Susan Johnson

  “Don’t change the subject, Hazard.”

  He shrugged and ignored her with a mocking, tantalizing smile. “He’s been giving me threatening looks for days now. I expect to be called out any time by the pup.”

  “The pup, as you call him, is only four years younger than you.”

  Hazard’s eyes opened a fraction, and while his voice was light, his dark eyes held the fragments of melancholy. He was simply smiling and talking to forestall her questions. “He seems young.”

  “He is young, but so are you.”

  At that he snorted, with a delicacy that reminded her nostalgically of all the other sensual delicacies in his nature. With half-ironic tenderness he said, “So you’ve taken pity on him?”

  “Not that way.”

  “What other way is there? In my experience—”

  “He’s led a sheltered life, Hazard.”

  “And you and I haven’t.” It was both mocking query and pressing statement.

  “No.”

  Hazard smiled—an ironic, leisurely smile—when he thought of all the living and all the dying he’d seen in his own short life: careless, coarse, brutal. Next to that even Rose’s experience paled. “You’re very sweet, Rose,” he said like a gentle uncle, although they were of an equal age. “You should be nice to that young clerk.”

  “Like you should be to your woman. Why don’t you go and bring her back?”

  Hazard’s eyes met her violet scrutiny and held it for a considered moment. When he answered, his voice was controlled and mild. “She was a pawn in the game. Only a pawn in a game they lost, for I’m still alive. That makes the pawn forfeit now—to me, to them, to everyone. No, I won’t be needing her.”

  “I’m not talking about the mine or a game, Hazard.”

  His mouth lifted in what should have been a smile, but his eyes were fatalistically cold. “You’re too romantic, Rose. That’s all it ever was … only the mine and the game—Buhl versus Jon Hazard Black. Why would I be interested in going after her anymore? I have my mine and Buhl’s got her back.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Well, if I’m lucky,” he said, smiling, “they won’t give my address to the next female hired to deliver their sales pitch. The last one was more trouble than she was worth.”

  “Forget the mine, Hazard. Are you sure about Blaze Braddock?” Rose wanted to believe more than she didn’t that Hazard had no interest in going after Blaze, for selfish reasons of her own. But she’d been dealing in human emotions too long to accept Hazard’s answer at face value.

  “I’m sure,” he affirmed grimly, reflecting on how his love for Blaze had jeopardized not only his life but his clan’s very existence. “I’ll admit it was interesting.” He shrugged faintly. “She had the moral instincts of a jungle cat and that has its moments. Unfortunately, she also had the cat’s cunning deceit. It almost cost me my life. It reinforces a lesson about the yellow eyes: Never mind the words; watch their trigger finger. Present company excepted, of course.” The tall, lean man flashed her a smile. “I wonder, though …” he stopped, hesitating.

  “What?” said Rose, levelly.

  “Do you suppose,” he said drily, “my child will have flame-red hair?” The brooding look was back in his eyes, and in a restless motion he squinted up at the sun. “Is it too early for a drink? This arm’s the devil today.”

  A moment later Hazard was lounging in Rose’s parlor in a black mood, his back curved low against the embroidered sofa, his long legs sprawled out casually; his arms rested on his chest but his slender fingers cradled the brandy glass so rigidly Rose expected it to shatter any second. Nursing his brandy, he wondered what he would have done if Blaze hadn’t left the way she did, and he someday had to choose between his clan and her. The clan must come first, of course. Of course. He drained the glass.

  “Would you like another?” Rose asked, coming in from the adjoining room where she’d left instructions with the maid for lunch.

  Slowly Hazard straightened, the tense fingers holding the snifter out forcibly relaxed, and he apologized for his dull company with a rueful smile and a quiet “Sorry.”

  “Everyone has bad days,” Rose sympathized, pouring a generous measure of her Napoleon brandy into Hazard’s glass.

