinsed and patted reasonably dry with towels, Luke learned there were definite advantages to giving a dog a bath in September, or at any other time of the year. Afterward, everyone involved required a bath as well, and he was more than pleased to dismiss the maid and play attendant while his lovely young wife took hers.
Happiness…one moment blended into the next, mornings into afternoons, afternoons into ecstasy-filled nights, when he made love to his wife. For the first time in his memory, Luke felt content.
The rest of our lives. Cassandra’s words on their wedding night kept floating through his mind like a promise. It was a promise he was starting to believe in. She was right: what had gone before, didn’t matter. He’d done some bad things, yes. But he was doing his damnedest to make up for them now. Her father would be pissed at him for a while, and so would her brother. But after a time, they’d surely see he hadn’t treated them all that badly.
Everything would come right in the end, Luke assured himself. It simply had to. He couldn’t lose Cassandra. Life wouldn’t be worth living without her.
TWENTY-ONE
Luke jerked awake and searched the gloom-filled room. For a moment, he didn’t know what had jarred him from sleep, only that he thought he’d heard something. Judging by the weak light coming through the lace curtains, dawn was barely breaking. He sat up in bed, glancing down at the shadowy outline of Cassandra, who still slept peacefully beside him, one knee drawn up to nudge his hip.
After listening a moment and hearing nothing out of the ordinary, Luke nearly lay back down. But just as he started to ease back against the pillows, there came a wall-shaking racket that had him bolting upright again. It sounded as if someone were pounding the hell out of the front door downstairs. As Luke slipped from the bed, Cassandra stirred and yawned, rubbing her eyes.
“Luke, what is it?”
“Someone at the door, I think. I’ll take care of it, sweet. You go back to sleep.”
“Will you come back to bed?” she asked drowsily.
Luke smiled as he jerked on his trousers. His sweet little wife had taken to marital intimacy like a chocolate lover to bonbons. As a rule, he made love to her at least twice each night, then again the next morning before they rose to face the day. Though still in the clutches of slumber, she obviously didn’t want to miss out on their usual morning activities.
“I’ll be back,” he assured her, bending to kiss her cheek. “Nothing could keep me away.”
She murmured something and burrowed more deeply into the cocoon of silk. As Luke bent to find his boots, another flurry of angry thuds resounded through the house.
Jesus, what the hell was going on? Had there been a cave-in at one of his mines? Or a fire? His heart started to pound. As fanatical as he was about safety, there was always the danger of an accident. The thought made his blood run cold.
Grabbing his shirt and shoving his arms down the sleeves as he exited the bedchamber, Luke cursed beneath his breath. If this wasn’t an emergency, he’d have someone’s head.
At the landing, Luke heard Pipps coming from the back of the house at a run. Luke was halfway down the stairs when the butler entered the foyer, his long white nightshirt billowing around him, his slippers flapping sharply against the tiles. The mirrors and planters on the walls shook as another knock at the doors rattled the large house.
“I’ll get it, Pipps,” Luke called as he descended the remaining steps in a flying leap. The bastard on the other side of the door had better have a damned good reason for being there.
As Luke pulled the door open, his heart kicked violently against his ribs. Milo and Ambrose Zerek stood on his porch. Even in the gloom, Luke could see that they were filthy and disheveled. “Angry” didn’t begin to describe the expression on their flushed faces. Milo stood with his feet spread, his large laborer’s hands knotted into fists at his sides. Upon seeing Luke, he made a visible effort to refrain from physically attacking him.
“I’ve come for my son and daughter!” the older man grated out, every inflection of his voice throbbing with rage. “And so help me God, Taggart, if you try to keep them from me, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
Luke’s heart, which had given such a violent start when he first saw the two men, felt as if it were dropping to his knees. He didn’t know how the Zereks had managed to slip away from the silver mine, but they obviously had. The minute they saw Cassandra, the truth would come out. Whether or not Luke liked it. Whether or not he was ready. If Cassandra wasn’t awake by now, she would be soon, what with Milo’s voice pitched at such a volume.
Milo’s threat of physical violence didn’t intimidate Luke; neither did Ambrose’s menacing stance. Luke had kicked and clawed and pummeled his way to adulthood. If pushed, he could teach both the Zerek men a thing or two about fighting—not that he discounted either of them as an unworthy opponent.
Luke opened the door wider and gestured the men inside. “I have no intention of keeping your son or daughter away from you, Milo.”
