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“I prefer horseback so that’s not a problem.”

  Portia wondered when he’d take over as foreman of the Blanchard ranch. Once he stepped into the role, he’d be living over there, which would give her the distance from him that she needed. Granted, because of the dude ranch partnership, she wouldn’t be able to avoid him totally, but with him not living at the hotel maybe she could focus on something beside the way she’d felt in his arms, the sensual play of his tongue on hers, and the way he whispered, Make your lips soft, baby. Shaking herself free from the torrid memory, she looked up as Rhine entered the room.

  “Well, look who’s joining us this morning,” the smiling Eddy called out.

  He grinned, gave his wife a quick kiss on the cheek, and whispered something to her that only she could hear. She smacked him playfully on the arm, and as he moved away to grab a plate, Portia saw the passion in her aunt’s eyes. What must it be like to fully embrace such feelings, she wondered, especially knowing it was returned in equal measure? A few days ago, Regan had asked a similar question and Portia had been so dismissive she was now ashamed of her response.

  Rhine took the chair beside Eddy, saying, “The only reason I’m up at this ungodly hour is to ride into Tucson to pick up a bank draft and stop in at the Landrys to hand over Blanchard’s ledgers.” He looked to Kent and asked, “Would you like to ride with me?”

  “Sure. It’ll give me a chance to get a look at the town.”

  “We’ll leave once we’re done eating.” Rhine then turned his attention to Portia. “Which falls did you take Kent to see?”

  She drew in a deep breath and said nonchalantly, “Carmichael Falls. I told him how much the guests enjoyed the view.”

  “I assume he was a gentleman?”

  While living with her mother, Corinne, Portia learned at a young age how to keep her emotions masked. “Yes, he was.” She met her uncle’s gaze steadily and didn’t allow her eyes to stray to Kent.

  Kent weighed in. “I’ll always be on my best behavior with her, Fontaine, so quit your worrying.” He saluted Rhine with his coffee cup.

  Portia didn’t know Kent well enough to tell if Rhine’s question had offended him but everyone went back to eating and making small talk so she relaxed and shot him a covert glance. He responded with a secretive smile.

  After breakfast, while Rhine and Kent went to take care of the business in Tucson, Portia, Regan, and Eddy headed to the kitchen to see about the food the hotel would be contributing to the wake.

  They were greeted by the fragrant smell of chicken frying, Gabriella and Rosalie making potato salad and dumplings, and Sarah rolling out dough for the apple pies, Mr. Blanchard’s favorite. As Eddy and Regan took down aprons. Portia, not the best of cooks, asked, “Anything I can help with?”

  “No!” all five said in unison, and then they laughed. Portia did as well. She could balance a ledger with her eyes closed and standing on her head, but she couldn’t boil water. Watching Regan begin peeling apples and Eddy take her rolling pin to the dough, Portia asked, “How many pies do you think you’ve made for Mr. Blanchard since we moved here?”

  “Hundreds probably. He did enjoy them. I think he’ll be pleased that Rhine’s buying his place.”

  Portia agreed. The two men had gotten along well. The old man had been instrumental in recruiting the army of workers and artisans the Fontaines needed to build the hotel.

  Eddy fit the rolled-out dough into a pie tin. “Everything ready for our new dude ranch guests?”

  “Yes.” They’d be arriving in a few days. “Mr. Blanchard’s death may complicate things but as long as Farley and Buck stay around until the visit ends, it should go well.”

  “How many people are in the party?”

  “Only four. Two are doctors. One’s bringing his mother and another his sister. They’re from San Francisco but are stopping here on their way home from a medical convention back East.”

  Eddy looked up. “Kent’s father, Oliver, wanted him to be a doctor.”

  “I know.”

  She rolled out another circle of dough. “He didn’t finish medical school though. The only thing Kent ever wanted to be was a rancher, but he attended to appease Oliver. That he’s grown into such a fine man is a bit surprising.”

  “Why?”