  He laughed. “Bad days? I like your eternal optimism, Rose.” Such a mild phrase, he thought, lifting the refilled glass to his lips, for a wayward chieftain who knew in his heart he wouldn’t have chosen against Blaze whatever the situation. Who knew also that with all their differences, it couldn’t have ended any other way. Who knew that because he had loved her, he had forgotten his duty. He drank most of the bottle that morning, but it didn’t wash away the images, the memories, the old unanswered questions, the closely averted calamity.

  Or the fury.

  Chapter 33

  On the third week of Hazard’s recuperation at Rose’s, on the same day he was first able to move the fingers on his damaged arm without breaking into a cold sweat, in Boston Millicent Braddock, outraged, came explosively to her feet in the office of Curtis Adams, where her husband’s will had just been read, and viciously snarled, “There must be a mistake!”

  Curtis Adams had been a friend to Billy Braddock as well as his attorney; he knew there was no mistake. And the circumstances of Billy’s death, together with Millicent’s new “cousin,” affirmed in spades, he thought, Billy’s own estimation of his wife.

  It wasn’t as though she’d been left destitute; as his widow she could live in the house as long as she wished and would receive an adequate monthly allowance. Personally, Curtis wouldn’t have been so generous. He’d known Millicent too long. But Billy had a kinder heart than he.

  “I want that will broken,” Millicent curtly ordered, a pinched look of fury on her face.

  Curtis neatly folded his hands on his polished desktop. “It’s legal, Millicent.”

  “I’ll contest it.”

  “It’s airtight.”

  “I’m sure I can find a judge who might disagree.”

  “Suit yourself,” he politely declared. He turned to Blaze. “Will you be staying on at Beacon Street?”

  “Not for long. I’m going back to Montana.” Although friends had called and offered their condolences on her father’s death, and the men friends sent enough flowers daily to perfume the entire city of Boston, Blaze longed for the mountain landscapes of Hazard’s native country, wanted to be close to him in spirit, wanted their child to grow up in the land where Hazard had spent his youth. “Very soon,” she added, the sadness in her eyes as deep as the ocean. She was dressed in black silk, her skin pale, faint blue shadows beneath her strained eyes, yet she was splendid still, capable of drawing every man in Boston with her beauty.

  Strangely, mourning seemed to enhance her fairness. Unadorned, delicate now in her paleness, her heavy hair simply styled, her eyes dominating her face, a new fullness to her figure. Innocence and melancholy existed paradoxically with an underlying sensuality no longer flirtatious but real. She was a woman now, not the girl she’d been the spring before and there wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t feel the overwhelming urge to console her in her grief. But Hazard had spoiled her for other men. Next to his memory, other men seemed tame. Hazard, wild and reckless, had filled her universe. No other man could compare.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Millicent brusquely objected. “You’ll stay in Boston where you belong.”

  “I’ll go where I please, Mother.” And Blaze stared at her mother in the special way she’d learned in childhood: features composed, her thoughts of other things behind the cool facade. It was a way of winning against a mother who expressed only hatred and contempt.

  “We’ll see about that,” Millicent malevolently repudiated, giving her daughter a look of such pure hatred Blaze was shocked at the naked emotion. Millicent was infuriated. At her deceased husband, at Curtis Adams, at Blaze, at anyone or anything standing in her way to the fortune she’d married—as mercenarily as a Gypsy horse trade
r—twenty years before. Only taking time to draw breath for a harangue, she hissed, “You conniving little—”

  “Don’t be hasty,” Yancy warned, his voice mild but his eyes like chips of stone. “You’re distrait.” He took Millicent’s hand in his. “She’s distrait,” he explained to Curtis, careful to keep his own boiling anger under control. He’d been so close this time … twenty-two million dollars. And Blaze got it all. Smug little bitch. She’d probably known all along; she didn’t seem surprised.

  Then a brilliant idea came to him like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Graciously excusing himself and Millicent with every nuance of southern manners called into play, he ushered her out of the office without further damage.

  Blaze stayed behind to sign the required documents, meticulously signing each and every paper. For the first time she became genuinely concerned for her child. She had never seen such hatred before. Such loathing and fury were uncommon. Uncommon enough to murder.