“Intention, be damned. I want what’s mine.” Milo burst over the threshold, fists still knotted at his hips. “Where are they, you bastard?”
“Asleep. Or they were before you tried to kick down my front door.” Struggling for calm, Luke glanced at the butler. “Pipps, I realize it’s an ungodly hour, but would you brew us some coffee?”
“Immediately, sir.”
“Forget the coffee! Get my boy and girl out here!” Milo yelled after the servant.
The butler paused to give Luke a quizzical look. Luke nodded his assent. There was little point in trying to keep Cassandra upstairs, not with this ruckus going on. “Wake Khristos first,” Luke said, hoping against hope that he might get Milo calmed down before his wife spoke to him.
As Pipps headed for Khristos’s room, Luke turned back to his “guests.” Raking a hand through his hair, he sighed, then motioned toward the study. “We’ll talk in there.”
When Milo opened his mouth to protest, Luke added a terse “Please” that seemed to mollify the two big men somewhat. He needed time, he thought as he followed the Zereks over the threshold. Time to explain, to plead his case. Time he was desperately afraid he wouldn’t get.
Once inside the book-lined room, Milo began to pace over the Persian rug like a caged bear, his muddy boots leaving a trail behind him. “I want my children!” he hollered. “And I want them now!”
Luke closed the door in hope that Milo’s voice wouldn’t carry through the whole house. Ambrose stood just inside the room, his stocky body braced to fight. He didn’t give an inch when Luke stepped past him to approach his desk and light a lamp. As the wick flared, Luke turned back to meet his father-in-law’s glittering gaze.
“I will happily turn over Khristos and Lycodomes to you, Milo,” Luke said in a carefully measured voice. “And you’re certainly welcome to see your daughter and stay here to visit with her as long as you wish. However, before we continue this talk, I should apprise you of the fact that since your departure from Black Jack, I’ve made her my wife.”
Milo’s craggy face went scarlet, his features contorting. After sputtering and working his mouth, he finally managed to rasp, “You what?”
“Cassandra and I were married three weeks ago,” Luke said softly. “All right and proper, the union blessed by God in the Catholic church.”
Milo’s anger became so intense he began to shake. His gaze burned into Luke’s. “You miserable, rotten, pitiful
excuse for a man! How dare you stand there and speak of God! If you have a soul, it’s as black as Satan’s own!”
“No doubt,” Luke admitted ruefully. “Nonetheless, Cassandra and I are legally married.” He lifted his hands, searched in vain for words, then pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a weary sigh. What could he say to this man? That he was sorry? “If it’s any consolation to you, Milo, I regret the things I’ve done, and I’m making an honest attempt to reform.”
Ambrose moved forward. “You married Cassie? You made my little sister marry you?”
Luke dropped his hand and blinked to clear his fuzzy vision. Ambrose, like his father, looked as if he’d crawled half the distance to Black Jack on his belly. Mud smeared his ragged clothing, dirt streaked his face, and there were bits of debris clinging to his dark hair. The two men had clearly risked life and limb to get here.
“Cassandra hasn’t yet reached her majority,” Milo cried. “The marriage isn’t legal! I didn’t give my consent!”
Luke shrugged. “What will you do, Milo? Contest its validity? Have it annulled? Trust me when I say the marriage has been well consummated. If you take Cassandra away, her reputation will be destroyed.”
“Better that than the rest of her life! She’d be happier in a convent than married to a scurvy bastard like you!”
“She could very well be pregnant,” Luke informed him coolly. “Do they take babes at convents?”
“If there’s a babe, I’ll help her raise it.” Milo leveled a finger at Luke. “I’ll have the marriage annulled, mark my words! No daughter of mine will live under the thumb of a monster like you. I wouldn’t leave my dog in your care.”
“Let’s think about this, Milo.” Luke leaned his hips against the desk, struggling against rising panic. Without Daniel Beauregard to advise him, he wasn’t sure if Milo could have the marriage annulled or not. “Cassandra is eighteen, well past a marriageable age. Do you really believe a judge, especially one anywhere in Colorado, will annul a consummated marriage into which she entered of her own free will? Especially a marriage to me?” For a long moment, Luke held the older man’s gaze. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done, and if there were any way on God’s earth I could undo it, I would. But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to let my wife walk out of here without putting up a fight. I think you’ve learned, firsthand, of the power I wield in this town.”