  “He was quite the cat house king back in Virginia City. A lot spoiled and very full of himself where the ladies were concerned.”

  “Really?” Portia didn’t know anything about his comings and goings. She’d been too busy adjusting to her new life with Eddy and Rhine.

  Eddy smiled. “Yes he was. The young Kent I knew back then would never have cooked his own breakfast. Ever. Like I said this morning, he’ll make some woman very happy one day if he’s as mature as he appears to be.”

  Eddy glanced up and eyed Portia speculatively.

  “Yes?” Portia hoped her aunt had no prying questions about what took place at the falls. Eddy had always been perceptive.

  “Nothing. Let me get back to these pies. Regan, hand me that jar of cinnamon.”

  Grabbing an unpeeled apple from a bowl, Portia left the kitchen and headed outside to say good morning to Arizona. Her mare along with Eddy’s mare, Denver, and Regan’s Catalina were out in the paddock enjoying the sunshine. Cal Grissom, the old gray-haired cowboy who’d ridden the Chisolm Trail was the hotel’s head groom. He was seated on the top rung of the fence, keeping an eye on his charges.

  “Morning, Miss Portia.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Grissom. Did you enjoy the visit with your sister?” He’d returned last night from visiting his recently widowed sister in Phoenix.

  He nodded. “I did and she’s doing well considering.”

  “I’m sure she was pleased to see you.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Have you met Uncle Rhine’s friend Kent Randolph yet?”

  “I have. I met him before he and Mr. Fontaine rode off. He seems like a nice enough man. His stallion’s sweet on your Arizona. Saw them courting earlier this morning. You might want to start thinking about names for a foal.”

  Portia went still.

  He laughed. “Don’t look so shocked. She was bound to find her a fella sooner or later.”

  Portia knew he was right, but . . . She shook herself free of the thought. “I brought her a treat.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll be in the tack room if you need me.”

  He walked away with the slow easy stride that all cowboys seemed to have and she whistled between her fingers for her mare. The Appaloosa came galloping to the fence and Portia hugged her neck affectionately. “Brought you something.”

  The mare took a bite out the apple Portia held. “I hear you’re being courted. Are you sure you’re ready for motherhood?”

  There was no answer of course. Portia couldn’t imagine her lovely mare heavy with a foal but knew nature would run its course. Her thoughts slid to Kent and wondered what nature had in store for her. Hastily backing away from that, she watched Arizona for a few moments longer then left her to play while she went to her office to look over the duty roster tied to the hotel’s soon-to-arrive guests.

  As Kent and Rhine rode across the desert, Kent asked. “So tell me about Tucson. What’s it like here?”

  “Much sleepier than Virginia City,” Rhine replied. “It’s growing though, now that the Southern Pacific has come to town. Politically, lots of shenanigans.”

  “You involved?”

  “Behind the scenes.”

  “Because of what happened in Virginia City.”

  “Yes. I’m not putting Eddy and the girls in harm’s way ever again. Portia had nightmares for months about that mob.”

  Kent had been with them that night. He’d helped Rhine and Jim Dade hastily pack the family’s essentials into the wagon they’d escaped in only a few minutes before the mob arrived. On horseback, he’d fled, too, but only far enough to watch from a safe distance as the men of Virginia City set fire to the Fontaine home, Rhine’s saloon, and Edd
y’s new diner. That Portia had experienced nightmares from the cowardly deed added to the lingering embers of rage he still carried inside. Escaping with little more than his life and the women he loved had to have made Rhine seek a new direction. For those in Virginia City’s Colored community the atmosphere after the fires had been tense. Because Rhine was beyond reach, threats were made against those who’d remained behind. Men like Kent’s father were confronted and roughed up, but when Rhine and his banker half brother, Andrew, began taking financial revenge, the bigots suddenly found themselves too busy scrambling to keep their homes and business out of foreclosure to further exhibit their hate and disdain. “How are you and the family treated here?”

  Rhine shrugged. “Not bad. Everyone is too busy looking over their shoulders for the Apaches still up in the mountains to worry too much about race. Many Mexicans live here of course and Chinese, too, because of the railroads.”