  WHEN Blaze returned from Curtis Adams’ office, Yancy surreptitiously followed her to her room and locked her in while Millicent waylaid Hannah in the drawing room. They had given the upstairs servants the afternoon off in deference to the Colonel’s memory. Together, they told Hannah that Blaze had left for Montana directly after the reading of the will and offered her a lavish advance on the annuity Billy Braddock had left her in his will.

  Hannah protested at first. “Blaze wouldn’t leave without telling me,” she insisted.

  “She’s been so depressed lately. You know that. I think all she had on her mind was going back. I told her it was impolite to leave without saying goodbye to you, but you know Venetia. Rash as ever, even in her grief. Her father left her everything, and she’s more independent-minded than usual. You can ask Curtis Adams if you like. He helped her into the hired carriage. I’ll take you down there to talk to him if you like.” Millicent dabbed delicately at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “She’s been so unhappy lately,” she murmured. “Would you care to talk to Curtis?” It was a calculated bluff.

  “Poor child,” Hannah pensively declared, less wary once Curtis’ name was mentioned. He’d been a friend of the Colonel’s for years. And all Blaze had talked about since leaving Montana was going back. “She wanted to have her babe born in that wild country,” she recalled, half to herself.

  The only sound in the enormous drawing room was the ticking of the Meissen clock. Restored to the present after her brief musing lapse, Hannah noted the electrified silence. “She hadn’t told you yet, had she?”

  Millicent recovered first. “No, but it makes it even more understandable … her precipitous departure. Under the circumstances, poor darling,” she solicitously maintained, “she’d want to return at once.” Millicent smiled an understanding motherly smile. “We both know how headstrong Venetia is. But you needn’t worry, Hannah. With her father’s millions, she can afford the finest care wherever she lives.”

  “I hope the babe brings her peace.” Hannah had blinders on when it came to Blaze’s happiness. If she needed to go back right away, she understood. Blaze still cried every night over the babe’s father.

  “I’m sure it will, Hannah. Now, would you like a draft on the bank or cash?”

  “When you get her address, would you let me have it? I’ll be with my sister in Lancaster; I’ll give you the address.” And Hannah carefully wrote the street number on a sheet of paper Millicent pulled from the rolltop desk.

  “There,” Millicent observed, folding the sheet of paper. “I’ll keep it right here on top.” And she placed an Italian crystal weight over it. “We should have Venetia’s whereabouts in three to four weeks. Thank you, Hannah, for all your devoted years of service. If the Colonel were alive, I know he would add his gratitude as well. Now, Yancy, dear, if you’d see to Hannah’s packing, I’ll write a draft for the first six months of her annuity … and I think perhaps six months’ cash payment as well to begin with. Will that do, Hannah?”

  “It’ll do fine, ma’am, but I’ll do my own packing,” Hannah pointedly replied.

  A short time later, all amiability and charm, Yancy escorted Hannah to the carriage drawn up to the side door, saw that her baggage was stowed, gave the driver directions, and waved her off.

  Now, Hannah wasn’t taken in by all the artificial, overdone politeness. She knew it didn’t make any difference to either one of them whether she lived or died. But if Blaze and her babe were gone, there was no reason for her to stay.

  YANCY came back into the drawing room, carefully closed the double doors, leaned back against them, and smiled gloatingly. “One old bitch closer to twenty-two million, my love.”

  “It went rather well, didn’t it?” Millicent agreed, looking up from the small desk.

  “Perfectly, and thanks to old Hannah, it should be much easier now to convince darling Venetia to see things our way. No young mother as determined to pine over her lover as she seems to be would relinquish her child once it’s born, would she? The last link, as it were, to her true love.” His voice was malicious with mockery.

  “The child as leverage …” Millicent murmured thoughtfully, tearing up Hannah’s address.

  “But how”—Millicent paused for a moment to toss the scraps of paper into a wastebasket—“do we get the money? The will is quite explicit.”