  They entered the town proper a short while later. As they slowly rode down the main street, they passed myriad shops and saloons and, yes, it was much smaller than Virginia City. They rode past the large Cathedral of St. Augustine with its adjacent convent, and Rhine related that some of the streets like Pennington and Jackson were named after men who’d been killed in Apache attacks. There were quite a few people of various races on the wooden walks and a decent number of riders and wagons in the street. Kent was surprised to see a river on the edge of town and the stand of orchards fronting it.

  “Apples,” Rhine explained.

  Kent was still pondering the oddness of apples in the desert as Rhine reined his mount to a halt in front of a small adobe home. “This is where the Landrys live.”

  They tied up their mounts, walked to the door, and knocked. Once inside, Kent was introduced to Old Man Blanchard’s daughter, Missy Landry, a short buxom woman with very large teeth. She nodded a greeting and introduced her accountant, a tall balding man named Alistair Gerber.

  “Do you have the bank draft?” she asked Rhine.

  “I do.”

  Any grief her watery blue eyes may have held for her father was elbowed aside by a flash of eager greed.

  “And the ledgers,” Rhine added, handing them to her.

  “And I have the deed,” she said. “Shall we get down to business?”

  Gerber looked startled. “Mrs. Landry, my advice is to let me take a day or two to look over the books to make sure everything is sound. After all, that’s why you hired me.”

  She waved him off. “Only reason I hired you was to appease my husband, Charlie, but since he had to leave for St. Louis yesterday to see about his sainted mother, I’ve decided I don’t need your advice. Portia’s been the only person handling the books, Mr. Fontaine?”

  Rhine nodded.

  The accountant stared. “Portia? Is she a woman?”

  Rhine replied coolly, “Yes.”

  Missy said, “She went to Oberlin. Smart as a whip and more honest than the sun in the sky. Here’s the deed, Rhine.”

  Rhine took the papers, read through them slowly, and said, “This looks fine, Missy.”

  “Good.”

  Once signatures were attached in the appropriate places, Rhine folded the document and placed it in his inner coat pocket. He handed her the bank draft.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Nice doing business with you.”

  “Same here.”

  “Now, wait just a minute,” Gerber protested. “What about my fee?”

  “Send me a bill if you want,” she said, “but do it quickly. I’ll be leaving town the day after the funeral.”

  “Are you going to join your husband in St. Louis?” Rhine asked.

  “No, but you can tell him that’s where I was headed when he comes back and finds me gone.”

  Kent’s jaw dropped.

  Rhine stared.

  She smiled coldly. “Been trying to get away from him and this place for years. Now”—she waved the draft—“I can. I’ll see you tonight at the wake, gentlemen.”

  A stunned Kent followed Rhine back outside to where their tethered mounts waited.

  “Interesting woman,” Kent quipped.

  “That’s one way of describing her,” Rhine responded.

  “Will the deed hold up?”

  “I’ve never known her to be dishonest.”

  “Can it be challenged because of your race?”

  Rhine shrugged. “Anything is possible, I suppose, but she has no other kin, and the land will be rolled into the company my brother, Drew, and I founded, which is based in San Francisco. My interests are hidden.”

  They mounted and headed back to the main part of town.

  Kent asked, “Do you know a place where I can buy a couple of shirts, but not have to put any money in the coffers of that ass Day?”

  Rhine laughed. “Sure do.”

  The store owned by a short German immigrant named Krause had just what Kent needed. After purchasing the shirts, he spied a dark gray Stetson on display that seemed to call his name. The price was dear but it was a hat he’d be able to wear to fancy occasions for years to come as long as he took good care of it, so he counted out the money for it, too, and he and Rhine left the store.

  On the ride back, Kent asked, “Did you question Blanchard’s hands about their plans?”

  “I spoke with the two older men. He left them a fair amount of money in his will and they’ll be leaving to enjoy it elsewhere. The other two weren’t around.”

  “So, I may have to hire all new depending on whether the others stay?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Kent wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or not, but at least the men he hired would be his men and there’d be no divided loyalties.

  Chapter Six

  Upstairs in what had been Blanchard’s bedroom, Kent eyed the sorry cards in his hands and fought to keep his disgust from showing. Across the table, Rhine smiled. Kent sighed. He hated playing poker with Rhine mainly because that smile meant he either had the best cards in the house or a handful of nothing like Kent, but there was no way of telling which. The other two players, rancher Howard Lane and Cal Grissom, the hotel’s horse wrangler, had already tossed in their hands. That left Kent and Rhine. Kent assessed Rhine, hoping to find any flaw in the ivory face that might give away what he actually held, but it was the same elusive flaw Kent had been searching for unsuccessfully since he began playing poker with Rhine at the age of fifteen back in Virginia City. Cursing inwardly, Kent threw his hand in, too. Grinning, Rhine showed his humble pair of threes and slid the large stack of chips over to the small mountain already in place in front of him.

  “I hate you, old man,” Kent groused, chuckling.

  “Rich old man, to you,” Rhine countered, and the other men in the smoke-filled room laughed.

  Kent pushed back his chair. “I’m leaving before you take my new Stetson.”

  “Smart man.” Rhine then called out, “Next!”

  Hoping the new pigeons fared better than he had, Rhine left the room to get some food.

  Kent had been to a host of wakes in his time. Many were solemn and others so raucous the only thing missing were nymphes du pavé. Blanchard’s was somewhere in between. There was plenty of good food, lots of drink, and a houseful of men and women talking, laughing, and raising glasses to the man inside the wooden coffin resting on sawhorses by the window in the front parlor.

  The noise grew louder as he descended the stairs. There seemed to be even more people squeezed into the house than when they arrived if that was possible. He was searching the crowd for Portia when Regan appeared at his side.

  “If you’re looking for my sister, she’s outside with Eddy and the other married hens.”

  “How’d you know I was looking for Portia?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  He studied her amidst the press of bodies, the buzz of voices, and the occasional loud cackle of laughter.

  “Just be patient with her,” Regan advised. “Being raised the way we
were has left her somewhat mixed-up inside.”

  “And what about you?” he asked gently.

  “I’m mixed up, too, but I’m not afraid of myself the way Portia is sometimes.”

  Her honesty made him go still. “Thank you for the advice.”

  She shrugged. “You’re welcome. I told her you’re going to make her garters catch fire. She’s choosing not to believe me.”

  Kent threw back his head and laughed. Regan was destined to give some man a run for his money in the future, too. He hoped to be around to watch.

  “See you later,” she said before disappearing into the crowd.

  Kent made his way to the buffet and thought about what Regan had revealed. He didn’t really understand what she’d meant about Portia being afraid of herself sometimes. He knew about their mother and that she’d mailed her young daughters to Eddy in Virginia City unaccompanied. Admittedly he and his father had locked horns while he was growing up. Having lost his mother during his birth, Kent spent a lot of time being resentful because Oliver’s profession kept him away from home more than he wanted, but he’d never treated Kent as less than his son—nor had he ever sent him away. That Portia’s mother had must have been painful. Was Portia’s cast-iron demeanor something she used to protect her still-fragile feelings? Had she and her sister heard from their mother? Kent found this all very interesting and it further stoked his need to learn more about her. With his plate now filled, he made his way through the pandemonium and headed for the door so he could get some fresh air and find Portia.

  Portia was glad to be outside with Eddy and her friends and not in the madness going on inside Mr. Blanchard’s ranch house. Like some of the other people attending they were seated on blankets spread out on the ground beneath a small stand of ponderosa pines. Portia enjoyed her aunt Eddy’s friends because they were all forward-thinking women and did what they could to uplift the race with their volunteer work in the community and their support of women’s suffrage. At the moment they were discussing a women’s convention being held in San Francisco in a few weeks and the prospect of them all attending.