  “Simple. We’ll have her sign power of attorney over to us. Then the money’s ours.” Yancy contentedly examined the polished toe of his boot.

  “What happens after that? We can’t keep her locked up forever. People will talk.”

  His eyes met hers calmly. “Once the child’s born,” he said in low, even tones, as one might tick off items on a list, “if she leaves, say, for the south of France, or a quiet home in the Cotswolds, she’ll be sent an allowance and the baby won’t be harmed.”

  “All very neat,” Millicent said with interest.

  “For now, we simply have to say she returned to Montana, leaving us with power of attorney in her absence. After the baby’s born, we’ll see that she leaves for Europe. And then you and I will have our twenty-two million dollars to spend.”

  “I find your imagination delightful.”

  “Yours, no doubt, will do adequate justice to ways of disposing of that large amount of money.”

  And Millicent laughed.

  THAT evening they carried Blaze’s dinner tray upstairs, after explaining to the servants that the reading of her father’s will had caused an emotional collapse, which they hoped would respond to bed rest and solitude. After carefully locking the door behind them, they appraised Blaze of their plans.

  She listened quietly, although her mind was racing to find a way free.

  “So, if you cooperate,” Yancy finished, “everything will work out well.”

  “For you,” she replied briefly. “Not so well for me.”

  “You’ll have your child.”

  “And you’ll have my money.”

  “A fair trade.”

  In truth, Blaze didn’t care much about the money. She had her trust fund, which even they couldn’t touch, and it was more than enough to live on. It annoyed her, though, the extent of their greed. And frightened her a little too. How far would they go to ensure their claim to the twenty-two million? Wasn’t Hazard’s death answer enough?

  If she turned over her inheritance to them, her child—Hazard’s child—would lose. She wished he were here to talk to. Maybe he’d say none of the money mattered. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Look how hard he’d been working to give a measure of security to his people. Just that afternoon, she’d legalized the will she’d written on the train. Curtis had it in his files now. If she gave them power of attorney, her child would never gain its birthright. On the other hand, if she didn’t, it might not live. A small child would be much easier to kill than Hazard. And if he hadn’t been able to stop them, how could she? “I want to think about it,” Blaze said evenly.

  “Don’t take too long,” Yancy ordered.

&nbs
p; “I’ve six months until you can implement your threat.”

  “In the meantime, we can make your life uncomfortable.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “I’ll give you three weeks,” he said.

  “I expect she’ll be sensible, won’t you dear?” Millicent murmured, languidly waving her feather fan.

  “Three weeks,” Yancy reminded her, moving toward the door to unlock it. Millicent followed him, and Blaze was left alone, as the door clicked shut locked.

  Hannah was gone. That had been her first question. Hazard was dead. Curtis and her friends who came to call would be told she’d returned to Montana. And the servants thought she had a nervous breakdown and was being shielded from society’s prying eyes. She and her child were alone … between Yancy, Millicent, and the twenty-two million they coveted. She hadn’t liked the look in Yancy’s eyes when he’d said “uncomfortable.” She’d seen that look before in men’s eyes who hadn’t even been coveting her money.

  She wished that night very hard, as a small child might, wished that Hazard wasn’t dead, wished that he and she and their child could live together in the cloud-covered mountains, wished she’d met him without gold and greed coming between them.

  And then, as if wishes came true, Yancy came in the following morning with her breakfast tray and with what he referred to as an interesting bit of gossip. “You might want to change your fantasy about returning to Montana,” he said, lounging against the doorjamb, dressed to go riding.

  “I’m supposed to ask why to that leading question, aren’t I? All right, Yancy, I can be accommodating. Why?” And she closed the book she was reading, folded her hands atop it and gazed at him calmly.

  “Because your lover found another bed.”

  “Is this some metaphorical allusion? If it is, I don’t find it amusing.” But her heart began pounding because Yancy wasn’t subtle enough for that. When he said bed, he meant bed. She consciously willed her hands to unclench before Yancy noticed.

  “The bastard lived somehow,” Yancy churlishly said, “under a hundred pounds of black powder.”